So Christmas is over (huge sigh of relief). We got through the day with no tears, which was fantastic. The days leading up to Christmas were pretty difficult. I had a couple of days there that I could hardly even get out of bed. I just felt so completely done with everything. I think it was a mix of the stress of moving, being a little homesick, Christmastime, our house not being finished, the whole mess of everything just kind of fell down on me. Christmas day though, we decided there'd been enough wallowing time, and we went to go see some of Chris' family that I'd never met before. They were so wonderful, saying all kinds of wonderful things like, baby, that dawg bit the fool out of me!, and well, he was just fussin and fussin at me, but I didn't pay him no nevermind, or well ain't you just the prettiest thang. I really love Southern accents, and his family his very, very Southern. They were just so kind and welcoming, and just so much better than I thought they'd be. Like his Aunt, who is the one who said that the dog bit the fool out of her, is so sweet. She said to me and the kids, y'all just call me MeMaw. Which is awesome, because 1. I've never had a MeMaw, and 2. MeMaw is an awesome name.
So in the post-Christmas haze, we're attempting to get back to normal. I've decided that I'm not going to be depressed, and I'm not going to be lonely. I'm certainly not going to be bored, the kids are making sure of that. They've been fighting. A lot. Like constantly. I feel like I've been anointed the new warden of asylum. Like this morning, they were fighting because Kat was making thank you cards, David was playing his Playstation. Kat asked David how many presents her uncle got her (so she could make sure to include them all in her note). He said 2, she thought it was 3. They started screaming at each other about it. Or like last night, they were playing Battleship. Kat told David that she wanted him to tell her again all of the numbers he'd already called so she could mark them down (or some such thing), David said no, Kat said yes, and they nearly came to blows about it. I don't know if it's too much candy, not enough sleep, Christmas, or a combination of all three, but those two have lost their damn mind. And I'm not too far behind.
I find myself missing the time when I have too much to do before they get home from school, or the blissful quiet that settles over the house as they leave for the bus stop in the morning, having a cup coffee in the morning without anyone nagging at me, the mundane tasks that I do during the day...when I'm COMPLETELY ALONE. Incidentally, there are 8 more days until they go back to school, I hope. This morning, my dreams of peace and solitude were shattered. See, the state of Georgia says that the kids need some special form filled out by their doctor, verifying that they've had all their shots, etc. It can't be a Maine shot record, it has to be a Georgia shot record. So they don't need shots, just to have a Georgia doctor say that they had their shots in Maine. Confused yet? Me too. Anyway, this has to be done within 30 days of when the kids start school, so their appointments are this week. When their new pediatrician called to verify the insurance information, they told me that the number I gave them is inactive, essentially they have no insurance. When Chris transferred down here, apparently, his insurance didn't. There was some crap about how this center uses a different carrier, I don't know, I glazed over at the thought of another week of the kids bickering. Well, anyway, the lady is all, let's just reschedule so your husband's work can get this all settled. I was like, NO! The school says if this isn't done by January 5, they can't go back to school! She was like, ma'am, if there's no insurance on file, you'll have to pay cash. I was like, fine, I don't care. I'll pay cash. She was all, well...it's going to be at least $250 per child, you may end paying well over $500 for this. A small price to pay for my sanity.
Showing posts with label why I need medication. Show all posts
Showing posts with label why I need medication. Show all posts
You never know when you might need it
The other night when I was sure I was dying from the plague (I've been sick since I got home from Georgia. Gotta love air travel), we were watching Hoarders on A&E. Have y'all seen this show? They're crazy. They live with wall to wall clutter, but it's way worse than clutter. They save everything, or buy too much, or just give up and don't clean at all...ever. Anyway, we're all watching it, and the guy on it was explaining how he was a hoarder because when he was little his dad gave him a train set that he loved, but they didn't have any money and had to sell the train set. He was saying that he felt like he had to hoard things because of the fear that someone might take them away and he'd have nothing. I scoffed and paused the tv. I looked at Chris and said, what a load of bullshit. My biological dad decided he couldn't deal and left me and mom to be gay. I was a drug abusing alcoholic after my bad taste in men left me bruised, bloody and beaten. I got my shit together. You don't see me acting like that. Chris raised his eyebrows and says, no? You don't think you do that? I'm totally offended. Uh no? What the hell? I'm not a hoarder. I was like, I'm not crazy. Davey snickers and says, you kind of are, mom. I was like, for real. Why do you guys say that? So Chris starts to explain to me that my obsessive need to keep can goods is hoarding. Hmm.
Ok, maybe I have a need to have no less than like 50 cans of random things in my pantry. That's not crazy, that's good planning, isn't it? You never know when you might need it. Shit. That's what the people on hoarders said, "You never know when you might need it." Alright, MAYBE there are some similarities. When the kids were babies, I was so hungry and so damn poor I had to eat ketchup on crackers for some kind of nutrition (the kids were still on formula at that time). Yes, I felt completely abandoned by everyone. All of my friends were gone, off to college having fun or just busy not being a mother, my family was...well we had issues. My marriage (to the kids' dad) was rocky at best, plus my ex was working constantly, so he was never home. Basically it was just me and the kids. It was at the point I realized how screwed up I'd gotten my life and decided then and there that this would never happen again. Ever. I'd made too many mistakes, I'd lived in the past for too long, it was time to toughen up, grow the hell up and take charge of my life. So ate my ketchup on my crackers and vowed that I'd never be hungry again, and I'd never look at the kids again and wonder how I would feed them. When I said I'd never go hungry again, I didn't think it would mean that I'd gain 100 pound to compensate, but that's ok. At least I'm not hungry. So yeah, I keep extra cans in the pantry. But you know what, when y'all are starving because there's no grocery stores left because the aliens blew them up (this is in my post-apocalyptic world, of course), I'll be sitting happy with my cans.
Yes, I get that it's maybe a little crazy. But I don't hide food (anymore). Chris made me stop that when he moved in. And I don't buy cans in bulk (anymore). Chris made me stop that too. Now I just don't let them get below a certain number. Once Chris tried to use a can of cranberry sauce (part of my stash), and I was like, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! YOU CAN'T EAT THAT! I NEED TO SAVE IT! He was like, why? It's a fucking can of cranberry sauce. What are you saving it for? I was like, you never know when you might need it. Alright, I get it. That's crazy. I don't care. There's very little that gives me more joy than looking in my pantry and seeing a shelf full of cans. It's just comforting.
Anyway, I told Chris and Davey to shut it. I wasn't a hoarder. Then the doctor on the show started explaining how hoarding is sometimes a symptom of OCD and can be linked to impulsive buying. Chris and the kids looked at me with their raised eyebrows. I said, I know, I know. I need medication. Leave me alone.
Ok, maybe I have a need to have no less than like 50 cans of random things in my pantry. That's not crazy, that's good planning, isn't it? You never know when you might need it. Shit. That's what the people on hoarders said, "You never know when you might need it." Alright, MAYBE there are some similarities. When the kids were babies, I was so hungry and so damn poor I had to eat ketchup on crackers for some kind of nutrition (the kids were still on formula at that time). Yes, I felt completely abandoned by everyone. All of my friends were gone, off to college having fun or just busy not being a mother, my family was...well we had issues. My marriage (to the kids' dad) was rocky at best, plus my ex was working constantly, so he was never home. Basically it was just me and the kids. It was at the point I realized how screwed up I'd gotten my life and decided then and there that this would never happen again. Ever. I'd made too many mistakes, I'd lived in the past for too long, it was time to toughen up, grow the hell up and take charge of my life. So ate my ketchup on my crackers and vowed that I'd never be hungry again, and I'd never look at the kids again and wonder how I would feed them. When I said I'd never go hungry again, I didn't think it would mean that I'd gain 100 pound to compensate, but that's ok. At least I'm not hungry. So yeah, I keep extra cans in the pantry. But you know what, when y'all are starving because there's no grocery stores left because the aliens blew them up (this is in my post-apocalyptic world, of course), I'll be sitting happy with my cans.
Yes, I get that it's maybe a little crazy. But I don't hide food (anymore). Chris made me stop that when he moved in. And I don't buy cans in bulk (anymore). Chris made me stop that too. Now I just don't let them get below a certain number. Once Chris tried to use a can of cranberry sauce (part of my stash), and I was like, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! YOU CAN'T EAT THAT! I NEED TO SAVE IT! He was like, why? It's a fucking can of cranberry sauce. What are you saving it for? I was like, you never know when you might need it. Alright, I get it. That's crazy. I don't care. There's very little that gives me more joy than looking in my pantry and seeing a shelf full of cans. It's just comforting.
Anyway, I told Chris and Davey to shut it. I wasn't a hoarder. Then the doctor on the show started explaining how hoarding is sometimes a symptom of OCD and can be linked to impulsive buying. Chris and the kids looked at me with their raised eyebrows. I said, I know, I know. I need medication. Leave me alone.
Fall means football and headaches
Our family loves football. Shocker, right? Well, this love for football means that we take football very seriously. It's not just a game, it's a way of life. We schedule around football, both college and pro (which leaves zero time for socializing on the weekends), Davey plays football and dreams of a career in the NFL, Chris eats, sleeps, breathes and coaches football. It's this last bit that's causing a problem. Chris has always coached the kids. When they were 4 they were on this junior soccer team, and Chris was the coach. It was the most horrendously awful thing you've ever seen. Chris knows absolutely nothing about soccer and the kids were really, REALLY bad at it. To make matters worse, they were on the yellow team. So imagine this big burly guy running around in a sunshine yellow t-shirt with a bunch of 4 year olds pretending to play soccer. Most of the time they'd stop dribbling the ball to pick flowers or catch butterflies. And poor Chris would be clapping his hands and being all, good job, now run for the ball...no, leave that flower alone! The ball, get the ball! I think our record was something like 1-13. So sad. But the great thing was seeing the lengths that Chris would go to stay involved in the kids' activities. Enter football.
This is Chris' third year coaching David's football team, only this year, he's not an assistant or head coach of one of the teams, he's running the whole youth football program for our town, so the pressure is really on him. He's got parents confronting him all the time asking why they're son can't play quarterback, he's dealing with scheduling crap, mouthy 10 year olds, plus coaching his own kid and dealing with me. Well, Sunday was their first game. They played ok, not bad, but there were some issues. So Chris spent hours retooling both the offense and defense, furiously scribbling notes and X's and O's in his little notebook, so he was really looking forward to practice last night. Apparently the kids were not. I guess (and this only hearing it second-hand), the kids didn't block, they didn't do any of what they were supposed to, and Chris was really, really angry. But of course, he can't show the other kids that, he doesn't yell at his team, and really tries hard to always be positive. However, as soon as he got in the car, he called me and started venting, not really remembering that it wasn't just his son in the car, that his son is also one of his players. By the time they got home, Chris' face was red, Davey was almost in tears, it was not pretty. Davey is having a really hard time separating dad Chris from coach Chris, and Chris is having an equally hard time separating Davey the player from Davey his son.
Eventually they talked it all out, and I think they'll be better for tomorrow's practice, but man, at this rate I don't know that I'm going to keep my sanity for the season. It's so hard to watch them struggle with all this father/son stuff (when all I've ever wished for them is to get to that great father/son place) and this coach/player stuff, all the while knowing that I have to stay out of it. I like to fix things, so me butting out is really hard. I think I'm going to bake the team cookies for this week's game. Cookies solve a myriad of life's problems. Just ask my thighs and ever-expanding ass.
One bonus though: on Sunday I was sitting by the end zone, "on the wrong side of the fence", and someone said, I don't think you can sit here. I said, I'm sleeping with the coach, I can sit anywhere I want.
This is Chris' third year coaching David's football team, only this year, he's not an assistant or head coach of one of the teams, he's running the whole youth football program for our town, so the pressure is really on him. He's got parents confronting him all the time asking why they're son can't play quarterback, he's dealing with scheduling crap, mouthy 10 year olds, plus coaching his own kid and dealing with me. Well, Sunday was their first game. They played ok, not bad, but there were some issues. So Chris spent hours retooling both the offense and defense, furiously scribbling notes and X's and O's in his little notebook, so he was really looking forward to practice last night. Apparently the kids were not. I guess (and this only hearing it second-hand), the kids didn't block, they didn't do any of what they were supposed to, and Chris was really, really angry. But of course, he can't show the other kids that, he doesn't yell at his team, and really tries hard to always be positive. However, as soon as he got in the car, he called me and started venting, not really remembering that it wasn't just his son in the car, that his son is also one of his players. By the time they got home, Chris' face was red, Davey was almost in tears, it was not pretty. Davey is having a really hard time separating dad Chris from coach Chris, and Chris is having an equally hard time separating Davey the player from Davey his son.
Eventually they talked it all out, and I think they'll be better for tomorrow's practice, but man, at this rate I don't know that I'm going to keep my sanity for the season. It's so hard to watch them struggle with all this father/son stuff (when all I've ever wished for them is to get to that great father/son place) and this coach/player stuff, all the while knowing that I have to stay out of it. I like to fix things, so me butting out is really hard. I think I'm going to bake the team cookies for this week's game. Cookies solve a myriad of life's problems. Just ask my thighs and ever-expanding ass.
One bonus though: on Sunday I was sitting by the end zone, "on the wrong side of the fence", and someone said, I don't think you can sit here. I said, I'm sleeping with the coach, I can sit anywhere I want.
Yup, for real. Poop.
Yesterday afternoon David came in the kitchen and said, Mom, my stomach really hurts. It has this really bad pain when I lean over. I didn't really think much of it at first. Then he lifted up his shirt and said, it hurts right here. There was this huge bump on his stomach, right under his rib cage. It was about the size of a small fist. Protruding out of his stomach. My own stomach dropped to my knees, I felt this hot pulse go through my body followed by tingling in all my limbs. But I didn't freak out. I didn't react (at least not externally). I looked at Chris with a sheer panic in my eyes, hoping that he could read my thoughts. He nodded and calmly said, can I see that bump again? He felt around, asking does it hurt here? How about here? Does it hurt when you turn from side to side? We asked Davey if he'd gotten hit at football practice (he said he didn't), does he remember doing anything that might have caused this? (he said he didn't). Then Chris says to me, I think we need to call the doctor.
Now Chris does not call the doctor. Ever. He never suggests it, and often scoffs when I say someone should go. He just doesn't do doctors. So him saying that throws me into all out panic. I knew that I couldn't let Davey see that, he has enough anxiety issues without me freaking him out. So I say, we're gonna call the doctor just to be safe. I'm sure it's nothing, buddy. Like a robot, I grabbed the phone and went outside to smoke a cigarette and call the doctor, feeling a weird combination of panic and numbness. I said to Chris, that's not normal. Bumps are really bad (my eyes start welling up with tears and start shaking). You know usually a bump like that is... Thank God Chris knows me so well, because he said, I know baby. Just call the doctor. I was so grateful to not have to finish that sentence. I've read too many stories about kids whose first symptom of cancer is a large bump, I just couldn't say it out loud. I'm thinking, no. Not my baby. No. This can't be happening. So I start thinking "best" case scenarios. Appendix? Spleen? Liver? Hernia? I'm truly teetering on the edge of a complete meltdown.
We get an appointment immediately at the doctor's office, literally 20 minutes later. Apparently they thought it was a pretty big deal as well, because we all know, that NEVER happens. So I'm doing my best to smile and laugh with Davey. Chris is telling us jokes and making sure that we're all focused on anything but this lump on my baby boy's stomach. When the doctor walked in, Chris squeezed my hand, I knew he was scared. He starts examining Davey. Having him bend over, turn from side to side. He says, hmmm, interesting... Which completely sends my mind into overdrive again. He says, do a sit up for me. Now do a crunch and hold it. He pushes around again and says, see this section here? That's his bowel. It's backed up poop. You can feel it right here. See how it's moved down? Are you fucking kidding me? Poop? Surely not. So I said, are you sure? You don't think it's anything...else? He says, no, it doesn't hurt him when I push on it, and if it was anything else, he'd be in excruciating pain. Are you in pain little guy? Davey says, actually, no. It feels a lot better. Son of a bitch. Poop? For real? When the doctor left the room, I said, let me see that bump. Gone. No bump. No lump. Nothing. Fucking poop.
So I paid $10, lost 15 years off my life and got 50% more gray hair to have the doctor tell me that my kid needs to poop. Typical.
Now Chris does not call the doctor. Ever. He never suggests it, and often scoffs when I say someone should go. He just doesn't do doctors. So him saying that throws me into all out panic. I knew that I couldn't let Davey see that, he has enough anxiety issues without me freaking him out. So I say, we're gonna call the doctor just to be safe. I'm sure it's nothing, buddy. Like a robot, I grabbed the phone and went outside to smoke a cigarette and call the doctor, feeling a weird combination of panic and numbness. I said to Chris, that's not normal. Bumps are really bad (my eyes start welling up with tears and start shaking). You know usually a bump like that is... Thank God Chris knows me so well, because he said, I know baby. Just call the doctor. I was so grateful to not have to finish that sentence. I've read too many stories about kids whose first symptom of cancer is a large bump, I just couldn't say it out loud. I'm thinking, no. Not my baby. No. This can't be happening. So I start thinking "best" case scenarios. Appendix? Spleen? Liver? Hernia? I'm truly teetering on the edge of a complete meltdown.
We get an appointment immediately at the doctor's office, literally 20 minutes later. Apparently they thought it was a pretty big deal as well, because we all know, that NEVER happens. So I'm doing my best to smile and laugh with Davey. Chris is telling us jokes and making sure that we're all focused on anything but this lump on my baby boy's stomach. When the doctor walked in, Chris squeezed my hand, I knew he was scared. He starts examining Davey. Having him bend over, turn from side to side. He says, hmmm, interesting... Which completely sends my mind into overdrive again. He says, do a sit up for me. Now do a crunch and hold it. He pushes around again and says, see this section here? That's his bowel. It's backed up poop. You can feel it right here. See how it's moved down? Are you fucking kidding me? Poop? Surely not. So I said, are you sure? You don't think it's anything...else? He says, no, it doesn't hurt him when I push on it, and if it was anything else, he'd be in excruciating pain. Are you in pain little guy? Davey says, actually, no. It feels a lot better. Son of a bitch. Poop? For real? When the doctor left the room, I said, let me see that bump. Gone. No bump. No lump. Nothing. Fucking poop.
So I paid $10, lost 15 years off my life and got 50% more gray hair to have the doctor tell me that my kid needs to poop. Typical.
Bring back that loving feeling, whoa that loving feeling...
With all this move stuff going on, Chris and I have been spending the majority of our time either arguing, stressing, debating or scratching each other's eyes out. It kind of all came to a head a few days ago when we were having what should've been a normal discussion and it ended up with me in tears and him holding his head in hands, clearly on the verge of a breakdown. This just isn't how we do things. We just don't fight that often, I mean, yeah we disagree and snipe back and forth sometimes, but we really don't fight. Most times, when we "fight" we bicker for a few minutes, he makes a joke, I call him a jackass and we move on. Lately, that just hasn't been happening. Anyway, after the dust settled, we decided that enough was enough. We decided that we really needed to get back to basics and get back to why we work so well to begin with.
So Monday night, we were both kinda tired, but we wanted to watch Monday Night Football, so we decided to watch it upstairs in bed. So we're lying there all cuddly (trying to mend our relationship, remember), and he says, this is nice. I was like, it is. You know, sometimes I wish that we could've done things different. Like, I had the chance to be your actual girlfriend. See, when we got together, he lived in South Carolina, I lived in Maine with the kids, so we've never had a "normal" relationship. We never got to do some of those fun dating things that people do. So he says, what do you mean? You were my girlfriend. I was like, no, I mean like, you pick me up for dates and stuff. You know, like normal people do. Normal people go on real dates. The only date you ever took me on was to Hooters, that hardly counts. He was all, Hooters totally counts, you just don't appreciate it like I do. Heh, I bet I don't. So we didn't say much else about it, the game got pretty good and fixing a relationship or not, football was on. We do have priorities, you know.
So yesterday, he only had to work until 12:30, so he sent me a text and asked if I wanted to leave early and get some lunch. I was like, yeah sure, just let me know when you get here. So I go about my business, and figure he'll call when he's in the parking lot. About 20 minutes later, he calls and says, hey, so I was wondering if you were busy. I'm in town today, and I'd really like to see you. I'm totally confused. I was like, uh, ok? I checked my phone to make sure that it was really him, and I wasn't going insane. He says, yeah, I just thought that we could go get some Chinese food. I've been thinking about you a lot, and I'd love to spend some time together. I'm completely confused. I was like, what are you talking about? I thought we already said we'd go have lunch? What are you saying? Honestly, at this point, I'm thinking he didn't mean to call me. He really meant to call his mistress and just didn't realize it was me and didn't hang up fast enough. My mind is racing, my blood starts boiling, I'm getting really, really angry. He says, I thought you said you wanted to go on a real date. Isn't this what guys are supposed to do? Call you up and ask you all proper? I just want us to be good again, and I know this is important to you. I feel like a total douche. Here I am thinking that my husband is having an affair, and he's really just trying to "date" me. I've said something in passing that he's not only listened to but has actually put some thought in, and all I can think is that he didn't call me on purpose, that he meant to call some other woman. Sigh.
After lunch we were driving home and got a flat tire on the interstate. He says, see, I'm so glad this wasn't an actual date. Bad Chinese food, a flat tire, you standing on the side of the interstate, I'd have to go home and cry myself to sleep. This is the worst date ever. I just smiled and said, I think it went pretty well, considering.
So Monday night, we were both kinda tired, but we wanted to watch Monday Night Football, so we decided to watch it upstairs in bed. So we're lying there all cuddly (trying to mend our relationship, remember), and he says, this is nice. I was like, it is. You know, sometimes I wish that we could've done things different. Like, I had the chance to be your actual girlfriend. See, when we got together, he lived in South Carolina, I lived in Maine with the kids, so we've never had a "normal" relationship. We never got to do some of those fun dating things that people do. So he says, what do you mean? You were my girlfriend. I was like, no, I mean like, you pick me up for dates and stuff. You know, like normal people do. Normal people go on real dates. The only date you ever took me on was to Hooters, that hardly counts. He was all, Hooters totally counts, you just don't appreciate it like I do. Heh, I bet I don't. So we didn't say much else about it, the game got pretty good and fixing a relationship or not, football was on. We do have priorities, you know.
So yesterday, he only had to work until 12:30, so he sent me a text and asked if I wanted to leave early and get some lunch. I was like, yeah sure, just let me know when you get here. So I go about my business, and figure he'll call when he's in the parking lot. About 20 minutes later, he calls and says, hey, so I was wondering if you were busy. I'm in town today, and I'd really like to see you. I'm totally confused. I was like, uh, ok? I checked my phone to make sure that it was really him, and I wasn't going insane. He says, yeah, I just thought that we could go get some Chinese food. I've been thinking about you a lot, and I'd love to spend some time together. I'm completely confused. I was like, what are you talking about? I thought we already said we'd go have lunch? What are you saying? Honestly, at this point, I'm thinking he didn't mean to call me. He really meant to call his mistress and just didn't realize it was me and didn't hang up fast enough. My mind is racing, my blood starts boiling, I'm getting really, really angry. He says, I thought you said you wanted to go on a real date. Isn't this what guys are supposed to do? Call you up and ask you all proper? I just want us to be good again, and I know this is important to you. I feel like a total douche. Here I am thinking that my husband is having an affair, and he's really just trying to "date" me. I've said something in passing that he's not only listened to but has actually put some thought in, and all I can think is that he didn't call me on purpose, that he meant to call some other woman. Sigh.
After lunch we were driving home and got a flat tire on the interstate. He says, see, I'm so glad this wasn't an actual date. Bad Chinese food, a flat tire, you standing on the side of the interstate, I'd have to go home and cry myself to sleep. This is the worst date ever. I just smiled and said, I think it went pretty well, considering.
Sweet dreams are made of this
I've been so exhausted the past couple of weeks. I haven't been sleeping well, and I haven't been getting nearly enough. I've also been having weird dreams. A couple weeks ago I dreamt that the world had been taken over by space aliens, and all of humanity had been forced to work in these Nazi-like prison camps. Most people had been completely brain-washed, only a few people were left with their sanity. And I kept seeing my children walk by like drones, the didn't know me, and they kept using heavy farm equipment. I kept calling out to them, but they just looked past me, like they didn't know me.
Then a couple of nights ago, I had a similar dream, only the kids were safe, they'd been taken by some alien refugee-fighter people, and Chris and I were left to escape the compound alone. And Chris and I had almost escaped when I remembered that I forgot a red bucket of paint, and I HAD to have this red bucket of paint, so I went back for it, and they captured us again.
Then last night, I dreamt that Chris were going to rescue the kids, and I stole an 18-wheeler and a shotgun, and I shot the hell out of the aliens, only to be captured by the chief mama alien who had a thing for Chris. The kids were set free and were happy and safe. But my punishment was to be locked in a room forever with Chris while I watched him go crazy.
I don't know why I keep dreaming about aliens, but I'm wondering if I should try to start interpreting my dreams. Like maybe the aliens are a metaphor for society and I don't want to be a drone, and I'm afraid of losing my kids to the evils of society. And maybe I'm a little afraid of farm equipment. Maybe the compound Chris and I are trying to escape is this town, and maybe we're going to fight over this house stuff so much that we'll end up staying here. And maybe the only solution is to steal an 18-wheeler and start blowing shit up. Probably not, but I don't see a metaphor for that. But maybe Chris is really the crazy one, not me. Or maybe in the end it'll be just me and Chris, and a crazy space alien. Or maybe I just need more sleep.
Then a couple of nights ago, I had a similar dream, only the kids were safe, they'd been taken by some alien refugee-fighter people, and Chris and I were left to escape the compound alone. And Chris and I had almost escaped when I remembered that I forgot a red bucket of paint, and I HAD to have this red bucket of paint, so I went back for it, and they captured us again.
Then last night, I dreamt that Chris were going to rescue the kids, and I stole an 18-wheeler and a shotgun, and I shot the hell out of the aliens, only to be captured by the chief mama alien who had a thing for Chris. The kids were set free and were happy and safe. But my punishment was to be locked in a room forever with Chris while I watched him go crazy.
I don't know why I keep dreaming about aliens, but I'm wondering if I should try to start interpreting my dreams. Like maybe the aliens are a metaphor for society and I don't want to be a drone, and I'm afraid of losing my kids to the evils of society. And maybe I'm a little afraid of farm equipment. Maybe the compound Chris and I are trying to escape is this town, and maybe we're going to fight over this house stuff so much that we'll end up staying here. And maybe the only solution is to steal an 18-wheeler and start blowing shit up. Probably not, but I don't see a metaphor for that. But maybe Chris is really the crazy one, not me. Or maybe in the end it'll be just me and Chris, and a crazy space alien. Or maybe I just need more sleep.
Not the "Yard Sale Diva"
I spend the whole day Friday helping the kids clean out their closets and drawers, which is way less fun than it sounds. Friday night, Chris brought all of our old crap up from the basement and I spent the evening pricing things. Unfortunately, Chris had to work on Saturday, but I somehow wrangled my ex into helping me lug all of our crap out to the front lawn. So bright and early (5 am!), I was up and getting ready to make this yard sale happen. Here's why I'm never having another yard sale. Ever. Also why I really dislike people.
- At 6:26 IN THE MORNING there was an old couple on my front lawn rummaging through my stuff. I was like, Dude, seriously. The sun isn't even all the way up. Must you be here so damn early? Early bird catches the worm and all that shit, but I haven't even had a whole cup of coffee. For the love of all things holy, please go away and come back at 7. That's plenty early, and there will be plenty of worms left. Ok, I didn't really say that. But as my best fake smile was pasted on, I was totally thinking it.
- By 7, the yard sale was in full swing, there were people all over the damn place. It was then that I realized that it made me really uncomfortable people rummaging through my stuff. I felt kinda violated. Like all exposed.
- The crap people buy is unbelievable. For instance, I had these two glass dolphins. They were probably the cheesiest and cheapest-looking things I owned. The guy that bought them practically hurled himself at them and was like, OH. MY. GOD. I HAVE to have these! Damn. I only priced them at 25 cents each. I totally could've jacked the price up and made at least another dollar or two...on fucking glass dolphins. Crazy.
- Davey SUCKS, like as in the worst ever, at selling. One lady was trying to buy his old gerbil cage, and was like, how much is this? I was like, $5. She tucks it under her arm and totally looks like she's going to buy it. Davey says, my gerbil died in that cage. She turned her nose up and put the cage down. Sigh. Then later on, a lady says something about everything priced so cheap, and Davey says, yeah, my mom priced everything really low so people would buy her worthless crap. SIGH. I'm going to suggest strongly that he not go into sales as a profession.
- People suck. Like a lot. This one lady kept being like, make me a deal, $1 for these? I'll give you 25 cents. Totally trying to make me come down on every single thing she picked up. Then she snaps her fingers at Kat and is all, little girl, come hold this for me. Kat's like, I'll just put it over on the stairs for you. The lady is like, No! You follow around behind me and hold it. You're not busy. Kat was like, uh, ok. Then she says to me, Mom, you're still paying me for today, right?
- People suck even more. This old guy pulled into our driveway and was like, hey, you there! Get me that! Seriously. He sat in his car pointing at things he wanted. He wouldn't get out of his car. He ended up buying like $2 worth of books. Which he brought back and exchanged. Three fucking times. Might've been easier if you just hauled your lazy ass out of the car and looked for yourself, but I could be wrong.
In the end, we ended up making nearly $300, which was way more than we thought we would. But I'm never, EVER doing a yard sale again. Until next time I need more money.
You know what I'm not? A SAHM. Thank God.
I've learned a lot this week. Namely, I am so fucking grateful that I'm not a stay at home mom.
Normally, the kids go with their Dad during the day because I refuse to pay for daycare for kids who really only need enough supervision to make sure they don't burn the house down or kill each other. Tuesday, I had a big project I was working on and I needed Photoshop, which I don't have on my computer at work, so I worked from home. I could've still sent them to their Dad's, but it was a beautiful day, I figured I could work and the kids could just play outside and I could work uninterrupted. So wrong. They played outside, but funny thing. When the windows are open because it's 85 degrees outside and 117 inside, you can hear everything. EVERYTHING. For the first 2 hours, I listened to them play this incarnation of Deal or No Deal (they watch a lot of Game Show Network during the day at their Dad's, what can I say), only instead of suitcases, they used the basketball. I never realized how extraordinarily bossy Kat was, she's yelling at David, No! I'm the host! No! You go over there! No! That's not how the rules are! David, do it MY way! Holy shit, it was driving me nuts. I "reminded" her about 27 times to play nice, and by reminded, I mean I yelled out the window, knock it off.
So then after lunch, I told them that they could play with the hose in the backyard. I really, really needed to get my project done for a big presentation I had, so I was hoping the bickering would stop if they cooled off a little. Nope. They argued over who gets to spray the hose, who had it longer, who sprayed who last. It was excruciating. About 3 hours into that, they finally got along, only to send me straight into madness. They decided to sing. The Barney song. Over, and over, and over, and over. Finally I was like, GOOD CHRIST PLEASE STOP SINGING! Then they went back to fighting. Sigh. Now normally I would have some reprieve at 2:20 when Chris got out of work, but he's working a different shift this week and isn't home until almost 8:00. I had to make dinner, get all the housework done, begin my slow descent into madness AND get my project done.
How these moms stay home and deal with that shit all day is beyond me. Don't get me wrong, I love my kids, I really do. I do not love staying home with them all day. Granted, I was with them all day Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, but I don't think it's normal to have kid overload after 4 days. To do it day in and day out...I'd need to be committed. I have to do it again next week, to be home with them all day. I'm afraid. Hold me.
Normally, the kids go with their Dad during the day because I refuse to pay for daycare for kids who really only need enough supervision to make sure they don't burn the house down or kill each other. Tuesday, I had a big project I was working on and I needed Photoshop, which I don't have on my computer at work, so I worked from home. I could've still sent them to their Dad's, but it was a beautiful day, I figured I could work and the kids could just play outside and I could work uninterrupted. So wrong. They played outside, but funny thing. When the windows are open because it's 85 degrees outside and 117 inside, you can hear everything. EVERYTHING. For the first 2 hours, I listened to them play this incarnation of Deal or No Deal (they watch a lot of Game Show Network during the day at their Dad's, what can I say), only instead of suitcases, they used the basketball. I never realized how extraordinarily bossy Kat was, she's yelling at David, No! I'm the host! No! You go over there! No! That's not how the rules are! David, do it MY way! Holy shit, it was driving me nuts. I "reminded" her about 27 times to play nice, and by reminded, I mean I yelled out the window, knock it off.
So then after lunch, I told them that they could play with the hose in the backyard. I really, really needed to get my project done for a big presentation I had, so I was hoping the bickering would stop if they cooled off a little. Nope. They argued over who gets to spray the hose, who had it longer, who sprayed who last. It was excruciating. About 3 hours into that, they finally got along, only to send me straight into madness. They decided to sing. The Barney song. Over, and over, and over, and over. Finally I was like, GOOD CHRIST PLEASE STOP SINGING! Then they went back to fighting. Sigh. Now normally I would have some reprieve at 2:20 when Chris got out of work, but he's working a different shift this week and isn't home until almost 8:00. I had to make dinner, get all the housework done, begin my slow descent into madness AND get my project done.
How these moms stay home and deal with that shit all day is beyond me. Don't get me wrong, I love my kids, I really do. I do not love staying home with them all day. Granted, I was with them all day Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, but I don't think it's normal to have kid overload after 4 days. To do it day in and day out...I'd need to be committed. I have to do it again next week, to be home with them all day. I'm afraid. Hold me.
If you're going to get a waitress fired, you should leave a bettter tip
Friday night we got the kids back from my mom and dad. They had taken the kids for a couple of days, took them to an amusement park, stayed overnight in a hotel, and just did all kinds of fun grandparent stuff with them. I figured since we hadn't been together for a couple of days, we'd go out to eat. We went to this restaurant and the waitress was really crap. I ordered a cosmopolitan, because after 15 minutes the kids they bickering with each other, talking back, just like they never left, I was ready for a cocktail. Now, normally, I'm a margarita girl, but I like vodka, and I usually like cosmopolitans, but this one was so gross. It was like vodka with a lime slice and a splash of cranberry juice. Two sips and my throat was burning because of the vodka, which normally I wouldn't complain about, but I still had to get through this family dinner, do grocery shopping and laundry when I got home. I wanted a little buzz, not to get sloppy. So I asked the waitress if she could please make me another one, and maybe add a little more cranberry juice. After about 20 minutes, she brought another one that was like all cranberry juice, no vodka, and this time there was an orange slice floating in it. Ok, so she sucks at making cocktails, I'll just stick with my Diet Coke. Then the salad came on a warm plate (yuck), but I was starving so I was going to eat it anyway. Davey was looking longingly at it (even though I specifically asked him if he wanted a salad and he said no) and I finally said, do you want my salad? To which he promptly picked up his fork and said, since you don't want it, sure! Sigh. So our meal comes, it was fair at best. Our waitress was not very good, she kept forgetting things we'd asked for, important things like forks and ketchup. Plus she'd screwed up my drink twice. So I was pretty annoyed by the time we were done eating. We got the check and I paid for it with cash. It came to $32.19 and I gave her a $50 bill. She was like, be right back with your change. So when she came back, after another 10 minutes, she just dropped the little black check thingy on the table. I was like, hrm, rude. I open it up, and there's $17 in it. I'm looking at the change, looking at the receipt and trying to figure it out why it looks wrong. After a few minutes of counting on my fingers, I realize I'm missing 81 cents.
Me: Uh, I'm missing 81 cents.
Chris: Babe, it's 81 cents, it's not that big of a deal.
Me: Yes it is, it's friggin 81 cents, that's almost a dollar!
Davey: I'll give you 81 cents...
Me: You don't have 81 cents, love.
Chris: Just let it go, let's not make a scene.
Me: Fuck that. I want my 81 cents.
Davey: Yes I do Mom, you can have my pennies!
Me (to the manager lady that was walking by): EXCUSE ME.
Manger lady: Yes, ma'am?
Me: Yes, our waitress shorted us 81 cents. I know it's "only" (I even used air quotes when I said only) 81 cents, but it's MY 81 cents, and I want it back.
Davey: My piggybank is full of pennies...
Manager lady: Oh of course, I'm sure it was just an oversight, I'll get it for you.
Me: Oversight or not, it's my 81 cents, and I really want it back.
Davey: I think I have some silvers in there too...
Me: David, please. I don't want your money.
At this point I think the manager lady thought I was insane. I was shaking and was talking in a really weird high-pitched voice. I was really pissed. I told her I wasn't saying that the waitress stole it or did it on purpose, but c'mon, if me, math retard extraordinaire can make change, she should be able to, and she has no right taking my change, and that I'LL decide how much to tip her so she can't just keep my 81 cents without asking, and she was not a good waitress anyway, and I really, really wanted my 81 cents. Chris was hanging his head in shame, Kat was pretending she didn't know me and David was still yammering on about the freaking change in his piggy bank. The manager lady came back with the correct change and said something about, who was your waitress? I was like, Shannon. She goes, I thought as much. I'll make sure this doesn't happen again. I thanked her and we started walking out the door. Then Chris says, you know, they'll probably fire her.
Oh my God, did I seriously just get someone fired over 81 cents? What kind of horrible psychopath not only makes a scene over 81 cents but then totally throws her waitress under the bus and probably got her fired? But part of me still thinks that she totally stole it because she just hightailed it out of there after she brought back the wrong change and part of me thinks, so what if she did? It's 81 cents, get over it. But either way it's still my 81 cents, right? Right? I think I'm really starting to lose it.
Me: Uh, I'm missing 81 cents.
Chris: Babe, it's 81 cents, it's not that big of a deal.
Me: Yes it is, it's friggin 81 cents, that's almost a dollar!
Davey: I'll give you 81 cents...
Me: You don't have 81 cents, love.
Chris: Just let it go, let's not make a scene.
Me: Fuck that. I want my 81 cents.
Davey: Yes I do Mom, you can have my pennies!
Me (to the manager lady that was walking by): EXCUSE ME.
Manger lady: Yes, ma'am?
Me: Yes, our waitress shorted us 81 cents. I know it's "only" (I even used air quotes when I said only) 81 cents, but it's MY 81 cents, and I want it back.
Davey: My piggybank is full of pennies...
Manager lady: Oh of course, I'm sure it was just an oversight, I'll get it for you.
Me: Oversight or not, it's my 81 cents, and I really want it back.
Davey: I think I have some silvers in there too...
Me: David, please. I don't want your money.
At this point I think the manager lady thought I was insane. I was shaking and was talking in a really weird high-pitched voice. I was really pissed. I told her I wasn't saying that the waitress stole it or did it on purpose, but c'mon, if me, math retard extraordinaire can make change, she should be able to, and she has no right taking my change, and that I'LL decide how much to tip her so she can't just keep my 81 cents without asking, and she was not a good waitress anyway, and I really, really wanted my 81 cents. Chris was hanging his head in shame, Kat was pretending she didn't know me and David was still yammering on about the freaking change in his piggy bank. The manager lady came back with the correct change and said something about, who was your waitress? I was like, Shannon. She goes, I thought as much. I'll make sure this doesn't happen again. I thanked her and we started walking out the door. Then Chris says, you know, they'll probably fire her.
Oh my God, did I seriously just get someone fired over 81 cents? What kind of horrible psychopath not only makes a scene over 81 cents but then totally throws her waitress under the bus and probably got her fired? But part of me still thinks that she totally stole it because she just hightailed it out of there after she brought back the wrong change and part of me thinks, so what if she did? It's 81 cents, get over it. But either way it's still my 81 cents, right? Right? I think I'm really starting to lose it.
Indecision rears its ugly head. Again.
This morning I decided I'd do some shopping on Sephora, like I so often do. I'm almost out of my favorite face cream, which I affectionately call "magic in a little blue jar". I'm also almost out of my face cleanser, and I decide I'm going to go with a different brand this time. I'm going to get all the same line of products (the ones to match my magic blue jar). Of course there's lots of great stuff, and I start clicking "add to cart" like a crazy whore. I check on my shopping cart and there's $286 worth of products. Well shit. I can't spend that much money on beautification right now. Something about paying the electric bill, the water bill, blah, blah, blah. So I start removing things, and then I start getting all upset. My hands are sweating, I feel nauseous, I'm starting to get a headache, I can't deal at all. I can't decide. I want them all! How can I be expected to choose between smoother skin, less fine line reduction, or pore reducing? I can't do it. So I just closed the browser window. I literally couldn't deal with it.
I do this kind of thing all the time. I just freak out and can't decide what to do, so I do nothing. Same thing happened with the sheet debacle last weekend. I couldn't decide, and I freaked out. I can't make a decision, so I get nothing. I can make decisions for everyone else, but I can't for myself. I can nail down our household budget, move things around, decide when, where and how we should get things done. I can choose between the best doctors and orthodontists for my kids. I can solve everyone else's problems in .7 seconds, but when it comes to making a decision for myself, I just can't seem to do it. Chris and the kids are always looking to me for decision making. Chris says that I give great advice, and Kat often looks to me to help her sort out her tween drama with her friends, even my mom calls me for advice. Advice for me? Nope, can't do it. I'm too stubborn to ask for or take someone else's for help. When people offer their opinion, I'm all, thanks, but when I want your opinion I'll give it to you. And I really mean it, I don't want help, I want to figure it out myself. I'm the biggest control freak on the planet. I just can't control my own shit.
Last night Chris wanted to know what I wanted for dinner. The kids are with my parents for the week, so it's just the two of us, and I didn't feel like cooking, I knew that much. He asked me until about 7:00 what I wanted, I kept saying, I don't know, why do I need to decide now? It wasn't that I wasn't hungry or that I didn't want to eat, I was starving, I literally just didn't know what I wanted. I couldn't decide. Finally he made us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I was like, I don't want this! He's like, then make a goddamn decision and I'll get you something else! I was like, I don't KNOW! Why are you pressuring me?! He gave up asking, and I just ate pb&j for dinner. What kind of moron can't even choose what they want to eat? I take 30 minutes every day staring at my closet trying to choose what I should wear, even though I know it's going to be jeans and a t-shirt. Chris has tried to buy my jewelry several times, but I can't make up my mind, so I get nothing. This is beyond OCD or a need for control or whatever head issue I have. This is just retarded. I'm seriously thinking that it's time for medication.
Davey told me the other day that "momma" is Latin for boobie. So when he calls me momma he's really calling my boobie. I'm starting to think he's on to something there.
I do this kind of thing all the time. I just freak out and can't decide what to do, so I do nothing. Same thing happened with the sheet debacle last weekend. I couldn't decide, and I freaked out. I can't make a decision, so I get nothing. I can make decisions for everyone else, but I can't for myself. I can nail down our household budget, move things around, decide when, where and how we should get things done. I can choose between the best doctors and orthodontists for my kids. I can solve everyone else's problems in .7 seconds, but when it comes to making a decision for myself, I just can't seem to do it. Chris and the kids are always looking to me for decision making. Chris says that I give great advice, and Kat often looks to me to help her sort out her tween drama with her friends, even my mom calls me for advice. Advice for me? Nope, can't do it. I'm too stubborn to ask for or take someone else's for help. When people offer their opinion, I'm all, thanks, but when I want your opinion I'll give it to you. And I really mean it, I don't want help, I want to figure it out myself. I'm the biggest control freak on the planet. I just can't control my own shit.
Last night Chris wanted to know what I wanted for dinner. The kids are with my parents for the week, so it's just the two of us, and I didn't feel like cooking, I knew that much. He asked me until about 7:00 what I wanted, I kept saying, I don't know, why do I need to decide now? It wasn't that I wasn't hungry or that I didn't want to eat, I was starving, I literally just didn't know what I wanted. I couldn't decide. Finally he made us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I was like, I don't want this! He's like, then make a goddamn decision and I'll get you something else! I was like, I don't KNOW! Why are you pressuring me?! He gave up asking, and I just ate pb&j for dinner. What kind of moron can't even choose what they want to eat? I take 30 minutes every day staring at my closet trying to choose what I should wear, even though I know it's going to be jeans and a t-shirt. Chris has tried to buy my jewelry several times, but I can't make up my mind, so I get nothing. This is beyond OCD or a need for control or whatever head issue I have. This is just retarded. I'm seriously thinking that it's time for medication.
Davey told me the other day that "momma" is Latin for boobie. So when he calls me momma he's really calling my boobie. I'm starting to think he's on to something there.
Between the sheets...there is a psycho drama queen who needs lots of medication
Saturday was day 4 of not smoking, and honestly, it was wearing on me. That morning I had spent the morning cleaning my disaster of a house after my "ungrateful children and husband" who had left a sea of laundry, dishes, carpet stains and sticky floors for me to clean. Of course the kids were with their dad and Chris was working, so I had no one to vent my building anger to. By the time Chris got home, I was a little better, I'd tried really hard to let it all go. I bitched a little, but pretty much let it go. Chris suggested we get out of the house, maybe that would help relieve the building stress. Couldn't agree more. We had a great afternoon, we went to an antiques store, we got Chris some new sandals, had a great late lunch, not a cross word was spoken, not a sideways look given. Then we went to TJ Maxx and all hell broke loose. I've been telling Chris for God knows how long that we need new sheets. Now you might be asking, why don't you just buy sheets yourself? Good question, and I could. But we try really hard to make all household purchases together, or at least with each other's input. Every other time we've gone to get sheets (and we've done it no less than 20 times) we always end up leaving empty-handed. He freaks out about the price, I try to explain the value of a high thread count sheet, he doesn't get it, I think he's cheap and being difficult, he thinks I'm being a spoiled princess, we usually just leave well enough alone and don't get into it. I mean really, who fights about sheets?
So we go to TJ Maxx in search of the aforementioned sheets. We can't seem to agree on the price/thread count/color, but I'm determined. We're not walking away this time. So after about 45 minutes of me handing Chris sheets to feel, fretting over percale or sateen or Egyptian cotton, he'd had enough. He takes a deep breath and says, does it really matter? They're fucking sheets. Well, as you can imagine, that went over like a ton of bricks. I said (getting increasingly upset), Of COURSE it matters! I just want something nice to sleep on. Don't you care? He says, babe, c'mon. They're sheets. I turned back to the sheets and completely ignored him. He sighed and wandered off. I finally pick some, and I track Chris down, but I'm really irritated. I showed him the sheets, and he was less than impressed. He was all, yeah, they're fine. They're sheets. So now I'm pissed. Not a little angry, not a little cranky, I'm fucking PISSED. Was it because he didn't "care" enough? Was it because I couldn't find the "perfect" sheets? Or was it just because I hadn't smoked in 4 days? I put the sheets on the shelf and say, forget it. Take me home. And he's all, why? What's wrong? Again, I ignore him, certain that this had nothing to do with smoking, Chris was just a big jackass who obviously didn't care about what's important to me (sheets).
We get home and I stomp around for awhile, and then he's all, what's your problem? Are you that mad about sheets? I'd like to say that I handled this well, that I was the picture of calm. I so wasn't. I came unglued. I said just about every hateful thing I could think of, I threw books on the floor, I threw a shoebox at him, I mean I had an all out temper tantrum. He's just standing there during all this, probably in awe of my dramatic scene, and he says in the most calm voice I've ever heard, that's enough. Well, if I wasn't really, really mad before that, I was now. I said, Enough? I'll show you enough! Go to hell! I'm leaving! So I stormed out and slammed the door behind me. By this time it's starting to occur to me that perhaps I'm overreacting a bit, maybe I should just go back in and apologize for being such a drama queen, and that made me more mad. I hate being wrong. So I figured, I'll show him. I won't be sitting outside. I'm really leaving! So I start walking down the street. In my big dramatic exit, I've left my wallet and my cell phone on the counter, so it's not like I can go far, and that makes me even more mad. So to cool off and decide how to tell my family that I'm getting a divorce, I walked...for a fucking mile. I had my flip flops on, which aren't great walking shoes, and it was getting dark and I was cold in my tank top and capris (also forgot to grab a long sleeve shirt), so I went home. Chris wasn't there, he was out looking for me (which made me more angry). He eventually came home, and was understandable concerned. I was like, I'm so mad at you, I hate you, and I want a divorce! So we spent the next 45 minutes with me sobbing/yelling about how he really hated me and didn't care about the sheets that were so important to me, and him trying not to laugh at my utter ridiculousness.
Suffice it to say, we didn't get a divorce. We did buy a pack of cigarettes though. As it turns out, I wasn't really mad about the sheets, I was just being an uber bitch, probably because of my not smoking. Go figure.
P.S. Sunday afternoon he took me back to TJ Maxx and we bought sheets.
So we go to TJ Maxx in search of the aforementioned sheets. We can't seem to agree on the price/thread count/color, but I'm determined. We're not walking away this time. So after about 45 minutes of me handing Chris sheets to feel, fretting over percale or sateen or Egyptian cotton, he'd had enough. He takes a deep breath and says, does it really matter? They're fucking sheets. Well, as you can imagine, that went over like a ton of bricks. I said (getting increasingly upset), Of COURSE it matters! I just want something nice to sleep on. Don't you care? He says, babe, c'mon. They're sheets. I turned back to the sheets and completely ignored him. He sighed and wandered off. I finally pick some, and I track Chris down, but I'm really irritated. I showed him the sheets, and he was less than impressed. He was all, yeah, they're fine. They're sheets. So now I'm pissed. Not a little angry, not a little cranky, I'm fucking PISSED. Was it because he didn't "care" enough? Was it because I couldn't find the "perfect" sheets? Or was it just because I hadn't smoked in 4 days? I put the sheets on the shelf and say, forget it. Take me home. And he's all, why? What's wrong? Again, I ignore him, certain that this had nothing to do with smoking, Chris was just a big jackass who obviously didn't care about what's important to me (sheets).
We get home and I stomp around for awhile, and then he's all, what's your problem? Are you that mad about sheets? I'd like to say that I handled this well, that I was the picture of calm. I so wasn't. I came unglued. I said just about every hateful thing I could think of, I threw books on the floor, I threw a shoebox at him, I mean I had an all out temper tantrum. He's just standing there during all this, probably in awe of my dramatic scene, and he says in the most calm voice I've ever heard, that's enough. Well, if I wasn't really, really mad before that, I was now. I said, Enough? I'll show you enough! Go to hell! I'm leaving! So I stormed out and slammed the door behind me. By this time it's starting to occur to me that perhaps I'm overreacting a bit, maybe I should just go back in and apologize for being such a drama queen, and that made me more mad. I hate being wrong. So I figured, I'll show him. I won't be sitting outside. I'm really leaving! So I start walking down the street. In my big dramatic exit, I've left my wallet and my cell phone on the counter, so it's not like I can go far, and that makes me even more mad. So to cool off and decide how to tell my family that I'm getting a divorce, I walked...for a fucking mile. I had my flip flops on, which aren't great walking shoes, and it was getting dark and I was cold in my tank top and capris (also forgot to grab a long sleeve shirt), so I went home. Chris wasn't there, he was out looking for me (which made me more angry). He eventually came home, and was understandable concerned. I was like, I'm so mad at you, I hate you, and I want a divorce! So we spent the next 45 minutes with me sobbing/yelling about how he really hated me and didn't care about the sheets that were so important to me, and him trying not to laugh at my utter ridiculousness.
Suffice it to say, we didn't get a divorce. We did buy a pack of cigarettes though. As it turns out, I wasn't really mad about the sheets, I was just being an uber bitch, probably because of my not smoking. Go figure.
P.S. Sunday afternoon he took me back to TJ Maxx and we bought sheets.
What would you do with an extra 3 hours and 20 minutes a day?
So it’s day 2. So far no one has died, no one has lost any limbs, and I haven’t smoked. I found out today that not smoking means I have a shitload of time on my hands. I spent an average of 3 hours and 20 minutes smoking every day (10 minutes per cigarette, 20 times a day). Today I:
- Cleaned my entire house. Twice. Before 9 a.m.
- Went grocery shopping and bought 732 boxes of Little Debbie snacks. I’ll worry about being fat later.
- Found out that I really, really hate it when people change the radio station too often.
- Found out that it irritates me even more when it’s my ex doing the station changing.
- Watched three episodes of Touched By An Angel on the Hallmark channel and cried. I DVRed the rest of the season.
- Spilled a whole glass of Diet Coke in the living room. It got all over the curtains, which gives something to do tomorrow.
- Helped Chris grill hotdogs. Then he told me to go away and take my “opinions” with me. I merely pointed out he’d set the rolls on fire. I thought it was helpful. He disagreed.
- Accidentally stuck my tongue in a fan.
I’m thinking I may take on a new hobby. I have way too much time on my hands. Any suggestions? At this rate, I’ll either be in the hospital trying to loosen my straps or will have figured out how to make cold fusion.
This is probably why no one ever comes to visit
Today marked the end of our house guest experiment, Chris’ brother, Jason, went home today. We had hoped he was going to stay longer, at least through July, but he decided that he really wanted to go home. I’d imagine it’s hard for a teenager to be stuck in this Podunk state, I know it was for me. I always wanted to leave here, it’s not like we’re in the mecca of…well, anything. To make matters worse, it’s been raining for the past two months, I think we’ve had a total of maybe 5 days of sunshine all summer. So take a teenager not at all accustomed to life here in Seattle, err, I mean Maine, and coop him up inside, add in a crazy sister in-law (yours truly), two kids who find the need to ask 20 questions about your every move, and a couple of misbehaved dogs, I’d want to leave too. I don’t at all consider this a failed experiment though, I’ve actually learned a lot.
1. I am a huge control freak/total OCD/really should be on medication. I practically followed the poor kid around with a dust buster. I checked the bathroom after he took a shower because I wanted to make sure the bath mat was up. You know you have issues when you can’t watch tv peacefully because you just “know” the bath mat was left down. It’s so sad. Now, common sense would tell you I’d just ask him to pick it up when he was done. I never was real big on the whole “common sense” thing. Why have common sense when you can have a neurosis?
2. I am ridiculously possessive of my stuff. Saturday, Jason woke up late, sometime around 1 in the afternoon and he’d missed lunch. So he made a sandwich and decided to have some Oreos, but there weren’t that many left, so he finished the package. Well, they were MY Oreos, I claimed them fair and square, damnit. I was like, you ate all the Oreos? And he goes, yeah, there weren’t that many left. Now, I know damn well there weren’t that many left, and it really wasn’t a big deal, but I was really, really upset. Like crying. Hysterically. Chris came home from work, and I was like, JASON ATE MY OREOS! He was like, ok…do you want me to go buy you some more? I was like, No! I want THOSE Oreos! They were mine! Poor Chris was unsure whether I’ve completely lost my mind, had PMS, or was really that upset about Oreos. He hugged me and rubbed my back as I sobbed, he was like, shhh, I know baby. They were your Oreos. Shhh, it’s ok. Let it all out. The only saving grace here, is I didn’t cry in front of Jason, I pretended it was fine, I did the nonchalant head nod, and was like, it’s cool. It should’ve been cool, except I’m crazy and possessive so it was sooooo not cool.
3. Living with a teenager isn’t nearly as scary as I thought. Sure, there were times I could tell we were driving him nuts. And yeah, he sometimes communicated with us through grunts and eye rolls, but he was also really fun to have around. When we went to the mall, he was really fun to shop with. He actually cared what I thought and asked me my opinion. He didn’t watch the Disney Channel endlessly, and we could watch really inappropriate things with him that we can’t with the kids like, Kendra and Harper’s Island. He was great with the kids, and they adore him. And he enjoys making fun of Chris almost as much as I do.
So while it will be nice to be able to get up at 2 a.m. and pee without having to shut the bathroom door , and I did miss being able to walk around with bed head all day on Saturdays sans bra or deodorant if I chose to, I’m gonna miss having him around. Even if he did eat all my Oreos.
1. I am a huge control freak/total OCD/really should be on medication. I practically followed the poor kid around with a dust buster. I checked the bathroom after he took a shower because I wanted to make sure the bath mat was up. You know you have issues when you can’t watch tv peacefully because you just “know” the bath mat was left down. It’s so sad. Now, common sense would tell you I’d just ask him to pick it up when he was done. I never was real big on the whole “common sense” thing. Why have common sense when you can have a neurosis?
2. I am ridiculously possessive of my stuff. Saturday, Jason woke up late, sometime around 1 in the afternoon and he’d missed lunch. So he made a sandwich and decided to have some Oreos, but there weren’t that many left, so he finished the package. Well, they were MY Oreos, I claimed them fair and square, damnit. I was like, you ate all the Oreos? And he goes, yeah, there weren’t that many left. Now, I know damn well there weren’t that many left, and it really wasn’t a big deal, but I was really, really upset. Like crying. Hysterically. Chris came home from work, and I was like, JASON ATE MY OREOS! He was like, ok…do you want me to go buy you some more? I was like, No! I want THOSE Oreos! They were mine! Poor Chris was unsure whether I’ve completely lost my mind, had PMS, or was really that upset about Oreos. He hugged me and rubbed my back as I sobbed, he was like, shhh, I know baby. They were your Oreos. Shhh, it’s ok. Let it all out. The only saving grace here, is I didn’t cry in front of Jason, I pretended it was fine, I did the nonchalant head nod, and was like, it’s cool. It should’ve been cool, except I’m crazy and possessive so it was sooooo not cool.
3. Living with a teenager isn’t nearly as scary as I thought. Sure, there were times I could tell we were driving him nuts. And yeah, he sometimes communicated with us through grunts and eye rolls, but he was also really fun to have around. When we went to the mall, he was really fun to shop with. He actually cared what I thought and asked me my opinion. He didn’t watch the Disney Channel endlessly, and we could watch really inappropriate things with him that we can’t with the kids like, Kendra and Harper’s Island. He was great with the kids, and they adore him. And he enjoys making fun of Chris almost as much as I do.
So while it will be nice to be able to get up at 2 a.m. and pee without having to shut the bathroom door , and I did miss being able to walk around with bed head all day on Saturdays sans bra or deodorant if I chose to, I’m gonna miss having him around. Even if he did eat all my Oreos.
Trapped in a freezer with cannibals, whores, porn and other things you hope your Mom doesn't read
I'm kinda working on some site updates, just little tweaks because my blog has had the same look for approximately 2 months, and Lord knows I can't leave well enough alone. Fair warning though, I suck at coding and stuff so you visit and it's broken, don't freak out. I'll eventually figure out how to fix it.
Anyway, so I'm out looking for cool ideas to pirate, and I found a "rate your blog" thingy. So I rated mine, and this is what I got:
Also, incidently, in case you were interested, I can survive for 9 hours trapped in a freezer and if a cannibal ate me I would taste like undercooked fish. Nice to know I guess...in case I ever get trapped in a freezer with a cannibal.
Anyway, so I'm out looking for cool ideas to pirate, and I found a "rate your blog" thingy. So I rated mine, and this is what I got:
This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words: crap (8x), porn (7x), retard (6x), whore (5x), hell (4x), ass (3x), murder (2x), hurt (1x)
And that was just a sampling of the first page. Surprising thought that hurt and murder are naughty words and fuck isn't (used 14 times on the front page). Looking at those words make me sound like some wacked out psycho with an affinity for porn and retarded whores... or something equally as disturbing. And you thought this was a mommy blog.Also, incidently, in case you were interested, I can survive for 9 hours trapped in a freezer and if a cannibal ate me I would taste like undercooked fish. Nice to know I guess...in case I ever get trapped in a freezer with a cannibal.
Kicked out of the Cardigan Club
Being the good mommy that I am, I volunteered to help on a fundraising committee for my kids' team. So this new fundraising committee had a meeting, where I met the other two members of the committee, who were part of the "I'm a Perfect Mommy and You're a Trashy Loser Club" aka the Cardigan Club. You know those moms that give you "the look" when your kid misbehaves? The moms that are the eternally suffering martyrs of the PTA (complaining about ALL the hard work they have to do, yet never have the sense to stop volunteering or let someone else have a turn)? Yeah, they were my fundraising committee. It was a little disheartening, because I think those kind of moms give moms everywhere a bad name, but because I want to be supportive of my kids, I sucked it up and played nice. After about 30 minutes of listening to how they're SO good at this kind of thing, and how during soccer they did such and such, and how they're they only 2 people on the planet capable of fundraising, they actually gave me a job. I was supposed to handle ordering t-shirts, collecting money from parents, etc. Easy enough right? I mean, I get paid to do logistical planning for Christ's sake, I think I can handle ordering some friggin t-shirts.
We "discussed" (and by discussed I mean they included me in emails in which they bickered back and forth in an effort for Ultimate Queen Bee Mommy Supremacy) for 2 weeks over what color the shirts should be. Yes, really. One of them said that black was just too "blah", and the other said that "white doesn't hide stains well", and "green is not my color". The argued about how much to charge. They argued about whether or not the logo should be outlined so it would "pop" more. On and on and on and fucking on. But I love my kids, so I resist the urge to bash their little blonde heads together. I continue asking for some decisions so I could finish this, I make about 73 variations of an order form, I mean, I put time and effort in to really try to do my part. I smile as they talk to me like I'm a backward redneck. I ignore the snotty comments and the backhanded compliments. After all, I'm a good mommy, right? And we're all just doing what we can to support our kids, right? So yesterday, I get an email that says essentially, Someone else is taking care of the t-shirts, butt out.I was like, eh what the fuck? So I wrote them all an email asking what was up, what happened, etc. So the reigning Queen Bee Mommy writes back and tells me that this should've been done last week and that I obviously don't understand how to do this, basically I'm just a big stupid loser so they had to "delegate" elsewhere. Speechless.
I don't know what I'm more irritated by: the fact that these two women, who stand for everything that I hate by the way, blew me off, or the fact that I care. Yeah, there are times that I wish that the Cardigan Club would pay attention when I talked. I wish that I could be a part of this elite clique of Mommies. I readily admit, I'm not a fancy pants mom. I don't send my kids to private school, I have tattoos and swear (although I never once swore around them, I even slipped in an "oh my GOSH!"). I don't even own a cardigan, let alone a pair of pleated khaki pants (their official uniform).
Anyway, I told them they could take their fundraising committee and their holier than thou attitude and shove it. Of course, thereby reinforcing their idea that I was not a worthy member of the Mommies for World Domination Club, but I was in fact an imposter, a smoking, swearing, jeans wearing, borderline psychotic mommy with questionable parenting skills. But hey, on the bright side, I'm pretty sure they won't be asking me to bake cookies for the bake sale.
We "discussed" (and by discussed I mean they included me in emails in which they bickered back and forth in an effort for Ultimate Queen Bee Mommy Supremacy) for 2 weeks over what color the shirts should be. Yes, really. One of them said that black was just too "blah", and the other said that "white doesn't hide stains well", and "green is not my color". The argued about how much to charge. They argued about whether or not the logo should be outlined so it would "pop" more. On and on and on and fucking on. But I love my kids, so I resist the urge to bash their little blonde heads together. I continue asking for some decisions so I could finish this, I make about 73 variations of an order form, I mean, I put time and effort in to really try to do my part. I smile as they talk to me like I'm a backward redneck. I ignore the snotty comments and the backhanded compliments. After all, I'm a good mommy, right? And we're all just doing what we can to support our kids, right? So yesterday, I get an email that says essentially, Someone else is taking care of the t-shirts, butt out.I was like, eh what the fuck? So I wrote them all an email asking what was up, what happened, etc. So the reigning Queen Bee Mommy writes back and tells me that this should've been done last week and that I obviously don't understand how to do this, basically I'm just a big stupid loser so they had to "delegate" elsewhere. Speechless.
I don't know what I'm more irritated by: the fact that these two women, who stand for everything that I hate by the way, blew me off, or the fact that I care. Yeah, there are times that I wish that the Cardigan Club would pay attention when I talked. I wish that I could be a part of this elite clique of Mommies. I readily admit, I'm not a fancy pants mom. I don't send my kids to private school, I have tattoos and swear (although I never once swore around them, I even slipped in an "oh my GOSH!"). I don't even own a cardigan, let alone a pair of pleated khaki pants (their official uniform).
Anyway, I told them they could take their fundraising committee and their holier than thou attitude and shove it. Of course, thereby reinforcing their idea that I was not a worthy member of the Mommies for World Domination Club, but I was in fact an imposter, a smoking, swearing, jeans wearing, borderline psychotic mommy with questionable parenting skills. But hey, on the bright side, I'm pretty sure they won't be asking me to bake cookies for the bake sale.
An open letter to studio execs
Dear Mr. Studio Executive,
I was reading my daily gossip today, and read that "Octomom" is thisclose to getting her own reality show. To which I say, What. The. Fuck. I know she's this woman who had octuplets, which is insane all by itself, and not at all her fault...except it was. She had in-vitro fertilization. Add those 8 kids to the 6 she already had, and you can call her Fourteenamom (if you use the name "Fourteenamom" for her show, you'll have to pay me the licensing fees, because I totally call dibs on that name). The woman has no job, and is totally reliant on government assistance to care for these 14 children. Don't misunderstand, I have nothing against government assistance for people who need it. I have a problem with a woman with no job and 6 kids paying thousands of dollars for in-vitro fertilization to have another 8 kids. But I digress. This woman gets a reality show? This is what's wrong with America. You have to be at the height of irresponsibility to get a reality show (Rod Blagojevic, the loser/Going to jail for selling Obama's senate seat/Ex-governor of Illinois is getting one, as is Michael Vick, dog fighter extraordinaire/former NFL quarterback is also said to be getting one). Well let me tell you Mr. Studio Executive, I'm MORE than qualified to have a reality show.
I have 2 kids, which I am completely unqualified to raise and I'm totally irresponsible. I let my kids run with scissors and paint on the walls as a form of self expression. I have a part-time job at Hooters, where I bring my kids everyday after because I'm too cheap to send them to daycare and the because they have the best wings. My life's goal is to be a singer/dancer/ninja and I work tirelessly on my career (I'll give you full access to all of my training sessions, except the ninja training, because then I'd have to kill you). My live in Manny (man nanny) is drop dead gorgeous and the sexual tension between us is palpable (you could use this for a "will they or won't they" moment during sweeps week). I have two little dogs that are cute and bark too much (a staple for any good reality show). My husband sucks at fixing things and home improvement projects usually end in a call to the fire department. As I'm sure you can see, we're fantastic candidates for a reality show.
I look forward to hearing from you and working for your network.
Merritt
P.S. I'd like a Thursday night time slot. Preferably in the 10:00 hour so I can swear more.
P.P.S. None of what I said about my family is true.Except the part about my husband setting things on fire, that's true. Give me a show anyway.
I was reading my daily gossip today, and read that "Octomom" is thisclose to getting her own reality show. To which I say, What. The. Fuck. I know she's this woman who had octuplets, which is insane all by itself, and not at all her fault...except it was. She had in-vitro fertilization. Add those 8 kids to the 6 she already had, and you can call her Fourteenamom (if you use the name "Fourteenamom" for her show, you'll have to pay me the licensing fees, because I totally call dibs on that name). The woman has no job, and is totally reliant on government assistance to care for these 14 children. Don't misunderstand, I have nothing against government assistance for people who need it. I have a problem with a woman with no job and 6 kids paying thousands of dollars for in-vitro fertilization to have another 8 kids. But I digress. This woman gets a reality show? This is what's wrong with America. You have to be at the height of irresponsibility to get a reality show (Rod Blagojevic, the loser/Going to jail for selling Obama's senate seat/Ex-governor of Illinois is getting one, as is Michael Vick, dog fighter extraordinaire/former NFL quarterback is also said to be getting one). Well let me tell you Mr. Studio Executive, I'm MORE than qualified to have a reality show.
I have 2 kids, which I am completely unqualified to raise and I'm totally irresponsible. I let my kids run with scissors and paint on the walls as a form of self expression. I have a part-time job at Hooters, where I bring my kids everyday after because I'm too cheap to send them to daycare and the because they have the best wings. My life's goal is to be a singer/dancer/ninja and I work tirelessly on my career (I'll give you full access to all of my training sessions, except the ninja training, because then I'd have to kill you). My live in Manny (man nanny) is drop dead gorgeous and the sexual tension between us is palpable (you could use this for a "will they or won't they" moment during sweeps week). I have two little dogs that are cute and bark too much (a staple for any good reality show). My husband sucks at fixing things and home improvement projects usually end in a call to the fire department. As I'm sure you can see, we're fantastic candidates for a reality show.
I look forward to hearing from you and working for your network.
Merritt
P.S. I'd like a Thursday night time slot. Preferably in the 10:00 hour so I can swear more.
P.P.S. None of what I said about my family is true.Except the part about my husband setting things on fire, that's true. Give me a show anyway.
Just like a brontosaurus
I had a couple of really good ideas for posts for today...but I forgot them. I'm completely exhausted and apparently I've developed amnesia, or my brain is just broken. Hard to tell. Could have something to do with the fact that I got literally 2 hours of sleep last night. I've been a funk lately, the whole economy thing finally hit my job. We got news that the there was a good possibility that 45 positions (including mine) would be eliminated. Fortunately, that isn't going to happen, but I didn't find that out until this morning at about 6 a.m. (BIG sigh of relief). Ever since I heard that, I could lose my job, I've been kinda moping around, just not myself at all. Not sleeping really well, being all zoned out, just all depressed-like. So last night, I said to Chris, so I think I know what my problem is.
Chris: Oh yeah? What's that?
Me: I think I'm depressed.
Chris: Well, don't take this the wrong way, but you've kind of reminded me of a brontosaurus, all moping around with no place to go.
Me: Did you just call me a brontosaurus? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Are you saying I'm fat like a fucking DINOSAUR?
Chris: No, no. Not at all. You know how a brontosaurus just kinda lumbers around aimlessly?
He then shows me how a brontosaurus "lumbers around aimlessly". Walking around the kitchen like arms and legs don't bend with this ridiculous big-eyed sad face. Wow. I was speechless. Did my husband seriously just call me a fucking brontosaurus? Nice. I "lumber around aimlessly"? Yeah, let's see if I can imitate any other dinosaurs. Maybe a raptor or something so I can rip your head off if you ever say anything so retarded again. So I kind of brushed it off (the imitation was kinda funny) and we went to bed. I start trying to talk to him, I'm feeling that maybe I have been in funk, and maybe just need to get it off my chest. I'm being totally open and vulnerable, baring my soul, when all of a sudden I hear a familiar sound...snoring. Yes folks, my wonderful and adoring husband fell asleep while I was talking. A minor faux-pas (which he was still very sorry for at 3:30 this morning when I finally decided he was sorry enough for being insensitive and could go to sleep to get ready for work at 5:30), no?
So apparently if you have husband who will compare you to a brontasaurus or fall asleep while you're talking, screw baring your soul and discussing feelings. Pout and tell him jewelry will make you feel better. Granted you run the risk of not having ample guilt ammo stored up (I have tons and tons), but you also won't be called a fucking dinosaur.
Chris: Oh yeah? What's that?
Me: I think I'm depressed.
Chris: Well, don't take this the wrong way, but you've kind of reminded me of a brontosaurus, all moping around with no place to go.
Me: Did you just call me a brontosaurus? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Are you saying I'm fat like a fucking DINOSAUR?
Chris: No, no. Not at all. You know how a brontosaurus just kinda lumbers around aimlessly?
He then shows me how a brontosaurus "lumbers around aimlessly". Walking around the kitchen like arms and legs don't bend with this ridiculous big-eyed sad face. Wow. I was speechless. Did my husband seriously just call me a fucking brontosaurus? Nice. I "lumber around aimlessly"? Yeah, let's see if I can imitate any other dinosaurs. Maybe a raptor or something so I can rip your head off if you ever say anything so retarded again. So I kind of brushed it off (the imitation was kinda funny) and we went to bed. I start trying to talk to him, I'm feeling that maybe I have been in funk, and maybe just need to get it off my chest. I'm being totally open and vulnerable, baring my soul, when all of a sudden I hear a familiar sound...snoring. Yes folks, my wonderful and adoring husband fell asleep while I was talking. A minor faux-pas (which he was still very sorry for at 3:30 this morning when I finally decided he was sorry enough for being insensitive and could go to sleep to get ready for work at 5:30), no?
So apparently if you have husband who will compare you to a brontasaurus or fall asleep while you're talking, screw baring your soul and discussing feelings. Pout and tell him jewelry will make you feel better. Granted you run the risk of not having ample guilt ammo stored up (I have tons and tons), but you also won't be called a fucking dinosaur.
Are you a trampy whore or just a sociopath?
I've learned two things today: 1. I'm addicted to quizes. 2. I'm clinically insane. The quiz addiction doesn't really surprise me. I've always loved taking quizes. Back when I used to be single/interested in spicing up my sex life/interested in finding, keeping and manipulating a man I had a subscription to Cosmopolitan and they seriously have the best quizes. They're always like, "Are you a backstabbing whore?" or "Are you a Pollyanna in bed because handcuffs freak you out?" Good stuff. So as I said the other day, now I take all these Facebook quizes. And according to Facebook, I'm clinically insane.
So I took the quiz again. I chose different answers (although I still didn't pick the talking unicorn answer). This time it said I'm schizophrenic. Thanks, that's much better. I don't like this quiz at all. It's kinda of depressing. Where's a good, "Are you a trampy slut?" quiz to lift your spirits when you need it?
You don't care about rules. You don't care about inflicting pain. In fact, you don't care about anything besides fulfilling your own twisted desires, regardless of the cost to others. This is what makes persons with Antisocial Personality Disorder capable of anything, and thus, the most dangerous of all crazies. Maybe you're not a serial killer... maybe you just take advantage of people at any available opportunity. Maybe you steal for the fun of it, maybe you enjoy hurting people's feelings, or manipulating those around you, pitting them against each other for your own amusement. In any case, you're a sick f***.A fucking sociopath? C'mon. That's way harsh. Ok, yes. Some of it is true. I care little for rules, but I don't like inflicting pain, and I have been known to manipulate a little, but not for my own amusement, it was for my own BENEFIT, which is totally not the same thing. Clearly this quiz is the one that's fucked up, not me. One of the questions was about what your dreams typically involve: A. what dreams? I don't sleep and when I do, I'm too inebriated to remember anything. ( clearly this one is for either alcoholics or drunken college students, of which I'm neither). B. unicorns who speak in tongues...though you wish they'd leave when you woke up.(ok, asfuckingif. That's not even a real answer. Everyone knows unicorns can't talk). C. your run of the mill torture and murder. I chose C. In my defense, I made the unfortunate decision to watch Hostel, and ever since, my nightmares have taken on a whole new genre. And besides, my other choices are to be an alcoholic or to say that unicorns talk to me and now all of a sudden murder and torture look crazy? What retard wrote this quiz?
So I took the quiz again. I chose different answers (although I still didn't pick the talking unicorn answer). This time it said I'm schizophrenic. Thanks, that's much better. I don't like this quiz at all. It's kinda of depressing. Where's a good, "Are you a trampy slut?" quiz to lift your spirits when you need it?
Animal Voodoo
So we're driving to cheering, everything is going right on schedule, we might even be there early. Then we hear this rumbling. I was like, babe is that the car? Chris goes, eh... We see smoke and both go, oh shit. Chris starts pulling over, but the car isn't stopping and he's having a hard time even getting into the breakdown lane. Once he finally got it stopped, I get out and looked at the tire, TOTALLY flat. Like not a little flat, like riding on the rim flat. Chris gets out to inspect and confirms my original diagnosis...it's flat. We have a spare but no jack. So I call AAA, and give them all the info they need and specifically said that we're not all the way out of the road, so could they please send a police officer to at least get people to slow down/move into the other lane. The guys says no problem, we'll be there within 10 minutes. So 10 minutes go by, then 15, then 20. No police, no tow truck, nothing. Just cars speeding by at 80 mph. At 25 minutes, I call AAA back, fucking LIVID. I was all, where the HELL are you guys? He's like, ma'am, they're on the way, I assure you. They're about 15 minutes away. I was like, THAT'S WHAT YOU SAID 25 MINUTES AGO! He's all, ma'am if you could just calm down...Heh. Not likely, DON'T YOU TELL ME TO CALM DOWN. I HAVE 2 KIDS IN THE BACKSEAT AND CARS ARE SPEEDING BY. THERE ARE NO POLICE IN SIGHT. WE NEED HELP! He's all, certainly ma'am. I'm all, go fuck yourself.
So after I hung up on that douchebag, this tractor trailer nearly clips the back of the car. I was like, that's it. Get out of the car. Everyone out. NOW. So they get out and I was holding their hands, trying to walk down this steep hill into the ditch. They're starting to cry, and I'm just trying to get them off the side of the road. We get to the bottom of the hill, and there's like a river of muck (dead leaves and such) and of course there's still snow. I'm thinking, no problem, we'll just kinda hop across. Yeah, there was no hopping. I took a step and sunk in up to my freaking knee in this ice cold watery mud shit. As I sunk in, Davey took a step and sunk in up to his ankles. He starts wailing (literally). So I grab him (my leg still stuck in the river of shit) and fling him out of the shit and onto solid ground. I'm trying to yell instructions at Kat to make sure she doesn't sink, but of course she can't hear me over David's wailing, the whizzing cars and her own sobbing. She starts to sink and I grab her and toss her next to David. I manage to pull myself out, and limp over to the kids, who are huddled together crying. We were standing in front of a bunch of trees, and Davey goes, Mom, I'm really scared we're gonna die!. Chris (ever helpful) says, you're not gonna die buddy, but watch out for bears! Davey lets out this wail and is like, AHHHH, OH GOD! I'm trying not to laugh, because he's obviously scared, and was just like, Baby, there are no bears. We're not going to die, I promise. I don't think he believed me. Chris walks down the hill to make sure we're not dead and walks across the mud in 1 step, no sinking. He goes, why didn't you just go this way? Heh. Well thanks dear, I sure do appreciate that tip. But I gotta tell you, I so enjoyed sinking in the mud and getting soaking wet. Jackass.
So FINALLY the tow truck comes and they start fixing the tire. They'd been working for about 5 minutes when the police show up. The cop strolls over to Chris and is like, license and registration please. He takes all of Chris' information and goes back to his car. Mind you, he's never once even asked if we were ok. All he did was glare at me and the kids huddled together our feet and legs soaking wet and covered in mud. He comes back, glares at us again, and then writes Chris a warning for not changing his address on his license. Then he left. Never even waited for the tow truck to finish. Seriously? That's what we called you for? Thanks so much, that was so helpful.
So tire's fixed, and we get back up the hill without further incident, and get back in the car. I was bitching about how gross the muddy water was and how it smelled and turned my foot brown. The kids were both talking about how they were sure that they were going to die, and they saw their life flash before their eyes, all the melodrama you'd expect from my children. Then Davey says, I was so scared when we sank in that animal voodoo. Chris goes, I think you mean doodoo. Davey was like, nope, I mean voodoo. It was NASTY.Then Chris and I are talking about what a jerk the officer was, and I called him "Officer Douchebag". Davey goes, hehe. I like it when you call him Officer Douchebag. Probably not the best protocol teaching my son a new bad word, but what are good mommies for, right? And hey, the kid just sank in animal voodoo, what do you expect? He's traumatized.
So that's my adventure. I'm left with a bruise the size of Ohio on my calf, my hip muscle is pulled and I'm limping because my knee is all messed up. Although there is no moral of the story here, and there's really no lesson learned, we didn't die and that's good enough for me.
So after I hung up on that douchebag, this tractor trailer nearly clips the back of the car. I was like, that's it. Get out of the car. Everyone out. NOW. So they get out and I was holding their hands, trying to walk down this steep hill into the ditch. They're starting to cry, and I'm just trying to get them off the side of the road. We get to the bottom of the hill, and there's like a river of muck (dead leaves and such) and of course there's still snow. I'm thinking, no problem, we'll just kinda hop across. Yeah, there was no hopping. I took a step and sunk in up to my freaking knee in this ice cold watery mud shit. As I sunk in, Davey took a step and sunk in up to his ankles. He starts wailing (literally). So I grab him (my leg still stuck in the river of shit) and fling him out of the shit and onto solid ground. I'm trying to yell instructions at Kat to make sure she doesn't sink, but of course she can't hear me over David's wailing, the whizzing cars and her own sobbing. She starts to sink and I grab her and toss her next to David. I manage to pull myself out, and limp over to the kids, who are huddled together crying. We were standing in front of a bunch of trees, and Davey goes, Mom, I'm really scared we're gonna die!. Chris (ever helpful) says, you're not gonna die buddy, but watch out for bears! Davey lets out this wail and is like, AHHHH, OH GOD! I'm trying not to laugh, because he's obviously scared, and was just like, Baby, there are no bears. We're not going to die, I promise. I don't think he believed me. Chris walks down the hill to make sure we're not dead and walks across the mud in 1 step, no sinking. He goes, why didn't you just go this way? Heh. Well thanks dear, I sure do appreciate that tip. But I gotta tell you, I so enjoyed sinking in the mud and getting soaking wet. Jackass.
So FINALLY the tow truck comes and they start fixing the tire. They'd been working for about 5 minutes when the police show up. The cop strolls over to Chris and is like, license and registration please. He takes all of Chris' information and goes back to his car. Mind you, he's never once even asked if we were ok. All he did was glare at me and the kids huddled together our feet and legs soaking wet and covered in mud. He comes back, glares at us again, and then writes Chris a warning for not changing his address on his license. Then he left. Never even waited for the tow truck to finish. Seriously? That's what we called you for? Thanks so much, that was so helpful.
So tire's fixed, and we get back up the hill without further incident, and get back in the car. I was bitching about how gross the muddy water was and how it smelled and turned my foot brown. The kids were both talking about how they were sure that they were going to die, and they saw their life flash before their eyes, all the melodrama you'd expect from my children. Then Davey says, I was so scared when we sank in that animal voodoo. Chris goes, I think you mean doodoo. Davey was like, nope, I mean voodoo. It was NASTY.Then Chris and I are talking about what a jerk the officer was, and I called him "Officer Douchebag". Davey goes, hehe. I like it when you call him Officer Douchebag. Probably not the best protocol teaching my son a new bad word, but what are good mommies for, right? And hey, the kid just sank in animal voodoo, what do you expect? He's traumatized.
So that's my adventure. I'm left with a bruise the size of Ohio on my calf, my hip muscle is pulled and I'm limping because my knee is all messed up. Although there is no moral of the story here, and there's really no lesson learned, we didn't die and that's good enough for me.
88 times the awesomeness
I just got done eating and I think my intestines might explode. Ugh, so full. I've spent literally the last 36 hours eating anything and everything I could get my hands on. See, yesterday I quit smoking (I know, I know, it's fantastic, I'll live another 137 years, you're so proud, blah, blah, blah), and didn't really know what else to do. I had my new best friend Nicorette, but Nicky was really letting me down. I chewed and chewed and it just wasn't helping. So I ate. For breakfast, I ate a chocolate glazed donut and a bagel from Tim Horton's. While waiting for lunch I ate a whole bag of pretzel rods. For lunch I ate a Nestle's crunch bar and a bag of Doritos. For dinner we had breakfast for dinner, and I had like 483 pieces of bacon, a couple of sausage links and waffles and I had about a half a pan of brownies for dessert. I rolled myself up the stairs to bed relatively early for fear I might eat more.
So this morning, Day 2, wasn't quite as bad, until it was. After the kids left for school I ate a brownie. Then when I stopped at Tim Horton's again and this time got 2 chocolate glazed donuts, a bagel, AND a sandwich. No, not a breakfast sandwich. I'm talking a foot long turkey club, complete with bacon. I've been at work a little over an hour and I've eaten all of it. I can't decide whether I'm super excited that I haven't smoked at all in more that 36 hours or if I'm devastated that in that same time I've eaten enough to feed a small village for a week.
I've also had lots of "advice" on how to quit smoking: wear a patch, suck on a lollipop, snack on carrot sticks, chew on a coffee stirrer, use sugar free hard candies, stick sharp pointy objects into your eyeballs when you get a craving, etc, etc. Screw all of them. I've found my method. Gummy bears. Rather, gummy bears on a stick. And better still, the world's largest gummy bears. Shyeah. According to Vat19's website, these babies are 88 times the size of a regular gummy bear (which is 88 times the awesomeness), weigh a half a pound and they're made in the United States by hand "with gloves on". Can you really ask for more than that? I think not.
I'll be placing my order later today.
So this morning, Day 2, wasn't quite as bad, until it was. After the kids left for school I ate a brownie. Then when I stopped at Tim Horton's again and this time got 2 chocolate glazed donuts, a bagel, AND a sandwich. No, not a breakfast sandwich. I'm talking a foot long turkey club, complete with bacon. I've been at work a little over an hour and I've eaten all of it. I can't decide whether I'm super excited that I haven't smoked at all in more that 36 hours or if I'm devastated that in that same time I've eaten enough to feed a small village for a week.
I've also had lots of "advice" on how to quit smoking: wear a patch, suck on a lollipop, snack on carrot sticks, chew on a coffee stirrer, use sugar free hard candies, stick sharp pointy objects into your eyeballs when you get a craving, etc, etc. Screw all of them. I've found my method. Gummy bears. Rather, gummy bears on a stick. And better still, the world's largest gummy bears. Shyeah. According to Vat19's website, these babies are 88 times the size of a regular gummy bear (which is 88 times the awesomeness), weigh a half a pound and they're made in the United States by hand "with gloves on". Can you really ask for more than that? I think not.
I'll be placing my order later today.
