Veteran's Day (I know, I'm way late here)

So I’m a little late with this, but I have to tell you about my experience at our local Veteran’s Day ceremonies. I say ceremonies because our town is made of several small communities and five of them have memorials, so every year on Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day, a group of folks, including veterans from the American Legion, VFW, Biker Vets (I don’t know what they’re called but that’s what they are), Rifle Squad (or whatever they’re called – I suck at this), ladies Auxiliary groups, and boy and girl scouts make rounds to each of the memorials for a ceremony. Since the boy is a scout, we always go.

Four of the memorials are smaller, and the ceremonies go pretty quickly, but the “main” one in town is generally a little larger. Usually I enjoy the ceremonies – the laying of the flags, reading of the names, and the 21-gun salute are touching. Taps makes me cry every time. But it can be a little boring after you hear the same prayers, the same speech, the same poem at each and every ceremony. But you suck it up and pay your respects. This year, however, it was a little irritating.

The lady who read the poem started off by giving a little speech about honoring veterans. It was mostly nice until she started bitching – I mean raised voice bitching – about the low turnout. She went on and on about how years ago more people turned out and now it’s sickening that people don’t. I have a couple of problems with this. First off – years ago, it was a big deal – I mean – there were bigger ceremonies – they were publicized. Now, unless you’re in the groups that are a part of it, you don’t even know about them. And if you don’t know, you can’t come. Two – with Veteran’s Day especially – people work. I am lucky enough to be off that day, but I know plenty of people who couldn’t come if they wanted to because they are working. And finally – hello? Preaching to the choir! We’re here. Don’t bitch and yell at us about apathy because each and every one of us dragged our asses (and often our kids’ asses) out of bed at the buttcrack of dawn, got dressed and ready, and stood outside in the cold listening to the same speeches over and over again. Don’t bitch at us! Write a letter to the editor or something, but please – shut up.

But the thing that really pissed me off this year was the main speaker at the “big” ceremony. We got done with the 3^rd one and it was early, so I figured we had plenty of time to attend the 4^th one (the “big” one) and still make our plans for the day. It was only about 10:00 when we headed out on the less than 5 minute drive to the next memorial. It got started about 10:30, and went through the same speeches, prayers and poem, and then they had a speaker. And I wanted to punch him in the face.

He started off talking about honoring veterans. It was nice. And then…oh, and then he got political and religious. He started going on and on about what a terrible country we have become and how all the veterans who gave their lives were rolling over in their graves over what was going on in this country. That they would be so disappointed in our leaders, and so on and so on and holy fucking shit, he is still going on. Rush Limbaugh couldn’t have done a better job at being an asshole.

I was absolutely offended. And not because his politics clearly differed greatly from mine – I would have been pissed if he agreed with everything I believe, too. I was pissed because this was supposed to be about honoring veterans. This was not mean to be a political rally. And it’s offensive that you should assume that everyone in the audience agrees with your views. It’s a slap in the face to the men and women who have served and/or given their lives for this country to use their day to do this. I have known a lot of veterans in my lifetime, and at least half of them would have vehemently disagreed with his political views. And it is incredibly ignorant to claim that they are or would be disappointed in this country currently. I’m getting awfully sick of the assumption that Conservative=Patriotic and Liberal=Country-hating, veteran-mocker.

His speech went on and one and on. At this point, it was at least 30 minutes – 25 of which had nothing to do with Veteran’s Day and everything to do with watching Fox news too fucking much. And just as we thought it was going to end ( he kept saying, “in conclusion” and then going on and on some more), he decided to shift from what a commie pinko country we have become and focus on what godless heathens we are. He talked and yelled and railed on about the loss of God in public schools, the lack of mandatory prayer, the abandonment of Jesus.

Again, this was a huge slap in the face to the many, many men and women who have fought sacrificed for our freedom – for his freedom who are and were Jews and Muslims and Buddhists and atheists. Does their sacrifice mean less because they didn’t die praying to the same god? Or any god?

I walked way at this point. I know it wasn’t the most respectful thing to do, but I couldn’t take any more. I was so offended I was actually in tears. I was just waiting for the god hates fags chorus to kick in and I didn’t want to be there to hear it. By the time he was done, he had spent 45 or 50 minutes raining his fire and brimstone down on us and maybe five to ten minutes had anything to do with the actual purpose of the day.

When he finally did finish spewing his nonsense, both he and the man who took the podium after him offered information on his youth group, inviting people to join. Yeah, I’ll get right on that, hater.

So, a little late – I want to say that I have a huge amount of respect and awe for the people who have served this country. I am not nearly as brave. I am not nearly as noble. They may not all be perfect, but they are willing to defend me and this country and for that, I honor them. They make little money. They don’t get nearly enough respect. They spend time away from their families and homes. They lose hope and limbs and precious, precious time. And for those who gave their lives – there is nothing I could do that could equal that sacrifice. Even when I don’t support the war, I always, ALWAYS, support the soldiers. I don’t care who they pray to, or if they pray at all. I don’t care who they voted for. And I hope that next time, the town finds a speaker who doesn’t care either.

Superhero

My mom is like a superhero. Only instead of strength or speed or ability to fly, she has other powers. Like the ability to insult me without speaking a word. Or her super X-Ray vision that helps her to spot a single errant sesame seed, tipping her off to the recent presence of fast food. But one of my favorite of her powers is her ability to make everything and anything sound like an accusation.

I take the kids to her house every morning when I leave for work (or lately, the girl, since the boy has jazz band practice in the wee hours). I have been doing this for years. For 11 years, I’ve been dropping them off at the same time, every day, close to 5 days a week. Eleven years. Same 15-minute range of time. And yet Every! Single! Day! she ends up calling the house just when things are at their most hectic – I’m carrying bags to the car, trying to get The Girl’s shoes on, locating backpacks, signing papers, yelling out instructions to mr b and The Boy, packing snacks, and trying to get out the door. And just as I am in full stress mode, hands full, holding a kid…the fucking phone starts ringing!
“Aren’t you bringing the kids down?”

Yes mother yes I am. The same as I did yesterday and the day before, and Friday and the entire week before that, and the past ELEVEN FUCKING YEARS!!!!!! I AM COMING!!!

Sweet Chocolate Jesus, why does she have to call every single day?? She knows I am coming. And she says it in an accusing voice, as if I am late or somehow failing. All it serves to do if add more stress to my morning.

She doesn’t limit the use of her super powers to the morning only, though. She’s got another delightful use for it that I hatefully mockingly affectionately call, “Where were you?”

"Where were you?" is one that goes WAY back. See, my mom is very suspicious and defensive by nature. And that combination makes for some awfully fun phone conversations. It started when I was in college and she would call me when I wasn’t in my room. I’d call her back later and get “Where were you?” It didn’t matter what day or time it was - I could have been in class, at dinner, up the hall in a friend’s room – whatever. But if I wasn’t there to answer her call, she took it personally. If the call had come during the day, I said I was in class (because even if I were in the dining hall, I wasn’t going to tell her that, since that would open up the door for her to sing her favorite song, “You Know, You Should Really Try To Get Out And Exercise And The Weathers Getting Warmer So It’s Easier And You Want To Wear Cute Summer Clothes Don’t You And Really, I Am Not Doing This Because Of Your Weight I Just Really Want You To Be Healthy So Why Don’t You Go Walking And You Should Eat More Vegetables And I Only Want What’s Best For You.” God, I hate that song. If the call came during the evening (or early morning) hours – it was a whole new ballgame. And since “drinking,” “getting high,””skipping class” and “fucking” were not acceptable answers I generally when with, “At the library, Mom!” Needless to say, she was quite confused when my grades came in looking very un-library-like.

This continued on all through getting my shit together and graduating and getting on with my life, and then the defensive side joined in with the suspicious. Once I met mr b, I immediately got close to his family and started spending time with them. For one thing, they lived close by – it was easy and convenient to get together with them. For another, I liked them. So she’d call and I wouldn’t be home. Later I’d tell her I had been at SIL’s house, and I’d get, “Oh. You always have time for them.” Isn’t she sweet?

Truly, it wouldn’t matter if I had been with her the last 364 days, because that one day with “them” would piss her off regardless.

Over the years, I dealt with it in various way, including making excuses for why I was there, lying and saying I was elsewhere, and eventually, saying fuck it and not giving a shit what she said or thought. Eventually she learned to (mostly) accept it and truthfully, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass either way.

But she can’t quite let go of the “Where were you?” game. She like the Bret Favre of “Where were you?” And the prevalence of cell phones makes it even easier to spread her particular brand of joy. Because if she doesn’t reach me on the home phone, she will call my cell. This happened last night:

Her: I called you at home, but no one answered!

Me: That’s because we aren’t home.

Her: Where are you?

Me: Sigh.

(Oh – and also she can’t hear, so these conversations usually devolve into, “We’re at scouts.” “Where?” “Scouts.” “Stouts?” “No, SCOUTS!” “What? You’re out?” “Jesus CHRIST woman – we’re at SCOUTS! SCOUTS!!!!”)

It’s hard to convey it in writing – in writing it sounds like she is simply asking where I am, which is no big deal. But it’s the tone that makes it so special. The accusing, suspicious, put-upon tone. Like I am somehow failing her by not being home. As if I am out for the specific purpose of not being there when the queen beckons. God, it tires me out.

The irony of it is that my mom is the least homebody-ish person in all the land. From the time I was pretty young, she was always on the go. I would try to call her from school to let her know I had to stay for practice or see if I could go somewhere with friends and she wouldn’t be home. And in the pre-cell phone days, this was pretty damned inconvenient. Eventually I got tired of missing out on stuff and learned to go over her head call my gram – HER mother (who was and is a total badass) and she would give me the OK and then defend me if and when my mom tried to give me any shit about it.

I don’t want to make her sound neglectful, because she wasn’t – she was around when I needed her – she cooked and cleaned and came to all my activities and events without being overbearing (in that aspect of my life anyway), but she had her own life and she lived it. I spent a lot of time alone, but never minded it – I liked it. Except for when I needed to reach her and couldn’t. So it KILLS ME when she gets all indignant because she called me and I wasn’t home.

She can’t even help herself, though. It’s her superpower, after all.

Accessorized!

They say when you dress, you should put on all the accessories you plan on wearing and then remove one piece for the perfect look.

The Girl does not subscribe to that theory...

It Could Be Worse Syndrome

OK – I have to say that I am in a funk lately. I feel like I am coming apart at the seams and I haven’t had much to blog about that isn’t negative. I hate that, because I know that no one wants to read “woe is me” – I’m sick of my OWN self. But it’s what’s in my head lately, so I am writing it because I would rather write woe is me than continue to write nothing at all. Sorry



Let’s face it – men and women are still not equal in this society. Of course there is the truly disappointing fact that women still make only 75 cents on the dollar versus men, and many other workplace inequities, but I’m talking about outside the workplace – in everyday life. In our own homes, to be exact.
Now, I know that some of you will read this and say, “Not MY husband.” And if that’s true – great – good for you. But know that you are in a rather small minority.

I always thought I was a “liberated woman.” That I would never be reduced to doing certain jobs because of my sex. I thought that the man I married wasn’t chauvinistic – that he was great around the house and never thought of me as “the little wife.” I was – at least to some extent – wrong.

When we were first together, mr b was actually pretty helpful – he didn’t do a whole lot of cleaning, but he gave me a hand when I needed it and he loved to cook. Many (many) years later…not so much. If he washes dishes, he considers it “cleaning the kitchen.” He takes out the trash, but rarely gets any garbage that isn’t already bagged and /or in the kitchen. Bedrooms, bathrooms…forget it. And he never puts a new bag in.

If he drops something, it stays there. His underwear remain on the bathroom floor. The sink is always wet after he uses it. He doesn’t pick up or vacuum or scrub, or dust, or decorate, or shop (except for the rare quick trip to get a few groceries). He couldn’t tell you the kids’ homeroom numbers or their shoe sizes or the number to their doctor’s office. And on and on and on and on.

If he works late – he works late. There’s no calling to see if it will be a problem. There’s no frantic finagling for a sitter or someone to pick up the kids. He knows assumes that I will be there.

If he’s not hungry, it would never even begin to occur to him to start dinner. If he is hungry, he’ll ask me, “What do you want to do about dinner?” See how nice he is, though? He doesn’t say “What are YOU MAKING for dinner?”

He can sit at the computer all night, whether working or playing around or getting guitar tabs and not worry for a minute about anyone’s homework or baths or bedtime. The other night, the girl sat at the table right next to him doing her homework and he didn’t flinch while she repeatedly called me in from the other room to help her.

He can sleep until he needs to get up. He can go to bed when he’s tired, regardless of whether there’s stuff to be done.
If a child is sick, there’s not even a moment’s question over who will be taking off work.

I know – this is just a rehashing of things I have said before, but I promise I have a point.

I am aware that I am talking about my life, my husband, and shouldn’t assume that all men are the same way. In fact – I know they aren’t. But from talking to friends and family, it seems like a whole lot of women are in the same boat, whether it’s got a slow leak or a just hit an iceberg like mine.

And the question is – why?

When I look at all the women I talk to about this stuff, the only thing we have in common is the fact that we are women. Some (like me) work, some don’t. Some (like me) have kids, some don’t. Some (like me) earn more money (some don’t). Some (like me) have long commutes to work, some go no further than their living room. So it’s hard not to look at it and assume that the main problem here is that we are women.

But the thing that has really been bothering me lately is that in talking to other women who are experiencing some level of this inequality is what I like to call the It Could Be Worse Syndrome.

It Could Be Worse Syndrome is the tendency among women to make excuses for the men that aren’t living up to their end of the bargain. “Yeah – he leaves his underwear in the bathroom sometimes, but it could be worse – he could never pick them up.” Or, “he never puts a clean bag in the garbage can, but it could be worse – I could have to take out the trash myself.” Or, “He sits in front of the TV every night, but it could be worse – he could be at the bar instead.” Sadly, I have heard women – of all ages – not just the older generation that you might expect it from – go as far as to excuse thro husbands’ behavior because “it could be worse – he could be cheating on me” or (the most horrifying one of all) “it could be worse – he could be abusive.”

What? WHAT???

Let me make this clear right off the bat - IT COULD ALWAYS BE WORSE.

Why in the Holy Blue Fuck should I excuse someone’s bad behavior based on the fact that it could be worse? If that’s the way it works, then I am never showing up for work again – “I’ll tell my boss – it could be worse – I could be an embezzler.” How do you think that will go over? Or maybe I won’t feed my kids anymore, “It could be worse, kids – I could make you sleep outside under the porch!” I’m sure they’ll appreciate my generosity.

No one makes a grand appreciative gesture because I make dinner or clean the toilet or remember to turn in the parent teacher forms. No one thanks me because they have clean underwear and shoes that fit. But not only am I supposed to perform some kind of Blow Job Ballet of Gratitude any time my husband “helps me” by feeding HIS children or taking out HIS garbage, I’m supposed to give him an award for not being an abusive, cheating asshole?
It doesn’t get much worse than that.

Tweedle Drunk

I’m sick of beIng responsible. I‘ve said it before, so there’s no reason to totally rehash it. But I’m as fucking sick of it as ever.

*******

Can you tell I’m a bit crabby today? The past few days have been those kind of high stress parenting days. The ones where the kids drive you absolutely nuts with their fighting and bitching and nonsense and bullshit. And if your kids don’t fight and bitch and aren’t full of all kinds of nonsense and bullshit, I don’t want to hear about it. I won’t believe you anyway. Besides - your kids are probably cute, right? Well, we all think our kids are cute, me included. And when they are babies, we look at them and think, Man, I’m so happy I have a cute kid. But I have learned something - don’t be happy you have a cute kid. Because the cuteness of the child is directly proportional to the evil. That’s why god made them cute - so you LET THEM LIVE when they are puling all the fighting and bitching and nonsense and bullshit.

I've been home with a semi-sick child the past two days and it’s been delightful. Really. She’s at that point of being just sick enough to have to stay home from school, but not sick enough that she doesn’t want to whine at me all day, tear up my house, make demands and boss. And then the boy comes home and she pokes him and then he pokes her and then I want to poke the both of them. And by the time her father comes home, after I have dealt with all this (on top of working a full eight hour day, of course) her father comes home, it would be nice to have someone pitch in and maybe cook dinner or give someone a bath instead of planting his ass on the couch, or in front of the computer or whatever. But instead – you guessed it.

And while I understand that he has been working all day, so have I. PLUS I’ve had to deal with all this other stuff. And really, it wouldn’t matter if he were in a fucking hot tub all day and I was digging a goddamn hole to China – it wouldn’t change a thing – he’d still get all indignant about having to perform horrible duties such as BATHING AND FEEDING HIS OWN CHILDREN and we’d still be subjected to his evil, crabby, hellcats-and-razors-in-the-anus moodiness. So, given the option of just fucking doing it myself or dealing with the Quivering Snarling White Hot Ball of Husband Terror (anyone get that reference? Anyone? Bueller?), I choose the lesser of the two evils.

*******

Some of the stress is internal – it comes from the whole working from home guilt. I am lucky enough to be able to work from home when necessary, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel like a heel when I have to. Part of that is me, but part comes from the childless contingent. We have all seen the fallout of the working vs stay at home mommy wars, but I am telling you – the parents vs childless in the workplace wars are just as brutal.

I work with a few people who get an attitude about people who take off/work from home/whatever because of their kids. Meanwhile, I have a ton of days to take if I need them. I get my work done from home. I never do anything that isn’t approved by the higher ups. And yet, there’s still that…I don’t know…air of disapproval. One person in particular has actually said things to me about other parents. Of course this person isn’t talking about me though. I’m not like them. Fuck that. I am like them. I’m a parent who has a career. someone who has to make difficult choices about work and family. Insult them and you are insulting me, no matter what you might say. FUCK THAT.

*******

I was talking to some coworkers about people sending their kids to school sick. While I understand the outrage over it, I can also sympathize with the parents. I am lucky enough to have vacation time. I am lucky enough to be able to work from home. But there are a lot of parents out there (especially in these times) who don’t have any options – who won’t get paid or will lose their jobs if they don’t show up. I don’t want a sick kid going into school, but I can’t crucify the parents, either. I’m sure some of them are just assholes (@RockingPony gave a good example of this today on twitter), but I know some are between a big fucking rock and a very hard place and I sympathize with them. Hell – even though I do have options, I am feeling the pressure after 2 days of working from home. I have the familiar dilemma of whether she’s well enough to go to school or if I am taking advantage of my lenient workplace if I stay home with her another day. It sucks.

*******

And speaking of the childless, I had a friend tell me today about a coworker who is one of those know-it-all types about kids. I hate those. Apparently this woman is one of the “My child will never” types. Fine, let her enjoy her little “MY child will never. . .” fantasy. Because those of us in the know are well aware that that one goes right out the window along at least once or twice. Like “MY child won’t be eating McDonald’s (Yes. Yes she will. Because there will come a time when you just don’t care what they eat as long as there’s something in their mouth and you can’t hear the screaming)”, “MY child isn’t going to watching TV (When the choice is TV or killing them because they won’t leave you alone for ONE FUCKING SECOND, much less long enough t have sex ever again? TV it is)”, “MY child will eat whatever I put in front of her (HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!)”, “I’LL never use a video as a babysitter (you will if you ever want to take a shit in piece again)” and “MY child will never sleep in my bed (Go to sleep. Go To Sleep. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, CHILD, IF I DON’T SLEEP SOON I’M GOING TO DIE. FINE, COME IN HERE AND JUST SHUT UP AND GO TO SLEEP!)”

*******

The past week hasn’t been entirely bad, though. We marched in the Halloween parade:

We went trick or treating with the little bride:

We celebrated the girl’s sixth birthday several times, including one magnificent cake thanks to my SIL Weenie:

And we went to the Annual Scabs the Clown Drunken Halloween Extravaganza (wearing our fed-up response to the skanky costume trend):

Just call us Tweedle Drunk and Tweedle Drunker

A Halloween Tip

It's fine if you are handing out treats - really, it is. There are valid reasons not to. It can be a pain. It's tiring. It costs a lot of money these days (especially in this neighborhood that gets several hundred kids every year). So I won't judge you if you aren't participating.

HOWEVER....If you aren't handing out candy on Trick or Treat night, hanging around outside in your yard raking leaves? Just makes you seem like kind of a douchebag.

Just a tip.

Thursday Thirteen: The Girl edition

In honor of today being The Girl’s sixth birthday, my Thursday Thirteen will be about her today.

Thirteen of The Girl’s Greatest Hits:

1: October 2009:

(OK, I just posted this the other day, but it’s funny) - My aunt and cousin were in from Virginia recently and my other aunt decided to have an early birthday cake for the girl and another cousin while they were here. Among other presents, the girl got a gift card and some cash. While my boy and the little birthday boy were playing with one of his new toys – something loud and annoying – they decided to focus their annoying on the girl. She started to get mad and came into the kitchen and said, “Mom, Brother is being mean. I don’t have to share my gift card and money with him, do I?” I told her that they were hers and she most certainly didn’t have to share them. This made her happy and she marched back into the bedroom to inform him that he gets nothing. Of course, they boy didn’t care and continued to annoy her until a few minutes later when she came back into the kitchen with an evil gleam in her eye and in the sweetest voice asked me, “Mom, when we go shopping with my gift card and money, can brother come?” Sure, baby. “Good. I want him to come and watch while I spend it and HE GETS NOTHING!!!” Ahh....Grasshopper, I have taught you well.

2. October 2009:

"Hey Mom, you know what's weird? We had two Gavins in Pre-school, and we have two Noahs in Kindergarten. We'll probably have two Franks in 1st grade."

3. September 2009:

My aunt just asked the girl what she is learning in school and she replied, "The nature of buttocks."

4. July 2009:

The Girl: "Mom, I'm going to the school dance (whispered: we're pretending, OK?), so do you think I should go in a taxi or a limbo?"

5. June 2009:

Me: That’s a pain in the ass.

The Girl: You shouldn’t say that.

Random relative: Yeah, you should say pain in the butt.

The Girl: No – you should have said that balls thing.

Me: That’s a pain in the balls?

The Girl: Yeah, but that other word…Ssss…Scr….Scr…

Me: Scrotum?

The Girl: Yeah! You should have said, ‘That’s a pain in the scrotum!’

Random relative: Oh my God.

6. June 2009:

The Girl: There’s something I want to say.

Me: What?

The Girl: I can’t say it.

Me: What??

The Girl: Can I just say it once?

Me What??

The Girl: Asshat! Asshat, Asshat, Asshat!

Me: Are you done?

The Girl. Yeah.

7. June 2009:

The Girl: Those old men were looking at me! (talking about 2 old men sitting on a porch as we drove by)

Me: Oh yeah?

The Girl: Yep. And I heard one of them say…um…‘That little girl looks so cute.’

The Boy: What?

The Girl. OK, I totally made that up. But they were looking at me.

8. March 2008:

Me: “Bean – why is the dog barking? Can you look and see if someone is coming”
The Girl: (To me)“OK, Mom”…(to the dog) “Stop barking! There’s no one coming, you jackass

9. February 2008:

Last night, the girl handed me a piece of paper and a pencil, said, “Write a letter for me”, and dictated - word for word - the following:

Dear Troy,
I love you. I’m going to kiss you. I love you.
Love,
Bean

10. May 2007:

A conversation in the grocery store:

The boy: "Mom, where's the turkey you got?"
Me: *ignoring boy while I speak to the deli worker*
The boy: "Mom! Did you get turkey? Where is the turkey?"
The girl: Hey! I know where the turkey is!!
The boy: "Where?"
The girl: "In your ass!"

11. Feb 2007:

Girl: I spelled you with my stickers.
Boy: That doesn't spell my name. (said while implementing "the silent 'duh'") That spells HSKTJB!
Girl: I spelled you! It spells Stupid!
Boy: Moooommmm!

12. Feb 2007:

Boy: You stink.
Girl: You stink.
Boy: You smell like poop.
Girl: You're made of poop!
Boy: You're made of farts!
Girl: You're made of farts! And boogers!
Boy:………
Girl: Aaaaaannnnnd, you're made of girls!

13. July 2006:

*various crunching, crinkling, banging sounds from kitchen*

Me: “Beansie! (girl nickname) Get out of the kitchen!”

The Girl: “I’m not in the kitchen”

*bang crinkle crunch pop.*

Me: “What are you doing?”

The Girl: “Nothing.”

* pop crinkle bang crunch.*

Me: “Beans, Are you in the kitchen?”

The Girl: “No!”

*crinkle crinkle bang crunch*

Me: “Brother!”

Brother: “ ”

Me: “Brother - what are you doing?”

Brother: “ ”

*crunch bang crunch crinkle*

Me: “Beans - you’re in that kitchen, aren’t you?”

The Girl: “NO!”

Me: “Brother, are you in the kitchen?”

The Girl: “BROTHER’S NOT IN HERE, EITHER!!”

13. November 2005:

The girl has a new catchphrase: “Oh my dammit!” (with the emphasis on the dammit part). I have never heard anyone say that before, so I don’t know where she got it. Either she heard it elsewhere or she’s as adept as her mother in the Creating New Ways to Curse department. Whatever, it’s now her favorite expression of emotion. Sometimes she uses it in context, like, “Oh my dammit, I dropped my pocable! (popsicle)” or “Oh my dammit, the dog ate my chicken finger!” And sometimes it’s just a general exclamation like, “Oh my dammit, Dora’s coming on! ” Now given my love of profanity, all I can say is that it must be genetic. And of course, if it is genetic then I had to get it from somewhere too and am thus innocent. I think I’ll blame my mother.

13: November 2005

She’s also getting smart in the Get Your Brother in Trouble department. When we were getting ready on Sunday, she was in the boy’s way and he gave her a gentle push out of his way. She started to fake cry and when I asked what was wrong, she told me “He called me Butthole”. I said, “He did?”, and she said, “Yeah. And he went chhrrcchhh (this “crunching” sort of sound effect was accompanied by a bizarre neck/shoulder cringe/shrug) on my ear!” Now, I was right there when it all went down and I can attest to the fact that there was no butthole-calling or ear-chhrrcchhh-ing.

We’ll just go ahead and pretend that I didn’t have three 13s, OK?

Plagiarised AGAIN!

Once again, some fucking thief on myspace has stolen one of my posts.

Here is my post, from June 30th

Here is hers, from July 7th

Do me a favor - if you have a myspace profile, send this person a message and tell them what you think about plagiarism.

Thanks.

Random Tuesday

This a crazy busy week. We have parades, and a birthday and trick or treat and parties and I can’t think straight. So it’s all random nonsense today

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I’m in computer hell. Remember when I came home from vacation in August to a completely infected laptop? Well, I still haven’t gotten that fixed. Mainly because mr b is laid off and we can’t afford it, but also because I have my work laptop that I take home every night, so I haven’t been without a computer. Until yesterday, when I went home, turned it on and…nothing. I NEED A NERF COMPUTER!

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The girl and the boy will both be in the Halloween parade on Wednesday. The boy with the marching band and the girl with her baton group. The marching band dress up in costume for the parade and the boy will be dressing as a hippie. I should probably be embarrassed to tell you that his costume consists of my clothes. As in, actual clothes that I actually wear. From one of my tie-dye shirts and my hand-painted Grateful Dead jean jacket to my fringe-y, suede footwear. I’m a fashion icon. Hey – at least the little round orange-lens Lennon glasses are only replicas of ones I used to wear. Baby steps, people.

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The girl’s baton group will be wearing sweatsuits, since it’s too cold for their normal marching uniforms. A couple of weeks ago, they passed around a paper to take orders. A blank piece of paper, where they asked what size you needed. So, I put down a 5 pants and a 6 top. Well, apparently, they ordered them and discovered that the sizes were a little different, so instead of letting us know and decide what size we wanted, they made the choice for us. So the girl had a 6-8 top and a 2-4 pants. Awesome. I don’t understand why in the blue fuck they didn’t check out the company’s sizing chart first, and then have us choose from those, instead of just passing around a blank paper and saying, write down the size. Admittedly, a 6-8 would be too big in the pants (the shirt is fine), but I could have altered them. Instead, the 2-4 are short. Luckily, they have a giant rise and while they won't be floods, they’ll hang down like harem pants. Hammer Time! Plus – the 2-4s didn’t come in red, so the few girls who ended up with that size will be in white instead of red. Why, oh why are people SO FUCKING STUPID?

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My aunt and cousin were in from Virginia recently and my other aunt decided to have an early birthday cake for the girl and another cousin while they were here. Among other presents, the girl got a gift card and some cash. While my boy and the little birthday boy were playing with one of his new toys – something loud and annoying – they decided to focus their annoying on the girl. She started to get mad and came into the kitchen and said, “Mom, Brother is being mean. I don’t have to share my gift card and money with him, do I?” I told her that they were hers and she most certainly didn’t have to share them. This made her happy and she marched back into the bedroom to inform him that he gets nothing. Of course, they boy didn’t care and continued to annoy her until a few minutes later when she came back into the kitchen with an evil gleam in her eye and in the sweetest voice asked me, “Mom, when we go shopping with my gift card and money, can brother come?” Sure, baby. “Good. I want him to come and watch while I spend it and HE GETS NOTHING!!!” Ahh....Grasshopper, I have taught you well.

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Finally, in camera news – I tried another lens on my camera and it worked, so it looks like the camera body is fine and I just need to replace the lens. Thank God! Also? Excuse to upgrade my lens! Yay!

When I was growing up, my dad always had good cameras and he taught me to use them young. As soon as I could hold a camera, I had one of my own, but I had access to my dad’s Nikon, telephoto lenses, external flashes, tripods, etc, whenever I wanted. I learned about f-stops and light meters before I learned my multiplication tables. So I wanted to do the same with my own kids.

Both of them have their own cameras, but I let them use mine whenever they want (in my presence, of course). The boy has a whole shelf of ribbons and trophies from photography contests, and has even won at the regional level. So, naturally, now that the girl is old enough, she wants to participate, too. I have been taking her out and letting her photograph whatever she wants. People often see her using that big camera and chuckle, thinking she’s just playing. Or they express disbelief that I am letting her. I have had people ask me why I let her use my good camera like that.

Well, here’s why:

I swear, this isn’t a post about being sick…

Because, oh GOD, do I hate blog posts about being sick. But I gotta say – I’ve been sick. The kind of sick where you have to stop and rest walking from the living room to the kitchen (in a relatively small house). And if there is no furniture en route – like when heading down the hall to the bathroom – you just lay down on the floor and moan. I’m talking crying sick. Yes – I actually cried yesterday because I felt so bad. Don’t worry – no H1N1 or anything like that going on – just the worst cold in the history of colds.

And now I’m done talking about being sick. I only mentioned it because I wanted to use my illness and subsequent medications for the HUGE brain fart I had today. For the past several days of being sick, I kept thinking that I really needed to feel better by today because we had my little cousin’s birthday party at the zoo, plus we were going to be meeting friends afterwards. So I have spent the past week shoving zinc up my nose (zycam, anyone?) and drinking tea and taking approximately 67 different cold remedies to try to get well by today. And although yesterday I felt like I was actually going to die any minute I woke up this morning feeling pretty good. Well, not good exactly, but not sick. More like “leftover” sick. Like when you get run over y a bus and the next day you feel “leftover” injured. Like that.

But I was upright, not completely coughing up a lung, and I didn’t have to stop and rest on a 20-foot walk, so I figured I was good enough to go. So I got out of bed at 7:30 am, showered and got ready. Then I took any cold medicine that wouldn’t make me drive off a bridge, woke up the kids, got them fed and ready and we took off on the hour-long drive. We got to the zoo, parked, walked, and fought 200 rude Amish people to get up the stairs to the gates (not that Amish people are generally rude - just this group).

I told the girl at the gate that we were there for a birthday party and she looked at me like I was speaking in tongues and said. “Do you have tickets?” “No – we just got an invitation that said to tell them at the gate.” “But you still need to pay admission.” “Um..no – it’s included in the birthday party.” “I don’t think so.” “Yes. We don’t have to pay. It’s part of the party.” “Hold on.”

And I waited. And waited. And waited, while she talked to the other twit in the box. And just as I was thinking about what a complete idiot this chick was, she came back and said, “You’re right – you don’t need a ticket.” But before I got to bask I the glory of my RIGHTNESS, she said, “But…um…that party is tomorrow.

DOH!!!

I blame the meds.

Fro Party

I met mr b at work. I was 21, finishing school, and needed something part-time to make ends meet. I saw an ad that a local restaurant was hiring and the next day I was officially a waitress. My first day of work, I learned that the staff generally hung out in the bar after work and had a few drinks (Or more. It turned out to be the shittiest and yet most fun place to work). I wasn’t planning on staying, since I didn’t really know anyone yet, but one of the waitresses, Kay, called me over. She was about 20 years older than me, and very sweet. I figured what the hell and decided to stay for a drink (or more). We did the same thing the next night. And the next. And we became friends really quickly.

We talked about a lot of stuff – her kids, my school, her day job, my love life. Or lack thereof, I should say. I was feeling pretty jaded about guys at the time. Between the longish-term asshole who broke up with me when he was turning 21 so he could go out and fuck around, the too sweet, bad sex rebound guy, the jackass who just disappeared, and the ten-thousand idiots I was meeting in bars every week, I was ready to swear off men forever. I said as much to Kay and she said five words that changed the course of my life. She said, “You would love my brother.”

It turned out that he worked there part time, too, but he was on vacation. She spent the next week telling me all about him – how great he was – smart, good-looking, about how we had similar interests and tastes. I fell for him a little without even meeting him. In the meantime, she was calling him every night and telling him all about me.

I was anxious about his impending first day back on the job – excited, but nervous. And then, the night before he was due to come back, she said, “Oh, I finally remembered to bring you a picture!”

And then…

Oh GOD, and then she handed me a photo of him from 1978!

And even though I could clearly tell that it was an outdated photo, it wasn’t enough for me not to feel the horror at what I was seeing. Weird, tight pants. Giant lapels on the shirt. Huge afro. Tinted aviator glasses. PORN-STACHE!!!

I gave her something very similar to “Present Face” and said, “Uh…um…so...uh…WOW! He’s um…really cute!”

And then I thought about quitting immediately.

But I needed the job, so that was out. And eventually I decided that since I was pretty much striking out in the love department, that even with his stache/fro ensemble, he couldn’t be any worse than the flaming dickheads I’d been meeting and I figured I’d give him a chance. Obviously, he turned out not to be the freak that I was expecting and the rest is history.

The story is pretty famous among our family and friends and the photo is notorious. So for his 50th birthday party, I got a photo album that holds one photo per page and has a space for an inscription. And I found a giant, light brown afro. And I made porn-staches out of felt (buying them would have cost a fortune). And I took a photo of every single guest wearing them, and had them sign the book.

It was a blast.

Me:


The kids:




My 90 year old grandma:


My 8 month old cousin:


My insane friend in what is my favorite (though censored) photo:


Some of the many, many more:

Fuck-Me Cheese

On Sunday, the girl had a birthday party for a friend. Thank goodness it was a late afternoon party, since we had mr b’s 50th birthday party the night before and there was some serious ass-dragging going on. But we somehow managed to get ourselves to the party on time, and I managed to stay upright, and not punch anyone the entire time. What’s that? It doesn’t seem like an accomplishment to not punch anyone at a child’s birthday party? Well, I forgot to tell you the party was at Check E Cheese.

Ahhhh, now you understand, don’t you? Hungover at Fuck Me Cheese: not so fun.

The party was for a friend from day care. She is the daughter of an old friend’s sister. I’ve talked about my friend Tammy before – she died in 1992 of a brain tumor. I usually re-post my story of her every year on her birthday and this year, I was in the middle of my own crazy and I missed it – I thought about it a few days before and then forgot. I was on my way to the party when I remembered. I felt bad, though I guess it’s more about not thinking about her that day than an actual blog entry. It happens, though – she’s been gone almost as long as she was alive. It’s hard to imagine what she’d be like today. I’d like to think we’d still be friends, that we’d have kids who played together.

I got to the party and saw her sister, and then her mother, and then another sister and a cousin and it hit me. They all look so much alike. I can look at them and imagine what Tammy would look like today. I had to fight back tears. It’s a weird thing to feel grief for someone and then think, damn, I can’t let myself show it, because who am I to grieve - my grief can’t compare to theirs. But it’s still there. It’s still mine.

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OK, on to other things – like the assholes at Fuck Me Cheese. Good lord. I understand that your kids drive you crazy. I understand that you need a break. Believe me – I UNDERSTAND! However, just because the insane mousehouse has the hand-stamping kidnapping prevention does NOT mean that your child should just run around completely unattended. There was one little girl who latched onto the girl in the games area. She only had a couple of tokens left to the girl’s full cup. When she ran out, the girl was giving her some (because she is a rocking, make-your-mom-proud, OMG-my-kid-is-awesome sharer), but this kid wouldn’t quit. She wanted tokens, tickets, whatever. She wanted to play this game, not that game. When the girl had finally had enough and wouldn’t give her more tokens, she looked me square in the face and demanded more. “I need more tokens!” I told her she needed to go ask her mom or dad. She said, “They don’t have any” Well, I’m sorry then kid. Where the fuck were her parents? This went on for over an hour and I never once saw an adult anywhere near this kid. Not once.

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And let’s talk about the hand stamp system. When the girl and I left, you couldn’t even read the hand stamps anymore, after washing our hands a bunch of times. And yet, they let us out. There was no way they could tell for sure that the girl belonged with me. So Mr and/or Mrs. I Need A Break From My Kid need to step up their give-a-shit a little.

And she was the only one. During my two and a half hours there, I had to help a kid get strapped into a ride, help a toddler off of another ride, get an employee to fix a game for another kid, stop not one, not two, but THREE insane children from throwing skee balls instead of rolling them. Also - seriously – skee-ball for toddlers? Worst idea ever. I watched multiple children almost get their skulls cracked open by the flying spheres of death.

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Sadly, Fuck Me Cheese wasn’t the worst experience of my weekend. No, that would be reserved for the girl jumping on me and knocking my camera to the cement floor. The lens popped off and won’t stay on properly. Awesome. I’m heartbroken over it. I love that camera. I mean LOVE it. It’s not the best camera, but it’s the best one I can afford, and I saved and bargain shopped for a long time before I got it. And I’m not sure I can afford to have it fixed – or if it’s even possible. I know I can’t afford a new one. But damn it, I need to do something, because it’s my one “thing.” I don’t like fancy jewelry. I don’t buy designer purses or shoes. I don’t spend money on clothes. I’m not a gadget lover. I get my books free from the library. I don’t care about new, fancy cars. But I ADORE my camera.

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I can’t wait to get some photos up from the party (pre-camera/heart break). I didn’t take any candid or party photos, but I did take ones of every guest wearing a special Make Fun of Mr B Getup. It was awesome. More on that later.

Monday...blech

I need a weekend to recover from my weekend. Not that it was particularly wild and crazy, unless you count shopping, cleaning and organizing as wild and crazy, that is.

Mr b was away this weekend – our awesome nephew Pap took him to Charlotte to see Widespread Panic and The Allman Brothers as a 50th birthday gift. He had a great time and quite enjoyed rubbing it in and sending me photos of Widespread Panic. It’s just not right. I drowned my sorrows in pomegranate mojitos. In his defense, he did come home with shirts for me and the kids, so I think I’ll keep him.

Friday, I dragged Hedge along on a shopping trip, since I had a giant list of things I needed to buy for the upcoming party. Not that hedge was super-excited about going to Hell-Mart or anything. I tricked her into going with the promise of a birthday dinner and gift. So we failed miserably at the shopping and ended up stuffing ourselves with food, mojitos and balls (!?!?) at Tusca. Because she is turning FORTY. FORTY FORTY FORTY! HEDGE IS FORTY! Ahem. Anyway, I wanted to get her something special for her big day, and I thought long and hard before I came up with the perfect, tear-jerking, sentimental gift. About 30 years ago, we started calling each other Hedgehog and Rooster. So I designed a t-shirt for her with this on it:

It brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it? of course I got one for myself, too, because who wouldn't want that?

Saturday, I went back out to finish the shopping, then came home for another mojito party. Rapunzel and Scabs came over to help me get some stuff done, which really meant “to help drink a half gallon of rum.” We did a fine job, if I do say so myself. Luckily, Scabs and I weren’t too hungover on Sunday to get as shitload of organizing and decorating done. The walls in the addition have been bare for over a year now, since I suck at decorating, so I put Scabs to work and she hung stuff and made it look way better than anything I would have done. The room looks a lot less empty and crappy now. She also kicked my ass into getting rid of a ton of stuff, which I needed.

I still have a ton of things to do and get, but I am a hell of a lot closer than I was last week. So, yay!

Oh, also – on Friday night, Hedge and I were getting off the expressway and I accidentally went through the e-z pass lane (even though I knew mr b had taken the ez-pass and I had cash in hand), and as I was sitting there like a jackass, trying to put money in while it kept spotting it back out, I noticed that a) it was the ez-pass lane, and b) the light was green. So I went through and hoped that I wouldn’t end up getting ticket. Anyway, this morning, I went through the pay lane, (since mr b didn’t give back the ez-pass) and before I even got to the pay basket, the light turned green and the bar went up. So clearly? I HAVE THE MAGIC! I called mr b to tell him:

RingRing

Him: I know, I know, I still have the ez-pass

Me: No - it happened again! It turned green and I didn’t even pay! I HAVE THE MAGIC!

Him: OK…so…is that all you called me for?

Me: Duh. You’d call me if you discovered you had the magic, wouldn’t you?

Him: Yeah, I guess so. So…congratulations? I gotta go.

Me: Fine. You’re just mad because you don’t have the magic.

Thursday Thirteen

Thirteen things that are irritating me today (I know – it’s shocking that I’m bitching about things, right?)

1. The fact that as I was going out the door this morning, mr b informed that our nephew Pap was staying with us tonight, because they are leaving on a weekend trip tomorrow morning. Don’t get me wrong – he’s always welcome, but it would have been nice to know in advance, so I could clean up the house (my cleaning gets done on the weekend, so by Thursday, it’s pretty bad), get the extra bedding washed, etc. And don’t defend mr b by saying that men just don’t care about the place being clean. I said something about the house not being clean, and he gave me the blank stare. And then I said that if he wanted the house to be clean before Pap got there, then he damned well better get home early and clean it because I don’t have time. And then he said, “Maybe I’ll just have him meet me in the morning.” Uh-huh.

2. Related to the above – he never tells me stuff – he always springs this kind of shit on me and then when I call him on it, he says, “I thought you knew! Jeez!!” How in the name of Damn –I-need-a-drink am I supposed to know this stuff - osmosis? He knows he didn’t tell me, but he still likes to pull out the “I thought you knew” defense, in case I am suddenly rendered stupid and I will respond with “Oh, that’s right – it’s all my fault!”

3. My mother. Have you ever known someone who didn’t care? I mean, just didn’t care what you were saying, at all, ever? Who just looked through you if you were talking about something other than whatever it is she gives a shit about? That is my mother. She doesn’t even bother to try to hide her apathy, dislike, hatred, disapproval, disappointment, disgust, animosity, or misguided sense of superiority or entitlement. Ever. She’s a bitch. I love her basically because she’s my mom. But I rarely like her and even more rarely respect her.

4. American Girl dolls and their latest creation – the homeless doll. Which will make the already grossly wealthy company even richer while it sells the doll they claim teaches “valuable lessons about life.” What lessons, exactly? You mean the ones about how the wealthy, privileged kids can spend almost $100 on a fucking doll, and feel good about their little pet social misfit while the rich get richer and the actual homeless see no benefit, and go on only dreaming about having $95 to spend on silly things like food and shelter. That lesson? I’m sure it’s doing wonders for little girls all around – the homeless girls can feel better about living in abject poverty because there’s a doll that they’ll never be able to afford out there that’s just like them. And the little rich girls can feel better knowing that they’ll never have to dirty themselves by volunteering at a soup kitchen or shelter – they can just buy a homeless doll to show how much they care.

5. Whoopi Goldberg. I like Whoopi – I always did. I like that she speaks her mind and takes no bullshit. But “it wasn’t rape rape?” Seriously? Then what exactly IS rape rape? Because I always placed “giving a child alcohol and drugging them, and then forcing them into vaginal and anal intercourse” firmly into the rape rape category. So why don’t you clear that up for me, Whoopi.

6. And while we are on the topic – Woody Allen supporting Roman Polanksi is not a huge surprise, what with his own pedophilic tendencies.

7. Also – to the reporter who compared Mel Gibson’s controversy to Roman Polanski’s: “sugar tits” ≠ child rape.

8. Way to not offer vaginal or vagina for a clear typo fix, Word. Would you prefer I use pee-pee? Would that make you more comfortable?

9. The Peace, Love and Donuts guy Hate, Bigotry, and Donuts jackass. After reading this blog post, I can say with absolute certainty that I will never, ever set foot in that place. I mean, hypocrite, much? Also – I hope one day he sees the delicious irony of calling people “dilusional” [sic] and “uneducated” in the same breath. Who is delusional now, asshat? **

10. Mr b will be out of town this weekend and I am happy that he is getting this little getaway. OK, fine – I’m jealous. He’ll be rocking out with the Allman Brothers and I’ll be chauffeuring kids, cleaning, shopping, doing party prep, and stressing over the unfinished projects in the house.

11. Our office mail carrier, who suddenly deigns himself too important/busy/whatever to actually deliver the mail to each office –instead dumping it all on the elderly front desk guy.

12. Headache!

13. Sarah Palin and her new, stupid bestselling-even-though-it’s-not-even-out-yet book? Because Going Rogue? Really?

14. (I don’t care – I’m a rule breaker) Dear Word – you know “Palin” but not “vagina”? WTF?



**UPDATE: the donut douchbag deleted his blog. I guess he couldn't take the heat, and didn't have the guts to either stand up for his opinion or admit he was a douchebag. Since you can't go read it for yourself, it was a hateful, bigoted rant that took aim at the president's race, homosexuality, and just about anything else you can imagine.

Old Men and Red Pants and Pink What?

Boy, I suck at the blogging lately. And as usual, I will make my “busy, oh so busy” defense. But I really am.

I am in the process of trying to get the house and yard ready for a birthday party for mr b, which is easier said than done, given that a) we’re busy – duh, b) we live like big fat pigs and there is a TON of cleaning or organizing to do, and c) mr b is the king of 80% done projects, so there are a lot of unfinished projects around the house. So it’s been a delightful time for one and all in our household.

Notice how I didn’t mention mr b’s age. See, I was all ready to tell you but lately, I have been reading the blogs of some of my friends and they are also having birthday celebrations for people at or around mr b’s age. And those people are THEIR FATHERS!!!! OK, fine! He’s 50! And even though he robbed the cradle with me, I am close enough behind to feel it breathing on me. So if your mom or dad or grandma is 50, don’t tell me. Let me remain blissfully deluded that I am the same age as all of you and not enough older that I was in college when you were all watching Sesame Street. Kthx!!

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I think I mentioned that the girl joined baton. She loves it, and I am glad. I joined when I was about her age, too (and actually – Lord – stayed with it through two years of college - Titan Twirler - woo!). Anyhoo, when the girls march in parades, there are “marching moms” that walk along the parade route with them. Not so much my bag – I’m content to sit on the curb and cheer and take photos, but I am willing if they need me. Or at least I was until this Friday’s homecoming parade (the new girls didn’t march), when I discovered that the “marching moms” have uniforms. Oh yes. They have nice little white golf-style shorts with the team logo on it. Not so bad, right? Until you look down and see that they also wear red pants. No – they aren’t even pants. They’re slacks. RED SLACKS. Which appeared to have an elastic waist. DANGER DANGER DANGER!!!!!

I’m sorry, but there is no way that this ass is going onto those pants. No, never, NOOOOOO. The woman who runs it is the same that was running it back in 1974 when I first joined and her style hasn’t changed since. I take that back – she updated her style when she was the high school majorette sponsor and she discovered headbands. Sequined headbands. Worn not like a cute hairband, but like a dorky sweatband. Sometimes with poufy things on them. She still loves those – they are part of the uniforms, from the little ones up to the high school. Of course, now that I think about it, I’d rather wear a sequined headband than red slacks, but the likelihood of me wearing either is somewhere between “Um…no” and “HAHAHAHAHAHAHA…no.”

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Finally, I need to share with you what I saw today. Prepare yourself because it’s a horrible crime against humanity. Are you ready?

Are you sure? Because it’s bad!

OK, then…

I KNOW!!!!!!!!!!!

Vacation!

Ahhh…vacation. Even though it was short, it was awesome. Because it was relaxing and beautiful and best of all…free (mostly). Winning stuff is awesome, ya’ll!

Even though I stayed up watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia getting stuff packed, I still managed to get up at 3:00 AM to get to the airport in time. We got in early, and the flight was uneventful - though I could have done without the 5 hours (OK, minutes, but it felt like hours.) of spiraling around the airport before we landed.

We were at the report before 10:00 am, and had the whole day ahead of us, which was why I didn’t mind getting up so damned early. Here’s a news flash: It’s HOT in Arizona. We were ready to head to the pool, but we needed to eat first. We didn’t want breakfast (something about 100 degrees that makes eggs blech), so we had to wait until they started serving lunch. The pool café was the earliest - at 11:00 – so we headed there. And since it was 2:00 our time and we were on vacation, we decided to have a drink, too. Which pretty much set the tone for the while weekend.

The resort was beautiful. I would go there again in a minute. The food and drinks were delicious, though expensive. When we checked in, the people sponsoring the contest gave us gift bags, drink coupons and $200 in cash to cover some expenses, which was awesome.

After lunch, we headed to the pool, which was amazing. “Pool” didn’t do it justice – it was a whole bunch of smaller, sort-of connecting pools that formed a giant water playground. The way it was set up was nice because you never felt crowded. There were waterfalls everywhere, misters, bars, strolling waiters, comfy lounge chairs, beautiful landscaping and flowers, private cabanas, a sand beach and sand-bottomed pool area, and a kickass 3-story spiral waterslide, which shot you out like a cannon.

After lounging (and drinking) all day, we headed back to the room to get ready. I – of course – was ready way before mr b, so I headed to the open-air lobby to watch the Native American dancing and have a drink (OK, actually, several delicious pomegranate mojitos). After that, we headed to a group dinner for the contest winners. It was outside, on the edge of the water, surrounded by palm trees and mountains. And the food was fantastic. I was expecting mediocre banquet food, but I was pleasantly surprised with fresh, delicious southwestern cuisine, including a spicy fruit salad that I could have eaten 6 pounds of.

Also – the sweet, hilarious southern lady sitting at our table came back from the buffet with a steak covered in cumin sauce and said, “I thought this was gravy, but after I put it on, I saw the sign and it said it's cummin' sauce. I don't know if I like cummin’ sauce on my meat. Hot damn – it’s good!”

Of course, after dinner we headed back to the bar area – the lobby was all open to the outdoors, so you could sit on the huge terrace outside (they had a bunch of little seating areas with comfy couches and chairs) and still get table service, and enjoy the live entertainment they had every night. This night, it was a contemporary Latin band – they played some original stuff, plus some Santana, Los Lobos, etc. They were great.

We slept in a little on Saturday, had a delicious breakfast in the room, and then headed back down to the pool. It was even hotter than the day before – at one point, I heard 103, and later I heard 105. And I know – dry heat and all – it’s true – it’s much more bearable than humid heat, but still - 105! Being in the pool, it was very comfortable, but out of the pool, you just baked.

Mr b ended up getting a bad headache, so he headed back to the room, and I stayed in the pool area, floating on a raft, drinking rum punch and eyeing the beautiful, distinguished, downright chocolicious man alone the hot tub. If it hadn’t been 7000 degrees, I might have joined him.

That evening, we got a car into Old Town Scottsdale and did a little shopping and sightseeing. Then we headed to dinner at a place that had great food and a shmillion beer choices. Yay beer! After we went back to the resort, we sat on the terrace again and listened to the traditional Spanish band and watched the Flamenco dancers. And tried more delicious drinks. Mr b liked the prickly pear margarita a lot, and I teased him relentlessly since it was pink and girly. But it was delicious. I stuck to the rum drinks, though, since college pretty much ruined me on tequila.

The next morning, I got up before sunrise, so I could take some photos. Mr b, needless to say, stayed in bed. After he got up, we had a nice, leisurely breakfast, checked out, and headed out to the airport. We stopped to do a little shopping, and got the kids some more souvenirs, then hit the bar to watch as much of the game as we could before our flight.

When we got to the gate, I saw some people were whispering and throwing uncomfortable glances in the direction of the two Middle Eastern guys waiting for the flight, but honestly - I was more worried about being locked up in an airless tube for 4 hours with The Sneezer. Plus one of them was pretty hot. Not that has anything to do with anything. Just saying. Hot.

The flight was pretty good, but again with the spiraling (this time on takeoff) and lots of turbulence. The plane was full of Steelers fans, so the captain was giving us updates, the last of which resulted in a planeful of unhappy campers. On the bright side, we did have Aunt Bunny sitting in front of us. She was hilarious. As she was getting up from her seat, she was moaning and groaning and giving a running commentary: “Oh, I’m getting up now. Ohhh. Here I go. Ooooo. My leg. I’m almost up now. Wooo. Damn. I got one leg. I need my other leg. It’s numb. Oooooweeee. Oh Lordy! My leg ain’t movin’. I gotta grab onto this. I’m getting there. Oh no, I’m not. I’m goin’ back down. Lord Jesus. Ok, I’m trying again. Oooooo. I’m up now.” She was awesome.

The only bad thing was last night when mr b called and said there was an almost $700 charge from the resort on our debit card. The room was paid for by the contest sponsor, and we paid our incidentals when we checked out, so we weren’t sure what it was. I called an found out that it was a “hold” charge. I understand why they have those, but I don’t understand why mine is almost $700. They told us at check-in that it would be $200, so where did the additional $500 come in? The woman on the phone told me that when you have incidentals, the hold charge would go up. Well, our incidentals came to $300 (paid for in cash), so why the hell was the hold charge for approximately $400 more than that? I’m pissed. They told me it would revert by Wednesday or Thursday, which is unacceptable. Also? We can fly a man to the moon, but we can’t figure out how to drop a hold charge as soon as the bill is paid? I call bullshit. Big, stinky, steaming, funky, fucking bullshit. Fuckers.

And finally - yes - we went there. And moments afterward the Gods of Good taste punished me with cactus retribution:

The one where you probably want to avoid the whiny baby bullshit I post and go look at cute photos of puppies instead

I am becoming a person I don’t like and don’t recognize. I think I need help.

I don’t know if it is depression or anxiety or just plain old crazy, but I can’t even stand myself anymore. I have been through depression before and in some ways it‘s the same, but in some ways different. I’m not sad or blue at all. This time, it’s stress. Overwhelming, paralyzing stress. I am being pulled in a million directions at all times (or at least it feels like I am) and I always feel like I am on the verge of a complete breakdown.

As for the similarities to previous bouts of depression, I do feel exhausted and have no energy. While I don’t feel blue, I feel…I don’t know – sort of…nothing…numb. I am gaining weight to the point that I hate myself – I avoid the mirror at all cost because I literally cringe when I see myself. I have no sex drive and I would rather just be left alone than interact most of them time.

But the thing that is different is the frustration, lack of patience, irritation and stress. I find myself losing patience so quickly. With the kids, with everyone (of course, with mr b, but that’s nothing new). I hear myself yelling at the kids and I hate myself for it. I hate that sometimes I just want to tell them to Shut Up, already. Sometimes I feel like there is something wrong with me as a mother. And even though I know it’s not true – I sometimes feel as if I don’t even like them. Mr b has always been the short tempered, short fuse, fly off the handle, hateful one. And suddenly I find myself acting just like him. And I hate myself for it. I feel like my kids are growing up thinking their mother doesn’t love them. I sometimes get so hyper-critical, so disapproving, so quick to bark at them over something. Even as I am reacting, I hate it, but can’t seem to stop.

I feel like a bad mother.

I used to be an awesome mom. I used to be the loving, patient one. I used to be the one I knew they would look back on fondly. And now, I feel like I am polluting their childhood. They are growing up right before my eyes and I am creating one regret after another. I am overwhelmed.

I know I need to do something.

I think it’s a combination of truly having a crazy, overwhelming schedule, and something internal. I think even a perfectly sane person would feel stressed out. I drive a long distance to work every day. I am constantly dependent on other people to pick up and drop off my kids (which I hate), I have to keep track of practices and meetings and homework and baths and the house and work deadlines and dinner, and so on and so on. My husband is laid off and it’s bringing up a critical difference of opinion about careers. And I don’t want this to be a husband-bashing, but I really feel like things are unbalanced around here. There are always unfinished projects, and little day-to-day help – and nothing without having to ask for it, which even if it gets done, it’s not without a martyred sigh. I have talked about it before, and even more than the actual division of work, it’s more about the heavy burden of responsibility. Add all that to whatever this emotional state I am in is, and it’s making me crazy. I don’t like myself much these days.

My reaction to stuff is off the charts sometimes. The other day, I got home after work and picked up the kids. I had stopped on the way home to pick up a few things for our trip and discovered that my ATM card was missing. Not only did that suck, but I had to dive back to the store (not a short jaunt) to get the stuff we needed, because I don’t have much time this week, between other obligations and work deadlines. So I planned to go back that night when mr b and the boy were at scouts. We were in the house and I was trying to get everyone fed (while listening to the whining) and waiting for mr b who was (of course) late, and the boy starts dropping bombs left and right – tonight’s a ceremony – I need my shirt – tomorrow I have to stay late for practice (meaning I have to arrange a ride) – I need a tuxedo shirt for next week – there’s a band booster meeting tonight. Then, the girl announces that baton signups were that night. And I still had to go back to the store. And mr b was still not home. And I lost it. I yelled (at no one in particular), and wanted to throw things, or cry, or both. Because I can’t do it all. I feel like I am slipping behind every minute. I can’t do it all.

And this happens again and again and again. That night wasn’t unique. Tonight it was a late-running band practice, and a hungry whiny girl, and wal-fucking-mart, and big morons at Wendy’s, and laundry and once again not getting packing done. Tomorrow it will be another late practice, rushing from picking him up straight to the girl’s open house, trying to get packed, last minute nonsense, getting the kids packed up for a weekend with my parents, writing down schedules and gathering band uniforms and gear, dropping off the kids, and getting to bed early enough to be able to function for a pre-dawn flight. It’s always something.

I constantly feel like I am two steps behind. Like I am always running late. Like I am not cutting it.

The stress of it makes me miserable, is probably hurting my kids, and is giving me physical symptoms. I don’t feel sad or depressed or weepy, but the stress and frustration and anxiety and irritability are getting the best of me, leaving me and my kids with the worst. And it’s making me hate myself even more.

Still Alive...Barely

How In the hell did it get to be mid-September already? This month has been flying by, and I can’t seem to catch my breath. My birthday was the 1st, and starting that day, I have been working crazy long hours to get a project done. There’s nothing quite like spending the evening of your birthday working until 2:00 am. The only worse birthday is when you have to work late AND your husband forgets. Oh yeah.

The project finally finished up on Friday and I was all set to have a weekend filled with naps, but we all know that didn’t happen – the kids keep me running.

Friday, we went to our high school’s first home game to see the boy march with the band. Our school in small so they let 7th grade and up participate in marching band. Of course, being a lowly seventh grader, he has to bide his time before getting a chance on the coveted snare and is currently paying his dues on the cymbals. I have no doubt he will get what he wants next year, though, seeing as how he is constantly drumming. On one hand? Yay for practicing. On the other? Loud! Drums!

Regardless, I was very proud of him:




Also – for anyone thinking that the marching band is dorky or nerdy: He loves it. He is having a shitload of fun, going a ton of fun places, hanging with his friends, learning a lot, and probably the biggest thing he loves about the band: Girls. There are lots of cute girls in the band. Older, cute girls. And they’re texting him and hugging him and giving him cutesy nicknames. He’s in heaven.

(Oh – and the first one of you that makes the “band camp” joke gets a pox on your house. That’s my baby we’re talking about)

Oh, and speaking of being proud (and also a little late) – a couple weeks ago, the girl sang Over the Rainbow on stage in front of about 600 people. Dressed as Dorothy. I seriously need to get her involved in some sort of theater program because this kid loves performing. She’s not shy, she isn’t afraid of an audience, and lord knows she’s dramatic. I am clueless about these things, though, so if you know of a local program, let me know.

Anyway, behold the cuteness:


So back to this weekend. After the game Friday night, we had to get to bed early because the boy had to be back in town with the band at 7:30 am to play at our local “great race” 5k. Rapunzel picked him up and dropped him off for me so I didn’t have to drag my lazy fat ass off the couch the girl out in the cold, drizzly morning. I gave him money so he could treat Rapunzel’s son to McDonald’s afterward, which would kill two birds with one stone – fueling up two growing boys and prolonging my fat ass couch time the girl’s sleep.

But then he called me to tell me that instead of playing with the band, he used the money I gave him to register for the race and would be running. So now, I had to drag my lazy ass out wake up the girl and get down there to a) see it in person, and b) take photos. Because I gotta tell you, my kid is not exactly a runner. Before we hung up, he asked me if I would be running, too.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! HOHOOOOHEEEheeeheh. Hm.

Let me just interrupt myself for a public service announcement. I don’t run. Even when I was in great shape and an athlete, I didn’t run. So now? Running? Noooooooooo.

So here’s the public service part:

If you ever see me running? RUN.

Don’t stop and look, don’t ask questions, don’t think about it - just run. If I am running, there is a reason, and it’s one you don’t want to face –I assure you.

You’re welcome.

Anyway – he didn’t break any land speed records, but he finished, which is something given his genetic predisposition added to the fact that not only was he not wearing running clothes, but he was wearing marching band shoes. Clunky, boxy band shoes. Look how thrilled he looks:

The girl and I then went to the finish line, where she spent exactly 16 minutes being excited and waiting for her brother to “win the race.” Then she lost interest and went to the playground instead:




That night the boy had yet another band function, which we missed because we had a 40th birthday party to go to. Once again, Rapunzel was awesome and picked him up.

Sunday morning, the kids and I met up with Rapunzel, her son and another friend and headed to Kennywood. It was a great day for it – low crowds and short lines and great weather. Except for lunch time when we baked in the glaring sun while waiting for Potato Patch fries. That part sucked.

Oh, and also Noah’s Ark. Seriously, What the Fuck, Kennywood? They ruined Noah’s Ark. It was the longest line we waited in all day. I could have gone on my favorite ride – the Pitfall – 6 times in the time it took to get on Noah’s Ark. You locals surely will remember the Noah’s Ark of yore – it was a walk on – never a line. Now – BIG, LONG LINE. Instead of walking in, you have to go on in small groups because there is an “elevator” room (which, come ON Kennywood – this is no Haunted Mansion). So you stand there and wait and wait and fidget and listen to the kids whine for an hour before you get on. And it sucks. And the ride is stupid now. Not that it was ever NOT stupid, but at least it used to make sense – it was Noah’s Ark – you saw animal on an ark. Duh. (and walked in through the whale’s mouth, but at least the Jonah – Noah connection made a little sense). Now, you go into a mine elevator or something. Then you walk through an area with glass floors and skeletons beneath you. Then you get to a section with Noah and the animals, then you head into a room with funhouse mirrors and lights (oh, how I wanted a photo of myself in the “skinny” mirror), and then finally, you’re on some kind of leaky submarine. What in the name of Jacques Cousteau does any of this have to do with Noah’s Ark? Fuck if I know.

Although, admittedly, Noah’s Ark did give us the best laugh of the day. When you get to the glass floor section, there are “beams” and circles made of concrete, so it looks like there is no floor beneath you. The huge guy in front of us thought you had to walk on those and was balancing and half falling and contorting himself to stay on so he didn’t fall in. Then, the even better part – this section is in a square, with a door in one wall to continue to the next section. It looks like this:


So, the first time, we are following the guy in front and we are so busy watching him balance on the beams, that we miss the door. So we go around and realize we went in a circle. The last people in our group are just getting through, so we let them go, and we are laughing and talking (out loud) about how we went in a circle. We let the line go by and then we start around the circle again, this time going through the door to move on. But balancing guy and all the people behind us continue to go around the circle! When you get to the funhouse room they stop you until the whole group catches up before they let you in the submarine room. We waited five minutes until they caught up. Apparently, the entire group spent five whole minutes going around that same tiny circle before the figured it out. It was awesome.

I have no photos of the boy from Kennywood, which is sad, but he was either a) not with us, or b) being a shit:










Finally, last night, amidst the chaos of scout ceremonies and baton practices and dinner and baths and ban meetings, I discovered that my ATM card has gone missing. Awesome. Oh – and I discovered it as I was buying stuff for our trip this weekend, so I had to have the woman hold the stuff so I could come back. So way too late, I was driving back to the mall to get it. And I wrote a check and handed over my license and the girl says, “Did you know your license is expired?” Yay me. I’m getting on a plane in 3 days. I told mr b about it this morning, saying that I I hope I can get my new one quickly enough and I can’t believe I missed the expiration and don’t they usually send something and he replies, “They did send something. I put it up in the cabinet.” Blink. Blink. Are you kidding me? He never told me it was there and then basically hid it! He’s awesome.

The Good Uncle - Reprise

I wrote this entry back in November, and have thought about Uncle Paul almost every day since. I got the call last night - the one I knew was coming - the one I was dreading. Apparently in his last days, he mended some fences with estranged family, had a reunion, and got ready for his next journey. I'm glad to hear this. I was sad, though, to find out that it happened several months ago. Apparently, he didn't want fanfare - just his wife and kids and a quick cremation. I understand and respect his wishes, but it still hurts. It's not like I had seen him in ages, or even would have the chance to see him again. But I hate that it happened and I didn't know. And now that I DO know, I find myself in the weird position of grieving for someone who wasn't even in my life anymore. But in the time we spent together, he forever imprinted himself on my heart, because he was, indeed, a Good Uncle.


The Good Uncle

My mom called me a little while ago to tell me that my uncle is dying. He’s not really my uncle – not anymore. He married my Aunt Twin when I was just a baby, but they haven’t been married for many, many years. But he was there throughout my childhood, so regardless of blood relations and divorces, he has always been Uncle Paul, and I have always loved him.

He was an awesome uncle. The kind that is silly and fun. Always joking, rarely serious. Quick to stick up for you when you’re fighting mom for a later bedtime, or one more cookie. Generous with his money and his love. And he had lots of famous friends, which was pretty cool. Although, looking back, some of the closest of these friends - in retrospect – said something about him, I guess. I won’t mention their names, but I can say that they might possibly rhyme with Feet Blows and Weevil Believel. Back then, though, this stuff was all the makings of a Good Uncle. Good Uncles don’t always make good husbands, though. Mr. Good Time isn’t generally Mr. Responsible.

But Mr. Good Time he was. They had a beautiful house in Florida – it was big and exquisitely decorated - for the 70’s that is. I was in love with that house. Every room had a different color scheme or theme. Each had its own bathroom, which was unheard of (to me at least) in those days. The bathrooms were two rooms and Aunt Twin always had these soap sculptures on display in the outer room. I adored those things – they were beautiful and they smelled so good. We spent much of the summer there every year and I probably spent 10% of that time just taking in all the beautiful things she had there. The formal living room with the fur couch. The Florida room with the black patent leather couches and red hanging lamps. The bullfight statue that I used to imitate with my best friend Tracy and almost broke my nose. I still have the scar and the chipped bone.

I remember the kitchen with its mushroom theme and the state of the art appliances. My room was my favorite, because it was mine of course. It was crazy psychedelic blue and green, with twin beds (a novelty to me, since I had a big bed at home). There was white modern furniture including corner table that one bed slid halfway under when not in use. And there was a stereo built into it. God, I loved that room. My second favorite room was my Aunt Cee’s. She was a teen during those times and she got the super psychedelic room, with the black and silver wallpaper and the black furry bedspread and the groovy wire-sculpture hanging lamp and the white tree with hidden colored lights. I know it all sounds crazy and tacky now, but this was the 70’s – trust me – it was AWESOME.

He had a great mind – he was a businessman. He invented and marketed an exercise device that was very successful. His brother was a very famous NFL player and he himself was in the NFL for a while, so he had lots of connections to athletes that he used in his ads. He was clever, too, and had some funny, smart, and sometimes risqué advertising campaigns, which contributed to his success. But he liked to spend and party and gamble and live the high life. He made tons, but spent more. He had a wandering eye,. Hard for a wife to take when she is already 15 years his junior, I imagine. When I was about 11 or 12, Aunt Twin and Uncle Paul moved back to PA. I didn’t know why at the time, but I guess they were struggling both financially and emotionally. I didn’t know any of this until years later, so when they split up, I was devastated.

I cried and cried at the thought of losing my favorite uncle. The one that took me to get ice cream even though I didn’t finish my dinner. The one who would pose for photos wearing big, silly hats and glasses. The one that bought me presents just from him. the one that could always make me laugh, no matter what. I knew that no matter what happened between them, he would always be my uncle.

I was wrong.

I didn’t see him for years after they split. By the time I was an older teen, there were a few brief sightings and (I think) a graduation card. I sent him Christmas cards over the years, but never heard anything in return. I invited him to my wedding and never even got a response. If it were anyone else, I would have said, fuck him; he’s an asshole. But not with Uncle Paul. Even after years of no contact and rejection, I still loved him and missed him. After the boy was born, I sent him a card and letter, telling him about his new “great-nephew” and telling him how I felt – that I still loved him, that he was still my favorite uncle. He didn’t respond.

I never tried again, but I caught news of him occasionally through Aunt Twin, who got her news through the grapevine. Occasionally – as and recently as this summer – I would google him to see if there was something – anything – out there. Sometimes there was, and recently I even saw a photo. I was struck by how old he looked, since in my mind he is still big strong Uncle Paul.

Apparently, Aunt Twin talked to his brother recently – what prompted it, I don’t know – and found out that he is dying of cancer. I guess the brother passed on her love and this morning he called her. He was very kind, telling her how sorry he was. He said that his good time friends always told him what a mistake he made with her, and that he knows it. Even though he’s happy now, he still has regrets.

And then he asked how his favorite niece was.

He said how he missed me and how he wished he had stayed in touch. He said he was so moved when he got my letter, and that he regrets never replying. That he loves me. I shouldn’t care, but I do. I shouldn’t grieve him, but I will. I shouldn’t be crying, but I am. I’ve missed him for years, and now I am going to miss him more.

I love you, Uncle Paul.

Kids are Assholes

Recently, someone I like very much took a hell of a beating for calling her daughter an asshole on her blog. It was an amazing yet typical example of holier-than-thou bandwagon jumping that resulted in her being accused of being a bad mother, a bad person, not appreciating her kids, not loving her kids, and escalated into predictions that her kids were growing up damaged. Damaged! Not only is this absolute fucking nonsense, it’s grade-school name-calling, character assassination, and completely distasteful bullshit.

And it pisses me off.

Because if any of these shit-throwers would bother to a) take the sticks out of their asses, and b) pay attention to more than one word in one post, it would become absolutely clear that she is a smart, caring, funny, devoted mother who obviously loves her children. And even though I’m a little late with this and it’s probably been practically ages since she said, “eh – fuck it,” I still feel the need to defend her. Because seriously.

First off, she is funny. She writes funny stuff. Tongue-in-cheek stuff. She rants about kids and a husband she clearly adores. If that’s a crime, then I’m guilty – a lot of us are. And we’re also adult enough and intelligent enough and laid back enough to overlook the potentially offensive because we know it is said in jest. Dude, if I got uptight over that shit, I would not know the total awesomeness that is Eddie Murphy Delirious. I’d be too busy bitching about the poor welfare kids and alcoholic dads and abusive moms and hairy-ass bigfoot aunts, all “That’s not funny!”

Loosen up and give me a break. She didn’t day it to her daughter, she said it about her, and there’s a difference. Although, really, there’s a certain age at which it wouldn’t bother me if she did because sometimes they need to called on it. I tell my son not to act like a jackass all the damned time – don’t like it? I couldn’t give a fuck. And let’s be honest here – kids are assholes. That’s why God (or Buddha or The Flying Spaghetti Monster – child assholery crosses many boundaries) makes them so cute – to balance the assholery.

Case in point:

I was at the Salvation Army store the other day (shut up- I once found a $400 Lladro for $12). Anyway, I was trolling for bargains when I heard a blood-curdling, “DAD…DAD!!!” Again and again and again this kid screamed “DAD” at the top of his lungs. I walked over to where he was and asked if he was lost, and he scoffed (actually scoffed) at me and said, in the snottiest voice ever, “NO! I just want him to come look at something!” and stomped off, still screaming (and I mean SCREAMING). A minute or two later, I heard a man scream from the other side of the store, “WHAT?” They proceeded to carry on a screaming conversation for the next five minutes.

Then, the kid moved on to running around the store like a maniac, making loud sound effects, grabbing things off shelves, ripping open sealed packages, crashing into things, sliding across the floor, and pretty soon, just screaming at the top of his lungs for fun. I couldn’t wait tot get the hell away from this kid, and as I was checking out, a woman came up and got behind me in line. Just then, there was an announcement over the PA system asking that parents please keep their children with them, and not leave them unattended in the store because packages were torn open and items were damaged. And then, as the announcement was still going on, this kid walked up to the woman next to me and called her Mom. And she never said a word, made a face, gave any indication that she gave a shit that HER KID IS AN ASSHOLE. Because he is. Not only that, he’s a FUCKING ASSHOLE!

So I say we lay the hell off my friend who jokingly calls her kid and asshole, motivated not only by humor, but by GIVING A SHIT about her kid’s behavior, and let’s put our snooty disapproval where it belongs – on the actual ASSHOLE parents of actual ASSHOLE kids, who perhaps need to call their kid an asshole once in a while.

Assholes.

To my friend – My asshole kids and I love you and your asshole kids.

PS. I’m not linking to her because I don’t want to send any more shit her way.

Lunch with my mother

I think I’ll have the barbeque chicken quesadilla.

That sounds good.

Yeah – that’s what I’m having – the barbeque chicken quesadilla.

I’ll take the barbeque chicken quesadilla.

What’s that honey? What did I get? I got the barbeque chicken quesadilla.

Barbeque chicken quesadilla Barbeque chicken quesadilla Barbeque chicken quesadilla.

Eww. I don’t like this. It has this barbeque sauce on it.

And yet again, the school district gets a big WTF???

So, I went to a meeting at the school on Friday, to meet with the girl’s kindergarten teacher, see the classroom, etc. And they were giving us The Rules. There have been quite a few changes in The Rules since the boy was in kindergarten. Most of these rules revolve around snacks.

Now, I will admit, I am all for healthy eating (I know, not that you’d know it to look at me). I used to complain when the girl was in preschool and parents took turn bringing a snack. Some of us brought healthy stuff, like yogurt and fruit and veggies. But most brought cookies and donuts and crap. I don’t really have a problem with cookies and donuts and crap, but for the kids’ daily snack, empty calories are a pretty shitty choice. The whole point of the snack is to hold them over through lunch or dinner. Yogurt will do that. A donut will not.
So anyway, The Rules say that grades K through 2 are allowed to have a snack in the afternoon in class. But the snack must be:

1: The first ingredient must not be sugar.
OK, I get this one. I just talked about this in the preschool snack issue. But I still get a little, “Duh - I don’t need to be told” about it.

2: They can’t have peanuts or peanut butter.
Again, I get it. Peanut allergies are evil. My kid can live without the peanut products for afternoon snack.

3: They can’t be more than 200 calories.
OK, I get it. But I’m getting a little squirmy about the telling me what I can do for my own kid. I know there are some parents that don’t care and there are plenty of obese kids. I know. And I wouldn’t likely send a snack more than 200 calories. But it’s bugging me a bit to have The Rules.

4: They must be individually pre-packaged.

DANGER DANGER DANGER!! What the FUCK???

So, let me get this straight: it’s OK for me to send my kid an individually pre-packaged fucking Twinkie (1st ingredient: who-the-hell-knows, calories: 150, fat: 4.5, cholesterol: 20mg, sodium: 220mg, carbs: 27, calcium: 20mg, god knows what other kind of processed, preservative laden shit is in there), but NOT OK for me to send her some celery and carrot sticks that I put in my own goddamned baggie (1st ingredients: fucking fresh vegetables, calories: 39, fat: 0, cholesterol: 0, sodium: 0, carbs: 9, calcium: 52mg, not to mention all the good vitamins and stuff)? Are you fucking kidding me?? I don’t get it. I really, truly don’t get it. I mean, I can understand that if I were sending a snack for the whole class it needs to be pre-packaged because of cross-contamination or dirty ass kitchens or whatever. But for my own child? Bullshit is all this is. And anyway, I wouldn’t be sending a snack for the class ever, since for parties, there are no edible items allowed, period. Last year, it was no candy – this year, nothing edible at all. Not for birthdays, not for anything.

I can live with the sugar thing and the calorie thing and the no-edible treats thing. But this pre-packaged thing is nonsense. And you want to know the biggest fattest nonsensical part of it? The fucking school cafeteria sells cookies, ice cream and fruit snacks (which - despite their name - resemble fruit only in the most basic of ways) every day to anyone with money in their account. And it gets better – in high school, they have all that, plus vending machines selling Coke and Mountain Fucking Dew and the like.

Hypocrisy, much?

Five Years

I’ve been trying really hard to fight off the depression that seems to be looming over me, but it’s hard. Things are tough right now. We were struggling before mr b lost his job, and I can’t really fathom how we’ll make it through this. He spoke with a person at Unemployment yesterday only to find out that there have been no benefits paid since he started with Suck Company. This means one of two things: a mistake somewhere or giant assholery on the part of Suck Company. Either way, he is due his benefits, but I am terrified about how long it will take to resolve the problem. The bills won’t wait.

And in the midst of all the self-pity, I realized that as of today, it has been five years since I wrote this:

5 Seconds. That's about how long it took from the shift of the plywood and the man on the ground. He was squatting on a steep roof, putting down the plywood and he simply started sliding. There was no fault, no trip, no loss of balance, just a sudden sense of movement and he was going over. He fell straight down and landed square on his feet. He's lucky not to be paralyzed. He's lucky to be alive. I'm lucky. But it still sucks. Gravity worked and he fell and things changed.

What followed was a long parade of hospitals and surgeries and nursing homes and rehab and learning to give shots and cleaning potty chairs and wheelchairs and walkers and crutches and canes and assholes in the handicapped spots and limited access and financial worries and depression and anger and stress and pain and fear and so much more.

And I was reminded that things could always be worse. Things have been worse. But that doesn’t make it any easier.


I went back and read what I wrote at the one year anniversary, and strangely things are so different and yet so much the same:

Today is an anniversary. It has been one year since the five seconds that changed our life forever. The day that Fate decided that we were just having too damned good a time (what with all the stress and the bills and the small house) and the fucking bitch grabbed us by the balls and squeezed. Hard. In some ways, it seems like it was just yesterday that I was asking for your prayers (thanks for those, btw) and in others, it’s a million years ago. But it’s only been one. One year. 365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes. 31,536,000 seconds since gravity took away my husband’s ability to walk properly, his ability to do the work that has been his life for almost 30 years, his pride, his plans, his relatively pain-free life. Fuck you, Isaac Newton. Fuck you, Gravity. FUCK YOU, whoever decided this was going to be our path.

I know, things could always be worse, but hell, that pretty much can always be said. And to be honest, your problems aren’t relative - they’re you’re problems. It’s not like you get hit by a bus and think, “Man, am I lucky. That could have been a train!” No, you think, “Motherfucking bus!” So there you go. Motherfucking roof.

In the beginning, I was thrown completely off kilter. I had a seven year old son and an infant daughter, I worked full time with a long commute, my house was too small, I had two pets to take care of, I was broke and I was tired all the time, and suddenly I had a husband who had been devastatingly hurt and needed care. It was like a sick damned joke was being played on me. When I first got the call, I was too scared to think about anything else but “please let him be OK.” I rushed to the hospital to find my usually energetic, workaholic husband laying on a stretcher shot full of narcotics just to keep the pain down to simply “excruciating”. The next few days were filled with doctors and nurses and surgeries and tears. In a week or so, it was nursing home hunting and wheelchair vans and tests and pain and trying to reign in a baby at a care facility and old, old people and my urine-scented birthday. Then there was shot-learning and hospital bed rentals and wheelchair ramps and potty chairs. And now there’s uncertainty about the future and bills and lawyers and grouchiness and more uncertainty.

Sometimes it feels normal. I forget we ever went through any of it. But then, he gets up and hobbles across the room and I think Oh My God, he’s going to be like that forever. And the concept of forever can be just too much to even think about at times. And it’s an odd injury to have, because when you hear “broken feet” or “broken heels”, you think about all the times you sprained your ankle or wrenched your knees or maybe broke a bone and you healed and it was over. But his injuries are so much worse than you would think. Both his heels were crushed to oblivion. There was nothing left of them to even try to set or fix. They were left to heal in whatever shape they took on. His feet aren’t the same. Immediately after the accident, his feet were the size of melons. Now, they are down to about 1.5 times their old size. While an uninjured person can point and flex their feet, he’s lost most of his movement. One foot has about half the movement and the other barely budges at all. So his balance is completely off. Uneven or sloped ground is extremely dangerous. While he can walk with a crutch, he can’t go very far. The pain comes on fast, so in high-walking places, he needs to depend on a wheelchair sometimes. When the bones grew into what they are now, severe arthritis filled in the cracks. This will only get worse with time. He doesn’t take physical therapy, since it serves only to cause him pain. He won’t improve any more.

But comp doesn’t care about anything but the wages. They don’t care that our lives are completely turned upside-down. They don’t care if this accident could be the nail in our We Will Never Ever Move Forward Again In Life coffin. The opportunity to use his skills to build an addition or fix up a new house? Gone. The opportunity to earn extra money with side jobs? Gone. The ability to run or jump or ride bikes with the kids? Gone. So much that they don’t care about is gone. It’s frustrating to play the waiting game with the insurance. And then there’s the psychological game you play with yourself: I’m not greedy, I’m not a bad person, but we need this to move on with our lives. He’s spent almost 30 years in this business, but he can’t do it anymore.. He has a useless BA and needs to be re-schooled in something that will allow him to work. That takes money.

This year was the year we were going to buy or add on to the house. Not so much anymore. We need to expand a little. I know, everyone thinks they need more room, but we do. We can’t share our bedroom with the baby much longer. And we can’t live with no closets and no storage much longer. But that takes money. We need to pay off the loan that we took out when the comp checks and the extra expenses couldn’t quite cover things. That means money. If we plan on going anywhere where a lot of walking is required and we need a chair or scooter plus the stroller, we’ll need a bigger car. Money. Said scooter? That’s right - Money. And suddenly your whole world revolves around money and it’s an uncomfortable feeling, when it’s not the norm. It feels icky.

It’s been a pretty icky year, to tell you the truth.

Back to Reality SUCKS

So. I’m back from vacation. Being back from vacation would suck regardless, but making it even better, I came home to:

1) A house I didn’t have time to clean before we left

2) Oppressive heat and humidity without the benefits of the pool and beach (with no A/C, of course)

3) My laptop completely infected with some malicious shit that I can’t seem to get rid of without professional help

4) Mr b showing up at work this morning to find his shit all packed up in boxes – his job eliminated.


So happy fucking day to me.


I did actually clean the house – it was the one thing I could actually do something about. Of course hours later, mr b dragged in all the bags from the car and dumped them all over the living room.

The heat, obviously, I can’t do a damned thing about except bitch and moan and that doesn’t seem to be helping a bit, dammit.

The computer? Fucked. I have some ideas about what to do, but the computer is too fucked to do them – I can’t run anything or download anything. Fucked but good. I left it here for my aunt to use while I was on vacation, and she gets a little…um…click-happy.

The job loss? Sucks balls. Even though he worked for a sleazy, asshole-laden, stuffy, dickhead, fuckball of a company. It was still better than being a 50 year old, physically limited due to injury, family man competing with 20-something who can work late and long and for little.

But aside from all that, vacation was pretty good. Despite the family skirmishes, the dumbasses, the political nonsense, the LOUD TV, the door Nazi, the food Nazi, the sunburn, the cold sore, the peeling scalp which looks like major dandruff, the defective rocking chair that almost killed me, and the 2 days of rain.

Because there was also lots of drinks, games, 10,000 renditions of the Winky Winky song, a beautiful beach, a nice pool, lots of photos, and an all-you-can-eat meat restaurant. Who could ask for more?

Except maybe the Powerball.

I think I may officially be "Team Kate"

There is an interview in the latest InTouch magazine with mid-life crisis victim and douchebag extraordinaire Jon Gosselin. Now, I have already gone on about the whole Jon/Kate thing and why I think it’s bullshit that everyone blames Kate, but now that the King Douche himself is blaming her I just have to respond to a couple of things in the interview:

Did you want to work it out?

Yes, I asked, What do I have to do to mend the relationship? What did I do wrong? I was beating myself up about it. So I read a lot of books about personalities, like The Five Love Languages. Throughout the marriage, I felt like my personality had changed a lot. In December, I went to therapy. I asked Kate to come, but she did not want to. She said, If you have a problem, go fix it.

OK – I am clearly not a relationship expert, but “What did I do wrong?” Are you fucking kidding me?? The man (allegedly) was having an affair. An affair with a near-child. While his wife was home with their eight (EIGHT, MOTHERFUCKER) kids. Even giving him the benefit of the doubt and saying he was not having an actual physical relationship with her, he was still seen out with her, all chummy, at inappropriate times and places (including on a vacation), all while his wife was home with the kids. I don’t care if she is the shrewiest shrew or the harpiest harpy, his behavior is wrong. And asking, “what did I do wrong?” is fucking ridiculous.

As for him “wanting to work it out” – fuck that noise. He made his bed, he can damned well lie in it. It’s insulting to act like a complete douchebag, cheat on your wife, basically flaunt cheating on your wife (with who you have eight (EIGHT!) innocent children, and then when you split up, claim it’s all her fault because she didn’t want to “work thing out.” Boo Hoo, Motherfucker!

What was your first relationship?

Hailey it started around May. She is the polar opposite of Kate. It’s really different. I feel good about myself and people see my good qualities. I am not being put down. If I want to go out with my friends, Hailey says, “Oh, go out.” I am not used to that. I was used to, “No, no, it’s your fault.” Sometimes I ask Hailey permission, like I used to do with Kate, and she says, “You don’t have to ask permission.” I was used to living like that, and now it’s like a breath of fresh air. You can have a balanced relationship but also spend time with your friends.

OK, first of all, I am calling deep, deep, steaming, runny BULLSHIT on the “it started in May” business. He was photographed skanking around well before that. And don’t give me that bullshit about them just being friends either. I do believe that men and women can be friends, but when a middle aged married man with eight (EIGHT!) kids and a much younger woman are spotted alone together in the wee hours while his wife is out of town, or a middle aged married man with eight (EIGHT!) kids is spotted at a college sorority party, playing drinking games with the co-eds, or a middle aged married man with eight (EIGHT!) kids is seen sunbathing with a much younger bikini-clad girl in her backyard while his wife is not in attendance – it is WELL out of the normal boundaries of platonic (or at least respectful a spouse) male/female friendship. So bullshit.

And finally – let me review my favorite part of that last answer:

If I want to go out with my friends, Hailey says, “Oh, go out.” I am not used to that. I was used to, “No, no, it’s your fault.” Sometimes I ask Hailey permission, like I used to do with Kate, and she says, “You don’t have to ask permission.” I was used to living like that, and now it’s like a breath of fresh air. You can have a balanced relationship but also spend time with your friends.

OK, parents out there – parents with only one or two or three children, much less eight (EIGHT!) – join me:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHee Hee heh ho!!!

Seriously? I’ll ask you parents out there – how often do you get to “go out with your friends?” I’m guessing not very. I don’t either, because I have these two things called CHILDREN, and they are demanding little buggers, what with all the “we want food” and “tuck me in” nonsense. So let’s imagine together what having eight (EIGHT!) kids would do to your social life. Are you seeing it? Yeah – I thought so. Poor Jon - his mean, old, harpy, shrew of a wife won’t let him go drinking with the college girls because he has to help with his eight (EIGHT!) children. What a terrible cross to bear.

So Jon - take your “breath of fresh air” and go blow it out your ass.

Random Shit

I keep trying to post something, but I am leaving for vacation on Friday and all the NOT PACKING is taking up all my free time. Sheesh.

Yesterday was a shitty day. Busy and yet unproductive at work. Discovering that my recent broke-osity can in fact, get worse. Hearing about an old (yet young) family friend tragically and unexpectedly died – the most recent in a lot of tragedies within this poor family. The shooting in Bridgeville. I need some upbeat.

Sadly, I have nothing of any consequence to write about. So I’ll regale you (haha) with random topics I have come across in conversation or blogs recently.


Tackiest invitation I ever received: I got an invitation to a baby shower (2nd child) that included a paper listing gift suggestions for the mom (not a registry, mind you – a handwritten list of the top things the mom wants as a gift). First on the list? CASH. Klass-ay!

Ugliest Bridesmaid Dress: I wish I had a photo – really. I mean – I do somewhere, but I have no idea where. Hedge was also in the wedding. I was six months pregnant and Hedge was just a couple of months post-partum, so needless to say, we were not the easiest to fit in bridesmaids gowns. Also – we were hormonal bitches. And we ended up in high neck (horrible for the big-boobed), floor length (awesome for pregnant/new mom clumsiness), home-made (yikes), pink chiffon (hold me) nightmares. And they had a matching pick chiffon scarf that we had to wrap around our necks and let dangle to the floor behind us. Recipe for disaster. We tried to talk her into letting us wear them like a wrap, to cover our “Hi Helens,” but she wouldn’t go for it. Adding insult to injury – she was a notoriously cheap person, shopping only in discount stores, etc, and she treated her registry like a shopping spree - $200 dishes, $100 wine glasses, $50 towels.

“High Helens,” you ask? Flabby arms. My SIL coined the term because when they were kids, they had a neighbor named Helen with really flabby, swing-y arms. And when they saw her, they’d yell “Hi Helen” and she’d wave back, flabby arms swinging.
Bitchiest bride: An in-law cousin. Her wedding was lovely (very classy and very clearly expensive) – we had a great time. But I ran into her about a month afterward, and I told her how wonderful it was and she snapped, “No – it was ruined!” I asked what she was talking about and she replied, “The DJ! He ruined the wedding!” I was surprised, because everyone thought he was wonderful and actually made the wedding. And then she said it: “He ate his dinner at the DJ stand! I mean – are you kidding me? He was supposed to eat in the hall WITH THE HELP!!!”

Best concert I’ve been to: This is a hard one. The Buddy Guy show a few months ago was pretty damned good. And I’ve had a blast at a lot of Dead shows. And drinking moonshine with some hillbillies at U2 was something. Civic Arena roof open at CSN and Boston – awesome. My first concert was Shaun Cassidy at the height of my girlhood crush. Ditto for Andy Gibb – second row. Watching Hedge superfly from the stage at a concert is one of my favorite memories. Pink Floyd. Roger Waters. But if I had to go on the overall concert experience, I’d narrow it to two. One would be Farm Aid ‘02 at Star Lake (post-gazette, whatever). This was the most crowded concert I have ever been to at that venue. People shoulder to shoulder, which I hate. But damn! it was an amazing show – great, diverse music and a ton of fun. The other is a weird one. Not a concert that I would have bought tickets for – I got them free from a relative, or I never would have even considered going. Ringo Starr and his All-Star band. Also at Star Lake – it was fantastic. The “All-Star Band” was made up of an assortment of musicians (Dr. John, Joe Walsh, Billy Preston, Levon Helm, Garth Hudson, Rick Danko, Nils Lofgren, Clarence Clemons and Jim Keltner.), and they just went around the circle playing songs that each of them had helped make famous. And it was weirdly awesome.

Worst concert: There are three. One was a Neil Young concert when he was in his metal/feedback stage and he had both Sonic Youth and Social Distortion open for him. By the time he came on, I had a raging, and couldn’t enjoy it. Even without the headache, I wouldn’t have loved it – it was just too loud and ear-piercing and awful. The next was CSN/Fleetwood Mac. We had great seats, but CSN seemed only mildly interested and Fleetwood Mac was fake Fleetwood Mac. The last was a Bob Dylan show in ‘88 or so at the Civic Arena. We waited and waited and waited (and waited) for him to take the stage, and when he finally did, he played for less than an hour. It sucked.

TV show I am most looking forward to: It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Funniest show ever. Seriously. I mean, Dexter is running a close second, but IASIP the best. To wit:


You’re welcome.

Biggest Asshole This Week: The douchebag at Giant Eagle, sitting in his truck, talking on his cell with his door wide open, partially blocking the next parking space. The space that I was pulling into. At first, I stopped to let him close it, because surely, he just wasn’t thinking and would be glad to get out of the way, right? No. This asshole just looks at me and keeps talking, dangling his legs out his open door. So I say fuck it and slowly pull in, avoiding his door. All the while, he refuses to close it, and is looking at me and pointing at something in the distance. I got parked (too close to the other line) and got out and he says to me, “You know – there are other spaces you could have taken.” I (being me) replied, “You know – there are other names I could call you but I’m just going to go with douchebag.”

PS. If you didn't laugh at Kitten Mittens, then I don't even know who you are anymore.

Have I got a "job" for you...

I know! I totally suck. I haven’t been able to come up with a damned thing to write about lately. Things have been pretty stressful in the b house lately – financial worries are taking over, and it’s hard to think about anything else.

And work has been making me crazy. As always, I will say how much I love my job and love Awesome Company, but I have recently been given a new task and I hate it. No really, I HATE IT. As in, makes me sick to my stomach with dread hate. As in finding 100 other things to do instead of this task hate. As in, if they gave me the choice of scrubbing the building’s bathrooms or doing this task, I’d be all, WHERE’S THE BUCKET, BITCHES??


So anyway.


Oh, get this. Mr b has his resume out on monster, etc. The other day, he got an email from some bullshit company (I am not saying the name), about a job. The job title was an acronym that had something to do with construction (I can’t remember), so he thought it was legit and checked it out. It was clear from the first look that it was bullshit – mainly because it went on about how much you can earn and no real job does that shit. But we read it anyway, because we’re easily entertained. He ignored it and then they contacted him again, with more information about “the job.” I use quotes because…well…you’ll see. It said that they were an “organization” (no type of organization, nothing about what they are, what they do, etc, just an organization), and they deal with “donations.”

They said that the position they were looking to fill was made up of “tasks.” These “tasks” would be emailed to him. The “tasks” would involve processing “donations” to their organization. And by processing, they mean picking up the “donation” and if it is in check or money order – are you ready? – CASHING IT AND DISTRIBUTING THE CASH TO THEIR “SPONSORS!!”

Do you now understand the need for all the quotes?

Once we got done laughing, we searched for the “organization” online – nothing. Not one search engine was able to locate anything about this “organization” - and we tried them all and tried every variation of keywords you can think of. And yet, in their email, they included a link to their site – it’s a generic website claiming that they are a nonprofit, nondenominational housing organization which provides low cost housing around the world to low-income people and people who have been affected by disasters. Now why would nothing come up in a Google search? Perhaps because they don’t want to be found? What donation-accepting, non-profit, charitable organization doesn’t want to be found??

Mr b just deleted it, but I wanted to send a reply thanking them for their interest, but declining their generous offer of employment in their MONEY LAUNDERING ORGANIZATION.

Oh, also? They misspelled “travel.” That would have been enough even without the illegal activity.

Thursday Thirteen

Thirteen Unanswerable Questions

1. Why is it that the one pocket that you neglect to check before doing laundry is the one that contains the bright red lipstick?

2. Why can’t I get motivated?

3. Where do all the socks go?

4. Why can’t my mother learn to not talk to me with an accusing tone? “Hey, what’s up?” works so much better than “Where were you?!?! I’VE BEEN CALLING ALL DAY!?!?!?!?!”

5. How many hours can a 12 year old spend on Runescape before his brain completely melts?

6. Is it really that hard to pick up your underwear from the bathroom floor?

7. How can a child love to clean, and beg to wash dishes and scrub bathrooms, and yet have full-body convulsions at the thought of cleaning up her own room?

8. WTF??

9. Why, when I am on Facebook, do I find myself thinking “Jesus, he/she is always on!” even though the hypocrisy is crystal clear?

10. What are the winning powerball numbers?

11. What happened to that Old Granddad that Hedge and I left in the bushes in 1985?

12. Why can’t chocolate chocolate chip cheesecake ice cream be made of protein and fiber and magic, instead of fat and sugar and evil?

13. How in the hell did I manage to delete #13?

Weirdest Google Ever

Normally, I just get the regular google searches, clearly from folks loking for somehting they have previously read. Sometimes they make it clear that my style of writing is not particularly...um...high class (see: "gina shitting," "debauchery," and "dirty sanchez"). I get a few odd ones, too, like "uphill no pants," "lie to me shit terrible bad," "sexy fat tinis," "my son cant lick his top lip," and "big fat pussty." But recently I had the weirdest and most detailed search ever:

"i tried to send this to you last night but my computer was not working properly. i just got home and as always, you're on my mind. my room smells like you. i lay here thinking about how incredible it is to feel you in"

WTF??

Top Ten Tuesday

Ten things that helped lift the funk a little this weekend:

1. Seeing Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. I have been waiting for what seems like forever for this to come out. My friend C and I had a no kids, movie, appetizers and beer day on Saturday and it was awesome. I made the mistake of re-re-reading the book right before seeing it though, and that made the changes a little more glaring. I mean – there are always book to movie changes, especially when the book and so much crammed into it. And I am fine with most of the changes/omissions (although a few leave me wondering about how they will handle certain storylines in the next one). But there are a couple of things that bugged me. I won’t spoil it in case you haven’t seen it yet (or even give a shit), but there was something added that wasn’t in the book, something taken out of the book and a couple things changed from the book that I felt didn’t really make sense. If you’ve seen it, you’ll probably know what I am talking about. I can’t wait to discuss it with someone else (C hadn’t read the book).

2. Mr b taking the boy and a friend to see Nickelback. I’m not sure why this cheered me up, but I think it had to do with the fact that a) the boy loved it, b) mr b was the one carting kids around for once, c) mr b (and not me) was the one waiting in the lines of death when they didn’t open the gates until over an hour later than promised, d) mr b (and not me) had to be the one to react to the boob-flashing, e) mr b (and not me) was the one that had to sit though 3 bands that he hated, and f) the boy loved it.

3. Beer

4. My teeny little grape tomatoes are finally starting to ripen. I don’t even eat tomatoes, but I am usually a green thumb fail, so yay me. Plus, the girl loves them and is thrilled.

5. Chocolate chocolate chip cheesecake ice cream.

6. Joining the Disney Photo Challenge group on flickr. I am having so much fun with this. I don’t even care that I only got one vote so far. It’s my Happy Place and it’s cheering me up.

7. Watching old episodes of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. This show is fucking funny. Those who prefer highbrow, intelligent comedy, are uber PC, or are easily offended should definitely not watch. But the rest of us assholes? Must See TV.

8. My kids greeting each other with big hugs after a night apart. I will pretend that the “Stop it, No you stop it, You’re a butthead, No you are” follies didn’t start up shortly after said hugs.

9. Kay and Ray’s obnoxiously expensive, yet exceedingly delicious, Dark Potato Chips

10. Did I mention beer?