Attracted To Shiny Things

This morning's conversation with the boy. About eating a chicken's privates.

2012-03-09T09:43:00.002-06:00

This morning, while I was sitting on the toilet, minding my own business, the boy walked in the bathroom. This is the conversation that followed:

The Boy: "Mama? Is there any part of the chicken, that if you ate it, would make you sick?"

Me: *sigh* "I don't understand your question. And you do see I'm going to the bathroom, right? Can this wait?"

TB: Ignores my request for privacy and gets a faraway look in his eyes and repeats: "Is there any part of the chicken, that if you ate it, would make you sick?"

Me: *huge sigh* "I don't know."

TB: "What about its privates?"

Me: "You mean the chicken's privates?"

TB: "Yes. Could you get sick from eating a chicken's privates?"

Me: "......."

That's right. You know you want it.

TB: Well? Could you?"

Me: "I would probably get sick if I knew I was eating a chicken's privates. But I don't think anyone does that, that's just gross."

For those of you wondering, yes, I'm still on the toilet at this point.

TB: "People eat shrimps privates, you know."

Me: "What???"

TB: "Sure. Because a shrimp is so small, see?"

Me: "Umm.....yeah, I guess they do."

TB: "They could avoid doing that by not eating the tail. That's where the privates are."

Me: "Hmm...I guess."

TB: "They could just eat its face."

Me: "........"

Then he wandered off. These conversations happen all the time at our house.

10 common phrases used in our house

2012-03-06T12:25:00.001-06:00

I'm in the middle of writing a gigantic post, because I got not one, but TWO blogger awards, and I need to pass them on. So what if they were the same award, from different people?

That just means I rock all that much more, amiright?

Oh, one more thing. This picture goes out to Shirley.

Just keep your hands to yourself and we'll all have a fine time.

*Update - I just got another award! Being this spectacular comes with it's own set of curses, people.

There will be more than 10 phrases, because my son has Anxiety Disorder/OCD/Sensory Integration Disorder/ADHD/Disruptive Behavior and also repeats phrases/questions numerous f*cking times in any given time period. So, yeah. Oh, and the kids are in bold. And yes, I'm aware that the formatting is messed up. And I'm obsessive, so I've spent more time trying to line up the word "chicken" than I've spent writing this whole post. Sometimes we just have to Let. Things. Go.

#1. Is it my birthday yet?
   No. Not for another month.
   Oh, ok. (five minutes pass).....
   Is it my birthday tomorrow?
   No. It's your birthday in THIRTY DAYS.
   Oh, ok. (five minutes pass).....How many minutes are in thirty days?

#2. Did you know that a velociraptor was only as big as a chicken?
    Wow, really?
    Yep. And it didn't even live in the Jurassic Period, it lived in the Cretaceous Period!
    That's crazy!
   I know, right?

#3. WHO KEEPS POOPING IN THE BROKEN TOILET??!!!

#4. I decided I'm going to be a vegetarian. But I don't like yogurt. Or beans. Or vegetable lasagna. Or Tofu. Can I just eat grilled cheese and cucumbers?

#5. You'll have to walk to school today, I need to deal with your brother and I don.....
    OH MY GOSH!!! I HATE YOU!!! YOU'RE RUINING MY LIIIIFFEE!!!!
    What the EFF?? Get your butt out that door and get to school!
    I HATE YOU!!!!!
    Oh yeah? WELL, I HATE YOU TOO!!!

6#. WHO THE F*CK ATE ALL THE THIN MINTS??!!!!

#7. J? Can I hold your guinea pig?
    No.
    Please?
    No.
    PLEASE???
    NO!!!!
    PLEEEEEEEZZZZZEEEEE?????!!!!!!
    NOOOOOOO!!!!! SHUTUP SHUTUP SHUTUP!!!!!!
   (five minutes pass).....J? Can I hold your guinea pig?

#8. Mom??? Have you given Z his medication?!!
    Yes!
    Well, IT'S NOT WORKING!!!

#9. J? Did you take your medication?
    Yes.
    You lie. Take it right now.
    Sorry.

#10. Is it my birthday yet?

And then I found this on the stairs. These are the dinosaurs from my son's birthday cake last year:

I am totally gonna bite your ass. Totally.

The Evolution of Ginny Brandt, chapter 2 (working title).

2012-03-02T22:38:00.000-06:00

Chapter Two

The D.Q.

Gus and I walk into the cool, air conditioned lobby of the D.Q. By now we know enough to keep our heads down and avoid eye contact with the cashiers at all costs.

“Welcome to Dairy Queen, may I take your order?” a cheerfully beaming girl asks me, her brown ponytail swinging with her words.

She is wearing a modified version of the D.Q. uniform, which is buttoned to her neck for modesty. The boys wear khaki flat-front trousers, and the girls are given the choice between a khaki mid-calf length skirt or a khaki mid-calf length split skirt. The cashier’s sleeves are long, even in the heat of a Georgia summer. Rumor has it that if any of the girls are caught rolling up their sleeves they are subject to a fine.

Gus and I carefully study the menu above her head, studiously avoiding the Christian pamphlets and tracts carefully stacked on the counters. I know this literature will somehow make its way into the sack containing our ice cream, the same way I know it will then make its way into the garbage cans lining the outside of the restaurant.

Some people claim they’ve seen D.Q. employees retrieving the Christian literature from the grounds after closing hours, supposedly so they can put it out the next day--“waste not, want not” and all that.

“Um, yeah, my brother will have the Peanut Buster Parfait and I’ll have a Dilly Bar, that’s all,” I vaguely mutter into the air somewhere above the girl’s head.

“Sure, ok. That’ll be $4.49....say, haven’t I seen you at church on Wednesday nights? You go to Temple on the Rock, right?” She asks nonchalantly, all the while doing her best to gain eye contact.

I glance at her warily as I hand over the money. This is one of their oldest tricks. They pretend to know you from church. When you tell them you don’t go to: A.) that church or B.) church, they start their spiel.

“Um, no, I don’t go....”

Just at that moment, a clash comes from the back of the restaurant. I’m grateful for any diversion and look past her shoulder, just in time to see Jacob Wildecott drop a 92 ounce can of cherry pie filling onto the recently scrubbed tile floor.

Now, Jacob Wildecott used to be the biggest stoner in town. He was best known for perfecting the “wake and bake,” wherein he would wake up, get high, and watch re-runs of Spongebob Squarepants while eating Cap’n Crunch out of the box, still in his tighty-whities.

Jacob was high all the time, and he was famous for the time he got completely wasted on Hawaiian blue top sensimilla and then wanting to drive out to a party Brian Waverly was having while his parents were out of town for the weekend. Jacob’s mom wasn’t born yesterday; she knew from her son’s bloodshot eyes, slurred speech and philosophical tangents that he had been smoking some primo shit. So Jacob’s mother did what any concerned mother would do at that point; she told him that he could not drive the car to Brian’s party because Fat Louie, the family cat, had already taken the car out for the evening. Jacob was pissed, to be sure, but he understood that Fat Louie had a social life and had already made prior arrangements with Mrs. Wildecott to take the car for the evening. Jacob was able to score a ride to the party with a friend, and the story went down in Beauregard history.

About five months ago, Jacob smoked some chronic with a couple of buddies, and then headed home to crash. On the way home he got a serious case of the munchies, so he stopped in at the D.Q. for some food. Well, Mr. Duncan, the owner of the store, happened to be covering the shift of a sick employee that night. I’ve never smoked myself but I can imagine that, for a stoned and starving Jacob, having Mr. Duncan witness to him had to be right up there with sitting through one of those high pressure time-share presentations they make people attend in exchange for a free vacation in Florida. Those people really want to be out on the beach, but if they don’t listen, poof, there goes their vacation. Only in this case Florida was the D.Q., the beach was a ½ lb chili meltdown and a shake, and the timeshare talk was a fiery sermon personally delivered to Jacob by Mr. Duncan, complete with laying on of hands and holy water. Poor Jacob never had a chance; he left the D.Q. that night dazed and confused, to quote a Led Zeppelin song. He returned that following Monday, and was put to work in the stockroom, and he’s been working there ever since.

I meet Jacob’s eyes and quickly look away, feeling the blush rise to my cheeks.

I have had a crush on Jacob Wildecott ever since the summer when crabby Mr. Vanputten discovered five of us playing “Truth or Dare” in the bushes behind old Mrs. McConaughey’s house. Everybody was stark naked, except for Jacob in his Spiderman underwear and me in my Wonder Woman matching bralette and panty set. Apparently a lot of daring had taken place; it seems that when you are 10, nobody is interested in the truth.

My parents forbade me from playing with Jacob from that summer on. As time passed, the circles we traveled in gradually moved further and further apart. Eventually, I was on the Honor Roll every quarter and Jacob was smoking a quarter bag of blue top a week, and that’s where the similarities began and ended. Until he started working at the D.Q. five months ago, that is. Now our paths converge regularly, and I have been successful so far in avoiding anything resembling eye contact, verbal communication, or actual awareness of him until now.

His face lights up. His beautiful, angelic, perfect face. “Hey Ginny! Long time no see!”

I cringe, recalling the last time he saw me, in all my secret superhero glory.

Deep breath, hold it, exhale. Ok, better. I plaster on a fake smile, trying to appear cool. “Hey yourself. Do you work here now?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Of course he works here now, dummy! They don’t let just anyone wear the modified D.Q. uniform, or run the Blizzard machines.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection from the upright freezer case, which holds the D.Q. cakes, along with numerous bags of Dilly Bars, Buster Bars and D.Q. Sandwiches. My long, wavy brown hair is caught in a clip at the nape of my neck, and wispy tendrils have escaped, which is ok. I note with satisfaction that my skin is clear, and I surreptitiously hold my hand in front of my mouth and take a sniff. Breath is ok, good. I am aware that I’m no raving beauty. I’m more plain than pretty, but I’ve seen worse.

I try again. “I mean, I haven’t seen you in here before, when did you start?” I ask innocently.

“Oh, wow, uh, I started working here, like, 4 months ago,” he answers, sounding as if he’s killed a few brain cells in the pursuit of happiness.

“Five months,” I think to myself. It’s been five months since you started working here, you gorgeous idiot. Yes, Jacob Wildecott is an idiot, but I’m shallow enough to let that slide for now.

I stretch my lips widely over my teeth and force a smile, “Cool!”

“Hey! Uh, you know what’s really cool?” he glances uncertainly at the pony tailed girl, and she nods firmly in response, her lips set in a tight line.

Uh-oh. I know exactly what’s coming next, and I stepped right in it. Just then, Gus lets out a scream and yanks on my hand, hard, nearly causing me to lose my balance. His gray eyes are wide, and staring at a point ahead of him on the tile floor. He also appears to be hyperventilating, and I kneel down in concern.

“Gus...?” I begin questioningly. That’s about as far as I get.

“Ginny! Poop! There’s poop over there!” He shrieks hysterically, causing heads to turn in our direction. He is pointing to a solitary brown ball on the floor, approximately 10 feet away from us.

“Gus! You’re nuts, there’s no way there is poop on....” I trail off, examining the ball in question more closely. Yes, it seems that my brother has nailed it. I am looking at a ball of poop on the floor of the Beauregard D.Q. Eewww.

I swallow hard, and then ask nervously, “What happened?”

Not that my brother is the most reliable of sources. A thousand possible scenarios play themselves out in my mind, simultaneously. I can only pray that Gus isn’t somehow behind the poop’s convenient appearance, mysteriously arriving just as Jacob Wildecott was preparing to witness to the second coming of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

But no, it seems that Gus is innocent of any wrongdoing this time. His eyes are wild, and he points a shaking finger at the appalled young mother in front of us, who had been waiting all this time for her D.Q. She is holding a cute blonde toddler, about two years of age. The little girl looks back at Gus, her shockingly blue eyes wide and surprised looking. The girl’s bottom lip begins to quiver as she realizes that all eyes are on her, and she buries her face in her mother’s neck.

“That girl just rolled a poop out of her diaper!” Gus accuses, managing to sound indignant and fascinated at the same time.

“She did what?” I demand, completely and utterly embarrassed at this point. Then I stop myself. Maybe it’s not so bad, maybe only one or two people actually saw the poop...I quickly look around the restaurant to ascertain the situation, and it’s as bad as I could ever imagine. Everybody in the store is staring at us, mentally filing this story away to share with their friends at a later time; one boy is taking pictures with his cell phone. For the rest of the summer, I, Ginny Brandt, will be associated with The Poop Incident At The D.Q. Great.

“That girl! Look! Her diaper’s loose, and a poop just rolled out of it!” He screeches at top volume, unable to take his eyes from the offending object.

Just then, the little girl realizes what has happened, and begins crying in confusion. The mother appears, at this point, to be completely mortified. She secures her daughter’s diaper, grabs her Buster Bar and flees the scene, her child wailing all the while. This leaves Gus, Jacob, pony tail girl and myself staring at the offending ball of fecal matter.

I realize this is my out, just what I need. As I grab our ice cream from pony tail girl, I push Gus toward the door, grabbing napkins along our way.

We run through the parking lot, slowing down as we reach the sidewalk, our sides aching with the effort. Our breathing reaches a normal rate and I absentmindedly take a bite out of my Dilly Bar, wondering how Jacob could go from being the town’s biggest stoner to a soldier for Christ, all in the space of an evening.

Gus is engrossed in his ice cream, completely focused on scraping every bit of fudge from the sides of the container. We walk along Maple Street towards home, in companionable silence.

Suddenly Gus’ head shoots up as we cross Third Street; he is now completely aware of where we are. I sigh again in resignation, knowing what will come next. Just ahead is a neat two-story house surrounded by a white picket fence, with an elderly man sitting in his rocker on the front porch, reading the afternoon paper.

“Hey Ginny! There’s Mr. Vanputten! Let’s go look at his yard!” Gus excitedly begs.

Yes, this is the same Mr. Vanputten who caught all of us playing Truth or Dare almost 4 years ago, only he has since gotten crabbier and meaner.

Mr. Vanputten could be considered Mrs. Lee’s nemesis in the realm of gardening and lawn care. It’s not that he resorts to chemical pesticides and man-made fertilizers, because to do that he would first need to have grass and living trees. No, Mr. Vanputten is well known in our town for the simple fact that where others have lush, well manicured lawns made of grass, he has flat-topped stones, which are painted varying shades of green. Where others have flowering fruit trees and hardy conifers, Mr. Vanputten has the skeleton of a long-dead oak tree that he has de-barked and stripped of leaves. Once a year Mr. Vanputten dons a half mask paint spray respiratory mask and shellacs his dead tree a soft, shiny beige color. He then re-paints his front yard for the coming year.

When it comes to knowing that spring is finally here to stay, some look to the Old Farmer’s Almanac, others swear by the new buds put out by their blossoming peach trees, and a few even rely on the groundhog and its shadow. The town of Beauregard knows that spring had sprung when Mr. Vanputten paints his lawn and shellacs his tree. In Georgia, the “Empire State of The South”, a state well-known for its love and admiration of gardening, Mr. Vanputten’s property is considered an abomination by the townspeople. Except for my brother, of course. Gus is enthralled by both Mr. Vanputten and his eyesore of a front yard; by a yard that never needs mowing, and a tree that never needs its leaves raked in the fall.

“Hey, Mr. Vanputten!” My brother waves from the other side of the fence surrounding Mr. Vanputten’s property.

Mr. Vanputten looks up from his newspaper, shading his eyes from the sun while squinting out to see who is yelling his name. He sees us, and then slowly raises his right hand to us, middle finger fully extended. Nice.

Gus looks confused and a little hurt. “Why did he do that, Ginny?”

How do I explain to a little boy, whose heart and mind are an open book, that some people just exist in a constant state of misery, and probably prefer it that way?

I can’t, so I don’t. Instead I ruffle his hair and say, “Race you home!”

The Evolution of Ginny Brandt (working title). First Chapter.

2012-02-23T02:36:00.001-06:00

Here's something I bet you didn't know about me. I'm writing a book.

Actually, I was writing a book. Approximately 2,000 words a week, every week, up until the day I found out my husband was seriously abusing prescription medications. I had written approximately 22,000 words when I stopped. Once the divorce got rolling, I put away my book, because I didn't want to contaminate it with what I was going through.

That was November 2, 2009, and I haven't touched it since.

Actually, my crazy life/divorce was the reason I started this blog in the first place. I absolutely love to write, and I wanted to stay in practice so I decided to take a page from my friend Amy, and start a blog.

But I miss my book. I miss Beauregard, Georgia (pop. 2386). I miss Ginny and Gus. Gus has a severe case of ADHD, but depending upon the outcome of his ASD evaluation on Wednesday, Gus may end up with a diagnosis of Asperger's. Or PDD-NOS. Or simply Generalized Anxiety Disorder with a side of Oppositional Defiant Disorder thrown in for good measure. I also miss Nana Jane, Grumpy Bob, Cosey, and Paul Westerveldt. I miss Aunt Marcia, Jeffrey and Sonia, and Uncle Rick, with his belt made out of 309 aluminum recovery coins. So I'm going to share them with you, in the hopes that I will become motivated enough to actually finish/improve/burn this book.

It's been suggested that Ginny's vocabulary is much too formal and advanced for a girl of 13, so she may end up with Asperger's, and Gus will remain ADHD.

So here it is. And yes, I know it probably sucks. But here it is anyway. And yes, I've used real-life examples in my book.

The Evolution of Ginny Brandt

evolution: \,e-vә-‘lü-shәn (n.)

a: a process of change in a certain direction: UNFOLDING

b: the action or an instance of forming and giving something off: EMMISSION

c: a process of continuous change from a lower, simpler, or worse to a higher, more complex, or better state: GROWTH

- Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Prologue

When you look in the mirror, what do you see? Do you see an individual being; entirely complete and utterly unique in thought, form and sensibility?

Here is what I see. I see that this moment in time, this moment right now, is simply a cross-section of our lives, placed under a microscope and magnified 100 times. People come into our lives; family and friends, teachers and bosses, neighbors and acquaintances, co-workers and classmates, lovers and criminals and enemies.

These individuals come into our world for a period of time, and then one day they are gone; leaving behind the tangible and intangible evidence of their love, the emotional or physical fingerprints of their crimes, the aftermath of their self absorption and the throat tightening ache of their absence.

Regardless of whom they are, or how long they are a part of our lives, the proof of their existence will always be with us, right down to the bitter end. Their stamp will evidence itself in a hundred different ways, and will color our interactions every day of our lives.

The harshness we impose on ourselves and others, the desperate need for external validation, or the never-ending search for the perfect partner. We are, all of us, made up of a thousand different people, most of whom are not of our own choosing.

So what do you do on the morning you wake up, and realize that the unique and whole person you thought you were is, in fact, the sum total of everyone you have ever known; reflected crazily in the jagged pieces of a fractured mirror?

Chapter One

Gus

It’s the last week of school, and I’m standing outside of Jefferson Davis Consolidated School at 3 o’clock on a Friday afternoon, waiting for my little brother to appear. Walking Gus home from school was added to my list of duties the day he and Jason Lee decided to set Jason’s mom’s lawn on fire this past April.

Gus is seven, and has Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, better known as ADHD, better known as perpetual-pain-in-my-ass-syndrome.

Jason Lee’s mom is the town gardener extraordinaire, and she has won the prestigious Magnolia Award four years in a row for her fabulous gardens, all proudly grown without the aid of chemical pesticides or herbicides.

Japanese maples, black iris, lilies, orchids and poppies; her lush, ecologically conscientious gardens were even featured in the previous year’s June edition of the Beauregard Bazaar. The Magnolia Award is sponsored by the Beauregard Ladies’ Gardening Guild, which is a very exclusive committee that hasn’t admitted a new member in more than nine years.

Mrs. Lee prides herself on her creative landscaping, and she looks down her dainty nose at those who rely on synthetic plant boosters. She has been known to corner neighbors, whose only crime had been to comment on her lovely gardens, and tirelessly discuss the pros of eggshells, coffee grounds, stale bread and vegetable peelings.

It got to the point at which even her friends would cross the street when they saw her coming, just to avoid having to make conversation that would inevitably turn to chemicals versus compost. People really got fed up with Mrs. Lee after she won her forth Magnolia Award, and there was a rumor circulating that she had her plants flown in from a hothouse in New York, and simply passed them off as her own.

Jason’s mom had a cottonwood tree in her front yard, and it went into bloom, as it always does, at the beginning of April. The cottonwood blossoms floated down, as they always do, and covered Mrs. Lee’s immaculate green lawn in a thick coating of white fluff two inches deep.

Nothing new so far, except this past year my parents had decided to try a homeopathic remedy for Gus’ ADHD, something my mom heard about on Oprah, I think. So anyway, my under-medicated brother went over to Jason Lee’s house one day after school, saw the layer of cottonwood blossoms on Mr. and Mrs. Lee’s yard and his hamster brain kicked into overdrive.

From what Officer Johnson and Fire Chief Duggar were later able to piece together, Jason was sweet talked into getting his dad’s Zippo out of the kitchen drawer by my brother. Gus has all the charisma and persuasive powers of Charles Manson, the good intentions of a premier motivational speaker and the destructive ability of an F-5 tornado.

So Jason handed this weapon of destruction over to my brother, who proceeded to light up the edge of the cottonwood blanket, and WHOOSH, up went the entire yard, as if it had been soaked in gasoline; the fire decimated the lawn from front to back in a straight line, like Moses parting one side of the Red Sea. Turned out Mrs. Lee had just had her lawn chemically treated, and not for the first time, either. Her lawn and gardens had been the unfortunate victims of a recent jimson weed takeover, and poor Mrs. Lee was forced to subvert her conscience and rely on a chemical arsenal of pesticides, applied in total secrecy.

So my parents had to pay Mr. and Mrs. Lee for the cost of a new lawn, the Beauregard Bazaar was forced to run a retraction column about Mrs. Lee’s “green” gardens, Gus was brought home by the police, and I got stuck walking him home every day after school.

My family moved to Beauregard Georgia, pop. 2386, from Chicago six years ago. The move was prompted by a late-night phone call from Nana Jane, threatening to do murderous harm to my grandfather, Grumpy Bob, after he’d driven off to Savannah in her Volvo for the third time with his Jamaican home healthcare nurse, Cosey.

Unfortunately for my grandfather, gambling is illegal in the state of Georgia, but Grumpy Bob had apparently discovered that nearby Savannah had a gambling boat that would take him three miles into international waters, where gambling was legal. Each time he wanted to gamble, Cosey had to go along as both the driver and provider of oxygen and fentanyl patches.

Mom and Dad were used to the middle of the night phone calls complaining about Grumpy Bob, but apparently this time Nana Jane had a viable plan for snuffing out Grumpy Bob’s life, and she assured my parents she would willingly do the prison time. So, we moved down here, Grumpy Bob moved into the Beauregard Senior Assisted Living Center and Cosey moved back to Ocho Rios. Now she makes a living wandering the resort beaches and offering to braid the tourists’ hair. She sent us a postcard last year and said she’d netted $34,500 for the fiscal year. Not bad.

Upon arriving in Beauregard, I was enrolled at Jefferson Davis Consolidated, which is where every kid in Beauregard between the ages of five and fourteen attends school. Since the town is so small, they only need two schools, Jefferson Davis, which is K-8, and the high school. Gus started at J.D. two years ago, and I have to say, after having experienced the public school system of Chicago, which boasts 666 elementary and high schools, it was a step down to be going to the same school as my five year old brother, but I don’t see him much. The upper grades are released at 3 o’clock and the lower grades get out at 3:15.

My mom’s younger sister, Aunt Marcia, lives about 60 miles from us, also in Savannah. She’s the coolest adult I know. She comes to visit about once a month, and we have “spa days” at “Bonnie’s Hair You Are”, which is the only beauty shop in a 28 mile radius. Spa days at Bonnie’s consist of a manicure given by her elderly mother-in-law, Mrs. Ruth.

Mrs. Ruth’s eyesight isn’t what it used to be, and her hands tremble from Parkinson’s, so Aunt Marcia and I usually just opt for a buff and a clear gloss. Mrs. Ruth also did pedicures at one time, but she quit doing them when she accidentally cut one of her customers with a callous remover.

Needless to say, spa days at Bonnie’s are always an adventure. After our spa day, Aunt Marcia and I go for lunch in town, then head for home.

Beauregard’s only restaurant in town is the Dairy Queen Brazier owned by an ultra-Christian husband and wife team who plaster bizarre religious sayings on their marquee, right underneath the special of the week. For instance, last week it was “celebrate grads and Dads with a personalized DQ cake...Jesus died for your sins, have you thanked him lately?” They actually own their store; it’s not a franchise, so they can pretty much do what they want.

They also train the employees to witness to customers at the cash register; “Would you like fries with that, and, um, do you have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ?” Unfortunately, it’s the only place in town where people can go to get ice cream or a quick meal out, so they have to put up with the witnessing if they want their food.

Things kind of got out of hand last week when one of the newer employees, Joseph Bender, “jumped up for Jesus”, as they like to say at the D.Q. Apparently Joseph was trying to lead a stray lamb back to the Lord. The stray lamb appeared in the form of Mr. Gusset, the boy’s P.E. and football coach, who also happens to have held several high school wrestling titles back in the day.

According to eye witness accounts, Joseph started earnestly witnessing to Coach Gusset, but Coach just wasn’t in the mood. Coach Gusset turned to walk away when Joseph leaped over the counter and tackled him, knocking Coach Gusset to the floor.

Information gets pretty hazy on the next part, but it seems Joseph started speaking in tongues and calling the devil out of Coach Gusset, urging Coach to repent of his wicked ways, while Coach’s Cookies ’n Cream Blizzard lay melting on the floor. Coach drove his head into Joseph’s gut, simultaneously brought his hands behind Joseph’s knees, pulled in and brought Joseph to the floor. A flawless double leg takedown, perfectly executed. The put-upon townspeople applauded and Coach was treated to a week’s worth of free Blizzards by the restaurant owners, in exchange for the promise that he wouldn’t press charges.

I snap out of my reverie as I hear the 3:15 primary school bell ring; I look up to see Gus racing out of the school’s double doors, his curly blonde head reflecting the light of the sweltering Georgia sun.

“Ginny!” he shouts, bounding toward me like Tigger on crack. I take a deep breath and brace myself, attempting to remain on my feet during what I know is coming next. He tackles me, nearly knocking me down in his rush to give me all the love he’s been forced by the formal educational system to withhold all day. “Giinnnnyyyy!”

“Gus! Chill it, will you? You’re embarrassing me! You just saw me this morning!” I whisper hoarsely to him, furtively looking around to see if anyone has noticed this humiliating attack upon my person. I am awkward, as only a 13-going-on-14 year old girl can be, and Gus is oblivious, as usual, to typical social expectations. He takes my hand as we begin to walk toward home.

We walk a few steps in silence, before Gus announces, “Randy Serg went retarded today. His mom called in for him.”

I freeze in my tracks, and Gus stumbles and nearly falls as a result.

“What? You can’t say retarded, it’s rude!” I screech.

“Well, that’s what Mrs. Tucker told our teacher on the intercom today. ‘Mrs. Anderson, Randy won’t be in class this morning, his mother called and said he’s gone retarded’”, my brother mimics perfectly, right down to the prissy way Mrs. Tucker purses her lips during announcements. He tugs at my hand and I reluctantly fall into step with him. This I have got to hear.

“So what did everyone say?” I question, morbidly curious, the way passersby are curious about a three car pileup as they drive by it.

“Nothing, that’s the weird part, they acted like Mrs. Tucker didn’t say anything about Randy going retarded.”

Silence. I don’t know what to say.

Gus chatters on, “so, at recess I told everyone we need to be extra nice to Randy when he comes back to school, cuz, you know, he probably forgot how to add and stuff. Joey Morgan is in charge of counting out Randy’s lunch money every day, and Suzy Walker is going to push him in his wheelchair.”

I am speechless. I glance at Gus out of the corner of my eye, waiting for the punch line, but it doesn’t come. We continue walking and Gus’ forehead puckers up. “Ginny? What if I go retarded? I mean, I never knew you could just go retarded....”

“Will you please stop saying ‘go retarded’?”

“Ok, ok! I mean, what if I just wake up one morning and I’m retarded? Will Mom have to call me in retarded, like if I was sick?”

“I doubt very much that Randy Serg woke up retarded this morning!” I snap. I can’t believe I am having this conversation.

“But Mrs. Tucker said! Do you think he’ll...?”

Just then, a slender kid about my brother’s age comes running up to us. He is wearing jeans, sneakers and a striped shirt, and he has short brown hair and round glasses. He seems out of breath as he nears us.

“Ginny! That’s him! That’s Randy Serg!” my brother exclaims in a loud stage whisper.

“Gus, did you tell everybody I was retarded?” the boy demands, ignoring me as he shields his eyes against the sun.

“Yesss?” comes my brother’s dubious reply. He seems somewhat taken aback by Randy’s verbal skills and mobility. “But can he still do math?” I can almost hear my brother wondering to himself.

“Why?” exclaims Randy, looking bewildered and upset.

“Cuz Mrs. Tucker came in over the loudspeaker and told us.” Gus replies slowly, enunciating every word for Randy’s benefit.

“Mrs. Tucker told you I was retarded?” the other boy asks in disbelief.

“Yup. She said ‘Randy Serg’s mother phoned and said he won’t be in class this morning, he’s gone retarded.” My brother repeats firmly.

I wince, but say nothing.

Randy closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. Then he lowers his head and pinches the bridge of his nose for several seconds. He has apparently had dealings with my brother before.

“Not retarded, you idiot! Tardy! My mom called the school and said I was going to be tardy!”

“I had to go to the dentist,” he explains to me.

I nod politely, fascinated by the exchange.

Understanding lights up my brother’s face. “Ohhhh! Well, I’m glad you didn’t go....” he stops himself and glances up at me. He begins again. “Well, I’m glad you’re ok, I....”

Just then, a group of 2^nd graders, five or six in all, see us and run over.

“Randy! Gus told us you went retarded, I’m going to push you in your wheelchair!” exclaims a cheerfully overweight girl wearing a t-shirt that proclaims, “Conceive It, Believe It, Achieve It!”

She appears oblivious to the fact that: A.) Randy isn’t in a wheelchair, and B.) Having a cognitive deficit does not automatically necessitate the need for alternative modes of transportation.

Randy rolls his eyes. “I’M NOT RETARDED!” he shouts over the din of his excessively helpful and excited classmates.

Gus tugs at my hand, “Ginny? Do you think we could stop at the D.Q. on the way home?” he asks.

I sigh. The last place I want to be is the D.Q., for several reasons, but I know I’m fighting a losing battle when it means coming between Gus and ice cream. It’s easier to just give in on this one, and he knows it.

Gus smells a victory. “Yay!” he exclaims before I even agree. I shake my head in resignation. We turn south on Elm street and quickly cover the three blocks between the school and the D.Q.

I pause at the double doors leading to the inside of the eatery, contemplating just giving Gus the money for his ice cream while I wait outside for him. No, that’s the coward’s way out. I heave a breath and pull open the door leading inside.

Just before I herd Gus inside, I glance up at the marquee. “You don’t have to be brain dead to live for Jesus, but when you are, you’ll be glad you did! – Cherry Cheesecake Blizzards 2 for $1.99.” What?? I shake my head in disbelief, and we head through the doors, still hand in hand.

Gameboard phrases you will probably never hear in real life. And yes, I meant to split my infinitive.

2012-02-15T00:27:00.002-06:00

My kids are playing Life, and that got me thinking. And what I thought was this, there are only a few times in your life you will hear someone ask you, "How do you want your $10,000?" Unless you're robbing a bank.

1. Ha! You have to go to jail because you're standing on the corner. And you don't get $200.

That just how it goes down in the 'hood.

2. Ok, so there are two ways you can get out of jail. Either pick a card or roll a double.

Bitch eyes blue, gonna kill my landlord.

3. You just had twins, lucky for you you're a rock star.

4. Hey, you're standing on my lawn! You owe me $500!

5. Hey, you're on my lawn and I just planted a tree there. Now you owe me $1000.

6. Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick.

7. Ok, do you want the Georgian mansion for $3,500,000 or the Colonial for $295,000?

8. Looks like I'm going to visit Gramma Nut in her peanut brittle house.

BUT I'M ALLERGIC!!!

9. I'm tired, can we finish Life in the morning?

Autism isn't a big deal, right? Wait, can you answer that later? I'm watching Adventure Time right now, and it's my favorite show.

2012-02-09T22:08:00.005-06:00

My son was given a tentative diagnosis of autism in November, by the developmental pediatrician in charge of the ASD clinic at our local center for disability services. The dr. decided he wanted Z to go through a formal ASD evaluation which includes the ADOS, a SLP evaluation, an OT evaluation and a play-based evaluation, in addition to my son meeting with the doctor again.

*FYI- For those that don't know, that's Z in my header, this was taken 2 years ago. He's the one wearing the Spiderman Viper costume with the legs tucked into his cowboy boots. At his sister's gymnastics class. Note the WIDE, OPEN SPACE all around him. And the way that everyone is acting like, oh, that kid? I actually hadn't even NOTICED he: 1. was there 2. was wearing a costume 3. has worn this costume to the last five weeks of gymnastics practice.*

His evaluation is in two weeks, and my child has no idea he has this tentative diagnosis. Had. He had no idea. Until tonight.

See, I've been stressing over how to break it to him, sincerely believing he would freak out. Because he freaks out when we go through the car wash, or if the toilet is to loud. But I knew I'd have to discuss it with him at some point, and tonight he seemed relaxed enough to broach the subject. It went nothing like I thought it would.

Me: "Hey, Z? Can I ask you a question?"

Z: "Sure."

Me: "Do you ever feel like you just don't know what people are talking about, or you don't know what they want from you? Or do you feel like you don't know how to make friends?"

Z: "Yes!"

Me: "Huh! Well, would you like to find out why you're having these problems?"

Z: "No, not really."

Me: "You don't?"

Z: "Nope. I'm good."

Me: "*sigh*.......Hey! Do you remember Dan Ackroyd? That guy who wrote Ghostbusters and Dragnet? Did you know he has autism?"

Z: "He does?"

Me: "Yeah! And he's totally cool, isn't he?!"

Z: "Yeah!"

Me: "Well, how would you feel if somebody told you that you had autism?"

Z: "Um, I don't.....can we talk about this later? This is my favorite show that's on right now." (Adventure Time. A show obviously created and written by people taking massive amounts of hallucinogenic drugs.)

Me: "Well, just tell me. Would you be upset?"

Z: "No! Of course not! Oh, shhhh! This is the best part of the show!"

silence......

Z: "Wait, why? Do I have autism?"

Me: "Well, the dr. thought you might, but he wants to be sure. So you're having an evaluation in a week to find out."

Z: "Oh, ok."

Me: "So you're ok with all of this? I mean, no matter what, you're still the same awesome Z, right?"

Z: "Of course I am! I'm still me and I.....oh, wait. This is a new episode. I don't mean to be rude, but can we talk about this later?"

My kid is totally awesome.

I think my psychic powers have returned.

2012-02-08T21:13:00.001-06:00

I KNEW you were going to click on this post! Yes, you! The one in the shirt. The white one. How did I know this?

BECAUSE I'M PSYCHIC, THAT'S HOW!

I haven't posted in a while, mainly due to being busy looking for a job and dealing with my ever-increasing anxiety over not having found one yet.

But things are about to change, big time. Because I'm going to win the lottery tonight!

Here is an absolutely convincing list of reasons that I ~~think~~ know this:

1. Last weekend I passed a billboard that said the powerball lottery was up to $250 million dollars. That's huge for a couple of reasons. First off, that's a ton of money, which I need. Secondly, what are the chances that I would pass a billboard reminding me to play the lottery on Wednesday? I don't get out much, so I'll tell you right now that the chances were pretty slim.

2. Between Sunday and today I totally forgot it was powerball Wednesday!!! This means I have pure motives and would do a lot of good with the money I win. I very rarely play the lottery. In fact, I usually need someone at the liquor store to tell me how to fill out my forms. That's how pure I am, people.

3. Not only did I forget to buy a lottery ticket all day, but I completely forgot it was Wednesday as well. This is probably due to a combination of my unemployedness and the fumes from the paint remover I've been using to remove the 8 layers of paint from my kitchen doorways. See? Pureness of thought. And? I'm industrious.

4. In fact, I would have totally forgotten to buy a ticket if my son hadn't asked me to buy him a lottery ticket when we were checking out at the liquor store today. He seriously did. And that's what reminded me it's powerball Wednesday!!!

5. I was really sick in bed all day Saturday while TLC was running a 6 hour marathon of "How Winning The Lottery Changed My Life." As I dozed on and off, the fabulous stories became interwoven with my feverish dreams. What are the odds that TLC would run a lottery marathon during the week I'M ACTUALLY GOING TO WIN THE LOTTERY???

I know, right?

6. Finally, my son asked if I would buy him a cobra with my lottery winnings, and of course I told him no, cobras are poisonous. Then he asked if I would buy him a fish if I won and I said, of course I will! Based on the quickness of my response, he must have realized he asked for too little, because he immediately said, Can I have TWO fishes? When I said yes, he asked for an octopus.

7. I was going to buy 5 tickets, but at the last minute I decided to buy 6! Because that's what lottery winners usually do. They suddenly decide to "buy one more", and that's just what I did!!!

8. OH!!! My daughter just told me that we should win the lottery because God has a lot of making up to do to us. She also said we should get $1 million for each crappy thing that has happened to us. Here is her list (in the order in which she found out about each thing):

A. Mommy and Daddy got a divorce.
B. Daddy is an alcoholic (missed visits, missed my birthday cuz he was in rehab, missed my concerts cuz he relapsed, broke promises to us, lied to us.)
C. Daddy died.
D. My aunt Debbie is a bitch who unfriended me and blocked me on facebook and took all of Daddy's stuff out of his apartment the day after his funeral.
E. Mema won't have anything to do with us.
F. Mommy lost her job.
G. Had to switch schools because of no money.
H. HATE my new school.
I. My brother probably has autism (FYI: So does Dan Ackroyd!)
J. Daddy's unveiling is coming up and nobody has even told us when it is and I'm scared we're going to miss it. AND, we have no say about what his tombstone says. Will Mema leave off that he was our father?

So, according to my daughter, God owes us $10 million. At least.

Milk Crates? MILK CRATES!!!

2012-01-20T20:45:00.007-06:00

So, I posted this picture on my facebook over the weekend. It's my laundry. Shut up, it's all clean. This is my clean pile. Don't judge me.

F*ck you.

I took a test online and it turns out I'm NOT a "type-A" personality. In fact, it's very possible that the type-A personalitied (That's right. I just made up a word.) friends I have will have either: 1. A coronary, 2. A stroke, or 3. Hemorrhoids. The odds are in my favor.

In response to my lighthearted jest regarding my lack of give-a-f*ckedness (That's right, another word) towards my ever growing "clean pile", a concerned, and LOVELY, friend responded, telling me to take baby steps, which I did. My clean pile is now less by half. Thanks Gina.

Gina also sent me a picture of something she would like to have.

Here it is:

Just so you know. This picture came from ANA-WHITE.COM.

Admittedly, my very first thought was wow, I could be super-organized if I had this! Because I'm a neat-freak. Seriously, I LOVE going to a friend's house and seeing everything-in-it's-place-and-a-place-for-everything. I have three friends like that, except one of them won't let me in her house. That's ok though, I know she's a neat freak because of the pictures she posts on facebook.

On the outside looking in.

My next thought was this would mean having to pull out a different laundry basket each time I put in more dirty laundry. UGH! No more things to do!

Then I thought wait, am I supposed to put the clean laundry or the dirty laundry in these baskets? Because I think we all can agree I have issues with that. Obviously.

My last thought about this laundry-basket-night~~mare~~ stand was that looks just like the milk crate furniture I had in college!

And that let me to think about all the things my friends and I used our milk crates for.

1. Sorry, I'm out of chairs. Here, sit on this milk crate:

Doubles as a table.

2. Nope, I'm using both of my laundry baskets. Here, use this milk crate:

3. You don't have any pots to put your plants in? Have you considered using milk crates?

4. I can't see what you're growing, it's way too dark in here. Here, let me turn on my milk crate chandelier:

There. That's much better.

5. Ah Mah Gah!! I found this cute stray cat but I don't have a place for her to sleep! She can use my extra milk crate!

Meow.

6. Guys! I want to take my baby on a bike ride but I don't have a bike seat for her! MILK CRATE!

I think I have some raffia twine, let's make a seatbelt!

A study in acute anxiety. From a 9 year old's perspective. In pictures.

2012-01-12T18:21:00.003-06:00

I think I poured my entire heart and head into my last post, so I decided to make this blog entirely out of pictures. NO READING!! (Ok, just a little but I know you can do it).

While I'm on the topic, I want to thank each and every one of my readers for the follows, the shares, the tweets and the comments. The feedback I received meant more than you can imagine, and I hold that post, and everyone who took part in its journey, close to my heart.

Most of you know, or will soon know, that I grew up a highly anxious child. No amount of reassurance convinced me that I would live to see 21, and I was pretty sure that if I did, I would: go blind and/or deaf, go retarded (read it before you judge me, please), catch on fire, and never get into a good college. Failing that, I was certain that I would not be Raptured, and would instead be consigned to the fiery flames of Hell.

Without furthur ado, I give you:

My life. In pictures.

Age 6. I wake up blind.

Age 8. For some unknown reason, my mother then decides to take me to the Sears' Tower. It catches on fire and I die.

Age 9. My parents take me to see the "death" races. I die a horrible death.

Age 9. I call Van a shitass in 3rd grade. Mrs. Murphy puts the incident on my permanent record and I never get into a good college.

The Rapture comes and I'm left behind.

Fin.

Because sometimes grief all comes down to....a cell phone.

2012-01-07T02:04:00.003-06:00

For those of you who haven't been obsessively following my blog (and why not, might I ask?) let me fill you in on the events that have occurred over the past year, or so.

1. 11/02/09 - I discover that my husband of 17 years has been seriously abusing prescription medications. Among other things. This follows a 14-year pattern of substance abuse on his part.

2. 11/02/09 - I tell him that I can't allow our children to wake up one morning, only to discover that their father had died in the basement.

3. 3/10 - I file for divorce. (fyi, for those that might think otherwise: this is really. freaking. hard. We were together for 17 years.)

4. Yada yada yada.

5. 6/?/10 - 7/?/10 - He relapses, missing our daughter's 10th birthday because he's detoxing.

6. 9/9/10 - He calls one morning, drunk. He is feeling desperate. Desperate.

6. 9/10/10 - I drive him to treatment. He blows a .38 that morning. The kids and I visit him every weekend, and he is the proudest I've ever seen him. And rightly so, he went through hell to complete treatment.

7. 9/10-1/11 - We decide that we need to be adults about this, and he steps up to the plate as a parent.

8. 12/11 - He relapses.

9. 1/4/11- Our divorce becomes final.

10. 4/?/11 - He relapses.

11. 4/6/11 - What would have been our 18th wedding anniversary.

12. 4/10/11 - He drops the kids off after a weekend-long visit. I am scared and angry because he hasn't paid any child support as of yet, and the plasma bank won't accept my donation since I have epilepsy.

13. 4/17/11 - We haven't heard from him for two days. This is unusual. I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I tell the kids I'm going to the store for bread, but I drive to his apartment instead. He is dead. The police arrive, as does the coroner. What follows is a nightmare.

14. 4/17/11 - Try to imagine coming home from the "store" and telling your young children that their father is dead. There isn't enough love in the world to absorb their grief. It's the worst day of your life, hands down.

15. 4/17/11-4/25/11 - A huge blur.

16. 7/4/11- Your daughter's first birthday since her father died. Now she hasn't had her father there for her birthday for 2 years running.

17. 11/2/11 - You lose your job. The irony is not lost on you.

18. 11/11/11 - Your son is tentatively diagnosed with Autism by a developmental pediatrician. He will be formally evaluated in February, but you already know.

19. 11/21/11 - What would have been your husband's 44th birthday.

20. 11/25/11 - The first Thanksgiving without him.

21. 12/25/11 - The first Christmas without him.

22. 1/1/12 - The first New Year's without him.

Now, you might think that the holidays were what rubbed his death in your face, right? Not so. The kids and I did pretty ok during the holidays, thanks to my parents, extended family, and my wonderful sister/friend DAF, who turned a great evening into a super-duper fantastic evening.

I found myself thinking about Christmases past, when Ira made sure to have the tree lit up and Mannheim Steamroller (and later, the soundtrack to The Nightmare Before Christmas) playing before he'd let the kids come downstairs.

I recalled Christmas Day last year, when he came over to see the kids open their gifts and we all watched "Scrooge" together on the couch. He wiped away tears at the end, when Scrooge was accepted and redeemed by his family. He didn't think I noticed, but I did.

I remembered New Year's Day last year, when he came over for dinner and ended up driving me to the emergency room because I'd sliced my finger open on a can. I was so glad he was there.

So, as I was telling my therapist this week that I thought we all did pretty well this year, out of nowhere, came the tears.

I found myself sobbing in her office, Ira's death hitting me all over again.

Why?

Not because of birthdays, holidays or anniversaries.

Because of a cell phone.

You see, Ira had always been in love with technology, electronics, video games, music and everything in between. It was his passion.

Last week, I upgraded to a new phone. A pretty amazing phone, to be exact. Here's a picture of it.

Pretty sweet, right? That's what I thought. Then I realized that Ira wasn't around to see this new technology. He would never know that there was a phone that had a 4.5" screen. A phone that had an app that would tell him jokes, as well as let him know where the nearest Starbucks was. He would never know that a phone could have 4G, because the last time he checked, 3G was the shit.

That's when it hit me.

Life would go on.

Without him.

Forever.

Poop on floors, and other anxiety creating scenarios.

2011-12-30T19:23:00.004-06:00

This morning, as I was lying in bed, I heard The Children arguing downstairs.

The Girl: STOP TOUCHING MY GUINEA PIG!!!

The Boy: I'm not. I'm touching MY guinea pig. Last night Mom gave her to me, because Mom loves me more than she loves you.

TG: LIAR! She does NOT, and Pumpkin is MINE! Mimi is YOURS!

TB: Not anymore. Now stupid Mimi is your pet because she pees on me. We traded pets, see?

TG: I'M TELLING MOM!!!!

At that statement, I felt my gut spasmodically tighten and I did A Not Very Adult Thing. I hid under my blankets. Because? When I get called into an argument, that invariably means I'm expected to Do Something about it. And hello? I didn't feel like Doing Something. I felt like lying in my bed and recalling the awesome dream I had last night involving Johnny Depp, living in a French Chateau, and having a Nanny to deal with The Children. Preferably someone super funny and wise, like Fran Drescher, because that would be AWESOME.

TB: Haha, tell her. I don't care. PEANUT BUTTER MONKEY BUTTS! (The Boy often shouts out random phrases). We are used to it, whereas his PE teacher is not used to it. Yet.

I waited for The Girl to run upstairs to tell me that her younger brother was touching things, stealing all the air and talking about butts, but since they were both unmedicated their attention was quickly drawn to the squirrel that has taken to foraging for nuts in our front yard.

TG: Squee!!! Look, a squirrel!!!

TB: Cool! Look at its butt!! Quick, get Mom's camera so I can take a picture of its butt. HURRY!!!

Crisis averted.
------------------
Later-

I took a load of laundry downstairs because I had Big Plans today. Big. Plans. They involved making The Girl finish the dishes while I did ALL THE LAUNDRY. I was then prepared to hang it up instead of throwing it into the "clean pile" on my bedroom floor. Because I'm tired of rooting through 9 laundry baskets of clean clothes to find one pair of underwear and The Boy's Favorite Shirt. It has a dinosaur on it. His shirt, not my underwear. But? I would love dinosaur underwear, fyi.

When I walked into the laundry room, my eye was immediately drawn to the drain. Because it was backed up. And because POOP WATER was all over the floor of the laundry room. And somehow it flooded the family room, so I had stepped in Poop Water without knowing it.

Poop should only be in toilets. When poop is on my floors I become highly anxious. Because of e-coli and various other diseases and germs that my children and I are exposed to. Not to say that poop on my floors is a common occurence. Because it's not.

So, I did what I usually do when faced with situations that cause me stress/anxiety. I froze. On the poopy carpet. Because that way, the germs wouldn't get spread to other areas of my home. As my bare feet soaked up all manner of vile contaminants, I soon realized this was not the course of action I truly wanted to follow. I was forced to retreat upstairs, thereby contaminating my kitchen and livingroom floors with Germs.

I called three places and one guy came over. I took him downstairs and showed him the drain, which was covered with fecal matter. Then HE LIFTED UP THE DRAIN WITH HIS BARE HANDS!!!!

EEEEWWWWWW!!!!!!

I immediately ran upstairs and took a Xanax.

When I got back downstairs, the guy said it would be a two-person job, and he needed to call his work to see if anyone else was available.

I did not offer to let him use my phone.

Long story short, after this person walked all over my home and opened AT LEAST three doors, thereby contaminating them, he left.

I found another company that can be here today and will charge me considerably less than the first company.

But, in the meantime, the first guy came back, with a friend. After they touched a bunch of stuff and told me how much it was going to cost me for them to get the job done, I told them I had someone else that was going to do the job. People who would hopefully be attired in hazmat suits when they arrived.

But, I think I may have infected The Children with my germophobia, because now The Boy is walking around with his feet encased in gallon sized ziplock baggies, and the girl has fashioned a pair of shoes out of two garbage bag boxes.

No poop germs on me!

So the other guys got here and in 5 minutes they'd figured out that they needed to snake the line going through the toilet that's in the laundry room.

Yes, we have a toilet in our laundry room. It's just there, behind a wall, just in case we suddenly need to pee while doing laundry. Here it is:

While I appreciate the creative use of space, um, no.

There's also a sink in the laundry room, and a showerhead attached to the wall. There's no shower curtain, or actual shower. Just a showerhead, sticking out of the wall. In case you're thinking about something like this:

Oooh. Fancy.

Um, yeah. No. I'm talking about this:

I'm pretty sure I would come out even more gross than before the shower.

And that's why the sellers were able to list the house as a two and a half bathroom house.

And yet, surprisingly, most of us survived our childhood.

2011-12-24T13:07:00.001-06:00

Our kids are spoiled beyond belief. I know I've blogged about this before but it really annoys me that my kids think I'm abusing them when I declare a "no-tv" night. So, I decided to make a list of things my generation never had as children, along with a list of what we had instead. And we are still alive to blog/talk about it:

1. School lunch "choices."
1a. Listen kid, the school cafeteria is not a restaurant. People who work in restaurants don't wear hair nets, and you aren't made to stand in line and give Jimmy Walters cutsies everyday, because if you don't? He'll punch you in the breadbasket later during recess.

Whatever the school gave you, you ate. Or not. What's that? You say you can't eat the school's beef and noodles ever since Kathy Durst threw up right next to you the last time the school served them? What do you mean "everytime I think of beef and noodles I feel nauseous and think of the janitor's pink sawdust"? Tough sh*t.

2. Car seats.
2a. A special seat? For the kid? Strapped securely in the car? Ha! You're joking, right? I regularly laid in the back window area, or hid in the wheel-well. And whenever the car came to a stop, I'd roll out of the back window onto the seats. AND IT WAS SUPER FUN! If my parents had tried to strap me into a "car-seat" I probably would have bitten them. And then hid in the wheel-well.

In fact, we never even used our seat belts, since my dad stuffed them in between the seats everytime we got a new car. Because they got in the way, and anyway, who wants to sit on those things? Not us. Too uncomfortable.

3. "Safe" or "age appropriate" toys.
3a. Every Christmas, I was the gleeful recipient of toys made out of glass, tin and things with sharp parts, along with candy or gum cigarettes. Those things were awesome, because when you blew through them, a puff of powdered sugar "smoke" would appear.

When I was 8, I got a Magic 8 Ball for Christmas. It was made of glass and probably was filled with poisoned blue water. Whatever. I used it, I loved it and I didn't die from it. That's the year I also got my "Doctor's kit", complete with 3 glass bottles of tiny candy pills. I can clearly recall carrying it around the trailer and saying things like, Looks like it's time for me to take my medicine!, before downing half the bottle.

4. Go-gurt, fruit snacks, probiotics, or almond butter.
4a. Ho-Ho's, Twinkies, Zingers and Ding-Dongs. Those were our snacks. In fact, I clearly recall a time in my young life when my breakfast consisted of nothing but Ding-Dong's and Tang.
.
5. Finally seeing the Trix Rabbit getting to eat Trix.
5a. Ha! No way could the Trix Rabbit be allowed to taste the fruity goodness that was in every bowl of Trix cereal. Oh, sure, he tried. But he was smacked down Every. Single. Time. And kids LOVED that crazy rabbit. We rooted for him during each commercial, even though we knew how it would turn out.

In fact, the Trix Rabbit represented everything that defined childhood in the 1960's/70's. You don't get something just because you want it, kid. If the Trix Rabbit had ever been allowed to eat Trix, I imagine that would have pitted child against parent in a rebellion not unlike the French Revolution. Viva le Lapin de Trix!

6. Child-specific clothing stores such as: Justice, Aeropostale, Abercrombie & Fitch, American Eagle, Gap Kids or The Children's Place.
6a. Special stores that catered just to kids? HA! We had JC Penney's, Sears and Bergner's (for the rich kids). Didn't like what they had to offer? Tough sh*t. Now put on your Toughskins and shut the f*ck up.

7. Computers, passwords, cellphones, the internet, cable tv, daytime cartoons or video games.
7a. Uh, wtf? We had books, Barbies, GI Joe, Magic 8 Balls, marbles, jacks, crayons and phones with curly cords that got tangled when we played with them as we made crank phone calls.

8. Caller ID.
8a. We could make crank phone calls because nobody had caller id. Conversly, when someone called us, we just....answered it. Without knowing who it was. Every. Single. Time.

9. Build-A-F*cking-Bear.
9a. If we had ever told our parents we wanted anything resembling this item, they would have said, You want me to pay an exorbitant price for a teddy bear that isn't even STUFFED? And I should pay extra so it sounds like a dinosaur whenever you pinch it's left paw? Then you want me to buy it a f*cking cheerleader outfit? F*ck that, get your mom to take you to the fabric store and she'll make one for you.

10. Happy Meals.
10b. What the hell do you mean, I want a toy with my food! The fact that I'm taking you to McDonald's is a treat. Shut up.

Know what little kids and drunk college boys have in common? THEY ARE LYING LIARS. Also, they sometimes pee their pants when they drink too much.

2011-12-20T21:41:00.005-06:00

Today, I thought I'd dedicate this post to an issue that has bothered me, and others like me, for some time now.

Our kids lie about us.* Usually in public. And often quite loudly.

Do you know those people who say, "Oh, children are just so refreshingly honest!" or, "Young children don't know how to lie at this age. That's how you know they aren't lying when they say their parents are beating them!"

Bullshit. I bet they don't even have kids.**

Or how about this one?

"Children and drunks. They always tell the truth."

No. NO THEY DO NOT.

Do you know how many drunken college boys have slung an arm around my shoulder and slurred wetly into my ear, "buh ah love you bayhbeeee!", only to never be heard from again?

Eleven. The answer is always eleven.

Equally duplicitous, if only slightly less obnoxious, is the species known as Toddlerus Americanus, or, in layman's terms, any American child who still has not fully committed to the concept of dry underwear, drinking from an open cup or remaining fully clothed when in the public arena. I expect that toddlers of other nationalities are little liars as well, but as my experience has only been with the children of my country, I will leave the foreign toddler-liar issue to my bloggy-peers in Asia, Australia, South America and Africa.

Case in point. When my son was 2, I took him to the local Walmart Supercenter for some groceries and various sundries. As I lovingly stroked his cap of angelic blond curls and kissed his cherubic cheeks, he looked up at me adoringly with big blue eyes framed by long curly lashes. Then he widened those baby blues and loudly asked:

"MAMA? WHY YOU SAY YOU NO LOVE ME??"***

This is him, at age 2, in "Lord of the Flies" mode:

I take no prisoners

So you can see why the Walmart ladies were so aghast, right?
Everybody in that aisle turned toward us in shock. That's right. Every white-trash (I call trailer trash! I grew up in a trailer court, so I can say that!), toothless, wrinkled and scraggly-haired woman turned a judgemental eye towards me.

Even women who looked like this:

Ah judge you, an' ah have found you wantin'

My most immediate thought was, Oh HELL no! You did NOT just say that, you lying little shit! You are SO LUCKY we're in public where I can't give you the beating you so richly deserve! DON'T YOU KNOW I F*CKING LOVE YOU!??

But of course if I'd said any of those things, I would have been chased out of Walmart by an angry group of scraggly-haired women carrying pitchforks, Yoo-hoo Chocolate Drink® and porkrinds.

So, ever opting for the truth, I sweetly said (in a voice sure to carry to the farthest corners of the liquor aisle that we just happened to be in), "What are you talking about? I love you! I've never said I don't love you!" (This is true. Shut up.)

My young son, oblivious to the drama, but somehow convinced that he was right, decided to argue this fine point.

"Yes you do! You say it ALL THE TIME! You say, 'Zachie, I NO LOVE YOU!" (collective gasp, myself included).

Let me point out a minor problem in my son's claim. How many adults do you think tell their children, "(insert name here), I no love you!" No matter how stupid the parent, or how poor their grasp of the basic rules of English grammar, not once have I ever heard a parent utter that particular phrase. And I have come across my fair share of stupid parents, let's just make that crystal clear.

I don't recall how this story ends, but suffice it to say that I was traumatized that day. This is why I advocate the use of ~~ball gags~~ alternative childcare arrangements when you need to do your weekly shopping.****

And just so you know, I'm not the only parent whose child lies about them. I have a friend who taught her three-year-old daughter to scream, "This is not my real mommy!", just in case she was kidnapped and people were around.

Her child decided to test out her newfound powers. At Walmart. As my friend was in, you guessed it, the liquor aisle*****, her child loudly proclaimed, "THIS IS NOT MY REAL MOMMY!!!"
_______________________________________________________

*Of course, kids don't lie all the time.

** Do I really have to say this? *sigh* My attorney says I do. Fine. If a child evidences any abuse done to them, by all means call the police and/or DCFS. For serious. In fact, if this is news to you, you are to stupid to be allowed to read my blog. Go away now. You make me feel stabby.

***That? Oh, that was a big, fat lie.

****This blog in no way is meant to be indicative of the way you should actually deal with other human beings in real life.

***** HAHAHAHA!!!!! Ok, she was in the card aisle. But that's not nearly as funny.

Muahahahaha....KNEEL BEFORE YOUR OVERLORD! Also? As of yesterday, I have magical powers and I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE THINKING.

2011-12-20T14:04:00.001-06:00

At the risk of decreasing the number of hits my blog gets, I deleted the post about N*tflix p*rn, because I think that post was skewing my stats. Why do I think this? Because in the 3 months since I wrote that post, it's gotten 16,934 hits alone. Also, I don't want to be known as the queen of n*tflix p*rn. I'd much rather be known as Overlord of the World.

Somehow sensing this, my awesome friend Selena over at Because Motherhood Sucks has bestowed upon me the coveted Overlord Award. Here it is!

Muahahahaha haha! Now bring me my Hossenfeffer.

This award allows me to change any three things that I want to, IN THE WHOLE WORLD! Here they are, in no particular order:

1. I want magical powers. Specifically the power to make anything happen, at any time. For example, I want a clean house, but I don't want to clean it. So I will simply blink my eyes and voila! I have A Clean House! Christmas presents are wrapped, blogposts are written, groceries are purchased, laundry is actually hung up, as opposed to being tossed into the "clean pile" and my children are bathed and fed. No more either/or for us!

Actually, now that I think of it, accomplishing magical feats by blinking my eyes probably isn't a good idea. With my history of klutziness, I might blink to get an eyelash out of my eye and inadvertently cause a rip in the space/time continuum.

2. Whenever life decides to hand me suck, instead of win, I will be able to reciprocate in kind. Here is how I see that exchange working:

"Haha! You're going to get divorced! He won't pay child support and then he'll die! And guess who's going to find him? Come on, guess! Ok, give up? YOU! Haha, I know! I suck, right? Your kids will be traumatized! LOLZ! Wait, there's more! Your son will get a tentative diagnosis of AUTISM! But not before you lose your job! I'm bloody brilliant, aren't I?!!? Don't answer, I know I am."

Instead? I blink my eyes (or something). And this happens instead:

Greetings Walmart shoppers! My name is Life. How may I help you today?

3. Bell ringers. Specifically the bell ringers who wish you a Merry Christmas even when you don't put any money in their kettle. Only? it feels like the're saying, "Wow. Seriously? You can't even spare a QUARTER for my kettle, even though I'm freezing my ass out here? Wow. Merry f*cking Christmas, then. Scrooge." I always feel judged by them. Judged and cheap. I want to say, "Hey, you're doing a good thing here, but I'm not putting money in your kettle because I put all my change in that guy's kettle that stands in front of Walgreens. OK?"

But of course that sounds defensive and not unlike "I gave at the office." So I say nothing, leading the bell ringer to believe that I'm a heartless cheapskate who probably also hates kittens and tiny children named Tim. So my third wish would be that those bell ringers would come up with some sort of a system wherein they know that I already gave all my change away, or, barring, that, they would just stand there and ring their bell and not look at me or speak to me.

Now, from what I understand I need to pass this award on, or my wishes won't come true. So, in the true spirit of giving, I pass this awesome award on to:

Shirley at Shirley Ewe Must Be Joking
The Sarcasm Goddess at For The Love Of Writing
The Ball & Chain at Someday I'll Kill You In Your Sleep
Elise at Things That Are Not Bagels and
Jillsmo at Yeah. Good Times.

Who says love and trauma are mutually exclusive?; or "Santa's Little Narc."

2011-12-14T08:17:00.006-06:00

Tonight, I got a text from my friend Shirley, telling me about some dumbass craze that's sweeping the country. Elf on the Shelf.

Have you heard of it? If so, you probably have one in your home. If not, it's basically like subjecting your children to McCarthyism for a month. Only Joe is wearing an elf hat. And ladies underwear (but only if you believe that rumor, of course.)

What's Victoria's Secret? ME. And I'm STILL watching you.

Anyway, I googled this elf/shelf thing and that's when I realized something.

Elves are assholes.

I decided to put my deductive reasoning skills to the test, and I came up with the following:

1. If some parents buy these elves.
2. And the elves are assholes.
3. Then some parents just might be assholes.

Not sure if you're ~~an obsessive~~ a loving parent, an asshole parent or somewhere in between? Then take my quiz!

1. If I owned an Elf-on-the-shelf I would:

A. Read the Elf story to my child every night before bestowing Eskimo/butterfly kisses on his/her face, and quietly tiptoeing out of the bedroom.
B. Thoughtfully position the Elf on an easily accessible piece of furniture, take a photo of it for my child's scrapbook, and then make sure I'm in bed by 10pm sharp.
C. Have a ~~few~~ lot of glasses of wine before deciding to make snow angels on the kitchen counter with the elf and a handful of flour. Then post the pix on twitter before passing out in a drunken stupor on my bathroom floor:

What do you mean, I have to "hold it" until morning???

2. My personal mantra is:
A. My child is a precious gift, and my duty as a parent is to protect his/her sacred innocence. At any cost. Also? My child has a Spirit Animal.
B. Yeah, I love my kid. But who says love and emotional trauma are mutually exclusive? Besides, if I mess with my kid, it toughens them up for the real world.
C. Back off! My parents locked me in a box every night for 8 years and I turned out JUST FINE!!!

3. Something I think about often is:
A. Knowing I would DIE for my child. Several times in a row, if I could.
B. Sure, I love my kids. But I need some me time too, you know?
C. If you mix up the letters in "Santa's Elf", it spells "Satan Self."

You know the drill, mostly A's? You're a living saint. A martyr. And your child will probably have Mommy Issues. Let's just hope he doesn't turn out like Norman Bates.

"A boys best friend is his mother"

Mostly B's? You're somewhat sadistic, but in a grounded sort of way.

Mostly C's? Hahahaha!!!

Santa's Little Narcs

Dear Kmart: So why did you put this display up if you didn't want customers "causing a disturbance"?

2011-12-14T08:17:00.002-06:00

This is probably the equivalent of showing people embarassing photos of your kids. Only with words. Worldwide.

2011-12-14T08:17:00.001-06:00

I was searching through some old emails and came across this one, sent to me by Z's teacher when he was in kindergarten:

I just wanted to let you know that Z had a GREAT DAY! I am so proud of him. I also wanted to let you know that he has complained several times with his ear (left) hurting. I took him to the office to make sure he didn't have a temp. I also need to let you know that Z accidently wet on his undies and jeans when he went to the bathroom. He told me that his penis just pointed that way. We had a talk about how we sometimes have to aim it in the direction we want it to go....LOL. He can't quite get past the point that it is his private area and he isn't supposed to touch it. ;-)

I told him that it was okay to hold it while using the restroom.

Have a great afternoon.
Angela B.

Because playing with string is as funny as spinning in circles, right? No. No it's not.

2011-11-27T21:24:00.002-06:00

Tonight, I found an autism blog by googling the phrase, "I need to go crazy!", which is something my 8 y/o son says often. Often. Right now he's found a piece of rope/string and is playing with it. Putting it in a box, threading it out. Walking around the house with it to see how far he can go before he sees the other end. Tying himself up with it. Putting it in his toybox and taking it out. Repeatedly. He just told me he "loves" this string and is never getting rid of it. Ever. He carries it everywhere. This has been going on for 20 35 56 93 minutes so far.

As I type this, we're watching a show about deep sea creatures, while the string sits next to him on the couch, safely contained in Z's Halloween bucket. Tonight, if he had his way, it would go to bed with him. But we have a rule in this house. "No ropes/strings/strangle-y things allowed in bed with you!" So he will put the string, and the Halloween bucket, under his bed until tomorrow morning.

Z was seen by a Developmental Pediatrician two weeks ago, and was given a tentative dx of autism (he goes through the full ASD clinic in February), and while I thought I was ok with it, right now I feel so sad. Z's older sister is watching him "play" and alternating between rolling her eyes and giving me worried looks. She knows. J loves him so much, even though he attacks her, hits her, pulls her hair and slaps her with the slightest provocation. And sometimes with no provocation at all. He randomly screams, laughs hysterically, throws shoes at her and embarasses her in front of her friends. But even a 12 y/o has her limits.

Their dad died last April and since then, Z has deteriorated. He's never dealt well with change/transition, etc. Plus, last week he got kicked out of the private school I was sending him to, because of his tendency to shout out random words during class, using farts and belches as ways to make friends and his tendency to pull kids' pants down during bathroom time, because isn't that how you make friends?

I took Z out of our public school because the school he was going to was "too noisy". Sometimes he wears headphones to cut the noise. They aren't plugged into anything. Just the headphones. I write a silly blog and I try to be lighthearted about Z's issues, but tonight, as my son plays with a piece of string while he walks the house on his tiptoes, I just can't be lighthearted about it.

Tonight, I worry about my son's future. But I especially worry about tomorrow, on his first day back at an over-crowded, under-funded and misguided public school system.

Random stuff that doesn't fit anywhere else, so I'm putting it here. Plus? Lots and lots about dinosaurs!

2011-11-19T11:03:00.001-06:00

I've been writing a post for the past week, but then I'll get distracted by my daughter's guinea pig, or how dry my lips are, or this new true crime website I found a few days ago, and then before I know it, it's time to make dinner and interact with my children. So since everybody knows that posts put up on Saturdays NEVER get read, I'm saving my real post for tomorrow. This is just a post filled with random shit that I could make individual blog posts about, but I don't feel like it. So here's some stuff:

1. I lost my job two weeks ago. This has never happened to me in my life, I've had consistent employment since I was in college (I worked summers at a Girl Scout camp as a counselor/life guard/lakefront director) and during grad school I worked part time and had a graduate assistantship. I already have an interview lined up for next week, so lets all think positive thoughts!

2. My son (8 y/o) saw a developmental pediatrician last week, because the school told me that if his bx's didn't improve drastically, his last day at school would be 11/22. So after a two hour evaluation, my son walked away with diagnoses of: ADHD (no shit?), Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Disruptive Behavior and a rule-out diagnosis of Autism. Which totally explains Z's facination with dinosaurs, lining shit up, repeating words like "Kwanzaa" for an hour at a time, laughing hysterically for no reason whatsoever, being absolutely literal in his thought process and spinning. OMG, the spinning.

So, the Dr. was AWESOME and he's increased Z's meds over the past week, and he wants Z to go throught the ASD clinic, but as I don't have insurance right now, that can't happen. More on this topic later.

3. During the evaluation, the Dr. asked my son about dinosaurs (Z's FAVORITE topic for the past 2 years). Here is how that went:
Dr: "So Z. Tell me, what dinosaur is your favorite?"
Z: "Spinosaurus"
Dr: "Oh. That's a goo.."
Z: "....Egypticus. That's it's whole name. Spinosaurus Egypticus."
Dr: "....I see."
Z: "It had a big sail on it's back, and if it fell over..." And on and on about Spinosaurus Egypticus.

4. Later that day, Z and his sister had eye appointments. Here's how Z's went:
Eye Dr, (noticing Z's dinosaur sweatshirt): "Oh, you like dinosaurs? What's your favorite?"
(At this point I think I rolled my eyes so far back that I could see my brain.)
Z: "Spinosaurus Egypticus!"
Eye Dr.: "Really? My favorite was the Anklesaurus. You know, it had spikes all over it and it's tail was a spiky club? I wrote my Doctoral dissertation on the Anklesaurus."
Z: "Um, it's actually called the Ankylosaurus. You left the "o" out."
Dr.: "Really? I'm sure I'm right, I wrote my...."
Z: "No. You're wrong. It's called the Ankylosaurus. Trust me."

Being the curious person I am, I googled it on my phone. Z was right. Plus? I had to wonder what kind of school our eye doctor went to that would accept a doctoral thesis about a dinosaur.

5. Last night, Z said, "Hey Mama? I know how to spell 'Desert'.
Me: "How?"
Z: "I just do."

I meant that I'd wanted him to tell me how to spell "desert", not how he knew how to spell "desert".

6. My daughter and her teammates won FIRST PLACE in the district-wide speech contest. You go, girl!

7. My house is still a mess.

Dear Suzanne, about that child in your uterus? There are 10 things you ought to know first ....Part I UPDATED

2011-10-24T23:58:00.002-05:00

June 18, 1967

Dear Suzanne,

We here in Heaven are very happy to hear about your "blessed event", which is scheduled to occur approximately 5 7 weeks from now. Oh, are you wondering why we put that term in quotations? Because we have a sense of humor, and we know what you are in for, lol.

So, we had a meeting last night and voted 9,173,402,818,183,109, 693,491,536 to 2 that we should forewarn you regarding the ~~demon-spawn~~ child

currently residing in your uterus. But first, we have some questions.

1. Are you currently, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party? Hello? 1967?

2. Did you really mean for this to happen? Because if not, there's this thing called birth control.

3. Do you have a supportive network of family, friends and neighbors that will be able to keep you from ~~smothering your child~~ slipping into the "post-partum blues"?

No, seriously. There will be days when you want to ~~toss her out of the car window~~ leave her on the doorstep of a kindly old couple. So, in the interest of preserving both your sanity, and the life of your future child, we have decided to give you a hint of what to expect.

1. She will poop, frequently. She will eat, a lot. She will have terrible gas, but it's ok. Your cousin Judy will know how to burp her just right.

2.She will keep you awake at all hours of the night. You will still be expected to function as a normal human being during daylight hours. Deal.

3. She will have an imaginary friend at the age of 3. It's name will be "Alligator". This is because she doesn't have friends/siblings and therefore does not know any appropriate names such as "Bill", "Mike", "Nancy" or "Cindy".

When she is 5, she will hide your birth control pills, in a futile effort to gain control over your reproductive cycle. Be ready.

6. She will be a highly anxious child. Her fears will include: going blind, killer bees, going retarded, dying in a burning skyscraper and being killed by cars with sharp parts in a horrifying event termed a "Death Race".

7. She will break easily. And frequently. By the time she is 11, she will have broken her coccyx, right middle finger, left wrist and right big toe. When she is 14 she will sustain a concussion in French class and by the time she is 44, she will have broken 3 more ribs and 4 more toes. But after college, she's not your problem anymore.

8. One night, 3 days before Christmas, you will return home from doing the laundry to find that she has been taught by her 4th grade teacher how to make cutout snowflakes. You know this because she has used every bit of ribbon, tape, wrapping paper and tinfoil to make cutout snowflakes, which she hangs from the ceiling of the trailer. You are actually very cool about this incident, and only suggest making some of the ribbon strings shorter so Dad doesn't hit his head on that large snowflake next to the deep freezer in the living room.

9. You will ask your husband if the time is ever right to have a second child. He will say no. Your daughter will ask you when she is getting a brother or sister and you say never. She will continue to beg for a sibling until the very morning of your "bellybutton surgery" when she is 11 (which she will attempt to talk you out of, by the way). Then she will become angry, and pee in the kitchen sink in retaliation.

10. Once she realizes her hopes for a sibling have been permanently dashed, she will then turn her admittedly obsessive focus to your living quarters.

She will constantly harangue you with questions/statements such as: "When are we moving?", "Kristine's parents only lived here two years before they bought a house. I think you're only allowed to live in a trailer court for 12 years, then they kick you out", "You know who never has to pay lot rent? People who have houses, that's who", and "When are we going to move into a house that doesn't have wheels?"plus, "Kristine said I could move in with her! Can I?"

She will decide to pray to the Baby Jesus for a house made of wood or bricks, and she will leave conspicuous notes around the trailer with such phrases as, "Kristine got a house today. LUCKY." "Dear Diary, what is 'trailer trash'?" and "I wonder if I would like myself better if I lived in a house with a shape other than a rectangle?"

To put it simply, your child will grow up to be a woman who is able to find humor in every situation, will always wish she had a sibling, has a flair for the dramatic and will test every fiber of your being.

6 weeks, 5 days, 14 hours, 52 minutes, 46 seconds and counting......

______________________________________________________

Update: My mom was really upset by this post, because when I mentioned birth control, she thought I was saying I wished I hadn't been born. AU CONTRAIRE, MA MERE! If I hadn't been born I would not have had all of the experiences that make me who I am. I wouldn't have experienced love, graduate school or the Muppets. Not to mention the amazing highs and terrifying lows of marriage, parenthood, divorce, love, loss and being a part (and not) of the American workforce.

You did a great job, Mom. How do I know? Because I turned out AWESOMELY, of course.

8 ways having kids will change you. Irrevocably. Seriously, there are no take-backs.

2011-10-16T13:28:00.001-05:00

People are always saying stuff like, "Oh, having kids will change your life! You will grow as a person! Et cetera. This is true, but not always in the good way. So before you decide to have kids, read this. Discuss. Ponder. And kiss any plans you have to be in charge of your life goodbye. For at least 18 years, but it will feel like longer. Trust me. I'm the woman who tried to return her newborn to the hospital, remember?

1. "Moms have eyes in the back of their heads!" - You suddenly hear a scuffle break out behind you, accompanied by the sound breaking glass. Quick! What do you do? Turn around to address the issue? No way, too expected. Instead, find any shiny/reflective surface nearby and use it to your advantage. Window, coffee pot, computer screen or crystal vase, it doesn't matter. What does matter is that your children actually believe you have eyes in the back of your head. Respect, yo.

2. "You will step in front of a speeding train/bus/car to save your child's life!" - True. But under no circumstances will you let them have more than three (3) of your Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies. You will feel strongly about this. But you know what? They will always find your super secret hiding spots and eat them anyway. Every. F*cking. Year. Seriously. In the past 2 years I haven't had a Thin Mint, even though I've purchased 8 boxes.

3. "Having children will change your body, but it's so worth it!" - Bullshit. I mean, yeah, kids are great and all but here is a list of things that will happen to your body as a result. Most of them are irreversible:
     a. Your ass, thighs and stomach will suddenly attract fat the way plasma collection centers attract crackheads.
     b. You know your bladder? What do you mean you've never thought of it before? After kids, it will forever be at the forefront of your mind. This is because you will lose control of it every time you laugh, sneeze, yell, jump, cry hard or cough. Forever. Get used to it.
     c. Your boobs will never fully belong to you, ever. Even if you don't nurse your baby, your children will still grab them whenever they hug you, or when they feel anxious. Because kids are attracted to soft things, like Build-a-Bear animals, lovey blankets and tits. So get used to being felt up until your child turns 5. 7 for boys.

4. "Children are so honest!" - Do you like to swear? Is your mother-in-law a bitch? Then guess what. One day your kid will walk up to your MIL and say something like, "Last night Mommy told Daddy that you're a f*cking bitch! Can I have a cookie?"

5. "I can't remember what my life was like before kids!" - Remember that awesome honeymoon you had in Punta Cana? The lazy mornings having sex, eating a leisurely breakfast and drinking Pina Colada's on the beach? Then having more sex before getting seriously drunk at the five-star restaurant and tumbling into bed to have, yes, more sex? Well, be sure to videotape every precious moment, because that's as close as you're going to get to those wild, carefree days of yore. Now you will be awoken at the butt crack of dawn by a wailing infant, demanding to be fed, changed, held and burped. At the same time. Sex? Bah! That's what led to this pernicious developement in the first place! Sex = BAD!

6. "You will discover a strength you never knew you had!" - Do you embarass easily? Tough shit. See my header? That's my son, wearing his Spiderman Viper costume to his sister's gymnastics class one Saturday morning. What you can't see are the cowboy boots he's also wearing, with the costume pants tucked into them. So everyone could see the boots, of course. He looked like a young, gay schizophrenic.

7. "I want my kids to share every detail of their precious lives with me!" - No. No you don't. At first, you think you do. On the drive home from work, you will ask your special little girl/guy what s/he had for lunch at daycare, who s/he played with and you may even ask what was the best/worst thing that happened that day.

Then your son turns 8. And all he wants to talk about is dinosaurs. Or the Magic Treehouse book he is currently reading. And how Sharktopus could totally beat up 5 Spinosauruses, at the same time. Then, once you arrive at home, he constructs a diorama to further drive his point home. It is at this point that you begin to drink wine. Regularly.

And the girl? She turns 12. And...DRAMA!!! Kirsten totally told Steph and Jaspre to not sit with me at lunch, when everyone knows that Jaspre and I are wearing best friend necklaces!!! O. M. G.

Yeah, so deal, Mom. By the next day, your daughter and Jaspre are besties again, because that Kirsten was just trying to break us up!!! This will happen at least twice a week, every week. For 6-7 years. Get used to it. Buy wine in bulk. I highly recommend Yellow Tail Chardonnay. It has a crisp, tart flavor with a refreshing aftertaste reminiscent of oak and I don't give a f*ck.

8. So, yeah. If/when you have a child, you will know what it feels like to put your heart out there, for anyone to stomp on it. You will share every hurt that your child experiences. You will decide that tuition to that out-of-district but oh-so-wonderful school is more important than a vacation this year. You will wake up in the middle of the night, for however many nights your child needs you too. To feed, burp, change, comfort and soothe, leave money from the tooth fairy and simply to watch your amazing child as s/he sleeps.

Because this is your child, and this is what matters.

5 disturbing idioms. In pictures.

2011-10-11T21:54:00.004-05:00

This was originally going to be "10 disturbing idioms". But drawing this quality of pictures is time consuming! So, you get 5. But they are 5 awesome pictures.

Just for you.

1. There's more than one way to skin a cat:

2. Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater:

3. I'm going to kick the shit out of you:

4. I paid an arm and a leg for it:

5. It's like she has eyes in the back of her head:

Know what I just remembered? (Don't read this, Mom).

2011-09-30T21:19:00.002-05:00

When I was around 12-13, my friend Kathy and I would hang out during the summer, walking down the long blacktop called Sunset Road. Sometimes, on the way back, we'd get tired. Or lazy. Or bored. Anyway, when those things happened, we would hitch a ride back to the trailer court. I know, not too ironic, right?

So this one time, Kathy and I caught a ride with some old guy in a red pickup and told him we just needed a ride for about a mile.

Well.

He drove us the opposite direction, and gunned it. He turned up the radio and sang loudly. He belched, he farted, he wiggled his eyebrows at us suggestively.

Perhaps I embellish. A bit.

Anyway, we were completely freaked out and I was just grateful that Kathy was in the middle. That way he would be preoccupied with skinning her alive so that I could jump out of the passenger side and roll safely into a thicket of lilac.

Finally, he stopped at the trailer court and we ran screaming from the cab of the truck. That's when he said, "Now, girls. THAT'S why you NEVER HITCHHIKE."

And then he drove off.

And I have never hitchhiked since.

Oh, here's a link: http://freefringes.com/

Go there. Vote. For me. If you go there and vote for someone else, I will know. If you go there and just read the awesome posts but decide not to vote because you can't make up your mind, I will know.

And there will be retribution.

Oh, yes.

8 anxiety creating scenarios that made me the way I am today

2011-09-25T22:03:00.003-05:00

When I was little, I liked to read. A lot. I read about Helen Keller, Count Dracula (the abridged version for 5th graders, but still), going to Hell, Head n Shoulders dandruff controlling shampoo (on the toilet when I was going poop) and Unexplained Mysteries. And? I had an extremely vivid imagination. Extremely. Vivid. Also? I was a very anxious child. VERY. (This condition has only gotten worse with age. Thank you, Xanax).

1. So, in a nutshell, I was prepared to suddenly go blind, deaf, lame or retarded, causing me to invite one of the walking dead (possibly posing as a Jehovah's Witness, or my friend Tammy's psycho-religious nutball parents), into our trailer one evening while my mom was at the laundromat. Being blind, deaf and/or lame, I would make an easy target:

2. And once I was bitten, I would go to Hell one day because, hello? Vampires can't get into Heaven. Everyone knows that. I happen to know this fact because I had a babysitter who kept religious tracts around her trailer. Being the avid reader that I was, I found myself perusing through them one morning. It was about a girl named Sandy who does LSD and dies. Then she goes to Hell. Because of free love and drugs. Satan was wearing a red mumu and had on a peace sign necklace. But then it turns out it was just a hallucination caused by a bad dose, so Susan accepted Jesus and the end.

Don't even get me started on how suspicous I was of anyone wearing a peace sign in the 1970's:

ELEVEN. THE ANSWER IS ELEVEN.

3. And about the unexplained mysteries?

THIS. THIS BOOK F*CKED ME UP. BIG TIME. THANKS, GREGORY.

4. Well, let's just say I was convinced I had telepathic powers, so the possibility of a doppelganger was not outside the realm of possibility:

5. Neither was spontaneous combustion:

This would totally happen to me. TOTALLY.

6.Or disappearing into the Bermuda Triangle. This especially terrified me, and whenever we traveled by plane I enquired as to the pilot's understanding of geography and the importance of avoiding the Bermuda Triangle at all costs, even if it was a shortcut. My curiosity eventually became an annoyance to the employees of American Airlines.

7. Being hijacked on a plane going from Illinois to Wyoming (true story) or;

8. Watching my grandfather walking out into the sheep pasture and suddenly disappearing into thin air, as he walked through the pastures, passing through a patch of fog/mist (that's how it happens. Unexplained Mysteries said so).

Fin.

Death Race 2000 Through The Eyes Of A Child. Redux. Because I just LOVE this post. And it will help you understand why I am the way I am. Or not. Whatever.

2011-09-15T23:35:00.008-05:00

Okay, so by now most of you have read this, so you know about my pervasive quest to always be prepared in case of an emergency. Having grown up with ADHD, it's important to me, the author, that you, the reader, realize that to a child with ADHD, ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE. Seriously. Killer bees? Check. Suddenly going blind? Check. Mysteriously waking up deaf one morning? Check. The Bermuda Triangle and all that it entails? Check.Going "retarded? (Yes. I know it's politically incorrect). Absolutely. Spontaneous combustion? Check. Tornadoes? Check. (Do you have any idea how scary tornadoes are when you live in a trailer court??? REALLY F*CKING SCARY!!! Remind me to tell you about that one time when I was 9).

You might think that this pattern of obsessive rumination would decrease with age, wisdom and maturity, but no. It actually gets worse. You see, I may have been more vulnerable and helpless as a child, but now that I am an adult I now comprehend the full magnitude of the dangers that await me and my children! Molesters, lurkers, rapers (here, I use a term coined by my bloggie friend Becky of Steammeupkid), stalkers, excessively large amounts of water, bullies, choking, carnies, fire, Pomeranian dogs, rogue circus clowns...the list is endless. And I'M responsible for keeping my kids safe from ALL of the bad people and things, ALONG with keeping myself safe.

As a child I counted on my parents to keep me safe from harm, but I.....wait. Scratch that. I counted on myself to keep me safe from harm. My parents were just my safety net in case I needed backup help in staying safe from killer bees, blindness, tornadoes, fire or hijackings. And really, in a hijacking? My mother would be of no use whatsoever. Same goes for Dad.

Ever heard of a B movie called Death Race 2000? Yes? No? Really? Because I have! Wanna know why I've heard of it? Oh, because my parents took me to see it in the drive-in in 1975 when I was 8.

Here's how I picture that conversation:

Dad: "What say we take the kid and head on over to the drive-in thee-ay-tor. Ronnie at work says there's a good picture showing."

Little Yvonne: (playing with Barbie): "Yay! The drive-in! Can I wear my jammies?"

Mom (cutting up bananas for the jello/banana/fruit cocktail salad): "Quiet Yvonne. Oh yeah? What's it called?"

Dad (yawns and scratches his ass with a back scratcher shaped like a monkey's paw): "Wellup, Ronnie says it's got cars and racing and that David Carradine guy is in it. That guy what played Rocky too. Whatsisname...Sylves-tor Stallone. You like them, right?"

Little Yvonne: "I wanna go, I wanna go!! (gets up and air punches in front of parents, reminding them that she loved Rocky.)

Mom (flips breaded salmon patties frying in Crisco and pours iced tea in Tupperware glasses): "Well, it sounds good but what's that death part about?"

Dad (raises left ass cheek to fart): "Waaayy-ell, I don't rightly know. I guess we'll find out now, won't we?"

Little Yvonne: "YAAAAYYYY!!!"

This is what they took me to see this:

http://youtu.be/2QF2EE9gnbc

Yeah. So basically, it was a movie set in the year 2000, and all of society has broken down. For entertainment, the President puts on this thing every year called a death race. Four drivers and their navigators drive across the country, scoring points for killing innocent pedestrians.

Here's a quote from the movie:

"As the cars roar into Pennsylvania, the cradle of liberty, it seems apparent that our citizens are staying off the streets, which may make scoring particularly difficult, even with this year's rule changes. To recap those revisions: women are still worth 10 points more than men in all age brackets, but teenagers now rack up 40 points, and toddlers under 12 now rate a big 70 points. The big score: anyone, any sex, over 75 years old has been upped to 100 points."

Did you see that part about children under 12?

So did I. It's kind of hard to miss when you yourself are a child who is under 12 (70 points). I had grandparents (100x4), several of my cousins were teenagers (6x40) and I had no idea how much my dad was worth but I knew my mom was worth 10 points more.

Awesome. Now I not only had to worry about myself, but add to that my:
1. Mother= Father+10 pts
2. Father=?
3. Grandpa Charlie=100 pts
4. Grandma Josephine=100 pts
5. Grandpa Bud=100 pts
6. Grandma Evelyn=100 pts
7. Various and assorted teenage cousins (females are worth 10 points more than men, remember)=???
8. Me= 70 pts

And here we were, watching this terrifying monstrosity of a movie.....IN A F*CKING DRIVE-IN MOVIE THEATER!!!!

Were my parents insane? We had to get out, and NOW!

Me: "Mom! Dad! We have to get out of here now!! The cars are gonna kill us!"

Mom: "Yvonne! I thought I told you to go to sleep back there! Were you watching this? Now lay down!"

Dad (lifts right ass cheek to fart): "Do what your mother tells you."

Me (getting more and more panicky): "But this movie is REAL! We have to get away, I know a way out! I saw a hole in the fence when I went to the bathroom earlier. Dad, if you gun it, I think we can bust through before anyone tries to kill us. Hurry!"

Dad: "Now hold your horses young lady. We paid for a double feature and we are staying until this movie is over. Do I make myself clear?"

Me (muttering under breath): "...easy for him to say. He's not worth hardly anything! I'm worth 70 points and mom's worth 10 points more than him..."

Dad (glaring): "What are you mumbling back there? Do you have something to say? If so, then just spit it out!"

Mom (sighing): "You two...."

Me (terrified beyond all rationality, screaming): "YOU'RE JUST JEALOUS! I'M WORTH MORE POINTS THAN YOU AND SO IS MOMMY! YOU HATE US AND WE'RE GONNA DIE!!!!"

At first, there was only silence. Then came the sound of gravel crunching under tires as we slowly drove away into the night. The crisis was averted.

This time......

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8 anxiety creating scenarios that made me the way I am today

Death Race 2000 Through The Eyes Of A Child. Redux. Because I just LOVE this post. And it will help you understand why I am the way I am. Or not. Whatever.

Dear Suzanne, about that child in your uterus? There are 10 things you ought to know first ....Part I UPDATED