Attracted To Shiny Things

I have 9 minutes until Autism Awareness Month ends. Yes, I waited until the last minute. F*ck you.

2013-04-30T23:51:00.000-05:00

For those of you who don't know, my amazing son carries some pretty interesting diagnoses. Here they are, in no order of importance. Because any one of them are capable of f*cking up an otherwise LOVELY Sunday morning:

1. ADHD
2. Sensory Integration Disorder
3. Disruptive Behavior
4. Generalized Anxiety Disorder
5. Hypotonia

The combination of these five disorders is also commonly known as...wait for it....wait for it...MOTHERF*CKING AUTISM. Yes, I'm frustrated. And pissed. The clinic that diagnosed him last year basically gave him five diagnoses that confuse the F*CK out of his 504/IEP team, instead of one tidy, neatly packaged diagnosis of The A-Word. Also, the woman who did his play therapy assessment outright LIED. She wrote that he engaged in "imaginative play."

Bullshit. I was there and he did NOT. Not that I'm thrilled about it, but let's be honest. When the play therapist asked my son to "think of a story and act it out" with her toys, he looked at her blankly. (Her toys consisted of cars, dinosaurs, people and a CD. Guess which toy he went for first? THE MOTHERF*CKING CD. He tipped it back and forth to watch the color prisms play out. Until she took it away from him and gave him a car. Three times he said, I don't know what you mean. I don't understand. Finally, he just told her, I don't know how to play with your toys, can I just play with my own toys? And she said no.

During my meeting with the assessment team, the play therapist told me that he couldn't have autism, because a child with autism wouldn't have told her he didn't understand her toys. A CHILD WITH AUTISM WOULD HAVE JUST SAT THERE. She also told me that she "could tell he felt bad that he didn't know how to play with her toys, and a child with autism wouldn't have worried about hurting her feelings."

What. The. F*CK??!!

At the time, I recall thinking, I'm pretty sure this lady is confusing an autistic child with a head of lettuce.

I was also told that even though he continues to mix up his pronouns, (he/she/you/me) at the age of ~~NINE~~ TEN, that wasn't unheard of.

He met 5 out of 6 of the criteria for autism, but the magic number is SIX. He needed to meet all 6 criteria to be formally diagnosed with autism. And that play therapist was the deciding factor in my son being diagnosed with autism, which most people have some understanding of, or being pegged as the weird kid who likes to line shit up, and who has a bunch of diagnoses that most people have never heard of. Hello? Hypotonia?

1. He plays with toys, alright. Just not in the way they were "meant" to be played with.

The Crayola Glow Dome he asked for last Christmas. Here's how your boring nerurotypical might play with it:

WOW!! This is f*cking AWESOME!

The Crayola Glow Dome - Z style:

Wow. I am f*cking awesome.

2. Playing with plastic dinosaurs:

RAAAWWWRRRR!!!!

Playing with dinosaurs, Z style:

If you have a d sound, a d sound, a d sound, if you have a d sound come and line up..."

Playing with cars:

Vroom! Crash, screeech, BAM!!!

How Z plays with cars:

Mom? Why don't other kids know how to play with cars the RIGHT way?

And finally......

10 reasons I'm way better online than I am in real life

2013-03-27T21:34:00.001-05:00

I have an interview next week, and while it's true that I'm really excited about it, I'm also nervous. Why? Well, let me tell you. I'm extremely distractible, tangential, and I sometimes need a minute or 40 to come up with a witty/intelligent response to a question or statement. So the internet is perfect for me. Allow me illustrate:

1. I'm drinking wine. Right now. I can't do that during an interview. Or at work. Or when I've been asked to provide expert witness testimony in a court of law. #cheers

2. Also? #hashtags

3. It just took me 17 minutes to come up with number 3, but you didn't know that. There's no way I could pull that off in an interview. So basically, being on the internet makes all of us time ~~wizards~~ lords.

4. See what I did there in #3? I couldn't remember if Dr. Who was a time wizard or a time lord, so I opened up another tab and googled it. Again, you never saw that coming.

5. I just spent 11 minutes putting Burt's Bees balm on my hands, putting chapstick on my lips, and watching a few minutes of Adventure Time with my kids. No way would I get away with that during an interview.

6. I was bored with this list, so I popped on over to Facebook to find out when everybody is supposed to change their profile pix back from the red equal signs. My friend Loan said she didn't know either, but my friend Kirsten who is gay and therefore knows said it's for 48 hours, and Karla agreed. Here's what mine looked like:

Because if anything says, "I support equal rights for the LGBT community" , it's kittens flying over the Grand Canyon, amiright?

7. Really? Do I even have to say it? Ok, fine. No way could I take 15 minutes to engage in 3 different conversations in the middle of an interview, or a team lunch. Also? I just bought a soy candle for my son's fundraiser.

8. Almost time for more wine *hic*

9. ~~i JSUT S~~ I ~~jsut~~ I just used the ~~work~~ work "acquiescence" in a sentence. If this was real life, I would be suffering from stuttering, or possibly Tourette's. Or of being a drunk. Online? It's just plain charming.

10. I just spent 19 minutes ~~in deep thought~~ f*cking around on facebook, but I can't think of a #10. So you only get 9, deal with it.

*What do you like about the internet that you can't get away with in real life?

*shameless pandering for an excessive amount of comments.

Q: What if Jesus was in residential substance abuse treatment? Because I'm a motherf*cking mental health professional, that's why. Also, am I going to Hell?

2013-03-16T21:56:00.000-05:00

01/24/13 - 8:37am- Jesus has been strip searched, and his clothing has been checked, washed and returned to him. He has been given a pair of scrubs and was placed in room #218 with Damian. He informed staff that his name is pronounced "Hay-Zoos."

01/24/13 - 09:25pm - Damian returned from a home visit. He refuses to share a room with Jesus, but will not say why. Also, would someone please inform Damian that his nanny hung herself earlier today? Thx.

01/25/13 - 3:21pm -Jesus was caught smoking in his bathroom. He has lost pizza night due to this.

01/26/13 - 5:18pm - Jesus is sad and angry, because someone washed all of his white underwear with a red shirt. He suspects Jude in room #302 had a hand in it, but doesn't want to make a big deal out of it. However, please be aware of the possibility of any physical altercations on the part of Jesus' friends, particularly Peter.

02/01/13 - 4:45pm - Jesus will be serving in the dining room all week. Please be sure that he wears a hair net, due to health code requirements. Also, Jude informed staff that James is Jesus' brother, please make a concerted effort to keep them separated until senior staff decides what to do.

02/05/13 - 1:17pm - Staff noticed Jesus loitering outside the boys' bathroom while Simon was in there. He was supposed to be in group. He has received a 3 day loss of privileges.

02/11/13 - 4:04pm - During a family visit, Jesus' father had to be escorted from the premises by security, as he began arguing with Jesus' mom, claiming, "I know he's not my kid!" Also, staff reported that the entire family reeked of wine.

02/12/13 - Please be advised that Jesus' girlfriend Mary is NOT allowed on the premises, as he has an order of protection against her.

02/19/13 - 9:05pm - Jude informed staff that Jesus, Andrew, and James went on run earlier tonight. Staff questioned all residents regarding this incident, however Thomas stated he didn't believe it. A police report has been filed and Jude was given 1 extra hour of x-box as a reward for holding Jesus accountable.

02/23/13 - 5:53am - The Watson County Sheriff's Department returned Jesus, Andrew, and James to the center. Also, Jesus brought another boy with them, and informed staff that the boy's name is "Paul." The boy reports that his name is Saul, and claims that Jesus abducted him after attempting to gouge his eyes out while he was on his way to a "rave." DCFS has been contacted.

02/25/13 - 11:12pm - Jesus is on restriction, due to making wine in his bathtub.

02/28/13 - 7:02am - Jesus went on run again last night, but returned early this morning, along with a young man he identified as "George." It should be noted that George appears under the influence of some type of hallucinogen, as he claims to be seeing "dragons." Nursing staff have sedated him until the doctor can be notified.

03/01/13 - 9:15pm - Jesus has received a 4 day LOP, and will not get candy all week, due to "doing his own thing." Staff spoke with him tonight regarding the need to "get with the program." Jesus refused to even consider the idea.

03/09/13 - Jesus has received a 3 day LOP, due to spitting in Lamar's face, and then rubbing mud into his eyes. Lamar states he wants to press charges. Police have been notified.

0319/13 - 1:02pm - Following afternoon roll-call, Jesus was found in his room by staff, with several wounds on his hands, feet, and head. He denies that they are self-inflicted. Also, it appears that Jesus has been drinking vinegar. Staff are awaiting a call-back from the on-call psychiatrist.

03/29/13 - 6:pm - Jesus has disappeared. As in, poof, gone. Also, would someone please notify Jude's parents that he hung himself this afternoon? Thx.

Introducing...WTF Wednesday! Who's up for a caption contest?

2013-02-27T19:51:00.001-06:00

So because I'm a lazy blogger, and because it's a Wednesday, but most of all because I found this awesome picture on the internet, I am introducing WTF Wednesdays. That's right. An entire day dedicated to things that make me (and probably you) say, "What the F*CK??!"

[insert awesome caption here]

Now, for the contest. I'm pretty broke, so I can't send you any cash, but whoever comes up with the best caption (decided by ~~reader~~ my vote) will be announced in next week's WTF Wednesday post. I can't wait to se what you ~~sickos~~ guys come up with!

The Adventures of Dogman - An original comic by Z.

2013-01-29T00:06:00.000-06:00

My boss is a complete assbag, I have a broken wrist, and when I got home tonight there was NO DINNER!

That's when I decided to open a bottle of wine, and write a new blog post. Except...I have a motherf*cking broken wrist!!! So I found a comic that my 9 year old son, Z, had written during Winter Break, along with drawings. He said I could TOTALLY plagarize it, but that it was up to me to copy his drawings as best I could because, HELLO??? THERE'S A NEW rEGULAR sHOW ON, AND IT'S NOT GOING TO WATCH ITSELF. See that, right there? Yeah, I accidentally left the caps lock on, and I don't feel like doing it all over again. WELCOME TO MY WORLD!!! I'm not going to fix his spelling, so what you see is what he wrote. Without further ado, I give you.....

THE ADVenCherS oF DOgMan

their was a man with his DOg. They FoghT crime together

did u see that? he totally chomped that guys ass!

One Day Their WaS a Bomb they could knot Stop iT ( fuck punctuation. and fuck pROPer capitaliZation)

So i think this is a french gendarme, hiding behind his dog that looks like a..........

....a...gORNOPOSID! tHE POLICE DOG OF THE PAST. SHIIITT!!! danm caps lock!!

an aMBulens took them to an hospITAL

THE doCKtER SAId THEIR bODY wERE to HERT THEN CAME dOGMAN THEY pUt tHE dOGS HEAd oN THE pOLICE mANS bOdY THEN dOG mAN WAS bORN

he FoughT crime

And apparently gave fashion advice

Dog man SaVeD the Day

Lit·er·al; /ˈlitərəl/ :Taking words in their usual or most basic sense without metaphor or allegory. Also, if intestines were awesome, he would be full of awesome. Literally.

2012-12-26T23:18:00.000-06:00

Two nights ago I was doing some last minute Christmas shopping online, when my son brought a bag...what do you mean, wasn't two nights ago Christmas Eve?? You did shopping online on Christmas Eve??!!

That's right, Judgy McJudgington, I did. I online shopped on Christmas Eve night. And that's how I got Assassin's Creed 3 for $39. When it arrives later this week, I'll just tell my daughter that her brother/grandpa/best friend must have snuck it from under the tree and hidden it from her. Sure, she'll have trust issues but I saved 20 bucks!!!

That's $20USD, just so you know.

Anyway, when my 9-year-old son brought me an unopened bag of Idontknowwhat and said, Mama? What is this?, I glanced over and realized: 1. I'd forgotten the name of the stuff, and 2. I couldn't tell him oh, this? This is the stuff Mama bought to flush down the toilet, to break up the massive poops everybody in this house has recently been experiencing, along with the softball mitt sized wads of toilet paper you still insist on throwning in and flushing down the toilet.

He really wanted an answer, but I was really busy ~~getting drunk and clicking the "add to cart" button~~ with my last-minute shopping, so I just said, Mommy's busy sweetie, what does the bag say?

At this point, I extected a one-word, maybe two-word answer. What I got was this:

Hmm....it says New Drano Advanced Septic Treatment....Breaks down solid waste, paper, oil, grease and protein. Works safely in all tanks and pipes....Just drop and flush..three no mess pouches...1 pouch per month equals 3 months of care... Caution: harmful if swallowed: eye irritant. Read back panel carefully.....SC Johnson...A family company.

Then he looked at me and said, So what is this?

That's LITERAL, yo.

When an obsessive need meets a brilliant ADHD moment, it's a beautiful thing.

2012-11-26T07:00:00.000-06:00

I like to brush my teeth. Wait, let me jump back. I have an OBSESSIVE need to brush my teeth. Several times a day. Twice in the morning upon wakening, once after my mid-morning coffee binge, once before lunch, once after lunch, once after I get home from work, once before dinner and once before bed.

Is that weird?

I already know this habit goes back to my eating disordered days. I hated having the taste of food in my mouth. I wanted a fresh, clean, minty mouth at all times.

I overcame anorexia, but the need to have a sharp, shiny-clean mouth has lingered. Which made this morning very difficult, as I ran out of toothpaste and everyone knows you can't have your morning coffee before you've brush your teeth twice. Because your nasty morning breath will interfere with the heavenly flavor of your Starbucks Venti iced coffee with 3 pumps of mocha. Amiright? Of course I am, it's my blog.

So you can probably imagine my horror when, upon dragging my ass to the ~~bathroom~~ kitchen sink last weekend, I discovered that my tube was completely and utterly used up.

At first I was like, no biggie, I'm sure I picked up some extra tubes the last time I was at the store. Because that's what I do. I stock up on toothpaste and extra toothbrushes the way...well, the way somebody addicted to something stocks up on that thing. Not that I'm addicted to brushing my teeth. I'm sure that any of my co-workers would be willing to vouch that they have never seen me walking down the hallway to the bathroom with a toothbrush sticking out of my mouth.

But when I checked my super-secret new toothpaste/toothbrush hidey-hole (What's that you say? You don't have one? Well, you should. Just in case the Rapture/Zombie Apocolypse/your Mother-in-Law comes to town), I found, to my horror, I had no toothpaste!

And that's when shit got real, yo.

So I did what any normal person would do when faced with a lack of toothpaste on a lazy weekend morning. What's that, you say? Run to the local Walgreens? Pshht! Not before I'd had my coffee, which I couldn't have because I couldn't brush my teeth.

This is what I did instead:

Haha. It only looks empty.

Ta-Da! Toothpaste for another week. At least.

Why I take medication.

2012-11-24T00:14:00.000-06:00

1. 6:20pm - Decide that you will use the leftover roast chicken from yesterday to make white chili. YUM!

2. 6:45pm - Realize that you and your family won't be able to enjoy this feast without tortilla chips.

3. 6:47pm - Leave the chili on low (it needs to simmer for 15 minutes, you'll be back waayyy before then) and instruct your children not to kill each other while you're gone. They promise they will do their best, and that's good enough for you.

4. 6:48pm - Halfway down your street, realize that you would really like hair extensions. Tonight.

5. 6:49pm - Turn left towards Sally Beauty Supply, instead of right, towards the local market.

6. 6:49-7:05pm - Spend 15 minutes talking to Ruth, at Sally Beauty, about hair extensions, and the difference between fusion and clip extensions. End your visit with a bag of hair and a thingy that gets SUPER HOT. Later you will use this device to semi-permanently glue pieces of hair to your head. You don't see a problem with this, in fact, you think it's really neat. Ruth tells you that you will need 5 packages of hair, but she only has 3 packages in your color. You decide Ruth is full of shit, and you know that 3 packages of hair will be just perfect. Ruth reminds you that hair is non-returnable. Pfft, whatever.

7. 7:10- Arrive home with your bag of hair and a giant bag of Tostitos. Your children are in the process of killing each other.

8. 7:11pm-Scrape the burnt chili off the bottom of the pan. Feed it to the kids anyway.

9. 8:00pm - Hustle the kids into bed so you can... Do. Your. Hair!

10. 8:05pm - Pour yourself a glass of wine. You deserve it!

10. 8:10pm - Wash and dry your hair. You notice that it's never looked this silky and shiny before. You ignore this ominous warning, and proceed to hot-glue strands of some stranger's hair to your head. You wonder if the hair was harvested from dead people. Because the package says, "Human hair." It doesn't say, "Human hair from a living person."

11. 8:15pm - Realize this was a huge mistake. But the hair is non-refundable, so you decide to keep going. You've never been a quitter, and you aren't going to start now.

12. 8:23pm - You now have 14 strands of 12 inch long hair glued to the lower half of your head. This is not what you had pictured. You have some wine.

13. 8:25pm - You recall the lady at Sally Beauty telling you about a chemical that disolves the glue. Something that has acetone in it. She also warned you not to use products that had animal fat in them.

14. 8:28pm - You find yourself frantically rubbing at your hair with cotton balls soaked in nail polish. It doesn't work.

15. 8:31 - You seriously consider rubbing a pork chop into your hair.

16. 8:35pm - You decide that a hot shower is what you need. The lady at Sally warned you not to take hot showers, or the extentions would come out. You glop on 2 different kinds of conditioner, hoping that one of them contains some form of animal fat. But? The top of your hair looks AWESOME

17. 8:41pm - You now have massive tangles in your hair, held in place by stiff, wet hair glue.

18. 8:45 - Après-shower, you pry the lid off of your stick of Secret, and suddenly a huge lump of deoderant flies off, only to land in your glass of wine. Of which you have only had one sip.

19. 8:45:14 - FUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!

20. 8:48 - You attempt to comb through your hair, but it's no good. The lower half of your hair is now a huge mass of sticky tangles. And there's no more wine. You decide to put the top half of your hair in a huge clip, to keep it away from what you now call, "The Unspeakable."

21. 9:00pm - You're already in your pajamas, but so what. You slip your longish black coat over your blue satin striped pajamas. It's cold outside, so you decide to wear your Tamara Henriques striped Wellingtons. The Palistinian guys who run the liquor store aren't going to judge you. In fact, you have an agreement with them. In exchange for them always keeping a cold bottle of your favorite chardonnay on hand, you simply grab a bottle off the shelf, walk into the cooler and exchange it for the chilled bottle you put there several days ago. Yes, you're doing their work for them, but your favorite chardonnay, always chilled? WIN.

9:14pm - They totally judge you.

22. 9:20pm - You arrive home with your chilled bottle of wine, and decide that a low ponytail is always in style. Time for burnt chili and a movie.

And this is why I take medication.

Holy shit you guys, BlogHer FIRED ME! And what's with the new layout? It's WEIRD. Plus, I steal my daughter's coke.

2012-10-31T02:57:00.000-05:00

That's right, you read that correctly. Apparently you cannot go three months without posting, because if you do, BlogHer will send you one of these:

Hello You,

We hope this email finds you well!

It's been three months or more since you last updated your blog, so we need to close your advertising account with us this week. Please remove the ad code at your earliest convenience, and we will forward any remaining ad revenue to you within one to two months.

We'll be happy to answer any questions, or please let us know if we can help in any way. Of course we'll still love to see you at the conference, in Book Club, or in the online community... Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah

Best wishes,
Blah Blah Blah Blah

The upshot is that I can swear in my post titles now (BlogHer has a rule about that), but I'm still too afraid of pissing off my mom to drop the actual Eff Bomb in my title. I have to drop the **f Bomb, or my Aunt JoEllen will beat my ass. And it appears that in the three months I've been gone, Blogger has changed their layout and everything is all weird and none of my buttons are where they're supposed to be and? And? I dislike change immensely.

I've actually been too busy to blog, because I started a new job and do you know what I've learned? I learned that if your future employer ever says, during one of your five interviews I'm not a micro-manager. I trust that I've hired the best of the best, and I have full confidence that anyone I hire will make the best decision without me breathing down their neck then she's a BIG. FAT. LIAR.

Also, my 13-year-old daughter is a lovely girl, truly she is. She is sweet, kind, thoughtful, generous, and helpful. To everyone except her 9-year-old brother and me. To us, she is, at times, a mixture of Anne of Green Gables and Regan, from the Exorcist:

Do you know what your c*&#ing daughter has done???

However. However. My wonderful daughter wrestles with inner demons on a daily basis. Demons named "Girl Scout Thin Mints", and "Doritos", and the worst demon of all, "Mom's Secret Stash of Mini Reeses Peanut Butter Cups." That's right, my lovely daughter sneaks all of the yummy junk food for herself, leaving her poor brother and I with nothing but stale Goldfish crackers and the crusty edges of the brownies I made the night before. No amount of anger, questioning, empathy training or simple frustration has deterred her from the snack food du jour, and my son and I have been reduced to hiding his candy so his sister doesn't sneak it all.

So just imagine my glee this morning, when I opened my refrigerator and discovered, to my everlasting delight, a single can of Coke. Real Coke. Not Diet Coke. Not Coke Zero, or whatever is passing for Coca-Cola these days. This was pure. unadulterated. fully sugared. bliss. I decided that my mom must have brought it over for me, because when I want a soda, which is rare, I WANT A REAL COKE.

I stuck it in my lunchbag, and headed for work. With my non-micromanager boss.

At around 3pm, I got a phone call from my daughter, and it went something like this:

Me: What do you want? I'm at work.

Her: Mom! Did you take my coke from the fridge?

Me: Um....yes?

Her: MOM!! I was saving that! I was looking forward to having that all day long!!!

Me: Oh. Well, I'm sorry, I thoug....hey, wait a minute!

Her: What!!??

Me: Remember the three years I went without any Thin Mints because you got into...

Her: MOM!!!!

Me: ...the Girl Scout cookies, and I tried to tell you how much it sucked to look forward to having something, only to find out that it was ALL GONE???

Her: SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!!!!!

Me: No. It seems that this is a really good empathy-building exercise...(Yes, I'm a mental health therapist, get over it.)

Her: .....

Me: ...so, was that all you wanted?

Her: YES!

Me: kk, love you! Byeee!

And then I went to my work fridge and I opened up that can of Coke. And I enjoyed it more than I've enjoyed anything for a long time.

Here, I took some pictures to illustrate my absolute pleasure at the thieving shoe being on the other, less-fortunate-but-equally-if-not-more-deserving foot.

Mmmmmm.........so good.

Revenge is sweet. Not unlike the wonderful, sugary Coca-Cola I had this afternoon.

She is going to be so pissed if she finds this post. I'd better hack into her account and delete it ASAP.

Stuff ADHD people like, part I

2012-07-22T00:35:00.000-05:00

I haven't blogged in FOREVAH, because I couldn't think of anything funny/witty/poignant, or simply entertaining to write about. Except for that one thing that happened two weeks ago, but I'm not going to blog about that, because I know some gossipy beyotches, and I didn't feel like having my family be the topic of the monthly get-togethers. Again.

BOOYAH!

But tonight I had a flash of inspiration. You all know I'm diagnosed with a RAGING case of ADHD, but tonight I realized that not all of you may know what that means. So for your edification, I present:

SHIT THAT ADHD PEOPLE LIKE

(I couldn't put the word "shit" in my title, because I have this agreement with BlogHer that I won't put curse words in my title). Everyone on BlogHer has the same agreement. So, no, I wasn't singled out, no matter what that bitch Jillsmo has been spreading around.

1. Gadgets. More specifically, anything that promises to make our lives easier, or simply more fun, as we are easily bored and often gullible. These objects are initially sold via infomercial between 2-4am, and then end up on the shelves of Walmart in boxes marked "As Seen On TV!".

These include: Seal-A-Meal, Ginsu knives, Pro-Active, Didi-7 Stain Remover, those flashlights you have to shake to get them to work, The Slap-Chop (America's Food Chopper), Pasta Boat (Cooks, Drains, Steams & Stores!), The Touch N Brush Hands-Free Toothpaste Dispenser, the Roomba and The Perfect Tortilla Pan Set, just to name a few.

2. Things that you can put other things inside of. Stacking baskets, food storage containers, 5-foot-tall wine racks in the shape of an exotic fish, floor lamps that double as CD holders and desks with lots and lots of cubbies and drawers are a few examples. This is because we are usually a hot mess in the area of housekeeping, and anything that promises to consolidate space is AWESOME.

3. AHMAHGAHDSHINYTHINGS!!! Jewelry, glassware, mirrors, picture frames, pottery, pretty dresses, shoes, belts with Swarovski crystal belt buckles, purses, gel pens, stainless steel refrigerators, sparkly nail polish, fancy grills, ceiling fans, perfume bottles and KitchenAid stand mixers.

4. Books and magazines that promise to help us get our homes and lives in order. Once, I read a magazine called "Real Simple" and got the idea to safety pin my kids' socks together so I didn't have to bother matching them. I immediately subscribed to it, because hello??!!! Genius time saving ideas here, people! I've been getting it for 11 months now and I've never opened it. Ever. It sits on my counter for about 4 months and I end up throwing it away because another book I bought called, "How to Clean Your House Without Really Cleaning" said to throw away anything I hadn't used in the past 3 months.

5. Cell phones, video cameras, actual cameras, iPods, tablets, notebooks, Nooks, chronograph watches, Kindles, GPS devices, fancy pedometers, pens that light up when we write with them, and digital meat thermometers. Because we like buttons, yo.

6. TV shows about people who are bigger messes than we are, such as: My Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding, 16 and Pregnant, Hoarders, I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant, and Cops. As long as they are an hour or less, with lots of commercial breaks. Because that's when we get on ebay and order cameras with lots of buttons, new facial creams, Shark steam mops and iPods with more space for all the music we download from iTunes.

7. Other people with ADHD. You may not even know you have ADHD, or ADHD traits. BUT! We will sniff you out like a monkey on a banana plantation.

8. Monkeys.

Why yes. I DO speak Zachinese.

2012-07-10T01:04:00.000-05:00

Last November my 9 year old son was tentatively diagnosed with Autism by a developmental pediatrician who works for the local clinic for kiddos with developmental disabilities. The Dr. wanted to be sure, so he scheduled my son for a full Autism evaluation, which happened this past March. This all came about because I knew something was different about my son, but I just couldn't put my finger on it.

Perhaps it was the complete lack of social skills he displayed, evidenced by walking up to total strangers and, with eyes averted, telling them everything they never wanted to know about Spinasaurus Egypticus. Also, he sees nothing wrong with placing his hands on his knees, sticking his butt out while rotating it and shouting, follow my biscuit if you want to get lucky. Much to my father's chagrin at the most recent Fourth of July fireworks.

Or maybe it was his lack of imaginative play, most often seen during his three favorite games, "throwing magnets at shit", "tying strings to shit", and "playing with mommy's eggbeater for an hour because watching shit spin is cool."

He also loves to rock back and forth, sit at the dining room table crouched on his tiptoes while he eats, and repeat the same word over and over and over and over and over and over and over and....

He hears voices. He is incredibly anxious (even before his dad died), he still can't tie his shoes, he has more sensory integration issues than I have time to discuss.

And literal. This child is literal. If I tell him don't put a penis on your picture, he hears, "don't draw a picture, then whip your dick out, slap it on your drawing and hand it to the teacher." No. I have to say, don't DRAW a penis on your picture. Because drawing is different than putting. Yo.

And then there's his language.

Let me start of by telling you that he is very smart. But smart and language skills do not always go hand-in-hand.

He makes up words, terms and sometimes, complete phrases. He seems to lack the ability to know/use the correct terminology, so he just makes up whatever seems right to his brain, and leaves it to us, his family, to decipher what he really means.

Fortunately for all of us, his sister and I have become quite adept at speaking Zachinese. Here are a few of the terms we had to translate today:

1. Is your phone high?
Translation- Does your phone have enough battery power for me to watch 749 full-length episodes of Chowder?

2. I see a smoker!!
Translation - I see a smoldering cigarette, lying on the ground!

3. How much is July?
Translation - How many days are there in the month of July?

4. How many is Fall?
Translation - I haven't yet grasped the concept that Fall is a season, and not a month.

5. There's a 4 where my 5 used to be.
Translation - my blood pressure was 115/84 an hour ago, and now it's 104/71.

6. Will you turn on the cold hot air?
Translation - it's hot in this car, will you turn on the A/C?

Character flaws!

2012-06-19T19:21:00.001-05:00

It's been a while since I posted, I honestly couldn't think of anything to write about, so I've been leaving it alone. Until about ~~5 seconds~~ 8 days ago, when I belatedly realized that OMG I HAVEN'T SHARED MY CHARACTER FLAWS WITH YOU GUYS YET!!

So here goes, in no particular order. Also? I'm writing them down as I go along, because winging it is kind of my thing. It's what I do best, and that's probably due to my ADHD. I have to think fast, make stuff up as I go, and deal with the fallout later. I'm not sure if that counts as a character flaw or not. I'll let you know later.

1. I am highly distractible. Often, to a debilitating degree. For example, I started this post 8 days ago, but then got distracted by middle aged black man knocking on my door at 11:36pm, offering his lawn services if he could just use my mower/rake/hoe/flashlight. When I told him I did my own lawn work, he told me he needed work and I told him the local deli was hiring if he needed a job. I also promised to give him $10 cash if he brought back an application, and told him I would help him fill it out, if he wanted. We even shook hands on it, but he hasn't come by yet.

And also, the internet.

2. I have an annoying tendency to make everything about me. I tell myself that it shows empathy, but really it probably just pisses people off.

For instance, I'll start off honestly trying to listen to you, talk about you and empathize with you, but it always comes back to me. For instance, let's say you have a really bad mole problem in your backyard. And you just found out that your husband is cheating on you. I'll start out with a truly honest attempt at putting myself in your shoes, because I like you and I'm not a heartless bitch. But before I know it, I'm telling you that I really understand your situation, because one time my ex-husband who is dead now tried to get rid of our mole problem by setting the lawn on fire and THAT was crazy, let me tell you. Hehehe.

About halfway through my story, I'll realize what I'm doing, but there's no pause or rewind button in real life, so what generally ends up happening is I'll just stop talking mid-sentence, laugh awkwardly and ask what pesticide/attorney you're using.

3. My laugh is too loud. Seriously, it's LOOUUUUUDDDD. My dead ex-husband used to say it would probably qualify as a self-defense mechanism. Part of it is because my dad was hard of hearing when I was growing up, so if I wanted to be heard I had to be loud. The other part is because I have no freaking idea how to be understated.

People who are funny in an off-hand, understated, self-deprecating sort of way, such as John Cleese, David Sedaris or my friend Amy's older brother Kelly, are my comic idols. My type of humor generally ends up screaming, Lookitt meeeee!!!! Whereas Kelly's form of humor murmurs, Really, there's nothing to see here. Just some crows. And then he'll make an hilarious comparison between tweeked up junkies riding the subway at midnight and three day old pastries from his favorite bakery in Amsterdam. And bicycles.

4. Boundaries? What boundaries? I've gotten better at this in the past few years, but there was a time when I would compliment you on your dress, then ask you where you got it and, depending upon my comfort level, then possibly ask you how much you paid for it. Because? FRIENDS HAVE NO SECRETS, amiright? Nevermind that I'd just met you at a party/bathroom at a bar/grocery store checkout line.

Just ask my 13-year-old daughter. Because for the past 2 months, I have been logging into her facebook account and posting/liking/friending as her. Because quite honesty, she does a piss-poor job of engaging in social media and she could definitely use the help. And? Her online social life has never been more active. Seriously, this child has no idea how to network, she's lucky she has me to cull the internet for humorous e-cards, witty status updates and intriguing comments on various friends' walls.

Seriously.

5.

Some of the best and worst places to meet potential love interests, Part One

2012-06-05T00:49:00.000-05:00

So, as most of you know, I became divorced/widowed last year. It's true, I have tried to play the "widow card" on occasion, usually when on the phone with customer service representatives. It has helped in some situations (big shout-out to Liz from T-Mobile, woohoo!), and not so much with others (let me give a GIGANTIC f*ck you, to Robert from patient accounts). But to be fair, I was divorced in January and he died in April, so there are a mere three months between divorce and widowhood, in my book.

This brings me to my point. The point of my post. Where are all the good men??!! Because I'm ready to maybe stick my toe in the dating pool. I've been through all five stages of grief several times, gone through grief counseling, put my kids through grief counseling, sent my kids to grief camp, and we even had a freaking birthday party for their dad this year! Is that weird? Maybe I should leave that off my Match.com biography?

Seriously, we're all grieved out. My daughter keeps asking about potential new dads, but not to replace Daddy. Just a dad. And my 9 year old son would really like to have permission to pee standing up, but since we're a house of all women, I haven't green lighted that particular project as of yet. Oh sure, I'll catch him sneaking one in when he thinks I'm not listening, but I can tell, because when he pees standing up, it's louder. More splashier. And me? I'd really like to have another adult in the house to have grown-up talks with, maybe someone who will appreciate my spinach-and-toasted-pine-nut-meatloaf-with-brown-gravy. Seriously. I love to cook, and make up recipes, but it's like throwing pearls before swine at my house, where Velveeta is it's own food group and fruit snacks are considered an actual fruit.

So, in the interest of meeting a cool, fun guy who has a stellar sense of humor, rapier-sharp wit, the desire to forever better himself and is willing to NOT live in the basement, I did what most of my friends have already done. I created a fake Match.com account, sat back, and waited.

What I discovered is that Match.com may not be the place for me, but if you're looking for mildy-to-moderately-pathetic, middle-to-late-aged wankers who think the height of wit is inserting the number "69" in their username, then Match.com may be just what you're looking for.

Know where a good place to meet a guy is? The Finance section at Barnes & Noble, because these guys are probably either taking a finance course in college, or have finances of their own which need managing. Of course, they could always be trying to meet a woman who has finances, so these men still bear watching. It's a jumping off point, at least.

Know where a bad place to meet guys is? In line at the grocery store tonight. Number one, because it's the 4th of the month, which means it's food stamp (link card) day. Not that food stamps are bad. I just don't want to present myself and my children as a financial burden, when it's obvious that this man has his hands full simply keeping himself stocked up on canned chili and ding-dongs. Secondly, because there's always the possiblity that a man named Dave will strike up a casual conversation with you, culminating in his disclosure that he was horrifically abused as a child by his parents.

Does anyone out there have a good dating story to tell? One that doesn't involve childhood trauma, murdered kittens or bigamy? If you do, I'd love to hear it.

Just dropping in to say a quick hello. Literally.

2012-06-04T00:24:00.000-05:00

Soooo. I haven't seen you guys since the middle of April. I got my yellow stripe in Kuk Sool Won last week, how do you like it? And yes, I totally got this idea from Jillsmo, because she rocks.

Hey there!

Baby Steps. Baaaayyybeeee Stepppps.

Letting Go

2012-04-18T01:47:00.004-05:00

One year ago today, I went to your apartment, and you were dead.

You proposed to me April 4th, 1995, and we were married April 6th of 1996. For so long, April was my best month ever. It meant life, renewal, hope and love.

Until last April.

Last April, I made a mental note of what would have been our 16th wedding anniversary, if we hadn't gotten divorced. And then I moved on.

Regardless of what you always thought, I never believed divorce was in the cards for us. Until I found out just how bad your addictions were. And I had to choose between keeping my children safe and healthy, or staying with someone out of a sense of responsibility and past memories.

There was no question. My children will always come first.

Last April, I found out that your grandfather had died on April 10th. Your family never told you, so you didn't go to the funeral. Not realizing this, I texted my condolences to you, and that's how you found out that he had died. I can't imagine what a punch in the gut that must have been, on so many levels.

April 10th is the last time I ever saw you alive. You dropped the kids off at my house, after they'd spent the weekend at your place. Zach's birthday had been just 10 days before, and it was the first time he'd ever gotten to have you all to himself. He came home the next morning just glowing.

18 days after his birthday, you were dead.

I was so pissed at you when you dropped the kids off, that I wouldn't even let you in the house. I took their stuff from you at the door and shut it in your face.

Why? Because you refused to pay child support, and refused to get a job. And the plasma bank had refused me because I have epilepsy and I was feeling somewhat desperate. You knew this.

Just before I shut the door in your face, I saw that smile of yours. The smile that never reached your eyes. The one that said, "I know I screwed up. Can't we just forget about it and"....and what? Be friends? Not so much. Get along? Ok, we could do that. Just barely.

I knew you were drinking again. Because you never could get anything past me. And because you missed Julia's choral reading that week. For the second time. I texted you and told you I wasn't going to come over this time. I asked you to call your sponsor. For our children's sake, if nothing more.

I told you I wasn't going to let your addictions draw me into your sick matrix, because I had a feeling that whenever you felt lonely or unloved by your mother, you started drinking, knowing that my need to help and rescue would bring me to your door.

But not this time.

This time, I decided that I would not be the other half to this co-dependent back and forth. I was done.

Except.....

On April 15th, I happened to be in your apartment complex on work-related business. After the evaluation I'd done was completed, I couldn't help it. I walked over to your building. I opened the door, painted maroon many years ago. I trudged up the avocado green carpeted stairs, to your apartment.

C-4.

It was a Friday, around 4:30pm. I listened at the door for a few minutes, but all I heard was the noise of your fan. I struggled with myself more than anyone will ever know. Should I knock? If I do, I'm falling back into that old pattern. No. I need to walk away.

But that's easier said than done. I raised my hand, made a fist and got ready to knock. I hesitated, knowing in my gut that this scene would play out, again and again, as long as your liver held out. I thought about our kids, their hopes and prayers for a Sober Daddy repeatedly shattered by your addiction. But didn't I owe them another chance at a Sober Daddy?

Whir-whir-whir-whir replied the fan. I could tell you had it on oscillate.

I made my decision.

And I walked away.

That night, Julia texted you. You texted back:

"I love you sweetie. See you soon!"

That was the last any of us ever heard from you. She texted and called you repeatedly the entire weekend, but you didn't respond. This was not like you, and I started to get worried.

Sunday night, April 17, 2011. I told the kids I was going to the store to get some bread, but I went to your apartment instead.

You were dead.

The next three hours were a nightmare, a blur, something I would never wish on my worst enemy. The police showed up, then the coroner. Neighbors peeked their heads out, and then closed their doors again.

When they got ready to bring you out on the stretcher, I asked to see you one last time. Because I'd been angry at you the previous week, and I didn't want that to be the last time I ever saw you. Your eyes were closed, your mouth was rigid and you had thrown up. I stroked your hair for the last time, remembering how soft it had always been. I ran my fingers over your eyebrows, and the bridge of your nose, just like I'd done before bed for the past 18 years. And then I kissed you on your forehead.

The police gave Panther food and water, since she'd been out for who knows how long. Then they asked if I would take her. I told them, yes, she was the family cat. My kids will want her.

I drove home, crying, with Panther confused and wailing on my lap. I wondered where I would find the words to tell our children you were dead. Gone forever. Ben called when I was at the intersection of Main and University and told me he wasn't sure, but he'd heard you might be...He's dead, I told him. It's true. I just left his apartment. I have his cat. I heard Ben's sob catch in his throat as he said Oh God, no! Because he'd been your best friend since 6th grade. He was the Best Man at our wedding. And the sound of his half-prayer/half-pleading hit me in the gut all over again and I lost it. Right in front of Avanti's. Because I knew it was just a taste of things to come.

Telling the kids was horrible. Julia screamed and threw her shoes, and then ran out on the boulevard and threw herself down on the ground. Zach's sweet little face crumpled when he realized what I was saying.

And for just a second, I hated you. For doing this to our children, and to me. You and I both know how you died, and for that, I don't know that I can ever forgive you. And over the next year, I alternated between feeling sympathy for you, and hating you for what you'd selfishly done to our children.

The kids and I slept in the living room that entire next week, because we couldn't stand to be apart. Neighbors brought us food, which immediately went into the freezer, because none of us had any appetite. We took turns crying, sleeping, laughing hysterically and giving Panther lots of love.

The next few months were the worst any of us had ever experienced. Your children had their first Father's Day without you. Their first Thanksgiving without you. Christmas. Hanukkah. New Year's. The Super Bowl. We celebrated what would have been your 44th birthday. Without you.

But for me, my birthday was the worst. Because, you see, I turned 44. And you would forever be 43.

Each day gets a little bit better. We all have our days, especially Zach. Because he'd just gotten to have you to himself, when you took yourself away from him.

But he's a tough kiddo, and Julia is beyond tough. We're doing ok, and I refuse to allow your choices to rule our lives.

So this post is my acknowledgment of your pain, my recognition of your struggle, and my goodbye.

We will always love you, each in our own way, but I need to move on and find my own happiness.

Goodbye and God Bless.

This conversation just took place in my house. Seriously.

2012-04-14T19:20:00.000-05:00

My 9 year old son was sitting on the toilet, when this conversation took place:

Z: "Mom? Did you know if you're a person who's blind, you can still eat?"

Me: "Really?"

Z: "Yes! If you're a person who is blind, you can still find your mouth, even if you can't see it. You can find your mouth so you can eat!"

Me: "Wow, that's awesome. Good to know."

Z: "I mean, like, you won't ever go hungry. You can find your mouth if you're blind, even if you try to miss it!"

Me: "click click, clickety-click....."

Z: "Stop it!!!! Don't you DARE put this on facebook!"

Me: "click.....clickety-click....ok...."

You're welcome.

About the time I killed the Easter Bunny*

2012-04-08T19:28:00.000-05:00

In honor of Easter, I'm reposting one of my most popular posts. Plus? I'm lazy.

_____________________________________________________
When I was little, my parents would ship me off to my grandparent's farm in Astoria for the week leading up to Easter, every year, without fail. It was cool because Mom would put me on the Greyhound bus and wave goodbye. I always used to fantasize that I'd end up in New York and possibly become a famous model or actress, known for my shiny hair and awesome dance moves. But no, I always ended up in Astoria, population 1,193.

I should let you know, many traumatic events occurred over the years during my Easter weeks on the farm. Like...LOTS. I got my first period, killed the Easter Bunny, and inadvertently cause the death of several baby chicks, to name a few.

I killed the Easter Bunny when I was 8 years old, which is a very impressionable age, my psychiatrist tells me. A time when great psychological good, or GREAT PSYCHOLOGICAL HARM can take place. It was a balmy April evening, as I recall. Two days before Easter, so I guess it would have been Good Friday.

My grandparents and I were finishing up our weenie roast, and I had just eaten the last of the toasted marshmallows (sugar was my crack). Euphoric from my sugar high, and momentarily distracted by a bird flying overhead, I wandered off and came upon a nest of two baby rabbits.

THEY WERE SOOOOO CUTE!!!! THEY WERE ALL BROWN AND FURRY AND, LIKE, SO SOFT AND THEIR EYES WEREN'T OPEN YET AND O.M.G!!!! I TOTALLY WANTED TO PICK ONE UP AND HUG IT AND SQUEEZE IT AND JUST LOVE IT FOREVER!!!!!

I quickly ran back and told my grandparents what I had discovered, and asked if I could have one of the bunnies. At that point my Grandma Josephine told me in her Very Serious Voice that I was not to touch the bunnies, EVER!!! Because if I did, their mother would know what I had done, and she would let them die. And then they would be dead. FOREVER. Because of me.

*GASP!* For realsies??

Me: "Can I just pet one?"

Grandma: "No!"

Me: "Please???"

Grandma: "NO!"

Me: "PUHLEEEAAAZZZZEEEE????"

Grandma: "I said no and I meant NO!! Now get up into the house right now, and I better not catch you messing with those rabbits!"

As I trudged reluctantly up to the farmhouse, Grandma called after me, "And remember! The Easter Bunny's WATCHING YOU!"

I seriously doubted that.

Later that night, while Grandpa and Grandma were watching Hee-Haw, I snuck out to the bunnies nest. There they were, all snuggled up, so cute and cuddly! One of them opened his eye and winked at me, as if to say "It's ok, you can pick us up. Your grandma doesn't know what she's talking about, and we're not talking. Promise!"

I looked around the woods. I saw no mama bunny, but she could be hiding behind a tree, waiting to attack me.

Shut up. I had a very vivid imagination.

There was nothing to do but just pick one up. I grabbed the baby bunny closest to me and picked him up ever so gently. He was so cute and soft. I named him Henry. Henry and I cuddled for close to an hour, until Grandma called me back to the house. I put Henry back in his nest, swore him to secrecy and promised to come back the next day.

The next day was Saturday, and I could hardly wait to finish breakfast and go visit Henry. I ultimately planned on sneaking him back to Peoria in my suitcase, but he and I would discuss that later. I had to take his wishes into consideration, after all. And a trailer court might not be the best place to raise a rabbit. Some crazy drunken neighbor might kill him and eat him for dinner one night. I had much thinking to do.

I ran to the woods, and stopped short. My brain seemed to be short-circuiting. There was Henry's nest. But where was Henry's brother/sister? And where was his mother? And why was Henry laying there alone, ever so stiff and motionless? Almost as if he were...GASP!!!

I was dimly aware that Henry had passed on, but I had to make an attempt to save him. I had seen CPR performed on Emergency! and I had the basics down. But my love for Henry only went so far. I ended up waving the copy of Little Women I had brought along to read to him in his face, hoping that the air I circulated would somehow make its way to his lungs, thus reviving him. No good, Henry was a goner.

I then turned my mind to the next problem at hand.

My Grandma Josephine was going to beat my ass.

Of this I had no doubt. She had never spanked me in my whole life, but I'd never killed anything before either. I felt bad for Henry, but I felt worse for myself. Because of the ass-beating I was sure to get. It never occured to me to just walk away and play dumb, which would have been the best solution, looking back.

But instead I scooped up Henry and took him to the house. Grandma heard me wailing before I even got to the front yard, and she met me on the porch.

Grandma: "Well. What have we here, Child?"

Me (sobbing): It's one of th-th-the bunnies I saw last night!"

Grandma: "Uh-huh, I see that. And he's dead, isn't he?"

Me: "YES!!!!"

Grandma: "Did you go and pick that bunny up after I told you not to?"

Me: "BWAAAAAAA!!!!!"

But the worst was yet to come. My Grandma didn't spank me. She did worse. MUCH WORSE.

Grandma: "Well. You know what you've gone and done, don't you?"

Me (whimpering): "No."

Grandma: "Well, you've gone and killed the EASTER BUNNY!!!"

Me: "NOOOOO!!!!"

Grandma: "That's right. Now, tomorrow morning, every little boy and girl in the entire world will NOT get their Easter baskets, all because of you. Not even in France."

Me: *sobbing*

Grandma: "Now. You wait right here, and don't bring that thing in the house. I'll be right back."

Ignoring the fact that my grandma had just called Henry a "thing", I pondered my situation. I hadn't believed in the Easter bunny since last year, when I found my Easter basket while searching for the Girl Scout cookies in my mom's closet. I knew my mom had put this year's basket in my suitcase, I'd checked the second she'd left me alone with it. So did this mean I wouldn't get my basket? The one my very own Mother had sent with me? The one she wanted me to have? This was serious. But not as serious as what was to come. Because my grandma had a surprise in store for me.

Grandma came out of the house, carrying a big silver spoon and a brown shoe box.

Grandma: "Well, it's only fitting that since you killed the Easter Bunny, you should be the one to bury him. So you take this box, and this spoon, and you dig him a nice grave out back. And don't you come back until you're done."

At this, she turned her back on me and slammed the screen door after her. I was left alone. With Henry, a big spoon, and a shoe box. I sighed and made my way to the backyard.

And so I buried Henry underneath an old oak tree, told him I was very sorry I'd killed him and promised not to touch and/or kill any more animals. This promise was actually held until the very unfortunate "baby chick stampede of 1975".

Now, about my grandma. My grandma Josephine totally ROCKED. Now that I'm older and wiser, I realize she had a great respect for life in all it's forms (she just didn't want it in her dining room). She may have been a wee bit harsh, but it's a lesson I never forgot.

Don't F*ck With Mother Nature.

What? Your mom didn't draw pictures of sex parts for you when she gave you The Talk on a cold and rainy November afternoon in 1978? Weird.

2012-03-24T15:17:00.008-05:00

Women, think back to when your mom had The Talk with you. Hopefully your mom, or someone, had The Talk with you. If not, email me, I can maybe help. If you don't know what The Talk is, go to bed, it's way past your bedtime.

I'm going to tell you about the time my mom had The Talk ~~at me~~ with me. There are three things you need to know about this encounter:

1. It was waaay too late. I grew up in a trailer court. And went to summer camp.
2. She drew pictures. Vivid, vivid pictures.
3. Don't ever draw pictures when/if you have The Talk with your own daughter/neice/granddaughter, etc. Unless you want your daughter to someday write about it on her blog. Then, by all means, draw away.

It was a cold and rainy sunday afternoon in November. I was sketching Holly Hobby on my brand new sketch/watercolor pad, and the year was 1978. Nearly every girl in 1978 was obsessed with: Holly Hobby, Laura Ingalls, Gunne Sax, or a combination of the three. In fact, I'm hanging out in my pink and white Gunne Sax prairie dress right now.

Jealous much?

Anyway, there I was, 11 years old and happily drawing Holly Hobby. I didn't ask for what came next, I didn't expect it, and years of expensive therapy have yet to erase it from my fragile psyche.

Mom: "Yvonne! Come out to the kitchen, will you? Oh, and bring your drawing pad with you."

That's right. I supplied the materials for my own traumatization.

Me: "Ok mom!"

We sat down at the kitchen table, and my mom immediately asked, "Honey, do you know how babies are made?"

Ok, this was a loaded question. If I answered yes then I would be in trouble for knowing stuff I shouldn't. However, if I answered no, then I was going to get The Talk. Lose-Lose. Crap. I rolled the mental dice and came up with...

Me: Um....do you?

See? Sometimes it's savvy to answer a question with a question.

In this case, however, it was not, because my mom apparently then felt the need to prove that yes, she did know how babies were made.

Mom grabbed my pad of drawing paper and took the pencil from my limp hand. She quickly began sketching and no amount of "Whatcha doing there mom?" convinced her to show me what she was drawing. Finally, she set my pencil down and triumphantly showed me this:

Ta-DA!!

That's right. My mom drew a wanker. With hair. Oh, but she wasn't finished. Before I could swallow the vomit rising in my throat, my ~~tormenter~~ mom snatched back the pad of paper and drew this masterpiece:

My mom apparently attended the Georgia O'Keefe school of drawing sex parts

My jaw dropped in shock. My mother had just, in my mind, shown me pornography. I rapidly sorted through the list of appropriate responses in my mind. I came up with: "Ohhh! It's a bomb pop!", "Is it a sea anemone?" and even, "That's a flower, right?"

I could tell she was ~~carefully watching me for signs of unease~~ completely oblivious to my traumatized expression.
She ~~gave me a few minutes to gather my thoughts~~ labeled the penis and vagina as "exhibit A" and "exhibit B". She explained how they fit together like pieces of a puzzle. She told me what came out of "exhibit A" (ewww). Then she drew a picture of this substance:

Bestest. Easter. Egg. Hunt. Ever.

She explained that there could be only one winner in the race to the egg, which probably accounted for the confused and/or pissed off looks of the losing sperm.

By this time, I was mentally covering my ears and rocking back and forth.

I don't really recall what she said after she drew the pictures of the sperm. Honest. I think my mind was in lockdown. GIGO. Garbage In, Garbage Out, in Cobol terms.

The next thing I remember was my mother, looking extremely proud of herself, tearing off the pieces of drawing paper with the porn drawn on them. She told me I could keep them. As if!!! The first time she went to the bathroom, I crumpled them up and threw them in the garbage.

The next day at the bus stop, I told Kristine what had gone down the night before. Her eyes lit up, and her only comment was:

"Did you bring the pictures?"

"Ugghh! NO! I DID NOT BRING THE PICTURES OF THE SEX PARTS THAT MY MOTHER DREW FOR ME LAST NIGHT!"

To be honest, my mother did a bang-up (no pun intended) job of teaching me the birds and the bees. She was just a few years too late. So, mom's out there? Yeah, talk to your daughters before they know too much to be embarassed, and before they go to summer camp. Personally, I had the talk with my daughter when she was 9, and it was so cool. She was old enough to understand, but too young to be embarassed.

Peace out.

Oh, you want to write a sponsored post on my blog? Ok, but Hitler has to fight a Unicorn, and the Unicorn has to win.

2012-03-22T20:37:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago I received the following email:
____________________________________________

From: swisswrist@ via yourhostingaccount.com

To: ATST

Date: Fri, Mar 9, 2012 at 4:52 AM

Subject: Blogpost and Banner Advertising for SwissWrist

mailed-by: yourhostingaccount.com

Hi,

I'd like to inquire about doing a sponsored blogpost on your site attractedtoshinythings.blogspot.com for our site swiss-wrist. We sell pre-owned Rolex watches and have been in business since 1980 and are looking for more exposure online. I'm not so sure this is a good fit. I mean, have you READ my blog? I write about the time I murdered the Easter Bunny. And my grandma's baby chickens. And the time I tried to return my daughter to the hospital after she was born. And death. I write a lot about death. What I'm saying is, my blog might actually cause people to NOT want to buy your watches.

It would probably be a short interesting blurb 250-350 words about Rolex watches. FYI, there is no such thing as "an interesting blurb about watches."

Here's a list of some blog post titles we've done in the past:

- Are Rolex Watches A Good Investment? OMG! I've been wondering the SAME THING!
- The Most Popular Rolex Watches For 2012 Fascinating, I'm sure.
- Famous Vintage Rolex Watches Worn By Celebrities Now THIS is the stuff my readers like! Amirite, readers?

Our budget is around $15 for the post and we can also write the post. Is this something you'd be open to? Seriously? Fifteen whole dollars?? Where do I sign up??

Also we might be interested in a small banner ad if the price is right. Our budget is $40/year - something like this: Let me get this straight. You sell ROLEXES, and your annual advertising budget is $40 a YEAR?

http://i39.tinypic.com/wh1qt_th.jpg

Let me know if you'd be open to either or both of these. Probably not, but I'm DEFINITELY going to f*ck with you.

Also if you have some other sites just send them over and we might be interested in doing a sponsored post on there as well! Hey, Selena! This guy wants to advertise on your blog!

Regards,

Jeff
Swiss Wrist
_______________________________________

Naturally, I felt the need to respond:

From -ATST

To - swisswrist@

Date - Fri, Mar 9, 2012 at 2:13 PM

Subject - Re: Blogpost and Banner Advertising for SwissWrist.com

Mailed - by gmail.com

Hi,
Thanks for your interest in advertising and/or writing a post about Rolex watches on my blog, your offer sounds very interesting, as my followers are always looking for the unusual in my blogposts. However, I have a couple of requests.

My blog is primarily a humor blog (except for the random rant about my asshole ex-sister in law, her asshat-leech of a husband and my incredibly sadistic and personality-disordered ex-mother in law. But haven't we ALL been there at some point? lol.)

Anyway, I try to keep humor at the forefront of my blog posts, and so I would request that you write a "humorous" post about your watches. I was thinking along the lines of a Unicorn (wearing a rolex on each ankle) fighting Adolph Hitler (of course, the Unicorn would have to win, that's not negotiable). And you could have somebody sleeping in a bed off to the side. What do you think? Your tagline might be something like, "Rolex watches - Defeating Evil....WHILE YOU SLEEP!"

That leads me to my second request. I am extremely right-brained, and I tend to think in pictures. There have been times when only a drawing or two can adequately describe exactly what the hell is going on in my head, and I think this is one of those times.

So, I would need you to draw a picture of the fight between Hitler and the Unicorn, so my readers would get the full effect of your ad. Plus, I've found that when you draw a picture, you don't have to write as much, which is always good.

Let me know what you think!

Yvonne
_____________________________________________________
Oddly enough, I haven't gotten a response yet. Oh, and for those of you new to the bloggish world (and I know there are still some of you out there), the underlined blue links take you to an entirely different BUT EQUALLY IF NOT MORE HILARIOUS blog post, which pops up in a new window, of course. So this blog is like you getting 8 blog posts in 1!

So you win. You totally. WIN.

And here's a linky if you feel like donating to my charity. As a special offer, anyone who donates (it doesn't matter the amount), will earn a STARRING ROLE in my next blog post, which will be a work of fiction. You'll need to trust that you will end up being made of win, because I'm not an asshole like that. Also? The more people who donate = MORE PEOPLE IN THE STORY!!! All you have to do is message me and let me know if you want me to use your real name or not. And if you have a blog? EVEN BETTAH! I will link your name to your blog and hopefully gain you a few more followers!!!

It's St. Jude, people.

https://waystohelp.stjude.org/sjVPortal/public/displayUserPage.do?eventId=309871&programId=901&userId=798664

The Evolution of Ginny Brandt - Chapter Three

2012-03-18T19:59:00.000-05:00

Home

“We’re home!” I shout, as I slam the door behind us. Gus and I quickly throw the incriminating evidence of our D.Q. run into the kitchen garbage and I cover it with junk mail.

Our suburban house sports African tribal masks hanging on the living room walls; an Aboriginal hollowed log coffin rests in the corner by the fireplace and an 18^th century Kula prayer rug is suspended from the wall in my mom’s study. A silver Menorah and an antique Siddur, a Hebrew prayer book, reside in our dining room china cabinet; alongside the Kinara we placed our Kwanzaa candles in during last year’s observation of that holiday.

Someone coming into our house for the first time might think that we are world travelers, or seriously confused as to our belief system; but no, my mom has gotten all these items, and more, from various flea markets and EBay over the years. We are not African or Muslim; nor are we Jewish, Australian Aborigines or African Americans.

My mom graduated with an undergraduate degree in anthropology 14 years ago, and had every intention of going on for her Ph.D, when she met my father at the annual Earth Day celebration at Eastern Illinois University, where they were both seniors. My dad was going for his undergraduate degree in Political Science, and planned on going for his Ph.D in Medieval Studies following graduation; he had already been accepted at The University of Notre Dame in Indiana.

Instead, my mom got pregnant with me, they got married and my mom gave up her dream of becoming a world renowned anthropologist to move to Indiana with my father, who continued his studies and graduated five years later. He got a job teaching at the local university and she stayed home to take care of us.

Mom still talks about going back to school, when Gus gets a little older. In the meantime she makes up for her lack of a doctorate by forcing her family to take part in various rituals that she either reads about or comes across on the internet.

For instance, just before my eighth birthday I asked for a Malibu Beach Barbie, along with her pink Corvette. I bugged my parents incessantly about it, and I very carefully described for my mother the particular Barbie I wanted, making sure I pointed out the pink Corvette every time we were at the local department store. The night before my birthday, I wriggled in my bed in anticipation; I couldn’t wait to put Barbie in her pink car and drive her down to the beach for her swim date with Ken. I fell asleep that night with visions of Barbie dancing in my head.

Sure enough, the next morning when I woke up, at my place setting was a large wrapped box, topped with a red bow, just the right size for a Barbie doll. My mother stood by the table, beaming at me as I squealed in delight and began ripping the paper off; I recall wondering somewhere in the back of my mind where the package for the Corvette was. I finished tearing off the paper and stared blankly at what was inside.

Instead of the generically beautiful, blond and outrageously proportioned Malibu Barbie I had requested, I found myself staring at a blue masked Native American carved cottonwood doll about 8 inches high with an enormous eagle’s beak where Barbie’s pert little nose should have been. It was wearing a beaded red suede skirt and knee high brown suede boots, and its entire torso was covered in bird feathers. Instead of arms, it had wings; so I guessed it wouldn’t need the Corvette. I stared at the monstrosity without speaking.

My mother had gone online earlier in the week with the sole purpose of purchasing Barbie and the matching Corvette for her beloved almost-but-not-quite eight year old daughter; however, she became distracted by a report on MSNBC that stated instances of American girls suffering from body dysmorphia were on the rise. She concluded that Barbie had impossible measurements and could possibly lead me to future depression, eating disorders and a likely addiction to plastic surgery; so, she did further research and decided on the handmade Hopi Kachina doll instead.

Mom assured me that this doll would be better for my sense of self-esteem, and she showed me a pamphlet included with the doll that gave the history of the Hopi tribe, who descended from the Anasazi, a people who had lived and populated the American Southwest one thousand years ago. I am sure she sincerely hoped I would understand her concerns and gratefully accept the Kachina doll, along with her best intentions.

Instead, I pouted. I threw myself on the floor. I cried. I screamed. I kicked. I tried to shove the horrible thing into the garbage disposal. Finally, my parents rescued the obnoxiously expensive doll from my furious clutches, and it has resided in the china cabinet from that day on. Later that day my father drove me to the mall and bought me both the Barbie and her Corvette. As my dad and I walked through the front door with my belated birthday gifts, laughing and holding hands, my mother appeared from the laundry room and shot my dad a look that implied some sort of treachery on his part. My dad had the good grace to look embarrassed, and refused to make eye contact with her. As for me, I fell asleep with Barbie that night, secure in the knowledge that my father understood me and loved me.

I think my mom still holds some resentment toward my father for the direction her life has taken, because every once in a while she finds a way to make his life a little hellish, all in the name of world trade. For instance, my father loves his coffee, so my mother got into the habit of ordering all types of brew from around the world. One morning, after they’d had a particularly nasty go-round about my father’s late hours the night before; my mother served my dad a new coffee. It was called Kopi Luwak.

“Mmmm. Great coffee, hon. Where is this one from?” my dad asked absently, as he perused the morning papers.

“It’s a new one from Indonesia. I got it online from a specialty website,” my mom replied frostily, as she cooked our eggs.

“Hmm. Well, it tastes fantastic. Did you buy a pound?”

“Yes, I got it especially for you. I’ll just drink the Folgers.” She kept her back turned to him.

“Well...thanks. I’ll see you after classes, and don’t forget...the Carsons are coming for dinner tonight.” He pecked my mother on the cheek and sailed out the front door, off to the University where he had recently obtained tenure.

My mother stiffened as he kissed her; after he left she let out a ragged breath, before turning a smiling face to us, “Over easy or sunny side up?”

That evening, my father burst through the front door, dropping his briefcase at the door as he made a beeline toward the kitchen.

“Sonya! Dammit, where are you!” he roared.

My mother calmly walked through the doorway of her study, her face a study in purposeful obtuseness.

“Yes?” she questioned evenly.

“I mentioned that coffee to a colleague of mine, by the name of Basuki Pasaribu, this morning. In all your internet research, did you happen to come across the fact that Kopi Luwak is Indonesian for WEASEL SHIT COFFEE?”

I swear I saw her stifle a small smile before she lifted her face to his.

“Really, Jeffrey? How interesting. I don’t believe the website mentioned that; what exactly is weasel shit coffee?” my mother asked, forcing her expression into the mold of a concerned wife.

“Well, as it turns out, the Vietnamese civet eats ripe coffee cherries, and then shits them out along their merry way. Coffee growers follow along, pick up the cherries, wash them off, roast them and then sell them to Americans who have more money than brains,” he fumed.

“My goodness! Well, I’ll certainly be contacting that website about this. Do you think I can get a refund?” my mother asked artlessly.

“Do you mean you really didn’t know about this?” my father asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowing.

Widening her blue eyes innocently, my mom protested, “Honey! Do you seriously think I would feed you coffee that a weasel had pooped out of its butt? Can you imagine how angry I would have to be at you to do that?” Then, giving a tinkling little laugh, she turned her back on my father and swept past him to take the roast out of the oven.

My father stood silently in the middle of the kitchen, his arms crossed across his chest, staring at her back for what seemed like an eternity. When Mom didn’t offer up any further explanations, he stalked up to their bedroom to get himself ready for the Carsons’ arrival. To this day he buys his own coffee.

Fast forward to the present.

“How was school?” my mom asks absently, as she rounds the corner from the living room to the kitchen, never looking up from her book as she nears us. Gus and I nervously glance at the title of the book she appears so engrossed in; Encyclopedia of Religious Rites, Rituals, and Festivals by Frank Salamone. My stomach does a flip as I recall the past ceremonies in which she’s forced us to take part.

Case in point. I developed slower than some of my friends, so I didn’t get my first period until last summer, when I was nearly 13. I had run upstairs to change before going to swim with a friend, and thought I’d better go to the bathroom before we left. I clearly recall sitting on the upstairs toilet, staring blankly at the smear of blood on my underpants, not realizing for a minute what it meant. I remember my heart skipping a beat and feeling excited, nervous and slightly ashamed, all at the same time. “This changes everything,” I remember thinking.

I gave a yell for my mom, and she came running into the bathroom, her face lighting up with joy when I showed her my underwear. She gave me a big hug, telling me how I was a woman now, and wouldn’t it be nice when we both had our periods at the same time, we’d share the same link with the moon, blah, blah, blah. That was bad enough, but then she realized I had planned on going swimming, and I obviously couldn’t do that in a pad.

That was when my mom got the brilliant idea to show me how to insert a tampon. That’s right, my mom didn’t just hand me a tampon along with the illustrated directions, leaving me to bumble my own way through it, like most moms would be content to do. Thirty minutes later, I left the house with a mental picture of my mother I have not been able to shake, to this day.

That should have been the beginning, and the end, of it. I mean, I suffered enough, right? But no, my mom decided to hold a Menarche Ritual for me, inviting all the women we know, including Nana Jane, my Aunt Marcia and several of the ladies from her book club, including Jason Lee’s mother. She got the idea from one of her anthropological books, which have been the bane of my existence since I can remember.

A Menarche Ritual is when women get together to celebrate a girl’s first period, like a party. From what I can gather, it’s something some mothers do for their daughters because their own initial experience with menstruation was so unsatisfying that they decide they want a do-over, at their daughter’s expense.

It never occurred to me to refuse when my mother explained her notion to me. Invitations were sent out, requesting that all attendees be dressed in red. On a Friday evening in late June, our home was filled with uncomfortable looking middle aged Southern women bearing gifts for me, as my skin crawled with humiliation at the attention being drawn to me and my new status.

My brother and father were sent out for the evening, since men were apparently forbidden to attend this sort of gathering. They got to enjoy an evening of putt-putt golf and Mexican food while I was forced to sit in front of a makeshift alter adorned with a fringed red tablecloth runner and covered with an assortment of red items; red candles, pomegranates, poppies, lengths of red wool yarn, and a copy of The Red Tent by Anita Diamant. The bitterly pungent odor of Ethiopian myrrh incense resin wafted from a charcoal disc incense burner several feet to my right, causing several of the ladies to wrinkle up their noses and cough delicately.

My mom began the ceremony by seating me cross-legged in a circle of her lady friends, on the floor; her friends arranged themselves uncomfortably around me, refusing to make eye contact with each other. My cheeks burned in embarrassment as my mom lit a braided sweetgrass smudge stick and first smudged me, and then smudged the other guests. She explained the ritual of smudging to my guests as purification and protective ritual that was akin to “spiritual housekeeping.” Gauging from the looks on their faces, ranging from appalled to blankly stupefied, I didn’t believe any of the genteel Southern belles in that room had ever been subjected to anything like this ceremony in their sheltered lives. To my intense horror, my mother then asked the guests to share stories of their own first “Moon Time”.

Old Mrs. McConaughey, who had been going deaf for years, leaned forward in her chair (given her advanced age of 83, she had been allowed to sit in the easy chair) and loudly asked, “What? What is it she wants us to talk about?”

Her middle-aged granddaughter, Mrs. Grover Crawford, shouted, “Grandmother! Sonya wants us to tell a story about our first menstrual period!”

I should mention that, it being early summer, our windows were wide open to allow the evening breeze to cool the house. This is how my brother’s friends, Chase and Channing Roberts, were also able to take part in my Moon Festival, and relay the humiliating details about it to the entire school the following day.

Mrs. McConaughey nodded sagely, “Oh! Well, when I started to bleed my mother handed me an old washrag and told me to put it in my underpants. That’s what we used back then, an old rag. You young girls don’t know how lucky you are, what with your tampons and your self-adhesive maxi pads and such. Why, do you know I had to use that same rag for two days?” Sitting back, Mrs. McConaughey appeared satisfied that she had done her part to ensure that my Menarche Ritual was unforgettable; she then immediately closed her eyes and began to snore.

Mrs. Cohan raised her hand timidly and spoke up, “well, when I got my first period, my mother slapped me across the face.”

Dead silence. Mrs. Cohan blushed and rushed to explain, “It’s an old Jewish custom, nothing personal. My mother told me it was so that I would always remember the pain that goes along with being a woman.”

I recalled thinking that I could relate to Mrs. Cohan, becoming a woman was painful - regardless of the customs our mothers forced on us.

My mother’s sing-song voice pulls me out of the hellish memory of my 12^th summer.

“...Ginny? Hellooo? I asked you how school was,” my mother questions, waving a hand in my face to bring me back to the present.

“Oh, um, it was ok; I got an A on my English paper and....” That was as far as I got.

Gus interrupts, “Mom! Today, Andy Berg went retarded! No, wait, he was tardy, and me and Ginny went to the D.Q., and there was a poop on the floor, and we went by Mr. Vanputten’s house and he flipped us the bird!” he finishes breathlessly.

My mother and I both stare at Gus, our mouths open in shock. He smiles back at us innocently, completely unaware of how many social mores he had just violated.

Mom looks at me and narrows her eyes. “You took him to the D.Q.?”

About penises, OCD, The Boy and donating to my charity. Only completely random.

2012-03-16T22:01:00.002-05:00

I haven't blogged for a couple of days, because I'm trying to raise MASSIVE amounts of money for the kids of St. Jude. Seriously, these kids go through chemotherapy, radiation, needles, basically living in a hospital and losing their hair. They often miss out on Christmas, their birthdays, Thanksgiving and Halloween. Because they're busy trying to STAY ALIVE.

Think about it.

So I decided to take whatever unfinished posts I found in my queue and somehow put them together so you would: 1. Be amused, and 2. DONATE.

The first post I found was called:

Seriously. You need to show your penis who's in charge.

Let's get something straight right away.

Boys are gross.

They were gross when I was in third grade and Artie-Fartie and Scott Armstrong squirted ketchup in their milk and drank it at lunchtime, and 30+ years later, they're still gross.

Before I go any further, today my therapist told me that she thought I showed "some definite OCD traits." Just because I brush my teeth twice in a row first thing in the morning, once after I have my coffee, once before lunch, once after lunch, once before dinner and once after dinner.

Five months ago I had to go to the dentist for an abcess, and when he asked how long it had been since I last saw a dentist, I said, "Um, 9 years?", but it was really 15. Because I'm terrified of the dentist. They have sharp objects and I have soft tissue, so it's not a good combination. Well, can I just tell you I didn't have ONE cavity? I still made them give me gas before they cleaned my teeth. Because I fear the dentist. And? That shit is FUN! Totally worth $20.

Also, we discussed my handwashing. According to her, I don't need to wash my hands 15 times a day. Apparently, I also don't need to wash my pens and keys at the same time I wash my hands. I disagreed and pointed out how ridiculous it was to grab germy keys or pens with freshly washed hands. She scribbled some notes and mumbled under her breath....something about my needing to be "functional."

Whatever.

Also, I'm on a new antidepressant, because the one I'd been taking for the past 16 years wasn't doing SHIT for me. She said the new one is actually good for "obsessive thoughts." I've been thinking about that comment all night long and I still don't know what she was trying to imply. Tonight, I tried finding out her phone number so I could call her at home and ask her, but I couldn't find her on whitepages.com OR zabasearch.com.
_____________________________________________

(I have no idea why I gave this post that title. I see no references to penises whatsoever.)

The second post was titled:

15 disgusting foods from the 1970's that my mom made me eat on a regular basis.

My mother is going to be SO PISSED about this post, I can hear her now. Well, it's not like we were made of money back then, you know. Wait! You're going to PRINT THAT? You're going to let everyone know how our money situation was??? See, that's why I don't like this blog of yours, you make fun of me.

It's ok Mom, I make fun of me, too.
_______________________________________________________

(Again, absolutely no idea where I was going with this post. You're welcome.)

Finally, the last post is called:

Sh*t my kids say.

1. "Yes, it's a drawing of a girl named Sarah. Of COURSE, she has a penis, everybody has a penis, Mama". -the boy, circa 2009. After he was found to have drawn this picture in the principal's office, after getting in trouble for flashing his penis at his Kindergarten teacher and entire class.

What he drew

What I saw

2.

Here's the link to my charity. Please donate. But only if you want to. No pressure. Seriously.

https://waystohelp.stjude.org/sjVPortal/public/displayUserPage.do?eventId=309871&programId=901&userId=798664#.T2KSwycoue4.facebook

Actually, yes. I'm pressuring you. $1. $5. $25. $107.50. Whatever. It's all needed. And I have no idea why all of this is in bold. Probably because blogger is an asshole.

<3. Much love.

Did I impulsively, obsessively, drunkenly charity bomb your facebook page two nights ago? I'm sorry, my bad.

2012-03-13T13:13:00.006-05:00

Ok, I wasn't really drunk, I just said that to get you to read this.

But, since you're already here, let me ask you something. Have you heard the term "charity bomb"? I haven't, I'm pretty sure I just made it up. Let me google it. Ok, it looks like it's been used as a noun, as in "Ron Paul is holding a charity bomb tonight", but apparently I'm the first person to use it as a verb. So when it becomes a famous word this year, you heard it here first.

You're welcome.

Anyway, some of my followers may know that I have ~~somewhat of~~ an obsessive personality. I get easily fixated on a task, thought or plan, and before you know it, I turn into a huge, annoying asshole that nobody wants to sit with at lunch, because all I'll want to talk about is how medieval history is the most amazing thing ever, and did you know Eleanor of Aquitaine was the most badass, politically-savvy, intelligent and ballsy woman ever? Plus? The names were pure awesome. Names like "William the Bastard", "Aethelred the Unready" and "Charles the Simple."

I'm also highly competitive, so in addition to annoying the shit out of you, I'll do a better job at it than anyone else you've ever met. Add that to my impulsivity, which has led to nearly catching myself on fire several times, almost purchasing a time-share in Puerto Rico, and coming very close to being arrested, and there you have it. My therapist calls these "character defects."

Anyway, my kids study Kuk Sool Won, which is a Korean martial art, and the things that some of these people can do are seriously incredible. As in, jaw-dropping. So a bunch of the schools around here, including the one my kids attend, are having an event to raise funds for the children of St. Jude, and I wanted to do my part. Especially after watching this amazing video of last year's event over 40 60 times. No, I'm not even joking. Hello? Obsessive, remember?

See? Totally obsession-worthy. The man doing the insanely high/long jumps over the students is my kids' Sa Bu Nim (instructor). He's also the one breaking 11 bricks at the end of the video. So, of course, I did what a bunch of the Kuk Sool families are doing, I set up a donation page for St. Jude and mentioned it on my facebook page. Then I had a glass of wine. Then I had one more. Then this happened:

Obsessive self: "Is that all you're going to do? That's it? LAME."

Me: "What's that supposed to mean? I set up a freaking PAGE! That's awesome, right?"

OS: "...I guess so. I mean.....nevermind. Forget I said anything. Setting up a donation page is just FINE. As long as you're ok with raising maybe $50, tops....."

Me: "Well, what would you suggest?"

OS: "OMG I'M SO GLAD YOU ASKED!!! Ok, first invite everyone of your facebook friends to the the event. Yes, I know The Jules lives in England, whatever! Maybe he'll feel so bad about not coming that he'll donate."

Me: "I don't think you know Jules very well....."

OS: "WHATEVER!!! Look! This is urgent!!! You need to raise money tonight!! By any means neccessary."

Me: *Tilts head quizzically* "Urgent, you say? *takes last ~~gulp~~ sip of wine* OK! LET'S DO THIS THING!!!"

OS: "WOOHOOO!!! YEAH!!! KICKASS!!!"

Which led to this:

My first set of victims.

And this:

Most of these people were asleep. They never knew what hit them.

*sigh* And this:

If I were a serial killer, I'd be VERY prolific. Probably the MOST proli...nevermind.

That's right. I charity-bombed (remember, you heard it here first!) approximately 40 of my facebook friends in the space of 2 minutes. On their own facebook pages. There was no rhyme or reason to who I asked. I simply pressed the "a" key and sent my request to the first 6 people who's names appeared. Then I went through the entire alphabet.

7 times.

So, to all of my friends who's boundaries ~~I'm sure~~ I overstepped, I'm sorry. I honestly didn't mean to put anyone on the spot, and for that, I also apologize, I got caught up in the moment. But on the positive side, I've raised ~~$180~~ ~~$451~~ $693 so far for the kids of St. Jude, which wouldn't have happened if it weren't for my amazing family/friends/followers/peeps/tweeps and facebook friends. So? Woohoo!!

Knitting is my porn. And? I got a(NOTHER) award! Twice!

2012-03-12T04:32:00.000-05:00

I got an award from the AMAZINGLY funny MommyRotten AND from Selena at Because Motherhood Sucks. Sure, they each gave me the same award, but that just means I rock twice as hard.

Right?

Of course it does.

You want to know what my award is called, don't you?

Well, here it is:

That's right. I'm very flexible, too.

I'm supposed to share 10 things about myself, link back to the friends who gave me this award, and pass it on to 10 more bloggers.

That's a lot of things to do, but I think I'm up to the challenge. Here goes.
______________________________________________________

Merriam-Webster claims that porn has something to do with sex, but I disagree. My definition of porn is, "Something that elicits an excited reaction. Also, something that might get me pointed out, or hurt my back."

Wait, so maybe knitting isn't like porn, but it really made sense at 4:30 this morning. Still, there are many things I find myself inexplicably drawn to, more than a dacryphiliac loves "Terms of Endearment." Here are my 10 things, in no order whatsoever:

1. Knitting - I have only learned the knit stitch, and I really suck at it. But that didn't stop me from buying 8 sizes of knitting needles, 5 bundles of yarn, 4 sizes of crochet hooks, 3 books of knitting patterns and terms (with pictures), a knitting bag to carry my ~~stash~~ supplies in, and an instructional DVD, which I have yet to watch. I may possibly be in love with the idea of knitting, more than the actuality.

Pornography tenet #1 - You're never as good at it as you imagine you will be.

2. Cookbooks - Ok, I know where this one comes from. I had an eating disorder many years ago, that arose from what seemed to be one reason, but the actual reason was that my life was out of control and not eating was my way of regaining control. Or so my starving brain rationalized. So instead of eating, I exercised maniacally, made sure to ingest 500 calories or less per day, and on the weekends I made 98% or less fat-free breakfast "feasts" (which consisted of egg white omlets sprinkled with fat-free cheese and stuffed with vegetables, turkey bacon and fat-free muffins.) Afterwards, I would go on a 4 mile walk and my husband-at-the-time would sneak off to McDonald's for the #3 breakfast.

So instead of eating, I becaome obsessed with cookbooks that had lots of glossy, color pictures. Every evening, I would chose a cookbook and sneak off with it to my reading nook. There I would slowly peruse the recipes until one caught my attention. I then read off the list of ingredients that I had forbidden myself, such as cream, butter, proscuitto, chicken and puff pastry. Then I would put it away and eat a baked potato sprinkled in Molly McButter, along with ice water. Then I would work out for an hour, because I was pretty sure it was possible to gain weight by saying the word, "butter" out loud.

#2 - There really is no acceptable substitute for butter.

3. Anything shiny - Have you noticed the name of my blog? It's not a joke, people. If it's shiny, sparkly or lights up, I'm all over that shit faster than my daughter can find and consume EVERY F*CKING BOX OF THIN MINTS IN THE FREAKING HOUSE. And just so we're clear, shiny doesn't just mean....shiny. It means eye-catching, interesting, humerous, sexy, different, bizarre or amazing.

#3 - It's fun to look at, but seriously, what would I do with all of it?

4. Brushing my teeth - This is probably another leftover from my eating disordered days. I absolutely hate the taste of food in my mouth. I also hate the taste of nothingness, grossness, and anything unidentified in my mouth. So my ritual is as follows: I brush twice in a row in the morning, once after my morning coffee, once before lunch (if I remember to eat lunch), once after lunch, once after I get home from work, once before dinner, once after dinner and once before bed.

My therapist has determined that I "may be OCD." Pfft. Whatever. I haven't had a cavity in 15 years.

#4 - Do I have to keep listing tenets? I mean, this IS my post.

5. I dig emotionally unavailable men. There. I said it. If you're married, gay, or anything in between, I'M YOUR GIRL! Not that I've ever gone after a married man, because I wouldn't. But there's something attractive about an emotionally unavailable man. For an entire year, I had a huge crush on a super hot middle-aged male model I saw in a hearing-aid ad, because who's more emotionally unavailable than a picture? Nobody, that's who. I hung "Derek's" picture over my work at desk and we were very happy together, until my kids started asking me nosy questions about him. I blame my parents. This is probably what kept my marriage together for so long. He was a self-centered ass-hat and I was convinced it was my duty to fix him.

But I'm totally better now. Seriously, just ask my therapist. I'd give you her phone number but she's unlisted, dammit!

#5 - If it's available to just anyone, I'm not interested.

6 - I have an extremely vivid imagination. Many's the time I've lain in bed, fantasizing that I'm the most awesome girl I know. The most popular, bad-ass, wisest, beautiful and wittiest woman around. Sometimes I imagine I'm a lot like Neo from The Matrix. I'm The One. Seriously, in my mind, I'M AMAZING. Then I do something like trip over an air pocket, or catch my shirt on fire while I'm wearing it and I remember, oh yeah. NOT IN REAL LIFE.

#6 - Most of the time, life inside my head is better than real life.

#7. -Um, let's see. Today my asshat kid decided it would be a good idea to paint the front of our house with nail polish, along with painting the top of our mailbox. So in addition to making her clean it up, I'm googling, "How do I get nailpolish off the side of my house without removing the paint as well. Because my kid is an asshole."

#8. About an hour after my daughter got in HUGE trouble for painting the side of my house with green nail polish, I heard my son let out a scream in the living room. When I came out, I found this:

SHIT!

He was riding his floor-scooter in circles (one of his fave things to do) and accidentally knocked over a gallon of paint. Why was the paint in the middle of the floor, you ask? Because he thought it looked better there than it did in the corner of the living room. He felt terrible, and quickly brought me a sopping wet handful of paper towels. Because water and latex paint? WERE MEANT TO BE TOGETHER!

#9. Earlier this morning, The Boy decided he was going to go bike riding with his best friend. But first he needed to get dressed. Of course he chose this ensemble:

I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS!!!

He insists on tucking his pants into his cowboy boots (which he's done for the past 5 years), and I think it really adds to the whole vibe. That's right. On my boulevard, we're known as that family.

#10. Holy crap, you mean I'm almost finished??!!! AWESOME!! I've been writing this post for 7 days, in between cleaning paint off of my floors/house and of course hacking my daughter's facebook account and posting videos of Justin Beiber, along with posts complaining about the terrible gas she had today, after eating the black bean quesadillas I made for lunch. So I guess that's #10. I'm a vindictive parent who knows no bounds.

Ok, now for the recipients of this ~~hellish excercise in~~ award.

Crap. I just realized that means I need to go to each blog, copy and paste and link. AND I'VE BEEN DRINKING, PEOPLE! I'm not responsible for what happens.

1. Polish Mama on the Prarie, because she was the first person to follow me on BlogHer.

2. Selena, of course, from Because Motherhood Sucks. Because she's honest enough to say what too many of us are afraid to. Haha, that's right, I gave you this award back. Because that's how bitches roll, yo.

3. The Sarcasm Goddess at For The Love of Writing. Another one of my main beeotches. She's funny, sarcastic and SHE F*CKING LOVES BACON!

4. Stephanie Smirnov at Like The Vodka because OMG HAVE YOU READ HER???!!! YOU NEED TO, SHE'S EFFIN' HILARIOUS!!!! Seriously, she married "The Russian", and every day at her house is like a Russian Funfest. I found her on The Bloggess and she's on my blogroll. Go read, you'll thank me.

5. Mommy Rotten (haha, yes, I regifted. Deal). She's amazingly witty, snarky, funny and ANGRY. OMG SHE'S SO F*CKING ANGRY!!! But it's a good kind of anger, because it produces hilarity. SO MUCH F*CKING HILARITY!!!!

6. Gia, because she never fails to make me lol. Seriously. She's that good. Go now. Read.

7. Anna at Annanonamous. She's completely random and constantly searching for amelioration. Which she first heard about in a Simpson's episode. GO. READ. NOW!

8. Becky at Just Making Convo. She writes for Adult Swim (or so she claims) and she's FREAKNG HILARIOUS!!!!

9. Sophia at Rantopolis. Do I really need to say it? AGAIN? Ok, she's funny. Witty. Hilarious. Snarky. That's pretty much the only type of person I follow.

10. Kalen at Kat O' Nine Tails. She's full of the snark. Randomness abounds.

Ok, now comes the tricky part. Do I pass the award to another 10 people? Or do I stop here? I know. I'm going to compromise by passing it on to another 5 people. I'm so awesome.

11. Jennifer at Just Jennifer. Amazing woman, awesome tweep. And? I love a girl who loves the Lord AND has no problem saying, "fuck." Because dichotomy really tweaks my buttons.

12. Jillsmo, at Yeah, Good Times. Because she's good people.

13. Elise, at Things That Are Not Bagels. Because she's FUNNY! And she loves the Lord. AND she swears. Again, the dichotomy draws me in.

14. Seriously? Two more? Ok, Shirley Xavier at Ye Old Ho, because she used to be a ho, and came out the other side. What's more mind-boggling than an ex-prostitute who was way into drugs, prostitution and VERY BAD MEN, and ends up blogging about it all. Not much, that's what.

15. Lastly, Jessica at loveheylola, because she's from my hometown, she's incredibly BRILLIANT and TALENTED, and she owns a bar. Which means I may score some free drinks out of this. Or not.

Oh, before I ~~get too drunk~~ forget, PLEASE click on the linky and donate for the kiddos of St. Jude's. Seriously, even a couple of bucks adds up to...well, a lot of bucks if you all follow the plan. Come on, I NEVER ask for money. Well, except for that one time, but I was willing to trade goods and services for my $5.50.

https://waystohelp.stjude.org/sjVPortal/public/displayUserPage.do?programId=901&userId=798664&eventId=309871

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.