Dispatches From The Burbs.

Gut Check.

2012-01-11T10:27:00.001-06:00

I recently went on an interview and almost walked out in the middle of it. As my would-be boss droned on about how amazing she is, my gut said in no uncertain terms, "Must. Leave. Now."

But instead I heard my mouth say, "This is a great opportunity and I know I will do well here."

What happened? Why did my mouth just say that? Aren't we a team? Why is my head defying my gut? Where did my heart go?

I got the job. Of course I did. My mouth wouldn't listen to my gut and said things like, "I believe in this mission. I want to help you be the best you can be." My mouth never shut up with the incessant compliments...I'm surprised I didn't offer to pick up dry cleaning. To be fair, this woman may have had some reservations about me, wondering if I was borderline stalker.

I was speaking in what seems to have been the language of, "Kissing Major Ass." I don't recall taking advanced courses in this language, but somewhere along the road I learned the correct intonations, when to laugh even though my gut is fearing for its life, and how to sprinkle in 'ego boosters' so my superior feels...well, superior.

What is with this defiant stance on doing the opposite of what the gut tells me to do? It only leads to pain and misery. Like the time I went snowboarding on what I can only describe as an "icy hill" and broke my tailbone.

I think we all come installed with our own little orange detour cones, but for some reason, we seem to question if it's legit. I have friends that ask, "But what do YOU think? Should I go to Mexico or Europe?" And I do the same. "What does YOUR gut say about me becoming vegetarian?"

Perhaps we're not really asking for an answer necessarily, but rather, we need a gut checker. A friend to help us navigate the way into our guts so we can check it out. I wish I could have had a gut checker in that interview.

We could have called for a recess, leaned in close as we drank coffee and I'd spill out in a caffeinated panic, "I'm totally repulsed and want to leave, but is that rude? What do YOU think I should do?"

My answer was there already waiting - I just needed a gut checker. A friend with a cup of coffee to say, "Sure it's rude, but this person is a fucking lunatic. Let's go shopping."

But I will say, even when we defy our intuition and we make huge mistakes that usually end up with a broken tailbone, broken heart, or busted up ego, we have the guts to move forward and try again until it feels right to us. And the next one is usually better because we learn what isn't right for us.

That's the power of human nature. We've got guts, that's for sure. All we have to do is check it once in a while. If we're lucky, we have a friend to help us navigate the way.

Halfway There.

2011-04-26T19:58:00.003-05:00

I am more than likely halfway through my life. Today I am 41 years old; If I live to be 82, I'd say that's a pretty good ride.

But it got me thinking, "What have I accomplished in the first 41 years?" Before I started shredding my dignity, I really thought about it.

I have learned how to walk, talk, eat with a fork, use a toilet, blow bubbles with Hubba Bubba, double-dutch jumprope, make friends (and keep them), kiss, performed in theatre, recently wrote a play, wrote a book, healed broken bones, graduated from high school, graduated from college, learned how to walk in heels, got married, had two children, learned how snowboard, learned how to ripstick, learned how to say goodbye to unhealthy friendships, and learned how to say goodbye to my father dying from cancer. Still learning how to grieve, but getting there.

I've done shitloads.

Frankly, if I don't accomplish another thing in my life, I can count this one as successful.

2011-04-06T12:20:00.007-05:00

I lost my dad.

It's not the same as losing car keys. I actually lost a person. He was right here a moment ago, and now he's not. I have no idea where he went, so I don't know how to find him.

And worst of all, even if I do find him, I can't bring him back.

Cancer kept putting up these little orange cones along the road of my dad's life. Detour after detour. He couldn't catch a break. Every time he tried to make a new road, another detour cone appeared. Lung, then bone, then brain. Ba-da-boom.

So the term, "I lost my dad" feels a little off now. I think he knew where he was going. Somewhere along the road - maybe it was when I was scooping up ice chips for his "dinner" - he decided this kind of life wasn't worth the effort.

Every life needs to be equipped with dignity, strength, and integrity; if it's missing those key ingredients, I think the owner of the life tends to re-evaluate the point of diminishing return.

You have to let me go. He told me this. Point-blank. He said it just as I would say, "Hey, grab the milk please." He knew exactly where to go and what to do; like a baby taking his first breath when he comes into the world. He just knows.

And when he takes his last breath leaving this world, he just knows.

Where does that leave the remaining parts of the whole? My mom, sisters and me. We're like rusted joints trying to figure out how to turn the wheel without all the pieces.

But I have to believe that if we are capable of helping our loved one die, then we have the ability to help each other live.

And what's strange is this little golden thread that seems to be pulling my head up high. There is a sense of strength and peace that is coming from somewhere and I honestly don't give a shit where it's coming from, as long as it keeps coming.

It's a strange thing to be left here while a loved one moves on. We seem to blink, look around, and try to walk forward; because we would we look silly trying to walk backward.

We hold on to that little thread that gives us some odd new feeling of strength and peace, like a bright balloon tied to our waist. A signal to others in case we do get lost, they can find us, hug us, and hold our hand.

"...And You Can't Keep Yours."

2011-03-25T10:39:00.006-05:00

I can't go in there. I'm sitting here in the lobby of the hospital down the hall from my dad's room. I know he's resting and trying to make peace with his situation. His situation. I want to fix it; restore his life like a car. But I can't. I can't reach into the air and remove the words, "You have 3 weeks to 3 months." I want to pluck them out of the air and throw them away.

My dad has very limited time left.

And I'm sitting in a lobby down the hall. Why won't my legs walk me into that room? These legs have run me through two half marathons, yet they won't move an inch. So here I sit in the lobby. I listen to people express their good news. I hear them. "...so grateful this was a close call. Just think what could have happened?"

Just think.

I was one of those people once. Breezing by someone with a broken heart, not understanding that I would be switching places with them one day.

Why is there a grandfather clock in every hospital? What is the deal? Every hospital. Is it to remind me that time is fucking brutal? Tick Tock, time moves forward. It keeps ticking and my dad's cancer keeps spreading. He keeps hurting. The world keeps spinning.

I want painkillers. Each time my dad takes one, I want one too. It's difficult standing on the sidelines sober and raw, watching and feeling every breath, every cough and every wince of pain.

I feel it too, but I have no choice but to be healthy and aware of every teeny tiny change that puts him one inch closer to a place I'm not allowed access. A velvet rope I can't jump. Where is he going? What's over there? What's so exclusive about it? I won't know for a very long time. It's not my turn. The bouncers won't even allow a peek.

Fifty years. I told him yesterday that I want 50 more years with him. I grabbed his hand when he wiped the rivers of tears draining out of eyes. "But when something good is in my life, I want to keep it. And you're a Good. So I want to keep you."

He sat up a little straighter and said, "Well Kel. I couldn't keep my parents. They couldn't keep theirs. And you can't keep yours. But you can hope for 50 more years with your kids."

He's trying to change my line of vision. When I was little he would say, "Look at that eagle! Isn't that something!" When I couldn't find it, he'd grab my chin and turn my face. "Do you see it now?"

Yes, I see it now.

I look up to the blue, blue sky. It's the same sky I saw when I was 11 and my dad coached our softball team. We won the championship, so we all piled in the back of his truck to go have ice cream. It's the same sky; why is everything under it so different now?

Yes, I see it now.

It's time to treasure words, smiles and looks. It's time to treasure his hand that reaches out for me when I visit. It's time to treasure the "I love you's."

Maybe time is a good thing after all. He's still here which means I have time to lock more memories away into my heart. Stockpiling a silver lining for when the storm hits. Yes, maybe time is a beautiful thing after all.

Battle Hymn Of The Sissy Mother.

2011-02-23T10:23:00.009-06:00

I just finished reading "The Battle Hymn Of The Tiger Mother" by Amy Chua. There is a lot of controversy over how psychotic this Chinese mother is about rearing her two daughters. For example, 6 hours of drilling violin for a 7 year old girl. That's a bit extreme for us Westerners.

However, this book made me realize I'm more comfortable subscribing to the Candy Ass Mothering Method. This is when I nicely request (beg) for my daughters to study for a test and when there is any type of resistance, I fold like a deck of cards.

I fear that I will traumatize them if I push too hard. So I don't. Or rather, didn't.

There was a day when I begged for mercy when I blew my top, apologizing profusely for saying things like, You guys are ungrateful jerks, I brought you into this world and I can take you out, and one of my lowest points, What, you think you're better than everyone else?

In other words, I was a fan of the verbal smackdown with my daughters.

I hired a child psychologist. I confessed to being a passive-aggressive asshole and begged for a solution. She explained that I needed an incentive chart. I already had stickers up the ass trying to reward them for good behavior, so I was pissed that I was paying $150 for 50 minutes to learn nothing.

But wait. There was still 35 minutes left.

She said, "That's great. You know how to reward your kids. That's the part parents love. What about discipline? How do you handle that?"

How do I what-what?

I explained that I usually barked out orders and whined about how I had no respect. Did that count? No. In fact, according to psychological theories, I was fucking them up worse by caving and blaming them for my lack of boundaries, structure and holding firm on what I need.

So I'm basically a candy-ass, then I whine and blame my kids for not getting my way. Is that right?

Confirmed.

Shit.

So I crafted together a little chart on the back of a paper bag I fished out of the recycling container. I ripped up some sheets of paper and scratched out rewards on them. Movie Madness! Tooth Fairy Bonus! Shit like that to Bait and Switch behavior.

And it worked. I tried to hide around corners when I did a victory dance.

They wanted structure. They wanted to be worth the effort. They wanted me to push them to a higher to potential. They were asking me to help set goals for crissake. Their friends came over and asked if they could have one. So I made a few more out of grocery bags.

And just like that, my kids respected me. Grades in school started kicking ass. They were eating breakfast, sans chips, by 8:10. No more Defcon 5 military watch as they brushed teeth, no more arguing as I brushed their hair, and no more sprinting for the bus with papers flying out of backpacks.

Dare I say it - morning are peaceful. Homework is teamwork and weirdly becoming something they fight to "get mom first" for their 45 minutes alone in the "Homework Hole" (a.k.a the dining room). No more tantrums at bedtime.

I think I found a nice middle ground between Psychotic Tiger Mother and Candy-Ass Sissy Mother.

This little chart became a "thing." I created it into something that wasn't such an eye-sore. A ripped Cub bag was bit trashy, so I hooked up with a printer and made two. Then my neighbor wanted one. Then my friend who was battling with her ADHD son wanted one. Then the hockey mom who was sick of finding lost uniforms wanted one. A couple of Canadian moms hear about it and wanted homework to be scream-free. A woman in Texas was ripping her hair out because her 3-year old wouldn't sleep in her own bed.

And it worked for all of them. Kids are keeping track of their own uniforms (even washing them!), kids with ADHD are staying focused and less frustrated, homework is teamwork for the Candians, Texas is sleeping better...

I had a few printed up. There aren't a lot left, but if you're looking for a new way to connect with your kids, this will help. Yes, you can buy peace and it will arrive in your mailbox within 3-5 days.

p.s.
I have been asked if there is a chart for husbands, but that has not been developed yet. : )

Superstition.

2011-02-18T13:52:00.004-06:00

I didn't think I was superstitious until I encountered hopeless situations. When hope runs low, I start grasping at anything to sway the world to better odds.

For example, yesterday I had the terror-filled ultrasound to determine if I had breast cancer. The pressure of the morning was enough to drive me psychotic. If I think a certain way, I'm attracting cancer via Law Of Attraction. And frankly, I was fucking it up because the unbearable pressure to think positively was backfiring on me.

I'm healthy and strong, healthy and strong...that's bullshit. My breasts feel like ziploc bags filled with ice cubes. Why haven't I noticed that until today? Fuck.

Horrible signs of my pending death were mounting: My fearlessness necklace broke, I wore all black, the birthstone in my anniversary ring fell out, and the kitchen clock stopped working.

And to top it off, I used the Cancer Care parking spot reserved for my dad for my ill-fated first mammogram. Why on earth did I do that? That sealed the deal - I was fucked.

As my husband drove me to the appointment he explained that the Katy Perry song "Fireworks" was about inner strength. I started sobbing uncontrollably, gasping and letting the tears splash onto my lap.

Of course this song is about inner strength because the world is telling me that I'm going to need shitloads of it soon! And my birthstone fell out and my necklace broke and I'm wearing all black I never wear all black why am I dressed like I'm attending a funeral? And the clock stopped and my boobies are like ice cube-filled ziploc bags...

He stopped at the red light and said, "Listen to me. A necklace has nothing to do with causing or repairing cancer. Katy Perry doesn't know you. And your boobies don't feel like a bunch of ice cubes. Whatever it is, it is, okay? We got this."

Okay, okay, okay.

No more superstition. I bravely walked to the machine, chatted with the tech as she ran the tests. I courageously laid in the ultrasound room, holding my breath. This is it I thought. This is how it happens. This is how the earth grinds on its axis and changes the course of life and I can't stop her from saying the words to me.

She said, "It's fine. Everything is fine."

Exhale.

I was fine. Everything was fine. I said a prayer for all the women who laid on that same table and did not hear those words. Oddly enough, the "prayer" that spilled from my mouth were from Winnie the Pooh:

...there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.

To all the women out there surviving and thriving through your journey of breast cancer, we are here for you. We admire you, treasure you, and we are continually inspired by you.

Be well.

Doors.

2011-02-15T09:36:00.003-06:00

Doors. They're so simple. We turn the knob, we walk through them. I've been walking through them all my life. In 1981, I walked through a door without braces and walked back out with a mouthful of metal and a headgear. In 1986, I skipped out a door to my first date. In 2000, I walked through a door pregnant and walked out with my first daughter. I did it again with the same door in 2002.

But lately the doors I'm walking through feels like life is kicking me through them and I'm hesitating at the knob. It's just cramming me against the doorframe and I'm bracing myself saying, "Just give a fucking minute to breathe. Stop being so pushy."

Yesterday I walked through a door to see my father-in-law for the last time. I held his hand and said, "I love you." He whispered it back. I walked out the door and left a piece of my heart on the other side of it. With him. Sometimes my heart hurts so bad I fear I'm having a heart attack. Which truly, life seems to be attacking my heart lately. As the Tin Man says, "Now I know I have a heart, because it's breaking." I hurt because I love. And that's okay with me.

Last week I walked through a door with my dad and sister. We listened to his oncologist say the words, "You may need think about your quality of life." I walked out the door with my insides spinning and shaking. Cold and floaty, that's how it feels to hear those words spoken to your hero. Life is making me go through those same doors today. This time I will be walking through that fucking door already in a panic, so there very well could be a nervous breakdown waiting for me when I walk out.

I think breaking point has been lurking around the corners lately smoking a cigarette. It's been waiting since the day I lost my job and my nephew. Same day, same hour. Shit like this seems to happen to me in bulk. Many people get laid off, but I get laid off AND lose a family member. It's like I buy tragedy at Costco instead of Target. I get the big load so I won't run out.

Case in point: As I walked out the door to see my father-in-law yesterday, I received a call about my gamma mammogram I had on Friday. The left titty is concerning them. I hear about false-positives all the time, but that's not helping me right now. The more I hear about the "lucky ones" the less lucky I feel. They're taking my cards and I fear that I will be left with the joker. There are only so many false-positives out there in the world and frankly, it sounds like they're all used up.

So another door on Thursday. I have to walk through it and have more tests. I have no choice but to move forward because I can't move backward. That knowledge blows ass. I have to go to that fucking appointment. It's just sitting there on my calendar taunting me. 1:20 Thursday. 1:20 Thursday. 1:20 Thursday. I begging the universe to please let it be scar tissue from my Rack Install (a.k.a. boob job) from 2007. Damn, I should know that au natural is always best for me. What was I thinking having chicken cutlets slammed into my chest? Fuck. I'm no porn star, I just wanted to be proportionate, that's all. I have hips and I resembled an upside down lightbulb. I just thought I could have a shot at having the body I've always wanted. And now I'm pretty sure I'm being punished for it. Goddamn it to hell.

I can't figure out which area of panic deserves my attention most: My father-in-law who has less than a couple of days to live, my dad who quite possibly may choose to quit chemo today, or my left booby. Which one is panic-worthy?

Maybe none.

Information is just that. Information. It's what emotions I attach to it that makes me scared, panicked or anxious. Like flying a kite with certain strings. I can choose which string to use, but I still need to soar.

I don't know what doors I'm going to have to walk through in the next week, but I do know that I will survive whatever comes my way. Thrive even. I've already walked through doors that have broken me down and yet I always get back up a little stronger. A little happier. A little more forgiving. A little more grateful.

Am I going to panic? Absolutely. Am I going to live in fear because of panic? Absolutely not.

Lost In Shock.

2011-01-11T09:09:00.006-06:00

My last post was about The White Coat. How I love the White Coat. I have changed my mind.

You see, the person wearing The White Coat tells me things I'd rather not hear. Things like, Your dad has cancer and Your father-in-law had a massive stroke. Shit like that, where you sit in a chair and wonder why it tipped into a confusing, blurry hole. Alice in NoFairland.

Now I find myself looking at nursing homes with my husband to find a home for his step-dad. We're like children in Walmart, wondering how we accidentally got lost in the clothes rack. How did we get here? I know how, but the question really is, how do I get out?

And do I want to get out? It's really a sense of rewinding that I'm requesting. Let's rewind the Life Tape and catch strokes, cancer and other random catastrophic shit before they attack the people I love.

For Christ's sake, let's pace ourselves with tragedy. One spoonful here, wait to digest, then another little spoonful there, wait to digest. I need time to digest what feels like shards of glass on my heart.

Since there is not a Rewind button, I'm left with panic attacks that revolve around my own hypochondriac self. This is a part of me I keep thinking I have relieved from life duties but seems to show up with every piece of tragic information. Since The Dads were hit with cancer and a stroke, I have since diagnosed myself with: esophageal cancer, breast cancer, lung cancer, blood clots threatening stroke, a hole in my heart, kidney failure, a tooth infection, anemia, heart attack, and most recently, pinkeye. Just for kicks.

This goes without saying, but Web MD is not a good place for me to be. I'm like a drug addict shooting up thoughts of things that could catch me off guard.

But for fuck's sake, look what happened to The Dads. I must have something to cure and heal. It can't be possible that my role in all this is to show up with a meatloaf and a smile. That feels worthless. It's maddening that I have no control over any of it. I want to reach into my dad's body and scrape off the cancer with my fingernails. Make it shiny and new again. I want to take some electrical wire and connect the brain waves again for my father-in-law.

But am I really supposed to be curing shit or is my role to support, love and honor the journey no matter what it is? Isn't that was fearlessness is all about? The radical acceptance of life in its entirety. The good, the bad, and shit that makes me want to cry my eyes out.

I can be the baby throwing a tantrum in the corner screaming "No Fair!" I can choose that. Or I can choose to accept life and all its little surprises. Sometimes these surprises take my breath away because they are so beautiful. Sometimes they take my breath away with shock and panic.

One day, it will simply take my breath away.

But life is not about worry, panic and control. It's about living. And right now The Dads are here for me to love. There is nothing beyond that right now. Life is Now -and Now is always on time. It's not for me to interrogate, question, and revise.

I'm going to give it a shot and be grateful for Now. I don't know what the future holds. I have never known what the future holds and it brought me a pretty great slice of life. It may feel like I have a hole in my heart, but I think I'll just trust that I'm going to be okay. Maybe good, even. So many times I've seen this phrase: "The present is a gift. That's why it's called Present." I think I'll cling to that instead of Web MD.

The White Coat.

2010-09-29T10:07:00.004-05:00

I love doctors. It's something about the white coat that gives me warm fuzzies. A jackass with buck-teeth and an Alabama accent could slip on that white coat and he would be transformed into an instant genius in my eyes. You want to jam a needle in my throat to help a skin blemish? Sure! You want to write a "street legal" prescription and I need to pay you in cash? SOLD!

In other words, I don't care if it's a Halloween costume, people are definitely smarter in that coat. If a Girl Scout shows up on my front step in a white coat proclaiming that if I eat a sleeve of Thin Mints I will live longer, I will buy the entire case of goodies and the wagon they came in.

Everyone should invest in a white coat. Who said doctors and dentists are the only privileged peeps who get to wear that white coat? In Tunisia, teachers wear a white coat to protect their street clothes from chalk.

If my high school teachers wore that coat I would have actually listened to what they had to say. They would have been brighter, better looking, more interesting...smarter. If they british accent to top it off, I would have never gone home. I would have slept in the dirty halls of the high school, hoping the education would sink into my skin, making me smarter by osmosis. Jesus, a british doctor is a genius without even taking a test.

Mortgage brokers, insurance salesmen, advertising reps...just call yourself a doctor and somehow spin your sales pitch to benefit the recipient's health and you'll make a cool mil. The definition of a doctor is derived from the Latin word "doctus" meaning, "having been taught." So if anyone gives you shit about it, you can say you have been taught in that area, therefore they can go to hell with their accusation. If you want to say, "BOOYA!" it will be within your right.

I might consider buying a white coat and wear it around the house. It could give me an edge when it comes to calling the shots around here. "Listen to me, girls. I am now a doctor of mothering you, therefore I know what is best. You need to unload the dishwasher, do your homework and pick up dog poop in the yard. It's for the best, trust me. I am a doctor."

The dog may not understand that I am now a doctor, but I think he'll get the drift when I leave a prescription in his bowl asking him to un-shed his hair all over the fucking place. And since I am now his Master Doctor, I will explain that eating my flip flops for dinner will upset his digestive tract. I will know this without taking a medical test. That's how smart I will be once I get that white coat.

The GPS.

2010-09-16T21:37:00.005-05:00

My husband bought a GPS for me after I had a complete breakdown trying to get my daughter to a softball tournament a few weeks ago. It wasn't pretty. You know, the whole sarcastic conversation with construction that goes something like, "Oh this is fucking brilliant. ANOTHER road closed. Maybe next time we could have the tournament on the fucking moon. Unfuckingbelievable."

My poor kid in the backseat had a look of sheer terror. ARE we going to moon? She's obviously crazy enough to do it. Christ. I don't want to go to the moon, I'm kickin' it old school at a slumber party tonight.

So I have the GPS. It's great, but I can't help thinking we should take it a step further. I've already changed the voice to a masculine british accent. That way, if he leads me in the wrong direction, it's not his fault. He doesn't even live in this country.

Well, he doesn't live at all, but that's beside the point. I'm desperate to have this voice do more for me. I want to change it to a voice similar to Queen Latifah and have it shout out, "Oh, Mrs. Nordstrom, you lookin' damn fine today! Yeah, you go get 'em girl!" That would make me feel like a million bucks.

I want to reprogram it so when I drive more than 10 miles, it tells crude jokes to entertain my boring drive. I want it to ask if I've lost five pounds. I want it to adore me, dammit.

I fear I may be liking my GPS more than it likes me, which is an unhealthy relationship. I know this, but I can't stop. I've always been attracted to stoic men.

I worry about its feelings when I purposely ignore its command. "I know you said to take a left, but I need coffee first. You know this. We've been through this millions of times, you and I. Just hang in there." In fact, I don't even put this device on the dash anymore, I set it on the passenger seat like it's an actual british man going for a little holiday with me while I run errands. I haven't belted him in yet, but if it comes to that, I may need to commit myself to a padded room.

The point is, there's room for improvement. Look, I'm not saying anything crazy like having it arrive in the form of a blow-up doll, I'm just asking for positive affirmations for people like me who'd enjoy some compliments sprinkled into their day.

"Mom - I KNOW!"

2010-08-12T11:26:00.005-05:00

I have this conversation with my daughter Paige quite a bit. At dinner I will remind her that in order to have ice cream, she needs to finish her dinner. I rarely get the entire sentence out before she throws her arms up like a police officer and says, "MOM! I KNOW! Stop talking about it. I already know."

That is the response to all my motherly suggestions:

Brush your teeth or they will rot out of your mouth. I KNOW!

Put on sunscreen or you will be bacon in about 4 minutes. Stop talking, Mom - I KNOW!

Clean your bedroom before we all catch a deadly disease. MOM! I KNOW! I KNOW! I KNOW!

Let's trim your toenails before the FBI uses them for weapons. MOM! Stop it! I KNOW!

Then she said, "Mom, I know ALL of these things. I'm eight. I even know how to text on a Blueberry."

Well, I guess that settles it, then.

I tucked my Blackberry back into my purse knowing that indeed I am still in charge around here even though some days it doesn't feel like it.

Tour de Bar.

2010-08-10T08:51:00.001-05:00

I was among 300 people biking to 14 bars on Saturday. Unlike Tour de France featuring fit, sober, athletes, our Tour featured cowboys, indians, cows, miniskirts, beer, shots, and birthday cake.

We were slurring, smoking, and miraculously, actually biking. Without helmets. Not one. I strapped mine on, but noticed I was the only one so I hung it on my handlebars. Peer pressure still gets to me. My husband called me a fucking baby and strapped training wheels to my bike.

This sounds like illegal mayhem, but it's just our way of giving back to the community. You see, this is an annual benefit to raise money for a local family needing financial help. As I watched 40 yr old men pop wheelies, I figured it may indeed be one of us needing the benefit next year, but we threw caution to the wind and kept clicking off bars 1-14, hoping to make a big contribution to this amazing family in need.

As I looked around Bar #12, the karaoke bar, I realized something. I smiled as people were screaming out the lyrics to "Sweet Caroline", I giggled at my husband getting a lap dance from the neighbor ladies, and I wrapped my arms around my best friend since 3rd grade as her cowboy hat poked me in the eye.

I realized that if I were visiting this town, I would want to live here. Of all the places in the world, I would choose this place again and again. It's home. And it's a damn good one.

Redbox Etiquette.

2010-08-06T09:41:00.003-05:00

A couple weeks ago I went to the local Redbox to rent a movie. There was an unusually long line due to a couple not able to make a decision on which movie to rent. It was frustrating, but apparently to the 20-something executive waiting in line, it was unbearable.

She crossed her arms and tapped her toe like a mother waiting for her child to confess a crime. With each passing minute, she sprinkled some verbal abuse under her long exhale. "Aaaaaaaahhh, fucking unbelievable." We all heard it even though it was coated in a fiery breath.

The indecisive couple hung their heads in shame and moved to the side. I imagined their conversation in a hushed whisper: You can't even make a fucking decision between movies, how am I supposed to believe you're going to decide on a ring and propose marriage someday? I want to break up. You failed to even make a Friday night date work, I can't imagine how you'll mess up the rest of our lives.

As the movie-failed couple argued on the sidelines, two more people successfully returned and rented movies. It was my turn. As I started to step up, the sassy bitch in heels standing two people behind me said, "All I need to do is return one. It will take two seconds. Where is the etiquette here? The people returning should be allowed to go first."

I didn't realize there was an established Redbox etiquette. Excuse the hell out of me. Please and thank you.

I held my arm out and said, "Be my guest."

She jammed her movie in and stomped out. Click, click, click her heels went on the floor, grating on all our nerves. As the door quietly closed we heard her yell, "FUCKING RIDICULOUS!"

She had the right words, she just didn't apply them correctly. Where was the etiquette from her? And yes, she was being a ridiculous, pouty, immature asshole. I'm surprised the entire line didn't attack her and throw her out on her ass. I know I wanted to.

We all breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed. The couple on the sidelines stopped arguing and stepped to the back of the line. I looked at another woman and smiled. Peace at last.

And then the movie was rejected and returned unsuccessfully.

We all laughed. I tried returning it one more time because I wanted to make good on my infantile reaction. Still rejected.

I set it on top of the garbage, hoping she will be charged a dollar a day for the rest of her life for holding us hostage to her acidic personality.

Trip To The Oral Surgeon.

2010-08-04T18:03:00.005-05:00

So, Parker had two molars extracted today. She hates that word. "Stop saying 'extracted'. It's like pretending my teeth won't be dug out of my gums with tools."

We got there and Parks was knocking her knees all over the place. I would too. I was saying a mantra over and over again in my head. Thank Christ it's not me. Thank Christ it's not me.

Parker interrupted my soothing mantra asking, "Hey! Is the tooth fairy aware of what's going down today? I'm thinking $5 a tooth. This is big time." I think she knows there's no fairy, but doesn't want to risk losing some greenbacks.

So she settled into the dentist chair, surrounded by menacing tools hidden under a sheet. I know what's under there: drills, spiked-hammers, and maybe a few knives. I stood in front of the tray so my kid wouldn't ask what was hiding underneath the cleverly-placed sheet.

Paige thought it was a fucking carnival. "You mean, we get to stay and watch? Will there be snacks? Sweet!" I explained that this was not a movie for which we pay admission and we need to support Parker instead of trying to benefit off the entertainment value of this anxiety-ridden event. I let Paige down gently. "No, we're leaving. The doctors will take good care of your big sister and we'll see her in recovery."

Then the doctor said, "Well mom, if you want to stay while she goes to sleep, she could probably use a hand to hold." Immediately, I mentally protested. "You see, I have OCD and I will obsess about the fact that I saw my daughter get as close to death as I'll ever see and I don't think it will be good for my mental health and it's a weird condition that prevents me from hitting the OFF switch on my brain and doctors think it's genetic, but..."

I told OCD to fuck off and held my daughter's hand. I didn't realize when she fell asleep because her eyes were open, so I kept yapping about how Rocket, our dog, will be waiting for her when she got home and how she'll have ice cream for dinner and we'll watch a movie in the afterno...the doctor cut me off. "She's asleep. We'll take good care of her. We need to get started now." Oh, okie dokie. I'll be out there, then. Far away from my daughter. You know where I'll be if you need me. I'll be sitting in the lobby chewing my fingers off until you get me.

In the recovery room, Parker was basically drunk. So I said, "Girls, listen to me. This is what it looks like to have 10 beers. You're dizzy, groggy and you can't really walk. Decisions are impaired because you can't think clearly. I want you to remember this because it's not fun. Well Parks, you won't remember, but I'll remind you later.

So all in all a good day. Teeth were successfully removed. My daughter was a courageously brave champ. I conquered OCD. And on top of all that, I gave a good lesson on teenage drinking. Not bad. Not bad at all.

The Road Trip.

2010-07-30T12:53:00.004-05:00

A couple weeks ago the kids and I tagged along with my husband on a business trip. Five hours to Canada. Due to forgetting things, it took four attempts to leave our driveway. The last item being our passports, so thank Christ we remembered those.

We were lucky to get anywhere. We needed to maneuver around tornados, bolts of lightening and sheets of rain. If flaming hoops showed up at the Canadian border, I would not have been surprised.

My husband tailgates. Not the beer-guzzling, classy-hot-dog-in-the-parking-lot kind of tailgating. It's the ramming-our-car-into-another-car's bumper kind of tailgating. Trust me, I'd prefer a beer and hotdog. I always watch the drivers as we pass and more often than not, they flip the bird.

The hubbs refuses to believe he's a rude driver, so I have to come up with sarcastic ways to suggest he back out of the car's anus that is driving in front of us.

"Man, that guy should really get a colonoscopy. He has a polyp on the left side of his anus."

"Gross. Who are you talking about?"

"The driver in front of us. You are currently driving inside of his asshole."

Or

"We must be getting really good gas mileage, that's awesome."

"Why? Why would you say that?"

"Because your front two wheels are literally on top of the car in front of us, forcing them to pull us all the way to Canada. I mean, I don't care, but I would think they would want us to remove our front tires from their skulls."

Then Parker gets worked up..."Who's skull are we on? Dad, what are doing? What's going on?"

After five hours of this banter, we arrived at our destination. Apparently Paige, the yougest, thought we drove to Spain. As we sat down for dinner, the server took our order and Paige yelled, "I had no idea the people in Canada speak ENGLISH! Wow!"

After one night of swimming and movies, we were back on the road. We relied on our GPS even though it drove us to a cornfield. At this point, we were verbally abusing our GPS. "Oh, I'd love to take a left, you piece of shit, but we don't want to drive into a cornfield! You have successfully driven us to a field of nothing, you no-good piece of junk." I was waiting for it to laugh at us. At some point the joke is on us, the idiots, for blindly following it right toward a cornfield. "Well maybe if we just get through the first few rows, there will be a road leading..." Christ.

We may have lost our minds on this trip, but we did gain some good memories and inside jokes that should carry us through the next year or two. Isn't that what it's all about? Memories and being able to laugh at ourselves? That's the good stuff.

Sports - And Crazy Fans (Parents).

2010-07-01T08:12:00.017-05:00

My daughter's fastpitch team won a tournament last weekend, but the journey to get there was not pretty. All the parents were hysterical nail-biting alcoholics. I somehow morphed into the psychotic cheerleading captain. I found myself yelling, "Okay Parks - make her swing the bat! Blow it by her! Shut her DOWN now!"

Keep in mind the parents of the little 10-year-old batter were sitting on the bleachers next to me while I instruct our pitcher to shut their sweet little bundle of joy down.

Who cares, we had a game to win! I would have painted my face into a fucking White Bear Polar Bear if the opportunity presented itself.

After a couple of games, the parents were ready to share cardiac arrest paddles due to heart palpitations. I swear to God, I had chest pains during one particular inning where a few errors were made. I was ready to watch this game from a stretcher if needed. Christ.

I was yelling, "IT'S OKAY (fuck)! DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT (shit shit shit)! IT'S JUST A GAME (the biggest game of your fucking life)!"

As parents, we came to our senses and realized we needed some beer, bloodies and gin & tonics to calm our nerves. I was ready to start smoking or convulsing to relieve my exposed nerves. After two gallons of Shock Tops, I was ready to be a good, calm little fan. I had my shit together again.

It didn't work. I was worse. When my daughter struck out by watching a strike sail right by her I yelled, "Say WHAT??!! That was perfect!" She turned to me from the fucking batter's box and yelled, "MOM - GOD!"

This required damage control. And self-awareness. And an apology. I stumbled over there with my Shock Top breath and said, "Hey, I'm sorry. I could never do what you're doing out there. I am so out-of-control-crazy-excited, but I will keep a lid on it."

She said, "Yeah. That would be good."

And wasn't that the reason for my insanity? I never could do what any of those girls were doing out there. I was the bookworm, theatre geek in school. I don't have athletic DNA in my body. I don't even own thigh muscles. In fact, and I'm not kidding here, I just pulled a fucking neck muscle while typing this blog.

So I admit it, I was living vicariously through them in complete and total awe. Like a parasite, I dug in and extracted as much of the experience as I could get. I'm not proud of it. Just being honest.

I was honored they allowed me to be a part of their journey to becoming champions (even though they probably would fire me as a fan if they could). I am past my prime and honestly, I never even had a prime, so it's beautiful and fascinating and cool to watch and see how it all happens. That energy of being Top Dog was exhilarating - and I was only feeling the aftershocks of what the actual Top Dogs were feeling. I'm only the mother of a Top Dog.

Although most of the girls on the team had no idea they even won a game. A few of them went up to the coach after one particular shellacking and asked, "That was fun! Did we win?"

Maybe they really are oblivious to the crazed parental hysterics that ensue on the bleachers.

As my daughter would say, "Yeah. That would be good." We have State next weekend, so I'm going to need to learn breathing techniques, buy a muzzle, and take some anti-psychotics in order to maintain a cool, breezy appearance.

Walking Birds.

2010-06-14T07:53:00.004-05:00

I'm just going to come right out and say it because I can't figure out how to ease into this blog. My apologies to all bird-owners in case one them described below is you.

My parent's neighbor walks her pet bird. She straps on a "walking cage" and takes it for a walk so it can have fresh air. What is this world coming to when we grab an animal out of the sky and put it in a cage so it can have fresh air? It HAD fresh air (and freedom) before some douche plucked it out of the fucking sky and decided to make it a pet.

Plus, I have to wonder if this woman understands that her pet is not actually receiving exercise. It just sits in the backpack/walking cage. Who fucking invented a walking cage in the first place?

I can't get my head wrapped around this. The animal has wings and is not handicapped in any way, shape or form. Yet it's forced to go on a walk (or actually, just a ride) so it can have fresh air.

If we could have a conversation with a bird, how would it go?

Me: "Hey bird, I see you have wings and all, but why don't you step into this backpack so you can feel the breeze a little better?"

Bird: "Fuck off."

And there's MORE.

My friend "Beth" (I promised anonymity) "bird sat" her neighbors bird. It's kind of like babysitting, but much more demeaning. You see, Beth was asked to shower with the bird so it could have some "fresh water" on its feathers. I'm laughing so hard right now while I type this, so please excuse typos. She placed the bird WITH CLAWS on her fucking shoulder while she showered. This really happened, people. Believe it.

Honestly, wouldn't rain do the same thing? Like, let the godforsaken thing soar in the sky with wind and rain? Why are we trying to replicate nature when it already exists? Isn't that crazy-making behavior?

The Other Side Of The *&$!% Birthday.

2010-05-19T09:37:00.012-05:00

I bring this on myself, so I'm not sure why I'm always shocked when my daughter's birthday goes down in flames. We're only two hours into the day and in my mind, her perfect special day is shot. By me. I'm so frantic trying to make her day special and perfect that I actually sabotage the already perfect-ness of it all.

It began last night at 3:30 a.m. when my SEVEN-YEAR-OLD who still doesn't sleep through the night woke me up because she was itchy. I'm not saying my kid is a liar, but I think this was a ploy to soak up attention before it all goes to her sister, the birthday girl.

I'm not upset about the waking up part, I'm upset about the not-going-back-to-sleep part. It takes time for this caffeinated beast to find her zen again. I didn't fall back to sleep until 5:00 a.m. because I was running through my list: Shit, do we have vanilla ice cream? need to wrap birthday gifts-where did Derek hide them?, paige wants sports bras, do we have candles?, Paige's sheets ripped - why did they rip - do I need to cut her toenails? why do all menstrual products have an "X" in them? Kotex, Tampax, what's up with that? X marks the spot? Christ, who was in charge of naming menstrual products, a MAN? That makes no sense, why ...

My alarm is set to mexican musak - I have no idea why - so the obnoxious maracas blared at 7:30 a.m. Our usual tradition is to blow up balloons and fill the birthday girl's room with them so she wakes up to a party. Last year I happen to have poster board, so I wrote a sign. This year, we just went with the balloons. The first thing she said this morning was not, "Hey! It's my birthday!" It was, "I thought there would be a sign, so I even checked my closet, but it wasn't there, so ..."

So... what exactly are you saying? Are you saying I fucked up your birthday because I didn't create a sign? Why am I so defensive? Why didn't I make the godforsaken sign???

Moving on. I bought special doughnuts for everyone so we could have a treat for breakfast. I put a candle in Parker's doughnut, then Paige wanted to put a candle in the doughnut, then Paige wanted a candle in HER doughnut, so we argued about that. I sang "Happy [fucking] Birthday" in my best singsong voice even though I only had a nap last night. Paige said, "I don't really like this doughnut - it tastes weird." Derek set his down and said, "Yeah, I'm not feelin' custard-filled today." Parker said, "Sorry, I don't like mine either." So in the trash they go.

Thank God I put a birthday poem in her lunch bag. That will make up for the trashed doughnuts and missing sign.

In my guilt-ridden-wanting-everything-to-be-perfect head, the entire day was quickly going in the trash. Then came the bomb.

I decorated her desk and coat area at school (WITH A SIGN BY THE WAY) with streamers and balloons. That will be a nice surprise. I hope. As I tossed the doughnuts in the trash, Parker said, "So, usually the birthday boy or girl passes out bouncy balls or pencils to celebrate their birthday...did you happen to get anything?" I think my head popped off because she immediately recovered and said, "It's okay if you didn't, I was just wondering."

The motherfucking classroom goody bags. I forgot.

I'm so busy killing myself with the extras that I forgot about the basics. The Classroom Goody Bag (which technically, I consider an extra, but seemingly has become one of the basics). I think I need a goody bag filed with a massage and bottle of wine.

And the real basic, the ONLY basic that matters is that I want her to remember this day as a happy, relaxed day. Instead, she's going to remember her mother ranting and raving about having no sleep, rushing to CVS for bullshit bouncy balls, and trying to fit in a shower before everyone arrives tonight. Instead of celebrating ten years old, she's going to remember trying to calm down her lunatic mother. That's not fair.

So I'm going to flip my thinking to the other side of the birthday. She doesn't need anything special and perfect - she already IS special and perfect. I just need to sit back and cherish her, rather than worry about all the things I'm not doing right. A hug is always right. A kiss on the head is better than a stupid doughnut.

It's not WHAT I do, it's HOW I do it. That is what creates the feeling, the memory, of a very special day indeed. Happy Birthday Parker Sue!

How Bad Did I Screw Them Up?

2010-05-12T14:03:00.007-05:00

My friend Molly and I had Happy Hour a few weeks ago. As we drained the last of our Summit Pale Ale's she said, "Have you ever realized that everyone you dated in high school has never been married?"

Wait, what? What did she just say? Is that even possible?

I ordered another round of beers to numb this epiphany. I said, "What about Jon? The one I went to Homecoming with in '88, surely he's marrie..."

"No."

"What about Pat? I think he WAS married, maybe he's just divorced."

"No, never married. He is dating a married woman though, if you want to count that." What did she just say? An ex-boyfriend of mine is dating a married woman? What on earth did I teach these boys-now-men about love and relationships that would encourage this type of fucked-up behavior?!

I drained my beer in about four gulps. "No c'mon, this has nothing to do with me." But I can't deny the fact that every person I dated in high school is still single. Not one has even attempted marriage. Not one. Pat, Troy, David, Brad, John, Jon, Erik..."

This is my make-out list. Was I a shitty kisser? Is that how this happened? Why are they all still single? We're fucking FORTY and half of them aren't even in a steady relationship (or a healthy one in the matter of the one dating a married woman).

I have no idea what to make of this, but I can't deny the oddness of it all. Everyone I dated in high school is single. Was I that traumatic, dramatic, high maintenance, and controlling? Jesus. I don't know if I can handle the answer to that.

Naivete at forty.

2010-04-26T09:21:00.004-05:00

Today I'm 40. And I'm still naive. Apparently, it's who I am. I try to be "street smart", but it seems that the more experience I experience, the less I know.

Take for instance last summer. The hubbs and I were hanging out on our friend's patio having a couple beers. Some were smoking and I noticed one of them pounding their cigarette on the table to get the nicotine down to the top. I'm not a smoker, but I have a weird obsession with smokers. They own a rebellion I've ever experienced. It's this mentality like, "Fuck cancer, I like it. So I do it." I've never been able to think that way.

Anyway, so on our walk home I said, "Wow, they were smoking some stale cigarettes. Those things were clanking on the table when they were tapping them."

My husband said, "Oh sweetie. I love you. Those weren't cigarettes. It was pot." What? I was surrounded by drugs? In my hometown suburb???

Later, we shared this story with our neighbors. They said, "Well, Mary Jane never hurt anyone."

"Who's Mary Jane?"

"You are fucking kidding me."

That's when my husband stepped in to defend my [apparently fragile] reputation. "She's not kidding. It's her charm." God bless him.

The conversation went on for hours about how I'm pretending to be clueless with my husband explaining that I'm for real and it's not an act.

I put this to the test when my sister Kim came over. I needed to know if it was just me or if our entire family was sheltered to the point of isolation from street slang.

I said, "I'm so embarrassed, we were hanging out with friends the other night and I just learned what Mary Jane is."

She said, "Why, is Mary Jane really a man?"

"No. It's slang for marijuana."

"Oh. Well, I just found out what gahnge is."

"What's that?"

"Pot."

My husband couldn't take it anymore and left the kitchen.

And even as I write this, I had to google "gahnge" to learn how to spell it.

And apparently I still have it wrong because the definition of gahnge is, "An Irish term for a complete idiot."

That aptly sums it up.

Un-Perfect.

2010-04-16T14:49:00.005-05:00

Yeah, I went there. I totally bombed my entrance into motherhood and wrote a book about it. Today I thought I would take the time to include some excerpts from the book. These are raw and unedited, so they may technically be, "Un-Pretty". The book is written like a journal, since it's based on my actual real journal entries while bumbling through postpartum OCD, depression and psychosis. In short, I lost my mind.

5/23/00
I cannot believe I've kept my daughter alive for four whole days. I don't sleep. Instead, I check her chest to make sure she's breathing. I do this all night long. If she doesn't move, I tickle her or push her shoulder so she'll squirm around and prove to me she's still living. This usually backfires on me because she wakes up and wants to eat. So I race back into the bedroom and pretend I'm sleeping, so Derek will get up and feed her. I don't want to feed her because she spits up so much - I worry she's going to choke and die. She spits up so much that I've resorted to dressing her in bikini because pulling a puked-on onesie over her head requires a bath. I suck at being a mom.

6/23/01
Why does everyone have it better than me? They all have these happy, shiny live and every day is a struggle for me. It's not that I want their actual live, but I want their confidence, peace, and joy. How do I get that? They're totally at ease with everything and I'm not. That would make me at "dis-ease". I have a disease then, so what the fuck is it? "Un-Joy"? Is that what I suffer from? "Un-Perfect"? Is that what I'm supposed to tell a doctor? That I'm feeling "Un-Perfect"? Give me a break.

8/3/01
It's so weird. I don't look broken. The world is trained to look at the physical nature of things like a fractured arm, thinning hair, a broken neck. We're accustomed to find and fix only things we can see and touch. What about a fractured spirit? There is physical measurement of success. With an arm, the doctor can x-ray it and show the patient how well it healed. No one can x-ray my head to prove that all the psycho babble was removed. No one can grab a sickening, terrifying thought and extract it from my thinking.

9/2/01
Going to work while suicidal is really distracting. I stare at the Foshay Building all day wondering how I can jump from it. Then I have people yapping around my desk, gossiping about stupid petty shit. To these people I say, "If I want you to have a front row seat to my life, I will invite you to take a seat. Otherwise, please be quiet. I'm trying not to kill myself today and you're making it almost impossible."

So there you have it. Just a few sips of the book. I'm proud of it. I like that humor is woven into the content because there were some oddly funny bits and pieces along the way of that wicked journey.

This is a shameless plug to promote "Un-Perfect." If you would like to Pre-Order a copy, please click the book cover in the right margin. Each person to pre-order will receive a Good Energy Onesie (you can see these cute little things on www.evolutionmom.com under the "Evo Products" tab. Scheduled release date: May 31, 2010.

P.S.
I can't BELIEVE I'm an author. An official author. Holy shit.

Portion size.

2010-04-08T14:12:00.005-05:00

I went to McDonalds the other day with the kids. I get the Big Mac because the "slop" covers up the fact that I'm eating Grade D meat.

Anyway, I ordered a medium pop to wash down the burger and what I got was a tank of pop. It didn't even fit in the cup holder in my car. The straw looked like a dildo and my arm hurt during the "pass off" between the employee and me.

It barely fit through the window of my car for crissake. If I spilled it, I could've drowned in Coke. I was getting nervous.

Here's my million dollar question:
If that's a Medium, what does the Large look like?
Do they tap a fucking vein and run an IV directly into my bloodstream?
What is happening to portion size?
Can our bodies even handle that much sugar?

Jesus Christ, I felt like I was on speed after drinking half of that keg.

And listen, if I'm going to drink a keg of liquid, it's going to beer. Not Coke.

Books Are My Drugs.

2010-03-23T15:33:00.007-05:00

I want to slap our local librarian. And she probably wants to slap me back.

Here's the deal. I'm a book addict and the library is my dealer. I get irritable and shaky if I don't get my fix. I usually race into the library in a frenzy, biting my nails off, hoping to find that perfect line. Currently, I'm running low on books, so I stopped there today. I haven't showered and probably looked a little stir crazy, which could explain the cold reception.

It started off bad. I noticed the cork board in the entrance and thought it would be a great place to advertise my website or workshops. I wasn't even going to ask, but the library makes me go into "Good Girl" mode, so I did the right thing. I asked. And the answer irritated me. "Everything on the cork board is approved by me. I'll determine if it's suitable."

I was pissed. Who says I can't take a couple of push pins and display a parenting workshop? Give me a break. I'm not advertising porn.

Here's where this deal really goes south: I'm not a good paying client. I don't return my shit on time, so they withhold the goods to punish me. She said, "You owe $74.63 for Aristotle, Kierkegaard, and Jung. I was gettin' my kicks on philosophy a few months ago. I was "philosophizing" as I called when I was deep in the high. But now I'm desensitized. I need harder product, like "Finding Alice" and "Burn Journals", but this lady in a Pooh vest was refusing my "drug" of choice.

What a bitch.

I said, "Listen, my husband paid up last week. We're clean, man. We're clean."

"Do you have a receipt?"

I hate that question. I never keep a receipt. She knows this and just wanted to rub it in my face. She was holding my stack of books like a vertical line of coke. I was shaking, reaching for them, just wanting to touch the covers.

She said, "You can't check these out. You even have fees from 1992."

I had to check my license to see if I was even born in '92. Fucking, '92?

I said, "Oh, come on. Listen, I've seen your ledger. It's in pencil. Can't you just erase it?"

She declined the "erasing-of-the-ledger" solution.

So I left without my fix. All those books are just sitting there on the library counter in the HOLD section, waiting for me to inhale, inject, and devour. But the dealer in a Pooh vest got in the way. Caught in the crossfire, as they call it.

So here I sit. Basically sucking my thumb until the withdrawl is over. I may need to raid my daughter's shelf and read Potter. Again.

Dog With No Manners.

2010-03-04T08:18:00.005-06:00

I think it might be a good idea to have someone invent the Invisible Fence for inside of a home. That warning beep on their neck would be helpful around my cabinets, chairs, underwear, and shoes.

And of course all of my daughter's stuffed animals he massacres on a daily basis. If he gets a hold of her American Girl doll, he's toast. Not because Paige cares, she doesn't give a shit about Chrissa, but I spent a ridiculous $100 on that fucking doll. That's another blog.

Anyway, I'm home all day writing a book. You'd think that would be enough for a dog that I give him random head scratchies and kisses throughout the day, but not Rocket. One day I was too busy for him and he turned into a pouting 13 year old boyfriend whose girlfriend has better things to do than make out under the bleachers.

I came downstairs to find mayhem. A chair ripped apart, a spit-soaked glove, a stuffed animal brutally murdered and toilet paper strewn all over the house. He toilet papered my home. And there was no remorse. He was sitting there like the King of Shit challenging me. Oh, you want to throw it down, momma? I'll turn you into that shredded toilet paper over there.

I kicked him and his badass attitude outside.

But here's what kills me. Since he doesn't have opposable thumbs he can't help pick it up. That's bullshit. Someone should develop tiny gloves with prosthetic thumbs for these little fuckers. We all know that if you make the mess you help clean it up. Yet, mysteriously dogs are exempt from that rule due to a missing thumb. And possibly a brain.

And here's the part where it gets really stupid. After everything was clean, I let him in and hugged him. What can I say? He's my little meatloaf with legs.

p.s.
Spring is coming which means the dog is outside more. Which means if you don't have an Invisible Fence, you risk losing your dog or having him/her run into the streets. Cars and dogs don't mix. If you're considering a dog fence, you may want to save a crapload of money and DIY. Click here for more information: Dog Fences. Enjoy!

Wardrobe Criticism.

2010-02-27T13:50:00.002-06:00

I came downstairs today and the reaction from my daughters, ages 9 and 7, threw me for a loop.

What are you wearing?

Why are you wearing that?

Your boobs are hanging out.

It's just so much SKIN...

I looked down to make sure I didn't accidentally put on my dominatrix role-playing outfit. Nope, just a harmless v-neck t-shirt. And actually, since the original one I put on was too low, I put another t-shirt underneath the first one. I'm covered for crissake. No sign of bra straps or nipples. Not a glimpse of an areola.

I said, "What? I'm wearing two shirts. What is the deal?"

They said, "Well, other men might see you."

What the fuck? Other men might see me? I looked around to confirm that indeed, we didn't uproot our family and move to the Middle East during the night. All clear. Still in Minnesota.

This is a bit of a shock because my favorite wardrobe is a button down shirt and jeans. Always has been, always will be. It's simply who I am. And I button it up to the second button, barely exposing my throat. So I guess this is the reason for the wardrobe criticism coming from the kitchen table.

One of them even tried hiking the shirt up a bit while hugging me. My choice of clothing was a serious offense to my children. They didn't come right out and say it, but I think they were concerned I'd throw on some boots and do some street-walkin'.

I said, "Guys, you do realize I'm still a woman. I didn't become a wooden plank with legs after birthing both of you. I actually have a body underneath my button down shirts. You understand that, right?"

They weren't buying it. To them, I was becoming a pole dancer right in front of their eyes. You have to understand, this reaction would not have been more intense if I came downstairs in a bikini with fishnets and stilettos, smoking a cigarette.

I'm not sure what to make of this other than my kids like me the way I am. They don't want me to be a model or posh dresser. They just want their mom. In her button down shirts. Conservative as hell. But that's truly who I am anyway. I just thought I'd make use of a t-shirt I haven't worn in five years.

Forgive me, my daughters, for trying to take a shot at being a little more sexy. For wanting to shed my button down shirt and/or fleece jacket (zipped to the neck). I'm almost 40 and need to remember that I actually do still have a body and every once in a while, I choose a garment that is a little out of my comfort zone just to see if I can make it work. I won't do it again for another five years.