My Life

At least…my life is.

Somewhat.

I have highs…

And then I have lows. Unfortunately for me, my lows are pretty effing low. I mean, dig down 6 feet into the ground low.

My aunt recently had a birthday party, and I was all gung-ho to help her celebrate but then when the party actually happened…

I hit one of my lows. A very, very bad low.

I think the worst part, the absolute worst part when it all hit me, was after we blew out the candles, and I hugged her, and we hugged and hugged and hugged and she just…knew. I started to cry a little right there on her shoulder and she wouldn’t let me go and I knew that…she just knew.

This was two weeks ago; I didn’t want to write about it yet because I was still dealing with it internally. Again, I am amazed at how you think you have dealt with something and put it behind you, only to have it come and SMACK you upside the head all over again. And it doesn’t hurt any less the second time. Or the third, or the fourth. It’s just the same ass-whupping.

But I have started to realize ONE very very important thing and this has been so major for me: the pain hurts, oh yes indeedy, it does. But…

The recovery…is getting faster.

Now, I don’t know that the Tech Guru would agree. He has to deal with me during the aftermath of my regressions, when I’m moping and miserable and snapping and chugging away at bottles of medicine like they’re candy. And God bless him, because… he doesn’t snap back. He doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t pull away from me and make it two of us stewing in our own pots of confusion. Really, we can’t have two people being crazy and insecure and mental up in here. That shit will NOT WORK. So I feel incredibly blessed that I have someone who gets me, who understands my freakouts and knows when to let shit ride, and when to draw me in and hug me and tell me how fucking awesome I am.

And maybe it’s in great part due to that, that the recovery is getting faster. I spiral…but I stop. I need less anxiety meds. Oh, I needed some at my aunt’s party and drove home rather high, but…overall, I feel my mental and emotional state improving.

I hesitate to even write this here, because whenever I do, whenever I make note of my progress, SOMETHING fucks up my equilibrium. A photo, a memory, a song – and I feel myself losing it again.

But although I realize that I cannot suppress my feelings, I have decided that it is just not worth it to go down that road of self-doubt and anger and pain. Anyone who makes me go down that road is not worth my emotional tribute. Anyone. And you get to the point where you realize that there are people you love dearly…but you just don’t get along, or you just don’t understand each other. I realized that about my mother in high school. Loved her to death but me and her, without anyone else in our family to act as buffers between us, was a lethal freaking combo. Then I realized in my 20s that although I love her to death…I didn’t really LIKE her very much. I know…it sounds terrible. I know. But the further and further into my adulthood I have gone, the more and more she has treated me like shit. There are people like that. You love them, but you need to let them GO before they make you insane. Because as much as you love them…your life is actually better, without them.

It can be really really hard to admit that, especially about people you love and care about very deeply. When my mother first stopped speaking to me in 2004, I was a wreck. She wrote me a terribly nasty letter that I still have, and I will never forget going to pick up Punksin from nursery school, right after receiving this toxic letter and reading it, and sitting out front in the car crying for about half an hour before I could gather my shit together to go inside. How could the woman who had given birth to me speak to me this way? What had I done to warrant such cruelty, to be told she wanted absolutely nothing to do with me?

So…I tried to pick up the pieces and move on. But it hurt like hell to feel that utter rejection, that betrayal of that bond, that loss of someone you thought would love you FOREVER. It hurt, oh yes, it hurt.

But then…sometime, several months later, it dawned on me…that now that I was no longer having the tense conversations and the misunderstandings and the walking around on eggshells, my quality of life had actually…IMPROVED.

I remember feeling guilty about admitting that to myself, that life was actually BETTER. I mean, she was my mother, for God’s sake. She was supposed to be in my life.

Right?

Now…I don’t know. Maybe she did me a favor cutting me off. It still hurts, but you know what? If she were AROUND, I wouldn’t be hurting any less. Probably more, as a matter of fact. So either way, this relationship is going to be painful for me, that’s clear. But, because I am NOT dealing with her, it hurts me only at those times when the loss seeps in once again – which is often enough, but still a lot less than if I were speaking to her weekly or daily. Eventually, with time, pain fades. We’ve all seen that.

So there’s my lesson for you, people. There may be some people you love dearly, be it family, boyfriend, best friend, whatever, about whom you realize that as much as you LOVE them, you just are… better off without them as a presence in your life. Maybe they bring too much drama. Maybe they cause YOU to bring drama and act completely unlike yourself because of how fucked up they make you feel. Or maybe you don’t bring the drama, but you keep the tension inside and it’s just festering there because you are stifling your feelings in order to keep this person happy. People that make you feel like this can be so hard to let go of because you care about them, because you love them, because you feel obligated, because they’re family, or because you feel like you don’t just walk out on someone that is so important to you.

And that’s all true. Relationships are important, and worth fostering and working on, especially familial ones. But you can’t be the only one doing the work. If you are constantly being made to feel unimportant, constantly having to swallow your thoughts and feelings, constantly putting yourself out there to make someone else feel good while they do little to reciprocate, constantly reaching out only to be rebuffed or ignored, constantly riding a roller coaster of emotions wondering IF you are loved and appreciated and respected, then at some point, you have to SAVE YOURSELF. This doesn’t mean you have to stop loving the person, or that you should start holding anger or negativity towards them, because even that will eat away at you. What it IS about, is loving yourself enough to SAVE yourself from whatever is not benefiting you or bringing you peace and happiness. No matter WHAT, or WHO, that is.

It is okay to LOVE yourself, and SAVE yourself. Sometimes you have to do the saving, and walk away. Sometimes the universe will help out and make something happen to sever the relationship and you fight it until you wake up and realize that this is actually what’s better for you. SAVE YOURSELF. SAVE YOUR HEART, SAVE YOUR SPIRIT, and SAVE YOUR LOVE for those who LOVE YOU BACK, not just in words, but in how they TREAT YOU.

Love is like show and tell: it’s not just words, but actions, that prove love. Take a long hard look at whatever relationship you are thinking about: take away whatever they’ve said about loving you, and pretend it’s a mime show. Have their ACTIONS said love? Do they DO things to show you they love you? When you try to communicate your feelings, do they respond? And how? And after all of that has been answered, how do you feel about those answers? Overall, when all is said and done, do you FEEL loved? Or ignored? Or disrespected? Or afraid? Or unsure? Or used? Or dominated? Fuck what they say to you – how does this person make you FEEL?

I have such a beautiful life. I have a husband that adores me even now, 15 years into our relationship. Sometimes it’s hard to believe it’s been that long because he looks at me with the same love, affection and lust that I saw in his eyes 15 years ago. His eyes and his actions tell me that I am loved, that I am sexy, that I am intelligent, that I am appreciated, that I am adored. He tells me…he tells me I’m special – and he makes me believe it, that I’m special to HIM and I’m special as a person and that if other people can’t see it and appreciate it, they are crazy. He truly fucking believes this shit. (I know, he’s crazy, isn’t he?) My two sisters from another mother, God knows how much closer I have become to them these days as I have poured out my heart and frustrations, and THEY make me feel loved, listening, understanding, consoling, advising, BEING THERE. They SHOW me love. I know they love me. Today one of them said to me, “I wish you could see what other people see – that you are so strong and beautiful.” And it made me want to cry. Because I’d like to think so, not in a conceited way but I’d like to think that I am a beautiful, very loving person, but some people just take and take and give so little back that it just fucks with your head and makes you feel anything BUT strong. They sap your strength and make you wonder what is wrong with you that they can’t or won’t love you.

But only for a time, as my grandmother says – only for a time. Because that’s not fair to the people that DO love me. My husband loves me. My sisters love me. My aunt loves me. My nana loves me. My kids love me. And I am not going to let ANYONE FUCK UP THE KIND OF LOVE I CAN GIVE to these people. I demand a lot, because I GIVE a lot. But I’m only giving it to those who GIVE IT BACK, and I’m only giving my emotional energy to those who GIVE IT BACK. POSITIVELY.

This rollercoaster is a hell of a ride, let me tell you. But with each go around, I’m cowering less and less and coming back into who I  used to be and who I really really AM – the crazy chick in the front seat, laughing loudly, hair flying, hands waving in the air, enjoying her life and the people in it. The one that LOVES THE PEOPLE WHO DESERVE IT, AND LOVES LIFE, LIKE THERE’S NO TOMORROW. The one – that feels loved. Because by some people…

she truly truly is.

It is a 5K, but it is not your average 5K. Not by a long shot.

There are mud swamps, and tunnels to run through, and barbed wire – all in all, about 21 military-style obstacles to overcome, at the end of which you are tired as hell and completely covered in mud.

This

sounds

AWESOME.

One of many obstacles in Rebel Race - YEAH BABY!

Mud. Crazy sweaty people running obstacles like insane Marines (who actually sponsor the race). This is fucking AWESOME! I mean, who would NOT do this?

The kids are pissed because you’re not allowed to run the race unless you’re 11 or over, and I can certainly see why. It’s absolutely crazy out there. But what I like about it is that, unlike most 5Ks, its not about your time, and you’re not even really competing against other people. People actually help each other out on the course, it’s this we’re-all-in-it-together attitude which is really helpful when your ass is hanging from a rope 10 feet off the ground and you can’t find the strength to pull yourself up any further.

What this race IS about…is mental stamina, and toughness. And just STICKING TO IT and getting it DONE.

And I love that. I don’t care if I’m the last person to crawl across the damn finish line, to be able to say I tackled this insane course and finished it will be an accomplishment in itself.

The Tech Guru is totally on board (love it!) but, alas…we’ve run into a slight snag.

Every year for the past 7 years, he has run the Teterboro 5K. That’s another race that’s about mental toughness, because even though it’s a flat 5K with no hills and no obstacles, it’s run on the tarmac of Teterboro Airport.

In July.

You know when asphalt gets those waves of heat rising up that you can actually see? That’s what happens at this race. And of course, being that it’s on an airport runway, there’s no shade to speak of. ANYWHERE.

The first year he ran the race, it was about 90 degrees outside by 8:30 in the morning. It was so brutal that they had a fire truck following the runners and dousing them with water every mile or so, so that people wouldn’t pass the hell out. The Tech Guru’s time was not the greatest, but neither was anyone else’s who ran that race – except, of course, for the Kenyans and Ethiopians, who run that race like if they’re going out for a jog to pick up the morning paper and some coffee.

But it has become a rite of passage every year to run that race, and although no year has proven to be quite as hellish as that first year was, it’s the one race I make sure to sign him up for every year.

Well, lo and behold! Rebel Race is on the SAME DAY AS THE TETERBORO 5K.

So…we have some thinking to do. Do we stick with tradition, or break the streak and attack something new?

Well, I am not running Teterboro, no way in hell. I’d get bored out of whatever mind I have left running on an aesthetically dull runway, and he knows that. The other thing is, we are constantly constantly talking about how to achieve more mentally and physically – we can go on about that for hours, especially after we’ve watched some documentary on the untapped mind or the limits of the human body, or seen a movie like The Matrix or Ip Man. So I think that, as a new challenge, something else to conquer, this is right up his alley and mine.

Something to conquer. I just realized – that pretty much defines my modus operandi for 2012.

I am CONQUERING shit.

ARE YOU WITH ME?

Or are you going to keep doing the same crap? Whatever that crap is?

You know what they say…you can’t keep doing the same shit and expect different results. Life just doesn’t work that way.

There’s going to be a lot of new things happening this year, with me personally and with the blog. So stay tuned, and stay with me.

And get out there and CONQUER SOMETHING.

I fell asleep with the kids around 9:00. Passed right the hell out.

When I woke up, it was after 1:00 and the room was pitch black. So I picked up my iPhone and saw a message from the Tech Guru asking “R u asleep?”

I wrote back, “Yes, and so are you,” because he was right next to me in the bed. Har de har har!!

Now how was I supposed to know that when he gets text messages his phone does some weird quacking duck shit or whatever? So 5 seconds after I text him, the room turns into a fucking duck hunt and I’m sitting there frozen like…oops!

This was in my bedroom, I swear

That goes on for a few seconds and then…silence.

Nothing happens. Nobody moves. Whew.

Now how was I supposed to know that he gets TWO TEXT ALERTS, just in case he misses the FIRST one? After about another 10 seconds or so the goddamn ducks come back and start that racket again.

You see, me, I don’t get alerted about anything. Including phone calls. My phone is permanently silent. I have to be actually LOOKING AT THE PHONE to know if anyone is calling, texting, or whatever. The only thing I turn on sound for is for the Ebay alerts that tell me I have 5 minutes left on something I’m watching. (Which reminds me,  I missed bidding on a dress while I was passed out and I am so pissed, I hope they relist it, it was AWESOME. FUCK.) But, that’s IT. Oh, and of course I turn the phone on for those few rare moments when my children are in someone else’s care. Otherwise, I don’t even do vibrate. As Pudding would put it, I am a fucking stealth ninja, yo!

Anyhow, as this second round of duck season is going on, the huge mound of pillows next to me erupts and a hand reaches forth like something out of a horror movie. It gropes around for the phone, finds it, and pulls it back into the grave of pillows.

A few seconds later, a head pops up and looks at me.

“Are you kidding me?” the Tech Guru says groggily.

“Hee hee,” is my reply.

He looks at me for a second as if wondering, probably for about the millionth time since I’ve known him, if I have completely lost my fucking mind. Then he leans over, gives me a kiss, mutters “You’re crazy,” and goes back to sleep.

He really shouldn’t be wondering if I’ve lost my mind. He’s been with me long enough to know that that happened a loooonnnng time ago. I mean, come on. YOU know this and you don’t even live here. And I think he’s lost his mind too. I mean, really….DUCKS?

I would say that definitely has to apply with Beyonce and Jay-Z, given all I’ve heard about the prep that went into the arrival of their baby.

I mean, they have lots of cash, and they have the right to spend it however they want, but I think they really crossed a line when they got in the area of INCONVENIENCING OTHER NEW PARENTS.

Parents of preemies and other newborns were not allowed in to see their kids? Or made to run through some gauntlet of security guards that lasted over 20 minutes? WTF? Who made the Carter baby more important than anyone else’s?

Celebs have been having kids since the beginning of celebrity-dom, and most of them go the route of checking in through the back door, using an assumed name and, I don’t know…somehow they seem to do okay.

But that was apparently NOT ENOUGH for Jay-Z and Beyonce, who paid $1.3 MILLION TO RENT OUT AND REDECORATE a suite and BLOCK OFF A FLOOR. They took all the employee cell phones so that no one would snap a picture of Baby Carter, and they TAPED UP THE SECURITY CAMERAS so that there would be no footage of THEM. (And therefore, no footage of anyone else who might enter the hospital intent on doing something crazy to somebody else’s baby.)

I have never been a big Jay-Z fan or Beyonce. I think I have one or two of their songs on my iPod and the rest I couldn’t really give a shit about because frankly, especially when it comes to Beyonce, it all starts to sound the same. But this just turned me off. I mean, really, I’m happy that they have a baby, and I’m happy that it arrived healthy and sound, but the way this was handled just REEKS of self-importance. There was no need for them to take it to that level.

There are some dads out there who were prevented from getting in to see their wives and newborns, and if I were any of them I would SUE THE PANTS off the hospital, Jay-Z, Beyonce AND the goddamn baby. They are lucky as shit that I wasn’t in there giving birth because I would be PISSED AS HELL and LOUD ABOUT IT.  One man said all he wants is an apology. As far as I’m concerned, he’s aiming WAY too low. If these people have $1.3 million to spend on this foolishness, surely they could throw another half mil his way as a way of saying sorry.

And really, for $1.3 million, they could have hired doctors, nurses and all the damn equipment they wanted, and had that baby at HOME or in some PRIVATE PLACE where no one else would have been put out. Do like Brad and Angie – they rented out a hotel in Namibia.  I mean, that seemed a little over the top to me too and I’m sure there might have been other people with plans to stay there, but at least it was (only!) a vacation you were fucking with. Messing with people trying desperately to get in to see their KIDS? NEWBORN KIDS? Some of them in NICU?

Rude.

As I said, never been a big fan to begin with, so I’m sure they won’t miss me, but…I’m done with them.  There’s been quite an outcry over their behavior, but what do you want to bet that their publicists and agents won’t even let them see it or hear about it? Not that they should NEED to…this should never have occurred to them as possible behavior in the first place. But apparently the only way they’ll KNOW that their behavior is disgusting is if people stop buying their branded products, going to their concerts, and treating them as though gold comes out of their asses whenever they sit on the toilet.

And alas, that probably won’t happen.

“Shoes,” I answer.

“Oh.”

Pause.

“Didn’t you just get a pair of boots a few days ago?”

I didn’t answer, mainly because I didn’t trust myself to answer without using some sort of expletive.

Who the fuck is she, the Shoe Police? I think the Tech Guru must have paid her – this is SO something he would say, being the man that he is, you know, the kind that buys one pair of shoes every 10 years or so.

YES. I JUST got a pair of RED BOOTS. SO THE FUCK WHAT?

And WHY should I NOT have these shoes!

I just kept on looking at my shoes. It’s allll good.

Because you know what?

She’s only 7. NOW.

But one day, she’s going to be a teenager. A girl TEENAGER.

And she’s going to want shoes, I know she’s going to want shoes, because she is already into fashion and clothes and makeup and earrings and all that girly crap. She goes into my closet and dolls herself up and she asks me to SAVE CLOTHES for her so that 10 years from now she can sport my stuff. (If she thinks I plan on being decrepit in 10 years she’s got another think coming…I am going to be HOTTER THAN EVER AT 50, goddamnit.)

I don’t let her wear heels or makeup yet and she is just BARELY allowed to wear small clipons but she loves designing and coloring clothes, and playing with apps that allow her to make up a face… oh yeah, she has drunk the Fashionista Kool-Aid.

So when the day comes – because YES! It IS going to come – when I catch her looking at some shoes, or some jeans, or a shirt, for God’s sake it could even be a friggin pair of EARMUFFS, I am going to SCROLL ON BACK THROUGH THE TIMELINE to THIS DAY RIGHT HERE, Sunday, January 8, 2012 and she is going to hear those words ECHOING BACK AT HER THROUGH THE WORMHOLE.

Meditation has been a wonderful thing – it has taught me….

PATIENCE. (BWAH HA HA HA HA!!!!)

HE JUST CANNOT SHUT UP.

He’s about to get fired.

Let me make this very clear: I AM THE WRITER. I WRITE WHAT I WANT, WHEN I WANT. If I want to BEAT SOMETHING INTO THE GROUND, so be it.

HE…is the admin behind the scenes. He makes the site look pretty and adds functions and looks at stats and all that boring crap that is VERY IMPORTANT that I can’t do.

I CONTROL THE CONTENT. So STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO WRITE.

He is actually across from me as I write this and I’ve already yelled this, but I figured I would write it HERE so that we could ALL BE CLEAR ON OUR ROLES HERE.

DON’T

Yes..I can DO this.

EVER

TELL

ME

WHAT

TO

WRITE.

I WILL GET ANGRY. And you wouldn’t LIKE me when I’m angry.

THE

END.

OMG…he’s still talking!

I didn’t hear the rest because I just shut him out.

Why is he fucking with my world?

This is MY WEBSITE. And I will TALK ABOUT WHAT I WANT TO TALK ABOUT. I DON’T GO ALL UP IN YOUR HANGOUT AND SAY HEY FREAKS, STOP PUTTING EWOKS AND PORN IN THE SAME SENTENCE.

Cute Fuzzy Ewoks That Should NOT Be Associated With Anything Sexual

It really wasn’t that bad, though, for the record. It wasn’t like a whole bunch of guys in a room seriously discussing ewoks and porn. It just kind of came out once, as a joke, and I was like, WTF? And yes, I ran with it.

That’s what I do. I take things and run with them. I’m like a wide receiver in football, and everyone out there is a potential quarterback: you give me some material, and I’m gonna run that shit right into the end zone.

But I am not talking about Ewok porn anymore. I think that touchdown has been scored and really, there’s not that much more to say about it.

But just remember…

YOU said it first, NOT ME. (YOU being some undefined person out there that is NOT ME.)

Which I totally don’t think was a good idea, because now they’re going to be all like, why were you sitting there letting us talk about stupid shit like Ewok Porn when your wife was sitting right there, dumb ass, and if you couldn’t get the bitch to go away you should have given us some secret sign, something along the lines of I don’t like Ewok Porn so much but my wife does DON’T YOU HONEY and then we would have known she was sitting RIGHT THERE and we would have helped you out by talking about something more intelligent like quasars and quarks and existentialist bullshit until she got so bored she left the room and THEN we could have gone back to the Ewok Porn.

Oh well. I guess that’s his problem.

For the record, though, I have nothing against geeks. I am a geek. Geek is just someone who actually can talk intelligently about something besides Snooki and Kim Kartrashian and the latest football scores. Not that I have anything against the latest football scores either. We love football in this house. I just like well-rounded people, is all. People I can talk to about sci-fi, shit on TV, whether or not there’s intelligent life out there in the Universe, life goals…you know, meaningful shit, or interesting shit, or just…shit.

Not Optimal Fantasy Material

So to all the “geeks” out there, please, don’t get me wrong. I am not insulting you. I AM one of you. It was just…the Ewok porn thing. But then I saw the picture of the girl dressed like an Ewok and it made a whole lot more sense. Although personally I didn’t think she was that cute. I mean, she was OKAY. Not the kind of cute to inspire porn fantasies to me, but, hey, what do I know? I’m a woman and I have pretty high standards for other women. I mean, I’m always dumbfounded by what men will fantasize about, chicks that are just not that pretty and whose only redeeming qualities – for porn purposes, anyway – is the ownership of a vagina. Really? Is that all it takes? Because for that matter, there are horses with vaginas, and hamsters, and cats, and dolphins and rabbits…I mean, lots of things have vaginas. I think once you get into the land of porn fantasies, though, it shouldn’t just be HUMAN, but ATTRACTIVE. And some of the chicks I see in some lower-grade porn with bodies that are too thin or flabby, faces that would stop a clock…I mean, isn’t this supposed to be a FANTASY? So WHY, in a FANTASY, would you choose some D-grade shit? In real life, we have to be more practical, I get it. But not in PORN. Not in a fantasy. That’s like me fantasizing about having sex with Steve Buscemi when I could totally fantasize about having sex with Jason Momoa.

Optimal Fantasy Material

And that takes us into beauty being in the eye of the beholder and standards of beauty, and I’m not getting into that discussion here, because it’s way more serious than I feel like being now, plus I might have to accept that for some people EWOKS are attractive and I just really don’t want to go down that visual road because I might throw up. I’ll just acknowledge that we all have different tastes, and if that girl is cute to you, especially when she’s dressed like an Ewok, then, go for it, dude. But I’m just REMINDING you…fantasies should be awesome. Whatever awesome is to you. Life can be fucked up enough…don’t let it make you downgrade your fantasies. It’s all in your head and why can’t the stuff in your head be totally fucking awesome?

And to the geeks in the hangout, I promise that the next time hubby is in the room, I won’t be there sitting on the sidelines wondering what the hell is wrong with all of you. Maybe I’ll be in my own hangout and we’ll talk about how Jabba the Hutt was coming on to Princess Leia and how gross it all was but yet we wanted to see HOW THAT WOULD ACTUALLY WORK because really, did he even have a penis and if he did, would he even be able to find it, and how if he did and he managed to do the vile deed, Princess Leia would totally go over to the Dark Side and kill everybody because she’d be absolutely traumatized by the whole experience and that would be a WHOLE OTHER MOVIE like some kind of Star Wars alternate universe.

Ew.

Just in case you didn’t figure that out from the title.

No, I’m not trying to be negative or anything. At least, that’s not my intent right now. Not all of it is going to be things that piss me off. Things that piss me off is different from things that annoy me. Annoyance is…milder?

So, today’s thing is:

Lace-up boots.

TOO MUCH WORK, people! TOO MUCH WORK!

The thing is, I love the way a lot of them LOOK. They LOOK awesome, a lot of them, especially the ones that are all up your thighs.

But try actually putting those fuckers on!

Goddamn Lace-Up Boots

I speak from experience.

You’re sitting there, and you’re lacing, and you’re lacing, and you’re lacing, and you’re lacing, and it’s not tight enough so you have to figure out where to pull it so you can tighten it, and no matter where you pull it’s not totally doing it so you have to keep pulling until it all somehow magically comes together, and it takes WAY TOO LONG. TOO TOO LONG.

I mean, going through this shit with sneakers is bad enough. But BOOTS? THIGH-HIGH BOOTS?

No.

There must be zippers, people. If you are planning to buy me any boots, EVER, they MUST HAVE ZIPPERS.

**********

I know this is TOTALLY NOT RELATED…but I am sitting here next to the Tech Guru, who is in some hangout on Google+ and I’m hearing this conversation and they are ALL A BUNCH OF GEEKEDY GEEK NERDS. I am a nerd, but THIS SHIT RIGHT HERE is crazy.

Part of what made me start writing is this post was the desire to tune them out; unfortunately my phone and headphones are ALL THE WAY UPSTAIRS IN THE MANSION and the maid and the butler have the night off so, basically, what that means is, I have to listen to this insane geek talk or shove fucking pencils in my ears (which is becoming a more attractive option with each passing minute).

Don’t get me wrong, they were actually talking about some very interesting stuff at first; when he first joined the conversation there was a lot of back and forth about etymology, which was right up my alley, I wanted to jump in but I didn’t want to be trapped in this virtual room because I knew the convo was not going to stay on etymology forever.

And of course!

They had to go and fuck it all up and show their total geekdom by starting to talk about shit like -

Ewok porn.

Ewok porn is one of those weird things like, I don’t know, sushi and Kit Kat bars.  Individually, they are awesome, but put them together and you have a REALLY BAD COMBO. Ewoks are cool. Love the Ewoks. Porn is cool, for the most part. But EWOK PORN is something that only a COMPLETE FUCKING DORK would even contemplate, furthermore talk about.

I should add here, that the Tech Guru was not contributing to the conversation. He’s actually pretty shy and reserved when he meets new people (maybe that’s where Pudding gets it from?) so I’m sure that contributed to his reticence, but I’m also hoping that it had something to do with NOT HAVING THAT MUCH TO SAY ABOUT EWOK PORN.

Now they’re talking about…digital painting. The Tech Guru is an artist, did I tell you? So they’re all geeked up yapping about drawing apps, which is better than EWOK PORN, but still…

I need to go find some pencils.

Pronto.

As it turned out, the medication WAS on the kitchen counter, but if you knew how full of drugs medicine and helpful products my kitchen counter is, you’d understand why it wasn’t easy to find. The damn bottle was actually on its side under a box of sinus pain medication. For those of you who are new here, now you know two things: I take lots of meds and my kitchen counter is a fucking mess.

In any case, I KNOW how you all were on tenterhooks out there, wondering if I had found my stuff or just completely gone off the deep end. Unfortunately for those of you who were awaiting a spectacle, um, sorry…meds found, CRISIS AVERTED.

Of course, my period is on its way and it feels like a million stallions are thundering through my bloodstream, spreading angst and drama as they go but…that, at least, I can deal with.

I think.

Pudding started “camp” today. Yes…we STILL call it camp, which has resulted in lots of odd looks from outsiders, like the woman in the yarn store today who asked him if he’d just come from school to which he replied, of course, “No, CAMP.” I mean, who the fuck goes to camp in the WINTER? I’m sure that’s what most people are thinking.

WE do, OKAY? We do shit OUR way around here. Get USED TO IT.

Honestly, I think the return to camp was more drama for me than it was for Pudding. First of all, I found out when we walked in that the ONE KID that he had taken a shining to, a little brunette named Jenna, was not coming back. That got me upset because…well, Pudding is not like his sister was at that age. She would roll into a room and within 5 minutes she would have talked to everyone in it. Pudding, he’ll be there for 5 YEARS and still be thinking hard about which kid he actually likes.

And I respect, absolutely, that even at this age he shows some discernment. I hope he keeps that, actually…but with that said, why is it that the ONE GIRL he actually LIKED, is not coming back? I swear, I was almost ready to find out who her parents are and call them:

“Um, hi, I know you don’t know me from a hole in the wall, but my son, who makes friends about once a year, he really likes your little girl. So can you please bring her back to camp – I mean, school? I will pay for the class. I’m warning you, if you say no we’re pretty much going to have to kidnap your kid, you know this, right? Great – see you next week!”

The teacher actually told me about Jenna’s not returning when we entered the classroom because even SHE knew that they had a “bond.” “They’re on the same wavelength,” she whispered to me as Pudding sauntered off to read a book. Clearly her PARENTS need to be told about this whole wavelength thing and get with the damn program. How dare they deprive my son!

So I felt bad about that. Totally not in my control, but my heartstrings were being tugged for my son.

Then!

MAJOR

MOM

FUCKUP.

They have added swimming to the itinerary, which is awesome. So I made sure this morning that I packed his lunch, his extra set of clothes, his towel, and his swim suit.

Imagine my horror when I go to pick him up and there he is, sitting on a bench on the side of the pool.

Fully dressed.

By himself.

“What happened?” I cried as I rushed to him.

“You forgot my swimsuit,” he said to me calmly.

“No! No I didn’t! It was right in the bag, you didn’t see it?” I replied as I rushed to his bag and began pulling everything out.

His lunch bag.

His extra clothes.

His towel.

NO FUCKING SWIMSUIT.

The swim teacher came up to me and said, “We offered him another suit, we keep the best stuff from the lost and found basket but he didn’t want to wear anyone else’s clothes.”

I looked at him and…I couldn’t fucking help it.

I started to cry.

“I’m so so sorry, baby,” I moaned as I hugged him tight. He grinned at me and he was okay, didn’t seem the least bit put out, but I felt like shit. And I knew right then that the reason that I was continuing to feel like shit despite the fact that my son was clearly not perturbed about not being able to swim, was that I was having flashbacks of all the times in school that I was the kid who couldn’t do something because of not being allowed, or not having the money, or not fitting in, and just being THAT KID sitting on the sidelines watching as others had fun. I go through hell and high water to make sure THAT DOES NOT HAPPEN TO MY KIDS. Not that they always have to “fit in” – God knows I have learned to appreciate my individuality and I have taught my children already that they are their own people who should follow their own minds. But, with that said, if they don’t do something, I want it to be because they don’t want to do something, not because they CAN’T.

I know…it’s pretty stupid and nothing to get worked up about and I KNOW that all the getting worked up has WAY more to do with my issues than it has to do with good parenting. I know this. But…it didn’t stop me from crying, not for ME, but for Pudding, who looked so small sitting on the bench all alone because all the other kids had been picked up by their parents and were in the locker rooms changing.

“I feel terrible,” I whispered in his ear.

“Why?” he whispered back.

“Because I was so sure I had packed your swimsuit. I pulled it out and was so sure I had put it in there. I must have turned to do something else, as usual, and forgotten to go right back to it, I know exactly where it is, it was right on the dresser and I swore I put it in,” I replied, feeling helpless and still hugging him tightly. The teacher was looking at me a bit awkwardly, but I got the impression that she’s dealt with enough moms to know that the slightest thing can often cause a total breakdown. Not just with the KIDS, mind you, but with the MOMS.

He pulled back and looked at me. “I got 2 smiley faces,” he said, grinning as he showed me the stamps he’d gotten, one on each hand.

I smiled back through my tears. “That’s awesome, kiddo.”

“Mommy? Do you still feel terrible?” he asked, looking at me seriously.

“Yes, actually, I do. But we’re going to go home and as SOON as we get there, we’re going to put the swimsuit IN THE BAG so you’ll have it for next week, okay? I’m so so sorry, baby,” I said, hugging him again.

“It’s okay, Mommy,” he said to me.

Which only made me hug him more and love him more and feel more like shit all at the same time. How does that even fucking work?

“You could have worn another suit,” I said somewhat lamely as we walked out of the building a few minutes later, not because I wanted him to wear someone else’s suit, I was actually glad he hadn’t, but because I just wanted him to understand he COULD have.

“I didn’t want to,” he said lightly, and I realized he was so done with that and I needed to take his cue and be done with it too. Easier said than done.

“Okay, sweetie. But I’m still sorry,” I said, kissing him as I put him in his carseat.

“Look what I made in class,” he said, already moved on.

He showed me a paper bird nestled in a bed of yarn which was neatly enclosed in a nest fashioned out of the two halves of a small paper plate. “This is Tweety,” he said.

“The yarn store is right down the street, and the yoga studio. I want to stop in…wanna come?” I asked.

“Okay,” he answered as he played with Tweety.

It’s the feeling of inefficiency and the idea that I have somehow failed my children in varying ways, whether it’s something seemingly small like forgetting a bathing suit or something big like…things that I’m not even ready to talk about publicly yet, that often sends me to medication or a drink. Or, as you know, sometimes both. But it’s their responses, of love, acceptance, and innocent understanding, that helps me…NOT to need it.

I love them so incredibly much. They inspire me to be the best I can be, not just for them, but for myself. Obviously, I don’t always succeed…but I’m trying.

And that goddamn swimsuit is IN THE BAG.

I CANNOT FIND MY FUCKING ANXIETY MEDICATION.

CODE RED! REPEAT: CODE  - FUCKING – RED!!!!

I had a bottle of Ativan that I carried in my bag so that if anxiety hit me while I was out and about, I would have it readily available. Truth be told, I actually haven’t needed it that much of late, so there is a good chance I misplaced it, but the bottom line is…

I DON’T KNOW WHERE THE FUCK IT IS! AND I NEED IT! NOW!

I bought this purse organizer thingy that is supposed to help me transfer all my necessities from one purse to another without losing anything important. I was so psyched when I got this thing. First of all, it has lots of little pockets. I love little pockets. I’m like a fucking rabbit or something, I see pockets, I have to nose in them and find out what’s going on in there, and it’s just…fun. And oddly comforting. Having lots of little pockets means I have somehow managed to organize my life. That is the message it is supposed to send to the world.

I have a secret for you, though. No matter HOW MANY FUCKING POCKETS they put in these things…

I always need JUST ONE MORE. JUST…ONE…MORE.

So I have this thing with the pockets, and I put all kinds of doo-dads and gadgets in it. My glasses, in case one of my contact lenses should go flying out of my eye while I’m driving. (DO NOT LAUGH. This has actually happened to me, not so much that the lens went flying out of my eye but it decided to go down into that netherland of my eyeball, you know, the place where those errant eyelashes go and disappear, and not only was this terribly annoying and uncomfortable but it sucked that it happened while I was flying on the Belt Parkway at 70 FUCKING MILES PER HOUR IN THE FAST LANE. And me, with no glasses as back up, had to continue driving with one eye squinted shut to keep the goddamn contact lens at least within my body, not sure where it would come out later, maybe my mouth? Where do those eyelashes go? So I learned the hard way…CARRY GLASSES. I could carry a spare pair of contacts but it’s not so easy to chuck a contact in your eye while you’re driving, no matter how agile you are with those suckers.)

I also carry ibuprofen. Hate being outside and getting a headache, and then you need to go into some bodega and they want to charge you like $2.50 for a packet of 2 pills, which is total highway robbery, not to mention fucking USELESS, because I have yet to have the headache that does not require at least 4 pills, which means 5 BUCKS, for which I could buy a whole damn bottle. And when I have a headache I don’t want to go buying shit for it at that time. I want to have it ready to go. So ibuprofen, an absolute must.

Of course there’s the girlie cosmetic bag. Then there’s the reading glasses. Yes, I have become decrepit enough to need reading glasses. Or my eyes have anyhow. I stopped fighting it and just go with it. I didn’t even realize I needed the damn things til I started crocheting and then I was like, wow, if these suckers can help me see these stitches, they might help me see the WORDS ON A PAGE. And I was right! So at least now fewer of my headaches are due to reading.

What else goes in the purse organizer? The phone sometimes. Hand lotion, for those hand jobs. (Joke!) And of course…

MY GODDAMN ANXIETY MEDS, so that if I am OUT and get a panic attack, I don’t need to drive home in a state of manic madness before I can get some relief. Besides, driving home like an insane lunatic running from Martians is probably not a good idea…although to be honest, driving home AFTER I’ve taken the meds and am high as a kite, is probably not a good idea either.

So all this shit is what usually goes in the purse organizer. Except now…

I CANNOT FIND THE ANXIETY MEDS.

I looked through the bag to see if they fell out.

No.

Looked on the kitchen counter to see if I placed it there after taking it recently.

No.

Looked in my dressing room and found it – yay! Except it wasn’t really it, it was an old bottle, with only 4 pills left. I only need one right now, but the fact that I cannot FIND the other pills, the more recent bottle, the one with about 25 PILLS OR SO LEFT? THAT…is FREAKING ME OUT.

FREAKING ME OUT.

Because despite all my chatter earlier about being happy and peachy and oh so thrilled…I need meds. I need them now.

I think it’s a fucking plot. The minute I post about being happy, something flares up and sends me back to straitjacket mode. Even shit just in my head.

If anyone has seen my meds, please return them. NO QUESTIONS ASKED AND THERE WILL BE A REWARD. I might even SHARE ONE WITH YOU.

In the meantime, I’m tearing up the house.

CODE RED! CODE RED! CODE RED!!!! HEEELLLLLLLLPPPPPPPPP!!! S-O-FUCKING-ESS!!!!

Me, I’m fine. A tad woozy from meds but as you will soon learn, that’s not so abnormal. These meds are not behavioral meds, though, no, these are cough and congestion meds to clear up the mucus that LOVES to collect in my chest and sit there like a frigging squatter. I took some last night and it didn’t make me woozy but today’s dose has me feeling a little…out there.

Oh well. Enough about me and meds.

I feel oddly good today, and it’s weird to feel so good because it’s like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. That’s pretty damn sad. I am learning, though, to trust in the Universe’s goodness, to get out of that mindset that good is only there to make the bad even more horrible. I don’t believe that anymore. I feel good because good is here, and more good is coming and…life is good!

No, this is not the wooziness talking. Seriously. I feel very…positive. And that’s saying a lot. I know there will be days when I go back down in the dumps but that fucker Claude – you remember him, right? – he seems to be getting smaller and smaller and smaller. And he visits less often.

This…is good.

Punksin’s birthday is right around the corner and she has asked for only 2 things: a bike, and a vacation. So…that’s what we’re getting her. Can’t figure out where to go yet but all of us are overdue and a vacation would be LOVELY so I’m working on making that happen. Which reminds me, the Tech Guru needs to get his passport renewed…maybe we’ll expedite it so that we’re not here waiting on tenterhooks for his passport to arrive THE DAY BEFORE WE LEAVE, as we were when we went to Jamaica and my passport was floating around out in Never Never Land. Talk about stressful.

After that, I need some me time and I was thinking about visiting my sister in California in March. She is not biologically my sister but God knows I love her more than some people I am and have been related to, and we both have the light-skinned long hair thing happening so we could PASS for sisters. And we’re both Sagittarians! AWESOME. She is a sister of the spirit. I love her to freaking pieces.

So that’s going to be the first half of the year. I need to sit down with the Tech Guru and see if there are any conferences he wants to attend, and what conferences I want to attend, and then work out our travel plans from there. And we’re also getting tired of the vacations that are just…go, stay somewhere else, come back home. I want vacations where I try something new or learn something new or work on a skill… Painting vacations. Writing vacations. Hiking vacations. Yoga vacations. Vacations where we really come home with memories that are not just about what we saw, but what we did.

So I have my work cut out for me this year but I’m making it happen…this is the year of MAKING SHIT HAPPEN.

Are you with me?

I love to cook, but every now and then I go through phases where I just get BORED with cooking food. I’ve been in a rather LONG one of those phases…ha ha.

But tonight’s dinner was lovely (despite Pudding’s declaration that “I’m NOT eating your food!“) and it was light enough and it’s early enough, that there will still be room enough for dessert.

Tonight, we’re staying home. Long ago, we grew annoyed with the whole idea of going out and paying oodles of dollars for the privilege of kissing each other at midnight in the midst of a whole bunch of other people. It’s MUCH more fun to kiss each other at home naked in front of the fireplace, with a few extra hundred in our bank accounts. We watch the ball on TV, we toast with champagne, and then we talk about our goals for the year to come and what we’ve accomplished in the year we’ve just left behind.

I remember the year we were waiting for Punksin to arrive…my stomach was out to there and we were so excited at the prospect of being parents!

I remember the year that we HAD Punksin…reaching the end of that year, we were awed at our biggest accomplishment yet – becoming parents to this incredibly awesome little girl who had changed our lives forever.

I remember the year we were waiting for Pudding. I wasn’t that big yet, and we were planning our last trip as a threesome, heading to Jamaica in February…

And then of course that New Year’s Eve, in 2007, I looked down at this 5-month old little boy who absolutely took my breath away with his perfect features, his round head and deliciously chubby arms and legs.

I remember years before we got married…the best year was the year we got The Matrix on DVD! We were curled up under blankets on the couch, stark naked, watching that movie OVER AND OVER AND OVER. That is one of my FAVORITEST MOVIES EVER.

Tonight, Punksin wants to stay up. Haven’t decided yet if we’re going to allow her. Part of me wants her to, but part of me wants to preserve the ritual we have of greeting the New Year together, just the two of us, talking about all the things we’ve learned and accomplished, and what steps we need to take to get to the next destination on our journey together, as well as the things we each want to accomplish separately. Like getting to the entrance of an amusement park, this night, the last night of the year, always feels full of hope and promise as we wonder what adventures lie ahead, what ups and downs we’ll encounter, and what mountains we’ll finally conquer.

2011 wasn’t a bad year by far, but I look forward to 2012. May it be full of wonderful things…for all of us.

I can’t say I’m sad to see it go…but honestly, looking back at it, I don’t feel this overwhelming sense of relief that it’s over either. I mean, it had its ups and downs, for sure, but…that’s life. There have been some years that I couldn’t wait to kick in the ass on their way out the door, but this year…really, not so bad.

I learned a LOT about life this year, and I think when I look back on it and reflect on what the take-away lesson for me is from 2011, it’s this:

Things – and people – are only as important in your life as you allow them to be. And if you are not important to other people, without anger you should release their importance to you.

I learned that I am not as important to some people as I had hoped to be. That was a mindfuck, not just knowing it but then sitting down and absorbing it and all that that meant. But in the end, I came away…okay! And that’s when it hit me like a freight train: being important to certain people was only a big deal because I made those people important…to ME.

And one of the things I needed to do to heal from that was to erase that importance, to stop dealing in what I hoped for and wished for and wanted, and start dealing in REALITY. I mean, to continue in fruitless attempts to get love and affection and praise … why? What made these people’s praise and love and affection any better than anyone else’s? If anything…it was worse, because it was conditional upon me being someone I’m not, or hiding my own feelings, or bowing down to other’s egos so that they could feel great while my own ego got bruised and battered.

Fuck that.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve done – well, to be honest, not so much thinking as just sitting with my feelings, allowing them to go where they would and see what happened. And I was pleasantly surprised to see that when it came to some things, and some people…I no longer cared. The price I had to pay was too high and too RIDICULOUS, when I LIVE IN A HOUSE with people who love me and show it to me unconditionally and constantly, whose egos are strong enough to show me love even when I am battered and bruised.

The Tech Guru? He is awesome. I sat there with my feelings and realized that so much of my growth over the past decade has been aided by him…because he has loved me for who I am, all the aspects of me that so few other people know, and his love has allowed me to really blossom. His love is like fertilizer for my soul…I sit in it and I can feel the warmth of the sun on my face and just feel my spirit growing and blossoming into…whatever it is going to be. My writing, my metaphysical studies, my yoga, my literature, whatever I bring out of my soul to show him, he respects and caresses. He is strong enough to love me openly and without reservation, to communicate any and all of his feelings: when he’s angry, I know. When he loves me, I know. When he wants me, I know. His love does not ask me to give of myself while he keeps himself hidden. It does not ask me to be someone I am not, or to hide all the people that I am. His love gives me strength. It is solid, and strong, and steady and wonderful.

It is food for my soul.

He is important to me, as he should be, because I have made him important. But unlike so many other people in my life, he deserves the importance I give to him.  As I reflected upon WHY I needed other people’s love or approval, I couldn’t really come up with a good answer other than…I wanted it. I thought I deserved it. I thought I needed it. But I’ve come this far without it…and in some ways, the absence of certain people has actually helped me to flourish. So…why would I seek to change that, to let them back in so they could just bring me anxiety and stress?

And so here I am, at the end of 2011…and I’ve let a lot of people…

go.

To all of you – my mother, my father, my cousin, former friends – I release you. I wish you peace, I wish you enlightenment and I wish you…joy. But I release you from any responsibility toward me, from any ideas of how I wish you had acted, wish you had been…you were what you were, and I am what I am. And what I am right now, is a woman who is profoundly at peace, because I look over to the living room, at my husband sitting on the floor, playing with the two blessings he has bestowed upon me, and I feel truly happy. No anger, no pain…just unadulterated joy at what I have been so blessed with. I no longer place importance on what I don’t have…because what I have is an incredibly wonderful person as a husband and true best friend, two amazingly intelligent and sensitive children, and a future that with them that looks so bright that I am smiling as I write this.

This life, these people, are important to me.

And they are wonderful.

Last winter, I got into thigh-high socks. I wanted to keep my legs warm, but somehow the tight-nylons-hugging-the-crotch thing seemed constricting.  So I got into socks. I mean, it wasn’t like I was wearing dresses that much. Not in winter.

But a few days ago I decided to wear a dress, and I threw on some thick cable-sweater designed stockings with it.  I thought this was all well and good, but apparently…

I WAS WRONG.

“Mom?” Pudding said shortly after I made my way from the shower to the kitchen, swinging from the refrigerator door handle and looking at me skeptically, “what are those?”

“What are what?” I asked.

“On your legs. Are those leggings?” he said.

“No,” I replied. “These are stockings.”

“Oh,” he said somewhat disdainfully. Then he stopped swinging on the door handle and leaned against the door to give me and my stockings a rather long perusal.

“I’m not feeling them for you so much,” was the pronouncement.

“Oh?” I said, laughing. “YOU…aren’t feeling them.”

“That’s not what I said,” he persisted. “I SAID, I’m not feeling them so much. For you.” And he stalked off.

I’m supposed to give him points for honesty, right? As opposed to telling him to fuck off? Right?

Just asking. For next time.

I’ve been licking my proverbial wounds, and when that happens, I tend to retreat into silence and introspection. Which is sometimes a good thing, and sometimes not.

I’ve been dealing with rejection, a recurring theme – coming to grips with the fact that people that I wanted so desperately to love me, don’t.

The thing is, there are times when I think I’ve come to grips with it, when I’ve found my Zen place and I am okay with the travails that this life has offered me and continues to serve me on a platter.

But I’ve come to realize that that Zen place is not like a house that you build, where you construct it once and it’s there as a permanent fixture. It’s not like that at all.

Rather, it’s something I have to keep working at. There are times when it’s rock-solid, hurricane-proof, and then sometimes something happens and I go to my Zen place, only to find that it’s blown away like dandelion wisps on the wind.

The first time that happened, I was rather shocked. Shocked to find that I was not unshakeable, that the peace I’d found was not still wrapped around me like a comforting blanket but that like just about anything in life, I suppose, a one-time achievement was a good thing but that more work would be required to maintain it.

November, the month of my birth, has always always always been a tough month for me. I seem to spend more time during that month wondering why I was born instead of celebrating. For all my chatter about the whole month being my birthday, I have a secret: it’s just a facade. I’m usually grateful when the month is over, because behind the smiles and the jokes and the laughter is a lot of pain. Why am I here? What the fuck is there really worth celebrating when the ones who should be celebrating with me, aren’t? What is there really worth celebrating about November 24th anyhow? What makes me so special? Not a goddamn thing, apparently. Not a goddamn thing. This year, November was particularly tough, as the theme of rejection resounded over and over and over. Yes, it’s a bitch to realize you’re not as great and wonderful and unique as you thought you were, even to those whom you thought would love you forever. And November serves as a great reminder of that for me. Sometimes I toy with the idea of not celebrating at all. I mean, really…what the hell am I celebrating? That I was born? Somehow, that hasn’t seemed to mean a lot.

Getting through it is…tough. One day at a time is the name of the game and every day I have to deal with it the way that day demands. Sometimes, it’s burying myself in the kids and their schooling. Sometimes it’s losing myself in my own work. Sometimes, I cry on the Tech Guru’s shoulders, while he consoles me in silence, knowing that there is nothing to say or do except wait for the storm to pass. Sometimes, it’s sleep medication, so that I can actually get to sleep. And on the worst of the worst days, it’s a combo of all the above, sometimes with a drink thrown in. I need to get out more, but even that, I know, is just like a band-aid. No matter where I go, and how much I laugh, and how much I drink, eventually, I wind up back here…that place inside my heart that is in pain. It ain’t pretty! But it’s home.

Sigh.

I feel so bad for the families of suicides, who never understand why their presence was not enough of a balm to heal the deep wounds festering inside the one who left. Because I get it. I sit here, with a husband who loves me and kids who are completely totally fucking awesome, and yet…it is not enough to heal me completely. It helps, believe me, it helps, tremendously. Without them, I would have checked out long ago. So it does help to staunch the flow. But I know that ultimately the real work has to come from within me, so that one day, maybe one day before I die, I can overcome the belief that…I am not enough.

That’s going to take work, and that’s what I am coming to realize. I had a breakthrough moment in meditation a few years back and I naively thought I was done, that reaching that state meant my healing was done. I am now understanding that it was just the beginning, because each day brings new challenges, new disappointments, or more often than not, the same disappointments that crop up and over and over again, trying to find new ways to crush my spirit. So I have to keep working on it, learn to let go and find peace.

It’s so hard.

Tech Guru: Where are my balls?

Punksin: I don’t know.

Tech Guru: You guys keep playing with my balls.

Punksin: The last time I remembered you with them, you were putting them in my hand while I was asleep and that’s how you woke me up. 

Um, Mommy, why are you laughing?

That’s my husband…always shoving his balls in people’s hands while they’re sleeping. So RUDE.

(For the record, because there’s always some jackass out there who doesn’t get THE JOKE, Punksin was sleeping one morning with her hand outstretched and extended off the bed. The Tech Guru decided to wake her up by putting his juggling balls in her hand, one by one, to see if and when she would wake up. Obviously…she did. I’m not sure how many balls it took, though. JUGGLING balls, that is. JUGGLING balls.)

I don’t know if I should even tell you. I’m sure it’s a lot more titillating for you to think that we yell these out at each other when we’re having raw, crazy, baboon-style sex.

(FYI, I don’t really know anything about baboons and their sex lives. It just sounded good. Somebody should look that up, though, and get back to me ASAP.)

Anyhow, one night when we were getting the kids ready for bed, The Tech Guru said something to me, like “Hurry up, hookah.” And he and I cracked up.

Dumb asses that we were, we forgot that Pudding was in the room, and NOTHING gets by this kid.

So of course he asks the obvious: “Why are you calling my mommy a hooker?”

(As an aside, you know what I find amazing about that? The “my.” Not, why are you calling Mommy a hooker, but why are you calling MY mommy a hooker. He doesn’t normally refer to me as “my mommy” when he’s talking to his dad, but it was as though he instinctively understood the pejorative and it called up something protective in him. I found that very very interesting.)

To get back to the story, Tech Guru and I laughed and explained it was just a joke and not to be worried. And since then, we’ve had to be make sure to avoid this in front of him or Punksin, because it comes so naturally to us to say it. Why?

It comes from…drumroll please….

my boy Lafayette on True Blood.

I don’t know how many of you are True Blood fans but we LOVE that show. And anyone who does watch it knows that Lafayette is constantly calling people “hookah,” “motherfucker,” and “bitch.”

My favorite line EVER in the show, which I am still trying to find a clip of on Youtube, is when he is talking to his aunt, who is royally fucked up in the head but is trying to extend the hand of friendship to Lafayette. And he looks at her and says “BITCH, now you know that you and me train ain’t NEVUH gonna happen.”

The Tech Guru and I were on the floor when Lafayette uttered that and ever since, we have used that phrase ALL THE TIME.

He asks me to make breakfast – “BITCH, that ain’t NEVUH gonna happen.”

I ask him to FIX MY WEBSITE – “HOOKAH, that ain’t NEVUH gonna happen.”  On and on it goes:

“Can you make me some coffee, BITCH?” “Make your own goddamn coffee, MOTHERFUCKER.”

“Have you seen my slippers, HOOKAH?” “They’re right next to the bed, BITCH.”

And then we collapse into peals of laughter.

Needless to say, we’ve realized that we have to be SUPER careful about saying crap like this around the kids, because even when it’s not an outright curse word, somehow they just KNOW. And even if we’re laughing and yukking it up, again…somehow they just KNOW. These are not good words. These are not words Mommy and Daddy should be calling each other. As they grow older they will understand that it’s just jokes, that Mommy and Daddy love to share a laugh, that Mommy is psychotic and needs medication, and to KNOCK ON THE FUCKING DOOR when Mommy is meditating instead of just BARGING IN!

Wait…I got lost somewhere. What was I saying now?

Oh yes. No more hooker, bitch and motherfucker around the kids. (Well, we never actually said the last two in their hearing. I know you probably think I am insane enough that I might have, but really, what I’m insane about is protecting their innocence. I am raw as all hell on HERE, but my kids get a very sanitized version of Mommy – still insane, still funny, but SANITIZED.)

So, that’s it folks. Really. Nothing sexual about it, nothing crazy, just lines from a TV show. I’m really sorry if I’ve disappointed you, but really, you should know by now that between me and the Tech Guru exists lots of love, respect and jokes, so, as far as THIS goes anyhow…that’s all I got for you.

**********

That’s IT, BITCHES! GO HOME!

P.S. Here’s a quick primer on Lafayette, for those who have yet to make his acquaintance.

Let me be VERY CLEAR on this…we MIGHT. I said MIGHT.

The kids want a pet. I want a dog and so do the kids, but I’m also very aware of the fact that taking care of that dog is going to fall mainly on my shoulders, and that’s pretty much adding another kid to the fold, even though it will sleep on the floor and (hopefully) bite the shit out of anyone who comes in here unannounced.

So for now, we have compromised on guinea pigs.

At first, Punksin wanted a tarantula.

You may find this hard to believe, but I was actually all down with the tarantula idea. But they’re not the most cuddly playful animals and they can also release the hairs on their legs when they’re scared, which can cause problems to their handlers. When I read that a guy in Great Britain had to have surgery for tarantula hairs that had embedded in his cornea from his tarantula’s defense mechanism, that was the end of me and any goddamn tarantulas, at least until the kids get older.

So, we moved on and I thought, maybe guinea pigs.

Hamsters are too small and look too damn close to mice. It would be one endless round of me shrieking and screaming and really, I can’t take any more of that right now.

Gerbils, pretty much same thing.

Guinea pigs? I can do guinea pigs, I thought, and presented Punksin with this as a POSSIBLE option…

WHICH SHE HAS WHOLEHEARTEDLY EMBRACED.

Now, as you can tell by the tarantula anecdote, I like to do my homework before going and grabbing up some animal, especially a species I’ve never had before. And I encouraged Punksin to do the same, which has been pretty annoying because she has read the one guinea pig book I got her over and over and over and persists in following me around the house reading excerpts from it despite the fact that I READ THE SAME FUCKING BOOK.

I have warned Punksin that the main concern that might put the kibosh on this right now is allergies: Pudding and I, with our respiratory issues, might not react so kindly to guinea pigs, and even she and The Tech Guru could have allergic reactions. Of course Punksin, who is clearly the strongest of all of us in the respiratory area and only seems to be allergic to things like making her bed and taking showers, just glosses that shit over and continues to quote me passages from the guinea pig book like some sort of Guinea Pig Evangelist.

The book has been very helpful, however. We have learned a lot about how we should go about the process of becoming “parents” to guinea pigs, should we decide to go ahead with it. Very interesting factoids!

For instance, you should never get just ONE guinea pig. They are very social herd animals and one guinea pig by itself will get very lonely and stressed out, which could result in its watching QVC all day long and ordering jewelry, workout equipment, and golf clubs that it will NEVER USE.

But its not just about going and throwing two guinea pigs in a cage either.

They need lots of room. They need shit to play with because they like challenges. They CAN actually get really used to you and respond to you with affection once you handle them a lot and ply them with treats, especially in the beginning.

But my favorite and most enlightening guinea pig factoids by far, were these:

You CANNOT get two males.

Why? They will fight, scuffle, scrabble, and generally BEAT THE SHIT out of each other in a constant and never-ending battle for dominance.

Hmmmmmm.

You CANNOT get a male and a female.

Why? They will constantly be fornicating, to the extent that not only will you be able to open a guinea pig farm within a year, but you will also have your own live-and-in-person lesson on the birds and the bees for your kids – over and over. And over. And over.

Hmmmmm.

So what remains, is the recommended guinea pig equation for those who would actually like their guinea pigs to be happy and cheerful.

Two females.

Why? Because the two girls will get along GREAT. They will become BFFs and do each other’s hair and talk about boys and give each other makeovers. But! DO NOT BE FOOLED! They WILL squabble! They will get pissed off and have arguments about shit like “why did you borrow my sweater without asking” and “when you bring guys home can you please make sure they KNOCK before they come in the bathroom in the morning because I was in there changing my tampon” and “why do you always leave your dishes in the sink instead of just washing them.” Yes, they WILL argue! They will have TIFFS! But they WILL become friends again and love each other to pieces – until the next time one fucks up and sleeps with the other one’s boyfriend and that causes a little tension until they both decide that he was a douche anyhow and not worth breaking up their sisterhood over.

Hmmmmm.

If all goes well and we do go ahead and get guinea pigs, I think it’s gonna work out just fine. Because apparently, they are just little people who eat hay.

Awesome.

CHRISTMAS TREES, PEOPLE!

It is not even THANKSGIVING.

It is not even MY BIRTHDAY. (My birthday is in November, in case you didn’t know, and is treated as a national holiday in this house for the ENTIRE MONTH OF NOVEMBER. So feel free to send greetings, best wishes, presents and cash whenever you want.)

So we pass this, and the three of us – me, Punksin, and Pudding – look at it with disgust.

“I mean, really,” Punksin says,”when they start so early, you get sick of it by the time Christmas gets here. What’s the rush?”

My sentiments exactly.

And then this other little voice mutters from the backseat.

“I don’t want a Christmas tree this year.”

“What?” I exclaim. “What do you mean, you don’t want a Christmas tree?”

“Just what I said. I don’t want a Christmas tree this year,” he persists.

“Why not?

“Because…I just don’t.”

“But if we don’t have a Christmas tree, Santa won’t come!” Punksin exclaims. She knows this is bullshit. She knows there are some houses that cannot afford trees, or do not have room for trees, and yet Santa somehow finds his fat ass in there and drops presents. She is trying to convince her brother that we have to have a tree. Me, I want to know why he doesn’t want a tree.

“Well, there has to be a reason, sweetie. Why don’t you want a tree?” I ask.

“I just don’t.”

I hate when my kids say that. I am paranoid, and when my kids tell me shit like they just don’t as a reason, I start wondering what they’re hiding and who’s been molesting them and how can I find the fucker and kill them and how old will the kids be when I get out of jail and will I really have to be the girlfriend of some scary 6 ft thug bitch named Peaches while I’m in there.

It occurs to me, however, that it is highly unlikely that Pudding has been molested by a Christmas tree. Nor was he sent out with anyone besides his father to retrieve one. So what the hell is going on?

“Honey, ‘I just don’t’ isn’t really cutting it as an answer. There has to be a reason. Why don’t you want to get a Christmas tree? What is the REASON you don’t want a tree this year?”

He thinks about it, and then sighs.

“It’s just…too much work.”

TOO MUCH WORK.

IT IS TOO MUCH FUCKING WORK.

Let me EXPLAIN to you, what TOO MUCH WORK is.

His DAD went out last year, picked up an 8-FOOT TREE, paid for it out of HIS MONEY, got that sucker IN THE CAR and DROVE IT HOME. DRAGGED IT INTO THE HOUSE. GOT IT INTO THE TREE STAND, with MY help. UNTANGLED ALLLL THE FUCKING LIGHTS. DISCOVERED THAT NONE OF THEM WORKED. I hauled MY ass to the store and BOUGHT MORE. Drove home with lights. Re-enter the Tech Guru, who STRUNG THE LIGHTS ON THE TREE. He then WENT INTO THE ATTIC, took out ALL THE BOXES of ornaments and brought them down 2 flights of stairs. Punksin and I then DECORATED THE TREE. After ALLLLLLL this shit happened, the Tech Guru gives Pudding the Angel tree topper, PICKS UP PUDDING, and ASSISTS PUDDING WITH PLACING THE ANGEL ATOP THE TREE. This was pretty much the SUM TOTAL OF HIS, PUDDING’S, CONTRIBUTION.

We didn’t think we were asking for much at the time, given that he was THREE YEARS OLD.

But apparently, for PUDDING…this is all just TOO MUCH FUCKING WORK.

“We’re getting a tree this year, kiddo,” I said.

“But I don’t want one,” he whined.

“You don’t want it? Don’t look at it! But the rest of us? The ones who actually DID THE WORK? WE WANT A TREE.”

Wait til he gets a drivers license and a job. Then he’ll see how much work it is. I’ll be drinking egg nog and singing carols til I’m drunk while he does EVERYTHING. If he keeps it up, I’ll send him into the woods to CHOP ONE DOWN and he’ll have to walk it home 3 miles on a SLED.

Just wait.

Of course you have. If you haven’t, I don’t even know how you could relate to ANYTHING I say on here.

I’ve been having a shitty few weeks.

Medical issues.

Relationship issues.

Kiddie issues!

Mommy issues – as in, MY mommy, not me BEING a mommy. (That would get filed under Kiddie Issues.)

Writing issues.

Just…ISSUES.

Today is more of same. Not a totally bad day – I now have contacts again, oh joy – but still, by the end of it, I needed that damn anxiety medicine. And I’ve been taking more and more of it recently, which is of some concern since the doctor told me it can be addicting.

So here I sit, medicated and yet – STILL ANXIOUS! And all out of sorts about all kinds of shit.

And then I remembered what a very wise sage once told me (I kid you not):

“When you are feeling shitty, and having a bad day, and your mind is racing, and you need to destress, go, find your husband, and have some great mindblowing sex.”

It doesn’t solve anything – but it sure helps you feel better! And it’s not dangerous like drugs or alcohol. (Or in my case, drugs AND alcohol, a combo I know should not be happening but am sometimes TOO GODDAMNED DEPRESSED to give a shit about.)

The Tech Guru is, as usual, busting his ass working right now, but he can always be counted on to “take a break” should the opportunity present itself in the form of moi. Will it relieve my intense stress this evening? Sometimes it works, sometimes it don’t…but it sure feels good to try.

You know my secret theory…the one where I think my kids are planning to have me committed and doing their best to get me there. (And honestly, it’s not going to take much.)

This morning, Pudding decided to add his 2 cents.

He asks ME, for a corn muffin.

I do not go to get said corn muffin. Instead, his FATHER provides the corn muffin.

What The Tech Guru does not know, is that when you give Pudding a corn muffin, you must NOT FUCK WITH IT.

Imagine the following in a German accent, if you will, because after all, this kid has Der Vaterland strongly in his blood.

Der is to be NO CUTTING!

NO SLICING!

NO TOASTING!

YOU VILL NOT, in ANY WAY, ADD TO, DETRACT FROM, OR MODIFY ZE AFOREMENTIONED MUFFIN.

So what happens? The Tech Guru, thinking he’s being Mr. Super Awesome Dad and all, decides that it would be WONDERFUL to slice, toast it, and slather the inside of this corn muffin with soft, warm, melting butter.

LAWD A MERCY.

Pudding looks at this absolutely scrumptious looking specimen of a muffin that was placed in front of him…

and all fucking hell breaks loose.

First, the crying. You know, the wailing that sounds like a friggin ambulance siren: it starts off low and then just increases in pitch and decibel until you seriously contemplating shoving pencils into your ears.

Then, in the midst of the tears and the red eyes, “I DON’T WANT THAT MUFFIN!”

“What’s wrong with it? It’s nice and buttery!” Tech Guru says, decidedly miffed that his thoughtful offering is getting TWO LITTLE THUMBS DOWN.

“It’s NOT the SAME.”

“Yes, it is. It’s a corn muffin, which is what you asked for.” This is The Tech Guru. Math genius. Programming master. Chess Master. Lover of logic. Illogical things – like 4-year olds – COMPLETELY STUMP HIM.

“No it’s NOT! It’s NOT the saaaaaaaaaame,” Pudding wails.

“But it was just sliced, and it has butter, you like butter, and it’s nice and warm-”

“I DON’T WANT IT! I’m NOT EATING IT! It’s NOT THE SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMME,” at which point, he runs off flailing and crying into the playroom.

The Tech Guru is looking at me, first a little confused, then a little pissed. I’m stirring my tea and giving him a dry look that says “Welcome to my world of pain.”

He’s about to drag Pudding back to eat the goddamn muffin (old school discipline sometimes kicks in in our house) but I do the slice across the neck action. Kill it, I’m telling him. My advice? FORGET THAT LITTLE FUCKER, and ENJOY YOUR OWN GODDAMN BREAKFAST.

Eventually, Pudding comes back to the breakfast table, where the rest of us have pretty much finished scarfing down our food. He sits down. The offending muffin is still there. He looks at it, sniffs, and takes a sip of his tea.

His face blossoms with undiluted pleasure and he beams at me.

“This is a bloody good cup of tea!” he says.

I’m loving it. Not only did I not fuck up my part of breakfast…the kid’s an Anglophile!

Yesterday we hied to the doctor for Pudding’s annual checkup.

If you’ve been reading for any decent stretch of time, you know my theory, the Murphy’s Law of Doctors. Well, that came into play again yesterday.

Having left the pediatrician we had previously because of constantly having to deal with the one asshole in a three-physician practice, I found a new office that I really like because of their holistic integrative approach to well-being. The doctor who owns the practice is really nice and the other doctor whom we met on our first visit, I was practically in love with.

Of course, about a month after the kids records were transferred, the doctor I loved left to spend more time with her own 18-month old daughter – a move I found devastating and incredibly rude, since I’d been looking forward to her spending most of her time with MY children. The RUDENESS of her.

Another doctor joined the practice; I wasn’t so hot on her but it didn’t matter because next thing I knew she was like the song, dust in the friggin wind.

For about a year now, though, it’s been three doctors: 1 man, 2 women.

Me likey the man.

Me likey one of the women.

The other one?

Hmmmm.

Not so much.

So of course, you KNOW which doctor we saw yesterday when we went in for Pudding’s visit. You do know, right? Please tell me you know. You absolutely damn well HAVE to know.

So we get there, and she performs what I have to say is a pretty thorough exam. Not only is she checking heart rates and such, she’s asking lots of questions to assess his mental agility, physical skills and the like.  Which is great, but not terribly effective, because Pudding is answering all of her questions….

WITH LIES AND A BIG FAT SMIRK ON HIS FACE.

Or sometimes, NO ANSWER… AND A BIG FAT SMIRK ON HIS FACE.

This, as you can tell, did not make this an easy visit.

“So, can you dress yourself?”

Smirk

…and silence.

“Can you put on your own clothes?”

Smirk.

Then, after a few seconds, a big sigh followed by “No. My mom has to do it,” which he says in that tone of voice that means “DUH“. I am, at that very moment, helping him put back on his pants. Clearly, he is saying, she’s an idiot if she can’t see this.

“Okay, I know she has to do it right now because you’re standing on the exam table and we don’t want you to fall off, but what if she’s busy at home, can you do it yourself?”

“No.”

Smirk.

He then proceeds to pull up his jeans, button them and zip them up.

She looks at me, confused.

I just shrug, a gesture calculated to mean “What do you want from me?”

“Can you hit a ball?”

Smirk. No answer.

“Like if you play teeball? Can you hit the ball?”

Big sigh with a slowwwwww roll of the eyes. “I don’t play teeball,” he says slowly, as though speaking to an idiot. I snicker. I see the doctor looking at me out of the corner of my eye but I stubbornly refuse to make eye contact. I will only make eye contact with her to make a point or when I think doing so will make her uncomfortable. Unfortunately, it is becoming quickly apparent that we have come into the office on a day when my juvenile behavior actually rivals that of my kids.

“Okay, well if someone pitches the ball to you can you hit it?”"

Smirk, and he looks out the window.

She looks at me.

Finally, with the desire to just get the fuck out of there already help her out, I throw her a bone. “He plays tennis and he hits the balls the teacher throws, so I think his hand-eye coordination is okay,” I say with exasperation. Can he hit a ball. Come on! Does she know what kind of house this is? His dad is an amateur athlete, for God’s sake, and my house rules are so lax that I actually allow my kids to throw balls IN THE HOUSE. Our remote has been rigged to get ESPN and if the kids try to change it they get electric shocks. Sports is not an elective in this house; it is a MAJOR. If this kid can’t hit a fucking ball, we’re not taking him to a doctor; we’re taking him to an adoption agency.

“Do you like school? Are you all ready for school?”

Smirk – and more rollllling of the eyes.

This would have been a good time for me to chime in, but all of a sudden I found my manicure terribly interesting. I couldn’t wait to see how this one was gonna go.

“How about school? ABC’s? Do you like school?”

“I don’t GO to school,” he says with what is now complete and total exasperation.  “I do my work AT HOME.” And again, another roll of the eyes.

She looks at me. I grin, to show her that I am insanely pleased with his answers, and then I say, “He’s homeschooled.”

“Oh,” she answers, her voice somewhere on the line between nonplussed and disapproving, which was exactly what I’d been expecting from her since she seems to be a sourpuss about that sort of thing. “What about you?” she asks, looking at Punksin, clearly hoping that maybe Pudding is a special case and is being homeschooled because he’s an idiot moron or something.

Punksin looks at me, her face a vision of mild disgust. I know my daughter, and she does not want to talk to this woman.

“She’s homeschooled as well,” I answer, this time with a smirk of my own. Nope, no idiots here, lady. Not by far.

Now, I should point out here that Punksin’s  disgust was because she was sort of done with the doctor herself, due to something that happened earlier in the visit.

You see, dear old doc had asked me if I wanted to test Pudding’s blood. They’d done some non-invasive blood test early on in the visit and the results indicated he wasn’t getting enough iron. Unfortunately,  the only way to confirm those results was with a blood sample via finger prick, which was optional. We’re talking iron, here, and I don’t want my child to be sick, so I said yes, let’s do the finger prick. Pudding overheard us talking and asked what it was all about and as I was about to explain it to him – me, his mother, you understand -  the doctor butts in loudly with “OKAY, OKAY, WE DON”T NEED TO TALK ABOUT IT NOW, IT’S ABOUT NOTHING, LET’S GO ON AND WE’LL COME BACK TO THAT, OKAY?”

All shit hit the fan at this point because Punksin looks at the doctor in horror and yells, “But that’s LYING!”

Apparently, I have done a damn good job of teaching my daughter that LIES ARE NOT GOOD.  Since I really didn’t like being overriden by the doctor when it was my goddamn decision whether or not to keep my son in the dark about getting his frigging finger pricked, I decided to keep my mouth shut as my daughter verbally stoned the woman, so there we were, Punksin looking at the doctor with judgmental horror, me staring at the doctor stonefaced, Pudding smirking and rolling his eyes, and the doctor looking at all of us and probably wondering if there was an APB out on us as escapees from an asylum.

So we had the awkward silence thing happen, and since we weren’t going to break it, she finally charged ahead, ignoring Punksin’s outburst and starting in with the aforementioned questions to Pudding, which he, as I have already explained, answered with so much lying and sarcasm that I’m sure the poor woman needed a stiff one by the time we left the office.

Of course, eventually I DID explain to Pudding that he needed to get his finger pricked and promised that it would feel like a pinch.

So the nurse comes in, lets him choose a finger (apparently the thumb hurts the most so they let them choose another one which was SO not an option when I was growing up, those fuckers), and he chose the ring finger.

She pricked it.

For a few seconds he sat there, looking at her in alarm.

Then slowly, his eyebrows rose higher and higher in horror, until finally he bellowed, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME? WHAT….ARE….YOU…..DOING TO ME?” in a voice loud enough to frighten every other kid in that office.

Awesome.

Of course I rushed to console him, but really, I had to hide a laugh. I mean, it was funny as hell how fucking PISSED he was. He wasn’t hurt – at first – he was MAD AS HELL.

But then, my little Pudding devolved into tears, poor thing, and that wasn’t so funny to me anymore. He cried and cried and cried, and only the promise of ice cream was remotely successful in staunching the flow.

Sigh. What sucks is, he’s gonna have to get a flu shot, and he is none too pleased about it. I’ve passed on them in years past, but with the kids being more and more active outside and us all already being sick like 3 times before winter has even arrived, I think it would be safer for us to do the damn thing. I hate being sick, and I hate my kids being sick.

The shots, yeah, that’s going to be fun. My plan is that in a show of empathy and solidarity, I will get mine on the same day he gets his. He’ll get his first, and then I’ll get mine.

I realize that this will probably not mean squat to him, and that actually, that plan is more designed to force me to get the damn shot.

I wonder which one of us is going to holler louder.

Now, I am relatively new to the sport. Until I met the Tech Guru some, what, 14 years ago, I didn’t really give a shit. Didn’t understand it, didn’t care to. It was all about baseball for me. But if you like sports in general, and you start living with someone else who likes a sport you don’t happen to know about, well, you’re gonna pick up some stuff here or there and eventually, wow, you actually give a shit who wins a game.

So now, I can understand enough to watch the game with some level of intelligence, but I am far from an expert. There are still terms I don’t understand, and when I come across one, I ask the Tech Guru what the fuck is going on.

Tonight, I see them scroll something across the bottom of the screen about Michael Vick, the quarterback, being second in the league in contact during the dropback.

Well, I don’t know what a dropback is, so because the Tech Guru, who PLAYED FOOTBALL IN COLLEGE and is also my HUSBAND and therefore my go-to person on all matters football, is sitting next to me, I ask him, “What’s a dropback?”

“Huh?” he mutters. Because of course, I am asking this WHILE THE GAME IS ON instead of writing all my questions down and asking them AFTER the game. This is annoying. For those of you who are football wives, let me tell you, it is fucking ANNOYING, and I know this. I know better. I also hate explaining sports to people when the action is actually… HAPPENING. It’s annoying to take your head out of the game to answer a question while things are actually going down on the field/court/whatever. Ask  AFTERWARDS.

Despite knowing this, I persist. Because I…am a dumb ass.

“I said, what’s a dropback?”

He shakes his head slightly, as if he needs to clear his head to focus on my question. I also think I see a tinge of “why is she asking me this shit NOW when I’m trying to concentrate on the game” but I ignore it because…well, to be honest, I really don’t have a good reason, other than that I wanted to know. Is that not enough?

“Where’d you hear that?” he mutters somewhat incoherently.

I sigh. One thing that I find amazing, the Tech Guru NEVER READS THE SHIT scrolling on the TV. ESPN, that scrolling newsbar they have at the bottom? NEVER READS IT. NEV-UH. I read it and still hear/see the news from the anchors. It’s really not that hard. But him, they could write that the world is coming to an end in 12 minutes or that he won Lotto, and he would NEVER FUCKING KNOW.

So of course, he never saw the BIG ASS CAPTION that they put up there about Michael Vick and the dropback.

I tell him about the stat I just saw. The one that WAS ON THE TV MAIN SCREEN, NOT THE SCROLLING NEWSBAR, FOR ABOUT 15 SECONDS.

“What’s a dropback…” he repeats slowly and absentmindedly. Apparently, we are in some kind of spelling bee shit or something where you have to repeat the question before answering.

“Yes. A dropback,” I reply, waiting. Any minute now I’m expecting him to stand up and say: “D….R…O…..P….B…….A…..C…….K. Dropback,” which is really going to suck, because I don’t have any trophies to hand out for awesome spelling.

But no. Instead, he hits me with this bombshell:

“A dropback. Oh. That’s when the quarterback…drops back.”

The room is enveloped in silence.

He stares at the TV.

I stare at him.

He’s staring at the TV.

I’m staring at him.

He is back to watching the game.

Me, I am still staring at him, with something that is somewhere between awe and I-want-to-slap-the-shit-out-of-you.

Really?

REALLY?

That, people, was his BIG FUCKING HELPFUL ANSWER OF ENLIGHTENMENT. A DROPBACK, people, is when the quarterback….wait for it now!…..DROPS BACK!!!! I mean, really! How could I have been so FRIGGING STUPID? DUH!

At least pretend you were. Jeez, give my ego a boost.

So what has happened in the last almost 2 months?

Um…

Lots of funny shit with the kids, that’s for sure. I mean, they are a HOOT.

Punksin passed her swimming level and is now in Minnow 2, which means…well, shit, I don’t know. I mean, they have these names like if we have any idea. Does a minnow necessarily swim better than a guppy? Who the fuck knows? Anyhow, it’s something having to do with like the 4th or 5th level of swimming and basically she knows how to swim – she has for over a year – so now she’s working on stroke perfection.

Lots of illness. Pudding got a bad head cold. Gross shit coming out of his eyes, for God’s sake. Then I got sick. Then Punksin got sick. Then Pudding got sick again. Then I got sick again. Then Punksin. Then, lo and behold, the Tech Guru got sick. He NEVER gets sick, so you understand that the whole situation was defcon 4 up in here. He’s still sick. Every time I give him medication that makes him woozy, he looks frightened and I laugh and laugh. He hates that woozy feeling. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I LIVE for that feeling.

We also had a SNOWSTORM IN OCTOBER. We lost power for what was apparently only 36 hours but felt like 3 DAYS. No internet. No TV. No making tea in my teakettle, I had to BOIL WATER ON THE STOVE – gasp! No making popcorn in the microwave. No washing clothes! And worst of all, NO HEAT. I tried to make the best of it for the kids’ sake and Pudding was a trooper but Punksin was MISERABLE. I thought she would love camping out in front of the fireplace but she was cold and unhappy, and even although I piled 4 blankets on top of her, including 2 comforters, she was not having it. Thank God that night was when the power came back on so she woke up to a warm house and light.

What else has been happening? Pudding goes to school one day a week but we told him it’s camp so that he would go willingly, and we still call it camp. He came home confused the first week because they had done “work” but he’s been a trooper and he still likes it, thank God.

I’m doing NaNoWriMo again this year, which I think is insanity but I’m determined to do it EVERY YEAR until I get the damn thing done. So here we go, people!

What else? I got nothing. Well, that’s not exactly true, but frankly, who wants a recap of 2 MONTHS? So, I’ll just try to be better about posting going forward.

Oh, I should post about my depression. It hasn’t been so bad, all things considered. I have good days and bad days, but hey, who can’t say that? Meditation and prayer help infinitely. And I really want to up my yoga because I love it.

I’m going to end with what I end a lot of my prayer with: Thank God for my children. They are joy itself. Enjoy the rare shot.

I was in NYC on 9/11. I had gone into my office early to prepare for a meeting with a client, when The Tech Guru, to whom I was not yet married, called to ask if I’d heard about a plane flying into one of the Twin Towers. At that time, we thought it was a helicopter or small plane like a Cessna, piloted, perhaps, by a student taking a lesson. It seemed innocent enough, a random tragedy that would be the news of the day only for that day.

Casually, still prepping for my meeting, I went into the conference room and turned on the TV and, with several co-workers, watched the replay of the plane slamming into the building.

Then I noticed that the caption on the bottom of the TV screen said LIVE.

LIVE.

It quickly dawned on us. We hadn’t seen a replay – we had seen a second plane, a plane that looked pretty damn big, much bigger than a Cessna, fly into the Twin…wait…another plane? A second plane?

Yeah. Okay, a little more serious than we’d originally thought, but still, we tried, in those initial moments, to think of possible causes: two drunk pilots? A flight plan gone seriously wrong? Everything we hypothesized seems so ridiculous now in hindsight, but on that morning, right after it had happened, we steadfastly refused to go straight to the worst scenario #1. It had to have been an accident, right? Because if it wasn’t…then what?

Still stunned, a colleague and I still left the building for our meeting a few blocks away. The streets were not yet chaotic, there was still some semblance of normalcy. But by the time we arrived at our client’s office a few minutes later, it became apparent that there weren’t going to be any more meetings that day; business as usual, life as usual, had come to a stop. So we left our client’s offices, quickly, awkwardly, making our way through streets that already felt different from the ones we’d navigated on the way there. Groups of people were clustered together watching TVs, taxis were stopped with radios set to news stations for all to hear…and as we rushed back to our office, we heard a collective gasp from a crowd of people standing on a corner looking towards downtown.

“What happened?” I asked a tall man on the outskirts of the group, trying to see what everyone was looking at.

“One of the towers just fell,” he replied, looking at the rising cloud of ash with stunned eyes while running his hands through his hair. His was the first of many voices I would hear that day that sounded traumatized and truly awed, in all the wrong ways, by what had happened to the Twin Towers, to New York, to us.

I can’t remember exactly how many hours it took me to locate the Tech Guru, what with cellular service being spotty and the general chaos that ensued. It was several hours after that that we finally arrived home, somewhat bedraggled, to our 2 dogs whose happy tail-wagging greetings were the first normal thing we’d experienced since we’d first heard anything about planes. The next day, there was no work. Instead we sat glued to the TV, at first unable to take our eyes away from the footage, played over and over and over, of planes crashing, people leaping to their deaths, the Towers collapsing,  people running, running, running from the carnage, all shrouded in white ash. But finally, somewhere in mid-afternoon, I had to turn it off. I had to. I didn’t want to at first, taking my mind away from it seemed almost disrespectful to those who had perished, but I realized that for my own sanity, I had to.

I had to.

So much happened in the days following. The Tech Guru went into NYC with his fraternity brother who had driven from Nebraska – no planes to hop on in those first days following 9/11 – to seek out his sibling who had worked on the 103rd floor of one of the buildings. They went from hospital to hospital, in New York and even in New Jersey, but eventually they realized the truth that was hitting so many others – the hospitals were not full of people who were injured or hurt or suffering from amnesia. Those people who had made it out, were, for the most part, fine…at least physically. But those who didn’t make it out left us few signs of their passing, perishing completely and totally as if somehow mindful of that most somber of Lenten phrases:

“Remember that thou art dust, and to dust thou shall return.“

************************************************

It’s 10 years later and all you have to do is travel by plane to know we haven’t moved on as much as we’ve evolved to adapt to the new world system. And I don’t normally do the 9/11 remembrance thing, precisely because there are so many out there that will do it for me and say it better. But this year, I just wanted to…acknowledge it somehow, I don’t know why. Maybe it’s partially because a few years later I discovered that a junior high classmate had been one of the many firemen to perish. Maybe it’s because I remember how, for a time, we shed all the various classifications we had for people we knew – neighbors, colleagues, clients – and became a homogenous group unified by fear, and anger, and sorrow. Maybe it’s because even now, 10 years later, I can remember that day and the days immediately following with stark clarity, and as painful as they are, I want to preserve those memories out of respect.

But now, I don’t want to say anymore…I feel as though I’m reaching for profound sentiment when really, there’s nothing I can say, nothing that I’ve ever read in years and years of attempted retrospectives, that can truly capture either the horror of that day or its resulting sanctity. I just send up a prayer for the people who suffered on 9/11, whether by dying, by saving, by watching, or by being left behind.

God bless them.

God bless us all.

]]> http://drinkleidownpassout.com/2011/09/10-years-later/feed/ 1 http://drinkleidownpassout.com/2011/09/10-years-later/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/DrinkLeiDownPassOut/~3/EaoTSp_UIfM/ http://drinkleidownpassout.com/2011/09/975/#comments Thu, 08 Sep 2011 16:27:49 +0000 Leila http://drinkleidownpassout.com/?p=975

Those of you who blog know that we can get ridiculous amounts of spam. For every one legitimate comment from a REAL PERSON who has actually READ THE BLOG and has a valid COMMENT on something I’ve said, there are literally at least 100 ridiculous comments from some automated system or some poor schmuck who is being paid to make completely irrelevant comments just so I can link to some site out in Estonia that promotes kiddie porn.

Most of the time, I hit delete, delete, delete. Because it’s all bullshit. But every now and then, like today, I actually read through some of them, and they are so hilarious in their attempts to try to sound legitimate. Because yes, I am THAT STUPID and will not realize that the comment, paired with the fact that your email address is buynikeshoescheap at hxmc dot com, will be NO CLUE to me that you have NO idea what the hell is going on.

You guys know what I blog about: Claude the dragon, depression, my fam, my kids, whatever. Those are the general themes. Oh, and shit that pisses me off. Definitely. So you tell me if even half the shit below makes any sense whatsoever. Oh, and the grammar – you have to check the grammar. What you see below is VERBATIM, nothing has been edited:

“Thank you for the auspicious writeup. It in fact was a amusement account it. Look advanced to far added agreeable from you! However, how can we communicate?“

Um, you and I can never communicate; I can’t even understand what the fuck you’re trying to say, which is a basic component of COMMUNICATION.

“Not long ago i stumbled on your site publish and also have been recently looking at alongside. I have come across a number of unusual feedback, however for the most part My partner and i clearly accept the various other commenters say. Viewing a lot of wonderfulgreat reviews of this website, I was thinking that i also needs to start along with let you know that I must say i enjoyed scanning this article. Therefore i believe this would make my first comment: “I can see that you’ve produced a number of really intriguing factors. Not necessarily so many people would certainly truly ponder over it the way you simply does. I am genuinely pleased that there are a great deal about this topic that’s been bare so you achieved it so nicely, with so much school!inch“

Uh, say what now?

“I would like to use the opportunity of thanking you for your professional advice I have constantly enjoyed visiting your site. I’m looking forward to the particular commencement of my college research and the entire groundwork would never have been complete without coming to your web blog. If I could be of any assistance to others, I’d personally be pleased to help by way of what I have gained from here”

Clearly this person gets how awesome and inspiring I am, and although I have no idea what professional advice he could possibly be talking about, I’m touched. I mean, the entire groundwork would not have been possible without ME. The ENTIRE GROUNDWORK, people.

“it was very interesting to read and look through your blog, i did not know anything about this before.“

I’m guessing you don’t know shit about it now either.

“quick and fast delivery……love it“

I think he has me confused with Domino’s. I get that a lot.

“I do like the way you have presented this matter plus it really does supply me some fodder for thought. Nevertheless, because of what precisely I have observed, I really trust as the opinions pack on that people keep on point and don’t start on a tirade regarding some other news du jour. Anyway, thank you for this exceptional point and while I do not concur with it in totality, I respect your point of view.“

Do you hear that, people? Do NOT be starting on tirades on some other news du jour and KEEP ON POINT. Words to live by.

My partner and i cherished your site, it supplied a perfect perspective on the stock market. Cheers.

I’m so glad my perspective on the stock market has helped, even though I think this is the first time I’ve actually written the words “stock market” on this blog. Let me know how that works out for you, okay?

“I am speachless.“

So am I. I just realized I’ve been spelling “speechless” incorrectly for my WHOLE LIFE.

“Properly… being entirely genuine, We was not hoping to locate this sort of data by mistake, as I did so, due to the fact I recently identified this web site article while I became actually completing the look on AOL, looking for a thing really near although not the exact same… On the other hand today I am over happy to read the idea and I would like to add that your insight is very exciting although a little bit dubious to the recognized… I’d personally alternatively state it ought to be as much as debate… but I’m frightened to make you my foe, ‘, ha, ‘… Nonetheless, if you need to chat more to do with that, you need to react to my own opinion and also I will always join so that I’m going to be advised and then return here for much more… Your hopeful friend.“

Did you see that? He is frightened to make me his FOE. RECOGNIZE, BITCHES. (Don’t even ask me about the rest of what he said.)

“i think your crazy“

Hmmm…if you only think I’m crazy, I’m obviously doing something wrong here.

“Glad to see Burt out in Jupiter and the Palm Beach community. It is great for all.“

Burt is in Palm Beach? For reals? That fucking Burt, man. It’s so hard to keep up with him.

“Help please. Last night I was working 2nd shift at work and a guy came up to our register to pay his food ticket and he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a $1 bill and said, “This is all I’ve got in my wallet. I do not have the remaining dough to pay you.” Then he did the most stunning thing. He instsantly turned the $1 bill into a credit card. OMG I went home and got on the internet and found the magic illusion video BUT I am not paying twenty nine dollars to know the secret. Can U figure the trick out?“

Yes, I can figure the trick out: you smoked some crack right before you went to work.

“Does Your Friend Or Family have Night Terrors? Check this out!“

Anyone who lives with me has Night Terrors. I AM the Night Terror, son!!

“Люди, вот решила попробовать сесть на диету… Кто что скажет, то что предлагают на этом сайте”

OMG, I was JUST saying THE EXACT SAME THING the other day!

“super archition with ponfict cinhoury for sillord aering. pacing have asphe that mempess it prottant and bring, folatiore waliming.“

Now I’M speachless. Seriously.

“Good morning
I want to achieve something, but what – I can not understand“

Usually in the mornings, what I want to achieve, is getting back into bed as quickly as possible. You should try it.

And finally,

“i think your wonderful”

I’m going to try my best to overlook the fact that you don’t know the difference between your and you’re because that kind of grammar shit just CHAPS MY ASS. I’m also gonna ignore that you’re coming from some site having to do with phishing, which lets all and sundry know what the real deal is. I’m gonna ignore that this comment is coming from the SAME COMMENTER that said “i think your crazy,” same bad grammar. Yes, I’m gonna IGNORE all of that and just say, yes…I am pretty wonderful, and I’m SO GLAD YOU KNOW.

There is nothing in this post about sex.

Or videotape. (Which, when paired with sex, can apparently get you a whole reality show career that involves you sleeping with lots of sports stars and finally having a wedding in which you do not spend money but earn it, right Kim Kardashian? but by itself, um, videotape is pretty boring. And really, who makes videotapes anymore? Do they even sell those? Is it a videorecording now? Or do we still say tape just because it’s shorter and kind of rolls off the tongue? Get back to me on that, ok?)

Anyhow, yeah, no sex, no videotape, I was just trying to lure you in. There is however, some lying (even in the title, apparently. I just thought of that.)

So, as you can see, if you read last night’s post, I am STILL HERE. I have once again emerged from my Russian Roulette, victorious. Which means you’ll have a whole new song to learn tonight if I don’t behave myself. So I hope you’re not drinking, because I am depending on you not to fuck this up.

So anyhow, although there has been a lot going on in my life to get me worked up and frazzled and generally homicidal, I realized that what has made all of that even worse is that I RAN OUT OF MY LEXAPRO.

EGADS!!!! (No one says that anymore either but I am on a personal mission to bring it back because it’s so stupid and yet so innocent. I mean, how many times can you say FUCK? I’m testing that limit like all the time.)

So, I took my last Lexapro pill on…lemme see…Sunday night? Figured I could call in a refill on Monday, and then mosey on over to Ye Olde CVS to pick it up same day, in time to take the next dose.

But when I called it in, HORROR OF HORRORS!!!! Ye Automated System at Ye Olde CVS told me that I had RUN OUT OF REFILLS, and that they would have to call my doctor to authorize a new scrip, and that due to the holiday the doctor would most likely be closed, and that therefore they would not be able to call her until Tuesday, and that therefore my scrip would, in all likelihood, not be ready until Wednesday. Because apparently, although it was LABOR DAY, people had the gall to TAKE TIME OFF AND NOT WORK. I mean, what the fuck are we calling it LABOR DAY for if no one is out there LABORING and shit? Does this make any sense to you?

So okay. I tell the automated system at Ye Olde CVS to call the goddamn doctor and have the scrip ready for Wednesday, and then proceed to rid the house of all the guns, knives and hand grenades until Thursday, so that we can be sure that if I do use any of them I will at least be back on the meds and therefore calm and levelheaded about it, and possibly even HAVE A GOOD REASON, other than “I shot that fucker 40 times because I was off the Lexapro.” From what I hear, that doesn’t fly so well in court.

I also figured I’d ask them to get her to authorize more Clonazepam, known in my world as Clona-shaZAM, my awesome anti-anxiety meds that make me totally loopy, half-conscious and completely unable to give a fuck about ANYTHING. I figured with a root canal coming up it would be nice to be completely immersed in la-la land and tiptoeing through the tulips in my head.

I am now steeled for Wednesday. Wednesday is going to be awesome, right?

Well, maybe not.

On Tuesday, I get an email from my doctor.

She does not want to authorize more Lexapro without an office visit.

Should I mention at this point that getting an office visit is like getting in to see Obama? It takes FUCKING FOREVER. And I am OUT OF PILLS. RIGHT NOW.

Not to mention that I didn’t see this goddamn email until Wednesday because for some reason… I’m just not so into email these days. I go for days without looking at it and even then, I just skim. Which is not so good because that’s how a lot of our bills get delivered. The companies that text me get paid, the rest of those fuckers, well, it’s hit or miss for those guys.

So now, I have to call the office on Wednesday, which is today, and ask to see my doctor, which I do. Well, guess what? She’s not available again until NEXT MONDAY! What the fuck is she DOING until NEXT MONDAY? I mean, who the hell is THAT BUSY? She’s a fucking general practitioner, not an oncologist or something really important with a long name that you can’t pronounce. This means a WEEK WITHOUT LEXAPRO. And you know what that means…now, I have to put away the SECRET STASH OF GUNS, KNIVES AND HAND GRENADES that I kept out just in case of Armageddon or some shit.

So I threaten to kill them beg them to let me see any goddamn doctor who is available.  Actually, it doesn’t even have to be a doctor, the fucking janitor will do, as long as he has access to a prescription pad and can GIVE ME MY FUCKING MEDS.

Now, here’s an aside, dear reader. (For you people that have the gall not to read or study literature, an aside is when your narrator comes out of the story to sort of give you a side note, which is something I actually do pretty often, but it’s just that now I’m telling you about it. But that, in itself, was not the aside, although I am glad to have had the opportunity to teach you shit you should already know share something with you. Now we’ll go back to the original aside, but the next time I say that, you better know what the fuck I’m talking about.)

Anyhow, the aside: I don’t know if you have experienced this before, but there is a sort of Murphy’s Law of Doctors, which states that if you need to see a doctor in an emergency, not only will your doctor not be available, but the doctor that you will be scheduled to see in your sensitive time of desperate need and illness, will be the one doctor in the practice who is a COMPLETE FUCKING ASSHOLE.

This shit happens to me ALL THE TIME.

It used to happen to me with the kids. The first pediatrician they had was so nice but there was another one in the office who used to act as though you had shown up at his house at 3 am with your 5 kids and asked him to give them their annual exams. Total jerk. And whenever Punksin or Pudding got sick, guess who we got to see? I couldn’t figure out why we always got this douche, why his ass was always available, until it hit me – no one else wanted to see him either! So they’ve got patients doing backflips to avoid seeing him, which meant that when you had an emergency, his schedule was WIDE the fuck open. It got to the point that when the kids did get sick, I would be thinking, gee, I know Pudding can’t breathe and is turning blue and his eyes are rolling back in his head…but do I really need to take him in? Do I really need to take Punksin in with that #2 pencil embedded in her neck? She’ll be okay…just walk it off! Because… what if we get Dr. I. M. Acunt?

That was when I knew I needed to change practices before my kids died while I sat there hemming and hawing about avoiding this shithead.

And it’s the same thing with my practice. There is one doctor in this practice who just rubs me the wrong way, she’s just abrupt and terse and generally unpleasant, and I try to avoid her like the plague, unless, of course,  the day comes where I actually get the plague, in which case I will ask to see her specifically and will make a point of coughing with my mouth wide open and sneezing copious amounts of plague-bearing snot right in her face.

Of course, today, since my doctor was doing some completely rude thing like SEEING OTHER PATIENTS, guess who I got?

FINE.

I go in, and for once, I actually get ushered in from the waiting room quickly. Again, you know why…no one else wants to see this heifer either.

In to the examination room, and I’m there for a few minutes fucking around with the medical supplies reading a magazine, when the doctor breezes in the door, shoves a paper onto the examining table next to me, mutters “Fill that out for me” and leaves the room again.

No hello, how are you feeling, hi, a smile, some fucking greeting of humanity. Just completely RUDE.

Which I, of course, commented on rather LOUDLY after she had left, hopefully loudly enough for her to HEAR. Clearly Bedside Manner was not her shining moment in medical school.

A few minutes later she comes back in and proceeds to drill me on why I need the Lexapro and how long I’ve been on it. To which I rudely respond that “it SHOULD be in the file.” I mean, they’re all computerized, she’s sitting there with a laptop right in front of her face with my whole medical history right on it. What the fuck are you asking me for? You want to know how long I’ve been on it, look that shit up, heifer. Why do I have to do your job? I don’t know how long I’ve been on it, what I know is how long I’ve been off it, which is 3 days and I’m getting crazier by the minute; if she had any sense she’d realize that was the shit she needed to be worried about, for her own health as well as mine.

So then she asks me about the Clona-shazam, wants to know how often I take it, and I say hardly ever, which is actually true.  So she says, “what, like twice a week, every day…” Now, I don’t know how the fuck you get “every day” from “hardly ever,” but now she has confirmed that not only is she mean, but she’s stupid. So I quantify it, but because I’m growing more evil by the minute and I can actually feel the fangs starting to descend from my gumline, I don’t make it easy: I tell her that I had the scrip filled for 30 pills last November – almost a year ago – and I still have like 6 pills left. You’re a doctor – DO SOME MATH. Take 12 months, subtract 2, multiply by 30 for a close estimate of the number of days I’ve had the bottle of pills. Good. Now take 30 pills, and subtract 6. Take the second answer, and see if it comes even remotely close to the first answer, dumb ass.

She somehow figured out that with 24 pills, I could not have possibly taken a pill a day, or even every other day, for the past THREE HUNDRED DAYS.

Then she looks at me and says “And you don’t drink alcohol when you take these, right?”

And I look at her completely stone-faced and say,

“Absolutely NOT.”

Obviously, she missed last night’s post.

Then she asks me if I smoke and I say no, which is true because a) I nearly died from asthma growing up so I’m not about to smoke, b) cigs cause cancer and I get pissed off enough when OTHER people smoke them around me and, c) for the price of a pack of cancer sticks, I can buy a nice bottle of wine or some nail polish. (Did I tell you my latest obsession is nail polish? Because I actually have NAILS now? I’m a chronic biter but I have NAILS. I’m so in love with them. This is only the second time in my life that I have had real NAILS. I so want to get into a fight and scratch somebody…even though that’s a bitch move, I do prefer a good solid punch, but now that I have NAILS, I want to fight like a girl so that I can leave claw marks on someone’s face. Or maybe I’ll scratch The Tech Guru during sex. I don’t know if he’s into that, though, cuz I never had nails before, I’ve tried to do that scratch move but since all I’ve had are nubby fingers all I end up doing is giving him these awesome back massages, which just makes him sleepy.)

Anyhow, I sit there in the doctor’s office, swinging my legs nonchalantly while inside I’m thinking about holding her up against the wall by the throat and saying “GIVE ME THE FUCKING PRESCRIPTIONS, BITCH” in my Exorcist voice, which I normally only use on telemarketers and Jehovah Witnesses who ring my doorbell, but today seems to be taking on a life of its own because it WANTS TO COME OUT.

But finally…

She gives me the prescriptions.

BIG SIGH OF RELIEF.

And yes, I have FILLED THOSE FUCKERS, which means I can pull out the guns, knives and hand grenades again.

So, the moral of the story here is: DO NOT RUN OUT OF MEDICATIONS THAT ARE NECESSARY TO KEEP YOU SANE AND FUNCTIONAL IN SOCIETY, ESPECIALLY ON A HOLIDAY WEEKEND.

The other moral is, DO NOT TRUST PEOPLE BECAUSE THEY LIE.

No, I’m not talking about ME. I’m talking about THE GOVERNMENT, which has this whole fucking holiday called LABOR Day, during which the whole entire country…is OFF. WTF?

Oh, I forgot. I will actually not be drinking tonight so…no homework for you! Isn’t that awesome?

So remember I was thinking about committing myself?

Well, I have always had a problem with commitment. I mean, hubby and I lived together for 4 years before I would even entertain the thought of marriage. So committing myself to an insane asylum mental health institution did not sit so well with me after I gave it some thought. I mean, I think I need help, definitely. I have been feeling so down about so much shit recently that I could use some perspective other than my own, which is generally of the why-is-it-that-the-only-people-who-truly-love-me-are-ages-7-and-4-and-why-is-everyone-from-my-parents-on-down-a-total-fucking-disappointment-and-that-makes-me-wonder-why-I-am-here-if-I-am-so-completely-unlovable-and-no-one-fucking-understands-me shit. But then it hit me…

What if they don’t let me out?

What if I am actually, more fucked up than I think I am? And they say, uh, yeah, we know you said you wanted to come in for 3-7 days or so, but after observation it’s clear that we need to keep you here for at least a year, during which time we will give you shock treatments, a lobotomy, and meds that will have you drooling like a bulldog and peeing in your Depends. And you have no say in the matter. And, oh yeah, that’s final.

See, because at that point, what choice do I have?

My normal off-the-cuff response, cuz that’s how I roll, would be to go postal and break up every fucking chair, table and whatever else they have in that place. But you’re probably thinking what I’m thinking: gee, that’s not really going to get me out as much as it’s going to get me put in a STRAITJACKET IN A NICE WHITE ROOM WITH SOFT WALLS.

And then when I do get out – assuming that that even happens because I swear that some of these places are like Roach Motels: you can get in but you can never get out – and my husband realizes he’s married to a complete fucking nut job, he’s going to sue for divorce and custody. And the judge is going to take one look at my stint in the loony bin and the fact that their dad pays for everything anyway -

and give the kids to him.

At which point…

I will break up every fucking chair, table and whatever else they have in that place.

Do you see a recurring theme here?

So, after looking around in ye olde internet to see what nice luxury part-time facilities they might have for people like me who are somewhat crazy, not really crazy as in shoot-up-the-post-office-crazy or run-down-the-street-naked-and-on-fire crazy but just crazy some of the time when they’re really stressed out about having fucked up parents, fucked up friends, and kids who are actually so awesome that it takes your breath away and also makes you feel like a fucking failure sometimes because they’re so awesome despite having you for a mom as opposed to because of it, I decided that…

I would just have a glass of wine with some Clonazepam.

For those of you who haven’t somehow figured this out from reading about [insert name of young dead celebrity here], it is not wise to mix DRUGS, and ALCOHOL. Which is why every time I do it, I tell my husband exactly what cocktail I have taken in my little game of liquid Russian roulette, so that if I wake up dead, he will be able to tell the coroner’s office exactly what killed me and there won’t be weeks and weeks of waiting to see “what she had in her system.”  Tonight, what I have in my system consists of a bowl of Apple Jacks cereal, which I practically had to force down because I didn’t want to eat at all because when I’m stressed I just stop eating altogether, and a glass of wine, and a sip of hard cider, and some Clonazepam. Oh, and sleeping pills, I forgot that I just took those. Two, to be exact. Although recently, I have been upping the ante to 3, buuuut, tonight I decided to err on the side of caution. Reckless, yes, but not entirely stupid.

I am not trying to commit suicide, seriously. I’ve said it before, the only thing keeping me going is those two precious bundles upstairs. I do not want them to be fucked up thinking that Mommy didn’t love them when that is so not true, when I know how it feels to live with that feeling of being unloved as I recall that my mother has told me in no uncertain terms that she wants nothing to do with me, despite the fact that I have been Class A Model Daughter. Perfect, I am not, but let me tell you, I was scared shitless of my mom growing up and even in early adulthood, so rebellion didn’t happen. I was so goddamn obedient. I spoke respectfully, I acted respectfully, I got excellent grades, I went to the college she wanted me to go to, I took her in to live with me – we were like a fucking Chinese family! Even when she began treating me like shit as I started to do that awful thing that intelligent adult people with brains do of sometimes harboring an opinion that does not agree with oh-sacred-parent’s, I held my tongue out of respect and a certain amount of fear. For going too far in having a different opinion, too far as in I speak to my grandmother when my mother doesn’t, I have been orphaned. I am not doing that shit to my kids. I love them ’til it hurts and they know this now and they will know if it I am still here when they are my age. I will not let them grow up feeling like they tried their best and were still regarded like shit.

What I am trying to do, though, is numb the pain, which just seems to be getting worse. The rude arrival of autumn (that bastard) is surely not helping, as those of you who know me know that as the days get darker so does my mood and my general outlook on life. But that is just exacerbating other stuff that’s already there, and… I’m just… tired. Not physically, not mentally, but emotionally and spiritually tired.

Well, the pills are starting to work their Woozy Magic so, off to bed I go, and let’s all hope and pray I wake up tomorrow! Remember, if I don’t, here’s the song to sing to the coroner! (to be sung to the tune of The 12 Days of Christmas):

Nighty night.

For anyone looking to lose weight, I highly recommend stress and depression. I know many people turn to food when they become depressed and turn into chunksters, but I go the other route – I just stop eating. Not out of punishing myself but because I literally have no appetite. None. I had to force myself to eat lunch just now and that consisted of saltines with butter and a cup of tea. Thanks to stress, I have lost 5 lbs in the past 4 days! It’s awesome!

What’s not so awesome is this feeling of aloneness, this feeling of confusion, loss, and just the general idea that I am teetering on the brink of insanity. I am trying to channel some of this into my writing, and that’s been going well. But every now and then I have to stop writing, and the only way I can handle those hours is under some sort of sedation. I sleep like shit, and being awake is like being in a long horror movie where the climax is coming and it ain’t nothing good.

So I’ve started looking at how to commit myself to mental hospital for a few days. I actually just read this hilarious blog post from a woman who did it because she really needed a vacation from stress and she couldn’t afford one, so the brilliant idea occurred to her that a 72-hour committal in a hospital, paid for by insurance, might be just the ticket. I laughed so hard at her attempts to make this happen that I started to cry, first with laughter, but then that quickly turned to crying, the kind of crying one does when one feels hopeless. It doesn’t take much these days.

The one thing that concerns me is that once you commit yourself, apparently something goes on your record where you will never be allowed to own a firearm. I can certainly see why. I should say, I am no danger to my kids, beyond the danger that having a mother in such a fucked up state of emotional trauma. I would never hurt them, shoot them, beat them with cords and wires, or all the other atrocities that I see the World’s Worst Parents inflicting on their children. The only reason I wanted to own a firearm is cuz I thought it would be bad-ass, and also good prep for one of my protagonists.

The worst thing is feeling so alone. I can’t tell my kids Mommy is a psycho and that’s why she cries in the bathroom all the time. I can tell my husband but he’s so driven at work that I don’t want to add to his stress, and I know he just doesn’t GET it, and he gets concerned and then I feel like more of a shitheel for saddling him with Pyscho Wife. My family has enough problems of their own. And friends…well, I have no friends to whom I can talk. I thought once that I did, but I’ve realized recently that I am swimming in this current alone and if I’m waiting for any friends to extend a branch to get me out, well, that ain’t gonna happen. I am totally and absolutely…ALONE.

I don’t know – is it better for my kids to see Mommy disappear in a hospital for a minimum of 3 days? What if later that gets used against me in a custody battle? Mommy doesn’t know what to do anymore. The only thing keeping me from a bottle of pills and a bottle of gin is my kids, I swear. I just don’t want to leave them with that fucked up legacy, wondering what they did wrong. I pray a lot, and every now and then I get lifted by the thought that God loves me, but I gotta tell you, on a day-to-day basis when my heart is heavy and racing with stress, God seems like my biological father – distant, uninvolved and unable to give less of a shit about little old me.

I need help. I need help. I need help. I don’t know what to do and I need help.