Hiatus

Hello!  Lately I have been feeling the urge to put some things down on paper.  Or, since it is 2013, put some words on the Internet or in a lovely Microsoft Word document.  I did not realize how long it’s been, exactly (my last post is dated September 27).  I have missed my child’s whole first year of Kindergarten!  Where did time go?  We are preparing for the last day of school.  I am sad.  I cried the whole first week and now I am getting all weepy again.  Next week, she “graduates.”  I am praying to Jesus and all his friends that I don’t cry again.  These other parents now officially know I am crazy as they have spent the last year observing my antics. Nobody has called social services yet so I will consider that a plus. 

So much has happened in the past eight months.  Many of these things have contributed to me becoming a real and true hot mess.  At the end of October, I found out I may not be able to make any more babies (probably not, to be honest).  I had Laparoscopic surgery in November and now we see what happens.  We are only willing to take this so far.  I never thought I would really, actually, have only one child.  I have to be okay with this because it’s not really up to me.  It is difficult and I struggle each and every day.  There are babies everywhere so not thinking about this is near impossible.  In the rare moments I am not obsessing about it, somebody wants to randomly address the age of my child and why she doesn’t have a sibling or desperately needs one.  Seriously, many, many, many people are very open about their struggles with infertility.  How could a person not be aware this goes on?  Why do people feel the need to ask such personal questions and then pass judgment when the answer I give is generally, “I don’t know.  We’ll have to see what happens.”  The response is usually something like,” Well!  You can’t have an only child!”  I can.  I might.  Mind your own business.  Then I am rude if I get offended, right?  You just asked me an extremely personal question, to which the conclusion I want is decidedly out of my control and I should watch how I respond to you?  Yes!  Got it.  I sound bitter. 

Following my November issues, the stress reached an all-time high.  I am grateful my stress was only small as compared to the awful, horrible things happening in the world every day.  But, nonetheless, I didn’t manage said issues very well and have since ended up with a severe case of TMJ, five colds and the flu or food poisoning.  This was intense, let me tell you.  I am still trying to rid myself of the TMJ which has spread to all the muscles in my neck, back and shoulders.  I can barely move on a bad day but I will get rid of this.  To say I have been an unpleasant person would be an extreme understatement.  I haven’t felt “normal” in months.  It is wearing on me.  I see people running!  They are all shouting, “Here comes that woman again!  She’s going to talk about her aliments!”  I swear I do not advertise it.  Despite my best efforts to hide it, I appear to be in pain and people ask.  I don’t need attention!  I want to not think about it and move on!  They say if you end up with a bad case, it can take up to a year for things to return to normal.  No, just please, no. 
In January, we had to put our beloved pet, Cole down.  He was nearly 13.  It was one of the hardest decisions we have ever had to make.  I prayed he would just go to sleep and not wake up so we wouldn’t have to do it for him. The poor boy was suffering and I watched him barely even sleep for four days.  The next step in his care would have been exploratory surgery.  The vets couldn’t figure out exactly what was going on with him.  We did not want to put him through that.  He lived an awesome life.  We took him in while Bird was at school.  I fed him treats the entire way to the vet and he tried to jump off the table right before the doctor gave him that awful shot.  We all miss him daily.  Our other dog, Olive, is depressed and Bird insists he was her “best friend” (he hated her).  Of course, she doesn’t really understand.  I adopted him from a shelter when I was still in college.  He was my buddy and I still miss him.  He always knew exactly what I needed.  Unless you have ever owned and loved a pet, this will make no sense to you.  I am not nutty;  my dog was awesome.

Despite her mother being mostly crazy, Bird has had a great year in Kindergarten.  She loves school.  She finally learned to read (she has been trying her entire life, I swear).  I cannot keep up with her reading addiction.  She loves books.  Once she grasped the concept, she took off.  She can read anything.  I am totally bragging but my kid is a better reader than yours!  She amazes me daily.  On weekends, she wakes up and, rather than coming and finding her parents, she stays in bed with her books.  I love her. 

Bread is still awesome.  Bragging again here but, my husband is still better than yours!  What can I say, I am a lucky lady.

So, that’s a brief summary of my hiatus.  I want to write.  I want to laugh and make fun of myself.  I miss it.  Let’s have some shenanigans! 

 

What to Do? What to Do?

I think it is funny because, over the past four years, people have asked me what it is I do all day. Um, take care of my child? Now, these same people are asking me what I am going to do now that Bird is in school all day. It is as if I was so busy before, by their standards, of course. I am puzzled. Previously, you believed I was doing nothing. Now, you are all concerned about what I’ll do with all my spare time. Huh.

I am kidding, if that last paragraph even makes sense to you. I barely understand what I just wrote there myself. It is a darn good thing I am not a perfectionist. Sometimes I go back and read posts and often find errors or wonder what the heck it was I was even talking about. I guess that is how it goes when you are your own editor. That is also how it goes when you cannot seem to focus on one thing for more than about four minutes at a time. I now believe multi-tasking is what is responsible for the demise of all things good and sane; there is such a thing as too much.

Anyway, the burning question for this happy day is: What is Jessie Domestic going to do? Well, for starters, she is going to stop referring to herself in third person. Okay, I am glad that’s over. It got weird there for a second.

The way I see it, I have several options. The most obvious answer would probably be to get a job. And, by job, I mean one that provides an actual paycheck you can take to the bank and receive dollars for. Nah. I tried that. It did not work. Besides, my former employer hires me to work from home a couple times a year. I am good with that. Before you get all judgmental on me, because I know you will, I have discussed this with my spouse. He likes our situation.  

You see, the thing is, I don’t want my kid to have to go to latchkey or something after school. I want to drop her off in the morning and pick her up in the afternoon. I want to make her a snack and learn all about her day. I want to help her with her homework, take her to her extracurricular activities and play dates, volunteer in her classroom and, perhaps, join the PTO. Maybe this makes me crazy. It might even make me old-fashioned but, both Bread and I feel, this is really, really important. And, honestly, I like to cook and clean and organize. I am good at these things. It is all 1950’s up in here and I love it. Honestly, if I had loved my career, which we all know I did not, I might be making a different choice right now. I need to be clear: I AM NOT AGAINST THE WORKING MOTHER. Thank you. Now I am going to make a damn meatloaf and fetch my man’s slippers.

So, it seems quite clear what I will be doing. Basically, I am doing most of the same things I was doing before except I am alone. Alone! Alone! I am sad. I miss her. Kindergarten is hard for mom too. They don’t tell you that. Or, maybe, they do. I probably wasn’t listening.

 But, obviously, I have more spare time than before. What will I do? I have decided to become “handy.” By this, I mean, I will fix stuff. Bread works a lot of hours. He is tired. I can finish up some of his projects! Maybe I will start some of my own! When I finish my coffee in the morning, I feel like I can take on the world. I mean, I really feel like I can take on the world! I am not kidding. I fall for this every day. I finish that last gulp of caffeinated goodness and, suddenly, my muscles are twitching and my brain is humming and I’m all, “Let’s get some shit done!” And then I realize I have a four-year-old and it’s probably not the best time to get out the blow torch or power tools especially considering I don’t actually know how to operate either a blow torch or an actual power tool. Man, an impending trip to the emergency room is such a buzz kill.

I will drink pots and pots of coffee every day. By the time I pick up Bird I will have blown out the entire side of our house in order to start the addition. I am going to rent a Bobcat so as I can finally level out our front yard. I want to power wash my patio, maybe my front porch and possibly our pets, as well.

 As you can see, I am well-intended. I have big plans for this school year. I swear it, I do. What have I actually accomplished over the past three weeks? I cleaned! I recovered from a hectic summer! I have been cooking. I blow dried my hair straight! I painted my nails. I spent a significant amount of time shopping for my fall wardrobe AND cleaned out my closet. My dogs have received ample love. Basically, I am enjoying a wee bit of freedom. I earned it. Being a mom is hard.

The Big K

Nearly two weeks ago, all of our lives changed drastically.  I am a simple-ish, stay-at-home mom, with big literary dreams, and I sent my only child off to Kindergarten.  For various assorted reasons, but mostly due to my extreme dislike of change, I knew this would be somewhat difficult.  I prepared by spending the entirety of the summer with Bird.  We went to the zoo a million times, attended as well as hosted play dates, tried a museum, took on walks, spent tons of hours swimming, hit the park a few times, visited our library to fuel her addiction to books and knowledge, saw a movie or two, had a sleepover, spent a day at the beach, took a mini-vacation, played with our pets and prepared for the arrival of the school year.  I ceased doing any sorts of projects or major cleaning because I wanted to spend as much time as possible with my girl.

I thought I was ready for her to go because by the end of summer, I was 100 percent out of things to do.  I swear to you, we spent the last week staring at the walls and loathing each other’s company.  I could feel it; she was sick of her mom.  I have known since about the middle of her preschool year, she was ready for Kindergarten.  Her end-of-the-summer angst only confirmed my suspicions. 

I am not an emotional person.  I mean, I am but I try really, really hard to bottle that shit.  I am not comfortable crying in front of others.  My eyes immediately swell and I get an ugly red ring around my lips.  I am vain and a very, very ugly crier.  I must hide this!  Not for the consumption of others!  There are many things in this world that make me cry: weddings, funerals, hearing our National Anthem, animal abuse and pretty much every kind deed featured on The Ellen Show. I have become pretty good about swallowing those lumps of emotion down.  Naysayers, you’ve been told, this bitch really does have a heart. 

So, crying…I was prepared on Bird’s first day of school to shed a couple tears.  What I was not ready for was the sobbing. Bread took the day off work.  We had big plans-get the child ready for school, take lots of photos, drop her off, take more photos at school and have a day-time date. 

Well, the events didn’t really go down like that.  We stuck to getting her ready and taking lots of photos.  I got up early to apply makeup (least I remind you again of my vanity and the fact there were going to be pictures).  Our whole morning went really smoothly (I was very worried about her getting her breakfast down in time as she is most definitely the slowest eater ever).  Thanks to her extreme excitement, breakfast was quick and painless.  This is great for me because I am mom and I know (and enforce) that first meal being the most important one of the day! 

Anyway, everything was great, we got ready, took a poop-load of photos (Bread was the family photographer since I was doing very important things like applying makeup and styling our child’s freshly shorn bob).  The minute we got into our car, the tears started (starting again now just writing this-I am officially an emotional basket case).  I was definitely leaking like a faucet.  Leak, wipe, leak, wipe, leak, wipe, blow nose, repeat process.  Bread is giving me looks.  He knows I do not like to emote, especially in public. 

We arrive at school, park the car and head towards the already crowded elementary.  Keep in mind, with the exception of discerning where she would sleep during rest time (her teacher had to search out a cot during the open house), my child has shown no sign of nerves regarding school.  That is, until the very moment she sees the throngs of people gathered in front of the school.  I am still leaking, all the while, repeating to myself, “I can do this.  Be strong.  Don’t let her see you cry.”  She asks me to hold her hand and I all out lose it.  I am officially sobbing.  This is embarrassing.  This is ridiculous.  In that instant where she requested my hand, a million thoughts flooded my brain.  I thought: I didn’t get enough time with her.  She doesn’t need me anymore.  She’s so big.  She’s so little, too small to be left alone all day with strangers.  We did not do enough.  I did not do enough with her.  I am embarrassing her already.  She is practically in high school.  I need more time!

I couldn’t look at the other moms.  I was a circus act!  What a freak show!  Yes, some other moms were crying too!  God bless Jesus!  But, seriously, I was choking.  My child was nervous but excited.  I could sense that.  I could not ask her because I no longer had a voice.  Bread is taking picture after picture.  I am staring at him, thinking about placing the camera in a place decidedly lacking of sunlight if he does not get the darn thing out of my bloated, leaking, and swelling face.  Do you know he had the audacity to take video footage of this? 

The bell rings and, for the first week, parents are allowed to walk the kids to their classroom.  We walk down the hall, reach her classroom and, because I can no longer speak, I bend, kiss her, watch her head into her classroom. 

Bread keeps putting his arm around me during this whole ordeal.  Each time he touches me, because of the instant comfort, I cry harder.  I am so embarrassed and humiliated.  I look like that crazy mom who cannot let go of her child!  That is not me!  That has never been me!  I have been training her since day one to be independent!  I so wish this was not happening.  Bread tells me later, another dad got a good look at me, and lost it his own self.  You are welcome for that buddy.  For the entirety of our children’s school careers together, I will officially be that mom who made you cry.  We may never speak but you will remember me always; I am a legend. 

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the day crying on an off and repairing my botched makeup job. We did not have a day date.  I cried all day because I was such a hot mess I couldn’t even tell her I loved her and to have a great day.  Bread spent his day reassuring me she knew both of those things. I am a mess.  Every day when I drop her off I get a lump in my throat.  I have a strong feeling that lump is going to stay around for a bit, probably years; there will be many, many bittersweet moments. 

 

 

 

Proud Moment in Parenting # 2,456

There are moments, days even, when being a parent is trying.  I suppose nobody ever said it was a piece of cake.  There have been many occasions on which I wonder how I should handle a particular situation.  I wonder why was this not covered in the often referenced What to Do Once You Actually Squeeze that Kid Out and She Acts like an Asshole.  Oh wait!  That piece of literature does not exist! How is it nobody has jumped on that bandwagon?  There is a market here, people. 

Anyway, there are trying days where I feel as though I may not make the best decisions, parentally speaking.  Sometimes I do things I am not proud of.  Admittedly, I have done some not cool shit.  Bird is bright.  Yes, I realize I am supposed to say this, as she is my offspring, but it’s really true.  Girlfriend has been working the system since before there was a system to be worked…Er, she’s got Bread on a string.  She knows that manipulative shit does not work with mom, though.  Don’t tell me I’m pretty and then ask for an ice cream cone!  Even poor, self-confidence lacking me won’t fall for that.  You did not eat your veggies.  There is no room for dessert.  Rules are rules. 

It pisses me off, looking at Facebook, seeing all these over-the-top moms posting all this happy crap said to them or done by their children. Never do they say, “I almost punched the little fucker this morning.”  Why the hell not (not punch him but perhaps admit you wanted to).  It isn’t all roses and sunshine.  People would commiserate with you.

Clearly, I love my child.  I think she’s great, most of the time.  Sometimes, just sometimes, I want to pull my hair out.  There are occasions where I’d like to poop with the door closed and not have someone screaming to me on the other side about where are Barbie’s pants.  I still don’t know.  Perhaps she should have left them on.  Stop hanging out with floozies!  I should mention that the happenings in Barbie’s house are a regular conversation around here.  Often, there will be several naked dolls sitting on the couch watching TV.  Once, there were seven naked and a whole bunch of dollar bills (I swear I am not making this up).  What kind of tomfoolery is happening up in there?  I wonder where Bird learns these things.  Huh. 

I earned a college degree (still paying for the fetching thing to boot) and there are days where I cannot figure out the inner workings of the mind of a four-year-old.  I cook.  I clean.  I assist (only assisting these days) with the wiping of a butt.  I play.  I read endless, redundant stories about CinderellaBelleJasmineAurora.  I watch (pretend really) Barbie movies.  Have you seen a Barbie movie?  Holy Shit.  These are so bad.  This, my friends, is how we could get terrorists to divulge their secrets.  Forget violence. 

Point being, sometimes I don’t feel like being mom.  That’s not an option.  A bad day at the office used to mean maybe I spent too long talking to a coworker or too much time online.  Now, a bad day means I wasn’t on my game.  It means I had a weak moment (or six), my child observed this and now I’ll never hear the end of it.  She knows I told her no more TV and then caved because she whined and I let her watch more.  She’ll remember that forever.  I’ll pay.  You have to be on your game at all times.  Impossible.

My most recent “bad day” happened a couple weeks ago (I’m lying I’ve had several since then).  My mom had the day off.  We took Bird to IKEA, Pier 1, Marshalls and, lastly, Costco.  These are all non-fun places for children.  IKEA is okay but it’s intense because there is too much shit for them to climb on and get into trouble with.  Plus, it gets old having to stop in every faux room to play.  Anyway, we had promised her ice cream and we decided to kill two birds in one stop, buying ice cream and letting her eat it in the Costco shopping cart. 

She wasn’t having it.  It has long since been her dream to dine at the Costco food court.  I shit you not.  She always tries to trick me when we go there, telling me she’s hungry because they have those super-cool tables with the red and white umbrellas.  Well, she was in luck that day!  I caved.  I felt bad when she insisted she could not eat her ice cream in the cart, once I realized her ulterior motif.  Yes, she wanted to dine at Costco.  My child has Ivy League aspirations at age four!  I shall post this on Facebook, cryptically of course, so as others will ask me of what I am speaking!

We got her ice cream and sat down.  Bird was ecstatic.  I cannot tell you the last time I saw her like this.  Thank you, child, you just saved us thousands of dollars by confirming there is no possible way for you to be more excited at Disney than you were at the damn food court.  She was bouncing in her seat looking like a freshman who got asked to prom.  I told her, “You’re really cute, you know that?  Where did you get that from?”  She got a huge grin on her face, batted her little eyelashes and me and smiled.  I thought, OMG, she loves me.  She is so happy!  She’s going to say she’s cute because of me!  She thinks I am her funny, pretty, smart mom!  False.  Do you know what she said?  She said, clear as day, with absolutely no hesitation, “From my Daddy!”  My response was, “Well, great, your dad has a uni-brow.  Maybe you’ll get that from him too.” 

Long Lost Friend

This past December, I decided to embark on a fun journey.  Literally, one day after we gave the okay with a company to replace our roof that we weren’t anticipating replacing for another 10 years (what bleeping moron buys organic shingles), my ex-coworker called asking if I’d like to do a contract job for my former employer.  I saw this as a sign from somewhere and, of course, said yes.  I guess it turns out I am not as big of an asshole as I once thought; Karma, bitches. 

I am a fool.  Specifically, in this instance because I agreed to work 20 hours a week from home doing, what sounded like a simple job.  To Bread’s credit, he warned me.  He told me it was going to be a lot.  I begged to differ.  He was right.  I figured it was cold out, I only have one child and she’s in school for nine hours every week.  I forgot about the part where I have a husband who works approximately 65 hours a week, rising and leaving long before we do, returning home exhausted and often working on Saturday until lunch as well. 

I finished up the beginning of April.  To say the least, it was an intense 90 days.  At first, it was a piece of cake.  I didn’t have 20 hours a week of work.  Then, I had a shit-ton (official term).  Needless to say, there were too many people with their hands on this project, thus making it extremely difficult to gage exactly how long it would take to accomplish.  I needed to finish by the end of March.  It was a mess.  But, I have lived to speak of it! 

Now I am finished and I have oodles of extra time to do fun things like shower and write long-overdue blog posts!   And, hopefully, figure out why this last paragraph look so squishy (another technical term, indeed).  I have also found time to do fun things like at-home Keratin treatments and stalk hair dryers on Amazon for a good deal.  Life is lovely!  Free time, oh how I missed thee!  I feel as though I am thirsty no more.  Internet!  I have so much to tell you!

Think

One of the scariest things about parenting, we always say, is the fact you can devote your entire self to raising your kid and there is no guarantee they will be okay.  I stay home with my child, read to her, teach her things, try to fill the little sponge of a brain she has with knowledge, if you will, and hope and pray that all this will mean she will be a productive member of society.  I mean, I am crazy, I have issues but overall, when I go to sleep at night, I know I am a good person; I want the same for my kid.  I want her to be successful, kind, know she is loved and find things in life that make her happy.  Nobody hopes for their kid to be a drug dealer, a stripper or a criminal.  And, while I am not perfect, I want Bird to look up some day and know we did the best we could for her, always looking out for her interests.  Realistically, she will probably have hour-long conversations with friends discussing the ways in which her mother drives her nuts and is, indeed, CRAZY. 

One of the seriously neglected traits in humanity is the ability to possess common sense.  Daily, I see examples of this.  Bread and I are constantly telling Bird to have common sense.  We tell her to think about her actions.  Usually, we are telling her this because of some nonsensical act being performed by some common-sense-lacking person (stupid moron, really).  Something that automatically comes to mind is teenagers, smoking to be cool.  Dude, there is nothing cool about this.  It is the age of health and fitness.  Take that cancer stick out of your mouth.  You look like an idiot.  And pull your pants up while you’re at it!

I frequently see people rollerblading while holding a dog’s leash.  I apologize if you are, indeed, a person who does this.  What are you thinking?  What happens when the dog sees a squirrel and takes off?  I’ll tell you what happens: you take off like a rocket and fall on your face.  You only get one face.  People won’t want to befriend you if your countenance is all fucked up because you were HOLDING YOUR DOG’S LEASH WHEN HE TOOK OFF AFTER A SQUIRREL. Try explaining that at a job interview.  Even the best-behaved dog wants some HSA (Hot Squirrel Action). Your face is your best advertisement.  Nothing says I am a dumbass more than a frontage full of road rash.  Don’t be stupid. 

This is just our “thing.”  Can you teach common sense?  I hope so.  Think child!  Think!  Think about yourself!  Think about others!  Think about what is behind you!  Use your brain!  The biggest thing regarding stupid people is their ability to foresee how their actions impact others.  Because we are all so self-important, we only think of ourselves.  Profound.  Maybe someday I’ll write about jerks who smoke at gas stations.  I could write an entire post on this subject.  Blow yourself up, Asshole.  Leave the innocents out of this. 

This brings me to the other day when we were coming home from the library, on a FIVE-lane road. I am driving approximately 40 miles per hour.  I look over and see a man riding on a Rascal.  For those of you residing in a cave, that is essentially, a motorized wheelchair.  He is crossing the first two lanes of traffic going north.  I am heading south.  I think to myself, he is going to cross the first two lanes and then stop in the turn lane because there is no way he is going to cross in front of me.  False!  I am traveling, at a decent rate of speed, in a motor vehicle.  I am bigger (my car, but hell, probably my ass too).  I will win.  If I fail to stop you will be a smattering on the road.  And do you know what he did when I slammed on the brakes as well as my horn?  He waved.  Waved!  It was a happy thank you type of gesture.  I wasn’t stopping to let you go by!  You were not even in a crosswalk!  You deserved to get hit!  Survival of the Fittest!  I stopped my car because I did not want to deal with the hullabaloo of paperwork and statements that would have been involved in me running your ignorant ass over!  I wanted to get home; it was near dinnertime!  I needed a feeding!  And, so I stopped.  Bird wanted an explanation as to what was happening.  I told her, pointing at Wheelchair Jackass, “That man rode out in front of our car on his motor scooter.”  Her response was, “That was dumb.”  Even my four-year-old gets it.  You don’t.  Humanity fails once again.  But, the important lesson, here?  I think what we are doing might be working.  Yes!

Truth Serum

I don’t believe in lying to my child. I pretty much stick with honesty as the best policy. Yes, the shots will hurt. It is possible you may cry. That is your vagina. It is not a hoo-ha, thingy, whatnot, or even your privates. You have a vagina and you have elbows. I fear it’s a dangerous downward spiral because where do you stop? Some day she will figure out if I am lying to her and I don’t want that someday to come without me noticing. It would be horrible for me to have my daughter think I am a liar.

Before you think me some over –truth-telling weirdo, what I am talking about here is not little white lies. To what I am referring is the “big” stuff. I am not sure how I know what’s big and what is little. I just do, okay?

This past Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, was a trying one for me. I had a cold coming on, a bratty child, too much housekeeping to do as we had plans at our home for Saturday night and two dogs running about who were desperately in need of some exercise. By the time we sat down for dinner, I was spent. Bread wanted coffee with dinner so as he could get a decent caffeine buzz and be able to stay up past nine. He is such a sissy. I mean, he had only been up since four in the morning. Geez.

Every meal we eat, and I mean every, I have to answer the following questions from my child: What are we having for dinner? Did I have that before? When did I have it? Did I eat it or did I spit it out? What is it? Who was here when we ate that? This is because we allow her to choose what she eats for breakfast and lunch, within reason. It has to be somewhat healthy and must be accompanied by a fruit or vegetable. Dinner is a different story. This is what we have. You must try it. End of story.

Okay, so Wednesday night was pizza. Bird knows she loves pizza so there weren’t any questions. But, what she wanted to know about was Thanksgiving dinner. The battle had already begun. Next, she wanted some kid coffee. After about four times of her asking, I grabbed the pot and pretended to pour it in her milk glass. That was met with chants of, “You didn’t even pour anything in there! This is not kid coffee. You didn’t add it! It’s just milk.”

Now, patience is not my strong suit. I don’t have much of it and I try. Sometimes deep breathing will help me but not when I am hungry, cold tired, and ready for some elastic pants and a horizontal position in front of the television. So, I informed her I never put anything in her kid coffee, I always pretend or maybe give her some chocolate milk. I asked her to move on and please eat her dinner (at least I was polite). Bread said nothing. He didn’t even make eye contact. I looked at him. I dared him. I also dare him, on a fairly regular basis to try stay-at-home parenthood. He has, thus far, failed to take me up on that offer.

Later, when I was in a better mood, he informed me, during my rant about the coffee he was expecting me to shout, “AND, Santa isn’t real either.” I laughed about this. I mean, I wouldn’t do that. I’m not that cruel. Give me a break.

This brings us to last night. We were on our way home from IKEA. If you’ve ever been there on a weekend, you know what this is like. We were tired from the long holiday weekend and ready to be done. But, our trip was with purpose. We needed parts for the big-girl bed we were assembling for Bird. Knowing we had to go home and finish that was daunting. Bird was in a mood. So was Bird’s mom. That’s me if you aren’t that quick. Bird sees Chuck E. Cheese which she is obsessed with because they play stupid commercials during the shows she watches. They make the place look fun, cool and highly sanitary. I beg to differ. I am a germaphobe. That shit is nasty. I guarantee it. The ball pit is nothing but a feces-infested cesspool.

Bird shouts, “I see Chuck E. Cheese! I see it! Can we go there?”

I responded with, “No! No!”

She continues, “But why not? Why can’t we go there? Can we go another day?”

Me: “Not today, not tomorrow, never.” We are never going there. It is filthy and disgusting. You will catch a disease.”

Bread interjects with, “You will never go to Chuck E. Cheese. Kid coffee is nothing but stuff you always drink and S-A-N-T-A isn’t real.”

Bread's statement was followed by uncontrollable laughter from me. Holy shit. I am fucking crazy.

Joe

My child has an imaginary friend. Now, before you go all therapist on me, stating she only has said “friend” because she is, thus far, an only child and she is creating a sibling for herself, I will tell you to shut it. I had two brothers and an imaginary friend named Bobby who lived in my mouth. I distinctly remember sitting on the floor by the heat register talking to him. So, even having two siblings I did not choose, I wanted something else. Point being, we don’t get to pick and even if we could, it doesn’t always work out the way we want. If we are going to psycho-analyze this shit, I clearly wanted different brothers. I wanted siblings who were normal and did not pull the head off my Barbie. Nothing weird here, move along, people, move along.

So, Bird’s buddy, Joe is constantly a subject in our home. I haven’t squashed her imagination by telling her that he doesn’t actually exist. She is happy. She likes him. They play nicely together. Sometimes they run around the living room together. Besides, I know full-blown adults with more troublesome delusions than a faux friend and nobody is telling them the “truth.” If they can carry on, so can Bird. I am not going to ruin this one for her.

We never know when Joe is around or not. He leaves. He comes back. He goes to work! I like this! She is befriending functional members of society! He used to work at Walmart. Now, he works at Nino’s (a local higher-end grocery store). One could say Joe is moving up in the world, climbing the career ladder, if you will. He probably makes way more money at Nino’s. Actually, that’s not true because it turns out he does not get paid in cash. Rather, they pay him it meat. Of course! Work for eight hours, take home tenderloin! Genius. I wonder if he sells his meat on the black market?

What else have we learned about Joe? He has a ponytail. I don’t like this. I am frowning on her befriending boys with long hair. This style is out. I hope he’s not a delinquent. If he has tattoos and piercings we are out. OMG. What if he trades the meat for drugs?

But seriously, where in the hell did this come from? Last weekend, Bird was with my mom. She said something my mom couldn’t make out. When questioned as to what she said, her response was, “I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to Joe.” Oh! Of course you are! Excuse the bleep out of me.

A Tale of Two Pair of Boots and Some Old Lady Shoes

It has been raining here a lot this fall.  I take my child to school and come home cursing the people who make jeans. Why are they so bleeping long? I am five foot six inches tall. I am not a short person. I am, in fact, average. Why is it so difficult to purchase a pair of jeans in a reasonable length? Is that too much to ask? Apparently.

My solution was to order some super-cute rain boots from Target. I needed them. I wanted to wage war on wet jeans. And, yes, I know I could have them hemmed or hem them myself. Who does that? I guarantee I would be walking around with some jankity ass shit. Instead I walk around in soaking wet jeans. Pick your poison my friends, all in the name of fashion. I am so stylish, a regular fashion icon, I am. If by style you mean too long jeans and Converse sneakers, a touch of makeup and crazy-ass hair. If yes, then, we are probably soul mates.

So on Sunday, I devoted a stretch of time, while enjoying my morning coffee, made especially for me, by Bread, complete with hazelnut cream frothed by the glorious IKEA milk frother. What? Jealous? Your husband doesn’t make you coffee on Sunday, sorry. Mine does because he effing rocks. Nah, Nah, Nah. My husband is better than yours!

I just really wanted to paint the picture of me, my coffee and the Internet machine. I am moving on here. So, I scoured Target for probably several hours. This is after my trip to Target on Friday and before my trip, that very day, with a friend. Ahem. I am not an addict. I just appreciate a good deal. And, I like to shop. And, I ran out of dry shampoo. Hell hath no fury like a woman with greasy roots.

There were so many choices to be made regarding the print of the boot. I mean, as things are going I will be wearing them every day! It will never stop raining. I will be trapped in my home with the animals unless I build an ark! Yes! Yes! I need tools and supplies! I know what I will be researching this Sunday morning! Target for supplies and Google for a blueprint! And then Google again for someone who can, indeed, read a blueprint…Never mind, it turns out Bread can read a blueprint.

I finally settled on this pair. Bread said no more plaid but I totally wanted these. The bastard shot me down. But, then I was distracted by this pair listed somewhere on the page as something else I might like! Oh! I do! I do! Low and behold I have been searching far and wide for a good knock-off pair of Frye boots. I cannot spend that kind of money on a lone pair of shoes. I would probably wear the shit out of them and get my money’s worth but I just couldn’t do it. I want my child to go to college some day and so does she, actually. When quizzed about what she will be studying while attending college, my child responds with either, “I will learn how to be a princess,” or “mermaid.” Ha! Sister, you need no degree to be a princess. What you need is a damn sugar daddy! I have so much to teach her.

So, Bread, as he always does, convinced me to purchase both pair! Free shipping on orders over $50 and the rain boots were only $20! God bless that man. Did I mention he stopped at MAC to purchase me some of my favorite lip gloss one day after work? Yes, he totally did because I tried to buy it at Macy’s on Sunday and they were out. I have been out for a year but reluctant to purchase more because of the price. Maybelline is only like $3 if you have a coupon! Finally, after going a through a million that just weren’t up to par, I decided to bite the bullet and buy the real thing. I deserve it! I clip coupons! They were out. I figured that was a message from the gods telling me not to spend money on that shit. Bread said he knew it was because he was supposed to get it for me as a token of his affection. It worked. I melted. I mean, the color is fabulous. It’s like someone looked at my lips, said, I shall make this color for you and did. I swear. Get some. My husband bought me lip gloss on a whim! Nah, nah, nah.

So, I have been anxiously awaiting the arrival of said boots. I have been stalking the Internet for their arrival date. Yesterday, I had a million errands to run. One of them was to go to the Croc store and buy some of their hideously ugly and unstylish shoes to wear inside for slippers (I apologize if you do, indeed, wear Crocs). We have zero carpeting in our home. I am constantly freezing in the winter. Our kitchen floor is ceramic. It’s cold and it’s hard (ha, ha, that’s what she said). If I just wear slippers I get sore if I’m in there all day cooking and cleaning and doing whatever the hell it is I do. My legs hurt. I am elderly. I probably have liver spots just dying to come to the surface or something. Bread (again, my husband, the genius, kind, wonderful person that he is) suggested I get some Crocs. After a couple days with throbbing knees and shin splints, I decided yesterday was the day.

I felt like such a loser for having to buy them. I was cursing myself all the way home. By the way, have I mentioned my self-loathing is at an all-time high? I mean, who really cares? But for some reason it really bothered me to have to make this purchase. I want to spend my money on cool things like boots and college and shiny lip gloss. Buying Crocs in order to protect my aging bones, in my eyes, is just slightly above purchasing support hose (again, I apologize if you rock, because I am sure you do rock, the support hose).

Upon my arrival home, I show off my purchase to Bread who proclaims how cool those Crocs are. He is a liar but I love him for it. He even tried them on in order to profess their level of comfort. He then informs me I have a package from Target. Wait. Question: why is receiving a shipment, you ordered and paid for so exciting? You know it is coming. You know what is inside. You paid somebody’s hard earned money for it. Why? Anyway, my package arrived and holy mother of you-know-who! I love those boots! They look expensive; what a fabulous knock-off! This may be the best $35 I ever spent! I am a genius! I need to give myself more credit! I am not some frumpy mother with pink, faux-fur lined plastic shoes! Gump! I am a God-damned genius! I sent pictures to some stylish friends for approval. I won. Score one for Jessie Domestic.

And the moral of the story is: does anyone really care about your boots? No. Did you have fun writing about them? Yes. Score two for Jessie Domestic.

Be Afraid

A couple weeks ago, some friends were in town from California (Yo, Colemans!). A bunch of us got together for dinner, drinks and, alcohol-induced, deep conversation. Because that’s what you do when you have had a few cocktails. You become the smartest, most profound person you know. You also become very self-confident and you start to think yourself to be very lovely, which, normally you do not necessarily believe. You know you have had far too many cocktails when you become a good dancer as dancing is not something you have ever excelled at. You blame your mom for this because she did not sign you up for dance class when you were a tot. Cocktails are seriously the world’s problem solver. I believe congress could make some great decisions if everybody just threw back a couple beforehand. Wars would be ended over a glass of ale, seriously.

Anyway, so my dear friends convinced me I need to blog again. So, I shall try it because once upon a time, liquor made me say I would. I like to keep my word. I also appreciate the kind words and positive reinforcement. Consider yourself warned-I’ll be back (insert Arnold’s voice here but only his voice before he become a philandering arse because now he’s just yucky).

Random Acts

We woke on Easter morning to discover the Mississippi River flowing through our basement. I joke. It wasn’t really the Mississippi. It was more like a murky, disease-infested creek. What a mess! It was Easter! Hath God no sympathy? No! No! He doesn’t! I believe he is punishing me for my lifetime of wrong-doing. I so should have been a nicer person. Karma: It’s a total bitch.


While I don’t fully believe God is punishing me, I am starting to question some things. First, this was totally my fault. I jinxed us. Things are going well (were), financially and life is good. I SHOULD NOT HAVE OPENED MY MOUTH. I should know better. If you speak of it, the shit will hit the fan. Literally.

Second, I realize and fully recognize there are way worse things than a flood in one’s basement. I am glad it was not worse. People are dying. There is disease, poverty, war and a million other horrible things happening in our world. I am thankful for all that I have. So, before you bethink me an awful person, let me just clarify that.

But, nobody wants to wake up to a flood, especially, on a holiday. We have a child! She had a basket to find! We made cinnamon buns from scratch the night before! We just had to bake them for 30 minutes and have a wonderful, sugar-filled morning breakfast which would pair fabulously with super-strong coffee. You want to know what those cinnamon buns tasted like post flood discovery? They tasted like bitter resentment. Screw you, house! Why do you have to do this to us now and ruin our holiday? Christ rose! You didn’t have to do this! At least not today!

I thought maybe the buns would make us feel better. False. We sat around, eating them, pondering what the hell we should do with the mess in our basement. We wanted to know what it was. We wondered what could have caused it. Bread said he suspected our water heater had given out. He mentioned, about a month ago, we needed a new one. This would have been awesome scenario as it would have been clean water. As I mentioned before, in our home, you can’t speak of something without making it fall apart. Last month, Bread said, “Oh! Our Lazy Susan is cracked. Be careful! I will have to fix it.” I shit you not, that night, as I was reading in bed at one in the morning there was a great crash from downstairs. I feared we were being burgled! No! It turns out Suze fell apart and our herbs, spices, oils and various other pounds of cooking miscellanea decided that was the time to fall. It scared the hell out of both of us. Bread was prancing about our home in just his underwear; it was something straight out of a sitcom.

Once he headed to the basement to handle the flood, it took Bread all of maybe five minutes to deduce it was not our water heater causing the flood. It was, in fact, a drain backup. Now, while there were no turds visible, there was really no way to deduce whether the stuff in our basement was clean or dirty water. My germophobia was on high-alert. Remove all shoes! Do not touch anything! Wash! Wash! Wash!

Eventually, the plumber showed up and declared it was, indeed, clean water. God bless Jesus! I could not handle actual human waste in my home anywhere outside of say, the toilet or perhaps my child’s pants. And, maybe sometimes Bread’s pants! But, I’m not in charge of that when it happens! Ha!

Okay, so the plumber told us it was clean water. Ground water is actually what he called it. We were able to carry on with our day. My mom came to pick up Bird earlier in the day so as she could still have a nice holiday. I went to pick her up while Bread began the clean up. The poor guy spent his entire Easter Sunday trying to clean up the disaster. He has been working 70 hour work weeks. This was his first full weekend off in probably a month. I felt bad. Did I mention how much my husband rocks?

After Bird was tucked in and coming off her chocolate- bunny- induced- sugar- high, I went to help Bread. I wasn’t too grossed out since the plumber informed us of the water being clean and all. And, why should my husband have to deal with that all on his own. Eventually, we called it a day, showered and went to bed hoping for a better day tomorrow. Meaning: the insurance people will be in and they can give us the okay to call folks to fix this.

We were deluded for believing the insurance people would help in any way, shape or form. After several phone calls, a meeting with an adjuster and lots of nasty words, we now know if they are not covering anything. I suppose this was just one of life’s lessons. We now have a new insurance provider, in case you were wondering about that.

We had to take matters into our own hands. We called a restoration company. They, in turn, informed us the water was not actually clean. It’s what they call “grey water.” This means, while it was not actually raw sewage, it was, by no means, clean because it has been in contact with actual raw sewage. Vomit. Barf. Oh, my God, why didn’t I wear a hazmat suit?

Upon reflecting on this, I gather when one’s occupation is a plumber, you probably see some nasty shit (pun intended). So, when you walk into someone’s home, it doesn’t smell and there are no actual floating logs, you probably do consider it clean. We, on the other hand, have a different standard. I am not, and never plan to be, used to this. I need to give kudos to all the plumbers out there. You rock and are, most certainly, underpaid. For the record, our plumber rocked. He was great and only charged us $250! It was Easter!

So, the restoration company recommended we replace the carpeting and pad in our basement. It did not take much arm twisting for this germ- obsessed person to agree to that. They said we could clean the carpet if we really wanted to. I do not. I have no sentimental attachment to this. Burn it. We ordered new carpet. Everything has been cleaned and sanitized. We will live. We decided that. We will try to make cinnamon buns again. Everything will be okay.

Bread declared over dinner last night that we’ve had our fair share of acts of God this year. He reminded me of the recent shit storms provided especially for me by my child. He said the Great Basement Flood of 2011 would obviously count as such. He seems to think that next it will be a locust invasion or, perhaps, bed bugs. Bed bugs! Are you crazy! You don’t talk about bed bugs! If we get bed bugs I’m moving out! Curse you! Did he not get the memo regarding our luck? We’re screwed.

Shit Storm

My child has been potty trained for over a year now. We still remind her quite often to go because she has an occasional accident. But, she is a three-year-old wishing for independence, therefore, reminding her to go usually leads to a battle. I have been trying to give her more bathroom freedom because I do feel like she gets it. It’s all about the give and take, you know?

Lately, I am obsessed with Trader Joes. I tried it before on several occasions and did not really love it enough to make a special trip there weekly or even monthly. I already frequent three other grocery stores. I figured that was enough. Then, we received one of their fabulous sales papers and I decided I wanted to try it again. I am hooked. While I’m not Costco-obsessed with TJ’s, I am undoubtedly having a major love affair with them. They have so many great, healthy, inexpensive things! They did not pay me to say this. In fact, nobody is paying me to say anything. Weird. In fact, one might say, there are probably people who would pay me to shut up.

Last week, we were out of Sunflower Seed Butter. In our home, this is a crisis. I planned a trip with the tot. I consider it to be an outing because it involves parking in a parking garage and it is in the next town over. I don’t know why the parking garage complicates it. It just does. It also takes forever to get there. I checked it out and it’s only five miles but it feels like forever. Perhaps I need to seek an alternate route. Perhaps I need to find something else to obsess about.

Anyhow, we went. Bird loves it. She found one of those little carts for kids. She was happy as can be. We made it through the produce, coffee and cracker section. We were debating some raisin bagels. She started to do a little dance. I couldn’t tell if it was a potty dance or just a this-music-really-moves-me thing. I questioned if she needed to use the facilities. She said no. Oh! And here we go. This is the part where you figure out I am, indeed, about to write about my child and her frail, inexperienced bladder. I say, no, not her bladder this time, her bowels! I really pulled one over on you. It’s funny to me! So many things are funny to me about child rearing. So so so so so many things. Some people may disagree. These people may go as far as to say raising children is a very serious matter. I, on the other hand, think it’s funny. Yes, it is serious too but, my child will still be okay even if I write about her accidents on the internet. Believe me, there are a thousand different ways in which I am 100 percent certain I can screw up my kid. Besides, I need material so I can embarrass her in front of her prom date.

Essentially, about four seconds after she refuses my offer to take her to the bathroom, her entire face goes green and she says, “I need to go potty.” I tell myself not to panic, push my cart out of the way and grab her. She says, “I already went a little bit.” I tell her it’s no big deal and we search for the bathroom. Naturally, the bathrooms are located exactly behind where we were except, in my panic, I didn’t think to look behind me. So, I made my kid walk an entire lap around the store with a load of shit in her pants. And, that was just how she was walking-as if she had a load of shit in her pants. Her legs were about three feet apart.

We make it to the restroom. At this point, I deduce it’s more than a little bit. It’s a mass. Luckily she is wearing a skirt and leggings. After she informs me she doesn’t need to go on the potty, as she is done, I decide to try and clean her up. Because even if we can’t finish shopping, there is no way I am putting her in my brand new car with that going on. No way. I decide the best method is to remove her shoes and throw away the leggings and her underwear. You are welcome Trader Joes for that gift. There was a moment of sheer insanity where I actually considered putting these items in my purse. You know, just tossing them in. I’m very glad I reconsidered, as is the cashier. I use about a half a roll of the paper towel in the bathroom (not very green of me) to wipe her down. Next I use the Sani Hands I keep in my purse (no plastic bag for storing shitty underwear, however) to wipe her off. I suspect, by her shrieks, this may have burned a bit. I was desperate! I was trying to remain calm because, in the words of hamburger eating David Hasselhoff, “This thing is a mess.” Funny, my friends made fun of me at the casino because of the Sani Hands. Had they been present at TJ’s they would have had a much better appreciation for my thoughtfulness.

I deduct she is clean enough. I tell her we are not going to discuss this with anyone. I have visions of her telling people while we are at the store about our little predicament. We are not going to tell anyone that you are not wearing panties. She agrees. I hope she holds up her end of the deal. We finish shopping. I want my effing organic banana yogurt. That stuff is like crack. I am going to need crack after this experience. I drove here, I had a traumatic experience, I survived and I want my goods. We find one of our carts. The other one seems to have disappeared since we were in the bathroom for well over 20 minutes. I’m fine with that. I retrace my steps, hopefully grabbing whatever I had in the cart before and moving as quickly as I can. My child needs a bath and I am praying to God this does not happen again because there is obviously nothing to contain it. I swear to you, people were looking at us funny. I swear they knew. I am sweating profusely and I can’t wait to leave.

Alas, we are in the car. I am driving quickly. Bird is tucked neatly into her seat with her skirt wrapped around her. I can’t have any feces touching my vehicle. I am trying to contain it. I am traumatized. I am frazzled. Feces in public has that effect on me. I am not a calm person. I stop behind bus and a line of cars. The light changes about three times but we never move. Why is the man behind me honking? There is nothing I can do! I am waiting for the traffic in front of me to move! He continues to honk. Oh! Wait! This is actually a line of parked cars! I am a moron! I am frazzled! I roll down the window and yell to the man, “My child shit her pants in the grocery store! I’m spent!” I am kidding. I didn’t actually yell to him. I wanted to. But, in my defense, there was a bus! I thought we were waiting for the bus.

We arrive home. I ask her, as she’s disrobing for the bath, “What happened at Trader Joes?” She informs me, “We can’t talk about it.” Well, at least she kept up her end of the bargain. At least it’s over. That is, until the next day when she does the exact same thing at school and her teacher hands me her underwear wrapped in a plastic bag. I thought it was an art project! Wrong. When I asked her what happened at school she tells me, “I snarkled.” Oh! Is that what the kids are calling it these days?

March Confessional

Bless me dear readers, for while I try to be a good person, sometimes I fail. I am only human (I mistakenly typed normal here and quickly deleted-we all know normal I am not). I am trying to fix the error of my ways but, frankly, that’s not an easy task. I am a disaster. I am a crazed, cooped up, mess of an individual sick-and-fucking-tired of being trapped in the M-F-ING house, watching the weather, and praying to the gods that it won’t bleeping snow again. Sons of Bitches! I’m on the brink! I’ve gone loopy and I have some confessions. I need to cleanse.

1. Sometimes Michael Buble comes on the radio and I don’t turn it off. I actually rock out like the millions of middle-aged women who keep people like him making music. I have not turned to Clay Aiken yet. Please shoot me if I do. Also, because I feel the need to clarify, nothing about Michael Buble gets my panties in a wad. You needed to know this.

2. I dislike Rachael Ray! I don’t like your magazine. I hate the word yummy! Nothing is Yum-O! Fuck-O! I don’t care about your husband’s band and there are only so many ways you can cook a freaking hamburger. I am glad you’re making shit-loads of cash. Somebody is buying into your EVOO and Garbage Bowl. That someone is not me. Suck it. Stop sending me mail. I DON’T WANT YOUR MAGAZINE.

3. I think it is okay to swear. They are only words. I try not to take God’s name in vain. I try. Religious deviant that I am. But, as for the rest? Fuckshitdamnasshole.

4. Fashion confuses me. I try. I think I do okay. I like plaid, large purses that don’t really resemble mom bags, boots, Converse sneakers, tank tops, simple jewelry, flip flops and Yoga pants. I don’t want to own a pair of $900 shoes that appear to be made of human hair. I put back the $25 Kitchen Aid Immersion Blender on Saturday. I am frugal. It was half-price and I still did not get it. Someone like me would never own shoes like that. I mean, but really, who would? Who buys these things?

5. I am obsessed with anti-aging products. I am so vain. I have an entire ritual. Different products for different purposes during different times of day! No Retinol products without sunscreen! You will scald your flesh! Take these things seriously! I’m trying to look like I’m twelve.

6. I mostly resist allowing my child to listen to actual children’s music. I am a selfish asshole. Most children’s music makes me want to cut myself. If she never hears it, she won’t know what she’s missing. I will shelter her! I dare you to show her the ways of Raffi. I will cut you. I will find out where you live. Michael Buble counts as “quality” music for the record. What sort of rotten music taste do you have?

7. Bread is rubbing my shoulders and reading this over them. I hope he never stops. It’s definitely keeping my creative juices flowing.

8. I am irritated by retail establishments and their need to support charitable organizations by asking me to give. These days, it seems as though every place I shop is asking me if I want to donate a dollar to this cause or that. I’m not heartless. I came in for loungewear. I can’t keep giving these dollars! They add up. I have causes I support! How do I know the dollar even goes there? Where is my receipt? Is it tax-deductible? I care about the children! I am concerned for the animals! The homeless need shelter! I just want to shop for my elastic-waist pants without the pressure of knowing how many mouths my dollar will feed! I can’t take the pressure! I feel guilty and then I do things like put the blender I’ve been coveting back.

9. I fear I may be taking my plaid obsession a wee bit too far. Is there such a thing as too much plaid? I already bought a plaid dress for summer!

10. I went back and got the blender.

11. I feel a sudden need to make soup. I need to make lots of soup requiring the use of my new immersion blender.

12. I am glad my husband isn’t cheap.

13. I am going to post this and, perhaps, take a nap. My job may not be glamorous but, it is flexible. My child is napping. My doctor told me when she was born I should sleep when the baby sleeps. I am 100 percent certain the same rule can be applied to sleeping when the toddler sleeps. I know it.

14. I needed one more thing because I don’t like odd numbers. I had to end on an even note.

15. I may have OCD.

16. I might! Shit!

Bad Habits

Over this long, cold, boring winter, I developed some bad habits. The biggest one is leaving the television on all day. I have to turn it on in the morning. I like to watch, or rather, listen to Good Morning America. By the way, have you noticed there are two types of people in this world-those who watch The Today Show and those who watch Good Morning America? I swear. You’ll notice it now. I am so profound. Ahem.

I turn the telly on first thing. I like to hear the local weather seventeen times in case I should need to bring an umbrella or ten or in case that changes and instead there is going to be a blizzard. You just never know and one can never be too prepared. Before, following breakfast, Bird would insist on watching Sesame Street. Once Elmo was over, the TV was off for the day. Now, because we’re busy doing whatever it is we do, I have gotten lax. Also, the days of Sesame Street are long over. Actually, she will watch until the last 20 minutes when Elmo comes on and then she’s over it. It’s as if she has finally noticed what an effing annoying creature he is. Praise the Lord and I didn’t even need to say anything! I feel the need to over-explain having the bleeping idiot box on all day least you should decide to judge me for being ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE. Anyway, I like it on for background noise. I suppose it makes me feel like there are others here, like I have coworkers or something. Actually, there is somebody else here but I will get to that another day.

So, Friday was a typical day in our lives with the exception of the guy from the furniture store coming over. You see, the bed I wrote about here-it’s defective! They are giving us a new one! Mother of God!  I told him it was the damn mattress! There was a spring sticking out!  It was under warranty.  That shit never happens to us! We always get screwed. We had a window in which said mattress guy was supposed to come. Bird was busily playing with her babies so I decided to busy myself cleaning. That’s all I do is clean these days. Spring is near!

I’m going about my business when I happen into the living room where Bird has moved on to reading books. On the television is The Doctors. On the screen flashes the familiar parental guidance warning. Subject matter of the following program is blah blah blah. Parental discretion is advised. And, the show is back. They have Dr. Ruth on. WTF? I thought/figured she had to be dead! I remember back in the day when she was popular. The woman was old as dirt. Amazingly, she still looks exactly the same: ancient.

There they sit-the doctors and Dr. Ruth. By the way, who actually finds this program to be informative? These beautiful people who happen to be doctors talking about all sorts of controversial topics. Hmmm…Tangent. I prefer Ellen; she’s on at the same time. Have you noticed there are two types of people? There are those who watch Ellen and those who watch The Doctors. I’m just saying!

Alright, so I can deduce the subject matter is sex based on their guest. Sex. Imagine the people who will find this blog because I wrote sex. Now if I throw in sex with a Chinese midget we’ll really get some visitors! Sex and Depends! Hello! What? Not what you were looking for? Sorry to bother you with shit about my kid, my husband and my boring life! Unfriend! Unfollow! Er!

Dr. Ruth is on my television to talk about sex, I deduce. Maybe she’s going to show the kids how to put a condom on a banana. I have no idea what to expect but my interest is piqued. They show a homemade- looking segment with two beautiful people (of course they are beautiful because those are the type of people on this particular program-no ugly folks in this world). The woman says something to the effect of- we have been married for seven years and we’re bored. We want to bring fruit into our bedroom! Flash back to the doctors-the female says something about not putting the fruit in your vagina or your anus! Now, I have several initial thoughts. The first one-besides my three-year-old, your grandma probably just watched you on television asking about how to incorporate produce into your sex life. Because, we all know, grandmas have nothing better to do than watch television. Have you ever noticed the coincidences between grandmas and housewives? Weird. My second thought is something about the fact they’ve only been married seven years and they are already bored AND the best thing they can come up with is fruit? Really? My final thought-no fruit in the anus or the vagina? So that’s what I have been doing wrong. I’ve had this itch. Huh. Glad I left the TV on!  Thank you beautiful people!  It appears as though I'm not the only one picking up bad habits this winter. 

WE ARE THOSE PEOPLE!

I love to make fun of myself. I love when other people make fun of me (in theory). I love to make fun of other people (this is especially fun when those we’re laughing about make me feel normal). Now that we’ve covered all that is poking fun, we can move on. No, but seriously, I love a good laugh. So, when Saturday night found us heading to Jackie and P’s house, I knew there would be lots of making fun of others and myself and getting made fun of to be had. Phew!

I should say we are blessed to have great friends. Life is short; my husband works a ton of hours and I’m not wasting time hanging out with folks whose company we don’t enjoy. There are six of us who get together on a regular basis-us, Jackie, P, Malbs and Matt. There are a few other couples who occasionally join us and they are also great (I feel the need to state this for the record-we love you guys). Anyway, the six of us always have a good time. We are on the same wavelength. I love this. These people are the best friends ever. We girls were friends first and then our men became friends so now it’s just great when we all get together (insert cheesy, happy Lifetime Television music here).

We take turns gathering at each other’s homes with the exception of Matt and Malbs because they currently reside with his parents, having just returned from their year-ish in California. Did I mention Malbs is a saint for living with her mother-in-law? That would never happen for most folks. Anyway, we take turns hosting. We get together early so the kids can play (Jackie and P have Annabel who will be two in June). It is glorious when they play because it is every parent’s dream play date. There is no fighting. Nobody is crying. They laugh and they play and it’s perfectly lovely. Alas, I feel as though I’ve done something right as a parent. My child plays well with others! Mostly.

After we put the children to bed (usually late-ish so as they can thoroughly exhaust themselves), we break out the booze and the games. We love board games! This is why we are all friend soul mates! Things is the best! Recently, we discovered Scribblish and, of course there is Catch Phrase and Cranium. Nobody paid me to say these are great games, by the way. I just want to share the joy with others. Occasionally we play cards, namely Euchre. It’s fun. This is where the fun-poking begins. We have all kinds of jokes and things we go at each other for. It’s great! Almost anything is fair game!

This past Saturday was much of the same. Jackie had this drink she wanted me to try. She Googled to find a drink recipe. It was blue and had a ton of alcohol in it. I couldn’t even tell you what all went in there. The name of the drink? Adios Mother Fucker. Yep. I had one. One! I had a bit of a buzz. I’m proud because I had enough sense to only have one. Otherwise, it would have become Comatose Mother Fucker.

The laughs were coming. We were in full make fun of people mode. We were playing Things. We always start with this one. This game requires writing. For some reason, whenever I have a pen, I feel the need to write on Bread. I don’t know why. It’s not a lot. I used to try and give him a tattoo. He told me he did not like that so now I just draw a line. It’s my way of saying, “I respect your wish not to be drawn on and this here line is a reminder of that.” You know, what any logical human-being would do. Well, this time I was absent mindedly doodling on the back of his neck. I didn’t really think about it; it began as me playing with his hair. The next thing I know, I was scribbling. Well, the man lost his shit. He yelled at me like I was a child! I was being childish but still! Stunned silence from everyone. Because, I mean, what do you say when a grown man is chastising a grown woman (technically, I am a grown woman) for drawing on him? This is messed up in so many ways. He even called me Jessica! He never does that. I knew I was screwed.  I choked on my beer and spit on the rolls!  I ruined the midnight snack!

Mostly there was a lot of awkward silence. I mean, the friends didn’t really know what to say and I don’t blame them-the dude lost his shit. I was pretty much okay with it because I knew we would get over it. I was mostly just surprised because he doesn’t usually do that. At least not in public! I kid, I kid. So anyway, we moved on and Bread was embarrassed but we’re all still friends. I was mostly embarrassed because we have people we make fun of for that shit. Now we were those people! Shit! More fuel for their fires! At least he didn’t beat me!

That brings us to last night. Bird was drawing with a pen at the table. This is her new favorite thing to do. I think it makes her feel like an adult. I was trying to show her how to write her name. We worked on that for a few minutes, she lost interest and moved on. I came by to check on her and she wrote on me! Drew a line right on my shirt! Time out! Time out! Where did she learn this? I look at Bread, who inquires as to what has happened. I explain she wrote on me. He gives me the dad eyebrow raise-head-tilt and says, “Well, I can’t imagine where she learned that from.” Shit. He should have given me a timeout.  Dude, sorry I spit on your rolls.  I hope we can still be friends. 

Regimented

Four score and some odd years ago, I probably had a dream. I’m thinking it had to do with being some sort of communications professional. Maybe that was when I wanted to be a veterinarian. There was a phase where nurse or teacher sounded good. I ended up with a degree in communications and an incredible urge to hide or, at least, start all over again and find something I enjoyed doing.

Enter motherhood. Enter the sudden urge to stay home, care for my child, cook, clean, do laundry, exercise and take care of myself. So I did that. I do that. Each and every day I cook (or heat something to feed the people who live here), clean and do laundry (I have a system so I rarely get behind). But, lately, I can’t seem to find or make time to exercise or take care of myself. Since just before Christmas I’ve been burnt out on exercise. I can’t find the motivation. I’m punishing myself in some way - I’m guilt-stricken because I won’t allow myself this daily energizer and stress relief. I can’t quite put my finger on why. Exercise is the world's best anti-depressant.

I needed a push. And, this is not because I want to achieve a smaller number on the scale. I need exercise to clear my mind and prepare for the day ahead. I need to do something, however small, for myself each day. This is what I need. I thrive best this way. So, I’m sick of this shit. I’m sick of the winter blahs. Honestly, it’s way too early in the year for that. I’m disgusted with how I feel having not really broken much of a sweat the past month or so. I have a plan-because I always have a plan. Perhaps my plans don’t always work but I do try.

Enter Jessie’s Boot Camp. I’ve had enough of this shit. I’m taking drastic measures. I suppose I was bored with my current regime (or lack thereof). So, I went to Target. I purchased some new workout clothes. I bought my first kettlebell and a new Yoga mat. I am also the owner of some new DVDs by Jillian Michaels and Bob Harper; they are two of my most favorite fitness people. Target is where every person should go when in a fitness rut.  Great prices and awesome selection.  Target did not even pay me to say that.  They should!  Anyway, I am excited. I’m dedicating one hour a day to the treadmill, weights, a video or whatever it is I feel like doing. No pressure, just some sort of activity. I must stop this nonsense so I can return to feeling like a normal person. I recognize normal is very subjective especially since I am referring to my crazy self.

Part of the problem is my child is rising very early. She gets up at 6:30 these days! WTF? What do I do with her all day? How can I entertain her? Anyway, I’m not rising at 5 am. I cannot do this. I will be puffy by 10 am! I need my beauty sleep. I’m also not great at nighttime workouts since that is my time with Bread and, usually, the telly after he goes to bed. So, I’ve decided it is okay to exercise with her. She can either sit and watch or participate. I could be teaching her far worse habits. Ha! Could and do! So, this is my plan. I am committed. Such excitement. I can’t wait to be so sore I cannot walk! Today is day five and I'm stiff!  I love this feeling!  I missed it! It’s been so long! I’m a sick individual! And, there’s nothing better than watching my cute tot do squats in her Disney princess underwear! Those are her “workout” clothes. She did NOT learn this from me, I swear. I encourage her to wear clothes at all costs! She refuses! I never wear only my princess underwear when I exercise...

Chip Off the Old Block

My child is turning into her mother. I’m not declaring this as though it’s a good thing. She’s picked up on my phrases, enjoys organizing, carbohydrates and pesters me all day to let her watch more television. I’ve definitely created a monster. I’m frightened to have another child. In what ways will I be able to screw that kid up?

I suppose the circle is complete because, over the past month or so, I noticed how many things I do and say that have come from my own mother. The entire female population on that side of the family has a wonderful way of shrieking at less-than-exclaimable life moments. “WHAT? YOU’RE SHITTING ME?!!! Yep, I inherited that. I’ve notice I also proclaim, “Mother of God,” at many things. Bread informed me Bird used this the other day as well. Crap. Here I thought I was doing well because I am managing not to drop F-bombs. This is not great. I suppose there are worse things but we’re preparing to send her to preschool tomorrow. I can’t have this out in the open. The authorities will come. They will take me away. I will not fare well in jail. I need cosmetics, preferably those containing Retinol and SPF 30. I need lip balm and my magazines. Oh, and, I’m not really fond of public showers.

Bird received a Fisher Price iXL for Christmas. This is the best thing ever. It keeps her busy (educationally) while I shop! Peaceful moments in Target! I can do all my shopping! It is glorious. For some reason, she keeps putting the pen that goes with it in her mouth. This bothers me as she is too old to be doing this. Again, preschool! So the other night, we’re sitting there and she’s playing some princess game on her new toy when I see her with the dang pen in her mouth again. I tell her to take it out. She asks why to which I just raise my eyebrows. That’s all I did-raise the ol’ eyebrows. She said, “Because you said so.” Yes! That’s it. I am amazed lately how quickly, easily and without so much of a second thought that phrase rolls off my tongue. I am a mother. Mother, all right…But, my kid gets it. She’s a genius.

The next night we were playing around. I may have been a bit sleepy. I may have been lying on the couch under a blanket trying to convince her to rub my back and put me to sleep. May have been-I’m not quite recalling exactly what we were up to. Ahem. So, at some point she’s talking and talking and I’m dozing. She says, “Nutjobs! They’re nutjobs!” I have no idea to what or whom she’s referring but of course I perk right up at this. I ask her who she’s talking about. She says, “Nutjobs! We’re all a bunch of nutjobs.” Yep. Shit.

Yesterday she was happily playing with her “friends” as she calls her stuffed animals. Bread was in the kitchen and I was sitting at the computer. Bird goes running by, yelling, “If I have to tell you again, I’m going to beat you.” She starts school on tomorrow. I suspect the authorities will be at my door by Thursday. It was nice knowing you.