You Can't Leave...All the Plants Will Die!

Even in high school, I always knew that I would say the same things to my kids one day as my parents said to me growing up. I grew up with just my dad and he was about ten years older than most dads and so most of his quotes were those that were popular in the 30s or 40s. Think, "cat's pajamas" , "don't be a wise guy", "nice peepers" , "don't take any wooden nickels", that kind of stuff.

So I'm not sure when or why it happened but I used a Bill Murray quote from Stripes to force my f-ing kids to move their asses give my kids some encouragement to get into the car faster so I could make it to a class at the gym on time for a change.

"I WANT YOU" (as long as you are over 18)

I don't remember in what context I yelled, "THAT'S THE FACT, JACK!" but somehow it worked. Even though it was a funny line in one of the best movies ever, I yelled it in a kinda mean way in response to one of the kids demanding to know why we had to go to the gym that day. After I yelled it, the kid's got that quiet look on their faces that said, "Oh shit, Mom's about to lose it!" and they scurried like cockroaches in the direction of the car. 

But the thing is- I was not pissed! Quoting that line for no explicable reason for the first time in my life kinda made me smile on the inside and sorta brought me to a cool, calm place. There, for a brief moment I was able to fantasize (as I'd done many times as a way-too-young-to-be-fantasizing-about-men-in-their-mid-thirties girl) about hot Bill Murray from the early 1980s. 

And so the next day, again, something came over me while the little fat kid was trying to sneakily eat crackers on the couch. I had told her "No" a couple of times but she was basically ignoring me. 

Finally, I yelled, "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!"

Well, guess who moved their ass and their crackers off the couch?

That's right, Jack Nicolas.

No, not really, but she seemed just as surprised at that moment as he probably was when he learned that Shelly Duvall was going to play his beautiful wife in The Shining.

So now I've decided I can use movie quotes to help me frighten encourage the kids to listen to me, no matter how out of context the quote because the kids obviously are not keeping up with the pop culture of the 80s or 90s. 

Plus, pretty much anything I yell at them scares the shit out of them.

Dumb-asses.

Cute, sweet little dumb-asses.

Currently accepting suggestions for out of context quotes from old movies that can be used to scare my kids into doing things while lightening my mood.......

My Butt Has Come into Question

I was actually able to find a picture of me running.

This picture has not been doctored at all- this is really the look I have on my face when I run.

Now you know why I run.

Because, obviously, I'm bringing sexy back.

Why I Got Naked for My Childhood Friend

After being head-butted this morning by an enormous toddler noggin for the ten millionth time since 2008 I began to think of how many injuries I've sustained since because of having children. 

I decided I needed to compile an injury list to include some of the more "dangerous" activities I've been involved with as an adult. This might help me see if I made good life choices when I decided my marathon days were over and a career working with zoo animals was no longer for me.

Injuries Sustained During Marathon Training/Biking to Work and Treatments Required to Remedy

Plantar fasciitis- Ice, Elevation and Ibuprofen 3 x daily. Repeated every 2-3 years when injury undoubtedly recurred because of training like an idiot (or like someone without a chronic, recurring injury they should have been worried about)

ITB syndrome- Stretching iliotibial band while standing in line at the grocery store looking like a weird lady that really needed to pee

Sunburn- No treatment needed. Simply enjoyed the "base tan" produced on my normally pasty/pale complexion

Sunburn induced Age spots on once milky white complexion on "average looks" face- Visited childhood friend, (now a dermatologist) to have age spots chemically burned off of flesh after the surprising, "mole check" that was required and stripping down so childhood friend  could look at every inch of my naked body with a magnifying glass

Loss of big toe nail- Went thong-less for 11 months. AND did not wear flip flops for nearly a year as well! Heh, heh, heh

Shin splints- see treatment for plantar fasciitis

Stress fracture & Morton's neuroma in foot- Surgical removal of nerve (that eventually grows back). Had to wear one of those stupid shoe things that wound up stinking big-time

Getting ass grabbed by local pervert while riding to work- No serious injury sustained. Late for work, broken headphones and post traumatic stress that makes me think everyone is a potential, ass-grabby pervert

Teenage boy yelling, "FAT ASS!!!" from car driving past me while jogging- Quiet humiliation and sad realization that I may always have a kinda fat ass, despite all the running. Treatment readily found in any type of bottle available in the house

Injuries Sustained from Large, Dangerous or Venomous Animals During 10 Years Working at a Zoo and Treatments Required to Remedy

Scrapes and Embarrassment- This occurred while walking past a "tame" adult Ostrich while on my way to retrieve a pacifier dropped into the front of the Ostrich exhibit (Why the hell a parent would want that pacifier- that may or may not have been sitting in ostrich poo- to put back in the mouth of their baby? I have no fucking idea). The ostrich decided to kick me and my sympathetic nervous system decided to jump into the nearest bush, causing scratches, much to the delight of the child waiting at the front of the exhibit with his parents, causing the subsequent embarrassment

Allergies- Sneezing. Kept a dozen Kleenix around in all pockets of zoo-issue cargo pants for six weeks. Had to remove disintegrated Kleenix parts from "clean" laundry for about eight weeks

Bruises- To legs while restraining live animals that don't want blood taken from them via a very large needle. Also, to ego when unable to restrain pig, peacock, squirrel monkey successfully for veterinarian

Boredom- Again, not a real injury but certainly a hazard on the job if it is your job to wait for the 100 year old tortoise to finish his antibiotic-laced strawberry

Injuries Sustained While Living with Small, Dangerous Children and/or Babies and Humiliation Morally Questionable Treatments Required to Remedy

Bruises- Sustained from bites when baby/child discovers that they have teeth and/or can use teeth to piss you off. Treated with Benadryl (ensured child was asleep quickly and so was able to get at least three drinks into me after kid's bedtime)

Sleep deprivation- Causes low patience and consistent poor decision making in regards to personal hygiene and fashion. This condition is chronic, lasting for years. It is also irreversible as far as I can tell

Torn Rotator Cuff- Sustained after lifting big-ass baby in and out of crib for 1 year. Surgery required for repair. And lots of drugs. Lots and lots of drugs

Serious Constipation Due to Overuse of Pain Pills After Shoulder Surgery- Layed on floor of friend's cabin where I went "to get a break from it all" while trying to read directions on enema package. Did not enjoy the weekend at all

Emergency C-Section to Remove Giant, Stuck Baby #1- All hopped up on sweet-ass epidural and stuff so don't really remember

Scheduled C-Section to Remove Giant Baby #2- Totally remember this because it TOTALLY SUCKED getting an epidural sans "sweet-ass" drugs to make me not care that they were stabbing me over and over again in my back

Conclusion
It is obvious that the physical tolls and risks of being near, working with and/or birthing children far outweigh any other activity that I have ever participated in. 

Not so obvious, though still true, having a two year old climb into our bed at 7 am saying, "Cockadoodle-doo, Mommy!" while gently prying one of my eyelids open with her fat thumbs is a benefit that far outweighs that of any job I've had or marathon I've ever run.

However, the emotional toll of being near, working with and/or birthing children has yet to be determined and is likely to result in irreparable, psychological damage.

What's That in Your Mouth?

My attempt to sound "normal" on the phone to the pediatric nurse must have worked.

I know this because when I asked her, "Do you get a lot of calls like this?", she said, "Yeah, about once a week but they usually sound a lot more freaked out than you". 

Hmmm. I guess that's good...(?) 

Or really bad, I think.

I mean should I be more freaked out that my toddler just ate poo? I don't know. I was starting to feel badly that not only was I not "freaked out" by it, but I was only calling the doctor's office as a just-in-case thing. I really didn't think it was a big deal. 

Gross? Yes, totally. 

End of the world? Nah. 

Maybe I would have been more freaked if it hadn't been super-fresh, straight-from-the source poo or if had been someone else's poo. So basically it was not rotten poo and I was fairly certain, because it was her own poo, that there were no parasites that I needed to worry about. At least no new parasites.

How did she get a hold of her own poo? In the bathtub, where she decided to poo that afternoon. And the real bummer was that I'd just cleaned the tub. I felt just like I used to when we had Scruff, the 22 pound orange tabby that liked to leave a giant, stinky poop exactly one minute after his litter box was changed. Except Scruff had the smarts to never even consider eating it afterwards. 

Not so for my little fatty. She would put anything in her mouth as a baby. Jesus, that's a lie. She's two and half now and still puts stuff in her mouth.

List of stuff put in little one's mouth today:

Russian doll set 

(They were purchased by M.I.L. on a cruise somewhere near Russia so they're probably coated in thick, leaded paint. Which would explain a lot, actually)

Diaper 

(It was clean. Whew! Dodged another embarrassing phone call to the pediatrician's office)

One sandal 

(No explanation)

Various choke-hazard sized toys 

(No f-ing clue)

The dog

(No, she was not kissing the dog nor was she biting her either. She just walked up behind her, open mouthed and put her mouth around the back of the dog's neck. I think she might have trying to eat her. I'm not really sure)

And now I realize what an awesome Mom I must be. 

Considering how many toys or animals this kid puts in her mouth daily and how often it is NOT poo, I think I am doing pretty good, actually. Probably better than a lot of other Mom's frankly.

Congratulations to me! I will be accepting your nominations for Mom of the Year for both 2012 and 2013 because I'm pretty sure I've got this poo-eating thing pretty well under control this year and next.

Pubic Hair for the Public

As of next month, I'll be married for thirteen years- and pretty happily actually! Yaaaay! 

And probably not unlike most people that have been married (happily or not) for that long, some personal hygene standards have, well, dropped. Boooo!

I realized when I was, err, grooming in the shower the other day that I was doing it mostly to save embarrassment at the gym swimming pool. Cellulite thighs, can't control that. Besides, those big, shimmering thighs help my not-totally-embarrassing speed while doing laps. 

However little, squiggly black hairs sticking out of the bottom of my suit- Ew! Those CAN be helped and those do not hasten my speed in the pool. That said, they certainly hasten my speed from the locker room into the pool when, on occasion, I realize upon undressing that I forgot to shave and the only place I can count on hiding my unruly pube's is by submerging them and me in the pool.

As stupid (or narcissistic as it sounds), once I realized that I shaved, groomed and/or waxed largely for other naked women (that probably were NOT checking out my pubes anyway) I began to wonder:
Is my Pube-Do still even fashionable these days?

And then:
How do you know when your pubic hair-do has gone out of fashion?

And finally:
How do I learn the latest fashion in Pube-Do's? Or the Pube Don'ts, for that matter?

All I really want to do is a few laps now and again and hopefully a sprint triathlon in the spring but now I feel I have to worry about a freakin' fashion statement. I remember back when I was a pre-pube kid and Big Bush was just fine for everyone (see Porky's if you don't remember or any other movie made in 1982) but ah, things have changed a lot since the feathered hair of the glorious 80s.

These days people are worried about all kinds of things like large labia and the color of their butt cracks and stuff. I mean, imagine the humiliation of showing up at the gym with a flabby labia (I like to call them, "flabia"), a non-albino ass crack and god-forbid, a FULL, untamed bush! I would like to claim that I don't care about these things but I'm happy to say that I am still young enough that it does matter to me, thank god.

It's not as though I'm looking at other women on purpose in the locker room, it's just that some things cannot go unnoticed. For example, the woman in her 70s that swims on the same days as me. Both of us are apparently creatures of habit as we wind up using the same lockers at the same times on the same days every week. As a result, I get to see her unmanaged shock of grey pubes every time she's getting out of her swimsuit and into her wrinkly birthday suit. 

I'm not trying to say she's "yucky"- the ultimate insult for the Under Four crowd in my house- I'm just trying to say that this older woman has obviously lost sight of what is an acceptable length to wear one's Locks of Love.

Either that or she just does not give a shit.

Anyhow, I'm not ready to give up on the idea that my pubes can still look decent. Yet sadly, even though I teach high school and am aware of the latest teen fashions as well as the regrettable resurgence of Day Glo tank tops, I still don't know how the kids are wearing the hair underneath their thongs. And even I can admit that it would be somewhat inappropriate to ask any of my female students about the hair-down-there and frankly, a little presumptuous of me to assume that they all wear thongs. Even though I'm pretty sure they all do.

So what now?

Do I need to start watching the latest porn to see what I'm supposed to look like?

Do I need to watch porn that specifically made for people over the age of 35 so I can wear a style that is age-appropriate? 

Do I need to worry that the whole reason that I'm concerned about my pubic hair has nothing to do with what my husband thinks about my Land Down Under?

And the scariest question of all- should I ask my husband his opinion on the matter??

And what the hell do I do if he says, "landing strip"???

I See Dead People (in my closet)...

I just saw my dead Dad in my closet.

"So what?", say you? 

Well, you should know right now that he is not haunting me or my house. 

Not unless....you don't think?

Waaait a minute....Not unless he's haunting us in the form of scorpions that invaded us four months after moving into a new house. Possible, but not his style. If you've ever heard the phrase, "outdoorsman", let me introduce you to another, less-known phrase- "indoorsman". 

That was Dad. A real indoorsman. And a Republican. That went to The School of Hard Knocks and never, ever took a wooden nickel from anyone! If this guy were to haunt me it would be more subtle and far less "outdoors-y" than rabid scorpions creeping through my house at night. He would haunt me in the form of The Macneil/Lehrer Newsgroup or Fox News being transmitted on all channels on my TV whenever we were trying to watch Weeds or making sure the mayonnaise jar was always empty, no matter how many times a new jar was purchased . 

So no, Dad is not haunting me, nor was he living with me when he died last October. I guess now he kinda lives with me but to be technically correct, I'd have to change the verb, "living" to "staying". As in, "My recently deceased Dad is staying in my closet".

And I just said, "Hi" to him.

Ok, ok, re-reading that it sounds slightly c-ra-zee, but I assure you it is not. Or maybe it is. I don't think it's as koo-koo as it sounds, though. 

Still unsure what to do with his ashes six months after he died last October, I finally picked up Dad from the funeral home. Dad had always said he wanted, under NO circumstances to have a funeral held on his behalf. He said they were "depressing" and a waste of money. He also was sure to remind me every few years starting when I was about ten years old to "pull the plug!" if it came down to it and to cremate him afterwards. Yes, these were the types of conversations my dad and I would share after my parents divorced. They weren't met to scare me, rather, I think Dad knew that I'd be there and I'd be the responsible one in the family, regardless of my age.

However, what Dad neglected to tell me was, what the hell we were supposed to do with him afterwards. The one time I asked Dad what he wanted done with his ashes he told me he wanted me to put him on the mantel "so I can keep an eye on you". Clearly I could not depend on a straight answer from this guy so I never brought it up again.

Fast forward ten years and you'll now find my Dad's remains on the top shelf of our closet, resting comfortably between my kid's humidifier and an old flour container. The flour jar contains some weed my husband purchased sometime in the previous decade that he hasn't decided to smoke yet. It is no coincident, by the way, that his decision to purchase the aforementioned pot was probably made an hour or so after the last time he smoked it.

We- my sister, my Dad's girlfriend of ten years, Kay, and I debated the merits of several different places that might be a nice, final resting place for him. At first my sister really wanted to shove Dad in the ocean, I think because her new boyfriend, "Skippy"*, lived on a boat in San Diego. Skippy had kindly offered to take the entire family out on his boat to find a place where we would go chumming with Dad. I wasn't a huge fan of this idea but I didn't really care too much, really, where Dad wound up, as long as it  A) wasn't my mantel or B) was alright with Kay. Honestly, though, the whole thing sounded like a  big hassle. I'd have to drive six hours across the desert and then get on a boat (which I totally hate) and then I'd have to meet this, Skippy person. 

I didn't know much about Skippy but what I did know, was a little iffy.  

First of all, he was a dude in his early 50's that went by "Skippy" and if that wasn't enough, he'd lived on a docked boat in the San Diego harbor for the last 20 years. I remember seeing movies and TV shows in the 80s  where the main character lived on a houseboat or some shit (MacGyver,  Sonny Crockett of Miami Vice fame and the gruff, but loveable, Quincy, ME) and it seemed super-cool and we all made plans to all live on house-boats one day, when we grew up. 

"My, what supple ankles you have, Crockett!"
"Why thank you. It's the fresh ocean air. I live on a boat, you see..."

Of course I was in my teens at the time and I also thought wearing a white tube top with overalls and unlaced Doc Marten's was the sexiest, most imaginative fashion statement a girl could ever make. Ever. Eventually we all (well, most of us) grew up, got rid of our overall/tube top ensembles and moved into houses built on dry land.

Totally not me (not enough tube-top) 

But boat-houses aside, Skippy was new to the family. He'd only been dating my sister a few weeks and to offer to basically host a funeral for our entire family was a little weird, I thought.

I couldn't figure out why this guy want to throw a funeral for a grumpy old guy he never met. Shit, I didn't even want to go. Besides- who throws someone a funeral?? Do people normally do that kind of thing or is it just my wacko family? 

It just seemed off to me and I knew whatever we'd wind up doing would be a tough day for me and everyone else. So I didn't want to make the day that much worse by trapping myself on a stupid boat. You see, unlike a lot of people, I fucking hate boats (and in a strange twist of irony, I wound up married a man that would wind up working on a boat for much of his career-just my fucking luck). I also knew that I wouldn't feel comfortable grieving in front of this guy that was an absolute stranger to me. My sister argued that she and Dad, only weeks earlier had a conversation about how much he loved San Diego when he lived there in the late 60s. However, Kay was quick to point out, if he loved it so much, why did he leave it? Ha! In the end it seemed like a giant hassle to do something that none of us really wanted to do. 

Note: After dating a mere six weeks, I had the chance to me Skippy in person, at my Dad's "Celebration of Life" ceremony (Dad- In case you have the internet wherever you are, it was NOT a funeral, per your explicit instructions. We had a celebration of life party for you, ok? Geez, get over it!) I also had the opportunity to view the new tattoo Skippy had gotten on his back the week before. It was the face of a beautiful woman. A woman that bore an uncanny resemblance to my sister. Yes, that's right, the 50 year old, guy-that-lives-Sonny Crockett-style on a houseboat was just wacky enough to get a tattoo on his back of a woman that he'd been dating less than two months. My estimation of him as "iffy" was right-on and I'm thankful Dad didn't like San Diego more or who knows what would have happened if we had let Skippy throw us a funeral out on the deep seas.

And now you know why Dad remains (or Dad's remains remain) in my closet. 

Believe me, it is super tempting to put him on the mantel just to screw with the tall guy but then the little people might have questions about what's in the box and then there'd have to be a serious discussion. And then they'd be up late at night crying about Grandpa in the box and I'd have to stay up late and that would seriously cut into my drinking time. And watching Tosh reruns. 

But the question remains...what do I do with Dad?

Still taking suggestions but please, please, please, don't offer to throw us a funeral, ok?

*Names have been changed in order to protect the recently tattoed innocent

You're Not Going to F-ing Believe This

The other day I- No, someone broke my fucking cup.

Yes, that cup.

I want to call it my $5000 cup but I haven't gotten the hospital bill from the last week's visit so I'm not sure what I will call it. For now, I'll refer to it as Cup II.

It was quite literally hours after posting about the demise of my first cup. It's taken me a couple of days to write about it. I was strangely upset about the whole thing that night. Nothing a couple (three) vodka and diet tonic's and a stern look from my annoyed husband couldn't cure, though.

"Why are you getting so upset? It was only cup a cup?!" the tall guy said,  AS IF IT WERE REALLY ONLY A CUP! Jesus, I mean what world is he living in??

I can't say for sure why it was so upsetting but I can say the event occurred as if it were in slow motion. The tall two year old grabbed Cup II from the middle of the kitchen table with her eerily long, orangutan-like arms and began to drink, then shake, then drop Cup II directly on the floor. 

And that's when I lost it. 

I'm not sure exactly what I said, I'm not violent so I don't hit/kick/punch kids/husband/dog physically but probably emotionally, yeah, I'd say, yeah, I do that from time to time. I think I blacked out the specifics from that night (or I just blacked out entirely after the V& T's mentioned above) but I'm guessing I gave the kids a verbal sort of slap. Why freak out on both kids and not just the one that did it? I don't fucking know. They were both there, they were all, like, looking at me and everything. Besides, if the little one didn't break it that night, there's an excellent chance the big one would have broken it later on anyway. 

Besides, I already said, "I lost it" so just give it a rest already.
(Psst- that was kinda a verbal slap- see, not so bad, eh? Just a little sting. No scar.)

Anyhow, I always know when I lose my shit in front of the husband/kids/dog because they get all quiet and avoid eye contact with me for a while. The dog is the only one in the house smart enough to 1) not argue 2) make herself scarce. I knew the tall guy was right because I really shouldn't have been that upset about the cup. It wasn't even worth $5000. It was probably more like six or seven hundred dollars, max.

I'm guessing the only reason I was that upset was because I think I thought by writing about it earlier that day, I had sort of purged myself of the negative emotions attached to the loss of the $5000 cup, the day I had to take the little kid to the ER alone because my husband was out of town and most importantly, it really was (another) awesome cup.

To be fair, I really should be counting my blessings right now because if you remember my fist post about my $5000 cup, you'll know that just the lid broke. What I did not mention is that I kept the bottom (also known as the cup part) of the original $5000 cup. And as luck would have it, when that certain little someone in my household accidentally dropped Cup II on the kitchen floor, it was only the bottom part that cracked. 

And so....

Yes, I still have a cup. 

I used the still-intact bottom portion of my $5000 cup along with the lid of Cup II to make one still, totally ok working, lidded, clear plastic, totally awesome cup. PLUS, I now have TWO kick-ass blue plastic straws!

I shall call it Super Cup.

And I will not delude myself into thinking that I will treat this one differently, I shall not. 

And I will not allow myself to imagine years together, instead I will cherish the simple moments with Super Cup.

And I will not, for a moment think I can keep the hands of an especially tall two-year old off of any of my stuff, much less my beloved Super Cup.

Instead, I shall look forward to the day where, because of some unpredictable "accident" at the hands of a two and a half year old, I can shop for another cup- perhaps one of stainless steel, at the nearest Starbucks.

Don't Bother with the Anti-Jinx

I broke my $5000 cup the last week.

Yes, I own a $5000 cup.
Owned- a $5000 cup.

It's not lame, like something from a pimp-type dude in a Snoop Dogg (the artist currently known as Snoop Lion) video. Nor is it super cool in a Holy Grail type of way either. 

It was sooo much more than that.

My $5000 cup was made of clear, however well insulated plastic with an awesome blue plastic straw that had this cool little bump-thing towards the bottom so that no matter how many times you dropped it in the laundry room on your way out to the car, late for something, it would never fall out because it also had an equally cool, clear plastic, twist-on lid. It also had a super-sweet logo on the side, in blue, that read, Cardon Children's Medical Center.

You're probably wondering where I got such an amazingly cool cup and why it had the logo of a pediatric hospital on the side. Relax. I'm getting to that. Still not done telling you how cool it was and how happy it made me and the inevitable tragedy that eventually took it from me.

I used to fill it with lots of ice and water each day before work. I would lug it around pretending to be as cool and sexy as that lady on Weeds looked with her Starbucks or whatever, while teaching at a small, weird high school part time. I loved this cup because for the first time in my life, this cup made me feel something. It made me feel hydrated. Really, well hydrated.

Until the day it broke.

I didn't notice at first because it was just the edge of the lid. But that was enough. One day I noticed that every time I accidentally knocked it over or dropped it on the floor, it leaked. 
It actually leaked! 

What the fuck?? I thought to myself (or may have said out loud in front of the high schoolers. Maybe), I paid 5000 fucking dollars for this piece of shit and it doesn't even stand up to being dropped roughly every other day for about a year?!? 

I was beginning to think I'd overpaid for my cup, as I tried to remember who may have dropped it last and therefore, who I could blame the tragedy upon. And then I saw the silver lining because that's just like me. I'm a. "cup is 1/2 full kind of..." 

Fuuuuck!!!

Anyway, I'm actually more of a realist that had a one-night-stand with an optimist that either scarred me emotionally for years or gave me a non-fatal but super annoying STD and so I occasionally see the brighter side of life (Yes! That's two Monty Python references in ONE blog! Don't get that anywhere else, do ya? Sweetness). So I was thinking, "I could get a new cup..." and then I thought the words that would of course TOTALLY JINX ME...."the next time the kid is in the hospital"......

So here's how I got that sweet cup. Last October my bigger kid was hospitalized following a scary night battling asthma unsuccessfully at home. Once admitted  and stabilized and many hours later, I left the kid with a nurse and ate alone at the cafeteria where I purchased the cup along with my lunch.

Daughter went home fine about 36 hours later, in good health, very tired but breathing ok. A few months later the bills totaled about $10,000. Our private, family policy deductible? 

You guessed it.
Five grand.

I used to not believe in the "jinx", except when we'd mimic Laverne and Shirley as kids, yelling,"Jinx! Buy me a Coke!" anytime we uttered the same thing at the same time as someone else. But as I've gotten older, and yes, crazier, I've grown to believe in The Jinx.

So the minute I even thought those evil thoughts about getting another $5000 cup at the children's hospital, I knew I was doomed. And as if to confirm it, the Happy Bunny calendar hanging on the pantry door said the tall guy I share the house and kids with was leaving town for the week. 

God damn, it.

I.
AM.
FUCKED.

I even tried to reverse The Jinx by planning an Anti-Jinx inducing trip to Starbucks so I could buy
a $25 plastic cup there, even though I hate coffee. But as you know, the Anti-Jinx never, ever works. It just makes the Jinx Gods angrier. And then they have to think up worse shit for you to deal with so they can laugh harder when the shit hits the fan, as we all know it eventually will.

Fast forward 24 hours- Tall guy leaves town.

Fast forward another 44 hours- Short kid hospitalized.

Fast forward 52 hours- I'm hungry and alone in the ER except for the happy toddler covered in stickers, watching her very own TV and wearing an oxygen mask.

Fast forward 72 hours- kid home, dad home, I'm home. We're all sleeping through the night again. We're all fed and happy. And I have a band new cup to replace the old one that somebody else (probably) broke.

I'm pretty sure I won't be able to call it my $5000 cup since the kid didn't spend the night there, but I am currently making plans to treat this cup better. 

This time it will be different.
I will be careful with this one.

I swear on my mother's....

Oh, God-damn it.

Is that all there is?

So...I guess I've decided to write a blog because that's what sort of crazy-ish people with a reasonable ability to construct a sentence (run-on or not) do these days. 
Plus, I'm hoping that this will help me control the internal monologue that is constantly running in my head like that unnecessary Seinfeld laugh track. 

*Note: back in the olden times I would have referred to my internal monologue as, "the voices in my head" but that's not PC anymore. Like calling stupid people "retarded". Or calling retarded people retarded. Not cool. Just don't call retarded people anything, ok? You should know better. Just don't look at them, like everyone else does. Or doesn't. Whatever. Don't be so picky. Please see my note below regarding grammar.

But what do I have to say that is unique?
What hasn't been said yet?

Well, I am here to tell you what makes me unique.
In just one minute.

Here it is....

And...Go!

Ok, I got nothing.

I just realized that this is not at all a problem for me because I've read what's out there and what I've found are a bunch of nut jobs.
Fair enough, there are some really good ones out there like the awesomely goofy, Jenny Lawson and that crafty (and by "crafty", I mean, shifty-eyed and not likely trustworthy), Lady Goats but the internet seems to be hemorhaging whackadoodles for the most part. I figure it's time I, the voice of reason (...able-ness), stepped in.

Wait. Just thought of something.

Here is a list of what you will not find on this blog:

• Heart warming stories about my adoring husband

• Heart warming stories about my adorable children

• Heart warming stories about my idiotic dog

• Cute pictures of my husband/kids/stupid dog

• Crazy-ass polar political views/news/rants

• Showing thankfulness to God for anything

• How to make shit

• How to cook anything

• How to not drink a lot of Vodka

• Belly-aching about my "post baby body" or my "weight loss journey". I mean, barf. Who needs that kind of shit?

• Good grammar

Here is a list of what you will find on this blog:

• Frustrating stories about my annoying husband

• Blood pressure elevating stories about my "spirited" (and often annoying) children

• Occasional stories proving how fucking stupid my dog really is

• Cussing. There will be lots of cuss words

• Possibly pictures of interesting things that one can find in my town-that-used-to-be-rural-ish-till-we-gots-the-freeway (I only say this because one time I was jogging and came across an adult American Buffalo in my neighbor's backyard and was able to snap a picture. How cool is that? And no, it did not wander into the backyard, and no, I do not live in 1800s Wyoming nor current day Yellowstone Park. The buffalo was a family pet and we live in a town that's really a suburb of Phoenix)

• Crazy-ass rants about really trivial matters

• No mention of God, probably. Unless I'm cussing, of course (see above)

• How to hire kinda good looking in a Vin Diesel meets John C. Reilly but dressed like that "Git 'er done!" Redneck-y comedian kind of way to do the most basic tasks around our house because you're too tired, lazy, or dumb to do any of them yourself

• How to freak out while making dinner, because it's hard for me

• There will probably be mention of booze 

• Booze-related activities that may or may not include sex, falling asleep before sex, not remembering if sex was had the previous night, hang-overs (Future topic: ask me about the Girl Named Sue Triathlon and the drinking events included in this often ignored solo event)

• Weird stuff like: 
• Running
• Going to the gym religiously
• Teaching an indoor cycling class (I do a lot of this kind of shit, seriously)

(No, really. I'm pretty hard-core. You have to be if you want to maintain your weight and still drink heavily several nights a week while watching Breaking Bad marathons and devouring an entire bag of cheap, ripply potato chips from a plastic Tinkerbell bowl)

• Words like, "awesomely"

Well, I think that about sums it up.

Time to pop an Ambien and hope the tall guy gets up when one of the small ones starts crying or something in the middle of the night.

Until next time....