Standing in the middle

I can’t believe some of the crazy shit I’m reading.  People are sending their little kids to school wearing armored backpacks.  Police are stationed at schools all over the country.  Crazy lunatics are suggesting that kids should be instructed to ‘rush the gunman’ rather than hide, should they find themselves in a similar horrible situation.

Has the world gone mad?  Yes.  YES.  YES.  The answer is YES!

Every day I read the news and I’m in complete shock at the number of stories of knife wielding killers, students threatening to blow up schools, and people being shot in malls and parks.

I sit here on the eve of what has been touted as the end of the world…and I can’t say I’d be afraid or even sorry if God pressed the redo button. 

The other day I posted this on the Diary of a Madwoman Facebook page, “It’s called Freedom OF religion, not Freedom FROM religion,” and the comments sent me into a tail spin.  Obviously I live in a bubble, because I honestly had no idea so many people hated God/Christians/Religious people.  Now I know.  And I’m struggling with what to do with the information.  And I’m a little ashamed that it’s taken me so long to become aware of this.

You know, I’m one of those people that is nearly unable to stop trying.  I don’t think I can take no for an answer, if no isn’t the answer I want.   I’m a very logical thinker.  My modus operandi is common sense.  I’ve survived for 44 years being a no nonsense kind of girl.  I’m sorry I didn’t trademark the phrase just do it, because I could have.

And this is what I see.

The pendulum is swinging wildly.  It’s rocking the world.  The universe is screaming for people to come to the middle, to stabilize the planet.  But the people aren’t listening.  Frightened and scared, they’re running in opposite directions.  This causes the planet to rock harder.

I honestly believe that humans are inherently good.  Given the chance, most people would do the right thing.  Most people want peace.  Happiness.  Prosperity.  Love.  But when the pendulum is swinging so wildly, you’re more likely to get knocked down by the vibration.

Our kids are more likely to get struck by lightning and eaten by a shark on the same day than they are to be shot up by a gunman in their kindergarten classroom.   Yet the knee jerk reaction is to send them to school in a bulletproof backpack.  Because the pendulum is swinging wildly.

A hundred years ago, people didn’t have cars or televisions.  A hundred years ago.  The evolution of our planet is so rapidly unfolding…it’s rocking the planet.  There is no stopping it.  Technology will not rest.  But the people must learn to adapt.  Stress adaptation.

Scientists have invented vaccines for most of our known diseases.  Common sense dictates that we should vaccinate our children.  But we are now learning that excessive vaccination may not be healthy.  But we all ran towards the vaccines.  Quickly.  In a matter of a few decades.  The number of vaccines tripled.  The pendulum swung violently. 

Farmers have learned how to keep up with feeding the billions of people in the world.   Common sense dictates that we need enough food so that we don’t go hungry.  So they genetically modified seeds and learned to give large amounts of antibiotics to cattle and pigs.  But we are now learning that excessive antibiotics and growth hormones in our food supply may not be healthy.  Genetically modified foods may not be healthy.  Quickly, in a matter of decades, the farmers all ran towards increased production.  But they ran too fast.  The pendulum swung wildly. 

Computers and smart phones and gaming devices were put into the hands of all of the children.  Common sense dictates that we should keep up with technology.  The world collectively decided it was good.  But we are now learning that excessive computer time no matter the game may not be healthy.  Quickly, in a matter of decades, the people ran towards to the technology.  But they ran too fast.  And the pendulum swung wildly.  The kids became unable to function properly socially.  They were labeled depressed and anxious and defiant.  The answer hasn’t been to integrate them with humans rather than computers, it’s been to give them pills.

A hundred years ago there were no pills for depression and ADHD and OCD and bipolar disorder.  The people were labeled with these diseases and drug companies invented the pills.  The world collectively decided that the people should have help with their mental disorders, and they should.  But quickly, in a matter of decades, the diagnosed cases of these diseases went through the sky.  The people swallowed the pills.  But they swallowed too many, too fast.  The pendulum swung rapidly.

A hundred years ago Americans were religious.  Most people were members of a denomination.  Then some people started to question whether God/Buddha/Allah was real.  Common sense dictates that a God we can’t see may not be real.  Some should be able to choose to be no religion.  But in a matter of decades, the people ran away from God.  And they ran too fast.  And the pendulum swung violently.  Those who still wished to be religious were no longer afforded the opportunity to be religious in public.  Because the non religious people were frightened.

A hundred years ago people owned guns.  Most people owned a gun.  Then some people started to question whether guns were necessary and safe.  Common sense dictates that guns can potentially be dangerous, yet the Constitution provides for the right to bear arms and we have a right to defend ourselves.  The gun owners don’t want to give in, for fear of the pendulum swinging too far to the left and all guns being outlawed, and the gun haters don’t want to give in for fear of the pendulum swinging too far to the right and no guns being outlawed.

The real common sense is in the middle.

In all of these situations, there is a more peaceful place in the middle.  A place which stabilizes the planet.  It’s not too far to the right, and it’s not too far the left.  But the people are not budging.  Refusing to see that too much or too little of anything is not good, all common sense is lost.

Eating cake = good.  Eating too much cake = bad.

Exercising = good.  Too much exercising  = bad.

Drinking  = good.  Too much drinking = bad.

Having sex = good.  Too much sex = bad.

Vaccinations = good.  Too many vaccinations = bad.

Religion = good.  Too much religion = bad.

Technology = good.   Becoming disconnected from real humans = bad.

Defending oneself = good.  Shooting up classrooms with military weapons = bad.

Having a lot of food = good.  Making food unhealthy for the sake of having a lot of food  = bad.

Access to drugs when ill = good.  Taking drugs when not ill = bad.

Healing illness = good.  Masking symptoms with drugs that cause additional illness = bad.

Spirituality = good.  Too much spirituality = even better

Seeking the good = good.  Too much good seeking = even better.

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The Universe is Talking

I swear I feel like every time I turn on my computer, there is a suicide headline.  Worse, half of them seem to involve homicides, where the sociopath first takes down a family member, or a group of kindergarteners, for Christ’s sake, before ending his own life.

I’m reminded of the crazed look on my sister’s face that fateful day, when big darling and I came barreling down the street after learning that Dave had shot himself.  She was out of her mind, because until she saw me, she hadn’t known whether he had killed me too.

I often wonder if he did think about killing me.  Did it cross his mind?  Did he ponder killing all of us?  Or just himself?  How many times were we in the same room together, maybe even conversing, and he was consumed with thoughts of carrying out his plan?  Did he hug me for the last time and think, “This is the last time I will hug my wife?”  Why didn’t he tell the children goodbye?  He let big darling just walk out the door…didn’t even tell him 'bye.  He didn’t tell me goodbye either.  Because he was a fucking sociopath.  And let me tell you something….I’m a pretty smart mutha…but I DID NOT KNOW THIS.  This, my friends, is scary.  Normally, this would make me feel pretty stupid.  Except that too many of my friends have been involved in similar circumstances.  Dating someone, or even married to someone, all the while NOT KNOWING that this person had a whole ‘nother life going on.

I hate to attack men right now, but I’ma have to…because it’s the fucking men who do it.  They kill themselves WAY more than women do.  They kill others WAY more than women do.  There are FAR FAR LESS women serial killers and very few women child molesters.  It’s not women shooting up malls and kindergarten classes.  It’s MEN.

Now, big daddies, don’t go all cray cray on me.  I fully understand that the majority of you are about as close to normal as we can master as a species.  But WHAT IN THE HELL is wrong with the remainder of you?  How does this go SO HORRIBLY WRONG?

I’ve arrived at the conclusion recently that the single most important thing in all the world is called STRESS ADAPTATION.  I just made that phrase up.  How do we respond to stress?  Because the truth is that stress isn’t ever going to go away.  It’s here to stay.  Some of us can let shit roll off our backs.  Some of us pick up guns and massacre kindergarteners.  WHY?  I NEED TO KNOW WHY!!  I need to know how my husband could have the balls to aim a .38 special at his chest and pull the trigger.  I need to know how that crazed Colorado killer could walk into that theater and kill innocent people.  I need to know why a handful of NFL players have killed themselves and their girlfriends recently.  I need to know why I have legions of readers who are in the same God forsaken predicament that I am in.  They’re widows.  SUICIDE WIDOWS.  Their children have no fathers.  WHY????

Theories abound.  The kids were not spanked.  Were not disciplined.  Were not loved.  They played video games.  They did drugs.  They didn’t pray.  They were narcissistic.  They were depressed.  Pick one…any one.  Because I’m not sure it even matters.  It could be one or none of any of those things….or….it could be….these people never leaned COPING SKILLS.

It has occurred to me, as I enter midlife, that I possess the ability to train my brain.  All along I have assumed that the whole world operated this way.  For example, if I don’t like something, I change it.  Don’t like my thoughts, I change them.  Don’t like my behavior, I change it.  Don’t want to smoke anymore, I quit.  Don’t want to be sad, I kick myself in the arse and get happy.

How do I do this?  I simply declare it.  I stay alert.  I am alert to the subtlest of a shift.  You can’t wait until you’re a psychopath.  All day every day we gently ebb and flow.  The audio tape plays in your head.  What does it say? 

Remember how researchers used to suggest playing a tape with all the answers to your science test under your pillow at night.  Your subconscious would absorb it, they said.  True or not?  Who knows?  I was never interested in sleeping with a hard tape recorder under my head.

But there is a tape playing in your head every day.  It tells you that you are hungry or full.  Cold or hot.  Energized or fatigued.  Listen a little more closely and pay attention to what is being played repeatedly.  Do you have many anxious thoughts about one of your kids?  What is the thought?  Do you have many frustrating thoughts about your spouse?  What are the thoughts?  Why are you ignoring them?  You can’t let the tape play on for months and months without acknowledging it...this 'voice' which is YOUR EMOTIONS.  You can’t keep burying them.  The tape is playing for a reason.  Is yours screeching? Is the volume on 11?  Why are you ignoring it?

The tape will tell you that you smoke too much.  Drink too much.  Jerk off too much.  It will tell you that your kids are sad, mad or bad.  How loud does it have to be for you to hear it?  What exactly needs to happen before you take action?  Why do you ignore the emotional channel, yet satisfy your physical craving for food or water or a blanket or a nap?  Because your emotional health is no less important.

My tape recorder is set with the volume low.  Because I listen.  I’m paying attention.  My eyes are open.  My ears are open.  My heart is open.  The universe is talking to me every day.  I’m listening.  Are you? 

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Things Wrong With Christmas

All that ‘holiday cheer’ you all claim to have…where does that come from?  Will I go to hell for hating baby Jesus’ party planning?  Gawd, I hope not.  I don’t hate Jesus or his birthday.  It’s his party I hate.  And sometimes I think I’m going to beat you all to Heaven for hating it.  Because I think he hates it too.

Thing wrong #1:  Christmas trees.  What probably started as a nice gesture in a little forest somewhere, has now escalated into a billion dollar industry that makes me take pills.  First there is the tree itself, which costs way too much.  Then stringing the lights, getting poked, scratched, etc.  Hours of it.  Everyone patiently waits for the lights to go on.  It takes so fucking long that it ends up being a let down because you can’t decorate until the next day.  Then when Christmas is over, you have to take the lights down.  You no longer care about your priceless handmade ornaments; you carelessly toss them and rip them down.  The party is over.  Just get the shit OFF!  More poking, scratching, tugging and cursing, all the while billions and fucktillions of needles cascade to the floor like a piney blizzard.  Bet you don’t give a fuck about the scent now, do you?  Some get mad and just cut the lights off.  Some get frustrated and just throw the tree with lights to the curb.  Heave HO.  FUCK YOU TREE.

Last year I wisely decided Christmas would be different.  And easier.  So I bought a fake tree.  Thing wrong #2.  Fake trees are priced in line with small cars.  You can get a cheaper one, but it will look like shit.  You don’t want to look like shit at Christmas, so you spend another fucktillion dollars on a nice fake tree, because it’s going to last so long.  Oh yeah…I’m gonna have this shit forever.  So it’s totally worth it.  Hahahahahaha.

NO.

I hauled my very long 50 lb box of fake tree up 17 steps yesterday.  When I began the awkward struggle up the stairs I noticed the scent of shit.  Not human shit or dog shit…no…no shit like that.  NASTY SHIT.  Shit magnet shit.  Mouse shit or roach shit.  So when I reached step 17 and the whole box slid nicely back down to step one, I decided it was a gift from the gods and that I should open the box full of mice or roaches OUTSIDE.  And so I did.  And while that was a right thing, the next thing that happened was

Thing wrong #3.  Seven, 7, five plus two ROACHES ran out of the box.  Now, at this point, in my past, being a business owner and having wads of cash here and there, I would have drug that fucker to the curb.  However.  I just bought it last year.  I’m unemployed.  I have no bread winner.  No one wins bread here.  Or any other food items.  So I spayed it with Raid.  Yes, fuck a pine scent.  Pine scents are for pussies.  Then, I got out the blower, and I just blew and blew and blew that tree.  I blew the poo.  Until I couldn’t blow the poo anymore.

Thing wrong #4.  Now when I touch the tree, I know I am touching areas where roaches once ran.  And not only that, Raid is poison, and I have an obsessive compulsive disorder with poison.  I feel that one teeny tiny splash of any poison will send me to the terminally ill cancer ward immediately, and my children will be orphans.

I take a klonopin, so that I can touch said tree.  Tis the klonopin season again, finally.  Now here is an old friend that is welcomed during the holiday season.  I have missed this guy.

I erect the tree.  I plug in the pluggers.  And guess what.  The tree is fucked up.  The middle strand of lights does not work.  So my great idea to buy a fake tree so that I don’t have to fuck with lights is now ruined.  Now I’m stupid.  I’m in a hating Christmas frenzy.  I’m still fucking with lights.  And I don’t think Jesus is mad at me at all for not enjoying the process.

 

I might get a slight tap on the wrist at the pearly gates for saying fuck so much, but I’ma take my chances, ya hurd me?

As I said earlier.  I would rather make out with this man:

Than string Christmas tree lights.

On a brighter note:  Mutha t-shirts now available here.  100% cotton super soft bella tees, they make your bewbies look hawt.

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Transformation

Christmas.  The joyous Holiday Season.  Oh how I love to loathe you, in many ways.  Look, let’s be honest for a second.  Christmas is lovely because families gather and memories are made and I love all that.  I really do.  I get nostalgic for fires and egg nog and the scent of pine.  I love decorating my tree with pretty ornaments and rediscovering all the Christmas things my kids have made over the years.  But I could certainly love it more without all the fluff and commercialism.   I’m such a logical person.  Nothing inside of me feels good about wasting money on toys for children who already have so much.  I constantly think about the children starving everywhere as I stand in the aisle at Toys R Us with a monumental list in hand.  Yes, I do give money to needy children…but it’s all backwards, this world.  We give the most to the people who need it the least, and we give the least to people who need it the most.  It makes me hate Christmas and hate myself for participating in it.  I have stopped giving to adults.  And I don’t feel guilty.  I use that money to give more to the needy.  I can’t stop giving to the kids though.  They don’t get it quite yet…although I’m working on them, little by little.

So, in preparation for the disgustingness of what seems more like ‘the toy season’ than ‘the birth of CHRIST’, I spent ten hours yesterday cleaning out my little kids’ closet.  TEN HOURS.  I swear to you, If anyone buys them a Lego set for Christmas, I’m going to retaliate by dumping legos all over your lawn.  Believe me when I say I have enough to fuck you up.

I swear, I hate toys!  I hate Legos, because what is the point, really?  We spend hours putting this crap together, and then less than 24 hours later, they're scattered from one end of my house to the other.  $49 for an hour of play?  Really?  Is that a good deal?

I hate stuffed animals too.  You hear that people?  Don’t buy my kids stuffed animals.  Stuffed animals are a ridiculous waste of money because we hide them then throw them away, right?  Around here, they end up in the Mardi Gras bin to be thrown in parades.  So think about that when you are buying more puppies and bears for little darling.   If you want to take a chance on catching it next year in the Muses parade, then go for it.

I hate transformers too.  Another toy that is good for about three minutes.  They watch eagerly as I carefully follow directions to transform the monster into a truck.  I would rather chew my arm off on Christmas Day.  As soon as it’s a truck, they anxiously ask me to make it back into a monster.  And I smile and say, “Ok honey, I’ll do it in a minute,” and then I never do it.  Ever.  For years, I never do it.  And I’m not ever going to.  Because I facking hate transformers.   Seriously, who puts the suggestions for age appropriateness on these things?  Instead of ‘ages 6 – 8’ it should say something like this.

Recommended for:

Rocket scientists who have never thrown objects out of anger

Children who are taking the ACT this year

Women who washed down their meds with a vodka tonic

Other warnings:

Not to be used in the week prior to menstruation

Do not attempt to transform product unless under the influence of alcohol

 

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The Jackass Whisperer

Everyone’s a ‘whisperer’ lately.  If you’re good with babies, you’re a baby whisperer.  Dog lovers want to be dog whisperers.  It was suggested to me recently that I am a jackass whisperer, and I’m extremely fond of the term.  

So, it’s been a busy week.  Last weekend we camped out with the Boy Scouts in Florida, which required a wardrobe change into Princess with a Penis.   All my friends were polished up in their fine Holiday attire for a fundraiser gala, and I was in a tent with a large pack of boys, all of whom smelled like goats asses.  I had dirty nails and a smoky ponytail, but my darlings were happy.  It was 40ish during the night and I totally hate the cold, but I zipped two sleeping bags together, and all four of us slept side by side with hats on.  We were toasty and happy, although it wasn’t my best night of sleep.  I sort of felt like a spy…being a chick at a Boy Scout camp out and all.  The men were on to me though, so they remained on their best behavior and sadly I can’t even really make fun of them.

Then, a last minute slumber party was thrown together Wednesday night at my 93 year old grandmother’s house, since she hosts Thanksgiving every year.  My laundry was still dangling from the ceiling fans when I had to quickly start packing bags.  It was one of those ‘pick out what you’re going to wear tomorrow and pack everyone in five minutes’ deals.  We left quickly and I (gasp) left dishes in my sink.  I had cooked my own Thanksgiving Feast that day and we’d eaten it for dinner, and then bolted out of the house.

Sometime during Thanksgiving Day we decided to meet family in Mississippi the next day.  We returned home fat and lazy to dirty dishes, clothes and bags askew, and had to start unpacking then packing again.  I felt like my eyes were going to pop out of my head at the disaster that was my house.  I wanted to vomit at the number of people who had snuck out into their yards on Thanksgiving night and magically put all their Christmas decorations up.  Are you fricking kidding me people?  I haven’t wiped my counters in three days and I can’t even close the door to my laundry room.

In Mississippi we met Pal, a three year old white poodle whose elderly owner was recently admitted into a nursing home.  Pal went straight up to my kids, sat down next to them, and was just really nice.  “Oh, wook at dis cute puppy, Mommy.  He wikes me,” the baby was saying.  “Oh wow, this is just what I was going to look for at the pound.  He doesn’t shed, he’s a nice size and he seems really ni….”  And in about the next four nanoseconds, Pal’s bed and food were being loaded up into my car, because I’m the Jackass Whisperer.

I must say, I do like Pal.  I’m not fond of these pussy poodle haircuts, so we’re going to let Pal grow out to enhance his level of coolness.  Then I’m going to teach him to make a vodka tonic and smoke cigarettes.  What I like most about him is that he gets outta my way.  When he sees me cleaning, sweeping, doing my thing….he knows this bitch is in a hella hurry and he scoots his li’l behind right away before we collide.  A lot of dogs follow me in the kitchen, and they don’t move when I’m coming fast.  It’s terribly annoying to constantly collide with non-humans.

He slept with big darling the first night, and is in bed with the two littles right now.  He ate a turkey leg in the yard today (no, it wasn’t the one from my sink, weirdos.) He peed on everything he could outside, hasn’t barked once, and is appreciating all the little hands petting his head.  At bedtime, all the darlings were ‘thankful for Pal’ during prayers.

So there, you weird dog blockers, who said I couldn’t have a dog because I have little kids and no fence and didn’t meet your special dog whisperer requirements.  I got one anyway.  Cause I’m the jackass whisperer.  That’s right....how ya like me nah?

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Black Friday

I’m in the asshole free zone because we had a meeting of the Assholes Anonymous Club last night.  The muthas ate, drank and were merry.  I have come to the conclusion that vodka is a health food.  Everything else makes me so hungover.  But vodka never does.  Hence, it’s health benefits. 

 

Many people are gearing up for Thanksgiving festivities.  Last year, I wanted to sling all the food to the floor, kick the table over, then scream and pull my hair like a madwoman.  There seemed to be zero to be thankful about.  If I had to pick something last year, I guess I could have said I was thankful that I had still managed not to be a violent psychopath, in spite of the gods repeated taunting.  

I remember turning the radio up on the way home so my kids couldn’t hear the animal noises that exited my throat while I made ugly cry faces and tried not to scare them.  Forcing my body to start the car, drive the car, pay attention to the road…it required monumental effort.  I was a dead soul in a live body.  I did it for the kids, and then I came home and got in bed.

It was the first real holiday without him, not counting Halloween.  I got through Halloween by running up the stairs repeatedly in my Batgirl costume to do shots of Patron.

365 days have passed since then, and I can’t deny that I feel better.  I’m thankful for the healing that has been bestowed upon my family over the last year.  I’m thankful for the people who have not forsaken us.  The people who still remember us, who still have a tight circle around us, the ones who felt our pain and agreed to carry some of it as their own.  The Universe does rain down good tidings too.  We live with our eyes open, so that we can scoop up every drop. 

I won’t lie that I’m still a little nervous about this time of year.  But I’ll handle it.  I always do.  I remind myself that I’m chocked full of all kinds of badassery.  As I used to say before a half million people started reading this blog, and I consequently started feeling the social noose around my neck, “I’m the chief of the badass motherfuckers in charge.”  I can’t be held down.  I will charge through.  This is my world.  I’m living it my way.

So, a little advice…to those gathering with family this week.  Hold your people close.  Even those that are past due for attendance to the Assholes Anonymous meeting.  Be forgiving.  Be patient.  Be kind. Be loving.  Be ACCEPTING.  Those people are not going to be here one day.  Hell, they may not even be here tomorrow.  You will never be sorry for doing the right thing.  If that shit doesn't work, then kick the table over.  At least  you tried!

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Delusions of Grandeur

Things were getting sort of boring, right?  The kids were even bored and were beginning to overuse their British accents.  I was just thinking the other day that I haven’t done a public service announcement in quite some time.  When lo and behold, a cause has landed in my lap.   So here’s a little public service announcement for “Dave’s friend.”  She has now left two hysterical, angry messages on my answering machine, where she shouts about how sober she is now, provides me with detailed information about her urine testing, then angrily screams that she has spoken to her lawyer, and will be filing suit for defamation of character.  She goes on with outlandish babble like “if you can write a book, I can too!” 

Apparently this delusional person has gotten wind of the Diary, and is alarmed that a book may be forthcoming.  Of course one minor detail is that she hasn’t actually read the Diary.  She has erroneously jumped to the narcissistic conclusion that she is an important part of the story and that I have called her out by name.  But, alas, we regret to inform you that your character has been eliminated.  In other words, that means, “You ain’t a pimple on my ass, crackie.”  Not that the madwoman has pimples on her ass.  Occasionally, I might have one on my chin.  Anyway, what she says is so true.  Anyone can write a book.  But convincing others to read it…well…therein lies the challenge, right?  I’m not even sure I can do it.  So, good luck with your little book.  And please, never, ever scream and curse into my answering machine while I have PMS.  If you are not aware of the intricate details regarding my cycles, then you should err on the side of caution and just do that…never.  Not to mention it took me 16 days to even know you left a message on my home phone.  Little darling doesn’t even think that phone is real.

You all are probably wondering what in THE FACK is even going on here.   So, let me just say that negative, weird, insane people who were friends with Dave have no place in my life.  And that any person who colluded with my husband to secure pills on a regular basis did, in fact, contribute to his addiction, and thus ultimately contributed to his death.  If that thought makes you a little uncomfortable, it’s because it should.  I don’t provide the discomfort.  I just provide the words.

I’m so disgusted that the door to the past was absent-mindedly left ajar, and a sliver of Dave’s addicted past was able to slip through.  I’m seriously thinking about throwing that phone away, and buying a new one.  Just thinking of the vile message and even all the words that were spoken between Dave and I over the years on that very phone make me feel quite sick.

All the many times I pleaded with him, threatened, cried, said crazy things, poured my heart out, begged, promised…just all of it…so intense, so frustrating, so SAD.  No wonder it was so hard!  I had no clue what I was even up against.  I realized today after I was left shaking from her message that Dave’s death gave me the ability to close the door, once and for all, on all of that.  And I vow to put a lock on that sucker that the Navy Seals themselves can’t penetrate.  Cause I’m done with crazy.  I’m on the healing path.  Surrounded by positive, loving, sane people. We ain’t cray cray here no more.  No indeed.  We’re British.

 

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I might have PMS

Yeah, because I killed some cute baby squirrels and I hate election wavers.

That’s right.  The heinous and grotesque hairy creature that was scratching and rummaging through my attic was not a rat after all.  Unfortunately it wasn’t a baby giraffe either.  It was a poor squirrel.  We watched him go in this afternoon.  I should have known because when I drew a picture of his poo for one of the muthas yesterday, her eyes got wide and she said, “That’s big.”  Not much I can do to save him now because I got into a bit of a frenzy and threw the rat poison everywhere.  You know why?  Because baiting disease-y, scurrying things is not my job.  I shouldn’t even be doing this, Dave!  It’s creepy up there, with all these rules about where to walk, constantly hitting my head, being distracted by old things everywhere.  Why, why, why do we even put stuff in our attic? I’m balancing on a small board with poison in my hand and the hair standing up on the back of my neck.  I’m certain rats are staring at me, but I’m still pondering whether I should muscle this wooden table downstairs and paint it and use it somewhere.  Facking hoarders!  Now I’m going to have dead squirrels in my attic too.  I should be approved for the hoarding show soon.

Now, I feel I must rant about ridiculous election wavers.  Look, I hate mornings, and I hate people.  I definitely hate people in the morning.  But you….you outlandish election wavers…just get away from the corners I frequent.  Seriously.  I have PMS.  This is not a parade, yet some of these jittery people are dressed like Uncle Sam.   I just want to bring my kids to school in peace.  Don’t wave at us.  I’m busy in the car trying not to be Mrs. Asshole again.  Little people are giving me papers to sign.  I’m not even finished checking my important messages that I might have received in the middle of the night.  My teeth are fuzzy.  I still have another kid to come home and dress and bring to another school.  I know it looks like I’m a functionally dressed member of society, but I AM NOT, so don’t mess with me.  I have pajama pants on.  Sunglasses.  No makeup.  A little tinted lip gloss so I can fool people.  I haven’t finished my coffee.  When I get home I’m not even going to be able to find it.  So don’t smile and shake your sign at me, and definitely don’t wave at me.  I don’t even know where to look.  I get the same feeling when I see homeless people on the curb and I don’t have any money.   A whole red light is such a long time for this awkwardness.  I don’t want to be mean, but I sure as hell don’t want to look at all you extra people in the morning.   It’s a safe bet that I’m not one of those cars honking back at you in support.  If you hear my horn, it’s because I’m angrily honking at the slow moving car of supporters in front of me and yelling, “Go Jackass!”

I’m voting for the person who sends the whole lot of you to pick up trash by the interstate when you’re done.  Stupid wavers!

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THERE'S A CUTE BABY GIRAFFE IN THE ATTIC

It’s not a good day.  I put the darlings to bed last night and about 15 minutes later I heard someone rustling in the kitchen.  “Who’s up?” I called out.  No answer.  “What are you doing?  Who is in the kitchen?”  Still no answer.   “Damnit!” I mutter as I get up and head towards the kitchen.  Upon arrival there is no one there…but I still hear the rustling.  It’s not coming from the kitchen.  It is LOUD.  It is coming from the laundry room.  I nervously approach the dark laundry room.  I can’t believe how loud this scratching noise is…and I nervously flick on the light and jump back.  I see nothing, and the noise stops.  Oh my fack.  I know there is some kind of thing around here.  No doubt it is furry and heinous and grotesque.  Whatever it is knows I just turned the light on.  I stand there for a minute.  The rustling and scratching resumes.  I know one thing for certain.  This ain’t no damn mouse.  No siree.  This is a giant rat.  The noise is LOUD.  Please God let it be a cute baby squirrel.  Or a giraffe.

My house is in semi-disaster state from the weekend.  It rained yesterday and they were mostly inside.  This morning I yelled at big darling on the way to school.  He almost cried.  I should have pulled over and hugged him.  I apologized before he got out.  I hate when I do that in the morning, and my punishment will be that I’ll feel horrible all day.  I’ll imagine he is having a horrible day, crying when no one is looking, and feeling terrible about himself all day long.  I know darned good and well he’s forgotten about everything I said, and probably hasn’t given it another thought since the first friend greeted him on the playground two seconds after dropoff.  I can’t convince myself of it, though.  I’ll wait for the phone to ring all day.   “Hello, Mrs. Asshole, your son is crying in the office.”  Because you’re an asshole.  And assholes shouldn’t yell at their kids on the way to school.

On my list today is to put Halloween decorations away.  In the attic.  Where the baby giraffe is.  The gods are snickering.  I can hear them.

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The Day of the Dead

My kids have always loved Halloween, and this year I was relieved that it wasn't especially traumatizing.  Last year was a bit creepy because looking at lots of dead people with blood and guts spilling everywhere made us think about our own special dead person.  That really sucked.  We had walked into the big Halloween Superstore like we do every year, but last year we ended up running out after only a few seconds.  None of us could handle it.  Not even me.  It was a total ninja surprise attack.  Big darling was wringing his hands, the little ones were crying, and I was buckling them back into their seats as fast as I could, my own hands trembling and my heart pounding.  What the fuck had just happened?

This year was better.  Little darling was dressed as the po-lice.  Or as my niece described, “A nark.”  He literally ran from house to house, completely manic, high on sugar, just high on life.  You couldn’t help but crack up at him.  He was hilarious, and happy.  He mostly is those things, to be honest. He’s such a blessing to me.

My niece and I had our 2^nd Annual pumpkin carving contest the night before.  Big darling selected a Jesuit Blue Jay for me to carve, because he intends to go to high school there. 

My niece showed up here with two selections.  Super Mario and Tinkerbell.  She tried to get away with carving Tinkerbell because Mario ‘looked hard.’  The boys just laughed.  No way in hell 3 boys were going to let her get away with that.  Are you kidding?  My kids won’t even dry off with a pink beach towel.  I don’t care if its 25 degrees and they are soaking wet.  They will wait for you to go get another towel.  I once bought a pink raft on purpose, so they would stay off it.  They got on it after a couple hours, saying it was “mommy’s raft, but they were just using it.”  I have no clue what makes them fear pink more than zombies.  I should buy a pink comforter on sale and put it on their bed for punishment when they are bad.  Now there’s a great idea.

We lit the chiminea and had dinner outside, and carved our pumpkins while they ran wild in the yard.   Funny saying of the night:  Me to little darling, sternly "We don't roll over burritoes with a scooter!"   You guys can judge the winner.  Our judges here are the boys so they always declare me the winner.  I had totally forgotten about this, but last year, they were hesitant to tell my niece that she didn’t win, so middle darling placed 3 soccer cones by her pumpkin, and put a toy fire truck next to mine.  Then he announced that the person with the cones did not win.  The pumpkin closest to the fire truck won.  We got a good chuckle out of his diplomacy.

 

This year, we finished carving and I headed to the fridge to get a beer.  As I walked away, I called out, “So who won?”  I turned around two seconds later to see that the soccer cones were already around Mario, and my Blue Jay had a toy helicopter near it.  I spit my beer and cracked up till my stomach hurt.  I had totally forgotten they had done that last year.  Big darling is a sly, funny boy.  He reminds me so much of his daddy.  That is a total Dave move, to not say anything but just do something quietly funny. 

 

 

They danced in the kitchen on Halloween night until 10 pm, and I let them all stay home from school the next day.  We wrote notes to Dave and put them inside helium balloons, then released them at the cemetery.  We watched them fly higher and higher and higher until they just disappeared.  I was a little nervous that something terrible would happen….like they wouldn’t fly or we would see them pop…but that didn’t happen.  They looked like teeny tiny stars up there…until they were just no more.

I worry that I’ve confused little darling, as I have no clue what exactly he comprehends.  Through my choking tears, and with my dark sunglasses on, I tried to explain to him in a trembling voice that daddy wasn’t ‘really’ going to get the note.  It’s just a symbol.  A 3 year old doesn’t have a clue what a fucking symbol is.  Clearly I don’t know what I’m doing…but my intentions are good.

We had a nice lunch outside at a restaurant afterwards.  Little darling announced in front of some other moms I barely know that “mommy farted.”  He shouted it twice for good measure.  I have no clue why the little asshole said that, because I didn’t fart.  Of course I made it worse, by crying out, “No I didn’t! Why would you say that?” and then looking right at them to see if they heard him, which of course they did.

I was starting to like Dave a little bit again.  Starting to feel nostalgic for him and all.  But this morning I woke up to find that a raccoon popped the inflatable ring around the pool, which is what keeps it from collapsing and spilling 10,000 gallons of saltwater onto my grass.  It hasn’t collapsed yet, but my attempt at fixing it while 10,000 mosquitoes bit my legs was unsuccessful.  So I’m a little perturbed at him again…although he won’t know it when he gets my balloon.

These are pumpkins that Dave carved one year, when we only had one kid and apparently lots of idle time.

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