I can go days, sometimes weeks, recently even a few months, where I am okay. Maybe not great, certainly not stellar, but okay. I can react normally. I can laugh, I can cry, I can get angry and I can do it all in context. I can do it all in scale.
But then there will come a day when I can't.
When that tenuous grip on okay begins to slip.
If I am lucky, there are signs. If I'm lucky, the decent from reasonable to completely losing my shit is slow. I can stop it.
This time isn't one of those.
That's the thing about The Crazy. You're fucking crazy. You do not have that ability to stand back from a situation and say "is this really about me?" Of course it's fucking about me. Everything I hear, everything I see, everything everything everything is about me. I am not able to think before I speak. All I am able to do is react. I think it's rather obvious that most times, that reaction? Not so good.
Ah, Crazy, you mother fucker.
At some point, I am not completely sure when, recently at any rate, my life has descended into locking myself in the bathroom. Which pretty much means that any day now you're going to see me on the news being craned out of my bathroom by firemen because I refuse to leave the shower and I've taken to eating soap and talking to the drain. You laugh, but it could happen.
I spend most of my day talking myself down. Convincing myself that crying about cold coffee isn't appropriate. Or that the restaurant being out of what I want to eat is probably not the end of the world. That getting in my car, driving away and not looking back isn't a reasonable reaction to the dishes not being done. That simply ceasing to be isn't the answer.
But it is. Right now, to me, it is.
Because I have the Crazy and The Crazy has me.
Friday, October 30, 2009
I can go days, sometimes weeks, recently even a few months, where I am okay. Maybe not great, certainly not stellar, but okay. I can react normally. I can laugh, I can cry, I can get angry and I can do it all in context. I can do it all in scale.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
M: MOM.* Why do that Mormons have a statue of Mowgli on top the thingie on their temples?
Me: Because they're telling Jesus "You!I wanna be like you-oo-oo I wanna talk like you Walk like you, too! You'll see it's true! Someone like me can learn to be Like someone like me Can learn to be Like someone like you Can learn to be Like someone like me!"
(*aside - M starts EVERY sentence she says to me with MOM. Not a question, not an alert that she means to speak to me, just a single word demand. MOM.)
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
I have to confess. I am not fancy. I just LOOK fancy. Much like a poxed hooker.
My Blackberry is paid for by my work. My Starbucks mug was a bonus when I bought gift cards for a party last year. I was in line at QT for coffee. I bought those jeans at Goodwill for $1 and my sweater was a hand-me-up that M got from...somewhere. My Victoria's Secret panties were free with the coupon they send me every month and I bought the bra at the semi-annual sale. The headband was a spare bridesmaid gift from a wedding I officiated. I bought the Frye boots on eBay for about 40% of retail and my Coach bag came from the outlet. My big old truck is fifteen years old and hasn't been washed since I bought it.
Can we be friends again?
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Today, as I stood in line checking my Blackberry as I waited to use my Visa debit card to pay for my coffee in my refillable Starbucks environmentally friendly mug and my litre of SmartWater, I realized that I was wearing Gap jeans, a Lands End sweater, Frye boots, Victoria's Secret (matching, of course) bra and panties, a Gucci headband and holding a Coach purse. Inside which were the keys to my overly large, gas sucking American SUV. I suddenly realized I wanted to kick my own ass for being such a yuppie bitch.
Monday, October 26, 2009
J's friend Dr. Brain came over yesterday with his little guy Robbie. Robbie is four and patently adorable. He calls me Miss Thystle. I know, right? He calls M "Miss Boo". HIGH cute factor in this one.
When they got there I was in the process of cleaning house. Robbie, who had never been to our house before was wandering around looking at stuff.
"You've got a picture of Miss Boo as a cowboy!"
"You've got so many books!"
"Your house is old! It's like a museum!"
As he was standing in the living room examining the knick-knacks around the TV he reaches over and runs a finger down the TV screen. Excitedly he turns that line into an "R" and then writes his whole name with his adorable little fingers in the dust on the TV screen before turning to me, face alight, huge smile radiating ear to ear and says
"I can write my name on this TV! I LOVE IT!"
I'm pretty sure his dad wanted to die, but *I* gave that little moppet a bag of M&M's because really, how awesome is that? To be excited by dust? Then I made his day even more awesome by handing him the swifter duster and letting him dust everything he could reach.
As they were leaving he runs over and hugs me and then with his most polite manners says
"Miss Thystle? I love your house. Can I come over and help you next week?"
OH HELL YES you can little man.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
I confess. I watch really, really bad reality television. The sort of TLC shows that make me scream at the television until someone takes away the remote and brings me a cold compress and a shot of Jameson's.
Shows like "My Monkey Baby" and "Love me Love my Doll" make my eye go all twitchy with the hilarious, awesome wrongness. "Obese and Pregnant" makes me stampy and "I Pooped a Baby" (aka: I didn't know I was pregnant, I think) makes me shrieky.
The one that REALLY does me in though is "Toddler and Tiara's". Don't get me wrong, I'm all for parading around in too much make up and inappropriate clothing and insisting that people tell me I'm beautiful. But I'm an adult. And frequently abusive to both controlled and legal substances. Asking a child, a wee impressionable (demon) darling to forfeit playing with Barbies in favor of being one is just...creepy.
Leaving aside the whole JonBennet Ramsey argument, I have to wonder what sort of fucked up psychology leads a parent (an unattractive, often over weight, definitely past her prime mother) to declare that one identical twin is "beautiful" and the other is not. THEY'RE IDENTICAL YOU TWAT.
It's the sort of rabid for fame mentality that leads to this . Not the web site, I don't mean, because THAT is rather brilliant, but the horrible objectification of children that leads both the kids and the parents to believe that they're not good enough as they are.
Not to mention how the really crap photoshop skills cause the kids to look like the spawn of Jessica Rabbit and Ronald McDonald.
Seriously. It's creepy. Especially the first one and the baby with the Wilma Flintsone updo. HOW CAN A BABY HAVE AN UPDO? With fucking pearls? What the fuck is WRONG with these parents?
Go check it out.
(thanks to CK for the link)
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
The older M gets the more lax I get. If the child doesn't know not to stick a fork in the light socket, then, well, I'll just give her a lovely funeral and buy a smarter kid to replace her.
When she was little though, I was much more vigilant. The drawers had little tabby whatsits that prevented adults from opening them and the sockets had covers and the dresser was bolted to the wall and so on. She was always belted to her seat and never allowed to ride in the basket of the grocery cart. Because babies? ARE STUPID. That's why they have parents, right?
Apparently someone has forgotten to pass that memo around.
Yesterday, while wasting my lunch hour at Target I was standing in the Christmas card aisle (side note: WHAT THE FUCK? It's the MIDDLE OF OCTOBER) when out of the corner of my eye I spotted a woman herding four children through the aisle. Three were running around like mental patients on cappuccino and the littlest, a boy about two, was standing in the baby-seat part of the basket.
Oh, yes, you DO know exactly where this is going.
I watch Baby start to sway and just as I yell out "HEY!" to alert the mom to sit his wicked little ass down, he FALLS OUT head first onto the floor.
It's been a while since my first aid certificate was valid, but I dashed over and whipped a Kleenex pocket pack out of my purse and pressed it to his bleeding head while the little fucker squirmed and tried to bite me. His mother was wailing like a tea kettle in Spanish causing the other children to begin to howl, while I tried to remember anything to say to her that wasn't insulting or obscene. As it turns out I don't KNOW anything in Spanish that's not at least suggestive. Because I'm classy like that.
Luckily, an employee arrived right about that time and then the ambulance was called and the cops arrived and I had to give a statement to absolve a certain Bullseye from liability. My statement went like this "Her back was turned and the baby was STANDING in the cart unrestrained and then he fell out. The end. It was COMPLETELY the mothers fault". Because you KNOW in this society someone is going to try to sue over this situation. God forbid we take responsibility for our own actions! NO! It can't POSSIBLY be your own fault, that's just CRAZY TALK.
But you want to know the best part? After staunching a (superficial, luckily) head wound? I didn't get a single drop of blood on my white tee-shirt!
Sometimes a good deed DOES go unpunished.
Well, until they call me to testify. And then? I will judge. OH YES I WILL JUDGE. Because any parent less attentive than I am is probably....uh...Jon Gosselin and that deserves some serious punishment.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
My husband thinks I'm having a mid-life crisis.
I know, right?
His "evidence" for his argument is that I have 1) Gone to the bar ONCE with some girlfriends who are younger than I am 2) BabyMama and I went on a cruise and didn't bring the kids and 3) I got my nose pierced after talking about it for more than a year.
Personally, I don't think that adds up to any kind of crisis. Although, I suppose if I was having a crisis, mid-life or otherwise, I probably wouldn't think that I was.
But really, it's not like I've gone out and bought a $70,000 sports car, or changed how I'm dressing. I have completely replaced my wardrobe, but it was out of necessity and it's pretty much the exact same things I had before just smaller. I work in a very casual office. Usually, I'm the most nicely dressed simply because my clothes aren't covered in either paint or grease. I wear jeans and a tee-shirt almost every day. The days I'm not wearing that? I'm wearing a skirt and a tee-shirt! That's CLEAR proof that I'm trying to "look younger" right?
As for the trip to the bar it was ONE TIME. ONCE. And it's not like we were even at the kind of club that you have to line up to get in to! It was a crap dive bar where they have $3 pints of Full Moon. OOoooH big pimping, right? AND I was home by midnight even though we didn't get there until close to 10.
And my nose? I had it done the first time when I was in college. Then I went to work in a bank where facial piercings were unacceptable so I took it out. Every few years I'd talk about it. Much like the out loud musing we all do about our hair..."maybe I should dye it"...."no, I'm going to cut bangs"....."I could pull off the Posh Spice, don't you think".....Not really serious talk, but not exactly idle either. About a year ago I started mentioning it about once a month. I asked my husband if he would mind and his exact words were "If you want to look like an old dyke, that's your business".
So I did it.
We jokingly took bets about how long it would take him to notice. Six months was the median. It took him two days and when he did notice it he was pissed. "What'd you do that for?" he demanded "because I wanted to. I told you I was going to!" I countered and I suppose it was my failure to be petulant that caused him to remark "wow. You're really having a bad mid-life crisis, aren't you?"
No. I'm not.
What I am having is a bit of a liberation. I'm 33. I've lived almost all of my life trying to fit into the mold that others have set out for me. Their definition of a good student. Their opinion of what makes a good mother or a good wife or a good....whatever. But you know what? It's my turn to say what makes me a good ME.
And I? Think that it's time to have some fun. It's time to stop waiting for my husband, who hates to travel, to finally be needled into going somewhere with me. If I want to go, I'm going. It's time to stop sitting at home wishing that I wasn't missing what the girls were doing just because I think other people would think I look silly because I'm five years older than they are and have a kid practically old enough to club herself. I'm all done caring if a nose stud makes me look like I'm trying too hard.
Because I'm not trying any more. I am doing.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
I am not a neat freak. (Shut up CK) I accept that. That said though, neither am I a slob. I like to call my homemaking style "benign neglect". We're not being buried in trash, but you can sometimes (most of the time) write your name in the dust on the television.
My husband? IS a slob. Like a serious Collyer Brothers style house keeping when he's in charge.
I know this. I mean, after all, we've been married for about a hundred years. In theory, he also knows that I get majorly stressed out when people are coming over and the house is a mess. More of a mess, I mean. Not the haha yesterday's mail is on the coffee table and there are dust bunnies under the china hutch! messy. Really messy. Messy like a sink full of dishes, the dining room table piled with school papers and dust bunnies forming a zombie-style Apocalypse in the hallway. Messy like the laundry is over flowing and the shower looks like a science experiment. Messy like the camera crew is going to show up with Neicy Nash at any moment. I cleaned the house Friday morning before I left for home, but still. It's a bit of a wreck.
So what does my husband tell me last night at 10pm? That one friend is coming over for help with his resume and another is bringing her car to have the A/C looked at.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
My unpacked suitcase is still on the bedroom floor. There are two baskets of unfolded laundry stacked on the desk and Jack has decided the dining room is a reasonable place to relieve himself and so the carpet needs shampooing and...and...and...STRESS
I think it's a girl thing. It's not so much that I notice if other women scrub their baseboards and dust their ceiling fans, it's that I think they'll notice if *I* DON'T.
Do you girls do this? Do you make yourself insane thinking that the minute your back is turned that someone is going to run a finger down the lampshade and then NEARLY DIE OF DUST POISONING and then they're going to sit down to a cup of coffee with another woman Nescafe commercial style and dish that you never vacuum under the sofa?
Why do we DO this to ourselves? It's not like other women don't realize that we're busy balancing a full time job with a full time home. It's not like we're not all trying to run circles around life and produce a Betty Crocker Dinner in a Martha Stewart home while looking like June Cleaver and staying as cool as dammit?
I get it. I get that you'd rather watch TiVo'd episodes of Chopped than organize the bookshelf, I understand that you spend seven hours a week driving kids to this game and that meeting the other practice.
Why don't we give ourselves a break? It's unreasonable to expect perfection. It's silly to believe that we can do it all and do it perfectly.
So here's what I think we ought to do.
Not go on strike, exactly, but rather go on...break. Let's all take a day or two or a whole week and just not give a shit if the Avon lady drops by and you haven't washed the windows. Let's sit on the couch this afternoon and finish that book that we started reading in July but haven't finished because the floor needs mopping instead of believing that we're bad mothers and terrible wives because you can't eat off the kitchen floor.
Wouldn't you be happier if you could look at the cobwebs in the corner of the garage and then shrug?
I would be.
I will be.
If y'all need me, I'll be over there googling maid services.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Ah, weddings. So much planning, so much stress, so many many details, for ten minutes worth of "Do you? Do you? I now pronounce you husband and wife".
It makes me glad I never, ever have to get married again.
Wednesday night, my phone exploded with THE DRAMA OF THE DRESS! L, the bride, had hired a dress maker (a trained dressmaker, mind you, not some random person off Craigslist) to make her dream dress. A gorgeous Edwardian cream colored gown with a ruched bodice and a slight train.
What she got? THREE DAYS before the wedding? After weeks of calling and a very lawyerly phone call on the part of the lawyer groom? A misaligned bodice, a skirt whose lining seams were not centered with the over skirts seam and buttons that fell off. FELL OFF. Not even counting into the equation that there were straight pins sewn into the seams, random bits sewn in to disguise a poorly cut neck line and ORANGE MARKER visible on the back. Luckily, CK was on her way and managed to save the dress (blood, sweat and tears were involved) and L looked lovely.
But the damage was done and L, who is a wee bit (read VERY) high strung was already well on the way to freak-out town.
Which is how the photographer almost got stabbed to death with cocktail toothpicks.
Here's a tip, photographers, when the bride is standing in 40* weather, anxious to get the day over with already, telling her to "Just shake out that stress! Come on, just wiggle it free with me! Now, look longingly for your lover..." is a sure fire way to lose a limb. Or all of them.
About that time, I got a text saying "If you are joking about having Xanax in your purse, I'm going to KILL YOU".
Really, though, who would joke about THAT?
Just as L's eye began to twitch, we arrived at the site and I spared several of my precious and within a half an hour she began to calm down. Flowers the wrong color? Eh. The hem of the dress filthy because the veranda hadn't been swept? Eh. People running late? Eh. The minister forgets the part where they exchanged the rings? Ha ha! So funny! Not enough chairs? Pass the bacon-wrapped shrimp!
Can I just tell y'all? If you're sitting there wondering what to get your cousin Francine for her wedding next week? The answer is XANAX.
The wedding was lovely and short (the way I like them) and the bar was well stocked (EXACTLY the way I like them) and at the end of the evening? When everyone was tipsy and half dead from dancing? They passed out teeny-little grilled cheese sandwiches.
Seriously! How brilliant is that? Who doesn't like grilled cheese!
So, I guess, really, this story has two points. 1) Xanax is the magical Tic-Tac of happiness and 2)Grilled cheese is the best party ending canape EVER.
Oh. Three points.
If your kid is leaking snot like the Exxon Valdez of mucus, FOR FUCKS SAKE DO NOT GET ON THAT PLANE and then sit next to me. Or I will stab you. Even if your baby looks exactly like a wee-little Charlie Brown and charmingly shouts HULLO! in the most adorably random impression of Grommit. No free pass will be awarded based on crooked ears and three teeth. None. Snot trumps all get out of jail tiny Chuck Taylor's.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
You might be wondering where I am. Or you might not. But you better be, because, dammit, bitches, I'm already insecure enough. I need to believe that you lay awake at night fearing that I'm dead and that's why I haven't blogged in days. Because really, aside from a few of you, how would you ever KNOW if I was dead since no one really knows about this blog. Except my sister CK, but she doesn't have admin rights. I guess Earl might tell you, but sometimes he's stoned. I'm just saying.
The point is I'm not dead and I'm sorry you stayed up all night last night rocking and keening.
Now, as to where I've been, YOU TOTALLY WISH YOU KNEW. Don't you? Because it was awesome! It was THE BEST EVER!
No. It wasn't.
I've got jury duty. Blah, blah, blah all that shit about confidentiality and whatever and so I'm not going to tell you what the case is about because that would be illegal and also wrong and I think we ALL know I'd never do anything illegal or wrong, right? Right.
What I do want to say?
FOR FUCKS SAKE WHY GOD, WHY? Why do I always get next to the guy that looks like he lives under a bridge and smells like he shat himself? Why must he have greasy hair and filthy jeans and FOR THE LOVE OF LITTLE GREEN FROGS WHY must he be the noisiest water drinker ever in the history of the world?
I swear to you that sound you heard? This morning? THAT WAS HIM SWALLOWING.
I know that I'm hyper sensitive to eating and drinking noises. On more than one occasion I have threatened and or actually caused bodily harm to someone for eating loudly. Once? I even DUMPED a guy because he chewed with him mouth open. Oh! Then there was the date I walked out in the middle of because the guy took a drink WHILE he still had food in his mouth! A drink! Of Beer! While his mouth was full of burger! GROOOSSSSSSSS. I shudder just now even thinking about it.
As some sort of cosmic punishment though, I always get stuck next to the loudest drinker on the plane. The loudest chewer in the theater. Every time I turn on the radio if that mutherfucking "Good Day" song by Black Eyed Peas isn't on then there is some fucking annoying ass commercial wherein the announcer slurps a Coke or chomps a Carl's Junior Western Star until I'm inches away from poking out my own ear drums with a pen. A purple pen, because that's the only kind I like.
Was there a point to this post? I'd like to think I started out with one, but at this point I sincerely doubt it because that DAMN BLACKEYED PEAS SONG is on the fucking radio again which only means loud food sounds and people that who repeatedly address me as "Margaret" even though I've CLEARLY stated my name and then get all pissy when I tell them that no, I can't possibly transfer them to the owner of the company because HE DOESN'T NEED ANY FUCKING PRINTER INK THAT'S FUCKING WHY SHITHEAD are bound to follow.
Because the baby Jesus hates me. That's why.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
and for once, I didn't mean my husband when I said that.
Which is pretty certain to be the first sign of the Apocalypse. Or it could just be that I haven't talked to him today. Maybe both.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Among the more annoying things that my husband does (and believe me, if I told you everything he did to piss me off you'd never come back here because it would be All Complaining All The Time up in this website) is volunteer me to do things for other people with out asking me. Need to borrow a car? Take Thystle's! Need your taxes done? Thystle will do them! Need help moving? No problem, we'll be right over! This week alone, he's volunteered me to pick up D from work, let D borrow my car for the weekend and told ThePerv I'd watch his kids last night because it was their man-date night and ThePerv's wife, despite knowing this had made other plans that apparently were more important than mine.
I told J that I had to pick up M and drive her somewhere at 6, so if I was watching TheDemons they'd need to be ready to go with me.
When I pulled up in front of ThePervs house, he opened the garage door and came out. I'd stayed in my car, but got out so that I could load up the car seats.
"You can park in the driveway" he says
"No, I've got to go, are the kids ready?"
"Uh, ready to go where? BabyGirl is sleeping"
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!
Apparently J hadn't bothered to tell him that I had plans.
"I have to take M somewhere, she has to be there at 6 (it was 5:45)"
"Oh. I don't have car seats"
Rather than lose my shit, I tell him that I'll deal with it, shut off my car, slam the door shut and go in the house. I call M who, surprisingly doesn't whine. Probably because she was already on my list after I found fucking dirty dishes in the mother fucking bathroom. Who does that? Who? Anyway. I digress.
ThePerv tells me the kids haven't eaten and tells me and TheBoy that BabyGirl has a lunchable for her dinner and TheBoy can either have a hot dog or I can make the pizza on the top shelf. Now as you read the rest of this, bear in mind TheBoy is almost 8.
The very minute the door to the garage shuts, TheBoy whips open the fridge and takes out a lunchables box.
"What are you doing?" I ask him
"This is my dinner" he tells me
"No, it's not. You can have hot dogs, that's for BabyGirl"
"No, it's MINE"
Oh HELL NO. No child, especially a child that doesn't belong to me, speaks to me like that. I bend over so my face is right next to his and hiss out in the voice I reserve for door to door Jesus peddlers, you know, the one that makes me sound like Satan;
"You do not speak to adults like that. Put it back."
He shoots me an evil glare, but does it.
Next thing I know, he's standing on the coffee table using his toes to remove the glass insert. I scold him again. Then he scampers off, presumably to his room. Only, he went to his parents room and comes out wearing a slip and his mothers shoes. Then he proceeds to take off his shirt and twirl it around his head, stripper like.
We manage a few minutes where I don't want to beat his skinny little ass and I figure we've gotten over the transition from Dad to Babysitter, so I step into the ladies.
When I come back out, I hear a weird popping noise.
"What's that?" I ask him
"I'm making chili" he tells me
"That doesn't sound right," I say and dash into the kitchen
Where i find a mother fucking CAN of chili in the microwave. A can. In the microwave. I snatch open the door and yank out the sparking can and toss it into the sink. I whip around ready to scold him and you know what that little fucker says to me?
"you were stupid to do that"
"Excuse me?" I say, giving him a chance to back peddle and avoid an ass whipping
"You. Were. Stupid" he repeats.
OH FUCK NO.
I stick my face right into his, grab his chin in my hand so that he has no choice but to look right in my eyes and tell him
"You will not EVER speak to me, or any other adult like that in my hearing. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
"But you were stupid!" he insists.
"Tell you what, since you can't be respectful, we're going call your dad and get him to come home, because I will not be spoken to like that."
Then the water works and the no no please no.
By this time BabyGirl is awake (she's 3) and wants to cuddle on the chair with me. She slides in beside me and tucks herself up under my arm. I hear a door close and there's TheBoy only now he's wearing a healthy helping of his mothers jewelry and another pair of heels. I tell him to return them immediately and he glares at me and stomps off, but comes back and climbs into the chair on my other side, apparently having decided that I wasn't going to give an inch to bad behavior.
We sit peacefully for a few minutes and I tell them we should move to the couch so that everyone has a little more room.
Next thing I know he's humping my leg.
NOT EVEN KIDDING. He was HUMPING MY LEG. Like a dog.
I remove him and tell him that's not acceptable behavior. So he climbs up on the the couch and starts trying to STICK HIS HAND DOWN MY SHIRT.
I tell him to stop, but he does it again, insisting that I "have to let him, because (I'm) his girlfriend".
OH FUCK NO.
Again with the demon voice and he stops.
Since it's about 7:45 I ask BabyGirl if she wants to put her jammies on and she scampers off to find some princess jammies. When she comes back, I ask her what time she goes to bed and she tells me 8:30. Seems a bit late for a 3 year old, but not unreasonable. I turn to the boy and ask him. 10:30 he says. No, I tell him, I doubt that. Try again. Fine, he huffs, 10. Nope, I say. After a few more attempts we get to 9, which I find more believable and so I ask it they're allowed to have dessert on a school night. Oh, OF COURSE he tells me *I* can eat anything in the freezer, but BabyGirl can't.
More screaming and some hitting ensues as BabyGirl insists that they each get ONE cookie and that's it.
Thank god their mom came home right then. I thought. Until she and TheBoy start yelling at one another about dessert. Then he storms out of the kitchen throws himself on the floor and starts wailing in his best Whatever Happened To Baby Jane fashion.
I give BabyGirl a hug goodbye and he leaps up to get his and STICKS HIS FACE IN MY MOTHER FUCKING TITS. I shove his little head back and make my escape.
When J gets home he asks M how her thing went and I tell him that she didn't get to go, because ThePerv wasn't prepared for the kids to leave the house. That apparently he had no idea they were supposed to.
"Didn't you call him?" J asks
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT?
"No," I say calmly (thankyoubabyjesusforxanax) "I asked you to"
"Why would I call him?"
(I begin to stab him in my mind)
Finally we get resolved that he had told ThePerv that they needed to be able to go with me, only hadn't given him a time frame and apparently ThePerv had forgotten. I tell him about the can in the microwave and the tittie touching and announce that I will not. ever. watch. that. kid. again.
"Oh, I already told him you'd watch them on Tuesday" he replies.
And that, my lovely little kittens, is why I am in jail.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
I had jury duty yesterday. It was nothing like Law & Order, by the way. For one thing the courtroom was like the size of my closet. Okay, maybe the size of the kitchen, but you get the idea. And there were like 80 people crammed in there. I haven't been "empaneled" (that jury talk for "jumped in") but neither have I been dismissed, so my civic duty continues.
J has jury duty today. You know what the difference between men and women is? Yesterday, when *I* had jury duty, I took the remainder of the day to clean the back yard, vacuum and shampoo the carpets, clean the bathroom and kitchen, do two loads of laundry and pay the bills due today. And what did my husband do? SLEEP IN. What the fuck, y'all?
None of this is what I want to tell you though.
What I WANT to tell you is that I have a fucking bug bite on my fucking eye lid. That means that a bug CRAWLED AROUND ON MY FACE until it decided that my eyelid was the juiciest place to feast and then IT BIT ME ON THE FUCKING EYE LID. A bug. ON MY EYE. I'm still skeeved out. What if it crawled into my mouth? What if it crawled into my ear and now I've got bug larvae in my brain and then they eat through my grey matter and I go all crazy and then bugs start spilling out of my head holes? IT COULD HAPPEN.
For now though, I just look like I've been working on my MMA moves unsuccessfully. Which would be a whole lot more bad ass than potentially having bugs noming on my brains.