Carry On

Right. So. The Crazy.

Yes, yes. I know this is an Old Topic and I've discussed it to Death. The thing about the Crazy is, it's all consuming. Think you're okay? HAHAHAH. God laughs at your Okay. Check book balanced with enough left over for some shoes you don't need? Kiss your transmission goodbye. Not enough to send you over the edge? Let's add in a roofing estimate $7000 more than you'd planned. Still okay? Well, let's talk about an old dog that's decided to gnaw off the cancerous tumor that's inoperable! What? YOU'RE STILL NOT ROCKING IN A CORNER? FINE. How about if I poke this little whatsit so the washing machine starts to make a funny noise? DAMN IT WOMAN, WHY AREN'T YOU IN THE BOOBY HATCH YET? Fine. FINE. I'll just make this stove burner not turn off, and I'll....I'll....oh! rust out the shower door track! and I'll....raise your cable and cell and insurance bills and then I'll....remind you that you still have to pay for summer camp! Including plane tickets! OH! Hahaha! One more thing! I'll slip in this amusing little tip bit; your in-laws haven't EVER paid rent or a mortgage in their entire lives! And someone just bought them a new house and updated the entire interior! What's that? You don't think that's funny? Well the knob to the kitchen sink just came off in your hands and you still have to roll down the window to use the latch on the OUTSIDE to open your car door. THAT IS FUNNY, RIGHT? Don't you think it's annoying when someone else gets a new car handed to them? Maybe you want to see pictures anyway? OH COME ON. YOU KNOW THAT'S FUNNY.

No?

Hey!?

Why are you hiding under the desk eating a grilled cheese and Xanax sandwich? I haven't shown you what I've done to the fence in the back yard!

Oh! And did I mention that you're going to have house guests for the next month who're going to be less than impressed that your fourteen year old dog sometimes forgets the difference between carpet and grass?

I really can't understand why you're drinking wine straight out of the bottle, because I haven't even told you the BEST. PART. YET! you're going to get to spend every hour you're not at work with your husband! DOESN'T THAT SOUND AWESOME?

No?

FINE. You can have nightmares when you DO manage to sleep, but that is IT. You're not getting anything else.

Except a really huge papercut.

I hope you're satisfied, missy.

So. Yeah. The Crazy and me? We're still here, just....sometimes we're not fit for company, you know?

Okay

This is the morning that it could all come apart and I know it. I have a rope and it has an end and I am there. The buzz of the refrigerator competes with the hum of the light and the tick, tick, tick of the infernally loud clock to drive me mad and I tap, tap, tap the purple pen with the chewed up edge on the strip of wood at the edge of my desk to drown it out. To drown out the screaming.

In the background the phone rings over the blaring beat of a song that I hate as my email chirps and there is someone talking, but all I can hear is the tick, tick, tick of that damn clock. I know that if it ticks again I will smash it into a million little pieces and then pick them up and eat them so the jagged edge of broken time scratches it's way down my throat to settle in a brittle ball of desolation in the pit of my belly.

I have thrown the clock away in the big green dumpster so the tell tale heart will not cause my end. Instead I have decided that too many pills and a glass of whiskey will taste far better. I begin to clear things into the trash with grim glee.

Click, click, click, Delete and then there you were. Not looking at the camera with your hand resting on my sleeping shoulder, caught quietly off guard in the light of a rain swept day. I put my head down on my desk and wept.

When there was nothing left to fill the cracked jar that holds my resolve, I went to you. You held me in the palm of your hand, eyes closed until wisps of okay swirled through me and I could breathe.

Eh

Turns out I'm not dead. I know, right? Had you worried, I bet. It's not like me to disappear from the interwebs for such an extended period of time and I'm very sorry and ready to receive my spankings.

I'd like to say that I was doing something fun, but the truth is that I wasn't. Well, sort of was. But not really. Nothing new or interesting anyway. Faire is still going strong, despite the drowning rain (Hi? We live in Arizona? What. The. Fuck. Mother Nature?) and while many amusing things have occurred (and some UNAMUSING like being asked if the baby I was holding was my FUCKING GRANDCHILD!) you sort of have to be there. Or be a giant nerd. Possibly both.

Also, (and I fully accept that this particular line of whining is growing redundant and also isn't amusing) they've changed my medications AGAIN. As a result, I'm sleeping like hell and that makes me wicked cranky. Literally. When I'm not being unpleasant I am indifferent. Thereby leaving me with out stories to tell you about my hilarious hijinks. Or, you know, whatever the hell else it is that I'm meant to be doing.

It's possible that you'll not hear much from me for a time while they sort out my meds so that I will 1) not kill anyone and 2) care if someone attempts to kill me. Honestly, right now I struggle to give a shit about ANYTHING, so I'm sort of focusing on that whole breathing thing. Turns out if you don't you turn all blue. Then I'd clash with my lipstick and that wouldn't do. So. Yeah. Breathing. I'm going to be working on that.

On one hand, not caring is a bit awesome. People screaming at me? Eh. Spill coffee on brand new white shirt? Eh. Favorite CD scratched? Eh. On the other hand though? Sucks. Balls. Nothing is funny. Nothing is not funny. Nothing....is. I guess. You'd think considering the number of years that I've enjoyed a relationship with drugs designed to alter my mental state (recreational and otherwise, obviously) I'd be used to this whole cycle of new drugs making things go all wonky. But I'm not. I'd be upset, but I don't care. I know I SHOULD be upset. I understand that the proper reaction is to be upset, but I can't bring myself to actually BE upset. Does that make any sense? It's like I'm standing here with a set of stage directions Kiki watched a sad movie that made her cry, sniffling, she clutched the damp tissue to her chest in distress. While I can understand, intellectually, that this is the way a normal person would react, I am not reacting that way. It's a bit scary. Or, you know, should be.

Anyhoodle, this is a super long post about nothing (you're welcome) when I could have said in two sentences, I'm not dead; I'm just boring. Come back later.

Troll

I'm sure that very few of you will believe this, but I'm actually not at ALL out going in person. I am awkward and shy until I am comfortable. Which usually works out fine because I'm a total eaves-dropper and not talking allows me to listen much more effectively.

However, being shy? And working in what essentially amounts to a nine hour improvisational play in front of between ten and twenty thousand people a day?

Yeah.

EXCELLENT PLAN, KIKI.

Especially when any number of thousands of cameras are around. It's pretty much like being a Disney character, but with out the big foam head for protection.

Not to mention that I? Am Crazy. Therefore, I'm always at least half convinced that I'm the subject of a photo so that later, they can be like OH MY GOD! This lady was HOMELY! She's TOTALLY the troll from that bridge! (I sit at the end of a bridge most of the day)Yes, I know. I understand that's Crazy. But still. That's why it's The Crazy. Because you think things that don't make a whole lot of sense. Unless, they really ARE thinking that and then I'm not Crazy! I'm right! HA!

It should also be noted that as part of being Not Brave, random bits of flattery leave me...flabbergasted. Yesterday (which was a Really. Long. Day. at the end of a Really. Long. Week.) I was kissed; cheek or hand, by no fewer than twenty random people. Not other players either, which I've come to accept at least some what gracefully (though there are no doubt other opinions about this) but random patrons, both costumed and not. One? Might have been a woman, which, I can't lie, was a little MORE flattering even.

Speaking of women. OH MY GOD. I don't know how many times I have to say this but, Fat Girls? There are flattering clothing options out there, I promise. There is no reason to wander around with your under butt dangling from beneath your cut-too-short sweat shorts. There is NO REASON for you to allow underbelly either. Skinny bitches? You're not exempt here either. Frozen Iguana invented mirrors for a reason. That reason is so I don't see you and have to physically suppress the need to shout OH HONEY, NO. NO. NO. NO.

Because I have to shout other very important things like "If you wish to continue to the joust, you will find easier passage to the right! The Right! No, M'Lord YOUR RIGHT" seventeen thousand times in five hours.

I seriously can not fathom why people feel the need to stand in a line when they can step TEN FEET and pass freely. Is there some sort of sub conscious need to line up behind others? I wonder, if I were to stand in front of a closed door alone, would people line up behind me?

I smell a new Operation Obnoxious....

(PS. Finally met Long Time Commenter Eric's lovely NEW fiance!)
(PPS. Having drinks with KWR221 tonight! Woot!)
(PPPS. No, I'm not REALLY Crazy. I'm insecure. But Crazy sounds far more dangerous and therefore hotter)

Done

I know, I know. This blog isn't about my whining and complaining and all my DRAMA. Because no one but a llama likes the drama.

It's no secret that things at my house aren't....good. Haven't been good for some time. It's not all my husbands fault. These things are never just one persons fault. Ever. So while I paint myself as the victim in all of this, no doubt there is another side to the story. There's always another side.

But this is my blog. And this is my side.

We've been together for eleven years, eleven months. That's almost all of my adult life. There is almost nothing major left that we haven't gone through together. Financial messes, lost jobs, moves, illnesses, deaths, major surgery, arguments over the temperature of dinner, buying a home, buying a car, going back to school, picking paint colors and inside jokes. There is no part of my current life that doesn't have something to do with my husband. It's called marriage. That's how it goes.

But.

For almost that entire time I have chased my husband. I've done literally everything that I could think of to MAKE him pay attention to me. It's been years since he saw me in pajamas for longer than the half hour before bed because I know he doesn't like "casual" clothes. It's been years since he's seen me un-made up, hair a mess, chipped manicured and un-shaved legs. Save when I'm sick. And even then, I comb my hair and shower.

When getting his attention in a positive manner didn't work, I'd fight with him. Because at least then he NOTICED me.

A year ago, when I was at my breaking point, I lost my shit. Like, LOST IT. In a fit of rage, I packed what I could and I was ready to leave. I'd had enough. I shouted (which I rarely ever do. I don't like shouting.) that this, this wasn't working. We were broken.

He told me it was ME that was broken and I believed him.

What else did I have? Everything inside my head was a mess. *I* was a mess. I knew I was a mess. Was it possible that it was just me? Of course.

But it wasn't just me. Of course it wasn't.

It's taken me a year and a shit load of pharmaceutical intervention to realize it's NOT me. *I* am not broken. Bent, yes. I'll concede to bent. REALLY, REALLY, bent even. But I am not the whole problem.

And also?

I don't care anymore. I don't care if he shouts at me. I don't care if he doesn't shout at me. I don't care if he pays attention to me and I don't care if he ignores me. I find it annoying when he whines and I want to smack him when he's an ass, but I feel the same way about the people on television and the checker at Wal-mart. It's nothing to do with him personally. I simply...well. I'm done.

Last night, when he started in on my again with the you don't pay attention to me line of whining, I couldn't do it anymore. I told him I didn't care. I told him he hadn't paid attention to me in YEARS. That any time he DID pay attention to me I am suspicious of his motives.

I told him that I am done.

But, then, of course it gets more complicated. That's how it works, isn't it?

HE isn't done. He's not ready for ME; for US to be done. And I? I just don't care WHAT he wants.

But then again, of course I do. I don't like to admit failure any more than anyone else does. I don't know how to separate my life from our life. Everything we own, we own together. Everyone we know, we know together. When I go, because I will, and likely soon, will our friends still be my friends? What will people say? What will *I* say?

What can I say?

There's nothing TO say. Sometimes things get broken. Sometimes there isn't glue to fix them.

Sometimes, you just need to know when to be done.

The Man

It's not that I believe in ghosts so much as that I don't disbelieve. There are things, I think, that are inexplicable. Unless they can be explained by the presence of an energy that feels the need to hang around.

The house that my parents live in was built in the mid 1920's and was purchased by my great grandparents for a shockingly expensive $20 a month. To make ends meet Grandma Fred (yes, Fred) sold eggs and chickens and kept a garden. Back then, the suburb was an apple orchard and the trains ran through the valley on coal fueled steam. Great Grandpa raised fighting chickens (I know. But it *was* the 20's and they had a very different view) in the back yard and Gram was charged with feeding them. To this day, she won't touch chicken skin.

Grandma Fred lived in that house for about 60 of her 86 years and so it's really no surprise that from time to time the attic that had been her bedroom and then was mine would grow cold. No surprise either that when you were sick, you'd feel her sit down beside you and lay a hand on your head. It wasn't scary, it was just Grandma. It was her house and that's all there was to it.

So, too, when Grandpa Jimmy (Grams husband) passed did it make sense that he would return to his home to pass the time knocking around in the basement workroom or sitting on the front porch watching the neighborhood go by.

It's just the way things were. Are.

When I was a very little girl, just slightly more than six, our little family took a road trip through the northwest in a red Volkswagon van. It had one of those pop-up roofs and a wee adorable kitchen. We camped in it at night, Mum and Dad on the folded down seat, myself tucked up underneath it and CK nestled in the stairwell (she was three).

Near the very end of our trip, as CK, Mum and I dozed, Dad drove us through a twisty mountain pass on a two lane road. Around a blind corner, a drunk driver crossed the center line and struck us head on, rolling the van into the side of the mountain. We were lucky, the other side was a cliff.

I remember nothing of this trip, save for the this.

When I woke up, dazed, the side of my face destroyed by gravel, my arm was trapped under the vehicle. I had no idea what had happened, just that I was stuck and I was scared. I recall pulling my arm from the window (I think I broke it myself doing that) and then looking around for someone; an adult, to tell me what to do.

The roof of the van had come off when we rolled and through where the top of the van should have been, I had a clear view of the side of the highway.

God, was I grateful to see The Man. The Man (because that's how I've always thought of him) was in his sixties, grey haired and bearded; dressed in Levi's, boots and a work shirt.

He called me by name and told me to take off my seat belt. I did and then I dropped to the ground. He didn't come any closer, but that he was there was enough. He told me to unbuckle CK and I did and together we crawled (her femur was broken, but crawl we did) out on to the gravel. The Man stood a bit aside and he told me we needed to get far away from the van, it was going to explode.

It's eerie how quiet chaos can be.

By now, though, I could hear the horn blaring, I could hear Dad shouting, his pants burnt off, his tennis shoes melted to his feet, he was screaming for us, for Mum. I shouted back, but I doubt he heard me.

In the most serendipitous stroke of fate, the next vehicle on the scene was a motor home driven by a retired EMT.

They bundled CK and I into the motor home, the wife of they EMT's friend rocking CK back and forth and plying me with juice. Neither of us cried, there would be time for that later. Who were we? Where were we going? How old was I; was CK; were our folks? Where were we from? Whom could they call? It was a pretty boring game. I watched through the window as they led my father away from the wreckage, watched him hit the pavement only after they pulled Mum out on a backboard made of the table and laid her away from the smoking van.

"My mom is dead" I told them in the implicit logic only a child can conjure and of course, they assured me she wasn't. "Yes, she is. She's allergic to bees. If she wasn't dead, she wouldn't want them near her." The ladies looked at one another and one left to shoo the bees away with a white paper plate.

The roadway was scattered with nickles and Choc-o-dials. I could see one of my shoes on the yellow line. The hillside was scattered with poppies. There was a skid of red paint on the black top. The doors of the cabinets on the wee kitchens facade hung open, the plastic contents tumbled into a heap in the gravel.

Several minutes later, though it's hard to say how long, the van did indeed explode and I turned to the woman that had stayed with us and told her The Man had said it would.

"What man, lamb?" she asked

"THE man," I looked around for him then, but he was gone.

Much later, when I was grown up, my Mum (who had indeed died) told me that she too had seen The Man, she had seen him in the Summerland before she decided to come back. The man told her that he would watch me. Watch us.

From time to time, as I grew up, The Man came back. Never to the degree he had that day, but back still. In the corner of my eye, I'll see him in the hallway. I'll catch his scent, a mix of pipe smoke and the ocean, in a breeze. I'll turn around and expect to find him.

Am I crazy? Yes. But that's not the point. The point is that some time, some where in my past, The Man has come to see me as his. In times of great stress, I feel him more.

The day that M had her accident, I was sure The Man was on the porch.

I'd say he's not a ghost. Not exactly an angel (I rather get the sense that he was a bit of a trouble maker. And he's definitely a jokster. I hope he reads the interwebz, and if so I NEED MY DAMN EARRINGS BACK and I better not find them in the kitchen cupboards again) but something close. Some sort of other. The sort of other that makes a bump in the night.

It's not so much that he portends disaster, but rather that he shows up to stand just behind and beside me to remind me that I am strong enough to sail a stormy sea. So too, does he show up when things are about to change. Just before a move. Right before I make a big decision. When I need a push because I refuse to just leap.

This morning, I thought I smelled the ocean.

Even Frozen Iguana Poops

I told ZDub I'd blog this week so y'all can blame her for the fact that I'm tormenting the interwebz with my rambling again.

I've been super busy at work, but not SO busy I can't twitter 250 times in five days (not even exaggerating) and in those five days I have declared the following:

* "Vagina" is the new "Aloha"

* Frozen Iguana is the new Baby Jesus

* Sunday is Eat Like an Asshole Day (with credit for the idea given to @biddymcbidson)

* I shouldn't be left alone in a house that contains fabric dye. See also: green stained kitchen counters and washing machine that remains slightly hot pink tinged.

*Pickle Ball isn't the name of a sex game. But it should be.

*White Cheddar Pirates Booty and Barefoot Wine Riesling = white trash nirvana

* Nichole Richie ALWAYS looks high. Or bored. Although she sounds fairly intelligent (or did on Runway) she just looks like she's ready to start making that hang mans noose motion with her arm.

* Zombies are bad conversationalists.

*"Yes Ma'am" is the new "Roger that". "Roger That" of course being radio code for "fuck that and fuck you!"

* as unacceptable as Crocs already are they are infinitely MORE SO when worn with capri pants and black socks

* "Extra-legal" is the new "illegal"

* I need a Purse Monkey. Which is like a Trunk Monkey, except in my purse.

* There aren't enough people in the world named "Shirleen"

I know. I'm incredibly profound when I am having a complete mental break down that stemmed from making FIFTEEN HUNDRED separate pages of photocopies after being told that I suck and should be fired and getting several paper cuts and THEN? Then finding out that they don't need the copies!

I expect this week to be slightly less shouty and slightly more snarky.

If only because my husband is back in town.

Not dead, just hiding

Though I rapidly am at risk of becoming one of those one note blogs...like a MommyBlog, only with whining...I fear that since that is the mood I am in that's all y'all are going to be getting for awhile. Probably until my increased dose of Crazy meds kicks in. Which should be any day now, but in the mean time, I've got to tell y'all about the fucked up shit going on at my house.

My husband and I don't "do" things together. This is because A) I am not terribly fond of him B) he's an assface and C) we don't like to do the same things. One might argue that A & B are the same but then one would risk me crying and shouting things like I hate you for breathing and then I'd sulk and you wouldn't get to read my confessions tomorrow, so perhaps one should just keep ones mouth shut and let me finish my damn story.

ANYWAY, where was I? Oh, yes. Doing things.

J likes manly-man things, like hunting and shooting things and things that go fast and are loud and people who talk loud and drink too much and tell jokes about why women have small feet* and I? I do not. I like to travel, I like to socialize in an environment where I can hear what people are saying and more than anything I DO NOT LIKE DEAD THINGS. Meat comes from Safeway nicely wrapped in cling film and presented on a Styrofoam tray, The End. Which means that when it comes time to do things, more often than not they're separate. I take M to the state fair, he goes hunting. I go on a cruise with BabyMama, he goes hunting. I go to book club, he goes to a long distance rifle match. You get the idea.

But on Sunday? He decided we were going to have some quality time.

What. The. Fuck.

Sundays are MY day. I don't drive anyone anywhere. I clean the house and then I watch everything on the DVR and then we eat take out for dinner. Chances are I do it all wearing yoga pants. I KNOW, RIGHT? But NO. Not this Sunday. This Sunday he plops himself down on the sofa (after moving the laundry I was folding to the coffee table) takes the remote from my lap and changes the channel and announces I may bring him a snack because we're going to have quality time. Then, he insults what I've got set to DVR for the week, informs me that I fold the socks incorrectly and that his drink needs more ice. Because we're having quality time. And when I ask WHY THE FUCK WE'RE HAVING FUCKING QUALITY TIME he tells me it's because he thinks I want it.

WHERE THE SHIT DID HE GET THAT IDEA?

Not from me.

AND THEN?

He stayed home again on Monday afternoon. For more quality time that involved more being an ass to me. Because I "needed attention". Apparently the sort of attention I need involves telling me the delicious quiche I made "sucks" and that I should dust more.

Do you see why we don't do things together?

Thank GOD all my whining and moaning the of phrase ain't you got somewheres you gots to be?! finally conveyed that for fucks sake if he spends one more fucking minute with in my sight I will take that remote and shove it so far up his ass that every time he blinks the channel changes and also that HE NEEDS TO FIND SOMEWHERE ELSE TO BE. For example, not here. Or perhaps NOT ANYWHERE NEAR HERE. A good idea would be SOMEWHERE ELSE. Far away.

This, people. THIS is why Baby Jesus invented Xanax. So that y'all didn't have to mail me bail money.


*So they can stand closer to the sink.

Phoning it in

Hi! You've reached Kreg's Severed Head! Miss Thystle is busy hiding under her desk eating mini-Snickers bars and mumbling to herself. Please leave a message after the tone.








BBBEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

Not Okay

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.

Rantington

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.

Inmate Mrs. Robinson

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"

SERIOUSLY.

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.

I KNOW.

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"

WHAT?

"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.

Phobia

As if there wasn't enough evidence of my mental illness, I submit to you the following evidence.

I am completely convinced that every time I lift the lid of the toilet, I am going to find a snake.

Seriously.

I can not pee in the dark. I can't pee if I can't see the water. I can't pee if I don't first look into the toilet to ensure that there is not, in fact, a snake coiled in the bowl waiting to lunge out and bite me on the hoo ha.

There is no basis for this fear. It's not as if I have ever found anything more malicious than an unflushed turd in the toilet. But still. THERE COULD BE A SNAKE IN THE TOILET, you just NEVER KNOW. It totally happened in that movie Snakes on a Plane and that guy got his weiner bit and then he TOTALLY DIED, y'all. DIED.

This isn't a fear that I admit to because my husband is an asshole who would find it terribly amusing to leave a rubber snake in the toilet just to hear me scream.

Just when I think I've talked myself out of it, just when I think that I am being irrational, I see this article.

Which includes this picture.





THERE IS A MOTHER FUCKING SNAKE IN THE MOTHER FUCKING TOILET. It swam up the pipes. A SNAKE SWAM UP THE PIPES AND INTO THE TOILET. A real mother fucking snake swam into the sewer and up the pipes and INTO THE TOILET.

For reals.

I'm never going to pee again.

Where you be?

Here's the thing. As previously mentioned, I am all hopped up on drugs. Xanax, Welburtin and Zoloft to be exact. With a side of Ambien CR.

This combination of drugs, while it makes me feel better....well it also makes me feel a little bit of nothing. It's good in that I no longer sit, knees pulled to my chest, rocking back and forth rubbing away the skin of my thumb as I worry a quarter, or a pen, or a folded up bit of paper. It's good because I no longer wake in the morning thinking that if I could just sleep more, if could just close my eyes, then it would be okay. I would be okay. It's good because the sounds of my husband chewing his food, that smack smack smack of his teeth coming down on his food, no longer makes me want to stab him to death with a fork. Wound him, certainly, maim him, maybe, but not kill.

I like to call this "progress".

But it also means my neurosis filled ramblings are a little less neurotic. My need to spill my guts to the world just a little quieter.

Sucks for blogging, right?

So forgive me, kittens, for not being around much. They (and by "they" I mean the legions of doctors who've assured me that I'm not broken, just a little bent) assure me that when I stabilize my ability to see The Crazy and laugh at it will be restored.

Until then, here's a picture CK sent me last night. Check out her chubby little knees! Do you not want to nom them? I distinctly recall that red, white and blue striped outfit that I'm wearing. I recall loving it. Which, I must say, is a vast improvement over one of my other favorite outfits, a cable knit, mustard yellow turtleneck and elephant grey bell bottom corduroy pants. With red shoes. Obviously.

PS.

I thought you'd also get a laugh (like I did) out of the note that CK included when she emailed me the pictures...

Hey-
I asked dad to scan a couple of old photos I found when I was home. Here's a couple of you and I.

One thing I love about our childhood photos is that we seem to have similar expressions in each one. I usually look vaguely inquisitive/good natured (rather like the Far Side cartoon about the irish setter) and you look like "take the photo already! geez!"

Anyway, thought you might get a kick out of these

PPS.

Yes, my Gram did use scotch tape and a ruler to ensure that my bangs were perfectly straight and 2" above my eye brows.

Also? My mother has a lot to answer for when it comes to my pig-tails.