Thursday, April 9, 2015

Gen Me

Who decided that little girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice? I have a new niece in my life, and there's no sugar coating. There is definite cuteness, but there is also willfulness, manipulation and a stubborn streak wider than a KardashiAss.

She's not even seven months and she owns me - scarier still is that she knows it. If she doesn't want to sit in her swing for quiet time, she just howls like a banshee until I rescue and hold her.

The other night, I told my brother that poor peanut must be teething because she was crying so hard.

"Huh. Guess she only teethes at nap time," he mused, one eyebrow cocked. And it's true - there she sat wailing and jamming her frozen chew toy down her throat, crocodile tears streaming dramatically down her mountainous cheeks. I grabbed her, she smiled coyly and the tears dried up on cue.


She totally played me.

She's too lazy to sit up on her own, yet blink an eye and she can barrel-roll across the floor to yank electrical cords or cat tails. Her propensity for going straight for anything naughty astounds me. I figure she'll be sneaking out of the house by age three.

The kid has forty-seven baby toys, lovingly selected to stimulate her tiny brain and provide a wealth of tactile experience, yet all she wants is whatever I have. To teach a Gen Me baby to crawl, you simply place your smartphone just out of reach and then move it before the drool rains down.

Her first word, in keeping with today's standards, will probably be iWant.


Babies are a curious breed. This chunk of love is smart enough to control my puppet strings but dumb enough to lick an outlet. The look of satisfaction that spreads across her face upon getting what she wants is terrifying. Today, to be held during nap time -  tomorrow, the world!

No wonder we're raising a generation of spoiled brats - fifty years ago I'm not sure babies and children amazed people so. You simply popped em out and once they were mobile, you sent them to the store with a five-dollar bill pinned to their shirt to buy a gallon of milk and your Pall Malls. An eight-year-old might have been expected to prepare dinner for the family, and a thirteen-year-old would be in charge of diapering and bed-timing her gaggle of younger siblings. 

Now every kid gets a trophy and if you ask a tween to put down their iPhone and pick up their socks, they'll probably just use an app to contact CPS and report abuse. 

I've decided that my goal as an auntie is to reinforce two truths to her:

1) You are incredibly special to me.
2) You are not at all special to the world in general.

Because as much as I love her and think she's perfect, there's nothing very lovable about kids being coddled to the point of entitlement. These adorable babies and sweet-eyed little girls and devilishly charming young boys will be adults someday - the kind of adults we've all met and wished we could slap.

So tonight, let those crocodile tears flow, baby girl - I'm on to you. You're staying in that swing until we've eaten our dinner and if you don't like it, you can hop out yourself and army-crawl to my phone to report it. Meanwhile, we've got earplugs.

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Oops, I Did It Again

27 moves in 38 years.

I'm tired.

Tired of packing, tired of schlepping. Tired of hoping that any place will ever feel like home to me, tired of believing that I will belong somewhere.

Tired of trying to prove my worth to people.

I couldn't work or drive, but I did the laundry. The cooking, the cleaning. I tucked the girls in and got them up for school in the morning. I signed the permission slips and packed the lunches. I giggled with them when they were happy and I rubbed their backs when they didn't feel good. I loved them all, as best I knew how.

Somewhere along the way I got confused and thought we were a family.

He thought I was unreasonable because I wanted the girls to pick up a little, to help out a bit. I got frustrated being the kids' maid and my biggest mistake was thinking he'd stand in solidarity with me as the adults of the house.


He dumped me.

Via text message.

While we were both at home.

I wasn't even worth the effort to walk up the stairs and say it to my face.

I moved out. The kids can throw their stuff on the floor in peace. He can be the cool parent who never says no. He lost a housekeeper, and I lost my heart, times four. My boyfriend, the girls, and that crazy dumb dog.

You'd think after so much practice, the breakups wouldn't hurt, but you'd be wrong.

I need to stop giving my heart to people who don't want it.

I need to feel less and protect more.

And I need to focus.

Focus on my health. Focus on my writing. Focus on rebuilding my life, one crumbly, shitty brick at a time so that maybe - one day - I can move again, to a tiny little place of my own. My own home, with an animal or five, because I do have a lot of love to give.

Maybe the 28th time will be the charm. Or maybe it's April and I am a fool.

Friday, February 13, 2015

Bad Luck and Blind Love

Before you think I'm blaming broken mirrors for my lot in life, rest assured I'm aware that many of my choices have proven poor. Yet even when I make good decisions, I have a propensity for bumblefucking my way through life tripping over every black cat on the way. I can't help but notice that the juxtaposition of Friday the 13th with Valentine's Day this year is an accurate reflection of my very existence - one unlucky break after the next, punctuated by random, amazing acts of blind love.

Take my mailbox for example - a vessel I regard with equal parts dread and excitement. My mother once told me she's never known a person who receives as many love letters as I do, and it's true - I am so spoiled. Homemade cookies six weeks after a surgery, while I sulked in bed, writhing in pain, certain the world had forgotten me.

Encouraging cards from all over the world.

Random presents: a cheeky compact, a homemade quilt, mosaics, jewelry!

Once I received a box of chocolate bars and candy from France - one each of every kind they make, I'm fairly certain. It had oodles of handwritten notes, translating all the packaging for me so I knew exactly what I was sticking in my mouth (heaven, if you wondered - that's what I ate).

Recently I opened the mailbox to find a gorgeous handmade necklace and matching earrings from a sweet woman halfway across the country. We've never met - we know each other through blogging, and she noticed I'd been quiet - and accurately surmised that was a sign I was deep in the funk.

The other piece of mail that same day?

A letter of intent to garnish my wages for unpaid medical bills, which is morbidly bad luck (for them) since I have no wages to garnish.

The other day I swallowed the last dribble of my pride and applied for healthcare assistance. With each question I felt my self-worth plummet.

Income? None.

Assets? None.

No property, no stocks, no bonds, no retirement, no insurance, no point.

So humbling to see your life reduced to a number.



Then I realized there was no box to check for emotional assets. I'm rich in those and it's equally humbling to be made to feel loved.

There's something unnervingly beautiful about realizing that somewhere, someone thought of you kindly and then acted on it. Do you know how wealthy I feel reading your notes, stroking your quilt, wearing your necklace? I tuck these gifts away in my heart bank, so that on the days the screen glows ZERO I have tangible reminders that I am rich.

So don't panic over crossing the street today because that bus could still hit you tomorrow - and who cares if you get flowers tomorrow? Someone loves you today.

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

What Goes Up Must Come Down

Living with Lyme disease is like being trapped in a body gone mad.

You spend a huge percentage of your time fighting dozens of symptoms that migrate and shift constantly. I'll spend days on end vomiting constantly and then - POOF! Suddenly my stomach calms for a few days. On a Monday the tremors will make it hard to even hold a fork but on a Tuesday I might be able to get out my beads and string a necklace. My hip was inflamed for weeks and I limped around. Then one day, it felt fine. Sometimes my vision is fine and other times it's blurry or even double.

I am housebound and stir crazy, no driver's license, independence or purpose. I start to feel like I really am losing my mind.

Then....sometimes...occasionally....a desperately needed reprieve...which creates its own problem.

My judgment sucks ass during those breaks in the pain. After days or weeks of feeling miserable and holding down your bed, if you wake up feeling better, it's incredibly hard not to seize the chance at normalcy and do the things that other people can do.

Like clean the house. Or walk the dog. Or go snow tubing with the kids, and y'all saw from my last post how that ended.

So logic would dictate that even on a day I feel OK, I should still treat my body like an eggshell, something weak, something fragile. But try telling that to the girl who wakes up feeling good for the first time in weeks.

Try telling that to the girl whose pseudo-stepkid wants to go to SkyZone, the trampoline park. Try telling that to the girl who has forgotten the joy of just playing.

You know where this is going.

It didn't take even fifteen minutes.






So now on top of my normal shitpile of a life I have a torn LCL and a leg that needs to stay immobilized for several weeks in the hopes of avoiding a surgical repair. And a dog that still needs to be walked. And ice on the sidewalks. And a split-level house with stairs everywhere.

And a heaping dose of self-loathing at my own stupidity for following my own advice and seizing the moment. For holding onto the towrope because I can - since evidently, I really cannot.

I don't want sympathy, I don't need help. I simply needed to examine why, exactly, a person might make the kinds of stupid decisions I do and writing helps me sort my thoughts. I wanted to explain it to myself.

Because even I know that no sentence beginning with So, at the trampoline park..ever ends well.

Friday, January 9, 2015

Body Image

I wasted so many years hating my body. I missed so many chances to do things because I was self-conscious of how I might look.

By the time I was ten, I'd figured out that my skin was different - while other kids browned and crisped in the sunshine, my pasty-white complexion just sizzled and turned red.

I spent all of my high school years lamenting my flab and as I look back now, I wonder where, exactly, that fat was. In my twenties I lambasted myself for not being able to share clothes with my bestie - she was a size six and I could never...quite...get there.

There. That elusive place where I'd be happy with what I saw in the mirror. That dragon that so many girls constantly chase.

I was creative in my self-loathing and could find a complaint about nearly any body part you might mention. My fingernails and earlobes? Too small. Everything else? Too big. Too white, too soft, too tall, too something.

My man took me to a Cirque show for Christmas a couple weeks ago, my fifth. I sat awestruck, my jaw dangling, as aerialists soared above us. The contortionists folded themselves into unbelievable formations as acrobats performed gravity-defying leaps and flips, and as always, I found myself mesmerized by the wonders of their bodies.

Since falling ill in 2012, my own body has revolted against me in countless ways. I used to wish I could get a tan, now I hope I won't piss my pants again. I used to wish I could lose thirty pounds, now I'd like to be able to shovel the driveway without blacking out from dizziness. I used to wish I could be a cute, thin girl in a convertible, now I just miss the independence of being allowed to drive myself somewhere.

The other day we took the kids tubing. When I was a child, this meant you had to walk back up the hill each time and by the end of the afternoon your leg muscles would be noodly with exhaustion. Now they have tow ropes to pull our lazy butts up to the top.

I made it four times before the exertion of holding the towrope left me nauseated and in tremors. I remember lying on my tube, praying I wouldn't pass out before reaching the top, and slide down backward, taking out all the small children in my path. I bet those Cirque performers could hold the towrope without their eyes tearing up in pain. Bet their knees wouldn't threaten to give out just trying to walk on the snowpacked, slippery ground.

I stumbled behind the chalet and doubled over, vomiting. I was shaking everywhere, soaked in sweat. At that point I retired to the car and watched from a distance as my peeps joyfully careened down the hills without me.

I no longer hate how my body looks.

Because here's the thing - once you begin to lose control of your body, you realize that the only thing that mattered anyhow was what your body could do.

If I'm on the floor in the throes of muscle convulsions, nobody is marveling at the size of my ass. If I'm throwing up out my nose, nobody is looking at me and thinking, gee - she'd look better with some color. And now my infuriating stutter distracts nicely from my crooked, too-yellow teeth.

So forget your jiggly bits and jump on that trampoline because it feels good to bounce. Never waste a chance to dive into the cool water in July because you're worried about someone judging your muffin top. Someday you might have to wait in the car while life happens around you, so for now, forget what you look like and just hold on to that towrope - because you can.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Girls Who Peek - A Christmas Poem

Twas the night before Christmas Eve
and all through this friggin' place,
a hundred things left to be done
and it felt like a Nascar race.

Treats to bake and food to make
and presents to finish wrapping,
while the girls pretend to fall asleep
and my man is soundly napping.

I hope everyone enjoys the next couple days,
but if not, too bad - I tried.
Thank God there's only one more night
to hide that elf inside.

I told the girls no peeking 
at the presents beneath the tree - 
and if they cheat, 
I'll give them* away
to the first homeless person I see

The twelve year old hasn't peeked
but she warned me about her dad -
that he would sneak a look himself - 
he's the one who is bad!

The ten year old likes to sit and look
but she hasn't opened any - 
she just stares at the boxes and wonders aloud
why there aren't many**.

Never did I think, though,
to threaten Crazy and Dolly.
Lesson learned, I caught them both.
Peeking under the holly.

The cat stole her toy right out of my hand
just before I wrapped it.
The dog bit her gift out from under the tree 
and then she mouth-unwrapped it.

So now I have to go and find
a homeless dog and kitty
to give away this mouse and bone
to pets who don't act shitty.


*The presents. I'll give the presents away, not the children. Duh.

**Cuz we're broke, kid. Just be glad it isn't 1905, you'd get an apple and a new pair of socks for Christmas. And you'd have to poop in an outhouse but on the upside you'd only have to take a bath once a week.

Friday, November 7, 2014

How to Train a Dog

Basic Commands

Dolly, Rock It!
This simple command requires a moment or two of physical assault and was mastered instantly in our house. She a pro.

Using only seventeen treats per day, hold one in your hand and stare at her until she stops frantically trying to climb your leg and sits down in exhaustion. When her butt hits the floor, give her a treat, gradually increasing the wait time and requiring her to sit there quaking tragically in anticipation.  In a few short weeks, we've reduced climb time to only ten seconds and sit/stay time to two full seconds.

Intermediate Commands

Dolly, You Can't Sleep in the Bed Because Dad Says So
Training a dog not to sleep in the bed requires patience and a warm, comfortable alternative. We started with a beanbag chair next to the bed and when she opted for spooning between us instead, we added a blanket. Some toys. A treat. A masseuse. Ambient lighting. Repetition. She hops in bed, we gently and lovingly tuck her into her own nest of faux fur and pillows. The training is progressing nicely - she often waits until Dad falls asleep before slinking back to her rightful spot smack in the middle of the bed.

Outside is NOT, in Fact, Torture
I'm teaching Dolly this command by never beating her with a baseball bat or lead pipe when we make her go outside for a walk. I don't even hit her with my hands. Instead I praise her like Jesus when she pees in the yard and add a massive t-bone shaped treat when she drops a deuce. I bought her a fleece jacket to go over her everyday Drama Queen shirt, to keep her trembling chills at bay. I'd say we've made moderate progress and she will sometimes go outside for roughly four minutes before crying to return to her warm new castle. Often we make it all the way to the park which is two houses down the street.

Advanced Commands

Dolly, Avoid the Piss Punch
Crazy the Cat has a signature moved called the Piss Punch. It's where she corners Dolly and hisses in her face whilst throwing rapid left hooks across the face. This terrifies Dolly and she pees. One would think Dolly would not need to be trained to avoid this move, but she calmly and sweetly approaches Crazy 93 times daily begging to be friends. My training program here involves rapid intervention and redirection of attention every single time, along with a sharp finger tap to Crazy's nose and a stern NO before she crosses the line from smack talk to beatdown. Next I remind Dolly that abused women do not need to keep seeking out their torturers. So far I've made no progress on this command but I'm hopeful.

No Frenching
This directive is reinforced by putting her back into the aforementioned cozy nest beside our bed each time she tries to make out. She's learning quickly; learning that it's better to just rape us in our sleep.

I'm hereby convinced that this is an unteachable command. Gourmet food. Brush. Bubble bath. Scented dog wipes. All we can smell is salty butt. You win, Dolly. You win.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

You're Obvanously Invited to the Naughty Elves Bazaar

This one is for you locals in the Minneapolis area.

A wise little fifth-grade ginger recently caught me sobbing in the bathroom after puking out my nose. She wanted to know why I was so upset and I said I was tired of throwing up.

"But you always throw up, and it's not like you cry about it," she said.


So I explained that also I have to find a job and I'm not sure what kind of work I can do these days, so I was worried about that, too. (She caught me at a really bad time.)

She told me to buck up and assured me that everything will be fine. "Obvanously, you're made to be an artist. Just sell your things.*"

Imagine her delight, then, when I announced the first annual Naughty Elves Bazaar.

She thinks this is my new career. I'm just hoping to sell enough to cover the cost of hosting it, and that I get to see lots of familiar faces. Stop on by this Sunday and shop with me, several of my local craftsy friends and a few who rep bags, essential oils and skincare products.

It's obvanously going to be a blast.

*Ah, to see the world through ten-year-old eyes. I love that kid.

Friday, October 24, 2014

Dear Priya: Hats and Dogs

Dear Priya,
Life Lesson: Hats are Good

I've been terribly busy puking and herding clowns (as pictured), but I meant to write sooner. We have things to talk about.

First, hats.

Get some immediately. I left you unsupervised with your parents for two weeks and all your hair fell out except the Bozo ring. Not cool. This is not a Fashion Do.

My friend is knitting you a hat and I'll go without food to buy you a few more if need be. Just cover that head for now, it's better for all of us.

Second, dogs.

You'll need to start on your parents immediately and I reckon we can convince them that you need a dog for, say, your third birthday. Planning begins now.

Life Lesson: Never Miss a Chance to Wear a Tutu
Auntie Tricia got a dog to slowly ease them in and she plans to use Dolly's charming personality to sway them into believing that dogs are a good idea.

Don't tell your parents that sometimes dogs poop on the floor and we don't know why. Perhaps they need to go outside seven times instead of just six. And don't tell them that when you bark at said dogs NO! Bad MoFo! they will cower like you're going to beat them with a Louisville Slugger and you'll be tempted to poop on the floor in solidarity just to show them it really will be OK and nobody is going to die today.

Don't tell Mom and Dad that if you leave a dog alone for four minutes it will go to any lengths to kiss a cat. Crazy climbed up on the kitchen table to hide this morning. Dolly clambered up and army-crawled across the table in pursuit.

Don't tell them that dogs are the most manipulative creatures on the face of the planet. You will No dogs in the bed! but somehow the delirious love in their crossed eyes will render you unable to resist their stealthy persistence. Dolly may have made out with Uncle Paul's face as he slumbered last night but please don't mention that to him.
Life Lesson: Deny, Deny, Deny
sternly say

Instead you should tell your folks how warm your lap is under 23 pounds of pokey elbows and stinky fur. Tell them that somehow doggy breath smells like salty ass and angel kisses all at once. Consider pitching a heaving tantrum every time you're forced to part with a random dog you encounter in public.

Also explain how a dog will allow you to demonstrate your superior levels of personal responsibility. Because of course you will take care of it. And yes, you know that means every day. Seriously. Every day. Yes - even if it's raining. Indeed, dogs poop through all four of the seasons, including winter when you will just die if you're forced to play outside instead of staying cooped up in the house driving your parents nutty. You totally know this.

Life Lesson:
Never Give Up On Your Dreams
You can pull this off, Priya, you just have to get an available dog in the door. Your parents will fall in love and you will be the queen of them all! Don't worry about the cats, they will learn to get along with your dog. If not, too late. It's a big house.

Suggested breeds to demand:

Bull Mastiffs - These make excellent ladders due to their massive  size and general in-irritability. Perfect for obtaining treats you aren't supposed to be able to reach, which you can then share with the dog to ensure future compliance during all missions.

French Bulldog - Bullies have the most flexibility on Halloween and can accurately portray a scary bat, Yoda or a Princess Leia. Also they fart a lot which is good for a laugh.

Chinese Crested Hairless - This is a great breed if you like the name Gizmo. Oh, and Gremlins - you're not allowed to see that movie until you are seven because you'll have night terrors. Trust me.

In conclusion, my sweet Priya, we'll make sure dog is one of your first few words. I figure we can slip it in right after mama, dada, auntie and no.

Until next time, baby girl.

Monday, October 13, 2014

More (Attempts at) Gratitude in the Shitstorm(s)

It has been brought to my attention that a recent post has led some folks to believe I am suicidal.

I am not.

Wishing you are dead is not the same thing as making it so. I am not suicidal, I am honest. I'm honest about just how incredibly frustrated and angry I am. I'm honest about just how gross my body has become and how little trust in it I have. I'm honest about the ugly, unfair realities of dealing with Lyme. And I'm honest that there are times when I truly believe I can't do it for one more day, and that is when I wish I had cancer so I could die.

But I keep doing it for one more day whether I believe I can or not.

I have a giant, obnoxious, filterless mouth and it's caused me many problems in life, but it's the same mouth that never hesitates to fight for an underdog. The stinky kid in kindergarten getting teased. The neglected animal or child. The elderly person being honked at to cross the street faster so Mr. Fancy can hurry to his office and his oh-so-important job. That business doesn't fly if I'm around, I will call you out with ZERO hesitation.

Well, now I am the underdog so I'm going to keep using that giant, obnoxious, filterless mouth. Not because I'm asking for help. Not because I want you to fix my life.

Because Lyme disease sucks tick and people need to know that.

Because it could be you. Or your pet. Or God forbid, your child.

And if you, like me, are not wealthy or important, your doctors won't give two shits about figuring out how to help you. You will become nothing more than a statistic falling through the giant cracks between our government and healthcare system.

I'd really like to bite, say, Kim Kardashian, and try to transmit this stuff. If she were suddenly sick enough to poop her pants and drool on herself, people would care. People would be outraged. She'd have every specialist in the world flying her around first-class for kid-glove care.


Because she's got a sexy face, a luscious booty and a fat wallet.

If Bill Gates or a pro athlete or a singer more famous than Debbie Gibson contracted Lyme, things would change. Because they have platforms to be heard and the money to make choices in life.

I don't have a sexy face, a luscious booty, or any money, so I just have to keep using my giant, obnoxious, filterless mouth to share - with honesty - what Lyme is like.

I am still trying desperately to be positive, to stay positive. I present you with evidence that I am indeed a Silver Lining Hunter.

Situation: My parents bought me a trip to New Mexico to ride in a hot-air balloon to celebrate my birthday
Downside: Too sick to go
Upside: This means I can go to the Pixies concert with Paul - YAY!

Situation: Go to Pixies concert with Paul, first date night in one hundred eons
Downside: Start convulsing, have to leave, miss that concert too

Upside: Didn't piss myself during convulsion this time - YAY!

Situation: Constant vomiting, request and receive new meds to control nausea
Downside: Throw them up, too
Upside: This makes it less upsetting that I can't afford to keep taking this medicine, anyway - WHEW!

Situation: Get rescue dog in hopes of securing companionship and unconditional love for when I'm feeling sorry for myself
Downside: Rescue dog has zero use for me when the kids are here - ZERO use
Upside: Learning to find joy in seeing them be so loved instead - AWWWWW...

So, yeah. I'm trying.

Last Thursday, for my birthday, we went to visit a disability lawyer, who confirmed what I've suspected. I have no choice but to wait 12-18 months for a hearing and my disability case is a long shot and I'm basically screwed. What he said specifically is that I'd be more likely to win if I had something 'legitimate' or 'terminal'.

 - Then I threw up out my nose that afternoon
 - Then I missed my birthday trip to NM
 - Then I missed the Pixies show
 - Then I convulsed
 - Then I couldn't see out of my left eye
 - Then the muscular seizures started

Then, while my muscles were still so tender I could hardly walk, I had to RUN* outside to save the cat - who was being violently raped by an assholio feral cat, who tore up my kitty's...well...kitty.

Then I saw in the news that someone is threatening to shoot up a college in River Falls on Wednesday. A college where my man has class that day.

So, yeah. I'm trying to stay positive, but sometimes life just packs a little too much punch and I cry and feel hopeless and get angry.

This does not mean that I am suicidal.

This means that I am both human and honest.

*I only run if being chased by a bear. Or apparently, if one of my babies (fur or step) is being raped.

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Hello, Dolly

My name is Dolly and yesterday I rescued some humans.

I picked them because I can teach them street smarts and because those two girls are almost teenagers so they need more role models. I was a street trollop, you know, just having babies with any boy who walked on by. I didn't have a job, though, and my baby daddies don't send checks so I lost ALL my kids to the system.

After that I just roamed the streets for a while, depressed. I turned to drugs garbage cans because I was lonely. Then someone found me and locked me in jail. I was told I had to serve my time.

The other dogs told me that I'd be released from prison if I adopted a family, so I tried my hardest but none of these people were right for me. I was beginning to think I'd live in that cage forever.

But then my family walked in. I just knew it was them, because they are all a little weird like me. See, I'm a little cross-eyed and I army-crawl when I'm too lazy to walk. These people didn't even judge me for it!

There's a crazy lady who talks funny but I can tell she'll do anything I want. Also her lap rather perfectly fits my frog-butt.

There's a pretty girl who can only hear in one ear and I understand her, cuz - you know - my googly eye. She's a little bit shy at times, like me. We're going to be best friends, I think.

There's a spunky little redhead who is already teaching me how to break the rules. See, I'm not allowed in Mommy and Daddy's bed but that's all because of Daddy. So this morning the redhead made Mommy a birthday card that contained a coupon good for one free night with Dolly in the bed. I like the way this kid thinks!

I have to work on Daddy. He says he wasn't the one who wanted a dog and that he thinks I am goofy looking and he swears I'm going to poop on his pillow. This morning I hopped on his chest to cuddle, though, and he totally allowed it - until Mom got the camera. I'll wear him down, mark my words. I had seventeen children, you know, and smothered none of them.  I'm obviously patient.

There's a little orange cat who lives here, too, but she makes scary noises. I know in my heart that we
will be friends and I'm trying hard to be patient but I love her so much it makes me shake when she's nearby. I wish she would just let me kiss her. Jeez. What's the big deal? It's only first base.

My only complaint about Mommy and Daddy is that they made me leave my adopted baby behind at  the shelter. Something about Holy shit, NO! We can't handle two dogs! But there are these two awesome guinea pigs in my new house and I'm just going to adopt them as my new babies. I told them so by sitting on a stool next to their cage and crying to them singing them a lullaby.

The people I adopted seemed to be dog lovers. They have food and toys and they even gave me a shirt that says Drama Queen. Apparently, though, it's too tight. Mom told me it's rude to accentuate my business like that and it's not an appropriate outfit to wear in public and am I just asking for more puppies!? I had to gently remind her that she's the one who picked and bought the shirt in the first place.

Well, I better go. It's been at least twenty minutes since I sniffed the orange cat and I bet she'll like me this time. I just know it.


Tuesday, October 7, 2014

The Definition of Insanity

So I've heard that often what annoys us in others are the same things we struggle with ourselves. I, for example, am not very neat. I can often be seen peeking from behind mountains of clothing in my room when left to my own devices and my craft supplies have a life of their own. They are difficult to wrangle. I need a herding dog.



But, seriously, what the heck were you thinking?

I have to squelch this question about nineteen times a day now that I live with children.

I want to do better myself.
There is a suitcase on the floor that I unpacked three days ago.

I strive to do better myself.
I'm the one who put the suitcase away, even if it was on the fourth day.

But I am mean because I ask children to help. I try asking. I try just telling. I explain that we just want progress, and I make messes too but please good grief can you just help me for 42 seconds without arguing about it.

Today after the 10-year-old walked away I reminded her to come back and put away the jelly. Then I trusted she could accomplish this task unsupervised. She can ride a unicycle. This is circumstantial evidence of both motor skills and comprehension capabilities.

I found the remaining jelly (half a jar) tossed into the sink of dirty dishes. The lid was on tight so I put that SOB right back in the fridge and if they don't like the taste of dishwater sandwiches then by golly....

Who am I kidding.

Then the jelly will expire before they would willingly eat it again. Because it's probably the wrong kind now anyhow.

Like the fact that we have no snacks and you're never allowed to get what you want here. So we said, come along, let's grocery shop. Choose.

Now we have a different kind of flat pretzel because the other four - four! - kinds of pretzels (flat with sea salt, flat with parmesan, mini pretzels and peanut-butter filled pretzels nuggets, if you were curious) in this house were clearly wrong and feelings of oppression were only natural.

I do not have the neurological capacity to understand the minds of children and have decided they are all insane. (Even me. Rumor has it I was no picnic.)

By 7 AM today there was pee on the floor and and jelly jars in the dish water and clothing on the middle of the living room floor.

I'm confused.

How does the clothing even get to the middle of the living room floor when these are preteen girls who so modest they must lock themselves in the bathroom to change?

Electric blankets still heating, radios blaring and lights on in their rooms as they head out the door for school. There's a trail behind them of Squinkies and Cheez-its*, bobby pins and dirty socks, mash notes and fumes.

I can see they are puffed up proudly that they survived another night with Mean Tricia and All Her Rules, especially after they Spent Forever Cleaning the Whole House for their new dog.


We got a new dog to add to this family of slobs which will help with the messes specifically and the getting along in general.

We are now eight**.

Poor Paul and his seven ladies. Two daughters, an ex-wife, a girlfriend, two female guinea pigs, a kitty named Crazy and now Dolly, the 23 pound bitch.

So as it turns out, we might be the ones who are insane. Paul and I will be looking into two-for-one rehab rates. Can you babysit the dog?

*We have decided we no longer like pretzels.

**We were nearly ten until Iris the hermit crab died of natural causes this summer then Aphrodite the other hermit crab finally died of a broken heart yesterday. May she rest in peace and no longer help stink up our basement, thank goodness.

Surprising Random Factoid: The only animal in this home that can arguably be blamed on me is the dog. I am indeed a wholehearted animal lover (except hermit crabs and guinea pigs) but if anyone else buys these children a pet - ever - it's something I'm deathly allergic to and it has to live with mom.

Monday, October 6, 2014

101 Life Lessons - Part Five of Five

Dear Priya,

Sorry about that, I got distracted by some barfing and the rant that unleashed itself in the midst of the literal bile. Let's get back to it.

77. About those dance lessons. Initially I wanted you to have them mostly to anger your dad but I've changed my mind - about the reason, that is. Do it to see if you're good at it, because it really is joyful. I am a terrible dancer but I still dance several times a week, generally in a chair or while I'm cooking dinner. I miss rocking out while I drove a car even though it scared people nearby.

78. Taste everything. There are so many yummy foods that you're forbidden from saying no until you try something once.

79. Get a journal and fill in the blank every day. Thank you for ___________. One sentence a day until that book is full.

80. Do it again.
She makes this face every time
I give her advice.

81. Squish your toes in the mud.

82. Pet a duckling.

83. Thank a soldier.

84. Do something nice for that old person.

85. Close your eyes when you listen to the waves.

86. Make a friendship bracelet and give it to someone you don't know yet.

78. Get up to watch the sun rise in the cold with a warm drink. Add Bailey for now and Bailey's when you're old.

88. Hang your feet off the dock.

89. Write a thank you note to a teacher.

90. Read every book your aunt gives you. Plus all the other ones.

91. It's OK if you have to plug your nose, just jump.

92. Give a few bucks to a homeless person if they speak to you. (If they speak to your heart for some reason, I mean. Don't just give money to everyone who says hello.) You don't need to worry about what they spend it on. That's not the point of being kind.

93. Rescue an animal. Mom says no crustaceans, but you could probably talk her into another cat. You have long eyelashes. Use them.

94. Jump on the bed. I probably already had this one on the list a week ago, but it's OK to remind you because this is an important one.

95. Skinny dip.

96. Rice is surprisingly hard to cook, so just boil noodles. The Indians and Chinese have delicious rice for you. It's called To Go.

97. I convinced Uncle Paul to drive thirty minutes further out of our way so I could kiss you for ten minutes. Then we had to drive back that extra thirty minutes. It was totally worth it but for the record those smooches cost about $3.79 in gas money.

98. I already told you that doesn't make your butt look too big.

99. Even if your butt is too big, who cares? Get over yourself.

100. Check for ticks.



101. No matter what life throws at you, don't forget to laugh. 

Priya, I already have Lyme disease. Then last Thursday I broke out in a rash. Then tonight I found a tick in my head.

No, I'm not kidding.

I started to panic. I put him in a Tupperware so he can be inspected. I was going to go wake up your uncle to cry at him but then I realized that's rude. He's tired.

And besides, then I realized.

 If, in the most karmic bitch-slap of all time, I just contracted Lyme with my Lyme,  it will still be there tomorrow. I can tell him then. Or cry. Or whatever. So I'm going to follow my own advice, have a laugh and then go to bed.

I love you, Peanut. 

In a sundae cup. 

With a cherry on top.

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