Sunday, November 24, 2013

I think I'm going to do it.

So...I'm a chicken.  I started this blog, and I love it, and it makes me happy.  I've learned that I really enjoy writing, even if it's only the mindless drivel that is constantly running through my head. 

I've also learned that it is a pain in the ass to be super-secret undercover.  I'm new to all this and just learning the difference between blogger and word press and don't even get me started on Twitter.  I had to make up a fake name to get on blogger because Google just wants to connect you to everyone you've ever met and I wasn't ready for that. 

I still may not be.  I don't know.  We'll see.  I'm slowly making the move to my new blog We Don't Chew Glass, and I hope I don't regret it. 

I am pretty attached to this place though, so for now I'm not going to delete it...but I most likely won't be posting here much.  You can find me at


Thursday, November 21, 2013

This isn't a post. It's just a long, shouty whine.

I am so ANGRY.

I don't even know how to convey the depth of my irritation here.

*deep breath*

So, you may know that I recently had to stop eating meat, so I wouldn't die.

I did that.  I did good.  No bacon, no burgers, no ham, no steak, NO DELICIOUS FUCKING MEAT!!

Well.  Then I started getting sick when I drank milk.  So I switched to soy milk. (Soy milk is actually pretty good, but let's not get distracted here, I'm still mad.)

Last week I got the flu vaccine.  And had a reaction.  Today I ate a cereal bar ( or possibly two) and had another fucking reaction.  Turns out?  Everyfuckingthing is made with GELATIN which is made from PIG SKIN (and/or COW BONES) which I AM FUCKING ALLERGIC TO.

Sorry about the shouting.  Like I said, I'm pissed.  All the things.  All the good, bad for you, tasty things are making me sick. 

I just have one fucking question, and I'm scared to hear the answer.  Does pie have gelatin in it?

Don't answer that.

In apology for this angry pointless post, I give you a bunny driving a Barbie car.  Please forgive me, I'm just hungry.

                                                            Beep!  Beep!

Thursday, November 7, 2013

Kids? Tyrants? Gremlins? You decide.

My children have got the crazy-making thing down.  I mean, they are professionals.  Little ornery agents of chaos, stalking me everywhere I go.  (Seriously.  Everywhere.) 

I have compiled a list of some of the random shit my children have come up with in their never-ending quest to watch me unravel.

1.  Refusing to wear coats.  This may not sound serious, but when it is 16 degrees outside and you can barely get your kid to wear shoes, you've got a problem.  And you might think this is no big deal, but it is a big deal when you know it is not actually a dislike of outerwear, but probably a plot designed to get Child Services called.  They are sneaky, I'm telling you.

2.  Calling me "Mommom."  They never just say "Mom."  It's always "Mom. mom. mom. mom. momomomomommomom."  I believe this is to keep me off balance, always looking over my shoulder for additional mothers.

3.  Throwing my own words back at me.  For instance:  After taking a healthy dump off the front porch, my then 5-year-old looked at me with a straight face and said, "What?  You told me to go outside if it was an emergency." 

4.  Drawing pictures of me at school.  I don't mind the flattering ones, but seriously?  This?

The journal entry for this said, "I ate too much candy and my mom got mad at me.  She got so mad at me, her head almost exploded."

5.  They do not show an appropriate amount any appreciation of my dancing, singing, or joke telling skills.  In fact, they claim unbelievable things like I am "lame" or "not funny."  Pssh.

6.  They are always pointing out my mistakes, like when I put the milk in the cabinet or the toothpaste in a lunch box.  And then they tell other people.  What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas; the same should apply here, only with less drugs and strippers.

7.  They are always wanting food.  ALL the time.  Like, every day.  I think they all have tapeworms.

8.  They FaceTime or Skype with people without telling me, so random teenagers see me in my pajamas talking to the cat.

9.  Goading me into playing video games and then mocking my mad skills when my guy is always the one stuck in a corner or aiming at the sky.

10.  Telling their friends that I'm not helpful with studying because I always laugh at answers like "Titicaca."  (That shit is funny.  Don't tell me it's not.)

I could go on and on, but I'm exhausted from trying to stay a step ahead of the little gremlins, so I'm out.  Don't worry, I learned long ago to sleep with one eye open.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Snakes. I don't like them.

If you don't live in the middle of nowhere, you may not be aware that deer and other wildlife have trails; certain paths that they follow, to water or possibly gatherings where they plot my demise.

I am beginning to think snakes also have trails, and that my house must sit right in their path.  Or the other animals elected snakes as their assassins.  I really don't know much about snakes.  I do know that I don't like them, and I REALLY don't like them in my house.

About 10 years ago I (briefly) rented the house that we bought last year.  At that time I was the single parent of two boys.  The baby woke me up and I stumbled into the kitchen for a bottle.  In my defense, it was dark, and I was mostly still asleep.  So I saw what my brain registered as a really stretched out ponytail holder on the floor, and I (stupidly) reached down to get it.  The fucker moved and I woke all the way up pretty quick.  It was about a 4 foot long black snake.  In my kitchen.  Luckily for me, its head was caught in a mousetrap, so it didn't really have a lot of options.  I called my mom and she appeared magically, as she is wont to do in my times of need, wearing boots and bearing a shovel.

Then I moved.  Like, fucking immediately.

Fast forward 10 years, and we (stupidly) bought this house.  Last fall we had approximately three unwelcome guests.  Baby copperheads.  In my fucking house. 

After I finished having a nervous breakdown, I liberally applied glue traps all over the house.  I made my husband pull up all the trim, even though we had remodeled before we moved in, and fill up every hole we could find.  I work from home, and for a time I sat at my desk inside a circle of glue boards so that nothing could get me. 

Now it is fall again, and apparently this is snake baby-time.  Two weeks ago I was laying on the couch when my four-year-old walked up and asked, "What is that?" pointing at a spot in the floor between us.  "That" was a snake stuck to a glue trap.  She may have learned a new word that day.  This snake was dead already and my husband wasn't home, so I called on my Super Mother Powers and somehow got the damn thing out to the porch.  Where I completely lost my shit and began beating the glue trap, sticky side and snake side down, on my porch.  I did this until I couldn't lift my arms anymore.  It's still there.  Glue traps are very sticky.

Last night it was raining and sometimes when it rains we have a leaky spot behind the T.V.  So right before bed I went to have a look, just in case.  This is what I saw:

                                                      Are you fucking kidding me?

So, I did what anyone would do.  I called my mom again.  This time the snake was still alive and, though well and thoroughly stuck, was trying to strike.  We managed to get it outside, which was really hard because I refused to let my feet touch the floor and had to climb on furniture all the way through the house. 

After we took care of that bastard, I convinced myself that there were no more because my glue trap defense is working perfectly.  Then I put out every glue board I had (about 12).  There are probably close to 50 glue boards hidden all over my house at this point.  Even I don't know where they all are.

I'm concerned.  Fall is just beginning, and we've already had two invaders.  I need more glue traps, and maybe some fire. 

I think there is an animal conspiracy.  I believe the squirrels started it, and they've coordinated the whole mess.  They want me gone.  This could get really ugly.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

I feel like I should warn you...

Not really.  My Grandma feels like I should warn you.  I am just not that kind of person.

Here's the deal.  I live waaaaay out in the woods.  My best friend, who's been coming here since second grade, still gets lost.  My husband draws maps for people we like. 

Anyway.  The road that goes by my house is marked at both ends with big signs that say things like, "TURN BACK" and "WE ARE HEAVILY ARMED AND SLIGHTLY INSANE."  Or maybe they just say "Private Drive."  Whatever.  So regardless of the implied threat and the lack of paved road, people are always cutting through my damn yard. 

Recently, the county came out and, in a really impressive amount of time, built a whole new road about 10 feet away from the old one.  This was good, because presumably people would use the new road and I could stop worrying about getting outside in time to yell and throw things at trespassers.

The "problem" is that they cut my driveway off.  (This is not a problem for me.  As I may have mentioned before, Private Drive.  Now it's super private - even I can't drive on it.) 

So, they cut my driveway off.  What used to be my driveway is now about a four foot drop off into an embankment which then turns into the new road.  Not a problem.  For me.  However, somehow the trespassers innocent people just driving along are MISSING the new road.  Just scootin' right on by it.  To my driveway.  Which no longer exists.

My grandma wants me to put up signs.  I am thinking: 

1. Possibly the road people should've thought of that?

2. I don't need signs, because these idiots are only gonna have to go through here once before they figure it out, right? 

3. If they ignored my "VICIOUS ZOMBIE DOGS WILL EAT YOUR FACE OFF" signs, they probably just can't read.

I don't know.  I'm still debating.  I could build a fence, but at the rate these fuckers are going they'd just drive right through it.  What do you think?  Is it my responsibility to protect illiterate and possibly drunk trespassers from themselves?  Do I need a sign?  And if so, what is a compelling message?  Maybe it should just be a picture. 

Monday, October 28, 2013

The Speakeasy #133 - Trick or....treat?

I pulled the door shut behind me and repeated, "Remember!  Don't eat any candy until I check it out!”  The kids were too excited to talk back and skipped down the street ahead of me.  I followed more slowly, making sure I had the flashlight and my cell phone.  It was just starting to get dark as I caught up to them, my little ghouls and goblins.  The tiniest ghost immediately started tugging me towards a neighbor’s house.  "No porch light, no trick or treat, kiddo.  If they don't have the light on it means they don't have any candy." 
Undaunted, we continued walking.  By the time we had reached the end of the street, we'd not seen one house welcoming us, no warm yellow light, no doors opening with bowls full of treats.  And no other trick or treaters.  I wondered if we were out too early, but it was almost dark, and a school night at that. 
"Come on, guys, let's walk up to the square.  They're doing Trunk or Treat."  (Thinking to myself, if nothing else I'll get a coffee out of this deal.)
As we approached the town square, I was glad to see cars parked with the trunks open and what looked like Halloween decorations peeking out.  Good.  We could fill up our buckets here, and be back home in no time. 
We got closer, the kids chattering excitedly, me answering them distractedly.  Something was wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it.  Where....where were the people?  The other kids?  Who was giving out candy?  The only sound I could hear was a leaf, skittering across the parking lot.  Even my children had fallen silent and were holding hands.  Main Street was like a ghost town, except for one lit storefront.  The coffee shop.  Well, maybe everyone gathered there, I thought.  Maybe.  I reached for the small hand nearest me, and started walking.  As we passed the cars I noted how realistic the trunk decorations seemed I could even smell the iron tang of the blood and, now that we were closer, hear it drip steadily off a bumper.  How did they manage that, I mused? 

I was practically dragging the children along with me now, I was so anxious to get into the light, to see people and figure out what in the world was going on.  I pulled open the door to the coffee shop, greeted as always by the cheery ring of the hanging bells, but instead of the smell of coffee beans and cinnamon rolls, we were assaulted by the stench of death.  "Oh god!”  I cried, covering my nose and gagging, as the kids whimpered next to me.  My friends and neighbors had indeed gathered here.  But as they sat around in the comfortable chairs at the low tables, they had become the treats.  I watched horrified as tiny witches and princesses and super heroes gnawed hungrily on people I had known.  As the hollow eyes and blood-smeared faces of costumed children turned our way, I tried to push my kids out the door behind me, whispering to them to run, to get away.  That's when I screamed and looked down into the face of my tiniest ghost, just as his teeth pierced my flesh. 

****This is a submission for a short fiction contest.   In case you were wondering.  None of that actually happened. 
Anyway, I read some great stories here last week and decided to try my hand this time.  Because, prizes.  Thanks to for the link to the Speakeasy.



Sunday, October 27, 2013

If you need me, I'll be in my shell.

I feel like this turtle today.  Except some slightly drunk people in canoes helped this guy out, and so far today I'm not seeing any drunk people.  Or canoes.  Dammit.  Where is karma when you need that bitch?

Friday, October 25, 2013

What? It still kind of seems like a good idea.

Conversation with Gus about glue traps:

*It might be helpful to know that the glue trap in question here is stuck facedown on my porch with a dead snake presumably still stuck on the other side.  Long story.  Suffice to say, I don't like snakes in the house, and I make questionable decisions when under pressure.

Me:  It's rained so much, we might be able to get that glue trap up.  But there's still a snake under there, so...

Gus:  That thing is never coming up.  I suggest we just paint over it.

Me:  Hm. (Not thrilled.)

Gus:  We could just staple glue traps up, sticky side out, all over the outside of the house.  Paper the house in glue traps.

Me:  OH MY GOD! That would be good for spiders, snakes, ZOMBIES.....

Gus:  (laughing)  That was a joke. 

Me:   ....bees, Jehovah's Witnesses....this is brilliant.

Gus:  We're not doing that.  You know that, right?

Me:  Hm.  (Not making any promises, mister.)


Me:  I decided that you are right.  We shouldn't cover the outside of the house with glue.

Gus:  Uh, yeah, I thought we already decided that. 

Me: (closing the cabinet door so he can see the glue trap taped to the door, and the bowl stuck on it, hanging in the air.)  No, we didn't decide anything, but I'm a reasonable person.  I've thought about it, and it's a bad idea.  (bowl hanging next to my face.)

Gus:  Reasonable!?  It's not "reasonable" when you only agree with yourself!

Me:  Hm. 

Monday, October 21, 2013

It's a disinfectant kind of day.

It's not even noon and I've been covered in a small human's urine twice already.

This is motherhood, people.  Think on it.

I've got to go clean up after my cat, who has apparently decided that her litter box may only be used one time before she has to go in the floor to teach me a lesson.

If Cleanliness is next to Godliness, then I am currently living in the Devil's asshole. 

Saturday, October 19, 2013

I can give the bird left handed, so there.

Oh Chronic Pain, you evil, sneaking, rotten bitch, how I loathe you.  My dinner sits uneaten because I can't use my right hand.  What fresh hell is this? 

It's not enough that my bones hate me and plague me with random deep agonies Every. Single. Day? 

It's not enough that my skin burns for unknown reasons and requires me to put ice packs on my feet to fall asleep on those nights that I don't have to immerse the bitches in boiling water to make my skin stop crawling? 

It's not enough that I lose at least a week out of every month lying in a darkened room, hoping someone will just shoot me or that my head will finally spontaneously combust? 
Chronic Pain, you miserable slut, is it too much to ask for you to just pick one part of my body to torment? 

*Please note that I realize there are worse things I could be saddled with, I am sincerely grateful for all that I have, and none of this shit I've got is going to kill me.  So everybody just calm the fuck down.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

She got that class from her mother.

So my daughter is 4.  She occasionally does stuff and I'm like, What The Fuck?  Where did that come from? 

Because, although you couldn't tell it by my blog, we're actually pretty strict parents.  Anyway.

She's started doing this thing where she wiggles her butt and sings "shake it, baby."  It's a little disconcerting.  I could not think where she might have seen this.

Then I turned on my cleaning music today, and started shaking it.  Yep.

I think knowing all the words to California Love at just four years old shows great memorization and lyrical skills.  Not to mention all the exercise she gets "shakin it."

For anyone unfortunate enough to not be hip to the 90s rap, here you are, and you're welcome. 

Monday, October 14, 2013

Limit four.

It turns out that the number of humans I am capable of keeping in some semblance of order is four.  That's unfortunate, because after my three children and my husband, I make five. 

This means that while my daughter went to school freshly bathed and brushed and wearing matching clothes, I worked in my pjs until about 15 minutes before I had to leave the house. 

That was when I realized that although I had showered within the last week, I could not remember the last time I had attempted to brush my hair.  Which is long.  And thick.  And now partially in dreads.  Actually, that should be singular.  A dread.  I have one nappy snarled twisted mess right smack-ass in the middle of my hair. 

My husband is now referring to me as Marley.  I'm not sure what the next step should be here, other than maybe hiding all his socks.  (Oh, wait, I already did that.  Ha.) 

But seriously, I was under the impression that people cultivated dreadlocks, not that they just appeared if you maybe slacked off on personal hygiene for a few minutes months. 

Clearly it is time for a new goal.   Actually, goals, while I'm at it.

1.  Stop eating so much damn pity pie.  Pity pie is NOT your friend.
2.  Brush your goddamn hair, you dirty hippie.
3.  Fuck it, that's enough.  Those are pretty lofty goals; I'm worn out and a little hungry already.

Friday, October 11, 2013

Voicemail blows and I just realized I'm not sure what century it is.

I am starting a movement, and I expect my readers to get behind me on this (all 12 of you). 

We are living in the 21st century (I think.  21st?  Does that sound right?  Whatever.)  Voicemails are old fucking news.  Effective immediately, we should all start completely ignoring them.  I'm a little ahead of the rest of you on this, but that's because I got a pretty good head start (about 5 years). 

Seriously.  No one ever leaves a chipper voicemail.  It's all cranky bullshit, like "Call me back.  Click." or "Please return my call."  Fuck that.  I don't need that kind of negativity in my life.   Occasionally my husband will just leave fart noises, but that's really as good as it gets. 

If you call me and I don't answer, I can pretty much guarantee that there is a reason.  Maybe I don't feel like talking.  Maybe I don't have cell service.  Maybe a purse monster ate my phone.  Maybe I'm in the bathroom.  Maybe I don't like you, or I'm having one of those days where I hate everyone, including myself.  The possibilities are endless, really. 

Anyway, leaving me 15 voicemails, each pissier (how can that not be a word?) than the last is NOT going to make me return your call. 

I have caller ID.  We all do. 

For fuck's sake, if it's that important send me a text.  Or a pigeon.  I would totally reply by messenger bird.

Okay, enough ranting.  Now planning. 

So, I hope you will all join me in my crusade to rid the world of this great evil, this guilt-inducing, joy-sucking government plot, this heinous OUTRAGE, The Voicemail.  (It even sounds bad.  Like blackmail.  Voicemail. Blackmail.  See?  I'm doing this for all of us.)

Monday, October 7, 2013

I need to borrow a mongoose. Immediately.

Initially, I thought honey badger, because as we all know, honey badgers don't give a fuck. 

But apparently they are illegal in the U.S. or some shit; although, whoever is in charge of stopping me from smuggling in non-fuck-giving animals is probably out of a job right now, so I bet I could pull it off. 

I'm kind of scared though.  After thinking about it (you're welcome, Gus) I decided that a honey badger in the house might be more scary than a snake.  Or snakes.  Which is what we currently have.

Goddammit!  I live in the country because I don't like people.  I did NOT issue an open invitation to anything poisonous, scaly, creepy, slithery, or slimy.  Basically, unless you are a dragon or a cat, you are not welcome here. 

And the cat is fast wearing out her welcome.  I'd like to know just what the FUCK she is doing when she's dashing all about the house like she's got super important shit to do, when I'm on the couch and a snake can just blatantly slither up to me.  Where was LeeLoo The Vicious Moth Killer and Protector of the Realm then, huh?  Sitting on her ASS.  Much like when a lizard got in my bedroom, and she PURPOSELY ignored my cries for help.

I don't know.  I'm being overrun by nature's most disgusting creatures right now.  I need some tips, or to borrow a mongoose.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

There's an app for that....

As you know, assuming you've been reading this blog religiously, as you should be, I have been going through some dietary changes.  I'm going to refer to this as the Foodpocalypse.  Because it fucking sucks and, also, because I can.

Anyway.  I've been looking at apps on my phone to help me determine just what the fuck is in the food I eat, in an effort to stay alive and not be so damn hungry.

In my app search I have NOT found anything useful.  I have found some very disturbing apps which I am going to list here, because I am bored good at sharing.

1.  Massager.  By Hooha.  I don't think I need to explain this one.

2.  How To Get Pregnant (Here's a tip, if you're using your phone on your hooha, you're doing it wrong.)

3.  Am I Fat?  Seriously?  You need an app for that?

4.  App of Death "The test performed does not indicate that you'll's just a prediction....stay calm."  O-kay.

5.  How to Grow Taller  This one is by the same person who also knows How to French Kiss, How to be a Hipster, and also How to Call in Sick.  A certifiable very knowledgeable person, this one.

Gotta run.  App of Death just finished downloading, so I may or may not be back later.

Friday, September 27, 2013

R.I.P. Meat

Well, all the tests are back and it is official, I am now allergic to meat.  Thank you Lone Star tick, you little bastard.

If you don't know what in the hell I'm talking about, Google "alpha-gal."

I'm happy to know I'm not a nutcase (regarding this issue; I am very aware that I am, in fact, mostly crazy).

It has long been my rule that if it lived in water at any time, it does not go on my plate.  Clearly, I'm going to have to reassess.  Yesterday I had chocolate pie for breakfast.  This doesn't seem like a good long-term plan.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

I know best.

You know how when you know what's best for someone else, but they won't do what you say?  Think of this post as a public service announcement.   Some of us know exactly what the fuck we are talking about. You should listen.  Case in point:

My mom wanted to borrow a book from me.  Reasons this was a bad idea:

1.  I hate lending my books.
2.  I knew she wouldn't like it.
3.  I hate lending my books.

I tried to tell her.  She insisted.

Me:  You won't like that one.

Mom:  Why do you say that?  It sounds good.

Me:  She's too dark.  You are not going to like that book.  Plus, there are lesbians.

Mom:  *huffy* You think I don't like gay people?

Me:  I think you are going to hate that book, and probably lose it, and I HAVEN'T EVEN READ IT YET.

Mom:  I'll bring it back.  I'll even bring back the other one I borrowed.  (THIS.  This is why I hate lending books.)

I'm finally like, "Take the damn book.  But I want it and any other books back in a reasonable amount of time or I'm fining you."   (I didn't really say that.  But that's a good idea.)

Anyway.  A day or so later she brings it back with this horrible look on her face and says, "Here.  I can't read this.  It's's too...this book isn't good."

I'm intrigued.  I knew she wouldn't enjoy it, but if anything, I expected her to start it, forget about it, and me find it under her bed a year from now.  The fact that she brought it back holding it out like it was going to bite her was a little confusing to me.

So I started it last night.  Holy shit.  Guys.  I let my mom borrow a book in which the first two chapters include not only steamy lesbian sex, but a strap-on dildo, and extremely detailed descriptions of some rather creative pairings, such as unicorn-on-human.  (That might should be human-on-unicorn.  I'm not really clear on this.)

I think this may have cured her of borrowing my stuff.  

(I told her she wouldn't like it.)

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Can you have dementia at 33?

This morning I had to go to town, which always sucks, and I had to talk to not only my son's doctor but also my therapist, who is amazingly insightful and very, very good at what she does.  This is a recipe for disaster.  I've threatened to fire the woman numerous times because she is that good.  Anyway, I went, I did what I was supposed to do, yay me.

On the way home, I was hurting really bad (because I didn't take my meds this morning because I was driving my kid *pats self on back*) so I dug out my medicine and tried to swallow and then realized I did not have a drink.  So I choked on the nasty little pill, and then started thinking that my esophagus must not be normal sized, and I was going to stop breathing, and wasn't it ironic that I was going to die in a car accident while choking on a pill that is supposed to make me feel better.

This is the kind of crazy we're dealing with here, people.  I eventually found an extra-strength 5-hour energy drink in my purse and drank that so I wouldn't choke to death.  Then my purse fell off the seat, exposing the full bottle of water I had just gotten in town less than five minutes before this whole debacle. 

Now I am alive, which is good, not too worried about my esophagus, which is also good, but quite a bit wound up, which could be either good or bad.  I think we should all probably be thankful that my husband still refuses to let me have a blow torch.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Unwilling vegan


I ate this:

And then THIS happened:

Then, I ate this:

Please see above picture of itchy red me.

I have almost died four times in the last two weeks.  I may be exaggerating a little.  But maybe not.  It's been bad.  Wtf, y'all, is this even legal??  I am on an all Pop Tart and coffee diet until further notice.

Monday, August 26, 2013

Obviously, I failed Home Ec.

Bundt Pan Vs. Angel Food Cake Pan
by Kristen Fisher from Ehow


o    While the two cake pans look similar, they should not be used interchangeably.  Bundt cake batter and angel food cake batter have different consistencies.  Angel food cake batter is usually frothier; baking a Bundt cake in an angel food pan may cause the batter to leak out from the removable bottom.
 One might think this should be fairly obvious.  It’s not.  I think this is why people call me “book smart.”


 Here’s the full link, in case you are similarly challenged.  Please note, although the article doesn’t specifically mention it, an angel food pan should also not be used for monkey bread.  Ever. 

P.S.  I didn’t know what to do at that point – I mean, the house was already full of smoke, so….I decided to finish baking the monkey bread.  I did not know this was even possible, but the burners on my stove actually filled with liquid and started smoking.  My kids are yelling at me for taking pictures.  I’m so glad my husband is not home.

P.P.S.  Why is my smoke detector that goes off every time I make toast not going off when there is literally a black cloud over the whole kitchen and half the house? 

P.P.P.S.  Do you think the monkey bread is going to taste bad?

In local news...

I'm not even sure what to say about this.

Saturday, August 24, 2013

Hmm. And here I thought I was just an asshole.

I saw this on FB yesterday and decided it was a must-do.  Turns out, I’m not an asshole.
I’m an introvert.  Take the quiz, maybe you’re not an asshole either!

Not sure if you’re an innie or an outie?  See if any of these
23 telltale signs of introversion apply to you.

 1. You find small talk incredibly cumbersome.

Yes.  But I thought I was just not that friendly.

2. You go to parties - but not to meet people.

Why on earth would I want to talk to strangers?  If I go to a party it’s because someone
talked me into it, probably using words like “free beer.”

3. You often feel alone in a crowd.

I often feel like I need to get away from crowds.

4. Networking makes you feel like a phony.

Because it is phony.

5. You’ve been called "too intense.”

Not to my face.

6. You’re easily distracted.

Considering I’m supposed to be doing my real job right now,
I’d say that’s a yes.

7. Downtime doesn’t feel unproductive to you.

What is this “downtime” you speak of?

8. Giving a talk in front of 500 people is less stressful than having to mingle with those people

I guess so.  Both sound super sucky.

 9. When you get on the subway, you sit at the end of the bench – not in the middle.

Supposing I ever decided to ride a giant speeding train propelled through tunnels underground by God knows what power, yes, I guess I probably would sit at the end of the bench.  I like to have an exit handy.  Just in case.

10. You start to shut down after you’ve been active for too long.

Oh yeah.  It takes me a full day to recover after a trip to the grocery store.

11. You’re in a relationship with an extrovert.

He’s crazy.  Don’t listen to anything he tells you.

12. You’d rather be an expert at one thing than try to do everything.

I dunno….I like to be good at things….this one’s too hard.  Pass.

13. You actively avoid any shows that might involve audience participation.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.  Doesn’t everyone?

14. You screen all your calls — even from friends.

Sorry, guys.  Read the article.  I’m not an asshole.  It’s a syndrome, or something.

15. You notice details that others don’t.


16. You have a constantly running interior monologue.

I like to hear myself think.

17. You have low blood pressure.

Yes.  My blood pressure is super chill.

18. You’ve been called an “old soul” -– since your 20s.

Again, not to my face.

19. You don’t feel “high” from your surroundings

Do people actually do this? I thought that’s why we all partied so much in our 20s?

20. You look at the big picture.

I look at all the pictures.

21. You’ve been told to “come out of your shell.”

I’ve been trying to tell people that I’m shy for years.  No one listens.

22. You’re a writer.

That seems a little extreme.

23. You alternate between phases of work and solitude, and periods of social activity.

**This is where I stopped.  I feel like you’re prying.  Please stop asking me these questions, or I’m going to have to go home.

***I would never actually say that to someone.  (Because I’d already be in the car.)

Back to school. *sigh*

The kids went back to school today. I started freaking out about it Friday and proceeded to organize everything in my house, like it would somehow protect them from bullies, mean teachers, yucky food, and head lice.  If everything was in just the right spot, what could go wrong? (I realize this is nuts.  Thanks.)

I think I did pretty good at hiding my back-to-school and sending-my-baby-to-Pre-K anxiety from the children. I was all hearts and flowers and “It will be SO MUCH FUN! Aren’t you EXCITED?!” But inside I was like “Waaaaa! My babies.”

I’m not alone in this.  My husband has called me three times this morning, the last time to ask if he “should just go take a peek and see how she’s doing.”  No.  That’s frowned upon.  I know my limits, so I’m just staying away from that school. If any of the three kids even wrinkled a nose at me, I’d have ‘em packed in the car and the homeschool books ordered.

It’s not that I’m against public schools.  It’s not that I think my local school is a bad school.  It’s just that I love my kids the way they are.  I hate how rigid the schools are and how every child is expected to be just like every other child.  (My middle child is certainly well on his way to teaching them different.)  I mean, c’mon, do ALL the pencils have to be plain yellow #2 pencils? If my kid, who hates school with such a passion, wants a freaking green pencil, I’m fine with that.  My little one (who has been home with me since she first wiggled in my belly) was so excited to take her tiny little backpack today.  No.  No backpacks allowed.  Because Lord knows what a 4-year-old might smuggle into school in a 6-inch My Little Pony backpack.

I see the pros of school.  Interacting with peers, learning to follow rules, getting along with others, learning how to deal with assholes – these are all things children need to know.  But not every kid is a yellow #2 pencil.  I don’t want my purple-striped, glitter-covered, shiny-polka-dotted, maybe-chewed-a-little-bit pencils sharpened down until they match all the others.

I love you, but you're kind of a dick.

I sent this picture to my husband in a text message.  I was laughing hysterically.
Me:  I almost forgot.  I saw this yesterday and it made me think of you.
He doesn’t reply.
He still doesn’t reply.
Me:  Get it?  (still cackling to myself.)
He doesn’t reply.
Me:  It reminded me of you…because you’re kind of a dick!!!  Hahahahaaha.
He still does not reply. 
What a dick.

Crafting by the seat of my pants.

So I like to get crafty.  In some areas of my life I’ve been told I can be a little OCD, but not when I’m making something.  I love using found items, because I’m super cheap.

Example:  I just took my son shopping.  He wouldn’t get out of the car.  I said, “I’m buying YOU clothes, come on.”  He looks around suspiciously and says, “Is this a thrift store?”  (It was not.  It was a going out of business sale.  Everything was 70% off!)

Right now my obsession is painting old, crappy furniture so that it looks like old, crappy furniture.  But I keep forgetting to take “before” pictures, so I show people and they’re like, “Great!  What are you going to do with that?”  and I’m all, “Um, I already did it.  Asshole.”

But don’t get excited.  This isn’t that kind of blog.  I’ll never be able to do one of those tutorials because:

a. I’m very forgetful (see above about the pictures.  Also, I was just repainting a bookshelf with only three shelves.  I’d paint, go to dip my brush, and forget which shelf I was on.)

b. I don’t do anything the right way.  For instance, I’m painting this bookshelf.  I’m using house paint, because I found it and therefore it was free.  I’m using tiny paint brushes my son got with an art set for Christmas approximately three years ago.  I don’t sand anything.  I barely even wiped it off before I got started.  I was ready to paint, dammit!

c.  I am currently in the middle of about 15 projects.  Seriously.  My tutorial would go something  like, “You will need 25 river rocks all the same size and shape, 5 skeins green yarn (used), some white vinegar, and….oh to hell with this, I can’t find my glue gun."

Unusual wall hanging.

This is why I love Craigslist. 
These customizable wall hangings are available for purchase.  I don't know about you, but I feel like I really, really need one. 


My husband can be a real ass. 

Example #1 (I expect there to be a lot of these) 

I let the dogs out this morning and stuck my hand out in the dark to get their food dish.  I didn’t look at said dish until it registered in my coffee-less brain that my hand felt….slimy. 

Baby. Slugs. ON ME.

At this point everything gets a little blurry.  The dish is no longer in the house, so I can only assume I threw it.  My bathrobe is in the mudroom floor.  I remember ripping it off and sprinting into the kitchen while Gus looked on in awe.

He says he thinks I was gagging.  I really couldn’t say.  I do know that while I was scrubbing vigorously at my ick-infested hands, he inferred that there were slugs on my back.  At which point I very rapidly became naked and then equally rapidly became violent, once I realized he was a lying shit.

After I had calmed down to a state of shock, staring blankly and mourning my lost innocence, he asked me what I intended to do with my bathrobe.   But not that nicely.  Rather, he said something along the lines of: *snicker*snicker* SO. *cough* You just going to leave your shit laying there in the floor so the slugs can just wander off all over our house?”

I glared.

Gus is clearly not concerned about my safety, sanity, or my aversion to animated slime.

I told him that obviously the only logical thing to do would be to burn the robe.

He’s all, “I KNEW you would say that. It’s not a fucking vampire, Renee.  You don’t have to cut its head off, burn it, and bury it wrapped in chains.”

Hmmph.  I guess it’s just as well I didn’t tell him my whole  plan, which was to burn the robe and then the front porch.  This is war, motherfucker.  My perimeter has been breached. 

I'm really brave.

Conversation between me and Gus, while watching TV:

Me:  This is dumb.

Gus: Yeah.

Me:  OMG!  It’s a scary kid!  Come sit by me.

Me:  (Muffled, as my head is under a blanket) Oh.  It’s just a monkey.

Me:  I’m really brave.  I can’t believe I watched that.

Gus:  You’re crushing me.  And I can’t believe you saw that with a blanket over your head.

Gus:  Did you just say you’re really brave?

Seriously. This happened.

I realize that I may seem obsessed with goats.  I assure you, I am not.
But.  Before we moved into our new home, we had a ton of cleaning and remodeling to do. (Like, the 500 used needles in the yard. ”I’m not a crackhead, I have diabetes.”  Mmmhmm. Whatever.)
So, anyway, we moved Curly over first and she kind of went apeshit.  It may have been the freedom.  At our old place, she had to be tied up.  Here, she had a pond and a field and tons of room to roam.  Of course, she would not stay in the field, but preferred to gallop (goats gallop, shut up) around the yard menacingly and poop on the porch.
One day I went over to work on the place, and discovered we had had an INTRUDER.
Seriously, y’all.  Someone broke in and wrote on the walls.  This is where it gets weird.  They wrote GOUT KILLER.  Now.  I’m still a bit baffled by this.  I think gout is something to do with feet.  And I’m pretty sure it’s not a good thing.  But I’m no killer.  So, uh…… what?  I kind of wished they’d come back, and like, clarify.  They didn’t.  Anyway. We painted over this cryptic message and moved in.
A few weeks later, our goat, God Rest Her Soul, was attacked and eaten alive by a pack of wild dogs.  I shit you not.  Gus and I had to beat them off of her with shovels (‘cause we are totally badass and zombies better WATCH OUT).
The moral of this story is unclear.  It’s either, vandals can’t spell and also hate goats OR I am destined for weirdness and goat-induced mayhem.

That's just good parenting.

We had family game night last night.  I didn’t want to, because I had a ton of work, as I explained to my ungrateful children.

Me:  Can’t.  I have a ton of work and I don’t want to be up all night trying to catch up.

9-yr-old: OMG ( actually saying Oh Em Gee), mom, why didn’t you get your work done this morning?

Me:   Oh Em Gee!  Because I was too busy twiddling my thumbs and smoking crack.   I have been working ALL DAY!

13-yr-old:  Where are you going?  It’s time to play a game.  No.  If you don’t have time to play a game with us, then you don’t have time for that. (Physically blocking my speedy exit, because the little shit is bigger than me.  Uncool.)

Me:  Alright, fine, I’ll finish my work and then we’ll play.

After much debate between my husband and two sons, they picked Cranium, which is actually pretty fun.  Kind of like a Pictionary/word game/scavenger hunt/thing.  With kids.

It went pretty well. My oldest and I were on a team against my husband and 9yrold.  We totally stomped them.  So much so that during the second game, my husband started saying “nipple” when it was our turn, to distract us.  It worked.  A 13-yr-old cannot focus on the task at hand (or stop laughing) when he hears the word “nipple.”
Turns out, neither can I.

The Five Dollar Goat

So.  Gus came in smiling.  I was scared.

Gus:  Hey.

Me:  What did you do?

Gus:  Um.  I bought a goat.  For $5.

Me:  O-kay.

Gus:  And.

Me: What?

Gus:  She needs to be milked twice a day.

Me:  .

Gus:  It’ll be fun.

Me: .

Gus:  Look, do you want cookies and milk during the apocalypse, or not?

Me: .

Gus:  That’s what I thought.
  • I went along with this, mostly because I know how distraught he was over the loss of the polka dotted goat, and I am just selfless like that.
  • Goat’s milk is kind of gross.  Mostly because goat teats are pretty gross and I
    just cannot bring myself to put anything in my mouth that came out of those

Best Valentine Ever.

7:30 a.m.  Valentine’s Day about 7 years ago (I’ve been working on this awhile, okay?)
Me:  What the fuck have you done?
Gus: Huh?
Gus:  You should probably get some sleep.  (I used to work nights.)
Me:  Seriously, you have got to see this.
*Ok, so this was going to be a picture of  said goat.  Unfortunately, someone has  sabotaged me and I can’t find the damn picture.   However, I googled “spray painted goat” and apparently this is  an act of terrorism and animal cruelty.  I had no idea I was part of an epidemic.   Sweet.
Gus:  Holy shit.
Me:  Did you spray paint that goat?  Because I think that might be illegal.
Gus:  Is that a sticker on its ass?
Me:  Yeah.   It says “do not remove.”
Gus: Can  I keep it?
Me:  Are you fucking kidding me?  Where did you get this goat?  WHY did you get this goat?
Gus:  I’m gonna try to catch it.
**He did not  catch it.  He claims that he doesn’t know  where it came from, nor who painted it and put a sticker on its goat-ass.  I have my doubts.  I went to sleep and when I got up the goat  was gone.  Gus was very upset about the loss.

Conversation regarding blogging, drug use, and the importance of a good alias.

Initially I had decided not to tell my husband I was starting a blog.  But since we have an
open relationship (not that kind of open, ohmygod) I decided I had to.  Also, since I'm going to be talking (shit) about him frequently I guess it's only fair.
Gus:  A blog?  Cool.
Me:  Yeah, I thought I should tell you because some things are going to change around here.   I'm not going to have time for a lot of things.  Like cleaning the house and my real job.
Gus:  We'll hire someone.  (He's so supportive.)
Me:  Also, I may have to start doing drugs.  You know, so my life is more interesting.
Gus:  You're not going to use my name are you?
Me:  Yeah. But not your whole name.   Did you hear me say I'm going to have to get a habit?  For work.
Gus:  I want you to refer to me as Gus.
Me:  No, you are not a Gus.  Come up with something better.   Now, about the drugs.
Gus:  No.  Call me Gus. You can even explain that I'm not really a Gus.
Me:  No.
Gus:   Then I don't want to be in it.
Me:  Too bad.
Gus:  I'm killing you off in my book.