Flea Circus

I’m typing this while enjoying a world class headache. Fucker. I’m blaming the headache on the very reason for this post.

Shelter puppies (yes, this is another post about the new puppy. Because I can, that’s why) come with the occasional baggage. Ours came with fleas. Not such a big deal in the grand scheme of things. Unless the treatment ends up poisoning the very rescued dog in question.

There is nothing quite like realizing you are the reason your new cute faced puppy is sick as two hells.

We discovered fleas on the dogs shortly after bringing the puppy home last month. We’ve been trying, unsuccessfully, to get rid of them ever since. Baths, garlic in the food, sprayed the house, etc etc.

On Tuesday night, we sprayed the Dasher with Adam’s Flea & Tick Mist as my husband had found a few fleas on her when he was combing her. He had just bought this stuff the day before because he had seen fleabites on her and our other dog was going bat shit bonkers from the dermatitis she gets whenever she’s bitten by fleas. Scratchscratchscratchbitebitebite and rash breaking out all over the poor thing. The older dog has some issues.

We used less than the suggested amount because PUPPY and icky chemical sprays that we hate to use but since we were losing the flea infestation battle decided must be tried.

The next day SuperHubby and Ace saw a couple more fleas on her and sprayed a little more on her thinking that we had not used enough.

That night she was not herself. I got home from work and she was retching and the kids said she had vomited earlier and was peeing a lot. Her energy level was nil and she just wanted to curl up on the couch in someone’s lap.

I checked her ears, which were cold and pale. Her gums were pale and slightly dry.

I called the vet and we both agreed that the spray was probably making her ill. The plan was to bathe off the nasty crap, keep her warm and get fluids into her to flush the toxins from her system.

After the bath, we bundled her into blankets and she cuddled with my husband and the kids, wrapped up in a down quilt. I made ground beef and rice and mixed it liberally with water. Luckily her appetite was not affected and the prospect of people food was more than enough to have her cobble up the well watered meal.

The puppy that had housetrained in less than a week, has gone without an accident for almost a month, was having some incontinence issues and peed on the floor several times. I began to panic. Another call to the vet who felt that if  we kept her hydrated and she peed frequently the flush of the toxins would fix that in a day or so but to watch her closely over night. We did, sleeping on the sofa in turns, cuddling the very sleepy puppy and taking her out whenever she stirred. We fed her frequent small serving of the beef/rice mixture with lots of water to keep fluids running.

The next morning she was still having bladder control issues but showed a little more energy. She was eager for her morning meal as in HURRY UP AND FEED ME THE GOOD SHIT WOMAN what are you standing around for?? While I was getting her bowl, the Most Royal Demanding Imperiousness barked at me several times in impatience YOU ARE TAKING TOO LONG. I know she would trade me in for paid help any minute.
She continued to have mild lethargy and incontinence issues Wednesday and on Thursday morning. By the time I got home yesterday, she was back to normal energy levels, hadn’t had an accident in hours and was bright eyed and eager to play and go for her nightly walk. During her walk all she wanted to do was play tug of war with the leash and bite our older dog's tail in an effort to get a rumble started.

There were no accidents over night and she woke me up demanding to go out. While I stumbled around getting my caffeine fix going, she sat in front of her bowl looking from it, to me, and back again with increasingly accusing eyes. THE YUMMY FOOD NOW

By the time I got it warmed up enough – oh please like you wouldn’t warm up the cold food/water before feeding it to a just recovering from poison puppy- she was dancing in place and practically eviscerating me with her intent little eyeballs.

So that’s how we poisoned our puppy and she is better now and I will never forgive myself and if anyone ever suggests that we should use one of those flea spray chemicals again I may hurt them. Adams Flea & Tick Mist nearly killed my dog.

If anyone has successful natural flea treatment/repellent ideas please share.

An attempt at public shaming

Hhhmmm, to post or not to post.

Since I’m still tapping at the keypad, the answer appears to be “to post.”

On Sunday it was brought to my notice that a local online news site had an anonymous opinion up that said I was “undeserving of representing my children or my neighbors children” because I write expletive laden blog posts that are critical and rude. This individual then goes on to post a google search link that filters only the posts where I use the word fuck. And there are plenty of those because well...there just are.

There are excerpts of a few posts, deliberately chosen for their verbal impact, splashed up on this editorial that show my less than polite side.

This editorial gave me a few moments pause. And also prompted me to go back and reread the majority of this blog.  And you know what? I’ll stand behind each and every one of my posts and say, Yes, I did write that. So What? I show, through my writing, the myriad sides of who I am. Do you do the same?

Here’s the thing. I’m up for re-election on the School Board in my town. I’m actively seeking re-election to the Board because I feel that I do a good job and there is work that needs to be done. Work that I know I can help facilitate.

The timing of this editorial is purely due to the upcoming election and the fact is the news site owner supports other candidates. My blog is not a secret as it’s linked to my facebook account and I’ve shared it with local friends. And I know for certain that the owner of this online news site has previously provided a link to my blog to other people in the hopes that it will cause them to gasp in outrage over perceived perfidies in an effort to plot my downfall. To which I say, Really? You need a new hobby.

Here are more of the reasons I’m a terrible person:
“This woman’s blog site is very full of colorful language, self-righteous nagging, complaining about everything from neighbors, to kids crying in her ears to people riding their motorcycles down her beloved road and even some harsh criticism of children and parents alike.
Is this really the person you want representing our children? She spends a lot of time criticizing the people of Jackson for their actions in this blog, especially parents who break her social rules, but perhaps she needs to be a better role model herself. As a publicly elected representative of the people of Jackson, she needs to bring herself above the boil and I find this entire blog immature, foul mouthed, critical and condescending to everyone in this town.
I urge anyone who votes this November to take a look at the link: http://bit.ly/QsJNj8, and read a few passages from this woman before voting for her to represent YOUR child.
Can you imagine if any other candidate in any other election had publicly stated and said such horrible things about the people they purport to represent?
No thank you Ms. Murnane, you have no business near our children and I hope children in Jackson don’t stumble across this board member’s blog accidentally.”

People are going to be offended by any number of things; probably some of those things will be words that I write. I won’t filter my thoughts, feelings or my writing in fear that someone will take offense. This is my space. You’re invited to come into it with a hearty welcome and post your comments, agree, disagree, tell me I’m an ass. I’m okay with that, sometimes I AM an ass. Trolls are not welcome. I’d have the same policy if we met in person.

On the flip side of that, what I put out there is fodder to anyone who doesn't like it and chooses to use it as a tool for their own gain. That's the risk of exposing oneself publicly and I'll roll with whatever happens.

There were two aspects of this opinion piece that did ruffle my feathers. The link with the filtered posts? That’s just a little National Inquirer sleaze right there.

The anonymous resident looking to lambaste me for putting myself out there publicly, stink bugs and all, have the balls to add your name to the letter. I showed mine. Where are yours?

Just when I think there's nothing happening here

Days go by and I stare at a blank white screen thinking there’s nothing to say. And then more days go by and sometimes by the time I ponder on the entertainment value of an incident, the time to write about it drifts away because there’s other crap that needs my attention, like work and feeding the family.

So Internet, How are you? It’s been awhile. While we enjoyed this little break from one another life has moved along at a rapid pace, filled with changes and obstacles and inconveniences and some good times.

Let’s see if I can catch you up on what’s been happening in Catootesville, shall I? Because it is exhilarating stuff.

Ace had surgery on his shoulder the first week of June. Due to a shoulder dislocation that happened FOUR years ago, there’d been a weakening in the shoulder which was further exacerbated by two more years of baseball and three years of swimming. By the end of this swim season, his shoulder hurt constantly and was unstable in the joint. We didn’t know that last bit until Ace came to us one day and asked “Is this supposed to happen?” while lifting his arm to illustrate the shoulder slide right out of the socket. “Well, No” we replied and called the orthopedist. Ten weeks of physical therapy did naught to alleviate the problem and only seemed to increase Ace’s now constant pain level. A new orthopedic surgeon and an MRI revealed a severely stretched shoulder capsule which was promptly repaired with four bone anchors -doesn’t that just sound ridiculously painful? Ace assures us all that IT IS INDEED painful- and recovery is commencing.

No swimming in senior year for my boy, a reality that is sad and horrible and unfair and sucky and all other degrees of miserable a pissed off sixteen year old can drum up when confronted with his favorite activity being yanked out from under him. I can’t really disagree because I would be pissed off if I were in his shoes. But YAY! Surly restless uncomfortable teenager in residence. Our defense to that phenomenon is suggesting that he study more for his upcoming finals –tests he was unable to take at the end of the school year due to unavoidable surgery- his next round of SAT’s, and do college research. Of course we are horrible slave-driving demanding parents for making him research colleges and scholarships now, while he is broken and not even in school. YES, YES WE ARE rotten mean parents for thinking of his future like that. I think the only thing that could make this entire shoulder issue worse for him is if we had taken away his ability to play Minecraft on his Xbox. Given the amount of time he’s logged on this game since March, he should be a certified Minecraft champion by now and XBOX should be paying me.


There’s a constant running battle in my house between my husband, who is firmly in the YOU PLAY TO MUCH XBOX camp and Ace, who is entrenched in the NO I DON’T IT’S MY ONLY FORM OF ENTERTAINMENT RIGHT NOW field. I get sucked in the middle of this thing regularly and it makes me want to bash both of their heads together and have done with it. But since that option has legal consequences, I’m left with negotiating irritated men into a compromise neither of them like. And somehow, they both end up mad at me. Because clearly the stubborn testosterone personality conflict is ALL MY FAULT. Maybe I’ll play on the Xbox all day. A little Kinect Boxing might make me feel better, especially after imagining their heads as my opponent.


Giggles graduated 8th grade! You know what made this awesomeness squared? I was able to present her with her diploma and give her a great big hug in front of the entire graduating class. (It was just as awesome when I was able to do the same for Ace.) With Honors and an academic scholar award! My little baby girl. How the hell did this happen? I swear she was screaming in a two year old snit yesterday and now she’s a high school freshman. At the eighth grade dance she won the class award for Most Individual and was skipping on clouds of happiness with that accolade. It was the perfect award for her. I think she appreciates that one more than the High Honors award. She deserves to be proud of herself for believing in herself, remaining true to who she is and not letting other people influence her. It’s not easy standing up to the gauntlet of middle school mean girls who don’t appreciate the strength in being different. My Most Individual Girl rocks!


She’s getting ready to test for her Black Belt, something she’s been working toward since she was six. A major milestone, yet she’s a little trepidacious about the six plus hour test itself. The test consists of a mile run, innumerable push-ups, sparring with black belts of all levels, giving a speech on what the study of karate has meant to her, performing the multiple level kata’s and exhibition fluid knowledge of all the defensive moves. Now that I’ve put all that out there I completely understand why she’s having some anxiety about this test. I know she’ll do just fine but she has to believe it as well.


We went on a lovely vacation, which I’ll post separately because we did cool stuff at a new place and it deserves its very own post with pictures!


We came back from this lovely vacation to discover the dishwasher felt neglected so it went on strike and refuses to drain all the water after the rinse cycle. I dismantled the guts of it and plucked some paper substance out of its innards in the hopes that would achieve maximum drainage and put the thing through a cycle all the while praying to the dishwasher gods, who were obviously unappeased by my salutations since there is still water in the bottom of my dishwasher. Which is only two ½ years old and I didn’t purchase the extended warranty because WHO EVER NEEDS THOSE THINGS ANYWAY. Apparently I do. Perhaps I should have performed a dance of supplication to the dishwasher gods, naked, in my back yard. Would that have been enough?


While the dishwasher was having its snit, the tiles from the bathroom wall also decided to revolt and fling themselves to the floor. Now in all honesty there have been signs of rebellion from this sector for quite some time. A shift in tile alignment here, broken grout there, adhesive failure resulting in random tile escape. This was too much for my husband to take, this blatant disobedience to the laws of structural integrity and three days after we got back from vacation he was in the trenches waging a war with the tiles while wielding a pry bar, hammer and many power tools. The result is that my bathroom is now stripped to the framing timbers, the toilet is currently sitting outside the back door (if it stays there too long I’m going CLASSY and planting flowers in it), there is no sink or running water. Last night saw the replacement of the subfloor (Thank you to whatever gods are listening) and I no longer have to look into our crawlspace from the bathroom. Mind you, this is the ONLY BATHROOM we have. We can only be super thankful that my in-laws live in town and our neighbors are friendly.


There is much to be done. Finish insulating, put up WALLS, set the new tub surround, install the marble tile, paint, and replace all necessary appliances. Yes Toilet, I’m looking at you!


While we were unloading many large pieces of sheetrock from the car on Saturday, a vicious storm front came rolling through town. We were about to haul a piece inside and looked up to see the two weather fronts collide, creating amazingly beautiful cloud formations (you’ll have to take my word on this as I couldn’t get my camera due to the aforementioned piece of sheetrock in my hands) and then the wind arrived. Above the roof I could see the trees in the backyard start whipping around and I stood there amazed at the sudden intensity of it. And then one of the trees disappeared. Just dropped out of sight. Fell right over. By some miracle it missed landing on the deck and the shed. But you know, BIG ASS TREE DOWN.


My son has to take his Junior year finals now that he’s no longer drugged with painkillers and can use his writing hand. My daughter has swim practice three days a week, ½ hour away from home. My dishwasher is broken. My bathroom is not really a bathroom at this time. I haven’t done laundry since Friday. There’s a downed tree lying across the backyard. My lawn hasn’t been mowed in two weeks. And we’re leaving for vacation in four weeks.


All of this? In the past four weeks. I know. You can’t make this shit up.


And I keep thinking there’s nothing much going on in my life worth writing about.

The Gingrich Doppelganger

It's been bugging me for weeks now, but I finally figured it out.
Newt Gingrich is really THE BRAIN and he's preparing to take over the world!

Images courtesy of Warner Brothers and the World Wide Web!

observing the political animal

The political animal is commonly found wallowing in the filth pits of self- aggrandizement, egoism, and popularity. Spending inexhaustible energy cultivating the look-at-me-and what-I’ve-done-for-you persona of public service, the political animal thrives in a take no prisoners social group that preys on the idealistic and less bloodthirsty creatures that sometimes wander into the watering hole these animals circle and guard with ferocity.

This mutated species is cunning in many ways and should not be underestimated for all their shallowness. They are specialists in duplicity and subterfuge. Words spoken one moment are often disavowed and the contradictory information spewed fervently from the other corner of the mouth, almost in the same breath. It’s a highly evolved skill, this double speak, and serves the political animal well, for it seems that despite all logical evidence, the political animal believes, without pause, every word that is uttered from its gaping maw, even when presented with the evidence to the contrary. I believe this is a survival skill required to exist in the fierce eat or be eaten environment that these animals navigate.

After observing this overly social creature, it is also worth documenting the social scheming that is a dynamic of the group structure. While other social species interact with the intent to build a group dynamic, the political animal employs a merciless strategy to befriend and undermine members of its tribe at every turn. This leads to instability of leadership within the pack and a lack of accomplishments that can raise the status of the group. A conniving or charismatic individual will often seek prominent standing within the group, pulling in weaker, less intelligent members of the group to help it reach prominence, all the while undermining those it sought help from reaching other levels of success.

There is a theory that should a sudden mass extinction of this animal occur, more would get accomplished for the greater good of all species, as these animals are all too eager to climb the food chain of politics with an eye to devouring those that actually do good things. It appears that the political animal is truly perplexed by those whose goals are not wrapped in the slippery skin of conceit and, when presented with such individuals, react much like a cross child with whining and sulking. These behaviors serve to undermine the growth of the larger social species.

The political animal should be kept at a distance from the greater population as their cunning chicanery can subvert the accomplishment of the greater good. In fact the continuing bloated growth of this demographic could threaten the delicate balance of the true public servant, another vanishing species, as the political animal is more aggressive and, despite a proclivity to eating their own, continue to propagate wildly. Should this terrible unbalancing event occur, devastation can be the only results. It is recommended that any interaction with this animal be under taken with an extremely cautious approach with tasers in hand as it is been documented that when in close proximity with other species they are prone to rabid unprovoked attacks.

dia-bo-lical sabotage

April, thus far, has been a complete bitch. And we’re barely at the half way point. To be honest, not a complete bitch. The flowers are in bloom so that balances things out somewhat.

Let’s just tick off some the chaos, shall we?

Husband takes a wrong step and feels a muscle pull in his calf. After several days of manly chest pounding pain resistance, stoically soldiering on at work in the face of discomfort when he could barely put any weight on the leg without whimpering, he finally caved and went to the doctor when his calf turned a delightful kaleidoscope of purple, green and red.

Turns out he ruptured one of the muscles entirely and severely tore two others. Doctor says stay off the leg, keep it elevated and iced. How long you might ask? Six weeks or more, depending on how well he follows orders.

Vacation was scheduled for next week. In Disney.

The day after we went to the doctor, a speed sensor on the brakes in the minivan imploded, causing the ABS brakes to go into DANGER WILL ROBINSON!! mode, vibrating frantically under my feet, lighting up the dashboard with a cacophony of light and sound. I didn’t know the minivan could be emotive. At least I know there’s nothing wrong with the warning system.

Two days ago the frames of my glasses fell apart while I was cooking. The ear piece just randomly popped off and almost landed in the sheperd's pie I was making. I took them to the eye fixer upper place and of course they couldn’t fix it but suggested a lovely set of replacement frames for two hundred bucks. I fixed it with $1.89 super glue.

The vacuum cleaner brush just randomly stopped rotating and will not restart no matter how many times, or how hard, I kick it. I wonder if I can fix that with super glue.

The last wind storm? Finished the destruction of the awning that is no longer on the back of the house. It is pieces.

You know what I think? That we have GREMLINS.

Like this guy.


photo courtesy of warner brothers and the internet



That’s really the only explanation I can come up with. Unless it’s all been an alcohol fueled hallucination. Last time I checked though, SuperHubby’s leg was still purple, green and swollen, and the booze level in the house indicates I haven’t been drinking nearly enough for hallucinations, so I’m back to Gremlins. Or someone dropping acid in my tea in an effort to deliberately push me over the edge.

Vacation plans have changed more than once in the past week in a frenzied how, where, who and will it cost a small fortune search by my sofa restricted industrious husband. It became a challenge for him to find a cost effective vacation that he cannot participate in. He’s alleviating his boredom with travel plans and watching the entire Soprano’s series.

It’s our daughter’s thirteenth birthday next week and we were going to celebrate that day in her favorite place on earth, Disney. My guy carefully planned this vacation months ago, down to restaurant reservations and Disney park visits. It was going to be an epic birthday/family vacation. And then April rolled around. Luckily, the Gremlins overlooked vacation plan details and we were able to cancel those plans without penalties.

Initially SuperHubby wanted me and kids to go without him, but the 15 year old said he wasn’t going on vacation and leaving his crippled father alone. His words, but it’s nice to know he’d give up vacation without a moment’s hesitation. That instant reaction, without thought or hesitation showed that his heart, always so open and caring, remains true and strong.

Finally, all said and done, plans are in place.

Husband and son are staying home. Together. Alone.

Giggles and I are going on a 5 day Caribbean Carnival cruise. Just us girls. This is going to rock so hard. SuperHubby hooked us up with a big surprise for the girl during the cruise that will absolutely thrill her.

Needless to say, since those plans were finalized, it’s been a whirlwind of laundry, shopping to stock the guys up for the week we’re away, cooking so they have frozen stuff to reheat, cleaning so the house is acceptable upon my departure and last minute errands that my husband usually runs but can’t. And packing because we’re leaving for Florida in two days.

I’m afraid of what the house will look like when I get back after leaving my partially broken husband and teenage son alone for a week.

But I’m not going to think about that at all when I’m romping in a cruise ship pool with my laughing daughter, celebrating her thirteenth birthday.

That said, if I find that Gremlin, I'm going to beat him with a giant sledgehammer anyway.

a stitch in time saves what exactly?

I dislike sewing. So much so that I take my pants to the dry cleaner to fix a broken hemline. There are no sewing machines in my house.

Buttons? Never make it back on the article they fell from. Unless I am bribed with all sorts of superlicious enticement. Then, maybe.

Just recently, after months of searching, okay not searching, more like periodic inquiries, we found the only curtain that was deemed suitable, by the twelve year old, to hang from the windows in her room. Lime Green, with a subtle stripe pattern that probably has some fancy name, but I'm completely clueless in that area so it's just a lime green curtain. 

It was too long. Of course it was. And no matter how many times I looked for a shorter one, that was the only length available. This one had to be shortened or it would block the air vent in her room. Since the damn thing only cost me ten bucks, there was no way I was paying to have it hemmed. I resigned myself to sewing it by hand. The things I do for my kids.

After stitching for about 10 minutes, which equaled about three inches across, I got bored and annoyed and put it down.

For a month.

The day before she was supposed to have friends over for the night, I realized it had to be finished. I prepared myself accordingly.

Glass of wine. Check
TV remote. Check
Thimble. Check
Tissues (for when I miss the thimble and stab myself. You know it's gonna happen.) Check
Irritated whine. Check

I sat down, picked up the curtain and needle, put in a few stitches and asked myself what the hell was I doing?

Dropping the whole mess on the sofa, I began to dig through the cabinet above the washer, moving aside dog shampoo, spray paint, floor cleaner, window cleaner, WD-40, partially used propane cylinder - man, if my house catches fire, it's going to explode when the flames hit this cabinet.

And AH HAH! What I was looking for was tucked into the back corner, hidden behind the plant food. Plant food? WTF? Where did that come from?

Drywall corner bead adhesive. Left over from the room renovation we did last year.

A few months ago, I had used this stuff to hold up a couple of decorative felt pieces that my daughter wanted on the underside of her top bunk . She was decorating and nothing else would keep these things up on the bed frame. A few quick sprays of this and they may never come down.

I took the curtain outside, laid it out on the table, folded part of the curtain down and sprayed the inside of it with the adhesive and then folded it back to the proper length.

It sat for five minutes and Voila! shorter curtain! Done and in place over my daughter's window in fifteen minutes. Appropriate appreciation hugs received.

No sewing necessary.

I'm a-gonna stock up on that stuff. After I separate the flammable liquids.


***I have to thank Megan over at minor catastrophes for the post jump start.

game on

Every year like clockwork, as the weather chills, the mice that are supposed to live OUTSIDE, start looking for warmer climes, most notably INSIDE MY HOUSE. A place mice should never ever be. Ever. There are some rules that should never be broken.

Theirs is a subtle campaign, those rodents. You don’t even know they’ve breached the perimeter. Then there’s the whisper of furtive sounds late in the night that make me question my sanity. Then food supplies are stolen. Dry kibble from the dog’s bowl disappears, one nugget at a time. Then comes the irrefutable proof that we’ve been invaded, a brazen intruder blows cover and someone in the house is witness and the WE HAVE MICE alarm goes all DEFCON 1.

Then the chase is on.

One would like to think the dog would be annoyed about some rodent stealing her food and DO SOMETHING about it, like eat them, but I guess once a dog has taken on the gopher population of the neighborhood mice are beneath her notice. Which leads me to question her place in the household if she can’t bestir herself to deal with mice.

So, since I have to strategize this little nuisance war myself, I hauled myself off to Home Depot to buy a mountain of mousetraps, because you know there is never just one mouse. It’s a whole mouse platoon that bivouacs for the winter in my walls.

Home Depot also happened to be selling Christmas stuff so I bought the cutest Cardinal print doormatt and some holiday window clings for the kid’s rooms because well it’s that time of year and I have no willpower to resist the Cardinal. Really, none whatsoever.

After careful reconassaince, I reinforced our defenses with six mousetraps, several grouped in key areas identified as perimeter breaches by the icky evidence of mouse poop. Which, just eewww, right?

I gathered up some peanut butter and a crushed dog cookie, because my daughter and husband found a dog cookie in the storage drawer of the stove that had clearly been nibbled on. Don’t ask me how the dog cookie got in the drawer, because I know I didn’t put it there and the stupid dog would dismantle a car to get to a treat if she knew it was close at hand. I think the mice stashed it there for emergency rations, those little bastards.

With that mix of peanut butter and dog cookie pieces, the traps were loaded and set. Gently (because having one of those suckers snap on your hand hurts, really really hurts, and leaves blood blisters and bruises) placing them in the appointed positions, we trooped off to see the recent Harry Potter movie, placing bets on how many would be captured when we got back to the house. I estimated at two, maybe three would fall into my traps and set up a warning that we were fighting to take back our territory. The rest of my company was not as optimistic as I was and figured one might be sent out to investigate the change in the local landscape, perhaps sensing a trap. I zipped into the house when we returned from the movie to revel in my mouse catching skills and found a BIG FAT ZERO.

Not only did I not get one single mouse in a trap but the nasty vermin cleared the pressure plate of every lick of peanut butter/dog cookie paste WITHOUT setting off a single trap. Cleaned them off so completely that it looked as if they had never been set. They had taken sustenance from the tools of their demise and laughed, I’m sure, all the way back to their holes in the wall.


Mice 1 – Catootes 0

This war, it is SO ON.

weighty whining

Those eight pounds I lost while doing the bedroom renovation? Found them.

They’re stuck on my ass.

I don’t know what the hell happened.

That’s not completely true. Chocolate-I hate exercise-Chocolate-I hate exercise-Pumpkin bread-Sit behind my desk all day-Chocolate-Become one with my sofa at night-I hate exercise.

That’s what happened.

I need an exercise motivator. Seriously. Like a drill sergeant for my lazy ass. When my husband gently nudges me to exercise I get all snarly. I probably shouldn’t but it just irritates me and makes me all defensive when he encourages me to go exercise. Clearly I’m a little sensitive on the subject of exercise and weight loss.

It’s really difficult to find the time, or inclination, to exercise. There’s a gym in my building that I can use, for free, and I still can’t get there regularly. When I do manage a string of days I feel great. I feel motivated. And then I miss a few and getting back into a routine seems a monumental task. Most days I eat lunch at my desk because there is a mountain of shit I need to accomplish. Then there are school board meetings after work, laundry, sports and quality family time.

Yeah, I know, boo freakin’ hoo. Wah wah wah. But I really really want to know how women with full time jobs, busy lives, family commitments find time to exercise and fit into a size 10. How do you do it? Someone spill the secrets, please.

Thing is, I liked the feeling of losing that extra weight and how my clothes fit. I don’t like it now, since those pounds are back. Dammit.

This morning when the alarm went off I thought about getting up and taking the dog for an early morning walk. That thought lasted a whole 30 seconds before I slapped the snooze button for another half hour.

No self control. No self discipline.

Several times a week I tell myself that today is the day I will walk one mile, either outside or on a treadmill. And when I don’t hit actually do that thing, I tell myself I’ll do it the next day. And then the next day comes and there are meetings, or picking kids up from some event, or…or…or.

How do I commit to this thing? I know all about goals and progress and mapping out strategy, but this one just seems beyond me sometimes. Ideas anyone?

Today I did not bring any crap to snack on. I will eat carrots instead. I will walk a mile today. I will schedule gym time.

Cross your fingers.

neighborhood pickers

Dear neighborhood pickers,

Truly, I applaud your willingness to sift through the detritus we left out for the bulk trash pick-up. I admire the effort to harvest the metals and whatnot you are seeking, items that will bring you some small profit, or large, depending on what gets tossed by the rest of the neighborhood this month. We’re obviously not inclined to turn those pieces of metal, old electronics or whatever, into cash, so if that’s what you’re into, have at it.

I’m not at all bothered by all the rooting around that happens within hours of my tossing out a new pile of stuff. One of the benefits of living on a main road is that if I put something out on the front curb inevitably it is gone within a few hours. Like magic, one minute it’s there, another it’s gone! I like this freecycle process and am happy to know that the gently used items we no longer need or want are useful enough for someone to haul it away. One man’s trash and all that. I am somewhat befuddled by the individual that took the broken rain soaked portable cd player though. That thing? You can do something with that?

What does get my panties in a wad is the utter lack of care exhibited by those of you that come along and sift through those piles, and once you have found whatever jewel is worth taking, you leave that pile spread out in a disorganized mess that spills into my driveway and into the street.

This disregard for the time and effort I’ve put into stacking that stuff into a semblance of order so the town doesn’t come along and fine my ass for littering sets my temper to simmer when I ask you nicely to leave the pile neat when you’re done and yet, when I glance outside later, the crap you’ve looted through resembles a demolition site. Hell, I’ve even helped some of you load heavier items into your battered, junk filled pick-up tricks. All I ask is for a little respect in return.

Let’s face some facts here - my laziness is your reward. You're welcome. If I exhibited just a wee more energy and hauled that stuff to the dump, there would be no treasure pile for you to plunder and turn into cash. So, in the interest of mutual benefit, please have a little decency and leave the pile as neat as possible when you're done so I don’t have to exert myself beyond dropping this stuff curbside on bulk pick up month. Because next time I might just find myself at the dump and there will be no leftovers for your trash picking hands.

in which the tropics seem to be a completely preferable option than this

Sometimes my job requires me to purchase software that will make my department’s life easier so they don’t charge into my office and brutally stuff me into a not-large enough box before shipping me off to some godforsaken place, like Sarah Palin’s house in Alaska. I know they’ve thought about it. I’ve seen the look in their eyes.

And that is how I found myself trudging up to Newark to get a first hand glimpse of new versions of Adobe software the folks in my department use every day. The Adobe people asked nicely if I wanted to attend and then expertly lured me in with the offer of breakfast, lunch, a day away from the office and the possibility of winning a new HP netbook. How could I say no?

Those that know me will raise their eyebrows at my willingness to drive to Newark. Not that Newark isn’t a perfectly lovely place to visit, but well, frankly some parts are about as appealing as strolling through the local landfill. But what puts me off the most is the actual effort of driving there. Per those nifty little online map sites, I am told that Newark is only an hour and ten minutes driving time from my front door. But what those handy online directions don’t take into consideration are all the other drivers going in the same direction at the same time on the same funnel of roads. I hate traffic with the white hot intensity of an imploding star and will drive a million miles out of my way to avoid sitting in a line of cars not moving for minutes on end. And that is exactly what the NJ Turnpike is like just about every day during peak rush hour. Just typing that last sentence gives me heartburn. NJ Turnpike…peak rush hours…need more Xanax.

The trip in yesterday was pretty easy, not so much stop and go as just go slowly, well below the posted speed limit. A rule of thumb when traveling north on any major NJ roadway along the state's eastern corridor during rush hour is to pad travel time by at least an hour. Two would be best, especially if being on time is critical, otherwise, all bets are off. The pace of traffic was fine mostly because there was constant movement towards my destination and I was happily listening to The Sex Lives of Cannibals, which is an extremely hilarious account of a guy who moved to a tiny South Pacific Atoll with his girlfriend, looking for paradise, and found more, and less, than what he envisioned. Either read the book or listen to the audio because I promise you will laugh and rethink that desire of moving to a tropical island in an effort to get away from it all. It ain’t all coconuts and surf apparently.

After finally acquiring a parking space in a lot that took credit card payments because I forgot to go to the bank and get real cash money, I just managed to slip into the hotel conference room, poured myself some desperately needed coffee, took a quick look at the offered breakfast selection and decided soggy bacon and reconstituted eggs were not all that appealing, I grabbed a front row seat, prepared to be amazed by the creative awesomeness of the Adobe people.

They make great stuff. I was completely thrilled with the capabilities of the new product and a bit ashamed to learn that some of the tools that are so very useful amazing already exist in the versions we have and I didn’t know about them. Management efficiency fail….sigh. But now do know and I can be all smart-like when I show everyone what I learned so my boss doesn’t think the day was a complete waste of time and my staff will think I am super amazing until the next time I volunteer them for a new project.

There were programs I don’t need for work but drooled over anyway and wondered how I could convince my husband that the super-duper-mega-wonderful package would be just the best investment ever and maybe justify the cost by telling him I was thinking about a career change and this would make me a pro! But somehow I doubt forking over that kind of cash for what would really just be a super nifty play toy for me is not his idea of prudent fiscal management.

And then it was over and time to drive home. In rush hour.

Since I make a concentrated effort to never be north of the Raritan river, and heading south at rush hour, BECAUSE I KNOW, I was not surprised at the heavy volume traffic I encountered as I headed toward the Turnpike. In the beginning I was patient as my car alternately stopped and inched forward, stopped, inched forward, and stopped again. After forty minutes had passed and I hadn’t traveled more than a half mile, I started to get a little cranky. I flipped off no less than four assholes who decided that they were too important to sit in the same traffic as everyone else and rode the shoulder until forced back into the lane, directly in front of me.

It took over an hour to travel less than 6 miles. My brain was imploding, my blood pressure spiking and the soothing voice of the audiobook, describing palm trees and tropical living, failed to lull me into a calm mindset and quell the rising tide of frustration and aggravation of sitting still more than I was moving. Did I mention that I really hate traffic?

The radio that I finally turned to in desperation to know WHY I AM NOT MOVING AT ALL NOW alerted me that there had been a terrible multiple car and truck accident** not far from where I was sitting and most of the Turnpike had been closed. Words like hours long back-up, alternate routes choked, secondary roads congested continued to bounce around the inside of my skull like pinballs.

CLOSED.

I will be stuck on this godforsaken stretch of highway leading to the Turnpike forever I told my husband when I called to deliver the news. My GPS tells me there are no alternate exits or detours available where I was currently trapped. If my GPS was not part of my phone, it might have gotten thrown off the bridge I had been sitting on when it told me that.

Two hours in and finally the mass of cars and trucks reached the Turnpike entrance, which looked like a ginormous vehicle storage area. People were out of their cars, stretching and chatting with their vehicular neighbor. We all knew this was bad and going to take a very long time to clear.

Then I spied the Turnpike North sign and decided that there are roads that lead away from this mess and I’m escaping to find them. I would drive to Ohio and back again before I sat there any longer. I swung my wheels to the left and prepared to zip out and over to the North ramp and find the longest most out of the way detour ever. And then some dipshit fuckhead in a roach coach pulled out in front of me, moved ahead 4 cars and stopped, blocking my way. Had I possessed any weapon at that moment I would have used it with lethal force. Damn the consequences. I could see my escape and this moron from the depths of headuphisassville just got in my way and stopped me cold. Just so he could inch his way back into the flow of STOPPED traffic a couple cars ahead of where he had been. Some people should have a pike shoved up their ass.

Once I got headed north, I tried to go west, but I think just about every other person in NJ thought about that as well and I soon found all routes choked with cars going absolutely no where. Heading north east again, because holy hell, every road in that vicinity wants you to go to NYC, I swear it does, I found a way that was still riddled with stop and go traffic, but it was the “and go” part that staved off my descent in total anxiety madness. At least I was moving. Needless to say, I drove down every pitted, rutted, barely paved road in Jersey City, made my way to Staten Island, because what’s a little detour through the Arthur Kill on the way home, sat in more traffic because there are more people per mile living in Staten Island than should be humanely legal, I finally got back into NJ and hit the parkway, where the rush hour traffic had thinned to normal crazy and the speed limit was possible.

What should have been a crawling hour and a half drive home from Newark during rush hour took FOUR AND A HALF HOURS.

And I didn’t even win the damn HP Netbook.

**In all seriousness, someone lost their life in the hideous eight vehicle accident that involved cars, a dump truck, several tractor trailers, a box truck and a pick-up truck. This I feel terribly sorry for and my greatest sympathy rests with the family who lost a loved one. Let’s all be safer drivers, okay? Traffic may suck huge hairy moose balls, but getting home in one piece is the main goal. Getting there quickly? Ain’t so terribly important.

not so still life with teenager

I knew this day was coming. The knowledge hovers at the hazy perimeter of our conscious from the very beginning, never fully crystallizing, because if it did, we might change our mind and then where would we be as a species?

Enter the teenager.

The man-child comes out of the bathroom in the morning smelling like…I can’t describe it actually, but he tells me it’s Axe and thinks it makes him smell good. Some girls at school tell him so, he says. And I must agree it’s an improvement over the sweaty man stench that usually emanates from his pits and feet. Maybe only teenage girl pheromones can pick up on the nuances of this scent and respond accordingly. Maybe those same girls will ask him to go a little gentler with the spray nozzle next time. But alas, I have little expectation here as these are the same girls that douse themselves in vats of the feminine variety of this stuff and apply makeup in similarly excessive quantities.

The proportion of scent and makeup to clothes seems to be directly inverse however. The teenage boys that are visible in my universe all seem to wear jeans just as tight as the girls and verge on slipping off their asses. There’s nothing quite like the indignant squeak of a teenage boy who’s received a massive wedgie because I’ve abruptly hauled his jeans up by the belt loop as I don’t really want to know what type of boxers he’s sporting that particular day. I really don’t want to see your ass, okay?

Similarly, the jeans worn by the female of the teenage species seem designed to pinch internal organs and prevent them from moving with any measure of comfort. I don’t think that even when I was traversing the landscape of the teenager there was any appeal in jeans that cut off blood flow to the legs. Maybe in the last twenty years that’s changed and bodily injury from clothes is a badge of…something?

Ace also sleeps the sleep of the teenage dead. His cell phone alarm and his alarm clock go off and off and off until I wake up from the discordant symphony eating at my brain and I yell at him to turn off the damn racket already! Or haul my ass out of bed, go to his room, turn his lights on full and beat him around the head with his pillow until he finally crawls out of the teenage coma he’d fallen into.

Somehow this racket, just feet away from her own door, fails to rouse my almost teenage daughter, whose own alarm will go ignored for several minutes before the noise penetrates her sleeping head and she grumpily slaps it off. Then she will bury her head and growl with a fiendish ferocity at the unfortunate individual who tries to wake her up completely. That is most invariably me.

It’s a wonder I don’t start my day slugging back a fistful of happy pills. Caffeine barely smooths the path.

We’re lucky so far, and we all know that stating this is tantamount to shaking my fist at the universe and daring it to fuck with me, in that our son remains generally affable and not assailed with the turbulent hormonal influxes that cause mood swings strong enough to shatter the Richter scale. He’s generally good natured, currently obsessed with making enough money to buy a new airsoft rifle, swimming season, his pending driver’s education class and what type of truck he might be able to get with the savings he's spending on something else when he gets his license, so help me I’m going to need more bourbon next year, and girls.

Ah, the girls, they text him constantly. I don’t think he actually has face to face conversations with these girls, at least any which happen after school has let out. It’s really hard to eavesdrop on a conversation when the only sound is the beep of an incoming text. I’m going to have to resort to reading his messages soon so I can tease him about which girl he is currently infatuated with; for all his affability and openness with his life, he is amazingly closemouthed about the girls. This removes some of the fun of parenthood, you realize.

Giggles may not fare so well in the hormonal storm. She’s being buffeted by the winds of change already and finds herself discombobulated in the maelstrom that is puberty. Just last night, she was alternately cranky and needy. One minute cuddling up next to me while we watched the idiot box and then snarling like a trapped hyena because I reminded her twice that she had yet to unload the dishwasher. And then after realizing that she had morphed into something unpleasant, she came back over to lament that she didn’t know why she was feeling so schizophrenic – her words, not mine, because had I pointed that out she might have popped out my eyeballs and eaten them.

And so we sat, cuddled up close together, in female solidarity discussing hormones and mood swings and ways to find stable ground amid the shifting sands of unseen forces. I think it helped to share my own mental chaos when I was similarly afflicted with pubescent angst and how there were days I couldn’t stand my own company and found refuge in music and books and long ass walks in the woods. Where there were no people to annoy the hell out of me. Because really, sometimes IT IS the people around you. A couple of weeks ago her father, being a man, blithely mentioned that he noticed she was getting curvy in the hip area and I swear the top of her head exploded, flames shot from her eyes, burning him to cinders on the spot, before she stomped off and slammed her bedroom door so hard the foundation of the house cracked. Ace summed up the scene perfectly when he turned to his father and said “Nice going, Dad.”

The good thing is that we talk and talk about the mood shifts and the anticipated physical changes, which my girl is so not looking forward to right now, as a matter of fact she views the oncoming bodily changes akin to handling venomous cobras in close quarters while blindfolded. It’s hard to combat the disturbing reality of breast buds, curvier hips and the onslaught of hormonal tsunamis with a girl who doesn’t hesitate to admit that she’s not sure how to handle all of these changes. The fact that she is willing to share her thoughts and feeling on this tumultuous time with me, and to some extent her Dad, barring any more foot-in-mouth scenarios, helps keep me in tune on whether the girl sitting across the table is the cranky moody girl about to spew bitchiness all over us because her brother is breathing next to her or the fragile vulnerable flower who’s going to cry her way into her room if I mentioned the ketchup smear on her shirt.

It’s a parental mind field I tell you and I really need all my limbs to survive this.

here pussy pussy

There's a few stray cats that live around my neighborhood. I think one or two of my neighbors feed them and that's all well and good, because stray cats that other people feed don't bother me any as long as they provide effective rodent control for the privilege of using my back yard for their hedonistic nighttime forays.

I've been noticing recently that there's one cat in particular that likes to hang around my yard, on my deck, under my deck, under the garden shed and most importantly, right near the back door.

I hear it at night, making outdoor cat noises, skulking about in the unmowed grass (the kid is out of commission for another few weeks and who has time for lawn maintenance?) and prowling the perimeter.

Every so often I get a glimpse of this cat as I let the dog out so she can add another pile of shit on the grass or go have a barkfest with the dog next door. The cat hears us coming, I know it does, and then it just slinks out of sight, around the corner of the shed at the last possible moment, providing a glimpse of its tail, which drives my dog fucking bonkers. With the scent of cat still fresh in her nostrils she goes hauling ass off the deck trying to chase down the interloper, who has already disappeared into the overgrown garden or under the shed, probably chuckling its evil cat heart out at the futile pursuit by the inane canine.

My dog continues to frantically smell every inch of grass and dirt around the shed, looking at me with those big brown eyes that clearly ask "Which way did it go, which way did it go?"

For the next ten minutes the dog will pace and sniff, pace and sniff, trying to locate the damn cat that is, as I discover, sitting just out of reach under the shed, close enough to drive the damn dog insane with the scent.

This process occurs an average of three times a week. I can almost envision the scenario.

Several cats lounging near the neighbor's garage.

Orange tabby licks her front paw and yawns. I think I'll go chase down the mouse that's taken up residence in the abandoned camper two streets over. I like to hear it squeak when it sees me.

Gray cat stretches and flicks its tail. Hmm, there's a small nest in the bushes next to the deck of the red house that leaves the dried kibble out. There's a few hatchlings in it that keep me awake in the early morning. It's time to shut them up now, they're big enough to make it challenging.

Black cat with white tipped tail finishes grooming tail and smiles. I'm going to sit by the back door of the blue house and let that black dog get a good whiff of me. When it finally convinces its human to let it out, I'm going to let it chase me, get really close and then dive under the shed. That stupid dog will circle me for hours. I tease it by poking my nose out just before it gets to the opening I use to get in. You should see the drool run down its mouth when it sticks its muzzle in. Sometimes I scratch it. It never gets boring.

One of these days, the dog will close enough to take a big health bite. And I will laugh.

let's have some proactive legislation, if you please

The post I wrote after first reading this article was a full on obscenity laden rant about the lack of responsibility in our culture overall these days that such a device to REMIND PARENTS that they have kids buckled in the backseat of a car is even a topic under discussion. I mean, really, people need to be reminded they HAVE CHILDREN WITH THEM? But I deleted that rant after I thought some more on the topic and came to the conclusion that maybe this is the right idea. Intervention for the masses that can't be trusted to make the right decision, or see where they have strayed from the path of clear thinking.

Look, we’ve all benefited from the alarm that dings incessantly to remind us that our keys are still in the ignition or our lights are on. Okay, nice convenience, but if I leave my keys in the car it’s my own damn fault and I deserve the inconvenience of finding a way to get them out. My kids are just a bit more important than my keys or leaving the lights on and the car battery wears down. Trust me, I am not so distracted by my own navel gazing that I would forget my kid is in the car in the first place and if by some weird twisting of the time-space continuum that happened, then I damn well deserve for the CPS to come and haul them from my care for being a stupid shit. We all have plenty of things to juggle in today’s insane pace of life, but making sure my kid doesn’t boil to death in a locked car is pretty high on my list of things to do before I walk away from a damn car. As a matter of fact, the safety of my kids is pretty much my top priority and if it’s not that high on every parents list of priorities, I declare that person a suck-ass parent and would welcome the opportunity to smack some sense into them.

While I still hold that such morons should to be bitch slapped, with lethal force, and forbidden to ever have contact with a child again, ever, I thought, since the desire to introducing legislation that reminds people of such a simple thing as TAKE CARE OF YOUR CHILD YOU FUCKWIT PUTZ, there should be a few other items introduced as law that take a more proactive approach to protect people.

You see, much legislation is reactive, as in, hey stupid, if you drink and drive and get caught, then you will be fined and possibly go to jail, depending on the number of times you get caught being a douche. But you see, this is an after the fact reaction. Let’s say we legislate that cars must have a device that measures the blood alcohol level of the person sitting in the driver’s seat and if it is deemed to be above the limit then the car will not start until the drunk shit gets out of the driver seat and someone else, whose blood alcohol level is below the limit, is sitting behind the wheel. Wouldn’t such a device prevent more drunk drivers than just the current standard of “Don’t Drink & Drive” because IF you get caught, the penalties will be steep. Because, let’s face it, this campaign is not exactly effective as there are still too many morons who think nothing of tanking back more than a few and weaving their way home from the bar, putting everyone they drive past in harm's way. By preventing the action in the first place we avoid the entire danger potential. Let’s stop them before they can start the car. I bet more people will stay home to consume their booze.

Based on the success of that system, ratchet that doohickey up a few amps and have the dashboard equipped with a mandatory finger prick, or hair analyzer, that identifies whether the person sitting behind the wheel is thinking about driving under the influence of a few jolts of cocaine, or heroine, or even the dreaded marijuana. Hell, make that in-dash analyzer a full toxicology screening that not only prevents the driver from being able to start the vehicle if found to be so chemically fueled but also lets the seat belt act as a restraint & puts in a silent call to the police and sends a GPS location signal so the police can come and arrest the bozo. Talk about a war on drugs!

If we take this one step further, there should be some sort of monitor, say an anal probe, that would take the inner measure of a person, so to speak, and with a DNA reading, maybe determine if a person has an inclination toward white collar crime, ala Bernie Madoff, that Stanford guy, or that Goldman Sachs exec that is such a greedy slug. If the anal probe identifies that possibility, it shoots a jolt of electricity that rewires the person’s brain so they only want to do charity work for the rest of their lives. Now THAT would be a good a monitoring service and prevent such assholes (heh, get it – assholes?) from living the high life by ripping off the rest of us.

There are really two other monitoring processes that I think would do the world a whole load of good if we could only find a way to develop and utilize. Truly, the benefits here so outstrip the drawbacks, like civil liberties and constitutional freedoms. This would really save the larger populace as a whole from danger and global suffering.

The first time someone decides to dip a toe into the political pool, they should be required to undergo a full body scan and DNA mapping that would identify the mental and emotional frailties that certain politicians have that turn them into self centered sycophants only interested in personal gain, allowing themselves to be manipulated into ruining the economics of a country or becoming fear mongers like Glenn Beck and Dick Cheney. If such traits are identified early one, their eye balls are seared and an electrical impulse is shot through their brain with such a hot intensity that the interest in politics is forever removed from them and they spend their life as far away from any political influence as possible. World Peace, Here we come.

The last and most important one, in my mind, would be the parental test. Somewhere about the time hormones start to surge, the populace should undergo a responsible reproducer analysis. For those that pass, go forth and reproduce! For those that fail, well, see that’s the type of moron that would forget they have a kid in the car, leaving said child to boil in the heat or abuse their children in a variety of ways. Really, this type of scum sucker shouldn’t be given the privilege to create life. In fact, by weeding such fuck heads out of the reproducing gene pool, there will be less need for child protection services, we’d have fewer instances of children left in the hands of irresponsible abusive adults that are supposed to cherish the very children they bring into the world.

I really think some proactive monitoring would clear up a lot of our societal ills. In the interest of fairness all around I say.

They say you can't fix stupid, but I think we can legislate the hell out of it and remove the need for anyone to take responsibility for their actions. What say you?

channeling the crazy

For a few brief few hours this weekend, while in a complete obsessive, neurotic, fucked-up headspace anxiety funk, I channeled the miserable mental/emotional abuse bombardment that my mother used to drop around the house like grenades. It made me batshit crazy back then and it's even worse when I discover it coming from my own mouth.

We’re still cleaning up from the bedroom improvement project, five weeks later. We have one of those pack-rat things in the front yard loaded with boxes filled with stuff, much of it that we have no room for, nor need, now that space has been redesigned.

If the storage box stays in the yard another two weeks, we get whacked with another monthly fee. This project has cost a small fortune already and stupid costs need to be avoided.

We leave for nine days in two days. There are at least four days of unpacking left, to sift through boxes, to diminish the pile of things that need to go back into the house. To lighten up the clutter.

God, I’m sick of piles of crap. I need to stop crap accumulating myself, books, trinkets - no more stuff, please!

All of those things, and a few others, have jacked up my anxiety to new and interesting levels.

When my anxiety is cranked on high, little shit makes me twitchy.

Shit like asking one of the kids to put something away and it just gets tossed into the shed with no regard for where it goes or how it gets put away. My head explodes and I call said kid out to point out how just a few moments of kids precious time could have been taken to make sure something was put away properly rather than just irresponsibly tossed. And I went on for several minutes like that as I banged things around, and bitched that it’s just as easy to do it myself than rely on other people to do a half assed job.

Shit like asking another kid to unpack their boxes and then go into said kids room hours later only to find four boxes in various states of emptiness and little floor space to maneuver. So I went on a rant about how ridiculous this was and how one box should be emptied before the next is opened so it is done in an organized way and why is this hard to understand and do I need to do this myself so it gets done in a reasonable time frame.

And then I proceeded to find fault with just about everything everybody did, or did not do. All the tools lying around that were used and left about, waiting to be put away by someone else, usually me.

My husband had a severe allergy headache and was cranky and snappy and we fed off of each other’s bitchiness and I imagined that being single again might be more liberating. I don’t mean it, but for several long minutes I fantasized about the possibilities of it. And then set about showing him how I felt in a beautiful example of passive aggressive avoidance and cold shouldered belligerence.

I kept going, fueled by the inner anxiety ridden indignation of being tired of picking up after everyone, tired of everyone asking me to find things, tired of pointing out how things should be put back in their places, tired of being my husband’s irritability target, tired of the demands from my kids.

I slammed around the house, bitching under my breath about all of those things, as I picked up this, put away that, cleaned up more and simmered in the soup of my resentment.

And as the fire of my frenzy burned itself out, as it is wont to do, my ugly behavior became glaringly obvious. I recalled the stoic set of my son's face as he endured me berating him for being careless and irresponsible. The shimmer of tears in my daughter's eyes as I railed at her for not thinking things through and being disorganized. I used my tone and words to cut wounds into my kids carelessly and heedlessly in an effort to what? make myself feel better? Justify my shitty mood? Make everyone as miserable as I felt?

Score points for me.

I had just become my mother, emotionally and mentally battering at my kids, deflecting my irritation onto them and in the end making myself feel like the crap I want to throw out, empty and useless.

Once the shock had worn off and the Xanax had kicked in, I apologized to my kids for being such a bitch and we talked about frustration and irritation and how one handles it in productive ways other than the behavior their Mom had engaging in earlier that day. Which makes me feel loads better because that conversation would never have happened with my own mother.

I know how that behavior leaves lingering bleeding wounds. I've spent considerable dollars discussing it with a therapist and I swore that I would not be that way.

It is days later and I still feel like I failed in the mother department, not to mentioned ashamed at loosing my shit and for dumping the mean on them so hard. Since then we’ve spent plenty of quality time together, but I would give up a considerable amount to go back and redo Saturday afternoon. Some damage takes more time to repair than others.

allium sativum, how I miss thee

You know that smell? The scent of garlic slowly simmering, turning a succulent golden color, in olive oil over a medium flame?

And that taste? Yeah, you know the one I’m talking about… that one. Hhmmmm, oh yeah.

I miss it. OH, how I miss it.

At some point in the early 90’s my body betrayed me. Turned on me like a rabid dog. Garlic makes me sick. I have some sort of weird allergic reaction to it now and it sucks.

Since then just about every time I convince myself just a little won’t be so bad, it gets a little worse. I get palpitations, heartburn, gas - Oh MY GODS, THE GAS!- and then I feel like someone beat the hell out of me with a baseball bat.

That’s how I feel today. Because I didn’t think twice about eating an Amy’s vegetable lasagna meal for lunch yesterday.

Last night I had palpitations, a stomach ache, irritability – that could just have been my usual self though- and a general malaise of 'oh just let me lie here feeling like crap'.

This morning I feel like I went on a two day binge with a wine casket and let someone toss me over a cliff after they rolled me a few miles down a rocky incline and used me as a tackling dummy.

I brushed my teeth last night and this morning and the taste in my mouth makes me wish I could scrub my esophagus with a Lysol brillo pad.

This is probably why I developed such distaste for all things pasta tomato saucy over that past few years. I make a phenomenal gluten free lasagna for my husband, which the kids gobble down as well. The smell of it cooking makes me want to puke in my mouth now.

I’m Italian. This is so wrong. I’m supposed to be able to toss back raw garlic cloves as if they were super yummy candy. You know the last time I had homemade Garlic Bread? Shrimp Scampi? 1992.

Yeah, I know, it could be worse. But the way I feel today makes me want to hunt that bitch Amy down and slap her, just a little, for being so freakin’ heavy handed with the garlic.

love to, want to, will

I would really love to attend Blogher 10 this week since it's so close to home.

Failing that, I want to be on vacation, resting my feet in a deck chair, drinking cold hard cider, eating junk food and pretending that I don't have any responsibilities at all.

The reality is that I will be sweating my ass off while we put up window trim, finish floor trim, build a platform bed and try to get the bedrooms finished.

Have some good Blogher for me, will ya?

monday musings

Sometimes when I open up a new document to write a post it’s as if the thoughts in my brain suddenly see that broad white expanse and flee in terror. I hear them screaming as they scramble to vacate my head space. And then I’m left with nothing of real value to offer and you're stuck with random odd musing.

How it is a 15 year old boy can eat his weight in food every day and still retain that “I never get enough food to eat” ribs poking out physique?

How it is a 15 year old boy can master the complex workings of an XBOX 360 controller and games like Modern Warfare 2 but can’t figure out how to operate the washing machine?

How is it that a 12 year old girl can navigate a texting dialogue with multiple friends at once but can’t seem to pour a glass of juice without spilling it all over the counter?

Why am I the one the dog whines at and steps all over to wake up when she has to pee at 2:30 in the morning? Hey Doofus Dog, there are three other people in this house, go wake up one of them next time.

If an item is left lying on the floor, does it only inhabit a dimension that a woman’s eye can see? Because everyone else in my house ignores the random things that fall on the floor as if they do not exist, and therefore, do not pick up.

If I ask you to do something as part of your job and I don’t get it within a reasonable time frame, I will assume you did not do it. I should not have to ask you if it is done, because I already asked you to DO IT. You should present it to me in a timely manner and let me know that the enhancements you added made it better than what I originally requested. Making me ask for it will just irritate me and make me want to trip you as you leave my office.

Dear supermarket cashier, I know your job is boring, I’ve done it. You could at least show some willingness to do your job pleasantly and with some haste because we all want to move onto the rest of our day. Listening to you talk with your co-worker about the lousy shit you are currently calling a boyfriend just makes me think you are probably destined to be a cashier forever. Just sayin’

You know the morning is going to be on the sucky side when the lane you pull into at the gas station is being serviced by the slowest attendant you have ever seen and the two other lanes have had every car leave before you even get to the pump.

There are definite perks to being married to the same man for 17 years, such as the fact that he is accustomed to, and prepared for, how my digestive tract handles the two hot dog dinner I had the other night because I was too lazy to make anything more substantive. He keeps the Lysol within arm’s reach.

There just something about Twitter that escapes me. Maybe it’s my advanced age and inability to think in 140 character bursts or that I’m just not cool enough. It’s probably that last one there.

The similarities of home ownership and having kids: Each need to be cleaned and cared for to remain in good health. The similarities end when the kids learn how to clean themselves.

I think someone stole our recycling container. That’s the only explanation I can think of as to why the damn thing completely disappeared the other day. And then I am left to wonder, Really? the Recycling Container?

If you were the last person to use an item, please don’t ask me where it is when you can’t find it because you put it somewhere other than in the place it belongs. I have enough trouble finding the things I put in the place they do belong.

Aren’t you glad you came to visit today?

self-indulgent wallowing

You know those days where you feel off, not quite yourself and you just want a little space to be left alone to get it all back together again? The type of day where the thought of being cooped up in some remote hole, thousands of miles from just about anything, would be a blessing?

Those are the days my parenting & interpersonal skills go swirling down the toilet.

It was one of those days yesterday, where all day long I was draggy and hovered on the edges of being just a little cranky and a total raving bitch. It’s a fine line, those days. The slightest little thing can ratchet up the irritability and shove a woman to the extreme side of that line, something as simple as the phone ringing. The kind of day where roiling dark clouds gathered in my psyche, making their presence known by the tension in my neck & shoulders, the pressure building in my skull until I was sure it was going to pop as the surging tide bitchy swelled in my chest.

I made it through the workday without calling anyone incompetent, firing anyone or getting fired, but did manage to infer that certain departments should take classes on efficiency, just so they understood what the term really meant.

The ride home was an obstacle course of frustrating people in cars that didn’t know what a speed limit was, how to apply their brakes or their directional signals. Envisioning an opportunity to pull up next to the moron who’d just cut me off so I could tell him just what a moron he was gave me an odd sense of malicious satisfaction.

Going home, where it’s supposed to be all welcome and comfort, was all about Mom do this, Mom get this and Mom, Mom, MOOOOMMMM!!! I love my family, but every time one of them opened their mouth to talk to me, I just wanted to staple their lips shut.

My daughter was all about making plans with her friends for the next day and asking me a bazillion questions, the dog was whining and scratching at me for attention, my son was trying to finagle more XBOX playing time without finishing his chores and my husband wanted his own brand of TLC and attention. And everyone wanted my attention and responses at the same damn time.

As my kids began sniping away, trying to outdo each other in the insult department, the tone of their voices was akin to fingernails on a chalkboard and I growled, literally growled at them, to shut the hell up. When my son tried to wheedle my agreement for a later bedtime by sucking up with hugs and that slick charm he tries to sucker me with – I’m on to you, you know. I watched you develop that skill and know when you’re trying to hose me – I snarled and told him to go away. He called me grumpy and asked what crawled up my butt and went to mow the lawn. At least he was doing his chores, I thought.

When my daughter came over to ask me – again – what time I would drop her off at her friend’s house in the morning, I snapped at her about how the answer wasn’t any different this time than it had been five, no, even ten minutes ago. She huffed at me, grumbled something back about just wanting to be sure and that I didn’t have to be so mean about it.

My husband questioned my bitchy mood when I turned my surliness his way for something a simple as asking me a question. NO MORE QUESTIONS, was all I could think, and was relieved when he went to bed.

Even the dog finally stopped trying to get attention from the rabid human, choosing to curl up in a corner, shooting me cautious glances from sorrowful brown eyes.

They were all right. Even the dog.

I was bitchy, mean and cantankerous. Instead of being soothed by the offering of welcome home hugs and queries about my day, I turned away from it. Instead of taking shelter in the warmth and comfort of people who love me, I tried to push them to the fringes so I could wallow in self-indulgent moroseness.

How dumb can a woman be?

I’m going to blame it on menopausal moodiness and take extra care with the people who love me when I go home tonight. Hopefully they’ll still welcome me home with those hugs and loving smiles and not slam the door in my face. I don't think I'd blame them for a minute if they did.