Walk-ins Welcome

I can’t remember if I told y’all this or not, but a few months ago or maybe last year* I quit seeing my therapist because she was sneaky and that shit Is Not Cool. (*I don’t know! I’m not good with time. I think it’s because time involves numbers and numbers make my brain immediately shut RIGHT the fuck down.)

The good news is, I’ve found a new, improved counselor, and although she does not take insurance, she does take walk-ins and she’s a great listener.

She’s also probably not licensed to treat mental illness, but she is really good at painting tiny things. Like my toenails.

Moving on.

One day she shared what I thought was a terrific idea. As I tried in vain to hold still and stifle my giggles (I have very ticklish feet) she held my foot firmly and explained that when she is feeling low, it helps to do something just for her, and that looking nice made her feel better about herself. So, no matter what, every morning she puts on makeup, and immediately gets a little boost.

I’ve been extremely depressed lately, and this morning at 4 a.m. I remembered her advice and decided to go for it.

I forgot that:

  • I’ve been wearing the same pajamas for three days.
  • I haven’t washed my hair in five days.
  • I take at least one nap a day.

So. Now it’s 4 in the afternoon and I look like a homeless hooker who just came off a three-day drinking binge.

I’m not gonna hold it against her though. I’m pretty sure the, “bathe and put on pants” part was implied, and not something you would have to spell out unless you were talking to a three-year-old.

Or me.

 

P.S. Did any of you guys have a relative who had a weekly appointment at a beauty shop in someone’s home? I just thought I’d had a goddamned epiphany–I could be better if I spent an hour a week getting a permanent in someone’s kitchen! Then I remembered Steel Magnolias. I’d be the mean, crazy one. Shit.  

 


The title of this post is invisible. Also, nonexistent.

grumpy cat no

What is this? *gasp* I’VE WRITTEN AN ACTUAL BLOG POST?!

Well, kind of. Don’t get too excited.

I’ve been pretty busy lately, and by “busy” I mean “trying new antidepressants, being sick as fuck, and lying in bed staring at the wall.” Also, I’m working on a novel, but shhh, because it likely won’t be done until we all own flying cars and I have a robot brain.

I have been posting sporadically on my Facebook page. Which you should all be following by now. Or, if you thought I’d dropped off the face of the earth, you should go follow this instant. This. Very. Instant.

Okay, so anyway, this morning I decided to poke around here on the blog. To my surprise, there are still about 17 people a day reading old posts. This makes me feel both amazed and ashamed at how I’ve abandoned…myself, I guess. I’ve ignored my own blog. God. Maybe one day I will become an actual person. Or I will get that robot brain and it will work much better than this one. (By the way, I had an MRI done and my brain is actually trying to creep down my spine. It hasn’t gotten very far, which is good, because YOU CAN’T JUST JUMP SHIP, MOTHERFUCKER. We’re all in this together.)

I looked to see what people were searching for that brought them here. Most of them were legit searching for We Don’t Chew Glass! THAT was a very pleasant surprise. Of course, next came the pervs and most of them were some variation of…hahaha, I’m not repeating that shit. But they were gross. Super. Fucking. Gross.

(Just in case you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, my blog shows me what people type into Google that leads them here. So, when a person types “I’m Not That Mom article” into their Google search bar, my blog pops up. The link to We Don’t Chew Glass apparently also comes up when anyone searches for anything containing the words, “pee, sex, prostitute” which is complete bullshit and taken totally out of context. I’m sure those people are extremely disappointed when they click my link. Great, now even “click my link” sounds dirty.)

Here are the latest Top 10 Search Terms, minus anything too disgusting:

  1.  parenting skills and meth

Math? Did you mean math? I’m going to pretend you meant math.

  1. you wont even notic that im jesus

Probably true. I’m not very observant.

  1. something that is not graceful

This is just…not nice. And even worse, there was another one that said, “things that are not graceful.” LISTEN, GOOGLE, I KNOW, OKAY? I KNOW.

  1. am determine to fuck a mummy for money, who is interested?

Not a mummy, I’m pretty sure.

      5. these motherfucking slugs on this motherfuckin porch

This one actually makes sense. I may have even typed those exact words.

  1. I am a shark

This is just the best. I hope the shark liked my blog and is still hanging around. I want to be friends with this shark. It seems bold and confident.

  1. what would happen if we had no glass?

I feel like I’ve put far too much thought into this question. Maybe not as much as the person who searched the internet for the answer, but still, too much. 

      8. do teenagers have to wear jackets in November

Yes. It’s the law. Be sure to film yourself trying to make this happen, because otherwise no one will ever believe you.

  1. will the cleaner fuck my husband

A LOT of people seem concerned about this. From what little I’ve read about people who have maids and nannies, it’s always the nanny. Always.

     10. that is what i want, a perfect prostitue is even better than you, to me, get the point, you are disturbing

There were many, many prostitute searches. This one though. This is a perfect example of how internet searches DO NOT work.

Anyway, I hope you guys are all doing great. I wish I was reliable enough to say I’m going to blog more often, but that would be a big fat lie. Maybe I’ll be “fixed” soon! Right now I’m trying this thing where you only concentrate on the present moment. At this moment, my ass hurts from sitting in this chair and my coffee is cold. So that means…I own a chair, an ass, and a coffee machine. See? Progress!

xoxo,

Steph

 

 


Painting, otherwise known as hell on earth.

I recently decided to paint my kitchen. This is kind of a big deal, because every single room in my house is the same light creamy-beige color. Deciding on a paint color is one of the many things that I find nearly impossible. There are so many choices! So many colors! For someone with a house that is basically tan, I am very much in love with every color there ever was.

Maybe I should just do my house in a rainbow motif.

I don’t even know if ‘motif’ is the word I want, but like many things I don’t know, I’m just going with it.

Also, I hate painting, but I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.

I’ve spent weeks doing research. My kitchen is the second-smallest room in the house, so I knew I wanted the cabinets white because supposedly light colors make a room look bigger.

 

Problems with this:

  1. Do you know how many shades of white there are? An unbelievable amount. A ridiculous amount. An I-should-just-give-up-now amount.
  2. Maybe the WALL should be white instead. And the cabinets gray, like apparently every other human with access to Pinterest, a kitchen, and an ounce of sense.
  3. I can’t make a decision, ever.
  4. I really hate painting.

 

Anyway, I went to the smallest Wal-Mart in the history of Wal-Marts because I am smart and they have a really, really, small paint section, leaving me not much to choose from and making my decision easier. (This is a blatant lie. I went there because it is the closest one to my house.)

I had picked out every one of those little strips with any sort of white (and gray, just in case) before I found STICKY SAMPLES. Yes. This is a thing, and you’re welcome, because it’s fucking awesome and you need to go now and get some. They’re free. But finish reading this post first. Whoever came up with this is a goddamn genius because I was just going to use tape.

So, my entire little kitchen is now covered in different colored sticky paper. It did occur to me that instead of painting, I could return to Wal-Mart and steal all their awesome samples and, BOOM, done. *I just this second realized that idea is basically wallpaper, and I hate that even more than painting. Scratch that. Maybe.

After weeks of staring at the (barely) different shades, realizing that one of the wall colors I’d picked was the same exact color the wall already was, I made my choice. A creamy-ish white with some stupid name like “Arizona,” which, come on, when you think of Arizona you know you think of a rust color. I should name colors. New life goal. Anyway, “Ari-fucking-zona” for the cabinets, and who the hell knows for the wall. A color that is not the same color it is now, that’s all I remember.

I went to Lowes and closed my eyes tightly as I passed the million and one colors available. I had made my decision and I was firmly in the whatever-white cabinet club.

DO YOU SEE THE PROBLEM HERE?

Then the paint mixer lady asked me what kind of paint I wanted. I FORGOT THERE ARE DIFFERENT KINDS OF PAINT FUCK SHIT THIS IS WHY I HATE PAINTING. (I mean, other than the actual act of applying paint to walls and my hair and anything else I didn’t intend to paint but got within 20 feet of me.) Once I started hyperventilating, she picked for me, based on what I was painting and the wild look in my eyes. Apparently, this is something normal people are able to do while breathing. Who knew.

I was really proud that I thought to buy samples for the still-undecided-wall, until I was checking out and realized that I could’ve bought enough paint for the entire wall for the same price as the sample. Whatever. Don’t tell my husband.

Yesterday I was happy with my purchases. I had actually made a fucking decision and I had samples to randomly swipe on the walls because they are just samples so it doesn’t matter! Yes, I know that in 3 years there will still be strange designs in two different colors on the wall because I never made a choice and I hate painting and I probably won’t even be done with the cabinets by then.

This morning I woke up and saw that the sticky-amazing-color-things were still all over the place. Then I threw myself on the couch and sighed dramatically because I’d obviously made a terrible mistake and WHY had I chosen such a stupid color when I could’ve gone with, I don’t know, any of the 10 other ones?! I mean, what about “Amish” or “bisque” or “any other shade of white in the entire world?”

This is a fucking nightmare. This is why my whole house is the same color.

BUT. Even though I am EXTREMELY UNSURE of my color decision, I am even more extremely cheap. I bought it. It was like thirty dollars or something. (It was more than that. You never know, my husband might randomly decide to start reading my blog.) I will be painting the goddamn cabinets whatever color this is. If I hate it, I can always paint over it in 5 years once I’ve forgotten how much I hate painting.

I’ll keep you guys updated on this catastrophe project.

P.S. I just started taking a new anti-depressant and one of the side effects is “impulsive behavior.” So it’s possible that painting the kitchen, re-upholstering some chairs, painting a bench, and turning an old piano into a desk all at the same time maybe isn’t one of my best ideas. OR MAYBE IT’S BRILLIANT. Only time will tell.

P.P.S. I’ve really left this blog to languish all alone on the internets. I feel sorry for it. I’m going to try to do better. Thanks for still being here, you nuts. ❤


And This is Why I Carry a Sword

I have a long and extremely fucked-up history of being plagued by random creatures, living and/or dead. It would take way too much work to fill you in on all the things, so I’ll just remind you that I probably brought this on myself because of that one time when I gave my mom dead hermit crabs for Christmas.
(If you just can’t help yourself, you can find most/all/at least some of that shit around here somewhere.)
Recently, a black cat showed up at our house. (Not Suzanne, for those of you who remember that psycho.) He just made himself right the fuck at home and irritated the shit out of me from the get-go. Then he started killing rodents, which were apparently also living in our yard. THIS ISN’T A FUCKING HOSTEL, ASSHOLES.
Anyway, his sadistic tendencies instantly ingratiated him with my husband, who would pet him and tell him how wonderful he was every time he produced a corpse. I, on the other hand, being a normal human being, would either scream and run or freeze and be trapped, depending on my proximity to his dead rat/squirrel/mouse/whatever he found to murder that day. Lately I’ve spent a lot of time crouched in a chair on the porch, whimpering, “GOOD KITTY NOOOOO GET IT THE HELL AWAY FROM ME OH MY GOD PLEASE STOP JUST GO!”
He loves to torment me with dead things, but he is absolutely joyful when his victim survives until he finds me. Then he can toss whatever it is up in the air while running around me in circles until I die.
So I migrated to the deck because it’s less accessible to my enemies.
I spend a lot of time out there at night, because I don’t sleep well and I haven’t quit smoking for the 6th time yet and at least it’s not heroin, okay? Fuck.
There are a lot of noises out in the woods, but mostly I just worry about squeaks or cat footsteps because the Murder Cat is one sneaky sonofabitch. I can tell the difference between a deer and a possum or a ninja by the sounds they make while blithely trespassing in my yard. (Ninjas sound like silence but when they jump it’s with purpose and cunning, unlike armadillos who can’t seem to control themselves and just leap into the air over any damn thing.)
Early one morning, around 3 o’clock, I heard the sounds of a fierce battle coming from under my trampoline. It sounded like a dragon fighting a goat, but a dragon would have trouble fitting under a trampoline and surely I’ve had enough goat issues to last a lifetime.
It should be a surprise to no one that I ran.
I woke up my husband and told him about the dragon/unicorn/goat fight going on 10 feet away from me and waited for him to be relieved that I escaped unscathed, but apparently 3 a.m. is too early for feelings and he sucks so he just stared at me like I was crazy.
The next time I went outside, there was a deer standing closer than usual to the house. (And they aren’t shy; they get pretty damn close anyway.) It stayed and stayed and stayed for days and days and days and I thought it loved me and wanted to be my pet forever, but then I realized it had a messed up leg and probably couldn’t leave because hobbling is hard in the woods. I guess.
So I forgot all about everything because that’s what I do, but then another time I heard something big-sounding in the yard in the middle of the night and I was in a really bad mood so I yelled, “GO AWAY I HATE YOU AND EVERYTHING IN THE ENTIRE WORLD JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!” Instead of being scared and running away because I am scary and wild animals are “more afraid of us than we are of them,” (this is a lie) it ran toward me. It sounded like thunder would sound if it had feet and was barreling towards me at a ridiculously high rate of speed. This was definitely not a unicorn. Dragons aren’t that fast, plus a dragon would probably just do that fire breathing thing because dragons don’t give a fuck about Fitbits or steps or whatever that weird counting shit is that people are doing these days.
It should be a surprise to no one that I ran.
I didn’t bother with my husband because he “seriously doubts” there was any kind of beast-fight in the yard and he doesn’t know shit about shit.
The very next day I miraculously remembered the events of the previous night, so naturally I decided that I was as good a tracker as the next guy who claimed to be able to track things because, fuck, I can read and I know stuff and also I have a sword. This was brilliant because these creatures don’t come out in the daylight (duh) and even if they did (it would be just my luck for that fucking goat/unicorn to be some kind of anomaly that does whatever the hell it wants, rules of the wild be damned) then I would just brace myself with the sword held out in front of me and let the creature impale itself. Like I said, brilliant.
I immediately found Large Piles of Animal Shit. (I told you I could track like a mofo.) I took pictures even though that meant I had to put down my sword for a minute, because bravery is one of the things I’m known for.
Googling “Dragon Poop, Unicorn Shit, and Goat Crap” cleared up exactly nothing about this mystery, but I did scar myself for life and now there’s a sticky note on my laptop that says, “Be wary of Googling feces.”
Anyway, eventually I found matching shit pictures and it wasn’t a unicorn or a goat or a dragon. IT WAS A WILD BOAR.
I know, right?!

only-not-a-bear

Seriously, I mean, there was a bear here recently (truth) and there’s this humongous coyote with absolutely no fear of automobiles and I think it’s because he’s actually a wolf (werewolf, duh, that’s obviously why it’s not scared of cars and I don’t know why people don’t just listen to me). But even though I know all this, a wild boar still seemed a little unlikely. Nevertheless, I employed my sweet-ass wildlife tracking abilities, albeit from my car because hello, I’m not insane and I’m not fucking with a boar. Driving slowly down the road I decided, based on absolutely nothing, that the boar lived in an overhang near the shit piles.
Armed with my poop pictures, I felt like I had enough evidence of Wild Hog Activity to tell everyone I knew that there was Definitely Absolutely Without a Doubt a mean pig living in my woods. There was skepticism because people are dumb and maybe because my first theory (dragon/unicorn/goat) was a little off.

BUT THEN.

My son revealed that while riding a 4-wheeler he saw approximately 10 baby pigs. (Fucksake, they’re called piglets have you never seen Winnie the Pooh?)
Boom. Wild boar. Go fuck yourself. I know things.
(I did not ask him if he saw them before or after he wrecked the 4-wheeler and sustained a serious concussion.) (I know it was serious because on the way to the ER he told me I smelled good and that’s the first nice thing he’s said to me in 13 years and he’s 14 now.)
We needed to do something immediately, because I can handle a lot of things (no I cannot) but not a feral-ass pig. Especially one with piglets (boarlets?) because then they are vicious motherfuckers. (I already knew this from my research, but also, my daughter decided to be super helpful and, while at a wildlife conservation place, she told the Animal Police about my sword plan without mentioning the fucking sword, but they said it was A-Okay, which is good because what the fuck child, do you want me to go to jail?
Because my body is a bitch and never lets me do anything fun, I had a migraine and was not available to help track this animal. So of course they didn’t find it. Hello? Who knows what they’re doing here, me and my sword or you with your “hunting experience?”
That’s what I thought.
It’s been weeks since there’s been any suspicious activity, so I guess the beast-pig realized that I was no regular human, but a mighty swordswoman and dangerous adversary, and made the logical choice Not to Fuck with Me.

Or it was just a lame-ass wandering farm pig. BUT HOW LIKELY IS THAT?

 

 


One Day

cropped-header.jpg

It’s amazing how quickly things can turn around. How, in the blink of an eye, hope can turn into despair. Things to do become things to be survived. I’m tired of being on this ride that always seems to end in tears.

I woke up this morning in fairly minimal pain. I enjoyed my coffee, and laughed, and thought about how much better I felt today than I had this past week.

One thing. One tiny, insignificant little thing. And now here I am, trying not to cry, trying not to curl up and hide under the covers, trying not to give up.

I can hear one part of me saying, “No, don’t do it. It’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe. IT WILL BE FINE, GODDAMMIT, JUST STOP. Just. Stop.”

But there’s the other, louder part, chanting, “You fucked up. You ARE a fuck up. You are FUCKED up. You didn’t do this, you should’ve done that, why don’t you ever do ANYTHING right, why even try when you know it’s pointless, remember when this happened and this and this and this and this….”

It feels like there are two people inside of me, both fighting for supremacy. But the ugly part is stronger and it always claws its way to the top and laughs at the small, flickering, almost-blown-out flame of the other. Sometimes I think the part that hurts allows the part that hopes to exist, to creep into the sun, just so it can crush it over and over again.

I want to reach back in time and grab the smile I wore this morning and hold it tight so it can’t get away.

No, you know what? I’m not even asking to be happy. I just want to be okay. Can I have just this ONE DAY without the never-ending litany of pain on repeat in my head? JUST THIS ONE DAY.

Please. I just need this one day.


Sewing, like life, is hard.

cropped-glass.png

Was I ever whole?

I always feel like there are just frayed stitches barely holding me together, and one day the entire thing will completely fall apart.

I feel like I’ve wasted a lifetime in fruitless attempts to put myself in some kind of order, but my edges are still ragged and I’m covered in rips and tears and bits of glue.

Forever trying to gather the broken pieces of myself and reattach them in some semblance of a person, I sometimes think the messy repairs and faulty seams are all anyone can see.

I see a broken puppet, controlled by a broken puppeteer, trying to pretend that one day I will find the perfect pattern and, with clean, straight stitches, will sew myself up securely, and never be undone again.


Red Pens and Condoms.

You know how your brain tries to protect you from things you can’t handle? I think mine has been doing that without my knowledge or consent.

I’ve spent the last month dusting my living room. This may not seem like a remarkable feat, but here:

I not only dusted the shit on top of the bookshelves; I dusted the bookshelves themselves AND all the books on them. Then I rearranged the books by author and favorites.

If I made a list of all the household chores that I despise (that would be all of them) dusting would be Number One.

Now, granted, I spent some of that time sick. Migraines, arms not working, back breaking in two (not really). But seriously. I had real shit to do. Shit that actually NEEDED to be done. Like get my kids ready for school, since it STARTS TODAY.

No big deal, right? Right. Except my oldest is going to college, middle is starting 8th grade, and littlest is entering 2nd grade.

So one would think, since a) I’m freaking the fuck out and b) I love school supplies more than almost anything, that I would be prepared. Backpacks. Notebooks. Lovely, lovely pens. Highlighters.  Folders. Every year since the oldest started school, I have had these things for weeks before school started. Backpacks would be packed with carefully labeled supplies. All binders would have little pencil pouches, just in case they forgot to bring a pencil to class. Paper would be stocked inside each folder, and folders would all be a different color so they would be easy to identify in a hurry.

Ha. This year, I didn’t buy shit. I mean absolutely nothing until yesterday. The day before school. So I assume my stupid asshole of a brain purposely derailed me. Likely because I CAN’T STAND THE THOUGHT OF MY OLDEST LEAVING.

Yesterday we finally went shopping. The boys didn’t give a shit about folders or non-scratchy pens, so they went out to the car. I filled my cart with my favorite things, plus bedding and other dorm shit (sob).

I was getting more and more stressed out the longer I was in the store. The last things I needed were red pens and lunchboxes. THEY WERE COMPLETELY OUT OF RED PENS. This was almost enough to push me over the edge, but I held it together and went to find lunchboxes. Of which the entire fucking store only had two.

I couldn’t take anymore. I stood there, lunchbox in each hand, waving them in the air and cursing like a sailor. An employee saw me and I had to explain (while starting to cry) that I wasn’t cussing at him, I was cussing at life. And lunchboxes. He left, looking a little scared, and I sank to the floor. The lack of choices in lunchboxes was apparently all I could take. I sat there in the middle of the store, just sobbing, with two lunchboxes clutched to my chest.

After finally getting my shit together enough to stand up and get the hell out of there, the checkout guy asked me, “How I was doing.” ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? MY HEART IS BREAKING AND SCHOOL STARTS TOMORROW AND YOU ARE OUT OF RED PENS!

We got home and I sat down in the floor, surrounded by school supplies. This is my happy place. I do realize that my middle child is in 8th grade. I didn’t give a shit. I started filling binders and writing class names on the spines and making sure each one had a pouch of pencils and pens. This lasted approximately 3 minutes before he came out of his room and asked for his supply list and all his stuff.

Sure. YOU’LL REGRET THIS WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE COLOR-CODED BINDERS, EACH WITH THE CORRECT RATIO OF PENS TO PENCILS! I’m positive he didn’t sharpen all the pencils. You have no idea how much this hurts.

This morning we took the two youngest to their schools, then I went off with a fully loaded car and child who was not coming home with me. I maintained while we drove (except I got really lost). I was fine as we unloaded. Once again my breakdown happened at Walmart. I may not be allowed back there. This is what I found when I returned to the dorm, loaded with shampoo and soap and condoms. (YES, condoms. Shut up.)

Dorm shenanigans

These kids look like they’ve totally got it together enough to survive on their own. Also, the condoms were possibly a waste of money.

I finally left my baby (yes, the one who is a foot taller than I am). When I got to the parking garage, my car was lost. There were so many levels, I was so tired, I was crying again, my feet were on FIRE…I seriously considered just laying down and rolling until someone ran me over. Then they’d be obligated to give me a ride to my car. Wherever it was.

Do you think I subconsciously blocked out The Big Day? And the directions? Also where I left the car? I’m pretty sure I just pretended none of this was happening until it actually happened. Surely one of you has had a crying fit over lunchboxes? Scared a Walmart employee? I can’t be the ONLY one who has seriously considered rolling down the ramps in a parking garage. Right? 

 

 

 


I’m back and I’m…just like before.

I feel like an explanation is due, since I disappeared for like 500 years. (Sorry.) (HI!)

Well, some pretty awful things happened to some of the people I hold nearest and dearest, and I was very busy trying to be helpful while actually probably making things worse because that is just my nature, as you guys know. I’m pretty sure I have NEVER said the right thing at the right time. Good thing it’s the thought that counts, and that mind readers don’t exist.*

Then there’s this world we are living in and all the people in it who are just breaking my heart and then stomping on it and then maybe it gets picked back up but then it’s broken again and I just can’t understand all the HATE. It makes me feel sad and unfunny and like even trying to be funny is somehow sacrilegious.

Also, I started a new medication that turned me into a zombie, but not the flesh-eating kind. I was a much gentler and kind of a drooling zombie. It wasn’t until I quit taking it for other issues that I realized how much of myself I had lost and that was pretty scary. Especially when people were like, “Oh, but you seemed so much better, happier!” Uh, YEAH, cause LIGHTENING BUGS WERE ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT. Lightening bugs are cool, but no. Not worth it. I’d like to be a person, even if I am a seriously fucked-up one.

So, I think I said a while back that I would ease myself back into blogging by sharing some of my Facebook posts with you. That is obviously not true, because I’m about to do it again. BUT THERE’S ALWAYS HOPE, RIGHT? *waves imaginary pompoms* *wishes I had some actual pompoms*

 

July 20

My husband made dinner last night AND fixed my plate.

I’m sure it had nothing to do with seeing me holding the dish soap over the food, about to liberally douse it.

He’s just really sweet. And probably doesn’t want to eat soap.

 

July 17

I told my 14yo to do the dishes before he went to bed.

He’s been awake since 10 a.m. yesterday.

 

July 7

My 7yo finally found something to keep her busy and semi-quiet.

She’s making her Christmas list.

 

June 21

I’ve reached the point of summer vacation where I’m questioning all my reasons for not sending the kids to summer camp.

I was worried about so many of the horrible things you hear about, and I said no, no, no.

Right now, I’m considering sending them into the woods to live off the land and saying, “See you in August.”

 

June 14

WHOTHAFU–

–What I yelled at the cabinet upon realizing someone had switched a can of carrots with a can of green beans so you couldn’t even SEE the damn corn.

THE CANNED FOOD IN THIS HOUSE GOES IN THE APPROPRIATE ROW GODDAMMIT.

p.s. I know this was done on purpose, and I’ve narrowed my suspects to two.

 

June 10

Me: I can’t believe how stupid this medicine is making me.

Husband: You’re sharp as a tack.

Me:…

Husband: Okay, but you’re not stupid. I’d say… “muddled.”

Me: *laughs forever*

 

June 6

I just walked into the hall closet instead of the bathroom, but caught myself before I peed on the towels.

That means the new meds are working, right?

(I’m not sure if my friend E. meant for her comment to be funny, but I found it hilarious. She said, “We can only hope.” I feel like she was sighing and shaking her head, like omg, that girl. I love it. And her.)

 

May 31

You guys know that I’m a list-maker. I have all these lists of things that I want done, and the things never get done. (Possibly because I don’t do them. Just a guess.)

About once a week I make a NEW list, with all the things from the OLD list that didn’t happen.

Of course, the things like ‘dishes’ and ‘laundry’ are recurring and infuriating, but I usually also find rants and nonsense that I have no memory of writing.

Highlights from last week’s lists:

1. Call fucking insurance.
2. Call fucking insurance AGAIN.
3. Throw up.

(I really hate phone calls.)

4. Yard sale shit.
5. Camping shit.
6. Be calm.
7. Cry.
8. Fucking gnats.
9. Move shit.
10. *something scribbled out with the words “No, fuck that” written next to it.*

 

May 15

I accidentally grabbed a sports bra instead of underwear on my way to the bathroom.

Rather than walk the 10 steps back to get actual underwear, I stared at the bra from different angles, wondering if I could make it work.

It not only worked, but there is a handy strap left free that I’m sure could be utilized for something.

Patent pending.

 

May 6

This morning I caught my cat drinking my coffee. I pushed him off the table and said a not nice thing.

I debated going to get a new cup, but I am lazy and was tired so I decided to risk it.

Also I heard somewhere that a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human’s. Dogs and cats are both pets. This makes perfect sense.

So I took a sip of the coffee. It tasted okay until I looked over at the cat, who was diligently licking his asshole while staring right at me.

I haven’t come up with a suitable revenge, mainly because I’m not very flexible and I would never lick my asshole, even to prove a point.

 

Guys, this is silly, but I have tears in my eyes. I just basically regurgitated my fb posts into a blog post, but IT FEELS SO GOOD TO BE HERE. Thanks for being here too. xoxox

*If you happen to be a mind reader: There’s nothing to see here. Move along.


Yes. Yes, I Really Did.

clean orange

Believe it or not, I have done a LOT of stupid shit in my 36 years. Some of which I will never reveal.

For those of you who put up with my nonsense and sadness and bitching (thanks, guys!) I present my Top 10. Well, at least the Top 10 that I’m willing to admit.

1. Caught a catfish. Not that dumb. Held it up for pictures. Not that dumb. Jumping in the lake after it when it squirmed out of my hands? My God. Did I seriously think that I could recapture a fish, while fully clothed, with my bare hands? I guess so.

2. In my late teens, my friends and I gathered around a campfire at another friend’s house. His parents obviously had no idea that we were drinking. I had so many screwdrivers (that’s vodka and orange juice for those of you with sense enough not to drink that shit) that I was crawling on the ground because I couldn’t walk. I can’t remember if I got hungry or had to pee, but against all reason, I went into the house. I was met at the door by a horrified mother who grabbed me by the shoulders and asked if I was drunk. I, of course, said no. Then I vomited all over her feet.

3. A couple years ago, I stood on a table in my living room for over an hour, waiting on my husband to get home because I thought there was a snake peering at me from under the couch. It was a gum wrapper. No wonder the motherfucker won our staring contest.

4. In my early 20s, a friend and I were out drinking and dancing until the wee hours. When we’d had enough, we headed to an all-night breakfast place because duh. On the way out the door we noticed the shiny glass case holding mouth-watering pies. We bought a chocolate silk pie. (These are fucking delicious, like pudding and whip cream on a pie crust.) I don’t think we had a plan, but I’m pretty sure we didn’t intend to eat the entire pie in the parking lot. At 3:00 a.m. With our fingers.

5. Hit my head on open cabinet doors (that I opened), door frames, a hot pancake griddle, a post that I was leaning against, my car door, the underside of my desk, and pretty much anything stationary in my vicinity. I can’t seem to keep track of where my head is situated in relation to my body or anything else.

6. Again in my 20s, (I’m sensing a pattern here) I got separated from my designated driver and locked out of the car where I intended to sleep until he showed up. Instead, I ended up telling a police officer to go ahead and arrest me if the station had a bathroom I could use. I’m sure he appreciated me giving him permission. I did not appreciate it when they didn’t let me use the bathroom.

7. Filled an ice cube tray with water. Set it neatly in the dish drainer with the clean dishes. Walked away. Came back. No ice. Just water. (This was today.)

8. A couple weeks ago I accidentally sliced the end of my finger with a kitchen knife. I attempted to use New Skin (for the first time) to glue it shut. Turns out, a Band-Aid would’ve been a much better choice. I didn’t read the label, so of course instead of the goo intended to protect wounds, I painted callus remover all over the open cut. Acid. Callus remover is mostly acid. I cried.

9. Yesterday I washed an orange in the washing machine with the dirty laundry. Yep.

10. Last year I went to the wrong doctor’s office and sat there for an hour before asking them how much longer it would be. That’s when they told me that I did not have an appointment. I had to pay the doctor I was supposed to be seeing $150 for being a no call/no show.

I don’t know what the moral of this story is, unless it’s that brain cells are good and you should keep as many as you possibly can.


No One Wants to Hear About Your Dreams

I know, I know, but the name of this blog came from a dream, so indulge me, just a little.

I’m not doing so great right now, and my dreams are like slaps in the face.

I guess if you look at them symbolically, then they have evolved from convoluted-dream-speak to STEPHANIE, QUIT BEING A FUCKING DUMBASS AND LITERALLY SMELL THE ROSES!

We took the two youngest kids on a short trip, an hour or so away to a touristy-town, just for swimming and playing and “getting away.” (Thanks to a certain Nana and Grandma for making this happen.)

Anyway, YES. I had fun. YES. I enjoyed being with my family. YES. I laughed, and ate, and swam, and sat in the hot tub, and had an entire fancy lobby all to myself with coffee already made when I woke up.

YES. I was hurting and needed SILENCE after just a short while. NO, I couldn’t carry any bags or take the stairs; shit, I had to LEAN ON A WALL just to wait for the elevator. (The only reason I didn’t sit in the floor is that my 13-year-old would’ve died from embarrassment and then who would’ve helped me up.)

YES. I freaked out a tiny bit at dinner. YES, I actually thought my server walked away while I was telling her my order. YES, I was surprised to find her still there. YES, unfortunately, I tried to explain my confusion to her and my family.

YES. It was hard, and I am paying for it now, and I’m so depressed today that I don’t even know if it was worth it. I keep thinking back…

How happy my son was in his new clothes, laughing and joking and BEING NICE TO HIS SISTER.

How happy my daughter was, laughing and joking and giddy with excitement.

How SELFLESS my husband was (and is) knowing that he would be the pool-toy, the bag carrier, the kid-chaser, the driver, and did all these things knowing he had to work the next day.

It was worth it.

That doesn’t mean I’m any less miserable today. I won’t detail my aches and pains; I will just say that as someone who basically did nothing harder than stand in an elevator as it went up and down two floors, I don’t feel like I should be in this kind of pain.

We got home late yesterday afternoon. My husband was still at work. I was SO TIRED. The 13-year-old and 7-year-old were somehow NOT tired. The 30-minute car nap that almost killed me revitalized them I guess.

So I told them I HAD to lay down and to wake me up if they needed me and I was so tired that I didn’t even go over my spiel that they usually say with me because they FREAKING KNOW, MOM!

I thought I would drowse a little, maybe just lay in bed and rest but not even sleep, or get a quick nap and be able to think again. WRONG.

The kids tried to talk to me at least 5 times in the 3 hours before their dad got home. Once (apparently) my daughter said she was hungry and I replied with, “WHAT? You want me to brush your car?” I know the kids came in my room, I know they tried to wake me up, and I know that I was NOT awake at any moment that I spoke to them.

It sounds funny when they tell me what I said, but to me it’s also terrifying. Is this some new thing that’s going to happen? Do I need to teach my daughter what to do if I won’t wake up, but spout gibberish instead?

I realize that my son is 13 and very capable of taking care of his sister for a few hours. Shit, SHE is capable of taking care of HIM for three hours.

I don’t know what that was yesterday afternoon, I don’t know why I didn’t wake up, I don’t know why I was saying weird shit, and I don’t know if it will ever happen again. I do know that I feel like a bit more of my Mom Badge was just ripped off, and that motherfucker was in tatters already.

This morning I woke up because of a combination of terrible pain and a dream. Yes, I’m going to tell you about a dream. I’m sorry. I’ll keep it short.

I saw all these HUGE, gorgeous flowers on the side of the road. So many different kinds, so many colors, growing wild even though the ground was snow covered. My arms were full of flowers and I was GLEEFUL. Then I turned to go and my heart sank because there was so much snow that my car was stuck. Back to reality.

(Y’all have NO IDEA how lucky you are that I’m not bustin’ out some Eminem right here.)

Then I had a rilllll shitty morning ending with my husband telling me “You don’t know how much that trip took out of you. Maybe your body was just so exhausted that it shut down. The kids are fine. Please take your medicine and lay down for a while.”

*He didn’t say that last sentence but I could see it on his face, so that’s what I did.*

So THEN…yes, another dream. Shut UP! The last one was super short!

This time I’m looking out my window and I see that the sun has just almost reached the perfect point where it covers the whole pool and the rock in the center where I like to lay. I am JOYFUL. I can’t wait to get down there. Then I get a text from a mom friend about our kids and I can’t reply because the buttons are weird and the letters are moving all around and then I’m frustrated and worried. Back to reality.

 I feel like my subconscious has literally “dumbed-down” my OWN DREAMS.

 

SORRY, SUBCONSCIOUS, I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE.

 

I can’t remember ever feeling as happy as in those two dream-moments.

 

Maybe we never feel that way in real life.

 

Or maybe that’s what joy feels like to “normal” people.

semicolon tat

Broken today, still here tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


%d bloggers like this: