Category Archives: total chaos
…when you’re talking in your sleep…
You are so welcome for that earworm.
I guess we’ve established that I’m not Really Awesome at life and things. When I’m awake, anyway.
Now I have learned a new trick, which is to be a mess even in my sleep.
I wake up every 2-3 hours a night anyway, so you would think that I wouldn’t have time for any nonsense.
But you’d be wrong, because while I may not have being a human adult perfected, I am a master weirdo.
So, a few months ago, I started talking in my sleep. I believe people usually sleep through this. I wake up mid-sentence and look expectantly at my husband for his response…and see that he is sound asleep.
Apparently, I’m able to hold entire conversations with a snoring man.
One night I woke up talking, realized that I was the only one fully engaged in what was no doubt a scintillating discussion, and went back to sleep. Then I woke myself up AGAIN, talking, and this time I was telling my husband what had just happened. Yes. I woke up explaining to snores that I had woken up talking to snores.
I’ve also fallen out of my king-size bed twice, woken up just as I was about to squirt nasal spray in my eye, and had vivid dreams (nightmares) involving denim jumpsuits, the price of cheese puffs, and being unable to move. When I wake up I still can’t move, but once I can, I’m usually so relieved that I’m not wearing head-to-toe denim or cheese puffs that I don’t even care.
The newest inexplicable occurrence happens when I get up in the morning.
Every morning there is a song stuck in my head, a song that I know I didn’t hear anytime recently, so I guess my crazy ass dreams come complete with soundtracks.
First it was Baby Got Back (which actually led to an epiphany. “She got an L.A. face and an Oakland booty.” Not an open booty, which is how I’ve been singing it since approximately the eighth grade. For fuck’s sake.)
Next it was early Metallica. “Anywhere I roam, where I lay my head is home, YEAH.”
After that I woke up singing old school Whitney Houston. “How will I know if he really loves me, I say a prayer with every heartbeat…”
Since I wake up (doing strange shit) all hours of the night, I always think, “screw this, I’ll just get up.” Then I’ll see that it’s 12 or 1 or 3 a.m. and I’ll make myself lay back down until at least 4:30. Then I go sit on the porch so I don’t wake anyone else up, and get harassed by the extremely rude armadillo who has taken up residence under my porch. It’s almost enough to get me to stop singing and go back to sleep, where my husband responds appropriately.
That never happens when I’m awake.
Do you do anything weird in your sleep? Am I the only one who has almost blinded myself with nasal spray? Surely not.
In honor of Slug Season (that’s a thing. A thing I just made up), I decided to revamp this post from a million years ago.
We have a large wooden deck on the back of our house. We also have a drainage problem. And a slug problem. I’m not positive these things are all related, because I’m not a fucking scientist, but I suspect they are.
A few days ago I went out and saw a big fat gross slug on the deck.
Me: Ewww! Did you see that thing?
Husband: No, what?
Me: THE GIANT SLUG RIGHT THERE!
Him: Shit, is that why my shoe is so sticky?
Him: *He heads back inside*
Me: Watch ou—
Yes, the big idiot stepped on it again. Then presumably tracked slime all over the house, I don’t know.
So this story is about four years old, right after we moved into this house.
I woke up early and first thing let the dogs out. I’m lazy, so instead of turning on a light or possibly paying attention to what I was doing, I just stuck my hand out in the dark to get the water bowl.
I didn’t look at it until I realized that my hand felt….slimy. My only defense is that I hadn’t had coffee yet. And that I am an idiot.
There. Were. Baby. Slugs. On. Me. MANY TINY SLUGS TOUCHING ME. TOUCHING ME!
This was when everything started to get a little blurry.
The dish was no longer in the house, so I can only assume I threw it.
My robe was in the hall floor. I vaguely remember ripping it off and sprinting into the kitchen while my ever-so-helpful husband just stared.
He says he thinks I was gagging. I really couldn’t say.
I do know that while I was in the kitchen scrubbing vigorously at my gooey hands (OMG, I might barf and this was like 4 years ago) he widened his stupid eyes and pointed at my back.
I very rapidly became naked and then equally rapidly became violent, once I realized he was a lying shit.
After I felt relatively clean, I calmed down to a state of shock, just staring blankly and mourning my lost innocence.
Him: *trying not to laugh, but not trying very fucking hard*
Husband: *snicker snort* So. What are you doing to do with your robe? *innocent face*
Him: You just going to leave your shit laying there in the floor so all those slugs can just wander off all over the house?”
Me: *glares the glare of a thousand deaths*
Husband: *does not die or even be mildly injured*
He was clearly not concerned about my safety, sanity, or aversion to animated slime.
Me: Obviously the only logical thing to do is burn the robe.
Him: I KNEW you would say that. It’s not a fucking vampire, Stephanie. You don’t have to cut its head off, burn it, and bury it wrapped in chains.
Hmmph. I guess it’s just as well I didn’t tell him my whole plan, which was to burn the robe and then the front porch.
This is war, motherfucker. My perimeter has been breached.
I’ve been sick the past few days, first with a migraine, then a serious allergic reaction which then caused another migraine. So I’ve just been a mess. I haven’t washed my hair or changed my clothes…I’m pretty fucking gross right now. But I have managed to brush my teeth at least once a day, so I feel like that’s a win for everyone.
Anyway. Before, during, and after a migraine I am always very slow thinking and confused. During an allergic reaction my blood pressure drops so I’m stupid then too.
So yesterday I sent a Facebook message to my friend Tara, but then I took a nap. When I woke up I was already out of my mind because I was getting a migraine AND I was super tired. I HAD JUST WOKEN UP, PEOPLE.
Sometimes getting in the bathtub helps my migraines. So I had napped…um…not clothed.
I woke up and saw that I had a Facebook message. I took my phone into the bathroom like people do and tried to read my message. Naked. While peeing.
SOMEHOW, instead of just showing me a message, I heard a strange ringing sound…not like a phone call…but kind of like a phone call. I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know if I had called someone, and if I had, then I had no idea who it might be. Suddenly I had this horrible thought that I might have just started a video chat.
I panicked. I admit it. I was NAKED, CONFUSED, and SITTING ON THE TOILET. So I threw my phone across the room. I cannot think of a single Facebook friend who I would want to see me naked, taking a piss, and barely coherent.
As I finished the details of urination, I heard a VOICE from my phone saying, “Hello? Hello?”
Now, the phone was facedown on the floor, but it has the back camera. And I still wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. I was still sure that I was not wearing clothes. Was someone looking through that little camera? Were they getting an upward view of my stuff?
I was losing my shit for real, you guys. Losing it. I reached my arm as far away from me as I could, grabbed the phone, and ran back into my bedroom. I wasn’t thinking straight. Did I mention that I was still naked? I did what I assume any normal naked adult would do, which was shove the phone under some blankets and make a run for it.
After I found some clothes and tried to shake the cobwebs out of my brain (didn’t work), I delicately pulled the phone out and looked at it. It seemed okay. No voices were coming out of it.
I checked my messages and I had one from Tara asking if I was okay.
I answered back with, “Oh my fuck, did I just CALL you?”
She was like, “No, idiot.” So I told her what had happened and that I was scared to even touch my phone, and that I’d get on my laptop and chat.
Then, when I opened up messenger on my computer (phone safely shoved under a pillow) this is what I saw:
Obviously, I assumed this was her response to my accidental nude toilet video chat with who knows.
But. Tara says, “Wtf is that? I’ve never seen this in my life.”
I didn’t do it, she didn’t do it, Facebook was watching me pee, it was just too much. We agreed to put tape over all our cameras, hide our phones when we pee and/or are naked, and wear foil hats just in case.
I told her the whole debacle and said, “I’m sorry if you saw me peeing.”
She laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And then finally told me that she DID NOT see me on the toilet. Whew.
She informed me that her phone had made a weird-ass noise and said it was me, voice messaging, so she did the obvious and answered it. Thankfully, she said the cameras were off. But that’s kind of an awkward situation, so maybe she was just trying to be nice instead of saying MY GOD you need to do some fucking landscaping and maybe stop eating so many poptarts!
Facebook was scaring me, but I was very thankful that nobody had to see me naked.
Then Michelle starts fucking with me, and I hear my phone making that weird ringing noise again and I almost run away from home and phones, and then my screen says Video Call so I just stared at it and nothing happened, although I DID have clothes on this time so I guess it would’ve been ok.
She’s all, “I wasn’t messing with you, I just wanted to see what would happen.”
WELL, MICHELLE, NOW YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS. I AM TRAUMATIZED FOR LIFE.
Michelle: We’re like cavemen seeing fire for the first time. AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH RUN AWAY!
Me: What happens if I do this….*jumps back and screams*
She had to go do grownup things like go car shopping with her husband without stabbing him. So she told me bye and to try not to show my twat to strangers.
I told her I could probably do that, but I didn’t think she could. (The car thing, not the twat thing.)
Then she had the bright idea that maybe she should do the twat thing while negotiating. “They might give us a discount if I just put it away for godsake.”
Me: If they aren’t giving you a good deal, just flash your vag. Do it.
Michelle: I will.
My 6-year-old has approximately 15 loose teeth that she refuses to pull out. She’s my third child, so…whatever. I have more important things to worry about, like whether I should use markers or colored pencils when I’m creating masterpieces in the coloring book I stole from her.
Perhaps I should’ve paid more attention to the tiny fucker. (The tooth, not my kid.)
It was a simple trip to get ice cream. Thing 3 took two bites and declared that it was “too hard” and “was making her tooth fall out.” ICE CREAM? Ice cream is too hard? Seriously?
So I had to eat not only my own ice cream, but hers as well. Because I’m not about wasting money.
After that, we went to the store and like every other damn time we’re in public, she started regaling strangers with our life story. As usual, I held my breath and prayed that she wouldn’t burst into song, since she apparently thinks her life is a Disney film and my boobs are a good subject to sing about.
She started talking about her tooth so I said, “You should just pull it out so Santa Claus will come tonight.” I recovered gracefully, as always, and shouted, “NO! SHIT! I MEAN THE TOOTH FAIRY! The tooth fairy will come. Not Santa.”
Jesus. The little hustler took advantage of my confusion and added a chocolate bar to our cart.
I organized my bags just so, unaware that my cart and my sweaty butt crack were blocking an entire parking space.
I was ready to get the fuck home.
The candy bar was a gooey, melted mess by this time. Because I am a genius, I handed it to her, telling her that if she HAD to have chocolate, she’d just have to lick the wrapper. I know. I know, okay?
I’d just pulled out into traffic when I heard, “My toof!” I glanced back and decided that I wasn’t cut out to be a mom.
The tiny maniac, grinning and covered in blood, chocolate, and tears, proudly handed me her tooth. I put it in my purse, handed her napkins to bite down on, and took the liquefied chocolate from her gross little hands. Thanks to my unparalleled grocery placement skills, I knew right where the wipes were, so we were able to clean ourselves up a little.
I breathed a sigh of relief. We survived all that, while I was navigating through heavy traffic, and I handled it like a pro. Don’t tell me I’m not mother of the fucking year. Ha!
The mental high fives came to a screeching halt when we came up to an intersection with a flashing yellow arrow. We were in the middle of a left turn when flashing turned to not flashing and cars started coming at us from every direction.
What. The. Fuck. WHAT’S WITH THE YELLOW ANYWAY? In my day, yellow meant slow down. This was bullshit. Just then, my daughter stood up, leaned towards the rearview mirror, and said, “I’m going to look at myself. I can do that because you never buckled me in.” ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
With complete control over myself and the situation, I yelled, “FUCK!” Then, “Sit down. Oh my god. Sit down.” We made it out of that godforsaken intersection and I pulled over.
Seatbelts on, I was pulling carefully back onto the road when my husband called. I thought I would tell him what we had just been through, and he would laugh and not be appalled that I even had a driver’s license.
I should’ve known better.
Just as I answered the phone, the forgotten bloody chocolate disaster slid off the dash and into my lap. “SONOFA…Here. Talk to your daughter.”
Somehow we made it home in one piece, WITH the tooth, and I’m never leaving this house again.
Can you explain this yellow flashing light bullshit? What’s the grossest mess you’ve had to deal with while driving? Can my kids come stay with you for the summer?
I live in the wilds of the Ozark Mountains. To get to my house you have to travel over five miles of pitted, rutted, washed-out, tire-slashing dirt road. That’s after you’ve made the 50 mile journey from the nearest town that boasts a stoplight.
I like the seclusion. I like the beauty of the woods and the mountains. I like the silence and the wide open sky at night. I like to hear the frogs in the pond and the coyotes in the woods.
I like to be able to wander around my yard dressed like a hobo or a hooker and not worry that people will see me. I like to be able to puke outside when I’m sick because I don’t approve of putting my face close to a toilet. I like to turn my music up really loud and sing even louder.
I even like watching the wildlife. From a distance.
I do not like any living creature to be in my house without my express invitation.
Tolerable Inside The House:
1. My kids.
2. My husband.
3. My cat.
4. My ferret (although he’s pushing his luck).
Tolerable Outside The House:
5. Squirrels (although those sneaky bastards bear watching).
6. Anything else that doesn’t try to come in my house.
INTOLERABLE IN MY HOUSE:
1. Your kids.
2. Probably your husband.
3. Maybe you, depending.
6. Slimy things I can’t think of the name? Right, slugs.
That last list may actually be longer.
You probably think I’m overreacting.
I’m thinking that houses just aren’t built like they used to be.
Obviously, I’ve written about my horror upon encountering uninvited guests. I’m beginning to think this is some kind of hang-up of mine; like arachnophobia, only it’s all-living-thingophobia. Or something.
Anyway, yesterday I was getting ready to take a bath. My bathroom has a walk-in closet, so while the water was running, I was looking for something that might fit me.
I found a big plastic tub (sealed, mind you) labeled “summer clothes.” I was thrilled to find some shorts that looked like they would work, but I wanted to be sure before I washed them, so I tried them on and looked in the floor length mirror.
They were a little tight, but I was confident that with
hard work and a healthy diet luck they’d be fitting better in no time.
I was smiling at myself in the mirror when I saw it.
It crawled out of the waistband of the shorts and down the front as I stared, paralyzed in horror.
It had gone the length of the shorts and was headed toward my bare leg when I finally sprang into action.
By “sprang into action” I mean “threw my hands up in the air, screamed, jumped around frantically, and ripped the shorts off.”
I saw it scamper under the bathroom door and into my bedroom, which I COULD NOT ALLOW. I threw the door open, grabbed the first thing to hand (black Converse), and began tearing my room apart to find the dirty creep who sneaked into my pants.
I didn’t catch him insomuch as he caught himself. In his haste to escape the swift justice of my Chuck Taylor, he ran right onto a glue trap.
Which was when I stood up, triumphantly wielding my shoe of destruction, and realized that I was standing directly in front of the large, wide open windows in my bedroom. Completely naked.
Do you live in a bubble or wish you did? Are you like me or do you keep creepy-crawlies as pets? *shudders*
Yesterday was my anniversary. Neither I nor my husband remembered it until my mom told us congratulations. This is just one example of how bad my memory is. I’m telling you this because I’m about to share some comments from my
smartass loving family, and I can’t remember which ones I’ve already posted. Basically, it’s two times the funny. Or a rerun and you’ll wish you had changed the channel.
Husband: I think I confuse you sometimes. It’s like you just don’t get what I’m trying to tell you.
Me: *Argues for awhile.*
Me: Whatever, you’re confusing me.
Husband: Um. That’s what I said.
Me: *Hears something fall in the kitchen*
Thing 2: I found a great place to put the sausage.
Me: *Ignores him*
Me: *sees something nasty hanging half out of the ice dispenser.*
Me: What on earth is that?
Thing 2: Oh! That frozen tube of sausage fell out and I found the perfect spot for it!
Thing 2: *Goes on his merry way*
Me: So this is a tube of sausage that has been hanging out of the freezer all day.
Thing 1: Is no one going to address the fact that he is a dumbass?
Me: *almost wet myself laughing, try to get rid of mushy, thawed sausage, almost cut my hand off, can’t figure out what to do with it.*
Husband: Is no one going to address the fact that he gets it from her?
Thing 1: *Looking at his ACT admission ticket.* What is this on the back?
Me: Oh. Well, I ran out of paper so I had to print it on part of a book I was reviewing.
Husband: You can’t do that.
Me: Why not? It’s fine.
Thing 1: The first line is, “terrorizing the city or some such bullshit.”
Me: They don’t need to look at the back. They just need the front. Who cares?
Thing 1: *I* care! This is my future we’re talking about here!
Husband: *nods knowingly*
Me: *muttering* I was just trying to be resourceful.
Thing 1: Don’t do that!
Husband: Don’t ever do that.
Daughter: When I grow up I want to have kids but I don’t want a husband.
Me: *seeing opportunity to teach her to be a strong, independent woman* You don’t have to be married to have babies. There are special doctors you can go to who can help you have babies without a husband.
Her: Really?! Will you take me there?
Me: *Fondly* Of course I will.
Her: And then I can live with you and Daddy and you will help me take care of my babies?
Me: Uh. I guess so?
Husband: So, do you want our daughter to be an unwed teenage mother who lives with us so we can raise our grandchildren?
Me: I think I’ll pick up the yard tomorrow.
Husband: I don’t think so. You’ll be hurting for days afterward.
Daughter: You can’t work outside because Daddy said so.
Me: *seeing opportunity to teach her to be a strong, independent woman* No, I can if I want to, because I am a free woman and I don’t have to do what any man says. And when you grow up, you will be the boss of yourself!
Her: *excitedly* DADDY! Mommy says she’s a free woman and she doesn’t have to do what you say!
Husband: What? Oh, okay. Pick up the yard then. You want to weedeat too? Or do you want to load the old washing machine into the trailer? Since you’re a free woman?
Me: Um. No thanks.
Her: Will you get me some more milk?
Me: Go ask your dad.
Her: *excitedly* He said you are free to get me some milk yourself.
Reasons That I Should Be Supervised At All Times
1. I wrote a bunch of stuff with a black ink pen, then went to see my psychiatrist. She suggested increasing my meds. I did not realize until I got home that I had ink tattoos all over my cheek, chin, and neck.
2. *Home alone, untangling cords*
Me: *screams* I will fucking kill you!
3. *Home alone, cleaning up bits of deodorant out of the carpet*
Me: *cries out to universe* WHY? WHY?
4. *Uses visual aids to demonstrate the Monkey Kingdom movie*
Me: It was so disturbing. All these long, floppy nipples and monkey penises everywhere! They all had them!
Husband: Yes. All monkeys have nipples and penises.
Me: Well, I don’t think it was appropriate for kindergarteners. They should’ve shown the one about tigers.
Husband: Did any of the kids say anything?
Husband: So there were hundreds of 6-year-olds and you were the only one concerned with monkey parts?
Me: I think maybe that one little monkey pervert jerking it at the zoo must’ve scarred me badly.
I have three boys—two children, one husband—and I can say with some authority that there is no other creature who can be at once so adorable and so utterly disgusting.
I’m not saying that girls can’t be super gross. I have one of those too and she peed in my bed last night and once blew her nose into her own hair. So girls have their moments, but for the most part I don’t think they come equipped for maximum bathroom carnage.
I rarely use the boys’ bathroom because I don’t like sitting in other people’s urine. Or my own, for that matter. Also, even if I was in a desert with no food or water, I would never drink my own pee.
I’m getting a little off track.
Anyway. Men supposedly lift the toilet seat up and leave it up and that is a big problem in other households. In THIS household the only problem is a huge lack of aim and probably laziness. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they just lift the fucking seat and point the urinator at the toilet bowl? I just made up a word. But seriously, who just pees everywhere, willy-nilly, and doesn’t even care? Boys, that’s who.
Our house has two bathrooms. Two of my boys currently have some sort of facial hair. At no time is either bathroom free of small, wiry hairs decorating the back of the sink, the cabinets, the walls, the floor, and even the mirror. Neither of my boys can shave or even trim an area the size of half a head without the sink looking like they tried to shove Chewbacca down the drain.
As bad as I hate to, let’s talk about shower etiquette. Now, there are some things boys may or may not do in the shower that I don’t want to know about AT ALL, let alone talk about.
But there are some things going on in there that can be heard from two rooms away with the water running full blast, and I ain’t talking about singing.
I shudder to even speak of this, but here we go. Blowing of the nose IN THE SHOWER FOR FUCK’S SAKE! WHO DOES THAT? BOYS! BOYS DO THAT!
The sound alone is enough to send me gagging, but what really grosses me out is the left-behind-evidence of this shower boogerfest. It is so awesome when I am taking a relaxing bath and someone else’s snotwad floats by.
But. Even though they are often filthy, sweaty, hairy, and stinky, they are my boys and I couldn’t live without them, no matter what that rotten odor is coming from their bedrooms or their butts.
As you can see, I survived the Holiday Season, fraught with human interaction though it was. It has taken me this long to reach some semblance of recovery…you know, back to my normal state of pajamas and pony tails and questionable hygiene.
I’m just going to dip my toes into the blog in this first post, and maybe next time I will plug my nose and jump all the way in.
Here are some of the Most Ridiculous Things my family has said to me during my break.
Thing 1: I slept for like 13 hours!
Me: I know. I thought about waking you guys up, but I knew you’d want me to feed you.
Thing 1: Wow…the maternal instinct is so strong…I can’t even.
Husband: *speaks only in puns for a damned hour*
Me: Your puns are not making me happy.
Thing 3: Boogycalla.
Thing 3: A long time ago, ancient people used that word for ‘hello.’
Me: I hate everything that’s on my desk.
Husband: You also hate everything that’s not on your desk.
Me: Excellent point.
Thing 1: So…food?
Me: It’s one o’clock. I’ll make dinner at dinnertime.
Me: I can’t feed you twice a day! WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM?
Me: Anyway, dinner is the most important meal of the day.
Thing 1: We’ve been talking for like 10 minutes and you’ve lied to me three times.
*You may have noticed a theme here regarding my children and their near-constant demands for nourishment. I don’t know if all kids are like this, but mine like to eat at least 12 times a day. I personally don’t care how much they eat, it’s how much they expect me to cook that appalls me.
I would like to point out that these kids are 16, 12, and 6.
1.5 of them are fully capable of cooking for themselves without supervision.
**Thing 2 is missing from this post because all he says anymore sounds to me like, “Football, football, yardline, pass, interception, football, that guy, football, some guy, Madden, football, football, football.” It is barely English.
Operation Thanksgiving was a success, thanks to my mother and my mother-in-law (the cooks), two bottles of champagne, and many pies.
There were so many pies that my subconscious has woken me up every night at midnight to eat
a slice two slices. I consider this taking one for the team. The pie team. Of which I am the leader.
Now with Thanksgiving barely over, the time for Holiday Shenanigans has commenced.
I have to LEAVE MY HOUSE every day for the next four days.
Let that sink in.
Although I do want to see my daughter sing today and I wouldn’t miss Thing 1 in the play and I’m sure the band program of Thing 2’s will be phenominal…I would much rather watch these things from my couch. And let’s not even speak of the parade.
Can you even imagine the amount of bathing and getting dressed this is going to entail? More than I’ve done in the last week, I can tell you that.
Then you throw in that it is cold and rainy outside and when it is cold I don’t like to get out of my bed. I may be part bear.
And I have to wonder how I will make an ass of myself at these various functions. SO many opportunities to be weird and awkward!
Being an introvert with anxiety almost guarantees that I will say or do something idiotic…in public…with no place to hide.
I’ve narrowed it down to two possibilities. The first and best-case scenario is that I won’t speak at all and will avoid eye contact with anyone I didn’t give birth to. If cornered, I will answer questions only with “yes” or “no” and will fidget and bolt at the first opportunity.
The second and least desirable and therefore most likely is that I will start nervous talking. This is the one I’d really like to avoid because once I start nervous talking, I can’t be stopped and my subject matter leaves much to be desired. For instance, I need to not talk about the zombie apocalypse and the fact that once the meds run out I will be a dead weight but I still don’t want to be eaten so I’ve been practicing with a sling shot, the only weapon I will be allowed. When people say, “How have you been?” I’m pretty sure that is not the answer they are expecting.
I also shouldn’t talk about my pets bowel habits (though they are very interesting) or say, “You are making me anxious.” and then walk away.
Basically, the next four days are a damned social minefield and I’m not fully equipped to navigate it. Or even partially equipped. I have no equipment.
Are you already sick of holiday engagements or is it just me? Is crawling under a chair a viable option in an auditorium?