All things Pissy

This morning I woke up with a serious attitude problem.

Like, I was mad that the sun was spilling through my blinds because I wanted to sleep longer, even though all I've done for the last eight months is complain about the rain. I was pissy because one of the kids wanted to make pancakes for everyone and that involved me climbing up on the counter and getting down the container because I was the one who put it up so high. I found myself displeased with the coffee that was offered to me by Shenanigan's daughter because the flamingo mug gets really hot and since I wasn't paying attention it burned my fingers.

I didn't like the remains of the sleepover that littered the floor of my living room after last night. I had an unreasonable reaction to dropping my shampoo on my foot in the shower. The kids had left their dirty clothes strewn about my bathroom and I have told them five million times to pick up after themselves. Everything was pissing me off, and I couldn't get out of my funk.

I had errands to run and Rawr graciously offered to watch the 5 while I took the older kids to Summer Club. If any of you have ever operated a vehicle on a paved road, I'm sure you've experienced road rage. In an attempt to cure myself from my Personal Punk Party, I just turned the radio up and sang along to the same three songs that every radio station plays over and over on some gawd-awful loop all the live-long day. Surprise, surprise. That didn't help.

I was sitting at the world's longest stoplight EVER waiting for the signal to change and just stewing in my sour attitude when I noticed a man standing on the side of the road holding a sign. I wasn't wearing my glasses (because everyone needs to pay $300 for something they can't ever remember to wear), so I couldn't read what the sign said. More often than not, the signs are all the same.

I absolutely do not judge the folks that find themselves begging for handouts because everyone has their story. Some do it honestly, looking for help, others take advantage. Most of the time, when I'm not acting like a total jack-tard, I remember that life isn't so bad and that things could always be worse. Because of that, I will occasionally carry gift cards to local fast food restaurants with five bucks loaded onto them and hand one out to someone that looks truly down on their luck. 


I didn't have anything like that today so when the line started to move, I just rolled along with it. Ahead of me, a silver car slowed to a crqwl and I felt myself bristle. If that fool didn't get his butt in gear, the light would turn red again and we would all have to spend a second length of eternity waiting for it to change again.


Right about the time I felt my lip curl, I realized the silver car was slowing down just enough to hand the sign-holder something. It was a bottle of water. The man grabbed it, and with a huge smile plastered to his face he yelled his thanks to the driver, who was already pulling away and turning the corner. I felt something in my snotty attitude start to shift.


I made the light and continued on my way. I passed a sign holder wearing a red white and blue wig, dancing like a maniac and advertising for fireworks. The kid was having a blast. I smiled to myself.


I pulled into the parking lot of the new coffee shop that I've been meaning to try and got out of my car. In the jumble of trying to grab my purse, lock the door with my key and stand upright, I dropped my phone (that was weird because I am forever losing that stupid thing and I thought I had left it at home). There was a woman standing on the sidewalk who rushed over and picked it up for me, smiling as I thanked her.


I slowly began to come out of my dark and ugly mood. The coffee shop has a drive-thru and a walk-up. Seeing as how I basically lived in a drive-thru for twelve years, I tend to avoid those. The mere static of an intercom makes my skin hot and my palms sweat and I feel like any moment my boss is going to show up and demand last night's closing numbers and a detailed report of all things Burger.


I was third in line. In front of me was a lady about my age and at the order-window was a man dressed in an army uniform.


Not one to waste a good opportunity to oogle a man in uniform, uh, and also to show my appreciation for someone so dedicated to our country, I watched him as he ordered.


Watched. Stared. Same difference. What. Besides, dude had huuuuge arms. Like, I'll choke Hulk Hogan arms. It's not like I was going to do anything weird like ask for a photo with him. Although...


I wasn't the only one who was watching him with interest because the lady in front of me stepped forward and stated that she would like to purchase the man's coffee as a thank you for serving our country. 


The soldier smiled and declined her offer, then handed his money to the cashier who stood there completely unsure of what to do. The lady again insisted on paying, whereupon the soldier graciously accepted, thanked her and went on his way.


I stood there watching the both of them, looking at their smiling faces and feeling like a complete a-hole.


All morning long I'd stewed on my so-called problems, my irritating attitude and everything else I could silently bellyache about. 


I'd like to blame PMS and feel secure in that cop-out, but I know it's just life in general right now and my inefficiency in dealing with things in the way I originally plan to.


But really? Really?


I do not have it that bad. I appear to be doing a bit better than the man standing on the corner, asking for money. At least I don't have to wear a wig to my job, although that kid was having a blast doing it. And the soldier in line at the coffee shop. No way do my daily undertakings touch what he's most likely experienced.


So yeah.


Today I was shown that I'm a big whiny jerk.


Tomorrow will most certainly be different.

Memory Lane has potholes

Heeeyyyyy there. Guys. Ladies. Relatives.

I kind of feel like I've been a pretty crappy writer lately (what, you noticed, too? Okay, but you don't need to agree with me that quickly. At least give me a false sense of security by shrugging your shoulders and looking away instead of staring at me and nodding your heads).

So. What have I been up to?

Life. Kids. Bills. Distractions.

You have those, too? Crap. I thought I was completely unique in this. I imagined I arrived with the best excuse defense against posting lame stuff and whining about the daily activities of my out-of-control kids.

Fine. I don't know what we're going to talk about then because that was really all I had prepared.

I guess I could tell you about this:

I'm not really sure what it is. I was hoping one of you could tell me.

Or maybe the a-hole feline that keeps eating all of my stuff. Like, right this second he is chewing on my sock while it is ON MY FOOT. He also eats broccoli. I had a picture, but someone in my incredibly disorganized photo file I lost it. Temporarily. Like my mind.

Really, I've been a tad absent because, while there seems to be an abundance of crap happening in my life, none of it would be entertaining for you, Peeps.

I haven't been out in ages, so there aren't any tales of punching a drunk guy or accidentally stealing stuff from Ikea.

However. Rawr and I have planned a camping trip in our very-near future with our families. That should be fun, right? I haven't been camping with my kids. Ever. Last time I went, it was with Elle and another friend when I was 17, they were 15. We forgot something at home, so Rica (nope, never mentioned her here. YET) and I left Elle in the tent... alone with the two dogs in the middle of the woods (relax, it was a designated camp ground. Other people were there)... and drove 40 minutes back to our house. Come to think of it, I think what we'd forgotten was dog food. Anyway, when we finally got back to the campsite Elle was holed up in the tent with the dogs. As we walked up, Elle crawled out of the tent (a little like that chick from The Ring) and let loose a stream of profanity while giving me the Death Stare and refusing to talk to me for the rest of the night. Looking at it now, that was sort of hilarious. In that whole HELLO-your-sister-could-have-been-killed-or-even-worse sort of way.

As I wrote this, Elle passed by the doorway so I called out to her and, "Hey, remember that time we went camping in Potato Patch and-"

Wherein she cut me off and said, "YEAH, I DO," and proceeded to flip me the bird and let loose pretty much the same stream of profanity as the night in question.

Good times. Like when we were kids.

But Elle isn't going with us this time and neither Rawr nor I own a dog, so we should be good to go.

I wonder if they have Wi-Fi out there....

Rustic Charm

Last night, I decided that instead of hanging out in the now-empty neighborhood for the first weekend of summer vacation, I would pile the kids in the car and head off to Mumsie's. Again.

I woke the kids up at 7am, hauled them into the car without breakfast and took off through the pouring rain for a two hour car ride.

Whereupon I spent a fair amount of time listening to "Why didn't you feed us, Mom? I'm tired. Can we stop at McDonald's for a soda? When are we going to be there? How come they keep playing Somebody That I Used to Know over and over on the radio? Did you bring anything to do?"

Riiight. Let's just gloss over the fact that I grabbed fruit for breakfast but they refused to eat it, and not only is drinking soda in my house a no-no, it is ESPECIALLY SO AT EIGHT IN THE MORNING, I don't know and I AM DRIVING THE CAR so figure out a way to occupy yourselves, Spawns.


That was an awesome sentence. The structure and changing of point-of-view is the best.


Anyway.


Along the second stretch of road to Mumsie's house are many places where I always want to pull over and snap a few pictures. The treeline is gorgeous, there are tons of old barns and horses and flowers and country-type things that always make me appreciate God's country.


Vomit-inducing moment is now over. Let us continue.


Since it was early and we pretty much had no agenda once we reached Mumsie's, I decided to pull over at various spots and explore my creative side.


And then share them with you, Peeps. Because I care about your visual stimulation.

My 5 absolutely adores this place. She calls it The Witch House. Can't imagine why.

And then there's this little plot of land that I just love. Every time we drive by I daydream about living there. It's for sale, has 71 acres and I can just see my kids running free in the fields, my mom's stupidly-skittish golden retriever racing between them, tripping them all and possibly causing broken bones. The house could use a little work, but I'm actually pretty handy, if you do recall, so I'm sure I could have it in working order within a very short period of time.

SWEET, right?? And with the shreds of blue plastic stuck to the roof, we're already partially decorated for the 4th of July! Plenty of light, cross-ventilation and it has that rustic feel.

And what's even better, there's a barn on the property. After otally ignoring the DANGER, Do Not Enter signs posted, I stepped closer to get some shots of the inside, but I tripped over a rubber tractor tire hidden in the weeds and fell, so I gave up.

Here's the barn. Also in fantastic shape.

Gorgeous, right? Could use a little paint. Maybe replace a few boards. Lipstick and rouge, peeps. Lipstick and rouge.

And just for kicks, another view of the house, a bit closer.

This is truly a Crafter's dream.

I'm thinking we could hang out in the barn until the house is move-in ready.

Time Out

My house has kind of been insane today.

I did a pretty good job of ignoring it during my shift so that when Elle arrived home from work and it was my turn to run out and take care of some appointments, the girls were good and riled up. Add in Shenanigan's 8 and another friends 2 and the house had sort of a MURDERDEATHKILL theme going on. My 10 and I waved good-bye from the car while Elle stood on the porch with a swirling mass of six kids ranging from ages 9 to 2.

I love doing that to her.

Mainly because I do this for a living while she works out of the home. I realize that this makes us sound like Sister Wives. Say what you want: It works for us. Plus, I get punchy when people try to make fun of us. It's the redhead in me looking for a fight.

This evening, after dinner and general dispensing of kids to their parents, Elle and I took the herd upstairs to bathe them in a rotating fashion. Thank goodness for older kids who can bathe themselves, which means less work for me.

One kid looked like she had a terrible case of Necrotizing Faciitus on her diaper area and proceeded to rub her booty all over everything on the second floor while the two 5s ran (butt-nekkid) screaming with laughter from room to room, towels flying behind them like capes.

You can't really blame me for sidling out and hiding in my bedroom while Elle handled that crap. My kids are older and therefore more self-sufficient. Which makes me unable to cope with tiny Shriekers after more than eight hours.

I tuned out the noise (I am SUPER good at that, by the way) and entertained myself by posting links to Nickelback on Gary's Facebook page and using search engines to look up stuff like "How can I get Chad Kroeger to host an all-night concert in my brother's backyard?"

Eventually I realized the noise had dwindled. And then I became curious.

I peered out the door of my bedroom. Nothing.

That's when I heard it. A faint, weak voice.

Ughh.


Zombies? RUN!

Where is the vacuum?

Cleaning Zombies? Maybe they worked at the Holiday Inn before they got their faces chewed on. That would make sense, because recently I heard that a guy ingested some kind of bath salt, freaked out and ate another guy's face off.

That didn't actually make sense, though, because most of the mess was downstairs in the living room.

Elle? I leaned as far off the end of the bed as I could without actually getting up.

Me: Dude. Where are you?

Elle: [weakly] Heennnnhhhh...

And this is what I saw.

Me: Um.. are you okay?

Elle: .....


Me: Crap. They broke you.

And all I could think was that now I would have to deal with the screaming.

I'm glad school is out this week. I think we all need a vacation from the crazy.

I'm kind of in the middle of something

Hey peeps.

I would love to go on and on about my week, but Elle and I are kind of busy building the tree house up at Mumsie's house.

(Note: I was actually like, a foot away from her face. You just can't tell from the angle. And the saw was totally off. No need to call the authorities)

Now it's just not funny anymore.

The Wedding

So.

Wednesday, Rawr and I went to Pretty Nail to get manicures before I left for Tammy's wedding.

Question: Does anyone else find it slightly disarming that the name of the nail salon claims to only beautify one nail? Like, it's their guarantee that at least one of the ten or twenty nails you subject to their beautification process will turn out alright?

Anyway, believe it or not, I've never had a manicure before IN MY LIFE.

Remember, I worked at a Quick Service restaurant for 900 years. Even if I did get my nails done, they'd look like crap fifteen minutes after waking through the door. Plus, we didn't allow acrylics.

Yes, I'll have a number one, hold the fake nail. Extra mayo, please.


I made Rawr go with me because women prefer to travel in packs.

We walked through the door and were met with the blank stare of the woman behind the counter.

Me: [to Rawr] She looks mean.

Rawr: SHH!

Me: [to lady] Hello. We'd both like to do manicures today.

Lady: [mumble, judging with eyes]

Me: Yes. Acrylics? [looks at Rawr] HELP ME.

Rawr: [checking out creepy card with all kinds of fake nails stuck to it] [IGNORING ME]

Lady: .....

Me: My nail beds are. Um. Thin? So if you could um, just-

Rawr: [slaps card down] Be careful with her nail beds. We both want acrylics.

Lady: [stares, walks away]

Me: [looking around frantically] What do I do, Rawr? Do I follow her?

Rawr: [flaps hand in gesture that I follow Lady]

I follow the chick to the table and sit down in the chair, causing her to snap "Get up, chair not crean!" whereas I leap to my feet and mumble an apology.

Lady uses her hand to fan the air around the chair and gestures for me to sit. By that point, I'm starting to freak out and keep trying to look hard at Lady's face because she keeps mumbling and no offense, but she has an accent and I can't understand her and I'm terrified of offending her.

I sit in the chair, she plunks herself down and starts messing with all kinds of things. Not long ago, a friend had a bit of an incident involving nail files and improper cleaning of said instruments, so I watch Lady intently to make sure she uses clean utensils on my nails. Lady flips the switch on a machine labeled Chemical Fume Extractor and pulls on a mask. Um, HELLO? Where the hell is my mask and exactly how radioactive are things going to get around here?

Lady flicks her hand out at me and I jumps back, but apparently that was my cue to put my hands out for her to begin sawing and hacking things.

I've been trying to grow my nails out, so I'm pretty traumatized when she pulls out the nail clippers and proceeds to chop off all my hard work. Like I said, I've never had acrylics before so all of this was pretty new and horrifying for me.

I think I black out for a while, and then the fumes revive me.  

During this time, a young girl comes into the salon and complains that her nails have fallen off. Of course, I freak out quietly to myself thinking OMFG! HER NAILS ALL FELL OFF! SHE HAS THE PLAGUE! I AM GOING TO DIE.

Apparently, it was just a few of her gels, whatever the crap that means.

While the chick sits there for a repair, my Nailist (?) sits in her chair talking mass amounts of crap in her native tongue. I can tell, because she's speaking so quietly to herself that no one, not even me (who is almost in her lap) could really hear her, and also because she is shooting death looks in the young chick's direction while she files my nails. At the end of her rant, I kid you not, she leaned over and fake-spit into the trash can.

I could not wait to get out of there. I was afraid she was going to file the crap out of my nail right down to the quick.

As we both stood, she straightened up all 4'8 of herself and said, "My nail don't fall off. I work good."

Rawr and I paid and left.

None of my nails have fallen off.

Although I have learned to type with a stick.

Tammy's wedding went off without a hitch. I didn't trip, Tams looked gorgeous, and everything ended beautifully.

A photo? Um... Okay. Here. Check this out.

Yep. Pretty sure my eyes are Demon Red, I actually am that tall, and someone should have told me that strapless bras are NEVER GOING TO WORK FOR ME.

There was a photo of me that was much, much worse, but the beauty of the anonymous internet is that no one can make me post it.

Also, just so you know how dedicated I am, I had to type this entire blog post with a pencil.

It is very hard to type with claws.

Potato Pohtatoh.

I have this friend. He likes to start stuff. You know what I'm talking about, right? The guy who finds himself just a teensie bit bored and decides to eff with people just for his own amusement. Situations of this type usually end with me storming off in a huff while everyone else in the room laughs at my receding form because I can never adequately defend myself. It's really a terribly embarrassing thing to witness.

Sometimes, I can take it. Like when an entirely different person would not drop the fact that he has something terrible against poultry. I was able to carry on with a good sense of humor. Him? Not so much.

So. Back to the first friend. Earlier today I posted this photo on my Facebook Wall. Notice anything a little off?

Peek-a-boo!

The Friend in question commented that "the bedstand is crooked."

Huh. It is not. I looked at the photo. I zoomed in. Whatever. Peeps, I built this thing myself, remember? I almost ended up in prison.

So I disagreed. He countered that it was so crooked.

I put the laptop on the bed and stood up (cracked my head on the ceiling. Ow. I knew that a-hole bed wasn't like royalty, but more like a school-yard bully).

I faced the headboard and looked to the left, to the left (you know you all immediately turned into Beyonce wanna-be's and hummed along) . Nope. Straight. I looked to the right of the bed. Straight there, too.

I sat on the bed and pulled the laptop over, typing in that the bed frame was fine. Friend said the nightstand was crooked, or some crap. I'm still not even sure exactly what item he was referring to. Bedstand, bed SIDE TABLE.... There was not even a nightstand in the photo, really. Then there may have been an argument over whether or not there was a nightstand at all, he tried to make me break my arm and possibly an ankle by trying to get me to kick the nightstand, I pointed out that everything in my room is placed haphazardly and not straight (the frame itself is set about two inches off the wall because I forgot to move it before I shoved the mattress and box spring onto the frame). It was all very intense.

I learned something, though. Never post a freaking picture of your kid on Facebook.

OH! Also. You'll be pleased to know that Tammy is getting married THIS WEEKEND! So yes, I'm freaking out about the heat in California, excited that there will be sunshine, a little nervous that I will spend Friday getting sunburned like a lobster so that I can have sweet fry-lines in Tammy's wedding photos. Also pretty worried that I will drive 14 hours and realize I left my brides maid dress at home, or that even if I do remember to bring the dress that I will trip over a squirrel during the ceremony and end up sprawled on grandpa's lap with my skirt over my head or some other gawd-awful situation. Tammy, if you're reading this, everything will be FINE! Hah! (Ohmigawd no it won't!) 

Pray for me. Or at least start some kind of betting pool about which situation listed above actually happens.

Till Tuesday! 

Scissors: Ban them

Exhibit A:

Negomi. Rawr's kid. Age 4.

The other morning, my doorbell rang. Elle opened it to find Rawr and her kid standing on the porch in the rain, both wearing hoodies.

Elle: Hi. [notcing Rawr's ultra-chic angry face] Uhm...

Rawr: [firey eyes] Look at my kid. [yanks hoodie from 4s head]

Elle: [uncontrollable laughter, fits of giggles and all around dying of hysterics]

Me: [running from living room] What? WHAT ARE WE LAUGHING AT? [gasp] Oh, dear.

For this is what I saw. 

Exhibit B.

 (Kinda. This photo was taken at the zoo, a few days after The Incident)

Apparently, Negomi had spent the morning upstairs in the bathroom chopping off her hair. Notice how close she got on this side. Kind of like a shave.

I can't help but laugh every time I see this kid and we have started to call her "Jimmy," which pisses the kid off but hey, if you don't want to be called a boy, maybe you shouldn't cut your hair like one.

I've been having a pretty rough week. This? Kind of helped. Thanks, kid, for taking one for the team.