This is what you get for cheating

Dear Fast Food Worker Who Thinks She needs Fifteen Bucks An Hour:

Hi there. You might remember me. I'm the chick who came through your drive thru and mispronounced 'Mocha Frappe' because I was distracted by an 8 year old singing to her new stuffed animal in the back seat, and a dog in my front seat who smelled your carcinogenic french fry vapor wafting through the air conditioning vent and decided he needed to climb halfway out the window just to get a few good whiffs. Don't think I didn't notice your pause before correcting me: "You mean the FRAP-AYE?" Whatever. In this day of Diet Don't's, you had what I wanted: caffeinated diabetes in a plastic cup, topped with sweet, sweet processed sugar. Plus, I noticed, from 2 to 5pm, you offered this sugary shizz at a dollar discount. Score. It was only going to cost my debit card a dollar and a half, but the Regret Hangover was something that would stay with me far longer. I forgave your tone and pulled to your window. This is where I made the decision that I hated you.

"Oh, hey, I think you forgot to discount the mocha." I showed her my receipt.

Without looking, the girl shook her head and told me the girl at the first window should have discounted the order already.

I waved my receipt. "But she didn't."

Silence,

Hm. As a sanctimonious former fast food worker myself, I understood where she was coming from. It's the after school rush, probably someone called in, maybe she's about to get off work and has 3 things she has to do before her manager will let her go home, or it could be that she got called in on her day off and wasn't even supposed to be here... again, whatever. I get it, girlfriend. I lived that life for longer than I care to admit. What I didn't get, though, was why she shrugged and kept on going about her business.

I wear my customer service scars in the form of a smile and polite tone when I interact with those in the business, because the public is a bunch of assholes who want everything for a dollar and they want it 5 minutes ago. There could be any number of reasons why she was too distracted to look at my fucking receipt and just adjust the price, but I assure you, my tone of voice was not one of them.

She returned to the window and held my drink out to me. I sat there with my Scar Face on and just waited. She didn't move, so I slowly held out my receipt and turned my mouth into a smile that didn't reach anywhere near my eyes.

No movement on her end, so I narrowed my eyes into little slits.

I could feel my 8 year old grow still in the seat behind me, and I just know she was trying to telepathically warn Burger Girl that shit was about to get real.

I never, ever, EVER reveal my past life as a manager of fast food. That's like bragging to someone that you once spent 12 years treading water in a cesspool, but it was okay because you were wearing a rubber jumpsuit.

And I wasn't going to say anything like that to this girl, because it would only have pissed her off. However, there was an opportunity to retrain this little witch over the effortless way to correct an innocent mistake on their end. Hell, I'm the one who handed over my debit card without paying attention to the price. Oh, wait, that was because they never told me the price, they just asked me to pull forward, then swiped my card and handed me my receipt and waved me forward.

So, Longview McDonald's, I'll let you in on a little secret.

YOU SUCK AND YOUR FRAPPE WAS GOOD, BUT I WON'T BE BACK BECAUSE 

A) MY WAISTLINE CAN'T HANDLE IT AND 

B) YOU AREN'T VERY NICE

Also, that's what I get for cheating on my clean eating, organic foods lifestyle.

At least I don't do Cross Fit.

Threat-level? Possibly Orange. I'm not really sure what that stands for, but it sounds bad

Cough.

Uh, hey guys. What's up?

Me? Oh, you know.... yeah, so I could totally see how you may have thought I abandoned Eloquence or died or maybe just, you know, created a super-fantastic new thing-a-majig that just occupied all my time or something but...

I started a new job. It was more of a lateral move. Like, you know how I used to manage a fast food restaurant, which is kind of like the Dollar Store of restaurants? So I kind of took a retail job that isn't exactly a job AT Dollar Tree, but something like it. Not that there is anything wrong with where I work now or where I did before. I'm still going to school full-time, almost done with my AA and then I'll move on the my Bachelor's so at least I'm still moving forward.

It just wasn't a dream of mine to work with the public. Like, ever. But here I am again, facing them every damn day. I've gotta say though, you would be REALLY surprised how friendly my customer's are when compared to those I dealt with in fast food.

Anyway, so I've got to tell you this.

On my first day, they were giving a group of us a tour around the facility. We were going through all the safety regulations, blah blah blah, nothing new, until we reached the back where the cardboard crusher was. It's this giant machine that eats cardboard and flattens it out. After stressing the point that we don't belong IN the machine, I looked around to see if any of my new co-workers looked like the type who were so severely dumb that they thought playing in a giant pancake maker would be a grand idea. They were all nodding along, so I shook my head for a sec and refocused. We moved on to the tools available for cutting down the cardboard and a few cautionary statements from the supervisor:

1. Always cut away from yourself, never toward (makes sense. I enjoy all 10 digits on my hands).
2. Never throw a box knife, especially with the blade extended. Box knives are not to be used in a threatening manner. Ever.

Wait, WHAT?

Who the fuck am I working with, Charles Manson? Ninjas? I shot a glance around to see if anyone else was alarmed at the news that we would be armed with shivs.

I mean, I can shank someone with the best of them (I guess, I mean I've never actually HAD to, but I think I would do fairly well in battle as I am built quite sturdy).

Plus, you KNOW they had to use that warning because it had already happened and they were trying to avoid another incident.

I caught the eye of a girl who was standing a few feet away and watched a slow smile spread across her face. I raised an eyebrow at her, she did the same.

As we left the cardboard area she sidled up next to me.

"Is it me, or did they just arm us with weapons?" she whispered. "This is about to get So. Awesome."

I smiled.

I'd just found my work-bestie.

Who taught this kid how to talk?

The other day, my 7 year old and I were standing in the kitchen. She was wearing her Parrot costume while slathering peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat. As I took out pots and pans for dinner, I eyed the PB&J for a moment, wondering if that was acceptable dinner fare. Deciding against it, I took out the next best thing: spaghetti noodles.

7: Mom, you know WHUT. Even in study hall, some kids be mean.

Me: [while pondering my child's inability to properly speak her native language] Is that so. Where's the big pot?

7: [shrugs] Yeah. And even when they hit on ACCIDENT MOM, Mrs. Teacher makes the kids do Planning Time.

She pauses for effect, waiting for my reaction to this ghastly news.

Me: Is that a bad thing? [muttering] Why isn't anything where it belongs?

7: It's the worst thing ever, Momma. NOBODY likes planning time.

Me: Why? I thought planning helped you... you know. Plan. [holding up plastic fish] Why is this in the cabinet?

7: [takes fish. Looks at it. Tosses it back into the cabinet] Mrs. teacher is mean.

Me: What do you think I would do if you were hitting someone?

7: [widens eyes] You can't do THAT stuff at school, Mom. For Real.

Me: What, time outs? What's wrong with a time out? You can't do that?

7: No. The consequences are SO way worser.

Me: Kinda like your English, kid.

Progressive Mental Disorders and the LDS Church

The other day I was reminded of a slightly evil stunt I pulled a few years back.

The good thing about my poor memory is that I tend to block out those moments where I've committed an act that I most likely knew better than to do, but did it anyway because of two reasons: the defiant ginger attitude from my teen years is still alive and lurking within, or I felt like screwing with something or someone who once pissed me off and the opportunity for my Empire Striking Back just presented itself in a pretty little package complete with a bow.

I was raised in the Mormon "religion." For those of you unfamiliar with that group, you can find a brief rundown HERE.

Update: I forgot I could embed the video. Yay for 2am clarity!

We aren't going to get into a God discussion here. I left that church when I was 16 and realized I had my own brain and decided to exercise my right to use it (something that was frowned upon by the elders of the Mormon church. They do NOT like it when you ask questions).

I have some unresolved issues with my experiences there, but I don't dwell on them.

I do, however, recognize the ring tone of opportunity and you bet your ass I'm going to answer it in some pretty passive-aggressive ways.

About 12 years ago, when my oldest child was just an infant, we lived in a one bedroom apartment about an hour from my hometown. 

For those of you ladies with children, I don't need to explain to you what it's like to have a new baby. You are never, ever fully prepared. Even if your spouse is super helpful during those nighttime feedings, it's still your breast the kid wants which means you are up for a half an hour every few hours and if you were anything like me, you were retarded and didn't sleep when baby slept. 

You stood there hovering over the crib to make sure baby was breathing, and then you stared in awe at this beautiful little creature that you made from scratch with your own organic ingredients and you wondered about this baby's future and then before you know it you haven't sleep longer than an hour at a time for the last 3 months and you can't remember your name and you might even walk into the wrong apartment one day and scare the crap out of Mrs. Choa and now you hide every time you see her in the laundry room. 

So it was during this time of parental bliss that the phone rang one sunny fall day.

Me: Hell- [drops baby laundry all over the place] Hi? Hello?

Caller: [with familiarity akin to, well, next of kin] Hi. Emily? How are you!

Me: [pulling the phone away from my ear as though I could look through the phone] Uh... who is calling?

Mind you, this was 2001. We barely had cell phones back then and none of them had caller ID.

Caller: It's me, Sister Bliss calling

Oh, SHIT.

If you watched the video, you'd know that it was a Mormon on the phone. They call each other Sister and Brother in place of Missus and Mister. It all sounds very incestuous, which freaks me the hell out.

Me: Uh. What do you want?

What. I was polite. You have to be very direct with these people or they'll send their young adventurous missionaries after you.

Ding Dong! We've got something for you!

You can't lead them on, or else they'll show up, only with reinforcements. Biker Gang Style.

You didn't answer your door the past 17 times we came by. 

We got worried and brought our friends. Hey, is that dinner?

Back to the call.

Sister Caller: I'm just calling to update our records. Do you have a minute?

Me:[ding dong! Opportunity was knocking] Suuuuure.

Sister Caller: Are you married?

Me: Sure. Why not. Kids? Yes. I have five.

And then I just let my mouth take over.

I told the story of my fake wedding in the state of Florida and how Uncle Bobby's dog ate the cake and peed on the priest. Then I told her my husband wasn't really around because I had a bit of a drinking problem, but if he hadn't gone to jail in the first place I probably wouldn't have had to turn to the bottle for comfort.

 I think at this point I was standing outside of my body, watching this train wreck approach the bridge and not even wanting to pull the warning whistle. I just let it go. She didn't even say anything, which was nice because I hate to be interrupted.

Eventually I grew bored and just hung up on the woman, going back to sorting laundry and changing diapers and the like.

A few days later, we received an invitation to attend a progressive dinner with some friends we were just getting to know.

I remember wrinkling my nose at the mention of "Progressive Dinner" because when I was a kid, the youth group from our church forced us to participate in one of those dinners. For those of you who do not know what a Progressive Dinner is, each course of a meal is held at a different house. You waste time and gas driving around getting lost and missing dinner. I hadn't wanted to attend the dinner as a kid, but was told by my parents that I didn't have a choice. So, I volunteered to host the salad portion at my house and then purposefully did nothing to prepare. When everyone showed up I just stood there and told them I'd forgotten. My parents grounded me, just like I knew they would, and I got out of the rest of the dinner.

Win.

I begrudgingly accepted the current offer, telling my then-spouse, This better not turn out to be some kind of Mormon trap. 

You know where this is going, don't you.

Normal people don't name dinners. They just invite you over, open some wine, feed you and offer fun conversation.

If you're really lucky, no one gets drunk and steals a bunch of plastic lawn flamingos or tries to blow you up with mortars.

We arrived at the first home with our new friends. We were welcomed into the entry by a friendly grandfather-type and pleasantries were exchanged.

I should have known what was in store for us when I spotted this hanging in the foyer:

It's the token Jesus photo. Every Mormon has one.

I didn't dwell on the photo because we were being introduced to the hostess. I usually develop Introductory Amnesia during these exchanges. I hear your name, I just don't retain it. You could say, "I'm Jane. Tell me what I just said," and I would blink and wonder why you stood there refusing to introduce yourself.

We chatted a bit about kids and niceties and the like. I told her about our new baby and she showed me some photos of her children and grand children. She asked if we planned to have more and I remember laughing and telling her that we were still getting used to the first one. 

I think it was after I'd given the lady my life history that she turned to me and admitted she hadn't caught my name. I apologized and told her I hadn't remembered hers either. Then I introduced my spouse and myself. 

Now, I'm not famous. My name is actually THE most common female name is all of the world, so the reaction of this woman upon hearing my name struck me as a bit odd.

Her eyes about blew up out of her head and she took a step back, knocking over a lamp and excusing herself rather quickly.

Our friends looked at me, then at the door our hostess had retreated through.

"Is she okay?" I asked. "I didn't even get her name."

"That was Evelyn Bliss," the wife said. "That was also weird."

Bliss? Where did I know that name...

Oh. SHIT.

Flashbacks of the phone call flooded my brain.

"Sister Bliss calling." "...drinking problem, but.... in jail." 

OH MY GOD. The woman I had just spilled all the details of my life to was the Mormon I had just lied to and hung up on so rudely a few days before.

You'd think that we would have hightailed it out of there, but instead I acted like a little bitch and stayed for the next hour engaging in conversation with the other Mormons and lying to each and every one of them. I told a different story to each group of people we spoke with.

An eye for an eye. If you've ever been Mormon, you know what that means.

So yeah. We never saw that couple again after that disastrous night. Which was good because I clearly needed Jesus and you have to go to a real church for that.

Too much time on my hands. Who knew?

My kids have one more week of school. They're super excited because they get to spend several weeks two states away with their dad.

I'm super excited because they get to spend several weeks driving someone else nuts.

I figure my excitement will last about 48 hours and then I'll probably spiral into a weird vortex of "this is summer, where are my kids, what do I do with all this time, HEY LET'S PAINT EVERY ROOM IN THE HOUSE!"

I get a little anxious when I'm feeling unsettled.

Exhibit A:
Jay is out of town this week on business. Coincidentally, I'm off work this week. Why didn't I tag along? Because my kids are free range and can't be trusted. Also, it's not that kind of job where you tag along. Intrigued? Good. We're moving on.

On Monday I got this huge burst of energy. I ran about a bazillion errands, cleaned the entire house, raked the backyard, did 87 loads of laundry and then finished Season 8 of Weeds. Got take-out for dinner (a treat we rarely indulge upon). Smiled to self. Success.

Aaaaaaaaaand then Tuesday rolled around.

Bored. Kids went to school. Walked the dog. Wandered around the house looking at the walls. Bored. Missed Jay. Missed the kids. Missed noise. Missed work. Contemplated whining to Jay while we spoke on the phone that I was lonely. Stopped just in time and instead slapped my own face while silently demanding that I man the eff up and be a woman about things. Realized how retarded that was, started new series on Netflix. Made 7 stop dressing up in the 10 cent wig from last summer's yard sale next door.

That's her Old Lady Who Smells Bad Things look.

Wednesday: repeat. Only this time it was the 11 in the wig.

Mother. Look at me. Am I gorgeous? 

No. Take that off. 

Make me.

Thursday: realize I should have spaced out responsibilities so that I had something to do rather than walk the dog and window shop for 5 days. Talked to my Bestie from another Testie for like, 6 hours, until I got a call from the 7's school. She ripped open her elbow and needed medical care. Sweet! I mean. Oh. Something to do!

Life will return to normal tomorrow. In the mean time, I'll be in the crawl space with the vacuum. After I blast for spiders.

Perpetuating Gender Stereotypes

So I'm a girl, right? Some people have the mentality that girls are supposed to be cute and girlie and get their nails did and fuss about their hair and spend all their money on shoes and handbags and talk about childbirth and stretch marks and so on.

And while I've actually done most of all of those things at one point or another, I'm not really like that. I'm not manly, per se, just regular.

Back when we were all turning 16 and getting our driver's licenses, my dad made sure us kids knew how to change our own oil and fix a spare before he would let us drive. Although I know how to do it, I prefer to keep the nice folks down at Jiffy Lube employed while I sit in their office, drink gas station coffee and watch Cops.

It kind of takes a while

My sister, Elle, likes to assert her independence and spew her I don't need no man persona all over the place and change her own oil and pump up her arms like Rosie the Riveter in order to prove her independence.

 This isn't actually Elle, but maybe 

they could get together and work for a 

woman's right to change their own oil

So technically, while some might find that can-do attitude admirable, I prefer to call my dad when I break something mechanical. Because last time I tried to take my lawn mower in for repair, I forgot to wipe the sucker tattoo off my face and almost got incredibly ripped off.

Still dealing with the same lawnmower problem a year later (because that's how I roll), I called my dad again.

The grass in our front yard was beginning to be mistaken for a free-range pasture and I decided something needed to be done about it when I found a dead horse yesterday morning.

I never said it was an actual horse.

I'd been borrowing my neighbor's mower but her son-in-law blew it up last week and now none of us can mow our grass.

After getting the rundown on what I needed from dear-old-dad, I ran to the parts store for a can of starter fluid.

Now, if you're female, you know that usually women know about as much about a parts store as a guy does about grabbing a box of tampons.

Right?

So many choices. Most of them should work, but you don't know exactly what you're looking for.

I hate walking into auto stores.

The guys look up, fix their eyes on you and have that slow smile spread across their face that says, You have no business in here. I pity you, and I shall save you.

To which I defensively pull back my shoulders, tip my chin up, nod, and walk with a purpose to the nearest aisle while furiously stealing glances left and right, trying to get my bearings before someone catches on that I have no idea what I'm doing.

While I don't want to change my own oil, I do want to select my own parts. By myself. I hate sales people. I avoid them like the plague. I don't care that they were hired to help people. I'm a ginger. We're stubborn and we like doing things the hard way.

Especially when I'm feeling all insecure about my gender and taking that once-a-year stance that women don't need to be told what to do by a man.

I realized I was being tailed by some 18 year old kid with a smile that said, I'm on to you, chick. You couldn't look more out of place if you were wearing a Lion Suit.

And I've worn a lion suit before, so I know what feels like.

I turned to the left and grabbed the nearest thing. He passed by, but not without giving me that look of Right. Because you totally need a lawnmower tune-up kit.

Wait, what? I totally DO need that. But I wouldn't know what to do with it even if that kid came over to my house and installed it himself.

I put it back.

A man covered in grease can down the aisle. I moved aside to let him pass. He stopped and stared at the shelves.

I stared at the shelves.

He looked at me.

I looked at him, wondering if I should ask him if he knew where the starter fluid was.

"I don't suppose you know where the brake cleaner is," the man said to me, obviously joking.

I pointed behind him at the rows of cleaner.

He laughed.

"Thank ya, ma'am. I didn't think I'd have to ask a woman for help. Sometimes you can't do everything yourself, I guess!"

He turned and left, his brake cleaner in hand, a smile on his face.

I wrinkled my brow, unsure whether or not I should be offended, when my eyes landed on a single bottle of starting fluid.

Sometimes you CAN, bitch, I thought to myself, and plucked it off the shelf.


Note: Damned lawnmower still doesn't work. I retract my bitch comment. Sorta.

Members Only

I live in a small town.

Small towns have limited resources, like banks and grocery stores (there is only one grocery store).

When I moved here over the summer, I had to switch banks because apparently here in the PNW, bank chains are sort of one-town-only. Which is understandable since I hate huge bank chains and tend to stick with the smaller, more customer-friendly branches.

So began my quest for the right bank. 

I looked a few up on the internet, drove past a few more and judged them by the look of their landscaping (who really wants to bank at a location that looks like downtown Crapville? Graffiti is sort of a no-brainer. And what're they doing with the interest from those loans if they can't even weed-eat the property?).

Since I take FOREVER to make a decision (because I like to examine all the angles), I still hadn't selected a bank by the time I had a need for rolled coin one summer day.

I don't remember WHY exactly I needed the rolled coin, only that I did, so I stopped by the local credit union to conduct my business. I was in a bit of a hurry, I remember, so I wasn't going to have time to open an account but I would have the chance to experience their customer service.

I think I needed to withdraw twenty bucks from the outside ATM, too, which is the only reason I could think of why I didn't just go to the gas station across the street.

I should have gone to the gas station.

I waited twenty minutes standing in line behind one other guy while the three tellers helped one person with some kind of extensive withdraw. Two were just chatting their bleach-blonde little heads off and the one was standing there with this look on her face like, I have no idea what I'm doing but they won't shut up long enough for me to ask a question so I'll just wrinkle my brow while I stare at my computer screen in hopes that the building will catch fire and burn to the ground.

Why did I stand there for twenty minutes and watch this ridiculous display of stupidity? I'm not really sure. Maybe I was as stupid as they were.

Finally, finally, one of them reluctantly eventually noticed me and the other guy standing there. 

She frowned and asked him to come over. 

He stomped up to the counter, did his business and within three minutes he was out the door.

The gal then directed her stare at me, which I took to mean Hello! How are you today? Come on over and let's take care of you.

I suppressed the automatic urge to smile (because that's what friendly people do. They SMILE, and this whore didn't deserve my ray of sunshine) as I approached the counter, expressing  my desire to exchange my legal tender for a few rolls of dimes.

Shitty Bank Lady: And what is your member ID?

Me: I'm not a member. I just need some coin.

Shitty Bank Lady: [raises one eyebrow, pushes my twenty back across the counter and turns up her nose] I'm afraid our services are for members only.

Me: [briefly considering slapping her face and smashing the lobby to flinders*] 

*Flinders: [flin-ders] 

verb

1. Impressive crushing or splintering of object(s)

2. The act of decimating an area (usually involving alcohol and my brother)

Me: Um. What?

Shitty Bank Lady: [a slow smile spreading across her stupid face] Yes. Members. ONLY.

I just KNEW she was enjoying every second of this. I narrowed my eyes and mulled over this bit of information for a moment. Deciding that she'd already wasted my time, I figured it wouldn't hurt to waste hers. Plus, there was no one in line behind me, so I felt free to be a jerk without witness (aside from the security cameras).

Me: You can't exchange this twenty dollar bill for rolled coin? 

Shitty Bank Lady: That's right.

Me: That's stupid. 

Shitty Bank Lady: [staring at me with a satisfied smile]

(OH! I KNOW WHAT IT WAS I WAS DOING! HAH! Jay and I were taking our combined brrod of children to a nickel arcade museum thing on the coast that has really cool antique machines, like the one in the movie Big. THAT is why it was so important for me to have a ton of useless coin. Because WHERE in a tourist town are you going to find a load of nickels and dimes? A bank? Yeah, but it was Saturday and what if that tiny town didn't have any open banks? Better to be prepared.)

I digress.

I asked to speak with her supervisor, my gaze landing on her name-tag the moment the request left my mouth.

Holy crap. She was the branch manager.

(An after-thought. Why was the MANAGER working a teller position? Because they all suck there. That's why.)

The encounter ended some minutes later with me stomping out of the bank in a huff, sans coin, and the manager watching me go, her hands placed neatly in the counter, her mouth twisted up in a smug smile.

Perhaps you sense my bitter tone at this recollection.

Good job.

She really pissed me off with her explanation that they had to track where their rolled coin went, like she ran the Federal Reserve and everything was super top-secret.

Okay, swell. Write down in your notes that Emily came in and requested four rolls of dimes. She was wearing capris and a yellow tank top. Her hair was a bit wind-blown and ginger-colored, but otherwise did not seem to be a threat. She paid with a twenty and left. Security of remaining rolled coin: secure.

Luckily, Jay had a ton of change at home, so we were all okay once we got to our destination.

What set me off on this rant, you might wonder.

Today I received a flyer, inviting me to check out my town's voted-most-friendly bank.

They very same bank where I was prohibited from buying coin.

The smiling lady on the front? That jackass branch manager.

I have a mind to set that flyer a-flame and toss it through their drive-up window.

**I'm not really going to do that. Relax, Obama Drones. Go waste your time monitoring everyone's cell phone calls.

We were not cut out for Forestry Work

Tonight, as I was cooking dinner, I nearly burned the house down. And by "nearly" I mean "kinda lit a hot pad on fire but actually it was only smoldering and on second thought let me tell you a story."

Once upon a time, in the 1990s, my friend The Jerk and I were hanging out at her house with our little group of friends. Her mom wasn't home, so it as just the four of us; Jerk, myself, Bradley and Gomez.

We were in high school, so of course we thought we knew EVERYTHING. I'm pretty sure, if I remember correctly, we were sitting around discussing nuclear theory (or calling each other names. Same thing) and watching the snow fall.

And then the power went out.

No biggie. We grew up in the mountains. Winter power outages were routine and we knew how to handle ourselves.

Or so I thought.

Jerk (whose name I will now change to Wessa, since referring to her as Jerk is kind of, well, a jerk thing to do) went to go get lighting supplies while the rest of us sat in the dark.

Wessa had grown up in our tiny mountain town. I'd only lived there for a few years, and the other two yahoo's were recent transplants within the last year or so but when you live in a mountain hick town with not-a-thing-to-do, you learn things you probably shouldn't do, but do anyway. We totally knew what we were doing.

Wessa returned with the kerosene lamps and a box of matches.

"Hey," I said. "I think those lamps need to be filled."

You may recall that I said we'd been sitting in the dark. By now you realize I once had super-human eyesight and could see across the room in the dead of night during a blizzard. Don't tell anyone.

Bradley went to the garage to get the kerosene can.

Gomez approached the counter. "Are you going to fill those yourself?" he asked.

"Yup," I said. "It's easy. Wanna try?"

"NO."

"Suit yourself."

Bradley returned with the fuel can and set it on the counter.

Wessa had already lit one lamp, since it had enough fuel to burn for a bit, which was good. Who wants to pour kerosene in the dark?

The four of us sat yammering on about God knows what as I took the wick or whatever off the lamp and set it on the table.

The rest happened in real-time, but I swear the whole world slowed down seven frames per minute as I watched Wessa's actions unfold before us.

She picked up the fuel can.

To take outside, I thought to myself.

She picked up the lit lamp.

I say again. The Lit. Lamp.

THE ONE WITH FIRE COMING OUT OF IT.

Also going outside, I thought to myself. Right? So she can see while she fills the UN-LIT lamp??"

She held the two together and tilted the can to the side as I started screaming NOOOO!!

Fire erupted from her hands like she'd morphed into a freaking demon magician.

I'm not even sure what happened or in what order after that because I have PTSD from that night, but I remember Wessa flinging the lit and flaming kerosene lamp into the sink, were the fire immediately spread to the curtains and up the wall.

Bradley grabbed his flannel jacket (it was the 90s, remember?) and started beating flames with it. I have no idea what I was doing, and Wessa ran for the phone to dial 911.

I'm not even completely sure Gomez was actually there that night, because after my earlier mention of him, I have no further recollection of him whatsoever (no, he didn't die, because I saw him at graduation later that year).

The end result: Wessa's mom got a brand-new kitchen, carpet and paint throughout the house, Bradley wasn't allowed over anymore (per his parents request) and Wessa and I were never again left without supervision as long as we lived.

Every time something catches on fire (like the time Elle almost burned us to death in mortar fire), I smile to myself and think of that night where my bestie almost killed us all in a house fire.

Memories.

 

That an't how we do it

This morning, I stood in the kitchen, staring at the coffee pot as it slowly filled. I My 10 and 6 were sitting at the dining room table, chattering about pumpkin spice pancakes and whether or not peanut butter was an acceptable topping. I looked at my feet where the dog sat, perfectly still, with a look in his eyes that said, YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO GIVE ME A COOKIE!! I patted his head. "No cookie," I told him.

"TWELVE! You're going to be late for school!" I called. "Again."

I muttered the last part under my breath. That kid had already been sentenced to detention for having more than five tardies to his first period class. We live directly across the street from the school.

"Sorry, Mom. I'm ready," he said as he rushed down the hall.

"Um, what are you doing?" questioned my 10.

"YEAH. MOM'S NOT GONNA LIKE THAT," added the 6 (who yells everything. Fear not, I've had her hearing checked. She's just got healthy vocal chords and likes to hear herself talk).

I wrinkled my nose at the coffee pot, which seemed extra slow today. Was it me, or was the coffee actually funneling itself back up into the filter? I tapped the pot.

"Don't forget to turn in all of your homework today," I reminded him. "There's really no point in doing the work if you-"

"Yeah, Mom, I know," he interrupted.

"Good. And remember," I said as I turned around. "I'll be home around WHAT IS YOUR BUTT DOING HANGING OUT OF YOUR SHORTS?!"

My 12 was bent over at the waist, cramming books an papers into his backpack. He jerked himself upright and tried to yank up his pants, spilling everything from his hands in the process.

My child never, ever sags his pants. In fact, we had a few years where he yanked his pant up so high he resembled Steve Urkle from Family Matters.

Yes. You did do that.

 



And now my 12 is running around like Justin Dweeber.

 

I stole this poor quality photo from the internet.



 

"It's not, Mom. I'm... just... um."

I stared at him, narrowing my eyes.

"What did I tell you?"

My 12 looked back at me and smiled knowingly.

"Wipe that look off your face, kid. I will show up at that middle school with my smallest pair of pants halfway off MY butt, no belt, and a crop top. No one wants to see that, but EVERYONE WILL."

"Yeah, okay. I get it."

"Good. Go to school."

"Bye Mom."

"WEAR A BELT."

"Okay, okay."


 

Even my First Grader knows you don't cut in line, Lady

Mumsie and I recently hauled off to the coast for an overnighter, complete with my three kiddos.

It would have been really cool if things played out the way we'd planned them. We were supposed to leave early Saturday afternoon, only my boss (did I tell you? I got a new job!) slyly had me work a 14 hour shift and he reappeared about 3 hours later than he had implied (who makes someone come in at 5am anyway? I mean, other than me when I managed Burger King. Haha, that was so mean. Anyway...) But I used to work those ridiculous shifts all the time, so this wasn't a huge deal except that I was trying to leave town.

Good thing my boss is a totally cool guy, otherwise that would have been grounds for some nasty looks and passive retribution (in my head, I'm like, REALLY mean. But I haven't been directly supervised under someone else's employ since 1999, so its hard for me to assert myself right now when I'm not calling the shots. It's like my 19 year old self was hiding and made a recent reappearance and I'm not sure how to get rid of her without calling attention to the fact that I'm currently dealing with split personalities. Also, I'm not as huge a wuss as I'm making myself out to be. Promise)

Mumsie and the kids and I did eventually get out of town, and hit the coastline right as the sun was going down. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, which is pretty amazing for the Pacific Northwest (where people are like, Sun? What's that?).

Except we still had to drive to the hotel so I missed all of the lovely photographic moments. But that's okay, because after hitting town late, and checking in to the hotel, Mumsie and I took the kids out for pizza.

What great set of mother's doesn't hit a pizza parlor until 8:30pm with three hungry kids in tow? Did I mention that two of them had also been up since 5am? Recipe for success, let me tell you.

Now, my kids and I have all been PMSing or something for the last few weeks. And only a few days ago did I feel like we were returning to normalcy. So what could very well have been the biggest disaster to hit that little town since the storm of '47 was avoided by my children being surprisingly well behaved. And when I say that I mean they were like someone else's kids: polite, happy, satisfied with two dollars each in quarters. It was amazing because I was dead tired.

I left Mumsie with the kids and stood in line at the counter to order.

This pizza parlor was a little weird because they don't have a visible menu. You have to kind of wander around the counter area acting like you're looking for napkins until you run across a pile of slightly rumpled paper menus. Then you snag one and quickly try to decide what to order before it's your turn. Only, the place was incredibly busy and there were only three people working that I could see, so I had some time.

I had done all of this and was patiently waiting to place my order when THEY showed up.

The older couple who was probably on their first romantic weekend together after three failed marriages. They'd obviously spent a few hours at the bar down the street because there was a lot of geriatric groping going on and the female kept yelling about WHAT SIZE DO WE WANT and the male keept kissing her ear only he was missing and getting mouthfuls of hair and having to spit it out of his mouth, all while attempting to goose the female's butt, but she couldn't stand up straight and he failed to notice that as well, so he looked like he was imitating Data from Goonie's with his Pinchers of Power.

It was all very annoying, but wasn't affecting me so I just looked elsewhere an tried to ignore it.

Until.

The female sidled up next to me in line. As in, she stepped on my foot.

I knew where that was going. And hell-to-the-no.

My kids were starving, the place was incredibly busy, an no WAY was I going to let them cut in line. Not when they were talking about ordering four pizzas (my earlier assessment about their romantic retreat was, apparently, incorrect).

The lady turned to me.

Drunk B*tch: Wur juss grabbin' a MEN-YEW [hiccup] [not moving]

Me: Yeah [smile that doesn't reach my eyes]. Sorry, but the end of the line is actually over there.

[man leaves for the restroom. Female scoots in front of me]

Me: Hi. I noticed you're still here. Sorry, but I have four hungry kids and a grandma to feed and I've been waiting a while.

I actually only have 3 kids. I guess I lie when I'm pissed.

The drunk female turned to look at me, only her eyes never exactly located mine, so she just swayed a bit and stumbled forward into the counter.

I shot daggers at her back but decided to let it go. After all, she was stupid and what was I going to do, start a fight with her?

I placed our order (a 17" pizza and 12 bread sticks: the chick behind the counter handed me two plates. I looked at the plates, down at myself, and back at the chick. I've been kind of lazy with the healthy eating lately and sort of stressing about it. So for this woman, whom I don't know, to hand me only two plates freaked me out. I think she called me fat without actually saying it. Needless to say, I'm off the carbs again).

I stood at the wall of photos showcasing over 50 years of pizza making by this family owned business while waiting for the order, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a different woman walk up to me and just sort of lean in. So I turned to her, smiled awkwardly, and said hi.

Me: Hi.

Her: Hi! [blinks. Smiles. Stares]

Me: Um. [clears throat] Hi there. You.

Her: Do you live here?

Me: No. [pause] Do you?

WHAT? I didn't know what was going on, so I just sort of morphed this weird moment into a conversation.

Her: No.

Me: Okay.

Her: I thought you were someone else.

Me: Nope. I'm just... me.

Her: Okay [walks away. Turns around to wave good-bye]

Dude. The people in that town were weird.

My order was called before the people ahead of me who had cut in line. Which is good, because for a while I had entertained myself by coming up with different ways of ruining their food and/or night:

• "Accidentally" running  into them as they picked up their order from the counter and watching as their pizzas bit the dust, then offering them a single napkin with which to clean their soiled clothing
• Stealing their order, and flinging their pizzas all over their car except I didn't think they'd driven on account of how sloshed they were
• Anonymously sending a roofied beer to their table 
• Kicking them in the shins

But I didn't do any of that because I'm not that extreme, and also because they disappeared and I never saw them again.

Mumsie and I really enjoyed ourselves on the remainder of the trip. The kids did, too. All in all, it was a good weekend.

Winter Coat?

Conversation between the 10 and the 6 this morning while they were making their school lunches:

6: There's this girl in my class with like, REALLY hairy arms. She touched me on accident and I was like, GIRL. You need to shave those things!

10: That's not very nice... Even if it's a little funny.

6: Neither is being scratched by a saski.

Me: (rushing into the kitchen with my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth, still in my pajamas, hair all wild and falling out of a ponytail. You're welcome for that mental image) WHOA! Stop right there. Let's talk about ethnicity and things people can't help.

Except it came out more like, Hrr. Stop rut thur. Less' talk about ef-nithity and things purple kint herp.

6: It's not her ethnicity, it's her arms. They're really scratchy, but that's okay because she's nice and I like her anyway.

10: Last year, there was a kid in my class who had really bushy eyebrows. Sometimes they would get stuck in his hair.

Me: (pausing to let that image sink in) Really?

10: Yeah.

Me: Wow.

6: I put Petey in the toy bin because he left hair on my bed. What if PETEY HAD NO HAIR, MOMMA?

Me: (turning to 10) Hide the clippers.


Happy Tuesday!

Hey look. I never posted this. Good job, Self.

The Fourth of July.

I really kind of love that holiday.

Or did.

Now that the entire family is shell-shocked, our brains don't function properly and we lost what little ability to experience feelings we had.

But I digress.

I always barrel into this holiday with ideas for fun (everyone remember the Tractor Rides with the wedding dresses?), food, and entertainment.

And this year started off pretty typical. Mumsie called me up, asked if I'd planned a menu (which I had), we decided who would bring what, I gathered everything and promptly stopped planning.

Look, I've had a lot going on. I'm no Martha Stewart. In fact, I hate that beezy so if you were ever to attempt to refer to me as such, I would bury your body in a very shallow grave where the vultures would pick your bones clean after a deer dug you up and ate your face.

I don't like Stewart.

But I did have this stellar image of using the old-fashioned coke bottles with those super cool red and white striped straws that all the super-crafty moms are using for their perfectionist summer parties.

(Totally jacked these images from Pinterest. They were both dead links, so I don't know who owns the photos. Sorry)

Mumsie ordered the straws from Amazon (whom I hate, in case your forgot), and the straws were supposed to arrive on the 3rd. I looked in to acquiring the coke bottles, and found a whole case of them at Costco.  Except those coke bottles are expensive, even at Costco, so I abandoned that idea and instead went with re-purposing Starbucks coffee bottles, which are just the same as old-fashioned milk bottles. Of course, I had to buy a flat of those and drink all that coffee before I could even use the bottles, so I was VERY caffeinated for two days as I emptied those bottles in preparation for the 4th.

But they turned out cool, right?

Uh. Ignore the sunglasses. One of those has alcohol and you know... 

things just look better through the telephoto lens of Malibu rum.

What was that? Where is the red-and-white super-patriotic straw that I was talking about?

GOOD QUESTION.

Amazon? YOU PIECE OF SHIT.

It never arrived. I had to use clear straws. CLEAR. Can someone explain to me how INVISIBLE STRAWS enhance this nation's holiday?

The straws did arrive, however, two days after their promised arrival date, which did me no good at all. Now I have 250 paper straws that I don't currently have a use for. I've been trying to pawn them off everywhere I go, like using them for tips at restaurants (which, apparently, cannot be substituted for currency. Whatever).

So the 4th was obviously ruined without the straws, so everything after that initial letdown was just par for the course.

If you read my Facebook page, you'll know already that Elle tried to kill us all.

Just as it was getting dark, we gathered the children around the fire pit out in the yard and set about preparing for the pyrotechnics.

Elle and I decided to be conservative this year, and by that I mean she bought all the fireworks and I JUST NOW realized I never paid her for my share.

That's ok, because the way I look at it, the money I spent on burn cream and skin grafts sort of evens that out.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

Elle assumed the role of Punk and the rest of us sat there in anticipation.

Well, I did because I was dog-tired. The kids ran around shoveling marshmallows and chocolate into their faces while chasing each other with glow sticks, and our parents watched the mayhem with satisfied expressions that said, I am SO GLAD I don't have to actively participate in attempting to control this mutiny.

All was well until we reached the last set of mortars. I could tell Elle was pretty much done with the fireworks. My 11 (who is now 12, BTW) graciously offered to finish up for her. Elle turned him down (wise move. Who hands a pre-teen a set of matches and access to explosives?).

As we watched the last of the mortars blow up the sky, we vocalized our appreciation for the things we had, the fact that we could watch explosives light up the sky and not worry about being killed, and yelled to the kids to quit running so close to the fire.

I stood up and began to gather the trash from the s'mores. I remember looking across the fire pit and watching Elle as she shook out the last box of mortars.

It was like a slow-motion action movie where Rambo takes his empty clip from his big fat gun, looks twice at it, shrugs and throws it into the fire just as the camera zeros in on the clip hitting the flames and that's when you know: everyone is going to die.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out because at that same moment we were all blasted by a firestorm that would rival Dresden.

Or maybe the A-bomb dropped on Hiroshima.

*Note: Totally not making fun at anyone's expense. I just thought I was going to die and the first thing that came to mind was, Oh. This is how it feels right before you burn to death.

Simultaneous with the firestorm was a BOOM so loud, it both rendered me deaf, and increased my hearing to a dog-like level. I could hear both nothing and everything at once. I think my brain shook inside my skull.

Kids were screaming, the dogs were dead (which later turned out to be a false assumption), everything was covered in embers, INCLUDING MY FOOT, and I think my parents and their lawn chairs were launched into the sky for a period of time because I don't remember seeing them for like, five entire minutes.

And Elle.

Elle was standing there, across the battlefield with the most bewildered look of terror and instant recognition of what she'd done.

I started laughing because honestly, I knew what Elle was thinking.

"OMFG, I killed my family. Gary is going to be PISSED that he missed this."

This all happened in a matter of seconds. While I was laughing, I was also grabbing kids and throwing them away from the fire pit, just in case there were any more surprises Elle wanted to shell on us. Elle was running toward my parents, or something, I don't know BECAUSE MY FOOT WAS ON FIRE, and we tried to calm all five of the kids.

Elle looked sheepish. I couldn't even give her shit over trying to murder us because I knew she was embarrassed.

So we started making fun of her, which is what we do in this family to make each other feel better.

No one was actually hurt (EXCEPT FOR MY FOOT, which still has melted skin and blisters a month later) and the kids quickly quieted down. Elle's girls were first to stop shrieking, I think because they are used to their mom's antics (Note* Her kids are never in danger. Elle is a helicopter parent. Okay, she is not, but I jut wanted to all to rest easy that Elle does not routinely try to burn people to death).

I think my 10 has PTSD, though, because she told me that night as she was going to sleep, "I just can't keep my eyes closed, Mom, because it keeps happening over and over again."

She still refuses to talk to her auntie.

At least my sister finally gets to use a line from her favorite movie, Better Off Dead, where Lane Myer says, Gee, I'm really sorry your mom blew up, Ricky.

Next year, we'll go with non-flammable glow sticks.

Elle, attempting to get the cousins to post for a photo early in the day.

Who knew it was almost their last picture together?

Grateful to be alive and embracing this glorious 

new day that has been bestowed upon them

I'd rather be alive than healthy!

Four years ago, I went a little crazy and sort of joined a health group and kind of started running and basically turned into a crazy person who ran around (literally) leaving a trail of health smoke in my wake.

It was absolutely as weird as it sounds.

If I REALLY wanted to freak you out, I'd post a before-and-after photo of myself. Luckily I had enough foresight to keep myself out of every photo anyone I knew had ever taken, beginning at age three and lasting until age 29, so nothing like that exists.

Two years ago I quit my job, left my network of friends and support and moved to the Pacific Northwest.

I then developed a network of neighborhood Mom-Friends and I had way more fun hanging out with Elle, Rawr and Shenanigans so I sort of abandoned the whole running regimen and instead spent my mornings hanging out with The League and guzzling gallons of coffee.

I hate running. HATE IT.

Unfortunately, when I was running, I felt incredibly healthy, ate healthier and basically morphed into a super-human with magical powers. Like, not only could I totally climb stairs without my knees cracking, but I could also boss my kids around for longer periods of time due to increased lung function.

It was like a HUGE win for Team Mom.

Over the last few months, I've been toying with the idea of resuming self-inflicted exercise.

Last night, as I was falling asleep, I told myself that I would get my butt in gear and go for a run.

This morning, I did it.

I pulled my running clothes out of the drawer and gave them a look of disgust. For good measure, I threw them on the floor so they knew my hatred for them was still strong.

I shrugged them on, grabbed the dog and the 6, and bolted out the front door.

Well, I stretched first (OWMOTHEREFFEROW).

Then we walked for a warm up.

And then we ran.

About six steps into the run, I had a sudden bout of clarity as to just exactly why I hated those running clothes.

The pants are spandex, and they fall down.

Some might say it's because I have no ass.

Those people would be correct.

I bought the pants small so that, when I was getting fit the first time around, I would still be able to wear them as I lost weight.

Even when those suckers were inappropriately skin-tight, they slipped down. The only plus (if you can call it that) was after a while, when I was disgustingly sweaty from running, the pants would plaster themselves to my body. Then, and ONLY THEN, would they stay in place.

Gross.

Sooooooo, y'all will be excited to hear that I was running along a levy holding the dog's leash and a water bottle in one hand while awkwardly yanking my pants up with the other as my 6 rode her bike alongside me yelling "MOMMA, I SEE YOUR ZEBRA PANTIES!"

I'm pretty sure everyone there thought that was super-sexy.

Wait for it, because it gets better.

We ran into a lady and her dog. Naturally, my 6 NEEDED to pet that other dog, and then both dogs had to sniff each other, and I had to make polite chit-chat while my drawers kept slipping. I wondered if I should say something, like, "Don't worry. My pants just want to hang out around my ankles," but I decided maybe just remaining silent was best.

The dogs sniffed good-bye, and my 6 and I set off. When we were far enough down the path and no one was near, I dropped the dog's leash and let him go (he's very well trained and would come back if I called him. Unless there was a squirrel, and then all hell breaks loose).

I kept up my trudge along the path, gasping for air and praying to God that I didn't pass out from lack of oxygen, and called the dog to keep up. He'd stopped to sniff something (probably some dead carcass of some gross animal) and came running up behind me, tongue lapping in the wind, a joyful doggy grin spread across his face.

Note to self: don't run forward while looking behind you.

I tripped over a rock, and tried to steady myself. Unfortunately, at that moment I was also trying to yank up my pants, and the dog chose that exact moment to side-swipe me and my foot got trapped in his leash.

WELL.

Let me just tell YOU something.

Ever see a cartoon where someone is spinning out of control, cartwheeling with arms and legs flailing and you laugh because they look like such a jackass, but you know it's going to hurt when they crash and burn so you sort of wince and wait for the impact?

By some miracle, I was able to catch myself before hitting the ground, but I think I bruised my chin in the process. I'm not even sure how that happened, unless I unknowingly punched myself in the face (which is entirely possible).

I managed to make it back to the house without any further incident, due to the fact that I was sweating quite a bit from my near-death experience so my pants were stuck to my waist.

Tomorrow I'm running in jeans.

A dramatic Rescue/Break-in

OMFG, enough about last week's imposter home invasion (yeah, sorry about not ever posting that story. I got kinda busy. Long story short, no one broke into my home, but a stranger was in my garage and he yelled at me. I'm a sensitive soul, so I didn't do anything in my own defense except move away).

I guess I should have set this up by first posting about the home invaders, because I later became one myself.

It all started when my cat decided he hated the dog and the cat moved out, only he didn't tell anyone. At first, he pulled a quick three-day disappearing act on us. I solved that by walking by the sliding glass door one evening and thinking, Hm. I haven't seen the cat in a few days, and then suddenly POOF! there he was at the door.

A week later, I noticed it had again been a few days since a feline sighting, so I would randomly walked past a window, pause, think to myself, Where is the cat? and quickly shoot a look at the window or door and expect to see the cat magically appear out of thin air.

Cut to three weeks later and I was pretty much giving up hope of ever again seeing the damn animal, and I'm fairly certain the multitudes of people who walked past my house daily thought I was insane because I was forever stopping as I passed the window, then flipping my head to the side as I inadvertantly locked eyes with them while they ventured by (for whatever reason, there are a ton of people who walk down that street exercising people, animals, children, etc).

I know the dog had a little something to do with it because he is used to "playing" with the cats at his other house (still ain't nobody got time for that story) and my cat wasn't having ANY of those shenanigans. Yet the dog continued to "accidentally" surprise the cat on the landing, which resulted in multiple scufflings and a lot of hissing. At least the dog had the decency to look guilty when I gave him The Look (raised eyebrow with a smirk, and usually a question like, Really? Was that necessary?).

During the time the cat was missing, we moved. Out of town. Forty miles away.

And my kids feared they would never again squeeze and love and hold and squish their beloved pet again.

Yesterday we went back to the old neighborhood to hand out flyers with a picture of the at, and our phone number.

We went to speak to the lady across the street.

Lady: Him? I just saw him yesterday.

Kids: SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

Me: Seriously?! [questioning her sanity] WHERE?!

Lady: [pauses for dramatic effect, then points] There. In that abandoned house.

[cue creepy music, flashes of lightening and picture a skull and crossbones spray painted on the front door]

Me: Frick.

10: I'M GOIN' IN!

And she did. She went in through a broken window (relax, I checked for busted glass. There was a lot of it, but not anywhere near her). I totally would have volunteered to get a chance at contracting tetanus, but my ass wouldn't fit through that tiny window.

I stood nervously near the front door, after having instructed the 10 to meet me there so I could come in and help her search. The other two kids were milling around me, impatient to join the rescue of their beloved pet.

A moment. Maybe I should mention that the whole neighborhood knows the family who owns the abandoned, foreclosed home, so we were cool. Everyone knew what we were doing (though no one offered to help). It was like having an in with a street gang except nothing like that at all.

My 10 came rip-roaring around the corner, skidding on crap and yelled to me, where I was perched near the window.

10: MOM! He's HERE! HE'S COVERED! [takes off again]

Oh, holy hell. What does that mean? Is he dead? Alive? WHAT IS SHE TALKING ABOUT?

We had to try three separate doors before my 10 could let me in, the four of us spilling into the house and running toward our yowling cat.

It was definitely him, and the meowing was coming from the bowels of the biggest trash heap I've ever seen.

At first, I was gently moving things aside, like a toaster and other appliances. Then I realized it was all crap anyway, so I just started chucking it across the room.

Out poked a kitty face from that rubble and I swear to you, my kids almost burst into tears when they saw that mangy varmit clawing his way out.

I grabbed the cat, prayed that none of us needed that tetanus booster and we booked it out of there.

Our pet is home safe at the new house where, I shit you not, the dog greeted him with a toothy smile and a look of glee. The cat looked utterly pissed and shot me a look that said, Are you fricking KIDDING ME?

And again, all is right in the cat vs. dog world.

(the dog declined inclusion)

Why does history seem to repeat itself so quickly?

Remember back when I mentioned briefly that I was almost homeless, but luckily a friend swooped in and saved me?

It was a brief mention here, because if I had given it any real thought I probably would have panic-vomited all over the place and ran home to Mumsie. Or turned into one of those au-natural moms, sold all my earthly possessions, bought a Volkswagon bus, traded my shoes for patchouli oil and camped in the woods for the summer.

Only, I'm 33 years old, I have three kids, and a cat, with joint-custody of a dog (ain't nobody got time for that story right now. Maybe later) and a penchant for running water. Also, I don't relish the idea of my home requiring unleaded (diesel?) fuel and being mobile.

While the idea of possibly securing actual Sasquatch footage was tempting, I felt that I should hold out for a few weeks, just to see what kind of stationary living quarters were available.

Cut to three months later and I still hadn't found a place.

I didn't panic. Should I have? Eh, I dunno. What does panic do for us, other than make us sweat and act inappropriately, which later leads to writing apology letters for things we've done while under the influence of fear?

I've learned one thing over the last year: Right when it would appear that you're out of time, something always pops up.

That thing would be another friend offering his house. And that means his dog can live at home again (which means I don't have to tell you that story after all), I won't have to panhandle on the corner, and we can all bathe daily.

Wow.

Two years ago, when we left California, I would never have been able to smoke enough crack to imagine my life as it is today.

It's not a bad life.

I'm not complaining.

I've done a lot of growing (thank God it's not weight gain, for once. I meant personal growth), met some really stellar people, re-enrolled in college, and started from scratch, basically.

I can't say I've changed, and I cannot say I've remained the same.

We're always changing. In little ways we stagnate, improve, slide backwards.

But I invite any one of you to look back on the last year of your life. Even if it appears that nothing has changed, how different are our lives today, than they were a year ago?

We have to just keep on keeping on.

Also, check back tomorrow for the story of how I thought I was a victim of a home invasion. Apparently, when I showed up here to write that little gem, my subconscious took over and wrote this instead.

The War at Home

Scene: A typical weekday morning in my house. 0645 hours:

Me: [after the initial good morning pleasantries have been ignored] Get up, get up getup GETUPGETUPGETUP

11: LALALALALALALALA!! WEEEE!!! [running through house chasing Dog. Trips over nothing and does a swan dive onto the couch. Doesn't move, but somehow still manages to give the effect of chaos]

10: [has been in bathroom for forty minutes]

6: I DON'T WANT TO GET UP!

Me: 11, stop running through the house. Did you brush your teeth? 10! GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM! 6, you have to get up. We have to get out the door to school. 11, I said to stop-----AAACK! MY FOOT! DOG!


Scene: Saturday Morning, approximately 0600 hours

11: [silence]

10: [silence]

6: [silence]

Dog: [begs to go out to pee, chase a cat and, apparently, it's time to play because he brings me his ball]

Me: [bliss, sorta. I'm not playing ball with you, animal]

Approximately 0605 hours

11: [bang, crash, loud chewing]

Me: Son, what are you doing?

11: Eating candy. And playing with my closet door.

Me: WHY?

11: I'm bored.

Me: It's six o'clock in the morning. On a Saturday. Don't you want to sleep in?

11: No. 

Me: Well, can I sleep in?

11: Sure! [continues to bang around in his room, chew loudly and happily crash through a huge bin of Legos] HEY MOM? CAN I WATCH TV?

Me: [DAMMIT]

I will never understand how, on weekdays, kids cannot get up to save their lives, yet on the weekends they manage to be up before the sun.


Have a great weekend, peeps.

It was not your fault, but mine

Concerts should come with a warning label.

Something obvious like, Hey Ginger. Have a few beers but do NOT try to slide down the banister in the stairwell and Buy a better pair of boots.

And then I feel like I should have a warning label, like Will spill her beer and pick a fight in the ladies room over how many Emily's are allowed at the venue. Potential for fun, but usually someone ends up injured.

Because I think someone is always either falling, tripping, or being pushed at one point or another every time we go out.

So last night, Elle and I hit the City to see Mumford ad Sons.

Is it me, or does Mr. Mumford remind you of Brendan Frasier? Hubba Hubba. If it were 1993, that is.

Elle and I are simply ga-ga over Mumford. We love them. If it wasn't frowned upon in several societies, we would make off with the entire band, ferry them to a remote location where we would make a skin suit from their hides and wear it.

Too weird? Whatever. We aren't dangerous. Unless we are together.

Which we were, last night, in the city, surrounded by thousands of other Mumford Fans. I think I set the tone for the night early on when Elle and I were leaving her apartment. I slipped on the curb, busting the heel off my left boot. I nearly fell on my ass, which would have been a GREAT way to begin the evening. I had to borrow a pair of boots from Elle (the same boots I gave to her because I can't walk properly in them. You'll see what I mean later on).

We managed to make it to the venue without further incident. Elle knows a guy who could totally hook us up with free booze, so naturally that hunt took precedence over finding our seats. We almost found him, too. Six escalator rides and one near miss with the elevator door later, and we'd found him.

He didn't like me. I could tell from the way he slammed my beer on the counter, causing an eruption of foam to cascade onto the bar top. He chatted with my sister while completely ignoring me, except to toss an angry glare my way every few minutes. Whatever. Just because I always make my sister order my drinks for me doesn't make me unlovable.

There were several trips to the bathroom on several different floors of the venue. We enjoy variety. At one point, I thought it would be a GREAT idea to slide down the banister in the stairwell. All I will say is that while I was successful in my slide, it did NOT feel good and I am no longer able to sit without a jagged pain in my butt. Plus, I almost had to jump a girl in the bathroom for parroting my name overandoverandoverandover again. Seriously. How many of you would stand in a bathroom and call out the same name over and over again? Elle would say I was just mad because I kept answering her and she was ignoring me. What. That's rude.

This is what it looks like when it's set up for basketball, not a Mumford concert. Its huge. Imagine how big the entire venue is, and we were loose in that place. 

Unchaperoned. And drinking. WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

Four beers later, Elle and I found our seats. Mumford came on, and we left to pee.

Seriously. I think women are at a disadvantage when it comes to our plumbing. We kind of CANNOT hold it or we will die, and we cannot pee into a beer bottle. Because the beer came in cups and they weren't empty yet.

Every time we left to use the bathroom, someone would snag our seats. The first time it was cool. I was nice, smiled, touched the guy on the arm in a way that let him know I would pound his face if he took my chair again (I'm fairly aggressive when I've been drinking) and sent him and his buddy on their way. The second and third time, it was annoying. The fourth time I spit on them.

Jay Kay. I'm a lady. I asked him if he had a moment to talk about Jesus Christ and we never saw him again.

Mumford gave a great show. They have an amazing sound and I adore them.

Here, take a listen.

Uh. It has the F word in it. 

Elle gets all grabby when she drinks and likes to pull me around by the hand. I was cool with that since we are sister-wives, so I let her drag me through the crowd, to the amusement of others. It was when we hit the stairs again that it happened. But it happened so fast I almost didn't realize what was going on until I was being laughed at, gasped at, everyone thought I was dead and there was talk of some jacktard posting the entire incident on their Facebook page.

I fell down the stairs.

I was not drunk.

Okay, I was almost drunk.

But it wasn't my fault. I slipped because I was wearing shoddy footwear, and Elle was ahead of me, hauling me behind her and I just sort of... went down.

I hit both my knees pretty hard (bruises to prove it) and I think I tore something in my rib cage. Seriously. I have to stand a certain way if I want to be able to breathe.

I brushed off the hands of people trying to help (or cop a feel, who knows) and tried to salvage any shred of dignity I had left.

After the show, we spilled out onto the street and knew immediately that we were lost.

We spent about twenty minutes circling the venue trying to find our parking garage. There were about seven of them. Okay, maybe two. But we exited on the wrong side so we were completely disoriented.

And even when we did finally find the garage, we were stuck there for another twenty minutes because ten thousand million people were all leaving at the same time. That was okay because Elle and I entertained ourselves by singing along to the radio. We can really rock us some Imagine Dragons and Anna Kendrick.

Eventually we got out of there and sped home.

I can't really move today, but that's alright. I've just spent the day cruisin' the internet looking at flat footwear and chair cushions.