Tuesday, February 24, 2015

The Warrior Mindset: Ninja-ing Out The Shenanigans

"You are the reason our family is this way. You make my relationship with my dad the way it is. It is your fault my dad doesn't love me. It's your fault he loves his step-daughters more than me."

I just stood there, not saying a thing until she was done. It went on as did her tears. When the sobbing consumed her, all I could muster was, "I love you."

Bug countered back with "no you don't" and "my dad doesn't love me because of you" and on and on and on. After a while, I just walked away.

Later she came up to me and said she was sorry, she shouldn't have said that. What do you say to your 14 year old when she just pretty much cut your heart in two? I told her if that is how she really feels, then she needs to get it out and we need to talk about it. I added I was sorry she felt that way. Again, I told her I loved her.

In my mind, I was thinking, WTF..."your dad cheated on me and told me he wanted a divorce on my birthday, while standing over me, and he had been 'practicing' sex with me in the last months to make sure he was 'good enough' for his new girlfriend"...although I didn't say it out loud. Yeah, like I was practice sex. Take that. Why is it a bad idea to say the truth of the matter to your teenager?

1) It would have devastated her. 2) Her parents didn't have sex...at least in her mind because that is gross...daughter denial. We got her at a baby store. 3) I made a vow for Lent to stop saying the f bomb which would have been interjected in that story out of reflex. God really trumped my thoughts of daughter devastation because I was really hurt and wanted to lash out as a natural bitch reaction. Gotta contain the bitch in me sometimes, especially for my daughter's sake. 4) It is REALLY BAD to say such things in front of children even if it is the truth. They then need years of therapy and it is all your fault because you were the ugly momster even if it appears to be the fault of the father. After all, I did not sleep with my friend's wife and carry on in a uniform whilst supposed to be protecting the lake residents. I'm over it. Well, for myself, but it still plagues my daughter and it is an embarrassment to her.

For some odd reason during this princess outburst, I had this calm resolve as she sliced and diced her mother and then handed me my head on a platter. It was serial killer creepy calm minus the killing thoughts. Maybe now I know why mice eat their young. Not really. That is really disturbing and no thank you.

Maybe it was because we had just gotten home from Jujitsu and I felt a little Yoda combined with my ninja warrior spirits which kicked in and saved me from epic mother failure.



Who knows? Maybe my brain disconnected for a minute and I was on a white sand beach with Alejandro.  It must have been a coping mechanism to prevent the daggers from hitting my heart. Teenagers can do it...check out...why not me? They are good at pushing buttons as well.

I kissed her forehead and went to bed. It was all I could do as my presence was agitating her inner Sybil.

When I hit the pillow, I was out. It was maybe an hour later when I had to get out of bed and take Moose pee outside which was -10 but felt like Antarctica's asshole which was probably -45.

Ugh.

I had just gotten to sleep when I felt this big nose staring me down.
It was like this only at my bedside.
And so we went downstairs. Bug was still up, of course, and again apologized. I told her to hold that thought because Moose was about to pee himself which ultimately would become my problem, not his. After freezing my face off...I came back to my daughter's permanent position on the couch. She again apologized and asked me why I didn't hate her.

"Well, honey, I could never hate you, you are my child. Sometimes I don't like how you behave and when you hurt it hurts me. I will always love you."

"But, mom, why didn't you yell at me when I was evil?"

"What good would that have done? Besides, you never know when one of us would get hit by a bus and then all you would remember was how bad the last moment was when they were alive."

"I know, mom. And my bus driver is dangerous. She drives fast on ice and turns corners over snow drifts and makes us pukey. She is seriously bad. She is going to kill us. Every day I fear for my life and that I won't see you again."

Yeah.

The dots connect even if they go to grandmother's house, through the woods, and over the hill first.

I think.

Life returned to normal in the morning when Murphy took toilet paper rolls about the entire house while I was in the shower. Bad dog. Bad dog.
Artistic dramatization
#momsterlife





Thursday, February 19, 2015

PooPourri


Once we become parents, we have graduated to not only someone who knows one of the deepest loves possible, but also one who can tolerate just almost any type of bio fluid tragedy. I mean, it's like we become CDC scientists or Wonder Woman or Quincy. Except me. I still can't handle boogers. Or puke. Not a fan of mushy gooey tar poop or urine showers. Ok. So I'm still a pussy.

But when it's your dog...you suck it up. You love on them, you wash their dingle berries and you put salve on their pee pees. You even kiss their butt sniffing faces and give them extra love when they don't feel well. I don't know why you would put salve on a dog's pee pee, but if you had to, you would.

Work was long and tiring today plus I had a grueling physical therapy session involving neck traction and deep tissue massage. I pretty much plopped on the couch after I made dinner. That's dinner, also known as supper as in the last meal. Some people call dinner lunch.

As I plopped, I assessed the cigar room as I call my television room because it is manly and probably was a cigar room back in the day. It appeared Bug and the dogs had a party by the toy carnage and array of debris. She told me Murphy was having excessive diarrhea and she was glad he did it outside or on the training pad. Of course in princess style she told me while fake gagging and melodrama. She is her mother's daughter as I am of the same genes when it comes to the "ew" factors.

I thought nothing of it and tried to pinpoint what he had eaten to have troubles. He eats everything. He ate some dried flower arrangements I had, dog toys, and recently he had been ripping up the cheesy fake vinyl squares in the mud room. Now this normally would be alarming to have a dog rip up your flooring except I hate it. I was going to take it up this summer and seal the concrete floor which has character beings it is over 100 years old. Of course, I would rather he just tear it up and not chew on it. So I assumed this was giving him troubles.

All of a sudden I heard the little guy make a discomforting sound and have a mess on the tile, then scoot across the floor. This action made me have a sense of urgency and leap from a comatose position in about 2.5. It was too late.

Bug could not handle it, she said. "Mom, it's gritty and sandy and oh my gosh." I told her to either hold Murphy or help me clean it up. She did her fake gagging routine coupled with screams of horror and ran the opposite direction.

There I am...holding a poor little puppy with a gooey dingle berry who had the skids. Poop ya marks(police term for a type of road traction mark on the highway formed by a vehicle [tires] at a crash site) and an odiferous aroma started to really get to me. It brought back memories of drunks with poopy pants and pee pee drawers.

I worked fast. I held a 20 pound puppy in one arm and loaded the Clorox and Mr. Clean in the mop bucket. Doing this one handed was next to impossible and I looked like a monkey fucking a football. Murphy didn't like it much either as he was really squirming and whining.

This made me squeeze harder but at the same time I was keeping his dingle berry at a distance to avoid getting flying poop on me. Murphy squirmed more. The poop was getting sloshed around the floor with my mop and I was not making much progress. It resembled beef gravy.

I begged my daughter to help me. She would not have it and locked her bedroom door. As if I had one more hand to drag her out by her pony tail. Murphy could not be put down because he would take up the scoots again and then I would be chasing his ass with a mop. Plus, I didn't want him to get it in the carpet. It was definitely not the boot scooting boogie.

Moose kept sticking his nose my face to see what was going on because his buddy was grunting in distress. He sniffed when I mopped and jumped up when Murphy grunted. It was a three ring circus.

This continued for a time until I felt the floor was adequate so I could get Murphy washed. I carried him upstairs all the while he was grunting and miserable. Holding my breath, I was waiting for a butt explosion which made me aim his butt away from me. Plus, I could still see the dingle berry firmly embedded in his curly haired booty. It would have blasted out like shrapnel from an RPG if he had any type of huge bowel catastrophe. As I looked closer, it was like mortar consistency. At least that was my eye ball assessment because I didn't touch it at that time.

I plopped him in the tub which usually makes him happy but he looked worse than Kanye West every time a white person wins a music award. I tried to swish his butt in the water to loosen the dingle berry without touching it, but he got mad. With a turned up nose, I washed him good and pulled the dingle berry out of his fur with my bare hands. I should have won the Nobel Peace Prize for such heroics. It wasn't quite effective, so I donned a scrub brush and got after it like Nurse Helga did at WMC when I got decontaminated from a meth lab. No, I didn't cook it or smoke it. It was a police call. Long story short, she was 300 pounds and the brush was built for Godzilla's ass. We all had to strip naked and get raked by her until we bled. By my speculations, her brush which was two feet long was made of porcupine quills. I'm sure they stuck us in an acid bath after that and then we stood around for hours half naked in a fish bowl trauma room for display in the ER. But anyway, that was 2002. I digress.

Still, with turned up nose (perma snarl), I continued to feel his ass for dingle berries and scrub. Murphy looked at me like I was molesting him and for the first time in my life I felt dirty. His eyes were so sad and he looked downward often. I kept telling him it was for his own good and he would feel better after it was over. Yeah. It sounded like something a molester would say. I know. I mean, I don't know from experience, but I know because I did those type of cases as a detective for over 7 years. And I was grooming him. You know what? This is sickening and these cop puns are not funny when I am talking about my cute puppy.

Anybedazzledbutt, I am sure he was relieved to get rid of the extra load he was carrying around. I looked up and saw some White Rain for Men which had been left behind by Mr. Fire Chief. What the heck. It should be used up and what better purpose than to make Murphy smell nice. I lathered him and he turned up his nose. Apparently, he preferred my dog shampoo with chamomile which he normally eats and licks off. This time he had none of that. I gave him a thorough rinse and cued him to jump out onto a towel so I could dry him off. With no enthusiasm like a true Snuffleupagus, he got out of the tub. Once I dried him off a bit, he ran like a squealed pig around the house. Problem solved.

I then turned my attention to the tub and got some Clorox going to kill all the dingle berry germs and what not. Then a little Magic Eraser, then another Clorox rinse. You can't be too cautious. Being Cinderella was not in my cards. After I settled back down in my comatose state to whine about physical therapy to myself, Bug came out of her closet. She stumbled over my lotion on the floor.

"Mom, I think I found what is bothering Murphy."

"What's that?"

"I think he ate all the lotion in this tub."

"Criminy. We are going to have to watch for butt explosions all night and day."

"You are. I am having none of it. No way."

Sigh.

At least the cream was made of organic ingredients. I wonder if the eucalyptus burns when it comes out.
 
Cutest dang labradoodle evah even if his butt smells like eucalyptus.

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Princess Diaries

Shopping with a teenager is about at the same level as getting waterboarded in a dark room full of CIA agents. But, as mothers, we must endure the anguish, the torture, and the bliss of making our daughters feel like Princesses. Who was the person to push us to this level of insanity? Who decided all daughters must be treated like Princesses? I am not sure, but later I must Google it.

Rarely does the father partake in these festivities. Why? He lives miles away. If I had one with me, I would make him go. So I have to be the mother and the father during these events for the Princess.

Her father helped with the dress because I asked and what do you know...he thought it was OK. NO, I don't have child support this month, but Bug gets her dress. I think he believes I make money on the meager amount and refused to participate in my hobby: raising his daughter. It makes sense in my mind. Where did I park my Mercedes?

Oh, yeah. At the mall. It was disguised as a 2005 Chevy Malibu.

The outing started out as me being excited to make my girl dressed in pizzazz (on a budget) for her Sweetheart Dance this weekend. I am all about class and glamour on a beer budget. Luckily in her size 0, it is easy. There are many selections left in the NO ONE IS THIS SIZE size.

She is very picky and tries on everything until she feels pretty. It takes a village. Of dresses. I encouraged her to try on things which maybe didn't appeal to her off the hanger, but would be beautiful on and she agreed. Some of them were wonderful and classy. She didn't pick out one slut dress or anything which I felt was too old for her. For this, I was proud.

We went to several stores. Some of them were drive-bys. A drive by is you look in the window and see if they have fancy dance your pants off dresses for teens and if the answer is "nope"...drive on by. Next store. She was discouraged and went on and on how she was ugly and fat and no one asked her to the dance. She does not do this because she wants my attention. She really feels like this. It kills me. She is the most beautiful child and she has a good heart. She does have teenager hormones which drive me to hell and back, but she is a good kid. Do other moms experience this self-esteem issue? I don't know. I just know I don't understand where it comes from.

At the last store, I told her if she didn't find the dress which was just right, we could look the next day in another part of town. She perked up a little bit at the thought the pressure was off and she had other options. We tried on about 5 more at the last shop with no luck. I told her we should make another round and see if we missed something. She agreed.

As she rounded a tall display of longer dresses, she looked up and her eyes sparkled.

"Mom, look. It is beautiful. It is in the budget. Can I try it on?"

Of course I said yes. It was beautiful and classy...just the way I like them. And pink. I love pink. Nothing says princess like pink and it was her favorite color as a toddler. She always grabbed pink things.

It just so happened, it was perfect. Her eyes lit up.

"I feel pretty, Mom."

Photo credit: JcPenny's..although this cutie patootie is adorable, this is not my child. 
"Good. And you don't need a date. You need to feel pretty and go have fun with your friends."

"Yeah. It's Ok. I will have fun. I will look pretty, don't you think?"

"Absolutely."

What more could a mom ask for than to see her daughter's eyes light up when she found the right dress. I do have a suggestion. I guess it was not a rhetorical question. Well, maybe one of these shops could serve the moms wine while they waited and watched the pile of no dresses accumulate until the yes dress was located. Just a thought.




Monday, February 16, 2015

The Tale of Two Planets

Valentine's Day historically repeated itself only worse than normal. No need to go into any details. I think maybe my first husband wasn't so bad after all. No, not really.

I cried. I got emotional. It was dumb. It's still dumb. Valentine's Day is not supposed to bleed over into Monday. Ok. I'm over it. Final answer.

My mom was good to me and it lifted my spirits. Moms are great. I got three Happy Valentine's messages from some nice male friends who gave a damn that the day was a plague for me. It was awesome. My dogs cuddled with me. That was super awesome. If I could make a career out of cuddling with my dogs all day, I would. All the while watching The Walking Dead would make it more so blissful.

So here are my ingenious thoughts worthy of you if you read it. If you don't read it, you are not worthy. Oooh, that is a double edged sword.

I learn from my mistakes. I pass them onto you in hopes you will not repeat mine:


1. Men are from Mars, women are from Venus. This is a scientific fact. There is also a book by the same name, toting the scientific facts. Good read. It should be a textbook.

2. Please order dessert, I am full. A statement used to often describe how us women sound like and portray ourselves to men. Be clear. Be truthful. If you want to go full hog on a piece of cake, own it. Order the fucking cake. Otherwise, shut your mouth and say "no thank you." Don't make a man guess you want dessert. Don't bring it up later.

3. Men like a classy slut. In other words, they want their woman to be elegant and classy in public, but a slut in the bedroom. Don't confuse the two.

4. The hunt is more thrilling than the kill. In other words, once they have you and take you down with the ship...make you feel all this commitment, it sometimes isn't. Not unless they put a ring on it. Sometimes it is a game. If you stop becoming "mysterious" or "exciting" and they run...then they did not want companionship. They did not really want to know you THAT well. Then you became normal and ordinary or even crazy. They toyed with you because you were fun and exciting to them. They definitely don't want emotions. It is much better to have resting bitch face. They don't want feelings. Feelings are scary and warrant attention, focus, and watering like a flower. Even if they ask these things of you, they really want to know what you think about football. If you divulge any true emotions, make sure they offered first and you stand up and shout, "WHAT WOULD PEYTON MANNING DO?"  They really wanted the Internet dating facade of unrealistic expectations with hot wild sex. Chances are they have already moved on to someone else or several elses.

Photo credit: Pinterest. Yes, intimacy is creepy. Soul seekers.


5. Walls are not meant to be broken. Be careful with your heart. Most men don't really appreciate it even if they say they do. It's a trick.

6. Aliens exist. They really do. They are sometimes disguised as a humanoid man.

7. Men like compliments. It's like giving a blow job without swallowing. Stroke it, but not too much. Giving men compliments is like a tease...just a little tongue around the top, then smile. Keep doing that once in a while, but not too much. They can get a big head. In all seriousness, women should give men compliments.

8. Men say they want or like brutal honesty, but that only applies to women, not themselves. When people make us defensive, it is only natural to put up the stockade and man the knights. However, what is really going on? Someone is not happy. If the woman is telling the man something, they are using "feelings." This is when the men throw up the white flag, run and hide, and proclaim their dick is just too big for her. When a man is being brutally honest, the female cries, soaks it up, then reevaluates herself. Sometimes men and women say things just to lash out at each other which is hurtful. Sometimes it is truthful. Sometimes it is just the man being a big asshole because he can't handle the truth. He wants to make her feel just as bad as she made him when she addressed her feelings and got emotional. We, as women care, and we want to fix things, talk about it, communicate. Men want you to suck it. From the book, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, "When a man can listen to a woman's feelings without getting angry and frustrated, he gives her a wonderful gift.He makes it safe for her to express herself." Get it. Got it. Good.

9. A good man demonstrates his commitment by showing up. Yep. That is all.

10. Porcupine Hip Dependence. It's the right amount. You need to remember not to be attached at the hip, but not so much so you never have together moments. Think of yourself like a porcupine...you are next to the prick, you do the bump, "yow!" that hurts...back at my stance...and comfortable. A little distance or space is good. You don't have to be attached at the hip. Co-dependence is ugly. I never have been like this. I was always too independent. However, you do need some hedgehog time. How do porcupines and hedgehogs cuddle? Google it. Here, let me provide a pic...

Photo credit: Pinterest


11. Battles or wars. Yep. This is a deep subject. Pick the right ones. I suck at it. I pick what comes to my mind at the time. Learn to swallow. This can be a deal breaker.

12. Be you but not the crazy you. The you you. Men don't like crazy-not even a little bit.  Keep that contained. If Margaret needs to be kept in a box so she doesn't come out, then keep her in a box. Self control is hard enough and when you have to control the demons, we should get extra credit for that, but men can be moody. It's OK. Don't unleash the monkeys. No one wants to see that. I really believe homes were not designed properly and we should all have a tantrum room built in with rubber mats, bouncy balls, and sound proofing. Yes, men would use it if it was part of the house. Now we just need to make it their idea.

13. Men need to feel needed-NOT NEEDY.  Women like to be cherished. Men like to feel necessary. I like them to feel necessary. They like you to want them, but not to be needy. Women being cherished has nothing to do with the meals they provide or how they stroke a man's ego. It is how the man treats you. If he sucks at it, chances are he isn't going to be trained to be any better.

14. If you find yourself doing periodical or a lot of emotional outpouring of things you lack, need, or want from your man...you need to run away.  He either has another woman or he isn't it for you. If he responds with "I can't take this" or "You need to get help for your feelings", chances are he is a real dickhead and only cares about himself. He has no love for your heart, otherwise, he would talk to you about what is bothering you. Penis first: remember that is how it rolls. He is telling you he is a pussy and can't handle any of life's problems, nor wants to because he has enough of his own things to worry about. Run fast.

15. If they forget holidays and birthdays, scrap them in the pile and move on. They are too dumb for you. If they can't remember the holidays plastered all over the US of A which are meaningful or full of expectations, then they are not paying attention to the one they supposedly love. Come on. How hard is it, really? Get a fucking planner if you are a blockhead.

16. Women have emotional explosions because they think all the time about things. Women think and think and finally all the emotional garbage they have been saving explodes like one big Chernobyl event. Men, if you think we aren't thinking, we are. All the time. About stuff. About stuff you said, you did or didn't do, about what you forgot, what you did nice, what we like, what you need to fix, laundry, makeup, working out, kids, meals, toothpaste lids on the sink, dirty clothes left by you on the floor 4 feet from the laundry basket, bills...it's all in there. Bam! Have your rubber suit on when it comes. Cowboy up!

17. Nagging. Women hate to nag, but men make us to do it. Nothing makes me more sour than nagging. I hate myself when I am like that. If you keep hearing it "before" or "often", there is a chance you keep repeating irritating behavior or lack of action. Get a clue. Do women always have to decrease blow jobs to get anything done or for men to pay attention?

18.Testing, testing, testing...is this thing on? Women always test their man. If they say they are going to send holiday or birthday flowers late because the florist can't deliver them on time, what does that really mean? That means he forgot or he didn't get off his ass to get it done until the last minute. When women tell them you might as well forget it and not to send them because what is the point, what do they really mean? They mean you should send the biggest fucking bouquet of flowers with the nicest of notes and grovel for a couple days. When the flowers don't arrive and I wonder where the flowers are and you say, "because you told me to cancel the order." You are a fucking dip shit. You failed. And nothing you say or do is going to make it better because you didn't care to be responsible or kind during the right moment. You will be forgiven, but we will never forget.

19. Tit for tat and the elephant is fat. Women will poke you back when you poke them. However, men, you may not realize you poke us. And then we get even. When you get even because we got even...that just makes you a bitch. You should just take it and shut up. Then we think about it and realize we are being awful. And we never forget. Anything. Ever.

20. Give and take should be Even Steven. I don't even like Steven. Who is he, anyway? I do know give and take. I am more of a giver than a taker. I give with nothing expected in return. It takes me a while to realize, however, that if you are the only giver in a relationship, it isn't going to work. Takers will continue to take until there is no more. You can't give your love to someone who doesn't want it and I think in love and relationships it should be a two-way street.  It only has to be a note of kindness and not diamonds. Diamonds are overrated, but I would stand for a new car. Kidding. I'm talking about niceties and kind gestures.

21. Silent treatments. These are sometimes necessary so both sides "get it." Don't overdo it because then that just makes you an asshole. The last holdout is a loser. Timeouts are OK, just get back in the game or say you are sorry and mean it.

22. Look at the women around him. If he has family dysfunction in only the girls or only the boys in his life whether it is his kids, wives, ex-wives, sisters, brothers, fathers...there is a reason. Maybe it is him. Maybe he can't cope with that group of people, that sex of people.  If he can't create some type of functional harmony with the girls in the family, maybe he has a problem with relationships with women or just doesn't take the time to figure it out. If they resent him and are so dysfunctional it is always a patch job with the relationship, there is something wrong and you need to look beyond the baggage.  Dysfunctional families have a lot of chaos and dysfunction junction all of the day long. Be sure you can handle it.

23. Does he have to be in the limelight? I was married to a former NFL player who had to be the center of attention to the point he was overly boisterous. Loudness was his middle name. Sometimes I didn't give a rat's ass, but other times, it annoyed the heck out of me. We could never have a nice quiet dinner because he constantly made points to be loud, harass the waitresses or make fun of people in Walmart. It got old. I believe he was truly unkind. Too much attention makes for a big asshole. It isn't attractive for either a man or a woman. If you are a man doing this...you are an asshole. If you are woman doing this...other women think you are an attention seeking whore...emphasis on whore. It's like putting a big bar sign on the vagina and saying "open for business."

24. Does he want to shield his reputation? Save face? Why? What did he do that he needs to save face?

25. Does he have to be a pillar all the time or the "big deal" to others? Why? Is it because he has to overcompensate for some insecurities or wants to think of himself as a big shot? A man who cares about people, will care about the people and love them. It will not be for monetary reasons or gifts, but from the heart. They would love back. He will do things for them, be there for them, emotionally or physically in a time of need. It's not about buying things. Doing for others is not about putting his name on the building or having people bow to him as though he were the village king.

26. I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Tee hee. It doesn't always work that way. Psych!

27. Why do you need more than one purse? To hit you over the head with in different colors. Idiot! Can you believe a man would even ask such a question? Pshaw.

28. I feel fat. Men, you can't win right here. I don't care what you say or do, it doesn't work. I will take suggestions.

29. Why do women like to talk so much even after sex? Really? Really? Because your penis does all the talking for you?  Women need information. Men need vagina.

30. Love is hard. If we are to grow in love and relationships, we all have to feel the positive feelings of love, happiness, trust, and gratitude, but we also must periodically have to feel anger, sadness, fear, and sorrow. If you can't do this, you can't have love. You are not worthy. 

After all the funny and dust settles from our own fuck-ups...it really makes a difference when you have failed relationships in front of an audience: your child. Not that all relationships end in marriage or end on a bad note. They shouldn't. You should end as friends or at least amicable...in the perfect world. Sometimes things are not perfect. 

However, don't you want the best for your daughter? And why wouldn't you want to set a good example for her and have the best for yourself? Don't settle. I did and have paid the consequences...over and over...and over. Getting hurt is part of life, but when you have a kiddo, relationships become something totally different. I want my daughter to have the best. I have to lead by example. Don't we all?



Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Non-Man Mornings and Why Valentine's Day Has Been An Epic Letdown For Me (This Is Not A Man Hating Post But An Entirely Too Elongated Title-Google Will Thank Me)

Whew. Typing that was as painful as reading it. I wonder if it will meet the longest blog post title in history. I am sure it won't win me a Bahamas getaway vacation.


My mornings are usually chaos:  Dogs to potty. Potty myself.  Turn coffee pot on. Tasmanian devil child to wake up. Coffee. Check Facebook and Email. Dogs to potty. Shower. Get ready. Pack lunch. Feed dogs. Coffee. News. Workout bag. Purse. Dogs to poop. Pee pee dance=potty self. Make sure kid is getting ready for school. Pet dogs. Clean up bowls from dog's breakfast. Get mud room ready for dogs. Pet dogs. Coffee for road.

That is just a typical day with no work projects to concern myself with or classes after work. I do all this in an hour, sometimes I allot an hour and a half if I am generous. Usually that depends on how hot the news has been and if there is anything pressing in the world. Sometimes I even try to look nice, so I need that extra half hour. I am not high maintenance like the princess teenager who needs over two hours of primping.

You will notice missing in there is a man. No man. No morning tents or farts or snores or shorts on the floor or toothpaste tubes open on the sink.

Even my dogs sleep quietly. Never would I have a dog with nasal problems like a bulldog or a pug. I think they are cute, just in someone else's house. I have to have silence at night and during nap time. No fan, no TV, no snoring. Ask my husbands (yes, I had two). They would tell you I subconsciously beat them at night like Pavlov's dog when a snore happens. Whack. The reason? My first husband said he wanted me to smack him in the night when he snored and maybe that would cure him. I really thought I was going to be in jail because he snored a lot. I think. If not, I hit him for other reasons. Subconsciously, anyway, and that is what I would tell the judge. Anyway, it became a reflex and the second husband about sent me through the wall. Lesson learned.

Yes, I know. I am fussy. Most definitions associated with "fussy" are words like "picky" or "persnickety" and are negative in connotation. I like to think of myself as selective or quirky.

So, I have had a man or two in my life. Maybe more. I like men. I don't have anything against them.

Disclaimer: If you are not interested in some unusual talk right now, you might want to stop reading. If you like quirky, you might continue on. This topic will move away from my crazy non-man mornings into my view on Valentine's Day.

Back to the Non-Man Morning...

Usually, I depart to work with a "have a nice day" exchanges with my daughter and pets and wags from the dogs. I pet. They wag. Sometimes I like to wag, but they don't pet me. We have wagging contests. It's how I learned how to twerk.


Yep. There is a butt in the air for you. I think she had implants. I do mine with a little more class and perhaps combine a little Elaine Benes: 



Anyway...they are the men in my lives. I love them so.
Who doesn't want to twerk next to Chewbacca?

Today, I got no good-bye greeting from the pups. I walked slowly to the door to the mud room and no butt sniffers. There was a little letdown and emptiness in my heart. I turned to close it part way when I heard a herd (nice play on words, right?) of elephants coming my way...and then a slide...and bam! A red fuzz and a brown fuzz went by me right into the closet door. The two yahoos slid by me just like Tom Cruise in Risky Business minus the clothes (because they are nekkid dogs)watched me watch them go by and slam into the door. They moseyed back to the door and stood facing me, awaiting their pets with wags a wagging. I love my dogs. Of course, I petted them on the head and kissed their butt sniffing faces.

Moving on to the next sorta non-related topic...

Why Is Valentine's Day A Letdown? Let me count the ways. 

All my life, I thought I would have fairy tale days of bliss and romance. I got one Candygram in high school from Shawn Miller but he was just my friend. There was no romance. I had no boyfriends. My friends got a lot of Candygrams from boyfriends and admirers with "I love you" or "Will you be mine?" on them. Mine said: "To: Kathryn -From: Shawn- Happy Valentine's Day." That was it. One. Most years I had the only empty desk when they were delivered. Maybe he felt sorry for me. I don't know. I ate the candy and I was glad to get one of those Russell Stover strawberry cream filled chocolates. It was nice. Yet, there was no spark of Valentine's Day.Once I was on the committee, I delivered them to everyone else, but no one bought one for me. I thought about buying a couple and putting a really mushy gushy sentence on there to make everyone curious, but I did not. Nope. It had to be real. No fake Valentines. My mother had gifts for my brother and I at home. It was very nice. She still carries on the tradition. 

College was really depressing with the dorm aligned with bouquets of flowers and candy for all the girls. Like hundreds of them lined up in the front office by the mail boxes. Fuck you, wanted ones! My heart always longed for the same. I wished I had a secret admirer. I did not. I wished I had a boyfriend. I did not. I had a date once in a while. Usually, they turned out to be schleps and it was "one and done." I always day dreamed of having one of the football players as my boyfriend. They had clout. Or so I thought. And they were handsome. But they grew up to be fat and broke.Yep. Even though I hung around a lot of them, it didn't happen. I was ugly. I was sometimes fat and sometimes skinny. When I was skinny, they still had no interest. I didn't realize until I was older that I needed to be a slut to be with them. Oh, I could have changed my future if I only knew how awesome sex was. I was a virgin until I was 22 years old. I know. I was the last campus hold out. I should have worn a t-shirt with those very words. Very few of the football jocks went out with nice girls. Why? Because they didn't have to.

Actually, I think Cupid was a shitty shot with that bow and arrow. He was no Daryl Dixon. 

So, my dad felt sorry for me. At least I believe so, because I talked to him about men. He told me they just want to get down my pants and a special one would come into my life when I least expected it and I would be blessed with someone who would treat me with respect, love, and kindness. I would be given red roses because red roses were a symbol of love. Angels would sing. Trumpets would blare. He lied. 

Anyway, after that day, he made Valentine's Day magnificent for me. I got the prettiest bouquet of flowers and a chocolate chip heart cookie with frosting as big as the football field. The next year I got flowers and special chocolates.I carted it up to my dorm room with pride. It was not inappropriate in any way...just a father's love and wish for the day to be special for his daughter. He made the day a big deal and said someone would take over for him someday. Then he died. 

All Valentine's Day celebrations came to a big halt. Sigh.

Along came the first husband. He was a geeky looking thing with big teeth but had promises of growing up to be handsome. And he did, in fact, become handsome. He bought me a cardboard box of those sweetheart candy things. You know the ones that say words on them and they taste like chalk. To: Kathryn. From: Corey. Yeah. He didn't even take the little hearts and spell out something fun or write a sentence with them. That was it. Twenty-two more years did not produce any more spectacular results. Then we divorced.

My second husband came along. He was one of those prized college football players turned NFL pros I dreamed about. However, he revealed himself to be an asshole. I knew him in college pretty well. We had mutual friends later in life, but we did not know each other after college. I did watch his fame and fortune rise up and appear to go down in flames with a career ending knee injury after 4 years. Then, I moved on to other University of Wyoming pro stars. Actually, I moved on to other television because after my first divorce, I was not made to suffer watching sports all day long. Until the second husband. He forced me to watch sports all day long as well. Not only games of any sports, but sports news casts as well. Shoot me now. 

Anyway, Valentine's Day with him consisted of a fabric rose from the gas station nearby. It was the most romantic gift of all presented in all its glory laying on the counter with a "Look at that, babe. Happy Valentine's Day," quip from the lips, followed by, "You were right when you said I wasn't romantic and I think I need to up the ante." I shit you not. He wasn't even being a smart ass. And sports and two and three and change the channel and three and four. Oh, believe me, I raved about it and gave generous thanks. Mostly, my thoughts were kept thoughts. 

The next year at Valentine's Day...I got a fabric rose from the nearest gas station along with Dollah Gentral votives by the bed lit and everything and those chalky sweetheart candies spread all over the bed. He really extended himself. Then he expected me to fuck him good because he put out the extra effort of romance. What a guy! Well, I can fake blissful sex just as much as he faked romance. And one and two and three and done.

There were no more Valentine's Days to come. Yep. Shortest marriage in history and not because of Valentine's Day. February 14ths with him were perks of the marriage and the "up" days. Again, I shit you not. It was the way it was. In those days, I am pretty sure Cupid went blind. I only wished he had shot me through the heart or the vagina so I could die and go to heaven.

And that is my experience with Cupid. 

You know, come to think of it, he is just an ugly naked fat fucker. 

I think I will celebrate it this year in the original religious commemoration and toast to St. Valentine with wine. In fact, my boss gave me a nice bottle from Larry Bird's winery for Christmas. I must entrust it shall be Celtic good. Raise my glass up, yes, indeed. Several times out of pure joy and respect for courtly love, in fact. Not really. Well, sort of. Actually just four. I can only get four glasses out of a bottle. 

In Lutheran religion, it is also an official feast day, so I might add that in, too. Food is always good. We must have some type of entertainment or festivity: twerk contest with the dogs. I can practice my Elaine.

We will not be celebrating Valentine's Day at The Harry Potter House in massacre fashion, if you were going there-kill those thoughts. Literally. I might massacre a box of chocolates. 

Yep, I still think Cupid is a dumpy little shit. I don't think any amount of wine is going to change my opinion. However, I might for once honor him by prancing around naked in my house like a dumpy fatso with my wine glass and chocolates. Maybe not. Maybe flannel pj's are in order. I have a kid. And no one needs to see my hot mess.

I don't hate Valentine's Day. It's just no one has charmed me with romance as the day is intended. So, I have a tendency to bypass the aisles at stores and ignore all the ladies receiving flowers at the office. It's like a funeral. Cupid is dead. 


Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Xfinity Is Fake Television

Xfinity customer service sucks monkey ballz. I suppose it would be no surprise to anyone that Xfinity Rey is a douche. In fact, my entire chat was not recorded and the numbers he gave me were bogus. Not only was Rey's comments bogus, the service representative who scheduled the Monday appointment was full of shit, too. I WASTED 4 HOURS OF VACATION TIME. I am so fuming mad, but some might say it is par for the course. I was nice on Sunday. I was not nice on Monday when I got a no show appointment and messed up my vacation accrual.

So now...Xfinity Rey...up your butt with a coconut and Mr. Jacquay from Sunday night can sit on it and spin with you...and you are both douche canoes. You know what is worse? The reason why Xfinity sucks monkey ballz and has the worst customer service in all The Land is because no one can compete with them and they are a monopoly around here.



Can you feel it? That's my blood pressure rising. I had a fake appointment, a fake ticket number, and a fake modem problem. I am pretty sure right now I am symbol cursing on my business report and I will have to go back and check that Excel spreadsheet. Yes, I can multi-task.

Sure, I did 100 burpees while talking to Rosean Marvi Joy (Who the hell names their kids that-must be a rep on some LSD trip)-NOT! But this is what it felt like. I should have told Roses of Marvelous Joy she was just as fun as 100 burpees. 

By now the blood is popping in my vein behind my left eyeball. If I were a man, I would now know what it means to pop a nut. Actually, I still have no idea what that means or how that happens or the level of pressure it involves, but it must be close to dealing with Xfinity reps. I am putting them down as the cause of any past, present, or future medical problems I endure. 


Just out of curiosity I took my blood pressure reading after this and it was 113/59 with 58 beats per minute. 

Whiskey-tango-foxtrot? 

I now know why I love to read and television is overrated and the moral of this story is maybe my blood pressure is only associated with the teenager.





Lord of the Bacon

It is 08:28 AM EST and I still have not received a call from a royal at Xfinity.

Photo credit: Pinterest
If this makes no sense, then yesterday's post probably won't clear it up for you, but it would let you know I had a crazy chat convo with an Xfinity representative probably doing business from another country but purporting to be speaking to me from America. Yeah. I have no words. I think I am not going to screw with them on chat anymore, but I don't know what else to do since they refuse to have real customer service. Perhaps, I will tell Pjaramondo that the wand chooses the wizard. Do you think he will understand? At least, I think Rey and Pjaramondo are men behind the monitor because they are boy names, but who really knows?

Who doesn't love Harry Potter? You don't? Off with your head!


In other news...

I have received this nifty gadget from a medical aficionado close friend of mine: WALLAH! 
Mine is ZACTLY like this one and also from Amazon...delivered to my door! Thank you!
It is the neatest gadget and idea since sliced bread. I am now tracking my blood pressure throughout the day and writing all events down in a notebook to keep handy for my doctor's appointment at the end of February.

Call me a freak. Last night after the teenager bombarded me through the door, my blood pressure was 145/75...a little high.

BUG: Mom, I have a boyfriend.

ME: Oh great. Is he a hearing man?

BUG: What?

ME: Never mind. How about you try your hand at bacon? We need to work on those cooking skills!

She got out the wonderful Minnesota bacon (which cannot be topped-best in The Land) and believe it or not, we had a break through with Bug's cooking skills. She presented the most perfect bacon in all The World. 

Our convo is on the Facebook page and in case you don't Book The Face (stolen from The Russian Bear)...here it is: 

ME: We have made progress with your cooking skills! Perfect bacon and perfect hamburgers. We will work on condiments, side dishes, and try to get you to make Mac and Cheese without burning it or turning it to mush. 

BUG: Woohoo! Perfect meat is perfect for any man. They like their meat, Mama. I will get me a husband.

facepalm

Real bacon flow chart from a real science study and decades of experiments.


Yep. 

In case you are wondering, bacon does not make the blood pressure go up. It might also help me have a normal conversation with Jacquais from New York on my next Xfinity help chat to get my new modem for internet service.

Good thing there is Internet at work. 

Yes. I am proof your tax dollars are hard at work.  Don't worry, this is all done on my break time.


I don't make these Xfinity names up...I tell ya. It is just like my Chinese pedicure salonist choosing "Shirley" as her American name. 



Off I go into the land of no assistance...

On another note, wouldn't it be fun just to screw with Xfinity reps all day so it would force them to improve their customer service? Yeah, I'm a sicko. Poor Rosean Marvi Joy.

Monday, February 2, 2015

Fatal Attraction

I have no problem making an ass out of myself.

Recently, I went to my eye doctor for an eye exam and to check on a hemorrhage. It was a spontaneous implosion.

"No worries. It happens to all of us. It will be worse before it gets better and it will last 2 weeks," said the doc. He went through a series of questions:

Constipated lately?

No

Get hit in the eye?

No.

Cough or sneeze very deeply?

No.

Stress?

Lots of it.

Answer. Now to de-stress and keep the blood pressure low. Check. Check. However, what he told me later in an hour long exam which took 2 hours concerned me even more so. Apparently, my vision had changed so significantly in one year's time, that he told me to immediately schedule an exam with my physician and he was going to call her and send his results and concerns.

"Is it normal aging? Will I have to give up contacts?"

"No. It is not normal aging. That is why I am concerned. My first thought is a diabetic issue, but it could be another major medical problem. I am serious about this. You need to get an appointment and take this seriously."

Wow.

That was a ton of bricks.

I went back to work in a funk. I started Googling diabetes. My students and I started to make it a game, asking me all the chronic problems I have had in the last year. So I listed: vision changes, chronic pain in between shoulder blades, tingling in arms and hands, fatigue.

Wouldn't you know what came up? Diabetes, MS, and Lupus.

All three great choices of fatalistic diagnosis. My last blood sugar level check was 82mg/dL. So we at first laughed, then you get to thinking about it and it gets pretty depressing.

I went home for the weekend. I sat there a lot. Too much time for thinking, I guess. As I walked to the post office, I imagined what if... it is something like I am going blind? I started to count my steps to the post office. I soaked up all the scenery, memorizing everything...the cracks in the sidewalk. How would I know not to step into traffic? How would I remember to keep my head out of the clouds and count blocks to my house? What if I could never see my garden again or use my landscape skills to create gardens for myself and others? What if I couldn't see my daughter on her wedding day?

Yep. I went there. It made me sad. I spent hours thinking about people who are blind and how they cope and live life to its fullest. Then, I started to gamble with God.

God, please take my sense of taste. Leave my eyes.

Then, I scolded myself for doing so. You can't gamble with God. Shame on me. What was I thinking?

My brain went off on another tangent. Why do I go off on fatalistic thoughts of doom and gloom?

It's probably just a hang nail.

I remembered when I was young in school we did an experiment while blindfolded...you had to guess what you were touching. It was fun and a great lesson to learn at that time, but not the real thing.

Of all the senses I could live without, I chose sense of taste. I want to smell the roses. I want to see my daughter on her wedding day or my first grand child. I want to hear the birds. I want to feel the sense of touch. What if someone handed me a penis and told me it was something else. Would I recognize it?

No matter how much I have tried to comprehend Braille, it's still a bunch of dots to me. It all blends. And audio books is not the same as holding a book and diving into a world of fantasy.

What if my dog had to poop and I didn't know it and he peed and pooped all over the house? I would smell it, but would I step in it? Would I know where to clean it up?

How would I paint my nails? My hair?

It could be the first time in my life I truly go on a blind date.

How would I dress myself? What if I looked like Austin Powers every day? Would Garanimals work? Could I feel tigers with tigers or would I put elephants with giraffes?

My mind went bonkers (more so than usual) and I drifted further into the dark hole of doom.

What if it is a giant brain tumor pushing on my eyes and snuffing out my vision? Would I do chemo? Would I choose quality over quantity? I have watched friends deteriorate with brain tumors. It is a sad demise.

It was a good thing I went to bed and woke up Sunday with a whole new set of problems. It is called...storm knocks out Xfinity during Superbowl. Dafuq, you say? Yep. They didn't care. They told me a service person would show up from 8-10 on Monday (today). So...I had to take 4 hours of vacation for this fiasco. At about 9:30, my internet started working. No Xfinity cable dude. In fact, he never showed. I know it was a man, because a girl service person would have called to reschedule. We are polite like that. I got on xfinity chat. I kind of unloaded all my blind problems and sexual frustrations out on Rey who was probably from India or Pakistan or somewhere other than the USA:



Yes, the xfinity bastahds spell my first name wrong.



A "higher office" will deal with me. Like Xfinity has royalty or something. As you can see these are not some of my finer moments. I continued to make an ass of myself:

I have been told boys would call me. It's the first sign I'm not going to get a call. It is now 2:15 pm EST and I still have not received a call from a royal at Xfinity.


Next, I added my girl drama flare for extra pressure. Not that I wasn't mad, because I AM mad. I am especially mad about wasting vacation time. 
Of course, I leave every contact with a nice gesture. That's just who I am. I really wanted to add in some symbol cursing ")&^)*Q@#&HQC&^E)" but I didn't want to scare the chat person into contacting the FBI or labeling me as a terrorist.

So, not only am I contemplating my doom and gloom until I get to a doctor, but I missed the Superbowl for the first time in my life. I also have to go home to no service. I can't even watch The Doctors or Dr. Oz to self-diagnose my problems.

Don't call me, my phone doesn't work. Don't expect me to be online either, because I am sure it won't be working when I get home. I blame cable for all my problems. Doesn't everyone?

Fuck you, Xfinity!

But I want you so bad! Come baaaaccccckkkkkk!!!!

It better be back on before The Walking Dead (this weekend) or they will have issues.

I have to, after all, watch all I can before I go blind.

I know I am being a freak.