Tuesday, July 31, 2012

If you knew me.........

Okay listen – I have to say I have virtually NO idea who started this little “if you knew me” blog entry trend so I can’t honestly give someone credit for it. Just let it be known, I’ve seen it floating around blog world and I liked it so I’m going to do it here on my space. To whomever invented it….thanks!

If you knew me, you’d know that I spent way too much of my life caring way too much about what other people think of me and way too little time caring about how I think of me and I’ve only recently begun to change that in the opposite direction.

If you knew me, you’d know that I have had elective plastic surgery twice (breast reduction and tummy tuck) and virtually no one in my real life knows about either one of them.

If you knew me, you’d know that the thing I hate most in life is conflict and that I’ll go to any length to avoid it….and it’s not a trait that I like about myself.

If you knew me, you’d know that I rarely cry but I feel thoughts, feelings, opinions and emotions on a deeper level than most people.

If you knew me, you’d know that I’d rather shop for office or school supplies every day of the week and twice on Saturday than to shop for clothes or even shoes.

If you knew me, you’d know that I have more clothes and shoes than probably 10 normal women combined and every time I step in my closet…it kind of disgusts me because my heart knows I filled my closet for years to try to fill a void inside of me.

If you knew me, you’d know that I write poetry and children’s books and journals and this blog – and I’d still write them all even if not one person ever read a word. Writing is my peace.

If you knew me, you’d know that my tattoos are in the top ten list of things that I love most in this world.

If you knew me, you’d know that I am a conservative Republican and I’ll still love you even if you aren’t.

If you knew me, you’d know that even though I dress up nearly every day, I’m most comfortable in jeans and a sports bra, no makeup, with my hair in a pony doing things like baling hay or landscaping – covered in sweat and dirt.

If you knew me, you’d know that I sleep with a stuffed bunny and a stuffed bear that are over 20 years old and given to me by Rambo back when I was 15. I pack them on trips and have a hard time sleeping without one arm around each stuffed animal.

If you knew me, you’d know that I’ve watched people I love go through floods, cancers, Alzheimers, suicides, drugs, pain and enough heartbreak to last a lifetime….yet I survived and am stronger today because of all of it.

If you knew me, you’d know that I once took naked polaroids of myself and put one picture in numbered envelopes for Rambo to open for each day he was gone on a hunting trip. It’s fairly safe to say he missed me…a lot.

If you knew me, you’d know my favorite weather is rain.

If you knew me, you'd know that when I see Rambo and my two girls together, sometimes I gasp out loud in shock because I'm so stunned by the emotion it makes me feel.

If you knew me, you’d know that I could go on and on with these lists…but I’ll stop now.


How about you? What would someone know about you if they really knew you?

Friday, July 27, 2012

Supermax Sh*t.

By now you all know that Rambo’s main job is a correctional sargeant at a supermax prison. This wasn’t always his job and probably something neither of us ever imagined he’d do when we were young and talking about spending our lives together.

Even though the job fits him, when he got out of driving semi so we could begin having kids, I never imagined a prison would be his next employer. Ever.

Rambo is a manly man. My personal definition of that means that he doesn’t own a suit and tie, has never spent 8 hours behind a desk and you won’t ever catch him reading a novel so he can relax.

He’s a major hunter of any animal that moves. He owns more guns and knives than most serial killers. He drives a 28 ton semi on his days off. He owns a huge 4x4 truck. His normal attire is camo and camo. He grew up on and ran an entire farm by himself when he when he was only 17. He’s weapon-trained and trained as part of the team who does cell entries on inmates. He’s trained in hostage situations, full body riot gear and assists with armed inmate escorts. He uses tasers and electric shields and multiple kinds of noxious gases on inmates – and every one of those things have, in turn, been used on him during training. He takes the garbage out, changes the cat litter, mows the lawn and changes the oil in our cars.

He’s my manly man. He knows how to take care of himself. And usually I am content in those words. I don’t worry. I don’t think about what the word “supermax” means….until someone asks me about it. Then I have to say that it means that it’s a prison for the worst of the worst. Sometimes the inmates come in the dark of night via the feds under complete secrecy because they are that dangerous. These inmates can’t survive in other prisons – because they are pedofiles or because they are high ranking gang members with hits out on them. Or they are in the supermax because they are a danger to or have wounded or killed guards in other prisons.

They are the worst of the worst. A large majority of these men are HIV positive or have Hepatitis C or other diseases. Throwing feces and urine on the guards is a common occurrence. Rambo has been to court too many times to count so the judge can slap extra time on an inmate’s sentence for assaulting Rambo and his other co-workers.

Even that didn’t bother me because men like this are in almost 24/7 segragation. They are one to a cell. They rarely get out, if ever. They have a shower and toilet and bed in their tiny cell and have no need to get out. There are no fights or rapes or even a lot of interaction with staff unless they refuse to cooperate. Men like this only see their visitors through a tv screen.

At least that’s how it was for the first 10 years or so. And then half of the prison became a general population prison. Then the stories of blood and fights and gangs started coming home. The numbers like 200 prisoners to 1 guard got imprinted on my brain. Radios with dead batteries so “MAN DOWN” sirens didn’t work and weren’t heard became a problem.

Still, I can honestly say I don’t often think about the danger Rambo is in every single day. I just don’t. We don’t talk about his work much unless something out of the norm happens – like an assault or fight or a cell entry.

I suppose I don’t think about it on purpose. It wouldn’t serve either of us well for me to live in fear or be scared for him.

And I believe he has proven he can take care of himself.

Which is why I’m surprised about my nightmare last night and even more surprised I remember so much of it vividly.

I was a prison guard. A rookie. I was following around veteran guards because it was one of my first few days. I was still learning.

As I was being taught I just remember my mind RACING. Every time my eyes would see something new with regards to prisoners or the physical surroundings like the mess hall – my mind would react like I was shocked and just plain panicked. Like I could not believe I was going to work there. I could not believe this was safe for any guard to work in.

Prisoners were everywhere. And most of all – behind me – where I couldn’t see them. I remember seeing a guard enter a room with 5 inmates in it. I remember watching the guard go in and in my head I’m screaming, “ OH MY GOD!! Are you stupid? You’re entering a small room with FIVE inmates. They are everywhere. 3 of them are behind you that you can’t even see!!! THIS IS INSANE!!”

Then I was watching a few other guards take a strapped down inmate to another wing. They quickly showed me how to run the electronic doors and said to stay where I was – that they’d be right back.

And then they were gone. I turned around and I was alone. In a room with the worst criminals in the state. But the inmates hadn’t realized that fact yet.

I started praying they wouldn’t any time soon. I was pleading with God to not let the inmates realize the other guards had gone and left a rookie woman guard alone.

And then another inmate on the opposite side of the glass realized it and he screamed at the inmates in with me so they would turn around. I knew what was coming. I knew what would happen. A woman’s worst fear. I remember following the aftermath through to the other guards finally running towards me to help me and one of them was Rambo. I remember thinking how his face would look coming upon me after the inmates had even mere minutes alone with me.

I had no escape. I couldn’t remember how to work the doors. I had no man down button to push. I was outnumbered.

My God – what a nightmare.

So much panic and pain. So much helplessness. Ugh. Such a rotten feeling.

I almost hate that I remember it. I wonder if I’ve had this dream before and I just don’t recall it.

Apparently my subconscious fears Rambo’s work more than my awake brain.

Yuck, yuck and more yuck.

The fact is that it’s not that far off. The being outnumbered part and the fact that guards have to come running from far away to help.

The guards have to rely on a human’s basic instinct to weigh behavior and consequences. They have to “hope” an inmate doesn’t want more time added to his sentence with assault charges. They have to “hope” inmates haven’t hatched a plot to hurt a guard that day every time they turn their backs.

The thing is though – I know most of these inmates have nothing to lose. These are men who have already proven they don’t often make the best choices. They’re lifers and even 5 more years added on means nothing to them. Hatching plots and hurting guards adds some excitement to their otherwise mundane imprisoned daily life.

I thought maybe writing this out would make it less scary but I’m not sure it worked. I just can’t figure out what spurred this dream to begin with.

Maybe it’s because Rambo just had 3 weeks off of vacation time and just went back to work. For 3 full weeks – every day I felt he was safer than usual without even knowing it. Watching him go back isn’t fun. Not just because I miss him and I love having him home 24/7…but because it’s like sending him back into a mine field.

And then knowing I have to become strong enough to handle that again.

How about you? Do your fears come out in your dreams? Do you remember them if they do?

Thursday, July 26, 2012

One look.

That’s it. My 12 year old daughter looked at me last night and I saw the faintest almost quiver of her lips. I saw tears well up and then stop. I could hear that she was having trouble saying her words. Her tone was oddly quieter than usual.

And then I really looked in her eyes.

Right after that, I had to look away so she couldn’t see the fear in mine.

I know that look. I know the feeling behind it. My God – I prayed that this was something I’d never, ever see in my children.

The situation that caused it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that my daughter was on her way to a full blown panic or anxiety attack. I’d ask her a question and she couldn’t really answer. She was trying too hard not to fall apart when her friend was in the other room. In my heart, I knew that she needed that friend to leave – even after that friend had been told she could spend the night. My daughter couldn’t go through with it.

But she was afraid to say the words and couldn’t say them. Scared to hurt her friend. Scared of the reaction. Scared to voice what she felt. Probably even embarrassed.

The worst for her – as is for anyone in anxiety – is that she couldn’t pinpoint why or what was wrong or why she felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff when moments ago she was fine.

I fixed it for her. I said the words she couldn’t. I gave her a way out. I would have walked on fire to erase that look in her eyes.

And later I don’t know if doing that was the right thing. I had to tell her later that she needs to put a voice to her feelings. That she needs to not be embarrassed of anything she feels. That she needs to not be afraid of the consequences of telling someone the truth. That real friends understand and don’t get mad. They want to help. That nothing she feels is right or wrong.

I hate the whole thing. I hate it all. I hate that I can even discuss this. I hate that I know what anxiety and depression are. I f*cking hate it. I hate that it’s chemical and I’ve always hated fearing that I’d pass this on to my girls - even knowing it's chemical.

It’s probably time that I stopped fearing it and admit that it’s a done deal. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen the signs in her. The fact is and always has been that she is me…just younger.

Exactly. Sometimes so much it scares the hell out of me. Most times I know how and what she is feeling before she knows herself…just by looking at her.

Yet, I’m a person that is a best friend to denial. I remember when I went through my first life-crushing depression…the time when I had to be physically carried out of my workplace…the time when I saw a therapist weekly – yah, I remember that. I also remember that one day in a therapy session when the therapist said something about me having clinical diagnosed depression.

I had never heard those words before – in relation to me. Oh I’m sure in all the medical doctor visits it was said – but I couldn’t remember. In those appointments I had no idea who was even in the room. I was just focusing on trying to take my next breath and staying alive.

When the therapist said those words to me and I actually heard them – I remember saying, “What? I’m really diagnosed with that? Is it bad? I mean as far as depression goes, was what I was in considered a bad one?”

I will never ever forget her saying to me while she looked at me incredulously like she couldn’t believe I didn’t already know the answer, “Oh honey. This was a 10+. This was a MAJOR depression. You just went through hell and survived.”

Jesus. Even typing that makes me want to cry.

Who does that? Who goes through a major 10+ depression and has no idea it’s that bad? Who has the ability to pretend that much – for months and years?

I do.

My own mother had no idea that I cried myself to sleep every night…just one door down from her. She had no clue that every day was painful for me and living was exhausting.

I smiled through everything. Lived through the debilitating internal pain. I screamed at God each night for making me live another day. I never stopped wondering why. I was pissed that no one could see past my fa├žade and at the same time – scared to death that someone would.

Years and years of pushing down feelings and denying pain worked for a while. Mentally I had tricked myself and everyone else that I was fine.

Until one day my body decided enough was enough. If I wasn’t going to heed the mental warnings my mind was giving me…it was going to throw out some physical clues.

Like passing out, weakness, rapid weight loss, exhaustion and vomiting….for no reason.

Pretty hard to pretend you’re okay when your co-workers are carrying you out to your mother’s car because you’re too weak to walk. Pretty hard to pretend life is peachy when you find yourself on a therapist’s couch once a week. Pretty hard to pretend you’re loving life when you have to take meds just to stay alive.

The whole damn thing is just pretty hard.

For me, the remembering is hard too. I don’t remember much during the time that I was bed-ridden and recovering and my family was pretending that I just had the flu. I have blocked it out without even knowing I did.

Sometimes people talk about those days and how I was and I have absolutely no recollection of them even being there and helping me. I remember a few conversations and events but whole days and weeks are genuinely lost to me. Apparently, my brain knows it’s just better to let it go and forget. I can’t handle remembering that kind of pain. I don’t even remotely want to.

People shouldn’t have to feel that they want to die. It’s against basic nature to want to end life. Everything in you is screaming that it’s wrong to want to die but everything else in you is screaming that the only way to end the pain is to die.

Which is why seeing my daughter even have a flicker of that kind of agony is jolting to me. I almost visibly gasp. I feel like I’ve been brought to my knees again in that instant. For just a second when I see what she is feeling – part of me remembers. Part of me also knows I can never, ever get too close to someone else who is feeling what I did just because of that. It causes me to remember and the fear I feel in my stomach just tells me to RUN and close my eyes and go back to pretending that I don’t know that feeling.

So I guess I don’t know what I fear more. That my daughters may face a depression OR that I will have to watch and stand by helplessly and possibly tell Rambo I have to walk away or I’ll fall back into the hole myself.

I can’t go back there. I know my reality now and I know I simply cannot go back there. It will kill me next time.  That might make me weak...but it also will keep me alive.

I guess because of that I will try to head off any of this for my daughters way before it ever gets to that point. I’ll watch for signs and ask questions. I’ll get help or meds for them before it’s too late….before they can’t walk or get out of bed. Before they want to stop living.

It’s my only option.

Because I just can’t go back there.

Ever again.

Ten Things Thursday - Drazzie style!

It’s Ten Things Thursday!!! We get to write 10 randompants things that don’t even have to make sense thanks to Miss LauraBelle! Join us!!

1. Little Debbie is a twatface. On the package, she’s some thin, happy, young, sweet little woman and I want to sue her for fake advertising. She should be a 700 pound elephant with heart problems and diabetes syringes in both arms with a word balloon of her saying, “Eat my snack cakes. They’re more addicting than meth! Teehee.” Twatface. Yes. I called her that awful word again.

2. Today the local Dairy Queen in town is having a blizzard sale. That means that each time a blizzard is sold, they will donate $1 to the Children’s Miracle Network. Which in turn means I am REQUIRED to have a blizzard. If I don’t, small children will suffer. I can’t in good conscience be any part of children suffering. Did I mention my workplace is placing the order and hand-delivering the damn things? I mean really – is it humanly possible to not partake in this amazingly charitable event?

3. I got a new planner from Erin Condren. It’s got my name on it and is soooo freaking cool. I have spent hours putting stickers in it for the 18 months it covers. Birthdays, anniversaries, sporting events for my kids, appointments, etc. And this morning? It’s not in my purse. So first I hyperventilate. Then I throw up. Then I realize that the last place I had it was OUTSIDE on the deck. And though we’re in a drought and it hasn’t rained in decades – it rained LAST NIGHT. The night I may have left my expensive, new, personalized planner outside. Once I realized this – I threw up again and then did the ugly cry. Yes people. It is THAT important to me. Yes people. I know that’s cray cray. It is killing me not knowing if it’s in my house or outside. Only 7 more hours before I can go home and check.

4. I hate snakes.

5. I just wrote #4 because it’s only 3 words and after I wrote a book for #3 I didn’t think you could stand another long, drawn out insane story. You’re welcome.

6. Watermelon had a friend over the other night. Rambo asked this girl, “Does your Dad drink beer?” She replied yes. Rambo then said, “What kind does he like to drink?” She said, “I don’t know. A lot.” Haaaa – I bet her dad would be mortified had he heard that. Right after that Banana proclaimed to me that she needed the cat brush ASAP because both cats are shredding. Shredding everywhere. All the time. Shredding.

7. Here’s a little life lesson from me to you: You know that saying “never burn your bridges”? Well – dudes – that’s the truth. A long time ago I used to be a collection agent for SEVEN medical clinics. I was the only one. Now – first of all there is no way one person could ever even begin to put a dent in hunting down the past due patients of seven clinics but I tried. 9 hours a day I was an asshole. It was a requirement. I’m proud to say I wasn’t very good at it. My God – it ranks right up there with the being the guy whose job it is to clean port-a-potties. Who wants to call people all day long and say, “Remember that tragic accident where your left leg and right testicle had to be amputated? Yah well – you forgot to pay for it.” Ugh. Anyway – I worked directly with a collection agency and it turns out that in my part time job for the commission I work for – I’m going to need that collection agency’s services again for people who aren’t paying their bills to me again. Thank God when I left that job I didn’t tell that agency to jump off a building.

8. Seriously. I hate snakes. And people who call farts “pressure”

9. We recently had to ground Watermelon for the first time ever. One day into the grounding, I found out that Watermelon was outside doing something with Rambo and a song came on the radio. Rambo said to Watermelon, “If you can name who sings this song, you will be ungrounded immediately.” She named every singer BUT the one who sings that song. It was Metallica. My, my, isn’t Rambo a hardass? Let’s just say it just about killed him to ground her even though he was all “she needs to learn” and “she’ll know better next time”. His heart is mushy on the inside. He can’t fool me.

10. I hate spiders almost as much as I hate snakes. That and kids who eat their boogers without even trying to hide it. However, I do love the male Olympic swimmers and divers who wear tiny pieces of clothing called Speedos while they dive and swim.  On national TV.  It feels dirty to watch some of them.  I mean - their whole penis outline is showing...almost.  You know?
The end. And I apologize to anyone who got through all that. That’s time in your life you’ll never get back. I be sorry. Really sorry.

I’d love to promise to make it up to you with some really great life-altering words in a future post…but I can’t do that cuz chances are that may never happen. I swear. I be really sorry.  That's gonna have to be enough.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Things that suck donkey balls...........

I’ve decided to make a list about things that I think suck donkey balls right now in the hopes that writing them down will suddenly turn them into fun things that I will love to do instead.

• Grocery shopping. Seriously – doesn’t it just suck? I mean it costs sooo much to eat and I get nothing out of it. Well I get fat but other than that it’s not like it’s a pair of shoes I can wear. I leave the grocery store with one bag and the 15 year old bored as hell hates the world teenager behind the register says, “That’ll be $109.87.” WTF? For ONE bag? That’s what it feels like. And it takes too long.

• Something else that also sucks ginormous balls is the fact that I used to work out for at least an hour a day and I loved it and now I can’t seem to step foot near my workout clothes. I am justifying the fact that I no longer have time to work out like I used to by saying that I didn’t used to have 2 part time jobs. But between you and me – I still have time. Cripes.

• People who can’t do their jobs. OMG in heaven. I want to shank nearly everyone who has anything to do with my other 2 jobs right now. They are political/governmental so red tape is freaking everywhere and nothing is simple and I swear there’s a damn ordinance for how much we can pee in a day. I am having a reeeeallllyyyy hard time not grabbing everything from these people and yelling, “GIVE IT TO ME – I”LL DO IT MYSELF AND I’LL DO IT RIGHT!” you f*cking ninkompoops.

• Jobs in general. Yup – jobs in general are things that suck. Though I love all of mine – if given the choice – I’d do none of them. Like ever again. I’d stay home all day and watch reruns of A Baby Story and eat Cheetos until all my fingers were orange so I’d have a legitimate reason to take 16 Skittle baths a day.

• Asshole kids with orange hair and guns and ammo and a point to prove by taking other people’s lives. Yah – they suck bad. I can barely look at the guy on TV. He brings out a whole new level of angry that I haven’t felt since 9/11. I’m so sorry for the victims.

• Being the mom of that asshole kid with orange hair. Can you even imagine the horror she must feel?

• Droughts. They suck a lot. And where I live we’re in the middle of one. Seriously – there’s a fire ban in my town so you’re not even allowed to fart outside because it’ll start a wild fire. My flowers are dead, dead and deader. It’s so pretty. So glad I spent millions on all the landscaping.

• Non-busy hours at work so that all I sit and do is draw pretty pictures of rooms in my house remodeled. This is never good. Because the next normal step after drawing the new rooms is to call a contractor and get to making my drawings real. Which in turn sucks because it requires me to get a 4th, 5th and probably 6th job. Um, no thank you.

• Calories. Suck ass. A fat baby’s ass in fact. There are too damn many in everything I want to eat. But like spinach and broccoli have none. It’s wrong on so many levels.

Okay – that’s it…this isn’t making anything better. It’s probably just depressing you. I gotta go. My Mountain Dew IV drip just got clogged because I tried to mix it with crushed sweettarts. Turns out those suckers don’t mix well with others. Now what am I gonna do to wake the hell up?

Monday, July 23, 2012

Poop and votes. (No joke. That's the real title.)

I’m cursed.

It’s official. I mean there’s just no other explanation. There just isn’t. I’ll tell you why and then I also need your opinion on something. Like I’m seriously going to tally your votes and make my decision based on them because Jenny and Rambo and I can’t come to a unanimous decision.

First – back to being cursed. Remember how thee #1 things in life that I abhor and despise start with the letter P? Mainly poop.

It haunts me people. I’m not kidding. Ever since I declared it publicly here that even the P word makes me gag – it has seemed to consume my life.

If it’s not prison stories about P words – then it’s things in my own life or the f*cking neighbor kids wadding up ½ a roll of toilet paper and clogging MY toilet.

Mkay. Soooo – I was on the back deck watching the kids in the pool and I decided to go in to get a drink. I walked in and THE SECOND I stepped foot in my newly cleaned house I gasped. Not in a good way.

Then I threw up a little in my mouth and covered my nose. Shit. No – I mean literally. Somewhere in my house there was shit. And from the smells of it – it had to be a pile. Or there’s a turd in every damn corner perhaps. The smell is that bad.

I’m standing in the dining room – half a damn block from our bathroom so to smell it from where I was meant most likely whatever shit I was smelling was NOT in its rightful place. (aka - the toilet)

I nearly passed out.

I started to look everywhere. In the dining room, kitchen and living room. For a pile of shit. I’m thinking maybe one of our cats did it though they’ve never done that ever. There’s a first time for everything right?

I see nothing. The smell is worse. Understand people that my ENTIRE house reeks. BADLY.

I start mumbling under my breath – blaming Rambo. Only a man’s ass could do such a thing if the cat didn’t, you know? I then start down the hallway and see Watermelon in her room.

I scream a little too loudly, “WATERMELON – WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SMELL???”

She says, “I know Mom. I think it’s coming from the bathroom.”

What? How can that be? How can my whole house smell like someone mopped my every floor with a poop sponge if the smell is from the bathroom? 3 and 4 rooms away people – I was gagging. One foot in the house and I was covering my nose.

What the hell is in that bathroom?

I felt like I was in a horror movie. I opened the bathroom door – pretty much thinking that some boogey man holding a scalpel would have been more fun than finding what was really in there.

I walked slowly to the toilet and peeked into it.

AND RAN AWAY. While literally screaming OMG OMG OMG and running into Watermelon’s room.

“What the hell Mom? What is it?”

“Well – there’s a turd the size of a small dog in our toilet. I saw it and ran. I can’t go back in there.”

Now I know you all think I’m acting like a 2 year old. But the thing is – MY KIDS FLUSH. And my kids can not and have not ever smelled up an entire house. Ever.

So not only is the situation bad but what makes it unbearable is that the shit we’re dealing with isn’t related to me. It’s from someone else’s kid!

The same f*cking one that clogged my toilet last week.

I can’t take this. I just can’t.

You can bet your ass I went and found Rambo. He was outside and I told him to come inside right away. I told him what happened and told him I was afraid it wouldn’t go down and then it’d be clogged and the whole thing would be worse so I just ran.

He went in the bathroom (I was scared I’d never see him again) and came out later and said, “I took care of it.”

And then he said, “I’m going outside to tell that kid that she needs to learn how to flush. I’m surprised she’s still alive after something that big came out of her. Jesus.”

I said, “OMG – you are not going to yell at her about poop in front of the other 6 kids out there AND her mother. I’ll take her aside later and discuss the poop and the toilet paper with her.”

For the record, there was no way in hell I was ever going to talk over this incident with the culprit. Ever. People – this kid gives me the heebie geebies without ever discussing poop and toilet paper with her. I cannot have a conversation one on one with her about such things. Hives will close off my throat and I’ll suffocate and my death will be poop related and the world will end.

Can you imagine? Why should I have to tell anyone’s kids about the rules of pooping and toilet paper? JESUS. It’s just not right. I told Rambo that I’m just simply going to tell her she cannot use the toilet in my house. It’s broken. End of story.

Never in all my life people. NEVER ever did I think a child that is 7 years old and 4 feet tall could smell up my entire house. I kid you not – I had to spray every room with Febreeze.


I just can’t get over it.

What does this kid do at school? Doesn’t she pee or poop in her own damn house? Why mine? I don’t even like her – can’t she freaking tell?

OMG – it’s a miracle I’m alive. It was traumatic. Like unbelievably. Traw. Mat. Ick.

Let’s move on and get to this vote I need. I need your opinions on something much less gruesome but just about as icky.

Right before I met Jenny – I *thought* I had a best friend. I was veeeeeeery wrong. I was vulnerable and desperate for a best friend and I dove headfirst into a relationship that was the definition of cray-cray. The woman is a compulsive liar. And honestly, until Jenny pointed it out – I was so wrapped up in “finally” having a best friend – that I refused to see that this woman was certifiable.

Once I saw it though – I saw it….and I cut off contact with her one day with no explanation to her whatsoever. She was too crazy to have understood anyway. I mean we’re talking lying about divorces, ex-husbands, careers, abuse, kids, government clearances, knowing celebrities, being broke, being rich to having the same weight and surgeries that I did. God I was so gullible.

That was over 3 years ago. Last week I got an email from her. She misses me and wants to reconnect.

Jenny says she’s unsure what I should do. Email or not. And Rambo says the same thing. That it’s completely my call and neither decision is wrong or right. I don’t think she’s evil – she’s just completely messed up – but I don’t wish her any ill will or sadness. I genuinely hope she is happy.

But now that I know what real friendship is and what not crazy looks and feels like – reaching back into that scares me. Every time I almost hit reply to her email – my stomach felt sick. But part of me wonders if she’s changed or fixed herself or if she’s figured out how to find happiness. Even so – I don’t want her to know anything about me or my life. Not a single thing…so if I contact her I won’t be “sharing” info, that’s for sure.

I just don’t know. And I'm pretty sure I just don't care either.

So what would you guys do? Nothing? Or email and offer my wish that she is happy and pray she’s no longer crazy? I can’t be who I used to be to her. I have no desire to be.

Ugh. Ghosts from the past are annoying little things, aren’t they?

Not as annoying as neighbor kids with bowel movements the size of The Hulk’s right leg though.

Sunday, July 22, 2012

For sale: COACH PEYTON PATENT WHITE LEATHER SATCHEL BAG with famous legacy lining

I've been procrastinating in posting this because it's going to be hard to get rid of this beauty - but it needs to be done.  Someone needs to use this stunning piece of work every day instead of having it sit unused in my closet.  It's too gorgeous to not be used. So here you go...

For sale:  COACH PEYTON PATENT WHITE LEATHER SATCHEL BAG with famous legacy lining 

Retail $898

Colour: Patent White Leather with Brass Hardware (see pictures)

Guaranteed 100% Authentic

Bag measures approx. 15 in (L) x 10 in (H) x 7 in (D)

Double top grain rolled leather handles with studded reinforcement about 9 in drop

Double compartments with independent zip top closure/leather pulls

3 front pockets with flap/turnlock closure

Rear zip pocket with leather pull

Coach leather hangtag

Large inside zip pocket in one compartment

2 Inside cellphone/multi-functions pockets in 2nd compartment

D-ring for keyfob and accessories

Legacy stripe multi-colours fabric lining

This is a classy bag with combination of style and comfort. Not only that it is rare and unique (limited edition), it is also great for all occasions.

Condition: Just like new with dust bag.

$350 OBO

Friday, July 20, 2012

Friday's Letters Link Up!!!

Dear makers of the drug Paxil: I’d like to make you go on this drug and then make you go off of it – and see if you ever sell it again. Not one time was I told that the withdrawal symptoms of this drug have literally been likened to coming off of heroin and some people can never get off it or are hospitalized trying. I’ve only been on it for 3 months as a migraine preventive med and I have already decided to go off it due to side effects. I feel like dog poo. I can’t sleep, feel like I have the flu, am nauseous, everything hurts, I’m anxious and scared and sad and irritable and have no appetite and am fatigued. I want to shank anything the moves. Don’t come near me.

Dear demon that is my 6 year old: Why? Just why on Friday mornings – in front of my mother – do you turn into the Spawn of Satan? With the flailing legs and spinning head and noises only animals make coming from your sweet little lips? Are you sure you are mine because I’m certain you are not the child I shoved through my birth canal.

Dear Watermelon: Thank you for teaching me that the old saying “this hurts me more than it hurts you” is 100% completely true. You got in trouble for the first time ever and Rambo and I had to ground you. While it crushed you – it nearly killed me. 10 minutes later I was already asking Rambo if we could un-ground you. Jesus.

Dear nail God : Please, please, please shine down on me today while I finish my landscaping around the pool. It’s a small area and all I have left. If I can finish this through the waves of nausea and fatigue AND not break a nail – I will sacrifice a small bunny in your honor. If I can find one. And catch it. Oh wait – there’s a burn ban in my town due to the drought…no bunny cooking today over the spitfire. Sorry.

Dear Miller Lite beer: I hope that today you taste like pond scum and that you are ridiculously warm all day when Rambo tries to partake in too much of you at the bachelor party.

Dear person who invented skinny jeans: I just have one question. If I can never purchase a pair because I can never fit in a pair, does that automatically mean that every pair of jeans I wear that aren’t skinny jeans should be termed fat jeans? Or are they just called “My legs and ass are too huge to ever actually fit in real skinny jeans” jeans?

And on that note – I’m done. I’m too crabby to write anything worth any merit – you know – due to the f*cking withdrawals I’m having that no one prepared me for. I mean if I have to suffer this much I would have at least hoped that it’s actually because I really did have some huge heroin high and while on that high I cleaned my whole house, wrote a novel, mowed the grass with just a pair of scissors and ate 16 ice cream cakes without gaining a pound. THEN this withdrawal might be worth it. Maybe.

If you do Friday’s Letters, don’t forget to go back to Ashley’s blog at Adventures of Newlyweds and add your link! The goal is to find 5 new blogs through the link up and hopefully 5 new bloggers may find you too!

Have a good weekend, Skittles.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Who are you in the future?

There are millions of famous quotes and books written and lectures made about “living in the moment.” It’s been said that many of us miss the best part of our lives because we are too focused on the past or the future. I get that. I even agree with it.

Just lately, I’ve found some inner peace I’ve long searched for and with that the ability to feel and be in the present moment has become easier and more profound….

…..but still…..

I’m a future thinker to the core. I rely on the future to be okay now. This is a direct result from the fact that I am a high stress, massively worrying kind of woman. I’d even go so far as so to say irrational worry at times (you know - like if you're 1 minute late - my mind believes you are dead in a ditch somewhere or you got eaten by a dragon).

The only way to calm my present worries and fears – is to focus on the future.

Take for instance my new found panic/anxiety attacks. If I allow myself to stay in the present about those…my mind goes to FreakOutVille. I don’t want to feel them. Don’t want to fear the next one. Am pissed a med that is supposed to help is causing them. I feel defeated, angry and disappointed about them now.

BUT – if I allow myself to think even a week out – I can honestly imagine myself back to calm. Free of anxiety attacks. Free of fear. Free of a chemical in my body I don’t want in it anymore.
I am in control….in the future.

And when I start to move into IrrationalFearWorld because Rambo is going on an all day bachelor party this Friday…well…the images and thoughts and things I could imagine as going wrong belong in a horror movie. There’s nothing to even base my fears on…but they are there – and if I let them – they’ll eat me alive and starve me of the present moment until Friday is over.

BUT – I if I allow myself to focus and maybe even pretend that it’s Saturday and he’s home…safe and in one piece – then I can breathe. I can hear myself saying, “Duh, you idiot. He’s a good man. Why were you so stupid worried? He’s fine. Everything is okay.” He came back to me. He still loves me. I am free of irrational fear…in the future.

It’s like that about all the heartaches in my life that I cannot fix now. Extended family issues I have no control over. Even crazy thoughts like “what if one of us loses our job?” or "what if a giant turnip lands on our house and demolishes it?"

I have my very own crystal ball. In the future, I see peace within the family. I see apologies accepted and forgiveness given.

Even when I follow stuff through like job loss or turnip house crashing – my crystal ball shows me picking myself up and surviving.

Everything I can throw at my heart to try to slice it into pieces in the present – can be seen in the future as thriving.

I know the logical thing to do would be to learn how not to fear, worry and stress in the present but the thing is….that is who I am. I won’t ever stop fearing certain things or worrying about little things or stressing over big things I can’t control.

So I break the cardinal rule and sometimes I completely wipe out the present and live in the future. The future me is exactly where she should be and everything is okay and she made it through.

Sometimes I see her – strong and thriving – and almost beckoning me toward her. She’s stronger, wiser, and more at peace than the me that is here right now. She’s who I look forward to being.
And she gives me comfort. And something to work towards.

Years ago, if you had asked me to look at myself in the future and tell you what I was doing or what I looked and felt like – I could not have done it….because years ago I never thought I’d live beyond my 20s. I never wanted to. I never looked to the future because I didn’t want one. I was too deep in the black hole of depression and future was the last thing I wanted.

And maybe even just a few years ago, if I had looked into the future at myself…I would have seen myself but it would have been a different picture than I see now. I probably would have seen myself faltering and on my knees. Weak. Needing help. Dying for everyone to love me. Possibly surrounded by people yet still alone. Desperate for inner peace. Frazzled beyond repair.

Not anymore.

Take me to the future. Take away my job – I’ll live. Take away Rambo – I’ll survive. Let natural disasters strike - I’ll get back up. Let tragedy occur – I’ll keep standing.

The things I have and the people I have do not make me who I am…they are an extension of me, a blessing to me, a part of me. But I have finally figured out that I cannot fear having it all stripped away.

I can only close my eyes and envision how I will conquer that possible heartache if it should happen. I am prepared to survive, and grow and learn…and keep standing.

That’s how I see myself in the future. No matter what good or bad may happen….I have an image of how I will deal with it all. And I’m already proud of that girl.

My present moments are filled with aiming to become that girl I see. I’ve come a hell of a long way and some day I’ll be in her shoes.

What about you?  Do you follow through your real and irrational fears? Do you envision how you’ll deal with anything that comes your way? Do you see yourself a certain way in the future?
Is it a better you than the now you? Or worse?

Are you a different you in the future? Or the same?

Or can you stay in this exact moment and go no further and not react until it is literally upon you?

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

If the spirits knocked, would you hear them?

Do you believe the spirits of those who have passed on still live with us every day? Or are you a skeptic and that just creeps you out?

Either way – I have a story to tell.

I have an Aunt who just moved one house down from me. She has come back to Podunk – her hometown – after being far away taking care of her grandsons. You see her own son was deployed in Iraq and when he got home – he stepped off the plane and his wife handed him his wedding ring and his two sons and said, “Here you go. I’m leaving you.” And she walked away.

So my Aunt picked up everything she had and moved there to help him out. This is the same Aunt who had lymphoma cancer when she was a mother to two young sons. She worked full time during the cancer and through all the chemo and radiation and sickness and hair loss – she never missed a single day of work. She literally kept a bucket beside her to throw up in – but never missed a single day.

She’s tough as nails. Which is why I suppose she also survived divorcing her high school sweetheart who turned out to be an alcoholic.

Later, her father died of a sudden blood clot while she was only in her 20s.

Her life hasn’t been easy. She has a deep faith but never speaks of it. And knowing her all my life, I’d have to say she’s not a big believer in “fate” and “meant to be’s” and “angels and spirits”. She’s had one too many heartaches to believe in those things outright.

That is part of why this story gives me chills because she in no way seeks out things like this.

So she is back home in Podunk. She is very stressed about finding a job to support herself now that she is here. She went up to the local gas station and applied for a full time job there. They said they’d call her back that afternoon if they wanted to interview her so she went home to wait.

We live by a huge, beautiful church…and on her way home, she was drawn to go in. She just felt the need to go in and sit and pray. So she did.

We also have that church’s cemetery in our backyards. After she was done praying, she felt like she needed to see her parents. Both buried in the cemetery just a small walk away. She hadn’t been to their graves in years – since she suddenly left to help her son.

She knelt there for the longest time – talking to and missing her parents and she finally went back to her apartment.

She was sitting at her kitchen table looking over some paperwork and she says she got the strangest warm feeling in her stomach. So odd that she remembers noticing it. Then she heard a knock on the door. Twice.

She took a second to set down her paperwork and push her chair in and walked down the long hallway that leads to her front door.

She opened the door.

Nothing. No one.  Dead silence.

She shares walls with neighbors and there are always people outside but today – no one. Not a car in sight. No kids. Not a single adult or animal of any kind.

There was no way that a car could pull away out of sight in the time it took her to answer the door. No one could have run away fast enough to hide as her front door opens to a huge parking lot/yard.

She believes it was her mom and dad who knocked that day. To tell her they were there. That they heard her. That she wasn’t alone in this new, scary journey.

As she went back in the house, the phone rang. The gas station called.

Could she start tomorrow?

They wanted to hire her over the phone. Turns out the new manager is our cousin…who shares the same last name as my Aunt’s mom.

You know – the mom who just knocked on her door?

My aunt called my mom (her sister) – sobbing – to tell her what had happened. For her mind to even be willing to entertain the thought that the knock was from her parents and they helped her get this job – is a miracle.

Coming back home was hard for her. But her parents made it easier and they aren’t even alive.

My mom retold the story to me, and I heard the tears in her voice as she said, “Can you believe that? There’s nothing else it could be. She just visited them to tell them she was back after so many years and she’s been so stressed and scared.”

They came.

They knocked on her door and she had the courage to open it.

Would you have?

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Why now?

Rambo and I went away for the weekend. With people we love and no responsibilities to care about. Nothing but the open road on the motorcycle and a cabin in the woods and drinks and friends.

We left Friday night for the 3 hour ride to the cabin. At about 2 ¾ of the way there, (I almost made it)….I told Rambo to pull the bike over NOW. I was going to either pass out or throw up and I didn’t want to do it on the back of the bike.

For the first time in over a decade – I felt a panic attack coming. A panic attack is much different than normal every day anxiety over going somewhere new or meeting someone. That anxiety is fleeting and I can talk myself down from it easily. I can understand it and pinpoint the exact reason I am feeling it.

Real panic attacks start in the pit of my stomach. Out of nowhere. Randomly. For no reason. They rise like bile. As the feeling gets higher, I feel like I’m going to suffocate or scream or explode. I want to run from the fear of the feeling. I want to scream and curl up in a ball and I want to weep. I want to be anywhere but where I am – even when logically I’m exactly where I want to be. And there is no control. They come and last as long as they last. I can’t talk them away or make them better. When they subside is not my decision. Nor is when they appear.

When the panic subsides, for me – anger sets in. I was at a fun place with the man I love – why in the hell was this happening NOW? There is absolutely NOTHING wrong in that moment. And yet, I’m crouched over on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere trying to explain to people what’s happening….when I don’t understand it myself. Embarrassment is the usually mixed in with the anger by then.

Panic attacks do not represent me. This is not who I am. I don’t want to see pity or fear or worry in your eyes because I nearly passed out. I blamed most of it on the heat – which definitely was a factor.

The whole weekend we put on nearly 450 miles – in blazing heat. With probably not enough water or food. When I have panic attacks – I cannot eat. The mere thought of food makes me want to throw up. But having an empty stomach in that kind of heat is also crazy. I can’t win.

So I spent the weekend pretending I was okay when a lot of times the anxiety was bubbling…just under the surface. Always there. It’s exhausting being okay when you’re not. And then by Sunday I had the full blown flu. I lost 6 pounds that day. And still had 125 miles to go until home. Fun times, right?

Apparently, I crossed a line my body wasn’t ready for. I’m so confused still today. I’ve grown so much, learned so much and accomplished so much regarding my own inner peace and now this.

Anxiety attacks? Now?

Part of me thinks it could be the Paxil. I was put on that drug to help in the prevention of migraines and it’s the only thing that is different. I’ve only been on it 3 months but I wonder if it’s causing the panic/anxiety attacks. Part of me hopes it’s literally that simple.

All I know is I have to figure this out. I cannot take steps backward. I cannot be afraid to leave home for fear of panic attacks. I have to figure out what’s going on in my body from all these migraine preventive meds.

So I survived the weekend that was thrown on me at the last minute…but not like I had hoped to. No one knew I was suffering except Rambo and he never left my side but I knew.

I knew this is something I haven’t felt in decades and it’s not good and it disappoints me immensely. I wish there wasn’t always a war to be fought inside myself. I wish I didn’t always feel like I have to be suited up in armor to protect myself – from myself.

I just wish I had inner peace. Until then, I’ll never stop searching for it.

Friday, July 13, 2012

Friday's Letters Link Up!!!

It’s time for Friday’s Letter’s! Be sure to link up with Ashley at Adventures of Newlyweds (do your Friday’s Letters, then go to her blog and add your link at the bottom). Before you leave her blog, click on 5 other blogger’s Friday’s letters to meet new bloggers and find new friends – and you might just get a new follower back!

Dear God…thank you for not letting the tears spill out of my eyes when I sat with our older neighbor to tell him I was sorry his wife had left this world. Strong, older men with tears in their eyes is nearly my undoing.

Dear God…thank you for making the circle of life so obvious. While our elderly neighbor was passing on into the next world, our young neighbors had a baby. The same day. Someone’s whole life ended and another one began. It’s haunting and celebratory all at once.

Dear Mind…honestly – what is your obsession with working so much freaking overtime? Can’t you calm down for a mere 8 hours so I can sleep? I’m so anxious over the upcoming spontaneous weekend that I almost threw up in my sleep. *sigh

Dear neighbor kid – while you are only 8 years old and while saying this means I’ve guaranteed my spot in Hell – I don’t like you. Behind your sweet eyes is a tyrant. Add to that the fact that you did the P word in MY toilet and then proceeded to use ¼ of a roll of toilet paper thereby clogging MY toilet – well – it’s hopeless. I can never like you.

Dear Banana – you’re 6 going on 7 and I realize you abhor waking up in the morning – as do I. However, when I drop you off at Grandma’s and you revert back to a 2 year old and scream, “Mommy don’t go!” as you cry and sob and hang on to my clothes - it breaks my heart. God bless you child. What a great way to start the day. Moments like this make me know with more certainty that tying my tubes was the best decision.

Dear rain that has been absent for months causing a huge drought…I know what you’re up to. I get it. Today rain is in the forecast all weekend solely because I have sworn to spend the better part of the weekend on the back of a motorcycle. You’re a heifer. But bring it on. I’m hardcore. Rain won’t stop me. Poop to that.

Remember to link up and check out some new Friday’s Letters blogs while you are at it!

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Rainbow puke and vagina hives.

If you’re a regular reader here – I think it’s fairly well known that I’m an OCD anal-as-they-come pre-planner kind of woman. I buy organizers like people buy toilet paper and then I color code them for different purposes. I’m fairly certain it’s a new mental disease they haven’t named yet – but they will. Maybe they’ll even name it after me. Something like, “Drazzieneedsastraightjacket Disease”. Rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it?

Anywhoozle – in my little world of Care Bear Land where we ONLY fart gumdrops and hop around on fluffy white clouds after and IF life is properly planned out ahead of time – bucketloads of shit-covered clouds have shown up.

Like little shit Smurfs with beady red eyes are literally invading my land of unicorns and Care Bear stares to dump blue buckets of shit ON MY PARADE that I call today.

Here – let me explain further.

NEXT weekend on my “personal life” calendar you will see in pretty orange letters the words “annual bike ride” – next to a sticker that reads, “out of town” next to another sticker that says “fun”.

If they made stickers that said, “You have the wrong weekend tagged so pull your head out of your ass and stop screaming obscenities about the cruelty of life and get to planning – ASAP!” - um…that’s what I’d stick there today knowing what I know now.

My co-worker goes with me on this ride and I kid you not – I was walking to the kitchen with her about an hour ago and I just half-assed said, “So what are the plans and timeframes for next weekend?”

She said, “You mean for tomorrow?”

NO. F*ckstick. I mean NEXT weekend – just like my planner says.

Noooo – it is TOMORROW.

I stopped – mid-walk, middle of the hallway – and yelled a little too loudly, “You’re not being serious right now are you? Well, are you?”

I can literally feel my blood pressure spiking. I’m nearly running back to my office so I can get my hands on my planner to prove to her she has the wrong date.

Holy American cowpies! 2.5 days OUT OF TOWN – TOMORROW and I just found out roughly 24 hours before we leave????

Perhaps this is the appropriate time to finally confess that I am diagnosed with massive anxiety and stress migraines and that basically I’m afraid of myself. Yes?

Oh and newsflash – let’s all remember I have TWO KIDS who need sitters!!! Oh and we just happen to be watching the neighbor’s dog. Oh and our other neighbor died and we have her wake to attend. Oh and the minute we return, I have a board meeting for which I thought I had a WEEK to prepare for!

Satan’s balls (he may indeed be behind this fiasco) – my literal head is spinning. I would love to cry but there’s too much to do. Too many lists to make.

Here’s the best part…I incorrectly THOUGHT someone was taking an actual vehicle to the cabin where we are staying. Nope – everyone is riding their motorcycles.

Well, well – apparently my new outlook on life which includes giving way less care to how I look will come in handier than I thought. I have to pack everything I need for 2.5 days in a motorcycle. I’ve done one day before (and nearly lost my marbles) but 2.5 days. And we plan to go to a festival, eat out twice, go on boat rides, go swimming and go biking.

Oh my mother heifer. I cannot deal.

So far I have called Rambo 6 times and each time he answers and says, “Hey babe, what do you need?” and each time I say, “Oh nothing. I’m just freaking out some more. I’m a planner, remember? I don’t know if I can pull this off. I think I feel hives sprouting near my vagina and I chewed my left arm off already. Can I call you again in ½ hour?”

I’ll just never understand him. I called him the minute I found out about this emergency new date and screamed “DUDE – DID YOU HEAR WHAT I SAID?? IT’S THIS WEEKEND!” and he just said, “Oh. Okay.”

Really? I mean mother-f*cking really?  It is sooooo not okay, you douchewagon!!! 

Then I ate 2 Kit Kats and that helped.

This weekend – this sudden change of plans – is a test. I’m fairly certain God was bored toying with shit-spreading Smurfs or He lost a bet with Satan or He needed something more interesting to do so He decided to plop this little goody in my lap.

Can’t you see Him just chuckling, saying, “Let’s see if she has really changed. Let’s see if she really can enjoy the moment and let go of physical insecurities. Let’s see if she can get through this without hives or migraines. Let’s see if she can survive this.

Hey Angel Gabriel – get me a glass of wine and some popcorn so I can sit and watch Draz lose her mind, puke rainbows and have diarrhea…all at once.”

Fine, God. Just fine. We’ll see.

I never back down from a challenge. Especially when it involved motorcycles and God.

That’s a combination you’re just better off not messing with, you know?

That being said…if you’d like to throw in an extra prayer or two for me for this weekend – I’ll take ‘em. Like as many as you got.

And thanks. No worries.

I totally got this. At least the puking rainbows and vagina hives parts anyway.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

The mother-effing snowflake.

I can’t really believe I’m going to tell you this story because it screams that I’M DUMB but I just ate TWO white Kit Kats so I’m all pumped up on sugar and my brain isn’t filtering correctly. Hence – you get this story that proves that some days my IQ is less than that of a tiny grasshopper.

Okay – yesterday – though the temp here dropped by 10 whole degrees – it was still 93 degrees. And remember – I’m a hottie. Meaning when other people are wearing Eskimo jackets – I’m the nimrod wearing shorts and still sweating buckets. I’m always hot.

So I get off work. I get in RAMBO’S CAR. This is a VERY VERY important detail you must remember to remember. My car is in the shop so I’m driving a car that is not my normal car. I am not familiar with this car – nor any of its features. Got that? Mmkkaayy.

I get in the car THAT IS NOT MINE. I turn the air on high. It’s sweltering hot. I don’t have far to go since I have an errand to run downtown. Still – I’m f*cking dying. I mean I’d rather have lunch with Casey Anthony and get food poisoning with no toilets within a 5 mile radius.

Another five minutes into my drive – still no cool air. Now I realize it’s only been given 5 minutes to cool down in 93 degree weather but still – there should be a teensy bit of cold air beginning to shoot out, right?

At this point, the swearing commences. Mother heifer air conditioning. I’m pushing every button on the dash. I’m turning dials. I’m more pissed by the minute. I now have all of my windows down and the air on full blast. I look like a crazy Cruella driving with hair flying white knuckling the steering wheel – chasing down spotted puppies. Minus the puppies.

It is still only blowing hot air.

I decide to drive the car off a cliff. I mean we’ve only had it for a few months and the air quits working during the record-breaking summer heat. Are you kidding me?

All the way home – I’m still pushing buttons. I’m thinking about how much it’s going to cost to fix this – meanwhile my beloved Explorer is ALREADY in the damn auto shop. Tomorrow this car will be there to join it.

I know for a fact that this means that the next day our truck will also break down. Because when it rains – it f*cking pours.

By the time I get home, I’m windblown from all the windows being down. I have sweat literally dripping down my back and through my cami. I haven’t stopped swearing.

I go in the house and I tell Rambo – “Your air doesn’t work. Look at my shirt. It has sweat marks. I’m hot. This isn’t fair. I hate cars. I want to beat the car with a sledgehammer and then take a swipe or two at your head for good measure. This sucks donkey dicks. Like bad.” I stick out my bottom lip and am pretty sure I even stomped my feet a little.

He says something about “I’m sure the truck will break tomorrow then for sure. I can’t believe it doesn’t work. Are you sure?”

Does my sweat soaked shirt prove I’m sure you dickwad? Honestly.

We do some things around the house and it’s about 20 minutes later and he has to run an errand. He’s taking his car. I say, “Have fun sweating your ass off in that Satan’s armpit you call a car. Feel free to total it while you are gone.”

He turns around before giving me a kiss goodbye and says a few words that I will hear over and over for the rest of my life.

“Are you sure you had the air turned on?”


What do you mean turned on? I had the fan turned up to level 4 – as high as it would go. I had the dial turned to the color BLUE – which means cold. Nothing but hot air comes out.

Didn’t you push the button with the snowflake on it? The one that lights up when it’s on?

WHAT THE F*CK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? Yes – I pushed every button on your damn dash and nothing lit up.

Well, it will only light up if you have the fan on. You know - the snowflake button? The one that turns the air on?

Are you kidding me? From my line of view – behind the steering wheel – sitting up like a normal person it looks like a sun – not a snowflake. Why the hell would they use a snowflake for a picture? Snowflakes represent winter. You don’t use the air in winter. OMG – are you serious? I turned the fan off and then pressed all the buttons and nothing lit up so I turned the fan back up to high. How would the air get turned off? I never hit the snowflake button to turn it off and the air was on the last time I drove it.

Um, I drove it in between those times. I shut the air off last night when I drove it. It was nice out. No air needed. I had the windows down and music blaring. Oopsie.


That’s all you have to say? I was living in panic city thinking we had to pay for a repair on an almost new car AND I sweated enough liquid to stop an entire African village from a drought. Don’t you know that sweat is only sexy when it’s from working out?

He heard none of this. He and my daughter were too busy rolling on the floor – laughing – at their stupid wife and mother. Pointing. Giggling. Talking all kinds of smack about the woman who bitched about broken air that wasn’t even turned on.


Of course – they then went to run their errand and before they even shut the house door behind them when they got back, I heard stuff like:

Holy shit – I’m so cold from the air in the car, I should’ve worn a parka.
My God – I’m frozen. There are icicles hanging from my nose.
Dang – I’ve never been so cold in all my life. Can you turn on the furnace in the house so I can warm up?

Followed by more laughing and pointing.

Ha ha ha. So effing funny.

Douche nuggets. Both of them.

It lasted all night. I imagine it shall last a good week or so before they tire of it. And everyone I know will soon hear the story of how I bitched and moaned and sweated and cursed and panicked over air – that was never turned on.

And the pointing and laughing will continue.

I don’t particularly care. The air in HIS car works. I did not sweat on the way to work this morning. And so far – the truck still works.

When Rambo gets on his Harley today to ride for the day and plugs in his MP3 player and realizes I erased all his heavy metal songs and replaced them with all Patsy Cline and Willie Nelson old country songs – the world will be right again.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Ten Things Thursday...except there's only 8!

Ten Things Thursday time!  Apparently in Care Bear Land where I live - 10 = 8 cuz that's all I got today! 

Here we go!

1. We finally got our pool up and it’s SO MUCH FUN! Of course it helps that the weather is 109 and hotter than Satan’s crotch but I’m loving it. Sometimes I just lay on my floatie and close my eyes and it reminds me of my teen years when all I had to do all day was lay out and eat and wait for Rambo to come get me at night for dates. And running around in a bikini all day drives Rambo crazy (in a good way) and that always makes me smile.

2. Speaking of Rambo being crazy….have you guys ever heard of a “cut for a poke”? The other night Rambo yells in the other room to me, “Get your ass in here so I can cut for a poke.” Or something like that. I was all like what the hell does that even mean? He then rolls his eyes like I’m crazy because I don’t know.

Apparently, back in the old western days (in which I did NOT live - duh!) cowboys would stroll into saloons and the bartender would hold up a deck of cards and ask them if they wanted to cut for a poke? If the cowboy drew a card that was higher than the bartender’s, their “poke” with the bar girl/hooker was free. If the card was lower – they had to pay for their “poke”. Nice huh? He’s sooo romantic, isn’t he?

3. Let’s do one more Rambo one. Remember how I mentioned that it’s 109 degrees out? Well, beyond that I’m a hot person. I am always hot. I have no idea why. I just am. Rambo is a furnace when he sleeps. He is also a cuddler slash spooner. Which is fun. But only when it’s not 109 degrees out. So he’s wrapped around me like a bun on a hot dog and I push him off in the middle of the night and mumble, “it’s too hot” (you know how when skin sticks to bare skin when it’s hot – we were doing that)….and he in his mid-sleep – grabs a blanket and shoves it in between us and proceeds to spoon me again like the “skin sticking” issue was the only problem I had. Bastard – it’s HOT. Shoving a blanket in between us does not make me less hot!! GET OFF ME! PS...I love you. Jesus.

4. There are no less than 6 laundry baskets full of clothes to put away in my bedroom right now. F*ck a duck and call it Larry.  Or call a maid.  That would work.

5. Tomorrow Rambo and me and my Dad are building a 16x18 deck. Yup. When it’s 109 degrees out. When we’re done I might get a tattoo that says STUPID right on my forehead too. It should be fun. If I don’t pass out from heat exhaustion while the kids stare at me from inside the pool. Jerkfaces.

6. Rambo has the next 20 days off for no reason. This makes it insanely hard for me to get up in the mornings and go to work when he’s all cuddly and staying home. I might have to write douche nugget on his forehead with a Sharpie after he falls asleep.

7. I just bought a cute new planner to go in my new Coach purse. I thought I was being all budgetary and smart until I got to the shopping cart and you could add pen holders, notepads, stickers and a freaking colored pen set! How could I not add those things? I’m such a sucker. $80 later and I have the coolest, personalized planner ever made. Until next week when I find a better one anyway. I am a SUCKER for planners.

8. Speaking of Coach purses – I searched for weeks for a Coach Peyton purse in white with the legacy striping interior and finally found one and with Jenny’s research and help – I hit the BUY button. I paid more for this purse than my first car. Oh fine – not that much – but it felt like it. And wanna know the shits of it? I don’t like it. Crap on a stick. It’s gorgeous but not big enough and I found a white Coach purse that IS big enough that I love so I’ll have to sell the Peyton one on my other blog or Ebay.

Oh oh - wait - I just totally thought of 2 more!  NOW I HAVE ALL 10!!

9.  Ugh - annoying - but it's another Rambo one.  Rambo does NOT understand texting which means he does not understand Sexting either.  I was Sexting him the other day when I knew he was in the semi using his hands-free phone knowing he could only read the texts because he cannot text back while driving semi.  So I Sexted him something and do you know what he did?  HE CALLED ME!  I mean like 3 seconds after he read it - he called me.  WTF???  You don't call someone after they sext you.  It's a game.  A tease.  A read this but you can't do anything about it until later.  Cat and mouse.  You know?  I felt like an idiot.  Like - um - HI - what should we talk about?  HANG UP so I can go back to Sexting you!!!  UGH

10.  We have two cats.  Though I'm not a cat person - our kids love them - so we have grown to love them too.  They are good cats.  No peeing or puking or any of that nonsense.  Except about once a year.  I went into Banana's room the other morning and felt my toes squish into something cold.  Then I screamed in the pitch black of night because nothing cold or squishy should be on the floor.  Cat puke.  In my pretty manicured toe ringed toes.  If I could have caught the cat - I would have footballed him out the door.  Oh geez - no I wouldn't have.  I totally would have shanked him though.  Eat that PETA.

Later Skittles!