Posh Punk

Emmi's favorite little friend (who happens to be the daughter of one of my besties) had a birthday party weekend before last. For her present, I made her two sets of pajamas. I love to sew. I am constantly making things for my kiddos. Jill just has to have an all white nightgown for character dress up day? Well, let me make it! But sewing for other people? It just wasn't something I had ever done. Yet, as soon as Emmi's little friend unwrapped her gift, I had two moms asking me to make sets for their daughters. They both spent the rest of the party convincing me that I needed to open up shop. So that is just what I did.



My little venture is just in its infant stage and has a long way to go. Over the next few weeks, more items will be added to my etsy store. In the works are more pajama sets, infinity scarves (inspired by Jill and her love of scarves.....just like her mom!), layered ruffle skirts, and much more.

World's Best Run On Sentence

My favorite part of reading the online news is reading the comments. It might be the best form of entertainment. Ever. How can you not love things like this?

Couyld you people who leave comments at least learn to spell, I realize it is hard to spell correctly when you are evidently in the process of hating the person you are commenting on, however to the Misfit character, it is their, not there grief, or whatever the purpose you used the word, their and there have two different meanings, so perhaps instead of jumping to leave a comment, try picking up a thesaurus (yes that is a word too, in fact it is a book a lot like a dictionary which you should also use, ) so instead of hating, try learning to spell, that goes for all of you haters.

They spelled "could" wrong when bitching about poor spelling. Although, I applaud them for attempting to make that all one sentence.

What the hell was I thinking?

So I ran my first ever race on Saturday. It was a small race. And only 5K. Our next goal was the ConocoPhillips Rodeo Run 10K in February. Yet, somehow we let ourselves get talked into signing up for the Run Thru the Woods on Thanksgiving Day. Five miles. We had never run more than 3.2 miles.

The day after our race, when we should have been resting, we hit the pavement. Our goal was four miles, which we easily hit. Today, we did a short run. Funny how two miles equals a short run now. Tomorrow our goal is 4.5 miles. On Wednesday we will run only one mile, and then Thursday we will attempt to run the whole five in the race.

Honestly, I am not sure what we were thinking when we signed up for this race, but I am really excited to run in a "real" race!

Hooked.

Nine weeks ago, I joined a beginner running group. For the first group run, we had to run for ten whole minutes. I thought I was going to die. Nine weeks later, my running partner and I ran in our first race.

My awesome running partner. Without her, I would have quit 8.5 weeks ago.

And we are off....

Almost. There.

Crossing the finish line.

Our original goal was to simply run the whole 5K. Then we set a time of 34 minutes. When we broke 32 minutes last week, we reset our goal to under 30 minutes.

I finished with a time of 29 minutes and 26 seconds.

As we sat through awards, I realized I was SEVEN minutes behind my age group winner. I felt my competitive drive kick in. I. Want. To. Win. In two weeks I have gone from the girl who was just hoping to finish the race to the girl who wants to finish first. I want prizes. And to run faster. And farther. I am completely and hopelessly hooked on racing.

I am dying. Not really. I am just paranoid.

All of my crazy symptoms like the randoms fevers, and the pain, and such have been around for years. Years. Yet now that I know they are a problem, I am suddenly more aware of them. And slightly crazy about them.

I keep a cup of water by the bed. Always have. In my car is a cup of water. Look around my house and you will find water glasses everywhere I have been sitting. Did I also mention I am really bad about leaving my water glasses everywhere and never picking them up? My husband loves that. I am never without a drink. Because my throat gets scratchy without one. My mouth feels thick. This has never really been a problem for me until....

"Do you often have dry-mouth," my doctor asked.

Oh shit. My need for constant water isn't some weird quirk. It is a symptom.

Days later, I am sitting at my desk, when I absentmindedly reach for my water glass. Before I can take a sip, it dawns on me. I. Have. Dry. Mouth. Oh God. I am dying. I just know it. In fact my kidneys are shutting down as we speak, because my mouth is dry. And is my left index finger joint swollen? I think I have a fever. Does anybody else see a rash on my legs?

Maybe those others doctors weren't too off the mark with their diagnosis of anxiety after all.

Goodbye Starbucks. Goodbye cupcakes.

I flip-flopped back and forth on whether or not I would even write this post.

1. How do you write nothing for months, and then just reappear? And with drama.
2. I hate sympathy posts. And complainers. And other people's health problems.

For several years, I have suffered from some seemingly random symptoms. Chest pain with no known heart abnormalities. Severe abdominal pain. Bouts of insomnia. Numb hands and feet. Fatigue. Achy joints. The list goes on. I have seen many doctors. Each one eventually determining I was depressed or anxious. Not one offering any solution other than anti-depressants.

When a blood vessel in my eye burst a few months ago, my opthamalogist became concerned. She pieced together some of my other symptoms and suggested I see a Rheumatologist. I made my appointment, and then braced myself for a diagnosis of Rheumatoid Arthritis.

I was completely thrown off when my doctor told me that I did not, in fact, have RA. Instead, I have a rare genetic condition that is also an inflammatory auto-immune disorder. Except, I get the added fun of organ failure. Predominantly kidney failure, followed by liver failure. Yay.

There is no cure, and it is progressive. The really good news is there is a known treatment that will significantly reduce my chances of kidney and liver failure. The downside is I will have to take this for the rest of my life. And there are some serious side effects. The biggest is it speeds up your digestive system (read: diarrhea. ew.) AND blocks absorption of some vitamins and minerals. Almost all patients have severe weight loss. I am a size four. I doubt I need any severe weight loss. Especially given the worst part.

I will have to give up dairy while taking this medication. No Starbucks white chocolate mochas. No cupcakes with milk every evening. This, my friends, is the part that makes me tear up. You want me to give up cupcakes? Forever? And while I can eat as much as I want and still be skinny?

The results of my liver function test should be in by Tuesday, which means I should start on a low dose of my medication by Wednesday. I have to be dairy free three days prior to my first dose. That gives me through Sunday.

Don't worry friends, I started two-a-days in preparation. White mochas in the morning. Peppermint lattes in the afternoon.

Practical Advice

The kids go back to school on Monday. A few days ago, they posted teacher assignments. Jill was a little upset because they split up her and her two best friends. What she was most upset about was being stuck with the one kid who acts like an asshole to her all day, everyday. I started to spew off some nonsense about how she just needed to remember to kill him with kindness or some crap like that. But then I stopped myself. Why do we also tell our kids this bullshit? Why don't we tell them how it really is?

Some people are just assholes. Being kind to them isn't going to make them less of an asshole. It is just going to peg you as the person who won't stand up to them. Maybe this will make them look for another target, but more than likely it will make them decide you are the perfect target. I say put them in their place. When some little punk boy mouths off to her, she should respond with "Assholes like you grow up to be assholes who will never in a million years get a girl like me. You are going to be forty, alone, fired from four jobs, twice for sexual harassment, once for anger management issues, and once for just plain being stupid. Your best friend is going to be your beer can, and even your mother won't be able to stand you."

That is practical advice.

August 15th

It's almost been one year, since Kenny and I were married. It some ways it feels like no time at all has passed. In other ways, it is hard to imagine that it has only been one year with everything that has happened.

Kenny, thank you for being the husband and father that you are. You are an amazing man. And pretty damn funny, too. I am thankful for every moment we have had together, even if I still haven't figured out how to get you to put your cups in the dishwasher. Although, I guess if that is worst that I have to say about you, then I have it pretty good. Happy Anniversary. I love you.

My Current Obssession.

Yesterday, we went out with some friends for some wakesurfing and wakeboarding. Kenny was able to toss the rope in while wakesurfing, and I attempted some tricks that are way to advanced for me (but I am determined to learn right this minute). I spent the whole day practicing techniques and watching videos. You know because I am going to be a pro some day obsessed.

But first, how stinkin' cute is she? I am absolutely in love with how adventurous and courageous this kid is. When she is out there wakeboarding, you see a different side of her.

And my favorite photo of the day....

Although, I should probably mention, he actually flipped of the board on purpose (which is what I was trying to get a picture of) when he started to lose his balance!

Awkward.

Many years ago, like over ten, I dated a guy. Let's call him The Ex. The Ex and I dated for several months. At eighteen and nineteen we thought we were a big time, serious couple. But then as most relationships between teenagers, we broke up. I turned into evil, vengeful bitch, and several of my friends may have participated in the tormenting of The Ex. Because we went to different colleges, I never spoke to him again.

Fast forward to over ten years later.

The plan for the day was the guys were going wakeboarding, and the girls were cooking dinner. Kenny went on ahead of me to meet up with our friend and another guy he had never met. When I arrived to help with dinner, I immediately question my friend about this new guy. Why? Because he happened to have the same first name as The Ex. A name that is not common at all. As in, I have never met another person with said name.

I breathed a sigh of relief when, even though she didn't know his last name, she did know that he was only twenty-four. Thank goodness, because that was going to be really awkward.

Awkward like when they walked in the back door, and my husband and the new guy are chatting away and I freeze because it is clearly The Ex who is definitely not twenty four and he has just been hanging out with my husband.

Breaking My Bloggy Silence...

....to introduce Jill the Badass. Seriously, I might have the coolest kid ever.


Let's recap our summer so far.

While tubing, she takes time to pose.

Cliff diving. A sport that every nine-year-old should try.

And then she bought herself this.

And did this at her first lesson ever.

Ignore my inability to focus the camera on her. I blame Emmi. She was tugging on my arm. And speaking of little Emmi. Even she took a turn.

What I learned about customer service from Starbucks.

Oh Starbucks. I have been pretty open and honest with the Internets about my obsessive love for you. To protect our relationship, I have lied to my husband. I have hidden evidence. What? That cup? That's from last week. Hmm? Yes, I do find it weird that the ice has not melted since last week. When we were weighing out the options on our move, "No Starbucks in new town" was on my negative list. Sometimes, I plan my day around you, Starbucks. If I run errand A at such and such time, I can drive past a Starbucks. So Starbucks, you see, we have had good times, and I find it hard to talk bad about you. But. But. I am a tad bit annoyed with you right now.

The two closest SB's are a good fifteen minutes away, in two opposing towns. Both are slightly inconvenient. I have to go a bit out of my way to get to either. That leaves SB number three. It is about twenty minutes away, but near other stores that I sometimes need to go to. Read: TARGET. It's not everyday that I make it by SB anymore. My sometimes twice a day habit is now down to twice a week. If I am lucky. So on those rare occasions that I do get to SB, it better damn well be good.

Yet SB #3 sucks. Consistently. Once, they made the wrong drink for me. I ordered correctly. I had the receipt in my hand to prove it. Then, they fussed at me for not wanting the wrong drink. I mean, it was cold outside, I should want a hot drink. Why on earth did I order a cold one anyway? The second time, they forgot the white mocha part of my iced white mocha. When I explained this, they were severely confused. I wanted extra white mocha? I don't like white mocha? How about a new cherry mocha! Today, I figured, third time's a charm. They were bound to improve. Right? Wrong.

I ordered my usual. I stepped aside. Then, the barista explained that she just needed to restart the empty coffee maker. While the other three employees watched. Meanwhile, I waited and the line at the register grew. When the coffee maker was restarted, I expected the barista to go back to making my drink. That I had ordered a full five minutes ago. Instead, she returned to the register to help the two men that walked in less than a minute ago. Obviously. They placed their orders, plain coffees and pastries. Which she immediately served. At my, "Excuse me," and gesture she responded, "I am sorry, their orders are just so much easier." Oh yes. That makes sense. I will just stand here until someone orders a much more complicate drink.

At first I was annoyed. Then I realized. I am clearly in the wrong and know nothing about customer service.

PS To all of our clients. We will only be mowing those houses with very little flowerbeds to maintain today. They are easier. Don't worry, we will still charge you. And make you wait indefinitely until we feel like getting around to you. Thanks.

A new thing.

Hey There,

It's been awhile. I'd apologize. Except, I hate when people do that. And, I am not sorry. Obviously, this blog is not my main priority.

I think there was a time when it used to be a priority. Now I can't even say that. It was fine when I actually talked about what was going on in my life, but then things started happening that I wasn't entirely comfortable sharing. Pretty major things. Not secrets exactly. In fact, if you sat down with me for coffee I love coffee, I consume it for every meal, I would probably talk your ear off about it. But, since it has a lot to do with my kids, I don't feel like the internet where I have used their actual names and pictures is the right place to do such. There is no need to immortalize everything. Right? So I made the decision not to talk about certain things.

But that lead to trying to search for things to talk about. And that became exhausting. This was no longer my outlet, but just another job. And we all know I don't really like working all that much. The postings spaced out, lacked depth or character, and even I became bored reading them. I read some of my earlier posts, and think, "That shit was funny. What happened?" But I know what happened. My life changed, but I never adapted my blog.

I thought long and hard about what to do. I don't want to give up this blog. I have put a lot of effort into it, so I won't abandon it all together. I am definitely going to keep reading all of my favorites. I will post when I have something to say. But mostly, I am focusing on a new project.

It is a blog format. Completely different from this one. I will be writing anonymously. That means you may or may not ever find me. Sors. Don't worry, most of you won't care. It is all about raising two kids with disabilities.

So until next time...which could be tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month.

Tricia

Old

Listen, Self.

I know we turned 30, and promptly came down with strep throat in protest. Five days later, for extra fun while still on antibiotics, we spiked a fever of 102.

What gives? Did my warranty run out?

T-Mobile is not full of sparkles. Or magic.

Today has been an irritating day. Very irritating. And T-Mobile, you are to blame.

I woke up this morning. And the screen on my phone looked like this.





That's right. Blank. Nada. Nothing. Redundant, I know. I was standing in front of T-Mobile when they opened their doors this morning. I expected magic. And fireworks. And sparkles. Instead I got, "Go home, and try this. Then, dial xyz cause I can't remember what he actually said from your cell to call customer service." Oh really, genius. I should call them. From my phone that won't turn on. When I told Mr. Not Magic or Helpful At All Man that his lack of action pissed me off, he proceeded to tell me all about his bad day. Guess what. I don't care.

At home, his special magic fix, did not work. I made my first call to customer service. Not from my cell phone. Which, of course, required extra top secret verification that I should in fact be attempting to fix this broken phone. Because it would be a real issue if someone not on the account attempted to troubleshoot my phone. And although, I was in fact on the account, they decided I was not. Even after calling my husband fourteen times and having him confirm my ability to be trusted with my own phone. And so, argument and thirty minute phone call number one began.

Five phone calls and two and a half hours later, Blackberry technical support determined they could not fix the problem. I needed a new phone. Which is funny, because that is what I said. TWO AND A HALF hours ago. "Ma'am, just call T-Mobile back, and tell them you need a phone exchange." Which sounded simple.

Except then T-Mobile was unconvinced, and thought perhaps they should send me to Blackberry technical support for further assistance. The same technical support that sent me to them for a new phone. This was a fun loop. Finally, I began responding to all statements and questions with, "SEND ME A NEW PHONE."

Ma'am can you hold, please. SEND ME A NEW PHONE.

Ma'am, have you attempted to take the battery out. No, of course not, asshat. Nobody in the past six phone calls though to have me do that! SEND ME A NEW PHONE.

Ma'am what does the screen look like now. SEND ME A NEW PHONE.

As we headed into hour three, they finally decided to SEND ME A NEW PHONE. I guess they got tired of my screaming and analogies. "If I bought a shirt and it ripped before I even took the tag off of it, I would take it back to the store. The store would then not send me home, and ask me to attempt to sew it myself. When they failed, they would also not send me to another store to ask them for help. They would simply get ME A NEW shirt." How was this complicated? The phone was dead. Shit happens. Phones mysteriously die in the dead of the night.

And now, three hours of my life have been wasted.

T-Mobile. I hate you.

The Big 3-0 = Strep Throat

My 30th birthday was this weekend.

For my birthday, I got strep throat. Awesome. Kids dropped off with my parents for the weekend, and I start to feel horrible. Fever. Sore throat complete with white patches. Horrible headache. Did I mention awesome?

Don't worry, I let the antibiotics do their thing, and managed to do some celebrating.

And car shopping.

And present getting. And because my husband is way more awesome than strep throat, he got me this

Although not so much that, as a confirmation number for that, as it doesn't come out until next week.

Protein

Once, my mom fed me caterpillars. She will debate this fact. She will claim it was part of the broccoli. Don't let her fool you. Caterpillars. I am still traumatized to this day. I examine broccoli piece by piece before I bite into it.

This weekend Kenny wanted to go out to eat. Jill did not want to go. As a compromise, we let her choose the restaurant. The pickle place. I am not sure any of us know the actual name. Just that Kenny and Jill love the fried pickles. The food is never all that great. The margaritas are.

I was half way through my first margarita before I noticed the bug embedded in my ice cube. Like Jurassic Park. The mosquito in amber. Not as pretty, though. And now, I am scared of margaritas. I will have to sort through them ice cube by ice cube.

Emmi had multiple appointments today. We were in Houston early this morning. Near Starbucks. I ordered an iced white mocha. Non-fat. I swear the milk gets colder without the fat. In winter, I order 2%. I need the warmth. The muffins called my name as I ordered my drink.

Two bites later, I noticed the bug leg. Had I eaten the bug? Was the bug leg all that was left or all that ever was?

It's my party.... Or not exactly party. But still, buy me presents.

My 30th Birthday is this week. My mother and my husband asked for a present list.

So far this is what I have.

1. Range Rover. Preferably Sport. Preferably blue. Preferably with tan leather. Must have a DVD player.
2. Golf Cart. I don't play golf. Nobody in our family plays golf. I just want it to go to the bus stop. And pool. And to the Easter Egg Hunt in two Saturdays cause the website says, "Please take your golf cart, parking is limited." See totally need it.
3. ipad. Comes out April 3rd. I'll take a raincheck.
4. Money for clothes. Although, let's be real. I'll spend money on clothes whether or not he gives me money.
5. Photoshop Elements. Although, this requires me also taking the computer in for some work. But, just think of all of those pictures waiting on me to play with them.

That's all I got. Somehow, I don't think I am getting the Range Rover.

What would you ask for, if you were me? This is where I look conversational, but am really just trying to steal your ideas.

Last official day of Spring Break. Boo.

The Lucky Fats.

It started with Jump Rope for Heart. My kids knocked on the neighbor's door. They sent out emails linking to their donation pages. They raised money, followed by some rope jumping. They learned about being heart healthy, and eating heart healthy. You know, so you maintain a good body weight.

Apparently, Emmi got exactly one thing from that. Fat = UNHEALTHY.

After a long day and night before of cake baking and birthday partying, I was not about to cook. And I was starving. Kenny and I had shoved breakfast tacos in our faces between the mopping, vacuuming, and cake icing prior to the party. At 5:45, I made the executive decision that we were going out for Chinese. At the restaurant right outside our neighborhood whose parking lot is littered with cars bearing our neighborhood entrance sticker. By the end of dinner our neighbor two doors down sat one table over and our across the street neighbor sat two tables over. And we were the only people in there. My point? We know everyone who eats there. You see them at the country club later in the week or walking the dog.

When we first arrived there was exactly one other person eating in the restaurant. She sat at a table directly across from us, eating alone. I didn't recognize her, but the only other car in the parking displayed the reflection of the moon sticker I know so well. As we settled into our seats, she chatted with us about how cute our kids were and such.

The waitress handed her a fortune cookie and her check. She cracked open the cookie. No fortune. She turned to us, "What do you suppose that means?!"

The waitress called across the nearly empty restaurant, "I heard that was supposed to be good luck."

We all laughed.

Emmi had been watching, evaluating the whole situation. Listening. Finally she piped up.

"SHE IS SO FAT! SHE IS UNHEALTHY! Right, Mommy? Right?!"

I am pretty sure right then, that empty cookie was not good luck.

Happy Birthday Little Monkey.

Five. I could still pretend five was a baby. Five was not in school. Five did not come with full sentences and correct grammar and a sudden five pound gain after years of weighing 33 pounds or less. Six did.

Six it seems, turned my Little Monkey into a girl. Not a baby. But a big girl. This is the year of the most profound changes. The most significant accomplishments. This past year, I have been blown away by everything you have done. Have far you have come.

This year you started Kindergarten with your class. In a mainstream classroom. Three years ago as you entered PPCD, we were told there was no chance of that. In fact, we were told to prepare for the fact that you may never be in a mainstream classroom. But here you are. Reading on level. Writing far beyond your grade level. Taking Spanish classes. Loving art. Hating PE. Performing either on target or ahead of your class in everything.

You have done a lot of things you shouldn't have. Shouldn't have according to a whole slew of doctors. Doctors that shake their head in wonder with every visit. You are their miracle patient. You are that one. According to your doctors, you were not supposed to live much past your first birthday. Then they said, "She won't sit, crawl, walk or talk." I think you proved to them that you had some other plans. You still struggle. You still scare the hell out of me sometimes. But here you are.

You are silly and sweet. Every morning as the bus pulls off you hold your hands up to the window in the shape of a heart. You wait in the front window for Daddy to come home. You love to cuddle on the couch with Macy. You spend your days following your sister around. You are suddenly eating, and you certainly have some favorite foods. You love sushi. Anyone can with your heart over with a crunchy roll. Want to make you really happy? Take you out for crab. Drink of choice? Brown milk. Call it chocolate milk, and you won't drink it. You also love coffee. Love. You steal mine, if I leave it unattended. You love to color. You just came into the office and asked me for "a thousand fifty hundred" pieces of paper to bring to your room. If I try to take your picture, you strike a pose.

You decided this year your hair would be long. A first. You normally wear it short. I think this change came about, because you now wear your processors over the ear. Speaking of ears, you got your ears pierced. It was what you asked for for your birthday. Along with Lanie, the American Girl doll of the year, and a scooter. All of which you got. You wanted a rainbow cake. I think you would have been happy with a cake with a rainbow on it, but we all know Mommy can't just leave it at that. So you got a rainbow cake. Six layers. Homemade icing. Nine batches of icing. And I still did not have enough.

Pretty much, I would do anything for you. Even stay up all night baking a rainbow cake.

I still can't believe you are six, Ems. Happy Birthday Little E. I hope this next year is everything you wished for.

Big Huge Mommy Accomplishment That Probably Wasn't All That Big or Huge.

I took both kids shopping. All by myself. Then I took both kids to eat. In a sit down, nice restaurant. Also by myself.

And I lived. With all of my hair still on my head.

I know. I know. People do this kind of thing all the time. Some moms even have, like, a bajillion kids and take them places. All by themselves.

But they don't have my kids.

Let's start with Emmi. Until very recently, her communication skills were far behind her age level. But her cognitive skills weren't. Meaning, she could wander through a store, see a pink shirt that she thought would look fabulous with a bright green skirt if only she could get some blue socks to go along with it all, and yell something along the lines of "PINK GREEN SOCK!" So I would furiously try to find some pink and green socks, and be completely dismayed when she hated the pink and green socks I produced. Then the pantomiming and wild guessing would begin. "You want socks? Not these socks? Pink socks? No? But socks? Point to the socks, Emmi. Point! Okay? Blue socks? So you wanted socks that weren't pink and green? You like pink? You hate green?" And inevitably we would leave with blue socks, nothing else, a pissed off kid, and a near tears mommy.

Meanwhile, Jill was standing in the corner rocking back and forth screaming because it was too loud or too bright or too smelly in the store and the tag in her shirt had suddenly started to bother her and someone accidentally bumped into her and her left shoe is too tight and she HATES me BECAUSE I AM THE WORSTEST MOMMY EVER because I was trying to buy her new clothes that have too many colors on them.

And then I would have to ride home with them.

It was good fun times.

But then Emmi started talking. Really talking. I would say it is the years of therapy that finally kicked in, but I am actually going to go with replacing the faulty cochlear implant that did it. It is amazing what actually being able to hear will do for ones ability to speak. On a side note, the more she is talking, the more she is signing too. I thought she would lose interest, which was a bit sad. But, she actually wants to learn more. So now when she wants a pink shirt and a green skirt with blue socks, she can say, "I like that pink shirt and that green skirt, but can we get blue socks with it?" Albeit, she says it in the cutest little voice EVER.

And then, finally, someone figured out that Jill is NOT bipolar and doesn't have ADHD nor am I just a bad parent or out of sync with my child. Nope. She has a neurological disorder that went undiagnosed for over eight years. Mostly because she hid the physical symptoms very well. Another side note, her formal evaluation came back yesterday. I was expected a her to be lagging a bit here and there. She was FOUR YEARS behind developmentally on some physical aspects. FOUR YEARS. She is just smart and compensates well. And now she can do things like go out in public and wear clothes and such. So we went shopping, followed the OT's orders, and Jill left smiling. Smiling! With new clothes! And new shoes. Oh, good gravy, she was the cutest thing this morning.

And our house is full of rainbows and sunshine. And maybe even unicorns today. Because yesterday might have been the best day ever.

And who of you childless people wants children now after reading that? Because if you didn't get, let me make it more clear. It took SIX YEARS for me to take both of my kids out shopping and to eat without backup. Six. Years.

Veda the Beta

Many, many years ago Jill had to have a fish. Had to. Needed it. I didn't want to buy that damn fish. I don't particularly like animals that I have to clean up after. Dogs go outside and poo. They don't have a tank to clean. No litter box. Hell, I even used to throw them in the pool at our old house to bathe them. But fish? Their tanks get stinky, and somebody has to clean that shit. But Jill wanted that fish.

I made her work for it. For months. And so we got a fish. A fish that she promptly decided was boring, and somehow ended up on my kitchen countertop with Kenny and I feeding it.

I hated that stupid fish. I tried to kill it. I wouldn't feed it for weeks, but there it would be wagging it's little fishy tail, swimming happy little fishy circles. Not dead.

When we moved over two years later, the fish travelled in the cup holder of the u-haul in a plastic cup. I thought for sure that would be the death of the fish. But no. Fishy plopped happily into it's tank on it's new perch in the new kitchen. Swim, swim, swim.

Then Jill decided the fish was cool. She cleaned it's tank. She started feeding it when she remembered. She would talk to the fish. She drew pictures for the fish. Fish became cool.

Until yesterday morning.

"Jill did you remember to feed your fish," Kenny asked.

Jill jumped up from the couch where she sat watching TV ten minutes before we left for school. Fish food in hand, Jill lifted the lid from the tank....

"MY FISH IS DEAD!"

I looked to Kenny, waiting for him to say it was just sitting still. But instead, he nodded his head, slowly, solemnly.

The fish was dead.

RIP Veda the Beta.

You lived a good, long fishy life. I am sorry they gave you a girl name, even though you were a boy. Really it was your fault, because you were pink and purple. And those were girl colors. Also, forgive Emmi for tormenting you with Dino. Emmi says she hopes you are playing with Chance-y Boy. And Papa. In our brown car which isn't dead, but sold. Try telling her that, though. All of which she insists are in heaven.

Child Birth. According to Emmi.

And by "That sounds simple," I mean, "You are scaring me, and I am glad I can never have more children."

Tiger Woods and Sparkle Men

I don't get it. Why the hell is Tiger Woods apologizing breaking news? Fine, fine. You owe your wife an apology. You possibly owe your kids and your family one, too. But perhaps, you don't need to do that via my television. I do, however, really enjoy laughing at all of the commentary such as, "Women will never be able to forgive him." Why? What did he do to you? I hate to break this to you, maybe I should hold a press conference, lots of people cheat. Everyday. Sometimes it ends with your wife chasing you down with a golf club. I still wonder how that happened. Did she plan that lovely bit of irony? Or does he love golf that much that there are clubs just everywhere at her disposal just waiting for a moment like such? Other times it ends up with hubs shooting boyfriend in my driveway. No, No. Not my hubs. That was the crazies before us who now live around the corner. In any case, get off my TV. I have other things to watch.

Like men in sparkles.

Men in sparkles that greatly disturb my daughter. Men in sparkles and feathers and tights that Jill claims is "just not right." Even after I told her, some men love sparkles. And feathers. And even tights. She sadly shook her head and said, "They needed a daddy to show them how to not wear sparkles."

Proving after all that gayness really does stem from Daddy issues.

PS I don't believe that at all. I think it is a genetic thing. Or hormonal. Or whatnot. Don't send me hate mail.

Since I don't have to count the calories from lunch, can I have truffles for a snack?

I have never considered myself a runner, even though I used to several miles a day. And by several, I mean about five. But I don't like running. It doesn't make me happy. It doesn't clear my head. In fact, I pretty much spend the whole time thinking, "I fucking hate this. I fucking hate this. I FUCKING HATE THIS." But then I get done, and I have the skinnies. And I don't hate the skinnies. So I used to run. A lot. Sometimes outside, if the weather was absolutely perfect and my knee felt up to it. But often on a treadmill, because running outside makes my knee swell to the size of a grapefruit. I have never been fond of grapefruit. Especially on my knee.

When we moved, I gave up my gym membership. No big deal. With the purchase of our house came a fancy pants country club membership along with a sports club. Except, long story short that is an entirely different story that I am not going to tell right now because it will make me scream, we won't have that gym membership for about two more weeks. That means six months without a gym membership. In winter. When I won't run outside. Because I don't do cold.

But today the weather was perfect. No excuse perfect. And the skinny jeans were getting way too tight. I dug my running shoes out of my closet. Took the tag off the brand new running shirts I bought SIX months ago. Loaded my running mix back on my ipod. And set off, determined to make it two miles. Just go easy.

The half mile point put me just outside of our section and even with the guard shack where a line of cars sat waiting to enter the neighborhood. Which is just about where I threw up.

The first time.

Whatever. That's just how you get the skinnies faster.

The post where I talk about oversensitive whiney babies AND open myself up to a lot of criticism.

Plus two posts in one day. It's like crazy times around here.

Even thought it is still ice cube cold around here, February never fails to be the start of our busy season. Which means, Kenny comes out of his semi-retirement and actually works, leaving me to fend for myself everyday until about 7. I know. How do I ever survive? With homework and crazy children, I never have time to cook a decent dinner. Which is why I became friends with my crock pot. Dinner is just magically ready at dinner time. While I chopped green bell peppers and onions for a green chile verde chicken dish, I watched The View, a show I try not to watch because it never fails to piss me off.

Just like today.

Small mention was made of two things. One a four-year-old boy with leg braces who was made to take them off to go through airport security. The other an episode of Family Guy that depicted a woman with Downe Syndrome. And everyone was claiming injustice.

Except? I highly disagree. I think nothing wrong happened in either situation. Other than people looking for a reason to be mad. Let me explain, before you think I am a meanie and hate unicorns, too.

My daughter is deaf. Deaf. As in, can not hear. Profoundly deaf. That's an actually medical term, look it up if you wish. At two she received her first cochlear implant, a device implanted into her skull and inner ear that long story short allows her to hear ONLY in conjunction with an outer processor worn similarly to a hearing aid. It is way more complicated than that, but the point of my story is not cochlear implant education. It is that my kid has a dissablility and a hunk of wires and plastic and metal in her head that tends to cause some issues with airport security at times.

In order to fly, I carry a medical card for Emmi. The past few trips to the airport, we made Emmi present the card herself as we are teaching her what she should do, because we know that she may require special accommodation. Special accommodation that is our job to ask for and be educated about, not the job of some hourly employee told to adhere to strict set of guidelines. Prior to travelling with Emmi, I contacted our doctor, the implant manufacturer, and the airport to determine what exactly we should do going through security and during the flight, because it is my job as the parent of a special needs child to be prepared. We were educated on the exact process, and were prepared that we may need to request a hand search for Emmi should she set off the metal detectors. I wonder, did the parents of this little boy request a hand search? Perhaps. Perhaps this wasn't handled in the best possible way by the airport security. I wasn't there. But I do highly doubt that anyone intended to harm or belittle a four-year-old disabled child.

Nor do I think Family Guy was belittling people with Down Syndrome. The clip I saw seemed to poke more fun at people's avoidance of talking about disabilities in general. The woman told the man to ask her things about herself. And he outright avoided the obvious. That was the funny part. Not that she had a disability, but that no one will talk about it. The woman portrayed was assertive. She was witty. In no way was her personality, demeanor or intellect being attacked. Am I the only one that go the point of that? Maybe it comes from having a child with a disability. Try being in the room when someone says, "Ohhh what do you have on that is flashing, sweety?!" And you point out the flashing light is not actually a toy, but a medical device. Do they ask about it? Do they seem curious how it works? Do they want to know why it blinks? Hell no. They act like they never asked the question in the first place. Like hell did they mention that elephant in the room. Like hell.

I just have no clue when we as a society got so hell bent on being pissed off about everything? And why do we think that everyone has to be accommodated? Hell, while we are at it, perfume and bright lights give me migraines. I am going to ask that everyone stop wearing perfume and dim their lights. And if you could speak in a whisper voice around me that would be nice. However, you will need to speak up and enunciate when my child is in the room, because she is DEAF. Also, she doesn't like to eat much other than marshmallows due to her metabolic disorder. I don't want her to feel bad for this. Like she is some marshmallow eating freak. Please, send all of your children to school with only marshmallows. And, could you go buy them all hearing aids to wear around, so my kid doesn't look too different. But whatever you do, do not tell her she is deaf. That would be nice.

Except it is ridiculous. And we all know it.

It was a sad day for the Internets and the Cable.

We live in a small town about forty-five minutes outside of Houston. The official population less than five hundred. We have a McDonalds and a Walmart. And we willingly moved here, because I was going to go crazy if one more teenager walked by me with their pants around their knees acting like it was cool to be ghetto when you were being raised in an upper middle class gated community. Being that I choose to move, I am sure I have no right to complain about anything. And really I have very few complaints. Except our lack of choices of cable and internet companies. And by lack of choices, I mean there is exactly one company to use. One company that sucks ass. With a dvr capable of recording two shows at a time AND YOU HAVE TO BE WATCHING ONE OF THEM.

Mid afternoon, there was a power surge. I reset all the clocks. Restarted the computers, and waited for my glorious internet access to come back. Except nothing happened. No signal. I did the whole unplug the router, blow on the cord the shit works sometimes and you know it, and wait. Nothing. Finally after a few hours I conceded that it was coming back on it's own. I needed to call the internet/cable company.

It was in that moment that it dawned on me. No working phone. Vonage phone lines and a cell that runs on wi-fi inside the house thanks to our tech shield roof. I would have to go stand outside in the cold to call. But I had blogs to read. And the book of face to check. I made the call. In the cold.

Then I went back inside to watch TV and wait until tomorrow for a tech to come fix my sad little internets. I made it about halfway across the living room, before the cable went out in front of my very eyes. Shit. Should I call back? Could the same tech take care of my internet and cable?

I decided not to chance it, so I called back.

"Ma'am, I am going to send a signal to your box, could you tell me when the box shuts off?"

"I can't walk in the house on my cell phone, because my cell phone will loose signal. So I can't see the box. I can set the phone down, and come back to tell you."

"Ma'am, I just need you to stay on the line, and tell me when it shuts..."

"I can't take my phone in the house, so you have two choices. I can set it down, and come back when it shuts off. Or I can stand here and talk to you, and not see the box at all."

"If you could just stay on the line with me while looking at the box."

"What about 'I can't take me phone inside, because it will loose signal' is confusing you?"

"Okay then sinc you can't see the box, have you checked that your TV is on the right input?"

"The cable went off right before my eyes. I know there was a shooting at my house, and my husband and I debate the existence of a ghost, but the ghost has not shown the ability to fuck with the TV. Given the fact that my internet is out also, I am going to take a chance and say it is not my TV input. Now, do you still want me to check to see if the box shut off?"

Sometimes the crazies tell me to do things.

One day, I decided my house had to be painted. Yellow.

Although, really I didn't think it would be quite so yellow.

But then I sat and thought and looked at the yellow. And I started to hate the yellow. "Yellow sucks," said the crazies in my head. And the crazies told me that the yellow was actually the cause of all of my problems. If I didn't get rid of the yellow right that minute, I would never be happy again.

Now, the crazies are happy. The crazies apparently like Ralph Lauren Regent Metallics in Lush Brown and Torch much better than Behr Fortune Cookie.

With a spray tan, I look just like a girl I went to high school with. Weird.

Everybody has been playing the what celebrity do you look like game. But, I fear I am not Asian enough to play along. It would be revealed exactly how un-Asian I am. There for, I skipped that. I will not deny my Italian heritage. I will embrace it. Even though the only words I know in Italian are curse words. And I learned those from my fancy private school friends, not even my little Italian grandpa. One my question my Italianess now, given my new last name and country club membership. But somewhere under that, I am really just a girl from the Jersey Shore.

The news teaches me things. Things like how to make sexy times sexier.

Valentine's Day is right around the corner. Traditionally, Kenny and I don't really celebrate such. We use it as an excuse to order take-out. Sometimes, there are a few gifts exchanged if we happen to need something at the time. Last year, I made cute little tags that spelled out "I Love you!" and attached each one to a beer. Yeah. Beer. Kenny got beer last year. With pink ribbons affixed. And I made him drink them with the pink ribbons still attached. But mostly, we ignore the day. Romantic, right?

Today, Kenny and I drug our work out to the kitchen table, so we could spread out. We had a system. Fold invoice, stuff invoice, lick envelope, pass. Stamp envelope, add return label, move to outbox. Fold, stuff, lick. We spend so much sexy times together. Who needs Valentine's Day? While we worked, the news droned on in the background.

News worthy topics? How to bring the sexy back into your marriage in time for Valentine's Day.

Let me summarize:

1. Get away from the kids and neighbors. Yes. Neighbors. Take your wife to a hotel for a night. A hotel such as Motel 6. I completely see the validity of this one. Our neighbors are constantly keeping us from doing the sexy times with her looking in our window all the damn time. Plus, nothin' says hourly lovin' like Motel 6.

2. Kiss in the elevator. I missed the part about whether or not this should be done in the elevator at the Motel 6. Last Motel 6 I saw didn't even have an elevator. Just stairs. I give you permission to do it in the stairwell.

3. Dress like sexiness. I am guess because you are going to Motel 6 to make out in the stairwell that they meant dress like a hooker.

And to think all I asked for was chinese take out from Bing's and all Kenny is getting is a golf cart which is really a present to me. With pink ribbons.

Mickey Mouse. Rainbows. Only unicorns would have made this better.

Last year, when Kenny and I got to register for all those fun presents wedding registry is like extended Christmas I found the perfect bedding. But sads. I didn't get to register for it. For one, the whole set cost over 3 grand. I have no "for two". That's it. That shit was just expensive. But pretty. Oh so pretty.

I imagined it with mirrored side tables, a tufted white velvet headboard, Ralph Lauren metallic paint in Silver Plated coupled with Disney paint in Mickey's Shadow stop laughing that shit is the best grey paint EVER, a white dresser, black velvet curtains, and finally a home for my crystal Tiffany candlesticks.

Every few weeks, I checked the website for a sale. Then. Finally. Sunshine. Rainbows! A SALE! My doctor ordered me to get a new mattress, so I would quit showing up in his office hitting him up for pain pills because my shoulder hurts so bad and I refuse to have surgery and our mattress is forever old. So with a sale, and a need for new bedding for our new mattress, it was a totally justified purchase. I ordered that shit with a quickness. All of it except the filler for the duvet. Because I am picky. My blanket has to have to right weight to it. Just right. Perfect right.

And wouldn't you know it, when I showed up at Bed, Bath, and Beyond, they had sensors over the zippers. I couldn't feel the fluff. How could I know it was right? How? And don't dare expect any of the employees in that store to actually help you by doing any work. Who was I to ask to actually be able to touch and feel the products before I buy them and drive thirty minutes back to my house? I am so demanding.

So Bed, Bath, and Beyond. We are not friends. Not at all. Your employees suck ass. I spent my money elsewhere. My duvet is the perfect weight no thanks to you.

Now I just need to convince my husband that these are also a necessity.

Weekend Recap

On the way to go see my sister's newest baby so cute, does not make me want another one we stopped at What-a-Burger for lunch and a potty break. I should have been concerned when I had trouble closing the stall door. I really became concerned when I could not get the damn thing to open. After a few seconds of pushing, I called out to my eight-year-old for help. Desperate times. Instead, the sixteen-year-old girl waiting for the bathroom hears my cries for help. Between the two of us, we still can not get the door open. I almost start to cry. I am going to have to crawl on the icky floor. But then I gave the door one last kick, and it flew open. Safe at last.

Sunday, the weather was awesome. Like-shorts-and-a-tshirt-and-please-say-that-I-got-enough-sun-that-I-am-no-longer-ghost-white awesome. Kenny cleaned the garage. I read a book in a lawn chair. The kids ran around in the front yard. I even drank lemonade. It was good times. Until. My neighbor, the vacation home next door part-time neighbor, came over. To let me know that my kids ride their scooter in the street. And once walked in her yard. And climb the tree. The tree that is in my yard. The tree in my yard that I don't give a shit if they climb. And. And! Those hoodlum kids who lived here before us used to jump off of things. The audacity of those kids. And those boys in our neighborhood? They are always doing horrible, horrible things like playing football in the street. Fucking brats. It wasn't until after she stomped off that it occurred to me that I should have mentioned how much I don't appreciate her spying on me. We catch her looking in our windows. Often.

So in conclusion:

I got stuck in the What-a-Burger bathroom, which would have made for better rapping if it had been Burger King. Go ahead...name that song.

Once again, we have crazy fucking neighbors. Kenny is already packing our boxes.

Casper

So even though my husband claims that we have no ghostie because nobody actually died in our house, I know he is wrong. There is a ghost. And now every little sound I hear at night, I make him investigate.

Because I am that girl.

And because he could totally take on a ghost once he found the source of the sound.

Last night, as I was just about to drift off to sleep, I swear I heard our bedroom door handle jiggle. I demanded Kenny investigate. He found nothing. Which actually proves my ghost theory, not his "you are imagining things" theory. Everybody knows you can't see ghosts. Except sometimes. When they want you to.

But Kenny gave me the look and told me to quit bothering him and let him sleep.

Which I did for ten minutes until I heard another sound.

He refused to budge this time, so I pulled the covers completely over my head. Because, obviously ghosts can only attack the exposed parts of your body. I fell asleep, made it through the night alive, and forgot that a ghost had tried to attack me in the middle of the night.

Until.

@#$$*BAM!@#$##@

Something came crashing down upstairs. With both dogs in my line of sight. With no one else home.

I did the only sensible thing to do.

I ran outside.

Where I found our trashcan blown over right outside the office window. Not upstairs.

Whatever. Ghosts can totally knock over trash cans.

Magically, Mysterious Dissappearing Chicken Nuggets.

We sat down at the dinner table tonight with a wondrously nutritious meal of McD's. Don't judge. McD's is our only fast food option in this town. We had stopped on the way home. I passed the kids meals back to the kiddos as we made the way around to our side of the lake. Emmi saved hers for home. Jill dug in. By the time we made it home, she had finished her drink but not her food.

So we all sat down for family dinner. I pulled out my snack wraps. Jill takes out her box of nuggets. She opens it. It is empty.

"What happened to my nuggets," Jill calmly inquired.

And that is when I knew. She did something to those nuggets. She was calm. And there was missing food involved.

Eyeing her suspiciously, I asked if she perhaps had accidentally on purpose dropped the nuggets in the car. She responded back with perhaps McD's had given her an empty box. When I pointed out the nugget crumbs in the bottom of the box, she suddenly remembered eating one nugget. But the others? Vanished. Disappeared.

I took her to the car to search.

No nuggets.

Kenny and I checked the grass surrounding the car.

No nuggets.

We checked her bags. Her shoe. Yes, I even checked her shoe.

No nuggets.

But I know. I just know she did something with those nuggets, and one of these days I am going to figure it out.

Probably when the car starts to stink like dead nugget.

How I spent my Sunday.

So we have etsablished that I have not had the best of luck finding a new hair dresser. But my bargain hunting skills? They rock.

Guess Jeans. $12.48

Grey Suede Boots. Half-off.
The website claims them to be $40 more than I found them at the store.

Guess Bag. 25% off. Plus, the sales lady just liked me and gave me an additional 15% off. I smile sweetly sometimes.

And I am officially out of Christmas money.

I think I would look good in a wig.

It's official. I have to worst haircutting luck. Ever. I guess it doesn't look bad. It just isn't what I asked for. And seriously? Could I just once have a normal hair cut experience?

The last time I went to a hair appointment, it was just plain weird. Like salon owner harassing my hair dressed while I was getting my hair cut kind of weird. This time proved to be no better.

Ten minutes before my appointment, after I drove an hour, I got a call that my usual colorist called in sick. Someone else would fill in. Whatever. I thought it would not matter. Until I was greeted, or grunted at, by my replacement colorist. His sparkly scarf and heeled boots should have given away that he would love himself way more than me. He grumbled something along the lines of "What are you wanting done?" To which I basically said, "Can you look up my previous color? That is what I want." Without so much as a reply, he walked away. Fifteen minutes later, he magically returned. Silently. With color.

"Um. What do you have going on there? Is that the color I had last time?"

No reply. Just a prissy pursing of the lips. A face that said obviously.

Fine. Prissy Pants. Just remember, I tip based on how special you make me feel. Fail. Big fail for you.

At least the color came out right.


Which is more than I can say for my hair cut. And I don't get it. I even brought in a picture. Not just a celebrity picture with some impossible to recreate haircut. Oh no. I brought a picture of me. With my very own hair. Cut just like I like it.

And still hairdresser number two could not get it. What the hell?

PS Please send wigs.

**Updated**

I just broke out the scissors. I should be a fucking hairdresser. My hair looks awesome now.

It would probably be more impressive if I had a before shot to go with the after I attacked my hair with scissors shot. But my husband thought I was crazy enough making him take an after picture of my hair for my blog. Also, pretend that light fixture does not look like it is growing from my head.

Apparently I like Tiffani-Amber Thiessen's hair. A lot.

I don't have a lot of patience with stupid people. Stupid people waste my time. They get in my way. When I have to explain to you how to do your job, I am going to get irritated. Or when you make the same mistake fifteen times? Also going to annoy the shit out of me.

Yesterday I made a hair appointment. Which reminds me, I can't decide what to do with my hair. I have always had some sort of swoop or bangs or something. I kind of grew it out for my wedding. I attempted to get it fixed at my last appointment. But my hairdresser decided having a baby was more important that cutting my hair. The bitch. I tried a new girl. She sucked. Now I am on new hair dresser number two. And I can't decide what I should do with my hair.

But back to the point. I made a hair appointment. And then I needed to cancel it and reschedule for tomorrow. So I called the salon.

Now. Perhaps it was my fault for confusing them by calling from the office line, instead of my cell phone which was in their system. Because I know it can be super confusing to understand that some people might have access to more than one phone. So after establishing that my number on file did not match the one of the caller ID on purpose, we moved on.

"I need to reschedule my appointment with Beatrix." Bitch's name is really Beatrice. You are fooling no one with the faux hip spelling.

"Mrs. Mylastname, I don't see that you had an appointment."

"Yes. It is today at 11."

"Oh. Hmmm. Well, I see a Tricia ThelastnameIjustfuckingtoldher at 11." I must have pronounced Tricia wrong.

"Yeah. That is me."

"Okay, great. Well your appointment is today at 11."

"Yes. I know. I just told you that. I need to cancel it. And then make a new one." I start speaking slowly. It is obviously going to be a long conversation.

"Oh. Okay. Well did you need to cancel that one for today then?"

Really, Genius? What ever gave you that idea?

My phone does tricks. And could be a weapon.

Let's discuss some things. Well really just one thing.

I just figured out I can post blogs from my phone. I know this is probably something I should have long since figured out, but I tend to resist change. Use a phone for email? Beh. Read blogs in the waiting room of the millions of appointments I go to a week. Meh. But finally the waiting room boredom drew me in. And then. Today. I got this idea. I wanted to know if I could blog while in the school pick up line. Or at the dentist. And I can!

Aren't you proud of me?

Now. I should also mention that I am seriously considering throwing my phone at the lady across from me if she does not get quit attempting to make small talk with me. See my wall? Respect it.

His what, where?

I was looking for pictures of busted sprinkler pipes and stumbled on this article. And really how do you top the man getting his penis stuck in a pipe story.

It's Cold

I wish I was back here.

Double Standards

How come when my husband is bored it is okay for him to call me forty seven times in twenty three minutes? But when I call him out of boredom, he acts all irritated like he didn't want to know what I had for lunch. Or that I can take nineteen REALLY big steps from the desk to couch.

2010. Fuck You.

How has this new year been so far? Hmmm... let's see.

I am so sick I can barely stand up. Some sort of combo sinus infection and bronchial infection. You would not believe the pain it causes to sneeze or cough, which happens roughly every three seconds. I started off with that cough syrup so nice they make songs about it (Mom, that's the codeine one, since you are really confused right now..... She doesn't get down with Purple Stuff.). When even that wasn't helping me sleep, they kicked it up a notch to some crazy medicine that taste like shit and gives me insane dreams. Honestly, I am not sure it it works or just makes me so damn loopy I don't care that I can't breathe.

On the way to the doctor the other day, I stopped by the mail box praying my new insurance cards were in. They were not. It was fun paying out of pocket for the doctor and two medications WHEN YOU HAVE INSURANCE. What I did find in the mail was a lovely packet from the IRS.

I was audited. I kind of blew it off at first thinking it was some dumbass from the IRS's mistake, because clearly I had not under reported my income. Obviously, they had transposed my 2007 income with my 2008 income. I certainly did not owe them money. Except I did, because it was my accountant who transposed my 2007 and 2008 incomes. Which is awesome because I more than doubled my 2007 income in 2008. There are a whole lot of zeros behind the number I now owe the IRS after the back due taxes, penalties, and interest.

During one of my phone calls with my accountant, also known as my ex-mother-in-law, I learned that my ex-husband's phone was not working because he shut if off since he is leaving the country for over six months. Awesome, since he had told no one, including his daughter of this plan. Best part? He is to go marry some girl he met while travelling, who I highly suspect is a prostitute, and bring her back to the US. I think their first meeting when something like this. "Me love you long time." "Let's get married. I'll take you to the US." When I finally did get in touch with him, I demanded he tell his daughter about his plans. He only bothered to tell her the part where he was leaving the country. I guess he just plans on showing up on the doorstep, "Hey Jill. Meet your new mommy. She speaks no English. Who is hungry for noodles?" Do they even eat noodles in Thailand? The good news is, I know for a fact that half blond, half Thai babies are pretty damn cute, right Zak? So there's that.

To recap:
I am sick.

I owe the IRS thousands. That is thousands. Emphasis on the plural.

My ex-husband is marrying a hooker. Which is either a step up or step down from a stripper, depending on how you look at it.


I am going back to the couch now. Let me know when 2010 is fucking over.