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Showing posts from March, 2013

Celebrate or else.

     Every night she mourns her life. Mourns what used to be. Tears and crushing sadness over what once was. From a boyfriend she lost in the war, to her nursing career, to Gage not being a baby anymore. Mourning what should be celebrated and remembered with laughs and cool stories. Nobody is allowed to celebrate it. We all have to mourn it with her. It is absolutely the most draining experience and feels WRONG. I want off that ride. I refuse to do it anymore. If she doesn't like it when I make jokes and smile and laugh over it all, then too fucking bad. I refuse to mourn anymore. How dare she mourn such a wonderful and amazing life. If there is sin, then surely, this is it.

Feral animals tied to my feet.

     There has been, as long as I can remember, mystery surrounding the mental health of my family. For one thing, my parents grew up in a time when having any sort of mental illness was a shameful secret, and both parents had a strange and INTENSE hatred for psychologists. I asked Mom one time long ago why she never went to therapy for help in dealing with her childhood issues. She became angry with me for suggesting it, as if I had just asked her to go get tortured. Totally strange. My brother had difficulties very early on and was never brought to a doctor, I assume because my parents just thought he was "different" or needed more discipline. It turns out he is bipolar, and is working on it now, doing much better. My Dad and I have panic disorder, which I was diagnosed with as an adult and treated with lifestyle changes. Dad had it much worse than I did and never sought any help, and the dude was miserable every day of his life, or seemed to be anyway.      Mom had her w

A nice retirement community, a jar of olives and a cereal bar.

     Life is not like the movies and TV. Being old is not an either/or thing, where you're either playing golf with your spouse in Arizona and getting your hair did on Saturdays, or in a hospice paid for by the state, waiting to die. There is a wide range of in-between. That in-between space can be complicated. When my dear Mother was far away in another state, it was really easy to say, "Of course I'll be able to take control of disbursing medications, make sure she eats, help her get around this giant house when her pain is too great, keep her company, remind her where something is or what she was doing, clean up the spills due to her terrible balance, compensate socially for her stroke-induced lack of tact or inability to find the right words, stop her from doing dangerous things and have a great time showing her around our new city and home, and introduce her to my new family while I do almost the exact same things for my toddler simultaneously!", but it was clear

I'm a bro, fuck it.

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     Oh, for fuck's sake! I just found a very helpful website for my losing weight journey, Get drunk not fat . I am a beer girl. For sure. Like, the second the kid is asleep I have a beer in my hand, kind of beer girl. I do not fuck around. Out of the "lower calorie" alcoholic beverages I can stand or at least mostly deal with, and are available anywhere you go, I'm stuck with Miller Lite?! They can't even spell "light" correctly. Gahhh......alright, gimme the black socks and white sneaks...oh don't forget the Tap-out Tshirt! I'm a fucking bro now. It's over. Any delusion of coolness has left the building. I don't even want to be seen in public with a Miller Lite in my hand. Jesus Christo! (pronounced; Hayzoose kreeeestow. I think. Wait no that's the white girl translation. Whatever.)      Oh, just stop drinking beer? No. That's not happening. No, shut up...alcoholic shmalkoholic! You're probably fat and you don't eve

I am a delicate fucking flower.

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     I came across a couple discussions this morning about feminism. I guess it's not surprising that it's still a somewhat controversial topic, but what does surprise me is that the definition got lost in translation. It's about women's equal rights, folks. The right to go to school, vote, earn equal pay, wear pants in public...you know. Basic stuff. As the feminist movement grew and years passed, it became colored by the women who held the torch, making them what we think of when we hear the word "feminist". They all had their own agendas of course, some of them being against what we believe ourselves. Some of them were annoying and made the rest of us look bad. Some of them made men very uncomfortable and go on strike from treating us with some chivalry. Ahhh chivalry...I know my husband is cringing right now, hahaha...He hates that word, and thinks the whole idea is ridiculous. Let's define it, shall we? chiv·al·ry [ shiv - uh l-ree

It's better than threatening four year-olds.

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     I only take Bug to the park in the rich people's neighborhood. I like the false sense of security it gives me. I figure if I do get attacked by a rapist or something, at least the people nearby who hear me screaming can afford a cell phone to call the police with. Today we went there so she could play, but mostly so I would have a nice place to push her stroller around and hopefully lose the last of my baby weight. I want to try to do something physical every day, especially right now before the weather turns to absolutely the hottest, dankest level of hell, with mosquitoes, which I expect to be sometime around June. I'm realistic about it though. Some days I have tons of time to walk or whatever, and others I only have time for 15 crunches here and a few push-ups there. I do what I can.      We've been to the rich park many times, and it's usually just a few kids and their Moms. Today there was a big play date going on, or something, because everyone seemed to k

Girl, where are your parents?

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    I think I have walked about 10 miles in the last 5 days. Not because I wanted to, but because even though Bug can walk independently, she prefers to grab my hand and drag me along with her. Lap after lap, after lap...around the kitchen island, through the bathroom into the bedrooms, around the yard, through the park... She can go faster when she's got my hand, so it's too fun not to drag me with her. I can appreciate that. But I am also fucking sick of walking in circles through the house. OH MY GOD SO SICK OF IT. I decided yesterday that I was going to stop this madness and insist that for at least half the time, she walks her damn self around the kitchen island. Nope. Meltdown. Red face, tiny, balled up fists, shaking, screaming and crying....it's epic. I try to be strong, but her scream hits a pitch that is dangerously close to shattering the only useful eardrum I have left, so I just take the abuse and keep walking like an asshole in little circles.      The guys

Bug's first birthday!

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    Bug turned one!!! We had her party last weekend, and she had a great time. But I had a mini panic attack right before the family showed up. First, I thought I didn't have enough spaghetti sauce (I totally did) so I sent Husband out to get more. Then he comes back with RAGU for Christ's sake! I beat him to death in my head for a moment, but luckily I was able to recover quickly without making too much of a fuss. Then my brother calls to tell me that Mom had a strange "episode" the night before, where he came home and she was very confused, and doing strange things, and unable to care for herself. After talking for a bit, we surmised that these episodes have very likely been happening for some time, but Mom and Dad had been hiding it from us. I completely lost my shit. This was 10 minutes before guests were supposed to arrive. Now I was crying in my kitchen, freaking out about my mother's possible dementia, with Bug on my hip, trying to arrange her party tab