How many days without WINE, Flatulence Etiquette

Nine days without wine is enough for me.

When Gina comes to me and shows me Youtube videos of funny people and compare the old, wine drinking me to them I remember once again that I’ve become very unfunny/sober/serious/adult since I moved out of the ghettos and got a real job.  I have moments of hilarity and then WHOOSH life takes back over like a lingering virus I can’t kick.  I forget what was funny long before I get to my laptop to record it.  Wine helps my memory greatly.  Everything else passes by in a rainbow haze except for those moments like this one:

He was in the kitchen cooking on one side of the island and I was on the other and he farted loudly and then gave a little surprised YELP and when on chopping jalapenos as though nothing happened.

“Did you just fart and then make a surprised sound?”

Any answer other than yes would have been an outright lie so he said “YES.

Who is surprised by their own fart?

And then I broke into laughter which he joined and I didn’t look at him cause I knew he was embarrassed and probably red.  Instead I tried to make it okay by saying

At least you still make me laugh.

Which sounds great, but if his being surprised by his own fart is all I’ve got then we’re in trouble.


Birthday Post

Years ago I started a birthday tradition for myself.  I think it was the year I gave up on my idiot exhusband and bought myself presents and made myself a cake and sang to myself as I ate it alone.

Since then I have found great enjoyment in doing the most pathetic things I can think of on my birthday.

This morning started at 3 a.m. when I found my 16 year old sleeping on the couch with the television on some infomercial.

You’d better get to bed before your mother finds you here, I leaned over her and said softly.

I was sleeping here so I’d be the first one to wish you happy birthday, she said with great cheer as she shuffled off to bed.

Then at 8 a.m. I warmed myself a cup of left over coffee and sat my butt in front of the television to watch Justin Bieber on the Today show.  Just as he started his first song I felt the need to use the bathroom and although I vowed that I could hold on until his song was over, I ended up running to the bathroom and coming out just in time for it to end.

Someone in the audience held a sign that said It’s my birthday! and I absolutely love them for being my twin and for being as obsessed with Justin Bieber as I am.  Maybe it was Miley Cyrus because she’s my twin too!

I was going to head up to our drop in day center at work to have a Thanksgiving meal with the clients and staff, but ended up last minute shopping at Walmart and still somehow forgot minimarshmallows and orange juice so I have to go out again.

Then Haley and I made pie, but even though I said clearly on the shopping list when I went with Nick:  Chocolate pudding, NOT INSTANT.  He still got instant.  And graham cracker crusts.  I called him to find out where he’d hidden the pie crusts (in the garage in the supercooler, duh) but decided not to complain about instant pudding until he got home for lunch, but he didn’t show up.

Meanwhile the youngest came home 3 hours earlier than planned and the middle one said she’s making up missing gym days, although it’s the half day before Thanksgiving break so I sincerely doubt she’s actually there, but is instead at City Park with the druggies.  I will be stalking her in half an hour when I run to the store again.

Oh, and I forgot about the rabbit.  The cute little bunny who pooped once in every 5 square foot area of the carpet and then peed on the couch.  I was on my hands and knees chasing her under the kitchen table.

My birthday is about halfway over.  My gut hangs over my jeans.  I used the wind as a hair dryer.  And I can’t even get drunk.


Week 17 of the bloody sinuses

“Do you use a neti pot?”

That’s the number one question people ask me when I walk around sounding like there’s no air coming in or out of my nose.  And yes, I do.  But it doesn’t work when there’s NO AIR FLOW.  Last Friday, before work, I used the pot and all this bloody snot came out and then just kept coming.  It was pretty horrifying.  That’s when I bought a humidifier for my bedroom, which has cut down on the bloody part but not on the swollen sinuses.

They pop, crackle, squeeze tightly shut.  I’m so freaking miserable.  Then I remembered in the middle of the night last night.  You know, that time when I should be sleeping but instead I’m having deep and unsilenceable thoughts about this and that and everything.  I remembered that I had my other three children before I broke my face.

My left sinus to be exact.  Years and years ago, when I was married to that (no good word to use here), I would have to literally sneak out if I wanted to go have any fun.  I only did this a couple of times out of desperation.  This particular time I went out with the person I call THE STRIPPER.  This was a bad idea as she was an alcoholic and I had no tolerance at all.  She bought shot after shot of Jack.  I got home late and after drinking water, went to bed.  I got up at noon the next day feeling hungover, but okay.  Jumped in the shower.  Started feeling sick.  Thought of sitting down in the shower.  Decided to get out and go back to bed.  Lifted a foot to step out of the tup and woke up lying in a puddle of bright red blood that seemed to be coming out when of my mouth, but was actually my nose.

I went to the Walk In Clinic and threw up in a trash can.  It felt funny to say “I tripped getting out of the shower, but I don’t remember anything.”  They called me for several days afterward, trying to find out if he had done this, which oddly enough he hadn’t although he did think it was funny to tell everyone that he didn’t have to beat me as I did it to myself.

Since then when I sniff, my left nostril doesn’t move.  I get sinus infections really easily.  And now it is closed every day.  They wanted to do a CAT Scan but I had no insurance and they would have rebroken my nose to set it.  I wonder if I can still do it.

So that’s what I remembered, which has added to my misery.

On the brighter side of being pregnant and old, the girls and Nick have all felt the baby move.


Remodeling the bathroom

It’s almost done, I think.  But then everytime I think so there’s something else that needs to be bought or done.  I think it’s already worth more than my car.  I’m going to have this small house in the ghetto area of town with an AMAZING BATHROOM.

I went down to take pictures this morning because last night it was so amazingly clean and then I found this:

So if you can look past the tools and trash it’s really quite pretty.  Here’s the floor:

It’s such a small, angular space that it’s hard to take pictures to give you a full view of the room:

But there’s the shower.

So last night at 10:00 he decided he needed to buy a water hose for the toilet so that we could use it.  I’m sure it isn’t called a water hose.  But when he talks to me about parts I blank out and only hear words that sounds like “Waawawaaawa.”  There was something he needed to bring water into the toilet, so I call it a hose.  Or pipe.  Or connector thingy.  When he got back from the store and cheered as he flushed the toilet for the first time and called me in to show me the AMAZING seat and cover that never slam down, but slowly ease their way earthward, he said something about having to turn off a yellow or orange (see how I can’t even hear colors when he’s talking parts) handle in the storage room so that the toilet won’t work during the day or we won’t have any hot water in the rest of the house.

I completely fail to see how shutting off the valve to the downstairs toilet will heat water and I didn’t ask for an explanation because I was already in bed with my eyes closed.  Apparently I wasn’t showing enough enthusiasm for a working toilet.  He stopped talking.  Today there appears to be hot water but I’m going to have to have him show me the magical lever in the basement so that if he ever forgets and leaves me cold I can fix it.  Maybe I should check out all the magical levers while I’m down there.  Maybe there’s one that stops the earth from spinning or will open the wormhole to Venus.

I will take more pictures of the bathroom once it’s done and I move all his stuff to his side of the closet.

When I can’t think of anything else to write I make LISTS

  • Someone used my email address to sign up for SPAM.  And it’s all from central Massachusetts.  I know who you are!
  • If being a congressman was an unpaid volunteer position with no free perks I’ll bet all those rich old white men wouldn’t apply.
  • My kitten is much nicer now that his TALONS have been amputated.
  • Yes, marijuana will bring down your fertility.
  • Often I think that Christians like to talk about torture so much because they think porn and vampire books are sinful.  It’s their “innocent” version of watching horror films.
  • I don’t think hiking, horseback riding, and then cleaning out some old Native American’s house while sleeping in a church and not showering leads me to want you in my car.
  • Riding a bike into the wind makes me feel like I keep pedaling and nothing happens.
  • I didn’t realize how far it was to Las Vegas until I pulled up a map 4 days before I was leaving.  How did it get so close to California?  Why did I think it would be FUN to drive there?  If I don’t come back you’ll know I decided to just live in Utah.  And become a Mormon.  Are they allowed to drink wine?
  • Spending 2 hours on sidewalk chalk without looking at the weather forecast is like stepping into the street without looking both ways, which is something I also do.

Recalls on Mammograms and how much I hate them.

For the second year in a row I got that horrible call the week after my mammogram.  “There’s something asymmetrical going on and we need you to come back in for a spot-mammogram.”

Yeah, okay.  I’ll admit that my right side is not asymmetrical with my left.  But I have no idea what that really means.  All I know is that instead of  large glass plates, they use tiny ones to squish my boob in very specific spots to look at a very specific region that’s not even. 

Am I terrified?  Well, it’s never a good thing to be called back in.  There’s always that chance that the results will not go my way. 

My old therapist told me that I was being negative when I said I had accepted that cancer was going to happen to me at some point.  I don’t think it’s being negative.  It’s being prepared.  It makes these phone calls easier.  It makes talking to doctors about what’s wrong just a thing I have to do, and not something that causes too much anxiety.

And if cancer doesn’t kill me the radiation from all the mammograms will.

I’m laughing as I write this.  Don’t worry about me.

Do teenagers from single parent families commit more crimes?

Alot of people end up on this blog by searching for this answer. 

Honestly, I don’t know that answer, but I do have another question.  Because it’s not just CAUSE AND EFFECT.  There are more factors involved than just “Single moms create juvenile deliquents.”

If it is true that teenagers living with single mothers (or parents) commit more crimes, could this be true because the other parent is a bad influence.  Genetically?  Not paying child support?  Being a bad example?   Leaving the family in poverty?  Making everyone feel unsafe?

There’s a reason a single parent has chosen to raise children alone.  A very good reason.  And they are swimming upstream against the stereotypes, the court system, the economy,  and interference by the other parent in some cases. 

It’s not always so simple.  It’s not always about blaming someone.