Good Morning, Deputy Carl.

I’m a snobby bitch. I have been all of my life. When I was a kid, I used to refuse to go into any of a number of discount stores, lest one of my friends see me and think I bought my designer clothes there. My poor, poor parents. May they rest in peace. And throughout my life, that has been the trend. I worry about appearances too much. While I realize that the way one looks really isn’t that important in the scheme of things, you have to admit that people judge us by the way we look. Good, bad, or indifferent, that is the truth. And I am seriously being punished for my snobby ways.

Somewhere around the time I started working seventy hours per week, plus managing school, I really stopped putting so much effort into it. Evan was getting old enough to dress himself. In the event that he can’t put a decent look together, I was working all of those hours so one of us parents could stay home with him. (Ahem, JOHN!) Well, over time, Evan’s look has…deteriorated is putting it rather nicely.

Highwater jeans that are not only too short, but may be too small to even button. Shirts with holes/ stains. And it always works the same way: I’ve returned from work and am sleeping. I may be awakened from a deep sleep to run an errand or go somewhere with the family. In a semi-comatose state, I throw on clothes, make sure my hair is presentable, grab my designer bag and make sure the diaper bag is packed for Zachy, and out the door I go.

Somewhere along the trip to wherever, I wake up enough to be aware of my surroundings, and I see Evan in the back seat. And here are some examples of what I have found him wearing:

Shorts that come about 6 inches above the knee with a toddler-sized tee. Proof that the tee is way outgrown? It says “2003″ on it. In 2003, Evan was a toddler. And a scrawny toddler at that.

Plaid pants and a striped shirt. And not in the stylish, matchy, quirky way.

Now let me tell you, I buy the child clothes. Expensive clothes. Ralph Lauren. Gap. Calvin Kline. Then he got into skater gear: Element, Hurly, Fallen. They’re expensive, too. And I sort through and get the outgrown stuff out. We keep huge boxes in the basement for outgrown clothes from either boy, and when the boxes get full, they go to a reputable local charity. But Evan resurrects them from the great heap as if he is rescuing a homeless puppy.  And unfortunately, the same applies for Halloween costumes. Yeah.
Well, this past year, Ev’s costume was great.
It was. As he was Trick-or-Treating through our neighborhood, people were taking photos with their iPhones, calling their family members to the door to see him. The police uniform was high quality…for a Halloween costume, not for everyday wear. It was a far cry from the stiff plasticky costumes we had as kids, complete with the masks. But still, the shirt was polyester and instead of actual buttons, had a long strip of velcro. And because Evan is a growing boy, he has already outgrown it. But he saved it from the heap.

He wore that damned shirt everywhere. And with everything. Wake up in the morning? Put it on with your pajama bottoms. Running to the store? Throw it on with some khaki shorts. And we would ge somewhere, and I would discover it by accident. Seriously, my kid looked like this all of the time:
Deputy Doofy from Scary Movie. Yeah, I said it. It kills me. So when I encountered the shirt wadded into a ball under his bed while cleaning his room that day, I did what any loving, responsible mother would do.

I stuffed it into a garbage bag while he wasn’t looking. And for the most part, I got away with it.

Until this weekend. I woke up after a night of work and staggered to the coffeemaker. And John intercepts my path to tell me–no, WARN me—that our son has turned into Carl of Slingblade fame.

And then I see him. Oh, holy shit. He has resurrected another shirt. This one is a blue button-down that I bought him to wear to a wedding 2 years ago. And with a Sharpie, he has drawn his own badge onto it. You know, since he can’t find his police shirt. Logical move. He made his own. But he has it buttoned all the way up. And is rockin’ it out with baggy red sweatpants and grass-green flip-flops. I’m glad John warned me, or there would have been coffee shooting across the kitchen via my nasal passages. So now, picture Deputy Doofy breeding with this:
I swear, I did not ask for this life. And while it may be interesting, can it please just stay behind closed doors? I mean, the screaming and meltdowns are enough attention, already. I just want him to fit in. To make friends. To not be the butt of jokes. And I make every effort imaginable. He is not helping the matter.

No, I Do Not Need the Police

My own personal Hell. Really.

It all started wih Lego KidsFest. Fuckin’ Lego Fest, my ass.

I have been bribing the Medium Male in the house for months. I already told you how he has this rationale that he can simply pass all of his subjects simply by showing up for tests without doing homework. He just scores that well on his tests. So his therapist and I concocted this plan. Somehow, someway, I had to get Evan interested in doing homework. We had to find what motivates him and exploit the shit out of it. She helped me come up with the token system. For each day Evan came home and did homework without meltdowns, he could earn up to two tokens. I actually agreed to give him $5 for every token he earned to be spent in the store inside of Lego Fest. Because they were coming from the actual company, I knew they would have some seriously cool stuff that he can’t find in Toys’R'Us or Wal-Mart, and that he would want said stuff. Come hell or high water, I was going to motivate this kid to do homework. His therapist actually calculated and he had the potential to earn up to $560 to spend on fucking Legos. She kind of looked at me as if I were the one needing therapy, but whatevs. I am that desperate to end the fucking homework drama. Plus, in the back of my mind, I never thought for a second that this shit would work.

We made a big production of the token system. We went to the store that night and picked out a special jar. I let him pick out what we were going to use as tokens, and he picked those glass beads you use in floral arrangements. We bought a calendar for him to use to count down and track his progress. We even made a label for the jar on the computer. Well, Evan did. He called it the “Evan Did A Good Job Jar”. Except it really says “Evan Did Good Job Jar”. And I held to my word. He earned…….wait for it…….$45. Forty-fucking-five out five hundred and sixty. See, I told you. And then he got desperate, and we caught him shoveling handfuls of tokens into the jar one night, as if I was dumb enough to not keep track of how much money I would have to ultimately spend. So he had $45. If you know anything about Legos, you cannot buy shit for $45.

Two nights before the big event, I had to get some groceries. We all went to the store. Evan wanted his $45. No way. I know how this works. I’ve been to this show before and I know how it ends. I give him the $45 and tell him that’s it, not to cry at Lego Fest because I am not giving him anymore money if he spends it now. It doesn’t work because he will have a meltdown, and in order to prevent the calling of social services, I eventually give in. He gets what he wants. But this time, I am resolute. I am NOT DOING IT!

I get my groceries while trying to keep Zachy calm, as it is a little late for him and he’s fussy. We “Oh, Oh, OHYEAH” our way through the store with a nonverbal toddler who is on the verge of his own meltdown around every corner because he wants something and there are so  many things to want that we cannot tell what it is. I get to the checkout and for some reason, my bill is about $150 more than I thought I had spent. I paid it, but was seriously perplexed. I spend about $250 in groceries every two weeks, unless it’s diaper-buying week and then it is around $300. Since there were no cases of Pampers or wipes in the cart, why was my bill $408.63?????

So we get to the car, and I am doing my usual of glancing in each bag before loading it in the car. I try to keep the cold stuff easily recognizable because, with my two kids, you may not get an entire trunkful unloaded at once and have to pick your priorities. And as I am doing this, I start seeing the most random……shit.

An economy pack of toothbrushes–ten fucking toothbrushes.

Those Rubbery bath squirter toys for babies.

A couple of paperback books. One was a Harlequin romance-type, which, hey, is really not my style.

A toy truck.

A bath loofah.

Women’s El-Cheapo body spray that has nothing on the Versace shit I use–I’m a high-class bitch, y’all.

The list goes on, but I see what happened. We gather as much of it as we can find as we are loading the groceries, and John heads back into the store with the receipt to explain what happened and get my money back. We managed to recover $95 of it. Which is when it happens. Evan melts down. And I mean MELTS DOWN!

He locks me out of the car. He starts screaming and flailing arms and legs, elbows and knobby knees. Thankfully Zach wasn’t in the car, as John had sensed what was going to happen and took him back in the store with him. So Evan is kicking up HELL, smashed a dozen eggs with his fists on purpose, was punching the glass and kicking my seats as hard as he could. (Incidentally, thank you to Dodge for making a car that doesn’t easily destruct on the inside–the designer must have a kid with issues!) He gets out, gets back in just so he can slam the doors. He gets out and runs, totally barefooted through the parking lot, yelling that I am abusive and he is going to walk home. He must not have liked the dark or the feeling of his bare feet on concrete, so he runs back and gets back in. tries to lock me out again. 3 sets of people…..THREE….stop me to see if I need help. All I can do at this point is hold up my cell and my little remote car-unlocker thingy to signify that I can get in my car and am just choosing not to at the moment, as I suck the living hell out of a Marlboro Ultralight. (yeah, I know I shouldn’t smoke, but as an RT, my foolish decision was at least an educated one, and now is not the time to deprive me of that damned cigarette. I wasn’tinthe car smoking it.) As many more people asked me if I needed them to call the police for me. other than that, everyone else was just staring in the direction of my car as the screams carried across the parking lot.

No, I do not need you to call the police for me. I need you to turn your head while I fuck this kid up. I don’t want to be on the news tomorrow: “Health Care Professional Beats Child in Wal-Mart Parking Lot”. No, not really. I would never do that. But God, how I wanted to at that moment. And I could be angry that they didn’t see that this was not just a run-of-the-mill tantrum and be angry that they thought that this was a proper suggestion. In truth, I had thought the same thing. After 15 minutes of this, I was checking my pocket to make sure my phone was outside of the car in case I had to call the police. And by the way, where the fuck was John? Wal-Mart people, you seriously need to do something about the wait time in your lines.

Do you know what it is like to think you may have to call the police to protect you from your own ten-year-old kid? To protect him from himself?

Well, let me tell you, if I can. Because this is me and we all know I am going to tell you. It is pretty sucky. In the time the thought is going through your mind, what you feel is a barrage of emotions. Regret that you ever procreated, mixed with fierce love and desperation that there has got to be something you can do to fix your kid. Sheer loathing for your own life mixed with gratitude that it is you who has to do this because another parent would have probably killed him by now. Angst. Utter and complete angst. Reluctance, as in, can I really start this ball rolling? Fear. For him, for you, for the innocent person he would hurt if they got in his path at that moment. Knowing it will probably do him some good, but unable to handle it yourself. Embarrassment that it is possible that you did something wrong and maybe it is your fault, and what fucking parent needs law enforcement to step in? And so you keep a death grip on your phone, knowing it is there, and maybe if you wait it out one more minute, one more second, the fit will be over and he will just be your baby again. But if he doesn’t, the phone is still there, right in your hand. Just in case. Just in case.

The turmoil stopped. We went home. Evan, acting as if nothing had ever happened, asked if he could get on the computer to play a game. All I could do was look at him through tired eyes and tell him no, that he had to get a bath and go to bed. To which his response was to do just that without fight.

As we unloaded the groceries, we found even more of his stuff. Women’s deodorant. Toddler toothpaste. Kitchen sponges.

John actually cracked up when he found the last item. A trial-size pack of Tampax Pearl tampons. Regular.

Hey, Evan. I’ve had two kids. At least next time, get the Supers.

I Shall Call This One “Someday”

Because…..

Someday, I will have time to make a dent in this 6-inch thick GMAT prep book.

Someday, I will have a day off of work.

Someday, Evan will go back to school.

Someday, Zach will start speaking and stop doing the whining/ grunting/ pointing thing.

Someday, this house will be clean. And neat. And organized.

And I will finish the 1000-page book I started reading out of a lapse in my sanity. Because for some reason, aside from GMAT prep, working like a dog, the questionably Aspergian high maintenance oldest child and the terrible-twos toddler, and all of the other shit I have to get done, I thought I would have time to read the damned thing.

Someday, I’ll relax.

Or maybe finish the apps for grad school.

Or maybe eat a dinner that is home cooked because we had time to cook.

Someday, there will not be sheer chaos in this house.

Someday, I will finish the 50 gazillion blog posts I have started about the different things I wanted to tell you all about but have not have the time to finish. On our Christmas. Or our anniversary. Or Evan’s progress and Zach’s delay.

But not now. Because right now, the tv is blaring, Zach is screaming because he doesn’t have the words or ability to tell John he wants apple juice. I am waiting for a phone call from the developmental interventionalist because I am finally worried about Zach’s speech delay to do something about it. And once I get the call, I have to go through the gu-wrenching possibility that my treatment during the pregnancy did something to him just when I thought it was all okay. And it is finally snowing outside, mixed with a bit of rain and freezing temps that are sure to make my commute a living hell.

And right now, I have to go to work. Again.

Fuck.

What I Have in Common With Michelle Dugger

Okay, I don’t know where to start with this one.

Michelle Dugger (Duggar? Hell, I don’t know) is pregnant again, this time with Baby Number Twenty.

Holy shitballs.

I won’t forget her last one. I watch the show on occasion out of freaky curiosity. They don’t get welfare or anything. They support all of their children themselves and appear to do well. The kids all appear to be well-adjusted and well-mannered. But I cannot get the last one out of my head. I was just beyond the first trimester with Zach, and looking back, it was about a month before I went into preterm labor for the first time and my problems started. All I had to go on was that I had this complicated history with my pregnancy with Evan and was foolishly hoping it would be different, though all signs said it wouldn’t be. I had already suffered a placental tear. And I watched as they delivered her 19th baby at 25 weeks. I cried. I cried as a pregnant woman fearing for her new baby. I cried as a NICU RT who has had a hand in resuscitating preemies. Most of all I cried because I was watching a family go through what we could have gone through with Evan and mercifully escaped.

And my first thought when I just found out she is expecting the 20th was, “how fucking irresponsible of them!”. I mean, yes, the 25 weeker is now almost 2 years old and doing well. They credit God for that, and I credit modern medicine. I’m glad the baby is okay. I can see how this would give them license to do it again. But then again, she came close to death multiple times. She could have been horrifically disabled and had the quality of life of a rock. She didn’t die, she has a shot at a decent life, but she almost didn’t. Why tempt fate? Why have another one, given that you have already gone through this ordeal, and chance doing that to another baby? And doesn’t the likelihood of complications increase with maternal age?

Oh.

Maybe this makes me an alarmist. Maybe it makes me practical and concerned for a yet-to-be-born child. Either way, it makes me the biggest hypocrite I know.

I haven’t had 20 kids. I have 2. The oldest almost didn’t make it into this world. The last one was a complete surprise, but we armed ourselves with the “every pregnancy is different” mentality until it proved to be the same horriffic experience. My doctors advised me that I shouldn’t have any more. Not that I couldn’t. Big difference. But then they later retracted the statement and now joke with me that it is time for another when they see me at the hospital. And just three days ago, John ‘fessed up that he really wants another one. Truth be told, I do too. We agreed that it shouldn’t be now, considering our current financial slump. I should complete my MBA first. We need a bigger house and a bigger car. We want Zach to be out of diapers and the issues with Evan to be somewhat stabilized. John needs to be working to offset some of my income in the event that bedrest happens. It needs to be done in a very controlled manner, with me starting off the pregnancy on the kind of footing one doesn’t have when it comes as a surprise. We want to first visit the OB practice and request that, since it doesn’t seem to help, I not be placed on strict bedrest, but am allowed to work as tolerated. And I will say no to the brethine pump and uterine monitor that is behind 36 hospital trips and admissions. I will accept the progesterone injections because we have no way of knowing if they aren’t behind they fact that Zachy wasn’t born until they took him out surgically. And I absolutely have to be under the age of 40. I had problems in my mid-20′s, after all. Beyond 40 seems to be pushing it too far for someone with my hustory.

Am I as bad as Michelle Dugger? Isn’t this reckless of me to even think this way? To chance something awful happening to me or to another baby? Evan was born at 34 weeks and Zach at 33. What if a third one is born even earlier, per the trend?

But we want a girl. And we will try in a couple of years. We will do so with the hope that I won’t have the same problems. That if I do, the baby will have the same luck as Evan and Zach and suffer limited effects of prematurity. Maybe we are tempting fate a little too much, also.

Hey, No Smoking in the House! (All Night Blog-a-Thon #2)

…..Step right up, and don’t be shy. Because you will not believe your eyes. She’s right here, behind the glass. And you’re gonna like her. ‘Cause she’s got class….

Yeah, still jammin’ to the eighties. 10 bonus points if you know that song and can tell me who sang it, and the name, without Google.

So here is installment #2 in my little middle-of-the-night Blogathon.

So do you remember this post? Well, it was all about the dysfunction of my 8-moonth-old laptop and how it sucks, among other topics because I have ADD of the Blog. Anyhow, so the plot thickens.

I dealt with the issue of the malfunctioning onboard mouse by buying a small external mouse to use with the laptop. I acually got used to using it. So earlier tonight, I am sitting down at my desk, logging on so I can complete one of my pain-in-the-ass papers for my newish Human Resources Management class when the DVD drive starts making this awful clicking noise. And it won’t open. I have, by this point, picked up the laptop and am looking at it at all angles, turning it over and over as if looking at it funny is going to solve the damned problem, when Evan noticed it.

“MOMMY!!!! It’s SMOKING!”

Oh my God, the kid was right. Little puffs of smoke were coming out of the jacks in the front where I would normally plug in my earbuds for a boring-ass lecture online. And then the puffs weren’t so little. And then they were pouring smoke. And then my fucking living room smelled like burning hair. (yeah, I know that smell after an unfortunate incident where I caught my long ponytail on fire with a lit candle. Don’t judge. It was years and years ago–the early ’90′s and we all used that much hairspray.) I hurried up and shut down the computer. But just like one would risk running into a burning building to rescue photos, I thought of all of the digital photos of my boys on that damned computer that I failed to back up. Shit. So I turned it on and tried to hurry and transfer all of the photo files I care about onto any flash drive I could find. Thankfully, with our roles as perpetual students, there were about a half dozen right here at my fingertips. But I still, after the bedrest and medical bills, the new furniture and my bout of pneumonia a couple of weeks ago, have no friggin’ savings. I am the poster child for financial irresponsibility. And I have to have a fucking computer. For school. For work. For my fragile sanity.

And then I had the worst night of my life as I tried to convince an electronics store that, yes, I have a couple of medical bills that show up on my credit report after the Pregnancy Heard ‘Round the World, but I have a good job, am financially stable, this is a farking emergency, and I will pay the damned bill, Now gimme the damned loan or I will cut you- I have a paper due in 4 fucking hours. And I left with a . But laptop that I like, if not love. It isn’t my MacBook that I want, but all I could get out of them was a measley grand. Bastards. And then I spent my evening trying to hurry up and get software loaded so I could do my paper. I have the friggin’ enormous Office Suite that has a gazillion programs, of which I am not sure what they all do, and so that took forever. And Microsoft wouldn’t let me use my product key again, so I spent another age convincing them that I am not pirating software, that my house is just Where Computers Come to Die. They finally let me install it again, saving me hundreds of dollars. And then I spent another age on the phone with tech support at the school because the default security settings on the newbie weren’t allowing me to log on to the school website.

And then? Then I spent the rest of my night trying to get this paper finished from scratch. My research and everything. Not a single note taken ahead of time. Really. How in the hell I pulled that off while still going 300 words over the required minimum is beyond me. And it even seemed halfway coherent.

And now we’ve moved on…To Prince, before he was the weirdo symbol. And I have a confession to make: I love Prince. Always have, always will, ever since the day when my sister watched Purple Rain in my presence when I was kid while she was babysitting me one night. he worst movie ever. With the best soundtrack ever….She asked me if we could be friends and I said, Oh honey baby that’s okay. You know and I know that we wouldn’t be satisfied…..Hells-to-the-yeah. Moving on.

Why I Suck at Life and Other Tales

The I'm-in-a-shitty-mood-and-have-no-pic-for-you pic. Deal with it, please.

So I have to be the worst mother in the world right now. We try and try to monitor what Evan sees/ does/ hears. We cannot control all of it and realize that in just a few short years, he will be a teenager and his peers will likely have more influence on him than either of us. So we don’t get nutty about it. Some of the stuff, he is going to hear, and I would rather it be here with us so I can correct him. But that didn’t prepare me for tonight. It was bedtime, and he was angry that we wouldn’t let him stay up all night, despite the fact that he has no school tomorrow. He was storming down to his room, dressed in his flannel pj bottoms and an old tee, and I heard him say to his father, “Suck my——”. I didn’t sensor that. He did it. He stopped short of saying what would have had me reeling. But I was still shocked/ disgusted/ angry as hell. Where in the hell did he hear such talk? And even though he didn’t finish the sentence, does it really matter what the end word was to be at this point? How could that possibly have ended in a way that would have been acceptable? I’ll answer that one for you: it couldn’t have. So now Evan is massively grounded. And the computer/ tv/ dvd’s/ cd’s/ mp3 player are all on lockdown until I either find the offending media or he rats out the punk at school who talks like that. (Disclaimer: While I sling the f-bomb on here all of the time, I don’t speak that way in front of my children, ever. So don’t even think it.)

There is a problem with my laptop. Yeah, the one I bought in March. Anyhow, the mouse buttons don’t work, and while I can use an external mouse for the time being, it is driving me crazy to do so. So I googled the tech support number for Dell. And this link popped up with the number, the Dell logo, and more. I called the number and got an Indian guy–not racist, Mr. Internet Troll/ William Wallce/ Braveheart Motherfucker–just an observation. And he seemed polite and helpful. And he wanted remote access to my PC so he could check it out. Which I granted. He asked for my home number, just in case we got disconnected, which I gave. I gave him the cell number too, since he requested it. And then the convo started to go downhill from there as he started pulling up Wikipedia pages on my desktop about malware that comes from social networking sites. And he did some scan that reports that I have like a gajillion viruses–in truth, I scanned my computer after all was said and done, and I found no threats other than the ones he installed. Anyhow, he started demanding hundreds of dollars from my credit card, blah blah blah. Really, the problem is with the damned mouse buttons, not the actual computer. And I have antivirus protection. I didn’t need anything he was slinging. So I aborted the remote access, logged off and hung up simultaneously. The bastard called back. Again and again, to both numbers. And I instantly felt like the world’s biggest idiot. I called the guy. I gave him my numbers, and I gave him access to my computer. And when it was done, my antivirrus automatically fired up and detected two threats that were cleaned off of my computer. I feel so stupid. What is wrong with these people? I mean, really? You’re going to pose as Dell Tech Support now, Cyber Assholes?

Yeah, failure of epic proportions in other areas of my life right now, too. This was the week we were to do our rounds at the big Children’s NICU in preparation for the opening of ours. I was among the 10 therapists who made the cut, and so I was to go. So here’s what happened: I was off for 4 days. I kind of ran ragged though, as I was finishing up classes, getting new furniture and working on the house. Despite wearing myself out during those days, I still couldn’t sleep at night due to my night shift schedule. So I would be up all night and try to stay up all day the next day in the hope that I could spend my days off with the boys instead of sleeping while they are awake. And again, I would be up all night that night. It sucked, and before I knew it, the days off were a thing of the past. I had two days of work, my standard night shifts. Then I had one day off. Though it wasn’t reall a whole day. I got home at 8AM on Sunday morning and had to be at Children’s at 7AM on Monday. So again, no sleep. The same for Monday night and Tuesday night. Needless to say, after sleeping about 6 hours in 10 days or so, I started to feel under the weather. I tried to fight it off. Wednesday morning, when I woke from my whopping 30 minute nap to get ready to leave, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Fever. Chills. Aches. I even puked a couple of times for good measure. And why was I breathing like one of my emphasematous patients? I had no choice but to call in. The last thing a 24-week preemie needs is to be around my sick ass. And so I slept. I slept like the dead. Until John woke me because I was so freaking hot and breathing so strangely that he was really worried. And off to the doctor I went. Yeah. I have fucking pneumonia. So now I am on steroids, antibiotics, bronchodilators. I’m starting to feel a little better, but only slightly. To put it into perspective: before, I felt like I had been hit by a train. Now it feels more like a Mack truck did me in.  I have been off since Wednesday, and now am off until Tuesday night. Shit.

So there you have it. I truly do suck. I’m hoping that tomorrow, if the third day of antibiotics and steroids continues making the same amount of improvement the first two days made, I may be able to leave the house long enough to get some lunch or something. Or maybe some very quick retail therapy before I wear out. Who knows? I’ll probably be dead by then with the way this week has gone.

PS- Zachary–sweet innocent Zachy-Poo–learned something new. He learned to stick his cute little finger straight up his cute little nose. Holy shit. And I was so grossed out that my reaction may have scarred himfor life. Is his brother’s Pig Stage rubbing off on him? No. Please, God, noooooooooo.

Not-So-Wordless Wednesday: A Self-Portrait at 3 AM

Sexy Bitch. Yeah.

One of the problems of working night shift is that, after years of being awake and taking care of the critically ill while the rest of the normal world sleeps, you get used to the muffed-up schedule. And can’t sleep.

One of the benefits of online classes is that one can attend in their friggin’ pajamas and no one will know.

Unless one takes a photo with their webcam. At 3 AM. In their pj’s. With a big-ass cup of coffee that in proportion resembles a cereal bowl with a handle. (Hey, thanks, Pampered Chef, for making the biggest coffee mugs in the free world. No, wait. I think the book called them “soup mugs” because only idiots like me would consume such high quantities of caffeine.)Take note that those blurry lines trailing from my ears are actually hot pink earbuds. It’s just dark, so they only look like vertical creases of fat rolls. Really, I was listening to an archived recording of the most boring lecture on the planet. Of special consideration? The ultra-nerdy reading glasses because I am getting old as dirt.

Wait, is it……Could it be that…..Yep, it is. I’ve done it. I’ve lost my damned mind.

I’m giving this Portrait of Sexiness/ Insanity/ Mild Retardation a title.

We’re going to call it “Crazy Bitch Dances with Corporate Fucking Finance in the Middle of the Night”. You’re Welcome!

300

You won’t believe this, but I had this post here, and when I went to publish it, WordPress decided I needed to be punk’d. As in the entire post was blank except for a couple of tags. So now I can pretend that I came up with some really witty awesomeness and WordPress just deleted it and thus you get this shitty post instead. But…

Look at those pictures. I like the first one best. He looks like he is mighty and powerful, and is about to unleash more than a can of whoop-ass. And then there’s me. Pasty in the green glow of a laptop screen. Tired. No makeup. And most definitely not in Sparta. But it is my 300th post, peeps. And if you have read any of the crap I have ever written, you know that I am what I am: tired, busy, blah. And if I am staring into the webcam of a laptop, it is in-between the writing of papers, reading the hundreds of pages of text for class, feeding/ bathing/ playing with the baby, working a gajillion hours, helping Evan navigate the world around him, being John’s wife…Essentially, if I showed you a photo of a fresh-faced, perfectly coifed and made-up person, your first thought would be, “Mmmmhmmm, that bitch Photoshopped that shit.” But instead, I am choosing to give you the real me.

By some, this blog has been a failure.I don’t have a massive following. No one is going to be powerfully influenced here in my little corner of the internet. And I make zilch from it. In fact, I suck so bad that I couldn’t even fathom getting paid for this shit. But it’s mine-all-mine. And coming from the chick who has tried and failed to keep a journal about a million and one times, the fact that the Being Veruca/ Bitchypants combo has been going for well over a year and for 300 posts  is pretty amazing to me. Also in the amazing files: that I have made no improvement whatsoever. But I have done what I initially set out to do: talk about my crazy-busy life, chronicle my thoughts and experiences, and make a couple of online friends. Mission Friggin’ Accomplished.

But I’ve found that, despite the degree of suckage and lack of a mass following, I like being able to do this. And I would like to stay. And if you are reading this, thanks. I hope you’re up for more of my crap.

Yep, We’re THAT Table

We totally are. If you have ever been a server at any type of dining establishment, you know the type I’m talking about.

The type who focus more on keeping a small child calm more than anything, so yes, please bring more bread/ milk/crackers/ napkins, Thank you.

The type who leaves an enormous mess. This one is the problem for me. Despite the fact that I realize I am most definitely on the restaurant’s payroll, I insist on cleaning up after the baby. Or dividing our debris into trash, silverware, and plates, all neatly stacked in a way they can easily be separated without the server having to schlep through half-eaten food. I know how it is. I’ve been there. I will also be found bent over and using a napkin to try to pick up all of the mess we now leave on the floor since Zachy started eating with us. This may seem conscientious and polite of me, but it never comes without some bickering from my hubster, who is embarrassed that his wife is trying to clean the floor.
Last week, I tried to let it go. We were at Texas Roadhouse, home of the peanut shells on the floor. We had a great server who helped us to appease Zach so we could get through our meal. And Zach…..ohmigod. Zach would take a bite and throw the rest. Over and over until we decided we were finished and it was time to go. And John talked me into just leaving the mess. I hurried out of the restaurant like I had committed a crime. And I felt so badly that I felt compelled, once in the car, to fake leaving my phone on the table so I could go back in and leave an extra $20 along with the 20% John had already left. This is why we don’t eat out that often: I can’t afford to compensate for my kids.
So….
I am hereby proposing that restaurants give dropcloths for babes in highchairs. Or we could invent a highchair with a huge saucer around it to catch food. That way moms like me could not die of embarrassment. Nor would John from his wife cleaning the floor.

>Welcome To Nerdom

> Welcome to Nerdom where I am your Queen.
I have to explain and I cannot believe that I am going to admit this in black and white on the damned internet.
Tonight I went to Staples for supplies for school.
Like I am fricken starting kindergarten and my Mommy is going emblazon my name in permanent black block letters on everything from my requisite 2 boxes of tissues, all the way down to my shiny new crayons.
Except I’m not in kindergarten. And I am a grown-ass woman. Seriously.

So I get my binders and dividers, color-coded by subject. My new planner that has enough space to write assignments and exams and other details. Pens and white-out and post-its. And I feel so silly and stupid because, while nobody else knows what is going on in my head, I know.
And what is going on in my head? That I love new school supplies. And textbooks. And school in general. And I am almost giddy about it. Maybe it is because I was pretty much forced to abandon my education, not only when my mother died when I was a freshman in college, but also during pregnancy. And I want to get back to it.
Or maybe I’m just a nerd and there is no other reason than that. Because honestly, I could think of nothing more enjoyable than taking classes that interest me for the rest of my natural life. To always be learning. And so I am ready. Ready ready ready.
My first class, incidentally, is Marketing. Ha!