Of bitches, tampons, and Justin Bieber

I've been taking care of/working with my nieces, who are both mentally and physically challenged.  Once a week I take them on a shopping trip, give them a list, and then spend hours while they find the three items on each of their lists.

(It's not like I release them at the door and send them on a Free For All... I actually take them to the correct aisle and section that they need to look in and offer clues from the sidelines.  Me:  "Tori, check the second shelf from the bottom.  Second.  Where's the bottom shelf?  Good.  Now go up one.  One.  Up one.  Good.  No, stay there.  I think it has a green label.  Look for green.  Good job.  Now find the one that says 100% Whole Wheat.  Green label.  The first word is 100.  No, stay on that shelf..."  Tori:  "It's not here."  Me:  "It's there.  Look for green and the number 100."  Tori:  "It's not here."  Jessie, chiming in:  "Gramma doesn't get that kind."  Ad infintum.)

In between shopping trips, I practice yoga.

Anyway.

Wednesday, I took the girls for their weekly adventure to purchase "Chopped" baskets for Uncle Dan and brother Derrick.  The girls had their lists, I had my patience, and off we went, looking forward to a fun afternoon.

We took a break between the discovery of vanilla pudding and the quest for chocolate covered graham crackers when the girls got distracted by the magazine section.  (Both have insidious crushes on Justin Bieber.  It's almost like a virus, this Bieber Fever.  We need a vaccine, stat.)

Let me take a moment to explain these precious girls:

Tori is 14 going on 5.  She is sweet, always smiling, and trying to walk a fine line between thinking like a young child and desperately wanting to act like a teen-ager.  She breaks my heart on a daily basis just by her utter lack of guile and her flawless innocence.  She is tall, slender, gawky and awkward, deaf, and has some facial characteristics that distinctly mark her as "different."

Jessie has the same disorder, but at the age of 9, just reeks of fabulousness.  She is sassy and sparkly and bursting with attitude in the ways that Tori is not.  Jessie, also, is deaf and has facial characteristics that mark her as "different" but somehow, she manages to work it.  Jessie looks like Cindy Lou Who, with her blonde hair and bright blue eyes.  Jessie is about as awkward as Monique (and built similarly).  

So picture these two girls, both dressed outrageously despite my attempts (failure) to stop them from applying layers and layers of bright pink and purple beaded necklaces with "HAPPY NEW YEAR" lettered on them.  (In my defense, their hair was flawless.  FLAWLESS.  Tori tried to sneak out of the house wearing a plastic jeweled tiara but I stopped her dead in her tracks and then had to pluck the same damn tiara out of Jessie's hot little hands.  But I lost the fight with the beads.  They were wearing them.  End of story.  It's always Mardi Gras in Tori and Jessie Land.)

Did they stand out from the crowd?

Absolutely.

Did they look happy and excited to be on their shopping trip?

You know it.

Did every single person who saw them realize they were mentally and physically challenged?

Absolutely.

Which is what made what happened next so shocking to me.

Like I said, the girls have been infected with Bieber Fever.  They were going through teen magazines, trying to find the one that had THE MOST PICTURES (because I said I'd buy them one magazine to share).  This was uber important.  They were totally engrossed in their mission when I noticed two teen-age girls, probably somewhere in the 13-15 year old age range, stop at the front of the aisle, point at the girls, and start whispering and giggling.

(Since I was standing further away from the girls, I don't think they realized I was with them.)

As they edged closer to Tori, they began aping her movements and falling all over themselves with laughter.  And then one of them aimed her phone in Tori's direction, obviously with the intent to take a picture.

This is what happened in my head:

Do you feel lucky, punk?

Followed by this:

RAWWWWRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!

I took a moment to maim and kill them mentally, imagining myself picking up one teen-age girl and beating the other one to death with her.  

After they were both beaten to a bloody pulp in my mind, I walked deliberately towards them, making eye contact the entire way.

That's right... I'm looking at you.

I stood directly in front of the one holding the phone and stared her down without saying a word.

Them:

Me:

Them:

Except, you know... female.

Me:

Abruptly, they turned tail and walked away.  

That's right, little girls... run away.  I will see you again when you are over 18, at which time I will hunt you down and kick your asses.

Count on it.

Tori and Jessie had no idea that anything had happened and continued happily in their Quest For Bieber.

I, on the other hand, really wanted to cry.

I felt like my day was ruined.  I felt angry, deflated, sad... 

But never underestimate the Power of Jessie.

I paused in the feminine hygiene aisle to load up on tampons.

Jessica, having no clue what any of the products were for, excitedly pointed at a particular sparkly pink box of tampons and squealed, "Aunt Dani!!!  GET THAT ONE!!!"

Pretty!!  Pink!!!  

Having no ability to tell her no, I put the box in the cart and off we went to check-out.

My day was made complete when our bagger was loading up the cart and Jessie pointed to the box of tampons and insisted, "I want to carry that."

The older man who was bagging the groceries looked confused for a moment and asked, "What did you say, sweetheart?"

Jessie repeated, "I want to carry that."

He looked at me for a moment and then looked back at her.

I had roughly 2 seconds to either die of embarrassment or suck it up and deal with it.

"She wants to carry the tampons,"  I informed him.  "They're pink.  Go with it."

He smiled kindly at Jessie, put the tampons in a small white gift bag and handed it to her.

"Here you go, sweetheart!" he said.

She smiled happily, thanked him excitedly, and did a little dance as we left the store.

My heart lightened again and I burst out laughing, watching Jessie do her little fat girl jig out to the car, waving her bag of feminine products while Tori skipped happily behind her, carrying her teen magazine loaded with pictures of Justin Bieber.

Life Lessons 101 (or 2... possibly 3)

Okay, so here's the truth about why my blogging has been slacking:

After moving, it took me a month to get my computer out and actually type in the password for the new network.

It just seemed... hard.  It was like one more thing, ya know?

I have to do everything.

I'd look at it in it's little black case and think, "I should probably type that password in now..." and then I'd be all, "NOOOoooo... IT'S TOO HARDDDDDD!!!!" and then I'd go back to puttering online on my in-laws dinosaur desk top with dial-up.  

It's hard to blog that way.  I'm not sure why, but it is.  Also?  My mother in law would then go through her files for some reason, find a picture of a fat girl in a bikini eating chocolate covered strawberries and she'd be all, "Where did THIS come form?"

Ummmm... I'm not sure?

Anyway, this morning I took the bull by the horns and set up the internet on my trusty dusty laptop.  Praise be to Jesus!!

Meanwhile, why on earth would I procrastinate so long about getting this done?  It literally... LITERALLY... took less than 2 minutes.  Two minutes I've been putting off for 30 days because IT WAS TOO HARD.

WTF, DANI?

In other news, I've recently noticed that I'm nothing short of embarrassing when I see a herd of rabbits hopping out in the wild.

Or even a single rabbit dead on the side of the road.

Seriously.

I've never before seen wild herds of rabbits frolicking through the forest before, like Little Bunny Foo Foo.  Being from California, I have seen my share of jack rabbits.  (They aren't very exciting.  Or cute.)  But Peter Cottontail?  NEVER.

And even though I know it's a frickin' rabbit, every single time I see one, my voice hits a high note that would make Mariah Carrey try just a little bit harder and I squeal, "IT'S A BUNNY!!  LOOK!  BUNNY!  OVER THERE!  IT'S A BUNNY RABBIT!"

I die a little inside every time I do this, but I seem powerless to stop.

Even my 9 year old niece looks at me like I'm losing my marbles and informs me (yes, every.single.time.) "It's a rabbit."

I'm sure she's thinking, "Poor old Aunt Dani with her addled mind... we must be very gentle with her."

"Look, kids!  It's a goddamn bunny rabbit!"

Let's see, what else has been going on that has prevented me from blogging regularly... (Putting myself on Bunny Watch 2012 has taken up a HUGE chunk of my time, just in case you were wondering what one had to do with the other.)

Okay, so the other night I was watching Jeopardy (just in case I wasn't sure how stupid I was).  While my usual response to questions I don't know the answers to is "WHO IS SOMEONE WHO HAS NEVER BEEN IN MY KITCHEN, ALEX!" (because let's face it, that never gets old) one of the questions was about some woman who died at 109 and her claim to fame was that, prior to death (a-doiiii) she was The Oldest Living Blogger.

109 years old and this gal is taking the time to blog, dammit.

I'm 49 and am too busy pointing and squealing at bunny rabbits to set up my internet.

Humbling, it was.

Ruth Hamilton, 109 years old.  World's Oldest Blogger.  

I guess that means I have to live to be 110.  GOD, I hate pressure!

Rock on, Ruth... and do NOT RIP.  I want to hear from you from the Great Beyond.

So then I started thinking about those old lady bloggers who ride around on their motorized scooters and blog about stuff, and then I thought about those three (four?) old ladies who video tape themselves watching and commenting on youtube videos and then they post their video of them watching youtube on youtube and quite frankly, it's pretty genius.  

WHY THE HELL DIDN'T I THINK OF THAT?

I'll tell you why...

BECAUSE I'M TOO BUSY POINTING AT GODDAMN BUNNY RABBITS, THAT'S WHY.

"LOOK!  A BUNNY!"

"A BUNNY RABBIT!!!"

*DYING FROM THE UTTER JOY OF BUNNIES IN THE WILD*

Wait... GO BACK!  ERASE!  ERASE!!

"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

GOD, I hate nature.

Sorry... I totally derailed myself there.

A few weeks ago I was faced with the following moral dilemma:

It was my own personal Sophie's Choice, you guys.

My in-laws have a pond built in front of their house, with a charming little fountain and cute frog statues.  Naturally, frogs have flocked there IN DROVES, as the addition of ceramic likenesses make them feel right at home.

My nieces have named the frogs, designated who is the mommy, who is the daddy, who are the babies, and are positive that the same frogs return year after year, after wintering in Palm Beach with the other frogs.

The first frog of spring is always Fred, the appointed patriarch of the frog family.  Thelma, his dutiful wife, usually shows up later.  Inevitably, a litter of offspring soon appear, and the girls are overcome with delight that "They cane back!"

(I know, I know... it's enough to break your heart.)

A few weekends ago both girls were outside screaming,  "A snake has Fred!  A snake has Fred!"

Dan, my Knight in Shining Armor, my Warrior, my hero, screamed like his hair was on fire and hauled ass into the house, beating the girls inside by a mile and slamming the door.

That left me standing out there, gazing into the slightly stupid eyes of Fred, who had the bad luck to have a large garter snake attached to his hind end.

Well, SNAP.  (I switched form "Shit" to "Snap" when Jessie started wandering around the house mumbling, "Well, SHIT!" to herself, over and over again.)

I picked up the snake by the tail (to the chorus of Dan yelling at me from the house, "DON'T TOUCH IT!  OH MY GOD, DANI!  WHAT ARE YOU DOING!" and the girls screaming, "DON'T DIE, FRED!  DON'T DIE!") and attempted to force the snake to drop the frog by dunking it's head in the water repeatedly.

Apparently the snake doesn't need to breath out of it's nose when it's under water because the frog stayed connected.

I then shook the snake really hard, hoping it would drop the frog.

It didn't.

Instead, it's tail broke off.  IT TOTALLY MADE A SNAPPING SOUND AND BROKE RIGHT THE FUCK OFF.

Fucking A.

Fuck, even.

I did a little "YUCK!" dance holding the tip of the snake's tail and tried to come up with Plan C.

Nothing occurred to me.

I knew that, logically, I should let Fred face his own death like a man, but I couldn't bring myself to let the girls watch their pet frog get sucked into a snake's gullet, ass first.  

So I did something awful.

I made a choice.

I chose LIFE.

For Fred.

I killed the snake.

I know, I know... it was just doing what snakes do.  Snakes are helpful and good little critters to have around in your yard and I took one's life just because I didn't want to watch two little girls (and one giant man) cry.

If the Buddhists are correct, I am coming back in my next life as either a frog that will be swallowed by a snake, or a snake who is doomed to have it's head whacked off by a short fat woman holding a shovel.

Which totally sucks, as I was kind of planning on coming back as something awesome.  Like a diamond tiara on Kate Middleton's head.

Will the nightmares never end?

P.S.

Fred survived but I don't think he learned anything from the experience.  He's sitting out there on a rock as we speak with his back to the yard, totally oblivious that he is potentially snake bait.  Next time you're on your own, Fred.  Bon appetite.

The more you toot, the better you feel...

I don't know how to say this delicately, but for the past three weeks I've been passing gas with the regularity of an old, farting Rottweiler. 

(I use "Rottweiler" because years ago, I had one.  Her name was Coco and she farted like no man's business, but she wouldn't own it.  She'd blast a shot from her back door, looked startled, whip her head around, stare at her ass, then growl at it.  Then she'd look at us, like, "WTF?  Who fired that shot?  Was it... you?" and then repeat the performance 5 minutes later.  I'm using her as a role model these days for "How To Respond When You Can't Hold In A Fart."  I've been practicing the startled look of confusion followed by the accusatory glance at someone else in front of the mirror.)

"What do you mean, 'The dog did it.'  Whatchoo talkin' bout, Willis?"

The problem, of course, is the High Octane diet I've inadvertantly put myself on.  Do you ever go through phases where you're like, "You know what sounds good?  Bean burritos..." and then you eat them every day for like three weeks?

*long pause*

Okay, so just me, then?

Anyway, while we were in the process of packing and moving, the quickest and easiest thing I could think of to make myself were bean burritos.  I went all healthy and bought fat free refried beans, natural salsa, whole wheat tortillas, yada yada yada, and would scarf down one or two while I was packing and sorting and cleaning.

Mmmmm, bean burritos....

When we were done moving, I still had 564856 cans of fat free refried beans and a boatload of whole wheat tortillas.  And lotsa salsa.  And they sounded good.

So I'd spruce 'em up with tomatoes, lettuce, brown rice, whatever, and lunch it up California style, completely ignoring the part where everyone around me would potentially end up paying for my All Beans, All The Time Burrito Extravaganza.

However, recently it's become such an issue that I can't ignore it anymore.

I don't like farting in front of people, including my husband. 

Confession:  I'm a fart stifler.

No really, I am.


I will sit there, hunched over in pain, and mentally try to re-absorb the fart.

Dan is convinced this will kill me one day.  (He never holds in a fart.  Ever.)  He says things like, "It's bad to hold in a fart!  It can kill you!"

I asked him to show me one example of a person who suffered Death By Fart Stifling but he can't seem to come up with anyone.

(With my luck, I'll be the first.)

Loud explosions will turn my intestines into a war zone, but I will sit there and try to talk a little louder, just to camoflage the racket coming from my general direction while looking questionably at any other person in the room, as if to say, "Is that YOU?  How embarrassing... I'll talk louder so that no one will notice.  Because I'm a giver."

When I'm by myself, all bets are off:  all the held-in farts will be released into the wild, while I pray that no one comes back into the room for at least 10 minutes.  (You know how it is when you sneak out a fart when you're by yourself, like when you're waiting for a pelvic exam and your feet are in the stirrups and you know that when the doctor comes in and pushes on your belly, all hell will break loose in her face so you fart while you're waiting by yourself, alone and vulnerable in a badly fitting paper gown, and for some reason, it smells like yesterday's road kill and literally 2 seconds later the doctor comes in and even though no one says anything you both know you just farted.)

(Word:  You ALWAYS have to fart at the gyno.  Always.  It is written.)


Meanwhile, my ability to stifle is fading, probably because of the amount of gas that has built up in my colon (or wherever gas comes from) because of my unfortunate legume habit.  Add the high fiber whole wheat tortilla, the vegetables that I'm dumping into the mix, the fact that I may or may not have eaten an entire half a pound of homegrown grape tomatoes by myself yesterday, and a genetic tendency towards gassiness (thanks, MOTHER), things have come to a head.

When I stand up and walk, silent but deadly farts propel me forward.  More and more often Dan will ask, "WHAT is that smell?" and I will respond, "I don't smell anything... maybe one of the dogs farted" and he's becoming suspicious.

Yesterday, I accompanied Dan to his doctor's appointment and while he was waiting I (naturally) needed to pee.  (I'm a Fart Stifler and a Pee-er.  Winning Combination, yo.)  The second my butt hit the porcelaine, my ass produced a symphony of such volume and clarity that there is no way the lab techs waiting behind the stupid little latched cubby in the wall where you put your pee samples could not have been impressed.

My anononymity was shattered when I emerged from the john, only to be confronted by the curious and amused faces of the lab techs who'd just been treated to my impromptu (and free) performance.

I hate you, nosy lab techs.


The last straw came this morning.  I am babysitting my nieces, both of whom are deaf and can hear very little without the benefit of hearing aids (and even with them, most of their conversations go like this:  Me:  "Girls, could you come here?"  *dead silence*  Me:  *louder*  "GIRLS, CAN YOU COME HERE?"  *dead silence*  Me:  *standing right in front of them and shouting*  "GIRLS!!!  COME HERE!"  Them:  *looking at me as if they've never seen me before*  "Huh?")

Anyway.  They were sitting, sans hearing aids, in the livingroom watching (of all things) The Dick Van Dyke Show.  (Don't get me wrong... I love Dick.  I was just surprised that THEY like it.)  They were totally engrossed in the antics of Rob and Sally and Buddy and Laura as I toodled around them, picking up the cups and napkins from their breakfast.  Not so silently, a little teensy tiny fart bubble eked it's way out and made a slight "POP!"  They both whipped their heads towards me and in unison said, "WHAT was THAT?"

Me:  *nonchalantly*  "What was what?"


Jessie, the 9 year old, who can never tell a lie:  "That fart!"


Me:  *because I'm determined to maintain my dignity*  "I didn't fart."


Tori, the 14 year old, who shall be renamed Captain Obvious:  "Yes you did!  You did too fart!  I heard you!  Jessie and me heard you!  You farted!"

Sigh.


Who would like to take bets on what the conversational topic will be when Gramma gets home?

Who would like to take bets on the odds that Aunt Dani will lie her ass off?

 

Of Michael Kors and Left-Handed Watches

While I realize that I'm at best a "little quirky" in certain areas of my life, I'm starting to be concerned that I may or may not have totally passed up quirky and am heading into straight-up "freak" status. 

My obsession with Victorian Death photos?  Totally normal. 


The fact that I can kick anyone's ass playing "Name That Serial Killer" is not only normal, it's a life skill that may or may not come in handy one day.


Scheduling my life around the new season of America's Next Top Model?  What can I say, I have my priorities straight, yo.


Eating Good n Plentys and coffee for breakfast?  Okay, that might be just a little odd, but certainly wouldn't cause anyone to do much more than raise their eyebrows and predict a dire ending of toothlessness and diabetes at some point in my life.


The mad skill of being able to identify every purebred dog breed recognized by the AKC?   ENVIABLE.  (Useless, but still kind of awesome, yes?)

The Basenji is considered a "barkless" dog because they make a trilling sound, rather than your typical arf-arf.  Also?  "Basenji' is just a really cool word. 

Anyway, it's almost sad how long I could go on with this.  Instead, I'm going to get right to the point.

Here's where my "quirkiness" becomes "dude, you're a freak!"

It's all because of Michael Kors' belly button.

I'm obsessed with it.

I google pictures of it and look at it.

I make "ewww" noises and yet...

I can't.

Look.

Away....

Probably because it's looking back at me.



Why do I find this so fascinating, you ask?

It's simple, really.  The first time I saw it I came up with a theory.  My theory is that in utero, Michael Kors was a twin.  A hungry twin who absorbed the other twin.

(You've heard of this, right?)

So rather than being a twin, he became a singlet (singleton?  simpleton?) while his other half wiggled and jiggled and tickled inside him.

(I had a There Was An Old Lady Who Swallowed A Fly moment.  Please ignore.)


As Michael Kors grew older, so did the absorbed twin.

Slowly but surely the twin began an escape plan.

The plan was to push himself out through Michael Kors' belly button.

Taking the twin out for a stroll on the beach.

Long story short, what we have here is the nose of the absorbed twin.  He figured if he could get his nose through, the rest of his head would soon follow.

Kind of like this, only through the belly button.  And Michael Kors.

If you spend as much time thinking about this as I have, it would make perfect sense. 

No, really.

I read somewhere (or maybe I totally made it up, which may or may not have happened) that there was a theory that all lefted handed people were once mirror image identical twins who absorbed their sibling. 

This theory holds a lot of water for me because my sister is left-handed and she is totally the type who would absorb her twin.  She's not a giant fan of competition and still blames me for the fact that she is not an only child.

Also?  She had a large mole growing next to her nose that she had removed.  I'm pretty sure that was her twin, trying to make a break for it but missed the nostril by a hair.

Oh... and the mole had hair.

Okay, it didn't, but that could just be because it hadn't grown any yet.


I don't know if Michael Kors is left handed or not but the fact that he makes left-handed watches raises a good deal of suspicion.


Think about it.



 

The one where I'll never be naked again

*Sidebar:  Before I begin this highly inappropriate blog, I want to welcome my son, Kacey, and his fellow Marines, home from Afghanistan.  They arrived home safely yesterday afternoon.  I've spent the morning looking at the three photos that have been posted so far of him and his wife running to eachother, hugging, and kissing, and I've been bawling like the pathetic, silly mother that I am. 

I'm so relieved that you're home, my precious boy, and I love you so much.  You always have been and always will be one of the three brightest stars that light up my life.  And don't you ever go away to war again.  My heart can't take it.  Four deployments between two sons is four too many.  I have spoken.  //gavel

*sniffle*

(Seriously, this conversation just happened.  I'm watching my nieces at my in-laws and as I'm sitting here at the computer looking at the photos of Kacey and his wife and bawling, Jessie, the 9 year old, said, sounding irritated, "Aunt Dani, why are you crying AGAIN?"  Tori, the 14 year old, answered, with a tone of disgust, "She's ALWAYS crying today."  They both have special needs and are learning disabled and spent at least an hour last night singing songs at the top of their lungs about how much they love their pets in mock-opera vibrato but apparently I've managed to completely annoyed them with my ridiculous behavior.)


Anyway.


This morning, my self-esteem took a serious hit.  Serious.

Have you ever had one of those moments when you doubt every thing you've ever thought about yourself and are forced to look at your imperfections through the innocent eyes of a child who doesn't know how to lie?

If you haven't, avoid it as long as possible.  I don't recommend it.

Here's what happened:

So, as I said, I'm doing day care for my two nieces, ages 9 and 14.  They both have special needs and are quite learning disabled.  They are the sweetest girls on earth and watching them is almost easier than sitting on the couch doing nothing.  This is my second day doing it and the most difficult thing I had to do yesterday was dress myself.  True story.

Anyway, I took a shower this morning (yay me!) and afterward, took my towel-clad nekkid self back into my bedroom, plopped myself on the bed, aimed the fan towards me and started applying lotion.  As I was sitting there, awkwardly slathering my feet and ankles while the breeze from the fan tickled my hiney, the door burst open and Jessie (the 9 year old) barged into the room.

*freeze frame*


She stopped cold when she saw me and gave me a long, perplexed look.

Me: *deciding not to over-react... the least fuss made the better, yes?* "Jessie, you need to close the door.  Aunt Dani needs some privacy right now."


Right on cue, because she's extremely well-behaved, she promptly turned around and shut the door behind her, then turned back around and continued to face me.

Well, snap.


Me:  *rephrasing it*  "Jessie, Aunt Dani needs some privacy.  You  need to go wait for me downstairs."


Jessie:  "Okay."


Jessie:  *not moving*


Jessie:  *frowning*


Me:  *attempting to nonchalantly cover my nakedness with two hands and a bottle of lotion*


And then...


Jessie:  "Why are you wearing that?"

I glanced down at my birthday suit.

She continued to frown.


Me:  *lamely*  "Jessie, why don't you go have cookies for breakfast?  And you and Tori can put in a movie.  Aunt Dani will be down in a minute."


Yes, I will use blackmail to divert the critical gaze of a child from my seemingly unsightly epidermis.


Also?  I will never be naked again.  Ever.


When I went downstairs, dressed and ready for the day, Jessie took one look at me and said:


"AUNT DANI, DID YOU CHANGE YOUR CLOTHES?"

Breakdown of a Breakdown

I'm exaggerating, of course.  I didn't actually breakdown... I just threatened to.  A lot.  It became my mantra over the past week, as I packed and packed and packed and packed and packed and never seemed to freaking finish.  Most of my conversations went like this:


Any person who happened to talk to me last week:  "So how is the move going?"

Me:  "I SWEAR TO GOD I CAN'T TAKE IT ANY MORE!  IF I HAVE TO SPEND ONE.MORE.DAY. PACKING UP THAT APARTMENT I AM GOING TO HAVE A TOTAL AND COMPLETE NERVOUS BREAKDOWN!"  *LOUD, UNCONTROLLABLE SOBBING, FOLLOWED BY THE SOUND OF ME MIXING A STIFF COCKTAIL*


I'm pretty sure I fulfilled my lifelong ambition of becoming a temporary alcoholic last week. 

Except that's a lie.  I was mad at everyone.

I had some amazing ideas while I was packing.  UH.MAZ.ING.  Unfortunately, I couldn't get Dan to see the amazingness of my ideas, so none of them were put into place.  However, due to their utter amazingness, I am going to share them with you, in case you ever are in a position where you need to move all your random shit out of an upstairs apartment:



Me, to Dan:  "You know what we should totally do?  Just get rid of all our stuff and buy new.  We could totally just leave it all here and let the landlord deal with it.  He can keep our security deposit... it'll pay to move all this crap out and haul it to the dump, or thrift store, or wherever.  It would be a real money saver, don't you think?  Besides, I hate this furniture,"


Dan:  "No."


Me, to Dan:  "I have an idea... let's throw away all of our dishes and just use paper plates from now on.  Kill two birds with one stone:  I won't have to pack 47 boxes of glass and dinnerware and I'd never have to do dishes again!"


Dan, because he has no vision:  "No."


Me, to Dan:  "Let's get a kegger for moving day."


Dan:  "No."


Me:  "How about a margarita machine?"


Dan:  "No."


Me:  "Let's recruit the Amish to move our stuff for us.  They have strong backs and are used to doing hard work that sucks in 56483957 degree heat with 5638394756% humidity.  We can drink cocktails and tell them where to put everything."


Dan:  "Jesus, I hope you aren't serious."


Me:  "It would be fun!  I'd be all,  'Over there, Jedediah!  Don't drop that magic box that plays moving picture shows!  Pick up the speed, Hannah... I want that martini shaken, not stirred!'  Plus it would be totally PC because they aren't like slaves, they'd just be doing shit I don't want to do.  We'd pay them and stuff."


(*Sidebar:  I totally saw an Amish woman smoking while hanging out by her buggy selling fruit and vegetables.  I don't know if that's against the Amish code or anything, but I found it amusing.  I may or may not have flipped a u-turn to drive back by and see if I actually saw what I thought I saw.  I did.  Homegirl was getting her smoke on, in bonnet and sensible Amish shoes.   So I'm pretty sure they'd be okay with being my cocktail bitches while Jedediah and Mose moved my shit, yes?)


Dan:


Me:  "OR... and this is just a thought... We could have like an estate sale, only in our apartment, and we wouldn't be dead.  We could just put up signs and people could come in and buy our stuff and then we'd just take the money and buy better stuff.  Then we wouldn't have to carry it all down the stairs."


Dan:


Me:


Dan can be such an asshole.  He refused to take any of my suggestions into consideration.  Apparently (and this is what I read into it) he values our stuff more than he values my sanity. 


In the long run, I actually didn't wind up carrying anything downstairs (I'm morally opposed to carrying anything heavier than my purse) but still, it was the thought that counted.  I knew someone would be dragging all that shit around corners and through stairwells and over and river and through the woods, and I was just thinking about them.  Dan, his brother, his dad, and his niece and nephews did 100% of the grunt work while I stressed and cleaned and discovered, at the very end of the day, that I had completely forgotten about the hall closet, where I'd shoved all my Christmas stuff the day after Christmas without bothering to box it back up.  Hundreds of ornaments, two fiber optic trees, free-flowing garland, wadded knots of lights, ribbons, bows, and strands of tinsel had worked themselves into one elaborate unholy ball of holiday cheer that needed to be untied, sorted, bubble-wrapped, and repacked.


I threatened another breakdown.


Suddenly, my idea of putting everything into trash bags and dealing with it later didn't seem so bad.


Long story short, all my Christmas crap is in trash bags.


Boo yah, bitches.  I knew it was a fab idea.


Anyway, I survived.  Barely.  My stuff survived.  Barely.  My husband survived.  Barely. 

The Book of Revelations, Part One...

Am I really too sexy for my body?

So I've been packing.  And packing.  And packing.

This is what I've learned about myself:

There is no reason for me to have 45374856 coffee mugs.  No reason.  I know, with absolute certainty, that I will never be in a situation where I need to serve coffee to 45374856 people.  Never.

I have an unfortunate habit of using salad dressing one time, forgetting I have it, and buying a new bottle every time I go to the store.  Because everyone needs 13 bottles of the same kind of salad dressing in their fridge at all times.

I have never, in my lifetime apparently, finished an entire jar of pickles.  I seem to get bored with the bottle when there is one pickle left and then buy more without bothering to toss the lone pickle in the jar at the back of the fridge.  This is why there are no less than 7 jars of pickles in my fridge where one sad little dill resides.

I have 7892746 socks but only 12 of them match.  Not twelve pairs... twelve socks.

It turns out I left a box of Christmas ornaments on top of the fridge, conveniently hidden behind a large Betty Boop cookie jar.   Who knew?

I seem to have bought a bag of potatoes (which I never do... we don't eat that many potatoes) at some point in the past year and am now growing my own in a dark hidden corner of the pantry.

My dogs will never, ever, run out of Pupperoni.  It's another thing I seem to buy every time I go to the store and then forget I bought it, so I buy more.  I'm pretty sure this means that Javi and Maisy have to live forever, yes?

I'm a book hoarder.  I can't get rid of books.  I'm like one of those awful people on Hoarding:  Buried Alive who sob and cling to a slice of bologna that expired in 1987 and can't bring themselves to throw it away.  Only with books, which is less disgusting but takes up a whole lot more room.  I've been packing books for two days and I'm still not finished.  (It might go more quickly if I'd stop reading them as I pack them but that's neither here nor there.)

After packing all 657 pairs of Dan's underwear, I can safely assume he will never need to buy any again, ever.  I have no idea why I keep buying underwear for him.  I'm sure there's hidden symbolism in there, somewhere, but I shudder to think what it might be.

I just killed 23 minutes writing this blog.  Which indicates that I may or may not be a huge procrastinator.

The post from beyond

Today's definition of "lazy":

Sitting on the couch in your underwear and bra shaving your legs into a basin while watching Maury because you didn't feel like standing up in the shower that long.

Not that I would ever do that.

*cough*

I'm supposed to be packing.  

Instead, I'm procrastinating, because I'm much, MUCH better at that.

I have boxes, newspapers, and Rubbermaid containers in my car.  I have an apartment full of stuff that simply can't live here without me, and someone needs to get bizzy and Git R Done.  (I had a minor rant on Facebook this morning regarding Larry the Cable Guy, which occurred after I saw his Prilosec commercial.  He irritates the shit out of me.  Meanwhile, the phrase "Git R Done" is now officially stuck in my head.  Fuck you, Larry The Cable Guy.  Fuck you to hell.)

In my defense, however, I'm pretty sure I have West Nile Virus.  Or maybe malaria.  Or Yellow Fever. Whichever it is, it's something hideous passed on by mosquitoes because those bastards have been eating me for breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, and two snacks every single day for the past week.  I started counting my bites (because I'm OCD about shit like that) and quit at 79, just on my arms and hands.  

Basically, I itch so badly that I can barely stand myself.

*Fun fact:  It would take roughly 1,200,000 mosquitoes to completely drain the human body of blood.  

*Not so fun fact:  There are roughly 1,199,999 mosquito bites on my body.

This sign needs to be added to the New York state flag.  I'm going to start lobbying for it during the next election, when I run for governor and force the grocery stores, drug stores, and Target to start selling liquor, like they do in normal states.

Anyway, I totally blame New York.  And Dan.

There is so much stagnant water in this state that mosquitoes flock here from miles around to party like it's 1999, breed, and retire.  

Northern New York is the mosquito version of Fort Lauderdale.  Truest fucking story ever.

So Friday, I started getting a sore throat.  As I itched and scratched and bitched and moaned about how itchy I was and how bad my throat hurt, it suddenly occurred to me:

Dude, you're totally dying of mosquito born illness.

Remember the time in the book Little House on the Prairie (not the tv series, Little Dynasty on the Prairie, but the actual book) where Laura, Mary, Baby Carrie, Ma and Pa all have Fever 'n Ague from all the mosquito bites?  And if Laura hadn't crawled to the pump and brought them all water, they totally would have died?  

Exactly.

Saturday morning I woke up with a raging fever, burning sore throat, headache, body ache, and approximately 564843957 more mosquito bites.

I was a goner, for sure.

I dragged my sad and sorry ass into the living room and prayed for death.

And a bean burrito from Taco Bell, as a Last Meal before I headed towards the Pearly Gates.

One of my prayers came true:  Dan and his dad drove a 40 mile round trip to bring me two bean burritos from the Bell.

I could die in peace.

Only I didn't.  Instead, I woke up Sunday.  

I still felt shitty, I was still itchy, but dammitalltohell, I was still alive.

I blame my hearty European genes.  And the fact that everyone in my family lives to be 90.

Which leads me to today, my apartment, and my lack of activity.  I feel icky.  I'm itchy.  And truth be told, when it comes to packing?  I don't wanna.

Meanwhile, thanks for the love you all shared after my last post, when I had a massive pity party.  I did manage to somewhat pull my head out of my ass and search for the elusive silver lining, and I'm pretty sure I will keep on trudging, as I normally do.  (I'm a trudger.  Life sucks, for sure, but somewhere in the distance you'll find me trudging along.  My feet will hurt, I'll be hot and thirsty, and I'll no doubt whine a good deal, but at the end of the day there I'll be.  Curse you, hearty European ancestors!!)

This is a blog posting that apparently has no graceful or natural ending so...

(If there are a boatload of typos it's because I didn't proof read or pay attention to spell check.  FYI.)

There is no joy in Mudville...

Whenever I move out of a place, the first thing I do is take all my pictures down.  It's like my little way of breaking it to myself gently that this is no longer my home.

Yesterday I found out that we are moving sooner than I'd originally thought, which means that the first thing I did today was take all the pictures down and then stare at the walls.  It instantly feels like someone else's house.  

I wonder why that is.  The rest of my shit is still in place, but the walls are bare...

Dani doesn't live here anymore.

Even the dogs feel it.

Maisy is clinging to me like a baby monkey (which means I've stepped on her/tripped over her at least 15 times) and Javi is hiding under the couch.

And I'm crying like a little bitch because I really, really hate moving.  Hate.  Hate so damn much.  And for a while, my life is going to totally suck.  This I know with absolute certainty.

There's no funny today and may not be for a while... currently my life is seemingly spiraling out of control and there doesn't seem to be much I can do to stop it.  My personal crisis is painful and there just doesn't seem to be any way that I can put a positive spin on it right this second, so until I am done throwing myself a pity party, there will be no bloggety-blogging, as I hate writing down depressing stuff just as much as most people dislike reading it.

Plus I hate it when I'm a whine-ass.

Dammit... I KNEW I shouldn't have wished for Death By Meteor!!

Peace out, home skillets... I'll be back.

Maybe with happy pills... yes?

Every fucking cloud, yo.

Fun for the whole family

First conscious thought today:

"Did I forget to wear pants this morning?"

The fact that I got up and drove the hour home but didn't have this thought until noon, after I'd showered and changed my clothes, may give you an idea of my state of mind today.  Quite plainly, I'm exhausted.

E.X.H.A.U.S.T.E.D.

It's been a long frickin' four days.  Or five.  I don't quite remember.

Dan, the dogs, and I drove down to his parent's house for the weekend to hang with Dan's brother and his (relatively) new wife, whom neither one of us had gotten to meet before.  They were in England for several years (his wife was there starting at birth but I'm not counting that) and just got back to the U.S. of A at the beginning of the year and decided to settle in Texas.  So having them come to NY was kind of a big deal.

SO.  We all stayed at Falcon Crest (Carrington Mansion?  Southfork?) together, ate drank and were merry together, and as it turns out, my old ass is no longer cut out for 4 (5?) days of booze.

Sad, right?

I know.

How I've spent the past four days...

By day 2, I was ready to spend the day in my jammies, eating soup and watching Murder, She Wrote.

Instead, I was doing this:

Then Sunday happened:

Then for some freaking reason that NO one could understand, it was MONDAY... and THIS happened:

And that's when I realized that maybe I should stop drinking for a day or so.

*cough*

So I spent yesterday like this:

And then?

Something bad happened.

My little Pomeranian, my Javi Bear,  has seizures.  Usually they're fairly quick... it's caused by hypoglycemia, which is really common in pommies, and if I give him some peanut butter or corn syrup, he comes out of it more quickly.

But nothing worked yesterday.

He seized repeatedly until about 6:00 this morning, which is when we got up and came home.

In other words, I didn't sleep a wink last night because I was so worried about my little dog.

He had his last episode at around 7 this morning in the car on the way home, and has been sleeping ever since.

But that's how it came to be that I honestly have no idea if I came home with pants on or not.

I got home, threw my clothes off, fell face down in the bed and slept for 2 hours.

I got up, took a shower, made some lunch, and that is the moment that I had my first honest to goodness complete thought of the day:

"Did I forget to wear pants this morning?"

See?  It does happen...