A Day that Sucked but Repented

My day sucked. You may have grasped that by the title. Although I suppose to be clear I should say my day that sucked actually started the night before. I promise I will get back to my regular program of exploring the fun that is bipolar disorder, reactive attachment disorder, neurotypical childhood and the Mom trying to keep everyone alive, but today I am writing about suckage.

I like to stay up late. I have always been a "night" person and have gained a multi- state reputation for my violent opposition to mornings. I putter around the house enjoying the quiet and the dark. I sit, undisturbed, reading web sites and blogs by the hundreds while my cats fight over who is going to get the coveted position behind my head.  It was about 11:30 this particular evening when I decided to wrap it up. I had retrieved my sippy cup (so the cats don't drink my water in the night), my supply of butter pretzels to snack on while I watch a little go- to- sleep- tv and Marlon Jackson, my beloved hot water bottle for my bed. (I have to thank kate for that hot water bottle suggestion. Marlon has changed my life and I love it more than beer. I owe you a bunch kate!).

Anyway, I progressed into my bedroom and started to set up my little corner. I smelled something. However, anyone who has ever shared a bedroom with a man who has the flu already knows those, er, *unusual* smells. So the funk did not surprise me and I just sighed and expected I would probably get used to it in a few minutes. I did not.

As I was pulling my sheets and blankets and bedding around to where I like it all, I noticed the smell was much more pervasive than I originally thought. In fact, I was starting to wonder if I could sleep in a room where that smell was living. My brain was collecting information from my senses and providing me an answer that I did not want. Poop. The smell I was smelling was poop. And I should point out right away that the smell was not emanating from The Husband. Thankfully. But where?

Ugh. I discovered as I was nesting my bedding a small turd patty clinging to the edge of the main blanket. Horror. Sheer horror. The screenwriter for the movie Saw is likely to steal this storyline for Saw37. Sleep standing next to your bed or sleep with the turd. My cat had squishy poo that day and I can only imagine how that dingleberry must have clung to his butt up from the litter box and into my bed. HORROR!

By now I am so tired. This is how it goes. I stay up late and leave a bunch of tasks to the last minute, for which I have to stay up longer to complete. Then I am exhausted and I start to shut down quickly. So I actually thought for a few minutes that I could relocate the offending turd and get back in my bed. It did not work. While the turd was gone, the funk was not. So I began a sniff test on other parts of the bedding. Yep. Poop smell. Right up top on the blanket that I pull over myself. Dangit. I was still in denial though and thought I could remove the offensive blanket with the poo residue on it, run it and it's stink down to the laundry and still go to bed, eat my pretzels, play angry birds (I am freaking STUCK on 7- 11) and go to sleep. I collected (stole) some of the girls clean bedding and proceeded to make myself a new nest. I pull those blankets back to get in the bed and by bloody jingo, the smell is back! WTF?

I have these pretty white flannel sheets with black and gray snowflakes on them. It is notable that there are no brownish- yellowy snowflakes. So when I saw a brownish yellow stain I knew this ordeal was not over. For the love of purina man, what was going on here? And more importantly, now what the heck was I going to do? I have poo stain on my bottom sheet and it is oddly positioned exactly below the place where I put my head on the pillow. Options run through my brain, options designed to save me from having to wake up my sick husband who was sleeping like a slashed Redwood tree. Nothing. There was nothing I could live with. 

Now debilitated, I unraveled the fitted sheet from its corner and rolled the whole thing away from myself. I then covered and covered until nary a speck of poo dust could spring loose. I glared at my cat and stomped all the way back to the laundry room again. Finally I could settle in and be done.

I am using this event to pinpoint the beginning of my day that sucked.

Next morning, I have salt face. You know, where you ingest way to many salty foods and your eyes get puffy. Nice. My eyelids have already collapsed over my eyelash ridge due to years going by and my Dad's genetics, now they are going to obscure my vision. Yes I know I should have learned by now not to binge when I already have   PMS. What I learned is that I don't care all that much. Salt face is a small price to pay for the enjoyment of a pile of butter pretzels right before bed, when one is suffering from PMS.

Moving on.

I go to Target to pick up a few essentials. Something really strange happened. I mean, weird. I decide to grab some vitamin water to drink right then and there, since I am wicked dehydrated. There are rows and columns of the brand I like but, and this is so bizarre, the kind I wanted was gone. Like a vitamin water tornado had come through and annihilated every single bottle of only the kind I like. They were fully stocked on the other types. However, I did not need all those silly ones like "positive attitude" or "make nicey nice". I needed the dang energy kind from being up late changing bedding. Gah. Nothing. Not one bottle.

I moved on to the cookies. As noted in a recent post, there is a particular type of cookie that I love. I don't remember what it is called but it is like a double chocolate chunk brownie cookie. Mmmm, Pavlovian drool response right here and now. Ok, so here is the thing. Rows and rows of every type of stupid cookie the brand makes, except the one I want.

Wha' ?    The fu'...?

I am now irritated and pissy on top of being exhausted and dehydrated. I stomped off to the breakfast food-impersonation aisle and aim for the toaster tart sort of things. No I am serious, it is like someone who hates me went in ahead and cleaned out the store of anything good. No brown sugar and cinnamon flavor tart thingies. Huge empty spot on the shelf. Should I be looking for camera's? Has someone got ahold of my receipts from the past 15 years and collected everything I like off the shelves? Is Ashton here? (heh heh, that would be just fine, bring it on big boy!).

No Ashton, and this really sucks. I move on to the aisles with the other stuff I need. Plenty of contact lens solution. No lack of dish detergent. Tissues in all brands. Sure.

Once home I checked my email right away as I always do, to see if anything nice is in there.

Nothing. Nice. At. All.

Teacher email. Need I say more? Well, as to the contents I do.

It was noon when she wrote. My daughter had already gone through the clothes she wore that day, the extra clothes I sent with her, and a set of clothes the school keeps for emergencies. Pea. I indulged in some self pity. Then I indulged in some pity for her. The other kids have caught on and in fact have reported incidents to the teacher. This is a stigma she may never shake and she just a little 7 year old girl. I can't take it and I almost vomit thinking about her rotten choices as an unstable child that will surely stick with her for years. There is no medical problem if anyone is wondering. She has had UTI's in the past, but I keep home tests and take her pea to the doctors lab often, and that is not what this is. I decided she is getting some value out of this at school and yanked her out of class towards the end of the day. I can't and won't do that every time, but she just cannot go pea-ing on the school. There are other students to think about too. I have consulted her psych, her pediatrician, her former therapist, the school and anyone else that may have an idea. They do not have any better idea's than what we already do. Back to plan D.

Of course, my dear daughter is not about to accept my decision for her without some wango tango. More suckage.

BUT THEN....... wait........ it's Tuesday! Tuesday night of the Knitting Kninja's and I get to see my little friends and vent and freak out and they will get it and they will pull me back from the edge! I left the house and may well have broken 9 or so traffic laws getting away from my house! I don't have anything to knit! I don't care! And because it is Sarah's birthday, our beloved Angie made her a cake! And I tell you, if Angie makes you a cake you should just go ahead and wear your expandable pants.

Ahhh. So my day ended well, if you were to count a 24 hour rotation as a day even though the night was sort of in the middle and not an anchor at the beginning or end. Cake, friends, coffee drinks and knitting. The day repented. No turd patties on the bed when I got home. No unusual, or permeating- but- usual, smells. Today, so far so good.


Phew!

...

Rewind. Remind.

I got to thinking that I have a few posts out there that I put up which suggested a conclusion was coming that I never posted. You know, in the "I'll let you know how it turns out" sort of fashion. So I decided to hunt some down and put out the updates. Just for fun. I originally posted this just over a year ago. If you are so inspired, click on the title below. It will take you to the original post where you can read the original comments if you wish, which were hilarious. Here it comes.

DANGIT DANGIT DANGIT!

I would use real curse words if it weren't for the blogs that list people's post titles. Rest assured I am thinking in big, bad, ugly curse words right now.

Fifteen years ago, give or take 2 years -I forget, I married the man I love for better or for worse. Sadly, the "worse" became quickly evident. The man I married, my baby Daddy, is an only child. He argues valiantly, and frequently, against the stereotype with his words. His upbringing was just like everyone elses. Exactly the same, only there was one of him. The fact that his parents let him select the radio station in the car was due to his parents being so exceptionally cool, not at all because he was the only one there, his parents were entirely focused only on him, and there was no one else to argue with about it, which are just a few of the opinions I had suggested. So, he insists that his life was never based in any way, on the fact that he was the only child in the house and every thing and everything anyone did, originated with the idea of caring for him, or making him happy in some way.

Not that I have any bitterness. Or envy. Whatever. Anyway.

So, one might imagine that living with someone brought up in such a way, would have advantages and disadvantages. I am not here to discuss the advantages, should I ever think of one. When it comes to disadvantages, if I were a different sort of blogger (the divorced kind for example), I could have a list but I don't. I do however, have one particular issue.

The man takes the last of everything. He does it with no regard for anyone else alive on the plant or in the same home. He will ague insistently that this is just me being picky. He ate the last of the chocolate ice cream when I was pregnant, people. Yes you read that correctly. Yes it was 5 years ago- so? Appalled aren't you? You should be. So you just take whichever side you think deserves your support and read on.

Here is the part that hurts. I have had to resort to hiding certain items of food that I might need later. Such as cookies. I can't hide ice cream, so I just gave up on buying that at all. But he will think nothing of masticating his way through an entire box of cookies while I sleep. Leaving me to find an empty shell in the recycling bin the next day. And cursing. Wildly.

So the other day I was in the store buying up a bunch of suck ass crap like cleaning supplies, bleach, laundry soap and other things that just mean more sucky work for me, and I bought some cookies. Really fancy cookies, that are pricey and only have like, 8, in the bag. Chocolate chunk brownie cookies. Mmmmmm.

AND I HID THEM FROM MY HUSBAND AND NOW I CANNOT FIND THEM!!!

I FORGOT WHERE I PUT THEM!!!

STOP LAUGHING THIS IS SERIOUS!!!

It is really bad, because I so clearly remember taking the action of hiding them in the first place. I deliberately removed them from the bag of cleaning crap and put them in our bedroom..... and that is where it all goes blank. BLANK!

AAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!

Update: you know, I eventually found those cookies but it took a long time. It was at least a month before it happened. I knew I had put them somewhere The Husband would be very highly unlikely to look but I just blanked out after that. It turns out I had put the bag of cookies in my closet, by that pile of "dry cleaning" that everyone has that never goes anywhere! 
Sure enough, a month later they were still there and you know what else?
I ATE THEM!


. 

Generation X: The Evidence

In response to my personal Birther controversy......

Need I say more?

(Hey lady, 1987 called, they want their hair back!) (*snort*)

Challenge---- post your own big hair pics!

I know what's sick and what's not!

I understand that every generation develops it's own slang. That's fine with me. I am Gen- X and we had some of the best slang ever invented. The 90's and the 00's, not so much. But now, now there is a slang term gaining in popularity and I just cannot stand it. It is making me encrazed*. And as is probably obvious, I have no room in my life for even another second of craze.

I have heard this word tossed around intermittently, but it really knocked me over when I heard it used in a car commercial.

The word is "sick". As in, diseased. Ill. Infected. Icky.

In the commercial, a young man is led to a high end SUV by a salesman, and as he bounds up to the vehicle he announces with great enthusiasm...... "that's sick"!

What the......?

It is only by hearing the positive tone in the young man's voice that one realizes, he is not being insulting. He is trying to say something good. Sick evidently means (to him) awesome.

I think that is stupid. That's right, you read it correctly. Stupid. I used the word stupid and I meant it! (Come and get me, grade school teachers of America!).

My generation, teenagers of the 80's, had killer slang. Some of the best. We had "bad" which meant "good" and it made perfect sense and since it was invented by Michael Jackson, it was totally rad! Some of our best terms were duh! and no duh!, you're wiggin' out, I've got to motor/  I have to book it over to the mall, that's grody or gnarly or bitchin', and one of my personal favorites, fuckin' AY right! (It is a favorite because, I mean, come on, what is that? *snort*).

But if you want to know sick, I can tell you sick. This is so sick it should be a disease. Ick Disease. I was shopping for jammies for my girls the other day at Crap Mart. I have had the worst time this year trying to find good jammies for them. When the label says "fire resistant polyester" I have to keep looking. It's been so difficult that I finally resorted to buying long- johns in pinkandpurple just to get something created out of a fiber that occurs in nature.

Anyway. ...  let me say this loudly. LOUDLY. And you can QUOTE me if you want!

I will stitch together my own vomit before I purchase Justin Bieber jammies for my little girls. Since that was the main offering in sleepwear, lets just say I need to drink a lot of gin and maybe eat some beets. I would buy jammies featuring Gary Busey first.

Justin Bieber jammies are sick. SICK and NOT in a good way!


* encrazed is a word I made up in response to other people making up words. If you would like to read its origins you can do so here.  It's one of my favorite past posts!

National De- Lurking Day

Hmmm. I just read rumor that today is National Blog De- Lurking Day. I would have thought something with such an astounding level of cultural significance would have been documented on my calendar, however, 'tis not. 'Twas documented at Rage Against the Minivan instead.

Here's the thing. I really don't lurk anywhere. Truly, if I am reading I am commenting. It's just in my nature to communicate with folks through the artificial means of typing on a keypad into the air. The fact is, I usually have something to say. My brain churns out responses or questions to everything I read. I can't make it sit still.

My point is...... this deeply meaningful holiday honoring United Blog Lurkers of the World is not meant for me. This may surprise you, because it certainly surprised me, but there are about 500 people who come here and read a new post. No seriously, it's true! There might even be more!  Soooooooooo................. whatcha' doin?

Whatcha' doin' right now?

If you are a lurker, I would like to formally invite you to briefly de-lurk. After all, it IS your holiday. A quickie comment to the effect of HI I am __________ and I read here would be just lovely. If you wanted to say something about why you read here, that would be even more lovely (anyone who is obligated to read because they know me IRL and I will quiz them when I see them, go ahead and refrain from that part). If you like, you may even comment as to the things you don't like about reading here, that's how serious I am about honoring National De- Lurker Day. Provided you keep in mind that I am extremely sensitive and it will crush my soul if there is a lot of bad stuff.

Bring it on!

#Oprahfail

Here I am standing outside of Oprah's house in Chicago (in November). I waited patiently to be invited in for dinner, and perhaps a makeover. We would have chit- chatted about life and books, and I would have shared idea's for her next book club selection. You all would have thanked me because I would never have suggested anything by  Charles Dickens. Not even his grocery list. Anyway.

Don't I look patient? It was cold, and getting dark and still, my phone never rang. No butler came jogging out of the building with a lovely handwritten invitation on beautifully monogrammed paper.

Here I am still waiting.

No, it did not get brighter out. I was playing with the edit settings on the camera. I clearly need a makeover as you can see, I am wearing dark pants with bright white running shoes! Note that I am still waiting. Note that I am not a patient person. I got distracted by this shiny thing.

The big enormous Ferris Wheel at Navy Pier. While I was waiting (and getting cold, hungry and crabby) we decided to take a ride. I was sure there was no way Genea was getting on this thing. Even Teena, who fears nothing, was intimidated. We get up close and Genea starts saying ....... OH no, I am not getting on THAT! To which I was all empathetic and stuff. You know like....... oh honey, I know it looks scary but I really think you would like it..... won't you please try? To which The Husband says....... knock it off, you're going on. And she did!


Here is Teena

                   

 

And here is Genea!

Note that we are riding up past Oprah's house on the Ferris Wheel. It did not help. My pictures went wonky here, I don't know why.

So, that was Oprah Fail #77

(I lost track of how many Fails there have been so I am estimating. Generously. But close!).

While I am at it, I applied for the audience a bunch of times and got the big "No Oprah for you!" form letter back. Just this week I applied for 10 more shows with the same response. I am going a bit out of order with my Fail numbers but we all know I am math impaired and went to public school, so it is not my fault and no one cares anyway. 

I experienced Oprah Fail #78 and #79 at Christmas dinner this year. I asked all the people I know who are living in Chicago right now if they knew anyone with connections or someone who could, you know, break into the ticket safe at the Harpo Studios. My sister's father- in- law used to work at the Ritz Carlton in Chicago so I thought, he has got to know someone! Alas, another fail. Then I hit up my sister's brother- in- law who is a personal- injury attorney. The fancy kind, with his own commercial and everything. Fail #79.

Again, like I have said, this is becoming an urgent matter. Once the talk show is over, that's it for me. Our satellite package does not include the OWN channel. We have like, 14 different versions of ESPN, but no Ope. 

OOOOOOOOOOOOprAAAAAAAAAAAAAh! CALL ME!

I Got Spanish Homework

Eh? What's that you say? You were not aware that I am enrolled in a Spanish class? One that assigned homework?

I'm not.

About 3 weeks ago, Genea was assigned this project in school. To do her family tree. Okay.

I know some kids who have been adopted will have confusion over this sort of thing. Where does the birth mother go? What about other parents? Multiple sibling sets of completely different parents? But for Genea, her rigid brain goes in a line without variables and so who to include on the tree was not an issue for her. Not much of the project was an issue for her because clearly the homework was designed for parents. Certainly not a seven year old!

She was to draw her family tree.
Problem #1: Genea does not really get who is who and who is related to who by whatever means. I have to tell her who goes with who. Thankfully we have very little divorce, and The Husband is an only child.

She has to write down the name of each person.
 Problem #2: She does not know people by their full name. Auntie Christine is...... Auntie Christine. First name Auntie, last name Christine. Grampa's name is..... Grampa. I have to tell her and spell for her everyone's full name.

She has to write in then, the person's relationship to her, in Spanish. Fortunately that is provided for her on a list. Unfortunately she is 7. So she writes big and illegibly.

Problem #3: She makes frequent mistakes that need to be erased. Also? She cannot draw several straight lines mapping out the space she would need to lay out the information. I drew an example for her to follow. It did not go well.

Problem #4: For this project to look right, it needs to be on a wide strip of white paper. We have no such thing in the house. The Husband has to go out and get appropriate paper.

Problem #5: In order to get full points, there needs to be a picture of each person by their name. No way is my seven year old going to dig through my photos and cut out people's heads! The other option is for the child to draw each person. I don't know about the artistic abilities of your seven year old, but mine can draw a circle and put dots on for eyeballs. That ends her ability. I guess I don't care if Genea's Spanish teacher thinks we all look suspiciously alike but...... looking incestuously alike I have to take issue with.

The project is due today, Friday. I do everything I need to do to make sure Genea can complete this homework, without actually doing it for her.

But then........

Wait for it.........

Last night, the Thursday night just prior to the Friday due date, Genea decides rather abruptly to end her streak of excellence and have a good ol' fashion Thrown Down Wango Tango. The variety that we see only twice a year. Lovely. It takes a good chunk of the afternoon and early evening. Even though all she had to do was finish piecing together the tree, no way was she going to complete it.

So, the result was a half done, sloppy, mess with eraser marks everywhere and very little Spanish. We will not shield her from the consequences. Whether the teacher refuses to accept it, or gives her a bad grade I do not know. I emailed her this morning to let her know that we, her parents, knew what she was going to try to turn in and to please let me know how she wanted to handle it so we could reinforce the effect at home. To make sure Genea understood.

Mi familia es muy loco. Merde.

(If that is incorrect in any way, please know that I am not a language student at this time).
(Yes, I know I combined 2 languages. I used what I know. Plus, I don't care. I am not being graded this time).

Breaking Parenting Rule #5

Parenting Rule #5 is the one where if you have reached a point in your parenting where you think you know what you are doing, first of all, you are wrong. Second of all, if you think you know what you are doing and can chill, you are either not noticing something massive and dangerous is happening or, something massive and dangerous is about to happen so, you know, at least sit up.

Officially it reads "Never let yourself relax and think you know what you are doing as a parent". What exactly is this rule #5 and who decided it? Well, uh, just me. What are the other 4 rules? I'm not sure yet. At least one of the rules has to do with keeping the kids clothed and educated. Then there is the rule about only taking as long to cook dinner as it will take to eat it  (generally less than 20 minutes, including whining).

So over the kids winter break from school (also known as The Accidental Mommy Visits the 7th, 8th and 9th Circles), we had made plans for Teena to stay at my parents house for a few days. Without the rest of us. My Mom has been saying for years that she would love to spend time with my girls individually. That's code for: your children are heinous and no human should be left alone with them both unless the Vatican is involved. Since Teena is our independent little girl, we decided after Christmas she would stay and the rest of us would come home. I knew she would be excited and would not have a moment of doubt. The girls had been clashing almost constantly, and Genea had been on a tear having visits from the Wango Tango regularly. We all needed a break, but with our options limited we decided a "reverse respite" sort of thing would be at least beneficial for Teena.

I had the sense to be afraid, very afraid, of Genea's reaction. From not being the one to stay, to being separated from her sister. I knew she would blow and would have daily freak outs, probably for hours. My plan was to take advantage of the individual time with her to work on her explosive anger and disproportionate reactions. Get some things done, and try to reinforce our bond and attachment, which I was feeling had become precarious.

I blew it entirely. I anticipated all the wrong things. It's like they knew what I was thinking and planning for, and decided to do the opposite. I tell ya', there is no value in worrying. I  pick the wrong things to worry about all the time. Also, I always pick the wrong house on House Hunters (TV show on HGTV) (although maybe it's the new homeowners picking the wrong house who knows).

When the time came to leave my parent's house I spent some extra time saying goodbye to Teena. Now, she is and independent kid, so I knew she would be fine and not miss us for a second. She never has. Frankly, she can not usually even be bothered to look up when we have left her before.

Woops.

She was sitting on a bed just sort of staring off and I asked her if she was feeling a little sad that we were leaving, even though she knew she would be having a ton of fun. She flopped herself back on the bed and told me "no Mama, I am feeling all the way sad". What the heck? I laid with her for a few minutes and gave her the choice to come home instead. Despite the sad, she insisted on staying. She would be having a sleepover at her cousins house and by jingo, she was going no matter what. Okay. But she asked me to try to arrange it so she could come home early.

At home I was all prepared and ready for the bomb of anger to go off with Genea. So I waited. And I waited. And then there was a minor snit when she didn't get what she wanted immediately. Then it was done. What the heck?

I mean, What? The? Heck?

I enjoyed her. I sat back and enjoyed her. Do you have any idea how monumental that is? I did not have to "manage" her. I did not have to regulate with her. I did not need to stay a little on edge just in case. I did not have to answer her a dozen times an hour, I actually talked to her first. I did not have to keep her in my line of sight. I did not have to constantly gauge her level of frustration. None of the exhausting things that I always have to do. I could just be with her. She is a delightful, fun, cute and sweet little girl and I got to fully enjoy that side of her.

Teena stayed the full time at her grandmothers house, but for the first time ever she was ready to come home when the day came. Genea missed her like crazy.

What do I know.