Monthly Archives: August 2013



The other day I had to take a floaty fish out of the fish tank at work.  When I plopped him into the toilet, he suddenly flipped around and spit something out of his mouth, staring at me with his fishy eye, but I had already flushed and he went spinning down into the sewer anyway.  I feel like this is some kind of metaphor for the way my life is going lately, but I’m not sure exactly what it means.

Yesterday I went to a new doctor and vomitted a lifetime of stuff onto her desk while a frightened psychology student looked on.  Sometimes I have the tendency to sugarcoat things so this time I was determined to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.  At one point the doctor knocked over a full water bottle and soaked my paperwork; at the end of the session she told me that I “need to get my stress under control.”  Then she added, “You seem to have a lot of stressors in your life.  I know this is easier said than done, but you have to try and work some of this stuff out.”  The student half smiled at me.  I wanted to punch the doctor in the face and ask her if she could solve all my problems but I needed that prescription so I fake smiled back and exited the office, stress still weighing me down so heavily that I had to shuffle.

I stood in the grocery store and had to decide if I should get what I really wanted for LUNCH, or get what I really wanted for dinner, because I couldn’t afford both.  I asked my husand and he told me that all of the things I want to cook have too many ingredients in them.  I wanted to smack him in the face; who says that?  Of course things have ingredients in them!  Then I picked what I wanted for lunch and decided to have ice cream for dinner, anyway.


Get Off My Lawn!


Last night A* and I sat down to watch the MTV Video Music Awards.  I have been watching this show for years, first with my high school friends, then with my college roommates, the past ten years with A*.  It’s a part of my culture, something that everyone could talk about the next day at school; who was wearing what, who said that, who won for what?  I watched the infamous Britney kiss, I saw Snoop Lion (back then he was just plain Dogg) in curly locks rapping about Murder being the case they gave him, I viewed thousands of Slim Shady look-a-likes pour into the theater.  Every year I look forward to the awards show as something different to watch, something that actually has to do with MUSIC on MTV.  And then we watched last night.

A* and I had absolutely no idea who anyone was.  Save Justin Timberlake and Lady Gaga, most of the younger performers and artists were strangers to us.  They would pan to a red carpet interview and one of us would say, “Who’s THAT?” and the other one would reply, “I…. have no idea.”  And it happened over and over!  I felt so old!  We are obviously too aged to enjoy the awards show anymore. 

I’m going to tell all those kids to get off my lawn.


Dear Depression:

Fuck you.

Sincerely, Me


Sometimes, the horrible horrible monster called depression comes and kicks me in the ass.  This weekend was one of those times.  I was sucked down the black hole and couldn’t get out, no matter how desperately I tried to claw my way back into the sunshine.  I tried to hide away in my room, because I knew that I was unable to stop the tears and the guttural sobbing and I don’t want my son to see.  When I’m in this place nothing can stem the anxiety that makes my stomach tie in knots, nothing can stop the feeling I get that something out of control awful is going to happen, and it’s all my fault.  I feel like happiness is an illusion that I will never achieve.  I wonder if I’ve ever really been happy?  I mean, sure, I’ve had glimpses, but when I’m in this state of mind it’s too far away and I can’t convince myself that I’ve ever felt true joy.  I slept a lot this weekend, because when I’m asleep I can’t feel and I’m not letting anyone down and my mind stops swirling for a while.  I didn’t go outside and play.  I didn’t take C. to the park.  I didn’t call my friends.  I didn’t walk the dog.  I didn’t do any of the things you’re supposed to do when you’re in the dark place, because when I’m there the very act of opening my eyes in the morning is too much, let alone dressing myself and going out into the world.

Everything came to a head on Sunday night, when I just couldn’t take it anymore.  C. was in bed and I was trying in vain to read a magazine but none of the words were making sense and I couldn’t read the type for the tears in my eyes.  A* touched my hand and I lost it; I sobbed and sobbed, soaking the front of his shirt while I clutched him for dear life.  He didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to.  He’s been here before, and he knows that the only thing he can do is hold on, and he did.  He held me so tightly and didn’t say a word, and then when I was slowing down he handed me a bunch of tissues along with a smile.  He was there, and strangely, at that moment, that was enough.  I sniffed and snorted and calmed myself down, and we ended up having one of the best conversations we’ve had in a long time… not about depression, or my feelings, just about stuff and it was wonderful.  My swollen eyes could see a slight sunbeam through the clouds, and by the next day I HEAVED myself back out of the hole.  I may have to rest here on the dirt for a couple days, because being down in that hole makes me so unbelievably tired, but even laying in the dirt I can still see the blue sky and feel the air on my skin.  Jenny, who can make even the most miserable human laugh despite themselves, tells her readers that this will pass, and this is such a comforting thought for me.  It WILL pass.

I’m going to be alright, and once again I emerge. 

Down the Rabbit Hole


My son has a problem.

I don’t know if there are 12 step programs for this, or some type of support group… the first step is admitting you have a problem, and although he may not be at this point yet his mother certainly is. 

C. is completely and totally addicted to Minecraft.  Being just a silly mom, I did not realize the hold that Minecraft has over my son and the other kids at the sitters.  Actually, I still am not quite sure what Minecraft exactly IS, or how to play it, or even why you would want to.  All I see are a bunch of bricks.  But my MIL got C. a tablet for his birthday, specifically because he has become so enamored with this stupid game.  The game was downloaded and the heavens opened up and my son rejoiced; no more fighting with the other kids on who got to use the sitters phone to play the game!  The game in the palm of his hand at all times!  Life couldn’t get better!

The first night he had the game I gave C. a pass.  I remember getting new stuff as a kid (except in my case it was usually a new book) and just being so into it that I couldn’t do ANYTHING else, so I told C. that he could have this one free day to play the game until his brain oozed out of his ears.  He couldn’t tell me what a cool mom I was because he was too busy playing his game, but I knew he was really thinking that anyway.  I just thought we could set the limits after this one day, even foolishly thinking that he may get most of it out of his system and not want to play every second.  I’m a fool, I know.

So yesterday my husband brought C. home and the tablet had been delegated to a plastic bag. 

“Tell Mom what you did,” A* prompted C. grimly.

C. hid his face and told his dad that he didn’t want to tell me.  Hmm.

So my husband was forced to give me the grusome details.  It seems that SOMEONE was so busy playing his mindless video games that he actually didn’t stop to go to the bathroom and shit his pants.  Now, please keep in mind that this kid has been potty-trained for two years now, and even in the thick of training he NEVER had an accident.  Never, not once.  But because his little mind was SO engrossed in this stupid video game, my lazy son just sat there and continued moving bricks while he soiled his pants.  And didn’t tell anyone until the other kids noticed the smell!  I don’t even know what to do with information like that; I mean, I like to read books but you don’t see me peeing my pants over them!  I like to watch T.V. but I do manage to take a shit ON THE TOILET every once in a while.

So needless to say, C. received a serious talk about his gaming addiction and how we as parents were going to have to regulate the amount of time he spent playing it.  He’s not allowed to even touch the tablet for the next couple of days, and after that he will be alloted a half hour of game time before bed… IF he has behaved himself the rest of the day.  Geez.  I can’t believe I have to have a conversation with my five year old about putting aside your stuff and visiting the bathroom. 

C. is more interested in the doughnuts he gets after his addiction meetings, but I think he’s getting better.  One day at a time.



It has been well documented on my blog that I am having problems with my mom.  I did, however, hold out hope that someday we could work out our differences and come to a place of understanding.  I was blissfully unaware of just how much she hates me until this week, when she took my son for his birthday and brought him back… with a karaoke machine. 

This monstrosity of a machine comes equipped with a microphone and a volume that goes up high enough that some dogs may not even be able to hear it.  This would be bad enough if C. was just using it to sing, loudly.  But oh no, that’s not what he uses it for at all.  Instead, my son puts the microphone as close as he can get to his mouth without actually chewing ON the microphone and proceeds to make the most annoying sounds known to man, as loud as humanly possible.  There are no words, just “OOOOOOOOH!!  OOOH, OOH, EIIIIIII….” and so on and so on.  AND ON AND ON AND ON.  He sits so close to the machine that there is screeching feedback on top of the noises that he is already producing with his mouth.  The poor dog sits and stares, cocking his head to one side and with one ear raised, wondering where in the world these hellish sounds are coming from.  My husband and I hunker down in another room, waiting for the sky to open up and swallow us whole, because this can only mean that the world is coming to an end. 

My dad is running a close second with the bell he got C. for his bike, but at least that has to be used OUTSIDE, where C. can torture his friends and our neighbors.  Alas, the karaoke machine is an inside toy, and a painful reminder every day of what my mother thinks of me.  Little does she know that I’m on to her, and I’ve already started to pave the way.

I’ve told C. that his grandmother LOVES kerokee, especially otherworldly sounds, and that this may be a toy that is best put to use when he goes over to visit.  HA!

Dear Five…


Dear Five,

I don’t belive that I gave you permission to come and steal my baby away.  I had no part in your coming into our lives; we were perfectly happy with our toddler.  Now when I look at him I see a tall, skinned knee, wide grinned BOY and that was not part of the agreement.  I keep telling C. that he is not allowed to grow anymore, and he laughs at me and tells me that he’s “too big” for me to say “I love you” when I drop him off at the sitters in the morning.  This boy that I carried around for eight months, who made me puke up everything that I had ever eaten since I was born, who gave me heartburn so bad that I could breathe fire, who decided he didn’t want to wait to enter the world so he came early.  This tiny baby that my husband and I used to stare at for hours, amazed at the perfect swirl of hair at the back of his neck and the perfect smell of his flawless skin.  This little boy who charmed everyone with his humor, his smile, who laughed hysterically when we did dance parties in the kitchen, who loved music and anything that required him to MOVE.  This person who is growing up into such a boy, such a boy that made us parents and made me a mommy.  I’m so proud of who he is becoming, grateful that he has taken us on the ride of our lives.  He loves unconditionally, has a heart of gold, and will still lay on my lap while we watch cartoons.

So Five, I really don’t appreciate how you came barging in and tossed C.’s toddlerhood out the window.  No one asked you to.  Bring me my baby back!!

Happy Fifth Birthday to the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me.  You made me the person I am today, C., and I love you more every day.