The new and the dead

I hate all three of our fucking dogs. Don’t get me wrong- I love dogs. Just not mine. We have a Pomeranian, a toy Australian Sheperd, and a mutt that is kind of a cross between a chihuahua (I can’t believe I spelled that write on my first try ūüėČ and something else that looks like a rat. The kids made me adopt the Pomeranian. The husband and the daughter pulled a fast one on me to get the Australian Sheperd. A few of my friends and I always met on Mondays to pregame before The Bachelor. Or Bachelorette. Don’t judge. It is the only trash TV I allow myself to indulge in. (Which has nothing to do with the fact that the husband controls the remote 99% of the time). Fuck that fucking forged in fire show. And fuck Gold Rush while we’re at it. In fact, the whole Discovery Channel can fuck off. And especially Game of Thrones.

I watch my ONE show at a friend’s house or on my laptop with my earphones on because God forbid the husband dwell anywhere else in the house for an hour and a half once a week. We have a TV in our bedroom, our pool table room, and the living room. But the TV in the living room (where he prefers to watch so that he is in close proximity to the garage to smoke and the fridge to grab a beer every 8.2 minutes) is the only TV with DVR. I’m not watching that shit with commercials. So I watch on Hulu. Which I know I will forget to cancel after the season is over. And never use it again.

I may sound bitter. That’s because I am. When the Game of Thrones is in season (April 14- I know because he has a ticker on his phone counting down the days until it resumes) every new episode is a fucking event. All the lights in the house are turned off. No one is allowed to open the fridge. The show is on for an hour, right? Fucking wrong! His shit starts at 8:00 pm, when he watches the previous week’s episode. Then on to the new episode from 9:00 until 10:00. And then I SHIT YOU NOT he fucking watches the new episode again. Fucking unbelievable.

Anyway, one night I was pregaming with the girls while the husband and daughter were at the pet store. They knew I had been drinking. They knew I was vulnerable. They knew I did not mean to say “Have at it!” when they called to ask if they could buy this adorable puppy. I mean who in the hell buys a puppy at 9:00 pm?? Yeah, nobody. They had already bought her. From a pet store. WTF? Nobody buys pets from pet stores! Fast forward three years later when the husband’s best friend fucked up and told me how much he paid for the dog. I threw up.

So what’s better than two yappy little ankle biters? In my fucked up head, I thought it would be okay to get a third. My best friend Carol Green adopted a dog from a nearby shelter. They named the dog Bambi (the chihuahua mutt thing). Bambi was (is) obsessed with Carol. Unfortunately, Bambi was also obsessed with killing the chickens that lived in Carol’s neighbors barn. Why did I offer to take Bambi? The Pomeranian looks like a chicken. I do like Bambi best but only when she is not having digestive issues. Which is fucking often. Our gas bill has this little section for notes. The note says ‘bad dogs’. Apparently they have come to read our meter.

We did briefly have another cat. I actually even liked him a little bit. Henry kept showing up at our door every day. I am positive this has nothing to do with the fact that the husband set out food and water for him. Henry was cool. He would climb up our screen door and meow until someone went out to pet him and give him a little loving. In he moved. A few years later, Henry contracted a urinary tract infection. After a visit to the vet and some medication, we thought the problem was under control. We were wrong.

It was a perfect pool day; hot as hell and not a cloud in the sky. My Asian friend had taken the day off and we planned to relax with a few adult beverages. The kids were still in school for a few more weeks and the husbands were at work. I hastily cleaned the house and went to the grocery store. I started unloading the groceries so I could put ice in the cooler and retreat to the serenity of my happy place. Henry was laying on the rug between my garage door and my kitchen- sort of a small mud room area. I did not think much of it as I stepped over him while bringing in the groceries. Until I stepped over him for the umpteenth time without him moving.

I can’t lie. I was pissed. The poor dead cat was going to ruin my pool day. I called the husband to ask what I should do. He told me to put him in a trash bag and he and the kids would bury him after he got home from work. Henry was a large cat. And he was dead. I was not about to try to put a dead cat in a fucking trash bag. I called the Asian to explain my predicament and asked her ETA.

“Within the hour,” she promised. “Just wait for me and I’ll help.”

Okay. So now what? I closed both doors and got in the pool. With a beer, of course.

The Asian arrived and we (she) managed to secure the poor animal in the trash bag. And then got back into the pool. With a few more beers, of course.

Easily one of my worst parenting moments ever. The daughter came home from school first. I met her inside to tell her about Henry’s terrible misfortune. She burst into tears.

Thankfully, the husband showed up not long after that. The Asian’s husband came over as well and the two of them and all the kids buried Henry in the backyard. While the Asian and I watched from the pool.

By the way, I know I misspelled ‘write’. It’s a fucking pun.

Socks and Fucking Hangers

So it has been more than five years since I have written a post.  I reread all of my previous posts to get myself up to date on all the shit that happened to me in the year 2013.  Wow.  So many things have changed.  And so many thing have not changed at all. And I don’t know how to fucking feel about that!

I still hate Christmas (it was recent so I thought I’d throw that in there)! I am still recovering. I earned my Bachelor’s Degree (can’t find a job that pays me more than I make serving and tending bar).  I upgraded the car and my house (of course there’s a story for each–several for the house).  The lovely children are now a 14 year old teenager/woman/diva/drama queen(fuck my life ), 18 year old stud (he’s still my favorite), and the 21 year old on probation (who won’t move the fuck out)!

I have three tiny dogs now (story for each of the non-Pomeranian).¬† Only killed one cat.¬† I have a new PYT (I refuse to define that.¬† If you don’t know stop reading).¬† I finally made it to an I phone 7 (but am currently using my old I phone 5 that took a swim because Sprint and Apple both collectively suck ass).

I went on Zoloft.  I got off of Zoloft.  I still like my husband some days.  I stopped running because I didn’t gain too much weight and I never quit smoking. (Hence the Zoloft cause I started freaking out that I was going to die because I passed 40).  Oh, I turned 40.  Something.  I inherited a bunch of money.  I blew a bunch of money.  I had a much too long fling with a casino.  Or two.  My sister and her douchebag husband moved to Florida.  He’s still a douchebag but finally had ONE non douchebag moment.

I got hearing aids.¬† But won’t wear them. We upgraded our white trash pool and lovingly refer to the new one as the drunk tank. I stopped playing Words with Friends but still drink too much Bass pale ale. And I still consistently lose socks and fucking hangers.

Glade Plug-ins are a cock block

Someone once told me my house smelled like a Jolly Rancher.¬† I remember it well.¬† Let me clarify; my memory is like my hearing.¬† Very selective.¬† I remember someone once¬†telling me I walk like I have a board up my ass, I remember someone telling me that when I talk my mouth moves like I’ve done several lines of cocaine (What?? Thanks!)¬† And who could forget the brother-in-law who told me the caloric content of iced cappuccinos from Tim Horton’s.¬† Dick.¬† Beyond that, I can recall bits and pieces of whatever the fuck I choose apparently- or whatever my sister deems really happened.¬† She, of course, remembers swimming out of the birth canal.¬† But the Jolly Rancher compliment??¬† It always makes me smile.

I have always had a candle fetish.  I like potpourri and incense and cinnamon and tend to impulse buy any new contraption promising to deliver strong scents.  Gone are the days of candles alone!  Wax melts? Scentsy? Wallflowers?  Oil warmers? Febreeze Noticeables? Glade Plug-ins?  Yep, I have them all.  And God forbid when I find a scent I like.  Then I must purchase the spray, the designer one-touch spray dispenser, the decorative things that look like gel, the melting candle cubes, and whatever else I have a coupon for.  I am sure I would give the marketing director at Glade wet dreams.  I wish I could say the same!

The husband does not bitch about much concerning the interior of the house.  Not that he can.  It is an unspoken agreement that it is my domain.  He does not complain about the quantity of candles I purchase; nor does he give me shit about how much money I spend.  Not the he knows.  Another unspoken domain.  But he does not (physically) pay the bills and definitely does not (physically) clean the house.  So we are both happy.  Except for the electrical outlets that I whore out to all my little smell good friends.

We have three kids and a dog.¬† I do not want my house to smell like we have three kids and a dog.¬† Therefore, I keep the 16-year-old’s door shut, a three wick candle (or three) in the kitchen, and random plug-ins throughout the house.¬† I strive to be accommodating.¬† I make sure I leave one attainable electrical outlet near each of our end tables to allow the husband easy access to our ever disappearing phone chargers.¬† He still gets angry.¬† Apparently it is a fucking inconvenience to reach BELOW my plug in and use the other outlet.¬† Of course, this is only when he is sitting on a certain part of the couch.¬† If the charger is plugged into the bottom outlet, it does not quite reach past the arm of the couch which causes the husband to have to tilt his head slightly to the left.¬† Which apparently hurts his fucking neck.¬† If I move the plug in to the bottom outlet,¬†¬†this hinders his ability to smoke a cigarette¬†in the garage while using his charging phone.¬† This also¬†causes¬†him to have to more pronouncedly tilt his head.¬† Yes- I realize that a longer cord for the charger might solve this issue, but

1.  I REFUSE to buy anymore fucking chargers.  We have had seven I-phones in the past year and I still have purchased three new chargers; two of which we have left that the five of us fight over daily.

2.  It would still piss him off.  Like he mistakenly believes that the electrical outlets are his domain.

My solution?  Charge your fucking phone before you use it.  The husband charges his phone like he puts gas in his car; only when it is below empty  or at two percent.

So tonight the husband moved my plug in to another outlet.  When I noticed, I moved it back.  I figured one of the kids had moved it.  Nope.  So we argued about it for a few minutes.  I tried to rationalize.  I pointed out the fact he still had an available outlet but made the mistake of pointing out the laziness I associate with his lack of understanding.  I know it was a silly argument.  No matter.  He is in bed and I am on the couch enjoying my last Bass.  I will meander upstairs eventually; but I am sleeping with my clothes on tonight.







i fucking hate christmas(and people who won’t call it Christmas)

I am in a pissy mood.¬† I don’t necessarily have a reason either.¬† Sometimes, I like to think that because I have not had a period for the last 17 years that grants me pms days whenever the fuck I feel like it.¬† What set me off? I had just finished making dinner and my daughter grabbed a can of soda from the fridge.¬† She asked if she could pour it in¬†a glass.¬† Let me explain.¬† I empty the dishwasher almost as much as I do laundry.¬† I fucking hate it.¬† While I was making dinner, I realized¬†that the dishwasher had reached its maximum capacity.¬† However, I pride myself on my dish loading skills.¬† The husband wholly believes I should never have to load or unload the dishwasher.¬† We have three kids for Christ’s sake.¬† I agree.¬† But they, like him, tend to fuck shit up so they do not have to do it again.¬† No one in my household understands the concept of rinsing off debris from plates before stacking them in the dishwasher.

“What’s the point of washing the dishes before we wash them?”

I refuse to buy Cascade Complete.¬† Too fucking expensive.¬† I do, however, buy Cascade.¬† The off brands don’t seem to work as well.¬† Have you ever bought a generic magic eraser? Yeah- not the same.

So I questioned why the daughter needed a glass when she usually drinks soda straight from the can because the dishwasher was already full and the husband had just brought in 6 tumblers from his car that he toted his coffee to work in for the week.  Because God Forbid anyone(the husband) in my house uses anything(a  travelling coffee mug) for anything it was meant to be used for.

The husband gave me shit for giving my daughter shit (yeah- he understands) so I fell silent.  Because I am passive aggressive.  My best friend chose the next moment to call me, when I had already fast forwarded to all the reasons my life sucks right now; including but not limited to the fact that I need a vacation yet my husband gets motorcycles.

“Why did you call me?” I asked her.¬† Her turn.¬† She fell silent.

I tried to explain that she called in the middle of one of my “I’d probably be pms’ing if I had a period,” moments.¬† (God love Mirena!!)

I¬†tried to assure her that it was NOT because she had told me a few hours earlier that she had most of her Christmas shopping done.¬† She has three kids too.¬† But they don’t count.¬† Because they are young and not demanding.¬† Her husband, on the other hand…

I am Jewish.¬† I do not like Christmas.¬† I grew up celebrating Chanukah (pick your own spelling!)¬† I never had the visceral experience of running down the stairs on Christmas morning and tearing into present upon present that Santa had delivered under an adorned Christmas tree.¬† Nope-Jews drag that shit out.¬† Over 8 days.¬† One year, before my daughter was born, the husband’s best friend gave each of our boys $100.¬† He gave kid #1 a hundred one dollar bills.¬† He gave kid #2 one $100 bill.¬† Kid #2 freaked the fuck out because he thought his brother received more money than he did!¬† Yup, sums up my thoughts on Christmas!

Two years ago, I asked the kids what they had gotten for Christmas the year before.¬† Not one of them could remember.¬† I told the husband, “No more! We are only buying them large, tangible gifts!”

And yet, I still find myself shopping Christmas Eve every year because we do not think we have bought them enough.

Another reason I hate Christmas?¬† Because my birthday is in December.¬† What a bunch of shit!¬† Every year I pray for cash.¬† So I can buy my ungrateful kids MORE presents.¬† Christmas music?? Pshaw.¬† Unless it is “Please come home for Christmas” by Bing Crosby.¬† The only Christmas song I love.

I am currently trying to arrange a Christmas get together for all of my high school friends and our kids.  Mainly because one of our friends works for Bath and Body works and I want to solicit her for discounted gift certificates.  Not necessarily for gifts; my candle infatuation is quite ridiculous.  But it makes a good cover.

“Just ask her! She’ll understand- she’s Jewish too!” my best friend said when I told her my plan.

She isn’t really.¬† She may have married a Jew but deep down she is as Jewish as I am.¬† Which boils down to CHEAP.

My other best friend agreed with I’ve-¬†got- my- shopping- done best friend.

She has five kids- twins and triplets.  And I hate Christmas more?

I do, however, LOVE Thanksgiving!!

My white trash love story

I love summer.  I love the heat.  I love laying out.  I love the pool and the grill and my cheap above ground plastic pool.  I just turned to the husband to confirm the pool is plastic.  I guess it is vinyl.  Whatever.  It fits a few inflatable lounge chairs(equipped with cup holders) and a floating beer cooler the husband purchased this year.  Kid #1 found himself in trouble quite often this summer.  I found myself a very capable pool boy.( Having a man-child with ADD does have its advantages!)

This marked the first year the husband actually enjoyed the pool.  Probably because he bought the floating cooler negating the need to physically retrieve beer from anywhere other than right in front of his face.  It also marked the first year I enjoyed him being in the pool with me.  Probably because he bought the cooler ON SALE.

The husband does not generally buy stuff on sale.  I swear if he was ever subjected to the sheer agony of walking into a department store to purchase his own pair of jeans the outcome would be predictable.  There would be two pairs of the exact same jeans hanging in front of him.  One would be marked $20.00.  The other would be tagged $40.00.  He would do some simple math in his head and pick the $40.00 pair because they would be better quality.  Even if they were the exact same pair.  (Hey-he knew I was Jewish when he married me!)

The husband works outside.  In August we had a week of real scorchers.  He would come home, occasionally I would feed the kids, and then we would retreat to the pool with a 12-pack.  Or more.  And stay there.

One evening, the sun was going down and the rays were hidden behind one of our three ugly pine trees.  But we still had a few beers left.  The husband fell silent for a few minutes while gazing into the field behind our backyard.  I closed my eyes and aimlessly floated with a Bass in my hand until he abruptly interrupted my quiet moment of bliss.

“Baby, if that pine wasn’t in the way we could get another hour of sun,” he declared, climbing out of his lounge chair.

I giggled, silently pleased he was getting OUT of the pool to pee.  And then I heard the chainsaw.

Maybe I should have been concerned that the husband chose to operate a dangerous piece of equipment 8 beers in.  Maybe I should have considered the ramifications of him chopping down a tree that directly affects the amount of sunlight that filters directly through the window in front of our kitchen table.  Maybe I should have been worried about what the neighbors thought as the tree brushed against the power lines on its way down.

Nope.  We had one more hour of sunshine! (And no power!)

The ironic part of the story is that my husband is a lineman.  Thankfully, he works for a different power company than the one that supplies our electricity.  Thankfully, that power company is less than a mile from our house.

The trouble truck pulled into the rocky road between our house and the neighbor’s.¬† (We have about an acre.)¬† The husband, back in the pool, starts shooting the shit with the guys sent out to fix the problem.¬† They’re talking back and forth while I’m still floating¬†in the pool.

“You think I should put my bathing suit back on?” I asked the husband.

The pool is now packed away.  Summer is officially over.  Thank God for vitamin D and college football.

Our doorbell sounds fucking stupid

I hate clichés. I hate them even more when they turn out to be true. Or apply to me. Paybacks are hell. That would be an apt description of my summer with my 16-year old, kid #1. The husband and I have been tried on all levels. We have caught him smoking pot, lying about smoking pot, influencing his TWELVE year old brother to smoke pot, and stealing our car. Actually, the police caught him stealing our car. I am deaf in my left ear and like to drink beer. The husband likes to drink beer. This apparently inhibits our ability to be awakened in our solid state of slumber regardless of numerous incoming calls to both of our cell phones and even our home phone(yes, we have a landline!)
So the cops ring the doorbell. Let me explain our doorbell. Our doorbell broke. The husband replaced it. With the WORST doorbell ever. It kind of resembles church bells and sounds exactly like the alarm he sets on our computer every night. His alarm goes off at 5:00 am. Then 5:15. Then 5:30. I hate my husband most mornings.
So said night of kid stealing car and neither kid nor cops able to get a hold of the husband or I on cell phone or landline, the church bells go off at 2:30 am. The husband gets up and tries to shut off computer. He mistakenly thinks he needs to get ready for work. Church bells go off again and he realizes it is not the alarm. The he throws on a pair of shorts and goes downstairs. At this point, I am still discombobulated. Not for long.
The husband answers the door and the cops ask if he is missing a car. Husband looks into driveway.
“Why yes, sir, I am”.
“Are you missing a kid?”
And kid #1 walks out of the back of the cruiser. The husband was tired and I am not sure of the exact exchange. The police handed him a plastic bag with kid #1’s belongings, including but not limited to our keys, his phone, some screens, a bowl, and some marijuana. The car, our Saab, see My husband and his beaterPermalink:, sat parked in front of kid #1’s friend’s house awaiting our retrieval. At 2:30 in the morning. When the husband has to leave for work at 6:00 am. We sat at the kitchen table trying to wake up and soaking up the severity and the sheer luck of the situation that had just transpired. We knew we had to leave and pick up the Saab. Meanwhile, kid #1 walks upstairs. With the bag. Including his pot.
“Did he just walk upstairs with that bag??” I asked the husband.
Yes. Yes, he had. The husband corrected that situation immediately. And then we begrudgingly left the house to pick up the car.
Okay. A couple of thoughts here.
#1. I am still unsure of how I feel about the cop sending the kid home with drugs. Don’t they pour them out or something? On the other hand, Kid #1 does not even have his license. I am relatively sure it would have cost an arm and a leg to try to get him out of the numerous tickets he could have been issued. No ops? Possession of drugs? Drug paraphernalia? Curfew? He (WE!!!) is lucky. Almost too lucky. What is the lesson learned here?
#2. The husband and I are guilty of every infraction that Kid #1 got busted for. BUT that was more than 20 years ago. And we never got caught.
Sigh. It fucking sucks being a parent sometimes!! There is more to this story but I’ll save it for next time. I hope you appreciate my hiatus. Because I fucking hated it.

2 big bottles of Jergens for Christmas…

I love my kids. Most of the time. This past year has been trying. My daughter, kid #3, is hitting puberty WAY too early. I never should have allowed her unrestricted access to her massive consumptions of milk. Yesterday she asked me for a bandaid to cover a zit sprouting in the corner of her nose. She’s 9. WTF?
My 12 year old boy appears to be the most even out of the trio. Kid #2 performs well in school, generally does his homework, and wrestles. He has a great sense of humor. During his off season last year, he took Taekwondo with kid #3. When it came time to graduate from white belt to yellow belt, they both were expected to pass a test that included kicking a board in half. He was very proud. While I was upstairs putting laundry away one day shortly after, I overheard him bragging to his brother’s friend that he broke the board. The kid scoffed, “I’m a yellow belt too! It wasn’t that hard…I broke the board too”.
Kid #2’s response?
“Yeah, but did you break it with your penis?”
And then there is my 16 year old. Full fledged teenager. Full fledged hormones. The reason I hardly posted in April. The reason gray hairs pepper the husband’s goatee. The reason stress hives dot my wrists.
Kid #1 is a sophomore. He frowns upon organized sports. He bitches about cleaning his room and searches the internet for insightful essays he can post on Facebook about why cleaning your room is unimportant instead of completing his homework. Of course, I only see what he wants me to see on his Facebook page. He has not yet deleted me, but we assume a limited friendship. He thinks he can outsmart me. Back when he was young and untainted, he befriended several of my friends. He forgot to limit some of said friends. (Thanks SD!!)
One day last year, Kid #1 ‘forgot’ to turn in 7 assignments and brought home an F on a progress report. His punishment? Leave your Iphone on the table. I had an unexpected day off and began cleaning house. While I Windexed the counter, his phone vibrated and a text message popped up. I called the husband to tell him I thought kid #1 was smoking pot.
“Why do you think that?” the husband implored.
“Because he just got a text message asking if he wanted to smoke some pot after school,” I replied.
Now, the husband nor I were angels when we were in high school. Parenting 101 fails to explain the proper method of dealing with situations you once created for your own parents. Yes, paybacks are hell.
Fast forward a few months to a typical evening at the dinner table. A friend of the husband’s had temporarily moved into our basement. Kid #2 was at a friends house. My daughter, blissfully unaware, sat innocently devouring her grilled chicken. Kid #1 declares he wants a lock for his bedroom door.
I immediately tensed my shoulders, envisioning incense and hookah bowls. (I did not find either of those until a month ago).
“Why do you need a lock on your door? You don’t need a lock on your door!” I quickly countered.
“Well,” he cleared his throat, “You know how I like your lotion?”
Silence. I had repeatedly found bottles of my lotion, sometimes scented; other times fragrance-free, littering his nightstand or computer table. Did I really naively believe he was replenishing his dehydrated elbows?
The husband and his friend fell silent, too. Briefly. Then erupted into fits of laughter. I do not know what the husband found funnier; the fact that his kid just told us he likes to jack off or the fact that I was rendered speechless. A fucking first.
I finally gained my composure and waited for the boys to stop laughing.
“Why don’t I just buy you some KY?” I asked Kid #1, trying to make his comfort level match my own. No shame.
“Nah- I’m kind of a dry guy, ” he boldly replied, much to my horror.
I bought him a lock the next day.

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