Me, uncensored.
I often hear my fellow moms say they just want to go to the bathroom alone—that they want some privacy when nature calls. Honestly, I can’t really relate to this predicament at all. I’ve never had that wish.
Because I’ve never gone to the bathroom alone. Not in my entire life.
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I haven’t been camping in over a decade. Wanna know why? Because I hate it. I fucking hate it.
I guess I didn’t always find camping so detestable. I spent my summers in high school working as a counselor at a campground outside of Yosemite. Three full months of that camping shit. In college, I used to personally initiate camping trips on the weekends and during breaks—pitching a tent, hiking, fishing, cooking up my catch—all that crap. Even in my early married years, I actually enjoyed camping as a leisurely activity.
Me, as a camp counselor. Of course that dirty hippy loved camping. Of course she did.
But now? Camping is dead to me.
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When you live with anxiety, it can be difficult to distinguish between the symptoms of the condition and all of the bullshit going on around you. I frequently occasionally find myself asking, “Is this person being a jackass—or am I irritated because of my anxiety disorder?” (Sometimes it’s a tough call.)
Combine anxiety with depression, and those two jerks regularly have me paralyzed, wanting to complete a task but lacking the required energy. Unable to string together coherent thoughts. Unable to approach normal social situations with any grace (if I even make it out the door at all). Unable to function in the afternoon. Well, except binge-watching Netflix. I can always do that.
But sometimes, just sometimes, anxiety isn’t a complete asshole.
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We recently adopted quite possibly the most adorable puppy ever. On doggy death row because of several birth defects, Scooter has a difficult time walking straight and frequently stumbles around like a drunk. (No comparisons to me, thankyouverymuch.) But he’s a total sweetie, not in any pain, and a lovely companion.
And, OMG, LOOK AT THAT FACE.
Scooter keeps me company in the dining room where I write in a makeshift office space at the table. But the slippery wood floors are a bit tough for him to walk on. When he’s not on the area rug under the table, he often falls on his face. And his butt. And all over the place. (Again, no need for comparisons to yours truly.)
Anyhow, I decided to move my office downstairs to the basement, which is carpeted. The carpeting would make it easier for him to get around and to wrestle with our other dog, which would be great physical therapy.
So I gathered up my supplies from the dining room and brought the first load downstairs. I threw away moved my children’s art supplies from the desk-turned-craft-table, reclaimed it as my own, and started setting up my new writing station when I heard my husband’s frantic voice booming from upstairs, “YOU BETTER STAY OUT OF THE KITCHEN!”
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“Bacon is my favorite long food!” At age three, my son gifted me one of my proudest mommy moments:
My child could properly categorize food, and he appreciated one of the most magical flavors in the world.
Not that I’m biased, but bacon really is the best long food. And flat food. And able-to-be-crumbled food. I’ve been known to mix it with nuts. Put it in pancakes. And create an entire dinner party menu in which every single dish—from appetizers to dessert—includes bacon.
To celebrate my son’s newfound enthusiasm for cured pork and to support his insatiable bandage habit (he goes through approximately 20,000 each week), I purchased a shit-ton of, you guessed it, bacon bandages.
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As much as I’d love to cook with the expertise of Julia Childs or throw a party with the casual ease of the Barefoot Contessa, I’ve resigned myself to the sad truth that I will never be a domestic goddess.
In fact, quite frankly, I have a long history of fucking up things. [Read more…]
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I recently attended a writer’s conference in Dayton, Ohio. One of the biggest perks of these type of conferences is that you get to spend time drinking networking with your online writing friends in real life. People you otherwise would not meet in-person.
I shared a hotel room with Lola Lolita, and along with Sassypiehole (just call her Sassy—that’s what I do), we attempted to drink all of the wine in the entire city of Dayton. Three days in a row. Fortunately we never passed stage 4 on the scale of drunkenness.
On the last night of the conference, in denial that my time with my friends would be coming to an end, Lola and I held sweet Charlotte hostage in our hotel room, while Quirky Chrissy ordered pizza and breadsticks and poured wine for everyone. (God bless her.)
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Not to be dramatic or anything, but I almost died last week. Like, I couldn’t walk or talk or even move beyond (barely) breathing. I did cry a lot though. And my insides melted into the mattress as my body tried to incinerate itself with a very high fever. I picked up this nasty bug—named the Erma Flu—at a writer’s conference the week before. And it KICKED. MY. ASS.
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“Mom, something’s wrong with the Goldfish crackers you gave me.”
My notoriously picky daughter often complains about things being “off” or “bad” when there’s absolutely nothing wrong with them.
So, I didn’t believe her. “What? I bought the cheddar ones, not the plain ones. Or the multi-grain ones. Or, God forbid, the multi-colored ones that you hate. They’re the good ole-fashioned highly-processed Goldfish crackers that you love.”
“No,” she argued. “There’s something really wrong with them.”
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Remember the good ole days when you could send your child to the computer or television to play a video game instead of parenting as a reward for good behavior?
Well, straightforward video games just don’t exist anymore. You can’t just make a single purchase and let your children play until their eyes bleed for thirty minutes. Activision, Disney, Lego, and other video game companies have turned a simple babysitter activity into a parental torture system designed to steal our money, sanity, and souls.
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