A Post That Spent Four Months In DRAFT Form.

NOTE:  Yes, the date of this post says December 31, 2011. That's when I started writing it. I set it aside for a long time, not sure I wanted to put it out there, because it's pretty angry. I revisited the draft periodically, adding and subtracting and debating whether or not to post it.

It's now mid-April, and I'm still not sure I've made the right decision, but something happened that will surely interest my longtime readers.



I don't mean to sound douchey, but Uncle Prickly's sudden passing was incredibly inconvenient, as it coincided not only with my parents' visit, but also with the BlackBookBerry Writers' Retreat - a commitment I'd made months earlier, and that I was not going to miss. I only found out a week or two before my parents' arrival that they were planning to be here for Tito's birthday. Sidebar: Tito just turned NINE, btw, can ya believe? That means Pie is ten, and Beeb is almost fifteen.

I was at the writers' thing the entire day while R took the kids to Uncle Prickly's visitation.  MIL and FIL were there (Uncle Prickly, as you might recall, was married to MIL's sister, Aunt Huggy), and FIL was, according to Beebie, his usual self. Beeb gave me the details to the best of her recollection, and based on what she told me, I'm now going to give you the conversation that took place in the funeral home, as I've envisioned it. I make no claims to its accuracy, but the one line that I'm pretty sure is a direct quote (according to all three Apes), well, shit, I don't want to spoil it for you. Trust me. You'll know it when you see it.

Room full of mourners. Uncle Prickly's ashes in a lovely urn, next to a picture of him looking youthfully dashing in his Navy uniform.

I don't know how they got onto the subject, but somehow it came out that my parents were in town.

FIL:  Are they staying with you, then, I assume?
R:  Actually, no. They don't stay with us when they're in town.
FIL:  Well, good. Because if they did, I'd be extremely offended... since MIL and I haven't been invited over to your house since we helped you move in.

(Note: This was nearly five years ago. And also, that's exactly how I want it.)

R:  Well, Sarah and I don't really have people over much.
FIL: Whatever. So, are you going to go and socialize here at this visitation thing?
R: I'm not really comfortable doing that. I'm not much of a social person.
FIL: You never have people over and you don't know how to socialize? You're going to raise antisocial children, y'know.
MIL: Oh, Sarah's so social and outgoing, she kinda makes up for R's introvertedness. The kids aren't antisocial.
R:  The thing is, Dad, we're not great housekeepers, and Sarah's afraid that you'd judge her.

(I'm gonna ask you to brace yourselves for what FIL said next.)

FIL:  (scoffs)  When have I EVER judged Sarah?

(G'head.  Read that shit again.)

R:  Well, I think Sarah sometimes feels judged by you.

(We'll come back to that line, too.)

So, I got all of this information from Beebie (who, bless her heart, was right there with R for all of it - that's right, this entire conversation took place in front of my children) when I called to check in while driving home from the writing thing.  And I came absolutely unglued.

WHAT THE MOTHERFUCKING FUCK?!!?  When have I EVER judged Sarah? I was shattered.  Levelled to the ground.  When has he ever NOT judged me? I drove home, let the dog out, and cried myself into a seething migraine because I suddenly felt the reality that the last fifteen years of making myself sick and crazy trying to appease this man has been for nothing, and he will never change... because he clearly doesn't see any need to.

I have done everything I can think to do - for fifteen years - just to get along with FIL. This has been well-documented in this blog since I started writing it. I've attempted to change my mentality from bitter to compassionate. I have tried to not let him get to me. I have tried to forgive and to understand. I have tried to focus on positive things. Tried to find blogworthy moments.

Even as recently as the Saturday before Thanksgiving, I focused my energy into initiating and maintaining pleasant conversation with him, attempting to anticipate all of the things he could possibly criticize. And, as I wrote in my most recent post, FIL still found a way to needle me. And now, I am 100% convinced that FIL will never, ever change. I am convinced that nothing I do - no matter how hard I try - will awaken him to the fact that he is a completely insensitive asshole.

That's pretty much what I've been doing for the last 15 years, folks. Taking his shit so that he doesn't take it out on R or on MIL or, God forbid, on my kids. Why do I go out there? Certainly not because I can't wait to see his happy smiling face and get my fill of love and encouragement.

No. I go because I don't want to put R in the position where he has to explain why I can't stand going out there. I go because if I didn't, FIL would be a dick to R and to my kids, and he'd snark on me when I'm not there to defend myself. He'd take it out on MIL, too. I have to say, though, I'm losing my sympathy for her.

Why do I sacrifice my own sanity and self-worth for the good of everyone else when it's clearly to my own detriment? Do I really want to teach my children that it's perfectly acceptable to allow myself to be treated this way? Do I want them to learn that bullies get to do whatever they want? 

I refuse to believe that the right, noble and virtuous thing to do is, without exception, the one thing that will make you the most miserable. I refuse to believe that that's what God wants for us. I refuse to accept that wanting to be happy is inherently selfish and wrong. I reject the notion that we are called into a life of avoiding our own happiness.

Perhaps I'm not praying hard enough for God to soften FIL's heart of stone. Hell, share some responsibility in this, friends... maybe Y'ALL aren't praying hard enough for ME. 

I'm kidding, of course, but let me ask you something. How do you pray harder? Do you scrunch up your eyes supertight until you give yourself a headache? Do you crank your inside-your-head voice up to 11? Do you yell your prayers out loud as though maybe God didn't hear you?

Or do you say, "Ok, God, I'm not really feeling that this is what you want for me. Please give me some clear direction, and patience while I'm waiting to see it."

And you know what else? Don't get me started on the God thing. I gave up my own beliefs about who God is and what He's about when I converted to Catholicism (for R, but really, for FIL) when we got married. At the time, I didn't realize that that meant I would be expected to teach my children to believe things that I personally do not believe. It's a battle I lost a long time ago, and the one I most regret not fighting harder from the beginning. I feel like I gave up - and continue to give up - a part of myself.

I grew up as the daughter of an Episcopalian minister and went to church regularly most of my life. Now we're pretty much on the Catholic Minimal Obligation Easter/Christmas plan. It's not that I don't want to go more often, I actually would like to go more often, to a Protestant church. But it's not worth a fight, so I shut up and take the boys to and from PSR (which, I'll remind you, costs over $300 a year) every Monday night and tell them to direct their religious questions to R.

I've realized that the motivation behind my actions isn't love. It's fear of what will happen if I don't. I've lived my live in Prevention Mode for far too long, my friends.

Y'all know FIL wouldn't have said shit about not being invited to my house to ME. He saves his bitching for R. FIL doesn't let me see him tearing R apart and putting R in the unfortunate position of having to choose where his loyalty will go. By saying "I think Sarah feels that you judge her sometimes", R made me feel as though the fact that FIL judges me is entirely in my head. Tell me there's not a world of difference between saying:

"Dad, Sarah feels as though you judge her, and quite honestly, I feel it, too. You really kinda do say negative things about her - and me - that would make any normal human being feel inadequate. Which is pretty much the definition of Judging Someone..."

and "It's Sarah's perception - and I don't necessarily agree - that you judge her sometimes. Isn't that just silly?"

To be clear (and in fairness to R), I should point out that I wasn't there and so I obviously don't know for absolute certain what R's exact words were, but that's how the story was told to me, and that's how the story I heard made me feel.

Now, I'm in no way suggesting that I'm the only one who experiences FIL this way. Everyone does. And to me, that means that everyone should be free to deal with him in whatever way they want to. I don't care how other people deal with him. No one's ever told FIL to go fuck himself, to my knowledge. But I get closer and closer to it all the time.

And again, because I'm truly trying to be fair, I can't say that there's been zero improvement over the years. Some visits (the majority, even) have gone tolerably well, some have gone unexpectedly well, and some, like the time the Aldi's idiot dog dropped a steaming pile of shit on FIL's immaculate white carpet will go down in Karma history as the shit of legend. If you haven't read that one, you simply must. And even if you have, read it again and be reminded of why you ever started reading this blog in the first place. It's one of my all-time favorites.

And if you happen to be new to my blog, welcome! Leave a comment and say hi!

But the point is, you never know. And that's not cool. Just because the last four or five visits have gone well, that's never a guarantee that the next one won't be epic fucking drama. I think it's fair to say that there has not been an improvement that even remotely reflects A) the effort that I've put in, or B) the fifteen years that have passed since the first time he judged me, which was right after the first time he met me.  He told R, "Looks like she's already got her hooks into you."

Nice, right? Little did I know I would spend the next fifteen years trying to better his opinion of me, eventually learning that accomplishing that goal would be nigh to impossible. Yes, I think it improved somewhat after a decade or so, mainly because his other daughter-in-law Mrs. Aldi is a way bigger idiot than I am, but he has never stopped criticizing me. Because NO ONE is good enough for him.

The further point is that not once have I driven out to their house in joyful anticipation of what fun awaited us. No. My self-talk (and, as the kids grew older, my out-loud talk) is always, "Maybe it won't be too bad this time." I have never, ever ridden out there without experiencing the diarrhea gurgle in the tummy - you know, the one you might feel after having washed a sack of White Castles down with cheap beer - and you spend the next few uncomfortable hours wondering whether or not you'll make it to the crapper before your colon unloads... and the odds are, at best, 50/50?
Talk about a crapshoot.

Seriously, folks, I'm open to suggestions. What more could I possibly be doing to improve my relationship with FIL? I'm paying a therapist to help me deal with how I react to him. Is he paying someone to help him become more patient and understanding? If he's not going to put anything into his own improvement - and why would he? He's not doing anything wrong! - then why am I making myself crazy trying to meet his impossible standards?

So I get home and tell R that I heard Nat's vivid description of the visitation, and he says, "It's my issue to deal with."  No, it's really not. I'm dealing with it too, and so are the kids who have witnessed him berating me (and R, and MIL, and Aldigirl, and everyone) countless times, and me turning the other cheek until we identify the appropriate opportunity to make a polite exit. And then on the drive to our house, my children get to see their mother's dam break - flooding the vehicle and its passengers with all that she'd been holding in - until she collapses into a snivelling mass of ineptitude.

I still can not believe that FIL denied ever having judged me, in front of three kids who have seen their mother hurt by him for as long as they can remember.

Paula Deen and the Pointless Pursuit of Perfection (subtitle: Christmas with the Inlaws)

If you've ever worked retail, or even if you've shopped at any retail location between Halloween and December 26th, you know that Holiday Season lasts for about two full months. And I should just start by admitting that I'm one of those people that says Happy Holidays to everyone, unless I know for absolute certain that you celebrate Christmas. I remember disctinctly one Christmas when I worked at The Gap and the managers sat us all down and told us that we weren't allowed to say Merry Christmas anymore. "Have a nice holiday" was the preferred valediction during December. Seemed reasonable, all-encompassing and sensitive to all faiths and non-faiths, so whatever. That's I started saying Holiday instead of Christmas. Nearly twenty years ago.

This year, I've felt an alarming backlash of people who are insisting on the Merry Christmas over the Happy Holidays. And some people are really kinda ugly about it.  Did you hear about the teacher that got in trouble for changing the words to Deck The Halls because kids were giggling at the word "gay"? Presumably trying to maintain order, she changed it to "bright", and parents were all up in arms about it. Jeez. Well, ummm... maybe you should teach your idiot children that the word "gay" isn't funny, assholes.

At FoodHole we got a nastygram scrawled in scraggly old lady penmanship that said "Shame on you, FoodHole! It's MERRY CHRISTMAS, not HAPPY HOLIDAYS!" What a crabass. In fairness, it was kinda stupid that FoodHole put up a gigantic sign that said Fresh-Cut Holiday Trees when the only tree-centered holiday I know of is Christmas. Eventually FoodHole fixed the signage to say Christmas Trees. Still, I kinda think that Christmas brings out the worst in some people. Why ya gotta git yer grannypannies all up in a knot? Ya got nuthin better to do? Seems kinda Grinchy to hate on the way people wish each other a pleasant Late December.

For me, December 26th does not offer me the chance to uncoil and exhale. For me, the Holiday stress usually continues for a few more days. My parents arrive tomorrow, and then Tito's birthday is on the 29th. This little monkey - who my longtime readers might remember took forever to potty train - is turning NINE.



My little teeny Tito. I can't believe it. The annual reminders of the constant passing of time make me feel so sad and old. But I'm also glad I had this blog going then, to document my good days and my bad days and the sweet things they did and the crazy things that I still can't believe. Remember the picture of Tito's jelly handprints on Pie's back?





I still can't figure out how. Or why.
Good times.

Anyway, so while most people are in post-Christmas relaxation mode after two months of Christmas pressure, my stress is kicked up a notch. I have to figure out what I'm going to do for Tito's birthday because he just got a whole bunch of cool stuff for Christmas. I have to figure out what we're going to do with my parents while they're here. And I kinda have all of that end-of-the-year stuff to work out, like paying the property tax and getting all the money we have left in our Flex Spending Account. I need new contacts, but my prescription is more than a year old and I probably won't have time to get in for a new exam. I need to get the kids in for eye appointments too, come to think of it. Crap. I've got quite a bit on my mind.

Wanna hear about Karma Christmas?  I know you do.

I'd worked all day on both the 23rd and the 24th and was physically and mentally exhausted on Christmas morning. I kinda auto-piloted myself through the week before Christmas. I got gifts for the boys' regular teachers, TAG teachers (Tito got into the Gifted program this year, which was a really big deal), and PSR teachers, plus I also got a gift card for the nice lady who gave Beeb rides to and from marching band events (Beeb did marching band this year - and yes, she went to Band Camp and yes, she plays the flute). I even knitted gifts for my Secret Santa from work and for Beeb's band directors. I don't know how I did everything. All I can think about is what I didn't get finished. That's just kinda how my brain works.

The Apes were up at 7am, eager to unwrap their gifts. The boys got video games and Nerf guns. Tito got Alien Conquest Legos and Pie got a Nook so he can read The Hunger Games. I got Beeb a silver necklace with a snowflake on it that says "You're one of a kind." I thought it suited her. Her favorite gift was a unicorn Pillow Pet. I got R a Draftmark system. It's pretty cool. Beer is always a tasteful gift, n'est-ce pas?

My favorite part of the entire day was seeing how proud my kids were to give each other gifts that they'd picked out for them and purchased with their own money. I think this is really the first year that they got into giving almost as much as getting. Tito got so excited when everyone opened the gifts that he'd bought. He got Ryan a pocket Nerf gun and Beeb a Glee CD. He got me a rhinestone letter S on a keychain. All of the kids kicked in some money to buy R Batman: Arkham City for the 360.

After the gifts were opened, I got started cooking. MIL had specifically requested that I bring out the Paula Deen Green Bean Casserole that I took out last year. I got most of the ingredients at FoodHole the night before and was ready to put it together Christmas Morning. I had also got R some superfancy expensive bacon to try, so after I cooked it up for breakfast, I sauteed the onions and mushrooms in the bacon grease instead of butter. I thought that was kinda brilliant of me. Paula would applaud my ingenuity.

I don't know if I've ever mentioned it on here, but years ago, when I was brand new to R's family, Aunt Huggy asked me to bring green beans to some massive extended-family event, and it was not adequately explained to me that I would be the only one bringing green beans to feed about thirty people. Honestly, it probably wouldn't have mattered if they'd explained it to me because I can't do that kind of Kitchen Math, but this is why I'm super-sensitive about making sure there's enough for everyone so that I'm not hideously mortified again. So when I poured the Paula Deen bacon fat soaked green beans into my one stoneware casserole dish that is nice enough to take outside the house, and saw that it was just a little more than halfway full, it unleashed a tsunami of emotion. I stood at the stove, sobbing in the green bean casserole and wiping my nose on my pajama sleeve.

I had more beans, but I was out of the chicken broth I needed to boil the fresh green beans in, and I was just sure that FIL would be able to tell which green beans were boiled in the organic chicken broth and which were boiled in water and Aldi chicken boullion cubes. My options were to take a chance and hope that the beans tasted okay when I mixed them in with the ones made with the good ingredients, or to not take enough green beans. It really sucks when every possible choice exposes me to potential criticism.

I know I'm not perfect. I know I don't get it right all the time, and I know that it's unreasonable to expect perfection from myself. More importantly, I know that it's unreasonable for anyone else to expect perfection from me. But don't try to tell me everything will be okay when you and I both know that there's a really strong probability that it won't be. It'll be okay as in no one will suffer as a result of or be negatively affected by my faux pas... except for me. That's not okay. It's about my not wanting there to be any reason for FIL to give me a hard time, even in jest, because I can't promise that I'll take it well.  I'm getting bolder and, with the encouragement of friends and the professional help of TheraPenny, making my own happiness a priority in my life. Finally.

After the Green Bean Breakdown, we got all of the gifts and stuff in R's new car and headed out to Chez Inlaw.  We hadn't even gotten our coats off when the phone rang. It was R's cousin calling to let MIL know that Uncle Prickly (Aunt Huggy's Husband of 50 years) had had a series of strokes and was not expected to survive. It was weird to watch the family deal with such devastating news. There was a mild freak-out moment, which was really more like "Oh. Huh. Wow. That's too bad." and then it was back to the business at hand. Not that there was anything to be done - I certainly didn't expect to pile everyone back in the car and head to the hospital or anything, but still, it was just weird, and it set an odd tone to the day before anything had even started.

We had ham for dinner (which was excellent) and I'm happy to say that the Paula Deen Green Beans were a hit. I was glad that I made more, using the Aldi boullion. Nobody said anything. I've considered that maybe the possibility of being publicly critiqued exists only in my head, but even if that's the case, it's a 100% learned behavior, taught and selectively reinforced by FIL over fifteen years. MIL asked me about how work was going, and I love talking about my job, so I gladly told her about my Outstanding Customer Service Award and how awesome my store is. We've won a bunch of regional awards and and I'm so proud to be a part of such a strong, inspiring team. But FIL quickly steered the conversation back to something else. Typical.

Now for the good stuff, y'all.  The Aldis continued their long-standing tradition of giving oddly inappropriate gifts. They got Pie and Tito a set of Hot Wheels cars, which they're just about too old for, but... meh, whatever. Then it was Beeb's turn to open her gift from the Aldis. She tore off the paper to reveal a pink and magenta striped box from...

wait for it...




Victoria's Secret.

Oh, I thought, there's no way they got her something from Victoria's Secret. She's fourteen. It must just be something they put in a Victoria's Secret box to make it easier to wrap.

No, no.  It was something from Victoria's Secret.  It was one of those Love Pink t-shirts that high school girls wear. Y'know, the ones that Mrs Aldi won't let Aldigirl wear even though she's less than a year younger than Beeb. Mrs Aldi would probably wear one herself, though. With a leather miniskirt. To a wedding. Think I'm kidding? She wore a black leather miniskirt to MY wedding. When she was pregnant.

Ok, so it wasn't like they bought her lingerie, but it was still creepy to think that one of three equally icky things probably happened:

A)  The Aldis intentionally went to Victoria's Secret specifically with Beeb in mind, thinking was the perfect place to find something for their fourteen-year-old niece

B)  The Aldis were at the mall already and thought, shit, we need a gift for Beeb while they happened to be standing in front of Victoria's Secret 

or C)  Mrs Aldi had a coupon and got it free when she bought something for herself. 

I kinda want to know whether the idea to get Beeb a gift from Victoria's Secret entered their minds before or after they got to the mall. But honestly, it really doesn't make a difference, does it?  It's just pretty fucking gross to think that Reverend Aldi wrapped that gift. Please agree with me that this is completely inappropriate and utterly unacceptable. PLEASE. The fact that one of them thought of it and the other didn't talk them out of it freaks. my. shit. out.

After the cousin gifts, MIL and FIL handed out little cardboard boxes that looked like gingerbread houses along with envelopes with money inside. The kiddos opened the envelopes and counted five perfect, crisp $5 bills. Now, normally they give the kids each $100, usually in some clever way. One year, they gave them each $100 in dollar coins inside a wooden treasure chest. That was kinda awesome.

When the kids opened the boxes and found a cupcake inside instead of $75 more, Pie didn't miss a beat, didn't act disappointed, simply said "Meema's cupcakes are better than money!" Then FIL handed the kids each a plate and a fork so they could eat them.  Pie tore into his like he hadn't eaten in days, and a minute or two later FIL stopped him and told him to see if there was anything strange in his mouth. He put his fingers in and pulled out what looked like a little piece of Trident wrapped in foil. Inside the foil was a $100 bill.

Bravo, MIL and FIL.  Well done.

After the cupcake reveal, Tito was wiggling one of his front teeth and it was squicking me out, so I told him to come to me so I could yank it out. I wasn't really going to yank it out; I just wanted to flick it with my finger to see what would happen. But I flicked it and it fell out in his mouth! He gasped in horror and I laughed like a jackass because I must have looked like the worst mother in the world, flicking my child in the face. It was hilarious.

Oh, and ya know what? That reminds me that I forgot to tell you a story. A couple of weeks ago, when R was done with his weekly phone call to his folks, he told me that MIL and FIL had been at a dinner party where FIL slipped on, of all things, a toasted ravioli. And not only did he fall on his face in front of who knows how many people, he also broke off a part of his tooth.

I know I'm a horrible person, but I gotta tell ya, I laughed my motherfucking ass off when I heard that they would have to pull the tooth. I was hoping to see a giant hillbilly-lookin' gap at Christmas, but I didn't, probably because the man never smiles. I did, however, find it rather interesting that we didn't take the family portrait that we pose for every year and that somehow never gets printed.  I've never seen one.

It's not that FIL's opposed to pictures, clearly, because the next part of the day was the old school slide show of MIL and FIL taking Mrs Lexus, Reverend Aldi, and R to Disneyworld when R was two years old. There were some awfully cute pictures or baby R in there, and it was fun to look at them and figure out which Ape looked most like him in that picture. There were pics of Mrs Lexus' birthday parties and the spectacular cakes that MIL made for them. Weird part, though? There's a bizarre lack of smiles in the four rolls of slides. Really, truly bizarre.

So that was Christmas with the inlaws. Remarkably bearable, but profoundly surreal. 

NaNoWriFlections.

Ah, I've missed you, my global fan base!  It's been quite some time, hasn't it?  Let me briefly update you on the goings-on in my life.

I'm still working at Foodhole and very happy there. It's a fantastic fit for me and my kooky personality! Twice as many hours than I got at Squish, $1.50 more per hour, better management, don't have to find a parking spot at the mall, much closer to home - it's a total win. They appreciate the work that I do, and the things that I am naturally good at (such as witty banter and talking about yummy food) are the things that are important there. The only thing that's been tough for me is that the days are longer. At Squish my longest shift was only 5 hours. At Foodhole, it's an 8-hour day. That's been hard to get used to. Working all summer and leaving the kids at home made me feel like a jerk of a mom. The kids didn't complain, though. They walked up to the neighborhood pool most days, and on the days that I was off, we hung out and did goofy stuff when they felt like it, but a lot of the time they just wanted to play video games in their pajamas, which was just fine with me.

In other news, I made an appearance (sorta) in a recent episode of the web comedy series BlackBookBerry. I'm ridiculously proud of a ten-second bit. Check out the show! I've also been collaborating with one of the series' creators on another project that is still in the early scribbling-out-characters-and-a-story stage, but I've had an unprecedented amount of fun working on it and I can't wait to unleash it on the world when the time comes. I'd forgotten how much I enjoy writing for an audience.

Speaking of writing, if you follow me on Facebook, you probably know that I spent the month of November attempting NaNoWriMo. If you're not familiar, it's a challenge to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. I thought I'd give it a try, y'know, since I've got all this time on my hands. I enjoy writing. And I'm actually pretty good at writing witty dialogue. I like to think I have a snappy Kevin Smith style of writing. So, I thought, what the hell, I'll write a 50,000 word novel in a month. I'd never had a deadline or a goal before, other than the ones I imposed on myself (Wookin Pa Nub Wednesdays, for example), but I write my blog just like I'm talking to someone sitting across from me and it would probably take me, what, maybe an hour to say 50,000 words? How hard could it possibly be?

I started out National Novel Writing Month enthusiastic and confident, and after the first week I got so far behind I couldn't get back on pace and I ended up missing the goal by an abysmal 30,000 words. Ugh. Why did I think I could do this? I should have known that writing a novel is not at all like updating my blog (which I only did four times all of last year). In my blog, I just tell you what happened in my life today. It doesn't have to make sense, and, usually, it doesn't. Most of you know enough of my personal backstory that I don't have to go back and fill in many (if any) blanks. I don't have to create characters on my blog. The Aldis are totally, unbeliveably, real, and I couldn't create a villain like FIL if I tried. I don't have to build a plot on a blog. The Swamp Thing Chronicles wrote itself.

P.S., I STILL can't believe that ill-mannered bitch showed up at my front door.

Anyway, I was extremely disappointed that I didn't make the 50K word goal. I know it's not a big deal, I know it doesn't matter to anyone but me, I know nobody thinks I suck at writing because I didn't make it, I know I should be using semicolons now instead of commas, and I know I should be proud of the 20,000 words I wrote. I just hate it when I don't achieve what I so desperately wanted - and fully expected - to achieve, you know? I wrote, without fail, every single day - even when I was bitter and pissed off and couldn't think of a single word to write. And I wasn't even close. I cut the goal in half, thinking it was more realistic for me, and I was still 5000 words away from the halfway point. And at the end of the month, I looked over what I had done, and there were huge chunks of it that I didn't remember writing. That was kinda surreal. Sometimes it was cool because there were funny bits of dialogue that I kinda felt I was reading for the first time. But mostly I felt like I have some sort of personality disorder or that I took too much Lunesta and was doing crazy shit in my sleep.

Why can't I put this whole stupid thing behind me? Why have I internalized it - a full month later - as a complete fail? Why have I been so deeply affected? I think a lot of it was timing. The month of November included two trips to Chez Inlaw in less that one week. And what makes me feel more totally ineffective and worthless as a human being than an afternoon with FIL?

The first trip out to Chez Inlaw that went reasonably well up until the last two minutes. You may recall that every single time I go out there, I draw some sort of criticism which never comes to me directly - it always goes through R. I personally think FIL is afraid of me because he doesn't know what I'll do. He knows what everyone else will do. Everyone else has endured a lifetime under his oppressive rule; I've only had fifteen years. Having grown up in a loving, encouraging, supportive home, I know that there are other, more effective ways for a patriarch to lead (not govern, not rule) his family - the people he's supposed to love. FIL has taught everyone, through relentless emotional bullying and manipulation, that he's the boss of the world and that the best way to get along with him is to do everything in your power to keep him happy. What has he done to make me (or anyone else) happy recently? I loathe celebrating every single holiday now, solely because of my fear of upsetting him. I make myself sick and crazy trying to anticipate which shortcoming of mine he'll decide to exploit. He has singlehandedly managed to suck the joy out of every otherwise supposed-to-be joyous occasion he is a part of, and I deeply, deeply resent it. I did not sign up for this.

It's more than just the regular stress of family events that a lot of people feel. What I feel is a nauseating, full-on dread that has very real physical manifestations. It's an all-day panic attack. Oh, but if I turn to Xanax for relief, I might get supertired and not have the energy to concentrate while he's delivering a lecture from the vast variety of topics ranging from Obamabashing to Power Tools to Diabetes. Not once in fifteen years has he ever asked me about me. Oh, wait, I take that back. He did ask me how I voted in the last presidential election (even though I am absolutely positive that he already knew the answer to the question and was only seeking to make me defend my choice by picking it apart and making me feel stupid), and I responded by telling him that I do not discuss politics. Ever. Because it's true. I don't. Political debates piss me off. Because really, what good comes of it? If we agree, we agree. If we don't, it's extremely unlikely that you'll convince me to change my mind and if you try to make me feel like I'm an ignorant jackass for having the opinion that I have, I'm probably going to punch you in the face. Why go there?

The name of the game is to figure out which previous criticism you are going to make a ridiculously overt, visible attempt to reconcile. Usually I do this by mentally scrolling through the last several trips out and trying to remember what I did wrong the last time. And whatever you try to fix, he will not acknowledge. Instead, he will zero in on something else that you allowed to slip past you while you were fully focused on making the concerted effort to not repeat the last regretful transgression he bitched about. This time, I was trying to avoid the criticism that I never offer to help clean up, because that was the most recent one I could remember.

It was in every way a typical visit. My kids know how they're expected to behave when we're out there. They're too big to be entertained by crayons and coloring books. They literally just sit silently at the table while FIL talks. For HOURS. Bless their little ape hearts. They were perfect angels. I was so proud and grateful.

So when it finally got to be time to leave, I was straightening up and gathering the kids' things. R said "I think we're going to go ahead and go now..." to which FIL said "And Sarah..." but I didn't quite hear what he said after my name because I was on the other side of the kitchen. Part of me wanted to say "And Sarah WHAT?" But for whatever reason, I didn't. I waited until we got in the car to ask R what FIL had said about me.

He'd said "...and Sarah is getting restless." 

RESTLESS?  I'd been spot-on perfect the entire day. The kids had been perfect. I'd cleaned, I'd attempted to engage in conversation (as much as anyone can, with him). I was on my absolute best behavior. But this man is somehow able to keep a watchful eye on everyone in the room even while delivering a lecture. I suppose it would be a quite remarkable gift, were he to use it for good and not to single me out as being disrespectful or rude. Excuse the FUCK outta me for cleaning instead of sitting and staring at you blankly while you rattled on and on about something I don't know or care about. We all know that if I'd chosen to sit and feign interest, he'd have found some other failing of mine to point out.

After sobbing the entire hour-long ride home, I got into bed, fired up the laptop, and saw that I had somehow lost about 1200 words of my story.  I shouldn't even say "somehow", like it was a mystery, it was really that I wrote several paragraphs and pasted the same set of 1200 words in two different places because I couldn't decide where it fit better into the story. I just about threw up when I made that discovery.

Plus, the knitters will relate to this - you know when you've been working on a project, followed the pattern to the letter (perhaps after a few mistakes and re-starts) and put a considerable number of hours into it, motivated solely by the thought of triumphantly removing it from the needles and debuting it to the world, imagining the countless compliments you'll receive and practicing how to humbly accept them - only to finish the project and have it turn out considerably shittier than you'd envisioned? Are ya feelin' me, knitterz? Yeah.

The project I'd started as my distraction for the times when I wanted to keep my mental agility but didn't feel like writing - the thing that the stupid dog got a hold of, ripped apart and I nursed back to health only to realize I had fixed it wrong and added several unnecessary and preventable hours to the project - turned out really, profoundly not even remotely close to what I thought it would look like. Everything I've knit in the last month has come out hideous. I feel so inept.

Now, the thing I'm struggling with is this - I can't decide if it NANOWRIMO was a good experience. I suppose any experience that you learn from is a good experience, but I can't silence the part of me that wishes I hadn't tried. Because if I hadn't tried, I'd still have the confidence that I could do it, instead of being consumed by the feeling that I've just proven to the world that I can't.

So let's review what I learned. I suck at writing FICTION. I can't make shit up. The reality of my life is far more entertaining than anything my imagination can conjecture. Pretty sure the word Conjecture can be used as a verb.

But, more importantly, I learned that I can find time to write every day if I commit myself to it. I'm not going to promise that I'll write every day, but I feel reasonably certain that I can keep a promise to blog more in 2012 than I did in 2011.

Squish THIS, Megan.

Tomorrow, it will be two months since I was inexplicably Squished. I've kinda had to do a complete life reboot. It sucks SO HARD to try to figure out what to put on your resume, especially when what you've done for the last year or so was sell soap, and what you did for eight years before that was the thankless but immeasurably educational stay-at-home-mom gig.

I've been reading back over the archives of this blog recently, and I gotta say, y'all, I'm so glad I wrote this shit down. There were things I didn't remember, and re-reading some of my entries was very uplifting to me. I have come a long way. I like reading the stuff I wrote, especially after it's been so long that I don't remember the story and it's as though someone else is telling it.

Revisiting some of my older posts also reminded me how much I truly love writing. This girl's got shit to say! And I loved blogging because I didn't spend hours thinking of something to write about or questioning the global relevance of any particular topic. I just told shit like it was. Most days, I didn't start out with a topic in mind or a moral to illustrate. I just sat down, started typing, and let the Brilliance happen.

During my hiatus, R and I took the kids to see Doreen Cronin, the author of Click Clack Moo, Cows That Type , and she gave a really inspiring talk (aimed at kids) about the various steps involved in coming up with a story. So I got this idea that maybe I could be good at this writing thing. Maybe. And I used my unemployment money to buy some books for folks wanting to break into the biz. My favorites are Writing Mama by Christina Katz and How To Become A Famous Author Before You're Dead by Ariel Gore, both of which stress the positive creative impact of writing something every day. I should try that. It's bizarre how I used to write more when I had three kids at home to neglect. Now that I'm home alone all day, I don't always hold myself to my responsibilities, as is evidenced by the Hoarders film crew camping out on my front lawn. I watch a lot of Wendy Williams. How you doooo-uhn?

And, after I'd committed myself to this write-something-every-day venture, I got offered a new job! I shall refer to it as The Foodhole. I'll be a cashier, part time, and I'll make a dollar more per hour than I did at Squish. Additionally, The Foodhole is closer to home, I can wear jeans and t-shirts, and I'll get more hours than at Squish. Plus, my bosses are grownups! So, in a way, I'm absolutely delighted to have been Squished. I'm a bit pissed about how it went down and that they still haven't given me a reason why they fired me. None of them have spoken to me since I left. I still wonder what Megan told everyone about me, because no matter what it was, it wasn't true.

But what's the difference? Foodhole is a total upgrade, and I'm free of the spiral of negativity and self-loathing. I feel physically lighter, now that I've found something new - and better - and I've got a goal to focus on for the immediate future. I want to blog at least three times a week. I don't know if I can blog every day, and I'm not sure everything I write will actually make it onto the blog.  Some days my writing is just a phrase or a group of words that I jot down in one of my countless notebooks because I like the way they sound.  You wouldn't believe how many rants I've drafted and never posted. Some days will be more coherent than others. Sometimes I don't have anything interesting to say. But I hope that those of you who've stuck with me over the years will continue to stick around as this blog takes on what I hope will be a slightly more mature voice.

I'm still gonna say FUCK a lot, though.

SQUISHED.

Well kids, I have good news and bad news.  The good news is, now I have more time to blog!  The not-so-good news is that I got fired from my dream job at Squish. 

I was completely devastated.  I never saw it coming.  And even a month later, they still have not given me any legitimate reason why.  If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know that I can be quite vocal when I'm pissed off (LUBABA!!).  This blog has been a cathartic outlet for me over the years, so I thought I would blow the dust off my keyboard and spew some venom about the bullshit that went down between me and my boss Megan.

After my shift on Wednesday, February 9th, I was told that Katie, the store's assistant manager, wanted to talk to me.  I couldn't imagine why Katie would come in on her day off just to talk to me, but I didn't think anything of it.  She and I sat on a bench, and she said "We're... um... letting you go."  I asked why, and she said, "Well, you aren't really here very much..." I asked her what exactly she meant by that, and she said it meant that I didn't work a lot of shifts.  Katie's the one who made the schedules, by the way. 

Katie and Megan had both apologized many times to the entire staff for not being able to give us more hours. In fact, I was sent home on January 27th when we were 8% over in labor (which Megan hadn't checked until I was literally standing in front of her, waiting to clock in). I can't believe that my working one shift a week would be a fireable offense, when I know that there are people on the payroll who work even less than I do.

Katie went on to say that when I was at work, it "always seemed that I wanted to be somewhere else." I objected immediately to the vague, unquantifiable nature of the allegation and to the complete lack of documented evidence suporting it. I asked why no one had said anything to me about it, since something like a sudden change in attitude might warrant a conversation, it certainly is not in itself grounds for dismissal. I asked Katie if there was any possibility that I could talk to Megan directly and maybe work something out, and Katie said no, this was a done deal, adding that Megan had specifically orchestrated things so that Katie would be the one to fire me while Megan was out of town at a Managers' Meeting.


Katie then said, "plus you ask for a lot of time off..." I asked for my 40th birthday weekend off in January, another night for a concert, and for February 10-14th because my parents were coming in town to surprise my kids. I didn't ask for time off during the holidays because we weren't allowed to. Since my hours were minimal anyway, I didn't see any problem with asking not to be scheduled on specific days. It had never been a problem before. If it was a problem, they could have just not approved my request, no big deal, and maybe spoken to me about it. So, again, I want to restate that every single reason I was given as to why I was let go, (which, if you're following along at home, are that I don't work enough shifts; I don't seem to want to be there; and I ask for too much time off) was completely fabricated and bogus.

But the final blow was yet to come. Katie put the termination paper in front of me which listed "Performance" as the reason for my termination. I was flabbergasted.

I have an excellent work record. I believe the one time I was actually formally written in the Coaching Binder was for cutting soap incorrectly, and after the coaching, it never happened again. I was consistently a top seller.  I had never once been written up for my performance. I'm not saying I'm perfect, but to my knowledge I was never secret-shopped or the subject of a customer complaint. I am rarely, if ever, late to work. In fact, I have a reputation for showing up early. I've come in when other people were sick, and have never bailed on a shift I was scheduled to work. When it was announced that Katie was leaving to follow a guy to Cleveland, I even offered to take on more responsibility. If it seemed like I don't want to be there, all I can say is that it's difficult for any of us to stay motivated on the countless days when we work five and six-hour shifts without the 15-minute break required by SQUISH (and by Federal Law) when it feels like no one by our shop.

I know I was great at that job, y'all. I brought a fun, unique spirit to the store. I contributed creative party ideas and I always promoted and participated in store events. I turned customers into fans because they could see my sincerity when I educated them about the products and what makes them so amazing. Megan herself said that I was the only person on our staff who could sell things without making it seem to the customer like I was selling. She told me a few times that I was everyone's favorite to work with and that she didn't know what they would do without me.

It pissed me off sooo bad that Performance was on my record as the reason for my termination. I didn't deserve that.  If they had just told me that they had to cut back employees because the store wasn't making enough to support the full staff anymore, I could have accepted that.  I would even have stepped aside voluntarily, for the good of the company.  But for some reason, Megan felt that she needed to make this about something else.

I wrote a letter to HR stating that I wanted Performance to be removed as the reason for my termination, due to the lack of supporting documentation and because it is in no way an accurate assessment of the quality of my work. I have been told that my request had been honored, but I don't know what is now on my record instead.  My letter to HR also stated that Megan fired me without cause and did not follow company policy.  I wish I could have added my own theory as to why Megan decided I was no longer SQUISH material, because I certainly have one.  Pay attention.  

On Monday, February 1st, Megan called me at home to see if I wanted to pick up a shift on Wednesday the 3rd.  Megan started out, as she had many times before, by saying "Sarah, you're the only one who can do this." I said that it made me very uncomfortable whenever she begins a conversation that way because I always feel like she's backing me into a corner and I can't say no. She hounded me for a reason as to why I declined to take the shift. My reason was simply that it was supposed to snow all day Tuesday and Wednesday and it seemed pretty likely that my kids would be home from school. Megan snapped, "Oh, it's MONDAY, you already know they're going to be off on WEDNESDAY?!!?"

I said I was feeling pressured to do something I didn't really want to do, and Megan's response was "It sounds like you just don't want to be here. Do we need to have a conversation about you not wanting to be here?" I answered no, because I didn't not want to be there. It wasn't as though I was calling in and saying I wasn't coming in to work my scheduled shift because I just didn't feel like it. Everyone else had been given the opportunity to say no, but because I was the last person she called - and she began the conversation by telling me that everyone else had already said no - what choice did I have? Had I known then that this would be the only time anyone would offer to have a conversation with me to discuss my future at the company, I would have taken them up on it.

I even asked Megan if I could say no, and she said that I could, so I said "Then, no." I can not think of a single time over the last 15 months when I have said no to her.  If  she'd said "Sure you can say no, but your employment status might be affected", which would have been extremely unprofessional (and probably illegal), I might have thought about it a little longer, but ultimately my choice would have been the same.  My kids come first.  Period.  She knew I had kids before she even interviewed me.  

Not only did she put me in a spot where I felt like I was being forced to choose between my job and my kids, but she was downright nasty about it. She didn't even say Please. I said no because I wasn't willing to take on the responsibility of leaving my kids at home alone and driving to work on a day that the National Guard was urging people to stay off the roads. I should have the right to do that without being penalized, let alone fired. If I was the last person she called, that essentially means that everybody else got the opportunity to say no. I should have the same right, shouldn't I? 

Here's some important backstory:  In October, Megan called me sobbing after she realized that Dexter, the $800 puppy she planned to co-parent with a guy who lived 45 minutes away, might have been a bad idea. I was out with my family watching Beebie's band perform at a football game when I spent nearly an hour talking her down from the ledge. I offered to do whatever I could to be helpful, as anyone would do when their boss calls them out of the blue, crying and hysterical. A few members of the staff stayed longer than our scheduled shifts several times so that she could take care of Dexter. I didn't complain when she took a two-hour lunch to let him outside. I ended up driving over to her apartment on my days off and letting him out, at her request, no fewer than four times. The last time she called on me to let Dexter out on Novermber 3rd, I was at an event at Tito and Pie's school. I actually left Parents Day to let her dog out because she told me she had already asked everyone she knew. In fairness, she didn't ask me to leave immediately, but I had to in order to be able to have it work with the amount of time I had available to help her through a personal crisis.

The one time I can recall asking Megan for a little bit of accommodation at the last minute was the week before Thanksgiving, the day after I had to take Pie to the ER with blood in his urine. I explained to Megan that blood in the urine is a major situation, given his birth defect. I asked if I could come in either earlier or later than I was scheduled since I needed to take Pie to see his urologist, and Megan mentioned that it would make things difficult for her because there was a major shipment due in that day. I got Speed Racer to rearrange his schedule and to take Pie the doctor for me so that I could work my scheduled shift and so Megan would not be scrambling.  You're welcome. 

Imagine how horrified I was to learn that my commitment to the company was being called into question.

It might have been a week or two after Pie's ER incident when Katie pulled me aside to ask how I was doing, since working four and five days a week during Holiday (including back-to-back midnight shifts) when I'm used to working two or three days a week was clearly taking a toll on me physically and mentally. I don't deny that I was going through a difficult time in my personal life and as hard as I tried to keep it from affecting my work, it did. But I felt like Megan cared about me as a person enough to ask what was going on with me, or at least to have someone else ask me what was going on with me. Katie offered me the opportunity to take fewer shifts, and specifically told me that I take on too much and I need to say no more often. I agreed to take fewer shifts, and once the holidays were over, I honestly thought I was doing much better. No one told me otherwise until I was handed my termination paper.

When I questioned the legitimacy of the claim that my performance was unacceptable, Katie offered me no specific examples, saying only that it was what Megan had told her to write. I kept asking Katie why Megan pulled a punk move and did not confront me herself, using proper corrective action, instead of instructing someone else to fire me immediately when I had had no previous record of inadequate performance.  All Katie would say is "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."  Yeah, right.

Here's the bullshit factor - every employee should know that it is SQUISH's policy to use coaching first and termination as a last resort in extreme cases when all other options have been exhausted. According to the employee handbook, SQUISH believes in "a progressive, corrective-action-warning system consisting of one verbal/written and two written warnings, after which termination will take place - for any employee, at any time."

I can see no professional reason why I was fired. None. I didn't violate any store or company policies, and if my performance was truly substandard, no one bothered to document it. The fact that I was fired (after fifteen months of service) so soon after the first time I told Megan no suggests to me that there could be some personal subtext.  I gave you guys the facts, and you can draw your own conclusion.

Seriously, there is absolutely no corrective performance-related documentation on my record. I think it's so ridiculous that she allowed me to work my last five-hour shift as scheduled, but had already made the decision that my performance had suddenly become so poor that you had to bypass proper channels and fire me immediately...and yet I'm considered rehireable. What's the logic behind that?  Personally, I think Megan kept me rehireable so she could call on me, yet again, if she needs a favor.  Fuck that. You burned this bridge, honey.  I'm nobody's bitch. 

I don't want it to sound like I'm talking shit about SQUISH. I'm not. I love SQUISH. I wish I still worked there, and it's complete bullshit that I don't get to, when I'm not the one who didn't follow the rules. 

So, my lovelies, I've missed you all and I'm incredibly sorry for neglecting you.  I know I've staged triumphant comebacks before, but I'm hoping that I'll be spending more time updating you on what's happening in my always-fascinating life.  Won't that be fun?    

Annual Halloween Post

The Ghosts of Halloweens Past

Despite the fact that the Pevely Flea Market has done away with the Halloween Costume Contest after we won it three years in a row, The Apes continued to KICK ASS in Halloween Costume Contests!  The Karmas had a FANTASTIC Halloween weekend this year.  Beeb was dressed as...

Justin BEEBer!  And the boys were...

A washing machine and a penguin.  Pie has boxers on his head.

The boys both won in the costume contest at their school's Trunk or Treat.  Tito got Best Homemade Costume and Pie got Most Creative Costume.  They also took 1st and 2nd place at the costume contest at Three Dog Bakery, taking home $30 worth of gift cards to a frozen custard place.  Luigi was dressed as a Jedi, but he didn't place.  I told him if he's gonna be a part of this family, he's going to have to start winning.

On Halloween, The Racers joined us at Grant's Farm for our final visit for the year.  Sadly, we didn't get as much out of the parking pass as we have in years past.  I've been working a lot more than I expected to (it's been a whole year since I started - can you believe??), and I really love the job, but it does take up a lot of my time, as does keeping an eye on Luigi, who still likes to eat things he's not supposed to.  Like sofas.  Grrrrr.

After feeding Speed Racer to the goats and getting my early morning drink on, we took the kids to America's Incredible Pizza Company for their costume contest, and Pie won 3rd place - a $50 gift card!  All of the apes won a prize, so they got to ride the bumper cars and go karts and play a shitload of video games.  So based on about $12 spent on each of the kids' costumes, we more than came out ahead! 

I should add that the Pevely Flea Market offered Free Mammograms this year, which is pretty freakin' scary, if you ask me.  There was no mention of the professional qualifications of whoever was performing said mammograms.  I thought about going, for the sheer entertainment value (if not for the medical value) of it, but I kept visualizing a rusty trailer with some Randy Quaid-lookin dude patting the bed and saying, "Why dontcha whip dem puppies out and let Uncle Eddie take a look-see..." 

No, thanks.  

The best First Day Of School pic ever.

Y'all know I'm a bit more lax with my, erm, colorful language around my children than most parents are.  Along with the regular back-to-school preparations like buying clothes and school supplies, I subjected my Apes to a little quiz about which words are appropriate for school, and which words are not to leave our house.

Ok, kids - do we say Douchebag at school?
Noooo.
Do we say You Suck?
Noooo.  Oh, wait - can we say This Sucks?
Please don't.
Can we say Suck It?
Definitely not.  Don't say the word Suck at all.
What if the teacher asks us what we do to lollipops?
Don't answer.

And then this week Pie told me he was supposed to write about a happy memory.  I asked him what he wrote about.

Well, actually, I couldn't think of any, so I made up a story about us getting a hamster named Satan. 

Fantastic. 

WTF????

I'm sure he's healthier and happier and whatever, but doesn't Drew just look WEIRD?

This is a little something I wrote back when that David-Letterman-and-the-Intern story was the big news.  There's a specific reference to Drew that I thought was worth sharing, in light of Drew's new look.


The recent David Letterman drama sparked a conversation between me and a friend of mine. I told her I'd TOTALLY do Dave. Without hesitation. I'd have done him twenty years ago, and I'd do him today.


She was horrified. He has that goofy tooth-gap, she said. And he's balding and he wears white socks with his suits! Not to mention he's a pervy old man who sexually harrasses his staff.


Um, so? Hell, I kinda like being sexually harrassed, personally.


So we started talking about Who's Hot and Who's Not. Predicatably, she went for the Clooney/ Pitt genre of beauty. And yes, I agree that those men are beautiful in a traditional sense. But it came out in the conversation that many of my favorite celebrity crushes do not fit the typical "Hollywood Beauty" mold.


They're in a category I call Unconventionally Beautiful. Tommy Lee Jones with his tenderhearted-badass, rugged leathery sexiness is an example. So is John Krasinsky with his sexy moppy hair and big nose. And Ricky Gervais with his wonky teeth. And Jeff Goldblum's lanky awkwardness. And Queen Latifah's lovely curves. And Ben Folds... sigh... Ben Folds is a genius.


And Drew Carey. If Drew lost a bunch of weight and suddenly had 6-pack abs, he wouldn't be the same to me. I know he'd still have his unique sense of humor and he'd be the same person on the inside, but his physical presence would be different, and I don't think I would like it.


It's not that I prefer bigger dudes exclusively. Vince Vaughn's kinda the opposite. He was lanky and sexy in Swingers, but now that he's a lot more famous, he's pasty and bloated. Jon Favreau's kinda hot in his own way, too. I bet he's got a wicked kinky side.  And wouldn't Penn Jillette be a crazy dream date? I'm just sayin.


Listen, I've heard the "you're beautiful INSIDE" speech many times myself. I realize that my beauty lies beneath the surface, under a layer of stretchmarks and cellulite and a C-section scar, which I tell people is the scar I got when someone tried to steal my kidney in Mexico. I've endured many thick-chick compliments (e.g. "you have such a pretty face") from people who love me and presumably mean well. And I'm not even that fat - I'm 5'6", 180ish. I'm overweight, sure, but they make clothes in my size. What's the problem?


I've never been The Pretty One among my group of friends. I'm The Fun One. I'm the one that my friends set up on blind dates marketing me as the girl with the (gasp) Great Personality. And by the way, when did "She has a great personality" become the kiss of death? Most guys hear that and think Oh, great, she's probably a troll.  I'm not a troll, I just happen to be an average-looking girl with an absolutely sparkling personality. I kinda like being known as The Fun One. Would you rather I had a face like (fill in the name of the most beautiful woman you can think of) and the personality of a noodle?


I'm not insinuating that beautiful people are stupid and shallow. I wouldn't know. We're really not running in the same circles. It's not like I'm on the treadmill next to them at the gym. This is exactly my point. I don't feel like I have a whole lot in common with the fitness-obsessed hardbodies. They're working out while I'm watching Survivor in my pajamas. They're doing crunches while I'm eating Pumpkin Pie Concretes with my friends at Ted Drewes. They're training for a Triathalon; my idea of a Triathalon is eating a greasy cheeseburger, drinking a beer, and throwing a few rounds of darts. Suffice it to say we have different priorites.  What would we talk about? 


To clarify, I'm not talking about those who go to the gym to work out because they want to be healthy. I could be on board with that. I might work out if I had a free gym membership, a cool friend to go with, and cute outfits. I'm talking about the people who go above and beyond what is healthy and cross the line into obsession: people who spend so much time in the gym they don't have time for anything else. Those people are motivated by something other than their own health. Clearly, they have a beauty standard in their head that they want to achieve and maintain, and if they have set that standard for themselves, then why wouldn't we expect them to apply it to everyone else?


I realize I'm not necessarily what everyone considers beautiful. I'm not a Barbie doll. Don't even get me started on my Barbie rant about our society's impossible standard of beauty and how it's marketed to children and the subsequent pressure it places on girls to be perfect. Ugh, that pisses me off sooo muthahfuggin bad.


Anyway, I started writing this not because I wanted to "warn" people that I'm not skinny or to send some Yeah, I know I'm fat and if you don't like it, then fuck you, you shallow douchebag message of false confidence. I am who I am, you are who you are, we like what we like.  I wanted to talk about what attracts me to another person.


Most of my crushes are people who make me laugh. None of them are illiterate jackasses. They come across as reasonably intelligent when interviewed and don't use non-words like Supposably, Irregardless or Unequivicably. They know the difference between you're/your and to/too (not "To bad your not topless!"). What makes them interesting to me is how well they do what they're passionate about, whether it's acting, or comedy, or music, or whatever. I love what they contribute to the world, and, by extention, to my life.


Don't get me wrong, I love the outwardly beautiful men and women too. I love Johnny Depp's dark sexiness and Drew Barrymore's innocent-yet-sultry charm. I even kinda love those ripped-abs Calvin Klein underwear model guys. Or, I guess it's more accurate to say that I appreciate them aesthetically. They'd make a pretty poster on my wall.  


But I'll take Unconventional Beauty over Hollywood Beauty any day of the week.


Pass me a donut, will ya, Dave?

Summer Days and Summer's Eve

In non-Luigi news, work's going great.  I really love my job at SQUISH.  I've found my groove and the other girls on the team are fun and cool.  Yeah, my boss is ten years younger than me, but whatever.  In my 6-month review, she told me I was everyone's favorite to work with.  That's the kind of thing I love to hear!  I'd rather have that be my claim to fame than being #1 in sales.  Frankly, I'd be stunned if I wasn't everyone's favorite.  I have no authority to boss anybody around, I get shit done, and fuck, I'm hilarious.

I'm working fewer hours over the summer so I can hang more with the Apes.  Toward the end of the school year my other mom friends were asking me if I'd signed my kids up for any activities or camps.  I hadn't.  Totally forgot, didn't research, couldn't afford it anyway.  How big a loser mom did I feel like? 

But then I remembered how much time I spent in summers past (documented for all eternity, thanks to Blogger) driving kids from one thing to the next.  I about killed myself, as you may recall.  So this year, quite by accident, the Apes and I have been enjoying summer's leisure.

Remember this little girl, all dressed up in her fancy flower girl dress? This is the first pic I ever posted of her on this blog, back in 2005.



In less than two weeks, I will be the mother of a teenager.
















Is this bothering me?  Am I consumed by thoughts of my own mortality?  Nah, not really.  But kind of.

I'm so proud of Beebie, and I'm even just a little bit proud of myself for being a pretty good mom.  She's such a cool kid.  We talk about everything.  Seriously, everything.  Well, R was the one who explained to her what Boners are (penises and anything penis-related are his domain; menstruation and cooter issues are mine), but I explained what a Douchebag actually is, and how my grandmother used to have boxes of Massengill in her hall closet, and tried to find that goofy commercial about the mom and the daughter and the "not-so-fresh feeling" on YouTube.  Here it is. 





Then I found some other funny ones. You're welcome.










Sorry, I digress. R and I have a great, ongoing open dialogue with Beeb, and I think it's the one thing I'm proudest of.  But when I remember that her turning 13 means I'm going to be 40 in about 6 months, I keep hearing this song in my head -

The competition's getting younger
Tougher broncs, you know I can't recall
The worn out tape of Chris LeDoux, lonely women and bad booze
Seem to be the only friends I've left at all

And the white line's getting longer and the saddle's getting cold
I'm much too young to feel this damn old
All my cards are on the table with no ace left in the hole
I'm much too young to feel this damn old
Lord, I'm much too young to feel this damn old

And can I just say, when you've got nothing but Garth Brooks lyrics rattling around in your noggin, it might be time for an intervention.

Beeb's 13th birthday is as much a milestone for me as it is for her.  I'd been dreading her becoming a teenager since before she was born.  And now, as the dreaded day looms ever closer, I'm not only at peace with it, I'm overjoyed.  I'm excited, even.  And so incredibly proud.   

In a strange way, Beeb's upcoming birthday has given me a sense of parental competence that I've never had before.  For all the stressing and freaking out I've done over the last thirteen years (the last five immortalized in this blog), I've actually managed to get a lot right.  I'm getting better about picking my battles and not sweating the small stuff.  I'm starting to get the hang of this Mom thing. 

For the first time in my illustrious parental career, I actually feel like I kinda know what I'm doing.  Well, that's not exactly right.  It might be more accurate to say that I've accepted that no matter how much I stress myself out trying to get everything perfect, there will always be things I'm going to screw up as a parent.  There will be numerous Epic Fails.  And they'll probably be fuckin' funny.  And guess what?  The kids are probably going to be okay anyway.   

The fact that Beeb has managed to live this long without ending up in Juvie is not just a credit to me, but to every person involved in helping me be the parent I want to be.  Yeah, I know I have no idea what lies ahead.  Of course I don't.  But I feel pretty good about my (and My Village's) ability to handle it. 

Beeb is an awesome, awesome person. 
Y'all can pat yourselves on the back.   

Cousin Oliver

Remember that classic episode of The Brady Bunch when Cindy overhears a conversation in which it is stated that the Bradys are going to have "an addition to the family" and she assumes that means Carol is pregnant, but it's really just that annoying little dipshit Cousin Oliver? 

I hope this doesn't mean my blog has jumped the shark. 

No, I'm not pregnant.  Meet our new addition - LUIGI!
Doesn't he look sweet?



See that striped chair on the left side of the picture?



Sigh...

Has it really been since May 14th? Seriously? Ugh, I'm sorry I haven't written anything for so long.  It's that lethal combination of having too much to write and no time to write it, and then when I do have time I'm too tired to make my fingers move.

I'm going to have to start with the story of how Luigi came to our house from Stray Rescue. You can read about him if you click HERE.

There's also his Rescue Story which might warm your heart, so click HERE for that.

A few weeks ago the Karmas went to a Stray Rescue Benefit Event at Speed Racer's church. I'd told my mom that we were going, and her advice was "Don't get sucked in!" I was on my guard, knowing I'd probably meet some adorable dog that I'd love and want to take home on the spot, and the kids would beg and beg, but I would stand firm.

And then we met this puppy. 







His name was Aang.  He had an adorable little cleft palate.  The kids spent hours playing with him, holding him, and walking him.  But they knew how I felt about having a dog.  I was the one who would be home with it all day every day, and I kinda value the freedom I've only recently started to enjoy after 8 long years as a stay-home mom.  And there is no WAY I'm potty training a dog.  I'm just not in the mood.  So when it was time to go, the kids bid goodbye to Aang, and we went home.  No tears, no "Why can't WE have a dog??"  They knew why. 

But then, for the next day or two, I couldn't stop thinking about little Aang.  I knew he'd have no problem being adopted because he was so freakin cute.  And I knew I didn't want a puppy.  But it was so nice to hold him and cuddle him and pet him, I thought, just maybe, I might be persuaded to change my stance.  So I sneaked little peeks at the Stray Rescue website to see if there were any older (read:  already housetrained) dogs that looked interesting.

My favorite was a really cute one named Oliver, but he was on a home visit when I called Stray Rescue.  So was Kerby, the Great Pyrenees.  The Stray Rescue volunteer suggested I look through the website and come up with a list of 3 or 4 that we might like to meet.  Luigi was on that list, and the volunteer told me that of the ones we were interested in, she thought he'd be the best fit for us.  He would do well with a family with kids, and a fenced yard.  I'm smart enough to know that this translates into HIGH ENERGY.

I really didn't want a high energy dog.   And I didn't want a big dog.  I wanted one that I could cuddle.  I'm thinking Pug, Boston Terrier, something like that.  Luigi's ad said he was 60 pounds.  It's hard to visualize what 60 pounds looks like in a dog you've never seen.  Tito weighs about 60 pounds, and he's quite cuddly, so maybe 60 pounds would be all right.

July 3rd, we were supposed to go out to Chez Inlaw for the 4th of July Weekend party with the fireworks and whatnot.  (Remember last year when Aldidog pooped on FIL's white carpet?)  Stray Rescue called to see if we wanted to meet Luigi that morning, and since all of our top choices had been snatched up so quickly, we thought we'd better jump at the chance to meet a dog that was on our list. 

We waited in the Stray Rescue courtyard for Luigi to come out and meet us.  My first reaction, when he bolted out the door was Holy CRAP, He's Too Big.  And then one volunteer told the other that on their way outside, Luigi had stopped at the bin where they keep all the dogs' toys, pulled the bin off the shelf, rummaged through the toys to find the one he wanted, and gotten it out all by himself. 

The most significant moment in my entire life that found me in a similar spot - in which I had to make an instantaneous choice as to whether a particular thing I had just learned about someone should be considered  A) adorable and endearing or B) a huuuuuuge red flag - was on my first date with R.  We were going to dinner at pub I'd never been to, and literally as soon as we walked through the door, the bartender yelled "Hey, R!  Pour you a Guinness?"  It's such a fine line between hella cool and fuckin creepy.  Obviously, I went with Cool, but I mentally filed it away thinking it would be a funny story to tell our kids someday, and the rest is history. 

And, standing there in the courtyard, hearing that this dog had helped himself to something spoke more to his above-average intelligence and playful impishness than to a sense of entitlement or the kind of independence that might present a problem.  He already sounded like one of my brilliantly impish children.  An evil genius, like Pie.  Evil geniuses are kinda fun to be around.  He'd fit right in.

The volunteer suggested the five of us take him for a walk.  R took the leash.  Tito was cranky and pouting because he wanted to walk Luigi.  We tried to tell Tito that it wasn't a good idea.  Luigi was pulling hard.  Luigi was strong.  Tito said he was stronger than a dog.  And he kept looking at the ground and shuffling his feet and telling me how unfair it was that he couldn't walk Luigi.  I turned to R, and said, fine, show him.  You may or may not agree with this style of parenting, but the only way that kid will quit bitching is if you show him exactly why things need to be the way the grownups say they need to be. 

Tito had to run to keep up, and Luigi thought he was being chased, so he ran faster and faster.  Luigi flew Tito like a kite.

Tito, to his credit, never let go of the leash, despite falling on the sidewalk and being dragged until R could get a hold of Luigi.  I was slightly concerned that the Stray Rescue people would see Tito's scraped leg and think I was a shitty mom for allowing my child to learn something the hard, painful way, but they didn't appear to be questioning my parenting skills.  We made arrangements to try Luigi out, as part of their Rent-A-Pet program which allows you to bring a dog home and see how things go.

As soon as we got him in the van the next day, I started to freak out.  It began with a quickening heartbeat and the faintly cold sweaty sense of panic.  And the sense of panic grew and grew to the level of that full-on fetal position anxiety that totally immobilizes me.  I wanted to puke and cry and scream, but I felt like I was paralyzed.  At this point, I knew it was only a trial basis, but I really wanted it to work out.  I didn't want to be the asshole who returns a dog.  And I especially didn't want to tell my mom that I should have listened to her and not gotten sucked in.

But as Luigi tore through my house, jumping on everyone and everything, I thought, Oh my God, what have I gotten myself into?  The kids are going out of town and I have to work all day Thursday.  I can't leave this dog home alone.  What am I going to do??  This is insane.  I can't take him back; that's so tacky.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Mother.  Fucking.  FUCK.  I was beside myself, sick with anxiety. 

The next day, I made R call the Stray Rescue lady and tell her it wasn't going to work out.  I felt like such a douche, I couldn't tell her myself.  The lady asked if we'd be willing to have the behaviorist come over and give us some ideas.  Sure, I'd be willing.  I really didn't want to give up.  I'm not a giver upper (so says my Inspirational Tampon, anyway).  I wanted to give Luigi a fair chance.  But inside, I was deeply conflicted.   

He'd shown us many moments of sweetness.  Many.  He let everyone pet him, he played in the yard with squeaky toys.  He laid on the floor at our feet and let us rub his belly.  He really was, and is, an extremely sweet dog.  95% of the time, he's mellow - just chilin on the floor, gnawing on his nylabone. 


















And we all decided we liked him.  Even Tito, after a little encouragement, was on board.   

Within the hour, the volunteer we'd been working with and the behaviorist were at my house with a large dog crate and a harness.  He hated the crate (the behaviorist speculated a past traumatic experience could be a factor), but the harness made a huge difference in helping me and the kids feel as though we could handle him, and I felt a great deal less anxious.  I actually felt really good. Over the next couple of days, he did very well when he gave him pretty much free reign of the downstairs.  I let him stay out of the crate while I was at work all day Thursday, and I came home to no messes.  I was thrilled.  R was over the moon. 

R and I even took him to get sno cones. 





He sat in Tito's car seat,






and he let everyone at Tropical Sno pet him. 






He's brought R out of his shell, too.  R's just giddy when he talks about Luigi.  Everybody asks what kind of dog he is, and R proudly says that he's an Akita mix, and that we got him from Stray Rescue.  He's more excited than he was when any of the Apes were born.  In R's defense, each Ape was born into a swirling vortex of unique drama.

Luigi's a great addition to our family.  Most of the time.  





But then there's this.
















Yeeeeeah.  Wasn't Cousin Oliver a jinx? 

On the plus side, I am discovering that there is an endless amount of entertainment value at pet stores.