You think you know pain? He will make you long for something as sweet as pain.

     I believe my body is deteriorating at a rapid and exponential rate.  Since we moved to California (in early March), I have:  fallen out of my front door and sprained my ankle (CA, week 2 by the way), experienced "headache season"--to which my doctor described as allergies that trigger migraines so I have to remember to take a decongestant before it creeps up on me (or sit in the fetal position and moan for the several hours it takes to dissipate, gotten my first ingrown toenail that Dom had to perform home-surgery with a pair of tweezers and some cotton twice daily for a week, grabbed my curling iron by the barrel and received a 2039849384 degree burn on my middle and index finger (the same week as the toenail debacle), we started working out to P90X and my muscles want to physically leave my body due to abuse--but that's another whole blog in itself, and finally the impacted wisdom teeth I've been avoiding having removed since 2005 finally started trying to break through my gums with what I can only assume is razor-coated enamel.

     I had the right half of my wisdom teeth removed a little over 7 years ago.  I made the mistake of using a general dentist and I'm fairly certain he wanted to embody Steve Martin's character in Little Shop of Horrors.  It was the most painful experience of my entire life, up to that point.  Crazy Pitocin labor wins that trophy, but having your teeth and jawbone removed under local anesthetic by a Dr. Sadist, D.D.S was a close second.

     So after having 3 or so more dentists remind me that the left half had to go soon, "And you don't want to wait until your 25 or older, that's not going to be good for you. Blah Blah Blah.  Pain.  Damage.  Etc."  I'm turning 28 this summer and still have the boogers!  It wasn't all fear that kept me from the extraction.  There were several other factors, like laziness.
     Also, there were no oral surgeons (within 100 miles) covered under my insurance while living in South Carolina.  And when we moved to Slidouche, my husband was gone 40% of the year and I didn't want to have to play single parent directly after having someone cut open my gums and rip out my giant, sideways teeth.  Then when he was home for an extended time, Dom needed surgery twice.  And then I decided to have somebody cut me open and extract a baby instead.

     Long story--still pretty long but I'll cut to the chase,  I had a consultation this week.  My oral surgeon is very experienced.  And by that, I mean older than Jesus.  But at this point, I'm not going to go hunting for a new guy and possibly pay out of pocket for a fresher face just because I'm age discriminant.  Though, he did tell me that the root of my lower tooth is scraping the central nerve and there's a possibility that the left side of my face could be permanently numb.  Now I'm just hoping that his geriatric, Parkinson's hands are steady enough to not break my face.

     His office is also booked up through the first week of July, so I get to obsess about this until Friday the 6th.  Yaaaaaay.  I'm going to go eat breakfast while I can still taste it with the left side of my tongue...

Today's Subject Line Quote is from The Avengers (2012).
 

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     We've moved!  Literally, across the country.  My husband loaded up our Hyundai Sante Fe, National Lampoon's style--with both kids, our dog, a metric asston of toys, and a hamster and we DROVE 2,000 some odd miles from Louisiana to California.  There were moments when the Beverly Hillbilly's theme song popped into my head, I'm not going to lie.

     Nobody was strapped to the roof in a rocking chair though...even though I wanted to ride outside of the vehicle on many occasions.  There's only so many farts a person can endure in one road trip before becoming severely, mentally impaired.  I blame my family's collective colons for any ramblings in the present or future.

     So far, California has been lovely.  Though they did confiscate my potted plant at the border!  Apparently my half-dead, frostbitten houseplant was too threatening.  My money's on that they saw it and just felt sorry for the poor thing.  Sure, you "saw" a "bug" that was potentially "harmful" to your "agriculture." I bet!
   
     Plant nabbing aside, there were only a few hitches that made it a mostly smooth transition.  We did manage to lose Michael's security blanket on our first overnight stop.  Luckily he didn't notice until we hit Roswell, so he totally bought into the scam that the aliens took it to repair it.  But it's apparently a blanket crocheted with yarn made of pure gold and souls of the innocent because it's really expensive to supply.
     I felt extremely douchey about this because I might as well have left a family member back at that rat trap of a hotel.  (Add it to the list...we left our geriatric beagle we've had for the last decade at an animal shelter before we left the state, too)  Michael's blanket has been the staple of bedtime since he was an infant; he even named it "Cal" when he started talking.  Hearing him ask about it the first few nights was pretty heartbreaking.   Hearing him tell strangers that aliens took his blanket right after explaining that his dog "was bad" and had to go to a shelter...was some embarrassing insight to my character.  I don't think I'm human any more.

     We have managed to get everything unpacked (even the garage!) and it looks like we actually live here now.  Though there are a few details here and there that need some attention.  But overall, it feels like home.  Except we have no friends and I only have conversations with my husband, children, and the occasional, oh-so-lucky cashier.  It's totally fine.  Everyone here is super nice and don't seem to mind that the crazy lady buying fat-free refried beans by the case is still talking about the weather.

     So I'll leave you with that...because a kajillion other things have happened in the last month and a half that I should fill everyone in on (i.e. my mother came back from the dead and is now healthier than she's been in the last decade...you know...the usual).  But that stuff will take another 45 days or so for me to type 3 crappy sentences, so yeah, don't get all excited just yet.

An Open Letter to 2012

Dear 2012,

     This past year has really flown by!  2011 brought me a lot of great things, like my daughter, that bitchin' deal on a front loading washer/dryer combo, and my addiction to sweet potato fries.  I even drummed up the courage to start a small business that no one is interested in! 
     It's been so incredibly unbelievable this year.  So, 2012, with your impending arrival so near us, I thought I would take a chance and ask a small favor of your coming months--Could you, perhaps, spare me some drama?

     I understand it's a big moment for you, 2012.  The populous is speculating that the Mayan's were onto something when they only projected THOUSANDS of years into the future and then suddenly stopped when their hands started cramping.  I really don't want to step on your chance to shine as our last 12 months of existence, but, if the apocalypse does come...I don't want to spend the end of time being sucked into this vortex of egocentricity I usually find myself in every few months. 
     All I ask, 2012, is that people keep things in perspective this year.  I don't want to hear about how the meteor that destroyed most civilization threw off someone's groove and now it's somehow my job to get them back to a strict yoga routine.  Also, no, nobody should take it personally that the zombies are always trying to eat THEM.  They crave brains, so perhaps the less developed ones are more tasty, but it's really not worth pitching a fit over.  Let's just all grab shotguns and shoot them in the balls for fun.

     With that all said, 2012, it would be great if the world didn't end.  However, I understand your dilemma. So when it all comes down to things, I think I'll just find a nice, dead guy's house to squat in and ride it out.  If I can just ignore all of humanity, that would be fantastic.  And, even if the end of the Pre-Columbian Mesoamerican long calendar turns out to be nothing more than a case of Carpal Tunnel, could I still just ignore all of humanity until the end of time? 
      I really appreciate this, 2012.  I just need some time to turn my luck around and stop feeling like the whole universe is screaming at me like that drunk homeless woman did when I stepped too close to her shopping cart that one time.  

Sincerely,
Cassidy

Yo, she-bitch! Let's go!

I've been in a bit of a slump lately.  Maybe slump isn't the right term.  Maybe I'm just on the verge of a nervous breakdown and am one more late bedtime and tantrum away from hurling all my dishes out the kitchen window and running down the street, nude, singing the theme to Bubble Guppies.  

Terminology aside, I've actually been trying to improve my mood and stress level.  I came up with this amazing plan--to consciously do something that makes me happy every day.  I'd tried it out a few times, here and there.  But today I decided to start logging it.  I had a brilliant epiphany to use the blog to account for all my success, starting with today's episode in optimism:  Dress like I don't have children.  More importantly, dress as if I don't let my children's antics push my buttons to the point that I don't care if I look like a homeless party clown.

I was asked to have lunch with a friend at the mall.  Perfect!  I could wear my cute floral mini dress with some black leggings, rock star boots, and cardigan.  I even had beautifully crafted waves in my hair and my hot, peacock earrings....And then the universe pissed all over me like a cat with a UTI.

While at the mall, Michael decided to run off in JC Penney.  And since my rock star boots had heels attached to old lady ankles, pushing a double stroller, I couldn't catch him.  People along the way were pointing what direction he dodged last, until finally an employee was calling for a Code Adam on the walkie-talkies.  I was sobbing as he came lobbing around the corner to tell me that he was done sprinting.  And if I had to pick a favorite memory from the trip, that would be it.

At least I still felt some fondness for the booger at that point.  Because soon after, he was crawling into display beds, screaming down the hallways, and demanding that he get to play on the rides at the food court before eating his chicken nuggets.  I had to literally carry and drag him down the corridor to the exit with him screaming "I don't want to go home!" at a pitch and volume that could have shattered plexiglass.

I didn't even take a picture of my outfit.  I just came home, stripped into pajamas, and wiped away the raccoon eyes that my smeared mascara had left.  It's now 15 til 10 and the little beast is still awake, looking over my shoulder as I type this.  Not sure what demon possessed my sweet child, but let's get a priest, slayer, and a Super Nanny up in here to hit up a Necronomicon for some answers. 

Today's subject line quote is from Army of Darkness (1992).

I want to eat your brains, but only if they're organic and grass-fed.

Ugh.  I just ate a tuna salad sandwich...in bed at 9:30 p.m.  I'm disgusting.  It wasn't even a good tuna salad sandwich!  It was made with the lite, fall-apart, "smart" white crap that you can't use with peanut butter because it will shred as soon as the knife hits it.  Plus, I used reduced fat mayo and way too little pickle relish.  But did that stop me from finishing it?  Of course not.  I choked down the whole thing, even with too big of bites that it gave me that heartburn feeling where it feels like the entire sandwich is lodged in your chest somewhere and it would have to be surgically removed later.

But aside from my horrific recipe, I still ate a freaking tuna sandwich IN BED at 9:30 at night!  What's wrong with me?  I kicked my own ass to the gym last night and tortured myself for an hour long cross-training session with an instructor who insisted on listening (and singing along) to Nickelback.  Seriously?  Nickelback?!  That's the worst band in the history of music--all of music, even in the animal kingdoms.  I'd rather listen to howler monkeys or a cat in heat.  Or a choir of howler monkeys and horny cats in an ensemble.  I wanted to cry, from the pain in my legs and my ears.

That's all.  I just had to share how nasty I've become since my husband went to Asia.

Today's subject line quote is from How I Met Your Mother (2005 TV Series)
Episode: Sorry, Bro (2009)

Oh, loneliness and cheeseburgers are a dangerous mix.

I'm alone again.  Dom left last Thursday for a 5 week cruise around the Pacific, and I realized that I haven't spoken to another adult since Friday.  I'm so popular, you know.  Anyway, that's a whole lot of children time this weekend.  In fact, Michael hasn't slept in his own bed since Thursday night. 

The first night, he snuck in sometime after midnight, claiming to have had a bad dream.  The following evenings, I just gave up after a few hours of battling.  Last night I set up a pop tent on my floor.  It was kind of like having privacy, only with more snoring.  It doesn't so much matter because I'm laying awake at night anyway.

I've been wondering about some crazy what-ifs.  If I had an aneurism/heart attack while my husband is away--which it's likely, because all of this stress will probably kill me someday soon--I don't think anyone would realize for a good week or two.  Wouldn't bother me any; I'm dead in these scenarios.  But what about my kids?  I don't want my almost 4 year old having to survive off of the granola bars I keep on the counter top while my 9 month old fashions a rope to climb out of her dirty diaper and a blanket just to climb out of her crib.  The only supervision they will have is my retarded Labrador and his manipulative Beagle cohort (who is completely driven by the desire to eat, by the way).  My children will be raised by dogs, only to be eaten by them!

So I stare at the ceiling, trying to escape my inevitable doom of dying in my sleep and end up too tired to take care of my children properly anyhow.   What a world.

Today's subject line quote is from The Simpsons.

Look at this! It's like an advert for weight watchers! Before... and way before!

Since my family is on "vacation" right now (we tagged along on one of Dom's work trips and am visiting his sister in my down time), I've been eating things that should probably void my weight watcher's membership...at every meal.  And since I have no desire to return to slidouche 50 lbs heavier than I left, I promised myself that I would eat better today.

It's 4:30 and I'm eating a piece of ice cream cake for dinner. 

Seriously, I was all weepy in the shower thinking that maybe I could just cry away all the pounds I probably put on in the last week.  I had a great conversation in my head that involved some sort of pact about only eating Subway for the next 3 days and that I hate cheese on my sandwiches. 

I don't hate cheese.  In fact, I had McAlister's for lunch today and ate a giant bowl of cheese dip and a bowl of potato and cheddar soup.  At this rate, I will continue teetering on the edge of fat until I finally just lunge headfirst into my first heart attack.  I've lost about 20 lbs. since having the baby, but I've been stuck in the 150's for months now.  And with my whopping height of 5'3....okay...5'2 and 3/4, it puts me VERY close to a healthy BMI.   

Close.  But it still makes me self conscious any time I have a lapse in food judgement.  Or say, if I never drink water and end up bloating up like a week old dead guy in a river.  Then I get mopey and eat cake for dinner.  It's a vicious cycle.  That's why I'm licking the last bits of chocolate, melty goo off my fork while trying not to flood my sister-in-law's dining room with my tears.

Today's subject line quote is from The Sopranos , "University" (2001).