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).

I write... Erotic novels, for children.

     Oh great.  I'm a writer, blogging at Starbuck's.  Quick, somebody get me a beret and a cigarette!  Lately, I'll take what I can get.  Though I've worked it out with Dom to go "work" for 2 hours, twice a week.  We're in our second week, and it's going phenomenally average. 

     It takes a while to get back into the swing of things, they say.  See?  I'm using cliches!  I don't do that.  But my brain is so mushified from the last few months' abuse that I just have to suffer with the rest of you readers.  I'm almost sorry that you chose to read this.  Almost.  I also love attention...and comments. 
     Well, my writing time is established and I have happily chosen to blog tonight.  Mostly because my head has been on the verge of a hearty explosion with all the whatnot crammed inside of it.  If I don't get this all out in writing soon, all Slidouchebags within a 100 meter range might get slimed with grey matter and whatever stress looks like manifested and exploded out of my brain. 

     So let's see, what have I done lately?  Let's give a brief recap of 2011.  Had a baby--check.  A baby who didn't understand that breathing wasn't quite like a Nascar race and collapsed her own lung and had to spend her first two weeks in the NICU.  Then a follow up visit to the pediatric unit three months later for a virus.  And I topped things off with her by dropping her on her tiny, infant skull at the movie theater and had to rush her to the E.R. yet again, only to be dismissed as a clumsy, idiot, mother. 

     She's doing well now.  Trying to learn crawling.

     I also made a metric ass ton of plans and prepped for our upcoming move to Maryland.  Make that Virginia?  No wait, wait!  Nowhere.  Yup.  I spent about 6 months and 200 some odd dollars trying to get childcare arrangements made for Michael so he could attend preschool next fall.  But we're stuck in the swamp until May, possibly next fall.  It's a decision that Dom and I felt was the best, though the thought of spending another summer here in this hell-hole (literally, it's about 4,193,289,834 degrees here) is making that grey matter pulse a bit.  It's better that we're not there in the midst of all that earthquake chaos; I heard a lawn chair fell over in Virginia.

     Now my lady parts are malfunctioning and I have to beg for a referral from my primary doctor in the morning and hope she cooperates before 2:30 tomorrow.  Otherwise, I might have to actually pay for somebody to go spelunking for cancer up in my cooch. 

     And I'll leave you with that, I suppose.  You're welcome.  Stay classy, like me.

Today's subject line quote is Friends: "The One with the Girl from Poughkeepsie"(1997).

It's a good tub. I slept there for my 30th birthday.

     It's 7 a.m. on my birthday and I'm awake and everyone else is sleeping?  After sampling 20 beers last night at the tasting, I should be in some kind of hangover coma.  You know?  I don't even enjoy beer.  But I tried every last one at the Wine Market, took notes, and promptly collapsed to the floor in the back room.

     It was Dom's idea to go, but that was before we realized that our babysitter, backup babysitter, and the family that have coming into town this weekend would all be unavailable on Friday night.  So the plans we had made for my birthday extravaganza were modified to have me go drink, basically, over a dozen shots of beers from around the world.  By the last table, I was a bit tipsy and certainly cleansing the palette with huge chunks of bread because all of table 3 tasted like nut flavored vinegar.   

     Meanwhile, my husband is babysitting our adorably sick daughter.  And by "adorably," I mean she kept me up all night screaming her face off until I numbed her throat with Baby Orajel.  She has the hand, foot, mouth virus--which leaves ulcers in the back of your throat and can eventually spread to your feet, hands, and torso.  I had it about a year ago.  I was pathetic!  Couldn't even open the front door because my hands were so sore.  I also looked like a leper. 

     My point is that exhaustion and alcohol don't mix.  I had finished sampling and was chatting with my friends around the snack table and suddenly I was on the floor.  Blame it on the drinks or the hooker heels I was wearing, but for all I know and remember...I could have been abducted by aliens in the time it took me to hit the ground.  Now my right hand and hip and opposite thigh are all bruised up from hitting the table and then trying to break my fall (though not succeeding, apparently). 

   The rest of the night went more smoothly.  We had a great time at dinner, even if they locked us back in the meeting room and we ate our burgers on desk chairs.  And there was a great variance of conversational topics from the left side of the table to the right.  The left end was discussing finances over their wine glasses while the right side was making jokes about bestiality and discussing how masturbation on airplanes is frowned upon.  Since I was in the middle, I like to think that I had one foot in both worlds.

     Now that I've made myself out to sound like a drunken whore, Happy Birthday to me.  I want to be a lady when I grow up!  Maybe for my 28th birthday someone will get me some dignity. 


Today's subject line quote is from Bridesmaids (2011).

    

We have two giant hamsters running in a massive wheel in our secret underground lair.

     Are you kidding me, Universe?  Two days after getting our car "fixed" at Sears, Dom had to get a jump while out running some errands!  And today he tried to take it back in, but because he left the invoice here at the house they absolutely, could NOT help him.  Apparently the woman that worked with my husband also received the "how to be a tool in the service industry."  It must be standard orientation for Sears Automotive.

     And on his way home from the mall, work called.  Apparently they screwed up his duty timing.  He had agreed to work overnight tonight, but he was written in as 8 a.m. instead.  So all of our daytime plans were kablooey, and I'm now scouring the house looking for a missing hamster that happens to be the same color as all the giant, dust-covered furballs that are blowing around in the corners and under the couches. 

     Did I mention that I spilled paint on our carpet?  Twice.  Two separate colors.  I'm such a walking catastrophe.  I have no idea how I function every day.

Today's subject line quote is from Lost (2004)  The Man from Tallahassee.