The Sword and the Stone(r)

Everyone has that one stoner friend. You know the one- he's well into his 30s by this point, but still gets high daily. That guy.

My stoner friend and I were pretty close friends back in our teens, but as we've come into adulthood, we've sort of drifted apart. Part of it has to do with the fact that he moved out to the West Coast several years go, but besides that, I have two fucking children and don't usually have time to listen to a grown man ramble excitedly for hours at a time about pot legalization. Sure, after all these years, I still consider him a friend, but now he's that friend. That friend who never really grew up. That friend who decides to up and move to California on a whim and inexplicably live in a van for a year. That friend you only hear from once in a great while.

It had been a few years since I'd spoken to him. Between the 3 hour time difference, my busy schedule, and his penchant for sleeping until noon, there just haven't been many opportunities to chat and catch up, so I was surprised on Wednesday to see his name pop up on my phone. Naturally I was curious as to what was going on with him that merited an outright phone call after almost 3 years of barely a text.

First, he informed me, there was good news! He would be interviewing for a job back home, so he may be moving back East. But, he warned me ominously, that wasn't the real reason for his call. He needed to talk to me about what had happened and he knew I was the only one who would believe him:

Stoner Friend: I had a dream last night that a bunch of people were possessed by demons.

Me: Ok... I mean... was I one of them? I don't really understand what you're getting at here.

SF: No, no. It wasn't you. But, like, they were chasing me man. And then one of them grabbed my leg and then EVERYTHING WENT BLACK.

Me: Alright. Well I'm sure that was kinda creepy. Still not sure why you needed to talk to me about it though.

SF: Because I think there was something in my room. A demon. I've never felt evil like that before. It jarred me awake and my leg was hurting where the demon grabbed me and I was really scared and I couldn't go back to sleep. I knew you would believe me. I'm kinda scared to go home.

I entertained this conversation for a while and tried to talk him down. I definitely asked if he was high when he had this dream (he swears he was not), but otherwise, I think I was a pretty good friend about not being condescending to him. I even listened when he went off on a 10 minute tangent about a Star Wars theory he heard recently and kept insisting that I "YouTube it" even though I'd made it clear that I barely give enough of a fuck about Star Wars to even listen to him talk about. After that I had to get going and pick up my kids. Then shit got REALLY weird in text messages:

SF: Maybe it has something to do with the random sword I found by a dumpster recently. I thought it was cool and wondered why anyone would leave a real sword out by a dumpster. I plan to bring it back to the dumpster from whence it came when I get a chance (you guys, I swear. This is the VERBATIM text message I got from him, along with a picture of the aforementioned sword).

Me: Well, haunted demon sword certainly makes for an interesting story if people ask why you're leaving California.

SF: I just thought of something else. I had pretty bad gas yesterday and in the dream the demon told me "IT SMELLS BAD. YOU SMELL BAD".

You guys. It's ridiculous enough that this 34-year-old man found a sword propped up against a dumpster and thought "SCORE" and took that shit home. That, of itself, would be enough of a reason to question this man's rational thinking skills. Like if you, a grown adult with a normal home and possibly a kid or two, went into your friend's house- not even in the context of having a priest who is well-versed in exorcisms in tow- and he told you "let me show you this bad ass sword I found by a dumpster the other day", you would be reevaluating that friendship right there on the spot.

This isn't just a 34-year-old man who brought home a dumpster sword, though. This is a 34-year-old man who brought home a dumpster sword and became almost immediately convinced that it was not only possessed by a demon, but that he managed to anger that demon with his rancid farts. Apparently, much in the way you would release a genie from a lamp by rubbing it, you release a demon from whatever dumpster object it's chosen to possess by farting near it.

That, my friends, is your brain on drugs.

Shit My Dad Says... The One Where I Wish He Was Somehow MORE Catholic

When I was in my early 20s, I had a Catholic friend of mine tell me why she had only very recently decided that she didn't need to wait until marriage to have sex. "In Catholic school, they tell you that premarital sex makes your soul die", she explained.

She realized at a relatively young age that her soul wasn't going to die because of sex, but yesterday I discovered that there is a situation where sex is evil and ruins your soul. Specifically, my soul died a little when my dad decided to tell me about his sex life.

First, I want to apologize for even telling this story. It's kinda like The Ring. I can't unhear it or unknow it and the only way to mitigate the evil in my heart and shoulder the burden I now carry is to spread it to others. The people I've already told responded with sorrowful whimpers and guttural animal noises as I tortured their souls with this tale. I also feel that it's important to get this out on paper so that when I inevitably end up catatonic from the trauma, my family will have something to show the doctors to explain my condition.

Second, I'm going to recommend you gather a few things before you read the remainder of this post: First, Holy Water-for obvious reasons-, and then you'll need a few items for the lobotomy you're going to want to give yourself when you can't help but cringe as you imagine your own dad telling you about his sex life- I'd recommend a gallon of bleach, a melon baller, and a scalpel.

Here we go.

It's been common knowledge, and the source of so much comedy, that the last time my dad got laid was the night my 26 year old baby sister was conceived. In fact, my mom will swear to the fact that her 4 children represent the only 4 times she ever let him touch her. After they divorced, my dad was pretty convinced that Jesus was super mad at him because you know, Catholic. He was also always adamant that he did not believe in premarital sex and that my mother (ick ick ick ick ick) took his virginity and that he had not been with anyone else. I guess that sounds pretty fucking ridiculous in the year 2015, but my dad is just so fucking weird and gross that I've always believed him, because even if he wasn't the BEST Catholic, who wants to fuck a homeless guy anyway?

Anyway. A couple of months ago, my father informed me that he had started dating a woman that he met on the bus he drives. As you can imagine, I did not have high hopes for this relationship, because she has to be either the most fucked up person alive OR the most insecure. I met her a few weeks back, and it turns out she is the latter. That said, she's actually a really nice person, (which means my dad is going to ruin her life, but that's another conversation for another time) and he's brought her along the last couple of times he came to visit. . My point is that they are still together, and they recently moved in together.

My first reaction when my dad told me that he had a girlfriend was to jokingly ask if he was getting laid yet. He actually answered that question for some fucking reason and explained that, since they were both living with roommates, they did not have the privacy required to violate Jesus's code of conduct. After that, I realized that eww, my dad thinks this is information I really wanted to hear, and I vowed to NEVER EVER EVER ask ever again, Amen.

Yesterday afternoon my dad came to visit. I was surprised when he did not have his ladyfriend with him, and we had the following conversation (seriously you guys, last chance to close your browser):

Me:  Hey Dad. I'm surprised you didn't bring Susan along. You've had her with you every time you visit lately.

Dad: Well she had to work today.

Me: Oh, I gotch....

Dad: AND she's really mad at me.

Me: Oh god. What did you do?

Dad: Nothing, forget it.

Me: Well now you have to tell me, obviously.

Dad: She asked me not to say anything.

Me: Is it about money? It HAS to be about money.

Dad: No.

Me: REALLY? What else could you possibly have done to piss her off?

Dad: It's involves someone you know.

Me: Oh, what did you take her to Uncle Bobby's house and he made a rude comment or something?

Dad: No.

Me: WTF Dad.

Dad: Well...::leans in to whisper:: we were having an... intimate moment...

Me: OH GOD NO. NO NO NO NO NO.

Dad: And I accidentally...

Me: STOP STOP STOP. FORGET I EVER ASKED.

Dad: Well, it's about your mom.

Me: TAKE ME JESUS. I'M READY TO REPENT.

Dad: I accidentally said your mom's name during our intimate moment. She's really mad at me.

Me: IT'S BEEN 25 YEARS- WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?????

Dad: And then I made it worse because I was telling her how she reminds me of your mother.

Me: ::dies of self-inflicted wounds::


---------------------------------------BARF INTERMISSION---------------------------------------

You guys? Are you still there? Do you need an extra minute to get the vomit out of your hair and your souls back into your bodies?

I don't think I need to go into too much detail about why every single word he uttered was horrifying and traumatic for me, but let's do that anyway. First- "intimate moment". I'm pretty sure I literally choked back vomit when the words came out of his mouth. Who says that? It's not as though I was raised by him and delicate phrasing is something I'm used to. I just think it would have been exponentially less creepy if he had just said "sex". And then I go into the death spiral of thought where I start to wonder exactly what "intimate moment" means. Does that mean actual P in V sex? Was... was my dad... getting a beej? OH GOD BRAIN PLEASE STOP THINKING THESE THOUGHTS. And that inevitably bleeds into the train of thought that OH MY DEAR SWEET BABY JESUS- I NEVER WANTED TO KNOW THAT MY DAD IS A NAME SAYER (shouter? moaner? GOD MAKE IT STOP PLEASE) during his... ick... intimate moments. And then I find myself wondering, should I give him advice? What would that advice consist of? "Hey dad, maybe next time just tell her it feels good or just make noises that indicate you are enjoying yourself"? WHY IS THIS HAPPENING? WHY IS THIS MY LIFE NOW? WHY HAS EACH AND EVERY ONE OF THOSE THOUGHTS CROSSED MY MIND IN THE LAST 24 HOURS?

I'm pretty sure this is my punishment from God for all the premarital sex I had.

Mom Skills

My best friend and fellow blogger, Nadine, had her first baby a few days ago. She ended up having a rather unexpected c-section, so she's been in the hospital since her adorable new daughter's birth. I've made an effort to go see her as often as I can, and on Wednesday night, that meant dragging my own kids along.

The juxtaposition of being a veteran mom crowded in a small space with my own two children and a tiny newborn baby and her newly minted mommy cued me in to a few things I hadn't realized before.

Let's call them mom superpowers. It sounds better than "shit I can do without really thinking about it now that I've been chasing around rugrats for 5 years straight". Here are some skills I didn't realize I had until that day, in that room, with that sweet new baby:

Split-Second Decision Making: I guess I should be more specific. I have in no way mastered the art of making MOST decisions in any sort of highly effective manner. It's really just ONE extremely specific decision that moms with multiple children learn to master. The decision of who to drop (spoiler alert: it's always the bigger one!).

You see, there comes a point when your toddler is in the "reachy, grabby, HOLD ME ALL THE TIME OMG NOW" phase, and it always coincides exactly with your older kid's "who does that bitch think she is, I WAS THE BABY FIRST- HOLD ME" phase. And sure, you try to be fair. You try to hold them both (because obviously this is not an issue of fairly split time. It's about wanting to be held at the exact second your sibling is being held). But there will come a point, dragging your two kids around the house, where one of them starts to slip and you gotta make that decision. Who do you let slide out of your grip and ever-so-gently ... you know, drop on the fucking ground? Anyway, that day with my kids, holding a much tinier baby than my own, Alex got the drop for probably one of the first times in her life. Sorry kid. Maybe you should talk to your sister about your obvious feelings of betrayal.

Mind Reading: There are certain instincts as a parent that you develop about your kids. You become really familiar with their temperments, their personalities, and what you can expect of them in almost any given situation. For example, I fully expected it when Caitlyn started loudly sobbing into the microphone in the KFC drive-thru because her mean, mean mommy was getting chicken for dinner instead of the McDonald's she so desperately wanted and definitely deserved. I might as well have fed her the tears of her baby sister, for the way she reacted to that great injustice.

Anyway, I realized how fine-tuned this skill had become while we visited baby Elizabeth. Everyone knows you have to be really careful when you introduce a toddler to literally anything and everything even slightly more fragile than they are. Toddlers are gods of destruction and they are not to be trusted. That said, to call Alex a bit precocious would be a huge understatement. Alex is well advanced for her age and she can and does understand and follow direction most of the time. So while I was certainly cautious about letting her touch a newborn baby, I also knew I could explain to her that she had to be gentle with her new cousin. And she was. But as it goes with toddlers and impulse control, that did not stop her from getting momentarily distracted and forgetting the rules. It was a split second decision she made, to try to rip the baby's face off, but I saw it coming. My mom Spidey sense perked up and her little hand and inexplicably constantly razor sharp nails hadn't even made it halfway to the baby's delicate face by the time I stopped her.

And I've saved the most important skill for last, of course...

Ability to Tune Out a Screaming Child: In my loud, frantic world, I didn't even realize this was a skill I possessed. I suppose it's one thing to tune out an individual loud noise without it so much as interrupting your conversation. It's a little harder when you're getting it in stereo from two kids, while simultaneously being asked to resolve whatever the fuck is making them screech at each other in the first place. The little one snatches the big one's toy. The big one starts whining and snatches it back. The little one starts crying while the big one gloats at her obvious size advantage in the toy snatching game. The little one starts pawing and grunting at you because she's upset. The big one starts justifying- "but she took it from me first!"... and eventually you tell everyone to shut up and threaten to take all the toys away if they don't both knock it off.

But that's not really my point. In the relative quiet of a hospital room, where the big one was quietly playing with my phone and letting me coo at the new baby and chat with my friend, it was easy to ignore the little one, who was clearly jealous that I was holding another baby and screeching and whining and grabbing at my legs because she wanted me to pick her up instead. I barely even noticed it, until the new baby also started crying and Nadine- who was clearly exhausted, stressed, and trying to get to know her own baby's cues and needs, not to mention recovering from a c-section- gave me her best "please make it stop or I'm kicking your entire family out of my room" look. I picked up Alex and did manage to calm her down. But I couldn't help but think it was a little funny how I barely noticed it, while Nadine had clearly been pushed to the brink of insanity by the two babies crying in stereo. It's an acquired skill, I guess. You spend so much of the first few months of your kids' lives trying to figure out why/stop them from crying that it doesn't even occur to you that sometimes you can just pretend like you don't hear it.

I suppose I'll end on that spectacular piece of parenting advise- "if your kid is screaming, just pretend like you don't hear them".   

 

A Dating Profile for Dear Old Dad

I'm dealing with some difficult shit right now. Rather than talk about it, I've decided to make fun of my dad some more. It's like meditation for me:

I've said it before and I'll say it again- my dad is kinda the worst. He's been calling a lot lately- and by that I mean when he has money to put minutes on his prepaid phone. Because he is a grown man with a prepaid phone. No offense to prepaid phone users or anything, but unless you're artfully dodging a handful of baby mommas/bill collectors/lawyers, a grown up should have, at the very least, a monthly cell phone plan. You ain't gotta be fancy and pay Verizon $100 a month. T-mobile will set you up for a cool $35. That's the part that makes it especially sad though. Despite owing so much money to SO many people, he WANTS them to call him. He wants to self-righteously rant at them about how he can't afford to pay and that is... somehow... their problem, apparently. In fact, this whole rant today started out because he had given out MY phone number to one of his bill collectors (again) and I'm annoyed about it.

Anyway. I've decided I need to find someone to take him off my hands. He hasn't had a girlfriend since my mom left him 20 something years ago. I think it's time to take him into the new millenium with online dating! I mean, sure he claims he's "tried it" before. But only when E-Harmony is having a free weekend. Because those other dating sites? Girls send him DIRTY messages and pictures of themselves dressed like whores! He's not that kind of hobo. In any case, honesty is important, so I think I'll take care of his profile for him. I mean, everyone lies on their dating profile, but you can't really trust a sociopath to be even close to honest. If I want to find him a lady life partner, I'm gonna have to lay his true self on the line:

Name:
Bill. AKA Hobo Bill. AKA Tubby.

Description:
Surprisingly young looking for 60. I suppose it's easy to get fewer gray hairs and wrinkles when you refuse to deal with any of your problems and dump them on everyone you know. One place where his lack of responsibility might show though, is right in the chompers. His teeth. He has none. I mean, fake teeth are totally expensive and he had some this one time but then he bit into a really hot slice of pizza while walking through a parking lot and accidentally spit them out onto the ground and then they got run over (what, that hasn't happened to you?). Clothes and feet are always sparkling clean with the scent of bleach though. Maybe a little faded, but it's totally worth it. Also, sometimes he wears multiple layers of clothing at once, so as to be able to remove the outside layer daily and have on a clean outfit. By the time he gets to that innermost outfit, he's fresh as a goddamn daisy.

Likes:

• Not paying for anything, ever
• Gambling
• Berating people who are just doing their job
• Sensationalized news stories
• Welfare fraud
• Talking about himself and greatly exaggerating absolutely every aspect of his existence on this planet as a human being
• Bleach
• Using the ER as a means to get his blood pressure medication
• Bahama Mamas (the giant hot dogs from 7-11, not the drink)
• Feeling 100% justified in stealing from his employer because "I had no money to eat with" even though he's totally getting food stamps

Dislikes:

• Paying for anything, ever
• The government- judges in particular because WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE, JUDGING HIM???
• Immigrants, because they are totally stealing all the CEO jobs he would have if they just went back to their country. And also because they get pissed when he sleeps in his car outside their 7-11 store.
• Gays. "I don't hate gay people. I just think they shouldn't be allowed to get married or have kids because then the kids will be gay because they will only see gay stuff and think that's normal"
• Legitimate welfare recipients. Oh, you think you're SO important just because you're not using this money to buy scratch-offs!
• AIDS (please see also: Gays. Because it's totally their fault, you guys).

What He's Looking For:
A lovely lady to take care of him. And by "take care of", obviously I mean fuel his gambling problem while providing a free place for him to live a life of luxury. He'd also really like it if you didn't mind him being enormously ungrateful for all of this. In fact, I'd say any expectation of graciousness on his part whatsoever is probably going to be a dealbreaker. He's also really like it if you wouldn't mind him sitting on your couch unbathed about 90% of the time, while he watches Fox News and dozes in and out of conciousness while loudly snoring.

So ladies, message me if you'd like to meet him, and I'll let you know when he has minutes on his phone.

Near Death Experience

Of a character. On a TV show. That I find infuriating.

Oh, I'm sorry, did you think this was going to be about me? Of course not. I do, in fact, have an announcement to make, but things have been crazy and busy and stressful, and I want to have the time to really sit down and write it out the way I want it. Now is not that time. Now is the time I'm typing this in the smallest window possible so my coworkers don't see that I'm not actually doing work.

Anyway. Spoiler Alert, obviously.

Can we talk for a moment about Grey's Anatomy? Or The Anatomy, as I prefer to call it. Specifically, I want to talk about Meredith and how much I want to watch her die.

I get it. The show has been on for quite some time. You can only really rework a character's storyline so many times. But the fact is, this shit is getting ridiculous. How many near-death experiences can one fictional character have before the show has to acknowledge the fucking absurdity of it and ACTUALLY kill her off? It's like watching fucking Final Destination. I can't even tell you how much I was rooting for her to really die this time.

Do you understand the lengths of absurdity and obnoxiousness this show had to go to, to get me rooting for the TITLE CHARACTER's death? KILL THAT BITCH NOW. I can't even anymore with her. She's not even likeable to begin with, and I'm really sick of the fact that she has the fucking grim reaper on her back at every single season finale.

I mean, I suppose, if they did decide to try to stretch it across a few more seasons, they could find a few more ways for her to almost-die. Maybe in the series finale, the world will end with a Day After Tomorrow-style flood and ice age.  But I fucking swear the last scene would be her doing voice-over about death, and you would see her hand reach out from under a mountain of snow and then they would just cut to black.

Is Meredith Grey the devil? Is she, at the very least, some kind of witch?  Because, bitch, please die already. Nobody even likes you.

Shit My Dad Says- Hobo Bill Strikes Again

My dad has officially worn out his welcome with every single member of my family except for me. I mean, he's worn it out with me too, but I'm too nice to show it as blatantly as everyone else does.

In particular, my sister April recently decided that she couldn't deal with him anymore, told him off in spectacular fashion, and ignores him like 90% of the time now. That being said, when she was invited to come visit by our uncle that my dad is currently living with, she decided to make the 2 hour trip to visit our extended family. My dad told me that April would be visiting, and asked if I would come too.

I really didn't want to go. And so, I layered a little bit of truth and a little bit of exaggeration on him. I told him I couldn't really afford the gas and tolls to make the trip. And I couldn't, really. I'm a recently single mother, thank you very much. Sometimes I'm broke.

It got weird when my dad called me a few days later, and then again another couple of days after that, asking about my money situation. If I was okay. If I needed any money. I responded with the verbal equivalent of shrugging my shoulders. "Eh, you know. I'm always broke". The thing about my dad is that he's like Willy Goddamned Wonka in the Chocolate Factory when he has money. And by "has money" I mean, "is currently collecting unemployment even though he hasn't had a real, on-the-books job in like at least 5 fucking years, wait, excuse me? Why the fuck do you get to collect unemployment, because you just almost turned me into a Republican when you said that?". He gets all manic and jolly, but with a certain uneasiness where you know the facade could slip away at any moment. But hey, he's there, and he's smiling and he's got lickable wallpaper so I guess it's better than the LSD boat rides he likes to take you on when he's depressed.

Anyway. This past Wednesday he came to visit me after work. He shuffled in and I noticed he was carrying a plastic jar.

Ok. Side bar on the plastic jar. When I say plastic jar, what are you imagining, exactly? Maybe an old water jug, or some sort of Tupperware container? I mean, sure, I didn't give you a hell of a lot of context on "plastic jar", but I feel like those are the sorts of things that are going to pop into your head. What isn't going to pop into your head? THIS:

Yeah. That is a one gallon drum, previously filled with the blue cheese dressing of his former employer. Are you wondering what it's filled with now? Change. Specifically, it contained $142 in an assortment of quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies, and- AND- most importantly, half dollar and dollar coins.

Let me explain. This is not a normal change jar. Even if you put aside the fact that he chose a vat of dressing as his piggy bank, this is not an accumulation of $142 worth of the everyday loose change from his pockets over the course of a few months. No.

You know how if you offer a young child a choice between a $1 bill and 4 quarters, they will almost always pick the quarters? Because even though the value is the same, the quarters SEEM like more money to them? That is how my dad is. Except that he is turning 60 this year and he's still eternally fascinated by change. He will take his real, grown-ass man paper bills (that he seriously needs to pay his real, grown-ass man neverending debts), and go to the bank and trade them in for change. He will specifically ask for half dollar and dollar coins, because he thinks they are OMGSOCOOLOMG. He will say to the bank teller "Give me as many as you have! I collect coins!" You know the problem with "collecting" coins when you are too poor to live? You run out of money and then you are the fucking weirdo at the Walmart paying for deodorant in change out of a gallon sized jar of salad dressing.

When he started telling me the exact value of each denomination of coins in his jar ("I didn't have anything to do this morning so I counted them"), I started giggling like a maniac at his utter lunacy. Then he showed me his "collection" of $2 bills. In his wallet (where else would he keep a collection of MONEY? Der.). $14 dollars worth of $2 bills. You guys? Math, ok. That is SEVEN $2 bills. That + $50 in quarters = money aficionado right there. He even had another $2 bill at home. I mean, he could have totally just been bragging, but I believe him. People like him don't need to lie about their accomplishments. He even gave one of the $2 bills to Caitlyn, and, I mean, if he was lying about that extra one at home, that would mean he only possessed $12 in $2 bills, and really, what the fuck is THAT? Nothing, peasants. $14 is the minimum to gain notoriety as a collector.

It came to a point where I had to ask (again), "Why, dad. Why do you insist on cashing in your money for change?". Naturally, he had infallible logic on his side, once again:

Dad: You know, those coins can be worth a lot of money

Me: ...

Dad: No really, there's a 1964 blah-blah-donkey-fuck quarter that's worth $2! (I may have paraphrased).

Me: Oh yeah. $1.75 profit. Big money. How many of those do you have, by the way.

Dad: Oh, well, I checked all these quarters and there weren't any.

Me: So none then, collector?

Dad: The $2 bill I have at home is worth $10.

Me: ...

Dad: Some of the half dollars are worth $2 too.

Me: We just discussed this.

Dad: And you know, those silver dollars... you put 10 of those in a sock and carry it around with you. Anyone tries to mess with you, you can smack them in the face with it (you guys. This is not embellishment for the sake of the story. He literally said these words and did not understand for even a moment why they were insane).

Me: Oh dear sweet baby Jesus, save me.

Then he proceeded to dump out his entire jar of change and count it in front of me. When I wouldn't stop mocking his salad dressing jar, he told me his big plan for Christmas. Yes. In fact, his "big plan for Christmas" involves 1 gallon salad dressing jars (JARS- plural). And change. Naturally. He has 4 of them in his car, you see. And he's going to fill them all up with change and wrap them up in paper and a bow, and each of his GROWN ADULT OFFSPRING, WITH JOBS AND GODDAMN BANK ACCOUNTS AND A MODICUM OF NORMALCY DESPITE HIS VERY EXISTENCE, WILL RECEIVE A STINKY JAR FULL OF CHANGE FOR CHRISTMAS. I mean, isn't that the "spirit of the season" everyone always talks about at Christmas? Being broke enough to pay for things in change and then dousing your stress in high fat foods? Yup. Nailed it, dad. Fucking nailed it.

Anyway. Then he told me, since he knows I'm super broke, that I could keep his $142 in change. And you know what? I absolutely fucking kept it.

To Be A "Kid Person"

There are two kinds of people in this world: Kid People and Normal People.

You see, I kind of object to the idea that anyone would say that they just across-the-board LOVE kids. The self-identifiers. The people who say things like "every child is a precious miracle from God". I mean, really,  you like every kid? Have you never met an asshole kid? Because I have. And I definitely don't like them at all.

I mean, some people are more naturally inclined to caring for children. My mom is one of those people. If you asked her, I think she would absolutely say she's a kid person. And she's the one exception that I will make here. Because as much as my mom has a fantastic nature towards kids and the fact that every single child she encounters loves her immediately, I've also heard her express her distaste for certain children. She won't hesitate to call out an ugly baby (I mean, not to the parents, obviously) or an asshole toddler, or a rude 8 year old. She's not absolutely indiscriminate. And she sure as shit doesn't call every little troll-kid a "miracle". My mom understands that some kids are just not going to mesh with her personality, even if MOST of them do.

I guess the thing that bothers me most about the self-identifiers though, is the pressure it puts on people who don't feel the need to try to superbond with every single kid who crosses their path. When you find yourself in the company of that person who tries so hard to be every kid's favorite, proclaiming their love indiscriminately to every slimy, slobbering little stink beast, I suppose you can't help but wonder if there is some fundamental flaw in your genes, some lack of maternal instinct on your part that is stopping you from wanting to hold every child in your arms and tell them they're special.

Here's the thing about maternal instinct though: it's meant for YOUR kid, not someone else's. Not giving any fucks about other people's kids does not mean you don't have it in you to love your own.

Sometimes though, as a non-self-identifier, you will find that you do bond with someone else's kid. You will find that despite all your notions that you probably don't even like kids that much, you actually enjoy spending time with one of them. And it's not just that you like them. Inexplicably, they like you too! They ask to go to your house. They play play-doh with you and laugh at your jokes and think the sun shines out your ass. They think you are awesome even if you can't seem to figure out why.

My point is that sometimes you need the unfiltered view of a two year old to make you see how awesome you are and that you are more than capable of being a good mom some day.

Tales From Vacation- Snack Attack (Which is Admittedly Weird, Especially Since There Was an Alligator)

Yesterday afternoon I got home after a week in Florida with my family. We had a great time and it was mostly drama-free, with a few noted exceptions. The first was car trouble. My youngest sister blew two tires on the highway on the way down, then inexplicably had a dead battery (not left-the-lights-on dead. Dead-dead. Needed a new battery dead) a couple of days later. She ended up shelling out nearly $400 in car repairs. Then Rodolfo's water pump died on his car when we were on our way back, an hour from home. That was also $400. So much for saving money by driving. The second mini-drama was related to my apparently calling my 2 year old niece morbidly obese or something and/or telling a grown man to stop calling a 13 year old boy a douche bag. Those blew over pretty quickly though.

The other little drama was snack-related. I'm sorry, did that last sentence sound as ridiculous to you as it did in my head? SNACK-RELATED DRAMA, you guys. Seriously. Let me take it from the beginning:

As I said, we were driving down. Myself, Caitlyn and Rodolfo in his car (yes, we are still separated, in case you were wondering), my mom, step-dad and oldest nephew in her car, our middle sister, her husband and their son in his car and my youngest sister, her boyfriend and their daughter in his car. 4 cars and 3 toddlers. So I decided to make little snack packs for all the kids. I bought ziploc bags and separated portions of goldfish, crackers, and veggie chips for each kid, then threw in a few packs of gummy snacks and juice boxes for everyone. I even made up a ziploc bag for each of them filled with some crayons and folded up paper so they would all have one more thing to keep them occupied for the long trip.

I'd thought of everything. The drinks were boxed, so no one needed to try to pour juice into a sippy cup in a moving car. The snacks were the least messy I could think of. I even provided activities! I was feeling very smug about the whole thing when I texted my mom and sisters to let them know that I'd provided snacks for all the kids, so they needn't worry about it. Obviously they were all grateful. Who wouldn't be?

The ensuing drama had nothing to do with the car snacks, honestly. Everyone loved my awesome car snacks. I only brought it up so you all know how incredibly efficient I am. Okay. Not really (maybe a little though). My point is that I had provided snacks, and I made everyone aware of that fact beforehand (a full 24 hours in advance, even, which is like an eternity in my procrastinatey family). That being said, when you have a toddler, you tend to plan for every scenario. I fully expected that my sisters would also bring snacks along, because what if my nephew decided he hated everything I brought? What if my niece... I don't know, fed all her snacks to an alligator or something (we actually had an alligator in our backyard and an old man standing at the edge of the swamp/lake just begging to be eaten)?

Anyway. We arrived Monday night and went grocery shopping for the week. It was just us girls at the store, and we decided to give Sammi a break, since she had all the car trouble, and split the bill between myself, my mom and my other sister, April (yeah. I'm just gonna use her name now. NO1CURR). So we went about finding what we thought we would need for the week.

Everyone had certain special things they wanted. I picked up some Kashi cereal bars I like, frozen smoothie mix for Rodolfo, and pickles for my burgers. Sammi wanted Fruit Loops and Ramen noodles. My mom... I don't even know, but I'm sure she picked up one certain thing that wouldn't have necessarily been on anyone else's list. Then there was April. Here is the list of things April needed specifically for herself and her family (I should emphasize that she did share if anyone wanted anything. It's not that she was being selfish in that way. She was just being selfish in the way that she made the rest of us split the cost of her excess):

Double-Stuff Oreos
Family Sized bag of M&Ms
Cheerios
Cinnamon Chex ("I need variety, Jaclyn", she responded pissily when I asked if we really needed 3 different kinds of cereal- "besides, I don't eat Fruit Loops")
Apples and Grapes
Coffeemate
2 boxes of frozen mini-pancakes (because despite the fact that we bought pancake mix, she insisted that her son would only eat the frozen mini ones)
Lysol Wipes (she insisted these were "for the house", even though everyone else thought paper towels were perfectly fine)

My mom and Sammi and I were annoyed, especially since Sammi, despite already being out $280 in car repairs at this point, had to practically be bound and gagged before she would let us pay for her fucking Fruit Loops and Ramen noodles. But it was April's vacation too. We all sort of rolled our eyes and moved on.

This is the point where you understand why I mentioned the car snacks I brought. Because when we got back and unpacked our groceries, everyone also started unpacking their personal stuff too. This is when we saw the stash of snacks that April had brought from home (please note that I don't mean she brought a few of anything. These were all regular sizes boxes of shit):

EL Fudge cookies
Chewy Chips Ahoy cookies
Teddy Grahams- vanilla
Teddy Grahams- chocolate
Wheat Thins
Assorted bag of Starbursts and Skittles (you know, those giant bags you buy to distribute for Halloween)

A full day passed before April became displeased with the "variety" of snacks available to her. I woke up Wednesday morning to see her returning from Target, where she bought:

Target bakery sugar cookies
Target bakery chocolate chip cookies
2 boxes of chocolate chip granola bars
2 family sized boxes of Pop-Tarts
Milano cookies
A giant bag of popcorn
A box of microwave popcorn
5 candy bars (these, she informed everyone, were just for her though- no sharing!)
a cheesecake
3 bags of assorted varieties of potato chips (family sized, of course)

If we had planned to stay for a month, this would still be an absolutely ridiculous amount of snacks. And we did actually buy food too! And soda. Seemingly gallons of it disappeared while we were there. I won't say I didn't eat any snacks or drink any soda. I certainly did, but if I'd had my way, I wouldn't have had all this shit sitting there for me to eat in the first place!

I guess my point is that I hope my sister doesn't get diabetes? Also, my mom reads this blog, so she can confirm that this is absolutely not an exaggeration. I actually wrote down the list of snacks because it was so ridiculous to me that I knew it would be a blog post on the very first night.

Anyway. There's lots of other stuff. I promise some pictures of me swimming with a dolphin and also another post about all the ways in which my dad fails at life (he watched my dog while I was away. Stop thinking "well, that was nice of him"- you haven't heard the story yet).

Eleven Things and 100 Posts

I guess I should start by commenting on where I've been. Sleeping. Actually, no. NOT sleeping is much more accurate. Basically I've been buzzing through life like a fucking zombie because I feel like I haven't slept in 10 years.

Caitlyn may or may not be getting her last round of molars. She's been whiny and just EXTRA toddler for the last few weeks. Extra. All the toddler.

The main problem is her sleeping habits. They are fucking awful. I had finally gotten her out of the habit of sleeping in my bed and over the last week or two we just reverted right back. Because she screams and cries and begs until I pick her up. And it used to be that once she was asleep we could put her back in her crib, but not anymore. She wakes up at least 3 times every night crying, and I'm so run-down and exhausted that I just dump her into bed with me so I won't have to get up to comfort her the next time she wakes up.

Sleeping with a toddler is the worst. She's already a restless sleeper and whatever has been bothering her makes her toss and turn all night long. If regularly getting kicked in the face in the middle of the night wasn't bad enough, I've also found that sleeping next to her is a lot like what I imagine it would feel like to sleep pressed up against a space heater. I wake up just about every morning drenched in sweat.

Since I haven't been updating much, I should probably also point out that the sweating at night thing isn't only about Caitlyn. I've been on my MS meds for over a month now. I was really worried about the side effects, and that I would feel like shit all the time, but the sweating has been the only regular side effect I've had. I'm doing really well on them, in fact.

So. Next things... next. I got tagged over at The Last Oyster. I'm new to her blog, but she's cool and funny. You should check her out. Anyway, I have to tell you 11 things about myself, then answer the questions she asked of me. Then I have to tag some of you bitches and create 11 questions for you to answer. Should be way more interesting than the rest of this post:

Eleven things about me:

1. I have a bunch of weird little phrases and words I use that make absolutely no sense in the context in which I use them, or they are completely made up and are only funny to me. Examples? "Dumparoos", "The Brown Cow", "So is your face", "Aces 10 Bojangles", "Everyone hates you", "Facepunch/Mouthfart" and the newly crowned princess of awesomeness "Dirt Floor Whore".

2. Accessories are my own personal nemesis. I have an oddly shaped head (or a gigantic one? Probably a gigantic one) and so hats never fit me right and sunglasses always look weird and I just never wear jewelry. My accessoriless life is sad one.

3. I hate it so much when people combine two different names and give their baby some made-up bullshit name. There are literally THOUSANDS of options. Just pick a normal name. Also? You aren't unique and neither is Jessilynda (Dear Jessilynda, Please don't send me hate mail. My beef is not with you, it's with your mom. Snuggles, Jaclyn).

4. I have an irrational fear of people knowing how tone deaf I am. I have to be really, really (no seriously. REALLY REALLY) drunk to do karaoke.

5. Any time someone asks me what kind of music I like, I tell them I only like shitty music. It's mostly this weird thing of not being able to resist liking something after I've heard it a dozen or so times. Fucking pop music, man.

6. Yesterday, I was cooking dinner and Caitlyn walked up to me and handed me something. It was a piece of poop.

7. I'm a little bit of a science nerd. I find medical stuff and genetics really interesting (not interesting enough, though, to get any sort of degree and put that curiousity to work in a field where I could make a shit-ton of money. Nah. I'd rather just be a receptionist who blogs.).

8. I have a weird sort of... fear, I guess? Of chemicals. If I'm cleaning something with Windex or 409 or anything like that, I hold my breath. The smell of bleach makes me want to scrape out my nostril hairs because I'm convinced they are holding the stank in my nose (when I reread this to edit the post, I added the reason why bleach makes me want to scrape out my nostril hairs, because it occured to me that I maybe sounded like a schizophrenic who was convinced that they were in cahoots with the bleach to poison me). I yell at Rodolfo when he uses air freshener. I'm at work right now and they are doing some sort of "chemical cleaning" of the air conditioning system and I'm 83% sure that I'm developing a tumor as we speak. On the other side of this coin, I also think that hand sanitizer is ruining lives. I'm not evenly remotely weirded out by germs and other naturally occurring stuff that my body has had generations of evolution to learn to fight off. I think people who use hand santizer are underevolved bitch babies. But Pine Sol? It might as well be a bottle of Polio (and I know Nadine is going to say blah blah blah "Method" so I'd like her to know that I recently invested in some Method cleaning supplies and I love them and also they are pretty).

9. Coming up with eleven things is getting kinda tedious.

10. Number 9? Total cop-out.

11. Do you remember that song from that fake band that MTV made up during the boy band craze of the late 90s? U+ME=US. I KNOW MY CALCULUS. Seriously though? That was kinda awesome.

1. Why do you blog? Did you read my "about" page? God, you are such a lazy whore. Ok. But mostly I blog because I have the coolest kid on the planet and as an adult I've always been curious about my own mom's inner monologue from when I was a kid. So I figure this is my monologue for Caitlyn to read when she's old enough to realize I'm not the most uncool person on the entire planet. Or for when she realizes she wants to embrace my uncoolness. Or for when her own toddler is kicking her in the face every fucking night.

2. Dream job: This, I guess? If I could get someone to pay me to write and shit. Obviously I want Caitlyn to see this blog one day, but I could write down all the dumb shit I think in a journal for her or something if I didn't truly enjoy the fact that people like what I have to say and think I'm funny and shit. So, I guess what I'm saying is that I'd like to get super-Bloggess famous and write a book or something. But like, the kind of famous that only writers can be, where lots of people know your name but you still maintain enough anonymity that you can eat in the mall food court without needing a security detail. Actually, you know what? Fuck it. I want the security detail too. I want to be so famous and so beloved that Born Again Christians think I'm the Antichrist (as they do with everyone cooler then them ::coughbarackobamacough::).

3. Favorite Canadian (this is just a test-the answer is not Celine Dion): Ninja, obviously. But can we talk about Canadians and non-Canadians for a minute here? I like to bust Ninja's balls about the extra U's she puts in words that do not need a U (for example, I had to delete a U from the word favorite when I pasted these questions, because apparently BNo is also Canadian. Stop thinking you are fancy, Canada. We don't want your U's). Anyway, I have this... let's call her an aquaintance on Facebook. We went to high school together. She is very much from the USA. She is also very much too old to be deliberately misspelling words so as to appear a certain way (smarter? I think she thinks it makes her look smarter. Fail, aquaintance. Fail). And so I want to punch her through the medium that is Facebook when she puts U's in words that do not require U's. Wouldn't it be great if instead of "like", you could "punch" someone? My life will be complete when Zuckerberg adds the ability to status punch the assholes I went to high school with.

4. Beer, wine or hard liquor? Hard liquor. And honestly, it's a good thing because beer and wine are disgusting. Seriously, why would I ever want to drink something that is fucking fermented? I do not put fermented anything in my mouth. I certainly would not put a fermented dick in my mouth, so why would I ever drink wine? Also? If we were having a debate about the pros and cons of drinking wine, I just won it. Fermented dick wins all arguments. Also, I feel like someone is going to tell me that all alcohol is fermented, but I don't give enough fucks to even Google it. I still win. I don't care about your "logical argument".

5. Favorite book: This answer is going to make me sound like a moron. Up until a few years ago, I was pretty convinced that I did not have the attention span to read books. I would read lots of magazines and online articles, but until recently, when I realized I do not have the time, money or childcare available to do cool shit outside of my house, I never really read books. I've read a few recently though, my favorite being, typically, The Hunger Games trilogy. If anyone has suggestions, I will happily take them (except for Nicholas Sparks. I will puke in your hair if you recommend Nicholas Sparks).

6. Reality TV as the death of well-written comedy and drama-discuss. Nadine keeps insisting that I watch "Jersey Shore", but I say no way. I don't need to see "The Syphulation" doing body shots out of some skank's belly button. I think it's to a point that you have to pay for good TV. Which is why I abuse Nadine's HBO Go to watch Girls (which is where "dirt floor whore" originates. If that isn't reason enough to watch, nothing is ever going to be good enough for you. I don't think you're cool and your mother is poor) and I pay for Showtime to watch Dexter. Dexter is a fucking amazing show, with the exception of the story arc they set up this past season where he starts fucking his sister (Dear Dexter writers: If you think this is a storyline the fans have been clamoring for, let me clear this up for you. No one wants to see him fuck his sister. No one. Never ever. Thanks! Love, A Devoted, Non-Incest-Loving Fan). While we are on the subject though, I'd like to blame reality TV for the destruction of one of my favorite shows, Lost. I'm pretty sure that during the last two seasons of Lost, the writers simply said "fuck it. You know, we've put a lot of effort into this shit and these idiots are watching The fucking Bachelor. Let's slap our balls together over a dictionary and whatever words the drops of our ballsweat fall on will be the plot line this season.". In case it's unclear, I was dissatisfied with the ending of Lost.

7. What do you talk to your spouse about once there's nothing left to talk about? Yesterday Rodolfo asked me if I was dating someone else. Because apparently the fact that I've left him couldn't possibly be about anything he's done wrong. It's obviously because I'm a whore who is fucking all the dudes (bitterness. You're welcome).

8. Favorite type of book: I haven't decided. I always think I would enjoy a good mystery, but then I'll decide against it because it will probably be all scary and suspenseful and I spend enough of my time worrying about serial killers and not getting enough sleep.

9. First thing you would do if you won the lottery: First thing? I'd buy houses for myself and my family and friends. But the coolest thing I'd like to do? Well, as you may remember, I was really poor as a kid. Projects poor. We lived in the projects for most of my childhood. A lot of people hear the word "projects" and assume that everyone who lives there has a drug problem or some other vice that landed them in the poor house. And that is the case a lot of times. But then there are people like my mom. People who didn't have the opportunity to get a really good job because they lacked a college degree. People with deadbeat baby daddies who don't do a single thing to make sure their kids are fed and clothed and housed. People who deserve for something good to finally happen to them. So if I won the lottery, I would go to the projects where I grew up and find someone like my mom and give them a million dollars.

My questions for you:

1. Who wronged you this week? Go ahead, vent. You know you want to.
2. Top 5 bangable celebrities
3. 5 completely unbangable celebrities (for the record, I don't get the whole Ryan Gosling thing. I guess he's not technically "unbangable", but I wouldn't hit it. At all. Please don't chase me with sticks. It had to be said).
4. Tell me the story of the drunkest you've ever been. If you don't remember all the details, feel free to make some shit up.
5. What did you want to be when you grew up? How is that working out for you? Please tell me why you failed to reach the goals you set for yourself when you were 8.
6. You have to be in a room with Newt Gingrich for an hour. Do you end it all?
7. Song you hate the most and why.
8. First and last name of the first boy you ever had a huge crush on, so when that narcissitic asshole Googles himself, he will know all your private shame.
9. Do you like me? Circle one ----     yes               no             I like you so much I know your social security number
10. Why did the chicken cross the road (I suspect hallucinogens but please tell me your theories)?
11. Hot air balloon or white water raft? (I'm not even going to give you context here. Tell me a good story)

Tagged: Nadine, Ninja, Noa, Jen, Misty, Gia, Gweenbrick, Johi, Kendall

Last business of the day: THIS IS MY 100th POST. You're welcome! But seriously, thanks to my faithful readers. I love you and all your comments, and even when I don't have the chance to respond to them, please know that I read them all and very much look forward to them.

The Grandma Chronicles- Part 2

A while back, I promised you funny stories about my mom. Since I can't seem to write in the present tense in a way that doesn't make people want to jump off buildings, I think now is the time for another mom story. I also feel I should remind you that mom stories are the most politically incorrect stories ever. You may not want to read this if you are easily offended. Seriously:

I must have been about 14 years old. It was Christmas time. At 14, I was clearly old enough to know that Santa did not exist, or more accurately, that my mom is Santa (please note that I said IS and not WAS. I don't know that I will ever think of myself as Santa, even for Caitlyn. My mom is the best Santa ever, and she proves that point every Christmas).

Anyway. The point is that I was old enough to go Christmas shopping with my mom for Sammi, who obviously still did believe in Santa. She was 7 or 8, I think, and very into Barbie dolls.

Because we were Christmas shopping, the store was very busy and the aisles were crowded with people searching for gifts (apparently procrastination is genetic, because every single member of my family waits until the last minute to buy gifts. My sister didn't even hesitate to call me the night before Caitlyn's birthday party to ask what she should get her. She knows I wouldn't be offended that she waited until the last minute. Because she knows I do exactly the same thing). What happened next did not happen privately and I remember getting many disapproving looks from horrified strangers.

I can't remember if there was one Barbie in particular Sammi wanted. I simply remember roaming the Barbie aisles with my mom, looking for something. This was quite a few years ago, before stores needed entire toy aisles dedicated to Leap Frog ipads and "things that never shut the fuck up, OMG PLEASE LET IT AT LEAST PLAY THE WHOLE GODDAMN SONG AND STOP PRESSING THE BUTTON 5 SECONDS IN SO I HAVE TO KEEP HEARING THE FIRST 5 SECONDS OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN", so there was more than one aisle of Barbie toys.

I left the aisle I was in to find my mom and see if she'd found what we were looking for. As I turned the corner, I saw her halfway down the next aisle, doubled-over and giggling like a maniac. When I asked her what was so funny, she only laughed harder. She laughed so hard that she could not speak, she could barely breathe.

I walked over, confused, to see what had struck her so hilariously funny. And then I saw it.

"Look, Jac", she gasped through her hysteria... "this Barbie....hahahahaha". "Oh my god. This Barbie is in a.... haaaaaaaahahahaha".... "WHEELCHAIR". Tears now rolling down her cheeks from laughing so hard, she loudly christened the doll "CRIPPLE BARBIE".

Moments later, she informed me that we would need to go home. She had now peed her pants from laughing so hard at the misfortune of Cripple Barbie.

We may or may not be going straight to hell. If God's a big Special Olympics fan, we are pretty much fucked.

The Sickest Man Ever

You know how sometimes you get a cold and feel shitty for a few days but, despite your stuffed up nose and sinus headache, you realize you are not, in fact, dying?

If you are a man, and you just read that, I'm pretty sure your first thought was "on the contrary, Jaclyn. In fact I did nearly die". But lets be real here. Very few dudes read my blog, so lets talk some shit about what a bunch of pussies they are.

I'll start at the beginning. I picked up a cold from my mom last weekend. It started with some body aches, but within a day or two, it was mostly just in my head. I had a sinus headache and a runny nose and was sneezing every 8 seconds or so. Which was annoying, but I certainly did not claim to be on the brink of death. To make matters worse, Caitlyn picked up a stomach virus at the same time. On the bright side, at least I couldn't smell her diarrhea and vomit.

Rodolfo was unsympathetic. In fact, I got an attitude when I told him that no, I could not give him a blow job while unable to breathe through my nose. It was the first tragedy to befall him this week. The second was when he caught my cold.

Last night I started to feel better. My sinuses were clearing up and Caitlyn's orifices stopped exploding. We were both getting back to normal. Then it happened. Rodolfo announced that he was officially sick.

His top concern when I am sick is when he will catch it, so he usually spends most of that time asking me not to cough near him, refusing to kiss me and dramatically announcing that he thinks he is getting sick at least twice a day. Then the tide will turn, as it did last night, and he will start listing his symptoms. Are you wondering what they are? Let me break it down for you:

1. He is so cold. SO COLD. Am I sure it isn't like, 60 degrees in the house? Because he's really fucking cold. So cold, in fact, that it reminds me of that scene in the movie "Point Break" when the one guy got shot and Keanu Reeves is all "You're cold because all the blood is draining from your body. You're going to be dead soon. I hope it was worth it". And it makes me wonder if Rodolfo thinks our marriage was worth it, worth this painful and tragic end he is facing. I suspect not. In any case, he throws on a hoodie, wraps himself in a blanket and reminds me every 3 minutes that he is still extremely cold.

2. He thinks he is going to vomit. I'd like to point out that he never actually does. "I think I'm going to vomit" is a progress report, in case you are wondering. It starts with "my stomach hurts" then progresses to "my stomach really hurts" and "my god my stomach is really bothering me" and "seriously, Jaclyn, I'm so sick. My stomach is killing me" and finally culminates in "I think I'm going to vomit". Thanks for the constant updates on your intestines!

3. Body aches. Also known as "owww... my legs. Why do my legs hurt so much?". When you imagine him saying it, it needs to be in the same tone he would say something like "God, WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME???". His legs hurt all night. I know this because when I'm awoken repeatedly by his desperate whimpering, he reiterates his awful pain.

4. Oh yeah, he's sneezing and shit too. It isn't necessarily relevant to this particular post, but I had to teach him sneezing manners. Because he has this disgusting habit of just turning his head and sneezing (and he's a multiple sneezer) into the air without covering his mouth. I would constantly tell him how fucking nasty and rude that is and it finally stuck.

The most aggravating thing about him being sick though, is that, while he reminds me repeatedly how it's my fault he got sick, he is also adamant that I don't understand how shitty he feels. "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND, JACLYN. I'M REALLY SICK". I can't tell you how often he says that. Probably at least as often as I tell him he's being a pussy. But really, the idea that I got him sick, yet have no idea how sick he is... well, it's kind of contradictory, don't you think? He doesn't get that. He has it worse. I got the easy version of whatever he has. Oh, and he never EVER has a cold. It's always the flu. Even if the symptoms are 100% quarantined to his sinuses. Nope. Still not a cold. It's sinus flu death for Rodolfo.

And then I have to compare. Because it wasn't just us. Caitlyn was sick too. She had her moments of being whiny when her tummy was hurting and she certainly wasn't 100% herself, but she complained less than her dad. Caitlyn, who vomitted a half a dozen times and had explosive diarrhea for 3 days straight. Caitlyn who is not yet 2 years old, smiled through it when she wasn't actively spewing fluids, as opposed to her 38 year old father who thought he was going to die on the couch because he was SUPER cold.

It makes me wonder what boy toddlers do when they are sick. My only theory is that they crawl back into your uterus and refuse to come out until they can be reborn into a world without germs. And you know what? I bet his mom would complain less about rebirthing a toddler than Rodolfo did about his cold.

Whitney Houston Was NOT Your Cousin

Okay guys. I'm sure you've heard. Whitney Houston died.

Is it sad? Sure. But I'm here to tell you something important: Whitney Houston was not a member of your family.

So the weeping lunatics on the news talking about how they can't believe she's gone? Yeah. I hate those people.

It's not just Whitney fanatics, either. My loathing of this phenomenon where deranged fans throw themselves to the ground sobbing and beg Jesus for it not to be true when a stranger who sang a few songs they like (and had a highly publicized drug problem) has died has bugged the ever-loving shit out of me for quite some time now.

I blame Michael Jackson, really. You see, good old MJ kicked the bucket in the summer of '09. 2009 was a bad year for me. It was the year I lost Nicholas. In fact, it was just months before MJ died.

First there was the constant news coverage. The assholes on the news crying over a stranger as if he were a member of their own family. Real fucking tears. Over a man they didn't know who was morally questionable at best. I was legitimately grieving over the loss of my child and these fuckers were devastated that they would never have a chance to see "Thriller" performed live.

Then came the funeral. I can tell you the exact date, actually. Michael Jackson's funeral was on July 7, 2009. Curious how I can pull such a random piece of information out of my ass like that? Because I think I've made it clear till this point that I don't give a shit enough to remember it.

July 7, 2009 was my due date with Nicholas. I should have been celebrating the birth of my son, but instead I was mourning the fact that I would never hold him in my arms again, never see him smile, never hear him cry. So to turn on the TV and see a bunch of retards crying over Michael Jackson was absolutely infuriating to me, to the point that I still get mad when I hear one of his songs. Because somehow I've inextricably linked Michael Jackson to the death of my son.

Anyway, back to Whitney. I'm sorry for her family, her daughter in particular. But really, did no one see this coming? I did. And it isn't my place to mourn her death. That is something to be left to her family.

I will say one last thing though: If you think about it, Whitney really went out of her way to make her death as significant as possible. Right before the Grammys? Miss Whitney, your tribute will be beautiful! Black history month? We have truly lost a black icon! A diva even in death.

Asshole Time 2.0

Back when Caitlyn was an infant, before I started this blog even, she had something Rodolfo and I referred to as Asshole Time.

Generally, we were very lucky. She was an easygoing, happy baby. But every night between 6-9pm, Caitlyn would be an asshole. She would cry despite not being hungry or wet or uncomfortable. Rocking her didn't help. Nothing helped. She would just spend at least an hour or two every night screaming inconsolably and we could never figure out why.

Asshole Time was fleeting. I'd say it lasted from the time she was a few weeks old until she hit 3 months or so. If you figure she hardly ever cried besides that, I probably dealt with a lot less crying than most new moms.

At the time though, it was very frustrating. I couldn't figure out what it was that was upsetting her. I couldn't make her happy. On days when Rodolfo was at work during Asshole Time and I was alone with Caitlyn, I would find myself at the very end of my patience. I would say things that you shouldn't really say to your infant. Things like "WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?" and "THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU, STOP SCREAMING!" and "I WANT TO THROW YOU OUT THE FUCKING WINDOW" and then maybe I would also cry. Not because I felt like THAT big a failure, but mostly out of the frustration that builds when someone is screaming in your face for hours at a time and you can't just say "fuck you" and leave.

Looking back, it really wasn't so bad. Because right now, we are experiencing Asshole Time 2.0. Also known as the Terrible Twos. Also known as "Stop smacking your head into the ground when you don't get your way then crying because you hurt yourself" and "Mommy isn't laughing because you are being a dick" (side note: I accidentally taught Caitlyn the word dick this weekend) and "Don't hit me, asshole" and "Don't climb out of your crib. You are in time-out. Asshole" and "Keep your fucking diaper on" and "Snatching my phone and then throwing as hard as you can when I try to take it back is NOT cool" and, most of all "Stop fucking WHINING about everything". And it's so much worse. I'd take a hundred Asshole Times in exchange for Asshole Time 2.0.

My kid is funny and charming and adorable. So it's hard for me to deal with asshole Caitlyn. It's like she's possessed. By an asshole. Right now I'd say the split is about 60/40 in favor of her being an asshole. That other 40% is downright magical though. Her personality is so defined now. She does these unexpected, ridiculously charming things. Like last night, we were at a Super Bowl party and while the Super Bowl was on in one room, the Puppy Bowl was on in the other. She loved her some Puppy Bowl, let me tell you. Somehow, she understood that there was a connection between the two and would often walk out of the Puppy Bowl room, hands in the air and shout "TOUCHDOWN!". Shit like that makes it really hard to leave her in the woods to be raised by wolves until she gets her attitude in check.

Right now, hitting is the battle I'm fighting the hardest. Caitlyn seems to think that any slight, real or perceived, shall be dealt with by the merciless strike of her hand. She also seems to think that when I get pissed about it and put her in time-out, that kissing the spot she smacked me in should get her out of a punishment. Sorry, kid. It doesn't work that way.

The mood swings are really difficult too. She transforms from the smiley, cheerful girl I know into a screeching, whining, angry beast in a matter of seconds. She feels the need to exercise her will at any cost. And her will is to be diaperless and armed with an ice pop and my phone at all times. It's exhausting.

This is definitely a phase right? I often wonder about my parenting choices. I feel like I'm doing a good job, but everyone has an opinion about everything I do. My mom, my husband, my sisters, random dicks in the grocery store. And so I find myself questioning the kind of parent I am. Am I too easy on her? Do I give in too quickly? Am I mistaking Terrible Twos for my parenting style just turning her into a full-time asshole? I don't know. Tell it's just a phase, you guys.

God's Radioactive Ballsack

I've written about it here before. My hatred. For ribbon magnets.

It occurs to me now that I could be the fucking queen of them. All the diseases. I possess them in some way. Some connection. I could go all the way with the magnets. I could support so many Chinese factory workers.

Because I refuse to make another whiny post (at least before I go to the doctor tomorrow, and have fresh things to whine about), I will list for you, the magnets I could have. You're welcome:

M.S.- It's important for me to know what color this magnet would be. Does anyone know? Because if I'm absolutely certain of anything, it is that there is already one in existence. So what color? Because I've decided that the best way to deal with this diagnosis, to throw all my support behind this disease, is to wear it's representative color, head-to-toe. I need to know what color underwear I need to throw away, so someone get me this information as soon as possible, please.

Cancer- Ok. There are lots of cancers. Breast. Ball. Et cetera. But maybe we can just lump them all together and say "cancer is bad, let's beat cancer". Can I get a "cancer is bad" magnet? Because I would be all over that shit. And can we not make it pink? I know I have tits and a vagina, so I should be all about the lady cancers, but my personal experience is with Rodolfo's cancer, thyroid. And I'm pretty sure the color of that magnet should be "scar"... which is a brownish color in case you are wondering.

AIDS- I know this one is red. I can't say I've been personally effected by it, luckily. But everyone hates AIDS, man. And I do like red.

Besides these three big hitters, I could own the magnet game with specific diseases. My mother has heart disease. I have friends whose children have ADHD and Autism. My one sister-in-law has Lupus. The other one has kidney disease. They even make ribbon magnets to support stillbirth research and miscarriage. I could get on all those things. People would think I was mocking the magnets, I would have so many. The problem is that they would be right.

I came to this conclusion simply. I briefly considered which magnets I could not, in good conscience, have on my car. Naturally, I started thinking about the ones that are supposed to be jokes, to support weed and pimping.

And then I realized something else. MS? It's one of the few diseases where medical marijuana is actually considered a sanctioned treatment. I could support weed in all seriousness and people would have to look the other way. Even feel bad for me and shit.

I feel I need to tell you something about myself, though. I'm a bit of a freak. Or maybe it just seems that way to me because I grew up ghetto-adjacent and I might just be the only one in a 200 mile radius. So here it is:

I've never gotten high. In all seriousness, like ever. I've been in situations. I've had the opportunity. In fact, all I would have had to do would have been to stay in a room where some shit was going down and I probably would have caught some sort of buzz. But I always walked out. Because, okay, is it just me? Weed smells like shit.

I mean, that realization came later for me, if I'm being honest. Because during the sunrise of my adolescence, I was convinced that people didn't do drugs. Well, unless they were drug addicts, of course. I was truly and thoroughly horrified a few years later, to find out how many people I knew that I would classify as drug addicts.

A boy I liked and his pre-law friend gave me a good talking-to at a party once (where, coincidentally, I didn't see anything wrong with getting so drunk that I was still hammered at work the next day) about the actual criminalization of marijuana and how it isn't actually that bad or unsafe as a lot of things that are currently perfectly legal. And they mostly convinced me. Except that I still wouldn't do it because I find it so fucking disgusting.

And now I'm wondering about all the potheads I know who don't have MS. Fuckers.

I've also considered blaming all this on God's radioactive spunk. Basically I've decided that New Jersey is the epicenter of Jesus' Chernobyl ballsack and living here made neurological decline an inevitability.

And now I'm wondering one other thing: Was this even funny the FIRST time I wrote about it? I don't know, but I suspect it was not. Cut me some slack people. Holes in my brain and shit.

When Did Captain Hook Become Such a Little Bitch Boy?

In the beginning, I resisted it.

Children's programming.

It's kind of awful. And besides that... okay I don't want to use the word "sellout", but I was sure I wouldn't become one of those parents whose kid was brainwashed into needing everything they own to have Winnie the Goddamn Pooh on it.

Before I found my better-than-Jesus babysitter, you may remember that my sister, A., was Caitlyn's babysitter. A.'s baby shower was baby Looney Tunes. My other sister's was Minnie Mouse. In the way of not bowing to licensed merchandise, I was certainly the odd one out in my family.

My point is that, despite my distaste for the idea that a less than one year old might have a favorite TV show or cartoon character, Caitlyn was exposed to a lot of TV at my sister's house. Unlike A.'s son, she was not mesmerized by the TV at 4 months old or anything, but she certainly had a few shows that would capture her attention for at least a few minutes per episode.

Caitlyn did not watch TV at home until she was well over a year old. I just didn't see the point. She was so focused on things like learning to walk and talk, that she didn't need anything else to occupy her time. But as she's grown into a toddler (and gotten a new babysitter who doesn't plop her in front of the TV all the goddamn time), I've relaxed my stance on TV a bit.

Okay. So now that we have established how superior I am, and that it isn't my fault that my kid likes to watch TV, let me tell you the story of how I discovered the huge difference in cartoons now, compared to when I was a child:

I had on the Disney channel the other day. I wasn't particularly paying attention to it and neither was Caitlyn. She was off shitting on my floor or something. At some point though, something on the TV caught my attention (I believe it was the word "doubloons")and I started to watch.

The show was called Neverland Pirates or some bullshit like that. It was a modern twist on Peter Pan. Except that the "modern twist" is that Captain Hook is a total bitch boy whose only recourse when things don't go his way is to throw a hissy fit and stomp around like an impotent douche. In fact, during this particular episode (about "winter treasure day"-where they decorate a tree and give each other gifts- nice job appeasing those Jews, Disney), Peter Pan and Captain Hook amicably agree to split their found treasure and have a lovely holiday dinner together. Really? Come on. That is one pathetic villain. Can you even imagine Inspector Gadget inviting Dr. Claw to a family dinner after he tried to rape and pillage Penny yet again? No. You can not. BECAUSE HE'S THE FUCKING VILLAIN AND IF YOU INVITE HIM TO YOUR HOUSE FOR DINNER HE WILL PROBABLY JUST BURN IT DOWN BECAUSE THAT'S THE KIND OF SHIT VILLAINS DO.

It got me thinking though, about the shows Caitlyn watches. She's young, so I don't expect to see any truly villainous villains in a show meant for toddlers, but still, I think current children's programming is going to turn our kids into pussies.

Remember the Looney Tunes we would watch? Have you ever seen that shit as an adult? Even if you are able to ignore all the blatant violence, those cartoons were not pussy-makers. Elmer Fudd was stupid and mean-spirited. He had no redeeming qualities. If Bugs invited him over to dinner, you knew he was trying to trick him or something. Daffy Duck was arrogant. Bugs' girlfriend was kind of a whore. Foghorn Leghorn did not like black people. Did. Not. Like. Black. People. Have you ever taken a moment, as an adult, to think about the phrase "cotton pickin'" and to realize how often we heard it as kids on Looney Tunes? Did I just blow your mind? Yeah. Thought so.

Today's kids shows lack conflict. I think kids need to know that life doesn't always just sort itself out in 30 minutes or less, that sometimes the villain is still around even after the immediate problem is solved. In real life, Pablo, Tyrone and Uniqua might wear different colors, if you know what I'm saying. Twist might not be accepted as just another part of the gang, despite his obvious mental retardation. Toodles isn't always within earshot to bring you what you need.

I'm not saying I want my kid to be exposed to the sexuality and racism that our cartoons were kind of known for. I'm just saying, for fucks sake, can't Captain Hook be a real fucking villain?

Things That Are Irritating Me

I'm feeling really annoyed today, for no good reason. And, to answer your next question, NO, I do not have PMS. And if you ask me again, I WILL cut you. Here is a list, in no particular order, of things that are pissing me off today:

• The dog. Why does he have to track his shit across the yard? No seriously. He spends 10 minutes finding the perfect spot to shit in, only to scootch along in his dump squat for an additional 5 minutes leaving me a trail of steaming nuggets to follow. WHY DOG?
• The husband. Specifically, the candy he has eaten from my... I mean, CAITLYN's trick-or-treat stash. I should probably mention that he neither tricked nor treated. The one who drags the toddler from house to house begging for free candy has FIRST FUCKING DIBS. I'm just saying.
• The people at the lollipop company. Because you know how Capri Sun is the best juice ever and its clear (what, I'm the only adult who still drinks Capri Sun? Fuck you guys)? In fact, I think the lack of artificial colors is part of what makes it superior. So why, lollipop guys, do you think every lollipop you make needs red or blue dye? Oh, because you love ruining my kid's clothes? FUCK YOU. You are all dead to me. Also, oompa-loompas.
• The people you send a Facebook invite to for an event you are planning and even though you have been ASSURED that they are coming, they just fucking let it sit in their notifications and NEVER respond (yeah, I'm looking at you MIKE). WHY CAN'T YOU JUST CLICK THE LITTLE BUTTON THAT SAYS "I'm attending"? WHY DO YOU HATE ME?
• And speaking of that last one, I might as well throw the year 2012 onto this list. The event I'm planning is a vacation thing for myself and my friend because we are both turning 30 next year and instead of killing ourselves, we are simply going to get drunk for a week straight and try not to drown in the pool.
  
• Chocolate. We have a love-hate relationship. I'd love to be someone's cat for a year and only have access to the food they give me, in the portions they give, so I do not have to answer to my dark master on the daily. Halloween, you are certainly NOT helping with this endeavor.
• People who can't answer a fucking text message. Because I just fucking hate you, okay. Stop being a dick and get back to me.
  

I Bet Mud Huts are REALLY Hard to Clean

I'm a bit notorious for being a slob. In fact, when Nadine and I were roommates, I'm pretty sure she was plotting my death because she's a neat freak and my tendency to leave my hair on the shower walls was slowing whittling away her will to live.

My husband is Hispanic and he grew up in a proper Hispanic household in South America, where his mother did all the cooking and cleaning with the buckets of water she carried on her head back from the river. Okay. Not really. About the buckets I mean. But she did do all the cooking and cleaning. And so, before I married brown, I was not made immediately aware of the fact that this is what my new husband would expect from me.

When we first got together, Rodolfo seemed pretty laid back. It never really occurred to me that marriage would change the dynamic between us so drastically (yes, apparently I AM stupid). So when he liked it enough to put a ring on it (and, coincidentally, I liked it enough to put a green card on it), his expectations of my role became ... more defined? Let's say more defined. Sounds better than "he expected me to be his mom" or "he started acting like a dick".

My point is that Rodolfo expected me to clean and shit and I fucking HATE cleaning. It isn't that my standards for cleanliness are THAT low (shut up, Nadine), it's just that I have better things to be doing with my time. And when I clean, I tend to get all compulsive about it so it takes me an entire day by the time things are organized the way I want them to be. So mostly I wait till it's on the brink of shameful before I bother to clean up. And just to be clear, I don't mean "Hoarders" shameful. I'm talking like once a week cleaning. Unless it's changing cat litter. I put that shit off as long as humanly possible.

This has been a source of strain in my marriage but I can admit that I'm at fault on this one. While Rodolfo thinks I should be cleaning more, he's also come to realize that if he wants to maintain a certain standard of living, he's going to have to do it himself a lot of the time. Because even though that bitch grew up with chickens running through his mud hut, he really has pretty high standards for his living conditions.

Obviously I'm less slovenly now, mostly because I'm sick of picking dog hairs out of my kid's mouth, but Rodolfo still takes it upon himself to do the cleaning a lot of the time.

The thing of it is, he THINKS he is doing a super great job. He is not. That's the funny part. Let me break down a few of the problems for you:

Mops: Rodolfo does not believe in mops. I can't understand this. I'm all for making cleaning as easy as humanly possible, so I don't understand why he will not just let me buy a mop. You are probably wondering what he cleans the floor with (and subsequently expects that I clean the floor with). Does he get on his hands and knees and scrub? ABSOLUTELY NOT. He will take an old t-shirt, wrap it around the end of the broom, douse the floor in water and cleaner and push the dirt around with his not-absorbent-or-able-to-pick-up-dirt-pretty-much-at-all t-shirt. And then he will stand around proudly and admire the shit job he just did. I tried buying a Swiffer once, but he refused to let me buy the pads and simply wrapped his t-shirts around the Swiffer for a while.

Bathrooms: Rodolfo is a little weird about germs. Except he is weird about germs in a way that makes it clear that he doesn't understand anything about how germs work. A good example of this is how he is convinced that Caitlyn will get "diseases" (yes, plural) from petting the cat. Because cats have a multitude of cross-species diseases that we should worry about Caitlyn contracting through hand-to-fur contact. Same goes for the dog. So what I don't understand is how he insists on cleaning the bathroom with a sponge. Yes, the germiest thing on the planet. And he will use it to wipe down the sink and toilet then stow it all wet and disgusting under the sink for the next time. Are you wondering if he wipes down the bathtub with it too? Of course not... bathtubs don't get dirty and therefore never require cleaning. Obviously. It isn't like his WIFE is cleaning the bathtub!

Organization: When Rodolfo organizes, he puts things into two categories: "My Shit" and "Shit that Probably Needs to Go into the Garbage Already but My Wife is a Fucking Pack Rat for Keeping the Baby's Swing so Let Me Throw it in the Closet". This happens with everything. All the time. It's "I'm going to throw this away" and then "FINE. I'm putting it in the closet then". And by "putting it in the closet" he absolutely always means throwing it onto the floor of the closet never to be seen again. And then he gets mad when it takes me a day to clean out the closets. Because it only takes him 20 minutes to clean the whole house!

Rodolfo has so many weird habits when it comes to cleaning, but these are the most annoying because it means when I clean I have to do twice as much as he does because he doesn't know he sucks at it then he wonders why it takes me twice as long. But since we are talking about his weird habits ... let's get in to one more:

Rodolfo's mother once told him his head smells bad. This is not true. I know this not just because I sleep next to him every night, but also because she once said the same thing about Caitlyn when she was a baby. That's BABYSMELL lady. And it could be the best smell in the fucking WORLD. Weirdo. Anyway. So he has this paranoia about his head smelling bad, so he obsessively washes his entire head. Like multiple times a day. He will not leave the house, EVER, unless he has washed his entire head with soap, even if he took a shower an hour before. Note that I did not say shampoo. And he wonders why he has dry skin.

Anyway. That is all. Just making fun of my husband today.

Well, Now That THAT'S Settled...

One of the major sticking points in my marriage has been the question of more children. I've been on the side of having one more, while Rodolfo is clearly happy with just Caitlyn.

He has a point. It isn't like we can just fuck a few times and have another baby. Babies are expensive for us. And the pregnancy itself turns me into a puking, terrified mess. I wasn't looking forward to the process of IVF and the daily shots of blood thinners during a pregnancy, but every time I would look at my daughter, I would find myself thinking "how could I NOT have another?". You know, because she is fucking awesome.

You know what the thing is about having one awesome kid though? You can fucking leave the house occasionally and do things with that one kid. And it came to my attention this weekend that the degree of difficulty of just walking out the door without anyone falling down a flight of stairs is dramatically increased when you are caring for more than one young child.

This past weekend placed me indisputably on Rodolfo's side of the fence. It started with a simple request from my little sister: she needed a babysitter for her daughter this weekend. My sister Samantha is like me in the way she raises her daughter. Much more laid back than our other sister and also much more attached to the idea that if you wanted your weekends free you shouldn't have had a kid. A., our other sister, has been sending her son away about half the time on weekends with either set of grandparents since he was 2 months old.

I guess it isn't the worst thing. It's not like she's sending him to the Home Depot with the day laborers to make a quick $100 or anything. But it's not my personal style, and it isn't Sammi's either. In fact, my niece Adrianna had never spent a night away from her mother until last weekend.

In Caitlyn's case, she has only actually spent 3 nights away from me since she was born, but she is also used to being at someone else's house. I went back to work when she was 8 weeks old and she's been eating, sleeping and playing in someone else's house for several hours a day, 3-4 days a week since then. She is adaptive. She doesn't cry when I drop her off. Sometimes when I arrive to pick her up from the babysitter's house, she barely acknowledges me. She's having too much fun playing with her new best buddy.

This was not the case with Adrianna. My youngest sister, her boyfriend and their daughter are living with my mother. When they go to work, my mom or stepdad will watch Adrianna for them. She has never had a reason to be anywhere without her mom, dad, grandma or grandpa. Ever. Until last weekend.

It isn't that she doesn't like me or that she doesn't know who I am. When I picked her up Saturday, she was all smiles. We stopped at Ihop for smiley face pancakes (where, with 2 toddlers in tow, I was asked if I wanted the regular smiley face with strawberries and bananas or the Halloween "scary" face with Oreos and candy corn. Are you kidding me dude? These kids don't need fucking Oreos) then headed back to my house where I planned to put Adrianna down for her nap.

Enter: Chaos.

You know how it is when a toddler is tired? How everything is the hardest fucking thing in the world to do? How they collapse into a fit of tears and tantrum at even the slightest provocation (and by provocation, obviously I mean anything you do)? How they kind of hate you for exisiting? That is what it was like from the time I walked into my door until the time Adrianna's dad picked her up Sunday afternoon. Times 2.

It started with the dog (damn dog AGAIN!). I had to take him out when we got home, so I put the babies in Caitlyn's crib thinking (wrongly, obviously) that they would quietly suffer the indignity for the 90 seconds I needed to let the dog go outside to pee. Bloodcurdling screams ensued, so I hustled the dog upstairs as quick as I could and took the kids out of the crib. At which point the bloodcurdling screams were quickly accompanied by a toddler leg magnet.

I'm used to Caitlyn, who has always had pets and is completely unimpressed by their presence. Still, as a mom myself and an understanding person in general, I realized that I might need to ease Adrianna in with my overexcited jumpy animals. The dog went into his cage and I went about the task of putting Adrianna down for her nap. Surely she would be more receptive to the dog when she wasn't tired anymore.

Adrianna, from what I was told, was pretty easy to put down for a nap. Bottle, 15 minutes of cartoons and out like a light. Except it didn't really go down like that. Because apparently Caitlyn's crib is lined with baby-eating monsters or something.

And OK people. I HAVE a toddler. A loud one. With a high-pitched scream. Who thinks it's utterly hilarious to see how many glasses she can crack with her best screech. What I'm saying is I have heard that high-pitched, deafening baby scream before. You know the one I'm talking about. The one you feel in your spine. The one that makes you reflexively put your hands over your ears. The one that she always seems to pull out in the middle of the grocery store. You know. But Adrianna. My god. Her scream was the loudest, gratingest (yeah I made it up. And what?) thing I have ever heard in my life. I thought my brain was going to start leaking out of my ears. And she did it absolutely every time I tried to put her down for her nap.

I know. She's a baby. Away from her mommy for the first time. I felt bad for her too. Maybe I could let her play a little longer till she was extra tired and had no choice but to go to sleep! For those of you who aren't moms let me tell you, that NEVER works. It just makes it 1000% worse. Overtired toddler is a natural phenomenon on par with tornadoes and tsunamis and shit, an unstoppable force which will leave you ruined in it's wake.

The entire afternoon went pretty much like that, with me trying to get Adrianna to take a nap and her refusing in the loudest way possible. Which, of course, caused Caitlyn to decide that naptime was fucking bullshit and she wasn't having it either. So I had 2 overtired toddlers on my hands till around 8:00pm, when both decided a 20 minute nap (Adrianna fell asleep while sobbing into my shoulder, Caitlyn passed out on top of one of her toys) would rejuvenate them for the night hours.

By 11:15 or so, Rodolfo got Caitlyn down to sleep by taking her out of the scream-center and driving her around in the car for 15 minutes till she passed out. Adrianna was a whole other story. She was blatantly exhausted but fighting it with all her effort. Between 11-12:30, she dozed off in my arms at least a dozen times. Each time, I stupidly rocked her for a few minutes before deciding she was FINALLY in a good enough sleep to put her down. And then she would wake up screaming bloody damn murder. Then I gave up. I held her in my arms and we fell asleep on the couch together around 1:00.

The next day we planned a day of pumpkin picking at a farm with my sister A., her husband and son and their friend and her 3 year old daughter. Let me break that down for you one more time: That would be a 3 year old, an almost 2 year old, and 2- 1-and-a-half year olds. And 4 adults. Sounds like it would work out perfect right? 4 kids and 4 adults means a set of hands for every kid!

Let's start by saying that when you think of pumpkin picking, you think of cool breezes. Which is probably why Adrianna's mom only sent her a couple of pairs of sweatpants and sweatshirts and not a single t-shirt or short-sleeved shirt of any kind. Which would have been fine, except we were in bizarro pumpkin picking land, where it was fucking 85 degrees outside. Adrianna is significantly chubbier than Caitlyn, so I didn't have anything to fit her and she had to wear her sweats. We picked up A., who quickly realized that she was going to "sweat her balls off" and offered up one of her son's T-shirts for Adrianna.

Fast-forward almost 2 hours of sitting in traffic and we arrived at the farm sweaty and irritated. Fast-forward ANOTHER half hour of waiting in line to get food for the 4 antsy, hungry, pissed-off toddlers we were carting around and every single one of us was on the verge of a meltdown. The kids were whiny. None of them would eat a thing. They wanted to play in the mud. Adrianna had to be stripped down to her diaper. Did I mention that it cost us $75 (yeah SEVENTY-FUCKING-FIVE DOLLARS) to feed our little group, where half the food went uneaten?

After lunch we assessed the situation. The line for tickets for hayrides, pumpkin picking and all the other assorted fun things for the kids to do had converged into a 70-person-long human barbecue. Fuck that. We left. Without pumpkins or pictures or funtimes, $75 poorer than we arrived, with quite literally nothing to show for it. Awesome.

As A. and I walked our individual toddlers the quarter-mile back to the car, we agreed that no matter how many adults in any given situation, the limit would be 2 toddlers per excursion. Then we mused over how insane our mother must be to have had 3 of her 4 children in a span of 4 years. When I relayed that conversation to my mother later that same day, she insisted that we were amateurs and promised to show us the ropes.

Adrianna's dad picked her up shortly after we got back and I was relieved. Two toddlers is not something I see in my future. IF I have another baby, Caitlyn will have to be at least 5, capable of shitting on the toilet, feeding herself and walking down a flight of stairs without giving me a heart attack. I just don't see it happening any other way.