Full of Shit

So I have 1000 something emails in my in-box right now.  I wish I was exaggerating.  This is making me feel anxious, annoyed and completely overwhelmed.  Am I the only one that lives like this?  Every day I see the number increase.  In the rare moment that I’m in the loo alone, I can delete a few unwanted messages.  But I’m usually never alone.  The procession line ensues as soon as I enter the bathroom.  It’s as if a silent alarm sounds off that only the kids can hear, and before you know it, all three of them are standing in our tiny half bathroom while I’m trying to take a shit.  You’d think I’d remember to lock the door.

So there I am, on the toilet, completely helpless.  I have to resort to throwing things to get them out.  It’s really an amazing sight to be seen.  I go for anything I can reach- brushes (hair and toilet), magazines, hand towels.  These I like to whip around, sometimes two fisted. Like a lasso.

I check my email on my phone several times a day.  Sometimes there are play date email blasts, always a good thing.  Sometimes I’ll get an email from a friend who actually wants to talk to me!  But mostly, it’s all shit.  It’s not uncommon where I’ll miss an important email because it’s sandwiched in-between a Red Envelope deal of the day and someone who needs help saving a horse from slaughterville.

The frustrating thing is that everything I do creates more emails.  It’s like a vortex of…a vortex of some kind of thing that spirals and spins and sucks and multiplies like this thing, you know?  Ok.  Sorry.  Still no good at analogies.  Anyway, I’ll give an example instead.  I signed up for a 5K to help the children in Africa get clean water. Well, I didn’t actually run it.  I’m not proud.  I was in the bathroom with a nasty case of the runs, actually alone at 5 in the morning, the day of the race.  I could have used a little company that morning. The cramping was horrible. Horrible! So now I get emails from these marathon people all of the time.  Fantastic.  No good deed goes unpunished.

I also just joined Living Social because that’s all I hear people talking about.  “I got this great deal, and saved $100 on blah,blah, blah.”   I wasn’t listening really.  I felt left out, so I had to join.  But now I’m getting all these annoying emails about these amazing deals that I have no time for anyway.   All these great places I can travel to for dirt cheap.  NO TIME. NO MONEY.  NO TIME.  Since I’ve joined Living Social, I feel like a big fat loser.  Maybe I can get a gym discount?

The other problem is that it feels like every time I unsubscribe from whatever company, I get put on another list.  Or every time I make a purchase (Barnes and Noble/Amazon), they wind up sending me emails again.

“I’m sick of it!  I’m sick of it! “(Scene with Ashley Judd in the movie Heat with Al Pacino.  Classic.)

Here’s where I think the problem lies.  I don’t have a job where I go to work, and sit in front of a computer all day.  If I did, I could devote at least ten minutes a day going through, sorting and deleting emails.  I swear I wouldn’t have the issue I’m having now.  (Sounds like a good reason/excuse, yes?  I’m going with it.)

Nowadays, when I do have a chunk of time to go on the computer, I’m looking up whatever video my four-year-old wants to watch, or looking up a recipe for dinner, or googling Matt Damon,  or living vicariously through some friends on Facebook- the ones that don’t have kids, or pinning shit on Pinterest, which also makes me feel like a big loser.  Look at all these awesome things I have on my boards that I will never be able to afford to wear, or places I will never be able to travel to, or recipes that I have zero fucking talent to be able to cook.  Ugh.

Technology is really doing zero for my self esteem.  So I decided that I’m giving up signing up for stuff and buying stuff on line.  It’s the stuff that is making my life more stressful.  I’m going back to the days of going to the store and hand picking a gift.  I’ll browse the aisles for hours instead of browsing pages online.  I’ll come home and wrap your gift, and then wrap it again in brown paper or shove it in a box, and drag my ass to the post office to ship it. I’ll also hand deliver your flowers or your baby gift.  For my next 5K I will refuse to register online.  I will call and do it.  I’ll claim that I don’t have an email address.  You need a horse saved? You need someone released from jail?  No problem.  Come to my door.  I’ll sign on the dotted line.

Or…

I’ll just clean out my inbox everyday. Fuck.

6 year itch

3am.  I can’t sleep.  I woke up from a dream an hour before and was tired of staring at the ceiling.  I went to pee and then drank some water, a huge glass full, which I always leave by my bedside.  When I got back into bed…

Husband:  Jeff called.

Me:  Who?

Husband:  Jeff.  He said stop peeing so loud and stop gulping water like a giraffe.

Like a giraffe?  What?  First of all, as if he knows what a giraffe sounds like when it drinks water.  I can’t imagine that a giraffe would sound anything like me.  Really?  Is that the best he’s got to dish out?  Anyway, it took a few seconds to process, but then I realized he was referring to our neighbor Jeff who lives next door.  Ha ha husband.  Very cute.

Me:  Millie called.  She said your breathing is really keeping her awake, and you should stop it already.

Husband:  Who?

Me:  You know, Millie.

Husband:  Millie?

Me:  Minnie?

Husband:  You mean Mindy from across the street?

Me:  Whatever.

Husband:  Geez. Get it right.  And stop stealing my material.  That’s all you know how to do.

He gets out of bed and stomps off to the bathroom.  When he returns, he mumbles something about me waking him up and something about him not being able to fall back to sleep.  Yawn.  I’m the one who’s been up for over an hour now, asshole.  

Husband:  Why do you swallow so loud?  Gulp, gulp, gulp.

Me:  Haven’t we beaten this one to death already?

Husband:  I just don’t get how you drink so loud.  It’s not normal.  Nor are the size of your earlobes.

Me:  We’re bringing my earlobes into this now?

Husband:  They’re just so BIG!

Me:  You’re annoying.

Husband:  You woke me up!

Me:  I want to know who made up the rule that married people need to sleep in the same bed?  I don’t get it.

Husband:  You don’t let me touch you anyway.

Me:  Exactly.  It’s overrated this sleeping together non-sense.  And when are you going to flip this mattress?

Husband:  You flip it.

Me:  No you flip it.  Not only did I agree to sleep on this mattress where you did who knows what on, and performed what x-rated acts on.  Now we get into bed and I literally feel like I’m laying on a see saw or the uneven bars.

Husband:  Those are the worst analogies I have ever heard, perhaps in my entire life.

Me:  You know what I mean!  It’s like it’s…

Husband:  like it’s a sinking something or other?

Me:  No.. like a..

Husband:  The Titanic?

Me:  What?  It’s not sinking, moron.  It’s caving in.  The Titanic?  Really?

Husband:  Same difference.

Me:  Our mattress is like a souffle gone bad.  Really bad.

Husband:  Would you just shut up already.  Maybe it is time for a new mattress.  This problem is getting worse and worse year after year.  I’m tired of talking about it.

Me:  Oy. I’m tired of going to the chiropractor.

Husband:  You’re a loser.

Me:  You are.

Long Pause.

Husband and Me in unison:  Twin beds.

Where are the days when I absolutely loved getting into bed next to my husband?  Now, just like my favorite book, I just want to go the fuck to sleep.  You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on my side.  Don’t touch me unless I let you know it’s ok.  Otherwise, goodnight!  And where are the days where me gulping water was cute to him?  And where are the days where we had such nice, sweet, romantic pillow talk?

I suppose about 2,190 some days ago.

June Showers

What’s up with little boys and garden hoses?  You can’t just hand a boy a hose and say, “Here, water these flowers.”

They will take the hose from you, eager to please.  You can almost hear them thinking.

Flowers.  Hose.  Water the flowers.  Water the flowers.  I will water the flowers. I am going to water the flowers.

The intention to do good is there.

All seems right in the world, until…

The windows (opened) in the front of the house get soaked, the car in the driveway (with open windows) gets soaked, siblings within 20 foot radius get soaked.  Everything but the flowers gets completely soaked.

The mere hose in the hand causes what I like to call, ALFLESD.  Absolute Ludicrous Frontal Lobe Extreme Shut Down.

Granted, this part of the brain is barely functioning for young children.  Not even during the teen years is the frontal lobe fully developed.  Ok,  I get it.  But what’s a mom to do?

So after Joseph gets a time out from his brief ALFLESD episode, I sit next to him.  Jake is jumping up and down like a caged monkey patiently waiting his turn with the hose.  I give him the one minute sign and the shut your mouth sign at the same time (it’s talent, really).

Me:  “What happened Joe?

Joe:  “I couldn’t help it.”

Me:  “I know.”  I take a deep breath.  “Next time, just try to get some of the flowers wet.”

I looked up at Jake,  holding that hose, now jumping like a hot Mexican jumping bean, and wondered if I should run inside to close the windows or grab a rain coat.

Dear Husband… (here we go again)

We recently attended the largest fundraiser of the year for my son’s school.  What an amazing event.  It was at a beautiful country club, all the bells and whistles.  What a great excuse to get all dressed and fancy, and to socialize with our new friends.  One of my new mom friends and I were in charge of putting together a cooking basket representing our boys’ class for the silent auction part of the night.  I was proud to have contributed!  There were rows and rows of these gorgeous baskets to bid on.  The night progressed.  The drinks were drunk. The food was eaten.  The bids were made.

When my husband came to the following morning, he found this note taped to his forehead.

DEAR HUSBAND,

TOP TEN THINGS YOU SHOULDN’T DO AT YOUR SON’S CATHOLIC SCHOOL FUNDRAISER

10-Don’t do shots at the bar.

9- Don’t use the bathroom for anything other than going to the bathroom.

8- Don’t throw food at the table.

7- Don’t fucking curse

6- Don’t go up to people, pretending that you know them.

5- Don’t get involved in the live auction.  Put the marker thingamajig down.

4- After winning live auction, never approach woman in charge and demand a lower price.  And please refrain from using the “f” word.  Twice.

3-Don’t get in fight with wife over above mentioned (#4)

2- During fight, don’t cause a scene outside and send her away in a cab before dinner has ended.

1- Don’t forget 5 minutes later that you sent wife away in cab, and go searching for her, asking everyone, while drooling, “Have you seen my wife?”

1- (I know there’s two number one’s here) Leave the nuns alone.

P.S.  I’m not talking to you.

Writer’s Write (and go to therapy)

I thought it would be a good idea to write today, because I’ve been thinking about writing for months now.  Now, to most people, writing is boring.  If the actual act of writing is boring, imagine thinking about it all the time.  So imagine if you will, that I don’t know what I’m going to write about.  There’s no great plan or storyline or a list of characters that I have to pick a apart and create.  I have zero idea what I’m going to write, so basically when my mind wanders to writing, I’m thinking about writing nothing.  I’m thinking about me at the mother fucking (sorry dad) computer, staring at the screen, doing nothing.  My fingers aren’t even rat-a-tapping on the keyboard, because there’s nothing going on upstairs.  No thoughts.  No great ideas.  Not a God Damn thing whatsoever.  And this happens all the time.  And I wonder why I’m in therapy.

I know, I sound frustrated.  I’ve just been in a writing slump for over a year now.   Now granted, some of my friends and family might argue, your dad passed away last year or you have 3 high maintenance kids, (4 if you count my husband, and on some days that’s a fair thing to say), go easy on yourself.  I know this.  I’ve tried getting rid of the kids, but quite frankly, no one wants them.  My mom runs to the airport when her visit is over.  In fact, she leaves for the airport the day before her flight just to be sure she will get back home.

Me:  “Mom, really?  Sleeping in a chair overnight at JFK is no way to go.”

Mom: “Oh you know, it’s ok.  I bring book and you know I don’t sleep with pillow anyway.”

The ironic thing, or weird thing, haven’t decided, is that my mom is moving from  Florida to New York to be closer to her grandkids and to help me out.  She turned 60 this year, and I can’t say this for sure because I haven’t turned 60 yet, but I think that when you turn 60, the logic part of the brain kinda shuts down.  You know, that part that helps you work through all bad decision making.  It’s the same part of the brain that is turned on full force during our roaring 20’s.  The same part that thought it would be a great idea to date your college professor.  Not that I personally would know what that was like or anything.

The thought just popped into her head as she explained…

Mom:  “I want to move to New York!”

Me:  “What?”

Mom:  “I want to move to New York!”

Me:  “What?”

Mom:  “Is that ok?”

Me:  “What?”

Mom: “Hello?”

Me:   “What?”

Mom:  “I’m moving to New York!”

Is this the same woman who refuses to visit between the months of December and March because it’s too cold?  The same woman that only owns capris?  Obviously, her brain was incapable of processing this thought and only propelled her to put her house up for sale the next day.

Ant Farm for Sale

I’m not dealing well with this whole death and dying thing as of late.  After having kids, the death and dying thing has become more real in the sense that I have to think more responsibly.  I don’t want my kids to become orphans so certain activities like bungee jumping and sky diving become questionable.  I know, like I’d even do those things, but you know what I mean.  Even flying has become a whole can of worry.  The “what if?” scenarios increase.  You just pray to God that you land safely so your kids don’t have to grieve your loss too soon.

About a month ago my husband and I finally put our wills together.  I knew after having children that this was something that needed to be done, but I was so great at putting it off, because quite frankly, planning what goes on after dying freaks the fuck out of me makes me a little uncomfortable.

I don’t like to talk about death.  I don’t like to talk about hypothetical situations where the ultimate outcome, is, um death.

This issue I have with death has only intensified since my dad passed away suddenly and unexpectedly this past April.  Two months fresh.  I’m really a complete mess.  You may talk to me and I seem totally fine, but at the drop of a hat, I can start bawling.  The only thing that’s keeping me sane are my insane kids.  They keep me in the present moment.  Yelling and cursing always seems to help with this.

I’ve been doing my best to find activities that keep my mind as clear as possible like exercise, writing, juicing; anything that keeps me in the present moment.  Granted, I may have to remind myself over and over to be present, but I have had some five to ten minute stretches where I’m not thinking about how my dad died and how sad I am without him.

Good old Uncle Milton to the rescue!  Ant Farm.  You know it.  It’s been around since 1956.   Put special sand into a thin plastic container; pour water and a dozen harvester ants into the sand mixture and watch!  In only two days, these ants have dug close to two feet of tunnels.  These critters are really amazing.  At first glance it looks as if they’re out for themselves.  They climb over one another with purpose and determination to get where they’re going, but look a little closer and it’s clear they are working together. Teamwork at its best!

Joseph received this Ant Farm as a gift back in October for his birthday.  It only took me 8 months to order the ants (not bad.  I could have re-gifted it for his 8^th birthday and he would have never known the difference.)  It was great timing because Jake, who’s now almost three, is obsessed with bugs.  Perfect.  What a great way for the boys to see these amazing ants in action!

I have to say, even I was mesmerized by these ants and what they do.  Watching them made me remember how all life has purpose and meaning, and how we are all connected, even with a tiny little ant.  But if you’re an ant crawling around in my kitchen, I’ll mess you up.  All of that “being one” crap goes out the window.  I think I’ve killed about a hundred of them since this past spring because they were making their way into our house.  The moth larvae debacle was cakewalk compared to the ant parade. 

I never thought that I would find so much enjoyment in these little ants.  Until…

The other night I couldn’t sleep so I came downstairs for a drink of water and decided to check out what our ants were up to.  I was amazed at another tunnel a couple of ants were working on.  I watched for a few minutes until another ant towards the top of the farm caught my attention.  What the?  What’s she carrying? (All harvester/worker ants are female.  I never knew this, but I love sharing this fact.)  I looked closer and saw that she was dragging another ant that looked to be, um, dead.  She carried this dead ant from one end of the farm to the complete opposite end of the farm.

Ah, for the love of God, they’re stacking the bodies in the corner of the farm.  Really?

I immediately Googled how long these harvester ants live.

2 weeks to 3 months.

Am so upset now.

My son’s ant farm has now become a burial ground.  One by one these fuckers are going to die.    I can no longer see the amazing work these harvester ants have achieved.  The beautiful tunnels they’ve created are now death tunnels.  Their main job will  be carrying dead carcasses around.  They’re digging their own graves!  Utter death and despair!

These ants are making me cry!

Good fucking night.

How to Fold a Fitted Sheet

1- Turn fitted sheet inside out.

2- Take top two corners, one in each hand, and hold in front of your body.

3- Fold in half so the top corners meet together.

4- Pull sheet closely towards body and violently roll sheet into a ball.

5- Throw ball shaped sheet into linen closet and close the fucking door.

*Don’t stress if shape of sheet isn’t a perfectly shaped ball.  Anything resembling a ball or work of art will do.

**If you partake in any recreational drugs now is the time to do it.  Smoking and drinking is strongly encouraged.

Job well done.

B.Y.O.S.

Hanging out in the bathroom while my husband showered was pretty common place when we were first together.  I’d drink my coffee, while sitting on the pot (lid closed, well, most of the time), and we’d chat away.  Some of our best conversations have happened in the loo.  I’ve always been a fan of morning talk.  My mind is often racing with random thoughts and ideas in the mornings, so being able to share them is nice.  Morning talk time is a great way to start the day.

How I miss those days now.  The arrival of one surly baby (now surly toddler), pretty much put an end to those morning chat sessions. But the other morning, it was like old times again.  My husband had to go into work extra early, so I joined him the bathroom for a little adult time while the kids slept.

Husband:  (Sarcastic)”The sex was great last night.”

Me:  “Yeah, thanks for peeling me off the ceiling this morning.”

<nothing like being too tired for a twirl>

Husband: (holding itsy, bitsy, tiny piece of soap up)  “Anytime you want to put a new bar of soap in here- that’d be great.”

Me:  “Oh I’m sorry.  Did you forget how to open a cabinet?  There’s 12 bars under the sink!”

I grabbed the 12 pack and put them in the shower.

Husband:   “Nasty.”

Me:  “You made me this way.”

I pulled a bar out and handed it to him.

Me:  “Here you go sunshine.”

Husband:  (Grunt) “So what do you have going on today?”

Me:  “You know, the usual Chinese water torture on the kids, and…”

I stopped mid sentence, trying to process what my husband was doing.  This couldn’t really be happening.

Me:  “Did you just do what I think you just did?”

Husband:  “What?”

Me:  “With the bar of soap- Did you just do what I think you just did?”

Someone call the paramedics!  I’m going to pass out.

Me:  “Did you just take that bar of soap and put it right up your ass?”

Husband:  “Yeah, why?  What’s the big deal?  How do you do it?”

Me:  “How I clean my ass isn’t important right now.  I use that soap!”

Why didn’t I notice this before?  I’ve seen this man shower plenty of times. Obviously I was blinded by the beginning stages of love.

How one washes their ass is clearly one of those topics that should never come up.  In fact, I can’t recall ever having this conversation with anyone in my entire life before.  I think we know that we wash our own asses, and that’s pretty much it.  No need for a discussion on how this act gets accomplished.  No need.  No need at all.

Until now.

Some thoughts…

1- Fecal infested soap is not a good way to start the day off with.

2- Where can I order his and her soap dishes?

3- Perhaps separate showers are in order?

4- For all of you who have stayed with us (my family and friends), I’m soooooo sorry.

5- Next time, remember to bring your own soap.

And Then There Were None

My almost 2 year old is down for a nap, which means I have a solid hour and a half of free time if I’m lucky.  This also means that I have several choices in this moment.

Choice #1:   vacuum, sweep, and hand scrub kitchen floor and dining room floor

Choice #2:   empty dishwasher and load dirty dishes/laundry/dust

Choice #3:   mystery choice

Mystery choice wins yet again!  I love mystery choice because it can be anything. Yesterday it was using Jedi mind tricks to empty the dishwasher.  Didn’t work.  The day before that- well hell, I can’t remember.  But today it will be writing!  Hurray for mystery choice!

Only one minute has lapsed between the last sentence I wrote, and I’ve managed to consume 6 Pocky sticks.  If you don’t know Pocky sticks, you most likely don’t have an Asian parent.  Pocky sticks are biscuit like cookies shaped like a skinny stick, about 4 inches long, coated in different flavored toppings like almonds or strawberry.

I prefer milk chocolate. If you ask my how they taste, I’d tell ya that they certainly don’t suck.  Oops.  Now 7.  Only 5 left in package.  Certainly can’t leave an odd number of pocky sticks together.  They’ll never get along.  Four.

My husband seems a bit concerned with this second pregnancy (It’s actually my third, but we weren’t together for my first.)  I think he has this fear that I’m not going to go back to my original shape.

I say this because of his comments such as:  “You’re going to go back to the way you were right?  You know a lot of women after their third, never go back- they never lose the weight.”  And because he says after my third helping of something, “Do you want a shovel or a hose?  You can just put the hose down your neck and be like a foie gras duck.”

He didn’t seem to care so much what I ate with Jake (my almost 2 year old).  This time around he watches everything that goes into my mouth with utter amazement. What’s wrong with being able to eat an entire pie from Dominos?

Three.

My first three months of pregnancy, really fucking sucked I have to say, well, I got through it in one piece.  My husband and children are still recovering though.  I was so tired, often times falling asleep at the table, and the nauseousness really was problematic.  I did learn that eating linguine with white clam sauce for breakfast may seem like a good idea at the time, but really is never a good idea. Never.

Two.

Pocky, Pocky, you’re the one, you make eating so much fun! (to Earnie’s Sesame Street Bathtime song)  Get these fucking kid tunes out of my head!  I can’t anymore.  I just can’t!

One.

Overall, I have to say that I’m feeling pretty good.  I have more energy now, and I don’t feel like I need to have a toilet within five feet of me anymore, which is a good thing.  I suppose my husband just needs to understand that the fetus growing within me pretty much is running the show now.  And if baby wants pocky sticks and milkshakes, it’s OK.  And if baby needs those extra 20 pounds that I’ve gained for cushion and comfort, that’s OK too.

Zero.  Zero Pocky sticks left.  This is a sad, sad moment.

P90what?

It’s been 3 months since I wrote about my plan to take on the P90x fitness program.   My goal:  have an incredible beach body in 90 days, just in time for the summer.  I loved the idea of being able to plan a trip to the Caribbean and go two weeks later without having that feeling of absolute dread at the thought of getting into a bikini.   I couldn’t wait to start P90x.

And so I did.  When I first started, I really liked the workouts.  They were a challenge indeed.  I totally knew I was going to get something out of it – like a firm ass and abs. Hurray!  I’m so excited!  I think I actually can follow through with this.  I like it!  I really, really like it!

Later that day, after I had finished clearing out my wardrobe, making room for my new size 2 clothing, it happened.  Oh Yeah.   I had finished day 3 of P90x.  I was feeling great.  And then it happened (did I say this already?).  It was horrifying. It was dream shattering.  This couldn’t be happening.  Did I read this correctly?  Maybe I need glasses?  Maybe I’m in a parallel universe, and I just crossed over and this really isn’t my life.  That’s gotta be it.

One line or two?  Let’s do this again.  One line- not pregnant.  Two lines- pregnant.  How many lines do I have?  TWO.  Ok.  Let’s reread the directions shall we?  Hmmmm.  Funny joke someone is playing on me, or most likely a defective package of pregnancy tests.  Ok breathe Wendy, let’s do this again…. Fuck.  TWO LINES.  Ok, one more time….TWO LINES.  Double fuck.  Let’s read the instructions again.  One line= not pregnant.  Two lines = pregnant.  Jesus, Joseph, Mary.  This can’t be happening!  3 kids?  Really?  I can’t do this.  No, no, no, no, no, no, no!  Somebody help!

GREAT NEWS!  I’M PREGNANT!

Reality List:

1-Husband is getting snipped.

2-Beach body will now be whale body.

3-No boozing.  Awwwww.

4-Husband also getting ass kicked.

5- Need to find good therapist.