Namaste, Motherfuckers

So something has been bothering me for a while. At first I just thought it was me. Me and the wife. Because we're a little louder than other people but we have a hell of a lot more fun. So we get some looks. Occasionally a comment is made. Case in point: An older "gentleman" remarked, "Well, someone's happy!" after hearing me laugh at Thanksgiving dinner in a restaurant. Well sir, I didn't realize happiness wasn't allowed on holidays. I'll change to the more appropriate wake behavior accordingly.

But then I talked to a friend today who has had similar experiences. She shared one with me that happened to her over the weekend at the mountain. So I thought maybe it's just people with money. People who think they are better than everyone else.

I've even tried to explain it away by telling myself it's PMS and I'm taking things personally. The woman who blatantly glared at me this morning while we were both dropping our kids off at school? Maybe she had PMS too. Or hadn't had her coffee.

But today, on the way home, I almost hit (with my car!) a man who was crossing the street, in the dark, wearing all dark clothes. Crossing at a random point in the street, not at a crosswalk. He was nearly impossible to see. And when I slammed on my breaks so that I wouldn't hit him? He flipped me off and sneered at me. Seriously. He fucking flipped me off.

So there it is. People are just assholes. Everywhere I go. I am surrounded by assholes. You have probably encountered them out shopping. Waiting at the gas station. At your kid's school play. People are mean. Mean, mean, mean. And there is no excuse for it. 

Hey, we're all stressed out. We all feel frustrated at times. But that poor woman waiting tables might have just lost her dog and doesn't need to be yelled at because your coffee wasn't decaf. Your neighbor might have some chronic illness that prevents him from shoveling the snow in his driveway. Who knows what goes on in anyone's life on any given day? Have some fucking compassion. Life is short but the days are long and we could all use a little kindness.

Stop being assholes. Just quit it now.

Take up my new motto if you like. Feel free to share it with your friends and family. Use it as a greeting when you see the mailman or you're getting your favorite burrito.

Namaste, motherfucker.
Namaste.

****UPDATE****
Just to prove my point, an anonymous coward just tried to comment on this post, asking me politely to "Move back home you fucking Californicator." I guess he/she didn't realize I moderate my comments for this sole purpose.

Namaste, motherfucker. 

There Are Still Good Ones Out There

I mentioned yesterday how much I abhor my neighbors and the ceaseless barking of their dogs. In anger and desperation I fired off an email to the captain of the police department, noting their mission statement and values on their website. I detailed my frustration, my numerous calls to the police department, and their seemingly complete lack of response. I even alluded to the fact that if I were to take matters into my own hands, it would not end happily for me or my family and how is that justice?

Well, I got an out-of-office response. Which was fine. It is a holiday weekend, after all. So I turned up my music and imagined all the ways in which I would like for these people to be tortured.

And then I got a real response, this one from a Lieutenant Brian Kindel. It was a long and thoughtful response, but I still sort of rolled my eyes at the usual advice. He even suggested that I file a citation with the city attorney but why should I do their job for them? He had looked up the records of my calls but only one was found under my address and he asked for the physical address of the neighbors from hell, which I gladly gave him. He then found numerous reports from me, as well as from my neighbor down the street and let me know that he would head over and "sit on the house for a while."

In all the times that I have only wanted those dogs to shut the hell up, I never imagined I would want them to keep barking. Only so that he could hear what I have been enduring for months. The beasts must have sensed my frustration as they happily complied.

About half an hour later I heard a knock at my door and it was, as I had hoped, Lieutenant Kindel. He told me that, while his neighbors' dogs often bark, it is nothing like what I have been subjected to. He said it was unacceptable and that he would have lost patience with it long ago. I cannot tell you the relief I felt from that validation. I wanted to kiss that man's bald head and supply him with doughnuts for life!

He started the citation himself, a $500 fine. Unfortunately, the court will most likely be lenient and dismiss the fine if they take measures to keep their dogs quiet before their court date. I wish it weren't that easy for them, I want them to suffer and feel a real hardship. But, really, the result I want is quiet so if that is what this accomplishes, I should be content with that.

One could argue that I only got the results I did because of contacting the captain directly. That's probably true and that's okay. However, the officer that finally addressed my concern did so with the utmost professionalism and consideration on my part and for that I am appreciative.

Thank you, Lieutenant Kindel.

More Than You Know

Dear Neighbors,

I hate you more than you will ever know. Is it weird knowing that you live next door to someone who wishes bad karma on you on an almost daily basis? And what could you have done to bring about such hatred? Oh, so much. So, so much.

It started with the POS you had sitting in your driveway for months and months. I wish this neighborhood had CC&R's just for you. A vehicle with flat tires is obviously going nowhere and just becomes an eyesore after a while. The weird curtains you have hanging in your garage window just creep me out. I don't even want to imagine what happens in there.

I'm not normally fond of children I don't know, but yours are just Children of the Corn. Seriously. What are they, vampires? They never grow!! You've lived next to me for three years now and I swear they should be a foot taller by now. All of my friends' kids grow like weeds. I hardly recognize them after not seeing them for six months, but your kids look the same all the time.

While we're talking about your Satan-spawns, will they ever stop throwing their shitty toys in my yard? I tried being nice the first year. I threw them back over the fence for them. The first 20 times. After that I just started throwing them away. That's when one of your little monsters yelled out the upstairs window at me, "Hey girl!!! That's mine. Don't throw it away!" It's awesome that your little demons spy on me.

By the way, why have you not told them not to talk to strangers? They seem to like harassing my friends when they come over. "Who are you? What's your name? What are you doing here?" Don't you know this is how children get kidnapped and why they disappear forever? They are such easy targets! They've even climbed into our vehicles more than once. I'm pretty sure it was one of your little imps that left my car door open when it was in my garage. Then again, they are Children of the Corn so maybe they don't have anything to fear.

However, I could probably live with all of this if it weren't for the fact that your fucking dogs bark constantly. As in all the fucking time. Fucking incessantly. Not just once. Over and over and over and over. I'm surprised they even have voices left. I love dogs. I love dogs more than people. But I have the most evil thoughts about yours. I want to poison them. I want to open your fence and chase them out into the street. I want to kidnap them to cut their vocal cords. If you knew how much I really, really love dogs, you would know that these are disturbing thoughts. You would also know how indicative it is that your dogs are abnormally annoying. I hate them. I hate their barking. I can't even find any compassion for them.

Because I know their behavior isn't really their fault. It's yours. You leave them outside where it's cold. You leave them alone. I've never seen you walk them once since you got them. You occasionally yell at them to be quiet when you are home and you are quiet enough to hear them bark. You don't play with them. They are insecure and unsocialized and afraid of the wind and trees and anything else. They have severe separation anxiety. They hate their lives.

For this I hate you most of all. I feel sorry for them and I hate you for the life you have given them. And then they bark and I hate them. I hate you for making me hate a dog. I hate you for making me hate you so much. I hate you for making me feel this level of hate towards anyone.

You don't deserve dogs.

Please move away. Far, far away. Tomorrow morning wouldn't be soon enough. 

Gratitude Is More Than A Feeling

Each year the company I work for "adopts" a family in need. The family gives us their wish list and we place gift tags on a tree for employees to purchase and then deliver them all with the tree and decorations. I was involved directly with coordinating the choosing of the family and the gift delivery two years ago, which I enjoyed so much more than simply supplying a gift. Even though I knew my gifts went to a good cause, it added that extra personal dimension seeing the kids' faces and getting their personal thank yous and hugs.

This year's family just about breaks my heart. We have a single mom with a 7-year-old daughter who is pregnant. They just moved out of a shelter into an apartment last week and their belongings consist quite literally of a broken-down chair, an old TV, two twin beds, and a set of dishes. The baby boy is due on Christmas and doesn't yet have a crib.

While I think that what we provide as an office to our families is very generous and fills a need for most families, I think our adoptees this year are special and need more than we as an office can provide. I know how hard it is to be a single mom and I only have one kid and many resources. I can't imagine starting over from a shelter and being eight months pregnant.

This is where you come in. I'm asking that some or all of you help them out. Do you have a piece of furniture that doesn't fit in your new house? Clothes that your children have outgrown? Toys they no longer play with? Are you doing some shopping this weekend at the big sales? Maybe you have extra silverware or kitchen appliances that you don't use because you hardly ever cook. (Yeah, that's not the case in my house!)

I spoke to Mom this morning to find out a little more about her and her children. She said her daughter is a girly girl (I'm going to call her Princess) and likes pink, pink, and pink. Plus dolls and Spongebob Squarepants. Mom only has maternity clothes right now and won't have anything after the baby is born. The only thing she asked for besides clothes was a coffee pot. I totally get that! Baby Boy doesn't have anything, the crib offer she had fell through.

So far I have been offered an infant car seat and a coffee pot. Mr. A. is helping me refinish an armoire dresser donated by the wife for Princess. We got the cutest stuff to decoupage it with new door pulls. In pink, of course.

My wish is to fill their  home with everything comfortable - soft bedding and blankets, thick socks and cozy sweaters, pillows and plush towels. What makes you feel at home?

Of course anything will help and I would be more than happy to provide additional suggestions. Please contact me if you would like to contribute anything. In addition to what is donated, we might need some help transporting bigger items. I'd also be happy to purchase for you if you hate shopping.

My life is full of love and blessings. I'd like to give this family a little bit of that.

********UPDATE**********

I got a request to supply a list of things our family might need or want. When I asked Mom, she just said everything, which I understand. I think the emptiness is overwhelming right now. Luckily, making a list is one of my favorite things, so here we go:

Soft, cozy blankets
Soft, cozy robes
Soft, cozy socks (are you sensing a theme here?)
Cozy sweats
Slippers
Rugs (their entire apartment is "wood"-floored)
Coffee pot
Coats
Sweaters
Scarves
Gloves
Warm hats
Measuring spoons and cups
Blender
Toaster
Colander
Tupperware - storage containers
Mixing bowls
Teapot
Coffee mugs
Cookie sheets
Bath mats
Bath towels
Shoes - size 2 for Princess, size 8 1/2 for Mom
Clothes - size 8-10 in girls' and 11-13 in womens' (or 10-12)
Crib
Crib mattress
Baby sheets
Baby blankets
Burp clothes
Newborn and up baby boy clothes
Baby lotions, supplies
Diapers, wipes
Barbie dolls
Girls' makeup playsets
Spongebob Squarepants stuff
Dolls
Toy box
Gift certificates for groceries, WalMart, Target, etc.

Gosh, the list goes on and on. Maybe think about what you use most every day and they probably need that! Princess loves pink, Mom likes black and bright colors but she's not the girly girl that Princess is. Incidentally, the armoire I am redoing for Princess will be green and pink if you're looking to match anything with that.

There was a group trying to supply the big furniture items but that seems to have fallen through. I'll keep you updated on how that goes.

My heart is already filling up with the offers I have received so far. My Christmas wish is to fill this family's home with, not just stuff in every room, but the kindness, caring and warm thoughts behind all of the stuff.

I Might Have a Problem

Actually, I have many problems. And technically, a bitch is one. Or many bitches. I might be turning into a crazy dog lady. Let's examine the evidence.

Exhibit A - Yesterday I went to see the new Bond movie. The 45 minutes of previews included one for a movie with Ryan Gosling, at which a friend and I made some kind of adolescent, inappropriate comment because, face it, he's hot. This same movie also features a bulldog. At which I squealed and my other friend pointed out that I squealed more over the dog than I did over Ryan Hot-Gosling.

Exhibit B - My dogs already have their costumes for  next year's Halloween. They are from the Bret Michaels collection. Yeah, I might have bought them, but I'm not the one with the clothing line for dogs.

Exhibit C - A co-worker got a new puppy over the weekend and has been bringing this perfect little package of cuteness into the office. Nobody was surprised that I was both the first to go meet this sweet little baby and the first to pick him up and let him lick my face, my neck, and my eye. I was also the first to Facebook him.

Exhibit D - I will sleep on sheets covered in dog hair and dog drool but I keep track of the women in the office who don't wash their hands after using the restroom.

Exhibit E - Actually, I think we should stop here.

Let the record show that I have not yet given up on interactions with people. Yet. I am, however, considering limiting my already-limited circle of friends to those who own dogs. It's just easier to stick to my own kind.

I Didn't Need to Know That

D is dating a boy. Officially. Which in teenager-speak means she can call him her boyfriend but they haven't kissed yet. (And I thought I rushed my last relationship!) He's a ginger and I was briefly possessed by my mother when I said, "Don't have his babies."

Last night she told me that she talked to him about her boundaries. I thought, "Oh, how mature. What a way to communicate." I'm thinking of things like how she wants time with her friends, that she wants him to respect her goals, things like that. He also shared his with her. So when I asked what her boundaries are, she snapped back, "None of your business!" Oh. Gulp.

See, I don't need to know that my little baby girl is having this kind of conversation. With a boy. I do not need those images in my head. Ever.

I swear she just wants to kill me. Only she's making it slow and excruciatingly painful.

Just A Typical Day

I felt pretty cute walking into work this morning in my new sweater and cozy, fleece-lined leggings. I tried not to let the fact that my teenage daughter is wearing practically the same outfit today deter me from my feeling of Cuteness.

And then I sat down at my desk.

I felt a cold spot and thought I had already spilled something on my chair. (Because yes, spilling things is more of a daily occurrence than I would like for it to be.) So I stood up and felt my bum and discovered a gaping hole. Yes, friends, my cozy leggings betrayed me by ripping and exposing my bare butt.

Off I trotted to the restroom to assess the damage. Yeah, it was pretty bad. No way that I could play that one off all day and I didn't trust that stupid hole would stay that size.

Away I went to change my pants. At least the dogs were happy to see me.

At least there was a doughnut waiting for me when I came back.

Ouch. Ouch, I Said.

So I don't know what the new healthcare changes are doing for me. I think nothing because my insurance is going up next year and my deductible is going down. Whatever. Well, now the company I work for has instituted this wellness awareness thing. Which is great. Better health should translate into lower insurance premiums. Should. Not does. Anyhoo. What that really means is that we had to do a wellness assessment yesterday. I say we had to because not doing results in a $600 penalty on our insurance premiums.

I was told it was quick and painless. I was kind of lied to.

The first part consisted of a blood test and saliva test. What is a saliva test like? It's gross. There's this little white stick you put in your mouth and when it collects enough saliva it turns blue. But the end that goes in your mouth? Oh, that looks like the end of a pregnancy test stick. Yeah. That went in my mouth. And it made my mouth dry. I had to sit in another chair and wait for that damn thing to turn blue. Luckily, that didn't mean I was pregnant.

The blood test should have been a simple prick to my finger. Only the pricker thingy was kind of a dud and didn't make me bleed enough. So the lady sat there ans squeezed and squeezed and squeezed my poor little finger. And then she told me my blood was already clotting and told me I heal too quickly. Uh, okay. She asked if she could prick the same spot again. I told her to knock herself out. I bled better that time.

Next was the BMI calculation. The nurse asked me to take off my 4-inch heels since they would change my height. Which was the point, it would make my BMI look so much better. She added half an inch instead and took off two pounds from my weight.

When she took my blood pressure she said my heart was barely working. Between the low blood pressure and the fact that I'm not much of a bleeder, I'm starting to wonder if I'm part vampire. I didn't bring that up though because I didn't want to be flagged for a psych consult.

Oh well. I guess there are worse ways to spend my time at work.

At First Sight

She admired his jumping abilities. He had, after all, won highest jump among all of his competitors and remained undefeated. He drew her in with his wide smile and as she stared into his single eye, her heart skipped a beat. She knew he was the one. The one she had been waiting for.

He noticed  her from across the desk. Unlike those that had come before and broken her heart, he found her blood-red spots charming. He held his breath when she revealed her sharp fangs. She completed him with her 360-degree vision.

Theirs was a whirlwind romance, the kind that only happens in Pixar movies. Together they can face anything - coffee spills, plastic spider rings, monitors left on all night. They will rule the cubicles of Monitorland, inspiring others with their love and setting a shining example for saving energy.

Mr. and Mrs. Monitor Monster, may you live happily ever after!

The Gremlin in My Closet

Last week was picture day at school. D came out in one of her cutest dresses with her hair braided. I didn't notice until later that she was wearing my red cardigan. I thanked her for not asking. "It's not a big deal mom." This week I was in my room when she visited my closet. "I need to wear your black cardigan." Did you hear a request for permission in that one? No, I didn't either. Last night she had a short choir performance. As I sat there listening to her beautiful voice (and scanning the rest of the choir to figure out which is the boy that she currently likes), I noticed she was wearing an outfit I didn't recognize. Is that a dress? Where did she get that? I don't remember seeing it before. Afterward, up close, I discovered that she was wearing yet another article of clothing that doesn't belong to her.

"Is that my black shirt?"
"Ha ha, yes."
"You can't keep taking things out of my closet without asking!"
"You weren't there and I didn't have time."
"What if I wanted to wear it?"
"Oh well. I didn't have time to get anything else."
"You have to ask first."
"Again, Mom. I didn't have time."

Like I'm the one that doesn't listen.

KY said I should be flattered that a 16-year-old is even interested in anything in my closet. Maybe, but I'm not. I'm annoyed. This morning I had an outfit in mind. When I went to get the sweater I needed to complete my casual Friday ensemble, it wasn't there. D was still in bed when grit my teeth at her. "You can't keep taking my clothes!" Her response? "Ha ha. That's too bad."

I'm not enjoying this phase. I may start bleaching her clothes one item at a time. That will teach her to both stay out of my closet and do her own laundry.

Gremlins are evil little creatures after all.

Our New Family Member Gave Me a Genius Idea

It's been a couple or three or four weeks so I think she's going to stick around. I had to make sure one of the dogs didn't gobble her up before announcing that we have a new family member. Her name is Jellybean and she's a hamster. I think she's a dwarf hamster from what the internets told me but whatever, she's totally cute. Really, super duper cute.

And the best part is that she likes me most. D swears that every time she holds her, Jellybean bites her. I keep telling her that it's probably because she wears perfume or lotion that makes her smell like tasty candy and she just wants to take a nibble, but it's probably because she senses the evil that emanates from the teenage soul. Because she doesn't bite me. Not often. In fact, she has given me little teeny tiny hamster kisses.

Anyway, she's so totally cute that I wish everything was as small as she is. Well, not everything. Obviously. That's like crazy talk. Because size does matter. But things like kitties and puppies and ponies. (Ponies especially because they are assholes and then you could just stuff them in your purse when they start biting you and then all they'd have to bite on is the random dirty penny in the bottom of your purse.) But right? How cute would that be? Little hamster-sized pit bulls and Siameses? If you pleases.

Now, I am not advocating that we breed these poor animals down to nothing. That is immoral and unethical and wrong. It creates health problems you can't even imagine. No, this is going to take real magic, people. Like a leprechaun or Mickey as the apprentice or maybe a unicorn can poop them out. I need you to scheme on that for a while. Get back to me if you have any ideas on that.

I'm going to go hold Jellybean and get some little hamster kisses.

A Very Important Debate

A friend and I had a very serious conversation yesterday. These are the real issues, people! Pay attention!

Me: My salad has walnuts and I am sick to death of walnuts. I am. At least these are candied.
Cashew-hater: Walnuts are awesome. Don't knock the walnuts.
Me: I did. I am. Walnuts are retarded and useless.
CH: Uh huh. If any nut is retarded, it's probably the cashew.
Me: WHAT????? I love cashews!!! How dare you!
CH: Are you serious? Look at them, all curled and wrinkly-looking.
Me: And delicious!!!
CH: Eh, they're ok. Nowhere near as good as walnuts.
Me: And curled? Walnuts are wrinklly!!
CH: Walnuts look like brains, which is awesome. Cashews kind of look like deflated balloons.
Me: They look like little smiles.
CH: lol. On a demented clown maybe!
Me: Seriously? You're comparing a cashew to a clown? You have some deep-seated issues, my friend.
CH: Oh, tell me about it.
Me: This is getting blogged, you know.
CH: Yeah, I figured. What will my pseudonym be?
Me: What would you like it to be? Cashew-hater?
CH: hah Sure. Knock yourself out. 

As you wish.
And cashews are better.
The End. 

Why I Now Need a Baby

Well, the number one reason I need a baby is because I no longer have one. What I have now amounts to a roommate. A roommate who doesn't have her own car and needs to be driven around regularly. She also doesn't pay rent. Or do her own laundry. Or pay any of her other bills like choir, library fees, retreat costs, clothing, food, gas that I use driving her butt around, etc, etc, etcetera!

I happen to have given birth to my roommate, which is why I suppose she thinks she is entitled to all of the free meals and the warm bed she sleeps in. I think I am entitled to her not growing up too fast but she's not holding up her end of the bargain. She ditches me on a regular basis so that she can have her own life. With friends. Whatever.

I remember the first time I knowingly broke my mom's heart. I was 16 (hmmm... like someone else I know) and she offered to set aside a day to take me shopping for school clothes. I flippantly remarked, "Oh, that's okay. I'm going with Lori next week." Now, my  mom is the least sentimental person I know. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen her cry in my life (while I need both hands and feet of everyone I know to count how many times I cry in a month), but I saw the look of hurt in her eyes and heard the tinge of sadness in her reply, "Oh. Well. Okay." I immediately regretted what I'd said. As proud of myself as I was for growing up and doing things like a Big Girl, I wasn't completely insensitive to the fact that my mom didn't always feel the same way.

And now I don't feel that way about D. Of course, the times she is being a total pain I start counting down the days until she's someone else's roommate, a real one who pays her own bills. But a lot of the time I'm happy that I still get to be the one still in charge of her. And a couple of weeks ago I got a taste of what my mom felt that day.

She has been going to retreat after retreat the last few weeks for everything she's involved in. A couple of weeks ago it was the cast camping trip with the play that she is in next month. I overheard her conversation with a Boy the night before she was to leave. "Why do you need to text him tomorrow morning?" I nosily asked. She replied, "We're having coffee and then he's dropping me off at the camp carpool." Oh. Well. Okay.

The next morning the Intruder Into My Relationship With My Daughter showed up. Of course she wasn't quite ready so there was the awkwardness of having to invite him in and then I ran off to go over the packing list with her repeatedly. Sunscreen? Yes. Bug spray? Yes. Books to read? Flashlight? Toothbrush? Yes, mom. I have everything.

I hugged her tightly, glared at the Intruder, and sent her off. KY said, "Well, he seemed nice. Most guys that age don't look you in the eye when they're speaking to you." And I was like, "Whose side are you ON!?!?" So he's nice enough. So what! I am the one who is supposed to see her off on her little adventures. I am supposed to meet the adults I am passing her off to. Not some teenage boy who has no idea what it's like to worry every minute of every day about your baby her first year of life. And then every minute of every day after that. Because it doesn't stop.

And she may be growing up, but that doesn't mean I stop being her mom. It doesn't mean I stop worrying. Or making sure she has everything she needs. And it doesn't mean I want to stop. I still want to be the one to hug her before she goes off on retreats. I want to be the one that tells her she is going to be great and everyone will love her. I want to be the one making her lunch even if that's the only part she will let me take.

I want her to be my baby until she can't anymore. And, since she is absolutely, 100% opposed to there being an actual, new baby in the house, she's going to have to hold up her end of the deal.

I just wouldn't mind a little gas money now and then.

9 to 5

I don't actually work 9 to 5. Who wants to stay that late? Plus most of my meetings start before 9. But I felt like writing a list about work and "The Top 10 Reasons I Like Working Where I Work" sounded too long and stupid. It's Friday, I don't want to work that hard. Just read the list.

1. We have birthday cake every month. I think we would even have it if there were a month with no birthdays.
2. Today there were three deer right outside the window. Bambi, his brother, and their momma.
3. People say bad words which makes me giggle.
4. People bring me coffee and frappuccinos. I am well-caffienated.
5. We wear costumes at Halloween and have Easter egg hunts and find eggs months later.
6.  Our building is over the river with lots of things to see, depending on what  you are looking for. Eagles? Got 'em. Hot guys on paddleboards? Yep. Girls in bikinis? If you like that kind of thing.
7. Our building has a deck and we have BBQ's. We make the managers do the grilling.
8. We have potlucks and Waffle Wednesdays and pizzas and bagels and holiday meals. I will never go hungry here.
9. People say things in meetings like "star-bellied Sneetches".
10. I get to leave early today.

Let the weekend begin!

Why Teenagers Are Evil and Must Be Destroyed

Me: Did you take my Hydro Flask? The one I put my coffee in EVERY day?
D: ......Maybe.......
Me: YOU are in SO much trouble!!!! I tore the house apart looking for that!
D: Seriously?
Me: Yes, seriously. Do NOT mess with my coffee.
D: I'm seriously in trouble?
Me: Yes. That doesn't belong to you.
D: I didn't have any more water bottles.
Me: Then go without water.
D: Mom, I can't go without water. It won't happen again.

Later that day.....
D: Did you get your precious bottle?
Me: Yes. No thanks to you.
D: You ruined it anyway. Every sip of water tasted like coffee.
Me: HA HA HA!! That's what you get!!!!!!
D: Wow, Mom. Just wow.

A Wedding Do

I'm a girl. A girly girl. I love shoes and pink and wearing dresses. I giggle and I cry at sad movies and pet commercials. I'm terrible at sports, I scream when I see a spider, and I don't like getting dirty. I love Disney and princesses and I know almost every word to every song in A Sound of Music and My Fair Lady. So what I am about to tell you may not make sense.

I hate weddings. I don't necessarily hate the idea of them and I know they're some kind of tradition and rite of passage and ceremonial whatever, but I hate going to them. I cringe when I get a wedding invitation. If you are trying to cut back on your guest list, feel free to remove me from the invite list. My feelings won't be hurt, I will breathe a sigh of relief.

Seriously, weddings are only for the people getting married and maybe their parents, if the parents are happy about it. Nobody else really cares. Not about the actual ceremony part. It's boring. First you sit there waiting forever because it's against the rules for a wedding to start on time. I have been sunburned sitting at outdoor weddings. And then there's the ceremony with the words. Sometimes there are too many; sometimes you can't hear them. For me, it's all one big yawn-fest.

This weekend I totally figured out how to do a wedding right. Skip the ceremony. Pass Go, and go straight to the reception. It's brilliant!!

KY's friends got married this weekend. We were coming back from Portland and got in town about 10 minutes before the wedding started. I had the perfect excuse of having a presentation due for school so I bowed out gracefully. And then I got bored. And also realized that I hate doing some things alone and I was probably a Very Bad Girlfriend for not being there. So I threw on a dress and headed down to the reception.

This is definitely the best way to go to a wedding. Because it's the party part, duh. You still get to see the white dress and the bridesmaid's dresses. But you get to drink booze and talk and relax and eat and laugh. Plus, the reception is where the bride and groom are doing all of that too. They're past the nervous part and the possibly-sad-teary part and they get to be themselves. Their best party selves.

When the sister of my best friend in elementary school got married, my family was only invited to the reception. This is because her family was Mormon and, because we weren't, we weren't allowed inside the temple for the ceremony. I assume the reception was not in the temple, but I don't know because we didn't go. Something about my mom thought it was tacky and we weren't good enough to be in their church or maybe it was just a long drive, I don't know. All I know is that is totally the way to do it. Maybe I should befriend a bunch of Mormons so I have a legitimate excuse not to go to the wedding but I can still go to the party.

Maybe I can start a new trend. I don't even think the couples will mind that much. I'll still bring a present. And toast to happiness. I will be the best party guest there. Just let me skip the "I dos" and go straight to the booze.

Cheers!

Out of Context

These are random things I said today, which taken out of context are either retarded or criminally insane or both.

"It's the only food that can taste you back."

"Isn't that who she was yelling at yesterday?"

"It isn't 'my job' to listen to someone fighting and it isn't 'my career path' to sit here tense all day."

"I'm going to go get the tongue out of the refrigerator."

"Tongue tacos or tongue stew?"

"We could dress them in matching sweaters."

"Go home and take it out on the fam."

"I absorb protein better when it's in chocolate."

"Who really cares about a hernia?"

The X-Ray of My Soul

Depression isn't sadness. Not real depression. Sadness is caused by something. Your pet dies. You break up with your boyfriend. Your favorite TV show ends. There's an impetus to sadness. A + B = sad.

There's no equation for depression. One day it just shows up, invites itself in, and makes itself at home. Sometimes it does wear a costume of sadness. Just to shake things up a bit. But it's at the oddest times. "Hey, I'm with friends! People like me, this is great! Oh, wait? What IS that? Why am I suddenly crushed with sadness? Get it off, get if off!!!" Yeah, it's kind of a mind-fuck like that.

Have you ever gotten an x-ray and they put that heavy coat/vest/doormat thing on you? Even if you're just getting your teeth checked? Depression is kind of like that. Heavy, only all over. Over your very soul. It's debilitating and makes it hard to breathe. Only it's invisible. Like an invisible cloak, but not in a cool, Harry Potter way. In the way that all you can do is crawl under it and drag it around until it gets a little lighter, then a little lighter, then lifts. It disappears for the same reason that it appeared. For no discernible reason at all.

And what does it look like to the people around you? Well, because it's invisible, it looks like you're being an asshole. It looks like you don't care. Because you don't. Depression makes you numb to caring, not just about other people, but about yourself. It's impossible to care about anyone or anything when your soul is covered with this heavy darkness.

And then it lies to you. On your better days, you know you're smart and capable and deserving. When depression knocks, it makes you believe that you're worthless and stupid and wrong. No matter what you do, it will be wrong. You know that you have things to do, that people depend on you. People you care about. Depression tells you those people don't care, that you're a disappointment, that the effort of trying is too much. And even if there are other voices saying, "No, do it! You can! You're someone who matters!", depression's voice is louder. Only it's not loud, because it's in your bones. And your bones are heavy and you're tired and you can't do it anyway because you're shit, so you don't. You give up.

Then people are disappointed. And you explain yourself until you're blue in the face but it doesn't matter. "Can't you see? I'm trying!! Can't you see? I care!!" No, it's like a one-way mirror. You see it, but they don't. You know you're different, that something is wrong and that you don't want it, but they only see the appearance of apathy, self-absorption, and discourtesy.

So you wait. You give yourself a time-out and face the corner. Which, by the way, is also rude and viewed as being a supreme asshole, but you can't worry about that. You can only wait for the heaviness to lift. For the lies to stop. For the moment you can smile again and really feel it.

One day you're happy again. What is happy for you, anyway. Once in a while you even forget for a little bit. You allow yourself to be carefree and silly and let the joy in. But it's there. It's at the edge, it's waiting to come back, unannounced, uninvited. You can blur the line for a little bit, you can put a few steps between you. But it will be back.

It always is.

The Stranger in My House

Living with a teenager is an experience. I've gotten used to the eye-rolls (which are actually a genetic trait among the women in my family), the door slams, the tears over seemingly nothing and the gigantic mood swings from day to day. All of these normal symptoms seem to be exacerbated in my child because of her Gemini-ness. You know, kind of sweet and tolerable one minute, hating the world purely because it exists the next. One second she loves one of the dogs and the next hates them both because they breathe. And chew her lip gloss. That she leaves out on the floor.

Teenagers are supposed to be creatures that are unrecognizable from their previous incarnations as children. But I've heard very little about the nice parts. That's probably because the nice parts are related to the saddest parts and nobody wants to watch me turn into a dribbling pool of idiotic tears. The nice part has happened over the summer, practically over night. Here is how the nice part goes:

D: Can I go do such-and-such tomorrow?
Me: Yes, after you clean your bathroom.
D: Okay, that's fair.

What? Agreeing to a chore? This has been unheard of in my house for the last 16 years! Okay, maybe 11 years. It's not like I asked her to do the dishes before she could walk. But still.

She no longer cares about the amount of time that I spend with KY. She actually asks to spend time with us. She cleans her room fairly often. She's more realistic about her abilities. As in, she now admits she's not the greatest driver in the world like she originally tried to convince me. She just carries herself differently.

There are still the not-so-nice parts. The hormones are strong in this one; there are days I can't even look at her without her freaking out. "Why are you looking at me like that??" I'm now finding panties in the laundry that look like mine, but aren't. The Disney princesses and cute teddy bears have been replaced with lace and much less material.

This is probably the most bittersweet time in my life thus far. I'm watching my little girl grow up before my very eyes. She's beginning to leave her little-girl self behind as she tries on her adult skin. I'm proud of her and amazed by her and at the same time I want to scream, "NO!! Not yet! I'm not ready!" I want to turn back the clock to those days we'd sit in the rocking chair for hours, when I'd let her nap there with me because I knew the day would come when I didn't want to let go, when she wouldn't fit in my lap so perfectly, when she didn't look to me for all of her needs but to her friends and soon, to a boy. We're now farther from those days and closer to the days when she'll know herself how I felt.

She's really excited to start school this year as she feels that this is going to be Her Year. She has youth choir, Skyliner jazz choir, her first play, and she is ready to get started. Me? Not so much. This will be the second-to-last first-day-of-school. Can we postpone it until January? At least October? Because the sooner it starts, the sooner it ends and I'm not ready for it to end. I'm not ready for the quiet. I'm not ready to miss her grumpy face in the mornings. I'm not ready to miss the excited, talking-too-fast or the laughing over nothing. I'm not ready to pack up her room and let the world take her in. As much as I like and appreciate the new person she is becoming, I'm not ready to meet her adult self.

Not yet. Just not yet.

Danger in the Night

I was fast asleep in the dead of night, dogs snuggled up next to me. Cozy and comfy.

Until one dog started barking frantically, setting the other one off. They both leapt off the bed and went running towards the offensive, intrusive sound. Such brave souls! They run straight towards danger, not concerned with their safety, only protecting my well-being.

At first my inferior, human ear heard nothing. So I called them back, but they insisted that something sinister was afoot. Danger lurked just outside the door. And then! I heard it. It was the ear-splitting scream of a cat. Two cats! Two cats spitting and yowling at each other in anger. Oh, my brave, trusty hounds. Protecting me from such evil! From the horrors of felines! What luck to have them in my service to guard me. Suppose those evil beasts had allied themselves against me, scratching the window screen to get at me and tear my tender flesh with razor-sharp talons? I shudder at the thought.

I carefully, oh-so-quietly crept to the door to release my guardians, to unleash their wrath and fury on the ghouls in the night. Remy raced out first, while Ruby performed a check around the perimeter, assuring that all was once again secure. They performed these duties with such honor while I could only wait at the door, hoping for their safe return.

And then I went back to bed. Remy jumped back up on the bed, highly satisfied with his hero skilz and snuggled in under his blanket. Ruby, after licking my arm to either assure me that my life had been spared or to apologize for waking me up, curled up next to me once again.

Tonight the little champions just might find themselves in their crates.

Lessons From a Teenager

D had a friend over the other night and then a third friend went to the fair with them the next day. There were the usual silly, girly quotes and sayings. They were all screaming in anticipation of the concert they went to see and that was funny in itself. But she said some other things that were less funny but stuck with me afterward. See below.

"I got a guy's number!!!!!!"
Yes, she screamed when she said this. In the car. And it is funny. But terrifying at the same time. And the point I made at the time was that she didn't ask for his number herself. Technically her friend asked, she just put it in her phone. That turned out not to be the lesson. I'd like to say something about how boys are lazy these days and need to man up and make the first move. That isn't the lesson either. The lesson is that she wanted something and she found a way to get it. Life is short. You can't wait around for it, you have to go and get it. Sometimes you enlist a friend for help.

"The technicality just wasn't there."
This was in reference to a ballet we went to see in Portland. It was a rock opera ballet, meaning there was a live band and live singers and they played songs from the 60's while the ballet dancers did the twist and the mashed potato. At first I thought we've watched one too many talent shows, but then it struck me that she's just growing up. She's realizing that if you're going to do something and devote a large chunk of your time to it, then you better do it well. Nobody wants to see you half-ass it. My lesson to her was to look past the initial surface, let go of expectations, and just enjoy a situation for what it is. In this case it was a dance with fun songs and cute costumes.

"You're being mean and judgey."
My first response was going to be, "Did we just meet?" The second was "I'm your mom, I'm supposed to be." But this was about the boy whose number she had "gotten" and she was right. I was judging and red-flagging all over this boy I haven't even met and she just wanted to be happy and feel butterflies and imagine the first kiss. In my defense, I was only being judgey because she's my baby girl and nobody will ever be good enough for her and also I'm old and cynical and I don't want her heart broken a million times. But she was right and I was hurtful. She was living that second lesson about living in the moment and feeling the joy that comes and I needed to look past the serious stuff and the possibilities that may or may not happen and let her have her happy.

The first date with this boy is Saturday. For the first time a boy will come to the house, pick her up in a car by himself, and take her on a date. No parents driving. No parents dropping off and picking up. Yes, I am stressing this because it terrifies me. But I have to learn to let go and she has to learn how to move in her own way in the world. At least we're trying to figure it out together.

When You're Done, You're Done

People think they are funny. My friends especially think they're funny. They're not.

MR: Who has the best happy hour in Bend
Me: I don't know anymore, I don't go out much.
MR: You not go out? Are you pregnant?
Me: Not working for a year meant not going out.
MR: Well that's boring. It would be funner if you said you were preggers.
Me: Oh hell no!! I would throw myself down a flight of stairs!
MR: lol. You wouldn't dare.
Me: Totally would.

And if I didn't, my 16-year-old would probably push me down the stairs herself.

A Frog Eulogy

Amongst all the crazy goings-on of the weekend, we had a death in the family. Because I chose to talk about other things first makes me no less sad that our little Potato Beans passed away. I held a private, one-person service for him last night, sending him to his toilet-watery grave, but I'd like to take a moment to pay my respects and let Potato know that he has been flushed, but not forgotten.

Potato, we knew you for almost a year and enjoyed every minute of it. You brought us joy with your little froggy antics. You were, hands-down, the sexiest frog, nay, amphibian, that we've ever met. The way you put one little webbed foot up against the glass, your other on your froggy hip with that "Hey, ladies. How YOU doin'?" look just took our breath away every time. There is no question that you packed more personality into your one ounce than most people do in their 150 pounds.

We will miss you dearly and think of you fondly. We wish you well on your journey to lillypad heaven.
Goodbye, our little froggy prince.

Fair Trends 2012 Edition

I went to the fair in Redmond this weekend. My favorite thing about the fair, aside from the food, is seeing all the animals. Of both the four-legged and two-legged kind. The four-leggeds outdid themselves this year. I saw baby goats, baby bunnies, baby chicks AND baby piglets! Oh, it was cuteness overload!!

I also saw the saddest thing I've ever seen in the world. Or at least at the fair. Of course I know that the fat piggies go to Bacon Heaven after the fair because I read Charlotte's Web. But knowing something and knowing something are two different things. In one of the little pens there was a boy, about eight or nine years old, lying in the hay next to his pig with his arms around the pig's wide, wide belly. He would sit up now and then to wipe the tears from his eyes and then throw his arms around that big belly again. It was heartbreaking, really. I questioned how his parents could put him through an experience like that. I couldn't do it. Life is harsh on its own, but I'm sure they have their reasons. If only I could have spun a web that said "Fucking fabulously fantastic pig right here!", I would have. I would have done it for that little boy.

Now for the real meat of the trip. The review of Fair Fashion. If the atrocities I saw can be called fashion.

The first noticeable trend is the pairing of short shorts with cowboy boots. I know that cowboy boots are kind of a fair thing, but it was hot and they don't look comfortable. And, although the girls wearing them got plenty of looks from members of the opposite sex, I couldn't decide what it was about them that bothered me. I asked KY* his opinion and he replied that he wasn't a fan, mostly because the girls dressed this way appeared to be about 12. Good point. I definitely preferred the boots with dresses and skirts. It's possible that only Daisy Duke or Jessica Simpson as Daisy Duke can get away with the shorts/boots combo. And even Jessica will likely never be able to do it again.

Next we have neon, which has reared its ugly 80's head once again. It comes mostly in the form of obnoxiously bright shoes, but I did see a teenage boy wearing shockingly yellow pants. It was pretty awful, but they were pulled up all the way, revealing no underwear, so I let it go.

I think the most disturbing trend I have yet seen is the showing off of the fat. This is when a girl who really shouldn't, but does, wears skin tight clothes that show off every roll of fat on her body. Now, I am no size 2 (well, sometimes I am. Or used to be. Actually I was once a zero, but I was also 13 and I would look dead if I were a size zero now. But I grossly digress.), and I just blogged about how we should embrace and accept our bodies, but there is a limit. I have a belly. I try to hide it, not accentuate it. And trust me, ladies, nobody wants to see in great detail exactly how fleshy you are. It's just wrong. It makes it even worse when you're standing in the line for a funnel cake because we know those rolls are just growing by the bite. Yuck. For the love of good taste and the sight I have left in my eyes, cover that shit up appropriately!

Remember this advice for next year. Or don't. I like having something to make fun of. I'm snarky that way.

*KY is Mr. A. and they are his real initials, which are funnier than any nickname I could come up with and I don't know why I didn't realize it before. KY. How did I miss that one?? He will be known as KY from this point on.


**UPDATE**

Dudes. How could I forget the all-important, New-Jersey-shore-style-on-the-wesst-coast known as the bump-it?? Yes. Bump-its. In Redmond. And yes, that is the plural form. As in more than one. As in more than two. I saw a whole FAMILY of bump-its. As in grandma, daughter, and granddaughter. I swear if that baby in that stroller had enough hair, they would have bumped it too.

And, Grandma Bump-it, yes, you have a great body. Except that you probably had your daughter when you were 16 so you're probably not as old as you looked. Or as the cheese on your legs made you look. Yes, cheese. Cover that shit up, take out the bump-it, and you'll take 10 years off your age. I promise, girlfriend. Do it.

I'm Bringing Bellies Back

I have always had a belly. Even when I was 19 and weighed all of 90 pounds. Of course I would give anything to have that belly back now. The belly I have now is much bigger. Sometimes it looks like a 6-month food baby. Sometimes it feels like a 6-month food baby.

Unfortunately I have inherited my mother's apple shape. I gain weight first in my stomach and then, when it's really bad, it moves to my back. Meanwhile, my arms and legs stay skinny. It's never evenly distributed. I have no proportion.

Sometimes it's okay. Like when I first wake up in the morning and it seems kinda flat. I think I might have actually lost weight. And then gravity takes over and reality comes crashing in. Or down. Or out, whatever it may be.

I bought a super cute dress the other day. I tried it on, noticed the belly bump and thought, "this will look cute when I get skinny!" So I bought it. Because that's what I do. I buy clothes based on what I want to look like, not what I actually look like. I end up with a closet-full of clothes that I can't wear. Yet.

Yesterday I put the dress on. I'd lost a whole pound and thought, "Why the hell not?" And then I examined myself in the mirror a few dozen times before leaving the house. I asked Mr. A., "Do I look fat? Should I change?" He said no. He said "You have a belly. It doesn't make you fat." And then he said something about how it's because of cheese and booze and pasta and all I heard after a while was "wah wah wah wahh..." So I wore the damn dress.

And then I started to wonder why flat stomachs are so awesome. Sure, they're all toned and tight and youthful-looking. Whatever. But there was a time when plumpness was attractive. Hell, there was a time when rolls of flesh were attractive because they were a sign of wealth. Well, my belly is a sign that I've lived. I've had delicious, decadent meals with my friends and my family. I gave birth to the bestest girl in the world. I've spent time snuggling on the couch with adorable puppies when we maybe should have been out on walks. I have earned this belly and it should be sexy because it's a part of me.

So this is what I propose. We make bellies sexy again. They're feminine because of what we do with them. We give life and we sustain life. We take care of our families. We provide pillows for our little dogs' heads. We're sexy because of all of that and we should recognize it. These little 20-year-olds with their flat stomachs. Pssh. What do they know about being a real woman? They haven't lived yet.

Now, this isn't permission to get carried away. Nobody needs to see a detailed outline of your mushroom top. This isn't permission to dress like a full-out skank. We are ladies. We are classy. The belly should be treated with respect. And love.

Isn't that what it's really all about anyway? Loving ourselves? Flaws, quirks, imperfections and all? Big bellies, big feet, small ears, freckles, curly hair, stretch marks, wrinkles. We've earned it. Let's embrace it. Let's be the sexy beasts that we know we can be. That we, in fact, are.

Eat the ice cream. Drink the martini. Laugh with friends. Make love with abandon. Maybe even with the light on.

And when you finally do get that flat stomach, those toned abs? Love them too. I know I will.

Pet Wish List

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who really loved horses. She collected horse figurines and knew all about Palominos and Arabians and Appaloosas. She read Black Beauty and watched The Black Stallion over and over. She decorated her room with horse pictures until she hit puberty and exchanged them for posters of boys wearing makeup. Because it was the early 80's and she thought that Nick Rhodes was the cutest member of Duran Duran. I digress. The point is this little girl wanted a horse so badly that she begged regularly for one, only to be told that horses are too expensive and require too much time and space. And they're expensive, did her parents mention that? Her dream was crushed.

Then one day the little girl grew up and became me and realized that her parents were right. Not about everything, but certainly about horses. They are expensive and they eat a lot and when they're ponies they are assholes and bite your shin when you try to pet them and say hi and then you end up saying fuck-you-pony in front of small children. So I gave up on wanting a horse and replaced my desire for a fucking pony with a sincere desire for something unique and smaller and less likely to bite me. I have made a list.

1. I want a seahorse and I will name him Seamour. Or Shelldon, I haven't decided. You know what's cool about seahorses? They're like a tiny horse that lives in water with a curly little tail and no teeth! Or maybe they have teeth, but they'd have to get through the glass of a tank to get to my shin so I'm not really worried. But you know what else is cool? The males have the babies! A guy should be pregnant in my house. Then I can sit around, eating whatever I want, cocktail in hand, and say, "Dude. Are you worried about stretch marks?" And he'd get all moody and pissy and swim to the other side of his little tank away from me and pout in a corner. Then we'd have to have some kind of hippie water-birth because he's already in the water but I could feel all smug about it. Totally awesome.

2. A platypus. I totally want a platypus. Because nobody knows what it is! Is it a duck? Is it an otter? What the fuck does it eat? I supposedly learned all about them in first grade when we learned about Australia but all I remember is the "laugh kookaburra laugh, please save some for me" song that nobody else in the world seems to know and any time I sing it people look at me like I'm crazy. So I looked up the platypus and it's very cute. It's not even in an it's-so-ugly-it's-cute kind of way, because it's too weird. It's more like freak-of-nature cute and you have to love it because its own mother probably doesn't. But you know the best part? Platypus (platypi?) are venomous. True story. They have a little spur on a back foot that they stab you with and inject their venom. So my platypus would be a guard platypus because heaven knows my dogs don't guard me. Unless it's possible to be licked to death, because that's all they do. So I'd have a watch platypus and I would name him Quinn. Or Biff. It would depend on his personality.

3. My other favorite Aussie animal is the koala bear. When I was four, my parents gave me a stuffed koala bear that I thought had real fur because it was so soft. And it had these tiny little black paws with little fingers. It's possible that it was a real taxidermied koala because we did live in Texas, but I don't have it anymore so I'm not sure. When I was in elementary school, the hot toy was this little clip-on koala. You squeezed his shoulders to open his arms and clip him to your shirt or your book bag or whatever. I lost that along the way too. But I think these experiences have prepared me well for having a real koala. I would stroke its fur and carry it around like a baby on my hip and feed it leaves and name it Elvis.

Now, my birthday is just a very few weeks away so if you'd like to get me a present, I will accept any or all of the animals from this list. However, two of them probably have a long shipping time as they come from Australia and I don't know how long it takes to get a seahorse so you might want to order soon.

I'm With the Band

D's guitar teacher is pretty great. He's really good at getting the kids out to play and sing in public, and I mean all of his students, not just my beautiful, extremely talented child but she's the only one I care about and I'm only mentioning the others because they have parents who are probably also proud of them. Whatevs. Anyhoo, I have now seen her perform in public three times since she first started her classes a year ago. And you know what? She rocks. Totally. Let me tell you a little story about Tuesday night.

I found out just a few hours before that Joe invited D and K (her friend that she takes lessons and duets with) to play at Good Life Tuesday evening. I had a paper to write, but of course I blew it off to go listen to my kid sing. Duh. It wasn't even a choice. I gathered Mr. A. and The Wife and her mister (who needs a name, obviously. Suggestions accepted in the comments) and hoped that it wouldn't rain before she was done.

Since I'd taken my camera along to get some good performance pictures, I ran up to the front when she started and snapped away the entire time, which also served the dual purpose of keeping me from crying. Because she amazes me when she's up there. She looks confident and perfectly at home, even though she tells me afterward how much she was shaking. And she gets better every time. This night her voice was louder and clearer and so.... her. And yet not her. This is a side of her that we are getting to know. And I really, really, like it.

So does everyone else apparently. While I was standing there clicking away, a man approached me and asked where the tip jar was. Tip jar? Are you kidding me? But I totally acted casual about it. There's a beer glass, right there. How convenient! He popped a $5 bill in there (which D later complained smelled like beer) and asked if I was with the band. I beamed and said, "Yes! That is my daughter on the left!" He remarked how good she was and I had to agree. Except I wouldn't have said good or great, I would have said fantastic or incredible.

The girls sang their five songs and were getting up to turn it back over to Joe when several audience members cried out, "Encore!" "One more!" "Another song!" The girls obliged them like complete professionals and I wooooood the loudest. And beamed. And cheered some more. Yes, ladies and gents, I now have a rock star in my house. I'm not proud of that fact at all. Obviously.

If you would like to experience the magnificent talent of my offspring, she will be performing July 29th at Broken Top Bottle Shop between 7 and 9 p.m. Tips and encore requests are optional.

Making an Entrance

This morning, like every morning, I walked into the office, over to my desk, set down my purse and my little bag of water and coffee, and turned around to turn on my computer. Only this morning, I somehow set the bag down lopsided and my coffee thermos fell over and, THUNK!!! Everyone in my area jumped and there was the standard joke, "Hey, we're sleeping over here!, har har." But I am often clumsy and have learned to laugh at myself so I said, "Hey. If you don't make an entrance, don't bother showing up."

I thought I was pretty clever.
And then I thought that may be the most profound thing I've ever said.
Because it totally explains life.

Seriously. It's like this. If you don't intend to put in 100%, don't do it. How can anyone take you seriously if you don't make an effort? Don't bother. Life is too short to waste on half-assed efforts and empty promises. Don't waste my time. Or yours.

And also, if you make an entrance, you're more likely to be remembered. This works for job interviews. First dates. Running for office. Taking a class. You want to show up looking like Plain Jane or Bland Bobby? Don't bother. Just stay home. Nobody cares to be bored.

Yep. This is my new motto.
If you don't make an entrance, don't bother showing up.

And if you're not wearing really fabulous shoes, don't bother getting out of bed.

Pug Snuggle 2012

Yesterday the wife and I took a little trip to Portlandia to snuggle some rescue pugs because Wifey is going through the adoption process and wanted to meet her potential adoptee. As always, it was an adventure for us and I learned some stuff. Stuff like this.

1. Rescues are pretty great organizations. Some people are happy going to their local shelter for a pound puppy. These are wonderful people offering a home to animals that really need it. But some people, like me, really like a specific breed and this is where rescues come in. You get the breed you want while still doing a good thing for an animal that wasn't wanted. It's a win-win, no-guilt solution! Now, who wouldn't want a pug? I don't know. Stupid people. Because pugs are awesome. And Pacific Pug Rescue is really awesome. They let us snuggle pugs to our hearts' content. We got kisses. We got hugs. We fell in love. Seriously, if the adoption process was really easy, I would have brought home a new family member last night. The foster moms were all really sweet, caring ladies. I want to take them all brownies.

We went to meet Berkley. Poor Berkley was so hot he didn't have any energy to show us his personality. He just sat there and panted and looked miserable. Maybe that's his talent. Looking as miserable as dogly possible. He did live up to his ad in one respect. He had the most sumptuous fur I have ever felt. MmmmmHmmm.....

So this is who was left. Daisy greeted us when we first got there. She greeted everyone; it was as if she wanted everyone to feel welcome and included. Love her. Pretty sure she wants to come live in Bend. Pepper does too. Pepper looks older than he is, has back and hip problems, and is mostly blind and deaf. But he's so cute! He's all black (hence the name Pepper) and has the cutest, sweetest, little stuffed-animal face. Pick him up and he just lets go in your arms (not of his bladder, he just relaxes). He would look so striking in a green sweater. Georgie was bred and then kicked to the curb. She's small and sad, but learning to love again. Dogs are so much better at this than people. Barkley was pretty studly, but wasn't showing much of his personality either. Maybe he's used to getting by on his good looks, it would totally work for him. Cassie was tiny and peppy but we didn't have a real connection. Chunk was on medical hold so I didn't spend much time with him, but he sure was a cutie.

Can you tell who my two favorites are? I can't wait to be an aunt to Daisy and Pepper!!

2. Ikea is dangerous and should require armor. A large picture fell and smashed my poor little bare toe. The wife had her foot run over by a cart (incidentally, all of their carts like to turn sideways). A table fell into her forehead when we were loading it in the car, and I banged my shin against the lower cart. I'm sure all of this had nothing to do with the fact that we lost three hours of our lives in there and were delirious with hunger. Stupid Ikea took away from our shoe-shopping time.

3. GPS can be a bitch. Seriously. She kept telling us the wrong way to go and sent us on a wild goose chase looking for the Pug Party. I think she just figured it out as she went along. The one time we decided to ignore her directions, she was right. Whatever. Stupid whore.

4. Fondue is delicious. Okay, I already knew this. But it is.

5. Something about the wife and me makes people seat us in back corners. Actually, I already knew this too, but I don't know why. We're the fun ones. We are more than happy to entertain people with the things that fly out of our mouths. Ask the guy in the Halloween costume store. Whatever. Sheesh.

6. VooDoo Doughnuts is that good. I don't even like maple bars, but how can you not love a doughnut that comes with bacon on it? You have to love it. I might advise against eating the Oreo-covered one in the car. I didn't find some of the pieces that went down my shirt until I got home.

7. The wife and I are dating the same guy. Not the same person, obviously. We're not that close. Or gross. But the guys we're dating are eerily similar.

"I told him ..."
"Yes! I said the same thing!"
"And he said ....."
"Yeah, M/K said the same thing"
"That's what M/K says. That's what M/K does."
"It drives me crazy when he says/does that."
"Ohmygod!! Me too!!!"

Apparently we are having simultaneous, duplicate conversations at all times without knowing it. There are many ways in which we're alike so I suppose this was bound to happen at some point. Some things are just inevitable.

8. The wife is afraid of fog. Or maybe it's a combination of fog, a scary ghost-looking cloud peeking over the mountain staring at us, lightning, and me talking about scary movies with people standing in the middle of the road waiting to be hit. What? I was just trying to set the mood. I think it's the first time she ever told me to shut up and meant it.

9. Your life does not flash before your eyes if you think you're about to die and you don't pee your pants when you're really scared. Even if you have to pee really, really badly. Laughing your ass off after you survive a near collision with a dividing ramp wall on the part of the freeway that is a bridge spanning the river might make you nearly, almost pee your pants.

P.S. Is it really so hard to flush a urinal? For Pete's sake, you're standing there facing it. It is mere inches from your fingertips. Filthy, disgusting pigs.

10. It is possible to laugh and talk so much in one day that I lose my voice. Yeah, I knew this one too. But I don't think it happens with just anyone. That's why we're wives.

Quotes From Lunchtime Fun

Me: "Your stomach? Look at mine! I look like I just gave birth to your kid!"
M: "You look like you just breastfed my kid."


Ladies on rafts (LOR): "Where do we go after this?"
Me: "You'll want to go to the left and get out. You don't want to go down the spillway."
LOR: "What happens if we go down the spillway?"
Me: "You get hurt. Possibly badly."
LOR" "Then we won't go down the spillway."


Me: "We're on our lunch break."


Me:"I can work any day of the year. I can't float any old day of the year."


M: "I just cut my martini with an olive. It's a vegetable."
Me: "I just watered my sake down with some sushi."


M: "Katherine, you've been through birth, death, divorce, half-finished with grad school. You're so green - why don't you grow up already?"


M: "Yeah, that guy looked like Vin Diesel."

Heavy Petting

Yesterday Mr. A, the wife, D and I went to the pet parade. Of course. Duh, where else would I be on the 4th of July? The pet parade is only second to Halloween in terms of holiday events that I love. It's also behind my birthday. And opening Christmas presents. Which I don't get many of anymore, so the pet parade is really high on the list. It's dogs. How can that be wrong? It just can't. Dogs, people! DOGS!!

We squealed and squeed and giggled over all the cuteness in fur and on four legs. Puppies, seniors, huge, tiny, hairy, not-so-hairy, dressed-up, painted, blinged-out, they were all adorable. In the park afterward we molested anything we could get our hands on, although my favorites were of the scrunchy-faced variety - English Bulldogs, French Bulldogs, Boston Terriers, dachsunds, chihuahuas, even a Great Dane. I got drool on my hands, my arm, my leg and I didn't care. Dog drool can be so awesome.

For the most part, people were more than happy to share their dogs' drool with us. Except for one very grumpy, unhappy, not-nice, Grinchy old lady. She was sitting on the curb with her two dogs to watch the parade. Two of my very favorite kinds of dogs. An adorable Frenchie and a delightfully wrinkly English Bulldog. They combined to make the perfect storm of cuteness. They practically begged to be pet. Heavily. I squealed out, "A Frenchie! A wrinkly face!!!!!" And the woman turned and glared at me. She glared like I've seen nobody glare before. It was like her nasty old eyes were saying, "Go ahead. Touch my dog and I will bite your face off." And I thought, "Seriously? You're going to bring that much Puppy Cuteness out in public and not expect a reaction? Seriously?" Since I was with the teenager and supposed to be setting some kind of example of appropriate adult behavior, I didn't say anything to Old Hagface. But I'm going to now.

Look "Lady", you have two of the cutest dogs I have ever seen. It is a sin not to share those furry wrinkles with others. You cannot hoard it just for yourself. Yours is almost singly the most selfish act I have ever witnessed. How dare I want to pet your dogs? How dare you expose them to me and then deny me of their drooly kisses! Honestly, you don't deserve to be in the presence of that much Dogness. Keeping it to yourself has only turned you into a Bad Person. You can't handle the magnetism. Don't you know Puppy Love is meant to be shared with the world?

Since I was supposed to be an adult and didn't want to get arrested, I walked away. After glaring back. But you bet I was sorely tempted to run at her, knock her down, and roll around in the street with those sweet puppies. But apparently there is enough insanity in my life and that sort of behavior is frowned upon.

Whatever....
Honey Badger wouldn't have given a shit.

Adopting Strays

There's a big reason that I never go to the Humane Society. I hate seeing animals in cages and I want to bring them all home. Every single one. I don't have the space or the finances to do so, no matter what my heart tells me, so I avoid that place like the plague. And now it seems I've found a new kind of stray. Teenage girls.

I know, right? Weird. Crazy. Wtf is wrong with me? As much as my own teenager bugs me, I love her more and there are lots of things I like about her being around. And then I meet her friends and, since they're not mine, I can appreciate those things about them all the more. And I don't know what's going on, because I don't remember these problems when I was younger, but girls these days seem to be having such a hard time. Of course we all had problems with our parents. We were all trying to grow up and figure out our lives and how to find our way in the world. We had opinions. We had frustrations. But we dealt with them. My friend T was the exception. Her dad was some kind of drug lord and abused all of his kids and locked them in closets and other really awful things. T took it upon herself to go to the police and get the phones tapped so that she could get her younger siblings out of there and away from him. She was so strong; we admired her so much. But again, she was the exception.

Every time I turn around these days, some girl is exposed to horrible behavior or tragically depressed or completely lost, my own included. And they're not really strays, they have families, but I want to bring them home all the same because their own families don't seem to care.

Take C. I've known her for a couple of years and just adore her. C is beautiful and kind and honest and one of D's best friends. She's sassy (which of course I love!) and agrees with me when D is being ridiculous and unrealistic. She is so easy to get along with. I don't know what her mom's problem is. Her parents are divorced and her mom seems to think of her only when she wants to use her to get back at her dad. First, C was told to go live with her dad because mom just didn't want her around. Then suddenly, she wants to see her all the time and retain custody of her. For the money? That's the only thing I could think of, because when she didn't get it, because poor C had to testify against her, she stopped wanting her around again.

And how has all of this bouncing around affected her? As beautiful and healthy-looking as she is, she doesn't see herself that way. She doesn't eat. D is constantly worried about this. I pack extra tasty snacks in D's lunch to try to tempt C into eating. I make sure she knows that she is always welcome at our house. She needs a mommy and I try to substitute for that as much as I can. I'd take her in in a heartbeat.

I met H at D's birthday party. Yeah, she's a little chunky. It's especially noticeable around the other girls who all weigh an average of about 90 pounds. But she's adorable. Cute. Funny. Friendly. Sweet. D found out yesterday that she tried to kill herself for the second time in three weeks and for the third time in total. It's absolutely heart-breaking. More so because it appears (from the outside) that her mom isn't paying attention.

Why are these girls so unhappy? They are wonderful, beautiful people and they don't see it. From where I sit, their moms don't see it either. We all know I'm not perfect, but it breaks my heart when D is struggling. And these girls are breaking my heart. I want to bring them home and feed them and mommy them and tell them how much they mean to the world.

There's only so much I can actually do. I don't see these girls every day. And maybe I'm wrong. Maybe their parents are struggling just as much as I am to understand their daughters. But maybe if they know that just one more person cares about them and sees them for the lovely young women they are becoming, they'll see it too. And maybe there will be one or two less heartbreaks in the world.

16 Things I Love

My baby girl turned 16 yesterday. It's a milestone of which I am acutely, painfully aware. I find myself counting down more often. How many more holidays will she be at home, how many more first days of the school year, how many more birthday parties, how many more months left do I have with her before she's all grown up and living a life that I'm not a daily part of? It feels like it's going to happen tomorrow. Like if I blink, it's going to be over.

Even if she's not always sleeping in the room next to me, she'll always be my baby girl and I could pontificate for hours what this means to me and what it means to be a mom. What it means to be her mom. Instead, in honor of the 16 candles I put on her cake last night, here are 16 things that I love about her.

1. She chose to be Holly Golightly for Halloween one year.
2. She surprises me with her talents. Still.
3. I love how once in a while I look at her and catch my breath, that I can't believe this beautiful creature has anything to do with me.
4. Her sense of humor and sass.
5. I love how she can be so frustrating on a daily basis and then we go on vacation and I rediscover how fun she truly is.
6. Her heart is so big.
7. She's much stronger and braver than I ever give her credit for.
8. She still asks to be tucked in at night.
9. She cried when she wasn't tall enough for a roller coaster.
10. When she was a baby and uncomfortable, her favorite place to be was in my arms.
11. Her silliness.
12. Her first word after "momma" was "shoe".
13. She has always been her own person.
14. I love that she's taught me love and acceptance.
15. We watch scary movies together.
16. I love that I get to be witness to her self-discovery.

To my Bugabooga, I will love you always in ways that you can't even imagine. Thank you for being the beautiful person that I am so proud of.
Happy Birthday.

How Old Do You Feel?

When I was in junior high, I used to tell my mom how so-and-so and what's-his-name were going out. She would exasperate me each and every time by asking, "Where are they going?" I hated it. They were dating, but that was what we called it. Of course now I know what she meant. Just how far can a couple of junior high kids go? They don't drive. Duh.

So this is the conversation D and I had today.

D: He wrote "swag" on my wall so I wrote back "swaggity swag swaggy."
Me: What does that mean?
D: I don't know. I just said it.
Me: Then why did you say it?
D:Because that's what he said. Oh, you don't know what swag means?
Me: Obviously not.
D: It's the way you walk, the way you carry yourself.
Me: That's swagger.
D: Yeah, but we shorten it. I can't believe you didn't know what swag is. How old you you feel now?
Me. How stupid do you feel? Your generation has to be the dumbest. You just abbreviate everything because you're lazy.
D: Wow. Thanks, Mom.

Searching For Our Sassy

I don't want to write this. I can already feel the fog of judgement descending. I'm about to open myself up to criticism that can stab me, but for some reason I need to do it. I need to tell you how real depression is. I need to tell myself. And if you don't understand, well, good for you. Know that you're one of the lucky ones and be thankful and find compassion.

I know it's real. I know it's real for me and I know it's real for other people. But I didn't know how sneaky it is. I didn't know what a real asshole it is. Now I do.

D has been a monster for the last few months. Or year. But she's a teenager and she's supposed to be that way. She's supposed to do things that make me want to throw her out because she'll be leaving in a couple of years and I need to be ready for that. Only somehow it seemed worse than that. I had a feeling it was more. I had the thought that she might be depressed. And then I dismissed it. Because it couldn't be. Because I was unemployed and going through my own shit and I couldn't take on one more worry. Because depression tells you you're the only one. Not in a you're-so-great-that-everyone-thinks-you-poop-rainbows kind of way, but in a only-you-are-the-worst-person-and-everyone-else-is-better-than-you kind of way. And this extended to my own daughter.

She finally went to talk to her school counselor a few weeks ago, who told her she needed to talk to me. She had looked up symptoms of depression and pointed to all of the ones she felt she exhibited. Cue self-loathing. I knew it. I knew it and I didn't do anything about it. I made an appointment with a doctor for the next day. She talked to both of us, she talked to D alone, and assessed D as "pretty severely depressed" and prescribed an anti-depressant after discussing it with her. She wasn't sure she wanted to take it, so we talked about what it does and doesn't do, the type of medication, and the dosage. She agreed to try it.

I've been watching her. When she has a good day or is cheerful or excited about something, I think to myself, yes. It's better. We're good. Next. I should know better. I should know how much I pretend myself.

Yesterday was a particularly bad day for both of us. When I feel bad, I shut people out. When she feels bad, she attacks me. She hurts me with her words. I shut down. And when she said she has problems, I said so what. So fucking what. We all have problems, what makes your problems so much worse? Cue intense self-loathing. She spent some time in her room and when she wanted to talk, she really wanted to talk. She wanted to say she was sorry. She wanted to say how much she hates herself and how she cries when she looks in the mirror. And then she told me how much. How she doesn't deserve to be happy. She told me exactly how much she's hurting and how much she's losing control and falling apart and it shattered my heart. My beautiful baby girl who loved dance and her friends and laughing and life. She hurts and she doesn't deserve it.

We talked. We watched this. We cried. She asked me why we have to have this. This depression. I told her it's because we're strong because it's the only thing I could think of. It's true though. She was strong enough and brave enough to ask for help. Not just once, but until someone listened. She was brave enough to tell me and show me how much she hurts. Telling someone what you are inside is scary. She thought I would be disappointed or disbelieving but she did it anyway. She risked opening up that ugly part that we want to hide. She is brave and she is strong.

I told her all of the good things about her. I showed her the friends on Facebook who tell her how wonderful she is. I told her she's beautiful and kind and a good friend and talented. And sassy. It's one of my favorite things about her but she said it isn't a good thing. I said, oh yes. Yes it is. We are both sassy and it's good. Sassy is strong. Sassy means saying things that not everyone wants to hear. Sassy means being yourself. Whatever it takes.

This isn't what I wanted. When I held my precious baby for hours on end, this wasn't my dream for her. I want to protect her. I want to make this go away. My first reaction was to fix it. Only it can't be fixed. It can be dealt with, it can be understood, it can be talked about. There is no magic fix. I have to find my own strength to help her through it. Her beautiful bravery will be my motivation when my own asshole of depression tells me not to care.

Cue the sass.

That Time When I Met That Author

I once met Wade Davis. I had no idea who he was at the time. He was hired by the company I worked for to do a presentation about people in other cultures for a client conference. I thought he was brilliant. I had a schoolgirl crush on him in about 30 seconds. I was so infatuated that I insisted my book club read his Serpents and Rainbows. Then came the disillusion. Everything he'd spoken so eloquently about in his presentation was written almost word-for-word in the book. What seemed to come so naturally to him as a speaker turned into something canned and stale. Color me disappointed.

Recently, my book club read Rules of Civility by Amor Towles because one of our members, JC (not Jesus Christ, he's just lucky enough or unfortunate enough to have those initials), was invited to do a talk for the library on the book as part of its Novel Idea event. JC was asked to compare Rules with The Great Gatsby and that was the lens through which most of our discussion was viewed. That isn't a fair thing to do as evidenced by our discussion. I had wanted to like Rules so badly. So badly. And then I got to This One Part that ruined it for me. I still can't get past it, even knowing now that it's just my issue. And it wasn't just me. I think we picked the story to death. The meaning behind the story. The comparisons with Gatsby. We even questioned whether Amor was his real name or made up.

When Mr. Towles visited Central Oregon to talk about his book, we decided to attend. After our regular meeting about another book. On Cinco de Mayo. Because we're just that kind of crazy cool. JC was invited to the reception prior to the main event and was permitted to bring the rest of us crazy cool people.

I was prepared to not like him. I wasn't going to be disappointed again. Fool me once, brilliant-seeming writer, not again. The best thing about having no (or low) expectations is how delightful the alternate can be if and when it happens. It happened with Mr. Towles. Not at first. He looked so normal. Once JC was able to drag him over to our little group to talk to us, he seemed so normal. So easy to talk to. So easy that I felt completely comfortable actually asking him the actual questions I wanted to ask. What? So forward of me, I know. His answers were unsatisfying and I told him so. Yeah, I'm that kind of bad-ass.

We moved over to the the main event. It turns out that the seats in the front row were reserved for us but we didn't realize this important, ego-boosting tidbit until after the fact. We didn't need them though. Amor (because after my assault on him I think we should be on a first-name basis) mentioned JC twice in his speech and me once! Told you I'm crazy-cool-bad-ass.

Here's the best part. (Or next best. Because the best part is always about me.) Amor was a total super smartypants. We all agreed that he is much smarter than his book. Which just means he needs to write another one. He talked about art. He talked about people. He said the job of a writer is to "show you the universe, as best I can." I love that. I've said it over and over in my head dozens of times. He never answered my question satisfactorily. And that's how I know that it was just my issue. He had nothing to do with it other than showing it to me through the story he told. I think that's what writers do. Yes, they explain the universe to us. But the also show us the world within ourselves. They make us better in this way. They make us think and say "no, that's not how it is" and "no, I won't believe it" but in the end we do. We believe what is true for us. We believe what we didn't know was there, even though it's been there all along.

Afterward, we got to talk to Amor and say thank you and goodbye and I walked away feeling like one of my better selves, one of my smarter selves. The kind of Me that could have a conversation with a best-selling author and not sound like a total goofball. Even if I might have acted a little bit like one.

I found out a couple of days afterward that Amor emailed JC and said he wished that we had all gone out together that night after his talk. Yep. We are that crazy cool. And even if Amor isn't his real name, I'm going to pretend that it is.

The One In Which I Didn't Cry

D has been bugging me for months to let her get her permit. Months. Months. Endlessly. It wasn't annoying at all. Not a bit.

Anyhoo, I gave her one condition. Just one. No permit until she had a semester of straight A's. Simple, right? Not so much I guess. And then this year she got sick and missed two months of school. What to do, what to do....

She'll be 16 in two months and summer is a better time to learn to drive than winter so I did it. I caved. It's not that simple, but that pretty much sums it up.

Secretly, I was hoping she wouldn't pass the test. What's wrong with delaying it a little longer? Then it's her fault and not mine. That is called Brilliant Parenting. I even helped her study last night. Point scored!

Well, guess what? She passed. Barely, but passing is passing. Passing meant she got a little piece of paper that allows her to legally get behind the wheel of a car. She hates her picture so that means they did it right.

She couldn't contain her excitement. She texted everyone she knew, put it on Facebook, and walked on air for the rest of the day.

She convinced me to let her try driving. Sigh..... Fine....

I took her to a pretty empty neighborhood. Lots of unsold houses. She got behind the wheel, put on her seat belt and I started to tell her how to adjust her seat, only it got caught in my throat. I had my sunglasses on, but they didn't hide the fact that there was a single tear. Just one, but she caught it. She'll never let me live it down.

And then the street wasn't long enough. And there were too many stop signs. I didn't expect her to actually get the car in motion the first day. We soon ran out of road.

Next I took her to an empty road on the side of town with very little traffic and even fewer stop signs. And my kid? Sure, she hit a few potholes. She swerved a lot going straight. She stalled the car, lurched forward, hit the brakes too hard. She brushed against a couple of bushes. But she drove. Probably eight miles each way. It felt longer because she only got up to 40 mph once and stayed around 25 the rest of the time. A car passed us. But she drove around and passed a bicycler without panicking. She stayed calm.

She even had the wherewithal to come up with the quote of the day. "That was my first four-way!"

God, I love that kid.

I'm Not Asking for That Much

A couple of months ago I shared the struggle I have with depression and what my feelings are surrounding it. I know that it’s real and if I could, I’d choose a life without it. I also know I’m not alone and I know there are people with more severe forms and their suffering is greater and also real. So when the following incident happened to me, I was more than a little bit upset and it’s taken me a while to form the right words to describe it and how I felt. There are certain things that shouldn’t happen or shouldn’t be said and this is one of them.

I went to my regular pharmacy which happens to be at Walmart. I know plenty of people who refuse to shop there for varying reasons. For me, it’s close to my house and my prescriptions there are inexpensive, which is a good enough reason these days. I was picking up two prescriptions that I’ve had for the last two years. One was my antidepressant and the other a medication to help lower my cholesterol. Since I’ve been on both for so long, I typically don’t have to see the pharmacist but on this occasion, for some odd, unknown reason, I was required to check with him before being given my prescriptions.

He was an older gentleman, rather grandfatherly-looking. He first picked up my cholesterol medication, noted what it was for, and then looked at me skeptically, asking, “Is this for you?” I was a bit taken aback, but I’m fortunate enough to appear younger than I actually am (even if I don’t feel it) so I just answered yes. He asked again, “Do you have high cholesterol?” Um, yes. I’m not taking it for the fun of it. He next picked up the packet of antidepressants. “And these are for your moods?” I stammered yes, took my bag, turned, and walked away.

The whole way out the store, to my car, and on the way home I thought of a hundred responses that I wish I’d thought of in that moment. My “moods”? Like I’m some weak little woman that needs a pill for mere moodiness? That man reduced what thousands of people suffer from, what is a real disease, what I’d be overjoyed to never have to deal with again, to a minor little moody episode. I suspect he really believes that it’s all about my period and my inability as a woman to succeed in the world without men like him.

It was insulting. It was demeaning. It was absolutely inexcusable. I expect better behavior from a professional. I expect non-judgment. I expect and deserve to be treated with respect. I would say something about how, especially in today’s economy, businesses should be doing their absolute best to keep the customers they have. Only it’s simpler than that because it’s only about respect and being educated enough to know better. Frankly, I expect a pharmacist to know better and to be better informed about the medications they dispense.

I’ve been thinking about how to address this issue with Walmart because I think they need to know about the kind of people they employ. Because of this man’s condescending attitude towards me, and by extension, others like me, I’m seriously considering switching pharmacies. I’m seriously considering taking all of the shopping I do elsewhere. I like Target better anyway, but it happens to be on the other end of town. However, I’ll give up convenience if it means being treated fairly and with respect. If it means interacting with knowledgeable, professional people without judgment, I’ll gladly go out of my way.

Depression is hard enough.

A Birthday Love Letter

The wife, as I like to call her because she’s my bff but that term is really overused plus she does things only a spouse should have to do like go to my kid’s choir and ballet performances, is celebrating her birthday today. I’m glad that it’s sunny because the weather can really suck ass this time of year but also because she deserves a really sunny day. She also deserves more than the stupid gift I got her but what gift can you buy that says “I love you more than you’ll ever know for a billion million reasons because you’re like Christmas and summer and chocolate cupcakes all rolled into one”?

We met three and a half years ago. I was freshly heartbroken after the end of a long-term relationship and trying to make the most of it by throwing myself a housewarming party. A new acquaintance brought The Wife along because she was also freshly dumped as well as newly unemployed and needed some cheering up. I would have expected someone in that position to be a puddle on the floor, especially knowing that in my state the only thing holding me together most days was copious amounts of vodka. She, however, seemed to be doing well. Not that she was resentment-free, but she was still funny in a dry and sarcastic way. My favorite kind. I liked her immediately.

Our friendship built slowly. I liked her more every time we got together. She, on the other hand, recently told me that she didn’t see us becoming close at the beginning. Not because she didn’t like me, because, well, duh. But because she thought we were so different.

In some ways we are different. She likes to snowboard and I hate anything having to do with snow or getting hurt. I am definitely the girlier, wimpier one. She owns a lizard which kinda freaks me out. She is teenager-free. I’m usually the organized one, the plan-maker. I own more shoes than she does and I’m afraid to admit that I’m the fussy one. None of these differences matter. If anything, they work to compliment the ways in which we’re alike.

We both like pajamas more than jeans, animals more than most people, and cheese more than other so-called food. Like most women, we constantly complain about our bodies and alternate between motivating and sabotaging each other. We’re separately stronger than we think but together probably unstoppable. Each of has so much distance in our families, of varying kinds, that we’ve chosen the other as family. And yet I’d never call her my sister because she’s less and more and something completely different.

What kind of friend is she? She’s the kind of friend that just does, no questions asked. She’s taken care of my sick dog when I was out of town and crying on the phone. As far as crying goes, she’s listened to and seen me cry more times than I care to tell you. She’s watched me make the same mistakes over and over with guidance and love, never making me feel like more of an idiot than I already knew I was. She’s showered me off after I’ve had the misfortune of puking on myself and taken me to the doctor when I had vertigo so badly I couldn’t dress myself. When someone says that a friend is there for them, her friendship is the standard by which I measure that effort.

I think the nicest compliment I ever received about us was from a friend who said that The Wife and I take better care of each other than anyone she’s ever known. I know she takes exemplary care of me and I only hope that I come close to that for her. She is a major reason I made it through the last year relatively unscathed.

So, here’s to my wifey on her birthday. My friend, I love you more than I can tell you. I don’t know how to form the words that would describe what your friendship means to me or how deeply I treasure the laughter, our utter zaniness, your generosity, acceptance, and understanding. I cherish your friendship as no other and I look forward to our future adventures, mishaps, and shared memories.

I simply adore you and love you. Thank you for being my friend.
Happy Birthday.