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Hey Poopface, It’s Your Birthday

22 Apr

It seems like the blog post writing went by the wayside around the same time the hubby went into remission and I promptly started menopause. I was thinking the other day about how, on a warm summer night, I’d pour a glass of vino and head out back with my laptop to craft up a humorous take on that day’s shenanigans. But then. It seemed like things weren’t quite as funny anymore. I think cancer (or teenagers?) took away my humor nerve. At least that’s what I’m going to run with. It certainly won’t be that whole tired “I’m too busy” refrain. Or that I’m just not funny any more. But, since I’m here again — wine in hand — I’ll have to let you decide. And you can keep your opinion to yourself. Thankyouverymuch.

And I really couldn’t resist taking this week by the balls and squeezing the ever-loving humor out of it. Here’s why:

On Monday, the landscapers (aka the YARD ELVES) came and magically whisked away winter. At some point, the hubby went outside to inspect (they are new) and then… 

OHSHITWHYISTHATRATTRAPOUTFROMUNDERTHEDECK!!!

(We live in BOULDER and rat poison is VERBOTEN and we will have to move after this is published…but the 2013 flood unleashed the masses from the rocks and crevices and we felt we had no choice. Yes. I do feel awful about any harm to nature. I just fucking hate rats — especially ones that live under MY DECK.) 

Which morphed into: 

CALL.VET!>DOG.IN.CAR!>DOG.STOMACH.PUMPED!>MUST.EAT.CHARCOAL!>TAKE.THIS.VITAMINK!>PLEASE.GOD.DON’T.LET.HER.DIE! (ALSO: LESSON.LEARNED.RAT.POISON.TO.NEVER.RETURN>RATS.SAY.YAY! AND.MOVE.BACK.IN)

Then it was Tuesday. The dog was acting okay with the exception of the stink eye she was giving the hubby. She was shooting him DAGGERS. And I am not exaggerating. She said, “Bitch! You got the LEASH like you were taking me for A WALK! And then… THAT SHIT?!?!” She was ready to knock him one.

Since the week had started out with trauma, I got it into my head that I was going to turn the hubby bday week around. So the minute he left with the girls for the dentist, I jumped into the car and raced to Party City. My plan was to transform the damned house into a birthday wonderland, including a custom song I had made for him (and also my brother, who was the original recipient when we was like 6 and 45s were still the go-to medium), and prosecco on ice. I was going to blow him away. But then.

Mother Nature decided to blow us ALL AWAY and blew in some freaking 100 MPH winds that toppled TREES and SEMIS just as I was heading to the… wait for it…BALLOON STORE.

I was determined though. Went through that store on a mission. Grabbed decorations, candles in the form of a FIVE and a TWO, then went up front and ordered the FIVE and TWO, three-foot high balloons. Then. “OHMYLORD. Wait! He’s fifty-ONE! I need a ONE not a TWO!” “Really?!?” “Really. I’m so sorry. Almost 25 years married and 32 together and I can’t remember how old he is.” Quickly swapped the TWO candle, smiled at the bewildered cashier, paid and opened the door to the parking lot.

I make it to the car. Open the hatch back. Whew. I made it. Then. Shithead WIND whooshes.. WHIPS and throwing the stick out of my bun hair, my Persol sunglasses off of my head and into the sky, hooking the arm on the balloon string. Thereby launching approximately $370 into the ether. I start flailing as my sunglasses flip skyward and eastward and westward and everywhere-ward as I jump and grab and try to catch them without sending said revised FIVE and ONE balloon shapes into the stratosphere. 

I did it. And if that parking lot video isn’t viral yet, keep an eye out. I was lost in the super store parking lot. “Lady with Volvo Goes Beserk with Balloons and Sunglasses in 1 Million MPH Wind.”

I also made it home, decorated the WHOLE FUCKING HOUSE (sweating and swearing) and was on the ready with a smile, prosecco popped, and custom birthday song cued. (Damn, I’m good.)

Then it’s Wednesday. Actual birthday of the hubby. And all I have to do is get a 600-piece mailing campaign print bid approved and off to print, an email campaign finalized, a con call made, an electronic newsletter template proof to a client, another newsletter written, another email campaign written, a red velvet cake made/baked/iced, a hubby birthday hike squeezed in, a shower, another con call or five to negotiate that print bid, and a dinner reservation reached by 5:30 (we’re old, we have kids and this restaurant ain’t easy to get into).

Voila. Did it. ALL. (Even made sure the hubby got to the vet with the dog for rat poison follow up bloodwork.)

Dinner is incredible, gin and tonics delish, view amazing – YES! Get thyself to Corrida. STAT.

We head home with visions of icing and birthday toasts in our head. Open the front door. And WHOOSH. The smell of dog shit is so ripe and so vile that I nearly puke in the bushes. And said dog has her head hung so low in shame that her chin is scraping the floor and she will not make eye contact. 

FUCKFUCKFUCK.

The ‘Not I, said the cats’ came so fast and furious that the birthday boy was knee deep in shit before he even knew what hit him. And it’s not that we didn’t feel BAD. It was just a firm HELL NO. This is the boy’s job. Feminism be damned. (I mean, at least FOR NOW. And I still had ICING to make fershittinsakes.)

The evening came to a screeching halt as the bloody shitstorm was slowly eradicated from the living room rug and we all started to cry because there was BLOOD and SHIT everywhere. And the dog was going to die.

We half-heartedly lit the FIVE and ONE candles on the newly iced cake. Watched as the hubby made his wish and blew while the scented candles flickered around us to cast away the stench and we cast furtive glances at the dog. Who was dead man walking. 

I’m gonna throw in here that this is a family who is very familiar with their shit. It’s been a reluctant focus ever since COLON CANCER 2010. Shits are analyzed, discussed, mulled over, pondered, and shared. So when it is bloody and voluminous and everywhere, we take it seriously.

That night, we slept nary a bit. The pup was up like clockwork. Puking, pooping, whining, pacing. At least every couple of hours. She was miserable. We were worried. We are tired.

The vet is called back on Thursday morning. They tell us that the blood test came back normal. No evidence of rat poisoning. So we breathe a teeny-tiny sigh of relief (and try to figure out how to take a nap in the middle of another balls-to-the-wall work day.)

Thursday night, I go to book group. Discuss Pachinko. Come home to more shit and up all night to more shit.

Friday, I try to plan an impromptu hubby birthday happy hour. No dice. Spontaneity is dead. (Mostly. Two people out of 12 said yes.) We go to dinner with two people. Stop for wine at the the other two’s house. Get home to… yep…MORE SHIT. Teen Queen made it home before us and, heroically, cleaned it up — save the carpet (which is totally impractical WHITE SHAG from Ikea). Score 1 million thousand for TEEN QUEEN!

Friday night, shit show on repeat. I almost throw out a hip leaping out of bed when dog JUMPS up and runs out of our room. This shit is NOT for old people. 

Saturday, vet is called. AGAIN. Dog is barely moving. Turns her head from CHEESE (which she normally explodes from deep sleep IN THE BASEMENT, IN THE DARK for if she just hears the CHEESE DRAWER in the fridge open. Yes, we have a CHEESE DRAWER.). She isn’t eating. Not drinking. It’s pitiful. We KNOW she’s dying. Think we will wake up to dog dead at any moment. 

Vet prescribes meds. The good shit. Dog gets meds SHOVED DOWN HER DAMN THROAT since she won’t even look at HAM.

Approximately 1.25 hours later? Dog is up. And HUNGRY. AND LORD JESUS IT’S A FREAKING MIRACLE.

It’s snowing. There is mud everywhere on the hardwood floors. But DOG is alive. We nearly weep in relief and decide to watch Netflix all day, order in from DoorDash (Yay for Post fried chicken delivered to your door) and rent that stupid Vince Vaughn movie where he fathers 533 children through 693 sperm donations. You know, your typical, family-friendly, warm-fuzzy, feel-good flick.

So, dudes. I’m here to say that when it’s Sunday and it’s sunny. And your beloved dog is barking again and putting her head in your lap for scratches and the floor has been mopped and you’ve just slept a solid eight for the first time in four days…that’s cause for freaking celebration AND a blog post. Amirite?

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Kenny, Captain Zoom. My name is Zoom and I live on the Moon, but I came down to Earth just to sing you this tune, ‘cause KENNY, it’s your birthday TODAY!

LISTEN NOW!

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Words Make My Mouth Exercise

16 Sep

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to a touch of whiplash from the last few weeks/months. In the continuing theme of ‘never a dull moment,’ I could never claim boredom or being stuck in a rut. Here’s why.

As you may recall, all hell broke loose on us yet again about two years ago. No, it wasn’t the year of hell that was 2010, but it was still a three-punch in the gut. (These sets all seem to come in threes, no?)

This year was humming right along. Hubby back in school to prep for the CPA exam while he continued his job hunt, me going strong with Mugs & Wit. We even started a cleanse to kick off the year with a (ahem)…clean slate.

Then round about January 20th, one of the Va-Jay-Jay BFFs, Lady Lou, had to go and join the Big C Club. Cleanse aborted and many bottles of wine later, we had almost all cried ourselves out. So we dusted off those big girl panties and armored up to take this shitty cancer thing DOWN. AGAIN.

She finished up chemo the first week of June, ran away to do the hula in Hawaii for a few days and came back to get radiated (as if she isn’t radiant enough already). She is now in the after care phase with Herceptin injections every three weeks until February 2016. Tamoxifen is her daily friend for the next five years. Take that you big bully, cancer. She is doing GREAT. And I’ve been privileged enough to be there with her through most of it all — even when I’ve had to cry to make her let me come. (I’m a good friend like that.)

And while we’re on the subject of crying….that seems to be my new modus operandi. I cry over sinks full of dishes, friends who won’t let me go to their oncology appointments, dear uncles who get diagnosed with ALS, and other friends who up and have a kid with bone cancer.

I try to blame it all on the other letter that should always have the word BIG in front of it: M. And maybe it is that. Hot flashes suck ass. I had my head in the freezer the other night and the hubby says, “Gross. You’re going to get hair in the ICE.” I thought, “Maybe I should go buy an ice pick to stick in his head.”

But I digress. Crying over dear friends/family members fighting for their lives while you helplessly sit by and wring your hands is pretty normal. It’s the sink full of dishes things that isn’t really like the others…

To progress this story forward, I’d like to say that when I highjacked Lady Lou’s appointment (on my birthday in April) with the doc that we share announcing that the hubby was FIVE YEARS ALL CLEAR, and we hugged and cried, that was a full circle moment. She could see for herself that the little yellow-ish flicker at the end of that long, dark, drafty tunnel will soon be HERS TOO.

And forward from there, we had a summer of fun. Camping, 10 days at the beach in SC, hiking, day trips to Denver by bus. It was really great — even though work was busy as holy hell. We got through and the hubby had landed himself a newfangled job just as it was all coming to a close. Awesome.

It’s the last few weeks that have made me dizzy. Weird I know. After 2.5 years of getting my company ramped up, bringing home the bacon and feeling like my head was sizzling itself from it all, business just dropped off. The timing was fantastic since I am playing single, SAHM most days with the hubby traveling, doing the job of two people since his coworker was fired 8 days in AND trying to finish up his accounting classes before he goes on halfway-through-I’m-going-to-lose-my-mind hiatus. Oh. And having his back freak the shit out and double him over. Right on the conveyor belt in the Whole Foods check out line. (ER visit plus MRI showed a pinched nerve and compacted disk. The meds worked. He’s getting better. Much. Thanks for asking.)

Seriously great timing. But. I am struggling mightily with it. Living in this strange gray area that isn’t quite SAHM OR bringing home the bacon/money-making fool. I’m so used to being one OR the other that I can’t quite wrap my head around being a seriously half-assed BOTH. Or with how quickly it all changed.

I would say that in light of the other shit that has gone down this year, this is NOTHING. But it sure feels like SOMETHING to me.

The only glimmer of hope in this freshly-minted identity crisis is that I haven’t cried about it yet.

And look at me, would you? I’m all writing again and shit. At least until the next big deadline rears its head. Amiright?

TODAY’S THEME SONG: When a problem comes along (you must whip it). Devo

The RAIN in Spain.

26 Feb

The past five months or so have been a blur. I know everyone says that. But I’m serious. Because my Lasik didn’t really take, so I can’t see without copious amounts of eye drops.

And besides that, the hubby got laid off and a week later my cousin was killed and our basement flooded (along with the rest of our state).

Since our house wasn’t in the flood plain (and I’d checked that online and then again because of my OCD), we weren’t concerned when the neighbors started building an ark. Or when the retention pond up at the school built to withstand the 100-year-flood started to overflow.

My cousin’s death was a tragedy of the deepest depths. While we were being rained upon with a vengeance, she flipped herself and her two best friends and dog upside down in a creek and they all drowned. If it hadn’t been so fucking sad and tragic, it would have been ironic. I guess it still is, since irony can be shaded with sad.

The water came pouring in on us that very afternoon, just as I was trying to find a flight back home. Then everything here went to hell, with bean curled in a ball as a six-foot-wall of water poured in her window well and then straight into her room.

The funny part of the flood is that afterwards, everyone tries to make sure everyone else knows that they know how lucky they were considering. “Well, at least I still have a house.” “Yea. It could’ve been so much worse. Like the five feet of sewage the Cronins/Browns, etc. got.”

The good news is that the locusts didn’t come too. And the hubby had all sorts of free time to get the basement back to living condition for the girls.

So after a couple of months of them on mattresses in our office with our total square footage cut in half, we were back and better by first of November. A record-setting, ribbon-cutting worthy moment. Especially since all those poor sap friends with jobs are just now or not even back to normal. 

And since our luck had been so good and our paychecks were so plentiful, we decided it was high time to get a hot tub. Big surprise for the girls on Christmas morn: “Look! We got you a CEMENT PAD!!!” They loved it and started to jump rope on it right away.

Then the hot tub came a few days later. Much to their chagrin.

I also got to go back to South Carolina in October for a gathering of cousins. My dear friend, Debra, hooked us up with a sweet house in Folly Beach and the owner donated it. I was so incredibly touched. 

And then the reality of all of those crazy asses taking over this precious little donated cottage hit and I spent the weekend being called ‘the chaperone’ by my sweet brother and fretting that all of the puking that was going on was going to clog the septic line.

Plus, I spent every night but one (of the six) sharing a bed with my mom. Who has a CPAP for the apnea and rarely wears underwear to bed. So, 1. if she got too quiet, I’d think she was dead and my brother kept saying she was “my responsibility.’ and 2. she really likes to cuddle. I don’t like being touched when I’m sleeping. Much less by my own mother who’s off in Darth Vader/CPAP land and isn’t adequately clothed.

And, when she wakes up in the night — which is frequent — she launches into WIDE AWAKE CONVERSATIONS like you’ve just been sitting there this whole time sipping an OJ and flipping through a trashy mag.

That weekend was one for the ages and I think we did my cousin proud. She would’ve been right there in that bed with us trying to spoon me too. (Elizabeth will be relieved I didn’t feature her. That’s for the next blog.)

I went back for round two in January after mom tried to bite it by ingesting a grill brush bristle and perforating her colon. Luckily it abscessed and sealed. But she still lost 10 inches and I couldn’t stop thinking, “What is it with this family and colons?” Then, just when she was about to go home, she starting hemorrhaging and wouldn’t stop. So every time she didn’t call back I was freaking out. Never a dull moment. 

Now on this side of 2014, I just keep hoping for dull and boring. 

So far, we’re making a go of the husband-and-wife wonder twin powers to activate some income via Mugs & Wit. You should see the look on your face just picturing trying to work with your spouse. 

No complaints so far other than:

  1. Trying to train a grown man from scratch on a new industry takes undying patience and love for said man.
  2. Having all of your eggs in one basket means you use one too many clichés (and suffer from chronic heartburn).
  3. Balancing billable, deadline-oriented work with training, creative direction, managing and re-branding a company after 10 years means IF I DON’T GET A DAMNED MASSAGE I’LL CUTTA BITCH.
  4. My attention-to-detail is not the same as that of — er— others…

 And other than some mild teenage drama involving stranger video chat rooms and a bean who pukes on people’s shoes when she gets a migraine, life is pretty much as hoped. Boring/dull with a side of hot tub.

Let’s keep it that way.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: This is how I show my love. I made it in my mind because I blame it on my ADD… Sail. Awolnation.

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