tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70101146293397428132024-03-28T22:29:40.817-05:00No Wire Hangers EverAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-12002182740861143352018-12-06T14:19:00.000-05:002018-12-06T14:19:03.827-05:00All Beau Had To Do Was Buy One Present. One Freaking Present. Bless His Heart.<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
It's so hard. Just so hard. Being a man. Especially around the holidays.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
I only have about eighty people to buy presents for. So when Beau steps up to the plate and says he's going to buy one gift in particular, I'm all for it.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
Until the texts start rolling in. In the middle of the day. While I'm at work. Bless his heart.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
I'm used to Beau going to the grocery store and calling no less than three times to ask me questions about my list. A list that includes pictures. And a layout of the supermarket. But still a minimum of three calls.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
Then I have to hear all about it when he gets home. How all the old ladies congratulated him on being such a good dad. "It's so amazing what you're doing. Keep up the good work Dad."</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
For the love of God, he's buying freaking milk. No one ever compliments my parenting. Especially in public. Ever.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
But firing up the old laptop and ordering something on Amazon is uncharted territory for Beau. There are no little old ladies applauding his efforts every step of the way. No one there to pat him on the back for being dad numero uno.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
So I shouldn't have been surprised when I received the first text.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<img alt="15590118_10210747518664641_4928857160876835884_n" class="aligncenter size-medium wp-image-2385" data-mce-src="http://www.chicagonow.com/no-wire-hangers-ever/files/2016/12/15590118_10210747518664641_4928857160876835884_n-168x300.jpg" height="300" src="http://www.chicagonow.com/no-wire-hangers-ever/files/2016/12/15590118_10210747518664641_4928857160876835884_n-168x300.jpg" style="display: block; height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="168" /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
I'll give him credit for getting it in the cart all by himself. Although I suspect a woman at his office might have played a hand in this. Bless his heart.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
Beau is an educated man. He makes more money than me just for having a Y chromosome. Yet I picture him alone and scared in his office. Confused. So very confused.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
I mean don't get me wrong, these are very valid questions.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
How do I get it out of the cart and to our house? <em>It's magic.</em></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<em><br /></em></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
What shipping option should I choose? <em>Well let's see dear heart, Christmas is five freaking days away and you've waited this long to make your purchase, so I suggest whateverthef*ck option will have it here by Christmas morn, darling. </em></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
It's saying it's not available. What should I do? <em>You should stop at the liquor store on your way home and buy me a bottle of wine that costs more than $4.99. for wasting my time with your nonsense. In the middle of the day. While I'm at work.</em></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
Then I think of all of the online purchases I have made over the years. All by myself. With no help from anyone. And I get angry.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
I have made purchases while driving. I have made purchases while giving birth. I have made purchases cooking dinner with both hands tied behind my back.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
I have even made purchases out of my mind blind drunk. Only to have them delivered a few days later with absolutely no recollection of making said purchase. I love surprises.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
Exhibit A.</div>
<div class="mceTemp" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<dl class="wp-caption aligncenter" data-mce-style="width: 235px;" id="attachment_2389" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; margin: 0px auto; max-width: 100%; width: 235px;">
<dt class="wp-caption-dt" style="-webkit-user-drag: none;"><img alt="me" class="wp-image-2389 size-medium" data-mce-src="http://www.chicagonow.com/no-wire-hangers-ever/files/2016/12/me-225x300.jpg" height="300" src="http://www.chicagonow.com/no-wire-hangers-ever/files/2016/12/me-225x300.jpg" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; display: block; height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="225" /></dt>
<dd class="wp-caption-dd" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; padding-top: 0.5em;">Still better than an incubator.</dd></dl>
</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
Now I'm not proud of all of my online purchases. But my point being, it's not rocket science. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
My kids have even managed to rack up hundreds of dollars in purchases by just pressing random buttons. But Beau can't order one shirt.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
To Beau. You just leave the complicated art of Christmas shopping on Amazon to me. I got this, babe. Merry Christmas.</div>
<blockquote style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
Dude, women are just constantly patting themselves on the back about how difficult their lives are, and no one corrects them because they want to [beep] them. ~Bill Burr</blockquote>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-47257838878872094772018-11-16T11:25:00.003-05:002018-11-16T11:25:56.779-05:00Three Things I Am Thankful For This ThanksgivingI like to keep things positive. So here are a few things I'm thankful for this season. In no particular order.<br />
<br />
<b>CrunchWrap Supreme</b><br />
<br />
These little gems came into my life at a time when I really needed hope. They taught me that life does go on and that everything will be okay. I have been blessed enough this year to find a recipe to make these life changing meals at home. Taco Bell, I, and my elastic waist pants, thank you.<br />
<br />
And the best part is my house now smells just like Taco Bell. It's like a dream come true. If only I could put that in a candle and light it up.<br />
<br />
<b>Fitbit</b><br />
<br />
I am thankful that my Fitbit keeps me in line. I love nothing more than lying on the couch and having it remind me what a lazy fat slob I am. "Wanna Stroll?" No I don't "wanna stroll". I want to sit. And eat. A lot.<br />
<br />
I'm also grateful for the executive at Fitbit for finding my last post about my Fitbit. I thought that I'd finally been discovered. But she, like the Fitbit, only wanted to point out my flaws.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Hi Ellen,<br />Hope this message finds you well! My name is Melanie and I work on Fitbit’s PR team.<br />I recently read your article and loved it! Always awesome to hear from a fellow Fitbit fan. I also wanted to quickly clarify Fitbit is spelled without a capital “b.” Would it be possible to update this in the title of your article?<br />Please feel free to reach out should you have any questions!<br />Best,<br />Melanie</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Dear Melanie,<br />I changed it! And my name is spelled Eileen, not Ellen. Well played.<br />Bester,<br />Eileen</blockquote>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg35659sCEXt8kCd2fbg_ZQsyvNOy1-sQiO-xeP_PqprX7X7CMz29u5iadIo_PxexSOEdQ-8D3bFzTgiMfI0AJVKNWFtHmfBzZ6BhZSJGLALD-oahJ5VcJtLqCtiehqQbPTCjfmIcqT7sqh/s1600/franzia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="649" data-original-width="577" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg35659sCEXt8kCd2fbg_ZQsyvNOy1-sQiO-xeP_PqprX7X7CMz29u5iadIo_PxexSOEdQ-8D3bFzTgiMfI0AJVKNWFtHmfBzZ6BhZSJGLALD-oahJ5VcJtLqCtiehqQbPTCjfmIcqT7sqh/s320/franzia.jpg" width="284" /></a></div>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Prohibition</b><br />
<br />
I have been teaching my class about prohibition. Oh my God. What an eye opener. I am so damn thankful I wasn't alive during this time in American history.<br />
<br />
Most women at the time did not have educations. They stayed home and tended to their husband and children. Without the help of Franzia. I. Can. Not.<br />
<br />
One woman we read about in our history books, named Carry Nation, became famous for storming into saloons with a hatchet and smashing liquor bottles. She was quoted as saying, "I threw as hard, and fast as I could, smashing mirrors and bottles and glasses and it was astonishing how quickly it was done."<br />
<br />
This is when a student would raise their hand and ask, "Teacher, why are you crying?".<br />
<br />
Carry Nation and I would not have been friends. But I have never been so thankful to be alive in 2016 than I am right now. Let's just hope that this little piece of history never repeats itself.<br />
<br />
Happy Thanksgiving to all.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-24864511476107866052018-10-10T12:08:00.001-05:002018-10-10T12:12:42.164-05:00My Obsession With Hurricane Michael. And the Comments People Are Making. For those of you that don't know, I'm home recovering from back surgery. I have had a hell of a time the past few months. This pain is no joke.<br />
<br />
My favorite part of being home is the comments I get. It must be so nice to be home all day. Enjoy your vacation. You're so lucky.<br />
<br />
Yes I am lucky for many, many reasons. This is not one of them. I have a new appreciation for people who suffer in pain on the daily. It's been a nightmare.<br />
<br />
My days are spent taking enough pain meds to kill a horse. I am pretty much a prisoner in my own home. And my own mind.<br />
<br />
I have to rely on others for so much. It's the exact opposite of the person I normally am. I now understand what the term quality of life means.<br />
<br />
I'm not sitting over here having the time of my life. I'm actually not sitting at all. This sciatica is robbing me of that pleasure as well.<br />
<br />
But it's not all gloom and doom. When unfortunate natural disasters strike I get to watch 24-7 coverage. And if you know me, you know how important this is to me.<br />
<br />
I am currently watching Hurricane Michael coverage. And I feel so personally close to this hurricane that I am referring to him as just Michael now. I mean, we did just spend the night together.<br />
<br />
There was enough breaking news locally last week to keep me plenty occupied. So a natural disaster is just what the doctor ordered this week. After all, a category 4 hurricane is still safer than the streets of Chicago. Ammiright? Boom.<br />
<br />
I would be lying if I said I wasn't anxious. Watching coverage of this storm is not for the faint of heart. Thankfully I am unable to feel right now.<br />
<br />
One reason I feel so personally connected to this pending disaster is because I vacay yearly in Florida. Right on the panhandle. Right where that little devil Michael is heading.<br />
<br />
I know how gorgeous that area is. And there are so many people who live there year round. And so many others that own homes there. And work there. It has to be terrifying.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJZSI0LCkyu93wRX0diq2czqcJb_CqDKmwlQITlzWNkIoSOn5l_86kkHHkMnHrB2zEQ_8wY98mjzBXckOJ1DFA-J5iBKFasPO6N9w7VL0_9pDVn9uj6fZro9uNzl_htgk1qV4-0po3Ghyr/s1600/hurricane+michael.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="780" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJZSI0LCkyu93wRX0diq2czqcJb_CqDKmwlQITlzWNkIoSOn5l_86kkHHkMnHrB2zEQ_8wY98mjzBXckOJ1DFA-J5iBKFasPO6N9w7VL0_9pDVn9uj6fZro9uNzl_htgk1qV4-0po3Ghyr/s320/hurricane+michael.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Another thing that I find terrifying are comments people make on the live hurricane feeds...<br />
<br />
Jeanie wrote:<br />
"In a way we are lucky being in the middle of the country. But at that we do have dangerous weather too. With seldom a warning!"<br />
<br />
I like Jeanie. She wants to let the people of Florida to know what a$$holes they are for living there. But then she has somewhat of a change of heart and wants to let the people of Florida know that she knows dangerous weather too. With seldom a warning! Jeanie is what we call a know-it-all-one-upper.<br />
<br />
Nicole wrote:<br />
"I am at work. Is this coming to St. Louis?<br />
<br />
Nicole thank you for rubbing it in that you can work and I can't. Also I probably couldn't even point out St. Louis on a map but I'm pretty sure other people are in a little more danger than you. In St. Louis. But you should probably get under your desk just to be safe.<br />
<br />
Judy wrote:<br />
"Come stay with us!"<br />
<br />
Judy your invite would seem a lot more sincere if you posted your address.<br />
<br />
Bec wrote:<br />
"My mom lives in the path. Prayers for all."<br />
<br />
Um what? Your mom lives in the path yet you're on FB commenting on a live feed? And praying for others? Good news. You should have your inheritance soon.<br />
<br />
Claudia wrote:<br />
"This is just amazing! Will this storm change the coastline a bit?"<br />
<br />
Wow Claudia this comment is amazing. It really made me think. I love that about you. But I feel bad that you wrote such a profound question on a live FB feed. That no one will ever answer. We may never know about the outcome of the coastline. Ever.<br />
<br />
Bob wrote:<br />
"Who da thunk there would be a hurricane in the Gulf"<br />
<br />
Bob, your lack of question mark makes me think this is rhetorical, but I'm going to go ahead and answer anyway. I did not thunk there would be a hurricane in the Gulf. Until this morning I wasn't even sure where the Gulf was. Or why the hell it's called the panhandle. But it all makes sense now. I thunk.<br />
<br />
John wrote:<br />
"I SEE YOU."<br />
<br />
John your comment made me get up and put a little piece of tape over that tiny little camera eye that stares back at me as I type. But I'm confused as to why you are yelling.<br />
<br />
Alvin's Island wrote:<br />
"Our thoughts and prayers are with all of our employees, customers and those that are in the path of Hurricane Michael. Be safe everyone!"<br />
<br />
Sh!t. Just. Got. Real. If something happens to Alvin's Island how are my kids going to spend all of my hard earned money on total crap the next time we're on vacay? And where else am I going to find a t-shirt that reads, "I'm not gay, but $20 is $20?" Pray. Pray now.<br />
<br />
Joseph wrote:<br />
"God's wrath. Expect more."<br />
<br />
Joseph you sound fun. You must be a blast at parties. This is God's way of punishing us for homosexuality isn't it?<br />
<br />
On that note...<br />
<br />
I'll be here watching all of this coverage. Praying for he people who stayed behind. Praying for the first responders that didn't have a choice but to stay behind to help the people who had the choice, but chose to stay behind.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-69702094456356633792018-10-05T11:53:00.001-05:002018-10-05T11:53:43.022-05:00Praying for the Police. And the Safety and Sanity of Everyone Today. Tension are high in the city of Chicago today. We are all anxiously awaiting the verdict in the LaQuan McDonald case. A case that has caused so much tension in this city for two years.<br />
<br />
Will Jason Van Dyke be found guilty in the death of LaQuan McDonald? And if so on what charge? Everyone thinks they know, but the truth is no one has any idea until we here it from the jury.<br />
<br />
But that's not the point of this post. Because I'm no expert. On anything. And neither are you.<br />
<br />
So, as my friend Floira likes to tell me, "Let Go and Let God". We can't control any of this, but we can control ourselves. Hopefully.<br />
<br />
The point of my post is a friendly reminder to think before you post. It's 2018 and we get most of our info from social media. And there's nothing more frustrating than receiving incorrect info. Or hearing rumors that have absolutely no truth behind them.<br />
<br />
And I'm not talking about kids here. I'm talking about grown ass adults using social media to spread flat out lies. Please stop.<br />
<br />
I am a school counselor and I work closely with seventh graders. It's my life's passion to get it through their thick skulls to always think before they post. But honestly, I think adults need to hear this more than kids.<br />
<br />
Myself included. I have posted things I am not proud of. I have made comments that I now find cringe-worthy. I have shared things I regret sharing. Guilty. As. Charged.<br />
<br />
But social media has been around long enough and we should all know better by now. Let me share with you what I share with students and my own kids.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh15ZjOgiYakR-V0wkFiXJvQk62d8HbfSaHzT-gO1BSa0RVf1fo3clQpg3v7P3sr2uKaOcBFC8puH7iCTq_KmTORjWys3Ajmbrw70Tw-Fn1eqM1McUyxD2VTQlc47DPoXjIBczvPiM_-6uc/s1600/before+you+post.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="816" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh15ZjOgiYakR-V0wkFiXJvQk62d8HbfSaHzT-gO1BSa0RVf1fo3clQpg3v7P3sr2uKaOcBFC8puH7iCTq_KmTORjWys3Ajmbrw70Tw-Fn1eqM1McUyxD2VTQlc47DPoXjIBczvPiM_-6uc/s320/before+you+post.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
If it's not, don't freaking post it! There's just no point. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Last night there was a post going around that had absolutely no truth behind it. And it spread like wildfire. It was about a policeman and his wife being attacked just for being a policeman. Many people's worst fear right now in this community. Myself included. </div>
<br />
I was so upset when I saw this post. I shard it with friends. Because I read it on the internet. So it had to be true.<br />
<br />
It turned out to be a total fabrication. Probably written by someone living in their mother's basement looking to get a rise out of people. And it worked. High five.<br />
<br />
Finally there was a post from an extremely credible source stating the events never took place. I felt betrayed. But by who? Someone on the old Google machine that I do not know? Duh.<br />
<br />
This is such a crazy time in this city. We don't not know what is about to happen. We do not know if everything we hear and are reading is true. So I will share with you the poetic words of my dear friend Kitz, "Never trust a story that starts out, my friend at work told me....".<br />
<br />
Solid advice.<br />
<br />
Things are stressful enough right now. I'm on edge. I have two brothers who are policeman. And countless cousins and friends to count. Because most of my friends are related.<br />
<br />
I'm terrified at what might happen when the Van Dyke verdict is released. I'm so afraid a police officer will be hurt. Or even worse.<br />
<br />
I'm afraid innocent people will be hurt. Or even worse.<br />
<br />
I have had to have conversations with my young kids that I never thought I'd ever have to have. My daughter's and I did a few laps around the park last night. The heavy police presence was evident. I had to answer a lot of questions. Questions I did not have the answers to.<br />
<br />
In the end I just told them to pray. Pray that people don't completely lose their sh!t. And pray that their uncles come home safe each night.<br />
<br />
There are so many police families out there. All hoping for the best, but preparing for the worst. Like we've done a many times before.<br />
<br />
To all the police officers out there working more than twelve hour shifts at a time...<br />
To all of the police officers getting their days off canceled when they should be spending that time with family and friends...<br />
To all of the police officers putting their lives on the line every time they walk out the door...<br />
<br />
We are praying for you to come home safe to your families. We support you. And we thank you.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-31775485656703568792018-10-03T14:45:00.001-05:002018-10-03T14:45:13.062-05:00The Phone Call That Changed Our Lives ForeverIt was one of those first days of summer. The weather was perfect. Cool in the morning, but warm enough for the kids to jump in the pool by afternoon. Our front room was being painted by an old friend. I had my brother’s kids over for the day too. It was just a typical day. Until the phone rang.<br />
<br />
We always thought something was going on with our baby. From the moment he flew out of me, we knew something was off, but couldn’t quite put our finger on it. The doctors all knew too. His kidneys were checked. His heart was checked. His vocal chords were scoped.<br />
<br />
We had endless doctor appointments with one specialist after another. But never really got an answer. Until that day.<br />
<br />
Our little guy was born with hammer toes, low-set ears, weak vocal chords, wide-set eyes, poor muscle tone. Just to name a few. For an entire year we tried our hardest to get an answer.<br />
<br />
Finally a geneticist he was seeing scheduled us for a test. A genetic test. To check for chromosomal abnormalities. We thought we were over all this. So we were a little taken aback. But whatevs, we had the testing done to get some answers.<br />
<br />
We were sent home with a list of what this particular test was looking for. I spent endless hours on the internet searching all of them. I was able to rule a few out because of his symptoms. But there were many I could not.<br />
<br />
One week went by. Nothing. Two weeks goes by. Nothing. Finally I could breathe a sigh of relief. No news is always good news. Doctors only take the time to call when there is a problem.<br />
<br />
Then the phone rang. With the painter there. With a houseful of kids. With the pool waiting for us in the yard. I saw the number and stepped outside.<br />
<br />
It was our pediatrician calling with the since forgotten results of the testing we had done weeks ago. I was really thrown off. I thought we were over this. Then I thought, oh he finally got around to calling us to tell us everything checked out fine.<br />
<br />
Not today. For the first time ever, I was wrong.<br />
<br />
I could barely make out the words he was saying. Everything was spinning in my head. I was just trying to wrap myself around what he was telling me. I was trying to keep myself together. The painter. The kids. The pool.<br />
<br />
This was it. There was no guessing anymore. No thinking, it’s probably nothing. No more hoping it was all in our heads.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDIBQv5AfLp4XtBZiaykDr4EiVMkmnuXeSg-UXtSP0cnZrTu-8MAKVZcJpst2KleZlQfsse_eX0Q3fINyyLIaexwOS2GkjYZf-6CLhn79aRrmten6uCeFsawhpCO9DF7dIItMjnwiEk_xd/s1600/my+baby+doll.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDIBQv5AfLp4XtBZiaykDr4EiVMkmnuXeSg-UXtSP0cnZrTu-8MAKVZcJpst2KleZlQfsse_eX0Q3fINyyLIaexwOS2GkjYZf-6CLhn79aRrmten6uCeFsawhpCO9DF7dIItMjnwiEk_xd/s320/my+baby+doll.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
It is what it freaking is.<br />
<br />
I had to call my husband Beau. I had to tell him. I can remember his voice. Not what he said, but his voice.<br />
<br />
I got through the rest of the day. The painter finished. We got the house back in order. The kids finally went to bed. And that’s when I got scared.<br />
<br />
We were to meet with the geneticists in the morning. Twelve hours away. We had twelve hours to just sit here and wonder what the hell this all meant.<br />
<br />
We stayed up all night. Beau and I. We sat on the couch in the living room. Me on my laptop searching every possible place for more information. Beau wouldn’t look at any of it. He just sat there unable to sleep.<br />
<br />
This is the moment I understood why so many couples with children with special needs get divorced. We could not help each other. We were totally unable to comfort each other.<br />
<br />
When my parents died, Beau was there to comfort me. When Beau’s dad died, Beau was there to comfort me. This was different. There was no one to comfort me. There was no one to comfort Beau.<br />
<br />
It was the loneliest night of our lives. And one of the longest. Neither of us slept a wink. When the kids got up we got them ready for the sitter. We were finally on our way to the hospital to get some answers.<br />
<br />
It was so overwhelming. We couldn’t possibly digest everything we were being told. I just hung on to our baby as hard as I could. I just kept thinking it will be okay, it will be okay. He’s alive and from what I can gather, he will be for a long time.<br />
<br />
We only told a few people about the testing. We had spent a year testing and trying to explain everything to everyone. So we were just tired. And we thought there was a definite chance nothing would come of it, so why bother?<br />
<br />
I can remember being in my kitchen and telling my brother Juan. He was concerned and asked what is it they’re looking for? We said all sorts of things. But all we really cared about was that he would live. So many chromosomal abnormalities don’t end well.<br />
<br />
So sitting in that doctors office that day, we just kept reminding ourselves of that. All we prayed for is that he would live. Our prayers were answered. This could be so much worse.<br />
<br />
And that was it. In that moment we changed our tune. We snapped out of it. We stopped feeling sorry for ourselves. We got what we asked for. Now move on.<br />
<br />
And we did. And we’ve never looked back. 22q11.2 Deletion Syndrome was now a part of our lives.<br />
<br />
From that moment on, we threw ourselves into finding out everything we possibly could. We knew that knowledge is power. We had to learn everything we possibly could to help our son.<br />
<br />
So we were thrilled when we heard there was going to be a conference on 22q coming up. We were pumped. The woman who was going to talk had a son with 22q and she was full of information.<br />
<br />
It turned out to be the worst day of our lives. I cried for the entire seminar. We were really blindsided. Up until this point, we had read so much and heard everything the doctors had to say. But until we heard what to really expect from another mother, we had no clue.<br />
<br />
That was a hard day. I cried the entire way home as well. My bestie Shelly called and I couldn’t even talk. Shelly and her husband and the kids came over right away. With flowers, pizza, wine, and smokes. Every possible thing we needed at that moment.<br />
<br />
They stayed with us well into the night. It’s exactly what we needed to remind us we would be fine. We would get through all of this because of the awesome family and friends that we have. And with wine.<br />
<br />
Our little guy was thirteen months old at the time of diagnosis. He spent two years in therapy 4-5 days a week. He started preschool this past April. He is amazing.<br />
<br />
He has been poked and prodded more in his three years then I will be in my entire life. He always handles everything with a smile. He is the sweetest, most caring, and lovable kid we could ask for.<br />
<br />
We were also very lucky that he is our fourth. His older brother and sisters are really the therapists we owe everything to. If it wasn’t for them teaching him his way in the world, like only siblings can, we’d all be lost.<br />
<br />
There are times I stay awake all night with worry. There are times I can’t stop laughing. There are times I have to be medicated to get through the day. There are times I can’t stop counting my blessings.<br />
<br />
We have a child with special needs. We actually have four children with special needs. This is what we have learned. Each one of our kids has their own struggles. They are each individual and handle things in their own way. And we’re just here to help them along the way.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-31488653841964503542018-09-20T17:54:00.002-05:002018-09-20T17:54:57.866-05:00Having Breakfast With Aunt Batsy Never DissapointsToday my cousin Dish picked me up and we went to visit Aunt Batsy. There is never a dull moment at her house. Ever.<br />
<br />
She starts by asking us what dentist Dish's dad used when he was in that car accident that knocked his teeth out.<br />
<br />
Disclaimer: Uncle Tom died a few years ago. And this accident she's speaking of happened when he was 22 years old. Uncle Tom would have been 75 now. I don't think even Google can help us with this one.<br />
<br />
She says, "Oh, I know it was a long time ago. But weren't those teeth nice?"<br />
<br />
"They had him on a cart at that goofy hospital. And it was St. Patrick's Day and wouldn't you know it there was an I-talian woman giving birth. Wouldn't you know it, on St Patrick's Day."<br />
<br />
I honestly can't believe they even allowed that back then.<br />
<br />
The fact that an O'Connor managed to wrap their car around a pole on St. Patrick's Day in the 60's is not lost on me.<br />
<br />
She goes on. "My father wasn't happy. He said, get in the ambulance. We're leaving. We're getting him to the good hospital."<br />
<br />
They showed them.<br />
<br />
Our convos are all over the place. Dish and I spend our time fact checking. We are having side convos, but that doesn't stop the Bats from going on and on about someone neither of us know. But it always entails something along the lines of this.<br />
<br />
"Oh, she's got the bucks. Don't let her fool ya. She's got the bucks alright." According to her, everyone's got the bucks. Except her.<br />
<br />
Not only do we have no clue who "she" is, but we are also not interested in her finances.<br />
<br />
So just to have a little fun we tell her, you know what we heard? We heard you've got the bucks.<br />
<br />
Her eyes turn wild. She looks directly into my soul and says, "Now who'd you hear that from? Who said that?"<br />
<br />
I said everyone is saying that.<br />
<br />
She is crazed. She looks like Nick Nolte's mug shot. She can't get the words out fast enough.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0lpccbcBHd_YYodWygkgzxhgM57LaQ80bUxV1LYwpefj3XpaVlob2nXEBoSM0pk10bxFwuCWrdoMiwsAGxY6Uk5SPwNanutX0thwSDAwz_rgY4ipaFwTCjy7xT7_l7ElqZ23dmiSEVgbn/s1600/nick+nolte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="368" data-original-width="478" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0lpccbcBHd_YYodWygkgzxhgM57LaQ80bUxV1LYwpefj3XpaVlob2nXEBoSM0pk10bxFwuCWrdoMiwsAGxY6Uk5SPwNanutX0thwSDAwz_rgY4ipaFwTCjy7xT7_l7ElqZ23dmiSEVgbn/s320/nick+nolte.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
"Shit, I don't have the bucks. I don't even get a pension. And that one has two pensions now because her husband is dead. I don't have the bucks. Now where'd you here that? Me with the bucks. Now that will be the day."<br />
<br />
"And let me tell you something else. She looks a lot better now than she did 50 years ago, wearing that red silk blouse." This sounds like it should be a compliment. But somehow it is not. It's a real insult. She told her.<br />
<br />
"Now you two get off those things and stop talking."<br />
<br />
We're not even on our phones. Nor are we talking.<br />
<br />
"I got ya something. But now don't go telling anyone else about this. I got these just for the two of you. Because you're my favorites."<br />
<br />
Even though she had no idea we were coming. She's good like that.<br />
<br />
She has two boxes of Fannie Mae. Just for us. They were on sale. And whoever would have walked through that door first was getting them. So I'm glad it was us.<br />
<br />
"Now you listen to me. I have a secret to tell you. Now don't going telling anyone about this. This is between me and you."<br />
<br />
It always is.<br />
<br />
She goes on to tell us about someone we don't know. "Turns out he died of the drink. Now no one ever talks about this, but that's what happened."<br />
<br />
"Can you believe that? He just couldn't stop with the drink. Can you believe that?"<br />
<br />
Um yes. Yes I can believe that. What I can't believe is that I have never died from the drink. And what I furthermore can't believe is that I haven't had a drink yet listening to all of this.<br />
<br />
"There are so many old people that are sad. Isn't that sad?" Dish and I try to school her on depression and anxiety. She's not having it.<br />
<br />
Her rebuttal, "I just like to think nice happy thoughts".<br />
<br />
Okay, I 'll keep that in mind the next time I'm in the throws of depression wanting to end it all. Lalalalalala.<br />
<br />
And from there we go right into, "The Catholic Church has got some problems, huh?" OMG. I can't even go there with her right now. But glad she's aware!<br />
<br />
The whole point of the visit was to take her out to breakfast. Turns out she just so happens to have left over pancakes and an omelet from yesterday's excursions. So of course we help ourselves.<br />
<br />
"Look at you two eating like vegans and here I am the fatass eating the pancakes." She's always accusing us of being on one diet or another. You're either too fat or too skinny. There is absolutely no in between. But believe me, you'll know which one you are before you leave her house.<br />
<br />
Then she turns to Dish and says. "You know who my favorite person is? Your husband. Oh isn't he just the nicest?"<br />
<br />
I'm. Literally. Sitting. Right. Here. And I have a husband.<br />
<br />
"Did you hear about that one? She got married on a beach with a lady minister. Now figure that one out. But I think she's on the dope."<br />
<br />
Pretty much everyone is on the dope. Even her. I love when we're at a party and you ask her if you can make her a drink and she yells, "Now go easy on that, I'm on the dope!"<br />
<br />
Batsy is 84. She's proud of her age. As she should be. She is definitely an independent woman. But then she says something like this.<br />
<br />
"Oh yeah he was here the other day. He said he had to go home and scrub the floor. Where the hell was his wife?"<br />
<br />
She's not impressed with the degrees we hold. She doesn't care that we work full time and have a handful of kids. At the end of the day, we should be home scrubbing the floors.<br />
<br />
We were only there for an hour. I had to go home and take a nap. My head was spinning.<br />
<br />
On our way out the door, with our Fannie Mae in hand, she says, "Oh now wait a minute. I saved the <i>Brighton Park Life</i> for you." The paper of the neighborhood she grew up in. It was actually a copy of the <i>Beverly Review</i>, the neighborhood we currently live in.<br />
<br />
Dish was confused. But I knew exactly what she was talking about. And that's the scariest part.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-47706286265575053782018-09-11T19:19:00.000-05:002018-09-11T19:21:48.333-05:009-11 Never ForgetWhen I was a kid I can remember my mom telling me that she could remember exactly where she was when JFK was assassinated. I never really understood that until September 11, 2001. I will always remember the events of that day. Well, this is is how I remember it, anyway.<br />
<br />
It started like any other Tuesday. I got up and went to work that day. Assuming I was a few minutes late. Assuming probably hungover. Because that's how I rolled back then.<br />
<br />
At the time I was working for a medical billing company that just so happened to service doctors in New York City. It wasn't long after I got to work, that a co-worker said a small plane just hit the World Trade Center.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisyAvl7W5O8lY6Dl8JqfZCUD9KQligeZgUmZ0-uyruPIXPjtlKNZiRqc6DovK3Fk9ufoa1H899bn-Ull4ZCd-eIAcwUJeL0wDvKRiFk8rTZa3etDr2kkLb0LZgKlv80bi5SpeVgTx8PuBW/s1600/9-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisyAvl7W5O8lY6Dl8JqfZCUD9KQligeZgUmZ0-uyruPIXPjtlKNZiRqc6DovK3Fk9ufoa1H899bn-Ull4ZCd-eIAcwUJeL0wDvKRiFk8rTZa3etDr2kkLb0LZgKlv80bi5SpeVgTx8PuBW/s320/9-11.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Always being up on geography, I said, " Oh no! Where's the World Trade Center?" I was met with an eye roll. Which was typical. I don't think anyone in that room really thought I had what it took to be a serious medical biller. Myself included.<br />
<br />
Turns out BCBS of NY was located in the World Trade Center. The same BCBS of NY that I was calling each and every day. For months now. So that's what WTC stood for on all those envelopes I threw in the mail on the daily.<br />
<br />
The lines were now busy. Maybe this co-worker knew what she was talking about. And that's when I started to pay attention.<br />
<br />
This was 2001. So technology was not like it is today. The internet was hardly working. But the doctors office below us had a television in the waiting room. I got down there in time to see 2nd plane hit.<br />
<br />
I still had no idea what any of this meant. In my mind I was thinking what an unfortunate coincidence that two planes would hit two building so close to one another. Amazing.<br />
<br />
People were horrified. It was now clear to everyone, except me, that this was an act of war. I still wasn't quite understanding what on earth was going on when the first tower collapsed.<br />
<br />
I had no idea what I was even watching. A much, much more mature co-worker, who ate microwave popcorn and tuna like it was her job, looked at me with a blank face and said, the entire building just collapsed. I seriously could not wrap my head around it. I said, what do you mean?<br />
<br />
In a not so patient voice she explained that a plane hit the building. Then the building collapsed because of all the heat. And the other building is probably going to do the exact same thing.<br />
<br />
I was beyond confused. So when I asked, "but what about all the people inside of there?" I didn't need a verbal answer. Their faces said it all.<br />
<br />
Naturally, my next question was, who would do this to us? Who doesn't like us? Us meaning the United States.<br />
<br />
Another co-worker, who just happened to be plucking her eyebrows at the time, said in a very condescending tone, Um, everyone hates us. Everyone.<br />
<br />
My mind was literally blown. Why didn't other countries like us? What wasn't there to like?<br />
<br />
I learned a lot that day. So much has changed since that day. Life as I know it would never be the same.<br />
<br />
We were dismissed from work soon after. My mom was very sick and in the hospital at the time. So I headed there to check on her.<br />
<br />
I sat with my mom for the rest of the day. Just watching, in horror, all of the images on television.<br />
I can remember finally figuring out what I was hearing on TV earlier. It was people jumping out of the burning buildings. I still have such a hard time with that.<br />
<br />
Those people were someone's loved one. A mom, dad, son, daughter, husband, wife, brother, sister. These people meant the world to their family and friends. It was, and still is, so overwhelming to think about.<br />
<br />
After a while, I had to run out to my car. When I tried to get back into the hospital, security wouldn't let me back in. Everyone was in a panicked state of chaos.<br />
<br />
No one was allowed to go back into the hospital. No one knew what was going on. No one knew if Chicago would be next.<br />
<br />
So, I left and went to the grocery store on my way home. It was so weird there. All of the lights were on as bright as can be. And talk radio was blaring the latest coverage of what had happened. It was scary. Because there was so much unknown. Everyone was on edge. Yet so friendly to one another.<br />
<br />
Now all I do on this date is answer my kids' questions. They were all born long after 2001. So they do not know a life prior to what happened that day. This is their reality. They'll never know a safer, simpler time. And wow does that make me sad to think about.<br />
<br />
Watching all of the tributes today is nice. The importance of remembering all of the lives lost and praying for the survivors is what I really want my kids to understand. Just to have some empathy for what all of those families went through that day.<br />
<br />
I hope they'll go to bed tonight better people for seeing what so many others endured that day. People on the planes, people on the ground, people in the buildings. And all of the other people whose lives were impacted that day.<br />
<br />
One thing is still unbelievable to me. No matter how many times I see one of those planes hit one of those towers, I still gasp. Even after seventeen years.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-19107947637845088052018-09-04T15:14:00.000-05:002018-09-04T15:14:07.868-05:00It's Time We Start Talking About Depression as the Common Illness That It IsWhen you have the flu, you feel horrible. You lie in bed in the fetal position. You don’t try to hide it from everyone. You don’t try to deal with it all on your own. You let others know that you’re sick and that you need their help.<br />
<br />
When the flu knocks the socks right off of you, you run to the doctor, talk openly about your symptoms and have no problem taking any medication the doctor prescribes. Because you don’t want to feel that lousy anymore. You want to feel like yourself again.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6bwk3Qbf8iB2fga2A_kJMm0brDU8EVcCTXn1yc9Sx5UH5zEM8kDYbwQ5t8rP5fwvd_VCmW3dqGS0LxSi8d2WHW966-jPnlYKm5V5kt3iACPMQ6DNgz0hgjCUXQflJZs-sUgqtPvNvKlxM/s1600/depression.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6bwk3Qbf8iB2fga2A_kJMm0brDU8EVcCTXn1yc9Sx5UH5zEM8kDYbwQ5t8rP5fwvd_VCmW3dqGS0LxSi8d2WHW966-jPnlYKm5V5kt3iACPMQ6DNgz0hgjCUXQflJZs-sUgqtPvNvKlxM/s320/depression.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
There are ways you can try to prevent the flu. Eat healthy. Exercise. Get a flu shot. Wash your hands regularly. Take vitamins. But even when you do all of these things, you can still come down with a nasty case of the flu.<br />
<br />
There are many ways to treat the flu. Drink a hot toddy. Take medicine. See the doctor. Self medicate. Wait it out. Just to name a few.<br />
<br />
The flu happens. It can affect anyone, at any time. It doesn’t matter what race you are. It doesn’t matter what age you are. It doesn’t matter if you’re male or female. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor.<br />
<br />
The flu doesn’t discriminate. It’s universal. It can happen to anyone at anytime. And no one judges you if you get the flu. It’s perfectly acceptable.<br />
<br />
We need to start treating depression like it’s the flu.<br />
<br />
After giving birth, I was screened for depression like every hour on the hour. So much so that I thought, I don’t know, am I depressed? I have had many friends that suffered postpartum depression. Postpartum depression is totally acceptable nowadays. It happens. It’s real.<br />
<br />
Doctors and nurses and new moms know what to look for and it’s taken very seriously. That’s how every other form of depression needs to be looked at. And I really think most people do think of it that way. Except the people who are actually suffering with depression.<br />
<br />
When I lost my parents at a young age I went through a really rough time. I was depressed for a long time. But that makes sense. I was grieving. And that’s acceptable. But when everything in your life is going great and there is no reason for you to be so sad, it can be so very scary.<br />
<br />
This is a tough subject to talk about for a lot of people. It’s hard for people to admit to themselves that there is a problem. Depression is such a crazy illness that sometimes people don’t even know they have it. It needs to stop being referred to as a mental illness. Because that scares people. And that comes with such a stigma. It’s too harsh a label. It’s just an illness. And like any other illness, left untreated, it can kill you.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
When your day is long<br />And the night, the night is yours alone<br />When you’re sure you’ve had enough<br />Of this life, well hang on</blockquote>
<br />
It was amazing to me to realize just how many people had gone through similar things as me. But no one knows these things until you start the conversation. So let’s start the freaking conversation.<br />
<br />
I am medicated to treat my depression. I love when people tell me they can’t believe I’m medicated. You seem so happy. Yes because I’m freaking medicated. Just like when people find out I use head and shoulders, yet I don’t have dandruff. Think about it.<br />
<br />
I have people tell me that they don’t like putting chemicals into their bodies. They prefer exercise or meditation to relieve their stress. And if that works for you, that’s awesome. But stress is not depression. Depression is something that is really hard to get back out of once you’re in it.<br />
<br />
The only problem with taking meds is they make you feel so good that you think you don’t need them anymore. I learned that lesson the hard way. I have gone off my meds. Huge mistake.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Don’t let yourself go<br />‘Cause everybody cries<br />And everybody hurts sometimes</blockquote>
<br />
I was thrown into the worst depression of my life. I visited a place I never want to go to again. I am so very lucky, though. I’m at a stage in my life where I don’t care what others think. I was able to reach out to family and friends and let them know the depths of hell I was in.<br />
<br />
I hit rock bottom one day when I was sitting on a lawn chair in my backyard. The feeling of hopelessness that I felt was so intense. It wrapped itself around me and was literally squeezing the life out of me.<br />
<br />
I can vividly remember staring at my garage. Knowing I could be out of this awful pain. My kids were there and I honestly remember thinking that they would be fine without me. This did not scare me as much as it should have. But I knew I was in trouble.<br />
<br />
I have seen first hand what suicide can do to a family. How it just rips it competely apart. How no one’s life is ever going to be the same. How shattered it makes people. All the pieces can be glued back together, but everyone is still broken forever.<br />
<br />
I knew the thoughts I was thinking were irrational. But I couldn’t stop thinking them. I called my doctor from that lawn chair. And then I called Beau and told him how bad I was. I knew I had to tell people. I knew that was my only way out. I called a few more people.<br />
<br />
Those calls saved me. Talking about it saved me. Letting people know the pain I was in saved me.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Sometimes everything is wrong<br />Now it’s time to sing along<br />When your day is night alone (Hold on, hold on)<br />If you feel like letting go (Hold on)<br />If you think you’ve had too much<br />Of this life, well hang on</blockquote>
<br />
I was not alone. I still had this tiny little part of my brain working properly. I was so lucky.<br />
<br />
I used to like to keep my depression private. I didn’t want people to know. It was so isolating. I felt like a loser. I thought everyone had their sh*t together except me. I was embarassed.<br />
<br />
But not anymore. I have learned how universal depression is. I have come to terms with having to be medicated the rest of my life and I’m totally fine with that. As long as I never feel that pain again. It will be worth it.<br />
<br />
I have been in that dark hole. Stuck at the bottom of a well with no way out in sight. It’s terrifying.<br />
<br />
When a person takes their life, it always pains me to hear someone say they took the easy way out. Because when you’re suffering from true depression you are convinced your loved ones will be better off without you. In your head it is the only option that makes sense. You are so trapped with your own thoughts. There is nothing easy about it.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Everybody hurts<br />Take comfort in your friends<br />Everybody hurts<br />Don’t throw your hand, oh no</blockquote>
<br />
If you have never been in this situation, you are very fortunate. It is the scariest place that you ever want to find yourself. It’s a feeling of desperation that can’t be explained. You can be sitting there holding your children knowing how much they need you, yet hurting so much that you are considering leaving them forever.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Don’t throw your hand<br />If you feel like you’re alone<br />No, no, no, you are not alone</blockquote>
<br />
Life is freaking hard. Really hard. There are ups and downs and for some reason we are led to believe that everyone else has it better. That we are the only ones suffering. That is just not true.<br />
<br />
Depression is real. It can’t be swept under the rug. We need to deal with it. Now. Before it’s too late.<br />
<br />
Doctors should be screening everyone. Not just new moms. Depression can happen at any time. And it needs to be treated. Like the common illness it is.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
If you’re on your own in this life<br />The days and nights are long<br />When you think you’ve had too much of this life to hang on</blockquote>
<br />
Everyone struggles at some point. Start asking your friends and I bet my bottom dollar down that each and every one of them has a story. My friends and I have all shared our stories and it’s saved us all. It’s amazing how similar we all are.<br />
<br />
So start the damn conversation. There is no need to suffer alone. There is no need to suffer in silence. There’s just no need to suffer. Tell someone. Anyone. Talk about it. You are not alone.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Well, everybody hurts sometimes<br />Everybody cries<br />Everybody hurts sometimes<br />You are not alone</blockquote>
<br />
<em style="box-sizing: inherit; font-family: ProximaNova, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Roboto, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">If you — or someone you know — need help, please call <span style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: bold;">1-800-273-8255</span> for the <span style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: bold;"><a data-rapid-parsed="slk" data-rapid_p="3" data-v9y="1" data-ylk="elm:context_link;itc:0" href="http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/" rel="nofollow" style="box-shadow: rgb(13, 190, 152) 0px -2px 0px inset; box-sizing: inherit; color: black; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_hplink">National Suicide Prevention Lifeline</a>.</span> If you are outside of the U.S., please visit the <span style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: bold;"><a data-rapid-parsed="slk" data-rapid_p="4" data-v9y="1" data-ylk="elm:context_link;itc:0" href="https://www.iasp.info/resources/Crisis_Centres/" rel="nofollow" style="box-shadow: rgb(13, 190, 152) 0px -2px 0px inset; box-sizing: inherit; color: black; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_hplink">International Association for Suicide Prevention</a></span> for a database of international resources.</em>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-24538492477504797342014-05-29T17:52:00.000-05:002014-05-29T17:56:18.364-05:00Mama DramaThe other day my youngest had my phone. Because he's three and knows how to operate it better than I do. It was a typical day. I was just trying to get stuff done and he was begging me to take him to the park. I kept saying, in a few minutes, as soon as I finish this up. So of course I give him my phone to buy me more time. The next thing I know, he's on the damn phone asking Suri to take him to the park. Ouch. That hurt. Okay, we can go to the park now. Although it would be really awesome if Suri could take him. But this isn't an episode of the Jetson's. This is my life. And I don't have a smart-talkin' robot maid. <br />
<br />
When I was pregnant with my first, I remember reading somewhere that as a mom you need to put yourself first. It's a hard concept to comprehend when expecting a new baby, but after the baby was born, I began to understand. If you don't take care of yourself, how can you possibly take care of your kids? It does make sense. It's exactly what the flight attendants instruct you to do on an airplane if the oxygen masks are needed (thankfully this has never happened to me, more on my fear of flying later) but they always tell you to put the mask on yourself first then help your kids. Say what? Seems a little selfish. I always picture George Castanza knocking over kids and old ladies trying to escape a fire. But when you think about it, it makes total sense. If you can't breathe, how are you supposed to help your kids breathe? Now if you're one of Kate Gosselin's kids, your chances of survival are about one in eight. We'd find out really fast who her faves really are. Now that would be a reality show.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCKGkyAz2f-Yr6fyet2bOk2cutudzcab0bKqO7I0UiJlkYiy5FoDg5RGgY7SwL9eHlgLWUS2vIGO_9PqEiC7v6dK50bsrXg2ONYQvwYUX9KmNMWzRfPvZaO94emBazC3gGlHXAFl_3os1R/s1600/air+mask.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCKGkyAz2f-Yr6fyet2bOk2cutudzcab0bKqO7I0UiJlkYiy5FoDg5RGgY7SwL9eHlgLWUS2vIGO_9PqEiC7v6dK50bsrXg2ONYQvwYUX9KmNMWzRfPvZaO94emBazC3gGlHXAFl_3os1R/s1600/air+mask.png" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
See?</div>
Since having kids, I have worked full-time, part-time, and no-time, and I still don't know which is best. I do like working. Especially with four kids. I need to do something for myself where I actually use my brain and interact with other adults. And I like putting my education to good use. But when I am working I think about everything that needs to be taken care of at home. And when I'm at home, especially now being laid off, I feel amazing guilt for not contributing to our income. I have come to realize it's impossible to have it all. I really can't have my cake and eat it too. After all, I'm a woman, not a man.<br />
<div>
<br />
When my oldest started school, I missed everything. I could never go to any school events. I felt bad. Until the time came when I was able to participate. It was Halloween and I just started working part-time and was going to be off on the day of the big Halloween parade. Yay! Finally! I would be the mom at the school function. Swapping recipes with the other moms. Cause that's what happens there, right? My son was so excited I would be there, or so I told myself. So I get there, get out of the car and watch him walk by in costume. I waved. He waved. That was it. That was what I had been missing? That was what I had been feeling guilty about? I felt robbed. He barely even noticed me. He was happy to see me, but what if I wasn't there? He would have been fine. I had built this all up in my head that I was cheating him by working and missing his activities. When I was offered to go back full-time, I took it. And I didn't feel bad about it. <br />
<br />
It was then that I began to realize it just doesn't matter. They have a nice life surrounded by amazing people. They have two involved parents. One of us is normally here when they wake up and to kiss them goodnight. They are loved probably more than they will ever know. If the kids ever ask why we have to go to work, we say to make the money to buy the toys. That's all they want to hear. And then they actually push us right out the door. <br />
<br />
Now that I am home all day, everyday, the only one I feel bad for is me. I interact with women on the buy/sell pages of Facebook more than my own family. It was a long winter. But things are beginning to perk up along with the temperatures. And soon the kids will be off for the summer and I won't have to even think about missing stuff at school. Or making their dreaded lunches. Because when it really comes down to it, the worst part of being a mom is having to make the lunches. No one tells you that. It's not in the books about what to expect. But I swear to you it's the worst. I long for summer to begin so every meal can be a judgment-free pop tart. And I won't feel one bit bad about it. Because I'm going to put myself first, like the flight attendant instructed me. <br />
<br />
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-9785982549526400962014-05-28T18:09:00.001-05:002014-05-28T18:09:28.745-05:00Misery Loves CompanyWhen you are orphaned in your twenties, there are not a lot of people who understand what you are going through. The only other people who may be able to comprehend it are your siblings. I don't think I'd be as close to my brothers, Juan and Dat, if we didn't experience the death of our parents the way we did. It made us who we are today. To some degree it defines us. We had to stick together like Willis and Arnold Jackson, except we didn't have a wealthy Phillip Drummond to adopt us. Even though I had my brothers, what I really longed for was an orphan friend. Then, one day, my wish came true.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KPauwwnQtrQne4V9IGbyPIbTL6qRawV-klS5BziOCSX8i5aP6ZriF6EaLGfNL6t17M89Jla34qzUOBFM7sjXbDuTVVIOMJR6l9kOgByBT6itlJo-pgiCYdiMMNsLwuAQHu0RhxPplkRL/s1600/Different+Strokes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KPauwwnQtrQne4V9IGbyPIbTL6qRawV-klS5BziOCSX8i5aP6ZriF6EaLGfNL6t17M89Jla34qzUOBFM7sjXbDuTVVIOMJR6l9kOgByBT6itlJo-pgiCYdiMMNsLwuAQHu0RhxPplkRL/s1600/Different+Strokes.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Juan, Dat, and I, in happier times.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I had an acquaintance by the name of Flora. Her mom died when she was really young and I heard her dad was now sick. We shared a very similar story. I ran into her one night at a local bar. She told me that she was getting married soon, so her Dad could walk her down the aisle. Just like I did the year before. We chatted for a bit about how much life can really suck. But all the while I was trying to contain my excitement. I was going to have an orphan friend! This was going to be awesome. So I just sat back and waited patiently.</div>
<br />
Soon, the inevitable happened. Flora was now an orphan just like me. We had a special bond. Finally, someone who knew what it was like! My first friendship based solely on death. My first, of many friendships, based solely on death. A few years later, another acquaintance was suddenly orphaned. And being the good orphans that we were, Flora and I welcomed Fawn into our triangle of orphans, with open arms. Together we help each other get through each parentless day. Their friendship has been a true blessing. <br />
<br />
One particular Mother's Day, I found a bottle of Death's Door vodka on my front porch. The note said, "Love, Mom". It was so awesome to laugh instead of cry. Another time, after a particularly hard day, I was welcomed home with a liquor store gift certificate simply signed, "Orphan Triangle". And yet another time, there was a bottle of wine in a monogrammed thermal wine bag. Notice the theme? <br />
<br />
During the same time period, I also had other friends who were experiencing the loss of a parent for the first time. So a few of us got together and started a group we named DPS, or Dead Parents Society. The only qualifications needed to join was to have one dead parent. As per usual, I was over-qualified. Our first meeting, in Flo's man garage, was a smashing success. It was a great place to get together and drink, laugh, and cry. Not necessarily in that order. That was a few years ago and we continue to hold meetings about once a month. To say these gals mean the world to me is an understatement. Since we started our group, four more members have been orphaned. It's really sad to watch your friends go through this experience, especially when you know exactly what hell it is. <br />
<br />
But just like Dolly Parton's character in <em>Steel Magnolias</em>, laughter through tears is our favorite emotion. We laugh. A lot. Not about things normal people laugh about. Not about anything particularly funny. Mostly about extremely morbid things. Things only people who have lost parents would laugh about. We have seen a psychic and an medium together and we have had a meeting where we came dressed as our dead parent. We got a lot of looks that night. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTFWujBBoTpM5Mt8cxLbmw7NEDcq89aGGTwlHm_U5N7IbvEJ43LqRVaROAkGLwbiq3CkLvcJaoPpVCL6XlIZjJqbpW1MjeC_JcTDJtMglVv4lJ0VgVmsHTA6qEPkecIx2EktUPDyZ5FgXf/s1600/DPS+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTFWujBBoTpM5Mt8cxLbmw7NEDcq89aGGTwlHm_U5N7IbvEJ43LqRVaROAkGLwbiq3CkLvcJaoPpVCL6XlIZjJqbpW1MjeC_JcTDJtMglVv4lJ0VgVmsHTA6qEPkecIx2EktUPDyZ5FgXf/s1600/DPS+2.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Here are the DPSers dressed as our beloved.</div>
<br />
Our meetings do revolve around drinking. Or sharing meds that our terminally ill parents left behind. We've all dealt with hospice so we know the drill by now. It's all about numbing the pain and being there for one another. We count ourselves lucky to have one another. We also count ourselves lucky because Carah was trained to give B12 shots when her mom was sick. So one night, we were all the beneficiaries of one of those bad boys. Still have the bruise to prove it. Anything to not feel the actual pain that we have inside of us. We all have lives that have to go on. We all have husbands, we all have kids, we all have jobs. But one night each month, we get to feel sorry for ourselves and drown those sorrows. And it feels good. I know what you're all thinking, "but now I want to be an orphan!" Don't worry, you will be. Soon enough. Just make sure you surround yourself with the best damn orphan friends you can possibly find.<br />
<br />
I have had friends say that they know someone who is also an orphan, or even half an orphan, but they don't think it's funny like I do. Let me just say, I don't think being an orphan is funny at all. I wish my parents were alive. But these are the cards I was dealt and I can't do a damn thing about it. If I didn't laugh about death, I would never laugh.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-63586065593736592502014-05-26T21:14:00.000-05:002014-05-26T21:14:54.914-05:00Drinks+Pool=BabyOne day Beau and I woke up and it was hot out. It was June. In Chicago. We did not have kids nor did we even know if we ever wanted to. We were LIVIN'. So we went out to our barren backyard and had a convo that went something like this. Wow, it's hot out today...Yeah it is... We should go buy a pool... Yeah we should. And that's exactly what we did. Just got in the car and went to the closest pool store and bought a freaking pool. With cash. Because we were hot. We don't have convos like that anymore. God do I miss those days. <br />
<br />
Memorial Day is one of my favorite weekends of the year. We like to remember the men and women who have given the ultimate sacrifice, many from right here in our own neighborhood. And it's normally the weekend we open our pool for the summer. And when I say we, I mean Beau. I do put on my bathing suit and watch. But I'm normally busy rearing the children. And when I say rearing, I mean yelling across the yard for them to stop fighting or to refill my beverage of choice.<br />
<br />
I am always so thankful that we had the foresight to buy the pool when we did. I love having it and can't imagine summer without it. Everyday is a party and I wouldn't want it any other way. So many awesome nights with family and friends have resulted from our spontaneous purchase. And for certain, one of our children is a direct result of a drunken pool party. Again, wouldn't have it any other way. <br />
<br />
One particular summer will always hold a special place in my heart. In May of that year, Beau was laid off. It sucked. But not as bad as finding out that I was laid off as well. So we had no income, no health insurance, three babies, and a pool. It could be worse. We decided there was nothing we could do about our situation, so we might as well enjoy the hell out of the summer of us. And we did. Everyday was a flipping party. We had people over all day, everyday. It would start mid-morning and go until we fell asleep, sometimes before the kids. I am sure we will never have another summer like that. It was a gift. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6FaVnTCRUsOwCQgYNnTsmpCwc000ZW61Fzuq6NClIwxPnoCzBHSJh00O0hiKjh4S6ZvZzGPYvyk3GGux-1n6FDrExsSmHQBWEpTzZ0N7eax1sCli9yUrgkSnX_PxAtGwNqR1L3tpDW4x/s1600/Door+jumpy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6FaVnTCRUsOwCQgYNnTsmpCwc000ZW61Fzuq6NClIwxPnoCzBHSJh00O0hiKjh4S6ZvZzGPYvyk3GGux-1n6FDrExsSmHQBWEpTzZ0N7eax1sCli9yUrgkSnX_PxAtGwNqR1L3tpDW4x/s1600/Door+jumpy.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Thank God we had this doorway jumpy thingy to babysit for us that summer.</div>
<br />
Around this time, we started the discussion about having another baby. After all, our youngest was almost six-months-old. We wanted to have a fourth and obvi had some weird fetish about having them as close together as possible. And Beau's back was on the mend. It was as if all of the stars were aligning. Now you may be thinking, but wait, you were both unemployed. You had no health insurance. Why in God's name would you purposely bring another life into this mess? It just made sense when we were drinking in the pool. It's a different mindset. Our rationale was, in nine months we would surely be working again. It would be fine. And it was. <br />
<br />
The only real obstacle was our besties, Lion and Julissa, were getting married in August. I didn't want to be preggo for that. You know, because I like to get drunk. And I really tried not to drink much while pregnant. So, we decided to wait until after their wedding. It would be perfect. I could be pregnant all winter and be ready to whoop it up again next summer. Yet, still be able to enjoy the rest of this summer. What could possibly go wrong? We were really pleased with ourselves. I believe we ended that convo with a high-five. Or perhaps something a bit more intimate, because a few days before the wedding, I started feeling funny. Not haha funny, just funny. A funny I was very familiar with. Math has never been my thing and with all of the alcohol I had been consuming all summer, I decided to take the old let's wait and see approach. Besides, I have a strict rule when it comes to taking a pregnancy test. Always do it on a Monday morning. Enjoy the weekend, because it could be your last, for a while. So that's exactly what I did. One of the best weddings ever. And Monday morning my suspicions were confirmed. Baby number four would join us in April. Summer was officially over.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2zOWGp_roGvpyEK2gqQST0T6_uXpvYAzttLyT9oq8R-kG0TRuBbzSsRbcR2_2Z54EssGcw-VPqZP9zHaOJppixYUcWW56oK2FmrxpZrXyFogGqfJ-H310a41yVkeqf1UCVruvMuEtSgTE/s1600/Summer+of+Us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2zOWGp_roGvpyEK2gqQST0T6_uXpvYAzttLyT9oq8R-kG0TRuBbzSsRbcR2_2Z54EssGcw-VPqZP9zHaOJppixYUcWW56oK2FmrxpZrXyFogGqfJ-H310a41yVkeqf1UCVruvMuEtSgTE/s1600/Summer+of+Us.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Here I am trying to conceal my baby bump with a beer.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
When the baby was born, our other kids were three, two, and fourteen months. The only thing I remember being concerned about was, would the pool be big enough? For the record, we did find new jobs just as summer came to an end. I went on to lose that job at the end of the following year. But that's how it is when you work for one of the biggest and saddest school districts in the country. As we embark on another summer of pool parties I can only imagine what the future holds for us. Tons of laughs? For certain. Cold drinks? Always. Baby number five? You never know. <br />
<br />
*This blog is dedicated to our friend Devin Dillen who had the absolute greatest reaction when we told him we were having another baby. It was a strange mix of disgust, shock, and sadness all rolled into one look. Thank you, Devin. <br />
<br />
*Some of the names have been changed so the people I'm talking about don't know I'm talking about them. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-29122467247190642192014-05-22T16:45:00.001-05:002014-05-22T17:03:10.501-05:00Bereaved<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilVw5SKTI4bDhK_85AOEO_pdUG3x5lDzTDdQEh3JMn3mbqMJNUkSy4BHmuJtKGLxLVmf1qXBk32_J60IfdWbGyDr5WpnS6hZtLRq7fy3WWl6ta82kCvxulPFWz6jFMStsyngNSC_hq2LjW/s1600/macho-man-randy-savage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilVw5SKTI4bDhK_85AOEO_pdUG3x5lDzTDdQEh3JMn3mbqMJNUkSy4BHmuJtKGLxLVmf1qXBk32_J60IfdWbGyDr5WpnS6hZtLRq7fy3WWl6ta82kCvxulPFWz6jFMStsyngNSC_hq2LjW/s1600/macho-man-randy-savage.jpg" height="320" width="302" /></a></div>
<br />
Each year I participate in a Celebrity Death Pool run by a genius named Lanny. Yes, I know, it's not for everyone. But it really is fun. Basically it goes like this. You pick ten celebs that you think have a good chance of dying that year and if they do indeed meet their maker, you get points. Their age at the time of death is subtracted from one hundred and that's how many points are awarded. So the younger the celeb, the more points. Most people who participate like to remain anonymous, for obvious reasons, so everyone participates under a pseudonym. They're really hard to decode, much like the ones used in this blog. <br />
<br />
When a young celeb does die, it's not always a surprise. I'm sure everyone can come up with a few off the top of your head right now that wouldn't be a total shock. Some celebs make the list year after year because they're that big of a train wreck. When a young star of Hollywood dies way too young, it's tragic. These are living beings, after all. But when it happens to someone that not many think it's going to happen to, it's miraculous. Especially if you have them on your list. <br />
<br />
I actually won the pool a few years ago. It was enough money to buy a flat screen television for my living room before the eight-hundred pound one we had fell on top of one of our kids. So it's some nice cash. It was a great feeling being the one to predict the demise of so many celebrities. I felt special. Even smart. Definitely superior to all the other poolers. My big pick that year was Amy Winehouse. Of course she was a favorite, so I wasn't the only one to have her. But I had a nice mix of other dead celebs of various ages, and it was enough to put me over the top. <br />
<br />
One of my life's biggest regrets will always be not having Whitney Houston. I took her death really hard, because I didn't have her. I'm pretty sure only one person did have her that year. But I will always think of what might have been. She was always number eleven on my list. If only I had made her a finalist. I could have won two years in a row and would have been a legend in the Celebrity Death Pool world. If only.<br />
<br />
There have been two amazing picks in my experience with this pool. One person had the foresight to choose Phillip Seymour Hoffman. One person. I will call her Mamie. I barely knew who he was when he was alive, let alone that he had a fancy for heroin. But, like most celebs, I know him more now, in death. It was an impressive choice to say the least. But by far the all time best celeb death pick goes to a guy I shall call Timmy Ditz. Timmy picked Randy the Macho Man Savage. A former WWF Wrestler. He didn't have any known medical conditions and was only fifty-eight. He no longer wrestled and had no history of substance abuse. He died in a car accident. I am still amazed every time I think about it. Forty two points for a completely random pick. Ah-may-zeen. <br />
<br />
But that's how it goes. You just never know. Sometimes it pays to think outside the box. I try to be more random with my selections now-a-days. Timmy Ditz has taught me a lot about life. And celebrity death. <br />
<br />
*Some of the names have been changed so the people I'm talking about don't know I'm talking about them.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-51379507772983976632014-05-21T18:37:00.001-05:002014-05-21T18:37:54.413-05:00Grandparent Day (Singular)Since having kids, the days I really dread are the ones that involve grandparents. Our kids have been robbed in this department. Our kids never knew my parents, or Beau's dad, so they didn't have to experience the heartbreak of losing them like so many of my friends are going through with their kids now. But I think I would still rather them all just be alive. Call me crazy. Because only having one live grandparent really sucks. For everyone. Especially for Beau's mom, Madeline, because she is everything to them. No pressure. But everything falls on her. She has to be grandma and grandpa. She is all that they know. But she has nine grandkids and it's not always easy to spread yourself so thin. But she does. All the time. <br />
<br />
Today was Grandparent's Day at my daughter's school. That's what they do instead of a kindergarten graduation. Grandparent's Day. What an awesome idea. For kids with living grandparents. For the kid who had four sets of grandparents there. Four sets. That's eight people this kid refers to as grandma or grandpa. All of the grandparents were divorced and all remarried and all have an active role in this kid's life. They didn't even have enough seats. But it was okay, because we had some to spare. I actually felt bad for this kid. It must be really hard scheduling all of those sleepovers and sorting through all of those Christmas gifts. In the school's defense, they do say you can bring a "special friend" if you're running low on grandparents. At least that's what they wrote on our invite. So that's where Aunt Batsy comes in. You know, because she is special. <br />
<br />
Last year when my son was in kindergarten, he invited Aunt Batsy to grandparent's day. They give each kid two invitations. So naturally one went to his grandma and one to the next best thing, Aunt Batsy. She refers to herself as their "almost grandma". They just look at her really confused when she says this. I just pretend I didn't hear it.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHqrc3k0J9UMMG44tLUefohfuzWhHwrP8L36cTLYGGd80Imdh2V9-xsc76WH7OID6Qtjowgj7lUp72MKmjtGIEkQrJkQBEcoRo0M0NrQMcU7RKEuI3yKsb8k3rNbnEh_1T6iKluB50n0Gi/s1600/Batsy+singing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHqrc3k0J9UMMG44tLUefohfuzWhHwrP8L36cTLYGGd80Imdh2V9-xsc76WH7OID6Qtjowgj7lUp72MKmjtGIEkQrJkQBEcoRo0M0NrQMcU7RKEuI3yKsb8k3rNbnEh_1T6iKluB50n0Gi/s1600/Batsy+singing.jpg" /></a></div>
So Aunt Batsy knows this day is coming again this year. And she's prepared. She's knows what to expect this time around. And as luck would have it, they perform the same songs as last year. Apparently she's been rehearsing because she sang every song louder than any kid on that stage. She's a performer. Loves the spotlight. She also clapped along, even though neither was encouraged. People were actually turning around to look at her. She waved at them. Or gave a little wink. But it was fine. Everyone there was in a great mood because they had a special someone on that stage singing to them.<br />
<br />
Uh oh. Suddenly, out of no where, smiles turn to tears. The grandparents song. Every single person in that room starts crying. Again, just like last year. I'm the one who should be crying. I'm the only parent here on grandparent's day. It's not even a good song. The lyrics don't even rhyme. But it didn't matter to anyone there. It was as if each kid was a soloist singing just to their special person. Luckily they ended on a high note. With <em>You're A Grand Old Flag</em> and everyone was able to regain composure. Not as fast as Aunt Batsy. She was able to turn off the water works and jump right into that song without missing a beat. It's a gift. <br />
<br />
Afterwards, we are invited for some light refreshments. And I mean light. My daughter was as happy as can be. She was very proud of herself and loving every second of her grandma and special friend being there just for her. She has no clue what she's missing. And for that I'm grateful. Heartbroken, but grateful. <br />
<br />
*Some of the names have been changed so the people I'm talking about don't know I'm talking about them.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-79789505931000472082014-05-20T17:46:00.004-05:002014-05-20T21:19:09.504-05:00The MangoverHangovers suck. Everyone will tell you. The nausea, the puking, the headaches. The point when you have to take a Xanax to calm down when you start to remember what really happened the night before and have a major case of the creeps. But the Mangover (mom/hangover) is worse. Way worse. It's hell right here on earth. It is something no one can ever prepare you for. <br>
<br>
When you have your first baby you're living in a cloud of sorts. You're really not sure what the heck is going on. You have a drink here and there but you're just too exhausted and too gaga over your little miracle to really get down and dirty. But then it happens. You're not expecting it to happen. You don't even know it's happening until it's way too late. But it happens. You get knee walking drunk and have the time of your life, but when you wake up in the morning you realize, probably on the bathroom floor, probably still clothed from the night before, that you are a parent and have another life to care for. It's almost as shocking as the day you found out you were pregnant, but not nearly as joyous. Back then you had nine months to prepare. Right now someone needs you to feed and change them. This second. It's an awful realization.<br>
<br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWO7W9rnJnI36KTR9SNm9LW9kzK8jw1fDpl7W6FC6xXfhORX4cvOQd5wVuF5EW60v-drhJFaeWrkGw_dL1-F2t0KQ9bYqbmPrLgAGWTQmAnH1gL9WzgrAv4a8N5IigfSDcJljxg7bhcap/s1600/mangover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBZ2gVeKgmq0tGJqfYjdUuJINaI15AbGBkJyp7bb7uz-VbPgLRi9YKaV_G0YJVcZOLklC9NI9hilM_Fmym9kyjBaf9c945ymGFmebF6Q_Cd_exSjWg_fWr9OSAtA5UMJrtACM67Q_lHRhJ/s1600/hungover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBZ2gVeKgmq0tGJqfYjdUuJINaI15AbGBkJyp7bb7uz-VbPgLRi9YKaV_G0YJVcZOLklC9NI9hilM_Fmym9kyjBaf9c945ymGFmebF6Q_Cd_exSjWg_fWr9OSAtA5UMJrtACM67Q_lHRhJ/s1600/hungover.jpg" height="320" width="240"></a></div>
<br>
The Shame. The Embarrassment. The Rage. The Denial. It's all there. I'm a mom. How could I have let this happen? It really doesn't matter how. It happened. Now you have to deal. If you're lucky, the hubs didn't drink the night before or hopefully not as much. If this is the case, you're going to be okay. You can go back to bed and just have to live with the guilt he will bestow on you for years. Easy. But if you both went out and are both insanely hungover, you're in real trouble. <br>
<br>
After we had our first there was a night we were over served, probably right here in our own living room. We woke up in the morning and couldn't believe the baby slept through the night. For the first time ever. I was so excited I called my bestie Shelly. Shelly's kids were a few years older than mine. She politely suggested perhaps the baby didn't really sleep through the night, maybe we were the only ones who did. Hmm. Now that did make more sense. <br>
<br>
There was another time when Beau and I went out for a few drinks with friends. No big deal, just a few beers. So we thought. When we woke up in the morning we could not function. We had two babies at the time. Two little babies. I can remember us both laying on the kitchen floor feeding them bottles. It was so bad we couldn't even make it to the couch. We also had a Christening we were supposed to be at. I took one for the team and took one baby and went. Beau stayed home with the other baby. That's our marriage. Not 50/50, we give 100/100. That's love. We still count that as our worst Mangover/Dangover combo of all time. <br>
<br>
The good news is, the babies grow older. The bad news is, they start to talk and ask questions. A few weeks ago my brother, Dat, invited us over to watch the Hawks game. It was a big game. It was also the first warm night of the year. I was excited. I'm not that big into sports, but I do like drinking while sports are on television. And we were finally going to be outside after a long winter of inside drinking. Long story short, I over indulged. I let the weather and the excitement of the big game get the best of me. I was surrounded by family and friends, so that wasn't a problem. The problem was the next morning when my 5-year-old daughter did a reenactment of me from the night before. It was a new low for me. But it was funny. She nailed it. Perhaps it was not the first time she's seen this show. <br>
<br>
Today, I am actually on day three of my three day Mangover. When you're young you're hungover for a day. Maybe not even that long. Then you get a little older and you start to experience the two day. Then after thirty-five it turns into a three day marathon. I'm in the last leg. Almost at the finish line. Almost back to normal. Almost able to consider drinking again. Just tired. Even though I went to bed last night with my kids. <br>
<br>
On Saturday night we went to a parish function. A fundraiser for our soon-to-be kids' catholic school. These are always a good time. It's all parishioners. All people you know. All people just like you. All parents just out for a good time to support the cause. The great thing about a school function is that everyone can walk there. No one has to worry about having to drive after a few drinks. So you know going into this what it's going to turn into. And it always does. This night was no different. <br>
<br>
We get there and meet up with our family/friends/neighbors. It was a lot of fun. Great people, great drinks, great dancing. Just a good time. The fundraiser ends and we decide we'll go to a bar in the neighborhood and keep the party going for a bit. Not a bad idea. So we continue on with many of the same people. All of the sudden, it's time for that bar to close. But I don't feel like going home just yet. There's more party in me. Never a good idea. Responsible Beau calls it a night and walks home. I go to the late night bar with some friends. Who all happen to be related to me. We close that place and it was all downhill from there. <br>
<br>
My cousin Devin walks me home, but it seems Beau forgot to leave the door unlocked for me. Oh that Beau. So I knock. I ring the bell. I shout obscenities. Nothing. Then I think, oh wait, my neighbor Huck has a key! I'll just go bang on his door. It's 5:19am at this point. Devin doesn't think this is a good idea. The voice of reason that he is. He talks me into coming to sleep at his house. Because if there's anything more fun then waking up hungover with your own four kids, it's waking up hungover at your cousin's house with his four kids. <br>
<br>
So I wake up around noonish. I check my phone. Seventeen new messages. Wow, I'm popular. Perhaps I made some new friends last night? Nope, just Beau and some friends looking for me. I was quick to point out if Beau hadn't locked the door in the first place I would have been home in my own bed and everyone should just be thankful I'm alive. Devin drives me home the three blocks, thankfully, because I really wasn't up for a walk of shame through the neighborhood I live in with my husband and four children. We pull up to my house and beloved Beau has made a welcome home sign for me and hung it right in the front window. "Welcome Home Mommy". For the entire neighborhood to see. Beau is a real wit. I'm biding my time before I repay him that favor. <br>
<br>
Day one of this Mangover wasn't too bad. I quickly showered, trying to wash off the shame. It only helped a little bit. At least I didn't smell like smoke anymore. I was struck by waves of nausea. I did have a headache. I ate a nice greasy lunch and laid in bed the rest of the day. I can honestly say, day two was worse. I was dying. It was such a long day. I was in bed by eight o'clock. Day three is coming along. I'm feeling better and might just be able to muster a glass of wine tonight. Just kidding. Sort of. I'm just looking forward to tomorrow. When I will be me again. Just a loving, caring, nurturing, sober, wife and mom. Until next weekend. <br>
<br>
*Some names have been changed so the people I'm talking about don't know I'm talking about them.<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-1532029779963762642014-05-19T19:26:00.000-05:002014-05-19T19:26:36.402-05:00An Eggcellent IdeaOne night after a couple of glasses of wine, I decided to buy an incubator so that we, as a family, could hatch us some chicks. So I ordered it up. Right there from my phone. One little click is all it took. I had visions of all the fun and laughs we would all share while enjoying this learning experience. It warmed my heart. A few days later my buddy the UPS man rings the bell. What could possibly be in the box? Did someone send me a gift? I opened it up and the visions I had a few nights prior come swirling back in my head. The kids were all excited. What is it? What are we going to do with it? Beau just sat back listening to every last word. Well kids, since I'm a great mom and an educator, we're going to hatch some chicks right here in our very own home. Actually hearing the words spoken aloud, it suddenly didn't sound as fun as it did the other night. When I was drinking. Once again, Beau was rendered speechless. But that wasn't going to stop me. Let's get this bad boy plugged in and make some chicks! The kids could hardly contain themselves.<br />
<br />
Turns out the eggs were not included. I must have missed that bit of info. So I just had to get my hands on some eggs and figure out how to turn them into chicks. No biggie. I got the eggs from a farmer and Beau pretty much took it over from there. We set up the incubator in the kids' room. Because that's not gross. But they were excited and I wasn't going to have it in my living room where I'd have to look at it all day. The process took about twelve days. I got a little nervous. What if the eggs didn't hatch? How was I going to explain that one? But they did. Because I'm a great mom. I have to admit it was pretty cool. It was amazing to watch. The kids were really into it. Just when I was thinking about how great I was for drinking wine and shopping online, I realized I had never thought of what would happen when there were actual live chicks in my home. Now what?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRgx0dvcLhUWzdGSL0c1ebXL3c5ssD_6NuyKILD5fmymfpyqqpHlc_WGZCiF49mJUrlUHJvrsCu41BSN2Xj3NiU9Orxq5w3-4j5mAlZHIZZE6BTVNb00-OxlhuAvTf6WJObSJhwHWfH76/s1600/chicks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRgx0dvcLhUWzdGSL0c1ebXL3c5ssD_6NuyKILD5fmymfpyqqpHlc_WGZCiF49mJUrlUHJvrsCu41BSN2Xj3NiU9Orxq5w3-4j5mAlZHIZZE6BTVNb00-OxlhuAvTf6WJObSJhwHWfH76/s1600/chicks.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
All the neighbors came by to meet our newest little additions. I'll never forget the look on my neighbor Gwen's face. I took pictures to post on Facebook. You know, so the world could see first hand what a great mom I was. All the kids took turns holding them. It was adorable. But the excitement started to wear off. The chicks were getting bigger and uglier by the second. They weren't nearly as cute as they had originally been. The kids were scared of them now. No one wanted to hold them. They looked as if they carried disease. One morning Beau found one of the little chickies in bad shape. He had to take it out to the garage and do whatever the hell it is you do to a dying chick to put it out of it's misery. This wasn't part of my original vision. This was starting to feel a little too <em>Little House on the Prairie</em>.<br />
<br />
What would I tell the children? I had to prepare a speech. Death is a part of life. The little chick was in chick heaven with all the other little chicks that had gone before him. Turns out the kids couldn't care less. Oh, did that chick die? No tears. No unanswerable questions. They were over it. And now that I had these creatures living in a box on my dining room table, I too, was over it. I was evicting them. It was time. So Beau built them a nice little coop in the yard. And we also had to buy a heat lamp and food. It was turning into quite the little investment. I had already called some farms to find the perfect home for them. But this would have to due for now.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkG5tIcesY88dfKMsBIiPz6oZ_xatepAdgz2aaSctwg_6t908zPi_-kGFcT6-GNGU-rVRIBu9oY9K2XCPn-valXvTdi6PeKvwLCWmwzDJ0UhBuktZMIvYDWSWJbdkmlV6ClD894t-cTEw5/s1600/coop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkG5tIcesY88dfKMsBIiPz6oZ_xatepAdgz2aaSctwg_6t908zPi_-kGFcT6-GNGU-rVRIBu9oY9K2XCPn-valXvTdi6PeKvwLCWmwzDJ0UhBuktZMIvYDWSWJbdkmlV6ClD894t-cTEw5/s1600/coop.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Days turned into weeks. We even had a birthday party here for my brother Dat. I tried wrapping up the chicks as his gift. He wasn't having it. So close. I finally found a farm that would take them off of our hands. It was not an emotional farewell. More of a good riddance. But the fond memories we'll have forever. I wanted this to be a learning experience and I think it's safe to say we all learned a lot. Now when I start drinking wine by myself late at night, I turn my phone off. <br />
<br />
*Some of the names have been changed so the people I'm talking about don't know I'm talking about them.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-20470485701538520912014-05-18T20:22:00.000-05:002014-05-19T10:45:47.598-05:00The Uninvited House GuestsWhen I was in eighth grade my mom took me to get my hair cut at her salon. It was a real treat. She was also getting her hair colored and cut. The girl washed my hair and when she was combing it she kept looking at it real close. She then called another girl over and together had disgusted looks on their faces. Turns out I had a nice case of head lice erupting on my scalp. They made me stand up and walk out of the salon while they followed spraying some sort of disinfectant after me. I had to sit outside of the salon. Now don't you worry, this didn't interfere with my mom getting her hair done. She let me sit outside scratching away as she got all glammed up. A few weeks prior, a note came home from school about an outbreak of head lice. I read the letter and told my mom I thought I had it. She blew me off by saying, you're crazy, you don't have lice. Never even giving my head a once over. So that's what I thought about while sitting there outside of that salon. Humiliated. Watching my mom through the glass.<br />
<br />
So what could be worse than being thirteen and having lice and being treated like a leper? Being a mom and finding lice on your own kids' heads, that's what. Last year lice was going around the neighborhood. Spreading like wildfire. It was only a matter of time. Shelly's kids got it. Our days were numbered. Of course, when Shelly's kids got it, instead of staying away, we all went right over there to check it out. Shelly and I cut out a head and some bugs from construction paper and made a "pin the louse on the head" game. My kids look up to Shelly's kids and want everything they have. Everything. Even lice. So when my kids finally did get it, they were excited. I was not. I had been doing daily checks for weeks. And one day there they were. They were not invited, but we'd been expecting them.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaBbwseIykt56niDDIYWBUblYypiMHXtn9vC3ZgWTmL9sFpYpulenqgl1BiJf7tjh_5x_FG8HKzv_QW8x0Zpp-joGq__M7wBmZcRO4rmR-hQO8xn19s9JiqUKiqHC_KvnxpJWbiQvC8EsM/s1600/lice+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaBbwseIykt56niDDIYWBUblYypiMHXtn9vC3ZgWTmL9sFpYpulenqgl1BiJf7tjh_5x_FG8HKzv_QW8x0Zpp-joGq__M7wBmZcRO4rmR-hQO8xn19s9JiqUKiqHC_KvnxpJWbiQvC8EsM/s1600/lice+3.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Washing that lice right out of my hair. </div>
<br />
Beau and I are generally pretty calm people. And we were calm at the beginning. We went to the drugstore and spent a fortune on those lice removal kits. We bought the top of the line gold-plated nit comb. We came home and got down to the business of de-lousing the shit out of this place. We were pumped. High fives all around. We treated everyone's heads and combed everyone out one strand of hair at a time. Washed everything, sprayed everything. Threw out every stuffed animal in the house. Apparently when you're a louse, the next best thing to a living being is a stuffed animal. It's really the only silver lining to getting lice. We threw away every last one. We repeated this routine for a few days and I'll be damned if I didn't see a freaking louse run right across my daughter's head, again. So I took to the internet. I read that Listerine is what really does it. Information we could have used a week earlier. So off to the drug store we go to spend a mere five dollars for the mouthwash and shower caps. I soak everyone's heads and comb everyone out again. Including myself. I was convinced I had it too. <br />
<br />
We kept checking everyday for any more signs of life on everyone's scalps. It seemed we were in the clear. Until I had Beau check my head. According to my beloved, obviously sight-challenged, Beau, I was still ridden with lice. And of course I was itching like crazy just thinking about it. Enough is enough. I was losing my mind. I picked up the phone and called an agency that comes to your house to get rid of the lice for you. Experts. They even guarantee their work. Money was no object at this point. Just get here and get rid of this lice once and for all. Great news, they'd be out later that day. So we sat around scratching until they arrived. They came in and checked all of us. I braced myself. Shockingly, we were told we don't have any louse in this house. I'm sorry, I know you're the expert, but Beau saw lice on my head just this morning, so just go ahead and take another looksy. She assures me, again, I am lice free. So I calmly turn to Beau and lovingly ask him, then what the F did you see on my head that you thought was lice, darling? Beau was speechless. Which is good because we didn't talk for a long time after that. Oh my Beau. Sweet, loving, blind Beau. Telling me I have God damn lice when I really don't. What a doll. <br />
<br />
It's impossible to understand the hell living through lice is until it's actually happened in your home. I do live in fear that it will be back again someday. But I will be ready. With my fine-toothed terminator comb and plenty of booze. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-21763726249295949692014-05-15T17:33:00.001-05:002014-05-15T23:28:40.732-05:00Not Yo Mama's T-BallThis Spring I only have two kids participating in an organized sport. Two kids too many, if you ask me. It's baseball season. We live in Chicago. It's pretty much still winter here. Unless it's blazing hot. I can't tell you how many times this week I have had my air conditioning and heat on in the same twenty-four hour period. I got sunburn one day and literally almost froze to death another day. Then there's the rain. The t-ball kids have to tough it out and play in the rain, as long as there is no lightening, but yet every game ends in a tie and at the end of the season everyone gets a trophy. We're sending some mixed messages here. <br />
<br />
My four-year-old daughter plays regular old t-ball. A park district league. All games at the same place. All games over in one hour. Uniform is a t-shirt and hat. Half the kids wear jeans. More than half the kids have no clue what they're doing there. But all of them are there because they know they get a sucker at the end of the game. Not too bad. I can handle it. It's cute. She plays with all of her cousins and the woman who runs the league is an actual saint. I don't know how she does it. She must really like suckers. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR8yqFznGr4iykIJiYzEm_Bou2z073XTR0ccG1FiU7f-2Qmxt3TjrcNCC3aC4iPfJtMXWuk0E8MijqoB_DQc-HYNfKWXqXgnZIVC_irMpyE1nA6kofXz3-m8K7SY5v3j0vd62D_CUu1n-Q/s1600/tball-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR8yqFznGr4iykIJiYzEm_Bou2z073XTR0ccG1FiU7f-2Qmxt3TjrcNCC3aC4iPfJtMXWuk0E8MijqoB_DQc-HYNfKWXqXgnZIVC_irMpyE1nA6kofXz3-m8K7SY5v3j0vd62D_CUu1n-Q/s1600/tball-1.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I used to think t-ball was bad. You never know what you have until it's gone. My six-year-old son plays in a serious league. No tee. Games at different parks. Real uniforms. Spikes, cups (not the kind you drink out of), batting gloves, bat bags, the whole nine yards (that's my fave baseball term). Because he's six. Practically a major-leaguer. But he really, really likes baseball. So I'm really, really happy for him. The only one I'm not happy for is me. The games are so long my phone can't even hold a charge for the duration. I have to conserve the battery, which means I have to find something else to occupy my time. Like watch the game. Hey, mom, did you see that? Oh, who me? Oh yeah, of course I saw it, babe. I was capturing every last memory right here on my phone. So we can relive it later when we get home. Because it's so fun.<br />
<br />
I know sports are important. I know they are learning teamwork and a bunch of other skills to prepare them for the "real world". But I have a pool. And I like to be in it. Especially when it finally gets hot enough and cold beverages will be served. <br />
<br />
Now I usually have my other kids with me. So that means spending the equivalent of their college tuition at the concession stand. Two dollars and twenty-five cents for an ice-cream bar of a has-been cartoon character? A cartoon I've never actually seen them watch. With black gumballs for eyeballs. I know my youngest is going to end up with some major stomach issues with the amount of gum he has swallowed already this season. Seven years! And what is that stuff made of? It stains their clothes and their skin. Is it a special chemical? Are the ice cream bar companies in cahoots with the stain removal companies? If they're not, they should be. <br />
<br />
I love the days when the weathermen and weatherwomen are calling for storms. I try not to get my hopes up but it's impossible. It's sunny and eighty degrees at noon, but the storms, they are a comin'. I can hardly contain my excitement. Oh no, honey, your game is rained out? What a bummer. I don't know why God is making it rain and I really don't know why you think God is responsible, but neither really matters. All that does matter is that there is no game tonight. Let's get tacos. <br />
<br />
It's all fun and games until those rain outs have to be made up. A double header? Excuse me? Come again? Two games in a row on the same day? On a Saturday? That's like five hours of baseball. In. A. Row. What the hell is going on here? Can't we just call it a tie and just give them all trophies? Oh how I long for the mundane days of t-ball. I should have appreciated what I had when I had it. I can only imagine what next season will bring. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-69645883586422092332014-05-14T18:09:00.000-05:002014-05-14T18:09:24.546-05:00Busy Body<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0PW84tdVsp8A71SQJbyMVDQ17izlchStBKvgWdnw3TjvYBVRCcOKXhMABcPSG3mKNhYPenWFpUi81EPTQ-4G89XSz9064bCfVUW_l3Uj_MefH-QX9SiXU11pldMMC63SHq0rFT0ZpugIu/s1600/pearl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0PW84tdVsp8A71SQJbyMVDQ17izlchStBKvgWdnw3TjvYBVRCcOKXhMABcPSG3mKNhYPenWFpUi81EPTQ-4G89XSz9064bCfVUW_l3Uj_MefH-QX9SiXU11pldMMC63SHq0rFT0ZpugIu/s1600/pearl.jpg" height="281" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Since I've been unemployed, I like to think of myself as the neighborhood watch. A modern day "Pearl" from 227, if you will. I especially like to keep tabs on my block. We have a lot of kids on this block and lots of people who actually get up and go to work everyday. So I make it my personal business to take care of everything while everyone else is leading productive lives. And even though no one really ever mentions it, I know they all appreciate it. Especially my neighbors directly across the street, Huck and Gwen.</div>
<br />
From where I am sitting right now typing, I can see clear into Huck and Gwen's living room. It's a little dusty today and from what the cleaning lady tells me, it's like that everyday. But I can keep an eye on all the comings and goings. I know when the mail is delivered. I know when UPS drops off a package. I usually go get the package and bring it to my house for safe keeping. And to shake and look at the return address to guess what's inside. I would hate for them to have it stolen. When the lawn service comes by I make sure they do a thorough job and shoot Huck a text to let him know. I usually get a nice "thanks Babe" reply. Huck's Italian so that's how he talks. But I like him anyway. <br />
<br />
One particular morning as I still slept, about 8:30ish, my phone rings, so naturally I think someone must be dead for my phone to be ringing at this unGodly hour. But no, it's Huck. Seems his fire alarm went off and sure enough the fire department is outside ready to put an ax to his front door. Not on my watch. I run over there, in a really cute pair of matching pajamas, because I'm always prepared, and put a stop to it. I jumped right in front of that ax-wielding fireman to save Huck and Gwen's front door. It's like those stories you read about, you're just running on adrenaline. You're not thinking about how you're putting your own life on the line to help a neighbor. It was all instinct. It was scary, but I'd do it again. In a heartbeat. After I offered the fireman some coffee, we all shared a good laugh and a few hugs. I assured them I had it from here. After all, I have seen every episode of <em>Rescue Me</em>. One fireman remarked they could use more people like me on the job. Naturally, I was flattered. And I'd be lying if I said that was the first time I have ever heard that. But I prefer to do my heroism behind the scenes. You guys can be the ones with all the glory, I'll just be the beautiful face without a name. Now go on. Get back the firehouse to your chili-eating and nap-taking. I got this. High fives all around. <br />
<br />
Now not everything is hunky-dory between Huck and I. Huck has a key to my house, not that I ever really leave. But Huck prefers I do not have a copy of his house key. Odd, I know. One day Gwen was locked out of the house. Huck calls to see if I can open the door. With what? We've been over this. You won't give me a key. I don't have one. See how I'd be able to save the day if you'd just give me the key? Another time I see a guy having a smoke on Huck's front porch. So I sit here and watch him as I call Huck. Turns out it's his friend from out of town who spent the night and just locked himself out. Again, I have no key to help the poor sonofabitch out. So I do the neighborly thing and invite him over to lay on my couch and watch tv. With my four kids. He kept insisting he could just wait on Huck's porch for three hours. No way, not on my watch. You sit right there and play with my kids. I don't mind. <br />
<br />
I did finally get my hands on a key a few weeks ago. Huck needed me to let the cleaning lady in. So not only did I have access to a key, but also the coveted alarm code, which I can only assume has been changed by now. But it was one of the happiest days of my life. Until Huck asked for the key back at the end of the day with this note attached...<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT6U9un8rpi-7D1upPCAvMuOvLe58wSCHbrlnTv43baaFBJ5NbhVftv6WiveGLcGCF1M9RmAkJSey-7z2MBzImBa5XCmqNMAd9IRPqmVOxVRy-XLLfuipe5tiale3tu5iRXK0FmnK1JNAH/s1600/nosey+neighbor.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT6U9un8rpi-7D1upPCAvMuOvLe58wSCHbrlnTv43baaFBJ5NbhVftv6WiveGLcGCF1M9RmAkJSey-7z2MBzImBa5XCmqNMAd9IRPqmVOxVRy-XLLfuipe5tiale3tu5iRXK0FmnK1JNAH/s1600/nosey+neighbor.png" height="224" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="left" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Now Huck never said he was just joking, he didn't have to. I knew he was. That's just the sort of relationship we have. And Huck has a great sense of humor. Like the other day when he was talking to a guy on his front porch. From across the street it seemed as if he was going to have some sort of landscaping done. So I went right over to find out what was going on. Huck introduced me, with an eye roll, (see I told you he was funny) and explained they were trying to decide how to better cover his front windows with trees to keep nosey neighbors out. I winked at Huck. I said, I know who you're talking about. Then I asked the landscaper for his card, I think I'll do the same. If it's one thing I can't stand, it's a nosey neighbor. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-54891013966064829522014-05-13T17:59:00.000-05:002014-05-14T14:21:00.930-05:00It's Wine O'ClockMy love affair with wine began with a big box of Franzia. White Zinfandel. I was in college with a great fake ID and it was cheap and I loved everything about it. How drunk it got me. How it had a little tap and was always chilled and ready and waiting for me in the mini-fridge. No cork to mess with. Not that I had any idea how to open an actual bottle at the time. Or do I now, for that matter. I do prefer a nice twist off. I liked how warm and fuzzy it made me feel. And it made me feel so sophisticated. Oh, you're going to do a keg stand? Um, yeah, I'll be over there drinking my boxed wine out of my red solo cup. Because I'm classy. <br />
<br />
After college, when I had an actual paycheck, I stepped up my game to Pinot Grigio. When I was really living the high life, it would be Santa Margherita. So crisp and clean and didn't stain my teeth. Again, I'm all about sophistication. I did eventually graduate to red wine. Once I tried something besides merlot, I was in heaven. A warm Red in the winter, a cool White in the summer. Nothing made me happier. Nothing.<br />
<br />
Now that I'm an advanced maternal age, I have reverted back to boxed wine. Because, again, it's affordable and gets me drunk. Funny how life works. But I am no longer limited to Franzia. Nothing against my first love, but now that there is such a variety of trendy looking boxes at Target, I like to feel that I'm really treating myself when diapers and formula are the only other things in my cart. I love nothing more than filling my thermal coffee mug with it and taking the kids to the park. Or plopping on the front lawn with the neighbors. It's so convenient. Just pick it up by the handle and you're off. But nothing is as convenient as the little wine juice boxes they now make. Fits right in the cup holder of my double stroller. Judge away, folks. <br />
<br />
It's no secret I like wine. I'm easy to buy for. So when my friend Lion Gown gave me some of his home brew for Christmas, I was thrilled. Like I said, I'll drink anything. This was a very special wine and I was honored to receive it. And Lion knows me, so he gave me two bottles. He's smart. He understands me. He knows one bottle is never enough, yet two bottles is always too much. It's a slippery slope that I go down often. A slope Lion has accompanied me down many times. I wish I could say Lion was my Gusband (gay husband) like Tori Spelling has, but unfortunately he is straight. For now. But he is the closest thing I have to a gay friend so I'll take it. So Lion brews up this wine and painstakingly prepares the label.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiphJzcZ-Jk5440Gk4uZdC0yhVSazS5MGy2QW5ku7KXtM7r8Gix1WIrZRkDBtIRdzFtD-6hwDN0ISy8R21NKxM3HZ4A6K-akF_qhHeetJyUbEQo1Prx_j7LhWevFdkEnFlkUdFSz-K_-k7U/s1600/wine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiphJzcZ-Jk5440Gk4uZdC0yhVSazS5MGy2QW5ku7KXtM7r8Gix1WIrZRkDBtIRdzFtD-6hwDN0ISy8R21NKxM3HZ4A6K-akF_qhHeetJyUbEQo1Prx_j7LhWevFdkEnFlkUdFSz-K_-k7U/s1600/wine.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
Yes, that is him lying naked in a pile of grapes. He didn't need to be naked. He totally could have worn pants, but he didn't. He's an artist. Who do you even ask to take such a picture? He makes his family feel an embarrassment few people will ever feel. He makes everybody uncomfortable to be in the same room as him. But he makes me proud.<br />
<br />
Here's a clip of what the label says, "each individual grape endures a rigorous journey: one by one, each nectar filled globule cascades the length of Lion's back, running the gauntlet of a follicular jungle before coming to rest in the pungent posterior channel." I have to stop there because this is not a pornographic blog. I appreciate how seriously Lion takes his wine making. Needless to say both bottles are empty, long gone. But the hours I spent blacked-out will haunt me forever. <br />
<br />
Wine has been the one constant in my life. It's been there for me through the good times and the bad. My triumphs and my failures. Wine is my best friend and, on occasion, my worst enemy. I love that when people think of wine, they think of me. My cousin, Lil' Fanny, bought me some napkins that say, "Wine, how classy people get shitfaced". Pretty much sums it up. Pretty much sums me up. Classy.<br />
<br />
<br />
*Some names have been changed so the people I'm talking about don't know I'm talking about them.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL26TXR_s93i8N1pIwRqwCCp3yhwmN-iWcxjPDbOMM5ER2DA2NJDXkW4ERkLySTkKryjOeJQ-aHtYuqFAzP8MK61q5RCEEz8klRb449yO1LHTwZQawMibg_lQSH6WXEmWYT8b3V5Q813ie/s1600/wine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-79242903989036678042014-05-12T19:05:00.003-05:002014-05-15T00:30:31.941-05:00The Martyr Giving birth to my third child was an experience I'll never forget, for many reasons. The days leading up to my delivery we had a squirrel living in our attic. It scared the hell out of me. A guy came and set up a trap and everyone reassured me that there was no way it could get to any other part of the house. I was skeptical to say the least. If it wasn't nerve-racking enough to hear the damn thing all day long, one day I went down to throw some laundry in and guess who jumps out at me? Little Mr. Squirrel who could never ever escape the attic. I lost my shit. I grabbed the two other kids and went down to Shelly and Quint's and ever so calmly called my husband, Beau, at the office and informed him if he ever wanted to see us again he would get that damn creature out of our house once and for all. I also called a reputable company that handles this sort of thing and told Beau, in an extremely calm tone, to meet them at the house. Turns out the big, strong, tough, animal catcher was a lady. This did nothing for Beau's masculinity. Long story short, the squirrel was gone once and for all. And I went into labor the next day. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2TQk6jrNTFMMRibfJpgC35TWF7YYlapSbLkcAk6hlq_pCvpsqYxXMeDCL9c7YTYKDZBQYyevcwQlaX46KZRsCKdtUjqk0fxIXjOLaTTZylbFe_9Nzmfjtjx0hMO6TMzaX_UJdoxG3SUHe/s1600/lucy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2TQk6jrNTFMMRibfJpgC35TWF7YYlapSbLkcAk6hlq_pCvpsqYxXMeDCL9c7YTYKDZBQYyevcwQlaX46KZRsCKdtUjqk0fxIXjOLaTTZylbFe_9Nzmfjtjx0hMO6TMzaX_UJdoxG3SUHe/s1600/lucy.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I was very excited to go to the hotel, I mean hospital, to have my third. I had done this twice before and knew the drill. It was a vacation of sorts for me. I had a 2 year-old and 1 year-old at home so I couldn't wait for a little R&R. We get to the hospital, I spit the kid out, fake some pain, get my vicodin, take pics with the kid and Beau, send kid to the nursery and I'm in heaven. All alone in a room by myself, in a bed by myself with a nice little buzz. It was perfect. And Beau was perfect. Asked me if I wanted something to eat. Even though I start my post baby diet the minute I deliver, I figured a little turkey sandwich wouldn't hurt. So off my beloved Beau goes down to the cafeteria to get his glowing wife a sandwich. Beau was gone a while. I was getting worried, but really, just annoyed and hungry. Finally I get a call. From the ER. Seems Beau collapsed in the elevator on the way back up with my food. His back went out and he was in a crazy amount of pain. Eye Roll. I just gave birth, I know pain. So I asked the nurse on the phone, oh he was on his way back up? Did he happen to have my turkey sandwich? I'm not sure if you know but I just gave birth and I'm hungry. The nurse said Beau was very concerned that I get the sandwich and they would send it up. That's what I love about Beau.<br />
<br />
It was just an average turkey sandwich, at best, but the vicodin helped. So I'm sitting there thinking well now what the hell do I do? So I call my mother-in-law and tell her what happened. She was hysterical. Why was she so upset? I had to politely remind her that I was the one who had just given birth. This is about me, not Beau. A few hours later I get a call from my brother-in-law who is now in the ER with Beau. Beau wants to talk to me. Mind you, Beau is hooked up to a dilaudid drip. I give birth and get vicodin, Beau goes for a turkey sandwich and gets a dilaudid drip. Seems about right. Beau can't speak because he's so drugged up. I have never been so jealous in my life. I go back to sleep and think ok, he'll sleep it off and we'll all be home tomorrow. No big deal. <br />
<br />
The next morning I'm just sitting there. I don't know what the hell is going on. I start making some calls. Turns out Beau was released and was home. Um, hi, remember me? The baby and I were going to be released as well. So I shower and get my face on and put on my pre-pregnancy jeans. Now it's just me and baby. I made several phone calls and no one was around to come pick me up. I called everyone I knew. I allowed myself a little pity party because if I had parents surely this would not be an issue. But I don't have parents and this was an issue. Then I hear the nurses talking smack about me. No, she still doesn't have a ride home, I don't know what she's doing. Is this an episode of "Sixteen and Pregnant" or my life right now? Finally my cousin Shelly had her mom, Lonna, come babysit her kids so that she could come pick me up. Shelly was my actual last choice. I don't care for Shelly's mad driving skills, but desperate times call for desperate measures. So now it looks like Shelly and I are lesbian lovers leaving the hospital with our miracle baby. Never you mind who the father is! <br />
<br />
Thankfully we live close to the hospital. Shelly only jumped one curb on the ride home. In the house I go, carrying the baby. I had to actually step over Beau as I walked in. He was on the floor and couldn't move. Yes, this is what I need. Two toddlers, a new born, and Beau laid out on my floor. What about me? I just gave birth! I'm supposed to be resting with my feet up with Beau at my beck and call. Not gonna happen. Beau was in serious pain and couldn't move. He eventually graduated to the couch and was able to get around with the help of a walker. Like an old man. He tried helping with the kids, but he would lose all feeling in his arms and drop whatever he was holding. So after the first kid came-to, we decided him holding the kids wasn't a good idea. <br />
<br />
Days turned into weeks and Beau was finally feeling better. So one day I think, you know what, I'm going to take a nap. What the hell? So I tell Beau my plan and he's thrilled or at least he should have been. I go to bed and fall fast asleep, only to be awakened by Beau a short time later. Seems our one-year-old drank some nail polish remover. For the love of God! I just gave birth. I just want to sleep. And what does this have to do with me? Call poison control and ask them what the hell to do. And be sure to tell them this happened on your watch. I don't want them to be all judgey the next time I have to call. <br />
<br />
Turns out nail polish remover tastes so bad that's it's nearly impossible to drink much of it. Flush the kid out with some juice and you're good to go. And yes we ended up expecting another baby just a few short months later. But that's a blog for another time. <br />
<br />
*Some names have been changed so the people I'm talking about don't know I'm talking about them.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-68851556285368785142014-05-11T14:19:00.000-05:002014-05-11T20:32:16.531-05:00The Wind Beneath My WingsIn kindergarten the very first friend I made still remains one of my best friends till this day. Karen Barrell and I hit it off from day one and still do. We've been through everything two friends can possibly go through together. We've endured more pain and loss at young ages than most people will in a lifetime. Her losses were my losses and my losses hers. That's how it is when you're best friends. <br />
<br />
Being friends with Karen has been a gift. Because being friends with Karen means being friends with her twelve siblings. Yes twelve. Karen is one of thirteen children. And I count all of them (well most of them) as a good friend. At the root of all of these kids is the one of the strongest and most influential woman I have in my life, Mrs. Barrell. <br />
<br />
As you can imagine, Mrs. Barrell has seen it all. I always thought a reality show on her raising these kids would have been awesome. Except there wasn't such a thing back then. But going to the Barrell house as a kid was a reality show, we just didn't know it. It really was the greatest place ever. You might think that with all those kids, Mrs. Barrell wouldn't be up for having "play dates". Nope, that's not how she rolled. Every damn kid in the neighborhood was over there. Always. The pool in the backyard seemed like Lake Michigan to a little kid. It was always a guaranteed good time. And sleepovers there were even better. I mean when you have 13 kids who the hell notices when there are a few extras?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgny75pbe960fTehvtznKtKp8qIiFAC-ZcmmMwGAfyurRw3iMjn5WbmteCve5l_oYMsLImwg-rNhF6oHnHTGhijj5SA6y4Dzhyphenhyphen4OKQRm8HJFnMJymSZ11pufzA3zvMqDCpYvQB_HSgzUwMH/s1600/farrell+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgny75pbe960fTehvtznKtKp8qIiFAC-ZcmmMwGAfyurRw3iMjn5WbmteCve5l_oYMsLImwg-rNhF6oHnHTGhijj5SA6y4Dzhyphenhyphen4OKQRm8HJFnMJymSZ11pufzA3zvMqDCpYvQB_HSgzUwMH/s1600/farrell+2.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I can remember my mom telling me that my brother Juan went over there one day and Mrs. Barrell called her to make sure Juan liked chili because that's what she was making for dinner. My mom said she has thirteen kids of her own and she's worried my kid won't like what she was making for dinner. That's just Mrs. Barrell. She had thirteen of her own, but always made you feel like you were number fourteen. It's a great feeling. Another time, Devin Barrell was over playing hockey in our basement and cut his head open. When Mrs. Barrell got there the first thing she said was, you better not be getting blood all over this house. Not, oh poor baby, are you ok? Don't worry. Mommy is here now, I'll take care of you! She didn't have time for that. <br />
<br />
Another memory of mine was having lunch over at their house and Mr. Barrell whipping up some Spam sandwiches. I was in heaven. I had never had such a delicacy. Nor had I ever seen a dad cook. I must add here that I thought the Barrell's we very wealthy. I mean you had to be to have thirteen kids, right? And they had an upstairs in their house, the only people I knew that did. So that meant they had the big bucks in my eyes. Anyway, after eating this amazing sandwich, I went home and begged my mom to buy Spam. She never did. So I thought it must be really expensive and we couldn't afford it, like the Barrell's could. You know, because they were rich.<br />
<br />
Now that I have kids of my own I think of Mrs. Barrell on a daily basis. How the hell did she do this? Last year, I finally asked her. The first thing she said to me was she had a great man beside her every step of the way, just like I do. Whoa. Now that's a compliment. Mr. and Mrs. Barrell had a great marriage. You just wanted to be around them. After my parents died, it brought me great comfort to be around them. They reminded me so much of my own parents and the love they had for one another. I remember asking them both if they had always planned on having thirteen kids. Their answer? No we planned on twelve. Oh, only twelve? Yes that's much more realistic. <br />
<br />
Now that I'm a mom, I look at Mrs. Barrell in a totally different way. She has lived through plenty of heartache. She had to do the unthinkable and bury one of her own children. Every mom's worst nightmare. And it was her youngest, her baby. After an insane battle with cancer. I watched her every step of the way in total amazement. She even gave the eulogy at his funeral. I knew that day that I wanted to be just like her when I had kids. It was no doubt the worst day of her life, yet she had the strength to get up and eulogize her son like no one else could. My own dad died the very next day. And even though they had just buried their son, they walked right into my Dad's funeral and came up and hugged my brothers and I to let us know they were here for us. Hugs that really meant something. We had them in our lives no matter what. Even though we were now orphaned, we were not alone. We knew we were loved. <br />
<br />
When Mr. Barrell died a few years ago, Mrs. Barrell lost her bestie. It was hard to watch. She was alone. After the funeral, everyone went back to the Barrell house. When I saw Mrs. Barrell I said, wow that was a great funeral. The eulogy was awesome. Her response was perfect. It would have been a hell of a lot better if we could have just said all of those things at his birthday party this year. Um, yeah, that would have been cool too. <br />
<br />
Last week, Mrs. Barrell moved out of the house so many of us called home over the years. A very emotional day for sure. All the memories in that house. All of the legendary St. Patrick Day parties. The singing, the dancing. The laughter, the tears. All memories that will stay with so many of us forever. It truly was a gift to be part of such an amazing family. And even though my mom is not here again this mother's day, I count myself lucky to have Mrs. Barrell in my life. Thank you for everything. <br />
<br />
<br />
*Some names have been changed so the people I'm talking about don't know I'm talking about them.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-8973792247057845252014-05-09T18:19:00.000-05:002014-05-09T21:16:44.168-05:00Community CollegeIn my late teens/early twenties I experimented a lot. With colleges. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. So I hopped around from college to college with a stint at my local community college. This is a period of time in my education that I was serious about everything except education. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQc8cUxS706ioF_JRVww0I4srlPXCMKQs1WbFLqe8oQBUZ96ugClg8VRuh2HRJ76ajdWGvjTMXj4TWLgWuyKqtNL0LGIV0bE-D441-UAYQMu2K0ZW92W3-opUnozV5RLSVPFNZRh5YHPw5/s1600/Community+College+Bowl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQc8cUxS706ioF_JRVww0I4srlPXCMKQs1WbFLqe8oQBUZ96ugClg8VRuh2HRJ76ajdWGvjTMXj4TWLgWuyKqtNL0LGIV0bE-D441-UAYQMu2K0ZW92W3-opUnozV5RLSVPFNZRh5YHPw5/s1600/Community+College+Bowl.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
SNL skit. Community College Bowl.</div>
<br />
My cousin Larry and I were in the same situation. Living at home, working part-time jobs, no real goal or ambition in life. So naturally we took some classes together. Really more so to get our parents off our backs. We didn't really go to most of the classes. It turns out pretending to go to school is a lot harder than actually going to school. I like to think of it as a time where we were just making memories together. Lots of them. <br />
<br />
One of my all time fave memories is of Larry almost getting us killed. We were in this one class together and all I really remember is the teacher wore so much lipstick that her water bottle was covered in it and it really grossed me out. That and this other thing that happened one day. We were sitting in class next to each other. I was half listening and apparently Larry was not listening at all. We liked to write notes to each other and smear Cheetos all over each other's books. Because we were really mature. Anyway, the teacher is all fired up and calls on Larry. She says, what would you do Larry? Larry has not a clue what this woman is talking about. He looks at me and I just smiled. This was going to be good. The teacher says, come on Larry, what if this was one of your sisters? How would that make you feel? Larry was so nervous, he developed a stutter. Umm, umm, umm, well I don't know, I guess I'd be all for it. Yeah I think it's great. OMG. He did not. Yes he did. The entire class was up for grabs. Yelling at poor Larry. What do you mean you're all for it? This one girl was relentless. How would you like it if someone put your balls in a vice and squeezed it as hard as they could, huh, how would you feel about that, Larry? Larry was mortified and I couldn't catch my breath from laughing so hard. Larry was not happy. He said what the hell are they talking about, under his breath. It took me a minute to gather enough self-composer to tell him the topic was Female Genital Mutilation. The teacher asked you how you felt about young girls having their genitals cut so that they could never experience pleasure from sex and you said you're all for it! Especially if it was your own sisters! Pretty sure Larry was still confused with all the big words, but he knew enough to know he stepped in it big time. You would think we would have never gone back to that class after that day. But nope, it was one of the few classes we actually got credit for that semester.<br />
<br />
When you are a broke college student who is trying to avoid going to actual classes, the number of places you have to go are limited. So we spent a lot of time at our grandma's house. We would eat all of her food and watch TV. She knew what we were up to, but loved us and our secret was safe with her. Until one day she started asking some questions. What are we going to do with our lives? When are we going to get our acts together? That sort of thing. So I start by saying I have no clue and I just don't know what the heck I'm going to do. The disappointment was evident. Larry's turn. He takes the bold-faced lie route. He tells dear old grandma that he's actually going to graduate from community college after the next semester. My jaw hit the floor. Grandma turns to me and says, now see why can't you be more like Larry? And if that wasn't bad enough we overheard her later that day telling her friend on the phone how Larry has his act together, but that other one, I don't know what the hell she's going to do. If this was my E! true Hollywood story, I believe this would be what's referred to as rock bottom. Or the time I applied to a bagel shop and didn't get the job. <br />
<br />
Later on, I asked Larry what he was going to do when "graduation day" came and he didn't really graduate? How are you going to explain that to Grandma? He didn't know. But as luck would have it, our grandma died a few months later. Died thinking Larry was a soon to be community college grad and I was a loser. Thanks Lar-bear.<br />
<br />
<br />
*Some names have been changed so the people I'm talking about don't know I'm talking about them.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-72107663866687007252014-05-08T16:59:00.001-05:002014-05-08T16:59:23.551-05:00You Get What You Pay ForA good babysitter is hard to come by. Once you find one, you turn into this crazy possessive stalkerish boyfriend. You become very secretive and vague when talking to friends. Did you guys get a sitter for Saturday night? Um, yeah we did. Oh really who? Oh no one you know, just a friend of the family. What's her name? You know, I'm not really sure. Can I get her number sometime? Oh she doesn't have a phone or else I totally would. <br />
<br />
After we had our first baby, getting a sitter was never an issue. People were calling us to see if they could babysit. Everyone wanted a piece of this kid. It was awesome. Little did we know, just 12 months later when we had our second, that would all come to a crashing halt. No one wants two babies. No. One. No grandparent. No Godparent. No aunt. No uncle. No single friend. No high school girl. No. One. We very quickly realized we needed to find a professional and we needed to open our wallets...wide. And by professional I mean a responsible college-aged girl who could drive and didn't have a curfew. We have very high standards. <br />
<br />
We were very lucky to find Betty. She fit the bill. Not only could she handle two babies, we would also come home to a clean house. No dishes in the sink. Kids asleep in their own beds. It was amazing. And when two babies quickly turned into three, then four babies, Betty was there every step of the way. We could go out whenever we wanted and didn't have to worry about a thing. Just when we thought we had this, we were blindsided. Looking back, we should have seen this coming, but we were too busy enjoying the high life. Betty was having a baby of her own. She was no longer a college student at our beck and call, she was a college grad with her own responsibilities. What do you mean you're having your own baby? Who the hell is going to watch ours? <br />
<br />
So there we were. No one to watch our kids. Sure we could find someone new, but there was only one Betty. Our kids knew Betty. They loved Betty. They didn't want someone who wasn't Betty. We tried to replace her, but to no avail. Betty was not replaceable. <br />
<br />
Anyway, our kids were getting older now. It wasn't so imperative to have the best of the best. Any warm body would do. So my cousin Shelly and I decide to start swapping our kids. We'll take yours whenever you need us and you can take our when we need you. We'll save a ton of money and knowing our kids are with family was reassuring, sort of. Our kids are all besties and loved the idea more than we did. It was perfect. What could possibly go wrong?<br />
<br />
Just ask my youngest. He wasn't quite two when we started the exchanges. Too young to appreciate that there would be two adults for seven children aged 2-8. And this was actually an overnighter. Shelly and Quint not only bought us a night at a hotel downtown, they were also going to watch our kids. It was amazing. The greatest thing that had ever happened to us really. When we asked what time we could drop them off, they said 2 o'clock. We were there at ten to two. We aren't usually so prompt getting four kids out the door, but we're not usually dropping our kids off anywhere. For twenty-four hours. <br />
<br />
Off we went. Not a care in the world. My plan was to have a nice dinner and then go back to the hotel room by 9pm so that I could really enjoy my first night ever of actual sleep. Best laid plans. We ended up partying like we were rock stars and got even less sleep than I normally do. Before you know it, we're on our way back home to get the kids. It was good to see them. I felt like I had to say that. Upon our return, I immediately notice my youngest is missing part of his front tooth. Front and center, I saw it from across the room. When I said ever-so-calmly, "Oh my God, did my baby chip his tooth? I leave him for the first time ever with people I know and trust and this is what happens. What the hell is going on here? Come here, baby. Let mommy hold you. What did these monsters do to you?"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Nf6EY2uFR2NUbrAnS78pSNHV8dw0x1Lh9Acn_wP3u4l7vNPy-ay-7_osE3_GXfxkSfJ5_jbJxu2_IPN8_6ssdjXsXDss4T7KJOdZ6W2grd8y5uCwhOe_kNLy3g2My9-oAfQvWjauZh0d/s1600/dentist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Nf6EY2uFR2NUbrAnS78pSNHV8dw0x1Lh9Acn_wP3u4l7vNPy-ay-7_osE3_GXfxkSfJ5_jbJxu2_IPN8_6ssdjXsXDss4T7KJOdZ6W2grd8y5uCwhOe_kNLy3g2My9-oAfQvWjauZh0d/s1600/dentist.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
That's when it got good. Shelly seemed as shocked as I was. She puts on a good show. She said, what? what are you talking about? oh I don't know is it? What do you mean, you don't know? Look! Then there was an awkward pause, lots of ums, lots of eyes on the floor, then eyes on the ceiling. Then full on denial. Are you sure it wasn't like that when he got here? Yes, I'm sure! Turns out Quint saw the whole thing happen. The little guy just fell and didn't get his arms out in time. And Quint had the piece of tooth in his pocket, in hopes he could plant it at our house when we weren't looking. I did appreciate the fact that they were hoping we wouldn't notice until we got home and would assume it happened on our watch. I would have done the same thing. <br />
<br />
Turns out we should have just paid a sitter because after we received the bill from the dentist, a specialist, mind you, it would have been cheaper. Waaaay cheaper. But I did get a video at the dentist office of my poor little guy withering in pain as they repaired his tooth. Couldn't wait to show it to Shelly and Quint. And keep as a reminder, just in case I drop the ball while watching their kids next time. <br />
<br />
*Some names have been changed so the people I'm talking about don't know I'm talking about them.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-44031557776552990932014-05-07T19:54:00.001-05:002014-05-19T10:50:20.940-05:00Brothers Who Are SistersWhen you are the only girl in the family, it can be tough. Girls tend to be the ones who have to handle everything important when it comes to your parents. The good and the bad. That's why when I had kids I made sure I had two girls 18 months apart. So when shit got real, they'd have each other.<br />
<br />
Like I said, this tends to be the case. But not in my family. When I got married I should have had my brothers as my bridesmaids, but then again, who would have walked me down the aisle? They are more like sisters to me than an actual sister could ever be. We've been through a lot together and I wouldn't change it for the world. <br />
<br />
I'll start with Juan. Juan takes care of business. When our parents died he handled everything and let Dat and I drink ourselves sober on a nightly basis. Usually with Dat wearing our mom's full length fur coat. He's the first-born and he takes that birth-order seriously. He has always taken care of us and puts everyone else first. It's awesome. <br />
<br />
Did I mention how funny he is? A few years ago I was starting a new job at a new school. It was in a questionable area of the city, where Juan happens to work as a policeman. Juan said he'd be there in the morning to make sure I got in ok. I thought jeez Juan, not necessary, but appreciated. Starting a new job in a new school is always nerve-racking. You know, what's the protocol for the teacher's lounge refrigerator? Which bathroom doors have locks that work? Where's the best place to hide out and check Facebook? All the most important things teachers care about. (You know what I'm talking about Rahm). Anyway, the point is, I was nervous. So when I saw Juan, I was relieved to see a familiar face. For about 3 seconds. I pull into the parking lot, full of teachers and students and parents, and Juan follows me. My first thought was, wow that Juan takes his job as big bro seriously. Until, to my horror, I saw the lights and heard the sirens. Then his voice over the loud speaker. "Attention please, if everyone could take a minute to welcome your newest counselor..." and that's where I blacked out. I was mortified. But Juan was in his glory. Rambling on, as Juan tends to do, over the loud speaker. I can honestly say I have never seen him happier. And I was at the hospital the day his kids were born. So I get out of my car and go over to personally thank Juan and he says, that's for the joke you played on me on my 21st birthday. That was fifteen years ago. Whoa. Someone holds a grudge. But well-played Juan.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC8N_8Beh9vHkmHtf_SV4SrzOZEmK_bZ4p2y6BO9LQxrB4RCPKsOSuu7JqLrfCzDDQsEmgmWqucKxFFKeGavGAbA7Wb_Ju2dpN3D-_VmSHgWHOufGXRrTefFtTjdf1Ky1zTP7Rch3J72CJ/s1600/You're+doing+it+wrong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC8N_8Beh9vHkmHtf_SV4SrzOZEmK_bZ4p2y6BO9LQxrB4RCPKsOSuu7JqLrfCzDDQsEmgmWqucKxFFKeGavGAbA7Wb_Ju2dpN3D-_VmSHgWHOufGXRrTefFtTjdf1Ky1zTP7Rch3J72CJ/s1600/You're+doing+it+wrong.jpg" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Now for Dat. Dat and I got into a lot of trouble together and definitely could be to blame for our mother's premature death. My mom kept a ledger of all the money we owed her and when she died the first thing Dat said was, does this mean we don't have to pay all that money back? And that's exactly what it meant. We all like to see the bright side of things. Dat also has kids. Same age as mine and we live very close to one another. Dat is Mr. Mom. He works nights and his wife works days, so Dat has been doing the daily routine since the beginning. And he's good at it. He is the best mom I know. Like a pintrest mom, except he doesn't know how to work a computer. He handles the carpool schedule every week and takes his job seriously. He checks in with us every Sunday, we tell him the days that work for us and he organizes everything and sends us a text with our assignments. It's awesome. Until you screw it up. Like today. I'm still shaken by the experience. I got all my kids up and out in a timely manner, showered and with my face on, because I'm a grown ass woman and I don't wear pajamas to carpool. As I'm thinking about what a great organized mom I am, my cell phone rings. It's Dat. <br />
Dat: Um, where are you? <br />
Me: I'm across the street, psycho. I'm picking up here and I'll be there in a minute to get your kids. <br />
Dat: Why aren't you at home? I'm in your driveway. <br />
Now I'm confused and panic is setting in. <br />
Me: Is it not my day to drive? I thought it was my day to drive. No?<br />
My head is scrambling. I'm not even sure what day today is.<br />
Dat: Why would I be in your driveway if it was your day to drive???<br />
Me: I don't know. I'm so sorry. I thought I was driving today. Do you want me to come there and get the kids from you? <br />
Dat: Stay where you are. Don't move. I'll be there in 2 minutes. <br />
Yikes. So I hurry up and explain to my kids to get out of the car because Uncle Dat is coming to get them. There are lots of questions. But I can't answer them. There's no time! Just get out. Get your bags and get out. My kids know Uncle Dat don't play. So out they go. Waiting in the street for Uncle Dat to save the day. <br />
<br />
A second later, I get the carpool schedule text he sent on Sunday, again. I'm driving Friday. <br />
<br />
*Update, after letting Dat read this before I published it, he suggested I end that last sentence with a question mark. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7010114629339742813.post-41844934814259337072014-05-06T20:06:00.000-05:002014-05-06T21:03:01.002-05:00The Eternal FitAllow me to introduce my Aunt Batsy. She is my Dad's oldest sister. And it would be impossible to truly ever explain her to anyone. But I'm going to try. <br>
<br>
The other day I left my cell phone at her house. I didn't realize it until I got to the grocery store. So it was about an hour before I got back to her house to retrieve it. When I knocked on the door I heard her yell. You left your phone! Your phone is here! Yes, that's why I'm back. She told me it kept ringing the entire time I was gone. That's odd, I normally don't get many calls. Upon further investigation, I see all the missed calls were her trying to get ahold of me to tell me she had my phone. Nine missed calls. From Aunt Batsy. Nine voicemails. From Aunt Batsy. She had my phone. <br>
<br>
Modern technology is not her thing, like many people of her generation. I can't bring myself to tell anyone her age. I'm not even exactly sure I know it. She is the oldest of five siblings and the only girl, but she always told us she was the youngest. So, of course, I believed this. When I was in high school I had my friend over at her house. She asked how old Aunt Batsy was and I answered 35. I mean that's how old Aunt Batsy told me she was. Why would she lie? My friend looked right at me and said, she's not 35. Not even close. That was the first time I really looked at Aunt Batsy and thought about it. My friend was right. Not even close.<br>
<br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKt52GwOGeddvXZlbxLR3zafrXZVTMuO_WOB13v2yvKjyl1psD94EjEoVg5TWPit3SSk60mnOV9U9y9sRuwBaN6dAFv6xeIJHq-ROdKjOm4X-8dUtpAh-bdl2Uy1D_M6C2Y0x8CrjI_Ph/s1600/An+Eternal+Fit.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKt52GwOGeddvXZlbxLR3zafrXZVTMuO_WOB13v2yvKjyl1psD94EjEoVg5TWPit3SSk60mnOV9U9y9sRuwBaN6dAFv6xeIJHq-ROdKjOm4X-8dUtpAh-bdl2Uy1D_M6C2Y0x8CrjI_Ph/s1600/An+Eternal+Fit.JPG" height="240" width="320"></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Shelly, Boo, Aunt Batsy, and me, in more recent years.</div>
<br>
Aunt Batsy lived with my Grandma and took awesome care of her, and that's why my Grandma lived till she was 89. When my grandma died, Aunt Batsy wanted to get her a nice new dress to spend her eternal life in. So my cousins, Boo and Shelly, and I, took her shopping. This is where it got weird. We arrived at the store and Aunt Batsy didn't want to tell anyone why we were there. Just a couple of college-aged girls and their aunt shopping in the old lady dress section. We find a nice peach-colored, bedazzled dress that screams eternity. So then it happens. She looks at us and asks, ok, which one of you are going to try it on? Um, excuse me? Try on the dress our dead Grandma is going to be buried in? Gross. No thanks. Immediately, Boo and I take a step back and there's Shelly, front and center volunteering. Turns out Shelly didn't really have a problem with this. She rather enjoyed it. She came out of that dressing room and rocked that old lady dress. The rhinestones made her eyes sparkle. Shelly even went as far as to lay down in it, so we could get a glimpse of how it would actually look on Grandma. Now that's a granddaughter. <br>
<br>
I like to write on Facebook about Aunt Batsy. Just a pic of her and my kids. Something funny she said or did. She's great material. Little did I know she knew about all this. Turns out, she gets calls from people who see the posts. So I'm over there one day and she has something really important to tell me. So important I can't even remember what it was. But she looks me right in the eye and says dead seriously, now this is between me and you, don't go posting this on ebay. I promise I will never post anything you say on ebay. And I never have.<br>
<br>
<br>
*Some names have been changed so the people I'm talking about don't know I'm talking about themAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11989437980233716531noreply@blogger.com5