Baseball and Itchy Butts

23777071_sMy five-year old son, Bryce, just finished his first regular season of Little League Baseball.  It was a fun season and all the boys seemed to learn a lot and have a good time.  They slowly progressed from chaotic dog piling on every ball to learning to work as a team, and for the most part, learn the boundaries of each position to support each other on the field.

During our last game of the season Bryce was placed in the position of pitcher.  He didn’t really have to pitch to the kid at bat, but he maintained that position for his team.  There was a coach positioned several feet in front of him and the coach pitched to the kids since the five-year old division is a combination of live pitch and t-ball.

So imagine this adorable five-year old kid in ‘baseball ready’ position, on the pitcher’s mound, in plain sight of everyone.  (I was watching the game from the dugout, helping another mom to manage the boys and organize them during each inning transition.)  I’m watching Bryce, shouting encouragement to him and the rest of the team, and then I see him use his ungloved hand to go in for a deep and prolonged wedgie grab.  His hand was on the outside of his pants but he was working the angles, maneuvering  his hips to get a good handful of whatever he was looking for.

The other mom starts cracking up, and I shout to Bryce and give him the what-the-heck-are-you-doing-face.   He looks up at me, smiles and gives me a thumbs up.  And then he goes right back into the ass-grabby position, but this time he takes his glove off and is digging at his butt from both the front and the back.  He’s bent forward, looking between his legs as he attacks himself, and he’s digging for gold like a marathon miner.  He’s in the middle of the field just going to town, completely oblivious to the game continuing around him.  Balls are flying past him and he’s more concerned about whatever is going on in his pants than the rest of the inning.  He ignores my shouts to pay attention to the game.

At the end of the inning the kids all run back to the dugout and I start checking his pants, thinking (hoping) that surely all that ass-grabbing had to do with his sliding shorts either riding up or being bunched wrong under his pants.  So I ask, “Why were you digging at your bottom out there?  Are your sliding shorts riding up?”  And in front of everyone he says, “Nope, I was itching my butt.  I think I sharted and I need to wipe it.”

IMG_1115My kid used the word sharted in front of his team and other parents.  The other mom next to me is thoroughly losing her shit with laughter.  As my face turned red with shame, I looked at her and said, “Please inform the Delegation of Perfect Parents that I will have to forfeit my membership and my Parent of the Year award…again.”

Happy Mother’s Day…mostly.

WORLD-S-OKAYEST-MOM-Women-s-T-ShirtsHappy Mother’s Day world!

Today my family gave me the most wonderful, relaxing morning.  They spoiled me with lovely cards, perfect gifts and my husband made breakfast with mimosa’s AND cleaned it all up.  I took a leisurely shower and took my time getting ready for my special day.

And then one of the cat’s threw up in my freshly washed hair.  I guess she decided I needed to be reminded that I am not a Queen, and just a mother, after all.  😉

Locker Room Ladies

So I went to the gym today, and while I was unloading my stuff into a locker I got sucked into the most bizarre conversation with two elderly women.  I’m guessing they were in their 70’s?????

naked towel ladyI’ve talked before about the hilarity of the old ladies in the gym locker room.  They just stand around naked and exchange recipes, acting like group nudity in the locker room is the new sewing circle.  And don’t even get me started on their bizarre habits with the hair dryers.  The management at the gym has now put up signs asking that the hair dryers only be used for the hair on your head.  I’ll just let that sink in for a second….

Anyway, this older woman was having a conversation with another woman about thong underwear.  She was explaining to her friend how she prefers to wear thongs.  The other woman was looking at her like she was crazy and basically said, “At our age, why in the hell would want to wear a thong?  Aren’t they uncomfortable?”  And the other woman is going on and on about how you just get used to the discomfort of it.  Then she takes her thong underwear out of her gym bag and starts waving it around and saying, “Look how small they are!”  And they were small.  They had a small triangle of fabric and basically three strings attached to it.  So her friend says, “Why do you even bother to wear underwear then?”  And the other woman looks at me and says, “Well, I bet you wear thong underwear?”

big eyesWTH?  How did I get sucked into this discussion?

So I replied, “Actually, I don’t.  I’ve never been comfortable with the general construction of thong underwear, and I don’t care for how they feel.  I prefer regular underwear.”  And the one woman chimes in, “Me too!  I’ll take panty lines any day rather than have a string up my ass!”

(I’m laughing at the absurdity of having this conversation with two seventy + year old ladies.)

At this point, another woman is listening to the conversation as well.  The woman who wears the thong continues to chat about her preference of intimate apparel while trying to wrench her sports bra over her head.  And then she got stuck.  She’s flailing around, her boobies are bouncing back and forth and she’s basically trapped in her sports bra with her arms stuck over her head.  So the other lady asks her if she needs help, and the two of them have to wrestle this woman out of her bra.

laughing emojiI swear to God, I can’t make this shit up.

As I’m leaving the locker room, I said to the fourth woman who is laughing quietly in front of her locker, “You know it’s a bad day when you get trapped in your underwear at the gym and you need to call for an assist.”

That Time I Lost My Sh*t at the Grocery Store

In the feminine hygiene aisle, no less.

my-neighbors-diary-said-i-have-boundary-issues-0341d[1]I went to the store to purchase a handful of items, and tampons were on my list.  I was standing in the aisle looking for my preferred brand, and I felt someone standing close behind me.  Close, like only people who know me well, close.   And I have a thing about people who don’t respect personal boundaries, especially in public, so I became very still and just waited for them to move on.  The person behind me didn’t move.  About ten seconds later, a man cleared his throat and said hello.

WTF?

Why is a man trying to talk to me in the feminine hygiene aisle?  Who does this?  No one does this because it is forbidden!  Standard rules of etiquette clearly state that no man ever should approach a woman in this particular aisle, for any reason, especially when she is standing directly in front of tampons.  I salute the men who purchase female products for their wives, sisters, daughters, etc…I myself used to force my older brother to buy my pads and tampons when I was a teenager because I was too embarrassed to do it myself.  I even sent my brother’s friend into the store once, and when he bought the wrong thing, I made him go back and return it.  There were perks to being a cute girl in high school, and I used that to my advantage when my monthly visitor came.  But everyone knows you don’t try to strike up a conversation with a woman for any reason while she is shopping this aisle.

I slowly turned around to find a young-ish, good-looking man with a nice smile staring at me.  Had to be in his late twenties.  He was holding a few fancy black gift bags and he immediately started talking…

Man:  How are you today?

Me:  No.  Just….no.

Man: (confused look on his face) Ummmm, what?

Me:  Please don’t do this.  Please don’t try to talk to me or sell me something right now.  Just…..don’t.  Please just walk away.

Man:  Ummm, well I would like to talk to you about these great cosmetics I have here…

Me:  Oh my God!  Stop talking!  I don’t want to be rude to you, but you need to walk away from me right now.  Do you see where I am?  Do you understand how inappropriate this is?  I am buying tampons!  Tampons!  You don’t try to interrupt and sell make-up to women in the fucking tampon aisle!  What the hell is wrong with you?

Man:  (pissy look on his face)  Well, I am sorry to disturb you.

Me:  You should be sorry! What kind of perv are you?

11870926_10205390023731595_6675434545531510468_n[1]He then turned around, beet red in the face and walked away. I ran into him a few aisles over in the ice cream section as he was trying to chat up another woman.  I shot him a dirty look and kept walking, after I grabbed my chocolate peanut butter ice cream, of course.

I went home and told my husband, “Some poor sales guy just had a really rough day because of me.”

Minerva and the Not-So Magic Pee

Meet Minerva.  AKA, Minnie for short.  IMG_0001

She’s the newest member of our family.  A little over a month ago my husband was walking our son to school, and along the way he found this adorable kitten on the sidewalk around the corner from our house.  She was dirty, covered in fleas, but very friendly.  They stopped to pet her and when she was still sitting there on his way back home, he decided she needed his help.  He brought her home and made signs to put up around the neighborhood indicating a lost kitten had been found and gave his contact info so her owner could come and claim her.

In the meantime, he took her to the vet and had her checked out to make sure she was healthy.  He had her bathed, flea dipped and had the vet start her kitten shots since we were unsure if she’d had any vet care.  The vet estimated her to be about six months old.   When he got home I said, “You just spent $200 at the vet on a stray cat.  Are you sure you aren’t planning to keep her?”

IMG_0027The truth is that Dan has always been unable to walk away from an animal in need.  And I really do love that about his personality.  If he can help someone, or save an animal, he will do it.  No questions asked.  And the other motivating factor is that this kitten likes him.  She claimed him from day one for her very own.  We have two other cats and Dan rescued them both.  Lucy shows a decided preference for our daughter, and Linus prefers me above all others.  Dan is tired of cleaning litter boxes and saving the lives of animals who then don’t give a shit about his feelings.  He saves them and then they shut him out.  But not Minerva.  He decided to work from home the day he picked her up off the street and I don’t think she left his lap for several hours while he worked.  She loves him and has grown more attached to him over the past several weeks.

It’s been about six weeks now and no one called to claim her.  So Dan named her after Minerva McGonagall from the Harry Potter book series.  About two weeks ago, Minnie went into heat.  I had forgotten that female kittens could start their heat cycles as early as six months of age, and she’s about 7 1/2 months old now.  It’s been years since I’ve had an intact female in the house, and believe me when I say that I now realize why vets and breeders encourage you to spay/neuter your pets as quickly as possible.

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She loves to lay in the sink.

The past two weeks have been…..stressful.  She yowls at all hours of the day and night.  Like, she is literally singing the song of her people.   She’s constantly making some kind of noise and she makes these chirpy bird like sounds.  I read on the internet that she’s trying to identify and call a mate.  I’m thanking God the weather has been cool and we’ve had the windows closed, otherwise my house would be surrounded by male cats.  And she’s started scent marking!  OMFG!  I thought only male cats did that.  And our other female, Lucy, who was fixed years ago is not having any of it.  She is mad as hell that Minnie is trying to mark over what she considers to be her territory and she is aggressively attacking Minnie at every opportunity.  So between the constant sex calls at all hours, trying to prevent this kitten from peeing all over my house, and heading off or breaking up serious, fur flying, claws drawing blood cat fights, my patience is worn thin.

Dan took her to the vet to have her fixed the day after we realized she had started the heat cycle, but they wouldn’t do the procedure until she was finished.  So we’ve been living in cat hell for two weeks.  And last night it got worse…

Don't let that sweet face deceive you!

Don’t let that sweet face deceive you!

At 3am, I woke up suddenly when I rolled over from my stomach and felt my pajama bottoms were wet on the back of my thigh.  I reached down and touched my pants and there was a circle of something wet.  And it wasn’t a little wet, but saturated.  I smelled it and it was fucking cat pee!  I jumped out of bed thinking Minnie had pee’d in the bed.  I started frantically feeling around in the dark trying to determine the extent of the damage, but everything was dry.  I woke Dan up but he couldn’t find the mess either.  Cat pee does not magically appear on your person, so there had to be a spot on the bed, right?

Nope.  That little shit pee’d on me while I was sleeping!  Dan said, “I think she was trying to mark you as her territory.”  And I said, “Well, I am not fucking flattered!”

She gets fixed on Wednesday, and Wednesday can’t come soon enough.

Girls Trip 2016

Hello, world!

It’s been awhile.  I’ve been absent from my blog for almost two months now, in part because life is so busy and requires my complete and total attention, and also because for a while there I just didn’t have anything interesting to share with you.

However, I’ve recently returned from my annual high school girls trip and that is definitely worth sharing! Every year in the spring I go on a girls only trip with three of my great friends from high school.  Last year we went to Charleston, SC.   This year, my girls came here to Los Angeles.

LA is a big city, and for most of the vacay we wanted the feel of paradise.  Originally, we had planned to go to Catalina Island, but El Nino is an asshole and we couldn’t predict whether or not the weather would hold up for us.    So we opted to stay at a resort in Palos Verdes called Terranea.  It’s one of the most beautiful properties I’ve ever seen, and spending four days there was absolute heaven.  We hiked the trails around the cliffs of the resort, took a whale watching tour out on the ocean, laid by the pool and drank fun cocktails in the sun overlooking the Pacific.  We laughed, cackled at each other, talked and caught up on everything that’s happened over the past year.  Yeah, we know how to girls trip!

 

The view from our room!

The view from our room!

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From the pool, looking out over the Pacific ocean.

From the pool, looking out over the Pacific ocean.

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A Sea Cave!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hiking trails

Whale watching!

Whale watching!

 

Sea Lions!

Sea Lions!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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There were, shall we say, moments that weren’t so perfect.  But my annual girls trip wouldn’t be what it is without some mayhem and madness along the way.  As usual, each of my friends has elected to use the name of their alter ego to protect their privacy and what’s left of their reputations.  We come from a small town, so….you know.

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The first night at the resort was the most intense.  And by intense I mean absolutely, fucking, bat-shit crazy.  Belinda lives a very responsible life of dedication to her family and her community.  So during girls trip she likes to let go.  With us, it’s a safe zone.  Jasmine is slightly more tame than Belinda, but only just.  Piper is  far more restrained and likes to relax and rest during girls trip.  I’m somewhere in the middle.  I enjoy going out and having fun but I don’t want to feel like death for three days, so I try to balance my alcohol intake and late nights in a way that allows me to enjoy the entire weekend.

10346188_10204729490055839_5592960337039461547_n[1]After an afternoon of drinking by the pool, and then drinking at dinner, Piper went to bed to read her book while Belinda, Jasmine and I went down to the lobby bar for some live music and more drinks.  I was tired, so I knew I wouldn’t stay out long but wanted to experience the hotel and I love live music.  After one drink in the lobby I went back up to the room, leaving Jasmine and Belinda behind to no doubt wreak havoc on the other guests and each other.  (I later heard some stories about a male, Armenian ballet dancer???)

An hour and a half later, the girls staggered into the room.  I have no idea what Jasmine promised Belinda to get her to go upstairs, but  I have no doubt bribery was involved.  When intoxicated, it takes an act of God to get Belinda to leave a party.  Regardless, they had the brilliant idea to turn our spa-style bathtub into a “hot tub.”  Piper was sound asleep.  I wasn’t.  I laid there listening to them filling the tub with scalding hot water, sloshing water all over our luxury hotel bathroom.  The conversation was as you’d expect.  Drunk, nonsensical hilarity.  They didn’t have a candle for the ambience so they put Vick’s Vapor Rub in the “hot tub” water to make it smell like a spa.  And do you know what happens when you’re drunk and you get into really hot water, which then thins your blood even more?  That’s right, it heightens the sensation of being drunk, makes you dizzy and disoriented.  And do you know what happens when you’re drunk and become disoriented?

11889619_872407892795412_4534014423081678605_n[1]I heard Belinda say, “I’m not feeling so well.”  Annnnnd, here it comes.  I was actually glad she got sick.  That way she could expel all the alcohol from her stomach and she could just pass out and sleep it off.  A little while later she stumbled to the bed and fell asleep next to me.  I got up to use the restroom and spent the next twenty minutes cleaning up the bathroom.  Water and vomit.  Good times.

I tried to go to sleep.  It wasn’t happening.  I was so tired and I had Puky-McPukerson on one side of me and Snory-McSnorerson on the other side of the room.  Jasmine was sick with a chest cold, wasted and passed out, snoring like a damn freight train.  Somehow Piper slept through the cluster-fuck.  I laid there, forever, pissed off and contemplating the purpose of this nightmare.  Why was I awake and unable to fall asleep while everyone else caused havoc and then slept peacefully, unaware of how much I was hating the whole world in that moment?

Then it happened.

10570476_10152232302186751_7149028096365490249_n[1]I heard Belinda making a weird noise next to me and realized she had begun to get sick in her sleep.  I jumped up, rolled her over and ran to the bathroom to get a towel.  At one point Piper woke up, saw me standing there with a towel in one hand and a pillow covered in puke in the other.  Our eyes met and she registered what was happening.  She smiled a smile that said, “better you than me,” and she rolled over and went back to sleep.   Bitches.

I cleaned her up, made sure she was turned on her side, and tried to go to sleep.  I’d like to think I was awake all night because I was meant to save Belinda from an ugly, Jimi Hendrix style death.  But there was nothing I could do to stop Jasmine from snoring all night.  So I laid there in my expensive, fancy hotel room.  Hating the world.

I think I finally fell asleep sometime after 4am.  The last time I looked at the clock it was 3:45am.  Then at 6am, Jasmine gets out of bed and starts moving around the room.  She slams the bathroom door, twice.  She opens the heavy draped curtains and let’s a flood of light into the dark room that blinds me, even with my eyes closed.  She staggers to the phone next to me and starts randomly punching numbers in the dark, trying to call for room service.  Then she stage whispers as loud as she can, “I’m so sorry.  Did I wake you up?  I’m still drunk and I feel like shit.”  Then she says to the person on the phone, “I need a spoon!  Can you bring me a spoon?  I need a spoon for my yogurt.  Does this room have coffee in it?”

Are you kidding me?!  Awake….at 6am….for a spoon.

5430_1117012754976571_6374602042068399513_n[1]Much later in the day I was able to laugh about it.  After I had taken an afternoon nap and stopped hating everyone.  Belinda felt really bad.  She thanked me for taking care of her.  That’s what friends are for.  You should never worry about drowning in sick while in the company of life long friends.  And I know that if I was at my worst they would take care of me.  Probably.  If they weren’t all passed out drunk.  Except they wouldn’t write about it and tell my sad tale for the whole world to read, which actually makes them better friends than me.

Sorry, not sorry.   😉

Physical Therapy is Hard

10325771_10152178862025945_3803660742779114138_n[1]If you’ve ever done physical therapy, this won’t come as a surprise to you.

I’ve been in PT for about four weeks now trying to address the issues with my knees.  It’s going well, but it’s painful.  I’m working to strengthen my hips, legs and knees in order to help my knees maintain their alignment and also alleviate the pain associated with the loss of cushioning and cartilage.

My first active session with my therapist was both embarrassing and torturous.

First, she put me through a series of hip and leg exercises that were expected and not all that different from working out with my trainer.  It felt like a workout, but that was good.  Afterwards, she “stretched me out.”  This is where it gets embarrassing.

Like this, except laying on or your back with a therapist looming over you.

Like this, except laying on your back with a therapist looming over you.

She had me lay diagonally across a therapy table, and positioned my legs so that one foot was braced on her shoulder, and the other was bent as far back as possible under the table.  She leaned into me so that my knee was almost touching my shoulder, and she used her body to stretch my other leg back under the table, stretching my quad and hip flexor.  Outside the context of a PT room, this would have looked like some serious girl on girl action.  I was so embarrassed by the positioning, and we were not alone in the room, I had to stare at the ceiling.  I could not look her in the face while we were in this ridiculous position.

Then, with my leg jacked up to my shoulder, she digs her forearm into the top of my other thigh and says, “Your hips are so tight.  Your quads and hamstrings are strong, but your hips are really tight and weak.”

Gasping through the pain of her shredding my muscle with her tiny arms of steel, I said, “No way!  My hips aren’t weak!  My hips are bangin’!”

Just kidding.  I didn’t say that, and my hips aren’t bangin’.  Well, at least not in that way.  My hips are awesome in a good-Midwestern-stock-breeding-hips sort of way.  I actually had a doctor tell me once that I was “good Midwestern stock.”  I probably should have been offended by that at the time.

Anyway, this freaky, painful stretching escapade lasted for several minutes and then she moved me into the same position with the other leg.  At one point I had to put my arm over my face and turn away because I refused to allow anyone in that room to see how much pain I was in.  I kept chanting to myself quietly, “Don’t cry in public, don’t cry in public.   Only candy-ass, wussie girls cry in public!”  The next morning as I was getting dressed, I noticed multiple bruises all over the tops of both my thighs.

I don't know this guy.  It's a stock photo, but an accurate depiction of pervy guy.

I don’t know this guy. It’s a stock photo, but an accurate depiction of pervy guy.

This physical torture has continued for four long weeks.  The stretching has gotten better and less painful, although there is one dude also receiving therapy who seems to enjoy watching my stretching sessions with more enthusiasm than I’m comfortable with. I’m pretty certain he’s a pervert and probably getting off on the visual.  I secretly hope the therapist gives him an extra dig with her elbow when she’s manipulating his muscles.

I wish I could say that I’ve noticed a significant difference between the knee shots and therapy, but so far, it’s mostly the same.  Pain, grinding, and more pain.  My therapist admitted to me that some people don’t experience any pain relief from the shots.  That’s disheartening considering that I only need one more shot to complete the course of my treatment.

So yeah, physical therapy is not for sissies.

I lost my sh*t over a chicken burrito.

1375266_183307995188929_1395468096_n[1]Have you ever had one of those moments when you’re being completely irrational, and you know you are, but you feel so angry and the anger becomes explosive and you just say and do things you know are ridiculous?

Yeah…..that.

I had been to the doctor for another shot in my knee.  I’ve learned that the hours following a shot are very uncomfortable for me.  I experience a significant amount of pain and soreness for about five hours afterward.  For this reason, I schedule the appointments for the late afternoon, then come home and ice my knees.  Prior to the appointment that day I asked Dan to handle dinner.  I would be arriving home right at dinner time and I didn’t want to deal with cooking and waiting on everyone while trying to manage the pain.

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If I’m being completely honest, I was a little emotional before going to the doctor.  I wasn’t looking forward to it.  The shots hurt.  And in hindsight, I think I just wanted my family to take care of me, instead of being the one who takes care of everyone else.

So, I get home and no dinner is being prepared.   Dan is sitting on the couch with the kids.  I’m starving, sore and starting to get pissed.  I asked him what he planned to do for dinner and he said he was going to order Mexican food.

Fine.

I get my ice pack and get settled on the couch with my knee propped up just so.  Thirty minutes later, Dan is still looking online for a restaurant.  He makes a comment about how he wishes I liked this one particular place that has always been his favorite.  We never order from there because I don’t like their food.  I said, “We can order from there.  I’ll just order something I know they can’t screw up.”  The last time we ordered from this place my dinner was horrible.  And I should mention, that it’s almost become a joke in our family that when we order food, if any order gets screwed up, it’s almost always mine.

So I ask Dan to order me a chicken burrito, with mild green Verde sauce.  Just a basic chicken burrito.  He triple checked my order before he completed the online transaction.  Now he’s super psyched that he gets dinner from one of his favorite places.

By the time the food arrives it’s been over two hours since I got home.  I’m starving and in the throes of my knee pain.  I’m really looking forward to this chicken burrito.

I hobble to the kitchen because it hurts to put full weight on my knee.  I start sorting the containers and handing out food.  The meal Bryce ordered is much smaller than we expected, so he finishes his dinner before I’m done handing out food.  I can’t find my food.  There are two wet burritos.  One with a red sauce, and one with an orange sauce.  Dan ordered the red sauce.  We both realize that my order is wrong.  Typical.

11742696_852734621489780_6998242670582154321_n[1]My anger starts to simmer.

I open the lid and dip a fork into the sauce to see if it’s edible.  Holy shit!  It’s orange fire sauce!  I start choking and gagging as the liquid fire slides down my throat. I involuntarily cry out, “Motherfucker!”  Even Dan, who LOVES spicy food, agreed this sauce covering the burrito was almost inedible.

Dan offered me his burrito in exchange, but I hate red sauce.  It tastes like starch and yucky things.  He gets online to contact the restaurant to tell them they made a mistake and get me the correct burrito.

In the meantime, Bryce is asking for more dinner.  He’s still hungry and there is nothing else in the order that he can eat.  He says he would like some plain pasta.  I look to Dan, expecting him to make the pasta so I can go sit down with some ice, but Dan has his burrito and is on his way to the table where he casually sits down to eat.  He says the restaurant is sending over a new burrito for me.  And he starts eating…

My anger kicks up to another level at this point.  Like, I want to start yelling, but that won’t help the situation, so I tamp it down.  I’m taking deep, calming breaths.

12193414_1335715706533359_6012803108434747774_n[1]I start hobbling around the kitchen, making another dinner for Bryce.  I don’t say anything.  I can’t believe he just sat down to eat his dinner and is watching me limp around the kitchen, cooking, which is exactly what I asked him to help me avoid this evening.  I’m so pissed.  But if I lose my shit, somehow I feel like the asshole.  So I suck it up and make pasta for Bryce.  I have left-over sauce in the fridge, he just needs fresh pasta.  Simple enough.  Except that my knee is throbbing, and I can actually feel my heartbeat in my knee.

I finish making and serving him dinner, and clean up the mess.  At this point, everyone else has eaten, except me.  I go sit down with my ice.  Another 45 minutes later and my new burrito arrives.  And guess what….

It was the same goddamned orange fire sauce burrito they sent me the first time!  I waited over an hour for them to send me the same fucking inferno-burrito!  It’s like this burrito was made in hell, and Satan keeps sending it forth to taunt me!

I yelled.  I cursed.  I slammed cabinets as I limped around the kitchen, re-heating left-overs that I could have eaten over three fucking hours ago when I got home from the doctor.  All I wanted was for someone else to handle dinner so I could sit and elevate my knee and deal with the pain.  I was out of my mind with anger and resentment.  I sat at the counter, eating my shitty left-overs, hating all of them with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.

Word.

Word.

When I was done, I limped back to the couch.  It was 8:30pm.  I wanted to cry.  I wanted to yell and throw shit.  The anger was a physical pain in my chest and I had no outlet to get rid of it.  I wanted just one member of my family to pay attention to me and care that I was upset.  I looked at the three of them sitting on the sofas.  All of them had their faces buried in their technology.  All of them content, happily fed and taken care of.  I flipped each one of them off.  A prolonged, middle finger stuck in the air, pointed in each of their directions.  I didn’t even care how inappropriate that action was.  Not one of them looked up.  Then I said, “Screw you guys.”  No reaction.  They hadn’t heard me because they were all so self-absorbed with their iPads, iPods and computers.  I think I hate Apple products now.

So I left the room.  Not one of them noticed that I even got up.  I limped upstairs and put myself to bed.  I laid there hating the whole world, lamenting the injustices of being an unappreciated wife and mother, and vowing from the depths of my soul to never wash their dirty underwear again, until I fell asleep.

A few days later we were having dinner with another couple.  The husband starting telling a funny story about how he and his wife got into a ridiculously intense argument over an apple pie crust.  It was in the same vein as my sad tale, so I said, “I completely understand.  I lost my shit over a chicken burrito the other night.”  As I was re-telling the story, Dan had no idea that I’d flipped him off and basically told him to go screw himself before leaving the room.  As I retold this part of the story, he burst out laughing, grabbed me by the face and kissed me at the table in front of everyone.  Then he said, “THAT’s why I love you!”

Apparently he likes his women like he likes his burritos.  Fiery!  😉

Holiday Rant

It’s been a rough week around here.  My family had a nice Christmas, and I’m thankful for that.  But for everything else that has happened in the past ten days or so…well, all I can say about that is, “Hey world, go fuck yourself.”

Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

The entire week of Christmas my son was terribly sick with RSV.   For those of you who don’t have young kids, that’s a nasty respiratory virus that likes to linger and can often cause hospitalizations.  Bryce didn’t need to go to the hospital, but he did require round the clock breathing treatments and he had a fever for six days.  We were pretty much house bound the entire week of Christmas.  My husband and I started coming down with symptoms on Christmas day.  It only makes sense given how Bryce repeatedly coughed in our faces while we were caring for him.  He can’t help it.  He’s five.  The upside to this was that during our quarantine, we binge watched all the Star Wars movies and all eight Harry Potter movies.

We then had to cancel our holiday travel plans due to the respiratory virus that began sweeping its way through our house.   Our relatives thanked us for not exposing them to our hateful contagion.

10981156_901959096513277_5750103026687627852_n[1]Two days after Christmas, while this virus was happily laying waste to my holiday cheer and energy levels, I got on Facebook and found that the world had turned itself upside down.  You know those moments in life where your reality sort of tips over and sends you free-falling?  Two days after Christmas I discovered that an old friend whom I had known for more than twenty-five years had passed away.  We went to high school together and we kept in touch mostly through Facebook.  I know many people wouldn’t call that friendship, but I went to a small school, and many of us keep in touch with each other through this medium.  We post pictures of our kids and laugh with each other over the trials of parenting.  Well, this friend was a beautiful human being.  She radiated sunshine and light.  She was 40 years old and a mother of five beautiful children.  And, as it turns out, most of us didn’t know she was suffering.   I had no idea she suffered from depression.  I think most of us didn’t know.  She was always happy smiles and kind words, always giving of herself to help others.  She was a great mom and the kind of parent you sometimes envied.  You know, the one who seems to find the time to make everything from scratch and still look beautiful and like she totally has everything together. The day after Christmas she took her own life.  My heart is broken for her family.  For her children.  I can’t even  imagine the emotional pain she must have been suffering to make that choice.  To feel like that was the only option left to her.  Depression is a dirty, rotten, lying mother-fucker and it has claimed another beautiful soul.

Yesterday, my husband called our plumber out to the house because he noticed our hot-water heater was leaking.  Well, not only does the water heater need to be replaced, but unbeknownst to us, it had been leaking for a while, and we discovered black mold growing inside the wall and under the flooring.  We had a crew working all day yesterday, ripping out moldy drywall, wood boards and flooring.  We had no idea it was inside the wall.  I now have an industrial size de-humidifier in my house that sounds like a damn jet engine.  And because of the holiday and drying out/treatment process, nothing can be done for about five more days.  Half of my garage is tented off and part of the stairwell inside as well.  The noise from the de-humidifier is deafening, and I have no hot water for the next week or so.  I know, first world problems.  Blah, blah, blah.

Last night, I went to urgent care to deal with this respiratory virus that seems to be getting worse.  My lungs feel like they’re on fire and my throat feels like I’ve been swallowing glass.  The doctor at the urgent care was super hot.  (Huge sigh, accompanied by an eye roll.)  I look like death warmed over and I’ve got that awesome bright red ring around my nose that’s all chapped and painful.  I accidentally coughed in his face.  I’m sure he gets that a lot.  Whatever.  He says I have bronchitis. He gave me good drugs, so I’m thankful for hot doctor.

12208257_554026368082052_6033707881857329575_n[2]Today, after not sleeping much and dreaming about friends lost, I was woken up at the crack of dawn by the sounds of the moldy men crew using electric saws to cut apart my walls, once again.  After they left, my husband left for San Diego.  He’s going to the Holiday Bowl with his best friend.  While I’m home…sick…with two kids…all the pets…in a house that sounds like it’s sitting on an airport runway.  He’ll be home tomorrow.  He’s staying with his friend in San Diego tonight because it’s a night game.  That means he’ll get a hot shower tomorrow before he comes home.  I can’t shower.  Because there is no hot water.  For a week.  I think I hate him a little bit right now, but it’s not really his fault.  But I’m going to act like it is because I need someone to blame.  I know, it’s the bronchitis talking.

This past week has really kicked the shit out of me.  I’m exhausted, physically and emotionally.  So instead of writing a Happy New Year post filled with bullshit optimistic resolutions, I’m just going to be thankful for my life.  I’m thankful for my family, my recovering health (Yay for drugs!), that I have a house and the resources to fix what’s broken.  I’m thankful for my friends, both real and imagined (that means you WordPress!).  I’m thankful for hot doctors and urgent care centers.  I’m thankful for pharmacies, pizza delivery guys, Advil, coffee and that box of homemade fudge my neighbor brought over.  I’m thankful for endless boxes of tissues and Carmex ointment to put on my chapped nose.  And lastly, I’m thankful for the heart that beats in my chest.  The heart that fills with joy at the sight of my family and also breaks with sadness at the loss of a friend.  I’m thankful for my ability to feel and love and grow from the hard things in life.

11822851_10207260211610394_4385503862862472382_n[1]

Happy New Year, world.  Wherever you are, may your New Year be filled with light and love.

Cheers,

Wanda

This is how I know I’m getting old, Part 2

Several months ago I wrote a post titled, This is how I know I’m getting old.    I talked mostly about how my attitude and perspectives about various things have changed over the years, for better or for worse.

Well, my attitude is not the only thing that’s been changing.  As my 94 year-old Nanny would say, “Getting old is not for sissies.”

Here are a few more tell-tale indicators that I am officially old.

1.  When I was younger, if I had a weird pain in my abdomen I wouldn’t think twice about it and blamed it on the pizza I ate for dinner.  Now, weird pains in any part of my body makes me worry about kidney stones, ulcers, cancer and any number of horrible diseases that seem to be an inevitable part of aging.  I’m 41, and it’s logical to think my shit is going to start falling apart.  I didn’t worry about my liver in my twenties.  Now, with every cocktail, I worry that my liver is 41 years-old and may not appreciate my love of wine and margaritas.  The same holds true for all my other organs.  I think to myself, “Damn, my lower back hurts, I hope my kidneys aren’t about to have a mid-life crisis.”

2. I have sun spots on the back of my left hand, but not on my right hand.  My left hand is my driving hand and the hand that gets the most sun exposure when I’m in the car.  Now I hate myself for not putting sunscreen on that hand before driving every day for the last 25 years.  No one thinks about sun spots or sun damage on their hands when they’re 25!

11195999_s3.  When I was eighteen, my mom warned me that as I aged the elasticity around my eyes would be one of the first things to go.  Her intention was to provoke me into a routine of good skin care.  Thankfully I listened to her, for the most part.  But she was right.  The skin on my eyelids isn’t as tight as it used to be, and I can no longer wear any type of shimmer eye-shadow because it accentuates the loose skin and makes me look like an old hooker.

4. Saggy boobs.  Sigh.  I won’t go into too much detail about this because, you know, TMI.  But I will say two things on this subject.  1. I would kill to have my 25 year-old boobies back, and 2.  Gravity combined with Age is a double whammy of a mother-fucker and I hate you both.

5. More often than I care to admit, I will walk into a room to do something and realize I’ve completely forgotten what I entered that room to do.  My short-term memory is for shit at this point, and it never fails.  I will walk all the way back downstairs and then remember what I walked upstairs to do.  So then I have to walk back up the stairs, which is hell on my knees.  And this leads me to #6…

If you're too young to get this reference, then I feel sorry for you.

If you’re too young to get this reference, then I feel sorry for you.

6. About two years ago, I noticed my knees were starting to hurt when I walked up stairs.  Then it was my ankles.  I went from being able to do jogging intervals during my workouts to low impact incline intervals because my knees and ankles couldn’t handle the impact from jogging anymore.  Also, whenever I bend at the knees or ankles, twist or pivot those joints, everything goes snap, crackle and pop.  The other night my knee popped so loudly it sounded like bone snapping and my husband looked at me and said, “Holy shit, was that you?”  Arthritis runs heavily in my family and my mom and grandmother have both had knee replacements.  After multiple workouts with my trainer that resulted in extreme pain in my knees and ankles, she insisted that I stop ignoring the problem and see an orthopedist.

About two weeks ago I had my first appointment with the orthopedist.  During the appointment I was shuttled between various techs, X-ray,  and the doctor’s physician’s assistant.  At one point, two techs got into an argument over which one of them was to assist me to an exam room.  Here’s how the conversation went:

Tech 1:  I’ll be taking you to exam room 4.

Tech 2:  No, she’s with me in room 6.

(I’m standing in between these two guys who are towering over me.  They’re young, perhaps in their mid-twenties.)

Tech 1:  Are you trying to steal my patient?  She’s with me.

Tech 2:  Dude, she’s with me.  She want’s to be with a better looking guy anyway.

Me:  Boys, settle down.  This isn’t a bar and you don’t need to fight over me.  And by the way, everyone here is good-looking, so that’s not a qualifier.  (I live in LA.  The staff in this doctor’s office all look like they stepped off the cover of some trendy health/fitness magazine.  And the fact that they were arguing over me and I was annoyed by it is further proof that I’m officially old.  It wasn’t flattering.  I wanted to knock their heads together and tell them to grow the fuck up.  See, I’m so old.)

20686060_sThankfully the physician’s assistant came to my rescue and directed me to the room she wanted me in.  When my doctor walked in my jaw almost hit the floor.  He did not look like a distinguished orthopedic surgeon.  As my husband so aptly described it, he looked like a Swedish porn star.  Tall, definitely younger than I expected, athletic, easy on the eyes.  I could imagine him more clearly in a wet suit surfing on the beach or posing in a photo shoot for a men’s health magazine before I would imagine him in an operating room. (I realize this information is completely irrelevant to the topic of my post, but when your doctor looks like he could be working in a strip club, that certainly adds an element of holy-crap-I-have-veiny-legs-and-I-have-to-let-hot-doctor-touch-them stress to the situation.  Hot doctors are not a good thing, and they add to the discomfort of the situation.  I already feel old.  Now I feel old and self-conscious about whether or not I shaved my legs good enough that day.  The struggle is real, folks.)

It's an angry needle.

It’s an angry needle.

He sent me to get an MRI and the results showed that I’ve lost most of the cartilage around my patella/knee caps.  I also have the beginning stages of arthritis in my knees.  The treatment at this point is a series of shots in my knees to replace my joint fluid and lubrication, along with physical therapy.  I almost lost my shit when he asked if I was ready for my first shot.  I’m not thrilled about letting anyone stab me in the knees with a four-inch needle!  So,  I said, “No, thank you.”  He said, “PT is going to hurt like hell if we don’t do this, and it will help alleviate the pain and inflammation in your knees.”

Rock, meet hard place.

So I sucked it up and got the first of six shots.  If you’ve never had a shot in your knee, let me say this….it was unpleasant, but it certainly wasn’t the worst thing I’ve endured.  It was fast and I didn’t scream or curse out loud.  That’s good for me considering I dropped a ‘mother-fucker’ during my mammogram.   But I had to grit my teeth and my back involuntarily arched off the table in physical response to the sensation.  For me, dental shots are worse.  An epidural is worse.  Mammograms are most definitely worse.  And considering I need three shots in each knee to complete the treatment, that’s a good thing.  My knee was sore for the rest of the night and I rewarded myself for my bravery (yes, I’m calling it that) by having wine and sushi for dinner.  It was a treat, and my old, broken-ass deserved it.

In summary…my Nanny was right, getting old is definitely not for sissies.