Lies I like to tell myself after a glass of chardonnay

I realized after the 10-year-old went to sleep last night that he had forgotten to finish his geography homework. 

Time? Just past midnight. Shit. Too late to wake him to do it. 

Think, brain, think.


I looked over the three questions he didn't finish. Hmmmm. I totally knew the answers to these and I didn't even have to Google them!

Where was everyone? I needed someone to high-five. Instead, I was left with a sleepy, cranky dog whose concept of celebrating is barking and growling at the door every few minutes just because he fucking feels like it. 

The power of being an asshole!

Anyway, back to the geography. I would just tell the boy the answers in the morning and he wold write them down. This wouldn't be cheating because he and I would have a long discussion about the home state of Abraham Lincoln, the Mississippi River and Algeria as we drove to school in the morning.

I'd be like PBS, but with some humor and perhaps a little bullshit. Just a little.

Because when he got up in the morning, he wouldn't have time to finish his homework because, like his mother, he's slow to rise and the brain refuses to wake from its slumber.

So today, he wrote down the answers for his homework and we forgot to talk about geography because my brain refused to wake from its slumber But at least he got all his homework done!

Me: So how was school today?

10-year-old: Fine.

Me [excited]: How was your geography homework?

10-year-old [avoids eye contact]: About that. . . 

Me: I know. I'm like the rock star of geography, right? 

10-year-old: No. No, you're not. I got some wrong. The ones you helped me with.

[Laughter erupts from the 12-year-old]

Toddler: You cheated, but then you didn't. Mommy made you.

Me [dejected, irritated]: I didn't make anyone cheat. Now stop it.

10-year-old: Anyway, I think I would have been better off just not turning it in.

Me: That's what you get for not doing your own homework!

Don't have kids. They'll break your mother fucking spirit every time.

Robbing a bank doesn't seem so crazy

I was at the vet for almost two hours yesterday. 

As I watched the various animals walk through the clinic, I realized that there is no amount of money we will not spend for our hairy, furry, feathered, scaled, non-human friends.

One guy came in with his labradoodle. I think it was a labradoodle. I'm not sure. There was so much hair on this creature - it looked a like a giant, hairy, fluffy black marshmallow on four legs. The owner wanted to know if the vet clinic could move their grooming appointment up. Of course, they said. And can you change the color of his nail polish? he asked. Sure, they responded gleefully. Because he's not feeling the purple today. Oh! And add the relaxation massage, said the owner. 

An older woman came in and bought four large bags of dog food. I asked her what kind of dog she had. She looked at me with a look I'm a familiar with  - that 'you don't know very much, do you' look - and proceeded to tell me that she has one yorkie baby that is three-years-old. How much does he weigh, I asked innocently. Why, he already weighs five pounds! she snapped at me. Over $100 worth of dog food (over 100 pounds of food) for a five pound dog. Guess she likes to bulk shop.

Some hipster brought his rat in. On a leash. I tried not to make eye contact with the hipster and with the rat. Unfortunately, both looked at me. The hipster came over and started talking to me about his Filipino girlfriend - we must know each other because ALL Filipinos know each other, of course. The next thing I knew, he was ranting about Thomas Piketty and capitalism and the rat was trying to crawl up my goddamn leg. 

Oh, he's totally friendly. I've raised him since he was a baby. Bottle-fed him and everything, said the hipster. I smiled politely, but inside I was fucking screaming and unable to breathe because although I love all animals and living things, rodents creep the bejesus outta me.

I finally mustered the energy up to ask him why they were there. Again, I got the same 'you don't know very much, do you' look. The hipster shrugged his shoulders and said nonchalantly, my buddy here is getting a mohawk. I started to laugh and then realized he wasn't laughing. It's a thing, people: rats getting mohawks.

I was at the vet because our dog had diarrhea and we were waiting for fecal testing results. Am I doing something wrong in life? 

Eff you, love handles. Eff you.

I just love how Carl gets on and off the weigh scale, shrugs his shoulders as he brushes past me and walks out of the room.

He didn't even have to take off any piece of clothing in the process.

I, on the other hand, am like a tornado gone totally batshit ass crazy when it comes to weighing myself. 

There is a lot of pacing involved. I have to psych myself up. I need my own cheering squad, but it's usually just me, the toddler and Prince and they have no weigh scale spirit.

Then there's the very deliberate stripping of clothes. Jeans are a no no. They weigh too much. It makes a difference, dammit. Add sweaters to that list, too. And shoes. And bulky jewelry, heavy shirts, sweatshirts, socks, earrings. . .

Oh. And I have to put my phone down because that adds about four ounces. 

So there I am, semi-naked, frowning at my love handles (cursing at them profusely is more like it), considering shaving my head of frizzy hair to lighten the load a little, as I get on the scale and holding my breath. No. That number can't be right. The number was a lot lower a couple weeks ago. 

Let's try this again.

The pacing, the removal of clothing, my unsightly love handles, the quandary about shaving my hair, holding my breath as I step on the scale and. . . Shit. Still the same shitty number. I want to cry, but then I think of the all the delicious food I ate over the holidays and the great time I had with the family and maybe. . . it was all worth it?

Fuck. I don't know. Right now, I'm on the fence because I can barely get into my favorite pair of jeans without doing a weird bunny/kangaroo triple jump leap thing and then there's the whole other issue of trying to breathe once I'm in said jeans. 

I just want to be able to fucking eat what I want, when I want and to fit into my clothes. Also, exercise would consist of rapid eye movement, sitting on the sofa while shoulder dancing to the theme song to Jeopardy, and lifting a bottle of beer.


I'd take credit for letting it the eff go already

I want to get off this Frozen train. 

The conductor, aka the toddler, has other plans for me, like making me go insane. How is it that she knows the words to these songs, but doesn't know here ABC's, how to count or her colors? Sometimes I wonder if she even knows her name since she has me call her Princess Anna most of the time. 

This parenting thing is tough business.

This week I learned that Frozen songs can kill you in your sleep (look out, Freddy Kreuger) and: 

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

  • shit. I was hoping this would be some funny bit about how Anthony D'Ambrosio's ex wife drove him to eat doughnuts in every state, but it wasn't. It was something sad and unexpected. So don't read it if you don't want to cry and mourn every relationship you had that ever ended. Fuck. And don't read the comments because people are fucking assholes and have to be negative about everything. Yes, I realize the irony behind the fact that I'm saying this. 
  • holy fuck. These two brought in the new year right by thinking they were were stuck in a closet, but it was unlocked the entire time. Guess what? Drugs were involved. 
  • Geek Love. I'm re-reading this now and I forgot how beautiful and strange the world Katherine Dunne created.
  • Penicillin from piss, people


Lower than low. Really.

Carl came home and stared at me. I was still in the same clothes I was in when he left the house this morning. They're called pajamas, Carl - the working uniform for the lazy! 

Wear it loud, wear it proud.


I just watched a ten minute commercial about Jeaneez while eating many slices of pizza. The remote control was within reach and I didn't bother changing the channel. Why? One - that would require effort. Two - there's something alluring and repulsive (yes, you can experience both all at once) about 'photorealistic 3D printed fabric [that] looks just like denim.'

Seriously, who doesn't want the saggy ass lifted and their muffin top concealed? WHO? 

The 10-year-old walked into the living room and immediately walked out.

That's how you clear the room, people. 

Ohmygod I need to do something better with my time. Something that doesn't include eating, watching T.V. and napping. Although those things are the holy trifecta. What am I talking about? THIS is the life.

No. No, it's not. 

I'd take credit for eating everything in sight

Man. It's been a whack week. 

The holidays really fuck me up. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's all the holiday music. How many times can one person listen to that Mariah Carey song? It truly is a weapon of mass destruction. Or all the craziness that comes with shopping. Sure - I want to spend lots of money on people I barely know. Or maybe it's trying to remember what present I wrapped and who it's for. The holidays are a test of your brain power.

Whatever it is, my brain waves scatter, skip and then splinters into a million little fragments that don't know where the fuck to go. 

And the only way I know how to cope with all this stress is to eat. Pie? Sure. Cookies? I'll take a dozen. Cake? Needs extra frosting. And give me a second slice. I can't even suck in my gut long enough to get into my favorite jeans. 

Good thing I have a ton of sweats.

This week I learned that food + me = fatal love. It's the next Lifetime movie. Check your local listings. I also learned:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

'You smell good, babe' and other things I will never hear today

Carl: What is that smell?

Me: Oh. It's my shampoo - isn't it great?

Carl: No, there's no way in any hell THAT is shampoo.

Me: I can't smell anything.

Carl: How can you not? It's filling up my lungs! I can feel myself slowly dying. My nose is shriveling up into non-existence as we speak.

Me: And you say I'm dramatic. All I can smell is my shampoo - it's coconut and lime.

Carl: Here - let me smell this. . . My GOD! Why would you put that shit on your hair?

Me: What's wrong with you? It's shampoo. It smells good.

Carl: No. It smells like the urinals in the mens bathroom. Now where are you going?

Me: I'm going to wash the urinal outta my hair. 

Eating massive amounts of food doesn't help with writer's block

Although you think it would (as I stuff another cookie into my mouth).

I've sat in front of my computer every single day this week unable to write anything here. The cursor blinks steadily and the screen remains a blank canvas. 

I keep telling myself I can't write because I have too much going on right now and my concentration levels are at an all time low, but is that really the reason?

My office was once my sanctuary. A bright place where I'd go and delight in the fact that I could just close the door and the cacophony of every day life could be shut out, even for a few moments. 

My Shawshank Redemption.

I had my routine: enter office, Prince and Tank followed, they'd argue about who would sit at my feet (Tank always won), turn computer on, work, put feet on Tank, tell Prince it was okay while he inched closer and closer to my feet, even though I know Tank was telling him to move back a little bit. 

We made a great team. Sometimes, there was a little too much dog slobber than I'd like, but nothing too bad.

Now I look at my office and it looks like a cave. Not a cool and mysterious Bat Cave, but a dark and lonely cave that just sucks the life out of anyone or anything that goes into it, a vortex into madness that you can't escape.

Since Tank passed away a few months ago, I have not been able to sit in my office for very long. Prince follows me in cautiously and lays down where he used to when Tank was around, but then he gets weirded out and runs into the living room where there is life. 

I sit in front of my computer, staring listlessly at the screen. I have shit to do, but can't seem to get it done. I keep thinking I feel Tank brush up against my leg. His cold, wet nose touches my toes. His snoring vibrates in my ear. I look under my desk, but there's nothing there.

I can feel the tears drip down my chin. I look out to the living room and Prince is staring at me, like 'Get out of their, Mama. It's too sad in there.'

So I leave and close the door behind me, leaving memories of Tank to expand and swirl on their own, but what I should probably do is just leave the door open so those memories can breathe.

Anyway, using Carl's computer in the kitchen is working just fine for me.