Punch me in the gut twice, why don't you?

I have to take the kids to Dave and Busters later. That's what happens when your kids have friends and your husband makes lame excuses like, 'well, I can't do it - I have work.'

Do you even know what Dave and Busters is? If you don't? I am jealous. So jealous and where's my genie lamp so I can make three wishes and one of them being to take away that part of my brain that has any knowledge of Dave and Busters.

D&B is the Costco for germs. It's also a place for dining, drinking and gaming - not always in that order.  

You'd think I'd love this place, but I don't. I despise it. The few times I've been there, I have had the worst panic attacks. One time, I found myself pulling paper towels from the dispenser to wrap around the door like a million times so I could hold on to it and steady myself while bratty kids kept calling me 'crazy lady' and their moms tried to shush them, but they gave me the evil eye. 

But the kids are really excited. I mean, I guess D&B beats out hanging out at the house with me and listening to me complain about the complexities of  dog hair in a shag rug.

At least this place has a full bar.

The myth of time

I don't even know what day it is.

Now that the kids are on summer vacation, days and nights bleed into one another and time is merely predicated by my stomach: oatmeal - morning. Sandwich - midday. Several sad trips into the pantry: 4ish. Swearing at the oven: 7. Cursing at the T.V. and complaining to Carl that I'm starving: 10ish and on.

This brings me to memory. I probably shouldn't be writing this at 3 in the morning since I'm tired and have had two glasses of fairly strong sangria made by yours truly (come on over and we can be drunk together - yay) and I probably have no clue what I'm typing right now, but oh joy! What fun I'll have reading this in the morning AFTER I've hit the publish button.

Lately, my memory has been playing tricks on me and I'm not sure what to make of it. One minute I'm thinking of something and the next minute, I'm trying desperately to grasp at the general idea of the thoughts from just a few minutes before. It's like trying to catch a butterfly with my bare hands - it's never gonna happen.

It's making me upset, frustrated, mad. Is there really an issue going on with this brain or is it just me being absent-minded as usual?  

Damn this brain. I want to shake it like a Magic 8 Ball and coax myself out of this fog, but nothing seems to work. Am I going crazy? Maybe, but try taking a nap first. And then maybe a heavy snack.

I don't know. I haven't told Carl because he'll laugh and just say I'm stressed out and need to relax, but what if the wires in my brain are really getting crossed? 

Then what?

Or maybe it's just the alcohol talking and I'm just fine. 

I had so much more to write, but I forgot what I wanted to say. Too bad I can't access my brain through osmosis.

Holy shit. I'm about to hit publish without proofreading this.

Welcome to the jungle.

This is what drowning must feel like sans water

I don't deal well with stress.

Asthma, panic attacks, hives, migraines, stomach pain, tears, non-sequiturs. It's a list full of how my brain and body hates on me constantly.

We may have to move. Like really fucking soon and I feel like throwing up. I hate packing and purging things. Really. There is this horrible pain in the left quadrant of my abdomen that also yells at me: you will pay! you will pay! Also, feed me - it's been almost five minutes since my last meal!

I like things in order, although you wouldn't know it by taking a look at our house: laundry on the pool table, are the clothes on the bed clean or dirty? What is that green/black thing growing in the back at the fridge? Whatever - at least I know it's there and it's not going anywhere. 

What I don't like is when unexpected things put a fucking dent in my plans and that seems to be happening a lot lately. 

I don't know what we're going to do. Carl may have plans, but me? I'm running around and freaking out like Lady Gaga with off the rack, cheap ass clothes on. 

I don't want to move. We seem to move every five years. At first it was fun. That was when I was in my 20s and 30s.

Now? I'd rather rub BenGay all over myself and roll around in dirt. 

Holy shit, I forgot about the laundry in the washing machine again. I think it's been there for two days.

If I have to see that Batman v. Superman trailer one more time, I'm gonna punch myself and then I'm gonna drive all the way to Pacific Palisades and punch Ben Affleck just so he can give me that constipated 'look I'm acting' look.

I really should bake something, right? Yeah, that sounds good, but that requires energy and right now, I don't have that energy, although I definitely have the energy to eat.

Is it too early to drink some sangria? It's fruity so it's okay before 3pm - isn't that a rule somewhere?

I infused vodka with watermelon because I think I'm a hipster sometimes even though I denounce them every chance I get. The vodka is looking so lonely in the fridge. It should probably meet my mouth.

I actually just typed that. 

The laundry really needs to be put away. I'll just sit here and laugh for a few minutes.

I want my muffin top to go away. Just like that. No work. I just want to fucking wake up and ta-da - I have abs of steel. I can just walk into one of those stupid crossfit places and bam! I've out-burpeed and out-kettlebell swung everyone in the joint.

Shit. Where's my Xanax?

I don't feel so good.

Can someone carry me to bed?

Birthdays are for eating so much, you gotta pull your granny panties up over your gut

It was my birthday the other day. I wished for many things including having Sean Connery come to the door and say, I found the cure for the plague of the 20th century and now I've lost it!

I'm still waiting. Pretty sure Carl hexed my candles. 

The dogs lost their goddamn minds when they saw the lit candles on top of my cake. Yapping, yipping, clawing my legs as they tried to jump closer to the candles. Apparently, they don't have a clue about birthday etiquette.

As I've gotten older, certainly celebrating birthdays are a good thing because life! But it's a fucking punch in the gut when you wake up in the morning and the entire top of your head is covered in grey/white hair. The second I see white armpit hair, it's over.

Perhaps I should just let my whole head of hair go grey. That's sort of an in thing right now. Or is this yet another way to humiliate and shame us middled-aged women like they so often do: 

Whatever.

Carl likes to tell the kids that I'm in 60's. It's kind funny, but then sometimes I see the boy staring at me with his head cocked to the side and I ask him what he's staring at and he'll say: Honestly, you don't look like you're a senior citizen.

There are consequences to lying to your children, Carl.

The toddler wished me happy birthday and then proceeded to tell everyone that the birthday cake was hers, but why didn't we get one with butterflies, blue butterflies because blue butterflies are her favorite.

Sheesh - toddlers can be incredibly dense sometimes. Like mother, like daughter.

I reminded the 12-year-old that it was my birthday:

Me: Don't I even get a hug?

12-yo: Mom, don't do that! I'm trying to write a song right now!

Fine, David fucking Foster - have it your way. Be emotionally stunted and see what type of songs you can write then.

Birthdays bring out the best in everyone, don't they?

 

The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat

I knew a few kids who were homeschooled when I was younger.

Total weirdos.

Well, that's how people judged them.

Frankly, I thought it was pretty cool - they got to stay at home, not get up at the crack of dawn, not have to wear a uniform and be subjected to middle school cliques, humiliations and meanness.

But being taught by your parents? Hmmmm. I couldn't imagine my parents trying to teach me any subject. It would end up in some Joy Luck Club resentment and then there would be crying, yelling and door slamming and homeschooling would end after only one hour.

Since then, however, I haven't thought about homeschooling. Until now.

The boy is a square peg being forced into a round hole at school. Certainly I could alleviate some anxiety and stress for him if I homeschooled him. Right?

I started researching. Holy fuck balls. What did I get myself into?  

After two weeks of research, I am exhausted and confused. 

I asked the boy about his thoughts on being homeschooled. 

Why would you do that to me? 

I was relieved by his answer and went back to researching something less taxing for my brain, like what happened to all the mean girls in my eight grade class.

Too much time on my hands. 

I think I'd rather live chat with myself and that sounds kinda dirty

I am currently live chatting with a customer service rep. This isn't exactly hell on earth, but goddamit, it's pretty close. According to the timer, I have now been waiting for 13.08 minutes. that's like an eternity, especially when you drank a bunch of tea and now your bladder wants to explode and your brain is doing it damndest to keep everything under control, but it's a losing battle.

Huzzah! Someone names Martin is now chatting with me. It takes Martin another 2.48 minutes to actually type something. My dogs can type faster than this. I'm assuming. 

Martin: How are you today, Rhana?

Really? That's what took you almost three minutes to type? What are you doing on your end? Images of someone on a computer in their house, drinking margaritas and ironing while live chatting assault my brain.

Me: I am fine, Martin. How are you?

I figure I should hide all traces of assholeness and be really nice to this person because they have the ability to make or break my day.

1.18 minutes later. . . 

Martin: How can I help you today?

I wonder if he just burned his finger on the iron while trying to kill the last of his margarita.

I'm tempted to ask if he can come over and help me clean my car.  Instead. . . 

Me: Well, this is the third time I've had to type this, but I need to return something.

Martin: I apologize for the inconvenience. Now what do you need help with?

Gawd. I want to bang the keyboard against my head until I forget this experience, but I'm a wimp so I resort to glaring and swearing at the computer screen.

Martin and I go back and forth for another few minutes and in the end, I still have no idea what the point of this live chat is for except to make me more irritated and rue the day technology came into my life. 

Me: Well?

Martin: Why don't you call us and we can help you over the phone.

Like fuck you can. I get on the phone and call for pizza instead because that usually solves a lot of my problems. 

 

Playgrounds are breeding grounds for judgement and suspicion

I'm at the playground with the toddler.  

That's how my day is going. 

All I want do is go to sleep, but apparently I have to watch the toddler play and socialize with other little people we don't know because it's in the parenting handbook. Also, there are typos in my handbook and I'm pretty sure whole chapters are missing.

It's humid and this canvas top over the playground is doing nothing to cool this old body down. I wonder: if I pass out, would the toddler leave me there snoring and go home with a different family, happy to be with normal people? 

There are a shit ton of moms here that I don't know. They cluster into their cliques and I want no part of it, unless they have food. Then my tune will change quickly. 

There are the rich moms who roll up in their Mercedes SUV's, hoping everyone at the playground sees them as they park their European rides. Their kids bound down to the slides while their moms yell at them, 'don't get dirty because I just had your outfit dry cleaned,' making sure everyone hears it.

I roll my eyes in disgust as I realize a two-year-old is wearing the same sandals I am wearing. The mom giggles as she makes the same observation and tells her friends, 'isn't that cute? That mom bought children's shoes.' Emphasis on 'that' like I'm a monster or something. Don't get your kids near that thing!

No, asshole, your toddler shouldn't be wearing shoes meant for adults. 

There's the mom group who are what can only be described as aging cheerleaders who do cross fit in the hopes that they'll shimmy back into their high school cheerleading outfit. They also think yoga pants are an acceptable form of evening wear.

There are the outliers.  The woman with mad tattoos and looks like she could do some damage at the bar if you look at her the wrong way. The college-aged nanny who should be watching her charge, but is instead texting with her boyfriend who probably looks really douchey and has the latest Bieber hairstyle. The one young dad who brings his daughters and looks highly uncomfortable while all the moms flock to and flirt with him.

Then there's me, the narcoleptic, who would rather be anywhere but here.

Requiem for a life

I'm feeling listless and melancholy. Like I need to go run outside and feel the grass get crushed under the weight of my toes. And have that bright sun radiate heat through my skin and into my lungs. 

But my body feels old, tired, unable to move towards something, anything. It looks odd and distant; this is my body and yet I don't want to own it. Wishing for just a moment that I could molt and spiral into a new being. 

This brain is foggy and out of step. Trying to catch tendrils of memories of breaths past is getting more difficult by the minute and my frustration echoes through me.

I inhale and exhale and know the oxygen is caught somewhere in my veins, a pile-up of sorts and I accept this stagnation a little to quickly. 

It's not even noon and my mood is sliding quickly into the hollow of a tree where it will cower and tremble for more hours than I'm comfortable with. 

So I'll sit out here for a little while longer, in hopes that I can find solace in the quiet that is all around me.  And maybe eat this chocolate chip cookie that I've been staring at for too long. 

Elastic hearts are meant to break

Before I grew into this human I am now, I was someone else. Someone lost and flailing in a sea of other lost souls, reaching out for a life line - surviving, but barely alive.

I reached for everything, anything that would make me feel like I was alive. Love was the closest thing I could get a grip on.

Falling in love is ethereal: you float above dark clouds and dive into ecstasy. Your mind is lost to wondrous ideas of the future and the synapses in your brain are going off so fast, all you can do is laugh and smile.

So I fell in love with a man. We were both desperate for love and, unknowingly, we carried our emotional baggage like a ball and chain swinging above our heads, waiting for gravity to take hold. 

The surface was smooth and had a blinding sheen to it: we held hands as we watched movies, ate at restaurants and went on hikes with his dog because in Los Angeles, if you're not seen on a hiking trail with your dog and your loved one, you're no one. 

Underneath the elation and intoxication, there was something bitter and cruel that was thriving from our ignorance and the decay was going to consume us slowly.

What was it that we would fight for?

I wanted comfort and stability, some place I could come home to and not care whose toothbrush I used. I wanted someone who would bring brilliance into my cavern of darkness.

He wanted strength instead of vulnerability, refinement instead of my rough edges that cut him deeply. 

We realized too late that love was only a mirage.

I'd take credit for excuses and whole bunch of other stuff if I could

I didn't get shit done this week because kids. They will eat you alive if you let them. 

On Monday I spent a total of five hours in the minivan. Can you guys say bedsores?

Tuesday basically disappeared in a blink of an eye - I don't know what happened that day, except I woke up and the next thing I know I'm doing laundry at 1 am because kids with no socks at school get their asses sent home.

Wednesday? Blur. Thursday? School activities that took all day and kept me away from my precious food. Friday? I meant to get my drink on, but instead found myself basking in the comforting, warm light of my new vacuum cleaner. Friday night delight. 

And here I am, Sunday. All I want to do is go back to sleep, but I have to journey through this Grand Canyon of laundry.

Fuck.

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

There was more, but my stomach is growling and yelling at me. Better go satisfy the beast.