THIS is what happens when I dream about being chased by Arnold Schwarzenegger

I tried to convey the terror I felt in my dream to Carl, but he wasn't having it. He waved me away and said I got him sick. In sickness and in health, Carl. In sickness and in mother fucking health.

So, I made these gluten-free, vegan brownies (stop making a face, Carl - these brownies beat the snot out of those gross brownie box mixes any day) because I needed to cope with my issues with Cyberdyne Systems and also, I was famished.

It brings a smile to my face when I can eat something so decadent for breakfast, especially when I have multiple servings. And I don't have to be fancy and use utensils. Because energy conservation.

 

My senses are pretty much all messed up and no is surprised

For the past week, I've been suffering from allergies that, surely, have come deep from the bowels of some hell that has in it for me.

My eyes itch and of course, I lack the necessary skills to refrain from rubbing my eyes. I rub and rub my eyes until they are teary, red and so swollen, I look like I just went twelve rounds with the mighty King Kong. I can barely see due to the swelling.

The 9-year-old keeps asking me if I need to go to the hospital and if they're going to do surgery on my face 'because faces should not look that.' Thank you for your concern, son.

Carl put some eye drops in my eyes the other night. That was an experience neither of us want to ever go through again:

Carl: Stop your goddamn fidgeting! I can't put these drops in if you keep moving!

Me: It's gonna hurt. It's gonna hurt!

Carl: How would you know? I can't even get close enough to your face to get anything in?

Me: FIne. Do it now.

Carl: Well, stop blinking so much.

Me: Holy fuck, asshole! It burns. What the fuck? What is that shit? I can't fucking see now. You're trying to fucking kill me.

Carl: I'll leave you to your acting workshop.

The toddler keeps coming over to me and putting her hand on my forehead. Her diagnosis: 'you sick, Mommy. I you docta. Gib me ice ceam.' It's funny how both our brains work in similar ways.

And now I have to venture out into humanity and go all Roy Orbison out there. 

Fuck. 

 

I'm being haunted by some strange people in my dreams and there's nowhere to run

I couldn't get to sleep last night because these words kept knocking around in my head:

You know I just got paid
I got my hot rod wheels
So if you wanna find out how it feels
Call me - Pennsylvania 6-5000

The fuck did that come from?

Suddenly, it's 1982 and I'm sitting in the back of my parents' cramped Mustang. No, not cool, classic car Mustang, but the infamous Mustang II which my Dad still wants to give to me.

Hell no, Dad. Hell. NO.

There is no air in the back as the front windows are completely rolled down and my parents enjoy the nice ocean breeze coming in from the Pacific Ocean. In the back, there is nothing to enjoy. The seats are hard, there's no comfortable way to sleep and the sounds of the Glenn Miller Orchestra and later, The Ray Conniff Singers, stab me multiple times until there is nothing I can do , but to give in and quietly sing along while my little body quivers, trying to fight the evil.

I tossed and turned in bed until Carl sat up: "Go the fuck to sleep."

"I can't," I told him as I got out of bed.

"Now where are you going?"

"Go back and get your beauty sleep. I'll be back."

I called my parents and thanked them for my insomnia.

"Maybe you just need to poop," my mom said.

Because yeah, poop solves everything.

 


 

I'd take credit for interpretive dance if I could

The toddler likes to dance and she's not shy about it.Most of the time, thought, she dances like she has a broken leg and a pinched nerve in her arm and. . . well, we get a lot of stares from other people. A lot.

This week I learned the toddler dances to the beat of some weird drummer in her head and:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

I'm stealing this tweet and making them into a stripper pole:



Saying goodbye to an old friend that doesn't care if my feet are stinky or sweaty

I fall in love with inanimate objects easily. This is my proverbial Kryptonite, right next to the list which includes cheese, carbs, pizza, apple pie and Sharpies. 

So it is with great apprehension when I look in our closet and think, I should probably get rid of some of these things so we can actually put stuff in here.

There are a bunch of books from college that sit hidden behind luggage in the back corner, a magnet for dust and ugh, apparently a private pee sanctuary for one of the dogs (Prince, I know it's you with your tiny ass bladder).

A pretty lace top Carl bought for me in New York while we were still dating sits regally on a hanger, never seeing daylight because it's cropped and exposes flat abs that I had many forgotten bodies ago.

This large box full of concert and movie tickets (Carl and I went to see Collateral Damage? The fuck?) sits lopsided on an already full shelf, its contents: smeared and warped pieces of paper with timestamps of memories.

And underneath flip flops and boots and toddler socks, a grungy pair of Nike running shoes sits patiently, waiting for the glory days once again.

These have been my favorite pair of shoes for more than a decade. They were bought on a whim in Los Angeles. Instead of spending extravagantly on a boyfriend's Christmas present, I decided to gift myself with these shoes instead. Also, I was still fucking mad that he took me to a horse race track and then Denny's for dinner as my birthday present. I don't need a lot, but animal cruelty, gambling and questionable dining on the Sunset Strip isn't at the top of my list. 

I would lace these shoes up and somehow run a few miles to Marina Del Rey. I'm not quite sure how I used to run back then. I go up a flight of stairs (read: 5 steps) now and I'm breathing so heavy, it's almost indecent. In the marina, I'd watch the boats motor out and play on the finger tips of the Pacific Ocean. The loud calls of the sea lions echoed over the waves and the salty air dusted the strands of my hair. 

When I was packing to meet Carl in Las Vegas for our wedding, I packed my Nikes. I never wore them, but at least they were there for me, just in case.

When the 11-year-old was a baby, I'd strap her up in her behemoth stroller (swearing under my breath and wondering why strollers had to be the size of a U-Haul truck), put a leash on my beloved Diesel, lace up my Nikes and we'd walk through our before hipster was hipster neighborhood.

When the 9-year-old was a toddler, he wore my Nikes all over the house, laughing by himself saying, Me Mom. Me Mom, while his older sister would try to trip him. 

Those were perfect days.

By the time toddler was born, my favorite pair of shoes had already found a comfortable spot in the back of our closet. A safe place where dogs and kids couldn't disturb them. 

So now the shoes sit on my feet one last time.

Toddler: Where we go, Mommy?

Me: We're gonna go for a very long walk.

 

It was a lot better when the toddler didn't speak and spit up on herself

I was playing Hello Kitty with the toddler earlier today. I'm not quite sure what the rules of this game are, but apparently, I'm not supposed to move, I can't speak and I can't look the toddler in the eyes. I tried to pop her bubble and tell her that Hello Kitty really isn't a cat, but she just looked at me and hugged me. 

Communication is tough with this one.

And then she pulled this on me: "Mom, are you a hobo?" Thanks, a lot Wreck-It Ralph.

I have very little confidence that we'll be on speaking terms for the rest of the week.

Battle for the net - like the Hunger Games, but scary

If you woke up tomorrow, and your internet looked like this, what would you do? 

Imagine all your favorite websites taking forever to load, while you get annoying notifications from your ISP suggesting you switch to one of their approved “Fast Lane” sites.

Think about what we would lose: all the weird, alternative, interesting, and enlightening stuff that makes the Internet so much cooler than mainstream Cable TV. What if the only news sites you could reliably connect to were the ones that had deals with companies like Comcast and Verizon?

On September 10th, just a few days before the FCC’s comment deadline, public interest organizations are issuing an open, international call for websites and internet users to unite for an “Internet Slowdown” to show the world what the web would be like if Team Cable gets their way and trashes net neutrality. Net neutrality is hard to explain, so our hope is that this action will help SHOW the world what’s really at stake if we lose the open Internet.

If you’ve got a website, blog or tumblr, get the code to join the #InternetSlowdown here: https://battleforthenet.com/sept10th

Everyone else, here’s a quick list of things you can do to help spread the word about the slowdown:http://tumblr.fightforthefuture.org/post/96020972118/be-a-part-of-the-great-internet-slowdown  

 

This Apple thing is taking up too much of my gd time today.

Sorry. I'm not posting anything of substance  here today because I'm watching Apple's live stream of the keynote address - which isn't really streaming well because there are others that are watching this thing. Phhhbbbbbttttt. 

Instead, I should be:

  • figuring out what to do about our ant infestation. Seriously. It's like all the ants in the world got together in the ant bar and said, 'you know,, what, let's fuck with that family for a month.'
  • removing the nail polish that has been peeling for about a month now. It's probably been peeling into the food I've been making. Surprise, family!
  • input receipts into accounting software. Fuck. Who am I kidding? Even taking a photo of a receipt requires too much work from me.
  • exercise. That noise? That was me laughing hysterically because again - who am I kidding?
  • potty training the toddler. Yeah - I'll leave this one for Carl, like most things I don't want to deal with.
  • do something about all the blackheads  on my face, but I'm slowly realizing there is no hope. 

There is no goddamn hope, is there?

Well, fate effed up and apparently my husband was supposed to marry some beauty

Mother-in-law: You know, Carl was meant to marry Catherine Bell.

Me: [laughs] You mean the actress from J.A.G?

MIL: Oh, she's a beauty, isn't she? I'm sure if they ever went on a date, they'd be married by now.

Me: What about me?

MIL: Well, you're no Catherine Bell.

Me: No shit.

Carl: What's going on here?

Me: You and Catherine Bell are soul mates.

Carl: Who the fuck is Catherine Bell?

I'd take credit for getting my medical degree via watching T.V. if I could

There's a boil water alert where I live - I've been using this as an excuse not to do the dishes. Carl asked what my excuse is for all the other times the dishes don't get done. He came face to face with my middle finger.

This week I learned doing dishes suck and:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

I'm stealing these tweets and making myself a new heart with them: