Everybody's heart's breaking now

Another lifetime, a different version of me...

The sun splayed through the sliding door, saying good morning, get your ass up!

Stretching feline stretches out of bed, I stumbled onto the deck and smiled. The topaz blue Pacific Ocean stretched its body. The cacophony of Venice Beach already alert and bright.

House sitting was always a special time when I could escape my own life for just a few days.

The cats, Bilbo and Baggins, stretched out on the deck, brooding and lazy, barely even looking my way as I greeted them.

No matter. Today was a great day, a glorious day where words full of sunlight and starshine waited to leave my mouth.

It was our one year anniversary. And it signified something, right? The fact that I could stay in a relationship for this long was significant.

Serial monogamist, friends called me. And so what? What was so bad about that? At least I wasn't sleeping my way through Los Angeles like some people I knew.

My day was already planned out: a two hour long breakfast of spinach omelet, freshly squeezed orange juice, berries with a hint of lime juice from the local farmers market, all while catching up one some reading; a long and winding bicycle ride north along the beach; a late lunch at a dive that made the best pad thai; and a surprise dinner at a quaint sushi bar after he got out of work.

But the sun's rays and the fingers of the ocean breeze had other thoughts and after stuffing my belly and barely reading a few pages, I fell asleep on the chaise, Bilbo and Baggins asleep at my feet.

When I awoke, the clouds had made their mark over my little slice of paradise. It was already late afternoon. Time to get ready for my drive to Hollywood to surprise him.

The sky seemlessly changed to a navy blue while I criss-crossed on the back roads. I was daydreaming of a future life that, unbeknownst to me, was never going to happen.

I got my phone out and called him.

Me: Hey! [excited and smiling]

Him: Oh, hi. [reserved, tired]

Me: How was work? [ignoring his mood]

Him: Work. What are you doing right now? [distracted]

Me: [unable to keep my excitement in] Happy anniversary! I love you! [I giggled, beaming]

Him: Wha? Oh, yeah. Um, happy anniversary.

Me: Go into your closet right now.

Him: Why? [suspicious]

Me: Just go in there, will ya?

HIm: What is this? [I heard him fumbling with something]

Me: It's your anniversary presents.

Him: It looks like a deck of cards and a box.

Me: Open up the deck of cards first.

He sighed and I felt my mood shift just a little, but I kept smiling.

Him: What is this?

Why did he keep asking that?

Me: [stammering] I, uh, I made my own paper and made them into the shape of playing cards and wrote 52 things I remembered about us from this past year. [The words came out too fast, chain-linked together, like I was trying to beat a clock]

Him: [Unhappy] What's in this other box?

Me: Well, open it, silly.

Paper tore and rustled, but over the phone, it sounded like sadness coming for me.

Him: Seriously, why did you even get me anything?

Me: [shocked] I don't, I don't understand. What do you mean?

Him: I can't do this with you right now.

Me: Do what? [I sounded like a child who didn't know what I was getting in trouble for]

Him: THIS! You're always doing stuff for me. Buying stuff, giving me stuff. I don't give you stuff. Why do you have to do this all the time?

I felt my lips quiver. Why was he so mad?

Me: Why are you being like this? I'm coming over. I'm not that far away.

Him: It's just a regular day and you're making it out to be something bigger than it really is. And why do you need to come over? Where are you anyway?

Me: I... I just wanted to let you know how happy this past year has been for me. [The words came out in a whisper, a defeated and meek whisper] I'm already on Sunset. I can be there in five minutes.

Him: Are you crying? Why are you crying? Listen, I don't have time for this right now. I'm tired and all I want to do is take a shower and hang out with my dog in front of the T.V.

I didn't think I heard him right.

Me: Your dog? You'd rather be with your dog right now than with me?

HIm: He doesn't have anybody. I'm the only person he's got. My dog is MY priority right now.

I feared saying what I was going to say, but I had to. I just had to.

Me: So where does that leave me?

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Him: Well, if that's all, I've gotta go now. I'll probably see you later this week, right?

I swallowed, it felt like golf balls in my throat. I nodded my head, as if he could see me, as if he even cared. I hung up without saying another word and threw my phone against the dashboard.

His words stabbed me. It was something worse than heartbreak. The void in my body filled with darkness and I felt myself start to disappear under the weight of his intent.

In my City of Angels, I was the loneliest soul, waiting to sink into the earth and be forgotten. With my eyes wide open now, the city looked ugly, the sounds clawed at my ears.

There had to be something better than this, than this life I found myself in.

What now?

Happy Toy Machine Fun

Betcha didn't know there are such things as cool toys out there. Maybe you haven't been looking hard enough. That's okay, lazy people, because I found something really cool. It's the bomb, actually. And according to the kids, saying it's the bomb is not cool. Apparently it was never cool. 

Sigh.

Anyway, read all about the toddler and HAPPY TOY MACHINE and enter the GIVEAWAY. Because getting stuff is the bomb. I mean, pretty fucking great. 

I'd take credit for parent-teacher conferences if I could

Teacher: Well?

Me: Well?

Teacher: I think that's it, right? We're done?

Me: I don't know. Are we?

Teacher: Uh...

Me: Don't you know?

Teacher: I'm not sure where this is going.

Me: Sure you do. Sure you do.

Teachers hate me.

Last week, I learned that Prince thinks he's fast enough to catch a cat (and take me along for the adventure, screaming at him to Come! Come here right now, you fucking dog!  while I step in dog shit and:

• the 8-year-old sucks at reading
• after 11 years, Carl still doesn't know what my ass looks like
• I smell good

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

Captain James T. Kirk is a softy

TOKYO!

Gwyneth's diet sounds dangerous. I'll start it tomorrow!

I'm taking these tweets and making a house of cards out of them...

Wasting my time

I'm waiting for Carl in the car. Again.

He's got another doctor's appointment. By now, the hospital rolls out the red carpet for him every time he arrives. Also, our insurance company is probably trying to rendition our family to Iceland so they don't have to deal with us anymore.

Damn his shoulder.

Waiting for someone gives you a lot of time to reflect on things. Today, I'm reflecting on short things:

1. Why am I so short?
2. Will I ever be able to wear short shorts again? Do I even want to?
3. Does this shortness of breath I'm currently experiencing mean I'm having a heart attack, my jeans are too tight or my asthma is trying to fuck with me? If it's all three, I bequeath all those Twilight books I refuse to read (yeah, I read them. Puts bag over head, moves to Alaska) to Carl.

And because I like to live on the edge, I'm responding to all those robo-texts that I haven't deleted from my phone. Maybe this should be my full-time job. Maybe I can get paid in pounds of butter or loaves of French baguettes.

This definitely calls for a Craigslist ad.

Eau de parfum

Carl: Huh. You smell really good.

Me: You say that like I usually don't smell good.

Carl: No, really - did you get a new perfume?

Me: No.

Carl: Whatever it is, keep using it. I love that fragrance.

Me: Oooohhhhhh.

Carl: What?

Me: I think I know what happened. The baby had a really foul diaper so I sprayed Febreeze everywhere so the room wouldn't smell so poopy and some of the Febreeze must've gotten on me.

Carl: You know, I really could've done without the backstory.

Porno for pyros (SFW, I think)

Carl: Can you explain to me what THIS is? [holds my phone close to my face like I'm Mr. Magoo]

Me: [squints like Mr. Magoo] What the fuck is that? [stares back at Carl like he's done some horrible thing]

Carl: IT'S ON YOUR PHONE.

Me: Why are you talking in ALL CAPS?

Carl: What?

Me: Nothing.

Carl: Well?

Me: [shrugs shoulders]

Carl: Is this a picture of your ass?

Me: [looks at the photo again. Laughs. Shakes head] Most definitely not, sir. You offend thee.

Carl: It can't be your boobs. I would know.

Me: Okay, Hugh Hefner. Okay. That's just one of a million pictures the toddler took the other day when she took my phone.

Carl: It still looks like your ass.

Me: Seriously?! Ugh. It's like you want me to cry. That's one bony ass then.

Carl: What's your answer?

Me: It's my knee. Sort of taken overhead. I think. [thinks about it] Oh yeah - see? Those little feet are the toddler's and then you can barely make out my toe there at the bottom.

Carl: You don't really know do you?

Me: I'm just making it up as I go along.

Carl: As usual.

Cards can get you into some trouble

There's really not too much to say here, except that the 8-year-old gave me this card yesterday, he loves robots and surprisingly, he doesn't read very well. OR maybe he just can't read at all.

Just stick with me, kids, because I'm going places

Day 7 of hospital watch

Hospitals bring out the Howard Hughes in me.

I want to scream and run into the nearest room and wrap myself in the biggest bubble with endless amounts of Lysol, soap and water and hand sanitizer - the kind without alcohol because for whatever reason, I always have paper cuts. Like strange little troll men come up to my hands at night and slice me with their miniature butter knives.

After leaving Carl's hospital room yesterday, I got in the elevator and kept pressing 3. The light flashed on and then off. The door would close and two seconds later, the doors would open again. 

What the fuck, you asshole elevator?!

I pressed the 3 button again and still, the same thing.

Approximately 20 feet away from the elevator, a middle-aged woman with the worst hacking cough and sneezing fit was walking towards us. 

I pounded on the DOOR CLOSE button and then pounded on the 3 button over and over again. This is how horror movies start. 

Still nothing.

The toddler tried to press buttons as well, thinking it was a game.

No, don't touch those. Only Mommy can do that.

She looked at me indignantly and pressed a button as she smiled sweetly.

What did I just tell you? I said, exasperated.

The toddler waved her hand at me and said, No, no, no, no!

But then something miraculous happened. The light to go down came on, the doors closed and mid-life woman with the coughing was left behind.

I was pushing 3. We were already on level 3. 

The baby had pressed the 1 button. 

How did I get this far in life? Seriously.

Don't put me down as your emergency contact because I'll end up killing you

Since Carl's shoulder surgery in late March. Carl's been sick: high fevers, chills, sweats, sleeping all the time, pain. Sounds like one of my typical days.

Apparently, he never had dengue fever. Does that mean I have to stop calling him Dengue Fever? 

It's been a lot of fun around here lately...

FRIDAY

Me: [in my best Dr. George Clooney voice] I think we should go to the emergency room now.

The Artist Formerly Known As Dengue Fever (TAFKADF): I don't know. I just want to sleep.

Me: [impatiently] Well, it's getting late.

TAFKADF: I know. Maybe we can go later, okay?

Me: [aggravated] Seriously? Later? But everyone will be asleep then. Including the toddler.

TAFKADF: It's no big deal. We'll go in the morning then.

Me: Well, not too early, I hope. And don't die on me in the middle of the night.

SATURDAY

Me: Are you ready to go?

TAFKADF: Yeah, I feel like shit. 

10 MINUTES LATER

Me: Hold on! I can't fin any underwear that doesn't accentuate my gut.

15 MINUTES LATER

Me: I just need to put these dishes away.

25 MINUTES LATER

Me: Should I shave my legs? Maybe I should shave my legs.

35 MINUTES LATER (driving to the hospital)

Me: Shit. I forgot to eat breakfast. Feel like stopping somewhere for food?

Pretty sure TAFKADF was thinking he should've called the ambulance instead. Also, I never got any breakfast.

By the way, TAFKADF is doing well. It was an infection in the shoulder. More health updates to follow because those are always so hilarious.

I'd take credit for Iron Man if I could

This morning, I watched my neighbor get chased by several ducks and one crane. He must've given them moldy bread again. And no, I didn't even offer to help him. That's what you get when you serve old food!

This week I learned people don't give a fuck down here in South Florida and they will take your parking spot even if you've been waiting for it for ten minutes and:

• labels suck
• I live with a photographer that doesn't know how to move her finger off the camera lens
• I like to flash people

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place...

I'd like to see THIS Iron Man 3

Look out, Pepper - it's Iron Baby

And don't forget LEGO Iron Man!

I'm stealing these tweets and using them as my outgoing message on my phone:

And then everyone looked at me. Again.

There was a school function yesterday. Normally, I wouldn't attend anything that was not required and most definitely wouldn't consider anything after school hours, but the kids asked so nicely and maybe, just maybe, this was my path to being Cool Mom.

We got to the school early, not because I was excited to get there or to see the kids' presentations on dinosaurs. No, we got to school early so I could beat all those goddamned parents to a prime parking spot. Parking is a cutthroat business down here. If you're timid and weak, you might as well stay home. 

So I pulled into a parking spot that was close to the school entrance and gave myself a pat on the back. Well, in my head I did. If I actually did give myself a pat on the back, I'm sure the kids would laugh at me. Also, I'd probably pull something in my back in the process.

I was still smiling, proud of my big parking get, when the 10-year-old asked, Why didn't you park there? I looked up and sure enough, people found an even better spot to park, although they were facing the wrong direction and therefore parking illegally. I wondered if this would be a good time to do a citizen's arrest. 

For half an hour, I looked at poster boards of every dinosaur known to man, although, to be honest, some of them didn't look like dinosaurs. There were quite a few that looked like a Dali-esque cat. I'm just saying, those pre-kindergarten kids need to get their shit together. 

I couldn't believe how many people showed up for this thing. Really? I felt like I was at a Justin Bieber concert, except there was no easy way to escape. There were teachers at all the exits, staring parents down as they approached, as if to say, Don't even fucking try to leave early - you're stuck here until we tell you it's time to go.

So we stayed. Out of guilt. Because guilt is a powerful motivator. 

The toddler was having a grand old time running into people, avoiding eye contact with anyone who said hi to her, tearing apart dinosaur displays. I mean, watching other bratty  toddlers go into complete destruction mode.

I finally had to pick her up . 

On our way to the final room of yet even more dinosaurs, I started getting the stink eye from some moms. What the fuck? Of course I got all paranoid. Was my lipgloss too glossy? My hair too frizzy (there's nothing I can do about it with this crap humid weather down here, I wanted to yell at all of them)? 

But then some of the dads started smiling at me. And not one of those hello, I acknowledge you as a parent also sort of smiles. They were more like come hither smiles. Gross. 

As we were finally leaving, the 8-year-old looked at me and said, Why is your bra showing? I didn't know they made purple bras?

I'd like to thank the toddler for pulling my shirt down once again and making me look like Slutbag Kennedy.

View finder

I tripped the other day.

If I was living in romantic comedy movie, the fall would've elicited laughter and then compassion. I hear the song being played in the background. It's Beck's Loser. How apropos. 

It was stupid really. My toe caught a corner of the towel left haphazardly on the floor. I would've yelled at someone, blaming them for my almost demise, but then I realized I was the one who left it there. 

As I was falling, I thought about who was going to pick the kids up from school. Hopefully, I could get out of it.

The side of my head hit the side of the tub and my romantic comedy quickly turned into a Saw movie, but without all the blood and Jigsaw. I cried out in pain. Prince barked and licked my ear - does that mean I have mites?

The only person home that day was the toddler. She sat about five feet away from me. When I screamed, she barely looked over at me and gave me a will you keep it down over there? look.

It seemed like hours passed, but it was only a few minutes when I took the toddler up on our bed and put my head on my pillow. The entire time, the baby was laughing hysterically at the phone. What's so funny, I asked?

There are 68 more photos she took. ALL basically the same.

I'm glad she kept herself busy while I probably gave myself a concussion. 

Labels Suck.

Throughout grade school and middle school, I was overly conscious of being one of the few Asian kids at my Catholic school. I was surrounded by Marys and Johns who came from Irish and Italian families. My classmates had beautiful blonde curls and silky brown hair. They listened to Duran Duran and Michael Jackson. They were outspoken and always had their hands in the air when the teacher asked them a question.

I, on the other hand, was terribly meek. I kept to myself and always had my eyes on the ground. I hated my name - how many times a day would kids make fun of my name? I hated my thick, black hair that couldn't be coaxed into a ponytail. I hated the color of my skin and my classmates asking me if I had a tan. They didn't say it in a mean way, just in a casual hey-you-wanna-play-kickball-now sort of way. I listened to the artists my parents listened to: Andy Williams, Nat King Cole and an unusual amount of Glenn Miller (Pennsylvania 6-5000!).

No one probably cared what the color of my hair or the color of my skin was or what kind of music I listened to. It was all me. I had placed this incredible pressure on myself. I don't exactly know why. Maybe it was as simple as being different than everyone else. It saddens me that as young as second grade, I couldn't even accept myself.

As I got older, things changed. Finally. It took me a very long time. I became comfortable in my own skin and accepted my heritage while embracing the fact that I am a first-generation Filipino-American. Because my ethnic background is just a part of who I am, but it never defines what I am.

I've had numerous conversations with the kids about their own heritage. As multi-ethnic, multi-racial (is that what people say these days? I don't even know) kids, I've asked them if they've ever felt different at school or in any other situation. And not just when it comes to the color of their hair or the color of their skin. The 8-year-old replied: Well, I am taller than everyone else in my class.

I was reminded of this conversation with the 8-year-old when I read this fantastic piece this morning written by NBA player Jason Collins for Sports Illustrated. Headlines online and in the media will read The NBA's First Openly Gay Player, but I hope people will also find out about who he is as basketball player and as a human being overall. As Jason said:

But I don't let my race define me any more than I want my sexual orientation to. I don't want to be labeled, and I can't let someone else's label define me.

Bravo, Jason. I hope in your life journey you'll find continued support and if not, you can always trip them.

Also, I'm gonna have the kids listen to Glenn Miller a little more often.

I'd take credit for giant hashbrowns if I could

Today's discovery: white pubes. The end is near, isn't it?

This week, I learned that the toddler doesn't like listening to Barry Manilow and:

1. I love Patton Oswalt.
2. There's no video of me doing this, right?
3. My screaming wakes up neighbors.

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place (and I'm starving right now):

• did someone say giant hashbrowns?
• I told Carl THIS is one of the many reasons why we need to move back to Los Angeles.
• I don't know how I came across this. I just did.
• Did someone say liquid cake?

I'm stealing these tweets and using then for tokens at the arcade:

I woke up my neighbors at 1am

I was about to take Prince for his final pee outing for the night. Carl asked didn't you just take him out half an hour ago? I groaned: do you wanna take him? Carl stared blankly at me: I think my fever is back. I need to go lie down. Of course you do. Of course you do.

The eight pound monster and I took a leisurely stroll outside. There was an unusual amount of ducks in our backyard. It was pretty creepy - they were all huddled in a strange group, facing the same way, like some cult waiting for their leader to tell them it's Kool-Aid time.

Of course, the beast couldn't contain himself and he barked his head off.

Are ducks supposed to be smart animals? Because these ducks? Not very smart. Sometimes I wonder if they even have any brains. The seven ducks rose from their weird sleep pod mode and waddled over to Prince and me. I tried to ward them off by making stupid noises the toddler uses when she is none too happy with me. Of course, it didn't work. The ducks paused a second and continued on their course towards us. 

Like I said - not very smart.

Prince I crossed the street and he sniffed every single blade of grass on our neighbor's front yard and then where does he pee? On the sidewalk. And a little on his leg. Sheesh.

We walked down the sidewalk a little further and that's when I spotted the cat. THE cat. It sometimes sleeps under my car. We've never fed it anything and neighbors I've interrogated say they would never feed a stray cat, yet, this is the fattest stray I've seen.  He's fluffy and grey with a white belly. He's cute in that I'm-gonna-scratch-your-eyes-out sort of way.

I turned around and blocked Prince's view and told him: it's time to go inside. I saw the cat cross to the other side of the road and thought well, at least he's not stupid and walked towards our front door. 

But then it happened. I didn't expect it. The cat sat in front of the door and eerily channeled Blofeld's cat with the haze of the moonlight shining down on him. I screamed. And not just a little scream where the air escapes your breath and you get a hold of yourself within milliseconds. No. This was one of those hysterical screams that unleashes from your mouth when you discover there is only one ice cream sandwich left and it's partially melted and half eaten and drop to your knees.

Prince barked and jumped on his hind legs. He's really good at walking on just his hind legs (I need to exploit this somehow and get some money for it). The cat remained there for a second longer before he nonchalantly walked by us and to his luxurious home under my car. 

Carl opened the door: What the fuck is wrong?

Me, barely able to breathe from all the commotion: It was that damned cat!

Carl: You were screaming because of a cat?

Me: It was standing in front of our door, taunting us.

Carl: The cat was taunting you?

Me: Oh nevermind. 

Carl: That's what I thought. Cats don't fuck with me.

I didn't know I lived with the fucking cat whisperer(er) here.

Bananas. It's always those damn bananas.

Target (a Super Target, mind you). Sunday. Mid-morning.

An unusual amount of people hovered around me. They were so busy trying to get to  the bakery for mediocre cookies - that's right I said it, MEDIOCRE! - they forgot to use the sanitizing wipes to get rid of the ebola virus living on the carts. I guess.

All I needed was some bananas and paper towels. That's all. No milk the baby could spill while trying to fil her cereal bowl on her own, no crappy snacks that I'd regret eating 20 minutes later, no ice cream that would sit in the freezer for more than six months before someone saw it. Just bananas and paper towels.

I couldn't get to the paper towels I wanted because a couple blocked that section of the aisle. And not just any couple, but two people deep in the throes of a young couple's argument where the girl is pleading her case: why can't we just go out with so-and-so and her boyfriend and then we can party afterwards? I don't see what the big deal is! I can tell everything this girl says ends in exclamation points! And the guy calmly tells her: because they're assholes and I don't want to party with assholes. And she says: you're the asshole, asshole! And he's like: of course, I'm always the asshole. And then she says: you're right, asshole! And he says: do you know how to say anything else more descriptive than asshole?

I cleared my throat and they both turned and glared at me because holy fuck they're entitled to this stupid argument right in front of me and my paper towels. What else could I do but shrug my shoulders and admit: hey, I'm an asshole, too! They didn't move an inch and they continued their stupid glaring match with me as I Mary Lou Rettoned my way around them to get my paper products.

South Floridians at their best.

One item down, one to go.

I made my way to the bananas, those gloriously green, organic bananas that my dad says are stupid to buy because they're over-priced and probably not even organic. I buy two bunches just to spite him and laugh to myself at the ridiculousness of my logic since he lives in Seattle and doesn't really give a shit about what I buy at the grocery store, as long as I'm not stealing it.

And then it happened, in slow motion of course. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a gaggle of teenagers, five or six girls, all in their trendy short shorts and cropped tops and super long and unusually wavy and frizz-free hair and I wanted to yell at all of them enjoy it now, ladies, because you can't fit into those shorts in your 30's. But I refrained.

Instead, I turned to quickly push my cart forward and instead of walking towards the check-out lines, I slammed my left thigh into the display case for the bananas - a stupid, effing metal shelf with brackets on the side. Haven't you heard of plastic, you idiots?

The pain exploded through my thighs and I felt the blood and swelling through my you're-not-fooling-anyone yoga pants. If I were in a comic book, my face would contort in monstrous shapes and blood would splatter onto everyones' faces like a Quentin Tarantino movie. 

The paper towel couple had somehow made their way to the Starbucks inside Target and were again glaring back at me. The teenagers stared and giggled at me. They all expected me to grab my leg and fall down in a crying fit and call for my mommy.

Well, not today! Not. Today. YOU FUCKERS!

I pushed my cart towards the closest aisle - the jelly and Nutella and the how many different kinds of salad dressings do they sell here aisle. No limp, no grabbing my leg, no tears running down my cheeks. I heard a whisper behind me: God, she must have legs of steel.

Damn straight, I have legs of steel.

And in the safety of orange marmalade and peppercorn ranch dressing, I cried out in pain and wished for my mommy to carry me and put a bandage on my boo-boo.

Because I don't know how to express myself...

When I saw the news about the Boston Marathon bombings, a lump formed in my throat. The type of lump that does not go the fuck away no matter how much you tell yourself it's going to be okay. The type of lump that prevents you from breathing properly and you have to steady yourself on a chair or lean against the wall. The type of lump I got when 9/11 happened and when I saw the pictures of the adults and children (CHILDREN!) murdered on Newtown.

I placed my face in my hands, as if that action would allow me to parse out everything that was going on. I felt the tears on my face. Another tragedy. Three people killed and one of them a child. A CHILD! And hundreds more injured and dealing with devastating loss.

And the lump in my throat grew.

As the events unfolded this past weekend, I stood in front of the TV, wringing my hands. I tried so many times over the past week to write down how I was feeling, but the words never came. A sentence or two would appear on the screen and then I'd read it and it didn't sound right, it didn't sound real and I placed my finger on the delete button over and over again.

Then I came across Patton Oswalt and his Facebook page and in just a few paragraphs, a few periods here and there, he was able to sum up for me how I've been feeling this entire time - look at his entry on April 15.

And Patton Oswalt - if you're ever in the armpit of America known as South Florida,  please let me know. I'd love to buy you a beer or two. Heck, I live down the street from a Total Wine - I'll buy you a few cases if you want, but then you'd have to buy me some dinner or something (there's a Chipotle nearby as well) because I get hungry when I shop.

All of humanity is not lost. The good outweigh the bad. ALWAYS.

I'd take credit for finding the cure for Carl's illnesses(es)

Me: What the doctor say? Is it the flu? Do you have to start smoking pot now?

Carl: What the fuck are you talking about? No! I don't have the flu and I've never smoked pot in my life.

Me: Okay there, goody two shoes. Calm down. Boy, you are one testy mofo right now.

Carl: I've got a reason to be.

Me: Well, don't look at me.

Carl: The doctor thinks I have dengue fever.

Me: Come again?

Carl: Apparently, I was bitten recently by a mosquito carrying this dengue virus. That's why I've had the chills and fever and sweats.

Me: I thought it was because you were excited to see me. So, now what?

Carl: Now I'm gonna go to sleep. I'm tired. You?

Me: I'm gonna start calling you Dengue Fever.

Dengue Fever: You're a walking Hallmark card, you know that?

This week I learned that Cheez-its have waaaaay more calories than I thought and:

1. Cersei Lannister lives with me.
2. Hearing aids are overrated.
3. Fuck you, weigh scale. Fuck you.

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place...

• Oh yeah? Try doing this with a matchbook, Luciana! Oh my God, I'm so horribly talentless (cries, tries to fold paper, tears it half, Prince pees on it).
• I don't know - are my boobs Thing 1 or Thing 2? Also, I'm frightened.
• Ropes! by Auck de Vries

I'm stealing these tweets and putting them in a pipe and smoking them:

Weight of the world

I'm at the counter eating chocolate chip cookies and thinking what a great day it is today. And then...

Carl: [smiles bigger than Doris Day as he walks into the kitchen] I just got outta the bathroom.

Me: [rolls eyes] Ugh, I don't wanna hear about your bathroom escapades again. Go away. I'm eating cookies right now. I need to concentrate on this flavor explosion right now.

Unfortunately, my bad mood doesn't affect his sunshine and lollipops mood. Am I losing my super powers?

Carl: What? No, no, it's not like that. I just got off the scale.

Me: [looks concerned] And?

Carl: 16 pounds lost since my gallbladder surgery!

I'm half expecting him to do some fucking Gene Kelly choreography in the middle of the kitchen, rain and umbrellas and shit.

Me: [groans and puts cookie down, wipes mouth with arm, clears throat] Congratulations. I didn't know you were trying to lose weight.

Carl: I wasn't really, but I have been watching what I eat. Portion control.

Me: So I take it you don't want a cookie.

Carl: Too much sugar. I'm going for a walk now. What're you gonna do now? You wanna walk with me?

Me: I'm gonna  get on the scale and I'll meet you in five minutes.

Shit.

An hour later...

Carl: I waited and waited for you and then I assumed you would just catch-up with me. What happened?

Me: Apparently, I broke the scale. I'm now comforting myself with cookies and almond milk. Now go be healthy somewhere else.

Do you hear what I hear?

As I was trying to get the baby to go to sleep last night, a curious conversation swelled down the hall in my mother-in-law's bedroom:

10-year-old: I don't know about that.

Mother-in-law: Well, I'm telling you, that's how it is.

10-year-old: Is it a horror movie?

MiL: [grumbles and mutters something under her breath before saying] You know, I can't believe you sometimes.

10-year-old: What? Is it a horror movie?

MiL: I hope you don't talk like that to your parents or at school. You shouldn't say whore so loudly. People will hear you.

10-year-old: I didn't say WHORE. I said HORROR. [sighs]

MiL: Of course, it's horrifying to hear you say THAT word.

10-year-old: Nevermind. I don't think I want to watch it.

8-year-old: What's going on in here? I'm trying to watch some cartoons. Can you two keep it down?

And so the circus quieted down, but not before my mother-in-law said loudly: You'll love this movie. It's horror.