The one where I want to crawl out of my skin and die, but I don't quite fit and man does this suck

2016 is supposed to be the year of clean eating for me. More fruit, more vegetables, less processed shit, no meat. Okay. Less meat. 

But then Carl gets these empanadas. And not just any fucking empanadas. My favorite empanadas.  

Self control is being tested to its limit. Carl offers me an empanada. I shake my head because I'm an asshole with an attitude and I walk away with my head in the air and say, I don't eat that shit, man. 

The laughter that comes out of that man is incredibly loud and I sort of want to knock the wind out of his lungs right now.

I come back an hour later and the goddamn empanadas are still there. They're not just calling out to me, they're taking me by the hand and handcuffing me to them and I'm not trying to escape. 

Three empanadas - gone in sixty seconds. 

And now I'm kinda scolding myself: you dumb-dumb! Why didn't you save some for later? But then I'm kinda high-fiving  myself because it was all so worth it. And I start laughing hysterically by myself in the kitchen as Carl walks in and just stares at me, thinking: how many decades of this shit am I going to go through?

Marriage is fun, people. 

There's a reason why you shouldn't bring toddlers to public places

The toddler and I were out grocery shopping instead of sleeping because 1. I hate crowds 2. I hate crowds and 3. I'm not a people person, especially on the weekends.

I try to time myself when grocery shopping, telling myself get this done in 30 minutes and you win the grand prize of something really awesome, like pizza for breakfast. Anything to take the pain out of this stupid errand.

At 25 minute mark, a woman stops us and asks me to help her get a cereal box off the top shelf. You're kidding, right? I think. We are both the same height and there is no way in hell either of us are going to pull of this ridiculous feat. We stare at each other contemplating each other's motives and finally look away when a store employee comes over with their blindingly happy lilt and sweeps the box of cereal from the shelf like it was prey.

As I'm scolding myself for stopping and not hitting my goal, I realize the toddler is talking to the woman and store employee. I catch just the last bit of the conversation before I whisk her away in the cart: Yeah, I know. My mommy is really farty. Do you fart because farting makes your belly feel better. Oh hi, Mommy. I was telling these people about farting. Bye - don't forget to fart!

This week, I learned that I should just have my groceries delivered and:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:


Things are looking up, yo

I am taking plastic wrap off a bottle of wine because dumbshit me broke off the cork while trying to open said bottle of wine and spilled wine in the fridge is never a good thing.

I've got three slices of pizza, cold pizza sitting in front of me and hell yeah I'm going to devour all of it.

Air Supply is playing quietly in the background and you better believe I am singing all the words to the song in my trembly, out of tune voice.

This is where I am in my life and I know I should be troubled by this, but I'm not.

The ophthalmologist's office is where they'll break your will and make you cry

These letters are meant to hurt your brain.

Age 40+ equals blindness apparently, so some strange woman is gabbing with me about her son who may or may not have issues with personal hygiene and who may or may not be hiding candy in his sock drawer. All this drama assaults my ears as she puts a variety of eye drops into my eyes that feel violently toxic.

Needless to say, I'm confused as to what exactly is going on and am wondering if this is the right time for me to find my religion. Or maybe just scream incessantly until I wake up from this nightmare. 

Lines of letters appear on a screen that seems like they're a million miles away.

Go ahead, read the letters, she says with a snarl as if she's Dirty Harry.

I look up at her with fear and shock. Clearly she must be joking because there is no creature in the world that can successfully achieve this feat. 

When she gives me a disapproving look, I stare at the letters again and find myself blurting out letters quickly, the sound of my voice careening and tumbling into the ether.

I sit there, quietly congratulating myself on a job well done, but her voice cuts through my mini party and she asks me to read the letters again. Clearly. she's enjoying my failure too much.

As soon as I'm done, I look up at this woman, both my enemy and my savior.  I've irritated her somehow. Or maybe it's just thoughts of her son that disappoint her. I'll go with the latter. She wants me to read the jumble of letters again. 

What? GROAN. I do the process all over again and now there's dark cloud that reigns over me.

I'm officially in a bad mood. Look out.

When I'm done, I'm guided to a waiting room where all the other test subjects are in agony while their eyes dilate. Thankfully, Carl is there so we can grumble about the state of humanity together.

We are surrounded by senior citizens, who in the waning light, appear ghostly and surreal. Their voices drift over my head like fog unfurling down a mountain. 

A story rambles its way through the waiting room: an older woman retelling the others of her husband with dementia and her struggles with it. The others nod in support and words of you'll get through this lift this woman up.

I try to block all of them out. I just want to see the ophthalmologist and get the fuck out of here because this place wreaks of grief and I'm sure Death is just waiting for me around the corner.

Another woman, who looks like she's my mom's age, tells everyone about a delightful movie called Away From Her. Suddenly, she's channeling George Gershwin: this movie is s'wonderful, s'marvelous, s'awful nice, s'paradise. More nodding throughout the room. They agree with her!

I look at Carl, but he's occupying himself with work emails and I'm left with my mouth wide open, unsure again if I should scream or not.

Did they watch the same movie I watched? Certainly not, for this movie is neither delightful or paradise. It's heartbreaking and heartwrenching. It's a study on the tumultuous human pschye and our relationships with the people we have loved for all our lives. Her account of the movie made it sound like a goddamn Bridget Jones flick.

The seniors all clamor for recognition in this conversation and I feel the weight of their words. The woman with the husband with dementia is ready to leave him after more than fifty years together. Her daily hell broadcast for everyone to hear and I am now on the verge of a panic attack. 

It's extremely hot in this room. There's only one window which shows the unmanicured yard below and the overflowing contents of a dumpster. Nurses sweep by us, laughing and confiding in one another. One by one, patients are called into rooms, never to be seen from again.

There is a lump in my throat and somewhere close by, tears are ready to go. 

Finally, I get called into the doctor's office. He greets me and asks me how I'm doing.

Is it too much if I tell him I feel fatalistic and ruinous?



Despite what you may think, I am my own worst enemy. Surprise!

I came across a box of shit from college yesterday: photos, notes from a statistics class I nearly failed because I couldn't wake up in time for an 11am class, beer bottle caps (like a million of these), shoelaces because maybe I thought they could be used as a weapon?, matches from too many bars, lots of dried up pens and a bunch of pennies that I can probably use to buy a couple Lotto tickets or some ice cream.

Going through this memory overload, I realized how much this song was my theme song from college and fuck, that's pathetic, isn't it? Multiple images of walks of shames buzzed through my head and I had to put my head down and take a nap.

Needless to say, this information will not be disclosed to my parents because disappointment tolerance is already at an all time low.

My brain hurt like a warehouse, it had no room to spare. . .

I grew up listening to big band music (Pennsylvania 6-500, anyone?) and Nat King Cole (don't listen to Nature Boy when you're feeling low). Oh, and let's not forget the goddamn Ray Conniff Singers.   My GOD. Just thinking about them singing Harmony makes me want to put my head in a blender. On pulse. For at least ten minutes.

In the third grade, I got a sweet portable red Sony radio from Japan from my aunt and uncle. I carried it everywhere; I drove my parents bonkers in the car while they tried to listen to their easy listening tunes and I was trying to get a signal for anything that didn't have a big band playing in the background. 

One afternoon, I happened onto KISW, the local rock station in Seattle. What rabbit hole did I just fall into? What is this rock n' roll? For hours, I laid on my bed while I listened to Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix and Heart. And then sometime, just as the sun was saying its goodbyes for the day and I was half asleep, a strange and melancholy voice sang out and cradled me. I had no idea what the song was about, but it was beautiful and heartbreaking and I cried into my pillow, weeping for the words that could not come to me. The song was Five Years.

Right after, the DJ played Life on Mars and the lump in my throat returned. My dad knocked on the door, asking What are you doing in there? and I replied quickly not wanting him to further interrupt my reverie, Nothing! 

At some point later, I can't remember when, I spent all my Christmas and birthday money on several Bowie cassette tapes and breathed him in. I cried and laughed and wrote poetry. My little body shook, euphoric and renewed. I hated school and hated being picked on and hated being bullied, but I knew I could come home and listen to Bowie and everything else seemed so small and inconsequential.

Today, I feel like I have too much to do and no time for anything, except for tears for Bowie one last time. 

Star Wars Redux

People keep asking me how many times I've seen Star Wars: The Force Awakens. When I reply: once, I'm met with disbelief and then with disdain. Oh you can't possibly be a real fan, especially if you haven't seen it in 70 mm. And your a, ugh, girl.

Really, assholes? I need to prove my goddamn worth by how many times I've seen a movie and in what formats? And you dumb it down even more because of my sex?

After the 11-year-old and I watched the movie, we walked out of the movie theater in silence and just grinned at one another once we got back in the car, like we didn't want to spoil the experience with our chatter and for just a little longer, we want to keep this moment to ourselves.

Of course, I'll watch the movies a bunch of times sometime in the future, but for now, once is enough.



I'm already doing 2016 wrong.

6am . . .


Can you come pick me up from the airport?  I got bumped from my flight.

Who is this? 

Ugh. I'll see you in about an hour. Right? 

Yeah. Mm. Okay. 

I went back to sleep and awoke in a panic 10 minutes later. Did I just order pizza?

Racing around, trying to put on shorts, pants, a potato sack, any fucking thing I could wrap around my body, I tripped down the stairs and swore like no one has ever sworn before.  I figured out it was Carl on the phone.

30 minutes later. . .

Where are you, babe? My voice tired, but patient. 

I'm at the first terminal.

It's fucking crazy here. 

I know what you're thinking. Don't you dare leave me in this hell hole. 

I thought about it, but I'm already here. Also, the traffic is bad and I'm not moving. Where are you again? 

The first terminal.

I just drove past the first terminal. 

How did I miss you? 

I'm at terminal 2 now. 

I don't get it. I'm in Terminal D. 

The irritation crept into my voice. Are you sure you're in arrivals?

Yes. Someone else is getting irritated, too.

Now I'm at terminal 3.  I don't get this. The fucks and shits and goddamits are just hanging from the tip of my tongue, waiting to attack.

Babe, what airport are you at? 

Ugh. Fort Lauderdale.

I'm at Miami Internati . . .


Last week I learned I shouldn't answer my phone ever and: 

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place: 

Definitely not doing something right here and my mom will probably call to tell me soon

The toddler came into the kitchen this morning singing a nice little ditty, but then I listened more carefully to what she was actually saying. 

She was singing about how often you should clean out your septic tank. And if you aren't diligent about cleaning said septic tank, then be prepared to suffer the consequences. Or something like that. 

Probably should limit the toddler's time in front of the television. Does that mean I have to set a good example and limit my time in front of the television as well because that seems a little extreme to me.

I'm thinking about getting a drone and being a menace to society

I'm still in bed because I keep thinking I'm going to get some sleep, but it just doesn't come.

At some point in the night, the toddler, who refuses to sleep in her own bed because apparently my gut makes a better mattress than an actual mattress, peed in our bed.

Changing sheets at 3am isn't ideal, even for Satan, I'm sure.

Then said pee culprit couldn't stop laughing for an hour and telling her to go back to sleep just elicited more laughter. Inside, the plethora of swear words started to swell and hurt my brain.

At some point, between the time I was trying to count Gary Gnus to sleep and wondering if there was something moving in our closet, a lone lawn mower started.

I shot straight out of bed because what kind of moron is mowing grass even before the sun gets up?  

The noisy motor faded in and out of my aural periphery and I wondered what pattern this person was mowing their lawn in: straight up and down lines, zig zags, circles or were they just fucking around and causing havoc. 

Trying to tune out the noise, I went back to counting Gary Gnus. 

Until the Christmas music started. 

What the fuck is wrong with these people?  I muttered to myself as I ran downstairs and opened our front door, trying to gauge where the music was coming from. It sounded eerily close, like it was coming from inside our house.

I laughed slightly and shook my head as I closed the front door, reminded of that urban legend of the killer calling the babysitter from inside the house. 

I stopped laughing and quickly ran back up the stairs, tripping on my own feet in the process. The music seemed to be getting louder. 

It was coming from the kitchen.  

The only thing near me I could use for a weapon was a stuffed Hello Kitty doll. If there was someone downstairs, they would be stunned into cute overload. 

Stealthily turning the corner into the kitchen, I raised Hello Kitty above my head and was trying to quiet my jagged breathing.

As I crept closer to the sofa, I found the perpetrator. 

Shakespeare the dog had gotten one of the toddler's toys and was chewing it.  He looked up at me behind his long bangs, as if to ask, why the fuck are you up so early? 

Sighing, I took him him for a very long walk to find the lawn mower bandit with Hello Kitty in tow.