What is this bleep show happening with my face?

The toddler shows me a picture of me that she has just taken with my phone. Who is that person? That's can't be me? I look old and tired and irritated. 

I tell the toddler to wait before she takes another picture because I'm going to wash my face because washing your face solves everything. 

I should probably start listening to Morrissey when I wash my face because there is a lot of self-loathing up here in this bathroom.

Fuck TGIF.

I am swearing as I contort my face in ways that would probably frighten small children and adults alike in any kind of light. My face is changing as the days and years go on and the face that stares back at me seems like a Bizarro version of the face I once knew and once loved. 

A cruel connect-the-dots matrix exists across my face. People call them sunspots like they're some lovely gift from nature. They are neither, if you must know. Wrinkles are just now settling into a place around my eyes and if I look for too long, I can feel the wrinkles take root and feel them creeping through the rest of my face.

So I try this thing called squinching which I read about and laughed at at first because this is a joke, right? But desperate times. . . 

Squinching "is narrowing the eyes by tightening your lower eyelid and letting the top one drop down just a bit." It's a technique that's supposed to make you more photogenic and apparently, EVERYONE is doing it. 

I wonder if they just meant everyone UNDER the age of 40?

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror for five minutes trying to squinch and all that is happening is a weird numbness occurring over my cheeks. Also, it looks like my eyelids are spasming. Should my eyeballs be hurting?

The toddler calls out to me, "Mommy, should I call Daddy? Are you okay?"

"No, I'm fine." I try to squinch one more time and realize too late that Carl is watching me.

"Why are you glaring at yourself?" he asks.

"There are too many reasons today."

What must people think when they're sitting at the stop light and they look over and see me wiping tears away and laughing like a jerk?

So I've been listening to a lot of, and this is what the kids call it and they say this with glee and laughter - NOT ME because I'm not a mean kid who thinks their mom is an ancient seed ready for the old folks home - easy listening music. 

If this is easy listening music, then let me fucking drown in it. Drown, I said!

Of course, the first time I heard this song, I was sitting in the minivan with a fucking protein shake in my hand because I'm that asshole that thinks one stupid shake is going to make a difference after a lifetime of horrible food choices. 

Logic runs through these bloodstreams.

The kids were settled in the back of the car, headphones on to block out the world and perhaps to block out my voice because they didn't want to hear my usual dissertation on the importance of getting your homework done early and the evils of procrastination because I know about said evils.

Then this song came on the radio and I'm vocally paralyzed, unable to continue my bit on why you should avoid people who don't like animals. And then I cried, like the kind of crying where you can't breathe because your lungs are closing and your nose is full of snot and then you get to that crying line where once you cross it, there is no turning back and you're stuck in this crying limbo and all you can do is cry some more.

The kids had no idea what was going on because they still had their headphones on, but I made eye contact with the 12-year-old in the rear view mirror and her eyes got big and they quickly looked away. Is this her midlife crises? she probably wondered to herself. 

I was hit with a surge of memories of relationships past and it knocked the mother fucking wind out of me. How do memories have the ability to do that even decades later to the point where the  pain still cuts so deeply you can still feel the blisters all over?

And just like that the song ended and I was left as an exposed basket case, trying to laugh it all off as I wiped away my tears.

Good times.


I am not taking credit for gambling because holy crap that is an addiction and am I an addict?

Guess what this asshole has been doing all day?

I've been watching football games and watching my scores on FanDuel (this is not a paid endorsement because if it was, this story would be a little different, yo). What a waste of goddamn time and yet, I can't get enough of it.

This is my first year doing fantasy football. I played years ago and I went a little crazy: studying stats, being engrossed by stats, talking stats all day. It consumed me and I don't think I had a lot of friends at the end of football season because I alienated everyone with bloviated talk of pass yardage and receiving yards. Not always a great conversation starter when you're out on a first date. I'm just saying.

Anyway, I barely ate today - that's how bad it was. And I'm doing this shit again next week.

This week I learned that I probably should've done fantasy football a lot sooner and: 

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:


Guess I better start living in that bubble I've been threatening I would do, but never follow through with because I'm that person

Me: So I got the results from my allergy test back. It's only the blood panel - I still have to do the skin patch test. I might as well live at the doctor's office.

Carl: That's a lot of information for me at this time of the day.

Me: It's almost 5pm.

Carl. I know.

Me: So I'm allergic to egg whites, peanuts, soybeans, milk, clams, shrimp, walnuts, codfish, wheat, corn and sesame seed. There's probably a plethora of other stuff that'll come up with the skin test.

Carl: So what you're telling me is that you'll be living on dirt and water and our grocery bill will go down significantly?

Me: You know, I did have pica as a child.

Carl: Not surprising.

Me: What am I going to do?

Carl: Maybe avoid stuff you're not supposed to eat.

Me: You are no Dr. Phil.

Carl: Somewhere there's a village missing its idiot.

Me: Why are you staring at me when you say that?

No one needs to ask the lineage of this kid because it's pretty obvious we're related and I'm so sorry, kid

There's something about procrastination that runs through a family line and wreaks havoc, its tentacles reaching for and strangling any brain within a five mile radius.

The 10-year-old had four tests today. All week, we talked about it and he said he had it covered. Familiar words. 

I'll study tomorrow, he said. Holy crap. How many times do I say I'll do something tomorrow instead of doing it today?

Last night, he disappeared into his room for a few hours to study. I beamed, so proud that the boy was finally taking initiative with his school work. 

I looked at the clock: 10.45pm. Huh. The boy was really studying his butt off. I peeked into his room, smiling because he was going to ace these mother fucking tests.

But instead, I found the boy asleep in his bed. His binder and books closed.


Get up! Get up!

He slowly opened his eyes. Isn't it Saturday? His voice was slow and tedious.

No! You have school tomorrow, remember? And those tests? Remember? My voice squealed and stumbled and dogs in Alaska probably howled in pain at the sound.

So what you're saying is it's not Saturday? he asked.

I groaned and tried to refrain from rolling my eyes. Did you at least study? I was hopeful. Fine, not really because how many times had I done the same thing as a kid?

No big deal. I'll get it done now. He was calm about everything while my entire body was screaming with anxiety. He looked at me worried, not about his tests, but because he probably thought an asthma attack as about to kick in. 

Don't worry, Mom. It's going to be okay.

So for an hour, the boy and I sat on the floor of his room as we studied for his tests and laughed hysterically while we imagined what kind of voices our dogs would have if they could talk

Those tests are no big deal, after all.

I'm not taking credit for books being banned because what is this - a Ray Bradbury story?

"Why don't you wanna trust a big butt and a smile?" The sweet voice fills the kitchen and I choke on the doughnut I just stuffed into my mouth.

I look down at her, this toddler dressed in pink monkey pajama bottoms and a green My Little Pony shirt and wonder how she came to this clothing choice. But never mind - there are more pressing matters, right?

"Where did you hear that?" I say with a hint concern, but I want to giggle a little. Unfortunately, someone has to be a parent here and Carl is gone doing something called work.

"You were singing it just now," the toddler says as she spins in a messed up pirouette and there's no way she's going to be a dancer. Like mother, like daughter.

I'm about to protest and tell her she has no idea what's she's taking about because really, what do four-year-olds really know except that that they want what they want right now? Also, I can't get "Poison" out my head now and what is Bell Biv DeVoe up to these days?

"Why don't you go back and watch some Spongebob?" I suggest.

"Does Spongebob have a big butt and a smile?"


This week I learned that I need to not to sing around the toddler and:

The interwebs is a mysterious and infinite place:

What I'm waking up to may not be what you're waking up to and that's probably a good thing

There's a sound in the distance - is it someone eating or is it someone talking and if they're eating, what are they eating because I am hella hungry right now. In my dreams. This is a dream, right?

Someone is nudging me, pulling at me, shaking me, holy shit - they are full on pinching me now and there is actual pain, goddammit. Do I normally feel pain in my dreams?

Hey! Hey! Wake-up!

The shrill voice stings my ears and I recoil at the sound. I open one eye and it is still dark outside. The fuck? I close my eye and try to settle back into a nice, warm slumber.


I sit straight up in bed now and look around. Carl is staring, no glaring at me. Even I can see his irritation in the dark.

The hell, man. It's still early, I say.

Not early enough for your stupid alarm. And nice song. I suggest ocean waves next time. He plops back dow in bed and turns his back to me.

Well, happy Monday to you, good sir.

Now if only I can find my phone to turn this stupid song off.

I'd take credit for grocery delivery if I could because going grocery shopping is worse than lice

Maybe it was fate. Or perhaps serendipity. Most likely it was probably because I spend more time than I probably should on the interwebs: there's a new app that will let me shop on my phone and they will deliver chips, cookies, a sub sandwich - whatever you can get from the grocery store - to my house within hours. I like that. What I don't like is getting the toddler into the trusty minivan and dealing with South Florida drivers to go one mile into a store where people are careless with their shopping carts (the fact that someone is in front of you should be indication enough to stop instead of ramming my ass with your cart and then proceeding to glare at me), cut in line at the deli counter (seriously? Seriously), and hem and haw when you whip out a bunch of coupons when you go to check-out. 

I should reconsider my stance on having a flask with me at all times. 

And this week, I got my wine(s) delivery from the wine club I joined.

This week I learned that I will probably never leave the house again and this may be my only way of communicating with humans and:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

What if I could time travel out of work?

I have several deadlines today. And not like deadlines that I impose on myself like: okay, just five more minutes until you can eat. No, I mean real deadlines that have actual consequences and is the difference between show me the money and I have no money.

But it's Tuesday. And I forgot that on Tuesday's the toddler like to really pepper me with questions like: is the Doctor for real? and Can we get a TARDIS because I don't like riding in your car anymore - it smells funny?

I stare down at her and she looks up at me sweetly, but we both know there is wickedness behind those eyes.

Doctor Who is on TV. I've seen this episode at least five times and yet I cannot take my eyes off the screen. I'm pretty sure if Maury Povich was on and there was a Where's My Baby's Daddy? episode, I'd still be watching. Don't judge me. 

The dogs keep barking at my neighbor who has decided to do Tai Chi near our backyard - you are no David Carradine, lady. And I watch her because she is both ridiculous and mesmerizing and now I wonder if I should probably join her. What do you wear whilst performing Tai Chi?

I'd like to take a power nap (read: sleep for a long ass time after stuffing my face), but I'm waiting for the FedEx guy impatiently because I joined a wine club and they need a signature from an adult. Eyeroll. The fact that he sees my minivan in the driveway should be proof enough that an adult is at home.

By the way. I told my mom about said wine club, she's ready to drive down for an intervention. 

I cannot concentrate. 

I probably should stop working in the kitchen. This is not a good working environment. Cookies and the entire population of the pantry and refrigerator are within reach. I need to take this sideshow back into my office where I can close the door and just get my shit done once and for all. 

But what will I stare at? Thank fuck Doctor Who is on Netflix. 

I love my computer.

I'd take credit for The Princess Bride if I could

I'm popping Zantac pills like their Tic-Tacs. And I've been in my robe (read: long ass sweater that covers all my lumps and fat rolls) all day.

I always said I'd never be like my parents and yet here I am.

This week I learned that I need to watch what I say because shit comes true, reverse order, like a dyslexic Disney movie and:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place: