Awesome. Not awesome.

SO AWESOME: I took this gorgeous screen shot on my iPad and wrote this post with Siri.

 

SO NOT AWESOME: Look at our weather. What the frack?

WTF

I have this *awesome* new thing that I do where I frantically search my house for something that I can never find, and then mid search forget what I'm looking for and just stand in the living room/kitchen/bedroom BAFFLED, wondering what the fuck I am doing in the living room/kitchen/bedroom, because I have NO CLUE what I was searching for.

Wherein *awesome* = sarcasm. THIS IS NOT AWESOME AT ALL.

Booze helps.

I am so controversial...

I received an email about a complaint about my blog, and a link to click to view it, and blah blah blah, SPAM, so I deleted it. Because I? Am no fool. I do not clink links in ridiculous emails.

Then today I logged on to take a peek at my blog for the first time in, oh, a while, and lo and behold, a big, bold message greeted me:

We have received a DMCA complaint for your blog, So Not Zen. An email with the details of the complaint was sent to you on 11-Jan-2012 , and we reset the post status to "Draft"; you can edit it here. You may republish the post with the offending content and/or link(s) removed. If you believe that you have the rights to post this content,you can file a counter-claim with us. For more on our DMCA policy, please click here. Thank you for your prompt attention.

Wowza. Who did I piss off? I went to the deleted post, and it was a picture (from Google images) of a French bulldog with the title "Christmas Wish List No. 6" and that's pretty much it.

I had no idea frenchies were so controversial.

In other non-threatening news, today is January 12 and I have yet to break my January resolution, which is NO BIG BOX STORES. I'd love to make this a lifestyle choice, but even given our differences, the Tar-jay still calls to me on occasion. But not this month. We'll see what February holds.

I have continued my January tradition of dieting my way back down to my post-holiday level of overweight, which is my baseline overweightedness. It's hard to feel celebratory about the fact that, yay, I am dieting my ass off and now I only need to lose 15 pounds. But in comparison to the oh, hell no, reality of gaining six or seven ADDITIONAL POUNDS during the course of the holidays, I guess it's the better position to be in.

Hopefully I'll be back to my normal weight by March (15 pounds by March, that's doable, right?) when I start my running training program up again. This year I am running two half-marathons, one in May and one in June. I've got no good excuse for not running these days because our weather has been brilliant and non-wintery to the extreme, yet I haven't run since I did a 5k on Dec. 4, so six weeks ago, not one little jog. I have, however, been dancing with Tim, three hours of classes per week. We're doing West Coast swing, East Coast swing and Cha Cha. I could live without the cha cha, personally, but the swing classes are a lot of fun.

So, here I am, back to the blog, again, hoping to make it a semi-regular occurrence. I'll try not to stir up too much controversy with my cute dog posts. Peace out.

Seriously?

Have you ever done that thing where you're involved in an interaction with someone, who may or may not be your husband, and that someone "gets mad" about something, but the thing that they are mad about is so fucking ridiculous that you assume they are joking, especially because the magnitude of their over exaggerated anger is so dramatic that it verges on comical; and because you think they are being funny you continue to egg it on by engaging in the same behavior that brought on said dramatically comical anger; but then eventually you realize that the whole thing is actually fucking real and OMG are you shitting me? You're upset about THAT? And then you start to think about moving into a sweet little house built for one, or maybe just living in the in-store model home inside of ikea and eating meatballs every day and changing your name and never answering your phone again, because SERIOUSLY? WE'RE FIGHTING ABOUT THIS? You have got to be shitting me.

Friends don't let friends blog drunk

I said I would do it. It’s not much, but it’s all I can do from thousands of miles away. And then I failed. I didn’t do it. Why? I don’t know. How difficult can it be, just open the emails and organize the photos for a slide presentation? Not that hard, right? Yet the emails remained unopened.

And then my sister in law, in some random act of unknown kindness, sent a one line email saying, “We’re putting the photos on a thumb drive, “ and, just like that, I’m off the hook. She didn’t know I dropped the ball, and yet she picked it up and let me off the hook.

And now that I don’t need to open the emails attachments and look at the photos, now I can. And BAM, first photo, it’s one of my parents circa 1980s and it hits me like a sucker punch to the gut and I’m floored . It’s too much and I can’t handle it. IT IS TOO MUCH. My mom has been dead since 1998. My dad just died. And I. Cannot. Handle. It.


Flash forward half an hour and I am watching crap TV with my 12 year old, texting with my sister re: the loss of brain cells and also, PS, I need to pack, because it’s almost time to go spread my dad’s ashes.

It. Is. All. Too. Much
Seriously. Fuck this.

I can't look

I don't consider myself to be tenderhearted, overly sensitive, or even particularly empathetic. In short, I'm no delicate flower.

And yet I find myself unable to cope with distant tragedy. I can't watch news coverage of the events in Oslo. I can't read news stories about it. If I do, I won't be able to leave the house. I won't be able to focus on the things that I need to do in my own life. Yes, it's all about me. Fuck off, it's my blog.

This is not a new development. Columbine, 9/11, Oklahoma City, Afghanistan, Darfur, countless other atrocities that human beings have inflicted on each other. They shut me down. Shut. Me. The. Fuck. Down. I cannot deal.

God forbid I ever have to deal with personal tragedy. I don't have inner strength. I don't have reserves to draw upon. I marvel at people who overcome, rise above, move on after unspeakable events. They are super heroes, the people who carry on, exhibit grace and strength and perseverance.

I'm going to go bury my head in the sand now. Don't judge.

Tomorrow is My Birthday

To celebrate my birthday eve and my last night of being 44 years old, I have compliled a list of 45 things that annoy me, in no particular order. WHAT?

Inexplicable traffic

Stupid people

Especially the ones who don’t know they are stupid

Any store running out of any product that I am there to buy

Yipping dogs

Bullies

Gummy anything

The stench of patchouli when I walk into a store

Pedestrians who, yes, have the right to walk across my lane of traffic in a parking lot, but do so on the diagonal, in slow motion, with swagger

Fox News

Poorly filled out facial hair

Country music

Fake laughter

People who write checks in the grocery store line

Unsolicited hugs

Walmart

Walmart shoppers

Ambulance chasers

Target’s return policy

The fact that the person in front of me at the ATM or postal kiosk has no idea how to use the machine

Whale tails, you know what I mean

6^th grade math homework

Psychobabble

The brunette actresses on Disney/Nickelodeon that all look alike and have basically the same show on different sets. I think there are, like, four of them

People who say “li-barry”

And “pacific” instead of “specific”

Anyone who corrects my grammar on Facebook

The U.S. tax code

Aging

Undisciplined children

And even more so, their parents

Really cute fridge magnets that aren’t actually strong enough to hold anything on the fridge

Close talkers

Logging on to Facebook and discovering things have changed, yet again

Printers. All of them.

More than a 20 minute wait at any restaurant

Justin Beiber

Seeing teenage girls at Carlie’s school in their PAJAMA PANTS

Overseas tech support/customer service

That tickle in the back of your throat that is, like, SHIT, you know you will be sick within the week

Seeing a “missed call” but they didn’t leave a message

Candles that smell like food

People that smell like smoke

The way that Carlie will destroy any package of food that she opens

Plastic mini blinds

Jumping The Shark

I fear my blog has jumped the shark. I don't know what to write about. I'm in this weird place where I have no ideas/too many ideas/can't capture the ideas in words. Weird.

Two of my kids have big milestones coming up, a college graduation and a high school graduation coming in the spring. Those two kids are thriving, excelling, doing great. And two of my kids are struggling, mightily, and it breaks my heart. But those stories are theirs to tell, not mine.

Meanwhile, I'm treading water. But I fear that under the surface, the sharks are circling.

I saw Inception, when what I apparently really need is a Hot Tub Time Machine

I saw Inception this week. Can't find to exercise or get my transcript pages done, or do laundry and grocery shopping, but found time for a movie. What can I say. I have uncanny time management skills.

If anyone knows what this movie is about, let me know.

Just kidding. I got it. Mostly. But I still have one big question.

When did these guys...

Become these guys?

Am I really that old?

Choose your battles

I have a huge story to tell you about the aftermath of this event, but I am tired of hearing myself talk about it. So I'll just give you the abbreviated version. Carlie is fine and dandy, with nothing to show for the accident but a little scar on her eyelid/brow area. THANK GOD.

Eight days after the accident, I received a call from the insurance company for the grocery store to tell me that my "claim" has been denied. I didn't even file a claim! But that doesn't really matter, they just wanted to give me a courtesy call and let me know that, after investigating, they are denying liability.

I don't even want to go on any more about how they have their wine bottles precariously teetering on the end-caps of their store, or about the fact that I DID NOT FILE A CLAIM. But in the span of two harassing and unsolicited phone calls from "the man," I went from "accidents happen" to "OMG I will own your ass when this is done." And that? Is a place I do not want to go.

So let's take a poll. Does this look safe to you?

Wine bottles, stacked upon other cardboard boxes full of wine bottles, with nothing but a one inch rim of cardboard holding them in place.
Do you know how easy it is to round the corner at the end of the aisle and bump these displays? And when I took the photo, I gave the middle box a tiny shove and the bottles started to topple. I stopped them from falling. Because I am not 11 years old and saw it coming. But I digress...

I am so not looking for a legal battle. I have insurance (thank God) (but it's shitty insurance) that will hopefully cover the cost of the E.R. visit (if our deductible has been met). But I still have a $100 ER copay and the cost of the doctor's office visit co-pay (stitch removal) and whatever portion the insurance is not going to cover (I think best case scenario, they cover 70%. Like I said, shitty insurance).

And let's remember, I have yet to receive a hospital bill OR submit a bill for reimbursement to the store or their insurance company.

So can someone please tell me why they would choose to call and fuck with me? Really, I'm dying to know.

Also... how awesome are are my iPhone photos. Thank God I am easily distracted...

Spreading the love

I've been spreading the love, wherein *love* = strep throat. I was going to insert a picture here, but was so horrified by what google images presented me with when I looked for strep throat images, that I couldn't bring myself to do it. You're welcome. In my defense, I thought I had allergies, and then I thought I had a cold. I never would have attended those two birthday parties and one dance party had I know that I was contagious.

Meanwhile, our family continues to single-handedly keep the medical industry afloat. Sunday, Carlie and Erinna went to the grocery store to buy eggs to make brownies for dad for a Father's Day treat after dinner. The joys of having a teen driver in the house, no more last minute grocery runs!

I get a call from Erinna to "meet them at the hospital" because the "ambulance" is taking Carlie and BLAH BLAH BLAH I can't make out the words here because HELLO, WHAT?

The store is less that five minutes from my house, so I tell her GO NOWHERE and Tim and I hustle our butts off of the couch, where we're both being lethargic and streppy ( he has it too ) and get to the grocery store, where we find this...

Tell me that's not enough to give you a little heart attack on the spot?

Per Carlie's telling of the tale, she tripped and bumped a wine display. At this particular store, wine bottles are stacked on the corners of aisles and I've come pretty close to knocking a couple down myself when rounding corners. When she bumped the stacked bottles, one fell, but it didn't hit her in the head. It hit the ground in front of her and shattered. And a big chunk of the bottle rebounded up and smacked her in the forehead. Seriously. How does this even happen?

The store personnel called 911 because she was bleeding profusely from the head. The emergency guys got her cleaned up and she had a small gash in her eyelid that would need stitches. They were worried about glass in her eyes, so they bandaged them shut.

After some haggling about the direness of this emergency, I had them wheel her on the gurney to my car and I drove her to the hospital myself. WORST MOM EVER, I KNOW, SHUT UP. Sorry, but I'm not paying $800 for an ambulance ride to a hospital that is two miles away, at least I wasn't once they confirmed that there was nothing further they could do for her in the ambulance and it was just a matter of getting her to the ER. I got her there.

Not going to lie. I contemplated going home and putting a butterfly closure on the wound. It was very tiny but deep. Carlie was not complaining or crying, she was a little discombobulated with her eyes bandaged shut, but she had no eye pain, nothing. I asked the emergency guys if they could just but a butterfly thing on it and they said they could, but really they wanted her eyes checked for glass. Even though was not complaining of eye pain, it was a concern. So that's what led me to the hospital ultimately.

And as the doctor flushed out the wound, a glass shard about the size of a half-carat stone popped out of the wound.

OMG. Can you even imagine if I had left that in her head? Shudder. I placed it next to the penny for scale, because it doesn't look like much, but when it POPS OUT OF YOUR HEAD, it seems a lot larger.

The end result, she got five stitches and she's got a shiner. No glass in eyes, thank God. And we can add the ER to the list of places that I spread my streppy plague, because I sat in there coughing for a good three hours.

So, what did ya'll do this weekend?

Just call me Tipper

I am by no means a prude. I personally have been dropping the "f" bomb since middle school AND I bought the "explicit lyrics" version of Justin Timberlake's "I'm bringing sexy back" when given the option on iTunes. I? Am hip like that. Cutting edge, yo.

So while I may have felt a little niggling of doubt when my daughter was singing, loudly...

"I'm talking about everybody getting crunk (crunk), Boys try to touch my junk (junk), Gotta slap him if he gets too drunk (drunk),"

I didn't freak out. And also? I know all the words too.

"The dudes are lining up 'cause they hear we got swagger. But we kick 'em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger."

What can I say? The tune? Is catchy. Plus? Carlie is 11. She's not *really* brushing her teeth with a bottle of Jack. It's just a song.



But yesterday, when Carlie began using an irritating nasally affect and was beseeching Dr. Dre to...

"Just blow a little bit of that smoke my way," because "We're now smoking with the best (the best),"

????

Um... yeah, no. Eminem? STAB.

UPDATE: So, yeah, I had this post all written and ready to post up in the morning, because I didn't want to steal the limelight from Rex Smith too soon. So as you read this, know that I am not in the hospital fretting over Eminem song lyrics. I am in the hospital, though, fretting over my own stupidity. I have had an upset stomach x two days now, and assumed that I was catching the stomach bug that is probably not food poisoning after all. But when I called in with my symptoms, I was told I needed to spend the night in the hospital. I swear, I heard the CHA CHING sound when the doctor's office informed me of this. Their CHA CHING, not my CHA CHING. I am having whatever is the opposite of a CHA CHING. Because? Hospital Bills. And Deductibles. Yeah. Awesome. Oh, and new job. Yeah, I am sure they are LOVING me long time right about now. And just the general overall ick of being in the hospital. Again.

It will certainly end up being much ado about nothing, but if you need me, I'll be back at the hospital. Again. Seriously. As soon as Tim gets home from work, to drive me. Because I don't know where to park for an overnight at the hospital. Lamesauce.

They say it comes in threes...

1. My gallbladder, et al.

2. Carlie's wrist and thumb.

Presenting health crisis 2010, the third edition...

3. Tim has food poisoning. Wherein *food poisoning* = go to the Blazer's game, sprint to the bathroom four minutes before halftime and puke your guts up for half an hour in a public men's room, then come home and not eat for 48 hours and pray for a fast and merciful death.

But here's the real *surprise*... his food poisoning? Might be a little less poison and a little more bug because guess who went to bed sick to her stomach last night and woke up still wanting to hurl this morning? If you guessed ME, you win.

Did I mention that I have a deposition this afternoon? For my new job? The new job that I haven't been to in two weeks, after working one single week and then being out sick for two weeks? Don't you wish you could hire me right here, on the spot, to come and not work for you?

I don't have to leave the house for work until 1:00. Thankfully, the job is about 1/2 mile from my house. So I am going to sleep until then and wake up feeling fine. How? Because I SAY SO, that's how.

Also, Carlie is still in bed, sleeping, after crying thru the night about her wrist throbbing. I think the "cast" is psychologically convincing her that there is more wrong with her wrist than there actually is. Because an immobilized sprain would not be hurting MORE after two days, right? It would be feeling better?

So here's me... waving the white flag, crying UNCLE, whatever. OK. I get it, Universe. You win! I quit!

More words of inspiration

Yesterday's mantra is day-old news. And though, "At least it doesn't smell like poo" was a powerful talisman in my self-help arsenal yesterday, today I was given this lovely, spiritual, uplifting tidbit, from my husband no less, as I may have whined a tiny bit about my throbbing incision sites, my gassy stomach, my bile bag and, you know, just generally whine-worthy stuff.

"It's better than getting your face ripped off by a chimp."

True dat, brother. True. Dat.

PS: On the how you doin' front:

I took a shower, did not die.

I removed my dressing (per nurse's orders) and HOLY SHIT THERE ARE TUBES RIGHT THERE JUST STICKING OUT OF MY STOMACH. I should have NEVER removed the dressing. But now it's done and hopefully tomorrow one of the drains will be removed at my late afternoon follow-up appointment.

I am starting to hate soup.

Post-surgical coughing jags have commenced. NOT FUN.

My discharge papers say I can't have carbonated beverages. I am thinking this is probably just a mean joke by one of the nurses who knows how I feel about diet coke, so I am not going to take this one too seriously.

A three-time review of my discharge papers shows no mention of "avoid alcohol." Just saying.

Bye-Bye, Gallbladder

This smiley face image? You can thank me later. I was googling a picture of a gallbladder to show you, but it was all so horrible and disgusting that I went with the smiley face instead. You're welcome.

Friday night I had a funky belly ache. By 9 pm, it was really bothering me, so I skipped Carlie's dance party and had Tim take her. When they got home at 11 pm, I was contemplating going to the ER, but talked myself out of it, thinking I had gas or had eaten something that wasn’t agreeing with me.

By 2 a.m. I was ready to go to the ER, but didn’t want to wake up Carlie and drag her along, and didn't want to leave her home alone, so I convinced myself that I could wait until the morning.

At 5 a.m. I had Tim drop me off at small urgent care clinic just a few blocks from our house, and then come back home so Carlie wouldn’t wake up home alone and freaked out.

The doctor at the urgent care clinic (who looked like a cowboy, but that's a story for another day) sent me to the full blown hospital for a gallbladder x-ray. And by 10 a.m. it was decided that I’d be having my gallbladder removed and spending at least one night, if not two, in the hospital.

They took me into surgery Saturday at noon and removed my gallbladder laprascopically (sp) and then did a liver scan. My gallbladder, which I have never had a problem with once in my entire life, was in horrible condition. The liver scan showed gall stones in the duct, so I had to go into recovery, wake up from the anesthesia, and then go to a different type of operating room and go under general anesthesia again. I DO NOT DO WELL WITH ANESTHESIA, just fyi, so this was pretty horrible for me.

Second procedure was done with endoscopy, where they put a camera tool thing down my throat and basically roto-routered the liver duct.

So now I have: zero gallbladder, a ziplock bag filled with about 100 little gallstones (just for kicks) and two DISGUSTING DRAINAGE TUBES coming out of my belly into bags on my right hip. SO GROSS.

I’ve been home for about 20 minutes now. Tim has gone to fill my Rx and then he is going to work. A friend will be bringing Carlie home from school. WHAT A FUCKING ORDEAL THIS HAS BEEN.

No work for a week, no heavy lifting for months, no running for at least 6-8 weeks, soft/liquid food for the foreseeable future and a low fat diet forever.

It bears repeating; WHAT A FUCKING ORDEAL. Never in a million years when I had a stomach ache Friday night did I think I’d be undergoing surgery twice over the weekend. Total insanity. I am so glad to be home now. But honestly, if I had known that I’d have to be emptying these disgusting drains etc. at home, I might have stayed another day in the hospital. SO GROSS.

I have follow up with the surgeon on Wednesday and one drain will be removed. but the bile duct thing filled with disgusting green bile will be with me for…. get ready for this…. A MONTH TO TWO MONTHS. Seriously. A bag of disgusting bile draining from a tube in my stomach, carried around on my hip for up to two months.

ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?

Target, New Job, Enchiladas and Bathroom Remodel... not in that order

I need to be dressed and out of here in 20 minutes, to take Carlie and a friend to a *family sock hop* at church; wherein *family sock hop* = could not get Tim to attend even if I promised there'd be strippers there. Of course, he would probably see right thru that promise since the sock hop is at church. He is clever like that.

But I have so many extremely important topics to blog on, I thought it highly imperative that I get on my computer right now, when I should be getting dressed, to tell you all about it.

First up, I made the most fabulous chicken enchiladas ever. With homemade sauce. For real. I've got the recipe up on my food blog, Rotisserie Chicken is the New Black. I am still in love with myself for that clever title, fyi.

We are in the midst of a bathroom remodel. Remodel is probably understating the situation. We completely gutted a bathroom pretty much down to the studs and now a contractor is rebuilding it for us. With posh new everything, including a tile shower with a spiffy custom door that cost me eleventy million dollars. We are doing this in hopes of helping move along the sale of our house, you know, because I decided to move SEVEN FRIGGIN' MONTHS AGO. So there's that.

Also on the, "oh yeah, guess what?" front, I am starting a new job February 1. It's really the same job that I do now, but I'll be doing it for a big company instead of for my lonely self. I have been self-employed for, like 15+ years, so this will be interesting. There is a small part of me that seriously thinks I might not be fit for social interaction on that kind of level (see Target saga below). Because? Almost every person I encounter on a daily basis is stupid, and I've gotten kind of bad about hiding my disdain for everyone and their stupidity. But, hey, it's an adventure, right? RIGHT?

And now to the most important topic of the night, which I now have about ten minutes to tell you about: my spectacular blaze of glory breakup with Target. YES, TARGET. I know. But seriously, their eff-ed up return policy has pushed my button for The. Last. Time.

Back story: In the summer, I bought an exercise ball thing from Target. And it would not inflate. It had a hole in it. So I took it back. I had paid cash for it THE WEEK BEFORE, but lost the receipt. They would not take it back. At all. It was DEFECTIVE. I had gotten zero use out of it. And they would not take it back. They could not exchange it for another one, because they had sold out of them and they didn't have any idea when they would get more. They would not do a store credit. NOTHING. The customer service manager (yes, I demanded to speak to a manager) was a snotty little bitch who basically said, if you don't have a receipt, screw you.

This kept me out of the Target store for a while. But eventually I was lured back in by their spacious aisles and low prices.

Now on to the break up, and I'll give you the short version. It all began Christmas 1997. Ha! I know, short version, right? Well, in 1997 I gave Tim a beautiful Wenger watch that he loved and wore every single day. Until October of 2009. When he lost it. He took it off while playing basketball, and then forgot about it, and when he went back for it a day later, it was gone. So he needed a new watch.

In November, I was on one of my three-times-per-week trips to Target, and saw a nice looking Timex watch, on clearance for $54, so I bought it. I was kind of pissed that he had lost the nice watch I had bought him, oh, you know, 10+ years ago, so I was being passive-aggressive and only replacing it with a cheapy Timex. And also, stupid me, I paid cash because it was going to be a birthday gift and I didn't want it to show up on the bank account if I used a debit card.

Gave Tim the watch in December, and after about three weeks of wearing the watch, it stopped keeping time. The battery was not dead, it just would start and stop and was generally weird. It also did weird date stuff, like changing the date at 2:14 in the afternoon. And then the band broke. So basically, the watch was a piece of shit that fell apart after about a month.

I put it back in its box, the box it came in, with the Target price tag still on it, and forgot about it. MY BAD. I KNOW. SORRY. But eventually, I remembered, and I took it back to Target this week.

And they won't take it back. It is defective. It is broken. They won't take it back.

They pulled it up in their computer, confirmed that, yes, they did carry that watch back in November but, no, they don't have it anymore.

I was not happy. I did not hide my unhappiness. It was not one of my prouder moments.

I was thisclose TO THROWING THE WATCH at the customer service girl's head. Like, I cocked my arm back with the box in it to throw it at her. I am not joking. And, yes, I realize there is something wrong with me. I pulled my shit together and walked out. And then turned around, went back in, and cocked back again with the box to throw it at her head, at which point I realized I should probably be on some kind of medication. Also? Carlie was WITH ME this entire time, and said something along the lines of, "Mommy, I'm scared," and snapped me out of it. So basically, I am mentally defective, and it is Target's fault. In case you were having trouble tracking this story.

The next day, I logged on to the Timex web site, and they have a one-year return policy. I need to send them the watch, NO RECEIPT NEEDED, and $8 to cover return shipping, and they will fix it or replace it. If it is that easy for me to do it, then HOW FREAKING EASY WOULD IT HAVE BEEN FOR TARGET TO RETURN IT TO TIMEX?

And so there you have it. I will never shop at Target again. The End.

PS: I am now late for the sockhop. You're welcome.

Seriously, 2010? This is how you want to start?

I know that we've been in the new year for four days now, but for me, the new year begins today with the end of winter break and the resumption of real life. Is resumption a word?

Here's how I kicked off my 2010. First up, a 7:30 a.m. violin lesson for Carlie before school. Awesome. She was really pumped and excited to get up and going this morning. NOT. Before heading out I made her a sack lunch for school. Guess what? We have no food.

After the lesson, I drove her to school with a CARLOAD of cardboard for recycling, wherein CARLOAD = this weekend we bought a bench. Assembled it and it was broken -- we discovered that after breaking down the 2 tons of cardboard that each separate piece of the bench was wrapped in. Took it back to World Market and got another one... unassembled AND, as a bonus, wrapped in another 2 tons of cardboard. Long story short, we ended up not only buying the bench but also two chairs and a love seat (for staging purposes) and they were ALL wrapped in TONS of CARDBOARD.

So when I say a CARLOAD of CARDBOARD, I am not dramatizing.

There is a recycling bin at Carlie's school, so I headed to the dumpster sized bin to unload the cardboard. Guess what? Everyone else in our parish apparently had the same idea, because that sucker was FULL. Guess what else? My husband DID NOT break down the cardboard, leaving me the task of breaking down boxes WITH MY FEET in the RAIN to fit them into the bin.

2010=awesome so far! But wait! There's more!

The 15 minutes of WRESTLING with CARDBOARD in the rain somehow jostled my Blackberry out of my pocket. So when I walked back to my car, I happened to look down, at a puddle, and what do I see? My (a) Blackberry, it's (b) battery cover and (c) battery, in three separate pieces, fully submerged in the puddle.

Today is my first "real" day of 2010. And it's only 8:30 a.m. I'm seriously afraid for what this new year might hold for me.

UPDATE: phone is dried out and reassembled... working, but not well. freezing up. crap crap crap

Not it

We thought this could be it. But, it's not.

My email to the realtor, after showing the house for THE THIRD TIME to the SAME COUPLE in ONE WEEK.

Dear Realtor,

Thanks for showing the house blah blah blah ass kiss ass kiss blah blah blah negotiate blah blah flexible on our price blah blah work with them on what they need blah blah blah ass kiss.

Sincerely,

Shana

The realtor's email back to me.

"I am out of the country. I don't know that they're interested in pursuing your house any further. Will let you know when I return middle of next week."

Note: My email is paraphrased. Hers is cut and paste in its entirety.

MY MORAL DILEMMA: This couple CALLED ME and looked at the house WITHOUT THEIR REALTOR the first time they saw the house. Ironically, their realtor was out of town. But they are working with a realtor. A very chatty and friendly one, as you can tell from her email to me.

I kind of want to call them, the home shoppers, directly, and get their feedback on why they've decided, after coming thru THREE TIMES IN ONE WEEK, that this is not the house for them. But I know that as a seller, I shouldn't be contacting them directly and should be going thru their agent. BUT they are the ones that initiated contact directly with me to begin with, otherwise I wouldn't even have the contact info. So, basically, if I am a pain in their ass, it is kind of their own fault. Right? RIGHT? Plus, I'm not a realtor, so it's not like I'm breaking any rules on soliciting a client away from another realtor or whatever. I am not even trying to get out of paying the good-for-nothing rude-ass never-available realtor her commission. I just want to know WHY.

So my first moral dilemma question, which was going to be, SHOULD I STAB SOMEONE, has been answered by my husband. (The answer is no, FYI. Whatever.) And now the question I pose to you, Oh Great and Wise Internet, should I call the three-time-lookers, or not?

Midweek Monday

While the extra little holiday yesterday was nice, the end result was that today, Thursday, was more like a Monday morning. Not. So. Nice.

Carlie hasn't been to school since Friday. Her teacher sent home her assignments Monday and Tuesday. This morning, she had a huge melt down over an assignment that was due today which she did not complete because she (a) forgot about it and (b) didn't have the book. It is in her desk. At school. Where she hasn't been since Friday.

She went ballistic and had a two-year-old sobbing tantrum. Seriously. At age 10 years 11 months.

Question to the moms: how much do you micromanage your child's school work? She had her books, she had papers, I said "Do your homework before you have anymore computer time." I saw her at the table with books and papers. Later, I saw her on the computer and I said, "Did you get your work done?" She said yes. I felt my parental duty was done.

This is not the first time that she "forgot" about an assignment, watched DVDs and played around on the computer instead, and then remembered her assignment in the morning.

I have a friend with a child Carlie's age who is ON TOP OF her child's assignments. Seriously. She knows every paper due, every report, the date of every test. I do not know these things. I ask Carlie if she has homework when we get home, and believe her when she says yes or no. If she needs help, she asks me for help. Otherwise, she does her thing and I leave her to it. Am I being too lax? I mean, seriously, isn't fifth grade old enough to manage your own shit?

ANYWAY.... I took her to school, a sobbing wreck of a girl, wearing a sweatshirt out of the dirty hamper, hair that had been shampooed but not brushed, unmatched socks, red splotchy face and still actively sobbing.

At this point, she is no longer crying about the horror of the forgotten assignment. Now she's crying because she doesn't want to go into her classroom looking like a crying freak.

As we're walking thru the halls, I start talking to someone, and I'm kind of gesticulating, as I am prone to do, and I stabbed Carlie in the forehead with my car keys. STABBED HER IN THE FOREHEAD WITH MY KEYS. As in a little dot of blood is now forming on the girl's forehead. This child seriously could not get a break this morning.

The last thing we need around here is two Mondays per week.

Rude x 500 million

I have been fantasizing about slapping this rude-assed bi-yatch across the face since 6:11 p.m.

Friday night: 6:10 p.m. My doorbell rings.

I answer the door and a woman is standing on my front porch, holding a flyer from my FSBO flyer box. On the sidewalk in front of the house are two guys, each holding a flyer. OK. So I'm now down three color flyers. Whatever.

I open the door. And say "Hi???"

And this woman says:

"We were interested in your house, but never mind. It's too expensive."

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

Rude No. 1 - three flyers? do you really need three?

Rude No. 2 - ringing my doorbell at 6 pm? how about a phone call if you're interested in seeing the house. you know, call the phone number on the flyer (which you have three copies of) right under where it says SHOWN BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

Rude No 3 - NEVER MIND? OMFG.

I said "OK" and shut the door.

And spent the rest of the night BROODING over this obnoxious woman who had the balls to climb my steps and ring my doorbell unannounced, interrupt my family's evening, to let me know that she can't fucking afford my house.

It's 11 p.m. and I'm still not over it.

PS: Tim accused me of overreacting. Seriously? There is no reaction to large for this. Maybe the part where I wished for her car to explode as she drove away was a tad over the top. But a tad, at best.

PSS: When Tim realized I was not getting over this anytime soon, right after I finished screaming at him YOU'RE EITHER WITH ME, OR AGAINST ME, he then tried to fake *outrage*. But he totally could not pull it off.