my life, guys.

Is it just a husband thing to be ready for any event in a matter of minutes, and then look upon his wife and kids with a “tsk” in his eye…?

I get it. We’re slow. Like, exceptionally slow. We’re the most low maintenance people that you’ll ever meet, we’re just really REALLY slow.

SORRY NOT SORRY. (I’m actually mostly sorry.)

I typically blame it on having to get myself ready, which – let’s be real – doesn’t look like much, but then also having to round the kids up and convince them to wear weather appropriate clothing, preferably forward-facing, and without ketchup on it. It’s no easy task, but I’m often left to it alone while my husband sits in the car.

Yea, his sitting in the car used to drive me crazy, but it’s a flaw I’ve grown to accept because that’s what you do in marriage, I guess. I accept his waiting in the car like we don’t even exist, and he tries really hard to just accept the sound of my coughing fits when I have a cold/flu.

Be still my heart.

Anyway.

Years have taught him, though, that rather than just heading to the car, it’s good social (and marital) etiquette to at least let us know that he’s ready and walking out the door. He actually does one better now and will say things like “guys, get your coats on” or “let’s get in the car.” I mean, he does those things whether your hands are covered in Fudgsicle from Grandma’s house or not, but baby steps. So on Thanksgiving, my son comes running up to me – hands covered in Fudgsicle from Grandma’s house – and whines “Mom, I need to wash my hands but Dad’s making us get ready to leave by saying the weird thing he always says…!”

“Oh my gosh. What’s the weird thing he always says…?”

Embarrassed, and through gritted teeth, my son says “that we need to bounce like Beyoncé…”

And then there’s that.

catching flak

My dream community basically just consists of myself, my kids, my husband (so long as we’re getting along), and my dog when he isn’t excessively shedding, eating our felt geographical landmarks, or puking – on a large plot of acres, surrounded by no one.

It’s VASTLY different from the community that I actually live in which is full of so many people.

They’re mostly nice – they’re just always there and making noise and talking to me – I dunno. My husband eats it up because he’s a people person, but stepping out onto the back steps to drink my morning coffee only to have multiple people say hi to me before noon is literally my nightmare.

And tonight, while minding my own business – waiting at a lure module nearby, catching Pokémon like a nerdy little introvert ought – this neighbor girl approaches and asks me not to lean against a concrete wall along the side of her yard because it’s in bad shape and her parents would like to be able to repair it someday.

It’s like, excuse me, but my ass hasn’t once done irreparable damage to a solid concrete wall…and you owe me a Jolteon, you little punk, because you made me miss a wild Eevee.

GODDDDDD.

This would have never happened on 100 acres.

winners and losers

I’m sparing you guys the post I had all typed up about kids and sports and competition and participation medals.

Mostly because I ovary-acted and sounded awfully f*cking judgy for a mom who found an old aquarium admission ticket in her Star Wars crossbody bag with the word “penis” scribbled on the back of it, but also because I used the term ‘butthurt,’ and didn’t want the butthurt folk who might be reading to endure more butthurt.

Am I even using that word right…?

Still, to let you know where I stand on kids and sports and competition and participation medals without insulting anyone who might think different than myself, after my son’s first soccer game of the season, I asked him if they chose a team name yet and he was all “I don’t think so…but everyone yells ‘hustle’ a lot…?”

And I feel like he should get all the medals just for being so dang weird/funny.

control yourself

Went to the doctor yesterday for what seems most likely a spasmodic *bladder.

*I typed this up on my phone and it auto-corrected the word ‘bladder’ to ‘bladderwort,’ but it’s like, if technology is so smart/great, it would know to auto-correct ‘uterus’ to carnivorous plant instead, amirite?

Anyway, something about cutting out caffeine, drinking more water, and the possibility of physical therapy for my bladder. I lol’d as I rolled up my sleeve to reveal a visible indicator of my reliance on caffeine – a tattoo of its molecular structure.

Sooo yeeaaa. The upping of the water is going to have to be a thing, but can people live without their lifeblood…? My sources point to no, as I sit here typing and getting my fill.

After my appt., my smalls and I went and watched a documentary about our national parks where I literally bawled like a baby because I just feel so deeply when it comes to that sh*t.

I mean, the combination of John Muir quotes and incredible landscapes and a piano cover of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah is pretty much a guarantee that you will need to pick me up off the floor.

OH MY GOSH, MAYBE I’M DEHYDRATED FROM ALL THE CRYING.

Ok, so quit coffee and/or quit crying.

(Lolol, I’m going to die.)

earth day 2016

Every earth day, my love of our planet and my crippling fear of other people’s garbage clash in a head-to-head battle.

It’s like, I know that plastic water bottles don’t belong all crushed up on the ground and Earth Day seems like a really good day to pick them up, but also whose mouth was on that, omg.

My germ-phobia aside, the kids and I head to our favorite park/place, armed with a garbage bag and do our thing.

We’re in a new neighborhood this Earth Day, but we certainly have a favorite park and an even more specific favorite spot in that park, so we headed off to the beach, determined to spruce it up.

On the way there, I remembered that one time a couple of weeks ago, the kids squealed “Mom, look at those gulls fighting over…a…plastic…sock thingy…?” Which was very obviously a used condom, and the gull that “won” the fight choked that thing down into its belly, and so I was pretty sure that we were going to get to the beach and I was going to chicken out, because hello.

Luckily, the beach was pretty empty of garbage today. Just a small Fritos bag and some balled up fishing line – things I could handle.

What I could not handle, was the bat crap crazy company that we had while we were there.

This woman was there with her two, off-leash, dogs. The dogs seemed very friendly and one of them brought a stick over to the kids and I. The woman yelled “OH GOD, HE WANTS YOU TO THROW THE STICK – GET OVER HERE, LUCY.”

First clue that she was insane, she named a boy Lucy.

Lucy wasn’t listening, so the kids and I tried to be helpful by walking toward her in hopes that the dog would follow.

She huffs and puffs past us, and says “C’mon, Lucy. You’ve gotta be on a leash now with all these damn kids here.” (My three kids were the only kids in sight.) “People in this neighborhood clearly don’t have enough f*cking money to get their f*cking tubes tied, but they should at least be on birth control…”

Second clue that she was insane, WHO SAYS THAT?

I basically have something to say, always. When I overheard a couple of moms last week talking about how my kids were “way too young to be at the park by themselves” and how they would “never be that kind of mother,” I walked right over to those clucking hens – because I was AT THE PARK WITH THEM – and gave them a piece of my mind.

But I was pretty speechless today.

Do you guys think the earth would understand if I dumped even more garbage on to the beach that she thinks belongs to her dogs…?

(I kid, I’m just a brat when I’m mad.)

boob jail

City living forces me into a bra way more than I ever anticipated.

In my old suburb, the kids next door would knock on our door twice a year selling whatever and so, ya know, bra. But that was really it as far as visitors. No one bothered me much and it was pretty wonderful.

SWING LOW, SWEET CHARIOTS.

The city is a different/bothersome story.

Like, maybe your neighbor’s dog ran away and so he knocks on your door at seven f*cking forty-five a.m. to ask if you’ve seen it – jump out of bed/put on a bra/open the door, the answer is no.

Or maybe the neighborhood “scrap guy” who takes kids scooters without bothering to ask, but somehow feels compelled to knock on your door asking if he can take some of the wood you have piled up in your backyard for your bonfires – take a break from the laundry/put on a bra/open the door, the answer is no.

How about the mom and kid combo that come to your door OF ALL THE DOORS, demanding to use your cell phone because she’s lost – put down the coffee/put on a bra/open the door, the answer is no.

I’m usually a pretty reasonable/friendly person, but the answer is no because ya’ll either woke me up, or are just plain shady sometimes and so it’s like, I put a bra on for this…?

they just let anyone have a blog (me)

This morning I walked to the gas station nearest my house and when I got home, sent my husband a text that was all “probably just saw a professional b-ball player because who else is that tall? also saw a dead robin.” Not because it was important and/or interesting, but sometimes I just want to tell someone stuff and when that happens, I mostly just tell him. That’s the cool thing about being married – it’s like having a built-in bff who you can say a bunch of random sh*t to and they don’t even seem phased.

Not sure if he feels the same way, but whatever.

So I’ll bet that when he called me later to talk about some of my other text messages (house stuff), he wasn’t even surprised by my 5 minute, unrelated, epiphany/spiel about how I’m basically like a cat.

“…ugh, I think I’m having an anti-social day, that’s all. I’m just…I’m like a cat…! OH MY GOSH, I’M LIKE A CAT. Like, when I have a day where I just want to hide behind the couch and hiss, you have to accept that.”

I dunno, guys.