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.)

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like lichen, only weirder

“…this honestly sucks. The juniors section is full of hi-low tank tops and short skirts, but it’s like – I’m 32 years old. And the misses/women’s depts. are full of khaki capri pants and flowery blouses. KHAKI CAPRI PANTS, NATE. Think about my life and tell me if you ever see me wearing those. Honestly, the best shirts are in the men’s section, but then I’m all ‘Oh, I really want this Star Wars t-shirt, but it doesn’t fit right because I’m not a f*cking rectangle’…”

“Geez, ok. So did you get anything?”

“Yea. Ripped jeans. From the Juniors section. Thanks, btw.”

He gives me the Kohl’s cash from his b-ball shoes purchase, I give him a pms-inspired earful of my thoughts on clothing choices – symbiotic relationship x infinity. (I kid, I’m probably the worst wife.)

ride and/or die.

Marriage, man. It’s like, you think you know who you’re vowing yourself to, but then 9+ years into this thing, you buy a house in the city, and your husband suddenly wants you to become the family that rides around on bikes together.

Now, my kids are a timid bunch of people. They cruise around on their scooters with all the neighbor kids, and are lovingly referred to as the “cute scooter gang” by passersby, but they have yet to even attempt to ride a bike without training wheels. They’re the kind of kids that fall off, get pissed, and then stomp around, yammering on about bikes being stupid.

They are mine, after all.

And as a teenager, I once rode my bike straight into a parked car, but marriage is supposed to be full of compromise I guess, and so I told my husband that I would ride stupid bikes with him, so long as my bike was the kind of bike people would look at and be like “WTF?”

“Mom, I can actually really see you on that bike,” my youngest daughter says of the bright orange and pink Huffy I fell in love with at the store yesterday – the one with the basket on the front and the obnoxious-patterned cup holder on the handlebars. “You could put your coffee in the cup holder and a bag of donuts in the basket…yea, I can really see it.”

It’s like, finally – someone who gets me.

I’ll let you all know if it becomes a reality – for now, I still have no wheels. Of course, I think I may have scared him off the idea completely after suggesting a tandem bicycle built for two.

Something about “crashing” and “yea right, you’d get us both killed,” I dunno.

check yourself

I’m very much one of those “why are we here/what does it all mean?” types, even though, most days, I’m fairly certain that it means nothing more than we make it to mean. That being said – I am a sucker for internet quizzes.

I know that seems out of left field, but hear me out.

I just feel like there’s something existentially satisfying about them – each one like small quest for a shred of self-awareness; where I am able to compare and contrast my own existence with things and characters that I see and know outside of myself…

They’re not always accurate, of course – it is the Internet, after all. I had one test assume that I was a 73-year-old male based on a series of random images I had chosen and another test tell me that I’m Chandler, when I’m clearly an insufferable mix of Ross and Monica.

But then it’s like, of course if I were a food I’d be pizza, so I dunno.

What do you guys think? Are you addicted to personality quizzes, too? Do you think there’s some sort of deeper, psychological meaning for so many of us taking them so frequently, or do you think they’re just a way to pass the time? And while I’m asking questions, which Disney princess are you?

I kid. (But I am Ariel, always.)

the sorting hat

I was fourteen-years-old when the first book in the Harry Potter series was published, however – being muggle-born – we had a strict ‘no wizardry and witchcraft under the roof’ rule, so it wasn’t really a thing I was allowed – nor was it even an interest.

Fast forward to today and I’m so obsessed.

If you’ve read any of my past few posts, you’ve probably assumed as much.

My kids and I are currently eight chapters into Year 3, reading about The Prisoner of Azkaban through breakfast and lunch, and cramming in as many chapters as we can each night before someone crashes and we have to wait until morning to continue – the perks of being a quirky bunch of unschoolers.

Everyone is properly sorted: my oldest daughter and I are Slytherins, my youngest daughter – a Hufflepuff, and her twin brother – Ravenclaw.

My husband does not share our love of the series, but probably only because he isn’t paying attention while I read aloud – my inflection is on point.

The other night while he was doing his thing (his thing is video games), I asked him if he would answer some random questions for an internet quiz and he obliged. He’s a good sport when he doesn’t know that Hogwarts Houses are involved. And just as I suspected, he was sorted into Gryffindor.

The friend who formally introduced me to the series and to whom I am eternally grateful, encouraged me to have a house cup tournament – being that we have all four houses represented – and, I dunno if I’m playing it the right way, but I suspect she’d appreciate my whimsy.

  • Husband told me that I looked cute? 50 points for Gryffindor!
  • Husband surprised me with Reese’s eggs because he knows that they have my favorite chocolate to peanut butter ratio? 100 points for Gryffindor!
  • Husband ate the last piece of bacon…? 200 POINTS FROM GRYFFINDOR, SLYTHERIN FOREVER.

He’s really loving it, I think. (He is not loving it.)

‘about me’

The first thing that I do when I come across a new blog, is look for their ‘about me’ page.

I figure that if you can make the basics about yourself sound interesting enough to keep my attention, I will basically read anything that you write. If, on the flipside, you refer to your children as your LO’s and your husband as your DH, I’m sorry, but I just can’t.

…yea, I realize, now, that I sound like a giant brat.

I, ironically, do not have an ‘about me’ page – not for a lack of trying though, trust me – I just haven’t been able to sum myself up in a way that I think I should officially publish as ‘about me.’

When I try for writing jobs online, the cornerstone for those applications is a bio and it is, hands down, one of my least favorite things to type up. I just feel like I sound like a droning idiot, saying all the things that you’re supposed to say: wife, stay-at-home mom, likes cats (I don’t actually like cats), eats a lot of queso (I do actually eat a lot of queso), etc.

It’s like, sometimes I just want to be like – kills houseplants, still shops in the juniors section, mumbles the f-word a bunch, and last week, at a local pizza joint, literally motioned the parmesan cheese away and groaned that “I’m trying to cut back,” so I dunno, do you really want me writing for you?

time lords

All three of my children are obsessed with time and numbers, and lately they’ve been doing this thing where you tell them that they can play video games for an hour, or they need to take 15 minutes and straighten their rooms before bed, or OH MY GOSH, WILL YOU PLEASE STOP TALKING FOR 5 MINUTES – and they respond with “ok, I’ll count to 60 ____ many times!”

And then they literally count to 60 aloud, however many times.

At lunch yesterday, my twins were discussing their height(s) regarding their age(s). My daughter, the older one by three minutes, is half a head shorter than her brother and thinks that the world is a cruel place for it’s unfairness because – as you know – older means taller. She must have suddenly remembered the time stamps of their birthday, because she quickly dropped her beef with her genetics/the universe, asking:

“Wait, mom, how many minutes older am I…?”

“Three.”

“So, were you just like, counting to 60 three times…?”

“I promise you that’s not what I was doing, no.”

“Well, that’s what I would have done…”

I know this. I know this very well.