The Most Beautiful House in the World

What makes a home beautiful? Ask a child and their response might surprise you. 

 I don't know about you, but I personally love hearing things from the perspective of a child because it puts things, well, into perspective. Children have an unabashed innocence about them (okay, maybe not mine so much, because they're my kids), but it's that innocence that makes their statements so profound or introspective, because their words come straight from the heart. 

Once a week I meet my husband at his work to drop our almost 11 year old son, "Peanut" off with him, so he can drive him the thirty minutes to soccer practice, while I rush off in the opposite direction to pick up our daughter at cheer practice. If you have multiple kids like we do, then you know the drill. It's a never-ending siege of despair, driving children back and forth, every single day until you die. Wait, where was I going with this again? 

Anyway, my husband's office is fairly close to the strip, but not on the strip. For those of you familiar with Las Vegas, you know the areas off of the strip aren't the nicest parts of the city. They aren't the worst either, but just your typical city streets as far as the eye can see, with lots of buildings, bus stops, people, and bustling traffic every which way you turn, which I don't know about you, but just the word "traffic" alone makes me immediately break into hives. 

Across the street from my husband's office park building is a row of mobile homes. They appear to have been there for quite some time as they're a bit older, or should I say "established", with some of them being more run-down than others. They've definitely seen better days if you know what I mean and many of them could use a little TLC and perhaps a fresh coat of paint. 

As we were sitting in the car waiting on my slowpoke of a husband to meet us in the parking lot so we could do the dreaded kid exchange and then rush off to go our separate ways for the evening, my 4 year old son, Seanie suddenly and without any warning at all, pointed towards the street, gasped and said, "Mom, that house is so beautiful. I hope we live in a house that nice when we move to Idaho"

His comment caught me completely off guard, as he's never mentioned anything like this before, and it took me a second to figure out which house he was even referring to, as all I noticed at first glance was a run-down trailer park that was honestly pretty easy to overlook, but there he was pointing insistently at one particular house, situated directly across the busy street from us, perched on top of the hill. 

I say this next part not to brag but to explain that the Vegas neighborhood we currently reside in is probably considered middle class, maybe even upper middle class but I'm honestly unsure of where the line is drawn on that whole class thing because I'm about as classless and casual as it comes in my heinously ugly, ripped pajamas that I live in and have owned for multiple decades, but refuse to throw out, but I'd say that the majority of the homes in our neighborhood start at around a half a million dollars and go up into the millions, so in terms of beautiful homes, our current rental neighborhood should definitely qualify or fit the bill as being considered "beautiful" especially when compared to these.  

However, to my brutally honest, 4 year old son, Seanie, those older, shabby sheek, run-down mobile homes were far more beautiful and impressive than any other house he'd ever laid eyes on before, including our fancy rental neighborhood with the steep HOA dues, perfectly manicured landscaping and all the modern amenities one could ask for. Yet, somehow, despite all of that stuff, he still preferred this other house instead, so much so, that he hoped that our new house that we're having built in Idaho (more on that in a future blog post) is even half as lovely as these older mobile homes are. 

I don't know about you, but it made me pause for a minute and reevaluate what's really important in life and to be grateful and appreciative of all that I do have. I spend so much time stressing out about whether or not things are good enough; our current rental house, holidays for the kids, me as a wife and mother, our old Honda Pilot that's older than Mahlon with a back seat cover that's so old and worn that it won't even stay on anymore, etc. Seriously, there are times where I question and doubt almost every single thing in my life and it's exhausting.  

If you're one who secretly tortures yourself by feeling like you have to portray this Instagram influencer worthy image of having the beautifully decorated home with well-dressed, coordinating children at all times, or you worry you'll be seen as a failure, just stop right there. I was raised by a total perfectionist mother who could've easily given Betty Crocker or Martha Stewart a run for their money, but unfortunately, she didn't make it long enough to be an Instagram influencer or Pinterest mom, because she died in 1996 after a long battle with cancer. She didn't even live long enough to see her two children morph from awkward teens into even more awkward adults, and I have no doubt if anyone was able to ask her right now which was more important; seeing her children and grandchildren (that she never got the opportunity to meet) grow up, or painstakingly decorating our home to resemble a Norman Rockwell painting, she'd opt to see her children and grandchildren grow up in a heartbeat. 

Now all of this isn't to say that you shouldn't have pride in your home, keep it nice and decorate to your heart's desire, or heck, coordinate your children's outfits, if that's what brings you joy, but don't let it consume you. Do it because you enjoy doing it, not because you think you have to in order to keep up with the Joneses, because I assure you, it matters way more to you than it ever does or did to your kids. Believe me when I say that you are enough, they have enough, it's all good enough, I promise you that much. 

I may not be a perfectionist like my mother was, but even I get caught up in the cycle of stressing over insignificant nothings. For example, I've been so wrapped up in all of the silly, cosmetic details of our future, new home, that one night I actually lost sleep over wondering whether or not we chose the right subway tiles for the kitchen backsplash, and OMG, what are we going to do if the painted cabinets clash with the granite countertops? Little things that seem so important now, but really aren't all that important at all in the grand scheme of things, and certainly not important compared to the really big things in life like getting diagnosed with a terminal illness or losing a loved one, etc.

So, the next time you're worried because your home, apartment or whatever, doesn't look anything even remotely close to the ones that grace the cover of an HGTV worthy magazine, remember that to somebody, somewhere, your house is not only enough, but it might even be the most beautiful house they've ever seen. 

I can't help but smile whenever I see the little white house perched on top of the hill now. It's funny, but the longer I stare at it, the more beautiful it becomes to me. 

I survived the great snowpocalypse in Portland. Sort of. Stop laughing.

We live in Portland, which means there's usually a pretty good chance we'll make it through winter without any snow.   Since it's February, I assumed we had survived another winter without the annoying white stuff.  If it does happen to snow here in the beautiful, quirky, Pacific Northwest, then you hear it described as a "Snowpocalypse" or "Arctic Storm" or "Blizzard", etc.  It's a tad overdramatic, I get it, but we Portlanders are very theatrical people.

On Thursday I drove the kids to school like any normal day.  There was no snow that morning, although rumors were starting to swirl that a "storm" was a brewing.   Within a few hours of dropping them off, it began to snow.  My younger boys were eagerly standing by the window, thrilled to see the first signs of snow flakes falling, and were already hounding me about going outside to build a snowman.  Our puppy, Olive, was deeply disturbed by this strange white substance falling out of the sky and wouldn't stop barking.

Olive with a snow mustache: 

By noon the snow was coming down pretty good and was actually starting to stick. I knew what this meant. Life as we knew it was over.  OVER!  The city would soon be shuttin down and boy did it ever.  When Starbucks closes early, you know that the shit is about to hit the fan!  By 1 PM I was getting frantic emails and phone calls from the school district saying all schools were closing early and I needed to come pick up the kids. 

The scene in our city was total chaos.  People sliding all over the road, cars parked on the side of the road, some cars were stuck, etc.   It's true that the Pacific NW gets clowned pretty much all over the country for not knowing what to do when it snows--and they're right. We don't. 

OK, we get it people from Wisconsin and Minnesota and other places where it's so cold your breast milk freezes as soon as you step outside. We are hipster dumbasses who drive small, energy efficient cars and don't know how to handle snow, but we can drive in a torrential downpour like nobody's business.  OK, so maybe we suck at that too. Never mind. 

Anywho, these are photos I found on the Fox 12 Oregon's Facebook page: 

As you can see, venturing out of the house has been pretty difficult these past few days, so i've been stuck at home since Thursday afternoon with five kids and a dog.  Five kids and a dog in case you missed it the first time. 

This describes how I felt by Saturday, errrr, Friday afternoon: 

School was cancelled on Friday and again today. I think last weekend was the first weekend I can think of in a very long time, where I didn't leave the house at all.  Not once.  Not even to walk across the street to get the mail.  

Anytime a car was brave enough to drive down our street I wanted to yell out the window, "Please, take me with you" but they never stopped.  Those bastards didn't even stop to hand me some booze or chocolate!  What the hell is the matter with people these days?! 

So pretty much everyone and everything has been getting on my nerves.  My kids are currently trying to kill each other with their bare hands as we speak so there is really no need to watch the Olympics. I have the real life Hunger Games taking place at my house, folks.  My dog keeps tracking in muddy paw prints all over the floor and i'm about ready to slip some Glad bags over her hooves.  My house looks like, well, like five kids and a dog live in it.  I watched more Netflix than I care to admit.  I drank way too much coffee, which means chronic insomnia so getting up tomorrow morning is going to be a beast. I'm still braless and in my pajamas and haven't washed my hair since, geez, when the hell did I last wash my hair?!  

The good news is the rain is back and the snow has turned to ice and it's slowly melting so school should be back in session tomorrow.  Then I can get back to the important things like cleaning my house, paying bills and the other super responsible things I do during the day when my hubby is at work and the kids are at school. Yeah, right! Who am I kidding?  I'll be curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth while sucking my thumb and reminiscing about how I survived the great Snowpocalypse of 2014.  

You don't deserve your kids

I recently received a rather nasty, hateful email through my blog from a reader who said that I was a horrible, rotten, selfish mother who didn’t deserve my kids because I cracked a few jokes aimed at motherhood and I vented about my less than perfect day. This got me to thinking that perhaps she does have a point.  Maybe I don’t always deserve my kids.

Before you panic and send me more hate mail, please let sit back and let me tell you a little story about my day.   Today started out pretty normal, but quickly escalated into a big ole flop of failure.   I was driving across town to pick up my older kids from school. My two toddler boys were buckled into their car seats.  The radio was playing, my dog was happily peering out the window, and all was good in my world.  Then suddenly just like that, something went terribly wrong.  My newly turned four year old for whatever reason, decided that he wanted me to drive in a different direction than I normally do.  A direction that would’ve made it impossible to reach my final destination.  It just wasn’t going to happen, no matter how much he screamed or cried.  Realizing that he wasn’t getting his way he began to kick his feet into the air and scream.  I feebly attempted to calm him down by trying to talk to him in a stern voice.  It didn’t work.  Then I gave him a warning: “You will be going straight to bed when we get home little man if you don’t stop it”.  That didn’t work either.  And finally I just tried to ignore it.  You can guess how well that worked out.

I picked up the older kids and began my drive home.  Apparently my youngest son was just warming up as the screaming intensified and got louder and louder.  I tried to pretend that I was listening to a new screamo rock band. It used to be all the rage, right?   When that didn’t work I silently prayed that Peanut would temporary lose his voice, just until we got home and weren’t confined to a tiny space without an escape.  When that didn’t work, I briefly fantasized about a giant bird swooping down and plucking me out of the window and carrying me away to a land of peace and tranquility, whatever the hell that means. The damn bird could've dumped my ass off at Starbucks and that would've been fine with me. The drive home was painful for everyone but I knew I had to get home as quickly as possible.  It didn't help that I got stuck behind an elderly driver going 15 mph the entire drive home.  Happens to me every. single. time.

I pulled into my driveway but things continued to downward spiral.  By the time the minivan door slid open, my baby Godzilla was in full blown, “somebody kill me now”, meltdown mode.  Suddenly his car seat buckle seemed to be held together by rubber cement and I struggled to unfasten it.  My normally petite, feather weight of a son, suddenly felt like an elephant whom was pregnant with twin baby elephants.

It’s a known fact that every single time one of my kids is going postal, my childless by choice neighbors just happen to be outside to see the show.  They shot me their usual disapproving daggers of discontent and relief that they were able to walk inside to a quiet house, while I tried to pry Gumby out of my van who now had a kung fu, Spiderman grip on the frame of the van.

I carefully removed his kung fu grip, one tiny finger at a time, immediately walked him inside and put him to bed (like I threatened earlier) and then I collapsed onto my bed, still wearing my coat and shoes.  Tears began to fill my eyes and I thought to myself “Why do I deserve this?” I love my kids more than life itself. My kids have always come first.  I turn off my shows so they can watch their annoying kid shows, even though I’d rather pluck out my eyeballs with a fork than have to watch another episode of Mario Bros.  I give them my last piece of candy, even if it’s my very favorite. I sit in long pick up lines at school even though I’m bored out of my mind, and I read them bedtime stories until my tired voice cracks and my tonsils begin to ache.  Am I saying i'm perfect? Obviously not. I think anyone who has read my blog can figure that one out on their own.  There is nothing I love more than to make jokes at my own expense.  But to say I don't deserve my kids because I don't find every aspect of motherhood magical is a low blow and pretty ridiculous.

Parenthood is tough.  It’s not always sunshine and roses. If you have kids then I’m preaching to the choir, but what I don’t understand though, is why it’s not acceptable to vent when we have an occasional rough day?  We should be supporting each other instead of sending nasty grams to someone telling them how they don’t deserve their child because they dared to complain.  I can think of many examples of why some people don't deserve kids.  This isn't one of them.

There is a definite attitude on the Internet that mothers who complain about their children are somehow not worthy or deserving of having kids.  That if we complain, that must mean we don’t love or appreciate our children.  Or worse we post a seemingly harmless vent about something irritating our kid did and all we're looking for is a sympathetic, "Hugs" or "I get it" and instead we're told things like, "Be grateful that your child doesn't have cancer."  Huh?  I must've missed the memo that states only parents who have a child with a catastrophic illness are allowed to vent. Rather we’re supposed to suck it up no matter how tough things get, suffer in silence, cry in the bathroom and tell no one, or share picture perfect Pinterest-worthy photos, pretending to be supermom, when we're really not.

The next time you see a child having a colossal meltdown in the grocery store because a mom stands firm and tells her little darling no to the 20 lb bag of Laffy Taffy, or you read a post on the internet written by a mom (or dad) who had a rotten day and are simply frustrated and at the end of his or her rope, try not to judge. Be thankful that your day was frustration free. Tomorrow you might not be so lucky.

And whatever happened to screaming Mr. Peanut you may be wondering? He fell asleep in time out and i'm staring at his adorable chubby cheeks and thinking, "Thank GAWD he's asleep."  

As for my internet hater, I wish she wouldn't of remained anonymous so I could've emailed her back and asked if she wanted to babysit.  I’d love to soak in her infinite wisdom since she appears to have this parenting stuff down.

I'm back. Lucky you.

You may have been wondering where I went this past month or two?  Or maybe you're not. Either way, i'm going to tell you. I took the holidays off from blogging and showering (kidding. Sort of).  Why? Because I was so busy baking cookies and spreading holiday joy that I didn't have time to write.  Are you buying this?  Me either.  The real reason is, I simply didn't have anything blog worthy to write about.  Well, that and I have a slight Amazon addiction during the holidays so I was pretty much glued to my laptop ordering more toys for kids who don't need anymore toys.  I made a vow to the husband this year that I wouldn't buy anything with small pieces.  You should've seen his face when our daughter opened up her giant Monster High High School Playset and he looked at me with that "What in the hell is that monstrosity?" look.  I refused to make eye contact with him when the boys started tearing open the Playmobil stuff. I promised after the last couple of Christmases that I would never purchase another Playmobil item again. At least not for our own kids.  Our grandkids will be getting loads of it every single year, along with toys that make noise, stain your furniture and smell bad.  You're welcome kids!

So yeah, I suppose I could've babbled on and on and on about stupid things, but when I babble, I tend to give out way too much personal info and before you know it i'm describing my hemorrhoids to perfect strangers. And I don't even have hemorrhoids so then i'd be blogging without integrity. Slap me. Please.

This morning was the first day back to school.  I couldn't sleep so I was wide awake until 5 am. The alarm went off at 7:30 but I ignored it.  Then a few minutes later I heard a little voice calling out "Mom, come wipe my butt". I tried to ignore it but it didn't go away. It never does.  So I got up. In case you didn't know, unconditional love is crawling out of your warm, comfy bed to wipe a child's butt.  I wish I could say that I wake up every morning and seize the day and stuff, but I don't.  It's more like I stumble into the kitchen in a zombie like state and stuff a handful of Captain Crunch Berries into my mouth.

I was so tired this morning that I actually let my dog chew the legs off our ottoman and bark at leaves blowing by the front window. I will pretend to have no idea how or when it happened when the hubby comes home from work and asks why our black shag rug is covered in wood chips.

I'm pretty sure this long holiday break has caused me to slowly lose my mind.  I loved the Facebook posts over the holiday break saying, "Yay! Now I can sleep in".  Sleep in?  What's that? Seriously those two words may as well be "size zero" in my world. Never going to happen.  Last night I ordered a diaper bag. My youngest child is four and we're not having anymore kids (nor do I want anymore).  Just try and explain that one...I double dog dare ya!

I started a new diet plan before the holidays and actually started to lose some weight.  Then I gained most of it back over Christmas.  We had a glazed ham on Christmas Eve. I have no self control when it comes to pork products.  I will stalk the fridge like a dog (i'm actually worse than our dog) and eat cold ham straight out of the container until i'm so swollen and puffy all over my body from the sodium, that I have to use Crisco to get my wedding ring off. I'm re-starting my diet plan today and i'm pretty sure i'll want to stab my husband in the eye while we're sitting in the Costco food court tonight and he's eating a slice of pepperoni pizza in front of me.  I'm not a happy dieter.  In fairness, i'm not really much of a happy anything in case you haven't noticed.

Now that you've read this, i'm sure you're feeling smarter and wiser (I just misspelled smarter. Thank you autocorrect).  I give up.  Until next time.....

That one time when I tried to breastfeed the dog

I know I keep repeating myself like a toddler these days..."Hey mom, you know what?  Hey mom, you know what?" Yeah, like that.  But seriously, my life feels like a cheesy horror flick and i'm the main character that just wont die off (but without the bonus of having oversized, perky breasts).  So once again, I find myself apologizing for not being around much to blog.

I'm exhausted.  I mean ex....haus....ted.   I've been going to bed earlier than I ever have in my life thanks to Olive waking me up at the butt crack of dawn, but i'm still dog ass tired in the morning.  And I even look and probably smell like a dog too because I can't even remember the last time I washed my hair, shaved my legs (or other parts), or put on make up, or wore clothes that didn't have remnants of last night's dinner.  Yep, i'm a sexy bitch all right.

I'm so exhausted that the other day I was sitting on the couch like a zombie, when Olive jumped up on the couch next to me. I instinctively lifted up my shirt to offer her boobs (habit from breastfeeding Peanut for so dang long).  She looked at me all confused and for a split second I was thinking, "Sweet, maybe she's finally ready to wean" and that's when it hit me that I was trying to breastfeed my dog.  That's gotta be cuttin it dangerously close to rock bottom, you think?

Is this chick serious?

*Pic borrowed from Google

On Wednesday (known as my hell day because Weds are half days in our district and they are crazy), I made it to the evening where the only thing I had left to do was take Bo's to soccer practice. Okay, I could handle that, so I thought.  I got her ready to go which is always a nightmare because she's super slow to do anything and therefore she's perpetually late to everything (like my husband).  We made it to the school and found her team (which happened to be playing in the far field so by the time I made it there I sounded like an 80 year old with emphysema because i'm fat and out of shape).

I noticed right away that all of the girls were dressed in their game jerseys, black shorts, hair pulled back, etc. My daughter was wearing a pink tank top with an ice cream cone on it.  I walked up to another parent and asked, "Do they have team pictures or something?"  He looked at me like I was a moron and said, "Um, no, they have a game."  And it started in 15 min! Awesome!  So, I ran back across the field towards my minivan and I called my husband to tell him they had a game (while I was attempting to run). I was panting heavily because I don't run, not even if you hold out a giant tray of donuts to tempt me (well, okay, maybe I would run for donuts).  He automatically assumed I had gotten mugged.  Out of breath wife, apparently means muggage.  I drove home, dug through the dirty laundry for the game jersey, got back into my van and raced back to the game.  Luckily I got there in time but I was sweating like a pig and completely out of breath.  I threw my mother f#@king fold out chair on the ground (while it was still in the bag) to catch my breath and it landed on my foot, nearly slicing off a toe.  I had to act tough while inside I was screaming, "Son of a f#@king monkey loving b$#ch!!!!!"

I'm not sure how this weekend could possibly top the week I had, but i'm already on a roll. I got woken up at 5 am by Olive trying to chew my hair right off my scalp and my period showed up as well. Did I mention we have an extra soccer practice tonight and an 8:30 am game on Saturday?

How much is that doggy in Ohio?

Image found on Google 

Since we are all done having babies and our kids are getting older, we decided that now is the perfect time to get a dog to complete our family.  The kids have always wanted one and I feel a bit of a void because I never had a dog growing up.  I've actually never owned a dog, ever.  We were the crazy cat family growing up.  We typically had 4-5 cats at any given time.  My mom was not a fan of dogs, so we never got one despite my brother and I begging and pleading every year.  Well, okay we owned a puppy for about a week. Seriously.  Someone drove through our neighborhood and literally dropped a puppy off on our driveway and drove away.  He was adorable and my brother and I really wanted to keep him.  My mom briefly considered it, until the puppy chewed through her favorite lamp cord.  He was re-homed by the following day.

We knew we wanted a dog, and after many hours of research, my husband decided on a Vizsla.  These are not common dogs and are not easy to find. I painstakingly started the difficult process of finding us an adorable, female, Vizsla puppy.  Much to my surprise I found a breeder named "Peggy" who had not one, but multiple female Vizsla puppies in Hillsboro, which is a well known suburb of Portland.

I forwarded the ad to my husband who started emailing her right away.  My husband pretty much gave her our life story.  He wanted her to know that we were serious about getting a dog and that we've done our research and would love her and take care of her, etc.  I'm pretty sure the only piece of info he left out in his 10,000 page emails were our blood types. The breeders responses were kind of vague for the amount of info my husband was giving her, but she did say she still had a couple of females available and she sent us pictures.  We fell in love with one pup in particular.  We started picking out names.  The hubby was shopping for doggy supplies on his lunch break.  We started to prepare ourselves for the possibility that we would be bringing her home in a couple of weeks.   

We scheduled a meeting for this Sunday to come to her house to see the puppies.  We were beyond excited.  We had our deposit ready and we were prepared to fill out paperwork.  Our hope was that we would meet her this weekend and then be able to return on the 14th to pick her up.  That was our plan. We just needed her address and we were ready to go. 

On Thursday night after getting the kids in bed I heard my husband yell from the bathroom, "Babe" but not in a "Oh I love you so much, babe" tone. Rather it was the "we've been married way too long" tone.  Yeah, that one.  I rolled my eyes figuring maybe I bought the wrong toilet paper, or I forgot to do something, missed someone's birthday, etc. 

My annoyance quickly turned to shock. This was our conversation: 

Him: BABE, did you NOT think to check which state this lady lives in? 

Me: Huh? What do you mean?

Him: She lives in Ohio.  OHIO.  

Me: What do you mean Ohio.  The ad said HILLSBORO. She lives in Oregon. 

Him: Yeah, Hillsboro, OHIO. 

Me: Oh. 

Him: Closes bathroom door. 

Me: Walks away to sulk. 

I knew my husband needed some time to himself.  He was so excited about meeting the dogs this Sunday that this was a devastating blow.  I was extremely upset and disappointed as well. I had a migraine headache and was out of soda which is my stress reliever.  I got in the car and drove to McDonald's to get my dollar soda. 

I get a text from the husband.  "Get me a hot fudge sundae"  Then a few minutes later I get another text. "And a Vizsla".  

By the time I got home, things were a little better.  We began to joke about the situation because really, what else can you do? 

This is how we get over the bad stuff: 

Him: The worst part about all of this is not getting to email with Peggy again. I'm going to miss the old lady. 

Me: She's probably working on a restraining order right now.  

Him: Every time she hears about Portland, she's going to think of us. And think we're nuts.  Maybe she thought we were really rich and that's how we were able to travel from OR to OH to get a dog.  I did tell her you were a writer.  Perhaps she thinks you're a sexy writer. 

That was it.  I lost it. I began to laugh so hysterically that a piece of tortilla chip became lodged in my esophagus and I even peed my pants a little.   Me, a sexy writer? I'm not sure what that even means, but I can't even type or say that out loud without rupturing an organ from laughing so hard. 

We spent the rest of the evening drooling over pictures of cute little doggies online and joking over our unfortunate mistake.  We learned a valuable lesson that night. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.  And if you live in Hillsboro, Ohio and are looking for a Vizsla, then you're in luck!  

Slutty Goats

Clipart provided by Clker.com

My husband and I both suffer from insomnia. This typically leads to him pestering me about sex, and me lying on the couch like a vegetable whining about being tired.

We have some very interesting conversations late at night.  A few nights ago we started talking about Bengay, which somehow lead to the topic of men putting Bengay on their balls.  I just had to Google it to believe it. I Google everything and I do mean everything.

I especially love Yahoo questions and answers though. This is what I found when I Googled, "Do men really put Bengay on their balls" (They do by the way)

Question: 
"When I put bengay on my balls, it hurts. Is that normal?"

Best Answer (by arkleseizure):
"Normal that you're putting it on (no) or normal that it hurts (I don't think normal has been established, as people don't generally do this)"

Other Awesome Answers: 
"Burning, yes....putting it on, no"

"Try putting some of your rectum. It might help you forget you have it on your balls"

"Why would you put Bengay on your balls to begin with? Usually it's used for sore muscles and clearly your balls are not a muscle".

As if the conversation couldn't possibly get more intense, we started watching Animal Planet.  Slutty goats is what happens when the husband and I try to watch an evening of educational programming together.  I'm not even sure they were actual goats but they had horns and were ramming each other and the husband said, "Wow, talk about some slutty goats.  Look at that one.  She doesn't use the old 'I have a headache excuse'.  She's ready to get some."

I have some issues with this.  For one, I highly doubt that female goat has five children to take care, a mounting pile of medical bills, and an autoimmune disorder that affects her sex drive.  However, I could be totally wrong and if I am, i'm deeply sorry. I'm sure goats have their own set of problems.  And yes, I just Googled, "Common goat problems" in case you're wondering.  It turns out goats don't have it all that great either.  They often have twins.  Egads! No wonder they suffer from chronic urinary problems.

I feel your pain goat, I do.  If you weren't a goat, and didn't smell so horrifically funky, and I could get it in writing that you wouldn't take a dump on my couch, I would so have you over for some coffee, scones and girl talk.

Facing your phobias and no this is not a how to guide

What do you do when you have an enormous phobia?  You face it head on.  And then you curl up in the fetal position and cry until you stop foaming at the mouth and can put a coherent sentence together.

This has been my life this past week, which is why I haven't been around to post.  I've been trapped in my own personal hell called downtown Portland.

My dear, sweet, wonderful hubby wanted to do something nice for our teenage daughter so he signed her up for a singing, dancing and acting class. Our daughter wants to be an actress/singer, plus that's just what we parents in Portland do. We sign our kids up for artsy fartsy stuff, while secretly hoping that they will rebel and go into a different career field that will actually pay the bills.  He signed her up at a local theatre on our side of town and assumed (you know what they say about people who assume things) that the class was going to be at the same location he signed her up at. Um, NO.

I was already nervous about driving her back and forth to and from the theatre when I thought it was near his work (actually it's close to Voodoo Doughnuts which I can totally live with), however, the night before the class on a Sunday night at 10 pm, I heard him say these dreaded words, "Hey babe. I was wrong.  Her class is actually downtown."  I froze.  I cringed. I prayed to sweet baby Jesus that he was just messing with me.  But he wasn't.  I fearfully asked him where downtown and he made a grimace and said, "Downtown, downtown. As in smack in the middle of the city".

I will admit, I freaked the hell out.  I technically already live in the city where we have a lot of heavy traffic, but it's not like downtown city traffic with one way streets and pedestrians everywhere.  I can literally count the number of times i've driven downtown alone and each time i've had a horrendous panic attack.  Hearing the news that I was going to have to not only drop her off around lunch time but pick her up at 3:30 so that meant TWO trips into the city every single day for TWO flipping weeks, sent me over the edge.

Needless to say I didn't sleep very well on Sunday night and by Monday morning I was ready to barf...I mean drive my daughter to her class.   I hit a few snags along the way, but it was a fairly smooth drive and thanks to my GPS on my iPhone, I figured out how to get home.  When I got home, I bragged to my husband about how victorious I was for making the round trip twice....TWICE PEOPLE!  He responded with a sly, "Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you that Mondays aren't that bad at all. Tomorrow will be much worse".  Say what motherfucker?

Tuesday rolled around and he was right. Traffic was bad. The streets are short and my extended minivan is not exactly city friendly, but I did it.  Then Wednesday rolled around and I nearly lost my shit.  I ended up flipping the bird while trying to merge onto the Morrison Bridge.  The other driver freaked out and slammed on his breaks and then refused to let me in.  I waited until he finally decided to move his arse into the right lane and then I merged over.  Then came the fun part.  Making it across those damn city street intersections!  The blocks are so short and traffic backs up so even though there is a green light, you can't go through the green light or you're stuck in the middle of the intersection like a sitting duck.  And people don't like sitting ducks shaped like giant ass Dodge Caravans that block the entire intersection.  NO, they don't!  In fact people get pretty snarly with you and shake their heads as they gawd forbid have to walk around your van while you are hogging up their precious cross walk.

So, yeah, i'm blocking the crosswalk while a group of rebellious looking youth (geez, i'm getting old and turning into my parents) start to walk in front of my van to cross the street. I must say that flop sweats and slip on shoes do not go together well.  I lost my grip on the break pedal and accidentally lurched forward at the group of street kids. It was a total accident and in reality I didn't really even come close to hitting them, but it scared me and i'm sure deep down they were scared too even though they had to act tough.  Scared or not they didn't find it very amusing and I probably came close to getting the poop beat out of me.  One of them stopped right in front of my van with her arms crossed in front of her.  She was really mad and I was a little scared because i'm not a fighter kind of chick.  I'm more of a cry and lose bodily functions kind of girl.  However, I have this anxiety/temper thing that comes out when i'm feeling really stressed so instead of ignoring her I held up my hands and waved them at her and mouthed the words "You can go now" and I rolled my eyes at her. I don't know why I do the things I do. Seriously. It was dumb and i'm lucky she didn't break my face into pieces.  Either way, I managed to get my daughter to where she needed to be and then I sobbed like a newborn baby when I finally got out of the city and had merged onto the freeway to head home.  Cause that's totally normal to cry when you get out of the city, right?  Right?  Okay, moving on...

Thursday's drive was actually not that bad.  I was starting to get my groove back and feeling like I was earning my city driving stripes and then Friday happened.  I was trying to merge onto I-84 West and I couldn't even merge because traffic was backed up onto the off ramp which basically means, "You ain't  going anywhere".  We sat in traffic for over 30 minutes because there was an accident that had two of the three lanes blocked.  By the time we passed the accident, the lanes just opened up and we made it to her class, but she was really late. Feeling stressed to the max, I made it out of downtown and I raced over to Trader Joe's, fought like hell for a parking spot and then drove to Winco cause when you're already in hell, why not just stay for awhile?  I barely had enough time to go home and unload all of the groceries before I had to drive back into the city to pick up my daughter.  Getting into the city wasn't so bad, but getting out was another story.  The freeway was a parking lot.  Luckily I know a shortcut thanks to my hubby so it could've been much worse. We had to stop at another store on the way home to get medicine because my 8 y/o broke her toe by doing gymnastics in the house (after I told her numerous times she was going to break something but no one listens to me) and I was a dummy and forgot to buy it earlier. I got home just before 5 pm.  I felt like collapsing onto the floor in the fetal position and drooling on myself, but my joints were throbbing so I lathered myself up with joint cream instead.

I admire anyone who can drive around big cities like it's no big deal.  It is a big deal for me.  I'm tempted to move to a small, country town out in the middle of nowhere where the only other residents are some sheep and maybe a couple of goats.   I'm also in awe of bus drivers.  They are like rockstars to me now.  Forget the Biebs.  Do you honestly think he could drive a gigantic bus in downtown Portland without plowing people over or peeing his pants?  I don't think so!  Seriously though, I would rather clean public toilets using my own toothbrush than to be a TriMet driver in Portland.  Okay, so maybe I would use my husband's toothbrush instead, but still, that would be the most terrifying job in the world. Forget Deadliest Catch (okay don't cause I freaking love that show) but there needs to be a show about bus drivers who drive around in the city.  Is there a show like that?  I would totally watch it, on my couch with my brown paper bag and the flop sweats.

This is a TriMet bus in case you're wondering what the hell TriMet is (image courtesy of Google):

Five days of this torture left (not that i'm counting down or anything). 

Peanut butter hoarding

Choosy moms choose Jif, apparently every single time they go to the store (which is often).  The sad part is I was completely oblivious to the overabundance of peanut butter in my pantry until the hubby got home from work and said, "Holy hell, why do we have a million freaking jars of peanut butter?"

I replied with, "There aren't that many. Just a few" and that's when he started pulling them out of the pantry one by one and lining them up on my counter.

Holy poop! It's like we're saving up for a peanut butter armageddon or something!!!! 

Is there a 12 step program for peanut butter hoarders? Peanut butter anonymous?  Anything?  Hello, I obviously need some help here people!!!!  How is it that we have SEVEN jars of peanut butter, but yet we're constantly running out of toilet paper and have to resort to using napkins?!   You wanna know what's even more pathetic than having a bazillion jars of peanut butter? Spell checking the word "seven". Yup, guilty as charged.

So, what do you do when you have 12,000 jars of peanut butter?  You make a crap ton of peanut butter cookies (or bunner bunner cookies) as Peanut calls them.

Yes, i've shared this recipe on my blog before, but i'm going to share it again.  And then i'm going to drive to the store to buy more peanut butter.

Three Ingredient Peanut Butter Cookie Recipe (created by someone really creative and awesome on Allrecipes because there is no way I could ever come up with a recipe that didn't completely suck): 

1 cup of peanut butter (or 7 jars...kidding)
1 cup of white sugar
1 egg

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix ingredients together and drop onto greased cookie sheets.  Take a fork and make a criss cross pattern.  Bake for approx 6-8 minutes.  Do not burn these!  They will taste like dog poop.  You're welcome.

You smell like gorgonzola

I'm bored. And please spare me your, "If you're bored then you're boring" because that's telling me something I already know.  Duh.  I am boring!  Seriously though, the endless summer days just draaaaaaag on at times.  I love my kids. I do. But there are only so many, "Mom, will you get me...." or "Mom, can I have a......." or "Mom, he called me a......" that I can take without snapping.  Jeezus!!!!

Yesterday was one of those days where I kept checking Facebook like a bazillion times, hoping for some excitement, but apparently boring people have boring friends because there wasn't any good drama to speak of.  Rather just pictures of cats or food or cats eating food...sigh.  Of course it's highly possible that i've been blocked from most of my friends. I don't really blame them.  I'm kind of a whiner.  I know people hate the whiners on Facebook, but I personally have a soft spot in my heart for the negative nellies.  I'm more of a "If you can't say something nice, then come sit next to me" kinda gal.

I was so bored that I decided I was going to grab the bulls by the balls and pay some bills.  Then I realized that we have several major bills all due this pay period and my hubby doesn't get paid for almost two weeks and I nearly vomited blood from the stress.  So, now i'm bored and broke.

My boredom continued throughout the day and by the time my husband got home from work, I was excited to finally have some adult interaction.  However, my excitement was quickly squashed when I looked to my left and saw him snoring away on the couch, thus leaving me on my own to get his spawn into bed.  That hard working bastard who thinks he deserves a nap!  Geesh!!!!

To top it off i'm almost out of Bengay and i've been in a crap ton of pain lately.  My medical problems suck but since we owe about five kidneys worth of medical bills, I can't really afford to go back at the moment.  I've been lathering myself up with enough Bengay to cover the Golden Girls.  Last night Peanut turned to me and said "Momma, you really stink".   Bo's also had an endearing comment for me, "Mom, you smell like gorgonzola."  Alrighty then.  So i'm boring, broke, in pain and I smell like stinky cheese.

The worst part (aside from smelling like gorgonzola), is that I feel guilty for not being one of those perky moms with tons of energy who dresses her kids up in matchy matchy outfits and takes them to the zoo by myself.  Have you ever been to the Portland Zoo? It may not be the San Diego Zoo, but that son of a biotch is huge!  I can maybe walk through the entrance and then i'm done.  I don't have the stamina nor the patience to attempt outings with my three youngest kids on my own (my teens are gone for two weeks).   I would be on the evening news for sure.

The headline would go something like:

"Tonight's top story....A mom of five got eaten by a gorilla as she fell into his cage while attempting to tie her son's shoe.  Investigators are still trying to piece it all together and many questions still remain like why couldn't her son tie his own shoes?  Zoo employees on the scene believe the gorilla mistakingly thought she was a piece of gorgonzola cheese."

Do gorillas even like gorgonzola?

But anyways, yeah, i'm kind of a klutz.  For example last night I tried to rub some lotion on my legs as I attempted to hoist my giant leg onto the counter.  Just when my hubby was starting to get turned on and had high hopes of getting lucky (yes, sadly when you've been together for a million zillion years, all it takes is a bare leg and the hubby takes that as a sexual advance), my foot slid off the counter and I smacked my face on the counter on the way down to the floor.

Today has been much better though.  My kids woke up screaming for brownies.  My husband said no as he was walking out the door and then looked at me and said, "It's up to you."  Great, just throw me to the wolves why dontcha?

Then the phone rang.  It was my dad who sounded like something was wrong.  I started to panic as he is the only parent I have left and he already had prostate cancer about 15 years ago.  He started off the conversation with, "I have some bad news".  I braced myself and took some deep breaths.  Then he continued with, "I have to go to Portland to do some judging" (my dad is a retired circuit court judge but still works on occasion in case you're wondering).   I nervously asked him, "Ok, so what's the bad news?"  He responded with, "That is the bad news. I'll be in town for a week."   Really, dad?  I mean you couldn't just say on the phone that everything was okay?  My dad thinks he's a comedian (kinda like me), but he's not funny (kinda like me), so his jokes are never funny and are typically inappropriate (now you know who I got it from).  After I recovered from nearly having a heart attack, we started talking about other stuff.  Then the kids realized I was on the phone and they decided that was the perfect time to start screaming about brownies.

The screaming and chaos got my dad off the phone real fast and could possibly explain why he would associate coming to visit us for a week as "bad news".  I would love to see what's in his suitcase. Probably a lifetime supply of ear plugs and Tums.   I don't know, but I must end this now as my son is yelling, "Mom, come wipe my butt". Apparently tying shoes isn't the only skill we need to work on this week.

Weekends with Peanut Layne

Well, it's official.  I'm the worst blogger in history. Yep, I am.  I'm lucky if I blog once a week at this point (on a good month).  Not to mention it takes me forever to moderate my comments so please don't feel bad if it takes me a month or longer to approve your comment.  It's not you, it's me.  ALL ME.  It's called laziness and it's contagious in our house.  I'm behind on writing blogs, reading blogs and commenting on blogs (geesh, do you think i've said the word "blog" enough?) so that's my goal for this week (to actually get blogging stuff done), along with losing 50 lbs. That's not too much to ask is it?

So, what has been going on in the Peanut Layne house you may be asking? Or maybe you're not asking at all, but who cares, because i'm gonna tell you anyways!  This weekend has been super exciting. Ok, so no, it hasn't.  Last night (Friday night), the husband and I put the kids to bed and partied, and by partied I mean we sat on the couch (separate couches because I need room to stretch out my legs, and the hubby hates the smell of my Bengay lotion) and watched a National Lampoons marathon on VH1.  The husband made a Dutch Bros coffee run which was super sweet but I knew exactly what that meant...he was going to expect sex for his good deed.  Yep, I saw right through his random act of kindness.

Before the sex the husband started complaining about not having any junk food in the house.  He had this brilliant idea to take some tortillas (I think they've been in the fridge since season 3 of Weeds...you know before the series turned to shit) and spread butter, cinnamon and sugar all over them.  He insisted I help him eat them, and since i'm not one to turn down sugar, I agreed.

Within about 10 minutes of eating the sugary tortillas of death, my stomach was gurgling and angry with me.  Just what you want when you're about to have sex.  I didn't have the heart to tell my husband that the entire time we were having sex, I was concentrating on bowel control.

Today the party continued as I had to run to Winco to buy groceries.  As I was walking out of Winco, I dropped our pizza face down on the parking lot ground.  Gross.  I got home and handed it over to the hubby and told him to check it for hypodermic needles before tossing it into the oven.

Speaking of the hubby he ditched me tonight so he could go a local pizza place/bar and watch a UFC fight with his buddies. Our 8 y/o daughter asked me as he was leaving, "He's not going to one of those root beer places is he? Cause those are really bad."  After I finished laughing I figured I would take this time to catch up on chick flicks but come to find out the husband set a bunch of parental controls. DAMN HIM!  Of course I hit the wrong button while cursing over the parental controls and it landed on Spongebob so my dreams of watching TV tonight have been shattered.

I wish I had more funny stuff but I got nothin.  My 5 y/o son said the strawberries I bought looked like butt cheeks.  The sad thing is, they kinda do.

One crazy week

Oh lordy, i'm almost 40.  Okay, so 35 but still I feel old.  This week has been absolutely insane.  I know I don't usually write a weekly wrap up, but this one is definitely wrap up worthy.

It all started on Thursday with Peanut. We're going through some worrisome stuff with him that I haven't been posting about because I don't like to get all personal when it comes to the kids. I had to take him to the doctor and then over to the lab to get blood drawn.  I hate it when the kids have to get poked with needles. It's seriously heartbreaking, but Peanut did amazing and didn't shed a tear.  I was impressed, as was the lab tech.

I made it home from a long, out of town doctor's appointment with Peanut, quickly threw some dinner into the crock pot and sat down on the couch to clear my head and regroup.  I had a million things to get done before I headed out of town the following day for a Pee Book signing in Seattle, but sitting down and relaxing for a minute felt like Heaven.

Then my husband called. He was complaining of a migraine.  Both of us get migraines so I didn't think much of it.  Since it was late in the afternoon I told him he should just come home.  He had some really important stuff to get done at work, so he said he would run to the store next to his office, get some headache medicine and go back to work to finish up but that he would be home soon.  Not even 15 minutes after we hung up, he called me again which I found odd, but figured maybe he just forgot to tell me something.  However, as soon as he started talking, I could tell that something was immediately very wrong.  The first thing out of his mouth was, "I need help. My body is shutting down."  Say what?  I of course freaked out and started yelling into the phone, "What do you mean your body is shutting down?"  Inside my head I was thinking, "Can you PLEASE elaborate for me?"

He wasn't able to talk much but managed to squeak out that he was at a gas station near his work.  Then the phone went dead.  I freaked out.  I grabbed my purse and yelled at the teens to watch the younger kids and that I had to go.  The younger kids have this funky routine at the door where you have to give them a certain number of hugs and kisses (yes, we're all a little wacky in this house).  However, I didn't even say goodbye.  I grabbed my purse and ran.  I weaved in and out of traffic like Sandra Bullock from Speed.  Seriously, I don't even remember how I got to my husband, but I made it in record time.   By the time I got to him, he was slumped over the wheel and not making much sense.  I had to transfer him into my van (not an easy task when someone is close to death and weighs more than you) and then move his car so it didn't get towed.  I was driving around downtown Portland trying to find a spot to leave his car where A) It wouldn't get towed B)Wouldn't get stolen C)Wasn't too hard to parallel park as I suck at parking.

I found a place to park on a residential street and then ran back to my van.  By this point my husband was totally delirious.  He was saying he couldn't feel anything and was kind of flopping around like a fish out of water.  It was scary. Of course we hit like every single red light on the way to the hospital so i'm yelling at cars and pedestrians to get the hell out of my way.  I pulled up to the ER and jumped out of the van.  By this point my legs felt like rubber bands.  I yelled out at the vallet parking guys, "I need help".  Before I knew it an entire crew of medical people were pulling my husband out of my van and transferring him into a wheelchair.  Then he was gone.  The vallet parking guy was asking me my name so he could write it on my ticket stub thingy and my mind went blank.  I managed to remember my name after stammering for a minute and then he said, "Ma'am, I need your keys so I can move your car".  I didn't even realize it, but I had such a tight death grip on my keys that my hand was white.   I handed him the keys and a nurse took me by the arm and lead me into a back entrance.

My husband was already back in a room.  By the time I walked in, I gasped.  There were so many people in the room that I could barely move.  I was sandwiched into a tiny corner by a sink.   They were ripping off his clothes, as his pants and shoes were tossed into the air.  It was one of the worst moments of my entire life. It was something straight out of a movie or ER episode, but minus the actors and bright camera lights.  This was real life and there was nothing theatrical about it.  They hooked him up to every kind of monitor you could imagine.  Things were beeping, people were yelling, and I watched helplessly as my best friend was basically being worked on by about 20 different doctors and nurses.

His stats were stable but he still wasn't responsive.  His eyes were open and staring straight up towards the ceiling.  I feebly attempted to answer questions over the roar of emergency staff.  It was not easy, but I held myself together.  I had no choice. I was their only source of information as to who they were working on, as my husband couldn't speak at all.

He was taken back to CT for a head scan.  He had an EKG and chest x-rays.  The doc mentioned she was concerned of bleeding in his brain.  Sweet Jesus, I felt my knees buckle again.  As quickly as all of the commotion started, it became completely, eerily silent.  The room had cleared out, except for his nurse.  All I could hear was the beeping of the machines.  I broke down.  I began to cry and shake.  I felt like I was going to vomit or pass out.  I actually had a pounding headache myself, but didn't have a chance to take any pills before I ran out of my house. The nurse (who was very awesome by the way) came over and held onto my arm and said, "Come on hun. Let's go for a walk".   She took me around the floor and over to the water station where she poured me a cup of ice water.  "You were amazing in there" she said.  She went on to say how helpful I was and that they were impressed by how calm I remained and that I was able to stay focused and answer their questions.  I didn't really know how to respond, except to say "Thanks, I was just trying to get him here as quickly as I could".  I certainly didn't feel very amazing. I felt guilty for staying so calm during such an emergency.  I felt numb.  I can't explain it, but it's almost as if I was preparing myself for a bad outcome. The doctor advised me to call his family members and advise them of his condition.   I pulled out my phone and saw that I had 8 percent power and no charger. Perfect.  I still had to call the kids at home so I knew what I had to do.  I Facebooked it. I'm not proud of it, but that's the only way I knew how to update family without having to individually call or text them.  I then called the kids and gave them instructions on how to turn off the crock pot and fix dinner.  Thank goodness for the stinking crock pot or who knows what my darling children would've consumed for dinner.

I sat perfectly still in a chair while he slept. At least I think he was sleeping. I'm not really sure where he was to be honest.  It was like he had crossed over into some kind of special place, and I wasn't included. I cried a little, but mostly just sat in my chair.  I had so many thoughts racing through my mind.  I thought about my kids at home.  I thought about my husband.  I thought about Peanut's test results.  I thought of things I never thought i'd have to think of.  A few hours after his CT scan, my husband turned his head towards me and asked, "How did I get here?" Hearing him ask me a question was the best feeling ever.  A wave of relief washed over me, but i'll admit, I was still scared shitless.  I started telling him the sequence of events, and of course he didn't remember any of it.  It took him a little while, but the more we talked, the more he started to make sense.  My husband was coming back to me, little by little.

After several bags of IV fluid, some heavy duty pain meds in his IV and some anti-nausea medicine, he was looking more like his old self.   His doctor came in and said that his potassium levels were really low so she's assuming this was a bad mixture of dehydration, low potassium levels and a killer migraine.

After what felt like an eternity they unhooked him from the monitors and let him walk around.  He was able to go to the bathroom, so they agreed he could go home that night, provided he follow up with his doc first thing next week.  This was music to my ears because when we first arrived, I was told he would most likely be transferred upstairs and would remain there for several days.

By the time we got home it was almost morning.  I told my husband there was no way in hell I was leaving him to go to Seattle.  I mean what kind of wife leaves her husband who had just been in the hospital a few hours prior to drive three hours out of town?  This one right here.  He insisted that I go, and since he's a workaholic he was going to be heading back to work anyways so I went.

My trip to Seattle was fun! I was a free woman for 12 hours.  TWELVE HOURS!  I didn't even know what to do with myself!  I was able to pee alone multiple times and the radio station was all mine.  I cranked up the tunes and fought Friday afternoon Tacoma traffic. Holy poop, I don't even know how people can live there and deal with the traffic.  It's insane.

I got to hang out with fellow Pee Book author, Rebecca from the Frugalista Blog.  It was tons of fun to chat with a fellow blogger about bloggy related stuff.

Here we are dressed in black.  

We didn't plan to match.  Or did we? I'll never tell......

I would like to point out that i'm actually wearing a dress.  I'm pretty sure the last time I wore a dress was my wedding day. Unless you count the hospital gowns that I gave birth in. Okay those definitely don't count.

Here I am signing a book.
I look so serious. I don't mess around when i'm trying to spell and write at the same time. 

I made it back to Portland around midnight.  The kids were in bed and I was attacked by my husband shortly after I walked in the door (damn dress).   I thought that things were getting back to normal but the following morning I was woken up by screams of terror coming from the family room.  I heard something about "Flounder Junior is dead".  Flounder Junior is (was) Bo's fish that she won at her school carnival back in May.

You may have seen his mug on my Facebook page. 

Upon arriving at the crime scene, I saw Flounder Junior lying lifeless on the hard wood floor, along with a toddler standing suspiciously close to his bowl.  We still don't know if he plunged to his death, or if Peanut had something to do with it, but he was our only witness and he wasn't saying much.

Poor Bo's was super upset as this was our first family pet and his death was pretty traumatic for all of us.  When she realized that dead fish typically get flushed down the toilet, she became absolutely hysterical, so we decided to have a funeral for Flounder instead.

Yes, while you were probably out doing normal Saturday night stuff like strolling the aisles of Target or going out to dinner or a movie, we had a funeral....for a fish.

Flounder's casket

Saying our goodbyes to Flounder Junior 

The griever and the potentially guilty party

By the time Sunday rolled around I figured things had to calm down.  They just had too.  But it ended up being 97 degrees on Sunday.  We don't have air conditioning since it rarely ever gets that hot in Portland.  I made the mistake of trying to cook dinner on the stove (chili of all things because nothing goes better with 97 degree heat than a steaming bowl of hot ass chili, right?) and I cooked corn bread in the oven at nearly 400 degrees because i'm smart.

I was so hot that I was literally dripping sweat.  I started chopping onions and slipped and almost took off part of my thumb.  Blood was squirting out all over the counter as i'm screaming for help.  I could've just ordered a pizza, but that would've been way too easy. Nope, rather we had steaming hot chili with bloody onions (literally).

Today is my 35th birthday and it's Monday.  Yay.  Nothing says "Happy Birthday you old bitch" like a Monday morning.  I don't think I slept more than an hour last night.   This morning I was woken up by my five year old son turning on the stand up fan full blast about two inches from my face.  I mean who really needs a nose and eyelashes, right?  My kids want me to take them to OMSI and buy them stuff today cause apparently once you have kids your birthday is supposed to be a special day for them.  How silly of me.  So, as soon as I post this i'm off to the kitchen to cook blueberry muffins.  Hopefully i'll actually get to eat one before they are gone.  Then i'm spending the rest of the day curled up in the freezer.  It's supposed to be another scorcher.  Or maybe it's just the hot flashes kicking in.

The Breaking Bad Diet

Summer boredom has already hit and I decided I needed to find a new show to watch on Netflix. As much as I love watching Roseanne, Sex and the City and Weeds re-runs, i've seen each episode probably 900 times and I wanted to try out something new.  I decided on Breaking Bad.  I parked my oversized hiney on the couch, put my fuzzy, pink, princess blanket over my legs and figured i'd be instantly hooked. I had read somewhere online that this show was similar to Weeds. Whoever wrote that was a liar! I'd like to find that person and punch them in the nadsicles.

The first episode was mildly intriguing.  It definitely didn't pull me in right away like Weeds, but it was watchable. That is until I saw the bathtub scene.  Holy sweet mother of Justin Bieber, i'm traumatized!   TRAUMATIZED!  I wish I would've had a warning. I would've switched off Breaking Bad, turned on Roseanne re-runs, curled up under my fuzzy, pink, princess blanket, and eaten Reese's Peanut Butter Cups instead.

I should've known better. I knew that the basis of the show was drugs and not warm, furry kittens. I can't handle blood or gore at all.  I don't watch horror movies or anything about zombies or vampires.  It took me several weeks to feel normal again after watching Robo Cop with the husband.  Don't laugh. Robo Cop is some scary shit! I am now terrified of robotics.  I will never buy a Rumba.  Ever.

Back to Breaking Bad. Shortly after the bathtub scene, which is so disgusting i'm not even going to try to describe it, my husband brought home PIZZA for dinner. I wanted to vomit in my mouth every time I attempted to take a bite. I was literally sick to my stomach.  Perhaps I should watch this particular episode before every meal and I just might lose those unwanted 30 lbs this summer.

I really don't think I can continue watching. I'm sorry Breaking Bad, but i'll be moving on to something that I can watch without peeking through my fingers.  Barbie in A Mermaid Tale is looking pretty good at the moment.

Planning a funeral for an iPhone

Almost exactly two years ago today Peanut threw my beloved iPhone 4 into the toilet.   We were getting ready to leave and Peanut was pretty little.  I didn't used to let him play with my phone back then because he was too young and I was worried he was going to damage it.  That particular day I was in a huge hurry because we were running late.  I remember setting my iPhone down on a table, but I put it too close to the edge and it fell onto the carpeted floor. It was one of those moments where I saw it fall out of the corner of my eye but I was already on my way into the bathroom to finish getting ready so I said to myself, "It will be okay on the floor for a few minutes."  

I was midway through brushing my teeth (okay, so I was probably plucking a grey hair or popping a zit) when Peanut appeared in the doorway to the bathroom, holding my iPhone.  It was one of those slow motion moments where I see him lift up his arm and my iPhone went airborne.  I remember screaming, "Nooooooooo" but it was too late.  It flew across the bathroom and plopped butt down into the toilet.  I immediately fished it out and made a fatal error of trying to push some buttons.  My phone looked like something from Poltergeist. It started freaking out and the screen went all demonic and ugly and it made kind of a hissing sound as it shut off and wouldn't turn back on.  I wanted to cry, scream, flip out, but ultimately it was my fault for leaving my phone on the ground, in the reach of a then 18 month old.  I mean what can you really do?  Peanut didn't talk, he couldn't express himself or explain why he felt the need to turn my iPhone into an expensive paperweight.  The boy still crapped his pants for poop's sake! 

Anyways, after putting my iPhone in a bucket of rice for 8 days and not touching it all, I eagerly took it out of the rice, plugged it in and tried to turn it on.  It laughed at me.  Okay, it didn't but it basically said, "F you" and refused to turn back on.  We tried to take it to Apple.  They said they would replace the phone for $199 but it would be a refurbished phone and I wouldn't be able to keep my old phone or retrieve any of the data on it.  Since I had pics of the kids and a bunch of other stuff I couldn't part with, I left with my broken iPhone in hand and said "No thanks."   We found an independent iPhone repair shop that had great reviews Wired iRepair.  I was so scared to hand my phone off to just anyone but these guys were so friendly and awesome and I knew my baby would be okay. I had already gone a week without a phone, so I wasn't upset when they said i'd have to leave it overnight.  It turns out that even though my phone had only been exposed to water for a few seconds, that was all it took to cause major damage. It needed a new dock port and a battery.  It set us back $150 but I was so thankful to have my own phone back and all of my data was still there.  

I had a blissful year with my repaired iPhone when Mr. Peanut struck again.  This time he threw the phone onto the hardwood floor.  I don't know how the screen didn't shatter into a million pieces, but I picked it up and all seemed fine. That is until someone tried to call me and I realized that my ringer no longer worked.  For the last year i've survived without a ringer.  I miss pretty much every single incoming call, but I actually kind of like it.  It's a perfect excuse when you just want to be left alone. "Sorry, my ringer doesn't work."   I decided it wasn't that urgent and I didn't get the ringer fixed. 

Last night I was checking something on my phone when I was suddenly revisited by Poltergeist again.  The screen turned several shades of scary, and the damn thing kept turning itself off.  I thought maybe the battery was just low so I plugged my phone in.  At first I thought maybe I was just going crazy.  It seemed to be working just fine.  Then Poltergeist.  My phone was haunted.  After turning it back on again, it died again, only this time it wouldn't come back on.  My phone is toast.  The kids are denying any wrong doing, even though they were watching You Tube videos on it earlier.  It didn't appear to have gotten wet again unless the kids dried it off to hide the evidence.  I don't even want to know what's inside of my phone.  Seriously, there is probably smashed banana and dried boogers up in that shiz.  

My husband left for work with my iPhone.  He'll be taking it back to the shop today in hopes that it will be a quick and easy fix.  I'm not holding my breath. Okay, I lied. I'm holding my breath until I look like the damn purple people eater!  I feel like one of my family members is going in for exploratory surgery and i'm pacing the halls and waiting for a diagnosis.   

I have a confession.  I googled, "How to plan a funeral for an iPhone."  Nothing came up except for apps for planning your own funeral.  I'm disappointed.  This would be a valuable service for attached iPhone users. 

As I prepare myself for the possibility that my baby may not make it home alive, i'm already planning her funeral.  There are many questions an iPhone owner has to ask themselves when faced with the impossible. 

Do I donate her parts? 

Do I donate her entire body? 

Would wearing all black to her funeral be an overkill? (of course not)

Do I give her a proper burial in the backyard?

Or do I let her go somewhere where she can really be free?  I could fling her off the edge of a cliff Thelma and Louise style, or from the peak of Mt. Hood. Or maybe I will just stand on a dining room chair and let her drop down to the floor since i'm kinda afraid of heights. 

When will I feel like texting again? 

How long is the appropriate waiting period before filling in the notepad in my new iPhone? 

Headstone or no headstone? Kidding. Sort of. 

Once you come to terms with saying goodbye, a tribute must be in order. 

I have asked my children to find some of her favorite and most watched You Tube videos.  

RIP my love. I hope I did you proud.