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We bicker.  A lot.  Some (Abby) more than others, but we all do it to some extent.  The breakdown looks something like this:

Alex and Abby – 53% of all Iseminger bickering

Me, explaining to Dan why he’s wrong – 28%

Abby plus any member of our house other than Alex – 16%

Alex plus me and/or Dan – 2.5%

Cal – 0.5%

We’ve taken it to an art form (with not a drop of Italian blood in our veins).  We bicker about everything from who had the hardest Math24 cards to who most often pours milk for dinner; who always has to take the first shower to ‘why does Abby get to wear a shirt with smack talk on it when we can’t?’ (I’m not ok with my kids wearing shirts with sayings like, ‘Legend in the Making’ or ‘Get Ready to be Second’ yuck, just yuck.  But I did buy Abby a shirt that read, ‘Girls can do anything boys can do, only better’.  I guess it was trash talking but it seemed ok somehow…  Yep, shoulda seen that one comin’ – the shirt created sizable discord).

It seems most of our bickering goes on in the car.  Could be because we are in the car so much – 3 kids who play lots of sports and a mom who doesn’t cook… we are constantly driving to a game or restaurant.

Case in point… last fall we were headed to Chambersburg for Cal’s late-afternoon baseball game; the 5 of us were ready ahead of schedule (this is completely unheard of, btw) and sat in the car waiting for Pop.  We passed the time bickering about where we’d eat after (talk about summing up our car sparring in one 7-minute showdown – arguing about a post-game dinner…).  Pop showed up and got himself situated in the car, completely unaware of the squabbling that had gone on before his arrival; Cal looked over and asked, “Soooo… what did you do today, Poppa?”  Pop sighed then said, “Well, I spent most of the day taking quaaludes so I could handle this car ride with you 5…”

The bickering found its prominence in Iseminger lore 2 years ago on Pop’s birthday.  I can’t even remember where we took him for dinner but we loaded up and got into it pretty good.  The kids were scrappin’ over who always has to get into the 3rd row which evolved into the inevitable, “Abby is the favorite ’cause she’s the baby.”  This worked itself into all of the wrongs faced by my poor underprivileged, deprived children…  By the grace of God we pulled into the restaurant parking lot.   The only thing heard over the kids’ caterwauling was me griping, “Why in the hell would you park here?  Don’t you see those other spots?  Why are you wedging between cars when 10 feet further there’s a slew of open spaces?”  Dan was snipping back about never doing anything right and then…  we heard something….  all 5 of us quit running our mouths to better hear the barely audible singing…  “Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me….”

From that point forward it has been understood in our family – the bickering on any given day belongs to the person who last celebrated a birthday.  Pop revels in the fact he has it the longest…  he’s a May birthday with Abby next, in October.  I find it ironic that Abby – the bickerer extraordinaire – enjoys the gift of strife for only 3 days until my birthday slides in unnoticed (I get the arguing and whatever birthday cake is left over from her party…  poor karen).

On Sunday morning, with Pop’s birthday coming up we thought we’d give him a little taste of what’s to come.  It was early as Alex had to be at the fields by 8:30 and the park is about an hour drive away; we stopped at Dunkin Donuts for coffee and a sugar high.  We piled into the car, Dan started her up and off we went.  I looked at him and said, “You think you could buckle your seat belt so I don’t have to listen to that friggin’ DING DING DING all the way over the mountain?”  Then the girls, who were sharing 25 donut holes, started, “I wanted chocolate!” “You said you didn’t want chocolate!” “I don’t want chocolate!” “What??????” “You better not eat all of the other flavors!” “Do you want chocolate?”  “What did you say?  I need to figure something out?”  “Nothing” “No!  WHAT did you SAY?”  “Nothingggggggggg.”  “No I’m not mad I just need to know what you said…”

“SHUT UP BOTH OF YOU”

“I need to know what she said so I can figure something out.” “She said she got you chocolate.”  “I don’t want chocolate – they are NASTY.”  “Well how did I know you didn’t like the chocolate?” “Great now there’s all these chocolate, do NOT eat alla the other flavors.”

“SHUT.”

 

 

“UP.”

 

We rode for 5 minutes in silence – each of us wondering why in the hell we agreed to ride along….  then I heard Abby ask dad if he wanted a donut hole.  “Hmmmm… maybe…. do you have any chocolate?”  Yeah, he’s a shit stirrer.

Today… on Pop’s 67th birthday, we present to him – the gift of Iseminger:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

The bickering now goes

From Alex to you!

I woke up this morning thinking, “oh my god…. I died in my sleep and came back as Tippi frickin’ Hedren.”

I couldn’t even hear my alarm (or Dan’s 3) for the birds….

the

 

 

 

birrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrddddddssss

What the hell are they carrying on about???  Once they pick the 14 or 15 volunteers to crap on my car today… what’s left to discuss?

Is it a reunion?  Are they all just getting home from their trip south?  Is there a reason they can’t just get a box of wine and do this a little later?  By 7am they’re all gonna be sittin’ around with nothing to talk about…

And why are they all squawking at once?  Is there no dominant figure in the bird world???  Is there nary a beak that can take some kinda control???  “ok, ok!  one at a time… we have ’til fall….”

Maybe they all just got wind of  Monday’s forecast and are on a witch hunt to locate the bastard who led them all north…

Or maybe they know who’s idea it was and are letting him have it…  “there’s a possibility of flurries this Monday Sal, WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?”

Meanwhile, I did learn Tippi Hedren is Melanie Griffith’s mother AND I now have a few extra minutes to use as I please this morning…  ha… ha… ha screw you birds.  Screw.You.

well… here’s hoping this Wednesday is a little better than last…

I guess it wasn’t so much a BAD day as it was a day I spent looking around wondering if I exist.

Disclaimer: some of the situations involve people who may read my blog – please don’t take offense, I need all the readers I can muster.

The first transgression was a work sitch (that’s hip for ‘situation’… the fact I had to explain the hipness makes it a little less hip).

Ok, so a few weeks ago I bought a larger-than-usual supply of medications from a wholesaler because the wholesaler was offering a discounted rate.  Seems innocuous enough, right?  (I’ll try not to lose you in the banality that is my day-to-day existence…)  For some reason, out of the blue, I picked up one of the items – the sticker showed full price; this led to an all-out investigation (which was irritating ’cause previous to this I was happily sitting at my desk shopping for furniture – it’s a bitch of a job, really).  Every medication from that order had a full price sticker;  I sent off an email to my rep.  This is the conversation (condensed):

me: I got the stuff, the stickers show regular price

him: you had to fax the sheet not order directly onlline

me: I did fax the sheet

him: oh… ok then… the sale price will show on your invoice

me: I just checked and the invoice shows full price

him: oh… ok… it seems you slipped through the cracks; the deal wasn’t applied to your order – we’ll issue a credit

So… you know, I DID get the prices and I’m not really all that ticked at my wholesaler ’cause let’s face it… shit happens.  And had my day ended there – I probably would be sitting here wondering what the hell to blog about….  But…. alas…. my day kept going….

I get a bazillion emails per minute (not really….).  So, Wednesday (THE Wednesday) I noticed a recurring email that I didn’t want and, as my emailing thus far had resulted in a rather large credit from a wholesaler, I thought, “what the eff….  I’m going for it.”  This is the abridged version of THAT conversation.

me: Hi, could you take me off your email list.

her: sure… could you tell me your company name

me: (totally showing my professional, mature side in that all of my emails have everything but my bra size in the signature line;  I really just wanted to write, ‘uhhhhhh scroll down dumbass’ but…) Everett Pharmacy

her: I don’t have you in my system

me: (looking for a perplexed font) well, I’m replying to an email FROM you..

her: we can’t seem to find your email address in our system

me: well, maybe look in your ‘sent’ folder every day of the last month – I’ll be there

2 hours later they had removed me from their outgoing emails list.  Again… nothing spectacular… nothing warranting any kind of further discussion, especially if my day had ended there… but… it didn’t.

In December we changed banks for a number of reasons, not the least of which being the $150 promotional offer if we got the account up and running by the end of the year.  It was serendipity, I was not happy with our current bank and my bff worked at $150 bank – nothing gets me moving like the promise of being rewarded for something I WANT to do anyway…. only… we never got the 150 beans.

I called some time in February and was told to hang on it might take upwards of 90 days for the money to be deposited; no worries, man, no worries – it was free money…  It was also the kinda shit I only thought of when I was in the shower at 11pm or driving somewhere on Sunday afternoon; but early last week I put a reminder in my phone to call and inquire about my $150 bonus.  On Wednesday (THAT Wednesday) with 2 weird issues behind me; I got home and listened to our phone message, “Hi Karen… we’re trying to get your money.  The promotion was never entered into your account.”

Seriously… what the devil is going on around here?  Again… shit happens and it was fixed with a  single phone call (a deposit for $150 was made into our account the very next day) but – I was sorta feeling a little – I dunno… irrelevant????

I sat down, preparing to share my ‘Karen has never been less significant’ day with Dan but he was looking around for something…   Had one of my fabulous girlfriends been searching… it would not have affected my story telling one iota, DAN looking around? fugetaboudit, I might as well’ve stood on the table with sparklers and tap danced my story.  (it bears mentioning – had I unhooked my bra, his head would’ve snapped around like a bass on a lure… jackass can be outside, mowing grass, with headphones on and before my brassiere hits our bedroom floor he’ll be standing next to me, “did you call me?”).  As I had no desire to unleash my attention grabbers, I instead asked, “What are you looking for?” — 3 times (am I real?  oh my god, I’m Bruce Willis in the Sixth Sense…).  It seems he was looking for the checkbook – we had to pay for Abby’s gymnastics…

except

I had paid… Monday

I walked in on Monday, checkbook in hand and fetched my girl.  The Abbers says, “Mom, my teachers need to speak to you…”  (and me… being me… started thinking how I’d respond to them wanting to showcase Abby in the next competition…).  So I followed the teacher who had asked to see me; when she stopped moving (damn, young, fit people – slow.the.hell.down.) I introduced myself and said, “Abby said you need to see me….”.  She had no idea, “I’m not sure what the owners want but maybe… have you paid for May?” So, I told her I had not but raised my hand holding the checkbook and headed to the front desk.  While at the front desk, an owner trotted over and asked about my overdue payment (it was May 2nd by the way, the 1st was Sunday…) and I kinda looked around wondering what the fuck he thought I was doing – at the front desk – with my checkbook out – and a pen in my hand…  The desk guy told me what I owed and the owner talked to me at length about their plans for the coming months and how the fee might change because of these changes… about 6 minutes of discussion concerning my current payment and future payments…

And… because it was Wednesday (THAT Wednesday) that very same owner asked Dan to please pay the fee for May…

A day of missing deals, phantom emails, lost promotions and ghost payments… I just tried to tag some photos on Facebook – I wasn’t able to do it – is it starting all over????  Eh, it’s payday at work – I know a few people who will celebrate my existence…

 

 

 

On May 24th 2001 we found out all of our hard work had paid off…  Never was I so thrilled to pee on my hand (now, 15 years later they make a more ‘user-friendly’ pregnancy test, go figure….).  I know what you’re thinking but trust me when I say – yes, 8 months of trying to get pregnant is hard work; around month 5 or 6 we wondered if we’d ever bump uglies just for fun again….

I walked outta the bathroom and said something along the lines of, “Happy 4th anniversary, we’re pregnant!  Which might explain my eating habits of late…” then I turned back into the bathroom and muttered, “…asshole.”  (did you honestly think news of even THIS magnitude would have any less Dan/Karenism about it?)

3(?), 4(?) days earlier we had gone out to dinner to celebrate the last of our pharmacy school exams and the impending graduation ceremony, on our way home I said, “geez I didn’t eat much but maybe that had something to do with the 6 pieces of cheese I scarfed down before we left.”  And Dan (who I might add… NEVER, N.E.V.E.R. mentions my eating, my weight, my pants size) chose this moment to say, “Ya know… you wonder why you are gaining weight.  You can’t drink one of those Tim Horton frozen drinks as much as you do and gorge yourself on cheese and then complain about your pants being tight.”  If you know Dan, you know that 100% of the time he will say the wrong thing at the wrong time with absolutely NO WAY of knowing it was the wrong time.

I guess, it really should come as no surprise he criticized my eating for the first (and only) time EVER when I was in the throes of pregnancy cravings…  Of course I didn’t know I was pregnant either but I did know Dan was gonna pay and PAY BIG for this transgression (to be honest – he was right! I complained constantly about my weight but never worked on fixing it… doesn’t matter – he called me fat when I was selflessly forming a life).  We didn’t speak for the next few days – it was in the midst of those days that we graduated from pharmacy school.  That’s right – we busted our asses getting that R.Ph. behind our names and we weren’t even speaking when we graduated – we have nary a picture of the 2 of us in our caps and gowns…  I should write a book.

That poor bastard…  anybody who knows him probably can’t believe he’d even make a comment like that, those same people are giving the “of course” nod in regard to the timing of that statement….

We eventually started talking again (hahaha this hasn’t always provided positive aftereffects for Dan) and began living our life as pharmacy school grads and parents-to-be.  The first order of business was our graduation party, during which we announced our good news to the world. My mom was over.the.moon. she rushed up to where we were standing, all tears and smiles and hugged us both with everything she had in her.  My father, on the other hand, walked up, looked at Dan’s extended hand and said, “You want me to shake your hand ’cause you fucked my daughter?”

touching

For the record we had been married for 4 years.  To this day we THINK he was just being dad, making a joke to hide his emotion… but there’s that little part of me that wonders if he wasn’t a titch disgusted by it all….

and then — there was Alex.

Cal was pretty uneventful.  He was a scheduled C-section – I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned Dan’s carrying on the morning of said C-section because we’d had a snow storm during the night and he had to go clear the driveway.  “Well… uh… I’m about to go have my stomach cut open and a person pulled out so, yeah… if you don’t mind clearing the driveway, that’d be great…” 3 hours later when Dan said, “It’s a boy!” I started bawling and he said, “are you happy?”  I was sobbing so hard I could barely choke out, “I was afraid I wouldn’t love it if it was a girl….” another shining Karen moment.

Abby tried to suck the life out of me from the get-go.  During her pregnancy I’d have a weird feeling in my lower back, Dan always wanted me to get it checked out – but how? it would happen randomly and without warning.  Anyway, fast forward to the morning of the C-section… as they were cutting our little Demon Spawn from my body, I got that lower back feeling and mentioned it to Dan; at the same moment we heard, “We’re losing her…  get the anesthesiologist!!!”  A tray of instruments hit the ground as a nurse sternly instructed another nurse to, “get the anesthesiologist NOW!” and my obstetrician shouted, “Her heart rate is at 33 WHERE IS THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST???”  I looked at Dan in my personal drugged up bit of heaven and said, “is it a boy or girl?”  Dan, with a sheer look of terror on his face, said, “I’m a little more concerned about you right now than what the sex of our baby is…”  (pretty sure the look of terror was less about losing me and more about being left alone with those 3 kids…).  A dose of epinephrine later  and we got to enjoy the news of another little girl joining our ranks… (I’ve made no secret of the fact I only wanted boys… I also make no secret of the fact I wouldn’t trade those 2 amazing girls for all the boys in China…)

I begged and begged and begged for my doctor to let me do #3 by natural means; he refused because of my 2 prior C-sections – he told us afterward she’d have never made it through a vaginal birth, her umbilical cord was exceptionally short and wrapped around her neck… (I was hoping to get through this entire blog without using any variation of the word vagina… sorry ’bout that).

The labor-intensive trip to our first pregnancy, the early-term miscarriage before Cal and the near-death experience of birthing Abby and Dan was out on the “let’s have our own baseball team” plan (he’s such a quitter).  I do agree with him that we are incredibly lucky to have 3 extraordinarily healthy kids and with each subsequent attempt we’d be upping our chances of ruining our streak… so we stopped at 3.

Today my kids (and husband) are celebrating me as ‘Mom’ – what they don’t know is… everyday, with every silly joke, every good grade, every time they step onto a field, a court, a gymnastics mat, every time they say “I love you,” every time they give me a hug, a smile, grab my hand, every time they ask me “how was your day momma?” every time they look into my eyes and tell me something about themselves, they are celebrating me.  I’ve been told I have an ‘odd’ parenting style – can’t really say whether that was a compliment or not…  I don’t sugar coat things with my kids – if they’re being assholes, I tell them they’re being assholes, if they are getting a little swell-headed, I bring them back down to earth…  I swear in front of them but don’t condone any kind of questionable language from them (“when can I say s-u-c-k mom?  my friends laugh at me because I can’t…”  “hahahaha well you’re supposed to say it with your friends and then lie and tell me you don’t…”).  I shout, “BRICK” when they throw up a mess of a shot in basketball and I repeatedly reassure them that I don’t really like them all that much (“mom can I have a friend over?” “WHAT? I don’t like other people’s kids, hell I don’t even like you guys…”).  Lucky for me, my kids see through me and seem to love me all the more for it…

I, like most moms, get a Mother’s Day gift everyday – many times a day, none of which are material in nature.  Don’t get me wrong – this here MacBook Air laptop thingy Dan just gave me this morning is a welcome material expression of his gratitude (after all, he put in about 97 seconds TOTAL for all 3 while I spent months making them and had to have them surgically removed…).

So far I’ve been showered with balloons and kid-made confetti, I’ve received a painting from Abby, a poem and chocolate chip pancakes from Alex and a solo trumpet performance of The Rocky fanfare from Cal, which he learned yesterday for this very occasion (Alex followed up with a bari-sax rendition of the opening song of Beauty and the Beast).  My kids are immersed in the arts!!!  My absolute negligible knowledge of music is overshadowed by my unabashed awe of my kids’ talent.  I sat here and cried listening to them play – I love watching my kids do anything!

All that’s left is the family trip to the track and a visit to the cemetery.  I’m not a cemetery kind of person.  I get ZERO comfort when I’m there; what I do get are mini panic attacks.  I go for special occasions and a rare trip here and there to give the kids a connection so that they will visit when they are older.  The first visit after the funeral was very emotional for me and I think it sorta upset the kids to see me crying, now when we get out and stand at the headstone they all just look at me, wide eyed and nervous – it’s, uh, completely awkward.  Of course, nothing will ever erase the memory of that first family visit…

There I stood, tears streaming down my face, my breath was quick and shallow and I was closing in on an ER-sized panic attack when Abby (5 at the time) looked at me and said, “Momma, is Lalee’s head in there with her body?”

She’s always had a way of changing the feel of a moment……….

 

 

As Cal sat near me, jittery and nervous I knew something was up; next thing I knew, Alex came over and sat in our general vicinity, looking at me – kinda creepy like. I wasn’t sure if they were going to throw a burlap sack over my head and usher me to a windowless van or if they just wanted to ask me something… Finally, with my nerves on edge, I said, “Alright weirdos what the hell’s goin’ on here?”

I’ll save you the agony of suspense; they want a kitten. Apparently they thought we were all in some parallel universe in which I liked animals – and them, for that matter. It’s not so much a dislike of animals as it is a dislike of all the crap that comes with owning animals. It seems they need to be watered and fed… often(?), I take on this task about once a week for our cat and dog and it irritates the begeezus outta me every time – and then.there’s.the.hair. How do these animals even have a coat??? What in the hell goes on when we aren’t here? When we’re home they are laying in front of the couch, in front of the refrigerator, in the doorway at the top of the steps – you know… relaxing wherever we want to be at the time. So, exactly when are these 2 rumbling in the corners??? I beat the hell outta one hairy corner, I thought it was a mouse…

So, Cal told me a buddy of his has a litter of kittens and – shockingly – that family doesn’t want any of them (Alisha I will hunt you down for this, mark my words). Now, while it’s true I make a habit of presenting myself as the hard-ass in this family, I’m really not; well, let me clarify – in this particular situation, I was not completely opposed to the idea of a kitten. To further clarify – I currently have near zero responsibility with our animals, a second cat would be no different so I was all about it; in my defense I was at least cognizant enough of my laziness to direct them to their father for the final verdict. Our house is not that large and yet I still have no idea how that discussion turned out… that seems odd to me, I’m not even really sure I live here sometimes. Anyway, somehow Cal ended up writing an essay in an attempt to sway his already overburdened father. I thought I’d share said essay with you and break it down section by section. First, though… here is the picture of them asking me:

 

 

 

 

It should be noted – Alex shares my aversion for being photographed… she wants the kitten.

Now to the essay:

Kitten Essay

I think we kids should get a kitten for a couple of reasons.
Ok, as a self-proclaimed grammar Nazi, I just want to apologize for my son… that being said – I found this sentence charming in its innocence UNTIL I got to the 3^rd and 4^th reasons. Couple: pair, duo, twosome, two. This probably wouldn’t be such a big deal if not for my job. People call and say, “I need a couple of refills,” then the rat bastards rattle off 6 different refill numbers. After 2 numbers, I pull up – then I’m caught off guard when they keep going; sometimes after the 2^nd number I say, “ok we’ll get these ready for you…” and the person on the other end gets all shitty and says, “you too busy to do ALL of my refills?” Uh no, jackass, I’m too busy to entertain people who don’t know the difference between couple, few and several….

First, it will give a chance for Abby and I to prove that we can be responsible. Finally! A chance for them to prove they can be responsible… you know… because all the crap I ask them to do otherwise – that goes by completely ignored or forgotten – hasn’t really provided that opportunity. I will feed and water him/her every morning and night. Incidentally, I asked Cal to feed and water our current animal residents this morning… he sighed, walked all slumped-shouldered and said, “Abby can you do the watering?” I will clean up any messes it makes in my room, but I will also be training it. Our house has 11 rooms and a hallway – I like how he claims only the messes in his room, and don’t even get me started on the training – unless he can do it with his phone – it ain’t happenin’. Us three, if they choose to do so, will have the kitten in our rooms on a cycle. This part is so endearing, ’cause you know…. cats always do what you want them to. We will all chip in for food, litter, and a litter box. I find it incredibly interesting that they are willing to fork over some dough for the needs of the kitten – a few weeks ago they wanted to hit the Igloo (our local ice cream place, the average price is $2.50); I told them I’d take them but they had to pay – you never saw such strict dieters in your life, “well… I really shouldn’t be eating that kinda stuff anyway….”. They are a wily sort – they have no intention of paying for anything. We will also make sure that it will get enough active outsideness a day.
…who doesn’t need some active outsideness in a day????

Second, we will have him/her in our rooms most of the time to make sure that it doesn’t do what Brett does. Ok, this part actually intrigued me… Our cat BrettFavre (that’s a true story – Cal named him), is the biggest pain in the ass cat ever, in the history of cats. Sometime between 2am and 3:30am EVERY.SINGLE.MORNING. he sits at the threshold to our bedroom and pushes our door open, it is not level so it swings back to him, so he pushes ‘er right back, repeatedly. Hard to believe though it is – Dan NEVER hears this. He wants to go out – I get all kindsa hell over letting that cat out all night but if we don’t – we get the door situation. Little asshole doesn’t always go right out when I finally get pissed off enough to get up – he dilly dallies *but* if I go back upstairs the door shit starts all over. If I somehow outlast the door misery, BF will go to our blinds and bat at the cords. As I said, we will make a cycle so we do not fight over whos [sic] turn it is. This line just about killed me – these 3 fight over who’s pencil is sharpest – no shit, that was an actual argument. It’s a guess, but I’m thinking lots of bickering will follow the arrival of the kitten. This is good because we will not fight and so that Brett can also come into our rooms instead of knocking on your door for being hungry. Also, it won’t be crawling all over you all the time. I’m no cat psychologist but it seems to me, bringing a littler, cuter, attention-whore kitten into the house will only serve to piss off BrettFavre – the nighttime rituals will get worse, I’m confident in this thought.

Third, the kitten will help me care more for Brett and Brownie. We got Brownie not long into Cal’s existence – in 12 years, I’ve never actually witnessed that boy sharing a moment with the dog and he knows we have a cat only because I bitch about it – there’s no way he could care LESS about them… I will not be playing clash of clans or being on Instagram all day because I will be playing with those three. …for the first 2 days, anyway. To take off on a tangent… I’d like to kill the jerkoff that invented Clash of Clans. Dan, Alex and Cal – all evening, faces jammed in their phones talking about walls and wars and dumb shit that I have no idea about. Grrrrrrrrr. I will be with the kitten and it will make me sad that I give no attention to Brett and Brownie and we will all play together. Such a sweet, sweet story – and also a whole, big, dump truck load o’ crap. I can hear it now, “Get away Brownie I’m playing with the kitten.” “BrettFavre, stop! It’s kitty’s turn for love.” This ain’t my first rodeo people….

Fourth is three words: Brett and Brownie. Ahhhhhhhh, here we go; we’re getting a kitten for the dog and cat, uh………………huh. They are not old old, but it will be good for them to have a young, healthy, active, playful kitten around the house to keep them upright. I’m not 100% sure where he’s going with this, but I can respect his argument; who doesn’t feel sparked into action when a younger, fresher version of you shows up to the party? I’m weirded out by “keep them upright” – Brownie is literally on her last leg, I’m thinking he’s expecting kitty to keep Brownie outta the grave, quite the tall order for this kitten. We all know Brownie will take it under her wing and Brett will know not to rough house. 3 years ago, Brownie would have indeed taken the kitten under her wing – these days? Brownie can’t lift her wing, let alone get anything under it. And let me say this about Brett – he’s an asshole, he will not be thrilled with the kitten. We will be outside all the time with the kitten and we will take Brett and Brownie out with us to get some exercise. …and I will pet him, and love him, and name him George…. Please kid let’s be real here… we have an 80 x 40 sports court complete with basketball hoop, pitch backs, pitching machine, hockey nets, roller blades and all of the balls, pucks, bats, sticks needed to make this the greatest fun center in Everett – I have to threaten housework to get those kids out there – ain’t no way they’re gonna be outside with a kitten; by god they might miss an episode of some IQ-erasing, mind-numbing crap on ABCFamily.

That is why I think we should get a baby kitten. Y’all know we’re prolly getting’ one… right?

I am a civic duty neophyte. This is embarrassing on so many levels, not the least of which being the fact I’ve been of voting age for 7 presidential elections (I did take part in the last 2 presidential elections and plan to participate in all future elections… still not all that impressive… I get it). On top of it all my first trip through the higher education circuit ended with a minor in Poli Sci. Apparently I’m intrigued enough to buy a textbook and sleep through class, not enough so to warrant action on my part. Here’s the real kicker: when Dan and I started “hanging out” (we weren’t yet a thing but you can bet your sweet ass I was shaving my legs before every outing) I was in the process of applying to grad schools in search of a library sciences degree – I wanted to do research for senators and congressmen on Capitol Hill. And yet I’m completely clueless about the voting process. Clearly it’s Dan’s fault… I mean, did you read the part about me wanting to be in the thick of things until HE showed up?

Anyway, the whole mess scares the shit out of me. I can’t even explain it… I’m not a very confident person by nature (this statement always surprises people…) and it seems to me – as with any personal interest situation – the people involved in the election process are very confident and VERY vocal. I guess I’m intimidated – I just don’t have the time(?), the wherewithal(?), the desire… to bone up on all the topics and candidates – I am the voting equivalent of the person who picks a favorite sports team based on uniform colors. My problem is – some candidate will be all, “I’m going to make independent pharmacy my priority” and I’m like, “fuck yeah! Let’s go, let’s vote today!” then that candidate says some shit like, “it’s not proven that sex with children is bad for them,” (that wasn’t an actual statement by any candidate but I did see an article about this recently – I didn’t *couldn’t* read it so I have no information about the topic… the headline was enough). I’m just dumfounded… how do you pick? How the hell do you pick a candidate and do so with unfaltering conviction?

Ya know… my parents were responsible voters… this usually trickles down to the kids; I got the temper, the emotional eating – yet the voting passed right by me. But I’m trying to fix the situation – as I stated, I’ve stepped up my game recently, as evidenced by my trip to the polls this evening.

It really started this morning with my perusing of an article outlining the Pennsylvania delegate process. I looked, took note of those whom were in line with my preferences and actually took a screen shot of the names so I could memorize them – the article insinuated that some polling stations don’t provide voters with the delegate information (ha! hold that thought). I don’t mind saying – I was every politician’s enlightened dream (sure, I only put 17 minutes into it – but it was a solid 17 minutes). As I sat there this morning taking in all of this information about delegates and how that process works, something deep in the recesses of my brain started clicking. I don’t know how many of you actually read my very first blog (I’m pretty sure Dan didn’t, so don’t feel bad) but in that introductory post I promised you’d never know my political views – well… I lied, sorta. I have to divulge my party affiliation just so you can better understand how my primary day went down. This morning something was telling me ‘this information is useless to you,’ so – after some pretty extensive googling – I confirmed my suspicion… delegates didn’t matter to me —- the registered independent. What can I say? I have commitment issues – my 19-year marriage notwithstanding – I don’t want to commit to any party, I WILL NOT BE PIGEONHOLED!!!

I happen to live in 1 of the 11 states that hold closed primaries (don’t be impressed, I just looked that up in Wikipedia).

Thinking I was gonna help seat the next session of Congress, I got out of work, headed right to the polls and waited in line – so excited… I was gonna facebook the hell outta my ‘I voted’ sticker! The (very intimidating) people checking id’s and names and getting signatures and such shouted, “NEXT!” and since I know 3/5 of those people pretty well, I shouted back, “and the favorite” and walked up to get checked in. This is where my voting experience tanked. I held in my hand, the cards and pamphlets given to me by the people outside as I walked in – this is apparently frowned upon; I was instructed to get rid of this stuff before entering the voting arena. My question is – why the fuck are they handing me shit that’s gonna get me in trouble? I took a quick look see at all the names on these handouts – so I’d know who to vote against, bitches stressed me out. This is how stupid I am – I thought the local/state shit on the ballot was the real deal, not primaries (the downside is – I reproduced, the upside is – I stopped at 3). Then there was some all-in-good-fun berating of me for skipping the last election season and then… a poller noticed I was an indy. It was like somebody said, “we brought beer” and then tossed 2 bottles of O’Doul’s on the table… suddenly nobody was impressed with me. I was drearily handed the paper ballot for those of us excluded from the fun voting – yep… I got to weigh in on 2 (state) constitutional amendments. Son of a bitch – this was NOT part of the studying I did this morning. Those other party-affiliated people got to go to the computers and sit down – I had a standing booth with a pen; the damn pen didn’t even have a cap…

I got to vote on whether retirement age for judges should be raised from 70 to 75 and whether or not to abolish the Philadelphia traffic court.

 

what

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the fuck

 

…pretty sure in the next 6 months or so I’m gonna be sent to the big house by an 82-year-old judge for a traffic violation in Philly. I don’t even know what the argument is for either issue. I could, at least, rationalize my vote on the first issue – convoluted reasoning though it was; but the traffic court thing??? what….. I….. it….. I can’t even speak intelligently on how stupid I am regarding this issue.

But I voted – I colored those 2 boxes like my life depended on it… I bet they ain’t never seen boxes filled in so good! I shot my ballot through the scantron thingy, thanked the poll workers (who really are fabulous people) and walked out feeling pretty good about my………… nah, in all honesty? I walked out thinking – well shit, had I known I’d probably be home drinking a beer, skipping out on this voting season, too…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I probably should’ve let Alex fight her own battle; let her bat do the talkin’ as it were…

Wait… before I get into it; some stuff about me.

I am an avid sports fan.  Football, baseball, hockey, the Olympics, World Cup Soccer even gets me… but it’s another level entirely when you’re talkin’ any competition involving my children.  Please, do not confuse avid with asshole.  I loathe trash talking – my kids aren’t even allowed to wear shirts with sayings I consider arrogant or boastful; I don’t like it and I don’t do it – mostly.  I can only take so much and I’m always so dang disappointed in myself when I let somebody else goad me into that kind of behavior.

When my kids hit the ball diamond – my desire for them to win is… well… it’s just like every other parent’s desire for their kid to win – it’s an all-consuming fire.  That’s not to say I don’t handle loss well – I’m not a berating parent (trust me, my kids beat themselves up enough for both of us) and I’m also of the mentality that losing and even to personally stink up the joint every now and again, is good for them.  …keeps ’em grounded and it makes for a better outing the next go ’round, usually.  It’s a fact of life – we all lose, eventually – and the sooner a kid understands that and develops a healthy coping system, the better.

My kids (Alex and Cal, specifically) are dynamite softball/baseball players.  They aren’t perfect, they make their fair share of mistakes and have less than All Star performances, frequently.  But in the general sense they are talented, have game smarts, have a real desire to compete and are coachable (that last part makes me especially proud).  I guess if my kids were duds, I wouldn’t enjoy it all as much (I like to think that’s not true but… I know me too well).  I love to watch them play and over the years I’ve been lucky enough to see some other insanely gifted ball players – both kids have a group of friends who fall into that category.

I am the type of parent who cheers for other kids as loudly as I do my own – and I’m proud to say, we are blessed to live in an area where this is the norm, not the exception.  Most parents will cheer every kid because, frankly, we’ve all known these kids for years; our kids have been teammates, opponents, and best friends for as far back as we can remember.

Last year on opening day of little league Cal threw a pitch that was launched so far out, I’m not sure it has landed yet.  This kid got all of that ball and as he rounded 3rd where we were standing, Dan and I clapped and whistled and told him, “Great hit buddy!!” Now at the crack of the bat, Dan and I both did the breath-in-loudly-through-clenched-teeth with the barely audible, “oiyyyyy”; but by the time the batter got around to us we’d composed ourselves and wanted to let him know we were proud of him.  Cal saw us and never said a word – the boy “gets it”.

My kids aren’t perfect athletes as I said; they mess up (Cal once ran off the field with his team following – with only 2 outs recorded- blue-jerseyed kids were hauling ass around the bases, my dad’s yelling, “GET THE BALL! GET THE BALL! WE ONLY HAVE 2 OUTS!”  hahaha truth be told, my boy has done this twice), my kids commit errors and have all around bad outings .  This is to be expected; they.are.kids.  What I don’t expect is for a parent to comment during such an outing or to give me advice on how my kid can be better.  In one memorable game, Cal was not doing well on the mound.  The two issues he faced were 1) he didn’t have it that day and 2) he was outrageously over-matched.  I don’t think any of our boys would’ve had success but we’ll never know because his coaches left him out there (every parent of a pitcher knows what I’m talking about here).  Being the parent of a pitcher can be the most awesome feeling and the most lonely feeling in the world – yes, even at the little league level.  I’m at my most happy when the other mothers are fretting (sorry Katrina).

Anyway, Dan and I got to the field mid game (I shit you not, I was handling some work issues on my phone and twice, TWICE I looked up as we were parking and said, “NOT THIS FIELD” – we drove 82 minutes to get to a field 25 minutes away).  So by the time we took our seats, I was not very accommodating.  I sat next to a parent and asked, “How’s it lookin?”.  He responded with, “Cal doesn’t have it today.”  Ok, it was a true statement and being well aware I was primed, I took some deep breaths and calmed myself; but with every pitch Cal threw – and he only threw 2 pitches that day: balls and homeruns – this asshat next to me would react.  [ball] “scheesch”, [ball] “oh wow”, [dinger] “they need to take him out”…  and on and on and on.  Finally, my shit attitude got the best of me and I stood up and said, “I’m gonna hafta move the hell away from you before things get ugly between us.”  Poor Dan… I left him behind wondering what in god’s name just went down (he wasn’t able to hear the asshat’s comments).

Here’s the thing – this guy was spot on about Cal’s performance and if he had approached me at the next practice or even an hour after the game – I would’ve been irked but I probably would’ve reacted a little more diplomatically, HOWEVER…  in the heat of the moment – when I am watching my kid battle, and lose mightily, the LAST thing I need to hear is some idiot carrying on about how bad it is…

He came to… I dunno… apologize? I guess, at the next game.  The mess tumbling outta his mouth was not apology material but I finally looked at him and said, “it would never occur to me to criticize your boy, especially with you sitting next to me but, with that being said, we have a lot of years of ball and other sports ahead of us so we’re fine, it’s over and I’m sorry I snapped.”  The intelligent person would then walk away; this  piece of work says, “yeah, I just thought you knew more about baseball and therefore could understand what I was saying.”  Dude… back…. away…

So anyway, I guess I just needed for you all to know I’m not a parent who carries on about her kids’ skills but I do get pretty jacked when somebody is dissin’ one of them…

And so we find ourselves at the junior high softball game yesterday.

It was a tight game, 5-3 us I think when Alex stepped into the batter’s box.  A dad (whom I know outside the realm of junior high softball and don’t care for him there either) is standing on the bleachers and I hear him say, “If this girl would tighten up her stance she’d be a better hitter.”

I’m not sure who brought the record player, but I swear I heard the needle scrape across before all sound and activity stopped, those parents near me (all close friends) froze, only their eyes moving, barely breathing.  I waited – one heartbeat,  {he’s an ass let it go}, another heartbeat {he has no clue what he’s talking about, I’m better than this…}, another heartbeat {I can’t stand it, it goes against everything in me to sit here silently…} then I turned my head toward him, leaned forward and with my most pleasant ‘what the hell are you even saying’ smile, I said, “Uhhhh in her last 7 at-bats she’s hit 5 triples… I think she’s doing ok; we’ll leave her stance as is for now.”

I sat back, the pitcher threw her pitch and Alex crushed it.  Deep into the left-center gap where it rolled to the fence.  Ol’ number 2 wheeled around the bases and slid into 3rd…. safe.

tighten this stance… asshole.

 

 

 

 

I’m sick.

Now… to most of you, this means nothing; to a select few, however, you know this is completely unheard of.  I’m not a person accustom to being sick (as evidenced by my self-chosen nickname – ‘Unbreakable’) and as such I’m completely lost as to what to do (this statement does not bode well for my patients – I  promise I’m exceptionally well versed on what to do when YOU are sick…).  Basically I’ve been a slug-a-bed for 13 days, hoping nobody knows I exist (this, by the way, is not a grand deviation from any other 13-day span of my life); 4 of those days, however, were spent concentrating on not dying.  Currently I’m back to the land of the living, shifting every few hours to prevent my skin from fusing to the couch.

Before the calls start rolling in – it’s a cold, nothing more (although Dan is convinced it’s walking pneumonia – who fuckin’ died and made him Hugh Laurie?).  Last night I finished up a coughing fit with a grunt and a sigh then found the nearest chair to drop into; I looked up to see Abby looking at me with an almost blank stare and shook my head in a (not so rare) moment of self-pity.  Abby’s lack of emotion quickly turned to wearisome disgust, “Uhhhhh yeah…. I think we’ve all had enough mom. You’ve been trying to be the center of attention for 2 weeks; you’re pushing it,  you can stop now.”  …got my nurturing gene I see.

There has been tons of ‘trying to sleep’ with very little actual sleep – so I’ve spent my time thinking about colds and their victims and have decided sufferers fall into 2 categories – ‘The Needies’ and ‘The Loners’.  As in any classification system, these 2 groups can be further broken down but for today’s purpose we’ll keep it at Needies and Loners.

I’m most definitely a Loner. Like I said… I’ve spent the last 2 weeks trying to blend into the background – don’t talk to me,  I  won’t talk to you – just let me sit here daydreaming of drill bits boring into my sinus cavity…

Dan… is a Needy.  Now… he’s not an Extreme Needy – those people who veritably glow as they describe their newest horrific ailment; no, Dan is more of a ‘I’m gonna pretend to blow off my illness but I’ll do so by mentioning how bad it *isn’t* 17 times per hour on average’. Yeah reeeeeeeal fuckin’ irritating.  “Oh, me? I’m (snorgle) fine; nah (throat clearing) it’s nothin’.  I’m (throw head back to corral drainage) tough.” ok good, ’cause I hardly even noticed when you sneezed for 23 solid seconds – not multiple sneezes – 1 damn sneeze hatchooooooooooooooooooooooooo, arms and legs flailing about…  Not to mention he is.the.worst.cougher.EVVVVVEEERRRR. I’ve never heard the man cough from his chest – sumbitch coughs from his friggin larynx.  I mean… cough that shit up already!

He says some stupid shit, too: “I don’t know what you had last week but it picked up steam on its way to me.”  “You do sound really bad but this is the 1st time you’ve been sick in 15 years, now imagine being sick 3 or 4 times every year.”  And the worst, “Are these Puffs with lotion?  I need the lotion, I need Puffs with lotion, do they still make lotion tissues; my nose is raw.” Ugh it’s all I can do not to slug him right now…

Anyway… worse than being around a Needy when the Needy is sick – is being smothered by a Needy when you, a Loner, are sick.  “I saw you blink, are you ok?  Do you need something? I ran to the store for juice, antihistamines, decongestants, cough suppressant, tissues, a nettipot, cough drops and suppositories, I can go back…” (for the record… ima hafta be a whole lot sicker than this to start down the suppository road).   Pretty much when we Loners are under the weather – show concern, then move along… when and if you hear the death rattle – catch my eye, I’ll let you know where I  stand.    Do NOT stare at me at 5am until my eyes – which just closed 20 minutes ago – open, so that you can say, “Did ya sleep?  How ya feelin’?”  And please, I beg of you, do not ask more than 1 time a day, “Can I get you anything?”  Yes, you can get me a one-way fuckin’ ticket to ‘away from you’!   (I can admit, not showing enough concern can be disastrous as well – there is, however, a line between ‘not enough’ and full on ‘Dan’ and the line is not thin man, the line… is not thin).

Conversely, I can see where being a sick Needy living with a Loner can be a touch disenchanting.  Years ago Dan was S.I.C.K. – he had spent days smothering me, tending to my every unspoken (unwanted?) need – as I mended, he fell.  At the end of his first day down, I felt a kinship to Clara Barton; the next morning I walked into our room and he croaked out a desire for orange juice… I rolled my eyes, threw up my arms and sighed; when I (begrudgingly) returned I put the OJ and 3 types of medication on the bedside table and said, “Here! I got shit to do! I can’t keep running up here getting you stuff…”

Why that man has hung in there this long is anybody’s guess…

I’m sure he’ll have the amped up version of my yuck by next week, I’m already irritated by the thought.  ‘Course I’m not even sure he knows I’m sick… asshole didn’t even ask me how I feel today.

We just got back from Taco Bell.  In all honesty – even I’m appalled by this, Sundays usually warrant at least minimal effort in the kitchen; obviously the adults didn’t choose the dinner fare today…

It all started when Cal asked me to shoot some hoops with him;  we ran around a little, threw up some bricks and airballs, then got down to the business of showing off our best ‘buzzer beaters’.   Abby came out a little later, started bitchin’ about us cheating because we’re older than her and was sent back in (FYI – this is pretty much s.o.p.).  A little while later Dan came out… he hit the sport court with such zeal, such fervor – basically he looked like a jackass and I almost pissed my pants.

First off it should be noted that we are not a roundball couple. Put a football in our hands and we look like we know our way around the gridiron, with a baseball or softball – we got skilz, when we flood the court in the winter – we look like Edward HockeystickHands.  Dribbling or shooting a basketball?  We look like complete and utter morons.

Secondly – Santa left a pretty decent hoop for the kids this year… SOB did NOT assemble it.  Dan finally got to it a couple weeks ago (3 months is a good turn around time here); I walked outside as he was finishing up, surveyed the situation and said, “hmmmm seems like the base should be facing opposite the hoop… you know – layups’ll be a bitch like this.”   I wrecked his day then walked back inside.  About 45 minutes later he came in to inform me he had successfully turned the base only to find it was actually the backboard facing the wrong way.  In a perfect world I would’ve been standing there when this realization hit….  As it stands I just get to giggle every time a ball hits that thingy used to adjust the hoop height.

And lastly – how the sport court came to be should be mentioned.  It’s a long story… for years Dan ran his own per diem pharmacist service – independent pharmacy owners called, asked for his services on a specific day, if he was free he filled in.  In September of 2011 his stores were using him less and less; they were hiring newly licensed full-time pharmacists and we, in turn, were startin’ to sweat…  We had a vacation planned for the week of October 2nd and decided to enjoy our time away and worry about it when we got home.  Well… fate stepped in and 4 days before we were to leave we found out my mom was sick, real sick, the worst kind of sick.  We didn’t go on vacation and Dan being Dan said, “I’ll work at the store, you stay home and help your dad take care of your mom.”  Because he was self-employed he had to pay quarterly taxes based on the previous quarter – meaning we had to set aside money even though he was employed by Everett Pharmacy at the time; at tax time – all of that money was ours to do with as we wished.

Mom loved to watch our kids play – anything.  We knew she’d be thrilled to know she “helped” us finance the sport court; we’ve kicked around naming it after her and hanging a sign… maybe someday.  Ironically – as a side note – as his work had dried up right before mom got sick, 3 months later, during her last week with us, Dan started getting requests for days and when I was ready to get back to work he had a full-time schedule back in place… life is kinda funny, no?

So anyway, there we were – two 40-something idiots and a 12 year old showboat (who happened to look stellar considering his current surroundings) runnin’ around trying to not take a ball to the face.  Somehow (it was never discussed) we found ourselves playing ‘5 seconds left buzzer-beater’; it was so horrific I decided to up the ante in an attempt to stoke the competitive flames that burn so deeply in our souls – the 1st to hit a buzzer-beater could pick dinner….

45 minutes later we went inside to ask the girls what they wanted to eat.

Nahhh, Cal did finally hit one (hence the Taco Bell) but I do believe it took a good 20+ minutes.  I can’t even imagine what people driving by were thinking… and here in lies the beauty of having a sport court on a main road – when we look good it’s fun, when we shoot hoops it’s frickin’ hysterical.  Dan is a pretty athletic guy but he is so… so… awkward playing basketball.  He’s aware of this fact and plays it up a little just to get me to piss myself – my God he came close!  I don’t believe I’ve ever witnessed a person throwing a basketball at a backboard with such force – I mean, hell I suck but at least I look like I know what I’m doing; after I heard yet another loud dooonnnnggg and looked up to see him chasing his ball I asked, “Are you completely devoid of any kind of finesse?”

We built that sport court solely for our enjoyment and it never disappoints. We’ve spent hours throwing balls, hitting balls, whacking street hockey balls, ice-skating a puck from one side to the other (ok, so I skated with a chair and not a hockey stick – I was still out there); our sport court has been a marvelous family investment, not to mention… it seems its reaches are far and wide. We’ve had so many people honk and wave, tell us they saw us outside playing, laughing at us when we fall or strike out.  We unwittingly entertain the passersby and apparently, our neighbors…

Last year we ran in to our across-the-street neighbor and we talked about his recent bout with cancer; he teared up a little and said, “I was awfully down.  I was on bed restriction for most of last summer and my window faced your sport court…  my best days were spent watching you and your family play on that court.  I got so happy when I saw you guys out there… laughing, talking, running around having fun…  you guys gave me strength.”

I didn’t even know what to say…

What a wonderful thing that sport court is; what an amazing tribute to Lalee…

So 2 things have completely pissed me the hell off this week and my family is at fault for neither – somebody write that shit down…

Now I know I promised to keep this blog light and fun but dammit, either I get this off my chest or Dan’s bringing the kids for weekly phone call visits through a glass partition…

Both transgressions are the result of me reading.  The first was in a blog; dear God I hate bloggers  (like actors who don’t own a tv… I get it).  It’s really not all that ironic; my blog was born out of frustration in reading other bloggers’ irritating crap.  I wanted to see if I could break the mold. No unsolicited advice, no obscenely obvious lists or instructions on being a better person/woman/parent/spouse, no taking hacks at completely fabricated offenses against humanity… just good ol’ fashioned ridiculing of those I hold closest to my heart. Today I shall deviate from my intended course, please pardon my rant.

Anywho… irritating blogger writes a blog in response to a blog (I’m not even drinking); IB as she shall henceforth be known, was explaining why she won’t take original blogger’s advice to ‘let kids do the stuff they are capable of doing’.  IB goes on for paragraphs (20 minutes of my life I’ll never get back) about brushing her 9 year old’s hair and the nightly ritual that follows (tucking in, praying, talking, bonding… the Waltons look like Roseanne Barr’s family next to this douche…).  She finished up her thinly veiled run for Mom-of-the Year with, ‘I know my daughter is capable of brushing her own hair but for now… I will continue to enjoy doing it for her’.

First of all… if you want the world to know how you bond with your child – just fucking say, “I love our nightly routine, let me tell you about it…” please don’t make up a stupid, embarrassing defense against an imaginary attack.

I didn’t read original blogger’s blog – my common sense tells me – original blogger was blogging about teaching your kids independence.  My kids do their own laundry, have made their own school lunches since kindergarten… you know… that kinda shit.  Shut the hell up about you and your stupid refusal to kowtow to original blogger’s subpar parenting standards; you’ve now done nothing more than make an ass of yourself -discuss that while brushing your daughter’s hair why dontcha.

Since we’re talking nightly rituals – I’ll share the Isemingers’ (and THAT is how you transition my friends)… it starts with me looking at Alex’s back as she storms upstairs; I usually then look to Dan for clarification of who just pissed her off (he rarely knows although it’s a safe bet I was involved).  I’m usually repeatedly asking Cal why he’s not yet in bed.  I’d like to claim this as another good parenting gesture however, the fact is… his bedroom is next to ours – I  need for him to be in bed and asleep… if ya know what I’m getting at here.  Dan does not make Cal’s state of slumber a priority – he’s a guy… couldn’t care less if the boy is wide awake reading.  I hate him for this….  Once I’ve completely lost my cool getting him upstairs then Abby comes down for 1 more kiss… 17 times.  Seeing this in print makes me wonder how we got to this point – I’m the mom who can stop bad behavior with the flicker of 1 eyelid, across a football field.  The truth is – I have no answer – bedtime is a flurry of activity and somehow it gets out of hand….  Perhaps I should get a good brush….

Where was I? Oh… irritating blogger – I wanted to tell her I thought she missed the point but I worried she’d get all her blogger friends to boycott my blog – I’ve sold out… 2 months into my new hobby… goodbye soul.

The second fucktard is the author of “Why Your Prescription Takes so Damn Long to Fill.”  It’s an honest to goodness book; my guess is it’s self-published based on the errors (a point Dan and I both find degrading to our profession – if you’re gonna write an entire novel ranting about how stupid everybody else in our industry is… please, I implore you… proofread your fucking book).  This guy has some very funny and entertaining musings but mostly he uses this book as a platform for his extremist political views.  He is a zealot; this guy is a Prius tank of gas past the far left.  What he lacks in tolerance for those of differing views he more than makes up for in arrogance… The answer to why am I continuing to read this guy’s narcissistic rants is the same reason my kids’ bedtime lacks no structure – I truly have no answer.

The section that led to this blog:

Then I  heard it.

And I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free.

And I wont forget the men who died, who gave that right to me.

And I gladly stand up, next to you and defend her still today.

‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land, God bless the USA!

The absolute worst part of the worst song ever recorded wafted over the store’s radio system, through the chaos of the pill room, and into my head. I hate how he says he won’t forget the men who died and the implication that any women killed in the service of the American Empire he loves so much aren’t worth the effort it would take to remember them.

ya gotta be fucking kidding me… Does this asshat really think that was Lee Greenwood’s intent?  Taking a shot at women in uniform?  Listen…  I am that woman who bitches ’cause the women’s restroom is always a longer walk than the men’s – I get it buddy; we women sometimes get a pretty bad shake… but I feel quite confident in saying this ain’t ona those times.  Has anybody else EVER come to the conclusion that Lee is telling women in uniform they are insignificant?

I find it awfully telling that this book is not traceable to it’s author – he writes under the nom de plume “Drugmonkey” – chickenshit asshole.  If  you’re gonna lash out at America, the customers/corporation paying your salary and everybody who doesn’t share your views… well… at least be man (or woman – take note Lee Greenwood) enough to stand behind your error-riddled gibberish!

Alright… I’m done and I  feel slightly better.