Month: April 2016

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.