Tag: funny

Adventures in old people. Part 1

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Update: I have not written to you in over a year. So much has changed, we have much to cover so lets get right to it. We are getting old. Our last baby moved out and our bodies are continuing to fall apart.

This summer we moved the boy out to his own apartment. It was sad, horrifying, and exhilarating all at the same time. He graduated in May, moved out in late July and started his first full semester of college in August. The following is my recollection of moving day and the summer events that followed.

It was time. The boy found an apartment with his best buds and they signed a lease. “It is really nice, mom!”

That is what he said to me. I remember it clearly. He was so excited for the future and I loved that for him. I was terrified though. Would he be alright? What about feeding himself? Laundry? Would he wake up for work and school? Would they pay the bills fairly? So many thoughts. I asked all those questions, he was offended. I stopped asking and just hoped.

He said the apartment had a pool, a laundry facility, a workout room and it was going to be great. It put my mind at ease as I pictured a community party by the pool with young professionals all mingling and cohabitating in this really “nice” apartment complex.

We watched the boy taking SUV loads to his new place a full 24 hours before we officially planned to move his furniture. So proud of this young man, dutifully moving all he could on his own, without asking for anything at all. The same sweet boy who had just a few years back needed my help to peel the paper off his cupcake. My momma heart swelled with pride.

It was officially moving day. We waited and waited for him to show to put his heaviest furniture into the truck. Time was ticking. It was becoming a sweltering day in the south and by mid-morning and my patience was wearing as thin as the tank top I was beginning to sweat through. His powder blue ride finally pulls into the drive. I might note here that this was after a warning text that I was getting “hot and cranky” which I sent with what remained of my patience. He sauntered over to the front of the house and picked up the gaming chair I had been struggling for 20 minutes to get to the front porch. He lifted the thing like it was a mere inflatable lounger, with all the ease and grace of male youth. I looked on dumbfounded but grateful because I was red-faced, wheezing, and panting. I am neither male or youthful and it showed. We got everything loaded up and made our plan to caravan to this new place. This would be the first time we had ever seen it. I was excited albeit exhausted and ready for the next step.

Little did I know the next step was headed to the top of Mt Everest. Only in a narrow dark hallway. That smelled like stale weed. With a dirty carpet and questionable smears on the walls.

They had rented the upper floor and there was no elevator. I grabbed what I could and headed up the stairs. I held my breath, hoped for the best, and veered in the direction of the open door. The inside of the apartment was newly painted, and thankfully didn’t smell like cheap schwag. It was decent place, small, and obviously inexpensive furnished appliances but otherwise fine for a first apartment. They would later compete the place with mismatched furniture and accessories into a cute little party pad.

I asked about the “smell” in the hallway and was shushed. I guess nobody wanted to talk about it. Nobody offered me a tour either, so I took it upon myself to do the mom inspection duty. I looked in my boys bedroom, the kitchen and all it’s 3 cabinets and then checked out the bathroom. I found the new soap, hand towels, toilet cleaner brush and little rugs I had bought and laid it all out nicely. If nothing else the bathroom would be civilized.

Once everything was unloaded we headed back to the truck just in time to see a police car driving unreasonably fast in front of us and around to the side of the apartment complex. That was strange I thought to myself, looked to the boys other mom in the drivers seat, wide eyed and cautious. She said nothing, I think she was concerned but ehh, it was probably fine. The kid was moved in and we were free. Don’t freak about the little stuff she seemed to say to me with her eyes. Begging me not to run back upstairs and insist he come back home with us.

But we were not free. The next thing we knew a stranger, the kids new neighbor, told us we couldn’t leave. Could not leave? That was correct. The police had the entrance/exit blocked.

I considered again going back upstairs and throwing our boys things back down the stairs myself but was stopped when several more police cars arrived. I sat dumbfounded as they swarmed the building adjacent to where we were parked. I watched in absolute horror as they shouted to each other and the people watching this chaos unfolding around us all. They asked if we had seen anyone running. We had not. Thankfully.

The uniformed police group got back into their respective vehicles and left as suddenly as they came. Little did we know we would see why in just a moment.

We followed the last public vehicle out of the complex. Meanwhile I was texting the boy to lock the doors and describing what I just witnessed. I asked if he really wanted to stay there. He did. He said not to worry.

We got about a block down and there were the familiar lights and squad cars. It was the police, again. We slowed to catch a glimpse of what was going on and I heard shouting. Because I can’t mind my own business I rolled down the window just in time for “GET DOWN! GET DOWN! DROP THE GUN, NOW!”

I rolled the window up quickly and asked if we could please drive on. Now. Faster. I was terrified. Did they get the person? Don’t know. What did the person do? Did they live in the apartments? Don’t know. Don’t want to know.

Remembering back when the boy said it was “really nice” I asked him again, were the police there when you looked at the apartment? He said no. Did you look at your apartment? No, a model apartment. Ahh. Yes. We have learned a new lesson. He, to ask to see the amenities and the actual apartment, and I as his mother to trust that he will lock the doors and to let go of the anxiety that my child now lives in the worst part of town possible for the term of his lease.

A month later I asked if he would dog sit / house sit for us for a few days while we went north to visit my parents. He eagerly agreed, I suspect he said yes to have an entire house for himself, a stocked fridge, clean (not green!) pool to use and laundry services that were not coin-operated. I don’t care why he said yes, I just knew while I was gone he was safe. At home. My home. My safe, secure, tidy home without any need for police presence.

While we were away all was well at home but a menacing pain bothered my darling wife. She wasn’t able to join in on the family tradition of beer-drinking shenanigans. No corn hole throwing, no darts. Everything caused her pain. This was concerning and when we arrived back to our southern homestead she was still in pain. After much debating, she went to see her doctor for a referral to a surgeon. The surgery went on the calendar for October. Our adventures in a home without kids had a kink in it. New adventures in surgery as an old person was just beginning.

Making my own sugar scrub and imagining my death scene

myidioticbliss1 Comment

We went to the beach about 2 weeks ago and for the last few days my gorgeous tan has started to peel like glue on a preschoolers fingers.

As I reached for more lotion I wondered how hard it would be to make a scrub.

I’m a tall girl and not tiny. I’ve got curves in the right places (plus some, whatever). The point is you won’t see me buying enough fancy scrub for my whole body. They don’t sell tubs of the stuff big enough anyway.

I did a little search and *voila* a recipe with simple enough ingredients I could probably whip it up and scrub up these flaky legs.

It couldn’t hurt. I mean what’s the worst that could happen?

I grabbed the big container of coconut oil and a spoon. As soon as the spoon touched the smooth white surface it stopped. The stuff is solid. So I think to myself I will microwave it. Pop it in and look for the sugar.

By the time I realized the container was still in the microwave I had found a bowl, measured sugar, spilled some, wiped it up and wondered to myself where the coconut oil went. Ooops.

I get it out, it’s no longer solid but a clearing mess with white globby things of unmelted goop floating around. I scoop the goop chunks and start stirring it in the sugar.

It smells fainternet-meme-of-cat-at-spa-with-cucumbers-on-eyes-and-wearing-a-bath-robefabulous. I start feeling crafty and wonder if I could be famous for sugar scrubs one day. It could happen.

I don’t remember what the recipe called for but I thought it was about half and half so I kept eyeballing sugar and oil scoops until I thought it was just right. I put half into a cute little jar and the other half in an empty plastic container to take to the bathroom with me. One can never be too thrifty.

Plus we only had one tiny jar.

I was feeling extra fancy so I lit the beach scented candle and started the bath.

I perched on the toilet and grabbed a little scrub and started to rub it on my legs. It wasn’t quite liquid, not quite solid, but definitely messy. Some dropped on the floor to make little sugar splats and the rest coated my shins like a sour gummy candy.

I thought it best to probably get over the tub so not to make a mess. I tried to balance with no such luck. My one foot landed into the super scalding running water. In my genius I jump in with the second foot because balancing wasn’t working out.

* pro-tip: your oiled up hands will not hold you up on linoleum. 

I hurry to the front of the tub and turn the water to cold, at this point getting out of the tub seems more dangerous than boiling to death in it.

Remember those dropped sugar globs? Death waiting. I’m not going out there yet.

I get the water just right and settle in. I smoothed the scrub all over my legs and it feels so heavenly I think I should do as much of me as possible.

There is now coconut oil in my eyeball. How does this even happen?

The bathroom is really starting to get a tropical feel. I had closed the door but not turned on the fan so it was getting really steamy. Really stuffy.

Suffocating really.

My entire body is covered in oil and my pores can’t breathe. My lungs are filling with what Yankee Candles considers the beach. This is starting to seem less and less fancy. This might have been a bad idea.

I rinse off. Actually  considering how well water rinses oil I just moved water around but we’ll say I rinsed. I drained the tub and stepped carefully onto a towel in the floor.

Then it hits me.

That light headed, I don’t think I can make it to the bathroom door, dizzy feeling. The one your mother warned you about; the sitting in a hot tub for too long kinda feeling. The one where things get fuzzy and your legs feel weak.

I consider what my dead body will look like when my wife finds me. I’ll be collapsed in a bath towel – right there in the hallway. This will not due.

I wonder if she does find me dead if she will notice my ridiculously moisturized skin.

I have my doubts.

She will probably just wonder where all the sugar went.

Bravely I made it to the bedroom and collapsed into a heap on our bed. I let my body temperature cool while searched for more scrub recipes.

Next time? Adventures in coffee grounds and safflower oil.

I just might make it big one day.

I can’t wait.

The day they ate all my cocoa almonds and the world almost ended

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It may seem a little dramatic for a blog title … “The day they ate all my cocoa almonds and the world almost ended”  but it’s the truth.

I was having a bad day at work. I had skipped lunch because I knew we would be celebrating one of our favorite friends birthdays that evening.

My wife on the other hand had the day to herself and decide to get her snack on.

She found a hidden bag of cocoa almonds tucked away in the pantry. A delicious dark chocolate snack I was saving for a day of all days. The kind where you want to eat something deliriously chocolaty for dinner and wash it down with a chilled bottle of wine.

I wasn’t even so upset about it when she text me. She was giddy. Like she found a pot of chocolate wrapped gold coins at the end of a Skittles rainbow.

I didn’t pout when she told me she opened the bag and sampled the goodness inside.

It was alright. Really.

I was focused on making it the rest of my work day and getting to the restaurant on time. I knew what I was having when we got there too; a buffalo fried chicken salad with ranch, a couple beers and a big ole piece of that red velvet cake we bought the birthday girl.

To say I was hangry by the time we got to our favorite lakeside patio and were seated would be pretty accurate. I was both agitated by work events and starving from a lack of lunch break.

I needed sustenance … pronto.

We were seated and approached by non other than the server from our last visit. The one we didn’t like. The one who was slow to fill our drinks or even check on us last time. I was hopeful that this visit wouldn’t be a repeat.

I was so naive.

We did get our appetizer, and our first beer. He did take the cake to the cooler for us and promised to bring it out when we finished our meals. That was about the extent of my hopefulness.

Our friends orders came out wrong and missing side items. Our food never came at all. He never came back to check if everything was alright. I was getting more and more anxious and well … pissed off. I watched other tables get their orders. I watched the sun slowly setting on the horizon. I watched a small child nearly fall into the lake and  most importantly I watched my glass empty.

I was getting more and more irate. Have you ever witnessed a professional in the business of customer service be under served? It isn’t pretty. I said bad words. I shot a glare across the breezeway that made the server want to jump right past that unattended kid and into the lake.

Our friend flagged him down and forced him to confront our table. He nodded that he understood our complaints and ran off. A manager quickly came back to smooth things over. She made it all well, apologized for ruining our evening and summoned the remainder of our order.

We finished our meal and a second round before I requested the special item we brought in with us be delivered. The manager looked at me quizzically, she had no idea what I was talking about. Or she did and realized that this meant not only was dinner a disaster but it was a special occasion.

In the end everyone was fed, we shared cake with other tables and the helpful manager. Our bill was comped and we were given coupons to come back, all totally unnecessary as we are regulars and would have come back anyway. It was a nice touch though and I appreciated the efforts.

The end of the night came and I strolled into the house, put down my bag and went to turn out every light in the house so that we could go to bed.

I walked into the kitchen and there it was … my bag of almonds. Or should I say the bag that held my almonds when I left that morning.

It was like the final smack in the face.

One tiny chuck left in the bottom of the bag. The kids had polished off the sweet open bag of goodness like it wouldn’t be noticed.

I took a deep breath. Then another. I turned off the lights and took a shower. I climbed into bed unable to turn to the wife. I just couldn’t make her understand why I was so damn mad. My work, my birthday dinner surprise, now my almonds. My cocoa almonds!

When I was a child I was told once the world wouldn’t end if I had a bad day.

Yesterday it almost did.

 

Vacation planning – AKA slow torture

myidioticbliss2 Comments

It’s that time of year again.

I am planning the “big” vacation. Not our mountain weekend trips or mini last-minute romantic escapes. This is the big one, where we coordinate days off, convince the kids they will love the destination and then convince ourselves we will love spending a week in close proximity  … all together in one place …. for a week.

For a family that stays as busy as we do, formally getting together for anything longer than dinner is like herding kittens in a yarn store. Nobody has the same sleeping habits, food preferences, hobbies, athletic ability or desire to leave the confines of their bedroom and personal electronics. Did I mention the kids are pre-teen & teen-aged? Good times.

This is how things generally go:

2 minutes from home – “I need to pee”

10 minutes from home – “I’m bored”

30 minutes from home – “I’m hungry”

5 minutes after pulling into the parking lot of the hotel we intend to stay at – “I think I forgot to pack underwear”

30 seconds from opening the door to our room – collective bags drop and everyone falls into the beds for napping

Then there are activities:

“Let’s go to the pool!”  … blank stare “but we have never explored this area, there are bike trails, museums, shops, historical monuments ….” blank stares, holding swimsuits. Same swimwear they always wear .. to the pool we can go to back home … for FREE.

“Let’s go visit this lighthouse! We can climb to the top and take family photos and read all about the people who lived and worked here a long time ago!” My families typical response? “Can you just take a picture, from the car, so we can go get ice cream? We passed the shop just back there.”

“Mountain trails?  uhhh … hiking? That sounds like it will be hot and there will be bugs. Is there even wi-fi?” Where did I go wrong with these kids?

“The sun is in my eyes.” … “where are your sunglasses?” … “I lost them.” We bought them this morning!

Shivering in July sun …”The water is too cold”

“I don’t like sand.” Just spent 2 hours digging a giant hole … in the sand.

“I want to go to the room, I’m bored” 100 people on the beach, books, snacks, football, waves perfect for boogie boards, random friendly dogs. Definitely nothing going on here. Nothing at all.

or my favorite – random activities from the hotel booklet things we either didn’t budget for or would cause at least one of the family members to have a panic attack. It seems the kids know just how to push my mom buttons… “Skydiving!” No.

I’m on the hunt now for someplace affordable, where nobody will be left out, or bored, or too frightened to enjoy the experience. Where there will be places to eat that everyone likes and in an area family friendly enough to be safe but not resemble a nursery rhyme.

Maybe a stay-cation is in order. Somehow I don’t think we will all agree on that either.

 

 

 

 

 

Real marriage advice – life, love and not speaking to each other

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It has taken me awhile but I think I have learned a little about relationships, marriages in particular. It can be such a beautiful thing, hand in hand with the intention of growing old together, raising your children and retiring to rocking chairs on the front porch. Then there are days where you can barely stand the sound your phone makes when they send you yet another text message, to which you will also be ignoring.

I have put together 7 age old ridiculous tips and some alternative real life advice from an actual married person.  Actual advice for us long term ball and chain type couples; the gay, the straight, the somewhere in between  … because we all at some point need to step back and just laugh at ourselves.

Never go to bed angry.  Seriously? Who is this helping if you stay up way past your working adult bedtime?

SHUT THE HELL UP AND GO TO BED. Your co-workers will thank me for this tip in the morning. You can hash out whose turn it is to clean the bathroom another time.

Always compliment your lover. I only agree with half of this. Do not throw around over used, thoughtless words you think she wants to hear.  She doesn’t. She will stop buying into your lip service pretty quick. That is no good for her self esteem. All you are doing is encouraging your partner to not believe anything you say. Ever.

Always be sincere. If she is looking hella hot in that dress, by all means tell her so.

**I use the pronoun “she” here but this applies to everyone. Keeping in mind this is  written by a woman who is married to a woman … I use the feminine for everything. This advice could easily be just as good for that gorgeous hunk of a man in your life.

Be reasonable in your expectations. I don’t even know what this means. What exactly is a reasonable expectation? This varies wildly. If you were raised outside of the jungle you know how to behave in society and with other people. Don’t stress about what you are expected to do as long as you aren’t being an asshole.

Real advice: No really. Just don’t be an asshole. The only expectation should be that you are kind to one another and expect that no day is ever the exact same as the one before. Roll with it together.

Trust each other. This is a hard one for me personally. Do I trust she won’t leave one day with our dogs in the passenger seat and a trail of dust behind her? Sure. Do I trust she won’t drink the last of the wine or eat all the fancy ice cream? No.

Real advice: Don’t cheat on her or eat all her ice cream. Done.

Figure out your finances before you tie the knot. Uhh, we have been married awhile and we still havn’t figured this out.

Real advice: You are on your own here. I have no advice. We make the money, we spend the money.

Be affectionate as much as possible. For the sake of everyone around you, please, we beg of you do not do this. It is rude and we will tell you to get a damn room.

Real advice: In the confines of your home or around a private corner in public places by all means grab a quick feel or smooch like teenagers. All is well and good until you are holding up the line at Target looking deeply into each others eyes.

Handle your disagreements in a healthy way. We all know that couple that breaks up and makes up all the freakin’ time. Stop it. Don’t break dishes, don’t drive off squealing tires, don’t call names and never, ever tell them you don’t love them. There is no glue to mend that kind of thing and spray paint and ribbons are not a fancy fix all. No matter what you read on Pinterest.

Real advice: Be honest, take time if you need it before you respond, use your best inside voice. We learned about not throwing tantrums and using inside voices in preschool yet sometimes we forget as grown adults.

The very best advice I have ever been given was to learn from successful couples who have amazing, healthy, happy marriages. Learn from those who know they are not perfect but they keep working on it anyway, those people are the successful ones.

Most of all be willing to laugh at yourself. It’s a lot better than being laughed at.

Leave me your best marriage advice in the comments below, I would love to hear your best “real” advice!

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Parenthood: tales of the lesbian step-mom

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My kids are amazing. My wife is amazing. Together they are sorta a train wreck and today I feel a little like a helpless damsel in distress tied to the train tracks with nobody to save me.

This is how it all happened …

My youngest son (preteen) and my youngest daughter (barely a teen) live with my wife (acts like a teen sometimes) and I (always the mean mom) in our lovely rural home while their father lives across the country (we like it like that). This means for the bulk of the year we co-parent in my household with 2 moms. One of those moms never had an actual human child before this relationship, let alone a pair of prepubescent know it alls.

My kids love her, she is an amazing step-mom. She does everything I do as a parent plus more, mostly without complaining.

Like I said she is ahhh-mazing.

The kids absolutely agree, her meals taste better, she is more fun … she yells less. Whatever.

Then there are the days, like today. I get a text as a I exit the shower that the boy child is home. He didn’t catch the ride to school with his sister.

I wonder to myself what happened … is he sick? Should I check on him?

Then the real questions begin …. did I bring a robe to the bathroom?

Is this towel big enough to cover me if he is lurking in the hall?

Will he see me sprint naked and afraid the 3 steps from our bathroom to the bedroom door?

After the wife arrives home from the obligatory school drop off she begins to tell me the tale of 2 children. Of how the female child was dressed, back pack and shoes ready while her younger brother was most definitely not.

She describes for me in detail what happened with the boy.

He was standing in wrinkled shorts and holding his arms wide, in a gesture we can only guess was to make himself look bigger and scarier, like a grizzly bear in an old western movie. He stood there defiantly in support of his inaction this morning, making some desperate argument about why it is he wasn’t out of bed and ready to go. He stood there insanely ranting, thin arms spread wide, arguing about whether he did or did not wake in time to leave by 7:15.

As this was unfolding the wife was processing the entire scene in her head.

This kid was wasting precious teeth brushing time. In her infinite mom wisdom she decides the boy shall stay home. The punishment stood and she left him, in his sleep clothes, red eyed and cranky.

When she returned she checked in on him and found him playing video games. Like any kid home from school (as punishment?) would be doing. I didn’t have the time to argue as I slipped a cardigan over my shoulders and grabbed my bag for work.

A few hours into my work day I receive a Skype from the wife, not abnormal as we communicate periodically like this during my work day. This time it wasn’t about after work plans or when we were scheduled to take the car in for an oil change. No. This time it read like this:

[11:42:14 AM] Wife: Your son is up here looking for borax and glue
[11:58:44 AM] Me: uhhh, no?
[11:58:48 AM] Me: for why?
[12:00:01 PM] Wife: Making messes. Aka slime.
[12:00:14 PM] Me: No.
[12:00:29 PM] Me: Welcome to parenting boys 101
[12:00:35 PM] Wife: He was about to get into the Tide. I said no.
[12:01:09 PM] Me: this is the shit I need to blog about
[12:01:24 PM] Wife: Ha.
[12:02:02 PM] Wife: Yeah. I told him we aren’t making messes today.

I am 99% sure I am going to go home this evening to find no detergent for my laundry this weekend, a slime coating on my kitchen table, an empty potato chip bag and some soda cans mixed in with a beer bottle or few, and my kid still sitting in the same wrinkled shorts playing video games.

The truth is I really don’t think I want it any other way. Except maybe if they didn’t use all the Tide for slime and maybe tossed the dirty socks into the washing matching instead of kicking them under the couch. That would be good.

That seems like the perfect equivalent to untying the distressed damsel from the train tracks …

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These people are my heart. They make me laugh, make me cry. Mostly though they make me shrug my shoulders and smile.

 

 

 

Happy International Women’s Day or whatever day it is …

myidioticbliss2 Comments

It seems there is a holiday for everything. Yesterday was Cereal Day. Tomorrow is Unique Names Day. My favorite of all though has to be March 12th, Get Over It Day. Research says it was invented in 2005 but I’m not convinced it’s not a long running joke placed coincidentally between Valentines and April Fools.

As for today … it’s officially International Women’s Day. I may have just rolled my eyes. Before I am tackled to the cold hard ground by a feminist and my inbox fills with hate mail hear me out.

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I am all about strong, kick ass women. Honestly.

I admire women in every corner of the world for your contributions to life and love. All the amazing work you do without formal recognition.  From those in high heels teetering around office buildings to those wearing military boots stomping alongside your male counterparts. Especially to those of you running around with one slipper, and a day short of a shower, chasing toddlers.

All of us are miracle makers, mountain movers and marvels of beauty and grace in our own right.

I happen to think I am pretty worthy of a little celebration now and again but is all this really necessary? Do we need an actual day of remembrance for our contributions, our talents and our sacrifices?

Do we not hear quiet admiration from our friends, our co-workers, our lovers and our children? Are we not honored by our successes? Do we not build each other to be better than the day before without a day to be reminded to do so?

Instead of a day to honor women internationally each and every one of us should really already be aware of our own unique contributions and appreciated for such daily. We should see ourselves worthy of a place in the world, with or without a ridiculous holiday because without us what kind of world would it really be?

You don’t need a day in your honor, find honor in every one of your days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Making changes. Hopping trains and hoping for the best.

myidioticbliss1 Comment

There are days like any other, predictable and comfortable. Like waking on your own on a Saturday morning, with no hangover despite copious amounts of consumed wine the night before. Eyelids slowly opening to see a breakfast tray beside you, adorned with a single rose and a neatly folded napkin,  your lover waiting patiently to spoon feed you bits of syrup soaked pancake.

Then there are days so miserable and pathetic that you want to cut off all your hair, throw your phone in a nearby body of water (a toilet works), flip your wife the bird and hope all those days at the treadmill afford you the strength to chase down a moving train and hop aboard … bound for wherever hobos go in old movies.

I’m not saying I’m having a really, really bad day but there might be scissors and some pink  Nike shoes in my backpack.

Unfortunately for me I don’t own a breakfast tray, I don’t remember buying napkins at the grocery last time I went and I haven’t had pancakes since the last time Denny’s served them to me while I was wearing sunglasses.

Inside. At 10 am.

Because if you drink that much wine you will have a hang over … just like the last time. Dummy.

So here I sit, on  a Monday, procrastinating. Contemplating returning that text that will undoubtedly start a fight.

Considering dumping my phone in the ladies room but will undoubtedly regret it later.

Scanning Pinterest for ideas about how to make a hobo hanky on a stick that will match my escape outfit.

*FYI that stick is called a “bindle” … thanks eHow for clearing that up for me. http://www.ehow.com/how_8193614_make-hobo-bag-stick.html

A girl has to be stylish even when fleeing from reality. I think I will pass on the hair cutting but I do need a change. Sleep and pancakes would probably be a good start. If that doesn’t work my next blog may just be from the train.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Good morning sunshine, a canine calamity

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1003073_727448280602596_401554036_nMy day started with a rude awakening – all 3 dogs barking at the sound of tires in the gravel driveway.

They sound like a puppy version of thousands of tween girls at a boy band concert. That screaching, scream sort of crying bark that doesn’t stop until my wife makes her way from her parked vehicle, into our home and down the hall to open the bedroom door and greet them.

It’s really an incredibly awful way to be jolted from weekend slumber.

Torturous really and it plays out every other weekend at our place right about 7:30 AM. I have about 5 minutes of quiet after they are released, from what should be my sanctuary, before they all come rushing back to the bedroom. Each canine taking flying leaps into the bed on top of me.

Sometimes the wife joins them, just for fun.

It sounds like a romantic comedy until I am finally able to raise my head. Then the romantic comedy turns into a horror flick. My face gets all contorted, smeared with last night’s makeup. Yesterday’s curls now a massive fluff of angry red frizz. A sound escapes me like a guttural growl and when I find my voice obscenities spew out like I’m being exercised of demons. I throw back the blankets and climb clumsily over the furry sprawled out bodies in our bed.

I gather whatever is laying on the floor to wear and mutter a few more obscenities as I walk out to make coffee. All the while the bedroom quiets, the blankets get pulled up and everyone settles in to sleep the day away.

Everyone but me that is.

As soon as I finish my coffee I will realize once again, just like yesterday and the weekend before, that I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Giving thanks. Just a little late.

myidioticbliss1 Comment

Thanksgiving has come and gone and thankfully so have those ridiculous social media posts being thankful for this and that each day.

I am not saying we shouldn’t be gracious and share the wonderful things in our life.
Don’t get me wrong.
I just don’t think I’m buying into how sincere all this is if you must be prompted to express it.

Yes, you love your kids and your momma and your dog and your sweetheart and pumpkin pie and your favorite sports team. I do too.

Well … most of those things anyway.

I might be sarcastically moving along in life but I do take time to genuinely appreciate and thank those who make it just a little more awesome to be alive everyday.

For the sake of laughable tradition I will throw it out there for you. The top 5 list of things I am grateful for this year (and all year).

1. A roof over my head.
It’s no mansion in a gated community but I have a warm comfortable place to plant my pajama clothed ass on a couch every weekend. It might be dusty and cluttered but it’s mine.

2. A great job.
Seriously, I pay for my own house and have weekends to sit around in my pj’s. I’m grateful. It also affords me the luxury of browsing for my next Groupon.
It’s a good job but it isn’t like being a CEO at Apple. I’m not Bill Gates and my neighborhood watch list doesn’t include Oprah. I’m doing alright just the same.

3. Smart kids.
They do really, really dumb stuff on occasion but I am not raising idiots here. Not a single kid got pregnant, dropped out of school, got arrested, or ran away. I consider this a fair amount of luck and decent parenting. Whatever the percent of luck – I am thankful to not be a young grandma. 

4. An amazing spouse.
This is a tricky one. Not to say I’m not thankful for the perfect life partner but I am more thankful she came around at just the time she did. It took me a long time to grow up and mature and know myself well enough to know what I need in life. I made bad decisions and learned from past mistakes. I broke hearts and had my heart broken,  more times than I’ll admit.
I’m most grateful she isn’t one of those learning experiences for the history books. I’m also grateful she’s only going to wear those fuzzy Batman Pajamas for the duration of the winter season. They look ridiculous. Sorry, babe.

5. People who read my blog.
I know what you are thinking cause I’m thinking it too. I’m geeking out here. How could I be so lame?
People who want to read what I have written are right up there with stretchy waist pants.
I heart each and every person who likes, comments or emails me about my blogs as much as I love getting away with leggings on a work day. This fashion trend needs to hang on till I’m retired. 

I’m sincerely thankful each and every day for the time to write, the things to write about, and the sarcasm and wit to make you all want to continue reading.

In the spirit of things please feel free to leave a comment about what you are most thankful for.