Thursday, August 30, 2012


So as you can tell I survived air travel. I did not flip out upon arriving at the door of the plane using both hands and feet to prevent me from boarding much like a cartoon cat. I attempted to find an image like what I have in my head and found this.....
I Googled "cat refusing to get on plane" images......I'm at a loss.
I did not meet my friendly Air Marshall while on board. I did not utilize all of the happy pills provided. My employer is none the wiser of my anxiety.  So all in all it was a success. Now if you are my friend, I would give you a play by play report but….

See I’m starting to struggle with writing on this here blog. I started because my therapist, Dr. Curmudgeon, encouraged my writing as not only a form of therapy but also as a way to get to know my strengths. I’m a natural story teller. I know this because my Mom is one too. When I was young I used to think that she was the funniest most entertaining person in the room because she would literally hold court with stories. Her audience was engaged and laughing and their rapt attention begged for more. And she gave more. Now I won’t entertain the idea that her stories where factual. I will say that they have their elements of truth. And I am positive that she believes that they are the God’s honest truth. But where they lacked accuracy they made up for in punch lines.

I digress……

I know that I got this talent from her. Its one of the first things I happily acknowledge as an adult that “I am like my mother.” But with less creative license.  So I had made this my goal to blog frequently and really push myself in telling stories. Lately it has become hard on me, in two different ways…..

1. Its hard to put your personal life out there to share with the world. You open up parts of your life, even as limited as I have. I’ve shared aspects of my husband, my son, our family, some very personal matters. Probably way more information  than an average person wants to know about a complete stranger. So here I am with my heart on my sleeve and a microscope to my whooha  and I’m serving up my loved ones on Pampered Chef platters…but to who?

2. This blog is not a substitute for me. I recently shared with various family and friends that I have a blog and a few I’ve pushed/begged to read. And some have read a post or two. Some have peeked. And some have been loyally reading.  But I don’t know what they have read. I don’t know if I’ve offended anyone. I don’t know if I’ve touched anyone with my words. Its like the fact that I try and stay anonymous here means that they too must stay anonymous.  I don't get it. 

So where do I go from here? Do I say damn the torpedoes and full steam ahead? Keep writing about my personal life and just accept that this is what happens when people start getting real? (The Real World – Phoenix! Sorry for The Real World reference.)

I know I want to entertain with my writing. I want to continue to grow as a writer.  I want to interact with people.   Also, I want to share my experiences of fertility. I want to give solace to someone out there who is in the same boat as me and to know that their big payoff is coming. But I don’t want the people who are supposed to support me and pick me up when I am down and having a hard time to only know about it because they read my blog but then not even talk to me about it.  I get this imagine of me in a boat in the middle of a deserted lake yelling out and I see my people on the shore line and no one is acknowledging me.  I'm sure Dr. Curmudgeon would have a lot to say about that! 

So I could continue to write about mundane things, like the drunk woman a work or share web sites that I’ve found. But then by doing that this blog becomes more work than fun. So I’m backing away from the blog for a bit. I don’t know how long. Maybe a day a week or forever.

Its not sad I guess, because no one was ACTIVELY reading this anyways.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Twilight Zone Episode

I can't remember if I ever mentioned this on here but last November I had my first panic attack mid-flight, which translates to somewhere over Iowa.  It was horrific and I am not exaggerating whatsoever.  Its not like I saw something or someone on the wing of the plane and flipped out, that would be tangible proof.  Instead I have no viable reasoning for why I envisioned peeling the roof of the plane off like a tuna can lid.  Since then I have felt the anxiety that starts the panic attack.  In fact I'm quite embarrassed by the number of times that it has happened and where.  I mean movie theaters?  Really? 

I've talked about them with my counselor to try and get a handle on them.  I am getting a better understanding why they happen and what is triggering them but that doesn't stop them from starting and happening. 

To add to the anxiety that I have been experiencing from the crap that I'm not allowing myself to talk about here I get to fly.  This will be the first time since that fateful flight almost a year ago.  I have viewed a DVD about anxiety with flying and I have a relaxation CD and I have pilfered (not exactly since they were donated by my lovely sister) some happy pills.  Armed with these tools as well as the counseling and what I know to be true I will board a plane. 

Oh, I didn't mention that this will be by myself and for work.  So if a mid-flight freak out happens it will probably go into my personnel file.  I should probably start popping those pills now huh?

Friday, August 24, 2012

Ass Without Regard

Its Friday and my deadline at work is trying kill me.  Slowly.  Like the Chinese torture of dripping water on your forehead while strapped to a table. 

I am practing all sorts of self-control to not eliminate one individual from the Earth.  How I wish I had the balls to verbally berate someone via messenger....  Oh to be an ass without regard. 

In stead I am trying to find solice in a whole lotta Dave and the fact that the jeans I'm wearing were only $2.50 from Goodwill and I forgot I had them.  Imagine my surprise when I pulled these outta the stack this morning.  It was a like I bought them all over again! 

Happy Friday Everyone, er , Everytwo.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Do you hear what you're saying?

Ok so this story starts a while ago on a bright and sunny Saturday (its always bight and sunny in Phoenix) We were going to some event that has nothing to do with this story.  The point being I had gotten out of the shower and was hanging out on the couch in my robe (not getting ready) and chatting with Juanito while The Boy played with his toys.  When I stood up my robe fell open a little bit and I saw The Boy's line of vision honed in on my exposed nether regions. Juanito and I exchanged a look and I quickly covered up but not before The Boy could yell out an adamant "YUCK!"  Juanito and I busted up laughing. I escape into the bathroom to actually get ready and Juanito explained to The Boy that someday he might like that but he should never like his mom's. (Yes I admit that this might be too much too soon, but we like to be honest at all turns.  Even when we're talking Mom's cooter.)

Fast forward to another bright and sunny day in Phoenix (again like Philadelphia its always bright and sunny but with less Danny Devito).  Pretty much the same scenario, we're suppose to be going somewhere but this time I'm getting ready for the shower when The Boy insists that he too needs to bathe.  So we never want to turn down an opportunity for a clean kid we obliged, stripped him down and popped him into the shower with me.  It was going quite well until he started with the tractor beam stare into my lady parts.  I matter of factly state that that is Mom's private parts and its time to get out of the shower.  But before Juanito could get the towel and get him out of the shower The Boy belts out a resounding "YUCK!" 

So earlier this week when The Boy ran into our bedroom and I was fresh out of the shower and drying off I should have know.  While he was climbing on the bed I saw him looking at me out of the corner of his eye.  He is totally aware that Mom does not look like Dad nor him.  And its strange.  And when the confused look traveled lower and went from confused to disgusted I was already reaching for my clothes.  As expected he announced "YUCK!" to the room.  I quickly gathered my clothes as he quickly climbed off the bed calling after me "Me see?"  No.  No you can not inspect Mom's crotch. 

It doesn't matter how straight forward you want to be with your kids at one point there will be a line and you might not know its there until you (or he) have crossed it.  But what it made me think about is sometimes I find myself saying things that I never fathomed I would say. 

Such as.....
"Get Batman out of the dishwasher."
"Leave Mom's tush.  Stop.  Quick hitting my ass."
"Don't open the car door" (Note I was driving on the freeway at the time.)

What about you?  What ridiculous statement have you found yourself saying with such authority and then resisted the urge to make fun of yourself??

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

The power of hindsight

Yep, I am sharing yet another lovely snippet of sweet, sweet fertility memories. This time it’s my turn! I honestly forgot that this happened which is strange due to the enormity and weight of the situation, at that time. I guess I glossed over a lot of the bad stuff in light of the good outcome.
My good outcome. 
When you first realize that you have a fertility issue it’s like your whole world gasps in shock and never exhales until you're ready to do something about it. For me it meant starting to try for a baby. (Others' exhalation might come from another event, it’s a crap shoot.) After determining what Juanito was bringing to the party I had to undergo some invasion testing. More invasive than the inter-uterine ultrasound where they shove a dildo on a cord into your hooha and look and around and don’t have the common courtesy to show you around your own damn babycave!

I digress.

When it was decided that I would have this procedure mind you I was knee deep in a support group online of lovely ladies who walked me through every appointment, procedure and “what if” I could throw at them. I am forever in their debt. When I was scheduled for a hysterosalpingography (say that ten times fast!) these girls told me that an HSG is a common procedure in an infertility work up. Basically they flip you over, fill your uterus up with contrast dye like the cup that it is, lay ya down on a table, put an x-ray over your nether region and watch where the dye spills out to, preferably from you uterus to your fallopian tubes to your ovaries. Not on to the table. Basically making sure that your plumbing is intact and not clogged. Here is where WebMD started to fuck with my mind beforehand. So much of what I was reading talked about blocked tubes. I was nervous to say the least. (I admit I logically assumed that Drano would be part of the treatment plan. That or one of those metal snake thingies.  I'm very logical that way.)

I could not stop thinking about what it would mean if they were blocked. More money, more procedures, more time. My employer at the time was unaware of what we were dealing with (at that time and perhaps that’s another story) and was beyond reluctant to give me time off.

When the HSG was actually performed Juanito went with me. I wasn’t as scared of the procedure itself but more of the outcome. The appointment was at an office I hadn’t been at and while it was bright and clean and the staff was nice, not knowing my surrounding area heightened my nervous soul. We were taken back to a little room that was more like a dressing room than a doctor’s exam room which was because it was a dressing room. They had me change into a gown and go into a very cold room where the lights were dim and a huge metal machine dominated the room. Most importantly; Juanito was not allowed to go into the room with me. I had to do this on my own. Hold my own hand.

When the technician asked me to get on the HUGE table I had to use a step stool and then position myself on this metal plate, spread eagle and have her fill‘er up. (Ok, they don’t really flip you over and fill you up but it’s very gas station-y.) I asked to see the screen like I had some medical background and knew what was going on. I watched my uterus on TV. It was a proud moment. I saw the dye. I saw it move about in my lady parts and then it looked like it just flooded out into nothing.

I don’t remember much about the ending of the procedure. Except for: 1. I don’t know what fluid in my uterus is supposed to do so I was still scared. 2. Later found out that the contrast spilling out of my cooter did not have a color. (too much information? Sorry I warned you.)

Ultimately there was no problem with the plumbing. I think one tube spilled slower than the other or something like that but ultimately we didn’t have that as another card in our hand. We only had one. Me. I needed to ovulate. (oh wait I still do!)  Thinking back to 6th grade when all the girls went into Mrs. Jonas’ class room…that part is key to this whole shabang.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

This is Going Some Place....I swear

So yesterday at work I had a woman (who I speculated is drunk on a regular basis) came up to me, like within 4 inches of my face because she doesn't understand the socially acceptable distance between one person and another.  She comes up to me and slurs quite loudly, "Oooh my gawd you have grey!  I thought you were too young to have grey!"  Fact of the matter I started greying when I was like 18 years old and have been dying my hair ever since.  Further, this woman not only doesn't understand the necessary distance between people when talking, she also doesn't understand that you don't loudly call out some one's physical flaws.  To their face.  In front of people.  Its like point at the bag boy and saying "you have Down's!  You look so normal but then I got up close and realized you have Down's!"

Needless to say I busted out the box of root touch up when I got home and promptly fixed to the best of my ability the grey situation. Luckily, I had purchased a box on sale a few months back and it was hiding under my bathroom sink.   Attached to the box was a sample of Crest White Strips.  I was super excited because I've always wanted to try them but have been to chicken to spend the ungodly money and then have them not work.  Then the voice in my head that sounds like my Dad would say "I told you so.  Money is burning a hole in your pocket."  So I painted my roots, taped up my teeth and went out to finish watching Intervention.  

Side note....  I love A&E's Intervention.  I love to hear the stories of how the people fall into their additictions.  What drives people to these points and what it takes to actually make it out. Or not in one of these cases.  Oh and family dynamics....eesch!  All very interesting!

So anyways, I took a shower and washed out the grey (just like that commercial from the 80s) and then unstripped my teeth.  I thoroughly inspected them but didn't notice a difference.  I brushed my teeth and went to bed.  This morning when my alarm went off at 5:09 am, the first thing I noticed was that my teeth hurt.  Like crazy hurt.  Like I'm sitting here typing and I can feel my pulse in my teeth.  I just examined my teeth and the do appear slightly whiter and shiny.  I'm not winning any beauty pageants or anything but I'm kinda impressed.  In fact, depending on how long it takes for my pulse to recede from my canines I will probably do it again.  I might even break down and buy the box.  Pain is beauty right?

Monday, August 13, 2012


When I was diagnosed with PCOS and we decided we wanted to have a baby, my doctor wanted Juanito tested as well. Basically they wanted to know what cards we were holding in this whole fertility game. We ladies have our issues and for some there is what they lovingly refer to as “male-factor”, which could really mean a variety of things. So this test became what we called a “spunk-in-the-cup-test.” We don’t mince words around our house. A spade is a spade. So Juanito took his cup, did his thing one day while I was at work, and drove it to the lab. There was no comical room with a TV and buffet of porn. He got to use his own porn.

Anyways, when the lab results came back a nurse from my doctor called and explained that the results needed to be read by an urologist. That struck me as strange since they never mentioned this when they gave me the order. Nonetheless, they recommended one and we had an appointment which we planned to go to together.

Let me say that until that time I had never attended a medical anything with Juanito. He had been through some scary shit with me but I was never the one sitting in the chair off to the side. A spectator without control. So the doctor came in and he was dressed in blue scrubs, he was youngish, Asian and very professional. He started off by doing a physical exam. First let’s recap that we were at an UROLOGIST. Second I guess going into this appointment I wasn’t really sure what we were doing there or why we were there.  I really just focused on what the test results were. I was completely unprepared when Juanito had to drop trou and the seemingly nice doctor fondled my husband’s junk. In front of me. I was not prepared to keep a straight face and definitely not prepared to NOT fall apart into giggles. I was not prepared for the struggled between my inner 13 year old versus the adult woman who still (to this day) giggles if Juanito has on no boxers and a tee shirt because his little butt cheeks make me giggle. I know that my face had to have been lit up like a lobster. But to make matters worse, Juanito made eye contact. I remember jerking my eyes away and mentally pleading not to look at me and don’t make me look at you. I will just stare at this ceiling and you will remain to be the same person I have always known.  Not the man who was medically molested.

We both survived the exam, barely. Then we sat and had a conversation with the doctor, after he groped my husband. His first few questions were benign but then he threw a curve ball. “Have you ever been around toxic chemicals?”  Um…uh…Juanito?

No. But I mentally stumbled and couldn’t keep up with the questions and where this line of questioning was going. He had to have seen the confusion through our glazed-over stares and perhaps the drooling. So this is what I understood from the bits of speech that I could remember. Mobility, count, liquidification and morphology. Heads. Tails. 1 in 10. And a crude drawing.

Later, after talking, discussing, reading WedMD and other web sites this is what we surmised: Morphology describes the physical shape of each sperm and one in ten of Juanito’s men were perfect. The other nine either had no head or no tail.  Do you know what that means!?  Ninety percent of his spunk had no idea where they were going (no head) or they couldn’t get there if they did (no tail). Its like the blind leading the paraplegics in there!

All the other factors of the sperm; quantity, mobility, liquidification had some resolution.  Morphology meant the factory was broken (the doctor's terms).  Few solutions, big ticket price.  This now meant we had a male-factor. Indulge my emotional side.  This was shattering to  me at the time.  I didn't even know that I wanted kids until I found out that I might not be able to because I possibly had cancer.  Then to get the blow that you don't have cancer but you do have something that makes getting pregnant extremely difficult to then be hit with this??  You start to think that you can't handle it all.  This was not how it was suppose to be. 

After a bit of a mourning period, I read whatever I could get my hands on to see if there was a way to correct this. We reasoned that it didn't matter that nine out of ten didn't work because I wasn't shooting off an egg.  If I could just fire off an egg we only needed one sperm...not ten!  I found vitamins. I purchased a couple of bottles of vitamins for him to take to improve the function, shape and quantity. But he couldn’t remember to take them every morning. Mind you I was taking up to 14 pills a day and he couldn’t remember to take 2 pills. I also found some potential surgeries you can have to improve the morphology.

Around this same time, Juanito decided to see a doctor about persistent pain in, the well, um, his balls. His balls hurt. (Sorry Juanito for sharing all of this…) Come to find out he had a deep venous thrombosis (DVT). Google it to see what that is. Basically, in my laymen terms, his balls were bruised, on the inside. Now I can’t remember how we came to conclusion, if it was medically assisted or we just thought it was funny but we believe that the DVT was caused by vigorous sex. Now the surgery that might alleviate the discomfort for the DVT had a possibility of fixing the morph problem too. So surgery was scheduled, but with a different doctor.

I marked his leg not his balls.
  It was to be outpatient and I took the day off to tend to my husband’s balls. We got to the hospital and got all checked in (after a painful appointment with the administration who took a couple of thousands out of our checking account to do this procedure). The nurses got him all set up. I got to mark which side the surgery was to be performed on to avoid any mistakes. The anesthesiologist came in and checked him out. We were all ready, just waiting on the doctor. When the doctor came in it was again someone who Juanito had not seen before. He came in to the curtained off room, sat down and starting telling us how he has been reviewing the chart and feels that this surgery is not necessary.  Sorry for the inconvenience, please go home. Ok, it wasn't that abrupt but it was surprising like a slap with a frozen fish.  I was pissed and confused. We left (after getting a refund) and went for breakfast since Juanito had been fasting. It was beyond anti-climactic.  It wan void. It was as if the path that this surgery opened up for us was closed once again.  No new options.    

Ultimately, the new doctor felt that there hadn’t been enough testing of the sperm to warrant the surgery and the DVT should resolve itself over time. Subsequent spunk-in-a-cup-tests revealed that there was no male-factor just poor handling of the first test. The new doctor questioned why the first doctor (the nice Asian guy) didn’t order additional testing after getting such extreme numbers the first time. So lesson learned, question everything. Educate yourself when facing fertility so that you’re not sitting in a doctor’s office, dumbfounded, glazed look, and drooling or make sure you ask enough questions so you don’t leave the office looking that way. Our road took many turns but ultimately still lead up to this….
This is the actual test I took when I found out I was pregnant. 
Juanito was out of town and the dogs couldn't tell if it was positive or not. 

At the Beginning of the Road

As we look down the conception path again I am reminded of different things that we experienced the first time. The diagnosis.  The testing.  The not knowing. And that was before fertility.  I know that I mentioned before that I wouldn’t recap what happened before when we became pregnant with The Boy. But I feel this compulsion to share these snippets of memories. Perhaps its more just to document what happened for me.  For The Boy and his future siblings.  This is our story, in hindsight, and going forward is our history in the making.
This might get graphic....

Friday, August 10, 2012

Sweet Baby Cee

Cee went and turned 12 years old officially.  He did it regardless of the fact that I was not ready for this. (I'm sure his mother is having issues with this too but my pain is greater.  At least here it is.) 

Not only did he turn 12 he also registered for junior high.  OMG. 

I am not ready for him to be taller than me or have his voice crack or have him stop being Baby Cee.  I know that I am mostly not ready for this because it means I'm getting old and I don't feel like I am old.  I feel like I was just 12 years a little bit ago! 

We went to watch him and his friend play paint ball.  Juanito and Cee's Dad played too.  I'm not sure if "play" is the right word or if its "participate in combat"? Nonetheless it was so funny to hang out with these boys who laugh at fart jokes and pick on one another (without crying!).  And when The Boy picked up a paint ball and licked it, turning his tongue blue, I asked Juanito if it was ok.  He informed me that the paint is non-toxic.  Good to know!  I told the boys to go ahead and lick their balls which made a few of them giggle. Only one turned to me and with a straight face said, "I don't think I can."  I like that kid.

So I'm taking my nearly adult Cee shopping so that he can go to junior high looking...what do the kids say anymore?  Sharp?  Fly?  oh my god i am old.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Crouching Juanito, Hidden Mag Lite

Many years ago while camping with some friends it was determined that based on evolutionary standards, my husband is a Hunter. My friend’s husband, then boyfriend, was most definitely a Gatherer. We also determined in our drunken academic state that this is why they worked well together and would be ideal mates in our hunter-gatherer society. We are oh-so scientific when drinking vodka and Yoo-hoo in the middle of the forest.

But this assessment is quite spot-on even when sober. And never more so than in the summer.

When the crickets are out.

And when I say out I don’t mean they’re flying their rainbow flags chirping “We’re Queer and We’re Here!”  I mean they have taken over the damn yard and house. They are EVERYWHERE. (I found one in the kitchen cabinet last night.  And another in the bathroom.  They were both babies. It was hard to kill them.) But its the minuscule sound they make, the chirp chirp chirp, that is sending Juanito over the edge to where he is hunting them in the dark with a flashlight. Oh, and talking to them, because saying “Com’on out little motherfucker, I’m gonna kill you” is like whispered sweet sweet nothings to a cricket. And pounding on the kitchen counter because “there is one under the dishwasher” is like a mating call, right? He's like a whisperer.  We're gonna get a TV show on NatGeo soon.  I can feel it. 

This cricket hunting isn’t a new thing by all means. He does this every summer. A few years ago he and his trusty Mag Lite located one under the base boards in the bed room. There he was with the side of his face smooshed against the wall sitting on the tile floor in his boxers, listening. When he noticed me looking at him with more pity than lust he incredulously says “What? He’s in the wall.”

Its always a male cricket coincidentally. You would think that by the sheer number of them it might suggest a female or two, but Juanito always says “he.”

So recently one of twothings has happened…or maybe both. (1) The infestation has increased. or (2) His hunting skills have sharpened.  He will use whatever he can get a hold of to kill: a shoe, a magazine, a flip flop, a tissue, his own foot (bleecch!!!). There are little smears of death all over the tile floors. The death toll increases everyday.  There are cricket mothers crying and cursing his name. 

The other night after a lovely display of two-year old defiance and subsequent time out, I sat down on the floor with The Boy to discuss the whys of the time out only to find a little cricket leg stuck to the floor. No cricket body. Just a leg. One little brown leg. It was sad. And gross. In his defense, Juanito did mop the entire lower level of the house (which is all tile) so the streaks of death are gone. For now.

Sometimes the hunting is comical. Case in point the other night while sitting on the couch watching the Olympics a cricket of substantial proportions flew, literally flew over the back of the couch and landed on ME. I haven’t flung my body in five different directions in a long time, which but it obviously attracted the questioning eyes of Juanito. I explained to him before he could make too much fun of me that a cricket attacked me. It was his turn to fly over the couch and into a pile of pillows and The Boys’ toys with a crash and a few thuds and definitive “Fucker” indicating that the cricket got away.

Other times the hunting is seriously annoying. When we go to bed at night, if we don’t watch TV we read. Actually I read and he sleeps. I have a hard time shutting it all off and going to sleep (I’m sure you’re surprised). Juanito has given me a step by step process of “How to Turn Your Brain Off” and it doesn’t work. So when I’m reading and he is laying there you would think with the Brain Off thing he wouldn’t notice the chirp chirp chirp but nooooo. He will jolt out of bed without a word and start stalking a cricket that is on the other side of the house. So much for your super cool Jedi mind control at night huh?

Commando Option

So I read this article the other day about how to revamp your closet without shopping. One of the suggestions was to try everything on and if it doesn’t fit you should get rid of it. If I did this I would lose half of my closet.

I have clothes that I can wear on any given day for work and stuff. But then I have the clothes that I wear on days that I feel fat and ugly and they are just like a Mommy-hug that says you’re ok (i.e., my grey and white striped cardigan). Then there are clothes that I think with all my heart someday I will fit into this again. Such as the corduroy jacket I got from Goodwill that I will someday wear. While attending an Ivy League All Girls College. And wearing penny loafers. Or the white pants that I wore maybe twice and my ass looked fantastic coming and going! But perhaps it was the fact that I wasn't wearing underwear with them because I was afraid it would show which made me feel brazen and luscious. Going commando is exciting regardless of what you’re packing.

Perhaps I'll ditch the chonies right now.....

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Balls in the Air

My mind has been overloaded these days. I feel like I’ve been pulled in seventeen different directions to only be turned around to something else. There is no sense of completion or success. And instead of feeling like just another hamster on a wheel (in which I mean like everyone else)I feel overloaded; maxed out and even worse unfocused.  I feel emotionally brittle and mentally fragile.

When I got home last night I fell apart when I found that the speeding ticket I got a few weeks back that I haven’t paid yet because I thought I would pay my mortgage now has my license suspended. I’ve been driving dirty for 3 days! Instead of laughing about it I lost my shit. I cried a little bit in the bathroom, yelled at everyone around me and went off on Juanito about how I’ve got “all these balls in the air.” Even after I calmed down a bit I still wasn’t listening to what Juanito was telling me about the newly painted bathroom. I was looking at him but totally not engaged and paying attention.  This si shit that I yell at him about all.the.time.  I was somewhere else. I was 2300 miles away and three days later and five hours before all at once in my head. A few hours later I had to ask Juanito to retell a story because while he told me I wasn’t listening. Just like I wasn’t listening to the commercials that he asked about.

I tend to harp on the idea of being present as a parent, mentally. You can’t just show up and be a parent. You must in participate with your child, even if it’s just playing with cars. I didn’t do that last night. I was trying to get dinner done and figure out how to get the stupid ticket paid and when we were gonna pay our other bills and how to work the flow of money and about work and the upcoming traveling and the anxiety around the family shit. Needless to say it was not a stellar mommy moment last night. Nor was it a stellar partner moment.

So to Juanito and The Boy….I am sorry I snapped at you. I forgot that when I surrender everything else and invest the energy I expend everywhere else in to this family I get it back three-folds.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Spotted Dick in the Loo

I am currently listening to a book on tape during my work commute. The book takes place in London and surrounding areas and the reading is done by a woman with an English accent. I find myself reading everything, work and leisure, with her voice. I do believe I sound a bit more intelligent in my emails at work, asides from the random “bloody hell”, “wankers” and “rubbish.”

Sadly, if I read my emails with a Deep South access I sound uneducated and, well a little special. Perhaps it’s the word choice…….

Monday, August 6, 2012

Jesus is my CoPilot

So our house is haunted. If not that then family members who have passed on are trying to contact us. Why do I think this you might ask? Well let me tell you why I KNOW this.
Even in Hell there is a volunteer fire department
This fire truck that is my son’s randomly started going off the other day. And when I say going off I mean, it’s sitting on the floor with nothing around it and suddenly it’s all lights and sirens and the Holy Ghost. The first time I heard it Juanito said, “the fire truck went off.” I thought he meant like The Boy was playing with the fire truck and wasn’t supposed to for whatever reason. When I came into the living room I saw it sitting on the floor by the dog door.

“Oh, not The Boy,” was my thought. I then thought one of the dogs went in or out the door and knocked it against the wall pushing the button in the process. A little while later it went off again but this time I was on the couch and saw it plain as day that no one touched it. Juanito...what the eff? Juanito just chuckled. I think he chucked more because I could have scaled the wall and less because he thought the sirens and lights were funny.

So this continued all day, into the night and throughout the night.   And it wasn't occasional it was pretty consistent and then it wasn't.  And then it was.  We moved the thing away from the wall because I was convinced it was due to the electricity in the walls. I started talking to “whoever is fucking around with the fire truck” to push it when I said to prove their existence. (Yes I watch Ghost Hunters a bit too much.) But after I challenged the fire truck I looked over and The Boy is looking at me like I’m the one who is insane for talking to toys. Then Juanito put it away with the other toys and now the little fabric box that holds all the cars glows red and sirens wail from it. I was unpleasantly woken up this morning before my alarm clock because of another siren out in the living room. I'm waiting for Alfie to go ape shit on the toy but even the dogs are nonplussed about the sirens.  Apparently they are used to ghosts.

This is the same toy that The Boy took to bed one night and it started going off in the middle of the night. I swear to God that there is nothing as scary as noises coming through the baby monitor. It could be God himself telling me I won the Power Ball and I would still shit myself. I may or may not have hit Juanito to go up and get that damn fire truck away from The Boy. I did this because I was afraid it would wake him up. Nothing more than that. As far as anyone else is concerned.

Juanito has a friend who died a few years ago who was a firefighter. I talk to him (in my head) when it goes off because then it’s not as scary when its just Corey saying hi. Or at least that's what I tell myself.  Now, Juanito is gonna work nights again this week and that fucking fire truck is sleeping outside.  At the neighbor's house.

Dirty Laundry

So I've been working on this one post for a few days now but I'm not sure that I should post it.  I've read and re-worded it probably five different times.  You see there is shit going on and I've got so much to say about it but I just don't know that its ok.  Is it my place to say these things, even if its in my own self-made world that no one visits?  I think if I'm not willing to show my face or use real names etc do I have any right to air the laundry of others in a secret manner?  Probably no. But I want to sooo badly.  Like a child I wanna tell everyone what a dumb ass mother fucker is doing to his family.  Right this very moment.  But I can't. 

So in the case, I should write about something else. Let me tell you about the haunting in my house. 

Friday, August 3, 2012

Reading is a common denominator

Recently, a friend shared this website with me. She got it from The Everywhereist. It resonated with me mainly because I’m a closet voyeur. This web site is like a little voyeur snack bites. I can click on it as needed to get a little fix. Its like standing in the front of the frig eating chocolate sauce out of the bottle when no one is looking. And the pictures are like a little window into the stinky subways of New York.

Also, I love that these everyday people are reading books. I love books! I love the art of the covers. How the stories are broken up into sections or chapters or whatever. I love that in hard back even the most raunchy elicit romance (or as my Mom called them Prairie Patty Getting in the Pasture) books look like historical novels, without their jackets on. I love books. I have books shelves overflowing, stacks in my closet, stacks by my bed, stacks under my bed. I’ve started stacks for The Boy.

I love the diversity of the people and the books photographed on this site. The sheer number of people reading. Period. And the number of people reading in another language. Oh and don’t get me started on the caliber of what the average person is reading on the subway; Kafka, Steinbeck; Hemingway, Mary Poppins, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Malcolm X and the occasional Nora Roberts. If this sampling of people is real, we are a well-read society. But then that would be like the Gallup Poll and don't me started on the Gallup Poll!

I also love the looks of the people reading. Some are so engrossed in what they are reading you can’t see their faces. Others have these looks on their faces that make me want to know what they are reading. Why do you make such a face girl reading “Ender’s Game,” by Orson Scott Card????

So this begs the question: what are you reading?

Thursday, August 2, 2012

D-O-G to the Dizzle

If Cassidy is our oldest then Alfie is most definitely the middle child of our family, complete with issues and all. After the disappearance of Tuzigut, the Pavlovian cat we had for a short time, we decided that there was an opening in the Pet Department of our house. We were looking to hire a canine this time but we weren’t sure what kind. The guidelines were merely that it must fit through the doggie door, which meant no Great Danes (this time, sorry Juanito). Also it could not be so small that it might a) fit in a purse or b) be mistaken for a ball of some sort. Juanito’s fear was to accidentally punt an animal across a room.

So one day Juanito sends me a picture of this face:

This sweet little face.....
At first glance my heart melted and the theme song to Snoopy played in my head. I don’t know why. I emailed that I wanted him. It was the most definitive decision I’ve ever made. (which is kinda sad since I got married and bought a house, two major decisions that I apparently wasn’t as sure about as I was about a dog.)

Anywho…..that started the process of adopting a rescued animal. I would say that adopting a dog is much like adopting a baby from China but I think that might be a bit of a hyperbole. Needless to say it did involve home visits and background checks, money exchange, and visitations between Cass and Alfie to make sure they were compatible. It did not take years, passports or attorneys to achieve though so its not EXACTLY like adopting from China. But because he was a puppy the rescue had quite a bit of interest in him. They warned that we might not get him because there was so much interest, but we ultimately won! So five years ago this August (I believe) we brought home Alfie.

Alfie is the name he came with. While we might not be over the moon about this name, I think it’s cruel to rename a dog after you adopt them so we never changed it. (No one gets to rename the kid they adopted out of the foster system do they? Really. Do they? Is that ok?) Needless to say he has received many nick names over the years: Alf, Alfredo, Alfarunie, Dingus One or Two, Alfie Baby and most notably Asshole.

You see Alfie lived a life on the lamb for his first year. He was a repeat offender of a nearby county animal control system. To quote City High he’s been “in and out of lock-down” but I’m not sure if his daddy’s been smoking rock now. I'm pretty sure he learned how to make a shiv (had to Google how to spell that which is totally suspect while at work) and how to lay low and get in good with the guards and all the other things you can learn by watching Locked Up on MSNBC.  What I'm saying is that when we got him he had seen some stuff which left him with a rough, crusty exterior.

Can’t you tell?
With my mind on my money and my money on my mind
He went for a while where he would have what we called "night terrors." Back then he would sleep at the foot of our bed which made our bed quite cozy with Juanito, Cass, Alf and me on the queen-size. But if you should toss or turn in the middle of the night and GOD FORBID touch him with your feet he became a Ninja Basset and attacked your feet. Now mind you this wasn’t like he was a cat lying in wait for your foot to suddenly move. This was full on reaction to your fucking foot encroaching on HIS territory and he was gonna fuck a bitch up. When it happened to you, you would bolt awake because 1. The dog is growling his mean loud growl which usually means someone is in the house. 2. THERE IS SOMEONE EATING YOUR LEG! 3. You’re yelling like your leg is being eaten. But then in a blink of an eye you both realize what is going and I swear to God Alfie would spit what remains of your foot out, jump off the bed and hide in the living room. It was traumatic for everyone.

And while I don’t think he attacked our feet out of malice there have been a number of instances that earned him the name Asshole. There was the time he attacked Cass, well there were a couple of those times. There was the time he ran away and I chased him and he attacked me in front of the neighbor’s house and no one came outside to help me. That’s a warm memory. Or the one time I had him in a choke-hold and another time pinned against the kitchen cabinets both over food issues. Those were some lovely bruises I blamed Juanito on when questioned at work.

What I’m saying is he has earned those names. He might even need a little bit of therapy from his hard-knock life. And while I’m afraid to pick him up for fear of losing my face to him much like that lady who was attacked by her pet gorilla, I love him. He is an asshole. He is a grumpy old man.   But he is warm, soft and totally cuddly (on his terms).  I see my worse traits in him and he makes them soft and cuddly. He is the antonym of an anthropomorphic me. Just be careful, he’s grumpy, has teeth and more than likely a melted down tooth brush in his butt.
Sweet Alfie Baby
If you're interested in adopting your own sweet gang-banging basset check out

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Accepting Vendors at the End of this Post.

So I read this article about the surge and consumer power of MommyBloggers.  My first thought was "I want some money.  Or enchiladas."  But then I realized that I only have like two readers so there's no monetizin' these here pages. 

So I've decided that I would shamelessly endorse products here in exchange for samples, desserts of any sort, gift cards to places of my choice (Target, Old Navy, Starbucks, Children's Place, DSW, Visa, etc.) and exotic getaways even if they are a Groupon. 

Thank you.