scoreboard & traffic signal

CRAZY. CRAZY. CRAZY.
That's my husband, Nick. Crazy as a shithouse rat. I should have known, as his whole family is CRAZY. Not just politely crazy, but really fuckin nuts. They all hoard. His sibs who are unmarried (divorced; their spouses fled) are therefore unchecked in their hoarding. Their houses are like those that show up on the news every now and then when the neighbors report offensive odors.
When I met him, there were paths through the rooms with looming piles of old newspapers and broken lamps, some of which were shaped like fruit. He planned to repair them and collect a vast fortune in a garage sale. Where were the alarm bells? I guess I couldn't hear them over the rumbling of my starving student's stomach. Oddly enough, he was attracted to me because I'm neat; or I was prior to sharing an address with him. His crap is like cancer moving through the house.

So our 2 car attached garage (a coveted luxury downtown) is so chock-full of useless garbage we can't fit a car in there. These indispensables include a huge LCD scoreboard (?), a traffic signal-- you never know when one of those will come in handy-- and of course a set of left-handed golf clubs. Let's don't be hatin' on those lefties. These items usurp the expensive sedan which is hence either left out in the elements, or parked in an expensive indoor spot 4 blocks away.

Sometimes when I clean, I dispose of some of these bizarre odds and ends. I have to pay a small bribe to the doorman across the street to use his dumpster, as Nick has previously found his belongings in our ally trash can on his nightly trawl through the trash. He once became apoplectic because he discovered some pajamas (he doesn't wear pajamas) sized medium (he's XXL) from Goldblats (a store that's been closed for about 15 years) in the trash. So that's why I bribe the doorman.

These items clogging our garage are the things that won't fit in the WAREHOUSE that he owns.
The warehouse is a story for another day.

ouch

Sitting/reclining on the couch today because my ass hurts. Apparently the fabulous L5 steroid injection has failed. It's not like I'd be out running today anyway, as the temperature is approaching absolute zero, froze the snot right in my nose when I went out to get the paper. I believe that leaves me with the treatment options of 1. ignoring it and hoping it goes away 2. Heroin; after all, all the cool kids are doin' it.

So I'm breakin the law and skipping church. Nick took the kids so it's just me and the puppy. I could drown him in the toilet and nobody would be any the wiser. Why is it that the dog has chosen me? He sticks to me like a barnacle. I guess he's got me pegged as the being in control of the food.

Ten days to submit cases for boards. After a long chat with my board certified girlfriend, RL, we decided that we should have saved ourselves the aggravation, giant student loan debt, the premature crows feet secondary to late nights of studying, and maybe opted to open a fruit stand or a bead store. Oh well. too late now.

This morning I had a valuable mother daughter moment with H., when I demonstrated how to hawk a luggie. I'm sure she'll treasure to moment in her memory forever, as will I.

treatise on marriage

I'm still basically confounded by the workings of my fabulous & gleaming iPhone. I still can't figure out the iPod function, as I'm sure that the microphone was on when I had the headphones on, possibly treating my neighbors on the bus to bits of the Big Gay Romance that I accidentally purchased on Audible. I don't think the dirty parts were playing, but still. yeesh.
Last night I had a vivid dream that I was lunching with President Gerald Ford at the Wilderness resort in Wisconsin Dells; this while in the real world the little fuckin dog chewed up my coach wallet. If he gets the Prada bag or Chester (the mink) I'll squeeze the little bastard til his eyes bleed. mmkay?

So my conclusion on marriage is that you CAN live with someone that you don't like that much.
Things to pass on to my daughter:
1. don't marry anyone who has hit you, squeezed you leaving bruises or bounced you off walls. This cannot be overcome.
2. Do not marry a chronic philanderer. It turns you against all women, as you have to worry about your mate trying to poke them, even if they are older, fatter or really ugly. Some men will fuck anyone that is not his sister or mother, which leaves only your in-laws for female companionship.
3. Once you have had children the deal is sealed. Unless he's breaking the law or breaking lamps over you head you have to stay with him.

This is the conclusion that I have reached after 2 children, almost a decade of connubial bliss, and one divorce filing which cost as much as a trip to Paris.

I don't care what anyone says, divorce fucks the kids up, and once you have them, you must put their interest first even if you hate the hairy ball scratching slob that they so fondly call daddy.

When in doubt, reread the last paragraph 100 times and then have a nice cup of tea.

Love, Patience, Threats and Bribes

All you really need to know about parenting. The threats and bribes are actually the most practical applications, however you need the love & patience to avoid adding violence to the list.

The good parts of the day: 1. Nick is gone
2. Monk Marathon
3. Because of #1 I can enjoy #2.

The bad parts: 1. There's a fuckin dog in the house
2. I really screwed up the phones. Herein lies the story. I got an iPhone due to the fact that I am eminently cool (couldn't use it to save my sorry life, but looks good). So, last night I'm activating the phone, which seemed to go well until I discovered that I had entered Nick's number instead of mine. Now everything is one large snafu, all secondary to one erroneous keystroke. Of course my error was met with the sweet and kind understanding one could expect if the error was, like, accidentally launching a nukyler (per GWB) bomb, or maybe putting the baby in the blender instead of the bathtub.
So tomorrow, on my day off that I usually spend in a caffeine fueled domestic frenzy of laundry, grocery shopping and cooking for the week, I will instead be visiting cell phone stores and dealing with the truculent employees of such. They will be totally unsympathetic to my plight; even if I explain that my husband is a crazy asshole who would strangle me and throw me in a dumpster except that would mean he'd have to do his own laundry.

So that means I'll have to defer the domestic bullshit to Thursday, when I was planning to get my awful hair fixed. I'm soo blond I practically glow; all this after telling the overpriced colorist to tone it down. So even though I didn't think it was possible, she made it even lighter. When I commented to this effect, she clanged her many bracelets and put her impressive cleavage in my face as she combed through my alarming hair and explained that she had "changed my gold to vanilla". So it's all bad, but I really think a jury would see my side of things.

Loathsome fucker

So I came home today to find we have a little dog in the hose. Do I need another baby???
I've only just gotten out of the excrement-cleaning stage with the kids. Damn. Hayden wants to call it Gryffindor, of course. It's a stupid little poodle. Nicholas wants to call him Spot but he can't pronounce "s" so he sounds like he's calling him bot. Also, the dog has no spots. I'd like to kick him and call him Fucker, but then my kids won't like me anymore.

Holy shit, another day at the office, drinking stale coffee and listening to 70's disco music so the gals remember back to the day that they were gettin' their freak on.  

I'd rather eat draino than take Lyrica.  I can stand the pain better than the side effects of that shitty drug. 

N. whipped out his little wanker last night at dinner. He did a little dance, then returned to his tater tot casserole as if nothing was out of order.  So I told him to keep his little noodle in his pants and rendered many grave threats which were totally ignored. 

H. now drags this little halogen lamp with her wherever she goes because it has an ipod dock.  She is obsessed with Harry Potter and listens to the audiobooks on her lamp whenever possible.  The fucking light doesn't even work.  She has also started referring to her large bowel movements as Draco's and small ones as Crable and  Goyle.  Who knows, maybe she'll get a scholarship for Harry Potter trivia. 

the new year

Oh the scintillating excitement of new kitchen gadgets. I am ushering in the new year by using my immersion blender; I'm just barely containing my roiling emotions. As well as a blender, you see, it also has a power whisk.

Also, for this year I have made the radical change of purchasing the New York Times Almanac instead of The Word Almanac, talk about personal growth.

I'm still trying to decide if I like my new fat ass or not. The love handles must go, but filling in the caboose is not all bad. The problem is my clothes don't fit properly and I look a little trashy. I suppose that I've been consoling myself over my inability to run with great shitloads of chocolate is the main contributing factor to my new voluptuous, almost size 4 self.

Stay tuned for the story of the play date/interrogation.