Guess who's back? Back again?

Because I'm basically the white-girl equivalent of LL Cool J, I'd just like to say: DON'T CALL IT A COMEBACK, I'VE BEEN HERE FOR YEARS.

"Here" may be a bit misleading, as I don't sit still very often.  But in regards to the blog, I have over one hundred unpublished, mostly finished drafts, I just.....didn't post them.  I think sometimes it's because I often use this space like a journal.  I use it to remember the weird stuff, the funny stuff, and sort of mentally kick around the sad or hard or confusing stuff.  My blog is a smorgasbord of bullshit from my life.  

So.  Here I am.  With my smorgasbord of bullshit, ready to try to post again.

Today we're going to talk about mice.  

One of my favorite parts of my house is my screened in porch.  It has a beautiful stone fireplace, a porch swing, an outdoor recliner, and LOTS of plants and flowers because I am a crazy plant lady who can't leave her house without coming home with some kind of new yard/porch flora.  (I'm actually writing this on the porch right now, and from this vantage point, I have an herb garden, two gardenias, a hydrangea, a Mandeville with a trellis, several geraniums, purslane, a bunch of petunias, several pots of lavender, a vegetable garden, a bunch of trees, and some other shit that is green and has leaves but I don't know what it is because I bought it half-dead off the clearance rack at Home Depot and nursed it back to health because PLANTS DESERVE TO LIVE TOO, HOME DEPOT.) 

I digress.

So I realized one night as I was sitting on my porch (probably tipsy) that I had mice.  Fortunately, they are definitely mice and not rats, as they are little and cute, which led me to name all of them which is mildly difficult because it's hard to tell mice apart, especially when they just streak by you really quickly in semi-darkness after you've consumed three-quarters of a bottle of Chardonnay.  But I did it anyway because it was fun and because MICE DESERVE NAMES TOO.  I would sit in my chair with the string lights on and watch them run from behind the fireplace to behind the half-barrel with the herb garden in it, to behind the giant pot of purslane, then behind me to behind one of the random plants, and disappear through a teeny tiny separation of the screen out into the yard to PROBABLY eat the birdseed that falls on the ground from one of the zillion bird feeders I have because I've realized that, as you get old, you genuinely DO enjoy watching birds and although it's something I've made fun of in the past now I sit and drink coffee in the mornings and wonder when my pair of cardinals is going to show up and then I'm like, "Goddamnit, I've turned into a fucking senior citizen!" so then I go put on a push up bra and some glitter eye shadow and make the kids tell me I'm pretty.  

I'm digressing again.

Mice.  Anyway.  I realized that we have a doggie door and the mice run right by it and they seemed to be getting braver (they started streaking by me in BROAD DAY LIGHT and stopping for a sec to look at me like, "Come at me, bro" and it freaked me out even though they are so cute and tiny and I just want to pet them) so I started to worry that they would INFILTRATE MY HOUSE which would not be cool because we already have a possible demon, definitely a few unrested spirits, two teenagers, four rambunctious dogs, and occasionally a lizard-- I DO NOT NEED MICE.  I asked Blaker a few times to "handle it," but he didn't, probably because he's kind of ADD and also he's always busy, so I realized that this mice issue was something I would have to handle on my own.  Naturally, I did what I always do, which is:  1) TONS of internet research; 2) Take notes on said research; 3) Wake up suddenly feeling like this is a time-sensitive, emergency problem and freak out, then go to Home Depot (without my notes) and spend 2 hours there re-Googling mouse control because I have forgotten everything I had written down.  All this would have been fine, but we all know I AM A MAGNET FOR WEIRDOS.  And, of course, this was no exception.

When I first got to Home Depot, I found the mouse control section and had been staring at the options for a bit when LADY #1 of the Home Depot staff came by and asked if I needed help.  I explained that I had mice on the porch that I didn't want inside, but I also had 4 dogs (another blog about that later) so I couldn't put out anything that might hurt the dogs.  So this lady, with her swagger and her 90s bangs (not judging, I think the 90s was the best decade ever and wish it would make an honest and true comeback) picked out a product for me and told me with 100% confidence that THIS WAS WHAT I NEEDED.  It was a bait trap.  I mentioned that I was trying to stay away from bait traps because I didn't want the mice to eat the poison, crawl into the fireplace and die and smell terrible (shoutout to Matt Wagaman for alerting me to the likelihood of this).  She looked at me like I was stupid and assured me that NO, THIS WAS NOT A BAIT TRAP, IT WAS A MOUSE TRAP.  THIS WAS WHAT I NEEDED.

When she walked away, I Googled said item.  She was an idiot.  This was a bait trap.  It said so on the package, and Google confirmed.

Stressed, I went and looked at the garden center spoilage for a bit to calm myself down, loaded up my cart with about six plants I didn't need as a method of self-soothing, then returned to the mouse control section (at this point, I've been here for over an hour).  LADY #2 of the Home Depot Staff then approached me and asked if I needed help.  Now, I'd like to mention that this lady looked WAY more legit.  She was wearing overalls and was older, and had this aura about her where you JUST KNOW that at many points in her life she had wrung the necks of chickens and probably milked some goats, possibly at the same time.  When I explained the issue to her, she gave me regular mouse traps-- the snappy kind.  I told her that I didn't want to HURT the mice, I just wanted them to go away.  She pointed out that we were in the pest control section and mice were pests and NEEDED TO DIE, at which point I told her I was a BuddHinduChrist who believed in kindness and karma and non-murdery things.  She rolled her eyes and sighed, and said, "Well, you don't want the glue traps, because those critters will literally chew their own leg off to get loose from them and I don't think you're ready to see that."  Then she handed me this funny black boxy thing, which was apparently a humane trap that would lure the mice in, but not let them back out until I slid the lid off for them.  I asked her if there was a special place where I should release the mice I caught, like a local mouse utopia or something, or maybe a mouse rescue somewhere, and she rolled her eyes again and told me no, just throw the box away after I catch a few, which obviously defeats the purpose of not getting the snappy kind, because they are still going to die except it will be a prolonged, painful death of wasting away in the trashcan. However, I didn't mention this because I was slightly frightened of HD Lady #2 and her hardass ways, so I just nodded and she left.   

There had been an older gentleman standing near us listening to the conversation, and after #2 left, he kind of chuckled at me and said, "Ya got a mouse problem, huh?  Me, I got a snake problem," and held up a gigantic container of something horrifying called Snake Away that had a big, scary photo of a snake on the front, rearing up to literally fang and venom somebody's ass.  I told him THANK GOD my problem was mice and not snakes because I was not afraid of mice but snakes gave me PTSD every fucking time I saw one and that I WOULD JUST DIE if I had a snake problem, and then the snakes would crawl over my dead body and take over my home and Hollywood would make a sequel to Snakes on a Plane called Snakes on the Porch, starring my snake-gnawed-on-corpse.  (I may have gone into way too much detail describing this to him, but I get Snake Mania and can't help it.)  He kind of stared at me, shifted the chewing tobacco around in his mouth, and said, "Well, honey.   You know if you don't get that mice problem under control, you're gonna have a snake problem, right?"

No.  No.  Fuck no.  

I don't spend much time reviewing the food chain, so it's been a while, but SHIT SHIT SHIT he's right, snakes eat mice.  So I did the obvious thing here.  I sat down on the cold Home Depot floor and STARTED TO CRY.  Not just cry--straight up gasping-for-breath-SOB, which really upset the old guy who had basically just set me back twenty years in my snake-phobia therapy. He started asking me to please not cry and saying that he'll give me his number and if I see a snake I can call him and he'll come catch it for me because he's not afraid of them, but when he sees I'm a lost cause he just grabbed his Snake Away and fled the scene.

By now, I'm emotionally exhausted.  I grab two of the no-kill boxy traps, and, in my desperation, a pack of snappy traps and go straight to the checkout (I was in such a fog that I literally bought about 10 plants that I had to return the next day because I had nowhere to plant them).  On my way home, I called my Mom to calm me down and she immediately told me to use the snappy traps, it'd be fine.  So when I got home I baited two catch-and-release traps and one snappy trap (only one because I snapped my finger twice and it hurt like a motherfucker and pissed me off and so I gave up after one) and put them out on the porch.  Approximately ten minutes later, I heard a loud SNAP that scared the shit out of me until I realized what it was, so I ran out and saw that I HAD CAUGHT A LIZARD.

I hadn't considered that we have nine million lizards and maybe they like peanut butter? Maybe they would get in the snappy trap?  But it did, and of course, I freaked the fuck out and started screaming for Blaker or Sutton to come quick because I WAS HAVING A REPTILE EMERGENCY AND NEEDED ASSISTANCE STAT STAT!  I ran inside to see if we had a drinking straw in case I needed to use it for lizard intubation or mouth-to-mouth, while B rushed out, managed to figure out (through my hysterical crying and gesturing) what was going on, and raised the bar on the trap.  I made it back outside with my lizard crash cart just in time to see the lizard leap out and run off, just with a very crooked tail now, which was fantastic because the reason I was having a complete nervous breakdown was because I thought he was dead.

It's five o'clock now, and I'm barely holding myself together by a very frayed thread.  I also didn't realize that Blaker reset the trap.  In my head, since I had caught myself twice, then a lizard, I should probably just quit it with the snappy traps because the Universe was saying, "NO, BITCH."  But he did, and the next morning I came out to see that I had caught Elon Mousk in the gentle, karma-friendly trap, and Mouselania Trump in the snappy trap, with her head half snapped off.  

Of course I started freaking the fuck out again.  

Blaker took Mouselania and disposed of her (I would have given her a good Christian burial except I was still in hysterics) and then we sat and talked about how sad it made us when we killed things, even bugs, except not snakes for me but even them apparently for him unless they were poisonous.  We threw the rest of the snappy traps out and I smudged the screened-in porch with white sage to clear out any negative energy (mouse or otherwise) and since then I have only used the NICE traps and have now humanely relocated Elon Mousk, Dougie Mouser, MD, and Mousetini, who Bell got to name because I was feeling extra nice that day.  I have also begun filming the mouse relocations and have started developing a TikTok following of people who I guess really like mice or really hate murder.  As best I can tell, things are pretty under control on the porch and so, except for the penance and horrors that will befall me regarding the untimely death of Mouselania, everything is copacetic.  

 

Toast is weird. So is everything else.

I haven't blogged in a long time.  Mostly the reason for this is because I am a grown up with lots of grown up things to do.  I Work.  I Wife.  I have two kids that I Mom.  I have two dogs that I Dog Mom.  I Embroider (more on that later--like, another blog later).  I Cook important things out of important recipe books like ones written by Chrissy Teigen.  I try to Grow Orchids and I Read Lots of Books.  I Go To The Gym a lot.  Those things feel like they deserve more time and energy than blogging, although blogging still makes me laugh and is a bit of a catharsis. 

Also, at this second, blogging is physical therapy because I had bilateral carpal tunnel release on Friday and my wonderful surgeon who did a fucking fantastic job (all hail Dr. Rectenwald!) told me that the more I use my hands the less likely I am to need real physical therapy.  I took this to heart, and when I got home from surgery at 11:30am I ate a banana (I was starving-- that whole "no food before surgery" rule), then I worked out.  In the 48 hours since the surgery was performed, I have cleaned, embroidered, worked out three times, taken multiple showers (this doesn't sound like an accomplishment, but if you have ever tried to wash your hair and shave your legs after your hands have both been slit open and stitched up, you will understand that it truly is), typed up all my notes for the semester, ironed all of B's work shirts, and texted my Mom who is currently in Australia (I think).  I did take one pain pill of the 25 I was given, but I really only took it to see what would happen (I felt really warm and sleepy, and my hands felt much better) but I doubt I will take any more because I DO NOT LIKE TO BE SLEEPY and it kinda knocked me out.  I've taken Advil twice. 

So, to the blogging.

Looking back and seeing that I haven't blogged since November is a little alarming just because weird things happen to me every day and I used to write about all of those but now there is a stockpile and I don't know what to write about.  I locked myself outside, naked, back in the Fall.  I almost got run over one day when a Chevy Traverse that I crawled under to retrieve a bottle of water decided to back out of a parking spot.  I got in an actual fight with a Frenchman who had a Ph.D. in Computer Science.  Sutt got sick and I had to take him to class with me and my gangsta college students decided to "give him pimp lessons."  I accidentally clocked my son in the face during a self defense class two days after he had gotten braces and busted his mouth open and it was all documented on the Self-Defense School's website.  I got drunk at a Tiki Bar in Alphabet City when B and I were in NYC while supporting a "Mid Life Crisis Death Metal Band" (the band's description, not mine) and ended up crying on a doorstep in the rain across from the apartment where Heath Ledger died while B photographed me and told me to pull my shit together. 

The world is weird y'all.  At least for me.  You need to hear the stories.  Let's start with the naked story, because it's the oldest one that I really remember.

So.

I had just showered and knew I needed to change out the canula and tubing for my insulin pump.  I was home alone and knew it would be easier to do all of this without clothes in the way, so I headed downstairs without a stitch to put the new tubes into my abdomen before I got dressed and out of the door.  Now, let's establish a few things first:
1.  I am an avid watcher of all murder shows, horror movies, crime documentaries, and all things having to do with cold cases or unsolved alien abductions that may or may not involve a yeti and a poltergeist.  Therefore, I keep the doors locked at all times.  It's a running joke in the family that if the kids or B go outside to water the plants or check the mail, they better damn sure have their house key with them because in the 4.7 seconds they are outside, my Spidey senses will kick in and I will come behind them and lock the door.  Not locking them out on purpose, just keeping out the serial killers.  IT ONLY MAKES SENSE, YOU GUYS. 
2.  I do not like the neighbors to see me naked.  This really requires no explanation.
3.  Karma is a bitch (see #1)

Anyway, I went down and put in my new tubes and fresh insulin and got everything diabetes-wise rolling along.  Then I thought, "You know what would be nice right now, while I put on my makeup and blow dry my hair?  La Croix."  The La Croix (coconut or grapefruit, please) was in the garage, so I slipped into the garage to grab one before I headed upstairs.  Only, I didn't realize until I tried to come back into the kitchen that I had locked the door into the garage on my way out, thus locking myself in the garage.  Naked.  In the dark.

Well, shit.

The time was about 8:30am.  I didn't have my phone with me, but I had just looked at the clock.  I realized my options were the following (still love me a list):
1.  See if my car is unlocked.  If so, use the garage door opener to open the door to the front-facing driveway.   Walk out the front (naked), around the side (still naked), into the back yard (yep), and onto the porch, find the key that Sutt had put somewhere on the rock fireplace, and let myself into the kitchen.
2.  Sit naked in the garage until Bell got home.  At 3:20pm.  Still in the dark because I don't know where the garage light switch in the garage is (I only know where the corresponding switch is in the kitchen). 

Those were not good choices.

(Also, I didn't even remember that there is a button in the garage that opens the door that I could have pushed if my car was locked.  Yay, me.)

After a few moments of thought, I tried my car door and hit the garage door button.  The big door opened.  Light!  I looked around-- maybe there was a tarp or something that I could toga myself up in before I took off out the door.  Sadly, there wasn't (well, there was, I just didn't know where to look).  But there was some clothes of Belly's that were out waiting to be taken to Goodwill.  She had outgrown them when she was ten.  DO YOU KNOW WHAT TEN-YEAR-OLD CLOTHES LOOK LIKE ON A 40-YEAR OLD WOMAN? 

It wasn't good, you guys.

After I shimmied my way into pink leggings and a striped sweater that were all a child's size 8, I took off across the lawn.  I made it through the gate and onto the porch, then contemplated the likelihood of getting stuck in the doggie door if I tried to go that route.  (Very likely, as we have 10 lb dogs.)  I searched and searched for the key, and after fifteen minutes or so, I found it.  After much wrangling, I got inside (we desperately needed to lube the lock with some WD-40).  By then I was sweating, swearing, and losing blood flow due to the very small, very snug clothes with unicorns on them.

Bottom line is, I got inside.  And I got dressed.  And I would apologize to any of my neighbors who possibly had to witness any of that, but honestly, it was probably a good enough laugh that it was worth it. 

So, you're welcome.

Have a lovely Sunday, y'all.

The Thanksgiving Blog

Back when I wrote Starrtrippin', I used to write a blog every Thanksgiving where I listed the things I was thankful for.  Not, like, the obvious stuff-- kids, marriage, blah blah blah, but the important stuff, like tank tops with built-in bras.  Then I kinda quit writing it.  Then I kinda quit writing, period.  But I have something to say this Thanksgiving.

This Thanksgiving marks ten years since I last had a Thanksgiving with my Dad.  That is pretty difficult for me to wrap my head around.  Time has passed so quickly, but also so slowly.  At my Dad's last Thanksgiving, I had known for about twelve hours that he was NOT going to get better, and that my time with him was ticking, ticking.  At my Dad's last Thanksgiving, he could eat nothing we cooked, because the tumor in his throat kept him in too much pain to swallow.  At my Dad's last Thanksgiving, we all tried really hard, but in the end the only way I could get through the day was to drink my fucking body weight in vodka.

So I did.  He didn't know.  He wasn't really lucid anymore.

Thanksgiving has always been hard since then.  For about five years, every Thanksgiving I would email the oncologist at Vanderbilt who called me the night before the holiday and told me, very coldly and clinically, that my Dad was going to die soon.  I would tell him in my email how much I hurt, and what a dick he was for having such a shitty bedside manner.  After a while, he and I got to know each other a little bit and I learned that, while his bedside manner truly was shitty, he really was sorry there was nothing he could do.  I learned that his Dad was dying of cancer as well, and passed the October after my Dad died.  Human connection eased the sting a bit.  We still email from time to time.

Today, after these ten long years, B and I were driving down Riverwatch Parkway and I saw three different churches that had signs up about "Remember to thank God this Thanksgiving" and "Thank you, God" sermons, and it pissed me the fuck off.  You know why?  Because I don't even go to church.  I do not much care for organized religion.  But I still thank God for the things I am grateful for every fucking day.  In the morning, I pray.  At night, I pray.  Oftentimes, in the middle of the day, I pray.  When I'm in the sauna at the gym, that's what I'm doing while I lie there, I'm praying.  If I'm in line somewhere, I'm often praying.  And when I pray, I don't ask for anything.  All I do is thank God, whoever or whatever he is, that I have my children and my husband and we're healthy and we have what we need and that I'm so so so so so fucking lucky every minute.  Because I know I am.  Even if my Dad is gone.  Even if things suck sometimes.  Even Even Even.  It doesn't matter, I'm fucking lucky.

I don't NEED a sign.  I don't NEED a reminder.  I don't NEED a fucking holiday to take a break and remember to be thankful.  And I hope you don't either.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I Hear There Are No Snakes In Maine

I hate snakes.

Not in the way that I hate other things, like Starburst candy, or clothes that got left in the dryer and wrinkled, or my ex-husband.

There is nothing I hate the way I hate snakes.  I even hate the word "snake."  I get nauseous every time I hear it.  There are no words to describe the level of my snake hatred-- Indiana Jones would have cuddled in a cage with cobras compared to me.  When I'm super stressed out (which is about 93% of the time because I'm genetically pre-disposed to stress) I have nightmares on loop about snakes.  Big snakes.  Small snakes.  ALL THE SNAKES.

In June of 2008, when we moved into our home in Suffolk, Virginia, I looked up from the living room where I was unpacking a box and talking on the phone to my Mom and there was a snake crawling through my kitchen.  I guess it had sneaked in when the movers had the door propped open all day to bring in furniture.  I nearly had a heart attack.  B killed the snake.

Two years later, I answered my phone to a friend yelling, "Don't open your front door!"  Turns out, she was coming to visit and there was a big old snake curled up on the metal door stoop.  I called a neighbor guy, who refused to help (fellow Ophidiophobian, apparently).  So I called B at work, and he came home and killed the snake.

Fast forward to today. 

We have lived in Georgia since December of 2014.  Although some pre-move-to-GA Internet research led me to believe that we were possibly moving to one of the Snake Capitals of the USA, I was pleasantly surprised to find that in 3 1/2 years, I have not seen a single living snake.  I've seen squished dead snakes in the road when I go running.  But I've never seen any alive snakes, and particularly never any alive snakes in my yard.  After so many near-death snake experiences in Virginia, I have seen the lack of snake-sitings as a very positive attribute of Georgia.

Well.  Turns out my fucking no-snake winning streak is over.

Tonight, B and I were sitting on the screened-in porch talking when the dogs started freaking out in the backyard, about thirty feet away from us.  Because it has been raining nonstop for two weeks, the grass had gotten about ankle high, but we could see that there was something brown-ish that they were barking at.  There are lots of turtles around here, and I just figured it was a big turtle that had found its way through the fence somehow.

It was not a turtle.  It was a big fucking snake.  One of those extra-creepy, thick, potentially-poisonous motherfuckers.

Chaos ensued.

I wanted to shoot the snake with my .38.  Once I started waving it around and cursing, B expressed that he felt that this was a bad plan, and made me get a shovel instead. (Hey neighbors-- if you ever hear a gunshot from my house, it's because I found another snake and B wasn't home because I will shoot that motherfucker in a heartbeat.)  I felt like the shovel was a bad plan, so I got the shovel AND the pick-axe, AND a double martini.

While I drank on the porch and shouted encouragement, B went toe-to-toe with the snake, who at one point reared up and tried to eat him alive.  I was on the porch screaming.  Bells was in the kitchen, looking out the window, screaming.  Sutton was screaming at us, wanting to know why we were screaming.  The dogs were running in circles and barking at all of us.  Welcome to my family.  

Eventually, B was able to kill the snake, although I'm pretty sure it took a lot longer and a lot more effort than it would have taken me with the gun.  Bells and I refuse to go outside now, because we're afraid we'll see another snake.  I've been having snake nightmares for days, and apparently last night Bells had one too.

Guess it's time to move again.  Anybody know anything about Maine?

A Little Bit Country, A Little Bit Crazy

*Originally posted on Starrtrippin in 2015, but applicable because my dogs have a vet appointment tomorrow :)*

Recently, I had an appointment in a quaint little town called Edgefield, in South Carolina.  The only way to get there from my house was through a series of two-lane county back roads, which made for a scenic drive, despite being a bit longer than I had hoped since I had to spend half my time dodging tractors and riding behind pickup trucks with no license plates going fifteen miles an hour.  However, it was a pretty day, and I was in no real hurry, so I cranked up Missy Elliott and rolled to SC.  I was feeling pretty zen, and all was well.

Until I got lost.

This is the part where I need to make something clear-- I am GREAT with maps.  I grew up watching my Dad map out a careful course for every drive we ever took, and when I turned sixteen and got my first car, Daddy gave me my own, beautiful, brand-new Rand McNally so I would NEVER BE LOST.  And you know what?  I never was.  Until GPS came along.  I can't use a GPS to save my life.  It's always on my phone, and I've been through numerous phones since they started having GPS on them and I've never found one I was remotely able to use.  I just can't follow the directions.  Or I accidentally zoom in somewhere on the screen that is completely unrelated to where I'm going and I can't figure out how to zoom back out.  Or a call or text comes in and I lose the whole thing completely while I'm driving and freak out.  I've been known to pull over and call B and curse him up one side and down the other for texting me when I'm trying to drive somewhere while using my GPS.  And I don't want it to talk to me because I'M NOT AN AUDITORY LEARNER and I get all anxious and stressed and distracted by the robot voice.  It sucks, but that's how it is.  I'M TECHNOLOGICALLY STUNTED, PEOPLE.  I'VE DISCUSSED THIS WITH YOU BEFORE.  Gmail baffles me (I lose conversations ALL THE TIME because of how it groups them), I have no idea how to photo edit anything, and I only recently learned what the hell a hashtag was, at which point I promptly invented two of my own, used them three or four times, got bored, and forgot about them.  What can I say?  I was born in the wrong century.  I blame God.  But, anyway.

Pulling into a parking spot in the lovely little town square, I looked at my GPS (why, oh, why did I bother?), realized I had no idea what the hell it was trying to tell me, and called the vet's office where I had the appointment.  I was already a couple of minutes late, but everything moves slower in the South, so I figured it was fine (even though I despise lateness and usually pride myself on being, if anything, early).  A very, very sweet young lady answered the phone, and reassured me that I was close by.  The following is our conversation, nearly word for word.

ME:  Hi!  This is Haley McPhail, I was supposed to drop my dog off at 8:30, but look, I've gotten a little lost.....

VETERINARY ASSISTANT (to be referred to, from here on out, as VA):  Oh!  No problem.  Where are you at now?

ME:  I think I'm in the town square or something?  It's a giant roundabout with a garden in the middle.  Really pretty.

VA:  Okay.  You are SO CLOSE.  This is what you need to do.  What are you looking at RIGHT NOW?

ME:  (looking up)  A brick building that says "Whiskey" on the front.

VA:  OKAY.  Now, you need to go around and look for the turkey wearing overalls.  Make sure it's not the turkey with the moustache, but the one in overalls.  If you turn at the turkey with the moustache you're gonna go the wrong way.  Then you're going to look for the ice cream sign and turn by some men at some black tables.  You'll go on down the road a ways and you'll know you're going the right way when you pass the church don't nobody go to no more.  Then you'll see a yellow house and we're right past there!  We'll see you soon!

CLICK.  (She hangs up.)

Um.  WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?

As I mentioned earlier, I was feeling fairly zen that day, which was a good thing since THOSE WERE THE CRAZIEST DAMN DIRECTIONS I HAD EVER HEARD IN MY LIFE.  I wasn't all that concerned about the turkeys because I figured if I saw a turkey in overalls or a moustache, surely I would notice it.  SURELY.  But the church?  How was I supposed to know what church "don't nobody go to no more"?  Was this ice cream sign a billboard?  THERE ARE LOTS OF YELLOW HOUSES IN THE WORLD.  Holy hell.  But I didn't have any other options since I'm GPS handicapped, so I got back into my car and started following directions.

1.  My start point.  At the time, I was parked right in front of the white columns, so I had not gotten far enough down the street to see the turkey in overalls that  is in the right corner of the photo.  Yes.  THE TURKEY IN OVERALLS.

2.  THIS turkey in overalls.

Not to be confused with the turkey with the moustache that was on the OPPOSITE street corner.

3.  Also opposite the ice cream sign, although when I took the photos, the men were no longer at the black tables.  By the way, you can see ANOTHER turkey back there.  This one is called "the barbecue turkey."  I know this, because I went inside and asked.

4.  Then you have the "church don't nobody go to no more" or, as we non-Edgefield folks call it, Edgefield Presbyterian Church.  I only figured out that this was the abandoned church because I found a man walking down the sidewalk, rolled down my window, pointed to it and asked.  I do not know why no one goes there anymore (I did NOT ask THAT).  I suspect it could be because in the South, we are Baptists, damn it, and we all know everybody who is NOT a Baptist is going to burn in hell, so we might as well run all those sinning Presbyterians out of town.  I mean, GOD ONLY KNOWS WHAT THOSE PRESBYTERIANS ARE UP TO.

5.  Then there was the yellow house, that really had more white than yellow on it and was mostly obscured by trees.  I actually went back AFTER I found the vet, looking for the yellow house.

Needless to say, I found the vet.  Eventually.  And they were super nice about me being late, and all was well.  And it was a nice reminder of where I came from, as directions in my hometown (and most country towns, I suspect) were given similarly when I was young (although it was more along the lines of "turn at the red light by the Bi-Lo" rather than "turn by the turkey in the overalls").  In Suffolk, or Richmond, or RDU, people don't give directions that way.  They use street names (like freakin' normal people), which is how I give directions now too, after being out of "the south" for the past sixteen years.  But now things are different.  Maybe some deep South will rub off on me.  Let's hope so, or I may never be able to get where I'm trying so hard to go.

Jagged Little Pills

Those close to me (all, like, five of them, one of which is my dog) know that, depending on the kind of person you are, you should either NEVER accept medication from me, or ALWAYS come to me when you have a medical problem.

If you are a focused soul, who values his or her time and clearheaded-ness, I would steer clear of me should we ever be out together and you find yourself with a headache.  If you don't have anything better to do and want to play medication Russian Roulette with your afternoon, I'm your girl.  The reason for this is simple-- I carry small handbags.  I have a variety of ailments (not all at the same time, generally).  I don't have room to carry lots of bottles.  So I dump everything in together and hope for the best.  I'm just speaking my truth, you guys.

Recently, I was at the mall with Bells who complained that she wasn't feeling well and asked me if I had any Advil.  This is how that went:

Me:  (Digging around in my purse and unearthing a white bottle marked "Chewable Aspirin."  Expiration date 2007.)  YEP.  Found it. (Hands it to Bells.)

Bells:  Um, Mom?  That says "Chewable Aspirin."  I need Advil. 

Me:  Oh, it's not aspirin.  I think that bottle was leftover from when the dog was sick and I gave it baby aspirin, then dumped it all out later when I needed the bottle.  There's Advil in there.  That's just the bottle I threw everything in.

Bells:  Everything?  What is everything?  WHAT IS IN HERE, MOM?

Me:  (Popping off the lid and pouring it out in my hand.)  Hmmm....hard to say, but it looks like Xanax, a different strength of Xanax, Excedrin Migraine, Allegra, a prenatal Vitamin....

Bells:  Why do you have a prenatal vitamin?  AND WHERE IS THE ADVIL?

Me:  Because it makes my hair grow faster.  Ativan, more different Ativan that's peach instead of white, Dramamine, Pepto Bismol, a button....

Bells:  A BUTTON?  Like, a drug called that, or like, a button?

Me:  No, it's a button.  I think it fell off my sweater a long time ago and I put it here for safekeeping.  This one COULD be Ambien or it COULD be Adderall-- guess I won't know until I can't sleep and try taking it.

Bells:  What if it's not Ambien?

Me:  Eh, whatever.  Sleep or alphabetize all my bookshelves, either way is a win.

Bells:  MOTHER.

Me:  Oh, yeah.  Here's some Advil.  (Blowing them off because they are covered in random medication dust.)

Bells:  (Disgusted.)  That's okay.  I'd rather not.

Me:  Really?  What's the problem?  It clearly says Advil on them.  Look.

Bells:  (Still disgusted and now glaring.)  Who knows what else got on them in your creepy old bottle, Mother?  WHY CAN'T YOU BE NORMAL?

*For the record, I would never give my child a random pill, for all you fools who are judging me right now.  I did, in fact, have clearly marked Advil.*

I've never been afraid to take a pill.  Well, at least a pill that was my own.  I know that there are a lot of people out there who don't like to take medicine even when they need it (I married one of those people) but I am just not that person.  If I overdo it at the gym and root around in the medicine cabinet and find a crumpled baggie with what might be a muscle relaxer or might be a rogue Ecstasy tablet leftover from an ill-fated rave in 1996, I'M GOING TO TAKE IT JUST TO SEE.  So what if we have Scouts tonight and my grades are due and I have a meeting with the guidance counselor tomorrow morning?  I also have a backache.  YOLO, bitches.  It's not on purpose--I'm just not medicinally organized.

Before any of you medical professionals out there start lecturing me on taking random meds, I'd like to note that anything I have has--probably--been prescribed to me by a real, live doctor even if I told him "I'M A WARRIOR, DAMNIT!  WARRIORS HAVE SURGERY WITHOUT PERCOCET!" or "HELL NO I'M NOT ADD.  I'M JUST KIND OF SPAZZY AND I THINK A LOT."  Or even, "WHY DO I NEED SLEEP?  THAT'S WHEN I DO MY BEST INTENSIVE CLEANING!" I feel like if I make it clear to someone that he is giving me something I don't feel I need, then in return I get to fill said prescription, then hoard it and use it at my own discretion.  Which is actually pretty random because I'm kind of a health nut.  I mean, I won't drink soda or eat fast food, and I work out every single day, but I've been known to take Oxycontin just to get through a Wal-Mart shopping trip during the holidays.  And it's not like I run around drugged most of the time (because I know you're thinking that).  I'm actually a total med hoarder.  I still have pain pills from my appendectomy two years ago that I'm saving for hard times (which means when my Mom comes to visit).   Thirty pain pills will last me approximately three to four years unless we have a ton of family gatherings coming up--what else are you supposed to do with painkillers?  My threshold for emotional pain is far lower than it is for physical pain.  Again, just speaking my truth.

Slightly unrelated side story:  one time in undergrad my blood sugar was high so I had a yucky taste in my mouth and I thought I had found a piece of one of those breath strips-- you know, the ones that come in fragile little sheets that dissolve on your tongue--in my purse, but it was actually acid.  Nothing like accidentally dropping acid  before Geology Lecture and then wondering WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON while somebody talks to you about rocks for three hours, then continuing to live with the consequences for the rest of the day.  Those notes were not helpful for the final exam.  That was super weird and I wouldn't recommend it, but on the other hand, Geology was super boring and pretty much my least favorite class ever, so, again YOLO.  And you don't have to worry about accidentally tripping if you're with me now because those days were over twenty years ago.

But just keep in mind that if you ever ask to borrow some Advil, you might want to proceed with caution. 

 

A Thought About Mother's Day

A friend once told me that he didn't think birthdays were very important because it seemed silly to celebrate yourself just being born.  While I don't entirely agree with that, I do agree with his thought that Mother's Day and Father's Day are extremely important because Moms and Dads sacrifice a lot for their children and deserve to be celebrated to the max. 

I know that my sweet, funny, kind children have no idea about some of the tough choices I've had to make, and the important things that I've given up, in order to put their lives and their happiness first.  Just as I'm sure that I don't know a great many of the things my parents gave up for me.  Those times when you want something so badly for yourself but you know that it doesn't matter anymore what you want.  You aren't a priority.  And until those kids are grown, you won't be again.  Maybe not even then. 

It's important to my that my kids always know that they come first, but I'd rather they not have to know the whys are hows.  It doesn't matter anyway, because I can still look at those beautiful faces and think, without a single doubt, "You were worth it.  You are worth it.  You will always be worth it." 

They will always be worth it.  

Because My Mom Didn't Teach Me To Make Good Choices

In honor of Mother's Day, since I've already helped you with your shopping, I thought I would tell you a story about my own Mother, Sandra Kaye.  Or, more accurately, a story about an adventure that she and I had one balmy Tennessee evening.

You first must understand that Sandra Kaye was not your typical Mom, and I was not your typical teenager.  We were kind of like a Hot Mess Duo, and did most everything together.  Only I was the responsible, rational one, and Mom was the spazzy, fun one.  For example, when we traveled together, I was in charge of reading the map and navigation.  Mom was in charge of snacks.

The year was sometime in the early to mid-nineties.  I don't know exactly when, because thankfully I've blocked out much of my childhood as a result of the PTSD I developed from being raised on a farm by the nutjobs who were my parents.  But it was probably around 1994, if I was guessing, because I was a couple of years into high school.  My hometown has a huge cemetery on the edge of town--acres and acres of big, old, moldy, crumbling monuments, dating all the way back to before the Civil War.  Before the War, the area was called Cemetery Hill, but because it was the highest spot with the best views in town, it was used as a fort during the War, and hence was renamed Fort Hill Cemetery after.  It has about twelve thousand graves in it, and I can tell you first hand that it is creepy as fuck, especially at night.  I drove through the cemetery twice most weekdays because it was the most direct route from my house to my high school, and passed by it most other days because it was on the way to my Dad's work (he worked seven days a week).  However, I'd never really spent much time in there because, as I said, CREEPY.  AS.  FUCK.

So one afternoon, my Mom and I were bored and trying to figure out something to do.  She and I being bored together never ended well, but we hadn't killed anybody yet, so all was okay.  I mentioned that my on-off  boyfriend (who from here on out we shall refer to as "Asshat") had gotten arrested again and that I thought he was spending the weekend doing his Community Service hours by weed-eating the cemetery.  (Yeah, I really dated some winners in my day.  You know you're headed in the right direction in life if your high school boyfriend already has a rap sheet.  I'd also like to ad that, at least at this point in time, my parents liked this guy.  I mean, he had only stolen a car.  It wasn't like he had murdered somebody.  And they liked his parents, so I guess that made it okay for me to date a drug-dealing car thief, because you do not want your only daughter dating a guy with asshole parents!)  Anyway, because we lived in Cleveland, Tennessee, and there was absolutely nothing to do, Mom suggested we cruise on up to the cemetery and see if we saw Asshat.  Then we could laugh at him for being stupid enough to get arrested.  I said sure, and we rolled out in my Mom's super sexy green Ford Aerostar minivan and headed for the cemetery.

(I told you-- SEXY.  Only ours had running boards.  This is just a random Internet photo, not our van.)


When we got to the cemetery, we started driving through its winding gravel roads.  As I said, the cemetery is huge, and the size of the monuments isn't regulated, so there are statues and mausoleums and all sorts of crazy shit in there.  We figured we'd drive around, find Asshat (likely propped up against a tree, getting high), say, "Way to go on the community service, dicksmack," then be on our way.  Which is probably what would have happened if we'd ever found him.  Or if Mom hadn't turned a corner too sharp in the minivan and gotten the van's running board hung on a tombstone.

Now Mom was usually a fairly decent driver, but this was jacked.  We couldn't go backward.  We couldn't go forward.  The stone was somehow shoved up kind of between where the running board was attached to the van.  Mom and I didn't know shit about cars, and had no idea what we needed to do to get unstuck (Dad covered all the basics with me-- how to change your oil, fix a flat-- but he never taught me how to remove the van from a rogue grave marker.  He probably should have thought of that because he knew the kind of luck I have. )

Now keep in mind that this was before the majority of the population had cell phones, ourselves included.  And we hadn't seen a single person the whole time we had been in the cemetery, and where we were stuck couldn't be seen from any of the main roads.  Under normal circumstances, Mom and I were badasses, so at first we were fine, just stumped about what we were going to do to get home.

And then it started to get dark.  Quickly.  So much for the badassery. 

I will tell you-- most of the time, I think cemeteries are pretty cool.  When we travel, I love to stop at old cemeteries and wander around, reading the names and dates on the stones and imagining what the people buried there must have been like.  It's kind of peaceful and bittersweet.  Unfortunately, it feels completely different when you are trapped against your will in a cemetery at nightfall and (due to your slightly overactive imagination not helped by your insane mother and her likewise slightly overactive imagination) convinced yourself that OBVIOUSLY THE DEAD GUY BURIED BENEATH THAT MARKER IS OUT TO GET YOU AND WHAT IF IT ISN'T HIS HEADSTONE YOU ARE HUNG ON AT ALL BUT WHAT IF HE REACHED UP FROM BEYOND THE  GRAVE AND IS LITERALLY CLENCHING THE AXLE OF THE FUCKING VAN?  Somebody was about to crawl out from under that van and drag us back to hell.  You could just feel it.  Chaos ensued.

This is where I would tell the end of the story, but I swear I do not remember it.  I do not have the slightest memory of what we did, or how we got out of that cemetery.  I do not know if we were assaulted by a spirit.  I do not know if somebody came by and helped us get unstuck.  I do not know if my Dad organized a search party once he got home and found us missing (probably not-- he probably would have been like "THANK GOD IT'LL BE QUIET FOR A CHANGE AND I CAN WORK ON MY AIRPLANE IN PEACE.  Hells bells and damn skippy!")  Maybe something so horrible happened to us there that my memory locked it away just so I could survive my life.  Or maybe we just managed to get unstuck and then went and got frozen yogurt and watched a movie.  I really don't know.  I could freaked out, slipped and hit my head on another gravestone, and lost an entire chunk of my past.  I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE.  But if I did, at least the getting stuck in the cemetery with Mom part is still there.  And what a story that will be for my grand kids someday.

Happy Mother's Day, Special K.

Mothers Dream

Mother's Day is this Sunday, and because we all live very busy lives, I'd be willing to bet that quite a few of you (especially the men) have not yet found time to shop for that *perfect* gift for the Mom or Moms in your life.  That's why, when I found myself wide awake before dawn this morning still all hopped up on cocaine and Red Bull from a hard night of clubbing (--seriously, you guys?  I'm a 40- year-old mother in AUGUSTA.  I just drank coffee too late because I had a migraine and so sleep was a no-go), I decided to do the leg work for you.  Because unlike you, I have my shit together.  YOU'RE WELCOME.

Gift Idea #1 --Baby Teeth Jewelry Holders

This is for the sentimental Mom who held onto all the important items from your formative years.  You know--the hospital bracelet from your birth, old report cards, your foreskin, perhaps....you get the idea.  Now those baby teeth that have spent the last forty years in a jar on her dresser can finally be put to good use.  Think of the one-of-a-kind pieces you could create.  And all Moms love jewelry!

Gift Idea #2-- A Good Book

This is for the crafty Mom who likes to stay (and get) busy.   Honestly, this book is a multitude of gifts in one-- it's something to read, it's a fun activity you and Mom can do together....the list goes on and on.  Picture this--It's raining on Mother's Day and you can't take that picnic you planned?  WELL, HELL, break out the glue gun, it's time for Plan B!

Gift Idea #3--Bread Slippers

I assume you can toast them and they will keep your feet warm for a while?  Then when they cool you can pull them off and arrange them with your charcuterie?  The description wasn't really all that clear, but shipping appeared to be free, so that's a win.

Gift Idea #4--A Priceless Collectible

I'd just like to start off by saying that sometimes we find things on the Internet that we are so horrified by that we can't even look away.  And that once we peel our tired, over-caffeinated eyes from it, we go down a rabbit hole of trying to Google Translate the foreign writing on the box.  And then the next thing we know, three hours have gone by and we realize that we are now three hours closer to our own inevitable demise, but WE DON'T EVEN CARE BECAUSE THIS IS SO FUCKING WEIRD IT WAS WORTH IT.  YOLO, bitches.

Gift Idea #5--A Face Exerciser

You guys, I swear that's what this was advertised as being.  It's supposed to help tighten your lower face as you get older to help keep you from getting those "jowls" that old people get.  Jesus can just go ahead and strike me down now if I'm lying.  So.....get it for the beauty conscious Mom?  Or wait and send it to her as a Father's Day gift for Dad?

, 

Gift Idea #6-- Personal Training

I know I already listed one book, but I love books and I feel like this one has great gift-giving potential.  Obviously, this is for the fitness-savvy Mom who also loves her some pussy.  (Sorry, I couldn't help it.)  Seriously, though, it appears that this one tome covers every fitness need you could possibly have, all while incorporating quality time with your beloved pet.  Think of the multi-tasking potential!  AND DID YOU SEE THE STICKER?  Can you BELIEVE this shit is available for less than $5????

Gift Idea #--A Decal of An Asian Man I Found On Amazon

I don't know who this guy is or why anybody would want him, but his decal is life-sized and only $28.  So there you go.  I saved him for last because I guess this is for the Mom who has everything.  Or almost everything.  What I really want to know is if this guy is the seller, selling decals of himself.  And if not, who IS the guy and does the seller even know him?  Does this guy know he's being sold on Amazon?  Should I start selling decals of myself on Amazon?  

I should probably try to go back to bed.  Happy Mother's Day shopping, y'all!

Welcome to the Jungle

Hi, Everybody.  Some of you may have read my other blog, Starrtrippin, that I've been writing since 2005, which contains a conglomeration of parental woes, emotional outbursts, and random crazy.  Because I haven't done a great job of keeping up with it the past few years, and because it's basically an unorganized explosion of my brain, I decided I wanted a fresh slate where I could attempt to write regularly because writing makes me happy and because some of you seem to enjoy laughing at my life (don't worry, it's cool, I'd laugh too if this shit was happening to someone else).  

To answer a few questions I have been asked about this blog:

Yes, I will still say "fuck" a lot, because it's probably my favorite word.

Yes, I will likely still drunk blog sometimes (it just happens).

Yes, I will still include the asinine conversations with my family because THAT'S MY LIFE AND MY LIFE IS WHAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT.  Obviously.

No, I still don't give a fuck what you think about what I say, but I'm more than happy to hear it if you want to tell me anyway.  Don't be surprised if I give you shit back though because messing with people is pretty much my reason for living (just ask my kids).

Changes:

I'm going to attempt to include more pictures for those of you who need a visual of the situation (aka:  anyone with the XY chromosome) or just want something interesting to look at because pictures are fun, damnit.

I'm going to attempt to organize my tags, post at least a few times a week, and share more of my life because I'm incredibly self-absorbed and I know you want to read it, plus I suspect that reading about the ridiculous fuckery that happens to me probably makes everyone else feel better about their own lives.

With that said, I encourage you to follow my blog.  Tell your friends about it (only the ones who won't report me to CPS or burn a cross in my yard, please).  Hell, stalk me if you want (email me and I'll give you my address).  

And kick back and enjoy the ride.