grown-ups acting like grown-ups

it’s a new and exciting kind of monotony

… THWACK-I’ve been slammed with adulthood. Crap.


I know it’s been a stupid long time since I’ve been here, and for that, dear (you’ve even changed your name! you sneaky little scamp), and readers (those of you whom there may or may not be), I do sincerely apologize. But here’s the thing. Life has been kind of, erm, fucked lately. Like, laundry-list-o-stupid-shit fucked. Some big, some little, some shrug off “meh” stuff, some “holy god you’ve got to be kidding shut the fuck up or I’ll do it for you” kind of stuff. And all the while, I kept thinking, I really need to write this. I really really really need to sit and write. But did I? Nooooooo. Did I curl up in the corner and cry like a baby? Yeah, a couple of times (ok, more than a couple times. Quit rolling your eyes, you lunatic of a sister, you). Did I seek solace in a few other places that shall remain nameless? Oh my yes. (You can stop shaking your head Professor, most of it was gin and tequila.) But did I sit down and write? Nope. Not a single freakin’ word. And wasn’t that the whole point of this blog in the first place? Uh, yeah, it was.  Carving out this little word-cave was supposed to give me a place to spew whatever blech I needed to so I wouldn’t have to slide into it and swim around until I was covered in the muck and dreck and dripping with ick. ‘Cause that shit is harder to get off than the sticky  shit that comes with the Easter hams. thankyouveryfuckingmuch.

And so here I am, we are, after a summer full of family drama/trauma, one kidlette in kindergarten and another in preschool, and a husband attempting to heal from back surgery. What? you say. Do explain! Drama? Trauma? Surgery? And what about being slammed with adulthood? That sounded painful! Yeah, well… there’s no one to play nurse-maid for ME, so slap a fucking bandaid on it, rub some dirt in your eye and get back in the game. Right? Fuck that, it fucking HURTS!!! And I’m TIRED! And everyone in this god forsaken house (which, by the way, hates me on some base level, but we’ll get to that later) is either broken, sick, 4-years-old, or some evil combination of the afore mentioned maladies.

Someone made the comment to me recently that “sucking it up”, although it is not technically a psychiatric term, really ought to be simply for it’s descriptive perfection. And she has the qualifications to say this, by the way, the MD after her name and everything. And she’s not one of those half-assed psych docs who get paid insane amounts of money to throw drugs at people without ACTUALLY doing any REAL therapeutic work with them. She’s a give-it-all-you’ve-got kind of doc, and dare I say human being in general, and I get to say this because, well, I’ve known her for that many years and through that many evolutions. But back to the “sucking it up” thing… So she makes this comment to me, and it was (is) so fucking appropos of the last couple of weeks.

(And yes, I know that EVERYONE has to just suck it up and get on with things, so don’t start finger waggling and head shaking and thinking Oh lord, here she goes again, all this Poor Me song and dance again because A. I’m venting here, that’s what this is for; B. Really? You think this is self-indulgent? and 3. Even those of you reading this who might 1. know me, 2. be related to me, or 3. think you may have some sort of strange stalker-esque soul connection with me, you still don’t know the whole story, so judge not lest ye be fucking judged. M’Kay? Yes, I’m a little touchy ’bout that. It’s an issue. I’m working on it.)

Moving on…

I had a point, there was one when I started this, although I think it may have morphed in the two days since I started writing. I was going to give you a sort of “best of” (hah-best of-more like blooper reel) recap… the reunions with two friends I haven’t seen in almost 20 years that made me feel indescribably loved, the family reunion that was strange in a California-meets-North Dakota in Montana sort of way (just think about that one for a minute, you’ll figure it out… it IS that descriptive, and it IS what you’re picturing… probably… just add elderly farmers and ranchers), and the annual family vacation that quite literally crushed a large part of my heart, twisted a medium sized chunk of my brain, and sucked just the smallest bit of my soul right out (no, not exaggerating on that one, and it all happened in the span of roughly, 0h, 10 minutes? 15?Families can be just so super duper sometimes). And then of course there’s the beginning of kindergarten, which is, dear Professor, beginning to atrophy The Girl’s brain already…

And then of course there’s The Husband’s back surgery and consequent convalescence, which does pretty much throw off my whole fucking day. As a person who is NOT built for constant companionship,  this constant companionship is driving me batshit. I keep thinking it wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so broken, or if he was handling it better, or more helpful while he’s here ALL FUCKING DAY, but mostly it’s just that I’m The Mom. And at this point, I’m The Mom to a kindergartener, a preschooler, and what amounts to a college kid living in the basement. At least he’s not as stoned as he was before the surgery, and yes, he does help with the kidlettes, but there’s too much yelling. Too much impatience. Not enough love. Doubles my work, makes everyone feel like shit. Kids, me, Husband, everyone.  It’s like walking a very tight, very thin wire in bare feet-it cuts, and you bleed, but you have to stay up there and balance because you finally made it up there, you managed to get all the shit balanced in your hands, on your shoulders, and you’re keeping your eyes closed because if you open them you might not see the end of the wire-there might not be anywhere to set anything down. So yeah. I’m tired of sucking it up. And I’m just tired. Really fucking tired… and thirsty. Where’s the goddamn gin?



full frontal nudity (edited. I’m on a roll folks. Deal with it.)

… mom, why is the front porch naked? 

Ah, summer in The Other Dakota.


Wait — it’s only May. Why isn’t it still snowing? Or raining? Or at the very least, melting and flooding my basement causing me to fill the garage with various semi-soggy and slightly-damp crap and non-crap stuff from the overstuffed basement? It has been freakishly warm for the last few days. And while I am prone to hyperbole, this is NOT an overstatement. Today was in the 90’s. I kid you not. If I wanted weather like this, I would be in Arizona. Oh wait — the army decides where we live… never mind…

Thank GOD it wasn’t so freakin’ hot over the weekend. I was so proud of the Husband and myself. We were all kinds of grown up… tending to the yard with the mowing and the weeding and the planting and the weeding and the mulching and the weeding and the trimming and the weeding and the cleaning and the weeding and the weeding and the weeding. Did I mention that there was some weeding to be done? Between the crack quack grass and the insidious tree that seems bound and fucking determined to take over EVERYTHING including the cracks in the sidewalk (I don’t even want to THINK about what sort of rooting it’s got going on under the house, in the foundation, under the siding… it’s like that possessed tree in the first Poltergeist movie — you know, the one that was actually scary?) the weeding has been piling up. And that doesn’t include the iris bed that has been neglected since last summer, poor Dutch irises trying to push their way up under the fronds of death from last year that didn’t get cut down. Some are having more luck than others. The Boy finds this HILARIOUS.

“Look mom — they’re like accordians!”

Yup. They sure are. Smooshed, pale green accordians. I can hardly face those poor struggling fronds.

So as I was gardening my fingernails off, literally, and the kidlettes were making pretty pictures on the sidewalk and playing in the neighbors yard (they love her — she has a swingset. I love her. She has a swingset. She feeds them raisins. Of her own volition.) the Husband was removing the increasingly-dangerous lawsuit-waiting-to-happen railing-of-death from our front porch. I have no idea how old this wrought-iron railing was, but one of the main posts, as in THE main post that a person in need of support would grab onto for said support, had rusted through at the bottom footing. So, uh, yeah… no support there. Not to mention that the kidlettes have recently decided that they LOVE to hang onto the railings and swing like monkeys. I dare any thinking person to spend time with toddlers and then honestly deny the idea of evolution. I mean really. But back to the porch…

Apparently the Husband had put on his Grown-Up Socks that day, because not only did he mow the lawn, trim the edges, and vacuum the bits (yes, we occasionally vacuum the lawn. you should try it sometime. shop-vac instead of sweeping to clean everything up. Sounds insane, looks ridiculous while you’re doing it, but your lawn will look absolutely fan-freaking-tastically clean around the edges), he also took down the railing-o-death, took it APART, CLEANED THE PORCH, and THEN measure AND priced out new rails. ALL IN THE SAME DAY!!!!!

Yup,  Grown-Up Socks. Two pair. Unfortunately, those socks ended up lying in the middle of the livingroom floor at the end of the day… apparently they lose their magical powers once they walk into the house. I wonder if the Boxer Shorts of Maturity are immune to such boundaries… and do they come in a three-pack?