Wild Thing

I like to read George “Where the Wild Things Are” because he is Max. Especially in the picture where Max chases his frightened dog with a fork, then his mom calls him “wild thing,” and he threatens to eat her up, so she sends him to his room.

This is why our dog is currently staying with Mimi because George wouldn’t stop charging the 12 pound dog like a fucking rhinoceros. My mom fell in love with my dog so, if George becomes a tad more civilized, she’ll be willing to grant us joint custody, although I think this would be to the dog’s chagrin, since he currently spends most of the day on her warm lap.

George’s behavior, although psychotic if done by an adult, is within the realm of hyper little boys. That’s even what his teacher told me once after he got in trouble at preschool, “This can be common for boys.” Because of his energy, we can only give him the teeniest bits of sugar. If he gets too much he’ll go bonkers. His body is in tune with this disastrous combination because he has the weakest sweet tooth. He is the type of kid who will hold his ice cream cone till it melts, or hoard his Easter candy, just petting the foil and talking to it, as we all look upon waiting for him to wander away to steal a piece or two.

Comparing George to my daughter who is not violent, unless provoked by him, we move from conventional barbarianism to nonclassified. People don’t say, “That girl, she’s a thinker!” I tend to get the off comments, “Have you spoken with her doctor about…”

And it gets me stressed out, although I’m sure she is fine, and I’ve spoken with her doctors and they don’t believe there is any problem either. She is just a little different. She thinks about things deeply, and it causes her to have bad anxiety at times, or just seem to be “head in the clouds.” This year I see her out growing the most peculiar of her behavior, spinning to music in her head, getting centimeters from someone’s face to talk with them, and needing to be in complete control.

She was a huge zoo fan as a toddler. We went all the time. She knew all the different duck breeds and could point them out; North American wood duck, Red Head, various mergansers. It was pretty fucking impressive how she’d remember this shit, but one day, she just decided she wouldn’t walk one foot further into the zoo, and made us leave. She thought the lion was going to attack us, and had a full blown panic attack, where her body was frozen in fear, but her mouth and voice were in high operation, screaming in warning. So we left, and didn’t go back until two days ago.

After three weeks of heavy rain we needed to do something outdoors, and easy, so we thought, lets give the zoo another go. The Sacramento zoo is pretty cool. I get emails from them since we used to have a membership. It’s gone through a bout of bad luck lately. The very publicized giraffe’s baby was a stillbirth, after getting a new tiger it was killed by another male tiger, and an otter from the very cute otter duo died. When we were frequenting the zoo, the lions had babies, and we’d see the three cubs. Now the cubs are grown and need to be separated from dad because he’ll kill them for getting in the way of his dinner.

After getting in the zoo my son had to use the toilet. My daughter and I wandered the zoo while George and dad were in the bathroom. After twenty minutes I sent a “what in the blazes tarnation is going on in there?” text. George likes to take his time, if you know what I mean, and apparently he doesn’t feel the need to rush even when in an uncomfortable cement bathroom with no heating.

My daughter and I spent most of this time by the otter exhibit. There was a docent there, and she answered some of Kiki’s questions, and told me that the lion cubs will probably be shipped to other zoos within the year.

Then I brought up the New Yorker article from a week ago, The Culling. The article talks about Denmark publicly culling (it’s not called killing, but that’s just what it is) zoo animals. Denmark decided to remove any shame from the act of killing the animals to control the population, by being vocally unashamed of doing these acts. The kill is then turned into a learning opportunity because the animal is dismembered and dissected in front of a viewing audience, the first row saved for pacifier sucking three-year olds.

After telling the docent, I received the type of reaction you’d expect from someone who voluntarily gives up her time to stand around the zoo unpaid and answering questions in order to promote animal awareness, she was appalled. Her solution, these zoos should stop breeding if they don’t intend to keep the animals, follow the normal model, keep the animals on birth control.

The article said that the Danish zoos allow animals to mate since it’s one of their few pleasures being that they have to live in a zoo (really this is why birth control was invented), and that birthing a child is a natural right of the animals, one they ought to have the pleasure of experiencing.

What convoluted, considerably anti-abortion, thinking. Let the animals fuck without birth control because it would go against their nature to not birth a child, and we’ll abort it 7 years from now.

Mostly male animals are culled because they don’t play well with each other, an opposite to the Chinese gender-genocide. Females are needed to birth, and well, with the man, just a dab’ll do.

This article, and the article The Death Treatment, makes Northern Europe look extremely emotionally detached, the latter being a brain sticking article on euthanizing non-terminally ill humans. Maybe it's a smear campaign to offset the Frozen effect and keep American tourists at bay.

On the way home from the zoo we stopped by the deli to pick up sandwiches and fruit for dinner. My husband went into the store and the kids and I stayed in the car. They were playing video games when my daughter shouted, “I have to poop!”
She is on antibiotics, and has the touchiest stomach, so when she makes this announcement, it means it’s time to haul-ass to the ladies room. We rushed into the store, and the ladies room was locked, so we ran into the men’s. She thought this was funny. I didn’t because it had the stink of a men’s room. Everything appears to be coated in a thin layer of dried pee. After trying not to breath in any airborne urine, and constantly reminding her not to touch anything, we returned to the store. I took a deep breath and looked upon the long butcher counter, all the meat displayed behind clean glass windows.

Plenty of Rain and TV

Cyber Detox in Paradise

We are having some weather lately! The power went out Wednesday evening, and didn’t turn back on till 14 hours later. I thought the campus would be closed, but couldn’t be certain. I quickly realized after leaving my neighborhood that we are last on the priority list, since the rest of the city was bustling with its normal life.

The wind is doing the most damage, and at times sounds like a jet hovering over our house. When I’m laying in bed at night the thought that keeps going around in my mind is what if a tall tree crashes into the house.

Then I wonder if these thoughts are some type of paranormal warning. In an episode of Unsolved Mysteries I watched a hundred years ago, one of the segments was about an older sister being visited by a spirit, and told to move her bed to the opposite wall. She moved the bed, and went to sleep, and during the night a car crashed into her house, right into the wall the bed had been. So her moving the bed saved her life.

Although, my constantly thinking the tree in our front yard might crash into the house is not the same as a spirit visiting me and delivering the verbal warning, “Go sleep with your kids in the back bedroom,” what if the spirit world is just reading the audience? They won’t send a spirit to warn me because they know I’d have a heart attack when I first saw it, and then there’d be no one to save anyone.

I heard back from a job I applied to in November, and sadly, it was a pass. I applied to be the principal’s admin at the top school in Sacramento, figuring the kids would get free tuition, so it’d be a job that benefited everyone beyond financially. If you add up the 50K for 13 years, well were talking Indecent Proposal kind of money, except it’s not liquid, and paid in installments. So I wouldn’t get the pleasure of the act or rolling around in cash afterward.

I took it as a good sign that the principal emailed me with the rejection, meaning I was actually under consideration. But, I don’t have to question the meaning of my rejection, which was, “Alicia you (and husband) can make enough money to pay for this school without compromising your goals; doing really self-indulgent work, which wouldn't be the case if you're busy doing someone else’s paperwork.”

If I end up on a late night talk show, and get asked about my life’s work, I won’t say, “Success occurs when luck meets preparedness,” I’ll lament, “I worked my ass off, and it eventually paid off, that’s the only thing I was sure of.”

I once heard Sofia Vergara give an interview and she said she didn’t exercise, and ate whatever she wanted. I felt like a citizen’s arrest was in order, or at least initiate a massive fine by the FCC because it’s dangerous to disseminate this false persona; I just stuff myself with gluttonous abandon, and still look like a top ten stunner, take up your complaints with God.

Maybe it’s because my definition of “eat whatever I want” would be much more detrimental, everyday I’d start with a cheeseburger, IPA and box of See’s chocolates and then see where I go from there, squeezing in a green juice somewhere.

I follow JLo on Instagram, and she is also a top ten stunner, however, half of her posts are pictures of her working out. She is a serious gym rat, and isn’t embarrassed to acknowledge her excessively healthy lifestyle, not drinking and sleeping her 8 hours a night. I applaud her self-control, and willingness to keep it real. We all know it is not easy to fit into a teeny sequin body suit, a huge component of her work, and in her case, it’s work she loves.

Lena Dunham also pulls this false persona shade during interviews. I love her work, but I find the so riddled by anxiety, and barely able to function in the world, a tad too much, and actually quite unbelievable because the question would be, if you’re a top writer-business bitch but also combatting your verbal incontinent, awkward, anti-social, pill-popping, hot mess self, well then who is driving your multimillion dollar ship?

When I was in college I took up Cardio Kick Boxing. I did Billly Blanks’ Advanced Tae-Bo video video so much I memorized it word for word. In one part “Michael” demonstrates the modified version of an exercise, and after showing it, Billy yells at him, “Micheal, you a top basketball player, now get up. I’m not gonna let you get away with that.”

That’s what I yell at Vergara, “You’re a top celebrity, stop acting like you don’t work your ass of for it. I know you don’t eat carbs, and I don’t judge you for it, look how well it pays off!” and to Dunham, “Girl, we all now you aren’t a puppet and have a strong sense of who you are and what you want your work to be.”

I watched the pilot episode of “I Love Dick” on Amazon. It’s another show that celebrates the self-hating woman, and although Kevin Bacon is a hot piece I don’t give the show my seal of approval, its too sad; the heroine’s desire for approval is depressing and there is not a single redeeming quality about her. Who knows though, it’s the pilot, so perhaps she comes back and has something to offer other than wanting to impress a man, albeit a very sexy man.

But I can now connect the dots of some covert PR taking place in the past couple months, since I read about the author of “I Love Dick” in the New Yorker a month or so ago, and there was some Instagram buzz over Dunham giving this book to one of her gal pals, some conspicuous product placement at the time.

I veered over to One Mississippi, a FANTASTIC show about a self-loving woman. It’s an emotional roller coaster, while being genuinely funny. One Mississippi is renewed for a second season, and has a billion great reviews. It’s only six episodes long, so I was happy and bummed watching the last episode, the timeline on the bottom of my screen counting down to the end of my enjoying this great show, like an hourglass. The last episode was a tearjerker, and since I watch TV while I’m running on the treadmill, I usually avoid shows where my throat gets constricted from being emotional. But I fought through it, and nose breathed during this part.

The following day, I stood on the treadmill thinking, “What the hell am I going to watch now. The light in the world has dimmed with my current favorite show ending.”

And then Amazon proved their algorithms effectiveness because I saw Schitts Creek in my Recommended-For-You. I’ve been waiting eons for the second season to become part of Amazon Prime, and it finally happened. Trying not to cry while running is a challenge but the laugh-out-loud jokes in Schitts Creek offer another challenge because I can't put a cap on my embarrassingly uncontrollable laughter, breaking the silence at my relatively calm gym by loudly cackling, maintaining eye contact with my tiny phone to diffuse any confusion.

I need to just own it, the same way I expect others. I am not ashamed to almost trip over my feet on a machine that could cause me severe dental damage because I love to be entertained. I suffer for my TV, and that doesn’t mean watching shows that are less than amusing because even those shows offer insight into content trends and why I read certain stories in the New Yorker. Intel I figured out on my own, without the help of a spirit ghost.

The rain, and TV watching, are seeping a little too deep in my mind because last night I dreamt I met Titus Burgess while I was getting ready for one of my sister’s wedding. We were anxious because all the plans were confusing and it wasn’t clear how we’d get to the wedding. My hair looked the best it has in years, and at one point a turkey ran right passed my feet and out the door.

The week before last I went on a cyber detox, and I dived back into the Internet world with gusto. It was good to realize much of my pull toward being online is self-constructed. I decided to do a cyber detox over my winter break after reading a quote by Pascal, “All of humanity’s problems come from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” Because I had worked myself up to compulsively checking my email, leading me to get caught up in frequent wasteful cyber loops.

I broke the detox once, when I felt certain my boss emailed me. After I checked my work email, I saw nothing from him, and then realty hit, he never emails me initially. He is one of the last “phone-first” kinds of people.

I should think about this at night, when I grow increasingly concerned about my concerns over the tall tree crashing into my house. Unless there is a ghost talking to me about this tree, there is nothing I should do but go to sleep; I have TV stars to talk to, weddings to get stressed out about, and turkeys that need to scurry at my feet.

Sharky Night Hag

Add photoshop to the 2017 resolutions...

The other night I dreamt about sharks swimming in the sky. They were swimming through the air, and I watched from high on a hill, overlooking a valley. Like ocean currents, there were layers of the wind. Leaves were blowing in one layer, and sharks swimming above.
This is the third time in the last month I dreamt of shark swimming (or flying) in the sky. I'm having a hard time understanding what the message is, and based on the reoccurrence of it, I'm assuming I haven't reached the correct conclusion. From what I've been reading, the meaning of these shark dreams aren't so great. A looming threat about a person who, like a shark, takes whatever they want, or expecting the worst in someone, or an omen about "dangerous water." However, in the dream I'm not scared, but rather impressed and captivated. The best I've come up with is some sort of message about coexisting with fear.

I read a post about Mugwort Body Oil as a way to enhance dreaming, and I ordered some, hoping to gain insight into whatever the universe is trying to tell me. The oil can be used to promote lucid dreaming, as well. I'm going to avoid lucid dreaming, hoping the dream will unfold without putting in that kind of work. The reason I'm hesitant about lucid dreaming is due to a period in high school where I became terrified of falling asleep because of sleep paralysis, also known as the Night Hag. To this day, I don't sleep on my back because I realized this brought on the horror of becoming wide awake in the mind, but still having my body asleep, so I'd lay in bed paralyzed, yelling at myself to open my eyes.
During this time, I read "freaking out" (the internal yelling) is the worst reaction, and remaining calm will allow one to use these moments as an opportunity to go on a celestial exploration. I was a bit too wounded by my past experiences to turn my poop into poop juice, but by practicing a calm state of being, I was able to ease myself back to sleep the next time I came into this night terror, and it was an extreme comfort.
To say I smoked weed throughout high school is an understatement, and if there is one thing I'd go back and change it'd be not to fall into the peer pressure of obliterating my afternoons with mindlessness when I could have been getting a head start on life, but alas, everything is a learning experience, even years of lackluster inactivity, for if it weren't for them, I'd probably not realize how important it is for me to live life passionately. The Night Hag and extremely potent NorCal ganja were most likely correlated because after going to college and completely stopping marijuana, I don't have anymore occurrences of sleep paralysis.

I took a nonfiction narrative writing class when George was around 1 year old. The professor advised us students not to write about dreams. It was a bizarre instruction, since she assigned Terry Tempest Williams' Refuge as one of the course texts, a book that is filled with the author's dreams. The teacher said Terry is the exception, and for the most part, reading people's dreams is not interesting. Then she said, "Besides, who has dreams that are so vivid?"Me and a handful of other students raised our hands, and I had an aha moment. It hadn't occurred to me that some people go to bed, and just get a couple blips of their dreamtime escapades, and then wake up. I figured everyone got to ride the nighttime roller coaster I'd find myself on frequently.

Just last night I dreamed I was on a train, looking at a couple maps with various routes. Eventually, I was at a long dinner table with an underwater jungle in the backdrop. At one point a person from the table grabbed a giant snake from there, and as it was about to bite the mans head off, the man ripped out the snake's teeth, killing it and splaying blood all over the people at the table. The blood contained something like tiny razor blades because everyone started complaining about their mouths having tiny cuts in them.
I woke up to George shouting for me to walk him to the toilet and then back to bed. I laid with him till he fell back asleep, and at 2:30 in the morning, I was too tired to write the dream down, and needed to focus on getting back to sleep because who knows when the other kid will wake up shouting for my servitude.
One of my goals in 2017 is to keep a dream journal (err, not off to a good start). I feel like I better keep good documentation. It will be eye opening to come back and read the dreams after some time passes, since there is usually clarity looking back on things.  Another one of my 2017 resolutions is to let go of paranoia, which is especially hard after reading shark interpretations since "a shark indicates deception, do not trust anyone at this time," is a common theme.

I plan on getting to the bottom of this. It might not be pretty, but rather, oily with the Mugwort help. I'll let you know how the dreams turn out!

Light the Corners of My Mind

I heard a comedian once say, "Did you ever do something awkward, and then think about it for the next seven years?"
I laughed, and thought, "All the fucking time."
Today as I was cleaning up the kitchen, when I was sweeping, I remembered a couple years back going to a San Francisco Giants game with my family. George was two and Kiki four. For that particular game, all kids were given a wiffle ball set as a gift. Kiki and George, paraded around with their bats till we got to the bleachers, and we had to confiscate them because, being young children, they were oblivious to the cramp quarters, and swatting people surrounding us. George wouldn't just fucking let it go, and started to throw a terrible tantrum. We anxiously tried to distract him, but he tunnel visioned on the bat, and after I took it from him again, he hit me in the face. My reaction should have been to keep calm, but I hit him upside the head. Usually, I wouldn't think this is so awful, because he really can't act like such a brat, but what happened right after I hit him on the head is the worse part. The people behind us started cheering, and then I felt fucking terrible.
They were congratulating me for not being a parent-doormat, and taking charge of the situation, but George noticed the you-go-girl spectatorship, and he put his head in my neck and cried. I still pray there isn't some psyche damage from being publicly shamed for acting like an inconsolable two-year-old.
I picked him up, and we walked out of the bleachers and cruised around the park, but on my walk from our seat to the stairs, a woman with an infant in an ergo pouch glared at me like I punched my child in the eye, and I was privately shamed.
He was fine as we ventured thru AT&T Park. My number one goal when attending sporting events is to eat, so he was my comrade on the foodie exploration that included a Ghiradelli booth, we parked outside of most of the game.

The other day I  received my monthly newsletter from the physic healer I saw in October and she gave some mediation advice on how to feel cheerful in the post holiday slump. She said to think of a time where you were so completely happy. Focus on that moment, think of what it feels like to be so happy, how it made your body and mind feel. This practice helps stimulate dopamine in your mind.
I immediately thought of the day I went into labor with my daughter. It was a wonderful chance that my mom and little sister were in LA when I went into labor. After going to the doctor in the morning, I was told to go home until the labor intensified later in the afternoon. So we picked up philly cheesesteaks (of all things!) and went back to my house where I tried to take a nap but was so fucking excited, couldn't close my eyes for a second.
My mom came to town with The Kennedys Miniseries on DVD, and was hellbent on watching it that day. I tried to protest as much as I could, but I was also very much in my head, it was a surreal time, I knew I was about to give birth to my baby who I walked around with in my belly the last ten months, so I just hung out. My mom, is an extrovert trapped inside of an introvert, so to people who know her, she is the most wildly funny person. Jim Carey (on Oprah) said that he thinks all comedians get their gift from their mothers. Humor passes on through the mom, which makes sense since she is likely the one who is sitting down at the table with you breakfast, lunch and dinner, so her quirky weirdness becomes the normal.
My mom said something, I don't even remember what, but I started laughing so hard, my enormous eighty pound baby (she was actually only 9) started laughing too, and squished my bladder (yeah, that must have been why) and I laughed so hard I peed my pants. Then I ran to the bathroom, laughing harder because my gigantic pregnant self, was pissing on the floor from laughing so hard.

This week Mark Zuckerberg announced that he is not an atheist anymore. This revelation comes after the birth of his child, and Priscilla Chan and him pledging 99% of their Facebook shares to human advancement. I found this to be the most important news of the week. It makes me think how it's  probably much easier for women to feel connected to God through our suffering. We are born the second sex, and it's through this marginalization we understand suffering. The act of birthing a child demonstrates the heights of women's pain and divinity.
Then, through our children, we understand love. This is wide sweeping, there are probably people who feel this love earlier in their life, perhaps through romance or a soulmate, but if those opportunities don't happen, then through children we gain an understanding of love, and a deeper connection to God.

Love is birthed from a moment, but stays with us forever, through memories that fuel our heart throughout life, even after doing shitty stupid things, like hitting your kid upside the head in front of an audience. Tonight, I walked into the living room, and found George, standing ontop of the TV stand in his underwear, with his duck blanket draped over his head. As I lunged toward him shouting, "Get down from there, you could faaaaaaaaa...."
He bent his knees and jumped into the air, and then fell to the floor. He is just wild, and doesn't like to follow rules.
I bought him a new game for his LeapPad, and was working on my laptop next to him as he played it. I got distracted because I heard the game keep saying, "Thats incorrect. Select the number three."
And, still typing on my keyboard, I said to him, "You know what the number three looks like. Pick the number three." The game again said, "Sorry, that's incorrect. Pick the number three."
Then I looked over, and saw his face. He was absolutely giddy, red-faced and smiling, repeatedly selecting the wrong answer, on purpose. He threw his head back, laughing so hard he almost peed his pants.

Quit Being an LB

When Phyllis Nefler calls a parent meeting for Troop Beverly Hills to concoct a plan for selling cookies, her best friend, a glamorous romance novel writer, laments, "If all you're looking for is money, then why don't we all just buy a thousand boxes of cookies."
Phyllis says, she thought of that too, but realized it defeats the purpose, which is much more than raising money, but teaching your kids not be an LB.

Thats a term my brother taught me, "LB" which stands for "lil' bitch," and is generally used to explain someone who is acting like a whiney asshole, and is bringing everyone down. When I was young, my brothers, sisters and me would lounge in front of the TV for hours. We'd rise from our state of rest only for fresh-from-the-oven bagel bites. When my dad would come in the house after work, we'd all go tense because we knew he would never get on board with this scene of inactivity.

And he wouldn't. He'd usually look upon his fleet of lazy children, silently scowl, walk into the other room, and we would get the false impression that he is totally cool with us spending our Saturday on an eight hour TV bender. Minutes later, he'd walk in the room and command, "Turn the TV off. You need to move the wood from the front of the house to the side of the house."

Then we'd all moan under our breath, taking out our frustration on each other, with a shove and "get out of my way" shout, and then start a work line where we'd spend the next two hours walking chopped wood from the front of the house to the side of the house, for no reason except my dad doesn't want his kids to grow up and be LBs. Weeks later, he'd come home and ask us to move all the wood back to where it was stacked in the front of the house. And so on.

I'm with my parents this week, sleeping on a blow up mattress with my two kids. A fourth of the mattress' air escapes when I put the cap on it, and there is a slight leak somewhere because after a couple hours, we are all sleeping on the floor. George wakes up frequently throughout the night screaming for no apparent reason then to test my strength in containing any involuntary reaction to be abusive. I practice visualizing us back at home, where he is in his bed, and I am in mine, sleeping soundly. But waking up in the dry Carson City desert, after sleeping a couple hours on the floor of a room that's last seen a vacuum in 2012, my throat and nose clogged with dust bunnies, I guzzle eight cups of water and then onto coffee and take on a day which has become much less active now that my kids are old enough to keep themselves busy, running around like a pack of wolves with their four cousins.

Last Christmas there was always something to do; snacks to make, potty mess to clean up, something to organize, or a tantrum to extinguish. Yesterday I was so hapless, I spent eight hours laying around and eating. I went to bed traumatized by the dud of a day I had, and said, "Im going to read a book tomorrow. I can't go on doing nothing!"
Yesterday I took two long ass walks. The first was with my brother and sister's families. The second was an emergency walk, I initiated after watching George waywardly wander through the room, leaping on furniture, looking like he was going to climb the TV stand with the hope of body slamming the coffee table. I could have carried on, eating a dozen more mini powdered donuts while staring at the ceiling, but he needed to run.

As we started down the path I chatted with my sister on the phone. We hung up, and then George and I walked, looking for rabbits. When we reached the end of the path, I reached in my pocket for my phone so I could get a picture of him with the city background. I put my hand in the deep pocket and pulled out a knitted cap, two sets of gloves, three little kids socks, and Starbucks napkins, but no phone.
I knew I had the phone when we started on the walk, so it fell out somewhere in between here and where I hung up. I regretted buying the camouflage otter box case because it was only fourteen dollars on Amazon, knowing if it were case side up, it'd blend into the brush and dirt. I found the phone glistening in the dirt right around where I hung up. George and I high-fived, then I went to take his picture, but the phone died as I opened the camera.
We then came upon a family of deer. There was about eight of them, and they looked huge, motionless, staring at us. I picked up George, and was a little frightened, as we said, "Hi deeeer," creeping away. I couldn't shake the image of them walking towards us, then quickly charging, a short distance stampede. The path soon turned to cement, and we entered the neighborhood. I turned around and saw a little deer peek its head out from behind a stone wall to look at us.

This morning, after George woke me up, we joined the bustling part of our family thats on East Coast time, I grabbed a book from the shelf, The Epic of Gilgamesh. Harletts seem to be the most useful tool of the time, and proclaimed, "I will not eat any of those fucking corn syrup donuts, or guzzle diet coke like it's water." A couple hours later my mom came out of her room singing, and I reiterated how I couldn't be a glutinous couch dwelling jabba the hut sloth today. She shook her head at me, dismayed, and said, "You stop being a complainer, and lay down on that couch and relax."

I know what she meant by "complainer" so I sucked it up, grabbed some donuts and fell into an armchair, tossing the book to the side and started watching rain drops hit the window and ground.

5 days late

Will I ever stop crying

My period is five days late. I have pms symptoms and wasn't feeding into the possibility of pregnancy too much, so after I thought of the perfect baby name, and how we'd arrange the kids room, and how my car needs more space, I figured I'd pee on a stick. Then I could start in on the baby registry.

It came back negative which I knew deep down because I have that warm cramping feeling I get before I start. My period is just being a butt head because it wants me to carb load for all of 2017.

After work Tuesday I grocery shopped and had 10 minutes to kill before picking up the kids so I got a bagel and drove around eating it. Ten years ago I held a very firm stance that car-eating is barbaric, impatient, and terrible for digestion, but now I think of it as a mini vacation; quiet, peaceful and delicious times where I can be alone with my thoughts and food.

The night before last I felt like Rosemary's Baby's mama when I cooked up a pound of beef with an onion and began chowing down from the skillet with a 17 inch plastic mixing spoon. Standing over the stove with food dripping from my mouth, I felt like a famished cave woman who just happened upon a dead possum, and the thought entered my mind, perhaps this is more than PMS, and I am with cave child.

If there was ever a movie to avoid in the height of PMS I watched it last night. I had to practice seat clenching self control in the theater watching Manchester By the Sea, and as I went thru ten Starbucks napkins I found in my jacket pocket, wiping snot and tears from my face, I had to swallow a tennis ball of cement in my throat so I wouldn't start wailing in my fit of hysterics. If I knew what the movie was about, I wouldn't have watched it.

Around 3 am I woke up to the gate outside my bedroom being blown open and then crashing into the latch but not catching. It went on for a while, and let me sit and think about The Saddest Movie Ever Made. I found myself crying in bed, at 3am, from this movie. Can I say I was traumatized? I think the only way to treat my condition is by sad-eating a meatball sub.

Sitting in bed and crying about a movie at 3am made me disoriented this morning when I woke. I told my husband, "Kiki has to sleep in, she has her dance recital tonight and needs to be on top of her game."
He said, "It's 7:30," like it was noon, and I rolled over. Then he said, "Don't you have a final this morning?"
I flipped the comforter off me, threw on my clothes, and whisper-yelled, "Goodbye," so I wouldn't wake up my daughter as I ran out of the house.
Now I'm, sitting in front of my class, as they take the final exam I nearly slept through, and started my period without any of my period gear. My morning is is a walk in the park compared to Manchester By The Sea.

Although Manchester By The Sea had a significant impact on me, and can win all the best actor/actress awards, I hope Hell Or High Water wins best movie. That was a fucking great movie. Sing Street is my favorite movie of 2016, but like how The Namesake was robbed in 2007 (Never Forget) I think Sing Street won't get it's due recognition by the Academy (I'm saying that last part in a drawn out nasally voice, The Acaaademy.)

After this test, I'm going to pick up meatball subs, and watch Sing Street.  Then hug my kids for, oh, I don't know, maybe the next 17 hours.

The Price Im Willing To Pay For A Remodel

I’m planning a remodel on the kitchen. Presently, it is a small galley kitchen, and we’d like to extend it on one side, and blow out the wall blocking it from the living room. A construction/design team came over to the house; we discussed what we want and what we're able to spend.

This last part, although it was a five minute discussion, left no impression on them as they left to draw up the plans because when we got the budget last night, it's almost 50% greater than what we initially told them. I’m planning to take this estimate, give it to my kids to practice their safety scissors, then sweep it into a bucket, pee on it, and leave it outside for the skunks to have a confetti party with.

All I could say was, “You got to be fucking kidding me!” Two times during our meeting with them, they made my skin crawl, so perhaps I manifested this overblown estimate from the get-go, with my negative perception. Firstly, when they came over to talk about the plan, and we mentioned the budget, they said, “We have a guy…” (anyone who starts a sentence this way is trying to run a job on you) then followed it up with, “Who offers same-as-cash loans.”

I said, “Bitch, get out of my house. I thought I hired a fucking contractor not a loan shark.” Nah, I didn’t really say this, I just gave a patronizing smile and rolled my eyes because I put too much passive in my aggression. The designer brought this guy up again during our plan review, and brought up another payment plan option for purchasing appliances through a showroom they know of.

After hearing this second attempt at having us go further in debt, I wish I would have stood up, taken this lady by the shoulders, and started shaking her while shouting into her face, to make it perfectly clear, “I am not taking out more loans and payment plans to pay for this shit. It’s cash, or nothing. Strapping more debt onto my belt is the last thing I want, in fact the absence of more debt trumps having a better kitchen.”

I get it that everyone is trying to make dat money, but whats the point in discussing budget if its not taken into consideration, whatsoever. Then something happened that really infuriated me, the contractor, after my husband told him this is way too much for us to spend, he said, “Let me take a look at it again, and see what I can do.”

That reply, that fucking reply, has led me to say, “He’s dead to me!”

Why did he send over an estimate that can be shrunk down? I don’t like the way he’s conducting business, it should be the fairest price from the beginning, no fat to be trimmed from inflated costs because the customers using a same-as-cash loan (what the fuck does that even mean?)

It reminds me of when I called Comcast to cancel my service because I was paying close to a car payment for cable and internet. I spoke with the representative, and he said, “How about you keep your plan, and I’ll make it a hundred dollars cheaper?”

I was shocked; “How about you back pay me then the $100 a month I’ve paid you for the last year too.” It shouldn’t be legal that some people pay $80 for the same service another person is paying $200 for. If price were based individually on how much the customer is willing to spend, then I’d rather not do business with you.

Our kitchen is not is bad shape, its just small and secluded. I’m still happy, its not like we aren’t eating. The kitchen functions fine. We can take our home improvement money, and use it in other ways, like put in a swimming pool to help us through the agony of Sacramento Summer, or pave our driveway that is 1/3 dirt, or buy a new sofa since ours has surely soaked up a gallon of milk by now, or paint the walls that are tagged up with crayon and grubby hand prints.

Before I paint the walls, the kids better make me the craft project with their handprints, and the poem about how those dirty handprints on the walls are just temporary. It goes something like this: 

Yo Ma, don’t get your panties in a bunch 

This hand print is from my peanut butter lunch

One day I’ll be a grown up too

You’ll stare at this print and think of your boo

My house is relatively small square footage. I think this is a plus because it means less shit to clean, and the kids are always within hearing range. But thinking of return on investment, it would actually be ridiculously stupid to spend that kind of money on a kitchen remodel in a house our size. I am certain the contractor is aware of this fact, which is especially annoying. The value of our house currently and the value of our house after remodeling should be directly related.

You know the real estate motto, “You always get back money you put into your kitchen and bathrooms.” Well, that wouldn’t be the case if we put 40K into our kitchen. Based on square footage, we wouldn’t be able to sell our house for it’s current value plus 40K. I’m sure there is some real estate or house flipping terminology for that, but I’m just going to call it common sense.

I'm fired up, but it will burn out soon. If the estimate comes back and is still asinine, I can cool my jets by thinking of that new pool I'll be jumping in too.