An Open Letter to the Woman Who Laughed at My Son's Buns

You were waiting just like me, perched on the edge of a wall that wasn't really a bench.

It was early in the day still, but you looked like you knew what kind of special hot hell the day had the potential of delivering, and you, like me, were getting the most of the shade before the noon hour stole it away.

We sat, you and I, flanking my husband, sprawling amusement park not-yet-quite-so-crowded that we couldn't give you a little buffer. You watched me back my overloaded jogging stroller up so that it wouldn't trip up the crowd but my little passenger could still have a view.

You were alone, probably relishing the fact that yours were old enough to be out there on that ride. Maybe yours were too little to ride alone and your husband was on the ride with them. Maybe your ovaries started twitching for another. Maybe you were so happy to be past pushing a stroller around that you made a mental note to schedule a hysterectomy next week. Maybe your husband will get a surprise vasectomy text like mine did, instead.




You looked nice enough to sit close to, but we gave you a little room anyway. We didn't want to impose too closely on what might be a rare four minutes of quiet for you. But we were close enough.

You smiled when you saw my kid. People usually do. His hair has its own fan club.

You watched as I asked if he was hungry, knowing he would grow restless by just sitting, knowing we were too far from lunch and he'd want a snack soon, knowing this was my best window to get him to eat one before he got distracted by the next ride.

You watched me unzip my ultra tiny backpack that we use as a diaper bag these days. You waited for me to pull out a granola bar. Or goldfish crackers. Or an applesauce packet. And then you burst out laughing when I pulled out a full package of hot dog buns.

Thank you. Thank you for laughing at my kid's buns. Thank you for seeing the ridiculousness that is parenting. When your kid is going through a phase where you for sure know that he will eat a hot dog bun (and sometimes the hot dog, but never together) so you throw a whole package of them in just for him. When you sail past that point in your mom career where you care about people judging you for it, but you realize that someone not only not judging or scolding or other-mothering, but actually laughing at it with you makes your day...it's the highlight of your day.

And that day had some pretty high highlights.

Our family was the first through the gates. I'm fairly certain that's a first for us, and maybe won't happen again ever in this lifetime. My sister in law cracked a Lampoon's Vacation Wally World joke about it being closed and half the internet believed her.

That same sister in law donkey kicked me in the vagina as a prize for waiting in line for seventeen hours to ride a tube down a tunnel (not my vagina) for 36 seconds where she demanded the entire time that my husband should immediately "turn this tube around" because she believes he has the strength of a hundred elephants (he only has the strength of about seven elephants because he skipped arm day at the gym last week).

That same sister in law and I were the lowly lollygaggers of our group and as a prize had delivered to our feet one bikini clad lady-person who nobody in the crowd seemed to be bothered by, because apparently if you're having too much fun in the water the lifeguards get all whistle-happy, but if you suddenly go from being vertical to completely horizontal and el-no-respondo on the concrete with bloody knees and two old ladies waving their arms about, it's like "Oh, you silly sillies and your little sorority girl flippy flop over there. Carry on."

It was eventful. We owe a huge thanks to my brother in law and his company for arranging such a special day and including us. We owe a huge thanks to my MIL and FIL for dragging their camper to give everyone a home base.

And to you. For such a small gesture. You have no idea how much it means to me that you laughed at his buns.

Thank you. Really. There were a LOT of parents there, from a LOT of different backgrounds, all doing things differently with one goal: to have fun and get home in one piece. We did that at almost Midnight. And my curly-haired cargo woke me up early again today, like usual. And as my coffee brewed, I thought of you and I wonder how you're holding up today.

Solidarity, sister-mother. Solidarity.

Marriage: Commitment, Cake, and Criminals *Gag Order Edition*

I secretly hate when other people want me to write about things. Mostly because I'm not very good at that. This is why I'm not a "professional writer".

Also, same reason why I'm not a "professional baker".

I take direction very poorly.

There will be a follow up to Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. I promise. The condensed version is this:

• Vows (tears)
• Lightsabers (tears)
• Dinner
• Dancing (tears)
• Ahmayzing performances (tears)
• Cake
• Someone went to jail (tears)
• Resume party

And while some folks were all like, "sure it's okay to talk about, go ahead!" I'm gonna hold off mainly so nobody accuses me of witness tampering or for getting my info via back alley channels.

Read: Sleeping with a cop does NOT get you any insider info access. 

This week I was also asked to start a weekly publication over in my real life professional job. Which is super fact-checky and technical with a side of nothing that ever surprises me. It is exactly what I was birthed into this universe to do. It requires me to get the story straight before I publish things out all half-cocked and whatnot.

So in the spirit of that, and out of respect for the work that our men and women in law enforcement do (and did when they showed up at our party), I'm just going to hold off. All I think I know at this point is that there is an arraignment on Tuesday. I don't want to make their job harder. I don't want to make the complainant's job harder. I don't want to make the witnesses' jobs harder.

But boy, is it a good story.

I can tell you that Hubs took forty-eleven super annoying selfies. Including one of my boobs. Because he is twelve. And this one, to prove that my burning laser-glare and force-dressing them worked:

No scrubs.

Big Fat Gypsy Wedding

This is a weird week. I should be doing all the things that need to be done, but I'm not. I'm doing this instead. Because all the things that need to be done are driving me nuts.


There's a wedding this week.


Yes.


Dakoda. Sweet Dakoda is tying the knot. The oldest grandkid is setting sail while the other dozen stand from shore and watch with full hearts and wave their banners at him, their tallest ship. The one they've always looked up to.

Casual Friday on the Starship Enterprise.

I'm left quite literally stunned at how quickly the years have slipped by. It feels like just yesterday that I showed up and this quiet kid with the worrisome eyebrows grew year by year collecting a spiraling trail of friends, of casting his light further out until he met

THE ONE.

I'm so happy for him to have found his little spoon. All the kids in our extended family have enjoyed the support of parents and grandparents who accepted their differences and interests and individualities, and Dakoda was certainly no exception. As the older kids have gotten older, that task becomes tricky - finding a mate who isn't trying to change you. One who stumbles across your path and says, "Hey! I've been looking for you! Help carry this shit to my car and let's go be weird together." 

Jessica found him and this week she'll be his Mrs. and we are delighted.


So.


There are details. We have to wear clothes, mostly because the ceremony is in a respectable House-o'-The-Lord. And rehearsal dinner is at the slightly less-respectable House-o'-The-Lees. Hubs is smoking a petting zoo and I was asked to make the groom's cake.


And you know me. And you know the hubs. So you know how all this is going.


To distract me from the eighty six things going on this week, he booked a trip for next year, began obsessing about it, and then told me a minor thing about work, which he almost never ever talks about, which spiraled into me watching a coincidental TLC Gypsy Wedding marathon and questioning his lineage.


He had some contact with some folks who identified themselves to him as Gypsies.


I am fascinated by the traveler community. I have no desire to be part of it. I just want to know all about it. Also, my PollyPocket mother-in-law is never so content as when you put her in a confined space, as long as it's portable.


We had also recently enjoyed a relaxing visit with friends, where Hubs watched as I got an assist taking in a dress that I'd shrunk a few sizes out of, feeling only relief that it was our friend whose fingers were bleeding from all the pins and not his.

Girlsquad helping with my hoopskirt

He watched with passive boredom, but he without-a-doubt SAW the dress I intended to wear to this weekend's ceremony. So when I asked what he was wearing, I assumed he knew I meant like, you know, BLUE TIE or GRAY TIE or whatnot, and he's all like,

"Khaki shorts and one of my plaid shirts that the sleeves roll up."

Which basically means we will go to this wedding just like any other run-of-the-mill event where we look like a couple that has just been mismatched on a blind date or an Oscar nominee on the red carpet and her teenage kid who stops by to ask for twenty bucks on the way to the movies with his friends because hurry-hurry-I just-heard-the-ice-cream-truck just as the camera picks up her reaction to missing the win again by THIS MUCH.


(Lead Actress in a Drama is a tough category, you guys. Stiff competition.)


And I will not even get into the level seven argument I got into with Clayton over why he has to wear GRAY khakis instead of CAMEL khakis and why he cried actual salty tears when I asked him to please wear short ankle socks with his black skater shoes instead of basketball socks and neon orange sneakers.


Also, there have been exactly three showers taken between the three children since school got out, so there's that.


And I don't want to sound like an uppity bitch, but someone's probably going to want a family picture or something, and we might not be models, but we could at LEAST look like we belong together and I ALREADY HAD A NICE DRESS AND IT'S NOT LIKE I BOUGHT A NEW DRESS FOR THIS AND I AM THE ONLY GIRL IN THIS FAMILY AND I SHOULD GET TO HAVE A SAY IN THIS, GODDAMMIT.

Nobody's happy but damn, they look good. Also, spoiler - everyone dies in the end.

The reality is that I will probably pick my battles and not have my family hate me forever instead, and they will look like a disaster. Or rather, probably okay-ish. And I will look as amazing as I can possibly muster. Because I muster all the amazing I can at once and then it melts off as the day goes on. So like, probably okay-ish.


And when I tuned into the actual Big Fat Gypsy Wedding that happened to be marathoning and he made me suddenly crave like someone saying, "hey - remember French bread?" I was like HOLY SHIT we DO go together like every other couple out there because look at these assholes:

To be fair, he's wearing a tie. And britches.

Big Fat PS about THE CAKE:


I don't know what to say about the cake. Maybe it's a surprise, I don't even know. Maybe there will be a picture of it at some point. I am not an authority to be giving advice. I will say this. I realized how much I did NOT know about grooms' cakes when THIS groom's cake was in the oven and I actually started Googling. Apparently red velvet is NOT "traditional". I made part of the base tonight and asked Clayton whether it gave him an "abstract idea of the theme I was going for" and he said "OMIGOSH YES THAT LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE IT!!" so I'm off to a great start. It can only go downhill from here.

ToddlerBandit's Scared of Cops and it's All My Fault

This week I taught my three year old to fear the cops.

My three year old. Who is white like:

• Snow
• Rice
• Powdered Sugar
• Cocaine

My three year old whose father is:

A police officer.

Yes.

I did it because I am a failing, asshole parent. I did it because I spoke without thinking. I did it because I have enjoyed a privileged life free of any fear of authority and I knew that I had fallen on my own face as soon as I saw those two soft eyebrows, the ones that just learned to oh-so-sweetly voluntarily rise and fall instead furrow up with terror when the words fell out of my mouth:

"The cops are going to get you."

We had just pulled the boat out of the goose-poop rich river water in the darkness after a long day of sketchy weather. We had double our normal passenger count (another cop and his family, as if this can't get worse), and my trailering skills and patience had been tested at not-our-usual-dock that was packed with patrons of varying degrees of sun and liquor saturation.

We buzzed hurriedly through the abbreviated version of our post-nautical routine, the one we deploy when our daily voyage doesn't include the 40 minute drive to the lake. The one where we skip the cover and the zippers, but the safety straps, quick wipe down, and wakeboard removals are still necessary.

The one where we still get the kids in the truck first to get them out of the busy parking lot.

As we pulled ahead, a horn. Hubs had left his trusty chamois on the back platform. He hopped out and retrieved it. Once we were all collected and headed home, I turned to count the children.

One, two, three.

Except that number three was in his car seat, blinking adorably at me with no buckles on.

Shit.

This is the part of parenting that bites us in the ass all the time. The "but I thought you did it" stuff that chips away at our foundation, our children watching wide-eyed as we fail, slowly transitioning from the A-Team to Dumb and Dumber.

Straps on the boat? Check. Straps on the kid? No.

Earlier in the day, we had encountered Hubs' coworkers several times, seeing two shifts' worth of boat officers out patrolling the waters keeping everyone's festivities safe. I showed my respect to them, and vice versa, as per usual:

"Haha. Nice HAT, Heather."

"Shut up. I'm a classy lady. I need SHADE. Is that a giant sack of PARADE CANDY you're shoving down your throat?"



Hats are a handy way for other boaters to spot you in the water.
They see you and say, WHAT THE HELL???
#SAFETYFIRST

These guys (and gals) are my friends. They are the brothers that my husband finally got as a grownup, the prize he won for surviving all sisters as a kid. Now they are my brothers. They come to my house. They are obnoxious. One fell asleep on the lawn once. Several make enthusiastic arguments for why theirs is the best smoked meat. Sometimes they retire and you're sad but you're still happy for them so you build them a cake.

Cake by me. Pic by Stephanie. Years of service and dedication by Jer-Bear.

And you bust your friends' balls. Sometimes in front of your kids, even. Which is why maybe my kids haven't heard a whole lot of "yes sir, no sir" interactions with police officers from me.

But that's not to say that we haven't let them know that when authoritative figures question them, they'd better comply.

Teacher, principal, policeman. No matter. They know. They know.

We don't ignore things like gender inequality and race, either. Each election cycle, no matter how minor (another school vote, anyone?) I remind the boys how recently women gained the right to vote. Each time, they are stunned. Once I've used women to soften the blow, I tell them the rest: about how white people used to own black people. How black people couldn't vote. About how interracial marriages used to be illegal.

And they're all like, "THAT'S A BUNCH OF BULLSHIT!"

Except they don't cuss, because I'd spank their fannies.

And every Martin Luther King Jr. Day, they would traipse home and remind me, and we have continued these cyclical ceremonies because they help us to shut out all the other voices that say there's not a problem, it's not our problem, or we're too white to have a say in anything. Or their little asshole friends on the bus whose parents fill their heads with age-inappropriate political propaganda.

But this previously stellar job I'd patted myself on the back about was out the window with those seven words.

"The cops are going to get you."

He wouldn't let his brother put his buckles on and he was being a general shit and I didn't want to climb in the back seat and there wasn't room enough to pull over on the side of the road, and so to manipulate and control him I blurted that out. Like a complete and total wanker.

And I knew immediately as his panicked tone set in that it was a mistake. He had seen the cops. They were on the boat. They turned on their lights. They turned on their woop-woop horn.  They had a sticker on their boat that was just like Daddy's cop car that he drives when he gets the bad guys.

I was being a dick. I was making my kid scared of cops, which is the exact thing we do NOT want parents to do, ever. Not. Ever. And it happened instantly with seven little words.

Two years ago I was in Dallas for work and got talked into a group dinner that required taking one of three private buses to another area of town away from the hotel after dark. After my meat salad (perpetual diet!!) my dinner mates wanted to stop in a specialty bakery. I quickly became claustrophobic surrounded by so much sugar on my newly restrictive eating plan, more or less petrified about how my body would react if I strayed from my no sweets policy, especially in public.

Would I get sick? Would I go into a coma? Would I barf and shit my pants? Who wants to find out in a strange place with an audience?

I shoved through the crowd and sucked in the night air, heavy with the baked goods scent that followed me out the door. I saw a familiar sight. Three gold stripes on a hefty blue uniform leaned on the railing.

I missed my husband.

I felt safer in that five minutes or so than I did the rest of the time I was there. And that counts the time I was in my room - after I realized someone had come in to "deliver promotional items", and it also factors in that my boss is a retired cop and HIS boss is retired from a federal agency.

I talked to that Sergeant while my group got their sugar high on. He told me how the area had changed in the 17 years he'd been on the job. He told me about the developer, about how things were so much better than they'd been in the past. He told me about how the types of calls they were responding to had changed. He told me that this was HIS neighborhood. And I could tell this guy had pride in this city. This wasn't just a job. He loved this place and these people and he loved protecting it.

He also told me that he'd had to put the kibosh to his guys frequenting that bakery when it first went in, "because, you know, the whole 'cops and donuts' thing, I'm sure you know, with your husband and all...we were getting dirty looks all the time."

And that's why twice this week I've had that stomach sinking feeling. I am heartbroken for these families.

When did this happen? When did we learn to be racist? When did we learn to fear all the police?

When other people told us to. Our parents, specifically. If not our parents, those in our circles helping form our views.

Generations of Americans hate other races or don't trust police because of what their families have told them to believe. Interactions with police. Second hand stories and unfounded legends.

I came from some incredibly racist ancestors. Hell, there's some of my friends and family who are STILL around who post some despicable stuff on social media. Off color jokes. Stuff about Obama. Stuff about the Gubmint. It's all a joke, right? Isn't it? Fun fact: This is one of the biggest reasons my kids aren't allowed on the internets. Bet you thought it was kiddie-sex-troll-predators, huh? Nah.

So there's the good news. Inherently racist traits can be shed by subsequent generations, but I'm not sure if a deep seated and irrational fear of authority can. Especially not when those fears are seasoned by an occasional documented instance of legitimate wrong doing that shores up and solidifies that belief.

Unspeakable atrocities? Absolutely. Bad calls? Yes. People who tarnish the badge? Yes. It's up to departments to properly recruit and train, the ranks to hold one another accountable, and the public to support those who protect us by teaching our youth that they're there to help, not harass.

I'm sorry that I failed this time.

My heart will continue to be with those in Dallas. And in Missouri. And everywhere else. And here at home. Because I know that those behind badges are hurting for those lost, while still maintaining level heads to keep things running smoothly for the rest of us. And despite the focus on the instances warranting investigation, the overwhelming majority will silently go on performing their day-to-day in a positive, professional, and courteous manner.

It's what they do. Every day. Without fail.

Doctor's Orders

I had a followup chit chat with the doc this morning after a couple months away from her office. This past month, especially, has been filled with things that have convinced me the Universe does not want me on a diet. Some of these things have included:

*Requesting low carb options at a required work event and being told since I'm "not diabetic" they weren't "required to accommodate" me. They accommodated me by including yogurt (full sugar) and fruit along side the five varieties of pastries. I accommodated myself (after some bit of sweating) by taking the elevator to an on-site eatery and purchasing some scrambled eggs with a side of hard boiled eggs.

EGGS FOR DAYS

 *Having my luggage hoisted gingerly off the x-ray belt at the airport and my unmentionables tossed about because the gelatin powder and bullion cubes I packed as backup protein sources tested hot as explosives. Only initially, apparently. The swabby thing was okay. But the first test showed it as "green powder which is obviously explosives." Fortunately I quickly forgot about this ordeal when I settled into my seat next to Mr. Verizon himself.

*Repeatedly listening to my children say, "Ewwww, mom that tuna is soooooo disgusting. Do not get anywhere near me with it." 

Things like this kick my anxiety into overdrive and I'm left thinking, "why am I even doing this?" I also can't just pound a jug of wine to wash away my jitters since liquor makes my blood sugar spike.

But let's back up. Because the food thing? The food thing I can talk about. I will talk about the food thing with anyone who wants to ask. Why? Because I spent most of my life obviously in the dark about food. Well, not just about food, but about how every body is different in how it handles food. And mine, genetically, is screwed. So if you and I were to have a convo about this? I would tell you that what I eat may not be what is best for you, and that anybody who tries to tell you OR SELL YOU otherwise is a fucking liarface and you should run right the hell away.

But this past month a couple other things happened that I didn't so much talk about. Other people have. A LOT. And I have been reading. And watching. And listening. And crying. And thinking. But writing about it? What is there left to say that hasn't been said?

So today:

Brock "Rapey Pants" Turner and The Pulse Nightclub shooter who doesn't deserve a name.

When Turner's sad excuse for a sentence came down I wasn't one bit surprised. At all. We The People put so much stock in our athletes that we are completely willing to turn a blind eye to their deplorable shenanigans, especially when they're perpetrated by rich white kids.

We know this. We have lived this. I hope when Turner is released that he is immediately hit by a train.

I accepted a ride home from a youth dance in a group where we ended up at a local park. It was cold and I wanted to stay in the car. My friend and one guy got out and were talking near some playground equipment. The athlete unbuckled his seatbelt and slid over to me.

"So are we gonna do this or what?"

This fuck.

This fuck had never given me the time of day. This fuck had only ever gone out of his way to make me slightly miserable in the six-ish years we'd been students together. I laughed at the notion. He didn't take kindly to my rejection.

"You might as well, because I'm gonna tell everyone we did it anyway."

 This asshole is still walking around this town like he's some kind of gift to this planet. Did he get in my pants? NO. I spilled out my car door and told the other two yahoos that I needed to go.

Was he the only one to pull this shit? NO. It would happen time and again, they'd isolate me from the herd and turn on me. Football player. Baseball player. Football player.

The reason this got to me was I had written a piece about the baseball player not too long before this Turner garbage came out. He wasn't just ANY baseball player. He was the Coach's kid.

THE Coach.

The big one.

And you know? That kid has a criminal history bigger than the day is long. And at every goddamn twist and turn his daddy showed up to vouch for him. Gave him a job on the coaching staff. Made a deal with the prosecution. Etcetera. And you know what you'll find when you go out and search the newspaper archives for him?

SPORTS ARTICLES.

His brother? Also a giant steaming pile of shit. You know what happened when the newspaper said so? The family sued the newspaper.

Because they were tarnishing his image. Nevermind the fact that he got out of his car at a stoplight and STABBED SOMEONE.

NO.

So anyhoo. I ended up with this chump as a five-minute long boyfriend a million years ago because his friend was dating my friend. And long story short, he and the team (yes, THAT team) had a party that I never should have been at where he used his 90 pound difference to wrestle me into submission in a surprisingly hoarder-like office where I put my foot through a typewriter before escaping his liquor-weed clutches with a bleeding foot and some bruising on my torso and asked my friends if we could leave NOW.

This story does have a silver lining, and a point.

That dynasty is done. There's a new coach in town. And his wife? His wife was FirstKid's teacher this year. His wife has been both boys' advanced reading and math teacher for 4 years. And she has two small boys. And she is absolutely invested in raising our boys to be respectful. Of themselves, of other boys, of girls. Of leaving the competitive testosterone on the field. Of not rewarding aggressive behavior.

Of not accepting BOYS WILL BE BOYS.

As a mom of boys, I LOVE HER FOR THAT.

I love when ANY mom holds their kids accountable. But ESPECIALLY boy moms, and ESPECIALLY the ones who are filling in my shoes for dayshift Monday through Friday for nine month stints.

What did I tell my kids, personally? That they HAVE to respect people's personal space, and that they should never ever ever give anyone a surprise kiss, even if they think they want it. Will we have to talk more in the future? Yes. Especially with Clayton, who seems to have no less than two girls flitting around him at one time.

Now: GURNS-N-STURFF.

I cannot fathom the depths of despair felt by the family and friends of those victims of the Pulse shooting. I cannot fathom the depths of despair felt by the family and friends of those victims of the shooting before that one. And before that one. And before that one.

We have GOT to do something different.

Before you stomp off in a huff because Second Amendment and everything, let me say that yes, I know there's a difference between the ones that go BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT and the ones that go PEW-PEW-PEW-PEW-PEW-PEW-PEW and no I'm not interested in prying anything out of your cold dead hands.

But some of you need to calm the fuck down a little. Seriously.

Like, I think that just MAYBE it's OK for adults to MAYBE have a talk about the fact that MAYBE not everyone needs to emerge from a vagina with a firearm. My perspective comes from more than half a lifetime of exposure to (directly, personally, and peripherally) domestic violence situations and having knowledge of some just literally bat shit crazy individuals that, no matter the BRRRRTness or PEW PEW-osity of a weapon, they need to have access to neither.

Come back with me to a stalking trial where one of my questionable romantic decisions was accused of being a general asshole to me over an extended period of time after we both had moved on. I say "moved on" because we both were remarried, but obviously one of us was more "moved on" than the other. The activities were clearly criminal in nature or the court wouldn't have been involved.

At day of sentencing, I had to give a victim's impact statement. Aside from actual testimony, this is one of the most nerve wracking, painful things I have ever done. And I have pushed three live humans out my cooter. I talked about the things he had threatened, the fact that he bragged about knowing nine ways to kill someone with his bare hands, that he was a trained marksman, an avid hunter, he told me there were spots in the woods where nobody would find my body, and that he had rifles and a night vision scope.

There was only one use for that. Sneaking up on your prey under cover of darkness.

I asked the judge if it would be him - or someone else - who would explain to my children what had happened to me if he didn't impose SOME kind of punishment and I ended up dead. He was the type of offender that kept escalating his behavior until an external force stopped him.

My ex's response - by this time he was representing himself because both of the attorneys he'd had during the course of proceedings had quit, presumably because they knew he was guilty as hell - was that he expected the court to expunge his record AND just drop the charges. You know why?

Because: SECOND FUCKING AMENDMENT.

He was concerned that this conviction - which, by the way, we were already past that step, because, as you remember, here we were at SENTENCING...would prohibit his GOD GIVEN RIGHT TO BEAR ARMS.

This fucker.

So when the judge got done peeling his eyes from the back of his skull, he clarified for the counsel-less loser who initially tried to not recognize said judge's authority because of the FRINGE on the FLAG in the courtroom (it's only for boats on the ocean blue, yo), that A) in order to have your record expunged, you actually have to SERVE your sentence, and B) the crime for which he was convicted was a misdemeanor so he needed to calm the fuck down with his Constitutional nonsense.

His influences? A dude who did federal prison time (after this) who is super good chums with Bo Gritz and thinks Randy Weaver got a shit deal. A dude who repeatedly invited me to his "impenetrable bunker" that was safe from "Government Invasion" because they were coming any day now to "round us up and put us in that concentration camp they built in central Washington - go look, there's concertina wire". And since I hate camping and also because he gave me the fucking willies, I never went. Then they let him out of prison and mysteriously his mortal enemy's business just burned the hell down. Weird.

So when people start getting all sorts of defensive about their guns right off the bat and aren't willing to acknowledge that "yeah, there's some nitwits that I don't think should have access" then I immediately lump you in the same category with the paranoid peeps who like to hang out in underground concrete bunkers and dodge their taxes by writing shit like "BLOW ME, IRS: YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME, AMERICA CAN'T EVEN OWN LAND OUTSIDE DC!" on the signature line of their 1040's.

What I think is that you're afraid. You're afraid that maybe you've said some shit you shouldn't have said. Maybe on the internet about how Obummer should be kilt. Or how Michelle looks like a monkey. And you're afraid that your comments are going to get YOU put on that list that will restrict your purchase power. And that freaks you out. Maybe you need to take a step back at how you're acting, then. Because all that shit that went down with the stalking and the "Government Invasion" that didn't happen? That was under the Bush Administration.

And that brings us to my appointment today, where my doctor ordered that the Universe knock off all this nonsense. And tonight is date night, where I will stick to my diet and where hubs is taking me to the place where we very last crossed paths with my psycho ex.

Fingers crossed that he has other plans.

Designated Driving Me Crazy

Last night was a family party night. And our family knows how to throw down. We were celebrating a big number NINE birthday in a typical manner that involved pizza, too much sugar, the assumption that the children would at least stay as a pack as they marauded through town, and my sister in law and I leaving with each other's sunglasses.

Game six of the NBA finals was streaming on the wall in the shop while Hubs washed down his cake, a random kid's leftover brownie, and any other snacks that fell in the radius of his wingspan with a hearty serving of his brother in law's outdated* beer.

And so as is customary, he tossed me the keys when I gave him the universal sign for "let's go", which is also the universal sign for "I'm about to slit your throat."

We piled in the family truckster and as usual, didn't make it a mile out of town before he started driving me batty. First he started in on ToddlerBandit by stealing from his supply of snacks that I keep loaded up in his cup holder for him to indiscriminately throw on the floor when he's mad at me.

I finally got him to leave the fruit loops alone and he decided to press every goddamn button in or around the dash board/radio area. Minions was playing in the back.

I watched his fingers fumble through the touch screen, making a mental note of how to unmuck his path of destruction.

The last time he pulled this, he converted my car's readouts to metric, and the language was either Icelandic or Swahili. So in town it always appeared I was doing 56 in a 35 and I didn't know whether the digital message was "roads may be icy" or "tire pressure low" or "there's an ax murderer in the backseat".

Suddenly everyone who was not speaking Minion was speaking Spanish.

Spanish. So the whole dialogue was MINION AND SPANISH.

He changed it back. Then Clayton began complaining about the narrator. "There's usually not a narrator on here, dad."

Yes. There is a setting where you can not only turn the subtitles on, but there's an additional voice that READS THE SUBTITLES ALOUD FOR YOU.

I suppose this is so that if you are blind, you might know what is going on in the movie. Like having your friend sit right next to you and whisper in your ear all of the goings-on throughout the entire movie. Which I applaud for the ADA community, but in this instance, and in my state of fried nerves rocketing down the highway at 65 miles per hour, I did not appreciate.

Fumble fumble fumble. Poke poke. Beep beep.

Fixed.

Now. This whole business of him being a terrible drunk passenger is almost ALWAYS compounded by the obscene amounts of sugar he has also consumed, which attempts to metabolize and escape his body by any means necessary, and so he fidgets and squirms and generally cannot be still. This is exactly the worst** time to be stuck in a car with him. Worse even, for him to be in the passenger seat.

With no more buttons for his hands to push, they must find a landing spot.

I spent the remainder of our journey swatting his hand away and generally treating him like a misbehaved toddler with ADHD. By the time we got home, his sugar crash hit and he was much easier to deal with. Life was back to normal, we cranked out a couple DVR'd episodes of trashy TV, and caught up on all the stuff from our lives this week that we forgot to talk about that we couldn't talk about in front of the kids.

This morning when I got up with a clear head and I saw him sleeping peacefully, as much as I wanted to pester him awake in retaliation, I didn't. There are a lot of guys out there who have a couple drinks and turn into raging, abusive wankers. Mine just ends up eating all the cake and wants to touch my boob a little.***


*It might not be, really. His distributor employeeship perk just makes my husband so jealous that he wants to try new things, like all the flavors in the mini-fridge.

**There is one more worst time to be stuck in a car with him, which I will defer to his sister or whomever the new owner of her previous car is for inquiries.

***I'm not saying I'll let him, I'm just saying I'm not mad about it. That's all. 

Monday Mammaries

I embrace Mondays.

That's not a joke, even. So when you pick yourself up off the floor...

Monday is the day when I muster up all the positivity I can in the early morning hours and tell myself:

"I'm gonna have my shit so together this week, I'm gonna eat all the right stuff and be super organized and I'm gonna just kick this week right in the balls."

~Me, every Monday morning ever, except holidays

Ok, that's enough of that.

Fortunately, I'm not one of those annoying people who goes around trying to motivate OTHER people to strive for great things on a Monday, or to be cheerful, or to embrace their own inner Oprah. It's all I can do to give myself this little pep talk, and before the buzz from the inhuman amounts of coffee I have consumed wears off, reality kicks in and it's back to normal.

Today was no exception. As I unrolled the frizzy curls that I had carefully tucked into a Pinterest headband after last night's shower, it was particularly difficult to keep my cheerful routine up. Things were already not looking off to a great start. When Monday becomes BunDay, your spark can only be found in the hope that maybe things could only improve from there.

Except that, no.

The stampede of new hires wandering the halls on their break were crowding into the bathroom like it was halftime at a NASCAR show. I had scurried out after washing my paws, not really wanting to linger to look at myself in the mirror to acknowledge or fuss with the disaster on my head. A straggler was holding fast in the right-lane of the hall, thumbs furiously playing catch up before it was time to silence her phone again. She looked up and smiled.

"Oh. I like your dress. That's really.....pretty."

Ok. Let's pause for a minute. Because outside of like, maybe two of my friends who have commented on an outfit in the past, literally NOBODY that I work with has ever thrown a compliment like this at me. Granted, I hide in a cave most of the time. Nobody has ever described me as "fashion forward". But today, today...in my forceful attempt at Mondaying like a bosslady, I put myself in a dress. With a belt AND a necklace. Which, if you really know me, you know that's a huge deal.

One of my biggest phobias is that someone will strangle me with my own clothes or jewelry.

Which is why was hyper-aware and thinking she had been staring at my necklace. But I thanked her and I walked with my head held higher back to my office, tossed my paper towel confidently into the trash (landed the shot, first try), and sat down to conquer the day.

This was the point at which I noticed one of my boobs was out.

Yes.

Well, not out IN PUBLIC, out, like Tara Reid on the red carpet. Out of my bra, out. In my never ending but so far failing quest to find the perfect strapless bra, I grabbed three options from my drawer this morning, and I went with the most comfortable one. Mostly to soothe myself over the hair thing, you know. And the best thing I can do to describe exactly what happened with it is to provide you with an overlay rendition on Esten's preschool drawing of me. You remember the one, right?

My bra. Being useless as tits on a boar.
No pun intended.
 Nipple placement: accurate.
This is basically a selfie.

This is the kind of shit that happens, people. I know it happens to you, too. Don't let everyone's perfect feeds fool you. Life is full of bad hair days, nip slips, and other disasters despite our best, most positive intentions to steer things otherwise. I have learned to laugh about it. I have no other advice to give. If you have some, I'm all ears.

Especially if you have a good lead on a reliable strapless bra.