The Serenity of “Go Fuck Yourself.”

It takes a lot for me to give up.

I’m fucking stubborn to a fault and I’ll be the first to admit it.  

All that stubbornness though?  Yeah, it hasn’t really gotten me far in the last decade or so.

Tonight I learned the serenity of letting go.  Saying fuck it.  Fuck you.  Fuck this. 

It’s okay to fail. 

I hate failing.

So at any rate, I decided tonight I really am gonna be okay.  And even though I don’t really feel like I technically have a “feeling” left, if there is one in me, tonight I felt it.

It was the joy of just letting go.

Failing?  It’s okay.  Cause it doesn’t mean I am the failure.

And today?  I’m free.  For the first time, literally, in my adult life.

The funny thing?  I always was… I just listened to the trolls and evil warlocks that diluted my tiger blood.

::ahem::

At any rate, the fact is I couldn’t have gotten here without my amazing friends and family.  I guarantee they’re better than yours.  Unless you’re one of my friends or family, in which case you know how awesome you are.

I’m really gonna be okay. 

And that’s a weird concept.

But seriously?  I am.  And whilst raising the two most brilliant and perfect kids on earth, I’m gonna find a way to get happy again. 

It’s easy already.

Just breathe.

Breathing is important and sometimes it’s harder than it seems.  Some days just the inhale is painful. 

I will keep on keepin’ on.  Seriously I will.

But lately?  Just the breathing part is tricky. 

It’s going to get better.  I’m going to get better.  

I know this because it’s been a while since I’ve felt anything, and the pain I’m feeling?  Totally painful.  And feeling that has got to be better than feeling nothing.  And all I’ve been feeling for a long time is nothing.

So clearly?  Getting better.

I have a feeling left.  Which is more than I could say for myself even a month ago.

This is gonna hurt like hell.  But I know if I can just stay with me, I’m gonna be fine.

You guys?  Stay with me too. 

Onward and upward bitches…

Subduction Leads to Orogeny – aka Home and Friends Make (almost) Everything Better.

Hello, my legions of faithful followers.  I know you’ve all been anxiously waiting for the past, oh, six months or so for my return to blogdom, but fear not - here I am.  You can all breathe a sigh of relief now.

:ahem:

I realize you may have felt deserted and bitter in my absence, so let me start with an apology. 

I am truly sorry.  It’s not you, it’s me.  Really. 

A lot has changed for me in the last couple of months.  Without getting into the gory details, let’s just say I’m now living back home with my Grandma, and it’s a really good thing.

So today I was determined that I would resurrect myself back into the blogosphere… actually, I was determined last week, and the week before that, and the week before that… DAMN does my brain not work to full capacity without my ADD meds… look, a pretty flower!

::ahem::

Moving on.

Anywho, I did a lot of packing and sorting through 15 years of collective crap over the month of January in preparation for this move, and in this painful and exacerbating process I found this tiny little composition notebook that I used in my past life as a writer for an online magazine in Vegas (yes, you can chalk that up to one of the many bizarre and entertaining yet incredibly low-paying jobs I’ve held over the years). 

I stuffed the notebook into one of my boxes with the intention of eventually using up some of the blank pages, and today I pulled it out when the kids wanted to sit by the pool so I could jot down notes for the blog.  My hope was that it would perform some divine writing intervention on the creative block that’s been looming over me for so long. 

I opened it, and the first page read this: 

So anyway, yeah, I had no fucking clue what that meant or why I wrote it, but it was clearly in my handwriting and I must have thought it important enough to scribble down, so of course I went directly to m-w.com.  Maybe it was a clue, some secret message that my 25-year-old self was trying to tell my 35-year-old self.   So here’s what my good friend Merriam translated for me:

sub·duc·tion:   the action or process in plate tectonics of the edge of one crustal plate descending below the edge of another.

orog·e·ny:   the process of mountain formation especially by folding of the earth’s crust.

So basically, 25-year-old me was trying to tell 35-year-old me that in order to become a mountain, I needed to produce an earthquake – preferrably crushing another plate beneath me.  And I’m not sure about the plate crushing part, but these last three months have definitely been an earthquake for me.

I have mentioned that one of my five big fears is the earth opening up via earthquake and eating me up Superman-style, right?

I digress…

Anyway, what was I saying?  Oh yeah, earthquakes.  I’m now back in the land of them.  It’s a weird and beautiful thing actually, being back home.  Very surreal coming back to the very house I grew up in and left 15 years ago sans kids, worries, fears, wrinkles….  A year ago I was blogging about Piper’s passing, now I’m sleeping in his bed (I’ve now effectively lived in all but one room of this four bedroom house).  A year ago I was comforting Grams across the wire, yesterday I was hugging her when the thoughtful mortuary sent a  morbid anniversary card remembering his passing.  It’s like it was all meant to be, the good and the bad, and our situations collided at a time where I needed Grams and she needed me.

Incidentally, we really love being here.  And I think Grams loves having us. 

There’s something so good about home.  As an added bonus, I’ve managed to reconnect with some of my very best friends in a way you just can’t from states away.  Even though we’re all still suffering from a little PTSD from the trauma of the last few months (oh who’s kidding here – years), knowing that you have friends that have your back is such a comforting thing.  Maybe it’s knowing that there’s a part of your young, carefree, authentic teenage self that is still alive inside of you… or maybe it’s just that my friends are so much better than everyone else’s. 

Yeah, that’s probably it.

At any rate, in all honesty the change WAS huge and somewhat traumatic to all of us, but we’re getting more adjusted by the day.  We’re now annual passholders again, so we’ve gotten to share the magic of my old employer Disneyland with Jack, and they aren’t too sad about having a pool and spa in the backyard, either.  Leaving the house and being able to play outside minus fifteen layers of clothing has blown Jack’s little mind having been basically under house arrest for each of his almost five little years. 

Not that those conditions don’t still have lasting effects…

Jack is certain he is Mario. And wears the costume daily.

In addition to our daily Halloween routine, he also has a tiny little Princess Peach that he carries around with him everywhere.  Nothing happens in this house without Princess Peach at his side.  Princess Peach has incidentally gone missing for the last four hours – if you know of her whereabouts, please tell me.  Cause I’m seriously going to rip my eyes out if I don’t stop hearing “BUT I NEEEEEEED YOU TO FIND PRINCESS PEACH!”  Thanks.

MISSING: ONE TINY TOY PRINCESS PEACH. AND CONSEQUENTLY, OUR SANITY.

So anyway, yeah, we’re saving up for therapy.  For all of us.  Mainly me, because for some reason these pictures just won’t center like the rest…  that alone is enough to push a perfectionist like myself clear over the edge.  

Jack – ahem – MARIO driving Emma insane per usual.

::deep breathing::  … okay, I’m over the centering thing.  Back to the kids.

When she isn’t burying her head in her hands at the very thought of Jack opening his mouth again, Emma is growing up so fast that it terrifies me… every once in a while I look at her and catch a glimpse of the teenager I was living in this exact same house. 

Obviously I need to find a way to stop that immediately. 

Stop. That. GROWING!!!!

 As for me?  Yep, I took a pole dancing class. 

And folks?  Being a pole dancer?  WAY harder than it looks.  Kudos to you, Stripper America.  When do these pole burns go away, anyway?

^ NOT applying at Cheetah's any time soon. Ouch...

Anyway, that’s about it… I even managed to time things so I was never forced to get a CO driver’s license… hey, maybe that means I was technically never there!  No?  Dang…

On the upside, nothing is better than being surrounded by my family and closest friends.  It’s funny how quickly time slips away when you aren’t paying attention… for instance, it seemed like just yesterday when I last saw my cousin Jeff… it was actually five full years.  Before Jack’s existence.

My Jeff!! Dude, had it really been five years? Yes... yes it had.

The kids, Grams and I keep each other laughing, and this house of nuttiness is still full of love and hope.

Then of course there’s my non-blood family that helps me hang onto whatever sliver is left of my quickly dwindling sanity… Angie, Megan, John, Frank (and Justin, of course you too, Justin!) just to name a few – THANK YOU for being there for me year after confounded year.  I love you guys SO MUCH.  For reals.

And hey – major upside?  Jack and Emma will both be going to school in the fall.  Like, out of the HOUSE school.  I shudder to think of the trouble my brain will have coping with an entire day without tending to/screaming at/hugging children. 

Actually, I think I just wet myself.  Maybe I’ll actually be able to make some of that “money” stuff sometime before I die after all.

Anyway, thanks to whoever still cares enough to check out this blog – I may be going crazy, but I promise to try to do better at taking you with me from here on out.  Cause I have a feeling it’s only gonna get crazier from here.

I guess I better go update my "about me" section now... till next time, people!

So, I’m writing a book. No, seriously…

So, most people know my life has hardly been the epic adventure I had hoped for.

But it occurred to me a few days ago that – yo – I’m 35.  Seriously.

Thirty-fucking-five.

That’s halfway to 70.  You know, practically dead – if I’m lucky enough to make it that long.

And even though I believe in a higher power and am relatively certain there’s a great, awesome life floating above the clouds for me after living out this relatively shabby one, really, no one really KNOWS what happens once we’re six feet under the ground.

Honestly, as much as I love living the dream that is my tortured life, I haven’t done 90% of what I’ve wanted to do, see, experience, and feel in the last 35 years… turns out decades of poverty and despair really have a way of dragging you down and severely limiting your options.

But holy shit does it make for a great book.

So this week I put the pedal to the metal with my writing (and not just on my blog and Crackbook).  I’ve spent most of my newly found free time attempting to organize years of random thoughts, complete millions of incomplete sentences and filling in the blanks of my unfulfilled life – ahem – I mean chapters.

My buddy Josh Axelrad recently got published himself, so I keep his book on my desk and repeat the title to myself daily – “Repeat Until Rich.”  Incidentally, it’s a really great read.  You should really check it out if you love a gritty novel like I do.  And Josh, you gave me the inspiration that awesome things really ARE possible when you got that book published.  Thanks for that.

And hopefully someday very soon, you will all be checking out my own gritty novel, which, also based on my buddy’s advice, I will NOT be blabbing the name of here.  If you’re one of my friends, you probably know it already (and keep your damn traps shut, people!).  And if you don’t know it, you’re just gonna have to wait till it’s published.  So there.

Anyway, this post is dedicated to my amazing friends, my dysfunctional family, my loyal blog fans, my incredible kids, and everyone else who has loved and supported me when no one else has.  Thanks for the encouragement, inspiration and love – I promise to make you all proud once I finally get this book done.

I’d also like to thank the assholes and fuckfaces who have given me enough fodder to write TEN novels.  My book wouldn’t be half as interesting without your help.

So, after my Today show interview, book signing tour and Oprah debut, we’re all on a plane to Punta Cana to my giant compound where my maids and chefs will treat us like kings and queens (oh, but not you, assholes and fuckfaces).

Hey, it helps to dream big.

Repeat until rich.  Repeat until rich.  Repeat until RICH.

Now back to the book – stay tuned!

My little pussy is pretty freaking awesome.

Alright, look, everyone knows that I have a potty mouth and I’m not afraid to use it, but Jesus H. Christ people, get your mind out of the gutter.  I’m talking about my cat.  For crying out loud!  I can’t take you guys anywhere…

:: clears throat ::

Anyway, lemme preface this by saying I am NOT a “CAT PERSON.” I do not like cats.  At all.  They poop in a litter box, which stinks, and god knows I have enough stink-makers in this house.  Then someone – and typically never the one who actually WANTED the cat – needs to clean it up.  They scratch.  They bite.  They don’t give a shit about what you think.  Their food smells as bad as their poop.  They run into the street in front of your grandma’s house and get run over (okay, maybe I’m still not over my Bengal cat Nero’s meeting with the business end of a car, but he was more like a DOG.  Ever seen a cat who likes to swim and heels on a leash?  I have.  That was Nero).

Basically, cats are little assholes in furry suits, and I’ll take 10 dogs over one cat any day.

But try telling that to your adorable little daughter who just NEEEEEEDS a kitten for Christmas.  MUST HAVE ONE.  MUST!  Well, a kitten AND those dumbass, unattainable Zhu Zhu pets (the same ones who have consequently called their home a box in the basement since approximately two days after Christmas).

So last Christmas I finally succumbed to her constant pleas and caved in.

Emma found a little tuxedo kitten named “Buster” on Petfinder.com, and she had her heart SET on him.  No two ways about it – she wanted Buster. (*note to parents – never, ever let your child peruse Petfinder.com*).

"Buster's" Petfinder picture.

“There are other kittens out there, you know.”  I said, trying to get out of the long snowy drive up to Fort Collins.

“No, I want Buster.”

“We could always check the Longmont (ahem, 15 minutes away) shelter too, Emma – I bet there are cute kitties there!”

“No, I really want BUSTER.”

“But honey, we don’t even know what his personality is like – what if he’s a crrraaaaaaazy cat??” (now coming up with anything I can possibly think of to get out of that goddamn drive to Fort Collins).

You can see where this is headed.

So up to Fort Collins we drove, an hour away, practically to Wy-freaking-oming, in the snow.  What mothers won’t do for their kids.  When I finally found the teeny tiny cat-only shelter, there were about six cages, and Buster was alone in the first one we saw.

“Now, Emma,” I warned her as we walked in, “we are not DEFINITELY coming home with Buster.  We need to see what his personality is like.  We can’t just take him home because he’s cute….”

“I know, Mommy…” she replied before I even finished, gazing into his cage lovingly and clearly not listening to a word I was saying.

“We’re here to see Buster.”  I said, with the wild enthusiasm of an inmate checking into prison for an extended stay.

“Oh, GREAT!” the cat person said, and quickly got him out of the cage.

“She did that too fast,” I thought.  “She’s too excited about this.  Clearly something is wrong with him and they want him GONE.  Look at him.  He’s cute.  If he’s so cute why is he still here?  EH?  ANSWER ME, YOU CAT PERSON!!!”

So, she hands me Buster and I’m immediately in hate with him.  He’s biting at my hands.  He’s squirmy and hard to hold.  Sure, he’s cute, but LOOK AT HIM THRASHING AROUND AND BITING AT OUR HANDS, EMMA!

Emma could not read my thoughts.

“Awwwww, mommy!  He’s sooooo cuuuuuuuute!”

“Yeah, well, I told you, we’re just checking him out – we should check out the OTHER kitties too!”

I forcibly removed Buster (or Buster’s claws) from her and quickly handed him back to the cat lady.  “Can we see the other kitties too?”

So one by one we went through the other cats… there was a nice, sleepy (older) white cat that laid like a bag of bricks in our arms.

“See?”  I said.  “Now look at how CALM this kitty is!  Isn’t this a nice, CALM kitty, Emma?”

She nodded, staring at Buster who at this point had attached himself to the front of the cage cartoon cat style and was meowing hysterically.  “But, she’s really… boring.  Too sleepy.  Buster is cuter.”

Super.

“So, you know, Buster is a cute kitty, why exactly hasn’t he been adopted yet?”  I asked the cat lady.  There were no other tuxedo kittens in the place, and I KNEW there had to be an answer as to why the little bastard was still there.

“Oh, people just like different things – someone said his marking were TOO perfect, you know, it’s just different tastes…”

“Oh sure,” I thought.  “Don’t feed me that line of crap.  This cat has ISSUES AND YOU KNOW IT.” I stared into her soul searching for the truth, but she stuck by her story.  “Buster was a ferrel cat, and he’s been in a foster home which is probably why he’s acting so crazy right now.  He’s not used to the cage.” she said.  A ferrel cat?  That’s just a fancy way of saying he was born in a barn – which he was.  Great.  Like I need more inconsiderate slobs around my house.

So after every other cat in the place was vetoed by Princess Emma in favor of Buster, I finally resigned myself to the fact that we WOULD be leaving with him.  Paperwork?  Fine.  Cardboard “crate” for $15?  Great, I’ll take one.  Just put the damn cat in it and let’s go.

Suddenly I was the not-so-proud owner of a stinky asshole kitten.

The feelings of panic set in about 5 minutes into the drive home.  He was meowing – rather, screaming – in the pseudo-crate on the passenger seat.  He began wildly GNAWING THROUGH THE HOLES of the heavy duty cardboard.  Evil little claws were emerging.  And we still had another 50 minutes till we were home.

Visions of careening off the road as a rabid kitten clawed off my face began surfacing in my mind.  I could see an entire leg now.  20 minutes later, the majority of his head appeared.  Dear sweet Jesus, we just adopted the CAT FROM HELL.  WHAT HAVE I DONE?!? In a last ditch effort to save our very lives, I took the box (whilst driving as fast as humanly possible down the freeway) and shoved it onto the floorboard.  THERE.  That’ll hold him.  No getting out now, sucka!

His entire head emerged through the hole as I finally arrived at our exit.  I stuffed my heavy duty winter coat in front of the now kitten-sized escape hatch.  Please God, don’t let us die.

By the time I pulled (or screeched, rather) into the driveway, his entire head and one leg was out of the box.  Kyle came to the car and I shrieked “HE’S GETTING OUT!  HELP!!!!”  We rushed him to my room so Hurley wouldn’t freak out (like I was) and I prayed to GOD that I didn’t just invite Damien the Satan Cat into our home.  I hated the name Buster, so somehow we came up with the name “Jinx.”  Which is appropriate when preceded by the word “Hi.”

We released the beast on our bed, and he immediately set to sleeping.

Jinx, five minutes after nearly killing us all in a firey freeway crash.

And sleeping…

Two hours in...

And sleeping…

Four hours in...

And sleeping…

Dude, are you alive?

So, it turns out Jinx sleeps a lot.  And thankfully he has proven to be more entertaining than the robotic hamsters that make unnatural animal sounds (since when do hamsters “moo,” anyway?), and other than the pooping inside part, he’s actually not too bad.  He’s even kind of grown on me over the last year.  He looooves Hurley and follows him around pretty much everywhere, much to Eeyore’s – ahem, I mean Hurley’s – dismay.

Meeting Hurley for the first time... no hissing or scratching involved.

The gentle giant Hurley, less than amused with his new companion.

Remember that Dr. Seuss book "Are You My Mother?" That's pretty much it.

And of course, for Emma it was love at first Petfinder.com sight…

So, Jinx has mommy issues.  But seriously, who doesn’t?  In the beginning, he spent every single night attempting to sleep across my neck scarf-style while kneading my skin with his tiny kitten claws and trying to suckle on me.  Now he prefers to lay directly next to my head, moving each time I do as to make sure there is ALWAYS a paw touching me.  He still wakes me up in the night by gently touching my face with his paw – usually either on my eye or cheek – and then going back to the kneading/suckling routine.  If I could train him to do it on my back, he’d make a great masseuse.

And of course, despite our deal that EMMA – the one who WANTED the cat – would clean the cat box, guess who does it?  You got it.  Me.

And, of course, Jinx now thinks he rules the house.

And Hurley is still not thrilled with the fact that he’s been dethroned by a furry little asshole….

But as it turns out, everyone gets along really well.  No one has lost an eyeball (or even been scratched or bitten), I’ve never heard him hiss, and for the most part, his favorite activity is sleeping.  And annoying Hurley.  And eating stinky cat food.  But mostly just sleeping.  Preferably as close to Hurley or myself as possible.

He likes Jack's toys almost as much as Jack does....

Assisting with toy assembly.

He enjoys ruling the house. And sleeping. Don't forget sleeping.

And strangely enough, he LOVES water.  Nero reincarnate?  Maybe so….

Monitoring bathtime activities.

Yes, he HAS gotten in.

So, all in all, I guess having a cat isn’t THAT bad.  I still am not a “cat person,” but Jinx, as far as cats go, is pretty darn okay.  And if it makes the kids happy, I guess risking life and limb and sanity to invite the little bastard into the house was all worth it.

Emma, you’re welcome.  But don’t go asking for another animal for Christmas, cause we’re chalk full of crazy already here.    And no, Jinx, you are never, EVER going outside.  Deal with it.  Now go back to sleep ya furry little jerk…

Zzzzzzzz......

My Summer “Break” – by Anne Zeiler

Hello?  Helloooooo??  Anyone out there still?

I know, I know.  It’s been an ENTIRE SEASON since I last blogged, so I thought I’d do a good ol’ school-style summer report for all of the people who probably no longer check my blog.  So get your popcorn, Mike & Ike’s and Snuggies ready – this is gonna be a whopper.

Let’s start with WHY it has taken me this long to blog again.  The answer is simple – it’s because I’ve been having SO MUCH FUN!

Oh wait, no, that’s not exactly it…

Where to start… how about where I left off?  Sound good?  Perfect.

So, on May 1st we moved as planned into our new pad directly next door.  But not before Kyle managed to break his hand into several pieces just one week before what was supposed to be the easiest move ever.  Incidentally, ONLY Kyle could shatter his hand falling from the second rung of a ladder (yes, I’m working on building him a impenetrable bubble).

NOT how hand bones should look.

Anyway, his boss helped us move, so between me, the bossman, and a team of uninjured movers we managed to get everything into the new house (all whilst watching Kyle’s uninsured ER bills build up).  We left our old house (and psychopathic landlord) behind and awaited the return of our deposit so we could give it to the new landlord.

Despite the unfortunate timing (and never-ending bills) of Kyle’s hand debacle, I really like the house.  It’s considerably bigger and set up much better for a family of our size (i.e., the kids rooms are on the opposite side of the house from ours, meaning I no longer have to see the disaster areas they call “rooms” on the way to and from my own room, and I finally have a “big girl” bathroom).  I like it.  A lot.

Or I should say THE KIDS have a big girl bathroom. Cause it seems that's who is always in my bathtub.

Anyway, we continued to wait somewhat patiently for the return of the deposit, which we KNEW we would be getting back since we were told the old house looked great on the walk-through (done just moments before the new tenants moved in) and we’d be getting our deposit back ASAP.

So we waited.  And waited.

Two weeks passed in the new house, and something started to seem, well, off with Kyle’s job… like the fact that he didn’t get a paycheck on the 15th as he should have.  Oh, wait, what’s that?  The business is folding and we’re up shit creek in a house you just helped us move into two weeks ago??  Super.  Thanks, asshole.

Hey, landlord, where’s that deposit again? Ahhh, certified mail, this has gotta be it!  Yay!

Wait, no…  What the…

Holy shit – so lemme get this straight.  Not only are you NOT giving us our $1750 deposit back, the one our new landlord is waiting for, but you are suing us for almost EIGHT THOUSAND DOLLARS?!?!? (enter sound of my heart failing, my hair turning gray and lots and LOTS of crying, cursing the world and throwing things).

Fast forward to the court date.  We sit in court for HOURS listening to a gaggle of white trash idiot relatives arguing over who stole who’s toaster, who ruined who’s clothing, and who gave who bed bugs (enter sound of us both itching and moving as far as possible from them).

We finally get our turn after four hours of listening to other people’s meaningless problems, and the psycho hands me what appeared to be a novel in a three-ring binder.  My heart DROPPED.  I broke out in a cold sweat.  What could he possibly have in this GIANT binder?

In his summons, he stated we basically ruined his entire house, forcing him to (hopefully) perform a full Extreme Home Makeover courtesy of us.  Sinks?  Totally ruined (how exactly DO you “ruin” a sink, anyway?).  Carpet?  Completely destroyed.  That banister that sent Kyle plummeting to the bottom of the basement stairs the prior Christmas?  Yeah, we made that happen too (cause everyone knows banisters that lead to a cement basement floor are clearly for aesthetic purposes only – no holding them allowed).  I’m still not sure how he got to a figure of just under $7500, but I’m guessing it has something to do with $7500 being the small claims court limit.

Thankfully, he is as dumb as he is psychotic.  He had pictures alright!  TONS of pictures.  Pictures of things like…. perfect looking sinks.  The underside of rolled up carpet (the same rolls that lived in our basement for two years).  Dirt behind the oven (cause everyone pulls out ovens to clean behind them… especially with a broken hand).  And a very helpful property manager that admitted the pictures were taken two days prior to the court hearing (complete with the new tenant’s stuff in the pictures, since they’d moved in moments after we left).

But he still had one more ace in his pocket, the creme de la creme, a big finale meant to bury us and get him that home makeover he’d been dreaming of…

He had a picture of (drum roll, please) – CARPET FRESH.  Yes, Carpet Fresh.  That stuff you sprinkle on carpet?  Yeah.  That stuff.  Because, you see, the name in and of itself suggests that it is NOT intended for carpet.

The douchebag actually put me on the stand and had me read the instructions aloud for his big, “A Few Good Men” moment – the instructions that read “For best results, sprinkle on liberally each time you vacuum.“  I could barely read it with a straight face.  It sent the judge (and property manager) into hysterical laughter, and it wasn’t the first time.

Actual "evidence" from his big binder of bullshit

*IMPORTANT NOTE TO MY READERS:  Carpet Fresh is NOT meant for carpet.  Got it?  Good.*

Needless to say, the judge dropped his entire case, we won our entire deposit back and also got the rare pleasure of watching the dickwad waddle out of the courtroom with only what was left of his pride.  The best part is he enclosed a note with the check that read (and I quote) “Please take this deposit, go on with your lives and please let me go on with mine!”  Wait, whaaaat?  Who sued WHO here, jackhole?!?

At any rate, the win was bittersweet.  There were still those two preceding months of extreme douchebag-induced heartache and worry (and stress-related wrinkles I’m certain weren’t there before).  But hey, a win is a win.

In the meantime, pre-summons and pre-Kyle’s job loss, I’d planned a trip to CA with Emma to visit with the family and friends I hadn’t seen in ages (and hopefully stalk out my hero Lin-Manuel Miranda after I took Grams to see him perform at “In The Heights” at the Pantages).

After all, I had worked six days a week for the past two years, Emma had never had a summer vacation, stress at our house was UBER high, and I knew Grams could use some company after losing David, her partner of 35 years.

So I had booked the time off, bought the plane and show tickets, and got ready for an epic CA vacation.

Wait, what’s that? My account is going to voice recognition?  Now we’re BOTH unemployed?!? FUCK ME.

At any rate, we proceeded as planned, which turned out to be the right decision (not to mention, everything was non-refundable).  The trip proved that the ENTIRE summer wasn’t gonna suck.  Emma and I had a GREAT time in CA, and I was able to hang out with old friends, new friends, family and (gasp) just myself.  It was just what the doctor ordered.  You can check out the pictures here!

Other things that didn’t suck over the summer were….

After a long battle with The Art Institute, I finally received my diploma.  AND I ended up being on the Deans List!  Booyah!

Yay for me! Now, how to pay off those student loans...

My “baby” Jack turned 4…

*sniff, sniff*

My beautiful girl Emma turned 8 in the company of her closest friend…

*boo hoo!!!!*

And she went back to school as a third grader…

Kicking scholastic butt and taking names.

…which has only been possible with a little help from our friends.

Oh, and I turned (gulp) 35.  But we’re talking about stuff that didn’t suck, so let’s move on.

Yes, that's a 2 and a 1 candle in a banana. It seemed appropriate.

My bestie got Grams and I a room at the Hollywood Hotel, which was amazing.

One of the many awesome views from our room.

We stayed two nights… and renamed the pagoda there “Penis Pagoda,” after witnessing a large naked man on his porch, looking at us and… well, you can guess the rest.

Penis Pagoda

Sneaking by Penis Guy's house. "Don't you know there are GRANDMOTHERS staying here, buddy?!?!"

That night I saw In the Heights with Grams, and it was everything I hoped it could be.  The show was totally amazing (yeah, that’s three times for me now), and my incessant obsessing, plotting, planning, fantasizing, subway riding and quasi-stalking (okay, maybe just flat out stalking) resulted in me actually meeting Lin-Manuel Miranda not once but twice.  Kyle said I’m the only one he knows who can obsess about something so much that it actually happens (*note to self – obsess upon being filthy, stinking rich*).

With the best lady on the planet, before the show

Then, the post-show pics….

Lin on his way out (*insert my screams of delight*)

I think I said something remarkably stupid, like “I can’t believe this is really happening.” He said “You know, we were just saying that last night when we were going on “So you think you can dance!” Thanks, Lin, for not making me feel like a total moron.

I also met the rest of the cast (again, since I had met most of them in Denver), but you can never get enough of these awesome people!  Rogelio Douglas Jr even remembered Emma and I from the Denver show (swoon, swoon).

Nina (Arielle Jacobs)

But why did you meet him twice, you ask?  Because after floating over to the show with grams, floating backstage and actually meeting him I later realized, holy crap, I forgot to bring the picture I drew of him to get it signed.  DOH!

So what did I do?  The next night while still in the Hollywood Hotel and kicking myself for the majority of the day, I hopped on a subway (alone), ventured BACK to the Pantages theater, hung around the back gate and then plead my case to the security guard, who sweetly allowed me to wait (at the front of the line, thanks!).  Mission accomplished.  And once my computer decides it’s not gonna die at the mere thought of Windows Movie Maker, there WILL be an accompanying video.

Yeah, it's me again. He said "Dang girl, this is TIIIIYTE!" It was ALL worth it.

And finally, last but DEFINITELY not least, two days ago Kyle finally started a new job.  Not that we aren’t still in a black sucking hole of poverty thanks to the last three months of neither of us working, but at least there appears to be light at the end of the tunnel, and I won’t have to figure out how to decorate my new cardboard box on the corner.  Besides, as much as I adore losing weight, the whole Poverty Diet thing is pretty overrated.

Jack and I yesterday, finally enjoying some alone time

So stay tuned, kiddos.  Turns out being depressed and destitute didn’t lend itself well to blogging, but I’m gonna start on that plan of obsessing about being filthy stinking rich now and keep you all in the loop as I do it.  Thanks for reading this novel – now go pee!  Oh wait, that’s me….  <3

Dear Moving (and Uncle Sam) – I hate you both.

So, I haven’t blogged much lately because we’re moving all the way next door in just two weeks, and as I realize each time I take on the daunting task of packing, it’s amazing how much crap you accumulate after two kids and 14 years with someone. The house is awesome though, way, way, waaaay more awesome than our current one.

Wanna peek (or become a stalker? I love stalkers…)?

View Larger Map

If you take the little arrow and move it to the house on the right, that’s our current house. Which has become something like a slightly more carpeted prison over the last two years (although I’m fairly certain prisons are built just a little better). At any rate, I’m having to fight off my natural tendencies for procrastination BIG TIME in order to get prepared (this is coming from the same person who just filed her taxes yesterday. On tax day).

Which brings me to my next gripe. Taxes. Who the fuck came up with this system? (yeah yeah, our founding fathers. whatevs.) You’d think in a year where Kyle was unemployed for six months we’d be getting a big, fat return, right??

Wrong, wrong, OH SO WRONG.

See, as it turns out, Unemployment Insurance (you know, that shit you pay for out of your paycheck – the one that is TAXED) is still taxable. So rather than getting the few grand we typically get, we’re getting a whopping $600 back from the Feds. Not too bad, you say? Wrong again (Sweet Jesus, get it right already!!). Turns out we owe the grand ol’ state of Colorado $700. Nice, right?

So in short, our reward for barely eating last year thanks to Kyle’s unemployment is a nice fat tax bill. And no refund. Awesome.

In other news, Emma had a playdate with her little friend Alle on Saturday, and messy fun was had by all (turns out if you mix sidewalk chalk with bubbles, it creates something akin to brightly colored glue). Also, note to self: Remember to upload the video of them doing the macarena for future blackmail purposes….

LL Cool Jack

Jack threw on his typical charm (a scary foreshadowing of the teenage years to come) and followed the girls around EVERYWHERE, much to Emma’s dismay. That is, until Alle’s little sister Sophia showed up (fickle man. so typical).

Jack's two loves. Girls and cars. Oh, and dancing, but we'll leave that out.

Now back to cleaning; we have a friend we haven’t seen in like 12 years flying out tonight (holla, Justin Gries!!), and I’m suspecting he and his wife wouldn’t appreciate the current state of my kitchen… besides, that’ll let me procrastinate on the “packing” thing more!

Packing, cleaning, Kohls, and other things that annoy.

Ever tried to pack or clean around a three-year-old?

Lemme tell ya - it’s no easy feat.

We gave our 30-day notice on this dump of a house a few days ago, and now I have the distinct pleasure of not only attempting to pack, but attempting to keep this place clean for prospective renters over the next three weeks (a teeny little clause in our lease agreement that is proving to be truly annoying). 

And by “dump of a house” I really should say “lemon of a house.”  Cause it truly is.  Anyone remember this?

Anything look wrong with these stairs to you?

Yeah, they fell right off the wall while Kyle was walking down them.

Then there was the bannister that pulled away from the basement stairs (the uncarpeted stairs that lead to the concrete floor) that caused Kyle to fall down about seven of them while bringing up Christmas stuff… and then there’s the gigantic crack in the wall (and I do mean gigantic)…

Best to get out before the entire house collapses...

Actually, it’s pretty amazing that we’re all still alive after our two years in this pit.

So, we’re making a huge move… all the way next door.  Way bigger and better house, a landlord without the need for anti-psychotic meds, and pretty much the easiest move in history… if you aren’t trying to clean and pack around a three-year old, that is.

See, even with general cleaning, it goes something like this:

(me, picking something up)

Jack:  “NOOOOO!  I’M PLAYING WITH THAT!!!”

(me, picking something else up that he hasn’t touched in days)

Jack:  “NOOOOO!  I’M PLAYING WITH THAT!!!”

Repeat this about 5000 times, till I eventually just give up.

So the idea of “showing” this dump to people – aka keeping it in a constant state of order and cleanliness - in order to get it rented out for our aforementioned psychotic landlord is daunting at best.

Hopefully the prospective tenants have kids.  And know a good contractor for when this place finally crumbles on top of them.

In other news, as some of you may know, I hate shopping.  I mean, I really, really hate it.  I’ve questioned my estrogen levels on several occasions because expensive heels or clothes or malls do nothing for me other than put me in a really, really bad mood. 

I dress like the artist slob I am every day, wearing the same paint-stained jeans and ripped up t-shirts pretty much every day.  I’d much rather spend money on art supplies than clothes… and sadly, it shows. 

So when my dad gave Kyle a $100 gift card to Kohls, we saved up a little extra cash on top and I resigned myself to the fact that I must get new clothing.  Which involves two of the things I hate most… leaving the house, and seeing the many idiots that roam this place we call Earth.

So I pack Emma and I into the car on Monday, her last day of Spring Break, and we head to Longmont (a 35-minute drive).  We stop at Red Robin beforehand and have a nice lunch as the clock quickly ticked down to my work hour. 

We head to Kohls after that kid-hell and proceeded to shop.

By the way, ever try to find man pants in the size 32 x 34?  It’s practically impossible.

So 20 racks of khaki’s later, we find daddy some new pants, a few new shirts, and I managed to pick out a few things for myself too.  My internal shopping clock expires after about 45 minutes.

Tick tock, tick tock… I also have to work at 3 o’clock.  And it’s 2.

Off to the register.  Only $121?  Thanks, sales!!!!  That’ll be $20 bucks, about $80 less than I was planning on spending.  AND, I won’t have to look like a total hobo anymore.

An old lady with a gigantic, black, hairy mole on her neck tries to run my gift card. 

“You should really get that checked out… or removed,” I think to myself. 

The long black hairs have put me in a trance.  I cannot look away, no matter how hard I try. 

“Oops, I need to call on this,” hairy mole lady says when she runs my gift card.

“Okay…”

The line slowly builds behind me. 

“Oh, okay,” she says, and hangs up the phone.

“Do you have another form of payment?”

Um, no, bitch, I have a $100 gift card.  I ain’t paying out of pocket.

“No.  What’s wrong?” I say, KNOWING this is why I fucking hate shopping.  And people.

“Well, something seems to be wrong with the gift card system….”

*blood pressure beginning to rise*

“Get me your manager.”

In walks greasy-haired manager guy.  He’s about 25 with a haircut that was clearly from the 80s and looks like it hasn’t been washed in weeks.

He asks giant mole lady, “Have you checked the balance on the card?”

*blood pressure rising further*

“I guarantee the card has $100 on it.  I just got it as a gift (hence the words GIFT CARD), and it’s never been used,” I say, feeling a sense of impending issues that will undoubtedly piss me the fuck off.

He walks to another register and checks it.  “Nope, it says it’s blank…”

*blood pressure reaching boiling point*

“Look, I have the receipt – my dad sent it with it (my dad is always thinking).  CHECK IT AGAIN,” I tell him.  He retreats to “the office,” to check it out… which was apparently located in Wyoming since it took well over 20 minutes for him to return.

The line behind me is now three deep.  The other women in it look at me with pity.  “This is happening to you because I’M in this line,” I say to them.  They open another register.  Don’t mess with the crazy lady, I imagine the clerks are thinking.

35 minutes have now passed.  Kyle texts me, “What’s your ETA?  We need diapers…”

It’s now one hour till I start work.

Finally greasy manager kid returns.  “I’m sorry,” he says sheepishly.  “It’s not your gift card.  The entire gift card system is down.  I can hold this for you, hopefully you live close…”

*now fighting the urge to grab the cash register and smash his head in with it*

“NO, I DON’T LIVE CLOSE.  I LIVE IN FUCKING FREDERICK.  THIRTY MINUTES AWAY.”

The lady in the other line pipes in.  “Wait, I can’t use my gift card??  I live in Firestone (right down the street from me).  Are you kidding???”

Greasy manager guy is getting nervous.  Another customer chimes in too.  “What, wait, no gift cards today?!?”  A riot seems to be on the verge of happening.  And apparently, people only shop at Kohls on gift cards.

“I’m really sorry, I know it’s a pain….”

I cut him off.  “YEAH, it’s a fucking PAIN.  It’s the only GODDAMN REASON I DROVE OUT HERE TODAY.”

“I can give you this 15% off certificate….”

I snatch it from his hands.  “GEE.  THANKS.  That won’t even cover the gas it took to get here.”

Hairy mole lady adds, nervously, “Um, here, here’s a survey, you can fill it out online.”

I snatch that too.  “OH YOU BETTER BELIEVE I’LL BE FILLING OUT YOUR FUCKING SURVEY.”

“Can you come back tomorrow?  I can hold this stuff for you till tomorrow,” greasy manager guy asks.

“NO I WILL NOT BE COMING BACK TOMORROW.” 

*Blood pressure has now boiled over.*

“Um, well, um, I can hold it for five days for you….”  Greasy manager guy is clearly frightened.

“Great.” 

I grab Emma by the hand and storm through the doors to the car.

And THAT is when I realize “Oh, fantastic, I left my sunglasses in the dressing room.”

I storm back in.  Firestone lady is leaving empty-handed.  A cute little checker girl has taken over mole lady’s place.  I tell her I left my sunglasses, and she rushes to the dressing room with me. 

Nope, no sunglasses there… there are the clothes I tried on, no sunglasses.

Super. 

She pages the dressing room attendant, clearly in fear of me at this point (as she damn well should have been).  She searches the cart and under the counter.  No sunglasses.

“JUST PUT THEM IN MY FUCKING BAG IF YOU FIND THEM.”

I storm back out, squinting in the bright afternoon sun.  I get in the car and attempt not to drive it through the doors of Kohls.  I curse into the air and at every car on my way home with nothing to show from my trip other than a BLTA that is now making my stomach hurt.  

And no, I still haven’t gone back to Kohls. 

In other, happier news, Easter was a success.  The Easter Bunny came and the kids had an egg hunt.  We watched Princess and the Frog and I actually enjoyed it, which says a lot since I hate movies.

And Jack’s lip is looking a LOT better now.  Just three weeks later, and the only visible scar is the one permanently ingrained in my heart.

This is the result of mommy's obsessive application of scar ointment... and very skilled doctors.

Bottomline – Moving sucks, as does cleaning around a 3-year-old, but this house sucks worse.  And Kohls sucks, period.

How to Shave 25 Years Off of Your Life in Just Over a Week!

Step 1:  Start the week out with massive insomnia, and then remember after a little under an hour of sleep that you are chaperoning a field trip. 

Realize, as they make a U-turn in front of the porn shop, that the bus driver is lost.  

Smart parents don't ride on the bus. They drive behind it so they can take a XXX shop tour of the city.

Wish you had coffee.  Finally arrive an hour later only to realize the terms “play” and “Beauty and the Beast” were both used VERY loosely.  Imagine a “beast” with a mascot-style gigantic head, and no “Be our Guest” whatsoever.  Desperately attempt not to lose any one of your five screaming second graders.  Use Purell.  Lots and LOTS of Purell. 

My five girls, unaware of the torture that is "field trips" for parents.

Step 2:  Repeat insomnia throughout the week and curse your mattress for being 14 years old as you see new bags progressively forming under your eyes. 

Step 3:  Attempt to relax on a Thursday night.  Allow your children to play together before night-night time in your daughter’s (wooden) bed as they have done many times before.  Hear a sharp shriek and run to the room to find blood splattered on the aforementioned bed and a huge gash across your son’s upper lip.  Freak out.  Freak out some more.  Have your husband race him to the ER (which is 40 minutes away) at 9 pm.  Cry and pace the room while you wait to hear what is happening to him.  Cry and pace the room while you wonder how many of your uninsured dollars this will cost.  Cry and pace the room wondering if your beautiful little guy will be scarred forever or will have the appearance of a cleft lip patient.  Cry some more. 

Step 4:  Hear the stories of how they had to strap him down in the bed, bright light in his eyes and hands over his ears in order to give him three stitches.  Hear about how he begged the doctors to please stop, that he couldn’t see, that it hurt.  Freak out more.  Cry more.  Wonder how to remove the hex that seems to have been on your life for the last few decades. 

Step 5:  Finally get your little guy back home by about 1 am.  Stare in horror at his poor little face and what he had to go through.  Smother him with love and cry some more. 

1 am in the Zeiler house Thursday night.

Step 6:  Wake up in the morning and realize that no, in fact, this was not just a horrible nightmare.  Further realize that you will now need to attempt to stop all traditional 3-year-old craziness in favor of not having to return to the ER for busted stitches.  Say/scream/moan “BE CAREFUL” at least the 20K times an hour, every hour, for the next week.  Cry more. 

This face was mainly because I told him he couldn't dance for a while.

Step 7:  Continue to hover over Jack like a heat-seeking missile.  Begin realizing you should have recorded the words “BE CAREFUL!!!!” on some sort of apparatus that would just repeat it over and over at the push of a button.  Also realize that since his wound was so deep and dissolvable stitches were not an option, that you will need to return to the scene of the crime (the ER) again in a few days in order to get the sutures removed.  No hurt in crying a little more at this point.  

Step 8:  Be happy you all survived the last six days.  Wait, what’s that?  A blizzard?  TONIGHT?  When we have to take him back in the morning for the stitches???  Great.  

He is clearly less traumatized than us.

Step 9:  Wake up and hate Colorado for making you shovel for two hours (or, rather, for making your husband shovel) in order to get out of the drive way.  Thank the snow plow guy for making a three foot wall of ice in front of your driveway.  Kiss the little man goodbye and thank the husband for not making me go through the torture of watching him be tortured. 

Fuck you, you fucking fuckface called "Spring snow."

Step 10:  Worry.  Pace.  Worry.  Do not envy the hubby in the ER.  Attempt not to cry at the very thought of him having to go back there again. 

In the ER waiting to be un-stitched.

Unaware of what is about to happen next.

Step 11:  Attempt to breathe again.  Vow to continually smother aloe and vitamin E and Mederma and whatever else you can get your hands on onto his little lip.  Pat yourself on the back that Jack can now spell the word “NEOSPORIN” thanks to your obsessive application of it to his lip every half-hour.  Try to be happy that it wasn’t worse – and that daddy and Jack have far stronger stomachs than you do. 

The stitches are gone, but my PTSD is not.

FOLLOW-UP INSTRUCTIONS:   Try to block this last week out.  Try NOT to look in the mirror and see how you now miraculously look 25 years older courtesy of paralyzing stress in combination with insomnia.  Resign yourself to the fact that you now will forever FEEL 25 years older.  Vow to build hamster-style bubbles around your precious little children so you don’t know the ER docs on a first name basis.   Pray you don’t go bankrupt (again) thanks to the impending hospital bills (Nice, Obama, but that came about a week too late for us!).   Thank whoever is up there for my beautiful little monsters and the fact that it wasn’t worse (cause we know better than anyone – it can ALWAYS get worse).  Remember to buy lottery tickets.  Have a drink and try to forget the last week. 

VIOLA!  You have now shaved 25 years off your life – you’re welcome.

Newsflash: It’s MARCH.

So I’d like to believe that everyone procrastinates to some point.  I understand putting things off, cause I do it all the time.  For instance, just look at my laundry basket(s) - if you can find them under the mountains of clothes, that is.

I’ll give you a couple of weeks after Christmas to take down your crap (although personally, I start taking mine down two hours into Christmas morning).

But this, my friends, is REEEEDICULI.  Hello, it’s freaking MARCH.  It’s ALMOST EASTER.

Seriously? A Christmas tree? Icicle lights? SNOWMEN????

It’s March 5.  There’s just no excuse. 

So here’s the new plan, rather than stealing it in the night and putting it in the entry way to the complex:

I’m finding my box with the plastic Easter eggs in it tonight. And I will write little notes inside all of them that say “TAKE YOUR FREAKING CHRISTMAS CRAP DOWN BEFORE I TAKE IT DOWN FOR YOU.”   Then I’m gonna toss them all over their yard.  

It seems only fair.