I'll Drink to Nothing

   I'd like to start off this entry by setting the stage of my blogging scene for you: anytime I get on my lap top, Jack, our newest canine edition, whines until I sit down on the sofa with it. He then lays his full body across my lap forcing me to set my lap top on a pillow to the side, rotate just my upper body to that side, and work on my computer from a side stretch yoga pose. It's like he knows it's portable and if I have time to stop to get on it (I'm always moving), then I have time to provide a lap for him to sleep on uncomfortably. (Seriously, they actually have a really nice dog bed.) So, there ya go. Stage is set. I'm uncomfortable, Jack is happy, but probably uncomfortable, and my right side is getting a nice long stretch that will surely require Advil later.

Working conditions.

   Now down to business: it's my birthday today. Thirty-nine. And for the first time since I was a baby and didn't even know what a fucking birthday was, I don't give a shit. I just don't care. Thirty-eight was still okay. Thirty-nine...nope. Of all the thirties, thirty-nine just doesn't matter.

Which birthday is this? This is the only one I want to celebrate from now on.

   I've come to determine there are certain ages that are just so awkward and stupid, we should just not call them birthdays and just slide right past them. They're like the pie crust of ages. We need the crust, but is anyone ever like "Dude, the crust is my favorite part of the pie!" (And if you know someone who says that, stop being friends with that weirdo. They probably like that stupid ass song 'Up, Up, and Away' and have a stamp collection.) Should we skip those birthdays? Nah. Because just like you need bad days to appreciate the good, (or some positive affirmation quote like that), we need to get through the dumb years to appreciate the awesome years.

   The first of those birthdays is, coincidentally, the first birthday. Why the hell we throw these massive celebrations complete with food the baby can't eat and attractions the baby doesn't give a shit about is beyond me. I get that, like, 100 years ago, making it to 1 year old was a huge deal. We were birthing our babies in dirt rooms and shit like small pox and ebola (maybe not ebola) were prevalent. You were having 10 babies because you needed help on the farm and only like half those kids made it to one year. But we don't squat our kids out in fields anymore and we have vaccinations. So your kid making it to a year is not that huge an achievement. Congrats! You made it to every pediatricians appointment and had a trained professional guiding you in your infants first year! Break out the bouncy houses and clowns your one year old will nap through! The age you should really celebrate is four! Because if your kid makes it to four without you going bat shit crazy or shipping him/her off to baby boot camp, thats the real accomplishment!

This is how much your baby gives a shit about turning one.

The most appropriate celebration of a first birthday I've ever seen.

   The birthdays from one to ten all have their milestones that are worth celebrating quietly, I suppose. Then we get to eleven. What fucking kid wants to be eleven? There's no big milestone at eleven! You're not technically a pre-teen yet, (though Comic would argue that with me) and you're not a little kid anymore. You want to do kid stuff like dress up and trick or treat, but you also want to do adult stuff like play Grand Theft Auto. It's that awkward age where our bodies are still deciding when you'll get that much anticipated first fuzz on your pits, the real mark of whether you can call yourself a "pre-teen".  And good lord, it's the age where they all start fucking stinking like damn truck drivers in a truck stop with no AC. If you've never smelled an 11 year old, count yourself lucky. It takes a good 3-4 months to get those little fuckers to realize how bad they smell and to start using deodorant as a regular part of their hygiene routine.

Why do you smell like an inmate? "I dunno. Puberty." 

   Then we move right along to 28. Seriously. Who cares about being 28? You're either firmly entrenched in the whole family raising situation, just starting out the family raising situation, or facing a daily barrage of "When are you starting a family?" questions situation. None of those scenarios are exactly conducive to wanting to party your ass off and celebrate your age. Twenty-eight is the first time you look around and go, "Seriously though. What the fuck am I doing with my life?" You may be thrilled with it, you may be working on being thrilled with it, or you may be sitting in your parents basement being a loser and a parental disappointment. But you will still question where you are and where you're going. And who needs that shit when you're supposed to be celebrating surviving one more year? Honestly, wake up that morning, do a shot of tequila and then go do something by yourself the rest of the day.

This is about what happens around 28.

   Now we arrive at 39. My age. Today. The age where every other birthday wisher also feels the need tack on, "Just one more year to 40!" Like every woman just can't fucking wait to be 40. Yay! Forty! When your doctor starts talking to you about mammograms and menopause! When instead of offering perfume samples at the department store, they start offering wrinkle cream! When people say stupid shit like "You look great for your age!" (Not just 'you look great'...) The age where there are literally no make up tips on Pinterest for you. They're either for the under 35 set or the over 50 set. No cute make up tutorials for you! You're 40, now bitch! Time to start preparing to die! (Ironically this is also usually the age people start considering wills and shit. Fortunately, Pepe's father is an attorney who encouraged us to draft wills right after Comic was born. Wait....is that weird? "Congrats on the baby! You should write a will!")

Maybe I'll do this for my 40th. Nothing says hanging on to my youth like a tutu and champagne.

   I should also mention that I woke up on my 39th birthday still having to take the dogs out...twice, preparing breakfast for Comic, making sure Diva wasn't parked behind me in case Pepe overslept and couldn't take Comic to school, and cleaning up 4 piles of cat shit. It's like nobody else gives a shit about this being 39 either. Happy Birthday! Here's some dookie for you to clean up! Fantastic.

End note: Despite the tone of this particular entry,  I actually don't mind my age. I'm embracing aging as well as I can, (still spending copious amounts on botox and anti-wrinkle products), and am enjoying where I am in life. I know that at no other age before now have I ever quite fully appreciated my health, my happiness, my amazing family and wonderful friends. I know I am blessed beyond measure and look forward to having more birthdays, more years on this earth and more blessings.

And fabulous, honey.

Gimme 2 Seats, Gimme 2 Seats, Mister.

   I never have the TV on during the day because it's generally nothing but trash. Your choices are Kardashian reruns, (bad) news, soap operas or talk shows, which are really just a few liberal asshats telling you how you should feel.  Today was an exception. I turned on the television as background noise while I cleaned, and quickly remembered why I prefer our Sonos system for music to our TV system for bullshit.

This is how Jack motivates me to keep writing. By doing some attention begging of his own. 

   Within minutes of the program, I was annoyed when one of the members of the gossip panel announced her choice for president. We're all entitled to our opinion, but on a show that is probably supposed to be unbiased, you should probably shut the fuck up. Especially if any of your sponsors are paid political ads. There's a reason they say religion and politics should never be discussed. Because someone out there probably liked you and now they hate you. Viewers everywhere likely turned off the program in disgust. And the viewers who agree with you are already watching, so you won nothing.

Me, either, sister. Me either.

 
Then they mentioned a lawsuit a man has filed against an airline for being stuck on a 9 hour flight next to an obese man. They're take on it was that he should have just dealt with it because "that's life" and in life you are forced to co-exist with many different types of people.

   Uuuummmm...no I'm not. I do not ever have to do shit, except pay taxes and die. So, first of all, you can fuck off with your "deal with it" suggestion. Secondly, if I purchase a seat on Fly Me Anywhere Airlines for $200, I expect the use of my entire seat for the duration of the flight. The whole seat. All of it. Not 90% of it. Not even 95%. I want 100% of my seat that I paid for. Do I think airlines should charge obese passengers for two seats? Hell yes I do!

Cards Against Humanity Win

   Let me explain why: it has less to do with my space being intruded upon and the safety aspect. Airplane seats are designed to safely transport passengers who fit within the confines of a seat and fit within the length of the belt. The moment a passenger spills out of those confines, that passenger is no longer safe, and neither are the passengers traveling near that passenger. So not only am I paying for a comfortable flight, I'm also paying to arrive alive. My chances of that are greatly diminished when in the event of an emergency, Tubby next to me can't squeeze his fat ass down the aisle to the emergency exit as quickly as every other passenger.  Once again, before the Jenny Craig drop-outs chime in, I think obese passengers should be buying 2 seats. OBESE. Overweight is not always a choice. Obese is a choice. When your choice affects my comfort, (on a plane) you should have to pay for that choice.

Because we all know treadmill is the most difficult of all the cardio machines. 

   The second story that pissed me off was a parent who shared some (probably coerced)note in which  his kid wrote he/she had no friends with some plea, "please like and share to show my kid that he/she has friends all over blah blah blah." No. No, I won't like or share. Because my like or share, and the 5 second mention on Gossip Bitches R Us, does not help your kid navigate the tough road ahead of him/her called "Fucking Life." And frankly, I'm sick of parents like you whoring your kids out on social media for likes/shares and fake attention.

 If you can't handle mean kids, stop making kids. 

   How about this? Maybe your kid has no friends because they're the asshole? Ever thought of that? Or maybe he/she had no friends today because kids are dicks and do that stupid shit like threaten  "You can't come to my birthday if I can't have your Rainbow Brite pencil." and your little angel, rightly so, refused to give up the coveted writing device. Guess what? They'll be friends again tomorrow, and you'll look like the attention whore you are for posting a beggy "like me/like my kids" status.

   Let's try to teach our kids to navigate social situations without fucking Facebook pleas? Can we try that? I know it's super progressive, but maybe try arranging a play date for your little fuck trophy. Talk to a few parents. I guarantee, you'll find out real quick who the real piece of shit kid is by just opening up some lines of communication with other parents. And if they put you off, or repeatedly turn down your offer to host a drop off play time.....I guess you'll know who the assholes are.

Can I Have Self Diagnosed for $200, Alex?

An actual conversation I had with a friend recently went like this:

Me: I have to go get blood work done for my thyroid. I think my levels are off again. 

Her: What? Why?

Me: I have a thyroid condition called...

Her: You don't have a thyroid problem!!! People with thyroid problems are fat!! 

   Well, thanks, Friend. Twelve years and four doctors later and all I needed to do was have a glass of vino with you to know that they're all wrong. I do not, in fact, have a thyroid condition because WebDr says "You can tell a person has a thyroid condition because they will always be fat." 

As you can see, this cat clearly has a thyroid condition.

   Actually, I have countless labs, paperwork, needle punctures and have probably had enough blood taken to transfuse into two whole other adults, to know that I do actually have a thyroid condition. Specifically hypothyroidism. 

  Yes, ladies. I have that -ism that all you bitches go running to the dr to get tested for when you put on 10 stubborn pounds you can't take off. The one where if you express being exhausted at 2 in the afternoon, someone is going to ask, "Have you had your thyroid tested?" And God forbid you be wearing a sweater on a summer day (because it's cold in your office). Yep, you for sure need to get tested for thyroid disease. Hair is unhealthy, (because you bleach the ever living fuck out of it without tossing a deep conditioner on there occasionally). You must have thyroid disease. Feeling a little blue one day (because it's been raining for 6 consecutive days and you're about to start your period).  That is most definitely an underactive thyroid. 

   No, honey,  its the daily bottle of wine with buffalo wings that have perma planted 10 lbs on your ass. You're tired all day because you stay up till midnight watching Naked and Afraid reruns, knowing you have to be up at 6am. And you're cold because bosses are assholes who like to play games like "Can we make it snow in the office?" Your hair has probably been the battleground of home hair dyes and heat tools since you learned what Aquanet was, and everyone is pissed off  while PMSing or during long bouts of shit weather. 

Another obvious example of under active thyroid. 

   I have often felt like when I mention having hypothyroidism, everyone either wants it or thinks they have it too. People want a fucking medical excuse to explain extra weight or be tired. And while, yes those are two of the most common symptoms of hypothyroidism, they're not the only symptoms. 

   My condition caused a miscarriage. I've had severe depression. My hair has broken off and fallen out. (To be fair, I do bleach the ever loving fuck out of it, but I know what deep conditioner is and like to believe between colors, I bring it back to some semblance of healthy.)  I have been so exhausted I passed out and forgot my child at school. Twice. (Each kid. Which actually worked out so neither can say, "At least mom never left me at school." Which they would because kids are assholes.)  I'm cold all the time. Seriously. I wear a hoodie outside when it's under 90 degrees. I developed a jaundice like condition once because thyroid meds don't like to play well with other meds in the body, and my liver began to malfunction. In short, this is not fun. 

   Do I mention any of this to gain sympathy. Fuck no. Your sympathy won't change the fact that I have to pop a pill every day for the rest of my life. I actually don't care that I have to do that. I mention it because I feel like women don't understand that I don't just have to pop a pill every day for the rest of my life. That pill doesn't fix weight gain and fatigue. It just gives my body the dose of hormone my own thyroid refuses to make.  I have to change my lifestyle and my diet to manage the thyroid issues. Many of the foods I love are not thyroid friendly, like peanuts and spinach. Ideally, a gluten free diet is best for those with an under active thyroid. But do you think for one second I'm giving up peanut butter or pasta? Hell to nah, sister. I just have to work out more and harder to manage my weight, and deal with the issues that arise from me eating known goitrogenic foods. (That sexy word means 'bad for optimum thyroid function'.)

And the way I look at peanut butter would make a normal person blush.

   You see, to me anyone who even inadvertently wishes they had thyroid disease to release their own responsibility for their weight gain or fatigue is the equivalent of me wishing I had herpes to release myself of  the responsibility of having sex on nights I don't feel like it. "Nope, sorry honey. Can't do the sex thing tonight because I think I have the herp. Sorry. Maybe tomorrow night I won't have it, but tonight I'm pretty sure I do." This is how ridiculous it sounds to actually want a condition to explain an unwanted, but self inflicted, side effect of your lifestyle. (Calm your tits, I don't actually have herpes. I'm trying to metaphor over here, please follow.) 

   No, ladies, you don't want thyroid disease. No more than I actually want herpes. What you want is a healthy, functioning body. And most of you have that. Even if it isn't at your ideal weight and needs an occasional nap. (And let's just be honest. Naps are the best fucking thing in the world. Who doesn't love to sleep. Sleep during the stupidest part of the day? Even more amazing. Thyroid issue or no, always sign me up for nap time.) 

Oh, look. I found the problem.

   

Mr. Rogers Doesn't Live Here

   As a blogger, occasionally it's difficult to come up with material every week that's worth writing about, worth reading, or that can be made funny. Fortunately, my neighborhood's Facebook page gives me plenty to work with.

   Every neighborhood has one. A handy "group" page created just for residents of that specific community, supposedly to share neighborhood related and pertinent information. Upcoming social event at the park? Post on the page! New restaurant nearby that is amazing? Post on the page! New Bunco group! Put that shit on the Facebook page right now! That asshole driver in the red Toyota who cut you off? Oh....wait...Yeah. This is what neighborhood pages devolve into. The Bitch it Out forum. 

    You'd like to think that since these are people who managed the very adult activity of purchasing a home, there'd be a level of intelligence and maturity. And you would be wrong. The same asshats who are still protesting Target because of bathrooms and never miss an opportunity to comment that on Target's Facebook page, are the ones you'll find on your local neighborhood page. From driver shaming to bitching about the post office or issuing a warning to parents of shitty kids, the pages literally become and entire group dedicated to letting your neighbors know how much you hate them in the most passive aggressive way possible. 

   In my last neighborhood, I made quick friends (and enemies) with my no nonsense approach to nonsense. I would try to tactfully tell the dumbasses to stop being dumbasses.  Sometimes I was less tactful. Like when some braintrust asked why there were construction vehicles and barriers on the major road in the back of the 'hood. My response: "Ya know, construction." Because obvious, right? Wrong. This got me the Dumbest Message of the Year, when that same neighbor private messaged me to call me all kinds of super cool names like "cunt" and "whore" because I single handedly ordered said construction, and I was personally causing his foundation to shift and to be looking for a lawsuit. Sit down, Neighbor Ned. You're drunk. 

   

   When we moved into our new home last year, I resolved to make just friends in this neighborhood by being kind in all posts and ignoring the fools. I'm not the idiot whisperer, and if history has taught me anything, it's that those idiots tend not to see reason, even when reason is presented to them on a beautiful sparkly platter with flashing lights. Yeah, that lasted less than a year.

   However,  the lady who posted that she called the cops on a couple of 12 year olds who entered her garage, took a snapchat and left her garage, probably doesn't know she needs Xanax. I feel like I'm doing the whole community a favor when I point out that she could probably use it. When asked if anything was stolen, she responded no. Was anyone hurt? Again, nope. So, they were in your garage for, like, less than a minute and you called the police? She lost her shit and by the time the post was deleted, her story had evolved into the kids going through her shit for hours. By the way she was acting, you'd have thought these two kids had stolen her used panties and raped her guinea pig. I guess I should have known she wouldn't respond well to, "You are being ridiculous." But someone needed to say to her, "You are being ridiculous." (It doesn't help that I have a special hate on for anyone who says "My kid would never." Yeah, sweetheart. Talk to me when you're picking your angel up from the police station in 10 years. Karma heard you, loud and clear.")

   Then there's Last Word Guy. We all know him. If it's not you're annoying uncle who bores the family at Thanksgiving with all his useless "knowledge", then look on your neighborhood page. He's there. This is the guy who genuinely believes only his way is the right way, and will respond to everything, eventually resorting to snark. He. Must. Have. The. Last. Word. MUST. Don't even try to out-last-word-him. He will stay up till the wee hours of the morning just to be the last to respond. 

   My most recent experience with Last Word Guy was regarding pool chemicals. He commented that  nobody should let a pool builder talk them out of a salt pool. I commented, we've had both types and people need to do research and build the pool that works for them. He replied to me with a novel on the virtues of salt. Yeah, I'm not reading that, Stephen King. It's Facebook, not Barnes & Nobles. I again said, "People need to do research and build what works for them." LWG replied, "Good job point that out." I have your number, LWG. I know what you're wanting here, and I'm not biting. The debate raged on between two other neighbors with LWG checking in yet again, to say what? Everyone should do research and build what works for them. Gee, if only someone had thought to point that out. Oh, wait....

   However, quite possibly my favorite moment in pointing out stupid was the novel posted by a mother on how a possible pedophile followed her around Wal-Mart snapping pics of her 2 year old. When I agreed with another neighbor that Wal-Mart is a cess pool of degenerates and the dredges of society, Angry Mom asked where else there was to shop. This should have been my first clue she wasn't firing on all cylinders in that old brain cavity. I pointed out that both Target and HEB have excellent home goods departments. To which she responded, "Target? Where a pedophile can follow me in the bathroom?" Now, I could have let that stupid just marinate. But nope.  "Isn't this whole post about a pedophile following you around Wal-Mart in the open?"  And in the words of Jeff Foxworthy, here's your sign. 

   I've been told by people that they look forward to my posts/responses. So I guess my plan to be kind didn't work and I'm back to having both friends and people who hate me. But love me or hate me, at least they should respect me for keeping it logical. 

End note: This would be my own personal beef with my neighbors. Their kids are so loud. So so loud. But I refrain from posting my own bitchy rant on the page because it's part of living in a neighborhood, and I know this. So I do what everyone should learn to do: DEAL WITH IT! 

Cast Introduction

As I blog, I will use pseudonyms. More because I enjoy making up ridiculous names for people than out of an actual desire for privacy. With that being said, as my blog continues, I'm sure I'll add to my cast of characters, but for now, allow me to introduce the 4 recurring members:

Me: Obvi

                                                      
                                                                                Me

                                                             

Pepe: My husband. Self chosen moniker, though he actually wanted a longer, more official title. In the interest of keeping this blog PG-13, I declined the full title. We'll stick to just Pepe.

Diva: My 18 year daughter. She exudes an inordinate amount of independence and confidence for a teenage girl. I'm not sure if I'm proud or frightened.

                                             Maybe Diva is actually Bette Midler's child?


Comic: My son. Ever the entertainer and YouTube addict. Master of the one liners and sarcasm-pro. Again, I'm both proud and frightened and not sure which I am more.

                                 My son personified. And ironically also his favorite movie. 

And then theres my dogs: (No pseudonyms, because dogs.)

Marbles: The most clever derp you'd every meet.

Emmie: Poster child for the  need for Pfizer to make over the counter Xanax available for dogs.

Jack: Our newest member, and thus far a lanky, clumsy goof. I don't see this changing.

Now that you know the major players, I can only hope you'll enjoy the  show.

                                                                         Also me.

Update Schmupdate

To state the obvious, I haven't blogged in awhile. For a multitude of reasons, but mainly because I haven't had time. Because I haven't made time. Because only like 10 people read it anyway.

I know it seems like I ooze charm, wit, and a remarkable ability to work in satire. And verbally I do. I have no firewall in social situations, so I end up just throwing out there whatever word vomit pops into my brain-organ before my brain-organ has a chance to tell my word-hole to shut the fuck up. However, when writing, I re-read what I write and think to myself, "that just sounds stupid/boring/racist/bitchy/slutty." All said, it takes me about 2 hours to complete a blog to my satisfaction.

However, I talked with my friends, Choir Boy and Venkman. And then Pepe and I started watching Chelsea Does, during each episode he kept proclaiming "It's YOU! Older and richer, but she is you! You need to start blogging again!" And during one of those awkward "haven't seen you in forever" moments, an acquaintance asked if I still blogged. Okay, Universe. I'm hearing you, loud and clear.   They all encouraged me to keep at this bullshit hipster hobby by making the excellent point that I use this blog primarily to keep track of this chaos that is my life so that I may record it for prosperity to hopefully write an actual book. With words and everything! (And maybe pictures.)

I know they are right. Everyone thinks their life is crazy, but I seriously can't make the shit up that happens in mine. How many people can say they had a random Russian stripper from New York stay for a night? (While drunk in New York, Pepe invited her to fly down to Texas, she accepted invitation because she'd never been, and suddenly I was tasked with showing a Russian stripper the attractions of our great city in one day. It was actually a good time and a cultural experience for the kids, and I made a new friend.) But back to my point. My truth is genuinely often stranger than fiction, and I should probably get it all down as it happens before the wine and vodka marinate my brainus.

                             To be fair, all Russian names sound stripper-ish. Except maybe Olga.


In any event, maybe nobody reads this. Maybe nobody gives a shit. But like my attitude about pretty much everything I do,  this is more for me than for you.

So, with that in mind, my language is foul. My life is chaotic and weird.  My choices are sometimes really, really bad. But in the very least, I like to believe I can put it all down, the good, the bad, and the ugly in a way that is amusing.

                   You never realize how much you swear until you're in a situation where you can't.                      
                                                  Example: PTO meetings and car rider line.