6 Things I Hate About My 40s

While I was in my 20s and 30s, many older lady friends of mine would tell me how great their 40s are/were.

One of my girlfriends whom I grew up with posted this and said, "This is why I love my 40s!" Maybe I'm lucky, but I've basically been this way my whole life. Never had time or patience for assholes or stupid people. Or stupid assholes.

  1. “Best years of my life!”
  2. “I felt like I finally really came into my own.”
  3. “In my 40s, I finally stopped caring what other people thought.”
  4. “My sex drive went through the roof! My husband didn’t know what hit him!”

Well here’s my response to all that rosy-eyed bullshit:

  1. The first one is a blatant LIE.
  2. Can’t  really relate to #2. See the Meryl Streep pic above.
  3. Really? It took you until your 40s to stop giving a shit about random people?!?!?
  4. Yeah, well, *I’m* the 18-year-old male in my marriage, so these days my husband is afraid to bend over for soap.

So aside from ALLLLLL that ridiculous bullshit, there are just so MANY things I hate about my 40s. In no particular order:

1. Hair. Everywhere. In places it had never been before.
OK, confession: I am very fortunate when it comes to body hair. I am a real blonde. The carpet matches the drapes. (Although yes, I get my hair done to lighten it up and hide the GREY). I have always had very little body hair. I shave my legs about 3 times a year. So, there’s that.

But chin whiskers?!?! Seriously, what the fuck?!
And suddenly my bikini area requires FAR more attention than it ever did before. It’s like my pubes are suddenly curious what’s down further on my thighs.
And my personal favorite: nipple hairs. NIPPLE. HAIRS. And those bitches are BLACK. Suddenly my body can make black hair?!? When did that start to happen?
Oh, and yeah, I had to pluck a hair out of my nose a few months ago. I cried. Because it hurt, and because I realized it was yet ANOTHER thing I was going to have to keep tabs on.

2. My upper arms.
Oh it’s not just the bingo wings, my friends. It’s the DIMPLING. I have looked around at my other reasonably-fit friends, and I realized it’s almost inevitable. Sure, I have some friends who still look amazing. But I have other friends who looked FABULOUS… until they hit 40. For some of us, no matter how much we work out, no matter what yummy food we deprive ourselves of, our muscles just seemed to get tired and start to dangle off our arms. And the skin just sort of gives up and gets all dimply… I can’t go on. It’s just too depressing.

3. Boobs trying to escape to the Southern Hemisphere.
We don’t really need to go here, do we? I avoid going braless around the house anymore because, inevitably, I seem to painfully smash/clip/almost rip off my nipple on something… something that I thought was probably belly-button height, but that is just slightly — ever so slightly — higher than that.

See? She's looking at the floor. She can't face it either.

4. Saggy knee-skin.
I do yoga pretty regularly. I have for about 15 years. These days, if I’m not wearing long enough pants, I have to close my eyes during Downward Dog. It’s just… it’s too demoralizing. Staring at the wrinkly skin gathering above my knee caps is the opposite of relaxing and soothing. I saw a picture of Elle McPherson in a bikini when she was in her late 40s. She looked fucking AMAZE-BALLS… and the skin above her knees sagged. Oh yeah. I enjoyed it. More than a little.

5. My INSANE Uterus.
These days, I’m either menstruating or ovulating. It’s like my uterus goes, “What? No baby? CLEAN HER OUT. Let’s go again!” So instead of the length of my cycle stretching out, and getting to enjoy longer respites between having my uterus try to kill me by bleeding me out, I now get to enjoy Aunt Flow’s visits every. three. weeks. FUCK THIS SHIT.

The look on my face whenever a cramp hits, and I feel like I've been sucker-punched in the ladyparts. Also, the amount of blood I FEEL like I am covered in.

And Aunt Flow is not polite. Oh GOD no. No, she feels the need to bleed me like the pigs they bled to coat Carrie. I’m getting to the point where I’m considering carrying Depends around in my purse.

(Thank god my mom — a retired nurse — taught me that hydrogen peroxide gets out blood. Otherwise, I’d be buying sheets, underwear and pants by the dozen.)

Oh… and ovulating. Oh my sweet ovaries. What have I EVER done to you? My ovaries seem to have joined in the campaign to destroy me from within. Over the years, I often felt myself ovulate. It was only occasionally unpleasant. But these days? Christ, it feels like some telekinetic demon is trying to twist my Fallopian tubes  into a knot. And, just for good measure, I frequently ovulate on both sides. Because Mother Fucking Nature is going, “Go go go!! Drop those eggs!! Use ‘em or lose ‘em!”

Why does it suddenly hurt so much, you ask? Well, Margaret, every month when you ovulate, you basically develop a cyst on the ovary, then the cyst pops and releases the egg. Apparently, this leaves a little scar tissue behind. At my advanced age of 43, after 30 years of ovulating, there is, presumably, a fuckload of scar tissue on my ovaries, and my eggs have to claw their way free.

So these days, I’m hornier than I have EVER been… and my uterus is thwarting me one out of every three weeks. That BITCH.

6. My metabolism now defies the laws of physics.

When you burn more calories than you take in, you lose weight, right? I mean, it’s simple physics.

NOT AFTER 40. My body put on 15 – 25 pounds (I fluctuate) in my late 30s, for no apparent reason, and it is holding on the added weight with a death grip. I’ve tried low-carb, vegan, Paleo,  and good old-fashioned low-calorie diets. NOTHING has worked. Nothing. I trained for and ran a half-marathon on my 39th birthday. BUPKUS. I went back to weights and cardio. Nada. Tried interval workouts. ZILCH. I still have this spare tire… along with chin and nipple hairs, saggy knees, belly-button-level nipples and ladyparts that are plotting my ultimate destruction.

Oh yeah. I love my 40s. Best years of my fucking life.

 

 

 

 

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When did kids’ homework get so fucking complicated?!?

Here’s my FB post from a few days ago. I’ll just use this as my intro.

My kids have been homeschooled or private schooled… until now. Faerie Child started at a Charter Middle School in January. I was FLABBERGASTED to discover that The King and I have a new part-time job: managing her homework. On all 4 — count ‘em, FOUR – websites that we have to monitor. She is being really responsible and honestly doing the best she can, but… JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!! When I was in 6th grade, my mother did not have to be involved with my schoolwork on a daily basis! What the fuck HAPPENED in the last 30 years?!?~T

And here’s an email I just sent to all of Faerie Child’s teachers — all of whom are AWESOME, and making sure my autistic kid is absolutely in love with her new school. This frustration is really just coming from me whining and stomping my feet and going “It’s not FAIR! Why do *I* have to do it?!?!”

TO: Faerie Child’s Teachers
SUBJECT: Faerie Child’s Homework Websites and other things that make me drink

Hi Teachers,

My husband and I have made arrangements to get tutoring from Faerie Child’s homeroom teacher in [Homework Site #1], [Homework Site #2], and [Homework Site #3] … DID I FORGET ANYTHING?!  (I’m convinced there’s another homework website just waiting to bite us in the heinie.) Hopefully, this will help us help Faerie Child understand where the frick everything is on all the school websites, because I sure as crap can’t find anything. 

This tutoring should happen this week. So please know that Faerie Child is going to be behind in her schoolwork for yet another week.

I should also explain that not all of Faerie Child’s classes were added to her [Homework Site #1] until recently. We did not know that ALL of them were SUPPOSED to be on [Homework Site #1] until last week, or we would have asked about it sooner. I thought, since math has its own website, that perhaps [Homework Site #1] was only for certain classes. I see now that I. was. mistaken. 

I apologize for not being more pro-active with this [since she transferred to this school 8 weeks ago]. Well, we thought we WERE… until I started getting emails about missing assignments that I cannot locate on [Homework Site #1], [Homework Site #2] or wherever the mean internet elves are hiding them.

I truly had no idea how complicated homework has gotten in the last 30 years. Even Faerie Child lamented to me one evening, “Doesn’t anyone give paper homework anymore?” No, Virginia, and THERE IS NO SANTA CLAUS.
Thank you all for your patience with us newbies. 

Sincerely,
Faerie Child’s confused and confounded parents

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I’d like a discount…

K and I have a friend who owns Once Upon a Time Character Company in Southern California. It’s  a really cool company that lets people hire princesses and other literary characters for kids’ birthday parties and other events.

Our friend, like other business owners, often gets some… strange requests. In particular, she gets… “odd” discount demands. My favorite was this recent gem:

“I’m [ethnic group], so there will be a lot of people at my party, and your company will get a lot of exposure. I want a discount, since it’s free advertising for your company.”

This person was completely serious.

So the other day, I decided to have some fun on our friend’s Facebook wall. I posted the craziest shit I could think of, and of course K and others got in on the act.

Here’s what went down:

Theresa: I’m Irish, so there will be a lot of drunk people at my party. Your characters will probably be assaulted. I’d like a discount.

Theresa: I’m from Idaho, and there are only like 1.5 million of us. So if you do my party, everyone in Idaho will know about your company. I’d like a discount.

Theresa: I’d like to book your company for a party at our nudist colony. Please send your characters with nothing but tiaras. Since your characters will be naked, I’d like a discount.

Theresa: I’d like all of your princesses, but the party will just be me. I’ll be staring at your characters through a hole in the wall. It’ll just be me, so I’d like a discount.

Theresa: Please send your princesses as zombies. Since they don’t have to be pretty, I’d like a discount.

Theresa: I’d like your “off-brand” princesses. It’s OK if my kid and her friends never heard of those “characters.” I’d like a discount.

Theresa: I’d only like princesses who are under 5’2″. Since they’ll be short, I’d like a discount.

Kerstin: None of my guests speak English, so your princess won’t have to read stories, or even speak. I’d Like a discount.

Theresa: Please to have princesses bring all passports. Huzbend eez NOT Rrrussian mafia. Eez ugly rumor. Please to no ask questions. I vant discount.

Kerstin: If I give you 20 bucks, can your princess just drive by and wave? She doesn’t even have to wear the dress.

Theresa: How much is it to have a princess call my daughter and tell her she’s been bad, and that’s why there won’t be any princesses at her birthday party?

Kerstin: I want hipster Little Mermaid. Since she’s ironic and douchey, I want a discount.

David: Do your princesses have a “furry companion” option? I would very much like to have an adult man dressed as Meeko at my next party.

Heather: If I brush their pretty hair and put on their makeup and dress them up myself in the fancy dresses I ordered online that were just delivered to the basement of my mother’s house, can I get a discount?

Kerstin: I was mouse #2 in my high school production of Cinderella. If I ear the dress myself, can I get a discount?

If you’ve ever owned a business, or really, done customer service of any kind, you’ve probably gotten insane requests like these. We probably can’t even come UP with the craziest one possible.

So let’s hear it! Post it in the comments below. What’s the most effed-up, ridiculous, you’ve-got-to-be-punking-me request you’ve ever fielded? Winner gets a … hearty handshake ;)

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Krampus is watching…

–posted by Kerstin

I’ve never actually owned an Elf on the Shelf. It seemed like an awful lot of work. A lot more work for ME. The Elf “tries to bake cookies,” and  “leaves a mess in the kitchen” over night… and *I* have to clean that shit up? FOE-GET it.

It’s no secret I have a dark, DARK sense of humor. Believe me when I tell you my kids have inherited it. They’ve been fighting a lot lately–a LOT– and I needed better ammunition that some pansy, lame-ass, Elf on a Shelf. And so an idea was born: #krampusiswatching.

If you’re not familiar with Krampus, allow me to borrow from wikipedia:

Krampus is a beast-like creature from the folklore of Alpine countries thought to punish children during the Yule season who had misbehaved, in contrast with Saint Nicholas, who rewards well-behaved ones with gifts. Krampus is said to capture particularly naughty children in his sack and carry them away to his lair…There has been public debate in Austria in modern times about whether Krampus is appropriate for children.[7]

My friend Sam, also a parent with a dark sense of humor, sent me an early Christmas gift.

My friend Sam loves me SO much, he sent me this monstrosity

So of COURSE, Krampus visited my kids while they were sleeping:

I showed them the pics the next morning, and Type A, age 12 (far right) just rolled her eyes. The Boy, age 8 (far left) has already hopped-to, though. And Firecracker, age 10 (middle) is fencey about the whole thing.

It didn’t stop there, though. Oh no. When they went to get breakfast this morning, they were greeted with… THIS!

Hey kids! Time for breakfast! *tee hee*

Personally, I’m gonna have fun with this. I’ll keep you posted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Because it’s da rules. Dat’s why.

From time to time, it seems we need to reset our boundaries here on
Valium. Restate the purpose of our FB page and blog, and why we started them in the first place, if you will. So here goes:

1. Our FB page and our blog are places where people can vent without judgment. If you feel the need to say something shitty or judgy, refrain. You’re on the wrong page. Just don’t bother. We delete stupid comments and ban all assholes.

2. Unless someone specifically asks–including K or T–no one on this page is EVER asking for advice. We are looking for support and commiseration, not yet MORE judgment and assurance that we’re doing it wrong. FIGHT THE URGE to offer unsolicited advice. It just leads to lots and LOTS of eye-rolling.

3. If you think it’s funny to belittle someone over typos, YOU ARE WRONG. It’s not funny. It’s sanctimonious and obnoxious. And we say this as shameless grammar snobs. GET OVER YOURSELF.

4. Anyone who attacks anyone else on this page immediately gets banned. Immediately. We’re not here to moderate debates. We’re here to support each other in trying to do the best that we can.

5. If you’re offended by foul language–including the use of “OMFG” or “Jesus Fucking Christ,” you’re on the wrong page. Buh BYE.

6. Don’t pimp your shit on our page–products, FB pages, group, etc. It’s rude.

7. We support the troops. Over. Done with. If that offends you, too bad.

8. We tend to ignore most assholic, judgy, snotty comments directed at either of us. We just don’t care enough to bother responding. If your life is so little and sad that you need to pick on two random moms on FB, we feel bad for you. And we will ban you when you piss us off enough.

This page is for FUN. It’s for laughing at our failures as parents, it’s for sharing our triumphs as parents, and it’s for having a community of people who aren’t trying to shame or judge each other.

We have deliberately NOT sought out a following. We made a conscious decision to let our page grow naturally, figuring the people who would really enjoy it (and might need it!) will somehow find us.

The VAST majority of people on this page are truly awethome. We work to cull the assbutts and get rid of them. But if you see yourself in any of the items listed above, please…
go cull yourself.
Thank you.

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Unsung Heroes of Bed-Making

Moms get a lot of play in the media. From Tiger moms to slacker moms. French moms to moms who breastfeed until the kid is old enough to ask for the car keys.  Moms get play in the media because Moms do a lot. We work, we volunteer, we help sell Girl Scout cookies. We cook, we clean, we do laundry, we drive drive drive.  We remember doctor appointments, dentist appointments, meetings, field trips, and when library books are due.  We cut fingernails and toenails before they reach Wolverine status (or TRY to, anyway), bandage boo-boos, remind to brush brush brush and floss floss floss.  We grit our teeth at homework time, science fair time, and while brushing out tangles roughly the size of a womprat.  Everyone sings the praises of Mother for all this and more. But you know what I never see? Moms getting kudos for bed-making.  I did some math, and figured I have made approximately 2000 beds in the past 11 years. And this doesn’t include the daily bed-making when the kids were little. This is weekly tearing-the-bed-apart-and-putting-on-clean-sheets bed-making.  I got to thinking about this a few months

Luckily, someone who can afford a bed like this probably has a hired hand who takes care of pesky household chores like bed-making.

ago, as I scraped my knuckles YET AGAIN on Type A’s headboard.  I remember my mom making all our beds.  I remember sliding into those cool, clean sheets, blankets heavy on my body.  That fresh smell of recently washed laundry that never lasted long enough, but was so soothing.  I remember feeling loved and safe.  I also remember never thanking my mom for doing it.  Why would I?  In my childhood mind, it was what moms did.  Like making dinner, and teaching me how to tie my shoes.  Mom-work.  But now, as a Mom myself, I realize how much WORK goes into making beds, and I have to say I HATE clean sheet day.  I very rarely escape without a scraped knuckle, broken nail, bruised shin or sore back.  And word to the wise: think twice before getting a bunk bed.  Then think twice more.  Sure, kids love them, and they ARE space-savers, but you have to know it will be YOU who has to climb your fat, scared ass up that ladder to change the sheets, clean up vomit, or spray the mattress down because of a pee accident.  You will

Room for ACTIVITIES is GREAT, but who wants to try to change the sheets in the death-bed??

madly try to remember what the max weight limit is as you lay yourself flat across that top bunk to distribute your weight more evenly (like with snow or quicksand).  Have you ever tried to put clean sheets on a bed while laying flat on your stomach?  Yeah.  It’s terrifying.  Trying not to move too much because the bed sways and makes alarming creaking noises.  Imagining a catastrophic collapse turning you into a bunk bed sandwich, like Will Ferrell in Step-Brothers.  Yeah, I did that for a few years until I begged hubby to separate the bunks, because it really was just a question of WHEN the bed would collapse, not IF. Speaking of hubby, I don’t know why sheet-changing became exclusively “Mom work”.  Looking back, I don’t know of any Dads who changed sheets when I was a kid.  Maybe it’s because most men don’t mind wallowing in the same dirty sheets for a month or more.  Ugh. Just the THOUGHT of that makes me all skeevy.  I don’t know how they do it.  I think most men believe there is a Clean Sheet Fairy who flies in while they are at work, and puts clean sheets on the beds.  Kind of like the Clean Underwear Fairy, and the Clean Sock Fairy.

So I guess my point here is this:  Call your Mom (or whoever was your chief bed-maker back when you were a kid) and say “Thank you.”  Thank her/him for the scraped knuckles/sore backs/broken nails they had to endure.  Thank her/him for those middle-of-the-night sheet changes when you puked, peed, or pooped all over the bed.  Thank her/him for changing your sweaty sheets when you were sick, and your fever broke.  Thank her/him for enduring the nightmare of folding clean sheets to put away in the linen closet (folding fitted sheets makes me want to punch myself in the face).  And make sure your kids understand the sacrifice YOU make every week changing out those nasty dirty sheets by complaining loudly and sighing a lot.  Muttering the f-word under your breath gets your point across nicely as well.  Also, if you have a bunk bed to take care of, make sure you hand your cell phone to one of the kids with strict instructions on how to call 9-1-1 if the bed collapses under you.  That gets the point across to the kids that every time you make that bunk bed, you take your life into your own hands.  I’m not above guilting a “thank you” out of them.  But to be honest, I DO get a weird satisfaction of watching them snuggle down into a bed of clean sheets because I know they are experiencing that same intangible sense of well-being I did when I was a kid.  And sometimes, that is thanks enough.

 

 

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How Monday Killed Tuesday, Then Wore Tuesday’s Skin Silence-of-the-Lambs-style, Just So It Could Catch Me Unawares (or How I Got Coffee on the Ceiling).

I was walking through the hall, holding a mug of coffee, when it happened. I paused to tap on the closed bathroom door, to make sure my oldest, Type A, was going to the bathroom, and not giving herself premature hemorrhoids by sitting on the toilet for 45 minutes with the ipad. All of a sudden, it’s like my hand forgot it was holding a mug of coffee, and it just…. let go. The mug fell to the carpet and hit, bottom first, causing the hot coffee inside to forcefully eject from the mug like demon vomit from Linda Blair’s unholy mouth. I only had time to gasp in horror as the coffee shot out, splattering the walls and covering me head to toe. I stood there, frozen, as coffee dripped from my hair Carrie-style (pig’s blood for a pig),

This is what I looked like, only I was covered in coffee, not pig's blood.

and ran down the walls in little brown rivulets. And my God! Was that coffee on the ceiling???? ON THE CEILING????? I managed to choke out a horrified “Oh my GOD” before the kids came running. When they saw the mess, they too, froze. Probably in fear. “Can you guys PLEASE get me some TOWELS?” I asked through clenched teeth, not even knowing where or how to begin cleaning up this mess. It was the blue slushy all over again. The kids ran around like the 3 stooges, running into each other in their eagerness to ward off what was sure to be a Mount Vesuvius-style blow-up from yours truly.

I WILL BURY YOU IN ANGER-ASHES!!!!

One ran and brought back a bunch of rags. The other two brought paper towels, and mercifully, some cleaning spray. They then quietly went into their separate rooms and shut the doors. An unearthly silence fell over the whole house, and if I HAD been Carrie (of Stephen King fame), you can BET I would be using mind bullets to vent my anger. I looked down, and there, in a puddle of coffee that was slowly being absorbed by the beige carpet, was my mug. Upside down. I can only assume it hit the floor, bounced, flipped over, and landed on the rim. Stupid fucking mug. I hate you. So. First things first. I wiped my face and blotted my hair (it was in my HAIR!!!). I felt sticky and nasty but before I could clean myself up, I had to take care of the carpet. And the walls. And the ceiling. So I mop up the mess on the floor as best as I can, then attack the walls with cleaning spray and paper towels. Once that was done, I headed downstairs to get the carpet cleaner. That’s when I notice the coffee dripping down the banister. THE BANISTER?? OH COME ON!!! THAT’S LIKE 10 FEET AWAY FROM GROUND ZERO!!! HOW CAN COFFEE POSSIBLY FLY THAT FAR???? So I get the carpet cleaner and lug it upstairs, and I get to work. Soon, the upstairs smells like wet carpet and cold, dirty vanilla Via, and it is making me vaguely nauseous. And no matter how much I go over the area, there is still a vague brown stain on the carpet. One I cannot blame on the kids OR the dog. I guess I’ll just have to resign myself to having an ugly brown stain on the carpet. I finally get to shower, and realize that I was wearing my last clean pair of non-holey jeans when the “incident” occurred. Damn it. I’m afraid to even ASK if this day could get any worse, because we all know it can.
And that, my friends, is why you can never trust Tuesday. -K

I hated it so much.... it-it- the f - it -flame - flames. Flames, on the side of my face, breathing-breath- heaving breaths. Heaving breaths...

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Kerstin went to a nice Christmas party & all I got were these HEEElarious texts


These are NOT the people Kerstin spent Saturday night with. But aren't they lovely?

Personally, I am deeply thankful that Kerstin and I are not famous. If anyone ever hacked our phones, and got a hold of our text conversations, they would be convinced that two 10-yr-old boys had gotten ahold of their moms’ phones. Yup. LOTS of poop jokes. ‘Cause they never get old. Also, play-by-plays of how wretched our periods are. OK, maybe 12-yr-old girls…

Anyway, here are our texts back and forth from Saturday night. I am translating them as texted—in all their Swype Autocorrect glory. I never did figure out what one or two texts meant:

Kerstin and I text each other constantly. But I didn’t hear my phone for about an hour, then checked it and saw I had missed 15 texts. FIFTEEN.

Kerstin: Omg I am at Studly’s work Christmas party. He forgot something, so he has to run home, which will take like 30 mins snd I am here with a bunch of people I don’t know.

K: Thank gid I am getting to know this lemon drop pretty well

K: AWKWARD

K: ONE DRINK TICKET down, 3 more to go…

K: Shit. I just remembered I forgot to put my black bra on under my blck knit swear… My white bra totes shows thru. That calls for another lemon drop.

K: Drinkey drankey drunkey dronkey… I getting dronkey

K: Oh shit I think kenny g is here

K: Ok, not kenny g but but solo clarinet (out whatever jenny g plays) playing in the corner to a prerecorded track

K: Actually a classy party

K: Your stol continue to very updates until Studly comes back [Nope. I don’t have a fucking clue either.]

K: Omg the last text made no sense … Stupid Swype

K: Ok, and stupid lemon drop… can’t blame it aaalll on swyped this time

K: Whaaaaa? Pumpkin spice martini? Oh, that shall be my next stinky

K: Drinky not stinky [by this point, I can totes hear her teeth grinding and see her fighting the urge to bitchslap her own phone]

Theresa: I just read AAALLLLLL 15 texts, and I cannot BREATHE.

K: ON the shorter peeinf out some martini… My texts are hilarious

Theresa: Ima post em on Valium 2morrow

K: Ok

K: While I feel like my makeup is running down my face in drunken sludge, I actually look almost human.

Theresa: I drank a BOTTLE of wine at The King’s christmas party last night.

K: Sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeettttttttttttttt

K: Omg bartenders made do a digit if tequila… Haywards [never got that one either]

Theresa: Lsnb! I can’t WAIT until u read that one tomorrow.

K: Lmao!

K: Looking at Studly over they rew in his wrinkled red sweater makes me wish I ironed but only s little

K: you should read my tweets… An ode to the lemon drop

K: I like drink people… Especially dronk me

Kerstin tweeted these over the course of an hour. An hour I spent wheezing and gasping for breath.

Oh lemon drop martini, how do I love thee, let me count the ways….

1. You help me to navigate the social niceties of a work xmas party…

2. You quench my liquor lust

3. You give me the liquid courage to mingle with people I don’t know

4. You are so tasty

5. You are starting to make me feel dizzy and a smidge spinny

6. You are making me feel slightly amorous

9. I love you, man [yes, she skipped 7 & 8. She was drunk! Don’t judge.]

B. You make me want to talk to strangers like they were my best friends

Threeve. Oh, lemon drop… You are all gone… I shall have to ask thre bartender if you have any sisters….

? Three drink tickets left…. I may get into some trouble…..

Omg a pumpkin spice martini? Sorry lemon stop… You are booted

Heels and booze do NOT mix

I worked really vargas to NOT embarrass Studly art the part tonight. It worked…i only embarrassed myself

Drinky drankey drunkey dronkey

If a drunk Kerstin falls in her ved, does she make a sound? Question of the ages…

Then she came home and drunkbooked all over FB:

Kerstin’s comment on our friend’s status: “Fuckin awesome. Of course, I am completely drink right now, so my awesome scale might be off…”

Annnnd again: “Of course, I am drunk right now, so these might just be the ramblings if a crazy drunk person…”

To which I replied: “I think we can safely go with option B”

Kerstin: Bitch. I love tou

When I sent her the whole blog post of all her tweets and texts that night, she wrote:

Kerstin: “Ok mg. I would be ensured if I wasn’t still drunk”

Theresa: “You just keep digging yourself in deeper… and like a true bestie, I just keep LAAAAAUGHING.”

Kerstin: Whore. You know you love me. SAY MY NAME, BASTION! [You know she’s drunk when she’s throwing out quotes from “The Neverending Story.” Skip to 5:10 of this clip. Holy crap, that movie was bad…]

Theresa: This is ALLLLL going in the blog, baby!

And her final tweet of the night:
Dear bed…. Spin allllll you want, ima routed axmas I’m a sleep…. Night night

I would just like to say, I worked really vargas to get this all typed up.

 

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I vant to be alone

Ever found your keys in the fridge? Yeah, me too.

Mommies still get their groove on

That's NOT me, but I think we can all relate.

Moms feel like our brains shrink when we have kids. We feel so spacey, and air-headed, and we put our canned goods in the freezer and the milk in the cupboard and we blame it on hormones and sleep deprivation.

But my kids slept great (I was really lucky) and I STILL felt like I had my head up my ass all the time.

I think the space-headed-ness is at least partly because, with your kids around, your brain is absolutely full. At least half your attention is on them. That’s why moms do insane things like burn ourselves on hot plates—we forget we just took it out of the oven. Or put coffee grounds in the oatmeal. We have way too much crap floating around in our heads.

Aside from the daily monotony of running a house, we are constantly unconsciously thinking, Where are they? Are they safe? Are they feeding napkins and plastic spoons into the toaster? Is the cat disappearing into the dyer? Are they about to descend upon you and demand food? Will you soon hear that call of “That’s MINE!” or “STOP hitting me with that!” or, from the bathroom, “MOM! Come look at this poop I made! Can you help me wipe?” *SIGH*

But recently, I entered a whole new phase of motherhood: as of September of this year, both my children are in school, full-time. (I homeschooled Faerie Child for 1st – 3rd grades, but we finally found the perfect school for her. La Diva started 1st grade this year, so SHE is gone for a full day.)

They are both away. For 6 hours a day. Every day. *SOB OF JOY* I know I’m not supposed to love it. I know I’m supposed to pine for their baby days, and feel sad that they’re growing up so fast. In fact, whenever I make a comment about her getting bigger, or being so responsible, 9-year-old Faerie Child asks me, “Are you so sad ‘cause we’re growing up so fast?” I’m honest with her. Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I tell her, “I’m GLAD you’re growing up. It means I’m doing my job right.”

I loved having my kids around so much. I really did. I don’t feel judged when homeschooling moms say things like, “I homeschool because I choose to spend my time with my children. I actually like my children.” Well, come to think of it, they are probably judging me, I just don’t give a shit.

But—typically for me—suddenly, one day, I was just DONE. I was done having them around 24/7, with short, SHORT breaks when they were at activities. I was done with never having all the space in my brain just for myself.

When they are out of the house, and I know they are safe and well and cared for, it’s like all that room in my brain is suddenly MINE again. ALL MINE!!! Bwaaaa haaa haaa!

I started working–in a real office, not just with my laptop at my kitchen table–2 or 3 days a week. SCORE! The office is an hour away. BOOOO—is what I thought at first. Turns out, I LOVE it. That hour each way is really, truly ALL MINE. I cannot possibly multi-task on the road, so I get to be alone in my own head.. and not feel guilty for sitting on my ass ;)

Also, I rediscovered something: I like myself. I think I’m pretty rad—when I’m not cooking mac and cheese AGAIN, directing housework traffic, overseeing chores, or losing it because of YET ANOTHER mess left behind for me to clean up. In those two hours on the road, I am just me—in all my car-dancing-to-loud-90s-music glory.

AND… I find when the kids are home, and I am home, I actually WANT to hang out with them. I can even put up with 22 minutes of Hannah Montana on Netflix just to hear them giggle maniacally. Because, after a break from them, that giggling no longer makes me gird my loins for the inevitable, “MOM! She hit me!” I relax and just enjoy the giggling.

 

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That’s the sound of the Mom (HUH!) workin’ on the chain…. gaaa-eee-aaang….

Had myself a little breakdown last night after The Boy spilled his blue coconut slushy all over the freezer, down the front of the fridge, under the fridge, and all over the kitchen floor. Jebus, it was pathetic. I was crying hysterically, yelling at ALL my kids with my squeaky laryngitis voice, calling them animals and “screaming” that I was tired of being treated WORSE than a maid, and no one does shit to help me, etc.

It took me about 45 minutes of cleaning (and crying) to clean up that sticky mess, and the fridge door and the floor STILL have sticky spots. The children wisely stayed upstairs with their doors closed during this whole tirade.  I can kind of chuckle now about how I screamed like a petulant 4-year-old throwing a tantrum: “That’s IT! We are NEVER getting slushies AGAIN! EVER!”  and “I am so sick of this SHIT, no one cares about me and you and your FATHER treat me like a FUCKING MAID….”

After everything was less sticky and blue, I had to throw dinner on the table, 45 minutes late. If there was ever a time that I was LESS interested in making sure my kids were fed, I don’t know when it would be.  I was so angry and upset I was willing to let them go without supper.

And go without me for a while, for that matter.  For the first time since I was 13, I actually felt like running away from home.  All this over a spilled slushy, you might ask? Drama queen, you might say.  This was just a backlog of SHIT that finally broke the dam.  I had been sick all the previous week, and with my best friend Theresa’s visit pending, I was frantically cleaning the house, trying to make it presentable, rather than have it look like a pack of wild, rabid hoarders lived here.  It was during this cleaning that I realized how far gone the house really was, and I castigated myself for letting it get that bad.

Did anyone actually ever see Alice do ANY housework?

But then I realized how it got that bad.  I work 2 part time jobs, and still consider myself a SAHM. One of my jobs I do in the home, the other I do in my “free time”, which means on the weekends when spouse is home to watch the kids.  I do housework when I can, which means maybe an hour here, 15 minutes there, and that is not including “regular” chores like dishes, laundry, walking the dog. I am talking about vacuuming, scrubbing toilets, cleaning windows, etc.

And, I do 98% of the housework BY MYSELF.  No one helps. I can’t remember the last time someone other than ME vacuumed, mopped, scrubbed a bathtub or a toilet, or even folded clothes or made a dinner that didn’t come out of a box or from a fast food place.  The dishwasher could be standing open, empty, waiting for dirty dishes, and EVERYONE will just pile their dirty dishes up in the sink, under the assumption that I will do it, I guess. That it is somehow MY responsibility.  You’re maybe thinking “Crazy bitch should MAKE her family help!”, but I have begged, pleaded, bribed, asked, threatened and demanded help.  I get whining and crying from the kids, and nothing from the spouse. Or one hour of frenzied “helping” from the spouse that involves busy work, like cleaning out the cabinets under the bathroom sink, while dishes sit in the sink and there is a 6 foot tall laundry monster taking over the hallway.

When Theresa, the other half of Valium, visited, I at least had the common areas picked up, but I showed her my shame too- the messy office and master bedroom. Of course I was mortified, and stammered apology after apology.  Theresa (around whom I never feel like I have to apologize or be anyone but me) laughed and said, “Honey! Don’t apologize! You are a slob! Like ME!”  My subconscious chewed on that for a bit, and then I had a realization. I am NOT a slob.  I grew up in slobby conditions as a child, and I swore I would NEVER live that way again.  And yet, here I am.  How did I get here?

I'm more Alice the Goon than Alice from The Brady Bunch.

I will tell you.  I am one person picking up and cleaning up after 4 people who don’t do anything to clean up after themselves, other than the bare minimum.  The ONLY person.  Do the math.  It is impossible.  IMPOSSIBLE. And yet, everyday I try. I try to balance work, the kids, the dog, the bills, the husband, and the housework, and I fail. Miserably.

The thing is, there are women out there who do all this too, and STILL manage to have a neat house. How do they DO that?  Am I somehow deficient? Lazy? I think maybe the hour or so I spend a day on Facebook is probably time better spent cleaning.  That maybe I go to the bathroom too many times a day, and I could spend that extra few minutes cleaning.  That maybe I could clean the shower while I take a shower, mop the kitchen floor as I make dinner, or fold clothes while I am on the crapper. I mean, I have two hands, right?  Maybe get up a couple of hours earlier (my son would probably hear me though, and get up with me, thereby defeating the purpose of getting up while everyone else is still sleeping), or use that couple of hours after the kids go to bed for housework.  I will admit, the prospect of spending the few hours I have to myself on housecleaning depresses me. I mean, am I doomed to an existence of servitude to other people? When did I cease to be a person, and become “this”? I would say maid, but at least a maid is paid for her services. My family couldn’t AFFORD to pay me for all the shit I do.

Consuela got paid. Why don't I?

There has to be more to being a wife and mother than this.  There has to be more than resentment, anger, and sadness.  Look, I KNOW my family loves me. And I love them and wouldn’t trade them for the world.  But when did it become the wife/mom’s job to do EVERYTHING?

 

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