Acceptance is Key.

Y’all, it’s possible this post is going to be a teensy bit cranky. Just a teensy weensy.

So, before we begin, I will insert this:

pembroke-welsh-corgi-201[1].jpg

And voila. A smiling Corgi will cover a lot of ills, I tell you.

And now, *slaps hands together* let us carry on with the grump.

About six months ago, as bedtime, my husband informed me that he was going to take a life insurance policy out on me.

Don’t worry, this is not the grumpy part. But, before I actually dive into that, let me ask you something,

I ask you, dear reader, WHY does my husband decide to make these sorts of statements when we are both lying down, PRONE, past ten o’clock pm? Bedtime, for him, is a time to discuss filing our taxes, or the strange hiss/rattle that the back end of the car is making, or the strange hiss/rattle his backend is making, or what Trump said recently. All of these are things he likes to discuss when I am PRONE.

The nerve.

Ok, let’s break this down: Prone Momsie = Near Coma, Come Lord Jesus I’m TIRED, Momsie. Leave me da heck alone.

I do realize this makes the marriage bed sound sooooooo exciting. Perhaps I need to add here about how our marriage bed is also “Where the Magic Happens,”
but that’s another post for another day.

Plus, let’s just be realistic. Whenever anyone refers to their bedroom as “Where the magic happens,” I get even more snarky than I thought humanly possible.

BUT I DIGRESS.

The news about the life insurance did have me at, “Oh no he’s trying to kill me and get a million dollars” for about four minutes, then I remembered that with our standard of living he would probably make enough to cover the funeral expenses and maybe buy a new Earthway 2030Pplus Deluxe Lawn and Garden, 65 Lbs Fertilizer Drop Spreader, and that’s it.

Well thank YOU big insurance company for taking my husband’s Earthway 2030Pplus Deluxe Lawn and Garden, 65 Lbs Fertilizer Drop Spreader away.

All the man wants is a damn lawn that is well fertilized, and you are denying him that. Which, clearly, is un-American.

Yes, I shall explain.

It all started with the questionnaire.

I love questionnaires. As one who is in recovery, I LOVE  them. Know why? Cuz I always get to gleefully put a big fat X next to “NO! NO WAY! I do NOT!” next to the “Do you drink alcohol?” question.

This is so fun! I put a big huge X and I kinda linger there and smile to myself, and okay, I know, I take fun where I can get it, people.

Other things I get to say NO to on the questionnaire! So exciting!

  • Crack use
  • Smoking
  • Smoking and doing crack at the same time
  • Foul language
  • Endless youtube sessions about dogs were saved from the streets of Peru and now live a happy and serene existence without mange.

Ok, it’s possible the last two were not on THIS questionnaire. But this question was:

“Have you ever abused alcohol?”

Yep. Yes. Yepper. I did. I abused it. Big time. No light banter here, alcohol and I were in a very twisted relationship and there were breakups and bad choices yelling and lots of things. And so, I checked “YES” and felt good. Joyous. Free, perhaps. I was being honest in all  my affairs.

So that’s when the letters started arriving.

The letters were polite and full of questions. They asked things like:

  • When did you start abusing alcohol?
  • Where?
  • How?
  • Why?
  • Do you have photographic evidence?
  • Can you offer any sort of proof that you are, as of now, TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY OKAY?

Ok, I added that last one, but I get their point. I do. It’s just that I ANSWERED all of these letters, that came, weekly, to my mailbox, all asking the same things, and I got a bit tired of it. In fact, after a while, there were three thoughts that started to creep into my brain:

  1. This is what they do to murder suspects. They just keep asking them the same questions and they’re waiting. Just waiting FOR ME TO CRACK.
  2. Why do they keep repeating themselves? Are they on crack?
  3. Maybe…I could, maybe… just lie.

I did not lie. I kept filling out the forms, even when the last one came, asking for dates and times certifying my alcohol abuse and when it started (heck fire people. Like, I don’t know… DID YOU READ MY BOOK?).

And I would mutter things like, “Yes. YES. I am a FREAKING ALCOHOLIC. YES I WILL CHECK THE BOX AGAIN. Yep. That’s ME. You got me there, BIG INSURANCE COMPANY.”

And I would take a breath and say the serenity prayer and slap a stamp on the letter to the Big Insurance Company.

By the way, you will note I am above directly naming this Big Insurance Company. No. I have more class than that. I shall not divulge it.

But it rhymes with SCREWDENTIAL

Ahem.

Ok, so today, I got a letter that is “unable to approve you for coverage at this time.”

Guys. I am not an “unable to approve” kinda girl. Like, my first college choice was a go. (Sure, it was the state university but they said YES to me, ok?)  And I was first in my class to get a job. In general,  I have been YESSED for YEARS because I am a GOOD PERSON AND PEOPLE DO NOT SAY NO TO MOMSIE.

(True, I did not get married until 36 but that was because I said “NO” FIRST to a lot of other offers and also Jesus was protecting me, big time. Thank you, Jesus.)

It had me all flustered. Big Insurance does not like me. Me, who is inherently likeable on very many levels. I want to write Big Insurance Company a letter in which I explain how utterly wonderful I am. And, did you know? I wrote a book, nay TWO (second one out in August!) about this whole alcoholic thing and truly? Utterly? I will NEVER EVER DRINK AGAIN, OK? YOU CAN TRUST ME.

But then, I remembered something.

Um, I am alcoholic. And, I will not drink today, yes. I will not. But tomorrow? Well, tomorrow I will tackle then, but who knows?

I could end up in a drinking mess any moment, within a breath, with any sort of sad feeling or rejection or moment of celebration or any of it. Yes, I have some years of sobriety now, and I do have the Super Sobriety Girl cape and I wear it on the daily. But really?

I could drink again.

It’s a daily decision that people in recovery make. So thank you, Big Insurance Company, for the reminder. Really. No snark. No attitude. No fuss. I get it and I thank you for my daily dose of humility and reality. It hurt, but I get it.

I’ll shall go forth and buy the Earthway 2030Pplus Deluxe Lawn and Garden, 65 Lbs Fertilizer Drop Spreader myself, thank you very much

Now I’m off to figure out how to set up a Go Fund Me for the best freaking fertilizer drop spreader on the planet.

And also? To conclude, I googled “lawn fertilizer images” and am posting this, because it’s awesome:horses-lay-down-dont-call-911.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

When Life Hands You Lemons, Make Sure to Buy a Yacht and Have Some Babies.

41AS7xkGePL.jpg

Nobody looks this happy when they just had twins and an appendectomy in two rolls.

 

“Mom? Do you want to get married, like RIGHT away, or later?”

“Mom? How many babies should I have?”

“Mom? Would you get a baby OR a promotion? Which?”

I don’t know kid. I’ve asked these questions so many times…

Also: “Mom, would you get a sports car, or twins?”

I’ve asked that one too. Along with:

“When the babies come, do we need to make more money?”

“I have a baby girl! Should I have more?”

And this zinger:

“I just got a mansion and a wife, so do I buy a yacht or a sports car too?”

 

My kids are obsessed with Life. The game, not the actual breathing thing. They play it for HOURS on our living room floor, and I do my walking-over-them Mom thing with my usual laundry baskets and cleaning supplies. I have even vacuumed around their game and usually the vacuum makes them all nervous and they bark at it, but no one twitched.

Ok, wait. No barking, but you know what I mean. They hate our vacuum. It’s like the one in Mr. Mom only it hasn’t eaten anybody’s Wubbee. Yet.

I guess my point here is that this game is going to save us all before school starts. Even though it generates some really weirdo questions from a seven-year-old.

“Mom, do I get a wife NOW or try sky-diving? Which one is better?”

It’s moments like these that the Snark just quivers and practically begs to be released – free to run at full tilt at my children and take them out at the knees. But no, I quelled the beast, and answered,

“Marriage is better. But only if you really love her. And I would wait until you are good and ready. So, you know, like, your late thirties. Early forties. And, make sure you find her at church and go to like fifty or sixty bible studies together first. Also, YOU CAN ONLY HOLD HANDS THAT’S IT UNTIL YOU’RE MARRIED OK?”

The ask-ee was just staring at me, blinking a lot, when I took a breath. I was fully prepared to go onto my discussion of the pros and cons of an arranged marriage with our friends’ kids, easy-peasy, when he asked,

“Um, didn’t daddy go sky-diving? Back in college? Like, 18 times?”

I took a breath. The arranged marriage discussion would have to wait.

“Yes, kid. Go ahead. Knock yourself out.”

Later, I was explaining all of this to the husband, because all we talk about are The Children.

“I don’t really think the game of Life is actually teaching our kids anything about life, you know, in reality.” I said. You see, I’m very into making sure our children are always playing Educational Games that help Prepare them for the Real World so they can become Positive Contributors to Society.

And then the husband snorted. He knew the previous paragraph was hooey. “Yea right. Like Uno is helping them become better at flip flopping. And so, politics.”

“Or Monopoly teaches them about weird real estate options. And jail.”

“Or Battleship trains them for the military. Or drowning.”

I eyed him. His snark was so weak in comparison to mine. But he was trying. It was kind of cute. Except for the last one. That’s depressing.

Bless his heart.

z1nub.jpg

 

 

The kids go back to school in a week and three days. Not that I’m counting.

I am really good at counting though. Played a lot of Yahtzee as a kid.

 

This post was brought to you by:

Not enough caffeine, a ridiculous lack of focus, and a strong love for my children but Lord have mercy if you don’t hear from me again you’ll know they’ve gone feral.

 

 

When we fall down.

So mommas, it will be real today. No funny business. Sorry.

The other day, my son and I got in an argument. A straight-up, no chaser, fight. With a seven year old.

Because fighting with a seven year old is what a forty six year old women chose to do that day. Because the seven year old didn’t really chose it – he doesn’t have the emotional synapses yet to say, “Hey. Yea. I am choosing this.” Most of his stuff is still kinda… on automatic. Like, his synapses say, “Hey. SQUIRREL.” And we’re done.

Anyhow.

What happened was, the kid acted like a sullen kid. And misbehaved. And then, I took the reins and took OFF on making sure he knew it.

There are times when my mothering goes astray. And it just kicks the sides of that old, dead horse and tries to run off with it. Which is a terrible metaphor but I was trying to go with the “reins” thing. Which kinda means I want you to visualize me riding a dead horse. Off a cliff. Of bad mothering.

Good lord I hope this will make some sort of sense.

If you are still with me, picture me on that poor dead horse, galloping off, on a road towards my cliff. And there’s a sign by the side of the road that says, “CAUTION. STOP HERE. BIG HUGE DROP OFF COMING. TURN THE HECK AROUND.”

Perhaps I should name the cliff. The Cliffs of Insanity.

Or, perhaps:

The Cliffs of I Must Be Right.

I think the Cliffs of Insanity sounds a bit more catchy, but Princess Bride got to it before me.

BX3Hkl.gif

Oh. My friends. His face. After all the I-Must-Be-Right-ing and lecturing and trying to make my POINT because it is so important, his little face. It just crumpled in on itself. And he told me,

“I’m just a bad kid.”

And that’s just the awfulest thing. It’s just not not the truth.

It’s just Satan. With my help. And I am so sorry. I had to tell you because I thought, you know? I am so funny and this is so NOT and you need to know. I just so screwed up.

We all screw up. We cannot help it. It’s the tangle of motherhood. We are participating in a daily battle and sometimes I get too involved in winning MY side. When, really, the winning is not the point.

The point is that I watched his shoulders sag, and he said what he did, and then I went over to him, picked him up and put him on my lap like he was my baby, because he is. And I stroked his cheek and I said,

“You are my child. I love you more than I love my life. And you are a child of God. And He doesn’t make anything bad.”

I sat and rocked him. And kissed his cheek and wiped the tears and said, “I am sorry. I love you. You got that?” He nodded. And asked me to play Yahtzee.

And we got through that mess. And probably there will be another one coming soon, because motherhood. Kids. You know.

I wanted to share because I wondered if you needed to know – we all mess up. And then we all can say sorry and go play Yahtzee and eat popcorn and hug on each other. Because, motherhood and kids.

Can I hear an amen? Thank goodness I can. It’s the only thing that keeps me afloat, y’all.

Hello. This is the Universe Calling.

images

 

I lost my phone the other day. It was Big Lost, like airplane on a weird island with polar bears kind of Lost.

I have misplaced my phone before, mind you, but usually some muttering and tossing of couch cushions will produce it.

Or, if I’m truly desperate, I go to pleasepleasemakemyphonering.com and then the children think it’s a lovely fetch game and are off and running in search of a ringing noise coming from underneath the cat. The best part of this little game is the blessed three or four seconds of total silence I can eke out of the boys as they listen, little ears perked up, for the faraway ring. It’s even more fun if the phone is on vibrate. Maybe even more so for the cat.

Anyhow.

I had no phone. This is really frightening to some of us, especially, it seems, most of my college students. I don’t know what they would DO if they lost their phones. Probably have a conversation, for one.

I did not panic; I used the  technology that my husband keeps telling me is so great and that I usually roll my eyes about (he has six pages of apps on his phone. SIX. Most of them are apps to help him “make life easier.” If you need six pages of these things perhaps you should just give up).

I used an app he put on my ipad called, Find My Phone. And, it did. I punched in my numbers, and then, lo and behold, my little phone finder did exactly what it told me it would do. This, in our over-burdened but oh-this-will-simplify-your-life-we-promise technology land, is very rare. The app very sweetly told me that my phone was down the street. Three blocks down the street, exactly. There was even a map with an arrow pointing right at the wandering cell phone!

And lo, I put 2 and 2 together and came up with a dollar.

That’s, Dollar General, ya’ll. (I know. I am soooo funny.)

My phone was shopping at the DG. And, since I was a bit fearful it might want to purchase one of those Duck Dynasty camo covers, I hightailed it right down there.

It is, I guess, good to note that the phone was there because I was there earlier, buying a huge box of bargain cat litter and Hershey’s kisses. I buy cat litter about every three days at the DG because I have the most regular felines ever.

I am not really sure why I shared that with you.

Anyhow, I returned to the DG, all hopeful, and had this conversation:

Me: Hi! My ipad told me that my iphone is here.

Dude at counter: You left your phone?

Me: Yep. And it’s here. I have a map with a little pinpointy icon to prove it. Wanna see?

Dude: (Reaching under counter) Uh, nah, we have a phone? (This dude was what I like to refer to as an uptalker. This is a style of speech most indigenous in the below twenty set who for some reason don’t know what they are ever trying to say, so have resorted to making each statement they utter sound like a question. It hypnotizes the listener into speaking very loudly and slowly.)  And some, uh, sunglasses? (looks rather disdainfully at my huge Gucci knockoff windshield style sunglasses that I feel all cool in, and got from some guy selling them off a blanket in a piazza in Italy, so very European and chic but actually also rather ratty.)

Me: My sunglasses! My PHONE! Yea! Thank you!

Dude: Yes? You’re welcome?

Me: Thank. You. Very. Much. I’ll. Be. Going. Now.

Dude: Um, your mom called? You need to call her back?

And that’s when I spied it. With my phone and Blublockers, was a note that had my cellphone number and my maiden name scrawled on it. So my mom called while my phone was out, and the DG dudes answered and she gave them my info. All of this was just a simple way that the universe wanted to remind me to call my mom more often.

But then I thought this:

Why my maiden name? Does she have a deep-seated resentment of my marriage? Was this some sort of psychological slip? Do we need family counseling? Am I perhaps analyzing this a tad too much?

And:

 If they had my number, why didn’t they just call me?

cat-facepalm