Pinterest Turned My Daughter Into A Salad

Everyone thinks that Pinterest is just this amazing place where people go to get ideas for awesome gifts, crafts, and recipes. 

But there is a dark side.

For instance:

I got caught up in the whole, "Make shit at home and save thousands of dollars each year!" craze.  Laundry soap (but I couldn't get the kids to grate bars of soap, so that one was a fail), jar labels for bulk items (I got too fancy and they faded from the sunshine coming through the kitchen window---stupid sunshine), copycat handsoap (I got the measurements wrong and there was a microwave catastrophe that my husband can't seem to LET GO). 

So everyone was concerned when I said that I wanted to make my own shaving cream.  But, I was out, and the man stuff is too minty for my delicate ladyparts.  And, I had a shelf full of extra toiletries that had failed me in one way or another.  So off to the pantry I went.

I found this pin:

LINK

Basically, you add a bunch of stuff like lotion, conditioner, soap, and oil to an old container.  I'm sure there are specific measurements, but really, it's just a way to get goop on my legs so that I can shave months' worth of hair from them---does it really matter?

And I didn't have baby oil, because it is an EVIL petrochemical, so I used some grapeseed oil from when I tried to make salt scrubs last year.  The grapeseed oil smells very salad-y.  But it's for shaving my legs, and it was being mixed with 5 other scent-y things, so whatev.

BUT THEY FORGOT THE LAST STEP.  

The last step would be "Label it, so when your 8-year-old uses your shower because the teenage made their gross, she will know it is NOT CONDITIONER".

Instead, Princess came out, and I remarked, did you brush your hair out---as I ran my fingers through it, pulling tangles apart.  

She said, "Yeah, but it was crappy conditioner.  It smells like salad.  And it doesn't work very well".  

Now, Princess has a history of having issues with hair product.  The last time she really read a bottle label, she came running out of the shower, concerned about whether she should be using product for "fine" or "coarse" hair.  I assured her it was all marketing, and it was all pretty much the same.  So her hair product discrimination skills are low. 

I leaned in, took a whiff.  It smelled suspiciously like a mess of competing fruity scents, with an undercurrent of salad.  Very MUCH like my homemade shaving cream.  

Fuck you, Pinterest.

The One Where I'm Too Old For This Shit

My brother is 8 years younger than me.

Also, he does not have a bunch of health problems.

So being a younger thirtysomething, he goes out.  Like, at night.  When other people are out, also. Apparently, it's a "thing".

I vaguely remember this type of activity from when I was younger.

He came to town for Thanksgiving, and wanted to go see a cover band that we love:  The Spazmatics.  They are an 80's cover band dressed as nerds. We have seen them live locally quite a few times, and my bro has seen them TONS of times.  It's a good show, I know all the songs, the guys are funny, so I enjoy going out to see them. Or at least, I USED TO enjoy going out to see them.

But being 40 has put a damper on my swag.  Also, having health problems that make sleeping elusive, being on a strict meds and detox schedule, and being tired constantly has put a kink in my tail.  My feet hurt too much to stand or dance for long (thank you, Bartonella), so when I hear, "live band", my first concern is whether there will be comfortable seating.  40, going on 80.

So I was hesitant to say "yes".  But like the awesome Big Sis I am, I sucked it up, and went.  Even as a Designated Driver.

We drove.  And drove and drove and drove.  Because they were playing at an Indian Casino, Cache Creek.  So the location was almost an hour and a half away.  We left right around my normal bedtime.  I felt like a little girl that got to stay up late for something special, like a drive-in movie, or an all-night drive to Disneyland.

Stifling yawns, I warned my passengers (after we were on the road and I had control over the vehicle) that I would maybe stay for the first half. They were happy to have a sober ride with a badass minivan, so they did not argue.

We got there, with 3 minutes before the show was set to begin.

Things do not start on time in the world of Nightlife.  I guess because they have had all day to get behind.  So this meant that I had some time to convince the Blackjack dealers I needed new tires for the Swagger Wagon.  I worked that table like a stripper with 9 kids to feed.  When I was up half a Michelin, I meandered over to the comfy chairs in  the lounge.  Did I mention the chairs were cushy?  Comfy?  Gloriously soft and accepting of my tired ass?  :::swoon:::

I got a beverage to blend in with the cool kids----a Seabreeze.  Except that I'm old, and no one knows how to make a Seabreeze any more.  You'd think I was Don Draper, asking for a damned Old Fashioned.  IT'S VODKA, CRAN, AND GRAPEFRUIT, PEOPLE!  Instead, I sipped a VERY RED vodka-cran-with-lyme.  Which is fine, because it was more cranberry than vodka, so it was practically medicinal.  No UTIs for me.

And then, I danced!  I brought back my GoGos dance moves. Which fit in better than I expected.  It didn't even have to be "ironic". 

But Sky King was worried about me. Being out with Normal Adults At Night, and all.  We texted for a bit:

SK: Took you long enough to get there.

Me: It's DEEP!

SK:  Obvs.  Have fun, keep your bro out of trouble.

Me: I will do my best.


Hey, Progress!!!  You trust ME to not get into a fight!

SK: Yeah, Fun Aimee seems to be shelved, so I worry less.

:::this is the part where I feel responsible, and sorry for myself, missing Fun Aimee and all the potential altercations and hangovers that go with her:::

So I sang til my throat ached, and danced 3 whole songs.  In between, I worked on my kids' college funds.  UPDATE:  Things AREN'T looking good for college.  Maybe a scholarship for sarcasm will be en vogue by then.

I forgot the types that go out late at night, hammer-drunk, dancing in public.

There are the Drunk Chicks. They tend to congregate in large groups.  Herds, if you will.  They yell, "WooHoo!!!" a lot, and make you dance with them.  They are persistent.  And they feel accomplished if they can remember your name, song to song.  It goes like this:

(all caps because it's too fucking loud there)

DRUNK CHICKS: COME DANCE WITH US!  IT'S "COME ON EILEEN!"

ME:  NO, I'M GOOD.

DC:  IT'LL BE FUN.  AIMEE, RIGHT?   C'MON, AIMEE!!!! DANCE WITH US!!!!

Fortunately, I did NOT have to drink a drink bought by him.  But likely only because I left by midnight.  I was not wanting to be in his cologne orbit. is went on.  All night. I relented once in a while. They tried to give me their tequilla shots bought by some stranger.  Either they were close to puking, or wanted to make sure they hadn't been roofied. Even though I hear that Roofies help with sleep issues, I declined.

Meanwhile, to my right, there was a man with more gold chains than hair.  Originally, I was all, "Dude, who's the creepy old guy?".  Then, I decided, "Man, forty looks awful on some people".  it was a sad revelation.  In a sea of sad revelations.

Finally, there was Side Pony Chick.  This chick has issues, which seem to be solved with kitten sweatshirts and Mudslides.  She dances like she has nothing to lose. And her hair is a testament to her desire to put out the "I don't care about life anymore" vibes.  Don't be fooled by her smiles.  Always remember you are still in a bar in an Indian Casino. This chick will give you diseases that have been mostly eradicated through better hygiene and life choices----smallpox, The Plague, scurvy.

I finally escaped the night with less than a $40 loss at the tables (sorry, Harvard) and up two drunks.  We meandered down the road til fuller bladders prevailed, and found respite at the haven of all Drunk Havens, Denny's.

Only drunk people could possibly order this

Then, we finally pulled into the driveway.  I was home!  I survived!  The kids were still alive!  (Can I just say how glorious it is, to have a 13 year old, that will feed and water the 8 year old?  GLORIOUS.)

Princess left me a sweet note:

 

It says, "Avery loves you mom and dad. O and sarah you still o me ten dollers babie sitting chicoe"

Apparently, she said she had babysat the dog, Chico.  And she concluded that babysitters get paid.  Ten dollars seemed fair.  

All in all, she might not need college. 

Which works out well for everyone.

The One Where I KNEW He Was "The One"

I have always strongly suspected that Sky King was the best guy for me.  He has shown me, so many many times.  he looks out for my back fat, he has read my blog and booked amazing hotel rooms overlooking Union Square in San Francisco just to please me despite his aversion to crowds of snotty people, and generally been by my side through thick, thicker, and thickest.

But last night, late Thanksgiving Evening, after turkey, gravy and pie, he had my back, yet again.  This was our text convo:

Me: Shit's getting REAL at the Target. Someone just cut.  It got ugly.  Please go to Home Depot, we need tarps, a shovel, and 50 lbs of Lyme.

SK: On my way

Me: I always knew you had my back.  You *might* want to grab my passport too, just in case.

SK: Go bag already packed, along with the emergency cash. We are good to go.

Me:  I LOVE YOU BABY!!  (ala Natural Born Killers)

Me, and Sky King.  180 pounds ago.  Mostly mine.

See?  I heart him, SO DAMN HARD.

Epiphanies, Vol 1

You know when you are going through life, blissfully ignorant, and then you have some MAJOR revelation that leads you to see the world differently than you ever have before, and it skews the way you will look at life forever?

Well, that happened to me, just the other day.

We were watching Billy the Exterminator, on A&E. Maybe because they are crazy.  Maybe because of our recent problems with skunks. I dunno.  But I am drawn.

I realized something profound.  Big Bill and Donnie are not his parents.  It must have been some sort of strange adoption process, I gotta admit.  But, through my keen observational skills, I have deduced who his natural parents are.

PLUS

EQUALS

 

Oh.  And I have a sneaking suspicion that the sunglasses are there to disguise the fact that he is reading cue cards. Poorly.  Always. 

Billy---way to turn a shit job into a show.  You probably get tons of tail because of your exposure.  And, I bet some of that tail is female.  Maybe even human.  Kudos, Bro.

Mom Of The Year

Many of you already know what an amazing compilation of fabulous parenting decisions I embody.  You all marvel at my ability to avoid swear words until they ignore my request to get in the car the 5th time.  (Truly, I have the patience of a saint.) Many of you frequently stop me in the street, to ask why I don't begin drinking earlier in the day.  And you all look at the wonderful children I have produced and raised to perfection, not unlike people marvel at the Sistine Chapel.  I get it----I rock.

But did you know that I also bring a wealth of daily practical knowledge to my children, that they just don't get in school? I also encourage communication and social development, through a wide range of methodologies.

Here, let me show you:

A few days back, I was a helper in my daughter's class.  That morning, she needed a water bottle to take to school.  The cabinet we keep them in was bare, so I looked to the sink.  There I found the collapsible ones (you know, the ones that could double as flasks that are light, collapsible and contain nothing that sets off metal detectors at stadiums?) that we had taken to Maui (we had used them for Mai Tais at the beach) and I noticed they seemed to be sand-free.  This, to the untrained, implied that the cleanliness level of the water bottle was acceptable.I filled that sucker up with water, being an awesome mom that wanted her beautiful daughter to be hydrated.

Later that day, I sauntered into my child's Montessori classroom, with bags of goodies for their class party.

Princess sought me out immediately, with big hugs, as she usually does.  I, of course, relished the moment.

She looked up at me with her earnest big brown eyes, and said, "Mommy?  My water tastes like wine.  Next time, could you give me a water bottle that doesn't have alcohol in it?"

Fortunately, only 3 teachers and 2 other parents heard.  And some kids.  Frankly, I'm glad I missed "share time" that morning.

Later, when we didn't have any way to open the sparkling cider bottles, everyone knew to come to me.  My car?  Fully stocked with all the beverage-opening implements you could imagine.

It's like I'm a Girl Scout for alcoholics---always prepared for a party.

Mall Jail, Part 3

 For part 1, click here

For part 2, click here

So, here's the boys' perspective:

The boys were minding their own business, when they were hankering for a corn dog.  Who could blame them? The sweet, corn-y goodness that Hotdog on a Stick churns out? Could make angels cry. Seriously.

But, they were drunk.  Shitfaced on Bacardi 151, slurped from an Aquafina bottle or two.  in a mall, where impressionable children hang, with their corndog-buying mommies.  Oh, and sexist jokes about women?   Not appreciated.

So after they were ejected?  P realized he would not be meeting up with the ladies, as planned.  And we are some scary bitches.  So, he left SK on the curb outside the mall, and went back in real quick to buy a sucking-up gift to please his lady, that is going to be pissed when they pull a no-show.

SK?  He thought the best place for him was in P's Jeep.  So he staggered through the parking lot, moving from bumper to bumper, looking for a Jeep to crawl into.  Dear God, WHY wasn't YouTube invented yet?  Can you even IMAGINE some drunk motherfucker, barely able to walk, bumper surfing?  And then, what if he had FOUND a Jeep?  Who knows where he could have ended up.

He finds his way back to the front of the Mall, and sits on a curb, hoping someone with upright capability will find him.

But then, the tummy gets to gurglin.  It also may have been, oh, 110 degrees.  In the Midwest.   So, SK does the only smart thing---he leans back, and very discreetly begins to vomit into a hedge.

At some point, the retching gets so involved, he has to completely abandon decorum.  He is open legged, resting his elbows on his knees, vomiting on his own shoes.  Repeatedly.  Soon, he feels a presence.  he looks up, and there are about 8 Mall Cops, shading the sun.

Just then, P comes out of the Mall, with a peace offering for his lady.  The Mall Cops say, "Hey! Aren't you the guy we just kicked out of the Mall?"

Things, obviously, went downhill, culminating with their Mall Jail Experience.

Tulsa PD had them in detention, with the Mall Cops chomping at the bit for serious charges.  P was scathing, spewing profanities towards the Mall Cops, but the model of respect toward TPD.

The Mall Cops had gotten their Mall Cop Supervisor involved, and he was trying to get to the bottom of this mess.  He had two twenty-somethings, handcuffed, shitfaced, in his office.  One was actively barfing into a metal wastebasket. After a spell, he spoke to SK.

"Boy, I am sick and tired of talking to a waste basket.  Sit up!"

SK slowly pulled his head out of the bucket, did a self-assessment.  He was acutely aware that the little demons spinning his brain inside his head at an alarming rate worked exponentially faster when he was upright.  So with dramatic pause, SK uttered, "this ain't happenin'"  and back into the bucket he went, until it was time to be released.

Meanwhile, TPD took over, while the Mall Cops swished their flashlights in the hallway.

Seems they were telling some jokes, of the sexist variety, in the Food Court.  Either the Lemonade Girl got huffy, or a mom with kids snitched.  Either way, security was called, and the boys were ushered to the nearest exit.

:::Mall Jail, both boys handcuffed. SK's head in wastebasket:::

TPD: So, what was the joke you told, that got you in so much trouble?
P: As you can see, sir, we are in quite a bit of trouble, I'd rather not repeat it
TPD: C'mon now, son.  I like a good joke as much as the next guy.  And I just can't imagine what you said, that started all this trouble.
P: Sir, as I have said before, I would much rather not share, and avoid additional trouble.
TPD:  Tell you what-I won't hold it against you.

:::sigh:::

P:  Okay.  "what's the useless piece of skin around the vagina?"  "The woman".

(TPD about lost his damn mind, laughing so hard.  You see, he was a bit put off being dragged out to the Mall, along with 7 or 8 or his buddies, all for a couple drunk and disorderlies. So his patience with the Mall Cops?  Thinner than a comb-over in the wind. But, the Mall Cops were so pissed with P's mouth, TPD felt they had to do SOMETHING. At this point, TPD was trying to figure out how to get these two drunks home, without having to drag them to real jail, while still placating a bunch of underpaid over-important flashlight holders.)

Once all the details were hammered out, both boys signed off on trespassing, as well as a 6 month Mall ban.  (Really?  Banning two men from a Mall?  Seriously?  The only people that hurt was me, and S. And maybe future corndog sales.)

The boys were released to me and S, and we schlepped their asses back to the house, for MOST of us to get ready for work.  P was the bartender----that's what they do best, work shitfaced.  But SK?  He was done. DONE.  As in, lay him on the sofa with a towel below his mouth, face down, so he doesn't aspirate on his own vomit kind of done. Then, send a barely functioning drunk by the house a few times, to make sure he's still breathing.

P wasn't done being belligerent, yet.   Here's the deal.  While we were driving back to the place to get ready for work, I was less than thrilled with Mr. Almost-blew-his-education.  I had not been joking when I mentioned that an alcohol violation would ruin his career. It would end it. Airlines do not hire pilots with alcohol offenses.  At all. So, our entire time in Tulsa, far from family and friends?  Would have been a waste.  Combined with HUGE student loans.  I was, shall I say, non-plussed.  And P chastised me for my lack of support of my man.

P: Why are you being such a bitch??? You should learn to be supportive, to stand by your man, when he needs you.
Me: Are you fucking kidding me right now?  I am VERY supportive, I called his work, told them he was too busy vomiting in the Mall Security Office to call in sick to work, and NO, I did not mention that his particular brand of food poisoning was Bacardi-inspired.  I did NOT mention that, instead of getting ready for work, he was narrowly avoiding arrest.  And you're questioning my ability to stand by my man?  IF he survives this day, it will be because I was too busy working two jobs to support his ass instead of choking his damn neck, while he is passed out on your couch rather than contributing to our bills.  So, the next time you want to question my devotion, my dedication?  Go fuck yourself, instead.

It kept going, the entire time we were getting ready for work, mostly yelling from room to room, him questioning my dedication to my man, me explaining in vivid detail how incredibly stupid I thought they both were.

SK distinctly remembers one very small point of this day.  He remembers hearing P chastise me.  He remembers thinking, "Dude, you rock.  Thanks for standing by me.  But P?  You're gonna lose."

Me?  I got the perfect revenge: I married SK. And, I started this blog.  Next time you see him? Ask if he wants a shot of 151.

Mall Jail, Part 2

For Part 1, click here


So there we are, thumbing through this giant book, trying to figure out what in God's name the Mall Security area would be listed under. We finally figure it out, and this is what they say:

Mall Cops: Yes, they are here.  They are in custody and TPD* is on the way.  You might wanna hurry.

*TPD= Tulsa Police Department.  Not good.

We jump in S's new car, and haul ass over to the Mall.

Now, this is Tulsa's biggest Mall.  It's huge-there's like, 5 anchor stores.  When we zoomed off, we had no idea where in the hell we were headed. We entered the vast parking lot, not sure where to begin. Fortunately, the Mall Cops had their lights in full Panic Mode.

We zeroed in on the quite large congregation of people.  Before S could fully stop, I jump out of the car, swinging my 25 pound purse like a medieval flail. (I'll wait while you look that one up.)

As I walk up, I see that there are roughly 10 Mall Cops, surrounding one loud guy (P) and one pathetic guy, standing in a puddle of his own vomit.  All I hear is P spouting off:
"Here come our wives, and they're gonna kick ALL your asses".

I walk up, apparently exuding enough heat that I get everyone's attention really quickly.  All heads turn toward me.  I say:
You, (to P), you need to shut the fuck up.  You all (to the Mall Cops, and now a few members of TPD) need to be patient while I work this shit out.  You (SK), I can't even fucking look at you.  You are a mess.

At this point, they seem to assign a 500 pound Tulsa's Finest to corral the crazy.  

By this time, S has joined up with us, and the Mall Cops are arguing what to do with SK. Standing has not been kind to him, and the Boys in Blue were getting sick of being his legs.  There was some talk of EMSA (the guys that give very generous $400 trips to the ER).  I spoke up pretty damn quick: "Umm, no, he's fine.  SK, get your shit together, you have no insurance. You are poor.  You need to stand."  This seems to help matters.  The convo turns to how to get SK into their designated Mall Jail.  No one really wants to take responsibility for the drunk puker, for obvious reasons.
 
"Well, he can't walk through the mall, he can't hardly walk.  And, I don't want him puking inside the mall".
"I'm not putting him in my car, I just washed it".
"He can't go in mine, either."
"I guess we could put him in the back of the Bronco".

So there is Sky King, loaded, handcuffed, into the back of a Bronco, being driven around to the Mall Jail access.

That's right.  They have a Mall Jail.  Apparently, this type of stuff happens enough that they have a place for it.  Color me relieved, that we are dealing with Mall Felon Professionals.

We follow them around the mall, and the boys are ushered in.  We are left outside with a few of the TPD guys, who chat us up.

I'm waxing poetic on the merits of being with a juvenile delinquent that finds getting shitty at the Mall socially acceptable behavior.  I must have really been gaining some serious steam.  At one point, a very large, very tall cop says to me, "it's not that big a deal, you should calm down." Umm, regardless of the amount of ammo on your hip?  Don't tell me to calm down.  I counter with, "Calm down?  Are you fucking kidding me?  He's 23, in flight school, living in Tulsa ONLY to go to school to become a pilot, and he gets so shitfaced he offends an entire goddamn mall, and ANY alcohol violation ends the career he's spending $50,000 trying to obtain? And you want me to calm down?  You're high."  Then, I went back to swearing and pacing, pacing and swearing.  Also, trying to figure out what to do about the job SK won't be showing up at.

He saw WAY more humor in this whole situation than I did.

And it was touch and go, given the amount of trouble they caused.  Turns out, they were charged with trespassing, and the Mall Cops wanted even more charges brought up.

Tip of the Day:  When people have detained you and handcuffed you, do not be rude.  Do not tell them your girlfriend/wife could kick your ass, and don't sign your violations with a flourish-y "fuck you".  Turns out, they get a bit sensitive.  And, they piss and moan to the Real Cops, to press charges.

Meanwhile, I had to call his work.  Not because I'm thoughtful.  Fuck that---rent was due.  I didn't need Sky King blowing his job over this.  So, being awesome, I called them, and said, "SK is at the Mall, and got sick.  He threw up all over, and is now in Mall Security.  He won't be making his shift tonight".  This was met with, "He will need to call in, himself".  I responded with, "Listen, I'm trying to be awesome, telling you he won't be in.  He won't be calling you, until he has left security.  I will give him your message."

See?  I wasn't going to lie.  BUT, I wasn't going to throw his golden-egg laying ass under the bus, either.  (Golden egg? Who am I kidding? We were scraping by, already with huge student loan payments, and he was a part-time server.  More like, Golden Nit).

Want the boys' perspective?

Stay tuned.

Mall Jail, Part 1

NOTE: Those of you in RL maybe already know this story.  Or, if you don't, you TOTALLY SHOULD.  It's like, classic FFW and Sky King.  

Those of you that read me for my funny banter, and hijinks?  You will totally crush on me even more than you do already.  

Those of you that read me for health stuff?  You get a break today.  You're welcome.  And, I mention proper positioning for someone who you fear might aspirate their own vomit, which is kind of health-related, so there's that.

It all began, way back when, in a wonderful little town called Tulsa OK.

Sky King had left me, to pursue a career in aviation-he wanted to become a pilot.  And, instead of waiting for me to finish college so we could adventure off together, he broke my heart, left me for the Midwest, and told me we "should see other people". THAT is for another post, and maybe an ABC After-school Special. 

I was undeterred. Being a fully committed stalker even at the ripe young age of 23, I finished my degree a year later, and had to choose between the Bible Belt, and a whirlwind trip through Europe with a friend.  I did what any 23 year old would do.  I used the information as a weapon. 

I thought about how amazing it would be to start in Greece, working our way through Europe, following the growing seasons from January through Fall, I even went so far as to go to a bookstore and buy a book* on how to live as a cute young thing, travelling through Europe, working as little as possible.  Lemme tell ya, it was looking good.  I was spunky and outgoing, with a nice rack.  Things were going to go WELL in Europe.

*Note: this was way back when it took 33 minutes to download one pornographic image, so Waldenbooks was The Place To Be.

I called Sky King, who was (supposedly) totally cool with our "seeing other people" arrangement:

Me: Hey!  How are things?  Seeing anyone?
Him: Not really. 
Me:  Cool.  Me neither, too much.
Him: Yeah.  What's up?
Me: Oh, that's right, I have totally exciting news!  Michelle and I, you know that chick from work?  We are thinking about going to Europe, right after I graduate, and work our way around, following the harvest seasons.  We will start in Greece, and then move north when the weather clears up.  It's going to be totally amazing!!!
Him:  Oh.  That sounds......cool, I guess.
Me: Yep!  And I will send you postcards from all over, with pics from all the places I've been!!

:::two days later:::

Him:  Hey.  I was thinking, would you like to move to Tulsa after graduation?  And, from now on, be exclusive?  Like, NOT see other people?
Me:  OK....Sounds great!


So to recap:  Sky King, scared to death I was going to be wined and dined, and romanced by droves of European awesomeness, complete with sexy accents. He did what the average American male tends to do-he panicked.  Me?  I just merely presented him with my exciting new after-graduation plan.

:::fast-forward about a year and a half:::

We are living together, in Tulsa.  I have graduated with a degree that is borderline useless, leading me to a life of wiping babies' asses for all eternity.  But being all badass and smart and shit, I took a job as a social worker with the State of Oklahoma.  However, I also needed to eat, so I took a night job, serving cocktails at a local pool hall (truly, it sounds seedier than it was.  We wore tuxedo shirts, I swear).

Anywho, we all hung out at that pool hall after-hours.  Sky King worked as a food server at a local seafood restaurant, and all the servers would come over to the pool hall til closing. Then we would sop up the liquor in our stomachs with grease, at the local diner, conveniently open at 3 am.

Some days, we even started the day off at the bar.  We would hang out early, have a few drinks.

This one particular day, we were hanging out at the bar, drinking beers and doing shooters (rattlesnakes, if I'm not mistaken). Someone said, "Hey! Let's go to the mall!"  Which of course, is a brilliant idea.

The girls jumped in S's new car, the boys said something about heading to the State store, and were off in P's jeep.

For those of you that live in less restrictive, less depraved states, the "State store" meant "State-run Liquor Store".  In Oklahoma, you buy all your liquor, including the really crazy shit like Everclear and Bacardi 151, at the State store.  Being from California, where we can buy liquor at the same place we get our porn, I didn't really pay attention to that comment.  I wish I had.

So we all head over to the mall, planning to meet up with the boys outside of the Food Court, with plenty of time to head to P & S's place to get ready for work.

You may be thinking, "why are they at a bar, drinking, when they have to work?"  The answer to that is, don't worry. We were drinking at like, 10 am, and no one had to be at work til at least 6 pm that night.  We had PLENTY of time to work that shit out.  I thought.

The girls and I, we meandered and perused, probably bought shit we have since not paid off, I can't really remember.  Because the rest of the day was about to get REAL.

We headed toward the food court---No boys.  Except Mike. He was there.  He had been with P and SK, and he did not look well.  He looked concerned.

Us: what's up? Where are the boys?
Mike:  All I know is, I was on my way out of GameStop, and Mall Security was on their way in.
Me:  Why?  Is that bad?  What happened?

Mike:  :::shuffling of feet, as he realizes that S and I are some scary bitches:::
Well, you see, they might have been just a little drunk.  And there was a situation at Hotdog On A Stick.  They were asked to leave.
Us:  Wait, they only had a beer and a shot each.  How did they get so drunk?
Mike: Well, before we got to the Mall, we hit the State store, and filled an Aquafina bottle with 151. Maybe two bottles.  I dunno.  But anyways, they were pretty trashed, and they were telling jokes and making fun of the Hotdog On A Stick girls' hats.

From here, we booked out of the food court, looking for our guys.  We really had no idea where to go, so we wandered aimlessly.  But apparently frantically enough to garner the attention of a security guard.  He came up to us, asking if we needed help.

Mall Cop Dude: Can I help you?

Us: We need help. We lost some people.
MCD:  :::concerned::: What are their ages?
Us: 23, and 25.

MCD:  OH.  They went that way, after we kicked them out of the Mall. :::walking away, disgusted:::

We booked it toward the exit he gestured toward.  Nothing, nada.

This is when we realize it is coming up on the time we should be getting ready for work, so we head back to P and S's, thinking the guys are there, getting ready.

We were wrong.

Did you know it is incredibly difficult to get a hold of the people that would actually handle Mall security issues?  Did you also know that Malls have little min-jails, to keep people that need keeping?  We didn't, either.

Stay tuned for more!

Dr. Google And Me

Hey.

Do you do that thing, where something goes wrong, and you Google your symptoms?

Then you come across a website that maybe puts all those symptoms into a list of conditions to read about, and you go through each one, reading them over to see what fits, what might be your deal?

Then, you come across something you don't like, like the phrase, "can lead to death", or "may result in renal failure" or some other horrible shitstorm you want no part of, so you click away really fast, certain that that is not what you have, possibly living in denial?

Or, alternately, you go on your merry way, oblivious of the fact that you have become a symptom-obsessed nutjob, living online, diagnosing shit you have no business diagnosing, when you should be out, enjoying the life you have left?



No?


Yeah, me neither.

A MAJOR Admission

I have always been very honest with you all, and I want you to know that you all mean so very much to me.  That is why I feel the need to be completely honest, to get some serious shit off my chest.


:::deep breath:::


I LOVE the Khardashians. Keeping Up With The Khardashians, the whole lot of 'em.


I mean, REALLY.  I love them, their show (s).

I think they are so cute, sweet, and hilarious.  Non-ironically.

I know, I know.

Other people like Jersey Shore, though.  It's like that.  But with more eyeliner and ass. And less drunken whores.

Please forgive me.

Just When You Thought I Couldn't Be MORE Awesome...

Princess, who LOVES Halloween.  She does NOT love being scared by this mask, however. 

Instead, she wears it, so that it cannot be used against her.

Last year, I was up to my elbows in blogginess.  I blogged, I loved it, it amazed everyone (well, all 7 of my followers.  Truly, I remember when I got to double digits with followers---I was so stoked!).

And last year, I shared one of my most amazing parenting secrets. But not too many people were able to experience it, because they were not hip to the FFW.  To date, only 26 people have ever read that post.  Really, it's probably only 20, because my Mom possibly reads me over and over, to bump my stats to make me feel loved. Sad, I know. So, to be super awesome, I will revamp, reshare, recycle one of my BEST tips EVAH.  It has pained me, knowing that so many of you missed my wonderfulness last year.

:::tear in eye:::

It's not the one about how to pinch your child up near their armpit, with teeny bits of skin, so that they do whatever you want, RIGHT THEN.  Although that works, too.

It's not the one where I tell you to tell your child they used to have a tail when they were born, and that you had it removed, because it interfered with diapers.  That one, not such a good idea.  More in this, later, when I hold a bake sale to pay for Princess' therapy.

Nope, this time, I am sharing with you the amazingness of The Great Pumpkin, in enough time to get over to Target, and remove gobs of candy from your kiddo's face and teeth crevices.  I am going to link the original post, here, so that you may see how immature my writing was, way back when, last year.  Then, I will cut and paste the whole damn thing, complete with repairs, and new and improved punctuation, so that you do not have to click any links to experience my genius.

Why? Because I'm genius, AND awesome.

Here goes:

I am a genius.  And, I forgot where I got my brilliant idea in the first place, so not only am I a genius, I am an innovator, because now I get to claim full and total credit for my amazing idea, that has become wonderfully mine.

"No", you all scream.

"Oh, yes!"  I reply.  Just wait.

Years ago, I had to spend gobs of cash on Monkey Boy's teeth.  They were crap---he takes after his father.  No, I didn't give him a bottle at night (never, actually).  No juice.  Nothin' bad, followed all the rules about shit you're not supposed to give your kids, except for an occasional snack.  I've relaxed quite a bit, moving into my deficient givafuck phase.  Still, massive dental bills, all before Kindergarten.  Princess followed suit (and ended up with a palate spreader, and braces).  Before Princess came along though, I was faced with a conundrum.

Both my kids have not only massive sweet tooths (sweet teeth?), but they have impeccable radar for junk food. So amazing are their sugar-locating skills, you could stash $10000 somewhere around the house, forget about it, panic when you desperately need it, just make sure there's a Snickers in there, so later my kids can help you recover it. Seriously, people, their instinct for sugar is....
 
 well.....

instinctual.

So, Halloween was drawing near one year.  I wanna say he was 3.  (Seriously, I want to say 3, because I know he was young-ish, and I have no idea how old he was.  Coulda been 2.  Maybe 4.  Most likely, 3.)

I was dreading all the candy in the house, and him dragging us around better neighborhoods than the one we lived in til all hours of the night, hoping to bring home a bag that rivals the storage space in my swagger wagon.

Then, it came to me-The Great Pumpkin.

The next day, I told MB the story-the Great Pumpkin NEEDS all his candy.  In exchange, MB gets a gift.  Kinda like Santa, but a more reciprocal barter system. MB gets to keep 5 pieces, and eat them all at once, or save them, whatever.  5 anythings---Krabby Patties, DumDums, full-size Snickers, anything.  The rest would get hung on the front door handle. The next day, the newest Transformer/Barbie/DVD would be waiting for them, and all thoughts of sugar madness were thrown aside (because, as you guessed, they ALWAYS choose to eat all five pieces that night-no matter how big.  In the grand scheme of things, what's one tummy ache?).

Well, each year, things have gone swimmingly. (always wanted to use that word in a sentence-did it work?)  Now that MB is older, he pretty much says, "Hey, can you tell 'The Great Pumpkin' I want the new Guitar Hero game?".  He even uses finger quotes. But still, a $40 game vs. days at the dentist?  Done. This year, it was some fancy over-priced Nike socks, and a Nike red drawstring backpack. Princess is getting a "Stuffie", that I specially ordered a month ago, from the stupid website that now SPAMs me daily.  Thanks,  Stuffies.  I REALLY love "As Seen On TV" shit.  Truly.

Then, the parents and grandparents get to go through the loot (in secret, of course, because the quality of the loot soooo determines the quality of the toy.  EVERYONE knows that. Raisins are still bad.  So are pencils, and coupons for crap like a cone at Mickey D's.  Smarties, however, rank pretty high.  Almost as high as a full-size bar.  I know, I know.  I don't make the rules.  The kids instinctively seem to know the rules.

They are sooo my kids.

So now, instead of running around the neighborhood, and then the next neighborhood, and the next, I walk with them for about 45 minutes, drinking wine, or Irish Coffee, meandering to houses, chatting with my husband, and anyone else that cares to join us.  Then, we go home, the BIG SORT happens, and they are done, excited about what wonderful gift awaits them in the morning.

All kinds of win. See?













You can steal this idea.  And, you can even pawn it off as your own-you can be all, "Duh.  Of COURSE I do 'The Great Pumpkin'. Why don't YOU?"  And then you can smirk at them, and shake your head, while you trot off to Target for the latest thing to trade the candy for.

And, your coworkers will totally thank you the next day.

As usual, you're welcome.

New Meds, Week One. Results: Highly Inappropriate, But Funny

Note: I have been less than inspired lately.  So, I start posts, then get around to them later.  Or, I do a bunch, then auto-post them for the future, so I don't overwhelm too many brains with too much crazy.  You're welcome.  Therefore, if you know me in Real Life, you may read this, and be all, "wait, I thought that shit happened LAST week".  It did, or else I completely lost my mind.  Or both.  Either way, don't trip.  It's all good. 

Huey Lewis would love my doc.  He, being a righteous dude, wanted a new drug-one without the crappy bullshit that comes with modern pharmaceuticals.

 I'm with Huey.  And I don't want all the shit that goes with these new drugs.  I basically want good drugs, that do the good stuff, and don't need a bunch of other drugs to undo the side effects of the new drugs.  Is that so much to ask?

I have my new antibiotics, which don't seem to come right back up, which is good stuff right there.  They also don't seem to give me nasty side effects, at least not yet.  Let's hope that continues.

And my new fave, my secret weapon?  I got it from a compounding pharmacy in Colorado, that compounds it by the bucketful, and sends it in the mail, lickity split.  It's LDN.  For more info, click here.  There's other info out there, on all the amazing things it can do for people with crazy problems. And, the side effects are supposed to be minimal.

So, I'm hoping I am one of the people it will help.  It may help with stress, anxiety, and depression, immune system issues, and pain.  Wow, right?  Sign me up, right?  Plus, there don't seem to be much in the side effect department.  And, it is supposed to help your body create your natural endorphins that seem to not be endorphin-ing.

The down side is, I have to take it, 2-4 weeks, before I may notice a difference, especially for pain control.  And, the downside is, I cannot take narcotic pain pills any longer AT ALL, because they will not work, and they will cause the LDN to not work, also.  So when crazy Aimee that does too much, commits too much, tries too much, takes over, and my body feels like it got hit by a truck as punishment for all the doing to much, I will be getting no relief.  Even though my energy levels tell me to do all this in the first place.

You see?  It's a wicked cycle.  :::insert frustrated scowl here:::

So far, I am too days in.  Pain? HIGH.  FUCKING HIGH.  But that is likely due to my over-do, over-plan, crazy ass self.

Immune system? No colds, which I don't get anyways.  Whatevs.

Anxiety/stress?  Meh.  Not noticing much of a change.   BUT.  I feel just a wee bit shitfaced, all day.  From about an hour after I take it (10 am ish?) to about 8 pm, I feel slightly tipsy.  You know that space where you live, when you are slightly intoxicated, Fun Aimee, shall we say?  That space where you get a little funny, a little too honest, say some things you usually wouldn't?

That's where I'm at.  10 hours a day.  Which is helping the wine bill.  But not my popularity.  I'm sure my Facebook friends will be dropping like flies soon, with my mouth getting the best of me.  For instance, I found this amazing quote from a blog I read, and made it into a card on the Someecards website:

Funny, no?

But not okay.  Which is half its charm, in my book.

But I can't be like this, every day, 10 hours a day.  I sometimes work.  I hang with parents and teachers when I do work.  I help at my kids' school.  This kind of shit?  Not appropriate. 

My already wide-open-shit-gets-through-all-day-long mouth filter?  Broke as a joke.

As a good friend said, my give-a-fuck is broke.

See?  Not okay, Me. 

See? I created two awesome ecards.  But, neither one is even mildly appropriate to be the image showcasing this fine blog post.  :::slowly shakes head::

It's a goddamn epidemic.

Pretty soon, someone is going to report me to the blog police or some shit, and I'm going to have to make people go that extra step clicking that they understand the the shit they are about to read will curl their toes.

Imma need an intervention.  But with booze.  Lots of booze. (Wait, does that defeat the purpose?)


Who's in?

Last Will and Testament

By the time you read this (sometimes I auto-post, based on all the crap that spews from my mind, and my lack of desire to document it...) I might be dead.

You see, I went back to yoga today, after a VERY long absence.  About a year.  When my body couldn't keep up (holy shit, yoga is totally good for body pain because you just go at your own level, but I couldn't even do that!), I stopped going.  Which made my body forget all the wonderful things it had learned. Like the bending, and the stretching, and the less groaning.

So I finally went back.  And damned if I couldn't even sit cross-legged.  So there I am, sitting on my mat amongst people twice my age, and I can't even sit criss-cross applesauce like a good little Yogi.

And now, I fear for my body.  I hurt in places I shouldn't hurt.  Places I'm not sure anatomy people have even named yet.  What if I wake up tomorrow, dead from over-exertion at yoga?

So I thought I would submit my will, in case shit falls the fuck apart.

Being of questionable sound mind,  I leave the following things to the following people:

To qfsp (quest for skinny pants)-I leave all my blog followers.  She always boosts me up (except for that time she assured me exercise would help me feel better) and reminds me to stay focused.  She has inspired me to track my food, write shit down, blog my personal business.  Actually, some of you may just have a bone to pick with her.  Go annoy her, here.

To Mrs. One Day at One Day I'm Gonna-I leave all my Twitter followers.  You are amazing, full of health shit too, understand me and my probs.  (Even though I've never met her in RL, she knows my shit, and loves me anyways.)

To Devi-my new local friend, resource, and support bitch.  I leave you all my supplements, and pharmaceuticals to put in your stash for a rainy day.  You are there whenever I need immediate assistance, and you KNOW.

To Steph, Jen, and Suzy-I leave all my gluten-free shit.  My family won't want it, and you all need it.  Plus that tasteless shit is expensive!  Thanks for asking me questions, listening to my whining, and reaching out.

To almost every Kim I have ever known:
Kim from 7th grade--you dropped me as a BFF when I went away to Disneyland, even though I brought you a Mickey pen and notepad set.  You hurt my feelings, when I was in the middle of puberty.  You suck.

Kim from college--you left utilities on in my name, which damn near prevented me from buying a house.  Still, I stuck by you.  When you asked if I liked your husband, I chose to be honest.  We haven't been friends since, even though you left that pompous windbag years ago.  I reached out to you, you ignored me.  You are a twat.

Kim from a while back--I helped you realize your dream of being a stay-at-home mom, by making you go the fuck away from me and my people.  FAR far away.  Then, I had to spend thousands defending my decision that WAS RIGHT.  Within weeks of your shitstorm, I developed excruciating pain that would go on to be diagnosed as chronic Lyme.  You are the suckiest of the sucks, the bitchiest of bitches, the stinkiest of assholes.  And I will forever fight the urge to run you down with my swagger wagon, provided I survive yoga.    You are the ringleader of Asshole Kims walking this planet.

You Kims? I leave all you bitches my yoga gear.  I hate you all, I want you all the suffer far more than I.  Wear my stretched out pants, sweat on my nasty old yoga mats.  Sirsasana your way into herniated discs and ruptured organs, bitches.

(My sincere apologies to Kim of the Mike and Kim, who is NOT an asshole.  I don't know what happened there.  Maybe you are the anti-Kim.)

UPDATE:  I checked my Facebook account for Kims.  It seems I know quite a few-and they are all pretty awesome.  I am sorry that all the Evil Kims have ruined shit for you.  Pretty much if we are friends on Facebook, you are NOT an asshole.  Sorry about the generalizations.

And to April---I leave you my Facebook account.  You have the ability, with your regular references to Urban Dictionary, to make even the most solid stomachs undulate.  I have removed all minors from my FB page, so it's yours for the offending.  May the force of a thousand retches be with you.

That just about sums it up---unless someone needs a bunch of VERY stretchy clothes in a wide range of sizes?


Who would you leave your craziest shit to?

The Yum and The Barfies

Why, oh why, does antibiotic-induced nausea only happen after I FINISHED the bowl of yum? 

Why can't I feel shitty, oh, say three bites in?  Save me some freakin' calories, yo.

Three bites:

The first, to really understand the yum.  Become fully enveloped in the mouth ecstasy.

The second, to completely relish the yum. 

The third, to drive away the hungries.

Then, nausea, so that I put DOWN THE DAMN FORK.

Instead, I eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat.  Then, I get up to get a drink of water.  Forget about bowl of yum.  Then, the barfies set in, and I have to plan around the barfies, see if my meds should be fully dissolved, which would determine WHERE the barfies, should they come, can take place. 

The bowl stares at me, enticing me.  Begging me to enjoy the remains.  The last bits of yum left.  Not just the dregs, but the GOOD STUFF that incited yum noises only moments before.

My plan of saving the best bites for last, like DESSERT bites, is foiled. 



At least I didn't finish the bowl.


:::sigh:::

Our New Pet. Or, The Thing Living Under The House

We have a problem.

You see, we now  (thanks to me, always wanting to up and move, every time I get pissy about mold, or asshole landladies, or whatever) live backed up to an Open Space.  Open Space means "dry grass and animals that will fuck you up" in some other language.

Our neighbor has already warned us about the baby rattlers she has found, like clockwork, each year (I can't even recall when each year, because I was too busy mentally craigslisting a NEW new place to move to).  She also mentioned the coyotes.  Smaller than dingos, not into stealing babies. 

And I have grown used to skunks, being in the country-fied 'burbs.  So, when I smell skunk in the wee hours of the night, I'm irritated, but acclimating.

But when I get home, and outside smells fine, but there's a strong odor inside, I get pissy.  And the fleas.  We now have fleas.  WTF?

In what I thought was unrelated news, there has been a strange sound in the early mornings, coming from the backyard. 

Turns out, it's this sound, here:

http://www.outdoor-photography-topic-gallery.com/animalsounds.html

Scroll to the bottom, turn up your speakers, and click on "skunk".

Here's what we think is happening----Mr. Stinky is climbing into the undercarriage of our house.  By Monkey Boy's room, judging by his complaints of "scratching noises".   We thought he was just being dramatic.  There's a vent, with the chicken wire bent back, with little tufts of fur stuck.  And in our closet, where the smell is the worst, the floorboards are extra creaky.  So, Mr. Stinky is probably all, WTF is going on up there, it scared the piss outta me!  Hence, our smelly home.



Not okay, Mr. Stinky.  Not okay at all. Your time under our feet is coming to a close.

Health Update, Oct 2012

Here I am, (not so) eagerly knocking on the door to 40.

In 5 days I will be 40.

A couple years ago, I remember thinking to this time in my life, and thinking, "I really would like to be at my goal weight for 40."

Being a little slow on the uptake, it took me until a couple weeks ago to make any progress toward that goal.

Wait, that's not entirely true.  This time last year, I had lost 22 pounds, significantly changed my diet, and had about 20 pounds to go.  Then, I fell off the gluten-free wagon, knee-deep into yummy fatty goodness. I had a hell of a time getting back on track.

And here I am.  I am 189 pounds of lovable Lyme.  Luscious Lyme.  In fact, if I could only grow a foot taller, I would be at my idea weight.

Since my plans to get taller have stalled, I figure something had to give. So, I went back on my detox diet.

I'm almost three weeks in, and I have lost 9 pounds. Phew!  It's possible!

And, I'm 3 weeks off my anti-depressants, and no one got stabbed.  Not a single person.  This is nothing short of a miracle, people. If you know me in Real Life, you know what an amazing feat this truly is.

And, I haven't been Psychotic-Swearing-Bitch each morning, for like, three days running.  This has got to have set some records.

Here's the rest of my health crap---

I'm off antibiotics, until my vision returns to normal.  We are 14 days in, folks, and I still get dizzy every time I change my view.  So, driving, and scanning mirrors for traffic and shit? Not fun.  I highly recommend NOT hanging out in crosswalks in the greater Sacramento area for a spell.

As soon as my eyes get better, I can go back on the drugs, but I will have to work harder on detoxing.  This means that, I actually have to TRY to detox.  Beyond drinking water a lot.

So, to achieve this, I am drinking lemon water, tangerine-mint water, taking Alka Seltzer Gold, and I am contemplating getting in a hot tub.  Lyme HATES heat.  So, hot tubs and infrared saunas should be my best friends. But, the heat makes my body ache.  ACHE like a giant body headache.  So, I avoid them.  And, being peri-menopausal, I'm pretty toasty already, so my showers tend to be cold-ish. Unfortunately, it's time to ramp things up so that I can increase my core temp, killing these little curly motherfuckers faster.  :::sigh:::

I have been somewhat fortunate, not herxing much.  But, I am avoiding things likely to make me herx.  I KNOW this is not right, that I have to do more detoxing, more frequently. That the more I kill the little bastards that have been wreaking havoc in my body the more I need to flush them out of me, which is where detoxing comes in.  But also where herxing comes in.  It's like the elaborate foot tattoo of the detox world-the better things are, the more shit hurts, the better you will be in the long-term.  Makes no damned sense, but whatever.

I even worked this week!  And not the usual, 'stop by, see everyone, make sure no one's completely pissed off at me or needs something desperate from me, so I can leave before I get sleepy' kind of work.  I went in right after dropping Princess off, and stayed until 6ish, covering the phones, doing my usual stuff, dealing with paperwork and bills, and did all the cooking for 100 kids for 2 whole days.  And the dishes, because our dishwasher is on the fritz.  Then, I picked up Princess, because Sky King was off with Monkey Boy on an extended field trip, and so I was on my own. I did this for two full days, plus my usual stuff.  All on the heals of a very busy weekend and first part of the week.

Here I am on Saturday.  Things hurt.  But, I'm out of bed before noon.  This is the biggest boost in energy I have had since I can't even remember when. Now, I just have to make sure I don't overdo it so much that I go backwards.

UPDATE:  I still have eye issues.  So, Dr. Lyme is scrapping the Rifampin and Doxy (Yess!!!  Not a fan of the staying out of the sun), and trying all new stuff.  Including LDN (Low Dose Naltrexone), which is supposed to make my whole world wonderful, filled with infection-fighting bodies, and happy thoughts, and unicorns farting glitter, and less anxiety.  I'm excited for it.  He also added two new drugs (new, to me, anyways...).  One is cefuroxime, which is a standard abx.  The other is Levofloxicin, which has a website devoted to tendon problems.  So, I guess that means no marathons in my future.  Damn.  Not.

And, I get the jump back on the rollercoaster of seeing what new side effects I get to deal with.  But the point is, new drugs means potential getting better-er.  Which I'm a huge fan of.

Instead of Being Creeped Out....

Big Brother is a pain is my ass. He's slowing down my roll. Seriously.

Her I am, surfing the interwebs for "how to make an upright bean bag toss game" for my kids' carnival.  Then, smack-dab in the middle of the page, I see a bunch of shit for Maui.

You see, Sky King and I are going to Maui in November to celebrate becoming 40. And I have been spending an obscene amount of time Googling "cheap souvenirs in maui", "best road to hana trips", and "tommy bahama menu pricing".  I'm a preparer, y'all.

And now, in the middle of VERY IMPORTANT school work, I am dragged over to some link about "amazing sunset cruises for less".

GAH!

Now, I should be entirely creeped out that The Internet is OUT TO GET ME.  But I'm not.  I'm more irritated that my, "Oh look! A chicken!" brain had me on a website about beanbag toss games (it's really going to be this amazing game with orange balloons, attached in the shape of a pumpkin, where kids pop the balloons to reveal useless shit----thank you, Martha Stewart!), then all of a sudden, I'm clicking the link to the sunset cruises.

Then, I'm like, "oh shit, if we go on a sunset cruise, I might need a shawl.  I wonder if I have one that will match that new sundress?"  So, then I'm in the closet rummaging around for some random shawl, I may or may not have thrown out on the last move because I was DONE PACKING SHIT.

Then, I'm like, "hey.  Where the hell are my favorite brown sandals?"

Pretty soon, I have a week's worth of Hawaii crap spread all over the bedroom.

And the pumpkin board game? Forgotten.

This is why my kids don't have what they need, until the last minute, or right after that.   And why parents can't get their shit together.

Stupid internet.

The One Where I DON'T Stab People In The Brain With An Ice Pick

So, I'm off Cymbalta.  Off, off.  Done.  As in, I told the folks down at CVS they can keep their $6/day death pills, because I want to have a little more control over my symptoms. Even if it means all the pain relief I was getting will be gone. 

Which it is.  Pain? Back like a crazy stalker ex-boyfriend, with the same amount of passion and persistence.

And, because I couldn't get my latest primary to call me back, and guide me through the step down, I muddled through it myself, as those of you that hang on my every word will remember.

I was thrilled to not have the agonizing headaches that everyone online spoke of.

I was super stoked about getting off, and I seemed to be able to talk myself off the ledge when I was feeling like the only thing the people around me were missing was an ice pick to the eyeball.  I could be all, "Aimee, you're getting off the crazy juice, it'll be okay.  Put down the ice pick".  And that worked, mostly.

I also got kicked off my antibiotics, for the first time since January, because of eye issues.  Namely, every time I change my focus, like from a person to the TV to the wall to the computer screen, I would get a teensy bit dizzy.  (Currently, I'm at Day 15 of the dizzies, btw.  They are getting better, but not gone.  Or, I'm used to them.  Whatev.)

So, I'm detoxing, almost done.  Down 9 pounds.  Liver should be doing a happy dance (I recently got some labs that showed that my liver is pretty pissed off right now.  Not sure where to go with that, because just about everything I take taxes my liver.  Not to mention the wine.  Oh, GOD, the wine....).  But, I REALLY want to sometimes, occasionally, violently, persistently drive my car into the side of a building, especially if people that are pissing me off are hanging out in front of the building. And, I have tears building up in my eyes, pretty much constantly.  And not only during sappy commercials. 

I can't think straight (even less straight than normal), I'm not making sense even to myself.  So, Dr. Google and I have a little chat.

Seems that, coming of Cymbalta?  Pretty fucking epic.  All kinds of crazy shit happens.  It's like Big Pharma decided, "take our pills, please!  In facts, have a month on us!  But don't give them up, because we will fuck your world.  You will NEVER give us up, NEVER!"  Without the Rick Roll, I promise you.

(BTW, have you guys seen the Mad Men Rick Roll?  Fucking awesomesauce.  Truly.

Right?)

Anyway, these can be the symptoms of going off Cymbalta (they even have a fancy name for it, SSRI Discontinuation Syndrome) (I was super helpful to your eyeballs by only listing the symptoms I have, you're welcome):

•  Brain zaps-these can be like vertigo, or a dizzy feeling, and can completely throw off your thought process.  A true joy, I can assure you, especially when speaking to a group professionally.
• Dizziness
• Eye and vision problems (!!!!!)
• Agitation and anxiety
• Hostility
• Worsening of depressive symptoms
• Sudden-onset dyslexia 

And some other shit, that HAS to be related.  Gah.

Phew.  It's been a hell of a week, right?  Top it off with Sky King being gone for a field trip, and me having to work excessively for three days straight, and I'm borderline homicidal. And weepy.  Which, as I am sure you can imagine, one of my favorite qualities in myself.

My saving grace?  I recently met a fellow Lymie, I will call her D, that has had tons of success treating her Lyme with natural treatments.  And, while I was in the middle of trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with me, she popped up online.  Our convo was like this:

Her: What's up? Sorry, had a computer break for a few days...
Me: No worries.  I'm in the doldrums, I'm thinking it's from coming off Cymbalta, did you have this when you kicked it?
Her: Yep!  5HTP, you need it.
Me: :::consults Dr. Google for contraindications::: Awesome.  I need something, because I'm a wreck.
Her:  here's my number, check in in a few days, let me know how you're doing
Me: k. Thanks.

I hit a few more sites, looking for things that will help me feel less stabby, while NOT shriveling my liver like a 5-year-old-raisin under the couch.

This is what I found:
Bach Flower remedies.  Way back when, I worked in a few health food stores, soaking in the hippie-patchouli-granola vibe.  And everyone was totally down with the Bach Flower remedies, especially Rescue Remedy.  But, I didn't think some diluted flower juice would help me with shit.

Today, I was desperate.  And since the looney bin doesn't have a weekend drop box like the Pound, I thought it was worth a shot.

I careened on down to the local Hippie shop, and picked up some goodies: Rescue Remedy, Mustard Remedy, and 5HTP.  The girl at the counter was gabbing about Rescue Remedy and it helping her with anxiety, like, MINUTES after taking it.

So I got in the swagger wagon, and ripped that shit open like a junkie after a score. Drop, drop, drop.

And here I am, 2 hours later.  Feeling a teensy bit serene.  Certainly less homicidal. And, if things keep going this way, I might follow up with all my birthday celebrating I have planned for this upcoming week, I probably won't kill anyone this month, and I will likely attend my awesome vacation at the end of the month that I have been planning for over a year.  The trip I have wanted to cancel for a few days now.  Yep, it's been THAT seriously shitty. 

This shit? Not for the faint of heart.

Quittin' The Hard Stuff With Help From Dr. Google

*****You all know I'm batshit crazy, borderline psychotic,  and of questionable moral character.  But this time, I really need y'all to pay attention.  I AM NOT A DOCTOR.  I never even dated a pre-med student.  Please ALWAYS talk to your doc before doing anything stupid.  Pretty much what I'm saying is, "do as I say, not as I do".  :::ahem:::

I'm a complete pill junkie. 

Me, anti-pill.  Anti-western medicine.  Gobbling 30+ pills a day. Except when I forget to fill my 2-week supply containers, that is.  :::sheepish:::  But that doesn't happen much, I've gotten better about it, less ambivalent.

But, I'm over some of the pills. 

I ditched the Ambien.  Gladly.  My credit cards couldn't take much more, I assure you.

Next up: Cymbalta.

Many moons ago, when I was a sad, pain-filled fibromyaglia patient, before I new the depth of my health problems, they put me on Cymbalta.  They meaning the Rheumatologist I fired, and the first primary care doc I fired.  They said it would help with the constant pain in all my extremities, and the bonus it, I wouldn't be a crying stabby mess.  So I reluctantly began a 2 year journey on antidepressants.

They fucked me up.  I was quiet (like, serial killer quiet) for the first couple months.  MONTHS.  Not that Sky King didn't enjoy the break at times, I'm sure.  But quiet Aimee is you're-in-trouble Aimee.  Not good.  So, our convos went like this, mostly:

SK: Everything okay?

Me:  mmmhmmm

SK: Okay.

:::five minutes later:::


SK: Everything okay?

Me:  mmmhmmm

SK: Okay.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Then, I acclimated.  The pain was diminishing, and the side effects weren't intolerable.  I had to make some adjustments, because antidepressants are known to effect :::ahem::: desire.  So, mental fixes there. I had dry mouth.  CONSTANTLY.  Fine, whatevs, carry water.  It's good for me, anyway, right? Night sweats? Not fab, I can assure you.  Especially at 39.  Mood stabilized, so that I was more chill, less quick to anger, unlikely to hide bodies in shallow graves.

Then I had to up them.  Then, my insurance changed, and $6 a day for pills that trash my liver, keep me from enjoying a couple glasses of wine, and *might* be causing more side effects?  Nah.  Not so much.

You see, when you have to take a bunch of crazy pills for even crazier diseases, and you are constantly hit with new symptoms, new reactions, new contraindications, and you get to the point that you're all, "Fuck this shit.  What can I give up?"

So, of course, the ones that cost me the most, on many levels, are the first to go.

Since my most recent primary care doc, who I actually like except for the fact that he's regularly running two hours late, by 8:30 am, seemed unable to call me back about my desire to quit cymbalta.  So, I called Dr. Google.  He's always there when I need him, btw. 

It seems that when people are coming off cymbalta, the withdrawals are fucking brutal.  2-week migraines.  Murderous rage for one, please.  Sensory disruptions.  In the middle of all this, I'm already having issues with (I think) one of my antibiotics, that is fucking with my ability to see stuff.  Not good, right?

So it seems the message board say this:  Docs put you on Prozac.  Then, they wean you off Cymbalta.  Then, wean you off Prozac.  Easy peasy, as far as 6 months go.  Right?

Not.

So, I went back to the message boards.  They have one called, cymbaltawithdrawals.com.  What the what?

And it seems, there are people that have researched the pharmacology of the shit.  And each capsule is filled with little balls.  Each ball is coated, for time release. So, people went in, counted that shit out, tapered down.

So did I.  Because really, my street cred as a junkie wasn't quite up to par.

After three weeks, I'm not quite so homicidal.  Depends on the day, or minute, really. Mornings are rough, what with the "trying to get everyone out on time without casualties" thing.  Setbacks, like irritating landlords, stubbed toes, mounting medical bills, and stupid people in the car in front of me, and shit gets a little dicey.

But I'm done.  It's been 5 weeks, I tapered down slowly-if not so consistently-with my acupuncturist giving me stuff to detox the ickies out, and the promise that I would totally detox at the end of it, which I'm in the middle of, now.  and no one is wandering around, wondering why they have a hatchet in the back of their skulls.

Progress, I say. 

So, I'm fully committed to going with only the meds that have obvious need.  Yes, I could use to have my mood a little less psychotic.  I'm sure MANY others agree.  Especially the poor people sitting near me when my son is playing football, and the refs have a bad call.  And the people near me when I cuss out the morons in front of me while driving.  And a bunch of other people.  But, at the risk of humanity, I am siding with my liver.  My poor poor liver that has been through so very much.  College was taxing for it, and when I began having health problems when I was 12, things were not looking good for my poor little liver.  It's time for the damn thing to get a break, right?

I'm hoping, as is half of Northern California, to find something that will keep me from being a complete anti-social ass. 

Suggestions, and prayers for humanity, welcome.

Who Am I? Or, The One Where I Link A Bunch Of Other Awesome Posts...

I'm not special.  I'm just a regular(ish) person.  I have a family; I have two awesome (most of the time) kids.  They push me to be my best when I don't wanna.  I have a wonderful PATIENT husband.  He puts up with my mouth, my attitude.  My swearing.  Oh, GAWD, the swearing. I put up with his gassy ass.  It works.

But seriously, I have met some cool ass motherfuckers on these here interwebs.  Some have health problems like me, some don't.  We all seem to struggle, and find ways to make fun of those struggles.  Which is why I blog.  Because I'm sick of struggling, alone.  I mean, I have great support, THE BEST, really.  But it's not quite the same as someone who struggles the same way.

Some people like to mull things over, work it out internally, keep it in, pretend it isn't there.  I am NOT that kind of person.  I'm fine with them---to each their own when it comes to how we deal with the shit hands we are dealt.  But I need to connect.

Sometimes it's the shit that makes you the maddest, that inspires you.  Lyme disease inspired me.  It inspired me to put myself out there.  All of it---the ugliness, the trials and tribs, the irritation, the depression, the pain, the hurt, the confusion.  ALL of it.

 I have always been a big talker.  And I love attention.  Like a whore that is too chatty.

But, I have a penchant for "putting it all out there---" no matter what "IT" is.  And, I don't care.

That's not true---I do care.  I care enough to share.  HAHA!

Everyone in RL jokes with me---"this is going on Facebook, right?"  or, "please don't blog this".  Why do I do it?

Because I can't stand the thought of others out there, suffering, with no one that understands to catch them when they fall.  They have to endure, day in and day out, without someone to drive them places, remind them to take their meds, keep them from doing too much.

Wanna stalk me?  There's always room for more stalker.  I openly encourage creepiness-your weird habits? Safe here.

Options:

• Follow me on Facebook--all my blog posts are linked, plus extra bonus material and bloopers. https://www.facebook.com/fearlessfibrowarrior.  You can even share your favorite post with others, who also like to snarf coffee out their noses onto their work keyboard instead of actually working.
• I tweet!  Totes down with the Twitters.  Once again, full of the blog, and occasional intelligent snippets from my life.  Compelling, I assure you. https://twitter.com/FearlessFibro
• What else?  Oh.  You could become a regular stalker, by following me directly.  See that thing over there, on the right, where it says,  "Join this site"?  Go there.  Sign in.  There are 46 wonderful people waiting for new friends.
• Join Disqus.  It's amazing, and you get to comment your way through all the amazing blogs there are out there.  Mine, first, please.  Then others.  We attention whores drop EVERYTHING when we get a comment.  Even a mean one----we are desperate, not discriminating.

That's enough pandering/begging/whining for the day.  Now, go read some more amazing blogs!  I follow a ton, myself----check out my list. (It's somewhere here, I can't remember, and I'm too lazy to look right now.)

The One Where I Almost Stab Myself in the Eye

It's Day 4 of the "eye twitching, dizziness, can't drive myself without fearing for the lives of others, want to poke my eyeballs out because they are so freaking annoying" episode.

Too vague?

Here's the deal. A couple weeks ago I had a day, til about 7:30 that night, where my eyes were funky.  They felt like they were doing that crazy cartoonish roll in the sockets that cartoon animals have happen whenever they get spun to fast, or fall off a cliff, or whatever.  Visually, however, nothing seems amiss.  It's just that, every time I move my eyes to look at something new like the keyboard to the screen then back again, or while I'm scanning for peril on the highway, I would get about 1-2 seconds of this feeling in my eye, joined with an amusing "whomp whomp" sound in my ears.

Truly, joy.

Then it stopped, and I was so thankful to not have creepy cartoon eyes.


Then it began again.  And hasn't stopped since.  It's Friday, and I'm getting DONE with it.

A little history:
When you have health problems of this magnitude, you are encouraged by your bevy of doctors to look shit up, so you can narrow problems down to WTF is the prob.  This is how this goes:

Google search:

• eye problems Lyme disease
• eye problems bartonella
• eye problems cymbalta
• eye problems ambien withdrawal
• eye problems antibiotics

Then I get super fucking creative:

• optic dizziness rifampin

Ding ding ding!!!!!!!

Rifampin, a serious motherfucker that is typically used for shit that's pretty damn hardcore (meningitis, TB) has been known to cause vision problems, as well as eye problems.

This means, come Monday, I have to call Dr. Lyme, (who, incidentally, WILL take my crazy ass call) and deal with the possibility that he might want me to ditch the Rifampin.  Sucks, because I feel better as a whole than I have in YEARS.  Which also means I have to up my treatment to work harder, which also means I won't be feeling great for long, so it goes.

Ugh.

But I also can't keep asking Sky King to drive me all over the place. Especially when I want to secretly try on boots we can't afford.

Sheesh.

Turns Out, Being A Judge-y Asshole Doesn't Get Me Better Service

We moved.  Again.  To a house that (hopefully) does not have a mold issue.

:::le sigh:::

So, Sky King and I did the whole, "establish new service" for all the shit we can't live without.  Like heat, air, gas.  Cable and organic produce deliveries.  You know, the essentials.

We did the "Internet account log-in request new service" stuff.  I took care of electricity.  Then gas.  Then produce.

I got a confirmation email (I guess, I wasn't really giving two shits, nor paying attention) about the gas being stopped at the old place.  I remembered to tell Sky King to go hang at the new place from 8-12 on Wednesday.

Wednesday waiting day came and went.  No gas man came and went, beyond Sky King and his affinity for all things spicy and burrito-y. 

At no point, did anyone think to call the gas company and reschedule, so that we would have water not set to "arctic" come Friday (moving day).

But we were also finding out that the dipshit that used to live here not only left a cat, but left Comcast on.  So maybe we figured she left the gas on.

Either way, this did not matter on Wednesday.

It mattered on Saturday.

Me: Princess, go take a shower.

::::shower happens, child comes out in clean clothes with wet hair:::

Me: Monkey Boy, go take a shower.

:::more showers happen, boy comes out, complaining that Princess used all the hot water:::

At this point, I delay my shower, because I have surmised that the water heater is shitty, and can't handle more than one shower in a short period of time.  Noted. I did not, however, think further beyond.  If I had, I might have realized the great Truth of no hot water sooner. possibly.

Later, I get in the shower to wash off the filth, sweat and dust.

No hot water.

I scrub the essentials, jump out.

Me: Honey, did you turn the hot water heater up two days ago, when I asked?
Him: No.  I couldn't find it.
Me::::trying not to choke him:::  Would you mind doing that?
Him: Sure.


Umm, there's no gas.

Me:  Fuck.


The next day, he comes to me with his phone in hand, with the comment, "Wow, you better tell my wife that.  Good luck."

This is the part where they tell me they have no record of me turning on service, and it will be 48 hours before they can get anyone out to help us.

After what seemed like 25 hours of discussion about how unreasonable I am, and how I should have known it wasn't happening because I didn't get a confirmation blah blah blah, I might have said, you're telling me that we can remotely bomb an entire NATION, but I can't have hot water for two more days, because it is impossible for you to tweak the schedule to get someone out here sooner? Seriously?

Then it went downhill.

I was transferred to a supervisor, where I dazzled him with my witty banter about 4-day-old puberty sweat, and stanky asses, and moving, and heat.  He was impressed, I could tell.

Then it got ugly.  All I asked was could he pretty please with organic, fair harvested, free trade sugar on top, get someone out sooner.  Or, walk me through breaking into the box myself, so I could press the damn "gas on" button.

Then he began reading from his script.  You know, the one they pull out whenever they don't want to give people their way? The one that reiterates all their bad news, but makes it sound like you deserve the fate they are handing out? The one where they are NOT HELPFUL?

That's when I got all business-owner-y, talking about customer service, and job security coming from that same service.  And things got worse.

Me: So you're telling me there is no way, AT ALL, that someone can come to my house for all of 5 minutes to flick a switch, or hit a button, or whatever, because somewhere along the way my request was lost in the Internet ether?
Him: Yes,ma'am.  (This is where he continues to read from his script, where most of the sentences begin with "you should have" and "in the future".)

Have I told you, I am stepping down off my awful anti-depressant, and one of the many side effects of doing so is a searing murderous rage?

Me:  What, are you Union, or something?
Him:  (First sign of having a personality) Yes!  We are!  It's amazing for the workers!  Blah blah blah....
Me: But not so much with customers, I see.  Have your supervisor call me.



It's not looking good for the future of our body odor, people.