The problem with my brain not automatically transmitting my thoughts and images into blog posts that publish themselves is that I end up so far behind myself that it’s usually not worth catching up. But that’s only when I haven’t lost my mind just a few days shy of my 35th birthday and learned that the local health clinic for general care no longer prescribes ADHD meds to anyone over the age of 18 citing “problems” when they were.

In other words, all you assholes too lazy to search out your own community meth lab in Someone’s Basement because you didn’t need a prescription have now left me scrambling to find anyone who can get me legal speed in a bottle with my name on it before I run out of what I’ve got. Also, I’m wondering exactly how ADHD is supposed to magically fix itself once the patient turns 19 or if that’s the reason Somebody’s Basements keep popping up all over the place.

Other highlights from the past week or so include a depressive fog so thick I could make soup out of it and driving two hours to see Santa and showing up three times at the post office for holiday crap after my meds have worn off. I’m pretty sure the staff looks forward to the next time I stop in. Or maybe everyone in Maine is just that nice and I haven’t picked up on the “Dammit, the crazy lady’s here again” vibe. Either way, you get the rest of the inside of my head in between the lines.

Time to ditch the desert and embrace the snow. We drove to Bangor for our licenses. And then let Buttercup get her own state ID card because it's always important to add things to the list of shit I can lose. Plus side that I hope never has to be addressed: I checked the box on organ donor for mine and hers. The Husband, apparently, wants to retain his self-indulgent self and keep both kidneys because he might need them if, you know, he's dead. Buttercup and I took two photos each and waffled back and forth over which one we each liked better. The Husband's word after one take: Perfect. Which is good cuz that means the therapy and confidence building we've been working on seems to be helping.


Best Santa Ever. Except for the one in Rise of the Guardians movie. Which makes this guy #2 on the list. Buttercup made sure to tell him where ti buy that cardboard castle she wants and then Santa gave daddy his business card that daddy gave to me and this means daddy is an idiot becaue he gave something No to be Lost to Captain Distracted by Shiney Things. Either way, Santa? Please take a look at the picture following this one because it's kind of all I really want. Sincerely, Me.


I once had my mind set on a finger monkey and wrote a post about it and someone pinned the image I found online before I even knew what Pinterest was. Ever since, I've had thousands of searches per day sending people to my blog who were most likely disappointed in the lack of finger monkeys. But that's okay, Santa. I've grown up a bit and realized I'd rather have one of these babies. Just remember to poke a few holes in the box to help me avoid any awkwardness when opening and having to feign excitement over my new stuffed animal as to avoid traumatizing the small child in the room who will most likely be ignoring the world after she opens the iPad I plan on stealing for work when the Internet is out and I don't want to peck out a blog post on my phone. PS: A keyboard for that iPad would be a sweet bonus, since I've been so good. Mostly.


I'm allergic to everything. This is not an understatement. Going out to eat is akin to playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded pistol, so it's sweet and rekindles my faith in humanity when a waiter like Gunner (at Bugaboo Creek in Bangor) is so obviously anxious in making sure our order is exact, triple checking with the cooks in the kitchen, and reassures me that he is certified in CPR. I enjoyed my salmon fillet grilled in a clean pan with olive oil, salt, pepper, and garlic and my steamed vegetables. I also almost tipped Gunner in money and Xanax because he was that afraid he was going to kill me and I felt bad because I don't think he did much breathing while we were there. I think I'm in love with Gunner. Buttercup approves.


Pretty, isn't it? Even when the power starts to flicker and eventually goes out completetly and you begin to appreciate the insulation job on the house because the heat's out and then you start adding layers and wondering if the generator we ordered two weeks ago will show up before or after The Husband sends us off to a's still gorgeous.



The power is out. The iPod is out of battery. And step away from Mama's iPhone if you want to live to see Christmas, my child. And lo, she is suddenly giggling and laughing and remembering what it's like to play with real toys like blocks and her own imagination. Not a bad deal, if you ask me. Pardon me a moment so I can go instagram this sweet moment and then charge my phone so I can oooh and ahhhh at The Cute with the internet and ignore the double standard because this is my story and I get to make up the rules.


We haven't had power since morning. The generator is keeping us warm enough. And I actually remembered where the candles were. A Christmas miracle.


It's 3 a.m. and the dogs are barking like mad, which is unusual because we are renting a house on 8 acres and there's usually nothing to bark at. Turns out it's the plow guy and turns out it's the first of two times he'll be plowing the quarter mile driveway because it snowed like mad up here. Note: wearing fuzzy socks while runnin down carpeted stairs is not recommended. I slipped and basically louged down four stairs using my tailbone as a break. Cue up the next photo please...


If things work out the way I'm hoping, I'll eventually be famous for writing things that piss off my family because Mexicans suck at airing dirty laundry and Dr. Ouellette can be secondarily famous or being the guy who had to press a vibrating device to my tailbone to determine if the pain level meant I had just bruised or broken my ass bone. Right now, the general consensus is that I bruised the living shit out of it, which is impressive considering the padding I've got "in my trunk" right now. There's ice packs and peppermint oil and homemade salves and Dr. Ouellette pointing to the exact part of my ass that I shifted out of place when I fell down the stairs. I'm on a strict regime of no activities that could result in my further damaging my ass bone, which means ice skating and roller skating are out for right now. But I do have another date with Dr. Ouellette and the vibrating machine. You know, just to be sure...


And then I run out of steam. It’s 2 a.m. and I have words to write for the other site that doesn’t pay the bills but means the world to me and my sanity. I have more to share here. Until then, Happy Christmas Eve.

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