Ninja Attack Guppies & Other Funny Moving to Maine Stories

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Oct 312012
 

So we booked the moving truck yesterday. I’m also pretty sure the only reason my head didn’t explode for the 24 hours between signing on the truck to move the belongings we aren’t selling and finally securing a rental home for the next six months is the fact that I’m ADHD and allowed to forget I already took my Xanax.

Three times.

Five minutes ago.

 

*ahem*

 

So now we have a house on actual property and shit. Which is cool. And then I looked at a map and about fell off my chair. Maine? You mean THAT Maine? BY THE OCEAN? I may have to put the Xanax away once we arrive just so I can take in all the thisisnotthedesertness that will probably overwhelm me into writing sappy poetry and hugging trees that I am am not allergic to.

When I’m not crying about the Living in Maine and Can’t Eat the Lobster Thing, I mean.

Also, and only because I consider it a public service announcement to the world, I just listed this for sale, too.

 

Beautiful 5 gallon fish tank with live plants and added serenity background. $60. As an added bonus you also get the guppy, which I am convinced is a trained government assassin, and the Ghost Shrimp, otherwise known as the “clean up crew”. I’d offer you the single little school fish left from the school of five we had yesterday, but I can’t promise it will still be alive in the morning. I’d tell you more, but I’m pretty sure I’m being watched.

Awwww Coconuts…

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Jun 272012
 

I traveled 2,500 miles yesterday so Buttercup can be a flower girl in a family wedding this weekend and jet-lag has turned my brain into baby food. I’d rather wax hysterical about the wisdom behind making sure you marry into a family only if the future in-laws and the current crazy you refer to as family have no less than three states between them because there’s probably a sit-com idea here just waiting to be born — and because it’s like THE BEST PREMARITAL ADVICE THE SINGLE COULD EVERY POSSIBLY HOPE TO RECEIVE — but I think I’m already asleep. Instead, I’ll let myself take a vacation day from the blog, rest my muddled brain and close my allergy induced bloodshot eyes because it seems I’m allergic to the entire planet, and give you something I else I wrote and saved for a rainy day.

 

The first time I heard a Latino friend refer to themselves as a coconut, I was clueless. And to be honest, I actually forgot about it until yesterday when I had this conversation with Buttercup:

“Mama, how do you say ‘circle’ in Spanish?”

“Circulo.”

She repeats me, nods her head, and then taps her chin. She’s thinking.

“How do you say ‘triangle?’”

“Triangulo.”

“Square?”

“Cuadrado.”

Dodecahedron?

What the HELL?

“Dodeca WHAT?”

“Dodecahedron? It’s a shape with 12 sides.”

Right. Thank you, Nick Jr., for this moment. Because now my five-year-old is aware that I actually don’t know everything.

You. Owe. Me.

“Um??? Wow. Sweetie….that’s not really a word I’ve ever used in conversation in Spanish.”

“I’ve never heard you use it in English either, Mama.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

Also? Coconut: Brown on the outside. White on the inside. Spanglish is my national language. My daughter knows just as much Spanish because of Dora as she does Chinese because of Kai Lan. And Google is my savior.

Dodecahedron? In Spanish it’s dodecaedro, thank you very much.

 

Why Starbucks Can Thank Me Later

 6 Responses »
Jun 222012
 

Just because the five-year-old is hooked on vanilla frappuccinos doesn't mean you can call me a yuppie. At least not to my face.

When the doctor starts off your appointment with phrases like “your results” and “very interesting”, it’s kind of a toss up as to whether or not the next they say has you running for the hills screaming or breathing a sigh of relief because things were way worse in your head. Because they are always worse in your head.

Except for when they say things like allergic to and beef and apples and carrots and shrimp and crab and then your mind goes blank so you don’t even hear the rest of the list because you’re all THERE’S NOTHING LEFT TO LIVE FOR! Times like that make you realize you don’t overreact nearly as much as The Husband likes to pretend you do, mainly because The Husband can sometimes be an asshole.

And last week, this was all me (the overreacting thing. The Husband is still the asshole.)  So when my doctor suggested a very intensive follow up to the first food allergy test just to be sure with things like cocoa beans and coffee and DEAR GOD DON’T TAKE AWAY MY COFFEE…I said yes right away and then made sure to arrive to the next appointment with a trenta (read: only the addicts order their shit this big) iced black Starbuck’s coffee in hand. Ya know, just in case. Turns out that this time though, things actually were way worse in my head because somehow I didn’t test positive to as many food allergens as I did previously. The doctor isn’t sure what the hell happened, and neither am I, but I really don’t care because the bottom line is that I can still self-medicate the crazy with a steady stream of coffee and that I’m no longer the freak with the beef and apple allergy.

Instead? I’m the freak with the cabbage and broccoli allergy.

Also on my list of Things that May Make Pauline Explode:

*Cranberries

*Pears

*Plums

*Bananas

*Lemons

*Pineapples

*all Dairy

*all Eggs

*Bakers Yeast

* Wheat

*Gluten

*Peanuts

*Pecans

*Rye

*Spelt

*Whole Wheat

So I’ve been given the green light to go crazy with the beef jerky again, but things like oats, soy, and corn are staying off of my list of allowable paleo-friendly foods. I’ve been telling doctors for years that I couldn’t explain why but I just felt better when I didn’t eat grains and now I know why seeing as the grains I was eating were all trying to kill me.

What I don’t know is where this leaves me regarding the possible crazy rare autoimmune Me Being Allergic to my Own Hormone thing because when I cut out the food allergens, the symptoms that could result in a hysterectomy seemed to resolve so quickly that now everyone is wondering how I made it this long without spontaneously combusting just on principal. Now the OB is sending me back to the allergist who is sending me back to the nurse practitioner who is sending me back to the naturopath who is telling me that I may be slightly less fucked up than we all assumed.

Also? This is my 600th blog post. Instead of doing that thing that popular bloggers do with the giving away of Really Awesome Shit, I decided to do something a bit differently in that I instead went with the Unpopular Writer Mama with the Blog and No Prizes theme because I am secure in my unpopularity-ness-ish and right about now would be a REALLY GOOD TIME for Starbuck’s to take this post for the free advertising that it is and offer up some gift cards before y’all get all judgy and STARBUCK’S IS SO UNGRATEFUL which we know they aren’t seeing as the girl who poured all three of my trenta coffees today was super nice and never once asked me if I had a problem. Because that, my friends, is the kind of customer service that I think we all can appreciate.

Search Term Funnies

 8 Responses »
May 282012
 

Google sent you to my blog but showed me this bad boy when I asked it the same thing you did. And yes, this caption is the official response to EVERY QUESTION THAT FOLLOWS. You're Welcome.

 

Dear People of the Internet,

It seems that many of you end up on my blog when Google is recovering from a late night bender and directs you to a post I wrote that had nothing to do with getting a divorce when you search for enlightenment while pondering if you should, in fact, stay a Mrs. or make a move on the hottie cleaning your pool. I guess that makes me an expert of sorts and you are very probably now telling all of your friends that your ex-husband was the only schmo who never learned that Does This Dress Make Me Look Fat is a hypothetical question that should never be answered truthfully and that Google is now to be thanked for your new found love affair with the pool boy and my blog.

I know. I’m glad I can be here for you, too.

–Signed–

Pauline

 

Do Cats Blink?

Um, unless they’re dead, I would assume so. Then again, I could be wrong. Obviously, I am not an expert.

 

 

Broken Legs or Sprain Ankles of Famous Persons

I’m honored. You might not think I’m famous but Google gets a cookie. Also? I’m slightly disturbed. Judging from the way you phrased this, either you are searching for information on how to break legs because you want to break the legs and/or ankles of famous persons (which means I’m off the hook because I am not because Google totally lied) or you just…never mind. That’s the only explanation I can come up with. Just remember that I am not famous.

And?

Google lies.

 

 

Naked Fitness Chicks which was closely followed by Frowning Fat Chick

Yes, these came from different IP addresses in different countries, so it was just fate that led the pervert and the asshole to my blog AT THE EXACT SAME TIME. And Google? I can’t decide if I want to kiss you or kill you.

 

 

Multiple Women Naked Bodies

Yeah…I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that this isn’t exactly what you were looking for. Also? Google likes it if you keep things simple. Next time? Just say PORN.

 

How much for a baby finger monkey/pictures of finger monkeys/Platforms for Monkeys?

And many, many, MANY more variations of search terms in which the words “finger monkey” are included. Write one post about how I need a little monkey named Platform so I can tell publishers that I already have one (with a straight face) when they tell me I need one and the whole world goes insane. There was one point in time that I thought I had turned some invisible corner in my mission to become an Unfamous Writer because crazy amounts of hits and visitors were spiking my numbers higher than I had ever seen them. And I felt pretty special until I realized someone pinned the Platform the Secret Agent Monkey post and everyone clicking over was probably all You Mean This ISN’T a Blog Devoted to Tiny Primates that Cost More to Buy than My First Three Cars Combined? Well then, THAT’S Disappointing. And because I can empathize with the shock to the system that must come when words are where only monkeys were expected, I apologize.

Truly.

 

I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead

This one’s only funny because it’s a term I actually use. A lot. And I picked it up from my father who worked two full time jobs for nearly 20 years to support my mother and the five daughters they brought into the world trying to conceive a son. Eventually my mother told my father she was going out for a gallon of milk and returned with her tubes tied and a neutered rescue poodle. He got his boy and my sisters and I got to stop fighting over who got to sleep with the one who still peed the bed because five girls plus two available bedrooms equals very bad math.

Also? He died four years ago and I’m betting this is the longest consecutive number of hours he has ever gone without being shaken from an attempt to sleep. Had he been able to plan ahead, I’m sure the wake would have featured door prizes like T-shirts, fishing caps, and beer koozies boasting the phrase Try Waking Me Up NOW, Fuckers! and even possibly a pillow shaped pinata stuffed with interesting treats like sleeping pills of various strengths. I was at the wake. Trust me…this would have been way more fun.

Also? When I say “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” I’m actually doing it to honor my dad’s memory.

And to remind myself to make that mental note about placing that bulk order for the T-Shirts…

 

I Blog to Save Money on Therapy

 2 Responses »
May 202012
 

*It’s a list post because lists are magical and only require short bursts of thought.

*Don’t blink because you might miss this one.

 

 

 

 

*Because seriously? Short bursts of thought require actual thought and I’m not sure what my head is actually doing qualifies right now.

*In any case, I’m pretty sure that if I had more than one child that their extracurricular activities would be limited to those in which I could stay bra-less and with a water bottle full of vodka flavored orange juice in hand and the remote control in the other to mindlessly help my pretend bunches of kiddos the art of channel surfing because Mommy is Busy Talking to those People Inside of the Computer again and Calling it Woooo-ooorrrrk!

*Which pretty much translates into, ya know, no actual extracurricular activities.

*They’d be bored as hell but I survived my childhood with plenty of permanent emotional damage…

*And therapy has been pretty beneficial so…

*as long as I made sure my multiple imaginary children had therapy slush funds set up in bank accounts they could access at age 18 to cover the cost of medicinally induced happiness, I’m being pretty fucking responsible as a mother.

 

 

*Imaginarily speaking, of course.

*Because as things currently stand with Buttercup’s end of year pre-K activities…

*Like her “promotion” ceremony…

*which couldn’t be called a “graduation” ceremony because the district kindergartners ceremony before moving on to the first grade is already called that so we wouldn’t want to confuse the kids and families who weren’t at the thing where all of us parents were calling it a graduation anyway so FUCK YOU KINDERGARTNERS…

 

*And her first ever ballet recital in a few weeks…

 

 

 

*Which happens to include two practices on Saturdays right now that I happen to keep remembering about five minutes before they start and we?

*Live 15 minutes away…

*Which gives me enough time to run into the studio dragging a wind-blown Buttercup behind me just as the pre-ballet teacher is reminding the responsible parents that tomorrow morning at 8:30 a.m is definitely the same date and time that she has been telling us all since time began so we would be prepared to have our perfectly costumed, make-upped, and coiffed preschool magical garden rosebuds at the studio, smiling and ready to be photographed by a professional with a camera…

*Which totally changes my plan to stay bra-less and jammied at home tomorrow after staying up late to catch up on three writing deadlines, make some headway on project planning for a new site I’m working on, and possibly making some time to do this crazy thing all the kids call Reading for Pleasure because now.

*I’m chugging black coffee to calm the rushing in my head that always comes with the upheaval when plans change unexpectedly because ADHD works like that and eventually I am not acting like a crazed lunatic inside of my own head so I take another swig of iced happiness and get us buckled up in the truck with the air blasting on high because it’s in the mid 90′s and I hate Arizona any time of the year the temperature goes above 75 degrees.

*I need to rush to Target right after the second ballet lesson to buy my little rosebud some ultra-hold heir gel and bobby pins and new not dirty pink tights and body glitter and hooker red lipstick and thick rubber bands to secure the world’s strongest ballet bun and WHY THE HELL DON’T THEY CARRY HAIR NETS FOR DANCERS AT TARGET so it’s time to rush off to that Sally Beauty Supply on the way home…

*Where I get to rush through a crazed multi-tasking To Do List Mania of running the bath so Buttercup can climb in and play with some bubbles while I get the cod blackening and the cauliflower mashed into mock mashed potatoes because that’s how I roll now and Oh Shit! I can’t unload and reload the dishwasher because the stuff in there never got washed because I forgot to turn the damned thing on five hours ago which works out wonderfully with a brand new sinkful of dirty dishes just sitting there taunting me with their See? You can try, but at the end of the day you just aren’t as fast as we are-edness. …

*I could scream but that would put me even more behind on my List of Things to Do before I commit myself to a padded room with an internet connection that only locks and unlocks from the inside.

*I’ll give you a minute to figure that one 0ut, People Without Children.

*Like those three writing deadlines I need to be working on.

*Yes, right now, instead of writing this.

*And thank you for listening because I’m pretty sure y’all just saved me a 45-minute drive and a $25 copay to see my therapist whom I am not entirely sure even like and you got to laugh in all of the appropriate places while reading this and are probably now telling all of your friends who will tell of their friends and so on and so forth about this brilliantly hilarious post they read on this blog by this writer and I’ll be catapulted to instant overnight fame and you and your friends will feel directly responsible and then this single chain of events can be referred to as the biggest win-win of the millennium, probably.

*No, no, you don’t have to thank me. I did this for you, truthfully. But please, don’t let me interrupt you while you do that telling all of your friends about me thing so we can get this ball rolling.

*I’m going to get Buttercup into bed so she can fall asleep an hour after I tell her she has to go to sleep so I can drag her Not Gonna Be Happy Ass outta bed in the morning at 5 a.m. so I can turn her into a an adorable little harlot in my borrowed Russian Red  before the sun even rises and rush her off to the studio in time for the dance recital photos.

 

 

 

 

*Don’t worry. I won’t be late. Considering I won’t be sleeping, most likely, on account of those three writing deadlines I told you about.

*That I was supposed to start when I turned on my Mac and THIS happened instead.

*And DEAR GOD, STOP TRYING TO NOT BLINK because you look ridiculous.

*The end.

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