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Category Archives: lunacy

Fridays Have Lost Their Luster

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A long week, too much to do, and driving home at 5:05 p.m., all I could think was, “I’m so glad it’s Friday.”

But then I arrived home.

The dancing dervish of a boy greeted me enthusiastically, announcing he had a poster board from school and needed to make pictures RIGHT NOW!

I hadn’t even put my purse down yet, which is code for I still had my bra on.

At the table I read the sheet that accompanied the poster board.  It seems the first grade teacher, in all her evil holiday madness, has assigned the students to learn about holiday celebrations in different countries, assigning a particular country to each student.  They, “with help from parents” will research and learn about customs in their assigned country, and draw and write about it on the poster board, then present it to the class.

It’s first fucking grade, lady.  My kid doesn’t give a flying rocket turd about what’s happening in Austria, his assigned country.  He didn’t even know what Austria was, or what a country was.  Good thing we have that big world map on the wall.  All he cares about is when Santa is going to commit a felony by busting into our house and leaving sparkly packages under our tree.

Whatever.  So I found some nuggets on the Google magic window and read the highlight:

“On December 24, the Christ Child brings presents and the Christmas tree for the children. The children wait until they hear a bell tinkling. Then they enter a special room where the Christmas tree is waiting all decorated with candles, ornaments and candies.”

Connor:  “What’s a Christ child?”

Me:  “Well, it’s the son of god, and he was killed when he grew up.”

Connor:  “Why?”

Me:  “Oh, never mind.  We’ll get to that later.  He was alive when he was a child, so let’s just roll with that.”

Now, since I am so very clever, I decided to google “Christmas in Austria” videos.  So I found a Rick Steves video, who is the Mister Rogers of the travel world, and started playing it.  (And what is up with Rick Steves anyway??  I try to imagine him having sex with his wife, but I just can’t, because he is so Mister Rogers-like.  It’s like he’s completely androgynous…but I digress.)

Five seconds, and Connor was done with Rick.  Can’t say that I blame him.  Either way, the project was under way until we decided to take a break, and resume another day.

Thinking I had seized a moment to unwind, I got up to find that the dingo, being far too delicate to go outside in the rain, had left a puddle of pee on the tile.  Bitch.

I sopped it up and grabbed the Swiffer, because I’m all domestic and Martha Stewart-ish like that.  But then, THEN, this happens…

What am I supposed to do with this??

What the hell, Swiffer???  You can’t tell me that’s my fault.  I might not be what you would call “dainty”, but neither am I well known for my sheer brute strength.  I call foul, Swiffer!!!!  This is a design flaw if I ever saw one.

Look closer:

I want reparations, Swiffer!

See how that mother lover broke right in the curve??  That is the critical point of applied pressure.  Faulty engineering, bitches!!!!  And it’s not like I saved my Target receipt from 8 months ago, on the off chance I would need to return a floor mop!!

You haven’t heard the last from me, Swiffer design people.  This is just starting…

Anywho, moving on the from the dingo-pee/Swiffer fiasco, I went to retrieve the laundry from the laundry room.  The clothes were stacked high in the basket, which was sitting atop the washing machine.  As I went to grab the basket, several items from the top topple over and fall behind the washing machine.  BEHIND IT.

Well, since hubs was out working his 2nd job, my friend “Auntie” and I had to shimmy the washer out, only to find we couldn’t reach back there to unplug it because there’s not enough room in the laundry room.  Stupid house design.

So we somehow managed, over the course of twenty minutes, to fish out the clothing items, armed with two light sabers and a long pasta spork.  And man, was it dusty back there.  So those clothes got re-washed.

And this, THIS cluster was my Friday.  So really there’s nothing to look forward to now.  Friday is just as sucktastic as Monday, so really all I’ve got left is to wait for retirement.

Oh, and I ended the evening with some Ruffles (because I like ridges) and this:


"It's me and you tonight, Chef Pierre, and a little German vino."





This is Really Random and Odd, and I Don’t Even Recommend That You Read It, Because What If You Don’t Come Back??

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DISCLAIMER:  If you are looking for a parenting/special needs blog to read today, you should go somewhere else.  Today I just wrote some weird, random shit, that doesn’t even really make total sense to me.  So why hit the “publish” button?  Because today I said (in my head, quietly), “Fuck it, that’s how I roll today.”  Also, maybe Axl Rose will read this and feel compelled to contact me and thank me for my kind thoughts.  (Axl, call me)


Today I was worried about Axl Rose, for no particular reason. It’s not like I know him personally, and it’s not like I don’t have a few other things requiring my thoughts and attention. But still, I worried.

I’m aware, via Facebook updates, that he is off somewhere touring with the new and improved Guns ‘n Roses band. I’ve no idea who the members are, aside from Axl. For the last decade I’ve neglected to really pay much attention to the goings on of the band, or the interchangeable players. And during that time I’ve been courting others; the Foo Fighters, Black Eyed Peas, Pink, U2.

Still, Axl was a big part of my life for a while. Four times I saw them perform live, in their heyday. Once, in San Diego, I was in the 12th row. Axl and I had actual eye contact, and I’m pretty sure there were sparks. I wonder if he remembers?

So hot, he sizzles.

Do you ever have a sudden realization that something or someone is missing? You’re living your life, then all of a sudden you realize you haven’t seen so-and-so for months? Or what happened to that nice Polish family down the street? Did they move away and you just didn’t notice?? And then you realize you’ve been operating on auto-pilot, and have paid no attention to your surroundings for a very long time.

It’s like that with Axl.

Now, I know he’s notorious for his temper. Not having his demands met is a sure way to light the fuse.

And the control issues…we’ve all heard stories describing him as a dictator.

Extremely intelligent and extremely moody.

As difficult as he is talented.


So there I was, just noticing all of a sudden that he wasn’t really around. Sure, there’s some touring in other countries. Maybe even in this country.  I don’t know.  But you don’t hear much about him, and you don’t see him around anywhere, or hear about him having a family or anything.

And that just makes me sad.

I hate to think of him, locked away in his ivory tower, consulting with his past-life regressionists, chakra alignment specialists, and chi interpreters. Snake oil salesmen, is what I think when I hear about these charlatans. Taking advantage of people with screwed up childhoods, and feeding their soul with false healing.

If I was Axl’s friend, I would set him up on a blind date, and instruct him to only talk about his date, and forbid him from talking about himself.

Then I would take him bowling with my family. Not right after his date, but maybe the next day. And we’d have lousy bowling alley nachos and beer. He and my husband would battle for ultimate pin dominance.

I’d bring him to work with me, and have him sit in the cubicle next to me for the day. We can bring packed lunches and eat our peanut butter sandwiches in the lunchroom. Then we’ll carpool home.

Hopefully this would all buoy his spirits, and place him back on the road to being a part of the world again. Perhaps he and Slash would reconcile, and new music would be born. Or maybe he would find someone to settle down with, and we would see random photos of him and his family eating at Bob’s Big Boy, or shopping at the Farmer’s Market.

And there would be one less thing for me to worry about.


Hater Humpday

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Welcome to hater humpday, the brainchild of the illustrious Dawn from This Side of Typical.

Because sometimes happiness is overrated.

Yard work.  It’s the doing of work, which is not my favorite thing, and it’s done in the yard, where there’s dirt and bugs and fire ants.

So we decided to do some yard work this weekend, even though it’s been 80 billion degrees for 30 days now.  All three of us were working as one superhuman team of sweaty, irritable, complaining yard improvement machines.

Then we heard this screech/yelp come from the side of the house.

Hubby ran to the side of the house just as Dora, the crazy dingo dog, came racing past him toward the back porch.  With something in her mouth.

We all turn to look, and we see that she is standing at the back door with a bloody rat in her mouth.


And since, when faced with a great and mighty challenge, we operate like a band of stealthy ninjas, this is how we all reacted:

Hubs:  Runs to the porch to try and extract the rat from her mouth because she was shaking it around like a squeaky toy.

Borrowed from Allie Brosh at Hyperbole & a Half.

Me:  Stands in yard, waving arms in the air, yelling “Oh my god, it’s a RAT!!!  Where did a rat come from?!  How could there be a rat?  I’ve never seen any rats around here!  What are we going to do?  OHMYGOD SHE HAS A RAAAAAT!!!!!

We're all gonna die!!!

Connor:  Runs in circles, yelling “Mommy, why does Dora have a rat?  What is she doing with it?  What’s going to happen? I WANT TO GO IN THE HOUSE, I’M SCARED!”

Just so we have a picture of this, the dog is standing on the back porch, with a spatter of blood up her face.  The rat head is in her mouth, and the body and tail are hanging out.  And the rat body is TWITCHING AND JERKING AND DRIPPING BLOOD.

So hubs managed to get her to release her new chew toy, but since it’s still twitching, husband has to hold it down with his foot (we need to burn those sneakers).  So he tells me to hand him the only thing I have in my hands, so he can use it to hold the rat down while Connor runs to get his gloves.  And the thing in my hand is HEDGE CLIPPERS.

It’s not like he can hold the rat down with the handles, so he had to use the point of the clippers, which impaled the damn thing.

Impaled.  Rat.

So Connor throws the gloves at him and runs into the house and slams the door.  But his morbid curiosity didn’t keep him from standing with his face pressed against the sliding glass door.

With the gloves on, hubs disappears around the side of the house with the bloody, twitching rat.

When he returns several minutes later, I’m hosing off the porch.   I ask him, “what did you do with it?”

And here is what he told me:

“I took it to the side of the house, by the trash cans.  But it wasn’t dead, so I had to find something to kill it.  SO I TOOK TWO HUGE BRICKS AND PUT THEM ON TOP OF IT.  Its back end was sticking out, and I was afraid it was going to POP.”

Well that's just fucking great, you've upset Brad!!

In response to this story, I ask “why didn’t you just whack it with the shovel?”

And he says, “I had to use the closest thing I could find.”

So while I stood there pondering whether it was safe to clean the rat blood off the dog’s head with bleach and a blowtorch, she started doing this crazy, happy murder dance in front of me, wiggling and waggling her butt from side to side, and throwing her head back over her shoulder to look at me.

She looked just like this, except she's a dog, not an actual zombie.

You may recall that I’ve written about this dog before, and her nonsense and shenanigans.  That rat was her golden ticket to an eternal place in our family.  And I also used a much milder abrasive to clean her bloody snout.

In conclusion of Hater Humpday, let me reiterate that I HATE YARD WORK.  Also, rats.

But I will keep hope alive that someday, someday my hopes and dreams will be answered when that renegade band of roving gardeners descends upon my yard with reckless abandon, angrily weaving the fried remains of our shrubbery into a glorious wonderland of greenery.

Flat Flannery Friday #8, A Murder in Blogville

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You may have noticed there was no Flat Flannery post last Friday.  Or maybe you didn’t.  Doesn’t matter, because I’m telling you there wasn’t.

She never came back from her sabbatical with Rachel.  She was missing.  I searched high and low.  Well, mostly low.  I mean, she’s flat, right?

Then this came in the mail several days ago:


Murder.  Or REDRUM, if you’re of the horror flick persuasion.

But who?  What kind of monster would do such a thing?  Someone that drives a Honda.

I put my crafty and stealthy detective skills to work.  Wait…stealthy or stealth??  Whatever, I put my super duper totally awesome detective skills to work.  There.

And look what I found:


Look closely at this picture I found in the blogosphere.  You can just make out part of the H, in Honda, on the steering wheel.

Let’s get another view of that photo, one with the rearview mirror:



Jillsmo, from Yeah. Good Times.  I should have known.

She even disposed of the body.

I should have seen this coming, especially after the snake incident.  But hey, I was kind of sick of her anyway.

And so, friends, in memory of Flat Flannery who travelled near and far:

Just The Way You Are

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I started writing this post yesterday while I waited for Connor at his social skills playgroup.  My intention was to finish it that evening.  But things went very, very wrong, and I.  Lost.  My.  Shit.

It started with theft.  Hubs picked up Connor from school, and he had a mini skateboard toy that wasn’t his.  His behavior did not earn him any prizes, so he snatched someone else’s.  Nice.  We’ll be doing the walk of shame in the morning as I have him confess to the teacher and return it.

After work, I took him to his playgroup.  At the end of playgroup, the kids all come out to the waiting area.  Connor made a beeline for the ottoman where toys are stored for kids that are waiting.  He threw it open and started digging.  I said, “hey kiddo, we’ve got to get going so we can have dinner.”

Nothing.  Completely ignored.  I moved next to him and tried again.  “Connor, we don’t have time to play, we’ve got to go.”

He continues rummaging through the toys. 

So now I take hold of his arm, firmly but gently, to guide him away from the ottoman, per ABA.  He starts flailing and pulls his arm away, then runs down the hallway.  Why are these parents just staring at me?  Assholes.

I stand where he can see me, and I point to the ottoman (so he can put the toys away and close it).  He comes back, pissed, and puts the toys in there and slams the lid down.  Out we go to the car.

As I’m buckling up, he pulls something from the back of his pants and says, “look at this.”  It’s a small toy car. 

“Where did that come from?”  He points toward the office.  Fuck!

Back in we go so he can return it, and the behavior therapist reminds him that the toys stay there.  Fine.  Great.  Back to the car.  My nerves are wearing thin at this point.

On the way home I need to stop at Walgreens.  I tell Connor this, and ask if he can have good behavior in the store while I get only one thing.  He assures me that he can.  And I believed him.  My bad.

I manage to get the item and navigate to the register.  He’s doing just fine.  As I begin using the pin pad, I see his hand up on the counter grabbing hold of the scanner doo-hickey.  It has those cool, red laser lights, so I don’t blame him.  I calmly tell him, “no, we can’t touch those things, we can get in trouble.” 

I repeat it again.  He pulls his hand back.  As I resume my transaction, his hand shoots in front of me and starts pushing buttons on the pin pad.  So I take hold of his hand, and continue my transaction with my left hand.

He proceeds to pull and flail and freak out.  I hold on tightly.  Fuck, now the Walgreens people are staring at me.  Kill me.

I march him out to the car, open the door, and get him inside.  As I get in the driver’s seat, I’m abruptly hit twice from the back.  Per ABA, I am not supposed to give any attention for this.

But people, this is when it happens.  I.  Lose.  My.  Shit.


As I buckle up and start the car, I begin bawling my fool head off.  For the life of me, I don’t know how I drove home, because my crying was hysterical.  Capone was silent in the backseat.  And all I could think in my head is nothing is working, the therapies, the playgroup, nothing.  Nothing we do is making things better.  And now he’s stealing.  He’s going to end up in jail when he’s older if this is how things are at five.

I tell you, I was in a bad place.  Home and into the house.  All my poor hubby sees is me crying and babbling like a lunatic.  I go directly to my room, into the walk-in closet, and collapse in a heap on the floor. 

Hubby fed the boy, got him in the shower, and ready for bed…with no story.  Take that!!  Of course, Connor kept saying he was sorry, and he would never hit me again.  Uh huh, heard that before.

But I’m better today.  Really, I swear.  Still stressed and worried, but back in the fight.  There’s really no choice, although a three-day “rest” at the asylum sounds strangely relaxing…a nice Thorazine buzz, a little nappy-nap, some mashed potatoes and jello for dinner.

Whoa, I was daydreaming again.  Sorry.

And then there’s this.  This, that I started writing while he was still in the playgroup.  This, that happened on the way to the playgroup.

Connor’s favorite song currently is Just the Way You Are, by Bruno Mars.  When it comes on the radio in the car, he sings his heart out.  The irony of it is not lost on me.

I have that song on my Ipod and Droid.  Even though I’m sick to death of  it, I listen to it often.  When I’m feeling down, when progress feels painfully slow, or worse, non-existent, I listen.

Today he threw his pants away in the bathroom at school.  Since stopping the stimulant, he is having a lot of accidents.  Husband was perturbed about the pants because, let’s face it, money doesn’t grow on trees.    But I knew why he did it, despite the fact he said he did it by accident and “forgot.”  He was embarrassed.

I didn’t make a big deal, just asked him to try to fold them up and stuff them in his backpack next time.

Bruno fucking Mars was no help to me in that closet.  Strangely, it was a different song that cheered me the next day.  Driving home from work, the song “Ride Wit Me”, by Nelly came on, and my ten-year-old Saturn was bumpin’.  What a gi-normous dork I am.

I’m not much of a rap fan (Pink is more my speed), but this song picks me up.  Go ahead, listen to it the next time you’re having a bad day.  And when you’re “smokin an L in the back of the benzie”, you might see me there too.  (it’s just a metaphor, people)

Yes, yes Nelly I DO want to come and take a ride wit you.

No Can Do, Baby #2

People ask me all the time if we’re going to have another child, or worse, they’re so nosey as to ask why we haven’t had a second child.  I’m not even talking about my parents, which would still be annoying, but friends, co-workers, sometimes random strangers in the grocery store.

We have all the usual reasons against another child;  can’t afford it, we’re getting too old, etc.  The real reason is a combination of those factors, mixed in with events that scarred me emotionally, leaving me totally incapable of even considering another trip to the Amityville Horror of toddler-land.

I specifically remember one warm day in June, when Connor was two-years-old.  After work, I stopped and picked him up from daycare.  I could tell he was crabby.  Hell, who was I kidding, he was always crabby lately, especially since he had completely given up napping (yes, at two-years-old, no more nappy nappy…sucks to be us).

We pulled into the driveway, and I got out and ran around to let him out of his car seat.  As I headed for the house, I realized there was a short person not behind me.  I turned around and saw him standing at the car.  “Come on, let’s go inside,” I say.


“Come on, let’s go.  We’re not going to just stand around in the driveway.”  He just looked at me, so I started walking toward him.

As I got closer, he started moving to the other side of the car.  Yeah, he was digging in his heels and gearing up for a game of chase.  Not the fun kind of chase, the “screw you, I’ll do what I want” kind of chase.  So I summoned up my very stern mommy voice, and told him “do not run from mommy, we are going inside right NOW.”

But I was wrong.  We were most certainly NOT going inside right now.

Each step I took closer, he moved another step away.  He placed himself on the opposite side of the car from me, and we circled it like animals stalking each other.  I tried running, he ran faster.  I tried a slow, casual pace, he matched me step for step.

I'm sure this is copyrighted and I'm guilty of theft. Let's just keep it between us.

I was getting warm and sweaty.  I loathe being sweaty.  I also loathe putting on a driveway show for my neighbors, who are crazy anyway, so I don’t really want them thinking I’m on the same level of cuckoo as they are.  Soon I resorted to bribery.

“If we go in, we can have a really yummy snack and watch your favorite show, the Little Einsteins.” 


“How about a cookie, don’t you want a cookie?” 


Damn it, I was sweating and now I had to pee.  Hubby was at work, so I couldn’t call him for back-up, and we’re not the Cleavers, so we don’t even know our neighbors (they’re crazy anyway, remember?), so I was on my own.  Beads of sweat forming on my forehead, bladder screaming, think, damn it, think!!

I will beat this child at his own game.  I drop to the ground, like a crouching tiger (just go with it), and peer under the car.  As I start to creep to the right, I see his face appear beneath the car.  He’s on to me.  GODF’INGDAMNIT!! 

I sit down, and start talking to myself like a lunatic.  “Ohhhh, what’s this I found?  Look at this wonderful shiny thing.  This is the coolest, most awesome shiny, spinning, uhhhh, thing I’ve ever seen.   I LOVE this new, cool shiny thing.”  A face peers around the front of the car.  He has taken the bait.  I hold my hands together to shield the shiny thing from view, and move to a squatting position, while I babble on about the fabulous new “thing.” 

And then I lunge.  I catch him by the back of the shirt, as he was fleeing.  I reel him in, throw him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and run for the front door as he kicks and screams.  The 20-minute stand-off has ended without me peeing my pants.  And by the way, there was no shiny thing, which is a fact that fueled the epic meltdown even more.

Somewhere in that driveway, my ovaries shrivelled up and died.  And something told me this escapade was only the beginning of things to come.  Right then and there, I knew I would not be starting this adventure all over again with another one. 

So stop asking me if I’m having another one.  I’m not.  Besides, I’d rather put everything I have into the spirited child I already have.

Guilty Pleasures, Part 1

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You know that show on A&E called Hoarders??  I watch every episode.  I don’t know why, they’re all pretty much the same…people with too much shit.  Sometimes they have actual shit, sometimes just stuff, and sometimes live animals.  And NONE of them want to get rid of their shit.  They fight the whole process.

Yeah yeah, I know it’s sad.  I know they are people with problems that need help.  But it sure makes me feel better about my messy house.

Hey, don’t judge!

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