If it’s not one goddamn thing it’s another, but this time I think my urethra may really kill me. Yes, “this” time, as I’ve suffered from chronic UTIs for the last thousand years or so, something my so-called friend Alice has no appreciation nor sympathy for, since that cunt has never had a UTI in her life. She takes particular cunty glee in the fact that the only time I become ill from the sensation of a fiery barbed stick being repeatedly jammed into my nether regions is approximately 37 hours after having had marital relations. Every. Damn. Time. So yeah, two or three times a year pissing becomes less of a routine bodily function and more of an OH-MY-FUCKING-GOD-MAKE-IT-STOP-MAKE-IT-STOP-MAKE-IT-STOP torture session.

Why I continue to seek commiseration from that cold-hearted healthy-bladdered bitch I don’t know.

Me:  Fucking fucking fucking fuck [yeah, because I know what caused this]. I have a UTI and I am going to die.

She:  Uh oh.

You did it with [insert Husband’s name—well, actually, penis, that dirty, dirty penis—here]?

Me:  No. The old man who walks by our house every day. Was in the mood for some strange.

She:  Gross.

I was just surprised y’all did it.

If there was ever a sign you shouldn’t do it, I would think your raging UTI would be it. . . LMAO.

Me:  We were careful! I made him wash everything. Twice!

She:  Too damn bad.

Sinners.

Jesus was watching. Etc, etc.

Shame shame

Me:  How are we sinners? We ARE married, after all. To each other, even.

She:  Depends on “how” you do it. According to the Catholic Church, certain things are sins no matter what. [Alice is a “lapsed” Catholic, of which I've always been envious. I, not ever having been anything, can now never be “lapsed.”]

Me:  Oh, wait. We’re probably not married in the eyes of god. Since I divorced the first husband and all. [I did go to the Church of Christ all of the summer before and well into 9th grade with some girls my piano teacher introduced me to when my family moved to a very Church of Christ town. I went along with the hymn singing without organ accompaniment and if people wanted to let the preacher shove their heads under water in a vat of nasty water in front of everybody, more power to them, but when he started yelling—yes, literally yelling, he went on a real bender about it—that dinosaurs were a hoax by the scientific community to discredit Christianity, I was outta there. So I do know a thing or two about sin.] [Yeah, that’s it. That’s how I know about sin, in a purely theoretical, scholarly sense. Wink, wink.]

She: Oh, ya. You’re still married to [insert ex-husband’s name, but most definitely NOT penis, here].  Hahahahahahahah

Me:  And I was doing it for pleasure of the flesh, not procreation, since, obviously, that’s not possible. More sinning!

So, not only am I going to hell, if I ever hope to piss without setting all the neighborhood dogs to howling, I have to give up the hobby horse. That twice a year wasn’t much, but it was something to look forward to. On the bright side, I guess I can now call myself a “lapsed” sex-doer.

On second thought, come on, urethra. Go ahead and kill me now.

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I hope you are selling a lot of insurance today because we are going to need at least two more cans of that high-ass paint. I had barely enough to cover the two whole sheets of backerboard and I still have that cut-down piece and I think it all needs another coat. And more mineral spirits. Or paint thinner. Whatever. The paint can says use mineral spirits but the paint thinner got the paint off my hands just fine and everything else I, ahem, may or may not have gotten paint on, and I used the rest of the bottle and most of a jumbo roll of paper towels trying to get the paint roller clean before I gave up and threw it in the trash. Using a roller with that paint is a very bad idea. In fact, the paint can recommends NOT using a roller.—Oh, yeah, get a wide paint brush. With China bristles or some such bullshit? I don’t know; it says it on the can but I left it outside and I am just too disgruntled to go out there and look. Maybe get two brushes if you’re inclined to help. And probably the paint will go farther using brushes, because that roller sucked it up like I sucked up that grape shot last night. Must say, I’m not impressed with the paint. It doesn’t drip or run, true, but the statement that it doesn’t show brush marks is just an out-and-out bullshit lie. But maybe it has to be a China bristle brush. It’s a goddamn conspiracy, I tell you.

Oh—and my elation over the internet being fixed was premature, it turns out. Spotify has been cutting in and out even worse than it was before. “No internet connection.” Gonna be hard to start blogging again if I ain’t gots no goddamn internets.

His response:

k

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I was working in the yard this morning (stay tuned for a series of posts about my battle with my horrendous yard, or don’t, since I am sure it will be as boring as watching cow patties dry in the sun), as I have done every morning this week (that’s right, fuckers, I have been OUTSIDE every goddamn day this week), except Wednesday, when I worked in the yard in the afternoon, whereupon I concluded that afternoons are not a good time for yard work, because it is hotter in the afternoon, which leads to sweating, and I am very much opposed to sweating, but mainly because people start blowing up my phone in the afternoon, especially my monster-in-law, with inane texts such as “I am eating various cups of soup that I heated last nite trying to find chile [sic]. Really they were half cups.” And I always fight my way across the yard, take off my work gloves (you know someone’s doing some serious ass yard work when she wears GLOVES), and check my phone to assure myself Husband hasn’t killed another car and isn’t broken down on the side of the road somewhere or Alice is not about to kill Shrek in a murderous rage and leave Hellbaby parentless forever (you might think these circumstances warrant a phone call rather than a text, but everyone who know me knows my phone rarely rings out here in the boonies, but for some reason texts come through fine, and even if my phone does ring, I rarely answer it, because, hello? Who the fuck talks on the phone these days? Send me a text, asshole [see, I did it right there, called someone an asshole. In my mind]). It is very annoying and disrupts my PROCESS.

My dogs like to hang out in the yard with me when I’m working, and that’s cool. They’re usually in the front yard anyway, which isn’t fenced, except for the privacy fence that runs down the side of the road in front of the house. They WILL NOT stay in the fenced back yard, and we have yet to construct a fence that can keep them contained. This is something of a worry, because we live on a corner, at a surprisingly busy intersection for the boonies. My dogs, like most dogs, like to chase things that they have no possible chance of catching. Like cars. But especially motorcycles. My dogs HATE motorcycles. They are probably telepathically picking up on my hate and merely being supportive, as dogs are wont* to do.

Vehicles that pass on the main road that runs beside our house don’t cause any problems. My dogs aren’t morons (well, maybe the doodle, but he is in his teenage years, after all, and aren’t all teenage boys morons?) so they don’t bother chasing cars that are going 45 mph or better. But the road that runs in front our house? That is their territory. Vehicles traveling that road as they pass our house are slowing to obey the stop sign at the corner, and my dogs enthusiastically run out to accost these (in their minds)  interlopers. Or maybe they’re just saying hi. I mean, they’re just barking, not growling or anything. Except at the asshole motorcycles and ATVs. ESPECIALLY the ATVs, because my dogs know, because I told them, that those jerks aren’t even supposed to be on the road with their motherfucking ATVs in the first goddamn place.

Anyway, I was working in the yard. The dogs were lounging around, until this fucker comes tearing up the road in front of the house on a bright yellow motorcycle. Old guy, white hair, big white beard, face red as a boiled lobster (hello, skin cancer, you prick!). No helmet. I’ve never seen him before, I suspect he lives behind us. Our house is so surrounded by woods we can’t see any neighbors except the mobile home across the road way up the hill. And that’s exactly how we like it. But once a year, we HEAR the people behind us, because apparently someone or someones back there belong to a motorcycle club or a gang, probably a gang, they seem way more gangster-ish than club-ish, maybe they’re Hell’s Angels, I don’t know, and they throw a pig roast (we know it’s a pig roast because they post crude hand lettered signs at the corner directly across from us with an arrow pointing down the road saying “PIG ROAST THIS WAY.” And all weekend long motorcycles rev up and down the road and Southern rock rattles our windows until the wee hours of the morning and we hear people shouting and laughing and bottles breaking when usually we hear nothing but frogs ribbiting and dogs barking and Star Trek, which is what my husband uses as white noise to go to sleep (not that he finds Star Trek boring, mind you; it’s just that he’s seen every episode so many times he finds it soothing and doesn’t worry about missing any crucial points if he does doze off. It’s the same way I feel about King of the Hill). This goes on all weekend long.

And we don’t mind. Except that we’re not invited. But if a bunch of old redneck farts want to get together and cut up once a year, good for them.

Anyway, this old fart zoomed up the road on his Hog, or his Harley, or his whatever-the-fuck-it-is, and my dogs went nuts. They ran out to the corner, and I was hollering at them to come back, but they probably didn’t even hear me over the goddamn racket that guy’s engine was making. But I wasn’t really that concerned about it, because people around here know my dogs and there’s no leash laws and lots of people’s dogs run loose without even any pretense of a fenced yard. We’re in the country, yo. People’s COWS get out and wander the road. There are goats loose in people’s yards. I’m not excusing my dogs running in the road, but until I can build the equivalent of the Chinese wall, there’s not a lot I can do about it. We do shut the dog door and keep them inside during prime traffic times, but they are going to get out. And so far people have been cool with it and no one has run over them and when they bark people might yell out their window for them to shut up, but generally everyone ignores them.

But not this jackass. From across the yard I heard him SCREAMING. He had stopped and gotten off his motorcycle and was stomping toward my dogs and cussing his head off, “YOU MOTHERFUCKERS GET IN THE MOTHERFUCKING YARD MOTHERFUCKERS THAT’S A TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLAR MOTORCYCLE MOTHERFUCKING MOTHERFUCKERS.” Normally I would be impressed with such swearing ability, but asshole was at my driveway now, making threatening gestures at my dogs, who had retreated to the yard. I called across mildly, “I am quite confident that my dogs have no intention of harming your twenty thousand dollar motorcycle.” I don’t think he even heard me, because as soon as I started talking he started screaming at ME, “KEEP YOUR MOTHERFUCKING DOGS IN THE YARD.” Then he stomped back to his motorcycle and took off.

I looked at my dogs severely and said, “Did you hear that? You motherfuckers stay in the yard.” And I went back to raking leaves and lopping wisteria and privet.

About twenty or thirty minutes later I heard the unmistakable sound of his goddamn motorcycle and I called to my dogs to come to me, but they recognized the sound too, and off they went. Fucker rounded the corner and STOPPED. Now, there was no reason for him to stop except to be a fucking dickhead. It was a right turn and he had the right of way, but he wanted to stop and have a goddamn STARE DOWN with my dogs. Because that’s what he was doing when I crossed the yard, carrying the loppers with me because if he made an aggressive move toward me you can be damn sure I was at least going to poke him and maybe even lop something off of him, and went to retrieve the dogs, because they of course were circling around him like a pack of wolves barking furiously. And he was just sitting there, arms crossed over his massive beer belly, puffed up like a sunburned bullfrog. I told my dogs to come, but of course they were dancing around, dodging me, making me look like a totally inept dog owner. Jerks. I asked dickhead, “Why are sitting here aggravating my dogs?” He did not respond. Maybe he had used his voice up from his tirade earlier. Then I managed to grab Alpha Dog, which was the best dog to grab, because I knew if I got him back into the yard the other two would follow. And then it just came out of my mouth, “I guess it DOES take all kinds of assholes to make this world.” And I wanted to say more, but I was concentrating on not letting 70-pound Alpha dog get lose and not dropping the loppers, and I dragged struggling, crying Alpha dog back into the yard, the other two, as I predicted, following closely alongside. ONLY THEN did asshole fired up his twenty thousand dollar motorcycle and go on down the road.

And it’s ON. I declare VENDETTA, even though nobody’s been murdered. Just wait. You think we’re going to be so accommodating next time the pig roast’s going on full decibel force? HELL, no. I’m calling the authorities and making a NOISE COMPLAINT.

 

*Alice says I need to explain that this is not a typo, after we had a heated argument in which she insisted that WONT is not a word and I informed her that it most certainly is, and she said she had never heard of such a thing, and I said I couldn’t help it if she were an illiterate ignoramus, and she said everybody else would think it was a typo also and I needed to change it and I said my readers (all three of you) are more literate and intelligent than that and I would not insult them by changing it.

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I’m trying to write this post about Husband’s dog that I killed last week but I’m just not feeling it anymore, you know? I mean, the dog was an asshole and all, but honestly (CROSS MY HEART AND HOPE TO DIE) I never wished the little bitch to suffer and I certainly never did anything to harm her—unlike HUSBAND, who once tossed her over the fence after she had worked herself out of the yard for the heftyleventh time and IMPALED HER ON A BAMBOO SKEWER. Okay, I confess to a certain number of wistful fantasies in which she mysteriously disappeared, or we came home and found her run over by a car. . . I might even have threatened to toss her under a moving car once or twice, but I wouldn’t actually do it. Anyway, as explained in my last post about her, cars apparently had no power over her mortality.

So I’m still kind of incredulous that she’s gone, DEAD, and that I did the deading. Now before y’all all go PETA-nuts on my ass, let me assure you that this was a mercy killing. I EUTHANIZED the bitch. And Husband, who loved that dog more than he loves me, is grateful that I did it. She was sick, you see. Very sick. We’re not 100% sure because we didn’t take her to the vet, but I feel confident that she was eat up with the cancer. Now before y’all get all high Humane Society and mighty—you didn’t even take her to the vet? You don’t deserve to own a dog!—1) we couldn’t afford to take her to the vet, and 2) whatever was actually wrong with her was so wrong that taking her to the vet probably wouldn’t have done anything but prolong the inevitable and run up a massive bill. And before you get all preachy and start lecturing me on how I can afford the internet and a cell phone and Netflix and all the other shit that makes life somewhat bearable but can’t afford to seek medical care for another living being, my internet and cell phone and Netflix were paid up for the year way back in January when we did have money. My husband’s job, you see, is sort of seasonal, so it’s feast or famine around here, and these past few months we’ve been particularly famished since Husband had DOUBLE KNEE REPLACEMENT surgery back in May (kicking off what shall be forever known as The Worst Summer of My Goddamn Life) and didn’t work for three hellish months. So we really didn’t have any money, still don’t have any money; if you could see my refrigerator right now you would just cry because there’s some pickles and really old cake flour and that’s about it in there, and all that’s in the pantry is brown sugar and those packets of dry chicken noodle soup. And besides that, Husband knows enough about veterinary care, seeing how he put himself through college working for a vet and would have gone to veterinarian school himself except he realized he would never make any money because he never could turn away anyone who couldn’t pay and had terrible difficulty putting animals down for stupid reasons like they clawed the furniture or dug up the yard (yes! asshole people actually do take their pets to the vet to be killed for this kind of shit), that I’m sure he did everything a vet might have done short of cutting her open. I swear, he took better care of her than he ever has taken care of me when I’ve been sick, cooking her chicken and broth, feeding her with a medicine dropper, giving her penicillin shots. . .

But she continued to waste away, she couldn’t eat and she couldn’t drink and when she did try to get up and walk around she swayed and trembled and coughed, and she was dripping blood from her mouth everywhere, and her face was so swollen she looked like one of those stupid pictures that were everywhere a few years ago, you know the ones where the dogs were photographed in extreme wide angle so their heads were way out of proportion to their bodies, and then she was too weak to even cough. Oh, and she stunk. She seriously smelled like she was rotting from the inside, and this had gone on for two weeks, and the morning I noticed while he was feeding her that her mouth was GREEN and her tongue was BLACK, I made the decision. This dog was not getting any better.

So after everyone left for school and work and I was home alone except for the dogs, I did it. I won’t go into the details, you ghouls will have to get your perverted kicks somewhere else, but I shut the other dogs up in the bathroom, and I took care of her. I talked to her and tried to reassure her and I cried, quite a bit more than I would have ever imagined, and it was horrible but she went quickly, as weak as she was. Younger Son had dug a grave the day before, because Husband had thought he would do it, but that didn’t work out, so I wrapped her in a clean sheet and double-bagged her in some hefty trash bags because I was worried some critter might smell her and dig her up, and I buried her and I hope I never have to do anything like that ever again.

And Husband thanked me. Thanked me because it had to be done, and I saved him from doing it, and even though during her life I hated that dog, he trusted me to do right by her in her death. And I think I did.

It sure is quiet around here now.

RIP Bess.

RIP Bess.

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Husband and I were washing dishes, Hellbaby was in the living room watching Sesame Street  on Netflix as she does every night before bed while she’s here (actually, she was only watching the Elmo’s World part. When it’s getting late and past her bedtime, one of us fast forwards through a Sesame Street episode and queues up Elmo while she’s in the bath. She never complains. It’s her favorite part, anyway), and Younger Son went to the living room, he thought, to check on the ball game.

Younger Son:  Are you just going to leave her in there watching Sesame Street by herself?

Me:  Yes. You can go in there and watch it with her if you’re so concerned about it.

Younger Son:  I don’t want to. I’m about to go to bed.

Me:  Well, we’re trying to get your mess cleaned up in here.

Younger Son:  Oh, and you can thank me for making dinner while you’re at it!

Me:  Yes, it was nice that you made dinner, but you do make a godawful mess when you cook. You and Joe (Husband) both do.

Husband:  We all do.

Me:  don’t. Have you never noticed there is no mess in the kitchen after I’ve cooked a meal? clean as I cook.

Younger Son:  Sorry, I only have one kitchen cleaning a day in me. [He and Husband both work at a catering company. Husband reports that Younger Son is, in fact, quite the kitchen cleaner. Obviously he turns into someone I have not met when he is at work.]

Me:  Well, anyway, she’s fine. Haven’t you ever heard of using the TV as a babysitter?

Younger Son:  [sounding scandalized] No, I have not! Because I wasn’t raised by the TV!

Me:  That’s because I was a good mama.

Younger Son:  Yeah, and apparently you only had one of those in you. Like I only have one kitchen cleaning in me. [I don't know what he was trying to say here. I don't see the parallel at all.]

Then Sesame Street ended and Hellbaby came running in to see what everyone else was doing.

And this is really why we shouldn’t leave her in the living room watching Sesame Street by herself.

 Goddamn TV. It was probably sexting with its boyfriend and not even paying attention to Hellbaby at all.

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Going . . .

going . . .

GONE.

Now THAT was a good banana.

 

Many thanks to Alice for the pictures!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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My dog is her canvas.

September 11, 2012

I just shaved my legs, which required a closer observation of my legs than I usually give them (I mean, I don’t sit around looking at my legs and obsessing about them all the time–well, yes, I obsess about them, what woman doesn’t? but I don’t look at them while I do it because that would be way too depressing) and I noticed that from about the hips down, I look like I have been dragged behind a car down a bumpy road. Maybe for a short distance, and not at a terribly high speed. My skin is not in tatters or anything. But there are a lot of bruises and scrapes and scratches and scabs for which I have no explanation. A few of the bruises and scratches look fairly recent. Maybe I acquired them while I was attempting to brush the dog yesterday?

My husband and I paid $300 for this dog, or roughly $100 per brain cell among the three of us.

Hellbaby helped, although I don’t know how much good she did with a paintbrush. That dog was pretty tangly. He’s fairly cooperative about being groomed, even when he went to the professional groomer for the first time a couple of months ago, where they spent approximately eleventy hundred hours shaving, washing, and brushing him. Professional grooming did something to his attitude. He thinks he has been elevated somehow, because now he insists on sleeping on the bed with us, which he never did before, and he also thinks he’s supposed to travel with us in the car wherever we go. Whereas before to take him to the vet or the park or what have you, it took at least two fit adults to wrestle/shove him into the car, now we have to drag him out of the driver’s seat because as soon we leave the house, he hops the backyard fence and bolts into the car, no matter if the car door is open only a few inches. So far his being kicked off the bed every night and dragged out of car every day for two months has not discouraged him.

Yep, I bet that’s how I got some of these bruises and scrapes, either from the goddamn dog squirming around trying to direct my brushing to his throat and chest, the only places that, in his opinion, require any attention, or from goddamn Hellbaby stepping on my lap as she attempted to get in prime paintbrushing position.

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My 13-year-old nephew is spending the weekend with us. He used to spend EVERY weekend with us. He used to live with us, in fact, but the past couple of years his dad has deemed him and his older brother old enough to stay home alone while he works. So far they’ve managed not to kill each other or burn the house down (notice I didn’t say “set the house on fire”), but I figure it’s only a matter of time.

Anyway, it’s hard for me to remember he’s a teenager. He’s the youngest in the family, and I have him fixed in my mind as, well, little. Right now he’s watching South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut. I’m vacillating between horror and resignation–horror because as foul-mouthed as I may be myself, I never talk like that in front of him and his brother and I don’t let them talk like that around me, and resignation because  as familiar as he is with the dialogue, it’s obvious he’s watched it a few times already.

Well, he’s not familiar with ALL of the dialogue. My husband is sort of listening to the movie from the kitchen where he’s making bread. (Yes, he’s making bread. Kneading dough and all that shit. Shut up.) He just yelled, “WHAT did he say???”

Nephew:  He asked her “What’s the clutious or something like that.”

Me:  WHAT??? [I was only half-listening myself. This movie is stupid.]

Nephew:  That’s what it sounded like.

Me:  So. . . I’m guessing you don’t know what it is, either?

Nephew:  No. But I’m pretty sure it has something to do with female parts.

Um, yeah. And how. 

Then the word was repeated onscreen, and he was paying closer attention this time or something, because he yelled, “Clitoris! That’s what it is!”

Me:  What is?

Nephew:  Clitoris.

Me:  Oh. What is it?

Nephew:  Oh, I still don’t know. Something to do with woman parts.

Then he yelled up at my husband:  What’s a clitoris???

And my husband, predictably, pretended to be deaf.

Nephew:  I’m going to text my dad and ask him what a clitoris is.

Me:  Uh huh. You do that. Then he’ll know you’re watching South Park at my house.

Nephew:  Whatever. He watched it with us the other night and laughed his ass off.

Yes, this family is chock full of responsible adults providing all the moral guidance any child could wish for. 

But he didn’t text his dad; he Googled it on his iPhone, because that’s where all kids should get their information.

Nephew:  Ooh! Gross! [This does not bode well for his future girlfriends.] THERE’S A DIAGRAM! Here, look!

Me:  No, thanks. *I* know what a clitoris is.

He also didn’t know who Brian Boitano is, which has me really concerned about the state of public education in this area. What the fuck are they teaching kids these days if it’s not the clitoris and Brian Boitano?

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Today my husband burned a bunch of trash, cleaned the kitchen, made potpourri, bathed the dogs, kept the Hellbaby while Alice and I went shopping, cleaned the bathroom including mopping the floor, fixed the bathroom ceiling that was falling down for some reason (old house, that’s the best reason I can think of), cleaned and swept the living room, washed four loads of laundry, made a simple syrup and then made lemonade from that syrup, and is currently making dough for a homemade pizza for our dinner. Oh—he also made these from the plastic seals he cut off of jar lids for a project I’ve been working on.

 

Today I wrapped two birthday gifts for Alice’s niece, went to Target with her to buy a new car seat for Hellbaby, went out to lunch (while Husband was keeping Hellbaby) with Alice (thanks for lunch, Alice!), helped Alice get the new car seat adjusted to fit Hellbaby and get it in Alice’s car, and finished my upcycling project with the Yankee candle jars I rescued from my monster-in-law’s house.

I also drank some delicious lemonade. Oh, and I took a shower, and I even remembered to put on moisturizer, which I found while half-ass organizing the bathroom since I had all those new canisters to put shit in.

 

The point is, I obviously suck as a human being and my husband is some kind of goddamn superman and he better cut that shit out because I’m tired of him making me look so fucking bad.

PS  Just kidding, honey. You’re awesome and I love you and when is that pizza going to be ready? I’m STARVING.

UPDATE  Here’s the pizza. And no, there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s CUSTOM MADE. Younger Son, the weirdo, doesn’t like melted cheese (I know, I KNOW, I did the best I could but sometimes they still turn out wrong), so he eats only crust and sauce. My part of the pizza has tons of veggies and husband’s is piled with sausage and pepperoni.

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I should still be cleaning stuff. I spent the weekend at Alice and Shrek’s house tending Hellbaby there because despite our best efforts, the fleas continue to rule unabated here. They don’t bite us for some reason, but they eat her alive. Yuck. Damn global climate change.

So, while I was away, the terrorists (aka the people I live with and all these motherfucking dogs) were winning. Or losing. BECAUSE THEY LET A GODDAMN SKUNK UNDER THE HOUSE. Seriously, four dogs couldn’t deter a skunk? Skunks are ballsy little bastards. I guess they have the right to be. I mean, here I sit, sweaty and smelly and I am loathe to go into my own bathroom and shower because it reeks of eau de Pepe le Pew.

The house is a little cleaner. I got the kitchen back under control from Younger Son’s latest cooking venture. He made chili. He makes excellent chili. He also makes a godawful mess. I don’t bitch too much at him or at the Husband, who is also messy, because after all, they pay the bills around here. I’m just the freeloading tenant. My contribution to the household shall be bitch-free cleaning. I think it’s a good trade.

I should also be working on my guest post for Whacamole Mom. Best no more said about that here. You’ll understand later.

I’m feeling tired, not so much from the herculean task of kitchen cleaning, but from remembering that tomorrow I will be riding in a moving truck for six to seven hours. After packing up Elder Son and Mrs. Elder Son to move six to seven hours away (MapQuest say six hours, but Elder Son, who has actually driven the distance, says seven hours). It’s not even the work involved that’s making me feel tired. It’s the feelings that are making me tired. I’m already missing them, which is silly, seeing as how I don’t see them but once a month or so anyway. But knowing they’re around, less than an hour’s drive away. . . It makes a difference somehow. And it’s more than geography that makes me miss them. It’s like they are starting their real grown up lives now, which is also ridiculous, because they’ve both been independent living-on-their-own-paying-their-own-bills young persons for years now. My son has been to war, for sonofabitch politicians’ sake.

Maybe it is the geography. You would think I would have had this feeling when they got married. But even then I still had the sense of being “mama,” knowing that if my boy needed something he could call me and I could be right there. Or his dad. Or his other dad. Or his other mom. Or any of the other many family members that live in the vicinity. Now they’re going to be out of the vicinity. Anyone‘s vicinity. Six to seven hours away from family and friends.

They’ll make new friends. They might even extend their family. I’m not worried about them. I’m not worried about them at all. They are smart and hard-working and sensible and in love. I’m proud of and excited for both of them. They’re ready for this. I’m just not sure I am.

 

They look ready, don’t they?

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