Humbug

Usually I get all kinds of excited about Thanksgiving with my family.  We all get together at my Mama Jo's and have a whole day of stuffin our gullets and putting up the Christmas tree and blahblahblah.  Well, Mama Jo has decided to keep the tree up year-round now, so there goes the main activity of the day.  And there's been so much drama in the fam this year (just one thing being that my cousin lost custody of yet another of her kids, and my uncle has tried to say, "It coulda happened to you, Angie!" like I let my toddler play in the mud alone, don't bathe her, and let my boyfriend cook meth in my home--yep, I sure am lucky they ain't caught me!) that it just ain't fun to be around them any more.  Everyone's got something to say but no one wants to say it because hey, it's the holidays, so everyone just stays all tense and shit.  Or hell, maybe it's just me, I don't know.

What I do know is that this is the first year in history that I didn't give a shit about spending Turkey Day with my kinsmen.

So I didn't.

Besides the fact that I just didn't wanna, I've been feeling like crap lately anyhow.  Hello anemia AND super heavy "cycle" at the same time, thanks for dropping by and making me feel like I'm just gonna fuckin DIE.  Pass the Cheerios and iron tabs, y'all, that's my Thanksgiving feast.

I laid my tired ass up in bed all day, sleeping and crying over everyone who I knew had to spend the day alone or without someone they love, and not by their choosing.  I cried over my dog, again, and my brothers, and my cousin, and BJ, and the babies. . . then all that turned into a major sinusy headache.  My mom got my kids and took them for the day, so they didn't miss out on the wonderful family get-together.  I was fine with missing out.  

And now I wonder if I can get away with doing it again at Christmas.  

Get You a Tissue

When the Big Munky was in Iraq, I felt the house needed a little extra protection.  Sure, we have guns, but we also have 3 small kiddos, so I decided the best thing would be a dog.  I found "Tabby" on CraigsList.  She was a red cocker spaniel, about 4 years old, in the same county.  And, the owners were giving her away.

My parents bred spaniels when I was a kid.  I love them things.  They're small without being annoying, and just big enough to wrestle and play with.  After our last female passed, my folks stopped the breeding thing and kept the male, Rusty.  Rusty was bad ass.  Once, 3 dogs from up the street (2 were Rotweilers) came into our yard and jumped his ass.  Rusty, already 11 years old, held his own.  Mom found him on the porch the next morning, pissed but alive, and saw the 3 bullies run off.  After a shaved ass and tubes in his back, Rusty was good for another couple of years.

Those asshole Rotties never came back.

So, I have a soft spot for this breed.  And Tabby was red, like Rusty.  So I loaded up the kids and my friend Annette and followed the directions to a trailer park a few miles away.  "Tabby" was in the yard, lookin a hot mess, her ass surrounded by gnats.  Her owner tried to call her, but she wouldn't go near him.  I walked to her, picked her stinky butt up, and put her in the back of my car.

This is what she looked like, after we'd gotten her home and bathed.

This is what she looked like a little over a week later, after a visit to the groomer's, where all they could do was shave her bald.

And she didn't answer to "Tabby."  What a stupid name for a dog anyway.  So the kids renamed her after Tater's friend, Arlee.  And she caught onto it fairly quickly.

Arlee was a timid dog, did not like loud noises or roughhousing.  When things got too chaotic, she would hide behind the TV or chair in the corner.  She didn't beg for affection, but gladly accepted it.  She didn't bark at all unless there was someone/something outside the front door.  She wasn't housetrained, like the guy had told me, but eventually we figured out her cues and had a semi-structured schedule for her to go outside. She loved soft things on the floor, and would lie on anything left out---her bed, a pillow, that pile of dirty laundry in the hallway.

She was excellent company at night, when I couldn't sleep, whether she was awake or not.  She snored like a man, and would sometimes make these weird squeaky sounds that always tickled and confused me.

For the first couple of months, she was my shadow.  She followed me whenever I moved, and would rest at my feet whenever I was still.  She jumped and sulked if I made any sudden movements.

She slept under my bed most every night, and I would hear her through the mattress.  It became a comforting annoyance.

As time passed, Big Munky came home.  Things got a little crazy again as we tried to transition back into full family mode.  Arlee wasn't getting as much attention as before, and everyone was stressed and in pissy moods from the new changes.   I felt bad for her as much as I felt annoyed with her.  She started pissing in the kitchen floor and leaving piles of poo in the girls' room.  I started looking for another home for her, one where the family was calmer, and patient, and more attentive.  Several people responded to the ad I put out, and I found myself canceling out each one of them.  If I couldn't find fault with them, I'd tell them every little fault of Arlee's.   Needless to say, I never found that "perfect" place.  And, at the time, I was relieved.

Thursday I was running late for work.  Arlee had gone out, and I couldn't find her to get her back in before I left.  Rather than be late (like I was a week ago because of the same thing) I loaded the kids and left.  The Princess said something about Arlee being in the yard, but I dismissed that, knowing if she was that close she would've come running when I called.

Later that afternoon, the Big Munky called and asked for directions to the vet.  He'd found Arlee.  In the yard.  On the other side of the driveway.

Crap, here I go again.  It was less than 2 years we had this baby, why is this tearing me up so bad?  

Arlee didn't make it to the vet.  I didn't ask details.  All I know is that she was lying right there beside my car and I didn't even see her.  I didn't even check.  She was lying there all damn day, alone, just waiting for someone.  She was still breathing when Munky put her in his truck.  All fucking day. . . I suck.

So, here I sit, alone at night again (since Munky's on night shift now), swearing I hear the jingle of her collar.  I keep having to stop myself from going to the door to let her in.  When I get home, and put my key in the lock, I pause, like always, knowing when I open the door this big ole ball of fluffy red is gonna come bustin through it.  I still want to ask the Princess, "Did you feed Arlee yet?"

Ah, the kids.  They don't know.  They talk among themselves, but only Tater has said anything to me about Arlee--said she misses her, that the Princess said Arlee ran away.  I said that Arlee loves us and would never ran away from her home, but that she'd been very, very hurt.  I couldn't say "dead."

I'm so sorry, Arlee.  I'm sorry I didn't look out for you better, I'm sorry I didn't look for you that morning.  I'm sorry I called you a dumbass for peeing in the kitchen.  I'm sorry I yelled at you whenever you chewed on your butt.  I'm sorry I didn't give you all the love and attention you deserved, and for not showing how grateful I am for you being in our home, in our family, for making me feel safe at night.  I'm sorry all I can do now is cry and whine on a stupid blog like that's going to fix anything.

I'm sorry.

This is the child who was TERRIFIED of dogs.

Magic Box

So Sherronda and I were talking about how we walk through our houses and always see something that needs to be done, but we're already doing something else and end up forgetting about the other thing.  Sherronda joked about just having a hat set out to drop chores in as she walks by it.

That led to this idea.

And, by golly, it actually works!

Get a Kleenex box  (do I really need to tell you to make sure it's empty) and decorate it in a kid-appealing way.

Duct Tape is freakin tie-dyed now---how awesome is that?!

Cut strips of colorful paper and write either a chore or a reward on each one.  Include a time limit with each.

and don't be trying to pick "The Neverending Story"or some other 1000 page bullshit.  We're doing "When Dog Was Little"

Fold them up and put them in the box, have the kids take turns pulling one sheet out.  Whatever they pull, set the timer for the allotted time and watch them scramble.  If they get the chore done before time is up, that time gets added to the next activity/chore chosen.  If they don't finish it in time, then it goes back in the box to get pulled again.

TRICKS:
color/decorations:  the kids think it's a toy or a game.
the whole "choice" thing:  makes em think they're actually controlling what they do (ha!)
time limits: they don't take all damn day on one thing (especially the rewards)
chores vs rewards:  the element of surprise.  They never know if what they pull out will be work or play.  Also, they'll do chores more quickly so they can have that time built up, and so they can hurry back and pick again to see if they'll get something better.

EXAMPLES:
Make bed  :07
Get out laundry  :03
Dance off  1 song
Clean bathroom  :10
Put books on shelves NEATLY DAMMIT  :08
Karaoke  :10


Then, when they're doing the last chore, slip a super extra awesome reward in the box to get pulled last, like Wii play time or pizza for dinner or some shit they really get stupid over.

This works with the kids, every time.  The only bad thing (as Sherronda predicted when I shot the idea at her) is that most days, I don't feel like doing it.  It's kind of a pain in the ass to supervise, and it's hard trying to get my stuff done. . . hmm, maybe I should make a Magic Box for me.

And don't ask me why we call it that, it's something the Princess came up with.

I'll be revising the box soon.  Our pretty purple one has somehow been syruped.  Sigh.  I really need to start locking up the kitchen at night.

I Don't Like Birthdays

One of my greatest fears has always been gettin old.  Not just old, but old without any stories to tell, without any significant accomplishments.

No--although adorably awesome, these don't count. I've seen plenty of lazy fucktards make cute babies.

My entire family (the ones who speak to me, anyway) live within 5 miles of me, and have done so for decades.  I've seen them grow old around me, and that's about all that's changed.  I used to get so excited when my parents talked about moving---Dad would be up for a promotion, and we'd have a choice of 3 other states to go to.  Or, there was the time we actually went out looking at houses in different parts of the county.  I was freakin thrilled at the prospect of something, somewhere new.

It never happened.  We stayed in the same damn house, and built on new rooms every few years.

And when my hubby and I got preggers and tried to live in his hometown, a couple hours away, we couldn't do it.  Those people were self-righteous idiots.  We came back here, and, without any experience or degrees, there wasn't a whole lot for us.  If my parents weren't so generous and eager to get us out of their damn house, we'd be homeless.

Instead, we're in the house my great-grandfather built a million years ago.  The pipes are made from dinosaur bones, which are deteriorated to the point of uselessness.  Methuselah is buried in the freakin crawlspace.

And we sit here, getting older and older.  Nothing is changing, except for the wrinkles and new stains on the carpet.

I see my family, my friends, myself, all growing older, and it depresses the hell out of me.  I tend to watch everyone's birthdays creep up on the calendar and hold my breath until they pass me by.  Sometimes I remember to get gifts, but more often I don't.  I try to ignore the ones I love aging, which isn't taken too kindly around here and, in my parents' case, is always thrown back at me in attempts to create a guilt trip.  I don't fall for that trap, but I don't explain myself either.

There are a few people I know who go all out for birthdays, so I try to make a biggie of their's.  I still suck at it.  But I try.  Just please know that it about hurts to do so, but I know it's something you really, really care about.

This chick makes me do stupid shit on birthdays, but she also makes me laugh so I allow it.  And yeah, that crown says, "IT'S MY BIRFDAY!"

When I was a teen, I never saw my life past 20.  I always figured it was because that's when I'd die.  Then I hit 20, and 21, and 28. . . that shit ain't fair.  It's all still the same old crap, and it looks like it's never gonna change.  My life will be the same as my parents', and my grandparents', and so on and so forth.  I mean, apparently it's meant to be that way---I married a damn Marine and still managed to stay on the same friggin road I was raised on, what the hell?

Even my kids' birthdays depress me.  What happened to my babies, those sweet chunky munkies with toothless grins and cuddly naps?  Now, the older they get, the more they talk back, the bigger messes they make, the louder they cry and whine and argue. . . I really want to just rewind the past 10 years and do it all over again, and this time maybe do it right.  Or, at least, less wrong.  I just wish I could figure out what was wrong.