My ex-in laws are absolutely horrible, greedy, grasping, self-centered, nasty, evil and embarrassing. Also? They are without class. Completely. Especially my ex-sister in law. Now, I don't mean my ex-husband's extended family. No. I'm talking about his mother, his sister and his brother-in-law. For the sake of continuity in the storyline let's call them...oh, I don't know....Arlene, Debbie and Jeff.
Truly. Awful. People.
The day after we buried my ex-husband, my ex-in laws drove THREE HOURS down to his apartment (which is in the same town the kids and I live in), took everything, including my children's own toys, and then drove it THREE HOURS back to their home. Without telling me they were coming, even though I had specifically requested that they let me know, so that my kids could get their things and so they could have some remembrances from their father.
Nothing big. A train set from his childhood, for my son. His Brian Erlacher jersey for our daughter, because they always watched football together. Pictures they'd made for him, gifts they'd given him. Toys they'd left at his apartment to play with. His video camera, because he'd shot footage of them with it, and it might have his voice on it.
That was on a Friday. I found out about it on a Saturday. Arlene's attorney called me first thing Monday morning, telling me that his client wanted to return the items to me, and we could meet halfway (meaning I would have to drive 1.5 hours to gather my children's belongings). Leonard also told me that I would need to sign a "Mutual Release Agreement", in order to get the belongings.
I said no, I don't think so. You see, my children are their father's heirs and anything he left behind goes to them.
So he faxed me a list of 129 items they had "recovered" from my ex's apartment. Item #16? A light bulb.
They left off about 40-50 items that they want to keep. Plus? Both of his laptops and his video camera.
Have I mentioned that they are trash? Disgusting, dirty, classless, filthy, scum-sucking trash.
The attorney, Leonard Blum, has been harassing me for 2 weeks now, telling me that I need to sign this freaking document and meet the white trash in a town they chose.
He's called me 5 times this week and revised the document. It doesn't matter, I'm still not signing it. Why? Because it says I and my heirs (read: my children) "waive and release any claim I (we) may have to any rights which may have accrued by reason of [my ex-husband's] death."
Yes, I'm suspicious. My ex-husband's grandfather died the week before he died, and left behind a will and a trust. My ex-mother in law wants me to sign away my children's rights to whatever their father may have inherited. She's a wolf in grandma's clothing.
I have told Leonard Blum at least three times that I want no contact with him regarding this. I have given him my attorney's phone number and name.
Leonard persists in calling me, urging me to sign these documents.
Now, I ask you. What kind of people drive three hours to load up things that don't belong to them, then drive three hours back home and then have their attorney call you two days later to give it all back? And then the attorney draws up lame-ass papers that you are told you have to sign, in order to get the belongings back to your children. Papers that mean your children release all rights to their father's estate?
Liars and thieves and greedy, grasping trash. That's who.
So f*ck you, Arlene, Debbie and Jeff.
And f*ck you, Leonard Blum.
Dear Death; you suck. Sincerely, us. Oh, and Mom? The answer is 42.
So my kids and I have been having a really, really hard time with the death of their father. He and I were together for 18 years and divorced for 3 months. The kids are dealing with it.....differently. Especially Zach. He has completely become a furious, depressed and oppositional bundle of boy. Julia is quiet, but I know she feels everything just as deeply. I either cry or get angry at the kids. The best times are during the week, when I have work and they have school. Everything is regimented, scheduled and orderly. Weekends are what are the hardest in our house. Because there's no structure. ADHD x (grieving-structure)=chaos+depression.
Two weeks ago I slept until noon. Then I woke up, had some coffee and fell asleep again until 5pm. Then I came downstairs, slept 2 more hours on the couch while the kids watched tv, and then I went to bed. My poor kids.
That weekend I was a bad mom.
Most weekends I try to keep us busy. We've been shopping, to the children's museum, bookstores, out to eat, the zoo and to Chuck-e-Cheese (I hate that place. But Zach's teacher gave him a gift card and he was so excited to go). And the kids had an awesome time. Thanks Ms. Reagan!
However. Two weeks ago my son got suspended for 2 days. He kicked a teacher in the throat and kicked another child in the privates. The day before that he'd stabbed a teacher in the arm with a pencil and then threw it, hitting another child in the eye.
That was a bad week.
My mom and I argue over who has to deal with my son, and I usually lose, due to the fact that I actually gave birth to him.
Don't get me wrong, we love him no matter what, and we know he's unbelievable freaked out and pissed off that his father died. But, he's difficult. And strong. For instance, this morning I had to restrain him for 45 minutes. I'm going to feel it in the morning.
But....we try to have a sense of humor when we can. Sometimes with playful texts such as these (typed verbatim):
Mom: u need to go home now. i will be leaving very shortly. they are all YOURS
Mom: zach got 100's on both tests today and a red in conduct. i heard him as i came around corner of building. you get off at 6 what time will you get hom
Me: Who is this "Zach" you speak of? He sounds very smart, but troubled. You had best get him some type of counseling. (fyi: counseling is set to begin next week.)
Mom: ibknow a counselor just how amazing is that!
Me: Who are you and who do you keep texting me? I don't know you. My name is Simon and I am a boy.
Mom: sorry for the mistake my bad. next time SIMON calls me i will tell him he must have a wrong number
Me: I am Simon, and why would I call you? I am sorry your little boy is having troubles, perhaps if you beat him a bit, he would be better? Also, I am British.
Mom: simon quit bugging me
Mom: whatever! actually have to chilcren to palm off on some poor unsuspecting soul! so What TIME are you going to be home!
Me: Ma'am, your texts are getting sloppy. Have you been drinking?
Sincerely,
Simon
Mom: not funny i am so not laughing. just answer the?
Me: The answer is.....42.
Two weeks ago I slept until noon. Then I woke up, had some coffee and fell asleep again until 5pm. Then I came downstairs, slept 2 more hours on the couch while the kids watched tv, and then I went to bed. My poor kids.
That weekend I was a bad mom.
Most weekends I try to keep us busy. We've been shopping, to the children's museum, bookstores, out to eat, the zoo and to Chuck-e-Cheese (I hate that place. But Zach's teacher gave him a gift card and he was so excited to go). And the kids had an awesome time. Thanks Ms. Reagan!
However. Two weeks ago my son got suspended for 2 days. He kicked a teacher in the throat and kicked another child in the privates. The day before that he'd stabbed a teacher in the arm with a pencil and then threw it, hitting another child in the eye.
That was a bad week.
My mom and I argue over who has to deal with my son, and I usually lose, due to the fact that I actually gave birth to him.
Don't get me wrong, we love him no matter what, and we know he's unbelievable freaked out and pissed off that his father died. But, he's difficult. And strong. For instance, this morning I had to restrain him for 45 minutes. I'm going to feel it in the morning.
But....we try to have a sense of humor when we can. Sometimes with playful texts such as these (typed verbatim):
Mom: u need to go home now. i will be leaving very shortly. they are all YOURS
Mom: zach got 100's on both tests today and a red in conduct. i heard him as i came around corner of building. you get off at 6 what time will you get hom
Me: Who is this "Zach" you speak of? He sounds very smart, but troubled. You had best get him some type of counseling. (fyi: counseling is set to begin next week.)
Mom: ibknow a counselor just how amazing is that!
Me: Who are you and who do you keep texting me? I don't know you. My name is Simon and I am a boy.
Mom: sorry for the mistake my bad. next time SIMON calls me i will tell him he must have a wrong number
Me: I am Simon, and why would I call you? I am sorry your little boy is having troubles, perhaps if you beat him a bit, he would be better? Also, I am British.
Mom: simon quit bugging me
Mom: whatever! actually have to chilcren to palm off on some poor unsuspecting soul! so What TIME are you going to be home!
Me: Ma'am, your texts are getting sloppy. Have you been drinking?
Sincerely,
Simon
Mom: not funny i am so not laughing. just answer the?
Me: The answer is.....42.
Comments
labels:
angry kids,
death sucks,
grief,
humor,
mourning,
pissed off at death,
texts,
the answer is 42
labels:
angry kids,
death sucks,
grief,
humor,
mourning,
pissed off at death,
texts,
the answer is 42
Yes, I gave her an 11 year old sucker, but how was I supposed to know that sugar can go bad?
Today my 11-year-old daughter had a concert at the courthouse, and then we ate lunch together. After lunch she had to go to The Nuthouse, which is a shop that sells ice cream, candy and, you guessed it, nuts. She was dying to buy an all day sucker, because all of the kids bought them last year and she just loved the idea of a sucker bigger than her head. When we got to The Nuthouse, it appeared that every kid who was in chorus was waiting in line for their turn to buy a giant sucker. This line wrapped around the corner, that's how important a trip to The Nuthouse was.
So she finally got her humongous sucker and ran out of the store waving it at me. She belonged. She fit in. She pretended it was a magic wand, a light saber and a sword.
Which accounts for why it looked like this when she unwrapped it tonight:
Well, it didn't look exactly like this when she unwrapped it. It was slightly less broken, and there weren't big pink globs of leftover melts from the candy jewelry making kit she got two Christmases ago that I used in a pathetic attempt at gluing the sucker pieces together. I only succeeded in making it worse, and she was devastated. Especially since I'd also made her buy an all-day sucker for her younger brother. So while she was fighting back tears, her brother was doing this:
As her brother, completely undeserving in her book, pranced around the house eating his big-ass sucker and getting it all over his face in the process, I did some quick thinking and what I remembered was this. When my daughter turned one, my husband's cousin had given her an all-day sucker. Being an anal retentive control freak of a first time parent, I promptly hid the giant sucker in a kitchen drawer, and then forgot about it.
Until tonight, that is. I frantically dug in the kitchen drawer beneath layers of old potholders and scattered toothpicks and some old batteries and.....found it. *cue angelic music*
As my mother was in the dining room with the kids, surveying the wrecked lollipop and saying things like, "Aww! It's so cute!" and "Wow! It's like a puzzle, only made out of candy!" I proudly walked out of the kitchen holding an 11-year-old giant sucker that was in the shape of a flower (with only one piece broken off) which said "Make A Wish!". Taking a step back, my mother gave me that look. The look that one mother gives to another when she's saved the day, and I nodded back to her, graciously acknowledging her admiration.
My daughter's eyes grew round with anticipation, and she looked at me in awe. And seriously, I deserved it. I mean, how many mothers happen to have an all-day sucker on hand, for just such emergencies as these?
She unwrapped it and sniffed it.
"It smells funny."
"That's just the wrapper."
She dislodged the broken piece from the wrapper and looked at it closely.
"What's this?"
"What? I don't see anything."
"Look at the inside, it's all yellow. Shouldn't it be white?"
"It's probably banana flavored."
"But why are there holes in the, um, middle?"
By now, I was beginning to have some serious concerns about feeding my child 11-year-old candy. Would it make her sick? Sick enough to have to take her to the emergency room and then have to try to ignore the looks of disbelief as I attempted to explain to the nurses and doctors that yes, I purposely fed my daughter an 11-year-old all-day sucker but she was super sad and bummed out because the one she got was broken. And did I forget to mention the fact that her dad died last month??? I mean, what would you do?
At the last minute, I decided that the e.r. doctor probably wouldn't feed his daughter old candy and he also probably wouldn't take my diagnosis of adhd or my children's grief into consideration before he hotlined me to DCFS.
I held up a hand.
"Stop. Don't eat it, just throw it away."
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Good. I have trained you well, grasshopper.
"Why?"
"Well....it's kind of old, actually. Best not to eat it, in case..."
"How old?"
"Ummm......I don't really remember, exactly...."
"HOW OLD?"
"Well, let's see. Cousin Helene gave that to you when you turned one, so I guess that would make it..."
WHAT!!!!???? YOU WERE GOING TO FEED ME A 10-YEAR-OLD SUCKER???"
Here, I sighed. The sigh you give your child when she is totally in the right but no way will you let her know that. Because keeping that a secret is what keeps you in charge. That, and having the last word.
"Technically, it's closer to 11-years-old, since your 12th birthday is next mo...."
"WHATEVER!!!! Ew! Gross!"
At this point, she ran to the kitchen sink and started scrubbing her tongue with her toothbrush.
"Don't forget to throw it away!" I called after her.
So I had the last word.
So she finally got her humongous sucker and ran out of the store waving it at me. She belonged. She fit in. She pretended it was a magic wand, a light saber and a sword.
Which accounts for why it looked like this when she unwrapped it tonight:
Well, it didn't look exactly like this when she unwrapped it. It was slightly less broken, and there weren't big pink globs of leftover melts from the candy jewelry making kit she got two Christmases ago that I used in a pathetic attempt at gluing the sucker pieces together. I only succeeded in making it worse, and she was devastated. Especially since I'd also made her buy an all-day sucker for her younger brother. So while she was fighting back tears, her brother was doing this:
 |
| Her brother, not rubbing it in at all. |
As her brother, completely undeserving in her book, pranced around the house eating his big-ass sucker and getting it all over his face in the process, I did some quick thinking and what I remembered was this. When my daughter turned one, my husband's cousin had given her an all-day sucker. Being an anal retentive control freak of a first time parent, I promptly hid the giant sucker in a kitchen drawer, and then forgot about it.
Until tonight, that is. I frantically dug in the kitchen drawer beneath layers of old potholders and scattered toothpicks and some old batteries and.....found it. *cue angelic music*
As my mother was in the dining room with the kids, surveying the wrecked lollipop and saying things like, "Aww! It's so cute!" and "Wow! It's like a puzzle, only made out of candy!" I proudly walked out of the kitchen holding an 11-year-old giant sucker that was in the shape of a flower (with only one piece broken off) which said "Make A Wish!". Taking a step back, my mother gave me that look. The look that one mother gives to another when she's saved the day, and I nodded back to her, graciously acknowledging her admiration.
My daughter's eyes grew round with anticipation, and she looked at me in awe. And seriously, I deserved it. I mean, how many mothers happen to have an all-day sucker on hand, for just such emergencies as these?
She unwrapped it and sniffed it.
"It smells funny."
"That's just the wrapper."
She dislodged the broken piece from the wrapper and looked at it closely.
"What's this?"
"What? I don't see anything."
"Look at the inside, it's all yellow. Shouldn't it be white?"
"It's probably banana flavored."
"But why are there holes in the, um, middle?"
By now, I was beginning to have some serious concerns about feeding my child 11-year-old candy. Would it make her sick? Sick enough to have to take her to the emergency room and then have to try to ignore the looks of disbelief as I attempted to explain to the nurses and doctors that yes, I purposely fed my daughter an 11-year-old all-day sucker but she was super sad and bummed out because the one she got was broken. And did I forget to mention the fact that her dad died last month??? I mean, what would you do?
At the last minute, I decided that the e.r. doctor probably wouldn't feed his daughter old candy and he also probably wouldn't take my diagnosis of adhd or my children's grief into consideration before he hotlined me to DCFS.
I held up a hand.
"Stop. Don't eat it, just throw it away."
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Good. I have trained you well, grasshopper.
"Why?"
"Well....it's kind of old, actually. Best not to eat it, in case..."
"How old?"
"Ummm......I don't really remember, exactly...."
"HOW OLD?"
"Well, let's see. Cousin Helene gave that to you when you turned one, so I guess that would make it..."
WHAT!!!!???? YOU WERE GOING TO FEED ME A 10-YEAR-OLD SUCKER???"
Here, I sighed. The sigh you give your child when she is totally in the right but no way will you let her know that. Because keeping that a secret is what keeps you in charge. That, and having the last word.
"Technically, it's closer to 11-years-old, since your 12th birthday is next mo...."
"WHATEVER!!!! Ew! Gross!"
At this point, she ran to the kitchen sink and started scrubbing her tongue with her toothbrush.
"Don't forget to throw it away!" I called after her.
So I had the last word.
Don't judge me.
I'm writing a book and it's about layers. Not the parfait kind, more like the onion kind. Or a banana. Yes, definitely a banana. Plus? Never before seen photos!
So, I started my book in August of 2009, with character development and plot twists and all kinds of awesome stuff that would make people want to buy it and possibly start a book club so they could discuss the hidden context which I have scattered throughout my novel and perhaps even contrast and compare various levels at which my narration hit them.
By the end of October, I had 22,000 words, 94 pages. And they were good words too. Not just words like "address book" and "potato" and "styrofoam". No. My words were more like "pyromaniac" and "euthenasia" and "stripper" and "murder" and "incest".
See? I grabbed your attention with that last bit, didn't I?
But then November came, and along with it came the realization that my husband was abusing prescription medications. Then the divorce followed, along with financial difficulties, including frantic attempts to refinance our home as we were going through foreclosure (Not due to non-payment, it was due to a ton of red tape and bank mistakes, but the bank agreed to refinance us) and trying to find our way as friends when we had been together for 18 years. Not to mention dealing with the kids' emotions and my kids' ADHD.
So, the book went on hiatus. I thought I would start it this month, only my ex-husband, the kids' dad, died last month and the kids and I are just taking it one day at a time. I didn't want what were going through to pollute my book, so I've left it alone since Nov 1, 2009.
I think it's time I started back on it. It's time. The only problem is....I can't think of a title that encompasses the total experience of the book. Basically, it's about our 13 year old protagonist/narrator, Ginny and her 7 year old ADHD brother, Gus. It follows them for a summer in their small town of Beauregard, GA, pop 1,734 (not a real place).
When people asked what my book was about, I'd give them this long-winded description that didn't really capture the essence of what I was trying to convey.
So I started telling them it was about incest and murder and fire and suicide and strippers and alcoholism and adhd and disabilities. Plus? Dairy Queen.
That definitely got their attention, but that's just stuff that happens in my book. It's not the essence.
So now I'm trying to find a better title and descriptors. Basically, everyone in this book has a hidden side. A side they don't show to others. There's something beneath everyone's facade that is shocking or disgusting or sad or cool, and it makes Ginny understand why they are the way they are.
Today, as I was driving for my job I realized that the people in my book were like fruits. Bananas, oranges, apples, grapefruit, persimmons, lemons and limes. If someone didn't know what was underneath a banana peel, they would look at a banana and find it completely unappetizing. Ditto for the rest of the fruits. That's the basis of my novel. You can't take people at face value, because a deeply grieving widower could be masquarading as an angry, crabby old man, and a fine, upstanding Christian man might be harboring a dark secret.
Here's the headshot for my novel. Ok, actually I lied just then. It's actually the headshot for BlogHer to use in my book reviews. See, I got invited to join (read: YAY!!!!!!!), but they need a url to a headshot to use. So I thought why not just add one to this blog post?
So that's what I'm doing.
That was a fun night, but the BlogHer people are going to have to do some editing, since I didn't think Carla or DeeAnne would want to be in my headshot. Ok, BlogHer, here's one more. You decide.
This is the one for when I review edgy, hard-bitten novels.
By the end of October, I had 22,000 words, 94 pages. And they were good words too. Not just words like "address book" and "potato" and "styrofoam". No. My words were more like "pyromaniac" and "euthenasia" and "stripper" and "murder" and "incest".
See? I grabbed your attention with that last bit, didn't I?
But then November came, and along with it came the realization that my husband was abusing prescription medications. Then the divorce followed, along with financial difficulties, including frantic attempts to refinance our home as we were going through foreclosure (Not due to non-payment, it was due to a ton of red tape and bank mistakes, but the bank agreed to refinance us) and trying to find our way as friends when we had been together for 18 years. Not to mention dealing with the kids' emotions and my kids' ADHD.
So, the book went on hiatus. I thought I would start it this month, only my ex-husband, the kids' dad, died last month and the kids and I are just taking it one day at a time. I didn't want what were going through to pollute my book, so I've left it alone since Nov 1, 2009.
I think it's time I started back on it. It's time. The only problem is....I can't think of a title that encompasses the total experience of the book. Basically, it's about our 13 year old protagonist/narrator, Ginny and her 7 year old ADHD brother, Gus. It follows them for a summer in their small town of Beauregard, GA, pop 1,734 (not a real place).
When people asked what my book was about, I'd give them this long-winded description that didn't really capture the essence of what I was trying to convey.
So I started telling them it was about incest and murder and fire and suicide and strippers and alcoholism and adhd and disabilities. Plus? Dairy Queen.
That definitely got their attention, but that's just stuff that happens in my book. It's not the essence.
So now I'm trying to find a better title and descriptors. Basically, everyone in this book has a hidden side. A side they don't show to others. There's something beneath everyone's facade that is shocking or disgusting or sad or cool, and it makes Ginny understand why they are the way they are.
Today, as I was driving for my job I realized that the people in my book were like fruits. Bananas, oranges, apples, grapefruit, persimmons, lemons and limes. If someone didn't know what was underneath a banana peel, they would look at a banana and find it completely unappetizing. Ditto for the rest of the fruits. That's the basis of my novel. You can't take people at face value, because a deeply grieving widower could be masquarading as an angry, crabby old man, and a fine, upstanding Christian man might be harboring a dark secret.
Here's the headshot for my novel. Ok, actually I lied just then. It's actually the headshot for BlogHer to use in my book reviews. See, I got invited to join (read: YAY!!!!!!!), but they need a url to a headshot to use. So I thought why not just add one to this blog post?
So that's what I'm doing.
What do you think? Trying too hard? Yeah, me too. How about this one?
That was a fun night, but the BlogHer people are going to have to do some editing, since I didn't think Carla or DeeAnne would want to be in my headshot. Ok, BlogHer, here's one more. You decide.
Aww! It's too fuzzy, right? I know, it's so hard. One more:
This is the one for when I review edgy, hard-bitten novels.
Happy Freakin' Mother's Day
I'm sorry I haven't posted lately, but I haven't been in the mood. My ex-husband died 3 weeks ago and we're having a really rough time in the house. My daughter refuses to talk about it, "I'm in denial, it didn't happen, everything's fine" is what she tells me when I try to talk to her about it. My son, on the other hand, is PISSED OFF and has started calling me names, hitting me (he's 8) and refusing to get out of bed in the morning. He misses Daddy, misses his hugs, his kisses and the hamburgers he used to make. I thought I would try to make those hamburgers for the kids tonight, but when I asked Zach what Daddy put in them, he said, "I think the secret ingredient was....love." My heart broke. Again.
Both of my kids have ADHD, which they inherited from me, and probably from their dad as well, although he always denied it. So we are easily distracted, impulsive and quick to act. My son decided to get himself wet twice today, which wouldn't be such a big deal except for the fact that my dryer is broken and I have to line dry everything, which means laundry takes 3 times as much time as it normally should. After the the first time he got soaked (courtesy of his sister, who sprayed him with the hose while "washing" my car), we had it out. Then I got him changed and sent him out to play again. Julia got sent to her room for soaking him when I'd very clearly heard him tell her to stop at least 4 times. So she was pissed at me.
I surveyed my house and sank into utter despair. It's a mess and I feel like I can't ever keep on top of everything that needs to be done. Partially due to my ADHD, partially due to my kids' ADHD and partially due to our depression. So I sent Julia to get Zach from his friend's house and he came back.....soaked.
Shit.
I got him out of his wet clothes and put them in the pile of dirty laundry with everything else. Then I started to put away the dishes Julia had washed (because our dishwasher is also broken), and in the process knocked over a tin pail of approximately 8,396 tiny Orbeez. All over the kitchen floor and counter.
They are wet and squishy and roll-y and bouncy. And they went everywhere.
So then I dropped a few swears. BIG ONES.
Then I yelled at Zach for not listening and I yelled at Julia for leaving that pail in the kitchen and they both started crying and then I started crying and then I went into the basement family room where my ex-husband and I spent so many hours together and I sobbed but I could hear Julia sobbing even louder but I couldn't bring myself to go comfort her.
Finally, I went upstairs to find both kids picking the Orbeez up off the kitchen floor and Julia was still sobbing. So I put them both in my lap and we cried together. Then we all apologized to each other for whatever we'd done to make the day rotten and we talked about how sad and angry we were that Daddy was gone.
And we are very sad and very angry.
Both of my kids have ADHD, which they inherited from me, and probably from their dad as well, although he always denied it. So we are easily distracted, impulsive and quick to act. My son decided to get himself wet twice today, which wouldn't be such a big deal except for the fact that my dryer is broken and I have to line dry everything, which means laundry takes 3 times as much time as it normally should. After the the first time he got soaked (courtesy of his sister, who sprayed him with the hose while "washing" my car), we had it out. Then I got him changed and sent him out to play again. Julia got sent to her room for soaking him when I'd very clearly heard him tell her to stop at least 4 times. So she was pissed at me.
I surveyed my house and sank into utter despair. It's a mess and I feel like I can't ever keep on top of everything that needs to be done. Partially due to my ADHD, partially due to my kids' ADHD and partially due to our depression. So I sent Julia to get Zach from his friend's house and he came back.....soaked.
Shit.
I got him out of his wet clothes and put them in the pile of dirty laundry with everything else. Then I started to put away the dishes Julia had washed (because our dishwasher is also broken), and in the process knocked over a tin pail of approximately 8,396 tiny Orbeez. All over the kitchen floor and counter.
They are wet and squishy and roll-y and bouncy. And they went everywhere.
So then I dropped a few swears. BIG ONES.
Then I yelled at Zach for not listening and I yelled at Julia for leaving that pail in the kitchen and they both started crying and then I started crying and then I went into the basement family room where my ex-husband and I spent so many hours together and I sobbed but I could hear Julia sobbing even louder but I couldn't bring myself to go comfort her.
Finally, I went upstairs to find both kids picking the Orbeez up off the kitchen floor and Julia was still sobbing. So I put them both in my lap and we cried together. Then we all apologized to each other for whatever we'd done to make the day rotten and we talked about how sad and angry we were that Daddy was gone.
And we are very sad and very angry.
You Have No Idea
You have no idea what I'm capable of. You have no idea what I've been through. You have no idea what I've seen, and you have no idea how strongly I'm made. You have no idea what you're up against.
Simply put, you will lose.
I'm a fighter. I'm a scrapper. I'm a survivor. I'm tougher than nails. And I'm at my best when my back is up against the wall.
You have no f*cking idea.
I will protect those I love, I will fight for those who need me, and I'm not afraid of you, or anyone like you.
I will rip you apart.
Those who need me will always be able to count on me, and those that count on me will always be taken care of.
Just try me.
Simply put, you will lose.
I'm a fighter. I'm a scrapper. I'm a survivor. I'm tougher than nails. And I'm at my best when my back is up against the wall.
You have no f*cking idea.
I will protect those I love, I will fight for those who need me, and I'm not afraid of you, or anyone like you.
I will rip you apart.
Those who need me will always be able to count on me, and those that count on me will always be taken care of.
Just try me.
Sorry I killed your chickens Grandma but you really should have given me more information.
Did you know that baby chicks can actually die from fear? Well, they can.
My grandma Josephine kept chickens, and sold their eggs to Wilbur the egg man every week. She would collect the eggs and leave them on the dining room table. We would then go in to town to eat dinner and Wilbur would come and get the eggs off of the dining room table. Then he would leave the money and take the eggs. Sometimes King, my grandparents German Shepard, forgot who Wilbur was, so he would let Wilbur in the house to get the eggs, but he wouldn't let Wilbur leave the house. That's when we would get a phone call up at The Dairy Dipper from Wilbur, asking to speak to my grandparents. Wilbur would explain the situation and we would go back to the farm so Wilbur could leave the house.
So, about my grandma Josephine's chickens......there was this one time when she told me to stay out of the henhouse, because otherwise the baby chicks would die.
Ok. First, let me tell you that I'm the kind of person whowants needs to know every detail of a situation. Otherwise, my imagination runs riot and everybody dies.
Plus? I'm drunk right now. Shut up, I'm grieving.
So anyway, because I was 9, Grandma Josephine didn't bother with the details, she just told me to stay out of the henhouse and expected that I would. That's it, that's all.
My mom should have told her that's not how I operated. So, I blame Mom.
Bad Mom.
It was Easter break and my parents had shipped me off to the farm for another week, and my grandma made the mistake of telling me that there were chicks.
She sat me down and very sternly told me to stay out of the henhouse, because there were brand-new chicks in there. And that's all she told me.
That's like telling a child that there are kittens in the shed out back, but neglecting to mention the fact that there is a Velociraptor in there as well. Yes, I know, but it's not like Allie Brosh owns the rights to the word Velociraptor. Anyone can use it.
I kicked around in the dirt of the chicken run long enough to make Grandma think I had forgotten all about the baby chicks. I snuck a quick look and realized I was no longer being watched.
It was time to make my move.
OMG you guys! There were about 25-40 tiny yellow baby chicks, and they were sooo cute! The henhouse was lit by several warming lights, and the floor was littered with straw.
But wait. There seemed to be one baby chick who appeared sad. Left out. Bereft.
I decided I would pick him up and console him.
As I moved toward that one baby chick, all of the chicks moved toward the opposing wall in a wave. They all piled on top of one another in a frantic attempt to escape my affections.
Because that's what baby chicks do. Grandma Josephine should have been more specific.
Realizing that I was in serious trouble, I did what any responsible, morally upright child would do.
I ran like hell.
Later, as I was re-reading Little Women in my bedroom for the thousandth time, Grandma Josephine came in.
Grandma: "Yvonne? Did you go into my henhouse today? After I specifically told you not to?"
Me: (refusing to make eye contact) "Um, no?"
Grandma: "Well, it looks like 27 of my baby chicks have been smothered to death. Are you sure you don't know anything about it?"
Me: "Wow! I read somewhere that dogs hate chickens. Maybe King killed them. He was looking at them yesterday, like he was jealous of them. I bet he killed them. You should check his mouth for feathers
Grandma (sighing): "Yvonne. Is this going to be like the time you killed the Easter Bunny?"
Me: "No!! That was an ACCIDENT!!!"
I won't bore you with the details, but Grandma eventually got me to admit to accidentally killing approximately 25-30 of her baby chicks. So, I got the "all animals are God's creatures and stop killing them!!" lecure.
Again.
So that's why I think the chicken chased me around the farmyard when I was 11, after my grandpa chopped it's head off.
Because that's payback.
My grandma Josephine kept chickens, and sold their eggs to Wilbur the egg man every week. She would collect the eggs and leave them on the dining room table. We would then go in to town to eat dinner and Wilbur would come and get the eggs off of the dining room table. Then he would leave the money and take the eggs. Sometimes King, my grandparents German Shepard, forgot who Wilbur was, so he would let Wilbur in the house to get the eggs, but he wouldn't let Wilbur leave the house. That's when we would get a phone call up at The Dairy Dipper from Wilbur, asking to speak to my grandparents. Wilbur would explain the situation and we would go back to the farm so Wilbur could leave the house.
So, about my grandma Josephine's chickens......there was this one time when she told me to stay out of the henhouse, because otherwise the baby chicks would die.
Ok. First, let me tell you that I'm the kind of person who
Plus? I'm drunk right now. Shut up, I'm grieving.
So anyway, because I was 9, Grandma Josephine didn't bother with the details, she just told me to stay out of the henhouse and expected that I would. That's it, that's all.
My mom should have told her that's not how I operated. So, I blame Mom.
Bad Mom.
It was Easter break and my parents had shipped me off to the farm for another week, and my grandma made the mistake of telling me that there were chicks.
She sat me down and very sternly told me to stay out of the henhouse, because there were brand-new chicks in there. And that's all she told me.
That's like telling a child that there are kittens in the shed out back, but neglecting to mention the fact that there is a Velociraptor in there as well. Yes, I know, but it's not like Allie Brosh owns the rights to the word Velociraptor. Anyone can use it.
I kicked around in the dirt of the chicken run long enough to make Grandma think I had forgotten all about the baby chicks. I snuck a quick look and realized I was no longer being watched.
It was time to make my move.
OMG you guys! There were about 25-40 tiny yellow baby chicks, and they were sooo cute! The henhouse was lit by several warming lights, and the floor was littered with straw.
But wait. There seemed to be one baby chick who appeared sad. Left out. Bereft.
I decided I would pick him up and console him.
As I moved toward that one baby chick, all of the chicks moved toward the opposing wall in a wave. They all piled on top of one another in a frantic attempt to escape my affections.
Because that's what baby chicks do. Grandma Josephine should have been more specific.
Realizing that I was in serious trouble, I did what any responsible, morally upright child would do.
I ran like hell.
Later, as I was re-reading Little Women in my bedroom for the thousandth time, Grandma Josephine came in.
Grandma: "Yvonne? Did you go into my henhouse today? After I specifically told you not to?"
Me: (refusing to make eye contact) "Um, no?"
Grandma: "Well, it looks like 27 of my baby chicks have been smothered to death. Are you sure you don't know anything about it?"
Me: "Wow! I read somewhere that dogs hate chickens. Maybe King killed them. He was looking at them yesterday, like he was jealous of them. I bet he killed them. You should check his mouth for feathers
Grandma (sighing): "Yvonne. Is this going to be like the time you killed the Easter Bunny?"
Me: "No!! That was an ACCIDENT!!!"
I won't bore you with the details, but Grandma eventually got me to admit to accidentally killing approximately 25-30 of her baby chicks. So, I got the "all animals are God's creatures and stop killing them!!" lecure.
Again.
So that's why I think the chicken chased me around the farmyard when I was 11, after my grandpa chopped it's head off.
Because that's payback.
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