My stomach violently cramps. I figure it's the coffee. I keep drinking it. Another cramp. Whoa... wait a minute, I wasn't supposed to start my period for another two weeks. Coffee should cure this. I drink more. Another cramp, and then another and then another... Uh-oh... this can't be good.
I run to the bathroom (of which I have mentioned before there is only one of in our apartment) and it is occupied. My sister is behind the door violently throwing up. I'm getting suspicious that maybe I have the flu... She comes out, pale and shaky and says, "Dude. I have the fucking flu." My suspicions were correct, as usual, I am always right. I run into the bathroom and vomit.
*Skip to about twelve hours later*
"Well, that was a short flu," I say stupidly out loud to my sister.
"Yeah, thank god the kids didn't get it," my sister stupidly says out loud to me without knocking on wood.
*Skip to about three hours later*
"MOM! My stomach isn't feeling so good...," yells my oldest daughter from bed.
"Well, hurry and get into the bathroom if you think you're going to puke!" Although I love my steam cleaner I really would like to avoid using it at 2am if at all possible.
"UUUhhhhh..." My oldest daughter pukes. A lot.
While I'm pulling her hair back into a ponytail I hear my middle daughter scream from bed.
"MOM! My tummy hurts!"
*Shit.*
"Ok, well, if you have to puke, line up behind your sister."
My oldest finishes puking, washes up and goes and lays down.
My youngest jumps into the bathroom and violently empties her stomach, not into, but on top of the toilet.
I pull her hair back and bust out the Lysol. I spend the next hour or so spraying down light switches, door knobs, the toilet and all of the brownest walls where the kids slide their hands across the white paint with grubby hands. Lysol is the greatest. Lysol would make millions off of me if they came out with their own ladies perfume. I would spray myself with Lysol all day, every day if I could. It would be even better if Lysol came out with those little cardboard car deodorizers to hang from your rear view mirror and if they came out with children sized suits made of plastic and a Lysol lining so that I could quarantine and de-germ all of these small creatures that infect me weekly with a new virus/not-so-common disease... like the time my kids gave me Hand, Foot and Mouth disease. That was fun.
So, I finish Lysoling and get the two girls into makeshift beds on the floor near the bathroom in case of another need to run into the bathroom in the middle of the night. I put a trash can between their heads and go and lay down... finally... I can get some damn sleep. It is about 3:30am. As soon as my head hits my pillow I hear the newborn squirm. And then I hear a splash. And then I hear a cry. And then I hear a squirt.
*Crap.*
I get back up and strip her crib. I wash her up and change her explosive diaper and her digested formula sprayed outfit. I Lysol her crib. I Lysol myself. I lay her back down and wait until she drifts off to sleep. I resume my position on my pillow. It is 4:20am.
"Mom...," my oldest daughter whines quietly. "I think I have to puke again..."
"Me too...," my middle daughter cries.
The baby squirms.
*Splash*
*Squirt*
UUUHHHHHGGG....
Friday, January 29, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Why Asking For Patience Is A Dumb Idea.
I am an impatient person. I know, I know... You're saying to yourself, "But Shawna, you seem so 'put together' and 'calm' in your other posts." Well, thank you few readers that actually read my blog, but I am sad to say you are delusional.
Where to start... I suppose I'll start with a list of things that brought me to the point that I felt I needed some outside help in the patience department. And then I will give one example of why asking for patience only provides the universe with an excuse to try the little patience I currently possess.
WHY I NEED TO LEARN THE ART OF PATIENCE
1. Going through pretty rough divorce.
2. I live next door to a redneck with a LOUD truck. He leaves for work at 5:45 a.m.
3. I live with my sister, and although she rocks, she also sucks.
4. There are 5 kids in my small two bedroom, one bath apartment.
5. I have been practically throwing myself at someone who lives very far away and seems to selectively like me back.
6. There are 5 kids in my small two bedroom, one bath apartment.
7. And, a chihuahua.
So... Today I walk into my kids' bedroom and the overwhelming smell of chihuahua urine smacked me in the face. Time to steam clean! I LOVE steam cleaning. It is unhealthy how much I LOVE this chore. I am not being sarcastic. I have a very strange relationship with my steam cleaner. It is one of fascination and morbid curiosity. I like to see how much dirt comes out of my carpet. And I clean the carpet many, many times until there is no dirt left to examine. This is an all day process. Back to the story... I get out my beloved steam cleaner and take the bucket off of the machine to go and fill it in the bathtub with hot water when I see that one of the kids this morning left their bath water sitting in the tub. I flick the switch to drain the tub... and nothin'. The water stays there, freezing and stagnant mocking me. Why do you mock me water?
I notice there is a ball of hair stuck to the drain. The ball of hair is suspiciously the same color as my sister's hair. Every morning she leaves a glob of hair sitting on top of the drain and every morning I scoop it out and throw the wet mass into her makeup bag. Here's an actual conversation we literally just had about a week ago:
"Can you stop throwing hair balls into my makeup bag?"
"Can you stop leaving hair balls in the bathtub drain?"
"I try to get it out of there as best I can."
"Well, try harder."
I realize I'm going to have to fix this problem and there are no men around to con into doing it for me. I grab a screwdriver out of the junk drawer and pry the drain cover off and when I pull it up there is a fist full of hair stuck to it. Ick. I rip all of that out and notice... the water is still sitting there. Shit. What now? I grab the only other logical tool to use in a situation like this. My crochet hook. I pull out another massive wad with that. Still, the water stays. I grab the next best tool, and it was also recommended by Wikipedia. A plunger. It works on the toilet, so why not the tub? I start furiously plunging and while I am cursing the day my sister was born and pulling more and more dyed and damaged hair out of the drain, my phone slips out of my pocket and plops into the tub, which is filled with hair, dirt and now (because I used a plunger) poop water. I reach into the filthy water and pull my phone out hoping I can salvage it. Nope. It's dead. It utters one last guttural sound- The Office theme song plays one last time, slowly in a definite moment of passing. FUCK! My only love in life is texting. I text ALL day long. I only text three people so I am sure they are happy about my loss. But, I am distraught.
I hear the neighbour men outside. I run out there and ask them to help. One neighbour suggests a plunger. The other neighbour says that is the dumbest idea he's ever heard, that only an idiot would use a plunger. Apparently it pushes the clog the opposite way back into the drain. Good to know AFTER THE FACT. Thank you Wikipedia. He tells me to get a wire coat hanger and unravel it and make a hook at the bottom. I ask him if he can just do it. I bat my eyes. He does it. He pulls out a wad of my sister's hair from the drain and throws it on my bathroom counter instead of in the trash can in plain sight. I stop batting my eyes and tell him to leave. He leaves.
I then bat my eyes one last time (because I don't have the complex manager's number) and ask him to make a phone call for me since my phone is dead. He calls him. I resume NOT batting my eyes.
The manager came with a snake. No use. He then had to call a plumber.
The plumber arrives after three hours of me trying to fix the problem on my own. He chuckles and ays, "You wudda never got this fixed all on your own!"
Thank you plumber. You summed things up nicely. I think that comment applies to every issue with patience I have with every item on the aforementioned list.
Where to start... I suppose I'll start with a list of things that brought me to the point that I felt I needed some outside help in the patience department. And then I will give one example of why asking for patience only provides the universe with an excuse to try the little patience I currently possess.
WHY I NEED TO LEARN THE ART OF PATIENCE
1. Going through pretty rough divorce.
2. I live next door to a redneck with a LOUD truck. He leaves for work at 5:45 a.m.
3. I live with my sister, and although she rocks, she also sucks.
4. There are 5 kids in my small two bedroom, one bath apartment.
5. I have been practically throwing myself at someone who lives very far away and seems to selectively like me back.
6. There are 5 kids in my small two bedroom, one bath apartment.
7. And, a chihuahua.
So... Today I walk into my kids' bedroom and the overwhelming smell of chihuahua urine smacked me in the face. Time to steam clean! I LOVE steam cleaning. It is unhealthy how much I LOVE this chore. I am not being sarcastic. I have a very strange relationship with my steam cleaner. It is one of fascination and morbid curiosity. I like to see how much dirt comes out of my carpet. And I clean the carpet many, many times until there is no dirt left to examine. This is an all day process. Back to the story... I get out my beloved steam cleaner and take the bucket off of the machine to go and fill it in the bathtub with hot water when I see that one of the kids this morning left their bath water sitting in the tub. I flick the switch to drain the tub... and nothin'. The water stays there, freezing and stagnant mocking me. Why do you mock me water?
I notice there is a ball of hair stuck to the drain. The ball of hair is suspiciously the same color as my sister's hair. Every morning she leaves a glob of hair sitting on top of the drain and every morning I scoop it out and throw the wet mass into her makeup bag. Here's an actual conversation we literally just had about a week ago:
"Can you stop throwing hair balls into my makeup bag?"
"Can you stop leaving hair balls in the bathtub drain?"
"I try to get it out of there as best I can."
"Well, try harder."
I realize I'm going to have to fix this problem and there are no men around to con into doing it for me. I grab a screwdriver out of the junk drawer and pry the drain cover off and when I pull it up there is a fist full of hair stuck to it. Ick. I rip all of that out and notice... the water is still sitting there. Shit. What now? I grab the only other logical tool to use in a situation like this. My crochet hook. I pull out another massive wad with that. Still, the water stays. I grab the next best tool, and it was also recommended by Wikipedia. A plunger. It works on the toilet, so why not the tub? I start furiously plunging and while I am cursing the day my sister was born and pulling more and more dyed and damaged hair out of the drain, my phone slips out of my pocket and plops into the tub, which is filled with hair, dirt and now (because I used a plunger) poop water. I reach into the filthy water and pull my phone out hoping I can salvage it. Nope. It's dead. It utters one last guttural sound- The Office theme song plays one last time, slowly in a definite moment of passing. FUCK! My only love in life is texting. I text ALL day long. I only text three people so I am sure they are happy about my loss. But, I am distraught.
I hear the neighbour men outside. I run out there and ask them to help. One neighbour suggests a plunger. The other neighbour says that is the dumbest idea he's ever heard, that only an idiot would use a plunger. Apparently it pushes the clog the opposite way back into the drain. Good to know AFTER THE FACT. Thank you Wikipedia. He tells me to get a wire coat hanger and unravel it and make a hook at the bottom. I ask him if he can just do it. I bat my eyes. He does it. He pulls out a wad of my sister's hair from the drain and throws it on my bathroom counter instead of in the trash can in plain sight. I stop batting my eyes and tell him to leave. He leaves.
I then bat my eyes one last time (because I don't have the complex manager's number) and ask him to make a phone call for me since my phone is dead. He calls him. I resume NOT batting my eyes.
The manager came with a snake. No use. He then had to call a plumber.
The plumber arrives after three hours of me trying to fix the problem on my own. He chuckles and ays, "You wudda never got this fixed all on your own!"
Thank you plumber. You summed things up nicely. I think that comment applies to every issue with patience I have with every item on the aforementioned list.
Morning Time
"Do you want Fruit Loops?," I ask my oldest daughter.
"What did you just say?," my oldest daughter replies.
"I asked if you want Fruit Loops or not," I reply a little irritated that I have to repeat EVERYTHING around here.
"I heard what you said. OF COURSE I want Fruit Loops," she snaps back at me.
My sarcasm should not be one of the traits that I pass along to my children, but too late.
"Mom, can I take a bath?," my middle child asks.
"Yes. Go jump in," I tell her.
"You said not to jump in the bathtub," my middle child says puzzled.
"Not literally. Geesh," I reply.
"What does LIT-AR-ULLY mean?," my middle child asks, getting on my very last nerve for the morning.
"It means GET-IN-THE-BATH-NOW," I say as I'm making a bottle for the baby and a bowl of cereal for my nephew and cleaning the table after my oldest daughter simultaneously.
"Oh," she says, and heads off for the bathroom.
"Are you making me breakfast Auntie Na-na?," my nephew asks.
"Does it LOOK like I'm making you breakfast?," I ask in my sweetest morning voice.
"Is that cereal for me?," he asks.
"Well it's not for the babies," I reply.
"So...are you making me breakfast Auntie Na-na?"
"I NEED A TOWEL!!!," my middle child screams from the other room.
"WAHHHHHH," the baby in the back room cries.
"WAHHHHHH," the baby in the front room cries.
"I forgot to do my homework," my oldest daughter tells me.
"I want my breakfast," my nephew whines while stomping in small circles around my legs in the kitchen.
"MOM! TOWEL!!," my middle child screams again.
"I'm going to get detention," my oldest child says.
"I'M SOOOO HUNGRY...," my nephew says, thinking that will make me move faster.
*SLURP* The baby in the back room is now taken care of.
*SLURP* The baby in the front room is now taken care of.
*SPOON CLANKING ON SIDE OF CEREAL BOWL* My nephew is taken care of.
*SPLASH* My middle daughter is handed a towel and taken care of.
*FURIOUS SCRIBBLES* My oldest daughter finishes the last bit of homework.
sssiiilllleeennnccceee....
"Mom, I'm still hungry," my oldest daughter says.
"Me too!," my middle one chimes in.
"Auntie Na-na, when I am done with my cereal can I have more?," my nephew asks feeling left out of the conversation.
"WAHHHHHH!," the baby in the back room screams for a diaper change.
"WAHHHHH!," the baby in the front room screams for a diaper change.
"EEEE!! EEEE!! EEEE!!," says the voice in my head as I eyeball a sharp knife and my empty coffee pot.
"What did you just say?," my oldest daughter replies.
"I asked if you want Fruit Loops or not," I reply a little irritated that I have to repeat EVERYTHING around here.
"I heard what you said. OF COURSE I want Fruit Loops," she snaps back at me.
My sarcasm should not be one of the traits that I pass along to my children, but too late.
"Mom, can I take a bath?," my middle child asks.
"Yes. Go jump in," I tell her.
"You said not to jump in the bathtub," my middle child says puzzled.
"Not literally. Geesh," I reply.
"What does LIT-AR-ULLY mean?," my middle child asks, getting on my very last nerve for the morning.
"It means GET-IN-THE-BATH-NOW," I say as I'm making a bottle for the baby and a bowl of cereal for my nephew and cleaning the table after my oldest daughter simultaneously.
"Oh," she says, and heads off for the bathroom.
"Are you making me breakfast Auntie Na-na?," my nephew asks.
"Does it LOOK like I'm making you breakfast?," I ask in my sweetest morning voice.
"Is that cereal for me?," he asks.
"Well it's not for the babies," I reply.
"So...are you making me breakfast Auntie Na-na?"
"I NEED A TOWEL!!!," my middle child screams from the other room.
"WAHHHHHH," the baby in the back room cries.
"WAHHHHHH," the baby in the front room cries.
"I forgot to do my homework," my oldest daughter tells me.
"I want my breakfast," my nephew whines while stomping in small circles around my legs in the kitchen.
"MOM! TOWEL!!," my middle child screams again.
"I'm going to get detention," my oldest child says.
"I'M SOOOO HUNGRY...," my nephew says, thinking that will make me move faster.
*SLURP* The baby in the back room is now taken care of.
*SLURP* The baby in the front room is now taken care of.
*SPOON CLANKING ON SIDE OF CEREAL BOWL* My nephew is taken care of.
*SPLASH* My middle daughter is handed a towel and taken care of.
*FURIOUS SCRIBBLES* My oldest daughter finishes the last bit of homework.
sssiiilllleeennnccceee....
"Mom, I'm still hungry," my oldest daughter says.
"Me too!," my middle one chimes in.
"Auntie Na-na, when I am done with my cereal can I have more?," my nephew asks feeling left out of the conversation.
"WAHHHHHH!," the baby in the back room screams for a diaper change.
"WAHHHHH!," the baby in the front room screams for a diaper change.
"EEEE!! EEEE!! EEEE!!," says the voice in my head as I eyeball a sharp knife and my empty coffee pot.
Monday, January 25, 2010
YAY COURT!
I am up early today and ready to make my big appearance! My 15 minutes of fame have come a'knockin' and I'm prepared to put on the best show of my life.
Because I was left three months behind on pretty much all of my bills (and that includes auto insurance and my car registration) while I was visibly pregnant by a total douche nozzle (who's full name will remain anonymous only because we haven't gone to court yet *it's not that I don't care about my readers enough to warn them of this man roaming the streets looking for single ladies to impregnate and then abandon*) I got pulled over by the fuzz and now am facing a hefty fine in court this morning. I owe the court about 1,200 dollars in which I am supposed to pay today.
I am going to get up when called upon in court and unleash the 'cute girl tears' with such a fury that my parents may actually be proud of me for once. I'm going to turn on those water works by any means possible. I'll think of everyone I love dying off in a scenario similar to the story line of The Stand by Stephen King, I'm going to pinch my self in that spot right under your arm where it's the fattest and most sensitive until I bruise, I'm even prepared to go as far as wearing a maxi pad backward inside of my underwear *because nothing can make a woman tear up faster than getting a pube stuck to the backing of one of those damn things*.
I hope it's a male judge.
Because I was left three months behind on pretty much all of my bills (and that includes auto insurance and my car registration) while I was visibly pregnant by a total douche nozzle (who's full name will remain anonymous only because we haven't gone to court yet *it's not that I don't care about my readers enough to warn them of this man roaming the streets looking for single ladies to impregnate and then abandon*) I got pulled over by the fuzz and now am facing a hefty fine in court this morning. I owe the court about 1,200 dollars in which I am supposed to pay today.
I am going to get up when called upon in court and unleash the 'cute girl tears' with such a fury that my parents may actually be proud of me for once. I'm going to turn on those water works by any means possible. I'll think of everyone I love dying off in a scenario similar to the story line of The Stand by Stephen King, I'm going to pinch my self in that spot right under your arm where it's the fattest and most sensitive until I bruise, I'm even prepared to go as far as wearing a maxi pad backward inside of my underwear *because nothing can make a woman tear up faster than getting a pube stuck to the backing of one of those damn things*.
I hope it's a male judge.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Hilarity in Hell.
After about a half of a year of dealing with divorce and the miserable circumstances that normally follow a split, I have decided not to let any of the bullshit that I've been dealing with make me angry any more. Although I am prone to anger *like vein popping, heart exploding in chest, froth at the mouth anger* I do not like the emotion in the least. So, I will stop feeling it. Instead, I am going to share with all of humanity (or 18 followers) some of the absolutely pathetic, but hilarious moments in my divorce thus far. Here goes nothin'.
Ex: I miss you. I have a surprise for you.
Me: You know I fucking hate surprises. What is it?
Ex: Can't tell you. But it's GREAT!
Me: Well, when do I get this great surprise? Can you just tell me already I seriously hate this crap.
Ex: I'll give it to you after work tonight.
Me: Fine.
*several hours pass*
Ex: Hey- do you want to know what it is?
Me: I thought I was getting it after you got off work or something. Of course I want to know what it is but if it's jewellery just take it back. I don't want it.
Ex: Not jewellery.
Me: Pez?
Ex: Not Pez.
Me: I'm tired of guessing. What in the hell is it?
Ex: Are you sure you want me to ruin the surprise?
Me: Will you knock it off already. I can't stand this. I don't even want it any more. Fuck it, whatever it is.
Ex: Alright I'll tell you.
*about an hour goes by*
Ex: You don't seem excited.
Me: I'm not.
Ex: Well you will be when I give it to you. I'll give you a hint- I've been wanting to get it for you for a while now.
Me: Is it child support? Because if it's child support I'm starting to get excited.
Ex: Well, no, but I'm working on that too.
Me: Great.
*another hour goes by*
Ex: OK. I'm ready to tell you now.
Me: huh.
Ex: Ready??
Me: shoot.
Ex: It's Viagra.
*several minutes go by*
Ex: So?
Me: Did you actually file the divorce papers or am I going to have to wait another six months to get this shit over with?
Ex: What? I thought you'd be excited.
Me: We haven't slept together in six months. Why in the hell would I be excited about a Viagra? Are you giving it to me to take because I don't think I can get an erection after this conversation.
Ex: No, it was for me to take and for you to enjoy.
Me: Huh. So... it ws actually a surprise for YOU then.
Ex: No, I got it for you.
Me: I think you got it for you.
Ex: You don't seem happy.
Me: Ya think?
The end.
Ex: I miss you. I have a surprise for you.
Me: You know I fucking hate surprises. What is it?
Ex: Can't tell you. But it's GREAT!
Me: Well, when do I get this great surprise? Can you just tell me already I seriously hate this crap.
Ex: I'll give it to you after work tonight.
Me: Fine.
*several hours pass*
Ex: Hey- do you want to know what it is?
Me: I thought I was getting it after you got off work or something. Of course I want to know what it is but if it's jewellery just take it back. I don't want it.
Ex: Not jewellery.
Me: Pez?
Ex: Not Pez.
Me: I'm tired of guessing. What in the hell is it?
Ex: Are you sure you want me to ruin the surprise?
Me: Will you knock it off already. I can't stand this. I don't even want it any more. Fuck it, whatever it is.
Ex: Alright I'll tell you.
*about an hour goes by*
Ex: You don't seem excited.
Me: I'm not.
Ex: Well you will be when I give it to you. I'll give you a hint- I've been wanting to get it for you for a while now.
Me: Is it child support? Because if it's child support I'm starting to get excited.
Ex: Well, no, but I'm working on that too.
Me: Great.
*another hour goes by*
Ex: OK. I'm ready to tell you now.
Me: huh.
Ex: Ready??
Me: shoot.
Ex: It's Viagra.
*several minutes go by*
Ex: So?
Me: Did you actually file the divorce papers or am I going to have to wait another six months to get this shit over with?
Ex: What? I thought you'd be excited.
Me: We haven't slept together in six months. Why in the hell would I be excited about a Viagra? Are you giving it to me to take because I don't think I can get an erection after this conversation.
Ex: No, it was for me to take and for you to enjoy.
Me: Huh. So... it ws actually a surprise for YOU then.
Ex: No, I got it for you.
Me: I think you got it for you.
Ex: You don't seem happy.
Me: Ya think?
The end.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Occupational Hazard
I sat in front of cat lady's apartment last night for a good half hour inside of my warm car watching the freezing rain fall all around me. I was safe inside the dark car, listening to one of my favourite songs on full blast. I was safe from the rain, but also from the cats who wanted warmth and shelter from the pouring rain. The man singing was gaining momentum with his lyrics and they sunk all the way into my head.
"I feel more like a stranger every time I come home..."
I felt more at ease in my beat up silver Matrix than in my own apartment last night. Just sitting there, white knuckling the steering wheel, although the car was not in motion, made me feel at home. The violins enveloped me and the man's voice is a raw one, with purpose and a real message to give to people.
"You'll be free child once you have died. From the shackles of language and measurable time..."
I feel like I am a prisoner of both language and time. Language either grants me a momentary window in which in I can see the words I want to form in a tangible way on paper or it fails me miserably. Time is the endless but ever fleeting enemy right now. My oldest daughter is going to be eight this year. I keep thinking of all of the things she has seen so far in her short life and of all the things she will see as an adult. I try to filter the things but she's going to have to see the negatives at some point. I just want so badly to prolong the good. It's an uphill battle to try and filter anything away from that kid. She's smart and insightful and she can feel my heavy heart through walls even. She knows just from the tone in my voice or a small glint in my eyes if I am unhappy and she wants to fix it. I try and explain to her that it isn't her job as a kid to fix anything, that she needs to focus on Play-doh and childrens' books and stomping in puddles. Her occupation is recreation. My occupation is making sure her occupation is in ever high demand.
"I feel more like a stranger every time I come home..."
I felt more at ease in my beat up silver Matrix than in my own apartment last night. Just sitting there, white knuckling the steering wheel, although the car was not in motion, made me feel at home. The violins enveloped me and the man's voice is a raw one, with purpose and a real message to give to people.
"You'll be free child once you have died. From the shackles of language and measurable time..."
I feel like I am a prisoner of both language and time. Language either grants me a momentary window in which in I can see the words I want to form in a tangible way on paper or it fails me miserably. Time is the endless but ever fleeting enemy right now. My oldest daughter is going to be eight this year. I keep thinking of all of the things she has seen so far in her short life and of all the things she will see as an adult. I try to filter the things but she's going to have to see the negatives at some point. I just want so badly to prolong the good. It's an uphill battle to try and filter anything away from that kid. She's smart and insightful and she can feel my heavy heart through walls even. She knows just from the tone in my voice or a small glint in my eyes if I am unhappy and she wants to fix it. I try and explain to her that it isn't her job as a kid to fix anything, that she needs to focus on Play-doh and childrens' books and stomping in puddles. Her occupation is recreation. My occupation is making sure her occupation is in ever high demand.
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