How do you say, "If you don't stay on your side of the bed, I'm going to smother you"??

I have a problem. Ok, I have more than one problem (read: issue, psychosis, etc.), but right now we'll just address one.

I am sleep deprived. My body sort of finds itself in a constant state of twilight (and no, not the movie although, right now, that would fucking rock, because I wouldn't care if I wasn't sleeping).

Sometimes I can fall asleep, but not stay asleep; other times, I can't fall asleep at all. When I do fall asleep, I'm usually awakened by one of any number of random annoying fucking things, like my skanky neighbor's out of control dogs barking, a mouth breathing brat standing right over my face mumbling something about hot dogs or carrying permanent markers about to throw down some rockin' graffiti because they are sleep- walking. Awesome.

Or, my very fave...Saint Jason, rubbing my ass cheek (supposedly in his sleep) or attempting to spoon with me, or sleeping in the middle of the fucking bed with his head on my pillow. FORBIDDEN.

I have two rules, people. Only two. Don't use my toothbrush and don't touch my fucking pillow. And about those two things, I am extremely neurotic. Say what you will, I care not.

Saint Jason has been, of course, very saintly about respecting these rules, and also respectful about my body's need for space when I sleep. He makes an extra special effort to sleep as far away from me as he can so he's not tempted to "sleep fondle" as we call it. Rubbing my butt apparently calms him; this is also, apparently, an inherited trait he got from his father. Ewww.

Where were we? Oh yes.

Well, this week, thanks to the return of Zoloft to my nightly routine, I have been sleeping a little better (thank you, gods of the pharmaceuticals), however, am still adjusting to the meds so am dragging at night. I was looking very forward to snuggling up in my bed with my perfect pillow and falling into the 4 hour coma that Mr. Z has provided me each night this week.

Alas, it was not to be. Who should appear at my back, all spoon happy and ready to cuddle (all the while invading my personal sleep nirvana)? Saint Jason.

DAMMIT! (OK, so that word was just for my own pleasure)

My text to him this morning was something like:

If I have sex with you tonight, will you promise to stay on your side of the bed for the rest of the weekend?

Because, I'm not a total bitch. I know the man has needs.

See...the Zoloft is working.


**I did do other nice things for the world (or my small part of it) this week. I spread some awareness with this video re-posted on my FB page (which sent my mother in to a tailspin wanting to know who was bullying me & mine--she seriously needs a FB tutorial).

And I posted a very personal story at one of my very favorite support group sites for people from every possible walk of life: Band Back Together. (If you read this, please read ALL the comments to get clarification on a statement I make about cutting.)

So Happy the Speech Therapy is Finally Paying Off

Ian has a new word. He says it with absolute clarity and perfect articulation.

"Dammit."

My life will never be the same. I have to stop cussing. At least out loud. My writing, however, is going to be absolutely profane. I'm sorry.

Now is where you should jump ship if you are easily offended.

Still here?

Shit. Fuck. Balls. Cock. Douchebag. Son of a bitch. Motherfucker. DAMMIT!!!!!

I'm going to go wash my own mouth out with soap now.

Home is Where the Cooties Are...

This morning began like any other. Alarm went off at 5:20 and I hit the snooze for ten more minutes of much needed sleep, which I didn't get because I lay there thinking of all the things I really need to accomplish today. I get up at 5:30 and hit the shower, get dressed, gather the kids' crap, and it's time to wake Elena.

Well, shit. This can't be good. She looks and sounds like The Swamp Thing and...yep, is running a fucking fever too.

AWWEEHHAASOME!!!

So here we are; me, Elena, Ian and my youngest charge Sidney. All trapped in this petri dish of allergy inspired viral colds.

Elena has been banned to her room, a veritable kingdom of electronics with her t.v. and DVD player and Nintendo DS. I bring her food and meds on schedule and she's allowed out only to visit the latrine. I'm a mean mommy, or so I've been told, because I'm making her rest.

Whatever.

Honestly, she's getting on my damn nerves and I might have to duct tape her to her bed if she gets up again. I might even hook her up to the shop vac if she doesn't learn to blow her damn nose. I mean, really, what 7 year old girl can't effectively blow her own nose? I can't help it, the sound of *sniffing* gets on my nerves.

In fact, I think duct tape is in order for all the ankle biters today. I need a nap. And a xanax. And a glass of wine.

And there I go thinking about shit I can't have in the middle of the work day again. Crap.

Maybe I'll just go use the duct tape to seal my ears from the sounds of Max & Ruby before my entire brain bleeds out.

Canines, Calorie Counting & Cerebral Constipation

I have a wicked case of writer's block, so I apologize in advance for whatever comes out today. (No, this is not me. I am not this cute and my house is not this clean.) This post will also be full of as many pics as I can possible put in order to satisfy my idea of substance since I'm pretty much fucking useless right now.

I was going to write this weekend, but the weekend SUCKED, so I didn't. I was going to write last night, but in spite of the fact that yesterday was exponentially better than the weekend, I couldn't even find the motivation to help my first grader with her homework (yeah, I know, mother of the fucking year), so again, whatever.
*Random sidebar-her homework isn't due until Friday, so don't be so friggin' judgemental.


So let's just bullet point the events of the last few days, shall we?

~Saturday began beautifully; sunshine, clear skies, and the kids dropped off at their dad's house for their weekend visit. Saint Jason and I ran errands and then chilled at the house for the afternoon before heading to our favorite Irish pub (Culhane's in Jacksonville Beach) for a plate of bangers & mash (my personal reward to myself for shedding 6 lbs and an inch from the waist and hips the past month) and a pint of Guinness. All was right with the world. Happiness looks like this empty pint glass.


~S.J. (short for Saint Jason, work with me people) goes to let the dogs in for the night when we return and comes in one dog short. Pixie is gone. Slipped out of her collar, jumped the fence and GONE. What the fuck?! We grab flashlights and head outside to search, talk to neighbors and find out that she was last seen about 6pm (while we were out running errands) in the company of three young men who fashioned a leash out of their belts and were making their merry way home with our dog. We return home (me crying like a damned idiot) and Jason designs fliers for us to post the next morning.

~Sunday morning S.J. & I go out (before I've had any fucking coffee, so you know I love this damn dog) and put up 30 fliers all over the damn place that have her picture and offer a reward and talk to another guy who says he might know the kids we're looking for, but can't be sure. We go home and wait.

~I get called in to work. SHIT! S.J. comes with me because I'm in no condition to drive thanks to the lack of sleep and coffee and because we just want to be together (Shut up!). He gets a call after about an hour from someone who says they have our dog. HOORAY! S.J. leaves me at work, goes to meet the guy and calls me about 30 minutes later.

The first thing I hear is, "G%dd@mn, motherf#@king ...bleep, bleep, bleep!"

(Oh boy.) Long story short-it was a prank. Asshole.

~Sunday night, I get a text from the second baby daddy letting me know about a small little incident that occurred with my little man, Ian. He bit it on the concrete sidewalk while trying to run in his flip-flops. Dude. WTF? This weekend can end anytime now. This is what it looks like.

That shadow on his forehead, is not a shadow--it's a scuff. He cleaned the concrete with his face. Thank God, he didn't knock his teeth out.

~Monday went by without word of the dog or further incident, and I braced myself to pick up Elena and Ian after work and to tell them about Pixie being gone. I got to my ex-MIL's house (who is still one of my really good friends--just another cool & twisted part of my life), sat them down and gave them the news. There were tears...lots and lots of damn tears. Damn the people who will not give back our dog!!!

Wait! What is that text from Saint Jason waiting for us when we get back in the van?

It's a picture of Pixie!!!

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, there are still decent people in the world. There are still kind-hearted, selfless folk who believe in their God-given responsibility to keep pets with their loving families no matter what...all for the measly cost of a $100 reward. As far as I'm concerned, it was well worth the cash. It was a good Monday night in our house.

So, again, I apologize for the drivel and the lack of real wit today. I'm going to go eat something not on my 1350 calorie diet now so that I have something truly gratuitous to write about later.

Until next time,

~b