Bonanza Jellybean

The Unforseen Suckage Levels of Vacation

Suckage.
Total.

• It was 106 degrees. All week.
• The humidity was 99%. Stick your face in CoolWhip and inhale. You'll get the idea.
• The bugs managed to find the one spot where the bug spray didn't completely reach. Or the several spots. Like 482 individual spots on four people. Good thing we used bug spray.
• The dog we took with us got homesick. Thankfully, he didn't get carsick.
• I stepped in dog shit in my new running shoes exactly 37 seconds after we got there.
• The friend for Soccer Chick we took along is prone to migranes. And allergies. And felt the need to tell me gum could help me quit smoking every time I smoked.
• A crab bit my toe. OK, PINCHED. But it fucking well hurt anyway, whatever the little bastard did. I still have a little crabby print on my toe.
• The sight of fishermen reeling in stingray after stingray kept the girls out of the water.
• The island where we were has decided that they don't want to be all tacky like other beaches, so there are a ton of trees and little teeny signs for everything. And no tall buildings. Which means that you can't find a single fucking place you're looking for and are forced to wander aimlessly about until you find something comprable. Which made trying to find a grocery store an adventure.
• Finding a grocery store on vacation should never be an adventure.
• I actually found a tick attached to my kid's back.
• The air conditioning in the restaurant we picked for our one night out was broken.
• The restaurant also turned out to not have a bar.
• All the condo neighbors knew my mother and felt the need to talk to me like I was as interested in random conversation with strangers as she is.
• I had to buy a new bathing suit because the strap broke on mine, and when I tried to put it on the card, I discovered that the auto parts Dutch Oven needed to order had charged my card THREE TIMES rather than allowing me to have my new bathing suit.
• I stood in front of a store in 106 degree heat and 99% humidity arguing with MasterCard for 20 minutes. Before breakfast.
• We came home to find all the horses loose in the yard, including drinking out of the swimming pool. And leaving big mouthfulls of grass behind as a gift to the filter.
• Five minutes after we got home, while we were attempting to round up horses in 106 degree heat, my mother showed up and informed us that she was meeting my sisters at my house.
• Sisters that didn't show up for another three hours.
• I came home and tried to book our vacation TO WONDERFUL CLEAR-WATERED FLORIDA (where you can actually see what's about to take a chomp out of your ass while it's still approaching) and found that they don't book that far in advance. But have 300 square feet for sale for $200,000.
• Which looked totally reasonable at the time.
• The girls had their first soccer game of the season this morning.
• I let a 9 year old spray me with suncreen before the game.
• My arms now resemble a rosy-hued zebra-print.
• It's still 106 degrees.

The good news? We didn't see a single jellyfish. Or shark.
The other good news? Vacation's over.

I Don't Remember the Go-Gos Mentioning Jellyfish

We're leaving for a MUCH-needed vacation the beach today (so my superb return will now be interrupted by several days of a cheap relative's refusal to install internet in a condo, but I digress...).

Have we packed?
Ummmm...
Are we prepared at all?
Ummmm...

We suck, basically.

I think my obvious lack of enthusiasm has something to do with the fact that we can't afford to go back to my ultra-favorite beach-side high-rise condo WITH BAR in Florida this year. Damn that husband and his bionic knees and the bills that never seem to end. And the rising costs of feeding a crowd of 1000lb. yard ornaments. Damn being financially responsible and leaving money in savings.

Fuck savings.

I miss Florida.

So we're leaving work early to rush home, throw some underwear in a bag, clean out the car, and leave in a rush, making sure that the three things we will absolutely need when we get there will be left sitting on the kitchen counter. Like the sunscreen, the keys to the condo, and probably our child.

And to top it all off...
The friend Soccer Chick is taking with her reported to me on the phone this weekend...

Friend: Have you seen the news?

Me: No... why?

Friend: There's a BUNCH of jellyfish in the water where we're going because the water's so warm. They said 200 people got stung Saturday!

Me: We do have a pool, you know. Jellyfish don't like pools. They have problems crossing the street to get to them.

Friend: (obviously not listening to a word I said) I AM NOT GOING IN THAT WATER WHERE THE JELLYFISH CAN EAT ME.

Me: Technically, they only sting you. Jellyfish don't eat you. Sharks eat you. Did they mention sharks at all?

Friend: I don't like jellyfish. Sharks are OK.

Soccer Chick: (eavesdropping from the other room) Jellyfish!! I don't want to swim with jellyfish!!

Me: ENOUGH WITH THE DAMN JELLYFISH, CHILDREN. I promise we will do our best to swim in stinging creature free waters, OK? You don't have to swim with the jellyfish. Besides, if they sting you, all you have to do is pee on it and the sting goes away.

Friend and Soccer Chick: EEEWWWWWWWWW!!

Which was the desired result.
And not a good omen for the week.

But if anyone has to pee on themselves or each other, I promise to post pictures when I get back.
Unless it's me. There will be no pictures of me in lycra with anything remotely related to urine.
Dignity, you know.

Photo Essay Entitled: A Smart-Ass Trip That Goes All Philosophical At the End

OK, the computer still sucks. And the new one hasn't arrived yet.
So here I sit, laboring away, hoping that it will keep running long enough for me to finish what I have to finish.
Also? Hoping I can get through an entry FINALLY, because Computer. Does. NOT. Like. Firefox.
Big baby.

ANYWAY... On to Our Much-Belated Fun and Literary Dismemberment...

•••••

Work Friend: So where are you going this weekend?

Me: We're taking Soccer Chick to Cleveland for her birthday.

Work Friend: Why IN THE HELL would you take a kid to CLEVELAND for her birthday?

Me: We're going to toss matches into the river and see if it catches on fire.

Work Friend: Seriously.

Me: We're taking her to see the US Women's National Soccer Team play China.

Work Friend: Oh, that's cool. She'll love that.

Me: We might toss some matches, though. At halftime, maybe.

The Rock n Roll Hall of Fame. I wonder if they have a groupie wing... if they don't, THEY SHOULD. Groupie-related-activity is HARD WORK, people. That's why retirement is mandatory at age 25.
It has nothing to do with boob saggage. Promise.
Also? Do not let the serene picture fool you. We just hadn't gotten close enough yet to see exactly what was happening at the ol' folks rocker home yet. The bus we passed full of men and women in lifeguard outfits should have told us something, but we're small town folk. We from SOUTH CAROLINA. We have no idea what the fancy big city folk get up to on the weekends.

We pulled into the stadium and parked, thinking we would walk around for the afternoon and see the sights before the game.
Like, "walk over to the RnR Hall because the stadium is closed and I have to PEE RIGHT THIS SECOND walk around." The 8 year olds didn't have to go, but the 35 year old did. Let's see how the little shits do in 25 years after they pass some ungrateful little parasites through their plumbing.

The first sign something was amiss?

Dutch Oven: Why is there a big gay pride flag on that very large boat?

Me: No idea... Hey! Look! BATHROOMS! Food! Oh, I get the bus now- it's gay pride weekend here. OH, YEAH- the lifeguards were from "GAYWATCH"- cool!

Dutch Oven: You're kidding.

Me: You're not going all republican on me, are you?

Dutch Oven: NO, but I really don't want to take someone else's kid over to the Pride event. We have no idea what she knows or doesn't know.

Me: She did mention Vacation Bible School on the way up here... NEVERMIND. I have to go. NOW. The Port-a-Potties are on the edge. We can skirt the whole thing and go pee without altering the kid's world view, can't we?

Dutch Oven: Ummmm, NO.

Me: You're just afraid someone will hit on you. Big chicken.

FINALLY, we found a non-morally-threatening-for-children bathroom and found a little café and were all happy. We began wandering aimlessly about the Lake Erie shore. Cleveland Browns Stadium, the Science Center, and the RnR Hall were all right there.

How many tourists does it take to operate a camera?
I don't know. How many?
None. We put the fucking thing back in the bag and promised to email photos later.

I love rock and roll, so put another dime in the jukebox, baby.

Do you REALLY THINK you have to obey EVERY "Don't Feed the Birds" sign you see? And you think I'm going to pose after I got NO COOKIE? I fart in your general direction, human.

Dutch Oven: I guess we've reached the age where it's not cool to walk with your parents anymore.

Me: No, I think we've just reached the age where we walk slower than everyone else.

Me: Hey! We're in Cleveland now, and I had to call you because you're the one person who could appreciate the humor of what's here.

PChef: Really? What?

Me: We just brought two eight year olds to Cleveland Gay Pride without even knowing it. Note to self: check pride schedules before leaving so that husband doesn't have a fit when you get there because we might undo 8 years of parent-supported churchgoing. They got to see the "Gaywatch" float. You know, like Baywatch? With lifeguards and everything.

PChef: That is TOO. COOL. What's wrong with him, anyway? I thought he didn't care about things like that.

Me: Oh, I don't know. He usually doesn't. He's probably just afraid he'll get some attention. He's a magnet for it, usually. He WAS singing along with Tori Amos on the way up here, so...

PChef: That doesn't make him GAY. That makes him an angry lesbian. What's going on there, anyway? It sounds kind of... LOUD.

Me: I have no idea. I'm not looking. They're playing or something. Dutch Oven's keeping them company. He should have had enough any second now...

Utterly defeated by the physical-world-defying level of 8 year old energy. Which, by the way, is apparently endlessly renewable. And endlessly ADORABLE.

OK, not so cute now. I just looked a did a mental ballpark calculation on the cost of the orthodontics ALONE in this picture. Never mind the education, food, shelter, etc.
They've been reverted to parasites again. Who destroy plumbing.

The hero, Kristine Lilly.
Who is THIRTY-FIVE.
OLDER THAN ME.
I got winded climbing the stadium stairs.
Fuck.

Hey, you ladies might have just played a 90 minute game, but I WALKED AROUND CLEVELAND ALL DAY WITH A HUSBAND AND TWO EIGHT YEAR OLDS. I WIN, BITCHES-WHO-THINK-YOU'RE-SO-FIT-AND-SKINNY-AND-CUTE.

Isn't it OBVIOUSLY apparent that I have developed some kind of complex about my fitness level now?

Okay, not bitches. Not bitches at all.
Pretty fucking FABULOUS, honestly.

This is my effort at providing my daughter with role models in a hope that she won't end up a 17 year old crackwhore because of my lack of natural maternal instinct. Thank you, Christine Rampone and Brianna Scurry and all the others I didn't get good pictures of for not being crackwhores and giving them someone to look up to besides fucking Paris Hilton and for ENDLESSLY signing autographs for little girls.

Just like Soccer Chick said she'll do one day when little girls ask her. No matter how tired she is.

And thank you again, US Women's National Team. From all of us out there who have little girls who want to grow up to be more.

I get tears in my eyes every time I watch that.
So I definitely let her play.

If You Promise to Ignore the Obvious Lack of Interior Design Ambition, I'll Let You Freely Ridicule the Southern Accent

This is what passes for entertainment at the Bonanza household.

Sad, yes. Yet compelling.
In a strange, call-child-services-immediately kind of way.

Be sure to listen for Soccer Chick in the background. It's integral to the plot.
And notice the cat deciding to get the hell out of dodge.
Smart cat.

The Six Thousand Dollar Man, the Shot that Must Not Be Named, and What Happens When You Don't Watch Where You Walk

In other words, an update of the last week. You know, since I have been SO busy and SO stressed and SO wonderfully accommodating to all who need assistance without complaint or question.

You know, because I'm good like that.
Maybe.
Probably not.
I MIGHT have complained once or twice.
Or more.
Whatever.

On Tuesday of last week, Dutch Oven FINALLY had his knee surgery.
I know, everyone's going "Wait! I already read that! He already had knee surgery! She's lost all sense of the space-time continuum!" but NOOOOOO.
This was the SECOND knee surgery. On the OTHER knee.
Because you know, it felt left out.
He received a brand-spanking new ACL (Well, not really NEW, since it came out of a cadaver. Which is a situation that I am currently trying not to contemplate AT ALL, since it kind of makes me squeamish because WHO KNOWS WHERE IN THE HELL THAT ACL HAS BEEN? It could have come out of a homeless crack addict. Or worse, a REPUBLICAN. Also, if I kiss it to make it better, am I cheating on him since it's not his? Would I then be kissing a Republican? Ick. Just ICK.) and a bunch of repair work. He's been on crutches the whole time, drugged off his ass the first day or so, and VERY tired of being unable to shower (Which, let's face it, is something everyone in the house could get tired of. I bought him the sponge-bath wipes and hoped for the best. I then installed a new shower head with the hose thingy so we could bathe him, but it wasn't as easy as I had hoped. But I, ALL BY MYSELF, did home repair. I deserve praise. Whether it worked well or not.).
He's fine now, and beginning the long PT road. They say he'll be even better and stronger than before.
I guess when he named himself after the 6 Million Dollar Man, he chose correctly.

Soccer Chick, on the other hand, remains questionable.
The tonsils flared up AGAIN, and so I called the doctor AGAIN. Apparently, they have powers of medical divination unknown to the general population, because they wouldn't make her an appointment because they were full but were happy to call in some antibiotics for her. I POLITELY questioned their judgment on prescribing medication without actually LOOKING at her, and then I MIGHT have become a bit hostile and condescending and profane.
Just a bit, though. Promise.
So I got her an appointment with a much better doctor (where all the rich kids in town go- hey, I got CONNECTIONS), where he promptly asked me what the results of the other throat swabs they had done were.
I just looked at him. "Ummmm, I don't think they did one. Ever."
So then I got to sit there and feel like a DUMBASS because I didn't know exactly what the doctor was supposed to be doing the whole time we've been dealing with this. Because you know, EVERYONE attends medical school in their spare time on the weekends so they can perform oversight on the people they pay who supposedly also went to medical school and are supposed to know what the hell they're doing.
Turns out, Soccer Chick probably doesn't have anything wrong with her tonsils.
She has, however, probably had strep throat for about 8 months.
Which would explain A LOT (in case anyone remembers the posts where I worried she was "frail" and then we had to descend in eating-disorder internet assvice HELL).
Being a good doctor, he announced, "Well, we're not going to let this go on a second longer."
And decided that she needed a big ol' antibiotic shot in the ass.
Which apparently is the most distressing, humiliating, upsetting, horrible thing known in the world of an 8 year old girl. No explanations from me, including "Honey, they're DOCTORS. They see ass cheek ALL THE TIME." would help.
I thought I was QUITE reassuring, but she wasn't buying it.
I was informed in the car that I was ABSOLUTELY NOT ALLOWED to speak of the shot unless we were in the confines of our home. And that the shot was not in the BUTT, but in the HIP. And WE COULD NOT TALK ABOUT IT. Even for me to ask if it was sore. NO TALKING ABOUT IT. NO. TALKING.
So what do I do? Tell the Internet. Hee hee.
Everything seems MUCH better, but we go back in 2 weeks to decide if the tonsils do need to come out.

And THEN, after I made it through both of these things in the span of four days while working full-time and trying to maintain a house...
OK, I use the term "full time" loosely...

Soccer Chick's new puppy (I use the term LOOSELY, as he weighed in at 65 lbs.) decided Sunday night to look pathetic and lethargic. And to limp. And not eat.
So I checked him, and his leg was swollen and hot (along with the rest of him). Further inspection revealed two puncture marks on his leg.
Snake.
So Dutch Oven called the emergency vet, and after hearing that it probably wasn't life-threatening, he informed them, "Frankly, we've seen enough of you guys. No offense or anything. We'll take him in tomorrow."
Which I did.
Which is A WHOLE OTHER BLOG POST IN ITSELF. (Probably tomorrow, because LOOK! I'M POSTING AGAIN! Also, because I have a picture of the ordeal but can't load it on my work computer, which is where I am typing, because I have done ENOUGH work lately, dammit.)
Have I mentioned that we haven't managed to teach the 65 lb. "puppy" how to walk on a leash yet? Or ride in the car? Or even how to get INTO THE CAR? Or how to go out in public and behave in a presentable manner?
Any OTHER self-respecting dog would have gotten bitten in the face, because you know, he would be INVESTIGATING or ATTACKING or doing some other worthwhile defending-your-family kind of action.
Not Dink.
Our best guess is that he was running full speed through the woods and stepped on the poor creature without ever noticing it. You know, chasing invisible bunnies or something.
After a LONG wait and a fine impression of a 65 lb. canine dust mop (again, tomorrow), he got the medicine he needed and should be fine. He managed to run and jump up on me this morning, leaving a muddy paw print on the front of my white shirt as I was leaving for work, so everything seems to be back to normal.

So that's the update.
Fun, huh?

A Little Back Door Is Sometimes Called For

I've been reading a few other blogs about the whole "mothers having a cocktail during playgroup" nonsense that was on The Today Show.

I'm kind of pissed now.

And I just want to make the announcement (no, this isn't the big one, which is still in the works, and I'll tell when I'm ready because I'm shitty like that and also fully expected it to be announcable by now) that I fully believe that the doctor lady who said the "expert opinion" about it being a bad thing needs a BIG FAT WINE BOTTLE SHOVED STRAIGHT UP HER ASS.

You know, to loosen her up. As Samantha said to Charlotte, "You could use a little back door."

Because, as I have found out myself, the second you squeeze that little parasite through what used to be a place reserved for entertainment purposes only, you are expected to be perfect.
Perfect, I tell you.
And know EVERY-FUCKING-THING.
Especially all the stuff other people go to school for for YEARS. Like doctors.
And have unlimited patience.
And endless energy.
And MacGyver-like resourcefulness.
And Oprah-like listening skills.

And who expects this?
Not our kids. Not really. Kids are amazing little creatures who will mostly love who loves them, despite faults and stupidity. Kind of like dogs.

Jesus, did I just equate my kid to a cocker spaniel? Ouch. She's more like a Border Collie.

But we expect it of ourselves.
And other moms find great solace in seeing the shit we do wrong because it makes the shit they do wrong seem not so bad.

Because? The world has gotten so harshly judgmental about parenting, specifically mothering, that it's impossible not to judge yourself DAILY. What brands of what are right/best/safest, how to handle every psychological hurdle, have they met all the developmental shit and why not if I've been doing everything just right like the damn book says, am I keeping them safe enough, should I really leave the heroin out on the counter- you know, everyday worries. And you WANT to do it right, but everywhere you turn, there's some other dickhead saying what should be done THIS MINUTE and how it should be rectified THIS MINUTE.

And it's EVERYWHERE.
(Which is why I just watch sports and Law & Order DVDs all the time. If you can't feel like a good parent after some of those episodes, NO ONE can help you.)

In the course of the last 8 years, I have been, at one time or another:
A doctor.
A nurse.
An accountant.
A lawyer.
A psychologist.
A veterinarian.
A teacher.
A seamstress.
A movie critic.
An electrician.
A plumber.
An information systems specialist.
A research assistant.
A personal shopper.
A chef.
A fast-food cook.
A fabric revitalization specialist.
A nutritionist.
A maid.
A babysitter.
A taxi driver.
A coach.
A mortician.
A personal assistant.
and occasionally,
a graphic designer and blogger.

With all of this, I'm going to fuck up SOMEWHERE.
And it's OK.
My kid knows I'm human.
Everyone else with an opinion can just suck it.

My parents never smoked. I'm a smoker. My kid thinks it's gross.

My parents hardly curse. I, well, you know. My kid corrects me.

My mother never drinks. My father is an alcoholic. I drink fairly responsibly and not too often. My kid has tasted vodka and thought it was vinegar.

My parents never did drugs. I, ummm, did a few. The kid's jury is still out on this one.

My parents got married before they were 21 and were married 12 years. I followed rock bands around and had emotionless, unattached sex. My kid says she doesn't have time for a boyfriend at all, not even when she's 25, because they just need a lot of taking care of. (That was a proud moment.)

My parents need some serious counselling and medications. I was an emotional basketcase who trained herself to behave without medication. My kid seems perfectly normal, if a bit conservative.

What parents do does not always guarantee how the kid will turn out. A parent's mistake does not necessarily set a child up for a life of addiction, imprisonment or dysfunction.

So the doctor lady and The Today Show can just put that wine bottle where the sun don't shine and SHUT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK UP ABOUT WHAT'S RIGHT AS A PARENT. Because what might be right in PhDLand might just not work for the rest of us.

And besides, if having to oversee the play of multiple toddlers doesn't entitle you to a smart cocktail, nothing does.

When Snow Enhances Feminism. And the Educational Potential of My Child.

On the way to school this morning afternoon at 12pm...
And yes, all you Yankees can FEEL FREE to laugh your asses of at those of us who refuse to leave the house if there's an inch of snow on the ground, which there totally was (and then some) this morning- there was a 2 hour delay at school, which technically meant she was only 2 hours late, and everyone at her school knows we live in the sticks where conditions are always more treacherous. Like LIFE-THREATENING. At least in my mind.
I. DO. NOT. LIKE. SNOW.
I will not go out if there's even a HINT of ice. The state has a 50% high school drop-out rate, and they drive bad enough on sunny days. No degree of difficulty additions are needed.
Add that to the list as "Thing about me #101."

Soccer Chick: WHY do I have to go to school if there's only a few hours left?

Me: Because your doctor's appointment was cancelled because the doctor's car is in a ditch or something and I'm not going to have you announcing how bored you are at my office for 6 hours. Besides, You might actually LEARN SOMETHING.

Soccer Chick: Why do I have to go to stupid school AT ALL?

Me: So you can get a good job later and I don't have to feed you anymore.

Soccer Chick: You're mean.

Me: So you can learn the tools and skills you need to succeed later in life. Is that better?

Soccer Chick: Kids a long time ago didn't go to school.

Me: Yeah, and they were so dumb the dinosaurs had a much easier time catching them.

Soccer Chick: Mama!! Kids and dinosaurs never lived together.

Me: And where did you learn that?

Soccer Chick: We learned it at-- (stops herself)

Me: EXACTLY.

Soccer Chick: But kids really didn't always go to school. We learned that AT SCHOOL.

Me: No, they didn't. They lived on farms and hunted and made their clothes from old feed bags and got married when they were 14. And if you were a girl, you had kids at 16, never had a real job of your own, were considered the property of your husband, couldn't vote, and would die by the time you were 40. Most likely in childbirth, because there was no birth control at the time and the medicine wasn't too great.

Soccer Chick: Really?

Me: Yes. That stuff I'm not making up. That was real. I think a little math class is a small price to pay for not living in a cabin wearing a Purina Sweet Feed bag tending to five kids at age 24, don't you?

Soccer Chick: How long ago was all that?

Me: About 12 years. We did all the marches and passed the laws when I was in college, but I still have some feed bag dresses somewhere...

Soccer Chick: No, IT WASN'T. It was about 100 years ago.

Me: More school learning there, huh?

Soccer Chick: Well, you keep making stuff up!

Me: Without school, you'd never know it, either.

Soccer Chick: So you make up stuff just to see if I know you're making it up?

Me: Well yeah... and for my own entertainment.

She's quiet for a few seconds.

Soccer Chick: Were things REALLY like that for girls back then?

Me: Yes. I wouldn't lie to you about that part.

Soccer Chick: I guess I'll go to school then. I don't want to wear a feed bag when I grow up. Or have a bunch of babies or be anyone's property.

Me: Gloria Steinem will be thrilled to hear it.

Soccer Chick: Who's that?

Me: Your godmother.

They obviously haven't gotten to that in school yet, because I think she believed me.

The Microsoft of the Pet World

This morning, about 20 minutes after Dutch Oven and Soccer Chick left for school, a call to Dutch Oven's cell was placed...

Dutch Oven: Hey, baby. What's up?

Me: Opal died. I just found him when I went to feed them.

Dutch Oven: Soccer Chick's fish?

Me: Yeah. Should we go on and tell her?

Dutch Oven: No, just wait until tonight. What are you going to do with it?

He hears a flushing sound in the background.

Dutch Oven: You did NOT.

Me: I'm not going outside in 30 degree weather in my pajamas by myself to have a fish funeral.

Dutch Oven: Well, I didn't think you'd do it RIGHT NOW.

Me: Well, I'm not going stand here and hold it all morning... We'll tell her tonight?

Dutch Oven: Yes, and we'll let her say if she wants another one. We can go whenever- maybe this weekend.

Me: That's fine, but I'm not going back to THAT place AGAIN. Enough is enough. Freddy and Fish seem to do OK, but all these others have just SUCKED.

What place, you might ask?
Petsmart. THAT damn place.
And just for the record, Freddy is our hermit crab we bought at the beach who has doubled in size since we bought him two years ago, and fish is the Betta that I bought on clearance at Wal-Mart (back when I would still got to Wal-Mart) on a whim. And yes, I named my fish "Fish." There's only so much genius one can muster in a day.

The place where I walk in and IMMEDIATELY feel guilty that I don't spend $45 a bag for my dogs' food or buy the cats cute feathery toys or adopt yet another animal at their rescue operations and end up paying ten times more than I would if I just went to the pound.

The place where they advertise their benevolent animal loving natures endlessly and promote the well-being of all furry, feathered or scaly little creatures.

The place that is apparently the equivalent of Microsoft for fauna- buy something advertised as perfect and well cared-for, get it home, have it die on you, and have to come back for another one. You know, the whole built-in glitch-to-maximize-long-term-profit thing.

Can you tell I'm a bit pissed at Petsmart?

How about THEY come to my house and explain to my child WHY ON EARTH the FOURTH pet we have bought from them has now died, while the others of the SAME KIND bought elsewhere continue to thrive under the EXACT SAME CONDITIONS.

The fish was the fourth. There have been three other hermit crabs that kicked the bucket about a month after we got them. How long had we had the fish?

A MONTH.

I am now CONVINCED it's a plan.
Sell you the animal.
Give you a month to get attached and decide you really like it.
Genetic time bomb then explodes, leaving you with a flushing ceremony in your pajamas and planning another trip to Petsmart.

GENIUS. Bill Gates would be PROUD.

I've got them figured out now, though. We will HAPPILY go to the specialty fish store this weekend and spend three times what Petsmart charges and hopefully end up with a fish that exceeds the month.

And cross our fingers on the newest hermit crab.
That we bought from Petsmart the same day as the fish.
That disappeared in the tank somewhere two days ago.
That I REALLY hope is just molting.

Because after all, it has been a month.
And I'm out of little velvet jewelry boxes to use as crab caskets.

You Know You Live in the Country When...

you spend most of your lazy Sunday at home completely entertained by, well, here's how it started...

Me: Honey? Can you come out here onto the porch for a second?

Dutch Oven: (laboring to remove himself from his recliner) What is it?

Me: Is that house over there, ummmm, crooked?

Dutch Oven: (looking across our largest pasture) That's a mobile home, not a house.

Me: Whatever it is, it's sideways, isn't it? This isn't my eyes playing tricks on me or anything?

Dutch Oven: It's definitely sideways. And it looks like it's-

Me: In the road. I know.

Dutch Oven: Is it BLOCKING the road?

Me: Oooh! Here comes a car! Let's see if it can get by!

The car slows, then has to swerve dramatically to avoid the house in the road. Which was apparently being moved when something went VERY wrong...

Dutch Oven: Well, in the road, but not blocking it. I wonder if I should go try to pull them out...

Me: I thought you said your truck could PULL something that big but not actually STOP it. Stopping is IMPORTANT. This isn't quite the same as when you towed that minivan out of the mud at soccer practice in your fit of manly glory and smirked at all the minivan-driving dads standing around.

Dutch Oven: That WAS cool, wasn't it?

So back to the title...
You know you live in the country when you spend most of your lazy Sunday completely entertained by the futile attempts of MANY to remove a house from the road, including many discussions of the angles of ditches, the mobility of mobile homes, whether Dutch Oven's truck should leap in to make a blazing rescue, a consistent freezing downpour, and the nosiness of your own dogs who appeared to be newly shocked every time they saw the workers again and had to run to the fence and bark, thus reminding us of the drama and making us look and discuss it all over again.

All those times I thought my grandmother was a little off for just sitting on her porch and watching the world go by... I apologize.

I Also Like to Say "Kiss My Ass" When It Turns Out That I Am Actually RIGHT

Guess where I and Soccer Chick, the now infamously dysfunctional duo, spent the morning.
Guess.
Go ahead.

THE DOCTOR.

When she had the flu a few weeks ago, she complained of her neck and throat hurting, and her glands were SWOLLEN. We watched it for a few day and finally called the doctor, but as there was no more fever and she seemed to be getting better and her tonsils, while VERY swollen, were the same nice pinky color as the rest of her, I was told to keep an eye on it and call if a runny nose, soreness, fever, red throat, etc., showed up.

The runny nose made its debut yesterday in full force.
The tonsils are still HUGELY swollen, one more than the other.

The doctor thought about checking her for anemia, but decided to hold off, as he thinks the whole general ickiness of her demeanor is probably coming from the mass of gland in her throat.
Did I even MENTION a blood test? NO. His idea ENTIRELY.

He also thinks that the tonsil thing was maybe going on before she even got sick, but that just aggravated it and caused us to see it. It's not like everyone does a nightly inspection of their kid's endocrine system (well, we do now), so missing it? Well, couldn't be helped if the kid isn't complaining.

SO...
She starts antibiotics today, and she goes back in two weeks. If it hasn't gone down, there's going to be a whole French Tonsil Revolution and it will be "off with the tonsils" in all likelihood. Mere WEEKS after I opened my medical savings account with the $5000 deductible, which until this morning, seemed like a very good idea because we HARDLY EVER GET SICK OR ANYTHING.

To any (not naming any names or anything) Internet fucktards who felt compelled to slam me because they care so deeply about my child's welfare and her general health and well-being in the midst of my meltdown, I appreciate your involvement and concern and total altruism in getting so worked up over a child you have never met, and I plan to give you every effort to help me make her world a better place. Please send your address as soon as possible so that I might fill it in the spaces for "Billing Address" on sure to be future doctor's forms, and make sure to include your SSN so your credit can be reported accurately. I do so appreciate your concern, and I know you will want to do your part since I am OBVIOUSLY incompetent– I am overjoyed to provide you with an outlet to make my child's life a bit better. Contributions to her college fund will also be welcomed, because you know shitty moms like me can't be bothered with that stuff, and according to you, THIS CHILD MUST BE SAVED.
Save away, buster. Knock yourself out.
Certified checks or money orders only, please. Fucktards can't be trusted with personal checks.