Being Jack Bauer

"I am student midwife Sarah Bauer, and this is the longest day of my life."

Let me tell you a little story about the last few days in the life of me. I am a pretty patient and awesome person. I can handle a lot. I know, I know, I love my mental breakdowns, and I am a H U G E fan of crying in the middle of Target because you can't find the right kitchen sponges, but believe it or not, I really can handle a lot. I mean, come on, I'm a single mom. That right there tells you I'm pretty much a badass. Plus, I run my own business and am studying to become a midwife. And neither of my wonderful children's jackhole fathers are anywhere near in the picture, so I do this shit all by myself. No child support, no shared custody, nothing. I fly solo, mutha fucka! I am rambling....

Anyway, the last few days kicked my awesome, stress handling single mom ass to the point that I cried last night on the way home because my bra was uncomfortable, and I couldn't find anywhere to pull over so I could take it off. Yes. I cried because of my fucking bra. I was THAT tired. I felt like the housewife/doula/student midwife version of Jack Bauer except with

out the sweet weaponry and access to all those nifty computers.

It all started Sunday. Sunday started like any other Sunday, kids, errands, failed naptime, meltdowns and temper tantrums. Until Sunday afternoon when my preceptor midwife called to let me know one of her client's was in early labor, and we would be going to a birth that day. No problem, I thought. I haven't been to a birth in a couple weeks, I'm pretty rested and have a sitter lined up. Let's do this. So, I picked out the kids clothes for the next day, lined up their pajamas and left a recipe for red beans and rice for the Roomie to make them dinner. I was ready. I left the house at 3:15 p.m. Sunday afternoon.

Then it got crazy. My preceptor midwife has a six month old son, who is exclusively breastfed, and therefor does not go to the sitter or stay home with his dad. Ever. He comes to the office with us, and to births. We do home birth, which is usually a pretty cozy and comfortable atmosphere and a relaxed event. Being her apprentice and student means I get free education from her, and help out with her son when we're in the office. I don't mind helping with him at births too, except that I am there to learn, and observe and watch so there are times when holding her son doesn't fit in with that. If he cries, he needs to not be in the same room as the laboring mom, which means I have to leave the room too. Luckily, my wonderful preceptor understands this, and hires a Doula just for the baby. I help with him until the doula gets there, then she takes over and I am free to watch, listen, learn and help with the birth itself. The birth we went to Sunday was for a woman having her third baby. Third babies usually come pretty fast, so we were trying to stay close to Mom. After dinner, around 8 p.m. we both really thought that labor wouldn't last much longer. Mom was progressing well, and it being her third baby, well, we thought we had a short night ahead, and my preceptor didn't think that her son's doula could get there in time to be any help. So we didn't call her. I didn't say anything, even though I desperately wanted her to call the doula. I had already been holding the baby for the better part of 4 hours, and I love him, but I love my own kids too, and I can't bring them to work with me because I just can't focus on anything when I am taking care of a kid. I didn't want to be alone with this baby all night, I wanted to be a part of the birth. But I said nothing, wanting to be the Good Apprentice. Big mistake. The labor was long. It carried on into the night, until Mom needed to push, but couldn't and the situation required transfer by ambulance to the hospital. My preceptor and I hopped in our respective cars and sped to the hospital, where, as soon as I walked in, I was handed the baby, and left in the waiting room. Oh. My. God. I just realized I was going to be alone with this baby in the freezing cold waiting room of the labor and delivery unit, while my preceptor went to her client's side, and I was all alone. At three in the morning. With no way to feed the baby. Queue mental break

down. The baby and I did ok, and my preceptor came to check on us a couple times, but I was exhausted. By six a.m., the baby wouldn't let me sit down while holding him, and he wouldn't let me put him in his carrier, because all he wanted to do was be held as I paced the halls or he would scream his head off. I was so fucking tired. My legs ached, my back ached, my arms had long since gone numb from holding a 17 pound baby all night. I was so fucking done. This wasn't my kid, and even if it WAS I would've lost my schmidt. And I did. I texted my preceptor that the baby needed to eat, and that I couldn't be alone with him anymore. She came out and said we could go. Relieved, I bought a Pepsi and a Twix bar, hoping the sugar would sustain me during the drive home, and I left. I got home at a 7:15 a.m. A full 16 hours since I left. I dressed the kids, kissed their little heads, and loaded them in the car so Roomie could drive them to school. I was so blessed to have him that morning, really. I fell into bed at 8 a.m.

I was however promptly woken at exactly 12 p.m. by a phone call from a very angry client. I was supposed to meet her for lunch that day, and totally slept through it. She drove 20 minutes to meet me, and I didn't show. I would've been pissed too, but she was over the top. She cried. She yelled at me, she wept, she would not listen to reason, and my 2958473902 apologies just would not calm this woman down. I had been up for a full 24 hours the day before, away from home with a crying kid for 16 hours, I was exhausted and it was an accident. Finally, she rescheduled with me, and calmed down, but still. It was nuts. I couldn't go back to sleep after we got off the phone, so after being up for 24 hours, I slept for 4. Yes. 4. I spent the rest of the day in a sleepy haze, hating everyone and feeling stabby. Finally, at 10 p.m. after a long massage and hot shower, I fell asleep. My 3 year old son, The Jedi woke me up so many times in the night, I am amazed he survived. I honestly think, in the whole night, I got 4 solid hours of sleep. Neat. The next morning (Tuesday) I awoke to a text from my preceptor. Another client in labor. Awesome. She said nothing much was happening, so just come into the office for the day's meetings, and we would play it by ear. I got up, dressed the kids, dropped them off and headed to my preceptor's office for the 2nd longest day of my life.

Tuesday morning was rough. I was tired, I hadn't had any coffee, and I knew we had another birth to go to. My preceptor had to pick her other kids up from school and take them to the sitter. We agreed to meet at the laboring client's house at 1. I decided to salvage the 2 whole hours I had free, and do something that would make me happy. So I texted Batman to see if he was free for lunch and amazingly he was. Score! I was able to have a nice, hour long lunch with one of my favorite people in the world at Five and Diner, and that was quite possibly the only moment of sanity I got in the last 3 days.

So, it's 1 p.m. Tuesday, and I am pulling up to the client's home when my phone rings, and it's one of MY doula clients. With a sinking heart, I answer the phone. Her water broke. Fuck! But she wasn't having any contractions yet (Score!) So I had time. Thank God Client A's labor was fast. I mean lightening fast! Her baby girl was born gently at a quarter for 4 p.m., just as my client who called earlier, called again to let me know she was at the birth center, and she wanted me to come. I hopped in my car, and drove all the way across fucking town, in rush hour, to go to yet another birth.

And this one was hard. Mom was loud, she was struggling, the midwife was annoying and in your face the whole time, I was exhausted, physically and emotionally spent, and Dad was so emotional and smothering that he should have been the one in labor. I don't know how many times we told him "Give her some space to move, and to breath" or "When she wants to lean on you she will, don't pull on her" or "Don't say that, she's doing fine, let her do what she wants and stop correcting her" or "For the love of God you're smothering her!" The night dragged on. And On. And on. At 3:15 (WTF is it with a quarter before or after the hour the last few days?!) the baby was born. At 4 a.m., with my client's placenta in a bag, I headed home. But it wasn't over. I had meetings all day Wednesday, a postpartum visit Wednesday night, more time with my Preceptor's baby, and another placenta to do, meaning two in one day. By Wednesday night, when all was said and done, and I was leaving the postpartum visit with my second placenta to do, I was wrecked. I called the Roomie on the way home, and just started crying. I got home, sat on the couch, and just cried. The kids were at their uncle's house, and I missed them. I hadn't seen them Sunday, Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday night. I hadn't done laundry, cooked a meal or slept in my bed for more than a few hours. I was trashed, wrecked, beat, done. Roomie could sense this as I sat on the couch crying my eyes out and feeling pathetic. Lovingly, he took me upstairs and tucked me in, as I cried "I don't want to sleep! There is more to do tomorrow and I sleep tomorrow will come faster, and I will be busy again!" Yeah. I was THAT logical.

He shushed me and patted my head and stayed with me until I fell asleep. And I slept hard.

I am more rested now, but still not totally normal. I need sponges, and forgot all day to get them, so now I get to take 2 kids to Fry's right before bed to get fucking sponges. Awesome. I still have 2 placenta's to do. Neat. The Jedi asked me if he could do something earlier, to which I said yes, then turned to him and said "What did I just say yes to?" He's two, so he can't answer me. I still don't know what I told him he could do....

This week isn't over, and tomorrow is another jam packed day. But doing 3 births in 60 hours, two placentas, taking care of a six month old baby, and missing my two babies to death, really wore me out. Thank God for the people that helped me do all this. My preceptor. My Roomie. My kid's Uncle Tony. And Starbucks. Oh and my best friend Dragon who came over Monday and Wednesday to watch me laugh and cry hysterically. And Batman. Fuck I suck at thank you's. Goodnight.

10 Times You Should Never Apologize

Apologizing. Nobody really likes doing it, especially when they need to do it, and some people just down right never do it, but I think we are all guilty of apologizing when we don't need to, or when we just absolutely shouldn't. I am the worst about this, I apologize for things that are so stupid. Like when someone bumps into me at the store, or when I can't make it some stupid event that I could care less about, that one of my friends wants me to go to, just so they aren't alone. I've decided to compile a list of the top ten things we should just simply never apologize for. Maybe this will help me (and all of you compulsive apologizers out there) to stand my ground more firmly, and hold my head up high when it comes to decisions that others don't like or don't agree with.

1. For not texting back right away: We've all done it. You're busy, you're running late, you are rushing out the door, trying to get 85839407685 things done at once, and you get a text from someone that you just don't have time to respond to. So you do your 8583985786 errands, and a couple hours later, you finally get back to them, and you feel guilty. Or, you were sleeping, or you just didn't know how to respond right away, or just simply didn't WANT TO! What a crime. Don't apologize. I mean, isn't that why texting was invented? For busy people to send little messages that weren't urgent, and were mostly social? Wasn't it made so we could be social more easily, and more on our terms, as opposed to phone calls which suck up huge chunks of your day, between answering them, having the conversation, trying to get OUT of the conversation, ignoring calls, checking voicemails and wishing your phone would just fall in the toilet? You're busy. It's ok. Write back when you have the time and patience. If it's urgent, they can call you.
2. For not wanting to be around certain family members during the holidays: Granted, the holidays are a time for togetherness and love and forgiveness and generosity and all that crap, but the fact of the matter is, family is a tricky situation. I guarantee that everyone has at least one family member that they have serious issues with. Either there have been very tender bridges burned in the past, or that person has a drinking problem, is emotionally abusive, a hardcore guilt tripper, judgmental or whatever. Sometimes, some relationships just can't be healed, and some relationships just don't need to exist! You don't get to choose what family you're born into. Friends are the family you choose, and once you're an adult, you also get the freedom of choice to decide what blood relatives you still want to have relationships with. And that's ok. That's your choice. The holidays should be happy and joyous and spent with the people who love and accept you NO MATTER WHAT. Not your crazy religious, judgmental great aunt Sally who always tells you for 3 straight hours which level of hell you're going to if you keep having premarital sex with your long term boyfriend, and wearing such a whore shade of lipstick. Suck it, Sally. I'm not apologizing.
3. For not feeding your kids all organic food: Or for making any parenting decision that others don't agree with, as long as it doesn't put your children in danger, or cause them direct harm. Not everyone has the budget for organic food, not everyone likes organic food, and not everyone gives a shit about organic food! Yes, your kids should get plenty of fruits and veggies, and nutritious items, but food CAN be nutritious without being organic. Whether it's not feeding organic, or bedsharing, or not bedsharing, or breastfeeding, or homeschooling, you are your kids parent. Do your thing. They can raise their kids however they want. This is your child. Be proud of your choices, and don't apologize.
4. Not tipping for horrible service: I have a friend who shall remain nameless, who compulsively tips the way I compulsively apologize. She gives 20% NO MATTER WHAT. Your order was wrong? No big deal. Your food was cold? So what. It took 20 minutes to get the water you asked for, and you never got a single refill? I'm sure they're very busy. The waitress was a snotty bitch when you asked her for a side of ranch, which she forgot to bring 3 different times? It goes on and on. No matter how terrible the service was, she will tip. I won't. She always throws a huge fit, and whines about how rude that is, and how it's customary to tip, and how embarrassed she is to be seen with me, and blah blah blah. Yes, it is customary to tip FOR GOOD SERVICE. I tip you because you did a great job, not because you work here. If you are a terrible waiter or waitress, why would I give you a tip, also known as a gratuity. What am I grateful for about terrible service? I will tell a wait person to their face that I am not tipping, and exactly why they didn't get a tip. I am very polite and straight forward about it, but I feel like they should know they didn't earn their tip, instead of finding out they didn't get one and just assuming I am a cheapskate. On the other hand, for excellent service, I have been known to tip up to 50%. I love tipping. When it's earned.
5. When your kid cries on an airplane: Now, I am not talking about letting your 8 year old throw a huge fit over not being able to watch Taylor Swift videos on your iPad after the captain said to turn off electronic devices, and you sitting there, with your ear plugs in doing nothing. I am talking about when your baby who doesn't know any better and can't help it, cries over something reasonable, and despite your best efforts, you can't calm them down. Don't apologize to the people around you. They know full well when they buy an airplane ticket, they are taking the chance that KIDS will be on the flight. They don't offer separate seating sections for people with kids, that is sound proof and isolated, and they know that. Babies cry. It's a fact of life. People with kids need to get places too, and sometimes, there just isn't anything you can do about it. You're not a bad parent, you're not a circus side show, and no one should treat you like you are because your baby is crying. Do your best, remain calm, and tell that jerk who is mean mugging you from across the isle that if it bothers him so fucking much, why doesn't HE come see if he can make the baby stop crying?! Oh, he doesn't want to? Well then he can suck it!
6. For not wanting a second date with someone: This should be self explanatory. You go out with someone, and they just aren't for you. You know it as soon as they drop you off, and you feel relieved that the date is over. The problem is, they pretty much love you by now, and totally can't wait to see you again. Let them know, kindly, but in a straight forward fashion that you guys just aren't a good fit, and you're not interested. Plain and simple. Don't make excuses and DO NOT apologize. This gives them the idea that you really really wish things were different, and if things were different, they would have a chance, which for a really desperate person, still seems like an opening for a future together. Make yourself clear, and be unapologetic. It's ok to not like someone, ya know?
7. For not wanting to go to a kids birthday party: Whether you have kids or not, kids birthday parties are exhausting. There is like 20 million other kids there, running around, screaming, throwing food and acting like crack addicted monkeys who really need a fix, the other parents are either way too strict, screaming at every kid, including yours which makes you want to go blind with rage and beat their ass in the Chuck E. Cheese parking lot, or they don't seem to give a shit, and you're the only one keeping all the little brats from fighting like drunk white girls in the ball pit. Sigh. Some parents throw birthday parties for their very young children, and although they invite all people who have older kids they do not pick a setting that is appropriate for kids older than 1 year. Like a park, where they set up the party right beside a huge duck pond, that is just so tempting to my two year old, who really really really wants to jump in said duck pond, and get the duckies. The parent of the birthday boy doesn't care, cuz her kid can't walk, or better yet RUN off, in the midst of 5829486093490 other kids, forcing HER to jump into the duck poop infested water to fish out her toddler. Ugh. Parties like this, it's ok to opt out of. Unless it's your kids party. Then you better be there. Hang out with the kid on another day, and give him or her a gift and spend some quality time with them, but don't feel like a dick for not wanting to be a part of the birthday party madness that WILL end with several people crying, and you probably getting sick from someone elses dirty kid.
8. For ordering pizza instead of making dinner one night a week: I have a huge problem with this. I do ALL the meal planning, grocery list making, food buying, food putting away, cooking, post dinner clean up and left over storing/sorting in my house. All of it. Sometimes, by the end of the week, or right in the middle of an especially hectic one, I realize I forgot like half the stuff I need to make that night's dinner, and we don't have anything fast to make, and the kids are screaming and my roommate is crying, and I just don't want to deal with it, so we order pizza. It happens. It's ok. If the other people in your house don't like it, THEY can make dinner for once!
9. For not lending stuff out: I don't lend books out anymore, period. I never get them back! I have bought four, count em FOUR copies of White Oleander by Janet Fitch because I have loaned it out, and NEVER GOTTEN IT BACK. My high school boyfriend still has my copy of the movie Igby Goes Down, which is one of my favorites. My old boss from American Express never gave back my copy of The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. MY BOSS! You would think she wouldn't steal your shit, right? Wrong. It's your stuff. If you don't want to lose it, and don't feel comfortable lending it out, so be it. Don't say you're sorry.
10. When you aren't really sorry: This is huge. "I'm sorry" is like "I love you" if you don't mean it, don't say it. If you get in a fight with someone, just because they're sorry and ready to apologize, kiss and make up, doesn't mean you are, and that's ok. Don't say it until it comes from the heart. If you're still mad, it's better just to feel what you're feeling, and not try to fight it and force yourself to feel what you should feel. That doesn't work, and takes up more energy than just processing your real feelings. Plus forcing yourself to get over something before you're ready WILL bite you in the ass later. I promise.

Hopefully this will serve as a friendly reminder for all you compulsive apologizers out there, that it's ok to hold your ground and go against the grain now and again. If it makes you a bitch, oh well. At least you're true to yourself. And I would rather be a genuine bitch who had a close circle of true friends, than a fake Suzy Dicksucker who had all the fake friends in the world. Happy Friday!

Perfect Moms

Perfect Moms. There might not be anything in the world that I hate more than Perfect Moms. Well, except running out of dark chocolate and migraines....but Perfect Moms are definitely in the top three of most hated things in the world.

Perfect moms are sneaky, because they come in so many different shapes, sizes and annoying flavors, that sometimes you don't even know you've encountered a Perfect Mom until you're balls deep in her obnoxious self worship and obsession over what other people think. Not to mention her relentless judgment of everyone around her. Since it can be so hard to spot a Perfect Mom, and they can be so sneaky and deceptive, I have decided to give a quick run down of some of the most common, and coincidentally most deadly varieties of Perfect Moms.

1. The All Organic Mom: These moms are pretty obvious usually from the start, and honestly don't seem that bad at first, when they're innocently doling out their organic fruit snacks and fresh squeezed apple juice in recycled glass bottles to their perfect angel children who have never ever ever consumed a bit of white flour or sugar, and never had dinner out of a microwave. But over time, these moms creep up on the annoying scale, one little "Oh we don't eat stuff like that" or "We don't own a microwave" comment at a time. It starts with sweet things like "Hey did you know you can purchase raw, organic milk from this cute little dairy farm 30 miles away, for only $58676958687.00 a gallon?! That's where we get allllll our dairy products." or "Oh I don't know what show that is, we don't own a T.V." and eventually turns into comments like "You're so brave, letting your kids drink water out of plastic bottles and letting them eat Lunchables. I just don't even want to KNOW what all those horrible chemicals are doing to their sweet little bodies. You must have good health insurance." and their endless ranting eventually becomes quite fuzzy, until you hear them start listing off all the perfect, nutritious, completely organic meals and snacks they ALWAYS have handy, and how much better they are at life than you, until you are so blind with frustration and fury, all you can do is look for the nearest sandwich to smack them with, or a led filled plastic Dora toy you can fashion into a quick shiv. Fact of the matter is, not all families have the time or bank account to buy all organic, and not all families give a shit! I will feed my kids whatever the fuck I want, thank you very much.

2. The Involved in Everything Mom: The mom who runs the PTA, helps out with the soccer team, leads a girl scout troop and has organized every fucking bake sale since the beginning of time. She has like 4 identical blond children, drives the biggest, most obnoxious and technologically advanced mini van there is, and is never, ever, ever late for a single school or church function. She does NOT forget birthdays, PTA meetings or fundraisers, and is always volunteering other parents for shit we don't have the fucking time for because WE HAVE JOBS and not half the energy this Frankenmom seems to possess. She is SO good at guilting you over how you never wear your "Soccer Mom and Proud of it!" Sweatshirt she hand embroidered for all the moms of all the kids on the soccer team, and is always ready to remind you of some stupid, boring ass event you have no desire to be a part of. Ya. I hate her too.

3. The 1960's Holdover Mom: Ah yes. The insult to feminism and working moms everywhere. The mother who still acts like a woman's place is at home with her children, preferably while cooking something, and who's life completely revolves around her children. I mean, we're all into our kids, we all think they are awesome, and we all love them to bits and pieces, but this mom loves her kids like she has nothing else in life to look forward to, think about, be interested in or love. Well, probably because she doesn't. This mom's best weapon is guilt. Guilt is usually most effective on new moms, or moms with self esteem problems (which let's face it, how many women do you know without some level of low self esteem or self doubting tendencies?) It's best just to remember that you love your kids too, but in more of a normal, motherly love kind of way, and not in the obsessive-has nothing in life BUT your kids-will probably breed a Norman Bates-type way. You hold your head high when you bring in that paycheck sister, you earned it :)

4. The Holier Than Thou Mom: This may be the most dangerous type of mother there is. The mother who is so obsessed with being perfect, maybe even so convinced she IS perfect, that not only will she never admit to any weakness, stress or mothering mistake, she will push herself (and ultimately her family) so hard to actually live up to that expectation, that she ultimately pushes everyone away from her, including her loved ones and friends. For moms like this being perfect is not just about keeping up appearances, it's a life style. They are rigid in their routines, harsh with their criticism, paranoid of failure or looking bad, and so very generous with their judgment, nobody lasts long in their company without being convicted of being not as good as them, or worse, a "Bad Mother". Moms like this think they actually possess the right, given to them at birth, to decide who is a good mom, who is fit to have children, and who isn't. Sure, we all make little judgments like that everyday, like when we look at Dina Lohan, or Billy Ray Cyrus, but we base those decisions on things like drinking with their underage children, or letting their 14 year old daughter pose half naked for a magazine. The Holier Than Thou Mom bases her decision on things like how even your kids pigtails are, or whether or not their outfits coordinate perfectly. Ever dropped your kid off late at school because everyone in the house overslept? Unacceptable. Ever let your kids trash the living room while you poured yourself a glass of wine and melted into the couch on a Friday night after an exceptionally shitty, exhausting week, just because the kids were being quiet and you didn't have the strength for one more time out? Well you should lose your kids then, in her opinion. Don't even THINK about putting the little spoons in the big spoon slot in the silverware organizer either. Oh. How. Dare. You?!

5. The Mom Who Has it All Together: Last but not least we meet the perfect mom who isn't necessarily evil or threatening in any way, we just hate her because we are so completely jealous of her. This mom keeps it all together. She has like 5 kids, a full time job, a gorgeous husband, a spotless house, home cooked meals every single night of the week, always looks perfect at 7:30 in the morning as she's dropping off her beautiful, well behaved kids, and never has a hair out of place or a frown on her face. How the fuck does she do it?! We're not mad at you, perfect multitasker, we are just so completely jealous of your super human abilities, we would buy you all the Starbucks you could drink, if you would give us your secrets. But, you probably don't need Starbucks because you never look tired. And you look like half your age. Ugh. Just die. Please.

Two f*ckhead peas in a sh*tbag pod

So the weekend is drawing-finally-to a close, and I for one could not be more grateful. Between my roommate's car almost getting towed Friday night, which resulted in me going totally batshit insane on an arrogant, asshole tow truck driver to the point that I was a smidge worried I would go full Exorcist and vomit pea soup everywhere, to Dave and I being stuck with each other all fucking weekend, it's been exhausting. I didn't get my normal fix of going out and getting away from the kids, the roommate, the house, responsibility, reality, etc. and being blissfully shitfaced with Batman in LaLa Land, and the Roomie didnt get his normal night all to himself in a quiet, empty house, where he can play his video games, and sit on the couch feeling his ass expand outward as much as he wants, without being interrupted by the kids screaming at each other, jacked out on chocolate, or me screaming at the kids for eating my entire PMS candy stash. It was tense around here, let me tell you.

So why were we stuck here, cooped up together like a bunch of assholes in a clown car on a road trip across the country? Well, Batman ditched me Saturday night. That's right! He decided to be a "good father" by taking his kid ice skating instead of getting piss wasted with me, and making awkward, elbowy love to each other before one of us passes out or gets gassy. I don't really like hanging out with many other people, mostly on account of the fact that....well, I hate people. Almost all people. I have a small, close circle of friends, and Batman happens to be the ONLY ONE who really likes, ya know, leaving the fucking house, being around other people or doing anything other than sitting on the couch developing muscle atrophy in front of the T.V. Therefore, the Roomie was stuck with me. All weekend. Saturday started out well enough. We slept in, with a soft rain falling outside the window, and it being pleasantly freezing in the house, so I had plenty of reason to curl as far under my pretty pink blankie as possible, ignoring the world. But then, Roomie decided to open his stupid mouth, and say a bunch of stupid Roomie type stuff, that eventually made me cry. Nobody makes me cry my own tears. Nobody. So we fought, got super mad at each other, cried a little, yelled stupid insults, I called him an elephant and pictured stabbing him in my head like 20 times, and then we all decided to go fucking grocery shopping. Like you do. We wandered through the isles, being pissed at each other, and fighting over things like Ketchup. It was classy.

Things never really improved from there. We drifted constantly on the verge of having a huge blow out fight, and finally, driving home from the tattoo parlor where Roomie got his first tattoo, and the artist scheduled to do mine overbooked herself and didn't do mine at all, it happened.

Roomie said something stupid about something even stupider, and I got super pissed, and in the middle of telling him what a dick hole he was, I spotted a Taco Bell. I asked him to pull over into the Taco Bell, and get me something to eat, because I was upset and I eat my fucking feelings. He said "You're hungry? Oh my God we ate a couple hours ago." So I shot him. In the face. Mentally I did anyway. In real life I called him a shitbag and blamed him for everything wrong in my life.

Things pretty much carried on this way all night. It never really got a lot better. Thank God for Roomie, that Batman and I had breakfast together this morning, and Roomie and I got the break we needed. If not for Batman, I would be writing Roomie's Eulogy right now, as he lay dead on the kitchen floor from multiple stab wounds and repeated kicks to the genitals. Seriously, Batman saved his life. So thanks Batman.

Today wasn't quite as bad, but I am totally looking forward to Monday morning, when the kids go back to school, Roomie goes back to work, and I can finally have my weekend. Anyone with school age kids, and a roommate who they love and simultaneously hate, can tell you that Monday is their Saturday. We look forward to that day more than anything. Except happy hour. I guess we look forward to happy hour more, but only slightly.

Over Caffeinated and Under Medicated

So today has so far been a pretty good day, with the exception of me leaving the house in sloppy yoga pants and some crappy t-shirt because I just so not ready to be wide awake and presentable at 7 in the morning. I dropped off the kids, paid some bills, hit up Starbucks (Oh sweet heavenly mercy, how I've missed my Starbucks) and came home to do some blogging, procrastinating and napping before going to my preceptor midwife's office for the afternoon. Just as I settled into the couch with my laptop my phone chimes and it's a text from my Preceptor saying she won't make it into the office today, and she will see me tomorrow. Well damn it. Now what the fuck am I supposed to do with all this productive energy? I mean, I'm jacked full of a double shot Espresso and enough sugar to kill a grizzly bear, and it's 10 am, so I probably won't be able to go back to bed, and I just don't understand what the fuck this day will amount to now?! Ahhhhh. So I emailed the Roomie, and asked him what I should be doing with my life for the next several hours. He answered "Clean the car? The house? Do some laundry?" After I got done crying from laughing so hard, I promptly replied "No. And fuck you just for saying that." And sent him a computer virus. Dick.

There isn't really anything good on Netflix right now, so I think I will just shower, eat the rest of my PMS candy stash and go driving aimlessly around until I find a dollar store to blow a bunch of money in, or think of someone's house I want to TP. I had a list of names, but I don't know where it went.

If you need me I will be sugar crashing around 2 p.m. so try to catch me before that.

Crazy neighbors, Family fun time and lack of wine

So today was long. I mean not the longest day I've ever had, cuz I've had some 10th innings in my time, but definitely long.

It started off shitty which I think pretty much zapped my energy for the day. Remember the psycho bitch who lives in the condo next door to mine, who I mentioned in my last blog "Love letter to five assholes"? The one who plays parking lot police like the douche bag hall monitor from middle school. Ya, her. Well, she's officially gone off her fucking rocker because last night, after coming home late from work with a bitchin migraine, my roomie, desperate for a fast parking spot, and with none other available, parked in her extra one which she doesn't use. It's for her guests, which she never fucking has, because she's crazy. Anyway, this morning, there was a car on either side of Roomie's car, so she pulled her big stupid soccer mom from hell minivan up right behind Roomie's car, completely blocking him in. He left for work, only to promptly storm back into the house screaming that he needed a ride because fuck head blocked him in. The kids and I weren't planning to leave for another 20 minutes which meant I was still laying in bed naked, hitting the snooze button and dreaming about shirtless Greek guys. I had to jump up, finish dressing both kids, feeding them, dressing myself, and get out of the house. Of course because we were in a hurry and Roomie was already late, nothing went right. Lainie couldn't find her shoes, Jackson wouldn't put pants on, and I couldn't stop screaming. By the time we left the house 10 minutes later than we needed to, I was feeling pretty stabby. I spent the rest of the ride to Lainie's school, Jacks preschool and Roomie's workplace cussing stupid crazy bitch neighbor out and complaining about what a shitty morning it was. I. Needed. Coffee.

Lainie had a field trip to the Science Center today, however, and I needed to pick up my dad because we were both chaperoning the event, so NO TIME FOR FUCKING STARBUCKS! Ahhhhhh. We got to the field trip on time, and spent the day shuffling around with three 7 year old girls, one of which was so ADHD it wasn't in the least bit funny. I understand exactly why her mother didn't come to that shit.

Finally at 1 o'clock the kids were back on the bus, and the field trip was over. I took my dad back to his house, and we hung out chatting for a bit. For those of you that know me, you know my childhood was pretty fucked up. My mom was a drunk, my dad was a bipolar (unmedicated/untreated) for the first many years of my life. Anyway, it was all kinds of crazy pie, and for the most part I have adjusted and forgiven and gotten over it, and blah blah blah, but all of a sudden, once we're back at my dad's house, he decides he wants to play "Let's rehash your childhood/let me tell you a bunch of even MORE fucked up shit about your upbringing that you either didn't know, or suppressed altogether!" Ummm awesome. So he drops some heavy shit on me, ya know to unburden his conscious and all that shit, and I'm like "Fan-fucking-tastic!!!" And was instantly pissed off/crying. I wouldn't mind if we never spoke of my childhood in terms of anything I don't know or don't remember, ever ever again. But he goes to counseling now, so he's all about "talking through stuff" and "forgiveness" Whatever. Stupid memories. Stupid dysfunctional childhood. By now, I'm still under caffeinated, and now also super hungry, dehydrated, tired and emotional. I was soooo ready to stab like the next bitch I saw.

So, finally I am home, I have eaten, had some water and some coffee, but I forgot to buy wine at the fucking store, so my day hasn't totally recovered, but it's getting there.

What. A. Friggin. Day.

A Love Letter to Five Assholes

Dear woman at my kids daycare who wears such an ungodly amount of awful perfume, I can literally taste it even minutes after you have dropped off your kid, as your stink bomb of lilacs and cheap drugstore swill hangs in the air over the sign in book in the lobby: You're an asshole. I know that you didn't KNOW I was teetering on the brink of a full blown migraine the other day, as I hurried my son into class, trying to sign him in and get back home to my dark room, dark chocolate and bottle of Excedrin Migraine as big as my head, as fast as possible, but I am still blaming you for that horrible, burning smell you left behind, which finally pushed my throbbing headache over the edge into Migraine Hell Town. I am sure you didn't know any of this when you woke up that morning, stood in front of your bathroom mirror and hosed yourself with this "fragrance" I am sure can only be called "Funeral Home" or "Death of Passersby" or something equally catchy and appealing. But still, you're an asshole, and I blame you. And I hope you get diarrhea. Explosive diarrhea. In a traffic jam, stuck in your car with your own old lady stench, violently shitting your pants.

Dear 19 year old punk ass behind the cigarette counter at Fry's Saturday night,

You're an asshole. I wanted to know which brand of American Spirits were technically considered Lights so I could buy those, and go home to drink and smoke myself into a 9 hour stupor and forget about the awful week I had. I did NOT want to have a discussion with you over how much you hate American Spirits and how you ONLY smoke one kind of cigarette, and how bad these taste and blah blah blah. I just wanted to buy my little convenient box of death and be on my way. Thank you for loudly voicing your 19 year old, expert opinion. You shouldn't be smoking anyway, you're too Goddamn young to have any problems worthy of slowly killing yourself over, and if you're still smoking because you "enjoy it" and not because you absolutely hate life, then you're now stupid and an asshole. And I hope you get diarrhea too. In front of all your cool 19 year old smoker friends at some stupid backyard house party, while drinking your Pabst Blue Ribbon and bitching about your parents.

Dear next door neighbor who is always leaving notes on peoples cars about where they can and cannot park, screaming at small children, and generally being a crazy ass: You're an asshole. I really, super duper appreciated the awesome, misspelled note you left on my windshield the other day about how I cannot park where I was parked, and threatening to next time either block my car in or have it towed. Ummm listen genius, I don't know how well you thought out your scare tactic there, but blocking me in really fucks YOU over too. I mean, you would have to find some way to block me in on all 4 sides, seeing as how I could always drive over the sidewalk and consequently your lawn to get out of a 3 sided block....I don't know how many cars you have, but if you are capable of this, I am excited to see you pull it off. And, even if you found enough cars, you would have to leave them there long enough to really impact my life. Not sure if you've noticed, but I DON'T HAVE A LIFE. So they would be sitting there a looooong time. And having my car towed? I am not even going to get into how stupid a thing that is to say. But I hate you, and I hope you get herpes. Ya, HERPES! Not diarrhea like the other fuckers in this love letter. Herpes. Just you. Because I hate you.

Dear Middle Eastern Telemarketer who calls me every fucking day: You are such an asshole. I understand that you don't really speak English, and that you don't know me that well, so you have no idea what the fuck I'm saying when I cuss you out every time you call, and you have no idea that I am a doula and a student midwife, so sometimes, when you call at 10 a.m. I have just gone to bed after an extremely long birth, and I am trying to pack as much sleep as I can into the time I have before I pick my screaming, fighting, unruly children up from school and have to deal with them for five hours until they go to bed and I can too. I know you probably don't know any of this, but you're an asshole. Not only do you always call at the most inconvenient time, but you're always so pushy and hard to understand. Plus, it is always so fucking loud in the background of wherever you are. What the hell do you guys do all day, have fucking Polka Raves? Seriously, quiet the fuck down if you're going to be making annoying calls to strangers. I hope you and all your loud friends get super explosive, spicy curry diarrhea.

And last but not least, to the guy that I was nice enough to let over the on freeway this morning, even when I really, really, really didn't want to, because traffic had sucked enough so far, and finally nobody was in front of me anymore, but I did let you over for the sake of freeway karma. You're an asshole. Not only did I slow down, and kindly wave you over, smiling fakely and trying to be nice and neighborly and all that shit, in hopes that the next time I really needed to get on the freeway some dick in a Prius would let me over too, but I gave you that sweet little traffic buddies head nod, as you pulled in front me, as if to say "Go ahead. I'm your friend" The LEAST you could have done was wave back and maybe throw in a little fake smile to show that you sort of appreciated the super nice and selfless gesture I just made for you, especially since I really really didn't want to make it. Not only did you not do that (the simplest and most expected of traffic courtesies) you then proceeded to ride your fucking brakes the whole Goddamn way through the on ramp to the other freeway I needed to get home, when the on ramp was one lane, and there was no one in front of you. I really appreciate you making sure I didn't take the on ramp at some crazy dare devil speed like, oh say 45 miles mph, and I really loved watching your stupid little brake lights come on any time we got over 30 mph, because, well, they're just so fucking pretty! You're an asshole, and I wish the worst possible diarrhea on you. Diarrhea when you're fucking your stupid wife or stupid girlfriend, or stupid whatever you fuck. Just as you get into it, I hope you have the most violent, explosive and awful diarrhea, and you cannot get into the bathroom in time.

Love always,

Me