blogging is weird

Ladies and that one guy:

I want to apologize for being sort of lackadaisical this last while. I even missed my two-year "blogiversary" (May 31)! I can't believe I've been rambling that long and nobody's pulled me off the stage with a hook yet! I don't have a great excuse for being kind of MIA. Just life. Things got busy with the book and then I got surgery and people were dying and all the while I was busting my ass at work, staying late and taking on extra projects in attempts to get a promotion. But, that's apparently not happening, like, ever, so now I can return to regularly scheduled programming. I'm just kidding. I still don't really feel like blogging all that much :) I don't know what it is. I have lots of things in my mind. It just seems like a lot of work to get them out on "paper" at the moment. And one thing I know is that it's not worth posting just because I feel like I "should." Those posts sound just like what they are: forced.

You know something else about blogging? I never know what's going to hit, and what isn't. For example, I'll post something that I think is just hysterical, and people are like, Meh. But then I'll write a post and sit on it for months because I think it's totally so-so (e.g., The Text That Almost Ended in Divorce), and I'll finally post it because it's been 2 weeks and I feel anxious about neglecting all 7 of my adoring fans, and then it totally goes off like gangbusters (and by gangbusters I mean 77 people read it instead of 7 ;))

Blogging is a very strange phenomenon. When I Still Just Want to Pee Alone came out, I finally came clean to my pops about the blog (he didn't have any idea about it before), and I was trying to explain what, exactly, a blog is and I was at a total loss. Me: "It's kind of like a personal website, sort of?" Dad: "And a lot of people do this?" Me: "Millions." Dad: "What do you write about?" Me: "Just random stuff. Life. Whatever." Dad: "And people actually read it?" Me: "Sometimes." And I'm in a continual state of awe that people do. Even my husband! He reads every word (well, most of the words), even though he never reads anything but legal stuff, and he says I'm only "funny for a girl." Which is why I feel bad when I slack, because I feel like people are counting on me, even if it's only a handful. I have so much love for you all. I don't want to let you down. But I also don't want to feed you bullshit fluff. And let's be honest, you'll probably survive without me ;)

And another thing - just FYI - if you're going to write an anonymous blog, you should ACTUALLY BE ANONYMOUS, or, alternatively, give zero fucks about whether or not people get ruffled tail feathers and/or chronic butt-hurt-itis (that's the medical term), because when people know who you are and you wish to stay married/friends/employed/a member of the family/out of jail, the list of topics from which you may comfortably choose is quite short. What I'm saying is, I can't share the good shit! Maybe I'll write it all down in some secret diary for my husband to publish posthumously. I apologize in advance for any butt-hurt-itis caused by the bestselling memoir published after my death.

Here are some other observations about blogging that I've made in the past 2 years:

1. Readers feel a certain ... ownership over you. Some feel entitled to regular, hilarious/poingnant/on-point content. And I can understand that. It's like how I feel when a favorite show ends or a favorite author hasn't written a new book in ages... personally let down. But it's this same reason that I sometimes get a little squeamish about pouring my heart and mind out on the internet. Once I put my thoughts out there, they're not really mine anymore. They become public property. And from time to time I have an almost physical sensation that I am giving away tiny little slivers of my soul. AND NOT EVEN GETTING PAID FOR IT. That's the real kicker. I would happily SELL my soul to the highest bidder. But this giving it away like spare change to the hungry homeless panhandler that is the internet, well, that's a different story ;) < Winky face to denote sarcasm. (Which reminds me of this great post by Renegade Mothering: People who can't read sarcasm are the antichrist.)

2. This ownership comes with expectations. This doesn't really happen to me very often or to a serious degree, because not that many people actually read what I write and the ones that do either agree with me, or are super gracious and don't disagree with me publicly, or disagree with me but don't care enough to say so. But now that I have some "famous" blogger friends I see it happen all the time - people are like, "Oh my God, how COULD you?!" Or "I thought you were better than this!" Or "I came here to see THIS sort of content, not THAT sort of content! Fall in!" And so on and so forth. I guess it happens when you have any sort of celebrity, no matter how large or small. And people seem to think it's justified - like, "You put yourself out there, so you should expect to get called names on the internet." Pretty sure Grandma and her Golden Rule would find some fault in that logic but whatever.

This reminds me of something I shared on Facebook recently - a post from Erin Brown by way of Pink Sky Serendipity in which she admits to hiding annoying Facebook posts (and friends) "liberally and happily." Nobody is pinning your eyeballs open and making you read this shit. As I said, I know we're not supposed to live in echo chambers, and I don't mean to discourage discursive exploration of important subjects, but sometimes you just have to shut the front door on that crazy ass jiggery pokery applesauce, for the love of god, my blood pressure, and everything that is holy. As Brown writes, "Do you. Whatever that looks like. Hold space for others to do the same. And if it bothers you, hide away. Sometimes good fences make good neighbors."

3. People believe that their opinions should have some bearing on your life. Listen, I (usually) like hearing what other people have to say, just for shits and giggles if nothing else. But I am not actually going to use a Facebook poll to determine whether or not to redshirt my son for kindergarten, or any other deeply personal decisions. Hey, thanks for playing, though!

4. People that don't know you think they do. I guess it doesn't take a world renowned psychiatrist to figure out why one creates a false sense of intimacy by over-sharing with complete strangers on the internet. But still. Dude. You don't even know my name. Well. Except the entire town of Calabasas and anyone who asks me three times.

5. People that do know you confuse The Real You with your online identity. Now, I'm pretty straightforward and honest in what I write, but I certainly hyperbolize for comic effect. And lately I've noticed that even people who do actually know me project the traits of Mackenzie Cheeseman onto The Real Me. So, let me just dispel some myths for you (ones that I may have helped to create):

* I do actually like a majority of vegetables. I mean, I'd rather eat bread, cheese, or fried tequila, but I don't trust anyone who wouldn't rather eat those things. I eat roasted root vegetables for lunch on a regular basis, and I only cry about it a tiny bit. And the tears are mainly just for the added salt. This whole joke came about because I DESPISE the two main vegetables that all vegetarians are supposed to love: Eggplant (“Hey, can I get a tiny purple pumpkin in the shape of human kidney that tastes like dirt?” ) and Portobello mushrooms (it's like a slimy fossilized chicken cutlet). Go to any wedding, or restaurant between California and New York, ask for the vegetarian entree, and what do you get? A kebab of viscous vegetables that taste like soil. Gag. Oh. And spaghetti squash. Hell no.

By the way. Today I ate a salad (of my own free will) and I didn't even finish the miniscule cuplet of dressing that was served on the side. But that last part's not a good example because The Real Me would never do that and I think I might be suffering from some mysterious blunt force trauma to my prefrontal cortex.

* I am not the worst cook in the world. I mean, I still abhor it with the strength of a thousand suns, make that a million suns since I had to start feeding tiny angry little food critics every night. And I am not a natural in the kitchen by any stretch of the imagination. But I am capable of preparing at least 5 different meals that will not cause severe gastric distress or get me banned from future potlucks.

* I do not sit rocking in the corner in social situations. Yes, I suffer from crippling anxiety leading up to any and all social events, but they are always way less stressful than I envision. Yes, I would rather pluck my eyelashes out one by one than engage in small talk with strangers at the park, but nobody but my closest loved ones (not even including my dad), and, well, all 7 of you, are aware of this. I have actual friends who don't just hang with me out of pity or as part of some sociological experiment (I think). And despite my little sister's assertion that I likely have Asperger's, people don't walk away from social interactions with me thinking, "Somebody get Temple Grandin her hug box." (No offense to Temple Grandin or anyone else on the spectrum, including my beloved nephew.) I may well have Asperger's. But I am extremely adept at pretending to be "normal."

* I claim to not like people, but I am actually quite nice. Like, too nice. Like, even when I don't want to be nice, accidental niceness bursts forth from my face like Athena, forceful and fully grown, from Zeus's forehead. "Omigod, I am so glad you finally got out of prison! That's such a bummer about the meth! Of course you can stay with us while you attempt in vain to pull your shit together! We've actually been looking for a new babysitter!" I'm exaggerating. This did not happen. But it totally could/would. However, I must admit, I probably reserve the least amount of patience and kindness for the ones I love the best. Sadly, isn't that always the way?

* I do not completely suck at life. Not to toot my own horn, but I'm probably more on top of it than most. This is not humble bragging. It's basically just plain bragging. But it is in the spirit of full disclosure and being real. I am an excellent friend. I am an above-average wife and mother. I am damn good at my job, such as it is. I get shit done. Sometimes. Granted, as I have lamented here before, motherhood has been an extended exercise in lowering my standards. But even still, I am at least 63% perfect Pinterest bitch. I plan over-the-top birthday parties, gift bags, soccer snacks, and teacher gifts. I just made jam and fruit-infused vodka from plums from our garden, for chrissakes.

I am THAT MOM. If you DID know The Real Me, you would probably hate me. (Or at least, you would want to, if I weren't so. damn. nice. ;))

The other day a friend wrote to me, "How do you do all this shit? And be a mom? And work? Tell me your secret, or I'm going to assume it's methamphetamines." The thing is, I'm really good at some things at the expense of others. I will spend hours, days even, painstakingly creating a scrapbook for a friend celebrating the impending arrival of a baby, or the loss of a loved one, but I have not gotten my teeth cleaned in 18 months. I write actual letters, religiously send thank you's, and make birthday cards by hand, but I have 20 unheard voicemails. I have completely designed and decorated my imaginary Mediterranean villa on Houzz, but I will leave towering piles of non-imaginary folded laundry in my garage for a month. I read for hours before bed, but I can't possibly find the time to pack lunches or meal plan ahead of time. I will cook an elaborate meal for someone in need, and feed my own kids chicken nuggets vaguely shaped like dinosaurs. I don't remember the last time I went to the market for anything other than a harried emergency run. Themed cupcakes and Oreo pops for every gathering? Hand-painted holiday mani/pedis? Absolutely! Regular excercise? Are you crazy?! Ain't nobody got time for that! I also SUPER SUCK at sleep, which is actually somewhat useful in the getting shit done department.

Anyway. At the end of the day, my priorities are FUBAR. And that's all there is to say about that.

One thing that is NOT a myth - I can't write something short and sweet to save my life.

not actually me, or my life, unfortunately.

Like this post? Then you'll love my essay in I Still Just Want to Pee Alone. Buy it HERE!

the text that almost ended in divorce

Alternate title: I am 62% insane.

I sent this to DM and asked him if it was kinda funny, or just made me look legit-crazy. He read it and replied, "Eh, it definitely makes you sound kinda nuts. But... you are... so..." His bottom line was that it wasn't funny enough to justify letting this much of my crazy show, but I don't often listen to what he says (don't worry, the selective hearing disorder is a two-way street).

So, DM was working from home the other day and he and I texted back and forth for a little bit about nothing in particular. Probably about houses we can't afford. We hadn't texted in an hour or so and then I get this text:

DM: It's just going to have to be in and out tonight, sorry baby.

Me: What?

No response.

Me: You know that sounds bad, right?

(Editor's note: I swear I'm happily married and don't normally jump automatically to the conclusion that my spouse is cheating on me. I actually used to be a very anxious and jealous person, but either a decade-plus of his undying love, and/or four years and 237 days of little humans sucking every last ounce of energy from my soul has left me without the ability to muster even one iota of suspicion. But for some reason, this day, this text, just hit me - it gave me that instant pit in my stomach.)

Still no answer.

So I call. No answer.

Text again: Dude.

No answer.

At this point, I basically feel as though my suspicions are 100% confirmed and he's not answering the phone or texts because he's trying to devise a cover story, and/or pack a bag to avoid the wrath that shall rain down upon him when I get home.

Me: Please tell me there is a reasonable explanation for that text.

Nothing.

Meanwhile, this is the insane freight train of thoughts going through my tiny skull:

I can't believe I'm going to be a divorcee.
With two small children.
I can't believe he's talking to me about buying our dream home all the while cheating on me with some floozy!
I can't believe he calls her "Baby" too! (insert Sam Smith song here).
Then again, every-other-weekend off wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.
But how are we going to afford our lives without pooled resources?!
This might finally be my chance to find a sugar daddy and become a kept woman.
Of course this had to happen on the day when I guest-posted about the sad state of one's sex life when you're married with children. Everyone is going to say "Well, duh! Of course he stepped out on you. Suck it up and give the man a BJ once in a while!" (Pun intended).
I wonder if this hussy likes laundry, cooking, or blow jobs? We might be able to work something out...
By the way, I'm keeping the ring, dick.

Then, it suddenly dawned on me. That morning, the kids had asked for In-N-Out Burger for dinner (not my fave, as I'm a vegetarian and currently off bread.) DM answered "We'll see," (which usually means no).

Me: OHMIGOD. Were you talking about dinner???

DM FINALLY answers: Phrasing :)

Me: DUDE. I was 3 seconds away from calling a divorce lawyer.

DM: I am still unsure exactly what it was you thought my text meant?

Me: Um, that you were having secret sexytimes with some trollop!

DM: Like, in the 20 minutes before I had to pick up our children?

Me: It only takes 4.

DM: Ouch.

Twenty minutes later I get this text:

DM: Hey secret imaginary girlfriend: I'm coming over for some hot sex before I fetch the kids at preschool. Don't tell my wife Mackenzie Cheeseman.

Sigh. He's a good sport. And I need mental help ;)

That reminds me of this:

I in no way, shape or form condone drunk driving. But this cracked me up and would so happen to me, with my luck in combination with AT&T and my godforsaken iPhone -2.

Anyway, I'm happy to report, we are still married (just celebrated our 7th anniversary, thank you very much).

AND, I know how to keep things HOT.

With this kind of spice, that man's not going anywhere ;)

sh*t my kids say, vol. 4

My kids were born with this amazing survival mechanism called "Be irresistibly cute at the exact moment one or both parents are preparing to throw you out the window." See examples below.

Bedtime has been drama lately. The worst thing in Jack's life is going to sleep. He hates it, just like his dad. It is a grave injustice that DM gets to stay up later than him (not me, I hightail it to bed as soon as humanly possible). It's just NOT FAIR! The other night there was a bunch of ballyhoo, and then we were talking things out, and he said "Well, that's the first fair thing I've heard you say all night!" Ha.

At bedtime I tell Colby I'll stay "an extra minute" if she promises "no fussin' and fightin'" when I leave. This morning she said "Mama! No fuzz last night! Can I get a stickah?" And the other night I came home to a bunch of dinnertime drama and C said "Mama? Daddy is making Jack eat his dinnah and he is SUPAH fuzzy about it."

This reminds me of the other day when we were cajoling J to eat some bacon. This kid is DEFINITELY going to be a vegetarian. He is always asking "Is dis made out of aminals?" Watching Charlotte's Web did not help. Anyway, we were trying to get him to eat some fried Wilbur and he was not having it. Colby (who definitely digs on swine) said "Jack, you hass to eat it so you can gwow big and stwong and helfy. If you don't eat your pwotein, you won't be my big brudder anymore, you'll just be my little tiny baby brudder."

And here's something they both like to say lately when things don't go their way:
"I do not agree with this plan."
Too effin bad, kid. This is not a democracy, this is a benevolent dictatorship, and you are pissing Chairman Mom the hell off.

The other night was "just one of those nights." I said "Oh man, this is not a good situation." Jack came up to me, put his hand on my head and said, "What seems to be the twubble, Mama?" He was my favorite child that night :)

He's such a little love, he is always worried that people are going to be sad or have their feelings hurt. Like if for whatever reason we drive two cars somewhere, he gets so stressed out choosing who to ride home with, because he doesn't want anyone to be sad! And he loves giving compliments. The other day he said "Mama, you are the best at painting toenails. The best in the WHOLE WOILD!" Then he looks over at DM and says "Daddy, even though I didn't say you were the best at painting toenails, I love you VERY much, and you are very good at lots of things." <3

And he's the best big brother. He Colby's biggest fan and cheerleader. He's taken to holding the door open for her and saying "After you." (And she, in turn, does it for me <3) The other night she was trying to climb up on our bed and he said "Can I give you a hand, sistah?" Oh yeah and he feeds her sometimes. Right at the point in the painful and dramatic Spanish soap opera that is dinnertime where we're about to throw her in the river for fish food, he steps in and starts playing "Chugga chugga choo choo, open up, the twain's coming into the tunnel!" with her taco salad.

sorry. i don't mean to offend. this just makes me laugh.

And the girl is such a little bossypants. I know you're not "supposed" to say this about little "grill" chiles, but I can't help it, its true.

C: Here Jack, you can have this toy. *Gives him the toy.* Now say 'Thank you for the toy!'"
J: Thank you for the toy!
C: You're welcome!

C: Hey! Who dwopped my scissahs?
J: Me.
C: Say sorry!
J: Sorry.
C: Dat's okayyyyy :)

She's a love though. Most of the time.

C: I love dat bading soup [bathing suit] you are wearing, Mama! Who got dat for you?
Me: I got it for myself.
C: Aw, dat was so nice of yourself.
It was, wasn't it? ;)

Then again sometimes she's not. She bit her brother this weekend. When I scolded her (well, after an initial period of indignant rage at being called out), she said "I'm da wittow sistow. I don't know any bettah." *Eye roll.* Lord help us.

The kids are big Star Wars fans. The other night C and DM were petting Feta and she was breathing heavily. Colby said, "That must be Darf Vader in her belly."

J: "No, he's called C-FWEAKY-O (instead of C-3PO) because he fweaks out all da time!

Me: I have a Mazda, and Daddy has a Toyota.
J: I like Daddy's car the best, because it has Jedi Master Yoda in the name!

The other night Colby was looking at a picture from our wedding, and she asked where she and Jack were. I said they weren't born yet, they were just a twinkle in their daddy's eye. She holds the picture up to DM and says "Daddy, do you remember this picture when I was twinkling inside your eyebowl?"

Speaking of before they were born, somehow we got onto the subject of when they were in utero.
C: I didn't like being in mommy's belly. It was scary in dare.
J: I loved it! It was like a cozy bouncy house!
C: Well I didn't. It was dark and I was lonely.
Yikes. Poor kid. Who knew you could eff them up before they were even born?!

C taking my picture with the phone:
Me: How do I look?
C: Mmm. Not so good. Let's twy dat again.
*Takes another picture.*
Oooh, dat looks fabulous mama!

J was in the middle of a major malfunction. I told him to calm down, and try breathing through his nose. His response: "How am I supposed to do that, Mama?! My nose is totally stuffed up! Do you think I'm some kind of fweaking wizard or someting?!"

C: "Mawmaw -  I am SO fweakin' out about dis!" (Apparently we're teenagers now?)

Washing machine = Wet Dryer.
Dryer = Dry washer.
Nail salon = Toe nail store (ew).
Aquarium = Shark zoo.
Seal = Doggy dolphin.
Swimsuit cover up = Bading Soup Jacket

C (in a public restroom with both kids): Mama, why you got a hairy butt?
Me: That's not my butt. That's... can we discuss this later?
J: Why doesn't Colby have furry pwivates like you do?
Ah, the innocence of youth.

J: Nobody can have any fun or play any games while I'm pooping!
FOMO, No. 2.

C: I need pwivacy when I poop. But not when I pee.
Totally get that ;)

The kids are also freakishly specific and accurate in estimating the number of poops they have? They've taken to timing their daily constitutionals to the last possible moment before bath time, when we're already running late for the evening's action-packed agenda. I usually grumble about it a little bit and last night J said "Don't worry mama, this will be quick, I only have 2 poops!"
Me: How can you possibly know that?
J: I can just tell.

Colby recently found, somewhere, a little square of that waffle-type non-slip drawer/shelf liner material.
C: Dis is my blankie from when I was born-ded.
Me: That's not a blankie, it goes on shelves.
C: Nope. It's my blankie.
So, she's currently snuggling and sleeping with some shelf liner. Awesome mom.

"blanket" [< said in creepy michael jackson voice]

Speaking of Michael Jackson, my kid is so not PC. She refuses to believe Michael Jackson was a man. "Nope. He's a grill." Period. End of sentence.

Oh and C's new thing is she will do something (eat the last quesadilla slice, bend her paper, etc), then freak out because her quesadilla is gone or her paper is bent. Then when I point out that she is the one who did said unforgivable action, she starts crying "NO I DIDN'T!!! I DIDN'T SEE MYSELF DO IT!!!" I can't get too mad because I definitely do that sometimes with really delicious foods or beverages or an entire pack of Rolos.

Jack: You know what I like?
Me: What?
J: Being a kid. It's pwetty gweat.
Yeah dude. Seems like a pretty sweet gig! <3

Top reasons CPS might come knocking this week:

The other morning, Jack starts singing out of the blue:

"Bad bad whiskey.
Bad, bad whiskey.
Bad, bad whiskey, 
Made me lose my happy home."
(It's a song by Buddy Guy. And, apparently, I need to be a little more careful about editing my iTunes playlists!)

Another morning, the kids froke out because I wouldn't let them take beer bottle caps to school with them.
Me: Those are not toys. They're sharp and they could hurt someone.
J: Well Daddy let's us play with them.
[Choice words for Daddy in my brain.]
Me: Well he shouldn't. They're not toys. They're garbage. Grown up garbage.
I tell DM about this later and he said, "Yeah, I'll be throwing those away from now on."
I inform him that J said "Daddy lets us throw them at the dart board."
DM: Well how else are they gonna work on their caps game?!"
[More choice words for Daddy in my brain.]

And in closing: DM: "Holy shit. We made tiny humans. That is never gonna be not-weird."

To see more funny sh*t, see volumes 1, 2, and 3, as well as sh*t my husband says.

If you liked this, you'll love my essay in I Still Just Want To Pee Alone. Buy it HERE!

excuse the mess

OMG this:

From Inspirational Quotes for Moms by Robyn Welling (fellow I Still Just Want to Pee Alone contributor) on ScaryMommy.com - Check out the rest. So funny.

I think about this a lot. I always hear these inspirational/positive mothering mantras of "embrace the chaos," "messy = beautiful," and "don't worry about keeping a clean house, spending time with your kids is so much more important, they'll be off to college before you know it and you can mop your floors then, with your own tears, shed over the memories you didn't make with your children because you were too busy cloroxing your toilet for the 93rd time in a week..."

"The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow
But children grow up as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!
I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep."

Okay I'm going to go fill a mop bucket with tears now.

I appreciate this theme, really I do. Theoretically, I'm all about keeping it real. But here's the deal. I clean (parts of) my house, like, three times a day (floors, counters, toilet seats), AND we have a housekeeper, and it's STILL a total pigsty pretty much any given day unless we're expecting company. There are legos and hotwheels and assorted sports paraphernalia and loveys and blankies and discarded ninja/princess costumes and dirty clothes (why is it that sweaty sock-balls simply CANNOT make their way to the hamper, my husband's included?), wet towels and soggy swimming suits on the carpet, the chewed-up trail of dog-toy detritus our pup leaves in her wake, the dirty dishes (didn't they JUST get washed this morning?) and piles of laundry (if anyone can figure out how on God's Green Earth four people create thirty-seven times their body weight in dirty laundry, I will personally award you the Nobel Prize in physics), the ever-present slimy puddles of water and sticky smears of toothpaste on the bathroom counter, and let's not forget the pee, oh THE PEE, everywhere, and I mean everywhere, but inside the toilet (<how? and why? and... how??? I will never, ever, ever ever, understand). Your forearms will stick to the counters and table. Walking on my floors barefoot is a harrowing adventure in sensory perception... "Man, I really hope that's a raisin." When people ask me if they should take their shoes off  when they enter our home, I answer "Lord no!" I wouldn't walk on my kitchen floor barefoot if you paid me. That is why God made slippers.

I will admit I used to be a total neat-freak, and I have had a (very) hard time letting that go. But I assure you, the past 5 years have been an exercise in significantly lowering my standards. And yet. If I literally did not clean, it would be three weeks before we overrun by a colony of rodents, carried away by a fleet of fruit flies, and/or had CPS come calling for an inhospitable living environment. And if you came over, you can try to claim you wouldn't judge, but in your heart of hearts, you would be planning your call to TLC. The American viewing public eats this shit up - probably because it hits so close to home.

What I really don't understand is how pretty much everyone manages to keep up enough to stave off the raccoons and social services? It's SO hard! Is there some secret I don't know about? Are you people holding out on me? Is that what basements are really for? If yes, I need to move to a basement state ASAP because our very visible garage and closet space is not cutting it. I cannot imagine if I didn't have a helpful partner, or couldn't afford to pay someone to clean my house once a week, or if my kids weren't obsessed with vacuums and Pledge.

Anyway. Thanks for pretending you aren't judging. That's worth something. See you all at our next meeting of Clorox Wipes Anonymous.

Of all the peccadillos I've passed on to my children, the strange penchant for cleaning products has been by far the most effective ;)

I drew a "Vacuum Ninja" for The Boy's lunchbox one day (the letter of the week was "V.") He was a fan ;)

Vacuum Ninja (Princesses) in the flesh

By the way, this blog post came across my news feed this morning from Rubber Shoes in Hell - Housekeeping: Slut Level. (It's so funny to me, I feel like this happens a lot - like I'll have a few posts in the chute and then posts on these exact subjects will pop up and I'm like, DAMN YOU, Hive Mind! Stole my thunder!) Anyway, she talks about how there was a seedling growing out of her sink, which reminded me of the apartment I rented in college that had mushrooms growing out of the walls in the bathroom. After I moved out the landlord was complaining to me about water damage and I was like, Gee, d'ya think?! There was a forest of FUNGI sprouting out between shower tiles and flowering from the actual wall. That would've been the first clue that something was amiss behind the plaster. Still. I think I might actually prefer shower-shrooms to the eternal stench that is a little-boy-toilet.

Update: A couple of friends pointed out that I'm basically full of shit, as evidenced by the fact that I have the time and energy to illustrate lunchbox napkins. They make a good point. (Though, as I said to them, this is by no means a daily occurrence. AND, don't tell anyone, but somehow over the last 6 months or so, DM has taken over full responsibility for packing lunches (and he's amazing at it, he even makes heart-shaped sun-butter-and-jelly sandwiches <3), which frees up time for my napkin art. I'm not going to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.) So yeah, okay, obviously I have some free time. I just choose to spend it doing spectacularly stupid shit instead of what desperately needs to get done. Rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, if you will. Basically, it's like, I could be engulfed in flames, and think, "You know what I really need right now? A pedicure."

The end :)

in lieu of flowers, send underwear

“Mom is dying. Like, today,” the text message read.

The text was from my BFF Claire, to my other BFF Betsy and me. It was a WhatsApp message, actually, because this is how we have to communicate with each other while Betsy is in disease- and poverty-stricken third world countries without cell service, which is often.

Fuck.

There have been scares like this before. Edie (Claire’s mom) has been unwell for most of the 15+ years we’ve known her. They’ve been down this road before. But Claire is not one for drama or hyperbole, particularly not when it comes to her mom. Something about this time made the others seem like fire drills. This was real. This was a fire.

My first thought was, “I need to be there.” My second thought was, “My boss(es) are going to kill me.” I cannot tell you how sad it makes me that this was the next thought in my brain. But it was. This was a Tuesday. I had taken off that morning for my kids’ cultural enrichment – going to the preschool and talking about Norouz – Persian New Year – (a month overdue because – life). Though I am 0% Persian, my children are 50%, and honoring that heritage is something that’s important to DM and me. I’d also taken sick days recently for some virulent strain of preschool plague that wracked our family, and I knew I had more time off coming up for a “nebulous important engagement” (a.k.a. book signing for the book that no one knows I’m in), plus impending knee surgery. I can never quite shake the feeling that my superiors at work think I’m utterly full of shit with my requests. I mean, how many sick kids, doctors appointments and family emergencies can one woman have? Well, you’d be surprised. The final complicating factor was that we had a family camping trip that weekend for my sister’s birthday. My brother was coming in from out of town. It's an annual thing. No offense to my family or his, but I would probably try to murder DM in his sleep if he sent me on a camping trip with his family and didn’t show up for it, and I assume he feels the same, so that was definitely a consideration. Oh yeah and there weren’t any return flights on Friday.

I went to go tell X, my work BFF, about my dilemma. She cut me off mid-laundry-list of bullshit quotidia. “Who cares?! Get on a plane! Today! I have points on Southwest, do you want them?” (And this is why she is my work BFF and life coach – her uncanny ability to cut through the crap and arrange last-minute travel plans). F work. I mean, not really. This is me:

But I really, really don’t want to be the person that is so consumed with work that she forgets about LIFE. Your best friend’s mom is dying. Work will understand and if they don’t you need to find some people to work for that don't suck. Nothing is more important than this. 

Meanwhile, Betsy is arranging a flight back from Haiti, so I figured I better stop pussy-footing around and get myself on a damn airplane.

I told my brother and sister what was going on, along with my so-called travel "plans" (a one-way flight to Fresno, return status unknown). My sister replied, “Are you sure she even wants you there?” This stopped me in my tracks. My skin got hot and I felt a flame rise up in my chest as it does when something gets me really fired up. This was probably mostly because I was afraid she had a point. I had spoken with Claire, asked her if I should come, and she said no, thank you, that wasn't necessary. But she wouldn’t say “Yes” even if she wanted me to. It’s just not her style. By the way, my sister is basically the sweetest person you will ever meet, and does not have a malicious bone in her body. She wasn’t trying to be mean (and she later apologized), she was just legitimately concerned that I was going to commit a grave social faux pas. She explained that if our dad was on his deathbed, she wouldn’t want to have friends there distracting her. I got defensive. “It’s not like we’re going to take her for a fucking pedicure.” (Funnily enough, a pedicure is exactly what Claire would suggest once we were there. She’s a people pleaser.)

I texted Betsy in panic mode and asked, “What if she doesn’t want us there?” Betsy replied, “She does. Anyone else, I would say no. But we are her people.” And it’s true. These are the caliber of friends you make in college, when you're floating, un-moored, through the wicked waves of elation and homesickness and freedom and confusion and mild to moderate identity crises and shared shower caddies and sickly sweet wine coolers, trying to find yourself, and you grab onto these friends for dear life, and you never let (some of them) go. These girls, we've shared beds and bathrooms and shitty beer and underwear (ew). We did each other’s makeup (badly), and held back each other’s hair. We shared our most sacred secrets. Betsy was my freshman year roommate and she’s the only person besides DM (and my kids, I guess ;)) I could ever imagine living with. Claire and I met at a frat party where we fell in friend-love and decided to go pee outside together, and regretfully chose a thorny rosebush in which to do so. We had a shared passion for the San Francisco 49ers, and made plans to watch the game the following morning. It was as awkward as any other sober Sunday morning you could imagine, but I’m so glad we persevered because we really are forever-friends.

All of my friends, actually.* I remember when we were in our late twenties, one of the husbands of our group warned us about the “post-30 spread,” and he wasn't talking about the size of our butts. He was referring to the reality of college friends growing apart and losing touch after they turn thirty. But we’re halfway through this decade and I’m happy to report we’re only closer for it. I remember when I got engaged, someone warned me to choose bridesmaids that I knew would be in my life forever, because it’s so sad to look back at wedding photos down the road and have your kids ask, “Who is that?” But these are my people. My tribe. My band of misfits. I have made "Top Shelf" friends before and since. But going through “the shit” really cements a relationship in a way that only divergent views on politics and religion can tear asunder ;) Together we’ve been through break-ups, make-ups, unrequited love, blind dates, bad haircuts, terrible bosses, jobs that make you wear "kiss my taco" t-shirts and skorts, sickness of loved ones (in body and mind), new homes, knee injuries, infidelity, pregnancy scares and infertility, weddings and an annulment, our parents divorcing and finding someone new when we're supposed to be "grown-ups" and immune to the earth tilting on its axis this way... together we've endured the loss of parents and pregnancies, carried babies in our bellies and brought them forth screaming into the world (with mandatory live-stream email-threads), we've held these brand new babies in our arms thinking, "Now what?"... then come the toddlers, preschoolers, and almost kindergarteners (WHAT?!), family pool parties and barbecues, wondering if/when we'll be too "adult" to play beer pong... and all that the future holds. My kids will look at wedding photos and they will know every last one of those crazy fuckers, dammit.

ANYWAY. I went. I wasn’t particularly useful when I was there. But I was there. I arrived late at night, without transportation or a place to stay. I texted DM and was like, “I’m in a cab. There’s no Uber here. I don’t know where I’m going. Guess I better find a hotel.” DM: “Uh, what exactly were you planning on doing? I just assumed you were renting a car and staying at their place.” Me: “Yeah. A car would have been wise. I didn’t exactly plan this out very well, or, um, at all.” I found a hotel (there was no way I was making Claire put out fresh towels as I was already paranoid I was imposing). Betsy arrived with a car the next morning. We sat. We held hands. We drank coffee. We ate (or, pushed food around on our plates). We reminisced. We talked about nothing and we didn’t talk at all. We said I love you. We said goodbye. We bought a shit-ton of junk food and booze from Trader Joe’s to donate to the cause, and the check-out gal 100% thought we were high AF. This is my M.O. in times of need: ply people with food and alcohol, talk too much, say the wrong things, hug, cry, listen, clean, needlessly organize shit, hold babies, bake cupcakes. In lieu of flowers, I'll send new underwear, or vodka, or trashy magazines whose pages can free your mind from the strangle-hold of grief for half a minute, or all of the above, because I know you need that more. And when all is said and done, expect a gift basket and a scrap book. For better or for worse, that’s how I do.

I came back for camping, and Edie passed the next day. I am glad I had that time with my family. I needed those hugs, and my big babies' warm bodies nestled next to me in sleeping bags (or, as it happened, barfing all over the tent ;)) But I’m sad I was drinking bourbon out of a plastic cup and roasting s’mores to the sound of crashing ocean waves while one of my best friends in the entire world was in a hospital room gently ushering her mother’s spirit to the other side. Choices are hard. But. Choosing “your people,” even when they say they don’t need you, even when it’s not that simple – that is never the wrong one.

photo credits to my sis <3

* "Best friend isn't a person, it's a tier." - Mindy Kaling. See also, Best Friend Rights and Responsibilities. #NoMatterWhat

Other stuff about BFFs that I love:

The No-Bullshit, No Drama Friendship Manifesto from Renegade Mothering. Love this. My friends have never done anything but make me feel like a hotter, smarter and more capable woman, wife, mother and friend than I really am. These are the type of people we need to surround ourselves with. I also love this line: "When my kids are acting like shitheads and you’re like “Hey child, No.” I won’t get all righteously indignant. Instead I’ll look at you in gratefulness for dealing with the little bastards so I don’t have to."

When Close Friends Live Far Away on The Mid. Waaaa. This made me sad. And made me want to build a Bestie Row immediately. "I want to go to the grocery store with you. I want to see where your kids go to school and see them run and hug you when you pick them up in the afternoon. I want to sit with you in your kitchen, and cook with you at your stove." Just kidding. I'll watch you cook instead ;)

How Do You Know If Someone Is Your Best Friend - 21 Ways To Know Your Love Is For Real, from Bustle. "Like, you guys will be discussing global warming, or who has the best fish tacos, and suddenly you’ll feel the urge to change into a dress because it’s too hot. Your BFF won’t even bat an eye, and will just keep talking about the environment and tacos."