I got my hair cut on Tuesday and it’s totally Mod. I love it. Same bob, but with a ton of layers. And it’s together enough that it doesn’t have that wullet look.

(I’m in a pissy mood today, btw)

And now for some guilt:   

Do you know how many people ave joined the raffle?  ONE!  UNO!  SOLO UNO!  And it’s my father-in-law.  Who, as opposed to my snooty freakish arse, has so much compassion it’s dribbling out his EAR HOLES!

What are you waiting for?  It’s a cup of Starbucks! Get on it!

MOTHER’S DAY I said!

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Okay, peeps.  Remember when I told you we’d be raffling off items to help raise money for the cure for breast cancer?  Remember?  Well, we’re officially starting now!  Through the month of May I will be raffling off various items and all donated funds will go directly to my friend Lisa and her Avon Walk for Breast Cancer.

This time around the Poopyhands Marketing Department has gotten the fabulous artist named Mom to donate a handmade cracked-china pendant.  The pendants have been selling easily for $20 each, and you can donate to a great cause and buy a chance to win this beauty for a paltry $5.00!

Remember, lovies, MOTHER’S DAY IS BEARING DOWN ON YOU LIKE SOME SORT OF HUGE STEAMROLLING HOLIDAY FROM HELL.  You know you’ll forget and that you’ll run out at the last minute and get chocolate or flowers, which will be okay, but not nearly as nice as a handmade cracked-china necklace that will turn all her friends green with jealousy and show you off for the amazing kid you are.

The pendant is delicate and handmade in handsome brass.  It includes the full necklace.

Click on the picture below and enlarge your window browser to see a bigger, more detailed photo of this gorgeous piece of jewelry.

So, here we go!  The raffle this week has begun, and just think: If you’re the only one who gives it’s yours guaranteed for $15 less than the going rate!  Not only that, but you’d be giving money to a fantastic cause.

NERTZ!  I just remembered that the PayPal button won’t embed in a post, but only in the sidebar.  Please look up and see the left sidebar for the pink button to push to get to our raffle.  Click there!

If you would like to join in via snail mail, then just send me an email!  

The winner will be determined utilizing the very scientific method of putting all the names in a hat and letting Wallace choose one.  He can’t read yet, so it’s a fair system.  Winners will be announced on Wednesday, May 3rd.  Good luck!

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Oh, Easter Bunny!  You are the MOST!

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I’ve had all I can stand, peeps.  I’m winding down classes and instead of feeling relief (as I totally should) I feel increasingly exhausted.  I think that as the day slows down my body lets me feel more and more how much I’ve been overworking.

Remember last year when I told you about my EBF? Well, life is at it again.  I must look like a therapist because everyone and their mother unburdens on me.  Maybe it’s that I’m fat and I just look like I would be less capable of running the hell away.

We live in a very Hispanic neighborhood.  So Hispanic that Wallace is in the minority as an English-speaking white kid.  I love this.  I love that when we walk down our street we meet Hispanic people and Black people and White people.  I wish they hung out together a little more, but you can’t have everything.  We hang out, anyhow with everyone, so Yay us.

We have a neighbor I’ve noticed and waved to a time or two.  She’s down the block and has a little boy just about Wallace’s age.  Last night she crossed the street and they came over to play, which was marvelous.  And within ten minutes I learned, and I swear to God I’m not making this up:

1. She hates the US because people are awful to her because her English isn’t perfect
2. She and her husband work at a bar
3. She’s off work because she is supposed to be three months pregnant
4. But she had a molar pregnancy and had to get a D&C
5. And all the nurses were nasty to her because she didn’t speak English
6. And even the ones who spoke Spanish wouldn’t use Spanish to tell her what was going on
7. Her husband’s mother died when he was four
8. His father abandoned him and he grew up in an orphanage
9. They are both here illegally and are worried with the new law that they’ll get deported and/or her husband will lose his job
10. She has five brothers and one sister
11. She brought her sister to town to help out with her kid, but instead she whored around with men, so now she’s living in Colorado
12. She is very, very lonely

I swear to god.  TEN MINUTES.  Here’s what she learned about me:

1. Wallace is 19 months old
2. He goes to a nice day care
3. His name is Wallace
4. My name is Krissy
5. My husband is English

Which I think is plenty for a ten-minute first-meeting.

Look, I’m a thousand times sympathetic with the illegal immigrant stuff.  We did it legally and that is primarily what I want to write a book about.  People do not understand what a royal pain in the arse getting to the US can be, and we did it legally from an English-Speaking first-world country with financial backing and means to contact people like congressmen.  I can’t imagine what it must be like to know that there is no work and no food and no hope back home and come here to spend every waking day functioning off the grid on a cash-only basis with the threat of deportation hanging over your head.

Her husband is obviously overworked and she’s lonely.  Like the Mindy situation, I think she has plenty to be upset about and really needs a friend.  Also like the Mindy situation, I’m guessing that she’s a huge time and energy suck, neither of which I have right now.  I have no time and energy.  None.

I’m going to figure that the next meeting things will slow down a bit, now that I already know her life’s story, and we’ll try and start over with “How cute is your little boy?!?”.  If that goes well, maybe we’ll graduate to a bar-b-que or something.

Seriously.  I hope you don’t mind if I query, peeps, WHAT THE FUCK?

And I’m totally not too fat to run away from you.  I want you to know that.  Now that we’re so close.

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Easter Sunday the boy and I followed his dad to the church where he’d been hired to play.  I thought maybe we could sit through some of the service.  HAH!  Wallace figured that the Catholic mass was just actually a big party, and being a party person, he decided to get it started.

We were up in the balcony because it was fairly empty and I was hoping to be able to corrall him, and I think we can all guess how well that went. First, Wallace repeatedly offered his sippy cup and some stickers to the boys sitting next to us. Then the hymns started and he decided to do an impromptu boogie and tried to get the rest of the balcony to join in.

I figured out pretty quickly that he wasn’t going to sit and play with stickers, so I gathered our things together and went to the stairs. In that moment he raced past a man taking professional photos  (so I was reluctant to follow him and get in the way of the photo) and climbed up on a pew and started pointing to people individually and giving them his best “HI! I LIKE YOU!” wide-open-mouthed smile.

We were only disruptive for about two minutes (and most of that was me trying to gather him up), but as we left the entire place was red-faced and snorting with laughter. Wallace was very pleased with himself.

Party on, you Catholic party people! Happy Jesus Bunny Day!

 ******************************

Wallace is a bit behind on his language, which is normal for a kid growing up bilingual, but I’ve been relieved lately because he’s been coming up with some new words.  He said “car” clearly, about twenty times when we were driving around on Easter Sunday. Later I tried to get him to say it for his dad, but we weren’t in the car, so why the hell would he say it?

We’d say, “Wallace, can you say ‘car’?”

“Ah YAH!” (yes)

“Will you say it for me?”

“Ah YAH!”

“Say ‘car’.”

“Ah YAH!”

“Okay.”

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We’re raising a smartass with a double-helping of the extrovert gene.  Lord help us.

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I have lots of stories to tell you, Peeps.  We had a good weekend.  But first, some photos:

Pictures of MoVo’s little Bean from down the street: 

Wallace, Wearing Mama’s (clean) Underpants:

At the Park District’s Easter Egg Hunt

Going down the slide by himself

When fireman rainboots are all you need:

See more by clicking here.

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Hi there, Peeps.  First of all, thank you for your kind sentiments.  I took Friday off of work for a mental health day.  They weren’t at all happy, but I didn’t feel there was a choice.  The Troublemaker and Wallace and I spent the day together and it was wonderful.  As was today.  Aunt K came by and, other than dropping a giant piece of wood on his face, Wallace had a fantastic day.

I’m feeling…  better.  I don’t want to give the impression that one mental health day and all is well, but one mental health day and all is better.  Life went from midnight black to grey, and that’s an improvement.

I have a test on Monday that I am not inclined to study for and tonight is my laundry/garbage/super-clean night, but I’m going to do what I can and then give it up.  My job is important, my degree is important, but nothing is more important than my son and my husband and I have to be at least moderately sane to be of any use to them at all.

We’ll see what this week holds.  Mostly I have to make it through until May 15th.  If I get through to May 15th the world may look very different.

I’ll hang in there.  You do it, too.

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Fuck off and die.

I can’t stand it anymore, peeps.  I can’t.  I hate everything.  I hate my life.  I hate school.  I hate that my house is always a shithole and that the garbage is never taken out and the laundry is never done.  I hate that if I take my eye off the ball for one millisecond the whole goddamned world explodes around me and, I have to tell you, the unmitigated gall that teachers have fucking testing me and work has ‘reviewing’ me.  They are within their rights to do it, but judge me when you walk a goddamned day in my miserable, never-resting shoes you fuckwads.

My kid has terrible diaper rash.  I’m accustomed to fits, but tonight on the changing table he jackknifed and faught and SCREAMED in pain.  And I,the asshole, couldn’t do anything about it. And the reason he has a god-awful diaper rash is because I have hideous allergies and yet managed to sleepwalk my way through an entire trip to the store, whereupon I lost the allergy med that my pharmacy had just filled.  My insurance wouldn’t cover it for another month entirely.  So I can’t smell anything and my voice is constantly gone.  So my kid ran around tonight, apparently for hours, in an acidic, horrid, crap-filled diaper and covered us in desitin when I tried to get his poor chapped ass back into a diaper.

The dishes aren’t done, so it’s 9:15 and in between ranting here I’m trying to get the washer unloaded and re-loaded so I can wash the dishes that will be dirty again tomorrow.

I hate everything.  I have had a period for three weeks because I keep occasionally missing a pill because I am an ASSHOLE AND THE MONTH IS ABOUT TO BE OUT AND I’M ABOUT TO BLEED AGAIN FUCKFUCKFUCK and I HAVE ANOTHER YEAST INFECTION and the last “vacation” I had was when I went to England during my first trimester when the whole time I felt sick as a fucking dog and so exhausted I couldn’t move.

I’m done.  I don’t give a flying fuck about speech and language pathology.  I don’t give a flying fuck about anything in the world except my kid and I can’t get that right.  Nothing stays successful.  I have single, bright moments punctuated by a neverending hair-on-fire slog through misery and if anything my husband has it worse than I do and it’s my fault.

The word is depression.

It’s deep in here.

It’s dark in here.

I’m beginning to feel stuck.

Really, really stuck in the black of it all.

What the hell am I going to do?

FUCK.  fuck everything.

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No!  Why do you ask?

Tonight the poor Troublemaker was home for all of 30 seconds between the eleventymillion jobs he’s working on any given day.  I’m paraniod that he’s going to either fall asleep behind the wheel and crash into something and/or just get fed up with all this overworking shit, pack his bags and take off.  But those fears are a post for another day.

He was home for 30 seconds, so we had dinner at 5:00 pm.  After dinner Wallace and I took part in what is becoming a habit; walking a few doors down to the S family and hanging out at their place with their three kids while Wallace, G and L run rampant like small football hooligans on five pints of bitter.  Usually there is fighting, always there are hugs, and lately G and Wallace have been working on sharing.  It’s always an excercise in patience, and high hillarity.

Plus, Pete gave me an ice-cold Heiniken, God bless his pointy little head.

So we played and played and played and while the S family had dinner upstairs Wallace and I played downstairs until they were done.  Then we came home, Wallace had a bath and got ready for bed.

I put him down, and he started howling.

My mommy brain kicked in and I thought, “Oh, lord, please no bedtime fights.  I hate bedtime fights”.  They happen so rarely, but occasionally Wallace will just decide to have a rough night and will pick and scream until I want to go stick my head in a spider web.

After going in and soothing twice I start running through the list of what might be wrong.  Is it his stuffy nose?  Does his mouth hurt after he slammed it on a church in the Thomas the Train setup (proof that God hates my cussing)?

OR COULD IT BE THAT YOUR CHILD HAS NOT HAD ANYTHING TO EAT SINCE 5:00 pm YOU FUCKING DUMBASS?  (sorry, god)

I went in and said, “Wallace, are you hungry?  Do you want a snack?”

*pathetic sniffle*  *pathetic sniffle*  *hitching, hiccoughy breath*  ahh-ahh-ahh YAH!! *miserable, but firm shake of the head*

So Wallace got back up and had some bread and butter.  He scarfed it down and went back to bed immediately and nary a peep was heard again.

Really, there should be a parenting test.  I’m sure I would have had to take some sort of remedial course.  Life with a toddler is very Continuing Education.

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In case I’m dead in the morning

Brown recluse spider number two was located after I went to bed and the cat was going mental about something.  I have captured the specimen successfully and am holding it hostage in a glass covered in plastic.  Have examined with a flashlight and much horror.  It is, indeed, a brown recluse spider.  Number two.  Found on the wall over my side of the bed.

My insomnia has a first name; it’s b-r-o-w-n.  It’s now skittering around in a glass next to the computer and to imply that I am freaked out would be understating it to such extremes that it’s best to not say anything in this moment.

Hold me, peeps.  What the fuck are we going to do?  It’ll be locusts next.

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