Running, Tea, and Baby Fuzzy Things…

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This is all randomness. Brace thyself.

My friend at work loves to run. She seriously runs. Mountain running, trail running, long-distance running, etc. She does those things. I am still in the fast walking phase of trying to run. She is pro-level compared to me. And she brought me a book to read. The Terrible and Wonderful Reasons Why I Run Long Distances by Matthew Inman. (https://theoatmeal.com/running) It was a quick, easy, hysterical read. I have always enjoyed The Oatmeal. I am absolutely going to pick up more of his stuff now. If you haven’t checked out his comic about what would happen if two middle-aged men acted like dogs…trust me when I say you should. It’s the best.

My friend was spot on when encouraging me to read Inman’s book. I have not experienced the euphoria of which he (and most serious runners) talk about, but the way he felt when starting and the way he feels currently ring true. So now I drink tea, and I try to run. I am not in love with either, but both feel like an accomplishment in different ways. I feel very much like a butterfly in the cocoon stage. I’m gooey and kinda gross and really confused and everything is changing. But, there’s something exciting about it. I’m not expecting to be a butterfly at the end of this. I’m much too sturdily built for that. But I’m curious to see where this goes. Which is enough for now.

Bossman and I made an interesting observation. If I feel like I might puke, he ends up deserving a poop cookie. If that doesn’t make sense, go back to the poop cookie conversation and you will then understand. Our stomachs are linked psychically or something. It’s been uncanny thus far. I’m under new orders to shoot him a text anytime I start feeling less than awesome so he can plan ahead.

For those who haven’t ever been tea drinkers, and those who might decide to try it in the future, the labeling is correct. If it says don’t microwave it, do not do that thing it told you not to do. Microwaved ginger and lemon tea is bitter as all get out. Ginger and lemon tea that is steeped correctly is much better. And ginger is a flipping miracle worker if your stomach is unhappy. I never thought tea would have enough of anything in it to help. I was wrong. Big wrong. Highly recommend. But do not microwave the tea bags. Trust me.

I was informed this past weekend that the Nashville Zoo has baby flamingoes. This was a wonderful surprise and I demanded that Mancandy and I should go see them the very next day. So we did. Baby flamingos are fluffy tyrants. They all beat up on one, then randomly switch and beat up another. They are typical baby birds, ugly cute.  I’ll put a picture here:

Baby Flufflebutts

The taller one with flight feathers strode into the room like a supermodel expecting someone to bring her a skinny latte stat followed by zookeepers. It’s nonchalant snotty attitude and supermodel strut were pretty awesome.

The Andean Bear exhibit is one of my favorites.

Andian Bear Exhibit

The bears were refusing to politely put themselves on display, but the exhibit is lovely and I kind of want to go frolic in it.

However, the best thing of the day was completely unexpected. Whilst on my quick walk toward the exit (the number of strollers and children there was just absolutely bonkers and I had had quite enough of that thank you very much) I noticed a meerkat posing on a rock. The lighting was pretty so I thought I’d see what I could get.

I lucked out and got a Holy Meerkat. Light shone from him. And he was blessed among kats of meer evermore.

Holy Rodent

Other odd things that made me laugh:

A morning jockey said something about being sick and coughing up rather impressive lung butter. That phrase still makes me gak a little bit. And whilst traveling around for business, Bossman and I went to Ralph’s Donuts in Cookeville TN. Their butter twists are where it’s at. Also, Big E’s BBQ….go get ribs. You won’t be disappointed. But, while happily eating donuts and jabbering, lung butter turned into butt butter. And that phrase has been repeated multiple times since and never fails to make me laugh.

It’s incredibly hard not to laugh in teenager’s faces when they talk about how keeping up with school and clubs is hard. However, news flash for those without teenagers: they are insufferable if you laugh at them. No sense of humor. At all. They just sulk. And they are experts in the sulking department.

A group of women from work and myself occasionally meet up to eat cheese dip, have a drink or two, vent about work, and in general do the things I’ve missed doing with friends since college. Finally finding a group of people I very much enjoy in Nashville has been a godsend. They are smart, dynamic, kind, and motivated. And they have opinions. So Mancandy has taken to calling them my “Bossy Work Women”. It amuses me greatly. Finding such wonderful human beings who also eat cheese dip is a glorious thing.

Also, Mancandy has randomly started making the bed in the morning. And saying nice things for no reason. Immediately my girl brain thinks…he’s cheating on me. And then I think…but if it makes him help me clean…I may be okay with that.

A wedding….a new friend….and lip gloss…

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There was a wedding this weekend. I attended. And wrangled children. And got into skirmishes. And spent too much money trying to make my hair look like normal people’s hair. And had lip gloss smeared in my hair. It was an event. I’m sitting here looking at my suitcase trying to get up the energy to deal with it. I have to go out of town again this week for work so in all reality it will likely just sit there until I need to do something with it in the morning.

The reality of it is the wedding adventures started out more in line with a disaster. Mancandy and eldest of the Minicandies were in a big spat on the road which caused all candies to turn into vengeful, irritable, unpleasant riding companions. None of us were terribly fond of each other by the time we arrived at 1:30am. The next morning the family O’Candy was one giant mass of pissed-the-hell-off. I, unsurprisingly, found this not at all fun and became even more pissed-the-hell-off. I was my usual mature self and stayed quiet but kept score every time a snarky comment was made, a snappy tone was used, or a broody silence hung in the room. I am pretty sure the O’Candy’s are used to being the angry, vengeful ones. I tried to be polite and hold in my wrath.

I failed.

Without turning this into a giant post (you’re welcome) suffice to say, I got fed up with snappy, nasty attitudes quickly and ended up so having the first panic attack I’ve had since my father died about 8 years ago. It was not a fun adventure. I need time by myself to recharge and settle, having no time to do any of that combined with tons of negative emotions being blasted at me with no ability to influence the situation just did not sit well with me. So multiple O’Candy’s felt my wrath.

I have no regrets. My sister calls that stage banshee mode. She ascertains I’ve hit baby banshee phase and will enter the teenage banshee phase soon. I am not excited about it, but it is what it is. I’d had enough.

All that to say, the day of the wedding came and I was not in the best mood. I actually wanted to set everything on fire and dance in the flames. Instead, I dressed up, put on my girl face, tried to create girl hair, and went to the church. I wasn’t sure where to sit, I’m not family but I’m not really a friend so I wasn’t entirely certain where to plop. I ended up sitting at the end of a pew with extended family. A man with three children around him was the closest person to me. The smallest of his children crawled over him to crawl right up to me on the pew. She got an inch from my face with a big grin and a suspiciously greasy lower face area.

“I have lip gloss” was whispered directly into my face from roughly 2 inches away.

“Lip gloss is good stuff” I whispered back.

She grinned and held up her bracelet.

“The lipgloss is in my bracelet.” She explained.

I must have appeared as confused as I actually was. She took the bracelet apart, pulled it into one straight line, and held it out to me.

“Make it into a toy and you can have lip gloss” was whispered into my ear. And I do mean directly into my ear canal.

I explained that I did not know how to make a bracelet into a toy. She was a smidge less thrilled with me. I felt disappointed in myself but was still unsure how to proceed.

Her father was consulted.

He figured out how to make it work.

My new little friend came back to my side, squished up against me, and proudly showed me her bracelet-now-turtle. The turtle shell was opened slowly with gestures reminiscent of Vanna White. Inside the shell was a secret compartment that had the appearance of a mini tub of grease. A tiny little finger swished around in the shell compartment, came up with a glob of grease, and smiled at me while happily smearing grease on her lips and all surrounding areas for good measure. She was a well moisturized little thing, kind of young for skincare but who am I to judge?

I was then treated to a show of her turtles jumping and running skills. When I admired how fast the turtle could “run” across the back of the pew she carefully explained that we were playing pretend, it was not real, but we could keep playing as long as I understood we were just playing.

I solemnly nodded and complimented her turtle for a while more.

Eventually, the wedding started and we had to be quiet.

I felt a little hand on my arm. I was being petted.

She continued to pet me and brush at my hair while smiling happily up into my face. It was disconcerting.

She had very greasy little fingers.

She halfway crawled into my lap. When I moved my arms to accommodate her she slipped back into the pew beside me while explaining she had been about to sit on my lap. I nodded and said she could. She shook her head and explained she had been about to but decided not to and would continue sitting on the pew. I said okay. The purpose of this conversation eluded me, but she calmly explained again that she almost sat on my lap but didn’t. I imagine there was a kid message in that, but I didn’t get it. I still don’t. I put my fingers to my lips and gestured to the wedding, hoping the ceremony would distract her.

“Are they kissing yet?” my new little friend asked with equal parts dread and enthusiasm.

“No.”

She nodded as if that business was complete and launched into a new effort to pet my sweater and slick back my hair. She began concentrating on the effort to give me a greasy mullet. It was a catholic service so we were up and down frequently. She was a patient little thing, pausing to let me stand up along with the rest of the church and going right back to her mission as soon as I was seated again. She eventually stood up in the pew to reach the top of my head (that was carefully sprayed and fussed with so as not to lay flat) and began petting my hair down and back in a windswept yet chicken grease imbibed style that gave me pause. Unsure how to keep it from becoming a scene, I let her stand in my lap to address the front of my hair, slide around to the other side, and accommodated the slimy little hands grabbing my face to turn it this way and that.

In between asking me if the dreaded/wonderful kissing part of was upon us, she mumbled to herself like any good beautician does when they realize my ineptitude with all things girl. Her little forehead wrinkled up and she muttered to me about my hair. I didn’t understand anything she said but it was the same tone I’ve heard my entire life. I was unsure how to avoid the judgmental beautification treatment of my little tyrant when she had had enough of me.

The wedding was moving toward the end and my little friend thought her siblings might be more fun than my frumpy, newly greased up self. They tried to quietly squabble while their exasperated dad tried to quietly strike the fear of dad’s everywhere into them. The older two would settle, but I had befriended a warrior princess who was not the least bit worried about her dad.

After much swimming and squirming up and down the pew, she wiggled over to me to announce that her family was mean to her. I noticed we were at the part she’d been waiting for and pointed out the groom and bride were kissing. She glanced over, shrugged, made a noise equivalent to “ew” and turned around to tear into her brother about being mean. We were able to escape the pews and the crowd and I hid in the back of the church while everyone filed out.

My new friend was apparently done with me though, she kicked me to the curb as soon as other children were available to play with. She did, however, make a long ceremony much more interesting and humorous (although the priest did his best, and was the most epically awesome priest I’ve ever seen). I’m hoping to find more bracelet/toy/grease-pots so I can send a few for Christmas, I figure at the rate she was going she’ll have run out of grease already.

I’m still unsure about kids, especially greasy ones carrying their own grease pots increase the grease level dips too low, but she completely changed my mood and was obviously her father’s greasy little social companion. We ended up chatting later at the…after wedding party thing who’s name escapes me…reception? He finds socializing a difficult affair (I ended up in the corner with all the older gentlemen and occasionally a younger one cycling through to avoid social obligation) and appreciates the fact his daughter has never met a stranger. It makes it easier for him. I inquired about borrowing her for future awkward engagements. He politely laughed but was obviously distracted. I looked over to catch him staring at my hair.

“Your kid glossed my hair along with the lower half of her face. But it’s okay, you’ve got a smear of gloss along your cheek and into your beard there.”

I believe in equal humiliation.

Thanks, Eva. You were magical. Greasy, but magical.

 

Other People’s Kids…

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Update on Teenager Chemistry Drama: The kid who so sassily told me he didn’t need to study because he “felt smart” about chemistry was not, in fact, in any way “smart” about chemistry. The exam did not go well. At all. And I have received zero sass since. I have also done very little talking to him. I’m so mad I could create nails and then spit them. I don’t know why that’s a saying, but the idea of actually spitting nails at someone is somewhat satisfying.  So. Yeah. I haven’t said any of the things I want to say, but I will save it for a future incident when I’m told he “feels smart” about something. I’m all about building up kid’s confidence but once hubris is displayed, I’m also all about helping them learn their place. We aren’t rich. You don’t get to act better than you are. ACT YOUR STATION, CHILD!

The Star of the Show:

The Poop Snake Saga – The child of a couple I know decided he did not want to use the toilet for certain bowel emptying activities. He prefers to go in his pants. He’s five, so it’s better than an adult randomly making that decision. But still. His parents remain unamused.

After visiting a local pet store that specializes in fish and reptiles, the rebel child decided he wanted a snake. The desperate parents struck up a bargain. Poop in the toilet X number of times in a row and a snake would be the prize. He had a sticker sheet with various components of the habitat. Poop 5 times in the toilet and a water bowl was yours! Poop another 5 times and that heat lamp joined the water bowl!

With this system, the toilet poop episodes did not have to be consecutive. Two toilet poops got two stickers. However, pooping in the pants did not remove a sticker or progress. It just postponed things. So, while this was an amusing project, there were doubts (my doubts, I had doubts, but I am also not a mother so my thoughts are not terribly useful for those who produce tiny humans).

Eventually, cookies were introduced into the equation. Toilet poops equaled poop cookies and a sticker on the sticker chart.

I have been listening to the story of the poop snake with great joy. I am an adolescent boy at heart, so stories of poop just amuse me. Add a snake in the mix and a cookie, I’m in heaven. Today I received the greatest gift of my entire existence. I got to listen in on the following conversation between Poopster and Papa Poopster.

“DADDY! I GOT THE LAST STICKER ON MY STICKER CHART!”

“Oh yeah buddy? Good job! What’s that mean?”

“I POOPED IN THE TOILET! IT WAS A NORMAL POOP, BUT SO BIG! I GET MY SNAKE NOW! AND I GOT A POOP COOKIE! GOING TO GET CEREAL AND WATCH A SHOW NOW. BYE!!!!”

If you have never heard a little voice exclaim about his normal poop and celebratory poop cookie you’re missing out. I swear this family needs their own television show. Honey Boo Boo couldn’t compete with that.

Also, why are teenagers not this funny? I might like them better if they were.

 

Teenagers are worse than cats…

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Minicandy, Mancandy’s 16-year-old son, is in AP Chemistry. As someone who absolutely hated chemistry and fought like a banshee to get through it and never look at it again, that seemed like poor decision making. But no one asked me. He is also afflicted with the disease known as teenager. The once sweet child has turned into a demon spawn of sarcasm and snark. I’d like to point out I did not have children because:

1. I’ve seen how that happens and ew.

2. I didn’t like teenagers when I was a teenager, and I sure as heck don’t like them now.

3. My patience level has decreased as I age.

Teens

One thing I’m mildly insane about is education. I know how much I struggled in college and it cost me tremendously. I never developed much in the way of study skills in high school. So I was extremely offended to realize once I got to college I couldn’t get through just skating by on my memory anymore. It hurt my pride, hurt my feelings, and in my idiocy, it took me much too long to learn how to study. Take someone struggling to figure out how to study under pressure and dump some catastrophic stuff on them, and they break. Or close enough to it. So yeah, I’m a big fan of teaching kids discipline and study skills before the lack of them causes them dearly.

Teenagers think I’m full of shit and should shut up. Which is also rude.

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This weekend the Minicandy decided he was going to make me go insane and also homicidal. A large chemistry test was about to happen, half on Friday and half the following Monday. On Thursday he tells me he doesn’t need to study. He feels confident. He’s fine. When I suggest he study to be sure he’s fine, I was given the brush off. When I pointed out that the decisions we’d been talking about, and how to decide between good and bad and that in this case he was making a bad decision, he shrugged flippantly and walked out.

A slow burn started.

Once Mancandy tuned in and realized there were zero plans to study on Friday (after the first half of the test has been taken on his good flipping feeling), he insists a book and notes are produced.

“I didn’t bring my book home.”

We blinked at him. Several times. And my sassy side blurted out “Oh, that’s because you had no plans to study, right?” (I was still butthurt from the night before and was not about to let that go any time soon).

Missing my sarcasm completely he happily nods and grins at me. Like I’m the stupid one who just caught on.

The slow burn is now accelerating. Innerds are catching fire.

He then asks if he can go to a concert. At some random kids house. For an unknown length of time with unknown people.

We do not acquiesce to his desire.

He was displeased.

He continued to bring up the concert, his lack of socializing, how unreasonable we are, blah blah blah. I told him, with no small amount of restraining my own snark, that he had decided to make a poor choice. He’d even been given a reminder it was a poor choice. Then, when he could have corrected that choice, he decided to flash us the middle finger and gallivant on while blaming everyone but himself for his grades and their impact on his social schedule.

Then he had the audacity to invite one of the random individuals (of the female variety) to come swing by and “talk”.

Sidenote: One of the things that I don’t understand about teenagers is what in the holy hell do you have to talk about? You literally do NOTHING. You have zero experience with anything. You can maybe talk about video games and how much food you can cram into your face at one time. That’s it. Now, I realize that’s unfair. I remember being quite opinionated as a teenager (and that hasn’t abated). I waxed poetic about all sorts of topics I knew nothing about. So sure I was right and I could solve all the worlds problems. But seriously, I have zero patience with that crap. My point on this was the fact it circumvented the fact Minicandy was being minipunished. He got his way. He got to hang out, not studying and trying to impress another teenager of the opposite gender.

My gizzard was ablaze.

Mancandy and I have this fun thing where I get angry, he ignores me hoping I’ll stop, I don’t stop, and he tries to win me over with ice cream. I realize it is not a compliment to be so easily won over, but I freaking love ice cream. Don’t judge me.

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Mancandy is not really worried about the social interactions and shunning of discipline but he also doesn’t want to listen to me bitch about it anymore. So he recommends ice cream. I agree, tell him to grab his on-my-poo-list kid and get rid of the other one and I’ll throw a bra on and we’ll take our classy selves to the DQ.

Sidenote: I had tried doing all the hair curling things my coworker with the most amazing yummy hair ever recommended. It sort of worked. Kind of. But my hair is not yummy and wonderful like hers and that did not help my mood. I want to be yummy. Instead, I will give you indigestion.

I stomp out of the house, ready to be soothed with ice cream and candy.

A tiny creature in a white lace dress and black converse is standing in the driveway.

I do my usual slow blink.

It does not help me comprehend.

Mancandy is awkwardly inviting tiny waif child to get ice cream with us. She awkwardly agrees. Minicandy awkwardly lurches to the car. I stand blinking while my liver and spine catch fire with my gizzard.

Sidenote: there is a hiking trail named Fiery Gizzard in Tennessee and that makes me so happy.

So. I’m sitting in a vehicle with Mancandy who was going to owe me SO much ice cream after this. A little waif of a kid. And Minicandy. Who I sincerely wanted to throttle. Who was also smashed up against tiny Thumbelina in the middle rather than sitting on the other side of the car like a normal damn person. I don’t know why that fired my already fiery innerds, but it did. I held my tongue and glared daggers at Mancandy.

Mancandy was studiously avoiding looking at me. Hardcore avoidance. We get out of our subdivision, not even to the main road, and Mancandy asks Thumbalina why she seems so nervous.

She started crying.

Mancandy Man-panics and screeches to a halt on the side of the road. His eyes were wide, really white, and doing that “horse about to panic” thing. He asked her if her parents knew where she was.

She cries harder, makes whimpering sounds, and stutters out “n-n-n-n-n-n-noooooo” in a wail.

I don’t know how I wasn’t charred to death internally at this point. I turned around and mentioned in a calm voice that if I were her mom and she called to tell me she was someplace she wasn’t supposed to be I’d be upset. However, if I found out after the fact, like looking at her GPS on her phone which she was apparently already doing, I would be so much more upset.

This does not calm Thumbelina. She starts awkwardly telling us a story through her tears. Now, to be fair, she was tiny and crying and I understand why the guys were stupid. She looks like a baby bunny. A crying, lace clad baby bunny. However, she was telling the age-old teenage story of how her parents treat her like a child and she just wanted to be able to do something. It was a selfish, bratty, typical teenager statement told in the most endearing, pitiful manner possible.

Mancandy then asks her if we should take her back to her car so she could go home. Showing more teenage stupidity her response is no, she’ll go home later. She’s supposed to be at the concert so if she goes home early they’ll know something is up. And then she and Minicandy had a whispered conversation that I guess they thought we couldn’t hear because….we were facing the other way….about turning off the phone so GPS wouldn’t track her.

I was livid. To the point, I didn’t even want ice cream. I rarely get that angry. Ice cream is the most important thing ever.

I was ready to light everyone on fire with my eyes.

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Then Minicandy starts getting an attitude about being punished and us being overprotective and how teenagers don’t deserve to be treated the way they are. And while I wanted to do bodily harm, I restrained myself and tried to respond calmly. Mancandy redeemed himself by making a few solid points that seemed to get through to Thumbelina. Minicandy, however, was firmly in showing off for the little lady mode and kept throwing out sarcasm and snark.

Mancandy has quite a temper, but for some reason when Minicandy hits below the belt there’s no immediate response. It makes me crazy. So I swung around in the seat and tore into him. If teenagers were really mature they wouldn’t be lying to their parents and then blaming their parents for getting caught in the lie. If teenagers were really mature they would be honoring the promises they made instead of blaming everyone else. If teenagers were really mature they would have discussions instead of being sarcastic twits. If teenagers were really mature they would take care of business, act responsibly, and be given trust. That being punished is supposed to be punishment, not hanging out in the driveway full of angst and hostility and then getting a freaking ice cream treat. But if teenagers are caught lying and acting like idiots constantly, they don’t deserve trust and since they were ruining my lovely ice cream excursion with their stupid teenage whining they really need to JUST SHUT UP. That all went from a quiet, intense voice to something akin to a screech. I don’t think they could even hear the words, just the tone.

He came back with “You made me come get ice cream! I’d much rather be at home with Thumbelina! I don’t want to be with you! I had no choice!”

I don’t think what came out were even words. I just launched into demon tongue and had to physically restrain my own self from injuring him. His eyes got big, but I knew he wasn’t going to back down in front of his little lady. I looked him in the eyes and told him as calmly as I could manage (which was not as calmly as I’d have liked), that I was having a really hard time not ripping his face off of his skull right at that moment so he really did need to shut up. Right flipping then.

We got to the DQ drive up around this time and I was trying to decide if I even wanted any. I don’t think I’ve ever been sitting outside of a DQ and wondered if I wanted any. I then wondered if I was having a heart attack or stroke or something.

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Distracted by ice cream and whispered conversations with Thumbelina, Minicandy actually stopped talking to me. Thank God.

Mancandy and I start discussing Nirvana (it came on the radio) and the conspiracy theories around Cobain’s death. Thumbelina, showing some actual personality outside of her teenage parasitic selfish annoyingness, got excited talking about the various theories. That’s the thing that kills me. If teenagers were just useless little vapid things all the time they wouldn’t get under my skin. But occasionally the human beings way down deep in that murk of annoyingness float to the surface and I find myself liking them. A little. Not a lot, but still. And within 3 seconds she floated back down into the murk and she and Minicandy struck up the conversation about how restrictive and stupid parents are. And me. I’m not a parent. But I’m super stupid too. Just so you didn’t think I’d been spared.

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And, to top off my annoyance, they are both slurping and slopping ice cream around in their mouths while they talked and breathed and annoyed me. It sounded like someone in flip flops running through mud. Mancandy was asking questions of Thumbelina who was happily answering around mouthfuls of ice cream and brownie. Minicandy was chiming in while slurping and sloshing. I tried to just sit there and be quiet.

I managed two miles, tops.

It shouldn’t be that hard to just be quiet and eat ice cream. That is kind of my idea of heaven. But I couldn’t. We got almost back to our subdivision before I lost my mind. There was some combination of snarky comment, rolling eyes, sighing dramatically, and extra loud sloppy slurpy sounds, and I snapped. I don’t even know what I said. I just started at a normal tone and escalated until I was yelling about disgusting mouth sounds that made me nauseous and were so freaking rude and dear Lord close your freaking mouths when you chew you disgusting creatures!!!! I was also turned in my seat on my knees hovering over their stupid slurpy faces before I even realized I’d moved.

Everything got very quiet. I sat back down in my seat and tried to count to 10 and pace my breathing.

When we pulled into our driveway the kids basically tucked and rolled out as fast as possible. I did the same, as I’d seen our neighbor and was so excited about an actual adult that I basically tackled him and forced him to talk to me. Thankfully, he’s old fashioned and tries to always be super polite. So I forced that poor man to stand out in the heat and talk to me about their weekend plans while we sweated and I slowly burned from the inside out.

He watched Mancandy walking over to the teenagers standing beside Thumbelina’s car. I’m sure my face was doing weird things. He looked back at me and grinned.

“They’re the worst, aren’t they? Teenagers?” he happily asked.

I responded that I needed a night of adulting, where we talked about our latest medication routines and cholesterol levels and went to bed early and no one gave me attitude for TRYING TO HELP THEM. Ungrateful little turds.

He promised we would do so.

I went inside furious with everyone and everything and didn’t enjoy my ice cream. Mancandy came in first and I only had a few minutes to quietly but intensely rip into him about allowing a teenager to ride with us whom we KNEW was lying to her parents. We were essentially kidnapping!

Minicandy came in just then so I hushed, grabbed my phone and my pup, and started to walk upstairs. I could not believe I was the only one who thought that the entire situation was a mess. I wasn’t sure who I was angrier with. And suddenly the deceptively quiet sounds of a dangerous Mancandy came to my ears. He was calmly asking Minicandy if he’d encouraged Thumbelina to lie to her parents. The response in the negative was barely audible. Then the wrath of an extremely unhappy Mancandy roared into being. In the scariest, ugliest tone, he ripped Minicandy a new one. In a much more cohesive, well thought out manner than I would have given him credit for. And while Minicandy doesn’t like when I’m upset with him, when Mancandy is genuinely angry, everyone hunkers down and gets nervous. Even teenage boys who mistakenly think they’re big and bad.

I was SO proud of Mancandy! He’d controlled his temper much better than I had. And that is not the usual around here. Minicandy left the room tail tucked and miserable looking. My gizzard finally stopped burning.

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For those concerned: No children were harmed in the making of this blog. And they weren’t in real life either. Despite wanting to harm them more than I wanted ice cream. Which, for the new folks, is a hell of a lot.

I am going home for about a week in a couple days. I’m ready for a break from the teenage manchild. For those of you considering the miracle of bringing another life into the world, take this as a warning. They are hideous little selfish goblins. That’s it. I’ll let you know if it gets better. But I’m guessing it will just be more of the same as the twins are hitting the teenage stage of life and the youngest isn’t far behind.

Just typing that made me want to move back to the mountains and hide.

Here’s to hoping they eventually get past this stage. Because they will definitely not survive me if they stay in it forever.

Tsuki and Toddlers…

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Tsuki is a social cat. She’s so social she gets on my nerves regularly. She’s solid black and small and adorable but I don’t want a tiny little black smudge in my face all the time. She also head bonks. But not a light hey-how-ya-doing bonk. She makes me see stars. She must have the skull of a ram. And she likes to surprise bonk you. It makes me livid.

Tsuki and Neo (aka nugget aka buttface) are indoor/outdoor cats. They go crazy and destroy things unless they’re allowed to go outside and murder small creatures. I feel bad about it, but after throwing out 3 separate sofas and planning to toss a 4th, not to mention needing to repair the carpet in the entire upstairs portion of our home AND the flooring in the back room (not just because of them but they didn’t help)…they can go murder all the small things. I’m over it.

Neo doesn’t really like us all that much much less strangers, so he stays to the shadows and does not socialize. Tsuki tries to invite herself into other people’s houses. And succeeds at times. We can’t let her out if folks are having parties in our neighborhood because she will harass them into constant adoration (a nice outside event with grill and drinks turns into a Tsuki centered event) and if they don’t let her into their house (thinking you’re getting away from the annoying little shadow? No sir. Not this time.)  she makes rounds to doors and windows (front and back of the house) to stare into their soul and make horribly pitiful noises. She sneaks in and steals other animal’s food as she has no fear of other animals. She has persistence we could all learn from.

I routinely find myself apologizing for her horrible behavior. Some find it charming but there are plenty of people who don’t like animals and will hurt them given the excuse. I’m always nervous she will find her way to that sort of situation, but she refuses to stay inside. She needs more than just our attention.

Today I have the windows open (it’s in the 70s and sunny and we’re soaking up the gloriousness). I heard the neighbors toddler talking gibberish and sporadically screaming in that terrifyingly loud, sudden way that little kids have. Tsuki was out laying on the front porch soaking up the sun and I didn’t really think about the fact a small human would attract her quickly. She’s had multiple flirt fests with older children so I should have known better. I hear the little kids gibbering take on a more excited tone and I look up from my couch to see Tsuki laying in the middle of the street rolling to show her stomach. The little girl is talking to her and cooing and talking to her dad who is standing beside her laughing. Kiddo would walk closer, Tsuki would flop around faster, Dad would laugh harder. Soon there are two kids, two adult dudes (don’t know if they were both dads or what), and one little black cat flopping like a fish on land. I can hear her making little trilling squawks. Every time the kids got a little too close she’d heave herself up in a mobile flop and get a bit of distance, but she made sure they thought they just needed to move a little faster to touch her. The men were getting video of the bizarre little cat show and the kids were working themselves up into a frenzy while dads wrestled with them and the phones they were using to film.

Things came to a crescendo when both little girls let out horribly shrill, extremely loud kid screams at the same time (you know the one, when toddlers stand rigid, ball up their fists, and release the Kraken of sound that makes everyone’s heads immediately ache and shakes them on their chubby little sausage legs) and Tsuki went from cutely flopping to launching 5 feet straight up with hair on end and took off towards home. I met her at the door laughing and let her run past me in a panic while the kids stood in shock and about 3 seconds away from crying. I waved at the guys and came back inside while they cajoled little ones and walked toward home.

I knew it was going to be amusing and tried desperately to get my phone to video the interaction but it was in the middle of a temperamental freeze and wouldn’t respond. I got the battery out and had it booting back up when the shrieks sent Tsuki back over home so I missed it all. But it was epic and makes dealing with the tiny tyrant easier.

Thankfully she’s now traumatized and wants nothing to do with harassing me. She’s instead roosted on top of a clean blanket I folded. She’s making weird little snortle snoozy sounds as she dozes and occasionally stretches in an adorable manner. I’ll want to kill her again soon, but for right now I’m highly entertained. Also, Weebs keeps getting up on the couch and laying with half of his body draped off of the edge. I’m just waiting for the moment he falls off.

Cats are the worst and the best at the same time.

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The more time that goes by…more of him slides over the edge.

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We all sleep with one leg straight out and toes splayed…right?

The War

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I’m doing battle. They don’t realize it, but we are at war. We have a garbage can and a recycling can in our kitchen. The garbage has a built in incentive to remove it regularly, it reeks if you don’t. We’re both fairly quick to take that out to the big garbage can in the garage. The recycling, however, ends up the leaning tower of plastics. It has become an art form to stack recyclable stuff on top of the can, I’m assuming everyone (kids and in-law types included) assume that if your piece drops then you are responsible for taking it out (not that they do) so there are intricate little towers built every single time. Like a weird Jenga. And there’s this assumption by all that taking recyclables out means only taking out what’s actually in the can. Anything that can be stacked to the side should be left inside to fill up the empty can immediately upon returning from the garage.

I enjoy when the small humans are here because I can make them take care of these things. However, there are down sides. Putting liners back in the cans must be brought up every single time. If they don’t put a liner in they then forget liners existed and all the snot rags and bits of leftover food end up in a concrete of grossness at the bottom that I then have to scrape out. Also, when taking trash/recycling out to the garage they feel it is appropriate to leave the door to the garage wide open. Letting my very very precious air conditioning escape, along with all of the animals. Trying to catch cats that don’t want to be caught in a hot, stinky, messy garage is the epitome of herding cats. By the time I get them in the two “normal” cats are angry and look for something to pee on. The dog is chewing on mysterious items I then have to wrestle her to take back. And the special cat is busy twirling his stress and usually has some sort of grease or oil all over him leaving little black kitty prints on the floor.

Not only this, but everyone overlooks that the lid of the garbage can is disgusting. I’m the only one who manages to see the gunk on it. Well, the dog notices and tries to help, but I don’t know what it is most of the time and refuse to let her do so. I have this crazy notion that if you smear some sort of thick mucus type substance on the lid of the pain, YOU should clean it up. My gender does not equate with I want to clean up all of your most disgusting habits and secretions so that you don’t have to spend another second away from your video games.

I’m just about to the point of temper tantrum. Which none of them have seen yet, and so thereby do not fear. They will learn. They will feel my wrath. And if they let out one single molecule of the deliciously cooled air in this house I will smite them and make my name legend. The end.

PS. I feel this post is proof I would be a bad mother. They would not live long. The end, for realsies.

I Hate Math. So There.

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I hate when I ride with Mancandy when he needs to stop for diesel. I tend to enjoy hanging out with Man O’Candy, and I LOVE his truck (he has a huge old work truck that I find delightful because I’m really a guy in my mindhole), so I forget every single time. But as soon as he’s back in the truck there are immediately numbers flung in my direction.

To preface the rant about to happen, I suck at math. And when I say I suck at math, I mean I know it’s a huge weakness (like diagnosed learning disability level weakness) and I avoid it at all costs in order to look more intelligent than I actually am. I wouldn’t mind looking slow so much if he wasn’t eerily good at math. We have so many books about math and calculus and physics and crap in this house and zero percent of them belong to me.

Mancandy and the mini candies LOVE math. Love and then some extra good gooey happy emotions. It’s the bee’s knees to them. They’re little wierdo’s fathered by a large weirdo. They enjoy trying to figure out physics problems while we’re stuck in traffic. Gag me with an oversized spoon. They’re all happily arguing about the effect (or is it affect? I can’t ever figure out which is which.) of gravity when an object moves upward (12 year old to 12 year old: “Not acceleration dummy, it would decelerate because gravity would steadily pull at it!”)

So I’m sitting there all innocently being crap at math, and a random duo of numbers heads my way.

“280 and 12, GO!”

I jump. It was a loud go and I’m starting to hear warning bells in the back on my mind. This is bad, but I’m not sure why yet. I just know I won’t like it.

I’m instantly defensive.

“Why are you yelling at me!? Go where!?”

And I remember at exactly the moment he gives me a look that says I’m a slightly broken thing he might be able to fix. Welcome to Enraged Italian 101.

“I am not doing division! I suck at it, there will be carrying of numbers, and I need to write it down, and you KNOW this makes me feel stupid! Why do you do this to me!?”

I get a sassy grin and “Practice makes perfect!”

I cannot adequately express the tangle of things in my brain. Violence, shame, anger, and amusement. And all sorts of other things sprinkled in, like seasonings. I don’t want to, but refusal just makes it worse. He’s as stubborn as I am, and despite being so pissed I’m vibrating I don’t want to actually start a real fight because I’m scared of a math problem. But just the idea of having to work through it terrifies me, and THAT makes me even more angry. There is no win in this, just humiliation and craptastic math skills.

I then try to stumble through it. Out loud. While he laughs and doles out praise of extremely simple thought processes that makes me angrier and stupidly happy all at once. When I’m trying in vain to finger write on the roof of the truck so I can see what stupid number I JUST came up with he seems really proud of himself. I’m going to put a dry erase board in that truck with markers so I can actually figure out the problem next time. And for the smarties in the crowd, the rules his jerk self made up involve no calculators. So my phone is out, even though I tried to be sneaky with that.

I don’t do emotions. They’re dumb. And it’s amazing and embarrassing showing off a huge weakness. Especially to someone you know is epically good at the thing you suck at.

Moral of the story: Dating someone good at math is great for most situations. Except when they try to make you better at math. Or just never go with them for fuel again. Or get stuck in traffic in the truck while all the people around you foam at the mouth over a physics problem. Cause that’s just not normal.