At Least I'll Be Warm When The Apocalypse Comes

The world must be coming to an end. That's the only explanation. Because last night? I bought a Snuggie.

In my own defense, it was for my Mom, not me. But still. I always laugh at those infomercials and says things like "the day I buy a snuggie is the day someone needs to punch me in the face."

Well punch away, baby. Because I had a coupon (probably because it's 105 degrees here today) and there they were, a huge stack of Snuggie boxes just daring me to buy one of them. Those Snuggies were all "Oh we see you, little missy...sneaking glances at us while you pretend to be interested in the knock-off perfumes" and I was all "I have no idea what you are talking about" and the Snuggies were all "You know you want to buy one of us...we're all warm and toasty" and I was all "No way! I'm way too awesome and sexy to buy you!" and the Snuggies were all "But you have elderly parents that would benefit so much from us...don't be selfish" and I was all "Well, that is true..." and the Snuggies were all "With your coupon, we'll only be $10" and I was all "Yeah I guess so..." and the Snuggies were all "You can't afford not to buy one of usssssss" and I was all "Ummmm, okay...maybe I'll just take a quick look" and the Snuggies were all "Yesssssssss, come closer to the Snuggie display..." and the next thing I know, I'm at the checkout with a motherfucking Snuggie box in my hand.

Here's the really sad part. I decided to try it on before I sent it to my Mom. I tried it on and guess what? Warm and toasty and comfy.

It was awesome. I loved it.

I decided to keep it.

Damn you, Snuggie empire! Damn you for turning me into one of those people that I make fun of. And no! I will so not use your fucking book light! I don't care that it came free with purchase! You can shove your book light up your ass, Snuggie empire!

Okay fine. I used the fucking book light. I was reading in bed last night and didn't want to disturb Captain Carl who was sleeping, so I broke down and clipped it to my book and turned off the overhead light because I'm such a good wife. Quit judging, you don't know me! I'm still just as cool as I was pre-Snuggie with free book light.

p.s. Does anyone know how much the clapper is?

p.p.s. What? It's for my mom. Shut up!

Why I Taped Your Cat To The Wall

That was the subject line in an email I just received from my husband.

This is the picture attached to the email.

It’s cat puke. On our living room rug. That Captain Carl apparently stepped in.

Cats are pretty much awesome, right?

This Post Is Kind Of Serious. I Threw In Some Swears To Make It Up To You.

I’ve got anxiety issues. I’m a bit high-strung. I tend to worry a great deal. I have trouble turning my brain off. I suffer from frequent heartburn. I often have a difficult time falling asleep at night. Sometimes I have small panic attacks.

Okay fine. I lose my shit on a daily basis, people. Fine, I said it. Are you happy? Yeah, of course you are. Assholes.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. You aren’t assholes. You are nice people, who will probably leave me encouraging comments like “Hang in there!” and “Maybe you should visit your doctor?” and “Your mom” (Kurt).

It’s just that, well, I feel like I might be reaching my breaking point emotionally. What’s funny is that people who don’t know me really well would never know I’m stressed out because I’m always pleasant and laughing. But the people who do know me really well? They see how fakey my smile is and that when I think no one is looking, I’m all frowny and crazy eyed. They can tell I’m not sleeping well because of the dark circles under said crazy eyes and how I mumble to myself and sigh a lot and generally look unwell.

I thought I was doing a pretty good job of hiding it from everyone besides Captain Carl. He has special insight into my soul and lady parts, so I can’t get anything past him. I gave up on that a few years ago. But I was pretty sure that most everyone else thought I was my old sunny self. Until graduation weekend, when all of my family and the Captain’s family descended on our house. I think I heard “Are you doing okay?” and “Are you feeling well?” and “You must be tired” about 50 times that day. Then my sister pulled me aside and was all “I went on antidepressants last month and I’ve never felt better.” and I was all “That’s awesome!” and she was all *pointed stare* and I was all “What?” and she was all “Never. Better.” and I was all “Oh, ummm…great?” and she was all “Seriously.” and I was all "...the fuck?" and she was all "You need meds, bish". And my parents were especially concerned. I picked up on that after my Dad gave me the “Try to find happiness in every day” speech twice in as many hours. And on their way out, my Mom slipped some money into my hand and whispered “Get yourself a pedi-mani or whatever they call it and feel better, honey.”

Well, shit.

They are all right. I AM tired. I’m NOT feeling well. And some days, I’m definitely NOT okay. (not every day though…I really do have a lot of good days. But this post isn’t about that. It’s about me whining and feeling sorry for myself, so shut up.)

The thing is, I’m afraid to go to the doctor. It’s overwhelming to even think about schedule an appointment to ask what I should do about my totally whacked out anxiety and inability to just chill the fuck out. And yes, I know that overwhelmed feeling is reason enough to do it. Gah, I’m a mess.

But here’s the good thing. My husband, bless his squishy sweet heart, never tires of trying to help me. He hates that I'm always stressed out. He hates that I have nightmares much too often. He hates that I come home from work and immediately start cleaning the house. I don’t even change out of my work clothes some days because my anxiety level is so high that I don’t want to stop moving moving moving, even though I’m exhausted. I’m in the kitchen, wiping counters and throwing out junk mail and cleaning out the vegetable drawer in my heels. Sometimes I even forget to take my purse of my shoulder before I start. For reals. Crazy, right? And yet, the Captain sticks with it and every day tells me to “Sit your ass down and relax, damn it”. Some days it works, some days not so much.

I think he could sense after graduation that I was making a beeline towards crazytown. So last weekend, he piled me and my camera and my 5 pairs of yoga pants and my 12 pairs of flip flops into the car, drove me 4 hours away and plopped me down at a resort in the middle of nowhere. Our room was on the second floor of a building in the woods. We had to be transported to it via golf cart on gravel trails lit only by solar lights. Our view was leaves and tree trunks. There were rocking chairs on our deck and bug spray next to the cushy robes in our closet. There were no sounds except the wind and the birds. They left wine and chocolates on our bedside table. It was heaven.

This trip was technically a business venture for the Captain. He had meetings all day Saturday in the resort’s conference room, so I was left to my own devices. It was awesome. I spent the morning walking through the meadows on nature trails. I was the only person out there and I felt a million miles away from my life. I took pictures of butterflies and flowers. A deer popped up out of the tall grass no farther than 10 feet away from me, followed by her fawn. Fucking Bambi, ya’ll. The path eventually led me to a pond where dozens of dragonflies were swarming. I began to feel the anxiety and stress slowly loosen it’s grip on me and I began to relax. I sat down under a tree and cried for awhile, just because I wanted to. I even sang out loud. “Oh what a beautiful morning”. Best solo sung in a field by a crazy woman ever. I wish I had brought the wine with me. Then I went back to my room, showered, ate lunch and got a massage (hells to the yeah). Then I joined Captain Carl for drinks and dinner. I slept like a baby and had morning sex on Sunday.

I need to move to this place. Meds and therapy would not be necessary. All I need is a treehouse and a meadow filled with Disney animals and I’m all good. But alas, I had to come home last night. Back to a world filled with jobs and bills and dirty litter boxes and renters and teenage boys. You know…real life. I’m easing back in slowly today. I downloaded the entire soundtrack to Oklahoma and am currently humming along with “Surrey with a fringe on top” and envisioning Captain Carl as Curly. I do love a man in a cowboy hat.

I Wonder If This Will Give Me A Yeast Infection

I wrote a long and actually quite serious post this morning, but I decided to save that one for tomorrow in order to share this with you instead. You’re welcome.

I just went to the ladies room and all the stalls were full and I opened a new tampon and then dropped it on the floor and it rolled out under the stall and I was so panicked that I didn’t pull up my pants before I ran out there to pick it up. And then I had to use it because I only brought one with me to the bathroom. So now I have office bathroom floor in my vagina.

I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried, people.

Breaking Up Is (Kind Of Not Really) Hard To Do

Update on the teenage love drama from last week:

The Kiddo broke up with Bunny.

Two days later, he came home with three hickeys on his neck.

From a girl who is not Bunny.

We made jokes about how deeply in love he must have been to have waited a whole 48 hours before messing around with someone else.

He pretended to be offended.

Until another girl texted him.

Then he asked if he could go out for awhile to “do stuff”.

In conclusion:

My son is a slut.

I need a good resource for bulk condom orders.

Facebook: Bringing A New Level Of Awkward

Remember when I blogged about how texting has replaced note passing for teenagers? I should have also mentioned facebook in that post, because I forgot how it’s pretty much an extension of a teenager’s text life. My boy’s girlfriend, Bunny, friend requested me (or however you crazy kids say that) on facebook back when they were first dating. I was shocked, I was awed, I was gleefully rubbing my hands together. Because hello? you just gave me access to everything you write on my son’s page. Color me excited!

I’ve managed to refrain from blogging about all cutesy little things she’s written about the Kiddo despite my urge to do so. Especially the “you’re so sexy” ones and the ones that said things like “last night was amazing, I am soooo in love” because gross. Until now. Because last night Bunny passed right by cutesy and went straight into “things you write that your boyfriend’s parents should never ever read”. Now, I won’t quote everything she said because I’m not a total douchebag. But I am a sort of douchebag, so here’s the gist.

Bunny > Kiddo: I don’t care who reads this, everything about you is my love. You are the reason I get up in the morning, the reason I brush my hair, the reason I wear perfume. I will always love you no matter what, you’re the one.

Believe me, ya’ll. It went on and on and on and on to the point that I started to feel really uncomfortable and guilty, like I was reading Bunny’s diary. Seriously...the reason she brushes her hair??? It was hard to believe she was referring to my boy, who still has to be reminded to not wear the same socks and underwear that he wore the day before. Because that boy? So not ready to be loved like that. He’s just not what you’d call “mature” or “adult” or “not a tool” yet. He needs a couple or 10 years to be worthy of that kind of romantic devotion. I thought about clicking the “like” button and then leaving a comment like “Awww, I’m glad you like my baby boy. It’s too bad he only brushes his teeth a couple times a week, huh?” But I didn’t because I have amazing self-control. And because I’d prefer my son to be talking to me when he graduates this weekend.

There is just nothing like teenage love, eh? So sweet, so incredibly stupid. I want to grab Bunny by the shoulders and give her a good, healthy shake and tell her that, as awesome as the Kiddo is, he is probably not “the one”. Because I happen to know he’s planning on breaking up with her on Monday so that he can be “free for my last summer before college” which to me means “screw around with Bunny’s best friend, whom he dated before her and still has a thing for”. And the worst part is that she also knows about this plan, because he told her about his intentions two months ago. And yet? She didn't dump his ass right then and is instead writing sappy love notes on facebook for all the interwebs to see.

P.S. I just went back and read it again and one of the Kiddo's friends left the comment "puke". Teenage boys are awesome. And by "awesome" I mean "total assholes".

SuperCrotch

You know how when you were a kid and you’d eat an apple and you’d recite the alphabet for each twist of the stem and then whatever letter you were saying when the stem twisted off would be the first letter of the last name of the boy you were going to marry? Remember that? Yeah, that was an awesome game. You know what other game was awesome? MASH. Remember MASH? You know…Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House? Because of those games, I was convinced I was going to marry Mark (hottt!) or Jason (to the max!) or Corey (totally bitchin!) or the other Corey (gag me!). I didn’t marry any of those suckers, but the jokes on them because guess who didn’t end up being a pig farmer’s wife like everyone thought she would???

Shit.

Y’all. I can’t come up with a decent blog post to save my life. Every day I sit here and I’m all “Okay, today’s the day! Today’s the day that you finally write that amazing blog post that will go viral and everyone will know who you are and you’ll finally have to come clean and admit to your family and friends that you are Miss Yvonne because everyone keeps talking to you about her and you can’t stand them not knowing that YOU are the genius behind the blog!”. And then I write crap like that first paragraph up there. About apple stems and MASH. Seriously. Help.

I think I’m stuck on account of all the graduation junk that has been occupying my brain for the last few weeks. The Kiddo graduates on Saturday and I’ve spent all my free time obsessing over party details. The menu, the cake, the drinks, sleeping arrangements, transportation and parking, where to hide my vibrators from my snooping mother, etc. I spent the whole weekend cleaning the house. The whole HOLIDAY weekend, y’all. I should have been at the lake…I should have been at the movies….I should have been drinking! But it’s okay because my 18 year old son did all those things for me. He’s a giver, that one.

*sigh*

I’m trying to keep the crazy at a low hum so that Captain Carl doesn’t divorce me, but it’s hard to keep a good anxiety attack down. And when I’m not freaking out, I’m blubbering like a baby over old photos of the Kiddo. I’m a mess.

The Captain has really stepped up to the plate and has been helping me a lot. I’m pretty sure it’s on account of my wacko scary eyes and random weeping. But I don’t care because my sprinklers are fixed, my floors are getting cleaned, my lawn has been edged, all my pictures have been hung and the party menu has been taken care of. I seriously love that guy. I should give him a blow job to show him my appreciation, but you know…...meh.

P.S. Renty lost his job and is now wandering around my house wearing nothing but silk Superman boxers with a big “S” over the crotch and black socks all day long. It’s about as sexy as it sounds. Help me, Baby Jesus.