I'm stumped

My daughter believes that our house is haunted.

By a guy wearing purple pants with a mean face.

The details are pretty new, but ever since we moved in here she has had something like this to say. Actually all the kids at one point or another have mentioned something weird. Jackson has come downstairs in the middle of the night because he felt a burning hot hand on him and then went icy cold all over. Nathaniel has woken up saying he heard a scream. And now Avery with her poorly dressed dude... for two nights in a row now.

Apparently, he stands by the bathroom door on the landing upstairs. When I asked her how she got downstairs to tell me about it (because he would have been directly blocking the stairs) she said "He fades."

Duh.

And now I don't know what to do about this. It's not like I can go "Ohmygod!! I know, right?" and reveal my belief in ghosts or the fact that I think there is something totally weird about this house too. And at the same time I can't say "Oh shut up. Ghosts are totally fake. Also, there is not a monster under your bed. Probably." That would just make her feel dismissed and afraid of things under her bed.

 I tried "Well, honey, he probably looks angry because he is wearing purple pants and purple pants are stupid." She was not amused. And then Jackson got upset because he really wants purple jeans from Old Navy and I had just called them (and by proxy, him) stupid. She was also not amused by "He probably is near the bathroom because he has to poop and you keep LOOKING at him so he feels embarrassed."

So I ended up telling her this morning simply that I heard her. That I believe she believes she sees the purple pants ghost. It seemed like a really good strategy at 8 a.m. when I was trying to get breakfast made and kids showered and dressed and lunches made. It seemed to calm her down a little. So I was a little surprised when she came running in to me as she was eating breakfast to tell me she saw the ghost standing right behind her in the kitchen. And then when she called me when she was in the shower to tell me she heard ghostly laughing. And then when she called me AGAIN from upstairs brushing her teeth, saying the guy was standing in the corner of the bathroom.

I have no idea what the hell to tell this child.

THIS is what parenting books should be about. NO parent really needs the parenting books that are all "Feed your kids vegetables!!" and "High fevers are bad!!" and "Car seats are important!!" Those books are bullshit. They don't tell you anything you really need to know. I mean, rodents can figure out to feed their babies, but no Guinea Pig mom has ever had to answer the Specter Question.

Parenting authors (I'm looking at you William Sears and Dr. Spock and whoever wrote that What to Expect Book) you have let us down. Shame on you.

Sometimes typos are the answer

I just sent an email, to a woman I have never met, with the subject line "Parent Rep Shits".

Awwww...... s-h-i-R-t-s dammit. SHIRTS.

And yep...this is how I am coming back from a bajillion month disappearance. Talking about typos.

Soooo.....how've ya been?

This feels like one of those times you run into an ex-whatever and it's all awkward and everyone tries to be all "everything has been AWESOME" and then maybe you hang out once in that we-should-grab-coffee kind of way and then inevitably one or the other of you start to think that maybe the other person likes you again but no one wants to be the first to say it. (worst sentence ever written)
So here goes......

I like you guys.

And this is what happened.

So a few months ago I posted about how I was all teeming with anxiety and how things get really really overwhelming sometimes. That is something that has always been true for me. I get all jittery. Like my insides don't fit. Like everyone is staring at me and making fun of my shoes. Like I am walking around with a booger hanging out of my nose.

But after that post I got all stern with myself and was all "You need to start taking care of yourself. You should go to the DOCTOR!" So I made an appointment with a gynecologist. Of course. Because when your head is messed up you definitely should go to a vagina doctor. Plus I figured that this was probably all due to menopause. (at the age of 37 and for issues I have had for my whole life- makes total sense) So I made the appointment with a gynecologist.

A new one. (Brilliant. But I had no choice because we moved to Cincinnati 7 months ago.)

I go to the new girly doctor and I make it through the whole blood pressure and weight taking part/torture. The doctor comes in and we are in the "getting to know you before I ask you to remove your pants" part of the appointment. He was nice. He seemed intelligent and caring. I held it together for approximately 3 minutes. Then he asked me if I had any concerns. I said that sometimes I feel anxiety. And then I started sobbing.

I'm not sure anyone has ever been Prozac-ed so fast in all of history. I think he would have wrestled me to the ground and shoved it down my throat if he had had any emergency Prozac on him.

The good part is that it helps. Some.

And then I spent the last few months playing. Mostly with these freaks.

I haven't talked about them much. I didn't talk about anything much because I was so afraid of getting pigeon-holed as a mommy-blogger or that chick that bitches about her teenager-like angst all the time or the lady who waxes philosophical about marinara sauce and sunsets.

So I played with these guys.
And I drew some stuff.

And I took some pictures.

And I am trying to remember that tiny piece of me that knows how to scream FUCK IT at the top of my lungs.

Except for at the library. They frown on that there.

Where I just close my eyes and hit "publish"...

It's all in my head and then I sit down at the computer or with a blank sheet of paper in front of me and suddenly none of it is right. Suddenly I have to have something to SAY. There must be a MESSAGE behind the words. It's all very exhausting.

I can't just talk about my gray roots or that I have become obsessed (in my mind) with attempting to fill my freezer just in case of Doomsday thankyouverymuchNationalGeographicChannel. And honestly, I am not really very good at being a Doomsday Prepper and filling my freezer. Right now it is stocked with dinner rolls that I got on some fantastic sale around Christmas-time. I could fill the Post-Apocalyptic bread baskets like a hundred times. You are welcome, World.

I can't talk about the butterfly napkin holder I got at a thrift store that is sitting on my kitchen table with the sad $1 price tag still on it. I bought it with the intention of sanding it down a bit. Painting it. Making it kitschy and utterly fantastic. But I went to buy sandpaper and there are all these CHOICES. And it is really hard to look at the dude at Home Depot and say with a straight face "I'm working on a refinishing project of a 1970s-era plywood napkin holder. What would be the correct sandpaper to use to retain its rustic charm?" So now it just sits and mocks me and I am about 10 seconds from puffy-painting its ass and calling it a day.

And I can't talk about the anxiety that grips my brain so hard and so suddenly that it takes my breath away. That it makes it hard to leave the house. That making a phone call to order a pizza actually hurts. That makes it so that talking to anyone- even those I know well- becomes terrifying. That makes writing anything impossible.

Self made prisons are the most confining.

But today I actually got up and got dressed. I got up and got dressed like I do every day, but today I did it without feeling like throwing up.

I'm counting it as a win.

(Even though the Anxiety-Bitch in my head says that you all are totally making fun of my shirt behind my back.)

Flash me those pearly whites

I spent all last week at the dentist. I had to have two teeth filled and then I had to take my eight-year-old to the orthodontist. Teeth are one of the body's greatest design flaws. They are like having knives in your kitchen covered in that candy apple coating. Sure it's pretty and shiny and SEEMS hard, but it ERODES. The first time you pour a Coke over it some of that prettiness disappears. Of course the knife is still effective so its hard to throw it out, but it just doesn't look as good.  It's the same with tooth enamel. Tooth enamel is all white and awesome and you are all "I have such a beautiful smile!" And then you go to the dentist and they tell you that a big bunch of that pretty white coating is just gone. And it's never coming back. You would think that teeth would be made of something harder and more durable. Like titanium. Or diamonds. For god's sake I have jewelry that is stronger than my teeth....and it doesn't even have a job to do.

Having teeth filled is possibly the worst form of torture ever. Actually its not the filling part. Its mostly the shot of Novocain thing. I hate hate hate having things numbed. I am totally convinced that no matter what anesthetic or how much is used, that I will totally still feel whatever is happening. In fact, before my first c-section I pretty much clung to the anesthesiologist and yelled repeatedly "I'm gonna feel it! Make sure I can't feel it!" Because, of course, the anesthesiologist had never done his job before and totally needed my guidance on how things were supposed to go. Oh...so you AREN"T supposed to feel the knife slicing into your abdomen. Gotcha. Good thing you said something because I was just filling your spine full of Hawaiian Punch. So you can imagine my angst before the fillings. But the dentist was really good and was like "Let's come up with a hand signal so that I will know when you need me to stop and take a break for a minute." And my thought was "Won't you be able to figure it out when I bite you?" But she works with children so that probably wouldn't phase her...just like the panicking adult didn't really phase her. 

After having my teeth drilled and filled I got to take my eight-year-old to the orthodontist to discuss strategies because his teeth are TOO BIG and crowding each other. In fact, he is eight and has only lost six teeth because there is no room for the other teeth to come in. The orthodontist said he is a seven-year-old mouth-wise. I am still not sure if that was a compliment or some big criticism of my parenting abilities. Honestly, it's like evolution planned for there to be orthodontists. His teeth are too big for his head. What the hell, Teeth? You never hear that about, say, the pancreas. No doctor is ever like "We need to fit you with a gut extender so we can make room for your spleen." Even goldfish know when to stop growing to fit their environment.

The best part about Dental Week was that the orthodontist's office had complimentary cappuccino. A big machine with a "take all you want" sign on it. It's like he knew I was coming in or something. Or maybe he just figures that if people erode their teeth with hot beverages he will create a demand for more dental work.

So last week I learned that 1) teeth are stupider than goldfish, and 2) my kid's orthodontist is either a sales genius or a misguided barista.

Pretty productive if I do say so myself.

My hiatus ends with this

I haven't posted in a long long time. And there is no good reason for it. Well...there is a reason, but it's not a good one. I got all "I don't have anything good to say" and then I just didn't say anything. It's really just internet pouting. Have I mentioned before that I might just be mentally twelve years old? So I should probably apologize in advance for the possible ADD nature of this post. But I won't. 

Sooo....this past weekend was my birthday. I turned 36 so now I am officially closer to 40 than I am to 30 and that kinda freaks me out. I did the same thing when I turned 29. Most people are all like "Oh my god! I can't believe I am turning 30 (or 40 or 50)!" and I am always "What about turning 33, huh? God that's a total bitch. It's like you aren't even 32 anymore." And for some reason it makes sense to me and people are always trying to figure out the correct response to something like that. They are never sure if they are supposed to agree with me or maybe they are the odd ones because turning 33 never even phased them. 

But even with the internal freak out, it was a really good birthday. My mom and I drove up to Cleveland on Saturday to visit my grandparents for the day. Driving in a car for that long definitely leads to a lot of conversation. With me being a pharmacy tech and my mom being a nurse in a urologist's office, part of our conversation turned a little "shop talk." I never thought that bonding with my mom would include the words "Viagra" and "penile injections" but it totally did. Here's the thing.....I feel I need to share some of this conversation because it is actually a Public Service Announcement. Are you ready for it?

We Do Not Care About Your Personal Penis Activities. 

There are specifics to that. One, we do not care that your Viagra is too expensive. Neither do we care to hear things like "I will just have to be more selective about when I use it." My job is to count out the little pills and put them in a vial and then take your money. I cannot control the pricing for your escapades. Two, we do not care that "it is your anniversary." We do not need a calendar of your special events nor do we really want to know how you will be spending them. We are happy to do our jobs, but please cease making us be professional in the face of such statements. We do not know the proper sympathetic statements to make when presented with them. Nor do we really want to spend time figuring them out. 

Moving on.....

Part of my birthday weekend I spent shopping with my mom searching for the elusive Perfect Pair of Jeans. And get this! I found one such pair! They fit right. They aren't too long or too short. They make my butt look good (and isn't this really the only qualification for Perfect Jeans?). They aren't too dark or too light. They are in a smaller size than I usually wear....and I don't really care if the designer of said jeans does that thing where they call them a different size so the woman buying them is all "Oh my god! I wear a size 6 now! I am TOTALLY buying these!" The tag says "size 6" and that is all that matters to me. But I totally did the thing that all women do when they find the Perfect Jeans. I only bought one pair. Why?! Why did I do this? I have a theory. I think that women and jeans are like those dudes who can never commit to just one chick because they are convinced that someone better/hotter is just around the corner. That is women and jeans. We are commitment-phobic about our pants. 

One more thing....

I spent last evening at a Girl Scout event with my daughter. Three of the women there said to me "Wow! You have lost a lot of weight!" Why is it that in my head I hear that as retroactively calling me fat? Of course the sane part of my brain just thanks them, but the crazy gnome controlling the other half of my brain? He whispers "She just insulted you in the past." I add this to my list of reasons to be wary of Girl Scouts. 

I don't have a good wrap-up for this post. I tried, but I just can't come up with anything that ties this all together. Just roll with me. 

I think I get a Marketing degree for this- or maybe slapped with a restraining order.

I know this guy. And by "know" I mean I stumbled upon his blog a while ago and then became proficient at lurking there. Not because I am some creepy internet stalker (ahem), but because this guy is awesome. I may or may not have developed a tiny blog-crush. And I may or may not have laughed so hard at some of his posts that beverages came out of my nose.

I am going to get all link-y here....at least I am gonna try.

Seriously- go check out Johnny Virgil over at 15 Minute Lunch. He is an amazing storyteller. And it gets better. He wrote a book. A freaking BOOK. You can buy it. I bet he would like that.

I am going to be done gushing now...because there is a distinct possibility that this post will earn me the internet equivalent of a restraining order. But I am totally gonna chance it.

Plastic fumes are not festive. Something you should never learn the hard way.

So I just baked some Christmas cookies. Okay- to be more truthful they were just normal chocolate chip cookies, but I put in red and green M&Ms. So that makes them all festive, right? Here's the thing...... When I went to put the first ones on the cookie sheet I had a moment of "oh hell, I am going to hate this because I only have one cookie sheet and I am going to have to wash this in between each batch that I bake so they don't get all burn-y on the bottom uuuuggghhh why did I start this...."

And then I had an idea.

I remembered I have this rubbery mat-thing that is supposed to be super great for baking. Your baked goods will just slide right off and unicorns will sneeze glitter right in your very own kitchen! At least I think that is how the advertisement goes. So I pulled it out of the cabinet and got everything ready. Blopped the cookie dough onto it and put it in the oven where I imagined little imperfect circles of deliciousness would soon be created. But I think something went terribly wrong.

My first clue was the horrible horrible smell of burning plastic and hair. I can't even explain the hair smell. My only guess is that I used a new recipe and "bread flour" is actually made out of "old unwashed hobo hair."

And then the smoke alarm went off. But there was no smoke in the house. Weird, right? I think my smoke detector has a "your cookies are gonna taste like shit" alert. But I can't be sure. So I opened the oven door and the cookies were all half baked melty blobules and I was all "They aren't even DONE." So I had a debate with myself about whether or not I should just take them out because they were creating meth fumes or something, or let them finish baking because they weren't even real cookies yet.

I opted to let them finish baking. (You can't eat hot, runny cookie dough. Even I know that's not right. And throwing them away would be wasteful. Probably.)

In my defense, the only cooking lesson I ever got from my mom was when I was in college and decided one night to make dinner. I wanted to make roast beef (?). So I asked her how I would know when it was done and she said "Does it look like you want to eat it?" (And in her defense, that is actually true for beef.) The rest of my cooking knowledge I got from the Food Network and they let people like Guy Fieri have a show.

So I let them finish. And then I wrestled them off the silicon-baking-mat thing. And then I ate one.

They were pretty good. If you like plastic flavored M&Ms. Personally, I like the coconut ones better.