Tuesday, January 13, 2015

Water is really strong, apparently.

All day yesterday, I felt like I had something stuck in the back of my throat (that is not an invitation to get all pervy) and no matter how much I tried to clear it, the feeling would't go away. It was making me a little stabby. So, being the genius I am, last night I decided to try to clear it out with something with a little power.

My waterpik.

First, trying to stick a waterpik down your throat and not gag is way harder than one might imagine. Second, you have to keep your head down when sticking a waterpik down your throat or else you'll also rinse your sinuses (as I learned the very hard way), so essentially you're going in blind. Going into your throat blind is a very bad idea because you might hit other stuff, too.

Like your right tonsil. 

As it turns out, tonsils bleed when shot with a high powered jet of water.

A lot. 

And for a long time. 

When one doesn't have insurance (totally getting the Obamacare today) and zero knowledge of anatomy, a profusely bleeding tonsil may cause panic. My main fear was that I'd disconnected it from whatever the hell its connected to in the first place and it was just going to dangle and bleed all night long until I bled to death and/or choked on my own blood. It was never actually dangling, but the dangling seemed inevitable in my state of panic. 

I finally confessed what I'd done to NJ so he would be prepared when he found my bloody mouthed dead body. The following is a re-enactment of our conversation:

NJ: You know water can cut through anything, right?

CTM: I know it can cut through a tonsil.

NJ: It can cut through rock or steel or anything really.

CTM: Yeah, it can totally tear up a tonsil.

NJ: Metal, marble...

CTM: A tonsil...

NJ: Wood... Granite... Water is really very powerful.

CTM: Thank you for this enlightening episode of How Stuff Works, but I feel like we're losing sight of the fact I maimed my tonsil and may slowly be bleeding to death right.this.very.second.


NJ didn't tell me it could cut an apple, so he obviously
doesn't know everything water can cut and no, saying
it can cut through "anything" doesn't count as him
knowing the apple thing.
Photo Source: By Waterjetter09 (Own work)
 GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons

He never commented on the tonsil, like maybe he didn't hear me. Or he has grown accustomed to hearing weird shit about me maiming myself and then waiting for death to take me so much in the last five years it doesn't phase him anymore. 

Or his fingers were crossed maybe this time death was actually going to take me. Who knows. 

I'm obviously not dead, but my tonsil is now swollen and hurts like a bitch on top of still feeling like I have something stuck in my throat.

But, hey, at least now I know water can slice up my tonsil and cut my (imaginary) granite countertops. 

So, there's that.

Monday, January 12, 2015

Maybe writing will be my super power since snarkiness won't actually change the world.

Saturday night, NJ and I watched the Frontline documentary about Cameron Todd Willingham, a man from Corsicana, TX who was executed in 2004 for setting his house on fire and killing his three little girls. The story is a big lightening rod for capital punishment because some people, including some arson experts say he didn't do it

I'd actually seen the documentary before, but not the updated version that's on Netflix right now and I already thought the only thing he was guilty of was being a shitty husband. If being a shitty husband makes you a murderer, than my ex-husband has three former wives who could totally nail his ass to the wall. He's a douchebag, but he's not a murderer. After watching this updated version, I really think Willingham wasn't one either and an innocent man was executed. 

Of course, with my new found knowledge of the case, I got all up on my high horse. Not near as much as I did after I watched the Michael Morton documentary (I linked his first and last name to part one and part two of the Texas Monthly articles about him and documentary to the trailer for the documentary. I would also like to be Pamela Colloff when I grow up. That is all.) because he is like the nicest man in the world and totally not bitter that he got screwed out of 25 years of his life for a crime he didn't commit because of a sleazy prosecutor. Ohhh, Lawd, don't even get me started.

Social injustice pisses me off. Like, every time I watch a documentary or hear a story (or get fired from my job for no reason and hear from kids and parents  who are devastated several times a day because the new teacher doesn't get them or take the time with them I did) about someone getting screwed simply because someone else had more money or power or connections than them, it makes my hippie senses tingle and I am overwhelmed with the need to fight the man. I want to uncover the evidence that makes things right for the little guy and causes the powerful jackass to get what's coming to him. I want to make the world a place where being poor, or different from the norm in any way, or having an opinion that differs from the people in power or just being a regular Joe doesn't mean you're totally going to get screwed. I want to be a hippie, world changing superhero.

I have no actual plan or qualifications for doing any of this since a) I have no job and therefore don't have money and resources to throw at righting the wrongs of the world and b) I have no law degree and I'm sure as hell not going to law school at almost 40, so I can't beg the people at the Innocence Project to hire me. I totally can't pull off the whole superhero costume thing, either, unless there can be a superhero who wears yoga pants and a hoodie (which, if you ask me, is way more practical than actual superhero costumes because they are tight and I just tried wearing Spanx for the first time, and I was way too uncomfortable and scared to pee for fear of never getting them back on to fight crime and injustice) because I'm a pudgy girl. 

Basically, I want to fight the man, but I have no actual skills to fight the man and I also need to get paid by a man or (wo)man to help fight the man since the (wo)man totally just screwed me. And I'd also like to do it in yoga pants, if possible. 

Even though I think Wonder Woman is
seriously cool and Lynda Carter said I was
cute when I was one and my parents met her at some
America Bicentennial thing, I think she could've
totally caught more bad guys in yoga pants
and tennis shoes.
Picture source: http://www.independent.co.uk

NJ and Grace said I could use my powers of writing and research (the word nosey may have been used to describe why I'm so good at research, but I feel curious is a much better description of what fuels my mad research skills) to fight the man while I try to figure out what my next move is career wise. I actually do have a ton of research already done for what I figured would one day make one helluva an eye-opening story. I just didn't figure that day would come so soon. 

I guess I can give it a shot while I try to decide if I want to teach again (what I really want to do is advocate for overhauling our education system, starting with charter schools and this voucher BS), even though writing query letters scares me half to death. But, it's decidedly less scary than spending 25 years in prison for a crime you didn't commit. It's not like I don't have a minor in journalism I could put to use and I've been published before, so why the hell not? 

And, I can do it while wearing yoga pants. 

Thursday, January 8, 2015

Crying robot babies can totally be birth control

Last night, Grace brought up the fact that the crying baby project will soon be commencing in her child development class. For those of you not aware, the crying baby project consists of your child bringing home a computer/robot/microchip devil baby that cries like a real baby. You know, when it's wet, when it's sleepy, when it's hungry, when it's dry, when it just wants to torture you because it's a baby and it's not like they have a lot of other ways to entertain themselves. I think the purpose of this project is to deter teenagers from procreating. Seeing as how our conversation started because Grace was talking about how she was worried the project might traumatize the pregnant girl in her class, it may be too late to stop the procreation of at least one. 

Plus, if she's pregnant enough that people can visibly see she's with child, the crying-babies-traumatize-me ship has sailed. And that is not the most traumatizing thing that will happen with the baby thing. I can think of about ten more traumatizing things than that-like poop up the back. 

Or the way the baby actually gets here. 


The talk of the crying baby coming into my house brought back all of those fun times with my kids and I was like, "Dude, you are not bringing that crying baby in this house because I've done my time with bawling kids." 

Grace was like, "Fine. I'll just take it to a friend's house and we'll take care of our babies together."

This caused something inside of me to snap. She was not going to have a sleepover with her baby and think this was just a game of robotic Cabbage Patch Kids. 

Not. Happening.

"The hell you are. You will take care of that baby at this house and don't you dare think I'm going to get up in the night and take care of your fake baby. That fake baby is your responsibility," I said in my loud mommy voice.

"Okay, crazy. It's my project anyway," she said in her 17-year-old girl asshole voice. 

"Yeah, well, I hope that baby doesn't sleep through the night until it's five!" I said in my even louder mommy voice. 

"Well, I only have it for one night, so that's not going to happen." I hate that stupid 17-year-old-you-are-insane-lady voice. 

As an added bonus to Grace having to learn what
it's like to deal with an evil crying baby, NJ is
terrified of dolls and won't be able to sleep a
wink with this creepy ass thing in the house.
This is going to be the most fun project ever.
For me.


One night? What the hell are they going to learn in one night? They stay up all night anyway, so one night up with a crying baby isn't going to teach them anything. 

They need it for a month. They need to learn the feeling of being a sleep-deprived parent who can't remember if they've showered or brushed their teeth and have being wearing the same, puke stained sweat pants for a week. 

And it needs to have at least one episode of poop up the back. 

The pleasure I would have in watching my child trying to figure out how to make the robot baby stop crying while simultaneously getting her AP Physics homework done and doing laundry because the baby explosive pooped on all her clothes would bring me immeasurable joy.

It would be worth listening to a crying damn baby in my house yet once again.

It would also greatly decrease the odds anyone will be calling me grandma anytime soon. 

This may be my most brilliant birth control plan ever. 

Monday, January 5, 2015

Home Improvement?

Friday, I started to notice a scent coming from some unknown location in my house. It wasn't a lovely scent, which is, of course, why I couldn't find it. At first, I kind of thought it was NJ and that maybe he just needed to sneak up on a bar of soap. By Saturday, the smell had intensified to to smelling like a big turd. At that point, I decided NJ needed a bath and a diaper, but kept searching for the source of the odor just in case it wasn't the result of the questionable hygiene my husband seems to have resolved to practice in 2015.

Yesterday, it hit dead body level. Although NJ has barely moved from the corner of the sofa where he is currently on season three of Psych, I was fairly certain it wasn't the smell of his dead body because I'd heard him snoring through the wall the entire night before and, every once in a while he'd speak words or laugh. Dead men don't laugh. 

The smell upset me more than the fact a decomposing, dead body could possibly be stored somewhere in my house. I think that should cause me some concern about my personality, yet it doesn't. Anyway, I again was tearing the house a part looking for the dead body or whatever was causing the horrible stench. 

Last night, NJ went into the man cave, presumably not to put together the stand and hang the punching bag that's been leaning up against my love seat since December 30th, and noticed the floor was kind of damp. The closer he got to the wall, the wetter it got and, when he pulled he dresser in there out, it was soaked behind it. 

The source of the smell had been found and it wasn't the result of anyone committing a felony. Again, more relieved about locating the source of the smell than the fact a felony was not committed. Upon finding the source, NJ informed me "we'd" have to move all the furniture out so we could get the carpet up, blah, blah, blah...

He basically lost me at the "we" portion of that little story because "we" don't work well together.  "We" are both bossy and he's a control freak. He will say I, too, am a control freak, but that is a lie. Plus, right now I'm way more motivated to do stuff than him because I have a Jawbone and I like it when it sends me messages telling me I've reached goals and working in the room would be a surefire way to reach my step goal for the day. He is slightly less motivated due to Psych and what also seems to be a resolution to spend 2015 not moving from the sofa, which is why the punching bag is still up against the love seat and not put up. 

Me pushing him to get stuff done also makes "we" projects a very bad idea, especially "we" projects that involve heavy furniture and nails. (There are nails in carpet, right?) I feel that combination greatly increases the odds that the next  strange smell to come from house will actually be a dead body. Whose is a toss-up because we're both assholes.

After badgering me about going to the post office, NJ finally moved from the corner of the sofa where he's watching Psych to go assess the stinky situation again. He says the room can wait because the carpet appears to be drying and that's a good sign. 

I'm not even sure that's a real thing or if he dreads this "we" project as much as I do. 

Or if he just wants to watch Psych. 

So, I guess this will be up against my
loveseat for the next five seasons of Psych.
Whatever the case, the stench needs to go now because I feel like we're one day away from the police showing up with a warrant and one of those dogs that sniffs out bodies.

Thursday, December 25, 2014

Christmas Journal 2014

3:30ish AM: Wake up to pee, decide as good a time as any to do the Santa thing. Am certain no one still believes, but the love of making me try to stumble around the in the dark quietly while half asleep is more entertainment than they are willing to let go of. Decide children aren't very nice people.

3:35 AM: Open Grace's door to leave her special gift from Santa. Squeaking door wakes her up and she says, "Mom?" to which I reply, "It's Santa. Go back to sleep and don't ruin the damn Christmas magic."

4:15ish -5:00ish AM: Lay awake wondering if lack of sleep can lead to heart attack. Am certain if so, I am a goner because no one could ever possibly sleep through the noises coming out of NJ's face.

6:43 AM: Finally give up on hopes of sleeping and decide murdering husband on Christmas is not what I want my life legacy to be. Get up and get in shower.

7:04 AM: Get out of shower, walk into bedroom to get clothes. Max is peeking around corner to see if we're awake. Sees more than he bargained for. Much high pitched screaming commences from both of us (his voice hasn't changed yet). He spends next 10 minutes murmuring, "Oh my God. Oh my God," over and over again.

7:04 AM: NJ is now very awake. Feel vindication that he is ripped from sleep from loud, obnoxious noises because welcome-to-my-life.

7:17 AM: Max is very excited by Time Life WWII magazine in stocking. Says something about some battle being in it and then something about a theater. Can't be certain because he is standing between me and Keurig and am thinking of way to nicely tell him he will move if he wants to live to see another Christmas.

8:06 AM: Have very strange conversation with Max where he shares cat at dad's house died of heart attack when they were putting him under to have procedure for bladder infection. Only way to cure bladder infection was to give him sex change. Not sure I believe Max, but too scared to google it. 

8:27 AM: Grace wakes up. Go to car to get rest of presents from her trunk. While carrying in Yeti cooler, crush bulb of Christmas lights that laid on porch for two weeks instead of getting hung on house. Silently curse cooler, lights and NJ because all three are connected. Get re-mad over snoring situation.


Apparently, in man world, this is like the Dooney
of coolers. I don't understand. 
8:40 AM: See post on Facebook from former "boss" saying he hopes 2015 is as blessed as 2014. Resist urge to comment, "Hope you get everything you deserve in 2015." Pat self on back.

9:04 AM: Grace asks what brownish liquid all over kitchen floor is. Believes Mocho has peed all over floor. One cat can't make that much pee, but do have visions of Mocho having to get sex change like cat at Max's dad's house. Feel scared because I don't want boy pets. Also, she's a princess.


I've watched enough episodes of Breaking Bad to know
a cat opening a package full of catnip is a lot like
a person addicted to the meth tweaking
.
(I may have used that word in the wrong context, but 
also too scared to google the correct usage.)

9:07 AM: NJ opens cabinet doors and begins barking orders about moving stuff and mopping. Don't understand words, but am glad he's plumber. Fixes problems quickly, but am now a little scared for what the rest of the day holds for us.

10:05 AM: Daddy opens canvas of senior picture Grace gave parents for Christmas. Stares at blank back, looking a little confused, saying how beautiful it is for about a minute. Mom flips it over and shows him the actual picture. Confusion subsides.

Apparently the confusion over the picture
was too much for the little guy and wore
him smooth out.
12:04 PM: Get ready to set table and realize we have no paper towels. Remember reserve napkins I always keep on hand. Turns out, all have been used except these: 

It doesn't get much classier than this.
2:52 PM: Mid-sentence, my daddy randomly pops up and says, "Forget taking home leftovers. Come on Old Fart, lets go home." (Old Fart is my mother. This is why I can't have normal marriages.) Everyone is confused, but assumes he means business since he is putting on coat and gathering belongings. 

Guess this means Christmas is over. 

7:15 PM: NJ tries to make me stick my arm in cooler so I can see it's still cold inside. Again. Don't ever want to stick arm in cooler again. 

Am now declaring Christmas over. 

Only 364 days until we endure this again...