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i hope i had a kinky time with myself last night

I invented* a drink last night.  It’s called RUMQUIL.  It has to be like that, in all caps, because lowercase letters do not accurately represent the intensity of RUMQUIL.  Oh don’t be alarmed, RUMQUIL isn’t yelling at you.  It’s just staring at you with large creepy eyes.  If RUMQUIL had a mouth, it would lick your cheek, then return to staring at you.

Here’s the recipe for RUMQUIL:

Combine one shot of spiced rum with one shot of Nyquil.  Drink very quickly.  Chase with one shot of spiced rum.  Chase with another shot of spiced rum.

In case you were concerned, I am not an alcoholic who was scouring medicine cabinets for anything containing alcohol.  I know it may sound like that, because who drinks spiced rum unless it’s the last resort?, but in fact, I really don’t drink very often.

Tangent alert!  Here’s why I don’t drink very often–  I like to avoid awkward situations and hangovers.  I got drunk one time in 2010 and it was New Year’s Eve.  I spent the evening with a handful of friends, one of whom was Vacation Fling.  That’s not his real name, by the way.  So anyway, I don’t remember much after the fifth pineapple/vodka but anonymous tipsters calling in on a hotline tell me that there was some uh, flinging, between Vacation Fling and I.  Which, that’s not so bad, as I do enjoy getting flung, but what’s awkward is when you regain consciousness at 5:30am and look around and wonder why the fuck there are Nerds candies everywhere, and I mean everywhere, and then you have to commence the Walk of Shame, which is also not so bad until I got to my place, which while I was on vacation was my parent’s place, and I shame-walked in at 6am and my dad greeted me at the front door with his big smirky eyes smirking at my sex-hair and the bite mark on my shoulder (OH MY GOD MY DAD SAW THAT) and it became a Walk of Double Shame, and the awkwardness felt as big and endless as this run-on sentence.  And that, my friends, is why I don’t drink very often.

Anyway, I concocted this drink for medicinal purposes.  I got strep throat while in Arizona and the napalm-based antibiotics prescribed to me are not curing anything except that pesky illness where I KEEP FOOD IN MY STOMACH, and I am sick of sounding like Patty Bouvier and forfeiting sleep so that I can stay awake trying to suppress every single cough because if I let one cough out, it’s like a dam has been broken and an endless waterfall of  coughs leaves me terrified of pissing off Bunk Rib and goddamnit, I only want two things: to sleep and to stop writing run-on sentences.

And so I turned to nature’s disinfectant:  alcohol.  Fuck you, strep throat!  We are over.  Rum to kill the strep, Nyquil to keep the symptoms at bay for a few hours.  And it worked!  This morning I woke up sans coughing fits and raspy smoker voice!  O Glorious RUMQUIL, I sing thee praises!

Except in my RUMQUIL-induced blackout, I handcuffed myself to my bed.  So this morning, my kids came in when they woke up and found me, Dear Ol’ Mom, in a puddle of her own drool, handcuffed to her bed.  I mean, I was alone, and clothed, but still, how do you explain that to a six-year-old and a three-year-old?  You can’t recover from that.  Things have been awkward all day.

RUMQUIL:  Kills two things…  Strep throat, and dignity.

*humor me.

things

1.)  I’m just going to say it:  I failed epically at NaDeNeFoMo.  I didn’t get all thirty things deep-fried in November.  Life got all up in the way, etc etc excuses excuses.  So I’m just going to extend it forever, because as it turns out, I have a serious love for deep-fried things.

2.)  I’m not going to be in St. Petersburg, Florida this coming weekend as planned due to some urgent family things.  Let me just take a moment to be bummed out that I’m not going to spend three days eating my weight in bacon waffles at Frog Pond.

3.)  I am dealing with the loss of this weekend’s bacon waffle binge by reminding myself I’ll soon be in Florida permanently.  And then I can have all the bacon waffles I want.  Yay bacon waffles!

4.)  Did I just say #3 out loud?  That I’m moving?  Ignore me.  I am obviously a madwoman.

5.) Just because:

6.)  Maya asked Santa for a penis.  I… don’t know how to handle this.

7.)  It’s finals week for me and after that, it’s Maya’s third birthday, and after that, we’re headed to Phoenix for the holidays to spend some time with our family and God willing, Christmas will involve operating a potato gun.  Jesus would’ve wanted it that way.

i’m pretty sure that is how MJ’s legal troubles began, but that’s neither here nor there

Taylor was feeling morbid on Saturday.  That might have been because Maya brought a nasty stomach bug home from daycare on Friday afternoon and by 9pm we had all perfected the art of the technicolor yawn, choreographing our hurling in such a way that five people alternated between three toilets without missing the bowl even once.  It was the fucking Nutcracker Ballet of vomit sessions, people.

Let me just pause here to say that on Saturday afternoon, I found out that we have the best dog ever.  Our dog is a “service animal”– no, does not mean all the perverted things that “service” implies, which, I know, I’m totally disappointed too– and he works with abused children to help them feel more happy & shiny.  So of course he’s a good dog; he’s undergone two full years of intense training and behavior conditioning (that I doubt he ever needed) to become so calm and tolerant that he is basically an 80-pound stuffed animal with a heartbeat.  But you guys, I had no idea just how good-natured and easy-going he was until Maya walked up to his face, gave him a hug, and was about to kiss his nose when she VIOLENTLY HURLED ALL OVER HIS FACE.  That amazing beast did not even flinch.  He just slumped his shoulders in a very Eeyore-esque way and looked at me like, “I did not sign up for this shit.”

So anyway, by Saturday morning we are all just laying around saying things like “UuuugughhgghhgIamgoingtodiiiiiiiiiie”, which is perhaps why Taylor was obsessed with talking about dying.  ANYWAY; The point: I’m going to get to it.

I fielded many questions from Taylor about embalming, funerals, toe tags, whether or not pregnant women can die while their fetus lives, and how bullets are extracted from gunshot victims. FYI, the answer to the last one is “like this, Son, so just… don’t get shot”.

Somehow this overly-graphic conversation turned into a discussion called When Is Mom Going To Die?

Taylor:   “Mom, will I be eleven when you die?”

Me:  “I don’t know for sure, but probably not.  I don’t plan on dying in five years.”

Taylor:  “Well, when you die, will I get all your stuff?”

Me:  “Ummm I guess probably a lot of it, yeah.  Why?”

Taylor:  “Because you have some cool stuff and I want some of it.”

Me:  “Okaaaay, well I’m sure when I eventually die, you’ll get to–”

Taylor:  “I REALLY WANT YOUR JACKSON 5 CD WHEN YOU DIE.  WHEN I’M ELEVEN.  IF YOU DIE WHEN I’M ELEVEN I CAN PLAY IT IN MY CAR ON MY WAY TO HIGH SCHOOL WHICH WILL BE COOL.”

Me:  “If I die when you’re eleven, who will take care of you?”

Taylor:  “MICHAEL JACKSON.”

the fearogod look

This morning I shuffled downstairs where the kids were already running around like Chihuahuas on crack.  This is one of the best parts of having two kids– They wake up and play together/beat each other up.  Pre-Maya, Taylor would come into my room at ungodly hours and hover over my face until his stank morning breath drove me out of bed.  Now that he has someone else to bother, I can lay in my warm bed until I hear screaming.  But I digress.

I went through the morning motions; Start the coffee, watch the coffee drip, mentally curse the coffeemaker for working too slow.  I opened my mouth to ask the kids “Pop-Tarts or cereal?” and… nothing came out.  Oh, fuck.  My voice was gone, and with it, all my power over mischievous little children.   

I saw this realization hit Taylor; I watched his eyes narrow to slits as a devilish grin spread across his face.  He saw opportunities to be a troublemaker and seized them.  Cancel the DNA test; he’s obviously mine.  Taylor then runs to the fridge and grabs pudding snack packs for him & Maya.

Taylor, sweetly, refusing to make eye contact with me:  “We can have pudding for breakfast, right Mom?”

Me:  Shakes head.

Taylor:  “Well, I guess it’s okay, since you’re not saying ‘no’.”

Me:  Nostril flare.

Taylor:  “Awesome!  Thanks Mom!”

Me:  Laser stare of doom. 

Maya is just watching us, her big blue eyes darting back and forth between Taylor and me.  She looks like someone who is watching a standoff between a bank robber and the police– the loot, in this scenario, a chocolate pudding pack. WHO WILL SHOOT FIRST?

My little Dillinger finally looked right at me, giggling, and put the pudding packs in my hands.  I’m still giving him my most potent disciplinary look (while I try to keep a straight face).

“Just kidding, Mom.  I know that look and I know you call it the ‘Fearagod look’ for a reason.”

Such wisdom deserves rewards;  I set the chocolate pudding packs back down in front of him and Maya.

just more mouths to feed

Sunday morning started with a plea for a pet.  The kids had been browsing the toy ads from the newspaper, which is how I placate them while I quickly down three cups of coffee, and saw some god-awful robotic animal that they insisted they NEED.  “MOM WE NEED THIS ROBOTIC HAMSTER. WE NEEEEEEED IT.”  Somehow this segued into Taylor begging for a dog.  “But we have a dog, son” was my rebuttal.  “Our dog does cool tricks.  Our dog never pees on the floor, which is more than I can say for you, CHILDREN.  No other dog is going to be as good as the dog we have now, so why set ourselves up for disappointment?”

Two hours later I had negotiated us down to a fish.  I told the kids if they can keep a fish alive for four years, we’ll get another dog.  Obviously I’m going to be the one taking care of the fish, and I can’t keep a fish alive for four years.  OH MY DIABOLICAL SCHEMES.  I chuckled to myself maniacally.  It’s the little things, people.

This is how parenting is, most of the time; a bidding war of sorts.  You, the parent, start at the very bottom, knowing that your children are going to try their damndest to get to their goal of a puppy.  They have no shame.  They will employ every tactic, from puppy-dog eyes to the famous “I WILL KEEP MY ROOM CLEAN EVERY DAY” promises.  Yeah right, buddy.  This aint Mommy’s first rodeo.

I bid low; in the end we walked out of the pet store with two fish.  I should’ve started at “sea monkeys”.

Aside:  When I was four, my brothers and I pulled this same move on my dad.  Oh, we begged and pleaded and cajoled for months on end, lobbying for a puppy.  “Nope.  Just another mouth to feed,” says Dad coolly.  One day my dad came back to us with a compromise—he showed us an ad in the back of some magazine for sea monkeys.  It looked super cool.  In 1987 that was seriously some space-age shit.  We agreed to table the dog discussion for a year if we could get some sea monkeys.  “Alright, that’s a deal.  I’ll send away for the sea monkeys,” Dad says with a decisive nod.

My brothers and I spent two weeks checking the mail for our sea monkeys.  And then, FINALLY, they arrived.  It was just a tiny manila envelope filled with… crumbs?  It looked like crumbs, but how were we to know?  Sea monkeys are from the future, we told ourselves.  Maybe in the future everything is dehydrated until you need it to be alive.  We readied the tank and dumped our sea crumbs into the water, while my dad explained that eventually they grow to look like small furry shrimp.  “FUCKING RADICAL!  BITCHIN’ AND GNARLY!” my toe-headed brothers and I exclaimed.  No really, I bet we did say that.  I can’t remember, exactly, but probably we did.

We spent the next few weeks peering into the tank, comparing their size today to their size yesterday.  We used a magnifying glass to try and spot developing fur.

After about a month, I had concerns.  The sea monkey crumbs were not growing!  I went to my dad, worry written all over my face.  How do I break this to him?  “Daddy, I think our sea monkeys are suffering from failure to frive.”  I expected tears.  Poor us, with our dead sea monkey crumbs.  Will we ever recover, as a family?  WILL WE EVER BE ABLE TO LOVE AGAIN?

We got through it.  And when I was 21, my dad confessed over Thanksgiving pie that the sea monkeys were dust particles he had scooped into an envelope and mailed to himself.

Dad started really low—dust; and we worked him up to sea monkeys.  He obviously won that bidding war.

So we arrive home after a harrowing journey in which I’m driving (a stick shift) and holding two containers of fish so they don’t get spilled and/or shaken to death, and I get the fishes all set up in their new water mansion and I’m asking Taylor and Maya what they want to name their fish.

Maya:  “MAYA!”

Me:  “Honey, that’s your name.  Don’t you want to be the only Maya in the house?  What other name do you want to name your fish?”

Maya:  “TAYLOR!”

Me:  Sigh.

Me:  “Bobo (that’s his nickname, which invokes deathglares because he’s “a man now”), what are you gonna name your fish?”

Taylor:  “PLASMAGUN.”

Maya:  “My fishee is name MOM!”

Me:  Sigh.

Okay then.  Welcome to the family, Plasmagun and Mom.  May you live longer than sea crumbs.