when the sh*t hits the fan

If you’ve listened to this week’s podcast, you know this shit hit the fan around here this week.

This mama snapped. Words were said. Hands were thrown. Tears were cried. Shame was HAD.

You know the old saying, “If you think life is hard try raising a mini version of yourself during a pandemic?” No? That’s not an old saying? Well it fucking is now. Only my mini version is bigger than I am now and maybe more ruthless. God I do love her so.

We are living in some really weird times. Seriously, think about it. Have you ever even in your life imagined that you’d be forced to stay home for weeks on end, not even be allowed to work or go to school or do whatever in hell you do, oh and by the way, you may or may not be drawing a paycheck to pay for your life?! No?! Yah, no. Me either. Never crossed my mind. It does things to us. It makes us crazy(er). And it’s just hard as shit.

But you guys, we’re doing it. We’re surviving all this. We’re growing and figuring it out. We might even come out of this better people. But it’s sure as shit going to be messy in the process. Right now…my life, my brain, MY EMOTIONS are really messy. Somehow though, it feels like part of the process. Part of the becoming. I’ve got no idea where this ship is sailing, and I just feel along for the ride.

Part of this process for me is overcoming a lot of self-doubt and a lot of shame. There’s one thing I know for sure: if I didn’t have my people in my life- the ones that get into the shit with me and help me find my way out- things would not be good for me right now. Not good at all.

Please find the Everything’s (not) Fine podcast wherever you listen to podcasts. I’d love to share this part of my world with you.

Here’s a link to this week’s episode, “when the shit hits the fan” on Apple Podcasts.

Love and peace to you. Stay safe!

pre-menstrual syndrome. of course it’s real, you idiot.

I have been feeling a little *not myself* the past couple of days.  Laundry was getting behind.  I wasn’t cleaning like a merry maid.  I had no desire to cook anything really.  Those first two things are not unheard of around here, but the cooking thing?  I always love to cook.  Mostly.  Then this morning I woke up and wanted to go directly back to bed.  I know, I know… you’re all thinking this chick must be knocked up.

How may times do I have to tell you guys this? This baby shop is closed.  However, I do still have some working parts.  Sort of.  The ones that make you turn into a raging bitch and eat a vat of Nutella once a month…I still have those.  They are AWESOME.

I remember, back in the good ol’ days when I was young, I used to think people who “had PMS” were just huge drama queen fakers.  I didn’t have mood swings or headaches or bloating.  I didn’t lose my mind and inhale jelly donuts (which I don’t even like) just because they were there and looking at me.  Nope.  I just maintained my cute size six (or sometimes 8) self and ignorantly breezed my way through memses.  Glorious.

Then I got old and some things changed.  The average month is just a little crabbiness, run of the mill stuff.  But then there are freak weeks- weeks that I really wasn’t prepared for the hormone surges and haven’t been preparing myself mentally and emotionally.  These “sneakers” are usually the most damning hell weeks.  They come on like a freight train and destroy everything in their path.  While an average few days of PMS may cause some collateral damage and a few tears may be spilled for no real good reason, Sneaker Weeks are like Tsunamis of irrational emotions that swallow up every good thing that has ever sprouted and bloomed in my life.  They have the potential of destroying sanity.  Because I start wanting to kill people for just, you know, breathing in my vicinity.

Since I basically have to check myself into the halfway house for half-breed mutant serial killers a few days a month complete with stretchy pants and wire-free bras I’m somewhat of an authority on this subject.  Frankly, I’m scared of myself.   So I’ve decided to grace you with a few pointers should you ever be in the cross hairs of a crazed lunatic in the midst of a shark attack.  Print this out.  Tape it to your bathroom mirror.  Memorize it.  It could save your life one day.

1.  Don’t ask her if she’s “feeling okay” or say things like “you look tired.”  {No shit idiot asshole.  I look like shit and feel like someone set off an alka-seltzer bomb in my abdomen.  I can barely hold my eyes open and I know that this ache in my back is early onset back and leg cramps in addition to the normal cramps which will be debilitating within the next 72 hours.  Shut your mouth!}If you should accidentally let this slip out of your mouth, just back away slowly and tell her you’re running to the store really quick to get Cadbury Chocolate Eggs and Sour Cream and Cheddar Ruffles.  This will save your life. 

2.  Under NO circumstance ask her if she got that one thing done that you’ve been asking her to do.
Man/Woman up and get it done yourself.  She already feels like the biggest loser known to man.  Reminding her of her failures to accomplish anything productive in this trying time will just make her feel crappier.  You must just do it on your own.  If you don’t know how, just buy it.  Whatever it is.  Buy it and be happy about it.

3.  Do not eat noisily.  Chew with your mouth closed and try to limit the amount of saliva you produce so as to avoid the sound of squishing within your oral orifice.  Most people suffer mild cases of Hyperacusis (mouth sound sensitivity).  Add a surge of hormones and irrationality and you just might be wearing your fork as a piercing if you’re not careful.  If you really want to be safe, just let her know you’ll be picking up dinner tonight (and eat on your way home!) and would she like you to bring home ice cream, Twinkies or Lindt chocolates to go with the Triple Crunchy Fried Chicken and Mashed Potatoes smothered in Gravy?

4.  DON’T TOUCH HER.  Don’t decide that this is the day that you’re feeling needy and really need some cuddles.  You might as well just put her in a coffin and close the lid.  Nothing says claustrophobia like Shark Week and touching.  Just go in a closet and give yourself a big hug.  It will save your life, dammit.

5.  Don’t touch her stuff.  She spends her life loving, nurturing and taking care of people.  She has hardly anything that truly belongs to her.  She has to hide in the bathroom just to get some peace and quiet most days, and if there’s small children around not even that works.  She has three things in this house that actually belong to her.  Just don’t touch it.  JUST DON’T!

6.  This is possibly the most important safety tip.  If you have children, just remove them completely from the situation.  They are not smart enough to follow these rules, plus they just remind her that this hell wouldn’t even be going on if God hadn’t decided that women were to carry babies and Eve hadn’t done whatever the hell she did to make life for all women just a damn cluster-fuck of crap anyway.  Just send them away to play for a while and then ask Grandma to intervene and save their lives.  Grandmas understand, they once endured this hell and lived to tell about it.

This list is ever-changing and evolving.  This crap won’t even work next month so on second thought, don’t memorize this list.  Just mark the dates on your calendar and schedule a getaway when you need to.  Leave behind lots of salty snacks and chocolate and hope to God menopause passes soon and your life will be spared.

if you are a locksmith (or my husband) you might not want to read this.

It’s been a pretty eventful week here at the Impropers.  I’ve been a busy little bee getting shit done.  That’s what I do. GET SHIT DONE.

This morning, I was sitting here at my computer getting more shit done and the mister calls sounding very sheepish.  He says, “You’re going to kill me, but I need you to call a locksmith.  I locked the keys in the car and I have a meeting in an hour and it’s going to be pushing it.  I’m really sorry, babe.”

Now, you may be wondering what kind of ball-crushing wife I am for my husband to call me so tail-between-the-legs like for an honest to goodness mistake people make all the damn time.  Well, let me tell you why.

BECAUSE THE IDIOT DOES IT ALL THE DAMN TIME.  ALL the damn time.  I’m sorry for the screaming.  But, you guys, if you were in my head right now, you’d know some bolded capitalized letters here is the understatement of a lifetime.  My blood pressure is through the roof.

Again, you might be thinking, “Jeez, Kel.  Cool it.  It’s not that big of a deal.”  And you might be right.  IF- and hear me when I say if, please- IF I hadn’t also just locked the keys in the car this past weekend and had a little experience of my own.

You see, I took Elle to a birthday party at a skating rink about a half hour away on Sunday.  I hadn’t had lunch yet so I took her in and then went back to the car to eat in some peace and quiet.  When I got out of the car…blah blah blah. Locked out.

So, I called the man (the husband) and told him what an idiot I am and asked for some help.  He said, ask someone that works there for a wire hanger and then see if you can get someone to help you.  Fine, I will humiliate myself and do that.  I got the hanger.  Everyone who worked at said skating rink was 12.  There were two men at the rink.  One was 80 and one looked like he just got out of the federal pin for pretending to help a woman get the keys out of her car and then sticking her in his van and taking her across state lines for god only knows what.

So, I called the man again and said he was going to need to get his ass of the couch and COME HELP A BITCH OUT.  Which he did.  Along with his dad.  Which I am forever grateful for.  Thank you, dad.  NO THANK YOU, JIMMIE.

Fast forward to today, because this is where it gets goooood.  I maintained my decorum and was the nice wifey.  I called a locksmith.  He said he’d have someone call me right back.  Seven minutes lapsed and I called another locksmith.  Because we are on a time crunch for an important meeting.  That person was on their way before I even hung up the phone.  And they were $15 bucks cheaper.  They win.

While on the phone with hubby, first  locksmith finally calls.  I miss it.  I call back.  No answer.  I call back again.  No answer.

Phone rings 5 minutes later and some *ahem* not very good English speaking person (no problem there, except I couldn’t totally understand him.) starts YELLING at me.  “WHY YOU CALL SO MANY COMPANIES TO GET YOUR HUSBAND’S DOORS UNLOCKED LADY??”

I said, calmly, “Because the number I initially called did not call me back for over 10 minutes.  By the time you called me, someone else had already returned my call and was on the phone with my husband already almost there.  And don’t you ever call yelling at a potential customer.  I’m sorry for the inconvenience for you, but this is poor customer service and you are RUDE.”

He said, “Oohhhhh Drama Queen, huh?”

I said, “You haven’t begun to see drama queen you pathetic son of a bitch.  Go to hell.”  (Or something like that.  I don’t completely remember because I think I was in the middle of a stroke my blood pressure was so fucking high.”

Drama Queen?  You damn right you pansy ass little door unlocker.  And I have your phone number.  I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN.

Whew.  Okay, I am okay.  I will not maim and destroy poor locksmiths.  I will not lose my shit.  I will not lose my shit. Peaceful Zen thoughts and Xanax to begin now.

Aaaannnnd I’m off to Walmart for a freaking magnetic hide-a-key thingy.  And our next car will have keyless entry.  And AAA.  And anything else that will get my idiot husband into his car without costing over fifty bucks a pop.

Pass the Tylenol.

housewife survival guide. for the newlywed.

 

I have a friend who recently decided to give up the greatest freedom ever in exchange for something called nuptial bliss.  I’m talking single-hood people, not living in America.  My friend and her hubby are all cute and lovey and living in the middle of god-forsaken-nowhere-Montana or some place so they can live off the land and just enjoy being alone together or some delusional romantical jest.  Whatever.

Yesterday on her facebook she posts that they are finally getting television services hooked up to their cabin and how exciting it will be to watch something other than Anderson Cooper’s face through a blanket of grayish snow.  And I was so excited for her because last night was the Season Premier of Parenthood and she should probably get caught up on that show to make the drama of married life seem boring to her.  And because I freaking love it.  Yay for fall TV.

Then this morning I wake up to find her posting about now that they have cable and internet, (and oh my God how has she lived this long without the INTERWEBZ?!?!?!)  she isn’t sure if she should watch TV or play online or *GASP* do housework?  And I am immediately “Oh my god woman! Hasn’t anyone taught you the rules of housewifery yet?  Holy Shit let me break it down for you!”  And so here are the rules you guys.  Please make sure to share this with any single women you know.  I fear I may be too late here and she has already spent the first month of marriage doing crazy domestic dilly-dallying which he now expects and OHMYGODTHERE’SNOTURNINGBACK.  How was I not there for my friend before this mess started!?  HEED MY WISDOM!

Basic Rules of Wifery:

1.  Start slow.  This is the most basic rule there is, ladies.  You must pace yourself when you start this out or, let’s face it, your marriage is doomed.

When cooking, burn at least half of the meals you prepare per week.  You may be God’s gift to fine dining, but you need to give that man a wake-up call that this is not his mama’s house and there’s some rough roads ahead.  An occasional meal of PBJ’s also isn’t a bad idea.  This may feel a little beneath you for a few weeks, but  you just have to hold strong.  He needs to look back on these days in a few months and realize you have worked tirelessly hard to improve your skills for him.

Leave crap laying around the house for a while.  Don’t keep things spotless.  Leave a box of tampons out on the bathroom counter.  Leave his socks on the floor for a couple of days.  This puts simple boundaries in place.  You are marking your territory while simultaneously telling him you are not the effing maid and there will be equal work put in around this joint.

Put off doing laundry as long as possible.  (You may have to sneak a small load of your things in while he’s gone to make sure you can outlast him.)  This will ensure that once you do start doing laundry on the regular, but leave it in baskets rather than putting it away, he will not bitch and quite possibly will help put his own crap away.  This is housewife GOLD here folks.

You get the idea by starting slow.  Give yourself a few months to work up to your true self.  By the time he suffers through this time, he will think you’ve worked so hard to become a Grade A housewife, he’ll buy you diamond earrings for your three month anniversary.  It’s truly a win/win.

2.  Don’t spend your whole day doing crap around the house.  Listen, keeping your palace up to a quality living quarters does not take eight hours a day.  You are more than able to spend the first five hours lounging in your jammies and watching the Real Housewives of Everywhere every single day.  It takes three hours, at most, to shower and make yourself pretty (if you’re in to that sort of thing,) wipe off countertops and throw dishes in the dishwasher.  You can then chop up some veggies and throw them in a pan and by the time he gets home things will be smelling like dinner.  Take a few more minutes to throw some hot dogs on there too and it’s a meal.  This is not rocket science.

3.  {This is a mistake I made out of the chutes.  I fear there’s no turning back.  I also think he may have passed it on to the offspring.  Hear my warning!}  Do not find stuff for him.  If he’s missing some paper work and you know right where it is, just point him in the general direction casually.  Don’t, for any reason, go finding crap.  He will then lose his ever-living brain cells and thenceforward go about expecting you to find everything.  I swear to God in a few weeks he will cease lifting single sheets of paper to look under the stack for his own damn car keys.  You cannot let this happen.  Do not let on that your uterus is truly a navigational system for lost items.  This is a secret we must keep to ourselves or we will spend eternity searching for lost socks and someone’s quarterly report.  It’s just not an existence we want to suffer through!

4.  This is the most  important rule.  Do not start doing a certain chore if it is not something you want to be saddled with for the next fifty years.  Imagine for a moment your hubby has spent the first two years tirelessly mowing, edging and weeding your lawn.  Then one day, he has had a particularly long week at the office and you want to help him out and cut the grass for him.  This is a huge mistake!  Fight the urge to rescue your man and make his life easier.  Whatever you do, don’t give in.  As wives, once we give in and do an extra chore once, they automatically assume we’re just going to take over that job for the rest of forever.  That old “give an inch and they’ll take a mile” thing?  That’s 100% TRUE.

5.  This seems like a contradiction of rule number four, but it is actually just a tricky variation on the subject.  Occasionally, you may want to do something around the house that you know he’d like you to take on, but you’re just not willing to shoulder.  Let’s just use the previous example of lawn mowing.  When you cut the grass, do it in a way that has the neighbors wondering what crack-head lawn boy has been butchering your spring green.  Mess up the lines, go in three different direction and maybe take out a shrub or two.  When the hubs has a chance to check out your handiwork, act completely proud of your efforts as well as exhausted.  This will provide a) a chance for him to see that you really do think you’ve done a good job and are completely incapable of EVER doing this again and b)  a reason for him to tell you not to do it again. “Oh honey, that must be a little too strenuous for you, I better keep up on this chore.  WIN/WIN!

I know this may seem a bit underhanded to you newlyweds.  How could one ever be so devious and dishonest in marriage?  Well honey, honesty is the last thing you need in a marriage, trust me!