I suck...wait, no I don't...do I? *On a serious note*

I hate how self-defeating and insecure I am sometimes. (Don't tell Goose I said that, I'm breaking a "house" rule against saying we "hate" things.)

People remark about how confident I am and say they wish they had my confidence. I don't really get it. I'm not trying to be cocky, I am not trying to project confidence, but I apparently do. But I think they're misreading my signals. Confidence comes off as "I don't give a fuck what people think, I know I am good at something and I feel good about myself." Yeah, I might give a "I don't give a fuck" vibe off, but it's not because I'm confident I'm good at something. No, I'm confident there's nothing anyone can say or do that could possibly be worse than the things that were said or done to me growing up.

Here's the thing - we're powerless against the past. Until my time machine is finally up and running, there's absolutely nothing we can do to change our pasts without being dishonest to ourselves. However, I know that I own my present and future. That's something I have control over. And everything is temporary. It's all beautifully fleeting. That boss that makes you nuts and puts you down? There's nothing special about him or her. They're just a person, and probably an unhappy one at that. And it's just a job. There are more where it came from. You don't *have* to stay there.

I don't know that any of this makes any sense. I guess I am just feeling kind of down today. I don't want people to think I'm an asshole because I feel secure about myself. Then again, there's no way I am going to hide who I am - I'm thirty three fucking years old and I spent way too much of my life constrained by my fear of what people thought of me. I can't get that time back but I can choose how I life *this* time, now. And I choose to be me. And you know what, most days I really like being me, even the ones like today where I doubt myself. If other people could come to the realization that who they are is a lot better than who they pretend to be, I bet the world would be a much better place for it.

Oh February, you dirty whore of a month...

The month of February started off deceptively alright. Goose and Pickle got new car seats, which wet my car seat enthusiast panties:



We boarded a plane for a much needed vacation at Joe's grandparents' house. All seemed well. Pickle got her Radiohead on:

Goose settled in for the flight:

The flight went off without a hitch and the young ones tricked everyone into thinking they were superbeings by behaving incredibly well on the plane. We were complimented several times on how well our children behaved by people who obviously don't know that how a kid behaves on the plane is between the kid and God..ain't nothing mama and daddy can do beyond throwing offerings of snacks and distractions at them.

We made it to Papa's no problem, even settled in for a nap after our journey and awoke refreshed and ready to get down to vacationing...and that's when things started going terribly wrong.

Pickle threw away my phone. My new phone. My new Android phone. My really new, like new as in "I had it five days" new Android phone. No biggie. It's just a phone, even if it is my "really new as in 'I had it five days' new Android phone" and I had already broken up with my Blackberry forever and ever and she would never take me back after the things I said about her mother.

We figured it what happened to the phone pretty quickly, too. Except that it wasn't quickly enough and the phone was already on it's way to the dump. Because it was trash day. Because the baby threw it away at night, just before Papa emptied the trash. Because it was trash day the next morning. Bye-bye phone!

Really, though, in the grand scheme of things I was much less bummed about the phone than everyone else seemed to be. Looking back though, it was a mini omen of what was to come.

On Wednesday morning Pickle made the teeniest little cough. We didn't think much of it and went about our business and had a lovely day at the children's museum and being shuttled around, fed and loved by the best hosts in the entire world. Nevermind that Papa's pushing 90, whenever we go out there, they run us all ragged.

Whooo loves picture cutouts?!

Yes, she yells "wheeee" whenever going down a slide

We also didn't worry when Pickle's cough got a bit worse on on Thursday morning. We had an awesome time in the snow:

This is how native Southern Californians make snow men, by the way. Ineptly.

But by Thursday evening, the cough was bad. So we called the doctor in California and got a prescription called in, filled and gave it to Pickle.

Thursday night I awoke and was terrified. Pickle's breathing didn't seem right to me and she now had a fever and was extremely congested. She just didn't seem right. Goose had terrible asthma growing up (not that's she's "grown up" now, but she's mostly "grown out" of her asthma). Goose also had enlarged tonsils and adenoids and had to sleep sitting up. I would wake periodically through the night when she was small to fix her pillows that propped her up. Some nights we would get up and give her a breathing treatment or two and then fill the bathroom with steam and sit in there, propped against the wall, for an hour or so until everything was under control and she could breathe properly again.

Why the hell does that matter? Because I've seen a lot. But I had never seen what I saw with Pickle-her stomach was caved in and she was breathing very shallow and oh so rapidly. When I put my head to her chest it sounded like she had a hummingbird heart, so tiny but beating so fast. I was exhausted and delirious. Was this unusual? I couldn't remember. I didn't seem right, but was it WRONG? I checked in the usual ways to make sure her circulation looked good (it did) and that she had all the signs of being hydrated (she did).  I laid there for a few hours dozing in and out with her in my arms, checking on her over and over.

That morning Joe and I decided that we weren't going to listen to our doctor (who had said, albeit over the phone, to wait until Sunday to bring her in if she didn't seem any better). Pickle seemed to be in good spirits that morning so we called around and found a pediatric urgent care we could take her to, but not until 4:00 p.m. By 3:00 Pickle was getting lethargic and I was getting panicked. We drove to the urgent care so we could be first in line. When we got there they told us that a) they don't open until 6 and we would need an appointment but that b) none of that mattered because they only see kids from their own practice. We were devastated. Sounds drastic, but with the way the baby was acting we were starting to really worry. I quizzed the office workers about urgent cares in the city with pediatricians on staff. They were sorry, but explained there weren't any. I couldn't believe it. It's a big city-Reno. Big enough it seemed. They were kind enough to give us directions and the address to an urgent care that could funnel us across the street to the children's hospital if need be.

We weren't at the urgent care long before they did, in fact, send us to the Children's Hospital. Getting triaged at that hospital was one of the scariest fucking experiences of my entire life. We walked into the triage room, sat down with the triage nurse, who took Pickle's temp and oxygen saturation levels and said a few things to us that I don't remember because, as she was talking to us, she picked up the phone next to her and whispered a few things into it. In the next few seconds there were nurses and orderlies in the room and I just remember being led back, quickly to an emergency room, carrying Pickle in my arms, Joe steadying me as I dissolved into tears and panic. Why do doctors and nurses do shit like whisper and then swoop into action? I know they're *trying* not to make us freak out but by being so calm it's so damn obvious we have every reason in the world to be panicked.

It ended up that Pickle's oxygen was very very low and that she was very ill with a particularly nasty virus which had no *real* treatment.  She spent 5 days at the hospital, with several of those on oxygen. I slept like a soldier on watch in war time. Which is to say, not much. How can you sleep when your baby looks like this?

At the same time, both Joe and Goose got really sick. Like, really sick. And Joe was trying to be such a trooper by helping me - washing my clothes and bringing me supplies at the hospital, driving out to visit everyday, taking care of sick Goose.

There was one point where I wore the same poop and vomit covered clothes for almost 36 hours. The poor baby was just a pile of mucous and mess. Maybe I'll edit this later and give more details about her hospital stay, but right now thinking about it is hard because it was so recently and it makes me cry.

Pickle recovered nicely and was released earlier than her roommate, whose mother's obsession with Jersey Shore nearly put me over the edge and made me contemplate homicide on more than one occassion during our stay. I think you should go to jail for making people watch garbage television against their will.

In the end, we were given the clearance to go home nearly one week after we should have been back in California, but with one caveat - we could not fly. Yep, that's right. We were not allowed to fly home. So we rented a giant tank Chevy Tahoe and made our way across the Sierras, stopping to let the small ones stretch their wings for a couple of hours at a park near Mammoth:

For a week our lives went back to normal - Joe and I went back to work, Pickle was cared for by her awesome nanny Chloe. Goose went back to school. We were recovering. We were so far down in the hole with a lack of sleep and we certainly didn't get the rest we had hoped to get on our vacation (disclaimer: Papa and Virginia were AMAZING, wonderful and the absolutely best ever. We couldn't have done it without them and their love, kindness and generosity were overwhelming). Still, we were on the rebound.

Then Goose caught the flu. And Joe got sick again. School was pressing down on us. It's not something you'll hear me say about us well, really ever, but life was hard. Like for real hard. Like, I feel like this shit is never ever going to end so I am going to drink a bottle of wine, put on Nick Drake albums and cry on the floor like a folorn twenty-something and question every single aspect of my past, present, future and my life in general. Our little ragtag crew that had been through everything together over the years, and which could have taken on any one of the things that happened in the whore month of February, was falling to pieces. We were worn and tired and sick and DONE.

As team captains, Joe and I went into panic mode and spent a long time talking. And planning. And thinking. And praying. (Oh yeah, other disclaimer: we're unabashed liberal Christians (yes, we actually exist). So, if that's a deal breaker for you, Mr. One Person Ever Besides My Husband That Will Read This Blog, too bad. You're entitled to your beliefs and I mine. I won't bash yours or try to change them and I ask the same respect for mine, please.)

We did what any agoraphobe would do and retreated into our little Blair fort and spent a few days recuperating. Physically, yes, but mostly mentally and spiritually. We played with the kids and did family stuff and adult stuff and fun stuff in general. We had a blast. We blew stuff off. It was all worth it. We're tired still, but we survived February and will never look at that month the same again.

Rewind - January

Well, January started off a little rough on account of all the boozin' and drugs and exploding things on New Year's Eve (just kidding mom, hang up with Child Protective Services already).

I actually don't remember a lot of January (again, see above) except for the end part. It was Pickle's first birthday on the 23rd and we had a party for her at the local vortex of hell bounce house place thingy. Normally, I go apeshit for birthday parties for the small humanoid specimens Joe and I created, as evidenced in the following pictures:

Not this time. I didn't want a bunch of assholes kids trashing the girls' room and the rest of the house. I am sick of cleaning up before so people can make it dirty and make me have to clean up after. Also, I think my ability to just deal with all the bullshit surrounding party planning that I copped out. And it was wonderful. For everyone. I was relaxed, our cult friends and family were relaxed and genuinely enjoyed themselves, especially Joe:

 Pickle especially had a fan-freaking-tastic time:

But she wasn't crazy about the cake:

And some random kid decided to join our party. By "join our party" I mean go around to the tables and steal noisemakers and hats off of them and then go to the food table and take a piece of pizza. It actually didn't piss me off, amazingly. I think I was still on a "I love not having to do jack for this party" high still.

Looking at the pics from Pickle's party made me feel like I needed a haircut, like yesterday, so I spent 6 hours and a shit-ton of money and ended up looking like Rod Stewart circa The Faces:

I will not entertain your claims that this picture gave you nightmares. Put your big girl panties on already.

Yeah, so that was what I remember of January. Pretty boring.

Rewind - December

So much has happened in the past few months it's hard to know where to start, but I'll do my best. I think I'll recap from Christmas on...

First of all, we did this which was super cool and fun!

Joe and I practiced with Goose, and she practiced at school in music class, for weeks and weeks to get ready for her big kindergarten Christmas pageant. When the day finally came, she looked adorable in her Princess Leia angel costume. And it's a good thing she did look good because that's ALL she didn't sing a single song. Not a one. All that work and she stood up on stage and messed around. Goes to show what I've always known - kids really are tiny little people, and sometimes they're tiny little asshole people who make you feel like a moron for wasting hours helping them. Ahhh, she's really growing up.

Don't worry - once it was all over I of course hugged and kissed her and told her she was a brat for not singing asked her if she had fun on stage (she really did).

Somewhere around the beginning of the month the landlord trapped himself in our garage because he's a stingy bastard. (I'm onery today, sorry). The man absolutely refuses to have a professional do anything he (thinks) he can do himself. So when our garage door finally died (after warning him it would many times) he decided the best way to get in was to CUT through one of the roll up panels. Once inside, the other panels rolled down and trapped him in the garage, as though they were exacting some kind of revenge upon him. I SWEAR I did not voodoo curse the garage door, but I was delighted concerned to hear he was trapped. He eventually freed himself and hired a guy to come out. Of course, the guy was the cheapest guy he could possibly find so a four hour repair job took three weeks. In the meantime our garage was all boarded up like an abandoned house in a ghost town. We klassy like dat.

It wouldn't have been a big deal except that the kids' gifts from Santa Claus and some gifts for other people, as well as the girls' Christmas outfits were likewise trapped in the garage, along with our washer, dryer, dirty clothes, wet clean clothes, and a variety of supplies we use on a regular basis. Nevermind. There is no scenario in which not having access to our shit for three damn weeks wasn't a big deal.

Come Christmas Eve day, we realized two things: 1) we had to get our stuff out of the garage TODAY, and 2) oops-we hadn't taken the girls to see Santa yet (we were waiting a while because she had already been traumatized once by an unauthorized, but well-meaning visit with Joe's mom and sister).

We raced down to the local mall, stood in line for-fucking-ever and got this taken:

(Pickle was in Santa's lap for like four seconds, don't go flipping out or anything)

Joe actually broke into our own garage on Christmas Eve and stole all the presents out of there in a reverse-Santa move. And, in saint-like fashion, he stayed up all night drinking wine putting together Goose's new dollhouse, while I stayed up a lot of the night drinking wine wrapping and baking and child-wrangling.

The kidlets totally dug their gifts:

We rung in the new year with some hilarious and wonderful friends, the Kurtz family, who generously donated a massive amount of bottle rockets and other explodables for our midnight amusement.

Sayonara 2010

Can't Believe I Forgot About This Site

Vegan Housemate

Posted at: 2009-12-16 13:51:38

Original ad:

Hey there! My roommate and I are looking for another housemate. We live in a large apartment in Upper Darby. There are two bedrooms and a spacious living area. The rent is $250 a month, which includes cable, internet, electric, and water.

My roommate and I are both vegans and will only live with another vegan. IF YOU AREN'T A VEGAN, YOU NEED NOT APPLY. We are looking for someone who will help with the cooking, in addition to the rent.

If you are a vegan and want to live with two vegans who respect your personal space, please e-mail us. Include some information about yourself, including your source of income.

From Me to ***********@***********.org:

Hey,

I saw your ad, and I can't tell you how happy I was to see that there are fellow vegans looking for a roommate. It is so hard to find someone to live with who respects my way of life. Are you guys still looking for someone to live with?

Mike

From Joanna ******** to Me:

Yes, we still are seeking a third housemate. Can you tell us about yourself?

From Me to Joanna ********:

Well, I am a 24 year old male, and I am currently make a living by being employed. It pays well. Now, as I said earlier, I am a hardcore vegan. I totally respect your lifestyle, but I will occasionally eat a veal burger, maybe two or three times a week. I hope that isn't a big deal. If it is, I can eat it outside, but I will still need to cook it in the kitchen. But besides that, I am easy to get along with. I love watching TV. I hope you guys like CSPAN and late night HBO as much as I do. I also love music, and think I will be a great addition to your apartment.

Mike

From Joanna ******** to Me:

You're not a vegan if you eat veal. Seriously, veal? That is perhaps the single worst thing a vegan can eat. Calves that are raised to become veal are ripped from their mothers at birth so they get anemia. Then they are starved of milk, food, and exercise. They often are put in crates so they cannot move at all; they just stand and suffer until their ultimate death. Veal goes against everything veganism stands for. How you even consider calling yourself a vegan astounds me.

From Me to Joanna ********:

Well thanks for the veal history lesson. My ex used to bitch to me about veal all the time, so I know all about it. Frankly, I think that is why I enjoy veal. Knowing that the calf suffered so much to make himself that much more tender and delicious for me makes it worth every bite. If I didn't eat veal, it would probably expire and be thrown away. Then, the calf would have died in vein. You wouldn't want that, would you. Seriously, veal isn't that bad. They give the calf a nice safe home to live in. Would you rather they just let the calf just be let loose out in the wild? Then, it would probably be killed by a lion or something. By supporting veal, you are supporting the safe life of cows everywhere.

Seeing as how you got all uppity about the veal, I guess I should tell you that I own two shotguns and an assault rifle for hunting and will need to store them in the apartment. I didn't think it would be a big deal, but I may as well tell you everything. Don't worry though, both the shotguns are registered and the assault rifle has the serial numbers filed off of it so it doesn't have to be registered.

From Joanna ******** to Me:

Don't worry, you don't need to tell me anything else because you aren't going to live with us. I highly doubt there is anything about your life that even makes you close to being a vegan. You're argument sounds like something a twelve-year-old would say. You're clearly just claiming to be vegan to live in a cheap apartment. If you really think you are vegan, think again. Vegans don't hunt, idiot.

From Me to Joanna ********:

C'mon, it isn't like I'm eating the animals after I kill them. I just kill them because I hate deer. I can't tell you how many times I've stepped in deer shit - they shit everywhere. They are worse than old people. One time my little brother ate some deer shit because he thought it was beans. We had to take him to the hospital to get him tested for Lyme disease. I'm just killing deer to make Pennsylvania a better, safer place for children. I'm not eating them, so relax. I still don't eat chicken or burgers or any of that shit. You are really picky about the vegans that you want to live with. So when is the lease for your place up? I'm looking for a place to live for about five or six months, and the sooner I can move in, the better.

From Joanna ******** to Me:

YOU'RE NOT A VEGAN!

From Joanna ******** to Me:

Not eating certain kinds of meat doesn't make you a vegan. Veganism is a lifestyle which prohibits using any kind of animal product, be it food, clothes, or anything else. Hunting is absolutely unacceptable and your reasons for hunting are ridiculous. You won't be living at my apartment so give it up.

From Me to Joanna ********:

Wow, I never thought I would find someone as pretentious as Bono, but you take the cake. Next time I bite into a savory beef brisket, I'll think of you.

We clean up nice

For our family Christmas gift this year we had professional photos done. Here's a few of our sneak peek photos. I'll add more later.

I wish I had smiled more for this one

The amazing, awesome and talented Lori Anderson and Keith Mason took these photos. Hire them by going to www.LoriAndersonPhoto.com. You won't be sorry!

Sometimes...

Sometimes I wonder by what grace our lives are separated from those who have experienced severe tragedy.  Why have we been spared the heartwrenching events laid upon so many? It's not because we are smarter, or stronger, or more careful or better than others, because we aren't. Sometimes it's the opposite. Like this family. I keep revisiting their blog. I feel like an emotional whore though because I don't personally know them. Still, I have cried and cried and cried for this mother, her husband, their children. I wish I could help. It just makes me so very sad.

For whatever reason we have been blessed, I am grateful. And I will be heading home and hugging my little family so very tight tonight.