The Law Of Attraction To Charlie Sheen

Warning: You can’t process this blog post with a normal brain.

I’ve been trying to follow the law of attraction lately. You know, the whole “like attracts like” theory, which states that the thoughts you put out there ultimately attract positive or negative things to you depending on if you are a mental ray of sunshine or possess more of an Andy Dick on a bender attitude…

I might not be explaining this very well.

“No you are not. Has any ever told you that your head is enormous?” (image via starpulse)

Anyway, I’m a fairly positive person but I do spend a lot of time going over worst case scenarios in my head and I decided one day after reading about the law of attraction on someone’s blog (isn’t that where everyone gets their pertinent information?) that I didn’t necessarily want to attract some of the things I’d been thinking about. Maybe I should spend less time thinking about homicidal maniacs breaking into my house and more time thinking about unicorns and rainbows and Ryan Reynolds’s abs.

You’re welcome.

I decided to test this theory by focusing my thoughts on something I really wanted.

Specifically a house. More specifically the HGTV Green Home. And how I was going to win it.

Oh look, there I am in the window with a glass of organic wine. (image via

Then I thought, who knows more about winning than Charlie Sheen? (Granted, someone might know more about this subject, but they don’t talk about it in the media and so I haven’t heard about them and therefore they don’t count as totally bitchin’ rock stars from Mars in my book.) And since I’m pretty sure that I also possess tiger’s blood and possibly Adonis DNA (although I’m less sure about the latter) I decided to take a page out of the book of Charlie.

Now I should be specific here. I don’t want to actually be on the drug called Charlie Sheen, because I don’t want my children to weep over my exploded body and I don’t particularly want my face to melt off either, but certainly his winning attitude would be handy. Who doesn’t want to be a battle-tested bayonet?

Even Charlie Sheen wants to be Charlie Sheen, because he’s winning. It says so on his wrist. (image via starpulse)

I focused my mind, evicted the psychological fools and trolls, who are really hard to evict even for Charlie Sheen, and concentrated my energy on imagining myself winning that house: being notified, packing up our stuff, moving across the country, acclimating to our new neighborhood and living a blissfully green existence in our new, eco-friendly home practically just down the street from Nana and Grandpa. Winning!

Okay, it is true that I had to occasionally redirect my worst case scenario thoughts when I started to think about lightning strikes and necrotizing fascitis and depressed daughters who have been separated from their BFFs and then start hanging out with the wrong people and doing drugs and flunking out of school and eventually running off to become one of Charlie Sheen’s goddesses. (I’m sorry, Charlie, you are an inspiration, but that thought is still horrifying.)

Still, I was pretty diligent about my positive thinking. Anthony Robbins even put me on speed dial for an inspirational Charlie quote pick-me-up.

I was all like, “Anthony, you’ve got to stop pretending that your life isn’t perfect and bitchin’ and just winning every second. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got poetry in my fingertips and I need to put it in a blog post.”

(That conversation didn’t actually happen. But only because he doesn’t have my phone number. Or any idea who the heck I am.)

“Are you my housekeeper, Magdelena?” (image via wikipedia)

However, as it turned out, some random woman in Texas was an even bigger winner than I was and attracted the house instead. She might have been an actual goddess. I was understandably disappointed and seriously considered challenging her to enter my octagon to meet with my fire-breathing fists, but decided that that could be construed as counterproductive and possibly illegal…and really the sort of invitation that should only be extended to CBS and the creator of Two and a Half Men.

Then I noticed that I had attracted a crap-load of other positive things to myself. Apparently my positive thoughts weren’t limited to green homes. I’d list them here, but I don’t want to gloat or demonstrate how low my standards are, because according to the Sheen, you have the right to kill me, but you do not have the right to judge me.

So my point is…dang it, what was my point again? Oh yes, think positively! Think like a winner! You might not get the thing you were shooting for, but it’s highly likely that God’s great dane will squat in your front yard and deposit the mother-load of blessings on your lawn. And you don’t even have to bag that shiznit because it is. Pure. Gold.

Would you look at that? I’ve tapped into my inner Charlie Sheen and am now making my own inappropriate inspirational quotes.



Disclaimer: I do not advocate living like or even with Charlie Sheen. In fact, I maintain hope that Charlie Sheen will stop living like Charlie Sheen and go on to live a long, sober life of quote generating.

Go Ruck Yourself UPDATED

Marines are not known for their restraint and moderation. You’ll never hear a war story of a battalion that went in and made some people mildly uncomfortable, broke a couple of things, said sorry and left. That’s just not how they roll. Marines are mildly depraved and dangerous.

Which is why I married one. Who doesn’t want to sleep next to depraved and dangerous every night?

Hubs derives a great deal of joy from enthusiastically hurting himself with physical endeavors and I enjoy watching. Every once in a while he will try to include me in his physical torture, but I’ve become fairly adept at graciously bowing out. See, Moderation is my middle name. When my body says, “ouch” I say, “What’s the matter? Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry. Let’s talk about it over a beer.”

I might use Hubs as inspiration to stay physically fit, but I do my best to keep our fitness regimens fairly separate. It’s best that way. Because I want to live.

However, I have a friend who frequently does mud runs and physical challenges with her husband. There are always pictures of the two of them looking exhausted and happy at the end, somewhere near the beer tent. Sometimes one of them is wearing a tutu. I look at the pictures and inevitably feel a pang of envy. I want to do that. Suffering is okay when it’s done in a tutu and followed by a beer. And it would be something Hubs and I could do together.

Foolishly I mentioned this to him, thereby proving that communication isn’t always the answer because this is what he came up with:


(image via

I should have known that it was way beyond my capabilities by the excitement on Hubs’s face when he called me over to the computer. He looked like a five-year old opening his first box of Hot Wheels.

The Goruck Challenge was created by a Green Beret. Notice the distinct lack of tutus. Still, I looked at the picture above and thought, that doesn’t look so bad. They’re doing push ups in the surf. I like the beach. Maybe there’s a picnic afterward.

(image via

Treading water arm in arm can be fun.

(image via

Especially if you’re next to the pretty people.

I was feeling cautiously optimistic. I had visions of Hubs and I smiling and sweating side by side, just us and our new friends with whom we’d share laughter and a pitcher of beer later. Like an Amstel Light commercial, but with better beer.

Then I saw this picture and my enthusiasm ran from the room Scooby Doo-style.

(image via

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that is nighttime. And those people are still carrying a giant log.  In cold wet clothes. Without a food truck. I like physical exertion. I also like to sleep and eat.

All of a sudden it didn’t look like fun anymore. Cold, wet pants chafe. Nobody wants raw thighs.

And then I realized what the Goruck Challenge really is. It’s some sort of mini Hell Week for people who fantasize about joining the Special Forces or want to relive that torturous time. I am not one of those people. I don’t need to be a Green Beret. Rambo was a Green Beret. He ended up in a tree, sewing up his own arm. I have difficulty stitching up a stuffed animal. And my big head looks terrible in berets.

(image via

Oh look, it’s dawn. And that’s not a breakfast burrito they’re carrying.

(image via

There’s nothing I like doing better after not sleeping or eating than push ups. Here is where I would collapse in a pool of my own vomit and cry or giggle hysterically while the Cadre (which is a nice way of saying Sadist) yells at me.

(image via

They’re carrying out the participants who’ve lost the will to live. That’s nice of them.

(image via

This guy made it through alive, but take a look at his elbow. I believe that’s an open wound. I bet he’s been crawling through all kinds of nastiness all night with that thing, picking up Lord only knows what diseases and no one gave him antiseptic and a Goruck Challenge band-aid. I give him another 12 hours before his arm falls off.

(image via

And now everyone is ready to go home. Wait a minute…

No beer tent???? Ah HELL no! If I’m going to carry a log all night in chafing pants, somebody had better be waiting for me, holding a frosty beverage.

Clearly this challenge is designed to make me cry, vomit and tear a muscle. Hubs and I have very different ideas about what constitutes a fun physical challenge. And as many times as I tell Hubs that this does not in any way look like a good time to me, he keeps grinning and saying, “I know you can do it” like some sort of deranged motivational speaker. Clearly he has no respect for my life or my inner thighs, which leads me to wonder if he’s taken out a large insurance policy on me or something.  My personal well-being may be at risk.

Please send help.


The Goruck Challenge is now following me on twitter. I’m being stalked by a challenge! They’re coming for me…and I think they’re bringing the log. Please hurry. Time is. Running. Out.

What To Do On A Thursday Night In Nebraska

Every once in a while as I’m reading the news I stumble across a story that really grabs me. I identify with the subject–sort of a “there but for the grace of God go I” type of thing. Take, for instance, this man, Jason Dornhoff, out of Kearney Nebraska.

Mr. Dornhoff was smoking methamphetamine one recent Thursday night when, according to court documents and the Huffington post, he decided that he needed to acquire a job and fulfill some sexual fantasies. (We’ve all been there, am I right?) He then drove over to a local restaurant and filled out an application, but, perhaps fearing that he wouldn’t stand out in this job market, decided to write a little note on the back of his application.


According to the Kearney Hub, he wrote: “I have no money, a huge bomb in my truck, and a syringe of bleach that will kill you instantly. If you be quiet and help me, you won’t die.”

Now if that doesn’t put you at the top of the application pile, I don’t know what will.

The article didn’t mention exactly which restaurant Dornhoff had used to commit this crime, but I immediately pictured a TGI Friday’s, because I’ve worked at a couple of TGI Friday’s and he matches the description of some of my former customers. Maybe his sexual fantasies involved a waitress covered in fajita grease and “flair.” All of those buttons make a girl look mad sexy.

Admit it, you’re picturing me in those buttons right now. (image via flickr & Ray Yu)

He was probably hoping to run into a waitress with a hostage fantasy, which is not unreasonable. Toward the end of my shifts I often wished to be dragged out of the restaurant and stuck with a syringe full of bleach. Bleach is, after all, one of the few things that will remove the smell of fajitas from your hair while simultaneously whitening your teeth and giving you highlights.

I identify with this man on so many different levels. First of all, what is there to do on a Thursday night? I was just asking myself that very question. I was all like, “should I smoke some meth and then go down to Applebee’s with a bomb threat or should I just watch season four of True Blood?” The truth is that they both seem kind of pointless, so I might just fold some laundry.

And what about all of your pent up sexual energy? Where does a lonely horndog go for satisfaction? PeeWee Herman and Fred Willard could tell you that an adult theater is not the way to go. Lord knows a park bathroom is also a bad choice. Thank you, George Michael. The options start to dwindle until finally you find yourself at the local watering hole with a job application and a misunderstood, grammatically incorrect love note.

To be fair, crystal meth messes with your grammar. And your teeth. So let’s not be judgmental.

Also, have you been to central Nebraska? My dad was raised there and I bet if he were alive today he would tell us that he might have done the exact same thing…if it wasn’t the Depression and he hadn’t been living in a tent and the local restaurant wasn’t simply a soup line. I drove through Nebraska a couple of years back and if I hadn’t been trying to outrun what I thought was a funnel cloud, I might have made a similar choice.

Nothing saves you from a bad choice like a natural disaster. (image via flickr & Thomas-birdpics)

I think we all have a purpose in life. Maybe this guy was simply fulfilling his destiny. Just this morning I was having a discussion with my daughter about the perils of drug use (because nothing goes better with oatmeal than cautionary tales) and I told her that if she did drugs she could find herself down at Chuck E Cheeses telling them that she’d detonate the bomb on her scooter if they didn’t give her a job or some game tokens. Maybe his life purpose was to scare my daughter straight. I wonder if he can get her to go to college.

(Okay maybe that conversation didn’t actually happen, but if could have…if Hubs read the story. He loves “teaching moments” that confuse and horrify the children. It’s one of his more endearing qualities and why we make such a good team.)

At the very least, people like Jason Dornhoff give Hubs job security and me a smile. And for that I am grateful. Thank you, Jason Dornhoff. Your next order of fajitas is on me.

A Bucket And A Rock

Today I’m just this side of useless.

Hubs and I have been in training to become MMA fighters…well Hubs bought a book written by an MMA trainer, which is nearly the same thing.

Guaranteed to make you look like a beast. Actual fighting skills not included.

I love this book. I did one of the workouts and then strutted up and down our street in a roid rage, looking for someone to choke out. All I could find was our 90-year old neighbor and he’s in a different weight class, so I haven’t technically put my title on the line, but I’m pretty sure that I’m invincible. Seriously, I am this close to earning a Tap Out t-shirt and a tribal armband tattoo.

I’ve been following the book’s diet plan religiously: no refined foods, lot’s of whole grains, fruits and veggies.  Because you can eat like a hippie and not lose your agro edge, which is important to know if you chase gang members for a living or shop at Target on a weekend. The diet has me feeling like a finely tuned machine. A washing machine, but not just any washing machine. A really good one. Like a front loading Whirlpool with all of the extra settings that I would never use.

But here’s the thing about a deluxe Whirlpool washer, you need to treat it well. You don’t dump a bunch of crayons and gum in it and expect your next load to be pristine…are you getting lost in my metaphor? See, I’m the washer and the crayons and gum are…yeah, I know my metaphor sucks. What do you expect from a gummy, crayon filled washer?

Somewhere in those suds is a better metaphor. (image via dreamstime)

You see, yesterday after my yoga class I was feeling a little smug and self empowered, so I impulsively decided to treat myself to a piece of key lime cheesecake, as a reward for my hard work and potential bad@ssery. I took my cheesecake home where I ate it in half hour increments because that makes it healthier…in my mind, you know, where it counts. I haven’t had any refined sugar for a couple of weeks so I caught a rush off that cheesecake like a cheap date.

Then we went to a little shindig at our neighbor’s house, which turned out to be a dessert party. I have the feeling MMA fighters don’t hang out at dessert parties. Whole grains and vegetables were notably absent and all of the fruit was coated in custard.

I was strong. At first. But I got hungry and the kids didn’t eat all of their treats and I hate to waste food and did I mention I was hungry? So I had a little off their plate. I mean plates. And by a little I mean that I licked those plates clean. And then I had a teeny tiny dark chocolate, espresso brownie of my own, but not on a plate so that it wouldn’t count, but apparently nobody explained that rule to the brownie because that sucker was DEADLY.

I knew it was a mistake immediately. I felt light-headed and sick, like I’d just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, dipped in crack and rolled in the scat of llamas that have dined solely on poppies.  It occurred to me that I hadn’t really eaten anything except desserts all day. So when we got home I made myself a super healthy meal, but by then it was 8:00 and the damage was done. All I could do was wait for my stomach to revolt, which it did at about 10:00 (bye super healthy meal), and vow to treat myself better today.

Feeling the llama’s wrath. (image via

This morning I woke up with a full on sugar hangover. I need a nap and a large German woman to knead my muscles and throw me in a sauna to detox. I have zero energy and no pithy thoughts.

The Whirlpool is broken. What you’ve got here is a bucket and a rock.

Racism Is Nutty

Have I mentioned that racial equality is a hot button issue for me? Always has been. In fact, as a kid I labored under the delusion that I was Dr. Martin Luther King reincarnated.

The resemblance is uncanny.

Well come on, not everyone can be Cleopatra.

I assumed that my purpose in life was to become a martyr for the cause. I mean, what else is an idealistic 8-year old to think when confronted with a past life destiny? Of course as I got older I realized that being shot and killed isn’t actually a good time and leaves very little time for dating, so I let go of my “purpose” in favor of self-preservation. However, I’ve continued to think about the subject (behind bullet proof glass), because as a former civil rights worker and current coward, it’s the least I can do.

My theory is that we need to get to the heart of the problem, like a plantar wart and at the heart of racism is fear.  If hate filled people are largely driven by fear, I think that fear should be used as a motivator in the opposite direction. We should have a campaign of fear against fear, which would be, ipso facto, a campaign against racism. Sort of like fighting fire with fire, which always confused me because it seemed to me that if you fought fire with fire you just had…a bigger fire, but I didn’t understand Calculus either, so I’m just going to trust them on this one.

“Why don’t you leave fire fighting to bears in hats, math genius.”  (image via wikipedia)

Then I figured that, though racism isn’t limited to a specific gender, the people in charge tend to be men (you can tell because those white hooded robes are so unflattering), so the campaign should be aimed at them. Go after the head of the snake, as it were.

Then it hit me. Like a burning cross. The anti-racism campaign to end all anti-racism campaigns. The slogan that the equal rights movement is missing. The phrase that will strike fear into the hearts of male racists everywhere and cause them to abandon their wicked ways, thereby inspiring female racists to follow suit.

Racism Causes Testicular Cancer

Bam! Genius, right? And before you ask, no I don’t have a degree in marketing or psychology, I’m just naturally gifted…you know, because of my past life. And the many times I saw The Color Purple.

“It’s true, my movie made her an expert.” (image via wikipedia)

This would be a television campaign, but you could put up posters in areas where they might spend more time picking their banjos than watching tv. The commercials would show a semi-respectable Caucasian male throwing his white hood in the trash. He would turn to the camera, showing a face filled with pain and loss. Then he would say:

“I used to love spending my weekends at a clan meeting or burning a cross on somebody’s lawn. But then my nuts shriveled up and fell off. The doctor said that racism gave me nut cancer.”

And then they would pan out and we would see an old African American gentleman sitting on a porch across the way, looking on. The camera would close in on his face. He would nod and say:

“My nuts are fine.”

Fade to black.

Hordes of bigoted men would then race to their bathrooms to palpate their testicles and reevaluate their narrow world view. Racism would disappear and we would all stand, holding hands across America, singing Kumbaya.

You are welcome, America. Problem solved. Now if you will excuse me, I need to borrow the Pope-mobile to go grocery shopping.


Author’s Note: This post is in no way meant to suggest that all victims of testicular cancer are racist. Nor is it meant to trivialize a very serious disease or the effects of racism. Testicular cancer and racism are horrible and nobody should have to suffer from either. Which is why I put my nose to the grind stone to fix the latter. I will work on a cure for testicular cancer tomorrow, but I can’t make any promises, as cancer seems to be much less responsive to catchy slogans.

Also, my testicular cancer cure will only be available to non-racist patients. You’ve got to heal your mind before you heal your nuts, people.

Separation Anxiety

I’m a bit maudlin today. Earlier this morning I stealth cried into my daughter’s hair while listening to a Kimbra CD (the emotional equivalent of crying at a Disneyland).

You see, I’m having a hard time handling Riley’s maturation.

I know what you’re thinking. “You, Kelly? But you handle everything with such ease, hardly a ruffle in your outer veneer of total competence.”

I know. I too am baffled. I actually expected to enjoy this part of parenting quite a bit. My mother seemed to enjoy it. And during those sleepless nights when my babies only wanted me to hold them I thought wistfully of their future independence. Both of my children were very attached to me.

True, Conor would sprint toward traffic if given a moment’s chance. But that was only because he knew how much I enjoyed the heart attack and subsequent chase, while toting a diaper bag and insensible shoes. He’s a thoughtful boy, that one.

Riley, however, would hardly leave my side to play at the park. You could always count on her to stay close in stores or any other public forum. She craved my closeness. I appreciated her attachment, but at the same time I wanted some confidence for her, some sense that all would be okay if she wasn’t holding my hand.

So here it is.

This weekend Riley slept over at her best friend’s house two nights in a row. She prefers to sleep at their house. They have a pool. Totally understandable. Riley now prefers the company of her best friend to mine and then spends whatever time she and I have together talking about her best friend and what they did together. I get that. I remember how that was. I am happy that she found some assurance in the world outside of my arms.

Well maybe happy is too simple a word. If you took happiness, added misery and heartbreak and then mixed it up into a muddy swirl of ambivalence you would be closer to how I feel about my daughter’s mounting independence. My little girl is separating from me. It reminds me of the time my mom had to rip off the rest of my big toe nail after a gruesome toe-stubbing. Only this is bloodier and deeper and hasn’t been followed by a trip to The King’s Table buffet restaurant.

And I know that further separation is inevitable and the thought of it eviscerates my tender mommy emotions. Dang it! I hate being a needy pile of mush. Please tell me that I’m not going to spend day after day staring out my bedroom window while singing George Michael’s Careless Whisper badly and full of feeling.

I am, aren’t I?

I can’t say I wasn’t warned, hadn’t watched other women go through this or listened to them talk about it. But I honestly didn’t think it would apply to me. I swear to God, I thought I would handle this transition sh!t smoothly. In no way did I anticipate that I would miss her so badly while she was still living in my home. Nor did I see myself mooning over her baby pictures, longing to smell her baby breath once more.

Ah, baby breath. It smells like love dipped in sweet cream. And there is absolutely no way to save it for posterity. I have Riley’s first shoes in a box, but what I really want is her baby breath in a bottle and the smell of her baby head on my pillow at night.

I am psychotic.

I’m not the only one who’s suffering here. Conor is also struggling with the changes in his sister. He’s baffled that the girl who used to dote on him, suddenly doesn’t want him around, doesn’t want to include him when she’s playing with her friend, doesn’t think anything he says is cute or funny. When she spends the night elsewhere, Conor asks where she is. Hourly. His heartbreak is second only to mine.

Maybe we can sing a duet of Careless Whisper. I should teach him the words.


(image via wired)

Flashbang bra holster demo, fast, and practical. – YouTube.

I gots to get me one of these!

Sure I don’t really need to carry a concealed weapon. I don’t move in dangerous circles, unless you count my husband and he has all but promised not to hold me at gun point, I hardly ever find myself cruising skid row to pick up crack-hoes anymore, and if someone threatened me I could always throw Conor at them and let his supersonic scream paralyze them long enough for me to kick them in the shins, take my son back (because I’m not a bad mother) and make a run for it.

Hubs has suggested that I carry a gun when I go trail running, for use against mountain lions and nature-loving lunatics, but I get so sweaty out there that I’d probably whip out the gun only to have it slide right through my grasp and into the paws/hands of the mountain lion/nature-loving lunatic. And no one wants to face an armed mountain lion (nature-loving lunatics tend to already be armed, so it’s a moot point). I’ve already ignored Hubs’s suggestion to carry water and a phone out on the trail, so I’d hate to break my record of rebellion anyway.

And chances are that I’d accidentally blow my nipple right off into my armpit, which is not the sexiest place to have a nipple. I read that in Maxim Magazine. That rule might not apply to 43-year old mothers of two and the readers of Maxim probably don’t care where I keep my nipples because I haven’t been cast in a Transformers movie or dated Jason Statham.

But I care.

Regardless of lack of need and inherent threat to breast tissue, I find myself wanting one because…and this is really the most important reason of all…

How bad@ss would it be to pull a gun out of your bra? I mean really?

Gripping that flop-sweat covered semi-automatic in my hand with my shirt askew and the holster sticking out at an odd angle like a third breast, I would look mad sexy! Maybe not to the nipple-conscious readers of Maxim Magazine, but I’m pretty sure that Hubs would threaten me with imminent harm at least once a day just so he could see me draw my weapon.

In this house nothing has more sex appeal than a woman with a loaded weapon in her Wonder bra. Even if she’s a 43-year old mother of two with a nipple in her armpit.

I’m gonna need a bigger bra.


Regional Distress

I make no secret of the fact that I desperately want to leave southern California.

I’m fairly certain that it’s killing me, Southern California that is. I don’t know what will get to me first, abject poverty (we can’t afford landscapers OR a housekeeper), cancer (I’ve lived by a lot of freeways and I heard it from someone’s friend whose doctor read it on the internet that that is pretty much a death sentence) or vanity (the pressure to look like an over developed ten-year old is dangerous), but I feel my mortality knocking at the front door and though the flier it left advertised a new pizza joint, I read between the lines and between the lines was a lot of white space and white space is what you see right before you get to the pearly gates, at least that’s the way it was in the movie Oh God, which starred George Burns, who was old enough to actually know what heaven looks like and would never have lied to me.

“The cigar I smoke now has angel wings.” (image via wikipedia)

I want to live!

And I want to do it surrounded by people who are not impossibly beautiful. I don’t begrudge regular beautiful people. Just the impossibly beautiful ones who’ve had so many expensive treatments and procedures done and then cleverly lied about it, so that 70 is the new 40 and silent screen movie stars look younger than I do. I can’t afford these treatments and procedures but I feel the pressure and it’s only a matter of time before I end up desperate in some alley behind a restaurant with Danny Bonaduce injecting discarded pork fat into my cheeks right before he runs back to Celebrity Rehab or into traffic…I mean he could go anywhere because he’s Danny Bonaduce and notoriously unstable, much like a face full of discarded pork fat.

Try Danny Bonaduce’s Back Alley Pork Fat Beauty Treatments and you too could look forever young like a troubled child star! (image via

I want to live somewhere where people look their age, but still have all of their teeth. And know what an organic vegetable is. And don’t think that Budweiser is the only acceptable beer to drink. And say please and thank you. And know their neighbors. And don’t talk on the phone through dinner.

I’ve long thought that that somewhere lay in the South East. I’ve made no secret of this either. But lately there have been some headlines out of that region which are troubling my inner hypochondriac.

First, there has been an epidemic of Necrotizing Fascitis. I’ve read of three cases in and around Georgia. THREE. And that is three more than there should be. So it is obviously out of control. Nobody knows how these people contracted this terrible disease, which leaves me no way to obsessively avoid it. However, here’s what I do know: one of the victims was a mother, two of the victims were women and all three were human. I’m a mother, a woman and a human. Clearly I’m in a high risk group.

Then I read an article about tiny ticks in the area that are infecting people with Mammalian Meat Allergies. Now unsuspecting people in the South East are getting hives and even anaphylaxis after innocently eating a mammal, like a cow or a manatee. I’ve often eaten to the point of discomfort, but I’ve never stopped breathing and I’d like to keep it that way. And since, last I heard, they are still making burgers out of mammals and I have been known to periodically have a small but passionate love affair with a juicy burger, especially after a long day hiking in tick country, I am once again vulnerable.

(Note: I’m not advocating the eating of manatees. I personally think it’s a bad idea. However, a female manatee is referred to as a cow and so I can see how the mistake could be made. Don’t shoot the messenger, people.)

Manatees should be cherished, not eaten. I call this one, Maynard. (image via wikipedia)

Am I supposed to move someplace where my limbs will rot, so that I can’t even pick up the burger, which will bring me ecstasy and then make me stop breathing? Does anyone else see the inherent problems here? Where’s a run of the mill paranoid hypochondriac supposed to live anymore?

A Banner Day In A Public Loo

Yesterday was a banner day here in the Fathead household. My son, who until now has steadfastly held to his vow to only pee sitting down on his very own potty seat in his very own home, peed on a foreign potty. Not only that but he did it standing up. And without any coercion or anti-anxiety drugs.

There we were at a park we’ve never frequented in a questionable part of town when Conor decided that he needed to use the bathroom. Now I brought along a pull up for just this possibility because we have loads of experience with potty meltdowns–refusals to use a potty or bush, cries to go home, a full on meltdown followed by the inevitable wet pants, but Conor decided that he wanted to see the bathroom there at the park.

Each toilet was contained in a separate tiny, dark room, ostensibly to minimize sexual attacks and maximize germ distribution. The ambience reminded me of the first Saw movie and upon stepping inside my life immediately flashed before my eyes, but Conor stepped right up to that nasty, unflushed metal toilet, dropped his pants, leaned against the germ-infested surface and peed right inside. He had to wait a minute for the biological magic to happen and for a moment I thought that he had contaminated himself and would still end up with wet pants, but he did it. Then I let him flush with his foot because I’m pretty sure that his hand would have instantly dropped off from fast-acting necrotizing fascitis had he touched the button with his fingers and we were instantly encased in a microscopic mist of germs and fecal matter while I desperately tried to free us from our toilet tomb and find the nearest bucket of bleach. Yay, Conor! You did it!

Excuse me, sir, could you hurry up and saw off your foot? My son has to pee. (image via haro-online)

Did I mention that I have a teeny tiny hang up about children in dirty public bathrooms? Just a little one. Hardly worth mentioning, really. But I might go a little bit Howard Hughes when confronted with a questionable loo.

However, this was momentous and let’s be frank here, I’m desperate. Desperate to run errands or visit friends without a pull up. Desperate not to have to worry that said pull up might not last the whole visit. Desperate to avoid more phone calls from grandparents and the like asking what to do about Conor’s mental breakdown and refusal to go potty anywhere but home. Desperate to find an incentive that works, so that he can go on to the next year of preschool and eventually college without an adult diaper. Desperate enough to let him go pee anywhere this side of a genocidal body dump. D-E-S-P-E-R-A-T-E.

So you best believe I muttered words of encouragement through my gritted teeth and tried my best to go to my happy place (a place where everyone is potty trained and surfaces are well cleaned, by the way) while Conor and I stood in that nuclear waste dump of a bathroom. I didn’t throw up in my mouth or do the heebie jeebie dance when we exited either. We calmly washed our hands. Twice. And then we went and got the big boy a Happy Meal.

A proud boy with his happy meal

I will swab him down with disinfectant and burn his clothes later after my bleach bath.

Not a bleach bath!

Oh and did I mention that he also let a little girl go ahead of him on the slide, saying “Ladies before genamen?”  Hubs and I couldn’t be prouder of Conor if he speed assembled an M16. Well I guess I should only speak for myself there. The speed assembly would probably bring Hubs to tears. My standards are lower and less sanitary.

Knowledge Exchange

I like to think of the world as a community, a large, sometimes dysfunctional community, but a community nonetheless and what is a community for if not to provide people to whom we can feel superior from whose mistakes we can learn? One person’s mistakes are another person’s lessons. So here’s what I have to offer today in the way of lessons:

If you were thinking about packing a Tupperware container full of gooey macaroni and cheese and then leaving it in your refrigerator for an inordinate amount of time. Don’t. It will take on a life of its own, grow fur, but not the cuddly kind, and growl at you when you re-open the container. It will look and smell like a feral animal, but no amount of love and patience will tame that beast. It’s best just to put it down humanely.

This guy is never going to fetch you the paper. (image via dreamstime)

If the free sample of fabric softener that came in the mail is punctured and covered with gummy dried fabric softener and bits of disintegrating cardboard, you probably shouldn’t use it. The bear on the front looks cute, but he’s not responsible for the outcome of your laundry. And just touching the package will leave a permanent cloud of Springtime Freshness attached to your fingers, which, though it sounds pleasant enough, will become obnoxious when you are shoving beer or chocolate or any food item that is not Springtime Fresh in your mouth.

“That’s why I’m fed intravenously.” (image via drugstoredivas)

If you’re making yourself a healthy omelet in an effort to detox from the weekend’s culinary transgressions, you should probably not add half a bottle of olive oil to the pan.  Unless of course you’re vying for a spot in one of those internet articles, “Ten Healthy Items That Have More Fat Than A Cheese Burger.” I’m all for having goals, but eating a cheese burger would probably be more satisfying.

Dayamn! If that doesn’t look scrumptious! (image via melissaraydavis)

Don’t futz with a tried and true dessert recipe unless you are prepared to eat the whole thing yourself. Your family wants regular old graham crackers and the devil’s sugar in their Reese’s Peanut Butter bars. The addition of honey and flaxseed won’t please anyone unless you’re talking about a family of bears or children who’ve lived on a commune and never had dessert before.

And finally, do not under any circumstances, let Hubs take a sip of your beer. He sips like a freshman frat boy beer bongs. You’ll get your beer back half empty. You can try to put a positive spin on it by saying your beer is half full, but the bottom line is you still only have half a beer. And that’s sad. The kids won’t let him have a bite of their treats for exactly the same reason. In his mouth lies a vortex of consumption. You have been warned.

I hope these lessons have reached you in time. I couldn’t bear to think of you wandering around bewildered with hairy Tupperware and half a beer in your Springtime Fresh fingers. I don’t want anyone else to suffer needlessly. Because I care.

You’re welcome.