Lately, I’ve been forgetting to take my medicines – Zoloft and THE PILL – before bed. It shouldn’t be so easy to forget them. They are right there in the medicine cabinet, next to my contacts, staring at me as I plunge myself into blindness in a nightly ritual.
It should be pretty simple. Take out my contacts, put the case in the cabinet, and grab the prescriptions from the shelf. But it’s not. I keep forgetting.
There are some obvious downsides to this forgetfulness. For one thing, I’m (close but) not quite ready to start on Bebe le Deuxieme. Did you hear that, Subconscious? I’m not quite ready yet. Give me a few more months, and then we’ll talk.
Side note: I even called to schedule my annual girly parts check-up, and they couldn’t fit me in until late August. Ain’t nothing happening in the uterus till after that appointment!
The other day while I was focused on pulling the perfect shot of coffee for a pre-teen who didn’t even look old enough to be drinking a triple vente mocha with whip, I toyed with the idea of having a drinking age for coffee like they have for alcohol, like 18 maybe? Although to be fair I indulged in my share of caramel frappacinos in my teen years, ironically at this very Starbucks.
I remembered feeling so hip sitting in the cozy overstuffed chair in the corner with my BFF as we gossiped and laughed and then snuck outside to smoke Kool menthol cigarettes. So who am I to deny an almost young adult of such a benchmark life experience! Scratch that, no legal drinking age for coffee, but shhhh! don’t tell but I’m not giving this 12-year-old three shots, she won’t even know the difference, in fact I’m doing her a favor.
“That’ll be $3.89 please.”
“Um, okay,” she says as she swings her Coach clutch onto the counter and counts out four dollar bills with French tip manicured nails. More Link
Either way, when I made an official declaration last week to get my house in order, I expected some interference. I had no idea.
Monday. The number one goal was to have stress-free mornings with no yelling. The laying out of things the night before went well. Aside from a hidden shoe, that wasn’t a problem. The problem was a faulty awaking apparatus, i.e. my cell phone.
Monday morning it didn’t go off. Rather, it went off, but it was set to silent. Luckily, DH gets up at 6:45 (5 minutes before scheduled departure) and woke me up. I was waking children, making coffee (absolute necessity, no matter how late), fixing bowls of cereal, changing a diaper, and corralling everyone into the car–all while trying NOT to yell. I succeeded, for the most part. We left at 7:15. The middle schoolers were late and I made it in to work with seconds to spare.
As a parent, all I really want to know is that she’s learning something, and that she’s trying. The only negative comment was that her reading fluency is still a little slow. Frankly, I care more about comprehension than how many words she can read per minute.
So all in all, I guess I can call it a successful school year. We even took a look on color career test that is suitable for kids and I learn she has a yellow personality.
My daughter’s’ father has been absent from their lives for most of this past school year.
I recently talked to him, and was trying to catch him up on all that’s happened and their futures. Naturally, he asked about their report cards. More Link
…I smell crayons. The waxy aroma sends me straight back to elementary school. The back to school shopping for new clothes, shoes, and school supplies. The excitement of putting notebooks, pencils, glue sticks, and pretty folders into my brand new backpack. Knowing I’d see all my friends again. Not knowing it wouldn’t last–that school could be a harsh and unfair place.
…I see snow. Remembering the joy of snow days and having the biggest sledding hill in the neighborhood–until my mom leveled it off during a remodel. Devastation. My Aunt Gwen smearing chapstick all over my face to ward off windburn. Avoiding her house at all costs whenever it snowed, I hated it so bad. An act of love, misunderstood.
If you’re a Bostonian, you likely celebrate (and groan) at the sight of a calendar when Evacuation Day, Patriots’ Day and Bunker Hill Day come into view. The day off from work, an extended weekend or vacation and even more competition for that sneaky parking spot at the end of your street.
Well, prepare yourself, stock the fridge and get yourself some traffic cones because Independence Day is on the way! Keep reading to see some of my favorite ways to celebrate the 4th of July!
What to do: Navy Week and OpSail ships visiting Boston
Sweet, sweet Internet. How I’ve missed you. We’re here at our new house and we are LOVING IT. Last Thursday night I hit a point where, upon looking around my house and seeing just what we were up against – the boxes stacked so high I couldn’t see over them, the piles of garbage bags, the stacks of, like, shit – I wondered why the hell we’d ever considered moving. There was so much work ahead of us and all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and forget about everything.
But we’re five days into our new house and we already feel at home. We’re not fully unpacked and there’s still a lot to do but it just feels like home.More Link
I want to tell you a funny story. There is a gas station/mini-mart about a half mile up the highway from my house. I frequent it every week or two, but not to buy anything. Are you kidding me? Do you know how much they want for a box of frosted flakes?
And the gas— give-me-a break! You won’t find higher prices anywhere in town. Nevertheless, it is one of the few convenience stores that I have to say I am honestly grateful for, even if the owners cannot say the same for me.
I do feel guilty though. Oh, it’s not what you think— I’m not a thief, at least not in the standard sense of the word. I simply take full-advantage of the restroom facilities that are offered to paying-patrons, even though I’ve already established the fact that I am not one of those.
I’m not a bum, either, just a long-distance runner, who knows the whereabouts of every Sani-Hut, park lavatory, and high-priced gas station/mini mart along my route. The first two-mentioned places, I can go into without question, whereas with the latter, I tend to feel a little conspicuous. I always have a disclaimer.
My dad didn’t have an amazing childhood, but he never speaks bad about it. His parents struggled through each month just managing to pay for necessities and rarely buying luxuries. His father had been in the war and, from what I remember of him, he wasn’t a happy guy – but he totally adored my nan. My dad had two sisters who we only see at Christmas these days, and spent most of his childhood playing in the street and supporting Manchester United.
My nan died of breast cancer before I could ever meet her but the only stories I hear of the “good old days” usually come hand in hand with laughter, and huge smiles. My dad loved his mum more than anything in the world and we rarely speak of her now because he still hasn’t really accepted her death, even though she passed in the early 80s.More Link
Stop the madness! I wanted to share some things that I am sick and tired of hearing about both online and offline.
1. I am really getting tired of all the Progressive and Geico commercials to the point that I want to bitch slap FLO that annoying spokesperson for Progressive. Because of your annoying commercials I am not only not going to switch insurance I want to pay more to keep annoying commercials like yours off the air !
2. I don’t give a rat’s ass about Lindsay Lohan or Paris Hilton. Ms. Hilton spent more money on Halloween costumes than 90% of Americans make in one year and how the hell does Ms. Lohan get to get set all over the world ? I mean isn’t she broke by now? Are people so devoid of having life that they care about these air heads?More Link