all my windows still are broken but I’m standing on my feet.

 

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the point of no return

I was pressing my luck.

I should have known better but clearly I was a glutton for punishment.

At exactly 8:17pm last night I recklessly caused a skunk, a bunny and a dog to be simultaneously steamrolled. It all happened so fast. I’ve only ever smushed a bunny before – I was 16 and I still grieve for that poor little floppy-earred puff ball who decided it would be a great idea to commit suicide under the front tire of my moving car causing me 23 years of guilt for what could have been. But last night I did it again when in the blink of an eye, I accidentally caused a horrible, gruesome accident with critical injuries. And with the sound of heaving sobs that came out of my child’s terror-stricken face, one would have thought I had purposely ripped a bunch of animal limbs off one by one while staring her in the eye and maniacally cackling like a psychopath.

But of course that’s not really what happened. What happened is that I unknowingly somehow made my child move. I KNOW. Horrible. And when she moved, Skunky, Bunny and Precious – a small sampling of her beloved stuffed animals she adores and nurtures as if they were birthed from her own womb – were jostled. I’m actually surprised it was only 3 of her 57 children because, whoa. Admission to our zoo is free and open to the public.

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And that’s just the top bunk ↑ 

I’m a murderer and a monster and I’m terrible. The end.

There’s a moment in our house that I often wonder if everyone with a young kid can relate to. I don’t know if it has a comparable name to ‘the witching hour‘ for babies, so we’re just gonna call this one ‘the point of no return’. The point of no return is relatively predictable, though it is reliant upon a number of factors in the full equation. It goes something like this:

PNR = morning wake up time + daily calories burned – time you get her in bed × grams of carbohydrates from dessert³ / ∏(24 hours – √3), carry the 1, divide by 17 and spin your head in a full circle while trying to guess the exact minute and hoping they’re asleep before then.

So basically sometime between 8:05-8:30 in my house.

The goal is to get her in bed by 7:30, lights out by 7:45, sleeping by 8 at the latest. Wait… goal? Dream. I meant dream. After growing up with 3 sisters, one of whom I always shared a room with, I know on any given night with 2 people in the same room where slumber should be happening, there is a good chance that once the lights are out someone in the room will turn nutty, thereby turning the other loony, leading to fits of laughter and the existing potential for stuffed animals to be launched across the room. Growing up in my house this regularly happened until mom and dad eventually threatened us for the 4th time to gotofreakingsleeporsohelpmegod… and if you pushed it just a liiiiiiiiittle too long, BAM. Someone turned to the dark side and became an overtired angry devil child. And while it wasn’t the first time and won’t be the last, it happened here yesterday.

From the moment I picked Summer up from school, she was full of laughing fits and happiness paired with flailing limbs dancing with lunacy. I love when she gets in those moods. And before I knew it, it was dinner, books, bed. At bedtime I lay with her until she dozes off into dreamland and last night in between my own laughing while trying to get her to settle down as she licked my cheek, told me I was fired and that tomorrow for dinner she wanted picken poodle poop, the moment happened. The mother effing point of no return. In the blink of an eye her laughing turned into crying and it actually took me a moment to realize that her bared teeth were no longer shining through a smile on her face. I didn’t know it could happen so fast. Wait, yes I did. But for whatever reason, when it happens it never fails to take me by surprise. As I asked her over and over what was wrong while I rubbed her back and went over all possible scenarios…

Did I accidentally scratch you?

“No.”

…poke you?

“Nooo.”

…did you hit your head on something?

“Nooooooo!”

Through the sobs into her pillow she managed to inform me that I had somehow made her body move and she in turn had squished her stuffies and Skunky and Bunny and Precious got squished really really bad and how could I DO THAT TO THEM THEY’RE HER STUFFIES AND OH MY GOD THE HUMANITY. She literally cried their suffering for them because, well, they’re stuffies and their mouths don’t move and their eyes don’t leak those drippy drops of pain-water called tears. And after 1 minute of the most sincere frantic momma apologies I could offer to a stuffed bunny while consoling my child’s now-turned-to-me back with soft ‘shhh’s, her little body started doing that twitchy sleep dream thing and I was left there bug-eyed with a bunny in my hand wondering what the fuck just happened.

The point of no return. It’s a magical place.

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I live where the wild things are

When I moved into my place 3 years ago after selling the house (I can’t believe it’s been 3 years), I purposely chose an apartment on the 1st floor of my 4 story building. With a 2-year-old, 2 dogs, weekly groceries that I was on my own to have to carry in, no covered parking and a snowy Chicago winter fast approaching, a 1st floor apartment was a non-negotiable requirement. And I don’t regret that decision.

However…

While first floor living has its perks – no worries about getting couches stuck in stairwells on moving day, no trying to convince my dogs to get into an elevator to go down and outside, having my own little area of greenery, having a cement patio which is great for sidewalk chalking rather than a wooden balcony – it does have some drawbacks. During the warm months I have to worry about skunks sneaking up on me from around the corner (and there are a LOT of skunks here), and I can’t sleep with my bedroom window open without fear of a burglar climbing in and spooning me because that’s what burglars do. In my head. I’ve obviously never actually been robbed. But they need love, too you know, they’re just not getting it from me.

And then there’s the periodic porch creeper. I have a neighbor across the hall who I lovingly refer to as Drunk John. Drunk John is a harmless man, he’s just a little slurry, smells like cat pee and keeps asking me to type his book for him because I know how to type on one of those cutting-edge machine do-hickies with a keyboard thinga-ma-boob. He never hesitates to give me a great big “HELLOOOO!!” every time he manages to see me through his beer haze. And without fail, every time I’m walking my dogs and I run into him he asks, “your dog… what’s his name?”

“Princess.”

“Oh, it’s a girl?”

“Yep, still a girl.”

Once in a while he will come home from fishing in the pond down the street, park his car, walk over to my patio, sit and rest on one of my chairs for a minute, then get up and go home. I don’t mind, chairs are made for sitting and resting your bum. Even, or especially, if you’re drunk, soggy and tired.

One beautiful sunny morning I was taking Summer to school and as we were walking to the car I noticed a brightly colored plastic watch on the grass by my patio. I left it there in case the owner of said watch came looking for it. A few hours later, back at home I went outside to soak up some very unseasonably warm sunshine only to find the watch had been placed on my patio table – I figured someone saw it and thought it was ours. I left it there.

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A bit later I went inside for a moment and when I returned to the patio, the watch was gone and there was a credit card on the foot rest of my patio chair. Uh, question mark?? I left it there.

An hour later, the credit card was gone but there was now a smelly, sticky plastic bag with some dirty cups and a warm, unopened beer on one of my chairs. Drunk John. He must have put it there and forgotten about it, so I left it assuming he’d come back for it eventually. Again I went inside for a bit, checked back a bit later and there was now a baseball hat laying in the dirt.

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Ummmmmm… perhaps someone accidentally dropped it off their balcony above me? I picked up the hat and placed it on top of the bag of disgust.

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But again, because this had quickly become a game of confusing intrigue,  I later checked my patio out of curiosity – the hat was gone, the stinky bag of disappointment was still there, and it now had a friend in the form of another plastic bag.

A plastic bag full of fucking dirty stretchy bras.

I can’t make this stuff up.

So I did what any sane person feeling insanity coming on would have done, I set up my baby camera in the living room and pointed it on the patio while I watched the monitor from the comfort of my bedroom. And just like taking a trip to the doctor only to arrive and feel perfectly fine, absolutely nothing happened. And then I got pissed. Someone was purposely messing with me and leaving their junk on my patio and I had absolutely no idea why. So I went outside, put on my best angry face, grabbed all the junk and marched it straight to the dumpster assuming my mystery horrible gift giver was watching from somewhere.

A few hours later I had to leave. And when I got home, I parked the car and got out and noticed a neighbor of mine who I’ve been told is an alcoholic and had just gotten back from rehab, a neighbor I’ve never spoken to before, walking along the sidewalk saying something to me. He was too far away for me to hear so we approached each other in the middle of the courtyard.

“I’m sorry, what? I couldn’t hear you from back there,” I said.

“I want to give you all my money,” strange neighbor says.

“Um, schwhat?”

“I just wanted to give you all my money,” he says again.

“I don’t want your money,” I replied.

“Please just let me give you all of my money.”

“I don’t want your money, you should keep your money.”

I was utterly confused and it was strange and went on the same way a few more times until I turned and walked away and went inside. And then it hit me.

Credit card. His money.

Cups and a beer. His, erm, most prized possessions perhaps?

The bras? I don’t know… I can’t explain that one. He has a wife but I’m sorry dude, I don’t want your wife’s graying booby holsters, I have my own. I promise.

The next day, my suspicions were confirmed, Drunk John was no longer a suspect as I watched Crazy Bra Man walk from his apartment to the dumpster. He retrieved one of the cups off the ground that had fallen out of the bag that I had missile launched into the dumpster the day before. I’ve seen him twice since then – the first time he asked me if I had seen his phone. Um, nope. The next time we didn’t make eye contact. I’m good with that. I attract the crazies, I accepted that fact a long time ago. But apparently it gets more eyebrow-raisingly interesting when you live in the land of the happy-go-lucky drunks, the lasagna toting loonies, and the kissing maintenance bandits. I swear I live in a nice friendly little community where the majority of my neighbors are 100% sane, but the ones that aren’t? They make for some good times and ridiculous memories I never knew I wanted.

And I’m moving in June  :)

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463 days

I took one of those ‘life assessment’ quizzes today on a whim and it unfortunately ended up being one where it gives you a generic score (76 woohoo!) but doesn’t break it down (um I don’t know what 76 means), so it initially seemed rather useless. But it did get me thinking. There was a question about my avocational status and I answered it very honestly. I gave myself a 1 out of 4, 1 being the lowest. The description they gave for a 1 was:

“I don’t have time to pursue interests outside of work and family. I don’t have any hobbies, nor do I have the time if I did. I am not involved in any significant way in civic or church activities. My life consists of work and family – that’s pretty much it.”

Yep.

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I love my work and my family. I ranked myself high in those categories, but hobbies…hobbies…come on, there has to be one or two hobbies…

BLOG

I love writing. I love looking back at things that I’ve written here and laugh or cry or think man, I used to be so punny. I may still be, but I work at home with my dogs all day and they REALLY don’t get my humor. I know with 100% certainty that my 5 year old is funnier than I am. I text people and get a lot of lol’s and rofl’s but are these people really laughing out loud? Are they really lying on the floor rolling around laughing? Every time someone types ‘rofl’ I hear the word ‘rolf’ like a bark from an old english sheep dog in my head and picture the person down on the ground curled up in a ball rolling back and forth on his/her back like a weeble, though I’m pretty sure in the moment that’s just not happening.

Anyway, after taking the assessment and getting my horribly standard awesomely ambiguous score of 76, I watched the little follow up video of an old MAN who TALKED with his HANDS and over-ENUNCIATED every few WORDS to really DRIVE the point HOME that I’m IN the land of SUCCESS but can always IMPROVE. So I made a promise to my dogs and to the old man on my screen and to my next door neighbor **who can hear me through the wall… you know, the only people I’ve talked to in person today… that I WOULD write a blog post.

**you know your apartment walls are too thin when you’re home alone, let out a squeaky toot, and hear someone giggle on the other side of the wall. True story.

Life has been decent lately but oh so very mundane. And if typing my thoughts out through my keyboard onto my screen here is going to turn even just a little of that mundanity into magic then I’m in. Hazy is currently destroying my blanket proofreading and she says “hit publish, momma!”.

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It’s been 463 days too long. Oh how I’ve missed you.

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this is why I can’t have nice things

Hazy.

hazy

Hazel is my playful, energetic 9-year-old ball of fur with big brown eyes and a cute little underbite. At night, Hazel likes to either shimmy her way under the blanket and sleep down by my feet, or lay on top of the blanket and chew 3,234,583 little holes in it which drives me absolutely nuts. I have no idea why she does it but she pretty much always has; it’s the reason I always have a needle and teal thread on hand so my bed doesn’t resemble swiss cheese.

So the other night around 3am, I woke up to her wriggling around under the blanket by my feet. I gave her a little nudge which usually quiets her down or gets her to move over, only this time she kept wriggling. Wouldn’t move over. Wriggling. Wriggling. It was not what I needed at 3am and I could feel my blood pressure start to rise. So I sat up, reached under the blanket to bring her up so I could snuggle with her, and……yeah. This is why she wasn’t budging.

 

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The dog chewed a hole in the blanket, stuck her head through it and got stuck.

And this is why I can’t have nice things.

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how not to fish

Friday night, I packed up myself and the doggies and we hit the road with my friend to a lake house in Wisconsin. We drove through a beautiful sunset and a torrential downpour in a span of an hour and a half but we made it in one piece.

sunset

Thanks to a safe arrival and a little Redbox, that night, Paul Blart made an appearance on the tv as I watched it through the back of my eyelids and snored on the couch.

The next day was beautiful. Hot, sunny, big white puffy clouds in the sky, the perfect kind of day to do some wave running and paddle boating. So we hit the water, I got a fun 30mph splashy tour of the lakes, and when we got back to land we decided to take the paddle boat out to a pier to fish.

Even though I told him there was no way I was catching anything but algae fish like I always do, he guaranteed me that I would catch a real live fish this time. I had my doubts. But I tried. I cast, I waited, I saw the bobber move, I pulled, I lost it. I tried again, and of course I reeled in an algae fish. I cast again, but then, wait, was that a nibble? I pulled back, quick little movements, and I did it! I finally reeled in my first fish. I made my friend take it off the hook, a little blue gill, and he threw it back in the water. I was proud of myself after years of fishing and catching nothing but seaweed, I finally got my hook in a real live fish.

We climbed back into the paddleboat and started slowly making our way back to shore. It was absolutely beautiful out on the water just floating along slowly as our legs twirled in circles like riding a water bicycle. We decided to cast our lines a few more times from the paddleboat in the hopes of catching something worth cooking up for dinner. We threw light casts as we were 2 feet away from each other and then all of a sudden something slapped me hard in the back of my arm. I looked down…AND THERE WAS A FISHING LURE STUCK TO ME. A little plastic fish with 2 treble hooks was lodged in my skin.

My friend had hooked me.

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source

Neither one of us could believe it and I would have absolutley panicked if I had been the hooker, but as the hookee I stayed calm as we paddled back to shore. As we floated past the neighbors out on their pier, he yelled, “heeeeeeeey there, is anyone a doctor?”

“No, but she’s a nurse!” one of them yelled back as they scrambled to meet us at the dock.

We were met by 3 neighbors, one who had run in to grab a pair of rusty wire cutters with good intentions.

“Can I do anything?” another one asked.

“Alcohol,” my friend said.

“All we have is vodka, what would you like?” she asked me.

“Vodka.”

In the meantime, they had managed to cut the plastic fish off of me but I was left with 2 hooks lodged in the back of my arm and a cup full of vodka and ice that went down a little too smoothly in the moment of crisis. I told them to yank them out, YANK THEM, I didn’t want them in me.

“We might have to push them through the other way, they have barbs,” my friend said.

“I don’t care, I have a high tolerance for pain, I’ve had piercings and a freakin baby, I can take 2 hooks being pulled out of me, JUST YANK THEM OUT, JUST DO IT,” I said.

They tried to cut the extra hooks off so there would just be one at each site that they could push through but they pinched skin with the rusty wire cutters which made me flinch, the first real pain I felt, and as soon as I said “ow” they stopped.

I told them again to just pull and as the nurse half-ass yanked for fear of hurting me, the other neighbor standing in front of me asked if I needed something to bite on for the pain. He offered his fuzzy freckly arm and told me to just bite it, “bite my arm!” and he offered it to me as a sacrifice of sympathy. I declined. Because as weird as it was to have 2 people pulling hooks out of my arm, the thought of biting down on a stranger’s forearm like a bullet seemed even weirder and I probably would have drawn blood.

As they tried to pull, I could feel one of them was right at the surface but the other one, it just wasn’t budging and they knew it, too.

“Oh, I have an idea!” one of them said. “Do we have any toothpicks? We could stick the toothpick in the hole, get it under the skin and push the skin up and over the barb and….”

“Take me to the ER,” I said. It was getting a little too experimental-doctor-like for me, plus I had a hunch none of them had a tetanus shot in their back pockets.

Honestly, it still did not hurt at that point. Maybe I was in shock. Maybe fish hooks really don’t hurt. Maybe the back of the arm is a much better spot to get hooked than say the face, or neck, or chest or back. Who knows. All I know is that I was able to slip a shirt on over my bathing suit…

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caught in the wild – the elusive Jaime fish

…take a car ride to the ER, calmly check in with the front desk, and then get numbed up by the doc. He grabbed a pair of pliers (shiny and sterile thank god), and he yanked those suckers out. A tetanus shot and an antibiotics prescription later, we were out of there.

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6 days later I’m happy to report that I have 2 little bruises and the worst part was the recovery from the tetanus shot because those suckers hurt like a mother fucker for days. At least I’m covered for the next 10 years. Or you know, until the next time I’m out on a boat, get hooked by a fishing lure, find myself in the ER and can’t remember when my last tetanus shot was.

Karma. I put a hook in a fish and I got hooked back. And that, my friends, is how not to fish.

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patrik

Now that I’m back in writing mode, I have so much to catch up on – I could tell you about my Portland friend staying with me for a weekend in April when we roadtripped from here down to Indiana then all the way up to Wisconsin just so she could say she’s been to 3 midwest states, or I could tell you about how I finally bit the bullet and got botox in my armpits, I could write novels about the FABULOUS <cough> life of online dating, or I could tell you about preschool face painting day when I picked up Summer and realized that her teacher has the artistic abilities of a blind monkey.

But instead, today I will tell you the tale of Patrik.

Patrik is a sweet older Croatian man with a thick accent, soft spoken, probably early 60’s, married with grown children. He has kind eyes that crinkle in the corners when he smiles his warm smile at you, a face that any grandchild would love. To give you a visual, just picture this guy, only 10 years younger:

Patrik is head of maintenance here at the apartment complex and has been working here for the last 30 something years. At one point he and his family actually lived in my exact apartment years ago where he grew a beautiful lush garden, which I’m proud to say I am meticulously maintaining. Yep, tomatoes should be coming up any day now…

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Patrik has always been super friendly, chatty with a bit of a nervous stutter, and this one time, at band camp, he went out of his way to replace the rusty bolts off of my car that my rear license plate was dangling from with shiny new ones. Then he did my front plate for good measure. He gives me his “friendly discount” on my carpet cleaning and told me not to worry about the 8 holes I drilled (fine, 13 because tape measurer what?) in the bottom of my cabinet to hang my wine glass racks even though it clearly states in the lease “DO NOT PUT ANY HOLES IN KITCHEN CABINETRY”. Psh. He said he’ll take care of it for me when I move out. What a good person to befriend, right?

So one random morning about 4 months ago, Patrik knocks on my door and hands me a paper bag and says, “these are for you!” Inside was a bottle of his homemade wine, a plate of his homemade prosciutto and pork belly, a few cheese sticks, a jar of hot peppers and a sleeve of bacon flavored ritz crackers. Fuck yes, I would have been happy with just the bacon ritz as a Christmas present. He said in the 30 years he’s worked here he has never brought any of his homemade goodies to someone until now, then he left. It was very sweet.

Seriously, put that red flag down, you’re distracting me from story telling time.

So I stuck everything in the fridge to snack on later and went back to whatever it was I was doing. A few hours later I got a knock on my door. Patrik. Apparently when he brought the food and wine, he was planning on sharing it with me which made me really happy that I didn’t smell like pig meat and bacon ritz while wiping the last remaining crumbs off my face as I opened the door, as I had not gotten this memo. So I let him in and for the next half hour we stood in my kitchen snacking on mouth watering prosciutto and sipping the sweetest red wine I’ve ever had while sharing stories about work and family and hobbies.

He thanked me for letting him share his treats with me, smiled his sweet grandpa smile and then he left.

About 3 weeks later, same thing. He came by in the morning, dropped off a bag full of deliciousness, then came back a few hours later where we stood in my kitchen for a half hour and chatted away about life – I showed him the quilt I’m making and he showed me how he gets the top wrapper onto his wine bottles with boiling water – it was my very own kind of convoluted Tuesdays with Morrie. It wasn’t a bad deal – I kept an old man company and he brought me meat.

Stop it.

Purely innocent, the only difference this time was that as he was leaving he gave me a hug. Mkay, I’m a hugger, so yeah no big deal.

3 weeks after that, same thing. Meat in bag, company in kitchen, talks about life. This time when he left he gave me a hug. And a kiss on the cheek. Derp.

3 weeks later, meat, convo, the usual. But. This time he went for the hug. I hugged back. He went for the cheek kiss. Meh. Then as I was backing up out of the er, ew embrace? He. Leaned. In. For. A. Mouth. Kiss. And I leaned waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back.

“No,” I said.

“No?” Patrik asked.

“Um, NO.”

And as he stepped away embarrassed, I shit you not, his old man hand grazed my side-boob and he left all red-faced with his tail between his legs.

For the rest of the week my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night was, “Stupid, stupid Patrik.” I still shake my head every time I see him which is almost daily since I work from home and, you know, awkwardly he works here, too. But really. It is kinda sad that a thirty something year old woman can’t befriend a little old man without him thinking he’s gonna get some because of a little pork (stop it). Needless to say, Patrik has asked numerous times since then when I might be free again for “the good stuff”. You can keep your good stuff, you dirty dirty meat creeper.

So sad that I will never be able to hear the word prosciutto again without thinking about side-boob. And now you won’t either, muah ah ah.

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