Category: General Bitchiness


Okay, people. I hate this year already.

So far, in 2015:

The Drama Queen lost a filling. That was a $180 fix.

I broke out in hives IN A VERY DELICATE AREA for no reason whatsoever. That was a $35 copay plus some for a medicated cream.

I broke my mother fucking toe. No, seriously. I get up every morning and buddy tape it to the on next to it. I’m starting to get some movement back in it.

What? How did I break my toe? Tripping over my kids’ shit in the living room, OF COURSE.

I smacked my head into an open cabinet door and thought I was going to die. But I didn’t. Clearly. I’m typing.

Mr. Sasha developed a staph infection. No, really. A staph infection. Out of nowhere.

A friend’s husband died of a heart attack at the ripe old age of thirty fucking nine. Thirty nine. You’re not supposed to die at thirty nine. You’re supposed to spend the entire year dreading entering your forties. But not to the point that you don’t actually make it to your forties.

My mother-in-law’s sister died of natural causes.

Mr. Sasha fell off a ladder yesterday and split his head open. Ah, whatever, he’s tough. Didn’t even need stitches. I forgot to ask if he’s going to get paid for the time he spent at the hospital getting CT scanned and such.

In addition to that, Miss Poopie Pants and I are looking for a play therapist to help us both stop feeling like we’re going to kill each other at any moment. We’re also looking for a good karate school, so, you know, if she DOES decide to kill me, she totally can. But also, you know, burning off energy, gaining discipline, etc. etc. yadda, yadda.

Oh, AND! My car died! And then Mr. Sasha’s truck died! Like, within a week of each other. So, yay! We have two new car payments!

In addition to all this, I’m in the middle of redoing the attic to be a play room for the Sashlettes, and my house is otherwise in a shambles. In fact, it’s never actually been this messy, I don’t think. And my house is very rarely clean.

Well, I go on tears, where I work myself to exhaustion and get every single thing put away, and keep up with everything, often for weeks at a time. But the very first time anything throws my very carefully laid schedule off, the whole house gets shot to shit.

So, I’ve got plenty of things to choose from to bitch about. But I’ve done enough of that. This is mostly a post to set up some future posts. For example, the scintillating discussion about why chewy cough drops should be banned from existence.

HINT: that one has to do with the Drama Queen’s filling.

Or, how about the official pros versus cons list of minivans.

There will, no doubt, be the scintillating series reviewing every single karate school in New Jersey. If you’re not looking for a karate school in New Jersey, oh well. Read it anyway.

And another riveting group of articles about play therapy. Or perhaps a few about the best way to use duct tape to fasten children to a wall.

It was a joke. Don’t call CPS.

So, stay tuned, minions. Writing shall commence forthwith. WTF does “forthwith” mean?

Advertisements

Suzy Homemaker up in dis house, bitches! My house is very close to Company Clean, with the huge exception of the Sashlettes’ room. That place is the seventh circle of hell.

I mean, I even have candles burning. There’s a goddamned quiche in my oven, minions. The laundry! The laundry is done, folded, and put the fuck away!

It’s insanity, I’m telling you.

I sat down to blog because I can’t think of anything else I have to do. Besides, you know, the Sahslette’s room. And fuck that noise.

I was in a pretty bad place last weekend and part of the problem, I realized, was that the house was getting overwhelming. So, I spent the early part of this week fixing that problem.

That’s me, you know? I fix all the problems. When MPP was crying because it hurt when she peed, I’m the one who drove her to two different urgent care places, and finding them both closed, I’m the one who harassed the CVS pharmacist to get her some pain relief.

I’m the one who cleaned up the mess after The Pupster ripped into a garbage bag and ate an entire chicken carcass.

Fear not, minions, I had used it to make bone broth so all the bones were super soft and mushy. The Pupster is a certified idiot, but he’s not going to die just yet.

I’m the one who drives back and forth to DQ’s guitar lessons, the one who makes lunches every day, and makes sure there’s dinner every night. We’d all be naked if I didn’t do laundry.

It’s frustrating to be a single parent when you’re very married. But I’m working on coming to grips with it, because this is just where we are right now.

Mr. Sasha is working 12 hour days, Monday through Friday, with an hour commute each way. But, on the weekends! On the weekends he only works TEN hour days, with an hour commute each way!

Do I have to tell you that was sarcasm? I hope not; if you didn’t know that, you might want to go find another blog. This one is a little too much for you.

In addition to all that working, Mr. Sasha is also in the process of completing his core course requirements for college, because at 39 years old, he thought it’d be a good idea to get a degree.

To be clear, I don’t disagree with him, I just wish he wasn’t doing it while working seven days a week.

School is entirely online thus far, but as he gets into his major, he’ll have onsite labs and such. That might be easier to deal with, actually.

It basically rolls like this: He gets home from work around 6:30, and we have dinner. Then he opens his computer. I try to keep the kids from bothering him, either by talking to him, or fighting with each other, or otherwise making too much noise.

I make lunches, make sure homework is done and clean up the kitchen from dinner. Then I nag the kids to brush their teeth. I say it at least thirteen times. Some nights? It’s a lot fucking more. A lot. Then I get them to bed. While I get them to bed, Mr. Sasha goes to bed.

By the time I’m done with them and they’re asleep, he is snoring away.

I kind of miss being married.

But, like I said, I’m learning to work with it for now. Someday school will be over and the in-fucking-sane overtime won’t last forever. I think if I can work on some more ways to blow off steam, I’ll be okay.

Like, for example, I’ve finished off about a half a bottle of wine so far, and it’s only 5pm. So, that should help.

Happy weekend, minions!

Today was snow day #451461757541f2t3294h87ri4.

 

No, really.  Look at that, there’s even letters in there.  It’s like, algebra and shit.

 

I haven’t been drinking a lot lately, because Mr. Sasha has been working nights and it just isn’t a good idea for the only adult in the house to be trashed to pieces overnight.

 

The Pupster is an awesome dog, but he can’t drive to the ER at 2am.  Not that I’ve ever had to do that. But the first night I’m totally wrecked? Someone will need a cast.

 

It will probably be the Drama Queen, because she doesn’t bounce.

 

ANYWAY, my point is, minions, I have become a cheap, cheap date.  But, today, when Mr. Sasha got home, I decided enough is enough and I was going to stick some Baileys in my coffee.

 

And then I was talking to a few of my friends, who were also home because of the algebraic snow day, and they suggested shots.  So we did shots.

 

It was 10am.

 

Mr. Sasha went to sleep around 11:30. I think. I couldn’t really tell time at that point.

 

I put the Olympics on when the kids went outside and fell desperately in lust with a curler. And curling actually made sense. It didn’t make sense when I was sober.

 

One of those things, I guess. Like dancing.

 

Anyway, I spent most of the day drinking with my friends on Facebook and this is why I love the modern age.

 

I’m sober now, because Mr. Sasha is getting ready for work. But stand by, minions, because we’re getting another foot or so over night, and I’m guessing we’ll have another snow day tomorrow.

 

This one will have an exponent.

Hi. Happy summer. Or whatever season it is where you are.  Here, it’s summer.
Typically, I hate summer. Summer means 24/7 mom duty.  I do not look forward to 24/7 mom duty. I love my kids, but not every second of every day.

 

So, when summer starts, I start a countdown. A countdown to when school starts back up.

 

We’re at 55 days.  Less than two months, and I can have my living room back.

 

The truth is, this summer has not sucked as hard as summers past.  There are a couple reasons for this.

 

First, somehow, the Drama Queen and Miss Poopie Pants have stopped fighting. Not altogether, but for the most part.  Right now, in fact, they are outside playing with the hose.

 

Aside, I refuse to let summer come again until I have a mother fucking pool.  Hope you’re reading, Mr. Sasha.

 

Another thing this summer has going for it is copious amounts of planning on my part.  We’re three weeks into summer and I’ve heard “Mom!!!! I’m BORED!” exactly ONCE, minions.

 

ONCE.

 

This is because, in anticipation of the long boring days of summer, I spent the last week of school putting together my BORED BOX.

 

Sure, there’s fun stuff in there. Stuff like bubbles and playing in the sprinkler and pretending you’re a princess who has to slay a dragon.

 

But there’s not so fun stuff in there, too. Making beds, cleaning floors, weeding gardens.

 

No one wants to tell me they’re bored for fear they’ll get stuck cleaning out the hamster cage. Smart girls, I have.

 

Here’s something else that’s awesome about this summer.  I suddenly find myself with a circle of IRL friends.  It’s been a long time since I had a circle of IRL friends.

 

We get together as much as we can, and we do it without kids as often as possible. This. Is. Awesome.

 

BUT. I am still counting down till school.

 

It’s kind of my thing.

 

I’m looking forward to school. Not just because my kids will be gone for six hours or so, either. I have lots of reasons for looking forward to school.

 

School means I can work more. Both at writing and at my part time job.  The more I work, the more money I make. The more money I make, the more fun things I can buy.

 

Like movie tickets. Or tequila.

 

School means my house will be clean again.  Over the summer, the whirling dervishes that are my daughters leave their stuff every freaking where. But, once they’re out of the house for several hours at a clip without me, I can put their stuff away, and get rid of the crap they don’t play with anymore, with no one being the wiser.

 

School means I can run up the street to the supermarket to get something I just realized I need for dinner tonight without needing an act of Congress.  It also means that there is a much better chance of me actually having everything I need for dinner in the first place, because I can go grocery shopping alone, paying attention to only my list and not The Flying Karamazov Sisters.

 

They will, someday, sneak past me and leap from the top shelf. I just hope we’re not in the glassware aisle when it happens.

 

School means my dog and I can take our walks at the pace we prefer, instead of the snail pace my kids prefer.

 

School means the weather is going to cool the fuck down. That, in and of itself, is enough of a reason to look forward to school.

 

To be perfectly honest, there are parts of school that I am not looking forward to.  Getting up early, homework, fighting over whether or not they’re allowed to wear a certain outfit to school. These are all things that suck.

 

But they are greatly trumped by the advantages of my kids going to school. At least, for me.

 

So, to my teacher friends who are so pissed off at me for counting down the days till summer’s gone, bite me.

 

If you’re not looking forward to going back to work even a little bitty bit, why on earth are you a teacher anyway?

 

And to my mom friends who simply can’t believe that I don’t relish every single moment of my summer with my kids, bite me.

 

I do enjoy my time with my kids. I just enjoy it a lot more when I have some time away from them, too.

 

And to Mr. Sasha, who doesn’t freak out when he gets home and the house is a mess and dinner isn’t made and the kids are naked and I haven’t showered, thanks.

 

Also, get on that pool thing.

I hate to count my chickens before they’re hatched, but….

 

Miss Poopie Pants has been successfully NOT pooping in her pants for almost five full days now. Even through the stomach plague that’s ripping through our family, she refused pull ups and stayed accident free.

 

To say I’m shocked is putting it mildly. However, good freaking Lord, the kid is going to be four in a couple weeks. It’s about GD time.

 

This is the secret to my unbounded success: The Potty Watch.  It plays a little ditty every 90 minutes, and the Artist Formerly Known as Miss Poopie Pants makes a beeline for the bathroom.

 

So, perhaps it is a little preemptive, but I’m taking solicitations for new names for this kid.  I’m considering Daisy the Zombie Slayer, but really? I don’t think she wants to slay the freaking things. I think she wants to make them her pets and friends.

 

She’s an odd bird, this one.

 

Leave your suggestions in the comment. I’ll choose my favorite and might even hit you up with something awesome in return.  Maybe something like this, in honor of the Zombie Slayer.

I’m starving, but I’m afraid to eat.

 

Not because I’m afraid of gaining weight. Although my diet has me about 20 pounds lower than I was when I started, woot!

 

Because I’m afraid I’m going to get the Christmas Fucking Plague that’s systematically working its way through my family right now.

 

It started with Miss Poopie Pants, and I was nowhere near home at the time. Mr. Sasha and I were two hours south, in Atlantic City, winning some cash on the slot machines, when the puking began.  My mom was here.  I feel a little bad, but not bad enough to not be hugely grateful that I missed the entire episode.  By the time I got home on Monday, she was nearly better. And after a five hour nap, she was all better.

 

Last night, 2:30am, Drama Queen very dramatically screamed and, very impressively, yakked over the side of her bunk bed.  She didn’t get a speck of it on her or her bed. I must have told her eight times how proud I was of her. I’m not a fan of changing sheets on the freaking top bunk. Especially under duress at 2:30 in the fucking morning.

 

Needless to say, we were up the rest of the night. She’s a good kid who never misses the barf bucket, so the clean up has been minimal.  Of course, she also gets mean as a fucking snake when she’s sick.  Like, OMG, who IS this child?!

 

When I told her she can’t go to school tomorrow, she hit me with “Two words, Mommy. GET AWAY FROM ME.”  I told her “That was four words,” ducked and ran out of the room.

 

She’s got her father’s pitching arm.

 

Right, so, in the midst of all of this, take a look at the date, minions. FOUR FUCKING DAYS TO CHRISTMAS!

 

Guess who’s not done shopping? Yeah, this girl.

 

Guess who’s not going to get to GO shopping anytime soon?  Yeah, me too.

 

Guess who’s supposed to be hosting the entire Sasha family for Christmas Eve? Yup.

 

I’m going to take a want-ad out for an elf.  Think the Fat Man can spare one this close to Christmas?

Mr. Sasha’s best friend is relationship challenged. That’s a nice way to say he’s a fucking moron.  (That last sentence is proof that I’m not nice.)

 

Right, so… I’ve know this dude, let’s call him JerkFace, for 15 years or so. I have stood by in horror through one doomed relationship after another in that time. In the beginning, I tried really hard to like these women.

 

His first girlfriend was a psychotic bitch. I’m not making that up. I’m pretty sure she’s since been committed to an inpatient facility.

 

Next came The Whore. Not making that one up either. She hit on everything, including Mr. Sasha. She slept with more of JerkFace’s friends than she slept with him.  She sent naked pictures of herself to my brother-in-law (who’s a nice guy, but, like, ew), while my sister-in-law was eight and a half months pregnant.  She’s the one I hate the most. Not because of hitting on my husband and brother-in-law, but because before The Whore, JerkFace wasn’t a JerkFace. She changed him.  Luckily, she lives several states away. Because if I saw her now, I might run her over with my massive SUV.

 

Then there were a bunch of one night stands and brief relationships that I barely knew, so whatevs.

 

Next came a long, long, long relationship with The Gold Digger. He moved in with her and her daughter and I bet his income was a real nice boon for them. When she finished school and got a job, she kicked him out. I wish I were kidding about that one.

 

So, then he met this chick online who I really liked. We got along okay, she likes my kids, and she’s a champion drinker. Woohoo!  These are my people!

 

He dumped her.

 

Now he’s dating someone he knew from three thousand years ago.  I’ve met her. In fact, she’s been to my house. I don’t know if I like her or not.  It’s not because I haven’t yet formed an opinion. It’s because she barely spoke to me. She was here for hours, and spent the entire time playing with my kids.

 

I don’t mean they came to her and said “Will you play with me?”  No, she actively sought them out and engaged them in various fun activities. She even spent the majority of the time we were eating, talking with them. She got Miss Poopie Pants to come inside for a clean pull up with no fuss. She got Drama Queen to try a little bit of everything on her plate with no drama.

 

In short, she was a better mom than me. To my kids.

 

We might be at war now.

 

Either that, or I’ve got a SA-WEET babysitter.

 

Anyway, I bring this up because she is coming over with JerkFace tomorrow and I’ll be interested to see if she spends any adult time or if she just plays with Barbies all night.

 

My prediction for this relationship? Oh who the fuck knows. I give up trying to figure out JerkFace’s love life. I really thought he’d hit it last time, but bah.

 

Truth? I love JerkFace to death and all I want is for him to be happy, and if this weird woman-child makes him happy, then woohoo.

 

In the meantime, I think I’ll take advantage of the time she’s here tomorrow to do my nails and get blindingly drunk.

Wow, what a sucktastic summer.  Not all of it sucked, but enough of it sucked that it’s going down as one of the top three times of my life I never want to experience again. The other two are my senior year in high school and my twelve year long “awkward phase.”

 

So, what sucked so hard about it? Do you really wanna know?  Oh, okay, okay, I’ll rehash it all just for your amusement. You better be amused. I’ll probably be psychologically scarred after this.

 

1. My husband worked too much.  He has to work a lot, or we can’t eat out every night. Well, you know, there’s also gymnastics and dance and aside from that stuff, these kids seem to need clothes and stuff. Not to mention I had to get fancy shoes for my anniversary.  And he paid for a family vacation AND a parentcation to Vegas this summer. So, woohoo. I’m not bitching about the money. I’m bitching about being ALONE. I, apparently, need more friends. Aside from my dog and my kids and the people that live in my computer.  Speaking of the people who live in my computer….

 

2. I miss my friends. Well, they’re not gone, there was no tragic interstate accident that claimed them, but our relationships have shifted. It started in the late spring time and kept going till, well, now. The ickiness that was going on with me being alone with these munchkins all day every day, and just feeling lonely in general, started eeking into my everyday conversations. I totally see what I did. I made the entire universe into my very own personal pity party, and you know, I don’t blame them a BIT for pulling away from my toxic vortex of doom. But, I swear, I’m better now.

 

Huh. You know what? Seeing this typed out as two measly bullet points makes me realize that it maybe wasn’t as bad as it seemed at the time. I felt like I was drowning for majority of the summer, but looking back, I  just really needed to put my big girl panties on and get the fuck over it already. And, really, it was probably good for me that most of my friends pulled back from my swirling mist of sucking yuck, because it forced me to deal with my shit.  And I desperately needed to deal with my shit.

 

So I guess you can say that is what I was doing all summer, learning how to deal with my shit and then performing thusly.  Now, as the entire world dies around me (it’s autumn, I’m morbid.), I need to work on fixing the stuff I let slide all summer. Like those precious friendships and my blog and my Twitter account.

 

So,  moving right along, I thought about this blog out of the blue the other day. And then a friend asked me if I wrote on it anymore and I said “no” but how fucking weird that she asked me about it the same day I was thinking about it. And then two, not one, but TWO of my minions on the Twitter sent me messages that basically came down to “Where the fuck are you? Come back or face our wrath.”

 

Here I am. Because the wrath of those two? Do Not Want.

These shoes were my anniversary present from my wonderful, hardworking husband.

It’s been a good week over here in the Sasha house. Here are the reasons why, in no particular order.
  • The laundry is (almost) done. Like, the only dirty clothes in the house are those that are currently on our asses.
  • I got paid by TWO clients this week, one of whom I usually have to chase down and beat with a stick to get my money.
  • Rebecca Black is not my daughter. This makes me really, really happy, because her whiney voice would seriously make me stab myself in the ears with knitting needles. Unfortunately, Drama Queen thinks Miss Black is the greatest thing since Justin Beaver, and so…. someone hide my knitting needles.
  • My sister in anonymous blogging over at Blogging Dangerously held a little contest a couple of weeks ago that I WON!  That means I’m gonna get one of THESE!  Holy SHIT! I never win anything! But when I do win something, it’s a fucking doozy, ain’t it? Stay tuned for my review of my prize on Kit’s blog. I am the winningest winner since Charlie Sheen.
  • Miss Poopie Pants pooped in the potty yesterday. I wanted to throw a party, but Mr. Sasha thought it was a little preemptive. Turns out he was right, as she’s had three poosplosions right out the sides of her pull ups, since then.
  • I treated myself to Bordeaux cookies today. I’ve eaten almost the entire package. Yay me!
  • I scored the AWESOMEST pair of Fuck Me Shoes EVER at Kohl’s!  I’m thinking I need to find a mini skirt to pair them with. My legs are gonna look like they go up to my neck.

    The F-Me Shoes in question. Hawt, no?
    Happy Friday, ladies and gents. Catch me at #wineparty tonight (I hope. If I don’t put the new shoes to good use, that is 😉 )

    You know what I hate? Making my fucking bed.

     

    Now, understand, I LOVE my bed. I have a king sized tempurpedic with 600 thread count percale sheets.

     

    Okay, no, I’m a liar. It is a king sized tempurpedic. But it’s got sheets from Walmart. After springing for a king sized tempurpedic, I couldn’t really afford good sheets for it, too.

     

    Regardless, I love my bed; I’d spend all day there if I could. Okay, truth, sometimes I do spend all day in it. Only getting up to bring Drama Queen to school and pee occasionally. Working at home rocks.

     

    What I hate about my bed is that, because it is king sized, there is only one possible place I can stick it in my bedroom. Only one spot it fits. That spot is in a corner, against two walls.

     

    So when it comes time to make it, I have to crab crawl all around, sticking blankets and pillows where they belong.  I also have to JAB my poor hand down between the mattress and the wall to shove the blanket down on my side of the bed. I have broken nails this way, people.

     

    And none of this would be a huge deal, if it weren’t for my dog.  See, I spend a good twenty minutes every morning making the effing bed, and the dog spends four seconds throwing the pillows everywhere so he can burrow under the blanket.

     

    No, I’m not fucking kidding. And no, you’re not getting a cute picture of a cute doggie all bundled up under his blankie.  Because the next time he does it, I’m not taking a picture, I’m snapping his neck.