Remembering shit is so random; and weird.

This morning, I was making my um, second (or fourth) cup of coffee and for some reason my grandfather popped into my head.  Not the living one but, the long time gone one. My father’s father. The part of my genetic code that I wholeheartedly credit my quiet, quick and mental warfare abilities from. Thank you, X.L.. You were one of the greats.

Anyway… there are things about my grandfather that I can pull from memory and then there are the stories. Some of those stories were romantic and involved my grandmother, Ellen, and some that included a dog, a knife and jumping states lines but, that is all complete hearsay and no charges were ever brought against him and no one can prove anything. I mean, the guy lived for fuck’s sake but, yeah. That’s a story for another time.

Let’s go with my memories since well, I can confirm these. Well, I can confirm them as far as my first 12 years allow me to.

I guess what brought him to mind was my coffee. X.L. had some very unique ways of doing things. Being almost 41 years old now, let’s just call a spade a spade; he was OCD as fuck. “Unique”, ha. Back to the coffee though; X.L. would make his coffee in a regular old cup. Add his sugar to the cup, stir and then pour it onto the saucer and drink it from there. Pick up the saucer and literally, slurp it down.  I always told myself that it was to cool off that delicious nectar of the gods but, I don’t think that I ever asked.  I wish that I had asked.

Coffee in hand, I stood in the kitchen and just tried to remember the things that he did and said. Although I don’t remember his voice and I don’t recall words of insight or advice, I did remember another little doozie that again, I wish that I had asked about.

X.L. loved banana sandwiches and I’m pretty sure that this is another thing that I can give him props for. (I have one almost every night before bed.) He also, on top of his coffee thing, had a way of eating those sandwiches that boggled me and honestly?, I’m still confused as hell.  A traditional banana sandwich, at least to me, is two slices of white bread slathered with Blue Plate mayonnaise and with slices of an almost over-ripened banana between. BAM! Pure fucking, glutinous deliciousness. However, this was not the case with my dear Pop. The components were all the same but the prep was over the top, WEIRD.  Stay with me here…

X.L. would take a saucer (wtf is it with with saucers and this guy?), and use a fork to MASH UP the banana, then add mayonnaise to it and stir it until it was mixed and finally slathering it on the bread. That is a big, fat, unequivocal, disgusting NO. Oh, I tried it. Once. And once was enough. The slime and the goop. Nope.  And again, something that I wished that I inquired about.  For the record, I always just assumed he did it because sometimes the slices that are in between the bread will fall out and it can get messy; mashing it all together makes more of a spread and less likely to just fall apart.  Yeah. I like my theory.

X.L. also had an earthworm bed under this enormous tree in his backyard. If he wanted to go fishing, and that was often, he would take a bucket and a rake, go out and just turn the top soil enough to see those nasty little fuckers scouring for safety, scoop them up and be on his merry way. I’m pretty sure that I was more than happy to help him scavenge for the things as a small child but, I do remember towards my last memories of him, hiding in the guest bedroom and playing in a hope chest that my grandmother still had full of her hats and gloves from the 40’s. (I was NOT supposed to be doing that, btw.)

There was a mirror that hung in their hallway. That mirror always creeped me the fuck out. All the things it had seen and the places it had been moved to. All the make up that was applied, the coiffed bouffant up-dos that were perfected, the ties that were straightened, the dirty faces of kids and grand kids passing by on their way to the bath, the tears of happiness at babies born and weddings and the tears of losing people they loved.

That mirror hangs in my formal dining room now. And sometimes I just clean it. But, never too much or too often. All of the things that it has seen, I will never know and that’s okay because it will carry some of my secrets on when I am gone. And maybe it will bring some memories to whomever it resides with next.

Xeles L. Swindoll, b.1911 d.1988

Things I have learned since turning 40…

Okay. So, here’s the deal;

I actually just turned 40 a little over a month ago. But, I feel like I’ve been 40 for YEARS. For almost the last 12 years; I have felt 40. Ever. Single. Year. And it all began when I had that first little unplanned bundle of joy.

On a serious note, I had been looking forward to my 40th birthday. Like a mother fucking boss. I made a ’40 Before 40′ list, I did a semi cake smash photo shoot with my tribe. I planned and executed my 40th birthday dinner party and with a little over three weeks to go; have survived (I don’t use that word loosely either), #Deployment2016.

Fortunately for everyone reading this, definitely not a poor, woe is me, deployment post. This is seriously about things that I have learned in the days leading up to and immediately following celebrating my 40th year on this planet. So, fasten your seat belts and lets fire this mother fucker up.

I’m sorry. I must interject here. I really fucking hate that intro into well, anything. “Fasten your seat belts”. What fucking seat belts? UGH. Sorry, returning to the subject at hand.

I honestly don’t feel forty. Not that I would know what to compare the feeling to but, you get what I’m saying. I felt 40 when I was 22. I have friends that are young enough to be my daughters and sons. Wow. Letting that sink in for a minute. Here goes…

  1. One never really appreciates all the compliments on your flawless skin for all of those years until you hit the big 4-0. Then, BAM! You find your ass glancing at every anti-aging cream and collagen supplement that you can get your spindly little fingers on. Then, you find yourself in the line at Costco and the most expensive thing in your cart is that anti-aging balm that you hear people swear by.
  2. Did you know that you get gray hairs, um… DOWN THERE? Now, without putting all of my business out there; I’m a rather ‘tidy’ female so, imagine my dismay at finding not only that I had missed a hair but, it. Was. GRAY. What is this shit? No. Nope. I may have signed up for hot flashes and mood swings but I did not, under any circumstance, sign up for gray coochie hair. Fuck you. Melody signing off.
  3. Although I have always been a fairly open person however, in the months leading to turning 40, I have discovered a whole new level of, “FUCK YOU”, “YOU’RE FUCKING STUPID”, “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” and many more that I use on a more that necessary basis. Mainly, saying all of the aforementioned out loud and telling people when they fucked up. It’s refreshing.
  4. Their are friends and then there are those that make up your “tribe”. I love all my friends but, no matter what, I know that my tribe of women have my back. No longer will I tolerate people that don’t want to be in my life. No longer will I wonder what I did wrong for someone to walk out of my circle. No longer will I humiliate myself by begging people to be involved.  I’m worth more than flakes and fakes. And if you have read this far… SO ARE YOU.

I’ve learned that being a mom to three boys is HELL. Pure, unadulterated HELL right here in Murrieta, CA. I don’t even want to imagine if Jasper had been the girl we were going for. To my friends with all girls… my heart and my ass hurts for you.  lmao

I deserve the voice that I was given to stand up for what I believe in. To scream when I think that something is wrong. My entire adolescent life in Mississippi was being told to not say this and behave that way, don’t talk back, do what you are told and don’t question it.  Yeah, that shit went out with the baby’s bath water. I remember the first time that I disagreed with my grandmother, who by all accounts is a raging bitch. I remember where I was. I remember the second when she realized that I wasn’t backing down. I also remember her hauling off and slapping the ever living fuck out of me. For DISAGREEING with her. That was the day that I began to embrace my voice. I just didn’t know that it would take another 20+ years to perfect my um, SUBTLE approach to others and their opinions.  Embrace your voice. Speak the truth regardless of the popularity you will gain or lose.

If you read this thus far, you are obviously reading an old entry that I never finished. I don’t know why but, I just never finished, published it and honestly? Maybe I was fucking high as a kite because I really don’t even remember why I wrote it but, hope that you enjoy.  And, in a little over two months I will turn 41.

Oh, how the time does fly…

 

Family. That’s an interesting one to touch on.

If someone asks you to “Tell me about your family”, what would you say? Would the description be about your mom and dad? Maybe it would include stories of dinners together and yearly road trip vacations. Maybe there is no description that you can find that seems to “fit” as a description of the people that shaped your very being. Then, there is also the very real possibility that your description would fit into a not so neat little package about sibling(s) that you don’t like, a mom that you can’t be in the room with for longer than a few minutes, an great uncle that creeps you the fuck out but he’s family, right?

Wrong. So, so wrong on so many levels. Family is not genetic. Family doesn’t give you a bond with the bullshit urban legend of “blood is thicker than water”.

When someone asks about my family, first and foremost I talk about my husband and my children. Then, I go on to some of my friends that might as well have the same fucking last name or at least well matching tats. (lol)  I’ve never felt like the group of people that I was born into was my “family”.  I can’t remember a single time that I got a piece of exciting news and though, “Holy fuck! I need to call Dad!”.  Nope. Has never happened.  I don’t make the required phone calls on birthdays. I don’t do “Happy Mother’s Day” or the like.

When someone asks about my family, I am very quick to name off the very few people that I think of as my such. Some of them I have known since I was 13 and some of them I met last year.  At this point in my life, genetics seem to take a back-burner while common interests, mutual respect and the ability to relate to someone fulfill that part of me that SHOULD yearn for a more traditional family unit.

At this point is normally where “family friendly” people will make a comment about their great relationships with their grandparents, preach the gospel that is all things sugar and rainbows about a genetic connection that I just don’t get.  At this point, is most likely where you, the reader, is thinking “Oh my gosh! This is so sad! Everyone should have a strong connection to their family.  Maybe it will grow in time.”

Key words, “in time”.  I am 40 years old. My mortality is floating around in my brain and with three boys and a husband, “in time” for this mushy, cozy, lollipop licking picture of family life just ain’t gonna fucking happen.  There isn’t going to be family reunions to meet up with cousins that I really don’t care to know.  There isn’t going to be a magic wand to make that genetic code into something more than what it is.

With all of that being said, this does not mean that I care any less about my genetic family. But, I am at a crossroads in my life where I can allow a person in my life without really having that “bond” that society has told me that I should have with my immediate and extended family. It’s not there. It’s never going to be there.

There is no doubt that this post will hurt some peoples’ feelings and for that, I could say that I was sorry. But, I’m not. I’m not sorry because this is my honesty.  This is me.  When something happens worthwhile in my life, I don’t think “Oh god! I need to call  Aunt Sally Mae!” and  I don’t see that changing anytime soon. When something happens and I just NEED someone to talk to, I have my Tribe. I have my husband. I have people with whom I share many common interests and opinions and many that I have nothing in common with other than the ability to know that they’re going to be honest with me.

*Please note that my childhood, into teen angst and early adulthood was not that fucking horrible. I wasn’t beaten on a daily basis, I didn’t wear shoes with holes, my parents didn’t call me horrible names… by societal standards, I should be one of those cozy, family movie kind of people. But, I’m not. I never have been and I never want to be that person. Most people won’t ever understand and that is fine. These are the times where I like to revert back to the old faithful, “You do you”.

In closing because well, it’s 3:18am and I am finally ready to go back to sleep… DNA does not a family make. Love. Mutual respect. Honesty. The ability to listen. The ability to learn from another person. The gift of humility. The ability to put your own beliefs aside sometimes and just say, “I understand”, THAT is what makes a family. Not DNA.

Midnight Ponderings

The first time that I noticed music that I loved as a teenager was on the “classics” radio station in San Diego. It was Guns N Roses and the song was “Paradise City”.  I know, I know. You’re thinking the same thing that I am, “There’s no fucking way that belongs on a CLASSICS station!”.

Then, you realize that you are a 40 year old woman, watching MTV Classic and wondering if Lauryn Hill lost her shit before the Fugees split or after the fact, how the fuck is Bret Michaels still alive, and finally allowing yourself to accept that REM(the band, not the cycle) was a college experiment gone terribly wrong and not the enlightened words of Mike Stipe after all. In fact, he was pretty dumb.

This may well be the most defining moment of my life thus far.

 

Khaki Ball, that’s a wrap!

Last night the OHOTMU and I attended the FY-2017 Khaki Ball.

Call me a glutton for emotional punishment but, I have this disorder that makes me want to believe that despite mistakes that SOME people make, they are still inherently good people. No, I don’t WANT to believe it, I DO believe it.  And, part of this disorder is realizing that I care and love some people more deeply than reciprocated.

Before August of 2015, I didn’t believe in the little “clique” that a CPO (Chief Petty Officer) wife has with other CPO wives when our spouses go through season together. Obviously, those being pinned with anchors form an unbreakable bond. That’s what the Chief’s Mess is about, brotherhood and sisterhood. But as a wife, you form bonds with the other wives (in my case, no hubby spouses) that others won’t or can’t understand. We go through the six weeks of having no spouse, we lean on each other, we work together, we cry and bitch and hold up the house during that time. It’s something that I can’t justly put into words. After Season is over, we may not always be the closest of friends but, there will ALWAYS be a special bond. If you’re confused, think of it as a sister love/hate relationship; “I can call my sister a fucking bitch but, if YOU call her a fucking bitch, I will cut you” kind of relationship. There will always be that pride of being the wife of a Chief. I met this beautiful woman when our hubs went through Season together. Long story short; shit happens, life changes, marriages dissolve and you STAND TOGETHER as sisters or something along those lines. But, then she was just gone.  And, you know what? I miss her. Everyone makes mistakes. Some are larger than others but, we all make them at some point.

My heart hurts for the entire situation and I know that I should see it as I do with many other things and just not give a shit. But, I do. I care what happens to my friends and I don’t want anyone to hurt or to feel like they can’t come to me to listen.

Point of this is that last night, I had a complete BLAST with these beautiful and intelligent, funny women that I am lucky enough to call my friends. We laughed and acted silly. Talked  true stories of boobs, duct tape, what we did for our husbands during their induction season but, my head and heart wouldn’t let me stop wishing that my friend was there. Wishing that she was laughing and bullshitting with all of us and making fun of me when I TRIED to do the Cha-Cha slide in a CIRCLE which doesn’t work, fyi.

Like I said, call me a glutton for emotional punishment. I don’t know if we were ever truly “friends” in her eyes and it is what it is. I just want her to know that she IS loved and missed and maybe one day we can reconnect when the time is right for her. Until then, I mostly just wish her peace. And love for herself.

And that was my pathetic mushy entry for the day.  Thank you.

 

 

 

 

Babe, I know that you don’t care about this but…

…it’s a phrase that my poor husband is all too familiar with after 13+ years together. And normally, it’s accompanied by showing him something that I really, REALLY want but, am too scared to say, “Regardless of what you think, I already bought this”.  As of late, it’s been this thing called Lularoe. I don’t know, maybe you have heard of it? But, seriously.

Personally, I think that he should count his lucky stars that it’s no longer an obsession  with Coach or that Louis Vuitton clutch that cost as much as our monthly mortgage payment, but rather a $25 pair of leggings. And most of the time, I get my leggings with some sort of discount applied. (Please note that I said, “Most of the time”.) And, while I’m on the subject of these leggings, I’ve even done the math on these bad boys.  Trust me, it’s cheaper on him if I just buy the fucking leggings.

I digress though… in case you are one of the few that have been living on another fucking planet or have not been properly introduced to the wonderful world of LLR, allow me one paragraph to explain. At LEAST one paragraph.

LLR started (for me) as these severely overpriced leggings that a girlfriend of mine found. Yes, they are soft. Yes, they do feel like some sort of fabric that one would imagine a Greek god draping themselves in. I mean, if gods actually wore pants. And, up until she gifted me with a pair of these amazing pieces of loveliness, I was of sound mind when I would declare that, “…leggings are NOT pants”. Leggings are what WalMart shoppers wear when they are too lazy to put on actual pants. Yes. You actually read that correctly. There was a time that I would tell anyone, “Leggings are NOT pants” and ridicule those who did wear them as such.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. There are still the occasional times when I see that camel toe on someone and still think that they made a horrible mistake and why didn’t someone stop them. For the most part though, I simply nod and ask where they got that pair and if their consultant is local. Shipping gets expensive on this shit, yo. Gotta have the local hook up.

There is a whole other world of these women (and men, I’m sure) that have the same obsession that I do. And for once, I am afforded the luxury of claiming that people other than myself are crazier than a Southern granny on the porch in the hot Mississippi sun. These people wear their crazy with a sense of pride that I have for my sobriety of seven years. It’s a completely surreal experience when you come across these bitches. And trust, you will come across them if you want to get in on this action.

I’ve actually seen some posts where I thought that if there wasn’t that pesky little detail of two women being seven states apart, they would rip each other’s throats out. Please allow me to remind you again that this is all in the name of LEGGINGS. But, yes. Name calling… backstabbing… ruin a marriage of 20 years worth of craziness. All bundled into one little pair of ‘buttery’ soft PANTS.

I have converted a few people myself. Don’t get me wrong. I. Love. These. Leggings. Fuck, just a couple of weeks ago, my psychiatrist was feeling me up and was like, “SOLD!” I have one friend that shall remain nameless, that when I see her she automatically feels my shirt or pants to see if they are LLR.  I’m not actually sure how I haven’t converted her yet but, it’s only a matter of time. They always see things my way.  😉

Unless you are a millionaire or have no other person to justify your financial standing with, this next section is not for you. And if the truth be told, I should not be putting this out there for fear that my own OHOTMU will see this and be onto my game. But, here goes… because knowledge is power.

  1. There are ALWAYS discounts. No matter what. For example: “I got these at such a discount! Like, I totally wasn’t expecting one but, the consultant needed to move these for her new inventory.”
  2. There are ALWAYS contests going on and you win them every. Single. Time. No exceptions. Like, you are the luckiest mother fucker on the planet. Example: “OMG, babe! I just won a $20 Lula Cash credit for my next purchase!”
  3. There are always consultants that are your friends. ALWAYS.  Example: “I am so lucky that I met JoAnne Benton So-and So! She gives me the total friend’s discount!”
  4. There is always that FREE pair. Example: “I got so lucky because this was my FREE pair for sending all my friends her way!”
  5. There is always the ‘newbie consultant’ that just wants to get her name out there and sent you “…a free Carly(or insert whatever piece you splurged on) so that I could totally see what all the hype was about!”

I can promise you that unless your SO is all up in your bank account or is just of the “nods his/her head in agreement” types (and in this case, it doesn’t matter anyway), one of these examples will work for you every time. And, there are some that I haven’t even tried yet. Some of the particularly amazing consultants will even make it so that your invoice says something along the lines of, “Congratulation on winning our free leggings giveaway!” Now those…THOSE are my kinds of bitches.  Sold. Sold. Sold.

Now, I hate to end this so abruptly but I’m on my way to a friend’s house to see what LLR goodies she got in the mail today. But, if the OHOTMU asks… see #4 and #5.

LulaLove,

Melody

 

 

 

 

Fruitcake, cider and those fucking pajamas

***WARNING*** Some might read this as a “grinch-y” entry. It’s quite the opposite. I truly wonder and care deeply about some of these traditions and what the fuck people are thinking when they carry them out.

  1. Matching Christmas pajamas. Why? Seriously, why one night of the year do you purchase overpriced holiday jammies to make sure that each of your individualities are hidden? And if I am speaking frankly here, they’re fucking ugly. And I probably speak for many when I say, your children are now pondering your retirement home standards and whether you will be fed human grade food or Fancy Feast.
  2. Fruit cake. Does anyone REALLY eat this shit? We have all heard the tale of how there is ONE fruitcake that is circulated throughout family and friends over the years. Gifted and re-gifted. I mean, honestly? I have only ever seen one person eat fruitcake; my grandfather. And, by the look on his face as he bit into that chewy mass of candied fruit and overly gummy cake, he didn’t even like it! It’s like, “Fuck it. All the cake is gone. All the pie is gone. There are no more cookies. Damn. Fruitcake.” This is also a man that will willingly gulp down a huge glass of buttermilk so, in essence, his opinion is moot.
  3. Eggnog. Seriously, I have a theory on this. Not a single person likes this shit. Not. One. It’s simply used as a mixing agent for booze. You know, booze? The staple that allows you to deal with your in laws and get through that awkward Xmas dinner when Aunt Gertrude is reminding you that Charles Manson had love interests while he’s been in prison so, what is your excuse? Yup.
  4. Apple-fucking-cider. Dude. It’s apple juice. With cinnamon. Warmed up. And, although I can say, “Who would not like this apple-y deliciousness?!”, I can also say “Why the fuck don’t we make warm cider all year round? It’s not like it’s a difficult thing to do. But, it seems that people wait until November 1st to go crazy over this shit and until the pretty Welch’s bottle comes out that is four times the price of the plastic bottle just down the aisle from that end cap. But, I will give you this, ye plethora of cider aficionados… walking into your house is always a pleasure to the senses. Not being offered that goodness though? Rude.
  5. Pictures of your gluttonous holiday meal offerings. Yeah, about this one. Not one goddamned thing wrong with this. I have no question as to why we do this. Keep that shit up. I know that I will.

 

I think that about covers it for now. Pretty sure that there will be others as I grow older and grumpier but for now, I think that I have it covered.  And, from my family to yours… sending holiday well wishes your way with as many fruitcakes and cups of eggnog as it takes to make it a merry one for you and yours!

 

Melody

 

For those that don’t understand, I hope this helps.

Yesterday I took Evans on a ride along to run some errands and something occurred to me. As I sat at the light near Albertson’s, I realized that on Christmas morning he is expecting that there will be gifts under the tree for him since I always back down from any consequences that I come up with. I turned the radio off and told him that I wanted to talk to him about something and it didn’t require a response.
I told him that I know that in the past I have threatened to take away all of his Christmas gifts but, never followed through.(He agreed.) But, this year I truly want him to be prepared that there will be nothing under the tree for him on Christmas morning. I was not backing down and I was not giving up on him.
He in true Evans form, sat there. Saying nothing. Not even anything to argue his point. (Of which there is none, mind you.)
I then told him that I also had made the decision that I was NOT going to return or donate his gifts that had already been picked out for him but rather, beginning January 1st, he will have to earn each one of those gifts back individually. And I did not mean he does a chore that I ask and he gets all of his shit. I mean, that he wasn’t going to be allowed to ask for ANY of them and when I saw that the goals we set at school and at home are met, then and only then would one of his Christmas gifts be given to him. It could take as little as three months or as long as next Christmas to get them all.
Being that I never give him unrealistic goals at this point, as long as he does what his teacher asks of him and behaves at home(for the most part I mean, he is an almost 12yo boy) that will be reason enough to earn gifts back.
Although I still feel like a failure and a shitty mom for doing this to him, maybe at some point in his life, he will be about to do or say something and just STOP. Just stop and have one of those flashbacks of a lesson that I DID teach him and that for once, I stood my ground and it stuck with it. And then, he will realize that I never intended for this to be a true punishment but, hopefully a learning experience for moments just like the one he may find himself in.
Maybe it will be in 2017. Maybe it will be in college and he is trying to decide whether that cheat sheet on exam is REALLY worth it. Hell, maybe he will face the same situation with his own child. I don’t know. I can only hope that he will look back and for a moment, remember the sting of how that Christmas morning felt and proceed knowing that whatever choice he makes, there will be consequences. Could be good, could be bad. But, it’s my hope that he remembers that it really sucked and I did it out of complete love and adoration of the person that I want him to become. One with reality in check and knowledge that his responsibilities are his own, That his mistakes are the ones that will make him grow.
I hope that one day, he looks back and thinks to himself,
 
“Man, my mom wasn’t such a bitch after all. I. GET. IT.”
 
and then he makes the decision that benefits his life right at that moment.
 
I’m not a perfect mom. I’m not even a “good” mom by most people’s standards but, I’m here. I’m aware.
I am not their friend.
I am their mother.
 
I have not ever, nor will I ever make all the right choices when it comes to them but, just like they have never been teenaged boys or college bound freshmen or a parent, I look at them and I tell myself that I have never been a mother to a son at this age or with this personality before. Everyday is a new day with a new kid. A new day with a new trait or quirk that emerges. And, goddamned it. That is okay by me. As long as they come out of this “life” thing ALIVE and can look at themselves in the mirror and know that without a doubt, they did their best, I will know that I have succeeded.

I shouldn’t complain, but…

…my 140lb Doberman decided that since I have been letting him sleep wherever he wants in the house lately that he needs to lift his leg on well, whatever. For the last couple of days, I have been walking up my stairs and smelling animal urine. I say ‘animal’ because I have cats, dogs and kids. But, I digress.

Last night, the smell was unbearable so, I started investigating. Litter boxes clean, no visible “accidents” from cat, dog or man-child and no trash can that was visibly dirty. So, at this point, I am thinking that one of the dogs in sleeping inside, had an accident in the middle of the night somewhere on the carpet.

Let me break away and lead into the progression of this story by pointing out that my entire downstairs is tiled and laminate. Not a speck of carpet until you hit the stairs but, noooooo. No. This animal just had to use the toilet on the mother fucking carpet.

Anyway, fast forward to later after the kids were in bed. I needed some craft supplies from the office so, I start looking around. All of my craft paper, scissors hell, all my shit is in boxes. Plastic Rubbermaid shit and drawers, okay? It’s not like I leave the shit hanging out or whatnot. So, I got to where I know that my stockpile of greeting cards, plain card stock, envelopes and notice that the lid to the container is just the slightest bit off. Whatever. My oldest kid is a goddamned klepto so he was probably in there looking for shit to steal, whatever.

Keep in mind that the smell of animal urine is still horrible. (As a matter of fact, so horrible that I actually went on to Amazon and ordered a carpet shampooer. No shit.) I grab the box of supplies and reach in to grab something and then, something wet. No, not something ‘wet’. It was something liquid. And this liquid has been absorbed into all of my paper items that are in this container.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, it was mother fucking dog piss. DOG. PISS. All over my shit. Expensive ass card stock and some other random documents that were shoved in there for some reason. (Ah, yes. The klepto.)  Did you misread that? No. No, you did not. Dog. Piss.

But, wait. No, it couldn’t get worse. Well, I guess it could. Famine and locust and shit could take over, Donald Trump could become President.  Who knows?

What just happens to be in the very bottom of this piss puddle? Some of the things that my husband has acquired during his time in the Navy. Great. Just fucking great. Since I was wrist deep in dog piss, why not see what else there was in there? Oh, a hard drive? DOUBLE GREAT!!!

I cleaned what I could and just shoved the container out in the garage of the cords and shit that I didn’t want to submerge in water. (Let the hubs handle that shit.)

There is no point to this post. None whatsoever. Just to vent and to look back when I read this later and smile because at some point there has to be some humor, right?

M