dis is de time on schprokets ven ve goes de crazies.

I'm on drugs. Did I ever tell you that? Maybe I didn't. But yes, they're legal in this country and this state, and yes, I *really* need them. Except I'm not on them right now, and by THEM, I mean the ONE anti-crazy pill I'm supposed to be taking daily so that I don't have a replay of this.

The last time I got a prescription filled was right around HB's birthday, at the end of November. Yes, I know it's now February, but the pharmacy screwed up and gave me a whopping 100 pills instead of the 30 that my insurance covered. I probably should have returned them, but it was almost a month before I realized what had happened, and they'd probably have just thrown them out if I brought them back.

Karma's a bitch, though, and I'm getting mine. I ran out about four days ago. And I just didn't think about refilling. Because I'm superclever, that's why.

My brain is fuzzy. My heart is pounding in my throat and I have stress in me, so much stress in me that I feel like I'm a ziplock baggie full of stress. My shoulders are tight, my patience is thin, I am a twitchy mess. But for extra special fun, my brain fuzzy comes in waves, and just about the time my heart finds its place down in my chest cavity, in front of my lungs and behind my ribs, everything amps up again and the breathing and the heart and the brain and the dizzy and the crazy just start flying around like the birds in that Hitchcock film. You know, the one with all the flying birds. *That* one.

Yesterday I thought it was a combination of running around after Cat 2 and cleaning up his projectile vomit, and not having time for a meal before we left the house, and maybe too much caffeine. But even then? Those sorts of things don't usually reduce me to a shaking pile of crybaby.

I called the pharmacy. The phone-answerer said my insurance wasn't going to cover my meds. I couldn't decide whether to cry or throw up or pay cash. Also, I couldn't breathe, and fortunately it was just one of those Silly Little Health Insurance Things, but even so this steel body cast of bad body chemistry is keeping my brain and my lungs from playing ball on the same team.

And of course this would be the Tired-est Week of The Year for my short people, the week in which every request from a Tall Person would result in ear-splitting shrieking diatribes from any Short Person in the room, and for the record, there are FOUR of them, which adds up so quickly it's actually one of those exponential equations, but I'm not going to lay it all out for you because remember the fuzzy brain thing?

Yeah. About that.

I'm making some hot tea, putting on my pajamas, and watching a movie with The Mister, who says it's alright with him if they drug me for the rest of our life together.

back in the day, when it wasn't less than zero degrees outside

a little bit of elliott all night long

Elliott has a new game. Or skill. And this is Big Fun, I tell you.

He goes to sleep (precious little lamb). He is a finger-sucker... his own, mercifully... and he holds the shiny blanket binding, and sighs, and sometimes he talks to himself a little. It's all very cute.

And then he wakes up.

And sits up. Because, duh, he can.

And then he cries. Hard. Dude howls, wails, carries on like it's his job. Why? BECAUSE HE CAN'T LIE DOWN. He gets stuck in the sitting position and he doesn't want to be awake, but he is, but he's so tired, but he can't go back to sleep because he just. can't. lie. down.

Oh, the crying. It puts the stress in me and my heart starts pounding in my brain and my breathing goes all wonky and the meds I'm on are not for this sort of stress, they're for the other stress that's similar but without all that crazy heart pounding and I've tried to just lie there in my bed and wait it out but then my brain starts making those ridiculous fizzy-pop noises that lead me to believe that if I wait for that sweet child to just PLEASE GO BACK TO SLEEP!!!! I will have an aneurysm and die right there in my bed and that would just be catastrophic because The Mister would probably not notice I was deceased when he got up at the butt-crack of dawn to go to work but Wee Man TOTALLY WOULD NOTICE I HAD KICKED THE BUCKET when he climbed into bed with me the next morning to tell me he was starving for food, but I would be dead, and so then Wee Man would starve to death and then there we'd be, the two of us, curled up dead in the bed.

HB would be fine, for sure, except he'd never take his night-time diaper off but that'd turn out okay because eventually it would slide down his left pant-leg and would just sit in a stinking pile on the floor because HELLO, HE'S THREE, and they're a little gross. Miss O, on the other hand, would be horrified that I was sleeping so soundly in my bed whilst the baby was crying and carrying on because by this time he'd be awake again if he'd even fallen asleep in the first place. Er, second place. So she'd fetch him and come all storm-clouding-it into my bedroom where Wee man and I are TOTALLY DEAD BY UNRELATED BIZARRE EVENTS and she'd drop the baby on my carcass and then she'd be all, umm, mama, the baby's, like, crying, and you are totally ignoring him, and that's all annoying, you know, first thing in the morning. Not because she really talks like that normally, or that any of us actually talk like that, except for the short people really like to get under my skin before coffee, and by lying there dead I have given away the valuable information that NO, I HAVE NOT YET HAD MY COFFEE, thankyouverymuch, and also? You should be WAY nicer to me because I totally won you like ninety-eleven bazillion KinzCash last night on your WebK.inz account.

And then she would feel totally horrible for sassing me when I was dead, especially because I hadn't had any coffee first, and it would be one of those magical cartoon moments when the big realization happens and the French Press Fairies come to give me a hot cup of mouth-to-mouth, and the Kettle Fairies come to monitor the stove usage, since the short people aren't allowed to use the stove without an adult, and then they would instruct my people on the finer points of BRINGING THEIR MOTHER COFFEE IN BED, and then they would bring me coffee in bed, just the way I like it with brown sugar and real cream, and I'd drink it even though the French Press Fairies just had their wicked way with me, and then someone would give Wee Man a half-spoonful of anything, or wave The Mister's iPod under his nose or something, and he'd be back to normal.

And we'd all live happily ever after.

The End.

scream it if you have to.

There has been quite a lot of Sheriff traffic on my little street lately. We had a theft, technically a Larceny over $3000 (way. over. meh.), and that whole debacle is still being dealt with.

And yes, I do know it is grammatically incorrect to end a sentence with 'with'. (See, I did it again.)

Also? Homeowner's insurance. Let me not hear those words again for at least a week. Or ninety.

Yesterday afternoon the Sheriff-mobile was across the street at our neighbor's house. No, not the Halloween neighbors. And not the Speedo-in-all-seasons neighbors. The red house, for those of you who are starting to freak because you're local and hi, the dayton time is real good for the local gossip, but not the red house where my in-laws live.

And now that we all know what we're talking about here.

There I go with the prepositions at the ends of sentences. Again.

The Sheriff-mobile was there, and also other vehicles, and men in suits, and a deputy, and they were all going in and out, and out and in. I watched them for a moment, walking, walking, walking. And I knew why they were there.

He didn't go to work. He missed an appointment. He didn't answer the phone. Because he couldn't. Instead of going to work, the appointment, talking to someone, he fixed it so that he would never do any of those things, ever again.

I didn't know because I had seen, or heard, or suspected anything at all. I just knew. For the record.

He was quiet, middle-aged, took great care of his property, didn't leave beer bottles in my yard or anyone else's at Halloween or any other time. He kept to himself.

He didn't tell anyone.

Please, please, please, darlings. Please don't kill yourself. There is help, but nobody can give it to you if they don't know. Please tell someone. I know you're tired. I know it is just so. much. work. People do care. They really do.

National Suicide Hotlines, USA

1.800.784.2433

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

1.800.273.8255

Kristin Brooks Hope Center

The Trevor Project

serving gay, lesbian, transgender, bisexual and questioning youth

A State-by-State Listing of Suicide Hotlines

seven on twenty-five. and also two on twenty-five.

At seven:seventeen, seven years ago, Miss O poked her head out of my...

No. Do-over.

At seven:seventeen, seven years ago, Miss O came flying out of my...

Probably not that, either.

She's seven today, and sweet Lord in Heaven, that makes me the kind of giddy that starts out awesome and then makes my stomach turn a little bit queasy with the knowledge that YES, SHE'S THAT OLD, AND SO AM I.

She made a very simple, yet completely specific request for her birthday, and that is how we are spending today. Maybe tomorrow I'll post the picture of her Birthday Dessert.

bossy's (no) book tour

We, as in MOI and LE MONSIEUR, are playing hostess and host to the one and only BOSSY as she traipses around and across the country all willy-nilly and whatnot.

We'll be descending on The Anchor Bar at a date and time to be determined by HRH BOSSY's schedule.

Y'all are invited, whether or not you have a blog. Just leave me a comment with your email address to let me know you want in. :cough:Director Lynda:cough:

Or, if you're a stalker, you may email me. Or talk to me at Brownies. :ahem:MK and company:ahem:

hello, there, eyebrows.

I saw this post on Twitter, and found myself clicking through without giving it another thought. First, because we are not cutesy private part naming people over here, and secondly, because it is BIG FUN to laugh about (read: at) people who do actually call their vagina a COOCHIE-SNORCHER or HAMBURGER.

Oh, yes, my friends, they're out there.

I watched the video. But something was distracting me. I wasn't listening to the yammerings of the Big Cheese Bloggers.

It was the BLACK CATERPILLARS OF DEATH that were hanging over Dooce's eyes. They reminded me of the Death Eaters in Harry Potter.

So I give you: Dooce's Boy Haircut and The Black Caterpillars of Death. And also funny and stupid names for a vagina.


Private Parts: Do You Have Cutesy Names for Them?

What do you call your parts? And do not even tell me you call it your Black Caterpillar of Death or I will come to your house and barf on you.