Reasons why I may lose my shit

The dog snatched Boober's pop-tart and scarfed it. I dropped a tortilla chip and then he promptly scarfed that.

About ten minutes later, the dog barfed on the floor.

Boobers bopped Smella in the nose. She cried hysterically. (And no, she wasn't hurt that bad.)

The dog licked Smella. She cried hysterically.

Boobers snatched a fruit snack of Smella's (because she was PLAYING with them, not eating them). She cried hysterically.

Apparently my insurance only covers two well-baby visits during the child's second year of life. Because I had Boober's one-year check up six days after he turned one, he's had three check ups in his second year. Luckily, the insurance company will reprocess it. Fuckers.

Big D's school called me yesterday because he was running a fever. So my Tuesday, where I usually have no kids, was totally interrupted by an eight-year-old who didn't really seem all that sick to me.

Big D is home today so I can take him to the doctor because he says his ears are plugged up.

My house is a wreck and there are piles of laundry multiplying.

I still need to study more for anatomy. (And Keely, bone doohickies are supposed to be there. Like the deltoid tuberosity on the humerus. Except there are more doohickies than bones, I think.)

Smella just "accidentally dropped" a chicken nugget on the floor. Guess who snarfed it down. And then guess who cried hysterically.

I fucking give up.

Tips on what not to say to your hysterical wife

I was headed home this morning from school and hopped on the interstate. A few minutes into my trip, my mini SUV started to shudder and sound like it might explode. I turned down the radio to hear better and nearly barfed. I was sure the engine or transmission or some other Major Car Component was about to blow. Except even I know most Major Car Components are located in the front, you know, under the hood, and this wasn't coming from there. I slowed down, and as I did, I figured out it had to be a tire.

In a sheer panic, I slowed down even more, frantically checking mirrors to see if I could get over. By luck, I was near an exit and wobbled over to get on it. I was hoping beyond all hope to get off the exit to a gas station or something, but the shuttering and gawdawful noise was worse, so I stopped where I was.

Upon further inspection on the side of a goddamn interstate with cars going way too fast, I saw it was that same tire that was flat in September. The tire place fixed that tire instead of giving me a new one which I still say is fucking stupid. It had a big, fat screw in the tread. Why risk patching that shit?

And did I mention that this tire blew? It wasn't just flat, it was completely shredded. Like, a wheel with large pieces of rubber hanging off of it. Like, if I'd kept going, there would've been sparks. Like, a rhinoceros had decided to use my tire as a chew toy. Like, I COULD HAVE DIED.

So when I called the husband, nearly hysterical and all shrieky, he told me he'd be there in just a few to help me change the tire. Because yes, I'm a dumb girl who can't do it herself. I know the mechanics, I've seen it done a ton of times, but hello...hysterical, way too fast traffic, shredded rhino tire. Come on.

Anyway, here's the lesson of this whole post: When your nearly hyperventilating wife whose pants may be a little wet calls you in a panic because of rhino tire, traffic, blah, blah and she's mad and upset and says, "I hate this fucking car! Hate it!" it is NOT appropriate to say all logically and superior-like,

"Well, it's not the car's fault, and that's totally irrelevant."

I mean really.

The one where I'm annoyed at the world

Let me go ahead and preface this post with: I am not a morning person. I am definitely not a morning person at 8:00 AM on a Saturday. Most things, like other people breathing, annoy me at that time of day.

With that said, I was in my anatomy and physiology class on Saturday at 8:00 AM. I sat in the same place I sat in last week, and Mr. and Mrs. Tweedledum also sat right behind me, just like last week. The best I can figure is that these two are married, but I haven't really asked, and I don't care a lot, except who the hell gets married and then takes college classes together? At the age of 40+? And why do they have to sit behind me?

First off, they chatter the whole time. It's not very loud, but I want to turn around and tell them to shut it. No one thinks it's cute that they're furthering their college degree together. It's kind of creepy and weird, and who the hell's keeping the kids?

At the beginning of class, Mr. Tweedledum likes to whip out his Macbook. Fine. Except this is community college and he's the only moron taking notes on a laptop. And then he talks about his laptop THE ENTIRE CLASS. "I don't know if I'll need to take notes with a computer..." "I don't know which program to use..." Look. The class isn't even two hours. If you can't take notes for that long, you should drop out now.

Apparently having a laptop makes one feel very, very smart too, because they both like to answer all the questions the instructor throws out. Not loud enough for the instructor to hear, just loud enough for their own satisfaction, and as it turns out, mine. But here's the thing. They're not always right. And then Mr. or Mrs. Tweedledum kind of clears his/her throat and says, "Oh, erm...heh heh." And then I kind of have to choke back all sorts of evil cackling.

Also super annoying at 8 in the morning on a Saturday...crunching. I don't know what was going on back there, because I was afraid to turn around and look lest I screamed multiple profanities, but Mr. Tweedledum had a whole bag of hard candies or a full cup of ice because he WOULD NOT STOP CRUNCHING. "Metabolism? No? Oh, erm...heh heh *CRUNCH, CRUNCH*"

Also cringe-worthy and annoying was the old lady at the end of my table who video-recorded the whole class. People, it's a hard class, no doubt. It's an important class too. But for the love of all that's holy, it's not rocket science.

I'm not going to make it.

I may never post again

School started Monday, and I'm already a ball of overwhelmedness. Firefox says that isn't a word, but Firefox can suck it.

If I thought I bit off more than I could chew last semester, I got a fucking wake-up call this semester. At first, twelve credit hours seemed doable. Aside from anatomy, the other three classes are really a piece of cake.

I may have been wrong.

I'm struggling with the idea of only going part-time. I think I would feel better mentally, but it's going to take forever to graduate at that pace, and I don't earn as much in grants. When I go full time, grants cover nearly all of tuition and books. If I go part-time, I'll have to take out more student loans. Student loans suck donkey balls.

I have to work at least 18-20 hours a week to maintain all of our health insurance. The husband's health insurance is way too much money. So cutting down hours there really isn't a possibility.

I've thought about giving up a kid or two, but I think the law frowns upon that.

I'm going to buckle down for a couple of weeks. Hell, I haven't even been to my anatomy and physiology class yet. Maybe it'll all fall into place and work itself out. Besides, I only have to make it until May at this pace, right?

Sure, I may have a complete mental breakdown, but I hear they give really good drugs for that.

Ingrates

Let me tell you how absolutely cool I acted yesterday during dinner. I was ever so proud of myself. I spent yesterday cleaning the whole house and doing countless loads of laundry, but I still managed to cook dinner. There was a recipe in last Sunday's paper for a pork tenderloin with Asian peanut sauce, so we had that with buttered noodles and green beans.

My oldest? Big D? He's kind of a butthead when it comes to eating. As in, he doesn't really like to eat anything save for chicken nuggets and maybe a grilled cheese. In the past year, I've put my foot down and said that I will NOT be making a separate dinner for him; he has to eat what I cook or nothing at all. Oh. And he's not allowed to vocalize just how gross or yucky or smelly dinner is. For the most part, this has worked okay, and he's even realized that hey! manicotti really isn't disgusting!

Baby steps, people.

So on to my tenderloin. It was perfectly cooked and tasty, and I love peanut sauces. Big D started bitching immediately, and Smella, being the small mockingbird she is, echoed all of his sentiments. I gently reminded them both of how rude it is to tell me repeatedly that dinner stinks, so shoosh and eat already. They both got hesitant bites, and Big D told me that was the weirdest tasting barbecue sauce* and Smella echoed that yes, it was stinky barbecue sauce. EWWWWW. GROSS. IT SMELLS BAD. YUCK.

I sucked in a breath and then slammed my fork on the dinner table and um, "voiced loudly" that they were to both stuff a sock in it and not speak for the whole rest of the meal. Either eat or starve to death. I was met with blinking eyes and the husband trying not to make eye contact with me.

The best part after a person explodes like that is the aftermath. Lots of cleared throats and clinking of silverware while the husband quietly adds up how much therapy will cost for three children.

Whatever. Wanna know what we're having tonight? I'm throwing tepid corndogs and ketchup at them and letting them figure it out.

*What? You think he'd eat it if I told him there was peanut butter in it? Come on.

Listy McListerson

1. I HATE Comcast with a fiery, red hot passion. I hear the other ones aren't much better--DishTV and DirectTV--but I plan on dumping Comcast just out of principle. I'm almost positive they employ the dumbest humans on the planet. "Oh, your IQ is 4? HAVE I GOT A JOB FOR YOU!"

2. We went to this place on Friday night to celebrate K's husband's 30th birthday. It was a lot of fun, and someone requested Ben Fold's "Army." Perhaps the worst version ever, but you have to give the piano guy an A for trying. I guess.

3. I had one too many mai-tais at the above mentioned place. I'm still paying the price of it. Big old wuss when it comes to alcohol? Oh, hi. That'd be me.

4. I'm on hold with Comcast right now. While I write a blog post. Did I mention I hate them? The last time I called them, which happens to have been Thursday, the person who answered was whispering. I had to say three times, "I can't hear you very well, sorry" before the chick decided to actually speak into the phone receiver/headset. And then she told me that she really couldn't help me with my problem. I Googled and found the damn solution myself. And I send in money to these people monthly. Really.

5. They couldn't fix today's problem. They'll be sending someone out on Tuesday morning. If that isn't some FINE customer service, I don't know what is.

School is officially making me real tired

I have gobs of homework to do, we're out of clean spoons, and there is a very fine layer of dust on everything. There are also piles of laundry to wash, and they expect me to occasionally show up at work.

I called the husband Thursday morning and sobbed at him. I'm sure he was grateful I did it while he was at work instead of waiting for a more opportune time. But I couldn't help it. I was having a moment of frustration and was feeling SO overwhelmed. I didn't know what I wanted him to do. Just listen, I guess. And he did. And surprisingly, I felt a little better.

But I'm probably going to be scarce around here for a bit. Just until things calm down and it feels like I have control of the reigns again.

So possibly sometime in January.

I kid! I kid!

Soooo...

I promise this will be the last time I speak of $35 next-day shipping. Last time. For this semester at least. Promise.

I ordered my psychology book online on a Monday afternoon. After forking over money to receive it really, really fast, it was delivered Friday. That's four days.

I had to reorder a book for my first year seminar class. (The dude at the brick and mortar bookstore handed me the wrong book. That's a completely different ranty post.) I ordered the book through the same online store on Saturday afternoon. I used regular ground shipping. Want to know when it came? THREE DAYS LATER. I opened the box, not really believing it would be the book, but it was the book, delivered faster and cheaper than next-day shipping, and then my head exploded.

So that's it. I'm done with the fucking textbook-shipping talk.

***

In other news, I was sitting at the computer this morning while the babies melted their brains with some TV. Boobers was dancing around, giggling, when he decided to throw his blankie over his head, which completely covered his eyes, and run straight into the side of the computer desk. He hit so hard that he fell backwards.

He's fine. He doesn't even have a bump. But do you have any idea how hard it was to have to bite my lip and not laugh? His noggin is fine, but I have bloody tooth marks on my lower lip.

Inflicting psychological damage on our children

I'd love to regale you with tales of how annoyed I am with work, of how utterly lost and overwhelmed school makes me feel most of the time, of how tired I am, of how I'd like to just lock myself in a room and cry, and of how I feel like a crappy mom and sometimes wife because of all of that, but I won't. Because man, that would just be one big Debbie Downer.

Instead, let's imagine we're tripping on acid together while watching this video. I've never tried LSD and won't be any time soon, but from what I've heard, this video would probably be awesome while doing it:

You can thank me later when you realize you've been humming that tune all. day. long.

It's been a fun, fun day

But not really.

I started out this morning gathering up the babies for a trek to the campus bookstore. I claim temporary insanity. I circled and circled the parking lot, looking for a spot closer than sixteen blocks away to park in. Nothing. I wound up crying and calling the husband, prompting him to come home from work and meet me in the driveway when I got home, bookless.

I called my mom to come sit with the babies as the husband and I drove back to campus. The line to get into the store was wrapped around the building. Finally in the building, they only had two of my textbooks in stock. Thanks. I cried some more.

The husband and I drove to the next closest campus where we were informed that no, you can't buy books there for online courses, those have to be purchased online. NOT TRUE, DUMMY, but I scanned the shelves myself and determined that they didn't have the book either.

I wound up coming home and just ordering the damn book online. I paid $35 for expedited shipping.

Since I'm off work tonight, it's really my only time to get online and finish up what I can for the week. In the middle of posting my introduction for Psychology 101, the online format I'm using crashes and my access to everything is suddenly denied. ON THE FIRST DAY OF CLASSES. I cried a little bit more, slammed a few doors, shrieked at the husband profusely. He threw chocolate and soothing words at me.

I guess I should quit shrieking at the husband. He's been nothing but supportive in this adventure of mine. And I know for a fact he won't whine once if dinner's late, if he has to finish up a few loads of laundry for me, or if I need him to patiently explain integers one more time. He's a pretty terrific husband.

I'm going to finish up my chocolate, snuggle the husband for a minute, and try logging in to my classes one more time. If you hear cursing and general unpleasantness in the vicinity of Indianapolis, it means access was denied again, and my head is probably exploding. Duck.

Purell, Post-its, and Kleenex, oh my

I tried to keep my excitement to a minimum, but I probably grinned way too big as I waved Big D off to second grade this morning. It helps that he was so ready to go back; hanging around the house with your little sister and brother is only so entertaining.

Do you see that backpack? It was stuffed with folders, crayons, and scissors. But that wasn't all. Big D also had to carry a separate bag filled with Other School Supplies that Annoy Kelly. OSSAK, as we will refer to them, include hand sanitizer, facial tissues, Post-its, baby wipes, and Ziploc bags.

Let's review. I pay taxes. People who don't even have children pay taxes. I pay $100 for "book rental." And on top of that, I have to send in freaking Kleenex.

Okay, fine. Kids are messy. I'm sure baby wipes come in handy at times. Come flu and cold season, I'll be grateful they're passing around the Purell. But Post-its? I was asked to send three packages of Post-its. Let's say there are 25 kids in Big D's class. That's 75 packages of Post-its. And there are usually three to four pads in a package. So that's...AN INORDINATE AMOUNT OF POST-ITS. While I try my best never to sound like a bitter old woman, I went to school for thirteen years and not only managed, but thrived without Post-its.

I'll hush, be glad I can afford it, and send in the OSSAK. But if I don't see some terrific project made entirely out of yellow sticky sheets of paper by the time this school year is over, I'm raising all sorts of hell.

I'm in love with a city

The husband surprised me with a trip to New York for our sixth wedding anniversary about four years ago. It was the best surprise anyone's ever given me, and I'm sure I'll never be able to trump it.

It also was the best vacation of my life, and I'm also pretty sure it will never be trumped either.

We were there only about four days, and we tried to pack in as much as we could. The Empire State Building at night, the Staten Island Ferry to pass by the Statue of Liberty, the Museum of Natural History. It was all breathtaking and inspiring. We walked miles and miles through that city, occasionally hopping on the subway. But while the subway was entertaining and quick, you missed so much by not treading the streets.

By the time we left, I was in love. Madly, deeply in love with a truly alive city. If it weren't for the fact that we had left my Big D back home, I would've stayed. I could've pitched a tent in the middle of Times Square and lived harmoniously with the Naked Cowboy and been completely happy. As the plane touched down back home in Indy, I was literally homesick for a city I'd only visited for a handful of days.

As I plan and research this upcoming trip we're taking, I can't help but veer my searches to New York occasionally, browsing flights and hotels, just counting down the days until we can go back sometime. I miss the honking and then the "no honking" signs on 5th Avenue, central park, the hotdog carts, the little lapdogs in Saks. I yearn for all of it.

I know we'll go back sometime, and I know Arkansas in a few weeks will be fun for us and the kids, but I wish my chest wouldn't tighten and my eyes get teary every time I think of it.

It only gets worse

K will be closing on her house 54 miles away on May 30. It's official. I'm looking into getting Vonage (woohoo hoo hoo hoo woohoo hoo hoo hoo) and their free unlimited long distance.

But the worst part? The part that I'm not sure I could live with if I were her? There's no Target. The closest Target will be an hour drive away. How does she expect to survive, people? The delicious $1 bins. The cute baby clothes. The hundreds of rows of wonderful Target goodness. Gone. Just a Wal*Mart 30 minutes away and a crappy Piggly Wiggly or something. Gah. I'm not even sure I can visit her knowing I'll be that far away from a Target.

Please keep her in your thoughts.

BFF

I've known my bestest friend forever since eighth grade. She was newish to school, and when another friend invited her to sit at our regular table during lunch, I didn't like her. Thought she was a total snob and rather bitchy. But she ate lunch with us everyday, and then I had a few other classes with her, and the more I talked to her, I realized that hey, maybe I did like her. Maybe she really wasn't a bitchy snob, just kind of quiet until you get her riled up. Because hoo-boy, she can get riled up.

We haven't been apart since.

There were sleepovers in the beginning, mingling of siblings and families (hers is award-winning crazy), and later, some underage drinking, some aimless driving around asking, "I don't know, what do you wanna do?" and then boys, marriage, babies, new houses... We've done them all together.

K currently lives 2.91 miles away (thanks, Mapquest). I like this fact. And no, it's not that we're at each other's houses constantly. We have six kids between us, two jobs, two husbands, a house apiece to clean, trumpet lessons, soccer, etc, etc. So no, there's not much visiting. We try to meet up every other Thursday with another mutual friend and we also talk daily on the phone. We're there for all six kids' birthdays, Christmas, our birthdays, and the occasional midnight freak-out when one of us pops up unexpectedly pregnant.

K is moving soon. Well, as long as the house passes inspection. And I'm happy for her. Mostly. I'd be totally happy save for the fact that this house will be an hour away. 53.72 miles. She will be long-distance to phone. We talk every.single.day. I don't even have a long-distance provider on my land line. I don't randomly pop in on her very often, but I can if I want. 54 miles away? Not so much. I'm going to have save money for gas just to visit and rollover minutes just to call her.

I'm going to miss her. And I can almost guarantee that since she's not easy to hop in a car and run down the road to see, I'm going to miss hanging out with her. She promises to "drive into town" as often as possible, but really, with the above mentioned responsibilities, that's easier said than done. She is truly the only person who fully understands me, gets me, and never judges. We can finish each other's sentences, she's watched me give birth three times.

I'm hoping, fingers crossed, that nothing changes between us. I'm not sure I could take it.

I wanna take a nap for the next 17 years

I really don't know what my problem is. I just had three whole glorious days off, plenty of rest, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. So here I sit, with a house to clean, butts to wipe, and dinner to plan, but I just can't. I only have three and a half hours before I have to be at work, and I can't make myself get up and DO anything except count down the minutes. I feel tired and overwhelmed. I feel like crying. I feel like I never have time to do anything. The husband helps out a ton, but it never feels like it's enough. Which pains me to say that, because I know he helps. If he weren't here, I'm pretty sure nothing would get done, ever.

I'm tired of having to work out of the home. I have enough to take care of AT home. Three kids, homework, dinners, lunches, mopping, endless piles of laundry, toilets to clean... But I have to work. I carry all the health insurance on the kids. We have a mortgage, two car payments, debts...blah, blah.

I don't think I've ever had depression before, but I think I may have a touch of it now. Between the kids, work, and money, I never feel satisfied or like I'm doing a good job. And it feels those three things are sitting on my chest, crushing me. All I do is worry and then worry about worrying and then try to hide that worry so others don't.

And I only work out of the house about 20 hours a week. Not even full-time. I don't know if I'd be able to function if I had to work full-time. Many props to those who do it, because this part-time barista, full-time mom, half-assed housekeeper is just about at her limit with what she has.