Also, as I am in a "I NEED MONEY LIKE NOW", also known as "LETS BUY JASON AN ALTERNATOR", kind of mood today, I'm having a special sale for today only on my Etsy.

Just for today everything on my Etsy is buy-one-get-one! If you buy something today you can choose an additional item of equal or lesser value for free! All you have to do is purchase something at regular price (i.e., the other current sale of 15% off won't apply to this purchase), and then convo me what additional item (of equal or lesser value) you'd like for free!

Desperate times call for desperate measures, so y'all take advantage! Today only!

Three years.

Reed,

You have been on this earth now for three years, and you still can't make mama some bean nachos. If it weren't for the way you smile at me when I peer over your crib at you in the mornings I would sell you to the gypsies.

I hope that one day you will either have forgotten or be able to forgive me for the way that I am sometimes, for my absence from your life when I am hiding under the covers crying, for my obsession with laundry and house-cleaning, for my occasional inability to unwind.

And for drinking all the bourbon. I'm sorry I can't share the bourbon.

Reed, you continue to amaze me at every turn. You can count to fifty (although your fifty has several fourty sevens), you can count to ten in Spanish, you can spell your name (you spell it with three e's, but hey, that's how you say it), you poop in the potty (most of the time), and color inside the lines (when you feel like it). You are so smart. You got that from me, not your daddy. But you got your devestating good looks from your daddy, so I figure he wins.

You eat raw oatmeal and raw pasta. That's all I know to say about that.

This year you and Jude have entered into a battle to the death over who can keep daddy's attention the longest, who can take steal more of the other's toys, and who can make me hit myself in the face with a frying pan the most times. YOU'RE BOTH WINNING, and I now look like my mother carried me on a papoose board facing the wrong way for several years.

This year daddy has not only lost his mind, but also he's really not that interested in being married to me any more because he has decided that he wants to go to Burning Man. While reading up on it so that I could pretend that I considered it I ran across an article called "Surviving Burning Man With Your Kids". Reed, I either love you intensely or am a terrible mother because reading that list, just imagining having you out on the playa in all the dust and confusion made me hyperventilate, made my chest get tight, made me panic just a little bit. Why anyone would take their children to that event is beyond me, but if I was ever going to take you the only way I could handle it is if I put a leash on you. And daddy says that's cruel.

This year I've fallen further into my role as Turning Into My Mom and you have fallen further into your role as Turning Into Me, because I find myself suddenly bursting into operatic versions of Wiggles songs, Christmas songs, ANY songs, and you immediately throw yourself onto the floor and kick and writhe as you say, "NOOOOOOOOOO, STOOOOOOOOOOOP, MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMY!!!!!!" Thanks a lot, God, for simultaneously teaching me about irony, the joy of irritating my child, and how much I love my mother.

Reed, I can't wait to see more of the ways you will change, terrify, and teach me. Your ability to charm everyone around you, to assert yourself and be yourself and still be lovely and sweet (sometimes) is enviable to me. I love you more than I could ever describe, more than I could have ever imagined that I was able. If I can keep loving a person who tells me that they are going to kick me in the face, it must be real. I hope that I can live up to even half of my own expectations as your mother.

I also hope that one day you feel an intense urge to burst into "Walking In a Winter Wonderland" opera-style, and someone is there to writhe around on the floor when you do it. When that happens, I hope you think of me.

I love you,
Mama

Headache- check. Plague- check. Sheer panic- check.

You remember all my whining about "ob la di", about how something is ALWAYS happening?

When I got out out to my car last night, the battery was dead. THE BATTERY WAS DEAD, I TELL YOU. Jason came up and jumped me off, but it wouldn't hold a charge, so we had to borrow money to buy a new battery and get it in there and working asap so's we could both go to work today.

AND THEN, this morning, my NEW phone crashed. I spent my lunch hour speeding from one end of town to the other and back again for it to suddenly start working again while I was standing in the phone store, and for them to be like, "Well, let's just give it a couple of days. It might be fine now."

Then my boss is out sick today so I'm doing both our jobs AND IT'S SCARY. I'M SCARED.

This all gives a whole new meaning to that line in Almost Famous, "It's all happening!"

Well, it's definitely been an interesting week. Between my job, the election, our money situation, and about a hundred other things, I'm beat. And kind of dizzy. And a little parched.

I can't imagine.

Oh, Lordy. Communicating with the folks at the unemployment office is like being from Alabama and trying to communicate with that little guy who calls me from India about my Mastercard bill: difficult, to avoid using any expletives. So I'm still waiting to find out if I'm going to get any money for not having a job. Shouldn't one get paid for not working? I should think so. At least then I can get our cable cut back on, therefore providing myself with something to do with all this free time.

As it is I am washing, washing, washing clothes and sheets and socks and towels and the cat and my armpits and the dishes and my car and the bills and anything else that repulses me.

Kane and Jude stayed with us this weekend and they are just as smart-assed as usual. So at least their mom and step-dad haven't managed to FUCK that up yet.

In other news, my kid is an even bigger smart-ass than his brothers. It's like God said, "Okay, let's, just for fun, take all the smart-ass Kane and Jude got, and all the smart-ass Jason and Buffy got, and smush it together, give it blonde hair and a fucking cute smile and see what happens."

What happens is I almost die, every day, either from the cute overload that occurs in my house every single day or from the gouging of my eyes with screwdrivers after Reed gleefully shouts "WHAT THE HELL? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?"

And, really, where the FUCK is he getting all this awful language?

I'll need a matching helmet for my scooter.

It's a big weekend at work- we have several weddings on Saturday and a big in-house event on Sunday, so everyone is a little crazy here. I've gotten to the point at work where I despise my job, despise most of the people I work with. I start out on the defense in the morning, and it can only go downhill from there. I think I want to work in Leeds and drive a Vespa. I would be cute on a Vespa. I could get a sidecar for Reed. And Jason. Jason and Reed can be my bitches.

Reed has entered some kind of sudden-death terrible twos stage without warning any of us first. He can be as happy as can be and will suddenly be writhing on the floor screaming, red-faced, saying no to any suggestion we make (and I try everything- popsicles, trips to the store, toys, movies and tv, sandwiches, cashews, gold monkeys, EVERYTHING). It is got Jason and me both on edge.

I am showing my jewelry to a local boutique on Thursday and have high hopes. Here's to optimism.

If anyone is interested in reading my article that was in the July issue of Lipstick magazine, just click here, scroll down, and click on "Top 10".

My birthday is Friday, and we're going to celebrate it Saturday, but I need suggestions. Karaoke? Bar? Restaurant? Kristi's house (would that be okay, Kristi?)?

Sheboygan.

Holy moly, this life is a hard one. Today I just can't seem to wake up. My head has been hurting, and my eyelids have been drooping pretty much all day. It just seems like there is too much, too much to do, too much to think about, too much to talk about, too many phone calls to make.

We saw our lawyer again today. We can expect a court date in the next few weeks. I still can't believe that she is pushing this, that she wants to go to court and talk in front of all those people about her personal business. But hey, if she's ready, I definitely am. Nerve-wracking, expensive, necessary. I have to say that I'm glad we have actual legal counsel and aren't relying on random internet crap as our source of information. JUST SAYING.

This, work, marriage, money, cars, kids, it's enough to really make a person turn it all over to God. And Natural Light. God and Natural Light can get me through it.

Making a wish.

Originally uploaded by buffpuff

There has been so much going on lately- nauseation, continued bleeding, A LOT of crying, pulling of hair, frustration, worry, constant phone-calling, and then a couple of good things.

I think this super-cute little boutique in Homewood called Happi is going to carry my jewelry. I am so excited and hopeful and grateful- it's really a big deal to me, and I hope that it works out well for everyone involved.

An article that I wrote is being published in the June issue of Lipstick Magazine. Again, great opportunity, very excited, could lead to other opportunities, super-awesomeness.

I am not downplaying either of those things because they are both so rad and exciting, but I must say that the past two days of making 734 phone calls to 347 different people, telling our story those many times, talking to people who didn't know, or didn't care, or didn't want to disturb their lunch is really defeating. It has gotten to the point where every time I hang up the phone, every single time, I start to cry. I sit there for a few minutes and cry and rub my eyes and collapse in on myself, and then I straighten my shoulders and find my list and make the next call. It's not even that we're getting bad news from anyone; we just can't seem to light on the right branch, so to speak.

Luckily we're checking out another couple of branches on Thursday. So the beat goes on.


P.S. I just noticed that Lipstick has a link to my blog under "Our Favorite Websites". How cool is that? WAY.

Now is the time for the breakdown.

There is nothing like ending a nice, long day of hard work with listening to a toddler scream.

Reed just finished a tantrum session that included some of the most gutteral, wild screaming I've ever heard him emit. He didn't want to put his shirt on, he didn't want to take it off. He didn't want a popsicle, a drink of water, milk, some french fries. He didn't want to be left in bed, he didn't want to be taken out of it. He didn't want me to leave him alone, he didn't want me near him, he didn't want me to talk to him, he didn't want any of his toys, his bah, Jude's slinky.

If ever there has been a time when I've thought "That's my boy!", this is it.

I am in day three of constant thought, worry, and rage about my step-children's mother's inability to see past the end of her own nose. It's eating me alive in a way that's both emotionally and physically painful. I allow myself to forget sometimes, when things go smoothly with her for a few months, that we're dealing with someone who is manipulative, thoughtless, and calculating.

I am in day 782 (or 60, if we're being literal) of bleeding like a stuck pig. It is wearing me out, I have to tell you. I often think of the ob/gyn, the doctor who delivered Reed, chuckling and saying, "Girl, you're headed for a hysterectomy!" as if it was funny or cute or something to be amused over. Part of me thinks, well, I guess I better call the doctor. But I have some experience with that, the seeing of doctors for this condition. I saw my pediatrician about it when I was thirteen; I've since seen general practioners and gynocologists alike. I've taken various drugs and herbs and eaten sweet potatoes and had a d and c ("dusting and cleaning") and slept with my feet on piles of pillows and drank hot tea. The only thing that's ever had any effect is taking birth control pills and that only helps somewhat, some of the time and the side effects include CRAZY and ILL and EMPTY BANK ACCOUNT.

I'm catharting all over the place and I hope you can bear with me, because I have a feeling there will be more of this over the next few days or weeks or months. For now I'm drinking beer and sleeping on a towel. Jason has never felt more lucky to be married to such a sex machine.

Go forward. Move ahead. Try to detect it. It's not too late.

The plumbing is fixed, we think. Jason's car is fixed, we think. The "ripped, torn, and very inflamed cartilage" in my ribs might heal eventually, we think.

We've been taking Reed out into the world quite a bit lately, to restaurants and stores. It's fun to see how much he's grown up, waving at strangers and saying hello. He is so curious and friendly, and people really respond to it. Usually. Every now and then we run into people who are like I was about eight or ten years ago- "sure he's cute and all, but that doesn't mean I want him staring at me for long periods of time or standing close to me." But, hey, those people will be alright. They just need to drink more.

Don't they have any cling wrap or anything?

Kane has informed us that today was a busy day at his school. One kid got suspended for bringing porn to school, another kid had a seizure, and an eighth-grade girl is pregnant.

Kane's day got even busier when I fell into the floor and started having a seizure of my own.

Seriously, this is what we have to deal with now. I imagined that we would have to worry about this stuff when Kane got to high school; I just got shafted out of two years of preparation time. Where "preparation time" stands for "heavy drinking".

I know that this stuff happens; I know that this 13-year-old girl isn't the first thirteen-year-old girl to get pregnant. I KNOW IT. But, just like people imagine that their children will be well-behaved, quiet, contemplative, calm, patient, people imagine that their children won't have sex until they're, I don't know, OLD ENOUGH TO DRIVE TO THE CHEVRON TO BUY CONDOMS. Seriously, that girl can't get her own contraceptives, and now she's pregnant. It's actually the fault of the DMV.

My point is that just as I have come to terms with the fact that my children are going to misbehave, yell, hit, and writhe, I am starting to fear that I will have to come to terms with driving my child's girlfriend to the doctor for prenatal care, since my child won't be old enough to drive her himself. Hell; my child's pregnant girlfriend's PARENTS might not be old enough to drive her there- less and less surprises me.

What I'm saying is that parenting is not for me. Nevermind. I'm returning all three of them tomorrow. Now I just have to find the receipt.

P.S. Kane was just telling us that in his English class they had to write and autobiography including some things they want to do in the future. "By the time I'm thirty I want to be the first man to land on an asteroid and discover a new metal." So I probably don't have to worry about the sex stuff for at least a few more years.

Bird flu?

This is what happens...
Originally uploaded by cuttingroomfloor

Bronchitis? I don't know. Whatever it is, it's hanging around for a second week. The fever is gone, as well as that pesky sense that I am just about to die from all the mucus. My nose is only partly stopped up. But my eyes and nostrils still feel hot and fat, and I'm still using my inhaler four or five times a day.

So, all in all, some is, some ain't.

I went to the craft shop one day week-before-last, right before the plague came to my house, and totally loaded up on my favorite polymer clay. I went in thinking, "I'm going to buy one or two new colors to make new stuff for our show." Then it was on sale for much cheaper than normal, and the next thing I knew I had a basket full of stuff. The sad part is, I'm looking at this picture and thinking, "Wait, I didn't get any greens!"

I'm feeling like Jason and I are in the midst of this whirlwind of opportunities and we're grasping at all of them, and waiting to see what we have in our hands once the weather calms down. No matter what happens, it feels good to be striving for something.

Now we're just waiting for tomorrow morning when we can discern whether or not Reed has the pink eye.

It is NEVER boring in this house.

I would like some wine with this cheese.

So on Sunday Kane and Jude's bikes were stolen. They were on the carport, chained to a post with a titanium bicycle chain. It was midday, and I was at home. No shit- someone apparently came up and cut through the "impenetrable" titanium chain and hauled off two medium-sized trick bikes in broad daylight, while I was in my bed complaining about all the aches and snot.

Jason came home and was like, "Do you know where the kids' bikes are?" I was like, "NO. But I know where the FLU is. RIGHT HERE, BUDDY." But don't worry; then my indignation set in.

My flu-induced stupor kept me from encouraging Jason to call the police and file a report until he came home from work last night telling me about seeing some 15-year-old kid riding Kane's bike around just a mile or two away from here. Finally I was like, "Wait a minute! Before you go beat up a minor, how 'bout we call the cops?" Of course Jude was raring to go with Jason looking for this kid, and I let Jude know that if his dad was going to go abuse a child, he would have to stay at home. (He moped.)

So the policeman came over and got all the information from Jason; the entire time they were on the front porch talking, Jude was standing at the front door staring out with little hearts bubbling up above his head.

Reed heard Jason talking and asked what he was doing. I said, "He's outside, talking to a policeman." Reed thought about it for a minute and then exclaimed, "EWWWWWWWWW, NASTY!!"

So the policeman said the description sounded like someone they had busted several times stealing bikes, and said he'd call us if they found anything. We haven't heard back yet. It IS kind of sad, though; they haven't had the bikes for long, and they were kind of expensive. Plus, it's the SECOND time Kane's has been stolen.

For Pete's sake, we really need a break around here.

Scratch, scratch, scritch scratch.

So last night, totally exhausted, Jason and I snuggled up in bed around ten. Jason wasn't in the best mood because I had nagged him to fold a load of jeans while I washed the dinner dishes, so when we started hearing the scampering, scraping and scratching above our heads he wasn't happy.

I've mentioned the squirrels fucking in our ceiling; last night they weren't so much fucking as squirreling- scratching about, making noises, just generally making angry the man of the house. Jason got up and banged on the ceiling a few good times, which did nothing whatsoever. He went poking about and stepped into our closet to have a listen from there; he said, "Buffy. Come here."

I stepped into the closet and followed his pointing finger to discover a little hole in the ceiling, a little place where something had popped or scratched or scraped through the popcorn.

I have to tell you, I NEARLY SHAT MYSELF. Now I can't stop thinking about squirrels and rodents and RABIES, RABIES, people. It has made it's way into the house!! It has GUTS and GUMPTION and I will run away if I see it. Jason jammed a small suitcase underneath it so whatever has been poking its rabies-laden nose through there can do so no longer, but now I'm thinking, it'll just do it again! Next thing I know there will be little holes everywhere in the ceiling, with little noses and eyes poking through! GROSS. SCARY. I mean, what we heard last night was likely the sounds of the next hole, the next stop on the way to Buffy's insanity.

It's a short trip.