Buying for my Redneck Husband is not easy. If he wants something, he buys it. I've given great presents, and crappy presents. This year I'm thinking they're above average, but not stellar. My dad took the prize with meat.
This year the Redneck will get a special edition 1/16 John Deere scale tractor from Juni. He picked it out six months ago, and has asked at least once a week when his Dad's birthday would get here. In general I don't mind the myriad of tractors displayed in my home. But this one is "special." It's gold. Not real gold, but gold in color. Something the A-Team might put in their van. But I just couldn't tell my son no. He's so excited. Me? Not so much.
I've gotten him an at-home massage (per request) and the original Duck Dynasty duck call. I'm thinking that's pretty awesome.
As for his birthday dinner, the Redneck wants stuffed peppers and a yellow cake with chocolate icing (a bundt, to be specific). But here's my issue with cooking. I'm not a bad cook, but the Redneck is amazing. So when I do cook, he's over my should. Constantly. Very annoying.
"I want stuffed peppers."
"What kind?"
"Tex Mex. But not out of your head. I want a real recipe. And a lot of cheese. And the peppers need to be really done. Not crunchy at all. And lots of meat. And lots of rice. And I want my cake moist. Really moist. Not like most of your cakes. I want it moist. Like I make it..."
"Babe. Happy Birthday. I love you. But shut the hell up. It's 6:15 in the morning."
Monday, October 28, 2013
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Hanging molding meat is NOT ok
My Dad loves food just as much as my husband. It's how they've bonded. And I love it. For the Redneck's birthday, my dad presented him with a 50 lb slab of bacon meat. Wrapped in brown meat paper, sealed with his signature Duct tape, and complete with a meat hook. Awesome redneck birthday present, right? Yes.
Until he hung it in my LIVING ROOM. This is not ok! I clean this house. I make my own Febreeze. I light yummy smelling candles and use room spray. I like apple smells. Vanilla smells. Maybe the occasional flower smell. What I DO NOT like is the molding slab of smoked meat smell. This is NOT ok. My life has hit a totally new level if Redneckiness, and it's completely unacceptable.
Update: I've won the meat war. It's now hanging in the garage. Problem is, the garage isn't the most ventilated area in the world, but I do go in and out through the door quite a bit. Which means the smell is more intense. Not ideal, but not in my home. Point wife...
Update: I've won the meat war. It's now hanging in the garage. Problem is, the garage isn't the most ventilated area in the world, but I do go in and out through the door quite a bit. Which means the smell is more intense. Not ideal, but not in my home. Point wife...
Fix me, Stitch Fix
I don't know if it's truly addicting, or if I'll get a box of overpriced, unfashionable crap, but I've got to try it. I'm starting an actual job in the spring (part time teaching) and haven't bought new clothes since my son was born. And do I have time to shop? No. I'm chasing cows and chickens and stepping in crap all the time. I don't feel like driving an hour to shop. So maybe this is the way to go...
https://www.stitchfix.com/referral/3127219
https://www.stitchfix.com/referral/3127219
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Change your Shirt...Seriously
My Redneck Husband is a clothes whore. Always has been, always will be. Believe it or not, he was voted Best Dressed in high school. Granted, he wore the shirts, tags tucked in, and returned them the next week. But still. At one time, my man wore Polo, Nautica and all those preppy brands. Even now, on date night, it takes him a millennium to match his shirt, shoes and belt.
But that's all I get. One night. Every other night he wears boxer briefs and a "white" t-shirt. I use white loosely. Very, very loosely. Tonight it had chocolate on the love handles, something yellow on his belly, and something orange with seeds clinging to his collar. I wash the man's clothes. Seriously, I do. He has more t-shirts than I do. So why does he insist on wearing the same shirt night after night? Any insight would be appreciated...for the life of me, I can't imagine why. It's icky. The opposite of sexy. And very rednecky.
But that's all I get. One night. Every other night he wears boxer briefs and a "white" t-shirt. I use white loosely. Very, very loosely. Tonight it had chocolate on the love handles, something yellow on his belly, and something orange with seeds clinging to his collar. I wash the man's clothes. Seriously, I do. He has more t-shirts than I do. So why does he insist on wearing the same shirt night after night? Any insight would be appreciated...for the life of me, I can't imagine why. It's icky. The opposite of sexy. And very rednecky.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
The Pity Pary's Over ... Because of a Chicken
Yep. That's right. I'm finished feeling sorry for myself. Because of a chicken. Let me start by explaining something. They way I feel about chickens. I'm not a fan. They have beady little orange eyes. That weird red rubbery skin. Icky butts. Scaly feet. And they're mean. I once went into the pen to feed them, and one pecked through my jeans. And drew blood. She actually drew blood and bruised me through my friggin jeans. Bitches.
But the other day, I decided to roll out some clay in my studio. I had to unload my kiln first, and was too lazy to walk to the barn. So I drove. And this chicken comes running across the field like a fat woman with no hands in a petticoat. She's chasing the car. I open the door, and the turns her beady little orange eyes up at me and squats on the ground.
I know this chicken. She's Juni's chicken. He calls her Sweetie Pie. He carries her around, she jumps on the ATV, follows him around. I'm not afraid of her, but she still freaks me out. Until that day. She squatted, and I decided to pet her. I don't know why. They say having a pet helps anxiety. Well, not when you have a dog that smells like pond scum, an 18-year-old cat that bites and another dog that's scared of her own tail. So I pet the chicken and walked into the kiln room (aka the old hog barn).
And she followed me. Wanting to be pet. I made three trips to and from the kiln to my car, Sweetie Pie in tow. And then I rolled out some clay in my studio.
I heard squawking. Either from laying an egg or the dog chasing one of the little devils, so I ignored it. But the chicken never shut up. I open the door, and there she is. Staring at me. Waiting to come in. So I let her in. And she jumped on everything, and shit on the floor, and talked the whole time.
And I talked back. We stayed in the studio for hours. I don't remember the last time I lost track of time. By the time Sweetie Pie and I were done talking, it was time to get Juni off the bus. And I realized ... I'd only taken two Xanax that day. That's a big deal for me. And it was all because of a stupid, crazy-eyed, ugly-footed bird.
Sweetie Pie is now my pottery buddy. I kick the dog out and let the chicken in. She tries to jump on the desk and I swat her away. She squats for a quick pet. She pecks at the radio. And we talk. Who knows what she's rambling on about. Probably something about how her two sisters are bitches. And I know she has no clue what I'm saying. But we get each other, in this weird, crazy person and crazy chicken way.
Inspiration for posts come far and few between now that I don't have manic episodes. But given my life, it makes sense that a chicken, Sweetie Pie, would be the one to break the writer's block. At least for today. Which is something. It's a reason to stop the pity party. Damn it ... I love that stupid nasty-assed chicken.
But the other day, I decided to roll out some clay in my studio. I had to unload my kiln first, and was too lazy to walk to the barn. So I drove. And this chicken comes running across the field like a fat woman with no hands in a petticoat. She's chasing the car. I open the door, and the turns her beady little orange eyes up at me and squats on the ground.
I know this chicken. She's Juni's chicken. He calls her Sweetie Pie. He carries her around, she jumps on the ATV, follows him around. I'm not afraid of her, but she still freaks me out. Until that day. She squatted, and I decided to pet her. I don't know why. They say having a pet helps anxiety. Well, not when you have a dog that smells like pond scum, an 18-year-old cat that bites and another dog that's scared of her own tail. So I pet the chicken and walked into the kiln room (aka the old hog barn).
And she followed me. Wanting to be pet. I made three trips to and from the kiln to my car, Sweetie Pie in tow. And then I rolled out some clay in my studio.
I heard squawking. Either from laying an egg or the dog chasing one of the little devils, so I ignored it. But the chicken never shut up. I open the door, and there she is. Staring at me. Waiting to come in. So I let her in. And she jumped on everything, and shit on the floor, and talked the whole time.
And I talked back. We stayed in the studio for hours. I don't remember the last time I lost track of time. By the time Sweetie Pie and I were done talking, it was time to get Juni off the bus. And I realized ... I'd only taken two Xanax that day. That's a big deal for me. And it was all because of a stupid, crazy-eyed, ugly-footed bird.
Sweetie Pie is now my pottery buddy. I kick the dog out and let the chicken in. She tries to jump on the desk and I swat her away. She squats for a quick pet. She pecks at the radio. And we talk. Who knows what she's rambling on about. Probably something about how her two sisters are bitches. And I know she has no clue what I'm saying. But we get each other, in this weird, crazy person and crazy chicken way.
Inspiration for posts come far and few between now that I don't have manic episodes. But given my life, it makes sense that a chicken, Sweetie Pie, would be the one to break the writer's block. At least for today. Which is something. It's a reason to stop the pity party. Damn it ... I love that stupid nasty-assed chicken.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
When it All Comes Tumbling Down
My life is blessed. My husband is great, my kid is great, my house is great. I'm spoiled in every way possible. But the mind works in mysterious ways. Especially mine. 29 years. That's how long I've fought anxiety. Almost three decades.
The last seven years have been the worse. Having a child also means having a legitimate reason to worry. I've changed medications 8 times. But the worry is the same. He's getting older. Why can't time slow down. He won't want to snuggle. He's getting older. This, in addition to my "normal" anxiety leaves a girl tired. Very, very tired.
I'm tired of the fight. I'm tired of the thoughts. I'm tired of the feelings. I'm tired of the tears. I am fucking tired. Of course not suicidally tired... I'm not a quitter. But I'm exhausted. I want a life where I enjoy thinking about my son growing up. Not popping a Xanax every time the thought intrudes upon my brain. It's not fair. And yes, I realize life isn't fair. Things could be so much worse. Cancer. Schizophrenia, a sick child, death.
Regardless, I'm tired. And pissed of. And crying. I have to wait for meds to kick in, the withdrawals to stop. It's always a waiting game. And even when I win, three or four years later the meds stop working and I lose. Again and again and again.
I hear the bus coming, and it makes me smile. But every night once I snuggle and put my sweet boy to bed, I cry. And take my meds like a good patient does. And the thoughts don't go away. So I'm tired. So very, very tired. It's all come crashing down this fall, as it does with all seasonal cyclers. But this year is worse than many. Not the worst every, but and enough. Anxiety sucks. It throws curveballs. It sucker punches you. It hits hard and stays well after it's welcome. And it sucks. And I'm tired.
I'm sorry this isn't one of the laugh-till-you-cry posts , but every now and then reality hits. My reality is constant anxiety right now. Swollen eyes. And I'm tired. So very, very tired. I just want it to go away and leave me alone. Even if it's just for a few days...I want my brain to stop fighting itself, and let me enjoy my so very blessed life.
The last seven years have been the worse. Having a child also means having a legitimate reason to worry. I've changed medications 8 times. But the worry is the same. He's getting older. Why can't time slow down. He won't want to snuggle. He's getting older. This, in addition to my "normal" anxiety leaves a girl tired. Very, very tired.
I'm tired of the fight. I'm tired of the thoughts. I'm tired of the feelings. I'm tired of the tears. I am fucking tired. Of course not suicidally tired... I'm not a quitter. But I'm exhausted. I want a life where I enjoy thinking about my son growing up. Not popping a Xanax every time the thought intrudes upon my brain. It's not fair. And yes, I realize life isn't fair. Things could be so much worse. Cancer. Schizophrenia, a sick child, death.
Regardless, I'm tired. And pissed of. And crying. I have to wait for meds to kick in, the withdrawals to stop. It's always a waiting game. And even when I win, three or four years later the meds stop working and I lose. Again and again and again.
I hear the bus coming, and it makes me smile. But every night once I snuggle and put my sweet boy to bed, I cry. And take my meds like a good patient does. And the thoughts don't go away. So I'm tired. So very, very tired. It's all come crashing down this fall, as it does with all seasonal cyclers. But this year is worse than many. Not the worst every, but and enough. Anxiety sucks. It throws curveballs. It sucker punches you. It hits hard and stays well after it's welcome. And it sucks. And I'm tired.
I'm sorry this isn't one of the laugh-till-you-cry posts , but every now and then reality hits. My reality is constant anxiety right now. Swollen eyes. And I'm tired. So very, very tired. I just want it to go away and leave me alone. Even if it's just for a few days...I want my brain to stop fighting itself, and let me enjoy my so very blessed life.
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