Giving UpĀ 

I’m tired. All the time. If you’ve been following you know it’s because I had hurtle cell carcinoma in my thyroid, so I had a complete thyroidectomy. Your thyroid produces all kinds of hormones and without those your body basically just slowly dies. 

They make replacement hormones to help with that, but apparently my body doesn’t think the synthetics are good enough. And so far none of my doctors have wanted to prescribe a naturally desiccated thyroid medicine. 

The last doctor I saw in May refused to believe the synthetics weren’t working, accused me of being noncompliant, and then sent me for celiac testing (it was negative!) I was sick of not being listened to, and then being told I was wrong about the naturally desiccated thyroid and being accused of noncompliance… I rage quit. Yep, I just stopped going. I felt like garbage anyway, so what was the difference? The difference is being more tired, more depressed, more achy, gaining more weight, and losing the feeling in my fingers or having them feel like they’re on fire. Good times.

I started to not be able to hold my embroidery needles or crochet hooks. The only reason I was getting up in the mornings was because it was easier to get kids on the bus and have them at school than to have them home all day. And I even debated that with myself. I called a new doctor when one morning I didn’t even have the energy to get them off to school. They didn’t mind having a movie and snuggle day with Mama, but I minded the reasons for it.  They deserve better. 

The new endocrinologist couldn’t get me in until February, but I could see his Nurse Practitioner in December, so I took it. I saw the NP, and after talking to me about my symptoms and history she spoke with him and he’s seeing me next Friday. Hooray. 

I’m hoping this is the doctor that can help me feel like a person again. I’m tired and I hurt, but I’m not giving up; I have too many that need me still.


Strange thoughts…

So I saw a picture of a little boy holding a guinea pig and thought, “I wonder how animals like that really feel about us? ”

Guinea pig 1: What’s up with the human always picking us up and smooshing their lips on us? 

Guinea pig 2: I don’t know, it’s weird, but sometimes they give us celery and scratch that spot I can’t reach, so I guess it’s OK.

I bet most people don’t even consider how weird it is. 

Then I thought, “Can you imagine if an animal tried to do that with a human?” And then I remembered Harambe. He was probably just like an unsupervised toddler with a kitten. He didn’t mean to hurt that little boy, he was just never taught appropriate handling of a human, and he died for it. 

I’m sorry for making you think about this…and for being a freak…..but not sorry enough to change.

No one cares about my breakfast…

I was going to post on Facebook that I was making myself a ham and cheese sandwich for breakfast. Then I thought, maybe I should clarify that I’m making it on a bagel, so it sounds more breakfasty… but then I thought, why? 

Why would I have to justify what I’m eating for breakfast? We eat pancakes and bacon for dinner and everyone thinks it’s a fantastic thing. Woo, brinner! But mention you’re having fried spaghetti for breakfast and some people look at you weird. 

It doesn’t make sense. If that’s what you’re hungry for and you’re eating it at breakfast, it’s a breakfast food! I say, eat what you want, when you want! Unless it’s babies, please don’t eat babies. 

So after my internal rant about breakfast foods I thought, why would I even post this on Facebook? No one cares that I’m eating a ham and cheese sandwich. No one cares about my breakfast, period. How do I know? Because I don’t care about anyone else’s breakfast… unless it’s babies. Seriously, please don’t eat babies. 

Medicinal DogsĀ 

Today was not a great day health-wise. I was sick last night, and again this morning when I tried to eat a bagel. Then I didn’t eat and ended up with a crazy headache, but later managed a banana, which helped. The dogs comfort me though, lots of snuggles. 

Since I wasn’t feeling up to anything I threw in a load of laundry and started scrolling through Facebook more than I’ve allowed myself to in months…

It’s been decent for my mental health, distancing myself from Facebook and the people there. I like them, but they’re just not usually good for me because I empathize with everyone, and then find myself worrying about them, then stressing about problems I can’t help, and then I’m in an anxiety ridden, depressive spiral of doom.

Anywho, many of my friends work and/or volunteer in animal rescue, so I see a lot of posts for dogs and cats that need homes. Because we’re near Manhattan I see a lot of them that will be euthanized if not pulled by a rescue from the public shelters. 

Today I came across a 5 year old Cane Corso set to be killed at noon. I sent his picture to my husband (Bear) and told him the dog was set to die. Then when I popped back to Facebook there was a 1 year old blue and white Staffordshire terrier that was also set to die at noon, so I sent Bear his picture too.

Bear wrote me back, “He’s beautiful; I’d love to have another Bruce, but we just can’t right now.”in response to the picture of the Corso.

I never heard back about the Staffy, and it was getting closer to noon. I checked on the pups and the Corso had been pulled by rescue, but the Staffy was still in danger. He was so young, and had such a good temperament evaluation, I just couldn’t bear it. So I called Linda Kane, who runs Orange County Barkers Rescue, and asked her to pull him for us. I did not tell Bear.

Later, I received confirmation that he was safe and would be headed up tomorrow or Friday, so I posted his picture on my Facebook page to take a poll on names. I enjoy ridiculous names, and my animals reflect that. 

Bear came home to change before going to poker. I told him about the kids’ dance class, he told me about his day, and then he asked me if I would make golabkis for dinner Friday since he had the day off. I said yes, (how could I deny him that when I was springing a dog on him?!?!)

Then it happened…

Bear: So that Corso really got pulled, he’s safe?

Me: Yes, a rescue pulled him.

Bear: Good, we just can’t with another dog that big right now. It’s not like Bruce who was 11 and had cancer. That dog was young and we would have had him a long time. He’s just too big until we have less dogs. We can’t do the young pittie either, he’d be too much.

Me: Ok. *Takes bite of pizza*

Bear: We’re NOT getting him, right?

Me: *stuffs entire pizza crust into mouth* Mo…

Bear: You’re lying, aren’t you?

Me: Mo…….

Bear: Why?!?! I told you we couldn’t!

Me: You didn’t tell me no to that one…

Bear: I said no to the other one, why would you think this one is OK???

Me: You said no because the other one was too big, this one is smaller…

Bear: I fucking hate you. We’re not keeping him.

Me: I’m taking a poll, do you think he’s more of a Mr. Picklesworth or a Baron Von Porkchop?

H: I hate you. We’re not keeping him! *Leaves, comes back in, kisses me* We’re not keeping him! *leaves*

Some people have retail therapy, I have medicinal dogs. I also have the best husband, who loves me in spite of all my flaws.

Oh, and in case you were wondering:

The poll on my Facebook page has Baron Von Porkchop winning by a landslide…

*Wink, wink*

I’ve started winking. I’m not sure why, or exactly how it started, but I’m blaming Selena Gomez.

It’s probably not her fault entirely, but I was singing one of her songs the first time I caught myself doing it, so she’s getting the blame. 

It seems to be subconscious, I don’t purposefully wink. Hopefully if I’m caught doing it people will just think I have Tourette’s or that I’m in the middle of a stroke, not that I’m some creepy weirdo that goes around winking at people. 

I assume that’s what will happen though…

“You’ll never believe the creeper I saw at Target today! She winked at me.”

Either that or I’ll be drawn into some sort of espionage. I won’t know the code after the wink though, so I’ll have to be discretely “taken care of.” I can’t imagine I’d make a good spy. I’d need a Morocco Mole to my Secret Squirrel.

I should figure out how to stop…

I mean I could, but why would I want to. 

Don’t drink and get tattooed…

There are so many reasons as to why you shouldn’t get a tattoo while under the influence. There are probably hundreds of horror stories from other people on the internet about the terrible things they had happen to them, or requested, and of course regretted. Goodness knows how many Buzzfeed and other lists of terrible tattoo photos there are. Do we really need to hear about more? Probably not, but here is my story anyway!

First, let me preface, I do not have any tattoos (relax mom.) This story is about why you shouldn’t tell someone what you want tattooed on you when you’re drunk!

Scene: Bear and I are at a wedding reception in 2011. Despite being at the furthest distance available from the DJ, the music was still so loud we had to yell to the person next to us to be heard. (It was super obnoxious.) Bear and his friend Rich were both fairly inebriated, and Bear tends to stumble on his words a bit when he’s drinking. Having to yell didn’t help.

Bear had just gotten his first tattoos: our twins’ footprints, names, and the date of their birth on his back. He was talking about his tattoos to Rich, was telling him that he’d eventually like to get full sleeves, that he’d never get a woman’s name on him regardless of how long he’d been with her, and what he was planning on getting next.

I still wasn’t sold on the idea of the tattoos, so what I heard him say he wanted next really threw me for a loop…

Me (horrified): WHAT?!?!
Me (relieved beyond belief): OH! HAHAHAHAHA, THAT MAKES WAY MORE SENSE!
*Everyone that can hear laughs uncomfortably while looking at me, judging me as a lunatic, I’m certain.*

Who would even think of that? No one. My weird brain. If Bear had misspoke that to an unethical tattoo artist, he could have ended up with a very terrible tattoo! He could have been on an internet list or a Milkyway commercial…


We have laughed about it for years.

I’ve been thinking about Father’s Day approaching, and thought he’d be happy with a tattoo as a gift. Bear still hasn’t gotten his praying hands, and is still adamant that he would never get my name tattooed on him anywhere. I’m good with that, even telling him that I didn’t want him to get a wedding band tattoo either. But I did decide that if he wants to get full sleeves he should have to get something to represent me, even if it was something that only we would understand. He agreed, and told me that I could pick the start of his sleeve, he was even willing to get it before he got the praying hands.

Naturally, there could be only one choice…


Toilet Seats and Excitement

What on earth is going on with that title??? Let’s find out!

As you become an adult you find yourself getting excited over things that would not excite you as a younger person. New pots and pans make you want to audition for the next Food Network Star. A new pair of pruners and suddenly every branch within reach is in danger of being “evened out.” When you purchase a new vacuum you declare it to be the suckiest vacuum in all of existence and you keep your floors spotless for a week straight.

You realize your younger self would have mocked old-person you. “So this is what my life has come to…” you’ll utter more than once, “being excited over *insert mundane item here.* Clearly my life has hit a new low.” Then that feeling of euphoria returns and you exclaim,  “But look how much this new box fan blows! Woo!”

Which brings me back to our title…

When you live with a man, there are going to be some toilet misses, but you hope that he’s not such a disgusting pig beast that he’ll clean up after himself. When you give birth to a boy, it is your job to teach him not to be an aimless pig beast, and to wipe up after himself if he misses. When that boy is six years old, he will not do a good job. When he doesn’t do a good job his urine eats through the brushed nickel finish on the fixtures where the toilet seat attaches to the toilet. It also eats through the enamel coating on the underside of the seat. And we all know how much fun and easy it is to clean under the back of the toilet seat where it attaches…

I really loved my enamel coated seat with brushed nickel fixtures that matched the rest of the fixtures in the bathroom. It was beautiful, as far as toilet seats go, but due to repeated morning mishaps on my son’s part, it looked like hell, and my fingers hurt from trying to clean under the damned thing.

I was in Home Depot looking for a plastic replacement, figuring they must have one that will resist staining to make up for me not getting to have that brushed nickel until he moves out. They had one better. It’s a miracle of modern engineering. Why?

It has nothing to do with the fact that it resists staining. It has nothing to do with the fact that it slow closes to prevent him from slamming it. This mother fucker pops off for easy cleaning.

“Whaaaaat???” you say! It. Pops. Off. Look at it! LOOK!!!


My actual hand with my actual toilet and actual magical toilet seat!

Oh. Em. Gee. That’s right ladies and gents. This glorious toilet seat right here made my day. You just pop up the clips and lift off the seat. No more wedging your cleaning cloth under there, or using Q-tips, or whatever you did before. This is a game changer in the toilet seat industry! And if you tell me you already new this existed, then get out. You’re an asshole for not telling me about it, and I don’t want you here.

I just installed it this afternoon, but I’m already declaring it worth the $40 dollars. The frustration it will save me is worth every single penny.

That’s right, I got excited over a toilet seat. Clearly my life has hit a new low.

But adulting is hard, and this toilet seat pops off for me to clean and make my life that much easier! Woo!