Pop Goes the Weasel? More Appropriately, Pop Goes My Back!

It is fitting that today is the last day of the year as this is most likely the last blog post I will

ever write.  I am sad to report I am about 3 minutes away from death. So on Friday afternoon

I started with a sore throat, slight cough and cold.  Not awful- but enough to be annoying and put

a damper on my weekend plans. As if the cold wasn't bad enough I start with vomiting Saturday

morning.  Great, so now I have the stomach bug and a cold. Bad, but still not the end of the world.

Oh and as I posted on my Facebook page, if you have the stomach bug ditch the weighted blanket

and go for a regular cotton throw instead.  I was in bed when the urge to purge came over me.

I try to jump up out of bed but my legs are wrapped up in about 20 pounds of fabric.

Not an easy feat when you are already weak from dehydration, it was like an off Broadway version

of Cirque du Soleil gone horribly wrong.   I'm trying to leap off the bed, the weight of the

blanket has my ankle contorted into some ass backward check mark tied to the bed causing me

to fall flat on my face with vomit rising up my throat by the second. Good times. Just when I

think this GI nightmare is over, since there is nothing left in my belly,  in addition to the

"throwing" I start "going". So here I am now Sunday morning alternating between throwing and

going, even better times! But let's be honest at this point when i "go" the stink is then triggering

my "throw" response. It is like a cruel, cruel sadist version of the chicken and egg theory.

What came first?  Was I still throwing with going added in? Was the throwing phase supposed

to be over and it naturally transitioned into going and if I my super human sense of smell didn't

exist would it have just been going and no throwing? It is just an enigmatic moment in time that

will most likely never be solved.

This being me, long time readers can guess that my travails didn't end there.  Oh no my friends,

it gets much worse. Much, much worse...You see, I am sitting in a chair in my living room but I am

not sitting like a normal 46 year old.  Nope, I have a few throw pillows propped up behind me like

a grandmother. Why am I sitting in the dark like a Nana? Oh, that's an easy one to answer; as

if they cold/GI bug weren't enough misery for one person the cosmos thought it fit to strike

e down with another ailment.  So about 22 hours ago I had just finished another round of

bathroom roulette, you know spin the wheel and see what end it comes out of. Oh, never played

that game? It is a fun one, I am thinking of going online and purchasing some Giardia bacteria

and making a ginger ale/sherbet punch with it, I think it would make an excellent party game.  

Anyway, I am out of the bathroom and heading back to my quarantined spot on the couch. I am

about 2 steps away from my comfy cloister when I am hit with a coughing fit. I am coughing away

as I am clearing my airway I feel AND hear this god awful pop in my lower back. It feels like

what I would imagine being struck by lightning to feel like.  I get this sharp, shooting, tingling

sensation through my whole body. It sounds like there are bees swarming in my head, I instantly

feel nauseous and I can't move. I am stuck in this contorted position, yet my whole body feels

numb. I swear to God as the lightening bolt coursed through my body I hear Freddie Mercury

belting out "thunderbolt and lightning, very, very frightening me..."  I think I may have technically

died from the pain for a few seconds. "Bismillah! We will not let you go, let me go, we will not

let you go" On a side note, did any of you see Bohemian Rhapsody? Once you get past the over

the top mouth they made for Rami Malek it was amazing! I loved Queen when I was younger and

I remember sitting watching Live Aid hoping the rumors were true that Queen was reuniting.  

Just like every time I watch the movie Selena, even though I already know the ending I was

hoping it would turn out differently. Rest in Peace Freddie. But as always, I digress. So after

my little cardiac interlude the pain sets in and I am shocked back into life. So there I was stuck

in the middle of the room. Then I sense something rising up from my toes, past my knees, over

my thighs, belly and into my throat and then the most guttural sound comes out of my mouth.  

I can't even describe it. It is almost zombie-like, apocalyptic if you will. It takes a few moments

but then my kids come to see what that sound was. Was it one of the animals? Was our house

coming off its foundation? Was there an undead coming in through the chimney? The realization

that it is their mother, the one that gave them life, birthed them was in trouble. Did they come

over and help me? No. They gave me such a look of disgust and called into the basement for

Chuck.  So it takes a minute for him to come up. Now he didn't take his time because he is an

ass. Our kids cry wolf so often he probably thought the major emergency they were summoning

him for involved removing a juice box straw from its plastic wrapper or something of similar

urgency; not his wife twitching in the middle of the room from some electrical malfunction within

her skeletal system. He helps get me back on the couch where I catch my breath. Emily comes

over to check in to see that I am OK.  Once she has proof of life she then starts in with, I have

to say a pretty spot on imitation of me the moment whatever it was inside my spinal column popped.

She said, "mom you were making a weird noise and bent over and I didn't know if you were

pooping, farting or having a baby".

I hang out on the couch for the rest of the afternoon/evening and try everything in my power

not to move.  The pain was unbelievable! Now, if you remember back a few paragraphs you will

remember I had just left the bathroom after a bout of the drizzly trots.  I was terrified another

round was coming my way. Thankfully after a morning of the McSquirts the shoot was pretty

empty but as a precaution I kept my ass cheeks clenched as tight as Fort Knox, afraid a rogue

fart might cause a breach of epic proportions, kind of like if the Hoover Dam got a crack it would

flood the Grand Canyon, yeah, like that kind of epic proportions.  The sounds that were rumbling

through my intestinal tract would have made the perfect sound track to a horror movie. Had I

been in the right state of mind I could have recorded them, sent them to Universal and profited

off of my misery for once. Oh well, opportunity wasted.

Since I had the stomach bug I was loading up on soup water, or as most people call it broth and

Popsicles so I had a lot of pee that needed to come out.  I waited until I couldn't hold it anymore.

I knew it would be like a when you are out drinking and you "break the seal" then you are

committed to the bathroom in 15 minute intervals for the remainder of the evening.  So I make it

onto the throne, albeit delicately. Well, as is well documented I have T-REX arms, shout out to

Susan for the amazing T-Rex necklace!! So T-Rex arms and the inability to move more than 2

centimeters in any direction had made the traditional female reach around, front to back wipe

virtually impossible.  So if you are of the betting ilk I am odds on favorite for a UTI when all is

said and done. You could make a killing on the over/under of that one, if you do financially gain

from my misery can you at least spring for the co-pay on my antibiotics? Hey, with the insider

tip it is only fair. So now that wiping my ass is out I have had to resort to drastic measures.  

Putting the theory of gravity to the test I have taken to wading up enormous balls of toilet paper

, I figure with the sheer volume Charmin placed gingerly in the general area something is bound

to be absorbed. I used to think Europeans were so pretentious with their bidets. I mean,

seriously they can't wipe their own asses? Oh how the mighty have fallen. I wonder if Amazon

sells bidets?  Let me answer that for you; Prime can have a southern shower here by tomorrow.

Yeah, I checked, I'm not too proud to admit it. This is the first time I have cursed the fact

that neither Chuck or I inherited the hoarding gene. Had we not been minimalists I would have

no fewer than 3 peri bottles on hand, those are the plastic squirt bottles you get at the hospital

to keep your lady bits clean after you deliver a baby; AKA the poor man's bidet.

I did make my way from the couch to the recliner chair.  Once I am up I can shuffle around the

house-straight lines are best, stairs and any type of bending are my enemy right now.  I have

managed to kneel down and get essentials like my slippers. It is a process though. I have to keep

my back super straight and do a one knee dip/kneel kind of like a Catholic does when kneeling in

reverence in front of the altar.  So with each dip I can't help myself, dip to get a slipper and in

my head I automatically say, "Body of Christ", kneel/dip to get a sock, "peace be with you"...you

get the idea. I am on the chair and Chuck comes home with pizzas. As much as the smell of

cheese and sauce is calling my name I am chair bound.  I need them to bring the food to me.

Now, you might think this is somewhat glamorous like subjects bringing their queen grapes but

in all reality it is more like Honey Boo Boo bringing Mama June some 'Sketti'.

Getting out of bed this morning was a difficult task.  It took 16 minutes from the time I started

until I cleared the side of the bed.  I know because I timed it. At times I looked like the Grinch

slinking along the sides of the bed using my feet to push me along, other times I looked like

Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible trying to navigate under the laser wires.  It was not a pretty

sight. 16 minutes and in the end I was a sweaty, painful mess.

My kids have been trying to take advantage of my situation and lobby for things they want.

 "Mom, since you aren't puking anymore can we have the cousins over for New Year's Eve?"

"Mom, can I have my friend over, you don't need to get up from the chair"...they are trying to

wear me down.  The older 2 have been campaigning hard for the past 24 hours to get another dog.

They have pulled out all the stops; typed up letter, made a whole marketing package including

flyers and a stop motion video.  Way to kick me when I'm down. I mean I can't even effectively

wipe my own ass and you are barraging me with pictures of pugs? Not fair!! Tears are flowing,

doors are slamming but as of right now I have held my ground.

It is not only the kids that have been taking advantage.  My cat Gracie has been less than

supportive this weekend. She will be 17 on Thursday.  We are on borrowed time with her.

She is not well. Lately when I am watching TV she comes and lays on me.  The way it usually

goes down is she comes and stands on my boobs, kind of like they are a shelf. Now with all my

faculties present I can gently nudge her down and she will tuck in and lay down on my belly.

Now with my faculties out the window she stands on me and there is nothing I can do about it.

I can't gently nudge her down. I have made a conscious decision that her last days will be filled

with nothing but love.  I could roughly knock her off but that would go against my ideal of her

only feeling love from me in her final time. So now as I watch TV I can hear Chip and Jo-Jo

talking about the Silos but all I can see is Gracie about 5 centimeters away from my face.  If

I am lucky she stands with her tail end close to my eyes so I can maneuver my face so I can look

at the screen under her tail, but then again that may not be so lucky after all. Gracie is a long

hair cat and in her old age her grooming habits have not been as fastidious so there may be a

dingle berry or 2 hanging from her ass.

Where did my life go so sideways that I am literally faced with a shitty cat ass in front of me

on New Year's Eve?  I hope this isn't a metaphor for 2019? But then again, if this is how it is

going to play out maybe this won't be my last blog post after all!  Happy New Year Everyone!!

Is it just me? Oh, it is? OK then, yeah...

So the other night I was enjoying my nightly bowl of buttered popcorn, some people have a glass of wine or a beer, me, I have my popcorn to help me unwind.  For the record I was eating popcorn alone, at night, in the dark way before Olivia Pope was.  So there I am with a mouth full of my buttery goodness when I realized I am watching a murder mystery.  I swear to all that is Holy I have seen Every. Single. Episode of Dateline ever produced.  Including all the ones with Stone Phillips, yeah I'm a super fan.  The fact that I am watching a murder mystery show is nothing new.  But here I was enjoying my evening snack while watching some families worst nightmare play out for my entertainment.  Now I know they sign waivers and have to consent to their story being told but I felt like such a turd eating popcorn.  Popcorn is a fun snack, it shouldn't be consumed while learning someones loved one was chopped into bits and thrown into an old mine shaft.  It felt so disrespectful.  So now the joy I felt eating my popcorn was destroyed.  I changed the channel and watched House Hunters and when my popcorn bowl was empty I went back to the episode of 48 Hours I was watching which I had DVR'd in the interim.  Then I felt like an asshole for DVR-ing it.  The person is dead and I don't even have the compassion or consideration to watch the show in real time.  Am I dead inside?  Do I have a black soul?  My popcorn couldn't wait-my snack was too important to put aside and honor this poor person's life?  Then I realized for F*ck's Sake Erin, do you have to overthink everything?  Can't you watch a murder mystery and just enjoy it.  I mean Keith Morrison makes a decent living off of these people's misfortune, the least I could do was support his employment and keep his ratings up.

Then I got to thinking; am the only one that does these weird little inner monologue rants?  Are there other things I do on a regular basis that might not be practiced by society as a whole?  Are my random thoughts odd or do others have them too?  Here are a few of the ones that immediately come to mind;

It has been well established I love all of the murder mystery shows; Dateline, 48 Hours, See No Evil, The First 48 and anything on the ID channel.  To be honest I think it makes Chuck a little nervous that I may just be able to pull off the perfect murder, but I digress...so all of these shows make me suspicious of everyone.  When I am out in public I always wonder if the person next to me is a murderer.  With the sheer volume of these shows it stands to reason that I have, at some point in my life been in close proximity to a serial killer.  I am always giving strangers the once over, sizing them up to see if they have it in them to snuff someone out.  I bet dollars  to donuts I have profiled more people than the FBI.

Along that same vein every time I see a nondescript box truck I wonder if it is being driven by a human trafficker.  I make sure I give them the side eye, letting them know I'm on to them.  The other night I was leaving work and there was a small white box truck parked right next to my minivan.  There was no one in sight.  Now they very well could have been on the up and up maybe they were making a delivery to the dentist office right next to us, or they could have been a driver for Amazon but before I got in my van I looked over my shoulder and back again, knocked on the side of the truck and asked if anyone was in there.  Total silence.  I felt confident there were not scores of teenage girls packed in there waiting to be sold on the black market.  I know I sound crazy but there isn't going to be a trailer full of humans suffocating on my watch.

Another weird habit I have is turning the news on the second I get up.  I have this odd obsession of finding a typo in the scrolling headlines on the bottom of the TV screen.  Now if you have been reading my blog for any length of time you know that I am far from being a grammatical scholar.  If I don't know the proper punctuation for the situation I just end the sentence with 3 dots and call it a day...but to me there is nothing funnier at 5:36 a.m. than seeing them scroll "a body was found in the Pubic Gardens" across the screen when it clearly is supposed to be "Public Gardens".  Then I set an internal timer to see how long it takes them to correct it.

When I am in the grocery store line I watch what the people in front of my are putting on the belt then I try to guess what recipe they are making.  Are they using the fish or hamburger meat with the Old El Paso Taco Kit they are buying?  Do they really like kale or are they buying it because they think it is the right thing to do?  What is their thought process when buying organic fruits and veggies but have an equal amount of Hostess products in their cart?  I put entirely too much thought into other people's grocery purchases but I guarantee you the next time you are in line you will start trying to figure out what they are making with their ingredients.  You're welcome!

Here's another one; every time I see the commercial with the old lady in the walk-in tub with the door on it I always think she looks way too excited to be sitting in the tub.  Maybe she is just happy to see another day but I can't help but think she is freezing in the tub as the water drains out.  It must take a few minutes and in theory she is sitting there naked as the water level decreases.  I am constantly amazed she isn't shivering from hypothermia.  I have this incredible urge to buy one just so when one of my family members is happily sitting in the tub I can open the door and run.  Yeah, I'm an ass.

I also spend an exorbitant amount of time wondering if my dog Mary Alice knows my name.  She loves me so much.  I am her favorite and feet to the fire she may be my favorite family member too.  But does she know my name?  When I come home does her little dog brain say, "oh Erin is home", or "oh mom is home" or is it more like, "that white blob that pats me a lot and feeds me is back".  Science tells me it is the latter but in my heart of hearts I like to think she does know my name.

Would Forensic Files be as intriguing if they had a different narrator?  Yeah, that is another thing I perseverate on.  While watching it I always try to imagine the narrator is Sarah Palin-I mean it would be scary for a different reason but I don't think it would be as creepy.  Or maybe they have Ozzy Osbourne stand in for an episode.  Again, it wouldn't have the same feel to it.  How about Sponge Bob?  Not so much.

Lastly there is one other weird thing that happens to me, who we kidding the list is endless but I have to end the post somewhere.  Anyway I will be flipping the channels and stop on an idiotic show and kind of watch it ironically.  Then without fail 3 weeks later I inevitably find myself up at 3 a.m., 6 DVR'd episodes in,  toothpicks in my eyes trying to keep them open to find out if Mia is really a bat shit crazy stalker or just misunderstood.  Is Mohammed really marrying Danielle for love or a green card?  Somehow it becomes of the utmost urgency to see how it all ends.  Before you go and Google it Mia is from the latest episode of Married at First Sight and the jury is still out on her mental health status and Mohammed from 90 Day Fiance did marry Danielle for a green card but you know what?  She totally deserved it-there were so many red flags that were pointed out to her but she went through with it anyway.  So yeah, she should have known better.

You would think I have a ton of free time the way I go on about these things.  Honestly I have had insomnia for years and these are the ridiculous things I think of a 3:43 a.m.  Man, I need to get some stronger sleep meds!

Hey Mustache, what's up?

Only a few of you will get the reference in the title.  If you are one of the select few then you are my people!  So I just had a birthday the other day.  I have a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that I am now closer to 50 than I am to 40.  Or as Chuck so gleefully pointed out I am now closer to 70 than 20.  I get the urge to forcefully vomit when I say the actual age so let me just say this past Tuesday was the the 25th anniversary of my 21st birthday.  I'll give you a minute to do the math.  46.  I'm 46.  That is gross.  I still can't believe I am 46, it seems like just yesterday Chuck took me away for my 40th.  If you are new to my blog and need a refresher scroll back through my blog to December 4, 2012 and read about the 40 year old mom.  It was a great weekend and and ended up with the BEST souvenir EVER from that weekend; Emily!

Anyway, here I am 6 years later somewhat wiser but mostly older.  I feel like I am very quickly turning into an old lady.  It is as if my body is starting to fail me.  So a few years ago Chuck bought me a lighted, magnifying mirror.  It has been great for helping me see when I am putting on my eye make-up.  My friggin eyes are the first to go.  I swear everyday my eyesight gets worse.  My t-rex arms are now virtually useless when it comes to helping me move things the proper distance away.  The other day I was at work when I realized I forgot my glasses at home.  We have this great maintenance guy at work who is incredibly helpful.  He needed me to go over some of his paperwork.  I sh*t you not he had to hold it for me and had to back up little by little until he was just far enough away for me to actually read the words.  I think we may need to put one of those moving sidewalks like they have at the airport on the school's Amazon Wish List, oh, or better yet I could install one of those target movers they have at gun ranges.  I could attach the "target" aka the document I am trying to read and I can push a button to have it move back to read it, push the button again and the page will come zooming back to me to take off and file away.  Genius!  I think I am going to contact Shark Tank about that before one of you steals my idea!

So back to the title..."Hey mustache, what's up" is a quote from Impractical Jokers, for those of you who didn't Google it to see what the reference was.  But this my friends is no joke.  My magnifying mirror is so powerful I can see things I would rather not.  When I turn the light on it is as if I have a pair of those Blue Blocker/ Amber vision glasses from the early 90's.  Or for those of you who really enjoyed the 90's when I look in the mirror my face becomes as crisp and clear as if I were a club kid looking in a mirror after taking Ecstasy. Now, all you women of a particular age that do not have one of these magic mirrors are most likely blissfully unaware of all the facial hair you have.  I am doing you all a solid when I tell you DO NOT under any circumstance purchase said mirror E.V.E.R!  You're welcome!  You see if I look in a regular mirror I look pretty good.  But in my magic mirror I look like the old hag married to Billy Crystal's character Miracle Max, from The Princess Bride.  My face is covered with this short blond hair, you know the kind elderly ladies get.  Yeah, apparently my face has lost the youthful glow it once had and skipped right into the geriatric stage.  Oh and I recently noticed that I have a mustache!   Now, to the naked eye no one would ever notice it-and I have not done anything to it for fear of it growing back thicker,  Freddy Mercury style.  You would only notice it if you had very up close contact with me.  Currently the only one who fits that bill is Chuck and as I frequently remind him he made a vow 12 years ago in front of all our family and friends that he will love me in sickness and in health.  Now, if it came down to it I could get this hairy situation in under the "health" piece of that vow on a technicality- perimenopause is the most likely the culprit and that is related to my health.

I am not an overly vain person.  Yeah, I do like to brush my hair and put a little shadow and mascara on when I go out in the world.  I heard a quote once that went something like, 'when you go out to see the world, the world sees you too'.  Now, I do have days that I could make it to the top of the "People of Walmart" page but for the most part overall I try to maintain a 'People of Target' look.  I'm not totally classless for f*ck's sake.  Oh, and as a side note apropos of nothing, Scottsdale, AZ was named the vainest city of 2016, the last year from which statistics are available.  Now, my blog may not be the most educational but I am good for throwing in at least one nugget of useless trivia per post.  Again, you are welcome.

So in addition to the mustache I have also become a bearded lady. I remember the first time I saw a chin hair.  I was putting make up on I saw what I thought was a piece of lint on my chin.  I went to brush it away and it just popped back up into place.  I tried again and again it popped back up like one of those  flippin blow up smiling clowns that keeps coming back for more every time you knock it down. Holy sh*t!  I am growing a beard! What the actual F*ck? OMG, I am super extra.  Ugh.

Again, this not an Abraham Lincoln beard, it is just some blond, or God help me maybe grey wisps along my chin.  I am all about female empowerment.  I fist pump to P!nk's What About Us, I Roar along with Katy Perry, Rachel Platten's "Fight Song" was my anthem in 2015.  I love the Greatest Showman's message as much as the rest.  I belt out "This is Me" whenever I get the chance, but I refuse to be the next Lettie Lutz!  She was the Bearded Lady from P.T. Barnum's original Traveling Circus.  I recently read an article that many women are opting to go au natural and let their mustaches/beards be.  The new trend is to just go with what is meant to be.  Umm, nope, niet, nein, nahi, non and any other way I can say Hell NO!  I am going to pluck those suckers until the cows come home.  So if you hear me singing;

         "I am brave, I am bruised.
           I am who I'm meant to be, this is me.
           Look out 'cause here I come!
           And I'm marching on to the beat I drum.
          I'm not scared to be seen
          I make no apologies, this is me"

Please know those words are about as hollow as if I sing Madonna's "Like a Virgin".  I am fighting that until the day I die and then some; Amy Lee you are on whisker duty!  If you see me lying in my casket and I have a stray one you stop the procession and pluck that Mother F*cker.  If you don't I swear to all that is Holy I will come back and haunt you!

Another aging process I am fighting is that super thin crepe paper skin.  I have always had old lady wrinkly hands.  For the past 30 years my hands have been craggy looking.  The fact that my hands look like a farmer's wife's hands is one I have just accepted.  I am so thankful my face has stood the test of time.  I have my mom to thank for that.  Back when I was a freshman in High School my mom took me to a make-up counter at the mall.  The Clinique lady told me to moisturize my face everyday so I don't get wrinkles.  I have slathered my face night and day since and it has worked like a dream.  I am pretty confident in saying my face doesn't look 46, I would conservatively say my face looks 10 years younger.  Sadly I can't say the same for the skin that resides under my neck and down to the top of my bra line.  That is starting to get crepey.  I have started moisturizing that but I think it is an exercise in futility-I think that is going to be like chasing a boulder down the side of a mountain.  Oh well, fortunately it is only a swath of skin about 6 inches wide.  Thank Christ I had that breast reduction/lift 16 years ago.  If not my boobs would be dragging on the floor like a Neanderthal's knuckles.  I am just going to have to head to Icing or the Paper Store and stock up on  some of those hip old lady scarves/shawls to cover that sh*t up!

My taste in television has shifted as well.  Instead of current shows like the Bachelor or Empire, I find myself gravitating to things like Forensic Files, Family Feud, Chronicle and 60 Minutes.  As I realize with each passing day that my life is more than half over I feel this sense of urgency.  I feel like I have to teach my girls as many life lessons as I can squeeze in each day.  I feel like I have to be conscious of making as many memories with them as I can.  I know I should frame it as if I should enjoy each day and I do, but I can't help but feel this impending sense of doom.  Now don't get me wrong, I am not a Debbie Downer curled up in some End of Times bunker, I just feel like I have to squeeze as much in as I can.  Now, before you all get nervous about my mental state I do have a wonderful therapist and some pretty good meds to help me enjoy the here and now.  When all is said and done, even at my age I am not too senile to appreciate the fact I have a pretty great life; I have 3 healthy children who are the most amazing kids around, I have a husband I am so in love with, who by the way is  pretty lucky to have me too, a family I can count on when I need them, I have a comfortable home, great friends and a job where I feel valued.  So as long as I have a sturdy pair of tweezers and a bottle of Nair, I'm good!  So as Murr says, "Bitch, I'm Fabulous!"