Depression is a sneaky piece of s#&%.

The last couple of months have been really good for me.  Hubby and I have been taking lots of little exploration road trips around the northwest.  Orko is LOVING my new job which allows him to come to work with me everyday, where he gets to be fawned upon and adored by his growing fan base.  And I might actually make it through 2018 without starting any kitchen and/or bathroom fires.

Yes, one could say that I have a pretty good thing going… and then depression slithers in with it’s whiny little voice and destroys it all with a sentence.

“You mom’s dead and you’ll never get to talk to her, or feel one of her amazing squeeze hugs, ever again.”

… wow… you punk ass little bitch…

Technically I know I’m doing this to myself, there’s not some evil entity floating around me, ruining my happiness by saying these incredibly hurtful things.  I’ve read the books, I’ve done the therapy. I know this is the part of me that feels bad about getting over my mother’s death and accepting my new life without her.

Still, I fucking hate that voice and if it could take a physical form for like just a minute, that would be the best minute of my life.

I would beat the living shit out of that thing.

There’d by no Queensberry rules for this asshole. I’d be poking eyes, going for the groin, Mike Tysoning some ears!  I mean we’re talking Rated M for mature audience shit.

But instead I’m writing, to help me get through the pain, and the disappointment in myself for making it harder on myself, even though I know it’s not my fault.

Although, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to ask for some kickboxing classes for Christmas… just in case.


Always make me laugh, no matter what.


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Turkducken the myth, the legend, the possible explosion…

Me: I’m thinking of doing a Turkducken for Thanksgiving this year! Chicken, in a Duck, in a Turkey!!

Hubby: Well it was a nice apartment while it lasted.

Me: I am like 63% certain nothing will catch fire this time. But I’m gonna need a really long meat thermometer to get through all the bird carcasses.

Hubby: I’ll post poison control numbers on the fridge.

Me: While I’m super happy with your surprising approval of my Turkducken idea, I gotta ask… WHY ARE YOU SO OKAY WITH THIS!?!?

Hubby: We’re not going to be home for Thanksgiving, remember?  We’re road tripping that week.

Me: aaahhhh man, I totally forgot… I’ll do it for Christmas!!!

Hubby: Nope.

Me: WHY!?

Hubby: We’ll be at your brothers and there’s no way the man who was raised with the cooking disaster that is you, will let you any where near his kitchen.

Me: It’s like you don’t even want me to be happy.

Hubby: Happy… Alive… it’s a hard to pick sometimes.



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How my butt nearly ended my marriage

Me: Is this a spider bite or a pimple?

Hubby: Ah babe come on, I haven’t even had my coffee yet, I’m gonna need you to pull your pants back up.

Me: HEY! This is marriage! You said I do to this! Now look at my butt and tell me if that’s a pimple or a spider bite.

Hubby: I don’t remember our marriage vows stating I have to identify strange bumps on your butt.

Me: It has to be a pimple, I mean how could a spider get all the way up my pjs, bite my ass, and then go back out without getting squashed… do you see the squished carcass of a spider back there?

Hubby: I mean there was that part about sickness and health, but I thought that meant making you soup when you don’t feel good or holder your hair when you’re ralphing.

Me: Maybe it’s an ingrown hair, give it a squeeze and see if anything comes out.

Hubby:  I’d like a divorce now, please.


Update: it was a pimple



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Apparently, by being a sane, nice person this Halloween, I’m actually ruining everything for everyone… yay… go me.

Hubby: So what’s the theme this year?

Me: Theme for what?

Hubby: Halloween.

Me: oh… ya… I though we could just skip it this year.

Hubby: Holy Shit. SKIP HALLOWEEN!?! WHAT!? WHY!? You always do Halloween, to the extreme! You come up with some crazy family Halloween theme, spend an obscene amount of money on ours and the dog’s costume, and then force all of us to walk around town, usually in the rain, always in the cold, as people point and laugh at us, while Orko tries to shake off and/or eat his costume and you and I argue about how much longer we’re going to stay out!!!!

Me: I know, it’s awful, and depressing, and exhausting, so screw it!


Me: Kill me.

Hubby: Cool, is that our theme?


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The Martian+Gin+Me = Hubby Asking What He Did To Deserve This Life

Hubby: “… let me just make sure I’m following along with you, Matt Damon’s character would have never gotten off Mars, if it hadn’t been for the NASA guy’s Executive Assistant?”

Me: “YES!”

Hubby: “… how?”

Me: “Oh my god it’s so obvious.”

Hubby: “… is it?”

Me: “You make my head hurt.”

Hubby: “Ditto.”

Me: *dramatic sigh* “Okay that part when he said I need to get on a plane, and then BOOM he’s in California meeting with the Pathfinder crew, past and present, to figure out a way to talk with Matt Damon, which then makes it possible for them to work out a plan for his rescue.”

Hubby: “…ya…”

Me: “THAT NEVER WOULD HAVE HAPPENED WITHOUT AN EA! WHO arranged his travel, WHO contacted all the teams and made sure they were all at the office waiting for him, WHO met him outside the office and directed him where to go, WHO got him badge clearance for that building, WHO set up all the meetings after that first original meeting, WHO ORDERED ALL THE CHINESE FOOD THEY’RE EATING!?!?”

Hubby: “His EA?”


Hubby: “And all of that couldn’t have possibly happened without his EA? I mean what if she was out sick that day, but because of the urgency he took care of all of it himself? Do you think he would have just said ‘sorry guys I had a plan to rescue him, but my EA was out sick and I had to wait until she got back and now he’s dead’?”

Me: “You’re the devil.”

Hubby: “Want me to get you another Gin and Tonic?”

Me: “You’re an angel.”

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I went from telling you how to lose friends and alienate people this October, to creating a new inappropriate for work word… WINNING!

I have a secret.

A secret that could end friendships, alienate me from family members, and basically make me a social outcast to normal society.


*pause for horrified gasps from the reader*


I know, I know, I can’t explain it, but pumpkin and I have never gotten along.  Spices, I have no problem with; cinnamon, nutmeg, Ginger… hold on… sorry getting spices mixed up with Spice Girls, but you get the idea.

I mean it’s a gourd people…. A GOURD!! And if the word gourd was to have a taste that matched the grossness, and slightly eroticness, of its name then pumpkin is nailing it.

Hold on… I may have just created a new word… spellcheck is not accepting eroticness and instead is asking if I mean rotisserie, come on spellcheck they’re not even close, get your shit together man!

I’d use Google to see if it’s an actual word… but I’m at work… and I really don’t want those Google search results to be seen by that IT guy.  You know the guy I’m talking about, the one whose whole job is to sit in a dark office, probably somewhere down by the boiler room, and track inappropriate work computer searches day in and day out.  So let’s just say it’s a new word created by me… YAY!



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I ate my feelings and now I make my yoga pants cry.

“Why are you naked?”

That’s a good question, to be asked in elevators, restaurants, planes, and churches. NOT to be asked by your hubby when you’re standing in your own bedroom.

“Excuse me?”

Another good question, to be asked when you didn’t hear what someone said, or you’re trying to get through a crowd, or when you’ve just seen Chris Pine and have followed him into the men’s bathroom to ask for his autograph and also if you can bear his children.  NOT good when asked by a wife to a hubby who has now realized he’s royally screwed the hooch.

“… what I mean… goddess who I love… ageless wonder of beauty and light… is that you should have left for work 30 minutes ago, but instead your just standing in front of a full closet… naked.”

Okay that goddess and ageless wonder thing was good, so I’m going to give him a reprieve, just this once.

“Nothing fits, and I mean nothing, not my super elastic skinny jeans or my always baggy fat pants. In a last ditch effort I grabbed my yoga pants, and I swear I heard them cry out; “Namaste away from that ass”.”

After laughing at my own hilarious joke for a good two minutes, I sat my naked, yoga pant nightmare, ass down and considered how I’d come to this point.  Well I know how, it started one week after my mom died.

I had just gotten some artwork that I wanted to put up on a completely blank wall in my apartment.  Having no artistic vision whatsoever, I grabbed my phone and called mom.  It actually took 2 rings before I realized what I had done. My mom wasn’t going to pick up that call, she was never going to pick up a call, I was never going to talk to her again.  I “handled” this realization with a cake… not some cake… A cake. And it kind of went down the pastry hill from there.

But now it HAS to come to an end. It’s time to actually handle the grief and, per my therapist, writing is my answer.  So here we go, time to come home to my blog, to return to the silly and fun and ridiculous.

When I get sad and want donuts, I’ll instead write about my honeymoon in Ireland and our encounter with the sheep from hell…

When I get depressed and want cookies, I’ll write about the time I accidentally drove my dad’s truck off a cliff, then back home, and he never found out…

When I get to the point where I can’t take another breath, because the pain of not having my mom in my life is so unbearable. I’ll reach for my laptop and write about the first time she and I went to Paris, and we accidentally flashed our hoo haws to a crowd of unsuspecting tourists at the Louvre…

… but that’s for another blog.

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