Somedays just suck

i wish i knew what makes some days worse than others. i wish i knew what triggers all the memories to come crashing in uninvited like a violent wave. one minute you are back to the water without a care in the world, the next you are smashed forward by an impossible weight and then sucked backwards swirling into that water you had just thought was beautiful. you can see the light flashing above you only inches away but completely out of reach. on a normal day you would only be in waist deep, one sure step from being completely fine. instead everything is spinning out of control, holding you under to drown because your feet cant find stable footing and your head cant find which way is up. if i knew what made the sudden waves form maybe i could stop them. or at the very least know which days to avoid the water.

some days i feel happy. i feel blessed to have so many people that love me. i feel grateful to have a husband that will take me even at my worst. i feel lucky to have a job with such supportive coworkers, most of which i consider friends. i feel content to lay on the couch with my puppies around me.

some days i hate faking being happy. i swear not everyday is faking. a good portion of my time i feel truly and completely blessed.

some days i feel every ounce of pain my life has held. some days i remember every one of my babies that never got to a chance to grow in this world. some days i see the faces of all the people that were taken to soon. some days i feel like the worst mother. some days i hate having coworkers that are two faced and i have to watch talk crap about my other coworkers and obviously myself when i’m not around. some days i see the the scars on my skin and remember all the hurt that seemed like that line was a better option than remaining here. some days i feel the sting of every slap. some days it hurts to open my eyes because the sunlight is a reminder of days you will never see. some days laughing makes me cry because how could i be so selfish when you will never smile again. some days i feel guilty for being happy.

some days i don’t want any part of this world. i don’t want to get out of bed. i don’t want to sleep because i’m tired of the nightmares. i don’t want to wake because i’m sick of the reality. i don’t want my kids to look at me and wonder if mommy is “ok” today.

some days i feel nothing. these are probably the worst. the days where i have to worry why i dont feel and what will be the next thing to make me feel again….

some days i want to do everything possible to make the world better. i want to tell people to quit complaining about growing old. not everyone gets to experience that. some days my glass isn’t half empty or half full. its just sitting on a table watching the world argue about it but powerless to even help itself.

Somedays I am that water. The rushing waves crashing into the shore and ripping people away from their comfort. The weight holding loved ones down no matter how much I know it hurts them to carry me. Somedays I am the water in the cup that everyone feels the need to argue about. Not full enough for some but too much for others. Somedays I’m tired of being both and just wish an earthquake would come and knock me over to the floor so there would be no way to tell if I was a burden or a shortage. Then I could flow away, to either absorb or evaporate, becoming a small thing unnoticed in the universe.

Somedays I wish I could see the water with rose colored glasses again. Somedays I wish we all could watch the sunset on the ocean again with total ignorance to the reality of what that beauty really holds. Somedays I want that innocent bliss again… somedays I want to trust the water; in the ocean, in the glass, on my face, inside me…..

Some days…………


Well hello Dr. Phil

I probably have the coolest boss on the planet. You would be jealous of how amazing he can be. Who else gets lucky enough to have a straight lace looking guy with Ded Kennedy’s for his ring tone? Under his button down and tie is Misfits tattoos, he laughs with us when we play jokes on each other. He even messes with us for fun too. When he first started here it was Dr. Phil….

Workers started swearing they saw a flash of a man peeking around the corner. When they looked again it wasn’t there. But it was too consistent. Always just the face with a creepy smile around a door or a corner or a window. One nurse finally caught him when he giggled while scaring her. It was this weird fan that he and his wife had gotten at some convention in California. The fan was a life sized cut out with Dr. Phil face on one side and “I’m a Dr. Phil fan!” printed on the other side. His wife had threatened to burn it after he scared her in the shower for close to the thousandth time (not exaggerating) . Instead he brought it to work to use on us (not in the shower). We now knew it was him but that didn’t stop you from being startled by a random creeper watching you type. A person can only take so many months before doing something about it.

Us girls in the front decided we were getting revenge for our 732 heart attacks. We were going to steal the mask. But we were going to do so much more…….hehehehe. I was great at sewing so I made what would basically be a scarecrow. He had black dress slacks, a white button up shirt, white gloves. I stuffed him with newspaper so I could move him and shape him. The night before we used folders and the guise of delivering records to find the mask and smuggle it undetected to the front desk. We hid it in our deposit reports where no one, but us, goes.

As soon as the boss left the building we started the set up. We had a sign on the door telling the cleaning people not to open it. We carefully place the Phil-crow in the bosses chair at his desk, slightly facing the door and one hand up on the mouse. We probably should have warned other people because about a half hour later we heard one of the nurse shriek and drop what she was holding. Sorry about that. At least we knew it would work. Now to wait…….

The next morning I got to the office ridiculously early so I could get the “no cleaning” sign off the door. Hate to blow the surprise before we even started. We took turns pretending to deliver preemployment packets to the doctor to randomly check that it was still set up. We were all balls of tightly contained giggles when we FINALLY saw the boss pull into the parking lot. I started down the hallway with my last fake packet, taking my time so I would round the corner right after him.


It worked!!!! He jumped! He yelled! He threw his brief case across the room! His eyes were the size of plates! He grabbed his chest… he slide into the chair by the wall………. He was red and pale blotches, not breathing…… Oh shit! I killed my boss! Just kidding he let out a gasp. Well that is fortuitous. He was still panting, staring at Dr. Phil still smugly sitting there. Best day ever!!!!

Dr Phil-crow has scared many a person since. He was placed on a chair in the storage room until he started scaring housekeeping. We then laid him down on a shelf. That was only until a police officer tried to shoot him when they were investigating an alarm in the building at 2 am. It turned out to be a bad latch on the back door but in the dark it sure looked like someone hiding there. He went completely missing not long after that. Maybe he went on to scare others. I sure hope so…..

Girls are evil -or- I’m friends with the monster under my bed (gaz, taster of pork?)


My girls teamed up last night to become the most evil thing on the planet. Successfully destroying all things good that involve sleep.  I don’t care if anyone thinks it is gross but my puppies totally sleep in the bed with me. I have found this has been the best way to house break them. With a human right there, there is no way they would dare to mess in the bed. If the urge is strong enough they can’t hold it then they make some noise and you take them outside. Bam! House broken puppy! It also helps with bonding. In nature they would sleep in a group, cuddle when they are cold, flop around when lonely. The biggest reason is they are just so fricken cute!!!!!! It’s almost impossible to tell a normal puppy “no” Now make it a teeny tiny little thing with big bat ears, enormous cartoony eyes, and the saddest wrinkly face. It breaks my heart to even think of making either of them sleep alone. They keep me from sleeping alone when my husband is on night shifts. The warmth and pressure on my back helps keep me from having pain through the day. They have taught me to sleep on my bed. I could keep going forever on why they will always sleep with me.

Until last night. I’m pretty sure I could bear to sleep alone after the wake up I got. I woke up at 430 in shear panic! I have a history of very graphic nightmares so maybe it had something to do with those. There is no way a demon just called my name. I try to rationalize with my half asleep brain so I can figure out if the safest bet is to go back to sleep or stay awake. There it is again! I wasn’t back to sleep yet so I had to have heard it in the awake world. I’m totally frozen in place, terrified to move. I need to figure out where the voice is coming from. I slowly pull my legs up to my chest in a tight ball. I can feel my pulse in my throat. I’m not crazy I swear!!!

*deep whispering demonic growl*


Holy crud bunnies I’m going to die!!!! I’m wide awake. This isn’t a dream. This isn’t a hallucination. This is really happening. I don’t even know what I could do about a demon from my bed. All the salt and garlic is in the kitchen.

*deep demonic whispering growl*


WHAT THE ACTUAL FLUFF DO I DO?!?! All silver is in the jewelry box. Do demons even respond to silver? Should I try talking to it? It can’t be my brother because he would never call me “mommy”. All of my babies died too young to be able to talk, so it can’t be mine. How do you reason with someone else’s demon baby? I don’t know what it wants. I sucked at charades with my own children.

*deep demonic growl again*

“moooommm” *snort* “mmmeeeeeeeyy”

Wait a minute?! The voice kept going while the snort happened…..and it sounded like it was from the same direction but different places……the voice sounded…..lower….and sweeter. MOTHER TRUCKER!!!!!!!!!! I forgot that Gazmonster slept on the floor in my room last night. (she likes to do this when Travis is working) She normally isn’t my child to talk in her sleep but it does run in the family……here is goes again……… the sweet little whisper perfectly timed with Allee’s 70-year-old-smoker snore! You evil little brats!!!!! The puppy hasn’t snored since she had surgery on her throat a month ago. Which, of course, means my daughter has to start talking in her sleep TONIGHT!  Of course!!!! Maybe she was trying to tell me that the Mini Pig is sick, or not breathing well. Thanks buttface, but I think I would rather find out for myself next time!

At least I passed my 5am stress test.

Biggie Piggie did his best to make me feel better when I did get out of bed. I asked him if it was time to get up and go potty and his response was to roll around and bury himself in the covers where I had just been laying. He stopped with the covers over his head and only big eyes looking out from my no longer empty pillow.

He’s my favorite.

I’m not ashamed to admit that. I’m his favorite person.

Winnie you Perv!!!

Apparently my father couldn’t handle all the attention I was getting from my totally awesome blog. To steal the spotlight back he decided to take an ambulance ride straight to ICU. Boys are so dramatic! At least the old dog did learn a new trick and called 911 instead of driving himself (or blowing it off until Monday and doing an “oh by the way” at his regular doctor. Word of advice DOCTORS HATE THAT!!!) I got a random text saying “enroute to the hospital crazy high bp” Thanks, that totally gives me an idea what’s going on without scaring me. I guess I’ll just go start the car and let the boy know he is in charge. Who wants to sleep at night anyways?

I swing by his house just in case he hadn’t left there yet. Found a dark house and gurney tracks in the snow but I knew a block away he wasn’t there since I couldn’t hear his TV at full blast.

Little insight on my dad. He is 5’7” and more wrinkled than a Sharpei. He has one leg, one kidney, 4 teeth, 9 fingers, can see out of one eye, has a huge scar from being electrocuted, lungs are totally destroyed from 55 years of smoking and construction work, and his hearing has been shot since Vietnam. We call him Lucky. You can call him Mr. Stanley. He still goes hunting and fishing and has a great sense of humor!

I make my way to hospital and scan the parking lot for “Woodpile” stickers before heading in. (that’s a long story we will go into later) when I go to the check in desk I told them I was looking for my oldest child. “Mr. Stanley?” Wow, I thought I was joking but this seems fairly accurate now. He even put me as his power of attorney, will wonders never cease. When they take me back it was pretty close to what I expected; lots of people, loud machines and a really long night. Around 2 am I finally tapped out for a little bit so I could catch a quick nap before work the next morning. (of course my needy puppy had a panic attack about me not being in bed by 9 so had chewed up everything he could reach all over the living room, but how can you be mad at that cute face?!)

The next morning I wake my son up stupid early and tell him the whole truth. The half-truth the night before was he was doing good and they were just keeping him overnight to watch him. The part about ICU on a ventilator may have gotten left out….. I was tired, my bad. It did get a teenager moving rather quickly.

The nurses at the desk direct us around the corner and first door in the left. Right outside of his room is a bed table with a “Stanley” tool box on it. I couldn’t help stopping and shouting in a bereaved voice “this is all that is left of him?!” I fell on the box in a quick hug but the nurses weren’t impressed. My son was choking on laughter. Fine, I’ll just go to his room. Some people just aren’t morning people. Apparently the county hospital ICU was running short on big people beds, because he got stuck in a peds room. (My husband that is 6’5” swears that they just when off his height)

I couldn’t focus on anything the boys were saying. I could not even keep a straight face. My giggling must have interrupted the conversation because he asked what was so funny.

“How do you pee in here!?”

“Since you went to college I’m sure you know the mechanics of it”

“But HOW?! There is no way I could drop my pants with Winnie the Pooh creeping on me!”

*He looks around the room and the dozen of disturbingly excited cartoon characters spying through circles on the walls*

“I had not even noticed those……now it is going to be rather uncomfortable going forward.”

“How could you not notice?! I swear piglet is staring straight up your Velcro shorts like he is permanently scarred.”

“He probably is. I bet it’s the biggest one he has ever seen!”

“Someone should have put more thought into bed placement versus sticker placement. This cannot be unseen.”

“As the usual, the conversations aren’t always intelligent but they are very rarely dull”

When they got him moved to a regular room later that afternoon, the first thing I had to check for was creepy cartoon characters. When the nurse asked if he needed anything I blurted out “Can you let Piglet know we really miss him but it just wasn’t working out?” They say laughter is the best medicine (unless you have diarrhea) so I will assume the burst of laughter from my dad was just what he needed. Even if it did put him into a coughing fit. Pfft! That just clears his lungs and forces more concentrated o2 in them. It even gave me something to giggle about when I was very rude to the fabulous hospitalist that hadn’t even read his chart before lecturing. Again, Boys!

I have spent the last few days thinking about every single Disney charter and how none of them would have been any better staring up an old man’s shorts.

Dory and Nemo? Big eyes and a whale of a tale

Alice in Wonderland? Startled girl and a creepy cat. Nope.

Shrek and Donkey?

Lion king?

I see no way of making this better.

How many Hoo-Hoo’s???


The greatest joy of life is to become a parent. The joy of having more than one child is the jealousy and rivalry. Oh how much I love watching them fight ALL THE TIME. My son is very affectionate and playful. My daughter is Haphephobic and very vocal. This mean there is a constant background shriek in my house. Son tries to play with daughter by poking her side (even though he knows she will scream at the top of her little lungs) and daughter then screeches like she is being stabbed (even though screaming never seems to help the situation, at all) The best luck I’ve ever had solving this is duct taping them. Her on the mouth and him around both hands together. When they asked me how long they had to leave the tape on I smiled evilly and told them “As long as it takes to get off. I can put duct tape on you but it’s illegal for me to remove it because of the skin damage. Have a great afternoon!”

And it was!! I read a book and listened to them giggle as they helped each other. Helped! It worked out better than the “hugging shirt” but it wasn’t a long term fix. They learned the tricks for removing duct tape quickly. Really, it was a parenting win because I know they now have a chance of escaping if ever kidnapped. Deep down that was my plan all along ………we will go with that.

I try to head up potential issues before they become big issues. Soooooo when I heard disappointment that my son was in my blog I figured I should share something embarrassing and traumatic about her as well. Just to be a fair parent. I’d hate for her to feel left out. This next one is more embarrassing for her and traumatic for me. Hopefully, it does teach you to make sure young kids have good vocabulary.

When my sweet little blonde toddler wanted to go burn off some energy at the park I was more than obliging. Fresh air, sunshine, anonymity…. I could totally pretend that feisty 3 year old that is beating up grade schoolers didn’t belong to me. *sips drink and silently makes bets on how long before the poor boy cries* She ran off and did her thing, I sat with a book where I could keep an eye on her craziness. Towards the end of the afternoon I realized I hadn’t seen her in a little while. I wasn’t too panicked since I knew there was no way to successfully kidnap her. It took me maybe 30 seconds of looking to find her playing with a little boy under the slide. The very guilty looks I got from both on them stopped me in my tracks. I did the instinctive quick scan of the area. Blood? Nope. Bruises? None. Animal sacrifices? Nata. Fire? No. Ok, good. But why the faces……? I stayed pretty close to watch them. It only made me more suspicious since they would hide under the slide together, giggle, pop a head out to look at me, go back to giggling.

Yeaaaaaaah……. That’s about enough of that. Time to say good bye honey. (This is where I actually got lucky. She never threw fits leaving the park. She didn’t scream over not getting toys at the stores. Lesson here is don’t lie to your kids. It will totally be worth it. Trust me. ) We made our way to the car skipping and singing. I got her buckled in and didn’t even have time to come up with a plan of approach about the weirdness of the slide. (she’s weird all the time but this was suspicious weird AND involved a boy) because as I put the car in reverse she yells at me

“MOMMY! Look at my Hoo-Hoo!”

*choke on my gum*

“What? What did you just say?”

“My Hoo-Hoo! Look at it! That boy said it is pretty!”

*pretty sure I can see my pulse right now*

“Huney. I don’t think I’m understanding what you are saying. Why would that boy say it’s pretty?”

“Because I was letting him pet it”


“When we were playing house under the slide. I was the mommy and he was the daddy and he was using both hands to pet my Hoo-Hoo”

*goes blind from the aneurism that just happened*

I pulled the car over because this conversation was no longer safe to have in the rearview mirror. I’m counting. I’m rubbing my thumbs on my ears. Anything to stay calm right now. I turn around in my seat to ask her my next question and I’m greeted with a huge smile and her holding her arms like she is holding a baby. She happily kicks her feet and says

“Look Mommy! I have a whole arm full of Hoo-Hoo’s!”


“Yes, mommy”

“What is a Hoo-Hoo- to you?”

“You are so silly Mommy! You know what a Hoo-Hoo is!”

“I know I know what a Hoo-Hoo is Baby, but I want to know what a Hoo-Hoo is to you.“

“You know! Those fat little birds that go ‘Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!’ duh!”

*Oh thankyousweetbabyjesusf-ingChristonacracker!!!!!!*

“That’s exactly what I thought one was. But, so you know, the rest of the world calls them ‘Owls’ I don’t want people to think you aren’t smart”

“I’m very smart”

“Yes you are Baby”

Since then everyone has thought I love owls because I get so excited when I see them. I will just let people keep thinking that. I give all the presents to my baby girl that FRICKEN LOVES OWLS! It’s way easier to say “thanks” than explain to people why my eye twitches anytime I hear a slang term for vagina. Call it what it is!!! (unless your beautiful baby had explosive diarrhea and it has filled her girl parts, then you can call it a dirty snoochie. Your daughters vagina should never be thought of full of poo.) No cutesy names to get rid of embarrassment. Make that crap so awkward that it isn’t awkward anymore. It is for the best.

Now please take the time to make a list of the lessons you have learned today, and also write down how you can apply them to your life.

I have a prize for the person that gives me that best answer by next blog!!!

P.s. Haphephobic is freaking out about being touched. You’re welcome.



The lion sleeps tonight, or doesn’t….my bad

Before you judge me too terribly, know that my son demanded that I share this story. For real, I’m not claiming he did just to get out of the guilt. He really did come into my bedroom at 10:30 at night and insist my next blog be this story. And I suck (as you will soon see) and made the next one something else. So, here it is, the reason my son wears yoga pants! Or the reason he is afraid of the oven……

I didn’t realize until my son was almost 7 that he was afraid of the oven. I wasn’t even the person to pick up on the fear, it was my friend’s husband. We were at her house making cookies and all the kids (except 1) were up our butts in the kitchen, wanting – chocolate chips, cookie dough, to lick the spoon, to lick the bowl, to burn their hands, too drive us bat-shit crazy! I didn’t get warning anything was amiss. Suddenly there was this 6’7” dude in the doorway with a concerned expression blocking me in.

“Why is Dravin afraid of the oven?!”

“I have no idea what you are talking about….”

“Your son is scared shitless every time you cook. It took me a while to narrow it down to only when you use the oven. It’s been going on for years and I want to know why”

“You have lost your mind dude.”

“No, I haven’t. He stops whatever he is doing and watches you when you walk into the kitchen. If you preheat the oven he turns pale. Lastly, every single time you open the door he runs and hides. Go look for yourself! We have neighbor kids we have never even met before in the apartment begging for cookies and yours is in the back bedroom, hiding under the bed. What happened to make him scared shitless of ovens?!”

“Seriously, I have no idea……..”

Yes I do. I do know what happened. It was all my fault. If this was a hallmark movie right now would be when we have the weird chimes and a water color fade into the past. A few disclaimer for you to consider for this flashback; I was an artist. I was a single mom. I was in school and working. I had only been 17 for 1 week when my son was born. I had only been sober for 2 months when I got pregnant with him. I was raised by wolves. I had serious anger issues stemming for a horrible childhood. In short, I had to come up with crazy ways of solving problems so I wouldn’t be passing my issues onto my son. One of my many jokes was to laugh to myself and say “I understand why lions eat their young” when he would be grumpy or messy or cry for hours on end; pretty much any time I felt myself getting frustrated and angry. It usually worked. I would chuckle and put in The Lion King while I took care of whatever mess.

When he was 3 his Bio-dad came back into the picture. This wonderful event opened a can of sleep walking issues. During his sleepwalking he would pile up toys and pee on them. He would round up clothes and cut them apart. First with scissors, after I hid all of those it was knives from the kitchen, after that I bought a bunch of safety scissors so I could sleep a little more peacefully.

One afternoon he was being a normal 3 year old and refusing to pick up his room. (Who would ever expect that, crazy right?!) I was trying to study for finals and kept sending him back into his room to put his toys away. Every time I would send him back in he would throw more out of his toy box and yell “It wasn’t me! Confucius made the mess!” Whatever, I knew the 6 inch pet rat did not throw his toys. Maybe if it was hotdogs on the floor I would believe him, but not Spiderman action figures. He preferred Ironman anyways.

The last time I sent him back in he slammed his door shut and started screeching as loud as he could. I stormed down the hall like any normal mother would, reciting the usual lecture in my head “is that your inside voice? You need to have more respect. I hate cleaning too but we all have to do it” I was not prepared for what I saw when I opened the door. All the toys were in a smashed pile in the center of the room and little fluffs of cotton were floating through the air. The dirty little buttface had found a pair of real scissors. He dove from the top of his pile to the bed (still with scissors in his hands and what used to be his coat) and told me he was sleep walking.

I may have been born in the morning but it wasn’t that morning. His eyes were alert, not half asleep and closed over. He was breathing normal, maybe even growling, but not the deep snore like sound. He dove immediately from the carnage to his bed when he saw me, not dazed and unaware of his surroundings. And now he was laying there daring me to punish him for “sleepwalking” I was pissed!!!

I grabbed him by the arm and pulled the scissors away. First, the dangerous thing taken care of. I hope I get some points for that. I marched him down the hallway and stopped in the kitchen. He looked very confused until I slammed the oven door open. Then he looked startled. With all the righteous anger I had backing me I pointed in the oven, not unlike when a Salem girl would accuse a witch, and shouted


He looked between me and the oven a few times and then fell to the ground crying. He told me how much he loved me. He told me how sorry he was. He told me he would clean his room and never make it dirty again. He told me he would always use his pretty voice. He told me I could even have all of his Spiderman’s. Just please don’t cook him and eat him! My first though was to ask him if I could eat him raw, but these were real tears. Instead I gently closed the oven and sat on the floor. I scooped him into my lap and gave him kisses on his head and told him I wasn’t going to eat him……… this time. He did clean his room after that.

Fade back to present time (not 9 years ago even) My awesome son has mostly recovered. His room is still disgusting but he doesn’t yell or cut things. The pet rat is now a tarantula. His bio-dad is fairly consistent. His mom is still bat-shit crazy but in a fun way. He finally stopped having eye twitches every time someone read “Hansel and Gretel”. He loves cooking and even asks me to let him make cookies every now and then. He may have developed some unusual habits since this morning he stole my leprechaun yoga pants and wore them to school but I can live with that. (boys do weird things to impress girls and they did make his butt look good)

Apparently he is now terrified of the dishwasher though….

Who doesn’t know to refrigerate a bag of fox tails?!?!

IMG_20140315_183722_774I was born the polar opposite of my mother but with all of her good looks and intelligence. My mother is pretty much in a constant state of looking at me sideways and shaking her head. At least she has finally given up on trying to talk me out of whatever crazy idea popped into my head. That must have been exhausting! My only worry is she will end up with nerve damage from the repetitive motion. Kind of like carpel tunnel for parents of weird children.…with more eye twitching ….

Back when she still tried arguing common sense back into me, we got into a pretty intense debate over collecting a beaver. We were coming up on Beaver Creek (I have a huge rant about poorly named creeks. I’ve never seen lightening at Lightening Creek, a horse at Dead Horse Creek, or even any woman at Crazy Woman Creek. We will go more in depth another time) and there was a beaver! I fricken love beavers!!!!!! I want a pet one almost as much as I want a pet fox! This one happened to be dead. But it was still normal sized, no bloating, and the blood was still red. Guess we are making a Sporran. (this is the little purse thing Scotsmen hang in front of their junk when they wear a kilt) I guessed wrong. This woman who claims to love me refused to pull over to get the beaver! And she calls herself my mother *slow head shake* This was the first perfect beaver I had ever seen and she was just driving on past like it didn’t exist, like I’m not sitting next to her begging, like we don’t have trash bags in the van to put it in, like all of her arguments are logical. Blah, blah “we don’t have a safe place to pull over…you’re pregnant and on bedrest…both your ankles are broken…we are staying out of town for 3 days and it will stink…it might have fleas…do you really want to give your baby the plague…” blah, blah, her needs. I was left with no other option than to plant my broken feet on the dash, cross my arms, and huff like a toddler.

Now my In-law’s were meant for me. They laugh and say “oookkaaay” whenever I get to sell a crazy idea to them. Who else gets lucky enough to have a mother–in-law that buys you a skeleton to feel better after your brother dies?! She knows me so well J And my father-in-law feeds my crazy. My husband is a great balance of the 2. He shakes his head as he is laughing while (sometimes) helping me.

The first time I asked him to pull over so I could tail a roadkill fox, he thought I was joking. HA! NOPE! Joke’s on him, now pull this pretty truck over so I can get that little fluff butt before someone else does. He did argue for a few seconds that no one else would want any piece of roadkill, fresh or not, but he slowed down anyways. Somehow he managed to pull off while staring at me the entire time. I would like to think he was overwhelmed by his all-encompassing love for me and couldn’t pull his eyes away. The reality is probably closer to the fact I was opening a pocket knife near his leather seats and can’t be trusted with sharp objects. As soon as the truck was in park I dove out humming the mission impossible theme. I slinked up to the Ginger Poof like a cartoon villain, flipped it over and GOD DAMMIT!!! The f-ing tail was already gone! I grumbled all the way back and huffed in the seat. My not sympathetic husband giggled (yes giggled) and asked

“Did you lose your nerve to cut it?”

“No, someone else already got it”

“Nooo, you’re kidding me!”

“I may be dramatic but I don’t lie. The darn tail is already gone, somebody beat us to it”

‘I never thought that would be an issue. Not ever.”

“Drive on, Sir”

When I called to rant to my father-in-law. He was far more sympathetic. He even offered to stop and get me every tail he came across on his way to work. Living in the country and leaving right before dawn would give him the advantage to beat the other thieves. It did make me feel better to have someone that understood; unlike my husband and my mother.

A few weeks later I had already forgotten the entire conversation. What fox tail? We were talking about a fox tail? Of course we were talking about a fox tail! Now we are talking about my super awesome surprise from Big Jim…. A BAG OF FOX TAILS!!! We are talking plural here, more than one. He meant it and has been saving every one he has come across since that phone call. I am full out giggling and high stepping and jumping and clapping and SQUEE-ing!!! He tells me to go look in the lunch box on his work truck. I bolted out the door like a kid after the ice cream truck shouting “Someone Loves Me!” The red lunch box was easy to find …but very…..warm. Odd. Oh well. I bring the whole box inside to look at my new trophies. Opening that lid in the house was the second mistake to be made. The first mistake was collecting fox tails in the middle of summer in Wyoming and putting them in a lunchbox that sits out in the sun all day…for 3 weeks. (Maybe we are up to 6 mistakes now, I’m not sure, I could be mistaken) The whole bag is moving on its own. It looks like the tails are crawling. That’s because the maggots that have hatched are a similar shade of red/brown and they are trying pretty dang hard to get out of that gallon Ziploc baggy. Slowly I look up.

“How long have these been outside?”

“I got the first one 2 days after we talked about it”

“Sooo…. these tails have been baking in the sun for a few weeks?”

“Well, yeah”

“You didn’t think to ice them?”

“Well, no. Why would I want those in my fridge?”

“Because there is muscle in the tail. So that means you left raw meat out in the sun”

“Well, that sucks”

*I vomit in my mouth a little bit*

He let out a hearty laugh. I let out an awkward-grossed-out-but-thanks-for-the-thoughtful-gift chuckle. Quickly, I took the writhing bag out to the deep freeze in the back shed. I spiked it in like it was a football in the end zone and slammed the lid shut. I will totally go back for them once I remember to bring a can of Raid, a gas masks, and some shoulder length gloves.


p.s. I really did love the gift. Thank you so very much!!

I think it’s been 2 years now. I should check if they are still there.