A Memo to Myself

15 04 2011

Y’all don’t need to read this. I just feel like I should write it down for future reference.

Hey Jenny,

You have a very bad memory. For kicks, I’ll list some contributing factors:

  1. You had a blood clot in your brain. It left behind scar tissue. That has to have some sort of residual effect, right?
  2. You don’t sleep enough. Sleep deprivation is not so good for the brainpower.
  3. Skipping meals isn’t the best way to power up the brain, either. If you ate regularly, you might actually remember the generic for Biaxin (clarithromycin). (Seriously, people, I was so embarrassed to ask my coworker that question last week. And then later? I magically knew that cisapride is the generic for Propulsid, a medication that was pulled off the market in 2000. What the crap, brain?)
  4. You have two children. Children are notorious for their powers of brain-suckage. It’s true! Ask any mother and she will tell you she has become less intelligent (though, strangely, more resourceful) with the arrival of each child.

Do you see what isn’t on that list? Early onset Alzheimer’s Disease. Now stop reading that novel about the woman who does have early onset Alzheimer’s and go get some sleep. In the morning you need to remember to return Still Alice to the library.

There’s healthy paranoia, and then there’s foolishness. Don’t cross that line, honey.



An Open Memo to My Beloved Children

2 04 2011

This is mom:

Mom is under the covers. Mom is asleep. When you talk to mom right this moment, she is likely to say things like, “Go away,” and “Go find your father,” or possibly even “I hear fries.” (Don’t ask.)

This is dad:

Dad is in the kitchen. Dad is awake. Dad will get you a waffle and milk. Dad will find toys to play with or cartoons to watch.

Mom will make unintelligible noises and demand the door remain closed.

Dad will put cinnamon and sugar on your waffle.

Why are you still in Mom’s room?

When I tell you to go away, it’s really for your own safety. You’ll just have to trust me on that one.

Don’t Go Away Mad

7 03 2011

Girl, just go away.
~ Mötley Crüe

Dear rehab buddy,

You’ve called me several times in the last few weeks, and I won’t lie—I’m screening your calls. Every time your number pops up on caller ID I feel sick to my stomach and a little bit guilty.

I know you need help. I’m sorry for that. I’d answer the phone and tell you the myriad reasons why I can’t help you right now, but I don’t need to hear your lies or excuses. I don’t want to hear your sob story.

Here’s what I know: You tried to pass a forged prescription at the pharmacy where I work. I wasn’t working at the time, and I’m not even sure you know that’s where I’m employed, but it doesn’t matter.

You aren’t well. You’re using.

Perhaps the day will come when I can help you. Perhaps not. All I know is right now, I’m putting myself first.

I’m well. I’m not using.

Good luck.

Please stop calling.



Dear Hoodlums

30 10 2010

On Monday my family carved pumpkins. It was a huge undertaking, as children and pumpkins are incompatible with cleanliness and sanity, but it was family night and Big G had been begging to make jack-o-lanterns. At the end of the night, we had three silly pumpkins and when we lit the candles, my boys squealed with delight.

Every night this week, Big G asked if we could light up the pumpkins, so we went out on the porch (it’s been really cold this week), light the candles, and oooh and ahhh. Little G’s favorite pastime over the last five days has been seeing just how fast he can blow those candles out once mom and dad step back. It’s pretty cute, even though it’s kind of annoying.

I know you really don’t care about any of this. I know I’m writing this for me, not for you, and that the writing of it fixes nothing.

But here’s the deal: you didn’t do this to me.

You did it to him.

I know who you are. I know where you live. I’ll let it slide just this once, but if you mess with my kid or anything he loves ever again? It won’t go so well for you.

You really don’t want to test me on this one.


Mama Bear

Service without a Smile

14 09 2010

Dear convenience store clerks,

Hi. How’s your day going? Apparently not well, if the expression on your face is any indication. So sorry about that. Listen, I know you hate that your store has a drive-thru window where irritating people like me can get Dr. Pepper refills. Believe me, I get the whole drive-thru angst thing. I get it so well that I never use the drive-thru for my drink unless my kids are in the car with me. See how awesome I am?

(Seriously, people. If you’re in the car all by your lonesome, go inside to get your prescription. Unless you’re really, really sick…in which case you probably ought not be driving. Don’t tell me you’re in a hurry, because the drive-thru at the pharmacy takes far longer than coming inside.)

Oh. Whoops. I wasn’t talking about the pharmacy. I was talking to the convenience store workers. My bad.

Being angry does not make the window go away. Sadly, it doesn’t even make the customers go away. Trust me. I’ve tried it. Specifically, I’m not going away if you are the only thing standing between me and the Dr. Pepper. Tread very carefully.

In summary, would it kill you to smile? Or, at least, to not look at me like I’m something you stepped in at your Uncle LaVerl’s farm? I’d really appreciate it.


Completely unrelated news item: Apparently Car got Little G to say that I’m the gorilla. Crap.

Dear Depression

24 08 2010

Dear Depression,

I don’t like you. Not a very nice way to start a letter, I know. I suppose I could ask how you’re doing, but I’m pretty sure I know the answer. You’ve settled in nicely, and now you’re flourishing in my warm, squishy brain.

Here’s the thing: you’re not wanted. You’re the worst guest ever. All you do is take. You take the joyful moments with my family. You take the romantic moments with my husband. You take my energy, my coping skills, my self-esteem, my laughter.

You take me.

I miss me.

And now, as if you haven’t taken enough, you’re gunning for my writing. You’re stealing one of the few things that still brings me satisfaction. When I sit down at night to put thoughts on the screen, I am empty. I have things to say but when I type them, they have no substance or reason. They are as empty as I am.

You need to leave. I cannot live with you, because I cannot live without me.

Please go. I’m so tired of crying.


An Open Memo to Advertising Agencies

22 08 2010

Your job isn’t easy. I get that. But once the word “poo” is uttered during a pitch meeting, I think it’s time to regroup.

Are you even trying?

Horrified props go to whoever came up with the “Live Poo Free” logo in the bottom right. You know, the one that looks like a poo fingerprint. Am I the only one who turns that phrase into a “Live! Nude! Girls!” kind of thing? “Live! Poo! Free!”

Shut up. I do these things for my own amusement.

Also, typing the phrase “Live Poo” has now reminded me of Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo. I’ll be giggling for the rest of the night.

So, Huggies Ad Execs, if your intention with that ad was for me to end up walking around the house saying, “Howdy-Ho!” in a high-pitched voice while imagining a singing, dancing poo, then I say nicely played.

Soap is Not Optional

11 07 2010

I worked 10 hours today. While at work, I had this telephone conversation with my husband:

Car: “So…if the kids ran around in the sprinklers, does it count as a bath?”
Me: “No.”
Car: “Little G’s skin feels softer!”
Me: “Honey, no. There must be soap involved.”
Car: “I should’ve gotten them with the dog shampoo.”

*Dear WordPress Proofreader, why do you hate contractions so? Were you betrayed by a contraction? Deceived? Whatever may have happened, you need to move past it and accept that I refuse to use entire words when apostrophes will suffice.

Another Open Memo to My Husband

13 05 2010

When I went to bed last night there was milk in the fridge. This morning, it was gone.


I really, really love you. You know that, right? But we have a 2-year-old and a 4-year-old, and the next time I wake up to find you’ve drunk all the milk, you’re going down.*

That is all.

*Drunken all the milk? I’m too tired to look it up.

**I was going to do another pharmacy post, but it’s late and I’m lazy. Perhaps after I work tomorrow I’ll be irate enough to put in the work.

Dear Huggies

25 03 2010

I appreciate Pull-Ups. Really, I do. They make me feel like I’m making some sort of progress on the potty-training front, even though all I’ve really done is put my child in a less-absorbent diaper that he can take off himself.

I just have one itty-bitty complaint. If you show a picture on the package of Lightning McQueen Pull-Ups, could you perhaps actually have Lightning McQueen Pull-Ups in the package? I know that sounds like a small thing. Really, for many children, it probably is a small thing. After all, Buzz and Woody are pretty cool too, right? (Although I have to stifle the giggles every time I tell my son to “Go get a Woody Pull-Up.” But I’m pretty sure I have the maturity level of a 14-year-old boy, so it’s all good.)

Ahem. My point is, when you’re dealing with a child who has a meltdown when his sheets are changed (“I need the light blue sheets! Where are my light blue sheets?!”), a Pull-Up discrepancy is a disaster of epic proportions. My mornings are hard enough without spending 10 minutes coaxing my son into his Pull-Up.

I recommend you address this problem ASAP, or I’ll have to switch to the Pampers Easy-Ups. After all, they have Diego.*

Yours Truly,

Mom on the verge of a nervous breakdown

*I’m so very sad that I know this.