Heathens and Relationships

I love that Steve is such an independent person. He doesn’t need me to coddle him, or do things for him. He is very much a “I’ll do what I want, and I’ll do it on my own, thank you very much” kind of person. Also known as stubborn. I’m typically ok it, and let him do his thing, but the other day…well…I’m not ok with what he did. It broke my heart and caused me rivers of tears behind the closed bathroom door. I sat there with my pants around my ankles in disbelief. What he did was something I always thought happened in everyone else’s house, never mine. The horror of the situation is almost too much to handle, and has left me questioning the future of our relationship. I present to you, exhibit A:

TP

For the past two years, Steve has been hiding the fact that he is a toilet paper heathen from me. His true self has reared it’s ugly head. This I cannot let slide. I will have to address this immediately so as to eliminate the likelihood of it happening again. Wish me luck.

Santa: Never Stop Believing, a true story.

Everyone knows the story of Santa Claus. How could we not? Every year that jolly old elf pops up on store shelves shorty before Halloween, and watches over us with a tinkling eye until he comes barreling down our chimneys to eat  eat cookies and leave presents behind. As kids our parents threatened us with gifts of coal from the big man, and as adults, we threaten our kids with the same. Santa Claus is quite possibly the most loved and adored man to have ever “allegedly” walked the face of this earth. With magical reindeer and an army of overly productive elves, it’s hard for any child to not get excited about the thought of Santa coming to visit.

I remember, as a child, sneaking down the stairs Christmas morning hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of that man in red. To my dismay I never saw him, but I never stopped believing either. Over the years my friends would stop getting presents from Santa. They said it was because he wasn’t real. I said it was because they didn’t believe.

My father was possibly the most joyful person you could ever meet. He had a smile that could light up a room, and a laugh that made you feel good all over. There was no better feeling than to be wrapped up in his arms when I would go home to visit, and at 36 years old, I would still sit on his lap and talk to him about my hopes and dreams. I’m almost pretty sure he lived off of a steady diet of cookies and sweets, much to my mother’s dismay, and it was because of this he had quite a bulbous belly that made him recognizable to almost anyone.

To say my father loved Christmas was an understatement. I used to catch him silently staring at the tree from time to time with a glimmer in his eye. One corner of his mouth would turn up, and a gentle chuckle would escape his lips for no reason other than the fact he was looking at the tree. After my brother and I moved out of the house my parents downsized their tree. It went from being a marvelous wonderment we would haul out of the woods, to nothing more than a table top tree from the back yard. However, I would still catch my father chuckling at that table top tree because, to him, it was still marvelous.

Last month my father passed away after being diagnosed with cancer. I was so angry when it happened because I wasn’t done spending time with him, and neither were my kids. Like so many “children” I wanted to think that my father would be around forever, but as we all know, all things must eventually come to end. The grieving process has been a roller-coaster. I have my good days, and I have my bad days, but the other day turned it all around.

As we were sitting at the table one night for dinner, the kids and I started talking about my father, aka Papa. I was telling them how much Papa loved Christmas, how it was his absolute favorite holiday. We laughed about how he had a big nose and rosy cheeks, and how his belly shook when he laughed. My son then mentioned how we needed to buy more “cheap Christmas cookies” because we were out, and they were Papa’s favorites. We then all looked at the tree in the corner of the living room. It was all lit up and cast little shadows of homemade ornaments on the walls. Then it hit me.

I looked at the kids and said, “Wait a minute, we all know that Santa doesn’t live forever. Right? I mean, someone has to replace him every once in while. Right?” They agreed. “And who is the jolliest person you know?”

“Papa.”

“And who loved Christmas more than anyone else, EVER?”

“Papa!”

Suddenly my daughter pops up in her chair, “And who eats Christmas cookies ALL the time???”

“PAPA!!! Papa is the new Santa!!!”

It all makes sense to me now. Why I loved my father’s laugh. Why I sat on his lap every time I saw him.

Why I never stopped believing. Who could ever stop believing when they grew up with the future Santa after all? So, this Christmas, my family can take a little joy knowing that my father isn’t really gone. He will live forever in our hearts and minds as we take comfort in knowing that he will be coming down our chimneys for many Christmas Eves to come.

I miss my father every day, so can you do me a favor? The next time you’re out at the mall or store, and you see Santa, go sit on his lap and tell him his family misses him, but we’re so glad he’s spreading the joy and magic of Christmas.

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Three Mother F*#king Days

Three Days. Three mother fucking days is all you get for bereavement time. It doesn’t matter who died, a parent, a spouse, or (heaven forbid) a child; all you get is three days. In three days you are supposed to grasp the fact that an immediate family member has passed away, organize their funeral/wake/memorial service/celebration of life, and get your ass back to work. Three mother fucking days. What cold, heartless twat fuck came up with that number?

I lost my father two weeks ago. He had been “sick” but I honestly didn’t think it was going to kill him. Actually, it wasn’t even his “illness” that killed him, it was complications after surgery. I called him on his birthday to sing a poor, yet loving, rendition of “Happy Birthday” as he chuckled in the hospital bed. We then talked about his second surgery scheduled for the next day, and I told him I would talk to him afterwards. Instead of talking to my father afterwards, I found myself driving three hours to the hospital to stand by my mother as we waited for the doctors to tell us good news. There was no good news. He had stopped breathing that morning, and two days later he was gone.

The next day was a Friday. I took it off, using personal time, because I wanted to be with my family. That Monday and Tuesday I was back at work, trying to pretend the most important man in my life hadn’t just left me. Why was I back so soon? Because I felt my three bereavement days were better spent at the end of the week when the funeral was. Those three days were a whirlwind. So many details, making sure my mother was ok, people, people, and more people. You don’t have time to grieve during that time. The only thing you have time for is spinning. And that’s exactly what I did, spin.

The spinning quickly turned into anger. So, for the past week all I have been is angry…at everything. My head wants to explode, my chest feels as if it may actually crush from anxiety, my body is exhausted, I’m messing up at work, I can’t sleep, and all I want to do is yell and blame people. However, I have to keep going because my three bereavement days are over and done with. I am now expected to “get over it” and “carry on” with my everyday life. Enough sulking, Brandi. Pull your head out of your ass and grieve on your own time.

I am a strong person. Some would say I am an extremely strong person. Yes, I cry at tv commercials and YouTube videos, but I am rock solid when it comes to my family. I am a mother, that is my job. I show the strength, courage, and fortitude needed to raise little humans. But my father dying…that totally rocked my world. I have no idea what to do, and I’m having trouble momming. I go through the daily motions because I’m supposed to, but with no honest effort. I’ve lost that desire. I thought getting back to our daily routine would help, but it hasn’t. Instead the anger and anxiety inside of me grows with each passing day. All because I only get three mother fucking days.

I’m hoping the holidays will whip the grief out of me. I plan to sit around, crying into my mashed potatoes as my kids wonder why mommy is falling apart. I mean, I have to get it out of my system somehow, so I might as well use my paid holidays to do so. *throws up double middle fingers at the twat fuck who decided three days was enough*

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Things You Want To Say To Your Kids, But Can’t

We’ve all been there. That moment where we teeter on the brink of saying the worst thing ever something inappropriate to our children. We get lost in the heat of the moment. Tight lipped, we inhale sharply through our nose as we prepare to let loose on our unsuspecting, yet deserving, child. Suddenly, at the very last millisecond, we pause and rethink our words. Later we laugh at what we wanted to say versus what we actually said. So, here it is, my list of what we want to say to our kids but can’t.

1. Omg! Shut the fuck up already!
2. I swear to god, I’m going to throat punch you if you don’t stop.
3. There are days I wish your father had pulled out. This is one of them.
4. I’m about to put my foot up your ass if you don’t hurry the fuck up.
5. If you don’t eat what’s on your plate, I’m going to shove it down your throat myself.
6. If you don’t clean your room now, I’m going to burn the whole house down. Then you won’t have anything to mess up.
7. Quit acting like your fucking father!
8. Quit acting like me!
9. Holy shit! What the fuck were you thinking?
10. If you don’t do your homework, you’re going to end up an uneducated worthless piece of shit.
11. If you throw yourself on the floor one more time, I am going to throw you out the window!
12. I’m about to beat the whine out of you. Your choice.
13. Traffic, go play in it.
14. There is a black market for children, and it pays very well.
15. Fuck! Just…FUCK!!!

To those of you who just got their panties in a bunch because of this list, get over yourself. We all want to say these things. It’s 100% natural. The key point is, we don’t say them. We all get frustrated as parents it’s why we drink, and sometimes we even hate it. That’s ok. Just remember to keep your mouth shut, count to 10, and say the appropriate thing. Also, you may slip from time to time…that’s ok too.

Grey hair and Perky Boobs

My mother is beautiful, inside and out. She has amazing skin, which is unbelievably soft, and only three grey hairs. She was truly blessed in the “aging gracefully” category of life. When she turned 60 she got her first hair. It was almost like she gave up and told Mother Nature, “Alright, fine. Go ahead and give me a grey hair, but just one. Ok?” And so it was. She has since been adding, on average, one grey hair a year. Like I said, blessed. Me, on the other hand, that’s a whole different story.

I got my first grey hair shortly before my 30th birthday. The day my daughter was born, to be exact. As I pushed my last push on March 19, 2009, out came the devil my daughter along with 10 grey hairs. Yes, I said 10…all at once. This is probably why I could actually FEEL them popping out. Ever since then my grey hair has been growing in, on average, about one every other day. I may or may not be keeping a running tally. At this point in my life, aged 36 wonderful years, I can honestly say that I am a hair dying master. It’s not that I don’t “want” grey hair, please don’t think that. I LOVED my grandmother’s hair. It was white, and shiny, and beautiful. As a kid, I used to brush it for her. I would sit there, with the brush in my hand, daydreaming of the day my hair would look like hers. So why the big upset about it now?

Remember how I said I am “aged 36 wonderful years”? That’s why. I’m ONLY 36. I’m a mom of two kids, NOT a grandmother.I have to admit that over the summer I was letting it grow! I was ready for the grey hair! I would go to bed at night excited for what I would find in the morning. Come on grey hair, show me what you got! Then it came time to go to my younger sister’s wedding. Younger means younger people everywhere at the wedding…everywhere. At the rehearsal dinner. At the ceremony. At the reception. Younger. People. Everywhere. Beautiful, sun kissed younger people from Florida. It was somewhere during the week leading up to the wedding that I was no longer ready for grey hair.

Put on the breaks! I’m getting off this ride! My vanity took control of me, and took me for a ride to Walmart to reunite with my old friend, L’Oreal. A box of dye, couple glasses of wine, and 30 minutes later…hello 25 again! Suddenly my boobs were perkier. My butt was firmer. My stomach was flatter. That’s a lie, but I did feel better about myself. So there you have it, call me vain, but I’m really not ready for all the grey hair. I’ll take the stretch marks that come with gaining weight due to child bearing, and the crows feet by my eyes, but the hair is going to have to wait.

Bathroom Battle – Over vs Under, You Decide

The battle of who hangs their toilet paper correctly has raged on longer than the battle between Republicans and Democrats. Does it go over the top? Obviously the correct answer. Does it go underneath? Obviously a practice of heathens. I say, for sanitary reasons, it hangs over the top. That way you’re not fumbling around the entire roll with you grubby finger tips, trying to find the bitter end. No one wants grubby finger tips on the toilet paper, which is essentially like fumbling with their crotch.

I’ve heard the argument from the heathens under people about the cat or dog can unravel the roll faster if it’s on top. Seriously? What in the hell is your cat or dog doing in the bathroom? If they are in their just to spite you, it’s possible you should reevaluate your pet parenting techniques because Fido might be mad at you.

So, I want to know your opinion especially since I keep picking on my friends about their heathen ways. Which way is the right way? Before you answer, I will leave you with the original patent for toilet paper yes, it has a patent showing the proper way to hang your anal tissue.

TP