Thursday, June 28, 2012

Please tell me you are kidding

Just a quick post to let you know that I sent the link to this blog to my husband with the title "Don't inhibit me...don't judge me." I think it's only fair that he know what I am up to, and that I may possibly be revealing some of the darkest family secrets on the Internet for the world to see. He just called me and said how funny it was that I found a blog titled with that same line I "always say." Yep...pretty funny. Quite a coincidence.

Free steam treatments every day this summer!

I have a love-hate relationship with my office's toilet. There are qualities about it that endear it to me and others that are a bit disturbing. 

My office toilet is a 5-gallon toilet (please don't tell the government...but if you do, use my porn name when you report me: Snap Pinedale). I love 5-gallon toilets because you can flush a cat down one without it clogging, while a square of 1-ply in a 1.6-gallon* will have you writing a $120 check to Roto-Rooter. So, score one in the love column for my office toilet. However, the love ends right there.

To be fair to the office toilet, the reasons I hate it are not its fault. It is but a vessel for, a mere messenger of, the environment in which it is forced to exist. That environment being hell on Earth, aka Phoenix in the summer. For those who have not lived here or visited during the summer (hotels don't have to stay at someone's house), you may not be aware that the water coming out of the tap is approximately 200 degrees, give or take. So, instead of doing what normal people the tap until the water gets warm, we run the tap until the water is just below scalding temperature before washing our hands or getting in the shower. This concept, however, does not apply to the office toilet. The water in the office toilet just comes out hot as hell. So today, because of some bad etiquette on the part of my office buddy, I had to flush the toilet before using it. This resulted in me receiving, for free, what people probably pay big bucks for in a spa situation: a purifying butt steam. Yes indeedy, gentle waves of steam condensed on my ass while I sat on the toilet. It was strange and unpleasant. However, I think as a business scheme, this could take off in much the same way having small fish eat dead skin off your feet has in the mani-pedi business...

*As I think of the 1.6-gallon toilet, I would be remiss in not taking this opportunity to let you know that I have solved two of the world's most frustrating and significant problems (one of which is the 1.6-gallon toilet situation) for which I have received no notoriety or compensation. However, if you would like to send me money, please contact me at Anyway...

1) I know where the missing socks are! They have not been eaten by a sock monster or stolen during the night by elves. They are UNDER the dryer.

2) I know how to keep a 1.6-gallon toilet from clogging! Hold the HANDLE down until everything is flushed. It really works!

Not only is this blog somewhat bitter and potentially a little's helpful!

Wednesday, June 27, 2012


Yes, I am a pap-crastinator. I have not had a pap smear since I was pregnant with child #4 over 13 years ago. Of course, I'm arriving at the time of life (or arrived a few years ago) when I have to start having tests for this and that horrible and deadly disease, but I just can't bring myself to do it.

First, of course, is my anxiety on the issue of public weighing. I know how much I weigh, I have been weighed many times in my life, I have survived all of these weighings without significant damage. But, it remains an obstacle. Yes, I'm fat. I mean, I want to lose weight, but dammit, it's hard. And, if I continue on this path of denial and no early detection, perhaps I will get one of the dreaded cancers and it will take care of the weight thing for me. Why make the effort of losing weight when cancer may do it for me...effortlessly? (Although I have heard a vicious rumor that not everyone with cancer loses weight. That would be me...I'm always "that" person.)

Second, I'm not so much in to having all my parts felt anymore. When you're in college or in the childbearing years having kids right and left, you're used to having hands all up in your business and all over your body. I'm done with that now. I'm busy with other stuff, like trying not to shoot myself in the head because my kids are complete animals trashing my house, but I digress...

Finally, who will I go to for this pap smear? Being out of the loop for 13+ years means I don't have a gynecologist in my phone contacts anymore. This leaves me with a few options: ask a friend (of which there are few); consult Angie's List (that's how I found the dermatologist that I had to undress IN FRONT of to have my skin checked. She did say, we're all girls in here, but come on lady...); or wait for a Groupon.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Defeat snatched from the jaws of victory...again

To say the journey has been rough is an UNDERSTATEMENT. My son (child #1) signed his contract with the Army five months ago after a brief (from a geological perspective, but an eternity from a parent's) period of horrifying teenage behavior. He was supposed to ship out July 2. Since nothing can go smoothly with this kid, he called me yesterday at 4:10 and said "You have to take me to the recruiter NOW...I'm shipping out tomorrow!" So much for the smooth transition. We were able to see him at the hotel that evening to say our goodbyes (minus the evil one...child #2).

So, I'm feeling pretty good about getting him to the Army in one piece, and I didn't have to spend the week worrying he'd get into an accident, break his leg, or screw things up in some other way. We had talked about bubble wrapping him, locking him in his room and various other methods to keep him whole until the hand off on July 1.

My husband, in a truly understated and calm-inducing manner, calls me this morning and says "Are you sitting down?" "Please stay calm."  Of course, all my worst fears flood into my mind thanks to this brilliant approach: some kid is in the hospital, an animal is dead, he gunned down someone at work. Finally he says: "#1 is coming home." So more horrible thoughts: failed drug test, got into fight, gunned someone down. But no...PAPERWORK SNAFU. Yes, a miscoding on #1's paperwork is keeping him from fulfilling my dream of getting rid of all my children.

All paperwork needs to be filled out again and resubmitted, at which time #1 will re-sign his contract and then again, we will wait for a new ship-out date. This could be right away, this could be months away. So, in the blink of an eye I go from proudly putting the finishing touches on the speech I plan to give when I accept sainthood for selflessly (uh-huh) giving my only son to protect the country and our freedom to being just another mom loathing the worthless existence of an adult child lounging around half naked, playing video games and piling up dirty dishes and laundry. Thanks Uncle Sam.

Monday, June 25, 2012


As a pessimist, Mondays are a truly horrifying day (of course, that could be said about any day...but Mondays are definitely the worst). The day starts by waking up with general anxiety about all the major mistakes with consequences currently being experienced or the "quad-espresso" shot of anxiety for the consequences imagined, but yet unknown. After squashing these feelings down into small eventual cancer-causing particles in my body, I begin with the monotony of chores. I get up, get dressed, feed my chickens (you'll learn more about my love of chickens, love/hate of dogs and love of cats), brush my teeth and leave for work via McDonald's (you'll also learn more about my love for fast food). On my way to McDonald's, I have the daily devil-and-angel-on-the-shoulder battle about whether or not I am going to get a Coke or a Minute Maid Light Lemonade. Lately, Coke has been winning out, as it did this morning. While this is transpiring, I am also thinking about potential customer complaint e-mails I may have received over the weekend about items missing from orders or questions about where orders are,  wondering whether sales were good or bad, hoping I can get all the orders shipped and all the new inventory put away, and the big one: is my underinsured inventory still there or has the building burned to the ground (there is reason for this, which I'm sure I will discuss at some point).

While I was typing this entry, I did check on some of these things and yes, sales were bad, I got at least one e-mail about a wrongly shipped item, another asking when their order will ship and a phone call about an order that should have gone out by Friday. So, all is proven and it is true: Mondays suck.

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Meet me...if you dare

First, let me introduce myself...anonymously. For now, I prefer to remain nameless for obvious reasons: I'm slightly disturbed and my poor children, particularly my oldest teenage daughter, are utterly horrified when I speak to others about my life. It wouldn't be fair for them to have the world know the truth about them and our family (according to me, of course) when they are so carefully constructing a completely different story for their teenage friends. Why ruin a perfectly brilliant tale of woe with actual facts?

So, here's the nitty gritty. I am a mom of four teenagers. This is too many teenagers to have a once. Having this many children this close together (or having any at all) is one of my potentially questionable decisions, of which there clearly have been many. I am married to the father of all four children and have been for 20+ years. I have loved my husband most of our marriage, but the bottom line is, if I were to get divorced now, I could say, fairly honestly, yes children, it is YOUR fault (and most of the rest of the blame is his and a tiny weeny bit is mine). I also know the likely answer to the question "How do couples end up divorced after 20 or 30 years of marriage?": TEENAGERS (followed by infidelity and general annoyance).

Aside from these two major aspects of my life that cause me the most stress, I am also a business owner and suffer from a couple of mental illnesses (perhaps neuroses is a better term, but certainly less dramatic) which will become clear to you as you read this blog.

So, if you are looking for a NON-Facebook-perfect-carefully-constructed-photo-edited-positive-affirmation-posting-look-at-how-much-love-money-and-success-we-have version of one family, you're at the right place.

Prepare to hear the rantings and ramblings of an occasionally suicidal mother of four teenagers at midlife peeking over the precipice and awaiting with massive anxiety the culmination of 20+ years of decision making. Writing that sentence just caused me some minor chest pain, and I'm not kidding.''

UPDATE: A dear friend of mine suggested anonymous blogging wasn't as fun and blogging with an alias. I agree. So that you can think of me often by name, I have decided to use my porn name for now: Snap Pinedale. Thanks for the idea Pepper Sunset! You're the best!