when the mice are away...

Suffice it to say, we all need breaks from parenthood now and then. And I think I might be scalped if I don't cop to getting more than my fair share of time out, compared to my friends. This is not a rant about needing to get away. This is a strange confession that I am likely to regret. Thankfully, I have a pretty thick callous where shame and regret are concerned. The thing is, I have marginal anxiety about being away from my kids, we all know this. I am hugely fear-driven, and thusly worry endlessly about their safety, plus I just like having my little monsters around. Nevertheless, I do permit them to spend time with others, quite frequently actually, and I do derive pleasure from the chance to do some chillaxin with my grown-up homeys. This is especially true if there is alcohol involved. So I've learned to trust in the kids' security so that I might enjoy my adult time.

The nature of this confessional is that I am almost completely incapable of being in my house without them. So consumed with nerves when faced with having the house to myself, I go to absurd lengths never to be in that position. Sometimes I'll come home from errands and Todd will be loading Quinn and Reilly up in the truck to go bike riding or something, and they'll screech away before I have the chance to ask if maybe I could strap myself to the ski rack. So my eyes well up and I mope my way inside. I swear this time I will revel in the silence, take a hot bath, read, listen to my music, loud, with no guilt. Alas, I pace. I turn on iTunes, and immediately every tear-your-own-throat-out David Gray and/or Tracy Chapman song will play. Even though I put it on shuffle, it only plays songs that test my will to live. You know it's bad when Elton John's Sacrifice affords a little lilt. You're probably thinking one of two things: A) Shut up you fucking bitch for getting the house to yourself, or B) Shut up you fucking bitch for getting the house to yourself; why don't you just leave? I never leave because I always think this will be the time I can appreciate the moment. Typically I crank up some of my suicide prevention playlists, and start cleaning. Yes, when I follow my bliss, as Gabrielle puts it, I always end up holding lemon-scented Lysol. Now, if I truly follow the bliss, I might drink some of it, but that's a whole different post.

So I'm scrubbing away (things that are already clean, B will tell you), and my heart is racing because my kids are gone. The house isn't quiet, it's empty, and deafening. I'm okay laughing at Starbucks with you primo ladies, but stick me in my house with nary a soul and I am liable to freak right out. Invariably, B calls to ask what I'm up to, and I tell her I drew the short straw and wound up alone at home. She pauses (undoubtedly to curse the stupid ungrateful bitch who refuses to appreciate the time alone), and then gives thoughtful, helpful suggestions, such as, "Turn off Tracy Chapman, go to Borders, or come over." I'm usually too immersed in disquietude to understand her, and refuse all reasonable ideas in favor of scrubbing the bathtub, all the while knowing I am one second closer to my kids coming home to me.

Is this weird? I think it is.

Last night Quinn and Rei spent the night at my mom's, and for the first time ever, I awoke to an empty house. No competition for the shower (Quinn), no requests for cartoons (Reilly), no nothing. At first I was really panicked, but it occurred to me I could slip some flip flops on and drive to Starbucks, which I never do because, as you may have noticed, I would ever leave my kids for ten minutes. So I kicked off my solitary confinement with an Americano and a scone. Not too shabby for an unappreciative bitch, right? I proceeded to languish online, not something I'm prone to doing, fold nine (count 'em nine) baskets of laundry, clean the kitchen, post this blog, all the while blasting my music. Shuffle was decidedly kinder to me today. Not that Tracy doesn't hurt. She does.

So that's it. I just wanted to vent this, another oddity in the sea of oddities that is Cheyenne. I'm also curious if anyone else has a problem being home alone? I pose the question, in spite of fearing the onslaught of readers chomping at the bit to put me in my place. But go ahead. My music is too loud for me to hear you.

lady of the rings--fellowship of the rings

I was all ready to let Pam stick her 14 gauge needle through my ear cartilage tonight, but when I went to buy the ring yesterday, I was assailed with horror stories about the perils of doing it myself, and how I'd die of infection, but not before going blind, etc. Ultimately I found myself in Addictions, a fab little shop downtown, where my fears were allayed, and this bitchin waif named Megan made me an offer I couldn't resist. I couldn't betray too much fear, as Quinn and Reilly were with me, but they knew I was nervous and Megan spent a long time putting me at ease. At long last, I was in the chair. Giant swells started rolling across the walls, my blood turned into lava, and I became mostly unable to decipher English, but I was brave for my kids. Rei was poised with the camera phone, and Quinn, my priest-in-training, was in the corner, emitting disapproval. By this point I was hoping to get two done, one representing each of my children. This seemed like a peculiar homage, given Quinn's solemnity about the situation, but it made sense to me to honor them that way, just like I incorporated their initials into my tattoo. (Quinn was less than bowled over by that gesture as well.) I was waiting to see how bad the first stab was before I committed to a second, but it was surprisingly tolerable. I immediately told her to do it again. Holy crap the second one hurt so much more! ("You can't sneak up on the body twice in a row," explained Megan.) And so it was done. Rei picked out a black jewel, and Quinn, in spite of major reservations, finally picked out the green one. ("Having your cartilage pierced makes you seem young and unresponsible," he told me that morning.) Sigh. The adrenaline rush was really intense, and I can definitely see why people go back for seconds...and thirds. But for me, two rings is just young and "unresponsible" enough for me.

my purse: take 2

Seriously, I wouldn't usually post a repeat, but the disbelief I feel when itemizing the guts of my purse is so overwhelming I just need other mamas to come forth to either A) exonerate me, or B) corroborate that I have a disease... Please someone, say something.

3 new packs of Wet Ones
bottle of Tylenol
bottle of Excedrin
bottle for overnights
bottle of Xanax (you can't say you're surprised)
same old wallet
same new wallet
a book (not sayin' which, but I hate Middlesex!)
phone
sunglasses
4 pens
2 new packs of gum
bag of 5 new lip balms (yes, all the same flavor)
2 lb. bag of cashews
ridiculously dyke-ish carabiner full o'keys
B's simple and elegant keys
a mutilated but usable Morningstar Farms coupon
6 bobby pins
30-odd business cards
spare buttons to unknown garment
Ziploc baggie of Kleenex (hard day)
3 Netflix envelopes
Strunk & White's Elements of Style (so I can correct everyone's speech!)

What is wrong with me? (Please form orderly single-file line to answer that. Everyone will get his/her turn.)

this spud's for you

I have famously opined that potato bugs are so ugly they will make you cry. Inexplicably, this fact came up in Quinn's therapy appointment today, and I declared, with great gusto and authority, that these insect-like demons are too awful to behold. Anthony, the therapist, looked at me with the same quizzical expression I've seen on the faces of so many native Oregonians. The reason being that Oregonians call sow bugs "potato bugs," for some mind-boggling reason, and as such, they are forever wanting to defend their endearing roly poly little critters against my vehement slander.

But a potato bug is another story my friends. The last time I saw one I was about six, and my older brother found one in the yard. It was all nestled into a hole, on its back, and when we peered at at, the gruesome fucking thing reared its head and screamed, and by God, it had its eyes trained on us! I am not kidding. So abhorrent are these beasts that even though I have often wondered if my childhood memory bore any resemblance to reality, I have refused to look them up. For 24 years. Until today. After it came up in the session, Quinn's interest was piqued and he felt a great need to see one, so I cleverly convinced myself that doing so would be our science for the day (hooray Mom!). I literally trembled as I typed the words into Google, and I quickly prayed to die as I hit go. And there they were. A whole page of these monsters, all ready to hiss, curse, and look at us. Naturally I felt them crawling all over me, and Quinn too shuddered from head to toe. But we looked. We were brave. And now we want to share them with you, if you think you can stand it. I do have to qualify this by saying that they are 1,000% uglier, meatier, and crunchier in person, when they are screeching obscenities at you. But at least this way you're safe. Can you dig it? Potato bug. Sow Bug.

i'll buy that for a dollar!

The last time I went to the dentist, he saw a "shadow" in the root of a tooth that had previously endured everything short of a land mine. He said we'd check up on it in six months, as it would either reveal itself to be an x-ray glitch, or an abcess. Christ.

What could I do? Naturally, I waited three and a half years, hoping that an abcess, like a taunting older brother, will eventually go away if you pay it no attention. It never hurt, nor bothered anyone, nor made inappropriate gestures in public, so I left it to spread silently throughout my jaw bone, assuming it would finally rupture or something, at which point I'd beg for the dentist. That was my plan.


I should mention that I am a dental war veteran, and that I've seen my share of action. Root canals, extractions, fillings, name it. By no means have I been awarded medals of valor, however, for each and every experience has been preceded by a) rocking in the fetal position, b) crying/begging, and c) valium. I am the epitome (or epi-tome, as some might say) of dental-phobic. Hence my egregious gamble with the ominous shadow. Meanwhile, I could just feel my jaw decaying, a false sensation followed by lots of imagined drilling, shots, and those ungodly stakes they jam down your roots. I wasted at least one year by telling Todd we just couldn't afford it, but then, good dental samaritan that he is, he began insisting that I go. Conveniently, I "forgot" for another year, and hedged subsequent queries with my swift subject-changing mojo. (I'm very good at this, but that's for another blog.)

Deep down, I knew I had to go, and last month I finally made the appointment. By the way, the minute I did so, every tooth in my head began throbbing and causing searing pains down my face. People have assured me that because I have endured childbirth, an appendectomy, and the removal of the Tumor that Ate Texas, I would be fine. But I implore you to see that pain inflicted in the past does nothing to nullify pain in the present. Just because I've had babies doesn't mean that ramming a tent stake into my nerve hurts less. Duh. Whether or not I survive is not the issue. I DON'T WANT IT TO HURT!

Back to the day of reckoning. I managed to drive to my appointment, only having moderate myocardial infarction, and was proud to have arrived without an escort. I had my check for $230 pinned to my shirt, like a good little girl, and walked in. I was exceedingly nice to all the receptionists, in hopes that this would karmically help reduce the chances of a runaway abcess. And then I waited. In hell. Finally it was my turn, and when the assistant asked how I was, I unloaded my entire footlocker of anxiety on her, in a manner that resembled vomiting on someone. But she handled it with aplomb, and spent thirty minutes easing my worries. She helped prepare me for my x-rays, which would seal my fate in seconds. Now, it's too late to make a long story short, but praise the Lord, I have no cavities, and the shadow was just a shadow!

Speaking of karma, I didn't deserve to get an A+ today. I deserve to have my teeth fall out in rows, and to be left with bloody, uneven stumps. I'm not a very good person. Maybe today's good fortune was an example of grace, which is much more plausible to me than karma, but that is DEFINITELY another blog. In any event, I told Dr. O'Leary that he was my lucky charm, and then took it too far with a leprechaun joke and made a hasty exit.

The good news didn't stop there. When I floated out to the reception area, I was informed that I was being given a new patient promotion, because it had been so long, and that the cost of my visit would be one dollar. One dollar! I asked if they had any similar deals on liposuction, which got laughs from the young women and disappointed head shakes from the middle-aged women who have already discovered that we are supposed to love our bodies no matter what. Hey, can't blame a Fitzpatrick for trying to push her luck a little, right?

we're fraternal

We've had lots of fun in the past with celebrity look-alike posts, so I thought I'd offer up mine.

Now, the picture I took with my phone of a National Enquirer cover last month was too distorted to use in the blog, so I was forced to scour the internet for images that will confirm my twindom with Kirstie Alley. Mind you, I only resemble her when she weighs 260+ pounds. When she's thin she is quite beautiful. And I definitely don't fancy myself having her kick-ass hairline. But there is an undeniable similarity when she's heavy.

See for yourself.:


this one captures my ever-present scowl


this could be either of us

i might rather pour honey on my head

Late at night I become susceptible to a sort of ethereal reasoning and say and do things that feel monumentally wise at the time, and then in the morning I want to slit my throat.

Tonight, I'm copping to the fact that I hate the Gilbert House. That's right, I hate it. I know my crunch factor just dropped by ten thousand recycled hemp points, and I don't even care. I know I'm supposed to dress my kids in uncoordinating Hanna Andersson sweat suits until they are fifteen, and encourage them to memorize every exhibit, if not create some of them, and I know I ought to spend every sunny day there. But I just can't. Because I hate it. I'll try to restrict my explanation, as I've already hogged most of cyberspace tonight, but okay, I can't handle not being able to see my kids for thirty minutes at a time. Nor am I fond of them disappearing into some labyrinth of broken necks, into which I could not fit if I tried, and would therefore fail at rescuing them. (If you're wondering if know I'm crazy, I do, and I take a lot of pills, but I can't shake the pervasive safety phobia.)

Fortunately for my kids, we have a lot of friends who guilt me into going, paying little mind to my delicate mental state. The kids instantly enter that cage/maze/chamber, and are not be seen for half an hour, when they emerge asking for hot dogs, another fear of mine. So we go, and they run, which is wonderful, and they visit the exhibits and punch and choke each other in the shadow room, and I try to get a colorful educational vibe rather than a dank desperate vibe. I know one mom who agrees with me, and she had BETTER come forth in unity, for I fear after this gets posted, she may be my only friend left.

I don't want to get too detailed about why I'm uncomfortable there, because 40% of my friends either built it, or run it, or consider it a member of their family, and I'm not aiming to hurt anyone. But it's specifically configured to choke and/or hide your child(ren). I always want to take everyone into the baby room and sit safely amongst the shape sorters, but nine year olds are prohibited, and they get pissed when you try to hold them there. They want to be slopping around in that sticky bubble bullshit, or assembling people's garbage into crafts that must be brought home and cherished forever. I just can't take it. But, I'm a mom, first and foremost, and I shan't deny my kids these liberties just because I'm scaredy cat with ocd. So, if you're not busy setting fire to my house for this act of treason, and you happen to be headed to AC Gilbert's soon, and everyone else on your list turned you down, and you hate me, go ahead and call me. We'll probably come.

no country for sissies

B and I are on a little movie kick these days, and last night we selected No Country For Old Men. Critics gave it an A, and the film and its crew were showered with Academy Awards the other night. Plus, Tommy Lee Jones is really cute, so how cold we miss?

Within eight seconds of our arrival, my blood was running cold. Set against the backdrop of the dreariest old western landscape, Josh Brolin was making one gruesome discovery after another. Soon he made the fateful mistake of absconding with two million dollars he liberated from a rotting carcass, and the hunt began.

Enter the creepiest m-f-ing villain you have ever laid your tender eyes upon. Dark and silent, tall and relentless, with eyes can that could turn you to stone. Or at least make you cry. Granted I am prone to some exaggeration at times, but this man was so sinister I wanted to leave the theater. His gaze bore a hole straight through my heart, and I literally trembled throughout the entire movie. As crazy as it sounds, his face was not his most frightening feature, nor was his modified oxygen tank murder weapon. It was his hair. When a fraction of my terror subsided a bit, I was commenting to myself that his medieval pageboy was really the source of my fear, and that's when Brandy leaned over and whispered, "What's up with that Prince Valiant hairdo?" It was the only smile I was afforded the entire night.

So grim guy tracks dumb luck guy, in search of the money, and our audience was breathless for two hours. This pursuit was so chilling, so hopeless, and so so bloody, no one made a peep. You could actually hear my nails tearing the flesh of B's arm.

Spoiling the ending isn't really a problem here, because A) the Coen brothers spoil their own endings, and B) this post is about Javier Bardem being the most ominous son of a bitch in the history of my cinematic life. So disturbing is he that I refused to believe, when Sam told me, that he actually had a name. That he could have an actual mother, or worse, that he is walking around somewhere. I think he should be imprisoned just for looking like that.

After dropping B off and managing to make it home without him popping up in my back seat, I immediately Googled him to see if he was in fact human. Surprisingly, he is, and does have a mother, and even smiles! This latter fact was the only reason I got any sleep last night at all.

So, do I recommend the movie? Um...yes, if you like to lose control of your bowels, no if you require satisfying endings.

But I consider it a badge of honor to have survived. B, sorry I mutilated your arm. Go heavy on the Neosporin!