Mommy Must Haves & Mehs

Lol @ "see y'all in 2022." WE JUST BLEW RIGHT PAST THAT. I view my blog posts like Taylor dropping her "Taylor's version" albums - you have no idea when it's going to happen and someone may cry. (Me. I may cry.)

It's hard to find humor when you're full to the brim with bitter. 

Bitter isn't funny. Cynical, sardonic, snarky - all step riiiiight up to the line but remain identifiable and - more importantly - relatable, and therefore acceptable. Bitter crosses the line. You've made things awkward. People start to talk. Words get thrown around - depression, therapy, medication. It's a whole thing. (Although toss me a handful of xanies and a few adderall, and your girl will be juuuuuuuust fine. We'll get to that later.)

Hitting the highlights - I became a SAHM, we moved from our cool but untenable downtown apartment to a cool but untenable downtown adjacent townhouse, the Senior Associate is turning 2, we acquired a Junior Associate, and we're about to move to a decidedly uncool suburban house. I could really use an intern, but like...a real one. Not a "these are funny nicknames for our children and we love a theme" intern. 

My brain is broken. It's the battery from a 2008 MacBook purchased for college that's still running LimeWire and has never been shut down properly, just restarted over and over and over again. Except the old "turn it off, then turn it back on again" isn't working for my brain. At random times, it sounds like it's going to take off, the rainbow beach ball of doom is spinning, and the mouse is responding more and more slowly with each passing day. Lists are all I can do now. My brain is just bullet points and a low buzzing noise. 

MUST HAVES

• Extra t-shirts & burp cloths So so many of these. I am in the throes of my second reflux baby and I. am. damp. Constantly. With my first, I invented the burp cloth bathrobe; now, with Younger Child, I have just given up. I'm pickling in bodily fluid. Doctors are studying me as the first case of Trench Shoulder in medical history. ShamWow is featuring us in their next late night infomercial (Don't worry! We'll be awake! WE'RE ALWAYS AWAKE.). Spit up is my past, present, and future - I know of nothing but spit up. Just when I think we've turned a corner, Younger Child turns his head and sends it back from whence it came - all over me. 
  
  
• "Toys" the likes of which Mr. FAO Schwarz has never seen and would never sell. Ever the connoisseur, my older child loved his pacifier clips - not for their ability to haul a toy in like a lil fishing line, but for the metal clip end that attached to his clothes, duh. We should probably make sure he's up to date on his tetanus shot. You may have thought that your old high school geometry TI-84 would just gather dust until the end of days. Au contraire. Elder Child learned early the importance of closing those parentheses, as well as how to spell BOOBS upside down (advance apologies to his teachers). The nice watch I got Tyler when he became a father? Property of Elder Child. I live in fear of the day he discovers the fine china. Younger Child hasn't quite had the opportunity to develop a taste for toys because Older Child sliiiiiiiiides right in to retrieve the things he hasn't so much as glanced at in at least a year his most prized possessions.

• Grace, with a healthy heap of humility. Or a sense of humor. Or resignation. Whatever you want to call it. Baby will choose dad. (Although Elder Child said "mama" first so I'll be living off the high from that victory for the rest of my life.) You will accidentally flash the nice church man while trying to feed your *very* distracted baby during Mass. Acceptance is the first step. 
  

  

  Pretty much exactly how it went.

  
  
• Speed Do I mean drugs or a quick pace? Honestly, both. It took all of two days for the Senior Associate to go from that weird-stick-bug-rocking-back-and-forth to wind sprints across the wood floor. He's obviously training for something. The Junior Associate is just starting to experiment with rolling and half the time I give him the slightest toe nudge back to flat. YOU'LL ROLL WHEN I SAY YOU CAN ROLL. I can only deal with one mobile-and-not-very-good-at-it child at a time, thankyouverymuch. I'm 2 seconds away from a Jessie Spano-style breakdown and we are here for it.

Live footage of me trying to blockade the kitchen from the invading forces my toddler.

• Nanny For half a second, before Elder Child was born and during my all-too-short maternity leave, I contemplated not getting any childcare, and working before Baby woke up, during his naps, and after he went to bed. And then I laughed and Tyler laughed and Baby laughed. We love to laugh. What we don't love is the holy terror that is Care.com. We really lucked out with the two longer term girls we used, but there have been some...misses (including the one who fell asleep lying down on the couch with my infant on top of her). Godspeed to parents who have to work outside of the home because the only way my paranoia could handle this was by being *constantly* just around the corner. Productivity was at an all-time low.
  

  

  Elder Child @me every day of his life.

  I'm now in my Stay at Home Mom era. (Although I'm keeping my license active, just in case I need to flee in the dead of night/want to work when the kids start school - provided I don't need to homeschool because the secular and non-secular school systems are a dumpster fire AND provided oil and gas hasn't been entirely outlawed by that time.) With the birth of Younger Child, productivity has somehow reached a new all-time low. I spend my days attempting to justify rehiring one of our previous nannies, if only for companionship. I lived vicariously through our favorite nanny, who was also named Mary and was dating a Tyler and had a dog-child named Willy. I'm only 90% sure I didn't hallucinate her, and I would like to know what our little family has been up to in that alternate universe. 
  
  
• Terrifying child development apps & websites to scroll when baby is napping. Sleep when the baby sleeps? Nah, I would rather find out if my child is 2 weeks behind on milestones, or showing signs of autism/delays/cancer, or isn't eating/pooping/talking enough. Honestly, the entire internet is fear porn for a hormonal postpartum mom pre-disposed to anxiety & hopped up on *exactly* as much caffeine is allowed a nursing mother. Saw 10, step aside - The Wonder Weeks is here.

Note: I put no stock in the Wonder Weeks at all. No shade if you use it. I just got tired of being told that all fussiness and clinginess was due to a "leap", and leaps occur every other week. You know what babies often are? Fussy, clingy, etc. No leap necessary. The Senior Associate screamed for 3 straight months. We knew of nothing but fussiness. Maybe new parents need to be told that there is importance and purpose in baby's whines, and that we can help them through it, even if that is a complete lie. But that feels awfully Truman Show-ey to me, and I don't like being manipulated or patronized. I prefer doing it myself.

MEHS

• Toys that are immediately recognizable as toys Misfit or otherwise, Elder Child didn't really care for them until about a year old. And the ones he did seem to enjoy, I wanted to fling off our balcony. 90% of the light up, noise making machines can get wrecked. 
  
  
• A House Who needs a house with space, and a yard, and a safe neighborhood? Overrated. My babies are urban children, learning the ways of the world from their homeless friends. Elder Child will get to kindergarten with more street smarts than your average adult. He may not have ever felt grass (for fear of pee, human or otherwise) and his sound machine is the bass from our neighbor's all-hours EDM music, but he'll have street smarts, damnit. 
  
  
• "A Village" Cue "I had a baby in a pandemic" blahblahblah. But let's not dismiss that just because it's overused - it is true and difficult and changed a lot of things that people took for granted. I also had a baby in a city in which I don't have many friends (because "law school classmates" is just another way of saying "worst people in the world") or family and the friends I do have don't have kids. I also began this journey juggling working with momming, and all the mom playgroups occur on weekdays when I was supposed to be working. My "village" is made up of panicked phone calls to mom, the internet, and the constant blather of adult voices on the news (so I don't go insane, obvi - but now Elder Child knows way too much about Ukraine & Scandoval & Idaho murders & pooping in beds [#justiceforjohnnydepp] and has v strong opinions). And the internet has its flaws - mostly, that it's made up of people and people are stupid. I'll find someone likeminded to follow on Instagram, only to find out that she's a freebirther and I somehow missed that very important piece of insanity.
  
• Work clothes Remember when I was cute and walked to work and wore button downs for any other purpose than easy access for a nursing child? I wore suits sometimes! Now it's but a distant memory. I pull on whatever is somewhat clean, comfy, and relatively water-resistant.
  
  
• A relaxed attitude Never really been a thing for me. Especially since going to law school, into which I entered a fairly uptight rock and left a very anxious diamond. Motherhood has only served to polish that stone. With each child, I've struggled more with PPD/PPA. This time around, for the sake of my husband and children (and until I stop breastfeeding and can partake in the more holistic CBD-type things), I've been utilizing Mommy's Little Helpers. PSA: TAKE THE DAMN PILLS. SERENITY NOW. I still wouldn't call myself relaxed, but at least now no one needs to call CPS on me. 



Feelings that aren't all rage-y.

Godspeed to the children. 

Adventures in Babysitting

We're finally out of the newborn phase, which means I'm an expert in all things newborn and it's finally hitting us that no one is coming to pay us $20/hour and then drive us home. 

As Alanis once said: you live, you learn/you love, you learn/you cry, you learn/you lose, you learn.
There has been a whole lot of learning (and so so so much crying, from everyone involved). 

For my first post in almost a year (Bebe was but a twinkle in my eye!), I've decided to bless you all with my wee one wisdom. You're welcome.

NECESSITIES

• Noise cancelling headphones to ward off the unsolicited advice. We've decided against safe sleep practices, thank you very much. I've just been placing my child--drowsy, but awake--outside on our 4th floor balcony with a space blanket and SIG P365 (safety on, duh; I'm not a monster), and checking on him in the morning. Survival of the fittest is the new sleep training. No, we won't be getting an Owlet; Zuck and comrades will just have to find another way to track my baby. Cry it out? Obviously. Any other way would be treating our baby like such a baby. I'm not here for that sort of paternalism. 
  
  The above is full on sarcasm, and how I wish I could respond. Please don't report me to CPS - we follow the ABCs and the AAP. I would even consider AA if they came out with opinions on child safety/sleep. (But not the AARP. Don't come to me with your outdated opinions, ma'am.)
  
  
• Sesame Street for the entirely new letters we're learning regarding bra sizes. Breastfeeding is a trip, y'all. And that's all I'm going to say about that. 
  
  
• Baby Shusher. 3 months ago, I would have VASTLY undervalued a small machine that literally just makes a shushing noise. Even still, I think there are some improvements to be made - its shape makes no sense (like a little rocket ship, but the speaker is on the only flat side), it needs an option greater than 30 minutes (like maybe...8 hours), and why does its design make me feel like a waiter at Olive Garden offering my child some cracked pepper? That doesn't stop us from (silently) sprinting into the room as soon as the 30 minutes are up and Bebe begins to stir, to crack some more pepper (AKA twist the little knob for another 30 minutes) and keep. him. down.
  
  Oh, white noise machines exist? Yes, and we use one of those too because we have the most demanding child in existence. Back in your day you just shushed your baby yourself? And that gets old about 10 minute in, and you know it. Let's not be a bitter Boomer Betty. There are apps that do the same thing, you say? Since this child came into the world, my phone has been at about 4% battery. Between tracking his food, sleep & diapers, nonstop pictures & videos because he is the cutest baby alive, Reddit for late night nursing because looking at his sweet little face will only get me so far at 4 in the morning, and Youtube TV streaming perpetually (WHERE IS BRIAN LAUNDRIE?), my battery life may never recover. One more app going and my phone will just pack its little bags and head to the first childfree home it finds. 
  
  
• Every burp cloth in existence. And then I sewed some more. My washing machine doesn't even know how to do anything other than white loads now. Burp cloths cover every surface of this apartment, and still he finds a way to spit up on me. I'm in the process of creating a jacket made entirely of burp cloths (patent pending), which I now realize is just a bathrobe. 
  
  They're going to find my body buried under a giant stack of burp cloths. Like a very soft, very sad episode of Hoarders.  
  
  
• Ceiling fan. My tiny Don Quixote, tilting at modern windmills. What do Northern babies even look at? Are they slightly deficient because of the lack of ceiling fans? Is this why Northerners are mostly Democrat? Regardless, between the ceiling fans and the noise of running water from the sink, the apartment infrastructure is doing the damn thing. 
  
  

NOPES

• Electric nail file. Instead of cutting your baby with nail clippers/scissors, you now have 2 options: baby shivs (filing the nails into little points) or baby butcher knives (filing the nails flat, but with two incredibly sharp corners). Ten of them, on a being who has not gained complete control of his limbs yet. Snuggling him means wrangling a tiny, strapped-to-the-teeth octopus. A teeny Edward Scissorhands. Cutco should be selling these door-to-door. Please don't tell me this thing works for its intended purpose. His little noodly flail devices prevent me from gaining a firm enough grasp, plus he seems to sense what is about to happen and curls his little hands into impenetrable fists.
  
  
• Pee pee teepee. My Southern lady heart is hurting at having to utter type those words, but here we are. I have been peed on approximately 7 million times. I don't know if my child is a whizzard or if I'm just incompetent, but the next Steele dossier will be written about me. Lately, it seems like he waits to make his move until Tyler is home; I can't help but think it's to make me look like an unfit parent. However, we have all fallen victim: me, Tyler, the diplomas hanging on the wall above the dresser/changing table (which seems like a weird place to hang them, but (1) we lived here before Bebe ever did, and (2) we need to flex hard on Bebe so he learns his place). Bebe is particularly adept at getting himself in the face, and I'm hoping that will be a lesson to him. But he is a baby and his head is full of fluff, so he will likely learn nothing and continue to pee while diaperless.
  
  Such is the way of the world.
   
• Snap footie pajamas. Reason #65412 of why I could never be Amish. If zippers are of the devil, send me straight to hell. Logically, I understood the appeal of zippers versus snaps before I had ye olde baby. I will now no longer accept anything else. I have an advanced degree, but at 3 in the morning in the peak colic phase, snaps were beyond me. Snaps are a trash fastener for trash people.
  
  
• Fire alarms. Hot take: no building should have a fire alarm ever. You either see/smell the fire and get out, or the world is rid of you and your garbage DNA. We are in our third year of living at this complex - we had zero fire alarms until Bebe arrived on the scene, and now we've had 4 in his short lifetime. (If I hadn't been with him literally every single hour of his life - minus 1 in which I went to Target and things at home fell apart - I would suspect my little cherub of pulling the alarm.) Let me tell you, I have never moved so fast as when the complex-wide alarm has gone off and I feared for his tiny little eardrums. You've never truly lived until you find yourself in your pajamas on the sidewalk with all of your neighbors, nursing bra unclasped because you had to evacuate during Bebe's second breakfast. We've now invested in baby noise cancelling headphones for this very reason (and so he, too, can tune out the words of every busybody. See above.)

There is my blog for the year. See y'all in 2022. (Kidding...maybe.)

Can't Spell Furlough Without Ugh

Texas has begun the gradual reopening of the state.
I, however, will continue my social distancing because:
(1) Why risk it?
(2) I never really liked seeing other people to begin with; and
(3) I was furloughed.

The dreaded F word. Luckily, I saw it coming, so I didn't take it too personally.
I get that everyone is stuck at home, but if y'all could just gas up, drive around until the tank is empty, and do that about six times a day...I would really appreciate it. Hopefully, this will blow over quickly. But as they say, hope is pouting in advance. Hope is the richer, bitchier sister of faith.
So I won't hold my breath.

This is not entirely uncharted territory, though.
Lest we forget, this blog was borne out of a time of less-than-employment. We shall overcome, y'all.

And misery boredom loves company. Practically no one is experiencing normal work/life circumstances right now. It just occurred to me that two of our first six months of marriage have been spent inside our apartment, rarely seeing other people. Newlywed phase times a thousand. I'll be registering Tyler as my emotional support animal when I finally have to go back to work.

This quarantine has been a TRIP, though.
Like the rest of the world, we've binged the entire internet. Unlike the rest of the world, I was most intrigued horrified captured by Doc Antle's tiger sex cult. We can all agree that Carol killed her husband, and Joe definitely put a hit out on Carol, but everyone just breezed past the tiger sex cult. And that is now twice that I've typed "tiger sex cult." This is what quarantine has done to me.

In the pursuit of health & safety, I experimented (but a single time) with curbside pickup at H-E-B. You will never hear me utter a disparaging word against the Texan Mecca, but this...this was an experience. I understand that quarantine panic-shoppers caused an unprecedented run on completely unpredictable products. I also understand that stores were changing protocols to meet new health and safety orders. They have my full sympathy blahblahblah.
But the dingbat personal shopper who thought substituting my requested FOUR pounds of various cuts of chicken for FOURTEEN pounds of the largest chicken breasts I have ever seen was a logical move has some explaining to do. I have spent the last month trying to find enough recipes to get rid of what must have been several Dolly Partons worth of chicken breast.
And while we're on the subject, giving me 12 travel size ground coffees instead of a single 1-pound of coffee. I am now dealing with issues not seen since 4th grade Oregon Trail: I have too much meat, and my coffee won't fit in my covered wagon/pantry.

Obviously, I have been driven to drink.
Anyone who hasn't boosted his or her spirits with something spirited is no friend of mine.
Be it warm and comforting, tall and iced, or room temperature and watered down,
I have spent many an afternoon (and morning and evening) whiling away the quarantine with a drink in hand.
So here are my expert recommendations.

Just Another Day in Quaradise 

Also known as a Smirnoff Sparkling Seltzer (or any hard seltzer of your choosing, really).
Pairs well with daily Pure Barre workouts (lift-tone-bubbly?), needlepointing, and delusions of productivity.

Social Distancing Sangria 

Directions:
(1) Desperately forage in your bar for drink materials.
(2) Realize things are dire; run to the bar downstairs and purchase their sangria cocktail kit.
(3) Mix all ingredients; add the leftover bottle of champagne from Easter because they probably didn't include enough booze for your taste/tolerance.
(4) Enjoy! (If you have enough life left within you to actually enjoy something, at this point.)

Rum & COVID-19

Rum + Diet Coke + a squeeze of ennui
Drink while gazing longingly at the apartment pool from your balcony, like a drunken caged bird.

Olde Fashioned

Exactly like an Old Fashioned, but prepared by candlelight with the knowledge that the economy is ruined, half of your children won't survive to adulthood (according to MSM), and you may never escape the shackles of serfdom WFH. Serve (cold enough to cause crop failure) to your feudal lord and return to the fields immediately.

Rainbow Six 

Ingredients: whatever is left because you drank everything else.
Also called a "I've Been Inside So Long Island Iced Tea."

Boxed-In Cab Sauv

Don't judge me. One box holds four bottles. DESPERATE TIMES, PEOPLE.

White-Like-the-Walls Russian

The eggshell walls of my rental apartment are closing in. Yes, I could paint them. But that's a hassle and lockdown is not the time to expend unnecessary energy. Just stumble your way through making a regular White Russian. Loose measurements preferable. If you aren't wearing your robe while doing so, à la Lebowski, who even are you?
Optional: Add a Tide Pod to defeat coronavirus once and for all.


I have yet to find any cocktail recipes involving chicken, so once more unto the breach, dear friends.
And God as my witness, I will never bake bread during this quarantine.

Five Stages of Wedding Planning

T minus 2 months until D-Day. 

D(omestic Partnership)-Day, that is. 

(And I fully understand that I'm mixing wars with that gif. And I fully don't care.)

Wedding planning has sent me over the edge, guys. 

You know when you see something super odd or tacky at a wedding, 
and you immediately judge the bride for that decision she made while not at all under immense stress?

Be gentle, friends. Bridal brain is the new baby brain.

I recently started wholeheartedly planning a "The Wedding Singer"-themed rehearsal dinner.

In my head, it would be hilarious and casual and fun. And maybe it could be.

But it would also be confusing and gauche and odd. So I stopped.

(Reality: I only stopped when I realized Billy Idol probably wouldn't be able to attend.)

I had my first real wedding nightmare the other night: 
It was time for the first dance, and I looked at Tyler and said, "We never took dance lessons!" 
In response, he swung me onto the dance floor and we did a perfect, awful rendition of the Charlie Brown dance:

And now I can't stop thinking about me in my wedding dress flinging my head from side to side 
and prancing like a crazed Irish dancer who forgot what her upper body is supposed to do.
So if anyone's got an ambien prescription, I wouldn't say no.

I'm not entirely certain why I went with a war/military theme for this one.
Maybe because I feel like I've been engaging in a year long battle with literally everyone, including myself.
Or maybe because I was drafted into this whole wedding thing without any say. 
Kidding, obvi. 
This process has been super fun and I would totally do it again 
because I had to pick a single wedding vision out of so many and that's just not fair.
So Tyler, be prepared for a vow renewal every 5 years or so.

If I've done a "Five Stages of Grief" parody post already, you have my apologies.
Difficult emotions are meant to be dealt with through dark humor,  yes?

And I'm truly not trying to make a mockery of war.
It's just that...love is a battlefield.

The Five Stages of Grief Wedding Planning

1. Denial

A whole year to plan? Smooth sailing. 

Except I forgot that my level of efficiency when working solo is extremely hampered when other people are introduced into the equation. Because other people are stupid. 
(That's not to say I'm exceedingly intelligent. But the masses are just so. damn. dumb.)

Goose dies and Henry Blake dies and Bubba dies AND THERE IS NO GETTING OUT OF THIS ALIVE.

2. Anger

The combination of work, wedding planning, dealing with familial expectations (from both sides), and trying to be gracious and lighthearted and fun is just too much.

And I don't think anyone's ever described me as gracious and lighthearted and fun during normal times, let alone during this incredibly stressful period.

Tyler and I watched the latest Bill Burr special last night, and I feel he is my kindred spirit. It's more than a shared fear of the coming robot wars, though.

We both get rage-y. 

And apparently, planning the happiest day of my life makes me especially rage-y.

Everyone is stupid and slow and stupid.

Also adding to the anger:

What the actual hell are wedding dress sizes?

Take a girl, already anxious and indecisive and stressed, and tell her she's 2+ sizes bigger than she's been walking around believing.

Not to make light of the mass shooting situation, but I am honestly a lil surprised

there aren't more of those at bridal boutiques.

3. Bargaining

Now, don't get me wrong; I am a Fortunate Son.
But the wedding industry is the new military-industrial complex, and basic white girls are feeding the beast. Everything is expensive and stupid social media makes you feel like everything is necessary. And I am 100% culpable. 
Do I need outfit changes and lounge furniture and giant props?
Of course not. 
But am I feeling pressured to include all of those things, like my wedding is a Taylor Swift concert? Absolutely.
Except I'm also cheap as hell so I'm trying to wheel and deal my way through this. 

Indiana Jones totally counts as a war movie and I will stand by that statement until I die.

You know who doesn't haggle? Wedding vendors.  

Stop, children, what's that sound? 
The sound of my last two pennies forlornly clinking together. 

4. Depression

There is no end in sight. 
I foolishly believed I could front load this whole situation and float by for a few months.
See above re: everyone being stupid.
I'm not functioning on my timetable. I'm functioning on the timetable of people who think more than a week is a totally acceptable email response time. 
They are not having to find paper, sharpen a quill, refill the inkpot, wait until the next day because they ran out of daylight and the candle supply is running low, and then pay an orphan/carrier pigeon a shilling to deliver the note. 
I would be (relatively) satisfied if they simply responded with the thumbs up emoji.

This is veering into anger again, so to get back on track:
Everything has taken far longer than it should because of general incompetence. 
Man makes plans and God laughs and Mary Angela drinks. 

5. Acceptance

Two months out.
Things are mostly planned.
I've been told repeatedly that things are going to go wrong, and to just accept that.
To which I say: suck it. 

Things I've accepted:
- the unfailing disappointment of humanity;
- the limitations of my budget as compared to that of Kim & Kanye;
- the fact that I will have to continue working very hard over the next 2 months to make everything work.

Things I have not and will not accept:
- that I should just stop trying because something unknown is going to go wrong.

That is the defeatist, bitter attitude of people who failed to properly plan.
THIS WEDDING WILL. NOT. DEFEAT ME. 

Bonus: 
Running relentless as the River Kwai throughout the entire process is my personal favorite: anxiety. 
Personality-wise, I'm a fun combination of Type A and indecisive.
So I've been attempting to make decisions quickly and efficiently, and then questioning every decision I've made.

Pray for me. 

2018: My Year in [Trump] Gifs

2018 was the year I finally got my life together (she said for the 5th year in a row). 

But I mean it this time. Mostly because there really isn't any other option.

This year, I dedicate my end-of-year gif journey to our lord and savior, Donald Trump. 

January

I have almost no memory of January, aside from spending New Years in Dallas with some of my favorite people.
Most of the month has been memory-holed because my job was the worst and I cried a lot. 🤷‍♀️

February

February got real. I quit another job, guys!
At this point, if anyone needs advice on quitting...please don't come to me because I'm still terrified of confrontation and this last experience was a whole different kind of mess.
I submitted my resignation letter fully expecting them to do the normal thing and not make me finish out the notice period. Joke was on me, though, because not only did they expect me to keep working, they also wanted me to represent the boss's wife in traffic court.
Y'all, I won't represent myself in traffic court. My legal* advice: own up to being a bad driver, pay the damn fine and move on.
Fortunately, I immediately got a terrible case of the flu and told them that I wouldn't be able to come in for about...two weeks. Wiggled myself out of that one, right?
NOPE. Lawyers are the worst and there is no leaving on your own terms. This law firm was Hotel California.
In a wholly unsurprising move, they immediately threatened legal action against me.

It took a full week of insincere apologies (combined with refusals to back down), explanations of Texas employment law (lawyers love when you explain the law to them), and even texting a picture of my thermometer before they stopped emailing me.

I started a new job as soon as I escaped from the grips of fever, and haven't looked back since.

*By "legal" I mean "completely casual, not at all legal." I am not your lawyer. You are not paying me. You're an adult and traffic court is dumb; make your own decisions.

March-April

A blur. At this point, Tyler was still in school and I was working nonstop.
I'm fairly certain March and April just didn't happen.

May

Tyler graduated! I took an elbow to the head at a Papa Roach concert! Tyler started bar prep.
May was a rollercoaster.

June

In this hottest of times in the hottest of swamps, THE A/C IN MY CAR STOPPED WORKING.
This was a month of thirst.
So I parked her in the Third Ward and set her on fire.
Except in reality, I parked her in my garage and went to Louisiana with my parents for a bit.
(If you've ever considered going to Walker Percy Weekend in St. Francisville, do it! Bourbon for dayz.)

July

Tyler took the bar exam and I experienced a tremendous amount of PTSD.
We both need(ed) emotional therapy dogs.

August-September

Is this how life works? Months just disappear because nothing of note happened?
Do I have a Swiss cheese brain?
Or did I accidentally eat too many Tide pods?
(Remember that that was a thing?? 2018 was a wild ride.)

October

Tyler got a (very impressive and will keep me in the lifestyle to which I've become accustomed) job! And passed the bar!
We fancy dined! We drank! We treated ourselves!
And then we took a three day nap that was two years overdue.

November

YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

I am proud to announce my latest collection entitled "Ring in Front of Christmas Decorations."
(But really, girlfriend looks good in red, am I right?)

December

Engaged, the perfect job, and (mom's old) Lexus? I AM THRIVING.

A few questions I've asked in the 4+ weeks since getting engaged:
Are live peacocks too extra?
Where did Kanye get that giant flower wall?
How long was Priyanka's train and, hypothetically and totally unrelated, how long is the aisle at the cathedral?
I wonder what Donald and Melania are doing next fall?

Gird your loins, people.

A certain grumpy, no fun fiance who shall remain nameless has banned the words "bling" and "glitter" from our wedding lexicon, but luckily ya girl is an actual walking thesaurus so there will be plenty of *ahem* sparkle. (Suck it, Tyler.)

Wedding Motto: WWM(elania/Mariah)D?

We have a date, a church, and a reception venue. I'm basically done, right?
I've gone full-on Type A on this wedding planning and partially created at least 4 wedding websites because I am an actually insane person.
(In my defense, while there is [a lot of] overlap, each website offers different features and designs
AND THIS IS MY WEDDING SO BACK THE HELL UP IF YOU WANT AN INVITE.)

Honorary December gif:

100 pounds, Your Majesty. IT'S WEDDING SEASON. 

Happy New Year!

Dante's Heck

Public Swagger Announcement: I took an elbow to the head at a Papa Roach concert at the beginning of the summer. If you would like to take a second to imagine me at a Papa Roach concert, I understand.

Let's blame the possible resultant concussion for my long absence this summer.
(Also Sweet T was bar prepping and needed my unwavering attention, obvi.)
I was inspired by that near-death experience, though.
For much of the concert, I was (a) behind a large girl with waist-length dreads which whipped against me as she headbanged, and (b) next to a very drunk older gentleman who ended up resting most of his weight against me as he listed dramatically to the left, our main point of contact being his armpit against my shoulder.
And then someone dropped 'bows on me, as Luda would say.
It was my own personal Heck. Not full-on Hell because I was still having a good time and I'd like to think I'm not a bad person who deserves Hell. But Heck. Definitely Heck.

Dante's Diamine 

(or something. I took 2 seconds to Google Translate "heck" into Italian.)

For reference, here's the "real" version. Like mine isn't real. 

1st Circle: Limbo >> That Autistic Co-Worker

"Could y'all act normal literally one time? One single time. Please."

Everyone has that autistic co-worker who makes you realize how normal and socially competent you are.

But, I promise you, mine is worse. 

I probably shouldn't share too much while we still work together, but oh, the stories I have.

My other co-workers and I call these stories the "'Berger Chronicles" and maybe someday

I will be far enough removed from this individual as to write about her. Because the stories are a-plenty. I am a frequent "secondhand embarrassment" sufferer, and listening to her attempts at socialization makes my teeth itch and gives me the stress sweats.

Obviously, it would be a slight breach of social niceties (not that she would know) to just come out and ask if her she shares any similarities with Rain Man, so her status on the spectrum is undetermined. 

However, she's caught me on a good day, so I've erred on the side of autism and she lands merely in Heck Limbo.

Potential mental deficiency is a mitigating factor, for future reference.

Eternal Punishment: Having to make small talk, forever.

2nd Circle: Lust >> Cringey Couples on Social Media

Facebook is for event invitations, photos via Instagram, and the occasional witty status. 

Not for couples to near-pornographically emote all over each other.

Public declarations of love are for chick flicks and wealthy people.

I may be (only slightly) exaggerating but this modern version of PDA is absolutely horrific. 

Names and images have been redacted to save them the embarrassment.

My face involuntarily drops into Grumpy Cat upon reading this sort of drivel. 

Please do not take my intense disapproval as jealousy or bitterness. Far from it. 

I just subscribe to that old-fashioned notion that any and all public declarations of love should be communicated via the construction of a large, beautiful building in my honor. 

A small enough unit of time does not exist to describe how quickly I would initiate the break-up conversation if my significant other gushed all over social media.
I'll allow the occasional post praising your main squeeze for being a wonderful human, or acting a certain way, or achieving something great; a missive directed specifically to your main squeeze on a public forum and consisting of overly sentimental schmutz? Nah. 

Do you not have texting? Slide into his DMs with that nonsense, girlfriend.

Eternal Punishment: Flip phone and Bing, in perpetuity. Also your right hand is constantly asleep. Try posting that bunk with outdated technology and a gimpy hand.

3rd Circle: Gluttony >> Freeloader Co-Workers

Treats, treats everywhere, but not a crumb to eat. 

Co-workers seem to be taking the brunt of my ire, but deservedly so. 

A friend of mine works with a woman who takes far more than her fair share of the office snacks and goodies brought in by co-workers, without even waiting until the end of the day to make sure everyone got something. She immediately grabs multiple plates of food, while loudly proclaiming (as justification) that she's taking it home for her kids.

The rightful assumption is that office food is consumed by office people. 

Not their extended family and friends who contribute nothing to the office. 

The company is not a welfare state.

Also in this circle: co-workers who, while eating your slaved-over food, request that you bake different treats the next time you oh-so-generously decide to bring in treats for the office.

Eternal Punishment: Every single meal, looking forward to the food brought, only to discover that someone else already ate it.

4th Circle: Avarice & Prodigality >> Financially-Irresponsible Millenials

Do you even need that rock? Just put the rock down. You can't afford rocks that big.

Y'all make me nervous.

I see your Monday through Thursday posts.
You had to forego guac at Chipotle, but there your ass goes to Ibiza.
Y'all go hard on trips, clothes, and going out, but live in a constant state of near-overdraft.
It is my sincere hope that the entire system collapses before my hyper-responsible self is having to support an entire generation of morons into retirement.
Find Jesus. Or at least Dave Ramsey.

Eternal Punishment: Perpetual surge on Uber. Not that you care.

5th Circle: Wrath & Sullenness >> Maybe Me? But Also the Weekly Ted Cruz Protesters

"You know what I have in my hands, Barbara? Your generation's contributions to society.
Get it, Barbara? Do you get it? They're empty. My hands are empty, Barbara."

I know I've mentioned them before, but they get more annoying by the week.
They add new chants based on current events, but each chant is worse than the one before.
A bunch of post-menopausal baby boomers (and one male baby boomer! #equality) yelling about "my body, my choice?"
Nah, girl. It may be your body, but the decision was made by the jackboot of time stomping out all of your viable eggs.
"Hey, hey, NRA, how many kids died today?"
None. None is the answer, Judy. Now go home and die with whatever dignity you have left.

(Hint: the answer there is also "none." None dignity.)

Ted Cruz is literally never in this office. He cannot hear you, and he does not care.
But I can hear you. And I certainly care.
I care so very much that I will now make an effort to vote for Ted Cruz, just to spite you.

Eternal Punishment: Living forever in the socialist "paradise" of their dreams. Have fun starving for eternity, hippies.

6th Circle: Heresy >> Baby Boomer Priests

Two baby boomer condemnations in a row? They deserve it.
Maybe the outbreak of Church scandals lately has me lashing out,
but I am SO. TIRED. of hippy dippy priests.
Please stop beginning your homily with a joke.
Please stop treating Mass like you're hosting your own personal game show.
Please stop acting like the dad on a sitcom, and act like the Father of your parish.
"Feel-good" homilies may keep butts in seats, but you aren't leading anyone to heaven.
In fact, your behavior is probably hurting my chances of getting into heaven,
because God probably disapproves of my eye-rolling and open grimaces.
HELP A SISTER OUT AND QUIT BEING SUCH AN IDIOT.

Eternal Punishment: The worst hymn known to man, "Lord of the Dance," on repeat, and off pitch (in true Catholic style).

7th Circle: Violence

Against Neighbor >> Bad Drivers

"Ahoy, friend! I'm about to absolutely desecrate the rules of the road, and then blame you. Gird your loins!"

Last night, I told Tyler of my intention to stop cursing so much and requested his help in doing so.
He hesitated, then asked if that included cursing when driving.
Rude. Fair, but rude.
Houston driving is absurd. Houston drivers are a crime against nature.
My mom can tell exactly where I am in my commute (I call her on my way home every day, duh) by the quality/quantity of outrage being ever-so-politely communicated to my fellow drivers.
There is one particular roundabout that just seems to confound the entire population of Houston.
Once, the person rounding about in front of me got halfway around, appeared to panic at the idea of completing the mission successfully, and came to a dead stop in the middle lane.
You will be relieved to hear that they turned their hazards on, lest someone fail to appreciate the cluster they were creating during commuter traffic.

Eternal Punishment: Never being able to get around the car in front of you going 10 under the speed limit.

Against Self >> Feminists

"The fact that we are wood is problematic. #metoo"

All talk of the wage gap, glass ceilings, tilted floors, and #metoo makes me want to grab a shard of that already-shattered glass ceiling and jam it straight into my temple. 

There's a special place in Heck for women who insist on perpetuating this lie that only harms other women.

Also in this circle: Women who quote Ruth Bader Ginsberg.

Eternal Punishment: The only things on TV are a loop of your most embarrassing moments and Amy Schumer stand-up.

Against God >> Bad Church Singers

So flat, the notes hit you like bricks. So sharp, they puncture your very soul.
At the same time? Yes.

I understand that I am full-on Screwtape-ing myself right now, but here we are. 

I have sat in the vicinity of the same bad singer 3 Sundays in a row now, so the wound is fresh.
He doesn't change pitch. Like...the music does. The rest of the congregation does. He...does not.
Mind you, this is not chant. The pitch is supposed to change.
And he is quite loud and proud about his tunelessness.
You kind of have to admire his perseverance in the face of such affliction.
I mean that in the figurative "you" because I definitely don't admire it.
He who sings, prays twice, but maybe he can pray twice as quietly in the future.

Eternal Punishment: Every time you talk, you can actually hear yourself. Like you're listening to yourself via recording and you can't believe you actually sound like that, except...live.

8th Circle: Fraud
(I'm Just Going to Pick a Few Categories, Because Dante Was WORDY and I am Le Tired)

Panders & Seducers >> Multi-Level Marketing Morons

Your phone buzzes with a new notification. 

A friend from high school you haven't spoken to in years?
You open up Facebook, only to see "Hey girl! How have you been?? Random question. Are you interested in making a little (or a LOT lol) money on the side while meeting fabulous like-minded GIRL BOSSES??"

You think I don't see through your nickname-instead-of-real-name-to-generate-closeness-but-also-make-it-easier-to-copy-and-paste trick?
Look, I get what you're going for: a fun side hustle to earn a little spending money. Got it.
But please, for the love of God, complete said hustle without cluttering up my inbox and making things weird.
I don't want to be mean to your sweet essential oil dabbed, botanic & organic lotioned, waterproof lip colored face, but if you use me to make a buck, you are forcing my hand.
I see your posts.
1. If I want your shit, I will come to you.
2. I make decent money. At this stage in my life, drinking wine is my side hustle.
Leave me in peace.

Eternal Punishment: Forever juuuuust missing the qualifying mark for the company's prized cruise/trip/car/etc. reserved for top sellers. Sucks to suck.

Flatterers >> Girls Who Overuse "I Love You"

"I only love my bed and my momma lol but also you.
...Now say it back. Please?"

Girl, no you don't. Or if you really do: who hurt you?
Why are you the way that you are?
This blog is really not equipped to handle daddy issues, so we'll leave that one where it is.
Just know that your overuse of "I love you" makes me feel so damn awkward and feels like an attempt to undermine the love I actually feel for...ya know...my loved ones.
GET A PUPPY AND LEARN HOW TO CHANNEL YOUR EMOTIONS.

Eternal Punishment: Constant fear of never finding love. Oh, wait. That's already a thing for these girls. Whatever.

Simonists
Guys, I don't even know.
This one is very very specific and I am very very tired.
LET ME BE.

Thieves >> Lying Panhandlers, But Mostly That Man Who Dipped His Squeegee Into a Puddle on the Street and Then Used it to Clean My Windshield Despite My Saying No Repeatedly

"And Satan’s army[, armed with squeegees] marched across the earth and gathered around the camp
of God’s people and the city God loves. But fire came down from heaven and burned them up." Rev. 20:9

This one may be a tad personal.
Y'all. THE HOMELESS MAN DIPPED HIS SQUEEGEE INTO A PUDDLE ON THE STREET TO CLEAN MY WINDSHIELD, AND THEN GOT MAD WHEN I WOULDN'T PAY HIM.

My car was dirtier than when he started.
I should have taken money from him for the car wash I now need.

Also in this circle: gypsies. They aren't nearly as entertaining as TLC makes them seem to be.

Eternal Punishment: I feel bad even pretending to condemn homeless people to Heck. I'M TRYING TO BE A NICER PERSON, DANGIT. But I feel no such way about gypsies. Gypsies get sand, like you've been at the beach all day and washed off using that fun outdoor shower but you just keep finding sand everywhere. This has nothing really to do with their sins, but it's still awful.

Sowers of Discord >> People Who Make That Disgusting Throat-Clearing Noise in Public

"THIS IS WHERE THE NOISE COMES FROM. SEE? DO YOU SEE IT?"

Could ya not?
I understand that cloggy throat feeling. We've all been there.
TAKE SOME CLARITIN.
Did you not have a mother to teach you manners? Were you raised by wolves?
That is actually an insult to wolves because even they don't make that noise.
Subjecting people to that noise is honestly probably a violation of the Eighth Amendment.
Play that noise on loop for a few hours and I would give up some national secrets.
That noise makes my spine tingle in the worst way.
I'm fairly certain a good waterboarding session would clear the ole sinuses right up.
I volunteer to help.

Eternal Punishment: That feeling of about-to-sneeze, forever.

Falsifiers >> People Who Lie About Pointless Stuff

Lying appears to be absolutely exhausting.

I know a girl who swears up and down that she barely studied for the bar and drank margaritas every night of bar prep.
Except when we've talked in person about it, she tells me that she studied a ton and was panic-stricken.
Another she-who-must-not-be-named spoke about how she had stopped drinking for a little while.
Yet an hour later, when a different person arrived into the conversation and told us how hungover he was, she said "samesies" and regaled us with how much wine she'd had.

What are we even doing here.
At least be consistent with your crazy.

Eternal Punishment: You have to do a puzzle every day, but the final piece never fits. BECAUSE IT DOESN'T ACTUALLY BELONG, BUT IT'S LYING TO YOU.

9th Circle: Treachery >> Old People on Facebook

Oh, you feel like you're drowning in all the new technology? Good. 

My reasoning for having this under "treachery": 

1. It didn't fit anywhere else, and

2. Your mind/body betray you in your twilight years and make you a bumbling fool?

Idk. Just go with it. 

Old people on Facebook will be the death of me someday. 

But also the death of them because they will probably commit a social media faux paus so egregious that I will be driven to murder-suicide.

Example 1:

You aren't supposed to get it, Karen. Get off Facebook and go ruin another economy.
Example 2:

YOU CAN'T ASK THAT, LINDA.
I blocked the picture in order to protect some sweet souls, but it's a photo of an adorable couple who have been dating a normal amount of time.
They handled the question MUCH more diplomatically than I would have.
My response would have involved cursing, unfriending, and a blood oath to not invite that awful person to the potential wedding. Also maybe breaking up just to spite Linda.
I run a scorched earth campaign, at all times.

Just...stop, old people. Stop doing all the things. Quit trying to keep up.
Decompose gracefully, like our forefathers.

Eternal Punishment: Getting old is punishment enough. Old people are the worst.


So, in summation: baby boomers and co-workers can all go to Heck.

[This blog post is dedicated to my sweet Beatrice with the Sylvester Pussy Cat tattoo who gently guided me away from the drunk careening man.]

Update (because you all were dying to know): In regards to my WSJ Wine, I went with the mixed case of red and white wine, which I'm really enjoying because I'm able to pound a glass of Chard when I get home from the gym for rehydration purposes. It also gives me something to sip in the car on the way to pick up the kids from school. Because white wine is water and I am a soccer mom.
(Just kidding, please don't disbar me. I mostly totally have respect for the laws, even the stupid ones like taxation and eminent domain.)