Category Archives: Stuff that sucks

The Latest in Funeral Fashion

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Dad was in the Air Force. Me? Afraid to fly and get sick on planes. IRONY!

It’s amazing how your life can change in an instant. In a blink of an eye, even.

I know life changes every single day. That’s life, right? It just kind of happens. It’s like a box of chocolates (you never know what you’re going to get). I’m not beneath quoting Forrest Gump, you know.

What I didn’t count on? My father’s death. He was the leader in our family. The glue that held us together. The one with the answers, the supportive hug, the pat on the back. His family was more important to him that ANYTHING on this earth. When we asked him what he wanted for birthday or Christmas? His standard answer: Time with my family.

My father “got it” see. He knew that our time on earth here is short, relatively speaking. I mean, he got 72 awesome years. And then f*cking cancer destroyed his bowel and we had four short months. Four wonderful months, until his body just couldn’t do it anymore. But in the end we were all there with him. We all held his hand as he slipped away and told him how much we loved him. And then we planned his funeral. CHA CHING!

Boy, is that expensive. Oy.

We had a week after he passed until the memorial service (my dad donated his body to a medical school. Even in death he was kind and giving). Which should have been plenty of time to find something to wear, right?

Wrong.

See, my Dad was all about enjoying life. He wasn’t into being melancholy or drab. He was about being happy. Black was NOT ACCEPTABLE to him. Colors were. He wore colors. HOOOOBOY, he wore colors. Sometimes they were hard to look at. AHEM. As in, flourescent aqua blue tee-shirt under his white dress shirt for church. And denim overalls. It was a quite a sight to behold. Or his Hawaiian shirts. Fancy schmancy. He was quite the snazzy dresser. And by snazzy, I mean he certainly drew attention but my Dad was the kind of guy that was all I REALLY DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU THINK so as far as he was concerned, he looked pretty dapper.

Anyways, shopping. I dragged my three sisters out one by one. I took my niece. My neighbor’s girls. I spent every day, several hours a day, looking in every single clothing store in the tristate area (Delaware, PA and New Jersey, because that’s where I live. No, not New Jersey. PA. Oh, nevermind). As in, one day I hit eleven stores. One by one, my sisters and niece and sisters-in-law would find something to wear. One by one they vowed never to shop with Picky McPickyton again (and they mean it this time). Because I’m picky and I wanted to find something colorful. Something sky blue (his favorite color). Something cheerful and comfortable, because stockings and high heels just ain’t my bag, yo. Actually, yoga pants and sneakers are. Not exactly funeral attire. Unless you are my Dad. Maybe I shoulda just worn pajamas. Anyways.

Wanna know what’s in stores in December?  NOT BLUE.

My choices were black velvet, black polyester, red and purple. But no blue. Oh, there was some grey. How could i forget? But nothing blue.  I looked and looked and looked some more. I mean, it’s not like there’s a section at the big department stores called Funeral attire. Even if there was a section exclusively for funerals, I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t have found anything anyway. Mostly because woman’s clothing is too mature for me and I haven’t quite gotten the fact in my head that I shouldn’t wear juniors, see. This may be why it was difficult to find something to wear. I shop in the pajama section.

My sisters avoided me like the plague. They were right to do so.

The night before, with minutes to spare, I settled for a blue cashmere sweater that was on sale, wore it with a cream-colored tank, with a black skirt with black leggings (almost yoga pants. Almost.) under it and a pretty silk scarf around my neck. I thought I looked like a circus clown.

But at least I was comfy, right?

I walked into the church that morning and received a few dozen compliments so unless folks are really into circus clown attire, I am thinking I pulled it off. Not that my dad would care (this is a man who wore overalls to church, y’all) but I did. And it occurred to me that the reason I couldn’t find the PERFECT thing to wear was because I didn’t want to wear something to do my Dad’s funeral. I didn’t want to be at my Dad’s funeral. Because I wasn’t ready for my Dad’s funeral. I mean, who is really ready for that sort of thing?

But hey, in the end, he got his wish. Our whole family was there and the church was packed. We thought of him fondly and shared memories. We used several boxes of tissues and we smiled, hugged, shook hands and thanked people for coming. You know, standard funeral stuff. And true to form, Bug Boy pouted the entire time because I wouldn’t let him play with his iPod during the service. MEANEST MOMMY IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD. I mean, THE NERVE. Sheesh!

Now we’re back to reality. Finding the new normal. Trying to catch up with two weeks worth of laundry and housekeeping. Attempting to get decorations up so my kids don’t stage a mutiny and fire me from Christmas. I might even get cards out this year. Or not. That requires organization. One thing I ain’t? Organized. (Shhhh…that’s a secret. I don’t want tens of people on the Internet reading it or anything.)

And I have a nice cashmere sweater hanging in my closet.

The Waiting Game

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Dearest Friends of DG, I originally wrote this post last Thursday, three days after I drove my father to the ER for “dehydration” and two days after my father had emergency, life-saving surgery for a “bowel obstruction.” Dad slipped into a coma and last Friday took a turn for the worst. Saturday he left us, surrounded by his children, his wife and his siblings. The last paragraph rings true, right to the very end. Nothing was more important to my father than family. Nothing made him happier. It was all he ever asked for at birthdays and Christmas, time with his family. I haven’t had the words or the strength to write or post. Hope to be back in a few days. In the meantime, for the love of all that’s good and holy, get regular physicals and blood work, get mammograms and colonoscopies when you are supposed to. You’ll be glad you did. Just sayin’.

I’m sure that if I added up the time I spent in various waiting rooms with my kids it would be some obscene number, like a third of my life or something weird.

What I didn’t count on was the amount of time I spend in waiting room for my parents.

Without divulging much, I will let you know that I take them to many appointments. They both have terminal diseases and see just about every specialist you can imagine. Actually, they directly PAY just about every specialist you can imagine. No kidding, they know every doctor, receptionist and nurse. Heck, they know some of the patients by name. Let’s just say they spend tons of time there. Which means my brother and I spend tons of time there, since we have the most availability to drive and stuff. You know, because I have NOTHING ELSE ON MY PLATE.

Recently my father took a major turn for the worse. So now we wait. Could be weeks, could be months, could be a year. Who knows? All I know is that I hope and pray and wish for swift and painless.

This whole thing has been a total mind f*ck. My mother has been sick a long time, my Dad’s illness came out of the blue in August. I feel almost guilty hoping that it won’t be long. It’s just so long and drawn out and cruel to me. I don’t want to rob my kids of an awesome Pop Pop but I also don’t want to see my father go through this and be in pain. He despises it. I loath it. My family? We’re all currently in the “deer in headlights” phase. Accepting it, wishing it weren’t happening and wondering what happens next.

And comfort eating like nobody’s business. DUDE. I have eaten more fried, creamy, fattening, salty food in the past week than I care to admit. And I was doing so well with my rabbit food salads and healthy food kick, too. But cheesefries and mashed potatoes with gravy just taste, well, better than lettuce. Just sayin’.

The worst part is having to tell Bug Boy that one of his super heros probably won’t make it to his twelfth birthday next year. His Pop Pop takes him fishing, has picked him up from school and brings model trains and soft pretzels at every visit. Best yet, his Pop Pop sends him (and his cousins) the funnies from the Sunday papers every week. Pop Pop buys four papers so he can give each kids a page and make sure that their sibling has a different page, too. In fact, Bug Boy once pointed out that he and Bugaboo had the SAME page, so Pop Pop remedied that by buying more papers. Then Bug Boy was all, “Pop Pop, think you could send me the puzzle page? Because I like that the best. Oh, and make sure peanuts is there, too. That’s my favorite.” Gotta love a kid that makes rules about what other people give him. Autism can be fun.

Every Monday, without fail, mail is waiting in that mailbox for the boys. Bug Boy races off the bus and across the street, digging through the mailbox to find his funnies (some people call them comics. Whatevs. Cool people call them funnies. WE ARE COOL PEOPLE). Just about every week. In August, for a few weeks, Pop Pop was in the hospital and eventually got my brother to mail them. Then it was back to normal schedule and Bug Boy was happy.

But this Monday, Bug Boy raced to the mailbox from the bus. He dug through the mail. It wasn’t there.

That’s when I had to sit down and tell him. I had to break his heart and tell him Pop Pop was too sick right now. I had to tell him his fishing buddy might not be able to send them again. And in true Bug Boy form, he asked, “Will Grandmom send them? How about Uncle J?”

It got me to thinking. Is it really the mail that he likes? Is it the funnies? Or is it the simple  act of a grandfather sending the leftover funnies to his grandson? Even though the grandson lives five minutes away?

I’m betting it’s the fact that Pop Pop takes the time to send him something. That Pop Pop thinks of him. That’s the kind of guy Pop Pop is. His family always on his mind and in his heart. And his heart is big and strong.

Things I Love Doing a WHOLE BUNCH (Ps – it’s Opposite Day)

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I just love cleaning carpets. If you have been reading this shiz I write for long enough, you know why we’ve been through three carpet cleaners in six years. Right? Amiright? Let’s just say they get used often.

Now, I know I told you we ripped up carpeting. Without a plan to replace it. Because that’s how we roll around here and stuff. But we still have SOME carpet. Like, in the basement. Because concrete floors are cold. And hard. And also very cold. Have I mentioned? It’s cold down there. Something about being underground and also cold air sinking and hot air rising and…I have no idea, I was a special ed major. Ask me about IEPs or developmental stuff, I could tell you how that works.

So. Carpets. I have to clean them again. Today. In Bugaboo’s room. Surprised? Of course you aren’t!

And I bet you also aren’t surprised that I am looking forward to ripping those up, too.

His room stinks. He’s a stealth pee-er. He pees in stealth. Basically, he has this new thing where he likes to sneak off and pee someplace and then giggles maniacally and runs around shrieking “PEEEEEE PUH PUH PUH PEEEEEE!” And it is hilariously funny to watch him giggle like that.

Except.

Then I have to find it. (the pee) And clean it up. That is, if I can find it.

He’s quite talented in this arena, y’all. It’s a shame there’s no olympic competition in “peeing where my parents can’t find it until they smell it several days later” because he would blow everyone out of the water. Gold medals across the board.

Today I’m going to earn a gold medal in carpet cleaning. Sigh.

 

Because I Have Absosmurfly Nothing Going on in my Life…

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I don’t have enough going on in my life.

I mean, there’s the special kids, one of whom is severely disabled. And then there’s my three-legged dog. And my parents, who both have end-stage, life-threatening diseases. And then there’s my son’s school, where I feel the need to volunteer. And then there’s the babysitting. And the dogsitting. And blogging (hey, I actually get paid for some of it, yo). And the regular “mommy” stuff. And the special “mommy” stuff.

Yep, nothing going on.

So what does one do when there’s nothing going on in one’s life?  Why, HOME IMPROVEMENT, of course!

So. Carpets. Steaming. Know how I do lots of that? And know how I had my parent’s evil attack dog for like, weeks at a time this year? Well, evil little dog has an evil little secret. He pees. Everywhere. On everything. Like, constantly marks. Honestly, he behaves fine and is quite snuggly and cute and stuff. But he pees everywhere. Including on carpet.

And I have enough carpet cleaning to do with Bugaboo, no?

My sister was kind enough to give me a reprieve from the dog a few weeks ago because it was getting BAD with me dog sitting and him being all passive-aggressive/passive-dominant and peeing and marking and stuff. He wasn’t getting along with the dogs. And I know he peed and I’d clean it up. Except I didn’t realize how much he was peeing everywhere. And a few weeks later we were noticing an odor. There’s no mistaking his pee, see. We know the smell. And the odor got worse and worse. I would shampoo the carpet and a few days later the smell would be back. So I’d shampoo it more. And use different stuff. And try hotter water. And it would be great for a few days and then the smell would be back.

And all this time I was begging for new floors. Like, anything but carpeting because HELLO! BUGABOO!

And the Guy I Live With said I was out of my mind. New floors cost tons o’dough. And we didn’t have tons o’dough. And besides, the new floors would just get ruined by our resident dogs, Daisy and Bristol. And Bugaboo. Mostly Bugaboo.

A few weeks went by. The smell got worse and worse. I’d shampoo. It came back.

That’s when I realized he had been peeing on furniture. ON LOTS OF FURNITURE. Now, we knew he did this at my parents’ house and we ended up pulling up the floors, putting down new carpeting, redrywalling and replacing their recliners. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me he’d do it at my house. And he didn’t just pick one spot. He peed on the shoe cabinet, where the boys sit and put their shoes on in the morning. He peed on wall corners. On the piano bench and piano. On the dry sink and table and and chairs and wine rack in the dining room. On the leather couch. Everywhere.

And some of it? Completely ruined. Like, had to throw-out ruined. Like, it’s-breaking-my-heart-and-I-want-to-cry ruined. Including the piano.

So last night, we started ripping up the carpets down to the subfloor. And we’re going to replace them with something room by room as the paychecks allow. We also have to replace trim (he peed on that) and had to get rid of half the furniture in the Living and Dining Rooms (he peed on that, too).

It’s killing me.

At least we’re getting new floors. But I seriously want to strangle that dog and I AM THE CRAZY DOG LADY. In the meantime, we’re pulling up carpet staples. THOUSANDS OF THEM. And removing trim. And finding evidence of even more hideousness. More than I thought was possible in my built-in-the-eighties-and-it-shows house. Just feast your eyes on this:

And underneath what I thought was the original cornflower blue carpet was another eighties atrocity: DUSTY ROSE!

But wait! There’s more!  The wall paper I so dilligently peeled off last year (cornflower blue and dusty rose flowers, ducks, heart, BLARGH!)? When we pulled off the trim we found, you guessed it, Cornflower blue wallpaper with dusty rose stripes!  But hey, at least it wasn’t seafoam green and peach like the rest of the eighties, right? I just got eighties-country. Great.

What a surprise! Cornflower blue and dusty rose! Again! And again!

I love finding shiz like this when we do home improvement. It was almost as much fun as the mold and leaking we found when we did our bathroom! Almost.

Anyways, dearest readers, what atrocities have you come across whilst attempting weekend warrior status? Do tell…

Another Day, Another Panic Attack

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I’m kinda flying through life by the seat of my pants these days. I don’t know if I’m coming, going or already been there (I say that a lot. Apparently I am directionally challenged). I am managing to hold it together (barely) somehow. If I find out how I’m doing it, I’ll be sure to let y’all know because I could write a best seller about it, I’m sure. And make millions. Or hundreds. Hey, I’d take tens at this point.

Last week I finally learned about mortality. I mean, I learned I’m not immortal. I kinda knew this already, we’re schooled in it from day one. But last week it hit me. BAM. Hard. I was watching Bugaboo jump off the diving board at the pool, smiling and kicking and spitting water (Ew, gross. Remind me not to swim in there, mmkay?). And suddenly my stomach started to flutter and my throat felt like it was closing and my ears had this loud, rushing noise (like air plane engines) and I felt hot and I saw weird sparkly things. I couldn’t breathe. It’s the first time this has ever happened to me. See, I’m usually the glass-is-over-full kind of person. HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY!  Cheerily optimistic to the point of annoying the hell out of people. And I had no idea what was happening to me. Until I realized something. When this little episode happened to me, I was thinking about Bugaboo in ten years or twenty or thirty and what would happen to him when I was gone. Where he’d live, what he’d be like. And it scared the hell out of me.

See, my parents aren’t going to be around forever. And I can accept that because I know my siblings and I, we’ll all go on with our lives. We’ll miss them, it will suck hairy donkey balls. But we’ll be ok because we’ll be able to live. And eventually our children will go through what we’re going through now, give or take a few diseases. And that will suck hairy donkey balls. But Bugaboo. What will happen to him?  How will he live? WHERE will he live? Who will take care of him when I’m not here?

Panic. Big panic.  Panic attack. That’s when it hit me like a ton of bricks: I will not be here forever.

This is the part where I bitch that little blue happy pills don’t allow me to cry. Or feel. Or care. I mean, I care. I just don’t feel like I care. Does that make any sense? Prolly not, since I usually don’t make sense. And yet you keep coming back!  It’s like hypnosis! Now, let’s see if this hypnosis stuff works:  MAIL ME ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS.  I’ll wait and see what happens.

No really, mail it to me. See, The Guy I Live With and I? We’re going to celebrate our fifteenth anniversary this fall. And it’s also The Guy I Live With’s fortieth birthday. And will also be my I’m-not-turning-forty-next-year birthday. So we have tons to celebrate, see. The Guy and I Live With and I have been researching things to do. Our six years of sixty hours away from the boys? It’s nice but we wanted to do something special. Really special. So we started researching trips and whatnot. And we decided to look into taking a cruise to a tropical location. Or Bermuda (which isn’t tropical, but apparently planes and boats get lost there in the triangle, which is kinda creepy). But we looked into it and realized we can sort of afford it. Which is where your mailing me ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS comes in. Ahem. But five days away? To an island? On a boat? And promises I won’t vomit the whole time like I tend to do on boats and airplanes and trains? GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY. And if we can swing the child coverage, we’re totally doing it. That’s the tough part, getting covered, see. But we’re soooooo outta here if we can make the kid thing happen. Kids? What kids? I’m sleeping twelve hours a day, getting massages and eating myself silly, yo.

But. There’s this thing with my parents. And not knowing what their health status is. And being afraid to leave on a major trip when they’re both so fragile. Like, I’m afraid to make these big major plans and then not be able to go (yes, I know I can get trip insurance). Or, I’m afraid to make these big major plans and then I’ll be stuck on a boat in the middle of a goll-darn ocean and no one can reach me. So I’m thinking maybe we should just do our yearly sixty-glorious-hours-away thing. And then next year celebrate our sixteenth anniversary and his forty-first birthday and my HELL-NO-I-AM-NOT-FORTY birthday.Oh heck, I have no idea what to do. I am not the best decision maker in our house, mmkay?

To summarize: I now have panic attacks, can’t make a decision to save my life and I’m going to go eat some potatoes and dream of crystal clear waters and white beaches. Because In My Dreams might be the only way I get there in the next year.

The Time I Butchered my Hair Because I’m Impatient and Can’t Make a Hair Appointment

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When I’m under stress I tend to be a tad impulsive. I blurt out things I don’t mean to say, buy things I shouldn’t buy and do things I prolly didn’t think about much.

Par exemple, when my husband goes away on business (a few times a year) I am a nervous wreck. Once I bought a new bed and rearranged the furniture (when I was pregnant!). Another time I spent the week painting the bathrooms. And then repainting them because I hated the color.

Another time I dyed my hair the most heinous color red. I’ve also gotten a few ear piercings this way. How the heck I never ended up with a tattoo is beyond me. Look at it this way, yo: poor impulse control + stress = DG doing stupid shiz.

The past week I’ve been under a tremendous amount of stress. The kind of stress that keeps me awake at night, turns me into a zombie and puts crazy ideas in my head. The kind of stress that makes me appreciate spending that lovely week with my family at the cabin.  It beats the week of stomach viruses last week by a mile. And without violating their privacy, I’ll just leave it at this: My parents were both hospitalized this week. My mother has a chronic, fatal condition that lands her in the hospital on a regular basis (like, has been in the hospital or ER every month this year so far, including five weeks between January and March). My father found out this week that he has a horrible, f*cking awful disease that is also most likely fatal. And I’m scared, confused, frightened, angry, sad…all of the above.

This is difficult for a few reasons. My father is my mother’s primary caretaker. She can’t live on her own and even thought my adult brother lives with them, he has a full-time job. All of my siblings do (except me) and three of them live out-of-state. My father has to have treatments, just had major surgery and will need several weeks to recuperate. He prolly won’t be able to drive for a while. So my siblings and I have to scramble to figure out care for them. We have to figure out food shopping and bill paying and house cleaning and whatnot. We have to take care of their dog (ten pound scary attack dog Cujo) and their cats.

Naturally I responded to the stress and pressure by doing something with my hair. Saturday night I got out of the shower at 11pm, picked up a pair of scissors, combed my bangs forward and hacked them. They had grown out to chin length and I was overdue for a hair appointment. Except I had to rearrange the hair appointment due to family stuffs so I thought, “I can hack them off and it will look fine!”  And it did look fine. Until I realized that when your hair dries? It shrinks up a little bit. Like, looks a tad shorter and stuff. And the bangs went from side-swept and hanging in my eyes to above my eyebrows. Oh yes, I look like a freaking toddler. And I also felt compelled to color my hair this week and it is now the most obnoxious copper color. I WIN! I WIN AT LIFE THIS WEEK!

No, I won’t post a picture. Shaddup.

The good news is that I worked out tons of emotional stress by cleaning this week. We decided to clean my parents’ house and rip up old, nasty carpets and flooring and paint the walls and get them new blinds and…the list goes on and on. We rented a POD and a dumpster and gutted it in one day, reality home improvement tv style. Just without the tv show paying for it. We dusted and cleaned and stripped and wiped and painted. So I’ve gotten that out of my system!  And I bet my husband would be relieved if it weren’t for the fact that we’ve been over there for 14 hours a day all week. I haven’t seen my kids in about a week, since I put Bugaboo on the bus in the morning and I’m gone all day. Sitters have been covering for us in the evenings, when we stumble home just before midnight and fall into bed exhausted. Today is D-day. They install the carpets and we have to move the furniture and stuff back in (minus a few thousand pounds of crap my mother hoards).  My mom is excited that we are doing it and my Dad told us “Throw it all out. I don’t care.” We’re donating what we can and selling some stuff. They’ll come home to a nice, clean, freshly-painted house with new carpets. It will be safer for them, healthier for them and hopefully will ease some of their stress.

I am so overwhelmed this week I don’t know if I am coming, going or already been there. I can’t make a decision for anything, not even what to wear or what to eat. I haven’t done dishes or laundry or cleaning at my own house in days (you can imagine what it looks like). And I haven’t spent a measurable amount of time with my kids and I miss them. This sucks. It all sucks. I hate that my parents are not well. I dislike the fact that we are helpless and cannot do anything to improve their health.

In short, I’ve been faced with my own mortality today and it is a real mind-f*ck, y’all.

When the Cat’s Away, the Mice Leave the Refrigerator Door Open

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We’ve actually been back from vacation since Friday but there’s this thing called a mountain of laundry and unpacking to do. Then there’s the fact that the entire time we were away (a week. That’s seven days for those of you not good at math) our refrigerator was left open a tiny portion of a crack and it heated up and the AC was turned to 82 and the house was humid and…basically we came home to rotted food and mold and slime and YES, I AM PISSED I HAD TO THROW AWAY ALL MY FOOD, why do you ask?

Daily walks. Notice no stroller! Bugaboo now walks without running away! HOLLA!

The good news is we all survived, we all managed to relax and it was absosmurfly the best thing for all of us. A little change of scenery can be a very good thing. Well, unless you’re Bugaboo and you want to go to the same lake every single day and so your family takes you to the same lake every day on vacation except the last day when they thought they’d surprise you and your brother and pack a picnic lunch and drive to a slightly different lake about five miles up the road. In that case, a change of scenery is WTF WERE YOU THINKING because five minutes of shrieking and screaming and throwing sand at people and your parents toss everything back in the car and go back to the ORIGINAL lake. This is about the time we learned CHANGE IS BAD, MMKAY? You’d think we’d know this by now. Sheesh.

The reason I was admonished by several ladies at the lake each day. Because I "allow" him to drink lake water. Uh huh.

Original Lake. Not to be confused with New Lake. NEW IS BAD.

We were doubly, triply and quadruply blessed with awesome weather, which is good, since a cabin in the woods in the mountains of PA is humid and damp and gross every day of the year. Cooler weather makes it more tolerable, see. While The City of Brotherly Love was suffering through yet another week with the Three-Aitches (hazy, hot and humid) with crappy air quality, we had perfect weather, 82 degrees, cloudy for most of it. Bugaboo swam for hours at a time, Bug Boy went fishing and spent hours stalking the crayfish by the rocks. Daddy and Mommy actually got to relax in the shade each day, Daddy catching zzzz’s and Mommy doing crosswords and word puzzles. Even the doggies got to go swimming. Well, Bristol (our lab) went swimming because labs have this natural ability to swim. Crazy Daisy (our border collie) acted like a cat going into bath water.

Bug Boy's first ever-caught fish. It's about the size of a large minnow.

Every day brought a walk on the gravel road and a drive on a country road to see the sights. We took deep breaths of the mountain fresh air (ahhh, that evergreen smell) and fell asleep each night listening to crickets and whippoorwills and cicadas (dang, those birds are LOUD, yo).

No pictures, no comments!

Basically, it was a week of heaven on earth.

Our view each and every day. I can still smell the evergreens.

It’s amazing what a little R&R will do for the soul, you know? For all of us. In fact, it makes mommies more prepared when little boys eat things they shouldn’t and stay up all night the night before they go back to school puking up the insides of their intestines, see. And makes mommies not so cranky when they get about an hour of sleep and spend the entire day cleaning up from the twelve-hour puke fest.  Just sayin’. Not that it happened here or anything (it totally did. That little turkey.)

And it also helps a girl not sob so much when she realizes she lost about $200 of food when she leaves the fridge open when she goes on vacation.