The Great PSL

It's finally Fall. Which means it's basically Halloween. Which means I'm going broke buying all the Disney Channel Halloween movies on Amazon because I HAVE to watch Halloweentown everyday and I don't have satellite anymore. Halloween is my second favorite season and holiday (Yes, Halloween is a season. Don't try to convince me otherwise). In celebration of the second most wonderful time of the year, I had my first ever Pumpkin Spice Latte yesterday. I know I'm late to the game. But cut me some slack. I like hot tea, Red Bull, and actual coffee. So steamed milk with sugary syrup was not anywhere on my radar. However, I've been embracing my inner basic white girl lately, so I gave it a shot. *haha espresso pun*

Anyway, we happened to be driving by a restaurant chain that recently launched their take on this widely popular drink, and I thought why the hell not? 

At first I wasn't terribly disappointed. It was smooth, not too hot, and had whipped cream on the top. But the more I drank of this concoction, the more I wondered what all the hype was about.

First of all, the price of a small cup is equivalent to the price of a healthy human kidney on the black market. B, it doesn't taste even remotely like pumpkin, or the spice used to jazz up pumpkin purée for pumpkin pie. Lastly, there isn't enough caffeine in it to support my habit. 

I guess I just can't taste what is so appealing to folks around the world that they would set count downs on their phones and camp out in front of Starbucks, waiting to grab the first few brews of the season. Is this just some grand marketing scheme created by the coffee industry/Starbucks? I mean they have swindled me out of a good $21ish dollars in the last couple of months with their Coconut Milk Macchiato, which is really just iced coffee poured over coconut milk, so it is reasonable that this PSL craze is all just a ploy to get us to spend our hard earned dollars on subpar coffee drinks.

While I will never understand the hype, there is clearly a reason why people all over the world flock to the Great Pumpkin Spice Latte like it is a saving grace in the fall. I'm going to get weird here and blame it on subliminal messaging, probably placed in all those Halloweentown sequels that I've been watching.

A Day on the Farm.

Happy first day of fall, Dear Reader. Here in Oklahoma, it's still hotter than hell on a bad day for Satan, but the meteorological professionals on the television keep promising cooler weather is on its way. I know better, however. This is Oklahoma for cryin' out loud. We get two seasons, Quakenado (Summer), and Blizzaquakenado (Winter). I'm not even kidding. Last Christmas Eve we had a tornado warning and a winter weather advisory for the same areas all day. In true Okie form, no one paid any mind to the warnings and we all celebrated our holiday.

Anyway, I'm not here to tell you about the Oklahoma weather patterns, or lack there of. No, my friend, today I'm going to tell you a little story about my grandmother, and a gorilla.

So many years ago there used to be an animal farm down the road from my house. Actually, the animal farm is still there but it is owned by a different person now. And they call it a sanctuary I believe. Anyway at the time it was one of those drive thru zoo attractions but it had a petting zoo and a few caged beasts. It was great fun, for me anyway. My poor Grandma took me there frequently and was probably bored to tears every time we went, except for the last time.

The very last time we went started out pretty normal. We drove through and saw the camels and zebras and the handful of llamas the farm had roaming around. We went to the petting zoo and I fed the baby llama that wasn't really a baby anymore. It chewed on my ear, and then spit at one of the fawns that was running around because that llama was certain that the fawn was going to steal its food and my attention. The llama was right. Eventually we migrated to the big caged animal area where there lived a giant, and I mean giant, monkey. I said earlier that it was a gorilla, and in my mind it was, but in all actuality, it was probably a chimp. This dude was old. He was rather grumpy and just ignored visitors when they came by. But for whatever reason, he was full of piss and vigor that day. He did a few typical monkey things, made some noise, threw around his toys, acted generally silly. I guess all that showing off made him thirsty so he reached through the cage and grabbed a piece of cut up garden hose, stuck it in his stock tank full of water, and got a big cool drink.

Of course I thought this was the best thing ever. I had yet to see this primate do much of anything but sit around and ignore everyone. I told Grandma how neat it was and she agreed. We stood there examining him for a bit when out of nowhere that old asshole spit that big drink of water he had taken all over my poor elderly grandmother. The monkey smiled a big yellow toothed smile, and laughed to himself. I'm certain I fell over from laughing so hard. But poor Grandma, she was mortified.

She marched straight over to the visitor's center and told the receptionist all about the monkey's awful behavior. Of course everyone in the office found the incident to be hilarious, but still, Grandma was not amused.

Later that day when my mom came to pick me up after work, Grandma told Mom what had happened. I distinctly remember Mom stifling her laughter as my distraught grandmother shuddered and said "And, oh, he smiled with those big yellow teeth!"

I will never forget that last trip to the animal farm, and I will never forget the look on my grandmother's face as that monkey spit all over her!

Ahh, Sunday Morning.

Good morning, Dear Reader. It's a lovely Sunday, AND I FINALLY HAVE A DAY OFF FROM WORK!!! I was even able to sleep past my typical 4:45am wake up call, without the help of a sleep aide. I don't know if you can hear it but, there are angels singing songs of rejoice in my honor. It is glorious.

You know what isn't glorious, though? Sleeping next to your toddler.

Per her usual routine, Robbie woke up at 5am, got in our bed, and we all tried to rest peacefully. And at first we managed this. But then I started dreaming about the book I've been reading. (Gary L. Stewart's account of trying to find his birth father, and discovering his father was the Zodiac Killer. Super creepy, but I can't put it down.) Being that I am quite the sissy and couldn't return to sleep, I laid beside my sleeping toddler, quietly, when out of nowhere, the smelliest of smelly toddler feet smacked me right in the face.

Unsure of what to do, for fear I might awaken my child, I just suffered and suffocated under her toes and foot stank. It was awful. But it gets worse. Soon I found my face being crushed by BOTH of her stinky feet. Unable to stand the stench anymore, I rolled over to face away from her. At last I could breathe, and I was beginning to tire, so I decided to go back to sleep.

I'm certain I was starting to snore about the time the kicking to my back began, so I am sure I deserved that. But what came next was unjust. In my half asleep haze, I rolled back over believing I would cuddle with my sweet sleeping baby. But there were no cuddles to be had. Oh no. In place of the cuddles that should have been, my child gave me the gift of possible decapitation. She slashed her arms through the air, coming down directly on my windpipe. Still in fear of waking of the child, I tried to cough and sputter in to the blanket. My attempts were spurned by my child's head butting straight in to my chest. Such action surely left a bruise on my sternum. In my head I screamed in pain, but only bit my lip to keep from crying out and awakening the storm that is my offspring.

Blankets and pillows began to fly as my little darling pelted me with anything that was within her am's reach, and I began to realize that the entire time I believed my child was sleeping wildly, she was in fact very much awake.

I was hurt and insulted by her mischievous behavior, but I was unwilling to get out of my warm bed at the time, so I continued pretending to sleep. It was not long before I was found out, and demands for cereal and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse began. Defeated and battered, I limped into the living room to provide the solution to my child's demands and begin typing this for you, Dear Reader. In the event that I should pass away due to my injuries, or am suffocated by my toddler's beloved blankie at nap time, please remember me as I always was, dramatic, sarcastic, and over caffeinated.

Prayers, Poo, and Coffee.

Today I have a lot on my mind. Which is basically how I am everyday. But today is different. Today I am questioning my choice of going back to work full time. See, at 5 am, Robbie woke up crying. I assume she was cold, despite the mountain of blankets and stuffed animals she keeps in her bed. I can't blame her. I was also under a mountain of blankets and I was cold. Anyway, Cameron put her in our bed and the three of us snoozed peacefully until the alarm clocks started going off an hour later, and then there were demands for "seril, stooms, ohmel, Mitkey, and chocit stawbees mahl" (20 points to Gryffindor if you can translate all of that.) In the midst of the morning demands and the rush to get Cameron out the door for work, I realized at some point Robbie's diaper had leaked all over the place.

*insert mental eye rolls, sighs of exasperation, silent cursing, and a desperate search for the package of diapers*

This is where I started questioning my sanity and my will to provide for my family. My job called to see if I could come in today (Wednesday mornings can get scary over there), and I realized Robbie is almost 2 and a half. Which basically means she should be starting to potty train. And she is. At daycare. Because, I'm.Never.Home.Because.I.Work.ALL.THE.TIME.

I changed Robbie, hung up the phone, and put all of that out of my mind because I was being yelled at for not providing the immediate Mickey Mouse fix my little fiend needed. That is, until shortly before I started writing this, when my sweet little Shugie crouched down, farted so loud the house shook, and dropped the brown note.

Except for she didn't really "drop" anything. It went straight up her back.

I'm going to attribute the upwards motion of the poo to the three or four sips of coffee that were stolen out of my mug while I was fixing breakfast. I assume it was only three or four, but judging by her wild behavior post coffee thievery...it was more. A lot more.

So there I sat, dreading the doom that was contained in my child's pants/shirt. I could only imagine how terrible it would be. I was silently praying to God that he would provide me with magical diaper changing fairies or spontaneous potty training and perfect butt wiping skills for my child. There were thoughts of how I could possibly manage to full potty train my toddler on such little parental availability. There were tears of regret. This was the end.

In my mind, judgement day had arrived. This was my punishment for all of my sins. Eternal damnation and diaper explosions. Hell was real, my friends.

As it turns out, the mess wasn't as bad as I had expected, but the incident has left me with this nagging feeling of failure since I cannot work as diligently on potty training as I'd like (Thank you, workaholic tendencies.) It has also left the foul stench of toddler coffee poo in my living room and I am unsure of how to rid my house of such an atrocious odor.

So there you have it, Dear Reader, the contents of my mind today: Hell, poo explosions, potty training, and why in the world would I choose to return to work before said potty training was over.

Alex Laments. Episode 522.

Well hello, Dear Reader. Fancy meeting you here...I really shouldn't say that. I'm not entirely sure what it means, and obviously you're here because you read, and you like reading what I write. Soooo...

I believe some time ago I had promised I would write more when things calmed down in my life. Unfortunately my life has just gotten crazier and crazier. I finished out my last term in school for the year, in August, while working full time. That was, um, fun? But I did it, and I finished with like a 3.6 GPA. So pat me on the back and tell me I'm special. Because I am special, dammit. Now I'm working all the time. No seriously, like 6 days a week. That has not been fun. But it is necessary. There is hope on the horizon though. My employer has hired more staff, so I shouldn't be at work all the time anymore, and I've been working the job market a little. Pimping out my resume, if you will.

Wait, can you pimp out a resume that isn't impressive? Isn't that the point of putting your goods on the street? Because they're impressive and everyone wants them? I have no idea. My milkshakes DO NOT bring all the boys to the yard, so I'm probably going about this all wrong.

...anyway...I've been searching for gainful employment. Which basically means I've been thinking about how I wish I could work part time while receiving benefits and getting paid at least $1000.00 per hour. #realisticlifesgoal #igotsem. Obviously that is not going to happen. But I really have been considering what to do next, and what will be beneficial in my career path. I think I mentioned before that I had previously been majoring in surgical technology, because I couldn't afford the nursing program, but when the school announced it was closing I decided to pursue a creative writing degree? I still want to do that, but my heart is very much people oriented, and I need face to face interaction with folks to survive. I love people. So I've been tossing around majoring in healthcare admin or maybe a business focus of some sort, and minoring in writing. I mean, I've got to brush up my composition skills if I'm ever going to publish something note worthy. I still need to remind my brothers that I am better than they are and that I'm famous, and they're just butt faces. So a minor in creative writing is important. But trying to figure out my actual career path is hard. My heart  wants to be a healer, my wallet wants to be full, and my soul wants something that has family friendly hours. It's been a rather large task weighing the benefits and downfalls of everything, but doing so has made me realize just how much I really need more balance in my life.

I have NEVER been a balanced person. I zoom from one extreme to the next. I'm a workaholic and I prefer to always be busy. So when I started my current job, of course I offered to step up and work myself in to perpetual sickness (no really, since I started I've caught illness after illness, along with the majority of my coworkers). While this personality trait was a blessing before I had my daughter, it is now a curse. It leaves no room for family life, but it does improve the quality of the little bit of time we get together. The TV is playing more music, and we are all spending our time together instead of vegging out in front of Bob's Burgers re-runs. I just need and want to be home more. I'm missing out on so much. 

This time last year I was waking up to watch the sunrise and drink coffee while Robbie slept peacefully in bed. I was spending afternoons snuggling and playing with my little love. I was cooking every recipe I could get my hands on, and baking a new treat on the weekends. I didn't place enough value on those moments then. I knew they wouldn't last forever, but I didn't realize just how much I would miss them once they were gone. Now I am gone before Robbie or Cameron are awake in the mornings. I get home in just enough time to slap together dinner and spend maybe half an hour playing before it's time to go to bed. There is no meal made out of love. There is no baking. The sunrise is viewed in my rear view mirror. There is no rocking my girl or playing tea party with her. It's a strange place to be in. It isn't miserable. It is just unsatisfying. 

Which is sort of ironic, because this time has taught me so much about myself I didn't know. It has somehow made me into a better mother, a better person, a better student, a better employee, and strengthened my soul and my faith. I find myself almost admiring my growth. I am proud of who I am. 

I just want to enjoy who I've become with the ones I love more. 

So now I'm facing a very the very large project of making a path that will allow me to soak in those special moments again. I have no idea how or where to start, but I am going to make it happen. Some way, some how, I will get that balance that I need between career and family, and I will continue to grow. 

30 Days of Gratefulness: Day Five.

Well hello there dear readers! We are nearing the end of the first week of this challenge. What does everyone think thus far? Are you enjoying what I have to say? Are you inspired to write about what you are grateful for? Have the prompts been thought provoking for you? I didn't have any lofty goals of inspiring others with this. But if you are feeling the urge to write, DO IT! Share it with me! I would love to see what you've got to say! 

I want to take minute to say thank you for all the views and feedback I've gotten. I am always surprised at the amount of people who take time out of their busy day to read a piddly little blog that I put together. And not to brag, but it really is a lot of people. So yeah, thanks for reading, sharing, and liking!

Day five is about sounds. Like what specific sound you are grateful for. Can I just say music and use that as a blanket term for the vibrations that our ears sense? Is that cool with everyone? Yes? Okay, good.

So, music. Everyone I have ever met in my short little lifetime has been closely tethered to music in one way or another, whether they realize it or not. For me, music has always played a large part in my creative process. When I started writing I was an angst filled 13 year old who was fueled by tunes by bands like Good Charlotte and Evanescene. While I have since grown up and lost the majority of my moody sadness, I am still continually inspired by lyrics and melodies. Specifically a group called Purity Ring. If I want to write I just hop on YouTube and listen to a mix of their work and the words almost visably flow out of my fingers. It's like magic. Music has that power over pretty much everyone. It is as if music is the audible version of emotions and thoughts intensified by like a million. I'm sure there is some scientific mumbo jumbo behind why songs have such a great impact on humans, but I don't know it so I'm not going to cite it here. 

Moving right along, let's delve deeper into why I am so grateful for melodic noise. It brings people together, much like food. Little known fact: I love to sing and when I was in high school, I desperately wanted to be on Broadway. I was a talented dancer and my singing voice was pretty damn good. Now that I've grown up some and realized the stage would have eaten me alive, I belt out show tunes and twangy country songs at people for enjoyment. I do this so frequently that my two year old has started joining in the fun. Cameron has even been known to sing along on occasion. But he mostly waits for a Disney song to pop up. Who would have thought that the act of sliding my voice up and down the scales while speaking words has caused my little family to become closer knit? It's something we can all do and have fun at. And who doesn't love it when your family is getting along and not fighting over the Roku remote because half of you can't stand to watch another episode of Yu Gi O while the other half thinks it's the greatest show ever written?

I know you all have the same problem. Damn that Yu Gi O.

Music is also a decent sized chunk of my memory. Cameron used to call me a walking jukebox. But I'm not mentioning that here because I hold some knowledge about billboard topping hits. Instead, I am talking about my childhood and adolescence. I seem to have hazy memories of standing in my grandmother's kitchen while she cooked. She would be humming one song and then would start singing something else, probably from Elvis Presley, to herself. I always thought Grandma had a wonderful voice and looking back on those days gives me great joy now that she is gone. My mother also likes to sing. And she does it often. She used to spend countless hours in FYE combing over CDs with me. She's taken and sent me to loads of concerts. And she's given me one of her vintage tour shirts. But my favorite musical memory has less to do with music itself, and more to do with the atmosphere and the person I was with. But if it wasn't for the actual music, we would have never had this experience. My very best friend and I go to concerts together as often as life will allow, and this started sometime around our senior year of high school. One specific time she heard that Jeffree Star was playing a small local venue and that there were still tickets available. So we went and had the time of our lives. We danced, sang, touched J Star's leg, took pictures with him and another band. It was AMAZING. Since then, my friend and I have been to numerous shows together and we both cherish those memories deeply. 

I'm sure that I could continue writing about why I am so grateful for music but I'm going to leave it at this; music is at the heart of all of the important parts of my life. And without it I just wouldn't be the same Alex.

30 Days of Gratitude: Day Four.

Day four! I'm not going to lie, now that I've started this challenge and am about wrist deep, I find myself thinking "what the hell was I thinking?" Then I remember I was thinking that I am changing my major and will be doing something with creative writing so I need practice in any way that I can get it. Thank goodness I am also in comp 2 this month while I do this challenge, so I will get all the practice. If I could instert an eye roll/laughing emoji here, I so would.

Anyway. Today is all about what food I am grateful for. How is a person supposed to just pick one food? Shouldn't you be grateful for any food you get? Lord knows I am. In my adult life there have been plenty of times that I didn't have enough money to pay my bills and buy groceries so I went without food. It was rough, but I made it through to have a better understanding of what it is really like to go without. Now there is always food on my table, even if it is just fried bologna sandwiches.

I don't know that I could pick just one food that I am grateful for. Italian and Mexican are my favorite styles of food. But I wouldn't say I am thankful for either of them, because they give me horrible heartburn. I also love seafood and some fish. But again, not really something I'd say I am most thankful for. I guess I would have to say that any meal that I can make for my family is the food I am most grateful for.

Since Robbie was born, I have really come into my own in the kitchen. I've always been able to cook well, I just didn't like it. But having family meals everyday seem to make the chore of cooking a little more enjoyable. Especially when Robbie actually eats what I make, and Cameron goes back for seconds. All that hard work slaving over a hot stove and scalding my hands in boiling dishwater suddenly become one of the most important parts of my day. Funny how that works isn't it?

So there you have it. I'm most grateful for the food that I prepare for my little family. What food are you most grateful for?