Monday Dare: Harv let me out of my cage

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you’d like to see the full list of Monday Dares or learn more about its origin.

This week: I don’t even know. 

I’m sorry. I’m so depressed today; I can’t even think straight. I’m blaming it on the cocktail of medications.  I feel like crying, laughing, and busting a cap in someone’s ass all at the same time.

HOW DO PEOPLE TAKE STEROIDS without losing their everloving mind?

At dinner last night, I cried into my spaghetti in front of Cal and Harv. Like I just…I just laid my head down on the glass table and fucking bawled like a little bitch. I didn’t even have the decency to excuse myself and do it privately. I am so ashamed and embarrassed.

I can’t pinpoint exactly what it was that set me off, but I think it has something to do with Saturday night.   My endlessly fascinating and wonderful friend, Jessica, drove in from Las Vegas to keep me company since I had been cooped up inside all week long.

She convinced me that *YES* even if I was swollen and feeling like a crack whore, we should get dressed up and go out to a Halloween party. So we did.

And guess what? I bumped into a few male friends I haven’t seen in a long, long time. Every single one of them wanted to know if Harv “let me out of the house” or was okay with me having a night out on the town or if Harv knew I was out at all.

As offended as I was, I laughed a little and made a joke about how Harv does occasionally let me out of my cage, and he really only whips me when I don’t do the floors right the first time.

I hate the double standard. When we see a married man out, do we ask these questions? I don’t. People are just people to me. Sure, some of them are married or single or boring or awesome or mothers or fathers or bastards, but I don’t assume someone gets to be somewhere or is allowed to do something because of a title or label. Are mothers and wives not supposed to go out? Is that inappropriate? I hate that I care, but my fear is that no matter what I do or how much I accomplish, I’ll only be seen as Harv’s wife or Cal’s mother because there isn’t any room to be viewed as anything else.

Anyway, no funnies here today. I have to go cry now.

P.S. I’m posting a picture from Saturday evening later today on the Flourish in Progress Facebook page. I’m supposed to be a maid in case you can’t tell. I tried.
image via Beth Dobbs of Wildemoon Art 


I need to live in the country. Or solitary confinement.

Show of hands. How many of you live out in the middle of nowhere and your nearest neighbor is 3 hours by covered wagon (if all the axles are working) or at least 17 hours on foot if the wagon is down for repair? You need to think about these things. What if a snake bites you in the ankle and you need to use your neighbor’s phone to call the veterinarian because he’s the closest thing they got to a real doc up in your ‘hood?

Don’t ruin this question by asking why you couldn’t just use your very own cell phone, the one that siphons at least 58% of your monthly income since you can’t live without any of the “essential” features, add-ons, and that custom Swarovski crystal case you had made in seven different colors because you just never know when you might be in the mood for a little chartreuse. I get it. I’m not judging here. I’m just keeping it real.

I’m getting off track.

That was my long-winded way of asking if you have neighbors. And if you like your neighbors. Maybe you don’t know your neighbors. That’s okay too.

I’m afraid to bump into my neighbor, Sheila. My low self-esteem can’t handle it. We moved in within a month of each other. Actually, we were both vying for the home I live in now. I won. I did a little jig, bought some paint, and went to town. It was only a short-lived victory because Sheila ended up moving in next door. So really, I lost more than I won.

This Jesus, he really knows how to slide in those life lessons, doesn’t he?

I’ve invited Sheila over a few times.

First visit: Well, you certainly have a talent for using beige in so many different ways. It’s….admirable. 

Second visit: Did you cook this yourself? It looks like something I saw in the prepared deli case at the grocery store.

Third visit: I stopped by her place on this occasion. Sheila had just given birth to the world’s most accomplished and self-actualized baby, and she really thought it might enrich my life to be in his presence for a few minutes. I was there to witness his jagged little fingernails piercing his delicate eyeballs and screaming at the top of his lungs. What saddens me most is that he was probably doing his best to convey hope and inspiration in an obscure language, and I missed it. Fuck, why do I always miss the good stuff?

It was hard shopping for this little wonder. I finally settled on a “Party in my Crib” onsie with a handsome sweater. She rifled through the box, then tossed it aside. No “thank you.” No polite giggle.

We haven’t seen each other since. I’d like to try one more time. It’ll just make me feel better when I egg her house for Halloween next week.

Neighbors? You got ‘em? You like ‘em? You hate ‘em?
image via


Monday Dare: Rap Star living….for $100 (UPDATED)

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you’d like to see the full list of Monday Dares or learn more about its origin.

This week: $100 

This is important: If your husband is playing poker on a Friday night, and you decide to drive yourself to the ER because he works so hard all the time, and you want him to have a night off; make sure the note you leave for him is legible.

My note to Harv on top of his pillow:

I am headed to the local ER. Hives. Throat closing. Also, my cell phone is about to die.

I guess I smeared it because it ended up looking like this:

I am headed to the local ER. Hives. Throat closing. Also, ~~~~~~~~~~~~~about to die. 

I think it was good for our marriage. He hasn’t said anything, but there’s a suspicious glint in the corner of his left eye which leads me to believe that he was very unhappy about my carelessness. Well, Harv, have it your way. See if there’s ANY note next time.

After 20+ vials of blood, four days in the ICU, another day in the Post Critical Care Unit, another day just to stop in and get IV meds, no one really knows what’s going on.

They do have a theory. And it’s this: I may be allergic to water. Not something in the water or that extra bump of crack I like to add to my pitcher of Kool-Aid during those hot summer days, but just….water. More likely, it actually IS something in the water, but wouldn’t that be cool? A water allergy? No? You’re right. The more I think about it, the more it seems a little “out there.” And I’m all about trying to be normal.

I have sores, bruises, scratches, scars, boils, and discoloration from scalp to sole. Also, there seems to be more hair on my knuckles, but I’m not lumping that in with anything just yet.

I have to keep it cool this week, but let’s get this low-laying, mostly-in-bed, four-different-kinds-of-medication party STARTED.

Friends, I’d love your ideas. I have $100 to spend. Frivolously.

  • Perhaps that package of Nancy Kerrigan Trading Cards isn’t such a bad idea?
  • My very own Snuggie?
  • Separate-toe socks?
  • White Chocolate Kit Kats? (Is that shit even forrealz?)
  • Should I take up a new hobby? Preferably one that requires no skill or patience?
The Cartel, don’t disappoint me now. Oh hey, did I almost forget to mention that I missed y’all like a motherfucker? I can’t quit you.

P.S. This is probably just the dope talking, but I’m a huge non-fan of linking to sites and products in the body of comments. Anything you think might be worth a look? Consider naming it, and I’ll do the “heavy lifting” by Googling it and shit. Thanks, y’all.

UPDATE: I am, or soon will be (within 3-5 business days), the proud new owner of an unopened pack of Nancy Kerrigan “My Diary” Trading Cards. They cost me approximately $1. This is what I call living, people.

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