Wibbly~Wobbly

Hello my dears, My last post on here was really broke my heart to write, and I fully planned to follow it up with something a bit lighter. An interview with someone fantastic or perhaps a Fizzy Follies in which I lost my pants in public yet again. Alas, the universe seems to have had slightly different plans. I think I’ve reached the point where I need a pretty concentrated dose of therapy because I need to talk about this, but quite plainly, I don’t have the time for therapy right now. 2014 blew. And I mean it blew super hard. Things haven’t been the same since the heart attack. My brain is still glichy as fuck. Medical bills are like, strangling the life out of us. I really hope we have a house when this is all over. That sort of thing. So I had wicked high hopes for 2015. I just really did. I’m working on a new book. I haven’t had a health emergency in a few months. My brain is supposed to be on the road to recovery. So much hope. Then my freaking dog died. Okay. Not a great start. Bad start. I’m going to just come out with it; my uncle died last week. Quite suddenly. He was sitting around with his wife, daughter, and granddaughter. They were chatting and chopping strawberries and he suddenly said he couldn’t breathe. Three minutes later he was on the floor and he never woke up again. The official word is he had pneumonia that no one realized, his airways had become so constricted he wasn’t getting enough oxygen, and his heart stopped. The lack of oxygen to his brain caused so much damage that even though they were able to restart his heart eventually, he was...

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The Best Boy

Hello my dears, I’ve been working up the courage to write this for a few days, but I haven’t been able to even think about it without turning into a sobbing mess. The reality is that I’ll be crying as I type here, and that’s fine. There’s been a lot of tears around this house. Thirteen years ago, I’d gotten a call from a distant cousin asking if we wanted another dog. We really didn’t. We already had two, and a cat, and we aren’t a zoo. This was before I embraced my lot in life as a critter magnet. I laugh at my restraint of, “Two dogs and one cat! That’s madness!” *stares at current animal menagerie* Yep. Madness. The not-yet-Hubs and I weren’t even engaged at this point. We’d just left college, moved in together, and were starting adulthood. Big things afoot. But the cousin said there was a poor pup that had been owned by a dude who landed a job as a truck driver, and the people who were supposed to be watching the dog while he was away had stopped. The dog wasn’t being fed or let out and it wasn’t doing well and needed someone to rescue it. Well. Damn. I have a Captain Save-a-Critter complex. This should explain to you why we have so many flufflings now. All of them have dramatic origin stories. It’s my mission in life to offset all the horrible things people do to these animals by rescuing them and letting them spend the rest of their lives in spoiled leisure and belly rubs. Anyway, it was nine at night and winter, but we loaded up in the car, and drove several towns over to find this apartment complex with the abandoned dog. We figured we’d foster him...

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Emotional Miming

Hello my dears! I was a weird kid. I fully embrace that. I knew it at the time, but didn’t necessarily understand why. There were a lot of reasons, sure, but the big focus in the early teen years would be that I was fully taken by untreated OCD and had no clue what was happening to my brain. Everything in my head felt completely rational. My doctor told my parents I was a girl and girls were just dramatic, OCD or no. To everyone around me, I was a very smart kid with wasted potential and a flair for bizarre behavior. When I entered middle school, shit got real. You know what I’m talking about. For anyone, middle school is hardcore. Hormones and small towns and I don’t understand how anyone makes it out alive. There was this teacher who had taken a liking to my older brother. My bro is my polar opposite in every possible way. Where I’ve never met a stranger, he suffers from crippling shyness. This teacher had reached out to my brother and tried to help him in a way. The teacher had a habit of teasing kids, and students either really liked him, or completely hated him. My brother absolutely hated him. When I arrived in 7th grade (that’s the year our school started middle school at the time) I got to see the teacher interact with my brother and even though it was bonding with my brother through picking on him, I thought, “Okay, here is a guy who looks out for his students. That’s good.” As things got worse for me, I started looking for help of my own. By 8th grade, I was circling the drain, mentally and emotionally. I hit a pretty cliche depression. I sort of gave...

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Fizz-lite Holidays

Hello my loves, Last night, my son’s preschool had their annual Christmas program. Our kids have gone to this school since my daughter was two, so this is our fifth straight year of this festive jaunt. I wasn’t in the mood last night, I really wasn’t. I wanted to not have to wear pants and stay in bed and it was raining and cold and blah. But we got the lad dressed in a sweater and jeans, our daughter threw together an outfit that looked like her dress-up box threw up on her, but that was fine because she’s a kid and kids can so rock that look. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Hubs was still rocking his work look. We got the the church (it’s a Christian preschool) and oh my god everyone was dressed up like Jesus himself was coming for the show. Like, full-tilt holiday gear. Girls were in frilly red dresses. Men were in suits. The little boys had shiny dress shoes on. And there’s my son in jeans and shabby Spider-Man sneakers. And there’s me in a Firefly t-shirt that says CAPTAIN MAL’S BIG DAMN GUARANTEE. In church. Surrounded by children. (In my defense, I didn’t realize my shirt said that until I looked down in horror at my clothing.) So, I kept my coat on and tried to ignore how trashy I felt surrounded by all the holiday cheer. The program went great, the kids were adorable, my son like, rocked that show. Very super cute. When we got home and the kids were in bed, I felt all deflated. Every year since the kids were born, I’ve gotten them each a Christmas outfit for these shows, and then to rewear to all the holiday parties. I didn’t this year. I...

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Saving Santa

Hello my dears! A few years ago, I was driving through our quaint little town, and when I passed our courthouse, I saw what will always be one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever witnessed. Our town Santa was standing there, holding a big sign that said ‘GOD HATES F@GS! KEEP THE QUEERS OUT OF BOY SCOUTS! SAVE OUR CHILDREN!’ I don’t recall ever being so feels-punched so hard. I mean, it was fucking Santa standing there spreading hate. He had the full white beard and everything. I mean damn. I couldn’t process it. I drove by, in actual, literal tears thinking about any little kid who might see him standing there, a little kid who knew in their heart who they were, but now would think Santa freaking Claus hated them for being that person. It’s been years, but the anger and hurt I felt at that moment hasn’t diminished even slightly. Here’s the thing; this isn’t just the Santa that pops up at Christmas to show up at the library for kids to come take pictures with. Our local Santa is kind of a legend. Every trash day, Santa drives through town, in a red truck, no less, and scours the curbs for cast away toys that he will take and fix up to hand out to less-fortunate children. I mean…dude. Saint Nick, amirite? And he’s there every week! Our trash pick-up day is Tuesday, and every damn week, the kids and I stand at the bus stop and watch that red truck go by. When the kids have toys they’ve outgrown or want to donate, we will leave them by the curb just to see if we can catch Santa picking them up. For years it was a fun thing for me to see, watching...

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