You know, as mulch fun as Mulch-Gate was, it just didn’t smell quite…dead enough.

I’ve always had it in the back of my head that this could happen.

Since we bought this place, we’ve had critters taking up refuge under our house. The first time I realized we weren’t alone was when my dogs started barking at the tub. I initially chalked it up to them having some sort of bad acid flashback, but then I heard it, too. And, since I knew the mushrooms on the pizza I’d just eaten were not of the funny variety, I stopped brushing off my dogs as druggies, and started paying closer attention.

And I finally said what I’d always really known out loud. Because that’s the only way to make something true.

And coexisting did work well, for about six years.

So, I found a dead animal removal company and they sent someone out.

Carcass dude is coming back today, with heavy duty wall sawing tools, to try again.

This stinks in so many ways.

I almost wish it was an actual dead body under there. I mean, then the police would have to find and remove it, right? But, that would be totally sad because it would be an actual person, who doesn’t sleep in their own feces, have 9,000 fleas, and eat rats for dinner. Also because that would probably mean my husband is a serial killer and that I’d been wrong once again in thinking I’d finally adjusted my I only attract assholes radar.

Anyway, after lots of searching, it appears coffee grounds are like magic against the smell of death (totally not a coincidence that Dexter likes his coffee black). So, I laid out bowls of it in the bathroom and surrounding rooms. And, while it has a helped a little, my house now smells like a murder scene at Starbucks.

And, really, not even. Since it’s really cheap coffee, it’s probably more like a murder scene at, like, a Valero or 7-11.

The only positive, is that we were already planning on renovating that bathroom. So, me buying a sledge hammer and cracking the tub in half wouldn’t be that big of a deal.

Finally, what the fuck karma? All I do is rescue animals. And this is how you repay me?

WITH A ROTTING ANIMAL CARCASS?

Like, my friend on Twitter said this morning….

Seriously….

Either God is punishing me because I support gay marriage, or because of that one time during Spring Break that involved my toes and a gorilla suit.

But, really, I think it’s just that Karma really is a bitch.

* * *

UPDATE: My amazing everything-man, Don, came over and sawed a hole in the cabinet. And sure enough, it was right where I said it would be.

A sweet, and very dead, baby raccoon! It’s mama must have been hurt and not come back. POOR THING. So sad.

So stinky.

The next order of business is closing off my crawl space.

Carcass-Gate Two is not happening on my watch.

Oh, and I took a picture.

Obviously.

I’m going to post it beneath this cute one that reminds me of Carcass-Gate, to give my squeamish readers time to click out.

Awwwww…

Ewwwww…

A little over a year ago, just shy of eight weeks pregnant, I shared with you my struggle with antepartum depression and anxiety. Up until then, I wasn’t even aware that what I was battling had a name. All I knew was that I felt completely out of control, like I would lose my mind at any second, if I hadn’t already. In what was supposed to be one of the happiest times in my life, I felt a darkness inside of me that shook me to my pregnant core.

To make matters worse, I was terrified to share what I was going through with anyone. Even those closest to me; especially those closest to me. There is something so terribly shameful about feeling such deep sadness and desperation about something so wonderful, something so planned.

Really though, even more than my health, I was so worried about being judged (story of my life). After all, I was judging myself enough as it was.

And I knew what people would say, anyway.

“You are so selfish. Do you know how many people would kill to be in your shoes? Pregnant with a second child! Get over yourself and stop being so fucking dramatic.”

And I did know. The rational part of me knew exactly how fortunate I was. But, drowned out by the insanity I was feeling, the rational part could do nothing to cork the craziness that was slowly bubbling up inside of me.

So, with no where else to go but down, I took a leap of faith and decided to spill my crazy  everything, with everyone. And, much to my dismay, not one single person judged me. At least not to my face. I received love, acceptance, and so many nods of understanding. It seemed I was not the only one holed up in that dark place.

Still, as proud as I am of myself today for having the balls to open up, looking back at what I shared that day saddens me.  Not only over the place I was in, but also because I was far from honest about just how bad things really were. I peppered my confession with jokes, and promises that no one need worry about me. Because, I wasn’t that bad.

But, I wasn’t only that bad, I was much worse.

I spent most of my days hysterical, and…

(I know I am going to get shit for this, but I promised myself I’d be real here today, so here goes.)

… praying for another miscarriage.

I know.

But, at that moment, even that seemed better than what I was feeling.

Anything did.

Those quiet and horrible pleas of desperation only made me feel like more of a monster, spiraling me deeper into the despair that I was drowning in. How could I pray for the loss of something so precious, something so many people would give up everything to have…something I wanted so badly? I loved being a mom. And, having miscarried twins a few years prior, I knew just how devastating it was. Even still, in my not-me state of mind, I felt that pain would be more tolerable than what I was feeling.

Only a monster would have those feelings.

My house and personal life, mirroring my mind, were in complete chaos. I struggled to function, to parent the beautiful son I already had, and to be a loving wife. Or any kind of wife at all, for that matter.

Each day, I went through the motions, like a zombie. I resorted to spoiling my son with too much ice cream and way too many toys. Because I was failing him in the stuff that really mattered, overcompensation became a way of life.

Most of those nine months, if I wasn’t sobbing hysterically, I was unimaginably quiet. And, if you know me at all, you know I’m normally unimaginably not quiet. Anytime I wasn’t tending to my sweet two year old, I was locked away in my room, panicking.

On top of the depression, there were angry outbursts, usually directed towards my husband, simply because he was there. Today, I cringe, remembering the time I screamed in his face, as loud as I could, “I wish you were dead!” Telling him all the things I felt towards myself.

I stared in the mirror often, not recognizing the puffy-eyed image reflected back at me.

What is wrong with you? Why are you so fucked up?

Over and over and over again.

I mean, I was depressed in my first pregnancy, so I knew things might be rough, but this time around the beast had grown much larger and so much scarier. It was unrelenting and determined to win.

Sometimes, in hindsight, I suspect I bordered on mild psychosis.

Scared for myself, my unborn son, and the one I already had, I finally made the right decision and sought professional help.

With antidepressants, and someone telling me that what I was feeling was way more common than I thought (it even had a science-y name!), the beast became manageable….at least somewhat. I still struggled, to be sure, but at least I knew why. Talking myself down off that insane ledge I was balancing on became just a little bit easier.

Several hours after my son was born, the light came flooding in.

It was like a switch had been flipped.

Click.

Just like that.

Whatever had taken over my mind had gotten bored, and quickly decided to give it back to me.

I looked at my little boy and I knew. Every single bad thought, angry outburst, panic attack, all the times I hated being alive…it was all worth it.

Really that instantaneous, I was me again.

I let out the biggest breath, exhaling for what seemed like hours.

Even my husband noticed the black cloud had moved on, and that I was back.

I snuggled my sweet, sleepy miracle, amazed at how I could feel such a connection with him, having felt none when he was inside me.

Something I’m still trying to forgive myself for.

Over a year has passed, and here I sit next to my beautiful Leo; nine months old this very day.

I feel like he’s always been a part of our family, and cannot imagine a world without him and his brother in it.

The road to now was a long, dark, and lonely one, but I made it to the end.

My boys, oh my sweet boys…they are the best things I have ever done.

When people ask me if I want another child, I shake my head and laugh.

Oh, I don’t think I have it in me to handle more than two!

But, the truth is, the two I have now can’t handle it. They need me, all of me. I can’t risk inviting that beast back into my life. It just wouldn’t be fair to them.

My oldest is now almost four, and as happy as anyone I’ve ever met. But, there’s no doubt, I’ll always wonder if I damaged him in some way, during those nine months that I was so damaged.

Eventually, I know I’ll have to let go of this guilt. Because, really, what other choice do I have? But, I’m not yet to a place where I’m ready to do that.

One day, though.

My name is Allison and I struggled with antepartum depression, and I refuse to be secretive or ashamed about it any longer. Because, even if I get a million dirty comments, if one person reads this and feels less alone, every shake of the head and what the fuck is wrong with you is worth it.

If you or someone you know is going through this, I beg of you to be open and honest about it. Do not feel ashamed, because you are not alone. You are not a bad person. Not even a little bit.

Asking for help, though terrifying, was the best move I made. It scares the shit out of me to think how much worse off I could have been, had I not thrown up my hands and cried uncle.

It saddens me that if you type in “antepartum depression” into a search engine, very few resources come up. Perhaps, if more people would talk about it, this wouldn’t be the case.

Above all else, if you are going through this, know that you are not a monster.

It’s the asshole hormones that are.

After my post for Sue yesterday, I went back and watched the video over and over again.

Somewhere, through my tears, I happened to notice something on my blog.

Something….odd?

When I had my fabulous designer give me a blog-lift, I was just getting my feet wet in this weird world of internet writing and creepers. So, when asked what I wanted, I simply defaulted to things I’d noticed on other, more established, blogs.

Ahem.

Because, really, how fucking narcissistic am I assuming anyone would want to take me with them?

Cheese-dick Zapata, at your service.

Also, I totally need to add a baby stick figure up top.

Leo…REPRESENT!

* * *

Ahem.

*steps up on very high horse*

I just drove passed a few homeless people, on my way to a hipster, Montrose coffee shop. My internet is out for….at least three days.

Hold me.

Anyway, my first thought when I saw them was, “I wonder how people end up there?”

Followed quickly by, “Oh, shit, that could totally happen to anyone. I better give him a couple of bucks.”

Karma is, after all, a total bitch.

People can say some pretty vile things when they see people down on their luck.

Lazy, worthless bum.

Get a job, asshole.

He must be a god damn junkie.

This hurts my soul.

Because, all I can think about is how fortunate I am to be a card-carrying member of the lucky sperm club.

So, as we go through our day, let’s all try to be a little nicer and a lot less judgmental about situations we have no knowledge on. It would be a much happier coexistence if we came from a kinder, less harsh, place in our hearts, when we see things we simply cannot understand.

*clumsily falls off very high horse*

* * *

Thanks so much for all your kind words on Susie yesterday. It made my heart so happy to know so many people were thinking of her.

See, the internet is good for things other then porn and political rants.

Sometimes.

* * *

Finally, a song for you on this Long Monday, from the master himself, John Prine.

He writes some of the best love songs ever. The lyrics make me all wobbly in my knees, and other places, too, like when I used to climb the rope in gym class.

Oh, I’ve gone and said too much, again.

Here, take a listen for yourself.

Happy Monday, my friends.

Thanks for stopping by.

xo

Today our sweet Susie would have turned 42. This is the fourth birthday we’ve had to celebrate without her here.

The thing about grief is that it’s intensity doesn’t really lessen. Sure, there’s often more time in between the crying spells and the anger and the heartbreak, sometimes, but when the realization that they’re gone hits, it hits just as hard; a punch in the gut every time.

I was on the road today when I remembered it was her day. Thank God for sunglasses, and toddler movies with headphones. I spent an hour of the drive sobbing in silence. Silently shaking. That’s the worst.

Still angry.

Still shocked.

Still full of panic that they are gone.

After they died, I’d get in my car and drive around aimlessly, pulling over many times for fear that I’d crash into something, or someone.

The tears…they can blind you sometimes.

Driving around, crying, listening to favorite albums. That’s how I grieved.

A certain song in particular, makes me think of her.

Just her.

Kind, loving, gorgeous, modest, strong, brilliant, compassionate, full of laughter, giving,  sexy, gifted, big-hearted, sweet, natural, sincere…and effortlessly cooler than anyone I’ve ever met.

That’s the way I’ll remember her best.

* * *

Happy Birthday, our sweet Susie-Q. I know you’re surrounded by Tommy, Thomas and Vivi…celebrating in some fabulous Susie-way.

You are missed beyond any words I could ever write here.

I love you, dude.

*If you subscribe via email, you may need to click through to view the video.

Back in 2009, I bought Luca this shirt.

I had hoped that by the time Leo could wear it, it would no longer be something that needed to be said. I mean, what decade are we in again? But, people continue to be ignorant haters.

So, now Leo is all up in arms, too.

This goes out to you One Million Moms. Teaching your kids hate and intolerance is just so Christian isn’t it?  Sigh. Get a life, One Million Moms. Or rather, A Few Hundred Assholes.

I could use a whole lot of blah blah blah to tell you about the kind of day I’m having.

But, I think it can be better explained with a mathematical equation.

Or a scientific formula?

Whatever.

Bite me, genius.

Toddlers + Dogs = Soggy Dog Food = OMG SOMEONE HELP ME = π

(Doesn’t everything = pi?)

(Pie is so much more my thing, by the way.)

Our fish Red just died.

His was red. And smart for a fish, I always suspected.

I left him in the tank for several days, because I’m lazy like that. And he looked like he was sleeping, anyway.

Upside down, but still.

Luca hasn’t noticed yet. He thinks he’s hiding under the manufactured aquarium crocodile we managed to squeeze into the small tank. You can fit something just about anywhere when you’re on the verge of toddler meltdown at PetSmart.

I toyed with telling him that Red just went to sleep for a long time. Or that he had to move somewhere. Closer to his relatives, maybe.

But even that seemed like too much for me.

You see, I remember exactly when I learned about death. Like, really, really understood it.

It’s never left me.

From the day I realized that I could go to sleep and never wake up, I haven’t stopped worrying about it.

As laid back as I can be, I’m actually cut from a pretty neurotic cloth. I’ve always worried  incessantly about things I have no control over.

As a little girl, I remember wanting to watch the nightly news when my mom was away on vacation. I wanted to be the first to hear about her plane crash.

When she showed up a day later, with toys and a smile, even then, at such a young age, I knew I’d overreacted.

But, that realization did nothing to quell the obsessive thoughts that were set on continuous loop in my head, like the worst kind of earworm.

Not much as changed today.

I still obsess. I think about my own mortality and it immobilizes me.

Just wait until my children are older….I pray to whatever might be out there.

And then I hug my friend good friend Denial tightly, and tell myself those things only happen to other people.

It’s the only way to get through some things.

I went on a trip without the kids back in February. In the days leading up to our departure, I felt like a Death Row inmate, counting down the clock until his deathday.

I had convinced myself that I wasn’t coming back. That my children would be parent-less. I just knew. The same way I knew my mother wasn’t coming back when she left.

Yet, she did come back.

And so did we.

I went back to feeling completely irrational and silly. And angry at myself for not enjoying what should have been so…enjoyable.

Now I sit here planning another trip in August. I’ll buy my plane ticket and excitedly chat with friends about how much fun we’ll have.

No kids for four days!? Swish!

Yet, I know what will happen as that day nears. That familiar panic will begin to rise. I’ll think of every reason to cancel. I’ll pray for the flu, or maybe a broken leg. Something that will make it unavoidable and acceptable for me to stay home, cocooned in my trusty bubble.

If I do muster the courage to carry out my plans, I’ll breathe a sigh of relief when my plane lands….just in time for me to start worrying about the trip back home four days later.

Those carefree people who fly by the seat of their pants always tell me to quit my worrying. That something could happen anywhere, at anytime; worrying about it won’t change the potential tragedies I fear.

But, some part of me feels like the worry is the only thing preventing the bottom from falling out from under us.

Worrying keeps my plane in the sky. It keeps the white blood cells stable, and my car bullet-proof.

If I let go of it, things are sure to go to shit.

My cousin Susie’s birthday is on the 8th. It will be the fourth birthday we celebrate without her here.

Gut-punch.

Since the accident, I can’t stop thinking about the days leading up to it. How happy they all were, looking forward to the last big summer vacation before the bell rang in the new school year. They had no inkling, thank God, that those days would be their last. No idea that the day they left their house, they would never return.

This rocks me to my core; that none of us know when.

I would give up everything I own, if someone could tell me we’d all grow happy and healthy together. Or, at least a notarized guarantee that I’ll be around until my children are no longer children.

As they get older my shoulders get so much heavier, knowing these questions are coming; that they, too, will carry this burden of uncertainty – the knowledge that they could lose their parents. Or themselves.

My heart shatters knowing they will have to face this.

I’m not a religious person, but I get religion now more than ever. The faith that this journey is not our last, and that we will all be together again one day for eternity. That makes everything so much more bearable, doesn’t it?

I’ll hold off explaining death to my children for as long as I’m able. But, inevitably, that day will come. The day were they become a little less child-like, taking on worries bigger than being stuck in timeout for five minutes, or not being allowed an extra piece of birthday cake.

Until then, I’ve added this to my ever-growing list of worries.

I’ll carry this burden for them as long I can, because as weak as I feel at times, their shoulders aren’t nearly as strong as mine.

And they can’t pop a Xanax when the fear takes hold.

I really need to be better about blogging, instead of throwing up every thought I have on Facebook and Twitter.

Let’s play catch up!

This week has been a long one. And emotional.

Lots of talk, as there should be, about the tragic murder of Trayvon Martin. When I first heard about it, and saw all the outrage about his murderer not even being arrested, I was relieved. People knew how fucked up it all was. My faith in humanity was restored.

Until it wasn’t.

First, I made the mistake, as I always do, of reading the accompanying comments on the online articles.

After I cleaned up the mess from my head exploding, I took a deep breath.

OK, that’s expected. The comments sections are where the bottom feeders go to spew their hatred and extremist (read: STUPID) opinions.

Then, I began seeing people I know, who were outraged at all the outrage about Trayvon’s murderer getting away with murder.

What? Outraged that a 17 year old kid with a bag of skittles and some tea was chased and shot, and the shooter was released and people are all like why the fuck is this news? WHAT IF THAT WERE YOUR KID?

*Cue another head explosion*

Then it got better (worse), people began making it a white vs. black media contest.

Oh, well, here is this case about a black man murdering a white man. Why isn’t it all over the news? Why didn’t Barack Hussein Obama comment on those cases?

Time after time I couldn’t stop from engaging, “OH, I DUNNO, PROBABLY BECAUSE THE ASSAILANT HAS BEEN ARRESTED AND THROWN IN JAIL.”

I would be JUST as outraged if a black man hunted down and murdered a white kid and was, essentially, thanked for his time and sent home in time to DVR his favorite program.

WHICH, by the way, would never happen.

I really can’t sum it up any better than Andy Borowitz did…

It’s really, really hard for me to see a bunch of white people all up in arms about their inequality. Oh, yes, poor oppressed us! We have it so hard, don’t we?

Don’t you for one second make the ridiculous claim that racism isn’t alive and well. Because YOU DON’T KNOW what it’s like to walk in their shoes. You don’t have people treat you differently because of the color of your skin. All it takes to know that racism is still rampant as hell is a quick look in the comments section.

Does reverse racism exist?*** (major footnote)? Of course it does. Ignorant assholes come in every color.

Does Zimmerman deserve the benefit of the doubt? I think not. The moment he was heard uttering the words, “FUCKING COON,” on the 911 tape, he lost all respect and credibility. You simply cannot say something that atrocious and then claim to not have a racist bone in your body.

Not. Possible.

Are people claiming that all white people are racist? No, they aren’t. So, why so defensive? Get your heads out of the white mud they are stuck in and try to muster up a little compassion and understanding.

Earlier in the week, I was caught in traffic behind a big Texas truck with Confederate flags all over it; the only thing that makes me cringe more than the “Texas Secede” bumper stickers.

And maybe I was feeling more sensitive than I normally would…with all that’s going on in Florida. But, whatever, it’s always made me cringe.

So, I do what I do best and shared my disgust online.

I had several people ask me what was so wrong with it? Why don’t you understand that it’s a symbol of pride for the South? Why do you automatically assume we are racist?

Alright, fair questions, I guess.

My issue is that, though some may see it as a symbol of pride of their Southern heritage, it dredges up so much pain for so many people.

Oh, that was so long ago, people need to get over it. I love the Confederate flag because my grandfather used to wear it.

Really? Well, the people that it hurts the most? Their grandfathers were murdered and lynched because of it. And owned like pieces of property. Or had their yards illuminated by burning crosses; their homes burned to the ground. So, maybe you should be the one that gets over it.

If I were attached to a symbol like that, and had Southern pride that ran so deep that I felt the need to wallpaper my bumper sticker with it, but then discovered it caused pain for even one person, I’d give up every ounce of my pride for them. FOR TODAY. In my book, it’s called common decency. No dumb sticker or flag is worth hurting someone so deeply.

Fuck your pride.

And I won’t even get into this despicable story. Ha, yeah, racism is so dead, y’all.

The whole thing has made me fear for my kids’ futures. And so saddened that my black friends and family members have to tell their children to watch their backs….for doing nothing more than existing.

* * * * * * * * * *

In other news, I took Luca to get his first blood draw. He took it like champ and watched closely at all four vials of blood being sucked from his arm.

He’s been tired lately, and not eating all that much. So, we just want to cover our bases and make sure we aren’t missing something. I’m sure it’s all fine, but if you guys could do whatever you do – pray, chant, spritz patchouli, sprinkle some glitter, do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight, get down tonight, etc., that would be awesome.

* * * * * * * * * *

And then there was mulchgate. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, it means you have blocked me on Twitter or Facebook. And, really, that hurts so mulch.

* * * * * * * * * *

Finally, Snoop the Asshole Cat is driving us all crazy. Basically, if he isn’t sleeping, he is meowing at three million decibels every moment of the day, and night. We have tried everything. My husband has even offered me a large amount of cheddar to find a new home for him. But, I just know someone else will turn him into a coat, so we have to ride it out.

We’ve tried giving him Xanax, but he usually finds a way to spit it back out. I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s either against Big Pharma or related to Tom Cruise.

* * * * * * * * * *

For know, I’ll leave you with all that to toss around in your brain.

Have a great weekend, and thanks for stopping by, friends.

xo

***After posting this, I got a couple of comments from friends of mine, regarding the term “reverse racism,” and how it doesn’t exist. The moment I actually took the time to think about it, I realized they are absolutely correct. It makes no sense, whatsoever. I’m super grateful to them for opening my eyes and educating me on this.

* * * * * * * * * *

I’m certain many of you will disagree with some of the things I’ve stated here, and that’s OK. But, please, try and keep it respectful up in here. Don’t be a dick.

I never see cool shit, you guys.

But, last night, I walked outside after I put the boys down*, and found this perfect little heart leaf, still damp with drops from the day’s fierce rains.

It ain’t no Virgin Mary on a grilled cheese, but pretty cool nonetheless. And much more my speed than burnt Jesus toast, anyway.

*By put down I mean put to sleep. But, not like they do at the veterinarian. To be sure.

It all begin one drunken night on Twitter…..

A few minutes later, an awesome Twitter buddy had designed my shirt. I ordered it immediately.

And then, a few days later, Cafepress was all “Blah blah blah copyright famous people blah blah blah you can’t have your shirt. Bitch.”

And to that I say, Oh, the irony! 

I’m not sure Milli Vanilli is all that entitled to it’s own…anything.

Ahem.

Cafepress, you know it’s true.

But, if I did own that shirt, it would look something like this…

And then, as it usually does, my brain took things a step further.

And I thought, “How awesome it would be if everyone walked around in shirts that blatantly stated how they were feeling that day?”

Like last week, I totally would have rocked this, with some cute shoes, of course…

And, yesterday, I would have slipped on this little number, thanks to this year’s elusive Lady Winter.

Sure, some of our thoughts may be a little awkward to wear, but it sure would cut down on a lot of bullshit small talk.

So, what would your shirt say today?