h1n1

Dear 2009,

Dear 2009,

It seems weird to do this in a letter, but I can’t think of any other way to do it. I need to tell you that it is over between us. I think it has been over for a very long time. I was trying to stick it out, I don’t know why- maybe just to prove that I could. But all that did was bring me more pain and sorrow.

I’m done.

I don’t want to be “friends”. I don’t want to pretend to care about how you are doing. I honestly, just want you to go away. It may sound harsh- but I think it’s best if we just sever all ties, and go our separate ways.

In truth, you were an ass.

Don’t even pretend to be bewildered. I can just see you now, feigning astonishment as you read this. “Where is this coming from?” “What did I do to deserve this?”

Yes, I’m not gonna lie- there were some good times, but the bad now seems to outweigh the good. I’m moving on, and you can’t convince me otherwise.

I had such high hopes for us in the begining. You swore President Obama into office to woo me, and it worked- I fell head over heels.
But then after a few months, things went sour. I felt like I didn’t know you anymore. You were no longer the year I fell in love with. You seemed cruel, and without any cause.

In June, you almost paralyzed my dog.
My beautiful, little pup!

Thank goodness Hot Nerd and I paid thousands of dollars (that we did not have) to get her emergency spinal surgery. And thank goodness after that, and all the physical therapy I gave her, she was able to walk again. But she never did anything to you. And for that- you suck.

I should’ve known it would only get worse.

At the end of that very month, you really tried to squash my spirit. I suppose you wanted to strike in a way that was not overtly personal, but would still wound me.

You were clever.

You were ruthless.

You started killing my childhood.

On June 25th, you took both Michael Jackson, and Farrah Fawcett from the world. I admired Farrah as a little girl, and then years later as a woman, I was inspired by her fight to live life in spite of cancer. Michael made me feel cool during so many adolescent, dark times, and was by far, one of the world’s greatest entertainers. I hated you for that.

You were so tricky, because just weeks later you made me BlogHer of the Week. Was that an apology? A smokescreen? A trick, to make me feel special and loved?

Just a month later you took the life of John Hughes (August 6th). His movies were stamped all over my teenage brain. He represents my angst and my innocence all in one.

How could you do that?

From then on, you became relentless…

And I know you remember this…

Hannah Montana- the movie.

No, don’t even bother trying to explain.

After that, you must have been a little drunk with power. You thought it would be fun to burn over 160,557 acres of the Angeles National Forest. Is it because you knew there was a beautiful place in those mountains that had once given me such hope? Did you have to use the Station Fires to turn that place into piles of ash?

You then broke me with BALLOON BOY. As a mother, I watched in terror for hours as that hot air balloon raced across the sky. My heart broke into a million pieces, when it finally landed and there was no little boy inside. We all knew it was likely he fell out, and most certainly couldn’t have survived that kind of fall. I couldn’t even imagine what his parents, Richard and Mayumi Heene, must have been feeling. I was ill. I called Hot Nerd in tears.

“He’s not there. He’s not in there. I think he fell out! Oh my God, they lost their little boy…”

Then, you bitch slapped me, pointed, and laughed.

It was all a fucking lie.

On top of that, you then moved us into the worst apartment on the face of the planet. Complete with fake faucet handles, broken doors, rusty water, and no working heat. After a month without heat, my baby boy got sick, I got sick, and you struck down Hot Nerd with the h1n1 virus.

I don’t know how I handled it. The tragedies, the illnesses, even the little day to day jabs from you. Endless parking tickets, broken washing machines, Octomom on TV, crazy smoke detectors, noisy neighbors, Jon and Kate, tonsil stones, and stupid health insurance companies.

I was lucky to find an outlet in my blog, and an online community as well. But you were jealous of that and lashed out at them. You wanted to hurt the community, and you did.

Anissa Mayhew and her family suffered at the hands of your severe stroke. She is awake now, but has a long journey ahead of her. And Shellie Ross did not deserve to lose her two year old little boy. Nor does she deserve the onslaught of online mothers, who are criticizing her- a bereft mother, for being online herself.

So just stop it, 2009.

You and I are done.

I actually made this decision a while ago, and just couldn’t put it into words.

You must have sensed it, because I think you tried to lash out one last time with the strange passing of actress Brittany Murphy on December 20th. And then on the 28th, with a not- so- quick trip to the ER for Hot Nerd, myself, and half-crazed toddler in tow.

It’s sick. It’s mean. And I’m done with it.

Yes, if you must know, there is someone else. Or, more accurately, the hope of someone else.

This someone is named 2010.

And although we haven’t officially met yet, I think things look very promising.

So don’t write.

Don’t call.

And don’t apologize, because I wouldn’t believe you anyway. You’ve lied too many times.

You may, however, feel free to kiss my swaying ass as I walk away.

A couple days from now you’ll probably find me dancing in the arms of 2010.

But don’t try to approach us,

or say hi,

or even wave from a distance.

Because I’ll just pretend I don’t know you.

Goodbye.

Something better.

The Smoke Detector That Broke The Camel’s Back.

There is only so much a person can take.

Human beings (yes, mommies too) are fragile, as much as we don’t like to admit it. We disregard this fact. We push it deep down and pretend to be super heroes. We call it “necessity”, because after all, someone needs to take care of the house, feed the family, change the diapers, walk the dogs, keep the doctor appointments, buy the groceries, enforce nap times, wipe the noses, do the laundry, do the ironing, schedule the play dates, and generally keep the world spinning.

If you follow my blog, then you know that I have had ONE HECK OF A MONTH. With our new apartment falling apart around us, not having heat, Bam Bam getting sick, myself getting sick, and Hot Nerd struck down by the h1n1 virus , my mettle has been tested.

A couple weeks ago, I shattered into a million pieces. My fortitude was reduced to the equivalent of a soft, albeit tasty, cinnamon crumb cake. One touch= an avalanche of crumbly crumbles scattered all over your plate.

What was the culprit you ask? What evil superpower led to my eventual undoing? Two words for you:

SMOKE DETECTOR

Please imagine, if you will:

Hot Nerd is out for the evening with a friend. They are spending a late night at the roller derby (No, you did not misread. I really did say ROLLER DERBY.) At a little after midnight, I am jarred awake by a very high pitched, disturbingly loud, BEEP BEEP BEEP.

I jump out of bed with my heart in my throat and blindly throw my pillow at the… I don’t know… whatever I thought was attacking us at the moment!

Silence.

I feel around in the dark, breathing very heavily, and switch on the light. I scan the room briefly, and then, three very loud BEEP BEEP BEEPS!

I realize that it is the smoke detector in our bedroom, and become very afraid that it will wake Bam Bam and scare the living crap out of him, like it did me. It is not making a constant string of beeps. Just three piercing beeps, followed by about 20 seconds of silence. You know, just enough time to catch your breath, and remember what silence sounds like, before another round of earth shattering BEEP BEEP BEEPS.

This lack of a continuous string of beeps, leads me to believe that it has something to do with the battery. I thank the powers that be for putting a 9volt battery in our junk drawer, and quickly hop on top of our son’s step stool to change the battery.

I CANT FIGURE OUT HOW TO CHANGE THE BATTERY. I see no button, or hatch, or twisty- pully thing. I know there’s a battery in there somewhere because BEEP BEEP BEEP!

I begin simply swatting at the thing. As if to clear the imaginary smoke from around the device. I must point out, that the thirty days leading up to this point has already left me ill, sleep deprived, and the biggest walking ball of stress you’ve ever seen. So please forgive me when I tell you all that I begin to pry the thing off of the wall. I gotta say, nowadays, they really stick those things to the walls. It would not budge- okay it budged a little. But being on top of my son’s tiny step stool, balancing on my tippy tippy toes just didn’t give me the leverage I needed. BEEP BEEP BEEP. So I start to beat it. First with my flat hand, then with my fist. Magic fist, apparently. Magic fist that makes the battery pop out of a weird, hidden, battery slot. YAY. I change the battery.

I praise the Gods that Bam Bam is still asleep in the next room and begin to climb down from my post.

BEEP. Silence.

Huh, that must be the beep that tells you you’ve successfully changed the battery.

BEEP. Silence.

Okay… that must be the beep that reminds you to perhaps check the batteries in the other smoke detectors...

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!

I scramble back up the step stool and start slapping the thing. I’m also whispering vehemently, right up into what I imagine to be it’s face, “What do you want from me, you mother fucking piece of crap? I will kill you. Do you hear me? I … will… KILL YOU.”

I can not fathom how any of this is possible. How does a nice, new shiny battery produce MORE beeping. It was teasing me. The fucking thing was teasing me.

While I’m up in it’s imaginary face, whisper/yelling at it, I notice a teeny button that says press to silence.

Oh my God, I press it.

I soooooo press it.

It is silent.

Then it is not.

BEEP.

It’s a softer beep. Not a silent beep. The button should say press to get a softer, only slightly less annoying beep.

I, at this point, am wondering what kind of futuristic, indestructible, alien smoke detector this is.

I have also worked up a sweat.

And I’m crying.

I can not think of anything else to do, but to stand there on my toes and keep my finger on the stupid button. I am amazed that my son has not woken up, and if the loud beeps start again, my brain will most definitely explode.

I stand there.

My arm goes a little numb.

I stand there.

On my toes.

On my son’s step stool.

In the corner of my bedroom.

Feeling completely trapped.

Then I jump off, run to the nightstand, grab my phone, run back, and press the button again.

I decide there is nothing else left in me. I call my husband. I tell Hot Nerd that I need him to come home. It’s an emergency. I’m at my wit’s end. My fingers are numb. I’ve got a cramp in my calf. And I’m very, very, very tired.

I give him the low down on the phone. He’s at a bar, they just ordered food…blah blah blah. I don’t care. I tell him I’m about to go crazy and he needs to come home. His friend, jokingly suggests that maybe our place is haunted, and this all being done by a ghost.

I instantly believe that this is true.

There is no other explanation. It is an evil spirit trying to terrorize me.

I begin to sob, uncontrollably.

Hot Nerd says he will be home as soon as possible.

I must add, here, that this whole ordeal has completely fried my two little doggies. They are shaking, and skittering around, and this only confirms my belief that the evil spirits are out to get us.

Hot Nerd takes about twenty minutes to get home.

I spend that time sobbing, stuck in a corner, with my numb finger on that stupid button, tirelessly scanning the room for ghosts, and praying that I don’t become possessed by demons. Our closet doors begin to rattle. Our apartment is so shoddily made, that they rattle when anyone enters the building, but at that moment, I’m pretty sure they are rattling because of pure evil. I truly don’t remember the last time I was so terrified.

Hot Nerd, when he arrived, let me cry on his shoulder for a few seconds, then went through a series of similar tasks with the battery. Every time we thought he had fixed it, a random beep would occur.

Finally, we figured out it was the stand up AC unit that was in our room. We keep the fan on for noise, and the vent was pointed straight up at the smoke detector. At least we think that’s it. We moved it. It didn’t beep. Beep or no beep, I didn’t sleep a wink that night.

The next morning, Hot Nerd suggested in a very gentle way that I might be a little over stressed. He suggested I schedule a massage for the following weekend to relax. This is why he is a genius. And also why he is hot.

I still glare at that smoke detector when I’m in bed. That little, round thing was the last straw for me.

I broke.

I could take no more.

Sometimes the mountains we carry on our backs just keep piling higher and higher. We’re too busy pointing out how high the mountain is on our spouse’s back, or making sure a mountain never gets to start on our children’s backs.

So let this be a reminder to those reading:

Unless you wanna go bat shit crazy on a battery operated device, that is supposed to save lives, and swat at imaginary demons in your bedroom- take some time every now and then to lighten your load.

It’s not hard. A warm bath. A massage. A yoga class. An exorcism.

Something.

Because you never know what the last straw will be.