Coming Soon: Baby McClelland

Good gravy you people made it difficult to hide this for 3 months. Jesse and I will be welcoming our very own offspring into the world in June. See?

Now you've also seen my ovaries and the inside of my uterus.

Consider this my obligatory "announcement." I've decided that the best way to sum up my experiences for the last 3 months is to make a list that breaks down the joy that is the first trimester.

Sara: Hey, you know what sucks? The Wellesley Effect. A phenomenon where women who live in close quarters experience synchronized menstrual cycles. Specifically, it sucks when only one of you gets pregnant. The other one gets to have ghosted symptoms for a good couple of weeks, regardless of the fact they're not even getting a little alien mutant thing out of it. What in the actual fuck, biology?

1. If you suspect your friend might be pregnant – DON’T ASK FOR THE SAKE OF FUCK. Everyone knows that it's common practice to wait until you’re out of your first trimester to tell everyone because your risk of miscarriage or the baby not having a heartbeat are actually fairly high. It’s, um, awkward to tell everyone you’re pregnant, and then have to tell everyone you’re, uh, not anymore. So if you notice your friend is looking a little bloated, or eating really bland foods, or isn’t drinking beer when she normally would – keep it the fuck to yourself! It’s terrifying when someone asks you in that accusatory tone (like you didn’t do your homework or something), “Are you pregnant?” Holy shit! NO! I’m just REALLY into being the designated driver! Keep. That shit. To yourself.  Stop interrogating me.
2. Trying to keep it a secret is really hard if you’re a booze-hound like me. As soon as I order a water when I’m at the Diamond Knot – EVERYONE AND THEIR MOM WILL KNOW I’M KNOCKED UP.
3. Sore boobs. Oh my god. The sore boobs. They have grown 2 cup sizes, and I have suffered. Walking hurts, putting on a bra hurts, moving hurts, looking at and thinking about them hurts.
4. The fatigue. Here is an example of a typical day - 9am: Why am I so tired? I went to bed at 9pm. That's 12 hours. 2pm: If I don't take a nap, I am going to collapse or puke. 4pm: Wake up from nap, feel slightly rested. And why the fuck did I lay on my stomach because my boobs feel like someone used them as a punching bag while I was alseep. 8pm: Can I go to bed yet? Why do I want to go to bed? 8:45pm: Fuck it, I'm going to sleep. 9am: Wake up and repeat. 
5. There is no such thing as morning sickness. It’s all day sickness. I spent a lot of time asking myself, “Am I hungry or do I want to barf?” Luckily I never got THAT nauseous. I just felt queasy all the time. It’s like being hung-over; only it lasts for 3 months, and you didn't even get to have any fun the night before.
6. Pooping. You would miss it, too.
7. Peeing. I have to every half hour. 
8. That pregnancy “glow?” It’s caused by excess progesterone, which makes your skin produce more natural oils. Another name for my pregnancy glow is acne. People who lie to you about the joys of pregnancy decided to use the misleading word “glow” instead of “you'll look like you're going through puberty again.”
9. My Mayo Clinic book keeps telling me that I’ll occasionally feel “light cramping.” What they really mean I’ll feel are growing pains. I can literally feel my uterus stretching and migrating. It's as weird as it sounds.
10. Bloating. Oh, look at my cute little baby bump! Nope, it’s gas, in and around my uterus. Can I fit into these pants today? Probably not because I had broccoli and cabbage with my dinner last night. Right now, at 13 weeks, it's definitely a baby bump - but still subject to gas extension. Awesome, right?
11. The stuff you're not supposed to eat is ridiculous. - Only one cup of coffee per day. One day, I had a cup of coffee then had a latte later in the afternoon. I know, I'm a monster! -  No deli meat unless you heat it in the microwave until steaming. Gross.  - No smoked or cured meats (smoked salmon, prosciutto, salami, basically anything delicious).  - No soft cheese. I totally ate some brie one night and have put goat cheese in my eggs. Call CPS!  - No more medium rare steaks, make it well done. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to bastardize a beautiful piece of red meat by cooking the pink out of it because ehrmagerd teh baby might not like it!   - No runny egg yolks. What? No fried eggs over-easy? This is offensive and unacceptable. I will NOT be subjected to cooked egg yolks and I WILL have runny egg yolk over my breakfast hash.

So that's it. The first 3 months in all their glory. If you end up having/had a fantastic time during your first trimester, then screw you. 

The Annual Turkey Shoot Letter

Dear Turkey Shoot coaches and parents,

            It is our distinct pleasure to thank you all for registering for this year’s Turkey Shoot soccer tournament! We are very excited to host one of the largest recreational youth soccer tournaments in the state this year, and we hope you are just as excited to take part. We have been in charge of this tournament for a long time (15+ years!) and we have loved being a part of it each and every year. But before the first games start on the 16^th, however, we’d like to call your attention to a few guidelines that will help to keep this tournament running smoothly and efficiently, both this year and in the future.

            You may have noticed during the registration process that your team’s age and gender bracket were missing from the website. That indicates that the bracket is already full and is no longer accepting any more teams’ registrations. That way we can begin scheduling games as quickly as possible. However, many teams signed up for another age or gender bracket instead, thinking that as long as their registration was received, we would schedule accordingly. That is fucking retarded. Seriously. All that does is fuck everything up. We are not goddamn psychics, people. If you sign up your U-15 boys’ team in the U-12 girls’ bracket, we are going to assume that you’re a bunch of 11-year-old girls, because that’s the fucking logical conclusion. Then, when you show up to play a bunch of little girls, we’re going to have you cited for juicing them with steroids until they resemble 14-year-old boys. Then point and laugh at your stupid ass while you walk off the field in shame. Jesus…get your shit together people.

            Don’t bring your dog to the fields. There are no dogs allowed on any of our facilities. We don’t give a single fuck about how well-behaved he is. Leave Fido at home. He’ll be fine for a few hours. Promise.

            If for some reason Lindsay, our beloved tournament director, has decided to make an exception such as…say…opening up registration especially for your team to sign up late because of extenuating circumstances, don’t forget to do it. And if she opens it up a second time…don’t forget to do it then, either. Or the third time. Or even the fourth. And if you have gotten to this point, don’t leave an apologetic voice mail blaming the World Series for your Alzheimer’s symptoms. We’re running a soccer tournament. At least blame the MLS playoffs or something we can relate to. Not something boring like baseball. And you should probably bribe us with beer or something too. Happy tournament officials make a happy tournament.

            Our tournament headquarters are in a trailer behind Kasch field 3 (and now it sounds like we're some sketchy dude with FREE CANDY plastered across his van...we assure you we're not). The trailer is there to house our hardworking administrators, field marshals, and referees. If you would like to report your score directly to headquarters, you may. But that had better be the only reason you open the door of our trailer to let all of the heat out. We don’t want to hear you complain about one of our hard-working, highly trained, and overworked referees. We don’t want to hear all about how the other team is totally a select team (I don’t understand where the fuck this comes from. There’s a conspiracy among select teams to ruin the tournaments of rec players? The Joker’s coaching a select team and just wants to watch Turkey Shoot burn? Seriously. Think before you open your food-hole and vomit words all over our goddamn trailer). We don’t want to hear you complain about your early game. Twenty other teams had to play that morning and they’re not whining like spoiled little brats. Don’t ask if you can have some food. You can’t. Get in, give us your score, compliment the tournament or us (yes, we accept compliments as bribes for more time in the heated trailer. Deal with it), and get the fuck out.

            Seriously, if you bring your mangy mutt to the fields we’re going to dognap it and turn it into a goddamn muff. Well…maybe not. But we’re going to boo you and throw dog shit at you. See how we turned that one around? Don’t fuck with us.

            If you park in an area that is coned off as a no parking area, don’t get your panties in a bunch if our referee assigner Victoria calls you a douchebag. You are one. Deal with it.

            We are always a bit saddened when we have to address this point, but it always seems to be necessary…for the love of God, don’t say something racist to the kids on the other team. You are a parent and a role model for fuck’s sake. What in the actual fuck is so wrong with your brain that you think this is okay? They’re fucking kids, you sick fuck! Be the bigger person, literally and figuratively, and leave your idiotic bigotry at home. We have no need for it.

          We are also generally saddened by grown men who harass 13-year-old referees. Are you fucking kidding me? You're a big man, telling that 13-year-old off. The real reason your team lost the game is not because your referee let the other team push you. For fuck's sake, are you coaching a team of nancys? Soccer is a contact sport, and the reason your team lost is because they have a coach who's more interested in bitching and moaning about how everything is SO unfair - instead of sacking up and actually coaching. They somehow think Lindsay (who is all-knowing and all-powerful during this weekend - basically a demi-god) won't find out. They also think Lindsay won't rip them a new asshole in front of their entire team, citing examples XYZ as to why you're an ass-hat, and then she tells you to get the fuck out of her face - and you DO it, because all you really are is a little bitch. Seriously though, this has happened a few times, and it was as awesome and entertaining to watch as it sounds.

            The tournament’s rules are not the same as seasonal play. Please read your rulebook and note the differences. That's um, why we distribute rule books. If a rule is not to your liking, such as 5 players a side for U-8 games instead of the seasonal 4, shut the fuck up about it. This isn’t the fucking World Cup. We are not attempting to revolutionize the entire game of soccer in order to ruin your child’s youth. We are trying to run a fun and efficient tournament for the community. Before you complain about something as miniscule as this, ask yourself this question: “Is my 7-year-old going to worry more about an extra player on the field, or what mud puddle she’s going to jump into next?” Perspective, people. Get some.

            DO. NOT. BRING. YOUR. DOG. TO. THE. FIELD. YOU. FUCKING. TWAT.

            If you simply pay attention to these guidelines, we should have a fun-filled, smooth, and exciting tournament in a few weeks’ time. We hope you have as much fun participating in the tournament as we have running it. Thank you and we look forward to seeing you all very soon!

I bet Mr. T is also an ass-man

For some reason, the last few conversations we've chosen for the blog are themed around asses. As usual, Dad graced us with yet another over share from the inner workings of his brain, and Sara found out way more about her brother-in-law's preferences than she wanted to know.

Dad: So _______ used to have a perfect  JLo ass and now it's the size of an axe handle. (We PROMISE it's not anyone you know or who would read this. )
Sara: What does that have to do with anything?

Dad: Well it's true. 

Lindsay: Dad's an ass man, Sara. It's what he looks at.

Dad: See? Lindsay gets me.

Lindsay: Jesse's an ass man, too. If I leave him alone with a camera and stop paying attention there will be half a dozen shots of my ass on there that I'll find later when I go through the pictures. 

Jesse: Well, I can't help myself! It's there, and the camera's in my hand!

Sara: I think we may have another blog post.

Dad: DON'T include me in this!

Sara: Why? You started it!

Dad: I did no such thing.

Sara: You started talking about how you find ______ less attractive because her ass doesn't look like JLo's anymore.

Dad: I forgot about that.

The next day, Mom was walking around the house, saying things like, "are you using MY stove? Are you eating MY anchovies? Are you drinking MY wine?" She also likes to troll people when she's in a mood like this. 

Mom: Lindsay, your butt's getting big. 

Lindsay: If you mean it's getting more awesome because I can squat for days, than thank you. 

Mom: I'm just kidding. It doesn't look any different. I just wanted to see what you'd say. 

Lindsay: Feel my butt! It's like a rock! Feel it!

Mom: <Pokes her butt> Yah, that's ok. Feel mine. 

Lindsay: <Pokes Mom's butt> Ok, that's pretty hard. 

Mom: I know.

Sara: Feel mine!

Mom: <Lindsay and Mom poke Sara's butt> Not as hard as mine.

Last night we went out to a fancy bistro for Mom's birthday dinner. At some point during the night, Mr. T was mentioned. 

Mom: Who?

Dad: Mr. T. You know, the black guy from the 80's with all the gold chains. "I pitty da fool!"

Mom: Oh yeah, the guy who's on Law & Order: SVU.

Lindsay: <laughs> Mom, that's Ice T, the rapper, not Mr. T.

An Ungrateful Brat's Rant on Fox News

Dad thinks that I (Sara) swear excessively. He claims that it dumbs down my vernacular and maintains that I should speak “more intelligently,” considering he spent thousands of his own dollars on my college education. Mom, on the other hand, always bristles when I criticize Fox News for being a misleading and unethical news source. So, I’ve decided to piss both of them off simultaneously by writing an essay on exactly why Fox is misleading. As an early graduate, cum laude, of the Edward R. Murrow College of Communications, one of the best colleges in the nation for ethics in reporting, I am actually ridiculously qualified to speak on this subject. And I’m going to swear like a goddamn fucking sailor the entire time. Why? Because it's my goddamn right as a red-blooded, beer drinking, tax paying American.

I’d also like to point out that I’m not doing this with a political agenda. I’m not showing my support for any other news networks (like the astonishingly dysfunctional and unreliable fucktards at CNN or the bleeding-heart puff-piece pussies at MSNBC), nor a political candidate, nor any point of view. Fox News would be equally jaw-droppingly awful if they instead portrayed liberals as ball-crushing super mega-awesome champions of the universe and conservatives as piss-poor excuses for human beings. I am simply trying to piss off my parents, like any other well-adjusted little brat would do.

Let’s start with something simple: framing. Framing, as a communicative tool, is a linguistics-based process that selects certain aspects of a subject to present which then influence our understanding of the subject. Think of it like someone’s Facebook profile picture. The picture may indeed be of a human being with goals, ambition, and opinions; but the sucked-in cheeks, puffed-out lips, oompa-loompa colored skin, obscene amounts of make-up, and caption that passively and irritatingly begs for the validation that daddy never gave her (OMG I’m so ugly lol, ready to go out with my bestiezzz! #YOLO) predisposes you to think of her as a tragic genetic accident between a rejected barbie and a duck. You can do the same thing with news stories. You select a frame through which to present the information, and your audience’s understanding will be affected by that.

Probably the best example of framing is Fox’s slogan: “Fair and Balanced.” Before you even hear the fucking story, they’ve shoved it in your head that what they’re saying is truthful, unbiased, and well-thought out. That’s the biggest fucking crock of bullshit on the goddamned planet. The first rule of reporting without being a manipulative douche nozzle is that, because we’re fucking human, everything we say is biased. The best way to deal with that is to not ignore it;  but to grow a fucking pair, accept, understand, and try to mitigate our own biases.

Basically, by not even acknowledging the possibility that what their reporters have to say may be affected by their personal opinions (Pfft, who lets their feelings affect their work? Goddamn communists, that’s who), Fox effectively frees their information from any sort of accountability. If someone says “that’s an opinion” Fox can point to their truth and legitimacy frame, using such phrases as “It’s a fact,” “You can’t deny that,” or “Fuck you, I’m an anteater!” in order to discredit the accusing party as a stupid asshole and reinforce the audience’s misguided trust in themselves.

Okay. I don’t think anyone on Fox has ever said that last one, but to be honest sometimes that’s what I hear in my head when Hannity starts yelling about the Founding Fathers’ opinions or something else equally irrelevant in a conversation about modern-day issues.

Another totally lame-ass technique Fox employs is priming selected concepts. Priming is the process by which you strengthen the connections between two concepts through repeated

activation. This is an observable physical process, called neuroplasticity, that mainly takes place in the Hippocampus and other areas involved in memory consolidation. As the pre-terminal neuron fires more and more action potentials, the axons grow and the terminal buttons release more neurotransmitters with each action potential (Bet you thought a Com major couldn’t talk biology, didn't ya fuckers?). For example, if I say “Bitches ain’t shit,” you may find yourself thinking “But hoes and tricks.” Those two items have a very strong primed connection, strengthened through repetitive activation, because no one listens to that song just once. However, if I give you some time to list all of the things that come to mind, you may come up with some weaker primed connections, such as Ben Folds or even the place you were when you first heard the song.

Fox News primes concepts like bros roofie girls’ drinks: constantly. Concepts like the mainstream media and liberalism (I especially like the part where they don’t self-identify as

mainstream media. It’s like when that guy at the bar in the Ed Hardy shirt and spiked hair says he’s just trying to be friendly. We both know it’s bullshit, and it makes him an even bigger sleazebag), letting the Bush tax cuts expire and class warfare (a complete fucking misappropriation of Marxist theory, but I digress...) Christianity and morality, Islam and radicalism, or even unions and corruption. The more they bring up these connections, the more available they are in the audience’s minds...and therefore more likely to be interpreted as trustworthy and accurate.

So. Fox reports on a story...say Romney’s statement about his proposed foreign policy in the Middle East* (which includes arming the Syrian rebels. Yeah. That strategy has TOTALLY

worked out for us in the past. Just LOOK at how much fucking fun Afghanistan is having), the audience is predisposed to form the exact opinion Fox wants them to. They read the story and activate primed concepts, such as the Middle East and a fundamental difference in values, or Obama and naivety. Because those concepts come so readily to mind, they don’t bother saying “Hold up, why in the Hell do I think that we have an obligation to fuck with Syria and Iran and, by extension, mother fucking Russia?”, but instead accept the legitimacy frame as an explanation for the activation of the previously primed connections, thinking “Goddamn right we should intervene. Everyone knows the Middle East is completely tribal and fundamentally fucked. That’s just a fact.” And that’s how perfectly rational people turn into fucking shitheads.

So...there’s my rant about a corrupt butthole of a news organization that is slowly chipping away at the little bit of integrity left in broadcasting or journalism. You don’t have to agree with anything I’ve said; I’m not arguing semantics, but rather pragmatics, and I invite anyone who would like to challenge that I have been inaccurate in that respect. But I could give a fuck either way, as I accomplished my goal: I just wrote with more substance than most Fox correspondents can muster, and I cussed up a goddamn storm while I did it. This is the part where, if this was a rap battle, I would throw the microphone down and walk away, just fucking dripping swag. But it’s a blog so...I’ll just sit here smugly and quietly and pretend I didn’t waste an enormous amount of my time just to be a little shit to my loving parents.

*If you would like to see exactly what I’m talking about, here’s a link to that story: http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2012/10/08/romney-hope-is-not-strategy-in-middle-east/

Kathy Gets a Vibrator

Last night, we were all in the kitchen. Lindsay was cooking, Sara was not offering to help, Mom was listening to Bill O’Reilly rant about unpatriotic shrimp (or something. We’re not sure. We’ve gotten pretty good at tuning most of it out), and Dad was telling Lindsay all about the Mongolians, whether she wanted to hear about them or not. Pretty typical week night. Some family friends called, who had just returned from a big trip around the world. Mom and Dad decided that the best idea was to answer on speakerphone (even though we have 2 separate phones so they could each talk on their own headpiece) and have a loud conversation in the kitchen, competing with the TV and kitchen fan for noisiest thing in the room.

Sara: Why in the actual fuck do they have to talk right there? They have a whole house to talk in and they picked the one room that’s already noisy.

Lindsay: Because they’re Mom and Dad. They're getting old and people get weirder as they get older. I don’t know why you continue to expect them to be normal.

Dad: What?

Lindsay: Sara thinks you guys are talking too loudly.

Sara: And you don’t?

Dad: I own everything. I can talk as loud as I want wherever I want.

Sara: Doesn’t make you any less of a butthole.

Later, the subject of cleaning came up. With so many of us in the house, it can get messy very quickly. We all help out in some way or another, but occasionally someone tries to use it as leverage in an argument…and by someone we mean Dad, and by occasionally we mean constantly.

Dad: Who do you think is the one that keeps the house clean?

Lindsay: Certainly not Mom, as much as she’d like to believe otherwise.

Dad: ME! Although your mother does clean. She just does it in spurts. She’ll go a week without doing anything and then clean everything in a day.

Sara: Me too! That’s why I never clean as I go. I like to do it all at once.

Lindsay: Yeah, me too. I'm like someone with Parkinson's running. Once I start I can't stop.

Obviously, after that politically correct comment, we decided it was a good idea to start writing things down.

Sara: Mom’s not going to like this next blog post. She’ll probably yell at us for being terrible daughters and tell everyone how awful we are, as usual.

Lindsay: Mom gets mad at everything. It’s like she has dementia. She just yells at shit for no reason.

Sara: Dude, could you imagine how much it would suck if she actually got dementia?

Lindsay: Wow, way to be a Debbie Downer.

Sara: No, I don’t mean in the actually sad way. I mean for us. Do you have any idea how much louder she would be all the time?

Lindsay: She'd be like Dad asking us the same things over and over again, only angry. 

We’re not entirely sure why degenerative neurological disorders kept coming up, but we’ve agreed that it’s definitely not a good sign. But the most disturbing part of the night, by far, happened at the dinner table.

Mom: So I got a vibrator today.

<Horrified silence>

Dad: <while walking away> Oh my god Kathy…

Sara: That is the worst thing I’ve heard all day.

Lindsay: I heard this already.

Mom: Don’t you want to see it?

Sara: This can’t be happening right now.

Mom: Oh calm down. It’s a special vibrator for my hand; it helps break up the scar tissue. My physical therapist told me I could go to The Love Package* and buy one or just use theirs, so I took theirs.

Jesse: Oh thank God…

Sara: We were eating, WHY would you do that while we’re eating?! That was one of the worst moments of my life.

<Mom laughs all the way back to the computer>
*She meant Lovers, the store formerly known as Lover's Package. Another shining example of Mom's ability to remember names of things. 


For the record, we would love to see our mother go into an adult store and tell the cashier the vibrator she just bought is for her hand.

"Give me your hand and I'll change your life"

The Bowyer women like to think of ourselves as strong, independent, and driven. Depending on whom you ask, they may either agree or suggest a different, ruder word to describe us. But whether you think we’re more like Oprah or a James Bond villain…well to tell you the truth, we don’t really give two shits what you think. Our point is that we don’t exactly have the most normal or romantic of relationships. We don’t have the patience for most of that bullshit.

For example, Mom gave Dad a call in mid-August.

Mom: Is it the 17^th today?

Dad: Yes ma’am!

Mom:...wasn’t our anniversary last week?

Dad: Yes ma’am, I believe it was!

Mom: Hm. Anyways, will you pick up my prescriptions on your way home today?

That’s how they’ve celebrated their anniversary every year for the past 27 years. We know, it’s a beautiful love story. Go ahead and get a tissue, we’ll wait.

You might be thinking that, since they’re still kind of sort of newlyweds, Lindsay and Jesse are at least a little more traditionally romantic. Their favorite way to spend a Friday night is to buy a 12-pack, get in their sweatpants, and play Lego Batman on Xbox.

So…you were wrong.

In fact, Lindsay and Jesse are almost reversed in their roles as husband and wife. Lindsay sent Jesse off to his friend’s bachelor party in Vegas with a wallet full of 1 and 5 dollar bills, because…

Lindsay: What the fuck is the point of going to Vegas if you don’t go to a strip club?

Conversely, Jesse likes to annoy Lindsay by being overly affectionate in public.

Lindsay: Jesse. Stop it. There are people around.

Jesse: If loving you is a crime, then I’m guilty as charged!

Lindsay: Gross.

Sara, the only unattached member of the house (holla back, single ladies!), somehow has the worst reputation for not having the patience for romanticism. The last boy (a.k.a The Biscuit) that Sara brought home received a very warm, comforting greeting:

Mom: So has anyone told you that Sara has no soul?

Sara: *In an angry whisper* Shut. Up. Mother.

The Biscuit: …excuse me?

Sara: Nothing! Now let’s get going, hm?

Later, when they hadn’t heard anything from Sara about good ol’ Biscuit, they asked.

Dad: What happened to that guy you went out with?

Sara: Eh. Not much.

Dad: That lame, huh?

Sara: No, not at all. He was just too nice.

Mom: What do you mean?

Sara: He wouldn’t let me pay for dinner and then tried to hold my hand.

Mom: So…basically he tried to be a gentleman and treat you to a nice date?

Sara: Yes, and it was SO irritating.

This Sunday night, we had our usual family dinner. Barbecued ribs, sweet potatoes, and grilled peaches. Yeah, we know. You’re jealous. We would be too!

Dad (for the 3rd time): Sara, do you want a peach?

Sara and Lindsay: No!

Dad: Jeez...you don't need to be so snotty!

Mom: Well you ask the same thing over and over!

Dad: *pauses * Give me your hand and I'll change your life.

Mom: What?

Dad: I want to kiss your hand!

After a brief scuffle during which there was a lot of yelling and loud noises, Mom offered Dad her hand. He grabbed it and kissed it, but apparently grasped onto the post-op scar on her hand.

Mom: Ouch!

*Lindsay and Sara snicker*

Dad: I was being a romantic!

Later, after we stopped laughing our faces off at Dad’s “I’ll change your life” comment, we wrote down a rough draft of this blog. If we don’t do this, we usually don’t remember the conversations for later. It’s pretty disappointing, actually, how many other hilarious things have gone undocumented. Maybe we shouldn’t drink so much?

Pfft. Like that’s ever going to happen.

So we had Mom read through our rough draft, and she had this to say:

Mom: You know he didn't actually grab my scar. I just said ouch.

Lindsay: Why?

Sara: To be a bitch.

Mom: *nods in agreement.*

And in conclusion but completely unrelated, Mom still can’t manage to get even the most prominent of names correct:

Mom: Well I didn't get to watch Chris Wallace today and I didn't watch Huckabee because he had Justin Beaver's Mom on.

Guest Post by the House Dragon: Pt. 2

We let our Mom write another blog post. We won't tell you where, or edit anything...but she did take some creative license/has a reconstructive memory (Sara: Yeah. She took creative license. More like she slandered me as an ungrateful, lazy drug addict, then promoted mixing opiates and alcohol. But I digress...). She was on pain pills. Also, her idea of taking care of her family is drinking wine and Lindsay cooking dinner.

I wrote a blog post about my family's treatment of me post surgery and the whiny, angry girls didn't post it, enen though they advertised on the blog that it would be next. Now that I'm out of my splint and can actually type using my right hand, it all seems useless to relive the nightmare.

My mother-in-law flew up from Arizona to take care of me and make sure Brock had food to eat, and she was the bright spot. Dolores cheerfully shuttled me to the doctor, the hand therapist, and any other errand I had to do. Dolores helped me shower and dress and do my hand exercises. And...family...take note. She did not sigh. She did not roll her eyes. She did not say "now?" Dolores is my favorite!

I spent a month hiding my pain pills. Everyone wanted me to share. I could barely open a drawer, but I took the pills out of the bottle and put them in a jewelry bag and hid them underneath my hand therapy exercise papers. If I had left the pills in the bottle, they would have been gone!

After about 2 weeks I was strong enough to begin fooling around in the kitchen, however using a knife was a challenge. So Brock cheerfully volunteered to be my sous chef. After 5 minutes of chopping veggies for dinner, Brock said,"this is a lot of work. My hand is tired. How much more of this do I have to do?"
So much for cheerful.
I said, "Honey, this is what I do every time I make dinner."
Brock replied, "Wow, I didn't know."
How does he not notice?!

A side note: Lindsay and Jesse were house-sitting and not around on a regular basis to help out, or Lindsay would have stepped up to the plate. Sara is 22 and too worried about where her next drink is coming from to care...also she was one of the people trying to pilfer my pain pills. I think she has a problem.

I couldn't open a bottle of wine. Neither could anyone else unless I asked 18 times. And then after much eye rolling and "do I have to do it now?", I would get an open bottle of wine. And we all know how important that is. It enhances the pain meds.

Another irritation: I had about 25 stitches in my hand for 14 days. When the stitches were removed the incision in my palm split open and I literally had a hole in my hand, which was quite gross and I became the new circus attraction. When friends, mailman, UPS delivery person, etc. came to the house, my caring and nurturing family would say to the poor person who came over, "Want to see my Mom's/wife's hand? It's really gross! Mom/Kathy, show them your hand!" The person at the house clearly doesn't want to see and I don't want to show, but they keep insisting until I take the dressing off and the person looks at it, and then turns green, turns away, and you can hear their stomach turn in disgust.

I'm so glad the hole in my hand is nearly healed. I can't make a fist yet and will need some more therapy, but I'm cooking dinner, making soups for the winter, and as usual, taking care of my incredibly dysfunctional family. My last hope is that Brock doesn't post the pictures he took of my hand on Facebook.