Monday, March 27, 2017


Let me warn you now. This post is a lot like the Impossibility Drive from the Hitch Hikers Guide to the galaxy. It jumps around and things pop up that hardly should exist in the same paragraph let alone sentence. It's basically what happened when I myself looked up at my apartment ceiling so long ago and yelled to the universe:
What is the meaning of my life?!?

It did not reply with 42.

3 weeks ago I received an unrefrigerated blob resembling a chicken cutlet via Amazon. So I stuck it in the fridge and 2 hours later rushed to get it out. How did I know Scobys weren't meant to be refrigerated??
Currently it's free loading in my laundry room where it digests organic cane sugar dissolved in organic green tea that was steeped in filtered water gather from the rains of the first full moon and boiled to exactly 103 degrees for 10 minutes and 2 seconds.
Sadly only the origins of the water are a fib created out of self imposed frustration.

I'm making Kombucha and quite frankly as it grows....I am less and less inclined to drink its fermented bath water.
But I'm also cheap and the stuff is good for me so the inner hippie is still in the running for bottling it in the next however many days this thing requires.

I don't know. I rarely read instructions all the way through.

I'm mostly self taught and entirely self-to blame for all the troubles I get myself into. Luckily, however, the one thing that DOESNT come with a manual is also the thing I seem to do ok with: keeping multiple kids alive.

Did I tell you I've sprouted 2 more?

It was a buy one husband get 2 kids free deal and boy was I sold. They're the long lashed, light eyed models and they came next to fully potty trained (ask me some other day why I say it that way).

Oh. The husband was a pretty sweet deal too. I seem to be doing ok at keeping him alive so far.

So there's 6 of us now, and 3 fridges, a NOTminivan SUV with 3rd row seating, one nutty dog and more calendars than my iPhone can track.

I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing about 99.9% of the time.

I have no idea how to dress a boy. I've never stared at a clothing rack as long as I have since Henry became one of my tribe. So far I know that if it's red, has a sport or a Pokémon on it, he will wear it. I'm never sure if he's matching but I have been informed that bow ties are not appropriate. Nor is the word: cute.

I've also figured out that yelling is basically the way children in excess of 2 communicate. What they haven't figured out yet is that yes. I certainly CAN hear you whispering to your sister that you plan to tickle your brother even though I just made it a crime punishable by last row seating delegation.

Then there's the teenager.
Anyone want to take on a capstone project? She's pretty smart. And in the full throes of teen-hood.
I don't know that I'll need a haircut until she's 21 and I have stopped pulling my hair out in frustration.
Honestly I always wanted to be a blonde but God has a funny sense of humor and instead of granting me the genes, he simply sent me my own image with the golden locks.
Good one Big Guy. I see what you're saying.

Speaking of the Universe and its sense of humor, I was recently matched with a service dog.
Remember years ago how I had that Tetris operation where my bones were re arranged and I likened my recovery to climbing a mountain? Well. The apex of that mountain involves a full hip replacement. As you all well know I am simply THRILLED at the prospect of surgeries that involve bone saws and staplers.
Doc says the joint must go.

Anyways, while I'm trying to figure out how to grow Kombucha in a jar without it escaping and eating my laundry on its way out and keep 4 kids (3 of which resemble triplets) alive and socially well adjusted, I am freaking the hell out.

Here I am, about to undergo yet another surgery. The 4th in 10 years since that fateful day and I don't know how to process it while I laugh at the sheer irony of it and cry because I am genuinely scared of the OR and recovery.

Then I get this message from my friend who has recently founded a canine rescue. There's a grant for a service dog. And there's a dog recently identified as a candidate for training.

Except that he's been shot. And he's got two pins, a bolt and wire keeping his bones together so they don't have to amputate the leg.
Would I consider him?

I remember looking at my own elbow, wrapped in titanium, screwed together with a bolt and two pins and thinking: God? Is that you? Are you freaking kidding me?!?

God and I, we chat a lot. Prolly in a way most would find to be far too informal.

Anyways. Here's this dog. And he's like the male 4 legged version of me. I ask for pictures and I ask to meet him.

He was in an X-Pen but he saw me and he was scrambling to reach me over the top of his gate. I knew then he was meant for me.
I've fostered so many dogs and never failed and here is this under-weigh Bionic dog fighting to keep his leg and I want HIM to be the one to walk me through the OR doors and spend too long at Target with me and come nudge me when the anxiety is reeling and it's time to let him do his job while I focus on breathing.

I have no idea what it's like to have a service dog, or care for one that will set off metal detectors with me for life. He seems to think it starts with my holding his bad leg every time I visit him at his fosters house while he mesmerizes me with his soulful eyes.

I've named him Bolt.  Because he and I are both quite literally screwed.

Apparently this is a huge win with the kids. I've become popular amongst the tiny dictators for choosing to bring home a huge dog that is supposed to work with/for me. And can go in the car. I've been told he will sit in the back where there's more space for him. Clearly meant for his comfort and not their enjoyment.

So I have a million things going. None of which I was fully prepared or trained for. But for all the improbabilities out there, I got kids and a husband I love, a dog that might be my spirit animal and possibly something resembling an octopus growing in a jar.

Recently someone explained the theory that '42' is computer language for 'asterisk' (*) which denotes 'anything you want it to be'

Seems like maybe that was my answer after all.
But someone forgot the instruction manual.....