this weekend i will be up to my elbows in boxes. and not in a "girl on girl while the boyfriend watches" kind of way. more like "i'm running out of time to pack so i'd better get a fucking move on" kind of way.

today began with the comforting promise of happy happy...because that's all that seems to come to me lately.

but then a starbucks fucktard failed to hear "triple shot venti non fat peppermint white chocolate mocha" properly.  instead, she apparently processed "give me some hot water and squeeze your week old coffee filters into it, please".  bah! 

it's almost like the universe is taunting me and my anxiety like "what the fuck, andrea?  i give you all this good news and happy hee haw and you still think you can have anxiety?  you are so totally messed up."  or something along those lines. 

it's hard to embrace something that you don't want to have be a part of you, but i feel like this shit is so yesterdays news...and so i will struggle to accept it and carry on.

one thing that i never expected, re: the impending ultimate blending of mine and the boyfriends collective herds, was the underlying fear of surrendering.  and by "surrendering" i mean "that part of me who swore she would never rely upon another man for anything ever again".

with the help of my father and the boyfriend, i have pulled myself up from the physical, emotional, and financial debris of the divorce.

and never in my life have i been able to own something of value that was mine, and mine alone...the only exception being  the Bitch , which last year became my very first big thing that belonged just to andrea.

then yesterday?  the bank gifted me with the news that because i am a big girl now, i can haz my very own mortgage on the ghetto-rific humble abode i have languished in for the past three and a half years.  just me, myself, and i.  so for once, i don't have to ask anybody for anything...not a handout, a signature, or a loan.  nothing.

and in 19 days i will leave this shelter.  my home.  the house my father and the boyfriend enabled me, financially and otherwise, to be able to have as my own.  my dad signed his good name on a piece of paper in an act of ultimate trust and faith that i wouldn't fuck up.  and the boyfriend selflessly poured his savings and his soul into making my house a home for me and the three blonde heathens. 

so on top of all the good that has come our way in the past month i get to have even more.  wtf? 

i am going to be such an awesome slum landlord.

p.s. also, please don't all come running at once for a chance to be princess andy's tenants.  that's already taken care of too.

p.p.s. i know.  wtf?

p.p.p.s. this makes for a spec-fucking-tacular 400th post, no?

probably this is still preferable to being that guy in the lab who processes poo samples.

work comment of the day:

nurse s to me: "i feel like all i've done this doctors' rounds is look at penises"



excuse me while i vomit in my mouth a little.

when hair dye says it will last eight to ten washes, it's a lie. and also part of a master plan to recruit more minions to the devils army.

"temporary hair dye my freakin' ass"

so i let the heathens colour their hair for halloween.  which was 7 days ago.  and child #2 still has red hair.  fricktastic.  *sigh*  kind of suits her personality, i guess.

it almost makes the peppermint white chocolate mocha not taste so good.

almost.

short post, i know...but i'm off to have a visit with my new house this afternoon.  priorities, people.  but if you go and be nice to cate i'm sure she'll at least offer you some cat hair.



p.s. i just freaked out over my countdown clock. but then i realized that i never fixed the internal time on my computer. and the fucking clock bases its countdown time on what time your computer says it is. i am not shitting you.

p.p.s. if i'm totally wrong, disregard the first p.s. probably i just need to up my dose of something.

you know what i want? a big fucking crown like on that "toddlers and tiara's" show. and i'm gonna wear it all fucking day when we move to our new house. for realz.

so i lost it last night.  like, "there is no effing way i am going to be able to do everything that needs to be done before we move" lost it.

but i'm going to have to place some blame on Grey's Anatomy for getting me started with the tears...and then being alone with the kids sleeping just made it all land in my lap like an unwelcome bag of steamy shit left on a doorstep.  but at least when the ugly crying started there was nobody there to witness and remember the horror.

in the end i think the snotty eruption did me well to release a couple months of built up tension, anxiety, and also happy excitement...and i even went to sleep without feeling the need for any assistance from my friend and yours, mr. a-van.  thankyouverymuch. 

this morning, though, i awoke with a massive fucking headache.  probably from the ugly crying, possibly from the wine.  poor me.  but i am determined to not let the newly added stress get the better of me, and today i am applying a technique i learned with dr. h...and i think also from some online anxiety/worry articles here and there.  whatever.  the basis of this technique is to continually "bounce out" intrusive worrying/negative/catastrophic thoughts from your mind right when they enter. 

sounds totally stupid.

but it also totally works for me.  most of the time.

so instead of all the icky's that i can't write because that would mean allowing bad thoughts to manifest and multiply, my head will be filled with happy hee haw.  and also the repetitive chanting of "bounce bounce".

fucking hilarious, right?

bite me.

oh!  and before i forget, some of you all have requested a peek at the fabulous "plum pink" walls in my new house.  so on sunday i will be sure to impress and post a photo...and maybe we can put it to a vote because then i can tell the boyfriend that even my interwebz friends think he's colour blind for shits and giggles.

this is like the time i tried to cover up that massive zit on my chin. except now it's paint. which is gonna require a lot more attention than a fucking dab of maybelline.

it's tuesday my peeps, and i've pushed aside any and all other duties just so that i could participate in keely's random thought tuesday.  mostly because i'm pretty sure she's about to kick my overwhelmed ass to the curb of shame and losers if i skip out on her again.

and do we all remember the oregano oil disaster?  well, i threw it in my office desk afterwards and so now every time i want my fucking staple remover i get to inhale it and all its evil-y goodness when i open my top drawer.  yum.  yum.

child #4, who was the sickest sicky last week, came home from visiting his dad on sunday afternoon and now can't hear out of his left ear.  his head is so full of snot i'm seriously debating getting a jumbo sized snot sucker (nasal aspirator, whatever) and pinning him down because he won't blow his own nose.  but since he's getting bigger and stronger (11 yrs), he can probably inflict at least a couple good punches.  and i'd hate to have to drug him silly  to ply him with alcohol a huge argument, so i'll settle for an appointment with dr. mcsmooth tomorrow.

and please don't suggest a neti pot.  are you fucking kidding?  that's like drowning standing up.  unless i'm doing it wrong, in which case i'm completely under qualified to administer such treatment to children.

child #3 just called me from school feeling "sick".  okay, sick as in puking, temperature, coughing, sneezing, diarrhea sick?  no, it's headache sick.  with a dash of "my tummy doesn't feel good" sick.  a half hour before school is out.  and it's her dance class tonight. so i said "you'll just have to miss dance then...you can't leave school sick and then go to dance class". but strangely she thinks she'll feel better by then.  heh?  me thinks i'm maybe being played.  but still i'll have to leave work early to tend to her i want to dance but not stay in school ass...you know, that whole i'm a fantastical mother thing-y.  also, thank you jebus for banked time with my government job.

in castle related gossip,

so even though my new castle house is totally kick ass inside, boasting a gazillion bedrooms and a lot of trees in which to lose the heathens, there are a few minor decorative adjustments that require attention.  the one foremost in my mind is the colour of my livingroom/kitchen/dining room.  it's fucking purple.  purple?  oh yeah, mother fuckers...p.u.r.p.l.e.  like, not a warm and cozy deep purple...which would at least be liveable until i could unpack all our shit.  no.  it's purple like bright eggplant.  or barney.  which makes me want to vomit all over the wall to improve it paint it immediately after stepping over the threshold. 

the boyfriend calls it pink.  we even had a ten minute bitch fest about it whilst driving over the weekend.  he says "the paperwork states that it is plum pink...so i was right...it's pink" and i go "no...the first word is plum...which is a shade of purple.  therefore, the dominant and descriptive colour".  then he's all "can't you just admit i'm right?  it says plum pink...not plum purple" to which i reply "it's like denim blue...the denim is describing what shade of blu-..." and as i stopped mid-sentence, i wanted to bite my own tongue right the fuck off 'cause i realized that i had totally just given him the holy grail of responses with my stupid talking before i think. "ha!" he says like he's just solved the biggest fucking rubik's cube puzzle ever "see?...you just said that denim describes the blue...so then the plum would describe the pink...i am sooooooo right". 

at this point i debated gouging his smarmy ass eyes out of his head but he was driving down the highway at an outrageous yet impressive rate of speed so instead i just decided to irritate him.  "yes honey...you are totally right". 

then he called me a "bitch". probably because i rarely acquiesce and he thought i was placating him and his stupid pink ass kitchen. 

asshole.