It's a bird, it's a plane, it's PsychoGirl!

I might be a superhero.

Is it true if one of your five senses is weak, another sense will become stronger in compensation? I'm blind as a bat. Seriously. I can only see clearly within 12 inches of my face. Beyond that, everything is a hazy conglomeration of muted colors and shapes. On the other hand, I hear the refrigerator click on and off from two flights upstairs. I hear the garbage truck when it rolls into my neighborhood five blocks away in the wee hours of the morn'. I hear my daughter sigh as she rolls over (and over and over and over) at night. It's ridiculous.

I would like to use my supersonic hearing powers for good. I really would. Unfortunately, I can't function over the sound of you chewing your food. Try as I may to drift away to my quiet place, if I'm within fifty feet of a gum flapper, I'm going to have an episode. It's like I'm afflicted with Tourette's or something. I can't stop myself. I also apparently have a heavy sigh/run-my-fingers-through-my-hair move that signals my discontent. I can't find words to adequately describe how I feel when I'm near an open mouth chewer. It's as though Wolverine's adamantium was injected into my veins, but instead of making me awesome and indestructible, it made me crazy.

Snorers also have this affect on me.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I wish I could pull a childhood move from my bag-o-tricks and start chucking things at the offender until they stop or until I run out of objects within arms reach, whichever comes first.

Who do I speak to about a nickname?

Today I saw a Harley Hog boldly block an intersection with his bike so that two miles (literally) of buddies could pass through the red light without stopping. First of all, I wasn't aware this was legal. Is there a Harley Hog loophole for traffic light law that I'm not aware of? Secondly, I began wondering what it might be like to be someone else. If I weren't me, who would I be?

I'm definitely thinking biker chick. But I'd have to ride a Honda or whatever the fast bikes are, because, although I can rock a bandanna like it's nobody's business, my hair isn't long enough to fix into those Willie Nelson braids. Better to go with mysterious biker chick. Yeah, mysterious. Picture me arriving at my destination--at dusk, always at dusk--, dismounting my bike, gracefully removing my helmet, and performing one of those cool slow motion hair flips. Maybe there could be some fog creeping in as I strut towards the setting sun. This, of course, would happen whenever and wherever I arrive, because I will be an amazingly cool biker chick.

Nailed it. Yeah, I did.

I'm neurotic today because...
...going 61 mph in a 40 mph speed zone whilest daydreaming about becoming a biker chick and coming away with a written warning could only happen to me, suburban soccer mom. Today it was good to be me.

I need a bandaid, STAT!

My son, the drama king.

This afternoon we spent some real quality time [running errands] in one of our favorite places [Target], much to Jacob's delight [misery]. Whilst calmly perusing [clowning around] the toy [laundry detergent] aisle, I hear my dear son cry out [scream the girliest scream known to man] in pain. I immediately turned [after I loaded up my Tide--inside the basket, btw] to investigate the situation:

Me: 'Jacob, what happened?'

Jacob: [clutching his hand close to his chest] 'I ca-can't sh-show you, I-I'm losing too much bl-bloooooooood!'

Me: 'Okay, okay, calm down. Let me see. [holding back my laughter] Oh my goodness, Jacob! Are you OKAY?!'

Jacob: [peeking at his finger] 'Oh nooooooo! I'm probably going to lose the nail! Are you going to have to take the nail off!? It's bleeeeeeeeeding!'

Me: 'I know, I know it's bleeding. Profusely! I probably won't have to take the nail off...but I might need to remove the whole thing. [give it a minute, let it sink in] You don't mind having one less finger, do you?'

Jacob: 'Oh, Mom.' [eye roll]

Meghan: 'That was a good one, Mom. You really had this convincing look on your face. I liked that!'

[Smile]

I'm neurotic today because...
...I've spawned a child with more drama in his injured little finger than all the daytime television stars combined.

Rated N for Not-Quite-Right

I was asked a few weeks ago whether I thought I'd be able to continue writing at this pace. I guess time will tell, although I've never really had to brainstorm for ideas...my mind is a hodgepodge of useless knowledge, random thoughts, and minor neuroses. For example:

Last night I saw bats flying around the neighborhood, so I put my hood up for protection. Fool proof, I think. I really need to get my glasses adjusted so they stop falling off the end of my nose. Or get a bigger nose. Ke$ha, you're silly. You and your robot voice are just silly. Furthermore, I think the only way you should be allowed to change the 's' to '$' is if you're raking in some serious dough, and I don't believe you are...or will for the long haul, anyway. I'm contemplating going with &he!l@. It makes just as much sense. And while I'm thinking of it, why is Eminem still so angry? Meghan thinks she has more mosquito bites than skin. What a crazy kid. You do have more bacteria than body cells, though. Maybe I should tell her. Everytime I text, my i's and m's triplicate themselves. I hope the recipient doesn't think I can't spell. I lost two facebook friends today. I wonder if it's because I unintentionally triplicate my i's and m's. Maybe. Or maybe it's because they read my blog and actually think I'm certifiably crazy. Maybe they only allot a certain number of crazy friends, and I didn't make the cut. Sometimes I wish I still drove the beat-up Volvo, so when someone cuts me off on the beltway I could just ram them in the rear-end. Not hurt them or anything, just let them know it's not polite to cut people off.

Welcome to five minutes in my head. I wouldn't recommend extended stays, but it's always fun to drive by, point, and laugh.

I'm neurotic today because...
...the inner workings of me are not for the faint of heart.

Would you like to participate in a research study?

I've been spending a lot of time alone lately (two whole days). No children, no Mommy #2, nada. Just me and my bi-, eh, dog.

I'm not sure if I'm doing it the right way, but I've been going with the wander-aimlessly-through-the-empty-house-talking-to-myself method of singledom. It's not as though I have nothing to do. There are waist-high piles of laundry giving me the hairy eyeball, spiders taking up residence in the cobwebbed corners of my living room, and half-a-dozen boxes scattered around my storage facility of a bedroom that I have yet to pack away since moving...a year ago.

The problem is this: I cannot function unless I'm doing nine things simultaneously. I really can't. Throw in the fact that I don't have children bellowing 'Mommy, guess what' or 'Mom, can I', and I'm two short steps from catatonia.

I must keep busy. Maybe tonight I'll label my socks R/L and by numbered pair. Or recaulk my bathtub. Or read my Organic Chemistry book for fun.

Oh, the possiblities!

I'm neurotic today because...
...I don't even remember how to relax...maybe I'll conduct some research...yeah, that's it...I'll research relaxation.

I'm giving up the stamps, what more do you want from me?

In retrospect, I should have negotiated to keep custody of my in-laws in the divorce settlement.

I've spent the past four days camping with my ex-mother-in-law and family, and I realize more than ever that these are my people: fun, with just the right amount of crazy. I mean that in the most loving way possible. I really do. But hey, you can't blow dry your goodies after the shower and expect me not to call you crazy. I'm sorry.

Anyway, I think somewhere between child support and property settlement you should be able to negotiate extended family custody. Maybe some sort of barter system should be in place, where I could have given up my stamp collection in exchange for my mother- and sister-in-law. Okay, so I've never had a stamp collection. The point is, I think it's only fair that I get to keep the people I like in exchange for meaningless inanimate objects. It's only fair, I tell you.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I'd like to take the ex-husband back to court for property of his family.

Oy vey!

"Hi. So i was wondering whats up with your post, I wasn't sure if you still had this.. Please let me know! Thanks in advance."

That is an actual response I received in reference to an ad I posted for a summer babysitter. I'm not sure why I'm surprised, really. This generation of young adults has frightened me for some time now. My reply to this young woman:

Dear Anonymous (because you didn't provide your name),

"What's up" with my post is I need summer child care. Had you taken two seconds to read my ad, you would have a clear understanding of "what's up". As far as being sure I "still had this", rest assured I still have my children. They're not borrowed, on lease, or returnable.

Furthermore, your grammar and punctuation is atrocious.

Sincerely,
Thanks, but no thanks

I'm neurotic today because...
...I can't find a teenager more responsible than my 9 year old son.

Yes, I know, I'm nuts. That's the point.

Things bother me way more in duration and intensity than I would consider to be 'normal'.

How can I forget winter of '85, and relentlessly taunting my third grade classmate with chants of 'purple people eater'? If only I could have recognized that her outerwear was not her fault. Clearly her mother lacked foresight/understanding of 8 year old maturity (or lack thereof) and forced her into the purple coat.

And then there's that time in high school that I accidentally stole a 2-liter of soda from Myer's Meat Market. Oh, and recently, I might have forgotten the laundry detergent under the basket in Target. Twice. In my defense, I discovered the error after I left the building and was a little scared that if I returned to the store to pay, they would arrest me for intent to steal or some such nonsense.

Oh! And I'm sorry, poor little turtle, for running you over on that narrow street in South Carolina. It was either you or the oncoming vehicle. You should know that I think of you often, and hope you went to your happy place. Or, at the very least, that some hillbilly made a nice turtle soup for his family with you.

Shush, you, with your judgemental eyes! I choose to believe that I simply care at an unusually high level, and this particular little issue isn't due to some underlying need for medication.

I'm neurotic today because...
...telling me to 'just relax' doesn't really help, okay?

For your morning poop

Wow, I've never had an actual deadline before.

I was pleased as punch yesterday to attend karaoke night at the Knights of Columbus with Little Brother. Not only did my presence allow him to win a bet (never bet against me, Greg, you fool), but it gave me the occasion to drive through the ol' stomping grounds of my youth. I use that expression loosely, because as kids we didn't really venture much beyond Main Street. Nevertheless, McSherrystown, Pennsylvania, you remind me...

...of countless balls hit over 'the fence'. Who's going over? I'm not going over, YOU go over. I'm not going over, YOU hit it, YOU go over. I'm not sure anymore what was so scary about the other side of that fence...all I know is, I'm the oldest, I'm not going over.

...of the penny candy store in the back room of the A&B Religious Shop. How convenient of you, A&B. I could get my rosary with a side of licorice whips and candy cigarettes. Sweet!

...of constantly forgetting my house key and our absolutely insane ways of breaking into the apartment. For the record, bobby pins do not pick locks. You also cannot shove the smallest kid through the space created when you open the deadlock, but the chain lock is still in place. However, if you're as limber as I was in the sixth grade, you can teeter perilously over the balcony's edge of a second story apartment, shimmy the window open, and leap into the kitchen sink.

I hope I published this in time for your morning poop.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I am a product of small town America.

I'll call it 'Sh-ecards', and I'll be rich

I was feeling thoughtful this morning, so decided I would send an ecard to a comrade of mine. All I wanted was a simple, good luck ecard. What I found was either so sappy that I found myself nauseous, or so generic that I questioned the point in even sending it in the first place. So I've decided to start a more honest card company, with greetings like:

"If we could learn to communicate more effectively in real life, picking out a greeting card for you would be a whole lot easier. ________________!"

"You stress me out, induce migraines and give me sleepless nights, and against my better judgement, I think I might possibly love you. At the very least, I like you a lot. _______________!"

"I'm sending you this card because you've been kind to me and now I feel obligated to be kind in return. ________________!"

These are just a few ideas I have rattling around in the ol' noggin. I thought I'd keep the cards universal by omitting the expression, providing you the freedom to fill in the blank for whatever occasion may arise.

Now all I need is someone with capital.

I'm neurotic today because...
...nooo, these greeting cards are in no way based on my life.

Mini-me, M. Delaney

To avoid an eight-page blog and risk losing you, my loyal blog reader, I've placed the events of my past few days on the wheel-o-crazy and gave 'er a spin.....here's today's golden nugget:

Talking to my daughter is like having a discussion with a grown woman trapped in an 8 year old girl's body. She possesses an innate maturity that I have not seen in most adults, let alone a child. She is articulate, sassy and hilarious. And the scariest thing of all, she is mini-me.

Our fish, Goober, has been on his last le-, er, fin, for months now. I'm pretty sure he's suffered a fishy-stroke of some sort because his hind parts kinda just drag behind him when he attempts to swim. Watching his health take a turn for the worse, Meghan says to me (and if you know Meghan, say this in your Meghan voice), 'You know, Mom, it's not that I want Goober to, you know [hand flip], die, but I really hate seeing him this way. I wish if he was going to, you know, die, that he would go ahead and do it. I mean, it's not that I want him to, but I just feel really bad for him.'

Is she telling me we should euthanize our fish?

At school this week, the second graders were asked to name a person they admire and give a reason why. Meghan chose me and said, 'because she works really hard to take care of us, and she's the most loving, caring mom in the whole world'. (*tears*) As if sharing that with me wasn't enough, she follows up by exclaiming, 'Can you believe [hand up in oh-no-you-didn't pose] that Katie chose Lady GaGa?!'

Did I just beat out Lady GaGa for my daughter's affection?

I'm neurotic today because...
...I have a daughter who is gorgeous, intelligent, confident and sassy. This can only lead to sleepless nights. Or more gray hair. Or an ulcer. Or jail time.

Two points for honesty

'I have to excuse myself. My legs were so swollen this morning that I had to take my Lasix. Sometimes I can't make it to the bathroom in time, and I think this morning I peed myself a little. I apologize if I have an odor, dear.'

I love old people for a lot of reasons, but most of all because they're not afraid. They're not afraid to tell you they've peed themselves, or that they're bleeding from the rectum ('due to medication interactions. It only happens when I have a movement, dear. Don't worry'). They tell you you're fat if you are, that you need a haircut if you do, or that you're wrong whenever they feel you are. They do these things without provocation and without apology...because they can.

I suppose when I'm 85 years old I won't give two hoots either whether anyone approves of me driving 45 mph on the beltway or only partially pulling my Lincoln Continental into my handicapped parking spot. I might even unabashedly pass gas in public. Who knows what I'll do with all that freedom.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I'm starting a to-do list of all the things I'll do when I no longer care what you think of me.

I'm fairly certain I passed anatomy class

How, exactly, does having a penis make you better at fixing a garbage disposal?

Just wondering. It seems that because I lack one, I am an idiot and cannot determine whether a household appliance is broken. 'Just tighten the bolt around the sink-pipe joint', the landlord says. Really? Are these technical terms? And is this the plan for addressing a garbage disposal that not only stinks to all high heaven, but also leaks water profusely every time the switch is flipped? 'I've done that', I reply. 'Well don't you have a man that could come around and look at it for you?'

Um, did he really just say that to me?

Flash back with me for a hot second. When I first moved into this house, I discovered quickly that I didn't need an alarm clock to wake up at the arse-crack of dawn. Five-thirty a.m. is apparently prime sharpening-the-nails-on-the side-of-the-house time for squirrels. Let me do the math for you: pre-dawn light + furry tailed rodents that I hate with a fiery passion x the most annoying sound on the face of the earth = a Sheila spazz out the likes of which you have rarely seen.

After about a week of wanting to rip through the dry wall and take a hammer to their little rat heads, I contacted the landlord. I thought it might be nice for him to know the side of his house was being gnawed to pieces. Silly me. Silly, silly woman. Not only was he not concerned, he didn't believe me: 'I told my wife, poor Sheila. She's over there all alone and she's probably just scared.'

Long story short, the squirrels tore out the entire rear soffit and a large portion of the plywood under the roof. But it took me months to convince this d-bag that I wasn't crazy or scared. So I ask again, how does a penis make you more capable of....anything?

I'm neurotic today because...
...I missed the day in anatomy where it was taught that the brain bone is connected to the penis bone.

Enigma, I am not

I have a difficult time disguising how I feel.

In the event I don't just come right out and tell you (which, these days, is rare), just look at me and you'll figure it out. When I'm angry, my cheeks and ears turn bright red. Occasionally, anger comes with a side of pulsating blood vessel in the temple region. If I'm upset about something, I keep to myself. Misery, in my case, prefers to be left the hell alone. When I'm around my family and close friends (all five of them), I'm most myself, and generally pretty goofy and easy-going. If I don't know my company well, I'm shy. In a somewhat related matter, I've also been described as a stick-in-the-mud. I know. Unbelievable, right? Me? I don't know into what category of emotion that goes...maybe a separate one for when my company annoys me?

Anyway, I do have a point to make. If your perma-perkiness causes you to speak five octaves above normal tone of voice all the time, I would like to poke you with a stick. Repeatedly. I'm sorry, nobody can be that happy. It's just not real. And furthermore, it's irritating. Please stop.

That is all.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I swear, if you call me moody I'm gonna cry. Or laugh at you. Or lash out in a fit of rage. But I will under no circumstance speak to you like I just got kicked in the family jewels. If I had family jewels.

Dear Chick Fil A drive thru boy: I am not a 'sir'

It is official. I suck at being a girl.

I've never really had any idea how to wear make-up or how to accessorize. I'm not an expert on lotions, creams, powders, perfumes, or any other product found in the beauty aisle. I've always just bought what my little sister Jill bought. She seems to know what she's doing. Thank goodness the good-gene gods are on my side, and I've never really needed much from Estee Lauder or her cohorts.

Or should I say, the gods were on my side.

I'm not exactly sure what happened when I turned 32. Over the past year, my youthful glow has faded to more of a...matte finish. And I'm not just talking about the darker-than-normal circles around my eyes, the deep wrinkles in my forehead, and the errant hair growth. Unwelcomed guests have also creeped up below the shoulders. Hello, love handles. You and your friend saddle bags can find some other soccer mom to cling to...anytime now. Thank you for your cooperation.

Since walking around with a bag over my head and/or buying an entirely new wardrobe is not an option, I've made an addition to my A team of get-your-butt-in-gear experts. I've got the MAC trainer on saddlebag duty. Bikram's on...well, I don't know what Bikram does. I sweat a lot. That has to count for something. And finally, this week I've enlisted the help of my Jewish mommy for hair, make-up and clothing advice. She admittedly won't walk her dog without her hair and make-up in place, so I figure she's a great resource.

If this doesn't work, I have a back-up plan: buy low-wattage light bulbs and place all mirrors above the waist.

I'm neurotic today because...
...it took me 33 years to become concerned about being girly.

My eyes! My eyes!

As I mentally prepare for this evening's Bikram yoga class, one thought keeps repeating itself:
Don't die, don't die, don't die....don't die!

No, wait, that's not it.
'Stupidity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.'

True, but no.
'Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, no touch of bashfulness?'

Ah yes. Thank you, Mr. Shakespeare.
I have come here today to admit to you, my loyal blog readers, that I am extremely uncomfortable with the ladies locker room. All the mental and physical relaxation achieved on the yoga mat goes right out the window when I step foot into that room. Oh the nipples! The undergarmentless hoo-ha's! (I almost used the word 'bare' there, but didn't want to give the wrong impression. There is certainly nothing bare about some of these hoo-ha's.)

I realize that at this point in my life I should be mature enough to handle this. Let's just be honest, friends. I'm not even really fond of looking at myself naked, let alone Mary Lou Retton and the rest of her Bikram crack squad.

I'm sure we could work something out, fellow yogis. If you really want my feedback on the class I could leave you a post it note on your locker and sneak quietly out the back.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I'll let the sweat dry on the way home, thank you very much.

You don't want this, S-CAL

Kids these days need a swift kick in the derrière. I say this knowing full well that I sound like a crotchety 80 year old lady. So be it.

Looking back 20 years through my naivete goggles, I just don't recall things going down like they do here in my comfy suburban neighbourhood. I'm not suggesting that there weren't a handful of kids who drank regularly, had the sex, and tried an illegal substance or two, but for the most part we were all really well behaved, respectful kids.

Recently, a teenage neighbourkid--we'll call him Sir-Cuss-A-Lot--has taken to drinking and smoking in the front yard. Normally I would have nothing to say about this behaviour, considering he's not my son/responsibility and I generally stay far away from neighbourhood politics... except that he does this in my front yard, in front of my children. When this situation was brought to the dinner table by my daughter (the dinner conversation moderator), my son presented a brilliant dissertation on the harmful effects of smoking and why we should convince our loved ones to stop. Phew!

However, Sir-Cuss-A-Lot blew the roof off the stupidity meter the other week. My son has several friends that often congregate at our house for an after-school Nerf gun battle. One of these young men happens to have flaming red hair. Sir-Cuss-A-Lot took it upon himself to make the following unprovoked statement to this kid: "Ah, red hair huh? Wait until you get to high school, kid. Nobody likes *#@!ing redheads in high school." Oh. Yes. He. Did.

I firmly believe this could be solved by putting my size 10 foot up Sir-Cuss-A-Lot's hind parts. Clearly this should have been done long ago. All I know is, if my kids start dropping the f-bomb at the dinner table, I'm gonna know who to put the jitzu on...and it won't be pretty, S-CAL.

It won't be pretty.

I'm neurotic today because...
...it's not all fun and games in the 'burbs, folks.