Dooce® dentists, and ophthalmologists, and therapists, oh my!

This is one of those insane weeks when you just want to set a Tesla on fire and walk away from it while looking not at it but directly into the camera. A part of you hopes that at least something special to Elon Musk was inside of it when it burned to the ground. Like, say, the measuring tape he uses every morning see if his penis magically grew overnight and has finally caught up with the length of a pepperoncini.

I digress. And that was mean. But not mean enough. I just really don’t want to ever read anything about him ever again especially if it includes any words that have come out of his mouth. And that scenario perfectly summarizes how I feel about this week in particular. End rant.

Right now new customers will get $25 off and a package of bacon with their first order.


This offer ends on Wednesday 10/31. Butcher Box offers grass-fed and grass-finished beef, free-range organic chicken, heritage breed pork, and their bacon is uncured and free from sugar and nitrates. I love these guys, what they’re trying to accomplish, and want to support them in any way I can. If you want to support sustainable farming, this is the way to do it. Vote and support sustainability.

Leta had school on Monday, Marlo did not, but we all three had dentist appointments and I dropped a hot wad of cash on all our teeth, holy shit. I could have bought a used car! Who needs teeth? But then, I have to take them back on Friday for a second appointment after three half days of school for Marlo, parent-teacher conferences, dance, piano, homework, a personal appointment at the doctor, an eye appointment for Leta where she will potentially be fitted for contact lenses, and email I was supposed to have answered two weeks ago. I haven’t brought up work yet. That email I just talked about is in reference to my pimp. And that is my hobby.

Listen, I know this is normal for most of us which is why I started the post off like I did: we all have these moments when we have no idea how we’re supposed to catch up with our lives. Often it happens more frequently than we’d like and suddenly we realize there is no milk or cereal or flavor-blasted Cheddar Goldfish in the house, not to mention a green container of Kraft parmesan cheese—JESUS CHRIST ON A CORNFLAKE IS MY KID IN LOVE WITH ONE VERY, VERY, VERY SPECIFIC FOOD—and so dinner is a bust and so is breakfast and then so is the lunch you cannot pack for your kid. And then you finally make it to the grocery store after dropping your youngest at school and when you go to check out you realize, oh my god, the kitchen is so bare that the groceries in my basket not only take up the entire conveyer belt, I haven’t even bent down to empty the bottom part of my cart where I purposefully hid 700 tampons and pads from anyone who would happen to glance at my cart and think, “Is she preparing for a flood?” Having a teenage daughter who causes you to sync to her schedule is a real thing and is super fun. I mean, I have never groaned at her through seething, clenched teeth, “Stop this witchcraft now, Spawn.”

And this is the thing. THE THING. I keep a really detailed calendar and make notes and lists that all sync to my desktop computer, my laptop, and my phone. I set reminders and keep detailed, organized files of all my bills and paperwork. I can find the cost of a trip to the pediatrician Marlo took in June of 2015, that’s how on top of this I am. I don’t ever show up late anywhere and if I do it’s because a meteor landed on my car. And still, I feel like I cannot catch up. Shit slips through the cracks all the time. I haven’t ever had less than 40 very important unanswered emails in my inbox, and I sometimes catch messages on social networks and sometimes forget that those messaging systems even exist. I apologize if you haven’t heard back from me in five years. I had to buy some tampons.

And maybe the point is that we never do catch up? Is that it? We just sort of do the best we can in between trips to the dentist and the eye doctor and grabbing a box of Frosted Mini Wheats as fast as we can so that we make it to the parent-teacher conference on time, hoping that the important person waiting for our response to their email understands the priorities we have had to set to make sure our lives don’t collapse in on themselves. Seriously, this whole thing is held together with toothpicks, some gas receipts I found tucked between the cushions in the backseat of the car, and a chewed-up piece of gum I stole from Marlo’s mouth. Everything is fine.