Adoptee on 23 & me

I am literally losing my freakin’ mind about this. The 23&me testing kit just came on the mail last night. I took a photo of it- opened the box, and read the directions. I registered my barcode and said they could keep the sample for further analysis for research or whatever.

What my struggle here is, is that I am fuckin terrified. I have lived my entire life up until 12 weeks from now not knowing anything about where I came from- and also not caring too much because it never occurred to me that finding these other people was a real option. I used to care from time to time and even did a little research like calling the adoption agency and getting he paperwork to open he file whatever whatever … I never sent it in. So…

Here I am. I drank a little too much tea, smoked a bowl with my best friend, listened to Daniel Tosh’s new standup album with my husband (who bought me this test kit by total surprise)…(might have I mentioned I have been a bit snippy to recently)…and am now running out the clock smoking a bit more waiting to go coach the last soccer practice. THANK god it’s the last one. We are at he end of our ropes with this shit 😩*sigh*.

So I’m having a good day man. Oh I looked at houses on Zillow too. Anyway- I keep wondering what I will do with this information when I get it. Will I feel differently? Like….about myself and who I am and shit? I guess I’m going to find out if ignorance is bliss or not in about 12 weeks.

Has anyone else done this? Anyone else adopted?

Pesto: Make it or Buy it? The answer will surprise you

Pesto Post Close up DONE

Anyone ever had the Chicken Pesto Panini at Atlanta Bread Company? If you have, you know why I absolutely HAD to try to make it myself. It is super expensive, at over $8 for just the sandwich! So here is what I did. I got the basic ingredients for simple pesto, although I omitted the pine nuts because I think they suck. As I was gathering the necessary items, I happened to notice that the brand Knorr makes a pesto sauce mix.

pesto by knorr package

Which at first I found to be a little weird and off-putting since it had you cook it on the stove, and fresh pesto is just basically blended together and used. So- here is how I made the Fresh Basil Pesto:

  • 1/3 cup Parmesan (or other firm cheese)
  • 1 Bunch Basil
  • 1/2 cup Olive Oil (start with 1/4 cup and add more to your liking)
  • 2 cloves fresh Garlic
  • 2 tsp Lemon Juice
  • Salt & Pepper to taste

Pull all the leaves off your basil and roughly chop your garlic. Put basil, garlic, and cheese in food processor and pulse. Scrape down the sides and add a generous pinch of salt and lemon juice. Keep adding and pulsing until you like the way it tastes.

It was DELICIOUS. Fresh and bright.

So then after this, I just followed the package directions for the Knorr pesto mix which was just adding olive oil, water, boiling, and then simmering.

It too, was DELICIOUS. I was looking for an exact replica of the Atlanta Bread Company pesto…and I found it! For shits and giggles, I decided to just mix them both together and add another dash of lemon juice, (I love love love lemon!). IT. WAS. THE. BEST. DAMN. PESTO. EVER. OH. MY. GOD. I made myself the most epic sandwich ever – with my crockpot shredded chicken, medium cheddar cheese off the block, pesto, mayo, all put into a hot iron skillet with a little butter. Amazeballs. Simply amazeballs.

In conclusion – which one is better? They’re both really really good. When mixed together – it is definitely the best basil pesto I have ever had in my LIFE. And on a side note – some recipes say you can freeze it in ice cube trays and pull it out as needed – I tried this, and failed miserably. Maybe if you made it without the oil, froze it, and added oil when you thawed it out, that could work. But with the oil in it, it wouldn’t come out of the mold and I had to let it melt out onto a plate and put it in the fridge.

Confessions of A Failed Multitasker

Blood and Lettuce DONE

Have you ever felt like a jellyfish? Moving through the ocean of life – where for every two steps you take forward, you take one step backwards? Where you seemingly brown-nosing the anus of life? And then BAM, with one fell swoop, you unravel your entire string of small victories and end up damn near where you started. Let me tell ya’ll about my shit-storm of a day the other day and how the above (real) picture came to fruitition.

It was a cold January day in Georgia, and I, a second-time Mom on the ass end of maternity leave from my super hectic job, was multi-tasking many kitchen duties. Now, I have always been a bit of a procrastinator, I have realized that for some reason, I do my best work after 6pm. My husband had asked me to put the chicken we purchased the previous day in the crockpot (more on fantastic crockpot shredded chicken at another time). So I decided to make myself dinner, make crockpot chicken, cut up a head of lettuce, jam the fuck out, and carry on four conversations via text message at the same time.

As i sharpened my mid-grade walmart knife from the set, I thought to myself, “damn man…this is a sharp knife.” I chopped half of a nice, ripe white onion for my chicken and dumped it in the crockpot along with the chicken breasts and garlic and thought to myself, “hey…I should chop up that lettuce while i’m here chopping things.” And here is where my real journey for the night begins.

I smash the head of lettuce as instructed by my mother-in law and sister-in-law/best friend and pull the root part off. I chop, chop, and chop, with seemingly expert motions when the phone vibrates. My brain simultaneously tries to make another chop and reach for the phone at the same time. In one clean sweep, I successfully cut the vein leading between your pointer finger and middle finger IN HALF. IN HALF ,guys. The dark red liquid immediately spurts like that of a hose with no nozzle. I stare at it while it sprays with the beat of my heart all over the crisp light green lettuce and contaminates everything in sight with an unsettling amount of dark red discontent. With every spurt it screams “YOU HAVE MADE A HUGE MISTAKE” like I was starring in my own episode of arrested development.


In my process of deciding whether to freak out or not, I consider that my husband has the car, and decide whether it is worth it or not to call my mom, who lives next door. While I felt the decision process was made easier flailing around the kitchen like an idiot on fire and pouring blood everywhere is the best course of action until I feel faint and decide to call my mother. I never determined whether I felt faint because I lost a bit of blood, or if it was because of the crippling embarrassment I had unwittingly signed myself up for.

“Okay Mom. I need you to listen to me and NOT FREAK out, just do NOT FREAK OUT,” I say in the most convincing voice I could, “I have cut myself pretty badly, and I need you to come over and help me as soon as you possibly can.”

As I was flailing a little more and waiting for her I thought to myself, “so this ends a perfect fuckin’ evening, and a fantastically weird maternity leave.” By the time she arrives and gets my hand wrapped in a towel, there is so much blood it takes her about thirty minutes to mop it up, and I continue to freak out, hyperventilate, and cry like a little fuckin’ baby.  I got three stitches at the local hospital, where despite the hoards of people spreading their public school plagues and putting their staff infections on everything they touch, they were super nice and hella fast. Fayette Piedmont had a separate section the took me off to, where the nurses and other staff got the benefit of my nervous humor, because when I hurt or get super nervous or uncomfortable, I don’t shut the fuck up and tend to tell a bunch of jokes that may or may not offend and embarrass my mother. They got me stitched up and on my way out in 50 minutes – now thats a record we should be talking about! Maybe we should also talk about how we pay $600 a month for health insurance and I still had to pay a $300 deductible, and by pay, I mean it was added to my growing bar tab of dumb-shit hospital visits. Perhaps I will cut off a limb they can keep in exchange for payment…hmmm…something to ponder on as I fall asleep tonight.

So guys, do I get an A for effort or not?

Have you ever failed this hard? If so, I would love to hear about it!

My Pet Sloth

I have come to the determination that having a baby is what I imagine having a pet sloth is like. They’re slow, they’re cute, can’t run away from your love, and are disproportionately sized.

sloth tongue

I had this thought when I had a drink or two and went into deep-space thought. It happens.

sloth fat and cute

ohhhhhhhhh the cuteness!!!


Look What I Made!

  Look y’all I made a thing! Her name is Lily Avelyn Froehlich 🙂 our five year old came home from school a few months ago and declared the baby’s name would be Lily- and we held out on the name until she was out and about. We don’t know who the Lily she got the name from was… I just hope it’s someone good and not some mean little shit. 
My husband got to be in the room, as he was with the first cesarean, and said he didn’t get bitched at for looking over the curtain like he did the first time. He also mentioned that they took an entire something out of me and sat it to the side while they burned and tied my remaining tube. Then they put it back in. He has literally seen more of me than I have! And still loves me- even if my uterus is big a floppy with a few holes in it now. 🐣 

Anyone else had a cesarean or repeat cesarean? Tell me all your got details!

Nesting: Better Than Adderall

“I MUST WASH THE COBWEBS!” My 35-week pregnant brain screams at me from 6 am til 10 pm for the fourth day in a row. “SIT THE FUCK DOWN!” My newly-acquired gestational hypertension and gigantic fat kankles scream back. It is as if I was written a prescription of the widely loved legal amphetamine that is given to children and housewives alike, except I still get hungry and I sleep a bit. I don’t remember nesting with my first pregnancy, although that was 6 years ago and I don’t remember much from back then anyway. I also was a stay-at-home with an apartment that was so small it didn’t even have a dining room, so I didn’t have anything to clean or organize or room to rearrange. Now I have a decently sized brick ranch in a rural suburb – where the dogs can roll in horse shit and the leaves threaten to bury us alive, and have somehow accumulated enough shit to start my own craft store. So I have plenty to do to occupy my brain. My maternity leave had to be started two weeks earlier than originally planned, and yesterday they moved my C-Section date up two weeks due to gestational hypertension, which is basically high blood pressure that is only present during pregnancy and the cause is unknown.

So, my first project was the laundry room. Displaying IMG_0911.JPGwhich is a huge ass laundry room chock FULL of shit that I have been stuffing in there for about a year without a care – easy enough because I could just shut the door and say “fuck it”. But my brain wont let me say fuck it anymore – so it has gone from there, to the kitchen cabinets, to the weird cabinets that the builders of the home put in the living room, and where to next – I will figure out today!

Anyone else ever had or known someone that has had this crazy, laser-focused, adderall-like nesting shit before? Tell me!

Days til baby extraction & tube tying: 12

Flying Blind: The Struggle of Shaving When You Can’t See Your Own Vah-Jay-Jay

My husband shaves. He has always kept way less body hair than me. Perhaps I should be embarrassed..or perhaps you should go fuck yourself if you think I should be embarrassed. That is SO beside my point here, sorry. So, I am 30 weeks…second (and last) child. I decided for whatever reason to deal with the shrubbery I have been growing for a good bit. Maybe it was raging hormones, maybe it was a last goodbye to my vah-jay-jay, “goodbye, my friend. I will see you again next year”, (right…?). Given my genetic luck, I am 5’9” and haven’t gained much weight, haven’t had to buy maternity clothes, but did have a super-stubborn cervix that only dilates to a HALF a fucking centimeter when prompted at 42 fuckin’ weeks, (on a relevant note on genetics, I am adopted so I am like a secret Santa gift here) . But I have finally reached the point where reaching my feet is becoming difficult and I wonder at least once a day how my pubic bone can hurt this bad and not be irreparably damaged. So shaving has been…well…let us just say it has been less of a priority than usual.

So I put conditioner in my hair so it can sit and make it pretty or whatever it does, and I shave my right leg. Not bad…except that I use cheap conditioner to shave with since regular shaving cream seems to make me all bumpy and red and gross. So on the I-might-fall-and-the-paramedics-will-find-me-naked-(again) scale we are at threat level orange, aka “oh shit” level. So I slather on some more conditioner on to my downstairs mix-up, and proceed with my 7-section de-fuzzing process. I make it relatively easily through steps 1, 2, and started slowing down at 3, but I made it through okay. Now keep in mind, friends, this is a 4 blade razor with the little swively head and contouring whatever and what-nots. and if you cut yourself, thats four blades worth of bleeding and burning! No joke. I am now deep into “why the fuck did I start this” territory…where if i stop, the boosh will be forever uneven. Or my husband will make the suggestion of using the electric razor again…that was some tragic shit. It was all smooth buzzzzzzzzzzz til it was like buzzzzzzzZZZ and the blood hit the floor. As did the razor with a resounding FUCK THIS FUCK YOU – NO! from me, (and a huge fit of laughter from him).

So, for some reason it seems to be easier to lean to the right than to the left. This was a challenge. Kind of like reading braille…after taking a kindergarten course in reading braille but not being blind. I gently struggle through this with a peek here and there as to what the fuck was going on down there. So then, section 7. Which to me, is the whole front part – like when you look at a person straight on, the part you will see. It also incorporates the part that will stick out of your super sexy shorty shorts in the summertime. Now this people, is where I came to a sad realization.

I realized that I can no longer actually look at my hootie straight on. Its not because it “hurts” or is “uncomfortable”. It is because it is not physically fuckin’ possible! Right this minute in my journey, I am at the place where I could stop and it be explainable…but if I have struggled this far, I might as well finish right? Very cautiously I proceed until it feels like a hedgehog, which is honestly the best we can hope for without the promise of red, angry, itchy as fuck razor burn garunteed to keep me crossing my legs and bending at the knees when wearing pants for about a week.

Success! My hairless, conditioned, beautiful, round self is out of the shower. and ready to take a sexy pic to send to my husband to liven up the end of the work night, right? WRONG. SO fuckin’ wrong. when you are in your third trimester with your second child, no matter how hairless and fantastic you are, there is no flattering angle you can get with the front camera of a smartphone and the dim yellowish lights of a bathroom. or bedroom. or flash. or a lamp. or the back camera and a mirror. *heavy sigh*    *hits middle home button with another sigh of defeat*

This is my story of my struggle that I had tonight. I would love to hear your story and musings on the difficulties of maintaining any kind of beauty ritual while you’re prego! Holy shit, on a side note…I was just looking for some images to put in this post and thought, ‘hey, I will google shaving while pregnant and see what happens’. youtube videos popped up. ohhh noooo. Wait, so some woman shave/wax for labor? I already have my second c-section scheduled so this is something I haven’t considered. Someone please elaborate and share your story/opinion!

Batteries Required – “Am I an asshole?”

So I made the mistake years ago of mentioning how I loathe such things as battery-operated toys…thus giving everyone I know an opportunity to get back at me for being one of two extroverts in two whole families of extreme introverts. Oh and they took that shit and ran four-hundred miles with it, laughing like hell when my hair seemed a little thinner and my face a little redder every time they saw me. Every parent in America knows the choice that I have faced a thousand times now. its, ‘do I take this away? Do I tell them to stop? Am I being an asshole? Are they being an asshole? does this fucking thing have a volume button?’ Only to end up taking said toy, angrily/calmly as possible digging through your kitchen junk drawers for the small phillips-head screwdriver to take the batteries out of this damned thing that Lucifer himself had the minions of hell make special for you. The results of this action? Peace, my friends. Peace. Immediately followed by, “mommy, it isn’t working!”

“Well honey, they just don’t make them like they used to…”

*child tosses toy to the side for something else*

ensued by the whole, ‘am I being an asshole’ thing again. There is no greater joy than your child willingly picking this toy up and putting it in the ‘donate’ pile during ‘we have too much shit season’, which is between December and January (depending on how much recovery time you need from the holidays). This is the time in which you relieve the ‘am I an asshole’ struggle by saying, “yes honey, some child somewhere will really enjoy this, good job”. The presenting it to the goodwill guy who must think, “geeze, your kids take great care of their toys! Its in such good shape!” Nay, it has been unplugged in the bottom of the toybox/closet since the week they got it.

Yall want to see the one I can’t seem to lose/get rid of? Here it is. (The irritation ensues as my laptop betrays me and will NOT save the image of this terrible thing)

I. Hate. This. Fucking. Thing. Every single child who has come near my home pushes that big yellow sun in the middle of the steering wheel so quickly that I don’t even know what its actually supposed to say…it just makes this loud repetitive sound like “I I I I I – E E E E – I I I I – E E E E …”. This thing has NO off button and NO volume button. And the thing actually steers so they can repeatedly run into your feet and leave marks from all different angles! See, it also has a bar in the back so you can push them…that is, if you like bending and walking at more than a 90 degree angle, that is. It would have been great if you could attach a push bar so you could walk not like a cave man….and a volume button. It also is durable as hell. I have hit it with a F-150, an Impala, and my beloved old Crown Vic – only to have left a paint scratch on my Vic and NOTHING on this plastic monstrosity.

Can you believe THIS is a toy for children?

annoying toys post image 2

WHAT?! WHY?! WHY WOULD THEY DO THIS?! Thank god no one ever bought it for us, because I would have returned it to the store and bought a 12-pack to have a good enough excuse NOT to get in the car and find the giver and kick their ass. (not wanting a DUI is a good enough excuse to me).

In conclusion friends…”am I an asshole?” Perhaps. If you call self-preservation selfish and unworthy…so I guess it depends. If you are the stoic, magazine cover mom who can put up with this without a lifetime prescription of xanax, then you are a better woman than I. I was about to say “teach me in your ways of tolerance”, but then I thought, well, no, because I don’t want an assault and battery charge for kicking the stuffing out of your lying ass.

The Label of a Junkie (Is Fucked)

Once an addict…always an addict? What does that even mean? Does that mean we can’t come back from our dark days? In the eyes of the law and the eyes of our healthcare providers, no – they have no mercy or forgiveness. We are turned into a number, a code, to be filed away with the other “lost causes” to be judged and denied instead of helped and encouraged. Well, this is fucked I do believe. Sometimes it seems the only hope I have to escape this label is to have a new identity, ditch everyone I know and ever have known, and move to another country. Not feasible options.

I got pulled over a few months ago in Clayton County, Ga. In the car were my fiance (now husband), myself, and our daughter who was four years old at the time. I suppose the healed and faded scars from a long-dealt with methamphetamine addiction was the prompt for the fuckery that we endured here. Granted my old Crown Vic (which I LOVED) and blue artsy hair (which I also LOVED) were the basis for their suspicions, perhaps the part of town we were heading for as well, (Riverdale, where my in-laws live). Well, to condense this, we were pulled out of the car, the car was turned upside down while we were sitting on the curb, we were patted down and questioned. Yes, our daughter was patted down as well. They told us what they had assumed is that Anthony was my dealer and we were going to score. The tattoo of his name on my back, or of our daughters name on his arm was not enough for them, nor was the picture of us together on my dash. They found a Tylenol in my cup holder with an antibiotic that I had failed to take at some point in time – took it back to their car, looked it up, and i swear it was a look of disappointment and aggravation after all of their efforts when we were doing nothing wrong. They instructed me to put Kyla back in the car seat, (turns out i found out when we got home they failed to buckle back into place), and told us to have a nice day.

This is one of the many incidences of things that I guess I should have known were going to happen. I guess I also should have known about being denied treatment from doctors, therapists, and employment. Apparently when you seek help and go to rehab, it leaves a bigger stain on your records than being arrested, which is FUCKED. I went for years with no consequence transporting drugs, doing drugs, getting jobs, losing jobs, going to doctors, etc, etc, and now that I am a contributing member of society, it is like the train has run out of tracks. Making it ever so much harder to continue. One might say this IS my consequence, the suffering I incur still, years after my habits have long been dealt with. And they might even be right. But I think it is all truly fucked.

Ill tell you this about the current state of affairs around where I live, it is a whole lot easier to be a criminal and a user than it is to do what you are supposed to do. The honest working individual is stomped at every turn, and struggle is synonymous with honesty.  In order to succeed it seems like you have to lie, steal, cheat, and deceive others, which are all things I try not to do anymore. I must say though, the pride and personal satisfaction I get out of the life I live now is unparalleled my any high I have ever had, and I would rather have this any day.

“Keep doing right and it will catch on”, someone told me once. I suppose I have just reached a difficult spot in life where I am having a hard time answering the questions and going through the motions. Some of this being prompted by my wedding in July…seeing some old friends who are more fucked than I ever realized. One of those people being my own brother. Life-long alcoholic and addict of everything, jealous, hateful, just over all not nice person who being negative energy around with him like a cloud of perfume. More on that in another post perhaps.

So, friends, and readers, what are your struggles in your recovery? Any words of advice for dealing with the judgement and negativity of others in this lifelong process? What the hell do I say to people when they say, “where did you get all those SCARS OMG?” besides, “not that its any of your fuckin’ business, but meth. Thank you.”? enlighten me, friends.