I guess by now you’ve heard about the trapped miners. I can’t remember where they’re trapped…China, maybe? Anyway, the location doesn’t really matter. What matters is what I heard on the news. That they could be trapped in the mine hole thingy for FOUR MONTHS.

I was watching the latest footage on CNN when my doorbell rang.

It was my cousin Aaron.

I let him in and immediately shared my concern for the miners.

Never mind that he was *just stopping by* to drop off an invitation.

“Come over here and look at the TV. Isn’t this awful?”

“Yes, it’s terrible. I can’t imagine what they’re going through.”

“And they’re going to be down there FOR MONTHS. What if one of the miners is pregnant? She needs to see her doctor. She could run out of prenatal vitamins….and OH MY GOD WHAT IF SHE GOES INTO PREMATURE LABOR?!”

There was a look on my cousin’s face I’ve never seen before. On anyone.

“What is it?”

“You seriously think that a PREGNANT woman is one of the miner’s trapped in the mine shaft?”

“It’s possible.”

“No. I’m pretty sure there aren’t many women miners and I’m even MORE SURE that they wouldn’t let a PREGNANT WOMAN be a miner.”

“But..”

“No.”

“I think…”

“Stop thinking.”

I turned my attention to the television screen again.

“Don’t even go there. I’ve seen you do this, Shauna. You take some relatively normal story and turn it into Shauna’s Circus for Idiots.”

“Hey, that’s a good line. Can I use it?”

Sigh. “Sure. Here’s the invitation to the wedding.”

“Awesome. Thank you. So. If there’s no pregnant miner trapped in the hole, and they’re going to be down there for months, don’t you think that by the end of the ordeal someone WILL be pregnant? I mean there’s nothing else to do down there.”

“There are no women miners trapped in the shaft.”

Me, laughing hysterically.

“What’s so funny?”

“You said shaft.”

And then I don’t know what happened, but he left. Just like that.

I love fall weddings. Don’t you?

It seems like things have been quiet around here for the last few months. And that’s because they have.

There have been changes.

BIG changes.

And none of them I ever expected. Or wanted.

But sometimes life fails to check in and ask, “This OK with you?”

So I did what most people do and rolled with it.

I mean, what other choice did I have.

I moved.

Not far. But far enough to get a new zip code. And you know what? I really like my new zip code.

And so…I thought I’d show you what I’ve been doing for the last few weeks.

My decorating style is what I like to call Garage Sale Chic. With a sprinkle of Antique Mall Run By Really Old People. And of course Craig’s List.

(If you hate seeing pics of the inside of people’s houses, you should probably X out of here now. If not, well…here you go)

And the room that’s not finished…

So now I’m settled.

And have absolutely no excuse not to write.

Damn.

It was easier when I had what I considered A Really Good Excuse For Slacking.

I think I’m getting a headache. I can’t possibly focus on writing when my head is pounding. Right?

It’s no secret that I see a therapist. In fact, I think most of us would benefit greatly from therapy. But the weird thing is that the people I feel need it most think they don’t *need* therapy. I’m telling you, you need therapy. Trust me.

Anyway, I was recently in the therapist’s office for my usual hour long visit.

I was staring out the window, admiring the downtown skyline, when she asked, “What are you thinking about?”

“I was thinking about the time I won the Miss America pageant.”

“You were Miss America?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

“I had no idea.”

“Well that was a different time in my life. It’s all a blur.”

“I’m going to say something here. I don’t think you were ever in the Miss America pageant. And I don’t think you were ever Miss America.”

“Really? Because I feel like an ex-reigning Miss America…girl.”

“Were you in a lot of pageants growing up?”

“No. I thought pageants were stupid. I had friends who did them. Ooh. I *was* a cheerleader in high school. Does that count?”

“No. It doesn’t. Being a cheerleader in high school isn’t the same thing as being crowned Miss America.”

“That’s weird. I would have sworn I won the Miss America pageant.”

“That’s because your overeager and overactive imagination gets in the way of reality. Your life reads like a novel. You know, fiction.”

“Yes. I understand that novel means fiction. In fact, that’s one of my biggest pet peeves. When people say ‘fiction novel.’ I mean, duh, if it’s a novel then clearly it’s fiction. No need to say ‘fiction novel.’ You know what I mean?”

“Let’s stay on topic. We’re talking about the difference between reality and the reality in your head.”

“You know what else I hate? I hate when people use the term ‘hardly’ incorrectly. Like, ‘I couldn’t hardly move after my workout.’ It makes me cringe. I want to teach a class on the proper use of the English language.”

“Right after you win the Miss Universe pageant?”

“Wait. You think I could win?”

(furious scribbling on notepad)

“What are you writing?”

“Just taking a few notes. And I’m upping the dosage on your medication.”

“Can you write me a script for Valium?”

(bell chimes)

“That’s all we have time for today.”

“Alrighty. This was all good, yes?”

“Good luck in the Miss Universe pageant.”

“Thanks!”

You know how when you’re a teenager you think your parents are mean, irrational assholes?

Well I was certainly guilty of that. I knew FOR SURE that I had it way worse than any of my friends. I had an earlier curfew than everyone else, I wasn’t allowed to have boys in my room with the door closed, and MY parents wouldn’t let me ride in the back of a pickup truck–you know, because of the whole possibility of dying thing.

See? Cruel and mean.

I was convinced it was because they were constantly trying to ruin my good time. They were obviously allergic to happiness, more specifically, MY happiness.

And now.

I have teenagers.

I worry all the time. When a boy is over I yell in the den, “LEAVE THE LIGHTS ON! WHY DID YOU TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES? WHY DON’T I HEAR YOU TALKING?”

My 15 year old will find me in the kitchen, pacing, and say, “Mom, what is the matter with you? We’re just watching TV. You sound like a lunatic.”

She’s right. I sound like a completely insane person. I’ll say this again. I’m not a well woman.

Teenagers will do this to you. They MAKE you crazy. I mean I don’t think any of us grow up planning to go nutso in our 40s. Our kids decide that for us.

I was thinking back to the time I was 14 and kissed a boy for the first time. I was terrified in the beginning. I had no idea what to do. And I wasn’t sure I wanted someone else’s spit near or IN my mouth. But once I got over the initial oog factor, I was a make-out machine.

True story.

So this boy and I would sit in the game room at my house and kiss for HOURS. And then one time, the unthinkable happened. He gave me a hickey.

I looked to my friends for advice on how to cover it.

Rub it with a penny, I was told. It didn’t work.

Cover it with makeup. That just brought MORE attention to it.

Band-aid. Too obvious.

Color it in with a permanent marker to make it look like a giant mole had formed overnight. Yeah. I’m pretty sure my parents aren’t stupid.

So I did nothing. I just avoided everyone of authority as best I could.

No one said anything to me about it so I assumed I’d gotten away with it.

A few days later the boy came over and AGAIN we headed for the game room. Minutes later my step-dad appeared and tossed something in the direction of my kissing partner. He caught it and we both looked at it. It was a pacifier. My step-dad, very sternly and obviously not joking at all, said “You wanna suck on something, suck on that.”

And then he left the room.

I was humiliated and pissed off and humiliated all over again. It wasn’t long after that the boy left. I’m not sure I ever kissed him again.

Now I realize my step-dad did exactly as he should have. He wasn’t trying to be mean, or ruin my good time. He was sending a message and the message very loudly screamed, Don’t Hurt This Girl.

And now I’m the one tossing pacifiers at boys who come to my house. It’s a terribly worrisome job, but someone has to do it.

OK. So here’s the deal.

I’m finishing up unpacking from moving.

I’m shopping for the absolute perfect antiques for the house. Somewhere between classic traditional and drug induced eclectic.

Because that’s what I’m in to.

I’m crazy busy doing PR for the book.

All the while cutting out pictures from National Geographic because my kids like to find surprise animals in their lunch boxes at school.

Oh yeah, and I stopped long enough for a photo shoot.

My sister in law is so talented that she even makes my calves look good

If you want to read what else I’ve been up to, go to Aiming Low. Dad, you’re fair game as usual.

And lastly, I posted this video earlier but was scolded by the higher-ups, so I’ve posted it again. But only in a secret special place where assholes can’t see it. So if you’re an asshole you won’t be able to view it… But if you’re a regular non-asshole type person, you’ll be fine. Click HERE to check your asshole versus non-asshole status.

My phone rang the other day and it was my grandmother, Mimi. You all remember her, right? The one who imagines snakes that aren’t there, hates Whoopi Goldberg (but not because she’s Black), and can’t hear for shit.

Anyway, so about the hearing thing. It’s getting out of hand. Because now she’s hearing people say things that aren’t remotely true–or even close to what they’re actually saying.

She’s having some trouble with her hearing aids. One problem being that she forgets to wear them.

Now, the conversation.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Shauna. This is your Mimi.”

“Hi Mimi. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Well, that’s not exactly true. I went to the doctor and he told me something is wrong with my brain.”

“WHAT? Did you see a neurologist?”

“Huh?”

“A NEUROLOGIST. DID YOU SEE ONE?”

“No. I went to my hearing aid doctor.”

(What the fuck’s a hearing aid doctor?) “Oh. I don’t understand. Who told you there’s something wrong with your brain?”

“HE did. I told him I was having trouble with my hearing aids and he said it wasn’t my hearing aids at all. That something is wrong with my brain.”

I sat there for a second and thought about what she was saying. Something wasn’t adding up. In fact, it made no sense at all. “Are you sure he said something is wrong WITH YOUR BRAIN?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Could he have said ‘I like to ride the train’?”

“No.”

“How about ‘look over at that gigantic crane’?”

“NO.”

“You’re throwing your money down the drain?”

“No, Shauna. He said BRAIN. I heard him.”

“Chain? Stain? Main? Pain?”

“Oh shut up you smart ass.”

And then the phone went dead. My own grandmother hung up on me.

You know, after further review I think there might be something wrong with MY brain.

PS. The doctor never said there was anything wrong with her brain. She heard him wrong. But I could have told you that BEFORE my mom called the doctor and asked.