Murphy, so help me God, if I ever get my hands on you …

Who knows Murphy? The little cretin who legislates willy nilly and makes all sorts of stupid ass laws that dictate my life?

If you see him, would you please relay a message for me? Specifically, please tell him that I wish he would, without delay, GO WITHER AND DIE, YOU GODFORSAKEN, WRETCHED PIECE OF FECES.

Thank you.

To the rest of my wonderful readers … I have to delay the announcement of the winners of my magnet giveaway because Murphy decided that since I was hosting a giveaway in the first place, it would be the perfect time to screw with my blog comments.

All of a sudden, my comments appeared all sorts of funky and askew and I don’t do askew. Askew makes my brain hurt. So I had to spend a couple of hours un-askewing them and un-askewing something makes my brain hurt too, just to be clear.

Then I had to drink copious amounts of liquor.

I’m hoping they no longer appear askew? Let me know if they do but please, warn me that you are going to let me know so that I can take 342 Xanax and find my happy place before being so informed.

Aesthetics aside, I’m still dealing with the fact that my comments are now being divided into groups of fifty without my permission. This wouldn’t be so bad if the groups were numbered 1-50 and 51-100, and so on, and appearing in the order they were posted. If that were the case, I wouldn’t have to stomp around my office, throwing things and shouting obscenities that are making my childrens’ ears bleed.

But that isn’t the case and my childrens’ ears are hemorrhaging. Each group of fifty is numbered 1-50 and the latest comments are appearing first in a classic case of back-asswards. This is making it exceedingly difficult to use random.org to generate the winning comment numbers and post screen shots of the winning comments. And I like to post the screen shots so as to ward off any potential cries of fraud because my obsessive-compulsive, anal-retentive nature can’t handle even the mere thought of an accusation of impropriety without binge eating my pantry and I can’t binge eat my pantry today because I have no car to go grocery shopping because it’s in the shop for a transmission leak because Murphy is scum.

I no longer have any hair to yank atop my head and am forced to head in a southerly direction on my person. Can I get a big, collective EWWWWW on that? And some sympathy? And a chocolate milkshake?

With any luck, I’ll fix this matter soon and announce the winners shortly.

In the meantime, while I’ve got you all here and we’re bonding over our hairless-ness, I’d like to take just a minute to shout out some props to a reader of mine who could probably make several mini-me chia pets of her own out of the hair she yanked from her head while traveling down that long, bumpy, arduous, I-hope-you-brought-a-donut-to-sit-on road that is paved from beginning to end with bureaucratic red tape and is called Adoption Avenue.

Dee Thompson has published a book called Adopting Alesia detailing her two year journey to adopt her daughter from Russia. Her story is a mixture of joy, sorrow, frustration and, most of all, hope, and culminates with her becoming a mom to a beautiful, teenage girl named Alesia.

If you’re anything like me … and I’m so sorry if you are because being a short, neurotic, anal-retentive, balding, walking personification of anxiety is not all it’s cracked up to be … you were probably surprised to read “teenage” rather than infant or toddler, right? Or am I the only one that seems destined to bear the cross of preconceived notions?

I have a teenage daughter. I know firsthand that raising a young, teenage girl is not unlike riding a roller coaster with your eyes stapled shut and both arms tied behind the back of the guy sitting three rows back of you. It’s hard. A young, teenage girl is just one big mass of hormonal eruption, comprised of 75% angst, 20% pissed-offness with the remaining 5% being a crap shoot, depending on what color the sky is that particular day. Sometimes with mine, I have to think long and hard so that I don’t park her at the curb with a FOR SALE, ALL REASONALBE OFFERS CONSIDERED sign tattooed on her forehead.

And yet here’s Dee, risking all sorts of perfectly good sanity by willingly taking on one of the most challenging stages of motherhood without benefit of the thick, battle scarred skin typically acquired after twelve years’ worth of I HATE YOU, YOU ARE THE WORST MOM EVER accusations hurled at the speed of light.

She took on that challenge because she fell in love with Alesia the moment she first set eyes on her and she knew in an instant that she was meant to be her mom, much like a birth mom instinctively knows the very same thing the minute she catches the first glimpse of her child in the delivery room. And to her credit, Dee wasn’t even flying high on drugs at the time.

Dee wrote a wonderful, uplifting story about love, hope, faith and family. It’s a good, quick read, provided you do not have to referee umpteen hissy fits between your teenager and your eight year old. Because if you do, it might take a little longer. My apologies, Dee.

Check it out here: Adopting Alesia

Congratulations, Dee! Maybe we’ll meet one day and your hairy mini-me chia pets and mine can have a play date together.

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