It's surprising how many times he's smelled patchouli and patchouli-related scents

My ass hurts.  Or maybe it’s my back upper thigh.  My hamstring?  Except it’s not muscle related, unless by muscle related that means waves of achy pain that reverberate all down my leg from my lower butt cheek to the back of my knee and that doesn’t go away even after weeks and weeks, and that is so much worse at night.

I googled achy thigh pain and got sciatica. 

SCIATICA.

I think this means I’m officially old, right?  I mean, especially if you add it to the wrist pain in the form of a ganglion cyst and the foot pain from that time I stepped funny and twisted the top of my foot, which I didn’t’ even think was possible and which still hurts even though it was more than a month ago, or maybe two months ago, I can’t remember, which is another sign of being old.  Although maybe my foot would feel better if I would stop dropping 12 packs of Pepsi Max on it, right on the part that hurts.  I know I’m not supposed to be drinking sodas at all because they are BAD FOR ME, and most definitely shouldn’t be drinking the ones that have fake sugar in them because I’m going to get cancer and go into shock or something, but really, my sciatica will probably kill me before that anyway, or else my poor memory which causes me to leave the crockpot on even hours after I’m done with it which will create Final Destination-esque havoc.

Or something.

SCIATICA. 

(I should probably say that I haven’t actually gone to the doctor for this or anything.  I prefer to live in google-created drama rather than have the professionals tell me I need to exercise more.  I’m trying.  It’s just that it is so very hard to get out of the house when your children hang all over you and insist on being fed and cared for.   Also maybe I should eat less chocolate.)

(Speaking of food!)  Our Thanksgiving was really good – the kids were well-behaved-ish, and Sebastian was introduced to Ninjago and Star Wars and I kind of wish that had never happened because all of our conversations have revolved around them since. 

But it was inevitable, anyway because the kid loves fighting shows.  I am not raising a hippie, which is even more evident whenever he holds his nose up and makes gagging noises every time he smells patchouli. 

So, to sum up:  I am old and also in pain all of the time and yet my husband still refuses to stop smacking me on the butt, and the children are now following his lead and so my behind is smacked an average of 5468 times a day.

Also:  Good food, Star Wars, Ninjago, no hippies.