I don’t believe in lying to my child. I pretty much stick with honesty as the best policy. Yes, the shots will hurt. It is possible you may cry. That is your vagina. It is not a hoo-ha, thingy, whatnot, or even your privates. You have a vagina and you have elbows. I fear it’s a dangerous downward spiral because where do you stop? Some day she will figure out if I am lying to her and I don’t want that someday to come without me noticing. It would be horrible for me to have my daughter think I am a liar.
Before you think me some over –truth-telling weirdo, what I am talking about here is not little white lies. To what I am referring is the “big” stuff. I am not sure how I know what’s big and what is little. I just do, okay?
This past Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, was a trying one for me. I had a cold coming on, a bratty child, too much housekeeping to do as we had plans at our home for Saturday night and two dogs running about who were desperately in need of some exercise. By the time we sat down for dinner, I was spent. Bread wanted coffee with dinner so as he could get a decent caffeine buzz and be able to stay up past nine. He is such a sissy. I mean, he had only been up since four in the morning. Geez.
Every meal we eat, and I mean every, I have to answer the following questions from my child: What are we having for dinner? Did I have that before? When did I have it? Did I eat it or did I spit it out? What is it? Who was here when we ate that? This is because we allow her to choose what she eats for breakfast and lunch, within reason. It has to be somewhat healthy and must be accompanied by a fruit or vegetable. Dinner is a different story. This is what we have. You must try it. End of story.
Okay, so Wednesday night was pizza. Bird knows she loves pizza so there weren’t any questions. But, what she wanted to know about was Thanksgiving dinner. The battle had already begun. Next, she wanted some kid coffee. After about four times of her asking, I grabbed the pot and pretended to pour it in her milk glass. That was met with chants of, “You didn’t even pour anything in there! This is not kid coffee. You didn’t add it! It’s just milk.”
Now, patience is not my strong suit. I don’t have much of it and I try. Sometimes deep breathing will help me but not when I am hungry, cold tired, and ready for some elastic pants and a horizontal position in front of the television. So, I informed her I never put anything in her kid coffee, I always pretend or maybe give her some chocolate milk. I asked her to move on and please eat her dinner (at least I was polite). Bread said nothing. He didn’t even make eye contact. I looked at him. I dared him. I also dare him, on a fairly regular basis to try stay-at-home parenthood. He has, thus far, failed to take me up on that offer.
Later, when I was in a better mood, he informed me, during my rant about the coffee he was expecting me to shout, “AND, Santa isn’t real either.” I laughed about this. I mean, I wouldn’t do that. I’m not that cruel. Give me a break.
This brings us to last night. We were on our way home from IKEA. If you’ve ever been there on a weekend, you know what this is like. We were tired from the long holiday weekend and ready to be done. But, our trip was with purpose. We needed parts for the big-girl bed we were assembling for Bird. Knowing we had to go home and finish that was daunting. Bird was in a mood. So was Bird’s mom. That’s me if you aren’t that quick. Bird sees Chuck E. Cheese which she is obsessed with because they play stupid commercials during the shows she watches. They make the place look fun, cool and highly sanitary. I beg to differ. I am a germaphobe. That shit is nasty. I guarantee it. The ball pit is nothing but a feces-infested cesspool.
Bird shouts, “I see Chuck E. Cheese! I see it! Can we go there?”
I responded with, “No! No!”
She continues, “But why not? Why can’t we go there? Can we go another day?”
Me: “Not today, not tomorrow, never.” We are never going there. It is filthy and disgusting. You will catch a disease.”
Bread interjects with, “You will never go to Chuck E. Cheese. Kid coffee is nothing but stuff you always drink and S-A-N-T-A isn’t real.”
Bread's statement was followed by uncontrollable laughter from me. Holy shit. I am fucking crazy.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Monday, November 14, 2011
Joe
My child has an imaginary friend. Now, before you go all therapist on me, stating she only has said “friend” because she is, thus far, an only child and she is creating a sibling for herself, I will tell you to shut it. I had two brothers and an imaginary friend named Bobby who lived in my mouth. I distinctly remember sitting on the floor by the heat register talking to him. So, even having two siblings I did not choose, I wanted something else. Point being, we don’t get to pick and even if we could, it doesn’t always work out the way we want. If we are going to psycho-analyze this shit, I clearly wanted different brothers. I wanted siblings who were normal and did not pull the head off my Barbie. Nothing weird here, move along, people, move along.
So, Bird’s buddy, Joe is constantly a subject in our home. I haven’t squashed her imagination by telling her that he doesn’t actually exist. She is happy. She likes him. They play nicely together. Sometimes they run around the living room together. Besides, I know full-blown adults with more troublesome delusions than a faux friend and nobody is telling them the “truth.” If they can carry on, so can Bird. I am not going to ruin this one for her.
We never know when Joe is around or not. He leaves. He comes back. He goes to work! I like this! She is befriending functional members of society! He used to work at Walmart. Now, he works at Nino’s (a local higher-end grocery store). One could say Joe is moving up in the world, climbing the career ladder, if you will. He probably makes way more money at Nino’s. Actually, that’s not true because it turns out he does not get paid in cash. Rather, they pay him it meat. Of course! Work for eight hours, take home tenderloin! Genius. I wonder if he sells his meat on the black market?
What else have we learned about Joe? He has a ponytail. I don’t like this. I am frowning on her befriending boys with long hair. This style is out. I hope he’s not a delinquent. If he has tattoos and piercings we are out. OMG. What if he trades the meat for drugs?
But seriously, where in the hell did this come from? Last weekend, Bird was with my mom. She said something my mom couldn’t make out. When questioned as to what she said, her response was, “I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to Joe.” Oh! Of course you are! Excuse the bleep out of me.
So, Bird’s buddy, Joe is constantly a subject in our home. I haven’t squashed her imagination by telling her that he doesn’t actually exist. She is happy. She likes him. They play nicely together. Sometimes they run around the living room together. Besides, I know full-blown adults with more troublesome delusions than a faux friend and nobody is telling them the “truth.” If they can carry on, so can Bird. I am not going to ruin this one for her.
We never know when Joe is around or not. He leaves. He comes back. He goes to work! I like this! She is befriending functional members of society! He used to work at Walmart. Now, he works at Nino’s (a local higher-end grocery store). One could say Joe is moving up in the world, climbing the career ladder, if you will. He probably makes way more money at Nino’s. Actually, that’s not true because it turns out he does not get paid in cash. Rather, they pay him it meat. Of course! Work for eight hours, take home tenderloin! Genius. I wonder if he sells his meat on the black market?
What else have we learned about Joe? He has a ponytail. I don’t like this. I am frowning on her befriending boys with long hair. This style is out. I hope he’s not a delinquent. If he has tattoos and piercings we are out. OMG. What if he trades the meat for drugs?
But seriously, where in the hell did this come from? Last weekend, Bird was with my mom. She said something my mom couldn’t make out. When questioned as to what she said, her response was, “I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to Joe.” Oh! Of course you are! Excuse the bleep out of me.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
A Tale of Two Pair of Boots and Some Old Lady Shoes
It has been raining here a lot this fall. I take my child to school and come home cursing the people who make jeans. Why are they so bleeping long? I am five foot six inches tall. I am not a short person. I am, in fact, average. Why is it so difficult to purchase a pair of jeans in a reasonable length? Is that too much to ask? Apparently.
My solution was to order some super-cute rain boots from Target. I needed them. I wanted to wage war on wet jeans. And, yes, I know I could have them hemmed or hem them myself. Who does that? I guarantee I would be walking around with some jankity ass shit. Instead I walk around in soaking wet jeans. Pick your poison my friends, all in the name of fashion. I am so stylish, a regular fashion icon, I am. If by style you mean too long jeans and Converse sneakers, a touch of makeup and crazy-ass hair. If yes, then, we are probably soul mates.
So on Sunday, I devoted a stretch of time, while enjoying my morning coffee, made especially for me, by Bread, complete with hazelnut cream frothed by the glorious IKEA milk frother. What? Jealous? Your husband doesn’t make you coffee on Sunday, sorry. Mine does because he effing rocks. Nah, Nah, Nah. My husband is better than yours!
I just really wanted to paint the picture of me, my coffee and the Internet machine. I am moving on here. So, I scoured Target for probably several hours. This is after my trip to Target on Friday and before my trip, that very day, with a friend. Ahem. I am not an addict. I just appreciate a good deal. And, I like to shop. And, I ran out of dry shampoo. Hell hath no fury like a woman with greasy roots.
There were so many choices to be made regarding the print of the boot. I mean, as things are going I will be wearing them every day! It will never stop raining. I will be trapped in my home with the animals unless I build an ark! Yes! Yes! I need tools and supplies! I know what I will be researching this Sunday morning! Target for supplies and Google for a blueprint! And then Google again for someone who can, indeed, read a blueprint…Never mind, it turns out Bread can read a blueprint.
I finally settled on this pair. Bread said no more plaid but I totally wanted these. The bastard shot me down. But, then I was distracted by this pair listed somewhere on the page as something else I might like! Oh! I do! I do! Low and behold I have been searching far and wide for a good knock-off pair of Frye boots. I cannot spend that kind of money on a lone pair of shoes. I would probably wear the shit out of them and get my money’s worth but I just couldn’t do it. I want my child to go to college some day and so does she, actually. When quizzed about what she will be studying while attending college, my child responds with either, “I will learn how to be a princess,” or “mermaid.” Ha! Sister, you need no degree to be a princess. What you need is a damn sugar daddy! I have so much to teach her.
So, Bread, as he always does, convinced me to purchase both pair! Free shipping on orders over $50 and the rain boots were only $20! God bless that man. Did I mention he stopped at MAC to purchase me some of my favorite lip gloss one day after work? Yes, he totally did because I tried to buy it at Macy’s on Sunday and they were out. I have been out for a year but reluctant to purchase more because of the price. Maybelline is only like $3 if you have a coupon! Finally, after going a through a million that just weren’t up to par, I decided to bite the bullet and buy the real thing. I deserve it! I clip coupons! They were out. I figured that was a message from the gods telling me not to spend money on that shit. Bread said he knew it was because he was supposed to get it for me as a token of his affection. It worked. I melted. I mean, the color is fabulous. It’s like someone looked at my lips, said, I shall make this color for you and did. I swear. Get some. My husband bought me lip gloss on a whim! Nah, nah, nah.
So, I have been anxiously awaiting the arrival of said boots. I have been stalking the Internet for their arrival date. Yesterday, I had a million errands to run. One of them was to go to the Croc store and buy some of their hideously ugly and unstylish shoes to wear inside for slippers (I apologize if you do, indeed, wear Crocs). We have zero carpeting in our home. I am constantly freezing in the winter. Our kitchen floor is ceramic. It’s cold and it’s hard (ha, ha, that’s what she said). If I just wear slippers I get sore if I’m in there all day cooking and cleaning and doing whatever the hell it is I do. My legs hurt. I am elderly. I probably have liver spots just dying to come to the surface or something. Bread (again, my husband, the genius, kind, wonderful person that he is) suggested I get some Crocs. After a couple days with throbbing knees and shin splints, I decided yesterday was the day.
I felt like such a loser for having to buy them. I was cursing myself all the way home. By the way, have I mentioned my self-loathing is at an all-time high? I mean, who really cares? But for some reason it really bothered me to have to make this purchase. I want to spend my money on cool things like boots and college and shiny lip gloss. Buying Crocs in order to protect my aging bones, in my eyes, is just slightly above purchasing support hose (again, I apologize if you rock, because I am sure you do rock, the support hose).
Upon my arrival home, I show off my purchase to Bread who proclaims how cool those Crocs are. He is a liar but I love him for it. He even tried them on in order to profess their level of comfort. He then informs me I have a package from Target. Wait. Question: why is receiving a shipment, you ordered and paid for so exciting? You know it is coming. You know what is inside. You paid somebody’s hard earned money for it. Why? Anyway, my package arrived and holy mother of you-know-who! I love those boots! They look expensive; what a fabulous knock-off! This may be the best $35 I ever spent! I am a genius! I need to give myself more credit! I am not some frumpy mother with pink, faux-fur lined plastic shoes! Gump! I am a God-damned genius! I sent pictures to some stylish friends for approval. I won. Score one for Jessie Domestic.
And the moral of the story is: does anyone really care about your boots? No. Did you have fun writing about them? Yes. Score two for Jessie Domestic.
My solution was to order some super-cute rain boots from Target. I needed them. I wanted to wage war on wet jeans. And, yes, I know I could have them hemmed or hem them myself. Who does that? I guarantee I would be walking around with some jankity ass shit. Instead I walk around in soaking wet jeans. Pick your poison my friends, all in the name of fashion. I am so stylish, a regular fashion icon, I am. If by style you mean too long jeans and Converse sneakers, a touch of makeup and crazy-ass hair. If yes, then, we are probably soul mates.
So on Sunday, I devoted a stretch of time, while enjoying my morning coffee, made especially for me, by Bread, complete with hazelnut cream frothed by the glorious IKEA milk frother. What? Jealous? Your husband doesn’t make you coffee on Sunday, sorry. Mine does because he effing rocks. Nah, Nah, Nah. My husband is better than yours!
I just really wanted to paint the picture of me, my coffee and the Internet machine. I am moving on here. So, I scoured Target for probably several hours. This is after my trip to Target on Friday and before my trip, that very day, with a friend. Ahem. I am not an addict. I just appreciate a good deal. And, I like to shop. And, I ran out of dry shampoo. Hell hath no fury like a woman with greasy roots.
There were so many choices to be made regarding the print of the boot. I mean, as things are going I will be wearing them every day! It will never stop raining. I will be trapped in my home with the animals unless I build an ark! Yes! Yes! I need tools and supplies! I know what I will be researching this Sunday morning! Target for supplies and Google for a blueprint! And then Google again for someone who can, indeed, read a blueprint…Never mind, it turns out Bread can read a blueprint.
I finally settled on this pair. Bread said no more plaid but I totally wanted these. The bastard shot me down. But, then I was distracted by this pair listed somewhere on the page as something else I might like! Oh! I do! I do! Low and behold I have been searching far and wide for a good knock-off pair of Frye boots. I cannot spend that kind of money on a lone pair of shoes. I would probably wear the shit out of them and get my money’s worth but I just couldn’t do it. I want my child to go to college some day and so does she, actually. When quizzed about what she will be studying while attending college, my child responds with either, “I will learn how to be a princess,” or “mermaid.” Ha! Sister, you need no degree to be a princess. What you need is a damn sugar daddy! I have so much to teach her.
So, Bread, as he always does, convinced me to purchase both pair! Free shipping on orders over $50 and the rain boots were only $20! God bless that man. Did I mention he stopped at MAC to purchase me some of my favorite lip gloss one day after work? Yes, he totally did because I tried to buy it at Macy’s on Sunday and they were out. I have been out for a year but reluctant to purchase more because of the price. Maybelline is only like $3 if you have a coupon! Finally, after going a through a million that just weren’t up to par, I decided to bite the bullet and buy the real thing. I deserve it! I clip coupons! They were out. I figured that was a message from the gods telling me not to spend money on that shit. Bread said he knew it was because he was supposed to get it for me as a token of his affection. It worked. I melted. I mean, the color is fabulous. It’s like someone looked at my lips, said, I shall make this color for you and did. I swear. Get some. My husband bought me lip gloss on a whim! Nah, nah, nah.
So, I have been anxiously awaiting the arrival of said boots. I have been stalking the Internet for their arrival date. Yesterday, I had a million errands to run. One of them was to go to the Croc store and buy some of their hideously ugly and unstylish shoes to wear inside for slippers (I apologize if you do, indeed, wear Crocs). We have zero carpeting in our home. I am constantly freezing in the winter. Our kitchen floor is ceramic. It’s cold and it’s hard (ha, ha, that’s what she said). If I just wear slippers I get sore if I’m in there all day cooking and cleaning and doing whatever the hell it is I do. My legs hurt. I am elderly. I probably have liver spots just dying to come to the surface or something. Bread (again, my husband, the genius, kind, wonderful person that he is) suggested I get some Crocs. After a couple days with throbbing knees and shin splints, I decided yesterday was the day.
I felt like such a loser for having to buy them. I was cursing myself all the way home. By the way, have I mentioned my self-loathing is at an all-time high? I mean, who really cares? But for some reason it really bothered me to have to make this purchase. I want to spend my money on cool things like boots and college and shiny lip gloss. Buying Crocs in order to protect my aging bones, in my eyes, is just slightly above purchasing support hose (again, I apologize if you rock, because I am sure you do rock, the support hose).
Upon my arrival home, I show off my purchase to Bread who proclaims how cool those Crocs are. He is a liar but I love him for it. He even tried them on in order to profess their level of comfort. He then informs me I have a package from Target. Wait. Question: why is receiving a shipment, you ordered and paid for so exciting? You know it is coming. You know what is inside. You paid somebody’s hard earned money for it. Why? Anyway, my package arrived and holy mother of you-know-who! I love those boots! They look expensive; what a fabulous knock-off! This may be the best $35 I ever spent! I am a genius! I need to give myself more credit! I am not some frumpy mother with pink, faux-fur lined plastic shoes! Gump! I am a God-damned genius! I sent pictures to some stylish friends for approval. I won. Score one for Jessie Domestic.
And the moral of the story is: does anyone really care about your boots? No. Did you have fun writing about them? Yes. Score two for Jessie Domestic.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Be Afraid
A couple weeks ago, some friends were in town from California (Yo, Colemans!). A bunch of us got together for dinner, drinks and, alcohol-induced, deep conversation. Because that’s what you do when you have had a few cocktails. You become the smartest, most profound person you know. You also become very self-confident and you start to think yourself to be very lovely, which, normally you do not necessarily believe. You know you have had far too many cocktails when you become a good dancer as dancing is not something you have ever excelled at. You blame your mom for this because she did not sign you up for dance class when you were a tot. Cocktails are seriously the world’s problem solver. I believe congress could make some great decisions if everybody just threw back a couple beforehand. Wars would be ended over a glass of ale, seriously.
Anyway, so my dear friends convinced me I need to blog again. So, I shall try it because once upon a time, liquor made me say I would. I like to keep my word. I also appreciate the kind words and positive reinforcement. Consider yourself warned-I’ll be back (insert Arnold’s voice here but only his voice before he become a philandering arse because now he’s just yucky).
Anyway, so my dear friends convinced me I need to blog again. So, I shall try it because once upon a time, liquor made me say I would. I like to keep my word. I also appreciate the kind words and positive reinforcement. Consider yourself warned-I’ll be back (insert Arnold’s voice here but only his voice before he become a philandering arse because now he’s just yucky).
Monday, May 16, 2011
Random Acts
We woke on Easter morning to discover the Mississippi River flowing through our basement. I joke. It wasn’t really the Mississippi. It was more like a murky, disease-infested creek. What a mess! It was Easter! Hath God no sympathy? No! No! He doesn’t! I believe he is punishing me for my lifetime of wrong-doing. I so should have been a nicer person. Karma: It’s a total bitch.
While I don’t fully believe God is punishing me, I am starting to question some things. First, this was totally my fault. I jinxed us. Things are going well (were), financially and life is good. I SHOULD NOT HAVE OPENED MY MOUTH. I should know better. If you speak of it, the shit will hit the fan. Literally.
Second, I realize and fully recognize there are way worse things than a flood in one’s basement. I am glad it was not worse. People are dying. There is disease, poverty, war and a million other horrible things happening in our world. I am thankful for all that I have. So, before you bethink me an awful person, let me just clarify that.
But, nobody wants to wake up to a flood, especially, on a holiday. We have a child! She had a basket to find! We made cinnamon buns from scratch the night before! We just had to bake them for 30 minutes and have a wonderful, sugar-filled morning breakfast which would pair fabulously with super-strong coffee. You want to know what those cinnamon buns tasted like post flood discovery? They tasted like bitter resentment. Screw you, house! Why do you have to do this to us now and ruin our holiday? Christ rose! You didn’t have to do this! At least not today!
I thought maybe the buns would make us feel better. False. We sat around, eating them, pondering what the hell we should do with the mess in our basement. We wanted to know what it was. We wondered what could have caused it. Bread said he suspected our water heater had given out. He mentioned, about a month ago, we needed a new one. This would have been awesome scenario as it would have been clean water. As I mentioned before, in our home, you can’t speak of something without making it fall apart. Last month, Bread said, “Oh! Our Lazy Susan is cracked. Be careful! I will have to fix it.” I shit you not, that night, as I was reading in bed at one in the morning there was a great crash from downstairs. I feared we were being burgled! No! It turns out Suze fell apart and our herbs, spices, oils and various other pounds of cooking miscellanea decided that was the time to fall. It scared the hell out of both of us. Bread was prancing about our home in just his underwear; it was something straight out of a sitcom.
Once he headed to the basement to handle the flood, it took Bread all of maybe five minutes to deduce it was not our water heater causing the flood. It was, in fact, a drain backup. Now, while there were no turds visible, there was really no way to deduce whether the stuff in our basement was clean or dirty water. My germophobia was on high-alert. Remove all shoes! Do not touch anything! Wash! Wash! Wash!
Eventually, the plumber showed up and declared it was, indeed, clean water. God bless Jesus! I could not handle actual human waste in my home anywhere outside of say, the toilet or perhaps my child’s pants. And, maybe sometimes Bread’s pants! But, I’m not in charge of that when it happens! Ha!
Okay, so the plumber told us it was clean water. Ground water is actually what he called it. We were able to carry on with our day. My mom came to pick up Bird earlier in the day so as she could still have a nice holiday. I went to pick her up while Bread began the clean up. The poor guy spent his entire Easter Sunday trying to clean up the disaster. He has been working 70 hour work weeks. This was his first full weekend off in probably a month. I felt bad. Did I mention how much my husband rocks?
After Bird was tucked in and coming off her chocolate- bunny- induced- sugar- high, I went to help Bread. I wasn’t too grossed out since the plumber informed us of the water being clean and all. And, why should my husband have to deal with that all on his own. Eventually, we called it a day, showered and went to bed hoping for a better day tomorrow. Meaning: the insurance people will be in and they can give us the okay to call folks to fix this.
We were deluded for believing the insurance people would help in any way, shape or form. After several phone calls, a meeting with an adjuster and lots of nasty words, we now know if they are not covering anything. I suppose this was just one of life’s lessons. We now have a new insurance provider, in case you were wondering about that.
We had to take matters into our own hands. We called a restoration company. They, in turn, informed us the water was not actually clean. It’s what they call “grey water.” This means, while it was not actually raw sewage, it was, by no means, clean because it has been in contact with actual raw sewage. Vomit. Barf. Oh, my God, why didn’t I wear a hazmat suit?
Upon reflecting on this, I gather when one’s occupation is a plumber, you probably see some nasty shit (pun intended). So, when you walk into someone’s home, it doesn’t smell and there are no actual floating logs, you probably do consider it clean. We, on the other hand, have a different standard. I am not, and never plan to be, used to this. I need to give kudos to all the plumbers out there. You rock and are, most certainly, underpaid. For the record, our plumber rocked. He was great and only charged us $250! It was Easter!
So, the restoration company recommended we replace the carpeting and pad in our basement. It did not take much arm twisting for this germ- obsessed person to agree to that. They said we could clean the carpet if we really wanted to. I do not. I have no sentimental attachment to this. Burn it. We ordered new carpet. Everything has been cleaned and sanitized. We will live. We decided that. We will try to make cinnamon buns again. Everything will be okay.
Bread declared over dinner last night that we’ve had our fair share of acts of God this year. He reminded me of the recent shit storms provided especially for me by my child. He said the Great Basement Flood of 2011 would obviously count as such. He seems to think that next it will be a locust invasion or, perhaps, bed bugs. Bed bugs! Are you crazy! You don’t talk about bed bugs! If we get bed bugs I’m moving out! Curse you! Did he not get the memo regarding our luck? We’re screwed.
While I don’t fully believe God is punishing me, I am starting to question some things. First, this was totally my fault. I jinxed us. Things are going well (were), financially and life is good. I SHOULD NOT HAVE OPENED MY MOUTH. I should know better. If you speak of it, the shit will hit the fan. Literally.
Second, I realize and fully recognize there are way worse things than a flood in one’s basement. I am glad it was not worse. People are dying. There is disease, poverty, war and a million other horrible things happening in our world. I am thankful for all that I have. So, before you bethink me an awful person, let me just clarify that.
But, nobody wants to wake up to a flood, especially, on a holiday. We have a child! She had a basket to find! We made cinnamon buns from scratch the night before! We just had to bake them for 30 minutes and have a wonderful, sugar-filled morning breakfast which would pair fabulously with super-strong coffee. You want to know what those cinnamon buns tasted like post flood discovery? They tasted like bitter resentment. Screw you, house! Why do you have to do this to us now and ruin our holiday? Christ rose! You didn’t have to do this! At least not today!
I thought maybe the buns would make us feel better. False. We sat around, eating them, pondering what the hell we should do with the mess in our basement. We wanted to know what it was. We wondered what could have caused it. Bread said he suspected our water heater had given out. He mentioned, about a month ago, we needed a new one. This would have been awesome scenario as it would have been clean water. As I mentioned before, in our home, you can’t speak of something without making it fall apart. Last month, Bread said, “Oh! Our Lazy Susan is cracked. Be careful! I will have to fix it.” I shit you not, that night, as I was reading in bed at one in the morning there was a great crash from downstairs. I feared we were being burgled! No! It turns out Suze fell apart and our herbs, spices, oils and various other pounds of cooking miscellanea decided that was the time to fall. It scared the hell out of both of us. Bread was prancing about our home in just his underwear; it was something straight out of a sitcom.
Once he headed to the basement to handle the flood, it took Bread all of maybe five minutes to deduce it was not our water heater causing the flood. It was, in fact, a drain backup. Now, while there were no turds visible, there was really no way to deduce whether the stuff in our basement was clean or dirty water. My germophobia was on high-alert. Remove all shoes! Do not touch anything! Wash! Wash! Wash!
Eventually, the plumber showed up and declared it was, indeed, clean water. God bless Jesus! I could not handle actual human waste in my home anywhere outside of say, the toilet or perhaps my child’s pants. And, maybe sometimes Bread’s pants! But, I’m not in charge of that when it happens! Ha!
Okay, so the plumber told us it was clean water. Ground water is actually what he called it. We were able to carry on with our day. My mom came to pick up Bird earlier in the day so as she could still have a nice holiday. I went to pick her up while Bread began the clean up. The poor guy spent his entire Easter Sunday trying to clean up the disaster. He has been working 70 hour work weeks. This was his first full weekend off in probably a month. I felt bad. Did I mention how much my husband rocks?
After Bird was tucked in and coming off her chocolate- bunny- induced- sugar- high, I went to help Bread. I wasn’t too grossed out since the plumber informed us of the water being clean and all. And, why should my husband have to deal with that all on his own. Eventually, we called it a day, showered and went to bed hoping for a better day tomorrow. Meaning: the insurance people will be in and they can give us the okay to call folks to fix this.
We were deluded for believing the insurance people would help in any way, shape or form. After several phone calls, a meeting with an adjuster and lots of nasty words, we now know if they are not covering anything. I suppose this was just one of life’s lessons. We now have a new insurance provider, in case you were wondering about that.
We had to take matters into our own hands. We called a restoration company. They, in turn, informed us the water was not actually clean. It’s what they call “grey water.” This means, while it was not actually raw sewage, it was, by no means, clean because it has been in contact with actual raw sewage. Vomit. Barf. Oh, my God, why didn’t I wear a hazmat suit?
Upon reflecting on this, I gather when one’s occupation is a plumber, you probably see some nasty shit (pun intended). So, when you walk into someone’s home, it doesn’t smell and there are no actual floating logs, you probably do consider it clean. We, on the other hand, have a different standard. I am not, and never plan to be, used to this. I need to give kudos to all the plumbers out there. You rock and are, most certainly, underpaid. For the record, our plumber rocked. He was great and only charged us $250! It was Easter!
So, the restoration company recommended we replace the carpeting and pad in our basement. It did not take much arm twisting for this germ- obsessed person to agree to that. They said we could clean the carpet if we really wanted to. I do not. I have no sentimental attachment to this. Burn it. We ordered new carpet. Everything has been cleaned and sanitized. We will live. We decided that. We will try to make cinnamon buns again. Everything will be okay.
Bread declared over dinner last night that we’ve had our fair share of acts of God this year. He reminded me of the recent shit storms provided especially for me by my child. He said the Great Basement Flood of 2011 would obviously count as such. He seems to think that next it will be a locust invasion or, perhaps, bed bugs. Bed bugs! Are you crazy! You don’t talk about bed bugs! If we get bed bugs I’m moving out! Curse you! Did he not get the memo regarding our luck? We’re screwed.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Shit Storm
My child has been potty trained for over a year now. We still remind her quite often to go because she has an occasional accident. But, she is a three-year-old wishing for independence, therefore, reminding her to go usually leads to a battle. I have been trying to give her more bathroom freedom because I do feel like she gets it. It’s all about the give and take, you know?
Lately, I am obsessed with Trader Joes. I tried it before on several occasions and did not really love it enough to make a special trip there weekly or even monthly. I already frequent three other grocery stores. I figured that was enough. Then, we received one of their fabulous sales papers and I decided I wanted to try it again. I am hooked. While I’m not Costco-obsessed with TJ’s, I am undoubtedly having a major love affair with them. They have so many great, healthy, inexpensive things! They did not pay me to say this. In fact, nobody is paying me to say anything. Weird. In fact, one might say, there are probably people who would pay me to shut up.
Last week, we were out of Sunflower Seed Butter. In our home, this is a crisis. I planned a trip with the tot. I consider it to be an outing because it involves parking in a parking garage and it is in the next town over. I don’t know why the parking garage complicates it. It just does. It also takes forever to get there. I checked it out and it’s only five miles but it feels like forever. Perhaps I need to seek an alternate route. Perhaps I need to find something else to obsess about.
Anyhow, we went. Bird loves it. She found one of those little carts for kids. She was happy as can be. We made it through the produce, coffee and cracker section. We were debating some raisin bagels. She started to do a little dance. I couldn’t tell if it was a potty dance or just a this-music-really-moves-me thing. I questioned if she needed to use the facilities. She said no. Oh! And here we go. This is the part where you figure out I am, indeed, about to write about my child and her frail, inexperienced bladder. I say, no, not her bladder this time, her bowels! I really pulled one over on you. It’s funny to me! So many things are funny to me about child rearing. So so so so so many things. Some people may disagree. These people may go as far as to say raising children is a very serious matter. I, on the other hand, think it’s funny. Yes, it is serious too but, my child will still be okay even if I write about her accidents on the internet. Believe me, there are a thousand different ways in which I am 100 percent certain I can screw up my kid. Besides, I need material so I can embarrass her in front of her prom date.
Essentially, about four seconds after she refuses my offer to take her to the bathroom, her entire face goes green and she says, “I need to go potty.” I tell myself not to panic, push my cart out of the way and grab her. She says, “I already went a little bit.” I tell her it’s no big deal and we search for the bathroom. Naturally, the bathrooms are located exactly behind where we were except, in my panic, I didn’t think to look behind me. So, I made my kid walk an entire lap around the store with a load of shit in her pants. And, that was just how she was walking-as if she had a load of shit in her pants. Her legs were about three feet apart.
We make it to the restroom. At this point, I deduce it’s more than a little bit. It’s a mass. Luckily she is wearing a skirt and leggings. After she informs me she doesn’t need to go on the potty, as she is done, I decide to try and clean her up. Because even if we can’t finish shopping, there is no way I am putting her in my brand new car with that going on. No way. I decide the best method is to remove her shoes and throw away the leggings and her underwear. You are welcome Trader Joes for that gift. There was a moment of sheer insanity where I actually considered putting these items in my purse. You know, just tossing them in. I’m very glad I reconsidered, as is the cashier. I use about a half a roll of the paper towel in the bathroom (not very green of me) to wipe her down. Next I use the Sani Hands I keep in my purse (no plastic bag for storing shitty underwear, however) to wipe her off. I suspect, by her shrieks, this may have burned a bit. I was desperate! I was trying to remain calm because, in the words of hamburger eating David Hasselhoff, “This thing is a mess.” Funny, my friends made fun of me at the casino because of the Sani Hands. Had they been present at TJ’s they would have had a much better appreciation for my thoughtfulness.
I deduct she is clean enough. I tell her we are not going to discuss this with anyone. I have visions of her telling people while we are at the store about our little predicament. We are not going to tell anyone that you are not wearing panties. She agrees. I hope she holds up her end of the deal. We finish shopping. I want my effing organic banana yogurt. That stuff is like crack. I am going to need crack after this experience. I drove here, I had a traumatic experience, I survived and I want my goods. We find one of our carts. The other one seems to have disappeared since we were in the bathroom for well over 20 minutes. I’m fine with that. I retrace my steps, hopefully grabbing whatever I had in the cart before and moving as quickly as I can. My child needs a bath and I am praying to God this does not happen again because there is obviously nothing to contain it. I swear to you, people were looking at us funny. I swear they knew. I am sweating profusely and I can’t wait to leave.
Alas, we are in the car. I am driving quickly. Bird is tucked neatly into her seat with her skirt wrapped around her. I can’t have any feces touching my vehicle. I am trying to contain it. I am traumatized. I am frazzled. Feces in public has that effect on me. I am not a calm person. I stop behind bus and a line of cars. The light changes about three times but we never move. Why is the man behind me honking? There is nothing I can do! I am waiting for the traffic in front of me to move! He continues to honk. Oh! Wait! This is actually a line of parked cars! I am a moron! I am frazzled! I roll down the window and yell to the man, “My child shit her pants in the grocery store! I’m spent!” I am kidding. I didn’t actually yell to him. I wanted to. But, in my defense, there was a bus! I thought we were waiting for the bus.
We arrive home. I ask her, as she’s disrobing for the bath, “What happened at Trader Joes?” She informs me, “We can’t talk about it.” Well, at least she kept up her end of the bargain. At least it’s over. That is, until the next day when she does the exact same thing at school and her teacher hands me her underwear wrapped in a plastic bag. I thought it was an art project! Wrong. When I asked her what happened at school she tells me, “I snarkled.” Oh! Is that what the kids are calling it these days?
Lately, I am obsessed with Trader Joes. I tried it before on several occasions and did not really love it enough to make a special trip there weekly or even monthly. I already frequent three other grocery stores. I figured that was enough. Then, we received one of their fabulous sales papers and I decided I wanted to try it again. I am hooked. While I’m not Costco-obsessed with TJ’s, I am undoubtedly having a major love affair with them. They have so many great, healthy, inexpensive things! They did not pay me to say this. In fact, nobody is paying me to say anything. Weird. In fact, one might say, there are probably people who would pay me to shut up.
Last week, we were out of Sunflower Seed Butter. In our home, this is a crisis. I planned a trip with the tot. I consider it to be an outing because it involves parking in a parking garage and it is in the next town over. I don’t know why the parking garage complicates it. It just does. It also takes forever to get there. I checked it out and it’s only five miles but it feels like forever. Perhaps I need to seek an alternate route. Perhaps I need to find something else to obsess about.
Anyhow, we went. Bird loves it. She found one of those little carts for kids. She was happy as can be. We made it through the produce, coffee and cracker section. We were debating some raisin bagels. She started to do a little dance. I couldn’t tell if it was a potty dance or just a this-music-really-moves-me thing. I questioned if she needed to use the facilities. She said no. Oh! And here we go. This is the part where you figure out I am, indeed, about to write about my child and her frail, inexperienced bladder. I say, no, not her bladder this time, her bowels! I really pulled one over on you. It’s funny to me! So many things are funny to me about child rearing. So so so so so many things. Some people may disagree. These people may go as far as to say raising children is a very serious matter. I, on the other hand, think it’s funny. Yes, it is serious too but, my child will still be okay even if I write about her accidents on the internet. Believe me, there are a thousand different ways in which I am 100 percent certain I can screw up my kid. Besides, I need material so I can embarrass her in front of her prom date.
Essentially, about four seconds after she refuses my offer to take her to the bathroom, her entire face goes green and she says, “I need to go potty.” I tell myself not to panic, push my cart out of the way and grab her. She says, “I already went a little bit.” I tell her it’s no big deal and we search for the bathroom. Naturally, the bathrooms are located exactly behind where we were except, in my panic, I didn’t think to look behind me. So, I made my kid walk an entire lap around the store with a load of shit in her pants. And, that was just how she was walking-as if she had a load of shit in her pants. Her legs were about three feet apart.
We make it to the restroom. At this point, I deduce it’s more than a little bit. It’s a mass. Luckily she is wearing a skirt and leggings. After she informs me she doesn’t need to go on the potty, as she is done, I decide to try and clean her up. Because even if we can’t finish shopping, there is no way I am putting her in my brand new car with that going on. No way. I decide the best method is to remove her shoes and throw away the leggings and her underwear. You are welcome Trader Joes for that gift. There was a moment of sheer insanity where I actually considered putting these items in my purse. You know, just tossing them in. I’m very glad I reconsidered, as is the cashier. I use about a half a roll of the paper towel in the bathroom (not very green of me) to wipe her down. Next I use the Sani Hands I keep in my purse (no plastic bag for storing shitty underwear, however) to wipe her off. I suspect, by her shrieks, this may have burned a bit. I was desperate! I was trying to remain calm because, in the words of hamburger eating David Hasselhoff, “This thing is a mess.” Funny, my friends made fun of me at the casino because of the Sani Hands. Had they been present at TJ’s they would have had a much better appreciation for my thoughtfulness.
I deduct she is clean enough. I tell her we are not going to discuss this with anyone. I have visions of her telling people while we are at the store about our little predicament. We are not going to tell anyone that you are not wearing panties. She agrees. I hope she holds up her end of the deal. We finish shopping. I want my effing organic banana yogurt. That stuff is like crack. I am going to need crack after this experience. I drove here, I had a traumatic experience, I survived and I want my goods. We find one of our carts. The other one seems to have disappeared since we were in the bathroom for well over 20 minutes. I’m fine with that. I retrace my steps, hopefully grabbing whatever I had in the cart before and moving as quickly as I can. My child needs a bath and I am praying to God this does not happen again because there is obviously nothing to contain it. I swear to you, people were looking at us funny. I swear they knew. I am sweating profusely and I can’t wait to leave.
Alas, we are in the car. I am driving quickly. Bird is tucked neatly into her seat with her skirt wrapped around her. I can’t have any feces touching my vehicle. I am trying to contain it. I am traumatized. I am frazzled. Feces in public has that effect on me. I am not a calm person. I stop behind bus and a line of cars. The light changes about three times but we never move. Why is the man behind me honking? There is nothing I can do! I am waiting for the traffic in front of me to move! He continues to honk. Oh! Wait! This is actually a line of parked cars! I am a moron! I am frazzled! I roll down the window and yell to the man, “My child shit her pants in the grocery store! I’m spent!” I am kidding. I didn’t actually yell to him. I wanted to. But, in my defense, there was a bus! I thought we were waiting for the bus.
We arrive home. I ask her, as she’s disrobing for the bath, “What happened at Trader Joes?” She informs me, “We can’t talk about it.” Well, at least she kept up her end of the bargain. At least it’s over. That is, until the next day when she does the exact same thing at school and her teacher hands me her underwear wrapped in a plastic bag. I thought it was an art project! Wrong. When I asked her what happened at school she tells me, “I snarkled.” Oh! Is that what the kids are calling it these days?
Monday, March 7, 2011
March Confessional
Bless me dear readers, for while I try to be a good person, sometimes I fail. I am only human (I mistakenly typed normal here and quickly deleted-we all know normal I am not). I am trying to fix the error of my ways but, frankly, that’s not an easy task. I am a disaster. I am a crazed, cooped up, mess of an individual sick-and-fucking-tired of being trapped in the M-F-ING house, watching the weather, and praying to the gods that it won’t bleeping snow again. Sons of Bitches! I’m on the brink! I’ve gone loopy and I have some confessions. I need to cleanse.
1. Sometimes Michael Buble comes on the radio and I don’t turn it off. I actually rock out like the millions of middle-aged women who keep people like him making music. I have not turned to Clay Aiken yet. Please shoot me if I do. Also, because I feel the need to clarify, nothing about Michael Buble gets my panties in a wad. You needed to know this.
2. I dislike Rachael Ray! I don’t like your magazine. I hate the word yummy! Nothing is Yum-O! Fuck-O! I don’t care about your husband’s band and there are only so many ways you can cook a freaking hamburger. I am glad you’re making shit-loads of cash. Somebody is buying into your EVOO and Garbage Bowl. That someone is not me. Suck it. Stop sending me mail. I DON’T WANT YOUR MAGAZINE.
3. I think it is okay to swear. They are only words. I try not to take God’s name in vain. I try. Religious deviant that I am. But, as for the rest? Fuckshitdamnasshole.
4. Fashion confuses me. I try. I think I do okay. I like plaid, large purses that don’t really resemble mom bags, boots, Converse sneakers, tank tops, simple jewelry, flip flops and Yoga pants. I don’t want to own a pair of $900 shoes that appear to be made of human hair. I put back the $25 Kitchen Aid Immersion Blender on Saturday. I am frugal. It was half-price and I still did not get it. Someone like me would never own shoes like that. I mean, but really, who would? Who buys these things?
5. I am obsessed with anti-aging products. I am so vain. I have an entire ritual. Different products for different purposes during different times of day! No Retinol products without sunscreen! You will scald your flesh! Take these things seriously! I’m trying to look like I’m twelve.
6. I mostly resist allowing my child to listen to actual children’s music. I am a selfish asshole. Most children’s music makes me want to cut myself. If she never hears it, she won’t know what she’s missing. I will shelter her! I dare you to show her the ways of Raffi. I will cut you. I will find out where you live. Michael Buble counts as “quality” music for the record. What sort of rotten music taste do you have?
7. Bread is rubbing my shoulders and reading this over them. I hope he never stops. It’s definitely keeping my creative juices flowing.
8. I am irritated by retail establishments and their need to support charitable organizations by asking me to give. These days, it seems as though every place I shop is asking me if I want to donate a dollar to this cause or that. I’m not heartless. I came in for loungewear. I can’t keep giving these dollars! They add up. I have causes I support! How do I know the dollar even goes there? Where is my receipt? Is it tax-deductible? I care about the children! I am concerned for the animals! The homeless need shelter! I just want to shop for my elastic-waist pants without the pressure of knowing how many mouths my dollar will feed! I can’t take the pressure! I feel guilty and then I do things like put the blender I’ve been coveting back.
9. I fear I may be taking my plaid obsession a wee bit too far. Is there such a thing as too much plaid? I already bought a plaid dress for summer!
10. I went back and got the blender.
11. I feel a sudden need to make soup. I need to make lots of soup requiring the use of my new immersion blender.
12. I am glad my husband isn’t cheap.
13. I am going to post this and, perhaps, take a nap. My job may not be glamorous but, it is flexible. My child is napping. My doctor told me when she was born I should sleep when the baby sleeps. I am 100 percent certain the same rule can be applied to sleeping when the toddler sleeps. I know it.
14. I needed one more thing because I don’t like odd numbers. I had to end on an even note.
15. I may have OCD.
16. I might! Shit!
1. Sometimes Michael Buble comes on the radio and I don’t turn it off. I actually rock out like the millions of middle-aged women who keep people like him making music. I have not turned to Clay Aiken yet. Please shoot me if I do. Also, because I feel the need to clarify, nothing about Michael Buble gets my panties in a wad. You needed to know this.
2. I dislike Rachael Ray! I don’t like your magazine. I hate the word yummy! Nothing is Yum-O! Fuck-O! I don’t care about your husband’s band and there are only so many ways you can cook a freaking hamburger. I am glad you’re making shit-loads of cash. Somebody is buying into your EVOO and Garbage Bowl. That someone is not me. Suck it. Stop sending me mail. I DON’T WANT YOUR MAGAZINE.
3. I think it is okay to swear. They are only words. I try not to take God’s name in vain. I try. Religious deviant that I am. But, as for the rest? Fuckshitdamnasshole.
4. Fashion confuses me. I try. I think I do okay. I like plaid, large purses that don’t really resemble mom bags, boots, Converse sneakers, tank tops, simple jewelry, flip flops and Yoga pants. I don’t want to own a pair of $900 shoes that appear to be made of human hair. I put back the $25 Kitchen Aid Immersion Blender on Saturday. I am frugal. It was half-price and I still did not get it. Someone like me would never own shoes like that. I mean, but really, who would? Who buys these things?
5. I am obsessed with anti-aging products. I am so vain. I have an entire ritual. Different products for different purposes during different times of day! No Retinol products without sunscreen! You will scald your flesh! Take these things seriously! I’m trying to look like I’m twelve.
6. I mostly resist allowing my child to listen to actual children’s music. I am a selfish asshole. Most children’s music makes me want to cut myself. If she never hears it, she won’t know what she’s missing. I will shelter her! I dare you to show her the ways of Raffi. I will cut you. I will find out where you live. Michael Buble counts as “quality” music for the record. What sort of rotten music taste do you have?
7. Bread is rubbing my shoulders and reading this over them. I hope he never stops. It’s definitely keeping my creative juices flowing.
8. I am irritated by retail establishments and their need to support charitable organizations by asking me to give. These days, it seems as though every place I shop is asking me if I want to donate a dollar to this cause or that. I’m not heartless. I came in for loungewear. I can’t keep giving these dollars! They add up. I have causes I support! How do I know the dollar even goes there? Where is my receipt? Is it tax-deductible? I care about the children! I am concerned for the animals! The homeless need shelter! I just want to shop for my elastic-waist pants without the pressure of knowing how many mouths my dollar will feed! I can’t take the pressure! I feel guilty and then I do things like put the blender I’ve been coveting back.
9. I fear I may be taking my plaid obsession a wee bit too far. Is there such a thing as too much plaid? I already bought a plaid dress for summer!
10. I went back and got the blender.
11. I feel a sudden need to make soup. I need to make lots of soup requiring the use of my new immersion blender.
12. I am glad my husband isn’t cheap.
13. I am going to post this and, perhaps, take a nap. My job may not be glamorous but, it is flexible. My child is napping. My doctor told me when she was born I should sleep when the baby sleeps. I am 100 percent certain the same rule can be applied to sleeping when the toddler sleeps. I know it.
14. I needed one more thing because I don’t like odd numbers. I had to end on an even note.
15. I may have OCD.
16. I might! Shit!
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Bad Habits
Over this long, cold, boring winter, I developed some bad habits. The biggest one is leaving the television on all day. I have to turn it on in the morning. I like to watch, or rather, listen to Good Morning America. By the way, have you noticed there are two types of people in this world-those who watch The Today Show and those who watch Good Morning America? I swear. You’ll notice it now. I am so profound. Ahem.
I turn the telly on first thing. I like to hear the local weather seventeen times in case I should need to bring an umbrella or ten or in case that changes and instead there is going to be a blizzard. You just never know and one can never be too prepared. Before, following breakfast, Bird would insist on watching Sesame Street. Once Elmo was over, the TV was off for the day. Now, because we’re busy doing whatever it is we do, I have gotten lax. Also, the days of Sesame Street are long over. Actually, she will watch until the last 20 minutes when Elmo comes on and then she’s over it. It’s as if she has finally noticed what an effing annoying creature he is. Praise the Lord and I didn’t even need to say anything! I feel the need to over-explain having the bleeping idiot box on all day least you should decide to judge me for being ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE. Anyway, I like it on for background noise. I suppose it makes me feel like there are others here, like I have coworkers or something. Actually, there is somebody else here but I will get to that another day.
So, Friday was a typical day in our lives with the exception of the guy from the furniture store coming over. You see, the bed I wrote about here-it’s defective! They are giving us a new one! Mother of God! I told him it was the damn mattress! There was a spring sticking out! It was under warranty. That shit never happens to us! We always get screwed. We had a window in which said mattress guy was supposed to come. Bird was busily playing with her babies so I decided to busy myself cleaning. That’s all I do is clean these days. Spring is near!
I’m going about my business when I happen into the living room where Bird has moved on to reading books. On the television is The Doctors. On the screen flashes the familiar parental guidance warning. Subject matter of the following program is blah blah blah. Parental discretion is advised. And, the show is back. They have Dr. Ruth on. WTF? I thought/figured she had to be dead! I remember back in the day when she was popular. The woman was old as dirt. Amazingly, she still looks exactly the same: ancient.
There they sit-the doctors and Dr. Ruth. By the way, who actually finds this program to be informative? These beautiful people who happen to be doctors talking about all sorts of controversial topics. Hmmm…Tangent. I prefer Ellen; she’s on at the same time. Have you noticed there are two types of people? There are those who watch Ellen and those who watch The Doctors. I’m just saying!
Alright, so I can deduce the subject matter is sex based on their guest. Sex. Imagine the people who will find this blog because I wrote sex. Now if I throw in sex with a Chinese midget we’ll really get some visitors! Sex and Depends! Hello! What? Not what you were looking for? Sorry to bother you with shit about my kid, my husband and my boring life! Unfriend! Unfollow! Er!
Dr. Ruth is on my television to talk about sex, I deduce. Maybe she’s going to show the kids how to put a condom on a banana. I have no idea what to expect but my interest is piqued. They show a homemade- looking segment with two beautiful people (of course they are beautiful because those are the type of people on this particular program-no ugly folks in this world). The woman says something to the effect of- we have been married for seven years and we’re bored. We want to bring fruit into our bedroom! Flash back to the doctors-the female says something about not putting the fruit in your vagina or your anus! Now, I have several initial thoughts. The first one-besides my three-year-old, your grandma probably just watched you on television asking about how to incorporate produce into your sex life. Because, we all know, grandmas have nothing better to do than watch television. Have you ever noticed the coincidences between grandmas and housewives? Weird. My second thought is something about the fact they’ve only been married seven years and they are already bored AND the best thing they can come up with is fruit? Really? My final thought-no fruit in the anus or the vagina? So that’s what I have been doing wrong. I’ve had this itch. Huh. Glad I left the TV on! Thank you beautiful people! It appears as though I'm not the only one picking up bad habits this winter.
I turn the telly on first thing. I like to hear the local weather seventeen times in case I should need to bring an umbrella or ten or in case that changes and instead there is going to be a blizzard. You just never know and one can never be too prepared. Before, following breakfast, Bird would insist on watching Sesame Street. Once Elmo was over, the TV was off for the day. Now, because we’re busy doing whatever it is we do, I have gotten lax. Also, the days of Sesame Street are long over. Actually, she will watch until the last 20 minutes when Elmo comes on and then she’s over it. It’s as if she has finally noticed what an effing annoying creature he is. Praise the Lord and I didn’t even need to say anything! I feel the need to over-explain having the bleeping idiot box on all day least you should decide to judge me for being ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE. Anyway, I like it on for background noise. I suppose it makes me feel like there are others here, like I have coworkers or something. Actually, there is somebody else here but I will get to that another day.
So, Friday was a typical day in our lives with the exception of the guy from the furniture store coming over. You see, the bed I wrote about here-it’s defective! They are giving us a new one! Mother of God! I told him it was the damn mattress! There was a spring sticking out! It was under warranty. That shit never happens to us! We always get screwed. We had a window in which said mattress guy was supposed to come. Bird was busily playing with her babies so I decided to busy myself cleaning. That’s all I do is clean these days. Spring is near!
I’m going about my business when I happen into the living room where Bird has moved on to reading books. On the television is The Doctors. On the screen flashes the familiar parental guidance warning. Subject matter of the following program is blah blah blah. Parental discretion is advised. And, the show is back. They have Dr. Ruth on. WTF? I thought/figured she had to be dead! I remember back in the day when she was popular. The woman was old as dirt. Amazingly, she still looks exactly the same: ancient.
There they sit-the doctors and Dr. Ruth. By the way, who actually finds this program to be informative? These beautiful people who happen to be doctors talking about all sorts of controversial topics. Hmmm…Tangent. I prefer Ellen; she’s on at the same time. Have you noticed there are two types of people? There are those who watch Ellen and those who watch The Doctors. I’m just saying!
Alright, so I can deduce the subject matter is sex based on their guest. Sex. Imagine the people who will find this blog because I wrote sex. Now if I throw in sex with a Chinese midget we’ll really get some visitors! Sex and Depends! Hello! What? Not what you were looking for? Sorry to bother you with shit about my kid, my husband and my boring life! Unfriend! Unfollow! Er!
Dr. Ruth is on my television to talk about sex, I deduce. Maybe she’s going to show the kids how to put a condom on a banana. I have no idea what to expect but my interest is piqued. They show a homemade- looking segment with two beautiful people (of course they are beautiful because those are the type of people on this particular program-no ugly folks in this world). The woman says something to the effect of- we have been married for seven years and we’re bored. We want to bring fruit into our bedroom! Flash back to the doctors-the female says something about not putting the fruit in your vagina or your anus! Now, I have several initial thoughts. The first one-besides my three-year-old, your grandma probably just watched you on television asking about how to incorporate produce into your sex life. Because, we all know, grandmas have nothing better to do than watch television. Have you ever noticed the coincidences between grandmas and housewives? Weird. My second thought is something about the fact they’ve only been married seven years and they are already bored AND the best thing they can come up with is fruit? Really? My final thought-no fruit in the anus or the vagina? So that’s what I have been doing wrong. I’ve had this itch. Huh. Glad I left the TV on! Thank you beautiful people! It appears as though I'm not the only one picking up bad habits this winter.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
WE ARE THOSE PEOPLE!
I love to make fun of myself. I love when other people make fun of me (in theory). I love to make fun of other people (this is especially fun when those we’re laughing about make me feel normal). Now that we’ve covered all that is poking fun, we can move on. No, but seriously, I love a good laugh. So, when Saturday night found us heading to Jackie and P’s house, I knew there would be lots of making fun of others and myself and getting made fun of to be had. Phew!
I should say we are blessed to have great friends. Life is short; my husband works a ton of hours and I’m not wasting time hanging out with folks whose company we don’t enjoy. There are six of us who get together on a regular basis-us, Jackie, P, Malbs and Matt. There are a few other couples who occasionally join us and they are also great (I feel the need to state this for the record-we love you guys). Anyway, the six of us always have a good time. We are on the same wavelength. I love this. These people are the best friends ever. We girls were friends first and then our men became friends so now it’s just great when we all get together (insert cheesy, happy Lifetime Television music here).
We take turns gathering at each other’s homes with the exception of Matt and Malbs because they currently reside with his parents, having just returned from their year-ish in California. Did I mention Malbs is a saint for living with her mother-in-law? That would never happen for most folks. Anyway, we take turns hosting. We get together early so the kids can play (Jackie and P have Annabel who will be two in June). It is glorious when they play because it is every parent’s dream play date. There is no fighting. Nobody is crying. They laugh and they play and it’s perfectly lovely. Alas, I feel as though I’ve done something right as a parent. My child plays well with others! Mostly.
After we put the children to bed (usually late-ish so as they can thoroughly exhaust themselves), we break out the booze and the games. We love board games! This is why we are all friend soul mates! Things is the best! Recently, we discovered Scribblish and, of course there is Catch Phrase and Cranium. Nobody paid me to say these are great games, by the way. I just want to share the joy with others. Occasionally we play cards, namely Euchre. It’s fun. This is where the fun-poking begins. We have all kinds of jokes and things we go at each other for. It’s great! Almost anything is fair game!
This past Saturday was much of the same. Jackie had this drink she wanted me to try. She Googled to find a drink recipe. It was blue and had a ton of alcohol in it. I couldn’t even tell you what all went in there. The name of the drink? Adios Mother Fucker. Yep. I had one. One! I had a bit of a buzz. I’m proud because I had enough sense to only have one. Otherwise, it would have become Comatose Mother Fucker.
The laughs were coming. We were in full make fun of people mode. We were playing Things. We always start with this one. This game requires writing. For some reason, whenever I have a pen, I feel the need to write on Bread. I don’t know why. It’s not a lot. I used to try and give him a tattoo. He told me he did not like that so now I just draw a line. It’s my way of saying, “I respect your wish not to be drawn on and this here line is a reminder of that.” You know, what any logical human-being would do. Well, this time I was absent mindedly doodling on the back of his neck. I didn’t really think about it; it began as me playing with his hair. The next thing I know, I was scribbling. Well, the man lost his shit. He yelled at me like I was a child! I was being childish but still! Stunned silence from everyone. Because, I mean, what do you say when a grown man is chastising a grown woman (technically, I am a grown woman) for drawing on him? This is messed up in so many ways. He even called me Jessica! He never does that. I knew I was screwed. I choked on my beer and spit on the rolls! I ruined the midnight snack!
Mostly there was a lot of awkward silence. I mean, the friends didn’t really know what to say and I don’t blame them-the dude lost his shit. I was pretty much okay with it because I knew we would get over it. I was mostly just surprised because he doesn’t usually do that. At least not in public! I kid, I kid. So anyway, we moved on and Bread was embarrassed but we’re all still friends. I was mostly embarrassed because we have people we make fun of for that shit. Now we were those people! Shit! More fuel for their fires! At least he didn’t beat me!
That brings us to last night. Bird was drawing with a pen at the table. This is her new favorite thing to do. I think it makes her feel like an adult. I was trying to show her how to write her name. We worked on that for a few minutes, she lost interest and moved on. I came by to check on her and she wrote on me! Drew a line right on my shirt! Time out! Time out! Where did she learn this? I look at Bread, who inquires as to what has happened. I explain she wrote on me. He gives me the dad eyebrow raise-head-tilt and says, “Well, I can’t imagine where she learned that from.” Shit. He should have given me a timeout. Dude, sorry I spit on your rolls. I hope we can still be friends.
I should say we are blessed to have great friends. Life is short; my husband works a ton of hours and I’m not wasting time hanging out with folks whose company we don’t enjoy. There are six of us who get together on a regular basis-us, Jackie, P, Malbs and Matt. There are a few other couples who occasionally join us and they are also great (I feel the need to state this for the record-we love you guys). Anyway, the six of us always have a good time. We are on the same wavelength. I love this. These people are the best friends ever. We girls were friends first and then our men became friends so now it’s just great when we all get together (insert cheesy, happy Lifetime Television music here).
We take turns gathering at each other’s homes with the exception of Matt and Malbs because they currently reside with his parents, having just returned from their year-ish in California. Did I mention Malbs is a saint for living with her mother-in-law? That would never happen for most folks. Anyway, we take turns hosting. We get together early so the kids can play (Jackie and P have Annabel who will be two in June). It is glorious when they play because it is every parent’s dream play date. There is no fighting. Nobody is crying. They laugh and they play and it’s perfectly lovely. Alas, I feel as though I’ve done something right as a parent. My child plays well with others! Mostly.
After we put the children to bed (usually late-ish so as they can thoroughly exhaust themselves), we break out the booze and the games. We love board games! This is why we are all friend soul mates! Things is the best! Recently, we discovered Scribblish and, of course there is Catch Phrase and Cranium. Nobody paid me to say these are great games, by the way. I just want to share the joy with others. Occasionally we play cards, namely Euchre. It’s fun. This is where the fun-poking begins. We have all kinds of jokes and things we go at each other for. It’s great! Almost anything is fair game!
This past Saturday was much of the same. Jackie had this drink she wanted me to try. She Googled to find a drink recipe. It was blue and had a ton of alcohol in it. I couldn’t even tell you what all went in there. The name of the drink? Adios Mother Fucker. Yep. I had one. One! I had a bit of a buzz. I’m proud because I had enough sense to only have one. Otherwise, it would have become Comatose Mother Fucker.
The laughs were coming. We were in full make fun of people mode. We were playing Things. We always start with this one. This game requires writing. For some reason, whenever I have a pen, I feel the need to write on Bread. I don’t know why. It’s not a lot. I used to try and give him a tattoo. He told me he did not like that so now I just draw a line. It’s my way of saying, “I respect your wish not to be drawn on and this here line is a reminder of that.” You know, what any logical human-being would do. Well, this time I was absent mindedly doodling on the back of his neck. I didn’t really think about it; it began as me playing with his hair. The next thing I know, I was scribbling. Well, the man lost his shit. He yelled at me like I was a child! I was being childish but still! Stunned silence from everyone. Because, I mean, what do you say when a grown man is chastising a grown woman (technically, I am a grown woman) for drawing on him? This is messed up in so many ways. He even called me Jessica! He never does that. I knew I was screwed. I choked on my beer and spit on the rolls! I ruined the midnight snack!
Mostly there was a lot of awkward silence. I mean, the friends didn’t really know what to say and I don’t blame them-the dude lost his shit. I was pretty much okay with it because I knew we would get over it. I was mostly just surprised because he doesn’t usually do that. At least not in public! I kid, I kid. So anyway, we moved on and Bread was embarrassed but we’re all still friends. I was mostly embarrassed because we have people we make fun of for that shit. Now we were those people! Shit! More fuel for their fires! At least he didn’t beat me!
That brings us to last night. Bird was drawing with a pen at the table. This is her new favorite thing to do. I think it makes her feel like an adult. I was trying to show her how to write her name. We worked on that for a few minutes, she lost interest and moved on. I came by to check on her and she wrote on me! Drew a line right on my shirt! Time out! Time out! Where did she learn this? I look at Bread, who inquires as to what has happened. I explain she wrote on me. He gives me the dad eyebrow raise-head-tilt and says, “Well, I can’t imagine where she learned that from.” Shit. He should have given me a timeout. Dude, sorry I spit on your rolls. I hope we can still be friends.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Regimented
Four score and some odd years ago, I probably had a dream. I’m thinking it had to do with being some sort of communications professional. Maybe that was when I wanted to be a veterinarian. There was a phase where nurse or teacher sounded good. I ended up with a degree in communications and an incredible urge to hide or, at least, start all over again and find something I enjoyed doing.
Enter motherhood. Enter the sudden urge to stay home, care for my child, cook, clean, do laundry, exercise and take care of myself. So I did that. I do that. Each and every day I cook (or heat something to feed the people who live here), clean and do laundry (I have a system so I rarely get behind). But, lately, I can’t seem to find or make time to exercise or take care of myself. Since just before Christmas I’ve been burnt out on exercise. I can’t find the motivation. I’m punishing myself in some way - I’m guilt-stricken because I won’t allow myself this daily energizer and stress relief. I can’t quite put my finger on why. Exercise is the world's best anti-depressant.
I needed a push. And, this is not because I want to achieve a smaller number on the scale. I need exercise to clear my mind and prepare for the day ahead. I need to do something, however small, for myself each day. This is what I need. I thrive best this way. So, I’m sick of this shit. I’m sick of the winter blahs. Honestly, it’s way too early in the year for that. I’m disgusted with how I feel having not really broken much of a sweat the past month or so. I have a plan-because I always have a plan. Perhaps my plans don’t always work but I do try.
Enter Jessie’s Boot Camp. I’ve had enough of this shit. I’m taking drastic measures. I suppose I was bored with my current regime (or lack thereof). So, I went to Target. I purchased some new workout clothes. I bought my first kettlebell and a new Yoga mat. I am also the owner of some new DVDs by Jillian Michaels and Bob Harper; they are two of my most favorite fitness people. Target is where every person should go when in a fitness rut. Great prices and awesome selection. Target did not even pay me to say that. They should! Anyway, I am excited. I’m dedicating one hour a day to the treadmill, weights, a video or whatever it is I feel like doing. No pressure, just some sort of activity. I must stop this nonsense so I can return to feeling like a normal person. I recognize normal is very subjective especially since I am referring to my crazy self.
Part of the problem is my child is rising very early. She gets up at 6:30 these days! WTF? What do I do with her all day? How can I entertain her? Anyway, I’m not rising at 5 am. I cannot do this. I will be puffy by 10 am! I need my beauty sleep. I’m also not great at nighttime workouts since that is my time with Bread and, usually, the telly after he goes to bed. So, I’ve decided it is okay to exercise with her. She can either sit and watch or participate. I could be teaching her far worse habits. Ha! Could and do! So, this is my plan. I am committed. Such excitement. I can’t wait to be so sore I cannot walk! Today is day five and I'm stiff! I love this feeling! I missed it! It’s been so long! I’m a sick individual! And, there’s nothing better than watching my cute tot do squats in her Disney princess underwear! Those are her “workout” clothes. She did NOT learn this from me, I swear. I encourage her to wear clothes at all costs! She refuses! I never wear only my princess underwear when I exercise...
Enter motherhood. Enter the sudden urge to stay home, care for my child, cook, clean, do laundry, exercise and take care of myself. So I did that. I do that. Each and every day I cook (or heat something to feed the people who live here), clean and do laundry (I have a system so I rarely get behind). But, lately, I can’t seem to find or make time to exercise or take care of myself. Since just before Christmas I’ve been burnt out on exercise. I can’t find the motivation. I’m punishing myself in some way - I’m guilt-stricken because I won’t allow myself this daily energizer and stress relief. I can’t quite put my finger on why. Exercise is the world's best anti-depressant.
I needed a push. And, this is not because I want to achieve a smaller number on the scale. I need exercise to clear my mind and prepare for the day ahead. I need to do something, however small, for myself each day. This is what I need. I thrive best this way. So, I’m sick of this shit. I’m sick of the winter blahs. Honestly, it’s way too early in the year for that. I’m disgusted with how I feel having not really broken much of a sweat the past month or so. I have a plan-because I always have a plan. Perhaps my plans don’t always work but I do try.
Enter Jessie’s Boot Camp. I’ve had enough of this shit. I’m taking drastic measures. I suppose I was bored with my current regime (or lack thereof). So, I went to Target. I purchased some new workout clothes. I bought my first kettlebell and a new Yoga mat. I am also the owner of some new DVDs by Jillian Michaels and Bob Harper; they are two of my most favorite fitness people. Target is where every person should go when in a fitness rut. Great prices and awesome selection. Target did not even pay me to say that. They should! Anyway, I am excited. I’m dedicating one hour a day to the treadmill, weights, a video or whatever it is I feel like doing. No pressure, just some sort of activity. I must stop this nonsense so I can return to feeling like a normal person. I recognize normal is very subjective especially since I am referring to my crazy self.
Part of the problem is my child is rising very early. She gets up at 6:30 these days! WTF? What do I do with her all day? How can I entertain her? Anyway, I’m not rising at 5 am. I cannot do this. I will be puffy by 10 am! I need my beauty sleep. I’m also not great at nighttime workouts since that is my time with Bread and, usually, the telly after he goes to bed. So, I’ve decided it is okay to exercise with her. She can either sit and watch or participate. I could be teaching her far worse habits. Ha! Could and do! So, this is my plan. I am committed. Such excitement. I can’t wait to be so sore I cannot walk! Today is day five and I'm stiff! I love this feeling! I missed it! It’s been so long! I’m a sick individual! And, there’s nothing better than watching my cute tot do squats in her Disney princess underwear! Those are her “workout” clothes. She did NOT learn this from me, I swear. I encourage her to wear clothes at all costs! She refuses! I never wear only my princess underwear when I exercise...
Monday, January 24, 2011
Chip Off the Old Block
My child is turning into her mother. I’m not declaring this as though it’s a good thing. She’s picked up on my phrases, enjoys organizing, carbohydrates and pesters me all day to let her watch more television. I’ve definitely created a monster. I’m frightened to have another child. In what ways will I be able to screw that kid up?
I suppose the circle is complete because, over the past month or so, I noticed how many things I do and say that have come from my own mother. The entire female population on that side of the family has a wonderful way of shrieking at less-than-exclaimable life moments. “WHAT? YOU’RE SHITTING ME?!!! Yep, I inherited that. I’ve notice I also proclaim, “Mother of God,” at many things. Bread informed me Bird used this the other day as well. Crap. Here I thought I was doing well because I am managing not to drop F-bombs. This is not great. I suppose there are worse things but we’re preparing to send her to preschool tomorrow. I can’t have this out in the open. The authorities will come. They will take me away. I will not fare well in jail. I need cosmetics, preferably those containing Retinol and SPF 30. I need lip balm and my magazines. Oh, and, I’m not really fond of public showers.
Bird received a Fisher Price iXL for Christmas. This is the best thing ever. It keeps her busy (educationally) while I shop! Peaceful moments in Target! I can do all my shopping! It is glorious. For some reason, she keeps putting the pen that goes with it in her mouth. This bothers me as she is too old to be doing this. Again, preschool! So the other night, we’re sitting there and she’s playing some princess game on her new toy when I see her with the dang pen in her mouth again. I tell her to take it out. She asks why to which I just raise my eyebrows. That’s all I did-raise the ol’ eyebrows. She said, “Because you said so.” Yes! That’s it. I am amazed lately how quickly, easily and without so much of a second thought that phrase rolls off my tongue. I am a mother. Mother, all right…But, my kid gets it. She’s a genius.
The next night we were playing around. I may have been a bit sleepy. I may have been lying on the couch under a blanket trying to convince her to rub my back and put me to sleep. May have been-I’m not quite recalling exactly what we were up to. Ahem. So, at some point she’s talking and talking and I’m dozing. She says, “Nutjobs! They’re nutjobs!” I have no idea to what or whom she’s referring but of course I perk right up at this. I ask her who she’s talking about. She says, “Nutjobs! We’re all a bunch of nutjobs.” Yep. Shit.
Yesterday she was happily playing with her “friends” as she calls her stuffed animals. Bread was in the kitchen and I was sitting at the computer. Bird goes running by, yelling, “If I have to tell you again, I’m going to beat you.” She starts school on tomorrow. I suspect the authorities will be at my door by Thursday. It was nice knowing you.
I suppose the circle is complete because, over the past month or so, I noticed how many things I do and say that have come from my own mother. The entire female population on that side of the family has a wonderful way of shrieking at less-than-exclaimable life moments. “WHAT? YOU’RE SHITTING ME?!!! Yep, I inherited that. I’ve notice I also proclaim, “Mother of God,” at many things. Bread informed me Bird used this the other day as well. Crap. Here I thought I was doing well because I am managing not to drop F-bombs. This is not great. I suppose there are worse things but we’re preparing to send her to preschool tomorrow. I can’t have this out in the open. The authorities will come. They will take me away. I will not fare well in jail. I need cosmetics, preferably those containing Retinol and SPF 30. I need lip balm and my magazines. Oh, and, I’m not really fond of public showers.
Bird received a Fisher Price iXL for Christmas. This is the best thing ever. It keeps her busy (educationally) while I shop! Peaceful moments in Target! I can do all my shopping! It is glorious. For some reason, she keeps putting the pen that goes with it in her mouth. This bothers me as she is too old to be doing this. Again, preschool! So the other night, we’re sitting there and she’s playing some princess game on her new toy when I see her with the dang pen in her mouth again. I tell her to take it out. She asks why to which I just raise my eyebrows. That’s all I did-raise the ol’ eyebrows. She said, “Because you said so.” Yes! That’s it. I am amazed lately how quickly, easily and without so much of a second thought that phrase rolls off my tongue. I am a mother. Mother, all right…But, my kid gets it. She’s a genius.
The next night we were playing around. I may have been a bit sleepy. I may have been lying on the couch under a blanket trying to convince her to rub my back and put me to sleep. May have been-I’m not quite recalling exactly what we were up to. Ahem. So, at some point she’s talking and talking and I’m dozing. She says, “Nutjobs! They’re nutjobs!” I have no idea to what or whom she’s referring but of course I perk right up at this. I ask her who she’s talking about. She says, “Nutjobs! We’re all a bunch of nutjobs.” Yep. Shit.
Yesterday she was happily playing with her “friends” as she calls her stuffed animals. Bread was in the kitchen and I was sitting at the computer. Bird goes running by, yelling, “If I have to tell you again, I’m going to beat you.” She starts school on tomorrow. I suspect the authorities will be at my door by Thursday. It was nice knowing you.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Paul McCartney is Cringing, This is a Fact
Circa 1998ish, my friend Jackie and I became loyal followers of a local band. We invested pretty much our entire summer into chasing these boys around, drinking with them and thinking we were the coolest. I mean, we were the coolest. We were about to be sophomores in college and we knew all the answers to life’s questions. These guys were lucky to have us as groupies, honored actually.
In our young, naive, minds these three boys (yes, definitely boys) were the most talented musicians we’d ever heard. Were they really? I have no idea. I’m sure they had some talent as they could play and sing at the same time which far outdoes any of my own musical abilities. But, given my musical expertise was limited to whatever they played on the radio, I don’t think I should be the one to say whether they could have been destined for great things.
The best part of all this was since we were underage we couldn’t go to the bars where they played. The only times we ever actually heard them play was when one of their parents was out of town and they played their backyard. Awesome. We pretended we knew how to smoke and that we knew every word to every song they ever wrote while wearing shorts entirely too small with tank tops, our best push-up bras and lots of eyeliner. Our moms would have been so proud. We were with the band!
Aside from my own short-lived stint as a flute player in middle school band, the summer of the band was as close as I ever got to being an actual rockstar. Secretly, and even as introverted as I am, I had a dream of becoming a member of a band as the lead singer. The year was 1999. You must know I have absolutely no vocal ability whatsoever. I would have been laughed off stage. I always envisioned myself as a Serena Ryder-type or Lisa Loeb-a cool chick with a guitar. For a while I wanted to be in a country band. I now despise country. Perhaps there is some underlying reason for this. I feared rejection by country music fans. Therefore, I rejected country music before it could reject me. Ah, yes, I am also a therapist. Er, rather, a complete and total nutter…
There is a local bar we go to with karaoke. I tried. I sucked. I went home and cried for weeks. Not really, I’m pretty accustomed to sucking at most things. It’s fine. What am I really good at? I’m still trying to find my calling. I think I pretty much have being a crazy SAHM in the bag, if that counts. Anyway, Bread is good. He can sing. He’s entertaining. He refuses to do it, though. I’m not sure why. He does a mean Johnny Cash. This was before it was cool to do a mean Johnny Cash. He’s such a trendsetter! He also does David Bowie. My man (faints).
So the years have gone by, I have come to terms with the facts. I will never be a rockstar. As difficult as it has been, I was able to carry on. That is, until I met Rock Band! I am in a band! We received the best Christmas gift ever! Beatles Rock Band! I’m the singer! I get to play tambourine sometimes too! It’s the best fucking thing ever! Now, my dream has come true! I get to sing off-key, in my basement, while wearing my best flannel pajamas and fearing my neighbors can hear that awful shit!
My brother plays the guitar (usually), while Bread rocks out (not with his, you-know-what-out either-we ain’t that kind of band) and I sing. I must say, as an adult, I don’t know many people who play video games. I have sort of a negative opinion of them. I was fearful we’d turn into a bunch of crazies and the next thing you know none of us would be able to function as normal members of society. I have visions of becoming the dude who hangs out in the basement gaming and constantly obsesses about the faux world he has created and can no longer function as a productive member of society without thinking about said world and needing to go conquer it…
I mean, because what we’re doing is so much cooler. It requires real skill! We have talent! We’re going places! People will be lining up at the door! It does not matter that for the first week we had it we were texting each other all day waiting to play. That is a minor detail. I have to go. I am shaking so badly I can barely type this. I need my fix. Lucy in the Sky with di-a-monds!
In our young, naive, minds these three boys (yes, definitely boys) were the most talented musicians we’d ever heard. Were they really? I have no idea. I’m sure they had some talent as they could play and sing at the same time which far outdoes any of my own musical abilities. But, given my musical expertise was limited to whatever they played on the radio, I don’t think I should be the one to say whether they could have been destined for great things.
The best part of all this was since we were underage we couldn’t go to the bars where they played. The only times we ever actually heard them play was when one of their parents was out of town and they played their backyard. Awesome. We pretended we knew how to smoke and that we knew every word to every song they ever wrote while wearing shorts entirely too small with tank tops, our best push-up bras and lots of eyeliner. Our moms would have been so proud. We were with the band!
Aside from my own short-lived stint as a flute player in middle school band, the summer of the band was as close as I ever got to being an actual rockstar. Secretly, and even as introverted as I am, I had a dream of becoming a member of a band as the lead singer. The year was 1999. You must know I have absolutely no vocal ability whatsoever. I would have been laughed off stage. I always envisioned myself as a Serena Ryder-type or Lisa Loeb-a cool chick with a guitar. For a while I wanted to be in a country band. I now despise country. Perhaps there is some underlying reason for this. I feared rejection by country music fans. Therefore, I rejected country music before it could reject me. Ah, yes, I am also a therapist. Er, rather, a complete and total nutter…
There is a local bar we go to with karaoke. I tried. I sucked. I went home and cried for weeks. Not really, I’m pretty accustomed to sucking at most things. It’s fine. What am I really good at? I’m still trying to find my calling. I think I pretty much have being a crazy SAHM in the bag, if that counts. Anyway, Bread is good. He can sing. He’s entertaining. He refuses to do it, though. I’m not sure why. He does a mean Johnny Cash. This was before it was cool to do a mean Johnny Cash. He’s such a trendsetter! He also does David Bowie. My man (faints).
So the years have gone by, I have come to terms with the facts. I will never be a rockstar. As difficult as it has been, I was able to carry on. That is, until I met Rock Band! I am in a band! We received the best Christmas gift ever! Beatles Rock Band! I’m the singer! I get to play tambourine sometimes too! It’s the best fucking thing ever! Now, my dream has come true! I get to sing off-key, in my basement, while wearing my best flannel pajamas and fearing my neighbors can hear that awful shit!
My brother plays the guitar (usually), while Bread rocks out (not with his, you-know-what-out either-we ain’t that kind of band) and I sing. I must say, as an adult, I don’t know many people who play video games. I have sort of a negative opinion of them. I was fearful we’d turn into a bunch of crazies and the next thing you know none of us would be able to function as normal members of society. I have visions of becoming the dude who hangs out in the basement gaming and constantly obsesses about the faux world he has created and can no longer function as a productive member of society without thinking about said world and needing to go conquer it…
I mean, because what we’re doing is so much cooler. It requires real skill! We have talent! We’re going places! People will be lining up at the door! It does not matter that for the first week we had it we were texting each other all day waiting to play. That is a minor detail. I have to go. I am shaking so badly I can barely type this. I need my fix. Lucy in the Sky with di-a-monds!
Monday, January 3, 2011
Resolved
The holidays are over. I had ten (ten!) glorious days with Bread at home. Some marvelous things happened! For one, we did not kill each other! Second, we spent some time together doing fun things like watching movies, playing Scrabble (he totally cheats) and eating all that was not nailed down. Also, we attempted to take our tot to the local dinosaur museum (culture and education were calling). They had a Big Bird and Elmo show at the planetarium. The bleeping thing was overloaded with people seeking the same experience! It was hours until close and a 30 minute wait to just get into the parking lot! We aborted and, naturally, took her to McDonalds to play in the germ-infested play structure. Because, as a friend pointed out, the Hamburgler is almost the same as Elmo. Almost. Said trip also had Bread climbing in the play area. My hero. A brave man he is. He wanted to show Bird how to do it. When he returned from his “adventure,” I informed him there was not enough hand sanitizer in the world to make me want to ever touch him again. Did I mention we did not kill each other whilst he was on vacation?
New Years Eve was fun. Friends came over. The kids played, Bread cooked meat (people come from miles around to sample Bread’s meat); kids went to bed and parents played. It was a great night and a fun way to ring in 2011. One friend asked me what my New Year’s Resolution was. One? I can only pick one? I have several. Each year, I (mentally) make loads or resolutions. I figure if I make many, maybe at least one will stick. To date, the only one I’ve ever stuck to was to stop returning my library books late. It was costing me a fortune! Am I a failure? Do people really stick to these things?
The past year was crazy for us. There were so many changes-some good, some bad and some having both positives and negatives. I’m welcoming 2011 and excited for the clean slate that is January. For 2011, I’m trying something different (insert my Grandma’s voice here-she pronounces it diff-ernt). I’m documenting my resolutions on the internet! This way, I can revisit them. Perhaps I shall have a quarterly update on my progress. Look out! Exciting posts to come (insert sarcasm here)! For now here they are, as usual, in no particular order-
1. Spend more time reading. With this, I’m also adding-read more classics. My goal is to spend at least one evening a week with the television off.
2. Be a slave to organization. I need to write my to-do list down. I think, because I have no job, I can remember everything. Alas, I am old and the memory is not what it used to be (was it ever).
3. Stop obsessing about the cleanliness, or lack thereof, in my house. A little dirt does not hurt too much. I need to step away from the Swiffer, people. Besides, it’s not as if we live in squalor. Do we? No! No! Stop! Stop!
4. Stay away from the crazies. I am a magnet. I’m not sure if I can help this.
5. Stop beating myself up. I am not perfect but nobody is. I know this and, yet, I am so mean to me. WAHHHHH!
6. Schedule a date night with Bread at least once a month. We used to do this all the time. I don’t know what happened but we don’t do it very often as of late. We have ample sitters now, especially since the ol’ BFF is a sucker for the tot and back in town. While it is fun to hang in our living room, it’s even more fun to go out in public! ALONE.
7. Watch more Lifetime Television! Ha! Just kidding! That shit is awful! Does anybody watch that? No offense if you do…Mostly. I guess my resolve would be to continue avoiding this station.
8. Blog more. I like it. People read this shit. So, either they like it too or they are making fun of me with their friends. Both situations are fine.
9. Write a portion (chapter, paragraph, a word) of that book I speak of. Just do it! Jump in. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.
10. Save more money, use more coupons and be more aware of each and every purchase. Do I need six pair of brown shoes? No! Yes! No!
11. Be more health conscious. I always make this resolution. I think I stick to it, mostly. I’m not as thin as I’d like to be but I eat healthy and exercise. I thought about not including this on my list but, dammit, I couldn’t do it. I think this is forever and there’s always room for improvement.
12. Walk the dogs even in the cold. It’s fucking cold out there. It’s hard. It’s dark when Bread gets home. Whine. Whine. Whine.
13. Be more grateful.
As you can see, it’s going to be a busy year for me. I’m sticking to this. I’m using the beginning of the New Year as a chance to improve upon myself. It’s hard to imagine I could need any improvement, I know, but really, I do. Jessie Domestic-Work in Progress. To be continued…What's on your list?
New Years Eve was fun. Friends came over. The kids played, Bread cooked meat (people come from miles around to sample Bread’s meat); kids went to bed and parents played. It was a great night and a fun way to ring in 2011. One friend asked me what my New Year’s Resolution was. One? I can only pick one? I have several. Each year, I (mentally) make loads or resolutions. I figure if I make many, maybe at least one will stick. To date, the only one I’ve ever stuck to was to stop returning my library books late. It was costing me a fortune! Am I a failure? Do people really stick to these things?
The past year was crazy for us. There were so many changes-some good, some bad and some having both positives and negatives. I’m welcoming 2011 and excited for the clean slate that is January. For 2011, I’m trying something different (insert my Grandma’s voice here-she pronounces it diff-ernt). I’m documenting my resolutions on the internet! This way, I can revisit them. Perhaps I shall have a quarterly update on my progress. Look out! Exciting posts to come (insert sarcasm here)! For now here they are, as usual, in no particular order-
1. Spend more time reading. With this, I’m also adding-read more classics. My goal is to spend at least one evening a week with the television off.
2. Be a slave to organization. I need to write my to-do list down. I think, because I have no job, I can remember everything. Alas, I am old and the memory is not what it used to be (was it ever).
3. Stop obsessing about the cleanliness, or lack thereof, in my house. A little dirt does not hurt too much. I need to step away from the Swiffer, people. Besides, it’s not as if we live in squalor. Do we? No! No! Stop! Stop!
4. Stay away from the crazies. I am a magnet. I’m not sure if I can help this.
5. Stop beating myself up. I am not perfect but nobody is. I know this and, yet, I am so mean to me. WAHHHHH!
6. Schedule a date night with Bread at least once a month. We used to do this all the time. I don’t know what happened but we don’t do it very often as of late. We have ample sitters now, especially since the ol’ BFF is a sucker for the tot and back in town. While it is fun to hang in our living room, it’s even more fun to go out in public! ALONE.
7. Watch more Lifetime Television! Ha! Just kidding! That shit is awful! Does anybody watch that? No offense if you do…Mostly. I guess my resolve would be to continue avoiding this station.
8. Blog more. I like it. People read this shit. So, either they like it too or they are making fun of me with their friends. Both situations are fine.
9. Write a portion (chapter, paragraph, a word) of that book I speak of. Just do it! Jump in. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.
10. Save more money, use more coupons and be more aware of each and every purchase. Do I need six pair of brown shoes? No! Yes! No!
11. Be more health conscious. I always make this resolution. I think I stick to it, mostly. I’m not as thin as I’d like to be but I eat healthy and exercise. I thought about not including this on my list but, dammit, I couldn’t do it. I think this is forever and there’s always room for improvement.
12. Walk the dogs even in the cold. It’s fucking cold out there. It’s hard. It’s dark when Bread gets home. Whine. Whine. Whine.
13. Be more grateful.
As you can see, it’s going to be a busy year for me. I’m sticking to this. I’m using the beginning of the New Year as a chance to improve upon myself. It’s hard to imagine I could need any improvement, I know, but really, I do. Jessie Domestic-Work in Progress. To be continued…What's on your list?
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