Let me just warn all of you that this is a long, rambling post. I apologize. Come back to it if you don't have the time, but please. Come back.
This summer has just been off. With the twins' potty training and J-man becoming ever more mobile, this has been my most difficult summer on record. I'm terrified to go anywhere outside the house because one or both of the twins may pee themselves because of being too scared to use a public bathroom and J-man may go ape for not being able to run around. So here I am, at home, all the time, watching the news.
The news. The fabulousness that is the news. Murdered mothers. Babies cut from wombs. The never. ending. war. Oil prices. Food prices. Bank foreclosures. It's enough to make us as a society snap. And I think we have. This summer.
Batman has the right idea. If you're going to fight for justice, for the oppressed, and battle the wrong-doer, do it in disguise. That way, when you come out the other end looking like a dumb ass, no one can identify you.
In addition to being a coal miner's granddaughter, I'm also a policeman's daughter. My father was a patrolman for 22 years. Over the years, I've heard about a few of his more hair-raising experiences. I don't know if it's having his shadow over me or that I watched too much T.J. Hooker as a child, but I hate it, despise it, when I see someone being wronged. When I see someone acting like a complete douche bag, expecting everyone to bow and scrape in their wake and give them extra anything, simply because they feel entitled to have everything faster, sooner, better than everyone else because they feel they're better than everyone else, it seriously pisses. me. off.
I used to suffer from really bad road rage but when I saw the consequences of that in the media, I stopped flipping people off and honking my horn. I now mutter under my breath. Over ten years ago, the Ty-man and I were leaving a local mall when we saw mall security racing across the parking lot after a man who was running like hell. We stopped the car and chased the guy down, holding him until mall security got there. That was a good feeling. Since then, I've kept my mouth shut every time I've been needlessly cut off, nearly rear-ended, broken in front of in line, or treated with a callousness I didn't deserve because I've seen what can happen to you if you shoot off your mouth to someone who is "entitled." But last Wednesday, that all ended.
Ty-man and I went to see Dark Knight and the earliest showing gave us 90 minutes of waiting. As we left the theater ticket window and walked toward the parking lot, we witnessed a woman in a short, compact car slowly passing the front of the theater. Behind her was an irate man, jerkily breaking behind her and gesturing. He finally swerved around her, cutting her, and traffic in the opposing lane, off while his significant other calmly got out of the passenger side of the car. After she got out, he sat.
I had had it. Yet again, some idiot thought he was entitled to two more feet of space and all the wait time in the world while everyone else waited on him and had to go out of their way to get around him. The whole scene played out and I decided I was going to do something about it. So, I walked over to his side of the car and loudly knocked on the window.
Me: Sir, did you know you’re blocking traffic?
Him: Shut up, you stupid c@#$!
Me: Oh, that’s really original.
And that’s when it happened. He spit. At me. In my eye. And drove off quickly, nearly running over my right foot.
I was stunned. Absolutely stunned. I turned and watched him drive away and read his license plate number. I picked up my phone to call the police and looked to my right to see Ty-man. Halfway across the parking lot. Embarrassed by what I had done. I yelled, “I’m calling the police!” and he responded, “No! You started it! What are they going to do?”
My husband was embarrassed. And wanted to leave. I was stunned. And wanted to do something, but unsure of what. I put my phone in my purse and followed, wiping the spit from my eye and off my cheek.
As we drove to Barnes & Noble, I become more distraught. By the time we got to the bookstore, I was wrung out. I went to the women’s bathroom and found myself in a stall, sobbing quietly so the woman and her child two stalls down wouldn’t hear me. All I could think was That man spit at me. He spit at me. He spit at me. Ty did nothing. He called me a c@#$ and he spit at me. Ty was ashamed. He didn’t stand up for me. I’m alone. I’m all alone. No one will stand up for me. He spit at me. He spit at me. Over and over and over again. I calmed down and went to the quietest corner of the store – the paranormal section, wouldn't you know - and there I sat, back to the corner, crammed as small as I could be in that one corner, staring at the carpet and a book I had picked up. Ty eventually came over and we left. Not a word was spoken. We returned to the theater for the movie and as we sat in the darkened theater, Ty said he was sorry for not doing anything. I didn’t respond except to start crying again.
I didn’t fully process the movie. It was a good movie, that much I registered. But all I could think was what ran through my head at the book store. And that I was an idiot for doing what I did. That I deserved what I got. That I was an embarrassment. That I risked my life for something as stupid as that. That he could have some sort of disease that I now have because of the spit in my eye. And I cried through the movie. I’m sure the people around me thought I was crying over Heath Ledger. We left for a silent drive home and a silent preparation for bed. All I knew was that I couldn’t close my eyes because all I could see was him spitting at me and I knew that I couldn’t get into bed with a man who didn’t stand beside me.
When Ty discovered I had gone downstairs, he followed, and what I said to him was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say to him. Ever. I had to tell him that he hurt me, and that his action spoke as loudly as the man who spit at me, and that what had happened to me had changed me. Forever. Now I know why no one responds to a woman who cries “Rape!” or to a person who screams “Murder!” because a simple response to some asshat entitling himself to two more feet of pavement got me something I didn’t want. It gave me the realization that I’m a woman who can’t defend herself against anyone, with no one to come to her defense.
Ty profusely apologized. He called the police. We filed a report and forwarded the license plate number that is burned onto my synapses for all time. I’ve received a call back that the case is being followed, but that it’s my word against his, with no witnesses. I was asked why I didn't call the doctor or call the police when it happened. My only response was When I realized my husband was embarrassed, I just shut down. I wanted to hide.
I’ve told Ty how I feel and I’ve been very angry this last week. I'm notorious for hanging on to emotions and memories and this will take a while to move past. I'm angry with myself for doing something so foolish. Angry with the man who responded the way he did. Angry at Ty for responding the way he did. And angry with a society that feels entitled to everything. Including the right to spit at one another literally and figuratively and to kill each other over nothing. I've been short and temperamental with my children who don't deserve a mother who yells all the time. I want this resolved. I want that man to know me and know what he's done to me, know that I've learned my lesson well and know that that one action degraded me as a human being.
31 July 2008
30 July 2008
How Not to Hook Up With a Blogger Buddy
So, I'm hanging out on Twitter last Friday and what do I see but an entry from Miss Britt:
so apparently I'm driving 10+ hrs to Nashville tomorrow. Oh! Hi! Surprise! (holyshit i have alot of laundry to do in the next 16hrs) Panic.
What I saw was Nashville. Yeah. Britt? Lives in the Orlando area. To go from Orlando to Nashville, Britt and her family traveled this route:
Which meant she would pass within a few miles of Casa de CMG. So, of course I demanded that we meet for lunch 'cause dang it, if you're coming within five miles of my house, we're hooking up! She agreed (because you know, I'm pitiful when I whine and beg) and on Sunday, on her way back from dropping off her kids with their grandparents, Ty-man and I got together with her and her husband Jared for some exciting lunchtime craziness at Cracker Barrel. On a Sunday. With three kids in tow. I'm such a masochist.
This particular Cracker Barrel is just off of exit 271 (when speaking of I-75 in Georgia). So I told Britt on Sunday morning to call us when she and Jared had reached mile marker 290. Nineteen miles would give us plenty of time to load up three kids and 15 pounds of crap* into the minivan.
At about 10:45AM, I get a text message from Britt that they're stuck at mile marker 300 in stand-still traffic. Crap. That's the never-ending construction on I-75 south. Nothing new. So, I text her back that we can always meet at the Cracker Barrel off of exit 290, quicker for her but not-so-quick for us. But in order to beat the Baptist lunch crowd and fight construction, this will probably be our only option.
No response. I call and leave a message. No response. I see that she's on Twitter wondering if I've received her texts. I go upstairs to dry my hair and suddenly, there's Ty-man behind me shouting over the hair dryer, "They're at mile marker 280!"
Holy crap! Only nine miles! Load up the kids! Put on their shoes! Change J-man's diaper! I'll be there in a minute, 'cause I'll be damned if I let her see me with wet hair!
It was like Keystone Cops in this house. Ty-man and the twins are in the minivan with seatbelts flying. I'm changing J-man's diaper while simultaneously putting on my shoes and brushing my hair. I'm racing downstairs grabbing the 15 pounds of crap (thankfully packed up earlier) and my cute little purse with J-man precariously hanging off my shoulder. He gets chucked into a seat, Ty-man throws himself into the driver seat, and I'm racing around for lipstick.
Finally we pull out of the driveway and are at the Cracker Barrel in under ten minutes (just enough time to apply said lipstick, check my hair, and chew up two mints). As we wade through the Sunday crowds, we see Britt and Jared walk over. They had thankfully put in our party of seven (SEVEN!!!!) and within moments we had a table (which took ten minutes to get to because of all the God-fearing church-goers who had invaded the restaurant).
As we shouted over the din and juggled conversation, catching up, and feeding kids (not to mention a fussy Bubba who decided the mens' room was too terrifying to pee in), it was all over in just an hour. We said our good-byes and wished Britt and Jared luck as they traveled toward home and three weeks without kids, thankful we got this quick chance to see one another.
And wouldn't you know it? None of us took any pictures. At all. But that's OK. I don't need a picture to remember beautiful, fresh-faced Britt sitting next to me and watching my kids, missing her own.
They'll be back before you know it, doll, and thanks for the hook-up! Nice meeting you Jared!
*(Definition of crap in relation to this post: diapers, Desitin, wipes, potty seat, Clorox wipes, pull-ups, 1 place mat, 3 sippy cups, 1 container of Cheerios, 4 books, and 3 toys. I'm nothing if not pre-friggin'-pared.)
so apparently I'm driving 10+ hrs to Nashville tomorrow. Oh! Hi! Surprise! (holyshit i have alot of laundry to do in the next 16hrs) Panic.
What I saw was Nashville. Yeah. Britt? Lives in the Orlando area. To go from Orlando to Nashville, Britt and her family traveled this route:
Which meant she would pass within a few miles of Casa de CMG. So, of course I demanded that we meet for lunch 'cause dang it, if you're coming within five miles of my house, we're hooking up! She agreed (because you know, I'm pitiful when I whine and beg) and on Sunday, on her way back from dropping off her kids with their grandparents, Ty-man and I got together with her and her husband Jared for some exciting lunchtime craziness at Cracker Barrel. On a Sunday. With three kids in tow. I'm such a masochist.
This particular Cracker Barrel is just off of exit 271 (when speaking of I-75 in Georgia). So I told Britt on Sunday morning to call us when she and Jared had reached mile marker 290. Nineteen miles would give us plenty of time to load up three kids and 15 pounds of crap* into the minivan.
At about 10:45AM, I get a text message from Britt that they're stuck at mile marker 300 in stand-still traffic. Crap. That's the never-ending construction on I-75 south. Nothing new. So, I text her back that we can always meet at the Cracker Barrel off of exit 290, quicker for her but not-so-quick for us. But in order to beat the Baptist lunch crowd and fight construction, this will probably be our only option.
No response. I call and leave a message. No response. I see that she's on Twitter wondering if I've received her texts. I go upstairs to dry my hair and suddenly, there's Ty-man behind me shouting over the hair dryer, "They're at mile marker 280!"
Holy crap! Only nine miles! Load up the kids! Put on their shoes! Change J-man's diaper! I'll be there in a minute, 'cause I'll be damned if I let her see me with wet hair!
It was like Keystone Cops in this house. Ty-man and the twins are in the minivan with seatbelts flying. I'm changing J-man's diaper while simultaneously putting on my shoes and brushing my hair. I'm racing downstairs grabbing the 15 pounds of crap (thankfully packed up earlier) and my cute little purse with J-man precariously hanging off my shoulder. He gets chucked into a seat, Ty-man throws himself into the driver seat, and I'm racing around for lipstick.
Finally we pull out of the driveway and are at the Cracker Barrel in under ten minutes (just enough time to apply said lipstick, check my hair, and chew up two mints). As we wade through the Sunday crowds, we see Britt and Jared walk over. They had thankfully put in our party of seven (SEVEN!!!!) and within moments we had a table (which took ten minutes to get to because of all the God-fearing church-goers who had invaded the restaurant).
As we shouted over the din and juggled conversation, catching up, and feeding kids (not to mention a fussy Bubba who decided the mens' room was too terrifying to pee in), it was all over in just an hour. We said our good-byes and wished Britt and Jared luck as they traveled toward home and three weeks without kids, thankful we got this quick chance to see one another.
And wouldn't you know it? None of us took any pictures. At all. But that's OK. I don't need a picture to remember beautiful, fresh-faced Britt sitting next to me and watching my kids, missing her own.
They'll be back before you know it, doll, and thanks for the hook-up! Nice meeting you Jared!
*(Definition of crap in relation to this post: diapers, Desitin, wipes, potty seat, Clorox wipes, pull-ups, 1 place mat, 3 sippy cups, 1 container of Cheerios, 4 books, and 3 toys. I'm nothing if not pre-friggin'-pared.)
29 July 2008
Fears
Bet you all think this is a post where I get all deep and talk about those fears that keep me up at night watching info-mercials with Bill Mays.
You wish.
Instead, for your reading pleasure, here are the Top 4 Coal Miner's Granddaughter Fears That Were Caused By Modern-Day TV Storytelling!
Fear #1! Steven Spielberg and Stephen King can suck it! Thanks to Poltergeist and It, clowns are on the hit list. I can't stand the damned things. A very well-known doll maker lived down the street from us when I was a kid. She made gorgeous ceramic dolls and stuffed animals of all types. I still have one of her teddy bears. The clown doll she made me? Got stuffed in the closet, never again to see the light of day while I lived with my parents. Yeah. My mom is still bitter about that.
Fear #2! Port-a-Johns. Thank you very much, Chris Carter. I can't go into a port-a-potty without imagining that Flukeman from X-Files is looking up, watching my ass-end make contact with the seat. Yeah. Hate them with a passion.
Fear #3! Chuck Norris singing. My dad loved Walker, Texas Ranger. Watched it without fail. And he knew I hated the intro song, sung by Chuck Norris, with a passion. And he would turn up the volume just to taunt me. Yeah. Thanks Dad. Love you, too.
Only the strong-of-heart and/or deaf-of-ears should click on the below clip.
Fear #4! Billy Mays. Seriously, how can you not be scared of him? Every time I see a commercial for Orange Glow, I just want to drink the stuff just so the agonizing pain will end!
You wish.
Instead, for your reading pleasure, here are the Top 4 Coal Miner's Granddaughter Fears That Were Caused By Modern-Day TV Storytelling!
Fear #1! Steven Spielberg and Stephen King can suck it! Thanks to Poltergeist and It, clowns are on the hit list. I can't stand the damned things. A very well-known doll maker lived down the street from us when I was a kid. She made gorgeous ceramic dolls and stuffed animals of all types. I still have one of her teddy bears. The clown doll she made me? Got stuffed in the closet, never again to see the light of day while I lived with my parents. Yeah. My mom is still bitter about that.
Fear #2! Port-a-Johns. Thank you very much, Chris Carter. I can't go into a port-a-potty without imagining that Flukeman from X-Files is looking up, watching my ass-end make contact with the seat. Yeah. Hate them with a passion.
Fear #3! Chuck Norris singing. My dad loved Walker, Texas Ranger. Watched it without fail. And he knew I hated the intro song, sung by Chuck Norris, with a passion. And he would turn up the volume just to taunt me. Yeah. Thanks Dad. Love you, too.
Only the strong-of-heart and/or deaf-of-ears should click on the below clip.
Fear #4! Billy Mays. Seriously, how can you not be scared of him? Every time I see a commercial for Orange Glow, I just want to drink the stuff just so the agonizing pain will end!
28 July 2008
It's Burt's Turn
OK, since I had the decency to cover up Burt's nekid butt, could you repay the favor and check me out over at the 'Stache today? I'm actually funny.Really.
Well, I mean, I cracked myself up when I wrote it. That's got to mean something, right?
You're right. Probably not.
Oh, well.
26 July 2008
25 July 2008
My Son, the Poop Bandit
So there I was on a roll, cleaning like a madwoman. I was vacuuming, mopping, cleaning counter tops - hell, I even cleaned windows. Yeah. That kind of roll. I didn't know what was going on but a cleaning bug must have crawled up my butt or latched onto my spine just below my skull because I was all about the cleaning thing on Wednesday.
Well, Karma is a bitch and she decided that there was too much clean around here. She decided there needed to be a balance to all the clean. So, she sent in her pinch hitter to take care of that.
I went upstairs to check on J-man at the end of his afternoon nap. He had been quiet for two solid hours. Bliss. I walk in, he's sitting up happily chewing on his pacifier, holding his cat toy. There's his dragon, his other pacifier, and... what's that?
There's a spot. No, there's two. Three. And. They're. Brown.
OMFGBBQ! It's poop! All over the place!
On his leg, in his hair!
On his paci! Everywhere!
(Yes. I sound like Dr. Seuss. Quite appropriate, don't you think?)
Child + poop at the consistency of room temperature cake frosting + gaping diaper = no more clean
Poo was on the front of the paci in his mouth and all over the paci he was holding in his hand.
Oh. My. God. All I could think was that he was going to come down with every friggin' disease known to man.
I carried him, all four pacifiers, and kitty toy to the bath tub. He's wailing, twins are downstairs fussing, I'm muttering, and poop is floating in the tub.
All you mothers know what I'm talking about. You've been here before. Hell, I've been here twice already. It just struck me as funny that this came at the end of a day of cleaning.
All turned out well. J-man was bathed, the sheets, clothes, and kitty toy came out of the washer and dryer clean and fluffy, the tub was Cloroxed, the pacifiers were promptly boiled in water hot enough to melt the skin off my hands, and Karma got her wish.
As for my kid coming down with e-coli/typhoid/plague/poop crud? I'll keep you posted.
Well, Karma is a bitch and she decided that there was too much clean around here. She decided there needed to be a balance to all the clean. So, she sent in her pinch hitter to take care of that.
I went upstairs to check on J-man at the end of his afternoon nap. He had been quiet for two solid hours. Bliss. I walk in, he's sitting up happily chewing on his pacifier, holding his cat toy. There's his dragon, his other pacifier, and... what's that?
There's a spot. No, there's two. Three. And. They're. Brown.
OMFGBBQ! It's poop! All over the place!
On his leg, in his hair!
On his paci! Everywhere!
(Yes. I sound like Dr. Seuss. Quite appropriate, don't you think?)
Child + poop at the consistency of room temperature cake frosting + gaping diaper = no more clean
Poo was on the front of the paci in his mouth and all over the paci he was holding in his hand.
Oh. My. God. All I could think was that he was going to come down with every friggin' disease known to man.
I carried him, all four pacifiers, and kitty toy to the bath tub. He's wailing, twins are downstairs fussing, I'm muttering, and poop is floating in the tub.
All you mothers know what I'm talking about. You've been here before. Hell, I've been here twice already. It just struck me as funny that this came at the end of a day of cleaning.
All turned out well. J-man was bathed, the sheets, clothes, and kitty toy came out of the washer and dryer clean and fluffy, the tub was Cloroxed, the pacifiers were promptly boiled in water hot enough to melt the skin off my hands, and Karma got her wish.
As for my kid coming down with e-coli/typhoid/plague/poop crud? I'll keep you posted.
24 July 2008
Dark Knight Did Me In
Went to see Dark Knight.
Awesome. Mind-blowing. Fucking (yeah, I said fucking) incredible.
It's 1AM.
Must sleep. Will write meaningful post for Friday.
Until then, go see it! Please!
Awesome. Mind-blowing. Fucking (yeah, I said fucking) incredible.
It's 1AM.
Must sleep. Will write meaningful post for Friday.
Until then, go see it! Please!
23 July 2008
Impasse
PCOS. I've talked about it before. It usually stands for Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. I have it and many other women all over the world have it. But for this post, let's assume those letters actually stand for:
Please
Cry
Out your
Story
I have a private family Web site. It's a place where I (attempt) to regularly post pictures of the kids, Ty-man, and myself for friends and family who are out-of-state. It's also a place where I've posted my PCOS story. This story has been on-line since 2004 because I got tired of answering the same, uncomfortable questions over and over and I also wanted my page to be a resource for other women who were searching for answers.
The first time I ever received an e-mail from a woman who found my PCOS page, it took my breath away. I mean, I created that page for other women to find, but I didn't really think anyone would truly find it. And she did. They all did. At first, the e-mails I received were full of thanks and the sharing of stories. These fellow PCOS sufferers were glad to know someone else was out there, someone who understood and was trying to educate. We would exchange a few e-mails, commiserate over the difficulty of the disorder, and move on.
But lately, the tone of the e-mails have changed. I'm getting e-mails from very young women. Women in their teens. Women, girls really, who are devastated by this syndrome. Who want medical advice from me. Who want me to tell them that, yes, they'll someday have children of their own.
Wow.
At 16 and 18 (the ages of many of these girls) I couldn't even conceive of conceiving. It was the furthest thing from my mind. Even if I had known at 18 that I had PCOS and that conception of future Heather-spawn was going to be difficult, I would not have worried about it. Scarlet O'Hara and I have something in common - we worry about things tomorrow. It just wrenches my heart that these girls expect answers from me when I didn't have the answers for myself while in the midst of PCOS treatment and fertility madness.
There have been several times over the last few weeks, after receiving these e-mails, that I've thought about taking down my PCOS page, or removing my e-mail address from it. Something. Because the contact is heart-wrenching and I no longer know how to respond.
Please
Cry
Out your
Story
I have a private family Web site. It's a place where I (attempt) to regularly post pictures of the kids, Ty-man, and myself for friends and family who are out-of-state. It's also a place where I've posted my PCOS story. This story has been on-line since 2004 because I got tired of answering the same, uncomfortable questions over and over and I also wanted my page to be a resource for other women who were searching for answers.
The first time I ever received an e-mail from a woman who found my PCOS page, it took my breath away. I mean, I created that page for other women to find, but I didn't really think anyone would truly find it. And she did. They all did. At first, the e-mails I received were full of thanks and the sharing of stories. These fellow PCOS sufferers were glad to know someone else was out there, someone who understood and was trying to educate. We would exchange a few e-mails, commiserate over the difficulty of the disorder, and move on.
But lately, the tone of the e-mails have changed. I'm getting e-mails from very young women. Women in their teens. Women, girls really, who are devastated by this syndrome. Who want medical advice from me. Who want me to tell them that, yes, they'll someday have children of their own.
Wow.
At 16 and 18 (the ages of many of these girls) I couldn't even conceive of conceiving. It was the furthest thing from my mind. Even if I had known at 18 that I had PCOS and that conception of future Heather-spawn was going to be difficult, I would not have worried about it. Scarlet O'Hara and I have something in common - we worry about things tomorrow. It just wrenches my heart that these girls expect answers from me when I didn't have the answers for myself while in the midst of PCOS treatment and fertility madness.
There have been several times over the last few weeks, after receiving these e-mails, that I've thought about taking down my PCOS page, or removing my e-mail address from it. Something. Because the contact is heart-wrenching and I no longer know how to respond.
22 July 2008
Fatigue
I don't know what the hell is going on with the kids. Whether Ty-man and I get to bed at a reasonable hour or at a stupid hour, all three kids have decided to wake up at all hours of the night. Why? I don't frakking know.
Personally? I think it's a conspiracy. I think when I'm in the kitchen or upstairs doing laundry, all three kids are downstairs doing complex calculus, solving world conflict, and contemplating who will start screaming bloody murder at what time. They know to wail until attended by either me or Ty-man, to then go back to sleep peaceably when placed in bed, and are confident enough in their schemes to know that after 45 minutes, Ty-man and I will have juuuust fallen back asleep and that it's time for the next kid to begin freaking out. They've got it down to a science. Why do they do this? I suppose because it's a lark.
And lo, so it goes until the ass crack of dawn when Ty-man and I stumble downstairs to begin the process of the next day, unprepared for eight to ten solid hours of whining that are to inevitably follow.
What I'm trying to tell you is that this post is about nothing because my brain has officially shut down. Now that the loud Hard Rock music has faded away, all I hear is...
NO! I DON'T WANNA GO POTTY!
NO! I DON'T WANNA WATCH LIL' BEAR!
NO! I DON'T WANNA EAT GRILLED CHEESE!
NO! I DON'T WANNA (insert action here and repeat 50 times)!
WAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
Someday, I'll look back and smile. Someday. Right now? I'm scowling.
I apologize for there being nothing special here. I hope that tomorrow I'll have something better. Something that isn't whiny. Something inspired.
Something.
Personally? I think it's a conspiracy. I think when I'm in the kitchen or upstairs doing laundry, all three kids are downstairs doing complex calculus, solving world conflict, and contemplating who will start screaming bloody murder at what time. They know to wail until attended by either me or Ty-man, to then go back to sleep peaceably when placed in bed, and are confident enough in their schemes to know that after 45 minutes, Ty-man and I will have juuuust fallen back asleep and that it's time for the next kid to begin freaking out. They've got it down to a science. Why do they do this? I suppose because it's a lark.
And lo, so it goes until the ass crack of dawn when Ty-man and I stumble downstairs to begin the process of the next day, unprepared for eight to ten solid hours of whining that are to inevitably follow.
What I'm trying to tell you is that this post is about nothing because my brain has officially shut down. Now that the loud Hard Rock music has faded away, all I hear is...
NO! I DON'T WANNA GO POTTY!
NO! I DON'T WANNA WATCH LIL' BEAR!
NO! I DON'T WANNA EAT GRILLED CHEESE!
NO! I DON'T WANNA (insert action here and repeat 50 times)!
WAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
Someday, I'll look back and smile. Someday. Right now? I'm scowling.
I apologize for there being nothing special here. I hope that tomorrow I'll have something better. Something that isn't whiny. Something inspired.
Something.
21 July 2008
Davelanta 2008!
This past Saturday was a nice, lazy day. It was my day off from the kids and I spent the whole morning and early afternoon scrap booking upstairs and listening to the train wreck of whining kids downstairs and a very frustrated Ty-man ready to rip out the rest of his hair.Suddenly, it was 4 o'clock! I had 90 minutes to get ready and get to the Hard Rock Cafe in downtown Atlanta for Davelanta hosted by Dave of Blogography. He's doing a lot of work-related travel this year and wherever he goes, he gets all us local bloggers together for dinner and gabbing!
I got myself together within 30 minutes (together as in "Dang! She's hawt! She can't be a mom! She's a supermodel!" - don't I wish) and out of the house one hour before meet-time. According to Ty-man's car, the drive was supposed to take 35 minutes.
Yeah, whateva! It actually took 75 minutes thanks to the Georgia Department of Transportation who decided to not only resurface the connector through the main part of Atlanta, but who also took out the 14th street bridge (One of those bridges - 14th, 10th, Courtland, what the hell do I know? I live in the 'Burbs with Tom Hanks!). Fun! Every time I tried a new route, that bitch of a car navigation system would tell me to U-turn and go over a non-existent bridge or get back into stand-still traffic. GPS can suck it!
Finally, I made it and walked into the Hard Rock and almost walked into Dave. I sat down at the bar and got this:
Yes! He made name tags for all of us! And flair! We got flair! The man has talent!
After the shock of a Davelanta name tag and flair, I met Copasetic Beth and her husband Kevin from Houston, We Have a Problem:
(Obviously, the Hard Rock was dark and my iPhone has no flash. So my pictures are... interesting. Sorry.)
As the three of us sat and stared at each other, trying to figure out why we looked so familiar to one another, we started narrowing down the possibilities. High school? Nope. Hometown? Nada. College? YES! The three of us went to the same college (Beth and Kevin were class of 1993 - one year ahead of me)! Kevin was in the Army ROTC with Ty-man! Beth and I lived in the same dorm! How cool! We were able to reminisce about school chums (yes, I said chums) and even found out that for five years after college, we lived just a quarter mile from one another and didn't know it. Small world, people. Small world indeed.
I also met Elizabeth (big Dr. Who fan and fellow X-Phile) from Mentally Rehearsed and Mike & Diane (thanks for the key lime pie!) from Americans in Singapore. We all had a great time YELLING at one another over dinner at the Hard Rock because obviously the goal at the Atlanta Hard Rock is to Love Y'all, Serve Y'all, DEAFEN Y'ALL! My ears are still ringing and my voice is still hoarse. After dinner, we wandered over to the quieter Mexican/Latin fusion restaurant across the street for better conversation (although we were probably yelling over the Hard Rock music still ringing in our ears) and some yummy, tart key lime pie! We all agreed that Davelanta was much cooler than BlogHer and, unfortunately, the evening ended too soon. Elizabeth was off to see The Dark Knight and Dave had an early morning flight back to Seattle. It took me 20 minutes to drive one mile to the interstate and 20 minutes to drive 30 miles home. Georgia DOT! One construction project in downtown Atlanta at a time! Please!
It was an awesome evening and I have to give myself props for not being nervous. A few years back I would have worked myself up into a skyrocketing blood pressure, cold sweat situation over meeting people I didn't know. Saturday? I was nervous about surviving Atlanta traffic and finding parking. Once that was accomplished I was cool as a cucumber. Thanks much Dave and can't wait until next year's Davelanta!
19 July 2008
18 July 2008
The Shorts From Hell
There are many changes one goes through after birthing one or more children. There's the whole excess skin baggage that only a plastic surgeon, scalpel, and stitches can cure. Then there's the lower back pain that sticks with you even after the baby hits the catcher's mitt. Oh, and? Don't forget the sagging breasts! Yeah! Yeah!
My all-time favorite has to be... drum roll please... the dysfunctional bladder. Woo hoo! In the past, I had a bladder the size of a gallon milk jug. And my Kegel muscle? Hell to the yeah, baby! That muscle was on it! No pee was getting past that one!
Now? My bladder is just ish - it's worthless and holds practically nothing and my Kegel muscle? What used to hold back the contents of my Lake Mead bladder? Can no longer even hold off a small trickle.
Enter the shorts from Hell*:
What sadist man (yes men, I'm blaming you) designed these shorts?!?! I'm so focused on the bodily functions of my kids and making sure said functions reach the proper receptacle (and not my carpet or their clothes) that my own functions end up on the backburner. Behind the sad and worthless Kegel muscle. In the bladder that holds nothing. And these shorts? Are the only clean shorts in my drawer. And it's 95 degrees outside. Jeans are out of the question.
Whatever happened to a simple button? Just one? Or one snap? Why a button and two clasps? Plus a zipper to negotiate! Four things! FOUR locks, if you will because believe me they're locks when you're doing the 36-year-old pee pee dance, that I have to work through! Before I pee all over my legs! And have my nearly potty-trained twins laughing at me! It's like a friggin' chastity belt but how can I be chaste when Ty-man, multiple doctors, nurses, in-laws (even the hospital cafeteria-food-delivery-girl) have seen ALL of me?
The moral to this story is if you've birthed the kids, buy the simple one button/snap short. Or better yet, just go for elastic. Just one push and they're down!
Yep. That's it. This post just went horribly pear-shaped. I'm going to bed.
* Yeah, no. No way I'm taking a picture of those shorts on my body! Nope! No way! Nada!
My all-time favorite has to be... drum roll please... the dysfunctional bladder. Woo hoo! In the past, I had a bladder the size of a gallon milk jug. And my Kegel muscle? Hell to the yeah, baby! That muscle was on it! No pee was getting past that one!
Now? My bladder is just ish - it's worthless and holds practically nothing and my Kegel muscle? What used to hold back the contents of my Lake Mead bladder? Can no longer even hold off a small trickle.
Enter the shorts from Hell*:
What sadist man (yes men, I'm blaming you) designed these shorts?!?! I'm so focused on the bodily functions of my kids and making sure said functions reach the proper receptacle (and not my carpet or their clothes) that my own functions end up on the backburner. Behind the sad and worthless Kegel muscle. In the bladder that holds nothing. And these shorts? Are the only clean shorts in my drawer. And it's 95 degrees outside. Jeans are out of the question.
Whatever happened to a simple button? Just one? Or one snap? Why a button and two clasps? Plus a zipper to negotiate! Four things! FOUR locks, if you will because believe me they're locks when you're doing the 36-year-old pee pee dance, that I have to work through! Before I pee all over my legs! And have my nearly potty-trained twins laughing at me! It's like a friggin' chastity belt but how can I be chaste when Ty-man, multiple doctors, nurses, in-laws (even the hospital cafeteria-food-delivery-girl) have seen ALL of me?
The moral to this story is if you've birthed the kids, buy the simple one button/snap short. Or better yet, just go for elastic. Just one push and they're down!
Yep. That's it. This post just went horribly pear-shaped. I'm going to bed.
* Yeah, no. No way I'm taking a picture of those shorts on my body! Nope! No way! Nada!
17 July 2008
The Monsters In My Mind
I grew up with an active imagination - an imagination that came in the form of a sweet, honest, Democrat hillbilly cop who loved the idea of Bigfoot, UFOs, and all things strange and unexplainable. My imagination was my dad and he passed on that love and wonder of all things weird and paranormal to me.I can remember bringing home a copy of John Keel's The Mothman Prophecies from the local library. I was 12 and fascinated that some strange creature, something from another dimension or planet had come to warn the citizens of Point Pleasant, West Virginia, about the collapse of the Silver Bridge, that odd "Men in Black" were trying to cover up the truth about the creature, and that UFOs were seen in the area for 13 solid months.
Then? Upon seeing my reading material? My father told me about another West Virginia monster - the Braxton County Monster, a.k.a. the Flatwoods Monster. Oh, my imagination ran wild. My girl scout troop camped in that area one summer and I waited for some Bigfoot-type creature with glowing, red eyes to step out of the forest and scare the piss out of me.
Turns out, the Braxton County monster wasn't a monster at all - more like an alien in a rocket-propelled space suit, if the witnesses are to be believed. The Braxton County monster was seen the night of September 12, 1952 and I'm sure that if my father hadn't been in Korea, he would have driven the 71 miles from Charleston to Flatwoods to check out the scene. Immediately. He was that kind of guy.
But like any other story involving purported aliens/UFOs and West Virginians, the press got it wrong. It wasn't a furry, man-sized ape, it was something from beyond our atmosphere, something that will never be seen again.
What brought on this bit of West Virginia monster-hunting nostalgia? I picked up a copy of The Braxton County Monster: The Cover-Up of the Flatwoods Monster Revealed by Frank C. Feschino, Jr. It's a wonderful account of that one night in Flatwoods, West Virginia and when you hear the recollections of the young boys and mother who encountered this thing, who have nothing to lose or gain in telling their story, you can't help but believe them.
And I can't help but feel my dad, looking over my shoulder, reading the book with me and smiling.
16 July 2008
I'm Not Just a Mom...
... I'm also the following:
Psychologist - Yes, honey, I know J-man stole your toy, but he's just a little boy and doesn't understand you were playing with it.
Sanitation Engineer - Yeah! Miss-Miss went poopy in the potty! Good job! Let's put this poo in the toilet and you can flush it! All said as I'm wiping her bottom, Clorox-wiping the potty chair, and holding my nose.
Nurse - Oh, Bubba! I'm so sorry you stubbed your toe! Let me kiss it!
Doctor - Ty-man, you need to give him 2.5 mL of Motrin, based on his weight and age.
Pharmacist - Miss-Miss! Time for your antibiotics!
Jungle Gym - No, really, go ahead and climb over me, shoving your elbows in my ribs, and kneeing me in the ear. I'm cool.
Crisis Mediator - There is one chair and three of you! If you can't share then I'm putting the chair in time-out!
Dietitian - OK! Chicken nuggets and tater tots are ready! DINNER! Yeah, obviously, I suck at this one.
Librarian - Sweetie, we've already read Cinderella five times today. Let's read Rapunzel, instead.
Repair Technician - Let me change the batteries in your toy/tape this ripped page/muffle the speaker on your firetruck!
Housekeeper - Wow, you've trashed the toys for the fourth time today. Yeah, let me clean that up before I go insane.
Laundress - Um, yeah. I need to Spray 'n Wash this poop stain. And this pee stain. And this blueberry stain. And this...
Physical Therapist - OK little man. Let's walk up the stairs. OK, I'll hold your hands, now put one foot on that step and push up! Good! Now put your other foot on the next step. Push up. Yeah!
And that's all my sleep-deprived brain can come up with. Any other ideas? Let me know in the comments!
Psychologist - Yes, honey, I know J-man stole your toy, but he's just a little boy and doesn't understand you were playing with it.
Sanitation Engineer - Yeah! Miss-Miss went poopy in the potty! Good job! Let's put this poo in the toilet and you can flush it! All said as I'm wiping her bottom, Clorox-wiping the potty chair, and holding my nose.
Nurse - Oh, Bubba! I'm so sorry you stubbed your toe! Let me kiss it!
Doctor - Ty-man, you need to give him 2.5 mL of Motrin, based on his weight and age.
Pharmacist - Miss-Miss! Time for your antibiotics!
Jungle Gym - No, really, go ahead and climb over me, shoving your elbows in my ribs, and kneeing me in the ear. I'm cool.
Crisis Mediator - There is one chair and three of you! If you can't share then I'm putting the chair in time-out!
Dietitian - OK! Chicken nuggets and tater tots are ready! DINNER! Yeah, obviously, I suck at this one.
Librarian - Sweetie, we've already read Cinderella five times today. Let's read Rapunzel, instead.
Repair Technician - Let me change the batteries in your toy/tape this ripped page/muffle the speaker on your firetruck!
Housekeeper - Wow, you've trashed the toys for the fourth time today. Yeah, let me clean that up before I go insane.
Laundress - Um, yeah. I need to Spray 'n Wash this poop stain. And this pee stain. And this blueberry stain. And this...
Physical Therapist - OK little man. Let's walk up the stairs. OK, I'll hold your hands, now put one foot on that step and push up! Good! Now put your other foot on the next step. Push up. Yeah!
And that's all my sleep-deprived brain can come up with. Any other ideas? Let me know in the comments!
15 July 2008
Postus Interruptus
So here it is. 10:42 PM. I'd really like to hit the sack in 18 minutes but that's going to be impossible because the post I had written, labeled, and scheduled for publishing is now gone. Deleted. Ix-nayed by the Ty-man because of the post's content that could have implicated us...
Oh, never mind. Want the full details? E-mail me.
What I'm trying to say is the deleted post was great! It was hysterical! In it I referenced Mulder and Scully, a black hole, sticking it to "The Man" - all kinds of fun stuff! I actually snorted a couple of times while reading it!
Then I asked Ty's opinion. His eyebrows went up and I knew. All over. Fini. The end.
By no means does Ty monitor this blog and tell me what to post and what not to post. But, when it means our future well-being with family, friends, um... the law, I do run things by him first. My fingers tend to type faster than my brain and sometimes the common sense section of my brain shuts off for the day. Ty-man is the calm, thinking-with-his-head-and-not-his-ass half of this partnership and from time to time, I need his input.
So, kick-ass Tuesday post is down the tubes. Insert quick "I just want to go to bed" post instead. It's now 11PM. I can hear the never-accepted accolades for a sad, deleted post fading in the distance. Tomorrow? Another original work that makes me snort and makes you cringe.
And keeps the Ty-man's eyebrows in place, which is always a good thing.
Oh, never mind. Want the full details? E-mail me.
What I'm trying to say is the deleted post was great! It was hysterical! In it I referenced Mulder and Scully, a black hole, sticking it to "The Man" - all kinds of fun stuff! I actually snorted a couple of times while reading it!
Then I asked Ty's opinion. His eyebrows went up and I knew. All over. Fini. The end.
By no means does Ty monitor this blog and tell me what to post and what not to post. But, when it means our future well-being with family, friends, um... the law, I do run things by him first. My fingers tend to type faster than my brain and sometimes the common sense section of my brain shuts off for the day. Ty-man is the calm, thinking-with-his-head-and-not-his-ass half of this partnership and from time to time, I need his input.
So, kick-ass Tuesday post is down the tubes. Insert quick "I just want to go to bed" post instead. It's now 11PM. I can hear the never-accepted accolades for a sad, deleted post fading in the distance. Tomorrow? Another original work that makes me snort and makes you cringe.
And keeps the Ty-man's eyebrows in place, which is always a good thing.
14 July 2008
Of Cousins and Soon-to-be Mothers of Teens
Cousin J's visit last week was not just a breath of fresh air, it was also a realization. As the week progressed, I became aware that in just 11 short years (yes, short because when I think about my life it's very clear that these 36 years have flown by) I will be the mother of a teenage girl. And I am terrified.I know, I know. You're all about to remind me that I also have two sons, but for right now, we'll just focus on Miss-Miss.
Now, don't get me wrong. J is just the sweetest 14-year-old girl I've ever known. She's got a great head on her shoulders, she has a brain that processes common sense ideals, and she's pretty savvy when it comes to boys, parents, school, and the future. There were never any bad moments during our visit. At no time did I just want to shove her down the black hole of parenthood where most teens are imagined to reside when they annoy the hell out of their parents and loved ones.
While we were shopping last Thursday, many salespeople made reference to J as my daughter. Holy crap! I thought, I actually could have a 14-year-old daughter right now. If Ty-man and I had gotten married immediately after college instead of waiting a year and got started immediately on a family, I would have a 14-year-old standing next to me that would be my daughter or son. There's absolutely no way I could deal with a 14-year-old right now! In fact, I don't think I'll ever be ready for a 14-year-old. Damn.
What scared the bejeezus out of me were the moments J opened up to me. She informed me that she has decided to date when she turns 16 (January 2010, ladies and gents). Mom and Dad haven't decided this, she has. I don't think they're going to have any say. And? She's already picked out the boy. I know all about her boy-crazy friends, which friends are snotty and are mean to her, that she didn't like her older brother's girlfriend, how she feels about her immediate family (grandparents, uncle, 1st cousins, mom and dad), the kinds of clothes she likes to wear and those clothes her mom doesn't like her to wear that I thought looked OK, and on and on. This scared me because I can be a friend, someone she can talk to, someone who is an adult but is viewed by her as just a really old teenage girlfriend, someone who isn't her mom. It scared me because who will be this person for Miss-Miss? Will that person confide in me? Will that person lead Miss-Miss in the right direction and give her good advice? Will that person talk smack about me to my daughter while at the same time telling her to go against my wishes?
I make sure whenever I speak with J that I only speak good about her parents and grandparents. I have the utmost respect and love for them, but even if I didn't I would still make sure to never speak ill of them in front of their daughter. Will Miss-Miss's confidante give me and Ty-man the same courtesy?
I can't hand-pick Miss-Miss's confessor; if I did she would run in the opposite direction, knowing I also had that person's ear. I guess I just have to have a little faith.
That and prepare the minivan for the onslaught of a 15-year-old J, learner's permit in hand, when she visits next summer. Wow. Not ready for that, either.
12 July 2008
11 July 2008
100 Things - What You See Is What You Get
OK, this list of ten will bring our total count to 80. I hope in the next couple of weeks (or, knowing my track record, the next couple of months) to finish this list. Until then, please drink in
10 Things About the Physical Heather
1. I have PCOS. PCOS stands for Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome which means that instead of my ovaries creating follicles and expelling eggs out of said follicles once a month, my ovaries create follicles and the follicles become fluid-filled cysts with no eggs released. All of this is because I'm a borderline-diabetic. Yes, everyone, you are what you eat. Follow a poor diet? Suffer from infertility. You have been warned!
2. I am near-sighted. I have been since age 7. It's so much fun wearing glasses in the second grade. No matter how many times you reply to the bullies, Oh yeah? Well, four eyes are better than two! it just never sounds believable.
3. I only have one sesamoid bone under each big toe.
Normal people have two of those little sesamoid bones under each big toe. Not me. I'm a mutant. My podiatrist said so. Since I'm a mutant it must mean I have a superpower. I haven't figured it out yet, but I'll let you know when I do.
4. I have a ton of freckles. Everywhere. How every is everywhere? Well, that's for me to know and for you to wonder about. But trust me. They're all over the place.
5. I never had wisdom teeth. Don't ask me how I lucked out on that one, I just did. I haven't had to suffer through that particular agony and I hope I've passed that on to my kids!
6. My natural hair color is mousy brown. I started turning gray at 21. When my hair isn't colored on a regular basis, my brown is a non-exciting brown mixed with a bunch of gray. Therefore, mousy brown.
7. My left knee clicks when I go up and down stairs. I have no idea why. But it's got a good beat and you can dance to it.
8. I'm a 32D. Go figure. I had my first, proper bra fitting back in December and found out that what I thought were a couple of deflated 38Bs are in actuality 32Ds. All I can say is that if I'm a 32D, 99.9999999999% of the women in this country are wearing the wrong dang sized bras. Seriously.
9. The pores on my nose are huge. Seriously. You could drive a truck through them. Gigantic. Don't look too closely. Actually, I guess you could see them from far away so it doesn't matter.
10. My skin is very sensitive to the humidity of my environment. I may hate the summer heat, but the humidity keeps my skin in check. In the winter I use up gobs of lotion just to keep my skin livable.
Thanks for reading, guys! I'm back on Monday to the usual lunacy that is me. I'll finish this list at some point and when I do you'll learn about the ten things I want to teach my kids and the ten things I like about myself. Until then, toodles!
10 Things About the Physical Heather
1. I have PCOS. PCOS stands for Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome which means that instead of my ovaries creating follicles and expelling eggs out of said follicles once a month, my ovaries create follicles and the follicles become fluid-filled cysts with no eggs released. All of this is because I'm a borderline-diabetic. Yes, everyone, you are what you eat. Follow a poor diet? Suffer from infertility. You have been warned!
2. I am near-sighted. I have been since age 7. It's so much fun wearing glasses in the second grade. No matter how many times you reply to the bullies, Oh yeah? Well, four eyes are better than two! it just never sounds believable.
3. I only have one sesamoid bone under each big toe.
Normal people have two of those little sesamoid bones under each big toe. Not me. I'm a mutant. My podiatrist said so. Since I'm a mutant it must mean I have a superpower. I haven't figured it out yet, but I'll let you know when I do.
4. I have a ton of freckles. Everywhere. How every is everywhere? Well, that's for me to know and for you to wonder about. But trust me. They're all over the place.
5. I never had wisdom teeth. Don't ask me how I lucked out on that one, I just did. I haven't had to suffer through that particular agony and I hope I've passed that on to my kids!
6. My natural hair color is mousy brown. I started turning gray at 21. When my hair isn't colored on a regular basis, my brown is a non-exciting brown mixed with a bunch of gray. Therefore, mousy brown.
7. My left knee clicks when I go up and down stairs. I have no idea why. But it's got a good beat and you can dance to it.
8. I'm a 32D. Go figure. I had my first, proper bra fitting back in December and found out that what I thought were a couple of deflated 38Bs are in actuality 32Ds. All I can say is that if I'm a 32D, 99.9999999999% of the women in this country are wearing the wrong dang sized bras. Seriously.
9. The pores on my nose are huge. Seriously. You could drive a truck through them. Gigantic. Don't look too closely. Actually, I guess you could see them from far away so it doesn't matter.
10. My skin is very sensitive to the humidity of my environment. I may hate the summer heat, but the humidity keeps my skin in check. In the winter I use up gobs of lotion just to keep my skin livable.
Thanks for reading, guys! I'm back on Monday to the usual lunacy that is me. I'll finish this list at some point and when I do you'll learn about the ten things I want to teach my kids and the ten things I like about myself. Until then, toodles!
10 July 2008
100 Things - Snorting with Laughter
Continuing on with my updated list of 100 things that make me tick, I give you:
10 Things That Make Me Laugh!
1. Pranks. Oh, how I love pranks! Vaseline on the doorknob. Saran Wrap on the toilet seat. Simple or elaborate it doesn't matter. I love watching pranks happen and participating in said pranks. I laugh hysterically.
2. Crude humor. Fart jokes, sex jokes, cussing, Samuel L. Jackson saying "motherf*cker" - you name it. I'm pretty easy to please.
3. My kids' laughter. Oh, yes. When my kids crack themselves up, I'm right there with them. Their laughter is pretty infectious, but in a good way!
4. My husband. People, let me just say that real comedian of the family is the Ty-man. Dude is hysterical!
5. Eddie Izzard and Robin Williams. My two favorite comics. I could watch and laugh over Robin Williams for hours.
6. Porn. Oh, come on. How can porn not be funny? Sex noises that don't even match the actors' facial expressions and cheesy plots. Not to mention naked men. With their socks still on. I'm cracking up right now just thinking about it!
7. Physical comedy. Matthew Perry on Friends. John Ritter on Three's Company. Don Knotts in anything. Chris Farley. Rowan Atkinson. I will roll on the floor.
8. Drunk people. I'm not talking about over the legal limit drunks who need a stint in rehab because they're that drunk every night. I'm talking about frat-boy drunks. Watching that happen is just too funny. And I'd rather watch than participate because I'm not a funny drunk, but a sleeping drunk.
9. Ty-man's cousin-in-law Sean. How happy I am that cousin Ashley married Sean. He is, by far, my reason for celebrating Christmas each year. The family gathers and I spend three days laughing at and with Sean and his special brand of humor.
10. My children's whining. Oh, yeah. When I'm in a great mood and the twins decide to just start whining and quivering that bottom lip because, oh, it's not their birthday but they want their birthday presents NOW, two months ahead of time, I just have to laugh. In front of them. Probably scarring them for life. Oh, well.
Well guys, we're doing great! Getting closer and closer to the end. Tomorrow? Ten things about my body. Scary!
10 Things That Make Me Laugh!
1. Pranks. Oh, how I love pranks! Vaseline on the doorknob. Saran Wrap on the toilet seat. Simple or elaborate it doesn't matter. I love watching pranks happen and participating in said pranks. I laugh hysterically.
2. Crude humor. Fart jokes, sex jokes, cussing, Samuel L. Jackson saying "motherf*cker" - you name it. I'm pretty easy to please.
3. My kids' laughter. Oh, yes. When my kids crack themselves up, I'm right there with them. Their laughter is pretty infectious, but in a good way!
4. My husband. People, let me just say that real comedian of the family is the Ty-man. Dude is hysterical!
5. Eddie Izzard and Robin Williams. My two favorite comics. I could watch and laugh over Robin Williams for hours.
6. Porn. Oh, come on. How can porn not be funny? Sex noises that don't even match the actors' facial expressions and cheesy plots. Not to mention naked men. With their socks still on. I'm cracking up right now just thinking about it!
7. Physical comedy. Matthew Perry on Friends. John Ritter on Three's Company. Don Knotts in anything. Chris Farley. Rowan Atkinson. I will roll on the floor.
8. Drunk people. I'm not talking about over the legal limit drunks who need a stint in rehab because they're that drunk every night. I'm talking about frat-boy drunks. Watching that happen is just too funny. And I'd rather watch than participate because I'm not a funny drunk, but a sleeping drunk.
9. Ty-man's cousin-in-law Sean. How happy I am that cousin Ashley married Sean. He is, by far, my reason for celebrating Christmas each year. The family gathers and I spend three days laughing at and with Sean and his special brand of humor.
10. My children's whining. Oh, yeah. When I'm in a great mood and the twins decide to just start whining and quivering that bottom lip because, oh, it's not their birthday but they want their birthday presents NOW, two months ahead of time, I just have to laugh. In front of them. Probably scarring them for life. Oh, well.
Well guys, we're doing great! Getting closer and closer to the end. Tomorrow? Ten things about my body. Scary!
09 July 2008
100 Things - Let the Tears Come
So, back during my coconut rum-fueled trip to Antigua, I left you with a rip-off from Miss Britt. I decided to update my 100 things list by copying the Britt-ster and her inspired list o' 100. If you'll remember I told all of you about my family, my most memorable moments, the things I hate, the things I love, and the shameless things I've done to stimulate the U.S. economy. But that's just 50 things. And there you sat, in absolute breathless wonder, thinking When the Hell is she going to finish this? I can't eat! I can't sleep! I. Must. Know!
The perfect opportunity has come about in the form of Ty-man's 2nd cousin, J. This is the same 2nd cousin who texts me on a regular basis and makes me feel about 90 years old. But that's OK, because she's the sweetest kid on the planet. And she's visiting us this week. This leaves me with no time to blog every night. So, for the next three days I've pre-written thirty more things about me. Today's installment is:
10 Things That Make Me Cry
1. Reading or seeing stories about people losing their children. This can be young children who die or young parents who die or split up and fight over their children. Any of this stuff that never used to bother me will now bring huge tears to my eyes.
2. Funerals. I don't even have to know the person. Just put me in a funeral home or church or cemetery, body or urn of ashes in prominence, crying family and friends, and I lose it. I sit and remember the funerals and visitations of those I've loved and I become a blubbering idiot.
3. Anything sweet done by any of my kids. A random kiss. A hug. An act of kindness toward one another. Doesn't matter. If I'm the right mood (read: hormonal), let the tears flow, baby!
4. Onions. Duh. Not surprising. Avocados make me cry, too, but for different reasons.
5. Extreme anger. I can't be that beautiful, righteous, indignant woman you see on the soaps, make-up and hair perfect, who lets the offending party have it while looking beautiful. She makes her point and storms off. Me? I start blubbering and crying when very angry or indignant, what little make-up I'm wearing runs, my eyes swell up, and my cheeks turn Raggedy-Ann red. It's not a pretty sight.
6. My infrequent anxiety/panic attacks. These attacks involve me thinking about death. The enormity of it all. The fact I can't escape it. My children are doomed to it. Eternity. The possibility of being alone because everyone I love will die before me. This is why late-night TV was invented, so that anxious freaks like me can get our minds off impending doom.
7. Sad movies or TV shows. I remember making fun of my mom for crying during every. single. episode of Little House on the Prairie. Then? I went to see Schindler's List and blubbered. For two hours. It all went downhill from there.
8. Shuttle launches. I shit you not. It doesn't matter the mission, if it's a live launch or pre-recorded. I cry. God bless NASA!
9. Any kind of personal crisis. I'm not saying I'm incompetent, that I won't make it through said crisis, or that I freeze up. I'll make it through and figure out what to do, but my pressure release valve happens to be located in my tear ducts. That's how I equalize the rush of adrenaline. I may be blubbering during a crisis, but I'm working through it. Just give me a moment, dammit!
10. Extreme laughter. If I'm crying and laughing at the same time? There's a pretty good chance I've also peed my pants. Just sayin'.
Thanks for reading and tomorrow we explore my laugh switch!
The perfect opportunity has come about in the form of Ty-man's 2nd cousin, J. This is the same 2nd cousin who texts me on a regular basis and makes me feel about 90 years old. But that's OK, because she's the sweetest kid on the planet. And she's visiting us this week. This leaves me with no time to blog every night. So, for the next three days I've pre-written thirty more things about me. Today's installment is:
10 Things That Make Me Cry
1. Reading or seeing stories about people losing their children. This can be young children who die or young parents who die or split up and fight over their children. Any of this stuff that never used to bother me will now bring huge tears to my eyes.
2. Funerals. I don't even have to know the person. Just put me in a funeral home or church or cemetery, body or urn of ashes in prominence, crying family and friends, and I lose it. I sit and remember the funerals and visitations of those I've loved and I become a blubbering idiot.
3. Anything sweet done by any of my kids. A random kiss. A hug. An act of kindness toward one another. Doesn't matter. If I'm the right mood (read: hormonal), let the tears flow, baby!
4. Onions. Duh. Not surprising. Avocados make me cry, too, but for different reasons.
5. Extreme anger. I can't be that beautiful, righteous, indignant woman you see on the soaps, make-up and hair perfect, who lets the offending party have it while looking beautiful. She makes her point and storms off. Me? I start blubbering and crying when very angry or indignant, what little make-up I'm wearing runs, my eyes swell up, and my cheeks turn Raggedy-Ann red. It's not a pretty sight.
6. My infrequent anxiety/panic attacks. These attacks involve me thinking about death. The enormity of it all. The fact I can't escape it. My children are doomed to it. Eternity. The possibility of being alone because everyone I love will die before me. This is why late-night TV was invented, so that anxious freaks like me can get our minds off impending doom.
7. Sad movies or TV shows. I remember making fun of my mom for crying during every. single. episode of Little House on the Prairie. Then? I went to see Schindler's List and blubbered. For two hours. It all went downhill from there.
8. Shuttle launches. I shit you not. It doesn't matter the mission, if it's a live launch or pre-recorded. I cry. God bless NASA!
9. Any kind of personal crisis. I'm not saying I'm incompetent, that I won't make it through said crisis, or that I freeze up. I'll make it through and figure out what to do, but my pressure release valve happens to be located in my tear ducts. That's how I equalize the rush of adrenaline. I may be blubbering during a crisis, but I'm working through it. Just give me a moment, dammit!
10. Extreme laughter. If I'm crying and laughing at the same time? There's a pretty good chance I've also peed my pants. Just sayin'.
Thanks for reading and tomorrow we explore my laugh switch!
08 July 2008
Sunday Panties
When Harry Met Sally:
Sally: First of all, I am not "with" you, and second of all it is none of your business why we broke up.
Harry: You're right, you're right, I don't want to know.
Sally: Well if you must know, it was because he was very jealous and I had these days-of-the-week underpants.
Harry: I'm sorry I need a judge's ruling on this... days-of-week underpants.
Sally: Yes. They had the days of the week on them and I thought they were sort of funny. And then one day Sheldon says to me, "You never wear Sunday." It's all suspicious, where was Sunday, where was Sunday? And I told him and he didn't believe me.
Harry: Why?
Sally: They don't make Sunday.
Harry: Why?
Sally: Because of God.
Well, Sally was wrong:
(If you click on the above image, you'll see that Princess Belle graces these obvious Sunday panties because of the word "Sunday" printed all over the waist band. Yes, every time Miss-Miss wears these, I think of Meg Ryan. Not sure what that says about me. Or better yet, what does this say about Disney? Bunch of God-less freaks.)
Sally: First of all, I am not "with" you, and second of all it is none of your business why we broke up.
Harry: You're right, you're right, I don't want to know.
Sally: Well if you must know, it was because he was very jealous and I had these days-of-the-week underpants.
Harry: I'm sorry I need a judge's ruling on this... days-of-week underpants.
Sally: Yes. They had the days of the week on them and I thought they were sort of funny. And then one day Sheldon says to me, "You never wear Sunday." It's all suspicious, where was Sunday, where was Sunday? And I told him and he didn't believe me.
Harry: Why?
Sally: They don't make Sunday.
Harry: Why?
Sally: Because of God.
Well, Sally was wrong:
(If you click on the above image, you'll see that Princess Belle graces these obvious Sunday panties because of the word "Sunday" printed all over the waist band. Yes, every time Miss-Miss wears these, I think of Meg Ryan. Not sure what that says about me. Or better yet, what does this say about Disney? Bunch of God-less freaks.)
07 July 2008
July 4th Re-cap
Our holiday began like every other day. Total insanity. Since potty training the twins, one of us is in that half-bath every 30 minutes. And trying to watch for crossed legs and, everybody's favorite, the "pee-pee" dance, from two kids who are at opposite ends of the house, while keeping J-man happy, and simultaneously washing dishes and vacuuming floors makes for an interesting morning.
Finally, it was 12:30PM. All five of us had eaten lunch, my mom and her friend were on their way over for July 4th food and fun, neither of the twins had had a poop or pee accident, and all was well. Ty-man ran upstairs, with J-man, for diapers. The next thing I heard was Ty yelling, "J-man! No! J-man! J-MAAAAN!" and then I heard it.
It was the sickening sound of J-man falling down the stairs. Nine steps. I counted.
Next comes my stream-of-consciousness memory of the next hour.
Ty-man and I made it to him at the same time. Ty snatched him up and J-man was screaming his head off. We went to the family room. J-man's nose started to bleed. I grabbed an ice pack. The twins were trying to climb up onto Ty's lap. I called the pediatrician. The answering service told me the doctor would call back. Miss-Miss told us she had to go to the potty. J-man's eyes started to droop. I freaked. Ty told Bubba to get down. Bubba cried and ran into the dining room. I called 911. While I gave 911 all our information, I was also wiping Miss-Miss's bottom and cleaning out the potty chair. Mom arrived. Paramedics arrived. Ty is hanging on to J-man for all he's worth. Firetruck pulled in. Six firemen/EMTs were in my family room. Bubba peed on the foyer floor. Paramedics examined J-man, while Ty tightly held him. I gave an EMT J-man's personal info while cleaning up the foyer and Bubba. Mom brought down clean undies and shorts. Mom took Bubba outside to see the firetruck. Miss-Miss was frozen on the hearth. EMT advised taking J-man to the local pediatric ER. We decided to drive him ourselves. All six hulking firemen left. J-man threw up. Mom raced outside to tell them to come back. EMT said it's not surprising. We loaded up in the minivan. I said Hell, no! to the car seat laws and J-man rode on my lap. During the drive, J-man tried to fall asleep. I kept him awake with 50 different versions of patty-cake. We finally got there. Triage nurse took his vitals. And we found ourselves here:
On a bed, in the hallway of the local hospital's pediatric ER. J-man was alert but scared and was absolutely glued to my chest. A few minutes later, we were in a room where we found this sign:
Not "Outstanding" care, not "excellent" care, but "Very Good" care. No, we don't want to aim too high. Friggin' glass half-empty hospital. After that? I was worried. The doctor finally came in after 45 minutes during which I let J-man sleep. He was finally alert, and crying hysterically because some strange man was poking and prodding at him. We got our little man to walk (no broken legs) and the doctor ordered X-rays of his nasal cavity. Off we went to Radiology. Since it was a holiday and they were short-staffed, it was up to me to don a lead vest and play radiologist. I had to hold down my screaming child and keep him still while three pictures were taken of his head. Fun? I think not. But after asking the radiologist about her equipment, telling her I wanted to go into health physics as a career after undergrad, and informing her I watch Discovery Health a lot, I immediately thought Crap. Now she probably thinks I've got Munchausen by Proxy disorder and that I chucked him down the stairs for attention. Great.
Everything came back fine and normal. No broken bones, no concussions, no seizures, no concerns. After almost six hours, we went home and chowed down on an Independence Day feast courtesy of my mom and her friend. We ate, we relived the day, and we sighed with relief.
As we were giving the kids a bath, Ty-man (in his sock feet) casually mentioned You know, the middle toe on my left foot has been hurting since we left for the hospital. I wonder what's going on. I told him to take off his sock and look at it. Turns out we did end up with a broken bone after all:
After 36 years and five months, Ty-man managed to break his first bone. Ever. In the rush to get from J-man's room to the landing, he somehow broke his toe and didn't notice the pain until an hour later and didn't say anything about it for another five hours. That's my man.
So, now that you've stuck with me through this sordid tale, let's check the scoreboard:
Broken bones: 1
Times I have now called 911: 1
New gates purchased for the tops of the stairs: 2
X-rays: 3
Hours in an ER: 3.5
Twin poop and pee accidents: 2
Burly firemen in our house: 6
Nosy neighbors checking out the scene after the fact: 1
Freaked out parents: 2
Happy, slightly clingy J-man who is no worse for his tumble: 1
Finally, it was 12:30PM. All five of us had eaten lunch, my mom and her friend were on their way over for July 4th food and fun, neither of the twins had had a poop or pee accident, and all was well. Ty-man ran upstairs, with J-man, for diapers. The next thing I heard was Ty yelling, "J-man! No! J-man! J-MAAAAN!" and then I heard it.
It was the sickening sound of J-man falling down the stairs. Nine steps. I counted.
Next comes my stream-of-consciousness memory of the next hour.
Ty-man and I made it to him at the same time. Ty snatched him up and J-man was screaming his head off. We went to the family room. J-man's nose started to bleed. I grabbed an ice pack. The twins were trying to climb up onto Ty's lap. I called the pediatrician. The answering service told me the doctor would call back. Miss-Miss told us she had to go to the potty. J-man's eyes started to droop. I freaked. Ty told Bubba to get down. Bubba cried and ran into the dining room. I called 911. While I gave 911 all our information, I was also wiping Miss-Miss's bottom and cleaning out the potty chair. Mom arrived. Paramedics arrived. Ty is hanging on to J-man for all he's worth. Firetruck pulled in. Six firemen/EMTs were in my family room. Bubba peed on the foyer floor. Paramedics examined J-man, while Ty tightly held him. I gave an EMT J-man's personal info while cleaning up the foyer and Bubba. Mom brought down clean undies and shorts. Mom took Bubba outside to see the firetruck. Miss-Miss was frozen on the hearth. EMT advised taking J-man to the local pediatric ER. We decided to drive him ourselves. All six hulking firemen left. J-man threw up. Mom raced outside to tell them to come back. EMT said it's not surprising. We loaded up in the minivan. I said Hell, no! to the car seat laws and J-man rode on my lap. During the drive, J-man tried to fall asleep. I kept him awake with 50 different versions of patty-cake. We finally got there. Triage nurse took his vitals. And we found ourselves here:
On a bed, in the hallway of the local hospital's pediatric ER. J-man was alert but scared and was absolutely glued to my chest. A few minutes later, we were in a room where we found this sign:
Not "Outstanding" care, not "excellent" care, but "Very Good" care. No, we don't want to aim too high. Friggin' glass half-empty hospital. After that? I was worried. The doctor finally came in after 45 minutes during which I let J-man sleep. He was finally alert, and crying hysterically because some strange man was poking and prodding at him. We got our little man to walk (no broken legs) and the doctor ordered X-rays of his nasal cavity. Off we went to Radiology. Since it was a holiday and they were short-staffed, it was up to me to don a lead vest and play radiologist. I had to hold down my screaming child and keep him still while three pictures were taken of his head. Fun? I think not. But after asking the radiologist about her equipment, telling her I wanted to go into health physics as a career after undergrad, and informing her I watch Discovery Health a lot, I immediately thought Crap. Now she probably thinks I've got Munchausen by Proxy disorder and that I chucked him down the stairs for attention. Great.
Everything came back fine and normal. No broken bones, no concussions, no seizures, no concerns. After almost six hours, we went home and chowed down on an Independence Day feast courtesy of my mom and her friend. We ate, we relived the day, and we sighed with relief.
As we were giving the kids a bath, Ty-man (in his sock feet) casually mentioned You know, the middle toe on my left foot has been hurting since we left for the hospital. I wonder what's going on. I told him to take off his sock and look at it. Turns out we did end up with a broken bone after all:
After 36 years and five months, Ty-man managed to break his first bone. Ever. In the rush to get from J-man's room to the landing, he somehow broke his toe and didn't notice the pain until an hour later and didn't say anything about it for another five hours. That's my man.
So, now that you've stuck with me through this sordid tale, let's check the scoreboard:
Broken bones: 1
Times I have now called 911: 1
New gates purchased for the tops of the stairs: 2
X-rays: 3
Hours in an ER: 3.5
Twin poop and pee accidents: 2
Burly firemen in our house: 6
Nosy neighbors checking out the scene after the fact: 1
Freaked out parents: 2
Happy, slightly clingy J-man who is no worse for his tumble: 1
05 July 2008
04 July 2008
Declare Your Independence
THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE
Action of Second Continental Congress, July 4, 1776
The Unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America
Action of Second Continental Congress, July 4, 1776
The Unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America
WHEN in the Course of human Events, it becomes necessary for one People to dissolve the Political Bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the Powers of the Earth, the separate and equal Station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent Respect to the Opinions of Mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the Separation.
WE hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness - That to secure these Rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its Foundation on such Principles, and organizing its Powers in such Form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient Causes; and accordingly all Experience hath shewn, that Mankind are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the Forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long Train of Abuses and Usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object, evinces a Design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their Right, it is their Duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future Security. Such has been the patient Sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the Necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The History of the present King of Great-Britain is a History of repeated Injuries and Usurpations, all having in direct Object the Establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid World.
HE has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public Good.
HE has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing Importance, unless suspended in their Operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.
HE has refused to pass other Laws for the Accommodation of large Districts of People, unless those People would relinquish the Right of Representation in the Legislature, a Right inestimable to them, and formidable to Tyrants only.
HE has called together Legislative Bodies at Places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the Depository of their public Records, for the sole Purpose of fatiguing them into Compliance with his Measures.
HE has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly Firmness his Invasions on the Rights of the People.
HE has refused for a long Time, after such Dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative Powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the Dangers of Invasion from without, and Convulsions within.
HE has endeavoured to prevent the Population of these States; for that Purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their Migrations hither, and raising the Conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.
HE has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary Powers.
HE has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the Tenure of their Offices, and the Amount and Payment of their Salaries.
HE has erected a Multitude of new Offices, and sent hither Swarms of Officers to harrass our People, and eat out their Substance.
HE has kept among us, in Times of Peace, Standing Armies, without the consent of our Legislatures.
HE has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil Power.
HE has combined with others to subject us to a Jurisdiction foreign to our Constitution, and unacknowledged by our Laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:
FOR quartering large Bodies of Armed Troops among us:
FOR protecting them, by a mock Trial, from Punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:
FOR cutting off our Trade with all Parts of the World:
FOR imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:
FOR depriving us, in many Cases, of the Benefits of Trial by Jury:
FOR transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended Offences:
FOR abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an arbitrary Government, and enlarging its Boundaries, so as to render it at once an Example and fit Instrument for introducing the same absolute Rule into these Colonies:
FOR taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:
FOR suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with Power to legislate for us in all Cases whatsoever.
HE has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.
HE has plundered our Seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our Towns, and destroyed the Lives of our People.
HE is, at this Time, transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the Works of Death, Desolation, and Tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty and Perfidy, scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous Ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized Nation.
HE has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the Executioners of their Friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.
HE has excited domestic Insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the Inhabitants of our Frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known Rule of Warfare, is an undistinguished Destruction, of all Ages, Sexes and Conditions.
IN every stage of these Oppressions we have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble Terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated Injury. A Prince, whose Character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the Ruler of a free People.
NOR have we been wanting in Attentions to our British Brethren. We have warned them from Time to Time of Attempts by their Legislature to extend an unwarrantable Jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the Circumstances of our Emigration and Settlement here. We have appealed to their native Justice and Magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the Ties of our common Kindred to disavow these Usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our Connections and Correspondence. They too have been deaf to the Voice of Justice and of Consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the Necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of Mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace, Friends.
We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the World for the Rectitude of our Intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly Publish and Declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be, Free and Independent States; that they are absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political Connection between them and the State of Great-Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. - And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm Reliance on the Protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.
With respect to Thomas Jefferson and the signers of this Declaration, I hope I didn't make any typographical errors. Have a great holiday, everyone!
03 July 2008
Wind
Have you ever had the breath stolen right out of your lungs? One minute the exchange of carbon dioxide for oxygen is going along just as normal as can be; everything is working just as naturally as nature intended. Your lungs hand off the oxygen to your blood, which happily delivers it to your major organs and tissues, who in turn hand off the carbon dioxide waste which is promptly dropped off at the lungs for a quick egress out your nostrils. Easy-peasy-puddin'-pie.
Right up until the moment said gasses get knocked out of your personal dual airbag system.
I've been burned by many people in my short 36 years. I've either got the words "Screw with me, please!" tattooed on my forehead in such a way that only the mean f*cktards can see them or I just exude large quantities of the "Please stab me in the back" hormone, thereby attracting said f*cktards by the droves. I've experienced heartbreak from both family members and supposed friends and I like to think I've developed a relatively thick skin about the whole thing.
But then my thick skin failed and the wind got knocked out of me anyway.
It's surprising when it happens. I never expect it but at the same time I've been expecting it all along. When something like this happens, I typically lash out in anger with whatever words make it out of my mouth. Civility or politeness be damned! I am indignant! I have been wronged! You shall suffer 500 lashed of my righteous tongue and take it without comment!
But not this time. This time I am silent because the wind got pushed out of my lungs. At the expense of my children.
Gad. Mean people suck.
Right up until the moment said gasses get knocked out of your personal dual airbag system.
I've been burned by many people in my short 36 years. I've either got the words "Screw with me, please!" tattooed on my forehead in such a way that only the mean f*cktards can see them or I just exude large quantities of the "Please stab me in the back" hormone, thereby attracting said f*cktards by the droves. I've experienced heartbreak from both family members and supposed friends and I like to think I've developed a relatively thick skin about the whole thing.
But then my thick skin failed and the wind got knocked out of me anyway.
It's surprising when it happens. I never expect it but at the same time I've been expecting it all along. When something like this happens, I typically lash out in anger with whatever words make it out of my mouth. Civility or politeness be damned! I am indignant! I have been wronged! You shall suffer 500 lashed of my righteous tongue and take it without comment!
But not this time. This time I am silent because the wind got pushed out of my lungs. At the expense of my children.
Gad. Mean people suck.
02 July 2008
Dialog, Part 11
While watching my half-naked toddler son play with his penis during Potty-Training 2008 and an episode of "Little Bear"...
Me: Jeez, he's playing with his penis a lot. Do you think he has to go to the bathroom?
Ty-man: No. He just went.
Me: Is it because he's naked and it's there?
Ty-man: Pretty much. It's like playing with your ear or with your hair. It's just there.
Me: So, if you were naked right now, would you be playing with your penis?
Ty-man: That depends. Am I alone?
Me: Rolling on the floor with laughter.
Me: Jeez, he's playing with his penis a lot. Do you think he has to go to the bathroom?
Ty-man: No. He just went.
Me: Is it because he's naked and it's there?
Ty-man: Pretty much. It's like playing with your ear or with your hair. It's just there.
Me: So, if you were naked right now, would you be playing with your penis?
Ty-man: That depends. Am I alone?
Me: Rolling on the floor with laughter.
01 July 2008
Open Letters 5
Dear sweet, precious, twins o’ mine:
How come every other kid I know who has gone through this “run around half-naked potty training” technique has figured out day-time potty use within 48 to 72 hours? Even the poop part? How come we’re still pissing on the carpet and in our panties/undies? Seriously? What kind of weird-ass wiring is going on up there in your toddler brains that no matter how gentle I am, how cajoling, how convincing, the same muscles used to soil a diaper can't be used to soil a toilet? For the love of baby Jesus why?!?
Love, Crazy Mama
Dear J-man:
Honey. I know you’re needy. I know you're only one. But I’m potty training your older brother and sister. Could you just cool it? Seriously? Could you just find a quiet corner to chew on a cardboard book, or even torture one of the cats? They love torture. Really. Just for five to seven minutes? Pleeeaaase? I hate to beg.
Love, Yo Mama
Dear Medical Board Certification people:
Based on my experiences over the last three days with my twins I feel I have the talent necessary to be a urologist, proctologist, and child psychologist. Yes, all three. And I don't need medical school or an internship. I've got it going on after three days of potty training. So, I'd like my certificate for the wall and my license to practice these three areas of medicine? 'Kay?
Thnxbai! Dr. Heather
Dear Fellow Citizens of the People's Republic of Blogistan:
Thanks for your patience regarding two days of potty training whining. I've also been whining about it on Twitter for four days and I promise, after this week, you may only be forced to listen to this topic... five- or six-hundred more times. You guys rawk!
Yours 4-ever, CMGD
How come every other kid I know who has gone through this “run around half-naked potty training” technique has figured out day-time potty use within 48 to 72 hours? Even the poop part? How come we’re still pissing on the carpet and in our panties/undies? Seriously? What kind of weird-ass wiring is going on up there in your toddler brains that no matter how gentle I am, how cajoling, how convincing, the same muscles used to soil a diaper can't be used to soil a toilet? For the love of baby Jesus why?!?
Love, Crazy Mama
Dear J-man:
Honey. I know you’re needy. I know you're only one. But I’m potty training your older brother and sister. Could you just cool it? Seriously? Could you just find a quiet corner to chew on a cardboard book, or even torture one of the cats? They love torture. Really. Just for five to seven minutes? Pleeeaaase? I hate to beg.
Love, Yo Mama
Dear Medical Board Certification people:
Based on my experiences over the last three days with my twins I feel I have the talent necessary to be a urologist, proctologist, and child psychologist. Yes, all three. And I don't need medical school or an internship. I've got it going on after three days of potty training. So, I'd like my certificate for the wall and my license to practice these three areas of medicine? 'Kay?
Thnxbai! Dr. Heather
Dear Fellow Citizens of the People's Republic of Blogistan:
Thanks for your patience regarding two days of potty training whining. I've also been whining about it on Twitter for four days and I promise, after this week, you may only be forced to listen to this topic... five- or six-hundred more times. You guys rawk!
Yours 4-ever, CMGD
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