January 30, 2011
Sarge hadn't been gone 24 hours when Andrew comes stumbling out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel with his wittle bottom lip trembling. He was white as a ghost. Apparently, he'd fainted in the shower. He remembers his vision going black and waking up on the floor, towel bar ripped off the wall and shower curtain pulled down. This was 10:30 Thursday night. By 10:30 Friday morning, he was hooked up to an EKG and I was hearing the words "pediatric cardiologist."
What the MOTHER FUCKING FUCK??!
On top of all that bullfuckingshit, his EKG was abnormal.
Dude, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.
That poor kid was so scared! And then we're sitting in the doctor's office and I'm giving the nurse his family history. No heart problems. No seizure disorders. No neuro- wait, Dad was just diagnosed with MS a few months ago. And Andrew just about loses it.
"NO! Please don't say I have that, MOM!!"
No, sweetheart, I'm just telling the nurse what illnesses are in your family. It doesn't mean you have MS.
Whew. Poor little bugger would rather eat a dog turd sandwich than take weekly shots. It was all he could do not to lose his manhood with the little butterfly needle used for his blood work.
I did learn, however, that a blob of spackling and a little superglue works great on towel bars. I just stuck the damn screws and anchors right back in the fucking wall, I did!
And now my little ladies man is soakin' it up all over facebook saying shit like, "just got back from the doctor, my arm hurts (insert sad face)."
And, of course, all the girls reply, "awwwwww!!! What HAPPENED?? Wuv you sooo much!!"
Grrrr....Imma go get me a baseball bat and a 5th of Jack so I can beat the girls and drown my sorrows.
Since Sarge is going to be off playing International Man of Mystery, globetrottin', kissin' girls, and gettin' in all sorts of double-OH!-seven, super-top-secret Army shenanigans for the next month (you know, the kind that require spiffy ties, a pair of Oakleys, and a Bowie knife strapped to yer ankle), it's just going to be me and those weird hairy-legged guys with deep voices with whom I cohabitate. It should be wicked fun.
Hang on a sec. You mean to tell me that my husband just got up before dawn to catch a flight alone, at a civilian airport, to go do Army stuff with nary a uniform on his person? WAIT A MINUTE! (in my best Peter Griffin voice).
Oh, did I mention he's going to Hawaii? Yeah, I think someone's tryina pull one over on me. Granted, his job is called Civil......(wait for it).....Affairs! Get it? GET IT?! Nevermind....I gotta go pull his clothes out of his chest of drawers so my boyfriend can move in.
Oh, and you know how as soon as you turn off the shower you realize you're still peeing, so you have to turn the shower back on for a few seconds so you don't have pee running down your leg? Yeah, that's how my day's going so far. And I cut myself shaving for the first time since I was prepubescent. Sweet.
I don't think I'm gonna paint shit this time, but I really need to find something to do for the next month besides peeing in the shower. Any ideas?
January 26, 2011
Today, my offering to the blogging community (many of whom are only a fraction of a percentage less narcissistic than celebrities, myself included), is my attempt to turn a pointlessly mean and annoying human being into a saucy-tongued hero using only words, fingers, and a keyboard. It's a magic trick.
Some people will come away from this demonstration completely convinced that I am a wicked, trixie little saucy-tongued hero. Others will no doubt see through my bag-o-tricks and recognize only the pitiful existence of a pointlessly mean and annoying human being. Po-TAY-toes, po-TAH-toes, I say!
---------(begin magic trick)------------
I can't possibly be the only one who seems to always stick my foot in my mouth in blog or Facebook comments.
Okay, okay. You caught me. 99% of the time, I do it on purpose. Mostly. Sometimes I am trying to be funny/mean/gross/shocking, but I really underestimate my ability to be annoying the raw power behind my saucy l'il tongue.
Apparently, there are a great deal of people in this world who think I'm intolerably annoying are so conservative that they either truly don't understand my brand of humor at all, and/or they truly believe I am serious because no one would joke about something so disgusting/taboo/mean/shocking.
Here's an easy way to figure out my comments:
- If it's funny, I'm joking.
- If it's mean, I'm probably not joking, but I am just being really fucking annoying.
- If it's mean but I really am joking, you'll never know the difference unless you really know me, so you may as well just laugh at yourself.
- If it's not funny at all, but completely disgusting and inappropriate, I'm joking but you just don't think it's funny.
- If it's so bizarre and horrible that you think there is no way I can possibly be human, you need to get out more. Plus, I just like overusing the strike-through feature because it makes me look cool.
And here are my most favorite comment responses:
- "Wow" Okay, this one is just awesome. One word, yet so much power. Depending on my comment, this response could be one of utter disgust or utter confusion. What it says to me is that you thought it was important to express the shock you felt after reading my comment; however, there's also an air of condescension indicating that you feel too superior to go into the exact details of the source of your shock. Or you're just too lazy. Or, I'm too annoying to even bother with. Or English isn't even your fourth language and "wow" is the only word you know. Plus, it's so much easier to conjure up a posse who'll rally behind your commenting superiority when you've created such an all-encompassing insult. Either way, it's probably my favorite of all. You've pretty much just given me, in 3 little letters, exactly what that little bit of inherited delusional narcissism needs to continue to seethe right beneath the surface of my frail veneer of sanity. So thanks.
- "That's just mean." Fact- I have a psychological disorder that requires me to rub salt in your wound with a lemon-juice covered rag whenever I hear this phrase.
- Anything that points out the obvious as a response to my veiled stereotype jokes. Example: I say- "I'm just a girl. I wouldn't know anything about cars." Response- "Danica Patrick is a race car driver and she's a girl!" You, my good commenter, are a completely useless, empty shell of a human being. There are dying children in Darfur who would be happy to occupy the space you are wasting on this Earth.
- "Aren’t you a bitchy lil cunt." Yes, this is a genuine verbatim response I received a couple days ago. The only thing that strokes my ego more than a good ole-fashioned "Well aren't you just a smokin' hot piece of ass?" is a dirty, filthy insult. You've essentially risked your immortal soul to convey how annoyed you are with me your feelings about me. I. AM. YOUR. GOD.
- And if you've found your way to my blog because you read one of my morally questionable quips and wanted to know a little more about the female antichrist who just insulted your dead grandmother, you will find no peace or closure here, my friend. Just really annoying narcissism.
In closing (<----I like saying that, if you haven't noticed), just in case you think I have a big, fat, filthy mouth on the Internet because I can hide behind my computer screen, let it be known that I am an annoying sick bitch in real life, too.
If you think jokes about underage sex and incestuous temptations are revolting, tasteless, and apropos of nothing, you're right consider this: You approach a coworker at an office party because you see he has brought his daughter and you would like to meet her. You shake your coworker's hand and say to his daughter, "It's so nice to meet you! I really enjoy working with your dad!" In response, she squeezes her "daddy's" ass, snuggles up right next to him and says, "I love my daddy!"(Batting her eyes and sporting an impenetrable poker face).
You, my good sir, have just shaken the hand of your coworker's 4'6" wife who also happens to have C-cup boobs and a nose ring, as if you didn't notice. You deserve whatever you get, the useless sockmonkey fucker that you are.
OKAY, OKAY, FINE! I'm a fucking fraud. Happy now? Obviously, I've never really done that, but I couldn't even count on her fingers the number of times I've wanted to.
Well, shit. That just fucked up my magic trick. I'm not only annoying, but now I'm an annoying fraud. Back to the drawing board......
January 23, 2011
.........That would give Joan Crawford a run for her money!
1.
Me- "Stop choking! I can't hear the damn TV!"
Him- "Yak, yak, yak, RALPH! Yak, yak, yak, Blech!.....You can't be serious!"
2.
Me- "You better not get caught."
Them- "Do not underestimate the POWAH of the Daaaaark Side!"
3.
Me- "I swear to all that is good and holy- If you don't stop coughing I'm gonna give you Benadryl!"
Them- "Ummm.....I don't suppose you could hurry up with that?"
4.
Them- "What's for dinner?"
Me- "Snot and shit soup."
5.
Them- "So, mom. Exactly why is marijuana against the law?"
Me- "Because people are fucking stupid."
6.
Me- "Fine. Keep laughing at my inability to reach XYZ. But I can totally kick your ass, and when the police come, YOU'RE going to be the monstrous teenage boy who towers over his poor tiny mother!"
7.
Them- "My knee hurts."
Me- "Sucks to be you."
8. (At the music shop getting Jake's guitar restrung and buying other guitar thingies and toys)
Jake- "Mom, it's cool. I have enough money. You don't have to pay for this for me."
Me- "Oh hell no. Put your card away, boy! I need something to hold over your head so I don't have to do the dishes for the next couple of days!"
9. (A few days after #8)
Me- "Slave boy! Hey, slave boy! Where the hell is my slave boy?"
Jake- (runs into the living room with forlorn look) "Yes, mother......"
Me- "I need the dishes washed, slave boy!"
Jake- "Yes, mother......"
Me- "That was the best damn money I ever spent!"
10.
Them- "I didn't do it!" (Insert, "It's not my turn!" or "We were just playing!" or "I'm hungry and we have NO FOOD!")
Me- "Don't care."
Them- "But......!"
Me- "Nope. Don't care."
Them- "MOooooOOoooOOM!"
Me- "What part of 'Don't Care' don't you understand?"
Them- "Yeah, but.....!"
Me- "Look at my face. Now imagine I have the words 'Don't Care' written on my forehead. Now remember that before you open your mouth again."
Them- "grumble....grumble.....grumble.....," stomp....stomp....stomp.....
January 20, 2011
I've been checking out J-Money over at Budgets Are Sexy for a few days now. I think I'm really diggin' him. He's not trying to be Alan Greenspan or Dave Ramsey, the freaky-ass cult leader that he is. He's just a regular dude blogging about money. He's blogging anonymously because he pretty much has his whole financial life buck nekkid on his blog for everyone to see. And his finances aren't perfect. He's saying, "Check me out. I've done some stupid shit, and now I'm fixing it. So can you." And I like that.
I think so many people, especially young people, get so overwhelmed by all the "experts" and advice and articles that are telling them they HAVE to have stocks, and HAVE to have bonds, don't forget the 401(k), ooooohh.....betta go get that Roth.....wait a sec...go invest in some gold....maybe get some real estate.....what? You can't afford to invest 75% of your paycheck and still feed your kids? You might as well just give up. Because if you don't do this or that you're going to be a complete failure and live in your kid's basement eating cat food in your old age.
And J-Money is just sayin' "look, I'm tryin. You can try, too."
He asked a question today that really goes to the heart of my passion for the almighty dollar. I actually went to school to become a financial counselor until I realized that the people I really wanted to help wouldn't be able to afford to pay me enough for me to even bother finishing a stupid degree. Okay, now that I type that out it sounds unbelievably selfish, doesn't it? Whatevs. I'll just blog my advice for free.
Anyway, back to J-Money's question. He's asking about the financial personalities of your family, especially those who have influenced the way you manage your own finances. Frankly, I think this is an awesome question. Other than providing great material for a blog post, it also forces us to look back at our lives, our childhood, and all the different ways money, spending it and saving it, has been imprinted upon us. And to take it one step further, it gives those of us with children the opportunity to evaluate what life lessons worked, which ones didn't, and which lessons we wish we'd learned and never did, so that we can give our children the absolute BEST financial start on their way to adulthood.
Hands down, I will go ahead and credit my little sister for being the smart one in the family. As much as my eyes start to twinkle and the hair on my arms stands up with the mere mention of the phrase "dollar cost averaging," if it wasn't for her, I'd be counting down the hours to payday every 2 weeks. It wasn't anything she specifically said that motivated me, but simply what she did. Her husband is also in the military, started out as an E-nuthin just like Sarge, but somehow she always found money to save, and never (that I'm aware of) had any significant credit card debt. She didn't get into debt and then claw her way out. Oh no. She never got into it in the first place. And boy did I ever respect that shit. I suppose there was a touch of healthy competition, but more than anything it was watching her do it, seeing that it can be done, and then putting a plan into action for myself. And I made it happen. There was never any type of "grasshoppah" type of back and forth between us. It was simply the conversations we had about investments, which ones we were using, which ones we were thinking about looking into, where we wanted to be in X number of years, etc, that really got me fired up to take control and make my money work for me, to be financially independent. That is the goal. Whether she knew it or not, she was a role model. And in that same vein, I want to be a role model to my children.
Which brings me back to my comment about giving our children the best financial start. It's not about vituperative brow beating. It's not about setting unreachable or overwhelming goals. It's not about overloading our kids with so much information that they have no clue where to start. It's so much more simple than that. It's about making your children's financial education as much of a priority as their academic education. For instance, when my boys were 8 years old, they received their first debit card. I opened each of them a prepaid youth account with our bank into which I deposited their allowance (which has always been their age weekly, $14 and $15 now). They started at that age using their debit card (which has a Mastercard logo) at the cash register. Learning how to use an ATM. Learning about PIN numbers. Experiencing the embarrassment of having your card denied and, in turn, learning a lesson about being aware of your account balance. They've learned about saving for more expensive things. They've learned how to shop online and ALL the caveats, warnings, precautions, benefits, and risks therein.
When my oldest turned 15, I upgraded his prepaid debit card to full-fledged checking and savings accounts, and thus began all new lessons.
We use those maddening credit report commercials as an opportunity to talk about credit reports, what they mean, why there are 3 of them, why they're important, and why they should never fall for any of those previously mentioned maddening credit report hawkers. My teenage boys now know that there is a law in the United States that provides them with a free credit report from all 3 credit reporting agencies every year. They also know that they can request a free credit report if they are ever turned down for credit. Most adults don't even know that.
More important than credit reports is that we've talked to the boys about debt.
Notice I said "talked to the boys," not "taught the boys." Because the minute you start teaching them shit, their brains shut down.
We've talked to them about living below your means- and what that means. We've talked to them about "keeping up with the Jones's" and how ridiculous it is- and scarier still, how pervasive it is.
We've shown them our bills and how much it costs to run a household. We've shown them cell phone bills, cable bills, mortgage statements, electric bills.
Obviously, we're not done. You're never really done. We tackle the lessons as they arise in everyday conversation.
The goal is to turn our two little men out into the world just a little smarter and more prepared than Sarge and I were. A little more capable of handling all these new things that are bombarding them the second they receive their first paycheck. And perhaps a little more aware of what it really takes to achieve their goals, and that lots of education and a great job can only take you so far. It's not how much money you make, but what you do with it that counts.
Well, at least that's my goal. Sarge's goal is to make sure they know that all the money and investments and stuff in the whole world means not a damn thing if you're not having fun. And to never marry a woman whose passion is finance if you're not willing to relinquish control. And like it.
January 16, 2011
Just tossing out a guess, but for every.....hmmmm.....let's say 5 relatively "normal," functioning members in my family, I have at least 1 who is so far beyond the definition of bizarre that it would require words that have not yet been invented to convey to you their utter and saturating bizarreness.
Some of them I've never known, but are just central figures in the family rumors that are whispered behind closed doors. Apparently, I have 2 cousins with schizophrenia who have been in mental institutions since before I was born.....*ahem*.....for trying to kill their husbands. I don't know their names, and I certainly wouldn't publish them even if I did, but from what my mom tells me, they are her cousins, which I guess would make them my 2nd cousins. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.....on my mother's side. Lucky for me, I got 'em on both sides.
Then, there are the ones I know very well. The ones I grew up with. Some of whom I've lived with at various times. The kind of people you, in the moment, know are a bit off, but never realize the extent of their offness until you are grown and removed from the situation. Then, you look back and you think, "What the ever lovin' FUCK was going on there?"
It's one such cousin who, at the urging of my oldest boy, I am going to tell you about today. And boy is she a winner.
For the purposes of thinly veiled anonymity, we will call her Cleo. Why Cleo? Because when she was a teenager, she used to tell people she was a direct descendant of Cleopatra. No lie. She even had this ugly, cheap gold necklace in her jewelry box that she said belonged to the last pharaoh of ancient Egypt herself.
Cleo is about 4 or 5 years older than me. She was a cousin, my mother's sister's daughter. And yeah, she kinda had a little bit of a rough childhood. Nothing Lifetime Channel worthy, but I suppose it did leave her feeling a bit unwanted. As a little girl, I looked up to her to some extent. I thought she was much prettier than me. At 8 or 9 years old, when most children start thinking of the opposite sex as more than someone to throw rocks at on the playground, I was so freakishly short and stubby that boys never took me seriously. To them, I'm sure I looked like a baby, and that's just not girlfriend material. But Cleo was very thin and willowy, tall enough to look her age but still small enough to be considered petite in every definition of the word.
And yes, I looked up to her at that age. I felt sorry for her because it seemed that her mom saw her as baggage instead of a daughter. She never had the relationship with her mother that I had with mine. And I'd never known what it felt like to be unwanted by your own mother. And, in retrospect, I know that Cleo needed attention. But, it seems as though she operated under the assumption that negative attention was better than no attention. Either way, for a short time, she certainly had mine.
For several years, because of family situations that would just make this story more congested than it already is, Cleo and I lived under the same roof. During those years, I felt many times as though I was growing up in her shadow. The roof we were living under belonged to my grandmother, the mother of both my mom and Cleo's mom. My grandmother let my sisters and me know point blank that Cleo was her favorite, by word and deed. I distinctly remember her taking all of us to the mall to buy Cleo clothes.......and "allowing" my sisters and I to tag along and watch. I suppose at a very young age I saw Cleo as a star and myself as her groupie. She'd tell me I wasn't pretty......but she was. She'd tell me I was too chubby.....but she'd always be thin and beautiful. I remember her telling me shit like my cheek bones weren't high enough, my knees were fat, my brown eyes were ugly because everyone knows blue eyes are better.
Wow. This is fucking cathartic. I never meant to get into this much detail. This girl was really a piece of work.
With her, I had many firsts. I first discovered there was no Santa when she made me hide behind the living room sofa on Christmas Eve so I could see Mom and Gram putting the presents under the tree. I played "doctor" for the first time. Oh yes we did. I broke into a house for the first (and only) time. I sneaked out of the house for the first (and certainly not the last) time. I went to a super cool high school party for the first time. And I danced with a boy for the first time. And that is the point of this story.
I must have been in the 5th or 6th grade. Cleo was probably in the 9th grade. Or maybe even younger. But I'll stick with that. Every Friday night, the Rec Center in our little town held Friday Night Drop-Ins. It was a 2 or 3-hour event for junior high and high school-aged kids to come and hang out. The gym was the dance floor. Music was played. That type of thing. I was too young to go, but Cleo wasn't, so many times I would go with her. And it was those times I really felt like I'd hit the red carpet.....even if I was playing the role of her purse-holder. It was during these times that I started to discover that her peers, the kids who were her age, didn't exactly regard her the same way I did. Yes, even then, I knew she was strange. Her condescending attitude toward me did not go over my head. But it was a sacrifice I was willing to make to hang out with her. But, during these Drop-Ins, I would notice that the "cool kids" her age didn't really pay much attention to her. I started noticing people would roll their eyes at her after she walked past. I was just starting to get the very beginning of an inkling that maybe it was okay NOT to like her.
During this time, Cleo had a raging crush on a boy named Crawford. He was the quintessential "Troy Bolton." He was pretty beyond all reason, played football, and his family was very well known in our small community. And Cleo was absolutely in love with this boy. Her notebooks were peppered with his name in her very best cursive writing, her last name substituted with his in the typical teenage female ritual of passive-aggressive lustful expression.
And she was quite adept at using me as her fantasy sounding board. Since I was so much younger and so far removed from her peer group, my only source of information about her social life was from her. There was no talking behind her back, hearing the other side of the story, or catching the whispers from the rumor mill at that age (although, as I grew older, this indeed did begin in earnest). There was only Cleo and her stories. And as far as Cleo was concerned, Crawford loved her, too. Crawford was her boyfriend. They were getting married. But.......
It
Was
A
Secret.
(I'll give you a moment to finish laughing and catch your breath.)
All better? Good.
One unremarkable Friday evening, I tagged along with her to another Drop In at the Rec Center. And again, I was feeling much the same as I always did around her- like her pet chihuahua she dyed pink to match her outfit. We sat on the bleachers in the gym talking with the few girls who, as I realize in retrospect, would give her the time of day. We watched the other kids dance. She swooned over Crawford and followed his every move with her eyes, giggling in my ear and clutching my arm every time he breathed in her direction. And as always, I felt a bit excited to even be part of her drama. As imagined and convoluted as I was beginning to realize it was, it did have a certain entertainment value for me. At this age, part of me was starting to feel a bit embarrassed to be with her as I slowly realized her entire reality was also her fantasy. Yet, another part of me was just having fun "hanging out" with much older kids.
As many times as I went to the Rec Center with her, as many times as I listened to her spin her tales of teenage romance and tawdry secrets, I was very much aware that Crawford was not her boyfriend. This is strange, but I think I allowed her to lie to me. I purposely never called her on it. I knew she was lying, but I think I felt as though I had no right to out her. And I hate to say that because it's really not like me at all. But, it's true.
So, as we sat there watching the other kids dance and laugh, and as I'm listening to her whisper in my ear that she swears he just looked at her, a slow song begins to play in the gym. Boys and girls start to pair up with stars in their eyes and sheepish grins on their faces. And none other than Troy Bolton himself begins to walk toward the bleachers. To walk toward us.
I remember feeling Cleo's nails digging into the underside of my arm, doing everything physically possible to keep herself from wiggling and giggling, but what happened next was certainly NOT on my to-do list that day.
Crawford asked ME to dance.
Now, I know it would make this story much more exciting if, at this point, I started to spin a tale worthy of Stephen King himself. I know it would be so much more interesting if I said that I really was naive that night and assumed he asked me to dance for any other reason than to simply piss Cleo the fuck off, but I did know.
Regardless, the emotions that were racing through my subjugated little head at that moment were making me sweat. I waffled between wishing I could allow myself to be naively starry-eyed and wanting to high-five him right there in front of her.
Of course I said yes.
And I remember him being such a gentleman. And good god could that boy smile.
I can't even begin to imagine how tiny I was out there with all those beautiful high school kids, with their make-up and their hair bows and their trendy clothes, most of them actually dancing with their boyfriend/girlfriend, and there I was. An insignificant, stubby little 6th grader dancing with Troy Bolton.
It was at that moment that It really dawned on me how ill-regarded Cleo really was among these kids. As we danced, I remember all the other kids around us on the dance floor slapping us on the back and laughing and high-fiving.
But I didn't feel used. Maybe I should have? No one was being mean to me. They were being mean to her. They weren't making fun of me. They were making fun of her. And up until that moment, for as long as I knew her, I had NEVER experienced anyone calling her out, telling her she was full of shit, letting her know this pointedly that she was NOT who she thought she was. And as I danced with this boy, for the length of the entire song, as I basked in the revelry of simply being there, I also basked in the realization that that bitch just got taken down a notch.
In closing, even though I'd never really known him or spoken to him or spent any time with him after this, I'd like to say that he was a consummate gentleman. And regardless of his intentions, regardless of whether or not he even remembers this, my life was changed in an ever so small, but significant, way that night. So, thank you, Crawford. That was pretty fucking awesome. And I'd bet anyone a million bucks you're still pretty beyond all reason.
As for Cleo, she grew up to have her very own page on Mr. Skin and tries to pass herself off as 30 years old. Good job, girl. Good job. But you aren't foolin' me. Your tits are fake and you're pushin' 40. And New Kids On The Block didn't write that song just for you. I asked them myself. And they asked me to dance.
January 15, 2011
(My junior high band director used to tell me it was my "verbal vomit," but I prefer brain sludge. It's less guttural and undigested.)
1. Does anyone actually cook with capers? I bought a jar for a recipe once. I didn't know what they were. They looked like LeSeur English Peas. I opened the jar and smelled them and thought I was going to puke. I threw the whole jar in the trash.
2. Am I the only one who sees red when told by Sarge that "everything's gonna be okay?" Because he does this thing. Let me see if I can explain. Let's say I'm pissed off. You know, ROYALLY pissed off. Well, when I get pissed off, things sort of get ugly in a "you wouldn't like me when I'm angry" type of way. It's not as bad as when I was a kid. That was........doctor bad. But I'm okay now. Except when Sarge pats me on the head, or tries to hug me in an intentionally patronizing way, and says "It's gonna be okay." Then (and he knows to tighten his hug grip at this point) all I wanna do is kick him in his patronizing GRILL. Fortunately, I have mellowed in my old age, so it's just kind of a running joke now.....but one day I'm really gonna kick him in the grill just to say I did it.
3. Set up- Jake's eating ramen
Me- "Could you please not slurp? It's disgusting."
Jake- "That's why I don't do it when chicks are around."
Me- "Then what the fuck am I?"
Jake- "You're Mom. You don't count."
Me- *grumbles something about child abuse*
Jake- "How am I supposed to eat ramen then, if I can't slurp?"
Me- "In another room."
Jake- *grumbles something about matricide*
January 14, 2011
He wears long hair and an earring
Marilyn Manson on his chest.
Jeans with tears and tags and holes
....and thinks Gramma is the best.
He plays guitar with fury,
Rocks Green Day like a pro.
Pacino/Fox are on his walls.
.....yet Disney makes him glow.
He plays his Call of Duty
with anger like a Hun.
But runs to play with 10-year-olds
......and his new Nerf gun.
He jokes that Dad is gray,
Spits cheap shots like a snake.
But when Dad has to go play Sarge,
......he turns back to Baby Jake.
This is me having nothing whatsoever to talk about.
Seriously, there is absolutely nothing.
Sarge was supposed to go out of town today, but his flight got canceled. I was going to whine about him leaving for 2 weeks, but now I can't.
Sooo....maybe I'll go poke the kids with a stick so they'll do something funny?
Oh! I almost forgot. My electric bill was $420 this month. I've never seen anything like it. It seems that setting your thermostat at 76 degrees during the coldest winter EVER in the history of Fayetteville, North Carolina is probably not a good idea. Go figure.
Oh! Another super exciting development. We finally got a closing date for our mortgage refinance thingy. That's wicked cool. You know, lower interest rates always make me hot.
Soooo.....I suppose in lieu of my normal wacky tacky sardonic diatribe, I'll just let Art Garfunkel do the talking.
My birth certificate says I was born on January 6, 1977 at 2:13 in the morning. And my oldest child weighed 2 pounds 13 ounces when he was born. Today is my niece's birthday, who also shares my middle name.
Today is also Khalil Gibran's birthday. Everyone knows that if you wanna be hipster, you gotta have a copy of The Prophet in your back pocket. Whether or not he was batshit crazy is up for debate.
Well, 14 years ago. Ha! Gotcha, didn't I?
Yeah, that was a cheap shot. Sorry.
As babies go, Andrew was pure hell. If he had any other mother, he would have had a target on his face reading "Shake Me!"
I remember being wheeled into the recovery room after the docs finished shoving my guts back in my belly, and I heard this ear-splitting scream coming from outside my room and down the hallway. The scream kept coming closer and closer, cruelly jerking me from my personal morphine-induced Magical Mystery Tour. All of a sudden, a very flustered nurse burst (or so it seemed) through the door of my hospital room holding this wriggly, fat, red-faced, pissed off, slithering little pupa in her arms. She then plops him down right smartly in my lap and informs me that I "need to feed him or something."
Well, you can imagine my confusion after last giving birth to a 2-pound 13-ounce fetus and seeing him for the first time through the glass of an incubator, and having to beg to hold him, and now having this gigantic screaming thing of a baby lying in my lap demanding that I make with some boob action.
So, I did the only thing a mother can do. I made with the boob action. Every 2 hours around the clock for 6 months straight. I have fond memories of trying to make dinner while Sarge held him in his arms, rocking, walking, bouncing, talking, singing- and Andrew screamed the whole damn time. Andrew screamed in the car. Andrew screamed in the grocery store. Andrew screamed at Gramma's house. Andrew screamed in his bouncy chair. Andrew screamed in his high chair. Andrew screamed every second of every day that he did not have direct skin-to-skin contact with me. And only me.
I won't even get into all of the parenting book rule-breaking I did in the name of saving my sanity. And many people would argue that it was all for naught, anyway. My sanity was long gone before I ever even got knocked up the first time.
Back to my point. My point is that today, Andrew is 14 years old. I won't be ghetto tacky and bring up the fact that I'm still bitter at my obstetrician because he wouldn't induce me 2 days ago so I could get my tax deduction. In my defense, my due date was Christmas day.
And that still wasn't my point. My point is this. You can imagine my surprise that while looking for some pictures of my little Andrew to use in this blog post, I discovered that I have an inordinate number of pictures of Andrew sleeping. Perhaps he's making up for lost time? Perhaps screaming for 6 months straight wore him out for the next 14 years? Perhaps he's still got his nights and days mixed up? Perhaps he spends far too much time playing Call of Duty Black Ops?
Regardless, I'd like to present you with The Many Sleeping Faces of Stephen Andrew Davis, born January 2, 1997 at 6:32 AM, weighing 8 pounds 2 ounces, 21 inches long, after a C-section following 12 terror-filled (okay, I was sleeping for most of it) hours of labor.
So, Happy Birthday to the luckiest boy on Earth. You weren't born in my grandmother's generation, when you would have been given a bottle spiked with Benadryl and whiskey to shut you up. And you weren't born to a crack whore who would have shaken you senseless to shut you up. You were born to me. Who pretty much gave you whatever you wanted to shut you up, and then blamed your incessant screaming on your big brother, who clearly must have pinched you or stole your cookie. Now I'll spend the rest of my life giving your brother everything he wants in order to silence my guilt. And I'm still pissed I didn't get my tax deduction.
The End.