Warning: Pity Party and TMI

February 26, 2011

For my new readers who don't know, my husband has multiple sclerosis.  And he is on active duty in the US Army.  And he's gone right now.  He isn't deployed, and he isn't in combat or anything, but he is on temporary duty away from home.  I don't bitch about this often.  I don't even talk about  it often.  So, I figure I at least get a freebie every once in a while.  Today is my freebie.  So either read it, or move along.  Nothing to see here. 

His MS medication is taken in the form of a weekly intramuscular injection.  This is an 1-1/2 inch needle straight into the thigh muscle.  He's only been on this medication for 3 or 4 months, and he still has wicked side effects.  Flu symptoms, uncontrollable shaking, sweats, fatigue.

When he's home, I give him his shot, he's able to go straight to bed and sleep it off.  But since he's been gone, he's had to give himself his shots.  And it's killing him.  He hates it.  He's miserable.  And I can't help him.  I feel helpless.

He's been in the Army for 17 years.  He's still having to be an active duty soldier in a leadership position while suffering from the symptoms of his MS, and the side effects of his medication, all while being a husband and father.  And right now, he's alone.  And I'm alone.  He's dealing with his MS alone.  And I can't help him. 


So, I guess I'm just feeling sorry for myself right now.  Because Friday is his shot day.  And I've just been sitting here on my lazy ass all day long knowing that he's miserable, and there is absolutely nothing I can do.


On the bright side, I had a wicked conversation with a 15-year-old boy today about aunt flow.  Periods.  Menstruation.  The Red Tide.  Eve's Punishment.  That sort of thing.  It was pretty fucking hilarious, actually.


My kids have zero inhibition when it comes to asking me shit.  NONE.  ZERO SHAME.  No hesitation whatsoever.


So I get slammed with in-your-face questions like, "So, does it squirt like when you see someone's throat get slashed in a horror movie, or does it come out slow, or is it like the same way as pee?"

And, "How much comes out?  Can't you die from losing too much blood?"


And, "Do tampons hurt?"


And, "Why do you get cramps?"


And, "Why do you get bitchy?"


And, "Should I tell my girlfriend that I can tell when she's on the rag, or would that embarrass her?"


And, "So lemme get this straight.  The egg comes out of your ovary, goes down your fallopian tube, and sticks itself onto your uterus, right?  Soo..... draw me a diagram here.  What exactly happens next?"


Have I mentioned before that I have the most AWESOME. KIDS. EVER?


So, this has been my Saturday.  Sitting on the couch twiddling my thumbs because I'm worried about my husband.  And fielding a barrage of questions from totally shameless, unapologetic teenage boys about periods.


It's a fucking banner day at 666 Psycho Street today, folks.  Someone come help me suck down this bottle of cheap wine, puh-leeeeeeeze?

Does Your Spouse Read Your Blog?

February 24, 2011

Mine does.  Yep, that's right.  Sarge reads my blog.  (Heeeey BAYBAY!! I know yer there!)

And you know what's super strange?  I think it turns me on.  No, seriously.

Honestly, I don't know exactly how much he reads.  Hell, for all I know, he just clicks the link on his facebook wall just in the off chance that he'll be met with a gigantic pic of my tits.  You know, because guys think like that.  I'm sure, in his mind, it's perfectly logical and possible that one day, he will click on the link to my blog and there will be a picture of my tits.  Of course!  How is that not possible?

Pffffft!

Is that why you're here, my darlin' lover? You and I both know you don't need any more pictures of my fabulously fabulous boobies, so you MUST be reading my blog.  Am I right?

Perhaps you're making sure I don't say anything against OPSEC.  (That would be "operation security" for all of you non-GI-Joe types).

Perhaps you're making sure I don't tell anyone how totally mind-blowing you are in the sack.  Because that would just be embarrassing!

Perhaps you're making sure I don't unleash the fierce beef I have with the number of pairs of shoes you own.  Or the way you like to leave piles of your crap all over the house that you absolutely SWEAR you're going to "take care of" one day.

Perhaps you're worried I will tell people how you reach your foot over to touch mine when I crawl in the bed at night. 

Maybe you don't want me to say anything about the impressive amount of time you spend fixing your hair every morning, complete with the flashing of the supermodel pose in the mirror, and then saying shit like "You know I look good! Huh? Huh?! Am I right?  Hell yeah, I'm right!"

Yes. Of course you're right. 

Or, maybe it's the morning kissy you're worried I'll talk about.  All those mornings you think I'm asleep when you lean over to kiss me goodbye, sometimes I wake up right at the very end, just as your turning to walk away. 

No.  I'd never talk about those things!

But, regardless of the reason, I am glad you're here.  Even if I can't even keep your attention long enough for you to make it this far without boobs. 

It still totally turns me on.

That Wind Or The Real Wind?

February 20, 2011

I love the wind.  Don't you?

Okay, no.  I lied.  I actually hate the wind.  Really.  I hate it.

But more than that, I hate the cookie cutter wind.

The wind that "whips through the trees."

The wind that "stings the back of my throat."

The wind that "slaps me in the face."

And I understand if you feel that way, because those are some understandable metaphors.  Grossly tired, overused, banal.  But understandable.

8th grade.  At best. 

Does it make you feel alive to watch the same old fish that have lived in that pond for years?
Not me.  I want to create my own fish.  Fish with horns.  And maybe an elephant's trunk.  Or even boobs.

When I'm standing in the wind, covering my face with the hood of my sweatshirt, cursing the day it was ever fucking invented, cursing the wind's aunt with cancer and wishing a wretched death for it's first-born child, I say things like,

One day, Wind.  One day.  It's going to be just you and me.
You've emptied my bank account.
You've raped my dog.
You've stolen my damn underwear while I was still wearing them.
Now, I'm broke.
My dog needs therapy.
And I'm panty-less.
WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
I don't care about my fucking throat.
I don't care if you like running around slapping folks.
And I have no interest in the sick and twisted way you go about molesting trees. 
All I know is that you've hurt me.  I am hurt.
You refuse to stick around long enough to have an adult conversation about this. 
You flutter around like a fairy on crack, making people want to "dance with you."
They really don't know any better.
And they clearly don't understand that the lyrics to the "song" you're whistling describe the various ways you're planning on doing things like pulling their intestines out of their belly-button or....well...raping their dog.
So, you just keep right on fooling them, but you don't fool me.
I know what you're busy doing while they're singing with trite allegory from an out-of-print hymnal. 
And I want my damn money back.  And my panties.  And my poor dog's innocence. 
I'm not even going to give you the satisfaction of being called a "thief in the night."
I'm just going to call you a whore. 

That will be all.

Tongue-Tied And Twisted

February 18, 2011

Taking some inspiration from a toilet brush and a hair appointment, I'm going to talk a little about hangups today.  Hangups: You know, those seemingly irrational things that bug the piss out of you.

And I'm not going to explain the 'toilet brush and hair appointment' remark.  Because it's my blog, and I'll do what I want.  Plus, it makes me sound interesting to make vague associations...and junk. 

Strange people touching me- I don't mean just inappropriate groping.  I mean completely asexual situations.  Professional massages- Never had one, never will.  I do not want your nasty hands on me.  Go away.  Hair stylists at salons- I always wash my hair before I get a haircut so they won't wash it.  It creeps me out.  They are massaging my head with their hands.  Eewww.  Shaking hands with people I don't know- Nope, I'm not a germophobe, not at all.  I just don't want to shake your hand.  And if you aren't married to me or if you didn't squeeze me out of your hoo-hoo, you're only getting a one-armed hug.  And, of course, people who think it's perfectly okay to pick me up because I'm small- Right. Yeah, that's cool.  Just go ahead and spin me around while you're at it.  You know, cuz I represent the Lollipop Guild and all that....

Mani/Pedis- This is actually sort of justified.  I'm a medical transcriptionist.  At least once or twice a day I get the privilege of hearing about fungus and toenail removals due to manicures and/or pedicures.  The doctors describe this shit in detail.  And they use words like "ooze" and "serosanguinous drainage" and "odor" and "ulceration" and "gangrene."  Yeah.  I'll pass.

Makeup- Okay, this shit is just gross.  I have yet to find a brand of makeup that doesn't feel gross on my skin.  I've tried Almay, Neutrogena, Bare Minerals, Prescriptives, eh.  It's all gross.  After a couple of hours, I'm ready to pull a Poltergeist.  And I can't just wash it off, I have to get in the damn shower to get it off.  It's greasy, heavy, and it actually starts to sting my skin.  I have fairly mild melasma; I have adult acne; I have crow's feet.  And I don't fucking care.

Hairdryers and hair chemicals-  I have insanely thick hair, insanely thick.  And I hate the way my hair feels when it has been dyed, hairsprayed, and/or blow-dried.  It's gets 80s big, heavy, and witchy. My hair has natural wave, and when it's allowed to air-dry naturally, with no mousse or hairspray, it actually looks like the girls' hair on the commercials for hair products that promise to make your hair look.......like mine already looks naturally.  I use Suave shampoo and conditioner, a buck fifty a bottle, and that's it.  And I swear to all that is good and holy, if one of those over-painted hair stylists start comin' at me with their chemicals and instruments of hair torture, I will run, and she will not get a tip. 

Dog hair- Let's get one thing straight.  Basset hounds shed all fucking year round.  It doesn't matter how expensive or super-duper Westminster-approved the shampoo you use is.  Basset hounds are going to shed enough to stuff a fucking pillow in a matter of weeks.  So it almost seems like my own brand of personal torture, considering I  have such a dog hair hangup, to allow that little hairy hooker to continue to live in my house.  But I have.  For 11 goddamn years.  Because she's just so damn cute.  I've been known to vacuum multiple times a day.  I'd vacuum the furniture, and not with the hose attachment.  I'd put the whole fucking vacuum cleaner on the sofa because the attachment just wasn't doing it for me.   And I have an incredibly shameful admission (are you ready?).....I was secretly happy when she slipped a disk in her back because that meant I had a REAL reason (other than my personal hangup) to no longer allow her on the furniture.  I mean, you know, it was a $4000 reason....but....at least there isn't a fine white layer of dog hair on my couches anymore. 

Conformity-  I don't mean this in a fashionably rebellious sort of way.  I mean this in a pathologic sort of way.  It has grown into a completely reflexive attitude.  In the beginning, as a teenager, it was just fun.  Refusing to conform, pushing the boundaries.  But instead of emotionally maturing, it's gotten worse.  To the point where when I hear stories of kids getting suspended because they've dyed their hair pink, my first reaction is to say, "If I were her mother, I'd burn the motherfuckin' school down! You don't fucking tell my goddamn motherfuckin kid what to do, I will dig your grandmother's body up motherfucker!.....grumble, grumble, grumble......"  I remember getting a postcard in the mail from the county once, informing me that it was against the rules to have a basketball goal set up by the curb.  I was steaming fucking mad!  It was all Sarge could do to keep me from putting the basketball goal smack in the middle of the cul-de-sac.  Needless to say, the basketball goal now gets rolled back up next to the house when the kids are done playing.  Grumble.... grumble....grumble.... Stupid ass motherfuckers tryina tell me what to do....I'll show them a thingertoo!

Talking on the phone and pointless "chatting."  This one sort of makes me feel guilty sometimes.  I know my mom likes to talk on the phone more often than I do.  But I just don't seem to.....(and this is strange)....know how to do it.  Really.  I don't know how.  I used to talk incessantly as a kid, but as an adult, silence is golden.  If I'm at a social event, I really have to pay close attention to my body language and attitude.  I can very easily fall into "sarcastic mode" that I don't even try to hide.  Mainly because I have zero desire to talk to people I don't know.  And I don't even know how to fake it.  I really don't know how.

Them- "Hi! I've heard so much about you.  It's nice to finally meet you!"
Me- "Yeah." 
Them- "So you're Sarge's wife?"
Me- "Yeah."
Them- "So, Sarge tells me you guys homeschool.  That's so interesting!"
Me- "Yeah."

Speaking is for saying things that need to be said.  It is a necessary function of being human.  If I have nothing that needs to be said (like, "OH MY GOD.....I'M ON FUCKING FIRE!!!"), then don't expect a conversation.  Unless I'm blogging.  Or you can email me.  Then, I'll write you a book. 

Oh, one more convo (and this one really happened....like, yesterday)
Sarge- "Hey sexy, whatcha doin?"
Me- "Nuthin."
Sarge- "Miss you."
Me- Miss you, too"
(Crickets).....
Me- "Okay, well, I don't have anything to talk about, soooo......bye!"

Could you imagine having to put up with me? 

Groveling And Blushing

February 16, 2011

Oh jeez.  I'm so ashamed.  You must understand, I get sidetracked sometimes.  With the utter insanity that is my life (read: sitting on the couch watching the ID channel), sometimes things get....forgotten.  And so it is with a very low-hanging head that I must apologize to Ms. SarcasmInAction over at Musings of a Sarcastic Mind for, what amounts to, completely fucking ignoring her.  I have no excuses, but please rest assured it was not on purpose.  I heart you, and your blog, and your uber sexy girl crush on Susanna Hoffs.

You see, she apparently likes me so much that she gave me an award.  She wrote some incredibly nice things about me on her blog and gave me an award.  And then life happened, and I forgot.

But then today, a new friend (read: virtual blogger friend because I have no social skills in real life), also gave me an award....and then I remembered....and now I feel like those little crusty pieces of dog shit that get stuck in the grooves of your tennis shoe and no matter how much you scrape your shoe in the grass, you can't get it out.  That's what I feel like. 

So, I clickety clicked my little self over to Mollie's crib at OK In UK and read this:

"Aimee @ Pleasantly Demented Bruisingly beautiful, a sledgehammer in a rosebush."

And I'm like, "WOW."

You know?

I mean, Sarge totally lost his man card this morning by facebook singing "You Are My Sunshine" to me on my facebook wall, and that was absolutely heart-melting (although I did inform him that someone was probably putting Prozac in his soda), but THIS?  THIS?  Sledgehammer in a rosebush?  I'm just beside myself.

So, I'm officially groveling at the feet of SarcasmInAction, begging for her forgiveness even though I clearly don't deserve it.  And I'm totally blushing at Mollie.  Both of you guys rock.

Now, getting down to business.  Apparently, in the world of blog awards, you don't get shit for free.  There must be some payment.  But, curiously enough, the rules seem to morph in much the same way a secret does when playing the "telephone" game in 1st grade.  That being the case, I'm gonna pick and choose to my liking.  Of course.

As far as I can tell, it goes something like this.  In order to officially claim this:

I must first thank the person who gave it to me.  I think I've groveled, gushed, thanked, and embarrased myself sufficiently.  No?

Secondly, I must tell secrets.  Seven of them, by my count.  Hmmmm.....deep breath....okay.

1.  I have a mole on a part of my body that only my mother, who has changed my diapers, and my husband, who has not changed my diapers....yet...., know about.  They like to joke about it.  Together.  Like, they laugh at my mole and high-five each other.  It's pretty much just as creepy as it sounds.

2.  I'm an exhibitionist drunk.  You know, some people are angry drunks, some people pass out.....well, I take my clothes off.  And I don't care who is around.  Dudes, chicks, parents, grandparents.  Doesn't matter.  I get my drank on and some shit's coming OFF.  Needless to say, I don't drink.

3.  When my first kid was born, I thought he was ugly.  Yeah.  Most parents of ugly babies are absolutely clueless.  You know, they're showing off their little monkey-ass-looking monstrosity and you're thinking, "HOW can she not see that??"  I think it's a coping mechanism.  One that I clearly don't have.  To my credit, he was only 2 pounds and he looked like an fucking alien fetus....like....from the movie Alien.  Just to give you a visual, this is him at 5 weeks old (4 1/2 pounds):

Like I said, ALIEN FETUS.  

4.  If you were to meet me in real life, I am PAINFULLY shy.  It would probably take me 2 or 3 hours and several cocktails before I started talking, and by then, I'd be naked and you couldn't pay me to shut up.  I'm even like that with people I know but haven't seen in a while.  I went to lunch with a high school friend a while back, who I actually talk to several times a week in email, but when we went to lunch, I was stumbling all over my words, staring at my toes, and I felt like such a dick.  I have zero conversational skills. 

5.  When I brush my teeth, I count the brush strokes.  Left side bottom, left outer, left side top, right side bottom, right side outer, right side top, fronts, and tongue- each get 90 brush strokes.  I have done this for years. I have no idea where the number 90 came from.  I tried to round it up to 100, but it just didn't feel right. 

6.  I've smoked since I was 14....and I started smoking Camel nonfilters......(drum roll please).....to impress a boy.  OH GOD.  Yeah, it's true.

7.  Okay, this isn't a secret or anything, but whatevs.  Here's the only picture in all existence (that I know of) of Sarge and I in high school, about 4 months before we got married.  I was 16, he was 17.  Ummm....we dyed our hair together.  It was...like...super cute...and shit.  Oh, and I still have that dress in my closet, and it still fucking fits.

Robert Smith wannabe who sings "You Are My Sunshine"
on my facebook wall.

WHEW! Glad that's over with.  Now onto the 3rd requirement.  I must bestow this award upon other bloggers who I read instead of making my kids do their school work.  On Sarcasm's blog, she says 5.  On Mollie's blog, she says 15.  Yeah, 15 ain't happening.  I'm going with 5.  Excellent.

1.  I'm going to start out with a chick who totally rocks my world.  Ms. AbsolutelyPrimed at Over Developed, Under Exposed.  I'm almost positive that if she didn't live hundreds of miles away, she'd probably be one of the few females I actually call a friend.  Except I swear I saw spinach on that heart-shaped pizza she made.  Sorry girl, that's just naisty (<---that's how you say 'nasty' in Alabama).

2.  Rachel at Brighten The Path- This girl is a pillar of strength.  She beautiful, honest, and incredibly brave.  And I have no doubt we could down a few and talk about how school is absolutely a creation of Satan himself, among other things.

Okay, so I lied through my overbrushed teeth.  I'm only doing 2.  And I'll tell you why.  Because I'm fucking stingy, that's why.  And this is my blog and I can do what I want.  So suck it!

Oooooh....silly little bloggy things....Once again, supposed to be working....

JUST. F*CKING. WRONG

February 15, 2011

What's up FREAKS! Momma's gonna lighten the mood a little bit up in here.  It's starting to smell like incense and absinthe up in this mother fucker.


Yesterday
Jake- "Mom, come check out the new Marilyn Manson song I'm learning."

Me- "In a minute."

Jake (few minutes later)- "Now?"

Me- "I'm busy."

Jake- (couple hours later)- "MooooOOOooooM! You said!"

Me- "I'm working!"

Jake (couple hours later)- "Please, at least before you go to bed!!"

Me- "ZZZZZzzzzzzzz............"

Today

(Repeat above down to the "I'm working" part).

Jake (This time brings his guitar into the living room.  I am now a captive audience)- "Check it out, mom.  I decided I'm going to learn 'Turn The Page' for Gramma, so I can play it for her."  (Gramma is a Bob Seger stalker, by the way).

~~~~~Momma listens to his rendition of 'Turn The Page' ~~~~~~~~~

Me- "Wow, Jake! That was EXCELLENT!" (Typical Mom-thinks-her-kid-is-a-fucking-genius type stuff).

Jake- "See! When I want you to listen to a song I like, you blow me off all day!  When I play a song YOU like, your VAGINA explodes!"

Me- "Turn around. Walk away. NOW."

Jake- "Yes ma'am......"

I Am Begging You. Help Me.

February 6, 2011

".....we all lie to our kids.  We lie outright.  We lie by omission.  We lie out of convenience.  And if you say you don't, you're lying." ~ Me.

OH GOD.

I need help.

Oh my friends....those I know....those I'd like to know....those who have the slightest interest in reading my bullshit.

I need help.

Parenting help.

I am in a quandary and I fear for my child's future soul, whatever love he may have for me, whatever respect, whatever memories of his childhood he will cherish, whatever of those things will carry him safely through this life during dark times when he cannot walk alone.  I am in a quandary.

Please help me.

My son is a musician.  And the music he makes through his guitar is absolutely electrifying.  I am so deeply proud of my child and his dedication, his talent, and his passion.

BUT.......

Recently he has begun doing something else.

He has begun to play his guitar.......

and sing.

And oh God.

Oh for the love of mother Mary and baby Jesus.


He can't fucking sing.

The poor boy can't even carry a tune in a Zip-Loc bag, stuffed in a purse, shoved in a bucket, and sat gingerly in a wagon with four wheels and a handle. 

He couldn't even carry a tune if it hopped on his back and said "Giddy up!"

WHAT......for the love of Miss Piggy on Broadway.....am I supposed to do?

Do I continue to encourage him?  Do I lie to him?  Do I tell him the uncensored truth in the nicest way possible?

Oh please, please, please help me not to melt the intricately beautiful, yet transperently fragile ice sculpture that is my relationship with my first born child.

I will be forever grateful for your wisdom.

As I currently have none.

Thank you.

Secrets We Keep

February 1, 2011

Everyone does it.  It doesn't matter how much we try to tout our honesty, virtue, or inherent goodness, we all lie to our kids.  We lie outright.  We lie by omission.  We lie out of convenience.  And if you say you don't, you're lying.  Thankfully, our kids outgrow many lies we tell and secrets we keep.  I say thankfully because keeping up that kind of ruse is exhausting.  Constantly pretending to be someone you're not just so your kids won't know you weren't a virgin when you got married can feel a little.....fake after a while.

At some point (hopefully) our kids all figure out the Santa Claus conspiracy, the Tooth Fairy trick, and that their face won't get stuck that way.

There are other lies, though.  Lies that seem....well, more important.  Or at least they have an actual function.  The virgin lie, for instance.  Even if it's a lie by omission, no one wants to discuss their sex life with their child, even if they ask (which they will).

And the 'smoking weed' lie.

And the 'failed algebra' lie.

And the 'Grandad isn't really your biological Grandad' lie. (I nipped that in the bud before it got out of hand, thankfully). 

And the 'basketball signups are already over' lie (just so you don't have to get up at 7 AM on Saturdays to go to the games).  Oh yes, I lied through my sinful little teeth on that one.

But it does make one wonder.  How much should our kids know about their parents?

Personally, I think it depends on the kid.  Some kids, just by virtue of their emotional maturity, can handle some information better than others.  Let me see if I can explain.

My oldest kid is my "emotionally mature" kid.  He's an old soul.  So much so that I used to call him that when he was a baby.  It was in his aura.  You could see it in his eyes.  He just had this thing about him that said, "I've been here before." He has an uncanny knack for being able to compartmentalize, process information, and see a situation for what it really is at lightening speed.  He's clearly been doing this "life" thing for more than 15 years. 

My youngest is the baby.  He's my new soul.  When you look at him, you get a sense that he's seeing and experiencing everything for the first time.  He takes nothing for granted the way an "old soul" would.  He turns things in his hands, looks at them at every angle.  He processes quietly, taking as long as he needs to, and then speaks when he's 100% certain of what he is going to say.  Everything is new to him, or so it seems.

So, obviously, each of these types of kids will processing information differently.  While my old soul will look at the information for exactly what it is right off the bat, my new soul just doesn't understand at all until he's had enough time to look at it, ask questions, feel it in his hands, see how it fits or doesn't fit into his life.

Because of this, I have told Jake some things that I have not yet told Andrew.  And yet I still have plenty of secrets left that are mine, and probably always will be.

For instance, I have never and probably will never be able to let them read any of my yearbooks.  You know, there are just some things they should never know.  (And thanks to my awesome HS friends, it's all spelled out in black and white all over my yearbooks, along with a used condom wrapper.) 

That being said, what I've discovered about teenagers and secrets is something I think is kinda neat.

Check this out- When you sit down with your kid and entrust a part of yourself to them, they feel important.  It has to be something real.  And you need to tell them it's real.  It has to be something important to you.  In other words, you have to be vulnerable in front of your teenage child.  Show them your humanity.  Show them your weakness.  And make them feel that they have been entrusted with something fragile that belongs only to his mother or father.  Obviously, what you tell them will depend on their age, their emotional maturity, and just the kind of person they are in general.

I see the look in their faces when I tell them a story about my childhood, especially when I preface it with, "Well, I wasn't going to tell you this, but....."  Or, "Don't ever let this leave these four walls, okay?" Or, "I've never told you this before, but I think you're ready to know...." 

And then, all of a sudden, as if by magic, you have constructed one more little connection between you and your child.  Just one more, a tiny one, but it's there.  And they may file that moment away in their little growing Rolodex of memories.  But one day they'll need it.  And it will be there.  If not the secret itself, but the moment you shared it.  

We all have plenty of secrets to share, and plenty to keep.  Try sharing one with your kid and watch their eyes get all sparkly.  It's really neat.