I'm really exhausted right now and I'd love to go to bed, but cheerleading practice went late and then when we got home at 8:30, my younger daughter told me her bathing suit was dirty. So Mommy needs to wash it. The children's summer camps were combined for this week - indoor and outdoor mixed all together, and my younger, being that she's been in the indoor camp, doesn't understand how to change into her bathing suit in an outdoor changing hut with a dirt floor without rubbing the bathing suit in said dirt. And the other bathing suit? Giant skid mark in it. Because I teach my children how to wipe their asses really well, apparently.
Cheerleading practice. Not for me. This was the girls' choice for their fall activity, which will also be their winter and spring activity. For $180 each, it needs to last through the whole fucking school year is what I think. We've done fall soccer, winter indoor soccer, spring soccer, ice skating lessons, swim lessons every summer, gymnastics and karate. These children should be the most well rounded athletes who are still in their single digit years ever. I bitch about it, but for real, I'm incredibly grateful that we live somewhere where my daughters have so many choices, and I'm even more grateful that The Ex and I have been able to provide this to them, in terms of the financial and emotional commitment. The emotional commitment would be because either he or I have volunteered to coach almost every freaking thing they've done. Plus the volunteer work I've done for the school and the PTA. And the non-profit board I'm on. Plus my career. Holy crap.
This year I have volunteered to coach the flag cheerleading team. Named so not because they are using flags, but because it's five and six year olds, and the football team for that age group (I assume, I haven't seen the practice because I'm so busy trying to get five and six year old girls to stop wiggling at the wrong times) is a flag football team. On the first night of practice, I had absolutely no intention of volunteering for squat, except to watch the practices from my brand new folding-packable chair. On the first night of practice that I had no intention of volunteering for, I heard the call for coaches and still resisted. That was, until my older daughter said, "Mommy, will you volunteer?" I thought, fuck. Why does she always want me to volunteer? And so, I volunteered.
If you know me, you know I'm not some do-good liberal freakshow. I'm working on not being the martyr and learning how to just tell people to kiss my pretty ass with the crazy tattoo on top of it. I really just want to sit around and watch my kids do shit while I think of weird stuff and laugh to myself. But my kids think it's great that Mommy volunteers, and so I volunteer. A lot of this has to do with the fact that my own parents were so uninvolved and unconcerned with my childhood and teenage years, other than to punish me. I couldn't drag my mom to anything involving my school and I don't recall if she ever met any of my teachers in middle school or high school. Her payback for that was me giving her the honor of meeting the entire school board in person right before they suspended me for six weeks. I was always one of those kids whose parents were conspicuously absent, or maybe not, but that's how it felt with the group of kids that I ran with. My mother's current husband (#3) has gotten a pretty good glimpse into her parenting skills and announces periodically that it's amazing to him that I'm even alive. I kind of have to agree with him. It is a fucking miracle that I am not only alive, but a productive, tax-paying, law-abiding and sober member of society. I'm pretty damn proud of myself. My father... could not have cared less about me, or at least, that's how it feels now. As long as he didn't have to give up more than two weekends a month and didn't have to pay extra child support, he didn't give a rat's ass. So I'm pretty proud of myself that I was as awesome of a daughter to him that I was. Eulogy, obituary and all.
I was moderately involved in activities and such in high school, because it was the best way to get out of being at home without getting into trouble. But I never did cheerleading. I'm not going to get into the psycho-social-racial makeup of where I grew up, but cheerleading was never an interest to me. I didn't even watch the cheerleaders at any of the sporting events I went to because I thought the whole thing was pretty dumb. This has not been lost on me now that I'm coaching this shit. Me coaching cheerleading is like asking Helen Keller to teach a paint-by-numbers class. Yeah, it's that bad. Thank God, I've got a 15 year old who is the assistant coach and she knows all of these routines and cheers, because it's a learn-as-you-go kind of thing with me.
The worst thing is that the cheerleading side of the athletic association is that it's really poorly organized. And when I say poorly organized, I mean like, it's as poorly organized as a small African or Asian country that suffers from a military coup every few years and allows the media in to take photos of all the eight year olds running around with AK's. Take race and corruption of the athletic association equation, and it's like New Orleans post-Katrina. Seriously. This wouldn't bother me if I was unorganized. But I'm a Type A personality, if there is any such thing. I would more or less categorize myself as an alpha female. And the woman running the show - not an alpha female. Which makes me want to kick her ass for being alive. Tonight uniforms were distributed. Can you say circle jerk? In fact, because I'm such a fabulous wordsmith, I'll up the ante. It was a uniform bukkake. Yep, I went there. Literally, the woman running the show was in the middle of all of these parents, throwing uniform parts and pieces about. I wanted to die. I wanted to grab the clipboard from her hands, bash her in the head with it, punch a couple of parents to serve as the examples of what can really happen when my anger management techniques go awry, and then line the rest of them up like convicts going to the chow hall for fried chicken night. Except there is no more fried chicken in the state prisons in Virginia because it caused too many problems. But I'm old school, so I could pretend. And then the uniforms would be issued out with military-like precision and if something doesn't work for your child, well then, it will be addressed in an orderly fashion.
But that's not the way the world works, because I don't run the world. And that's not the way the cheerleading team works, because I don't run the cheerleading team. I am a coach. I am learning how to lower my expectations with some people because they aren't me. I'm beginning to realize that it's not fair to them for me to go through life thinking that they are just like me. Maybe this incredibly disorganized mess is the absolute best that this woman can do. Maybe this is her A game. I'm trying to learn this and learn how not to feel superior, because I don't want to be that asshole anymore. I hope I left her at the house with The Ex. As for volunteering, I'll keep doing it for my kids. They enjoy it, they know that Mommy is super-involved in everything they do and takes an interest in everything they do. Maybe I'm just overcompensating for my childhood, but don't we all do that to some degree? I hope they grow up and laugh about all the crazy shit their mom did when they were little. And that will make it all worth my while.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Personal Ad Draft #1
Since I am the goddess of all the best personal ads that craigslist has to offer, I've been thinking about what my own personal ad might say one day. Kind of like how I wonder what my obituary might say someday. I hope my kids do as well by me as I did by my father. Anyway, personal ads. I'm totally not ready to date and I know this. I feel this. I'm enjoying myself too much right now just being alone. The dating thing is almost a little scary to me, because it's been a long time. It's been twelve years since I've been on the market, to be exact. Twelve years of getting used to someone and then retroactively deciding, oops, I don't really fucking like you. My other immediate concern is that I'll end up making another twelve year mistake, which would make me the dumbass. One epic failure is enough.
I peruse the personal ads on craigslist enough now that I know who the regulars are. These guys are either really picky or desperately desperate. They just keep coming back for more of the same, which I would bet is a whole lot of empty mailbox. To save myself time, I only look at the ads with pictures attached. Just yesterday, I saw a penis that was pretty much the size of my forearm. And hell yeah, I emailed the link to one of my freak ass girlfriends so we could giggle about it at work today. But then, I'll go check out the women's ads, of which hardly no pictures are attached. For the life of me, I cannot figure out why these people are using craigslist to hook up other than the fact that they are cheap bastards. If you want a date, go legit and pay a little money. You might get some quality. You might not, too, but your chances of quality are probably a little higher on a paid site than craigslist, for God's sake. If you want to get laid, go legit and pay a little money, because those sites exist too. They are called adultfriendfinder and alt.com. While you may not get quality with these sites, you may have more of a selection of some really trashy ass people. Who knows? The world is our oyster, waiting to be pried opened, sucked dry and then tossed in the garbage can. Or turned into a tabby foundation if you're in South Carolina. But I figure if I start working on mock personal ads now, by the time I'm legally divorced (about five months away) and really ready to hit the gene pool again (way more than five months away), I'll have the bomb ass personal ad and will therefore be un-fucking-irresistible, and will always have a full mailbox with lots of hot guys who look just like Brad Pitt aching to take me out for hibachi steak and cheap wine, but not so cheap that it's Boone's Farm.
So here goes (and keep in mind this is my first ever rough draft, I may be revising as we go along through the months):
Me: Well educated, divorced, attractive female in her mid-30's back on the market after a long and often dreadful hiatus. I'm even smarter than I am pretty with a witty sense of humor and have two children who live with me during the school year. Gainfully employed and able to retire on time. Largely debt free because I don't overspend and I think it's more important to be happy with what we've already got versus what we could have. Love to read, but only if it's as well written as the shit I write. Only some TV viewing, because I think the trash TV that I watch should only be high quality. Movies are good if they involve heavy weaponry and/or naked men. Naked men with rocket launchers or in mechanized artillery is a preferable genre. In pretty good shape, because I just shed 220 pounds of asshole in the last year or so, but not so thin that you can see my spleen in operation. I have some nice ass curves, so if you need to date a twig, good luck with that. Well groomed, well dressed and well spoken, as long as alcohol is not involved. Totally not 420 friendly because I get drug tested and I'm saving myself for retirement. Love to do horizontal yoga and exercises. Social drinker, but generally only around people I can trust because I'm a cheap and sleazy drunk. Not much in the cooking department, but that's okay, because I give a better blow job than I make meatloaf. A couple of discreet tattoos because we all make stupid mistakes in our younger twenties. I do my own yard work and can totally rock out my Makita and DeWalt power tools. I live my life by the maxims of "go hard or go home", and "bring your A game". Oh, yeah, and I talk mad trash.
You: Educated, with at least a bachelor's degree because I'm not putting anyone else through college that did not enter the world through my vagina. As attractive as me. That means your hair is cut short and your face sees a razor or clippers several times throughout the week. Divorced, with kids, because I have some baggage from my mother's first remarriage to a man who didn't understand the package deal he was getting. Good sense of humor, because you'll be around me, but not so insecure that we have to constantly try to one-up one another. Gainfully employed and able to retire on time and in decent shape, but won't lecture me about having a honeybun here or there. However, it will be a huge bonus for me if you're cut, though. No younger than 32 and no older than 42 because I'm too old to housebreak anyone and/or deal with really established bad habits. Alcoholics and drug addicts need not apply, unless you've been in recovery for at least a year, and even then, we'll see. If you are paying child support, do not be in arrears because I'm not paying for that, either. Felons and violent misdemeanants, move along, because we just won't see eye to eye. If you've had a DUI, I can deal with that as long as you've finished your SR-22. Military men and LE types are welcome, because you can probably handle me, but no home-grown militia men or neo-Nazis. On that same tip, racism is not appreciated here. Sports are okay, as long as you don't mind me doing what I'm going to do in an effort to distract you. Liberals, drivers of any type of Prius, ectomorphs and insecure jerk-offs who fart all the time, please be aware, I am not the woman for you.
Well, there it is. My first rough draft of my post-divorce personal ad. By the time I'm actually ready, I think I'll have a good product. VCU Adcenter, whatever.
I peruse the personal ads on craigslist enough now that I know who the regulars are. These guys are either really picky or desperately desperate. They just keep coming back for more of the same, which I would bet is a whole lot of empty mailbox. To save myself time, I only look at the ads with pictures attached. Just yesterday, I saw a penis that was pretty much the size of my forearm. And hell yeah, I emailed the link to one of my freak ass girlfriends so we could giggle about it at work today. But then, I'll go check out the women's ads, of which hardly no pictures are attached. For the life of me, I cannot figure out why these people are using craigslist to hook up other than the fact that they are cheap bastards. If you want a date, go legit and pay a little money. You might get some quality. You might not, too, but your chances of quality are probably a little higher on a paid site than craigslist, for God's sake. If you want to get laid, go legit and pay a little money, because those sites exist too. They are called adultfriendfinder and alt.com. While you may not get quality with these sites, you may have more of a selection of some really trashy ass people. Who knows? The world is our oyster, waiting to be pried opened, sucked dry and then tossed in the garbage can. Or turned into a tabby foundation if you're in South Carolina. But I figure if I start working on mock personal ads now, by the time I'm legally divorced (about five months away) and really ready to hit the gene pool again (way more than five months away), I'll have the bomb ass personal ad and will therefore be un-fucking-irresistible, and will always have a full mailbox with lots of hot guys who look just like Brad Pitt aching to take me out for hibachi steak and cheap wine, but not so cheap that it's Boone's Farm.
So here goes (and keep in mind this is my first ever rough draft, I may be revising as we go along through the months):
Me: Well educated, divorced, attractive female in her mid-30's back on the market after a long and often dreadful hiatus. I'm even smarter than I am pretty with a witty sense of humor and have two children who live with me during the school year. Gainfully employed and able to retire on time. Largely debt free because I don't overspend and I think it's more important to be happy with what we've already got versus what we could have. Love to read, but only if it's as well written as the shit I write. Only some TV viewing, because I think the trash TV that I watch should only be high quality. Movies are good if they involve heavy weaponry and/or naked men. Naked men with rocket launchers or in mechanized artillery is a preferable genre. In pretty good shape, because I just shed 220 pounds of asshole in the last year or so, but not so thin that you can see my spleen in operation. I have some nice ass curves, so if you need to date a twig, good luck with that. Well groomed, well dressed and well spoken, as long as alcohol is not involved. Totally not 420 friendly because I get drug tested and I'm saving myself for retirement. Love to do horizontal yoga and exercises. Social drinker, but generally only around people I can trust because I'm a cheap and sleazy drunk. Not much in the cooking department, but that's okay, because I give a better blow job than I make meatloaf. A couple of discreet tattoos because we all make stupid mistakes in our younger twenties. I do my own yard work and can totally rock out my Makita and DeWalt power tools. I live my life by the maxims of "go hard or go home", and "bring your A game". Oh, yeah, and I talk mad trash.
You: Educated, with at least a bachelor's degree because I'm not putting anyone else through college that did not enter the world through my vagina. As attractive as me. That means your hair is cut short and your face sees a razor or clippers several times throughout the week. Divorced, with kids, because I have some baggage from my mother's first remarriage to a man who didn't understand the package deal he was getting. Good sense of humor, because you'll be around me, but not so insecure that we have to constantly try to one-up one another. Gainfully employed and able to retire on time and in decent shape, but won't lecture me about having a honeybun here or there. However, it will be a huge bonus for me if you're cut, though. No younger than 32 and no older than 42 because I'm too old to housebreak anyone and/or deal with really established bad habits. Alcoholics and drug addicts need not apply, unless you've been in recovery for at least a year, and even then, we'll see. If you are paying child support, do not be in arrears because I'm not paying for that, either. Felons and violent misdemeanants, move along, because we just won't see eye to eye. If you've had a DUI, I can deal with that as long as you've finished your SR-22. Military men and LE types are welcome, because you can probably handle me, but no home-grown militia men or neo-Nazis. On that same tip, racism is not appreciated here. Sports are okay, as long as you don't mind me doing what I'm going to do in an effort to distract you. Liberals, drivers of any type of Prius, ectomorphs and insecure jerk-offs who fart all the time, please be aware, I am not the woman for you.
Well, there it is. My first rough draft of my post-divorce personal ad. By the time I'm actually ready, I think I'll have a good product. VCU Adcenter, whatever.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Pickup Trucks
When I was little, we lived in Chesterfield. After my parents got divorced and my mom remarried, we moved to Prince Edward County. I was going into the 4th grade, and I felt like I had just left the planet Earth and traveled to some far away planet where there was nothing. Everything was different in Prince Edward. The people, the personalities, the county, the schools. My mom remarried a guy she had gone to high school with, and he was a state trooper. He never really got over the fact that it was a package deal. Buy one, get her daughter, too. If I don't ever get remarried, it will probably be because of my baggage and scars from my mom's first remarriage.
We lived out in the country, as most people in Prince Edward do. My mom got divorced from him over 15 years ago and moved away, and now I have no reason to go back. No family, and I hated the stepfather and his inbred ass family so much that I never really made any lasting connections with them, other than to visit the local cemetary at the family Methodist church to try to figure out exactly where all of their inbred asses would eventually be planted. So no reason to go back. I roll back through periodically, every few years, just to see where I grew up and to see what's changed, what hasn't, and what probably never will change. I suspect that there are a few pockets of developed little country-suburbia neighbhoods out there now, but there was nothing but country back then. It was so country, yeah, like how country was it? It was so country that when we first moved, you only had to dial the last four numbers on the rotary phone to talk to someone if they were in the same first three digit exchange as you.
We had a pickup truck, and on Saturdays and Sundays when the weather was nice, we'd go riding around the county visiting and doing nothing. We'd pick up step-cousins and nieces and nephews and other kids along the way, to deliver here or there, and eventually there would be about six or seven kids piled in the back of an open pickup truck with a cooler full of Coors and maybe a few Milwaukee's Best that had been discovered in the old 1960's refrigerator down in our basement. This was back in the day before Coors Light hit Virginia, so it was just Coors in the yella cans. It's not yellow in the country, it's yella. As for the MB, those would be the beers that would get hot and cold and hot and cold because that fridge only worked sometimes, and that would be the beer that would get thrown in the cooler that you'd pawn off on one of the dumbass alcoholic neighbors when you pulled up in the yard to drop a kid off, pick another kid up and discuss who had just taken the pole position in the Martinsville race and who got arrested the night before at the local bar.
So we'd be rolling down 460 through the county, wind whipping everyone's hair into their faces and every now and then an arm would snake through the back sliding glass window of the truck cab, dropping an empty beer can in the bed of the truck, and motioning the kid closest to the cooler to reach in the cooler and pass a fresh one through. Sometimes it was my mom and stepdad in the truck, and sometimes I was with some other distantly related person, because everyone at that point was very distantly related in some kind of inbred Ozarks way. If the race wasn't blasting through the push button radio, then it would inevitably be some old ass country music, Kenny Rogers before his face got melted into his skull, Hank Williams, George Strait, Conway Twitty, Loretta Lynn, the like.
The six or seven kids in the back of the truck would ride along in harmony and middle school trash talking, impressing the younger kids, and then the scheming would begin. Because there would undoubtedly be one or two bad kids within that group. I am of the opinion that any time you have four or more kids together, one of them will be the bad kid. I don't care how wonderful little Skippy's manners are, he's the same kid who just two weeks ago pulled open the underwear drawer of his best friend's mother and jerked off into it. So there would always be one or two bad kids in the back of that pickup truck, irregardless of whose truck it was and irregardless of which kids were in the back of it. Quiet discussion would take place about how a beer or two could be consumed by those kids without the adults knowing, and which other kids were the diversionary crew, and which kid would be the lookout. The lookout was always picked because they were the next baddest, the bad kid in training. This is the kid least likely to tell, and the kid had personality enough that could either bully or manipulate the rest into not telling. It helped if the lookout kid had some dirt on another non-bad kid in the back of the truck, too, because then the rest of us would feel cowed into going along so that one non-bad kid who had done something moderately stupid wouldn't get in trouble. Since the wind was whipping us at about 45 to 50 miles an hour, and some old ass country music was blasting and the grown-ups were half ripped at this point, having consumed about a 12 pack or so, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure this was going to be pretty easy.
Here's how it always happened. Wait until a fresh one is passed through the window to the driver, and check to see what the passenger is doing. Just for good measure, pass a fresh one into them, too. Be prepared for the passer of fresh beers to be complimented on being such a well-mannered young man or young woman, and at least yo' mama taught you right. At this point, the cooler is slid around ever so slightly so that the one or two bad kids can slouch all the way down under the window so that their heads can't be seen in the rearview mirror, if there was one. If there was no rearview mirror, you actually had to slide a little lower so that just the very tip-top of your head could be seen in the event that the driver or passenger turned around to make sure all of the kids were still in the back of the truck. After the slouching positions had been taken, the lookout kid would very surreptiously pop open the top to the cooler and take inventory. You never drank the Coors. You only took the shit beer because that's what wouldn't be missed and someone could always claim the can bounced out of the back of the truck should a can accounting ever occur. It didn't dawn on any of us that a can accounting would never occur because the adults in the front were generally half-shitfaced and they didn't really care, as long as a fresh one got passed over when the arm reached out the window and made a grabbing motion. The lookout would dig out a Beast, and pass it to a good kid to open, because the lookout could be seen from the rearview mirror because they were sitting on the tire well. And, if you got a good kid to pop the top, now you've sucked them in and they really can't tell. They have been drawn into the conspiracy. So the top is popped and it's passed to the one or two slouchers, who guzzle this horse piss tasting beer whilst trying not to squench their faces up, because, really, it did taste like horse piss. But you lose face if you squench your face up. You've got take it like a 12 year old because that will give you bragging rights on the bus the next school day. So the beer will be passed back and forth if it's two kids, or alternately guzzled and nursed if it's one kid. The lookout kid is watching, the rest of us are watching and trying not be noticeably impressed, but still kind of thinking about how cool it would be to be the bad kid. How cool it would be to have those bragging rights the the bus.
I only write this because I think a lot about the experiences that my children will never have in life, experiences such as this. First, allowing kids under the age of 16 to ride in the back of an open pickup truck has been (rightfully so) outlawed in the state. Second, I don't generally drink around my kids, and besides, nowadays if you get caught drunk driving with your children you don't just get hemmed up in a DUI, but you also face felony child neglect charges. My children will never know what it's like to roll down a highway at 50 or so miles an hour in the back of an open pickup driven by some half drunk asshole, while the wind swirls your hair around your face and you watch single wide trailers and shitty little hardscrabble farms fly by. They will never know what it's like to learn how to drive for the first time on a tractor sitting on a feed bag with wood blocks tied to the pedals because you're only in 6th grade. They will never know what it's like to drag your tired ass out of bed at 11:30 at night the day before exams to get the cows in because they broke through that section of fence that never got repaired. They will probably never know that the best night crawlers come from the pig pen. They will never know the unending hell of feeding a woodstove and keeping the woodbox full. They will probably be some part of a larger kid-conspiracy that involves drinking beer, but it will most likely never be in the back of a pickup truck. I am doing the best I can by my children, and providing them the best life I possibly can here in suburbia, but sometimes... sometimes... I wish they could have bits and pieces of my childhood.
We lived out in the country, as most people in Prince Edward do. My mom got divorced from him over 15 years ago and moved away, and now I have no reason to go back. No family, and I hated the stepfather and his inbred ass family so much that I never really made any lasting connections with them, other than to visit the local cemetary at the family Methodist church to try to figure out exactly where all of their inbred asses would eventually be planted. So no reason to go back. I roll back through periodically, every few years, just to see where I grew up and to see what's changed, what hasn't, and what probably never will change. I suspect that there are a few pockets of developed little country-suburbia neighbhoods out there now, but there was nothing but country back then. It was so country, yeah, like how country was it? It was so country that when we first moved, you only had to dial the last four numbers on the rotary phone to talk to someone if they were in the same first three digit exchange as you.
We had a pickup truck, and on Saturdays and Sundays when the weather was nice, we'd go riding around the county visiting and doing nothing. We'd pick up step-cousins and nieces and nephews and other kids along the way, to deliver here or there, and eventually there would be about six or seven kids piled in the back of an open pickup truck with a cooler full of Coors and maybe a few Milwaukee's Best that had been discovered in the old 1960's refrigerator down in our basement. This was back in the day before Coors Light hit Virginia, so it was just Coors in the yella cans. It's not yellow in the country, it's yella. As for the MB, those would be the beers that would get hot and cold and hot and cold because that fridge only worked sometimes, and that would be the beer that would get thrown in the cooler that you'd pawn off on one of the dumbass alcoholic neighbors when you pulled up in the yard to drop a kid off, pick another kid up and discuss who had just taken the pole position in the Martinsville race and who got arrested the night before at the local bar.
So we'd be rolling down 460 through the county, wind whipping everyone's hair into their faces and every now and then an arm would snake through the back sliding glass window of the truck cab, dropping an empty beer can in the bed of the truck, and motioning the kid closest to the cooler to reach in the cooler and pass a fresh one through. Sometimes it was my mom and stepdad in the truck, and sometimes I was with some other distantly related person, because everyone at that point was very distantly related in some kind of inbred Ozarks way. If the race wasn't blasting through the push button radio, then it would inevitably be some old ass country music, Kenny Rogers before his face got melted into his skull, Hank Williams, George Strait, Conway Twitty, Loretta Lynn, the like.
The six or seven kids in the back of the truck would ride along in harmony and middle school trash talking, impressing the younger kids, and then the scheming would begin. Because there would undoubtedly be one or two bad kids within that group. I am of the opinion that any time you have four or more kids together, one of them will be the bad kid. I don't care how wonderful little Skippy's manners are, he's the same kid who just two weeks ago pulled open the underwear drawer of his best friend's mother and jerked off into it. So there would always be one or two bad kids in the back of that pickup truck, irregardless of whose truck it was and irregardless of which kids were in the back of it. Quiet discussion would take place about how a beer or two could be consumed by those kids without the adults knowing, and which other kids were the diversionary crew, and which kid would be the lookout. The lookout was always picked because they were the next baddest, the bad kid in training. This is the kid least likely to tell, and the kid had personality enough that could either bully or manipulate the rest into not telling. It helped if the lookout kid had some dirt on another non-bad kid in the back of the truck, too, because then the rest of us would feel cowed into going along so that one non-bad kid who had done something moderately stupid wouldn't get in trouble. Since the wind was whipping us at about 45 to 50 miles an hour, and some old ass country music was blasting and the grown-ups were half ripped at this point, having consumed about a 12 pack or so, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure this was going to be pretty easy.
Here's how it always happened. Wait until a fresh one is passed through the window to the driver, and check to see what the passenger is doing. Just for good measure, pass a fresh one into them, too. Be prepared for the passer of fresh beers to be complimented on being such a well-mannered young man or young woman, and at least yo' mama taught you right. At this point, the cooler is slid around ever so slightly so that the one or two bad kids can slouch all the way down under the window so that their heads can't be seen in the rearview mirror, if there was one. If there was no rearview mirror, you actually had to slide a little lower so that just the very tip-top of your head could be seen in the event that the driver or passenger turned around to make sure all of the kids were still in the back of the truck. After the slouching positions had been taken, the lookout kid would very surreptiously pop open the top to the cooler and take inventory. You never drank the Coors. You only took the shit beer because that's what wouldn't be missed and someone could always claim the can bounced out of the back of the truck should a can accounting ever occur. It didn't dawn on any of us that a can accounting would never occur because the adults in the front were generally half-shitfaced and they didn't really care, as long as a fresh one got passed over when the arm reached out the window and made a grabbing motion. The lookout would dig out a Beast, and pass it to a good kid to open, because the lookout could be seen from the rearview mirror because they were sitting on the tire well. And, if you got a good kid to pop the top, now you've sucked them in and they really can't tell. They have been drawn into the conspiracy. So the top is popped and it's passed to the one or two slouchers, who guzzle this horse piss tasting beer whilst trying not to squench their faces up, because, really, it did taste like horse piss. But you lose face if you squench your face up. You've got take it like a 12 year old because that will give you bragging rights on the bus the next school day. So the beer will be passed back and forth if it's two kids, or alternately guzzled and nursed if it's one kid. The lookout kid is watching, the rest of us are watching and trying not be noticeably impressed, but still kind of thinking about how cool it would be to be the bad kid. How cool it would be to have those bragging rights the the bus.
I only write this because I think a lot about the experiences that my children will never have in life, experiences such as this. First, allowing kids under the age of 16 to ride in the back of an open pickup truck has been (rightfully so) outlawed in the state. Second, I don't generally drink around my kids, and besides, nowadays if you get caught drunk driving with your children you don't just get hemmed up in a DUI, but you also face felony child neglect charges. My children will never know what it's like to roll down a highway at 50 or so miles an hour in the back of an open pickup driven by some half drunk asshole, while the wind swirls your hair around your face and you watch single wide trailers and shitty little hardscrabble farms fly by. They will never know what it's like to learn how to drive for the first time on a tractor sitting on a feed bag with wood blocks tied to the pedals because you're only in 6th grade. They will never know what it's like to drag your tired ass out of bed at 11:30 at night the day before exams to get the cows in because they broke through that section of fence that never got repaired. They will probably never know that the best night crawlers come from the pig pen. They will never know the unending hell of feeding a woodstove and keeping the woodbox full. They will probably be some part of a larger kid-conspiracy that involves drinking beer, but it will most likely never be in the back of a pickup truck. I am doing the best I can by my children, and providing them the best life I possibly can here in suburbia, but sometimes... sometimes... I wish they could have bits and pieces of my childhood.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Head Lice and Skid Marks
Our outdoor day summer camp experience is complete. Head lice have determined that my older daughter's clean blond hair is a great place to ride the wave into elementary school. Ha! Caught your little asses before that could even happen, motherfuckers.
It started Thursday morning, though not with the hair, but with an ear. She woke up a little whiny and said her ear hurt. The child's almost eight, so I asked if she wanted to go to the doctor or not. I know that sounds a little too democratic-parenting bullshit to some, but for real, it's her ear. She'll let me know if it starts to get out of hand. She said no, let's just wait and see. I was down with that, because I had a dentist appointment scheduled for the younger daughter and I was already going to be late for work, but I didn't want to be dentist appointment AND doctor appointment late. Thursday night I asked about her ear, she says it's fine. But her head itches in this one spot. Hmmmm, I sure hope that's not lice. But it can't be. She washes her hair everyday, specifically so she won't get bugs in her hair.
Our daycare had a lice outbreak a few years ago, five years ago to be exact. I remember this because it was shortly after the younger daughter had been born and I had just returned to the SHITTIEST job in the whole entire world from my maternity leave. Seriously, it was a horrible job and I hated everyone there and I hated myself for having to go there every day. Anyway, our daycare owner, who could also be called the Daycare Nazi, like the Soup Nazi, declared that any child who got lice would not be admitted into her facility until the parent had a doctor's note that the lice had been treated and were eliminated. Obviously, you see where I got the Soup Nazi reference from. There were daycare workers stationed at the front door every day checking each child's hair before entree was granted. If your child had lice, well then, NO DAYCARE FOR YOU! I used to imagine her saying that with a Russian accent like the Soup Nazi.
I immediately spazzed out, because I had just taken three months off from work on vacation leave. I didn't want to burn up any more vacation time, because I would need that to call in sick to go on job interviews because did I mention this was the shittiest job ever? So I went old school on my older daughter. I used the old country ass/prison trick of rinsing her hair with vinegar every night in the bathtub, because this was what the prison system used when hosing down all of the convicts coming in from the local jails. Worked for them for decades before they switched to lye shampoo. Yes, the child was stinking horribly for about two weeks, but no lice. Mommy had prevailed. Take that, you dirty lice.
But back to the story at hand. She's scratching a little bit on Thursday night, but her ear feels all right. Okay, maybe this is just something that's psychosomatic about being back with me after spending a summer with her father whom I am pretty sure just let her do whatever in the hell she wanted. Friday morning, her ear hurts again and she agrees that we should probably go to the doctor. She's asymptomatic for an ear infection, but she always was. And her head still itches, same place. So MommyKemosabe has a little look-see, and honestly, I didn't know what in the hell I was looking for. I didn't see much, other than three or four white flakes that I assume is dry skin from all the scratching. We'll have the doctor look at that, too.
Off to the doctor's office. Swimmer's ear and a middle ear infection. Glad as fuck I caught that before the weekend, because The Ex would have been miserable had it gotten worse, since this is his weekend. I was actually more relieved for my daughter, because screw him. And yes, we have nits. Lovely. I guess nits are baby unhatched lice. I didn't ask because it was gross either way. According to the doctor, lice like clean, light colored hair the best. Who knew? I guess I can stop strong-arming her into washing her hair every day and just go for every two or three days like she really wants to do anyway. I will continue to insist that she at least rinse her ass off every day though, preferably with the soap that I have kindly placed in the shower for that purpose. Off to the pharmacy to get the prescriptions filled, because apparently lice have become resistant to the over-the-counter treatments. Ewwwwww. Or this is just part of a larger conspiracy of the drug companies to get us to buy their shit. Whatever, I don't care at this point. The good news is that it's not a full-blown infestation, it's localized to that one spot. Thank God. And the doctor gave me refills in case the younger daughter gets it. Or in case I get it. What??? Uhhh, what the fuck are you talking about, in case I get it? Oh, hell no. Hell no. Mommy will not get lice. That would totally mess up my chi. Sorry, but quiet time with my vibrator will just not feel the same if I have head lice. It would be like that time I broke my wrist and had a hard cast. I refused to have any kind of sexual relations for the entire duration of wearing said cast because who has sex with a cast on? Seriously, who does that?
My older daughter was quite excited by all of lice-n-nits drama. As I was running her over to summer camp, I cautioned her that this is really something we should just keep to ourselves. Let's not tell any of your friends at camp, because they might make fun. When she asked how they might make fun, I felt this immediate sense of relief, as this was my biggest clue yet that my daughter is not a mean girl. I had to explain what making fun of someone was, and how badly she would feel if someone made fun of her because of this. She asked about telling her camp counselor, and I was like, noooo, this is something we just want to keep in the family. But you can call Nannie and Popeye and tell them if you'd like. I felt absolutely no concern about taking her to summer camp with an active case of head lice. That's where she got them at, so let's just take them back one last day for a little visit. We'll have this knocked out before she returns to the Daycare Nazi for before and after school care, and I will know I narrowly slipped through the net and got one over.
As for skid marks, I don't have much to say about that, other than exactly how old does a child have to be before they actually begin to apply the toilet paper directly to their ass instead of just waving it around down there? Really, it just made for a better title.
It started Thursday morning, though not with the hair, but with an ear. She woke up a little whiny and said her ear hurt. The child's almost eight, so I asked if she wanted to go to the doctor or not. I know that sounds a little too democratic-parenting bullshit to some, but for real, it's her ear. She'll let me know if it starts to get out of hand. She said no, let's just wait and see. I was down with that, because I had a dentist appointment scheduled for the younger daughter and I was already going to be late for work, but I didn't want to be dentist appointment AND doctor appointment late. Thursday night I asked about her ear, she says it's fine. But her head itches in this one spot. Hmmmm, I sure hope that's not lice. But it can't be. She washes her hair everyday, specifically so she won't get bugs in her hair.
Our daycare had a lice outbreak a few years ago, five years ago to be exact. I remember this because it was shortly after the younger daughter had been born and I had just returned to the SHITTIEST job in the whole entire world from my maternity leave. Seriously, it was a horrible job and I hated everyone there and I hated myself for having to go there every day. Anyway, our daycare owner, who could also be called the Daycare Nazi, like the Soup Nazi, declared that any child who got lice would not be admitted into her facility until the parent had a doctor's note that the lice had been treated and were eliminated. Obviously, you see where I got the Soup Nazi reference from. There were daycare workers stationed at the front door every day checking each child's hair before entree was granted. If your child had lice, well then, NO DAYCARE FOR YOU! I used to imagine her saying that with a Russian accent like the Soup Nazi.
I immediately spazzed out, because I had just taken three months off from work on vacation leave. I didn't want to burn up any more vacation time, because I would need that to call in sick to go on job interviews because did I mention this was the shittiest job ever? So I went old school on my older daughter. I used the old country ass/prison trick of rinsing her hair with vinegar every night in the bathtub, because this was what the prison system used when hosing down all of the convicts coming in from the local jails. Worked for them for decades before they switched to lye shampoo. Yes, the child was stinking horribly for about two weeks, but no lice. Mommy had prevailed. Take that, you dirty lice.
But back to the story at hand. She's scratching a little bit on Thursday night, but her ear feels all right. Okay, maybe this is just something that's psychosomatic about being back with me after spending a summer with her father whom I am pretty sure just let her do whatever in the hell she wanted. Friday morning, her ear hurts again and she agrees that we should probably go to the doctor. She's asymptomatic for an ear infection, but she always was. And her head still itches, same place. So MommyKemosabe has a little look-see, and honestly, I didn't know what in the hell I was looking for. I didn't see much, other than three or four white flakes that I assume is dry skin from all the scratching. We'll have the doctor look at that, too.
Off to the doctor's office. Swimmer's ear and a middle ear infection. Glad as fuck I caught that before the weekend, because The Ex would have been miserable had it gotten worse, since this is his weekend. I was actually more relieved for my daughter, because screw him. And yes, we have nits. Lovely. I guess nits are baby unhatched lice. I didn't ask because it was gross either way. According to the doctor, lice like clean, light colored hair the best. Who knew? I guess I can stop strong-arming her into washing her hair every day and just go for every two or three days like she really wants to do anyway. I will continue to insist that she at least rinse her ass off every day though, preferably with the soap that I have kindly placed in the shower for that purpose. Off to the pharmacy to get the prescriptions filled, because apparently lice have become resistant to the over-the-counter treatments. Ewwwwww. Or this is just part of a larger conspiracy of the drug companies to get us to buy their shit. Whatever, I don't care at this point. The good news is that it's not a full-blown infestation, it's localized to that one spot. Thank God. And the doctor gave me refills in case the younger daughter gets it. Or in case I get it. What??? Uhhh, what the fuck are you talking about, in case I get it? Oh, hell no. Hell no. Mommy will not get lice. That would totally mess up my chi. Sorry, but quiet time with my vibrator will just not feel the same if I have head lice. It would be like that time I broke my wrist and had a hard cast. I refused to have any kind of sexual relations for the entire duration of wearing said cast because who has sex with a cast on? Seriously, who does that?
My older daughter was quite excited by all of lice-n-nits drama. As I was running her over to summer camp, I cautioned her that this is really something we should just keep to ourselves. Let's not tell any of your friends at camp, because they might make fun. When she asked how they might make fun, I felt this immediate sense of relief, as this was my biggest clue yet that my daughter is not a mean girl. I had to explain what making fun of someone was, and how badly she would feel if someone made fun of her because of this. She asked about telling her camp counselor, and I was like, noooo, this is something we just want to keep in the family. But you can call Nannie and Popeye and tell them if you'd like. I felt absolutely no concern about taking her to summer camp with an active case of head lice. That's where she got them at, so let's just take them back one last day for a little visit. We'll have this knocked out before she returns to the Daycare Nazi for before and after school care, and I will know I narrowly slipped through the net and got one over.
As for skid marks, I don't have much to say about that, other than exactly how old does a child have to be before they actually begin to apply the toilet paper directly to their ass instead of just waving it around down there? Really, it just made for a better title.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Emotional Cancer
Sometimes the best things that we can do for ourselves are the hardest things to do. Or, to turn it around, the hardest things we have to do for ourselves are really the best things we can do. I'm not sure which sounds better, because it's really pretty much the same thing. A literary obverse, which I'm pretty sure is not some kind of fancy grammatical construct, but rather some fantastical shit that I just made up.
I had to cut someone out of my life last night, because that was the best thing for me to do for me. Cutting people out of my life generally means they cease to exist to me. An act of excision. I've found that cutting people out of my life is usually the hardest thing for me to do, though, because these are people who have brought me, usually inadvertently, intense anxiety and pain, and while I am left with a relief from the anxiety, it also seems to bring me this great and deep sorrow that doesn't go away, but just lingers there, like my stretch marks that just linger on. They fade, but they don't go away. Constant reminders of what was. Stretch marks of the soul.
I had to cut my stepmother out of my life a year or so ago. At that point, she wasn't even really my stepmother, but more like my father's widow, because she had never really been a stepmother to me. I always felt like she just kind of treated me like that little puppy that someone brings over to show off periodically. I was the puppy that never grew up, and then my children turned into those puppies. My connection to her was solely through my father. She and I never spent any time together, never talked unless my father was involved in the conversation, never had any true bond. It's quite sad to me, because she and my father were married for 24 years. 24 years of treating someone like a puppy is a hard pill for the puppy to swallow.
My father died, which is a whole other blog someday, maybe or maybe not, and I tried to maintain the relationship, or tried to establish one. It's important for me to insert at this point that I never really had any use for this woman, my stepmother. I didn't like her, I didn't like her essence, I didn't like that she was so dependant on my father, I didn't like a lot, a lot, a lot of stuff about her. At some point in time, I started calling her Mothbrain. Sounds harsh, but trust me, common sense had never met this woman, and God help, never will. So when my father died, and she didn't know how to pay bills, didn't know how to arrange to get the grass cut, considered a trip to the grocery store to be a major outing, got lost driving to my aunt's house (in the next county where she'd been at least 57.9 times before), I tried to be kind. I called once a week, sent The Ex over to cut her grass, offered to help her with the financial matters, offered to do anything she needed. But I came to realize after several months that this seemed to, possibly, could it be a one-sided relationship? I really pondered this, because she never initiated any contact. Or if she did initiate contact, she wasn't able to follow through on it. She sent me this long letter about wanting to make sure she was still involved with my children but didn't know how to make it happen. I suggested taking the children to the movies, and I'd even pay for their tickets. That happened exactly once. She bought a book for the older daughter for Christmas gift, but wanted to read it to her herself, and so asked that we not read the book to the older daughter. But she never called to arrange that. The fucking book is still unread. She showed up for a lunch date late because she got to the restaurant, realized she forgot her cell phone at home and had to go back home to get it. Her mother in Alabama was sick and she might have to leave right away. Helloooo, we're 14 hours away. Another hour isn't going to do you any good. No phone calls, no nothing on her part. Like I said, Mothbrain.
Here's where it got sticky and why. This will undoubtedly sound really trite, and probably petty, but we all have our quirks. When my grandmother (my father's mother) moved from her house into a "retirement community", and had to get rid of most of her furniture, my father was adamant that he get first pick. He was the oldest, you know. Read that as he was the greediest, you know. And then when my grandmother passed away, he again demanded first pick of all of her furniture. He was the oldest, you know. He ended up with a house full of furniture that belonged to my grandmother and great-grandmother, and some of their jewelry, too. Pictures, china, all kinds of stuff. He was the oldest, you know. I'm only repeating that because it sort of became his mantra of justification. Basically, my father was a self-centered, greedy bastard. Let's just call it what it is. The furniture and jewelry might not be worth much monetarily, but it meant a lot to me in terms of sentimental value. So here's Mothbrain in a house full of furniture that belonged to my grandmother and great-grandmother, and do I continue to try to build/maintain a relationship with this woman in an effort to try to get a few hand-me-downs when she's feeling the need to downsize? This really seemed grovel-ish to me. And I don't grovel. Ever.
To say that this caused me an extremely high level of anxiety would be an understatement. In retrospect, I see that what was happening to me was that I was perfecting a full blown anxiety disorder, along with panic attacks, about having to continue to have this woman in my life. It came down to this: deal with this woman, this Mothbrain, and take the anxiety disorder and panic attacks in stride, or let her go and all of my grandmother's shit go, and chalk it up to making the better decision for me. It only takes a minute to write this, but this was a decision about six months in the making. So I let her go. Goodbye china, goodbye family pictures, goodbye everything that reminds me of that comfort of my grandmother's house. I also got to say goodbye to some really ugly panic attacks. That's what I had to do. This woman had become emotional cancer to me.
Someone walked into my life a while back and I thought because I had known this person from the days of so long ago, it would be okay. I could trust, I could be secure in being me, I could relax. I thought at the time that the door to my life had been kicked in, boom, here I am! But it wasn't like that. It was much more emotionally covert, more ninja-like. This was some CIA quality shit, the kind of shit where you wonder, was someone here doing something? Or is this just my imagination? Snuck right the fuck in, stirred a whole lot of shit up in my soul, and then disappeared. Came back, stirred a little more, disappeared. Repeat this several times and there you have it. There was no finish, no end. Only another beginning, but no middle or end. So many beginnings. I started having what I think might have been minor scale panic attacks again. My anxiety level went back up. I began to feel like that this wasn't good for me, but I couldn't bring myself to do what I knew I needed to do.
I don't deserve emotional cancer in my life. I don't need it and I don't want it. This person, well, it was like that cancer that kind of goes away, but it comes back again. And then you treat it, and it goes away, but then it comes back worse than before. I couldn't deal with it. No more radiation, no more chemotherapy, no more holistic bullshit for me because it didn't work. Just cut it out of my life, get rid of it, please. And when I clicked that "Remove from Friends" button and had that one last panic attack, the final excision was done, although it was much more symbolic for me. It will go unnoticed until I'm suddenly not there. I'm left with what will be a deep and lingering sorrow for what wasn't, what couldn't be, what won't be. Another stretch mark.
I had to cut someone out of my life last night, because that was the best thing for me to do for me. Cutting people out of my life generally means they cease to exist to me. An act of excision. I've found that cutting people out of my life is usually the hardest thing for me to do, though, because these are people who have brought me, usually inadvertently, intense anxiety and pain, and while I am left with a relief from the anxiety, it also seems to bring me this great and deep sorrow that doesn't go away, but just lingers there, like my stretch marks that just linger on. They fade, but they don't go away. Constant reminders of what was. Stretch marks of the soul.
I had to cut my stepmother out of my life a year or so ago. At that point, she wasn't even really my stepmother, but more like my father's widow, because she had never really been a stepmother to me. I always felt like she just kind of treated me like that little puppy that someone brings over to show off periodically. I was the puppy that never grew up, and then my children turned into those puppies. My connection to her was solely through my father. She and I never spent any time together, never talked unless my father was involved in the conversation, never had any true bond. It's quite sad to me, because she and my father were married for 24 years. 24 years of treating someone like a puppy is a hard pill for the puppy to swallow.
My father died, which is a whole other blog someday, maybe or maybe not, and I tried to maintain the relationship, or tried to establish one. It's important for me to insert at this point that I never really had any use for this woman, my stepmother. I didn't like her, I didn't like her essence, I didn't like that she was so dependant on my father, I didn't like a lot, a lot, a lot of stuff about her. At some point in time, I started calling her Mothbrain. Sounds harsh, but trust me, common sense had never met this woman, and God help, never will. So when my father died, and she didn't know how to pay bills, didn't know how to arrange to get the grass cut, considered a trip to the grocery store to be a major outing, got lost driving to my aunt's house (in the next county where she'd been at least 57.9 times before), I tried to be kind. I called once a week, sent The Ex over to cut her grass, offered to help her with the financial matters, offered to do anything she needed. But I came to realize after several months that this seemed to, possibly, could it be a one-sided relationship? I really pondered this, because she never initiated any contact. Or if she did initiate contact, she wasn't able to follow through on it. She sent me this long letter about wanting to make sure she was still involved with my children but didn't know how to make it happen. I suggested taking the children to the movies, and I'd even pay for their tickets. That happened exactly once. She bought a book for the older daughter for Christmas gift, but wanted to read it to her herself, and so asked that we not read the book to the older daughter. But she never called to arrange that. The fucking book is still unread. She showed up for a lunch date late because she got to the restaurant, realized she forgot her cell phone at home and had to go back home to get it. Her mother in Alabama was sick and she might have to leave right away. Helloooo, we're 14 hours away. Another hour isn't going to do you any good. No phone calls, no nothing on her part. Like I said, Mothbrain.
Here's where it got sticky and why. This will undoubtedly sound really trite, and probably petty, but we all have our quirks. When my grandmother (my father's mother) moved from her house into a "retirement community", and had to get rid of most of her furniture, my father was adamant that he get first pick. He was the oldest, you know. Read that as he was the greediest, you know. And then when my grandmother passed away, he again demanded first pick of all of her furniture. He was the oldest, you know. He ended up with a house full of furniture that belonged to my grandmother and great-grandmother, and some of their jewelry, too. Pictures, china, all kinds of stuff. He was the oldest, you know. I'm only repeating that because it sort of became his mantra of justification. Basically, my father was a self-centered, greedy bastard. Let's just call it what it is. The furniture and jewelry might not be worth much monetarily, but it meant a lot to me in terms of sentimental value. So here's Mothbrain in a house full of furniture that belonged to my grandmother and great-grandmother, and do I continue to try to build/maintain a relationship with this woman in an effort to try to get a few hand-me-downs when she's feeling the need to downsize? This really seemed grovel-ish to me. And I don't grovel. Ever.
To say that this caused me an extremely high level of anxiety would be an understatement. In retrospect, I see that what was happening to me was that I was perfecting a full blown anxiety disorder, along with panic attacks, about having to continue to have this woman in my life. It came down to this: deal with this woman, this Mothbrain, and take the anxiety disorder and panic attacks in stride, or let her go and all of my grandmother's shit go, and chalk it up to making the better decision for me. It only takes a minute to write this, but this was a decision about six months in the making. So I let her go. Goodbye china, goodbye family pictures, goodbye everything that reminds me of that comfort of my grandmother's house. I also got to say goodbye to some really ugly panic attacks. That's what I had to do. This woman had become emotional cancer to me.
Someone walked into my life a while back and I thought because I had known this person from the days of so long ago, it would be okay. I could trust, I could be secure in being me, I could relax. I thought at the time that the door to my life had been kicked in, boom, here I am! But it wasn't like that. It was much more emotionally covert, more ninja-like. This was some CIA quality shit, the kind of shit where you wonder, was someone here doing something? Or is this just my imagination? Snuck right the fuck in, stirred a whole lot of shit up in my soul, and then disappeared. Came back, stirred a little more, disappeared. Repeat this several times and there you have it. There was no finish, no end. Only another beginning, but no middle or end. So many beginnings. I started having what I think might have been minor scale panic attacks again. My anxiety level went back up. I began to feel like that this wasn't good for me, but I couldn't bring myself to do what I knew I needed to do.
I don't deserve emotional cancer in my life. I don't need it and I don't want it. This person, well, it was like that cancer that kind of goes away, but it comes back again. And then you treat it, and it goes away, but then it comes back worse than before. I couldn't deal with it. No more radiation, no more chemotherapy, no more holistic bullshit for me because it didn't work. Just cut it out of my life, get rid of it, please. And when I clicked that "Remove from Friends" button and had that one last panic attack, the final excision was done, although it was much more symbolic for me. It will go unnoticed until I'm suddenly not there. I'm left with what will be a deep and lingering sorrow for what wasn't, what couldn't be, what won't be. Another stretch mark.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Navigation
I drove far away yesterday, except it really wasn't that far away and didn't take me that long to get there. To hear my mother talk, it takes her about eight hours to get to Chesapeake from Powhatan. I knew it was a two hour drive, and I wanted to stop along the way, at the only McDonald's on 460, so I planned for three hours. Not because I was going to spend an hour in the McDonald's in Waverly or Windsor or wherever trying to pick up some trucker, but because the traffic down there is a bitch. One tunnel closed out of about the ten tunnels in the entire Hampton Roads area... and you're fucked. And not that I would ever pick up a trucker, but those are the only people I ever see in that shitty little McDonald's. I was perusing the casual encounters section on craigslist last week, which I do fairly often, because it's a happy reminder that not every man is looking for a blond who has the measurements of 36-24-36, or whatever Sir Mix-A-Lot said except she'd be about 5'7". Anyway, there was some dude on there, looking to get laid, but had attached a pic of himself (I must assume it was him) on the hood of a big rig bare-assed nekkid. If you're redneck enough to pose on the hood of your rig with no clothes on, that qualifies as nekkid, not naked. There is a difference. Except homeboy had left his white socks on.
I just thought to myself, what a dumbass. I wanted to send him an email and tell him to retake the picture, but minus the socks. I mean, come on. Be for real. Socks? Nekkid? On a rig? I have a socks and sex issue. Namely, I don't allow men to fuck me with socks on. Unless it's one of those primal things and his pants are still around his ankles, because then making him take his socks off would just be a little silly and would ruin the mood of right-the-fuck-now!!!. Yeah, no socks. Socks on = no tang for you.
I know I had said in a previous post that I was planning on talking out loud all the way to where I was going, and then back home, but I forgot when I said that that I don't like to talk before 9:00am. Except to my children, and I've had seven years to ease myself into that. So it was a quiet trip. I used Mapquest, because I don't have a nav system, and dammit, I'm not getting one. We have become too fucking reliant on technology. Everyone you meet, they'll tell you they got a GPS because Mapquest is always wrong and they always get lost. I used to have a problem getting lost, too, until I came to the realization that I totally transcend getting lost. Seriously, I do. I don't remember how I came to this realization, but once it hit me, I haven't got lost since.
I've tried to explain to a few other people, but I don't think they are operating on my plane. You have to be bigger than what your obstacle is. This might actually be my goal in life since it's working right now with the directional thing for me. How can you get lost? Look at the big picture. No matter where you are, you're on Earth. We know this. Then break it down from there. We are in the United States of America. We are in Virginia. We are in Richmond, etc. etc. etc. And yeah, Mapquest has done me wrong before, but geez, are we really dumb enough to consider it to be the Holy Grail of trafficology? I'm pretty sure that it was trying to do me wrong yesterday, because one of the directions said drive for 3.7 miles to the next place, but it was actually .37 miles. No big deal... because I transcended that shit when I quick swerved across three lanes of traffic traveling 65 miles per hour and made the exit with not one incident of anyone shooting me the bird. I remembered that I consider Mapquest to be a simple suggested guideline. The Mapquest people would probably argue with me, but that's why I'm not doing their marketing.
Driving around Tidewater, or wherever, in our world of gridlock and cement and big green signs... if there is one thing that is certain, keep driving and you'll come across an interstate soon enough. And once you get on the interstate, if you're not sure, you'll either be driving in the direction of somewhere that you know where it is, or you won't. In that case you'll be driving in the opposite direction. So then you get off the interstate and turn around. Simple enough. Instead of relying on all this stupid technology that is overpriced and overrated, but yet still manages to underserve, how about we just rely on ourselves? I'm always slightly amused but even more annoyed by those bumper stickers that say "God is My CoPilot". Have you ever noticed that those are usually the most clueless people out there on the road? Those people are even more clueless than the people relying upon the fake seductive Mandy voice shooting out of their radio with directions of where to turn in 90 feet. Newsflash: girls named Mandy take it up the ass, and thus, I do not want a Mandy voice coming out of my radio.
My copilot? Common sense, bitches, common sense. I realized this yesterday when I was on the way back to the RVA on a different route. I didn't know where in the hell I was going, and I didn't know where in the hell I was because I don't know the difference between the Inner Loop and the Outer Loop on whatever highway/interstate/expressway I was on. It didn't matter that I didn't know any of that, because I was bigger than what the obstacle might have been perceived to be. What I did know is that I would eventually see a sign that said either Virginia Beach or Richmond. If the sign said Virginia Beach, that would be my clue to turn the fuck around. If the sign said Richmond, then I'm good. Common sense. Kind of like the sign on 95 southbound above Ashland that says Miami - 500 or something miles. Okay, if you're headed towards Boston, and you see that sign, turn the fuck around. Common sense.
I think we need to rely more upon ourselves for things to happen in life. I generally don't program numbers into my phone because they're already programmed into my head. If it's not programmed into my head, then I don't really need to call you. Same with GPS and nav systems. If I don't know where it is, I probably don't need to go. If I have to go, then I'll make my brain do the work with a little assistance from my copilot, common sense. And take your damn socks off when you have sex, for God's sake.
I just thought to myself, what a dumbass. I wanted to send him an email and tell him to retake the picture, but minus the socks. I mean, come on. Be for real. Socks? Nekkid? On a rig? I have a socks and sex issue. Namely, I don't allow men to fuck me with socks on. Unless it's one of those primal things and his pants are still around his ankles, because then making him take his socks off would just be a little silly and would ruin the mood of right-the-fuck-now!!!. Yeah, no socks. Socks on = no tang for you.
I know I had said in a previous post that I was planning on talking out loud all the way to where I was going, and then back home, but I forgot when I said that that I don't like to talk before 9:00am. Except to my children, and I've had seven years to ease myself into that. So it was a quiet trip. I used Mapquest, because I don't have a nav system, and dammit, I'm not getting one. We have become too fucking reliant on technology. Everyone you meet, they'll tell you they got a GPS because Mapquest is always wrong and they always get lost. I used to have a problem getting lost, too, until I came to the realization that I totally transcend getting lost. Seriously, I do. I don't remember how I came to this realization, but once it hit me, I haven't got lost since.
I've tried to explain to a few other people, but I don't think they are operating on my plane. You have to be bigger than what your obstacle is. This might actually be my goal in life since it's working right now with the directional thing for me. How can you get lost? Look at the big picture. No matter where you are, you're on Earth. We know this. Then break it down from there. We are in the United States of America. We are in Virginia. We are in Richmond, etc. etc. etc. And yeah, Mapquest has done me wrong before, but geez, are we really dumb enough to consider it to be the Holy Grail of trafficology? I'm pretty sure that it was trying to do me wrong yesterday, because one of the directions said drive for 3.7 miles to the next place, but it was actually .37 miles. No big deal... because I transcended that shit when I quick swerved across three lanes of traffic traveling 65 miles per hour and made the exit with not one incident of anyone shooting me the bird. I remembered that I consider Mapquest to be a simple suggested guideline. The Mapquest people would probably argue with me, but that's why I'm not doing their marketing.
Driving around Tidewater, or wherever, in our world of gridlock and cement and big green signs... if there is one thing that is certain, keep driving and you'll come across an interstate soon enough. And once you get on the interstate, if you're not sure, you'll either be driving in the direction of somewhere that you know where it is, or you won't. In that case you'll be driving in the opposite direction. So then you get off the interstate and turn around. Simple enough. Instead of relying on all this stupid technology that is overpriced and overrated, but yet still manages to underserve, how about we just rely on ourselves? I'm always slightly amused but even more annoyed by those bumper stickers that say "God is My CoPilot". Have you ever noticed that those are usually the most clueless people out there on the road? Those people are even more clueless than the people relying upon the fake seductive Mandy voice shooting out of their radio with directions of where to turn in 90 feet. Newsflash: girls named Mandy take it up the ass, and thus, I do not want a Mandy voice coming out of my radio.
My copilot? Common sense, bitches, common sense. I realized this yesterday when I was on the way back to the RVA on a different route. I didn't know where in the hell I was going, and I didn't know where in the hell I was because I don't know the difference between the Inner Loop and the Outer Loop on whatever highway/interstate/expressway I was on. It didn't matter that I didn't know any of that, because I was bigger than what the obstacle might have been perceived to be. What I did know is that I would eventually see a sign that said either Virginia Beach or Richmond. If the sign said Virginia Beach, that would be my clue to turn the fuck around. If the sign said Richmond, then I'm good. Common sense. Kind of like the sign on 95 southbound above Ashland that says Miami - 500 or something miles. Okay, if you're headed towards Boston, and you see that sign, turn the fuck around. Common sense.
I think we need to rely more upon ourselves for things to happen in life. I generally don't program numbers into my phone because they're already programmed into my head. If it's not programmed into my head, then I don't really need to call you. Same with GPS and nav systems. If I don't know where it is, I probably don't need to go. If I have to go, then I'll make my brain do the work with a little assistance from my copilot, common sense. And take your damn socks off when you have sex, for God's sake.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
School Shopping
Well, I survived another year of back to school shopping. What a huge marketing ploy for retailers, and what a huge way for the average consumer to just kiss their hard-earned money goodbye. We stick to Target, because they generally have everything that we need, minus the People of Wal-Mart. My older daughter loves Justice, so after Target, we hit the mall to buy one or two outrageously overpriced outfits because I remember being a kid, and I remember wanting just a couple of really cool outfits. While the clothes are McMansion expensive, I will say they are good quality clothes, and if I work really hard to get the Cheetos and Oreo stains out of the them, they'll be great hand-me-downs for the younger daughter. Of course, the younger daughter is young enough that she doesn't really realize that they are hand-me-downs. She just thinks those are the super cool outfits that her older sister and mean ass mommy wouldn't let her share.
We had some slight drama in Target, though. Because this was the year that I told the older daughter that she could get a training bra. I'm really halfway pissed with myself about that, too, but I gave my damn word. We had a couple of little girls over last fall, about the same ages of my girls, and they both had training bras. Yeah, yeah, yeah, what's the training for? What kind tricks do they learn? So on and so forth. So my older daughter asked then if she could get a bra and I foolishly said, "We'll wait til second grade", thinking, like the complete moron that I am, that she would forget about that and we could just push it back until, I don't know, fifth grade. I mean, the child is only seven. I will say, though, something is a buddin' there. Is it training bra worthy? Hell no, but I'm only as good as my word. And since The Ex has explained to the children numerous times since the separation (I know this because the children have told me so), Mommy can't keep her promises, so don't believe anything she tells you. Mommy makes promises that she can't keep, because she promised to stay married to Daddy forever and now look what happened. Yeah, no shit, he's really told the children this stuff. I just can't believe that five and seven year old could make this up and pull it out of nowhere.
This is the bullshit I'm dealing with. I have to be the bigger person, I have to be the grown-up, once again. It's at times like this that I really don't want to be the grown-up, so when I am, it's really not that satisfying. If my children were, oh, I don't know, grown friends, I would explain to them like this. "Well, Daddy says things that he doesn't mean either, like that he can fuck all night. Daddy said that he would love, honor and cherish Mommy when we got married, but he forgot what cherish meant when he was lecturing me about why don't I have a better job (when I already made more money than him with better benefits). Daddy didn't know that honor meant he shouldn't leave crumpled up, used tissues out next to the computer keyboard, or that hacking into someone's email and obsessively sneaking into their phone was demonstrating good honor, or even, that calling your wife a stupid redneck bitch every so often in front of other people is not really the way to emote love." But it's all good. So every word I give the children HAS to be good now. I have to force myself to make sure that what I say is going to happen, by God. Because otherwise, what Daddy says is true.
This is how the drama went down at Target:
Older daughter: Look, Mommy, they have a bra section here. Can we look at the bras?
Mommy: Uh, yeah, we can look here.
Younger daughter: *Screams in laughter* Sissy's getting a bra? What? You don't have boobies, Sissy!
Older daughter: *Immediately starts crying* I do too have boobies! I do need a bra, right, Mommy?
Mommy: *Looking for knife to slit my own throat* Well, I told her she could get a bra. I mean, she is in second grade. *Thinking, why did I fucking agree to this last year?*
Older daughter: Look, here are the bras. They look like the kind you have, Mommy.
Mommy: You don't need that kind. Those are for older girls. *Thinking, like way overdeveloped third graders. What the fuck was in the formula I fed her when she was little? Why am I going through this now?*
Younger daughter: I want a bra, too.
Mommy: You are definitely not old enough. You're only five. You have to wait til second grade. *Fuck me running*
Younger daughter: *Immediately starts crying*
Older daughter: *Sticks out tongue and starts laughing*
Mommy: Jesus Christ, stop it. I will put all the school supplies back and you guys will go home and have to watch the news if you can't start behaving.
Finally pick out the smallest of the training bras, which really just looks like a one-quarter tank top with elastic around the bottom of it.
Mommy: *Desperate to get out of this* I'm pretty sure you won't like wearing them. They're pretty uncomfortable.
Older daughter: Then why do you wear them every day, Mommy?
Mommy: Because it's polite but I don't enjoy it. *Because I have D cups and these bitches hurt if they hang long enough, is what I was thinking* Okay, so let's go try them on.
Younger daughter: I want to go. I want to see Sissy's boobies.
Older daughter: *whining* Noooooooo, I don't want her looking at my boobies. I don't want her to go, Mommy, pleeeeeaaaaase..... Please don't let her look at my bras.
Mommy: *I need a drink* Okay, okay, okay. She won't go in the dressing room. She can sit right outside and she won't look at your freaking boobies. Okay? *Thinking, oh my God, make this stop*.
Yeah, so that was the drama. We came home with four training bras, and I will give my older daughter credit. She has worn them every day. She's proud of those bras. I am not so proud, because I feel like I got rooked into my child growing up too fast in a society that makes it okay to sexualize children, a society that thinks co-ed slumber parties are okay (I won't even mention lipstick parties because that might just be a moral media panic driven by ratings), a society that shows teenage girls that if they want to be loved, they can just have a baby. I have made a solemn promise to myself, and a silent promise to my kids, one that they will never know, because if they do, then they'll just run to The Ex and he'll accommodate just to be a dick. THIS IS IT. My first and last foray into making some stupid ass statement to my daughters about something that I am not okay with because they are too young and I foolishly agreed, thinking they would forget. This bra thing IS IT. I'll get the younger daughter her bras when she gets ready for second grade, like I fucking promised, but that's it. I mean, if you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything. And I don't want to be that kind of parent.
We had some slight drama in Target, though. Because this was the year that I told the older daughter that she could get a training bra. I'm really halfway pissed with myself about that, too, but I gave my damn word. We had a couple of little girls over last fall, about the same ages of my girls, and they both had training bras. Yeah, yeah, yeah, what's the training for? What kind tricks do they learn? So on and so forth. So my older daughter asked then if she could get a bra and I foolishly said, "We'll wait til second grade", thinking, like the complete moron that I am, that she would forget about that and we could just push it back until, I don't know, fifth grade. I mean, the child is only seven. I will say, though, something is a buddin' there. Is it training bra worthy? Hell no, but I'm only as good as my word. And since The Ex has explained to the children numerous times since the separation (I know this because the children have told me so), Mommy can't keep her promises, so don't believe anything she tells you. Mommy makes promises that she can't keep, because she promised to stay married to Daddy forever and now look what happened. Yeah, no shit, he's really told the children this stuff. I just can't believe that five and seven year old could make this up and pull it out of nowhere.
This is the bullshit I'm dealing with. I have to be the bigger person, I have to be the grown-up, once again. It's at times like this that I really don't want to be the grown-up, so when I am, it's really not that satisfying. If my children were, oh, I don't know, grown friends, I would explain to them like this. "Well, Daddy says things that he doesn't mean either, like that he can fuck all night. Daddy said that he would love, honor and cherish Mommy when we got married, but he forgot what cherish meant when he was lecturing me about why don't I have a better job (when I already made more money than him with better benefits). Daddy didn't know that honor meant he shouldn't leave crumpled up, used tissues out next to the computer keyboard, or that hacking into someone's email and obsessively sneaking into their phone was demonstrating good honor, or even, that calling your wife a stupid redneck bitch every so often in front of other people is not really the way to emote love." But it's all good. So every word I give the children HAS to be good now. I have to force myself to make sure that what I say is going to happen, by God. Because otherwise, what Daddy says is true.
This is how the drama went down at Target:
Older daughter: Look, Mommy, they have a bra section here. Can we look at the bras?
Mommy: Uh, yeah, we can look here.
Younger daughter: *Screams in laughter* Sissy's getting a bra? What? You don't have boobies, Sissy!
Older daughter: *Immediately starts crying* I do too have boobies! I do need a bra, right, Mommy?
Mommy: *Looking for knife to slit my own throat* Well, I told her she could get a bra. I mean, she is in second grade. *Thinking, why did I fucking agree to this last year?*
Older daughter: Look, here are the bras. They look like the kind you have, Mommy.
Mommy: You don't need that kind. Those are for older girls. *Thinking, like way overdeveloped third graders. What the fuck was in the formula I fed her when she was little? Why am I going through this now?*
Younger daughter: I want a bra, too.
Mommy: You are definitely not old enough. You're only five. You have to wait til second grade. *Fuck me running*
Younger daughter: *Immediately starts crying*
Older daughter: *Sticks out tongue and starts laughing*
Mommy: Jesus Christ, stop it. I will put all the school supplies back and you guys will go home and have to watch the news if you can't start behaving.
Finally pick out the smallest of the training bras, which really just looks like a one-quarter tank top with elastic around the bottom of it.
Mommy: *Desperate to get out of this* I'm pretty sure you won't like wearing them. They're pretty uncomfortable.
Older daughter: Then why do you wear them every day, Mommy?
Mommy: Because it's polite but I don't enjoy it. *Because I have D cups and these bitches hurt if they hang long enough, is what I was thinking* Okay, so let's go try them on.
Younger daughter: I want to go. I want to see Sissy's boobies.
Older daughter: *whining* Noooooooo, I don't want her looking at my boobies. I don't want her to go, Mommy, pleeeeeaaaaase..... Please don't let her look at my bras.
Mommy: *I need a drink* Okay, okay, okay. She won't go in the dressing room. She can sit right outside and she won't look at your freaking boobies. Okay? *Thinking, oh my God, make this stop*.
Yeah, so that was the drama. We came home with four training bras, and I will give my older daughter credit. She has worn them every day. She's proud of those bras. I am not so proud, because I feel like I got rooked into my child growing up too fast in a society that makes it okay to sexualize children, a society that thinks co-ed slumber parties are okay (I won't even mention lipstick parties because that might just be a moral media panic driven by ratings), a society that shows teenage girls that if they want to be loved, they can just have a baby. I have made a solemn promise to myself, and a silent promise to my kids, one that they will never know, because if they do, then they'll just run to The Ex and he'll accommodate just to be a dick. THIS IS IT. My first and last foray into making some stupid ass statement to my daughters about something that I am not okay with because they are too young and I foolishly agreed, thinking they would forget. This bra thing IS IT. I'll get the younger daughter her bras when she gets ready for second grade, like I fucking promised, but that's it. I mean, if you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything. And I don't want to be that kind of parent.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Stay Tuned
I'm halfway tired and I have to get up at the butt crack of dawn to drive two hours away for work stuff. But because traffic is so bad in the Tidewater area, I'll give myself three hours to get there. So stay tuned on school shopping and the jackass who ruined my manicure experience this evening. Oh, and an update? The homeless dude I was feeling so kindly towards... yeah, he came back the next day and straight up asked for a smoke. I gave him the one I was pretty much done with, since it immediately started tasting like pencil shavings in my brain. I am really evaluating my kindness again, and to exactly whom is going to be on the receiving end of it. Thank God I'll have four to six hours in my Fuck You to really hash it out, and I'll do it. I'll talk out loud all the way there and all the way back. Because I don't look funny doing that anymore like I did in the 90's. I can just pretend I'm on speakerphone, bitches.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Custody
Waiting for The Ex to bring all of my children's stuff back. They are moving back this weekend. Our custody agreement is that I have the children full time during the school year and he has every other weekend, and then during the summer, he has them full time and I get every other weekend. It's been a good summer for me, because I needed some time to breathe, to think, to work on me. I haven't had this much time alone since before I got married. I forgot what it was like to only clean up my mess, to be able to just run out of the house at 11:30 at night to get a Coke, to be able to sit around and eat nothing but pepperoni and cheese spread on the sofa whilst watching TV. But at the same time, I've had moments of extreme loneliness, missing my babies so much that my arms literally ached from emptiness and I couldn't do much more than lay around and cry. It was at those precise moments that I was able to see into the world of those divorced parents who never have their kids more than every other weekend, and I was able to truly see how some of them slide into that ugly world of depression and alcoholism, or other dysfunctional coping behaviors like totally disconnecting from their children. All in all, I'm ready to get my kids back. I'm ready to put them back on a schedule, I'm ready to get the school year started, and I'm ready to begin the deprogramming that I know I'll need to do after them spending the summer with their dad.
The Ex and I did not have a long and protracted custody battle, thank God, because I don't think you can come across anything that is more harmful to children in the middle of a divorce. Other than those one or two ugly nights when The Ex was drunk and feeling even more confident than most psychopaths do, the custody agreement went pretty smoothly, and only improved after I moved out. I've come to the realization that our marriage had no boundaries, because of all of the stupid shit that went on, and I've had to take the steps to set boundaries, which has not been pretty for me, and probably even less pretty for him. I've had to establish that during the summer, I will not be his babysitter. Make your plans to go out and drink around when the children will be with you, or arrange for a babysitter. Don't tell me that you've got some work thing to do and then post pictures of yourself on facebook doing shots at a bar. Because my girlfriend, who is still your facebook friend, will do what girlfriends do for one another, especially when they've been friends since fourth grade. She will screen shot that shit when I ask her to and email it to me, where it will then go in the "Just in Case" file folder, which is short for "Just in Case I Decide That I Want Full Custody All the Time Because You Are Not Doing What You As A Parent Are Supposed To Be Doing" file folder. Also, don't call me all in a panic because you've got some meeting you've got to be at at 8:00 in the morning and daycare doesn't open til seven, and oh yeah, the meeting is three hours away and your parents won't babysit. How about you do what the fuck most women have been doing for the past 30 years and explain to your boss that you'll just have to be late for the meeting? Don't arrange, oops, I mean manipulate, for your girlfriend to be at your house when I drop the children off, knowing that I'm probably going to fly into a complete rage-panic attack combination because you aren't following the recommendations of the child psychologist. And then blame ME because I didn't want to work around said girlfriend's schedule.
I'm glad there is a girlfriend in the picture, because that poor woman is taking some of the heat off of me. By heat, I mean focus. I don't even care that the girlfriend materialized about two weeks after I told him I wanted a divorce, and some of my friends and family, when hearing about this, kind of very politely and with the whitest of kid gloves, suggested that maybe she was in the picture before I told him this. I had decided years ago that I really didn't give a fuck if he cheated. I would have written a permission slip for that had I been asked. That's how sick of his ass I was and probably a good indicator of how far gone the marriage really was. So the girlfriend is a welcome diversion for me, although, I did get kind of panicky in my head the month I moved out and went and got tested for that alphabet disease, because maybe he had been screwing around the whole time and I didn't want to be that dumb ass ex-wife who ended up having a Lifetime moving made about her years later. I kind of hope that this woman is the love of his life, because there is supposed to be that someone for all of us, and maybe she is that person for him. If she's not, I hope that she hangs in there long enough for him to lose interest in me, and that she doesn't waste too many years of her life on someone who is that much of a dickhead. In the meanwhile, though, I do take great joy in pulling her pic up on facebook and discussing with my girlfriends and mom how odd it is that she looks so much like my stepmother and what the fuck is wrong with her hair in that one pic?
I have a girlfriend at work who went through a divorce in the past few years and she has started calling her ex "The Sperm Donor". She has suggested that I do the same, but I can't. Even with all of what's happened in the last six months, the last six years, even that is too far gone for me. It just seems so disrespectful to fatherhood in general, and although The Ex was a shitty husband, he is a slightly better father. So I'm not going to downgrade him to a sperm donor. I've settled on "The Starter Husband", which seems pretty good to me, although, "Alpha and Omega" was in the running - the first and the last. But I'm not going to set myself up for that self-fulfilling prophecy. We'll see. I'm holding out some weak hope that I might one day find "The Finisher Husband".
The Ex and I did not have a long and protracted custody battle, thank God, because I don't think you can come across anything that is more harmful to children in the middle of a divorce. Other than those one or two ugly nights when The Ex was drunk and feeling even more confident than most psychopaths do, the custody agreement went pretty smoothly, and only improved after I moved out. I've come to the realization that our marriage had no boundaries, because of all of the stupid shit that went on, and I've had to take the steps to set boundaries, which has not been pretty for me, and probably even less pretty for him. I've had to establish that during the summer, I will not be his babysitter. Make your plans to go out and drink around when the children will be with you, or arrange for a babysitter. Don't tell me that you've got some work thing to do and then post pictures of yourself on facebook doing shots at a bar. Because my girlfriend, who is still your facebook friend, will do what girlfriends do for one another, especially when they've been friends since fourth grade. She will screen shot that shit when I ask her to and email it to me, where it will then go in the "Just in Case" file folder, which is short for "Just in Case I Decide That I Want Full Custody All the Time Because You Are Not Doing What You As A Parent Are Supposed To Be Doing" file folder. Also, don't call me all in a panic because you've got some meeting you've got to be at at 8:00 in the morning and daycare doesn't open til seven, and oh yeah, the meeting is three hours away and your parents won't babysit. How about you do what the fuck most women have been doing for the past 30 years and explain to your boss that you'll just have to be late for the meeting? Don't arrange, oops, I mean manipulate, for your girlfriend to be at your house when I drop the children off, knowing that I'm probably going to fly into a complete rage-panic attack combination because you aren't following the recommendations of the child psychologist. And then blame ME because I didn't want to work around said girlfriend's schedule.
I'm glad there is a girlfriend in the picture, because that poor woman is taking some of the heat off of me. By heat, I mean focus. I don't even care that the girlfriend materialized about two weeks after I told him I wanted a divorce, and some of my friends and family, when hearing about this, kind of very politely and with the whitest of kid gloves, suggested that maybe she was in the picture before I told him this. I had decided years ago that I really didn't give a fuck if he cheated. I would have written a permission slip for that had I been asked. That's how sick of his ass I was and probably a good indicator of how far gone the marriage really was. So the girlfriend is a welcome diversion for me, although, I did get kind of panicky in my head the month I moved out and went and got tested for that alphabet disease, because maybe he had been screwing around the whole time and I didn't want to be that dumb ass ex-wife who ended up having a Lifetime moving made about her years later. I kind of hope that this woman is the love of his life, because there is supposed to be that someone for all of us, and maybe she is that person for him. If she's not, I hope that she hangs in there long enough for him to lose interest in me, and that she doesn't waste too many years of her life on someone who is that much of a dickhead. In the meanwhile, though, I do take great joy in pulling her pic up on facebook and discussing with my girlfriends and mom how odd it is that she looks so much like my stepmother and what the fuck is wrong with her hair in that one pic?
I have a girlfriend at work who went through a divorce in the past few years and she has started calling her ex "The Sperm Donor". She has suggested that I do the same, but I can't. Even with all of what's happened in the last six months, the last six years, even that is too far gone for me. It just seems so disrespectful to fatherhood in general, and although The Ex was a shitty husband, he is a slightly better father. So I'm not going to downgrade him to a sperm donor. I've settled on "The Starter Husband", which seems pretty good to me, although, "Alpha and Omega" was in the running - the first and the last. But I'm not going to set myself up for that self-fulfilling prophecy. We'll see. I'm holding out some weak hope that I might one day find "The Finisher Husband".
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Random iPod Selection #2
"Let's Stay Together" - Al Green. Oh, God. Why is this on my iPod? Obviously not the song for someone who has initiated a seperation and subsequent divorce in the past year to listen to. Seriously, though, I love Al Green. I love the horns on this song, I love the gospel sounding chorus, I love the smooth-ass beat, I love what he does with his voice. I love that he wants to be some woman's knight in shining armor. I love that he can sing this song without sounding creepy and possessive, but more like one of those great conversations you have when you've had a little bit too much wine and you're laying around in the living room and everything looks good and feels good.
I might have that one day. I don't know if I ever had it during my marriage, because so much was about manipulation and ulterior motives and oneupsmanship and other dysfunctional shit. Moving past it, moving past it. Next time around, I really will listen to my gut feeling and won't set out to fix stuff, like so many women like to do because we're fixers. I really don't want to fix stuff and I don't want to force what doesn't feel right. Life is all about what we learn along the way.
I might have that one day. I don't know if I ever had it during my marriage, because so much was about manipulation and ulterior motives and oneupsmanship and other dysfunctional shit. Moving past it, moving past it. Next time around, I really will listen to my gut feeling and won't set out to fix stuff, like so many women like to do because we're fixers. I really don't want to fix stuff and I don't want to force what doesn't feel right. Life is all about what we learn along the way.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Kindness
I was standing outside at work yesterday, getting my puff on, and this homeless guy wanders up. We get a lot of homeless people wandering around my j.o.b., but I think it's mainly because we have public restrooms and you don't have to buy anything to use the shitter. I'm standing outside, and this guy wanders up and starts digging through the butt can. He comes up with two half-smoked smokes, while I'm kind of checking him out because some of those guys are sketchy. When I say guys, most of the homeless folks making use of our facilities are men. And they are indeed a sketchy crew. This has been best demonstrated by the one guy who was wandering around with nunchucks in his back pocket a few years ago. Now, I've never been hit with nunchucks, but I bet it hurts like hell.
Some of my co-workers buy these guys food, give them lunch, give them cigarettes, money, what-have-you. I am constantly telling them to stop, because damn, that's why they keep coming back. We keep giving them shit. It's plain and simple classical conditioning. Here is the most elementary explanation I can provide: if there is a reward for some type of behavior, we as humans, will usually continue to exhibit that behavior because we want the reward, i.e., Pavlov and his dogs. We give food, cigarettes, money, and so forth away to these homeless people, and they keep coming back because they have a reward. In fact, like Pavlov's dogs that salivated at the site of his assistant even without the food, I can't even figure out who is salivating first here - the homeless dudes or my co-workers. It's a strange cyclical relationship. And then I step in with my operant conditioning, which is I refuse to reward that behavior because it's not behavior that I see as productive or whatever. I don't reward the homeless guys with anything but a pretty smile, which you can't smoke, and they don't reward me with feeling good about giving them something. But no one else is feeling my operant conditioning, despite my repeated attempts to enlighten them.
So I'm checking this guy out, and it's odd, because I haven't seen him before. He looks familiar, but I know I haven't seen him digging through our butt can before. But then in my profession, everyone looks familiar after a while. Actually, I just realized he looked a little like Sean Connery. I would guess this guy's age to be in his late 50's or 60's, and he's got grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, but it's a neat ponytail and his hair isn't really that long. The ponytail holder was a regular rubber band, but it had broken and so he'd tied a little knot in it so he could still use it. Stickman is wearing a button down shirt, but it was completely unbuttoned, and he had on some navy blue work pants and some tennis shoes. He looked to be about that age when a man's chest hair kind of turns from hair to fuzz, which made me believe he was actually in his 60's. His clothes were grubby, but he wasn't dirty, which was kind of odd. There's a big difference between wearing some grubby clothes for three or four days, and just picking yourself up out of the gutter (literally) after a three or four day bender - and I know the difference. He's asking where he can get some bus tickets at while he smokes one of his half-smoked butts, and kind of rambling on about living down at the river and getting his general relief if he can make it uptown somewhere. I know where general relief comes from, and it's not where he's talking about, but hey, maybe he knows something I don't know. And I know about the homeless encampment down at the river, which is an island in the middle of the James that I'm pretty sure is only accessible by walking across the train trestle near the Manchester Bridge and then climbing down a ladder to the island. This guy does not look like he's been living on the island, because I know what that looks like, too. I wondered while I smoked and listen to him talk, what his story was. Who is this guy? What's he doing here? A vet, maybe? Something was just off, but not off in a bad, or even sketchy, way.
I finished my cigarette, and got ready to dart back in the building, and turned around and told him, "Hang on, man, I'll go get you a smoke". So I run back to my office and grab the whole box of cigarettes, and looked inside. About 8 left, and I have two new packs in my purse. I run back out there and give it to him, and tell him to have a nice day. Uhhh, what the fuck just happened to me? How did this happen? I've spent the last day thinking about it, because in all the time I've worked at this place, I have not given away ANYTHING EVER. Except a hard time. I give that away all the time, baby, all the time.
I saw this group on facebook not too long ago, but I didn't join it because I want to be somewhat selective with my groups. I mean, I can't be giving away the farm, you know. But the name was something to the effect of 'Be kind to everyone you know because everyone's fighting some kind of battle' and that's really stuck with me. Oh, wait, I just checked and I did join that group. It's true, though. We are all fighting some kind of battle, and you never know what someone's got going on. I went to some training not too long ago, kind of a touchy-feely training thing, and the people doing the training were talking about how great we all are, and what a good job we do, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, and blah blah blah. Someone said something about taking time out for our clients, because maybe no one else has taken that time out to make them important that day. And no, I don't call the clients clients, but I'm trying to keep my job pretty anonymous on here. But anyway, maybe we will be the only person they've come into contact with that will take that extra five minutes to really listen and be supportive, because, really, don't we all need that sometimes? And so that's been hanging in my head, and the facebook group because I really want to be a different person.
I think I've spent most of my life being an asshole. School, work, marriage, in general. Maybe because that's what I've been exposed to most of my life from my parents and various step-parents, supervisors, clients, relationships, The Ex, so on and so on. My favoritist person on TV when I was little? J.R. Ewing. I think that's indicative enough of me being a bully and an asshole. I blame my parents, some, because kids will act in the same manner that they are treated. But since being an adult, I blame myself. I want to correct this, fix this, because I don't want my children to think this is okay. I don't want to be a party to raising two children who will grow up to be assholes. That's not okay with me.
Some people will stumble into our lives in a very happenstance manner, and then some people will just kick in the door to our lives. We lose people, we disconnect with some, we gain people, we reconnect with others. Karma, kismet, predetermination, sheer coincidence, maybe everything happens the way it's supposed to. Sometimes, everything is going right for them and you cheer them on. Sometimes, everything is going wrong for them and you want to help. You want to be kind. You want to do something for someone for no other fucking reason than concern, and care, and just a basic human kindness. But for whatever reason, you can't. Your kindness is very nicely, or not so nicely, returned unopened. This credit card is no longer accepted at this location. I'll stop being enigmatic. I tried to do something genuinely kind and sincere for someone who broke into my life, got pushed away because they had issues, and I am left holding the bag of kindness. But I have to be okay with that. I have to just take it like a woman, and not be an asshole. I'm working hard to be a different person, a better person who can just roll with it.
So I gave a little kindness away, in the form of 8 cigarettes. It wasn't the kindness I set out to give away, but I guess it's okay, since I have some extra.
Some of my co-workers buy these guys food, give them lunch, give them cigarettes, money, what-have-you. I am constantly telling them to stop, because damn, that's why they keep coming back. We keep giving them shit. It's plain and simple classical conditioning. Here is the most elementary explanation I can provide: if there is a reward for some type of behavior, we as humans, will usually continue to exhibit that behavior because we want the reward, i.e., Pavlov and his dogs. We give food, cigarettes, money, and so forth away to these homeless people, and they keep coming back because they have a reward. In fact, like Pavlov's dogs that salivated at the site of his assistant even without the food, I can't even figure out who is salivating first here - the homeless dudes or my co-workers. It's a strange cyclical relationship. And then I step in with my operant conditioning, which is I refuse to reward that behavior because it's not behavior that I see as productive or whatever. I don't reward the homeless guys with anything but a pretty smile, which you can't smoke, and they don't reward me with feeling good about giving them something. But no one else is feeling my operant conditioning, despite my repeated attempts to enlighten them.
So I'm checking this guy out, and it's odd, because I haven't seen him before. He looks familiar, but I know I haven't seen him digging through our butt can before. But then in my profession, everyone looks familiar after a while. Actually, I just realized he looked a little like Sean Connery. I would guess this guy's age to be in his late 50's or 60's, and he's got grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, but it's a neat ponytail and his hair isn't really that long. The ponytail holder was a regular rubber band, but it had broken and so he'd tied a little knot in it so he could still use it. Stickman is wearing a button down shirt, but it was completely unbuttoned, and he had on some navy blue work pants and some tennis shoes. He looked to be about that age when a man's chest hair kind of turns from hair to fuzz, which made me believe he was actually in his 60's. His clothes were grubby, but he wasn't dirty, which was kind of odd. There's a big difference between wearing some grubby clothes for three or four days, and just picking yourself up out of the gutter (literally) after a three or four day bender - and I know the difference. He's asking where he can get some bus tickets at while he smokes one of his half-smoked butts, and kind of rambling on about living down at the river and getting his general relief if he can make it uptown somewhere. I know where general relief comes from, and it's not where he's talking about, but hey, maybe he knows something I don't know. And I know about the homeless encampment down at the river, which is an island in the middle of the James that I'm pretty sure is only accessible by walking across the train trestle near the Manchester Bridge and then climbing down a ladder to the island. This guy does not look like he's been living on the island, because I know what that looks like, too. I wondered while I smoked and listen to him talk, what his story was. Who is this guy? What's he doing here? A vet, maybe? Something was just off, but not off in a bad, or even sketchy, way.
I finished my cigarette, and got ready to dart back in the building, and turned around and told him, "Hang on, man, I'll go get you a smoke". So I run back to my office and grab the whole box of cigarettes, and looked inside. About 8 left, and I have two new packs in my purse. I run back out there and give it to him, and tell him to have a nice day. Uhhh, what the fuck just happened to me? How did this happen? I've spent the last day thinking about it, because in all the time I've worked at this place, I have not given away ANYTHING EVER. Except a hard time. I give that away all the time, baby, all the time.
I saw this group on facebook not too long ago, but I didn't join it because I want to be somewhat selective with my groups. I mean, I can't be giving away the farm, you know. But the name was something to the effect of 'Be kind to everyone you know because everyone's fighting some kind of battle' and that's really stuck with me. Oh, wait, I just checked and I did join that group. It's true, though. We are all fighting some kind of battle, and you never know what someone's got going on. I went to some training not too long ago, kind of a touchy-feely training thing, and the people doing the training were talking about how great we all are, and what a good job we do, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, and blah blah blah. Someone said something about taking time out for our clients, because maybe no one else has taken that time out to make them important that day. And no, I don't call the clients clients, but I'm trying to keep my job pretty anonymous on here. But anyway, maybe we will be the only person they've come into contact with that will take that extra five minutes to really listen and be supportive, because, really, don't we all need that sometimes? And so that's been hanging in my head, and the facebook group because I really want to be a different person.
I think I've spent most of my life being an asshole. School, work, marriage, in general. Maybe because that's what I've been exposed to most of my life from my parents and various step-parents, supervisors, clients, relationships, The Ex, so on and so on. My favoritist person on TV when I was little? J.R. Ewing. I think that's indicative enough of me being a bully and an asshole. I blame my parents, some, because kids will act in the same manner that they are treated. But since being an adult, I blame myself. I want to correct this, fix this, because I don't want my children to think this is okay. I don't want to be a party to raising two children who will grow up to be assholes. That's not okay with me.
Some people will stumble into our lives in a very happenstance manner, and then some people will just kick in the door to our lives. We lose people, we disconnect with some, we gain people, we reconnect with others. Karma, kismet, predetermination, sheer coincidence, maybe everything happens the way it's supposed to. Sometimes, everything is going right for them and you cheer them on. Sometimes, everything is going wrong for them and you want to help. You want to be kind. You want to do something for someone for no other fucking reason than concern, and care, and just a basic human kindness. But for whatever reason, you can't. Your kindness is very nicely, or not so nicely, returned unopened. This credit card is no longer accepted at this location. I'll stop being enigmatic. I tried to do something genuinely kind and sincere for someone who broke into my life, got pushed away because they had issues, and I am left holding the bag of kindness. But I have to be okay with that. I have to just take it like a woman, and not be an asshole. I'm working hard to be a different person, a better person who can just roll with it.
So I gave a little kindness away, in the form of 8 cigarettes. It wasn't the kindness I set out to give away, but I guess it's okay, since I have some extra.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Updates
I am so annoyed with Cosmo magazine. I was standing in line at the grocery store, working hard not to just outright murderize my children, and I look over and see Cosmo looking back at me. I don't buy magazines, generally, because why waste money or paper when it's all on the Internet for free? I do read the sex tips on the Cosmo website, though, because maybe one day I will get laid again. Anyway, on the cover of the latest mag... in big print? "Untamed Va-jay-jays". Are you freaking kidding me? Why, Cosmo, why? Why do this? Why put this word out there for the masses of teenage girls who really have absolutely no concept of how to respect themselves or their bodies? Except they've probably already heard it on MTV or whatever channel they watch now. Probably the Spice Channel. I must just be getting either old or old fashioned, because none of the other acceptable slang words are bothersome to me. Something about that term, I just can't put my finger on it. Regarding the topic itself, maybe women have just gotten tired of pube grooming and are returning to nature, I don't know. Maybe the depressed economy has finally hit the waxing industry. It's fine with me to write articles about grooming your shit, I'm totally fine with that. But to put it on the cover, in really big print? I read somewhere on the web, recently, a list of ten magazines that will cease to exist, largely, thanks to the web. I don't remember Cosmo being on that list, but I know it's all about money. Sales. Sucking people in. Well, Cosmo, you reeled me, but yet, not quite. I didn't buy the mag, so ha ha on you. Just one question - if you're going back to the bush, how can you vajazzle? Do the vajazzling people know about this? I guess you can always move the party upstairs. That would be simply nippazzling.
Got my car back. Ignition switch. Who knew that one simple part that I could order online for about $35 would end up costing $520? Plus the rental car I went out and got on Monday, for two days, to the tune of $225 and a tank of gas. But I sure screwed you, Avis, because the last thing you told me when I walked out the door Monday morning was that there would be an additional charge for driving less than 75 miles. Okay, I got the car to drive to work for two days. Back and forth from Midlothian to downtown back to Midlothian for two whole days. There was no way I was going to run up 75 miles doing that, and I think you knew it. I am pleased to announce that I managed to put exactly 160 miles on that bitch, from 8:00 on Monday morning to 5:40 on Tuesday evening. Gotcha. It was a nice ass car, too, brand spanking new 2010 Impala, fully loaded. I had a choice of a Malibu or an Impala, same price, so I took the Impala. Heated leather seats, satellite radio, On Star, sun roof, spoiler (although I ceased to be impressed with spoilers when I was exactly 24 years, 3 months and 28 days old). I used exactly none of the amenities, especially the heated seats, because it's August and my ass is already hot as a firecracker. I figure I'm worth that nice of a car. I'm done settling in life. Why take the Malibu when you can have the Impala? Why settle for less if you can find more? Seems reasonable enough to me. Yep, I am officially done settling. And yeah, it feels good.
Got my car back. Ignition switch. Who knew that one simple part that I could order online for about $35 would end up costing $520? Plus the rental car I went out and got on Monday, for two days, to the tune of $225 and a tank of gas. But I sure screwed you, Avis, because the last thing you told me when I walked out the door Monday morning was that there would be an additional charge for driving less than 75 miles. Okay, I got the car to drive to work for two days. Back and forth from Midlothian to downtown back to Midlothian for two whole days. There was no way I was going to run up 75 miles doing that, and I think you knew it. I am pleased to announce that I managed to put exactly 160 miles on that bitch, from 8:00 on Monday morning to 5:40 on Tuesday evening. Gotcha. It was a nice ass car, too, brand spanking new 2010 Impala, fully loaded. I had a choice of a Malibu or an Impala, same price, so I took the Impala. Heated leather seats, satellite radio, On Star, sun roof, spoiler (although I ceased to be impressed with spoilers when I was exactly 24 years, 3 months and 28 days old). I used exactly none of the amenities, especially the heated seats, because it's August and my ass is already hot as a firecracker. I figure I'm worth that nice of a car. I'm done settling in life. Why take the Malibu when you can have the Impala? Why settle for less if you can find more? Seems reasonable enough to me. Yep, I am officially done settling. And yeah, it feels good.
Monday, August 16, 2010
18 Years
Today is my 18 year anniversary with my employer. Actually, agency, since I work for the guv. The guvment, the guvnah, the man, what-have-you. I never thought that I would make it this long. It's either a testament to how much I've matured over the years, or how bad all of my supervisors' documentation has been. Probably a combination of both. I feel old saying I've been around for 18 years, especially since I'm only 36.
I never really had one of those monumental birthdays in life where things suddenly looked different, but I started to feel different, older, after my last birthday. I would get this sudden, deep glimpse of sorrow for all the things in life I always wanted to do but realized I probably never will. I also got, and I'm being dead serious, sudden, deep glimpses of sorrow for all the things The Ex and I had planned to do when we got older and I no longer wanted any part of. Well, I guess that issue has been resolved. Thanks, divorce. But, yeah, I feel old saying I've been around for 18 years. It's like that moment in life when you realize you've got more of your career behind you than in front of you. I can retire in another 14 years with full benefits. I probably won't, because my youngest daughter will be in college about that time, and now, luckily, I can carry my children on my insurance until they are 26 years of adult age. Yes, Obama Administration, I'd love to work another 21 years so my daughters can grow up, go to college, get bachelors, masters, PhDs and then lay around the house bitching that they can't find a job because they're over educated. Thank God for the military, because that's where my little princesses will be if they try that shit on me.
I love my career and I love what I do. It's not for the faint of heart, and if you know me, you know I am anything but faint of heart. I don't mind getting up and going to work every morning because I know that after all this time, I'm still making a difference. And since I've been around for 18 years, I think I can say with all certainty that this is not being said with the same naivete as someone who is fresh out of college looking to save the world. I know I can't save the world, and I really don't want to. I want to do what the fuck I do, I want to do it well and I want to deliver quality for the quantities every day. I generally do that, and I'm proud of that. I deliver a few fuck ups here and there, but we all do that. Sometimes, making mistakes is how we learn. Again, thanks, divorce.
18 years. Wow. I've realized, that although saying this makes me feel old, it also gives me a little extra umph when I happen to get in to little snits with dewy faced co-workers who are fresh out of college, have their tits hanging out all over the place and are looking to save the world. I can say stupid shit like, "I've forgotten more than you'll probably be able to figure out in the next 10 years", "Yeah, well, I've been doing this since you were wearing diapers, so maybe you should just listen for a few minutes", and "I don't think I've gotten a raise since you were in middle school. I mean, this is the State we're talking about" (which is patent bullshit, but it sounds good). Do they think I'm jaded? Probably. Do they come back and ask me how to make something happen? Of course. I find myself hanging out with other old timers at work, and comparing who was doing what in 1995 and where they worked in the guv.
I had a few nay-sayers back in the hot, sticky days of August of 1992 who predicted I wouldn't last six months. Heeeeeyyyy, what's up, motherfuckers? Still here, dammit, and still going strong. How ya like me now?
I never really had one of those monumental birthdays in life where things suddenly looked different, but I started to feel different, older, after my last birthday. I would get this sudden, deep glimpse of sorrow for all the things in life I always wanted to do but realized I probably never will. I also got, and I'm being dead serious, sudden, deep glimpses of sorrow for all the things The Ex and I had planned to do when we got older and I no longer wanted any part of. Well, I guess that issue has been resolved. Thanks, divorce. But, yeah, I feel old saying I've been around for 18 years. It's like that moment in life when you realize you've got more of your career behind you than in front of you. I can retire in another 14 years with full benefits. I probably won't, because my youngest daughter will be in college about that time, and now, luckily, I can carry my children on my insurance until they are 26 years of adult age. Yes, Obama Administration, I'd love to work another 21 years so my daughters can grow up, go to college, get bachelors, masters, PhDs and then lay around the house bitching that they can't find a job because they're over educated. Thank God for the military, because that's where my little princesses will be if they try that shit on me.
I love my career and I love what I do. It's not for the faint of heart, and if you know me, you know I am anything but faint of heart. I don't mind getting up and going to work every morning because I know that after all this time, I'm still making a difference. And since I've been around for 18 years, I think I can say with all certainty that this is not being said with the same naivete as someone who is fresh out of college looking to save the world. I know I can't save the world, and I really don't want to. I want to do what the fuck I do, I want to do it well and I want to deliver quality for the quantities every day. I generally do that, and I'm proud of that. I deliver a few fuck ups here and there, but we all do that. Sometimes, making mistakes is how we learn. Again, thanks, divorce.
18 years. Wow. I've realized, that although saying this makes me feel old, it also gives me a little extra umph when I happen to get in to little snits with dewy faced co-workers who are fresh out of college, have their tits hanging out all over the place and are looking to save the world. I can say stupid shit like, "I've forgotten more than you'll probably be able to figure out in the next 10 years", "Yeah, well, I've been doing this since you were wearing diapers, so maybe you should just listen for a few minutes", and "I don't think I've gotten a raise since you were in middle school. I mean, this is the State we're talking about" (which is patent bullshit, but it sounds good). Do they think I'm jaded? Probably. Do they come back and ask me how to make something happen? Of course. I find myself hanging out with other old timers at work, and comparing who was doing what in 1995 and where they worked in the guv.
I had a few nay-sayers back in the hot, sticky days of August of 1992 who predicted I wouldn't last six months. Heeeeeyyyy, what's up, motherfuckers? Still here, dammit, and still going strong. How ya like me now?
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Random iPod Selection #1
I try to think back to life before the iPod, and I really can't. I mean, I obviously can, but how did I survive without an iPod? Life was all about signing up for kazaa, limewire or some other shitty service where most of the song titles or musicians were incorrect, and then downloading a bunch of tunes and burning it onto a disc that you could listen to. You also got the priviledge of downloading a virus or two as well. But you could only get about 20 or so songs on a CD, and if you have OCD, like me, you needed those songs to be of the same type of genre and in some type of alphabetical order, which meant you had a lot of CDs to tote around.
I got an iPod a few years ago for Christmas, a little 4gig nano, when the new nanos came out. Life changed for me, because I got one of those accoutrement's to be able to play the iPod in the car, and then figured out how to get the input/output on my work computer set so I could hook the iPod into that. And poof! My favorite selections of music all the time. I get so tired of listening to the radio, because they play the same songs over and over and over again, and they talk too damn much. Yes, I know they have bills to pay too, but damn. I don't need to hear the same commercial for penis growth or extenders or supplements, whatever it is that I'm sure is just snake oil, all the time. Life with an iPod is good, until you fill that mother up. Since I'm too cheap to go buy an iPod with more gigs, I've had to be selective with which songs to put on it. I'm up to about 579 songs right now, but I've had to remove a few to make room for the new ones.
Of course, everyone thinks they have the most eclectic selection of music on their iPod, just as they will tell you they have the most eclectic collection of books. Have you ever noticed that no one ever wants to admit they have the most eclectic collection of porn? You never hear anyone bragging about that. Because it's not eclectic, it's probably more freakish and deviant. But enough of that sidebar. Of course, I used to think that too, that I have the most eclectic collection of iPod songs. But I don't want to be that person anymore. I have shit on my iPod that I like, and a few songs on there that my kids like, and if someone (The Ex) doesn't like it, then just hang the fuck in there and wait for me to walk away.
So my random iPod selection for today is Matchbox Twenty's "How Far We've Come". My random selection isn't about critiquing the band, or analyzing the lyrics, because I'm not that good. I will never be a Rolling Stone correspondent. I don't know enough about the band, or the lyrics to really wax poetical about it. My random selection is more about what I think about when I hear the song, and what it means to me. This song... liberal tripe. I used to feel guilty about paying for, via download, music that was not conservative friendly. I really had a lot of guilt over downloading the Dixie Chicks (and I don't even like country music) because I felt like I had cheated on Dubya. It was my dirty little Republican secret, but like all dirty little secrets that we feel somewhat ashamed about, it felt kind of good, too. But then a friend of mine from high school gave me a pass and said that when it comes to music, politics doesn't count. Good enough benediction for me.
I don't really like Matchbox Twenty, and this is the only song of theirs that I have. I don't watch videos, so I don't know what the band interpreted the song to be, but I think I saw the vid once or twice years ago and it's a statement of where we, a country, are now, and what's wrong with it. Kind of like the new version of R.E.M's "It's the End of the World As We Know It" but not as good. I know this Matchbox song got played whenever CNN needed a 30 to 45 second montage of something and wanted to make a statement about America, the economy, the war, etc. If I recall correctly, and I usually do, I think this song came out about the time that Obama was a freshman Senator from Illinois, and scuttlebutt whisperings started about how he might just be our next JFK. Actually, my statement about me recalling correctly is just mad smack talking on my behalf. Because I love to talk shit and stuff. More on that in another blog. The other reason I like the song is that there's something in it, maybe the drum beat, that reminds me of U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday", which is definitely one of my most favorite songs ever.
This song, this song makes me think of where I am right now. I disengaged myself from a not-so-great (or worse) marriage, told him it was okay to blame me because I just couldn't lie anymore about loving him, refused to go to counseling because counseling wasn't going to make me love him, and walked the hell away with my dignity packed up in a bunch of boxes for me to piece together at a later time. It's been a little over six months since I told him I wanted a divorce, and in that time, I lived the absolute worst three to four months of my life (which hasn't all been bread and butter), really fought within myself to not seek some type of psychiatric hospitalization or at least heavy psychotropic medications, got involved in one really ugly domestic dispute involving the po-lice, because that's what we call them in the South. I managed to buy a house and move the FUCK out with absolutely no desire to ever go back down that nasty, bumpy, dysfunctional road. I've dealt with lies, manipulations, accusations, threats, some of the worst passive-aggressiveness I've ever encountered, insecurity, intimidation, and at least one not-so-fabulous attempt at being blackmailed. A lot of it throughout the course of the marriage, but the worst of it during the separation. As a caveat, let me just throw this out there - I am not, nor was I the victim of this marriage. I wholly contributed to most of the dysfunction. I always feel like I need to say that, because I don't want people to feel sorry for me. I got myself into this whole mess with an "I do" that probably never should have happened, and by God, I'll get myself out of it. Anyway, the game playing continues, but whatev. I'm learning how not to play back, because relationship head games are no fun if you have to play them alone. I'm getting my frame of mind back to where I want to be, need to be, for my own sanity and happiness and for the sake of my children.
I'm proud of what I've done. I'm proud of the stand I've taken, and the person that I can see myself becoming again. I'm okay with being proud of what I've done, because this has taken a lot of internal fortitude and the ability to reach deep down inside of myself to make all of this shit happen. I'm incredibly grateful for what I've been able to do, because I know that what I've been able to do, just walk away from a marriage and buy a house, buy what I need to buy for my children, is not the norm. I'm incredibly grateful I didn't have to move into an apartment or shitty rental house like my mom did when my dad left. I'm incredibly grateful for my super family, who remind me on the regular that their loyalty is with me, despite The Ex's victim role and comments to them about my infidelity (that didn't happen, but I guess for an egotistical bastard it's hard to admit you got LEFT for no one) and anything else he thinks might hit a nerve. I'm incredibly grateful for all of my friends, many of whom have checked on in a totally random fashion out of nothing but concern and caring.
So yeah, "How Far We've Come" - I've come a long way.
I got an iPod a few years ago for Christmas, a little 4gig nano, when the new nanos came out. Life changed for me, because I got one of those accoutrement's to be able to play the iPod in the car, and then figured out how to get the input/output on my work computer set so I could hook the iPod into that. And poof! My favorite selections of music all the time. I get so tired of listening to the radio, because they play the same songs over and over and over again, and they talk too damn much. Yes, I know they have bills to pay too, but damn. I don't need to hear the same commercial for penis growth or extenders or supplements, whatever it is that I'm sure is just snake oil, all the time. Life with an iPod is good, until you fill that mother up. Since I'm too cheap to go buy an iPod with more gigs, I've had to be selective with which songs to put on it. I'm up to about 579 songs right now, but I've had to remove a few to make room for the new ones.
Of course, everyone thinks they have the most eclectic selection of music on their iPod, just as they will tell you they have the most eclectic collection of books. Have you ever noticed that no one ever wants to admit they have the most eclectic collection of porn? You never hear anyone bragging about that. Because it's not eclectic, it's probably more freakish and deviant. But enough of that sidebar. Of course, I used to think that too, that I have the most eclectic collection of iPod songs. But I don't want to be that person anymore. I have shit on my iPod that I like, and a few songs on there that my kids like, and if someone (The Ex) doesn't like it, then just hang the fuck in there and wait for me to walk away.
So my random iPod selection for today is Matchbox Twenty's "How Far We've Come". My random selection isn't about critiquing the band, or analyzing the lyrics, because I'm not that good. I will never be a Rolling Stone correspondent. I don't know enough about the band, or the lyrics to really wax poetical about it. My random selection is more about what I think about when I hear the song, and what it means to me. This song... liberal tripe. I used to feel guilty about paying for, via download, music that was not conservative friendly. I really had a lot of guilt over downloading the Dixie Chicks (and I don't even like country music) because I felt like I had cheated on Dubya. It was my dirty little Republican secret, but like all dirty little secrets that we feel somewhat ashamed about, it felt kind of good, too. But then a friend of mine from high school gave me a pass and said that when it comes to music, politics doesn't count. Good enough benediction for me.
I don't really like Matchbox Twenty, and this is the only song of theirs that I have. I don't watch videos, so I don't know what the band interpreted the song to be, but I think I saw the vid once or twice years ago and it's a statement of where we, a country, are now, and what's wrong with it. Kind of like the new version of R.E.M's "It's the End of the World As We Know It" but not as good. I know this Matchbox song got played whenever CNN needed a 30 to 45 second montage of something and wanted to make a statement about America, the economy, the war, etc. If I recall correctly, and I usually do, I think this song came out about the time that Obama was a freshman Senator from Illinois, and scuttlebutt whisperings started about how he might just be our next JFK. Actually, my statement about me recalling correctly is just mad smack talking on my behalf. Because I love to talk shit and stuff. More on that in another blog. The other reason I like the song is that there's something in it, maybe the drum beat, that reminds me of U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday", which is definitely one of my most favorite songs ever.
This song, this song makes me think of where I am right now. I disengaged myself from a not-so-great (or worse) marriage, told him it was okay to blame me because I just couldn't lie anymore about loving him, refused to go to counseling because counseling wasn't going to make me love him, and walked the hell away with my dignity packed up in a bunch of boxes for me to piece together at a later time. It's been a little over six months since I told him I wanted a divorce, and in that time, I lived the absolute worst three to four months of my life (which hasn't all been bread and butter), really fought within myself to not seek some type of psychiatric hospitalization or at least heavy psychotropic medications, got involved in one really ugly domestic dispute involving the po-lice, because that's what we call them in the South. I managed to buy a house and move the FUCK out with absolutely no desire to ever go back down that nasty, bumpy, dysfunctional road. I've dealt with lies, manipulations, accusations, threats, some of the worst passive-aggressiveness I've ever encountered, insecurity, intimidation, and at least one not-so-fabulous attempt at being blackmailed. A lot of it throughout the course of the marriage, but the worst of it during the separation. As a caveat, let me just throw this out there - I am not, nor was I the victim of this marriage. I wholly contributed to most of the dysfunction. I always feel like I need to say that, because I don't want people to feel sorry for me. I got myself into this whole mess with an "I do" that probably never should have happened, and by God, I'll get myself out of it. Anyway, the game playing continues, but whatev. I'm learning how not to play back, because relationship head games are no fun if you have to play them alone. I'm getting my frame of mind back to where I want to be, need to be, for my own sanity and happiness and for the sake of my children.
I'm proud of what I've done. I'm proud of the stand I've taken, and the person that I can see myself becoming again. I'm okay with being proud of what I've done, because this has taken a lot of internal fortitude and the ability to reach deep down inside of myself to make all of this shit happen. I'm incredibly grateful for what I've been able to do, because I know that what I've been able to do, just walk away from a marriage and buy a house, buy what I need to buy for my children, is not the norm. I'm incredibly grateful I didn't have to move into an apartment or shitty rental house like my mom did when my dad left. I'm incredibly grateful for my super family, who remind me on the regular that their loyalty is with me, despite The Ex's victim role and comments to them about my infidelity (that didn't happen, but I guess for an egotistical bastard it's hard to admit you got LEFT for no one) and anything else he thinks might hit a nerve. I'm incredibly grateful for all of my friends, many of whom have checked on in a totally random fashion out of nothing but concern and caring.
So yeah, "How Far We've Come" - I've come a long way.
Gems for the...
Vajazzle. Ever heard of it? It made the news several months ago, when Jennifer Love Hewitt went on some talk show and discussed vajazzle, and that she has vajazzled her vajayjay. Apparently, this involves getting a Brazilian wax and then using some kind of hot glue to glue rhinestones on your stuff. I'm not kidding. Google it. The preemptive wax job is imperative because no one wants weird glue stuck in their pubes. But seriously, who the hell thought this up? Why are women actually getting this done? And how has the vagina, the shining light and trophy of childbirth and all subsequent motherhood, come to be named the vajayjay?
Personally, because this blog is all about being personal, even if it makes you uncomfortable (because it's really all about me), I will never vajazzle. I can't imagine spending money on that. Honestly, I think it's a little tacky. Since I'm from the South, the word tacky really means so much more than just not okay. It's one of those loaded Southern words that I will continue to perpetrate because I love being from the South, although some in my state argue that we are not a part of the South - helloooo, anyone remember the capital of the Confederacy? But back to tacky. Tacky basically means in bad taste, but again, it's one of those loaded Southern words that really means so much more. To say something is tacky is to pretty much end the conversation; it's THE final word. And most Southern women, once someone has thrown the word tacky out there, will not argue it. They know it's true, and there is just no defense for tackiness.
Hot gluing rhinestones, or swarovski crystals (which are just expensive rhinestones) on your junk just strikes me as unnecessary. Obviously, it's not real hot glue, like the kind of hot glue women use for craft projects, because that stuff gets hot enough to melt your skin off. I must assume it's like the kind of medical superglue they use to glue incisions together when stitches are either unavailable (like the battlefield and ambulance crews in the projects) or not so pretty (plastic surgery). I got my tubes tied a few months ago and this is what they used for my incision. Of course, the doctor got a little slap happy with that stuff and not only glued my belly button shut, but also glued the band-aid to me, so I finally ended up cutting the band-aid off a few days later only to have the little white band-aid pad glued to my abdomen. It was not sexy. I'll have to assume the vajazzle jewels are glued on with this stuff, which does wear off, and probably wears off quicker with some horizontal friction. So that means you either have to then superglue them back on yourself, or take them back to the salon for said gluing.
But the original question - why do this? Do you need that much attention on your genitals? Are you that insecure with who you are that you have resorted to gluing gems and glitter and such on yourself for those private moments? I mean, really, I hope whatever you've got glued on down there is not the highlight of that encounter, because if it is... well, then, I'm just sorry for you. I could probably understand someone in adult entertainment doing this, because that industry is all about the attention. They aren't doing what they do because they want people to pay attention to their brains. But Jane Q. Public? Come on, girls, let's just be more than our vaginas.
I've never had anyone ask me if I vajazzle. I'm a little sorry for that, but yet still waiting. It might happen one day, if I'm lucky. And then I will have the wondrous opportunity of explaining to them that me vajazzling would be the equivalent of taking some fabulous mink-lined gloves, and sticking craft rhinestones all over them. Yeah, mink-lined. And don't call your shit vajayjay. Have more respect for that shining light of womanhood. Please.
Personally, because this blog is all about being personal, even if it makes you uncomfortable (because it's really all about me), I will never vajazzle. I can't imagine spending money on that. Honestly, I think it's a little tacky. Since I'm from the South, the word tacky really means so much more than just not okay. It's one of those loaded Southern words that I will continue to perpetrate because I love being from the South, although some in my state argue that we are not a part of the South - helloooo, anyone remember the capital of the Confederacy? But back to tacky. Tacky basically means in bad taste, but again, it's one of those loaded Southern words that really means so much more. To say something is tacky is to pretty much end the conversation; it's THE final word. And most Southern women, once someone has thrown the word tacky out there, will not argue it. They know it's true, and there is just no defense for tackiness.
Hot gluing rhinestones, or swarovski crystals (which are just expensive rhinestones) on your junk just strikes me as unnecessary. Obviously, it's not real hot glue, like the kind of hot glue women use for craft projects, because that stuff gets hot enough to melt your skin off. I must assume it's like the kind of medical superglue they use to glue incisions together when stitches are either unavailable (like the battlefield and ambulance crews in the projects) or not so pretty (plastic surgery). I got my tubes tied a few months ago and this is what they used for my incision. Of course, the doctor got a little slap happy with that stuff and not only glued my belly button shut, but also glued the band-aid to me, so I finally ended up cutting the band-aid off a few days later only to have the little white band-aid pad glued to my abdomen. It was not sexy. I'll have to assume the vajazzle jewels are glued on with this stuff, which does wear off, and probably wears off quicker with some horizontal friction. So that means you either have to then superglue them back on yourself, or take them back to the salon for said gluing.
But the original question - why do this? Do you need that much attention on your genitals? Are you that insecure with who you are that you have resorted to gluing gems and glitter and such on yourself for those private moments? I mean, really, I hope whatever you've got glued on down there is not the highlight of that encounter, because if it is... well, then, I'm just sorry for you. I could probably understand someone in adult entertainment doing this, because that industry is all about the attention. They aren't doing what they do because they want people to pay attention to their brains. But Jane Q. Public? Come on, girls, let's just be more than our vaginas.
I've never had anyone ask me if I vajazzle. I'm a little sorry for that, but yet still waiting. It might happen one day, if I'm lucky. And then I will have the wondrous opportunity of explaining to them that me vajazzling would be the equivalent of taking some fabulous mink-lined gloves, and sticking craft rhinestones all over them. Yeah, mink-lined. And don't call your shit vajayjay. Have more respect for that shining light of womanhood. Please.
Plans
My plans for today were to sleep in, get some laundry done, run downtown and work for a few hours, come home, watch some complete tripe on TV, finish the laundry and housecleaning, and go to bed. Yes, I realize that tripe is the stomach of an ox that people eat, but isn't that pretty descriptive for most of the crap on TV nowadays? Another one of those fancy words I like to use. I work that one into my everyday conversation, usually in the place of the word crap. Stomach of an ox is crap, but to say something is complete tripe seems so much more accurate than just calling it crap. That, and calling something that is crap chitlins doesn't work, although chitlins are far deeper in the realm of crap than tripe is. If you know what chitlins are, you will get the double meaning of that statement. If you don't know what chitlins are, please stop reading my blog. I will be willing to sacrifice you as a follower.
But my plans for the day were completely waylaid yesterday when I was running to Wal-Mart to get stuff to hang up my daughter's curtains, and the car died on me. Literally, just stopped running. I considered myself lucky to have not been at a stoplight, but was able to coast over to the side of the road. Definitely not the battery, because the radio and electric windows were still working. Probably the alternator, because I've never had it replaced and the car has 112k on it. I love my car, more than I've loved any other car I've ever had. My grandfather bought this car about three months before he died, paid for it outright brand-spanking new, and then when he died I got the car. I really needed a car at that point in time, too, because The Ex had just totalled my truck and I was still trying to pay down what the insurance hadn't covered. A big lesson to me on GAP insurance, that's for sure. So this car has sentimental value, because of my grandfather, but more than that, it's just been a great car. Yeah, I'm the only person I know under 70 who drives a Buick, but that car amazes me. It's held up well to my abuses (which are really minor), my children's abuses (which are somewhat moderate), and the abuses of driving on I-95 daily and driving too fast through Shockoe Bottom (which are really major). With my financial situation being what it is right now, I don't think I could afford another car, and really, I don't want one. I love my Buick. I love the fact that it's got a sleeper engine, or something like that, according to Wikipedia. I love the fact that when I get down on the gas pedal the car shoots forward in some dangerous hemi fashion, and what I love more than that is that I got the car.
When my grandfather died, The Ex had a car which we had just purchased (used) the year before, so his car was about 3 years old, total. But he had a fucking fit about the fact that I should get his car, and he should get my grandfather's car, because, well, he drove more and needed a more reliable car. Of course, his car would have been more reliable if he had taken care of it. Taking care of a car to me does not mean a spit shine every other weekend, it means getting the oil changed every five thousand miles - because I refuse to buy into the oil companies demands of a three thousand mile change, and addressing the knocks and weird sounds when they pop up. He didn't know how to take care of a car, and didn't seem interested in learning. I'm of the opinion that if you spend THOUSANDS of dollars on something, you should at least be decent enough to take care of it. I mean, protect your investment, for God's sake. It's not a hard thing to do. But there was other stuff he couldn't or wouldn't take care of either, so I don't know why his inability to take care of a vehicle was surprising to me. I think you should take care of your belongings as well as you take care of your genitals. Either you love your shit or you don't. Time will tell, in the end.
But I digress into that muddy cesspool of badmouthing, which is sometimes fun, like it's fun to watch mud wrestling and swim in a swimming hole on a road named Hard Times. However, all three wear thin pretty quickly, and the joy is gone before you've even seen the main mud wrestling event, and instead are just wishing it were jello, and then thinking to hell with wrestling, jello shots would be so much more fun because after enough of them, we can just do our own wrestling. Or wrasslin', which is what it's really called. Naked wrasslin'. So anyway, The Ex had a fit to have the Buick. And I stood my ground, and insisted no, you are not getting that car. First of all, he was my grandfather and the damn will named me as the person to get the car. Not you, the grandson-in-law. And secondly, didn't you just, three weeks ago, completely wreck my year old truck? Need I remind you that you didn't just total my vehicle, you totalled someone else's vehicle as well and let's just be happy they aren't going to sue you? Or sue me, by default of a faulty, error-ridden marriage? He pouted about that car for at least six months. I think that I love the car more for the fact that I didn't cave into the manipulations and bullying more than anything else. The car kind of symbolizes my inner strength. Nope, that sounds too gay. That car... that car... is my big giant middle finger. My big 2003 Fuck You. That's why I love that car and will probably do anything I can to keep it as long as I can.
Plans for today... we'll see. Stuck in the house, watching tripe, waiting to get my Fuck You back. Life is good.
But my plans for the day were completely waylaid yesterday when I was running to Wal-Mart to get stuff to hang up my daughter's curtains, and the car died on me. Literally, just stopped running. I considered myself lucky to have not been at a stoplight, but was able to coast over to the side of the road. Definitely not the battery, because the radio and electric windows were still working. Probably the alternator, because I've never had it replaced and the car has 112k on it. I love my car, more than I've loved any other car I've ever had. My grandfather bought this car about three months before he died, paid for it outright brand-spanking new, and then when he died I got the car. I really needed a car at that point in time, too, because The Ex had just totalled my truck and I was still trying to pay down what the insurance hadn't covered. A big lesson to me on GAP insurance, that's for sure. So this car has sentimental value, because of my grandfather, but more than that, it's just been a great car. Yeah, I'm the only person I know under 70 who drives a Buick, but that car amazes me. It's held up well to my abuses (which are really minor), my children's abuses (which are somewhat moderate), and the abuses of driving on I-95 daily and driving too fast through Shockoe Bottom (which are really major). With my financial situation being what it is right now, I don't think I could afford another car, and really, I don't want one. I love my Buick. I love the fact that it's got a sleeper engine, or something like that, according to Wikipedia. I love the fact that when I get down on the gas pedal the car shoots forward in some dangerous hemi fashion, and what I love more than that is that I got the car.
When my grandfather died, The Ex had a car which we had just purchased (used) the year before, so his car was about 3 years old, total. But he had a fucking fit about the fact that I should get his car, and he should get my grandfather's car, because, well, he drove more and needed a more reliable car. Of course, his car would have been more reliable if he had taken care of it. Taking care of a car to me does not mean a spit shine every other weekend, it means getting the oil changed every five thousand miles - because I refuse to buy into the oil companies demands of a three thousand mile change, and addressing the knocks and weird sounds when they pop up. He didn't know how to take care of a car, and didn't seem interested in learning. I'm of the opinion that if you spend THOUSANDS of dollars on something, you should at least be decent enough to take care of it. I mean, protect your investment, for God's sake. It's not a hard thing to do. But there was other stuff he couldn't or wouldn't take care of either, so I don't know why his inability to take care of a vehicle was surprising to me. I think you should take care of your belongings as well as you take care of your genitals. Either you love your shit or you don't. Time will tell, in the end.
But I digress into that muddy cesspool of badmouthing, which is sometimes fun, like it's fun to watch mud wrestling and swim in a swimming hole on a road named Hard Times. However, all three wear thin pretty quickly, and the joy is gone before you've even seen the main mud wrestling event, and instead are just wishing it were jello, and then thinking to hell with wrestling, jello shots would be so much more fun because after enough of them, we can just do our own wrestling. Or wrasslin', which is what it's really called. Naked wrasslin'. So anyway, The Ex had a fit to have the Buick. And I stood my ground, and insisted no, you are not getting that car. First of all, he was my grandfather and the damn will named me as the person to get the car. Not you, the grandson-in-law. And secondly, didn't you just, three weeks ago, completely wreck my year old truck? Need I remind you that you didn't just total my vehicle, you totalled someone else's vehicle as well and let's just be happy they aren't going to sue you? Or sue me, by default of a faulty, error-ridden marriage? He pouted about that car for at least six months. I think that I love the car more for the fact that I didn't cave into the manipulations and bullying more than anything else. The car kind of symbolizes my inner strength. Nope, that sounds too gay. That car... that car... is my big giant middle finger. My big 2003 Fuck You. That's why I love that car and will probably do anything I can to keep it as long as I can.
Plans for today... we'll see. Stuck in the house, watching tripe, waiting to get my Fuck You back. Life is good.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Stuff Women Do
One of my bestest friends in the world came into town last night; I had not seen her in a couple of years, at least, but we keep up on the phone pretty regular. She's one of those awesome friends where you can go six months without talking and when you do, it's like you didn't miss any time. I am eternally grateful to have a few friends like that, no awkwardness, no trying to reestablish that comfort zone, just screaming and yelling "Hey ho! I missed your ass!"
We went out to dinner, where I was hoping to at least get hit on, but no dice. And the waiter was queer as a football bat, and I imagine he's getting more action than I am. My girlfriend and I were laughing and the subject came up about the incredibly stupid stuff that women will do for each other. I assume that men will do stupid stuff for each other, but it can't be as intimate and personal as the stupid stuff that women do. It just can't. I first came to this realization when I was getting my second Brazilian waxing. I couldn't do anything more than lay there in absolute fear the first time convincing myself that this was truly an-eye-on-the-prize kind of moment in life. But the second time, yeah, I knew what to expect, so I didn't need to focus on when that ripping sound and the accompanying pain would occur. I was laying on the massage table, with my legs frogged up, which means that my feet were drawn up sole to sole with my legs flat. Kind of like how a frog lays when you dissect them, except I missed that part of biology class in 10th grade because I was on a six week expulsion. So anyway, as the aesthetician (fancy French name for pussy waxer) was rooting around down there chasing all of my stray hairs and ripping them out alternately with wax and tweezers, I was thinking... This is some crazy shit that women will do for each other. First of all, it's crazy that this salon has like five aestheticians and they do nothing but wax for eight hours a day. That's crazy, too, that so many women are willing to pay in the range of 50 dollars a pop, plus tip, to have their pubic hair removed when it's only going to grow back. Whenever I'm in some compromising position such as this, I like to imagine that I'm probably not the worst looking person she's looked at all day, and that my vagina is really nothing special to this woman. Kind of like the gynecologist. But I was laying there on the table, thinking, this is absolutely insane, what we women will do for one another. Here, wax my genitals, get it all sparkly clean, and then I'll flip over so you can do the back door, too. Yeah, they do that too, and it's included! No extra charge! Yay!
We will midwife for one another. Okay, that's not so crazy because that's what we women have been doing for pretty much the history of the human race, but I think it's kind of crazy now. Childbirth is really messy, I mean, really extra messy. I was so glad I was in the hospital both times because good grief, what a mess. All of it just got swept right off the bed into the bio hazard can, and I was grateful for that. Just poof! Bring a child into the world, do the most amazing thing a woman will probably ever do, but let's make sure that blood clot that's the size of a liver, and looks like a liver, gets right into the proper receptacle. I couldn't be a midwife. I just don't have the stomach for it. I'm cool with it though, because that's one more thing that we do for each other.
My girlfriend who came to visit, she's loaned her house out to other girlfriends for their extracurricular activities. Because she knows what it's like to be in a marriage that sucks ass. She knows what it's like to meet that one person, that one man, who can breathe on your neck and make the world stop. She knows what two hours of privacy can mean to a girlfriend who hasn't had any privacy since she realized she mistakenly married an insecure stalker. No, I'm not talking about me, and no, I'm not going to get into my views on extracurricular activities, other than to say extracurricular activities generally only happen when someone's business is not being taken care of. To each her own. I'm working hard to just take people as they are and not pass judgement because I've passed judgement on people who have been where I am now, and I feel like a total ass for it.
I have a girlfriend at work who got her nose pierced a few months ago, and the stud was so small that it kind of fell through her nose because her nostril was swollen after the piercing. Or something like that, I was grossed out by the whole thing and kept running back to my office when the conversation came about. But this stud, it kind of fell through and was getting lost in the nostril and the swollen tissue, so what did my girl do? She called another co-worker and had her dig up in her nose with her long pinkie fingernail to get that mother out. Yeah, I didn't stick around for that either, but I called and laughed on the intercom. There's no way you could have called a man for that. First of all, do you really want a man digging up in your nose? And secondly, do you really want a man with a long pinkie fingernail digging up in your nose? I think not. But the digging co-worker, she just jumped right to it. No bitching, no whining, just washed her hands and dug up in my girls nostril to get that thing out and put it back in the piercing. I was impressed.
Women will answer the call of women they don't even know. Find a crowd of women you don't know, and ask someone for a tampon because it's an emergency. Everyone there will be digging through their purses for you, except for that one woman who will inevitably announce she's had a hysterectomy, so thank God, she doesn't need those damn things anymore. Women will throw sanitary products at you, because they've all been there. They know how crucial an emergency is. Ask for a condom, though, and there will be that long discussion about when the last time was they got some, what's he look like, how long have you known him, are you on birth control too, what kind of equipment is he working with, what kind of equipment their men are not working with, and do you need more than one?
Sometimes in life, I wonder what it would be like to be a man. This normally occurs when I know I'm getting screwed in some manner, and not the good kind of screwing, but I feel like this screwing that is either happening or trying to happen might not happen if I were a man. But such is life, I assume. At the end of the day, I'm glad to be a part of that craziness that women will do for each other.
We went out to dinner, where I was hoping to at least get hit on, but no dice. And the waiter was queer as a football bat, and I imagine he's getting more action than I am. My girlfriend and I were laughing and the subject came up about the incredibly stupid stuff that women will do for each other. I assume that men will do stupid stuff for each other, but it can't be as intimate and personal as the stupid stuff that women do. It just can't. I first came to this realization when I was getting my second Brazilian waxing. I couldn't do anything more than lay there in absolute fear the first time convincing myself that this was truly an-eye-on-the-prize kind of moment in life. But the second time, yeah, I knew what to expect, so I didn't need to focus on when that ripping sound and the accompanying pain would occur. I was laying on the massage table, with my legs frogged up, which means that my feet were drawn up sole to sole with my legs flat. Kind of like how a frog lays when you dissect them, except I missed that part of biology class in 10th grade because I was on a six week expulsion. So anyway, as the aesthetician (fancy French name for pussy waxer) was rooting around down there chasing all of my stray hairs and ripping them out alternately with wax and tweezers, I was thinking... This is some crazy shit that women will do for each other. First of all, it's crazy that this salon has like five aestheticians and they do nothing but wax for eight hours a day. That's crazy, too, that so many women are willing to pay in the range of 50 dollars a pop, plus tip, to have their pubic hair removed when it's only going to grow back. Whenever I'm in some compromising position such as this, I like to imagine that I'm probably not the worst looking person she's looked at all day, and that my vagina is really nothing special to this woman. Kind of like the gynecologist. But I was laying there on the table, thinking, this is absolutely insane, what we women will do for one another. Here, wax my genitals, get it all sparkly clean, and then I'll flip over so you can do the back door, too. Yeah, they do that too, and it's included! No extra charge! Yay!
We will midwife for one another. Okay, that's not so crazy because that's what we women have been doing for pretty much the history of the human race, but I think it's kind of crazy now. Childbirth is really messy, I mean, really extra messy. I was so glad I was in the hospital both times because good grief, what a mess. All of it just got swept right off the bed into the bio hazard can, and I was grateful for that. Just poof! Bring a child into the world, do the most amazing thing a woman will probably ever do, but let's make sure that blood clot that's the size of a liver, and looks like a liver, gets right into the proper receptacle. I couldn't be a midwife. I just don't have the stomach for it. I'm cool with it though, because that's one more thing that we do for each other.
My girlfriend who came to visit, she's loaned her house out to other girlfriends for their extracurricular activities. Because she knows what it's like to be in a marriage that sucks ass. She knows what it's like to meet that one person, that one man, who can breathe on your neck and make the world stop. She knows what two hours of privacy can mean to a girlfriend who hasn't had any privacy since she realized she mistakenly married an insecure stalker. No, I'm not talking about me, and no, I'm not going to get into my views on extracurricular activities, other than to say extracurricular activities generally only happen when someone's business is not being taken care of. To each her own. I'm working hard to just take people as they are and not pass judgement because I've passed judgement on people who have been where I am now, and I feel like a total ass for it.
I have a girlfriend at work who got her nose pierced a few months ago, and the stud was so small that it kind of fell through her nose because her nostril was swollen after the piercing. Or something like that, I was grossed out by the whole thing and kept running back to my office when the conversation came about. But this stud, it kind of fell through and was getting lost in the nostril and the swollen tissue, so what did my girl do? She called another co-worker and had her dig up in her nose with her long pinkie fingernail to get that mother out. Yeah, I didn't stick around for that either, but I called and laughed on the intercom. There's no way you could have called a man for that. First of all, do you really want a man digging up in your nose? And secondly, do you really want a man with a long pinkie fingernail digging up in your nose? I think not. But the digging co-worker, she just jumped right to it. No bitching, no whining, just washed her hands and dug up in my girls nostril to get that thing out and put it back in the piercing. I was impressed.
Women will answer the call of women they don't even know. Find a crowd of women you don't know, and ask someone for a tampon because it's an emergency. Everyone there will be digging through their purses for you, except for that one woman who will inevitably announce she's had a hysterectomy, so thank God, she doesn't need those damn things anymore. Women will throw sanitary products at you, because they've all been there. They know how crucial an emergency is. Ask for a condom, though, and there will be that long discussion about when the last time was they got some, what's he look like, how long have you known him, are you on birth control too, what kind of equipment is he working with, what kind of equipment their men are not working with, and do you need more than one?
Sometimes in life, I wonder what it would be like to be a man. This normally occurs when I know I'm getting screwed in some manner, and not the good kind of screwing, but I feel like this screwing that is either happening or trying to happen might not happen if I were a man. But such is life, I assume. At the end of the day, I'm glad to be a part of that craziness that women will do for each other.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Random Wikiness #1
I love Wikipedia. Who doesn't? I mean, everything on there is completely true and no need to look any further for any research. I spend my lunch break (sometimes an hour, sometimes ten minutes) surfing through Wikiworld. But since I work for the guvment, the man, I have to be careful of what I look at out there in the wide world of the web. Big Brother is always watching, monitoring, waiting... for me to look at something totally inappropriate and unnecessary to my job function so they can take my children's health insurance away *knocks on wood*. Love the random article, until I ended up on anal bleaching one day. Uhhh, can't really explain how that applies to my job, but quite interesting nonetheless.
So my random article for the day (at home) is Bonestell crater on Mars, named after some space artist named Chesley Bonestell. Really, who gives a fuck? Not a great random article. Makes me think that Chesley Bonestell was a bum ass artist who needed a niche in the 50's and 60's and hopped on the JFK space exploration train. Or whatever president it was. I know a little bit about art and I've never heard of this guy, so I'm thinking he probably wasn't that great, except to maybe get some stuff in the Smithsonian Space Museum, or whatever it's called. I'm not even interested enough to click on Bonestell's name, but instead prefer to imagine him a beatnik spending his time smoking a little dope, listening to bad poetry, trying to get laid, and doing a little art here and there. Basically what all the other beatniks did. Which would be nothing. Come to think of it, I think the beatniks are probably like the goths of today. Engage in weird and strange stuff that gets parents, educators and law enforcement riled up, but all together, doesn't amount to shit.
I do remember a guy named Chesley McNeil, though, and I'm sure I spelled his last name wrong, who was the fill in meteorologist on a local channel a few years ago, maybe ten years or so ago, who forecast the weather while channeling a really clean and family friendly Chris Rock. I don't know what happened to him, Chesley McNeil, but he was a decent forecaster. Basically gave you the current weather conditions, told you what might happen and what might not, and acted like he didn't give a fuck if the weather did something totally different. He was not a Ken doll, was probably not politically correct, was not white, and that's probably why he's not with that channel anymore. Moved on to bigger and better things, I suppose. As for the Bonestell crater, again... Who cares?
So my random article for the day (at home) is Bonestell crater on Mars, named after some space artist named Chesley Bonestell. Really, who gives a fuck? Not a great random article. Makes me think that Chesley Bonestell was a bum ass artist who needed a niche in the 50's and 60's and hopped on the JFK space exploration train. Or whatever president it was. I know a little bit about art and I've never heard of this guy, so I'm thinking he probably wasn't that great, except to maybe get some stuff in the Smithsonian Space Museum, or whatever it's called. I'm not even interested enough to click on Bonestell's name, but instead prefer to imagine him a beatnik spending his time smoking a little dope, listening to bad poetry, trying to get laid, and doing a little art here and there. Basically what all the other beatniks did. Which would be nothing. Come to think of it, I think the beatniks are probably like the goths of today. Engage in weird and strange stuff that gets parents, educators and law enforcement riled up, but all together, doesn't amount to shit.
I do remember a guy named Chesley McNeil, though, and I'm sure I spelled his last name wrong, who was the fill in meteorologist on a local channel a few years ago, maybe ten years or so ago, who forecast the weather while channeling a really clean and family friendly Chris Rock. I don't know what happened to him, Chesley McNeil, but he was a decent forecaster. Basically gave you the current weather conditions, told you what might happen and what might not, and acted like he didn't give a fuck if the weather did something totally different. He was not a Ken doll, was probably not politically correct, was not white, and that's probably why he's not with that channel anymore. Moved on to bigger and better things, I suppose. As for the Bonestell crater, again... Who cares?
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