Wednesday, November 29, 2006
All the bail bond, title loan, and cash advance places feature only African American or Mexican actors. When did the local television stations get all Michael Richards on me? I mean, what is THAT about? One particularly charming commercial for a bail bonding place has an African American woman singing a very dramatic song (think Whitney Houston, pre-crack days dramatic) about how "sometimes you have some problems! What to do? This bail bonding place is here for you! REEEEEEEEEEEEEUNITED! Reunited with your loved ones!"
There is also a title pawn commercial that makes me want to vomit. The company is called Title Max and they have this woman who looks like a coke-whore bebopping about going, "Title Max got your money, your money, your REAL money! HAHA!" I'm totally not kidding. It's so horrible. All the while, she's waving about what appears to be $200 in small bills.
I wish the commercials would just be honest and say, "Hi. Yeah. About that? We're going to give you $200 and you have to pay us back $250. And when you don't have it? Yeah, we're going to keep renewing your loan. Forever. Yeah, seriously. The rest of your life. You'll never pay this off. You'll never pay this back. Good luck with that."
I guess they wouldn't make many loans that way, though. It's all about marketing.
Anyway. The true highlight of the day so far, between the nose-blowing and hurling, was The Maury show. I've seen Maury's show a few times over the years and have come to the conclusion that he has three topics for all shows:
1) Who's my baby's daddy?
2) My out-of-control teen
3) Whacky animals!
Today, luckily, was a show called something like, um, "Who's the daddy, you or your brother?"
To spare you from ever having to watch this show, because I'm generous like that, I'll tell you the basic paternity test show format:
1) Girl from the age of 16-22 on stage, crying.
2) Maury says something ridiculous like, "Angel is only 16 years old. Six months ago, she had a beautiful baby girl." Cue photo of baby backstage. Audience says, "AWWW!" Maury continues on to say, "Angel thought she had a picture perfect life with her boyfriend, a man called, Big Pimpin' Willie." Cue photo of BPW backstage, flashing what appears to be gang signs at the camera. Audience laughs and/or boos. Maury then says, "Unfortunately, all Angel's dreams for a perfect future were shattered when Big Pimpin' Willie started denying he was her baby's father. Take a look at this."
Sidenote: Clearly, Maury is on crack cocaine. I would venture to say that approximately 0% of people who are 16 and have a baby have a picture perfect life. For the love of frogs, even people who are 30 and have a baby don't have a picture perfect life what with all the poop and spit and whatnot.
3) Cue video of girl, alternately crying and shouting,
"I AM 200 PERCENT SURE THAT BIG PIMPIN' WILLIE IS THE FATHER OF MY BABY! HE SAYS I'VE BEEN SLEEPING AROUND! I HAVE NEVER SLEPT WITH ANYONE ELSE! MY BABY DESERVES A FATHER! HE NEEDS TO STAND UP AND BE A MAN!"
4) Cue audience. They all cheer.
5) Maury says, "Let's see what Big Pimpin' Willie has to say about this!"
6) Cue video of BPW. He shouts the following,
"I AM 1000% SURE I AM NOT THE FATHER OF ANGEL'S BABY! SHE'S A SLUT! SHE SLEPT WITH MY COUSIN, MY BEST FRIEND, AND THE FAMILY DOG! SHE'S JUST WANTS WHAT BIG PIMPIN' WILLIE'S GOT! ALL THE LADIES WANT A PIECE OF ME! ANGEL, WHEN THIS TEST PROVES I AIN'T YOUR BABY DADDY, I WANT YOU TO LEAVE ME AND MY FAMILY ALONE!"
7) Camera cuts back to girl, who is out of her chair, waving her arms about wildly shouting, "BRING HIM OUT! BRING HIM OUT!"
8) BPW walks out. Audience boos. Girl shrieks at him, "HOW ARE YOU GONNA SAY THAT'S NOT YOUR BABY!" Walks over to the big screen on which Maury's staff has helpfully placed a photograph of the baby next to a photograph of BPW.
"SEE!" the girl shrieks. "They have the same lips! They have the same nose! They have the same backs of the ears! They looks just alike!"
BPW says, "Nah! That ain't my baby!"
9) Maury dramatically gets the results from someone sitting in the audience. "Let's find out now!"
10) Audience cheers.
11) Maury says, "In the case of 6 month old Sailor Moon, Big Pimpin' Willie, you ARE THE FATHER!"
12) Girl jumps up and shouts, "I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU! IN YOUR FACE! IN YOUR FACE! YOU NEED TO APOLOGIZE! YOU NEED TO PAY CHILD SUPPORT! BLAH, BLAH!"
13) Cut to backstage. New dad holds baby. Hurray.
11) Maury says, "In the case of 6 month old Sailor Moon, Big Pimpin' Willie, you ARE NOT THE FATHER!"
12) Girl shrieks and runs from the stage. Camera cuts to the backstage area where girl is flailing about, weeping and sobbing.
13) Big Pimpin' Willie is dancing about the stage saying something like, " Boo-yeah!" Or something, I don't know.
14) Cue Maury backstage. He says, "We'll help you find the father! We can test more men."
That Maury. He's crafty.
The variations are all pretty slight. If the girl gets pregnant by her husband's brother or something that segment has a slightly different feel. Not so different that you might mistake it for, say, The Today Show or anything. But Maury has to keep it fresh and exciting.
Sweet Lord. I'll work tomorrow. Being home makes my brain hurt in my own head.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Anyway, here it is:
Oh man. Where to start. This is going to be lengthy, so if you don't want to read it all, then you should stop here. My life for the past couple months has been miserable. I can hardly stand it. I've been going through depression, but I agree with my counselor that it's because of my relationship. My husband started going with me to "learn to communicate", which we've been trying to do. However, I do all the things I'm supposed to do to talk to him (never blame him, say how I feel as opposed to he does this to make me feel this, use a calm, clear voice, etc...) and he still continues to tell me I'm a dramatic, whiney *** and that he's sick of listening to the same complaint. My complaint is this. I'm not treated special. I'm not treated like an important person in his life. He is rude and snaps at me. He is completely involved with his life and doesn't include me in it. We have little to no physical contact other then hugs (not even kissing - and sex? well, it's easily been 2 months...) I'm in hell 24/7 when I'm around him because I want so much more and he acts like I don't exist. And I really don't know what to do. We're in college. It's very hard for me to make friends for a couple of reasons - first of all, most girls I know find out that I'm married and assume that I'm "grown up" and no fun. Secondly, and most importantly, most girls in college that are my age want to go to the bar and pick up guys. I don't want to go to the bar, since I don't like to drink, and even if I did, we have a house about 20 miles away from campus, and I would have no way of getting home. And I don't want to pick up guys, obviously. Any friends that I have had in the past have moved away or graduated. And now that I'm working 40+ hours a week and only taking online and night classes, that makes my "friend-pool" a lot smaller. He's found a group of guys who enjoy the same thing he does - aka - video games. I'm happy that he's happy. But gaming is all he does. I'm not exaggerating. On an average night, we both get home around 7 (he would usually get home sooner, but his transmission died and we can't get it fixed until Christmas break) The first thing he does is get on the computer. Plays video games. If he's bored with that, he gets on the PS2, and plays vg's. If he's bored that (which rarely happens) he goes to sleep. If we do ANYTHING together, it involves me playing vg's with him (which I don't mind for, say, an hour... but I don't want to stay up until 1am when I have to get up at 6), or I watch him play vg's (which he says is quality time?), or we watch a movie. If I suggest anything else, such as taking a walk, playing a board game, going downtown, etc... he tells me that he's busy. Always, he's busy. Then he tells me I have no interests. I feel that any interests I had before have been swished away because I've always been the one sacrificing my interests to share his. I can't even remember what I was interested in - and the things I would like to do - community plays, community bands, pottery, etc... all cost money or time, which is something I don't have any of. So here he has this wonderful life where he doesn't even bother to try to do things with me, and I have nothing. I just clean when he's gone because I want to be a good wife. And, what's worse, is that if I act like I'm sad or irritated in front of him, he flat out tells me he won't forgive me until he sleeps. An example I used was "If we wake up late, and I have to wait for you to get ready, and I'm irritated that I'm running late, but I'm happy and fun the rest of the day, you'll still be mad?" and he said "yes, because you've ruined my day." I feel that those expectations are unrealistic. He says we're at the point in our relationship that we should be honest. But he's using it as a way to be mean. I recently got my nails done and eyebrows waxed - the first thing he said was "you're nails look like *** and it looks like somebody punched you in the face. Why did you pay 40 bucks to look like ***?" It's not like he is using any tact whatsoever. He recently told me, while laughing, "I don't want to have to do the work during the sex, and I mean, look at you, you obviously are too big to be on top!" Which is bullshit because I've been on top loads of times, and he never complained once. He told me that in order for our marriage to work, I was going to "have to drop a ton a weight" because he was "bored with me". I was never, ever bored with him when he was heavy, and he's only lost weight (though he's still a big guy) because he was sick for a long time and couldn't eat. He always is saying, "yeah, I lost a bunch of weight, it's not that hard, why don't you try it?" And whenever I do try to go on a diet or exercise, he discourages me by telling me that dieting doesn't work, and then for dinner ordering us a pizza. It's just so many little things. He doesn't clean - he just moves the stuff from one room to another. He spends money we just don't have - on Black Friday he bought a $500 TV because it was a good deal... having to spread it over 3 cards, two credit and a debit, and making us flat ass broke until we get paid this week, but all of our bills are due next week, so we have nothing. If the litter box is full, he says, "hey - clean it!" and it never occurs to him to do it himself. The bathtub upstairs is leaking, and instead of trying to fix it, we just have to have the water shut off until we need it. All these little things, on top of him being totally self-involved, no physical interaction, and plain rude to me has just put me on the edge. We're broke, I work all week, and when I do see him at night or on the weekend, he's just off in his own little world that I am only a part of from time to time. I'm not saying he can't have his own interests, and it's not my fault he's my only close friend, but why can't I be important to him? I guess I'll wrap this all up by saying that I just don't know what to do. Are my feelings even valid??? He tells me everyday that I'm just whining and he's going to get pissed if I keep doing it. I just hurt so much I want to die, and I can't keep feeling like that anymore. If I told him how sad I was, and how I've considered suicide more then once or twice, instead of being worried he would be angry and annoyed that I was being dramatic. I love him more then anything in the world - and I KNOW he loves me, when he is remembering that I'm his wife and not his roommate. There are times when he just holds me and tells me how much he loves me, and I feel like everything will be ok - and then he goes to play Final Fantasy XII. I'm just so lost I don't know where to turn. I know this is long and probably doesn't make any sense since I'm rambling, but if you have any ideas, advice, suggestions, anything, I need so much help right now and I don't have anywhere to turn. Thank you for reading this.
Okay, honest to frog, once your eyes stop bleeding due to the lack of paragraphs? This will really make you sad.
I have the flu. Last night, I sat in the bathtub shivering so hard my teeth chattered. My beloved heated pans of water to boiling on the stove and carried them to the bathtub to try to warm me up. Let me just say, I was not exactly bringing sexy back or anything. I think I have possibly never looked worse.
Except for this one time? I was really, really feeling bad. My beloved had some medication. I can't remember what it was. Something strong. He gave me one. We were sitting in the living room watching television. I said, "I don't feel good." and promptly hurled all over myself. I was mortified. I went to the bathroom and cleaned myself up and came back out and said, "Oh my GOD. I am so sorry!" and he said, "What puke?"
And this one other time? I had a UTI. It hurt so bad that I was curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor crying at 2am and my husband got up out of the bed and drove to the local Food City and purchased for me some Uristat. This was a huge deal to him as he is a largely appropriate individual and purchasing Uristat is somewhat akin to purchasing, say, tampons. But he did it anyway and I didn't even have to ask him to do it. Cause he loves me and junk.
My husband is not perfect. He is always late for everything. Always. He farts every morning at 5am (I swear, I could set a clock by it). He talks really fast and he eats all the good snacks. He's a spender, I'm a saver. Sometimes I just have to throw my hands in the air.
But that girl? Who posted about her husband? Sweet God. SWEET GOD.
The most sad part, in my opinion, is her absolute insistence that this man loves her. Um, actually no. He doesn't love her. He is an abusive fart-chimney who needs to be kicked to the curb. And this poor girl, at all of 24, is resigned to this being her life.
When Jason comes home, I'll be giving him a huge hug. Not a kiss, cause I have the flu. I love sharing with him, but not germs.
Monday, November 27, 2006
I mean, they just scare me. Because they seem like they know what they are doing. I, on the other hand, after eight years of practice am pretty much still an abject failure by most people's standards.
Some of my friends have had babies in the past year or so. They can recall in great detail what medications their children take and have taken the entire time they've been alive. They know what time they were born (to the second!) and how much they weighed and all, without having to look. Whereas I am the mom that if the doctor says, "Now, did daughter take medication XYZ?" I get this frightened, deer in the headlight type look and begin to stammer until the doctor says, "Why don't I just look in the chart then?" If people say, "What day were the twins born?" I can tell you that immediately. But if you ask me what time? I was so doped up at that time that I asked the obstetrician to marry me. I can't really recall a whole lot more of it.
Which means, I'm probably a bad mother.
The things I do remember...they are smaller things. I won't ever remember, without looking, the day my son took his first step. I won't ever remember, without looking, when my daughter lost her first tooth. Those things, they matter. But other things have always mattered more.
I remember the first time that my son smiled at me. He was a grouchy little infant, what with the being born way to early and having no fingernails and all. He felt like utter crap for about the first six months of his life and really, you know, how else can a baby tell you how bad they are feeling other than crying? So the first time he looked at me and smiled? My heart melted.
I can tell you how I felt the day that we moved into our new house, just the three of us. I bought that house by scrimping and saving. It was a small townhouse, just two bedrooms, but I was so proud of it. My boyfriend at the time who is now my husband helped me paint the one bedroom that I had for the two children. We painted up the walls six feet, in blue. It looked like ocean waves. We painted a bright yellow sunshine in one corner and put up Spongebob Squarepants vinyl "clings" all over the walls. We had a set of bunkbeds for them to share. The first night, my fearless daughter proclaimed the top bunk hers, joyfully climbed to the top, and immediately fell asleep. My son lay silently in his bed until I came in to talk to him and he talked on and on for twenty-five minutes about dinosaurs and a cartoon he had seen called "Dave the Barbarian". I talked to him until he wasn't afraid...until I wasn't afraid either.
I remember the day that I sat across the dinner table from my little girl and was so overcome with emotion looking at her that I almost began to cry. I could see her as an adult woman, so clearly. She's such an amazing person. I've often said that my daughter is the person I want to be when I grow up. She's never afraid of anything. The only thing, to that point, that had made the child cry was the fact that she was the only girl at the whole daycare who didn't have a daddy. I was so afraid, in that moment, that she would someday make horrible choices because she so desperately wanted a man to love her. She looked up at me and touched my hand and said, "Momma. Don't ever leave me."
I will never forget the day we danced around our living room with the stereo blaring, "I always have to steal my kisses from you!"I will never forget the look on my son's face when he opened up the PlayStation game he most wanted for Christmas. The hurt on my daughter's face when I explained that my father has cancer will be with me forever. I remember the first day of school, the first day of soccer, the first day of Girl Scouts. I remember the pride I felt when my son was the Golden Student, two months in a row. I remember the day I discovered WHY all those mothers scream at the top of their lungs when it's their kid who is running for the goal. It came out of me like something I can't even explain.
I don't remember everything. But I do remember the important things.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
2) I call Nestle's Quik, "Nestle's Slow".
3) When you ask me to open up said chocolate milk cap and I do it and you say, "How come I can't get it open?" I will reply, "Because you aren't awesome like me."
4) I will lick the side of your face and tell you that you taste like chicken.
5) After you shower I will sniff you in an exaggerated manner and inform you, along with everyone in the room, that you "stink pretty good".
6) I will let you wear pink shoes, if you want. And socks with bows on them. I have to make up for my poverty-stricken childhood after all.
7) I will let you have a flaming dice tattoo, if you want.
8) I will shout out, "DING DING!" randomly, so you will know it's time for pro-wrestling in the living room.
9) I let you play with swords. I even get in on that action from time to time.
10) I'll love you. Forever and twenty-six minutes.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Son: Did you hear what he said? About no more itchy butt?
Son: Yeah. That is bad though.
Son: You know? When your butt crack is itchy? That sucks.
This morning while I was making eggs:
Son: Mom? Did you know that dogs love eggs?
Me: No. Where did you hear that?
Son: I think I read it in the Bible.
This morning while son was eating said eggs:
Son: Mom? Do you know that I love you?
Me: Yes. Do you know I love you?
Son: I love you more!
Me: I think I love you more!
Son: No. I love you as much as Ginger likes to scratch her own butt.
Me: That's a lot!
Friday, November 24, 2006
I'm graduating in mere days. Even though I have made nothing lower than a B in the last four years, I have somehow managed to convince myself that something overtly horrible is going to occur now, at the eleventh hour, which will prohibit me from graduating. I've had nightmares that I managed to plagarize an entire paper accidentally. I'm not sure, but I think that would probably be pretty difficult. I also have dreams that I am walking across the stage (cause, you know, even though I'm 31 and old as hell and all, I'm still walking across the stage. It's been a long four years) and they say, "Um. Yeah...about that? We're going to need you to get off the stage now." Then the whole audience points and laughs and this guy with six teeth calls me a fat-ass, because most men, even if you are really skinny and hot think the best way to insult a woman is to call her fat. And although I'm not skinny nor hot, that still is the best way to insult a woman I suppose.
Anyway. The point is, I can't sleep.
This morning in my state of non-sleep, I decided I would watch television. My beloved sleeps um, we'll just say soundly. So I wasn't concerned about waking him up.
I turned on the television to MTV and was delighted to find an episode of the acclaimed hit, "My Super Sweet Sixteen!"
Now, please allow me to say that due to the fact I grew up dirt-ass poor, we never had cable. So even though I'm old and all, I now like to watch MTV.
If you've neven seen My Super Sweet Sixteen, please allow me to break down the formula of the the show I saw this morning and every other episode I've ever seen:
1) Introduction: A skinny white girl who has a rich daddy. Daddy looks like a big, stupid white pimp (think Joe Simpson). Girl whines a lot to get her way. Girl lives in a large mansion. Girl owns several brand name purses and a pink cell phone that had an annoying ring tone.
2) Party: Girl begins to plan her 16th birthday party. Says things (in a valley girl accent) such as , "I've been dreaming of this party my whole life!" and "I HAVE TO HAVE gold napkins at my party! Real gold! Not gold plated! My party has to be the BEST PARTY EVER!"
3) Invites: Girl creates an elaborate theme for handing out invitations to the party. Themes often including hiring actors to do it for her. Sometimes she does it herself. Invites are generally large and pink and fluffy. Girl must shame and horrify her less "kewl" classmates as the invites are being handed out. Things such as "No freshman!" are uttered.
4) Dress: Girl goes to some exotic locale to find "THE PERFECT DRESS!" Tries on approximately 90 dresses and rejects each repeatedly because they are either the wrong color, not "kewl" enough, or don't show enough of her microscopic boobies. Blond stepmother who is approximately 18 purchases dress that no self-respecting parent would ever allow their child to wear in the house, much less in public. Girl tries on dress and proclaims how beautiful she is. Girl says something like, "This dress is like SO AWESOME and it only cost $9000!" Mother/Father/Blond stepmother say, "But you're WORTH it!"
5) Car: Girl goes to a car dealership with her father. Finds the most outlandishly expensive car on the lot. Whines to her father, "DADDY! PLEASE! I WANT IT! I WANT IT!" Dad makes lame attempt to bargain with car dealer. Tells daughter she can't have car. Daughter throws a huge hissy fit and cries without any tears.
6) Meltdown: Girl has a toxic meltdown mere hours before her extravaganza. Usually it's over one of the following topics: a) I hate my hair, b) I hate my makeup, c) I hate my dress or d) I hate my shoes. A large entourage crowds around girl to assure her she is the most glorious thing anyone has ever, or will ever see.
7) Limo: Huge limo or horse and carriage arrive to take girl to the party. Girl says how nervous she is. Girl exits on to the red carpet and waves to the crowd. Entire party crowd rushes up to girl and says things to the cameraman such as "This party ROCKS!"
8) Dancing: Entire crowd dances like strippers. No parents protest this.
9) Entertainment: Generally there is some "celebrity" present. Crowd is asked what they think and they make witty and urbane comments such as "This party ROCKS!"
10) Drama: Some disturbance occurs. Usually it is something like, GASP, a FRESHMAN TRYING TO SNEAK INTO THE PARTY! OMG! Security (overweight guy who works for daddy) is called. Girl shrieks, "I totally don't want that person at my party!" Said "partygoer" is escorted out of the party. Would be partygoer says something like, "I don't care! I don't want to go to your stupid party anyway!" to which girl replies, "Like, OH MY GOD! Whatever!" Girl then says the camera, "I totally understand why she would want to come to my party, because it's the coolest party ever. But she's a FRESHMAN! Oh my GOD!"
11) Car again: Girl is escorted outside by the crowd as her parents look on. Surprise! She got the car she was whining for anyway! Girl learns a valuable lesson: If I whine and fake cry enough, I can get a $45,000 vehicle! Awesome!
12) Cost: Girl casually says, "This party cost my parents $450,000 but it was totally worth it!" I sit and wonder how they will top this for her wedding, providing of course, she finds someone who can put up with her.
13) The end.
Now, I've saved you from ever having to watch this show. Aren't you happy?
Now, I think I'll try to take a nap.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
I was pregnant. With twins.
Within another few days he informed me that he wanted a divorce and would be leaving me immediately upon the birth of the children. He tried to get a divorce then, but because of some state law you can't get a divorce if you are pregnant.
He made my life a living hell for quite some time after that. Part of it was my fault, because I believed in marriage and marriage vows and really wanted to make it work.
It was not meant to be.
For the past several years I have always felt a sick sense of dread as the holiday season approaches. Even though my life has improved dramatically, I still couldn't shake the sense of sadness that I felt at this time that should be the happiest.
So this year, I've decided I'm having a nice Thanksgiving. And a nice Christmas too.
I have a beautiful husband and two beautiful children. I have a good job and a nice home. I am graduating from college in like, 20 minutes. (Okay not really, but in a few weeks) I have potential, I have goals, and I have dreams.
Not to mention I'm pretty and funny and smart and my blog rocks.
My ex-husband? Lives with his mom. LIVES WITH HIS MOM. The woman that was SO much better than me that he couldn't wait to be with (who was, in reality, a trashy whore with a mullet and an inner thigh tattoo)? Ran off with some guy from South Carolina. And my ex-husband is going bald and NOT in an attractive way.
So yeah. Bite me you jerk. You have no control over my emotions anymore or ever, ever again.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
I turned on the television to watch the Macy's Thanksgiving day parade. As I flipped through the channels, I saw an alert on E!
Nick and Jessica to divorce.
Sweet God. My world bottomed out.
Not that I give that much of a crap about Nick and Jessica, mind you. It's just that I never really believed anything that the tabloids have to say. You know? I really believed that Brad and Angelina were just good friends until she popped out that baby. I still believe that Katie Holmes was probably inseminated by a turkey baster, but that's besides the point.
I just never believed that stuff was real. I learned otherwise on that dark, dark day.
I've never been the same, you know. Just never been the same. I just knew that Britney and Kevin wouldn't make it. Even though she was hugely pregnant and all and saying to Matt Lauer how "awesome" her husband was (while weeping and chewing gum and spilling out of her top, but still). I knew it wouldn't last.
And wham! Like, last week or something, she decided to divorce his greasy butt.
I wish I could find the tabloid that said I won the lottery. I really wish I could.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
It's a gift from my beloved friend Kate. Since I'm graduating from college in a few weeks, she felt it was important I have this folder for school and work related things. She also sent the children assorted musical instruments (which included earplugs for the folks!) and to Jason, a box of plastic ants. Yeah. She rocks the house.
Since I'm a highly inappropriate individual, I've taken it to work and everyone has spun the wheel at least once today. We have decided to take it all meetings to make important decisions with. Yes, I'm a government subcontractor. How did you know?
My favorite is "Impale evil things." I think that would be a unicorn's true purpose in life.
Thank you Kate. I love you!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Not your best work.
I'm thinking maybe you should just put a big sign on your back that says, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I DID IT."
1) You can't be tried again. It's double jeopardy or some crap.
2) We all know you did it. Come on. COME ON. We all know. Everyone knows! Even your mom knows! It's not a secret.
Really, if you are going to write a book, the title shouldn't be: I didn't do it, but because I did it, here's how I did it. You are basically confessing anyway.
Please don't stab me.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Being angry at my son is somewhat akin to, in the words of my dear friend Joel, bitch-slapping E.T.
He's just a good kid. He's sweet, he's funny, and he thinks I'm the best thing to ever walk the planet. He has mentioned several times that once he finds an appropriate wife (he's EIGHT) they will come and live with me. I explained to him that his wife would not like that and he said, "Ma! She'll love you! You're the best cook ever."
It's hard to get really mad at someone who worships you.
However. The child has, for about the seventh time this year already, lost his reading folder. He's lost his lunchbox, his homework folder, his jacket (three times), and several notes he was supposed to give to his teacher (which explained that no, really I'm not the worst mother on the planet, I just have an extremely absent minded son). He has GOT TO STOP LOSING THINGS.
So on the way to school after shrieking at him about losing his reading folder I said, "Boy Child. Someday you will be a grown-up and have a job. If you lose your important files and can't do your job, do you know what will happen? You'll lose your JOB. You won't have any MONEY. You won't be able to EAT."
And he said,
"Can I come eat with you?"
Monday, November 13, 2006
He always brushes his teeth
(I know that sounds obvious, but a lot of women complain that their husbands do not. Have you ever read True Wife Confessions? Jesus.)
He can dress fairly well
(True, he hangs on to clothing well past it's prime. But I never have to dress him.)
He's a good cook
I can talk politics with him
He's really cute
He knows the importance of symmetrical eyebrows
Last night, however, I discovered why so many women stab their husband while they sleep.
The snoring. For the love of God. The snoring. I poke him to try to get him to roll over. I lay a pillow on his face (not hard. Well, not to hard). I put my cold feet on him. Anything.
Then, the moaning. People make noise in their sleep. Yes, this I get. But I wonder if he's dreaming about freaking Christy Turlington or something because it sounds pretty darn sexual if you ask me.
The talking. Sweet God. The talking. Actually, talking wouldn't be so bad, if he didn't randomly shout things at 2am.
Imagine you are sound asleep and are suddenly and violently thrust into consciousness by someone shouting,
"IT'S TIME FOR TINY LITTLE TEA LEAVES, IN TETLEY TEA!"
That doesn't even make sense! It's not like he's shouting, "There's a fire in the house, get out!" He's talking about TEA. I don't even drink tea!
We have a queen size bed. Neither of us are small people. We're not the freaking monster that ate Denver or anything, but we aren't small. So there are some sharing issues.
I can move 1/2 of an inch in any direction and Jason is IMMEDIATELY in the space that I had only moments ago occupied. I have no idea how he does this. God forbid I get up to pee because then the entire bed is gone. There is no longer any hope for me to rest or even lay down.
I know, I know. A lot of women have husbands who beat them or are bad with money or drink a lot or whatever. I'm very lucky that my husband is at least (reasonably) sane.
I'm just tired.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Hi! Welcome to my blog! I have no freaking idea what I'm going to say now! Hehe!
Really, I'm not much of a "hehe" kind of chick. I can't even get it together enough to care right now. I have stuff I want to say and I'm not going to be bothered to introduce myself right now. Now, on to the interesting stuff.
Being a mother of a little boy is really a unique experience. I just put his laundry into the dryer and in the bottom of the washing machine I found:
1) An unopened package of Whoppers (the candy, you know, chocolate malted milk balls?)
2) Two empty Skittles packages
3) A plastic cockroach
4) A plastic dinosaur
5) A plastic glow in the dark bat
So, I called him in.
"Son," I said. "I need to talk to you about your laundry."
"What," says he. "Did I get skidmarks in my boxer shorts again?"
Sweet. God. He's such a man already and only eight years old.
No worse than my daughter, however, who earlier today in the shower gleefully announced, "MOM! I'M DONE! I WASHED MY HAIR AND MY FACE AND MY PENIS!"
"SWEETHEART!" I shouted back. "YOU DON'T HAVE A PENIS!"
"OH I FORGOT! I MEANT MY BAGINA!"
To which my husband replied, "GOD! STOP TALKING ABOUT SEX ORGANS!"
Our neighbors? I imagine they hate us a lot.
Please note the following:
1) If you do not see your name here it does not mean I don't love you and think you are fantastic. It likely means I'm a huge flake and tired and have been working on this for like, six hours today and my brain is getting fuzzy.
2) Email me if I've left you off. firstname.lastname@example.org
3) Don't email me if you've never read my blog, I've never read your blog because it's about German porn or some crap, and/or if I hate you.
4) Don't worry about me hating you, because I hardly hate anybody.
Honestly? I hate these things. I can never think of good things to say. I read other people's and I'm all like, "Wow! That is so interesting!" and I go to write mine and I'm like, "Man, I suck butt."
I guess I could start with the basics.
I'm Stephanie Snowe.
Stephanie R. Snowe, if you want to be exact.
Which you might.
I was born on October 15th, 1975. So whatever day you read this, subtract that day from it and that's how old I am.
On March 21st, 1998 at the age of twenty-two, I became the mother of twins. If I ever doubted there was a God, I did not after I had them. Their names are Boy Child and Girl Child. They are, without a doubt, the absolute best people alive. They have enriched my life in ways I can't even begin to explain. They are also the most hilarious people to ever exist, ever, and therefore I write about them a lot. But don't think I'm a mommy blogger or anything because my kids shit does, in fact, stink and I say a lot of curse words.
The story of the beginning of their life is pretty weird and convoluted. You can read about it here, sort of and a little bit about the backstory is here. It's long and hurty and I don't like to get into it all that much and I guess that's why I've never written about the whole thing. It's really just a part of me now and not something I think about a whole lot. I've written more about it, but I don't get that much into it.
I also never say my kid's names.
I married Jason: He for Whom This Blog Is Named on July 12th, 2003. I call the blog what I do because I am constantly saying, "Jason. For the love of God." I'm usually rolling my eyes when I say this.
Jason is, among other things, my best friend, the best possible father I could ever hope Boy Child and Girl Child to have, and a really snappy dresser. He and I met when we both lived in North Carolina and we got married there too. We moved to Tennessee after we'd been married a little over a year. Jason is from Connecticut originally so it's been really interesting watching him adapt to the Southern way of life. For example:
Jason: "Do I need to buy a truck?"
Stephanie: "Jason. For the love of God".
We have a dog, her name is Ginger. She is the absolute shiznit.
I'm fat but I work out all the freaking time and I have really pretty green eyes and absolutely banging hair.
I love television, particularly stupid crap that I really shouldn't watching since I'm an adult. Like old reruns of "Beverly Hills 90210" and "The Hills" and "Engaged and Underage" and crap like that. I think TiVo is God's gift to the Earth. For reals.
I have a therapist who I call Big Jim. He's the absolute best therapist alive. I credit him with saving my life.
I'm still trying to figure out my place in this world and who I am supposed to be. I've been accused of being very honest in my writing, and that's true. I don't see any point in not being honest if you don't have anything to hide. Which I don't. Pretty much the only topic that I consider off-limits is my own sex-life. I just don't think anyone needs to know that. Also? I respect my husband and how very private he is. It took him a while to just get used to me having a blog and even now, he does not read it, ever. I'm kind of glad he doesn't and I can't really explain why.
Some of my favorite posts are here, here, and here. These are a pretty good representative of my life, my writing, and who I am.
I love email and try to respond to everyone, unless you are crazy. A little crazy is good. Wanting to stalk me is bad.
Email is: email@example.com
Oh and my first book is coming out on February 3rd, 2009.
I'm pretty freaking stoked about that.