Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

My Mother, The Criminal

December20

As the great God Britney once said, “Mama, I’m in love with a criminal,” which I think she meant as “Mama, why are you a criminal?” At least, that’s my interpretation of the song, because really, who wants to sing about their criminal mother? (answer: shockingly few, unless you call the poet Eminem to the stage).

Note to Eminem: I’m the real Slim Shady and I’m standing the fuck up.

Now, my mother isn’t the type of criminal mastermind that could pull off a bank heist or steal back a priceless piece of lost Nazi art – the woman is still baffled by caller ID and call waiting. She has an email address, I think, but I’m not sure she knows what it is or how to access all the important forwards my father sends her, which, now that I think on it, is probably a blessing of sorts.

No, she’s a far more nefarious sort.

I say that because she’s got terrible arthritis and looks like, well, a grandmother, and who thinks Grandma is about to commit illegal activities? Honestly, it’s the most perfect cover I’ve seen.

A couple of weeks ago, when I was dining from the infectious disease menu, my mother helped me run some errands because, well, I could hardly walk and I felt pretty pathetic at the very thought of using one of those motorized carts to get me through the store without having people lob things in my direction because I’m not technically disabled. I’m telling you Pranksters, after busting my foot while pregnant, I have a whole new sympathy for people with disabilities. People treat you so bizarrely when you have your foot in Das Boot – like that must mean that you probably can’t hear properly. I don’t know HOW many clerks screamed very slowly at me while I purchased my People Magazines and edamame.

Alas, I digress.

A few days ago, my mother braved seeing her daughter, Typhoid Becky, and swung over for a visit to bring me some Jello, which, it turns out, there IS always room for. We were chatting about this and that, nothing nefarious (unless you count my hideous Christmas tree, which you probably should as a crime against humanity) until she laid it out for me.

“They really need to put better lighting on your apartment complex,” she dropped on me.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I don’t know how many times people have driven to the other entrance to the other side of my complex.”

“I did that the other day!” She exclaimed.

I just nodded and giggled, figuring it was akin to her using the GPS on her car – baffling, yet somehow she managed to make it meow when it hits certain streets. See? NEFARIOUS.

Then the bomb dropped.

“I found the apartment I thought was yours and walked into it,” she told me, laughing a bit.

My jaw dropped.

“You did WHAT?” I asked her, aghast that she’d walked into my neighbors home.

“Yeah, it was all decorated weirdly like yours and everything! It was only when I noticed the shoes were too small for you that I realized I had the wrong place.”

“MOM!” I scolded. “What did this person DO?”

“No one was home,” she claimed, almost… proudly.

My jaw hung open, collecting flies.

“You’re damn lucky no one called the police,” I finally replied.

“I’m an old lady,” she said. “I’d beat them with my cane.”

“You don’t have a cane, Ma,” I pointed out.

“Yeah,” she replied. “But I could improvise.”

When my head smacked the desk, no one was surprised.

  posted under If You're Looking For Sympathy, You Can Find It In The Dictionary Between Shit And Syphilis | 15 Comments »

The End Is (Probably) Nigh!

December18

So I read somewhere on the Internet (and we ALL know that the Internet doesn’t lie) that the end of the world is coming, which reminds me of the OTHER time the world was supposed to end and WHOOPS! everyone woke up the next day all, wait, I thought I was supposed to be all raptured and shit. AND MOTHERFUCKER, I HAVEN’T PAID MY BILLS BECAUSE I THOUGHT I’D BE DRIVING A BUS WITH JESUS TODAY.

Since I’m not subscribed to Hysterical Hysteria Quarterly, I decided that it was time for me to do a little digging about this whole “world ending” stuff. I mean, why scoop cat poo if I’m going to be raptured or eaten by a gigantic alien or something? I started at the most logical place I could think on: the weather. I mean, if they can predict that next Sunday will be warm with a chance of dry air, they should be able to see that THERE IS NO WEATHER AFTER WE ALL DIE BY MASSIVE MAYAN ZOMBIE ATTACK.

THE END IS PROBABLY NIGH!

Huh.

Okay, so I can expect it to be partly cloudy with a chance of nosebleeds. At least someone is FINALLY thinking about the fish. Well, that was yesterday’s weather. What’s coming up? THAT’S THE QUESTION.

THE END IS PROBABLY NIGHThey have NO idea how many cereals I am aware of.

And frankly, I want to be the one who names storms. Draco? C’mon, we can do better than that. How ’bout, “RUN FOR YOUR LIVES winter storm?” Far more hysterical sounding. I appreciate that.

Okay, let’s get on with the ten day forecast. I bet that’ll tell me whether or not I should pay my cell phone bill.

 THE END IS PROBABLY NIGH

Okay, that’s just disappointing. I need to fix this.

The End Is Nigh

Wow, that’s so much better. I think the monsters really add something to this weather chart.

Now I’m feeling scared!

But really, I didn’t get the info I was looking for. It was time to turn to alternate sources. Like the gossip blogs.

THE END IS PROBABLY NIGH
Okay, now I not only feel out of touch, but any of that awesome fear-mongering is totally gone. Shits. Time to turn to The Twitter – certainly THEY know something I don’t about this end of days and shit.

The End Is Probably Nigh

Um.

James Franco? Is he part of this “end of days” shit? I think not. Then again, I can’t recall a single movie he was in, so there’s that.

The Twitter, you failed me. That’s shameful, considering you’re my only source of news out there.

The End Is Probably Nigh

Shit, even my archenemy Pinterest, where I go when I want to feel bad about myself, has nothing beyond some adorable ways to turn random household shit into a particle ring.

Well, the Internet has been absolutely no help in my search for the answer to this burning question: will I need to buy more cat food?

  posted under HYSTERICAL HYSTERIA | 18 Comments »

What Comes Next

December14

I’ve spent the better part of 10 years trying to figure out what I’ve wanted to do next. Skydiving? Climbing some obscure mountain? Going into space? All things I’d considered before deciding that I’d stay home with my wee germ factories and write; two events that I’d not foreseen coming. I knew this wasn’t going to be one of those THIS IS MY DREEEAMMM kind of things for me.

Initially, I wrote because I had no one to talk to and with a husband who (then) considered a sixty hour work week to be “a slow week,” which meant I was pretty lonesome. Kids, especially challenging tots like my Alex, who demanded that I hold him every second of his first year of life, don’t exactly allow you the freedom to go out and make! new! friends! nearly the same way you can when they’re older.

When I discovered that I did, in fact, like to write more than clinical research studies, I finally felt like I’d found that missing piece; I’d discovered what comes next, which was both intensely liberating and oddly arousing. Writing, though, especially on Teh Internetz, I knew was going to be something that lacked staying power, and while I love what I do more than I love butter, I’ve known for a long time that I had to find something more; something that truly completed me (and not in the stupid fucking Jerry What’s His Name movie).

For many moons, I thought it would be a book – I had agents, a proposal, and a wealth of unpublished essays I’d easily compile into a book (and have) – until the great crash of Aught Eight happened and the publishing industry became more shaky about publishing new authors than a Chihuahua at the vet.

I’d toyed with the idea of self-publishing for upwards of five seconds before dismissing it as something I’d never be proud of. I mean, sure, I could beg my Pranksters to help me promote my book, but honestly self-promotion like that makes my vagina hurt – and not in a “climbing ropes in gym class” way. Self-publishing is a good fit for some, I know this, but not me.

So I dropped the idea of finishing the book like a hot potato and founded Band Back Together instead. That, too, I knew wasn’t a forever thing for me. Sure, the site will always be there, but I knew then that I wanted, well, more from my life.

Since I’ve moved out, I’ve been struck both by an incredible case of The Lurgy and some pretty heavy shit to go through. Having to reinvent your whole life at 32 isn’t quite as easy as it sounds, no matter how necessary it may be (and it is). As I’ve sat on the couch, watching endless episodes of shitballs television, trying to work up the motivation to do things like “pee” or “brush my teeth,” I’ve been dipping my toes into the murky depths of my mind, trying, once again, to figure out what happens next.

As someone smarter than me once said, “if you don’t like the end of this chapter, it’s not the end.”

And it’s not.

Rather than dwell on the past, thinking on all of the ways I suck at life, the decision I’d been waiting for smacked me upside the head in the middle of a Law and Order: Don’t You Dare Bitch About Your Life.

It was time to go back to school.

Whaaaaa? I can hear you all asking the computer, wondering if the meds aren’t working properly AGAIN.

Let’s step into the wayback machine, Pranksters.

Many, many years ago, I lived in this very same apartment complex with my then-boyfriend as an act of both teenage rebellion and an inability to see what came next. I’d like to paint you a rosy picture of those days, but that’s like putting lipstick on a pig. Lost doesn’t begin to describe how I felt and try as I did, I couldn’t see a way out. I was working at the time, at a diner known for making things like “Macaroni Cheeseburgers” and milkshakes, getting miserably low tips because the cooks “hadn’t done the hashbrowns right” or other such nonsense. I took less than zero pride in my job or, to be fair, my life.

My then-boyfriend once remarked snarkily – after I’d fallen the eleventy-niner time that week in the ice cream cooler at work and was making love to a heating pad – “Wow, I make just as much as you do and I get to sit at a desk all day!” He laughed, meanly, and had my back not been on fire, I’d have popped out his eyeballs with an iced tea spoon. Instead, I sighed, waiting, once again, to see what came next.

Benjamin.

He’s what came next.

I discovered I was pregnant shortly after Christmas of 2000 at the not-so-scandalous age of twenty, moved home, and popped his enormous melon out of my poor girly bits. The path then was clear: fuck becoming a doctor and get a degree that allowed me to make more than 10 bucks an hour going through fecal samples (I was halfway toward my BS in Biology/Chemistry). I took another waitressing job, this time, one that I loved, and met Dave halfway through nursing school. We married shortly after I graduated and Ben turned four.

Okay, I said to myself, this is what comes next…

…until that old itch started back up again – I couldn’t stay at home with my kids without going insane, I loved to write, but it’s nearly impossible to make a living doing so and, quite frankly, it was time to figure out what I wanted to happen with my life now. I could sit and wallow, feeling sorry for myself, immensely sad about the way everything ended, or I could make a change and do something for me. Something that made me proud of myself. Something that would open doors where windows had been firmly bolted.

It was time to dust a dream I’d so carefully packed into a box 10 years prior and make it happen. It was up to me this time and I was going to do what I had to do to move on with my life.

It’s time to get my PhD in one of the hard sciences – micro, virology, immunology, forensics, genetics. I don’t know which one I’ll go for. Not yet. But I will.

It’s time – really time – to start over. Only this time, it’s going to be for me.

And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I can hardly wait to see what happens next.

  posted under School Daze | 41 Comments »

All Wrapped Up And Nowhere To Go

December12

While anyone who’s read my blog for longer than five minutes knows that I wear a YOU’RE NUMBER ONE finger for Christmas, there’s one party of this happy-crappy, shooting glitter out of your ass holiday I loathe.

Wrapping presents.

A lifetime ago, I’d been all, “Someday” *shakes fists at sky* “SOMEDAY I will hire someone to wrap presents for me and they’ll be beautiful and angels will burst into my living room singing the Seventh Heaven theme song.” Then I shook my fist for even more dramatic effect, even though I was alone in the house.

Well.

We all know what’s happened throughout the past year, and most days I’m pleased to have toilet paper. Apparently the Universe not only laughed at my marriage, but at my long-held desire to have Christmas presents wrapped by someone who actually has thumbs and the patience for all those bows and shit.

See, the thing is, Pranksters, I have a complex (stop gasping at the computer, I know how shocking this is for you) about gift-wrapping. I can blame it on one person; one single individual, who ruined Christmas wrapping forever.

(And no, it’s not Pinterest, which is also responsible for making me feel like an ass for not taking beautiful pictures of gilded fish you can make in four easy steps with common household ingredients because I’M NOT MOTHERFUCKING CRAFTY, PINTEREST, SO SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY).

Many, many years ago, my brother was married to a woman who I hated, and not just because we shared the same name, although I’ll admit that I *did* get sick of people calling me to speak to her, mostly because she was a raging asshole and mostly because I was a teenager. Two mostly’s make a whole, right?

Anyway.

My brother married someone who took not only my name, MY name, but also any shreds of dignity I had about the presents I’d hastily bought at Walgreens on Christmas Eve (we all know my mother LOVED the “Happy Birthday Grandson” figurine I’d bought her!), then wrapped in a mere ten minutes with paper I’d taken from my parents. They weren’t pretty packages, and while I’m dead certain everyone enjoyed (read: threw away) the candy canes filled with assorted jellies (lies), I was pretty proud of myself for being all last minute and thoughtful and shit.

(“thoughtful” here meaning “fuck, it’s already Christmas. I should probably buy all the peeing dolls I can find at Walgreens – people love those things! Especially adults because PEEING BABIES = AWESOMELY THOUGHTFUL and not at ALL POINTLESS!!)

While my packages were often wrapped in plastic drug store bags, proudly displaying not only WHERE the presents came from, but also REUSING which is part of the recycling tree or food pyramid or something (I don’t know. I was always the one in the back of the class playing Bejeweled on my phone all thug-life style), she and my brother, who then lived across town, would waltz into my parents house on Christmas Day with bags of carefully wrapped presents.

They’d place them neatly under the tree, effectively ensuring that mine now appeared to have been wrapped in burlap sacks and smeared with dog poo. She’d go all the fuck out for that shit. I’m talking $15 A SHEET wrapping paper, bows that were folded in such a fashion that even Martha Stewart would’ve been envious of – before she stole the idea and then sold it for a zillion dollars at that craft store of hers. Each package had a neatly inscribed label, probably embossed or some shit, and she even managed to get the wrapping paper to line up at the back of the package so that it looked like one fluid piece. Along with the monogrammed tags imported from Paris or one of those third world countries where child labor laws go something like, “you have arms? YOU HAVE THE JOB!” she’d always add a little extra something. A trinket or doo-dad or whoodilly or whatever.

When it came time to open her carefully wrapped presents, she’d always manage to find a thoughtful – yet tasteful – gift for each of us, but I always hated destroying what must’ve taken her hours to do. I cannot imagine how much time she’d spent on each gift, but damn, despite our “differences” that girl could motherfucking wrap. It didn’t help that it seemed to cause her excruciating pain to watch people open her gifts, which I could totally understand.

Years later, I still think of her each time I go to wrap presents because even when I try HARD to make a present look purdy, it still winds up looking as though an infant had done it. My edges don’t match. Nothing is ever straight. My bows aren’t hand-crafted with tears from Unicorns and ribbons made of Pegasus hair, they’re usually straight from the bulk bag of bows – always mangled and misshapen – I’d found at an after-Christmas sale the year prior because I’m a cheap ass who balks at paying more than two bucks a roll for wrapping paper.

I’d been intensely proud of myself for getting my gift-buying done before Christmas Eve. I’d begun trying to pat myself on the back until I got distracted when I learned that you really can’t lick your elbow, and then the packages began to arrive. And when they did, I realized I hadn’t done myself any favors. 650 square feet = no one has any secrets.

Off to Dave’s I trotted to collect some of the wrapping materials I’d bought in years past, having every intention of getting them wrapped and under my ridiculous tree before, well, Christmas. It’s going to be a hard Christmas, of that I have no doubt, and I wanted to make sure the kids didn’t remember this as “the Christmas That Sucked Balls,” because while it’s going to be hard for me, I’d rather spare them the pain.

I’ve been eying the packages, wrapping paper, and tape (that my Prankster Jolie sent me as a gift, along with an ornament for my tree, which is just awesome. The ornament, not the tree. The tree was manufactured by Satan) every day, all, “IMMA DO THIS SHIT” until I get down to it and realize that no matter how pretty the paper, no matter how nice the bows, I still loathe wrapping presents.

I’ve set my sights a lot lower than the whole I WILL SOMEDAY HIRE SOMEONE TO WRAP FOR ME RATHER THAN BRIBING MY MOTHER TO DO IT because, well, that seems prudent. Plus, that’s a huge waste of money.

This year, I’m simply hoping my presents don’t appear to have been wrapped by a blind squirrel without thumbs.

But, because I know me, I’m not holding my breath.

————

What about you, Pranksters? What’s the one thing about the holidays that makes you crazy (besides everything)(and if you say Christmas music, I will cut you because I LOVE that shit)?

  posted under Holidaze | 33 Comments »

No Smoking Until You’re At Least 12

December10

I’d been carefully asleep in my bed, sweating to my dreams like Richard Simmons had made me his personal bitch, defeating a gigantic Michelin man wearing a Bret Michaels wig who had a voice like the chick from The Nanny (Fran someone-or-other?), dreaming he was made of a delicious white frosting and enjoying every second of eating him alive when…

…tap, tap, tap.

Followed by…

…slap, slap, slap.

I cracked my eyes open a second to see what was going on when I realized my young daughter was playing the bongos on my ass cheeks. Just in time, too, since she was going for my eyes next. Apparently, it was time to wake the fuck up, Mama.

I’d spent the week prior on the couch, bemoaning a scad of diagnoses that ran like the who’s who in the gossip mags of bad viruses, or the amuse bouche menu at the infectious disease cafe, wondering if I’d instead been afflicted by some ancient Mayan voodoo curse, occasionally typing out blog posts in my head:

Day 1: The work of some cruel master is afoot. Perhaps I’ve done something so severe, so unforgivable, that I must now pay for my sins with my life. GOD, I hate it when the voice in my head sounds like a bad Twilight chapter. ALAS, something must be done before I die at the hands of the hands of these cruel masters.

Then:

Day B: There is definitely tomfoolery and some of those other descriptive and bad-sounding things going on. It’s probably the bubonic plague. I hope that people come to my funeral and don’t bring filler flowers. Those are bullshit.

Still later:

Day Too Many To Count: I don’t much care any longer if I sound like a particularity bad romance novel, so long as I don’t have to have passionate sex with a hunky, well-groomed grounds-keeper or some shit. My vagina, like the rest of me, is broken. Death, too good for me, would be welcomed with open arms. Too bad my cat would be the only witness and probably eat my face before anyone found me.

That was until Friday, when my daughter had made up her mind that she would be having our night together WHETHER I WAS DYING OR NOT. Someone had to allow her to eat Pringles and play with makeup, dammit. I knew that if I didn’t just say, “okay, cool,” to her demands, she’d FIND her way to my apartment and lord knows what she’d do to me when she got there.

So Saturday morning I awoke to her playing bongos on my ass cheeks.

When she realized I was awake, she squealed, “Hi MAMA! Let’s go play!” Because she, too, is sick, it came out all Thelma from The Simpsons, “Hi *hack, wheeze* Mama, *blurt, glurt* LET’S PLAY.”

“Mimi,” I asked, trying to squeeze out a few blessed more moments of sleep before I had to get up do her bidding, “Did you take up smoking?”

“Nah,” she giggled, then burst into a coughing fit.

“Good,” I croaked. “No smoking ’til you’re twelve.”

She looked at me all serious-like, eyes watering, before blurping a goo of mucous onto my pillow. She looked at it as I levitated out of the bed to get a towel, and laughed.

“At least it didn’t go on your head, Mama,” she giggled.

I looked at the child-sized thing of goo lying right where my head had been and nodded.

“Could always be worse,” I replied.

“Now go get some pants on.”

  posted under Cinnamon Girl | 9 Comments »

Parent of the Year Strikes Again!

December5

Scene: My Living Room, Saturday Afternoon

Me: (mumbles to self while setting up Christmas tree)

Alex: (perplexed) “Hey… Mama?”

Me: (pulling head from underneath spiky needles of doom, expecting the question to have something to do with pizza): “Yes, J?”

Alex: “So, I was thinking a lot about this.”

Me: (resting on my haunches and giving him my undivided attention, expecting a cunning con to splat from his adorable mouth) “Okay.”

Alex: “I don’t know if I’m right.”

Me: (now thoroughly entertained by his The Thinker pose) “Well, why don’t you ask? I’ll see if I know the answer.”

Alex: (is silent for a few moments)

Me: (silently awaiting his question and hoping it has nothing to do with building bombs or roller coasters in our bedroom)

Alex: “A fart is really like a burp coming out of your butt…. right?”

Me: (gapes for a second) “Um… I’d never really thought of it that way, but yes, J, you’re right. A fart IS a burp coming out of your butt.”

Alex: “Okay, that’s what I thought.”

Me: (stifling laughter at how seriously he’s taking this) “Really glad I could help you with this one.”

Alex: “And… can we order pizza?”

Me: “Nice try, kidlet.

 ————–

Yesterday, I wrote this for Band Back Together, the community weblog I run with a group of volunteers. It’s there that we share stories – YOUR stories – (and pair them with over 600 resources) with the rest of the world so that we can grow, learn, and thrive through our trials and tribulations. You never know who will be touched by the words you write, so I’m seriously asking you to share your stories. Can be old stories or new. Sad stories or happy.

Everyone has a story – it’s time to tell yours.

And? If you’re interested, we’re doing tons of excitable things behind the scenes – we have an auction going on AND a calendar this year. If you’d like to join our volunteer pool, we’d be honored to have you. Email volunteer@bandbacktogether.com and we’ll get this party started!

  posted under As Navel Grazing As I Wanna Be. | 6 Comments »

This, That and the Whole Damn Thing

December3

Thursday night, I’d finally had enough wallowing and whining, so I told Crys that I was about to go all Eye of the Tiger on the Christmas tree I’d neatly transported from that life to this – with, I feel compelled to add – only a few minor bruises and a cut finger, which certainly isn’t nearly as horrifying as it could have been.

I’d already lugged everything in from the car, which made a grand mess in my wee apartment, adding, I like to think, a little rustic – yet slobbery – vibe to the place. I mean, who doesn’t go apeshit with The Awesome for stuff in cartons you don’t have anywhere to store? (answer, obviously, is “anyone.”)

Mimi was waltzing her big girl ass over here for our weekly girls night the following evening and I figured we’d spend the weekend decorating my apartment festively, as, most of you well know, I wear a #1 finger for Christmas – and no, not the YOU’RE number one finger. As I didn’t really want my daughter to watch me mangle a tree from – literally – the fifties into submission because there’s no amount of therapy THAT can undo, I was all proactive and shit. I nearly patted myself on the back, if only I could’ve reached that far.

The tree was a hand-me-down from the first year we were married, given to us by my sister-in-law’s parents, who apparently never get rid of anything, a trait I find remarkable in others, especially considering I cannot, for the life of me, find your standard, garden variety, scotch tape. None of this fancy “electrical tape” for this girl – nope. I may SPEAK fancy, but I’m all about the plain Jane tape.

(this means, Pranksters, that my presents will be wrapped with duct tape this year. Thems be the very colorful breaks)

(double sorry for anyone who gets a present from me. Should be a *ahem* challenge to unwrap)

Our first year together, Dave assembled the tree as I watched, my mild-mannered husband swore like, well, me, which lead me to understand one thing (okay, two):

1) Dave should NEVER be allowed to do tedious housework

B) Putting together fake Christmas trees requires a Masters in Awesome..

Since my parents were the sort who chopped down their own Christmas trees and made syrup from um… those trees that give you the stuff to make syrup (*I’d* been under the impression came from Mrs. Butterworth and her quaint, homey – and terribly refined – apron), I knew nothing at all about fake trees beyond “they come out of a box and smell like burnt hair.”

And once that first tree was up, it was a sight to behold. I’d petitioned for a real tree, but with carpeting and dogs and cats and kids, I was summarily denied, and for good reason. There are probably STILL needles in the most odd places left from the one year we did manage a real tree.

So I figured, if I’m going fake, I’M GOING MOTHERFUCKING FAKE. And I did. And it was awesome:

this that and the other thing

Whoops. Wrong photo. That was me. A very surly bag ‘o’ jelly beans. Very little has changed since first grade. I’m taller now, I think. 

this that and the whole damn thing

WHOOPS! I’ve got to stop naming my snaps shit like, “Tate the asshole hedgehog,” because then I get all excited to see what it is and it’s NOT my fug ass tree.

this that and the whole damn thing

See? The tree? I mean, okay, if you can’t see it, it’s on the left there (or is it the OTHER left?) and you know you’re a bad blogger when your snaps aren’t actually aimed at your intended target.

Also: SQUEE! When did Ben get so fucking OLD?

So the tree. We put it up twice, each time, Dave swearing like an asshole, causing me nearly to go into labor and then we moved onto a more…adult-looking fake tree. At least, the thing was green and not white. Which did NOT make me particularly happy, by the by.

When I moved out, I thought it only natural that I’d take the old white tree, because, well, I’m tacky and Dave’s an adult.

Which brought me to Thursday when I was all ramped up and ready to be festive, motherfucker. I could TOTALLY put together a tree and shit, even if it was rusted and appeared to be flaking lead paint. I was ALL ready to kick some ass.

Until I realized that things – even aluminum – do turn to dust eventually and I was missing the top half of the tree. So okay, it was really that I was missing the top half of the tree, so stop humming “Dust in the Wind,” will you? PLEASE? That song gives me hives.

What I’m ashamed to admit about the tree is not that it was half broken or that I was going to need a new tree if, in fact, I wanted to deck the motherfucking halls, it was that it took me finishing the bottom of the tree to note that the top of the tree was missing. I won’t lie: I was ashamed for a couple of minutes before I spent some quality time intensely debating whether or not I should, in fact, leave it as is. Make it a truly Charlie Brown Christmas.

It didn’t take long for the remnants of the tree to make it into the trash.

  posted under Daddy's Little Girl Loves Disco | 21 Comments »

Shattered Glass

November29

Crouched down in the waaaaay back of the basement, I started my journey through the dusty bins that I’d once carefully stacked, labeling the contents in a way that would make my OCD father proud. I took a strange and unexpected amount pride in organizing the basement, a hundred light years ago, carefully packing and stacking, and pulling things out to donate to charity.

I always took a lot of pride in the things I did to make my home, well, better.

But I wasn’t in the basement of the house formerly known as mine to take a stroll down memory lane, nor was I there to marvel at the size of the basement and amount of storage capacity of the room (although I had a Jealous about the storage potential).

No, I was there to pick up some of the Christmas things I’d been collecting for as long as I’d been with Dave.

Always one for tradition, I’d been buying one of those Hallmark holiday ornaments for each person in my immediate family, one that showcased the past year. When Ben was a tot and in his Inter-planet Janet Phase, I’d bought a Moon Landing ornament, I’ve bought one for each of the babies first Christmases, and others that represented parts of the previous year.

As the babies were wee, I never was able to put those ornaments up without fear that they’d be gnawed on and lead to the eventual death by ornament which isn’t particularly festive, so these ornaments stayed carefully in their boxes, waiting for the day that the kids were older and were less apt to die by ornament. I pictured Dave and I, sitting around as old farts, our kids grown (perhaps with their OWN kids) looking back at the ornaments I’d bought so long before and remembering.

The Universe does laugh at my plans – instead, I sat alone in the fridgid basement, sneezing, blowing dust off the boxes I’d carefully packed, remembering. A blue ribbon and a silver spoon dated 2007, for Alex’s first Christmas. The Dexter’s Laboratory ornament I’d gotten to represent my dreams of going back to school to study virology. The penguin ornaments I’d selected for Dave. The tiny ballerina I’d bought for my (then) tiny daughter.

Carefully, I went through the boxes, selecting the ornaments that meant something. To me, they were memories of happier times. Times when dreams were real and happiness brimmed through the walls of the house. Times less complicated. To Dave, it was just stuff.

Nearly done, blindly I reached into the very last bin, making certain I’d gotten all I’d come for. As I dug around the bin, an unexpected and sharp pain caused an unladylike yelp. Quickly, I pulled my finger from the box to see what had attacked me. Already, a glistening bead of blood had formed and without thinking, I stuck my finger in my mouth.

Pulling my finger out, I realized I hadn’t anything to staunch the blood, and onto the cold basement floor it pattered as I stood there, wondering how it had all gone so horribly wrong.

  posted under Daddy's Little Girl Loves Disco | 37 Comments »

An Open Letter To Security Goon 1

November28

Security Goon 1 –

While you don’t know me from a hole in the ground, I know you.

security goon 1

Okay, that’s a lie, I don’t actually know who you are or how you got such a lilting and magnificent name, but I’d like to.

I remember the day we met, if only vaguely — I was suffering from the flu AND malnutrition (turns out my pesky fridge was right — you should eat more than twice in four months), and the only thing that kept me company during those shaky, feverish moments in which I sat on my couch, trying not to die, was CSI: Miami. I’d never watched the show because I kept mixing up David Caruso and David Carradine, which naturally led me to think about autoerotic asphyxiation* and then I had to scrub out my brain with bleach.

But the flu meant that I was holed up on the couch, moaning near the cats and trying to focus on not dying while I watched the 837147 episodes of CSI: Miami that Netflix has thoughtfully provided me.

(Dear Netflix, I miss Hoarders)

See, Security Goon 1, I don’t exactly know who you are or what you looked like, I only know your name. A name that leads to more questions than answers: Did your mother name you Security Goon 1? I mean, I used to work L/D, which meant that I once met a baby someone had named (I shit you not, Security Goon 1) “Chandelier,” because, the mother claimed “it sounded fancy.” Now, I speak fancy-talk, Security Goon 1, but can’t say that “Security Goon 1” or “Chandelier” is fancy-talk lexicon.

Who looks at a baby and says, “We shall call him, Security Goon 1.” It’s like naming a baby Marge – who can look at an adorable baby and see a 40-year old cartoon character? Answer: not me. Then again, Security Goon 1, I wanted to name my son “Cash” so I suppose I should shut my whore mouth.

While I will never know your face, nor will you know mine, Security Goon 1, I wanted to thank you. I’ve been wallowing in some pretty ugly muck lately and try as I might to shake it off and keep on keepin’ on, it’s not always so simple, now is it, Security Goon 1. In fact, it’s been a pretty low point in my life. But seeing your name there on my television screen gave me the first real laugh I’ve had in ages.

You reminded me, Security Goon 1, that life isn’t always such serious business; that there are absurdities in everyday life, if we look hard enough. That we should hold onto the things that bring us joy and let those lift us up when we’re at our lowest. That absurd reminder, Security Goon 1, is something I owe you a debt of gratitude for. In all the events of the past few months, I’d lost that sparkle, that joy, and the simple reminder that life isn’t so damn serious, well, I needed that.

So thank you, Security Goon 1 (the “1” I added to make you sound kickier, by the by), for reminding me to look for the absurdities in life.

Love Always,

Aunt Becky

*really should have something more to do with cars #justsayin

P.S. Mark Zuckerberg has a crush on you, Security Goon 1:

security goon 1

P.P.S. New post up here.

  posted under Daddy's Little Girl Loves Disco | 3 Comments »

I Thought Having Kids Meant Buying Them All The Shit You Never Had

November27

No matter how I begged, cajoled, pleaded, or attempted blackmail, I couldn’t get my parents to budge on their toy purchases for us when we were kids. While my friends were rocking out their Super Nintendo, I was stuck playing “Kris-Kross Make My Video” (which is something I will never, ever, ever play again) and/or gnawing on those now-popular wooden toys (although not generally at the same time, because obviously).

I can’t imagine where on earth my parents found such toys – they weren’t tragically hip or organic back then – which means that my mom probably found them in one of her weird sage-scented health food stores. In fact, they were probably covered in lead paint, which may explain a thing or two about me. As I lack(ed) an imagination, it was damn near impossible for me to get too excitable about stacking wooden blocks again. I’d rather have watched grass grow or play out in the mud with the worms.

I’d have cut a bitch for something garish and made of plastic. I wasn’t allowed Barbies which meant that I’d have happily eaten aforementioned wooden toys if it meant I could have a Barbie Dream House complete with working bathtub so that she and Ken could get down and dirty, obviously. Why else put a bathtub in a house? BATHING? I think not.

When I had my own kids, I was pretty pleased with the notion that I could, in fact, now purchase them the toys I’d so longed for. While my mother scoffed at the EZ Bake Oven, always promising, yet never allowing me to use the real oven instead (probably a good idea on her end considering my track record with appliances), I couldn’t WAIT to buy one for my kid. Until, of course, I did and the “delicious cake” tasted more like urinal cake than chocolate.

(don’t ask how I know what a urinal cake tastes like)

I’d realized this year, after perusing the Black Friday sales, that it was finally time for my kids to actually select their own Christmas presents because they’re so damn finicky that it’s damn near impossible for me to buy them an item of clothing without allowing them to select it first. They are, as Mimi gleefully sings, “Stubborn Assholes.*”

Friday night, after a botched Thanksgiving, I had Mimi over to my apartment for our weekly Girl’s Night. I have lofty hopes that one day we can paint our nails, play Truth or Dare, and talk about boys, but for now, Girls Night means that we watch whatever Mimi would like to watch and play the games she likes best. The youngest of three and all, she loves being in charge.

I’d been carefully perusing the Black Friday Deals at my boyfriend, Target.com when I came across something I knew my wee masked avengers would either love or hate, so I called my daughter – by far the pickiest of the three – and together we examined toys.

Because my kids range in age from 3 to 11 and my apartment is *ahem* cozy (read: small), I have to make certain that the toys I buy are toys that they can all play with – together or separately. Not always the easiest of tasks, but since Ben is happy to play with his siblings on their level and Mimi and Alex are precocious, it works out well… if’n I can find the right shit.

I did.

For the first year EVER, I managed to get ALL the Christmas shopping done for the kids (likely the only presents I’ll be buying this year) by Friday night with the help of one tiny moppet named Amelia who discovered that Fisher Price makes a series of toys called “Imaginext,” which is a dumb ass name for some neato toys. I vote we petition for a better name, like Sparkle Sparkle…. er, SOMETHING.

Anyway. Amelia quickly noted that they made a BATMAN series and fell in pink-puffy heart love. Thanks to crowd-sourcing via The Twitter, I able to find these toys on sale, which always makes me happy in the pants.

While I’m thrilled that I am, for once, on top of my game with the whole I’M NEARLY DONE WITH THE CHRISTMAS SHOPPING shit, I’m more than a little sad that my daughter, my VERY OWN daughter has, once again, foiled my attempts at the whole, “my daughter needs a Barbie” thing. I’ve offered, begged, pleaded, and blackmailed, and still, she thinks Barbies are dumb.

When I stop hyperventilating, Pranksters, I’ll let you know.

P.S. I really want to do a Christmas card exchange but that seems like a crazy-bad idea. Is it? Should we do one?

*No, I did not happen to teach her that phrase, but it cracks me up whenever she sings the song.

  posted under Daddy's Little Girl Loves Disco | 23 Comments »
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