Way back, many years before I was married with a child, I dreamed of what my life would be like with a husband and a couple of kids running around, and the beautiful experience I would have being pregnant. I would glow, naturally, with the impending promise of a new life growing inside me. I'd wear only the most fashionable and flattering maternity clothes and my hair would always be expertly coiffed as the perfect accessory to my maternally swelling body. My husband would lovingly adore me from his comfortable armchair as our pedigree cocker spaniel lounged at his feet, and I, happily flitted about my immaculate kitchen baking cookies and succulent standing rib roasts. I would blush, ever so coyly as people lined up to adoringly touch my growing belly and ask when the blessed event was due.
Then one day I realized I wasn't Donna Reed.
I think it was somewhere along the day I found out I was pregnant. Or maybe it was a week later when I looked in the mirror and saw that the "glow" of pregnancy was actually sweat because being pregnant made me feel like my baby was staying warm by building bonfires in my uterus. My son was born in November, so the bulk of my pregnancy stretched throughout the summer months - in South Carolina. Translation: IT WAS HOT!! Satan would probably summer in Maine if South Carolina were Hell - it's that hot. One day in August I looked over at my husband to find him wrapped in a down comforter, shivering. His lips were blue, and I couldn't be sure, but I thought I saw the slightest hint of frost clinging to his five o'clock shadow. I, on the other hand, was sitting in the recliner with feet the size of picnic baskets on either side of a fan running on full blast, contemplating the validity of spontaneous combustion. I just knew if people really did spontaneously combust, then they were most assuredly pregnant when they did. "OH MY GOD, IT'S HOT!!" I cried. "Are yyyouuu kkkkiddingg mmme," my husband managed through chattering teeth, "YYYYooouuu cccccoulddd hang mmmeat in hhhere."
"Mmmm, meat." I thought, and waddled up to get a sandwich.
I was much luckier than most women because I didn't have a whole lot of morning sickness. There were a few times I felt queasy, but it soon subsided and I went on about my favorite pregnancy ritual...eating. I didn't crave anything, I craved EVERYthing. Especially hamburgers with extra ketchup and onions. I craved hamburgers so much that when I would pass by herds of cattle they would become restless, as if they could sense the ominous danger of my presence, much like the monkeys in that scene from The Omen. Somewhere around my eighth month I even caused a herd to stampede. Yes, they were afraid. They were very, very afraid. As were the employees at a fast food establishment (that shall remain nameless...you know who you are) that went into full panic mode each time I waddled through their doors. "Do you have anything bigger than a large?" I would frequently ask. It was at this point I determined hamburgers should come in sizes: small, medium, large and pregnant. It was also around this time my husband considered buying a ranch, thinking it would be cheaper than my lunch allowance. I got an almost sexual thrill going grocery shopping, and was asked on more than one occasion to leave the Food Lion. I had to send the manager a birth announcement before I was allowed to return.
Because of my obsession with food, finding maternity clothes was next to impossible. Fashionable maternity clothes, laughable. I did manage to get by with a few items for work, which were purchased from a company that also manufactured tarps for yachts. I tried not to think about that too much. One dress, in particular was a hot sexy purple number that made me look like I was auditioning for the part of the grapes in the Fruit of the Loom commercial. I also couldn't find shoes because my feet were swollen to three times their normal size 10. For a short time, I thought Howard Hughes was on to something with the empty tissue box idea, but my husband was of course the voice of reason and made me change. Instead, I usually wore bedroom shoes, which is the only real choice when one is wearing a tarp.
Even though I looked like a gigantic purple iceberg, I still found people magnetically drawn to me in my delicate condition. There is nothing people like more than the sight of a pregnant woman. Maybe it's the impending promise of life, or the reverence and hope that humans have for the institute of motherhood, but mostly I'm convinced it's because it proved I put out. I didn't so much feel adored when people rubbed my stomach as I did violated. The first few times complete strangers approached me and touched my belly (without asking may I add), it was ok. By the eighth month it was annoying. There is nothing worse than standing in line at KMart with a hamburger in one hand, juggling antacids and hemorrhoid ointment in the other, all the while concentrating on not farting, burping or both and having someone's grandmother feel you up. Maybe I was just cranky, but a lot of times when people would ask when I was due, I would just snap that I was just fat. The looks I got were the most fun I had the entire nine months.
Pregnancy sends a woman's hormones into overload, and I was no exception. The day my husband and I discovered we were having a son we planned his entire life on the drive home. For some odd reason my husband suggested Sam was going away to college. This was more than I could take and I began crying hysterically. Being the loving attentive Papa Bear he was he asked "What the hell?"
"Sam's going to leave," I bawled.
"He's not even born yet."
"He will one day!"
My husband was completely beaten by my well thought out and rapier logic.
"Baby, I promise by the time he is ready to go to college, we will be ready for him to go."
"WHY ARE YOU SENDING OUR BABY AWAY???"
And with that, my husband learned the hardest lesson of impending fatherhood: just shut up and hug the hysterical pregnant woman, otherwise people will think you are a letch and wait to see you on the Maury Povich show.
There was, of course, the other side of the surging hormones - sex drive. Pregnant women usually get on one or the other extremes of the sex drive issue and stay there. They will either not be interested at all, or want it all the time. I was the latter. It was the only thing that kept my husband sane, that is until the very end. I'm sure he thought he hit the pregnancy hormone jackpot when I made sexual demands on him almost daily, but eventually he rethought his position. Just days before my due date, I sauntered as sexily as a land whale could into our bedroom only to find my husband huddled in a corner clutching his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth. I was unmoved by his fear. "Be careful what you wish for," I growled, "You've got 15 minutes before I have to pee again, suck it up and let's go!" Ah yes, the art of seduction at it's finest.
Now that our son is a little man of nearly 3, I have begun missing that magical time and the idea of having a baby becomes more and more attractive to me. Mother Nature has designed us women to selectively forget some aspects of the entire procreation process. Unfortunately, father's aren't so lucky. They remember everything. I've suggested another child to my husband a number of times, but he never responds. He only crouches in the corner of our bedroom clutching his knees to his chest. Sooner or later...I'll get him.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
You're Different....Just Like Everyone Else.
I passed an EMO kid in the grocery store today. That alone is hilarious to me. Can't you just imagine his mother telling him he needed to go to the Piggly Wiggly to get a loaf of bread and him responding "OMG MOM....HOW CAN YOU EXPECT ME TO GO TO THE STORE! Fallout Boy just cued up on my IPOD and my battery is low....I can't take your abuse!" But, being that she is mom and is now responsible for the extra $400 a year it cost to add her teenager to her car insurance, and paid for the $600 ensemble he is wearing (hey it costs a lot of money to be a part of a cultural movement), she sends him on his way. The funniest thing about seeing that kid on the bread aisle was the part of the conversation I overheard him having with another (I'm willing to bet) emo friend on his cell...which was way nicer than mine by the way.
EMO KID: Why can't my mom just get this stuff when she goes to the grocery store herself?
PAUSE
EMO KID: I know right...like I don't have enough to do...
PAUSE
EMO KID: I should just buy the kind of bread I like...just to piss her off.
I only wish I was savvy enough to post audio in this blog so I could convey the amount of whining in this kids voice. I didn't know if I wanted to laugh or slap the kid in the back of the head.
I usually try to just ignore the kids (and some adults) who subscribe to whatever fashion statement du jour is, be it Goth, Emo, Hip Hop...what have you, but lately it's become a source of great amusement. Especially the white kids who want to be Ghetto. I want to shake them and tell them that by sampling something that is perceived to be "black" culture, they aren't really breaking any new ground. As a matter of fact Pat Boone did it way back in the 50's when he sang covers of Little Richard songs. So all those little white boys from the burbs are not so much Tupac as they are Pat Boone. I'd love to do the world a favor and drop them in the middle of South Central and see how long they last calling someone their "nigga"*. That's a reality show I can really get behind. I find boys who scream like little girls to be the epitome of comedy.
Goth kids crack me up because they run around claiming to be so misunderstood. Are you kidding me? People don't get that you like sad clowns and puppies and rainy days get you down because you look like you eat live bats. Try wiping your mother's makeup off, and give your little sister back her Polly Pocket's clown kit and we'll chat. In the meantime, don't blame me for being pissed because you scared my toddler who thought you were creepy. It's not his fault either, everyone thinks you're creepy.
Emo kids...well someone said it best: "You're from the suburbs, no one feels sorry for you". I want to create a bumper sticker that says "My Goth kid ate your Emo". If any graphic artists are reading this, you have my permission to use that, but you have to send me a free t-shirt or something.
Now lest you think me judgemental, let me just say, I went through my phases as well when I was in High School. I wore a lot of black, listened to heavy metal and punk music, had a jacked up hair cut and wore the brightest shade of red lipstick imaginable. If you can't tell by my icon, I am the color of cream cheese and probably looked like a traffic light walking down the halls, because nothing sets off pasty skin like "ravishing red" lipstick. I also wrote my share of bad poetry and locked myself in my room for hours at a time, all the while complaining to my friends that my parents ignored me. I spent a whole lot of time plotting how to be different and unique.
Luckily, around my second year in college, I looked around one day and saw about 30 people looking just as different and unique as I did, and thought they all looked like douche bags. In a light bulb moment I realized I must look like a douche bag too, and hurried home to change...and find a more suitable shade of lipstick.
So kiddos, here is your unsolicited advice of the day from your Auntie Carol: If you want to be different, don't go shopping at the same store and cut your hair the same way every other kid does...be yourself, no one else is doing it. Oh yeah, and you look like a douche bag.
EMO KID: Why can't my mom just get this stuff when she goes to the grocery store herself?
PAUSE
EMO KID: I know right...like I don't have enough to do...
PAUSE
EMO KID: I should just buy the kind of bread I like...just to piss her off.
I only wish I was savvy enough to post audio in this blog so I could convey the amount of whining in this kids voice. I didn't know if I wanted to laugh or slap the kid in the back of the head.
I usually try to just ignore the kids (and some adults) who subscribe to whatever fashion statement du jour is, be it Goth, Emo, Hip Hop...what have you, but lately it's become a source of great amusement. Especially the white kids who want to be Ghetto. I want to shake them and tell them that by sampling something that is perceived to be "black" culture, they aren't really breaking any new ground. As a matter of fact Pat Boone did it way back in the 50's when he sang covers of Little Richard songs. So all those little white boys from the burbs are not so much Tupac as they are Pat Boone. I'd love to do the world a favor and drop them in the middle of South Central and see how long they last calling someone their "nigga"*. That's a reality show I can really get behind. I find boys who scream like little girls to be the epitome of comedy.
Goth kids crack me up because they run around claiming to be so misunderstood. Are you kidding me? People don't get that you like sad clowns and puppies and rainy days get you down because you look like you eat live bats. Try wiping your mother's makeup off, and give your little sister back her Polly Pocket's clown kit and we'll chat. In the meantime, don't blame me for being pissed because you scared my toddler who thought you were creepy. It's not his fault either, everyone thinks you're creepy.
Emo kids...well someone said it best: "You're from the suburbs, no one feels sorry for you". I want to create a bumper sticker that says "My Goth kid ate your Emo". If any graphic artists are reading this, you have my permission to use that, but you have to send me a free t-shirt or something.
Now lest you think me judgemental, let me just say, I went through my phases as well when I was in High School. I wore a lot of black, listened to heavy metal and punk music, had a jacked up hair cut and wore the brightest shade of red lipstick imaginable. If you can't tell by my icon, I am the color of cream cheese and probably looked like a traffic light walking down the halls, because nothing sets off pasty skin like "ravishing red" lipstick. I also wrote my share of bad poetry and locked myself in my room for hours at a time, all the while complaining to my friends that my parents ignored me. I spent a whole lot of time plotting how to be different and unique.
Luckily, around my second year in college, I looked around one day and saw about 30 people looking just as different and unique as I did, and thought they all looked like douche bags. In a light bulb moment I realized I must look like a douche bag too, and hurried home to change...and find a more suitable shade of lipstick.
So kiddos, here is your unsolicited advice of the day from your Auntie Carol: If you want to be different, don't go shopping at the same store and cut your hair the same way every other kid does...be yourself, no one else is doing it. Oh yeah, and you look like a douche bag.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Today is my anniversary and I'm picking peas!
Today, my husband and I, celebrate 5 years of wedded bliss. Despite my previous posts, he really is the most wonderful, generous, kind, sexy, and more often than not, goofy man alive. I don't mean goofy in a negative way either, but rather, in a "he makes me laugh" way. I love him (collective awwwww). Unfortunately, we are both out of work for the next two weeks until Rick starts his new job, and are therefore broke! So there will be no romantic dinners over candlelight and wine. Instead, we are going to my in-law's to work in the garden.
A little history of me and all things agricultural. I grew up rurally, the granddaughter of a former sharecropper (yes white people were sharecroppers too). Because of it, my grandmother kept a hog and she and my aunt would plant a HUGE garden every year. Most of the work I didn't mind, feeding the hog, repairing the pen, planting the garden and gathering the garden were ok. Although, once I did get a nasty bite on the ass by a hog (in front of a boy I had an enormous crush on no less) and had to get stitches and a tetanus shot, but that's a blog for another day. I hated, however, shelling peas. For those of you unfamiliar, or more urban, shelling peas is by far the most tedious thing one can do. It ranks right up there with watching grass grow and paint dry. As the youngest, each year at harvest time, I would be stuck with the crappiest jobs imaginable. You guessed it...shelling peas. I didn't have the 40 years experience my aunt and grandmother had, so of course I was slow. Both my grandmother and aunt found this offensive and would yell at me to go faster. My grandmother was a saint among women, but at harvest time she warped into an apron wearing, bun in the hair version of Gunnery Sergeant Hartman from Full Metal Jacket. Full Metal Redneck is the proposed title of my autobiography...just FYI.
Because of this experience, I swore an oath that if I ever made it to adulthood, I would never shell another pea. This puts me in sort of a dilemma today. You see today is the beginning of the pea harvest in our garden. Peas are one of the handful of vegetables my husband actually likes, and having that "Pull your weight" mentality pounded into me by my farming ancestors, I feel I have to do something. I'll probably end up putting up tomatoes and squash, but I would volunteer to clean the toilets if it got me out of shelling peas. We'll see how it goes.
A little history of me and all things agricultural. I grew up rurally, the granddaughter of a former sharecropper (yes white people were sharecroppers too). Because of it, my grandmother kept a hog and she and my aunt would plant a HUGE garden every year. Most of the work I didn't mind, feeding the hog, repairing the pen, planting the garden and gathering the garden were ok. Although, once I did get a nasty bite on the ass by a hog (in front of a boy I had an enormous crush on no less) and had to get stitches and a tetanus shot, but that's a blog for another day. I hated, however, shelling peas. For those of you unfamiliar, or more urban, shelling peas is by far the most tedious thing one can do. It ranks right up there with watching grass grow and paint dry. As the youngest, each year at harvest time, I would be stuck with the crappiest jobs imaginable. You guessed it...shelling peas. I didn't have the 40 years experience my aunt and grandmother had, so of course I was slow. Both my grandmother and aunt found this offensive and would yell at me to go faster. My grandmother was a saint among women, but at harvest time she warped into an apron wearing, bun in the hair version of Gunnery Sergeant Hartman from Full Metal Jacket. Full Metal Redneck is the proposed title of my autobiography...just FYI.
Because of this experience, I swore an oath that if I ever made it to adulthood, I would never shell another pea. This puts me in sort of a dilemma today. You see today is the beginning of the pea harvest in our garden. Peas are one of the handful of vegetables my husband actually likes, and having that "Pull your weight" mentality pounded into me by my farming ancestors, I feel I have to do something. I'll probably end up putting up tomatoes and squash, but I would volunteer to clean the toilets if it got me out of shelling peas. We'll see how it goes.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Chick Flicks Will Make You Want To Stab Your Husband In The Eye!
I subscribe to an online DVD rental company, which will remain nameless because they don't pay me to advertise for them so fuck em! Anyway, since my husband has forgotten how to do anything more complicated than wipe his own ass since we were married, I usually navigate the website and therefore have more of my choices on the queue. Being the mature and dutiful wife that I am, I have sat through weeks worth of "Flash: The series" patiently, knowing that eventually one of my movies would arrive. I said nothing when he ordered "In the studio with George Perez", which was basically a very talented comic book artist drawing. George P. is way talented, but I'd rather have a root canal than sit for two hours just watching him draw.
These past two weeks, we have been inundated with my picks, which have included more than a few "Chick Flicks". I chose most of the movies on my list because I never got to pick them out at the video store before we moved to the 21st century and went with the aforementioned online DVD rental company. His excuse was always..."Let's get DVD's we will both enjoy" while renting such Oscar worthy candidates as "Grindhouse", and "Bachelor Party". (Note to husband: Watching a bunch of scantily clad actresses attempting to emote while only partially clothed is your idea of a good time, not mine...no matter what you think about when you masturbate!). Just tonight I watched "The Lakehouse" with Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves, unarguably a chick flick. My husband locked himself in the computer room and watched a documentary on comic books (also known as porn if the wife doesn't catch you). With only ten minutes left of the movie, my husband emerges from his cocoon and despite asking several questions to the plot of the movie, has the audacity to ridicule and make fun of the movie. I mentally calculated how many beers I would have to feed him to get him loopy enough to tie him to the bed so I could shove a rusty ice pick in his eye. After all, there is nothing funny about two people who fall in love because their mailbox is some sort of weird space/time continuum...those two needed each other!
Which leads me to my next point. Despite the fact that my darling husband would rather play on the Internet than watch a chick flick, he certainly does require a lot of explanations of said movies. Countless times he has excused himself to the computer room, only to emerge mid cinema and begin drilling me for the story line thus far. He will watch about 10 minutes under the pretense of lighting a cigar/getting a drink and then announce, triumphantly, what is going to happen at the end of the movie. Yes, most movies these days have predictable endings, but that doesn't mean you should announce it to the entire world. You're a brilliant detective sweetie, brilliant enough to put Miss Marples to shame, now shut up!
For all you single girls out there...do us married women a favor and drag your prospective boyfriends to every chick flick, hokey restaurant and Celine Dion concert you possibly can. Don't sleep with him until you have seen at least five, because the only way you'll get to enjoy them is if he is still trying to get into bed with you. The promise of sex, after you are married, is not enough to get a man anywhere near a Lifetime Movie of the Week, because he's already bought that proverbial cow. Trust me.
***Disclaimer: Despite my seemingly bashing of my husband over the past two posts, I really do love the guy, more than my next breath. He is a wonderful husband and father, even when I am about a quart low on estrogen as I am at the moment.
These past two weeks, we have been inundated with my picks, which have included more than a few "Chick Flicks". I chose most of the movies on my list because I never got to pick them out at the video store before we moved to the 21st century and went with the aforementioned online DVD rental company. His excuse was always..."Let's get DVD's we will both enjoy" while renting such Oscar worthy candidates as "Grindhouse", and "Bachelor Party". (Note to husband: Watching a bunch of scantily clad actresses attempting to emote while only partially clothed is your idea of a good time, not mine...no matter what you think about when you masturbate!). Just tonight I watched "The Lakehouse" with Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves, unarguably a chick flick. My husband locked himself in the computer room and watched a documentary on comic books (also known as porn if the wife doesn't catch you). With only ten minutes left of the movie, my husband emerges from his cocoon and despite asking several questions to the plot of the movie, has the audacity to ridicule and make fun of the movie. I mentally calculated how many beers I would have to feed him to get him loopy enough to tie him to the bed so I could shove a rusty ice pick in his eye. After all, there is nothing funny about two people who fall in love because their mailbox is some sort of weird space/time continuum...those two needed each other!
Which leads me to my next point. Despite the fact that my darling husband would rather play on the Internet than watch a chick flick, he certainly does require a lot of explanations of said movies. Countless times he has excused himself to the computer room, only to emerge mid cinema and begin drilling me for the story line thus far. He will watch about 10 minutes under the pretense of lighting a cigar/getting a drink and then announce, triumphantly, what is going to happen at the end of the movie. Yes, most movies these days have predictable endings, but that doesn't mean you should announce it to the entire world. You're a brilliant detective sweetie, brilliant enough to put Miss Marples to shame, now shut up!
For all you single girls out there...do us married women a favor and drag your prospective boyfriends to every chick flick, hokey restaurant and Celine Dion concert you possibly can. Don't sleep with him until you have seen at least five, because the only way you'll get to enjoy them is if he is still trying to get into bed with you. The promise of sex, after you are married, is not enough to get a man anywhere near a Lifetime Movie of the Week, because he's already bought that proverbial cow. Trust me.
***Disclaimer: Despite my seemingly bashing of my husband over the past two posts, I really do love the guy, more than my next breath. He is a wonderful husband and father, even when I am about a quart low on estrogen as I am at the moment.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Marriage is nothing like a romance novel - or - why are men fascinated with feces?
I still remember the day I met my Prince Charming. It was August 23, 2001, at the Redbone Alley restaurant in Sumter, SC. It was a Thursday because, even though we had been chatting via email and IM for the better part of four months, I wanted the "out" of having to work the next day if things didn't go well. I wore my most cleavage baring red shirt and butt enhancing jeans and he was dressed in a white button down shirt and jeans. The white set off his beautifully tanned skin, and he had a mass of dark brown wavy hair and full lips. When I saw him standing beside his truck about to walk into the restaurant, I knew we were going to be married. It really was love at first sight.
We had the best conversation over dinner, plenty of laughing and flirting and long stares, and when my perfectly timed call from my best friend came an hour later, I promptly hung up on her so I could get back to the business of having Rick fall in love with me. We were eventually kicked out of the restaurant so they could close up, and we each chipped in to give our waitress a huge tip since we had "cheated" her out of other tips for the night by staying so long. That night was our first date, and we were inseparable for the next year and a half. We were engaged December 14, 2002, and married the following June.
I remember standing in the room of the church that looked out over the sanctuary waiting for my long walk down the aisle when I saw Rick take his place next to the Reverend. My exact words were: "Oh Mom look how handsome he looks in his tux...HOLY SHIT I'M GETTING MARRIED!" My mother looked at me curiously, like she couldn't believe I waited this long to have a panic attack and asked "You're just realizing this," with a fist of death planted securely on her georgette covered hip.
"Well, I knew I was getting married, but it felt like someone else's wedding up until just now!" I could feel the lightheaded rush one only feels when one is on the verge of hyperventilating. It was this moment that my mother showed the true side of motherhood when she stroked her hand over my perfectly styled veil and then grabbed my hand and stroked it. I felt instantly better and then smiled at her. She then looked at me and asked "feel better?" I nodded. "Good," she said, "Now get your ass out there! There are a lot of people waiting to get drunk at your reception and none of the deposits are refundable!" As if on cue, the bagpipes started.
I realized marriage was not like a romance novel on our wedding night. We got home and looked at each other, knowing what was expected of us and in unison said "Let's just go to sleep." You see in a romance novel, I would have changed into some billowy, gossamer peignoir, and he, unable to contain his passion, would have hoisted me up in his arms, muscles rippling, and taken me forcefully, yet tenderly with his turgent manhood. Instead, he collapsed naked on the bed, farted, scratched his balls and started snoring almost immediately. I on the other hand, put on my most comfortable granny panties and ratty t-shirt and picked at a zit for 10 minutes before farting, scratching my butt and snoring.
It wasn't long after this that we fell into the groove of being a married couple. My first big lesson of married life: Men are obsessed with their crap. Funnily enough, before we were even engaged, I was sitting at his parents table when his father called his mother into the bathroom to show her his latest offering to the porcelain god. I later made Rick promise me he would never call me into the bathroom to look at his shit, reasoning that we would have excellent health insurance and could pay someone to do that for me if there was a problem. He kept his promise, and five years later I can say he has never wanted to show me his shit. Instead he likes to give me the play by play and color commentary. He will emerge from his alter of feces and declare "that one was sort of fuzzy", or "I think I know what happened to Jimmy Hoffa". Once when we were carpooling to and from work he would give me the play by play on the way home. Everyday. Without fail. Sometimes with sound effects worthy of a George Lucas film. Yes, romance is alive.
Five years into our wedded bliss, I've also learned that not only are men fascinated with their own poop, but they use it as an excuse to get out of everything, much the same way women use their period to skip gym class in high school. I figured this out when our son was a baby. Rick would be playing with Sam, having a great time and then abruptly hand him off to me and grab a newspaper. (For all you single girls out there, the grabbing of the newspaper is to the crap ritual like lighting the torch is to the Olympics...it signifies the opening ceremony. ) Right after he was safely ensconced inside his cocoon of elimination, I would realize our son needed a diaper change. The first couple of times I didn't catch on, but after I noticed the pattern the proverbial light bulb went off and I noticed it with other things. Now, when I mention what a mess the house is, it's off to the bathroom he goes. Just out of shear curiosity, I made him go about 11 times one day. I finally stopped when he started looking pale. You think Danielle Steele is ever going to write that into a novel...doubtful.
We had the best conversation over dinner, plenty of laughing and flirting and long stares, and when my perfectly timed call from my best friend came an hour later, I promptly hung up on her so I could get back to the business of having Rick fall in love with me. We were eventually kicked out of the restaurant so they could close up, and we each chipped in to give our waitress a huge tip since we had "cheated" her out of other tips for the night by staying so long. That night was our first date, and we were inseparable for the next year and a half. We were engaged December 14, 2002, and married the following June.
I remember standing in the room of the church that looked out over the sanctuary waiting for my long walk down the aisle when I saw Rick take his place next to the Reverend. My exact words were: "Oh Mom look how handsome he looks in his tux...HOLY SHIT I'M GETTING MARRIED!" My mother looked at me curiously, like she couldn't believe I waited this long to have a panic attack and asked "You're just realizing this," with a fist of death planted securely on her georgette covered hip.
"Well, I knew I was getting married, but it felt like someone else's wedding up until just now!" I could feel the lightheaded rush one only feels when one is on the verge of hyperventilating. It was this moment that my mother showed the true side of motherhood when she stroked her hand over my perfectly styled veil and then grabbed my hand and stroked it. I felt instantly better and then smiled at her. She then looked at me and asked "feel better?" I nodded. "Good," she said, "Now get your ass out there! There are a lot of people waiting to get drunk at your reception and none of the deposits are refundable!" As if on cue, the bagpipes started.
I realized marriage was not like a romance novel on our wedding night. We got home and looked at each other, knowing what was expected of us and in unison said "Let's just go to sleep." You see in a romance novel, I would have changed into some billowy, gossamer peignoir, and he, unable to contain his passion, would have hoisted me up in his arms, muscles rippling, and taken me forcefully, yet tenderly with his turgent manhood. Instead, he collapsed naked on the bed, farted, scratched his balls and started snoring almost immediately. I on the other hand, put on my most comfortable granny panties and ratty t-shirt and picked at a zit for 10 minutes before farting, scratching my butt and snoring.
It wasn't long after this that we fell into the groove of being a married couple. My first big lesson of married life: Men are obsessed with their crap. Funnily enough, before we were even engaged, I was sitting at his parents table when his father called his mother into the bathroom to show her his latest offering to the porcelain god. I later made Rick promise me he would never call me into the bathroom to look at his shit, reasoning that we would have excellent health insurance and could pay someone to do that for me if there was a problem. He kept his promise, and five years later I can say he has never wanted to show me his shit. Instead he likes to give me the play by play and color commentary. He will emerge from his alter of feces and declare "that one was sort of fuzzy", or "I think I know what happened to Jimmy Hoffa". Once when we were carpooling to and from work he would give me the play by play on the way home. Everyday. Without fail. Sometimes with sound effects worthy of a George Lucas film. Yes, romance is alive.
Five years into our wedded bliss, I've also learned that not only are men fascinated with their own poop, but they use it as an excuse to get out of everything, much the same way women use their period to skip gym class in high school. I figured this out when our son was a baby. Rick would be playing with Sam, having a great time and then abruptly hand him off to me and grab a newspaper. (For all you single girls out there, the grabbing of the newspaper is to the crap ritual like lighting the torch is to the Olympics...it signifies the opening ceremony. ) Right after he was safely ensconced inside his cocoon of elimination, I would realize our son needed a diaper change. The first couple of times I didn't catch on, but after I noticed the pattern the proverbial light bulb went off and I noticed it with other things. Now, when I mention what a mess the house is, it's off to the bathroom he goes. Just out of shear curiosity, I made him go about 11 times one day. I finally stopped when he started looking pale. You think Danielle Steele is ever going to write that into a novel...doubtful.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Suicide Solution
I've been sitting here for 15 minutes trying to think of a humorous spin on an article I just read, but I really can't. I never set this blog up to be serious, but somethings just aren't funny. Somethings just defy any levity at all and leave us all just numb because the anger is too much for a single human being to handle alone. The article I read was about an officer in Turlock, California shooting a man to death for beating a 1 year old child to death in the middle of the road. You can read it for yourself here: http://www.kcra.com/news/16614252/detail.html.
Articles about child abuse always leave me feeling the same way: wishing I could mount up a posse of mothers and fathers who would take these wastes of oxygen, who beat children out and give them the only solution they deserve....death. But being a Christian I should want to rehabilitate these assholes first right? Wrong. Some people can't be rehabilitated. Some people don't deserve rehabilitation. Some people deserve to die. Now lest you think I'm advocating mass murder of the pathetic child abusing scum of the world, here is my disclaimer: I'm not advocating murder. No boys and girls, what I am advocating is assisted suicide.
If your life is so horrible that you have to take your frustrations out on the most innocent and helpless among us, then you shouldn't have to suffer another day. Look me up, I have a gun I'd be more than happy to let you suck on, and I'll even supply the bullet you should eat. Full service, absolutely free. I only ask that you go behind the shed to do it, I live in a nice neighborhood after all.
Hey, I know parenthood is stressful. A poor economy doesn't help, and neither does the fact that children around 1-2 like to whine and cry more than they like french fries. Believe me I know. I have a 2 year old who tries my nerves on a daily basis, and lately has began running some sort of science experiment to see how well mommy functions on 2 hours sleep. I've come close to losing my cool on more than one occasion. Trust me, I know how hard raising a child is. But never have I ever considered raising a hand to him so many times I kill him. When he looks at me, even when he is testing me, he knows that I am the one person he can trust and depend on in this world. You think your life is so tough? How about a life where the one person you should be able to trust in the world is the one person that wants to kill you? How horrible that he had to go through such a short life without knowing love. He is never going to have a first day of school, a first kiss, a first date....nothing. And for what? Because this low life piece of shit had a bad day?
Let me speak straight to the people who beat or abuse children in any manner, whether it is physical, emotional, sexual or neglect: Drive your kids to the nearest emergency room or fire station and then go home and suck on the business end of a revolver and put the whole world out of YOUR misery. You make me sick. What's more, I'm sick of hearing how you were abused as a child and that's why you abuse your children. Guess what dumb ass, you are even worse because you know how it feels to be abused and you are causing that hurt to another human being. Get counseling and leave the children alone.
The officer in this case, who killed the attacker, was put on administrative leave. Now let me speak to the law enforcement for this town or any other....you shouldn't suspend this cop, you should give him a fat raise and a medal. He served justice. Justice isn't some hyped up trial where they throw words around like, Post traumatic stress, temporary insanity and all that other bs. Justice isn't letting a bunch of bleeding hearts stand outside holding lit candles while dirt bags like this are executed. Justice would be someone holding a candle for this poor child who died at the hands of someone he was supposed to trust, or taking a stand before it got to this. Justice was putting that dog down where he stood for killing that child. He deserved it...unlike his victim. If you want to hurt a child, get help. If help won't help you, end yourself...you won't be missed.
Articles about child abuse always leave me feeling the same way: wishing I could mount up a posse of mothers and fathers who would take these wastes of oxygen, who beat children out and give them the only solution they deserve....death. But being a Christian I should want to rehabilitate these assholes first right? Wrong. Some people can't be rehabilitated. Some people don't deserve rehabilitation. Some people deserve to die. Now lest you think I'm advocating mass murder of the pathetic child abusing scum of the world, here is my disclaimer: I'm not advocating murder. No boys and girls, what I am advocating is assisted suicide.
If your life is so horrible that you have to take your frustrations out on the most innocent and helpless among us, then you shouldn't have to suffer another day. Look me up, I have a gun I'd be more than happy to let you suck on, and I'll even supply the bullet you should eat. Full service, absolutely free. I only ask that you go behind the shed to do it, I live in a nice neighborhood after all.
Hey, I know parenthood is stressful. A poor economy doesn't help, and neither does the fact that children around 1-2 like to whine and cry more than they like french fries. Believe me I know. I have a 2 year old who tries my nerves on a daily basis, and lately has began running some sort of science experiment to see how well mommy functions on 2 hours sleep. I've come close to losing my cool on more than one occasion. Trust me, I know how hard raising a child is. But never have I ever considered raising a hand to him so many times I kill him. When he looks at me, even when he is testing me, he knows that I am the one person he can trust and depend on in this world. You think your life is so tough? How about a life where the one person you should be able to trust in the world is the one person that wants to kill you? How horrible that he had to go through such a short life without knowing love. He is never going to have a first day of school, a first kiss, a first date....nothing. And for what? Because this low life piece of shit had a bad day?
Let me speak straight to the people who beat or abuse children in any manner, whether it is physical, emotional, sexual or neglect: Drive your kids to the nearest emergency room or fire station and then go home and suck on the business end of a revolver and put the whole world out of YOUR misery. You make me sick. What's more, I'm sick of hearing how you were abused as a child and that's why you abuse your children. Guess what dumb ass, you are even worse because you know how it feels to be abused and you are causing that hurt to another human being. Get counseling and leave the children alone.
The officer in this case, who killed the attacker, was put on administrative leave. Now let me speak to the law enforcement for this town or any other....you shouldn't suspend this cop, you should give him a fat raise and a medal. He served justice. Justice isn't some hyped up trial where they throw words around like, Post traumatic stress, temporary insanity and all that other bs. Justice isn't letting a bunch of bleeding hearts stand outside holding lit candles while dirt bags like this are executed. Justice would be someone holding a candle for this poor child who died at the hands of someone he was supposed to trust, or taking a stand before it got to this. Justice was putting that dog down where he stood for killing that child. He deserved it...unlike his victim. If you want to hurt a child, get help. If help won't help you, end yourself...you won't be missed.
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