Looking forward

I'm still not always convinced that a third child will be coming into our family in a few short months. Then yesterday, I saw my sons' faces light up and eyes bug out when they saw the ultrasound for the first time and gosh dang it -- what can I say? My stony heart melted.

Certain things I can now start to look forward to have begun to set in, like:

• No more sad attempts at trying to use those stupid pee-pee tee-pees for the pure novelty of them. 
• No more urine soaked drapes and walls.
• No more clumping Vaseline around miniature circumcisions.
• My yelling of, "Get your hands out of your pants!" will not increase by another 1/3.
• No more (than usual) walking into bath time where I've indeed uninterrupted something special between a boy and his penis.

And why's that?

Well, because this baby is a girl!

Probably.

Woot!

Hatin' skatin'

It had been a long day cooped up inside; at -14 degrees, it was too cold to play outside & the boys were driving us b-a-n-a-n-a-s. "Let's go ice skating for the very first time with the boys, ever" was my brilliant idea. I was thinking pssfftt, I got this shit covered. I was a hockey player. I have Bauer skates. I don't even need a jock strap! I'm a bad ass bitch on the ice, yo. I did, however, have to pick up new skates on the way to the rink, as it has been the better part of a decade since I've been on skates, and my old ones wouldn't fit me anymore -- of that, I was pretty sure.

Even at Canadian Tire, when I needed to ask the store kid for help (since I was in a hurry, not because I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. Ahem), I totally had my butch jock'star attitude on as I boasted, "I play hockey, so I don't weeeear figure skates. I need hockey skates." And inside, my ego was lookin' like this . . .

I mean, it would surely be like riding a bike, right? Who cares if it's been 8+ years since I've stepped a blade on the ice -- a brand new, freshly sharpened pair of blades that could cut a jugular with a mere accidental sneeze, to be more precise. Nevertheless, when we got to the arena and while I was lacing up, I still felt like I was going to rock this rodeo . . .

But then faster than you can say onamonapia, I stood up on my new skates and the searing pain went chi chi chi owwwwiee all the way up my spine and exploded from my neck with an additional aaahhhh guuuggghhh with every single click clop click clop of my skates as I approached the ice. The very instant I stepped onto the rink, I felt like this . . .

It took every burning muscle in my body to keep myself standing upright. And then as the boys entered the rink, I had to deal with this as well . . .

Sweet Jesus. I have never wanted to curse my husband's "weak ankles" more than at that moment. He got to watch from behind his shame the crash boards as I sucked up every last drop of adrenaline my body could possibly produce. Soon there was trouble on the front and when one goes down, he took us all with him like 3 bowling pins, and I felt like this . . .

But of course, we got up and shuffled onward and after about fifteen of the longest minutes of my life (and not yet even making it to the center line), I was ready to chalk it up to "a good first effort", but the boys actually WANTED to stay and were LOVING it . . . of fucking course they were! The ONE time I am actually hoping they hate an experience. Ugh. It was about at that very moment that I looked over at my husband kinda like this . . .

Thankfully, the Zamboni gods spared my life and it was time to get off the ice, regardless of the boys' plans to stay there for all eternity. There were tantrums and chaos but I didn't even care and barely noticed. I just wanted to stand on a non-frozen surface - that was the short term, number one goal of my life.

When I woke up this morning, it was a huge OMFG. I wanted more than anything to rock the Pierce Hawthorne look and just not give a shit until my body heals in a few days . . .

And as soon at it was a reasonably acceptable hour to use the phone this morning, I call my daddy . . .

. . . and told him he needs to come over and teach his grandsons to skate, because I ain't EVER fucking doing that again by myself!

And please take my advice: If you're out of shape, don't ever attempt to prove your body wrong. Denial can be lethal. Just avoid intensely strenuous activities all together, forever -- it's way easier and much less painful.

Or gradually get into shape, I guess.

Blargh-dee-blargh blargh.

Whatthefuckever.

A Whore Week

Well, here is another Friday that is about to pass this November, and I have to say that from my perspective this month is still kicking my ass. Last week, Thing 1 contracted impetigo, which is like the daycare version of herpes, as far as I'm concerned. Fucking disgusting germ factories, they are - the institutions and the little people inside them. But this all will soon be a distant memory, however, since they will be stopping daycare in a few short days. Why, you ask?

Ohh, because I lost my job. Ya know, no biggie . . .

I mean, holy motherfucking tripping balls.

I realize that it's nothing too huge in the grand scheme of things and that it happens to families every second of every day, but when it happens to you, it really does feel like a giant kick to your stomach.

Mortgage? Debt repayments? Car? Insurance? Groceries? TWO OF FUCKING EVERYTHING?

We were "just" scraping by and were counting down the days when the boys started "free" school in the fall. Well, didn't that grandiose plan just get flushed down the proverbial shitter? I've been employed continuously since my first job as a golf caddie when I was 12, so I'm not quite sure what to do about this whole "not having a job" thing.

I think I'm meant to cook, clean, take care of the child'ens, and shit, right?

Well, fuck me; that sucks.

I commend anyone that can stay home and happily raise their children, it's hard ass work. I know this, but I've also known that it's never been something I would be good at. I will admit that I love my kids the most when I only see them a limited number of house per day. I love working and creating - it is when I'm my best me. And that's the me that is the best me for my kids to have as a mom.

Does that make sense? I'm going to go ahead and assume you said, "Yes!"

And through fights with my work (who are trying to withhold pay that I've earned), to ruining relationships over a decade old, to realizing we'll have to be eating a lot of 27¢ packets of instant noodles for dinner and could very well lose our home, and my son's face is peeling off into crusty bits, I'm trying to focus on the fact that it's all superficial shit at the end of the day. We'll bounce back, eventually.

And maybe I'll get ripped off for the ump-teenth time by the same douche muppet.
And perhaps we'll have to get a different address.
And I'm sure that Thing 1 will survive.

But my friend around the corner is dying.

So yes, I had a fucktastic week that proceeded to bend me over and ram a fat one up me, but it could be worse. It can always be worse.

"Well, I say we get drunk, because I'm all out of ideas." (Metatron, Dogma)

Yup, it's about that time, folks.

Cheers!

Mommy Dearest - Revisited

I wrote this last year and in honor of Mother's Day, I would like to air it out one more time...

I'm finding it difficult finding the words to pay tribute to such an amazing woman:
My mother.
I think what astounds me the most is although she has taught me so much, I struggle every day to be like her; to be a better person.

She is forgiving; I am not.
There have been some atrocities that have been done to my mother in the past and I know about them and who did them. She has forgiven them and yet I detest them. I will never forgive them and I have zero intentions to rectify those relationships.

She has over-come so much. Many (who have gone through much less) use their pasts as crutches as to why or how the world has done them wrong and it's at the root of all their current misfortune, poor choices, and short-comings. I often fail to empathize with these people because I think "If my mother could have done it, why couldn't you?"

She is able to move forward; I cannot forget the past.
I hold on to both good and bad things that have happened so tightly and I really cannot understand why I'm always so terrified to let go. I often feel that they make up a part of me and if I forget them, move on or let go, that I will be losing those parts of myself forever.

My mother has let go of many things and yet she remains whole. I see her lead by example and yet I cannot take that leap of faith.

Faith.
After everything, she still has her faith. I lose mine on a daily basis. I see my faith more like genetic trait. I will not fight it and I will surely pass it down to my children, but I have no passion about it. 


I do believe, but I am often angry with God.

My mother may be divine, but she is no saint. She has a fantastic sense of humor and whether she wants to admit it or not, it's one of the few qualities I did manage to get from her. Don't try to fight it, Ma, you're good and warped... and that is why you are so incredible to me.

You are my hero, my best friend and I love you. 

The Lie of Happiness: An Illustrated History

I have put session number two of my journey into Crazytown in the bag. Done and dusted. There are so many little stupid things, (along with some fairly major things, I'll admit) that when added all up, seem pretty fucking over-whelming. The longer I talk to other women, both my own age and many from my mothers generation, and even my 90 year old grandmother, it is becoming clear to me that it's not such a new symptom that I originally blamed on this "hyper generation". We have always been miserable and slightly insane, but it's only until recently that we have been willing to share and admit to these feelings.

In short, Mrs. Cleaver was full of shit. She was probably in the kitchen popping Prozac while cleaning up after the Sunday roast she so meticulously prepared as a result of her raging OCD. Just take a look at Bree Van de Kamp - unraveling at the seams of her panties, but her pearls have never hung more perfectly.

We are all a little messed up in our own special idiosyncratic ways. It's just a measure of how much of ourselves we admit to others and expose our vulnerabilities. That's what Twitter is for, right?

Anyways, here is what I think these women were REALLY thinking...

"I've been married 3 times and still never had an orgasm; this is why I drink." 

~ Muriel

"That shower is way better than him. Every time."

~ Ruthie

"I'm going to stick my head in the oven tonight. I mean, say 'Cheese!'"

~ Audrey

"I hate vacuuming, like, seriously fucking hate it, motherfucker."

~ Beth

"I just gave him a blow job, not because I liked it, but because I'm bored."

~ Judith

"I'm so fucking horny that even this cactus is turning me on."

~ Connie

And I guess I shouldn't leave out this guy either:

"Sex with my wife makes me ill. I try to imagine she's Ben from next door."

~ Jerry

And now I have the urge to watch gay porn and eat ice cream...

The Ballerina

Some people will call me a hopeless romantic and that my head is always in the clouds. I get far too emotionally involved with movies and TV shows that are about a love story, whether it's love lost or love found. And it's true. I shovel that gooey crap up with a giant shovel. If I could fling it all into a pile, I'd likely roll around and bask in it like a pig. A love pig. That's me, and today, I will explain why.

This is the story of my Oma

It was the summer of 1940 in Estonia. There was a young girl, not quite 16, and she had two dreams. One was to become a ballerina and the other was to marry the boy to whom she loved. They had grown up as neighbors in their small village, and she had already loved him for many years.

She would often practice ballet in the tiny backyard of her family's house that she shared with her parents and younger brother. Her love would often see her there and watch in silence. Not leering. She knew he was there, and he knew that she was aware of him. No words ever needed to be spoken during these beautiful, unspoken moments shared between just the two of them... and all the while, the rest of the world was screaming.

When they were together, it felt so natural. So safe. So loving. They both knew they were meant to be together. It was understood but never spoken.

One morning, in the early summer mist, soldiers approached their village. They could hear the stomping of their feet following along in time with their hearts pounding. The clanking of their arsenal was sharp. Piercing and approaching.

They were coming.
They were coming for the men. And the boys.

New soldiers for the Soviet Army or death, if you were of age... or close enough to it. Her love was 17 and they both knew what was going to happen. The entire village was crying. Hiding was too late of an option and there was no running. Mothers saying horror-filled goodbyes to their husbands and sons, knowing it was likely the last time they would embrace.

Panic had seeped in to the people. There was screaming, struggling, fighting and running. The ballerina was holding tightly to her love, as tightly as she possibly could, gaining strength she never knew she possessed. They were both terrified and she had begun to openly weep as she could see the soldiers had spotted her love. He kissed the side of her tear soaked face. Then one tender kiss on her forehead as he let the soldiers pull him away, although his body was riddled with tension, anger and hesitation.

She took one last lunge towards his body, clawing at the dirt beneath her, screaming, "NO!"

An officer stood over her and slapped her across the face, Hard. Then he dragged her back inside her home. Her love's anger raged at this offense and he attempted to escape. There was a struggle.

Doors slammed.

Shots fired.

And then silence.

Soon after, she knew she could not stay there. She had knowledge of an acquaintance's brother who escaped to Canada and he needed a wife. Thinking that her love was dead, she escaped and was married the next spring. She was a good wife; a grateful wife. An obedient wife, but she never danced again.

They had a daughter some years later.
Decades had come and gone and then she became a grandmother.
How quickly life can melt away.
One day, her husband became ill and passed.

She was 76 and had not once been back to Estonia since that summer in 1940. With her child grown and her husband gone, she felt it was time to return.

Of course, the reunions shared many tales of family and loss. So much catching up with old friends and family and yet she never once felt tired or old. How much had changed in 60 years and also things that had stayed the same. Then 'her love' had come up in a conversation.

"Oh yes, he is doing just fine. He is a widower now. Lives just down the street."

Her heart raced as if she were to pass out, "HE IS ALIVE?"

"Of course he is alive, and well. He thought YOU were killed, didn't you know... all those years ago?"

"I thought HE was killed! HE IS ALIVE??" She repeated again through tears of excitement and disbelief.

As quickly as her body would take her, she got up, threw a pale blue shawl around her neck and shuffled out the door. She went to his house, trying to make herself presentable along the way. She took out a pocket mirror, looked at her reflection and saw the ballerina shining back at her. He answered the door and it only took one shared look to see, to know, to feel that they would indeed never be separated again.

Self-Amusement is Hereditary

I would never consider myself a comedian by any stretch of the word, but I'd like to believe that I have my moments. Why? Because I am constantly laughing at myself. My mother hated using "send her to her room" as a punishment because I gladly went and always managed to successfully entertain myself... for hours.

What shocked my mother the most, and to her horror, was when at a very young age, I started to tell jokes and would follow the joke with a few minutes of uncontrollable laughter... at myself. Apparently, my father did the exact same thing, as did his father before him. I was aware of my grandfather doing this - his belly and shoulders would vibrate and his face would turn a deep purple while telling a joke; he often couldn't even make it to the punchline. According to my mother, my father was even worse.

This is deliciously amusing for me, since I never met my father.

Take that Nurture -- Nature just smoked your ass!

Every time I come up with something that I personally find utterly hysterical, I'll often share it with my mother, with the usual response consisting of eye rolls and an, "Oh lord! You are such your father's daughter."

I find Twitter/Twitpic is by far the worst for enabling my predisposition to self-amusement - so I'll have to give you a few examples of this genetic flaw talent flaw. I'd really like to think I've done my father proud.

1. I made this caption for the "big non-event". Can you believe I actually found that drawing? Oh, how I love the internet; let me count the ways. Someone pointed out that it's not actually a "raptor" - Want to take a guess on what I say to them? 

Shut the hell up, Ross Geller, Ph.D.! Jesus + Dinosaur = Awesome.

2. Then, one of my tweeps, Melissa (@rockdrool), mentioned that her son is insistent that The Beibs is really named Justin Beaver... so I came up with this t-shirt idea. Double entendres make me giddy - especially when it's me who thinks of them.

3. And finally, A Belle, A Bean & A Chicago Dog did a "Senior Hottie" link up which was a fabulous idea. Unfortunately, due to a conflict of interests and a likely nuclear fallout if I posted my real photo on here, I found a sexy substitute to post on twitter instead. What do you think? HOT! Right? It's the ONLY way to go to prom, truly.

So. Much. Laughing.

I guess the ultimate conclusion is that whether or not anyone actually clicks on my twitpics that I post or not, one this is certain - I'm sitting on the other end, uploading my jokes/photos while LMGDMFFAO*... at myself. 

It is all my father's fault and for that, I'm giggly and grateful.

*Laughing my god damn mutha fukkin' flabby ass off - Watch out, it's totally gonna be the next big acronym!

So much more laughing.