Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think that at 39, I would revert back to fifth grade.
It's not like they pull you aside and tell you as a child that someday, when you are all grown up, you will have a flood of memories come back to haunt you and you will deal with old issues that you thought were long gone. If anything, they lie to you and tell you that someday you will "look back at all of this and laugh".
I am not laughing.
My son has had to deal with random acts of stupidity called bullying for over three years now. I guess he is singled out because he just is not one of the 'cool kids' - he has strawberry blond hair, tons of freckles, and the genetic betrayal of DNA which has led to teeth that are in serious need of braces. He tried to play football and hated it due to a coach that thought 'wee football' meant 'pro-draft', tried baseball and that just didn't fly either, so I guess you could say he is just not athletically inclined. Being my son, however, I love him DEARLY, would give my life for that boy in a second, and could care less about what he looks like on the outside. He is one of the most loving children I have ever seen, is sharp as a tack (even if he doesn't use it all the time) and is an all around good kid. He will talk to anyone about anything, which can potentially be his downfall from time to time as, lets face it, not everyone likes to talk. I guess Johnathon sees it as being friendly to everyone, and not holding anything against him.
Wish every kid was like him.
The last few years, these nerdy traits have placed a bulls eye on his back for bullies, as if they have some radar in their minds that attracts them to what they see as easy targets. He has been harassed, made fun of, and now, assaulted when some boys pushed him into a ditch.
The flood I was referring to came gushing back this past Friday when, at a football game, my youngest daughter comes running to me in the stands saying "MOM!! THEY ARE DOING IT AGAIN!!". I tore out of those stands, like a mama bear about to brutally attack that evenings potential dinner, and found the boys. One was crying, as apparently my son, in a futile attempt to fight back had hit one of them in the head with a plastic soda bottle. I laid into all of them anyway - telling them that if they so much as breathed in the direction of my son from now on, I would be up their asses like white on rice. "I'm gonna go tell my dad you threatened me", one said. "GOOD!! Go tell your dad - I will rip him apart , too! I guess it's okay for you to bully my son, but when someone bullies YOU, you run and tell your daddy?? Go get him - I'll whip his ass also" was all I could muster out.
Not my finest hour. Probably not the way I should have handled it. Do I give a crap now? Partly yes, mostly no.
I was bullied in fifth grade - a LOT - mostly because we lived in an exclusive suburb of South Dayton and my mom was the epitome of white trash in their eyes: we lived in low income housing, and my Tretorns were actually purchased at K-mart and were cheap knockoffs. My Gloria Vanderbuilts were Wranglers. I babysat for weeks to save up $37.95 for an Izod shirt (cheap by today's standards, but this was the early 80's after all...). I was bullied because I just didn't have what the other kids had, and remember crying every day because I was so embarrassed. I had the lowest self esteem ever, which is only increased by the normal shit that you go through anyway in 5th and 6th grade. You get to a point where you believe everything everyone says about you, because you hear compliments so rarely that the bad stuff must be true.
I grew out of mine - I wish I had some magical cure to share with everyone out there but I don't. I just woke up and realized you know what?? To hell with this shit. I am better than all of this.
It doesn't mean though that sometimes I have walls that are very hard to break through, even to this day.
To watch my son go through this, however, has brought it all back. I just do not understand it - I have taught my children that everyone is different, and these differences are what make us awesome individuals, capable of coming together and accomplishing anything we set our minds to. Someone elses difference could be the strength you need. Doesn't mean you need to get along with everyone, nor will you ever get along with everyone, but at least respect them as you would want them to respect you.
Did I go to another class than everyone else out there?? Why do *I* get this and other parents don't?
Many people say that bullies are lacking something at home, and to be honest I am not finding that to be entirely true. I am starting to blame the PARENTS for this crap more than I am the kid. It is not that they are absent from their lives or anything; rather, I think in a lot of instances, these punks are TAUGHT that bullying is cool - that being part of the cool crowd, no matter what the consequences, is far better than caring about people or respecting them. That to be on the football team and be the homecoming king eventually means that you have to act like a complete punk in order to get there. Be the strong kid who everyone else wants to be. Who cares what you do now - someday you will look back at it all and laugh.
Still not laughing.
I will continue to teach my kids to respect everyone, but now in my curriculum I will teach that you do not have to be a doormat either. Fighting back is acceptable to me, and I will defend you every time. "Turn the other cheek" can only go so far, before you have to fight back to teach someone to back off.
I hate telling my son that someday he will look back on all of this and laugh - because I look back on mine and still cry. What I AM going to tell him, however, is that someday, he will look back on this and laugh not because it is over and done with, but because he will not have wasted his whole youth trying to be one of the "in crowd" , who are still as fickle and fake in adulthood as they were in school. He will be successful and happy because he held his ground and continued being who he is, regardless of what these stupid jerks thought about it.
And he will laugh even harder when he is so much more of a man than these boys ever will be - full of love, respect, and kindness, and happier than words can describe.
NOW I am laughing.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Parent Teacher Conferences lead to a bottle of Moscato.
I have come home from my first parent teacher conference with a bottle of wine. Be forewarned that I am drinking said bottle as I type this. I would say I am just having a glass, but that would just be lying, and I prefer to dwell on the fact that my impetuous wine purchase following my children's parent teachers conference will soon having me feeling as blissful as when I first woke up today, unaware of the onslaught of misery ahead that is commonly referred to as Wednesday.
This day has sucked ASS. Pure, unadulterated ASS. One after another, my hopes of a seemingly normal Wednesday were shattered to hell and back, and then kicked me in the face for good measure. Mackenzie, my youngest twin, is sick due to the fine layer of pollen that has encompassed our home. She looks like a blow fish about to explode, and although my motherly instincts tell me to dote on her every whim and need currently, the conniving, selfish bitch in me was somewhat disappointed that my personal mommy time was now to be spent shopping for the exact fucking Popsicles she wanted, picking up snot rags everywhere and Googling industrial uses for mucous. My son Johnathon - the other twin hell bent on ruining my alone time, comes home from school limping because he hurt his ankle at some point during the day - no doubt in an intense testosterone ridden 4th grade boy chase girl scenario on the playground. My oldest, Elizabeth, is still convinced the world revolves around her and needs a ride RIGHT NOW to wherever it is she is going to go. And I, still grieving the loss of my mommy time, realize that I have a parent teacher conference today as well. GO TO HELL WEDNESDAY...I hate you.
I drug the first kid with Benadryl, drug the second kid with Ibuprofen, drive the third kid to where she needed to go (however much I wanted to drug her as well, she guilted me with the priority of having a school project to work on) and then I go to the parent teacher conference. How dare my kids teachers care so much about my children that they actually want to speak with me regarding their progress.
In reality, I am very thankful for my children's teachers - they are the most unrecognized profession as far as I am concerned and deserve not only higher salaries, but goddamned medals of valor. I celebrate the day I send them back to school after a long ass summer of whining that they are 'bored', whereas they have to deal with them all day long and instruct them on how to be educated responsible members of society. My hat is off to them. Really, it is.
My twins are as different as night and day - actually, they are myself and my husband reincarnate. My oldest was the 'trick' God bestowed upon us - you know, the perfect child that makes you want to have more. Then we get what our parents cursed us with; the 'I hope someday you have kids JUST LIKE YOU' curse. We got TWINS, a boy just like my husband, and a daughter just like me. I would like to say that I wish we stopped at the one to prove the curse wrong, but the truth is I love these kids like nothing in the world. What better way to leave my legacy behind than to have a daughter who acts JUST LIKE ME, that I can mold into an even better version. Take THAT, God.
So there I sit, in the conference, as nervous as if it were my own conference. I instantaneously revert back to fourth grade mentality, worried that I am going to be punished for STILL not knowing fractions and sometimes having to multiply with my fingers. I blame that on the Moscato, even though I did not drink in fourth grade but Moscato takes me back to that level at times.....
The teacher starts with how Johnathon is progressing, that he is really a good kid and even though I practically have to sit on him at home to get his shit done he is really taking things more seriously in class. His only problem seems to be that although he is purely capable of making straight A's he seems to just not give a shit, rushes through his work, and basically does a half assed job. She is frustrated that she knows how smart he is and just seems bored. We come up with a game plan to get him more interested. We agree that this kid is gonna make it.
Then we move on to my Mackenzie. My sweet mini me. She is the opposite of her brother - she loves to learn, does the work required, does extra work when asked, and generally is not a problem. But there is one....thing.....
I brace myself. BUT?? I hate that word at the beginning of a sentence. It signifies that although someone has just told you one thing, they are about to bash you with another. Or justify an apology; you know, that whole "I'm sorry, BUT....." bullshit.
"I don't want this to come off the wrong way, but I have been very concerned with Mackenzie's spelling and writing," the teacher says. I think to myself, okay - concerned as in she is discussing what she really wants to do with that friggin spelling paper, concerned as in she is discussing in detail what happens when mommy and daddy close the bedroom door...how concerned are we here?
"Some teachers here went to a conference on Dyslexia that unfortunately I was not able to attend. I asked them to look at Mackenzie's writing as I sensed a problem. They too, are concerned that there may be some issues we need to look into in order to help Mackenzie further. I do not want you to think we were keeping this from you, but I just wanted to make sure before I made you aware of it that there was in fact a possible reason for concern."
I am stunned. First off, I am stunned that my perfect babydoll is having a problem. As much as we love our children, a problem, in whatever form, comes off first hand like WE did something wrong. Like we have somehow failed our children. Like WE should have caught this. The fourth grade mentality is flooding back again, but this time it has nothing to do with fractions or multiplication - it is that I have let my child DOWN. After I feel like a complete imbecile for not recognizing this, I feel an overwhelming sense of thankfulness that there are still teachers in the world that actually give a shit - that do not let our kids fall through the cracks, that WANT them to succeed as much as we do.
Choking back tears, I ask what we can do. ANYTHING. Name it. This is my swollen blow fish kid who dominated my day picking up her snot rags, and is now dominating my heart and needs our help. We are going to have her evaluated further and go from there, and I am reassured that 3rd-4th grade is when these issues pop up the most and now is the perfect time to correct them.
So my kids ask why I am drinking a bottle of Moscato after a conference. I am sure they think it was in fact horrible and I will be disconnecting the Wii again shortly - but in reality it is because I am celebrating the fact that I DO in fact have awesome kids, and am thankful to live in the school district I live in.
That, and I do my best work when drinking, and am planning medal of valor for Mackenzie's teacher as we speak in the form of an end of year trip to the day-spa.
Not exactly a medal of honor, but at least it is a way to thank her for caring about my kid even half as much as I do.
This day has sucked ASS. Pure, unadulterated ASS. One after another, my hopes of a seemingly normal Wednesday were shattered to hell and back, and then kicked me in the face for good measure. Mackenzie, my youngest twin, is sick due to the fine layer of pollen that has encompassed our home. She looks like a blow fish about to explode, and although my motherly instincts tell me to dote on her every whim and need currently, the conniving, selfish bitch in me was somewhat disappointed that my personal mommy time was now to be spent shopping for the exact fucking Popsicles she wanted, picking up snot rags everywhere and Googling industrial uses for mucous. My son Johnathon - the other twin hell bent on ruining my alone time, comes home from school limping because he hurt his ankle at some point during the day - no doubt in an intense testosterone ridden 4th grade boy chase girl scenario on the playground. My oldest, Elizabeth, is still convinced the world revolves around her and needs a ride RIGHT NOW to wherever it is she is going to go. And I, still grieving the loss of my mommy time, realize that I have a parent teacher conference today as well. GO TO HELL WEDNESDAY...I hate you.
I drug the first kid with Benadryl, drug the second kid with Ibuprofen, drive the third kid to where she needed to go (however much I wanted to drug her as well, she guilted me with the priority of having a school project to work on) and then I go to the parent teacher conference. How dare my kids teachers care so much about my children that they actually want to speak with me regarding their progress.
In reality, I am very thankful for my children's teachers - they are the most unrecognized profession as far as I am concerned and deserve not only higher salaries, but goddamned medals of valor. I celebrate the day I send them back to school after a long ass summer of whining that they are 'bored', whereas they have to deal with them all day long and instruct them on how to be educated responsible members of society. My hat is off to them. Really, it is.
My twins are as different as night and day - actually, they are myself and my husband reincarnate. My oldest was the 'trick' God bestowed upon us - you know, the perfect child that makes you want to have more. Then we get what our parents cursed us with; the 'I hope someday you have kids JUST LIKE YOU' curse. We got TWINS, a boy just like my husband, and a daughter just like me. I would like to say that I wish we stopped at the one to prove the curse wrong, but the truth is I love these kids like nothing in the world. What better way to leave my legacy behind than to have a daughter who acts JUST LIKE ME, that I can mold into an even better version. Take THAT, God.
So there I sit, in the conference, as nervous as if it were my own conference. I instantaneously revert back to fourth grade mentality, worried that I am going to be punished for STILL not knowing fractions and sometimes having to multiply with my fingers. I blame that on the Moscato, even though I did not drink in fourth grade but Moscato takes me back to that level at times.....
The teacher starts with how Johnathon is progressing, that he is really a good kid and even though I practically have to sit on him at home to get his shit done he is really taking things more seriously in class. His only problem seems to be that although he is purely capable of making straight A's he seems to just not give a shit, rushes through his work, and basically does a half assed job. She is frustrated that she knows how smart he is and just seems bored. We come up with a game plan to get him more interested. We agree that this kid is gonna make it.
Then we move on to my Mackenzie. My sweet mini me. She is the opposite of her brother - she loves to learn, does the work required, does extra work when asked, and generally is not a problem. But there is one....thing.....
I brace myself. BUT?? I hate that word at the beginning of a sentence. It signifies that although someone has just told you one thing, they are about to bash you with another. Or justify an apology; you know, that whole "I'm sorry, BUT....." bullshit.
"I don't want this to come off the wrong way, but I have been very concerned with Mackenzie's spelling and writing," the teacher says. I think to myself, okay - concerned as in she is discussing what she really wants to do with that friggin spelling paper, concerned as in she is discussing in detail what happens when mommy and daddy close the bedroom door...how concerned are we here?
"Some teachers here went to a conference on Dyslexia that unfortunately I was not able to attend. I asked them to look at Mackenzie's writing as I sensed a problem. They too, are concerned that there may be some issues we need to look into in order to help Mackenzie further. I do not want you to think we were keeping this from you, but I just wanted to make sure before I made you aware of it that there was in fact a possible reason for concern."
I am stunned. First off, I am stunned that my perfect babydoll is having a problem. As much as we love our children, a problem, in whatever form, comes off first hand like WE did something wrong. Like we have somehow failed our children. Like WE should have caught this. The fourth grade mentality is flooding back again, but this time it has nothing to do with fractions or multiplication - it is that I have let my child DOWN. After I feel like a complete imbecile for not recognizing this, I feel an overwhelming sense of thankfulness that there are still teachers in the world that actually give a shit - that do not let our kids fall through the cracks, that WANT them to succeed as much as we do.
Choking back tears, I ask what we can do. ANYTHING. Name it. This is my swollen blow fish kid who dominated my day picking up her snot rags, and is now dominating my heart and needs our help. We are going to have her evaluated further and go from there, and I am reassured that 3rd-4th grade is when these issues pop up the most and now is the perfect time to correct them.
So my kids ask why I am drinking a bottle of Moscato after a conference. I am sure they think it was in fact horrible and I will be disconnecting the Wii again shortly - but in reality it is because I am celebrating the fact that I DO in fact have awesome kids, and am thankful to live in the school district I live in.
That, and I do my best work when drinking, and am planning medal of valor for Mackenzie's teacher as we speak in the form of an end of year trip to the day-spa.
Not exactly a medal of honor, but at least it is a way to thank her for caring about my kid even half as much as I do.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Hope everyone had a happy "give your kids a buncha sugar for no religious reason" day.
SO glad this weekend is over. We did not celebrate Easter really yesterday - despite the kids urging to go out and buy them tons of candy I resisted. No candy. Their task was to tell me how receiving candy was symbolic of the Easter holiday, and since they gave me nothing except how eggs are associated with spring and rebirth and new life and shit their answer did not satisfy my request. So, no candy. I must admit that part of it is due to the fact that I am sick to death of accumulating cheesy baskets and that grass shit being everywhere. I got selfish. I know, bad parenting. How dare I be selfish since we give up that right when we bring a child into the world.
The true reason is that, not being a particularly religious family, I decided that Easter is essentially nonsense in this house since it is considered a religious holiday and we already celebrated 'our' Easter during the spring equinox. Easter is nothing more to me than a reason for every mall and store in my area to close - they themselves abuse it as a reason not to work and take my money - and should thus be re-named to "Buy your kids a buncha stupid candy for no REAL religious reason that will rot their teeth and require several dental visits" day. Fit THAT on a calendar.
I'm really not as cold-hearted a parent as I claim - it is really all a front. We finally gave the kids the Wii system we bought again at Christmas as their 'easter' gift. For those who do not remember, I sold my sons Wii system some time ago as a punishment for repeatedly denouncing my claims that bad grades would bring the harshest consequences. My darling son, at Christmas, must have been delusional in thinking that I would just hand it over in the spirit of the season - and, since he was secure in this notion that the spirit of Christmas would cause me to give in to his will and he EXPECTED that damn thing under the tree, I took another proud parenting stance of NOT putting it there. The grades still weren't where I wanted them to be. Jesus himself would have had to walk into this house and beg me to give it back - I was NOT going to crumble.
My plan worked - both of the twins have finally realized that fucking with momma is NOT a smart idea. They have learned that I actually DO have eyes and ears all over this damn town, watching them constantly when I am not there. They have done extra credit without being told, have had 'A's' on the last 4 spelling tests, and are really making an effort. So, no baskets, but a Wii system and Call of Duty is more my style anyway.
So Easter was spent doing OUR thing - eating pizza and playing Call of Duty and Raving Rabbids and Guitar Hero until we couldn't stand it anymore. We did it together - as a family. THAT is what a holiday is all about anyway.
Besides, no better way to celebrate a holiday than blowing shit up with your kids.
The true reason is that, not being a particularly religious family, I decided that Easter is essentially nonsense in this house since it is considered a religious holiday and we already celebrated 'our' Easter during the spring equinox. Easter is nothing more to me than a reason for every mall and store in my area to close - they themselves abuse it as a reason not to work and take my money - and should thus be re-named to "Buy your kids a buncha stupid candy for no REAL religious reason that will rot their teeth and require several dental visits" day. Fit THAT on a calendar.
I'm really not as cold-hearted a parent as I claim - it is really all a front. We finally gave the kids the Wii system we bought again at Christmas as their 'easter' gift. For those who do not remember, I sold my sons Wii system some time ago as a punishment for repeatedly denouncing my claims that bad grades would bring the harshest consequences. My darling son, at Christmas, must have been delusional in thinking that I would just hand it over in the spirit of the season - and, since he was secure in this notion that the spirit of Christmas would cause me to give in to his will and he EXPECTED that damn thing under the tree, I took another proud parenting stance of NOT putting it there. The grades still weren't where I wanted them to be. Jesus himself would have had to walk into this house and beg me to give it back - I was NOT going to crumble.
My plan worked - both of the twins have finally realized that fucking with momma is NOT a smart idea. They have learned that I actually DO have eyes and ears all over this damn town, watching them constantly when I am not there. They have done extra credit without being told, have had 'A's' on the last 4 spelling tests, and are really making an effort. So, no baskets, but a Wii system and Call of Duty is more my style anyway.
So Easter was spent doing OUR thing - eating pizza and playing Call of Duty and Raving Rabbids and Guitar Hero until we couldn't stand it anymore. We did it together - as a family. THAT is what a holiday is all about anyway.
Besides, no better way to celebrate a holiday than blowing shit up with your kids.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Going under the knife to get away from it all, and it is a beautiful, wonderful thing.
I am having surgery tomorrow to finally be rid of the albatross in my life called 'lower back pain'. It's a good thing, too, because I think if I have to deal with this for one more night I may very well slit my wrists with a plastic spoon. I am having a Discectomy to repair the severely herniated disc that is impinging my sciatic nerve and causing all sorts of havoc down my right leg. I do not know how I got this, cannot pinpoint it to a single occurrence, but have it narrowed down to one of three events: bouncing down the stairs at OSU last September, shoveling the 4 feet of snow out of the driveway at some point over the winter, or that keg-stand I did that one time because a leprechaun made me do it. Point is, I don't know how it happened - all I do know is that this shit hurts like a son-of-a-bitch and that says a lot, considering I have given birth. And one of those times I spit two kids out at once.
Surgery is a big deal to me, simply because the last surgery I had left me traumatized and suspect of every doctor or nurse who had the unfortunate luck to cross my path in the couple months following the debacle. It was just a million to one shot that EVERY little fucking thing that could go wrong, went wrong, with ME. The surgery itself went great - it was all the shit afterwards that almost made me swear off health care and opt for the Voodoo witch doctor with a chicken next go-around. I have high standards when it comes to service - I want my hotel room clean, I want the Big-Mac I order to look like the one on the goddamn commercial for fuckssakes, and if I order something and you say it will be here in two days, it better be here in two days; not three, not four. So it only stands to reason that when someone is going to be cutting into me and I am going to end up paying top dollar for it, I want that shit to be the highest quality cutting on the planet.
With all that being said, it HAS to be obvious how much pain I am in because I swore I would let disease ravage my body like a sailor having been at sea for years would ravage a hooker before I would allow ANYONE to cut into me ever again. And pain makes one cranky. And desperate. And cranky.
So, to tide you all over until at least Wednesday here are some little snippets that have occurred here in the Hawley home while Mommy Dearest here has been off her pain meds and feels like a veritable crack addict looking for relief. No pain meds for one week before surgery is the general rule - they are infamous blood thinners and I sure as shit do not feel like bleeding out on the table so I am following this rule, unfortunately, most carefully.
* Question of the day: "Are you in any pain?"
Answer: Well HELL YEAH I am in pain. What the FUCK kind of question is this? Is this a serious question, or is this just one of those 'I-don't-know-what-the-hell-else-to-say' questions? Tell you what; let me stand on your back in stilettos, and pull your hair and your right leg together until your head touches your toes. Then, when that hurts, I'll keep pulling. I appreciate the sentiment, but at the same time, I cannot stand empty ended questions like this. I would prefer a "I cannot imagine the pain you are in" kind of question. It says "I really have no idea what you are going through but at least this way I do not ask a dumbass question that is really common sense".
* Runner-Up for question of the day: "So, what exactly are they doing?"
Answer: "I don't really know. I am sure they told me and I blocked it out." The answer I REALLY want to give is this - I don't WANT to know what they are doing. I want to get some drugs, go to the blissful place you go to when you are knocked out during surgery, and wake up to that shit being FIXED. I don't WANT to know they are making an incision into my tissue, going down to bone, moving my fucking spinal cord over so they can cut away some of the disc like some deranged science fair project, then sewing me back up like a rag-doll afterwards. I don't wanna know that shit. I wanna know the name of the medication they sedate me with so that I can file it away just in case I become a street addict. That way I won't ask dumb questions and know what to ask for.
* CLOSE Third to question of the day: "How long will you be out?"
Answer: "Until they are done hopefully????" I seriously just do not know how to answer that one. That is just the best I can come up with. I contemplated giving THAT one first place, but the other two just annoy me more. The better question, which shows a genuine interest in what you are having done, is "How long will the surgery LAST?" With that one, the 'asker' can also gather how much time they have to sit in the waiting room with that pizza I will want when I am allowed to eat. Or those flowers and shit they are going to bring me for being such a brave little soldier.
*RUNNER UP: "Is there anything I can do??"
Answer: I have to be careful with this one. There ARE those who ask this and are genuine in their request to see if there actually IS anything they can do. They really want to know, and you can usually tell by the tone of the question if they are, in fact, sincere. You just KNOW with these people that if you say "yeah, can you _________ (fill in the blank)" that they actually WILL do that because you need them to. Then there are those that you really only speak to in passing occasionally that ask this just to feel better themselves that they asked, but REALLY don't give a flying fuck what you need. Just because deep down I am a cocky bitch I REALLY want to reply, "Yeah. While I am at the hospital, I need you to go de-worm my dog. We don't believe in medication, so what you have to do is take the gloves that are in the cabinet................ I know he is a 100 pound Lab, but he REALLY likes the de-worming. THEN, when you are done with that, I really need someone to finish ripping up my carpet, fertilize the yard, paint the trim, and buy me some groceries so I am ready to go when I get home." Just to see the blank stare on their faces would almost be worth them asking this.
* When getting my pre-op testing done, the nurse is taking blood. I have the veins of a newborn I think - they are fucking tiny, squiggly, and are probably the size of a road map you are trying to look at from across the room with no glasses on. They SUCK. It is the genetic betrayal that is my legacy, and until they have 'Vein Reconstructive Surgery' as an option I am stuck with them. I always tell the unlucky bastard that is about to stick me with the battle ahead of them - I figure it is only fair that I warn them that in the course of attempting to find a usable vein in me, they may very well leave the room in tears so frustrated that they re-think their career in nursing and opt for a more leisurely position at McDonalds or something.
Nurse: Wow, you have the smallest veins.
Me: Ha, yeah, I know...sorry, I am a hard stick. There isn't enough water in the world to fatten them up.
Nurse: Well, lets see what I can find,....................hmmmmm............................okaaay......................hmmmm............wow.......................(the dots each represent a fucking 10 minute span of time she is feeling up my veins, like some sort of vein molester or something)
Nurse: Wow - I cant find anything - lets check the other arm.
Me: (thinking, FUUUUUUUCK!!!!!)
Nurse: Wow.........................................hmmmm............................haha, I cant find anything on this arm either....................................................
(the vein molesting continues....)
Nurse: Wow, you're worse than my boyfriend - he has small veins. I take butterfly needles home to practice on him. I've only been doing this for a year and, wow...
I QUIT LISTENING at that point because ONE, I don't want to know what the fuck you do to your boyfriend at home unless I give you a credit card number first and watch that shit online and TWO, don't subtly tell me that you don't think you will be able to find one because you are INEXPERIENCED. LIE TO ME FOR FUCKSSAKE!!! JUST LIE!!!
Nurse: Okay, let me go get the other Nurse. She knows what she is doing.
Me: (grrrrr....fucking FANTASTIC. How bout you go out and get that homeless guy down the street - he looks like he could find a vein drunk off his ass....)
NEW Nurse: Lets see what we have here - (molest, poke, done.)
The moral of the story here is this: if you have small veins, treat a blood draw as if it were an interview. Tell her up front you need to see a damn resume first, or just save both of you some time and get the nurse that has been doing this for awhile.
Or bring that homeless guy in with you - I bet he has the skinny on those drugs I want, too. Just wish me luck tomorrow. If you just think about me for a second around 1:30 or so tomorrow afternoon, that is all I ask you to do for me.
Surgery is a big deal to me, simply because the last surgery I had left me traumatized and suspect of every doctor or nurse who had the unfortunate luck to cross my path in the couple months following the debacle. It was just a million to one shot that EVERY little fucking thing that could go wrong, went wrong, with ME. The surgery itself went great - it was all the shit afterwards that almost made me swear off health care and opt for the Voodoo witch doctor with a chicken next go-around. I have high standards when it comes to service - I want my hotel room clean, I want the Big-Mac I order to look like the one on the goddamn commercial for fuckssakes, and if I order something and you say it will be here in two days, it better be here in two days; not three, not four. So it only stands to reason that when someone is going to be cutting into me and I am going to end up paying top dollar for it, I want that shit to be the highest quality cutting on the planet.
With all that being said, it HAS to be obvious how much pain I am in because I swore I would let disease ravage my body like a sailor having been at sea for years would ravage a hooker before I would allow ANYONE to cut into me ever again. And pain makes one cranky. And desperate. And cranky.
So, to tide you all over until at least Wednesday here are some little snippets that have occurred here in the Hawley home while Mommy Dearest here has been off her pain meds and feels like a veritable crack addict looking for relief. No pain meds for one week before surgery is the general rule - they are infamous blood thinners and I sure as shit do not feel like bleeding out on the table so I am following this rule, unfortunately, most carefully.
* Question of the day: "Are you in any pain?"
Answer: Well HELL YEAH I am in pain. What the FUCK kind of question is this? Is this a serious question, or is this just one of those 'I-don't-know-what-the-hell-else-to-say' questions? Tell you what; let me stand on your back in stilettos, and pull your hair and your right leg together until your head touches your toes. Then, when that hurts, I'll keep pulling. I appreciate the sentiment, but at the same time, I cannot stand empty ended questions like this. I would prefer a "I cannot imagine the pain you are in" kind of question. It says "I really have no idea what you are going through but at least this way I do not ask a dumbass question that is really common sense".
* Runner-Up for question of the day: "So, what exactly are they doing?"
Answer: "I don't really know. I am sure they told me and I blocked it out." The answer I REALLY want to give is this - I don't WANT to know what they are doing. I want to get some drugs, go to the blissful place you go to when you are knocked out during surgery, and wake up to that shit being FIXED. I don't WANT to know they are making an incision into my tissue, going down to bone, moving my fucking spinal cord over so they can cut away some of the disc like some deranged science fair project, then sewing me back up like a rag-doll afterwards. I don't wanna know that shit. I wanna know the name of the medication they sedate me with so that I can file it away just in case I become a street addict. That way I won't ask dumb questions and know what to ask for.
* CLOSE Third to question of the day: "How long will you be out?"
Answer: "Until they are done hopefully????" I seriously just do not know how to answer that one. That is just the best I can come up with. I contemplated giving THAT one first place, but the other two just annoy me more. The better question, which shows a genuine interest in what you are having done, is "How long will the surgery LAST?" With that one, the 'asker' can also gather how much time they have to sit in the waiting room with that pizza I will want when I am allowed to eat. Or those flowers and shit they are going to bring me for being such a brave little soldier.
*RUNNER UP: "Is there anything I can do??"
Answer: I have to be careful with this one. There ARE those who ask this and are genuine in their request to see if there actually IS anything they can do. They really want to know, and you can usually tell by the tone of the question if they are, in fact, sincere. You just KNOW with these people that if you say "yeah, can you _________ (fill in the blank)" that they actually WILL do that because you need them to. Then there are those that you really only speak to in passing occasionally that ask this just to feel better themselves that they asked, but REALLY don't give a flying fuck what you need. Just because deep down I am a cocky bitch I REALLY want to reply, "Yeah. While I am at the hospital, I need you to go de-worm my dog. We don't believe in medication, so what you have to do is take the gloves that are in the cabinet................ I know he is a 100 pound Lab, but he REALLY likes the de-worming. THEN, when you are done with that, I really need someone to finish ripping up my carpet, fertilize the yard, paint the trim, and buy me some groceries so I am ready to go when I get home." Just to see the blank stare on their faces would almost be worth them asking this.
* When getting my pre-op testing done, the nurse is taking blood. I have the veins of a newborn I think - they are fucking tiny, squiggly, and are probably the size of a road map you are trying to look at from across the room with no glasses on. They SUCK. It is the genetic betrayal that is my legacy, and until they have 'Vein Reconstructive Surgery' as an option I am stuck with them. I always tell the unlucky bastard that is about to stick me with the battle ahead of them - I figure it is only fair that I warn them that in the course of attempting to find a usable vein in me, they may very well leave the room in tears so frustrated that they re-think their career in nursing and opt for a more leisurely position at McDonalds or something.
Nurse: Wow, you have the smallest veins.
Me: Ha, yeah, I know...sorry, I am a hard stick. There isn't enough water in the world to fatten them up.
Nurse: Well, lets see what I can find,....................hmmmmm............................okaaay......................hmmmm............wow.......................(the dots each represent a fucking 10 minute span of time she is feeling up my veins, like some sort of vein molester or something)
Nurse: Wow - I cant find anything - lets check the other arm.
Me: (thinking, FUUUUUUUCK!!!!!)
Nurse: Wow.........................................hmmmm............................haha, I cant find anything on this arm either....................................................
(the vein molesting continues....)
Nurse: Wow, you're worse than my boyfriend - he has small veins. I take butterfly needles home to practice on him. I've only been doing this for a year and, wow...
I QUIT LISTENING at that point because ONE, I don't want to know what the fuck you do to your boyfriend at home unless I give you a credit card number first and watch that shit online and TWO, don't subtly tell me that you don't think you will be able to find one because you are INEXPERIENCED. LIE TO ME FOR FUCKSSAKE!!! JUST LIE!!!
Nurse: Okay, let me go get the other Nurse. She knows what she is doing.
Me: (grrrrr....fucking FANTASTIC. How bout you go out and get that homeless guy down the street - he looks like he could find a vein drunk off his ass....)
NEW Nurse: Lets see what we have here - (molest, poke, done.)
The moral of the story here is this: if you have small veins, treat a blood draw as if it were an interview. Tell her up front you need to see a damn resume first, or just save both of you some time and get the nurse that has been doing this for awhile.
Or bring that homeless guy in with you - I bet he has the skinny on those drugs I want, too. Just wish me luck tomorrow. If you just think about me for a second around 1:30 or so tomorrow afternoon, that is all I ask you to do for me.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
It would be interesting to see if you can macrame after 7 or 8 beers, but count me out.
It's funny how Friday nights as an adult take on a whole new meaning. When you are young, you SWEAR you are gonna drink every night and party with your friends and marry the hot romantic Old Spice Commercial guy and live on a yacht while you vacation off the coast of France and buy diamonds and horses and 50 pairs of shoes and shit.
So you grow up, and yeah - you party it up a lot and eventually get married to, well, not the Old Spice Commercial guy but someone who at least uses Old Spice body wash. Okay, so maybe not Old Spice - Lever 2000. And he's just so cute you forget about buying the damn horses. The diamonds and shoes still get bought. Even though they come from Payless more often than not and those diamonds are really chips. The vacation is a weekend at friggin Dollywood - not exactly Monaco. But that shit's expensive when you're buying the house in the suburbs and paying off student loans. Still, it's all good.
Then you realize the older you get the hangovers get worse from all that partying you are still trying to accomplish. You get bored one day and decide "Gee, lets add some kids into the mix." So you 'party' again, but this time its a better party because there is just two of you and well, I digress.......
You have kids. You love them and worship them and SWEAR that you will step out in front of a Monster Truck Rally sized gaggle of rabid hilljacks before you ever let anything happen to them. But you still feel that urge to let loose from time to time, even though the hangovers are REALLY bad now and there's that 'thing' that you have to have your kid at in the morning and there is only a plate of butter and some 28 day old eggs in the fridge so you have to grocery shop with the $24.72 left in your checking account so you really can't afford the beer (diamonds and shoes ARE expensive, after all...) and the other kid has a project due but they are puking everywhere due to some violent-ass flu that he got while attending the fucking party at PukeECheese the day before and............
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!!!!!!!!
I guess my point is this: When did becoming a parent mean that you have to instantaneously surrender your sense of self?
This question popped into my head last night and haunted me for hours afterwards. My Friday now consisted of hanging out with some good friends downing a couple beers (who CARES that it was on Facebook and I was actually AT home, IN jammas, DOING THE GODDAMN LAUNDRY). We were childishly poking fun at a group of mothers who were discussing fucking coloring pages you can print off and the joys of cornstarch, water, and food coloring to create quality family time and how you can turn your goddamn rotting christmas tree into a sanctuary for springtime birds. We laughed and drank and commented on how we felt the sudden urge to macrame sex toys (Thanks SO much Cindy F. for that one...). We joked about rumbling with these bitches, West Side Story style. Martha's and Ho's.
Then I just got PISSED. Ghetto style, old fashioned pissed. Who the hell is anyone to determine how good or bad of a parent I am simply because I have a drink or two or keg and still want to wear shit from Abercrombie and act like a MILF? So I cuss sometimes. A lot. Okay, every other friggin word. I CAN turn that shit off whenever I need to - not like I go into parent teacher conferences with a 44oz in my hand and asking where the fuck the classroom is. So I have a warped and very deranged sense of humor. Does that mean I am going to burn in the depths of hell? Please tell me so I can grab my tanning lotion real quick.
If printing coloring pages and doing weird shit with corn starch and whatnot is in fact your cup of tea, more power to you. If you are happy catering completely to your family with a friggin sunshiny smile on your face while wiping their asses daily, then I am thrilled for you. If you think that not cussing or drinking is going to produce better children in the future than I can turn out, well, now you have got another thing coming.
I could simply laugh and say, "Don't Judge me!!! I WANT YOU TO LOVE ME!!!!", but I cant. Not my style. Gotta say it.
I stated once before I already won your dammned Mommy Olympics when I gave birth to twins vaginally. I also won Best In Show when I gave birth to my 9lb 11oz 'midget' with no fucking drugs. I bake cupcakes for fucking birthday parties until the sun comes up. I coached soccer. I do shit with colorguard. We have family game nights and movie nights and go hiking. We color with chalk on the driveway until you cant see the ass-tastic driveway underneath. I wake my kids up at 1:30 in the morning to drive to the middle of nowhere to watch the fuckin meteor shower, and then we have pancakes afterwards. We have cupcakes for breakfast on birthdays because its AWESOME. Ive gotten up at 3 AM to sprinkle glitter from the windowsill to my daughter's pillow so she will think the tooth fairy is real. I've nursed every flu, chicken pok, skinned knee, earache and nightmare and YES - I have gotten completely shitfaced after each trial and tribulation and STILL managed to have three children on Honor Roll who at least SEEM to be very happy, well rounded individuals. They have huge aspirations in life, want to be doctors and lawyers and shit, and my oldest refuses to have sex until she accomplishes what she wants in life FIRST. And guess what?? I did that LAST one without even stepping foot in a church. Is that GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU??
So you can take your corn starch, go have a good time, and let me have mine. Talk about me behind my back, feel good in the fact you think we are doing a horrible job with our children, and rest assured in the knowledge that I don't give a shit WHAT you think.
Besides, my children are so damned 'well-rounded' that it will be my daughter taking care of your old ass someday. Put THAT in your glass and drink it.
So you grow up, and yeah - you party it up a lot and eventually get married to, well, not the Old Spice Commercial guy but someone who at least uses Old Spice body wash. Okay, so maybe not Old Spice - Lever 2000. And he's just so cute you forget about buying the damn horses. The diamonds and shoes still get bought. Even though they come from Payless more often than not and those diamonds are really chips. The vacation is a weekend at friggin Dollywood - not exactly Monaco. But that shit's expensive when you're buying the house in the suburbs and paying off student loans. Still, it's all good.
Then you realize the older you get the hangovers get worse from all that partying you are still trying to accomplish. You get bored one day and decide "Gee, lets add some kids into the mix." So you 'party' again, but this time its a better party because there is just two of you and well, I digress.......
You have kids. You love them and worship them and SWEAR that you will step out in front of a Monster Truck Rally sized gaggle of rabid hilljacks before you ever let anything happen to them. But you still feel that urge to let loose from time to time, even though the hangovers are REALLY bad now and there's that 'thing' that you have to have your kid at in the morning and there is only a plate of butter and some 28 day old eggs in the fridge so you have to grocery shop with the $24.72 left in your checking account so you really can't afford the beer (diamonds and shoes ARE expensive, after all...) and the other kid has a project due but they are puking everywhere due to some violent-ass flu that he got while attending the fucking party at PukeECheese the day before and............
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!!!!!!!!
I guess my point is this: When did becoming a parent mean that you have to instantaneously surrender your sense of self?
This question popped into my head last night and haunted me for hours afterwards. My Friday now consisted of hanging out with some good friends downing a couple beers (who CARES that it was on Facebook and I was actually AT home, IN jammas, DOING THE GODDAMN LAUNDRY). We were childishly poking fun at a group of mothers who were discussing fucking coloring pages you can print off and the joys of cornstarch, water, and food coloring to create quality family time and how you can turn your goddamn rotting christmas tree into a sanctuary for springtime birds. We laughed and drank and commented on how we felt the sudden urge to macrame sex toys (Thanks SO much Cindy F. for that one...). We joked about rumbling with these bitches, West Side Story style. Martha's and Ho's.
Then I just got PISSED. Ghetto style, old fashioned pissed. Who the hell is anyone to determine how good or bad of a parent I am simply because I have a drink or two or keg and still want to wear shit from Abercrombie and act like a MILF? So I cuss sometimes. A lot. Okay, every other friggin word. I CAN turn that shit off whenever I need to - not like I go into parent teacher conferences with a 44oz in my hand and asking where the fuck the classroom is. So I have a warped and very deranged sense of humor. Does that mean I am going to burn in the depths of hell? Please tell me so I can grab my tanning lotion real quick.
If printing coloring pages and doing weird shit with corn starch and whatnot is in fact your cup of tea, more power to you. If you are happy catering completely to your family with a friggin sunshiny smile on your face while wiping their asses daily, then I am thrilled for you. If you think that not cussing or drinking is going to produce better children in the future than I can turn out, well, now you have got another thing coming.
I could simply laugh and say, "Don't Judge me!!! I WANT YOU TO LOVE ME!!!!", but I cant. Not my style. Gotta say it.
I stated once before I already won your dammned Mommy Olympics when I gave birth to twins vaginally. I also won Best In Show when I gave birth to my 9lb 11oz 'midget' with no fucking drugs. I bake cupcakes for fucking birthday parties until the sun comes up. I coached soccer. I do shit with colorguard. We have family game nights and movie nights and go hiking. We color with chalk on the driveway until you cant see the ass-tastic driveway underneath. I wake my kids up at 1:30 in the morning to drive to the middle of nowhere to watch the fuckin meteor shower, and then we have pancakes afterwards. We have cupcakes for breakfast on birthdays because its AWESOME. Ive gotten up at 3 AM to sprinkle glitter from the windowsill to my daughter's pillow so she will think the tooth fairy is real. I've nursed every flu, chicken pok, skinned knee, earache and nightmare and YES - I have gotten completely shitfaced after each trial and tribulation and STILL managed to have three children on Honor Roll who at least SEEM to be very happy, well rounded individuals. They have huge aspirations in life, want to be doctors and lawyers and shit, and my oldest refuses to have sex until she accomplishes what she wants in life FIRST. And guess what?? I did that LAST one without even stepping foot in a church. Is that GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU??
So you can take your corn starch, go have a good time, and let me have mine. Talk about me behind my back, feel good in the fact you think we are doing a horrible job with our children, and rest assured in the knowledge that I don't give a shit WHAT you think.
Besides, my children are so damned 'well-rounded' that it will be my daughter taking care of your old ass someday. Put THAT in your glass and drink it.
Friday, March 19, 2010
It's official - I will accept my award for WORST MOTHER EVER now. Thank you, Thank you.
(Repost from October, 2009.)
Let it never be said that when I strive to do something, by God, I don't go all the hell out. Never one to do anything half-assed, I really exceeded even MY expectations this time.
I sold my son's Wii.
Thank you, thank you - wow, this award was SO unexpected - I didn't even have a speech ready.
I made my son take a 0 on his homework a few weeks ago because his continued irresponsibility forced him to forget his homework several times. He just assumed we could make a copy of his sister's homework and he would be home free. Um, no, I do not play that way. Take the '0', suffer the consequences, and be grounded in the meantime.
The last few days have been quite hectic - my elbow, my friend Colleen's daughter, getting ready for Homecoming weekend - nothing is ever exactly 'calm' around here, but this week has just been exceptionally crazy. Add into all of that craziness the fact my twins both have science projects due tomorrow. These projects were assigned two weeks ago - hardly enough time, in my opinion, to conduct a really cool science project, but oh well. Do your research kids, start typing the shit you need for the boards, and I will help you put it together.
Wednesday night, 9:42 PM - I have just come home from Columbus, I am tired, I am cranky, all this is already equalling a cold dark night in the Hawley home, about to get colder:
Me: Where is your research?
Them: Well, my project is blah blah blah blah....
Me: Okay, where is the research you have done?
Them: What research?
Me: (my blood pressure is starting to rise out of control...) Uh, the research that will tell you why or why not your project will work the way it is supposed to - the research that you are supposed to use to write your paragraph which is due tomorrow...you know, research.
Them: We haven't done any.
WHAT THE FUCK???????????????????????
Panic mode sets in. Angry mode sets in shortly thereafter. Insane mode is quickly approaching.
After quite sometime helping them do research, I tell both of them I am contemplating making them take the '0' on the paragraph and to go to bed. Here is where the 'Insane' portion of the night begins.
Me: You two need to learn that YOUR homework is YOUR responsibility - you have told me you have been working on this, I find out 48 hours before project is due that you haven't done shit, and so now you may very well have to suffer the consequences. I will decide if you are taking the zero - go to bed.
(Crying from Mackenzie...Johnathon is surprisingly calm...)
Johnathon: It's okay Kenz - we will only hafta miss 15 minutes of recess - no big deal.
I think I felt the remainder of my eggs go sterile at that exact second, as my body knew I was gaining an animal instinct leading me to possibly eat any future young I may produce.
And then, here it goes:
Me: Guess what - see that Wii I grounded you from? Say goodbye - I'm selling the damn thing.
INSANE crying then ensues, the oldest spawn throws a complete fit with a "HEY!! I DID MY SCIENCE PROJECTS!!!" and all three kids go to bed.
This morning, I think the son feels I am blowing fluff up his ass - I am not going to sell the Wii, and Elizabeth seems amazingly calm for something that is not her fault, so he just gathers all of that stimuli as "shes full of crap." (side note - Elizabeth is only calm because she doesn't give a crap since she never plays it anymore anyway...)
Nope - I posted the following Craigslist ad as he got home from school:
Wii Gaming system with 2 'wii-motes' and nunchucks. Will throw in third wii-mote and nunchuck for free (works fine but the battery cover is chewed on the wii-mote) Four games included: Wii Sports which came with system, Lego Star Wars, Final Fantasy Chocobo's Dungeon, and Super Monkey Ball Banana Blitz. All cords and the sensor are of course included. Selling to teach my son a very valuable lesson that grades are more important than video games, and priorities do not include Zelda or what level he conquered today. Would prefer he conquer his spelling list and his science project. $170 FIRM - he invested way more than that money wise into it so this is a VERY fair offer. I am not interested in trading, holding it until you get your allowance, or bartering for anything else. Cash Only.
Cheap, (used consoles at Gamestop are $169, so this was comparable to other offers I saw for used systems) Ad was up for 10 minutes. Buyer contacted me, drove straight here from Fairborn, gave me the money, and is gone. Johnathon is devastated.
I am sure he hates me, I am sure everyone thinks I am nuts. I, however, know this is the ONE way to get his attention. I aint messin around, and if you think your balls are big enough to play with me bring it on.
You'll be doing your science project and looking at the hole in the entertainment center where the Wii once sat.
Let it never be said that when I strive to do something, by God, I don't go all the hell out. Never one to do anything half-assed, I really exceeded even MY expectations this time.
I sold my son's Wii.
Thank you, thank you - wow, this award was SO unexpected - I didn't even have a speech ready.
I made my son take a 0 on his homework a few weeks ago because his continued irresponsibility forced him to forget his homework several times. He just assumed we could make a copy of his sister's homework and he would be home free. Um, no, I do not play that way. Take the '0', suffer the consequences, and be grounded in the meantime.
The last few days have been quite hectic - my elbow, my friend Colleen's daughter, getting ready for Homecoming weekend - nothing is ever exactly 'calm' around here, but this week has just been exceptionally crazy. Add into all of that craziness the fact my twins both have science projects due tomorrow. These projects were assigned two weeks ago - hardly enough time, in my opinion, to conduct a really cool science project, but oh well. Do your research kids, start typing the shit you need for the boards, and I will help you put it together.
Wednesday night, 9:42 PM - I have just come home from Columbus, I am tired, I am cranky, all this is already equalling a cold dark night in the Hawley home, about to get colder:
Me: Where is your research?
Them: Well, my project is blah blah blah blah....
Me: Okay, where is the research you have done?
Them: What research?
Me: (my blood pressure is starting to rise out of control...) Uh, the research that will tell you why or why not your project will work the way it is supposed to - the research that you are supposed to use to write your paragraph which is due tomorrow...you know, research.
Them: We haven't done any.
WHAT THE FUCK???????????????????????
Panic mode sets in. Angry mode sets in shortly thereafter. Insane mode is quickly approaching.
After quite sometime helping them do research, I tell both of them I am contemplating making them take the '0' on the paragraph and to go to bed. Here is where the 'Insane' portion of the night begins.
Me: You two need to learn that YOUR homework is YOUR responsibility - you have told me you have been working on this, I find out 48 hours before project is due that you haven't done shit, and so now you may very well have to suffer the consequences. I will decide if you are taking the zero - go to bed.
(Crying from Mackenzie...Johnathon is surprisingly calm...)
Johnathon: It's okay Kenz - we will only hafta miss 15 minutes of recess - no big deal.
I think I felt the remainder of my eggs go sterile at that exact second, as my body knew I was gaining an animal instinct leading me to possibly eat any future young I may produce.
And then, here it goes:
Me: Guess what - see that Wii I grounded you from? Say goodbye - I'm selling the damn thing.
INSANE crying then ensues, the oldest spawn throws a complete fit with a "HEY!! I DID MY SCIENCE PROJECTS!!!" and all three kids go to bed.
This morning, I think the son feels I am blowing fluff up his ass - I am not going to sell the Wii, and Elizabeth seems amazingly calm for something that is not her fault, so he just gathers all of that stimuli as "shes full of crap." (side note - Elizabeth is only calm because she doesn't give a crap since she never plays it anymore anyway...)
Nope - I posted the following Craigslist ad as he got home from school:
Wii Gaming system with 2 'wii-motes' and nunchucks. Will throw in third wii-mote and nunchuck for free (works fine but the battery cover is chewed on the wii-mote) Four games included: Wii Sports which came with system, Lego Star Wars, Final Fantasy Chocobo's Dungeon, and Super Monkey Ball Banana Blitz. All cords and the sensor are of course included. Selling to teach my son a very valuable lesson that grades are more important than video games, and priorities do not include Zelda or what level he conquered today. Would prefer he conquer his spelling list and his science project. $170 FIRM - he invested way more than that money wise into it so this is a VERY fair offer. I am not interested in trading, holding it until you get your allowance, or bartering for anything else. Cash Only.
Cheap, (used consoles at Gamestop are $169, so this was comparable to other offers I saw for used systems) Ad was up for 10 minutes. Buyer contacted me, drove straight here from Fairborn, gave me the money, and is gone. Johnathon is devastated.
I am sure he hates me, I am sure everyone thinks I am nuts. I, however, know this is the ONE way to get his attention. I aint messin around, and if you think your balls are big enough to play with me bring it on.
You'll be doing your science project and looking at the hole in the entertainment center where the Wii once sat.
If drinking the Kool-Aid is bad, then bring me a pitcher of it.
Today is the day I officially start sharing my randomness with more of the world that is not subjected to the rantings of my Facebook or Myspace pages. Testing the waters there, I only allowed my friends to experience the inner workings of my sometimes deranged mind - deranged may be putting it loosely. It was comfortable there; they KNOW me. They know my idiosyncrasies. They know I am a loon. They know I am a now haggard representation of the inner hot 19 year old I used to be.
I am a married mother of three, living in a world of competition in the Mommy Olympics and acting like I am still that 19 year old kick-ass-now-and-take-names-later kind of girl. My 'notes' and 'blogs' on Facebook and Myspace centered around the craziness that is my life - I am a drama magnet. It follows me everywhere and when bored, I admit I create it also. My kids and my husband are my life and soul - yet they can EAT my soul at the same time. I was told by a publisher, "You should write about it....that's some funny shit". Shit is always funny when it happens to someone else, but especially when you can relate to the same distinct smell.
So I do it; write my life's hell and blessings at least weekly. My oldest daughter initially didn't like the fact that I was yakking about her everyday blips all for the purpose of potentially making a buck off of her misery, but now loves the fact that I do. I suppose she feels like a celebrity and I am the friggin paparazzi following her. My youngest ones, boy and girl twins, are still blissfully unaware that I use them almost daily as blogging fodder; however, I suspect they caught on to my game when, during my high school reunion, everyone kept saying, "So THIS is the infamous Johnathon. THIS is the infamous Mackenzie". My cover was blown.
I used to wonder if somehow I was causing irreparable harm to my children in the way I handled their everyday bullshit; I do not think children come equipped to handle my 'in your face, take it like it is' attitude. It must be genetic though, because they are turning out better than I could have hoped for. I have to be doing SOMETHING right, right??
So, while looking for inspiration, or at the very least, SOLACE in the fact that I was not alone in the world of mothers who swear like a drunk sailor, drink like they are still in a sorority, and still turn out very well rounded children with some semblance of success, I found my home. My soul sisters. The EXACT same thing I was doing. Moms who drink and swear.
Like a fat kid stumbling across 50 free cakes, I was giddy. Almost in TEARS giddy. I came home to the motherland. There are actually other moms (and DADS! ) out there who tell it like it is. They drink. They cuss. They spew venom that even I had not encountered. And they love their children more than life itself. I felt like I had joined the cult I have forever searched for and joyfully partook of the free kool-aid.
I stayed up until the wee hours of the next morning reading and reading. The cults leader, Nikki, shares DNA with me, I am sure of it. I was instantly addicted to her wit, her style, her outlook on life and family and kids and the fucking insanity of it all. That publisher was right - there IS a demand for this shit. There ARE more of US out there than these crazy assed Stepford Wife Wannabes. I am now sure of it. We are REAL LIFE. So, with his persistence and pushing, I am officially joining the blogspot for continued exposure.
Nikki - thank you for what you do. I thought I was nuts writing blindly until I found you. If I end up being half the awesome bitch you are, I will be thrilled with the outcome.
I am a married mother of three, living in a world of competition in the Mommy Olympics and acting like I am still that 19 year old kick-ass-now-and-take-names-later kind of girl. My 'notes' and 'blogs' on Facebook and Myspace centered around the craziness that is my life - I am a drama magnet. It follows me everywhere and when bored, I admit I create it also. My kids and my husband are my life and soul - yet they can EAT my soul at the same time. I was told by a publisher, "You should write about it....that's some funny shit". Shit is always funny when it happens to someone else, but especially when you can relate to the same distinct smell.
So I do it; write my life's hell and blessings at least weekly. My oldest daughter initially didn't like the fact that I was yakking about her everyday blips all for the purpose of potentially making a buck off of her misery, but now loves the fact that I do. I suppose she feels like a celebrity and I am the friggin paparazzi following her. My youngest ones, boy and girl twins, are still blissfully unaware that I use them almost daily as blogging fodder; however, I suspect they caught on to my game when, during my high school reunion, everyone kept saying, "So THIS is the infamous Johnathon. THIS is the infamous Mackenzie". My cover was blown.
I used to wonder if somehow I was causing irreparable harm to my children in the way I handled their everyday bullshit; I do not think children come equipped to handle my 'in your face, take it like it is' attitude. It must be genetic though, because they are turning out better than I could have hoped for. I have to be doing SOMETHING right, right??
So, while looking for inspiration, or at the very least, SOLACE in the fact that I was not alone in the world of mothers who swear like a drunk sailor, drink like they are still in a sorority, and still turn out very well rounded children with some semblance of success, I found my home. My soul sisters. The EXACT same thing I was doing. Moms who drink and swear.
Like a fat kid stumbling across 50 free cakes, I was giddy. Almost in TEARS giddy. I came home to the motherland. There are actually other moms (and DADS! ) out there who tell it like it is. They drink. They cuss. They spew venom that even I had not encountered. And they love their children more than life itself. I felt like I had joined the cult I have forever searched for and joyfully partook of the free kool-aid.
I stayed up until the wee hours of the next morning reading and reading. The cults leader, Nikki, shares DNA with me, I am sure of it. I was instantly addicted to her wit, her style, her outlook on life and family and kids and the fucking insanity of it all. That publisher was right - there IS a demand for this shit. There ARE more of US out there than these crazy assed Stepford Wife Wannabes. I am now sure of it. We are REAL LIFE. So, with his persistence and pushing, I am officially joining the blogspot for continued exposure.
Nikki - thank you for what you do. I thought I was nuts writing blindly until I found you. If I end up being half the awesome bitch you are, I will be thrilled with the outcome.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)