As mentioned in my introduction on my profile, I carefully crafted this witty yet honest introduction to who I am and what sort of angle you might expect from my rambling. Naively, I assumed that since it mentioned a character limit, it would stop me when I got there. Grasshopper, clearly you have much to learn. Proud of my piece, I hit "save" and got the dreaded error message. FFFUUU. My first day on the job and already I'm being held back by the man. That's just how I roll. Anyhoot, here is what I wrote that didn't... um... quite fit in the introduction. Please to enjoy!
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Most people are ecstatic when they first bring home their week old bundle of joy. I was the exception; I was ecstatic to bring home my 4.5 month old bundle of rage and deviousness. Now 10 months old, Rage Baby keeps me on my toes all day and night long as she throws one curve ball after another into my life. She's an amazing kid who has more personality in her pinkie than most people do in their entire body, though, and I love her. Usually.
I also have two other amazing, though much less angry, daughters, who live with their father (NOT Rage Baby's dad!! NOT!!!) in a land far, far away, also known as Outer Space. Or just northern Florida. Whatever.
Happy-Go-Lucky, my almost 6 year old, was diagnosed at age 2 with autism, and has persevered to become the smartest, happiest, most empathetic kid I know. She takes life as it comes and brings sunshine into the world. Taco Princess recently turned four and is determined to be the owner and ruler of the world. She's klutzy, fearless, demanding, hilarious, and batshit crazy about all things pink and frilly. She and Happy are a comedic duo who make me smile and cry, every day, whether they're with me or just leaving greasy, sticky hand prints on the walls of my memories.
I used to be a typical mommy, until one day my husband left and I fell in love with my middle school obsession and first crush, Stitchfrank. (For the record, I allowed him to choose his own alias. I should have known better!) Since he re-entered my life, every single thing that I once knew has been systematically dismantled and broken through no deliberate fault of his. We're a wreck, and none of it will ever crush my spirit, because I have him to laugh with and love. He's my best friend, co-parent, enabler, and soul mate. He makes my friends hate me, my family question my sanity, and my life worth the madness.
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So, whaddaya think? I think it makes it pretty clear that I have no specific aim with this blog, other than to be honest, post about various mom-related incidents (and probably a lot of other shit too, because fuck you, that's why), rant about things that piss me off, and hopefully make the unlucky few who are accidentally directed here chuckle, or at least crack a smile. I can't make any promises about how often I'll post. I can't promise that if you DO read it you won't form the opinion that I am a terrible person and mother (wouldn't blame you there, honestly). In all likelihood, my brutal frankness will be the reason I don't share this with my family. What happens between vodka and I stays there, mostly. I just spend enough of my time worrying that they'll discover their suspicions about my lack of qualifications for the job of life are true, I don't need them confirming it all by spying on me. Yes, it's ironic considering this is a public blog, but, whatever.
You can expect some over-sharing, an inordinate amount of time mentioning things that are seriously inappropriate, and to be offended by what I say and what I am. But I'm okay with that. It took me many hard years of fail to get where I am and I am no longer all that concerned with the opinions of a bunch of strangers. Troll harder, cheegro. You can also look forward: to a lot of Chevelle worship; complaining about Rage Baby's, well, raging; completely inaccurate viewpoints on current topics and historic events; cursing; a lot of drinking (No, a lot, seriously. A whole lot. Like, a crapton.); bragging about the accomplishments and exploits of my three ass-kicking name-takers; whining, crying and sniveling about missing my two older babies; overuse of such grammatical constructs as parentheses and ellipses; unpopular views on everything that ever existed ever; repeated mentions of how wonderful/sexy/nice-smelling/irritating my boyfriend is, despite the heaps of disapproval and scorn poured on him by haters; posts that are rambling and just too long; and just about anything my mind can conceive of posting on a blog, drunk or sober. I have a big mouth in person, and I have a big internet personality, and I just like to write, even if it lacks cohesion, skills or style of any kind, tact, or - let's be honest here - a point.
I first considered the idea of starting another blog last night. I recently purchased a 600-page journal featuring a festive owl pattern and preperforated pages for when you seriously fuck up or realize you that you wrote something when you felt too drunk to lie and wrote a check your broke ass can't cash. I've yet to actually dare to tear one out, but it's a cool feature nonetheless. Anyhoot, I spent hours and hours yesterday, literally, probably more than 6, scribbling everything from musings about various topics to providing a narration of things that were happening right then. When I finally passed out after the Lil' Rage quit her bitching and went back to bed (I don't know what time it was, after 4 at the least) my hand was so cramped I could barely bend my fingers and my handwriting had disintegrated to a determined scribble. I awoke this morning to find that my entire arm, especially my elbow and knuckles, was painfully and irritatingly sore. Worse yet was that the desire to spill my thoughts ceaselessly onto SOMETHING had not only failed to be sated by my hours of toil, it had INCREASED. I went to work completely determined that I would continue my endeavors once I got off. I was disabused of this ridiculous notion in hour one of work, when I found myself having the create what's called a "big ticket," workspeak for a sign with a product description, price, and barcode. When I began to write on the first "big ticket" I knew right away I was fucked. My knuckles began to spasm in protest and it felt like I was dragging the bottom of my hand near my wrist across a bed of burning coals (I have a tendency to drag my hand across the page as I write). The resulting "big ticket" looked like a particularly slow and disturbed child had scrawled on the bathroom walls with his feces.
I arrived home from work and opened the glorious notebook of owls to revisit what I'd written, and found that I'd been in the middle of an angry rant about the retards who designed baby swings, when my hand refused to do its job and/or the vodka I drank finally removed my ability to use my ocular nerves. I attempted to add a post script about the possible reasoning for my abrupt stoppage, and managed to scrawl out a few messy sentences that were not any fun to write. The blog idea occurred to me again as I rested my gimpy hand on a pillow and fantasized about a world in which I wasn't listening to a howling baby and instead used a multitude of colorful and amazing pens to painlessly share my thoughts with the world. I also fantasized about having a following, a group of dedicated people who checked my blog daily for new posts. This is clearly a delusional fantasy, because while there may be a world in which a baby does not scream and my hand is again able to use a dozen brightly-hued pens to write in a notebook, there is no world in which a group of essentially normal beings with senses of humor are eager to read what I have to say. Even I know that! But, whatevs, I'm amused by the act of typing, and it would tickle me to no end to find out that someone read what I wrote. Also tickling me is Stitchfrank massaging my foot while surfing through pornographic parodies of movies on my phone. And while my wrists sometimes get sore from resting them too hard on the keyboard or table, I've been typing for hours on end since I can remember. So I don't think I'll need to be whisked to the hospital tomorrow because I wrote a 300,000 word blog on Fucking Nothing.
As it stands, though, I think it's about time to end this introduction and get down to the business of taking shots of vodka. Also, Rage Baby just made a grumpy coughing noise from her swing and needs me to check on her. I promise to TRY to come up with an actual topic from which I mostly will not deviate for my next post. Which will probably be tonight. I'll probably be drunk. Just a heads up.
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