Wtf am I doing?

On a whim, I searched a really old blog that I had posted, and it led me to this one, which I had completely forgotten. Rereading my entries, for once I was not ashamed of what I'd written, because it was authentically me. A more trusting, naive me, to be sure, but my core self came through loud and clear. It gave me the desire to have a voice again, even if no one will read it, and I have so much to reveal and relate after four years of silence. I've learned so much, and I was too messed up and living in my own head for so long that I had no desire to write, nor anything worth being said. I'm at a place now where I need to get my thoughts out, and where I want to share how much I've grown over these years and unburden myself of all the weight I've been carrying. Because my thoughts are convoluted at the moment, I can't go into specifics just yet, but I hope that after sleep will come clarity and motivation to continue my writing.

Busy, busy

I haven't posted lately because I swear the first few days after I created the blog I had to wear bandaids on all of my fingers because they were so sore from typing!  Also, I'm just lazy.  This post will be by necessity short because I actually have shit to do today, believe it or not.  I know, I know; me, have a life? WTF?

Today is the 9 year anniversary of the day my mom died, so that pretty much sucks.  I slept half the morning away because I didn't want to deal with being sad.  She was an amazing person and I spent the entirety of my teenage years being a massive dick to her.  I pulled my head out of my ass when I went college, and started to realize I was actually pretty lucky to have her as a mom.  She had a kick-ass sense of humor, didn't take shit from anyone, and surprisingly really cared about each of us kids and respected us as individuals.  She smoked like a chimney and could drink anybody on the planet under the table, and had a host of hilarious put-downs uniquely tailored to anyone she might meet.

One Friday during April of 2003 I found out my mom had been in the hospital.  Apparently she had some type of crazy period and needed a D&C to control the bleeding.  I talked to her on the phone that night and she seemed okay, just a little tired.  When we were hanging up, I was trying to tell her one last thing (it was so unimportant I don't remember what it was), so when she said I love you I just finished up my story without reciprocating.  The next day I got the call that she had died suddenly of a massive stroke and heart attack, complicated by her Type 1 Diabetes and blood loss the previous day.

I almost dropped out of college, but somehow got bullied by my family into finishing.  I got married to my then-fiance based on his connection to my mother (the connection being that he knew her while she was alive).  I named Happy Go Lucky after her, and spent large portions of my time, for the first few years at least, feeling sorry for myself and guilty about the way I treated her when she was alive.  I regretted so many things that I didn't ask, that I didn't say, that I didn't do, and I don't think that's something I'll ever fully get over.  I no longer spend my days crying about her death, but I still miss her terribly, and I always will.

So, that's today.  Fortunately, I have a few important distractions to keep me occupied.  Tomorrow, we are driving to Tallahassee to see Chevelle!  I'm super thrilled and beyond excited.  We are taking a friend of Stitchfrank's along to babysit Rage Baby while we attend the concert, so that's all good.  Then on Saturday we are driving across the state to visit my two older girls!  I haven't seen them since December so I really can't wait to spend time with them.  I'll let you know how it all goes down.

Sorry this post was somewhat depressing and seriously lacking in humorous anecdotes, but we've got to pack our shit to prepare, and in order to do that, we have to first unload the massive amounts of crap that we've been allowing to pollute the inside of the van for the past several months.  Not really my ideal afternoon (that involves the beach and several cocktails), but it's all for a good cause and it's a healthy distraction from brooding over my mom.  See ya on the flipside, or whatever the fuck cool people say to sign off.

Rage Against The Machine (The iPhone Machine)

I've already alleged that Rage Baby is devious well beyond her years (I wonder who her mentors are?), and every single time I bring out my iPhone, I feel more and more certain that she does indeed have nefarious plans afoot.  Whether I bust it out to check my email, make a phone call, post on Facebook, or, most frequently, take a picture of video of my adorable daughter doing something new or cute or just existing in a way that only a parent can find to be totally captivating, Rage is immediately on the case to foil my plans.

If I'm trying to serve food in my zombie restaurant, or collect coins from my zoo animals, or fuck someone over in words with friends because I'm a master vocabulator (yeah, stick that bad ass invention in your pipe and smoke it), I usually try to sit her in my lap so that she can watch what I'm doing.  She likes the movement and music that go along with the games.  Lately, her trick has been to stare at the phone as if completely in a trance until the app loads.  Then she springs into action, swiping frenetically at the screen in an effort to do- well, do something anyway, I don't think even she has that angle totally figured out yet.  She intends to disrupt whatever I'm trying to do as severely as her chubby and clumsy baby hands will allow, that much is clear.  I'm forced to hold the phone at ever increasing distances away from the grasping child until I am physically unable to perform the essential functions of game play or until Rage starts bleating in protest of the angle I'm leaning at to keep her at bay or at being kept from acquiring and destroying her target.  Needless to say that with all this dodging and evading, I don't get much accomplished with the apps I like to use during the hours when hands-on baby care is occurring.

Every now and then, it's imperative I make a phone call.  Usually these phone calls are essential to Rage Baby's health care or disability classification in some way, and entail navigating through an automated routing system that doesn't allow you to use your keypad to make a menu choice, but rather requires you to say aloud your name, ID number, the issue with which you are requesting assistance, and so on.  On the best of days, these systems are aggravating and not the least bit helpful, repeatedly mistaking your careful pronunciation of "YES" for "SPANISH" and changing over to a telenovela announcer repeating your choices or redirecting you eight times through the same menu or series of options before hanging up on you.  Such calls require a persistent and unflagging determination to beat the odds and get in touch with a real live person, and a completely quiet environment, as the merest shift of a passing moth's wings can fool the system into believing you've said something and responding, "I'm sorry, I didn't get that.  Please repeat your request."  (My typical reaction at that point is usually shouting "I DIDN'T MAKE A REQUEST YOU CUNT! GET A TOUCH PAD SYSTEM LIKE EVERY OTHER COMPANY!" but then, patience has never been a virtue of mine.)

Rage Baby doesn't just coo, laugh, talk, and fuss at maximum volume, she shuffles, rolls, farts, breathes, and exists at maximum volume.  This is not a kid who is in training to become a ninja, that's for sure.  Trying to make a phone call requiring silence and concentration, let alone being able to access and provide reams of information to prove you're still the same person as the last time you called, is simply not possible.  On the few occasions I've had to make other types of phone calls and foolishly thought I could get away with it while holding Rage, I was swiftly reminded of the truth with her vigorous attempts to make the phone call as unproductive as possible.  The squirming, grunting, and fussing begins the minute the phone goes to my ear, requiring me to take the one steadying hand away from the receiver and use my shoulder to prop it up.  If you've ever tried to prop an iPhone with your shoulder, you probably know how this ends.

I've started playing people a numeric keypad symphony, activated the mute button so anything I said fell upon deaf ears, and most frequently of all, flat out hung up on people, all while trying to calm and steady my wildly bucking baby.  One time I was on the phone with my father and somehow managed to, using just my cheek and shoulder, hang up on him and dial my sister.  Hearing her answer the phone when I was still trying to figure out if my dad's phone had dropped the call again was somewhat of a surprise.  The level of fuckery that iPhones can achieve when you're attempting to use them for that most basic purpose they were designed for, by which I mean making a phone call  (not googling The Hunger Games series or making sure that none of your friends has sent you a new drawing to guess, dummy!), is unbelievable as it is.  Add a baby hell bent on tormenting her mother and you have heinous fuckery most foul.  Now, any important phone calls I have to make are planned days in advance and require a babysitter.

My favorite use for my iPhone is easily the camera and video camera features. Having put up with some atrocities in my day so I could document the doings of my family, I really, really love the camera on this thing. Before getting my iPhone, my photos were taken on a crappy digital camera, or my Blackberry.  That was one piece of ancient, outdated cellular technology sent to me straight from hell in order to make every photo I took hideous. The camera, for its part, took pictures of the absolute shittiest quality imaginable and upped the ante by imposing an extensive lag between the time I first held down the shutter button and the time the camera actually snapped a photo. Not only were pictures with this camera grainy and low in resolution, but the color balance made it look like we were posing in a carnival fun house and the delay between attempting to take the photo and actually managing to do so ensured that it caught only the sloppiest of facial expressions and poses.

Despite these major setbacks to my amateur photography hobby, I still managed to earn the nickname Mamarazzi among my friends and family. And by photography hobby, I mean I liked to take pictures of people and things. Ask me about aperture or lens preference and I'll just blink wetly at you.  I have no illusions about the quality of photograph I produce.  My children grew accustomed to having a camera or phone shoved in their faces several times a day because of how often I decided I needed to "record the moment." Happy-Go-Lucky would see me whip out the camera and flash me her cheesiest grins, while Taco Princess would stuck out her tongue and scrunch her eyes closed to make sure that any pictures I had of her would feature what seemed to be an extremely slow child with Asian features instead of my beautiful daughter. Dammit, though, they were trained!  They knew what the camera meant.  I even taught both of them how to use it to take pictures of each other and me, along with any other inanimate object they had a mind to put on film.

The major obstacle to a Mamarazzi heaven full of winsome photos of my little ham Happy and my photo-bombing Taco was my lack of a decent camera.  I consistently took small, low resolution photos that were too dark or too exposed and were full of kids with ghoulish glowing eyes.  Rage Baby, who was during this time being guarded in the high security facility known as the NICU, was duly photographed as well, and the first 500 or so pictures of her as taken on my phone or old digital camera just weren't able to do justice to her tiny, delicate features, her translucent, paper-thin skin, or all of the amazing progress she made over her first few months of life.  I still treasure those photos, but I would be over the moon if they didn't look so much like I traveled back in time to use the oldest camera I was able to come across.  And, really, how am I supposed to get on Facebook and brag about how gorgeous my children are when the camera quality makes them all look like they're surrounded by an ominous aura or ghostly fog?  No, no, everybody, trust me, they're gorgeous.  They could all be models!  What, the glowing eyes?  Just the camera.  Seriously, I'm not kidding.

Watching my most favorite subjects fail to appear as beautiful in photographs as they did in real life was painful for me, and I came to a point where there was just absolutely no way I could cope with it any longer (that sounds like a potential caption for one of those White People Problems photo, but that's the way it was).  I couldn't afford both a digital camera and a new phone (which I also sorely needed and desired), nor did I want to continue to cart around two separate devices I'd have to juggle between using. I figured if I played my cards right I could find something that was both a good quality camera and a somewhat cutting edge cellphone.  I broke down, renounced my religious creed, and bought an iPhone for, and I swear to you it was for the quality of the pictures and the dual-facing cameras.  The high download rate for porn had nothing to do with it.  A couple hundred dollars later and I was ready to immortalize my children in the manner they deserved.

It was every bit as glorious as I had hoped.  I've had the phone since late August of 2011 and I've taken almost 2,000 pictures and approximately 30 videos, mostly of Rage Baby and her older siblings.  When Rage Baby came home from the hospital, everything was such a new and overstimulating experience to her that whether or not I had some black thing that made noise in my hand didn't seem to affect her one way or the other.  I could snap a picture of whatever face she happened to be making or activity she was engaged in without worry that she would become distracted by me from whatever it was I wanted to put on film.  Gradually, however, she became more aware of and engaged with her surroundings, and she started to get nosy.

It progressed in intensity and frequency until it evolved into what it is today- an intense desire to become dead still and stare at the phone whenever I'm trying to get a picture or video of something.  While it's cute when she lays there without making any type of shrill fussing noise, it does not make for a particularly interesting photo or video.  Yet this is what happens each time, without fail, when she catches me aiming the phone's camera lens in her direction.  And that she will catch me every single time is almost certain.  She has level 42 Paladin powers and can summon the power of various creatures at will, it's said.  Detecting when Mom is covertly trying to aim a camera towards her is a simple matter, and she does it with ease.  I have been foiled in getting a candid photo of her many, many times.  Likely I have failed more times than I can ever hope to succeed.

Not only is there a dearth of photos and videos that don't feature Rage Baby staring blanking in the direction of the camera, I begin to look insane when I start making claims about the things she's learned to do.  I have yet to get video proving that she has ever rolled over, and I've probably recorded and deleted more than 50 different clips trying to get her to say mommy or daddy.  Keep in mind that when the phone isn't in my hand, all she does is ask for me and her daddy.  Over and over and over and gallop and gallop and GOD DAMMIT.  I digress.

This kid may only weigh 11 pounds, but each and every single ounce of those 11 pounds has been crafted and finely honed to somehow foil all activities I attempt to engage in using my phone.  I'm not sure if it's because she's developed a dislike for the phone and all of the time it preoccupies Mommy and Daddy when they should be directing their attentions entirely to her, or if it's something deeply embedded in her genetic code to detest and destroy anything that causes others pleasure.  I don't even think it's important, because no matter what the reason she rages against the iPhone machine, her father and I aren't in control on this one.   So we'll just have to wait until she gets bored of the game, outgrows her antipathy toward the phone, or we just flat out give up.  As long as I don't have to listen to "Killing In The Name Of" or "Bulls on Parade" while I'm waiting, I imagine that I shall survive this tribulation as well.

Chevelle, Slingo, Vodka, and Other Addictions

Puttering around the interwebs tonight, as I often do, it came to me that I have issues.  I mean, it wasn't exactly a revelation, pretty much anyone who knows me will agree without hesitation that I'm not quite like anyone else.  Whether or not that's a positive thing is open to individual interpretation, but as for myself, I wouldn't want to be too similar to everyone else.  If you're too much like so many other people, you blend in and aren't as memorable as someone who seems off in some way.  I'm not saying that I try to be different, exactly, although it's well known that I try to be difficult, but rather that the way I think and feel about things is just naturally different than is popular.  However, going back to my previous musing: is it a good thing that I'm a dodecagon-shaped peg that is supposed to be jammed into a square hole?

I've always enjoyed it, but recently I was at the psychiatrist's office getting my monthly anti-batshitcrazy meds when I observed a half naked, overweight black man wandering around the parking lot, accompanied by half a dozen armed police officers trying to put on their most soothing demeanor to quell this man's temper.  I have absolutely no idea what his major malfunction was, but it was obvious immediately that he was both extremely high on drugs and extremely mentally unstable with the potential to go violently insane at any point.  I know, I know, Pot, meet Kettle, right?  After all, I was there for medication to keep me from going violently insane, so who am I to judge?  Who am I to judge?, I wondered to myself as I repeatedly crafted judgments in my head.  The thought of this crazy dude's behavior got me to thinking about my own behavior.

I typically don't care what anyone thinks about me and the choices I make.  I routinely do things that can be described as out of the norm, from spontaneously breaking into a song and dance in public, to loudly and harshly berating Stitchfrank for daring to bring up that fucking terrible excuse for a television show, Family Guy, especially that dumb cunt Lois (don't ask).  But I digress.  I'm just not a quiet, meek person who spends all her time carefully weighing the possible thoughts and reactions of those around her to her actions.  I do what I do, and if you don't like me, blow me.  But while I completely disregard the opinions of people as it pertains to me doing things that are abnormal, immature, goofy, or just 'not done,' I have to wonder if people are thinking something more insidious than that I'm merely immature or irresponsible, or just plain stupid, but rather considering me to be more seriously damaged...  If perhaps they think I'm actually one of those dangerously unhinged people who needs to have six cops trailing me, reassuring me in low, tranquil tones about the rightness of the world so that I don't start trying to bite off people's ears or something.  Or maybe they're even attempting to determine which hardcore street drugs I'm abusing every day before I leave my house.

I have to admit that the idea of people viewing me as criminally psychotic or believing that I must be doing hardcore drugs unnerves me.  I've always considered my brand of crazy completely benign, even cutesy.  I can act like a child because I see the world like a child.  I don't censor most of my thoughts and actions because I don't mean anyone real harm and I feel like that would be a denial of who I really am.  Sure, it's completely possible for me to be serious when it's required, but when it's merely a guideline so other people will feel comfortable, anything goes as far as I'm concerned.  Fuck, I minored in anthropology and completed half of grad school for Second Language Acquisition, studying the responses of people to external stimuli is a crap-ton of fun for me.  Pulling people out of their comfort zones is an unconscious hobby of mine.  Put someone in an unfamiliar situation and see what they do- isn't that a formula for a hit reality show?  I'm getting off topic again, aren't I?  Forgive me, it's the hour, the lack of sleep, and the delicious beer and vodka combo I've been enjoying since about 10 this evening.

My point being that yes, I troll people hard and fuck with them whenever possible because it's not truly causing them any harm and that's just how I roll.  But just because I spend a portion of my time either deliberately disrupting someone's equilibrium or inadvertently making someone clear his throat and shift his weight between feet, I don't think I deserve to be labeled as a drug addict or a volatile psychotic.  I am by no means certain that anyone, whether someone I personally know or a random bystander, has labeled me as such, mentally or verbally.  But knowing how I tend to view people (cynically), I can step outside of who I am and my motivation behind my typically atypical behavior, and put myself in the mind of a typical middle class Republican encountering me by chance, and it seems feasible to me that such a person's mind might very well tend to drift towards thinking of me as clinically nuts or smoking something potent and blatantly illegal.  I would rather not have a friendly officer of the law show up at my door one day because someone thought my overenthusiastic approach to life was a sure sign of a mental collapse or drug dependency, know what I mean?

For the record, I have two clinical diagnoses for mental disorders, neither of which cause me to take off all of my clothes and rant while I stalk around looking for someone to maim, nor am I addicted to or using any type of illegal street drug. Now that we've gotten those important truths out of the way, there are several things that, upon reflection, I would probably agree are 'addictions' of mine, after a fashion.   It was the idea that I have strange tendencies and repeatedly engage in behavior that is out of character for the average person caused me to make the nebulous connection between me surfing the interwebs earlier tonight and that spaced-out drug user I saw in the parking lot of the psychiatric building last week.

Very likely my most obvious addiction is one that the greatest amount of people would admit to having suffered at one time or another.  I feel like I am adrift in a sea of blackness if by some chance I am unable to go on the internet at whatever exact moment in time that I start to feel the desire building inside me. Whenever someone gives me internet access, I have a very explicit routine ingrained in me through many, many years of practice and technique refining.  I experience the compulsion to visit Facebook.  I will refresh the homepage 800 times in a single day to see who has created a new post or commented on an old thread in one of the numerous mother's groups of which I am a member (online, at least, since no one wants to talk to me or deal with my pissed off kid in real life).  I will go to the games that I currently find it amusing to play and accept gifts, return them, and complete what few tasks I can before I'm forced to wait because Zynga is run by assholes who believe that doing any essential task in a game must cost energy or the game is destined to fail (I'm talking to you, Slingo).  I google the things I'm desperate to know so I can find the latest information about the 'other men' in my life (besides Stitchfrank), the massively talented members of Chevelle.  It's important that I do it every day so I can be among the first to learn about new concerts, projects, and merchandise.  I mean, that's what everyone does when they have a musical artist they consider their favorite, right?  No?  Fuck you too.  I didn't ask you.  I check the various Facebook groups where I have recurring requests for Rage Baby's milk.  I start searching for new porn.  I do it all, over and over, until I have to drag myself away from the computer or pass out.

The interwebs aren't my only addiction, just the most obvious one.  Maybe addiction is too harsh of a word, as it tends to direct my mind back towards drugs and all that bullshit.  Let's go with... habits.  Yes, habits sounds better.  I have a very serious Chevelle habit as mentioned in reference to my internet addi- er, habit.  I quote them in conversation, they're pretty much the only band on my iPhone, I have an entire wardrobe crafted from their merchandise (did I mention my sweet tattoo?), and the list goes on.  These guys play music that really speaks to me for whatever reason, and their music has helped me through more than one difficult time in my life.

Then there's my old friend, vodka.  Vodka may be welcome occasionally by others, but he's an old friend who's always welcome here.  He can always be counted on in a pinch and he never fails to get the job done.  Day or night, he's ready for action and he can defuse the most dramatic of situations.  He comes conveniently packaged in a plastic bottle so if you get too excited to see him he's not going to shatter and force you to suck him out of the carpet.  Yes, you could say that vodka is a daily feature in my life.  Some people might see this as a problem, but I have absolutely no issues as related to my relationship with this close, special friend.

Vodka also tends to bring around another good friend of mine, sex.  I never, ever want to go to sleep when sex is involved.  When I wake up in the morning, sex is invariably the first thing I think of, and it's likely the last thing I do before I go to sleep.  I can turn just about any topic into something adult-themed, and often do so freely in my head.  When I have a threesome with vodka and sex, all the stress and pressure I feel daily are completely erased and I'm at peace.  Coincidentally, this is also how Rage Baby was conceived, but thanks to the wonders of modern medicine and surgical techniques, I can have all the vodka and sex I want without ever being worried that any moment now I'll be presented with another child who wants to watch the world burn.  My sex habit is naturally augmented by a talented and willing partner, but vodka hasn't come around much this evening so I'm at this juncture unable to reveal more.

However, I can disclose that sex is often summoned by another special friend of Stitchfrank's and mine, porn.  Porn makes all the things you desire in your head seem like things that could really happen, and magically everyone involved is flawless and faceless.  You're not going to have to deal with an irate porn star when you forgot to change the toilet paper roll, nor will you ever hear a complaint if you orgasm before they do.  Porn is always ready for whatever type of action you can dream of having, and it's there whenever and however many times you need it.  Chevelle is amazing, vodka tastes delightful, and I love sex and porn.

I'm fairly certain that my last statement is enough to shock and horrify almost all of my friends online and in real life.  My 'habits' of Chevelle, vodka, sex, and porn in no way hamper my ability to get up each morning and face another day of trying to pacify the beast that is my daughter, however, so people can judge all they want.  I know who I am and what I like and I'm okay with all of it.  At least I'll be tipsy and having amazing sex while the people who are judging me sit in their frumpy pajamas, eating a pint of ice cream, and mourn the demise of their youth and sexual appeal.  I might get old and ugly, but I'll never stop having fun thanks to those amazing habits of mine, so I'm not worried about a damn thing.

That Fucking Horse

As I'm sure just about every mother knows through painful experience, all children's song composers and performers are on drugs.  I'm not sure if they're dropping acid, taking hits of ecstasy, or just smoking a nice chunk of crack rock, but the result is always the same.  The songs make absolutely zero sense. The musicians and singers are all so peppy and enthusiastically energetic that it makes me want a nap and a gun.  Each instrument included in the composition seems designed to trigger a spasm in a different part of the brains of any adults unfortunate enough to be in earshot.  The overall goal of children's songs seems to be making the children  immediately become obsessed with hearing That Specific Song over and over and over and over while simultaneously breeding homicidal insanity in their parents.

Some songs are worse than others, and it's this upper echelon of ear cancer that captivates my evil daughter.  I'm talking about That Fucking Horse.  If you've lived your life without ever having encountered this gem before, allow me to introduce you to Rage Baby's favorite song.  It's called "Little Red," and it's sung by some hippy named Patty Shulka.  Watch it here.  This is a song about a horse named Little Red, who really likes to walk, and trot, and run, and gallop and gallop and gallop and gallop and fuck my life.  According to the lyrics, Little Red doesn't need to sleep when he's getting ready for a race because someone gives him amphetamines or something.  This horse brings obsessive compulsive to a new level.  Of course, he goes on to win his big race, The Run of The Roses, but does he stop galloping?  No sir, he just keeps on fucking going.  Maybe it's because he's forced to listen to the song written in his honor.

If you were foolish or curious or drunk enough to click on it and watch the video with the sound on, then you see my point.  The first time you hear it, it's not awful.  Stupid, certainly, but kind of catchy.  What seems stupid but mildly catchy to me is like baby heroin to my daughter.  Over her long career of being pissed off at life, we've tried many things to amuse her.  I'd tried showing her the only children's music that doesn't make me want to put myself into a vodka coma, The Wiggles, but she could have given a shit less.  I just assumed she wasn't interested in music or TV particularly (my fucking luck) and given up on entertaining her in that way.  My sister, however, decided to give it another shot because she hates me.

We were staying in a hotel over the weekend for a hockey tournament and Rage was being her usual charming self.  Trying to be considerate of other guests seemed to be futile, because, after all, this is Rage Baby we're dealing with here.  But my sister, Squirt, hopped on YouTube and searched "children's songs" and clicked the first one on the list.  Of course it had to be Little Red.  Of course it fucking did.  That Fucking Horse.  I snorted derisively and waited for Rage to vehemently denounce the attempt as a pathetic failure.  Instead, the trumpet flare at the beginning of the video caused her to jerk her head toward the sound.  She was instantly captivated.  I swear she did not blink a single time during that first exhibition of many.  Squirt and I were pleased with her approval and chuckled quietly, not knowing what horror was to come.

When the song was over, she went back to the list of songs and chose another.  This song did not, in any way whatsoever, cause Rage a bit of happiness.  Instead she became irate again.  My sister tried another song with identical results.  After a series of songs that failed to pass muster, we returned to That Fucking Horse and once again, Rage became still and attentive.  As soon as the song ended, she began to squirm and complain again.  We watched it eight times in a row before she decided she was done with it for the time being.  By that time I was covering my ears and pinching the bridge of my nose to alleviate the migraine caused by listening to Little Red gallop and gallop and gallop and gallllllllop.

That Fucking Horse is sometimes the only thing that will shut Rage up for a while.  Of course, since it's on YouTube, you can't just put it on repeat and walk away.  Nope, that would be too easy.  Merely listening to the song, and not viewing the video, isn't enough to quell the angst in the baby, and finding the video for download is something I've yet to be successful with.  So, instead, I return to restart the video every two minutes and twenty-three seconds, and start it back up at four seconds in when the trumpet starts.  I appreciate that this song and video keep her calm and quiet for a few minutes, but hearing Little Red eight times in a row is really just too much for my fragile psyche to endure (after using this last ditch effort on several occasions, I've calculated the exact number of times she will watch it without losing interest.  It's eight.  Eight fucking times.).  A person should not be expected to put up with this type of psychological torture, but hey, the things we do for our kids, right?

Since discovering the magical effect of That Fucking Horse on Rage Baby, I've continued my search for other children's songs that are slightly less demented and irritating.  Until just last week I was unsuccessful in my efforts.  She showed no special preference toward that hippy Patty Shukla (I'm sure she's very nice, but if I ever meet her I'm going to stab her for her crimes against my sanity).  She had no positive things to say about traditional kids' songs such as the ABCs or The Wheels on the Bus. Barney, shockingly, did nothing for her, since both Happy-Go-Lucky and Taco Princess always loved that purple asshole.  Raffi bored the shit out of her, and I can understand because although I listened to (and enjoyed!) his music as a kid, his videos are bland and colorless, and the sound quality on 99% of the videos is shitty.  Rage Baby demands quality and high fidelity sound, dammit. A plethora of music videos and clips spanning the different genres within children's music completely failed to make an impression on my fickle child.

Then, recently, one afternoon when Stitchfrank and I couldn't stand to listen to That Fucking Horse another time, he clicked on a link in the recommended videos at the end of the song.  The song that he clicked on was The Duck Song, and neither of us expected it to find favor with our little Napoleon but we tried it anyway.  To our mutual surprise, she loved it.  It's clearly not as popular with her as Little Douche bag Racehorse, but she enjoys it for a little variety in her day.  And it has the added bonus of giving us a brief respite from all the galloping.  So overall the discovery of The Duck Song has been a happy one,  but there are is one minor issue I have with it...

That duck is an ASSHOLE.  I mean, seriously, he's a dick who obviously gets off on being as irritating and tiresome as possible to everyone he meets.  In not just one video, but an entire series of them, he visits various establishments and inquires if the proprietors have any grapes.  He is especially careful to patronize only those places that are unlikely to have grapes on hand, such as a lemonade stand in the first and a convenience store in a later video.  After being told no, he leaves, only to return the next day and ask the same fucking question.  He does this every day until finally whatever employee he's been badgering loses his or her cool and threatens him or tells him to fuck off.  He comes back the following day and manages to twist the threat against him levied previously into something that gives him the final word.  The man working at the lemonade stand threatens to glue him to a tree, so the duck comes back the next afternoon and asks him for glue.  The dude isn't expecting a new approach, so he answers honestly.  Since the duck now knows he can't be glued to the tree, he asks for grapes again.  For some inexplicable reason, the lemonade stand guy breaks down and buys the duck his stupid grapes at a grocery store, and when he tries to give the duck one, he tells him no and asks if the store sells lemonade!

What the FUCK, man?  I want to know where the morality or respectfulness lesson in this song is, because I haven't found it yet.  The kicker for me is that I swear each time Rage Baby watches the video she starts laughing when the duck tells the lemonade guy no.  It's an evil little "he-he-he" chuckle that can't possible mean that she grasps the full meaning of the video at ten months.  Maybe she just really likes that part of the song.  But there's a tiny part of me that knows who her parents are and wonders if it's possible for her to have a sick sense of humor already.  I've also caught her laughing at us when we're irritated about something or when one of us accidentally kicks a chair or drops something that breaks.  I'm pretty sure she's going to grow up to be a sadist at this rate.

Also, how many talking ducks do you know, if we're getting right down to it?  Wouldn't that freak you the fuck out if a duck came up to you and quacked for grapes?  And what kind of a duck likes grapes?  Or does he even like them?  It could be that he actually despises them, since he said no to the ones purchased for him by the lemonade guy, and that for whatever reason they are just a prop in his evil master plan.  I don't know, it all seems to come back to those serious drug habits that the children's song makers have.

I guess I'm glad that Rage Baby prefers The Duck Song series to Barney or the Fresh Beats Band.  It shows that at least she has some capacity for good taste, even if she does like That Fucking Horse.

Rage Baby Versus Her Superhuman Abilities

First, I want you to know that I've got a really long post in the works, so long that it requires a lot of concentration, several hours spanning a period of days, and many more words than are probably actually necessary.  I hope you'll like it when I finally finish it.

Today was a day of frustration and triumph for Rage Baby.  In the last week, she's learned to do so many new things that it almost seems like we are taking care of a different baby than the one we had before.  I suspected several days ago that she had something epic in the works when she slept from 7 PM until I finally woke her up at 1:15 the following afternoon.  Rage has a lot of hate to share with the world, and she certainly can't do that while she's asleep, so she gives everyone the business whenever her tiny body is on the brink of exhaustion.  Yet here is the sleep-boycotting devil spawn herself, having to be woken up from the type of slumber that her father and I have been known to do.  My dad and Stitchfrank were slightly concerned that she might be sick, but she didn't appear bothered any more than usual by life when I finally roused her.  I posited that it was a growth spurt, and the changes that took place in the days after proved I was correct.

The night after the big sleep, Rage Baby went to sleep more easily than normal and I breathed an inner sigh of relief, having anticipated a real fight thanks to her stores of rest.  I exhaled too soon, though, because around 2 AM I heard her chattering to things from her position in the swing in the living room.  Since she wasn't fussing, I ignored her.  I hoped she'd get bored and drift quietly back to dreamland.  Instead, the sounds emitting from her tiny megaphone of a mouth began to get louder and more insistent, soon diving into the abyss known as "Screaming Like You're on Fire."  I got up (off the couch - did you think I was sleeping so early? Ha.) and changed her, made sure she had her owl, and gave her gas medicine and tylenol in case either of those things helped solve her meltdown.  She put on her cute and happy act while I was tending to her, which she dropped the moment I placed her back in her swing.  Rage lived up to her name that evening, angrily howling her fool head off well into the wee hours.  The night after that, she became alert and batshit insane around 11.  And the day after THAT she decided she was fed up with my shit and screamed not only all day but well into the evening, causing my laid-back father to have a meltdown and insinuate I should go fuck myself with a cactus due to my inability to soothe Rage Baby.

I know what you're thinking: how on EARTH are any of these events indicative of new skills or development?  Shouldn't I be concerned that she cries so much, and that maybe something is wrong?  Perhaps a visit to the doctor is in order?  Believe me when I say that I've thought something along those lines many times, and always she checks out healthy as a miniature pony.  She has more doctors and practitioners and therapists than you can shake a stick at, and she's been released from the care of many of them because she doesn't require their services any longer.

No, Rage Baby isn't ill, just ill-tempered.  She really is a carbon copy of Stitchfrank, who freely and vociferously hates the world.  For fuck's sake, this is a kid who never knew what it was to be held until she was almost four months old, who spent 144 long days lying on a warmer or in an incubator staring at fucking nothing while almost everyone she came in contact caused her grievous pain.  She was poked and prodded six times or more a day with ridiculously large needles.  She has huge, noticeable scars on her hands and feet from IV needles, and the bottom of one of her feet has a huge patch of pink, sensitive skin from where she had necrotic tissue due to an IV.

Let's not discount the fact that she has a large hole in the middle of her stomach with a button sticking out of it so she can receive milk, since she was so traumatized by the breathing tubes in her throat that she developed an oral aversion and super-sensitive gag reflex.  Not only has this thing been accidentally yanked out three times since she got it (picture blowing up a water balloon and pulling it out of your nasal cavity), it seeps and leaks stomach acid that smells putrid so I have to clean it several times each day, and I'm guessing that having a foreign body piercing your stomach wall and then being poked and jiggled frequently doesn't feel like a Swedish massage.  Also, I refuse to let her play with the really fun toy that is always attached to her body because I'm the meanest mother ever.

My point is that Rage Baby is not sick.  She has very clear likes and dislikes and is absolutely unafraid to vocalize objections and complaints.  Besides everything, the one thing she hates above all else is being put down for any reason.  She wants you to hold her, always.  It's not enough to face her over your shoulder and sit on the couch, or sit her on your lap while you watch TV.  She wants to bounce up and down using her feet to shove off your legs as you suspend her in at an agonizing and awkward angle, she wants you to turn her towards you and hold her an inch from your face as you gaze lovingly into her eyes and talk to her.  Stitchfrank and I don't mind doing these things, but she never wants you to stop, ever.  Arms go numb extremely quickly and never seem to increase their endurance.  And sometimes, we just have shit that needs to be done, or maybe we just need a fucking break.

Simple things like microwaving leftovers, tossing a load of laundry in the wash, or checking Facebook become a complex and time-consuming chore when you add Rage Baby to the mix.  Stitchfrank and I have developed the skill of speed-eating, and we've also grown used to having every conversation at presentation-level volumes.  We pass the baby back and forth throughout the day, entertaining her as best we can until our arm muscles seize up or we begin to contemplate tying a plastic bag over our heads.  In this manner we can usually keep the rage level fairly low until she begins to get tired.  But some days, like the ones following Rage's extended siesta, there's nothing you can devise that amuses her for even an instant.  She's a humorless monarch being presented with an endless line of jesters that can never hope to win a smile.  On those days, the vodka bottle comes out early, tempers run hot, and Rage spends a lot of time getting to know the inside of her swing.

It was the third afternoon or so following the 18 straight hours of sleep when I began noticing some new behaviors.  Typically, when Rage Baby is content she acts much like someone who's taken copious amounts of hallucinogens.  She stares deep into the soul of the blank wall and yodels to it in her quietest (read: not at all quiet) voice, or she examines her hands like they're an alien species as she holds them an inch from her face (almost always resulting in her accidentally poking or punching herself in the eye).  She'll smile at thin air and use her feet to rotate herself in a backwards circle.  When she's not staring at her hands, she's jerking them spastically as she tries to shove them the entire way into her mouth.  Her most favorite activity recently has been what we call "scritching," where she puts her hand on a surface that feels interesting to her and scratches her nails back and forth on it.  Scritching is adorable and only became something she enjoyed doing within the past month or so, evidence that she has been slowly gaining control over those weird things attached to the ends of her arms.

On that third day, I held a toy out to Rage and shook it as I always do for her, to get her attention and try to get her to engage in some sort of play with the object.  She snatched the toy (a plastic ring with beads on it) and shoved it directly into her mouth, then pulled it carefully away and examined it.  Overnight she gained the ability to purposefully direct her hands to do things AND grab what she wants.  Now I have the option of handing her various items to keep her entertained.  It's thrilling, like unlocking a new level in a video game.  Level UP, motherfuckers!  She developed a particular fondness for an empty bag of Hot Cheetos, and spent almost two hours one afternoon picking it up and shaking it, scritching it, and trying to fit the whole thing in her mouth (yes, I know babies aren't supposed to play with plastic bags, but I was sitting right fucking there and the amount of time it kept her amused was well worth the new Bad Mommy Award in my trophy case). It makes me so happy to see her finally gain this skill, because while I don't compare her to full term babies, or even other micro-preemies, it's nice to know that she is developing new abilities sequentially.  Proud mommy moment! *tear*

The next thing she did only somewhat surprised me.  I began to suspect that I was hearing her call for me during those three long days and nights of her meltdown, when I'd disappear from view and she'd call out in a plaintive come-hither voice something that had two syllables repeating.  At first it varied between sounds- neenee, nana, and yeeyee were most common.  Of course I have been trying to get her to say mama since the day she came home, and I spend several minutes every day with my face close to hers repeating it.  Fuck you, don't judge my narcissism.  You can imagine my pleasure at finally hearing her attempting to form the correct sounds.  Granted, it always seems to be when she's demanding that I do something for her, or when she's so exhausted that the only thing she can think to do is try to shout the world down, but I'll take what I can get.  She knows who I am and wants me to comfort her, and those are good things, so if I only get to hear her say it when she's whining, I'll take it for now.  I was also impressed by her sudden use of consonants in her babbling and hollering.  Usually she uses only vowel sounds and the soft 'h' sound.  She's spent the last few days refining her technique and trying to get it right, and the 'n' sound can now be heard fairly often, along with the 'p' sound.  Most of the time I am Yeeyee, not technically accurate but it's always clear to me what she's saying.  She's been nailing the perfect word mama more and more frequently in the past day or two, and additionally has started asking for Daddy by name (perfectly pronounced, fucking naturally), as well.

Since beginning to say mama and daddy, Rage Baby likes to mix things up and seems bent on causing us trouble.  When it's Stitchfrank's turn to bounce her and kiss her butt, she'll repeatedly look around to find me and stare at me, and then she'll begin to conversationally say "Yeeyee?"  Now that she can use her hands for some of their intended purposes, she'll reach toward me and indicate her desire to hold me (I'm sure that's how she sees it).  Eventually both Stitchfrank and I will be overwhelmed with how cute and amazing this is and he'll pass her to me.  She'll watch him walk away with a look on her face that can best be described as crestfallen.  I'll entertain her with my faces and conversation for a moment or two before she starts trying to find him, and within five minutes she's calling out for Daddy and reaching for him whenever he gets too near. I think perhaps her intentions are that we challenge each other to a duel to the death, or perhaps joust for her amusement, but I can't be certain.  Stitchfrank informed me that when I was at work yesterday, she spent the entire morning freaking out and shouting for me.  Naturally, when I arrived to sweep her into my arms she wanted no part of me and only Daddy would make her happy.  Sadistic, fickle child.

Today we had Rage lying on the bed having naked time, which is her super favorite, and she was starting to get fussy.  I was busy playing Slingo on my phone and refusing to acknowledge her repeated demands to be picked up, when suddenly she let out a particularly loud and ferocious bellow and proceeded to effortlessly roll onto her stomach.  She's rolled over exactly twice before, each incident weeks apart and apparently isolated.  My dad saw her do it the first time, and I was there for the second time.  Each roll made her instantly irate, because she had no ability to command her arms to get the fuck out of the way so she could flop around.  She's always abhorred tummy time, so much so that I haven't forced her to do it, especially in light of the protruding button.  I can't imagine that putting all of your weight on something surgically implanted would feel at all pleasant.  The few times I did force her to lay on her stomach, she would just lay there and bitch, rubbing her face on the floor miserably, until someone came and rescued her.  It was pitiful, really.  That was exactly what she did after she rolled over the first two times.  The second time she did it, she looked up at me and gave me a look that said, "Oh, great.  Now what the fuck do I do?"

Today, though, Rage flipped onto her stomach like she'd been doing it for months, then swiftly extricated her arms from underneath her.  Stitchface grabbed the phone to take a video, and we watched in amazement as she began to try to use her arms to push herself up on her knees.  For a minute, she was doing really well at it.  It was so funny to see an 11 pound baby attempting to push up like a larger and more coordinated child. Then she seemed to realize that we were staring at her and that she is supposed to be the helpless child who can do nothing but be held, so she carefully lowered herself back to the mattress and began to fuss.  She rolled over a few more times throughout the day, each time acting like it was no big deal and she'd been doing it all along.

So as you can see, it's been an eventful week for little Rage Baby.  All of these new skills must be tiring, because by the time 5 PM rolled around, she was shot.  She had become the schizophrenic baby, one moment trying to babble at me and giggle, the next making so much of a fuss we were worried that someone would think we were beating her.  I tried to keep her amused a bit longer, since bedtime is at 7, hoping that we could get close enough and then she'd be ready to settle down.  However, it was not much past 5:30 when she was inconsolable, and she was rubbing her eyes so hard that the skin around them was red and puffy.  Her demeanor was not in the least helped by what I think might be the imminent appearance of her first tooth.  Her drooling was out of control the whole day and she couldn't keep her fingers out of her mouth (moreso than usual).  I swear I saw a clearly raised bump in her bottom gum line, but I've been convinced of that for months and it has yet to materialize.

Anyhoot, I went ahead and got her ready for bed and popped her in her sleep swing, that most hated and poorly designed contraption sent from hell to punish me for prior misdeeds.  With Rage Baby, the swing is a hit-or-miss proposition.  Sometimes when I put her in it, she hugs her owl and gets snuggled deeply in the seat before peacefully drifting off to sleep.  Occasionally when it's time for her feeding and she has to be in the swing, she won't sleep but will just sit contently and watch the world go by.  More often than not, though, putting her in the swing results in an immediate squawk of indignant anger.  This is the initial blast, and Stitchfrank and I both hold our breaths as we wait to discover whether there will be more vitriol to follow.  If we are lucky, she will fuss for a minute or two at most before falling asleep.

Tonight initially seemed to be a lucky night, comprised of a mere ten minutes of intermittent fussing before she packed it up. We began to relax.  I laid on the bed to play a game of slingo and maybe browse some porn videos, and Stitchfrank sat in front of the computer to "read" his "graphic novels".  Twenty minutes of blissful silence went by before I heard the telltale creaking of the swing.  I ignored it to see if she would settle back down to sleep, but restless tossing and turning soon became grunts and hoots to let us know she was awake and come get her please.  When I failed to respond to those either, she began calling for Yeeyee and Daddy, which quickly degenerated into sniveling.  Suckered and resigned, I turned the swing off and got Rage Baby back up for another round at slightly after 6 PM.

Twenty minutes of sleep twice in a day is not nearly enough for a baby of her age and intensity level, so of course after waking up from her non-restorative catnap she is usually still tired and grumpy.  She gave us about four minutes of contented chatter from the head of the bed before summoning us to cater to her whims.  I sat her on my lap while we played a game of slingo on Facebook, and then handed her to Stitchfrank so he could do her favorite knee-jumping hold.  A few more round of back-and-forth and she was once again an overtired bundle of hatred and exhaustion.  Back into the swing she went, this time without possibility of parole.  Unfortunately, despite the yawns and eye-rubbing that consumed the small amount of her time not devoted to being fussy, sleep didn't really seem to be on her agenda.  She let us know with rapid-fire screams designed to cause maximum irritation and brain fog.

Before you read more, let it be clear that I don't condone allowing any baby, especially a young one, to cry it out.  Just because you're lazy (and I am lazy, I can assure you), you shouldn't force your child to suffer, right?  Abandoning a scared child to a dark and lonely room seems unjust to me.  The fact that my child cries before sleep pains me to no end, but after spending every single day with her since she came home a little over five months ago, I've tried ever method and technique in existence to try to guide Rage Baby peacefully and quietly into slumber.  When she first got home from the hospital, we would set her down in her cradle, carefully adjust the angle she slept at (due to her reflux she was always propped up), swaddle her tightly, offer her a binkie (she used to take one, oh how I miss those days), and wish her sweet dreams.  She'd be asleep in under five minutes without ever uttering a single peep or protest.

Those days tragically came to an end about three weeks after she'd graduated from the NICU, and we've been struggling ever since.  Co-sleeping doesn't work. Rocking, cradling, jostling, walking, patting, singing... none of it works.  The swing and white noise is the combination that we've found works best.  Recently we tried once more to put her to sleep for the night by walking around and cuddling her to sleep.  After five hours, five torturous hours filled with the exact same screaming we are often treated to when we put her to bed in the swing, we gave up and put her in the swing.  Her noises ceased and she was passed out in less than two minutes.  She hadn't even dozed while we rocked her.  Since she seems to somehow enjoy the yelling and fighting she does before sleeping each night, sadistic kid that she is, we simply use the tools that cut the screaming down to the shortest time possible, and again, that's why she sleeps in her swing.  If you don't believe me, you are more than welcome to come to my house and try rocking her to sleep.  I'll make sure to move all the shit out of the way so you don't fall down as you run crying hysterically out the door later that night.

As any person who's ever raised a fussy child knows, there's only so much crying you can listen to before your mental faculties have shrunken down to the single thought: Shut. The. FUCK. Up!  Rational, logical thought simply becomes impossible after a scant ten minutes of that type of noise.  There seriously has to be some kind of chemical or neurological response triggered in the body by a baby's cries, because it can make anyone go insane.  Stitchfrank and I were banging our foreheads on the table and cursing under our breaths as we poured strong drinks to slam, but still she refused to just give up.  After an hour of this madness-inducing clamor, Stitchfrank lost it and picked her up.  She appeared wide awake once again, perky even.  We groaned and grumbled more and reverted to taking turns trying to shush her and/or put her to sleep.  By now it's after 8 PM, more than an hour past the time when she should have gone to sleep.  We've been at it since way too fucking early after going to sleep entirely too drunk and way too fucking late (not that any of that is her fault, but there it is anyhow).  We simply cannot take any more bouncing, cajoling, soothing, anything.  We are, as they say, fucking Done.  With a capital D.

I released Stitchfrank into the wild to have a cigarette and regroup before he steals someone's gun and murders people in a post office, and hold Rage Baby just a minute more, making sure her diaper is dry, her button is clean, and she had her disgusting, stinky, vomit-encrusted owl to snuggle with (she doesn't like it to be out of her sight, and she seems to get pleasure from licking the parts she's thrown up on.  If she's not screaming, I can't complain.).  I kissed her sweet-smelling head (this despite her proclivity for intimacy with an owl clothed only in puke) and put her in the swing.  She protested immediately, naturally, but shortly fell silent. I could still hear the breathing patterns that indicated she was awake and moving, though, so I remained close by.  Moments went by with no fussing and I began to wonder if she was nodding off, when I heard the swing begin to emit a strange creaking noise.

I peeked around the side of the bed to discover that Rage Baby was attempting, for reasons unknown, to roll over in the moving swing.  She was three quarters of the way turned around and scooted so far down in the chair that her legs were kicking vigorously off the edge of it, and her butt was about to fall off the cliff as well.  It was actually quite hysterical, and fortunate that I found her before she launched herself into space for her first attempt at base jumping.  I chastised her thoroughly as I attempted to contain my chuckling, and engaged the use of the safety straps for the first time so she couldn't attempt to wiggle her way to an injury again.  This did not at all meet with her approval, so I was treated to her absolutely delightful and uncanny imitation of a person trying to take a serious shit.  Over and over she groaned and strained loudly in her obsessive quest to roll onto her stomach in her swing.  It felt like some sort of karmic retribution for all the times that she's been uber-needy for no readily apparent reason.  I spied on her from across the room as she vainly tried to escape the bondage placed upon her, and it didn't take her long to realize that resistance was futile.  Within ten minutes she was completely asleep, having grunted and groaned her way to the dream clouds.  I guess maybe I'll have to try tying her up more often. :D

Help, help! I'm being oppressed! See the violence inherent in the system!

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.