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.
Showing posts with label rambling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rambling. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, March 23, 2012
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!
******
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.
******
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.
******
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.
******
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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