Friday, May 20, 2016

It's Not Ok Cupid

As of this week I am - finally - legally divorced, which means I'm able to do lots of things I couldn't for a long time, like officially claim all the closet space, have actual good sex and update my blog. Not that I will be updating my blog about any sex I am or am not having, nor will I ever talk about any details of the divorce other than to advise that if you're going to have a midlife crisis please be the tiniest bit original about it. Put a little thought into it; steal a 747 or syphon funds from a drug cartel, just don't be a cliché. I can't respect that sort of unoriginality and will kick your sorry ass out each and every time. Impress me, won't you? Anyway, as I was going through the divorce process it occurred to me that it might not be the best idea in the world to publicly document all the stupid shit I do, which is, let's be honest, a lot. It's going to take me a while to get both of you devoted readers up to speed, I fear. Let's work backwards and tackle my recent fun and games.
I've already told you about my best friend, known as John Stamos because she was the best roommate ever, but I don't believe I've introduced you to one of my other best friends. We'll call him Rachel because in addition to being an excellent roommate, he is terribly attractive and always has very good hair. If anyone's taking applications for iconic men's haircuts, I'm submitting Rachel's because his is really top drawer. But I digress...Rachel is single and living in DC and has had some considerable success with internet dating, so he suggested I should try it. I suppose I forgot that Monica is the sensible one in most scenarios, not that flighty Rachel!, so I agreed. I'd snooped around on a few years ago and was not impressed, but I figured certainly it's all gotten so much better since that's the way everyone meets people these days, right?
Hold please while I pour myself a drink.
No, it's not any better. It's awful. It's so awful...that it's kind of excellent. I've had my profile up for a week and I can honestly say it's been both the best and worst thing that I've ever done; an internet Janus. I was super careful with my profile - my dear friend E helped me pick out the pictures (nothing ridiculous or at all suggestive) and write my bio ("not interested in a hookup", "looking for someone in town - smart, independent and not crazy") but apparently I inadvertently included a code word for "especially looking for deviant felons". My first messages were harmless and pretty amusing - one from a guy who wrote "your nickname must be Google because you've got all I'm searching for", another one from TotallyToenails asking for a picture of my shoes and three others who inexplicably all incorporated "taco" into their profile names. Then I get this guy
and I was all "oh! Ha! That's hilarious and a bit odd!" In retrospect I should have become Mrs. bassblaster on the spot. Because it was on.
No sir, it's your poly blend sheets that are beautiful.
Are we using dog years? Because if that guy is 46 then I'm 6.

No, Ned Flanders in a SmartCar, urnotmytype.
My favorite thing about our next contestant is how he sort of sidles up the pillow princess point. Like he's working up the courage to address it. He can't even work up enough courage to look directly at the camera. Total sidler.
This one actually made me want to throw my phone at the wall. Lloyd Christmas needs to shut the hell up and stop criticizing.

Then the tide turned marginally. How can you not appreciate this kind of talent?
And this guy and I could be friends - who wouldn't want to be friends with someone who has a holding wiener t-shirt?
But I was only in the eye of the hurricane; the worst was yet to come.
This is one of legion stomach shots I was fortunate to receive. I sent this guy back a picture of my own tummy (let's just be honest, tummy is a better word for me. It's kind of just stomach-ish)  with the note "can you see the C-section scars through the holes in my granny panties?" I should totally include all that in my profile, right?

Speaking of babies. This woman must totally hate her husband if she wants to gift him a 45 year old who's birthed two 9 pound kids
I'm not even bothering to protect this guy's identity. If someone finds me chopped up in 48 individual Mason jars, the police are going to need all the help they can get. He's saying "You're very pretty." But what he's actually saying is "You'll be very pretty on a serving platter, slow roasted with an apple and my dead mother's locket and big toe in your mouth."
this is also not okay. Welding and smoking probably shouldn't go hand in hand. I forgive him though because, woo hoo, 69!
a PSA from Boomsicle on the dangers of smoking whilst welding!
TallPaleNerdy1. He sent me several pictures.
like this one, taken in his grandmother's basement. Where all things beautiful go to watch a tv from 1989 and get molested.
He also sent me a photo, that is, um, intimate. Because I love my readers John Stamos and Rachel I won't post it. There are just some things that you can't un-see. But let me sign off by letting you know that I'm deleting my profile as we speak. And that TallPaleNerdy offered something like this.

Get me to a nunnery.



Thursday, April 24, 2014

I've Let It Go

I've been shitty about writing; my sincere apologies to my devoted readers - both of you. I've had a lot going on, stuff that is simultaneously overwhelming and yet way too boring to talk about (if you doubt this then just get me going on how annoying it is to get a new Herbie Curbie from the City of Atlanta, for starters) while attempting to keep two short people alive and somewhat fed, educated and non-felonious. This is all par for the course, really, except I'm also feverishly grieving my mother which throws a real fucking wrench into things. It makes things tougher, I won't lie. I'm tired. Is everyone else just tired, or is it just me? I've said it before - I'm feeling increasingly rooked by this whole "adulthood" bullshit...I was led to believe it would be more fun than this. I was expecting something that more closely resembled tennis camp, but with more Hendrick's, sunscreen and free will. Not these days. And it doesn't help that I'm completely stupid.

Since I've long known that my idiocy is not indeed an accident, rather a gift that makes others feel better about themselves, I'll let you know that a couple of weeks ago I rear-ended someone with my car. My new car. And because I believe in putting my full effort into things, I really went for it and smacked into someone in a jacked-up Suburban. Which meant his back bumper was aligned directly with my front grill and subsequently crumpled it like a piece of tinfoil, without leaving a scratch anywhere on his vehicle. In my defense, I hit him because my public (that would be AD and the RM) were clamoring for my really excellent musical interpretation of "Let It Go". Just as I was letting them know all about how HERE I'll stand (fling left arm out!), and HERE I'll stay (fling right arm out!), the guy slams on his brakes. I didn't hit him hard enough to deploy the airbag, but since my arms are outspread like Jim Bakker instead of on the steering wheel (see above reference to: fling) my head bounces into the steering wheel. Kind of hard. Not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough, as it turns out, to leave a really nice palm-sized bruise on my head. A bruise that in fact looks just like my steering wheel, right down to the leather stitch marks. Needless to say, when we got out to exchange insurance information I was more than happy to take the blame, turn the Disney volume down and hustle on home. My rental car has been punishment enough. It's a Toyota Avalon, which is really nice but it stinks. Literally. Someone smoked in it, a lot. As in maybe someone sneaks in our driveway every night and breaks in that thing and sucks on Camels (not literally with that reference...lord I hope not) til the sun comes up. Also it has one of those fancy-schmancy push button ignitions which just fucking does me in, especially in my current state. I'm fine remembering how to start the car and all that, I just keep forgetting to turn the damn thing off. I can't tell you how many times I've come home, gone inside and then come out hours later and thought, why how nice that the car just KNOWS I'm ready to leave! I'm told it's supposed to turn off on its own, but like everyone in my house it apparently came without an off button.

Speaking of my children. I fear we're walking AD's innocence to the Lido deck and preparing to toss it flowers and wave bon voyage. Last week she finally figured out the Easter Bunny wasn't real (thanks to some serious basket mis-management on my part) and she also admitted that she Googled the word "fucking". Let me clarify and add insult to serious childhood psychological injury, she Google IMAGED the word "fucking". I found this out one evening when she came running into my room (after sneaking onto the computer without permission I must add), sobbing "remember that woooooord I asked you about! and you! you wouldn't really teeeellllll me what it meant! I LOOKED IT UP! I don't understand! What's all those pointy hurting things! And there's elbows but not really? And the wrinkling and the brown! And a LITTLE LADY WIENER! WHY does anyone DO those things!" Instead of instinctively commiserating (oh I'm kidding - I'm not that grouchy), I explained to her that first of all, the reason we she wasn't allowed on the internet without our supervision is because there are all sorts of untrue, hurtful lady wieners on there that might mislead or scare her, and that I was so sorry I hadn't answered all her questions to her satisfaction. Without question, she's nine years old now and deserves an honest answer to whatever she wants to ask, we will always be forthcoming, sweetheart. Then I told her to go find her dad and talk to him.

The Red Menace, for her part, continues to try on new names and personalities as if she's shopping for a new outfit. Earlier this week she was Berle - that's been with us for a while - and informed me "Berle knows how to snap." She then turned her back to me, pulled her jeans down and put both hands down the back of her underwear and snapped her fingers. Not sure why in the world the snapping involves such proximity to her crack, but it seems to be so. Yesterday however, a new kid came to town. Her name is Burrita and she's not taking any of your shit, not for one second. She came home from school today with a huge scab on her leg and told me "Some kid. He tells me this. He doesn't like my shoes."

Me: "Oh. Well, that's silly. Your shoes are great. We picked those out together, remember that? And oh my goodness, your leg! Are you okay?"
B: "...."
Me: "Were you sad? Because it's okay if you were but you shouldn't be, it's just shoes. And your leg, honey, what happened? "
B: "...."
Me: "So, okay. What? What did you do? And how did you hurt your leg?"
B: "I put that little man in the dirt. The dirt. That's what I did."


I don't know where to go with that. I realize at this point that this is, I think, my first blog post without any pictures. Since I don't have any of my steering wheel head, or Burrita (and Google image "fucking" for yourselves, you lazy bastards, I'm not enabling you camel-suckers), here's a nice one of Cslos and me from a '70's party. Let's take a time out from whatever is troubling us, throw on some polyester, and have a Mai Tai with your favorite person, how about it?
Nice posture, among other things. Complain about it and risk the wrath of Burrita. And all the beloved and missed residents of 113 E Spring and 1010 Queen - you know who you are


Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Dispatches From The Front

Not to dwell on the negative (which I should probably point out I don't usually do. I'm a bit of an asshole in this forum but normally I actually am a very happy, positive person. Really! I swear on the pile of rainbow-farting baby unicorns I just shived) but we've had us a time over here these past few months, which is why I haven't been writing much. The grandparents have been dropping like flies; I don't know if I mentioned this, but not only are we down a Joanna but JHP's sweet, beloved father passed away as well. Yeah. And in much less serious but still annoying news, the week after Mom's memorial service our ice maker flooded the kitchen and leaked down into the playroom, ruining floors and ceilings with reckless abandon but not before it leaked into the freezer and froze the contents in entirety. I opened up the freezer door and was met with a giant block of ice; everything in there was perfectly preserved in situ as if I'd been tasked to create a Smithsonian exhibit of "how bad mothers saved mediocre food in the two thousands". There should have been a nude wax caveman tableau next to it or something. Our water heater then decided to get in on the fun and rusted out in a really slow, sneaky way that made the biggest mess ever possible in the history of water heaters and did a bunch of damage as well. At first I was really pissed off about it but after I thought about it for a while I had to admit I really admired that strategy. If I was an appliance with neglectful homeowners like us I'd do the same damn thing; now that I finally have a chance at vengeance I'm not going to be all type-A, exploding in the basement with the "I'M BROKEN! MAINTENANT! C'EST URGENT!" I'd hide out in a corner of the laundry room and proceed to quietly ruin as many things as I could. But still be French. So State Farm came on over, took a look around and gave us a check. Thus, we're renovating.

We're only about a fourth of the way into the sausage making, but I'm already thinking that instead of trying to fix this place up we might have been better off tossing a lit match inside and driving away. This shit sucks. And it's not like we're gutting the place and getting all fancy, we're just repairing floors, ceilings and a bathroom that was undamaged by all of this but is so offensively ugly that it simply must be done to keep the neighborhood, and perhaps world, peace. Part of the problem is that we're dealing with a bit of a damaged product in the first place. JHP and I weren't exactly seasoned homeowners when we bought this house - we'd moved from DC where we'd both rented for years and years on account of the fact that you'd have to sell an organ (or play one really well, if you know what I mean..wink wink, nudge nudge) to buy a place there, so needless to say we didn't exactly know what to look for when it came time to own something. Our solution to house problems was to call the landlord and then leave while it got about rubes. The previous owners of our current home - we'll call them the Smiths because that's their name and I am speaking truth to power, children! - saw us coming from a country mile away. That pretty hall mirror? Covering up a giant hole in the plaster. And isn't that bathroom lovely until you turn on the shower and realize the tub was "reglazed" with house paint that bubbled up the minute it got wet. The gas stove in the kitchen had to be lit by hand which made cooking an activity you had a 30% chance of dying from. We caught none of this until we were all moved in. In a way it ended up being good that the Smiths were so half-assed; because they didn't insulate the kitchen floor/basement ceiling when they renovated the playroom, it didn't collapse when the ice machine flooded. No heavy, wet fiberglass insulation = nothing to pull the drywall down. Let's forget for a moment that the lack of insulation also means that it's so cold you can hang meat down there and for once just thank the Smiths for being all Smithy McSmitherson about it.
I have dreamt lo these many years of having a kitchen island in my dining room. In unrelated news I rule at Mastermind
It's been really annoying. At least for me; as usual JHP has been traveling so he's missed most of the fun, and the girls think all of this is just great. AD loves the novelty of having the refrigerator in the hallway and the RM just loves having the renovation guys around. I worry, as always, about her taste because that is one sketchy crew; I don't even know how to describe them, but I probably don't need to because we've all seen "Deliverance". They seem quite nice but a bit rough around the edges. Tooth deficient, one might say. One of them only has part of an arm so it's been an almost uncontrollable compulsion of AD to refer to him as our "non-handy man"; the RM just calls them "the fixers", and she stalks them all. "The fixers have NEVER seen an outfit as princess as the one I have on now, have they? NO! It is true that they have not. I must go show." To their credit they're very patient with her, if not perhaps too indulgent - I caught Lloyd teaching her how to use a ball-peen hammer, and Saturday morning I found her sitting on the front steps with Curtis while he simultaneously chain smoked, ate a hot dog and told her all about Vietnam. These poor men have had the misfortune of their work here falling on the RM's birthday so they've also had to endlessly assure her that yes, she's suuuuch a big girl. "Terry. Let's you listen to me. Today I opened that straw wrap BY. MYSELF. Babies can't do that, only big girls can do that, right? You know this? I couldn't do that when I was three but now I'm four so I'm very big also call me Berle today. I will help you PAINT." I also  heard through a third party that she was trying to get Levon to teach her how to drive the trailer and dip Skoal Wintergreen. 
Because this process isn't irritating enough, we decided that next week we'll flee the scene and take the girls to the one place on earth that has more noise, trans fats and rednecks (and I'm only referring to my immediate family) than our house - Disney World. I've gotten to the point where I am willing to leave all this work unsupervised and risk exposing myself to the possibility of one of the fixers rifling through my stuff as long as I can just get out of here. Hell, if they promise to come in on budget I'll even personally pick out the underwear they can sniff and go ahead and pack up the televisions for theft. I'm actually really excited for Disney World, and not just because we'll be away from this dustbowl - it's one of AD's favorite spots, and there's no question of how the RM will feel about it. Plus Dad and Cslos are joining us, which adds a whole different level of excitement. The RM's never been, at least not out of captivity. The last time we went I was five months pregnant with her and the temperatures were over 100 degrees every day. Heavy sweating was in order, and we even saw one poor girl faint dead away which AD attributed to the fact that "she probably couldn't believe how cute I am." What an idiot - it was totally because of how cute I am. She was pretty damn cute though.

So, do you think you made the right move, leaving your appreciative and supportive gay roommates to move in with a shallow, impulsive necrophiliac? I'm just asking.

The RM has been talking about the trip nonstop, and I'm a bit concerned about how her behavior will be, um, interpreted. Yesterday morning for example I was dressing her for school, and as we're putting on her princess print underwear she tells me "Mom. Mom. Mom. I can't wait to tell Cinderella I'm wearing her panties. She'll be so happy at me that I'm IN her PANTIES!" Let's hope Cinderella speaks Menace. Aside from that I think it's going to be fantastic, if not a little melancholy; this will be our first big family trip without Mom. On the upside, she never did like going to Disney World all that much - Cslos and I were joking about how damn if that woman really would, clearly, do anything to get out of going back.
She will be dearly missed but we're looking forward to making good new memories. I'm just glad I won't be here to somehow stumble upon the memory of Curtis and his eight teeth wearing my bra. I don't judge - just get the tile down already.



Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Ice, Ice, Murray

Thanks to the weather we're housebound yet again. JHP is in Seattle, so I am on my own with the children which just seems terribly irresponsible on someone's part even during the best of times. JHP isn't really any help during inclement winter weather - to the contrary he's a bit of a disaster. He grew up in Houston and went to college in the South as well (Duke. Can you even imagine a more obnoxious combo, a Texan who went to Duke? If he was a Yankees fan the odiousness of it all would be a jailable offense) so he's kind of a moron about snow. The first winter he lived in DC, for example, his car windows iced over so what does he do? Boil a pot of water and take it out to the car. He slipped in the driveway and dumped it all over himself, but not being one to let a clear sign from above deter him from an idiotic pursuit, he boiled another pot and poured it on his windshield. Which promptly exploded. I'm not exactly a pro myself, having grown up in Memphis - during my first DC snowstorm I stole my roommate's golf shoes so I could walk to the Metro without breaking a hip (I'm sure I looked more than a little insane stomping my way down the street in men's size 11 shoes, and I'm equally sure said roommate really appreciated what that did to his spikes) but I'm not an active menace. Anyway, all this is to say that I don't need him here for weather issues as much as I need someone to help contain the threat to the homeland.
I have more words for "my children are driving me to the Betty" than the Eskimos do for ice
The girls do not do well in captivity. Even my eminently responsible AD - who started the morning by making biscuits from scratch and doing all the laundry (no shit. I know, right?) was chafing by noon. Both of them have been especially frustrated that this storm didn't bring fun, fluffy snow - in our neck of the woods it's just sleet. They refused to believe that this wasn't the kind of thing you wanted to play in so I let them go outside and figure it out for themselves; after about 45 seconds of heaving drippy ice at one another they gave up and came back in. I'm hoping that was a small enough window of outside exposure that the neighbors couldn't tell that I was too lazy to find the RM's gloves so I just shoved oven mitts on her, which she demanded AD put away for her the minute she got inside. Poor AD tries so hard to be helpful and sweet and entertain her sister, but it's tough to do when there's only so much you can do with a three-year-old. Especially this one - the RM has been going through a terribly tedious helpless phase lately and has "I can't DOOOO it!" running on a loop. You name it, it is simply outside her skillset. Open a banana? Oh good heavens, no. Fold that piece of paper? The hell with that. Forget anything as sophisticated as Chutes and Ladders with her big sister, never mind the fact that she was the Gary Kasparov of that shit two weeks ago. All the RM wants lately is for people to do things for her, and with a smile on your face too - "be HAPPY at me that you're zipping this pant!". She's the welfare queen of Birchwood Drive, as if I need that.
I should also let you know that the RM recently informed us that she's now "Murray"; we don't know why but since it makes no less sense than anything else she does we're rolling with it. I do know we don't care for Murray. In spite of her evident helplessness, Murray woke me up this morning by trying to stick my hair in a glass of orange juice she somehow poured herself; she then woke her sister when she tried to insert her big toe into her nostril. When I scolded her, she said "oh fucks! Fine, homie." because Murray has a poorly developed potty mouth, and then proceeded to paint the shower floor with an entire tube of toothpaste, flush 2 of AD's biscuits and cut the tops off of my papyrus plant. I know you're probably thinking I should keep a better eye on her but let's be honest, I have obligations - that candy certainly isn't going to crush itself. I could plant her in front of some sort of electronic and let her zone out, but part of me feels that Sofia the First is just a crutch and if the iPad comes out then the terrorists have won. Plus I really should endeavor to mold Murray into a productive child with appropriate creative outlets and skills to help contribute to the family, right? Let's just say Murray is not entirely on board with this philosophy. This was a real-time reaction to "take the Christmas tree ornament and bottle of nail polish out of your panties and clean up your room" this morning.

"I can't DOOOOO it!" Murray has issues. I really should have AD figure out how to deal with that; we should have plenty of time as I just received an email telling us that school is closed again tomorrow. Oh fucks.


Monday, January 27, 2014


It's been a rough couple of months over here. For one thing (if you can use a throwaway term like "for one thing" on something so major) my mother died a few weeks ago. I may or may not write about that once I decide if it actually happened, but I can say it has been terrible and wonderful and all over the place. Losing her has been gutting - although I need to think of a better word than "lost" when it comes to Mom since that makes me feel like if I just pull up the couch cushions I'll find her; I did that yesterday (for unrelated reasons. I'm not a total idiot.) and only came up with a Barbie shoe, a dry marker and the X from the RM's alphabet puzzle. Anyway I think this must be somewhat how it feels to lose a limb because in a lot of ways I have to figure out how to live differently. Learn to do basic things without her here. Mom was sick for a while and we knew full well it would suck when she died, but of course we really only got that in the abstract. Sort of like when you hear "war is hell" and you're all, you bet, sure is, but then you actually go to war and then it's "wait just a second...war IS hell! Get me out of here!" Yes, this is fucking awful! You weren't kidding! On the other side of it, the many kindnesses my family and I have received from friends and even people we barely know has been staggering. I simply don't deserve it so I know it's nothing but a tribute to Mom.

So we were in the red there for a bit when it comes to grandmothers but we're even again. This is because the Red Menace has been shopping around for personalities and has finally settled on grouchy old granny. This child is three going on ninety. AD was such an easy, sunny kid so it's been an adjustment; of course we know all children are different, but I thought my girls would be separated by eye color or sense of humor, not four generations. I half expect her to start reminiscing about WWII rationing, or yelling at me to get off her lawn. The kid gripes about EVERYTHING. And forget about trying to get her to leave the house. It doesn't matter where we are, she'd rather be home. We were at the beach this fall, unpacking after a long drive and looking forward to hitting the sand and all she can say is "it's time to go back home now. I want to go to my house." We'd been there an hour. JHP and I were discussing this and we think we can pinpoint the day her new persona settled in for good. We'd seen glimpses, sure, but I think the day she decided to own it was when we took the girls to Stone Mountain. You can say it was JV of us to go to Stone Mountain in the first place, but you'd only be half right because AD loved it. Loved it. Nerded out about it all and told us all kinds of stats about what kind of mountain it is, how big, etc. On the other end of the spectrum, I give you our younger one
The whole time. And then when we finally gave in to her demands and came home, she tried to eat a pen.

Which is actually kind of good news, because normally that kid won't eat a damn thing; we suspect she survives on photosynthesis and pollution. Food is another area that she's just been a Russian nesting doll of unpleasant about. "No. That, I don't like. All day I don't like that." about everything. Stuff she's never seen or tried before, stuff she loves - you name it, you'll have to hear about how much she doesn't like it, and for how long. She doesn't even like macaroni and cheese. What kid doesn't like macaroni and cheese? I'll tell you: none. Ergo, old lady. I should see if she'll try tomato aspic or jello salad with pineapple rings, that might be right up her alley. AD at this point was eating everything - sushi, Thai, salsa - stuff that the mere mention of will send the RM into a horrified fugue state. You'd cause less offense by serving ribs at a Bar Mitzvah.
There are few things that do not bring this child consternation. We took her to the Children's Museum in Memphis recently, for example, and did she play on the climbing tower or dress up or do an art project or anything normal? No. She went directly to this guy

I don't know who in the hell okayed this for a CHILDREN'S museum. This would not be okay in a Jeffrey Dahmer museum.
and berated him for "doing a very bad job brushing your theeth-es. Very bad!" She worked on him for over 30 minutes and then wanted to split. Just this weekend I took her to the Georgia Aquarium thinking surely she'd enjoy that, but almost immediately she started to bitch about this thing

for having a mean face at her. Then she yelled at the jellyfish to "PUT ON YOUR PANTIES, YOU" but that might have been kind of my fault because I'd seen the underside of a particularly alarming sawfish and may have said something similar. But still.

she has a point

She didn't exactly come away from the experience with a greater appreciation of life's wonders.

Even with her friends, this kid is a grump. We have afternoon carpool with her best friend, a precious little girl named Kate who is just the sweetest, happiest girl you'll ever know. I can't understand how Kate tolerates her because the RM just works her poor ass like you wouldn't believe. A typical conversation goes as follows:

RM: "Let's play I Spy. My turn MY TURN first. I spy something pink."
Me: "No ma'am, let Kate go first. Let's have nice manners."
RM: "Fine. Kate go."

K: "I spy something pink."
RM: "My pants. I win!"
K: "no, that's not it. Another pink."
K: "No, sweetie, it's something else that's pink. In the front seat."
RM: "that front seat there is not pink. My PANTS are pink. MY TURN. Give me your Dora ring."

It's like listening to the Snuggle bear argue with Ellen Corby, if they were both recent immigrants and had yet to fully master sentence structure.

She is exhausting. I guess it's nice to know that the universe always somehow balances out; when God shuts the door on one grandmother, he opens the window on another. Too bad I kind of want to toss this one out. I'm about to go pick her up from school...I'll let you know if she greets my radio selections with a "that's not music, that's just noise!"


Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Holiday Issues

I don't know if it's the abbreviated holiday schedule or what, but I am really off lately. I've been incredibly absent-minded and seem to have almost completely lost my short-term memory - I should probably start smoking a lot of pot because I already have the bad side effects down like a Rastafarian surfer. Just today for example I couldn't remember where I'd left my iPad until I went to mail the water bill, and there it was in the mailbox. Sure. Anyway a lot of it, I think, comes from the fact that I'm just not a very good adult and nothing hammers that point home like the holidays. I LOVE the holidays - make no mistake; normally you won't find me in a better mood than during that Halloween-Christmas window. It's just that I realize now that I'm much better at doing all that stuff as a kid than I am as a parent. I can KILL it at trick-or-treating, for example, but trying to organize a fancy Halloween for my kids makes me feel as if I'm under siege. Fortunately they've made the costume part pretty easy on me which is something I can almost never say about them. AD always wants to be some version of a cat - a cat witch, a cat devil, a cat ghost, etc. - and the Red Menace has wanted to be the same thing for the past two years in a row which works because she's grown not one bit since last year so the costume still fits fine. The costume of choice is a pink octopus which was terribly cute last year but a source of a good bit of stress for me this year as she told everyone "I have eight testicles. EIGHT of them. And I will SPANK you with them all." 95% of the time she said this she was out of costume, so it was more alarming than humorous. We got some seriously panicky looks at the grocery store, especially because she has as of late begun to address me as either "Friend" or "Cedric". Lots of "Cedric! CEDRIC. Buy me those Little Bites there or I will spank you with my testicles! ALL EIGHT TESTICLES WILL BE SPANKING YOU HERE. Little Bites!"
Octopi love pizza. It's very good for their testicles.
I've gotten a bit lucky with the candy part too - our house is off the main drag of the neighborhood that's super-popular with trick-or-treaters, so I can usually get away with leaving the porch light on and putting a salad bowl filled with candy on the steps. One of the biggest adjustments about moving here was how this absentee Halloween landlord approach is actually acceptable; try that in DC and someone would take all the candy and drop a deuce in the bowl, at the very least. Of course, we did live in a part of town where 18 year olds would trick-or-treat at 11pm and ask you for cigarettes instead of candy, but still, it's been a big leap of faith.
Thanksgiving is usually pretty easy, but that's been tricky of late too; I think that started two years ago when we were at my parents' in Memphis. We were eating breakfast when my dad said "look at me and smile". I did, or tried to, anyway, and he says "kid, you've got Bell's Palsy." Half of my face had become almost entirely paralyzed, literally overnight. It wasn't painful or anything (and it certainly did wonders for my Sylvester Stallone impersonation) but one of the main symptoms is that you lose your sense of taste - something I didn't fully realize until JHP took me out to get sushi. If there's a more unpleasant sensation than eating raw fish without being able to discern any flavor, I don't want to know about it; it verged on the pornographic. Fortunately Bell and her palsy got the hell out of dodge after a few weeks, but Thanksgiving began to look snakebit nonetheless. Mom was on chemo the following year and not able to be around my little germboxes, so we stayed in Atlanta and I had to COOK. Can you believe how selfish that woman is? This year brought more chemo and another depressed immune system...and worst of all, a full week of school vacation. Apparently the trend is for schools to give the kids the whole week instead of just the Wed-Fri deal, which also means the trend is for me to day drink. By Tuesday afternoon I was ready to sell the kids for parts. I got some respite after finding ice skating on tv - both girls were all over it - but that bit me in the ass when the RM started canvassing strangers on their skating abilities. "YOU. Can you ice skate? I'M the best skater. That twisting I can do, in my Cinderella dress." It should be noted she's never, ever been ice skating. She tried to bring me in on it, too: "Friend, you tell that lady I am a great ice skater. Friend! I should be in a CONTEST." Exhausting. As if the endless public humiliation wasn't enough, my cooking didn't turn out that well this year either. I made the mistake of trying to make the potato dish a little healthier, which in retrospect is just flat un-Christian. The girls helped me make all the desserts so they all ended up tasting like hands, which turned out to be fitting since the turkey tasted like feet. I fled to Houston's on Friday and self-medicated with two orders of spinach dip.
With this under my belt I'm getting a little nervous about Christmas. Traditionally that's been the easiest holiday, which I guess is ironic considering how much more prep goes into it, but we've had a few hiccups that lead me to believe I've got to shake my recent incompetence (not to mention incontinence...I got sucked into "Damn You Autocorrect" last week and laughed so hard I tinkled a little bit, but that's neither here nor there) and man up. A few years ago, for example, I was home for Christmas in Memphis and found this
You will be forgiven for not immediately being able to wrap your mind around the fact that this is an entire fingernail in a stick of butter. And a disco metallic one, at that; Donna Summer left the cake out in the rain, and someone left a nail in the butter. After a very confusing week we finally figured out that my parents' housekeeper was the culprit, in spite of the smart money being on Dad. That cast a weird pall over the holiday for me. I kind of felt like I was being filmed. Of course, Christmas is more about children - those damned children! - so recent years have been more focused on the girls. Specifically, scaring them as best as I could. AD has never really had a Santa issue, but imagine how thrilled we were to discover the RM certainly did. We got this
and the following year brought this bit of holiday joy
This year's photo session began with great promise, too. Here she is catching a glimpse of her tormentor
but out of nowhere, something went terribly, terribly awry because then this happened
which makes me think this might be a really shitty Christmas. In an effort to counterbalance this, I've gone a bit cliché and had AD's Elf on the Shelf do some really awful things. Nothing cute and relatively harmless like spilling food on the counter, I'm aiming for inducing night terrors; so far he's stolen both her bike and her allowance money, and drew a bloody knife and REDRUM on her dresser mirror.

If I'm going to screw up the holiday season for my children I should at least do it with a sense of purpose rather out of plain old stupidity. Now I've got to go fetch my car keys out of the silverware drawer and go pick them up from school.