Super Moons, rainbow umbrellas and ...Deborah

Saturday was my son Drew’s  3^rd  birthday party. Both my kids have a cold, and Saturday was a culmination of way too many stimulating factors. I should have foreseen that this was going to go 120 mph right into a brick wall, but I’m a Mom. I’m at the forefront in the field of Personal Denial and Facades. I have a PHD in Fakery.

This party, while not a disaster, has definitely given me cause to reevaluate future gatherings with my family amongst non-family members that may judge me.

Lets look at the dynamic of this party, shall we??

My dad was in the back yard getting shit faced. I guess the130 calories he consumed prior to 4pm didn’t seem to be a match for 4 Budweisers in 1 hour. I overheard him tirade on subjects like the wind (yes- really- the wind REALLY angers my dad), Obama’s stance on Mexico’s border, super small salt shakers, and “Oriental” power tools. Yeah. This doesn’t exactly bode well for my party guests. Like deers in headlights, they were all frozen. Scared to move or say anything that might spark another angry diatribe from the cranky man in Tevas.

My mom, who is humorously and eternally naïve about SO many things, became visually upset when she learned that the “gays stole her rainbow”.

“What? The rainbow? Are you kidding? It’s THE RAINBOW. I can’t use it without someone thinking I’m a gay?”

“It’s not A gay, Mom. It’s just gay. And I’m not sure that you personally need to worry about this issue. I don’t think that people will automatically make that jump with you.”

“I’m a little upset by this. I feel like the gays stole my rainbow. I really like my rainbow patio umbrella. Do I need to get rid of it??? Now all the neighbors will think we’re gay or something.”

“Again, Mom, I don’t think your rainbow umbrella will send the message to your neighborhood of 23 years that you’re gay…living with your husband. Keep your rainbow umbrella. “

This conversation went on for a painful amount of time before I excused myself to make myself a cocktail.

Then there is my loud Polish husband. I love him dearly, but his drunk antics really freak me out sometimes. He kept pulling his shirt away from his stomach and covering Sam and Drews head. They don't care for this...at all. Then he started with me. I really hate that. It’s like one of my biggest pet peeves with him. I said “Hey. Just please. Stop” He didn’t hear my quiet rage. He does it again making weird chomping sounds as if his belly and shirt are eating me. “AAAAHH! Stop it! DICK!!” Completely ignoring me, he does it again. This time it’s not to me. It’s to a neighbor girl. She is 12 and she. is. mortified. She probably touched his bellybutton hair and is permanently scarred. The drunk crazy neighbor is now molesting her with his large belly and stretched- out shirt. Yeah. He was THAT guy.

My son Drew isn’t much for crowds. He retreated, for most of the party, underneath a table where he befriended an earwig and some lint. He was fairly quiet. For this I was thankful.

Moving on to my daughter, Sam- This last weekend was the Super Moon. –Look it up-. I didn’t know this till today, but now it all makes too much sense. My daughter, Sam, is INCREDIBLY affected by atmospheric changes and meteorological phenomena. I’ve made this observation over the last 6 months with things like full moons, changes in barometric pressure, and eclipses. In short, it makes her temporarily insane. She’s like a 4 yr old on an elephant’s dose of hormone replacement therapy. Her mood swings give me whiplash and usually end up making ME cry in frustration. So my normally bubbly and kind kid was off her game in a big way. After alienating all the children at the party, for one reason or another, she quietly leaves the crowd. She then suddenly appears with a very scary mannequin head she has named Deborah.

---Let me interrupt myself long enough to explain that I’m using a newly acquired mannequin head to demo an instructional protocol for esthetics. I keep my new friend in a “work suitcase.” –

She’s cradling Deb in her arms and then starts singing “…we’re up all night to get lucky..”. Then she starts swinging her hips around and adds some odd pelvic thrust. The whole party shuts up. Their stunned silence assures me that this is every bit as creepy as it seems.

 Before I can say anything, my drunk husband yells, VERY loudly, “SAM!!! PUT DEBORAH AWAY!!! SHE BELONGS IN THE SUITCASE!!!”

Still silence.

Then Sam SCREAMS, “BUT I LOVE DEBORAH AND SHE LOVES ME!!!”

That’s when my son, Drew, goes right up to Deb, in Sam’s arms, and plants one on her cold latex lips. Apparently this violated some law about mannequin head possession, and Sam lost her shit. I could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes as I gently approach Sam and the head. Trying to coax Deborah out of those arms was an exercise in futility. She was not giving up that head. So I gave up. I told Sam that Deb could chill with her for a while, before I had to put her back in the suitcase. Then Sam cried and thanked me for my generosity. She really loves Deb. 

Are you getting all this? My party was a thinly veiled train wreck. If I really cared about what people thought of my family and all their dysfunction I would have likely cried after everyone left. I didn’t, though. I drank most of a bottle of wine. It seems my family has a lot of comedic potential if not blackmailing opportunities for the future.

Plus, as I write this, I am growing quite proud of how imperfectly perfect my odd family is; earwigs, mannequin heads and all.

WOOHOO for sanity!!!

So… hey.

I haven’t written in a while so I guess I may need this emotional colonic. I find that when I get lonely or depressed I need the diuretic. Maybe this means that I’m more emotionally healthy?? I’ll go on a limb and say that is probably not the case.

I think it may only reflect that I have been too busy to worry about my emotional state. This is perplexing, because, even as I write this, I seem to be more preoccupied with the temperature of my pool, and if the underwear I just bought was yet another ill fitting undergarment that I will undoubtedly wear for another year despite glaring inadequacies. 

I guess my mental health is okay. Not great, but I’m not going to wake up at 2:30 and compose a hand written DNR order. I did that once. And then I designed a portable computer desk that I later saw in SkyMall. I was pissed, but I digress.

I will, in part to my wonderful cousin’s encouragement, pledge to write more. It feels good to share my ravings with an empty page.

No more living wills or medical directives. I will purge for my sanity.

Namaste.

I wrote this three years ago about my brother. I got a call today, and well... It's been a shitty day.

This poem is dedicated to Tom- The only man in my life that I allow to 

break my heart, over and over again.

Here we go again

That’s what I say as I hang up with you

How long will this one last

What else will you promise to do

You said you’d remove people from your life like Megan

She’s gone today

But I know she’ll be back again

With her always comes the pipe and the pills

The disappearing act

The battle of the wills

I hate her. I hate all that she’s done to you

She’s installed a darkness.

Confirmed you an addict through and through.

I know there was no gun to your head.

You know other addicts,

and how their life is led.

You’ve seen first hand all the faces you’ve totally let down

The wrinkles in her forehead, and now a permanent frown

I’m sad to say

I’m starting to hate you too

How different my life would have been,

if there had been no You.

How do keep faith in someone who always proves you wrong?

How many times should I believe your story?

Your list of excuses is wide and long.

So tonight I’ll go to bed and promise to clearly assess

the fakery that I keep up, trying to hide my emotional mess.

Desperate to be honest, when faced with questions about you,

I’ll someday express feelings that are harsh, bold and true.

“He’s an addict, and he does what addicts do.

He doesn’t care about me, and probably cares less about you.”

“Unless you’re a pipe, or a pill, or a needle that will take him away

Don’t have expectations.

Who knows who he’ll be today.”

“He’ll let you down and make you cry.

Feeling like a fool, because you asked him to try.”

“No.

I don’t know where he’s at, who he’s with, or what they do.

Someday I’ll know. Someday I’ll care.

But not today.

And, “No”, I’ll say, when they ask me to be true.

“No.

“I don’t know YOU.”

Preschool Line Vigilante

I learn new things all the time. I wasn’t born this goddamn brilliant, you know. I think it’s important to be humble, and accept that everyday offers something new to learn. Here are some things I’ve learned recently. Get ready to receive this gift of my brain.

1. When someone on a cell phone walks into the room and sees you (or you walk into their room), and the next thing they say is “Uh..yeah…so…… anyway…” Rest assured. They WERE talking about you. They were likely saying how annoying and fat you are.
2. No matter how old I get, the word “pubes” always makes me laugh.
3. Few things are as frightening and vicious as the line at preschool pickup. New moms, you have been forewarned.
4. I just realized that I’m probably not ever going to be super famous, and this makes me drink more wine.
5. When you’re at home doing Mom stuff, and, all of the sudden, you can’t hear your kids, something very bad is happening. The lack of noise is like a silent alarm that these harbingers of destruction have just completed their most recent project. Within seconds, you are going to have a Chernobyl –caliber meltdown. Locate booze immediately. 
6. The Magic Eraser is not magical…at all.
7. The scary bug in the corner of the laundry room is plotting… I’m not sure what he’s plotting, but it’s clear it will be epically diabolical. It played dead until I was inches away, then it lunged at me and laughed maniacally. It's now in a new corner. Avoidance is key when it comes to all insects.
8. I am an Oxy-Clean junkie. If it says Oxy-Clean anywhere on it’s label, I will purchase it. No questions asked.
9. Uggs are just expensive lazy shoes. They’re just an incremental step from leaving your house in a robe and slippers. Uggs say “I’m a recluse who just emerged from my carpeted cave and have no idea what the weather is like out there, and what footwear would be most appropriate, so I’m just going to go with these snow boots, and hope that it’s not snowing.”

10.    I’m reading a book about an Iraq war veteran who is now a vigilante against the drug war. I just know I would be an AMAZING vigilante. If you need some covert ops stuff done, I’m pretty sure I am the woman to call. Trust me. I wear Uggs.

11. I'm not smart enough to figure out how to cut/paste/link/import/ bedazzle from Word, so my spacing has gone to shit.
12. I am smart enough...It's probably laziness. Yes. Laziness. I wear Uggs. I only clean my bathroom mirror like once a month. I'm lazy.
 

PB & Js for Dinner

I’ve come to a startling realization in the last week. I can’t cook. No really- I can’t cook for shit. I can make toast, providing the toaster isn’t having a greedy day. I can make a pb& j. I can also make a quesadilla. I had to add that last one because it sounds somewhat exotic, and therefore impressive. Oh, and I can cook and make a baby, but I’m pretty sure that one falls into a different discussion.

Long, long ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and my knockoff Guess jeans were totally radical, I took a Home Ec. Class. (Read- I was REQUIRED to take this public humiliation.)  “Hmmm”, I thought. “This is strange. Why are we learning about a stove? Everyone knows the “beep beep’ noise of a microwave is FAR superior to the “click click” of the stove knob. Then I learned that Red Baron made a frozen pizza that you put in a stove. That changed my attention span…a little. That’s when I learned about pre-heating… and the temperature at which plastic melts. (YAY!!! Science AND Home Ec!) Well, I managed to make it to week 2 of Home Ec when they introduced ---You know I’m going to interrupt myself for a sec-  Shouldn’t this class be called Home Maintenance, not Home Economics? Where is the industry within someone’s own home? Where is the retail shop? But I digress-----  Anyway… I burnt my cake. I was the only one who burnt my cake. Complete humiliation. I could crack an egg better than Erin Madison, but Erin’s cake didn’t look like hammered dog shit. Embarrassment was causing my neck to burn, and my Hypercolor shirt to change to purple. I would have hidden under a desk but most of them had these strange sewing contraptions on them and I would have poked my eye out or something. I just stood there next to my non-rising burnt craptacular cake. Mrs. Lawson took pity on me, and made a comment about how my cake might have been “perfect” if not for my extended bathroom break. That didn’t stop her from trying to torture me, weeks later, with the sewing portion of the semester. The term “creative and imaginative” always seemed to follow me outside of Art class, but never garnered me anything more than a worried and confused smile from teachers.  

There is a point to my story- I had absolutely no talent to cook at this age or at my current one. I once heard a man say that “the woman who can truly feed your appetite for food, sex and laughter is the one”. That’s somehow stayed with me. I know that in order for my husband to forget what a goddamn tragedy I am in the kitchen, I need to be a sexual dynamo, and put him into hysterics. I've also learned that, unfortunately, these two can collide at the same moment. I won’t go into detail. 

So here I am with two skinny kids and a hungry husband. I find myself surrounded by women who seem to have this drive (and talent) to make food.-to literally go into a kitchen, pull stuff out of the cold box thing, and put stuff in pans. Magically this turns into food. Someday I will be driven to learn the magic. I will probably have to take a class… or classes. I will probably have to make a cake. I just hope that I don’t have to sit next to Erin Madison again.

Frankenbitch

"Just don't look at it".
"Okay, but I already saw it. It's burned into my retinas."
"ha ha ha. No, but seriously... your rash looks worse. Just breathe and relax."
"I'm trying to relax. I'm in a doctors office waiting for the doc to come in and take a needle full of toxin and inject it into my face. Pretty sure this is as relaxed as you're going to get out of me."

Then the doc walks in and gives me the speal about possible side effects, good and bad. I know all of this stuff. I've done all my research. I could've probably schooled on him on some stuff. Instead of listening, I’m tuning him out, trying to find my happy place. My happy place is very far away. Instead my glazed over face is hiding an intense disgust for myself. Why am I here? I'm a Chandler housewife, not a Scottsdale Frankenbitch.

It's a slippery slope, vanity. First you're getting a chemical peel, next thing you know, and you’re a card-carrying member of your plastic surgeons "beauty club". Oh my dear God. I have hit terminal velocity. No turning back. I am the superficial monster I have always made fun of. Mother Nature is watching, and she is PISSED. I have made a mockery of her privileged aging process. She is now going to strike me with cancer or AIDS or Spontaneous Human Combustion. I am going to die because of my vanity. Vanity is one of the 7 DEADLY sins for a reason.. I am beyond disa......

"I'm done. Wasn't so bad was it?"
"Ummmm. NO! That was... painless! Wow!"
"The results won't be evident for about a week, and will probably last 10-12 weeks."

"Awesome!! See you in March!!"


Don't judge me. Unless you think I look good...then resume judgment. The good kind.  :)

My List (s)

In this time of lists, I have compiled a list of my own. I have both an awesome list and a not awesome list.

 Consider this a public service announcement. Merry Christmas.

PS-  I have no idea WTF is going on with this spacing.... I am too damn lazy to fix it. Sorry.

   The AWESOME

      The uninvited slutty drunk at the party.

 This is a goddamn goldmine. Pure entertainment. They come in all shapes and sizes.            All of them awesome. I want to see more of them.

The crazy lights house

I’m sure many will disagree, but anyone who spends that much time and money to make their house look like a Vegas marquee…well they’re probably pretty damn awesome…..or dumb. I’ll take awesome.

The food… and the alcohol

I’m not going to lie. The food is always amazing this time of year, but all the holiday cocktails are pretty amazing too. Eggnog anyone? Brownies, apple pie, peppermint ice cream, pumpkin pie, brownies. Sweet decadent delightful Christmas.  I may end up 12 pounds heavier on New Years Day, but it was SO much delicious fun. Besides, January is all about the gym...and anorexia.

Those terrible sweaters

I’m not talking about those parties where you purposely wear them. I’m talking about that random sighting- that old guy at the gas station wearing the one with puffy snowflakes and a flying reindeer on it. Happy happy sweater. These always make me smile.

My kids’ smiles

It’s Christmas and its fun! Yup. That super happy “my face might actually crack and the smile will continue off my face” smile. It doesn’t get any better than that.

The opposite of awesome

The word “naughty”

I realize that, again, I may be in the minority here, but I find that word to be completely lame. It’s what British nannies and old perverts say. If we all band together as a united front, I’m sure Webster will remove it. The movement begins now!!

That awful Empire lady.

You know. That woman with the giant mouth hawking carpet. God awful all year round and in December she decides to grace us with her angelic voice as she tries to belt out a line from a Christmas carol. Stop. Just Stop.

The “Christmas doesn’t have enough Jesus” people.

The SUPER Christians that get back on their old soap boxes that squawk about how we’ve all lost our connection to the meaning of the season. Shut up. You have a national holiday for the birth of your lord, (that more than half the world celebrates as well), and you think that maybe we forgot? REALLY? I can count 4 nativity scenes on my street alone. We all know about Jesus. He was a standup guy. We haven’t forgotten about him or his birthday.

The Amnesty International/ Humane Society commercials.

I fucking HATE these commercials. They seem to be a LOT more prevalent during the holidays. Here I am trying to have a good time, drink, be jolly and forget about Jesus and you shove me with these damn depressing images. NOT enough that this shit actually exists, but now you have to give me a play by play set to Sarah McLouglin music? You suck. My eyes are now imploding with tears and I want to hang myself from my stocking hook. Way to kill the mood, fuckers.

The cop waiting outside in the bar parking lot

I’m not sure if entrapment is a legal reality, but this would be it’s definition. In the state of Arizona, where Benedryl can get you a ticket, there are millions upon gadjillions of tickets written and arrests made in the holiday season. When this cop gets back to the station and compares his arrest log to his peers, these bar parking lot ones should only be worth half the points. Where’s the sport in that? Did you even try to use your cop skills? Fish in a barrel.

The mall parking lot car stalker.

In a time of peace, I want to get out of my car, open your car door and punch you for 7 consecutive minutes. If you really think it’s okay to hold up a half a mile of cars waiting for that parking spot, when the mom with 4 kids hasn’t even GOT to her car… You need to be placed in a town center then drawn and quartered. I decided.

I'm sure you quickly noticed that my awesome list is shorter than my not awesome list. This isn’t because I’m an angry, negative person. I’m actually a very nice person…most days. I’ll chalk the imbalance up to obvious suppression. I’m a stay at home mother of a 3 and 1 year old.