I love the library.
I mean, I loooooooooove the library.
I love the stories, and the smell, and the visions I have of curling up on the sofa and spending some quality time with myself, sipping hot chocolate and cuddling with my Snuggie.
Except my "quality time" is spent with two kids yelling and two dogs shoving their noses up my crotch. And I don't own a Snuggie. And it's hot as shit right now.
The other day, I got a call that five of the ten books I have on hold were available. Yes, five. I'm aiming high.
This was the conversation between me and my friendly library employee:
FLE: Mrs. Huttner?
M: Is my mother-in-law here?
M: Never mind. Who's this?
FLE: This is the Orange Public Library. We're calling because the books you had on hold are available fo pickup.
M: Sweet! Which ones are they?
FLE: Let's see...Duma Key, Odd Hours, The Lovely Bones...ummm...Corpse and uh, Dead Men Do Tell Tales.
M: OK, I'll be by today to get them.
FLE: Ummm, Mrs. Huttner? That's an interesting choice of reading material.
M: I know, right? I'm going to have so much fun tonight!
FLE: Uh, ok then. Have a good night.
The Orange Public Library thinks I'm a serial killer.
I love the library.
This is what I found getting in the shower the other day.
Maybe I'll start sleeping with a knife under my pillow.
You know...just in case.
Most of the time, I'm laughing.
Most of the time, I'm strong.
Most of the time, I'm capable.
Most of the time, I'm sane.
Most of the time, I'm shiny and clever.
But sometimes...sometimes...I'm just me. The real me.
Sometimes I get sick of the show.
Sometimes the sadness takes over.
Sometimes I wish I was as shiny inside as I am outside.
Silly? Maybe. I'm not crying for help, or being dramatic...just honest.
Sometimes I need help.
I value control, probably more than I should. When I feel it slipping through my fingers, I panic.
But when you see me next, I won't be. I'll be clever and strong and shiny once again. Because it's just so much easier to pretend that everything's going to be okay than to face the reality that it might not be.
The show must go on, no?
The other day, I took The Dictator and The Hormone King to Red Robin for dinner with my dear friend (Goob's mom) and her son (Goob). Goob's mom was able to hook me up with free kids' meal coupons...with Hubs planning some sort of strategic warfare on the opposing baseball team at Lamppost Pizza, I figured, what the hell? All I'd have to pay for was myself. Sweet!
The Dictator was in fine form that night. He was singing. He was sliding. He was yelling. He was touching. He was dancing. He was leaning. He was picking his nose...and eating it.
He was doing this all IN THE BOOTH AT RED ROBIN.
I threatened. Icounted. I gave The Look of Death. None of it was working.
Finally I realized I was going to have to get my stupid fat ass out of the booth, drag his little whiny ass outside and beat the hell out of him.
I hate it when they call my bluff.
I rolled out of the booth, grabbed his wrist and started walking...all with him yelling, "I don't want to go outside! Are you going to smack me? Are you going to smack me?"
So, I'm dragging him by his wrist. He's whining and I'm fuming. I'm plotting in my head the consequences I'm going to dole out on this insolent little creature. Talking? Spanking? Squeezing? Pinching? There are so many options.
As I'm perusing my mental rolodex of punishments, a sweet Red Robin employee jogs ahead of me to open the door for me.
Now, this is normal procedure. But in this particular instance, all I could think was, "Huh. He just opened the door for me to go beat my son. That was awfully considerate of him."
Kindness, kids. I'm all about kindness.
I was on the computer tonight when The Hormone King came up to me and boldly stated:
"Hey mom, smell my face."
I did, believe it or not. It reeked of Right Guard Extreme.
The village idiot put deodorant on his face. Why, I asked him?
He amuses me like no other.
The Hormone King is playing football, all four feet and 62 pounds of him.
It should be interesting, if nothing else.
So, we went to his first team meeting on Tuesday and it went a little something like this:
Big hair. Big boobies. Big jewelry. Big makeup. Big wallets.
And me. The boobies, I got covered. Everything else...not so much.
This season is going to KICK ASS.
Do you think they'll have an open bar at the games? Cause I'm gonna need it.
Tonight, The Hormone King and I had a knock down, drag out. About what, you ask?
A zit. A freaking zit.
The little shithead wouldn't let me pick it.
I LOVE to pick. Nothing makes me happier than to spend a good 40 minutes of my life picking somebody. Anybody. On those uber rare occasions when my face is blackhead-free, I chase my husband around the house looking for an imperfection to squeeze. If he's not around, I scrutinize my kids...usually unsuccessfully. When they're hiding in the closet, I gravitate towards the dogs.
Seriously. It's that bad.
The Hormone King is just that...a hormone king. Hormones = oil. Oil = grease. Grease = zits.
*Sidenote: THK has armpit hair. It's very fine and babyish, but it's there and it makes me want to vomit. This puberty thing is kicking my ass.
Anyway, he was getting ready for bed tonight when I noticed he had a great, pointy, juicy blackhead on the side of his face. I immediately sprang into action.
M: You have a zit on the side of your head. Lemme get it.
HK: No. You don't stop when I ask you to.
M: I will, I promise. Come here.
HK: No! I'll do it myself.
M: (getting desperate) If you let me pick it, I'll give you $2.00.
(I swear, you guys, this is what I'm resorting to).
HK: No! Go away!
M: (more desperate) See your nails? They're long. I was going to cut them tonight, but if you let me pick that zit, I'll put it off for three days.
HK: Seriously, mom. You're scary.
M: Dammit! Did you hear me? I said I'll let you grow freaking talons, dude! That's insane! I'm desperate!
HK: (running away) I'll do it! I'll do it! Dad! She's out of her mind!
I chased him, but he got away. I even held his hands behind his head, but turns out you can't pop a freaking zit when you're holding someone else's hands. And it's absolutely gross when your kid licks your arm to force you to let go.
He won this battle, but the war is just beginning. He's 11, for God's sake. The hormones are just starting to do their work on him.
I will be victorious.
It's Mother's Day. It's time to celebrate your mom, to pamper her and indulge her and let her know how much she means to you, and how blessed you are to have been raised by her.
Today sucks big donkey balls.
Hubs called me this morning to tell me that he got laid off. No notice, no warning...just take your check and hit the road. Oh, and we'll be by on Saturday to get the piece of shit work truck that's been monopolizing your driveway for three years.
We're broke with him working. Can you imagine what it's going to be like with no work? Uggs. And to make this super sunshiney day even grander, there are 270 people on the books before him at the union hall. The economy kicks ass.
Pray for me, folks. Or cross your fingers for me. Hell, I don't care what you do. Light some incense, rub a Buddha belly, chant in tongues...just do it. Quickly.
We're dog paddling now...drowning soon.
So I read the Twilight series. I didn't want to, because, hello, I am WAY too cool and mature to read vampire books and buy into the whole "you complete me" bullshit romance genre. I'm married, remember? I know that real life consists of cleaning up piss on the bathroom floor, asking for a courtesy flush and fighting the urge to stab your husband as he snores on the sofa while you're trying to get two crabby kids ready for bed.
But, under much diress and with much prodding, I read it.
Fine. I'm lying. I asked Salley if I could borrow the stupid first book. Actually, I begged.
And OH MY GOD, I loved it. LOOOOOOOVED it.
I don't know why, but it hit some long-dead romantic, vulnerable nerve in my body. All of a sudden, I actually wanted to spend time with my husband. Like, alone. Sans kids. Weird, right?
Unfortunately, there have also been some negative side effects of stepping into the (sigh) Cullen world. For example:
- I'm madly in love with a fictional teenage vampire who was really born in 1901.
- I'm madly in love with the actor who plays said fictional teenage vampire in a movie, but only if he's wearing full vampire attire & makeup.
- I've watched the DVD about 23 times and have a tendency to pause every single frame said actor is in.
- I hate the whiny human teenage girl he's in love with. Bitch.
- I find myself suddenly doodling crap like this all over the place.
- I have totally unrealistic expectations of men now. Instead of hearing things like, "You are my life now", I hear things like "You didn't wash my underwear?" and it PISSES. ME. OFF. Seriously...Edward would die for Bella and I have to promise sexual favors to get the living room vacuumed. How is this fair?
And, on top of all this, I've finished the damn series. What the hell am I going to do now? I have no reason to function. The sun is no longer shining when I get out of bed every day. I've resorted to Googling random shit in my spare time, in hopes of forgetting the Cullens and the love affair we once had.
Twilight has seriously jacked me up.
What am I going to do now? Go back to reality, you say? Nay, good sirs, nay.
Somebody find me a new series to obsess over, pronto. This "real life" shit sucks ass.
Happy Easter, mom. I miss you.
Sometimes, I truly wonder if The Dictator is genetically mine.
Can't tell what he's eating? Here's a bigger picture for you:
DO YOU SEE THOSE? Those horrid, green, foul-smelling farm belongings on my coffee table? Those are snap peas.
And my offspring is eating them. Not sweetened, not cooked, not rolled in powdered sugar and deep fried...raw. He's eating them raw.
Obviously, there was a mix-up in the uterus.
Wishing you a lengthy and painful death,
The Hormone King is a tattletale. A massive, hyper-sensitive, over-reacting, sissyboy tattletale.
In his defense, The Dictator is the master of all instigators, so it's usually justified. But since I can only hear so much whining and complaining before I pack up my shit and get the hell out of Dodge, the new rule is this:
If I don't see blood or bones, deal with it.
Magnificent parenting, I know.
So tonight, this was overheard in my house as I was ignoring my offspring and tending to Facebook:
HK: Moooooom, Owen just said boobies are awesome!
You know what's more expensive than counseling? Bail.
I'm so not cut out for this parenting thing.
The Hormone King wants a cell phone. In fact, he wants a cell phone so bad that he gave all his friends (and a few little 5th grade floozies) my cell phone number so that none of them would know he's the poor trashy boy at the expensive private school with (gasp!) no cell phone.
This means that I get 46 texts a day that look a little something like this:
"do u know who likes u lol? dont tell ne1 i told you, k? g2g lol"
What the hell kind of freaking language is that, anyway? Sorry kiddos, I don't speak textese, and shouldn't you be out playing Barbies or braiding each others' hair? For the love of God, you're in 5th grade, stop trying to whore yourself out to my son.
Despite the fact that he's 10 1/2 years old, and that we've never dropped him off and not come back for him, and that he has never in his life walked anywhere by himself, much less the 3 miles to school...The Hormone King is on a mission to earn his much-needed cell phone by proving himself responsible.
When I got home from a baseball meeting tonight, everyone was in bed and this was the note I found on his dresser:
Can't read it? Here's what it says, verbatim:
"Mom I packed my homework so don't get scared if you can't find my homework. I'm taking responsibility so I can get that phone I really want. P.S. It's only $10!!! Got my assingment book signed, and put my close away and got new close out, and after practice I will pick up poop even if it goes to dark. If I don't pick it up, then ground me. And I picked up my room. Sorry for argueing with you about the phone. P.S.J.R. You are the best mom. Thanks for looking after me!!!" (and a picture of a stick figure with snot coming out of his nose, and a note that says 'snot.')
To clarify, the poop he's speaking of is canine, not human. Although human would make for a much more interesting evening.
Sometimes, all it takes is a misspelled word on wide-ruled paper from The Hormone King to make my day. And if said note just happens to also contain an illustration of snot...well, shit, that just about makes my whole week.
Dear Captain Bad Gift Giver With Really Good Intentions,
So I'm sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner with my family and bonding right now.
I'm sitting at the kitchen table stalking people on Facebook.
Same thing, right?
Anyway, this is what I just heard from the playroom:
HK: Let's play naked football.
D: How do you play?
HK: You have to touch me in my end zone.
*cut to me laughing hysterically*
I really should not be allowed to raise children.
Last night, I was watching The Hormone King as he was getting dressed for bed. I don't do this because I'm a pedo, but rather because if I don't sit on the bed and stare at him threateningly, he'll spend approximately 12 minutes singing, 10 minutes dancing with the towel, 23 minutes watching TV out of the crack in his bedroom and 8 minutes checking himself out in the mirror, all before he even picks up his clothing.
So I was on his bed giving him the "Boy-you'd-better-get-dressed-right-now-or-I-will-beat-you-to-death-and-text-all-those-little-floozies-you-like-and-tell-them-you-still-watch-The Wiggles-on-a-regular-basis" look, when he turned to me and said:
HK: Stop looking at Larry.
M: Larry? Who's Larry?
HK: *giggle, giggle*
HK: *giggle some more*
It took me a minute and then I realized what he was talking about.
Oh, for the love of God.
My son has named his wiener Larry.
Despite what you all may think, I haven't offed myself, or my husband, or anyone else close to me. And my children are still alive and kicking, and even Bad Dog and Good Dog are fed and healthy, and continue on their happy little path of sleeping, shitting and barfing on my rug.
You can take me off friendship suicide watch, because I was just really, really bummed.
But thank you.
Thank you for caring. And questioning. And calling. And understanding. Or not understanding, but at least not calling 911 and having me admitted to a mental institution.
I appreciate it, and I love you all.
And I have more to blog about, I do...but right now, I need to eat my body weight in Smores and pass out in a pool of my own vomit.
You're the best.
I'm just about at the end of my rope.
I'm full of blame.
And most, and worst, of all:
I'm nearly hopeless.
Sometimes, it's just too much. It's just too overwhelming. You don't know what to do, so you just pretend like everything is fine. You deny and deny some more. And then, it all comes crashing down, all your layers of denial, and the brick wall you hit is bigger than you ever imagined it could be.
Sometimes, you just need someone to remind you:
IT'S WORTH IT.
I could use some reminding right now.
So The Dictator's sick. And he's been sick since Saturday, but since I'm, #1. The Mother of the Year, and #2. A big fan of medicating and waiting it out- I didn't take him to the doctor. I figured it was a cold, and after ingesting enough children's Tylenol and Ibuprofen to kill a Velociraptor, he'd be fine.
Until he got bumpy.
Now, I'm no doctor...but I'm pretty sure my son's exterior should be smooth and bump-free. So off to the land of Kaiser fun we went.
We sat in the Land of Sickness and Filth for 30 minutes before we were called in. The Dictator was measured, weighed and temperature-checked, all of which reminded me of a cow going to the slaughter.
Then, the blessed Doctor, Patron Saint of Prescription Medicine, floated into the room. She looked at The Dictator's throat, checked out his bumpiness, and boldly declared:
"He has Scarlett Fever."
What the shit is Scarlett Fever? Isn't that something that existed back in the days of Cholera and the Black Plague? Is it even possible to get it now? And why don't we immunize for it? Because dammit, I may let my kid have a fever for three days, but I stick to that immunization schedule like white on rice.
My mind was reeling with the newly heightened levels of bad parenting I had reached. My son, my beloved Dictator, had something called Scarlett Fever, and it was all my fault. Next thing I knew, he'd be foaming at the mouth and trying to bite our dogs.
Scarlett Fever, it turns out, is just what strep becomes when it gets into your system. So my son had strep, and because he was born to neglectful parents, it spread. Hence, his skin became bumpy, which is when I, being the perceptive parent I am, noticed it.
I'm just saying...if your kid has a fever for three days, and when you finally take him to the doctor, they tell you he has Scarlett Fever...then you might be the best parent on earth.
I'm a little twisted. Everyone knows that.
But what most people don't know is that I'm not the only twisted one in my house.
Today, our God-forsaken laptop was running slower than...well, nothing that I have a good metaphor for, but it was insanely slow. I was getting frustrated and bitter, because hello people, I have Facebooking to do! Let's go! Now! What if I miss a witty comment? I might die!
Anyhow, Hubs just happened to walk by as I was raging.
M: For the love of God! This is ridiculous. It's 5:43, that's like prime Facebook time, and I can't get online. I'm going to miss close, personal revelations with friends I haven't spoken to in 15 years, all because this damn computer is clogged up!
H: Huh. Maybe I should back off the porn.
I'm pretty sure he was kidding.
There you go, kiddos, that was approximately 98% of my Christmas, in some form or another. Either I was watching it, or playing it, or listening to it, or trying to throw it away without anybody noticing, or threatening to kill one and/or all the boys in my house if they didn't turn it down, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TURN THE DAMN ROCK BAND DOWN!
The good news? My kids are learning an appreciation for classics like 'Aqualung' and 'Carry On My Wayward Son'.
The bad news? I suck. But at least Rock Band is nice enough to let me know that I suck.
Now The Hormone King is convinced that he needs a drum set so he can become a rock star and make millions of dollars, snort lines of cocaine off hookers' asses and end up on Celebrity Rehab at the age of 14.
Curse you, Wii Rock Band 2. You're paying for the sober living house.
Dear Captain Bad Gift Giver With Really Good Intentions,
I suppose it's time to blog about my Christmas.
I mean, it is January 7th, and all.
It was good. Lots of time off equals less pay for Babe, so that sucks, but we managed to squeak through the holidays relatively unscathed.
And this year, we tried to be all domestic and shit too. You know, because that's what good families do during the holidays. And we're a good family, dammit, so Martha Stewart, here we come.
Our first foray into domesticity was a gingerbread house.
*Note to self: Never, ever, ever attempt any sort of gingerbread anything ever again. It doesn't matter how many other people sucessfully craft a cookie dwelling, or that Michael's sells amazing kits that have beautiful pictures of heavenly bliss...yours just isn't going to look anything like that. EVER. No matter how hard you try, or how many curse words you use, yours is still going to fall apart.
Gingerbread housing with the boys, it turns out, is much like Halloween pumpkining with the boys. I have this image in my mind of what it's going to be like. I imagine the whole family bonding, stretching our creative abilities to the limit, for hours and hours and hours of fun. We'll laugh, and tell silly stories, and compliment each other on our amazing gingerbread accomplishment.
Instead, the boys watch TV while we do all the hard work, come over to decorate for 20 seconds, ask to eat all the candy, throw things at each other, drop 4000 sugar bits on the ground, get bored and leave.
Norman Rockwell would have a freaking coronary.
So, here's the house as we (read: The Guy That's Sleeping on the Couch and I) started:
And here's the boys, during their 20 second decorating blitz:
Look at that intense concentration. And, to his benefit, TGTSOTC did manage to actually make icicles on our gingerbread house. So that totally makes us more domestic.
Granted, it looks like the door is melting off into the foundation of the home, but I think it turned out pretty damn good.
Martha Stewart better watch her domestically inclined ass, because the wieners and I are coming right up on it.
I just re-read that sentence.
Shit, I'm funny.
Somebody needs to come to my house, break down the door, find my laptop, pry it out of my cold, evil hands, run out the door as fast as they can, and remove Facebook from my life forever.
It's a little addicting.
I mean, just because I race home to check my Wall before I even say hi to the boys or Babe...that doesn't mean anything, right?
And just because I frantically search the site, trying to find one more, just one more, familiar face I can add as a friend (even though we haven't technically spoken in 15 years)...I mean, that's totally normal behavior for a 31-year old wife and mother of two, isn't it?
And just because I private chat with friends that I could just as easily pick up the phone and call until 1:30 in the morning on a Monday...that doesn't mean I'm addicted.
I'm totally not addicted.
If you have something to say to me, you write it on my Wall, dammit. I'm no longer taking those old-school "phone calls" you speak of.
I'll be online at 5:32 p.m., give or take 10 or 20 seconds.
It's 12:58 a.m. New Year's Day.
Happy freaking New Year! In 2009 I'm going to lose weight and manage my finances better, and blah, blah, blah.
I came to the conclusion years ago that New Year's just isn't the same once you become a parent. Tonight, that conclusion was confirmed.
I really had the best intentions of celebrating New Year's like you're supposed to. We gathered up the fam and headed to our friends' house for the evening, with about 20 other people and 15 other kids. Their pool was heated, alcohol was aplenty and we were ready to party like it's 1999.
We got there about 7:30, and since I was out to have a good old-fashioned shitfaced New Year's, I started drinking right away.
I was more than a little tipsy by 8:00. Literally, 30 minutes later. One wine cooler and I'm off and running, as those of you who hang out with me in real life know.
So I'm off to a good start, and I'm socializing and hobnobbing and having a grand old time like my kids didn't even exist. Except for the fact that every 1.5 seconds, I heard, "Mom, look!" from the pool, because The Hormone King was insistent on showing off his very best dance moves on the diving board.
Around 9:00, I started wondering if it was almost midnight. I was exhausted, and Hubs was exhausted, and it was cold, and WHEN THE HELL DID I GET SO WHINY?
At 9:30, The Dictator started feeling sick. At 9:40, The Dictator started burping and spitting a lot, so we ran to the bathroom, where he hugged The Porcelain God for about 15 minutes while a line formed outside.
From 9:45 to approximately 10:30, I tried everything known to man to calm his stomach, make him happy and stop the horrific whining. We finally ended up on a recliner, under a blanket in my friends' living room, watching an auto auction. Commence checking of watch for time updates.
At 10:30, The Dictator started feeling better so he wandered back to the playroom to hang out with the other little humans in the house. I had stopped drinking when he started feeling sick in case I needed to drive home, so that was over too. Yeehaw.
For the next hour and 20 minutes I watched the UFC fight from last weekend, checked my watch another 11 times and tried to prevent Hubs from lapsing into a sleep deprivation coma in the living room. In said hour and 20 minutes, I was visted approximately 14 times by The Dictator, who came in to tell me that the boys weren't sharing, the boys weren't letting him play, the boys weren't listening to him, and how many more crackers can I have before I barf again?
At 11:50, I rolled myself off the sofa and went outside to prepare for the festivities (which really meant securing a good spot by the fire pit so I wouldn't freeze my sufficiently large ass off).
And then...12:00 hit. There were horns and poppers and Dom Perignon and children screaming "Happy New Year!", and all I could think as I looked at the whole shabang was, "Huh. I wonder who's going to clean all this up tomorrow."
Yes, friends, New Year's just isn't quite the same when you're a parent...but I wouldn't have it any other way.