The Business of Lullabies


I do not fancy myself a superb singer. I will never be that girl who sends chills down people’s spines when I hit that one note, because it’s pretty damn certain I won’t ever hit that one note. Believe me, I’ve tried. No crowds will ever fill Madison Square Garden just because I’m there to sing; although I have no doubt that my Rockstar, my brother, and I will fill it when we finally start our band. I can carry a tune, and sound better than about half the people you hear attempting to sing, including Taylor Swift. Nevertheless, I fully intend to sing to my baby once he gets here. I just hope my doing so will not cause more tears than are normally expected from a baby.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that the songs I use as lullabies may very well be the songs my baby uses as lullabies to his own children someday, if he has any. (The continued use of male pronouns in reference to my baby are my way of using osmosis to decide his gender for him. He has no legs yet, so there is no way he has yet sprouted a teeny tiny penis. But I will continue to try to sway him.) Or, if nothing else, they will be songs he fondly remembers as ones his crazy mother sang to him because she loved him. Either way, this is not business that should be taken lightly. Music is the poetry of sound. So instilling in my baby a vast library of musical genres is a must. So far, here is my lullaby list:

For standards, I’ve only yet come up with two:

1. Over the Rainbow

2. Baby Mine from Dumbo

Moving along to somewhat newer music:

3. Let It Be by The Beetles

4. You’re Beautiful by James Blunt (Sidenote: As this James Blunt song is about a girl who is addicted to drugs, I feel that I may only sing the chorus so as not to introduce my babe to such evility prematurely.)

5. Jesus Loves Me

6. Give Me Love by Jasmine Cain (a mostly-independent artist, but a great song)

7. I’ll Be There by The Jackson 5 (or Mariah Carey, if you prefer)

8. True Colors by Cyndi Lauper

9. The Rainbow Connection by Kermit the Frog (a song my uncle used to sing to me when I was small)

10. Silent Night (a Christmas song, sure, but what better to sing about than the night I hope to have?)

11. Love is Forever by Slaughter

12. Unconditionally by Katy Perry

13. Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers

This is only a start, so I open my lullaby list to those of you in blogland, so speak now. Just know that Rob Zombie and Iron Maiden will have to wait just a year or two.

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On Nausea and Still Remaining Myself


Pregnancy is not an excuse.

Yes, ok, I haven’t written on my blog (or anywhere else, for that matter) for a shameful 18 days; my longest hiatus from blogging yet, I believe. I haven’t drunk coffee or whisky or any mind-altering substance for many weeks, (and I do not intend to for many many more weeks). When I go out to eat in a nice restaurant with edible food, I can no longer finish my Rockstar’s meal after snarfing down my own. In fact, I cannot even finish my own meal, and have taken to sharing. I still think of sex more often than the average person, but I also think of sleep more than a two-toed sloth. I remind myself of one thing:

This, too, shall pass.

Whereas in past times not so long ago, any text message I received was almost immediately responded to, I have become a textical hermit. My repeated responses of “Not good. Puking all day. Sleeping when not puking.” I’m sure got old quickly when people asked how I was faring, and quite honestly, that exact response sums up the last eighteen days frighteningly well. It didn’t help that last week when my Rockstar had an entire week off between changing jobs, and instead of indulging in an all-week fuckfest with him, I was forced to hack and cough and blow my nose in between naps when I contracted the Mother of All Colds. The only upside was that the nausea that had continued to haunt me for over a month has finally begun to subside; I am no longer hurling unless I’ve not eaten within two hours. Yay me.

For the entirety of my adult life, I have begun planning my Halloween costume for each year in mid-summer. Not so this year. In fact, yesterday was the first day that I realized Halloween is less than two months away, and I said to myself, “Self! Enough of this bull-shit! You’re fucking dressing up, even if it is as a horse wearing a feed bag in order to catch the vomit!” There will be no alcoholic libations, but at least I have a house this year, so I plan on celebrating by scaring the beJesus out of the neighborhood childlings. The buzz from such doings will certainly suffice.

I realize that when you become a mother, (which I’m not, quite yet, anyway) you change. But I’ll be damned if everyone I know will only engage in conversations with me that pertain to my child, now or later. People without kids have lives, and do things, whether the People With Kids believe it or not. I will never enjoy talking about diaper genies and the latest invention created to make parenthood easier. I will, however, speak of sexually deviant practices with whomever is interested, even when my waistline is 57″.  I am not complaining about where my future is headed in the least, only stating how perturbed I am that having my head in a toilet has kept me from doing the things I wanted in the last weeks.

P.S. The ultrasound specialist assures me that my baby’s lack of legs and arms is a natural thing at this point. I pray he’s not just placating me.

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A Letter To My Baby


Dear Baby,

I would have addressed my letter “Dear Little Bastard”, but there are those who might have taken offense. Luckily, I am your momma, and shall teach you to have a great sense of humor, and to never be ashamed of who and what you are.

So, hello, baby. I’ve been waiting a really long time to be able to write a letter to you. You would think I’d have given a bit more thought to what I would write, but considering that I never actually thought I’d have an opportunity to write such a letter, you will understand my faltering. It seems very cliche’, but I love you, baby. I’ve loved you for a very long time.

I promise you will be the most loved baby there ever was, (I know that seems pretentious, but you will learn soon enough that I am very exactly that). And don’t worry, I promise to teach you what pretentious means, and how to spell it, because I don’t want you to be one of those silly people who only use simple words and nod stupidly when educated people talk to you. You will know many many things, and the things I cannot teach you, you will learn from other people who love you dearly, like Auntie Delightful, who will be your Fairy Godmother, and who did a happy dance in public when your existence was confirmed; she will teach you all about poetry and to love books like I will, and she will never run out of crafts for you two to o together. And my godmother Auntie, who has been waiting for you for a long time too. She will teach you to accept everybody, and to be kind to people you don’t necessarily understand, and, if you ask her to, she will teach you to quilt beautiful quilts that will keep people you love warm.

Your daddy will love you too, even though he might not say it. (You and I will get him to eventually, though, I know it.) He will teach you all about music, and how important it is, and how rockers wearing women’s makeup is not only funny, but very cool. He will also take you to car races, and watch football with you, and will play with you even though he is kind of old, and really just wants to take a nap. Don’t get mad when he doesn’t respond to all your questions- he doesn’t have as many words to use as I do; but that just means you have to listen closely when he does talk.

I have always hoped you would be a boy, because dinosaurs are so much cooler than Barbies, and teenage boys are less of a pain in the ass than teen girls. But if you are a girl, I will teach you to love dinosaurs anyway, and to not be a pain in the ass.

The most important thing you need to know is that life is beautiful, and all people are beautiful in their own way, so you need to treat them like they are special, because they are someone’s baby, too. Also, God is a cool Guy, but He sometimes will do things you don’t understand just because He can; don’t get discouraged, because you are tougher than anything He will throw at you.

I’m sure there will be many more letters for you, baby, but for now, I should really work on my book, so I will have more time and money to spend on you when you get here.

Love You Forever,

Mommy

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News


Hmm….. what to write about….

 

….Sex always seems to go over well. I could write some smutty smut smut….

Maybe I could write about…. oh! How I told my Rockstar his kid was an asshole a few weeks ago….or maybe about how much of an asshole I felt like after I said it…

Sleep! Oh, how I adore sleep at this moment! It’s as if the soul of the dwarf sleepy has magically taken over my body and told me I am only here to sleep. I feel that I must obey.

Or, I guess I could actually write about how I’m going to have a baby. I guess maybe there might be a little bit of excitement over such news.

Yeah, ok, so I’ll write about that.

If you skimmed the last few sentences and weren’t really paying attention, I’ll say it again- I’m going to have a baby. Me. The chick who has never been pregnant in her life and was thought to be barren. Funny things, those little sperms, eh?

It was only about a month ago I said to myself, “Self, I’s ok with no babies. With no babies, I can sleep as much as I want, and work as much as I want, and generally go about my life like a pathetic blob if I wants. Nevermind that I won’t have anyone to take care of me when I’m old. I’ll probably die on the back of a Harley long before then with no babies, anyway.”

I told you God likes to fuck with people.

I’m not complaining, trust me. Well, except for the constant urge to vomit that I’ve been living with for the past month. But according to What to Expect, that’ll pass soon enough. And then I’ll have a new set of digestional problems. But whatevs. I’m gonna have a baby!

I must admit, my first thought after I peed on that little stick and saw the positive sign was something akin to disbelief and fear at what my Rockstar’s reaction might be. But I did what I do best, and wrote him a letter that I left on the counter for him to read upon his arrival home. Considering how cave-man-like he is when it comes to communication, I was satisfied with the “If you’re happy about it, I don’t mind.” that I got from him. Hey. It was more than I expected.

Anyhoo, a whole flurry of thoughts ran through my head. Like how my three bookshelves of kid’s books will now be read, (by someone other than me), how my boobs are going to get huge, (or huge-r, if you want to look at it that way), how there are a million things I need to teach my baby so it (yes, I call it It, because it has not yet a gender, and in reference to Cousin, not the creepy clown) will be the smartest little bastard that ever lived. (Yes, It is a bastard in the very base definition of the word, so I will not deny it. It’s not my fault It’s dad doesn’t want to get married.) Oh! And how I must quickly learn Spanish, so It will be bilingual and fabulous.

I also had the terrifying thought that if It gets my Rockstar’s hair color with my hair texture, it may very well end up looking like Carrot Top. (Eesh.) Or Annie, minus the orphan part.

What I didn’t realize was that being pregnant is akin to having your life energy sucked out of your ears by an alien mothership. I don’t know if it’s because I’m constantly preparing to hurl whatever healthy thing it was I ate  (yes, it seems that pregnancy has strengthened my willpower to deny myself the finer things in life, like McDonald’s) on the nearest bystander or what, but I literally have done next to nothing other than work for the past week. I may be pregnant, but I kinda feel that there really is no free pass for taking 3-4 naps a day after sleeping in.

Well, anyway, my kid is gonna be the cutest damn kid there ever was, and yes, it IS a little scary that there might be a miniature me running around pretty soon. Are you ready for that, world?

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642 Things To Write About: Plumbing Jingle


My book tells me to write the lyrics of a catchy jingle, for a plumbing service. I must obey.

When you wake up to find your bathroom covered in poo,

you cover your face and cry, “Oh, what shall I do?!”

No worries! Call No Shit Plumbing!

A leak in your pipes, worse than in Gramma’s pants?

One that causes the wife to scream ceaseless rants?

Don’t fret! Call No Shit Plumbing!

When the crap won’t go down,

when the drains are all clogging,

when your too busy to deal,

’cause your submissive needs flogging,

don’t get your panties in a bunch,

don’t untie your bitch,

just go out for lunch

and call No Shit Plumbing!

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Freakshow


I ran away to join the circus,

thinking I might fit in better there.

But when I arrived,

the ringmaster looked at me dubiously

when I told him I wanted to be part of the Freak Show.

Clearly, he wasn’t able to see my obvious freakdom.

When I tried to explain,

he nodded, as if he understood.

He wrapped his crimson-clad arm around my shoulder and said,

“Let me show you something.”

He guided me past the bearded lady,

who sat combing her legendary whiskers into a intricate braid.

Past the snake woman,

whose glorious scales twinkled amber and teal in the sun.

I thought he would stop by the two-headed man,

whose twin faces smiled kindly at me,

but he seemed to quicken his step instead.

Past all the other human curiosities we walked,

until we were standing outside of the colossal striped tent.

Only then did he wave his white-gloved hand

toward the crowd awaiting to see such oddities.

He pointed to one man in particular;

a man who, after a first glance, not a soul would remember.

He was plain, and insignificant.

“That man beats his wife.

His second wife, now. He killed the first one.

That child there,”

The ringmaster pointed to an adorable boy about ten,

whose hair stuck out in mischievous tufts.

“He tortures small animals,

before cutting their heads off and burying them in a hole.”

He nodded toward a middle-aged woman,

her ridiculously-enhanced breasts threatening to expose themselves.

“She,” He said, almost affectionately,

“has been married four times.

All of her husbands dead from old age.

She now preys upon younger men half her age.”

My eyes had begun to open;

he continued.

“That girl there,” a young lady, very pretty,

“was raped by her cousin,

her uncle,

and her father’s friend.

She has told no one of her pain,

but will kill the next man who is unfortunate enough to try to touch her that way.”

He looked at me then,

his eyes searching mine, before he asked earnestly,

“How can you join the Freak Show when you’re already part of it, baby?”

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Xanax VS. Books


I was texting my friend Cat Woman last night, and since her life is in crisis at the moment, the conversation turned to shrinks and happy pills. I myself am a firm believer in just ignoring problems until they go away, and imbibing copious amounts of alcohol to aid that process. Luckily, most of the normal world, (including Cat Woman) does not share this belief, otherwise we’d be a planet filled with angsty drunkards.

Anyhoo, when Cat Woman offered selling me some Xanax at fifty dollars a pop to better cope with my ignored issues, I refused profusely, stating what a large number of books fifty dollars would buy me. She then asked an interesting question: What can a book do that Xanax cannot?

Well. You Book People out there already know. Clearly, my pal is not one. So, to quote my favorite character Inigo Montoya in the greatest movie of all time The Princess Bride: “Let me ‘splain. No no. There is too much. Let me sum up.”

A book has no adverse side effects. Sure, if you read a sad one, you may shed a tear and suffer post-reading depression, (this has happened to me after reading Where the Red Fern Grows, yet I’ve read it again and again.) but you have no worries of urinating less than usual or not at all, or becoming jaundiced or twerking unintentionally. (All possible side effects of Xanax.)

A book will calm you down. I am aware that Xanax is meant to do the same thing. However! A book may also excite you, or anger you, or frighten you! I’m not going to go through all the other emotions, because, well, we’re not in the third grade here. But you get the point.

A book may cost you fifty dollars a pop, but generally those are only those pretentious coffee table books not many people look at anyway. Yes, ok, if you are like me, you may find yourself spending fifty dollars every time you exit a bookstore, (a used one, it is hoped) but what do you have to show for it? At least twenty-four hours of reading, and after it wears off, you have the memory of what you just read, instead of the anticipation of an anxiety attack until you read another.

Depending on the book, the use of one will not cause controversy with other people who don’t believe in Western medicine. Not that we’re trying to keep Eastern doctors in our good graces here, but you know, it couldn’t hurt.

A book will distract you from your problems. Sure, Xanax will do the same thing, but only temporarily, and when you are done with it, there is no plethora of knowledge swimming around in your skull. If you find yourself sinking down into the depths of despair because the euphoria of finishing a book has worn off, read another. And incidentally, there is a whole Self-Help genre that will probably do the same thing Xanax will.

Well, there you have it. I may not be your first choice for the debate team, but I think I got my point across.

P.S. If you really think you’ve got it bad, read a book about the Holocaust. Then you might think to yourself, “Hey, at least I don’t have to stand in the sun for thirty-six hours before some Nazis gas me and my kids.

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