Two

There are so many great things that come in two…

Burgers on a Big Mac, eyes, hands, elbows, boobies (since we’re on body parts), balls (unless you’re Lance Armstrong), twins, high heels…

… and my kid. There are not two of him, but he is now two.

Like, seriously, where the fuck did those two years go?!

I suppose they were lost in the melee of diapers, animal flashcards, and Playdoh. As much as I’d like to admit that I’m mostly the same person that I was before him, I really am not. I talk to other mothers about their kids now, (sporadically) and get a ridiculous thrill out of the fact that my boy mimics every word that comes out of my mouth. (I still retain my sailor’s vocabulary, but at least only I realize it when my kid is yelling “FUCK”. )

In other ways, I am still me. I don’t like to cook still, and very closely resemble Cher’s character in the movie Mermaids when it comes to preparing meals. (Finger foods, finger foods.) I still enjoy whiskey at times, and other assorted adult beverages, and sometimes wonder if, as he gets older, my kid will recognize the tell-tale signs of my tipsiness.

I am glad that I now have a little person to drag around to fun things like the zoo and the science museum, as I did not exactly enjoy coming off as a creeper/pedophile when frequenting such places before motherhood. Too, I like this having a young one to throw themed birthday parties for. (We just had a Dr. Seuss one.)

Clearly, I have lost my edge when it comes to writing, because it seems that I am rambling now, and have written a post of little or no interest, so I think it’s time to say goodbye for the night.

So farewell for now, dear readers. I just wanted to let you know I’m still around.

XOXO

 

The Vagabond (otherwise entitled Why Parents Need Cocaine)

My child is one. I suppose if you want to be technical, he is one and a little more. The point is, I haven’t slept in over a year.

Yes, ok, so that’s not exactly true. I just this afternoon slept for a good half hour while the Babe napped. And I guess my Rockstar watched him yesterday morning so I could sleep in a wee bit. But a whole eight-hour night’s sleep? Such things are the things of myths and fairytales.

I’ve been remiss in my writing of blog posts; a fact that is proven by my last post which was sometime in March, I think. Too, I find myself not a whole lot further in the writing of my book- because Pinterest is the Devil’s hippodrome, and he very successfully distracts me in his evil game of idle pin surfing. Spring has brought hours of yard work, and a kid who freaks out every time I attempt to Brazil butt-lift my saggy ass have also preoccupied me from becoming my most amazing self. On the plus side, my kid is ridiculously awesome and my exact mini male replica.

The thing I have learned in the past year? Anyone who has ever gotten hooked on cocaine must first have had a child. How else would you explain the need to be awake for extended hours and days at a time? How else would the dishes ever get done and the lawn mown and the laundry folded and the kids get fed and bathed and read to?

As I am generally not of the criminal ilk, I have opted for a more legal path. Diet vitamins and other assorted energy-boosting products. Along with reaching my goal weight, I shall now find the energy to create my most interesting characters.

I must admit, the true origin of buying such energy-boosting items stems from the fact that I’m just too lazy to exercise. But, ya know, maybe I won’t be after a week or two of partaking in legalized speed.

My real question is- how the hell does anybody get anything done with more than one kid?!

November the First

Hmm. I don’t write on here so much anymore. This makes me sad. So I shall begin anew.

I suppose I would do well to update you all on everything that’s been happening in the last, well- the last really long time. But in the words of Inigo Montoya: “No, there is too much. Let me sum up.” –

My baby is a seven months and a little bit old. Holy shit.  And even though I lost every bit of weight I gained when I was pregnant with him, I do not find myself motivated enough to lose the extra 50-60 lbs. I had before that. So sadly, I have not yet reached my goal of ultimate M.I.L.F. status. But, ya know- I’m still awesome. And I have the best kid who is so smart and funny and adorable. And I’m not even being biased. Let me prove it:

 

Things between my Rockstar and I have not been the stuff of romantic comedies of late. Unless you’re thinking of the part in the movie when the couple argues and breaks up. No, we haven’t broken up; in fact, I suppose technically we’ve never even argued- you can’t argue with a person who doesn’t respond to your gripe. But in recent times I find myself bitching to myself over his lack of interest and general laziness in the relationship. After having expressed myself to him, I realize I’m kinda over it. A person can only take so much disappointment. And since his daughter now lives with us full-time, I am not in quite as good of spirits as I once was. Boo.

On a lighter note, I now work with an adorable hot chic that says I’m her favorite, and I have been approved for six new credit cards in the last two months, which is something I’m not quite sure is a good thing yet- other than the fact that finally after six years, I actually CAN get approved for things. Sadly, in those six years, I have not learned restraint, and also not-quite-but-almost maxxed out all said credit cards. BUT! I have a beautiful new copper loveseat in my perfect library that’s sitting in front of my very expensive electric fireplace I ordered with my Menard’s card.

Also, my most amazing friend Delightfulness is almost engaged, and apparently has a ridiculously large wedding budget that I get to help her plan with. Such a wedding will have no room for chubby bridesmaids, so I must force myself to not eat in the coming year, which will help with the whole M.I.L.F. thing.  Life is good.

Too, I am completely re-inspired to finally finish writing my book, though since I have an adorable little boy who has inherited my need for attention, the only time I have to write it is after work, when I sit down in front of my computer and get distracted by Facebook and Pinterest. Aye, me.

XOXO

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?

642 Things To Write About #3 : Three People

Once again, a day of being uninspired, so on to number 3!

Describe three people (one might be you) at three ages looking at things they shouldn’t be looking at.

Of course one of them is me! Probably, I would say, all three of them is me, but I was actually not the first person I thought of when I read this prompt.

As my Rockstar is getting on to a more seasoned age, it has come to my attention that his propensity for looking at fine ass has remained untainted. As much as I would like to say he has eyes only for my ass, I am not so naïve to believe he is that unmanned (His balls remain firmly attached to himself, and NOT in a jar I keep on my shelf). Boys like to look, and as I myself enjoy the sport of ogling hot women, I completely understand. However, I do not wish my boyfriend to be the pervy old dude young chics whisper about behind their hands when we’re out and about. So, I must train him to be not quite so obvious about his gawking. (Which may prove harder than first thought considering that eyesight is one of those things that doesn’t age so well…)

The second person I suppose shall be me, as this is my blog. I shall speak of two ages of me, so as better to acquaint you with myself.

I seem to recall a time long long ago when I was maybe 7 or 8, when my friend (who was a few years older than me) and I made a habit of paging through her dad’s collection of Playboy and Hustler. While I found this act to be highly entertaining, it’s probably safe to say at such a young age, I should not have been looking at pictures of women seemingly saying, “Look at my pussy!”

As my Rockstar ages, so must I, and while the majority of older teen girls I see still look twelve to me, there is, on occasion, one or two that I find myself silently lusting after. Oddly enough, teen boys still look like ten-year-olds to me. I believe a rewrite of Lolita with lesbian proclivities might be very interesting. (To be clear, I’ve no intentions of ever acting on such feelings of lasciviousness. I remain a pervy old lady from afar.)

Finally, I shall mention my Rockstar’s Daughter. As I am the adult (haha, that’s still so funny to me!) in charge of her in the day, I should probably be editing what she watches on Netflix. Since her dad allows her to watch a surprising collection of PG13 movies (including Without a Paddle) even though she is not yet thirteen, I see no reason why she cannot watch Supernatural. (Though from what I’ve seen, it’s kinda scary for a kid.)  Whatever the case, nothing’s as scary as all the fucked-up shit she sees when she goes to her mom’s house. I believe hearing her mom threaten to call the cops on her half-sister is more damaging that anything she’d find on Netflix.

Click heres for #1 and #2.

Reasons to Brush Your Teeth

On a regular basis, I am required to remind my Rockstar’s Daughter to brush her teeth in the morning. Sadly, I understand her ire at having to complete such a task, as my mother waited until my first trip to the dentist at the age of 5, when I was told I was the proud owner of 5 whole cavities, to properly train me on the brushing of my (then) not-so-pearly whites. To further encourage the Daughter to brush daily, I have come up with a list of reasons why it is a good idea to do so. (I admit my list may not be completely of the child-friendly sort.) :

1. Because the first coffee of the day always tastes better on a fresh breath.

I do not know the reason for such a thing, only that it has been proven to be true on many a -cranky-before-coffee morn.

2. Because you don’t want people to call you Penis Breath. Or Fart Face. Or accuse you of having Dragon Breath capable of wilting a person’s face off.

You just don’t.

3. Because you never know who will want to kiss you.

I am aware that a good number of people with significant others think they know perfectly well who wants to kiss them. What they may not realize is that there may be other people admiring them from afar. Didn’t you ever see Fatal Attraction? Old Dan was perfectly happy being a married man until he realized he could have hot elevator sex with a ‘fro-d out Glenn Close. Do you think Glenn would have been so obsessed if Michael Douglas had forgotten to brush his teeth? I think not.

4. Because if you don’t, your teeth will fall out.

And taking care of dentures certainly seems like a lot more work.

And you don’t want to wake up looking like this, do you? :

 

5. Because people will talk about you and your disgusting teeth if you don’t.

Not that you should care about what other people think, unless the other “people” is me. Then you most definitely should. And I recall many many conversations my friend and I had over a coworker’s lack of oral hygiene.

6. Because no one will want to kiss you.

I am aware that I’ve mentioned this reason once before, but I find it to be of the utmost importance. And you’d be pretty fuckin’ sad if Angelina showed up with puckered lips, only to withdraw in horror at the smell of butt rot emitted from your mouth.

7. Because you don’t want to be like my old district manager.

Yes, he was pretty. In fact, his looks were the sole reason I slaved away as a Pizza Slut for over two years. (Looks DO get you things, such as a well-endowed book whore who rocks at her job). Sadly, there were many long and boring meetings spent across the table from the pretty man Boss that were only made more excruciating by d’odor du poopy. I do believe he mentioned something about a mouth fungus once, which I’m sure could have been prevented by brushing.

9 Things All Kids Should Be Taught

Perhaps this is pompous of me, writing such a list when I clearly do not own any children. But after having waited on a plethora of teens in the last few weeks at  my job, I feel it necessary to produce a guide for parents, because they are evidently clueless. Why 9, you ask? Well, I was going to do ten, but we all know how I feel about even numbers.

1. Leave a fucking tip.

Yes, I am aware that teens have real lives that are crammed with tests and hormones and peer pressures,  and so cannot be bothered with minute details such as tipping their server, or hell, even acknowledging them. But you fucking know what, you self-absorbed little assholes?! That person who listened to you closely enough to get your order right, and brought it out to you, and refilled your drinks, and cleared your shitty messy dishes away has a life too, and is NOT your mother, and so isn’t expected to wait on you hand and foot for free just because you haven’t had the decency to learn respect, and haven’t yet reached the age of twenty.

To the parents of such asshats- shame on you, and you should be caned daily until you feel remorse for not having taught your kids basic decency.

2. Chew with your goddamn mouth closed.

You are not a dog, so you do not have molars that, when in use, prohibit you from shutting your fucking mouth while you eat. So parents, teach your kids not to sound like canines when they eat, unless you want me to treat them as such.

3. Pick up your clothes, you ungrateful cretins.

If your mother, (or father) has the decency to buy you bodily protection from the elements, and to wash them, the least you could do is put them in the fucking laundry basket. And hang up your towel.

4. “Please” is not really optional.

Why the fuck would anyone do a damn thing for you if you can’t even be bothered to include this simple word before or after your request? Do it your damn self.

5.”Thank you” is not really optional either.

Yes, I bought you beer even though your are underage just so you could get up the courage to try and get that skinny blonde bitch to take your virginity. The least you could do is thank me.

6. Save your money.

If you spend all of your hard-earned McDonald’s check buying booze and paying for fake I.D.s, you’re going to have to ask your parents for money. Parents, you don’t really want that, now do you? And for the record, spending $58 on yoga pants from Victoria’s Secret is not wise. Your ass looks just as good in the $11 ones from Target

7. Stop interrupting.

If the adults in your life are having a conversation that doesn’t include you, it’s because they are talking about something of which you have no idea about. So just shut the fuck up until they’re done. There are plenty of times when they WILL want to talk to you, and instead of being a little shithead and saying, “Mom, I gotta go,” remember there was a time when you actually wanted your parents to talk to you.

8. You don’t know everything.

Yes, I’m well aware that teenagers are superior when it comes to wisdom, until they turn about 28. Just remember that all those things you’re going through, or will go through, or are just finding out about, are all things that someone older than you already experienced. So instead of poo-pooing their advice, listen just a little bit, even if you have to pretend you’re uninterested.

9. No one owes you anything.

So quit acting like they do.

Saying The Things You Shouldn’t Say

I’ve been accused more than once of being unedited. Hell, I’ve even been fired from a job for writing the things I was thinking in my head. Sometimes, I just get really tired of people not saying what they’re thinking, so I will be the one. Sadly, by the end of this post, I may come off as a huge bitch. But sometimes a long bout of holding in what I’m actually thinking results in a bad case of virtual verbal diarrhea.

People be having some UGLY babies- Am I the only one who thinks all these babies people are having on Facebook aren’t as cute as they should be? Let me be clear- the premature ones don’t count, because they just wanted to hop outta the oven before it was time. I’m talking about all the other ones. And when people keep commenting, “Oh, I’m so happy for you, your baby is adorable!” and “What a cutie!”, I just want to comment too (in a Spanish accent, of course), and say, “You keep using those words. I do not think they mean what you think they mean.” I know people don’t have control over what their kid looks like, but GEEZ, I don’t think I want one if the majority of them look like Gollum.

If you’re completely miserable with your spouse, or boyfriend/girlfriend, be done with them- This may seem harsh, and if you have children with this person, it’s a bit harder situation to get out of, but no amount of drinking or bickering or pretending is going to do any good for your kids. Yes, marriage is supposed to be a life-long commitment, but there are just some people who were silly enough to marry someone they didn’t like very much, with the idea, “Hey, it’s ok. I’ll just go out with my friends a lot and drink to drown the fact that my wife/ husband is a complete bitch/ asshole.”  Well, enjoy your perfectly pretended life. As for you all who are not married to your asshole, dump him/her immediately. And no, I am not going to be the person to make your life better with amazing sex, because I am smart enough to be with someone who does NOT annoy the shit outta me.

That chic shouldn’t be wearing that/ or SHOULD be wearing that- sometimes people shouldn’t clothe themselves the way they do. Yes, I’ve preached tirelessly about fat people in stretchy pants, but I am also including here the sermon about skinny girls with love handles who continuously wear low-rise jeans. Just ’cause you ain’t got no cushion for the pushin’ don’t mean that you’re toned. As evidenced by the cellulite once sported by my size 00 ex-sister-in-law. And Miley, put some damn clothes on, already. Yes, we get it. You’re edgy and controversial. Or suffering from multiple drug addictions.

Kids are sometimes not your entire world- I realize that since I have borne no offspring from my loins, I cannot fully understand how a child changes you and makes you devote your entire being to them; however, I have known enough people who have little to no patience for their humanoid cubs, and would rather be out partying with their friends. I know that no parent is suppose to come out and say, “I’d like a day off”, but I urge each and every one of you to realize that it’s ok to admit parenting is at times a trying and monotonous task, and is sometimes best replaced with a stripper pole and a shot of whisky. This doesn’t mean you love your children any less, it just means you have not joined the Stepford community.

Why don’t we let educated people into America?- I realize Lady Liberty is all about giving refuge to the starving and the destitute, but wouldn’t our country benefit a little by letting in someone who is not hungry and can actually support themselves? Instead of giving a bunch of monetary support to people who don’t even bother to learn our language, why don’t we give free visas to people who ALREADY know our language and have their own money? I’m not being prejudiced. The uneducated are welcome too, but they should be given the same opportunity as I- that is, the opportunity of working more than one job just to make sure I don’t have to move to Florida in order to sleep outside and not freeze to death because I am homeless.

 

Summer of Love

There are times when I can be an absolute bore. Or boar, depending on the day. I know it’s quite impossible for you to believe it, after all I’m so sparkly and witty and all, but all those sparkly witticisms can take a toll on a person, so much so, that all she wants to do is sit and read. (To be honest, that’s really all I want to do on my non-witty days too.)

Anyhoo, I , perhaps unwittingly, made a decision that I would no longer be waiting for the good times to happen, and that I would forcibly cause them to happen. Which is why I made a point to go with my Rockstar to his boring -ass late-model races this summer, and the zoo, with my friend from work (where we witnessed giraffes copulating for the mere seconds that I guess it takes), went to see my favorite band in the ghettos of Spring Lake Park (more on that later) and am working on a fabulously legendary costume for the Renaissance Festival which I shall attend with my Delightful.

This may seem like small and uninteresting turds to some of you, who travel the world and dine with kings and such, but considering that this was the first summer in 3 years when I’ve actually been able to get out of work occasionally, it is huge. I may even get to go to the South Dakota State Fair. (Which I only want to attend to see if their deep-fried goodnesses are a rival for Minnesota’s.)

In order to keep my Rockstar’s daughter from being bored at her mother’s while we slave away at work during the days, she goes to S.D. to visit her grandparents, so she hasn’t been around much since school let out. There was a few days where I got myself out of my selfish reading slump enough to take her to the beach, and then there was today.

I was not exactly thrilled at first when my Rockstar suggested that I watch his Daughter on my half-day off yesterday, but then I thought of all the wonderful things we two could do together. Apparently, the Daughter had been racking her brain too, for she woke me up with a schedule. It was to be like school, complete with bathroom breaks and recess. I acquiesced to her request, and off we went.

I wondered how long it would take her ADD self to realize that a half hour of quiet time (her idea, mind you) was too long, and I was right on target when 15 minutes went by and she was ready to go outside. We went, and she realized her friends were out, so Teacher Daughter  said I was “allowed to read” while she “did important teacher stuff.” I obeyed.

Our “field trip” for the day was a walk to McDonald’s to meet my Rockstar for his lunch break. We realized we had left entirely too early, and decided to take silly pictures of ourselves along the way, which resulted in a fit of giggles. After a healthful lunch of French fries and sugar-filled soda, we walked back, marching in time to each other, and busting out laughing when we weren’t.

I’ve come to realize this having a non-Daughter is not as tough as it sometimes seems.

Victory of the “Evil” Almost Stepmother

I have mentioned on several occassions the existance of my Rockstar’s Daughter. In the mentionings therein, you may or may not have noticed underlying tones of irritation, aggravation, or exasperation. (These due to the fact that after almost three years, I still on occassion will hear, “He’s MY dad; this is OUR house; why don’t you go live somewhere else.”)

No, it is not all bad, this parenting of a child not of my loins. For example, she had begun to word things as I do, which is in a manner not of this world, and she carries within her the same fondness for princess movies and high heels as I. So, if we sat around all day watching The Princess Bride and Princess Cariboo while alternately sauntering around in stillettos and fancy dresses, the relationship between us would be one that would create awe in those who observed it. However, though I am not a parent myself, I am aware that at times, princesses must be put away and rules must abound; mainly the finishing of one’s homework before bedtime. This has always made me worried that I am seen as the Evil Stepmother that you hear about in those fairy tales in the Daughter’s eyes. (They always have fabulous makeup, but it’s not exactly what I aspire to.)

A week or so ago, I went to purchase groceries and was immediately distracted upon arrival at the store by the giant bins that held massive and slightly deformed pumpkins. It is my belief that in going through life, in order to be happy, one must revert to the acts of their childhood, and not always take things so seriously. While thinking so, I picked out the most round and only barely-marred pumpkin with the intent of making it a date with the Daughter and carving it on my next day off. This may seem like an overtly obvious act one might perform with a child, but being not a parent myself, I do not always think that way. I arrived home with Stan in my arms, (so I had named my round orangy friend) quite proud of myself that I had so unselfishly thought to include the Daughter in Stan’s facial formation.

My Rockstar thought it a grand idea. In fact, so grand an idea he thought it that when he went to pick up his daughter the next day, he stopped and bought each of them another pumpkin, so that I could have Stan all to myself. The carving of pumpkin flesh commenced on the next day, upon the floor of the living room.

At first, I was thinking that perhaps my idea for child/ almost stepmother bonding time was a bad one, when the Daughter immediately began crying and whining because she didn’t know how to carve her pumpkin and was too impatient to let me show her. I diffused the situation by releasing the Tickle Monster on her, and soon her tear-stained face was aglow with delight. My Rockstar soon joined us, and then we were a family stabbing our unassuming jack-o-lanterns on a Sunday afternoon.

My Rockstar’s Dad called at one point, and he left the room so as to give himself privacy. The Daughter and I carried on a conversation, about school, and boys, and then it somehow turned to the subject of her mother.

Now I am selfish and histrionic enough that every fiber in my body wishes to point out the flaws of she who birthed the Daughter any time her name comes up. Luckily, I have just enough common sense to NOT do that exact thing, but instead just nod and listen when the Daughter drones on about her less-than-ideal mother. In the end, this has served me well, because nearing the end of the conversational subject, the Daughter, of her own volition and without any coaching from me, said something I would never have expected to hear from her lips.

“I wish YOU were my mom, and not my mom.”

Upon hearing those words, I immediately had the urge to jump up and issue a warrior’s victory cry, but thought better of it when I realized I was weilding a non-sharp pumpkin-carving instrument. Instead, I chose my responding words carefully.

“Well, you already have a mom, so maybe I can just be your second mom, and then you’ll have twice as many people to love you.”

This solution seemed satisfactory to the Daughter, and we continued to create pumpkin art in an amiable silence. But I will tell you the victorious warrior in my head was making a pretty big racket.