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?!

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?

Wake Up, Dammit!

I adore sleep.

I find it to be one of the most relaxing things a person can do with their free time. In fact, I find myself doing it quite frequently, sometimes even up to eight hours a day. When I’m bored, I think to myself, “I should take a nap.” When I’m tired, I think to myself, “Perhaps I should slumber.” However, I am very rarely bored, (because I have a blog and about 5000 books to read), and when I am tired, I cannot help but think that while I maybe need sleep, there are just too many other things I could be doing that may benefit my quality of life just a tad more than napping might. (Passionate hard-core sex and watching marathons of Law and Order SVU come to mind.)

You may wonder why I have babbled on so. My Rockstar is in the process of sawing logs in a disturbingly loud manner even as I am virtually speaking to you. Now, I understand that he is on the edge of geriatricism, weighing in at a solid 42 years of age, but COME ON! It’s 6:42 PM here. (I need not mention that he’s been sleeping for a good half hour already, but I guess I just did.)

I can see my future life very clearly: While some women are afraid to end up alone with forty cats, I am afraid that I will end up alone with a permanently snoring Rockstar. Sure, I could pet him as one of the afore-mentioned lonely old women might pet her cat, but instead of an adorably contented purr, all I will get is a snarfling gargling loud goooooiiiiiiiouuuuuugh. (That’s the closest thing I could come up with for spelling a snore. Sorry.)

I must admit that I hadn’t any uber-exciting plans for the evening, (other than washing my snoring prince’s silky boxer shorts,) but a simple “How do you do, dear” would have been nice. I got home and hopped in the shower to wash off the pizza crud from work and exited the bathroom sans clothes only to find him having a team meeting with the Sandman. WTF. I didn’t know I was dating Rip Van Winkle.

Re-Inspiration

My Rockstar went to bed at 7:30 last night.

Now, spare me the “Well, he IS 41” and “he DOES work hard.” These things are both true, but that does not make going to bed earlier than a 4 month old acceptable. Especially when I was actually home, and awake, and my normal horny self. There are just much too much other fun things to do besides for sleep when I’m around, like, doggy-style, spanking, biting, the wheelbarrow… you get the idea.

Anyhoo, while I am never at a loss for ideas of things to do, the thought of watching an Angelina movie or a rerun of Elliot Stabler scowling sexily at a perp did not really appeal to me. Even the newest book I started reading did not spark my interest. And so, I thought to myself, “Hmm, I should work on writing my book.”

It may seem strange that someone who likes to write as much as I would wait until the complete and utter powers of boredom took over before I began typing my thoughts out on the keyboard. Let me explain.

The Book (the main one I’m working on, not all the other ideas I’ve toyed with and barely begun) has been a source of constant nagging in the back of my head since I began it nearly twelve years ago. It has changed and morphed and mutated so because of my hopes of trying to create the next Great American Novel. The characters (and their names) have been changed, and the end of the story has become something I never would have expected. You are wondering where this masterpiece is so you can read it, you say? Well. you’re just gonna have to wait until it gets out of my head. Oh, yes, the entire thing is written- in my head. (Which may very well explain the voices I’ve been hearing for the last 7 years or so.) In fact, the sequel is well on it’s way to crowding the first of the series out, which may be the reason it was so easy for me to write an entire chapter last night.

Because I have written and re-written and yet again re-written the beginning chapters of my book, it has become the bane of my existence. I also found out very quickly that despite having a complete storyline, the writing of such details to get said storyline written can be mundane and worse than scrubbing skid marks out of a toilet bowl. I attempt all of my writings to be as easy to read as a Twilight novel, (without the shittiness) while maintaining only slightly less detail than a Thomas Hardy novel. (Really, is it necessary to write forty pages describing a moor? It’s a swampy plain.) Finally, I wish all my characters to be complex (maybe not as much as I am) and all my readers to finish reading what I’ve written while saying as passionately as Lestat did in Queen of the Damned when he thirsted for blood- “MORE!”

In the original manuscript written in my head, my Book was not nearly as humorous as it seems to be turning out. (Though I may be wrong, because I am greatly amused by “Your mom” jokes.) That having been said, if my Rockstar continues to go to bed at un-Godly early hours, you all shall have a novel worth reading that I shall not be embarrassed about having written in no time at all.

Tired

I’m too tired to sleep. So while I’m lying in bed trying to makeout with the Sandman, I think to myself, “I should get up.” But I’m too tired to. So I lie in bed until exhaustion overcomes me. In the morning, my damn alarm goes off and I think to myself, “I should get up and eat breakfast before work.” But I’m too tired to. So I doze off and on until the last possible second and then I rush to make myself semi-presentable. While washing my face, I think to myself, “I should do a super fun makeup effect with my newly purchased 100 shades of eyeshadow.” But I’m too tired. So I slap on an uninteresting shade of beige and off to work I go.

When I get to work, I think to myself, “I should call all the applicants and set up interviews.” But I’m too tired. So I struggle through yet another day at work with fewer people than I need because there is no one else to call. When I’m closing up the store, I think to myself, “i should really do as good of a job as I would like to.” But I’m too tired. So instead I do a job that is not up to my standards.

My skin is too tired to make the effort; my feet are too tired to wear heels; and my boobs are too tired to stay perky.

When my friends call me, I don’t answer, because I’m too tired to sit on the phone for extended periods of time, and I have nothing to talk about except work. When an intersting song pops into my head that I think I should write down, I don’t, because I’m too tired to think of a word that rhymes with “winter”. When I get home from work, I think to myself that I should make a beautiful lunch for my Rockstar to take in his ugly lunchbox, but I’m too tired. There was also a point last week when I almost turned down a little Naked Fun Time with my Rockstar because I was too tired. Almost.

Basically, in the end, I will have no friends because I’m too tired to hang with them, no Rockstar because I’m too tired to take care of him, and no job because I’m too tired to do what I’m getting paid to do. Then I will have all the time in the world to sleep…