Spitting Nails and Shitting Hammers

Listen, I know I have a lot of rage. Like Braveheart rage. Like run around with a bare ass under a kilt and show it to you before I chop your head off with an ax-rage.

Take it easy. It's just a daydream. You terrorist twats have ruined all good anger and humor. You are not Scottish. Or interesting. Or even funny. Not even a little.

But don't take it personally. I hate most people. Yeah, I said hate. I pretty much want to punch every person I know right in the fucking nose. We can be friends after that, I guess.

That's the problem with terrorists. They don't know how to have a fight and interact afterwards. Too many people are content to just be the bully or the bullied. How about let's scream and yell and punch each other right in the fucking nose and then not be savage assholes and drop it and get on with our lives? What a bunch of scared, shriveled, terrified little penises. It's because of you that my six year old and I are separated by bulletproof glass every day.

Did I mention that I hate you?

You know what else? We can disagree. Yeah, I said it. We can say some stupid, awful shit and even occasionally change our minds. And guess what? If I know you, I may want to knock you out, but you're allowed to have a fucking opinion.

I want to post a picture of a turd in a hand. That's it. No comment. Just leave it hanging out there and drop the mic. No a virtual bouquet of flowers or posed mug. Because that's what I think of your obsessive disorders and your anniversary and your marathon and your self-centered afflictions. They all look like piles of giant dog shits sitting in the palm of your hand.

Dude, seriously, you smell.

Listen, I'm saying this as your friend, who genuinely wants to punch you in the fucking nose:

Stop taking yourself so seriously.

Shit some hammers. Spit some nails.

Answering Your Call

I know the decision to be a full-time working mother is a difficult one. Sometimes it isn't even a choice. I'm one of the few moms who stays home with the kids during the day in my neighborhood. This basically means that my children have no other kids to play with at home since everyone else is in daycare, and my kids are completely unsocialized.

I notice that lots of the full-time work mothers study me when they see me on the weekends. They ask me questions. They try to plead their cases. Some might even think I chose the easy path.

Well, I can't tell you what the difference will be in our decisions for our families ten or twenty years down the line---though I do predict that my children will have a stronger case than other people's children to blame me for everything. But, I honestly have to admit one thing. You working mothers are definitely missing out on something.

No, I don't mean the first steps or first words. You are missing out on a ton of shit.

Motherhood has prepared me well for my next career. In the sewers.

I will be the Ed Norton of my family. Whatever your plumbing problem, I can help you. I'm like the Bubba Shrimp of ass cracks. I do Aquaphor-ing, finger picking, probiotic-ing, yogurt mixing, suppositories, you name it. I know every food source on the planet and the effect it will have on your bowel movements. I make a killer bran-prune-Metamucil muffin. Or, conversely, I make a delicious banana-rice-Wonder Bread sandwich. (Well, I used to back in the day when they understood and valued the binding power of the most processed food on the planet.)

I can unclog a toilet in a flash. And I'm a physic, too. I can read your mood by the color and positioning of your crap in the bowl. Seriously, I've got a gift. Even the pediatrician said so. I know my shit.

Need more proof? My favorite word in the entire English dictionary: sphincter. That's it. It's kismet.

Now it's just time to stop fighting it. God has chosen me. I have a talent, and I must answer the call. I can do Roto Router by day and ghost hunter by night. Just ask anyone who knows me.

I'm full of it.

PMDD and Loving It!

Oh, the joys of being a stay-at-home mother. I'm one of them, but I also work part time. Evenings I waitress and teach people stuff, and I also watch extra kids, in addition to my own during the day. I am not watching anyone's kids today. In fact, even my own kids are napping. And if someone ever asks me if I was a good parent, I will answer yes. Never mind that they're fucking lunatics when awake. We'll tackle the criminal charges of my progeny when we are forced to climb that mountain. For now, my kids nap and go to bed before 8 pm every night. I am a success! (Look, in my line of work, I've learned one thing: you take your successes where you can get them.)

I am a stay-at-home mother, and I like to pretend this is a choice. Of course, it is. My husband and I moved moved to way upstate New York to afford to make this a reality for the last five years. But the truth is the job market for my line of work sucks right now, we have no family nearby, and I have massive trust and confidence issues. So, so much for choice!

Pregnancy was awesome. I'm one of those short, built like a brick-shithouse gals who was built to carry fetuses. Short, thick legs. Long torso.  I'm not gonna lie. It was easy. And I take no credit for this because I had nothing to do with any part of my shape except the whale-like, coat-of-blubber part. (Of which, I'm not gonna lie, I'm also a little proud and hope to someday be naturally bouncy enough to do that Sumo wresting game at the fair without the suit.)

But now the hubs and I are done with the baby factory days of the last half decade, and I'm a little sad about it. One, I'm really really good with babies. I'm not good at much, but I really excel with infants. I never minded getting up in the middle of the night. I never minded nursing. (Well, not until my son had teeth and could unbutton my shirt. That part got a little creepy.) But all the rest of it was all easy and natural, and I loved every second of it.

Another massive upside. I was a wonderful pregnant person. I was like the really rude, sober narcissist who turned into the warm, happy drunk at parties.

Usually though, I suck. I'm depressive, emotionally all over the map. Pregnancy and nursing seemed to level out my hormones. I thought having children had finally made me normal. I heard that could happen. (It's not true. I'm still an asshole.)

I hate acronyms. They're lazy and uncreative. I want to memorize that long, completely-unfitting label that entitled and annoying people who don't know me want to stick on me. Indeed, I fight hard to deny any of the acronyms that seem to be fitting me right now, and I am highly anti-meds. (For myself, that is. My parents? They TOTALLY need them.) But, nevertheless, I think I may have some sort of PMDD.

For those of you of the more delicate sex (I mean men) who are not acquainted with the delicious little diagnosis of PMDD, it is premenstrual dysphorhic disorder. In other words, I am a fucking nutjob a week before my period. And yes, more so than usual.

I know, I know, you think your female beloved has this problem, too. But she doesn't. In her case, her problem is probably just you.

But I don't like thinking that I have it, and I am still fighting against this diagnosis, mainly because I can't afford the happiness cocktail cure. But the truth is I have had some wild PMS since my son fully weaned himself from the milkjugs.

I'd still like to think there's something more to it though. Something that I can figure out and change on my own. I mean, I'm still fully functioning (however much a woman who wears pajamas all day can be). But I am a student of psychoanalytic thought. I think my body may be mourning something before my egg drops each month. I have always been way too sensitive to things: meds, alcohol, my mother's comments, the world, etc. Maybe my body is just mourning getting old and not getting in as many babies as it can before the clock stops. I really think that my body wants its own TLC show. You know, something along the lines of a cross between 27 (?) Kids and Counting and Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. 
  
Well, I don't think I'll be figuring this out in one day. I should really give myself a break. I've been taxing my brain too hard. Where are my bonbons? I'm telling you, people, I'm a half an inch away from watching a Spanish soap opera. This is that serious.

I Made You Short?

I have become my mother, and apparently she is an aging drag queen.

More about that later.

I haven't decided what this blog should do with itself exactly, but I do know that a free Blogger site is way less expensive than PMDD meds. (I have a high-deductible insurance plan.)

I was raised to blame others for many things: my not being rich enough, my being fat, my having a mustache. You know, the usual.

But honestly, I'd rather just make you laugh. That being said, I am a failed comic. I like slipping on banana peels. I also like to sing and dance. I'm some serious old-school cornball.

Well, time to make dinner. Oh yeah, and I'm a mother. And a wife. And my husband is home. And there is never any hot-cooked meal waiting for him.

I tend to get distracted easily.

I have no idea how old I am.

I know I'm supposed to do something right now.

These people eat a fucking ton.

I like moose.

Well, that just about sums it up for today. Be back soon.