Friday, October 28, 2011

Good Mommy, Bad Mommy

One afternoon last week as I was leaving the gym, I was struck with an excruciatingly bad headache. Not some dull aching, but full-on, God awful, shooting pains of HOLY HELL RIPPING THROUGH MY SKULL. Suspecting I was likely having an aneurysm and would die alone in the Xterra, soaked in sweat and without makeup, where I would bake in the heat until someone discovered me, two days later, reeking of perspiration and decomposition, I sent a quick email to B indicating that I was dying and to look for me at the gym. Then, I reached into my purse, fished around searching for Advil, popped open a bottle and swallowed the last two pills I came across.

A few minutes later, though my head was still hurting like a motherfucker, I realized that I probably wouldn't die before I got home, so I peeled out for the house. (Logically, if you die in your driveway you are much more likely to be discovered quickly, thus smelling up the car less and subtracting from the Dead Haley Depreciation acquired by said car.) I got home, showered, dressed, grabbed the kids at school, and headed to the grocery store.

Now, visiting the grocery store is NOT one of my favorite forays into public. I do not like people. I do not like to touch things other people have touched. Handling a shopping cart makes my practically non-existent gag reflex (yes, B is a lucky man) go into overdrive when I think about all the germy, disgusting people who have touched it before me. No, it DOES NOT HELP that they provide Clorox wipes to clean the handle with before you touch it. People are ALL KINDS OF NASTY. Using a damn wipe is not enough to remove the potential nose-picking, ass wiping, naughty-part touching, vile swill of humanity that befalls those carts. IT IS FUCKING NOT. Trust me.

BUT, I needed groceries, lest my children starve and I be jailed for abuse and neglect (although, frankly, since Casey Anthony was acquitted I feel fairly confident that I could staple the minions together, throw their asses in the linen closet, and let them survive on bread crusts and Kool-Aid for months and still get away with it) so we headed to the store. Once we parked and got inside, I grabbed a shopping cart and headed in with the minis, thinking about eggs and frozen chicken breasts and whether or not I needed yogurt.

We meandered through the store. This, alone, should have been a red flag. I DON'T FUCKING MEANDER. I haul ass at all times. I am fast, and I am efficient. I am a well oiled machine of EVERYTHING (except geometric proofs-- those take me a while) especially grocery shopping, at which I am a GODDAMN GROCERY SHOPPING MASTER. This is what happens when you have kids-- you learn to get in, grocery shop at a breakneck pace, and get the fuck out before you kill someone, or cave and buy tons of shit just to shut up the offspring. However, this time, I MEANDERED. I looked at things. I read various labels. I zoned out in the cereal aisle for about twenty minutes, recalling days of my childhood (pre-diabetes) that were laced with Cocoa Puffs and a Poptart haze, which then led to a vast recall of various Smurfs and Muppet Babies episodes that I had watched with my brother on Saturday mornings. The kids begged for stupid sugary shit every six feet or so, but I sweetly turned them down, making wise Mommy choices. I never became angry. I never got frustrated.

Once we reached the produce aisle, we decided to look for pumpkins so that we could carve them on Halloween. For over half an hour, I hoisted pumpkins out of a bin that was as tall as I was, lining them up and helping the kids decide which pumpkins were the best. When they changed their minds halfway to the checkout line, I laughed and took them back to the bin, where we compared pumpkins for another ten minutes or so. We were giggly and sweet, and I thought repeatedly, "I LOVE being a Mom! This is so awesome."

And then I realized-- HOLY FUCK. I'M HIGH.

Yep. You heard me. As my mother would say, "High as a kite," (or, in Haley speak "FUCKING HIGH AS A GODDAMN KITE).

Remember those "Advil" I popped at the gym? Yeah. Not Advil. SO not Advil. Hydrocodone. Leftover Dad-strength, cancer pain fighting Hydrocodone that I had swiped after he passed away and stashed into my purse for cramps or migraines or really shitty parenting days (don't push me-- this is a totally valid reason to take drugs). And I didn't take the ONE that was prescribed for Dad. I took TWO. No wonder I felt so warm and happy and fuzzy around the edges. And the sad thing? IT WAS FABULOUS. Probably my best Mommy Day ever (at least, until I realized that those were my last two Hydrocodone and that, unless I purposefully snapped a bone on my way out of the store, my Happy Haze was permanently over).

Ironically, this week is Red Ribbon Week at the kids' school. They keep telling me how DRUGS ARE BAD. What the fuck ever. I'm thinking of jumping off the roof just to score some more. Or at the very least, make a run to Portsmouth where I'm pretty sure I could score just about anything on just about any corner. For now I'll keep that to myself, but you can be damn sure that when my KIDS have kids, I'll be encouraging them to build their own damn meth lab.

Whatever it takes to get by.

Monday, October 17, 2011

We're All Special

Ever since Sutton started kindergarten back in September, he has been coming home telling me about his friend, whom we will call "E." According to Sutt, E is awesome because he has a "little hand," with "these [indicating four] fingers stuck together", and "it's awesome" and SUTT "wants a little hand too because it's cool!"

Jump ahead to my first stint volunteering in Sutt's class.

I'm at the school. I'm sober. I'm wearing mascara and a shirt that doesn't show too much cleavage or have swear words on the front. I'm assisting children with their work and calling them "Sweetie" and "Honey" and "Darlin." I'm (begrudgingly) smiling. I'm SUPER-FUCKING-MOM (of course). And I'm also looking for this kid, E, to see what's up, as I'm sure he's just a regular kid with some weird webby fingers that make my kid jealous for the creepy side of life. But as I cut out construction paper apples and grade papers and help the minions take reading tests, I realize that there is no E and there is no weird hand.

What. The. Fuck?

I spend the next half hour wondering if Sutt has an imaginary friend. Does he have mental health issues? Did he inherit them from me? Should I get him a psychiatrist? Or a priest? Is this because one time when I was pregnant I had half a glass of wine and then cried for two hours because B wouldn't let me have more? Before long, I had myself pretty wound up. (Side note: It doesn't take much to wind me up. I get crazy and frantic at least 200 times a day, over random things like when the mail might come or if I accidentally packed Cheez-Its as Sutt's snack because I was talking on the phone when I packed snack but Sutt DOESN'T LIKE CHEEZ-ITS so DEAR JESUS what the HELL am I going to do if he's SNACKLESS?)

Until we went to lunch. I had promised Sutton that I would go to the cafeteria and sit with him while he ate lunch (because God knows I'm not eating that swill they serve in the cafeteria, and I'm not packing my lunch like I do for the kids because I LIKE LIQUID LUNCH. And, much like firearms and farm animals, vodka is not allowed in the cafeteria). We sat down and Sutt meandered into his Thermos of mac and cheese while I chatted up his classmates and counted down the minutes until I could get the HELL outta that sideshow, quit being so goddamn nice, and say "fuck" in a conversation without getting sent to the office. But as we were sitting there, Sutt started to shout, "Hey! There's my friend [E]! The guy with the cool hand! Hey, [E]! How are you today? This is my Mommy!" He was jumping up and down in his seat and pointing behind me, so I turned around. I wanted to see this kid E, and introduce myself as Sutt's Mom-- maybe instigate a playdate. And, for the first time, I saw E. E was not what I had expected. Not at all. E was in the Special Education class. E was severely physically and mentally handicapped. He had to have a special teacher JUST FOR HIM.

I realized then what I had been told early on but had forgotten-- my son was in the Inclusion Class for kindergarten, which meant that some of the kids in the class were more challenged than others, and that once a day for about an hour severely challenged kids were brought to the class also, if only to listen to a story or be around the "normal" kids. E was one of those kids, and frankly, his "little hand" with which Sutt was so enamored was likely the least of his problems. But Sutton hadn't even noticed that, he only knew that E was cool. Why? Because E liked to poke him "in the eyes to tell me where my eyes are!" and because his "little hand is like Nemo's!" Sutt realized that this kid wasn't broken, he was special. And that made me realize how special MY kid was. Sutt, my gifted, perfect, whip-smart little guy didn't notice E's weaknesses, he noticed his awesomeness. He wanted to BE LIKE E. And that made me think.

Yeah, a lot of us are fucked up. Some of us are way more fucked up than others (as I bow to my followers). But we're all people. We're intrinsically all the same (even if we live in a trailer with a meth lab and have been engaged to our cousin-- this is a shout out to my TN relatives). Sutt doesn't see the black and white, the odd, the different. He just sees a kid with a cool hand. He just sees another kid he would like to play with, and introduce to his Mommy. That makes me happy.

Maybe we should all be a little more like Sutt.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Square Peg, Round Hole

This morning, as I was perusing the Bizarre News Headlines of the World (because who wants to read about wars, politics, and the economy when one can read about CRAZY RANDOM SHIT?) and I stumbled across an article from Europe, about an Irish woman who is suing her husband for misrepresenting the size of his penis. According to the Irish lass, she and her beau chose to refrain from sexual contact beyond kissing throughout their courtship, focusing on how wonderful their wedding night would be after all of the anticipation leading up to it. Mr. Irishman talked a big game during this time (literally) as he rhapsodized to his lady love about how he was going to rock her world with his ginormous Irish shlong. He was hung like a stallion and he knew how to use it. Or so he said. Turns out, when their wedding night rolled around and he whipped out his junk for his blushing bride, she was more than a little disappointed. As a matter of fact, she had their marriage annulled, citing fraud (it also helped that it had not been consummated).

High five, Irish Chick. You Go Girl.

Said article immediately sparked my curiosity. You hear the old stereotypes-- Asian men have tiny dicks, black men are hung, blah blah blah (although, for the record, I have found this to be true, though it is based solely on television, movies, and porn)-- but you (at least, I) never hear anything about European penises in general. Clearly, I needed to do some research.

Several million websites and photographs (so many uncircumcised penises!) later, both medical and official, and personal and trashy, I had gleaned the following:

1. Of European men, Irishmen have the smallest genitalia. However, they either don't realize it, or just try to overcompensate for their small size by bragging big. Condensed version: Small dicks, big egos.

2. Of European men, Italian men (Western Europe) and Russian men (Eastern Europe-- and yes, I know Russia doesn't exist any longer-- suck it, bitches. This isn't a goddamn history lesson) have the biggest, but brag the least. Condensed version: Big dicks, small egos. (For the record, Italian men supposedly flaunt their prowess and skills in the boudoir, even though they don't have much to say about size. Irishmen will straight up tell you they have no skills when it comes to foreplay, but their giant penises (that don't exist) make up for it. Whatever.)

You are asking now, "What is the point of all this, Oh Great And Awesome Haley?" Well, I shall tell you. It's not penises. I only told you all that shit because I figured if I spent all that time researching worldwide penis size I might as well DO something with it (like educate you guys). The POINT is, that Irish Chick who sued her under-endowed husband is clearly not your average woman. And I love that.

Life, to me, if often so damn BORING. Everybody I meet is the same. WHY WHY WHY be like everyone else when we don't have to be? I wonder that a lot-- do all these people really TRY to be so fucking dull, or are they ACTUALLY that way? That's why I love the Bizarre News. It's about my PEOPLE, y'all. Where the FUCK are the rest of you?

Last week I was checking in at the gym and a woman came in behind me carrying a box fan. She had her workout gear on, her ponytail, her water bottle. And her big-ass box fan. I didn't think THAT much about it until I watched her go upstairs to the cardio area, plug in her fan, aim it at the treadmill, and start power walking. WHAT THE FUCK? The gym is not hot. The gym has fans aimed down from the ceiling in addition to the air conditioning. And this fan was big as hell. Most people would have just bitched and moaned to their friends or themselves if they were hot at the gym. But this bitch-- she BROUGHT HER OWN DAMN FAN. People looked at her like she was a lunatic, including the staff and trainers. But I got the impression that she didn't fucking care. High five, Gym Lady. I applaud you.

So now, my friends, I encourage you to go out into the world and be somebody interesting. Don't use your filter. Divorce your husband and his small dick. Wear your hot pink Converse with the stars on them when you are 34 years old, and don't even match them to your clothes. Take your damn box fan to the gym. Teach your kids to mix a martini. Most of all, be yourself. If you're boring and you suck when you're being yourself, at least you are still being what you really are. And that, my friends, I applaud as well.