Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Stranger Danger

I'd like to talk about love.

I've never been the type of girl who goes around loving everyone.  As a matter of fact, most of the time I can intuit within the first minute of meeting someone if I will even LIKE them, much less love them.  I know that's probably not the best way to go about things, and occasionally I find that I'm totally wrong about someone, but truly, more often than not my intuition is spot on.  I don't know what chemical or brain function or spark in the universe causes love, but I find it interesting to think about.

When I was pregnant with both of my children, I assumed (even the second time, when I knew better) that when they came out I would instantly recognize them as my own, as PART OF MY TRIBE, and love them mercilessly.  I didn't.  Hell, they whisked Belly off so fast to the NICU that I didn't even see her.  When I was finally able to go to her later, if it hadn't been for that little name tag on her isolette, I wouldn't have had a clue which kid had been popped out of me.  I felt no recognition.  The little person I had grown for 32 weeks and talked to and played with and felt like I knew so well was an unidentifiable little stranger.  It was fucking weird.

With Sutt it was a little bit different.  I was a little more prepared to not know my kid, and he actually LOOKED exactly like newborn Belly, so I probably would have recognized him (but not if he had been born first).  He was still a bit of a stranger though.  I probably loved him more at birth than I loved Belly, just because he was a little bit familiar, and because he wasn't immediately taken from me so we had time to bond.  But I don't go around loving strangers, so that ain't saying much.

I realize that this sounds terrible and you're all judging me and thinking WHAT A SHITTY MOM!  WHO SAYS THAT?  But, you know, whatever.  The truth sucks sometimes.  I don't care.  Because as I got to know my little humans, I realized that I wasn't SUPPOSED to immediately recognize them.  I didn't HAVE to instantly be madly in love with them, I just had to protect and care for them.  What I never knew until I had my own kids is that babies don't come straight into the world 50% you and 50% their father.  You don't KNOW them because they share your DNA or the DNA of the one you love (or, at least got knocked up by).  Regardless of their genetic makeup, they are their own little people, with their own looks and quirks and personalities.  You have to get to know them to understand who they are.  You have to learn to love them for themselves.

And now, 12 and nearly 10 years into knowing my kids, OH MY HEAVENS HOW I LOVE THEM.  More and more every day. They are complete pains in my ass, they bicker all the time, but they are smart and kind and well-mannered and hilarious.  They are WEIRD AS FUCK.  They take the term "nerd" to a whole new level.  And it's more obvious than ever that they are NOT just half me and half B.  Bellamy's facial features and hair are B, made over.  But she's built exactly like her Aunt Sarah Catherine, with those long limbs and big feet.  Her personality is a lot like a bizarre mash-up of her Ya-Ya and, oddly enough, B's stepmom, Barbara (her Grandbabs), who isn't even related to Belly by blood.  But they are so much alike.  And Sutt, my Sutt.  He has my Dad's eyes, but my eye color, my Dad's mouth, but B's exact body and movements.  He and Bellamy look nothing like.  But I love looking at each of them and seeing bits and pieces that I DO recognize, and enjoying aspects of them that are all their own.  I don't need a kid that is half me and half B.  I got something infinitely better.

They are so much more than the sum of their parts.  They are the sum of the parts of many, many people that I've cherished, laughed with, cried upon, and adored.

And that is what love is to me.

Monday, June 22, 2015

Kiss My Asss

My friend Megan recently introduced me to a weekly video blog called "Wine About It" done by a writer named Matt Bellassai.  Basically, the idea is that he sits at his desk, drinks an entire bottle of wine (or two) and drunkenly covers whatever is his chosen topic of the week.  I think it's brilliant because 1) he gets to drink at work in the middle of the day and 2) I want a job where people basically pay me to bitch (and bitch while drinking, nonetheless).  Anyway, Mr. Bellassai beat me to the idea, but I told Megan I may start doing my own version anyway, just because it would pretty much be the highlight of my week, and I could TOTALLY use a weekly highlight these days.  I actually had the same idea a year or so ago (minus the video part) and looked into starting a new blog just for my drunken rantings.  I was going to entitle it "Winey Little Bitch."  Sadly, some ASSHOLE already had that domain name and was using it for wine reviews (and they aren't even saucy wine reviews-- they are ridiculously boring wine reviews), so I chucked the idea and moved on.  But today I feel like doing a little bitching, so I'm just going to blog about it.  

Side note:  I'm not drunk.  I'm drinking water with ice and watermelon cubes in it.  Just for the record.  This blog would likely be far more interesting if I WAS drunk.


1.  The person who parked next to me at Tuesday Morning~  Do you know how some parking spaces have extra lines in between them?  Sort of like they are outlined in between the spaces to give you extra room?  Well, I was in one of  those spots (remember--plenty of room) and so was the white Impala who parked next to me.  Half sideways.  With the nose of his or her car blocking the driver's door to MY car.  Now, I realize that anyone who has approximately 20 empty potato chip bags in their passenger seat and a pot-leaf air freshener hanging from their rear view mirror may be in a hurry to get into, say, Kroger or the Circle K, but TUESDAY MORNING?  Do you need a discount curtain rod THAT badly?  Perhaps you were dashing in for their 20% Off All Spring Merchandise sale?  There are no snacks OR weed in Tuesday Morning, asshole.  I know this for a fact.  PULL YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, IMPALA DRIVER.  I HAD TO CLIMB THROUGH MY PASSENGER DOOR TO GET INSIDE MY CAR BECAUSE YOU WERE TOO HIGH TO PARK STRAIGHT.  YOU CAN KISS MY ASS.

2.  Paul and Ken~  So they are they assistant manager and manager at the gym, as best I can tell.  And I don't have a really good reason for disliking them other than Paul is just kind of slimy and chatty and makes me feel like I need to wipe myself down with a Clorox wipe after I talk to him to kill any Creepy Asshole Germs that might have jumped off onto me from him.  Plus, unless he's selling you a gym membership, he's kind of a dick-- one of those people who talks, but doesn't listen.  I can't stand those people.  And Ken is always up in my business about using the heart rate monitors on the elliptical machines so he doesn't get a notification down at the desk that an elliptical is being used but whoever is on it has no heart rate (in a moment of frustration, I may have once told him that I was a vampire and had no heart rate).  I mean, REALLY?  His theory is that I could be having a heart attack and they'd never know because my heart rate isn't being shown and my response is KISS MY ASS, KEN.  IF I WAS HAVING A HEART ATTACK I SURE AS HELL WOULDN'T WANT YOU AS MY FIRST RESPONDER ANYWAY.  OR YOUR CREEPY-ASS SIDEKICK PAUL.  AND WHEN YOU COME UP TO CHECK ON ME BECAUSE I HAVE NO HEART RATE AND YOU SEE ME WATCHING "BOTCHED" AND POWERING THROUGH ANOTHER RANDOM HILL, SHOULDN'T THAT TELL YOU I'M NOT FUCKING DEAD?  Now leave me alone and let me get back to my blood-drinking and sparkling in the sunlight.  I signed the stupid safety waiver when I joined the gym.  If I want to ellipticize until my heart fucking explodes I will.  Kiss my ass.

3.  Barnes & Noble~  This is pretty straightforward.  I ordered a book.  It was supposed to arrive today.  It didn't.  KISS MY ASS, BARNES & NOBLE, WITH YOUR BIG, FAT, LYING-ABOUT-DELIVERY-DATES EMAIL.  KISS MY ASS.  What if I REALLY needed to know what happened in Fifty Shades of Grey from Christian's perspective?  I mean, I probably don't.  BUT WHAT IF I DID?  According to the B&N order page, Christian Grey's birthday was on Thursday and that's when the book was being released.  WHAT IF I DIDN'T WANT TO MISS CHRISTIAN GREY'S BIRTHDAY?  What if I was in desperate need of another version of one of the most poorly written erotic novels ever created and, particularly, needed it TODAY?  WHAT IF IT WAS A LITERARY SEXUAL EMERGENCY?  What about that, B&N? You can kiss my ass.

4.  My therapist~  Today we had a conversation that went a little something like this:
HER:  Do you ever have suicidal or homicidal thoughts?
ME:  I think we need to break that down into two separate questions, for clarity's sake.
HER:  Okay.  Do you ever have suicidal thoughts?
ME:  Yes.  Who doesn't?  But I would never leave my kids.  I have far too much meddling to do in their lives before I'm outta here.
HER:  Have you ever considered how you would do it, if you did?
ME:  Oh, yeah.  I want it to be big and spectacular.  Like, if I could make myself spontaneously combust in the middle of a really crowded place, like the mall right around Christmas, that would be really cool.  Maybe right by the Santa station?  
HER:  I doubt you could make that happen.  Do you have other thoughts about how you would do it?
ME:  Well, I really like fire.  And explosions.  I also think poison would be awesome if it was like a Shakespearean play and I could take the poison, give a speech in Old English while acting surprised I had been poisoned, then dramatically expire in front of an audience.  I'd want there to be a sword involved too, but I don't want to be stabbed.  Maybe someone else would be so sad that I was poisoned they stabbed themselves?  I haven't finished thinking this one through.
HER:  I think you are misunderstanding the question.
ME:  Nope.  I am absolutely NOT misunderstanding anything.
HER:  Let's move on.  Do you ever have homicidal thoughts?
ME:  Yes, I'm having them now because you don't want to let me theoretically die in the manner of which I am most interested in dying.
HER:  I'm not sure I can help you.

OF COURSE YOU CAN'T.  You're the one who asked the questions, lady.  I just answer them in the most truthful manner I can.  If you don't like that, you can kiss my ass.

5. All Morning People~  Now, I realize that this is a very mean and random one, but hey, IT'S MY FUCKING BLOG.  I can hate you if I want to, and, honestly, I do.  Why?  Because I am NOT a morning person.  And my mornings, on top of not being the time of day that I'm at my best, are usually shit.  Let me tell you what the first twenty minutes of a typical morning in my life is like.

I wake up to Poe, the puppy, pouncing on my face.  The little guy is cute as hell, but has a built-in alarm clock that doesn't let him sleep any later than 7, and I swear that by then he's already been awake for three hours and BARELY holding himself together waiting on me to wake up and play with him.  (Have you ever seen "Elf"?  He reminds me SO MUCH of a puppy version of Will Ferrell's character in that movie.)  Anyway, while I'm trying to get him to quit biting my hair and pulling it, Belly bursts into my room to tell me that the other dog, Lola, threw up on her sheets.  Five times.  And she doesn't know what to do (because SHE'S ONLY 12 IT'S NOT LIKE SHE'S OLD ENOUGH TO, SAY, BE MARRIED OFF IF SHE LIVED IN ALABAMA OR ANYTHING).  So I help her strip her sheets and clean up the mattress pad before I put the sheets in the washer and start a load of laundry.  I still haven't washed my face or put in my contacts, so I feel greasy and I can't see worth a damn.  I make it downstairs only to see that Poe has pooped on the rug by the back door because I didn't get him out in time because I was distracted by the Lola puke.  I clean it up, take him out and am immediately hit by an UNGODLY wave of heat because HERE IN GEORGIA THE HEAT INDEX IS ALREADY OVER 100 BY THAT TIME, FOLKS.  Then I realize that Belly didn't bring Lola outside, so I go upstairs to look for THAT dog, only to find that she's hiding deep under the confines of my ginormous bed and that the only way to get her out is to army crawl under the bed and drag her by her collar, which is exactly what I have to do.  I get HER outside and force her to pee, then I come back in (still can't see), try to make coffee, and knock a minimum of three things out of the refrigerator just trying to get to the milk.  Of course, the hummus that falls out lands upside down on my foot and splatters all over me and the island and the floor.  Both dogs start licking it up, which is probably GREAT for Lola's vomit issue, and then Sutt wanders downstairs, decides he's hungry, and walks THROUGH the humus without ever noticing it on his way to the pantry for cereal.  I JUST WANT TO PUNCH SOMEONE IN THE FACE.  No wonder I swear so much.  And yes, this exact morning happened as stated.  And happens, with a few variations, regularly.  So all you people who wake up happy and chipper and have great mornings where nothing is covered in hummus or vomit, you can kiss my ass.  KISS MY ASS.

HAPPY MONDAY, Y'ALL.  Looks like it's finally cocktail hour.