What can I say?

I am a TOTAL bad ass!

21

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Happy Day

It's Christmas. For years, every time the subject of this day has surfaced, I have met it with nausea and a rolling of the eyes. I have hated Christmas for as long as I can remember. Let me clarify, I hate what the day has become. I hate the frenetic shopping/wrapping/greed mongering that takes place in the name of this holiday. I hate the fact that some people feel this day gives them license to be assholes of a variety they wouldn't dare to be any other time of year. I am not a Christian. I do not believe in Christ. I am not at all certain that there is a God. I hate the assumption that everyone here IS a Christian and DOES believe in God, and therefore celebrates this holiday above and instead of all others. I hate the fake happiness and insipid posturing of plastic people. I hate the bull shit. In fact, if I hear one more jackass say "Jesus is the reason for the season," I may have to punch them in the throat. I'll forward my cellblock and inmate number so y'all can write me love letters while I'm in the Pen.
But now I have kids. And I love what this holiday gives me the opportunity to do for them. Because of this day, I can give them traditions, and memories and fun like I never experienced as a kid, and I can make them better people. I realize that I don't need a special day to make memories or create traditions for them, but there is something magical about this day that lends itself to the memory making. My eldest is just now 4, just now old enough to remember, just now old enough to get excited about things to come because of the way things were done before. The excitement and energy and sheer joy in his eyes and squeaky little voice have been a constant source of entertainment and inspiration for the last week. Like every little kid in America, the land of excess and ease, he has been beside himself in anticipation of what Santa might bring, vibrating with the hope that he might get Lego Star Wars: The Complete Saga for his Nintendo DS. But what has kept him up at night, what he has run through the house celebrating and anticipating and singing about, has been the arrival of his grandma, and his grandpa, and his aunt. His family. In celebrating this day, I have the opportunity to cement into the very fabric of his tiny little being that it is the people in life that matter. Not the gifts. Not the money. Not the bull shit. He seems to have gotten that message already, and I couldn't be happier or more proud. For him, and for his brother, I will celebrate this day and love every minute of it.


And for you, my friends, I will say thank you. I love and appreciate every, single one of you. Your presence and participation in my life enriches it in ways I cannot find words to express. No matter what this day means to you, I hope that it was spent in ways that make you happy. I hope the coming year brings you health, happiness, and success in ways you've never known. I love you bitches.

My House Hates Me.

I'm convinced that my house was built upon an anthill, and that my house thinks it's funny to let the little fuckers in when I least expect it just so it can watch me jump and scream and cavort like a complete tard while simultaneously trying to avoid and destroy the ants. I hate ants. I hate them more than any other living thing on the planet. They are disgusting. They stink. I am CONVINCED that one day I will wake up covered in them and will have to set myself on fire on that day. I hate them with the passion of a thousand burning suns. They are the only thing that has that much power over me. And yet, they are everywhere. Every-fucking-where in my house, and they come out of nowhere for seemingly no reason. The other night I was up late, working on a project prompt to torture my students with when I felt a tickle on my foot. I reached down, without looking, to scratch at my foot and felt the tickle move. Up. My. Leg. I freaked. I looked down and my carpet was ALIVE. There was a GIGANTIC trail of fucking ants from my dining room table, where I was working, to the closet door in my hallwa, where my sons have a little activity table. There were thousands upon thousands of ants all nasty and writhing on my floor, up the wall, and around the closet door. They were in my carpet, taunting me with their stink and disgustingness. For a half second (maybe a little more) I seriously considered setting my house on fire to kill them all. Common sense prevailed though and I opted for poisoning the hell out of the little fuckers. I emptied half a bottle of poison onto my carpet and some of them were STILL alive. I swear they are bionic and will take over the world one day. It took all night for the stuff I sprayed to dry. The next morning I vaccumed all the little carcasses up and did a little dance of victory on the mass grave I'd created before leaving for work.
When I got home from work, I really had to pee. So without really paying attention, I ran into the hall bathroom to do my bidness. When I reached for the toilet paper, I screamed like a 12 year old girl at a boy band concert. The vanity was COVERED in ants. COVERED! The entire counter top was alive. The mirror was black with ants. The wall looked as if it had veins. The sink was FULL. There were SO many ants I actually reached for the lighter and nail polish remover and seriously considered creating a molotov cocktail to set that mother ablaze. Again, common sense prevailed and I let out a string of obsenities to make a sailor blush and went for the other half of the poison I'd used the night before. I bathed the entire bathroom in that shit. I could not for the life of me figure out what they were after.Mr. Mature heard me screaming and came to see what was up. When he saw the ants he just smiled. When I asked him why he was happy he said "now they're not lonely." Huh? Lonely? "Yeah mama, when I was in here this morning, I saw an ant and he looked lonely. So I gave him a snack before we got in the car." WHAT? Snack? "Yep. I gave him some crackers from yesterday. I put them in my room because I didn't finish them and wanted to save them. I shared though, cuz I'm a good boy." And with that, and his little chest all puffed out with pride, my darling midget marched back into the living room to play with his borther, completely blind to the trauma he'd caused me. Yeah. So now, it's not just my house plotting against me. My kid has joined the party.

Maybe we haven't come so far.

The commercials this time of year either annoy me or piss me off entirely. On the annoying side you have the increase in shit peddled to little kids. Everything sings, dances, vibrates and/or has wheels so the little buggers can simultaneously deafen you and knock you on your ass by running it under your feet. Awesome. On the entirely piss me off and make me frothing-at-the-mouth-angry, you have This. When I first saw the commercial for this thing it annoyed me, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. It irritated me that the commercial kept playing in my head. But it wasn't the commercial itself that was bothering me. It's the idea of it. Why, in 2007, damn near 2008, are we still telling little girls that they should hope for nothing more than a fucking cottage kitchen with a cradle and all the other acoutrements of a domestic centered life? Is there no higher hope for our daughters than poppin' out kids and tending to a home? If I had a daughter, there's no way in hell that thing would make it into my house. There is NOTHING wrong with being a mother, a wife, a domestic person. There's nothing wrong with playing house, playing mommy, or playing wife. But I'll be damned if I teach any little girl that that's what she SHOULD be. And this 'toy' (I'm more inclined to think of it as a weapon.) does that. It's not marketed to boys. There are no boys in the print/net/tv ads for it. The whole thing is pink and purple and soft yellows-all the colors generally associated with femininity. Their description of the thing even points out that it is specifically for girls. "Rose Petal Cottage gives your little girl a house of her own to live in, take care of, and decorate" and "Playing “house” in the ROSE PETAL Cottage lets your little girl build her very own home – and her imagination – right in your living room!"
Hello, 1950 called and wants its gender roles back.
Why can't we teach our little girls that they can be doctors, or lawyers, or police officers, or professionals of any kind AND play house at the same time. Why isnt' there a briefcase included in that kitchen set? A microscope? How about a law book or a gavel? Why isn't there anything included in that kitchen set that teaches a little girl to imagine her potential beyond exercising her uterus? Why are we still propogating the uterus-as-clown car mentality? (I LOVE that phrase Michelle !)

Conversations with Mr. Mature

So, tonight I was in the kitchen making taquitos to take to Mr. Mature's karate Christmas party. He saunters into the kitchen and plops down in his chair at the kitchen table. We're chatting about games and his day at the babysitter's house when out of nowhere he gets very quiet and serious. This beauty of a conversation followed:
MM: "I don't want to lose my teeth, mama."
Me: "Lose your teeth? Your baby teeth?"
MM: "Yep. I don't want to lose my baby teeth."
Me: "Well, there's not a lot you can do about that honey. It's going to happen. It won't hurt though. It's a good thing. It means your growing up and becoming a big boy! That'll be cool, won't it?"
MM: "NO! I don't want to grow up. I LOVE being a kid mama! Being a grown up is NO fun."
Me: "Well, sometimes that's true. But being a grown up is fun sometimes and you get to do tons of fun stuff you can't do when you're a kid."
MM: "Nope. Nothing fun. You can't have my teeth. I won't let you make me grow up. I'm never getting bigger ever!"

And he ran out of the kitchen with his hands over his mouth! He cracks my shit up!

Random Announcements

Pinky and The Brain = Best cartoon EVER!

Smokin' Aces = Crappy movie and waste of 2 hours of my life I'll never get back.

I hate bigots. Sucks that I work with a gaggle of them.

4 year olds hopped up on sugar should be illegal.

My kids are cute.



That is all.

Odd

I did something odd the other day. I shaved my arms. Now they are hairless. It feels odd. I can't stop touching them, and I feel dirty because of it. They are just so soft and smooth and, well, hairless. They are fascinating! I highly recommend shaving your arms. Of course, I have no idea what the regrowth will look or feel like, since I've never done this before, but for now it is teh awesome! I am such a hairy beast, it's ridiculous. And don't tell me I'm not, those of you who've actually seen me in person. Because I am. You just can't tell because it's all blonde and very light brown. It took me 4 passes with the razor in each spot to get my arms all sexy smooth. 4 passes people! I bet there are sasquatch running around who wouldn't have to work that hard to get a clean shave!