I never really wanted to be "someone's wife". And I never really wanted to be one of those moms whose days revolved around her children. I wanted my own life, I wanted my own interests, and more than anything else, I wanted to retain my independence. When we moved, everything I thought I was, everything I thought I wanted, everything in my life completely shifted. My days are now filled with laundry, dishes, vacuuming, ironing, sewing buttons and thinking about healthy meals and snacks for my family. Sometimes I find myself feeling like I'm living someone else's life, I mean, this is Merritt. 110% independent, snarky, and a total disaster when it comes to anything domestic related. Or at least that's how I thought I was. Maybe I'm not at all who I thought, and maybe that's not such a terrible thing.
This morning I got up with Chris at 5:30 to have breakfast with him before he went to work. Granted it was Eggo waffles, but the old me would've never done that. I would have half-heartedly said goodbye to him as he left, not even bothering to open my eyes. When it was time for the kids to get up, I would have gotten them up and gone back to bed, confident that they could take showers and get ready themselves, certainly capable of getting their own cereal. Now, I get up before them so I can make them a hot breakfast, usually something along the lines of scrambled eggs, peanut butter toast and some kind of fruit, that I've peeled and sliced for them. They eat at the table, with the tv off. We chat about what they have going on at school, I quiz them on vocabulary or spelling words, and they're seeming to love every minute of it. What's nuts is, I am too.
I'm taking great pride, I'm talking GREAT pride, like I live in the freakin Taj Mahal pride, in my home. I'm painstakingly choosing everything that goes into this house. For instance, it took me 3 weeks, no exaggeration, to choose a backsplash. It took me 2 weeks to decide on the wall scheme of shelves for the kitchen. I've arranged pictures, then rearranged them again to make sure that they're perfect. I make my bed every single day, complete with frou frou pillows and a puffy comforter, just like in a magazine. You know, I actually even considered ironing my sheets, but I thought that might be overkill. The table no longer has laundry folded all over it like it did when we lived in Maine. It's folded and put away immediately.
So what's the difference? Is it because I'm not working and my only job now is to be a wife and mother? Is it because the climate is warmer and I don't feel the need to hide under blankets to stay warm? Is it because the day light lasts longer and I don't feel that familiar depression creeping in? Maybe it's all of it. Maybe it's none of it. But for the first time in my life, I don't care why. I don't need to analyze. I'm happy, and I'm exactly where I want to be, where I need to be. I'm still crazy, and I still rock my pink bathrobe like nobody's business, but something's just different. And I like it.
Showing posts with label deep thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label deep thoughts. Show all posts
I am one pathetic loser
My mom has finally joined the 21st century and decided to create a Facebook account. I've been bugging her about it for months. A lot of times I'd do my daily updates (which include anything from nonsensical ramblings to what's going in our lives) on Facebook and then forget to tell her about stuff. Or she'd be like, oh, so and so is moving and I'd be like, yeah, I know, I saw it on Facebook. It was just a pain in the ass. So anyway, she joined Facebook, and the other day we were talking about how it's going to be an adjustment for me to move to a place where I don't know anyone, and she says, in a way that only your mother can, you know, you're a lot nicer on Facebook than you are in person. I was like, ehh, what? She clarified that I'm just more open on Facebook, and more friendly. In person, not so much. I'd like to be really offended, but I think she may be on to something there.
This isn't something that I would normally advertise, but since I've talked about everything else on the internet, I'll just go for it. I don't have any friends. Now before you say, oh, of course you do, everyone has friends! Let me say, no, I really don't. I used to, I used to have lots, but high school was a long time ago. Those people are more of acquaintances, or old friends that I rarely get to talk to. I have lots of people that I talk to all the time, like this super kick ass chick that I met at Kat's cheering. We talk like everyday on Facebook, and she would totally be my BFF (yeah, I said BFF. I have a 10-year old daughter, what do you expect?) but she lives far away from me, like North Carolina far. I don't have anyone that I can get a cup of coffee with and have girl talk. Well, I have Chris, but he sucks at girl talk. I have people that I'm friendly with, but no real circle of friends, or shopping buddies or BFFs. Before you go thinking I'm some kind of colossal loser, I should tell you, I kind of dislike people. They make me nervous. I just don't know what to say when I'm with people. Like, if they read my blog, they think I'm funny. And I'm not really funny, I'm just a smart ass, and in person, that comes off bitchy. And although I kind of am a bitch, I don't mean to come off bitchy. So my mom was right. Who knew I'd admit that in public either?
So this whole moving to a new place thing combined with my mom telling me I'm not really nice in person got me thinking. I've been telling the kids how this is a great opportunity for them to make new friends and shake off any of those old stigmas. They can be anything they want to be, no one knows anything about them, etc. Maybe the same should apply for me. It would be awesome for Chris and I to have a couple that we could hang out with, or a girl that I could go have coffee with, or someone to walk around the block with. But new people scare me, and I'm such a hermit. I'd rather be home steam cleaning the carpets than out being social. So what do you think? How do you even make friends as an adult? There have been many instances that people have been making plans and stuff and even though I was standing there, they didn't invite me. And it's not like I can be all, wanna go hang out with me? That's just dorky. So internet, what's a wall flower/smartass/bitch supposed to do to make new friends in a new environment? How do I pull the real me (which is the the way I am here and on Facebook, by the way) out and let go of this shy crap?
This isn't something that I would normally advertise, but since I've talked about everything else on the internet, I'll just go for it. I don't have any friends. Now before you say, oh, of course you do, everyone has friends! Let me say, no, I really don't. I used to, I used to have lots, but high school was a long time ago. Those people are more of acquaintances, or old friends that I rarely get to talk to. I have lots of people that I talk to all the time, like this super kick ass chick that I met at Kat's cheering. We talk like everyday on Facebook, and she would totally be my BFF (yeah, I said BFF. I have a 10-year old daughter, what do you expect?) but she lives far away from me, like North Carolina far. I don't have anyone that I can get a cup of coffee with and have girl talk. Well, I have Chris, but he sucks at girl talk. I have people that I'm friendly with, but no real circle of friends, or shopping buddies or BFFs. Before you go thinking I'm some kind of colossal loser, I should tell you, I kind of dislike people. They make me nervous. I just don't know what to say when I'm with people. Like, if they read my blog, they think I'm funny. And I'm not really funny, I'm just a smart ass, and in person, that comes off bitchy. And although I kind of am a bitch, I don't mean to come off bitchy. So my mom was right. Who knew I'd admit that in public either?
So this whole moving to a new place thing combined with my mom telling me I'm not really nice in person got me thinking. I've been telling the kids how this is a great opportunity for them to make new friends and shake off any of those old stigmas. They can be anything they want to be, no one knows anything about them, etc. Maybe the same should apply for me. It would be awesome for Chris and I to have a couple that we could hang out with, or a girl that I could go have coffee with, or someone to walk around the block with. But new people scare me, and I'm such a hermit. I'd rather be home steam cleaning the carpets than out being social. So what do you think? How do you even make friends as an adult? There have been many instances that people have been making plans and stuff and even though I was standing there, they didn't invite me. And it's not like I can be all, wanna go hang out with me? That's just dorky. So internet, what's a wall flower/smartass/bitch supposed to do to make new friends in a new environment? How do I pull the real me (which is the the way I am here and on Facebook, by the way) out and let go of this shy crap?
It's my blog and I'll quote Popeye if I want to
Lately there's been all this talk about what is and what is not a mommy blogger. About why we blog, why we do what we do, and why we feel it's necessary to be put in a box (or bust open the seams of said box). I got an email today about yesterday's post. Basically tsk tsking me for talking about vibrators on a mommy blog. This, combined with Aunt Becky's (in case you didn't know, Aunt Becky is the shit. I totally stalk her and you should too. She rocks beyond compare) question, "Why do you blog?" really got me thinking. Who am I really? Where do I fit? Why do I really blog? Am I doing the wrong thing? Am I too "out there"?
I have kids, sometimes I talk about them. That doesn't make me a mommy blogger, at least not what people seem to think mommy bloggers are. If there was some rule that "mommy bloggers" weren't allowed to talk about things like porn or vibrators, no one told me. See the title up there at the top of the page? That's my name. My real name, well the Merritt part, not the ocracy part, that would be a hella weird name. So...my name, my rules. If what I write offends you, don't read it. Because honestly, I don't write for you. And maybe that's not cool for me to say, but it's true. Yes, I love that people read what I write. I love when people leave comments, because it gives me validation that I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me. But at the end of the day, I write for me.
I have notebooks full of random shit that just pops into my head. I need an outlet for my crazy, and this is it. They used to have me on Prozac, but this is really much cheaper. You can only tell your friends and family about your random rambling thoughts so many times before people really start to think you're nuts. On my blog, I can be nuts, I can be crazy, because hey, crazy is the new black, right? (See how I just slipped that in there? I should totally be in advertising.) I write because I love to write. I love to have this crazy idea in my head, all jumbled and senseless, and just let it out into a (vaguely) coherent story. I love the process. I love everything about it. I've written for myself for way longer than blogs were popular, and really before the internet was even a "thing", I'm that old, y'all. It's always been my outlet, the only difference between now and then is, now, I have an audience other than my mother (my mom still reads my blog, even though she thinks I'm vulgar).
I'm doing all I can to not apologize for even possibly offending someone, but I'm not going to do it. As a wise sailor once said, "Aye yam who aye yam, and that's all that aye yam."
I have kids, sometimes I talk about them. That doesn't make me a mommy blogger, at least not what people seem to think mommy bloggers are. If there was some rule that "mommy bloggers" weren't allowed to talk about things like porn or vibrators, no one told me. See the title up there at the top of the page? That's my name. My real name, well the Merritt part, not the ocracy part, that would be a hella weird name. So...my name, my rules. If what I write offends you, don't read it. Because honestly, I don't write for you. And maybe that's not cool for me to say, but it's true. Yes, I love that people read what I write. I love when people leave comments, because it gives me validation that I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me. But at the end of the day, I write for me.
I have notebooks full of random shit that just pops into my head. I need an outlet for my crazy, and this is it. They used to have me on Prozac, but this is really much cheaper. You can only tell your friends and family about your random rambling thoughts so many times before people really start to think you're nuts. On my blog, I can be nuts, I can be crazy, because hey, crazy is the new black, right? (See how I just slipped that in there? I should totally be in advertising.) I write because I love to write. I love to have this crazy idea in my head, all jumbled and senseless, and just let it out into a (vaguely) coherent story. I love the process. I love everything about it. I've written for myself for way longer than blogs were popular, and really before the internet was even a "thing", I'm that old, y'all. It's always been my outlet, the only difference between now and then is, now, I have an audience other than my mother (my mom still reads my blog, even though she thinks I'm vulgar).
I'm doing all I can to not apologize for even possibly offending someone, but I'm not going to do it. As a wise sailor once said, "Aye yam who aye yam, and that's all that aye yam."
Fragments
So I've been looking for something "catchy" for a weekly post. I thought about doing Flashback Fridays, but then as I started writing these stories, almost all of them started with, this one time, when I was drunk/high (did I not tell you I used to be a total juvenile delinquent?) and since I have to preserve some modicum of integrity, albeit, not much obviously, I just can't tell those stories. Then I considered doing the Wordless Wednesday thing, but the only pictures I ever see are from Cake Wrecks or I Can Has Cheezburger, so that wouldn't work. Then I thought about doing Monday Magic, would be like all about some great new crafting project or some kick ass recipe that I made, then I remembered that I sincerely suck at crafting and I can't boil water without burning it. The only thing that I could really come up with was Friday Fragments, which is about the random thoughts that I've had throughout the week, the random things that just need to be shared and really don't need a whole post. Brilliant, right? Yes, because I'm really good at being random. Just work with me here.
With an afro:
How was your week?
Here we go.
- You know where I'm not going? BlogHer. If you haven't heard about it, it's this big conference in Chicago that (mostly) women go to. They do all kind of networking, get all kinds of goodies, learn to be even more awesome. It sounds really cool, but I'm not going. And I probably never will. I don't really like people, especially new people. And I don't like being away from home without my family. I'm totally needy and dependent that way. Plus Chris is cheap and I can't see him ever agreeing to pay for a trip about blogging. He's supportive, just not THAT supportive.
- As much as I try to be one of the cool kids, I'm actually not. I really, really don't get twitter. Yeah, I can twitter, send my little tweets and such. But I just don't get it. And when I reply to people, they don't reply to me, so I don't know if it's because people don't really like me and think that I'm retarded, or twitter people are just mean. Sometimes I tell myself that they just can't see my tweets because if they could, and they didn't reply, and they did think I was just retarded, that would just feed my inferiority complex, and then I'd get put back on anxiety medication, and it would just be a big mess. You can still follow me though. That would make me feel a little better.
- You know what word I'm really digging today? Clusterfuck. Great word, way underused.
- I almost got hair extensions put in. I'm so sick of trying to grow my hair out. I called a salon and even made an appointment. Then I told Chris how much they were going to be ($400) and after he stopped having an aneurysm, he told me I'd better be damned sure I wanted them. So to help make up my mind, I played around on thehairstyler.com, one of those sites where you take a picture of yourself and then try on hair. It was so much fun it was scary.
Some sexy stripper hair:
With an afro:Channeling Princess Leia (on crack):
How was your week?
UPDATE 7/28/09: Apparently great minds really do think alike. There is a fabulous blog (which you should totally check out), Half-Past Kissin' Time, and she has this great weekly thing called, ding, ding, ding! Friday Fragments! She's been doing it for awhile, so I wanted to give her props (since she did it first). Here I am thinking that I had the best idea ever, I found her blog today and the best idea ever was someone else's first. Who knew?
The soundtracks of our lives
I love music, every kind of music. It's also one of the few topics that I know a lot about. For instance, remember that show, Rock N' Roll Jeopardy, which is like regular Jeopardy but way better because it's about rock? Yeah, I own at that game. I'm like a fountain of useless knowledge when it comes to music. Sure, I know albums, artists, all that stuff, but I also know lyrics. If they still had Name That Tune, I'd own at that too. We'll be flipping through the radio stations, and I'll immediately know the song on just about any channel, and of course I always sing along...even though I can't sing for shit. Since I was little, I've had this love for music, and it's always been a big part of my life. Growing up, my dad was one of those sometimes distant dads, who just didn't always know how to relate to a girl. The only way we really communicated for a long time was through music. He'd taught me all about classic rock, the original "guitar heroes", he'd introduced me to all the greats, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Led Zeppelin, Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, all of them. It was just easier to talk about music than other stuff. So it's natural that I've always used music as a kind of soundtrack for my life. When I was really angry, I'd listen to Riders on the Storm (The Doors). When my first boyfriend broke up with me and I was sure that I would never love again and my life was over, I made a mix tape of just The Rose (Bette Midler) and Love Hurts (Nazareth), just put them back to back, so I could have 120 minutes in uninterrupted wallowing. I could listen to anything and think of a place or time where it would've applied to my life. Some may call it vain, I call it awesome. I think it could have something to do with me being a drama queen and thinking that I should totally have my own soundtrack. So even though it may not be weird for me to have my own soundtrack, I think it may be a little weird when I start making soundtracks for other people.
See, in my head, I've made a soundtrack for Barack Obama. I figure they'll make a movie about him, and I want to do the soundtrack. I don't have all the specifics worked out yet, but I've got some ideas. For instance, I see him telling his staff about how important votes will be, every vote will be hard fought, etc. Then it will cut to the volunteers fanning out over the communities, signing up voters, shaking hands, telling people about Obama, and in the background Waiting on the World to Change (John Mayer) will be playing. Ok then, in another scene, on election night, it will show people's reactions, spliced in with his acceptance speech, and then his voice will fade out and be replaced by Signed, Sealed, Delivered (Stevie Wonder). Genius right? Lastly, I see the final scene of the movie, the part where they show a still frame of the actor playing Obama (which totally is going to be Will Smith), and then the screen dims for a second, and real-life pictures of his presidency, the First Lady, his children, the heart warming pictures of the whole family, and all the while in the background you'll hear Bob Marley's voice singing Redemption Song. How awesome is that? That's a kick ass movie right there. Of course that's only three tiny parts of the movie, to make it really work I'd need a whole script, someone to buy the script, a studio to finance it, actors, producers...but I'm totally on top of the soundtrack.
See, in my head, I've made a soundtrack for Barack Obama. I figure they'll make a movie about him, and I want to do the soundtrack. I don't have all the specifics worked out yet, but I've got some ideas. For instance, I see him telling his staff about how important votes will be, every vote will be hard fought, etc. Then it will cut to the volunteers fanning out over the communities, signing up voters, shaking hands, telling people about Obama, and in the background Waiting on the World to Change (John Mayer) will be playing. Ok then, in another scene, on election night, it will show people's reactions, spliced in with his acceptance speech, and then his voice will fade out and be replaced by Signed, Sealed, Delivered (Stevie Wonder). Genius right? Lastly, I see the final scene of the movie, the part where they show a still frame of the actor playing Obama (which totally is going to be Will Smith), and then the screen dims for a second, and real-life pictures of his presidency, the First Lady, his children, the heart warming pictures of the whole family, and all the while in the background you'll hear Bob Marley's voice singing Redemption Song. How awesome is that? That's a kick ass movie right there. Of course that's only three tiny parts of the movie, to make it really work I'd need a whole script, someone to buy the script, a studio to finance it, actors, producers...but I'm totally on top of the soundtrack.
Are 2 really enough?
Lately, I've been having this overwhelming feeling, more than an urge, more like a longing, to have another baby. Am I completely insane? Probably, but that's no surprise. I don't know what it is, I don't know if it's because it seems like everyone is either pregnant or just had a baby, or if it's just the deafening ticking of my biological clock that I hear. It seems like every time I turn around I just keep getting older, and it's pissing me off. I almost had a breakdown this morning when I was doing my hair. Usually, anytime I see a gray hair, I yank it out by the roots in an act of aggression/rage/despair. This morning I start yanking hairs out, and I had at least 12 before I stopped counting. I quickly turned off the bathroom light and finished getting ready in the dark. The wrinkle between my eyebrows is getting deeper by the day, and I swear I almost slipped into a conversation about bunions with a lady at the grocery store. I think it's just this overwhelming feeling that all the lady parts are drying up and if I wait too much longer, I'll forever miss my chance to have another kid.
It seems like I go through this every few years, but this is really as bad as it's ever been. It's a good thing that last time I went through this (and finally came to my senses), I decided I should go with an IUD as birth control just in case. Poor birth control is actually how I got pregnant in the first place. I was taking the pill and got an ear infection and was prescribed amoxicillin. Just a fun fact in case you didn't know, amoxicillin makes the pill less effective. There's apparently a warning on both the amoxicillin bottle and the pills, but who reads those warnings anyway, they're always just a bunch of legal crap that isn't even remotely important. Yeah, turns out, it is kind of important. So I didn't get 1 surprise, but 2. And that's another thing, I read somewhere that women who have twins naturally (without any fertility treatments) are more likely to have multiples again. That could be enough to make me be committed indefinitely. Good Lord, once was enough. Double the formula, double the diapers, two babies crying at once...ugh, it was horrible. There were so many days that I spent the day crying, right along with them. Don't ever fall for it when someone says, oh, twins? Yeah, I know how that is. My kids are a year apart. Yeah, no you don't know how that is. It's not even remotely the same. You have to do everything...at the SAME TIME. So to even take a chance at doing that again...I dunno. Maybe I don't want more kids after all. Or maybe I do. Maybe I'll adopt. I just don't want to have a baby for the wrong reasons, i.e. fulfilling my need to be really needed. Now that the kids are older, and I'm apparently turning into Grandma Moses, I just don't feel as needed as I used to.
Maybe for now I'll just keep using my furbaby as a substitute for a real baby. She's got all the benefits of a baby (needs me, loves me, is fun to dress up) without all the crappy side effects that babies have (doesn't require going into labor/having a c-section, doesn't need burping, doesn't wake me up to eat at 2 a.m.). She really doesn't seem to mind be my baby-substitute.
It seems like I go through this every few years, but this is really as bad as it's ever been. It's a good thing that last time I went through this (and finally came to my senses), I decided I should go with an IUD as birth control just in case. Poor birth control is actually how I got pregnant in the first place. I was taking the pill and got an ear infection and was prescribed amoxicillin. Just a fun fact in case you didn't know, amoxicillin makes the pill less effective. There's apparently a warning on both the amoxicillin bottle and the pills, but who reads those warnings anyway, they're always just a bunch of legal crap that isn't even remotely important. Yeah, turns out, it is kind of important. So I didn't get 1 surprise, but 2. And that's another thing, I read somewhere that women who have twins naturally (without any fertility treatments) are more likely to have multiples again. That could be enough to make me be committed indefinitely. Good Lord, once was enough. Double the formula, double the diapers, two babies crying at once...ugh, it was horrible. There were so many days that I spent the day crying, right along with them. Don't ever fall for it when someone says, oh, twins? Yeah, I know how that is. My kids are a year apart. Yeah, no you don't know how that is. It's not even remotely the same. You have to do everything...at the SAME TIME. So to even take a chance at doing that again...I dunno. Maybe I don't want more kids after all. Or maybe I do. Maybe I'll adopt. I just don't want to have a baby for the wrong reasons, i.e. fulfilling my need to be really needed. Now that the kids are older, and I'm apparently turning into Grandma Moses, I just don't feel as needed as I used to.
Maybe for now I'll just keep using my furbaby as a substitute for a real baby. She's got all the benefits of a baby (needs me, loves me, is fun to dress up) without all the crappy side effects that babies have (doesn't require going into labor/having a c-section, doesn't need burping, doesn't wake me up to eat at 2 a.m.). She really doesn't seem to mind be my baby-substitute.
A new brand of horror?
Friday night Chris and his brother went to the movies, the kids were at their dad’s, and I spent a blissful evening at home alone watching the Dog Whisperer. It was cool because I learned that my dogs aren’t the only poorly behaved dogs, and really there are other dogs that are way, way worse than mine, which was nice affirmation. When they got home, we decided to watch The Girl Next Door, a movie that was on Chiller, which is a channel that shows “scary” shows and movies. Chris and I have watched it before; it has stuff like Twin Peaks, Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction, nothing scary. So we start watching this movie, and in case you wanted to see it, stop reading, because I’m going to tell what happened. So this movie was beyond fucked up. Basically it’s about this girl, whose parents died in a car accident, and she has to go stay with her aunt. Her aunt is really sick in the head, and has a thing about women and girls, she totally hates them. I think we were supposed to infer that she really hates herself, or something, I don’t know. So anyway, she also has this really weird relationship with all the neighborhood boys, they all hang out at her house, she gives them beer, talks to them about sex in totally inappropriate ways, just acts like a really, really bad parent. So anyway, she starts this horrible torment and torture of this poor girl, first verbal, then physical. Then it just gets downright disrobing. She ties the girl up in the basement and lets (at first) then makes the neighborhood kids beat this girl. They starve her, beat the shit out of her, it was awful, and the mother just stands back and watches. Then it got worse. The torment turns sexual, they end up putting out lit cigarettes on her, burning the words on her stomach so all men will know what a whore she is, rape her, and in the end they “fix” her sexuality with a blow torch. And as Forrest Gump says, that’s all I have to say about that. Ok so anyway, horrible right? Just a reminder this was on regular cable. Not premium, not pay per view, plain old regular cable. I watched the whole movie with a scowl on my face. I kept looking at Chris, and he had the same face, utter disbelief that we were watching this horrible movie. It wasn’t that it was really graphic, I mean it was graphic, but it didn’t really show anything, it was more inferred, they’d explain what they were doing, etc. The problem was, this was just a sick, sick movie. The whole premise of the movie was just so fucked up. This is exactly why I gave up watching horror movies of any kind about a couple of years ago.
I used to watch horror movies all the time, in high school my friend and I watched every Halloween, Children of the Corn, you name it. We loved it, it was fun to be scared. Her (now) husband used to even say that we should get our pizza from “Haddonfield House of Pizza” (the name of the town in the Halloween movies). It was corny and scary and just plain fun. So Chris and I decided one night to watch Hostel. Hostel…is not a horror movie. Hostel is the worst movie on the planet. Ever. It’s this movie about a hostel in some Godforsaken country, and basically people pay to torture people. It is by far the most graphic, most disgusting, most disturbing movie I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I watched it almost 3 years ago, and I STILL have nightmares. It was so, so terrible. Again, that’s all I have to say about that. Anyway, I swore off horror movies because I was tired of directors and writers fooling me into thinking that this was the your average run of the mill horror movie: Hostel, the Saw movies, Running Scared (which wasn’t even a horror movie, it had one particular scene that had nothing to do with the plot, but was a blatant attempt at shock/disturbing value by the director/writer. It’s a movie about mafia violence, but this particular scene was about a middle-aged couple who “rescue” children by kidnapping them, torturing and killing them in a rubber room while videotaping it. Totally ridiculous). I’m all for art, I love to write, and hope that someday someone will pay me for it. However, if I sit around and think up new and more disturbing ways to torture people…I shouldn’t be paid, I should be given medication and possibly hospitalization. Maybe it doesn’t mess them up the way it did me, but man, it was awful. So I swore off horror movies. I just think that they’d taken it too far. And I don’t know if I’d ever made it clear before or not, I’m really not very prudish. I’m not one of those people that decides morality for other people, to each their own I say. I have enough of my own crap to worry about, certainly don’t need to tell other people their business. But I’m so sick and tired of the people on networks and movie studios deciding that people need more violence, more gore, more disturbing abuse, torture and sick fucked up head games. NO thanks. I guess its back to romantic comedies and sappy tear jerkers for me. At least they don’t make me question the humanity of people.
By the way, The Girl Next Door was based on a true story. Which just makes the fact that someone decided to rewrite this girl’s abuse and torment in an even more disturbing way without even really telling the girl’s story, just spending 2 hours seeing how far you can push the torture envelope is just sick. It just makes the whole that much worse.
FYI, this is one of those posts that I write when I just feel the need to rant and bitch. To make it perfectly clear, I’m not reviewing these movies, I’m reviewing the practice of shock value in Hollywood.
I used to watch horror movies all the time, in high school my friend and I watched every Halloween, Children of the Corn, you name it. We loved it, it was fun to be scared. Her (now) husband used to even say that we should get our pizza from “Haddonfield House of Pizza” (the name of the town in the Halloween movies). It was corny and scary and just plain fun. So Chris and I decided one night to watch Hostel. Hostel…is not a horror movie. Hostel is the worst movie on the planet. Ever. It’s this movie about a hostel in some Godforsaken country, and basically people pay to torture people. It is by far the most graphic, most disgusting, most disturbing movie I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I watched it almost 3 years ago, and I STILL have nightmares. It was so, so terrible. Again, that’s all I have to say about that. Anyway, I swore off horror movies because I was tired of directors and writers fooling me into thinking that this was the your average run of the mill horror movie: Hostel, the Saw movies, Running Scared (which wasn’t even a horror movie, it had one particular scene that had nothing to do with the plot, but was a blatant attempt at shock/disturbing value by the director/writer. It’s a movie about mafia violence, but this particular scene was about a middle-aged couple who “rescue” children by kidnapping them, torturing and killing them in a rubber room while videotaping it. Totally ridiculous). I’m all for art, I love to write, and hope that someday someone will pay me for it. However, if I sit around and think up new and more disturbing ways to torture people…I shouldn’t be paid, I should be given medication and possibly hospitalization. Maybe it doesn’t mess them up the way it did me, but man, it was awful. So I swore off horror movies. I just think that they’d taken it too far. And I don’t know if I’d ever made it clear before or not, I’m really not very prudish. I’m not one of those people that decides morality for other people, to each their own I say. I have enough of my own crap to worry about, certainly don’t need to tell other people their business. But I’m so sick and tired of the people on networks and movie studios deciding that people need more violence, more gore, more disturbing abuse, torture and sick fucked up head games. NO thanks. I guess its back to romantic comedies and sappy tear jerkers for me. At least they don’t make me question the humanity of people.
By the way, The Girl Next Door was based on a true story. Which just makes the fact that someone decided to rewrite this girl’s abuse and torment in an even more disturbing way without even really telling the girl’s story, just spending 2 hours seeing how far you can push the torture envelope is just sick. It just makes the whole that much worse.
FYI, this is one of those posts that I write when I just feel the need to rant and bitch. To make it perfectly clear, I’m not reviewing these movies, I’m reviewing the practice of shock value in Hollywood.
This is a post about toilets
I don’t think I mentioned it before, but Chris’ brother staying with us for awhile this summer. I was horrified, I mean like, gasping shock, when I went into the bathroom this morning. No, he didn’t leave toothpaste all over the sink. No, he didn’t leave wet towels all over the floor. It was way worse…he forgot to put the toilet seat down! Now, Chris and David know that this is the fastest way to send me into a maniacal head fit, well that and when there’s pee on the toilet seat. And if y’all have little boys, you know it happens much more often than it should. I mean he’s got built in aim for Christ’s sake, you’re telling me he honestly can’t hit the big hole in the middle of the seat? Anyway, the toilet seat was up. Well, it wasn’t the seat part, that part was down, it was the cover that was up.
Ok yeah, I get that’s total OCD. But I don’t care. I think looking into toilet bowls is disgusting. Perhaps it’s because it brings me flashbacks of my heavy drinking/puking days, I don’t know, but I just don’t like it. And I so don’t get why men/boys can’t seem to just put the cover down. They think they’re God’s gift if they remember to actually put the seat down, you know, like they’re doing you some ginormous favor for not being a total slob, but they can’t just grab the cover at the same time? I mean, why would Mr. Toilet Seat Inventor slap a cover on it if it wasn’t meant to be used? I guess I was lucky, for several years before I met Chris, I was doing the single mom thing, and had ample opportunity to teach my son toilet seat etiquette (his future wife will thank me) , Chris was a little harder to train. Once I was visiting Chris in the his apartment that was masquerading as a cesspool of disgusting college boy germs, and the ONLY good thing I can say about that is that he put the seat down when I came. He was all, I put the toilet seat down because I knew you were coming. I was all, gee thanks. You didn’t bother to pick up the smelly gym socks or get rid of the stale beer smell that’s coming from that corner, but you did get the toilet seat down! You’re the man of my dreams! When he moved in with me, I was like, 2 choices, love. Put the seat AND the cover down, and you can live. Don’t, and you can face my wrath. I told you Chris was smart. He always puts the seat and cover down. Would you want to deal with me? I wouldn’t. I’m scary.
Ok yeah, I get that’s total OCD. But I don’t care. I think looking into toilet bowls is disgusting. Perhaps it’s because it brings me flashbacks of my heavy drinking/puking days, I don’t know, but I just don’t like it. And I so don’t get why men/boys can’t seem to just put the cover down. They think they’re God’s gift if they remember to actually put the seat down, you know, like they’re doing you some ginormous favor for not being a total slob, but they can’t just grab the cover at the same time? I mean, why would Mr. Toilet Seat Inventor slap a cover on it if it wasn’t meant to be used? I guess I was lucky, for several years before I met Chris, I was doing the single mom thing, and had ample opportunity to teach my son toilet seat etiquette (his future wife will thank me) , Chris was a little harder to train. Once I was visiting Chris in the his apartment that was masquerading as a cesspool of disgusting college boy germs, and the ONLY good thing I can say about that is that he put the seat down when I came. He was all, I put the toilet seat down because I knew you were coming. I was all, gee thanks. You didn’t bother to pick up the smelly gym socks or get rid of the stale beer smell that’s coming from that corner, but you did get the toilet seat down! You’re the man of my dreams! When he moved in with me, I was like, 2 choices, love. Put the seat AND the cover down, and you can live. Don’t, and you can face my wrath. I told you Chris was smart. He always puts the seat and cover down. Would you want to deal with me? I wouldn’t. I’m scary.
Bribery is power
I know that’s it’s probably not cool to say this, or that as a mom, I’m supposed to admit it, but I really dislike children. I like mine, I mean, they’re sufficiently trained to not piss me off, but other people’s children drive me nuts. You know those kids in the grocery store that are either hanging all over their mothers, or are screaming bloody murder because they couldn’t have Captain Frosted Cocoa Bits? The other day we were in the grocery store, and there was this adorable little girl. She had the cutest little dimples and blond curly hair. She was happily gabbing to her mother, who was of course only have listening as she juggled her phone, shopping list and a baby on her hip. Then the little girl decided she wanted a cookie or something. Her mother was all, not now baby girl, too close to dinner. Well, this kid was not having it. She shrieked and started throwing an all out fit. Her mother looked apologetically at me, and I tried not to give her the disapproving “aren’t you going to do something about that” face. I smiled and tried to ignore this screaming little brat. Her mother was doing all she could not to yell at this little monster in public (because really, who hasn’t made the mistake of yelling at their kids in a public place, only to find a gaggle of onlookers who shake their head in disgust at your feeble attempts to quiet your kid). The formerly cute little girl was in full on screaming mode, big globby snot running down her face, her cheeks all red and blotchy, starting to break out in a sweat because of all the energy she was putting into this fit. Then her mother, probably in desperation/bribery, gave her the damn cookie. Like magic, the little girl regained her composure and happily munched on her cookie.
David did that once in a grocery store. He was screaming and kicking and being absolutely horrific because I wouldn’t let him touch everything on the shelves. I’d read in a magazine that when your kid throws a fit in public like in a grocery store, you’re supposed to calmly get your stuff and leave, you’re never, ever supposed to resort to bribery. Leave the cart, take your child by the hand and walk out. That way he’ll get the message that his behavior isn’t appropriate. So I grab David’s hand and start walking away. David though, must be smarter than your average kid, or that was just the worst advice ever, because David refused to walk, I was literally dragging him down the aisle. Right, pulling your kid out by the arms while his legs are dragging along behind him is worse than bribery. Then I knelt down and whispered to him, if you stop I’ll give you a cookie. He stopped. Instantly. Ahh, the power of the bribe.
Anyone who tells you that bribery doesn’t work is kidding themselves. I’ve bribed the kids with everything from a new Sidekick to money to a PlayStation 3. Yeah, you might run into the occasional self-absorbed kid (hey, that's what Sunday school is for, right?), but at least I can grocery shop without worrying about the next hide your face and hope no one notices that it’s your kid that’s screaming his head off tantrum. I wish that poor woman could say the same thing. This is of course why Chris says, we don't need any more kids. Your blog is like a baby, only better because it doesn't poop. Ain't that the truth.
David did that once in a grocery store. He was screaming and kicking and being absolutely horrific because I wouldn’t let him touch everything on the shelves. I’d read in a magazine that when your kid throws a fit in public like in a grocery store, you’re supposed to calmly get your stuff and leave, you’re never, ever supposed to resort to bribery. Leave the cart, take your child by the hand and walk out. That way he’ll get the message that his behavior isn’t appropriate. So I grab David’s hand and start walking away. David though, must be smarter than your average kid, or that was just the worst advice ever, because David refused to walk, I was literally dragging him down the aisle. Right, pulling your kid out by the arms while his legs are dragging along behind him is worse than bribery. Then I knelt down and whispered to him, if you stop I’ll give you a cookie. He stopped. Instantly. Ahh, the power of the bribe.
Anyone who tells you that bribery doesn’t work is kidding themselves. I’ve bribed the kids with everything from a new Sidekick to money to a PlayStation 3. Yeah, you might run into the occasional self-absorbed kid (hey, that's what Sunday school is for, right?), but at least I can grocery shop without worrying about the next hide your face and hope no one notices that it’s your kid that’s screaming his head off tantrum. I wish that poor woman could say the same thing. This is of course why Chris says, we don't need any more kids. Your blog is like a baby, only better because it doesn't poop. Ain't that the truth.
The issues that plague me Vol. 1: the old lady questions
Last night we were watching this infomercial about a Time-Life CD collection, Oldies But Goodies. The kids watched in amazement/awe/horror as Chris and I sang along with all the songs. It had really good songs, like all 50's and 60's fun stuff. They were interviewing all these old people, who were going on and on about how that was "their" music, no music collection is as good as this collection, listening it was like reliving the "good old days", etc. So I start thinking, what about my "good old days"?
I'm picturing me in my 60's or 70's. Will the jeans that I wear morph into polyester slacks with a crease down the middle? Will my tank tops and t-shirts morph into collared sweatshirt with kitten faces on the front? Will my Nike Shox morph into the Buster Brown-esque velcroed atrocities that old ladies are hell bent on wearing? Will I trade my Michael Kors bags for floral pastel cotton bags with faux wooden handles? How about music? Will I trade Rob Zombie for Lawrence Welk? Will I start complaining about the loud hibbiddy-hop music? Will I start driving an old lady Buick? Will I run out of the house in the morning in curlers to chase kids off my lawn? Will I even know how to be cool? Will the image of old ladies change when my generation is old?
These are the issues that plague me.
I'm picturing me in my 60's or 70's. Will the jeans that I wear morph into polyester slacks with a crease down the middle? Will my tank tops and t-shirts morph into collared sweatshirt with kitten faces on the front? Will my Nike Shox morph into the Buster Brown-esque velcroed atrocities that old ladies are hell bent on wearing? Will I trade my Michael Kors bags for floral pastel cotton bags with faux wooden handles? How about music? Will I trade Rob Zombie for Lawrence Welk? Will I start complaining about the loud hibbiddy-hop music? Will I start driving an old lady Buick? Will I run out of the house in the morning in curlers to chase kids off my lawn? Will I even know how to be cool? Will the image of old ladies change when my generation is old?
These are the issues that plague me.
A day that you don't learn something is a day wasted...or something
Things I learned yesterday:
1. The DMV still sucks. I was number 195...they were on 164 when I walked in. The lady misspelled my name twice on my ID (after reading it off a form), she hit the keyboard in a rage induced tantrum because she couldn't figure out why she couldn't find my name in the computer. I suggested it was because she'd misspelled it again. She gave me the fuck you bitch, shut the hell up look. I gave her the don't be a fucking moron and learn to read smile.
2. Some people should never be allowed to have a cell phone. Ever. This old guy at the DMV was talking (and by talking I mean almost yelling so everyone within a 12 block radius could hear) on his cell phone for about 45 minutes. We all heard about how terribly frustrating it is at the DMV, how no one understands his pain, how his problems are the most important problems ever, how inept his wife is, etc. When the DMV lady came out from behind her glass cage and tried to make an announcement about ID requirements the guy is still yapping away, WHAT'S THAT BILL? YEAH, I DIDN'T CATCH THAT, SOME LADY IS TALKING REALLY LOUD. Someone's talking too loud? You don't say. Dumbass.
3. I saw on Oprah that there's a hooker at the Bunny Ranch that plays the french horn, which I found fascinating. I said, who knew hookers were so multi-talented? Chris said that we should totally visit the Bunny Ranch because all hookers are talented in their own way. I think not.
I still haven't packed for our trip, and am in full on procrastination mode, but thought I'd share.
1. The DMV still sucks. I was number 195...they were on 164 when I walked in. The lady misspelled my name twice on my ID (after reading it off a form), she hit the keyboard in a rage induced tantrum because she couldn't figure out why she couldn't find my name in the computer. I suggested it was because she'd misspelled it again. She gave me the fuck you bitch, shut the hell up look. I gave her the don't be a fucking moron and learn to read smile.
2. Some people should never be allowed to have a cell phone. Ever. This old guy at the DMV was talking (and by talking I mean almost yelling so everyone within a 12 block radius could hear) on his cell phone for about 45 minutes. We all heard about how terribly frustrating it is at the DMV, how no one understands his pain, how his problems are the most important problems ever, how inept his wife is, etc. When the DMV lady came out from behind her glass cage and tried to make an announcement about ID requirements the guy is still yapping away, WHAT'S THAT BILL? YEAH, I DIDN'T CATCH THAT, SOME LADY IS TALKING REALLY LOUD. Someone's talking too loud? You don't say. Dumbass.
3. I saw on Oprah that there's a hooker at the Bunny Ranch that plays the french horn, which I found fascinating. I said, who knew hookers were so multi-talented? Chris said that we should totally visit the Bunny Ranch because all hookers are talented in their own way. I think not.
I still haven't packed for our trip, and am in full on procrastination mode, but thought I'd share.
An open letter to studio execs
Dear Mr. Studio Executive,
I was reading my daily gossip today, and read that "Octomom" is thisclose to getting her own reality show. To which I say, What. The. Fuck. I know she's this woman who had octuplets, which is insane all by itself, and not at all her fault...except it was. She had in-vitro fertilization. Add those 8 kids to the 6 she already had, and you can call her Fourteenamom (if you use the name "Fourteenamom" for her show, you'll have to pay me the licensing fees, because I totally call dibs on that name). The woman has no job, and is totally reliant on government assistance to care for these 14 children. Don't misunderstand, I have nothing against government assistance for people who need it. I have a problem with a woman with no job and 6 kids paying thousands of dollars for in-vitro fertilization to have another 8 kids. But I digress. This woman gets a reality show? This is what's wrong with America. You have to be at the height of irresponsibility to get a reality show (Rod Blagojevic, the loser/Going to jail for selling Obama's senate seat/Ex-governor of Illinois is getting one, as is Michael Vick, dog fighter extraordinaire/former NFL quarterback is also said to be getting one). Well let me tell you Mr. Studio Executive, I'm MORE than qualified to have a reality show.
I have 2 kids, which I am completely unqualified to raise and I'm totally irresponsible. I let my kids run with scissors and paint on the walls as a form of self expression. I have a part-time job at Hooters, where I bring my kids everyday after because I'm too cheap to send them to daycare and the because they have the best wings. My life's goal is to be a singer/dancer/ninja and I work tirelessly on my career (I'll give you full access to all of my training sessions, except the ninja training, because then I'd have to kill you). My live in Manny (man nanny) is drop dead gorgeous and the sexual tension between us is palpable (you could use this for a "will they or won't they" moment during sweeps week). I have two little dogs that are cute and bark too much (a staple for any good reality show). My husband sucks at fixing things and home improvement projects usually end in a call to the fire department. As I'm sure you can see, we're fantastic candidates for a reality show.
I look forward to hearing from you and working for your network.
Merritt
P.S. I'd like a Thursday night time slot. Preferably in the 10:00 hour so I can swear more.
P.P.S. None of what I said about my family is true.Except the part about my husband setting things on fire, that's true. Give me a show anyway.
I was reading my daily gossip today, and read that "Octomom" is thisclose to getting her own reality show. To which I say, What. The. Fuck. I know she's this woman who had octuplets, which is insane all by itself, and not at all her fault...except it was. She had in-vitro fertilization. Add those 8 kids to the 6 she already had, and you can call her Fourteenamom (if you use the name "Fourteenamom" for her show, you'll have to pay me the licensing fees, because I totally call dibs on that name). The woman has no job, and is totally reliant on government assistance to care for these 14 children. Don't misunderstand, I have nothing against government assistance for people who need it. I have a problem with a woman with no job and 6 kids paying thousands of dollars for in-vitro fertilization to have another 8 kids. But I digress. This woman gets a reality show? This is what's wrong with America. You have to be at the height of irresponsibility to get a reality show (Rod Blagojevic, the loser/Going to jail for selling Obama's senate seat/Ex-governor of Illinois is getting one, as is Michael Vick, dog fighter extraordinaire/former NFL quarterback is also said to be getting one). Well let me tell you Mr. Studio Executive, I'm MORE than qualified to have a reality show.
I have 2 kids, which I am completely unqualified to raise and I'm totally irresponsible. I let my kids run with scissors and paint on the walls as a form of self expression. I have a part-time job at Hooters, where I bring my kids everyday after because I'm too cheap to send them to daycare and the because they have the best wings. My life's goal is to be a singer/dancer/ninja and I work tirelessly on my career (I'll give you full access to all of my training sessions, except the ninja training, because then I'd have to kill you). My live in Manny (man nanny) is drop dead gorgeous and the sexual tension between us is palpable (you could use this for a "will they or won't they" moment during sweeps week). I have two little dogs that are cute and bark too much (a staple for any good reality show). My husband sucks at fixing things and home improvement projects usually end in a call to the fire department. As I'm sure you can see, we're fantastic candidates for a reality show.
I look forward to hearing from you and working for your network.
Merritt
P.S. I'd like a Thursday night time slot. Preferably in the 10:00 hour so I can swear more.
P.P.S. None of what I said about my family is true.Except the part about my husband setting things on fire, that's true. Give me a show anyway.
Get your boobs off my donut
So this morning I hitched a ride with my friend (well, I don't know if you can really call him a friend per-se, he's my ex-husband), who was telling me about how excited he was to go to this new donut shop to have coffee. I was really only half listening, until I heard, boobs. I was like, eh, what? Apparently, it's a topless donut shop he's going to. I don't think that this was thought all the way through.
First off, aren't there inherent health risks with this? Not only for the bare-chested women who run the very real risk of burning their boobs on hot coffee (hello? ouch), but also for the customers. What happens when the waitresses' boobs touch the food? I don't know if boobs carry any more germs than hands do, and I'd like to think that most people wash their hands before serving food, do these waitresses wash their boobs just in case? Or like what if they bend over the counter and if their boobs aren't all fake and perky, their boob grazes the donuts? I'd be like, uh, get your boobs off my donut. It's like when Chris took me to Hooters for our first date (yes, he really took me to Hooters for our first date), the waitress was like fucking SITTING on our table, like kinda perched on the edge taking our order. I was like, uh, get your ass off my table. Chris was like, aww, don't get upset, I don't mind. I was like, yeah, I bet you don't.
Just like you don't mind getting ass germs on your table for the price of chicken wings at Hooters, I suppose the running the risk of donut contamination by boobs is worth it if you get to see naked boobs for the price of a cup of coffee. I like my food uncontaminated and boob and ass free, but that's just me.
First off, aren't there inherent health risks with this? Not only for the bare-chested women who run the very real risk of burning their boobs on hot coffee (hello? ouch), but also for the customers. What happens when the waitresses' boobs touch the food? I don't know if boobs carry any more germs than hands do, and I'd like to think that most people wash their hands before serving food, do these waitresses wash their boobs just in case? Or like what if they bend over the counter and if their boobs aren't all fake and perky, their boob grazes the donuts? I'd be like, uh, get your boobs off my donut. It's like when Chris took me to Hooters for our first date (yes, he really took me to Hooters for our first date), the waitress was like fucking SITTING on our table, like kinda perched on the edge taking our order. I was like, uh, get your ass off my table. Chris was like, aww, don't get upset, I don't mind. I was like, yeah, I bet you don't.
Just like you don't mind getting ass germs on your table for the price of chicken wings at Hooters, I suppose the running the risk of donut contamination by boobs is worth it if you get to see naked boobs for the price of a cup of coffee. I like my food uncontaminated and boob and ass free, but that's just me.
But have you gotten any smarter?
My 30th birthday is Saturday. So this week is will probably be filled with the thoughtful musings random thoughts of someone who's not entirely sure they're ready to be 30. See, I totally NEVER thought I'd make it past 18. Then 21. Then 25. So 30 is just fucking scary. I know that's retarded because I have 9 year olds, so certainly I must've thought this far ahead, right? This just wasn't on my radar.
So what have I accomplished?
I've never killed anybody. This was always a possiblity given the fact I spent the better part of my teenage years drunk, high or both.
I've never technically been arrested, because the time the cops were standing watch outside my hospital room totally doesn't count.
I've succeeded in not causing serious harm to anyone. I'm counting "not serious harm" as not losing any limbs and accident resulting in less than 10 stitches.
I've been married...twice. Second time seems to be the charm.
I've been to college 7 times. Granted, I still haven't finished, but that's hardly the point.
I'm the same exact size I was when I was 18...if you multiply by 4, divide by 3, add 47 and find the square root of 8109283021983109283.
I've finally gotten myself a real wrinkle. Right in the middle of my eyebrows. No doubt from spending the past 29 years scowling at people. This is a success...because...well...ok it's not. But that's a lot of scowling, and that deserves some recognition.
Ok, so maybe I haven't accomplished all I'd wanted, or even really anything at all, but since I never thought I'd make it 30 anyway, we're counting these as successes.
I'm thinking that anything not a catastrophic failure is a success in my case.
So what have I accomplished?
I've never killed anybody. This was always a possiblity given the fact I spent the better part of my teenage years drunk, high or both.
I've never technically been arrested, because the time the cops were standing watch outside my hospital room totally doesn't count.
I've succeeded in not causing serious harm to anyone. I'm counting "not serious harm" as not losing any limbs and accident resulting in less than 10 stitches.
I've been married...twice. Second time seems to be the charm.
I've been to college 7 times. Granted, I still haven't finished, but that's hardly the point.
I'm the same exact size I was when I was 18...if you multiply by 4, divide by 3, add 47 and find the square root of 8109283021983109283.
I've finally gotten myself a real wrinkle. Right in the middle of my eyebrows. No doubt from spending the past 29 years scowling at people. This is a success...because...well...ok it's not. But that's a lot of scowling, and that deserves some recognition.
Ok, so maybe I haven't accomplished all I'd wanted, or even really anything at all, but since I never thought I'd make it 30 anyway, we're counting these as successes.
I'm thinking that anything not a catastrophic failure is a success in my case.
44
It's hard to put into words what I was feeling when I was watching Barack Obama being sworn in as the 44th president. A couple of years ago, Chris read his book, "The Audacity of Hope", and said, this is guy is amazing, he should be president. I didn't pay any attention to him, because this is of course the guy who declares, screw them. I'm suing them every time someone pisses him off. I saw Obama deliver his 2004 speech at the DNC, and was in awe. I started thinking maybe Chris was on to something. 2 years ago when this whole election really got going, Barack Obama was a loooooong shot. Hillary Clinton has been anointed the next president, and no one ever thought that Obama had a chance. Last year, when the voting started, there was something stirring, people who supported Obama heard it and had seen it. And then there was Iowa. Chris and I watched and cheered, completely blown away that he'd won, and that Hillary was a distant third. We started to think that this might actually happen.
Last February, he came to the Bangor Auditorium. Chris and I waited outside in bitterly cold weather for hours and hours, with thousands and thousands of people to hear him speak. The line to get in the building stretched a mile around the block. 5000 people were let in, we were fortunate enough to be 2 of them. At least another 5000 were turned away. The air in the auditorium was electric, and absolutely amazing. Obama spoke and Chris and I were in stunned silence. This guy MUST be elected. It would be the dawning of a new era, a better tomorrow for our children, a better America. The hope that filled us made us feel like singing. Our souls were stirred, our spirits soaring.
The election went on and on and on. We had to suffer through 23847239874 debates, the "will she or won't she" drama of Hillary Clinton, moose hunters and crusty old men. (My favorite quote of today, "A well-placed Republican operative emails: "As I watched Biden take the oath of office, I thanked God that it was not Sarah Palin up there.""--I couldn't agree more). And then finally, November 4th, Barack Obama won.
So here we are, Barack Obama has now been sworn in as the 44th president of the United States. After a history tarnished with slavery, and firehouses being turned on black people in the streets, segregation and civil war, burning crosses and dreams of a promised land, we, the American people, with one act, with one hope, and with one purpose chose a different path. Today re-writes history for our children, and while it doesn't erase the pain of yesterday, it gives us great hope for tomorrow.
Last February, he came to the Bangor Auditorium. Chris and I waited outside in bitterly cold weather for hours and hours, with thousands and thousands of people to hear him speak. The line to get in the building stretched a mile around the block. 5000 people were let in, we were fortunate enough to be 2 of them. At least another 5000 were turned away. The air in the auditorium was electric, and absolutely amazing. Obama spoke and Chris and I were in stunned silence. This guy MUST be elected. It would be the dawning of a new era, a better tomorrow for our children, a better America. The hope that filled us made us feel like singing. Our souls were stirred, our spirits soaring.
The election went on and on and on. We had to suffer through 23847239874 debates, the "will she or won't she" drama of Hillary Clinton, moose hunters and crusty old men. (My favorite quote of today, "A well-placed Republican operative emails: "As I watched Biden take the oath of office, I thanked God that it was not Sarah Palin up there.""--I couldn't agree more). And then finally, November 4th, Barack Obama won.
So here we are, Barack Obama has now been sworn in as the 44th president of the United States. After a history tarnished with slavery, and firehouses being turned on black people in the streets, segregation and civil war, burning crosses and dreams of a promised land, we, the American people, with one act, with one hope, and with one purpose chose a different path. Today re-writes history for our children, and while it doesn't erase the pain of yesterday, it gives us great hope for tomorrow.
Wamayuuoooo!
Ok. So last week(ish) I was commenting on MTV and how ridiculous it was. Well, here it is, another Saturday and the kids are with their dad, Chris is working and I'm here...alone...watching Made again. Sigh at me. Anyway, today was the "Head to Head Hip Hop Challenge". As much as I tried, I couldn't pull myself away from it. These 3 kids from Boston (complete with the retahded accent) were "made" into hip hop dancers. The winner of the competition got $10,000. Can I just add, I would be made into just about anything for $10,000. But these kids, one in particular, whined, and quit, and cried. I'm like, dude. It's freaking 10 grand. Get over yourself. So about half way through the episode, they get a surprise visit from who else but Soulja Boy! YAYAYAYAYA! Ok, not so much. He's apparently some gifted song writer who has a “new hit single” called Birdwalk, and it even has it's own dance. It's like this whole thing. Anyway, these 3 crybabies are going to be Soulja Boy's back-up dancers. So he teaches them the "birdwalk". The birdwalk is a dance that you put your arms up like a muscle man, but you leave your wrists limp, and you stand on one leg and bend the other leg at the knee, putting your foot behind you. You know, like a bird (clever name for the dance, huh?). And you keep doing it over, and over again for 3 and half minutes.
Ok so, they did their performances. All in all not bad for a bunch of white kids trying desperately to get some rhythm. But then it was time for the real treat. Soulja Boy performing his new hit single Birdwalk! Wooohooo! It goes like this, " wamayo birdwalk wamiyawa birdwalk birdwalk birdwalk over and over again." For real. But for accuracy's sake, the actual, honest to God lyrics are, "Watch me hit my bird walk Watch me hit my bird walk Watch me hit my bird walk Watch me hit my bird walk Watch me do it Yuha Watch me do it Yuha Watch me do it Yuha Watch me do it Yuha " but it doesn't sound like "watch me", it sounds like "wamyawa." So this disturbs me, because I already had nightmares about this crap. I was introduced to the most horrific song ever last year during a cheering competition. All these 9 and 10 year old's start dancing to "Superman" also by the lyrically gifted Soulja Boy. This one goes, "wamayuuoooo, Soulja Boy, wamayuuoooo, Soulja Boy, wamayuuoooo, Soulja Boy, wamayuuoooo, Soulja Boy" incessently for like 27 minutes. Real lyrics are, "Soulja Boy up In da Hoe Watch Me Crank It Watch Me Roll Watch Me Crank Dat Soulja Boy den Super Man Dat Hoe Now watch me Yuuuuuuuuuuuh (Crank Dat Soulja Boy) Now watch me yuuuuuuuuuuuh (Crank Dat Soulja Boy) Now watch me Yuuuuuuuuuuuh (Crank Dat Soulja Boy) Now watch me Yuuuuuuuuuuuh (Crank Dat Soulja Boy)" This is all quite surprising, because I swear he says wamayuuoooo, and I really did look up these lyrics online, and I was so sure he said wamayuuoooo...and I'm usually so good with lyrics, but I suppose it's easier to understand lyrics if their spoken in English. And now I know that Birdwalk is going to be a new favorite song of the kids. And it sucks. Seriously sucks.
Anyway, the overweight shy kid won, which is nice. I'm thinking of calling Directv and asking them to remove MTV from the channel lineup, because I obviously can't stop watching it on my own.
By the way, I'm totally downloading Birdwalk and Superman to my ipod. For sucking as much as they do, they're really catchy.
Ok so, they did their performances. All in all not bad for a bunch of white kids trying desperately to get some rhythm. But then it was time for the real treat. Soulja Boy performing his new hit single Birdwalk! Wooohooo! It goes like this, " wamayo birdwalk wamiyawa birdwalk birdwalk birdwalk over and over again." For real. But for accuracy's sake, the actual, honest to God lyrics are, "Watch me hit my bird walk Watch me hit my bird walk Watch me hit my bird walk Watch me hit my bird walk Watch me do it Yuha Watch me do it Yuha Watch me do it Yuha Watch me do it Yuha " but it doesn't sound like "watch me", it sounds like "wamyawa." So this disturbs me, because I already had nightmares about this crap. I was introduced to the most horrific song ever last year during a cheering competition. All these 9 and 10 year old's start dancing to "Superman" also by the lyrically gifted Soulja Boy. This one goes, "wamayuuoooo, Soulja Boy, wamayuuoooo, Soulja Boy, wamayuuoooo, Soulja Boy, wamayuuoooo, Soulja Boy" incessently for like 27 minutes. Real lyrics are, "Soulja Boy up In da Hoe Watch Me Crank It Watch Me Roll Watch Me Crank Dat Soulja Boy den Super Man Dat Hoe Now watch me Yuuuuuuuuuuuh (Crank Dat Soulja Boy) Now watch me yuuuuuuuuuuuh (Crank Dat Soulja Boy) Now watch me Yuuuuuuuuuuuh (Crank Dat Soulja Boy) Now watch me Yuuuuuuuuuuuh (Crank Dat Soulja Boy)" This is all quite surprising, because I swear he says wamayuuoooo, and I really did look up these lyrics online, and I was so sure he said wamayuuoooo...and I'm usually so good with lyrics, but I suppose it's easier to understand lyrics if their spoken in English. And now I know that Birdwalk is going to be a new favorite song of the kids. And it sucks. Seriously sucks.
Anyway, the overweight shy kid won, which is nice. I'm thinking of calling Directv and asking them to remove MTV from the channel lineup, because I obviously can't stop watching it on my own.
By the way, I'm totally downloading Birdwalk and Superman to my ipod. For sucking as much as they do, they're really catchy.
Aren't you a necrophiliac?
Chris has been driving me nuts with all his snoring lately. So we're discussing possible causes, excessive tiredness, stress, stuff like that.
Chris: Maybe I have narcolepsy.
Silence.
Me: Um...doesn't that mean that you like to have sex with dead people?
Chris: (in between fits of laughter) No, dumbass. That's a necrophiliac.
Me: Are you sure?
Chris: Yeah babe, pretty sure.
Sigh. Note to self, learn the difference between breathing disorders and creepy fetishes.
Chris: Maybe I have narcolepsy.
Silence.
Me: Um...doesn't that mean that you like to have sex with dead people?
Chris: (in between fits of laughter) No, dumbass. That's a necrophiliac.
Me: Are you sure?
Chris: Yeah babe, pretty sure.
Sigh. Note to self, learn the difference between breathing disorders and creepy fetishes.
Deep thoughts
I had a dream the other night that really got me thinking. I dreamed about my brother and I when we were kids. It was about a specific event, one that actually happened: I had a friend sleep over and we spent the whole evening teasing my brother, hitting him in the head with books, just doing all those mean things that sisters do. But the weird thing was, I was there, watching the younger me do all these things. My brother ran by older me, happy and absolutely giddy that he had my attention...even if it was me being mean to him. He always wanted to be with me, and at the time, I couldn't be bothered. I reached out to him, wanting desperately to tell him how much I really did love him, and to apologize for always tormenting him, but I couldn't grab him, my hands were invisible, and he see me or hear what I was saying. I woke up, so sad. I know my brother knows I love him, he and I are good now. We're closer than ever. And I know that siblings fight and make up, but I couldn't figure out why I'd had that dream then, and what it meant.
So this morning, I spent the morning helping my cousin move her things our of her ex's house. As I was watching her entire life get packed up and put into trucks, it all clicked. My cousin (Michaela) and I grew up together like sisters. We were always together, did EVERYTHING together, fought like sisters, the whole deal (we're only a year apart in age). Then we got into high school and really drifted apart. She's gone through hell and back in the last few months, and I've been trying "to be there" for her. What struck me today was, that's just not enough.
See, my whole life (up to a few years ago), I've pushed people away, done my own thing, decided that my problems were more important than other people's. I may not be able to go back in time and tell the people that I hurt that I love them, but I CAN tell them today. I can be the person I should've been all along. I can be a friend and a shoulder to cry on for my cousin and my friend. I can help her put one foot in front of the other again. I know what it feels like to feel like your life is falling apart, and not even be able to reach out for help because it hurts so much.
I just sent my brother a text message, telling him that I was thinking about him and that I loved him. Michaela is coming over to hang out tonight. Maybe we do get second chances after all, hell maybe even third and fourth chances.
So this morning, I spent the morning helping my cousin move her things our of her ex's house. As I was watching her entire life get packed up and put into trucks, it all clicked. My cousin (Michaela) and I grew up together like sisters. We were always together, did EVERYTHING together, fought like sisters, the whole deal (we're only a year apart in age). Then we got into high school and really drifted apart. She's gone through hell and back in the last few months, and I've been trying "to be there" for her. What struck me today was, that's just not enough.
See, my whole life (up to a few years ago), I've pushed people away, done my own thing, decided that my problems were more important than other people's. I may not be able to go back in time and tell the people that I hurt that I love them, but I CAN tell them today. I can be the person I should've been all along. I can be a friend and a shoulder to cry on for my cousin and my friend. I can help her put one foot in front of the other again. I know what it feels like to feel like your life is falling apart, and not even be able to reach out for help because it hurts so much.
I just sent my brother a text message, telling him that I was thinking about him and that I loved him. Michaela is coming over to hang out tonight. Maybe we do get second chances after all, hell maybe even third and fourth chances.
And the Grammy goes to...
We're expecting a nasty storm this afternoon. Snow, sleet and freezing rain...a few of my favorite things. Sigh. All of the schools have closed early, so the kids will be home this afternoon early. Kat was supposed to have her concert tonight, but that's obviously a no-go. C'est la vie, my ears will be spared until the rescheduled date. I kid, Kat is not a bad singer. She usually sits next to me during church, and she has a nice singing voice...that is of course compared to me. Chris says that when I sing it sounds like someone beating a bag of cats against a wall. And while harsh, it's totally true. I can't carry a tune in a bucket.
Don't you love it though, when you're in the car and you hear a great song on the radio, and you sing along at the top of your lungs? It's one of my absolute favorite things to do. Of course, I crank the radio up to drown out my horrendous voice...but who cares? I say, sing like no one is listening and dance like no one is watching. It's such a freeing thing, kind of like when you were a kid and you'd put your arms out and spin around and around, spinning as fast as you could, being absolutely carefree and feeling completely alive. And if you can hold onto that feeling, your spirit will always be young and beautiful. Or at least that's what I like to think.
That's my random cheesy smushyness for the day.
Don't you love it though, when you're in the car and you hear a great song on the radio, and you sing along at the top of your lungs? It's one of my absolute favorite things to do. Of course, I crank the radio up to drown out my horrendous voice...but who cares? I say, sing like no one is listening and dance like no one is watching. It's such a freeing thing, kind of like when you were a kid and you'd put your arms out and spin around and around, spinning as fast as you could, being absolutely carefree and feeling completely alive. And if you can hold onto that feeling, your spirit will always be young and beautiful. Or at least that's what I like to think.
That's my random cheesy smushyness for the day.
My thoughts...
While I like to think that I can express my thoughts coherently, I couldn't have said this better myself. It was in the New York Times yesterday:
The era that began with police roadblocks keeping black voters from the polls in Florida is ending with the first African American almost-president. The long, wretched period bookmarked by the Florida recount and the Wall Street bailout, encompassing, for starters, 9/11, anthrax (and the run on duct tape), Iraq, the Medicaid prescription drug sellout, Katrina and such loony White House extremism that even the naked-statue-draping John Ashcroft emerged as a voice of moderation, is about to pass into the history books.
Speechless.
The era that began with police roadblocks keeping black voters from the polls in Florida is ending with the first African American almost-president. The long, wretched period bookmarked by the Florida recount and the Wall Street bailout, encompassing, for starters, 9/11, anthrax (and the run on duct tape), Iraq, the Medicaid prescription drug sellout, Katrina and such loony White House extremism that even the naked-statue-draping John Ashcroft emerged as a voice of moderation, is about to pass into the history books.
Speechless.
