I Think My Mom Got It Right

Since I am new at this blogging thing, I wanted to take this challenge and run with it. So here I go.

Last week we were challenged by Mama Kat with prompts to write about in our own blog. While most of them intrigued me, I picked the one closest to my heart, and by that I mean it stings the most. I thought maybe if I wrote about this, and try to inject some humor in the situation then I can work through my issues and not consume so much alcohol when I am actually presented with said issue again. (Yea right, like that's going to happen!)

Without further ado, the topic I have chosen to write about is this:

2.) Not your mother’s daughter…how do you parent differently than your mother did? Is it a good thing or a bad thing?

I’ll start off by saying that my mother and I are very much alike—emotionally. On the normal female emotional scale, which is as follows:

 

My mom and I are about right here:

We aren’t emotional women. My husband sure wishes I was closer to the right side but he’s stuck with my unemotional, pragmatic ways with everything.  Sorry, honey, this is what you got. It was bred into me. You are going to have to go find crazy somewhere else.

Anyway, my mother worked my whole childhood. She was never home and when she did come home it was usually late in the evening and exhausted from busting her ass all day at work then sitting in traffic for over an hour just so she could go straight to bed and wake up and do it all over again. This was the case my whole school-years life. I always knew I wanted to be there for my kids when they got home from school. I wanted to actually know who their friends were and where they were going when they left the house. I didn’t want to absent for everything.

Now, I don’t begrudge my mom for being absent. She did what she had to do to put food on the table and clothes on our back. I just vividly remember wishing she was there more because my mom hung the moon for me. I loved her more than anyone else in the world. It was her approval that I craved so much.

Now that I’m a mom, I’ve chosen to do things completely different. I made the choice to stay at home and be there for my kids. They always know that I am there for them when they come home from school or always there for the simple things like home cooked meals and homemade chocolate chip cookies in the middle of the week. They never have to worry that Mommy won’t be there. Because, I am always fucking here.

Now that I think about it, maybe my mom got it right. Because, like I said, emotionally we are the same. Maybe she knew if she stayed home with us kids she be crazy and would have probably turned into a raging alcoholic by the age of 30. Maybe her coping mechanism was to work all those long hours so she could stay the hell away from all us kids. And my brother and I were good kids. I can’t imagine subjecting her to my kids--my kids are spawns of the devil. My mother would be in a looney bin if she had to deal with them. Because honestly, after a rainy holiday weekend with my kids (read: no school for three days straight to run out all their energy) my emotional make-up is more like this:

Yes, that is my hair on fire. Don’t dis my drawing skills. But yes, I feel that way and I’m not even PMSing. Or maybe I am… let me check the calendar… Nope! Not PMSing, it’s just my crazy ass kids driving me into this pit of hell.

So maybe my mom was a better mother. Maybe I should get a job and get the hell out of this house. Maybe my kids will benefit from it and learn to be a little more self-sufficient and not demand something from me every 2 seconds. They might actually learn to cherish all that I do for them instead of take it for granted. Maybe when they ask for lunch I’ll actually be happy to make it for them instead of scream at the top of my lung to leave me the hell alone before I throw them out the door to fend for themselves like the stray dogs that live along the railroad tracks. But probably not… they’ll probably stand at the back door and say “I’m hungry, feed me, give me food, I’m thirsty, I need a drink, can I have a snack, pay attention to me, I need attention, mommy watch as I do cartwheels in the living room, watch me throw my toys all over the living room and not pick them up, watch me color on the refrigerator where I put all those stickers what will never come off.”

Maybe, just maybe that’s the neighbor’s kids I hear barking all damn day and night, and they’ve been outside for so long their whining has turned into barking and the neighbor is inside drinking her Kahlua and Diet Coke with her earbuds in listening to Maroon 5 and daydreaming about Adam Levine. Oh wait… that’s not the neighbor... That’s me. Damn, I should really let the kids in.

The List

Everyone has their list right? The “freebie” list? Or is it just me and whores like me? Because in my humble opinion, everyone should have one. It’s good clean fun, and totally harmless if you don’t have stick up your ass and think that I have this list solely because you think one day I will meet each these people and screw them all.

I mean, come on. These freebies are celebrities that I will never meet, that’s the whole point of it. It’s fun to think about. It’s not like I have Jim from next door on it and cute barista from the local Dutch Bros.  <--- Not an indication that I have a crush on him AT ALL, I swear.

Dreamland: But you could meet them. Reality: It will never happen. Dreamland: You never know, I could go to his concert and he’ll see me in the crowd and fall in love. Reality: It will never happen. Dreamland: I could run into him at some bar, buy him a drink and we could—Reality: IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN. Dreamland: I could shake his hand at his movie premiere and he’ll look into my eyes—Reality: It will never happen. And if by some random chance you do run into this person, he will never give you a second look. You are not a super model. Dreamland: Screw you. I can dream, can’t I? What is a person without her dreams? Reality: A person who lives in reality and is married with kids—that’s who you stupid idiot. Dreamland: You can still dream. Don’t be such an uptight bitch.

So, as I was saying, the freebie list is good harmless fun. You can have musicians, actors, directors and even fictional characters and no one will judge.

Did she just say fictional characters?

Yes, I did. Fictional characters. My best friend has a fictional character on hers. And no, it’s not a pointy eared Vulcan. It is a Star Trek character and I believe he’s human. At least I think… I’ve never been a Trekkie, until recently and James T. Kirk was played by someone on my list. Suddenly I’m all about the Trek. But I digress.

Think about the people in the celebrity world that you would like to know biblically. But the rule is you only get 5. Yea, yea, you can have honorable mentions but there can only be five on your list. And if you so choose, you may laminate your list like Ross did on “Friends.” But remember how that worked out for him… he met Isabella Rossellini and he cut her from his list. So he got nowhere.

Dreamland: See… it could happen. Reality: Shut up.

It's Not My Fault

Let me start off by saying that no matter what you read beyond this, I love IKEA. I like their furniture, their do-dads, their linens... all of it. I even like their store even though it's a freakin' maze that's meant to keep you all damn day. I think they want you living there. Which would be ok with me.  Secondly, I love basketball. It's my favorite sport. I wait for months for the NBA season to start and get giddy when it does. And I'm even giddier during the playoffs. But some things are more important... like my sleep!!

Tuesday night was a big night in our house. It was game 4 of the NBA Eastern Conference finals. John is a huge Miami Heat fan, has been for years (he's from Florida, the pour soul) so when they were on TV all life stops for him. As it did Tuesday night. Even though we agreed this was the night we were going to put the IKEA bed slats together.

"We could do it while watching the game!" He said triumphantly. Now, John had shoulder surgery a mere 10 days ago, so the putting together of anything would rest solely on my shoulder/back/knees. But I was confident that he could help some. I was wrong.  For two hours this is how it went:

Me reading the instructions: You want to screw those two boards together.
John: Uh huh. Ok.

Me: John! Pay attention! Screw those two boards together.
John: Uh huh. Ok. I am.

Me: Forget it, give it to me!

I managed to put a whole side of the bed together which is no small feat. It was a pain in my mother-fucking ass to tell you the truth. I had to not only screw the boards together, but insert each slat into the rubbery thingys. So I did it and grumbled under my breath the whole time. And I might add IKEA's instructions are no joke. They are easy if you have common sense and aren't overly pissed off at your husband for not helping when he obviously said he would.

Me grumbling under my breath: Help me, my ass. Stupid basketball game. I hate you LeBron for keeping his attention while all I needed him to do was screw a few screws. But we managed... no wait... I managed to get it done. Yay me!

Now that the basketball game was over (Go Heat!) my shoulder/back/knees and ass hurt like hell and I wanted a break.

John: Let me finish it.
Me: Hell no. You have only one working arm, I'll do the rest later as I watch The Voice.

10pm rolls around and The Voice starts, not without a few squeals from me because I love this show. And this is why:

Oh yea baby.

I start on the bed slats, slowly. My friend Erin starts texting me. Erin had surgery last week and is on her "happy drugs" which I can only assume in really strong and wonderfully euphoric pain pills. My joke back to her before the show started:

"You got your happy drugs, I'm going to watch mine tonight!"

So, at 10, Erin texts: I'm watching your happy drug while under the influence of my happy drug!

If you know me, and I assume you don't, when I text, all the world stops while I send my texts. Don't talk to me because I can't concentrate on two things at once. Don't look over my shoulder and read what I'm writing because I will punch you in the face. And heaven forbid if you should ask me what I'm saying because I will throw anything within my reach at you.

So, The Voice is on, I'm looking at this:

and I'm texting. But wait, I was supposed to be doing something, right? Oh yea...

But I can't concentrate. Something better is on the screen. But, I promised to get this finished so I can sleep soundly for the night and not sleep on broken slats and wake up with my back on fire. My sleep is precious, but this is more precious...

My text to Erin: Humina humina humina. And he's all scruffy. I think I'm gonna pass out.
Me to Erin: UNF......
Erin to me: LOL, my poor friend!

John at me very loudly: How many more slats do you need? Pay attention! I thought you wanted to sleep on this tonight.

Oh yea... I completely forgot where I was.

Needless to say, 11pm rolled around--too soon I might add because I spent almost an hour waiting for any small camera shot of this:

And my bed slats still looked like this

Of course, if John had paid attention during that damn basketball game they would have been done. I'm just sayin', it's not my fault.

Oh, and just for effect, lets see this one more time:

Oh yea, baby.


All photos of Adam Levine are courtesy of The Voice on NBC. Just got to give credit where credit is due. :)

What's going on in my head

InMyHead1, a photo by Eejaye21 on Flickr.

This is what is constantly going on in my head. Just a little picture into my madness.

About Me--the customary first post

Well, where do I start? Let's start from the beginning:

I was born in a hospital near the ocean on a warm summer night. I cried, a lot... Is that too far back?

How about: I was born, I grew. I went to school. I grew some more. Lots of post-adolesence shit happened, some good, some bad and some REALLY bad. Then, I grew some more (figuratively speaking) I got married. Had kids. That's my life in a nutshell.

I realized my life was really boring and started writing. And writing the smutty stories bouncing around in my mind wasn't enough so I started this blog. I really don't like using the word "blog" because it sounds so smug and asshole-ish "yes, I write a blog, aren't I so fucking smart!" But honestly, after reading so many people's blogs (shutter) lately I realize it's not asshole-ish at all. There are some really funny people out there! I'm not saying I'm as funny as them, but I have my moments. Of course those moments will probably only be completely received by my best friend (Hi Marcy!) but she swears the rest of you'all reading this will get it too.

If you are reading this and are still with me, please don't expect a lovey-dovey mommy blog. Yes, I'm a mommy and I will write about my kids sometimes but I guarantee you, most of it will not be lovey-dovey. I'm not a warm and fuzzy person. I'm actually a bitch. Wow... I'm a bitch. Hmph. So much has opened up to me after admitting that to myself.

What you will read about it is the shit that goes through my head. Most of it will probably be celebrity related because I have A LOT to say about the celebrity world. (see above: boring life = obsession with other people's lives). And I'm kind of a whore in the respect that I think naughty thoughts and say naughty comments about my celebrity crushes. And oh Lord, do I have a lot to say about them! But, yea, you'll hear about my kids, my husband, my dogs, my friends, my neighbors, my neighbor's dog and probably that damn dog that barks all through the day and night because someone won't let him the fuck inside because it's pouring rain and cold and he's probably hungry... Wait, where was I? Oh yea.

I can tell you are looking forward to it by the bored look on your face and the eye muscle spasm that just occured from you rolling them too hard. And I see your cursor hovering over the red X. Yes... I see you...

Scared yet? I thought so.