Fifteen years ago today, I stood before the Universe and our fmaily and friends and pledged myself to one man for the rest of my life.
I was nineteen, in luuuuvvvv (notice the difference?), and remarkably stupid.
I had no idea what roads we would travel or how hard it is to be married to one person, to wake up to them to have to stay in the same room when you're so mad spitting nails is easy.
I didn't think about the fact that, as a shy, retiring, naive girl of nineteen, that I still had a lot of growing up to do.
I just wanted.
And I had to have.
Now, a decade and a half later, I am more methodical in my decisions. Looking back on my choice then, I wonder if I would have made the same one. Would I have still become The Man's Mrs?
Yes, I know I would.
Marriage is a choice made based upon emotional longing and hormones, with a good dose of lust mixed in.
Staying married in a choice made upon affection, shared experiences, and emotion that defies all words and logic.
He infuriates me. He enrages me. He confuses me. And he grounds me.
As a Type A personality married to a procrastinator extraordinaire, we are a match made in some bizarre mad scientists nightmare.
But we fit. In some strange way, we make sense even when the rest of the world doesn't see it.
There is a spark there, a magic that is uniquely ours, and when that magic is strong, we are able to move mountains.
If we hadn't married, I wouldn't have known what it felt like to laugh so hard that I almost wet my pants, because that's what he does. He makes me laugh like no other.
I wouldn't have had someone to grieve with me when we miscarried our first child, someone who knew a part of the bone deep sorrow I felt at that loss.
I wouldn't have my baby heathens, precious and terrible, beautiful and awe inspiring. And I would not have seen that expression on my husband's face when he held each one for the first time.
Who would have held me when my dear daddy passed away and my world turned sideways and mourned the loss of that wonderful man with me?
Does The Man annoy me? Oh, gods yes! Do I plot his demise on almost a daily basis? Yeppers.
But after fifteen years, if I haven't killed him yet for one of his boneheaded mistakes, then odds are he'll live to be a forgetful old man whose main job is to drive me batty in our Geritol years.
And I'm okay with that.
Most days.
Because we still fit.
And after fifteen years, that says a lot.
(While I will not say I love you because that's just too mushy and sweet for my taste--damn it! It burns! -- I will say my life would be boring and empty without you in it. And I have never liked to be bored. Happy anniversary, babe!)
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Toothless
My oldest has lost his first tooth.
And his second one is quickly following.
And I'm not ready.
Bug was so cavalier about it. He was simply eating breakfast and smiled at me and I started screaming.
"Where is your tooth?"
Yes, I am a quiet rocket scientist first thing in the morning. Duh!
"It fell out."
"WHEN?"
"Last night."
"WHERE IS IT?" Cats in heat are quieter than I was as my voice became increasingly shrill.
"I dunno. On the floor. Daddy probably swept it up."
Knowing my husband had been asleep and hadn't OCD cleaned since early the pervious day, I yelled, "HE HASN'T SWEPT! FIND IT!"
And about 30 seconds later he dropped a baby tooth in my hand.
A tooth I had watched him grown only five and a hald years before. A tooth that was in every smiling picture I have of my son.
I was holding the Holy Grail.
And now I was going to have to be the blasted Tooth Fairy.
So we talked about Tooth Fairy protocol and how excited daddy would be. And I sent him off to school still grinning stupidly because my son's tooth had fallen out.
Not because he'd done anything stellar.
He'd lost a tooth.
My son, who freaks about germs and dirt, had failed to respond to losing a body part.
It seems like only yesterday I was so excited about that tooth popping through his baby gums, and now I can hold it in my hand and see the adult tooth shining through.
My baby is growing up, and he's got a gorgous toothless grin to show for it.
And his second one is quickly following.
And I'm not ready.
Bug was so cavalier about it. He was simply eating breakfast and smiled at me and I started screaming.
"Where is your tooth?"
Yes, I am a quiet rocket scientist first thing in the morning. Duh!
"It fell out."
"WHEN?"
"Last night."
"WHERE IS IT?" Cats in heat are quieter than I was as my voice became increasingly shrill.
"I dunno. On the floor. Daddy probably swept it up."
Knowing my husband had been asleep and hadn't OCD cleaned since early the pervious day, I yelled, "HE HASN'T SWEPT! FIND IT!"
And about 30 seconds later he dropped a baby tooth in my hand.
A tooth I had watched him grown only five and a hald years before. A tooth that was in every smiling picture I have of my son.
I was holding the Holy Grail.
And now I was going to have to be the blasted Tooth Fairy.
So we talked about Tooth Fairy protocol and how excited daddy would be. And I sent him off to school still grinning stupidly because my son's tooth had fallen out.
Not because he'd done anything stellar.
He'd lost a tooth.
My son, who freaks about germs and dirt, had failed to respond to losing a body part.
It seems like only yesterday I was so excited about that tooth popping through his baby gums, and now I can hold it in my hand and see the adult tooth shining through.
My baby is growing up, and he's got a gorgous toothless grin to show for it.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Someone pass me the lube?
Because I feel like I've been screwed.
I try to live a life that involves helping people.
Not all people, because, let's face it, some of you just aren't worth helping.
But some people are. And I try to help them.
And I continually get screwed without a 'thank you'.
Today was no different.
Someone I have helped for five long years. Someone I have given charity to, listened to, worried about, and tried to help out when we didn't have a pot to piss in.
I didn't expect a thank you.
I mean, one would have been nice and a show of good upbringing and manners, but still, wasn't necessary.
But instead she turned on me like a rabid skunk, biting me and smelling up the place as she walked away.
Cackling like a bleached blonde Brune Hilde. Not a pretty sight on a woman approaching the Geritol years.
I normally have no problem with verbal take downs, but I had all three heathens with me, so I bit my tongue almost completely off.
And I resisted the urge to follow her home and run her ass over.
I'm feeling remarkably mature right now.
Just me and my voodoo doll.
But I seriously don't understand why, when you've tried to help people out, they turn on you. Is it shame? Guilt? Hillbilly inbreeding?
I have decided, when I am Queen of the Universe (the election is next week--vote for me!) people with good hearts who get screwed over by demented cackling trolls who should step away from the Clairol before all their brain cells rot out will be visited by a special ops group simply called COSMIC BITCH SLAP. Their mission, which they will always choose to accept, is to slap the person into reality five, ten fifty times. How ever many times it takes for the synopses to start firing again and for them to realize where exactly they went wrong.
I have a few candidates already in mind.
Don't you?
I try to live a life that involves helping people.
Not all people, because, let's face it, some of you just aren't worth helping.
But some people are. And I try to help them.
And I continually get screwed without a 'thank you'.
Today was no different.
Someone I have helped for five long years. Someone I have given charity to, listened to, worried about, and tried to help out when we didn't have a pot to piss in.
I didn't expect a thank you.
I mean, one would have been nice and a show of good upbringing and manners, but still, wasn't necessary.
But instead she turned on me like a rabid skunk, biting me and smelling up the place as she walked away.
Cackling like a bleached blonde Brune Hilde. Not a pretty sight on a woman approaching the Geritol years.
I normally have no problem with verbal take downs, but I had all three heathens with me, so I bit my tongue almost completely off.
And I resisted the urge to follow her home and run her ass over.
I'm feeling remarkably mature right now.
Just me and my voodoo doll.
But I seriously don't understand why, when you've tried to help people out, they turn on you. Is it shame? Guilt? Hillbilly inbreeding?
I have decided, when I am Queen of the Universe (the election is next week--vote for me!) people with good hearts who get screwed over by demented cackling trolls who should step away from the Clairol before all their brain cells rot out will be visited by a special ops group simply called COSMIC BITCH SLAP. Their mission, which they will always choose to accept, is to slap the person into reality five, ten fifty times. How ever many times it takes for the synopses to start firing again and for them to realize where exactly they went wrong.
I have a few candidates already in mind.
Don't you?
These are the days
Of our lives. (Thank you MacDonald Carey!)
The construction is almost finished. We're in the home stretch. Which means I'm hoping to be done by Christmas.
The men folk who have been telling me they couldn't be rushed, things had to go at their own pace, have now begun rushing me to pick paint and wall texture and carpet.
Now they are waiting on me, and I kind of like it.
It's very Southern Belle of me to expect them to bow and serve me in my slightest whims.
Just call me Katie Scarlet, thank you very much.
The heathens have settled into school nicely. Bug is doing well. He has people there who know his game ahead of time and aren't taking any crap!
Seriously, they understand that his brilliant little brain sees the world in only black and white and those two colors don't make grey.
We have had no meltdowns. No fits, and only a few smaller incidents that go along with being six as well as having AS.
We'll take it.
Boo got into trouble at school for the first time last week. I almost fell over that my easy child, my pleaser, got into trouble.
The Man made him apoligize, but still, it's the principal of the thing. I can't have all three heathens be troublemakers. What kind of screwed up karmic biddy slap would that be?
I blame it all on their father's DNA.
I was a good child.
No matter what my mother says.
The construction is almost finished. We're in the home stretch. Which means I'm hoping to be done by Christmas.
The men folk who have been telling me they couldn't be rushed, things had to go at their own pace, have now begun rushing me to pick paint and wall texture and carpet.
Now they are waiting on me, and I kind of like it.
It's very Southern Belle of me to expect them to bow and serve me in my slightest whims.
Just call me Katie Scarlet, thank you very much.
The heathens have settled into school nicely. Bug is doing well. He has people there who know his game ahead of time and aren't taking any crap!
Seriously, they understand that his brilliant little brain sees the world in only black and white and those two colors don't make grey.
We have had no meltdowns. No fits, and only a few smaller incidents that go along with being six as well as having AS.
We'll take it.
Boo got into trouble at school for the first time last week. I almost fell over that my easy child, my pleaser, got into trouble.
The Man made him apoligize, but still, it's the principal of the thing. I can't have all three heathens be troublemakers. What kind of screwed up karmic biddy slap would that be?
I blame it all on their father's DNA.
I was a good child.
No matter what my mother says.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Abject terror
I greet the new school year with relief that my two youngest will be returning to the halls of academia and terror that my oldest will be going. . . back . . . to . . . school.
Da da dum!
It's a lovely quandary designed to twist me tighter than a pretzel or tighter that panties shoved up my crack due to a well done wedgie. (we had a certain little girl who was very mad because she received her first wedgie tonight. But I digress.)
I'm excited because the heathens love school (my far superior DNA) and because Bug has meltdowns at school that remind me of Godzilla trying to level Tokyo (his dad's defective DNA.)
I'm terrified because we have left the relative safety of his old school, which knew him, knew how to handle him, knew when to call us and when to ride it out, to a new school, a new teacher, and a new system that Bug doesn't know.
Chances are it's gonna be ugly.
Damned ugly.
Get drunk, turn out the lights and still close your eyes ugly.
So I am girding my loins (as soon as I find them after birthing three monsters) and preparing to enter the fray. I will be standing in the line of fire while The Man takes the kids and runs. He's smart enough after fifteen years to know when to duck and cover.
And he knows to cover his ass in case I decide to take a bite out of it for something I am utterly sure is his fault. (How can it not be after years on a nuclear boat? His genetic material, his swimmers, were doomed before they ever met my superior eggs. No wonder Bug has a few quirks.)
I"m gearing up for a fight I hope never happens, for meetings I know will, and for a year that will be so full of ups and downs I'm taking stock in barf bags.
And, as a spew chunks, I will still love my son with a ferocity that makers me takes the slings and arrows directed at him, that makes me weep for the ones I miss, and that makes me get up to do it all over again the next day.
Da da dum!
It's a lovely quandary designed to twist me tighter than a pretzel or tighter that panties shoved up my crack due to a well done wedgie. (we had a certain little girl who was very mad because she received her first wedgie tonight. But I digress.)
I'm excited because the heathens love school (my far superior DNA) and because Bug has meltdowns at school that remind me of Godzilla trying to level Tokyo (his dad's defective DNA.)
I'm terrified because we have left the relative safety of his old school, which knew him, knew how to handle him, knew when to call us and when to ride it out, to a new school, a new teacher, and a new system that Bug doesn't know.
Chances are it's gonna be ugly.
Damned ugly.
Get drunk, turn out the lights and still close your eyes ugly.
So I am girding my loins (as soon as I find them after birthing three monsters) and preparing to enter the fray. I will be standing in the line of fire while The Man takes the kids and runs. He's smart enough after fifteen years to know when to duck and cover.
And he knows to cover his ass in case I decide to take a bite out of it for something I am utterly sure is his fault. (How can it not be after years on a nuclear boat? His genetic material, his swimmers, were doomed before they ever met my superior eggs. No wonder Bug has a few quirks.)
I"m gearing up for a fight I hope never happens, for meetings I know will, and for a year that will be so full of ups and downs I'm taking stock in barf bags.
And, as a spew chunks, I will still love my son with a ferocity that makers me takes the slings and arrows directed at him, that makes me weep for the ones I miss, and that makes me get up to do it all over again the next day.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Oh what a night!
After falling asleep at 10:30 last night, several hours after what I consider my allotted bedtime due to my night owl little girl child, I proceeded to endure one of those nights.
My outside dog barked. At what? a felonious leaf blowing cross the yard that looked like it might slam up against our door, come in, and take the heathens and I hostage? The realization that some cracked vet cut off his tail and his wing nuts and he had no say in the matter? Or just because he could.
And lets not forget the howling noise he emits when a fire engine roared down a nearby street at about one this morning. Harvey Wallbanger, Giant Schnauzer extraordinarily stupid, outdid the siren with his own moose like mating call. I think they are meeting for drinks from the toilet later on.
About the time my eyes closed and I resumed my dream of me and Hugh Jackman (he was rubbing my feet in a very nice way!) my children began talking in their sleep. It always starts with a cry for me, which I normally ignore, choosing sleep over their nocturnal needs of my offspring, and then escalates into a full fledged argument at the top of their lungs. Last night, Bug was trying to convince me that his birthday was this weekend and that I'd better have his bloody Toy Story birthday party ready to go.
To which I oh so sweetly replied that if he wanted to live to see six he should shut his trap and let me get some sleep.
Again, when my eyes closed and I went in search of Hugh to rub me again--my feet that is--I heard the slurp slurp noise that could only be one thing.
A flank sucking pu. .er . .cat named Drambuie Sky.
Who proceeded to greet my tossing him across the room with great indignity and came right back to wash his crotch in my face.
And last, but certainly not least, the inside dog who can't hold his liquid. Bojangles. who bounced from my bed to my middle child's bed, his nails clicking on the floor as he went around and around our house, walking on me, the cat, the kids (which I would have been okay with except they started talking again), back to me, to stare into my face while I'm trying to ignore him. Then he passed gas, a noxious cloud of odor right after he turned around to leave the bed for another sojourn into the house.
In other words, his butt was in my face, necessitating me gagging, coughing, and giving up on sleep at about three this morning.
As I write this, facing a full day of work followed by the evening shift as a single parent while the Man sleeps, I am considering dropping my children off at some hospital to find new parents to torture, the dog may end of at the pound, and the flank sucking pu . . .er. . . cat may become a side show attraction.
Oh what a fan-freaking-tastic night!
My outside dog barked. At what? a felonious leaf blowing cross the yard that looked like it might slam up against our door, come in, and take the heathens and I hostage? The realization that some cracked vet cut off his tail and his wing nuts and he had no say in the matter? Or just because he could.
And lets not forget the howling noise he emits when a fire engine roared down a nearby street at about one this morning. Harvey Wallbanger, Giant Schnauzer extraordinarily stupid, outdid the siren with his own moose like mating call. I think they are meeting for drinks from the toilet later on.
About the time my eyes closed and I resumed my dream of me and Hugh Jackman (he was rubbing my feet in a very nice way!) my children began talking in their sleep. It always starts with a cry for me, which I normally ignore, choosing sleep over their nocturnal needs of my offspring, and then escalates into a full fledged argument at the top of their lungs. Last night, Bug was trying to convince me that his birthday was this weekend and that I'd better have his bloody Toy Story birthday party ready to go.
To which I oh so sweetly replied that if he wanted to live to see six he should shut his trap and let me get some sleep.
Again, when my eyes closed and I went in search of Hugh to rub me again--my feet that is--I heard the slurp slurp noise that could only be one thing.
A flank sucking pu. .er . .cat named Drambuie Sky.
Who proceeded to greet my tossing him across the room with great indignity and came right back to wash his crotch in my face.
And last, but certainly not least, the inside dog who can't hold his liquid. Bojangles. who bounced from my bed to my middle child's bed, his nails clicking on the floor as he went around and around our house, walking on me, the cat, the kids (which I would have been okay with except they started talking again), back to me, to stare into my face while I'm trying to ignore him. Then he passed gas, a noxious cloud of odor right after he turned around to leave the bed for another sojourn into the house.
In other words, his butt was in my face, necessitating me gagging, coughing, and giving up on sleep at about three this morning.
As I write this, facing a full day of work followed by the evening shift as a single parent while the Man sleeps, I am considering dropping my children off at some hospital to find new parents to torture, the dog may end of at the pound, and the flank sucking pu . . .er. . . cat may become a side show attraction.
Oh what a fan-freaking-tastic night!
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Using my children
Yes, I am a user.
I am using my children.
I am using my children to allow me to rewatch the cartoons of my youth.
My kids are now being forced to watch "Thundercats" (HO!) and will soon be watching "My Little Pony". This upcoming year, "Voltron" and "Thundercats" will be starting new shows and I'll have an excuse to watch them.
Besides the one about me being a anime and cartoon geek and just wanting to watch them.
Now I can claim I'm screening them for my kids to make sure the content is appropriate.
Sometimes, being a parent is a slam dunk!
I am using my children.
I am using my children to allow me to rewatch the cartoons of my youth.
My kids are now being forced to watch "Thundercats" (HO!) and will soon be watching "My Little Pony". This upcoming year, "Voltron" and "Thundercats" will be starting new shows and I'll have an excuse to watch them.
Besides the one about me being a anime and cartoon geek and just wanting to watch them.
Now I can claim I'm screening them for my kids to make sure the content is appropriate.
Sometimes, being a parent is a slam dunk!
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