No, YOUR Mom Is A Winner

Posted: January 23, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: Crazy Lady, Skool is for nurds, The world is full of crazies, Widdle Debil | 2 Comments »

So the kids were in the bath yesterday afternoon with their bathing suits on (as one does), playing with their Barbies and erupting in hysterics whenever one of them tooted (bonus points for bubbles!).  I was on my laptop because a) it totally counts as proper bath time supervision as long as you’re in the same room (I know because I asked Twitter) and b) of course I was, so I was only 3/4 paying attention (ok, fine, 5/8).  I was busying myself with whatever it is I do with my time (probably really important grownup stuff), when I heard the Barbies talking.

“Your mom is the winner,” said one particularly naked brunette.

“No, YOUR mom is the winner,” retorted an equally naked, save for a painted on swim suit, Belle.

Now wait just a minute, here.  YOUR mom?  YOUR mom?  Spoken with the exact inflection and amount of forceful sarcasm as one would use while delivering a Yo Mama joke.  No, yo mama’s the winner.  Granted, being a winner isn’t necessarily the greatest yo mama punchline, but the intent was clearly there.  And seeing as I am the mama to both parties, I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or do a victory lap.  Should I be insulted?  Was being a winner in this situation a bad thing, seeing as they were arguing over who had to be said winner?

I was about to ask for clarification when the tub exploded in giggles again when the oldest blew air bubbles into the water and made a farty noise while doing so.  Given my extensive experience with these two, I’m pretty sure I should have been insulted, but I was kind of proud.  I can take a joke.

“Hey, Eirinn, that water your just put your mouth into is the same water that touched Avery’s bum and I’m pretty sure her toots weren’t pretend.”

I’m not sure where all of the class went, but I am positive there is none left at my house.

I’m going to lose readers because of this one.

Posted: February 15, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: How do you categorize "crazy"?, Let's keep it PG, Petting the peeves, The world is full of crazies, Whatever | Tags: | 23 Comments »

I am the Devil’s Advocate.  I see both sides of a situation and even if I stand firmly on one side, I am overwhelmingly compelled to argue for the other.  I can debate anything (except when it comes to kids and animals – I’m ALWAYS on their side and will CUT YOU DOWN WITH FURY AND VIOLENCE if you’re not) and I do, even when I don’t WANT to. 

This is all a disclaimer for what I’m about to present. 

You shouldn’t hate Justin Beiber. 

*ducks under the desk* 

HEAR ME OUT BEFORE YOU LEAVE. 

Sure, YOU may not like his music, but that’s fine.  You’re not supposed to like his music.  Unless you are a 12 year old girl.  Are you?  If you’re not, then you shouldn’t even try to listen to his music.  It’s not for you.  He didn’t make it for you and he probably doesn’t even want you to listen to it.  He wants girls to swoon over him, and you’re not that girl. 

I just can’t for the life of me understand Beiber Haters.  If you don’t like his music, don’t listen to it.  Don’t go see his movie.  Don’t buy the Beiber Doll.  Cut your hair to a respectable length and be done with it.  You don’t have to go on and on about how TERRIBLE his music is and how much you HATE him, because really?  You HATE a person you’ve never met in person?  You don’t KNOW him well enough to HATE him.  He didn’t do anything to you.  

Does your car only get one station?  No?  Then change it if a song of his comes on.  TV only have one channel?  No?  Change it when his movie adverts air.  You are not being forced to see or hear or enjoy or even LIKE him, but that doesn’t mean you have to HATE him. 

And you know what you sound like when you complain about him endlessly?  Your parents.  Did your parents like your music when you were growing up?  Probably not.  Their parents didn’t like they’re music, either.  Elvis was sin personified, afterall. 

Justin is a kid who likes music.  If you look at it objectively, he’s not that bad, either.  There are many other “artists” who are less talented than him.  Again, I don’t LIKE his music and I think his hair is weird, but I don’t feel qualified to say I HATE him.  In fact, besides the five second clip that plays during the preview for his movie, I can honestly say I’ve never heard his music.  WHICH IS HOW IT SHOULD BE.  I am a 31 year old GROWN WOMAN; I’m not SUPPOSED to have an opinion about something that is clearly and purposely for tweens.  It’s none of my damn business. 

As adults, we shouldn’t judge things made for children.  We are not the target demographic.  Grownups are not SUPPOSED to like Justin Beiber, so saying that you don’t like Justin Beiber is like saying you don’t like playing with Barbies.  My response is “Good.  So, you’re NOT a mental and emotional child.  ‘Cause if you DID like him, that would be weird.”

I don’t want kids liking my music (except my own kids so that I can listen to what I want in the car without them complaining) and I’m sure kids don’t want me liking their music.  So there.  Can we come to some sort of agreement?  A calm rationale that ends all the Beiber bashing?  

We get it.  You don’t like his music.  I’m sure he’s heartbroken, crying in a gold plated hot tub  filled with hundred dollar bills and Victoria Secret models.

Everything has feelings, you know.

Posted: January 5, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: How do you categorize "crazy"?, The world is full of crazies, Too late to apologize, Whatever | 14 Comments »

Things I currently feel sorry for: that Barbie over there on the floor, the chair at the far end of the kitchen table, the entire basement, my t-shirts at the bottom of the drawer, the half of a cinnamon bun on the counter, all the books I own but failed to read before I bought a new one, my dining room.

The Barbie was just thrown there, without thought for her position.  She’s face down and her arm is wretched over to the side, awkwardly.  It looks like it would hurt terribly.

And the chair is the one that never gets sat on.  We all have assigned seating (thanks to cruise director, Eirinn) and that chair was left out of the plan.  It rarely feels the warmth of a butt.

My whole basement only ever gets used to throw junk in and to do the laundry.  It’s barren and neglected.  Concrete walls and exposed ducts don’t make for a very cozy room.

My t-shirts that have the misfortune of living at the bottom of my drawer have been forgotten.  When searching for a top, I grab what’s easiest accessed, and that, unfortunately is not those on the bottom.

The cinnamon bun has been halved.  Too small for a grown up and the little ones have no interest in food that has been portion controlled.  They’d much rather take a full sized bun and waste half.  Which is exactly what happened.

The books I’ve bought but neglected to read before replacing them with newer books must feel like the older kids at the orphanage.  Am I ever going to read them?  Probably.  Eventually.  Yes.  But until then, they must wait on the shelf, wondering.

My dining room is pretty.  So pretty.  Decorated with care and thought.  AND THEN ABANDONED WITHOUT REGARD.  It currently is being used to hold Christmas gifts that haven’t been assigned a home as of yet.  Rarely is there any dining in that room.

All of these things make me sad.

See what just happened there?  With the crazy?  Yeah, that’s what happens in my head.  I feel sorry for things that are just things and then it makes me sad because I just called the things “just things”. 

And, my lawdy, people, the turmoil that the Toy Story series has put me through.  SEE?  I TOLD YOU THINGS HAD FEELINGS.  We got the girls Jesse The Cowgirl and Woody for Christmas.  The replica type toys that look exactly like those in the movies and because of this SICKNESS I have, I have not-so-subtly been encouraging the kids to adopt them as their new favourite toys.  I’ve convinced Eirinn that she wants to sleep with Jesse at night.  I’m terribly protective of the way they treat the dolls, too.  I panic and yell “DON’T HOLD THEM BY THE STRING!” just in case they break.  Jesse and Woody would be sad if their strings broke.

But do you know what’s the worst part about all of this nuttery?  The grossly abnormal amount of time I spend thinking about the toy box we have in our basement filled with the girls’ secondary toys.  The Forgotten Toys.  They don’t get played with anymore.  They just sit down there, in the dark, wondering if the girls still love them.  They probably hope that every time the basement door opens, it’s one of the kids coming down to play with them.  And then, when it’s not, they probably cry little toy tears.

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS INSIDE MY HEAD, PEOPLE.

Regaining the title of The Face Of Murder Sheds

Posted: November 23, 2010 | Author: | Filed under: Grown Up Talk, How do you categorize "crazy"?, Photos, Quirks, Sometimes it's all about me, The world is full of crazies, Too late to apologize | 9 Comments »

You know what really chaps my ass?  When I’m no longer The Face of Murder Sheds.  Oh, yes, folks.  Google no longer deems me worthy of representing Murder Sheds, which is so insulting I can barely see straight.  Who are they to say I’m not the World’s Leading Expert on Murder Sheds?  Because I totally am.  Did you even know what a murder shed was until I told you?  What’s that?  You don’t know what a murder shed is?  Well, allow me to enlighten you because despite what Google says, I know Murder Sheds better than anyone.

Murder Shed –noun

1. a slight or rude structure built for shelter from prying eyes, storage of captives, bodies of victims, meat hooks etc.
2. a large, strongly built structure, often open at the sides or end, usually with a secret room beneath the floor boards.
Sure, everyone knows that.  But what people may not know, and what makes me such an expert, is that a “murder shed” doesn’t have to be a shed, per se.  A murder shed can just as effectively be a well insulated attic, or a dark unfinished basement, or even an apartment in a sketchy neighbourhood.  Anywhere suitable for a variety of deviant behaviours.
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Horror movies ALWAYS have murder sheds.  Be it a run-down old barn or a dug-out bunker in a corn field or under the cellar stairs.  There are chains and hooks and saws of varying severity.  There’s never any electricity and it’s where the ill-fated protagonists variably run to when being chased by their masked adversaries.  Short of a lit marquee advertising “GET MURDERED HERE!”, they’re clearly Places Of Doom.
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The Murder Shed barn from The Last Exorcism, for example.

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And let me be very clear about all this – I don’t condone actions which require a Murder Shed.  I feel weird having to clarify, but we all know The Internets these days.  I kid about a Murder Shed and suddenly I’m a Dahmer apologist.  I’m not.  Just to be clear.  I do, however, have a weird thing about finding a real Murder Shed.  When I drive through the ghetto (like that happens ALL the time), I habitually look in the windows of the buildings along the streets, waiting to find some fishiness.  Simply a morbid fascination, I suppose.
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And so, when we (royal we) built our own shed, it was nicknamed The Murder Shed.  It’s where I keep my fictional meat hooks and all my proper kidnapping supplies.  There’s a pretend underground bunker.  The doors are fake padlocked to prevent any nosy neighbours from snooping and blowing my faux cover.  It’s extra pretty on the outside to distract from the make believe house of horrors on the inside.
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This is why I’m so confused by Google.  Have you ever heard anyone so prolific on the subject of murder sheds?  No.  No, you haven’t.  Perhaps it was a lack of pictorial options?  Well, I can fix that, too.

Heres me taking a picture of a potential "guest".

This is me looking inconspicuous. "Look at me! Im completely harmless! I WEAR GLASSES."

Pay no attention to the girl behind the glasses who totally doesnt own her own Murder Shed.

Oh, this one wouldnt hurt a fly. She wears silly hats!

This looks like a mugshot. Its just me practicing.

...yeah, Ive got nothing for this one.

So now, Google, you really have no choice but to return the crown to the most deserving person.  Me.  I am The Face of Murder Sheds.  Recognize.

Those who live are those who fight. – Victor Hugo

Posted: November 7, 2010 | Author: | Filed under: Blogcetera, Boring stuff you don't care about, Grown Up Talk, Sometimes it's all about me, Stress, The world is full of crazies | 4 Comments »

When I see someone I know from afar, I take great pains in avoiding them.  I’ll step back into an elevator or I’ll turn the corner sending myself in the wrong direction or I’ll keep my head down, hoping I haven’t been spotted.  When it comes to a battle with my fear of conversation, I nearly always indulge my natural flight instinct.  Flight or hide.

Then there are those times when I’m spotted first and I’m forced to talk.  My insides tense up.  My palms get sweaty.  My mind thinks of everything and nothing and then everything again, too quickly for me to land on any one thought in particular.  I don’t know where to look.  I don’t know what to do with my hands, or my face, or my feet.  I forget details I should remember, like their last name or if they have kids or where I met them.  That space in my mind is taken up by a buzzing and this voice telling me I should have run because I’m just making a fool of myself.

All this is why I haven’t spent much time talking about my personal life on here lately.  I mean, I’ve been painfully personal with the 30 Days of Truth, but as for my day-to-day, I’ve been awfully neglectful.  We went on our first family vacation, my first real vacation in 6 years, and I said nothing about it.  I haven’t given an update about Eirinn going to school, or vented about the resulting behavioral issues we’ve been having.  I haven’t even mentioned that Avery is potty training and doing a fantastic job.  And I certainly wasn’t going to write a post about her smashing her face on the coffee table this afternoon, earning herself a goose egg the size of an actual goose egg and two bloody lips.  AH has had major surgery, and yet I say nothing.  I couldn’t even bring myself to announce the winner of the Disney on Ice contest (Steph won, by the by – I let her know, just no one else).

I’m not sure what this is all about.  Is it the same as my fear of conversation?  It feels that way.  I sit down to write a post and I clam-up.  I draft pieces in my head, nearly from start to finish, I get part way through and delete.  Sometimes I think “no one wants to read this,” other times I think “it’s been to long” or “this is too personal.”  Delete.

The 30 Days posts, while torturous at times, are perfect for me right now.  They give me a topic to write about.  I can do that.  I can take direction, spill my guts in 1,000 words or less, and move on.

I hate that this is happening and I hope it’s just a phase.  I love this place.  I love writing, I love telling you about my life or a piece of fiction I created or a funny quip I found amusing.  I love engaging an audience in this way – from the safety of my living room, hiding behind my laptop.  And I adore your comments, good or bad, because it’s how I can converse without worrying about what to do with my hands or my face or my feet.  But lately, it’s been feeling the same.

But this time I’m not going to cave to my flight instinct.  This time I’m going to fight.

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