Monday, November 27, 2006
Do you have any idea how aggravating it is to have someone with a diagnosed mental condition, one symptom of which is narcissism, call you, have a perfectly normal conversation, and then call you back two minutes after you hang up to tell you how self-absorbed you are because you didn't ask that person whether he was doing okay? Despite the fact that when you do ask that question--and oh, believe me, you've asked it plenty--the answer is almost always something taciturn along the lines of "I'll live" and "No, you can't do anything to help"--or if it's a particularly bad episode, "What do you care?"
Pretty. Frigging. Aggravating!!!
And then. THEN! THEN!!!!
If you know that I have said no Effing PloyStation at my house because the child throws fits over it and I do not need to deal with that shite, then do NOT tell the child that he can have the EFFING PLOYSTATION at my house "if I say it's okay". And when I say "No" because he has used up his screentime, and he proceeds to have a total meltdown because of it (which, HELLO!, is the reason I won't let him have it here in the first place!), DO. NOT. CALL. ME. back in the middle of dealing with the child's nervous breakdown (and the nervous breakdown of his sister who cannot cope when her brother loses it) and start lecturing me about how I Need To Learn To Choose My Battles! Exclamation Point!!!! And how the child listens to you more than he listens to me and it's because I don't know how to "give a little".
People. You have no idea how PISSED OFF I am right now.
Deep breath. Okay.
And now I'm going to let that go. Thanks for listening.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Me: I kept telling the author that as he's the only one turning his stuff in on time, and every time I settle one issue with one author, another one freaks out on me and drops out, my greatest fear is that he'll get hit by a bus or something. And then he emailed us and said he was okay, but...HE GOT HIT BY A BUS!
Me: Well, no. It was a car. That rear ended him, and he's okay, but still! Crap!
Chica: That is kinda freaky.
Me: What I want to know is, I can manifest some guy getting hit by a bus, but I can't manifest a friggin' boyfriend? That just sucks.
Chica: If only you could use your powers for good!
Me: I know! Wait. I know what the problem is. I don't have anyone real to focus on, so I just wind up lusting after, like, Hugh Jackman or whatever, so my Jedi Powers are totally wasted. Somewhere in Australia, Hugh Jackman is saying, "I have this feeling that I need to be somewhere else..."
Chica: "...but I don't know why!"
Me: Exactly. I tell you what I'm going to do, I'm going to manifest a bottle of vodka on my friggin' doorstep, is what I'm going to do. Otherwise, it's just a waste.
And then she snuck by on her way to a dinner in town and left one on the front mat. Which is why she is the. best. friend. ever.
If your best friend leaves vodka on your doorstep because she knows you're trying to use the power of your mind to make one appear, does that still count?
Monday, November 20, 2006
G: Mommy! Just ONE more hug and kiss!
Me: Okay, sweetie, one more.
G [draping herself around my neck]: I'm gonna give you hugs AWL the time! I will hug you at the mornin', an I will hug you at the night, an I will hug you downstairs, an I will hug you in the cawr, hugs all the time, for all the life!
Me: That would be great. Do you promise?
Me: Even when you're a teenager?
G [thinking for a moment]: Only at the night.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Um. I'm sure you worked awfully hard on your new ad campaign. But.
Flocks of jumping, snipping scissors do not make me happy. In fact, they make me feel distinctly UNhappy. Bordering on freaked out.
Where are you trying to go with this? Because if I walked outside and saw all those effing scissors? I would not be feeding them my credit cards. I would be hiding under my effing bed.
Please stop. Now.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
My lord. Those children are riding roughshod over that woman!
At least, that's what I imagine people think, in my slightly embarassed and defensive imaginings. And uh, I guess it's sorta true. But when I start hearing you say that, in my head, then I end up acting like the Mama I don't like. The one who expects her children to be the Textbook Children Who Behave, In A Vaccum, And Are Just Like Little Grownups.
I'm really, really trying to keep remembering that those Children don't exist.
It's hard, because I think what happened is that people used to be able to pretend they existed, because back in the days when you'd get your hide tanned if you stepped out of line, kids were smarter about putting on the Nice Kid Skin around the grownups, and then doing the crazy stuff once they were alone with other kids. Which actually happened Back When--you actually had lots of time when you were just around the other kids, and could cut loose, and run around like maniacs and get all that energy out, and if you did something nutty, well, that's what kids did, and you might get a wupping but you wouldn't get sued by some other kid's parents or labeled a danger to society. But somewhere along the line, everything got all crazy. Now kids don't get smacked anymore (not that that's a bad thing, I'm kinda against the whole smacking thing myself) but they also don't get let out of an adult's sight for fear that they'll all be snatched away within the first 5 seconds that they're unsupervised. And if they mess up, well, there are worse things than getting spanked, and frankly I think the disdain of adults when you're just acting like a friggin' kid is one of them.
So. Yeah, my kids are pretty wild. Okay, they are SERIOUSLY wild. They have more energy than a nuclear power plant. Sometimes, they even (gasp) scream at each other. Or at me. And yeah, they get in trouble for it, so don't give me the fish eye if I don't spend every other second telling them to quit running around or keep their voices down. They aren't living without rules and consequences, believe me. I just don't want them to grow up with my voice in the back of their heads, telling them all the time that I got the wrong kids.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Remember "The Kids from C.A.P.E.R."? From the 70s? Remember that episode where the aliens were disguised as hot dogs, and flew around on frisbies, and people would eat them, and then put ketchup and mustard and relish on their heads and sing the Weiner Song?
Come on, you know you do.
Did I ever mention how annoyed everyone used to get with me when we lived in England? Because I didn't have a "real" American accent and thus was no fun for teasing.
|What American accent do you have? |
Your Result: The Midland
"You have a Midland accent" is just another way of saying "you don't have an accent." You probably are from the Midland (Pennsylvania, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, southern Illinois, and Missouri) but then for all we know you could be from Florida or Charleston or one of those big southern cities like Atlanta or Dallas. You have a good voice for TV and radio.
|The Inland North|
|What American accent do you have?|
Take More Quizzes
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
It seems to me, that if you hate yourself so much that you surround yourself with people and ideas that make it impossible to accept yourself the way you were made, with the result that you end up describing yourself as evil, fallen, and a deceiver because you couldn't maintain the lie that you made your life into just so you could deny something that you have no control over, that you're not getting the gist of those commandments. And that if you think that someone's sexuality is a bigger sin than the fact that your religion forces people into a corner in which they have to live a lie in order to feel worthy of your god's love? You aren't paying attention to your own Word.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
What I'm saying is, it was an excellent Halloween. The Boy ended up dividing all his candy into piles according to type, and then using them as a Lego obstacle course. The Girl put all hers in a plastic bag and then tried to hide behind the coffee table and eat them all.
Then they put about half the loot out for the Halloween Witch (who brought some nice erasers and so forth). And then I conked out on the Boy's bed after reading our chapter of Harry Potter.
Oh! OH! And get this! I was at the doctor's today, and they did the height/weight thing, and the nurse said, "Okay, 5'8 1/2," and I said, "Excuse me?" And she repeated my height, and I said, "Uh...no, I'm 5'7 1/2," and she said, "Want me to check it again?" and I said, "Yes, please" and guess what? I'm an inch taller than I thought I was. So, can I just say, how does that happen? How do I go my whole friggin' adult life thinking I'm an inch shorter than I actually am? I was ridiculously happy about it, for some reason. There's hope for me yet, as apparently I'm still growing.