Either way (or, one throw-away story won't make up for all that Cinderella crap, fellas)

The Boy (reading): "...Ariel knew her father would never let her race."
The Girl: Why not?
Me (under my breath): Because he's a sexist.
The Girl: No! Because he's a poopy-head!

Holy crap, where'd that come from?

Forty, babies.

Uh...ok. I didn't want to sleep anyway.

From the WTF Department:

Eeeeeeeesh. Get thee behind me, Scary Robot Beer Corpse Woman.

Go, Dumbledore!

Did you hear that J.K. Rowling outed Dumbledore?

I can't decide whether it rocks that this fact is simply another piece of Potter trivia along the lines of what Ginny's job is after she graduates--because dammit, this freaky obsession with what goes on in people's bedrooms is half the stupid problem, if I like you I don't give a fuck who you're sleeping with. And regardless of who you're sleeping with, you deserve to have the same rights and be judged on the same principles as everyone else. Anyway, I can't decide between thinking that makes sense or being pissed that she never said anything sooner.

I think I'm leaning toward the former, because the private lives of the teachers never came into play except as necessary to drive plot--as it should be in a children's book, I think--do kids ever care about the lives of adults, except as they apply to their own lives? Not if they're safe and healthy, I think.

Hmm. Your thoughts?

Ayieeeee! !!!!

Of course just when I'm feeling care-free and sassy because I laughed in the face of West Nile after the Boy's soccer practice and let him--nay, verily ENCOURAGED him--HELPED him, even!--catch tadpoles in the mucky pool that formed at the bottom of the soccer field...

Brain. Eating. Amoebas.

[Obviously, that should be Brain-Eating. Amoebas. There aren't mutant brains running around gobbling up amoebas. But the correct grammar just doesn't properly convey my sense of dread and despair.]

Dear god. Is there no end of things over which I must lie awake at night?

World's Youngest Teenager

Her: NO! [eye roll]
Me: How old are you?
Her: FIVE!
Me: Uh, no. Try again.
Her: [grouchily] Four.
Me: Or maybe thirteen.
Her: [eeeeeeyyyyyeeee rooooooooolllllll]

FU AP

To the authors and editors of "MTV Awards Flourish Despite Britney Bomb"and related stories:

Regarding the above-named article and others published by the AP yesterday and today, I wish to make a complaint.

The performance and the woman are a disaster, I'll give you that. Discussion of her bad performance is more than appropriate. But I'm disturbed that in every AP article I've seen so far, much is made of how "unforgivably" out of shape Britney is, of her "paunch", etc. The woman's body definitely is less "cut" than it used to be, but I'm appalled that the AP is buying into the idea that a woman with the body displayed at that awards ceremony is outrageously out of shape. Frankly, I think most women who have had two children, and one just a year ago, would be happy--and HEALTHY-- to look like that in a bikini.

Way to contribute to the eating disorders of millions of young women, AP.

[Sent this morning.]

Unsaid

Because other people can say it better than I can do.

Shhh!

dear god i'm emailing a member of the opposite sex and obviously freaking out which is even more stupid because, hello, it's an email. how old am i? not old enough.

this is why i never dated. i am a freak of nature and a wonder to behold.

you didn't hear any of this from me.

Or, yes, the Trikonasana kicked my ass.

I finally went to yoga class again! Namaste, bitches!!!

I'm a Balanced Yogi!

A Balanced Yogi You love your friends unconditionally and accept them for who they are no matter what their yoga style preference, religious beliefs, or spending habits. You focus on the good in people and would never try to change them. Almost everyone feels comfortable in your presence. You live your yoga. You are an inspiration to yoga students everywhere!

Take the Yoga Journal Yoga Snob Quiz!

Just curious

Anyone else see "Premonition"?

Anyone else PISSED OFF by that stupid movie?

grrrrr.

Let me just give you a piece of advice:

Movies NEVER to watch (if you haven't already made the freaking mistake of watching them) because they will just make you grind your teeth into little nubbies:
1) Requiem for a Fucking Dream
2) The Fucking Hours
3) Fucking Premonition
4) The Fucking Little Match Girl
*5) A. Fucking I. (via Canada--and YES. I knew I was forgetting one, and there it is. Fuck you and your big-ass shiny knife in my heart, Spielberg!!)
*6) The Fucking Cell (we've got a mixed vote on this one: b.e.c.k. hated it, I kinda hated it, Orange and Canada loved it. Not sure how high it really scores on my "why don't you just take my beating heart out of my body and then chop it up into little pieces poached in a nice cream sauce with glass shards and then make me eat it and by the way we're fresh out of vicodin thank you very much" scale, but better safe than sorry, dear readers.)
*7) Vanilla Fucking Sky (via Canada--I'm wondering if that also counts for "Open Your Eyes"? I saw the latter and didn't mind it--it was definitely a MF but for some reason it didn't make me want to lie down in front of a train.)
*8) Fucking Jesus Camp (via Hashbrown--haven't seen this one; having come close enough to living it, no thankee.)
*9) Left Be-Fucking-Hind (via Muse--again, haven't seen it as this was one of those books my mother's husband brought home for a great read-!!-and having started to read it I went into a nearly full-blown panic attack. Soooo I'm guessing it fits on the list.)
*10) Fucking Brazil (via Elsewhere--and her comment, btw, sums up the whole esprit of this list: "I could tell it was brilliant, and yet it made me FURIOUS." Well, ok, not so much the esprit of Fucking Premonition, but...)
*11) Pay It Fucking Forward (via b.e.c.k.--again, never saw this one. I had the impression maybe it was just sort of...well...bad. But I just googled the plot summary/ending and CRAP! PAY IT FUCKING FORWARD!!!!)

Any additions? Tell me in comments and I'll add them to the list. Please, post a fucking movie, save an imaginary friend from nubby teeth.

*And fucking Blogger template! I'll figure out the Haloscan when I have nothing better to do. Bastard.

**Mr. Raehan would seem to wish to add Fucking Crash, but I'm undecided as to whether to disqualify on the condition that he didn't actually watch the whole thing.

Limbo

Just curious: How many of you ever wonder what your life is in an alternate universe? Do you catch a glimpse of yourself as you round that corner up ahead?

I saw my doppelganger once, but only from the side. She was just my profile doppelganger.

I'm a bit stuck today, in case you couldn't tell.

Next week

Eight? Already? That can't be right.
Eight. Holy crap.

He says today, "I'm so glad we bought Lucky Charms! Lucky Charms make my heart SOAR!"

He says today, "Gigi, you are so STUPID!"

He says today, "What the hell are you doing!?" (Indeed, I could ask the same!!! Ahem.)

He says today, "Mama? I love you. Gigi? I love you too. I'm glad I have a little sister."

I have to will my body to relax around him when I get so frustrated or stressed or impatient, and remember just how breakable 8 is. It's still just the smallest, smallest bit.

Or not.

Une Petite Diversion pour les Francophiles

Scene: La maison "Ex".

Chaque nuit, il chante à La Fille une petite chanson qu'il a composée lui-même: "Ma petite, ma petite fille...Tu es ma petite...fille". Il fait une pause avant le dernier mot et l'attend pour le chanter "Fille!"

L'autre soirée, il a chanté la chanson, faite une pause avant le dernier mot, et attendue. Elle aussi, elle a fait une pause un moment, puis a chanté :

"PUTAIN!"

Peut-être il devrait maudire moins souvent, non?

Admissions

There's another thing in my head. It's the thought that maybe I do have some purpose, and that I know what it is, but that I'm afraid to attempt to live to that purpose for fear that I'm that guy from Amadeus who wants something more than anything but turns out to be really shitty at it.

You know that feeling?

Actually, there are maybe two things, and they might be connected. Sometimes things get in the way of me being able to see them clearly. But I think I need to try them on. It's funny that by now I should be brave enough not care if I fall flat on my face. But of course, I'm not, and I do.

Vaguely, but sincerely, yours, as always.

The place where I come from

Are we being honest? Really and truly, gut-twisting, eyes-closed, breath-held honest?

Okay, then.

How is it that half the time I can burst into tears just by looking at these kids--at their sweet faces, at that huge mother of a gap between the Girl's front teeth, and the way the Boy's hair completely obscures half his face (!) and he looks like a miniature version of a skateboarder that's about 3 seconds from exploding upward into some 6-foot-tall bean pole of a wild child--and the other half?

I feel nothing. Or worse, I feel a distinct sense of annoyance. Of wanting to be anywhere but here, of just wanting to be alone? Or maybe that isn't worse. Maybe the nothing is worse. I can feel it ooze out of my pores. I can hear it in the disgusted tone of my voice when I tell them to stop fighting with each other or that I'm busy right now or that we have to leave, please put down those toys and brush your teeth and why must you argue with me constantly??? It's like I'm two women: the one who loves her babies fiercely, and the one who wants nothing to do with them.

I hate it.

I'm angry right now about a situation--situations--I don't know how to address. It's so easy to see the aggravation spill out and turn me into this block of wood, because that's what I do. I just go away. It's so stupid. The Girl said today, "I hate it when you're a grumpy mama." And I am. Stupid, just so stupid.

Is it possible to stay with all these feelings instead, or to wrench my brain away from all the worrying and fretting and obsessing and gnashing of teeth, and just instead make it remember that I only have them for the littlest, littlest while? I can't think of anything worse than them thinking I don't love them.

Namaste, Bitches

I love this site. Seriously.

Have you seen that Sprint ad with the neon-y drawing fast-action thingies? They showed it before the new Harry Potter movie. Said the Boy, "I would really like this if it wasn't an ad. I would find it very soothing and calming." He cracks me up.

For everyone who kindly offered to try and get their local and near-local contacts to set me up: GO FOR IT. I am not proud. Ladies, you bring a tear to my eye. Here is your assignment, for those willing to accept it: I'll be 40 in November. I think we've established that I am a wise-ass. I have two kids. I am not stupid. I talk too much. I am not unattractive, but neither am I in the greatest shape of my life, truth be told. I like to think that things always work out. Need more information? Email me. Smooch!

Have I told you how excited I am about my plants? They grow! They liiiiive! (Say that in a mad-scientist voice. It's more fun that way.) Okay, a few of them bolt, but oh well.

Namaste, bitches.

Get it while it's hot

I am looking into a p/t second job on the evenings I don't have the kids. Having made the decision, I actually feel rather good about it, although I don't know whether I'll get the position. The nice thing is that it doesn't really matter at this point--if I do, yay, if I don't, yay.

I like cats. No, really. Cats are great. Thank heavens for cats. But they are hairy.

I also like men. A lot. No, really. Men are great. I miss them. Again, hairy, but at this point I'm pretty much willing to overlook that. Honestly. Are you a man? Do you play one on TV? Do you freaking know one within a 50-mile radius of me? THEN TELL HIM TO CALL ME. NOW.

I got something of a load off my chest with the Ex, which was nice. I generally cut him a lot of slack (and I'm sure he would say that he does the same for me, and probably rightfully so), but sometimes the whole Irrational Thinking Of Those Who Think They Are Highly Aware But Are Really Just Overly Friggin' Sensitive And Making Their Ex-Wives Crazy thing happens, and then, I want to stab a fork into my left eye while chewing on my tongue. But rather than cannibalize my organs, today I asked him to please quit taking everything I say or don't say the very second he thinks I should be saying or not saying it so personally and understand that I'm not friggin psychic (ok, I am, but not like that) and don't actually put his needs at the center of my universe anymore already sheesh! I hope I said it nicer than that, and it certainly wasn't as big a drama as it sounds or anything, but oy. He's a good guy, and half the time he's very cognizant and all so this isn't an issue, but when it is, it seems to have bad timing, like the summer when I have no air conditioning, dammit.

Okay, for once, you know what? I am going to avoid obfuscation. I am going to vent. Be warned that unnecessary bitching lies ahead. Observe the scene:

[Pre-scene: The Ex stops by briefly between trips the other night. It is 85 degrees in my house. I am hot. I am cooking. My house is a wreck. The Girl is not listening and insists on running out the front door and trying to escape to the neighbor's house. The Boy wants his father to watch a scene from a movie he has rented. I am trying to get dinner finished and clean up the kitchen and herd the children. The Ex is sitting on the floor with the Boy. He says he's got to get going. I ask him if he'd like to take some food with him. No, he says. I say, Of course, you're welcome to stay here and eat with us or take some, either way, if you like. Are you sure you won't have some? I'm sure, he says. Fine.]

[Scene this afternoon: I'm working. I'm looking for something I Can. Not. Locate. I'm annoyed. I'm also pissed at myself because I haven't exercised yet. And I, the Not Very Good Mother When Not Given Recuperation Time On A Regular Basis, have had the kids full time for the past week because of Ex having some pre-arranged travel. And I'm hot. And I'm feeling fat. And I haven't had sex in FOUR EFFING YEARS. You see where I'm going with this: I'm a little eensy bit testy. And pre-occupied. And such.]

Phone rings. It's Ex. Thursdays are one of his nights, but he is preparing for a sporting event for which he has been preparing for a long time and which will occur in a month, and there are practices on Thursday nights. Up until a few weeks ago, he had a babysitter watch the kids, but she's unavailable over the summer and so I agreed to watch them until about 8. Yes, I felt somewhat forced into this. Yes, that's my own problem.]

Ex: So, my practice is tonight, and I have to go meet the builder over at the new house, so I'll pick the kids up from your place around 8, 8:10. [I usually take them over and put them to bed at his house; he gets home a bit after their bedtimes] Is that ok?

Me: Sure.

Ex: Will you feed them?

Me: Of course. No, I'll let them sit around hungry until 8:30.

Ex [in friendly, favor-asking tone]: Will you make me a sandwich?

Me [somewhat confused]: What, when you pick them up? Sure, you can have a sandwich. Or you can have some of what I make them for dinner.

Ex [now sounding put out]: No. Never mind. I told you I have to go by the house. Never mind.

Me: What? I'm not understanding what you're asking for. Are you wanting to come by and pick up a sandwich before you go to class?

Ex: It's like pulling teeth to get you to offer me anything. The other night, it took you 20 minutes, and then you only offered me something I could take home.

Me: KABLOOOOOOOOOIE!!!!!!!! [That's the sound of my head. Exploding. And then I had some Strong Words To Say.]

The End.

...and then she just wouldn't shut UP!

Ok, so maybe not that chatty. But you know, nothing nothing nothing and then two days in a row.

The Boy and I took a few hours off this afternoon to go see the new Harry Potter movie. It was fine...reasonably dark and all that. Of course it can never live up to what I have in my head from the book, but I don't expect it to do.

Confession: I have this sort of crush on Harry Potter. Not in a Mrs. Robinson way, don't panic. It's more like a crush on being 15 than a crush on a 15-year old, you know what I mean? A melancholic sort of heartache for being 15, for being of the age when you could have a crush on a boy and it was sort of exciting and sort of nauseating and it was ok either way, and you didn't know yet how everything was going to turn out but you hoped it would be great.

Well crap. I seem to have suddenly turned into Peggy Sue. Which is sort of funny in its own way, cause I loved that movie when it came out, and what the hell did I know about it then? It's like how JRM and I used to be obsessed with "30-Something" when we were freshmen...what was that about? Like we understood a damned thing about those characters. I should Netflix that show now. I'd be Nancy, probably. Wasn't she always kinda depressed and unkempt?

I'm re-reading this book that my therapist had me working on back when I was actually seeing her, several years ago, and it's interesting because I'm getting a lot out of it but what I'm getting is quite different than what I got back then. (Yeesh, write long sentences much?) I kind of wonder where that'll end up.

Seriously, a month?

I started to write this post about how all this crazy craziness is making me crazy but that it's ok, because you have to look past the visible. And then I thought, damn! This post is stressing me out. So I guess you just get this.

You have to look past the visible.

Oh. And the Girl wanted me to sing her "I Will Survive" as a lullaby tonight, while she full-on lip-synched it, complete with these excellent arm motions and hair flips at all the right parts. Dang, she's great.