When Life Says, “Listen, Asshole”
May 21, 2013 § 13 Comments
Small change of plans:
Today’s post, which was all loaded and ready to go, was a mini-rant on a parenting topic. It was about the month of May, and how it sucks a bag of bricks (the actual word used in the post may not have been “bricks”) because of all the time-intensive end-of-season tournaments, recitals, celebrations, command performances, and trophies, trophies, trophies.
By the time kids are in first grade, they already have dozens of little statuettes lined up on their shelves. That’s no good. Think of what all those Grammys did to Whitney Houston.
I wrote something about how I’d pay double for an extracurricular league where at the end of the season, nothing happens. Everyone just goes home. The league would be called, It’s Just Over. As in, It’s Just Over Gymnastics, It’s Just Over Soccer, etc. At the end of each season in this league, there’s no big performance. No parties. No cupcakes. No certificates and medals and closing ceremonies that last all weekend. It’s just over.
There was a sentence in the post that went something like this: “I mean, it’s not like this is the last soccer game these kids are going to play EVER.”
And then a tornado came along and gave me some perspective.
The tornado said, “Hey. Quit being an asshole. Parenthood isn’t something to complain about. Not today, anyway. It’s something to be grateful for.”
I feel like I should listen to the tornado. Listen to my children as they tell me for the 16th time what supplies they’re supposed to bring and costumes they’re supposed to wear to each of the end-of-year events that are piling up this week. Listen to people who are telling me important things. Listening. Instead of being an asshole and rushing right past the gifts in life as if they’ll all be there waiting later.
Now I’m going to go make room on the kids’ shelves for more trophies.
Spring Break, My Ass
March 6, 2013 § 17 Comments
Some things need to be renamed around here, dammit.
For example: This week is our Spring Break, meaning my children don’t have school. Thus far, the term is a bit of a misnomer, as it’s neither spring (first week of March? really?) nor a break (because both kids have spent the week sick with the flu).
Let’s just call things what they are, shall we?
* * *
“The Flu Shot” –> Needle Full Of Fairy Snot
Oh yes, we got the shots. Back in October. A hell of a lot of good it did us. One child started complaining of aches the first day of the break; the other followed within 36 hours. After calling around, we discovered that a few of their friends were down and out as well. So basically it’s just like that movie Contagion, except sorely lacking in Matt Damon appearances. And if you’re not going to get to grab onto Matt Damon with one clammy hand and rasp, “Save me,” what’s the point in having a horrible virus? So, science nerds at the CDC or wherever, listen up: Either make me a vaccination that actually keeps the flu away, or bring me Matt Damon. You know what? Fuck the vaccine. Just bring me Matt Damon.
Hey, who doesn’t love needles. What’s that you say? This one serves no purpose whatsoever? Oh hell, shoot me up anyway — just for fun. And while we’re at it, how ’bout we hold down some screaming kids and shoot them with it, too. You know, just for kicks.
* * *
“Fever” –> Crimson-Faced Raving Delusions
When the nurse on the phone asked, “Does he have a temperature?” my son was actually standing in our kitchen, red as a bell pepper, ripping his clothes off and screaming, “SOMEBODY HELP ME! I’M ON FIRE!” Yeah, he’s got a temperature. It’s approximately one-hundred-and-three-point-crazy. This is more than “fever” – this is full-body hallucinations. I could melt ice cubes on my kid’s face. Hell, I could cook s’mores over my kid’s face.
And yet I didn’t. Because I’m a great parent.
I think my children’s fevers were so high that they actually believed they looked like this. Also they may have believed they were flying and that the sofa cushions were talking to them.
* * *
“Tamiflu” –> Rare Golden Butterfly Wing Serum
It took calling around to 12 pharmacies to get our hands on the virus-curbing drug. (Ultimately, the only place that had the elusive elixir was the Wal-Mart by the highway, where all sorts of interesting transactions go on in the parking lot, and I’m not talking about recipe swaps, youknowwhatimean.) Let me just tell you, when a doctor says my baby needs medicine and no one can seem to get my baby the medicine, this is how I handle it:
Actually, I hear it’s made of ground up Loch Ness Monster testicles,
which is why it’s so hard to find.
* * *
“Spring Break” –> Winter’s Final Fuck-You
Nature flipped us a middle finger a few days ago. Let me explain: We live in the South. My children almost never see snow. They were supposed to spend this week visiting their grandparents who live further north, where there’s lots of the exotic white stuff. So when the kids got Ebola and their travel plans got scrapped, so, too, did their chance at seeing snow just once before spring. Except: On Sunday, while they were both passed out blind with fevers, we had a freak cold front that brought… yep. Snow. Not much. Not enough to stick. But lots of pretty white flakes whirling outside our windows. And the kids didn’t see a bit of it, because it only happened while they were sick as dogs. And because Old Man Winter is an asshole.
Come on out, little flowers. It’s OK, it’s Spring Break. So it must be spring… That’s it. Lookin’ good. BAM! Take that. It’s STILL WINTER, SUCKERS.
Happy Spring Break!
* * *
Other Tidbits
- I decided to post a spring break update this week, because I realized it’s been one year since I Miss You When I Blink was born, and the very first post this time last year was a spring break recap. To all you goofballs who have stuck around to read this silliness over the past year, thank you.
- Many thanks to SkinnyScoop, which just announced its Top 25 Humor Blogs and included the Blink on the list. Nifty!
- On a non-humorous-but-kind-of-interesting note, I don’t know if you saw this article in the Wall Street Journal last weekend: The Tyranny of the Queen Bee. Personally, I’ve almost always had fantastic experiences working with fellow women. But I’ve heard lots of stories about queen-bee types and have encountered a few myself. Dr. Peggy Drexler, the author of the article, writes: “Something is clearly amiss in the professional sisterhood.” That reminded me of a poem I wrote, which was published last month by The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. (It’s also part of a neat project my writing partner, JD, and I are working on. Stay tuned for more about it later this spring — we’re excited to tell you more when the time comes.) Anyway, here’s the poem – anyone ever had an experience like this?
Sisterhood
It’s dawning on me now that we are not
Thelma and Louise, Laverne and Shirley,
Cagney and Lacey, or Oprah and Gayle,
We don’t sing “R-E-S-P-E-C-T,”
Or “Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves,”
Or even “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar,”
We don’t “stick it to the man” together,
Or hammer away at the glass ceiling,
Or break down the walls of the old boys club,
Because there is no solidarity,
No sacred girl code or “hos before bros.”
We’re the only two females on this team,
And in front of everyone it was you
Who sent me out of the room for coffee.
Tantrum
June 11, 2012 § 2 Comments
You know when you were a toddler, and you’d get stuck going along on a never-ending day of boring errands, and by the fifth stop you were like, FUCK THIS NOISE, except that you didn’t have the words to say, “Fuck this noise.” So you showed your unwillingness to continue by flinging yourself to the ground right there in the carpet store and going totally limp and making your mom drag you by the arm as you occasionally flailed out a leg and knocked something over for good measure?
That must be how my windshield wipers feel about the rain this week.
