Friday, December 31, 2010
Anyway, I figure if you need to change something about your life, you need to change it now. I mean now. Or tomorrow when you've got a plan for how to do it. But a magic analog change of the year, flippy number, brand newness... not going to do it. Change come because you work for it, becuase you're ready for it, because it needs to.
My brother makes minutia resolutions. Like that he'll randomly turn on his turn signal more often, or use words that start with q more often, or something equal inane. I love them. One year, he reset his trip-tick in the car every time someone did something utterly stupid. I don't think he ever got above 3 miles.
But I'm on the cusp of some change that needs to happen. It has to do with my picking. Not noses. I know I just posted about 7 year olds wiping boogs on the wall and that I've confessed to picking my own baby's nose but I have no intention of stopping either of those things. Well, until my baby's 7. By then, I promise to have stopped picking his nose, and if he's wiping them on the walls of his bedroom, we'll see how I feel about New Year's Resolutions, then, shall we?
No, I'm a husband picker. A critical, snotty, know-it-all who wants things done my way. A girlfriend just confessed that she started to ask her husband if he really needed that much shampoo when they were showering together and I thought, "YES! That's what I mean!"
I realized it when I was watching him play a video game and he went a different way than I would have and internally I screamed out "YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!"
Who is this lady and what has she done with me? I don't want to be a picker. I don't want to be a nasty wifey type that just groans and complains about everything my husband does.
It started small though. I was afraid of being on the other end of the spectrum. Those annoying types who say "hubby" and talk about how perfect their man is all the time. "OMG! He's, like, so incredibly sweet!" I think barbie-colored vomit will come out my nose if I look at them when they act that way. I mean the ones with husbands who are all bloated on the couch and she does everything and he does nothing and doesn't ever listen when she talks. BLECH! Women with adult bodies but children's roles. Or maids. I want no part of it.
I like strong women. Women with backbones and big mouths. Who occasionally stick their foot in their big mouth and laugh with their mouth full anyway. Laugh big full bellied laughs that fill the room with confidence and good feeling. You know?
But somehow I crept over into picking instead of staying with my toes on the right part of this balancing act of marriage. My toes over the line and I'm going to have to scratch that one and swallow hard instead of asking what setting the laundry was run on. WHO FUCKING CARES? Wait, I do. I care that I have a husband who gets up in time to have the driveway shoveled for me. I care that I have a husband who buys beer I'll like at the store now that I'm not pregnant, and bought kinds he knew I wouldn't when I was. I care that he asks what time I'll be home and sometimes has a plate ready for me (he's on his leave now.)
He's a pretty nice guy. No, he's a really nice guy. And a darned fine dad. And I should treat him like I want someone to treat my son and leave the criticism behind. You know when it needs to be left. Leave it in 2010. Its the tweens, starting tomorrow. And I'm resolved to shift myself away from the bitchiness, the scritchy, scratchy, picky criticalness. And just enjoy the best year of my life.
"Today, in order to fight child abuse, I'm eating pringles and drinking diet cherry dr. pepper in my jammies-I figure its at least as effective as changing my profile picture to a cartoon- if not more so..."
"Dear Mom, You are one of my biggest inspirations in life. You picked yourself up so many times when life threw you down. Even though you gave Harley, the dog, away and spend way too much time at church, I love you much and will see you soon. Happy Birthday! Love, your daughter, mike."
"Tonight, I learned how to remove pine tree sap from hair. After more than an hour I THINK I might be sap-free, and I smell like a peanut butter/olive oil/soap dish. New perfume? Not quite. Needless to say, no cookie baking happened and the Christmas tree and I are not speaking right now."
"There's no 'i' in 'shut the f@ck up and do your job'."
"my throat is so sore it makes me want to stop talking to myself."
"You know the Christmas spirit has consumed you when you blow your nose and glitter comes out. "
D-"I drew a picture of Calvin peeing on your facebook status."
K-"Its cool, I can talk with my mouth full."
K-"Wow, that was gross! Even for me."
K-"Did I mention I can spit really far? I wonder if there's a guiness book world record about how far you can spit liquid? I wonder when I'll get to stop thinking about piss in my mouth. THANKS, D!"
D-"K, my friend. My hands are clean of this one."
K-"I have no idea what got into me yesterday."
D-"Apparently animated pee."
K-"Wait, for the record, I've never had pee in my mouth in order to *like* it, but am pretty fuckin sure, I don't *like* pee in my mouth. Seriously, when will the animated pee leave?"
Thursday, December 30, 2010
just took things other people discarded
and wore them around his neck
fight with all your might
to carve out what's yours
a hubcap doesn't have to be what it appears
I'd use yours to make a mean grilled cheese
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Sorry for calling you bitches.
Around holidays and other some such marked events, I always think back. Sometimes I can't remember what I was doing the previous year. Or I think back and think, "meh" But last year, I found out I was pregnant on New Year's Eve. On account of the whole drink/not drink decision thing.
So I was all happy, and nervous, and scared, and nervous and happy and scared. And nervous. And happy.
Because I was just happy the first time I was pregnant, but that didn't turn out so good. And what's lame is that after you have a miscarriage, all you want in the world, I mean ALL you want in the world, is to be pregnant again.
And this year, I'm spending lots and I mean LOTS of time being really happy. Like freakin' greeting card, bullshit-no-one's-that-happy kinda happy.
I could count the tiny things that make me happy and they'd be like boogers on a 7 year old's wall. Grossly numerous.
You didn't think yours was the only kid who wiped boogs on the wall, did you?
And what's wild this year compared to last year, is how many times the thing I think of that makes me happy has to do with NOT being pregnant anymore. Every morning, as I'm walking in to work, I think "I'm so glad I'm not pregnant anymore." Because there's an OB's office and public health with their prenatal programs and the public clinic all in my building. So I see a pregnant lady, or my OB, or someone or just the office and think "I'm so glad to not be pregnant right now." Which is weird when I was so happy to BE pregnant last year. That little baby makes a HUGE difference though. Getting a baby out's worth it but I can't wait to ski in the new year this year.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
In other news, did you know you could spell tepees "tipis." I want to pronounce that tea piss. Which I think makes a good urban dictionary word for the dribble of pee men don't bother to wipe off the end of their wangs when they pee. Or a midget dingle.
Happy Hump Day, ya'll!
Monday, December 6, 2010
I love my job. Sometimes anyway. (but not as much as I love my kid. Its hard to be back at work. The silver lining is funny messages.)
Friday, December 3, 2010
"Let's alternate for a while and see how we feel. You go creepy, I'll stay drunk, and we can have a little sit down and compare notes annually and then decide. I just don't feel comfortable comitting to one or the other just yet."
Mom: "Oh hey! That's Tony Hawk on Yo Gabba Gabba"
Kid: "You mean that old man trying to skateboard?"
"I feel so dirty. Are all my teeth still there? Am I carrying a puppy mill puppy? Do my jeans have pockets? Are my roots showing? Going to WalMart is so scary! I need a shower!"
"ah, December 1st. The day I spend all day debating which feels tighter- my budget or my waistband. No one likes a chubby poor chick. No one."
"Thanksgiving. Not a good day to be my pants.""Eat that turkey bitch" - Ike Turner, Thanksgiving 1965