Archive for May, 2006

Space invaders.

Published
by
untitled
on May 30, 2006
in Life and untitled
. 14 Comments

Having potential homebuyers walk through your home is such a surreal experience. You pretend not to care, eating boneless buffalo wings at Chili’s, trying to keep your son from inserting the complimentary crayons up his nose. As I reflect on his “terrible two’s” and his “yes, it gets worse three’s,” I realize it must’ve been a parent who wrote those now infamous words “I want my babyback babyback babyback…”

To break up the monotony, we sometimes forego Chili’s and hop into the earthfucker for a little suburban recon. We park a few blocks away, so as to witness the intruders and size up their worthiness. As we sit there, surveilling our potential buyers, untitledhusband brings his laptop and tries to hook into a rogue wireless Internet patch. God forbid he’s without digital dialysis for more than 30 minutes. As I try to make sense of the man’s Hawaiian shirt (Parrothead, maybe?) and the woman’s sandals (Borns, or Payless knock-offs?), questions start bubbling to the surface.

Did the filthy motherfuckers take off their shoes?

Did they notice my bathroom ceiling paint job in which one little area is a shade whiter than the rest? Or how about the dent in the bathroom door, which I tried to mask with a Formby’s wood stain pen and a subtle trompe l’oeil effect?

Did they take one look in untitledson’s closet and wonder why, nestled in between his wind-up lullaby lamb and Duplo blocks was, of all things, an Afro wig?

Upon testing the garage door opener, did they sense the ghost of untitledfather, who bought and installed it for us as a housewarming gift? It was to be the last thing he ever gave to me.

After touring our bathroom, did they realize that yes, they were witnessing the masterworks of the Queen of Caulk (a title which untitledhusband says I shouldn’t say too loudly).

What did they think of the Box of Bastard Gifts stowed away in the guest bedroom closet? What merciless bastards we must be to not display the prairie-style pillow with our wedding photo ironed onto it, or the framed leather artwork featuring an embossed rose and words that say “Sometimes I reach out to touch the thought of you.”

When walking the hallway between the master bedroom and untitledson’s bedroom, did they feel their emotions shift from exhaustion to resentment to sweet contentment, just as mine did whenever untitledson would wake me at 2 a.m. for his feedings?

Did they open my nightside table drawer and find my precious Fukuoku? Were they disgusted? Confused? Jealous?

Did they feel that blurred, numbing rush as they stood in the same place where untitledhusband and I decided to separate and two months later, work things out?

Did they step on the one stealth pile of petrified dog poop in the backyard — the one that always evades untitledhusband’s merciless pooper scooper?

In my heart, I am a private soul (aside from this whole blog and all). I don’t like it when people get all up in my business, examining my home, deeming it worthy of purchase or passing. I curse them and welcome them, all at the same time. Yes, I want my new house. But I want whomever takes possession of this house, our home, to treat it well. Respect it. Don’t forget to water the grass - it’s very persnickety and wouldn’t think twice about turning on you during a two-day dry spell. Don’t wear your shoes on the white carpet. Spot Shot can only do so much. Don’t paint over the firetruck mural in untitledson’s bedroom. We painted it at a time when we thought we’d be able to use his crib for our second child, too. But most importantly, do the decent thing and offer us our asking price, bitches.

Of road whores and Rhodes Scholars.

Published
by
untitled
on May 26, 2006
in untitled
. 8 Comments

untitledmother’s best friends are the town whore and a mentally challenged women. She’s always had this habit of befriending the underdog, the person no one else wants anything to do with.

Before you drag out the hearts and flowers, I must tell you that it’s not a noble act by any stretch. She simply likes to hang out with people who, by comparison, make her look good. It’s a horrible thing, I know. But that’s how my sweet momma rolls.

Her slut friend has slept with half the town. But you have to give her props. Geriatric pimpin’ ain’t easy — especially when you confuse the K-Y with the Ben-Gay and the condom with the colostomy bag. Monday through Saturday, she’s spreading her legs. Sunday, she’s sitting in the front pew. Hey, god loves the whores, too. He ESPECIALLY loves the whores. Hearing Myrtle repent for covetous thoughts about Hazel’s tater tot casserole recipe has got to get old, even for a deity. What a welcome change it must be when when Seniorita Slutbags walks in and drops phrases like “rim job” and “dirty Sanchez.”

You wouldn’t know it by looking at her, but untitledmother’s other friend is mentally challenged. untitledmother says she’s smart enough to figure out how NOT to work. Gee, sounds like some other genius I know. Glad to see you’ve found a role model, ma.

The fact that her retarded friend doesn’t have to work really gets under untitledmother’s skin, for her philosphy has always been “She who naps the longest and manages to do the least amount of work wins.” But you know what they say: It’s hard to soar like an eagle when you’re flying with turkeys. Not that untitledmother would want anything to do with soaring. Cause that would, like, take a modicum of effort.

Natural selection.

Published
by
untitled
on May 22, 2006
in Life
. 18 Comments

Where I work, the women’s bathroom has three stalls. As I enter the bathroom, the question always arises — which stall shall I choose? I could take the oversized handicapped stall, which gets marks for its thoughtful leg room and comfy arm rests. Or, shall I be considerate and opt for the smaller stall on the right? I can’t help but think that the middle stall (also smallish) is the way to go, for its seat sees only a modicum of assage. I say this, because I have spent an embarassing amount of time logicizing it. I deduce that the middle stall would be the cleanest, for no one would use it, unless the others were full. Taking it would mean that at any given time, you could sitting mere inches away from someone else with their pants at their ankles. It would be akin to entering an elevator and standing right next to one other person in there.

I wonder if everyone else goes through this littany of questions as they enter the bathroom. I have issues with public bathrooms — I have had them since childhood. Whenever the opportunity presents itself, untitledmother takes great pleasure in recounting the time when I held my poop for five days when I was a kid, because I didn’t want to unload in someone else’s toilet while we were on vacation.

As I’ve grown older, I have become accustomed to pooping in public restrooms. But you can be damn well sure that I have the common decency to hold it until no one else is in the room. I don’t care if my brow is sweating and my o-ring is quivering like a whore in church. I simply do not poop in the company of others. I mean, what if I happen to unleash holy hell from my nether regions, and the sound of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” comes chortling out of my blowhole? You just know that my stallmates would look under the dividers, compelled by that same shameful curiousity that keeps one watching the horseplay addicts on HBO’s “Real Sex” series, and see my shoes there. Oh, the horror.

Thank god not everyone is like this. Take untitledbrother-in-law, for example. He would gladly drive 20 miles out of his way just to poop in our toilet. And if he’s able to clog it or god forbid, leave behind some racing stripes, well then, all the better. I’m not sure if this is an exercise in demarkation, or if there is some strange magnetic force surrounding our home that pushes the poop out of him like a sausage press. I just find it odd that whenever he is here, it happens. He probably has no idea that I’m taking mental notes. But given my history with toilets, I notice these things. Does this make me strange? Probably no stranger than untitledhusband, who gets hard from the mere smell of electronics and the sensation of the Tivo remote in his hand.

Day planner wisdom.

Published
by
untitled
on May 19, 2006
in untitled
. 5 Comments

“Peace of mind is that mental condition in which you have accepted the worst.”

- Lin Yutang

So true, isn’t it? Now that the baby thing is behind me, and I’ve accepted it, I can say that I am much more at peace. Funny how you find inspiration in the most unexpected places (in this case, my dreaded day planner). This little blurb lifts me up, and then I read today’s to-do list, and I slam right back down to earth. Somewhere, Stephen Covey is rubbing is bald head and smiling, for his prophecy of unending irony and guilt has been fulfilled.

At stressful times like this, when I have too much going on, I can hear Vendoland’s sweet siren song calling my name like a lost sailor. In particular, I hear a little ditty coming from the Ding Dongs. The corn chips hold their own, churning out a musical response not unlike the banjo duet in “Deliverance.” But the most evil offender is, of course, the Snickers bar. He just sits back in the coil mechanism, humming “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” He knows he’s the king of all candies, the right arm of Satan himself. He’s fully aware that there isn’t a person alive who hasn’t fallen prey to his chocolatey charms. Fucking Snickers.

I would venture over there, to Vendoland, that is. But I believe it’s break time for the union guys. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me and my back fat belly up to my enabler. I would much rather be seen shooting up (not that I do that) than eating junk food in public. Ya’ll know that fat people only eat apples, edamame and Healthy Choice frozen meals, right?

Now tell me. How did this post so quickly move from an inspirational phrase to food? Further proof that indeed, I am a junkie. I am still in Weight Watchers (14 pounds lost). And I am still planning on weight loss surgery (it’ll be about four months from now, I’m told). But I still have these moments. And I imagine I always will.

There is most definitely something wrong with me when it comes to food. Maybe I should pick up a hobby, like glueing together model hot rods or coin collecting. Maybe not coin collecting. You just know that in a moment of desperation, I’d be dropping a vintage Susan B. worth $50 in the vending machine for some Nibs or something. And yes, it would’ve been worth it. The lion must have her kill. (Cue “Circle of Life.”) OK, we’ve officially come back to babies. My work here is done. (Music up full, with wicked pan flute solo.)  Â

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The terrific threes.

Published
by
untitled
on May 17, 2006
in Family and untitled
. 4 Comments

Every year since untitledson was born, I’ve written a letter to him highlighting the past year’s events. Since I have untitledlife now, I decided to write the letter and share it with ya’ll. Yes, I know Dooce does something similiar, but I have been doing this yearly letter thing since 2004.

Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

——————————–

Dear untitledson,

I feel so bad, writing this letter almost four months after your third birthday. Life’s been so busy – we’re getting ready to build a new house, which means new doorstops for you to twiddle and a new room from which to run your growing operation for world domination. This past year has been the one in which you’ve transformed from my baby to my little man. But oh, those cheeks of yours – they tell a different tale!

At daycare, we have you enrolled in a weekly music class, where you sing songs, shake jingles, beat on drums and dance with scarves. Your music teacher, Ms. Tonia, tells us that you enjoy yourself and dive right in, often getting so excited that you stumble on your words. Whenever I ask you how music class was, I only get a “fine.” Your lack of description leads me to think that you’re preparing us for your teen years, when the only words you’ll utter will be “fine,” “OK,” and “can I use the car?” When you don’t think I’m listening, I’ll often hear you sing snippets of unfamiliar songs – ones I know that we didn’t teach you. Around St. Patrick’s Day, you were singing some song about a leprechaun hiding in the hay. You pronounced it “leper-con.” Pretty darned cute.

In addition to music class, you are also taking dance class. Originally, I did not sign you up for this class, since you’re already enrolled in music class. But your teachers informed me that you threw a fit when you saw your girlfriend Emery going to dance class without you. So we signed you up. You are the only boy in the class, but from all accounts, you thoroughly enjoy it. I have no idea what you do in dance class, other than stretching and something called the “side-step,” which you’ve talked about.

One of your favorite TV shows has been “Jack’s Big Music Show,” which stars three critters who play drums, guitar and accordion. As a result, you have insisted on having your very own guitar, accordion and drum set (which we keep saying Santa will bring to you). Whenever you watch this show, or any other show with music, you will run and get your guitar and play along with the music. You’ll catch your reflection in the fireplace glass and go through several rock star poses and pouty faces before you realize we’re watching and you get all shy. Other TV shows you like right now include “Pinky Dinky Doo” and “Doodlebops.” You claim to have outgrown “Blue’s Clues,” which I think is quite tragic. Steve’s voice is quite calming to me, in a strange Mister Rogers sort of way.

At daycare, you have become known as quite the ladies’ man. Your best friend forever is Emery. You two have been together since you were both in your momma’s tummies (Emery’s mommy and I work together). Recently, you’ve also taken up with a little girl named Madison. From what your teachers tell me, this made little Miss Emery none too happy. But you are oblivious. You have this shy, aloof personality, which seems to draw the little girls to you. Mommy also makes sure her little honeypot is a natty dresser, which only helps your game.

In the past few months, I’ve been working on a lot of freelance at night. This means that you and Daddio have gotten even closer. It’s clear that you look up to your Daddy, and you like to have the same as him (“We got the SAME!”), whether it’s a shirt with buttons, or a mini rake so you can both tackle lawn work. Your Daddy is a disciplined man who always has a million things going on at any given time, and you bring out this warm, loving, caring side of him. He’d do absolutely anything for you, as would I. Of course, this tidbit of information makes us extremely vulnerable to trips to Disneyland, new bicycles and the occasional sucker. We’ll do our best not to spoil you rotten, but it’s going to be hard.

From a development perspective, you have been potty trained since February 2006 (thanks, Grandma!). Your dad and I took a week-long vacation and left you with Grandma and Pappa. When we came back, she had you all potty trained! It was amazing, because when we left, you weren’t even close to being trained. It didn’t interest you in the least. Just recently (like in May), we did away with the Pull-Ups at night. You’ve been dry every morning so far. What a big boy – completely potty trained at 3 years of age!

As for things you like to do, you love to swing in the backyard and push your bubble mower around in the driveway. You pull it up to the stoop, and I fill ‘er up for you with bubble liquid. You know most of your alphabet letters by sight, and you love to help out in the kitchen. You help me mix up food, and you put the recyclables in the bin. You also love it when we read books to you. Some of your favorites right now include this book that explains everything about fire engines and firefighters, “Olivia” books, “My Truck Book,” and “Corduroy.” We’ve noticed that once we read a book to you five or six times, you can then recite the majority of it back to us by memory, inflections and all. At Christmastime, we read you “Twas the Night Before Christmas.” Within a few weeks, you could recite it to us, which was quite impressive considering the lengthy verses and the old English words like “twas” and “kerchief.” Â

We’ve started what everyone tells us is a bad habit by letting you crawl in to bed with us at night. You always begin the evening in your bedroom. But as soon as we tuck you in and head down the stairs, you truck on over to our bed, usually toting with you a few toys, stuffed animals and books. It’s not uncommon for us to find Hot Wheels and CDs in our bed at night. We’re almost positive that having you sleep with us is something we will one day regret. But right now, we love it. Nothing beats snuggling up to you at night, with that sweet lavender scent of Johnson’s & Johnson’s Calming Baby Lotion wafting up from your tiny, curled-up body. I give you tight squeezes throughout the night, and pull you towards me. You wriggle a bit, letting me know that my love is a bit too strong for three in the morning.

We found out this year that we can’t have any more children. We tried really hard for about a year and half, but nothing took. It’s been sad for us, because we always wanted you to have a sibling – someone to pal around with and share the burden of caring for us when we get old and decrepit. It just wasn’t in the grand master plan, I guess. But at the same time, we feel so grateful that we have you. You’re so perfect, the world has decided that we only get one of you. Bequeathing any more blessings onto us would be unfair to the rest of the parents out there who only get average children. We have no doubt that you will have no problem keeping our lives full, and we thank you for that. You are such a gift, and you give each day purpose and meaning for us.

All my love,

Mommy
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