I don't like things rough. I like them silky smooth and predictable. I like things that are easy to clean up and wrapped in pretty packaging. I like peace and quiet and order and regularly scheduled programming.
The last year has been decidedly rougher than I normally like it. In fact, it's been alot like getting rammed in the corn-hole by an over-zealous cell mate named Beefstick Joe.
But things are starting to look up and when that happens, my disposition will turn from grim exhaustion to sunny optimism and then...WATCH OUT. Rainbows will shoot outta my ass and if you hold your bucket just right, you just might catch some.
Don't worry; I'm actively taking steps toward full-on Rainbow Ass. Currently the only color I'm shootin' is purple. Stand by for red.
The son is currently a hilarious caricature of a teenager. He’s anti-social, monosyllabic and most of all, hairy. Gone is the sweet little thing that would sit on my lap and let me pick which sweater vest he’d wear for picture day. In its place is this insanely tall, awkwardly sullen kid with nothing to say in the morning (“I’m not a morning person, Mom.”) or after school (“Bad day, Mom”) or before bedtime (“Too tired, Mom.”) This kid wants less to do with me than I do with fleas in my underwear.
Yet, there are moments when I see a glimmer of the sweetheart who used to let me tuck him in and who would rush to show me the good grade he got on his spelling test. Every once in awhile, a smile will crack the carefully maintained façade and my heart will leap and butterflies will flit around my head. Then the crack will slam shut, to be replaced with that look that says, “Mom. You are so lame. And so are your stupid butterflies.”
He was such a sweet little man. And I hope someday, he’ll be a sweet grown-up man. I just have to survive the next few years with my butterflies intact.
I love to say "ima rock out with my cock out". It's gender inappropriate, but why should guys get dibs on all the cock talk? Plus, it's just not the same to say "ima veg out with my vag out". Amirite? Yes.
Eff. I haven't written on here since last MAY? I suck harder than Lindsey Lohan on a crack pipe. Lately, people keep asking me why I don't write on my blog anymore. They just won't leave me alone about it. It's called HARASSMENT, people. I'm just sick of it.
Ok, ok. One person asked me one time. But she asked me out loud and with correct grammar, so it really affected me.
What can I say! The past 12 months have kicked my ass, then propped me back up only to kick my ass again. But life chugs on, belching black smoke and dragging my gnarly, exhausted carcass with it like a dead skunk stuck to the tailpipe.
Things have been Grizzly-Adams-hairy, but I'm hoping to be smooth as a baby's hiney again real soon. Luckily, while I've been busy getting the shit kicked out of me, my kids continued to rock so hard, they DIAMOND. So there's that.
I hope to get back on here more often. Maybe something great will happen and I'll re-gain my rosy outlook on life. Or maybe I'll just post angry rants which will make everyone who reads them want to drink a bottle of Drano.
Stay tuned...if you're into that sorta thing. Lol!
I tried to hug my daughter this weekend and she stiff-armed me with a stern, “Mom. No.” I said, “Why?” She said, “I don’t hug family members. Only my friends.”
Well, let me tell you something, missy.
I gave BIRTH to you and I wiped your hiney and I taught you cuss words and you know the one normal thumb you have? I gave you that. Half of your chromosomes, your brown eyes, and your chins. All me, baby.
If you weren’t bigger than me and freakishly strong, I would’ve hugged you anyway. Instead, I put cat food in your dinner. Hug THAT.
The boy had a dance this afternoon. All I saw was the view from the door, but it was enough to make me dry heave all the way home. It was held in the cafeteria, which means the air was rich with the combined smell of last week’s menu and dozens of tightly packed, profusely sweaty, early-stage teenagers. If awkwardness had a smell, it would be this: a heady mix of body odor, pizza, goats, Frito chips and desperation.
The boys aren’t old enough yet to be truly earnest in their pursuit of girls. Instead, they all stand packed together near the Guitar Hero set-up, hands deep, deep in their pockets, tripping each other, and blurting variations on the word “poop” at random intervals.
The girls are starting to realize that the boys are simpletons, undone by the merest glance from one of them. A flutter of her eyelashes, and his hand dives ever deeper in his pocket. The girls are figuring it out and they’re working it. Unfortunately, everything in their arsenal they learned from the E! Channel, so they’re like little bitty, under-developed and overly made-up versions of Pamela Anderson, with enough toilet paper shoved in their bras to support a battalion of allergy sufferers.
The teachers are posted at the entrance and exit, the punch bowl, and the bathrooms, anywhere a kid could make an escape, throw up, or make out (however, they seem not to notice the two full-throttle puberty cases chowing down on each other’s faces in the far corner.) The teacher at the door where I stood to retrieve my boy looked particularly sweaty and disconcerted. I imagine he spent the previous few hours questioning every choice he’s made since high school and realizing his mother was right when she said he should’ve been a doctor.
I was reminiscing to my kids about what life was like when I was their age and I got the feeling they think I’m full of crap. I could tell by the way they kept saying, “Mom, you’re so full of crap!”
My kids are wrong.
For instance, I remember rolling down the highway in the back of my Dad’s truck. Not in the back seat of my Dad’s truck, sillies. In the BACK of my Dad’s truck, with the leaking gas can and the toe-squishing spare tire and the sharp, stabby, dead pine needles.
As strict believers in Darwin’s law of the jungle, the bigger kids always laid claim to the coveted “spot against the cab”, where they were slightly protected from the 55 mile-per-hour, eye-piercing tornado of sawdust, twigs, and dead bugs. The younger and smaller you were, the closer to the tailgate you had to sit. That was the worst spot because your lips were all that stood between you and French kissing some bug guts.
My kids, raised in 3-strap industrial strength car seats until the 3rd grade, can’t fathom it. In fact, I suspect they wistfully think riding in the back of a truck was actually some fantastical form of tingly transportation.
Now, it’s worth noting that we were country kids, not townies. We had rattlesnakes while other kids had pesky sugar ants in their pantries. Our parents, out of a desire to escape the asphyxiating confines of convenience and electricity, moved us to the official Middle of Nowhere the summer of my 13th year. We were 1 mile up a dirt driveway and almost 25 miles from the nearest town of notable size. Their plan was for us to build a house and some character*, not necessarily in that order.
(*This was our parents’ battle cry: it builds character. The harder/messier the wound/work/lesson, the better the character. For example: My brother: “Dad, I cut half my thumb off splitting kindling.” Dad (slapping a well used back-pocket bandana over the wound): “Scars build character.” If that’s the case, my brother has more character in his thumb than both of my kids put together.)
My siblings and I did things every day that my kids think only exist in really lame old-timey movies. Manual labor *gasp*. Making do with less *ohthehumanity*. Entertaining ourselves without electricity *horror*.
The fact is, I can make these totally unembellished statements about my childhood and I swear on my precious angels’ pampered little lives that I am 100% not full of crap:
We had a cliff on our property. I played on it, 40 feet above jagged rocks that would’ve looked lovely with my blood all over them. There was a rattlesnake den in a cave underneath the cliff. I liked to throw rocks in there just to hear the rattles go off. (Sorry, Mom.)
We had a pet goat. He was so stupid, he hung himself one cold winter night. I poked his dead tongue with a stick before my dad told me to get away from there.
We once found a bear (see: a mammal with claws and an appetite) in the treehouse above our sleeping baby cousin’s playpen. It got shot.
A spray bottle of undiluted kerosene spritzed on kindling gets the morning fire going RIGHT NOW. (Sorry, Mom.)
The closest my kids can come to my childhood is that they once saw a bear in a book, and there’s a cliff on Gramma and Grampa’s property where they’re absolutely not allowed to go. They just haven’t built enough character for it.
A 22-year-old man was charged yesterday with posing as a high school student to play basketball. A 22-year-old man, old enough to drink, gamble, and stay up past 9:00 on school nights, voluntarily re-entered high school 4 years after actually graduating.
Permian High School Senior Class President
There’s so much wrong with this, it’s hard to break it down. I’ll do my best (which is very, very good).
In 2009, he enrolled in the 9th grade at Permian High School in Texas, posing as a 15-year-old. He was 6’5” tall. The fact of all that tallness and his full-on facial hair didn’t set off any alarm bells at the high school because, as staff said, “he’d skip down the halls, acting goofy.”
Alarm bell number one. A normal 15-year-old skulks, hunches, mopes, and masturbates but does not skip. A high school freshman would no sooner be caught skipping than he would be caught wearing footsie pajamas and snuggling with his granny in public.
Secondly, at 15, boys aren’t done growing. This guy was 6’5”. So, if my calculations are correct (and they always are), by the time his junior year growth spurt was done, he’d be 10’6”. Alarm bell number two.
And apparently, this guy played some fairly good basketball which explains why the school staff was willing to overlook the fact that he could grow a full beard between 1st period math and 5th period English. Alarm bell number three.
Finally, this guy got caught when he was recognized while playing basketball for his current high school by someone from the high school he'd graduated from four years ago. Not a single adult teacher at his current high school ever thought, "Hmm. This 15 year old sounds like Barry White. Is that normal?" Alarm bell number four.
So. The Adults In Charge are to blame. What else is new? Adults are idiots. Every 22-year-old high school freshman knows that. But the thing I just can't get past is, this kid voluntarily returned to high school, after he’d already done his time.
That's like, I don’t know, yearning for a repeat performance of that time you got an erection in the lunchroom and tried to hide it with your pudding cup but only succeeded in poking a hole in the styrofoam. Going back to high school ranks right up there with prolapsed rectum and finding your parent's sex toy drawer for things you never, ever, ever want to experience.
This beard growing, Barry White singing, 6'5" freshman is obviously a freak. As punishment, I recommend they sentence him to detention with Mr. Jonswickle. May God have mercy on his soul.