It's not just you… we all have our moments

It's not just you… we all have our moments

Thursday, November 20, 2014

Offspring, aka: The Highest Form Of Narcissism

The other day, my boss's six year old daughter asked me why my pig was wearing a cape.  Since I couldn't very well tell her it's his "rape cape," I told her the pig was flying, and he was carrying his friend.

I think I'm ready for parenthood.

This is a bold statement coming from the girl whose level of patience for people in general, let alone children, is microscopic.  I understand a proclamation for the desire to have kids, as made by a girl who once hip-checked a baby into the side of a changing table when he was about to roll off, seems questionable, if not altogether unnatural.  Also, I genuinely don't know what to do with babies when I have to pee.  I once propped a baby up in his chair and set him in the corner of the bathroom, facing the wall, while I relieved myself.  

And yet here I am, preparing to slingshot myself into motherhood.  (Naturally when I have kids, I'll have to make sure they remain illiterate so they never read this blog.)  I guess that very statement is a testament to the legitimate concern of whether or not I would be a fit parent.  Other red flags might include thoughts and facts such as:

  • If my child is born with red hair, how young is "too young" to start dying it?  (To be fair, this is way less harsh than my mother, who swore that if she ever had a baby with red hair, she'd flush it down the toilet.  Well, look who lived to tell, mom.) 
  • My history - as I've divulged in previous posts thus far.
  • My French, as in my constant requests that you pardon it.  I have nothing to offer my child in the realm of a foreign language. 
  • I don't really like other people's kids, but am holding onto the belief that I'll like my own - at least that's what everyone says will happen.
  • I'm not married, and if you're a stickler for tradition, you'll have a strong opinion against my need to procreate out of wedlock. 

At this point, you're probably wondering why I believe I'm a good candidate for parenthood.  Firstly, I never claimed I'm a "good" candidate, but I think we can all agree that as long as I'm not raising my child in a drug den, there are a lot worse parents out there than the one I would make.

Secondly, if I don't shit out a kid, who will take care of me when I'm old?  Not to mention I don't have a savings, so I'm counting on my child's athleticism or dramatic talent to rendezvous as my 401k.

Thirdly, I just really want to see what a mini-me would look like.  And isn't that the main reason to have children, anyway?  Because I could be like Brangelina and adopt the United Nations and start my own soccer club, but who has that kind of energy?  And honestly, if any of my adopted kids ever got in legal trouble, I can't use the "blood is thicker than water" defense to justify my denial of their guilt.  I just don't know if I'd stand by them.

Not to mention, I'm really starting to feel like the odd-man-out on Facebook and Instagram.

Granted, I'm not entirely looking forward to stretch marks or weighing as much as Mama June Boo Boo Honeypot whatsherfuck.  Frankly, the thought of a little alien parasite growing inside of me, stealing my nutrients and going poop in my stomach makes me retch.  But the fact that I still get teary eyed whenever I watch old reruns of TLC's A Baby Story has to count for something, right?  It means I'm not a complete stone heart.  That somewhere inside my Grinch-like soul, there exists a sliver of humanity and compassion.

If there's any redemption to be had in this drivel, it's this: I happen to think my sperm donor is rather handsome.  I've come to know him quite intimately, and he's the smartest man I've ever met.  He kills it at Jeopardy, you guys.  He's wildly funny, and he understands my off-beat impropriety.  He matches my level of crazy in the sense that he's chosen to be with me, and for some inexplicable reason, he stays.  He brings the goods.  In other words, he's good breeding material, and I know he'd make a wonderful father.  So if there's any outstanding concern for the blight that would befall the human race should I happen to introduce a new Being, rest assured that as long as the father is present, this kid's in good hands, and society will be safe.


Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Let's Define "Crazy"

"Crazy" is a word assigned to any chick who exhibits feeeeeelings.  You know, those pesky little emotions that result from BEING ALIVE?  Oh, yeah... those.  This fuckin' word gets tossed around as carelessly as an STD, and comes with about the same stigma.  Maybe it's time to dig a little deeper and clarify so all you dipshits understand why calling a chick crazy actually makes her... crazy.

"Crazy" is boiling a bunny.  Can we just agree?  Granted, this is a fictional example, but I think it goes without saying that obsession usually leads to poor decision making, and that is real.  There have been many documented cases of real-life obsession, and this constitutes being "crazy."

Like driving from Houston to Orlando to kidnap your ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend, while wearing space diapers so you don't have to stop to go to the bathroom; like ex-astronaut, Lisa Nowak, did.  Wouldn't want to miss your window of opportunity to pepper spray that new bitch in the face, bind her hands and feet and dump her in the ocean.  Sometimes commitment to the cause means crapping in your drawers, and that is fucking crazy.

Lisa Nowak Mug Shot
Or climbing down your boyfriend's chimney.  What?  Is "boyfriend" too strong a label for a man you met on the internet and only went on six dates with?  Eh, we'll give "love" the benefit of the doubt and say no.  Is lodging yourself in his chimney whilst climbing down like Santa to spy on him a little nuts?  Yes.  This is certifiably crazy.  Especially when he catches you up on his roof staking the place out a full two weeks before.  (That's called a red-flag, but also: crazy.)
Is bombarding your significant other with text messages when you're upset, instead of waiting to get home and have a conversation with him in person, crazy?  No.  It's excessive, annoying, and probably unnecessary, but is not, by the above standards, "crazy."

Is jealousy "crazy"?  No.  It's unattractive.  How about insecurity?  Nope.  It just makes you look really fucking ugly.

There also exists such phenomena as: differences of opinion, misunderstandings, and miscommunication - all of which fall under the category of "being human."  When I raise my voice, it's because I assume you can't hear me over the noise of the chatter online.  When I cry, it's not because I'm on my period--

THE PERIOD.  The expressway to crazy town.  If you want to see crazy come out to play, boys, invalidate a woman's feelings by attributing them to her monthly cycle.  That's a sure fire way to invite the real crazy to the party.  If you want Hasenpfeffer stew for dinner, ask a woman if she's on her period while you're having an argument.

Listen, I'll concede that, in the heat of the moment or out of sheer frustration, we women have a flair for the dramatic.  We can be a little "over the top."  (We can also be cool, calm, collected and make kick-ass great arguments, but I'm talking about the "Crazy" mis-label here, not the "Bitch" one.  That's a whole other blog entry.)  I admit that I have come a bit unglued and have spiraled down the rabbit hole.  But I'm not crazy, and I can say this with certainty, because despite the obscure - albeit true - instances of crazy that have made headlines, I've been up close and personal with crazy.  I've seen crazy first hand, and it looks like this:

Crazy is delegating my grown son to place a tracking device on my estranged husband's car so I can keep tabs on where he goes.  This makes it so much easier to identify where he parks at lunch so I have time to key his car.  Repeatedly.

Pictures?  Old keepsakes of our time together?  Little mementos of the heart?  Oh, they're taped under my toilet seat lid, so they can have the pleasure of smelling my ass as I defecate and face my pool of urine after I relieve myself.  

Who am I talking about?  My grandmother, of course!  Sweet little old granny was fucking crazy.  Crazy is a broken heart, on steroids, backed by action.  Crazy is a bitter tongue fueled by alcohol and heartache.  

Lazy is a blog, recalling all the tears I've cried and the hurts I've felt, offering up countless tales and admissions of my wrong doings, hoping someone can identify and relate so I don't feel so alone while searching for atonement.  

So let's lay off the crazy talk, eh?  Most of us just have a lot of scars, and we're trying to get by the best we can.