Constant Craving

Craving:  I know all about it.  In fact, I’d venture to say that most humans with a pulse – whether they choose to admit it or not – do, too.  Even Nuns.  I bet those birds crave a thing or two now and again, (and it’s been well documented that Priests do).  

But suppose it’s not fair to speak on behalf of the population as a whole.  In that case, maybe I am unique in my craving?  Maybe no one else on Earth, past or present, has ever known what it feels like to desire something so strongly as to become almost possessed by it – certainly not the estimated 2.1 million members of Alcoholics Anonymous worldwide*.   

Sticking to my personal experience, I’ll share that my sense of craving began in infancy.  Not that I was capable of coherently identifying or understanding, that, what I was feeling was called a craving, but I certainly cried out for milk when I was craving food.  And when I craved sleep, I let that be known through blood-curdling screams as well.  As I developed, I began to comprehend that I most definitely craved safety.  In fact, I feel comfortable identifying “safety” as my strongest need on Maslow’s hierarchy.  

This craving for safety morphed into an uncontrollable anxiety that crippled me throughout my entire childhood – most likely perpetuated by my getting lost at Santa Anita racetrack when I was two.  Anxiety wracked my being – the only thing that could quell my nerves was to know where my family was at all times, and the only way I could do that was through control.  I began to crave control – which is a futile and exhausting effort.  Later on down the road, I discovered the only other thing that could mitigate my fears – alcohol.  

It didn’t take long before I began to crave that beast.  Even when I had a drink in my hand, I was already nervously anticipating the next – I needed to make sure there was enough supply to medicate my dis-ease.  Before I knew it, I couldn’t function without it.  Sure, I had plenty of moments when I was dry, but I always felt more relaxed with booze coursing through my veins.  The problem is:  inevitably it stops working (quicker for some than others).  And much to my dismay and benefit, alcohol stopped working for me around the time I was thirty.  Suddenly I craved relief – relief and rest from the exhaustion trying to control a drinking problem creates.  I craved it like I had never craved anything in my life, because I was at the end of my rope.  It was now a matter of life or death, because I knew my soul was empty and it was only a matter of time before my brain caught up to the idea that death may be a more suitable option.  

I got a taste of sobriety and hung on for dear life – I began to crave recovery.  It gave me a new lease on life.  I was surfing a “pink cloud” and I had never felt so good.  Life got better fast, and before I knew it, life was actually good.  I started to dream again, and as my dreams grew, so did my vision for my future.  I had ambition!  I started to crave achievement… success!  

I dove, head first, back into the entertainment industry (my only constant love) with unadulterated enthusiasm and vigor.  I put twenty thousand miles on my car in four months, driving back and forth between San Francisco and Los Angeles, until I finally cut the apron strings and made the move to live in La La Land amongst all the other transplants and dreamers.  I landed in features, then television; and during the course of my employment on a procedural drama I would never be given the opportunity to write for, something even better happened:  I met my future husband (in a rather roundabout way) through a co-worker.  

We jumped into a relationship, and before I knew it we were engaged and I was pregnant, and that, in and of itself, introduced a whole new comprehension of craving (apart from FroYo at 10pm) – I had a craving for Life, and a deeply burning desire for the life growing inside of me to thrive and be healthy.  Now I crave the knowledge and empathy necessary to make me a good parent – a parent equipped to raise a well-adjusted and capable child, one who can differentiate between right and wrong and who “makes good choices”, as my father once (and still does) badger me to do.  I crave compassion.  And lastly, I crave the power to stop cursing like a truck driver, cuz that’s really gonna fuck up my kids.

*Estimated worldwide A.A. individual and group membership gathered from service material from A.A.'s General Service Office, revised June, 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.

  

Snacks In My Pants

Photo Credit

This story is more a lesson in parenting skills than a recollection of past experiences.

By today's standards, my mom started young.  She was twenty-six when I was born, and twenty-eight when she had my brother.  Or maybe it just sounds young to me because I can't imagine having a nine and seven year-old right now.  That just seems unfathomable.  I barely have the means to keep myself afloat, let alone two kids - and my collection of ex-boyfriends has done just as much damage to my credit score as it has they have to my… psyche, so they wouldn't have been much help in the child care payment department.  But I digress.

I think my mother's youth contributed largely to her parenting style - particularly when it came to pet names.  "Big Girl Parts" and "Big Boy Parts" were the appropriate identifiers for our genitals, "Bottom Burp" was our label for farting, and I assume because LA is close to the border and my parents were big on instilling culture in my brother and me at a young age, we used the Spanish word "moco" for boogers.  Not so terrible, until it came to dirty diapers, whereupon my mom or dad would look at us and ask if we had "snacks" in our pants.

That's right - Snacks.

What the fuck does that even mean!?  A snack is a tasty morsel of food to tie you over until dinner, or enjoy at the movies, or to help pass the time at work while you're chained to your desk wondering what to blog about - NOT something you shit out in your pants.  Who wants to eat that?  Sure, maybe some cultures do.  Hell, in some cultures it may even be considered a delicacy, but certainly not in developed countries.

I needed to teach my parents a lesson.  They needed to realize the error of their ways.  I may have only been a toddler, but I knew when something was gauche.

We were at the bank.  It was another sunny day in Los Angeles - a scorcher.  The air was ripe with sweat and musk.  Security Pacific's air conditioner couldn't keep up with the steadily rising mercury of the thermometer, and the natives were getting restless.  Mom stood patiently in line waiting for the next teller, but I was pretty squirmy.  Looking back, my fidgeting probably had less to do with the heat and more to do with the dump I needed to take.  So mom set me down and allowed me to wander around.

Finally!  A moment to myself, free of the constriction of my mother's arms, to take care of business.  I got really quiet - too quiet.  By the time mom registered what was happening, it was too late; my hands were already down the back of my pants, and when I pulled them out, I proudly held them up to my mother and proclaimed, "Snacks!"

She promptly ditched her place in line to grab me and - mortified - ran out of the bank.

Serves her right, I say.  Let this be a lesson to all you parents out there:  think twice about the cutesy names you assign to anatomical and biological matters, lest they backfire.  Kids have an uncanny knack for throwing grown-ups under the bus.

Kids: The Ultimate Cock Block

This appeared in my Facebook inbox.  My comments are in (italics.)

• Conversation started Thursday
• 1/9, 2:53pm
  

  "Mr. X" 
  

  
  

  I have advice (amazed I continued reading after such strong language) and a new story for you. One day you or your partner may have kids. (Gonna go with partner. Planned Parenthood has seen fit I remain childless.) This brings up two problems: (Only two?)

  
  

  (1) 6 year-olds like to look in things, (not something I'll have to worry about after I ship the kids off to boarding school) and 

  
  

  (2) one day you will have a teenage babysitter over so you can enjoy a night out for 3-4 hours. (Please note: 30 or so minutes of bliss has yielded a max playtime of 3-4 hours, tops. Enjoy that.)

  
  

  When you realize both of these are going to happen, you will need to take the day off of work - the entire day - to go through every nook and cranny of the house where you've hidden the dildos, vibrators, plugs, ropes, leather cuffs, ball gags, and lube. (Kill yourself. But sounds like you used to have a pretty fun life.) Yes, lube. For each hiding spot you have you will find lube. So far we have found 8 bottles in 8 different locations today. (The lube informs a few things, mainly that the person you're fucking is obviously NOT a teenage babysitter.)
• 1/9, 2:55pm
  

  "Mr. X" (cont.)
  

  
  

  Moral of the story, to take 3 hours off, it will cost you:

  -$30.00 for sitter (for a cheap ass sitter)

  -$100.00 for dinner (and a cheap ass dinner)

  -$300 (varies) for having to take the day off so your child doesn't accidentally catch you "dildo-handed," (They're gonna have to learn about the birds and the bees sooner or later,) or run the risk of your sitter freaking out when she discovers some butt-plugs hidden between the couch cushions. (Ass on the couch, beads in the ass… Totally makes sense why that would be a hiding spot.)
  
  
  MY TAKEAWAY: While I appreciate the "advice," Mr. X, the only thing I think I've learned here is don't have kids. Problem solved.

GINGERS: The Reckoning

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

So, a girlfriend of mine just texted me a picture of her son, dressed as "Chucky" for Halloween. 

First: No. Chucky was a Ginger to the worst degree, and deserves to be accurately represented. Insults like this only perpetuate the Gingers day of reckoning. I mean, this is a pretty half-assed costume. All I'm saying is that if he showed up on my doorstep, I'd be inclined to withhold candy, on the basis of principle.

Second: Gingers are terrifying. This isn't as much my opinion as it is my mother's. She used to say if she ever had a kid with orange hair, she'd flush it down the toilet. So imagine her surprise when I was born Ginger. It was a scary time… for both of us.

Years later I sent her flowers on my birthday, thanking her for not flushing me. Not the first time I've been called inappropriate, but certainly the first time I've been judged so harshly by a florist.

Customer service isn't what it used to be.