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Saturday, April 30, 2011

Apparently I will never grow up.

I am fairly successful as an adult. I work, I pay my bills, I raise my kids relatively well. Soon, I'll even be going to school on top of all that.

But sometimes... I just can't hack it. All of the adult just kinda oozes off of me and I become this overgrown child- acting impulsively, giggling uncontrollably, being ridiculous.

Not surprisingly, this tends to happen when the brothers congregate nearby.

Earlier this week, I found myself in these circumstances. There was a strange series of events that led up to my inner child breaking free. It started when I got home from work (see? Responsible adult.) to find my youngest brother, who lives with me, out front working on his car. He stood up to say hello and I saw his charming face... covered in a giant scab. It was lovely.

Pictured: Bad Idea.


Truly beautiful. He didn't want to tell me what happened... which means he got drunk and decided to spar with someone. Judging by his face, they sparred on concrete. And he lost.

I guess my laughter (what? That's what sisters DO) was distracting to him because when he finished with his car and took it for a test drive, it went badly. Mostly because he put the tire back on but didn't tighten the lug nuts. I imagine his tire damn near fell off as he turned the corner, but I didn't ask. he was busy running toward a tire iron.

After that he was feeling the need to one-up me. But genetics requires that he not act rashly but rather plot his revenge. It's a family thing.

Later, we had a run-in with an old acquaintance who had clearly had a psychotic break of some sort. Very interesting, that. And after that we decided beer was required and deserved.

Somehow... some things got set in motion. For whatever reason I decided my old ass could wrestle with my black belted brother who outweighs me by who-effin-knows-how-much and actually have some sort of success with that. All I got was pinned. Oh, and a Wet Willy. I got that too. Then we found glow sticks. And we broke glow sticks. And I decorated him with the glowing (probably toxic) weirdness inside. I got more Wet Willys for my trouble. Then we found this:

Pictured: Worse idea.




 I'd bought these for my daughter's birthday party. But since they were here and not being used... yeah. We played. I have never before been in any sort of situation that had me knocked on my ass as consistently as this situation did. And never with as much ridiculous laughter. And I also got... you guessed it- Wet Willys.

I should probably mention that by this time it was roughly midnight- on a school night- and we were still outside acting like idiots. Loud idiots. Loud, intoxicated idiots.

I'd like it noted that I held my own in Body Bopping. I may have been knocked on my ass, but I wasn't alone in that. A fact I made sure to point out at least 4,742,673,395,038,378 times.



The next morning I took my battered self back to work. Like a damn ADULT, thank you very much.

And then, the very next day, we were engaged in a war to see who was the best Ripstick rider.

He is. And that pisses me right off.

The Ripstick and I have a history, damn it. A long, painful history involving fractured elbows, blood, and near misses in traffic. It took me an entire freaking month to get that damn thing to work right and this child just jumps on it like it's nothing.

There will be a rematch.

Oh, yes... there will.

Translated, that means I plan to injure myself severely in the name of ridiculous pride.

Should be fun.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Girls, Girls, Girls!

This isn't even almost what you think it is.


Really, it's not. This blog contains no nudity, no gratuitous crotch shots, no pole dancing, not even any Motley Crue (and thank god for that).


What this entry IS about is pre-teen girls. And the chaos they bring with them in their cute little purses.


This is my oldest daughter, Tayler, in the red:

Her friend is not actually blurry.
Last week, she turned 12. And to celebrate she had a party at a local ice skating rink followed by a small gathering at our house.


And by small gathering, I mean that approximately 4,000 people crammed into my tiny house where the single activity seemed to be "Be loud."


This was supposed to be an outdoor cookout. But it rained all day because the universe feels I need yet more punishment for whatever the hell I did in a past life. So, yeah... rain.


Into my house crammed myself and my husband, two of my brothers, my sister in law, Chris' sister, my cousin, my mom, Chris' parents, and two family friends. Plus the aforementioned 4,000 kids who ranged in age from 4 to 13.


The older girls went upstairs to Tayler's room where they did whatever it is that pre-teen girls do. With glitter. The younger children stayed downstairs where they found the screaming rocket balloons, air horns, and silly string I had bought back when I intended to toss these kids outside. The rocket balloons were created by evil forces. Adults turned every possible shade of red and purple trying to get the damn things to blow up. And the point, of course, was for the kids to let them go and watch them shoot all over the place, immediately followed by the need to blow them up again. I got smacked by a few adults because I was dumb enough to buy the balloons.


Eventually everyone was fed, cake was cut and presents were opened. A better parent would have photos to insert here. I am not that parent.


Then the guests who valued their sanity began to leave. That left me and my brothers and husband. The girls came downstairs. And what happened next...


My husband has hooked our home PC to the TV. Yes. So that all computer thingies can now be done 1000 times larger. Somehow this is important to male people. Anyway, this is what the girls decided to use to watch videos on YouTube. They started off shy. Most of the girls spend enough time in my house that I can comfortably yell at them or make them do things for me, but a few were newcomers. So the music started off appropriate. Slowly, it became louder. And more profanity-laced. Then they decided to listen to sad music.


Why?


Because- and I'll admit I get a little lost here- apparently it is a cool girl thing to sit and listen to sad music until you cry, then run to another room (still sobbing) and wait for all the other girls to come find out why you're crying. Then you all cry together. Then you go into sobbing dramatics prompting parental intervention. then you calm down. Repeat.


I was baffled.


My brothers, being helpful sorts, thought that discussions of dead kittens might help. It did not. Then one brother decided to videotape my daughter acting a fool to be used against her at a future date. Good decision, there.


The crying went on for *entirely too long*. Then they switched to listening to music that I would not normally approve of. But I said nothing because I was just so happy the crying was done. Then they all reapplied their make-up and began to call boys. Then they fought and my daughter told them all to go home. Then they made up and she decided to let them stay. Then they hugged. Repeat X 5. Then they ate every. single. edible. thing. in my house. Seriously.


My brothers left, my husband went to bed.


I put the young child to bed.


Then I sat and waited for the girls to crash. Which they did not do until SIX-FREAKING-A.M.


Of course, that small child was up at 8 and went about waking everyone else up.


At noon some other parent called and offered to drive them all to the park so they could play- excuse me, I mean "hang out"- there for a while. I saw my out and took it. When that poor, poor mom arrived I basically shouted "Tag!! You're it!!" and ran away.


But, of course, there was park drama as well and I ended up having to go out to the park and collect my daughter (who now hates all her friends) and bring her home. Where she immediately called all her friends (who she miraculously no longer hates) and invited them back to our house. Luckily they were too tired to walk, because I had absolutely no intention of answering the front door.


I'm not sure where the term "sleepover" comes from, but it was most certainly not coined by any parent who has actually suffered through one. There was no sleeping. It should be called a Loudy-GiggleOver. Or some witty thing that non-sleep-deprived types could think up for me.


My house is trashed. There are food wrappers and glitteriness, and jewels everywhere. I found a pizza box under my couch. Some person's shoes are in my hall. I'm not sure how that person got to the park without them, nor do I care.


I have no idea what boy sleepovers are like. I imagine them as being fun, rousing times involving war games, video games, and junk food. Maybe a sport. No glitter, no make-up, no calling the opposite sex. And certainly no sobbing for hours over NOTHING.


This morning. on my way to drop Taryn off at Pre-K, she asked me...


"Mommy? When can I have a sleepover?"


*shudder*twitch*

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

This is why parents drink.

See this?

Do not be deceived.
 This, pictured above, is The Terrible Twosome. Why the combined forces of their spirits do not immediately render a free-floating danger sign above their thick noggins is beyond me. As it stands, though, you are left to assume these are typical five year olds, ready and eager to charm you.

You would be very wrong.

The Terrible Twosome consists of my daughter, Taryn, and my nephew, Kavan. They are eight months apart in age, sent to earth by the powers that be to destroy my sanity.

Shut up, it's true.

Today they are playing at my house. And by playing, I of course mean breaking shit, screaming, and running around like the heathens they are.

And then I gave them pie. Which is synonymous with "I gave them weapons of mass destruction and challenged them to a cage match".

Kavan stuck his fork in Taryn's eye. She began screaming "Kavan! I am NOT food!!" over and over and over and... yeah. He simply stated "Well, I meant to say sorry" and went on his way. Taryn screamed about how she had been stabbed. Kavan thought perhaps it was more of a scratch than a stab. They discussed, in very high decibels.

I told them they were no longer allowed to speak.

Which only served to unify their powers against a common enemy- me.

They are in the next room now. I can hear them discussing things. Plotting things.

"Will your mom be mad if we jump off the couch?".... "Maybe. So we should jump real quiet.".... "Will she be mad if we jump off the couch and onto the table?" ... "Let's just not tell her." .... "But I want her to be mad and yell at us." .... "Why?" .... "Because when she yells at us, then she leaves to go get coffee and then we can get the cat and put him in the bag and take him into the cave." .... "Okay. I'll jump."

And she did.

She jumped.

And then she jumped again.

And then she came and told me she was jumping off the couch because I wasn't responding appropriately. Which Kavan interpreted as her telling on him, so he started to cry. Taryn tried to explain, he yelled at her. She is now in sobbing hysterics and he is slapping himself in the face and I am out of Kahlua and it is most certainly time to take Kavan home and send Taryn to bed. Or Egypt. Whatever.

Monday, April 4, 2011

So then, after my breakdown...

I'm a mess. Or, I was a mess. I had an emotional breakdown of sorts and I'm feeling much better now. And by much better, I mean of course- much angrier. But that's good. I should be angry. I deserve to be angry. I have earned this right. And while I have some boundaries (admittedly, not many) I am going to put it all right here- who deserves my wrath and why. Because, well... they suck.

First at bat... the ex husband. The father of my oldest child:

"Thomas- You are fucking up your life and the emotional well being of your daughter. Congratulations on that, you gigantic effing moron. You think you can run around being a perpetual teenager, ignoring your responsibilities, playing best friend to a daughter who needs a father and you're having a great time of it, aren't you? Well fucking hooray for you. Meanwhile that "toy" that is actually a human being sits at home wondering why you won't return her calls, wondering why you won't call from the hospital to say you're okay, wondering why your car is outside but you haven't come to visit. And WTF am I supposed to do? You expect me to stand up for you, defend you, lie for you? Fuck you- those days are long over. I will not turn this into the battle you want it to be. I will not become the person you tell everyone I am. I will not fight you on this. You have chosen to be this despicable kind of father, so you can live with it. But one day, asshole... one day she will stop thinking you're the coolest shit. One day her dreamy ideal of who you are will break and fragment and she will be left only with the reality of the selfish prick that you are. And on that day, you colossal assfuck... I will say nothing. I will let her look at you with her broken eyes and her broken heart. I will let her say the things to you that should have been said all along. I will do NOT ONE THING to ease her anger. Because you deserve it. And because she is entitled to it. And then I will take her home and nurse her heart back to health. Like a fucking parent should do.
And then, just maybe, I will set the brothers loose on you and pray that the doctors are incompetent morons.
But until that day, you just stay the fuck away from me and keep my name out of your fucked up mouth. You have this ONE last chance to redeem yourself into some semblance of a decent human being. And while I, personally, hope you miss it and end up dead in a dark alley.... for her sake, I hope you wise the fuck up and get a damn clue."

Eloquent, no?

Oh, shut up, it's fucking beautiful. Poetic, even.

Wait, there's more. Yeah... I'm a bitter little person today.

To the coworkers:

"So... You dislike your peer? You've told your boss you don't like her, you've complained loudly about shit that is none of your business just because you can. Way to go. But then... you did more. You dumb fucking morons, you took it too far. You went to the board?!? Really?!? You don't like your peer, you told your boss and when she wouldn't fire that person because of your damn personal feelings, you went to the board and told them your boss was ineffective. You're a bunch of imbeciles, you know that? What did you expect to accomplish? Did you expect that the board would order your boss to fire that person you don't like? You did?? You can't be serious... but, alas, you are.
Well guess what. That was NOT the decision reached by the board. I happen to have some inside information. Yeah- your stupid stunt did not accomplish what you had hoped. What your stupid, petty, childish ploy DID achieve was this- the board has decided to let your boss go. Yeah, you didn't see that coming, did you? You fucking morons. Now the ONE person who *almost* always had your back is gone. The person who got this organization from "about to sink" to actually viable, the person who fought for YOUR rights as employees, the person who grew your programs and gave you the freedom to pursue your pipe-dream goals... you just got her fired. Congrats on that.
Oh, what? You didn't expect that? That wasn't what you wanted? Well too fucking bad. It's too late you spoiled little brats. This is what happens when you get too fucking hot headed and full of yourselves. Now what are you going to do? Nothing, that's what. You played a power game and you won. Maybe next time you'll verify the prize first. Me? I'm jumping ship."

I'm ever so slightly pissed about THAT whole deal.

Still more. You didn't seriously think that was all, did you? Huh. You must not know me very well.

To my sister-in-law:

"You suck. Mostly because you are a slutty little thing, stepping out on my brother. And partly because you are dragging your kids (his kids, my niece and nephew) through a shitstorm that will only get worse. And in large part because you refuse to even acknowledge that shitstorm, you buffoon. But the biggest reason that you completely and utterly suck is this- you don't get it. You honestly don't get it. You are fucking clueless and insanely naive and because of this it is very difficult for me to hate you. Do you have any idea how irritating that is?
Very."

To my youngest daughter:

"For the love of all that is good in this world would you please just STOP?!? You're like a little hurricane blasting through my world every. damn. day. destroying everything in your path, wreaking havoc, instigating, provoking, harassing. And then you smile like an angel and I want to both cuddle and throttle you and I simply cannot take it. Stop being five. Just stop it."

And to my husband. Record this date in history- you won't see this often:

"Thank you. Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for understanding. Thank you for taking my keys, for holding me, for letting me cry. Thank you for being exactly who I needed, exactly when I needed it. Thank you."

So there it is. I have purged and you are the lucky recipients. You're welcome.

Sadly, today- it really was that serious.