Random randomness

  • My son was supposed to come over last Monday and never did. When I called him to find out what was going on, he said he’d be out on Wednesday. Again, he never showed up, but this time he called. At night, but it was still a call. He then said he’d come out today, but of course, he hasn’t. Again. No phone call, either. My feelings are hurt.
  • I’ve been obsessively worrying about the Bug lately. I get up to check her three or four times during the night. I’m not getting much sleep, needless to say.
  • Manner seem to have gone by the wayside here at Casa Bedhead. TCBIM hollered at me the other night because the Bug was screaming her head off and nothing I was doing was helping. I know it came out of frustration, but he never aplogized. Today, he called to ask me to read some stuff off some work papers that he left here and when I was done, just said “Cool. Bye.” No thanks, no nothing. This is not acceptable.
  • Boo is eating everything. She eats all her food (good) as well as the dog’s food (bad) and the cat’s food (bad) and the crayons, markers, leaves and dust bunnies that she can find. Why? Am I not feeding her enough? Do all toddlers do this? I don’t remember this with O, but that was 10 years ago, too.
  • I have a flat tire. Actually, both rear tires are bald and need replacing. So, in addition to the mondo-expensive transmission job I need, I also need new tires. Fanfuckingtastic. I hate cars. I told TCBIM this morning that once we had money again, we were getting a brand new vehicle. I don’t care. I have such shit luck with cars that it makes more sense to get new and have it be covered under warranty than to get used and pay thru the ass for car repairs.
  • In fifteen days, I’m going to be 40. It’s freaking me right the fuck out. Seriously. Way worse than 30 did, worse even than 25 did and 25 freaked me out pretty badly.
  • All I want for my birthday is a pedicure and the new Johnny Lang cd. I luff Johnny Lang.
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There was an old woman….

I feel so old. My bones ache and creak. My hips hurt. My ankles hurt. My spine constantly feels like it needs to crack, up in the shoulder area. This sucks, man. It’s all of a sudden, too – within the last few weeks. I just feel like my bones and joints are not aligned properly.

I wish I could afford a chiropractor. I went to one when I was pregnant with Boo and it was great. My back felt fantastic, which made the rest of me feel great, considering I was hugely pregnant. But we can’t afford it. We can’t afford our electric bill, nevermind a chiropractor.

I had been walking a couple of times a week, but I can’t seem to work it in lately. TCBIM is working crazy hours, coming home at 3 or 4 and then having to go out again around 6 o 7 for an hour or two, on sales calls. So, while it’s nice having him home during prime chaos hours, it means I can’t squeeze a walk in, what with homework checking and soccer practise picking up and nursing and making dinner and, and, and….

I think I’m going to have to start doing crock pot meals or long-cooking things that can be left for half an hour, forty-five minutes, because the walk was really helping. It made me a bit more relaxed. Plus, I love pounding down the street to Rum, Sodomy And The Lash. It’s a great disc for walking.

I also have to find a new doctor. The one I have now is horrid. If I were a hypochondriac (What? I am NOT, so just hush.), she’d be great. She told me that I should be seeing a high risk pregnancy specialist, because I was old (c’mere, lemme slap you, lady), that I should see a cardiologist because my father had angioplasty for clogged arteries, and that I needed an endocrinologist for my thyroid issue. I had to take her advice on the last one, since she flat out refused to prescribe my thyroid meds. I have to find someone else. She’s a horror show.

As if I didn’t feel bad enough about being broker than a broke thing, O wants to go to the ice cream place tomorrow, with the girls from her soccer team, and I don’t think I have $5 to give her. I suck.

A couple of questions

1. What’s a meta post? I’ve seen a few bloggers use this phrase and I can’t figure out what it means.

2. How do I get my blog roll into a drop down menu format? It’s very unweildy as it is now. Also, how do I get it to tag with new posts? It’s linked thru bloglines – I thought that automatically showed which blogs had been updated, but it doesn’t seem to be doing that on my list.

3. I’m not insane enough to attempt NaNoWriMo, but I think I’m going to try the November post a day thing that’s oozing around the blogosphere. Anyone else doing that?

I guess that was three questions.

We Dress Like Housewives

My father has turned into a sexist jackass. He’s always had the jackass part covered, but until Saturday, I didn’t realize he was also a 50s throwback.

We were on the phone the other day, discussing TCBIM. I mentioned that TCBIM had been working a lot and my dad said he really admired him because he was such a hard worker (it’s true – TCBIM has many faults, but he works like a demon). I agreed and out of the blue, my dad says “You shouldn’t be making any demands on him. When he gets home you should have dinner on the table for him. You don’t work, so you shouldn’t be asking him to do anything.”

Can you hold on? I have to go find my ass because I just laughed it off.

Dinner on the TABLE? I don’t work???! I don’t get paid, but Jesus H. Christ, do I work. Come to my house one of these days, dad. Let me show you how little “work” I do all day.

Sweet suffering mother of fuck. Who says shit like that these days? I work my ass off (when it’s not being deluged, of course). And TCBIM isn’t home enough for me to make demands on him. He’s always working. Which is fine. It’s not great, but we need the money and he enjoys his work, which is good. We don’t get much time together, but we make the most of it when we do have a free day.

I just don’t understand where the comment came from. He was brought up that way, of course, since he was born in 1937, but my mother wasn’t like that. She didn’t have dinner on the table when my dad walked in the door. She kept the house relatively clean and stayed home with my sister and me until I was about 10, but it was by no means a Father Knows Best kind of house. And his second wife, my stepmonster, certainly makes him fetch and carry. She’s got a houseboy, basically, and she orders him around like he’s some kind of imbecilic servant.

Perhaps he wants TCBIM to live the life that he would have liked to have lived. It’s not going to happen, though. I don’t think I should have to be the obedient, subservient wife. I think marriage is a partnership. It’s never 50/50, no matter how much I’d like it to be. There’s an ebb and flow to it. Right now, I’m doing more around-the-house stuff than he does. Last year, it was pretty much equal. A few years ago, he did more. It works, for the most part, with some hitches and hissy fits on both our parts, but it works.

It won’t work if I become this passive, placid little cow, though. I can’t do that, I can’t become someone I’m not. I’m kind of surprised that my dad even asked me to do that.

A Rainy Day Fashion Tip

When it’s raining, don’t wear jeans that are too big for you, especially those that gap at the waist. While you’re bending over, strapping chidren into car seats, the rain drops will go right down the crack of your ass, causing you to shriek, thus scaring said children. In your hurry to stop the ass-crack-deluge, you will whack the top of your head on the door frame of the car. This will cause you to stagger back, stepping into a 4″ deep puddle, the bottom of which is full of leaves. Wet leaves. Slippery wet leaves that will make your feet, in their oh-so-cute-but-oh-so-impractical-in-the-rain Liz Claiborne slip on sneaker-y things, fly out from underneath you and sending you ass first – the same ass that was already insulted (?) with ass-crack-deluge – into the 4″ deep puddle. The dog, curious about all the swearing, shrieking and splashing going on, comes out of her dog house and shakes herself all over, thereby drenching the top half of you, which wasn’t really that wet yet, and giving you a lovely layer of dog hair. Wet dog hair.

You will now drag the children back out of the car and into the house. The two year-old will protest mightily because it’s story time and she wants to go to the library. The two month-old will add her cries to the mix, just because. You yell “Hang on, hang on, I just need to change my pants,” knowing full well that they don’t care, they just want to GO already, and hoping that your jacket will hide your wet and dog-hair-covered t-shirt. Back into the car, avoiding the ass-crack-deluge this time (because this is what happens when jeans fit) and down to the library, where your friend comments “Goodness, you look harried.” Y’think?

You’ve got to be kidding.

Jeffrey? Fucking JEFFREY?

Heidi Klum said she’d wear every single piece that Uli made. Nina Garcia said that people were asking her on her way out the door how to contact Uli. All the judges told Laura that her collection looked like it cost $30,000 to make, not $8,000. And Jeffrey won?

What
The
Fuck?

A rotten mother

  • If you are reading this post on a site other than Major Bedhead or with Bitacle.org in the address, you are reading scraped and stolen content and you should knock it off immediately. It’s stolen and it’s WRONG.

I can’t hack this. Boo is so difficult lately. She’s defiant, she has screaming mimi temper tantrums and she hits me and I just don’t know what to do with her. I don’t know what to do with myself, either. I get SO angry with her when she’s been doing this for hours, so angry that I scare myself. So angry that I have to leave the room so I don’t do anything I’ll regret. I regret enough as it is – it’s mortifying to admit this, but I have sworn at her, which makes me feel horribly guilty and makes me cry.

I hate this. I hate this black rage that envelopes me when I’ve been listening to the whining, shrieking, screaming and crying for hours. I hate that she acts that way. I hate that nothing I do seems to help. I hate feeling like I have no control over her or over myself.

I’ve tried putting her in the corner. She stays there, but I don’t think she sees it as a punishment. I’ve tried putting her in her playpen and putting her in her bed. It just transfers the screaming to another location. I’ve tried talking to her. I tell her not to hit/scream/have a fit. She nods and hugs and then 30 seconds later, she’s doing it again. She goes from sweet and biddable to psycho and then back again in a matter of minutes. I never know how she’s going to react to anything. Will she laugh? Will she scream? Will she do what she’s told? Will she throw herself on the floor and start yelling? It’s unbelievably frusrating.

I feel awful. I shouldn’t lose my cool with her – I try and try and try and then, finally, something snaps in me and I yell. I try so hard not to. And when I do yell, I feel so guilty and scared and helpless. I usually wind up putting her in her bed and sitting in the bathroom, sobbing.

I’ve sat on the couch, holding her or the Bug and wondering if I shouldn’t just give them up, find someone who’s better at this than I am, who won’t lose her shit every single day, who won’t fuck them up for life. I’m terrified of what I’m doing to them, of what I’m doing to myself. I hate this angry, wound up person that I’ve become. I hate that I dread her waking up from her nap. I hate that her bedtime is my favourite time of day because it means that I won’t have to deal with her for 12 hours. I hate that I feel this way about my daughter. It’s so wrong.

I love her to pieces, even though this post doesn’t sound that way. I do. I don’t want to mess up my kids. I don’t want to be angry all the time. I don’t enjoy it. But I’m not enjoying any of this right now, either. It seems endless, like it’s always going to be this way, like there’s nothing to look forward to and it’s never going to change. I’m just plodding along a never-ending trail, watching my happiness, my enthusiasm, my self just slipping away, listening to her pitch fits and feeling like a complete and utter failure as a mother.

I need help.

Always look on the bright side of life

  • If you are reading this post on a site other than Major Bedhead or with Bitacle.org in the address, you are reading scraped and stolen content and you should knock it off immediately. It’s stolen and it’s WRONG.

  • Fuck off, Bitacle

Inspired by a post over on Bub and Pie, but going off on a tangent, as is my wont.

TCBIM is what I consider a cock-eyed optimist. He never, ever, ever thinks that anything bad will happen. He refuses to even consider the thought. He always looks on the bright side. I find this unbelievably annoying.

I get called a pessimist, although I think I’m more of a realist. I always prepare for the worst possible scenario – I expect the present not to appear, the vacation to be a failure, the car to break down at the most inopportune time. That way, when those things happen, I’m not surprised. If the opposite occurs and everything goes swimmingly, I’m as pleased as Punch.

TCBIM tells me that it makes for a depressing situation, that because I constantly expect things to go wrong, I can’t enjoy myself. I think I enjoy things – probably not with the headlong enthusiasm of a child, but I do enjoy them. He thinks I spend all my time worrying. He’s not totally wrong there – I do worry a lot. It’s not paralyzing worry, but I envision bad things happening on a regular basis. Things rarely go as awfully as I can picture in my head – and believe me, I can picture some total doozies. Doozies that would probably get me locked into a little padded room if I actually spoke them aloud.

I think years of being disappointed have done their work on me. The first one that stands out in my mind involves a dress. It was at Sears and I wanted it in the worst way. It was light blue dotted swiss, very Little House On The Prairie meets Little Women. I lusted after this dress. I dreamed about it. I begged my mother for it. I dragged her thru Sears just so I could go pat it. I even asked Santa for it for Christmas that year. Lo and behold, under the tree on Christmas morning was a long, dress-sized box. I ripped it open frantically and there, in the box, was a dress pattern and some fabric. Not the same fabric, not the same dress pattern. I vividly remember the disappointment crashing over me. I had to leave the room and go have a cry in the bathroom.

I knew, even then, that my parents didn’t have the money to buy me that dress. It was around $50 – $60 and this was back in 1974 or so. I thought, though, that if I only asked for that and nothing else, they’d get it for me. I’d crossed my fingers and wished on stars and hoped and hoped so much and to see that box under the tree – well, I was just giddy at the thought of it. Even today, I can still feel a bit of the sadness I felt back then.

So many other disappointments have followed (my father leaving, my college experience, my first marriage), that I learned, eventually, not to expect anything. To wall off my heart and feelings towards high expectations and to accept that, most of the time, things will be fine, but they sure won’t be the fantastic-ness I wanted them to be.

Now I don’t anticipate anything. I don’t look forward, I just try to enjoy the day, the moment I’m in. I don’t wait for the next good thing to happen. TCBIM does. He constantly talks about when the girls are older, when we have more money, when, when, when. He doesn’t really seem to appreciate the now, he’s always too busy waiting for The Next Big Thing. I don’t know what’s worse: Expecting the worst, but enjoying the now or expecting the best, but only in the future.

He also has a very annoying tendency to tell me to cheer up or to stop thinking like that. Sometimes I wonder if he really knows me. I mean, we’ve been together almost 7 years – you’d think he’d GET it by now – I’m not a glass half full person. I’m just happy there’s a glass.

A whole bullet list of bitching

  • If you are reading this post on a site other than Major Bedhead or with Bitacle.org in the address, you are reading scraped and stolen content.

  • Go over to Little Bald Doctors and read her posts about Bitacle. Fuckers. They’re stealing blog content, including mine, and posting it as their original. I’ve added a spiffy new copyright button and I’ve made my feeds length short – apparently this helps, although I’m more than a little clueless about all of this.
  • So, if you’re reading this on Bitacle, they’re theiving fuckers and you should stop it right now.
  • I’m going to rent The Boo out as an air raid siren. She would certainly be heard all over town. “MiiiIIIIIine, miiiIIIIIiine, miiiIIIIIIiiine!” The plus side? She now knows to put herself in the corner. “No hit mama,” she says, as she stands there. *sigh*
  • I put on lip gloss today, for the first time in, oh, forever and I noticed that I’m starting to get little lines around my lips. And? I have a crinkle in the middle of my brow. What. The. Fuck. When did this shit happen and why wasn’t I consulted??! This getting older thing is for the birds.
  • My fucking car broke down. Really broke down, like, transmission-fell-out-of-it, broke down. This is not a good time for this to happen. At all. It’s only got 100K miles on it and it’s a HONDA. That’s not supposed to happen. Once again, my bad car karma rears its ugly head.
  • I’m constantly hungry lately. I never, ever feel full. It sucks. I have to force myself not to hoover up the kitchen every day and I’ve completely stopped buying snacks, because I’ll eat them all. It’s not my thyroid – I just had that checked not too long ago. Maybe it’s because I’m nursing, but I’m not happy. I’ve put on 7 of the 27 lbs I’d lost after having The Bug. In a month. Not good. Not good at all. Need to start walking. Maybe even running.
  • I don’t know why, but all the bones in my body hurt. Feet, ankles, hips, fingers, wrists, shoulders. Everything. It’s very uncomfortable and I’m sucking back Advil like there’s no tomorrow. I don’t want to have to go to the doctor’s again. I’m sick of the doctor.
  • The dog has fleas. I hope I can buy some sort of flea treatment for not a lot of money at the local pet supply place. I feel bad – I can’t afford the dog at all, but O and The Boo love her. And she is a very good dog – very obedient and really great with the kids. And I do like her, even if she does annoy the piss out of me sometimes.
  • And finally: Congratulations to the Detroit Tigers. Goin’ to the World Series. I’ll be cheering for them, since they beat the *spit* friggin’ Yankees. For that, they earn my undying gratitude.

File under: Duh

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well.
An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly.
You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view.
A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary.

You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

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