I'll Hug Him and Squeeze Him and Call Him The Boy

The Week of The Boy is over and I made it out alive. Tired, sunburned, injured, and slightly PMS-y, but alive. The Boy is now a nine-year-old, which is hard for me to believe, especially when I look at my body. After only 1 kid and nine long years, I should probably look at least 12,237,383 times better than I do. Seriously, have you seen Heidi Klum lately?  That freak of nature has three kids, two of whom I'm pretty sure she gave birth to backstage at the "Victoria's Secret Fashion Show" moments before strutting out in a diamond-studded bikini to thunderous applause. Me, I'm sitting here nine years later wondering if my muffin top should get a cake and presents too.  Maybe some low-fat, organic, flourless carrot cake that tastes like cardboard, and a mumu or some elastic waist pants, like Pajama Jeans .

Anyway, The Boy is now nine and I don't know where the time went. It seems like only yesterday that we brought him home from the hospital. That was when he laid in a bassinet and slept so soundly for two days that I thought this baby thing was gonna be a piece of cake. Somewhat similar to the time I had a pet turtle that I kept in a shoebox. He slept soundly in the car seat. He slept soundly in the car. He slept soundly in the house. At least until about 6 o'clock that night when he began to wail like a howler monkey. Starting at 6 o'clock that night he screamed so loudly and for so long that I have to assume that the neighbors considered calling 911. Starting at 6 o'clock that night he screamed and screamed and screamed until The Hub and I were numb, and I was collapsed on the floor in a heaping pile of bad mommy-ness, snot and tears, and shouting to the Heavens "If there is a God, I will forgive you for the Easy Bake Oven Incident of '76 if you just tell me why this annoying little person is shrieking like a psychopath!" Well, there was no magical, booming voice from the Heavens, but there was a tired and listless voice from my husband that said "Oh...I think we're supposed to feed him." Well, it HAD been approximately 10 hours since someone had fed him, so I was pretty sure that for the first tim ever, the husband was onto something there.

It wasn't long before I realized that this baby was no turtle. First of all, my turtle never screamed like a banshee. Second of all, my turtle didn't expect me to carry him everywhere. Thirdly, if my turtle pooped it was such tiny little inconspicuous poop that I never really noticed it. Fourthly, my turtle never peed in my face. And lastly, but certainly not leastly, when I got tired of my turtle after about a week, I just let him go. Although I have to admit that I briefly considered the possibility of setting The Boy free, I soon realized that (a) that may be frowned upon, and (b) he probably wouldn't get very far since all he did was lay there pooping and screaming.

Obviously I ended up keeping him, and over the years we got a pretty good system down that consisted of him eating, pooping and throwing fits, and me catering to his every whim and entertaining him every hour of the day, while he acted like a total asshole if I didn't. Thankfully by age 3, he started to like Elmo (Melmo) and I nearly spent our entire life savings purchasing anything and everything that had anything to do with that squeaky, red, fur ball. Some mothers hate Elmo, but I LOVED him and would have married him if I could. Melmo saved my life and allowed me to walk around the house without being followed, and even allowed me the freedom to go to the bathroom alone. Never, ever, underestimate the sheer joy that comes from a solitary poop.

So time went by and things got better. Sure, I once literally dragged him out of McDonalds by his arm while he laid on the ground, stiff as a board, on that disgusting floor. And yes, every time I had to give him medicine it was like a fight between Tyson and Holyfield, but with a tall, exhausted blonde who wished it wasn't against social mores to drink margaritas during the day, and a very angry toddler who hated anything that involved a prescription. If I hadn't come up with the trick of fastening him into his high chair first, I'm sure he would have bitten my ear off. And yes, I left more than a few full carts at Target when a psycho-fit ensued for one stupid reason or another. Once, at age 4, he even told a Target check-out lady that he had a three-year-old-sister named Moody that we kept in the attic. I don't know whether she believed him or not, but Child Services never came, so it's all good.

 As The Boy got older, we definitely came to an understanding. I'm pretty sure that understanding is "You don't irritate me, and I won't irritate you," or "If either one of us is feeling ornery, go bother Dad."  For the most part he acts like an actual human now. He takes his medicine himself. He bathes himself. He potties by himself (and I get to potty by myself).  He feeds himself. He doesn't expect me to be a source of entertainment. He talks to me like a real person, with real words. And although he occasionally burps those words, they're still words. He's a big boy now, and instead of spending all of my money on Melmo crap, I spend it on clothes that he either stains, or grows out of too fast. He says that he's never going to leave me and that when he goes to college I'm going to come with him. I tell him that sounds fine with me, but I will definitely need my own bathroom.

Just Because You're Groovy Doesn't Mean You Can Fight A Giant Fish

I realized something the other day that made me so sad that I could barely get out of bed and function normally.  My brain went blank on me again and made me completely forget to set my DVR to record the Made-For-TV movie, "Mega Piranha." If you've seen the previews for this thing, you know why I'm so upset. This movie looked like it was just about as awesome as a movie can be, and I have proof. The movie stars Tiffany (yes, the red-headed, mall singing, "I Think We're Alone Now" Tiffany) and Barry Williams, AKA the perpetually groovy Greg Brady. Also listed in the credits is someone named Ashley something-or-other who plays "Half-Dead Person."If given the opportunity, THAT would be a part that I would definitely want to play.  If someone offered me the lead in Avatar or the role of "Half-Dead Person" in "Mega Piranha", I would tell James Cameron to suck it and start practicing my half-dead faces in the mirror ASAP.

So, basically the plot of the movie is this: Something sciency happens in the Amazon to make the piranhas (which are already scary enough when they are the regular size) turn into a bunch of big-ass, psycho piranhas.  I guess they run out of Amazonians to eat, so they escape from there and head toward Florida, eating everything in their way, including but not limited to: battleships, submarines, helicopters and people.  These giant piranhas must either be ready for retirement, have an insatiable taste for old people in socks and sandals, or have read my blog about Disney World, P-Hugs and Pooh, because these fish are hell-bent on getting to The Sunshine State.  Tiff and Barry are the only hope for saving Florida, and I have to admit that I have serious doubts as to their world-saving skillz, but I think they'd definitely have a better shot if Barry were to turn into Johnny Bravo and he and Tiffany would just stand on the beach and sing a duet of "Good Time Music." Surely that would make those bitchy pirnaha's get their scaly asses back to South America.

Yes, I know this movie looks awful, and I know I just ragged on John Cusack last week for his terrible, horrible "2012," but that is different.  I'm pretty sure that the people that made/starred in "2012" thought it was good.  I mean, it's a big studio movie with a pretty decent cast. Those jackasses had no idea it sucked, and something about the prententiousness of that combined with the $37 million price tag, just pisses me off.  On the flip side, "Mega Piranha" probably cost about a hundred bucks, and the producers and cast can't possibly have thought it was good.  That, I can get into. Although after "2012" Mr. Cusack had me pretty irked, he redeemed himself to me over the weekend when I saw him in "Hot Tub Time Machine."  That movie is stupid, but it's stupid with a wink, and it's pretty damn funny. Especially when you're sitting next to Melissa Bland who, every time something raunchy happens, covers her eyes and acts like a poodle skirt-wearing virgin from the 50's.

To be honest, I would have possibly even enjoyed 2012 a little bit if Steve would have let me talk during it. The only fun in watching a stupid movie is being able to make fun of it.  Unfortunately, I am married to a man who (a) will watch ANYTHING from beginning to end (I once waited in a theater lobby for him because the movie we were seeing was so bad that I preferred to discuss the inner workings of the popcorn machine with some dude at concessions), and (b) will possibly kill, or at the very least, maim you if you try to talk during ANY movie or television show. When you can't laugh about bad acting, plot holes and awful special effects, your life is just empty.

Since I am somewhat stupid but not a complete idiot, I checked my DVR guide for reruns, and there is nothing scheduled.  My greatest hope in life (aside from, finger monkeys, Rudd, and tiny pigs living in harmony with me),  is that one of my beloved readers has recorded this movie, so that I can invite myself over and watch it.  Maybe you too were intrigued, and perhaps shivering with excitement like I was, when you saw the preview.  Maybe you set your DVR in the dead of night, in secret, so as not to bring shame on yourself for your questionable, yet awesome movie tastes.  Maybe you were even crazy enough to select "Save Until Manually Erased."  If I'm describing you in an eerily perfect way, send me an email.  I promise to keep your identity secret, at least until my next blog entry.  Send the husband and kids to a movie, and I'll come over bearing food and Kristine Metcalf's amazing Frogs drink.  We will bond in B-Movie paradise. and since we're drinking Frogs, get so buzzed that we fall in love with Greg Brady all over again. Although I'm probably more likely to fall in love with a big-ass piranha, I still won't rule it out.

-Photo#1 courtesy of dreadcentral.com
-Photo #2 courtesy of Egofreeracing.com

Lloyd Dobler Rules. John Cusack drools.

I don't have too much to say this week.  I will pause for a moment and let that sink in.  I know it's hard to believe, but it's true.  The reasons for this rare and strange occurrence are fourfold:  (1) This is the week of The Boy, AKA his birthday week.  Since something has shifted in my DNA (probably due to the swampy pool incident) and I have suddenly and inexplicably gone from a super-organized, slightly psychotic pre-planner to a scatter-brained throw everything together at the last minute non-planner, I have been very overwhelmed this week with errands and party crap.  (2) The Hub is out of town and my dad is here this week.  This has thrown off my routine and I am more easily confused and disoriented than usual, which is really saying something.  (3) I can't remember the third reason, but it was just at the front of my brain a few minutes ago and now it's gone. (4) I saw 2012 over the weekend and it seriously and irreversibly fried my brain with its length and stupidity. I don't know why I rented it.  I went to the big red box to get a movie called "An Education," and since it wasn't there, I thought "Hey!  I love John Cusack, and John Cusack's in this movie, so how bad can it be?"   Answer:  Really, Really, REALLY bad.

To save you from the pain I endured, I am going to give you a synopsis of the movie:  John Cusack (who acts nothing like Lloyd Dobler) is  a divorced father of two who drives a limo and seems to be a bit lazy and disorganized (props!) and unsure how to set an alarm clock.  He takes his kids camping in Yellowstone, and even though I distinctly recall a mention of bears (because I perked up thinking "Bear Attack!") no bears ever came into play and I was bummed out by this wasted opportunity.  Anyway, Yellowstone is completely empty except for Woody Harrelson, who seemed even more stoned than usual.  He warned them about 2012 and the world ending and things like that and they saw some dried up lake or something with dead animals in it (still no bears) and at some point lots of things started happening involving the Earth being too hot and stuff.  Earthquakes are happening everywhere and the  mom/ex-wife (who is so annoying that I all wanna do is spork her in the ovarnads) almost dies when the grocery store splits in half in the cereal isle.  I was hoping she'd fall in the big crack with all those healthy, cardboardy Wheaties, but when she survived, I knew I was in for a long night.

So, California is falling apart and everyone's freaking out and Woody tells Cusack that there are spaceships someplace that the government built and that he has a map.  Then Woody goes off to let the Earth kill him because he's high as a kite and when you're high as a kite, that idea probably sounds super cool.  Then Cusack gets the map and gets the annoying ex-wife and her boyfriend and an airplane (not necessarily in that order) and they fly away from California as everything is literally erupting, exploding and falling down right behind them.  They fly somewhere like Vegas or something and get into a bigger plane somehow, but I forget how because I was fidgety and wandering around the house a bit, but I do know that some Russian people were on the plane too.  And a dog.

So they fly China to find the ships and there are a few side-stories with a bunch of people in India, China and Washington that I couldn't possibly keep up with, because the director was obviously already asking way too much of me to expect that I could even manage to keep up with the Cusacks.  But I do know that Danny Glover was the President and that irritated me because first of all he talks in a weird whisper and I am fairly certain that the American people would never elect anyone who talks in a whisper, and also because he once made a movie in which he was stuck on a bomb on a toilet while going poops, and once I've seen you taking a dump I can never accept you as my President.

Anyhow, after what seems like forever they get to China and they find the spaceships which are really some kind of Arks and there are people taking animals to the arks, which is a story line that they totally stole from The Bible, and there are giraffes involved and I wonder where they came from because I thought giraffes live in Africa not China, but maybe the ark people broke into the zoo or something?  And I am just hoping and praying that the people that are in charge of the animals get some finger monkeys and teacup pigs because (a) I can't imagine a world without them, and (b) they are tiny enough that they could fit an entire colony of them on the arks and they would cheer people up, because even if you are one of the lucky ones that made it onto the giant arks you are still gonna be depressed because the whole world fell apart and you are crammed into an airtight ark with lots of annoying people and stinky giraffes.

So lots of crap happens and they almost don't make it onto an ark but then they do. Then somehow the boyfriend dies and two of the Russians die and Cusack almost dies but he doesn't, which kinda made me mad because after 2 1/2 hours, a glass of wine and two Benadryl's, I was wanting him to either hold a boom box over his head or go ahead and die already.  Then I notice it's over and the people are all on  the deck of the ark, surrounded by water and I mention to The Hub that they can't live on there too long without running out of food and water, and he said that they were going to Africa because Africa survived and didn't I see that part?  Which I didn't due to the fact that I was in an intense text conversation with my friend Kim at the time.  So the ark's headed to Africa, which means that instead of dying from the earthquakes and stuff, everyone is gonna die of malaria or lack of clean water or army ants or get killed by those mean African Guerillas or whatever. It also means that they didn't even need those damn giraffes taking up room on the ark, because one thing I know about Africa is that it's full of giraffes, but not tiny monkeys or teacup pigs, because I know for a fact that tiny finger monkeys come from the Amazon, which is in South America, and I am pretty sure the teacup pigs come from Heaven.

Although I am sure that I now have brain damage from this movie, I can still think enough to know that now The Hub has to buy me two pigs and two finger monkeys so that I can re-populate the Earth in 2012.  Those mofo giraffes can suck it.

The Suburban Swamp Thing (A NOVA Special)

My pool is green.  Not just green but fuzzy, murky, scary, swampy green.  The kind of green you only see in movies full of voodoo, plantations, alligators and those spooky trees with the moss hanging off of them like hairy snakes.  We went on vacation and had loads of fun, so The Universe did what it always does when it thinks things are going too smoothly for you.  It broke something, and that something was our pool pump.  Well, one of them anyway.  The Hub informs me that we have two, but since I have no idea how the pool works nor do I care to know, this information means nothing to me.  Honestly, I don't know what good two pumps are if one broken pump can make your beautiful pool look like it belongs in a horror movie. But don't tell The Hub that I said that or he'll try to explain mechanical and chemical things to me, and I will have to once again pretend I'm listening while I'm really thinking about Paul Rudd, Margaritas, and those adorable little finger monkeys.

The Boy had a friend over to play, and that friend announced that it was disgusting that our pool was green, until I convinced him that we dyed it green for St. Pat's Day, because we used to live in Chicago, and in Chicago they dye the river green every year to celebrate the holiday.  After that he seemed to think that it was cool.  Although I have appeased him, I am starting to wonder what the neighbors who live behind us are thinking.  They are the only house that can see into our yard.  I normally could care less what the neighbors think, but these are brand new ones, and since they don't wander around naked doing air kicks, karate chops and snapping towels at each other in front of open windows every night like the previous ones, I would like to keep them around for awhile.  I'm afraid that if they think they are living next to a swamp or a water filtration plant, they may want to move, and God only knows what kinda naked, hoarder freaks we might get next.

This morning I decided that our pool is now so disgusting and frightening that there may definitely be a NOVA special in our future.  I am fairly certain that we are creating new life forms in there.  I asked The Hub if this is the way that whole Evolution thing happened.  He said something about how I'm a bit confused and then launched into something Sciency, so I wandered off. Regardless of his doubts, I am 99% sure that aside from seeing strange surface bubbles, I saw a green claw-like hand reach out and try to grab a curious bird this morning.  I saw what I saw.

I told my friend Anne that if I go missing, I am counting on her to tell the cops that a swamp thing may have done it, because I can't count on The Hub to face reality.  She wanted to know who was gonna dive for my body and I told her that I assumed it would be her. But due to her Howie Mandel-ish fear of germs, she tells me that she won't be doing anything even remotely resembling a swamp search and rescue.  Although my feelings are hurt, I tell her I understand.  The way that pool looks now, if Anne were to dive in and perform an underwater search, I believe that it's not far-fetched at all to think that some kind of tadpole-like swamp creature could swim up her in-between and impregnate her with a swamp monster.  When I tell her this, she suggests that if it's dirty enough it's probably even possible that she may get knocked up with twins. TWINS!

 There's no way that I can expect Anne to risk not only her health, but her womb, for the sake of retrieving my body.  No, that is asking too much.  But then I realize something:  I have always wanted to hump Matt Lauer, and if Anne gets knocked up with a swamp baby or two, it may finally be my ticket to getting on The Today Show!  When I tell her the good news, she reminds me of something important:  "How can you go on The Today Show? Aren't you dead?"  "Well, " I tell her, "I was, but the water is infused with special life retrieving particles so I come back from the dead as either a full-grown green swamp girl, or one of your twins."  This is the point where I lost her, but she stuck with me long enough to make me proud.

So if I go missing, I don't expect anyone to dive in the swamp/pool to look for me, but when The Today Show comes to our 'hood to report on the story, at least hold up my photo and tell Matt that I loved him.  Then hump the stuffing out of him for me.

UPDATE:  I wrote this a few weeks ago and forgot to post it until now.  Just so you know...our pump is fixed, the pool is blue again, all swamp life is gone. And as far as I can tell, we still have neighbors who wear clothes.

Mean People Suck

When I was in college I had a bumper sticker that said "Mean People Suck."  Some a-hole stole it, thus proving my point.   I'm sure everyone's had to remove an old bumper sticker from their car at one point or another, so none of us are ignorant to the fact that it is not an easy job.  It is an annoying and time-intensive task that involves a razor blade,  the ability to avoid cutting off your own finger, and patience.  Since Steve won't allow me to get anywhere near anything as sharp as a razor blade, and I don't even come close to having those last two qualities, I refrain from stealing other peoples bumper stickers. Even when they say something that I find offensive such as "My Kid Is Way Smarter Than Yours And Gets Awesome Grades At Such-And-Such School So I Am An Awesome Parent And You Are An Idiot Who Breeds Idiot Kids."  I'm paraphrasing, but you get the idea.

The fact that some d-bag was mean enough and bored enough to take the time to remove every last trace of my beloved sticker to the point where even Mariska Hargitay and her team of CSI brainiacs could not have possibly found any remaining sign of it's existence, was really eye opening for me.  And the fact that someone that mean was running around in possession of a razor blade, frightened me to the core.  After a few days of depression regarding the obvious state of the world in which I lived, I decided to go back to the mall and buy not one, but two more bumper stickers and stand my ground.  Mean people suck.  It's the truth, and nobody can take away my freedom to broadcast the truth on my bumper.

Now, I wasn't stupid, nor was  I  sheltered enough to believe mean people didn't exist.  Obviously I knew they did, and I knew they sucked.  The first mean person I remember seeing is Nellie Olson, but that was only television.  Thank God. The first real run-in with a mean person that I can recall, was a babysitter whose house my mom took us to when we were pretty young.  She told me to eat some blueberries.  Since my dislike of blueberries is on par with my dislike of John Denver, bananas and black crows (the birds, not the band), I said no thank you.  She told me if I didn't eat them she would spank me.  I pretty much told her to make my day.  She backed down.  This was an important lesson for me:  Mean person tells you to do something that you don't want to do: Stand your ground! Mean person is confused. Mean person doesn't know what to do.  Mean person backs down. Nice blueberry hating person wins.

When I was young, there was a bossy girl in my neighborhood.  Bossy is a nice way to say that someone is controlling, manipulative, mean-spirited and likes to cause trouble.  Bossy is a word we often use to describe children who are actually, in all reality, mean a-holes that no adult has the balls to describe as an a-hole because they are "just a kid."  Since I'm older, wiser, and have developed an enormous set of balls over the years, I will say it:  This girl was an a-hole.  She always had to be on the outs with at least one kid, and she always convinced the others to side with her.  We all took our turns on both sides, for some reason more than willing to do whatever it took to keep her happy.  She never, ever, EVER go into trouble for anything she did.  If you actually got up enough nerve to tattle on her, she would turn everyone against you and you would somehow end up the one in trouble.  When I'd finally had enough of her crap,  I did 3 bad things: (1) I asked to borrow a belt of hers that she adored and I cut it into pieces, put it in a paper bag, and gave it back to her. (2) I took her bike, rode it a few blocks away, found a bikeless kid, told them it was their lucky day, and gave it away.  (3) I gave her a few "chocolates" that were actually laxatives.  Once the stomach cramps started, I pretended to hear my mom calling and headed for home.  I know these things were wrong, but man they felt so good.

In 6th grade when I was finally free from the prison that was my private Christian school, and I was sent into the general population which was public, I found out that there are lots of mean people in the world.  One good lesson I learned was that being funny is very helpful when dealing with mean kids.  On more than one occasion I distracted a bully by making them laugh and making them want to be my friend.  When that failed, like it did in 7th grade, I used my mad thinking skillz to distract the bully from the situation at hand.  In case you didn't know, most bullies are not very bright and are easily distracted by things such as simple jokes, odd noises, shiny objects, or something new on which to focus their hate.  When nothing else was working, I went the hate re-focusing route. I decided to dictate a note to an older neighbor, which she wrote in her handwriting (in case handwriting experts were called in at some point.  Preparedness is key).  The note was between 2 girls whose names I made up,  and it was talking about the bully. How much they disliked her, etc... I crumpled it up, pretended I found it and gave it to someone, who gave it to someone else, who gave it to her.  The minute she read it she forgot about me and focused her hate on this new, non-existent prey.  I felt like a super-genius.  I felt amazing. 

In Junior High I attracted yet another bully.  This one was after me because of a boy that she liked that liked me.  This particular specimen was not distractable in any way, shape or form.  I used up my entire arsenal of ideas, and yet she still focused a hate on me so intense that it actually looked like it hurt her to look at me.  I later learned from Oprah that nine times outta 10, people like this have parents that have royally screwed them up.  But at the time, I just thought she was born crazy.  Anyway, there was no way out of this one, and when she showed up at my house one afternoon, I knew it was go time.  I wasn't eager to fight her, but I knew that if I didn't, my older sister was most likely going to kill her.  For real.  Having a murderer in the family is fun for no one (I assume) so I took one for the team.  If you've ever seen a fight between two 14-year-old girls, you can probably imagine how it went.  It looks like two cats fighting.  There's scratching, hair pulling, windmill arms, screeching and lots of rolling.  Lots and lots of rolling. Nobody really wins.  You just repeat the things I listed above until you get too tired.  Then it's over, and you don't really hate each other anymore.  No big deal.  Harder than telling jokes, but easier than I thought.

So by the age of 14 I really had things figured out.  Mean people are running rampant in our society and that will never change.  But you don't have to be one of them.  You can be happy and fun and hope that one doesn't cross your path.  If by chance one does, you should have at least one or two good comedy routines memorized.  If your bully is too dumb or too filled with murderous rage to have a sense of humor, make sure you are wearing something shiny and reflective, like a wristwatch, that you can distract them with.  If they have poor eyesight, make sure you have that Fart app on your phone.  Rare is the person who can keep a straight face while hearing a fart noise.  If all that fails, you may have to roll around on the ground pulling each other's hair.  But don't worry, because nine times out of ten you're both gonna be laughing in the end or at the very least, be too tired to give a crap why you were fighting in the first place.  And if by chance they're still mad...offer them a chocolate.