Shark Bite, Bear Attack, and Children under Five

Because nothing without GIGANTIC teeth and FEARSOME strength compares to those little bundles of joy.

Sunday, July 31, 2011

A Little Less Stepford, A Lot More Towanda

Advertising update- the readers of my blog are now apparently interested in "regain[ing] bladder control", and "apache camels". I will admit that I have no idea what an apache camel is, but the proximity of the two ads leads me to believe that they are either the culprits of this serious case of incontinence, or are perhaps in fact experts on teaching others to avoid the social faux pas of pissing oneself. Which, however embarrassing, is at least more polite than pissing on someone else. But I digress.

Hello. My name is Harold, and I am here to stop you from pissing on yourself.

Back in my junior year of high school, the teacher gave us an excerpt from a high school home economics text book from the 1950's. Naturally, we all found it hilarious, if deeply and disturbingly sexist. Pre-baby, all the ideas put forth in the excerpt seemed absurd, but without actually being in said situations, it was hard to truly judge exactly how big of a douche the person who wrote it was, and exactly how far in their intestine their head was located. Well, I now know...Shockingly, it would appear the individual's head realized it was in the wrong place, and attempted to circumnavigate and regain its rightful place upon his or her neck. Unfortunately, it appears to have become hopelessly lodged somewhere in the region of the author's stomach. Its ascent into the throat was probably hindered due to a severe case of brainwashing and ego (or, if the author was male, a deep desire TO brainwash).

Now that everything has become (somewhat painfully) clear, allow me to translate from "bullshit-i-have-serious-reality-issues" to "forrealz, dog"

1. Have dinner ready: Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal on time.

This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him, and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospects of a good meal are part of the warm welcome needed.

In reality:

1.Do not have dinner ready, because you have spent the last 12 or so hours (not counting all the sleep you weren't getting) providing nourishment, entertainment, cleaning service, moral support, grooming service, etc, to a small and helpless creature, all while being exposed to a slew of bodily fluids. All of which makes your desire to put food on the table nonexistent. Unless maybe it's poisoned... 

This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him, and are deeply concerned with the lack of baby poop in his life. Most men have the luxury of a lunch hour while at work, whereas you have been frantically shoving crackers in your mouth while simultaneously guarding against the ingestion of various flora, fauna, and varieties of plastic on the part of your offspring. 

2. Prepare yourself: Take 15 minutes to rest so you will be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking.
He has just been with a lot of work- weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.

Hello Darling. I locked the children in the basement so that I could polish all the kitchen items. See? SHHINNEYYY.

The reality: Consider preparing yourself, but then realize that you don't actually have a basement to lock the baby in while you take a 15 minute rest.   Also consider touching up your make-up, before realizing that you haven't worn any in weeks, but hope that he will be so distracted by the gigantic, single dread-lock that appears to be sprouting from your head to notice. NOTE: tying ribbon around said dread-lock will only serve to exacerbate the issue.
Hubby has just been with a lot of people who are probably relatively interesting, and know how to talk, walk, and use the toilet, whereas you have been neurotically baby talking and singing nursery rhymes. Attempt to form cohesive sentences. Fail miserably. Repeat. 

3. Prepare the children: Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces if they are small, comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes.
They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.

The reality: Attempt to wash the babies hands and face. Discover that baby teeth are rather pointy. Do not even attempt changing clothes, because a) it will result in WW3, and b) the baby would probably spit up all over himself just to spite you. Do attempt to draw attention to baby's cuteness in the hopes that it will work as a preventative measure against paternal dismay when baby catapults his mashed peas on to daddy's shoes.

4. Minimize the noise: At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of washer, dryer, dishwasher or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet.
Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and be glad to see him.

The reality: Make a mental note to install a soundproofed room in the basement. Make note that you will also need to install a basement as well. Do not eliminate the noise of washers, dryers, etc. because they were never on in the first place, which is why you are currently wearing hubbies old clothes which even he realizes are tragically unfashionable/ugly/anti-christ of clothing, hence their cleanliness.  Do not encourage the baby to be quiet- babies do not understand the rules of law and order, only chaos. Attempt to look happy to see him, so as not to reveal that the second he lets his guard down you intend to spring the baby on him, and then lock yourself in the bedroom with several pillows and enough food to sustain you for at least 48 hours.

5. Things to avoid: Don't greet him with problems or complaints. Don't complain if he's late for dinner.
Count this as minor compared with what he might have gone through that day.

The reality: Allow him his moment of manly complaints (he sat there all day, his arms were unhindered by a 25 lb baby, he actually had conversations with someone other than himself...). Then, lay down the smack down about your day, and all the gory details. Note: If he's late for dinner, presuming dinner was actually made, violence is not only suggested, but perfectly appropriate.

6. Make him comfortable: Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest he lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes.
Speak in a low, soft, soothing and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax and unwind.

The reality: If he should suggest that he lean back in a comfortable chair or lie down in the bedroom, tell him that that is perfectly fine. Provided that he wants to get stabbed. Probably more than once. The drink/soothing, low voice combo need only be used in the case of an attempted poisoning. Just remember not to go too far with the innocent act- arranging the pillow is a sure-fire way to tip him off that his mint julep has a dash of arsenic. 

7. Listen to him: You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first.

The Reality: Listen to him. Because there is no cute way to say that the rising action of the day consisted of the baby spitting up in your hair.

8. Make the evening his: Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or to other places of entertainment; instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure, his need to be home and relax.

The reality: Make the evening his, if only in terms of the fact that he is the only one conscious that it is in fact evening, because if your plan has succeeded, you are now passed out in bed, protected by a sturdy, locked door. If your plan did not succeed, thoroughly complain that he does not take you out to dinner. If he tries to soothe you with logic, insist that he would take you if you weren't so fat/covered in baby food and other more sinister substances/clearly ready to stab him in the face. 

Oh, so that's your excuse? You wont take me to dinner because I look like I'm plotting your demise?

DISCLAIMER: Some liberties were taken in the creation of this helpful translation-

1. I do not believe I have ever cooked Mal dinner. I believe that my time is better spent attempting to prevent him from cooking, and eating chicken Ramen.
2. I don't want to stab/poison/choose a method of homicide/ Mal. Usually. 
3. Even if we had a basement, I would never put Owen in it. 
4. It is blatantly contradictory that men demand that women do their laundry, and yet do not want to hear the evidence. If anyone wants to come do my laundry, I will savor the sweet sounds of clean socks.

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Oh, The Irony

Okay, totally not on the topic of this post, but I find it extremely ironic that the ads on my page consist of- "Ask a Harassment Lawyer!" and, "Find Your Ex's Secrets", followed by something about "stalking lawyers"? Maybe so that after you hire a lawyer to stalk your ex, you can be prepared for said ex to contact another lawyer due to your creepy harassment? I think my favorite ads, though, were the ones which advertised a data base of recent prison releases, and various websites selling survival gear... Apparently that's the image I give off. Hmmm. I'm not sure if I should feel like Rambo, or just feel creepy. Or is that the same thing?

AHEM. The moment you've all (all 8 or so) been waiting for-
 CAMEL SEX, and how it can change YOUR life.

The Situation: Recently, while on a walk with Mal, the subject of camels came up...I think in relation to Owen demanding that he be released from his stroller, resulting in Mal carrying him up the hill, complaining about feeling like a camel? Sounds likely, anyway. From there we went on to discussing what we knew about camels-

Anna- I think I learned everything I know about camels from Alladin.
Mal- And that would be? (Also, Mal, never underestimate Disney. Bitch.)
Anna-...They spit?
Mal- *insert dialogue concerning manly knowledge, and deep rooted pride in achieving superior camel mastery*...Also, I remember reading that they have been specially bred for so long that they can no longer breed in the wild, the shepherds have to help them.
Anna- Wow. So the shepherds are like sex therapists?
Mal- Yep. Y'know, moral support, positioning advice...
Anna- I guess a lot can be said for selective breeding...I mean, do you see any pregnant teenage camels? Nu uh. Camels got class...helped by a disability of sorts. But still!
Mal- Seriously. If it was just harder for humans to reproduce, then you wouldn't have people like us!
Anna- Well, I guess it was okay just this once.I mean, the whole procreation deal. Especially since we promise to never do it again. Hmmm. So now all humankind needs to do is figure out how to become completely sexually inept! Then overpopulation and all this stuff would be in the bag.

Of course, we never actually discussed how this could be accomplished. Also, just really quick, I think everyone should imagine really campy movie flash backs when the dialogue comes in...Like the whole blurry wavey screen fading into the past? Maybe some bad sound effects, too. And I demand to be wearing Vera Wang. Not that I really I know anything whatsoever about designer gowns, but I feel like it's what a fancy person would request.

Now, back to business. I have concluded that the process would require several steps, beginning with, but certainly not limited to,

1.) The new law that all individuals past the age of ten be forced to wear jeggings. Because no one in real life can wear them without feeling reminiscent of childhood. You know, the age at which your parents buy you totally ridiculous looking leggings, and you wear them because you don't know any better, and you have no access to quick cash. Or a large fire.

2) At this point, we will need to steal a page from A Clockwork Orange- upon reaching puberty, all individuals will be forced to watch Twilight. Which will force everyone to simultaneously think of large, strangely sparkly bloodsucking creatures whenever they consider anything non-platonic.

3) Naturally, this will not work for a certain percent of the population. See- tweens and Stephanie Meyer. This leads to step three- viciously spread the rumor that all vampires have ebola. Force those who do not know what ebola is, to read that one really freaky book about the people who got it and turned into gigantic bags of icky blood and virusyness. If that wont stop vampire fetishists, I don't know what will.

4) At this point, sexuality should be running pretty low. Just in case, individuals who do begin to engage in risque behavior without acquiring a permit first will be strategically attacked by Sacha Baron Cohen, ala Borat. Who will be wearing a fruit hat, and some form of spandex. That should nip things right in the bud.

PROBLEM SOLVED. Now, why I am not in a position of power again?

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Sensitivity with a Side of Snark

Okay, so I have a fabulous post involving camels and a fool proof solution to unplanned pregnancies (and no, it involves neither bestiality or Rosie O'Donnell) in the works, but my usual attitude and sarcasm seems to be taking a day off. Instead, my emotional radar is tilted towards the sensitive side...odd. But I suppose even my innate need to view things strangely/sarcastically/neurotically can go on vacation.

While I did not create this blog with the intention of rehashing dramatic occurrences or going on some sort of internet-revenge-rampage, there are some events which do, unfortunately, effect my present. So, to summarize-

1. Anna apparently does something bad (so bad, it would seem, that the offendees are unable even to say what it was...I'm sure due to the intense trauma).
2. Offendees (so, so not a word, but I'm rolling with it) are SO deeply offended that when they latch onto the information of Mal and I's onward march towards parenthood, they find it necessary to begin circulating said rumor. With a vengeance.
3. Vicious rumors, instead of soothing their "mean girl" complexes, leads them instead to driving repeatedly past my house, and then stalking Mal and I to Safeway. (Also, should one of the said persons be reading this, I would really like to know exactly what you were hoping to see. Because I'm sure it wasn't Mal and I repeatedly trying to rent a movie from one of those neat little movie boxes they have now, before finally realizing that you needed a credit card to do so. Bummer. If we had any decency, we would have tried to be more interesting to stalk- you know, a drug deal here, maybe some risque public sex there, a few gangs fights, the usual. My sincere apologies. )
4. Most likely due to our supreme blandness while they were stalking us, they decided it would be necessary to come in the dark of the night and leave rude notes and silly string all over my car (I almost wish I had kept them, the one that had a picture of what I believe was the future baby to be was charming...the chest hair really added a nice touch. Although, I think these girls may have been confusing infants with large, hairy middle aged men. Actually, I am about 99.99% sure that they are confusing babies with Will Farrell. And I really do not want to know what Freud would say about that. 
5. Apparently this pinnacle of righteous harassment was so satisfying that they have been able to continue living while only continuing to spread rumors. Troupers, I tell you, troupers.

Okay, synopsis complete. Now, on to the sensitivity.

While I was never really that bothered by the car incident, and I have yet to encounter a single person who actually believed any of their nonsense, you do end up with a little bit of a persecution complex. Which, because I very rarely see any of these unpleasant individuals, does not pop up too often. With the exception of recently, when I realized that an accomplice of the offendees goes to the same gym as I do. As any female knows (and males, don't try to comprehend. Really.), I had a few simultaneous thoughts, such as "no, no, no, this is MY gym, asshat", followed by, "will I go out to the parking lot to discover that my tires have been slashed?", and the final realization, "oh shit. What if she, or any of the other unmentionables are in the locker room?"

Naturally, I remained fixated on the last thought for quite some time. While I am not horribly fixated on my appearance, changing clothes+people who really hate me= slightly neurotic behavior, to say the least. Luckily the locker room was safe. But, this leads to conversations like this-

Anna- I really hope we do end up moving, that way I wouldn't have to feel so paranoid whenever one of those..people..happen to come within 50 feet of me. Like, it's not that it makes me sad or anything, I just feel so angry.
Mal- *clearly under the impression that all women are insane because they do not instantly engage in fist fights instead of developing emotional complexes*...I know, sweetie. Just try to be happy.
Anna- I am happy, I just feel mad that I never did anything back, y'know? I never went and spray painted their cars with horrid slurs or profanity.
Mal- Chuck Palahnuik said that the best revenge was to live a happy life. (in manspeak- ahhh, emotions, crap, what do I say? hmm, happiness, happy good...add some Chuck...presto)
Anna- Yeah, that's what I'm trying to do. The only problem is that it feels like it should be how things are in movies- like I should be super hot and be able to shoot laser beams or something. Except I don't, and I'm not that hot...
Mal-You're a strong mama, and you're beautiful. The end. (nothing like passing out and gently beginning to snore to win an argument.)

All snark aside, I am the luckiest girl in the world.

and I promise many, many camels to make up for this post. Like this one!

If you should happen to BE a camel, you will be incredibly happy to know that you're sex life will soon be divulged! Yup, soon, you will be able to look to my blog as a sort of camel Cosmopolitan (which, along with quizzes about how to tell if the camel of your dreams likes your make up, is probably all you could possibly need in life).

Sunday, July 3, 2011

Because Nothing Could be More Badass...

So, I was looking at the searches people enter which result in them arriving at my blog, and I have to admit, I feel slightly less epic than "a picture of a bear attacking a shark". Like, a lot, lot, lot less epic. But, on the bright side, unlike one unfortunate Google user who entered the search "structure of a shark's lungs", I am aware that sharks do not in fact have lungs. It's in the gills, people. Which leads to the main problem in the whole shark vs. bear thing- bears=lungs, not aquatic, Sharks=gills, aquatic mofos. So really, the only way to remedy this problem and find peace is to mix the species, ala Hyperbole and a Half.

Moving on, however...

I am pretty sure Owen is like a miniature, baby version of Lord Voldemort. Now, I realize this may seem like a stretch, but hear me out...

The Situation: Bath time, once again. Recently, Mal came into the possession of a large number of rubber ducks. Which may sound strange when phrased in such a mysterious way...JUST rubber ducks, not the heroin filled kind. Do people do that to smuggle drugs? I feel like they could/would/should. Not that I actually know anything about heroin or smuggling illegal substances. AHEM. Anyway, Owen absolutely loves them, but I recently discovered that the paint on them is slowly coming off, which seems a little unhealthy. Hence, the plagued ducks have been sent to the outer regions of Siberia, aka the windowsill right by the edge of the tub.

Until recently, Owen was too short to reach them, however, he has now taken to standing at the edge of the tub, sucking in his chubby belly as much as he possibly can, and straining to reach the isolated ducks. While doing this, he makes commanding baby sounds and gesticulates wildly. As he gets taller and gains more reach, he has slowly begun acquiring greater numbers of said ducks. See the parallel? If not, then voila-

The Alternate Reality: Owen, the all-powerful baby warlord, has begun marshaling his forces of evil Duck Eaters, preparing to take over the world. As his power grows, he is able to convince more and more of the common duck civilians to rise to his cause- baby nudity, and the abolition of diapers. As a few ducks linger on the edge of battle, Baby O spits his baby tyrant game- "ungee ungg ungg gee!" translation: "the hour is near! Join my Duck Eaters, and together we will achieve ultimate power and bottom freedom!" "wait, rubber ducks don't wear diapers?Psh! It's the spirit of the thing! Now join me!" *gesticulates wildly while straining to reach ducks*

While he plays the part of a peaceful leader (this is the coy, "oh hello, my ducky friends, I come in peace!" face), the following shows him to be a ruthless totalitarian- (so a mix of Stalin and Voldemort, with some rubber duck massacre thrown in). 
I would like to note that as an avid Harry Potter fan, I do in fact realize that Lord Voldemort was not in fact fighting for the right to 24/7 nudity. In fact, he is probably a never nude. Because what else would he wear other than flowing black robes? Okay, I will stop rambling now. Right now. Ta Ta.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Lions and Tiger Moms and Bears, Oh My

Or actually, just tiger moms.

The Situation: While at the gym recently, I overheard a woman talking to her daughter in the locker room. She was addressing the ever important subject of treating people with respect, and following the rules (in this case, showering before getting in the pool...not quite life or death, but hey, start small). I was inwardly going, yeah, you go lady! Raise that kid right! when she suddenly referred to herself as a "tiger mom", and mentioned how she needed to read the book. The book, if you are not familiar, is called "Battle Hymn of a Tiger Mother" (shocker), and contains such parenting gems as-

* "calling her older daughter Sophia 'garbage' after the girl behaved disrespectfully"
*Forcing her 7-year old to practice playing the piano for hours without breaks for water or to use the bathroom
* Or, of course, rejecting a birthday card made by her daughter because "I deserve better than this. So I reject this."(what happened to "it's the thought that counts"?)

I was somewhat stunned that this seemingly pleasant, normal mother would want to associate herself with such a term. Obviously I am the parent of a baby, and thus have not had to deal with any form of rebelliousness or disrespect, however, I feel that there must be a line between hey, that was rude, we don't treat people that way, and you are garbage. But I am a liberal, so maybe my line is a little too far to the left (....ha ha).

One question that always jumps to mind at the term "tiger mom", is what exactly did tigers do to deserve this, and who asked the tigers, anyway? Personally I envision tigers as being very nice mothers, what with the whole licking their young to keep them nice and clean, and after all, what tiger expects its young to play Beethoven? Or make birthday cards for that matter. In terms of my own parenting, I prefer the term, "T-rex mom", as illustrated and defined below.

DEFNITION: a mother very similar to the T-rex parents in The Land Before Time- you mess with little chomper, you get eaten. But little chomper still gets lots of love and affection, and when he makes bad hand-made cards, they understand, because a)he's a baby, and b) coloring with those little arms is no picnic...holding the crayons in those little claws, practically impossible. Despite the harsh rep, T-rex parents really just valued love and snuggles.

NOTE: When I set out to create the mama t-rex picture, I originally intended to paste my head on to its body. Unfortunately, the picture editing system that came with my HP mini is Picasa, which sucks a whole lot of ass, and apparently does not value such collage capabilities. So instead we ended up with the "my-face-superimposed-on-entire-dinosaur-WE ARE ONE" effect. Which is actually more appropriate if you think about it. Like, the goony face you see in the background may be what is on the outside, but I got T-rex soul. Also, that should probably be a blues song. I'm thinking BB King, perhaps. But with a song that stellar, you have to be choosy, y'know.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

And to think of how much money went into Guantanamo Bay...

....when really, they could have just utilized the natural water-boarding (is that how it's spelled? Clearly this is not my area of expertise) instinct of babies, who would have done it for free. Or at least for pieces of cantaloupe and a few choice items of Tupperware to toss around.

The Context: The usual bath time ritual- rubber duckies, organic baby soap, with a side of parent abuse (Note that this is parent abuse, not parentAL abuse. Like abuse of the elderly, as opposed to elders who abuse. Except it's the  abuse of the not so elderly by the extremely not elderly, as in those who are still in diapers and have yet to walk).

 For Owen, bath time is always one of the high lights of the day, and he loves the water to such an extent that Mal's claim of being 100% Italian has become somewhat suspect. Like, there is clearly either some merman or some sort of fish on his side of the family tree, an accusation which varies depending on which seems funnier to my strange sense of humor more at the time. 

Usually, he just splashes around and attempts to eat his various bath toys, while occasionally marching to the side of the tub and demanding that Mal lift him out so that he can be put back in. Which becomes exhausting and usually results in everything becoming very wet. Today, however, I had the brilliant idea to distract him from his quest to turn on the hot water faucet by blowing bubbles in the water. And it worked...oh yes, it worked. He giggled gleefully, as babies do when they find yet another way to laugh at the ridiculousness of their parents. This soon evolved into him yanking on a large chunk of my hair whenever he decided that it was time for bubbles to be blown, while simultaneously lunging at the side of my face with a wide open mouth that would rival that of any hippo.

And, as the saying goes, it's all fun and games until someone gets hurt. Or rather, it's all fun and games until a baby clamps his two (okay, so two isn't really a lot of teeth when compared to a grizzly bear, or a great white. I think the key to their devastation is the enthusiasm. I mean, when was the last you saw a shark grinning madly while chomping on a seal, clearly thinking,"goddamn it's good to be a cold blooded, mindless eating machine!" Naw, sharks are all about professionalism. Y'know, they get that shit done, no messing around, there be shit to eat) teeth onto the cartilage of your ear. Now, I've actually always wanted to get my cartilage pierced, but preferably not by any method involving teeth, regardless of the specific number of teeth. This was the point when it began to feel like not only had I just been water-boarded by a 2 and a half foot baby, but he had also totally kicked my ass. Or punctured my ear. Same thing. And strangely enough, this hippo-ninja-shark attack meant only one thing: LOVE. 

Which totally segues into another story. Well, actually not that well. But his kick-assness does contribute to Mal and I's combined parental reaction. 

The Situation: Several weeks ago, I went on Facebook to discover that I had been sent a message by a random person whom I had never spoken to before. I was vaguely sure that he was an underclassman at my school, and as such, I was slightly confused and apprehensive. In retrospect, this reaction was not only appropriate, but also completely lacking in my future-predicting skills. The message said, and I quote,

"im going to eat your baby, skank" (while it pains me to leave out the proper grammatical touches, this is after all a direct quote.)

Also, if the culprit is reading this, a) congrats on being at least semi-literate, and b) YOUR GRAMMAR SUCKS. c) when trying to be threatening, do not use a near direct quote from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Because my reaction to this was laughter, although I did come around to realizing how creepy such a statement really was. I mean, come on, when has cannibalism ever been condoned in American society? Also, here is a quick Q&A-

Q: Who threatens to eat an infant?
A: A COMPLETE DOUCHEBAG. See also- individual completely lacking in any form of human decency.

With that said, apart from feeling mildly disturbed, this did not really bother me, due mostly to the fact that it made me think of that episode of It's Always Sunny, and because Owen would totally own the creep with his two adorable chompers of doom. (but really, come near my baby and I will go Uma Thurman circa Kill Bill on your ass).  Which about sums this up, although the boy who sent said message had actually been hacked. So the culprit of this grammatically incorrect and completely bizarre message remains at large...hopefully not threatening any other infants with consumption. Creep.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

I am a Sleep Deviant.

 The first step is acceptance, right? Or maybe that's alcoholics anonymous.

       It is not actually as bad as it one gets molested. Although Mal might prefer it that way...sorry dearest. The problem of my sleep deviancy arose when Mal and I finished up school, leaving us in the blissful days of summer. Which, while blissful, present us with a hitherto undiscovered complication- when Owen wakes up early, as he always does, it is now possible for one of us to get up with him, braving the still chilly morning, and the angry T-Rex squeaks that will soon erupt once Owen realizes that everyone else is asleep, and therefore unavailable to satisfy his need for the limelight. The other parent, on the other hand, returns to the luxurious land of sleep, with a large, and empty bed (a novel situation for any co-sleeper). For those who do not sleep with a six-foot tall male as well as a large baby, this means that I can sleep anywhere on the damn bed...this queen sized bed is my effing canvas, baby! And I intend to use it. Oh yes, I will.

      On Mal's side of the problem, there actually isn't a problem, because he chivalrously abides by the every-other-day schedule. So technically there should be harmony...Except for my recently discovered inner con artist,  and complete disregard for any moral code. Or compassion. In other words, I transform from this-

A relatively normal, caring human being, possessing a moral code as well as the ability to smile without bearing fangs,

Into this-
An angry, squash faced cat with only one ambition-I MUST HAZ SLEEEEEP. While in this phase, the gloves are off, and my semi-comatose, feline cunning is on.

         This leads to all sorts of "insidious schemes" (Mal's words) in order to avoid leaving the bed at all costs. This includes cunning deception, bullying, shameless guilt tripping, bullying AND shameless guilt tripping,  i.e "talk to my poor uterus, ass wipe!", and finally, today, I employed a new, not quite so sinister ploy. I had already utilized my previous weapons of sleep deviancy, and was faced with the dilemma of whether or not two more hours of sleep were worth selling my soul (okay, you caught me. It would SO be worth it. I just wasn't sure if Mal would go for it, especially after the uterus ploy). Instead, I brilliantly remembered that we had rented The Pacific the night before, and that he still hadn't watched it. Hence the bribe- two hours of sleep in return for a Pacific marathon without any interruption.

Ahhh, the beauty of the male need to watch explosions and on-screen bromances.

Of course, it is now almost 1 A.M. Meaning that at best, there are only about 6 more hours until the little beast will rise again...LET THE SCHEMING COMMENCE.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Hair Brushes and Kim Jong Il

Okay, two itty bitty things before we kick off this post-

1) Why must it be completely impossible to capitalize the "i" in "il" and have a lowercase "l" without it appearing to say Kim Jong the second? My OCD is not okay with this confusing, yet properly written title.
2) I can't even remember the second item because said OCD is too busy waving red flags about the completely confusing nature of item number one. Little things like this are how wars start, people. Or at least that's what the OCD says.

           But I digress. For the purpose of this blog, my boyfriend has requested that he be referred to as O' the alley cat in The Aristocrats. Really. Which leads to this disclaimer: my boyfriend is not a cat, cartoon animated or otherwise. Because that would make our baby, Owen, half cat....among other unspeakable aspects. Anyway, I plan to shorten said blog moniker (does anyone still use that word?) to Mal. So now instead of imaging an orange cartoon cat when he's mentioned, you can think of Mal from Firefly! Here, let me illustrate the difference...

"O'Malley and I went on the most romantic date!" or, "O'Malley is a lazy, no good piece of-"

See? It's a little weird. And since I prefer to not make it sound like I regularly talk to alley cats, as well as force them to hold babies while I blog, we will go with option numero dos:

Who is, you know, the same species. As well as a bad ass. Although boyfriend is usually said to look either like Jake Gyllenhaal, or John Travolta. The later of which disturbs me slightly. Moving on!

                                              Hair Brushes and Kim Jong Il

        It's the little things in life that make a perfectly sane (I like to think) mother compare her darling baby to, well, Kim Jong Il. Like having to disarm said baby, who was brandishing a deadly weapon. Okay, so it was a brush. But he's a strong little guy! I like to think that my actions were like that of the UN....sort of a, hey, we're all friends and you're a swell guy, but lets stop clubbing people with that cute little wooden brush. Of course, he didn't see it that way, and became deeply distraught, mostly because he was in dire need of a nap, which he is now taking. ..did that sound ominous? It wasn't, really. At all. 
        To imagine the scene, picture Kim Jong Il from Team America (or, if you haven't seen it, just imagine him as a very cranky looking puppet wearing that little suit he wears). He's just minding his own business, chilling with his nuclear weapons, and then, BAM. A gigantic bully come out of nowhere and says "now, now, little Kim, we're going to have to disarm you". Of course, in the real world, Kim Jong Il would probably blow something up. Probably something large. But in this alternate reality, he instead bursts into the song he sings in Team America (geez, why am I not getting paid for years after the fact advertising?) and cries. So something like this- 

And then you feel like a gigantic douche bag for ruining poor Kim Jong Il's happiness.

Okay, so that was completely ridiculous, and Owen looks nothing like Kim Jong Il. But, it's the little things that keep a parent sane. Or maybe it's insane? Perhaps happy would be the best word for it.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Baby Mama Blog, Take Two

So I had originally posted this disclaimer several weeks ago, and was very proud, until Blogger cruelly and irrationally deleted everything I had written. The help page said this was normal, and that it would come back. LIES. Ahem. Anyways, I am trying again, and hopefully it will work out somewhat better. Now, onwards to ye disclaimer!

DISCLAIMER: Please read. or else don't say you weren't warned! Not that any of this will be that life scarring...Really.

1. Yes, I am a teen parent. No, I do not consider myself to be a "skank" or a "slut", or whatever term you would like to use. Also, if you are a female propagating the use of such terms, you hurt not only the person you are insulting, but yourself, and your entire gender by continuing the judgment of a completely private area of an individual's life.
2. Neither I, nor my son, have EVER been on Welfare, or used up any of your precious tax dollars. It is incredibly ignorant to disrespect an entire demographic of people (young and/or single mothers) by arbitrarily labeling them as immoral, unintelligent people who sap government funding. People of all ages benefit from these services, and the majority of them DO need the help, despite the fact that there will always be those who abuse such aid.
3. This blog is basically intended to be the ANTI Sixteen and Pregnant. By which I mean that if you enjoy watching the drama and suffering of others, ala reality TV, this is not for you. It is instead meant to show that yes, it is hard to be a parent at a young age, but the problems encountered are often the same as the problems of parents of any age. To help people to recognize that families are families, mothers are mothers, fathers are fathers. Some are bad and some are good, REGARDLESS of age.
4. My boyfriend (yes, the father of my son) and I are still together. There will be no domestic violence, or " OmG WhO iZ mah BaBeH daDDah?"
5. With that said, no one is perfect. People of all ages have ups and downs, and everyone makes mistakes.
6. So, if you haven't been bored out of your mind/emotionally scarred/run off to join a rabid abstinence only program, read on, you courageous cookie.

ED: Another reason which I forgot to mention- I am venturing into the blogosphere because while I find many of the parenting blogs I've read to be hilarious, I have never come across one which covers parenting from my own situation. Because I would love to see a blog written by another teen mom (if only just to rant about ageism, and the terrible injustice of having one's life packaged into an episode of a reality show on MTV), I'm taking the plunge...hopefully it wont be too self-esteem abrasive!