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.