Oh My Gawd Really

We don’t care about your bodily functions.

2009-10-05T00:09:11Z

A friend of mine recently became a divorced, single mom. She’s back in the dating game and is really having a hard time finding, well, a guy who isn’t a total pig. Sure, she expects some piggish behavior. I mean, hello? But come on, have some manners… (no offense to men, I like men, a lot, and no this is not about any men I know either IRL or Online, so don’t panic you’re all cool and nice and polite). But honestly, when you have absolutely zero redeeming qualities, as some of the whackjobs my friend has dated lately? God. Might as well punch yourself in the nutsack and call it a day. Just sayin’. And some of the men my friend has described to me? Oh, dear Lord.

I decided I’d help my friend by making a list of things she can show her prospective dates. So maybe they can get a clue and have a second date with her or any other person they might be interested in. Perhaps, even get laid at some point. Or at the very least not get slapped or punched in the neck. I told her to print this off and send it to them before their date. Sure, that might be slightly difficult to do, but hey, its worth a try.

Some basic rules to possibly snag a second date and/or even get laid:

1. Try not to be a douche. Simple, it really is. Don’t talk about your ex (or if you’re still married, um, fuck off and why are you on a date?). Don’t tell your date that you think the waitress is “bangable,” and then proceed to wink (last guy she went on a date with, totally did this). If you’d like to screw the waitress, do it on your own time, not on our date. See? Simple. But know, if you bang the bangable waitress, there will be no second date with me. Take note.

2. Pay for some of the shit. Please. If you make me take out my wallet every single time, yeah, there will be no second date and sure as hell no sex. No, and not even a handjob. Get lost.

3. Picking. Don’t do it. If you must retrieve something out of somewhere, leave the room, table, dance floor, what the hell ever, just don’t show me. Don’t tell me about it either. Don’t care.

4. If you excuse yourself from our date to use the bathroom, don’t come back and tell me about it. Yeah, don’t want to hear about it. At. all. Don’t care what you did, how big it was, how long it took, if it resembled an old classmate, Don’t care. See # 3. DON’T CARE. And you’d better wash your fucking hands.

5. Avoid scratching your balls. Sure, all guys apparently do that, but on our first date OR EVER, resist the urge. A slight discreet adjustment, fine, but all out finger-digging scratching? Um, yeah, not attractive. And if you then think that I’ll be laying a finger/hand/face on those balls you’ve been rubbing through your pants all night? Not frigging likely. Take care of the major rash/itch on your own time. Is that asking too much? Or if you’re scratching/digging because your balls are sweaty? Yeah, read on to # 6.

6. Come groomed. Honestly, do you own a mirror? If you have nose hair longer than your pit hair, trim it. It’s easy. There’s even nose hair trimmer thingies! For realz. Get one.

Brush your fangs. If you’ve been eating garlic and pizza and drinking beer for the past week, yeah, you need to sterilize your cakehole (love the word cakehole by the way). If I can name what you’ve eaten in the last 48 hours by the smell of your breath, I’ll vomit in your shoes. That’s a promise. Not even kidding.

Do not smell like BO. It’s 2009. No one should smell like sweat and/or shit. Seriously. No excuse for it.

7. Don’t brag about your money (’cause dude, if you’ve made me pay for everything thus far, I’ll know you’re a) a lying sack of shit or b) a douche or 3) a lying sack of douchebaggery-asswipe-ish-ness. Yeah, don’t care what you make – at least not on our first date. Total turn off. Also money related? Telling me you forgot your wallet… lame. See # 2. Yeah, my friend’s recent date pulled this stunt. And then never paid her back or called her again. Classy.

8. I don’t want to know how many chicks you’ve bagged or how many names you have in your little black book. Take that book out and I’ll cut you. I’ll just assume you’ve been laid before and know that I have and we’re good. Do not need to compare notes. Don’t care what you did with Sally, Darla, or Brenda or how Kathy could “take it all.” <–Yeah, that might impress your guy friends, but your current date? Not so fucking much. However, on the note of sex, if we’re going to have it, I’d like to know if you anything that I may not want. Actually, I don’t fucking want it, so fess up. That shit you need to disclose. Not on the first date, of course, but also don’t wait until we’re in the “moment” to drop a bombshell. See # 1.

9. Yeah, burping the alphabet, while does require effort, is not sexy. If we were 10, maybe it would be fun and/or funny. However, if we’re over 12, then it’s not. And I’m pretty sure we are over 12. And saying things like, “You’d better stand 10 feet from me, wheeeeewwwww weeeeeeeee, those nachos are doing a number on me,” is not going to make me want to jump your bones later. Keep that shit (uh, no pun) to yourself. Which brings me to # 1o.

10. I don’t care about your bodily functions. At all. Not even a little bit. I don’t care to know what you do in the bathroom… yes, I have an idea, but I prefer to keep that stuff “fuzzily” in my brain. Please never discuss any of it with me. Not on our first date, second or 10 years into the marriage. I will never care about what you do once you close the bathroom door. See # 3, 4, and 9.

My friend’s date with “Tom” sort of went to the bathroom talk, as in, “Tom” telling her about his explosive diarrhea that he experienced the day before and how his “bottom” (Yes, because saying “bottom” instead of “ass” makes it less disgusting) was still “raw.” Needless to say she didn’t sleep with him and she was going to up until that point because she thought he was hot and she hadn’t had it in a while. So, to “Tom,” dude, you could have gotten laid had you not disclosed the information about your shitty, raw ass. *sad face*

Honestly, it’s easy to get a girl to go out with you a second time. Know what the secret is? Bring out your feminine side… act like a guy but with some sensitivity (I know, what fantasy world am I living in?). Or, hell, just don’t burp, fart, tell me about the dump you took, or pick your nose, and we’ll be good to go.

Hope this helps, “T” honey. I love ya, but I’m glad it’s not me in the dating pool.

Hey, I got a boob job.

2009-09-20T23:32:46Z

And other lies I might tell you. (The whole I got a boob job got you here, didn’t it?… Might as well pull up a chair and read the rest… providing you’re bored to tears and don’t have a life on Saturday night). And, now, technically, it’s Sunday. Oh.My.God. I might finish this post by Monday. Maybe.

I didn’t really get a boob job, but I’m not ruling it out. Just so you know. I have a very strong desire to tell you random crap that I’m thinking and/or feeling and since I believe in following strong desires, I’m just gonna do it. If I bore you, you’re obviously reading this wrong and really, that’s not my problem. Get help. That’s all I’m sayin’.

So, random stuff:

I bought this new necklace last night and it’s gorgeous. I wore it today yesterday two days ago and it’s all shiny and sparkly and all kinds of awesomeness, except, now that it’s almost midnight, I’d like to remove it from around my neck. Only one problem: I can’t get the sucker off. The clasp is nailed shut apparently. Not opening. I guess I’ll just have to look fabulous in bed. (Yeah, PS. It’s not almost midnight, because um, I’m lame-o and started this on Thursday night and it’s now Saturday evening . It’s now Sunday. And me? I suck).

TGIF. It’s now 12:01 as I type this and could be 2:05 p.m. before I finish it. Just depends on what the hell my brain will allow. (And um, PS again… it’s not Friday, it’s Saturday as I’ve already mentioned. And? I suck, again). <—Nope, not Saturday now either, it’s Sunday, at nearly 3 a.m. Scratch that. It’s now Sunday at 5 pm. Holy fuck. Monday is looking good right about now.

Pictured: My daughter and her best friend (not the birthday girl), who is the daughter of one of my best friends.

Went to a roller rink today for my girlfriend’s daughter’s party and the kids all looked so cute skating around, disco lights flashing and music booming. Did I skate? Um no. That would have been horrifying. Not for me, but for the people watching. I could not do that to another human being. People were laughing, having fun, being joyous and seeing me on roller skates? Would have definitely ruined the happy atmosphere. I was not going to be responsible for that pain. OK, sure, I may have looked cute, but as far as performance? That shit would have been awful.

If I had a brownie right now, I’d lick it and then eat it. Some dude on Twitter (won’t mention any names) was – I won’t say torturing me (but he totally was) – teasing me STRONGLY with his, Oh I have brownies with fudge and they’re so good, blah blah blah. Is that not cruel? Sure, I could make brownies (even though I suck in the kitchen… correction: suck at cooking in the kitchen) and hell, I could even buy them but that’s not the point. What is my point? Oh, yeah, I want someone to MAKE them for me. Or buy them for me. Whatever works. Sad fact is, I have no brownies. And I want one. Or eight.

I might watch a movie tonight. Not sure what movie, yet, but I’m in the mood to watch something scary and be, um, scared. I like being scared – to a point. You throw spiders at me, and I’ll be so scared, I’ll drop dead. I don’t mean that much scariness, just some. Like sitting on the edge of your seat kind of scary. Nail-biting scary (I don’t bite my nails though). That’s the kind of scary I want. I also want to fall asleep listening to Pink. I’m so bloody tired, and I love Pink’s voice, and can’t think of a better way to drift off. Well, sure, there are probably a few better ways to fall asleep, but right now? That one sounds like heaven. Since this is also an update post because I sucked at getting this finished in a timely manner (because yeah, it’s riveting), I didn’t watch a movie BUT I did fall asleep last night listening to Pink. Had some good dreams.

It’s windy here. And that’s all I have to say about that. And since it’s now Sunday at suppertime, it’s not windy. Why didn’t I just scrap this post all together? Because that would mean starting over. And? I’m much too lazy and tired for that shit.

I gambled for the first time last weekend. Went to Yuk Yuks comedy club (the three comedians were so flippin’ funny, which is a plus seeing as they’re comedians and people paid good money to see them, be funny), which is upstairs from the casino and we had an hour to kill before the show, decided to play the slot machines. We each took a $20 bill which gives you 80 credits. Well, after 25 minutes or so of pushing a button (MY GOD, SERIOUSLY, HOW CAN PEOPLE SIT THERE FOR HOURS AND PLAY THOSE THINGS?) and winning 10 credits here and there, I was getting down to my last 30, so went big and bet 3 credits at a time. Well, things were getting down to the wire, and with the next push of that button, I won two hundred credits which was equal to $55.25. Not quite the jackpot but hey, it was more than I had come with. I’m a winner! Winner!

I went shopping today and made a few purchases. Bought some shirts, which I might model for you later, depending on my mood and if I’m still wanting to wear clothes. I might be walking around nudish. Sure, my kids hate that shit, but so what. It’s my house and I”ll do what I want. Gah. I’m such a rebel. Hey, if Lady Gaga – or as I like to call her Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta (’cause we be tight) - can walk around pantless, I can walk around topless.

OK, listen, I’ve bored you long enough. If you stayed to read this far, you are either really desperate for something to read, just released from a mental institution and don’t know any better, high and/or drunk or love me enough to put up with this shit. Whatever the case, thank you:

09-09-09

2009-09-09T14:07:16Z

I’m not sure, but I think today is the day the world blows up. I mean it is September 9, 2009 – 09/09/09. That is some scary shit. Or maybe it’s the medication I took? I’m not entirely sure. Oh, and? this shit will be rambling.

I’ve been sick for the past few days, I guess it’s the flu? combined with I’ve BEEN HIT BY A TRUCK feeling. It’s all kinds of awesomesauce <— to quote a friend. I’ll be better tomorrow, I swear. If I have to beat the fucker silly, this flu is leaving tomorrow. Again, I’m all tough and shit probably because of the medication. I’m likely not able to fight my way out of a brown paper bag if truth be told. Also? I just realized I have written “shit” way too many times and I’m not done rambling. This is da shit. Sorry, could.not. help myself.

Yesterday, my grown (boys in men’s bodies, let us remember that) sons were both here (one has moved back in, I swear I will think only good thoughts) and within a five minute conversation, they called me cool and retarded. I think that was mostly good. They do annoy the ever-living shit out of me crack me up when they’re together, here, talking, especially when I’m trying to work. Good times.

So far, this 09/09/09 day is not that exciting (take for instance, this post…you’ve fallen asleep). It’s just before 7 a.m. and nothing has blown up yet. Don’t believe all the hype, people. Just do not. Or maybe 09/09/09 means unicorns will fly out of my butt? Now there’s something…

I have to go to the bank today, you know, before the world blows up. I hope I get the teller that likes to look at my cleavage. He’s fantastic, the way he thinks my eyes are on my tits. Silly man. Sure, I usually wear my bikini top, but that is no excuse.

I might be productive today, or I may not. I mean it’s practically a vacation day, what with the I’M FAIRLY CERTAIN I’M DYING feeling and it being 09/09/09. Permissions granted, etc.

I had a dream about Adam Lambert last night. It was good. He was here, helping me set up the 60 inch flat screen TV he purchased for me and then he sang for me. In my living room. It was a nice dream and I hated to wake up considering I had only been asleep for 2 hours at that point. Oh well, such is my sleeping pattern. I’m the two-to-four hours kinda girl.

Did I tell you that my daughter is a teenager? And an annoying one to boot? Sure, she’s just 9, but she acts like she’s 15. She wanted to use my credit card yesterday to sign up for some site that you can buy clothes and thought *I* was being unreasonable for not allowing her to go into my purse, take out my wallet, slip my credit card out of it’s little slot and enter all of my information into said website and just purchase a few items. Right. Let me get on that, like now, princess. Has hell frozen over? No? OK, good, because I was all worried and shit.

Wow, it’s still 09/09/09 and yet the only thing exciting to happen so far is my youngest son said I need to learn to understand English because clearly I don’t since I didn’t wash the shirt he had asked me to wash yesterday. Apparently, he could be right.

To my MM vacation girls – I SWEAR I WILL FINISH MY POST ABOUT OUR VACATION BEFORE 2009 IS OVER. Holy hell, it’s long and youtube (THANK YOU) has been taking 2+ hours to upload EACH video and when I was uploading six videos the other night, yeah, my browser crashed and only one uploaded. UGH. Gee, the vacation only ended about 3 1/2 weeks ago. Yes Sassy, you suck. I know. I do. I will get it done. Hopefully, it doesn’t bore the (I was going to say shit, but I will use self control) crap (<—that is technically not “shit”) out of you. I will apologize in advance. Although, one thing is for certain… Kev on the stripper pole? Hot. I mean, he’s so gross.

OK, must cut this, uh, stuff (self control accomplished!) short because no doubt you’re drooling on your keyboard since you’ve died in your sleep because this has been beyond boring. Hey, it’s 09/09/09, so later, the world is exploding and you will get that excitement you thought you were going to get here but didn’t. See? All works out in the end.

I aim high.

I feel glamorous.

2009-08-30T01:32:08Z

Secret Agent Mama is running a fabulous contest in conjunction with EdenFantasys, and she wants to know what makes me (and YOU) feel glamorous. I’m going to tell you, and show you the results.

There are a few things that make me feel glam, but today it was about dressing up in a pretty outfit and heels (although you can’t see the heels, KNOW they ARE there), putting on my best makeup and adding a sparkly flower in my hair. I mean the sparkling flower alone is glam, right? Right. Also, thinking about the man you love while taking the photos? Extra-awesome. Just sayin’. *wink*

I was happy with these shots – I’m not normally a fan of my own portrait, you know, because there’s that desire to pick apart every little flawed detail until there’s nothing good left. But today, I said the hell with it, I’m going to take shots and like them, really like them. And I do.

These were taken earlier today with my Nikon, no flash, just using the natural light coming in through my bedroom window.

Click images to see full size.

Not bad for an old broad of 42.

Today, I feel glamorous.

Now, if YOU want to participate, go on over to Secret Agent Mama’s. Do it! You could win a $100.00 Gift Certificate to use towards whatever your heart desires at Eden Fantasys.

Daughter is 9, going on 15. And a smartass.

2009-09-21T20:42:45Z

My youngest child is nine, yet she totally acts like she’s 15. I’m not sure where she gets her sassy attitude and smartass mouth from, but some days, she’s a handful.

She started grade four today and also a new school and I figured she would be nervous. I mean, I used to get nervous on my first day of school, even when I had been at the same school for years.

Are you nervous? I asked her last night.

Get a life, mother. I’m too intelligent to get nervous.

Oh, well, I used to get nervous on my first day. Especially if I was starting a new school, you know, new people, and all that. And? I’m not too shabby in the smarts department, so that really has nothing to do with if a person gets nervous or not.

Uh huh. She yawns.

She slept like a rock, I,on the other hand, did not. Not that I slept well as it is, but add some anxiety and I’m tossing and turning for sure. Actually, daughter slept so heavily, that it took me almost 20 minutes to drag her pretend-teenager butt out of bed this morning.

You really have to get up, like now. Really? Ten minutes ago would have been ideal. I don’t want to be late, your first day and all.

Mother, we won’t be late. I just need five more minutes.

I cave and give her the five more minutes and she finally saunters downstairs.

Hey, good morning. Are you totally nervous?

We had this conversation last night, mom. Hello? Gah.

Did you just ‘gah’ me?

Yep. Where are my new clothes?

I’m shocked. You have ‘grrr’d’ and now you’ve ‘gah’d’ me. Um, yeah, clothes. On the chair. Are you sure you’re OK?

Mom.

OK, just checking.

We leave with 25 minutes to spare, so I’m starting to relax, that is, until we are on our way and my child drops a bombshell on me.

Mom?

Yeah?

Um, you’re not going to kiss me, are you?

When? Ever? What do you mean?

I mean today. Like at the school. Please. Mom. Do not kiss me.

Why can’t I kiss you?

Um, hello? I’m nine.

Yes, exactly. You’re NINE.

Right. And I’m starting a new school and going to be making friends, so I don’t need my mom getting all mushy and stuff.

Mushy and stuff? It’s a kiss. From your mother.

If you don’t promise not to kiss me, I won’t even let you walk with me to the doors.

I have to promise not to kiss my own child?

Yes. Promise me. Like promise, mom.

OK. Fine. I promise I won’t kiss you.

Say today. I promise I won’t kiss you today, on your first day or any other day that you drop me off or pick me up.

Hey now, that wasn’t part of the deal.

Mom.

Fine. No kissing at school.

And no crying either. Like not one bit, mother.

I won’t cry. I’m past crying.

Yeah, right.

No, I haven’t cried since you went to Kindergarten.

Uh huh.

We get to the school, and I make sure I walk 10 paces behind her. Heaven forbid any of her potential friends see her with her mother.

We eventually find the designated spot for grade four students and her demands do not end.

You should probably go sit over there with the other students.

Mom, said in a hushed, evil whisper.

What? I’m just sayin’.

Don’t just say. Like, really, you don’t need to stay. I’m fine.

But it’s your first day, I should be here, wait for them to call your name to go to your class.

OMG mom. I’m not a baby.

I know, but you’re my baby.

OMG. If you start crying, I’m pretending I don’t know you.

Just then, one of the teachers spoke up and thanked all of the parents still waiting, but basically kicked our asses out, to which my child displayed a very clear visible sign of relief splash across her face.

I turn to her, was almost set to break my promise to kiss her, but she had already moved to sit with the other students. I smiled and waved and? Yeah, she rolled her eyes.

Fiesty little spitfire with a smart mouth and big attitude. I think someone else birthed her, certainly couldn’t have ben me. I am so no like that. At all.

I give great parenting advice, even via text messages

2009-08-13T06:26:14Z

You think just because I’m out and about, shopping for the brood that I call my family, that I can’t be the best possible parent I can be? Oh, no, no, no. I am able to multi-fucking-task with the best of them, and that includes pushing a shopping cart, filling it up with toothpaste (we like fresh breath and white teeth. That’s the way we roll) and answering a text message.

My son Matt loves IM’ing and texting me just for the hell of it. Why? Because he’s clearly bored out of his freaking tree I rock. Duh. Can’t believe you had to even ask. Anyway, so, I get this text message:

Aw, he’s wanting to know what he should do about his “situation,” and still, at 21-years-of-age, needs some motherly advice. I’m more than willing to give it:

I offered three choices, which clearly, were quite brilliant as I pushed my shopping cart full of toothpaste. He was so thankful at my suggestions, and he said so:

Hmm. I was sure there was a big ol’ THANK YOU, YOUR ADVICE ROCKS, LIKE YOU, in that text message but maybe that part got erased when I took the screenshot? Yeah. Totally what happened.

Anyway, you’re very welcome Matt, anytime. Tell all your friends to text me, too, because obviously I give awesome pee advice (but honestly, I am versatile).

I turned 42, but don’t look at day over 41.

2009-07-31T22:14:37Z

Did I say I turned forty-two? I meant twenty-seven because ~~I lied last year and said I was 26~~ twenty-seven comes after 26. So, yeah, right.

Some of my family forgot it was my “special” day yesterday. Yes, I said “special,” because clearly it is if they forgot to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY. That’s just how “special” it was. Especially SPECIAL.

To the person who sent me a gift, woot!, thank you, LOVE getting mail that doesn’t require me to drain my bank account or my “services” will be shut off.

To the people who called me, thank you… means more than a present (but, uh, if you WANT to send me sompin’, yeah, DO IT).

To the handful of people who wished me HAPPY BIRTHDAY on Facebook, I do thank you – luckily, I get the messages in my email or I would not have seen them. I don’t do Facebook – much. Maybe once every few months I’ll get the gumption to sign-in, but other than that, I honestly don’t use it anymore. To those of you who are waiting for me to “friend” you, I will, the next time I sign-in. Like next Christmas or something. And to two of the Facebook birthday-well-wishers, I will SEE you in TWO WEEKS. Woot!

To the e-card birthday-well-wishers, spanx muchly (yes, totally real words, with real meaning, y’all).

To the email birthday well-wishers, thanks but I’m not sure I believe you when you said you TRIED to “attach” cash in the email, but it just wouldn’t work. Hotmail and Gmail were “not working properly” you said. Uh huh.

To the person who said they loved me so much (and will love me MORE once I make my first million), thank you for letting me know you are shopping at HOOKERS ACCESSORIES AND MORE for me. I bet it’ll be something special. And probably glittery!

So,you’re asking yourself, what has this ~~clearly insane~~ chick learned in forty-two, oops, twenty-seven years? Let me put you out of your misery.

1. When your daughter tells you, “Mommy, you don’t even look forty-two, you totally look, um, like you’re twenty-four (she’s really pushing it) and when my brothers tell you that you’re ‘old’ I give them dirty looks, just so you know mom,” what she really means is, “I’m totally sucking up bitches so I can get my own cell phone at the age of nine!”

2. When a 20-something dude calls you ma’am, he means it.

3. When you hear yourself say, “Oh, so-and-so and I have been friends for twenty-five years,” you want to bite your tongue off.

4. You probably shouldn’t wear the “JLo” glitter lotion you own, but fuck it, I’m going to anyway. See? At *cough* 42, you don’t care.

5. When your growns sons (see # 1) call you old, they absolutely mean it.

6. You’re at an age where you will most likely attend more funerals than weddings. Sad, but true.

7. It’s possible to become a grandparent (providing you have children), but don’t call me grandma.

8. It sucks when your doctor is way younger than you.

9. It scares the shit out of you to know you have been watching a particular soap opera for twenty-seven years. I mean, I don’t watch any soap operas. Like srsly, EVER.

10. You realize you haven’t learned as much as you thought.

Happy Birthday to anyone who is having a birthday this year. Ha.

Call me grandma, and I’ll cut you.

2009-07-28T02:42:38Z

Is that the face of a grandmother? Say “Of course not, my gosh, there is no possible way you could be a grandmother,” or I’ll have to track you down and slap you. HARD.

A few days ago I got word from my oldest son, now 22, that he was going to be a father. And if he was going to be a daddy, that means I would become a grandmother. The thought was slightly frightening on a few levels, not the least of which, I.WOULD.BE.A.GRANDMOTHER.

Me? I’m too vain for that sort of thing if the truth be known. I still want guys to look at me and think, “she’s not bad,” or “I’d tap that.” Not, “hey, look, there’s granny.” Does that make a bad person? Probably, but I’m nothing if not honest.

There were other thoughts going through my head, too. I mean, was my kid ready to have a kid? He just graduated from his schooling, is the process of securing employment, and he and his fiance were about to take the first steps to buy a home, and now he has a baby on the way? Yikes. How would he and his girl possibly survive this? Of course, not lost on me was the fact that *I* had my son when I was just 19, and separated and living, once again with my parents. Not an ideal situation to be having a baby, but what’s done is done and there’s only room to go forward. That is exactly what I told my son. Yes, it was a shock to hear it, not totally surprising since history has a way of repeating itself in family situations, but still a shock nonetheless. Son a father? Me a grandmother? God help us. But more importantly, would I be a hot grandmother? I kid (sort of).

I did joke with him on that first day though of finding out, that if he or his fiance took the baby to Sears portrait studio or freakin’ Wal-mart, and not made me the baby’s official photographer, I’d be royally pissed. See? I can still muster up a load of laughs even in slightly and/or extremely upsetting situations. Not that having a baby is upsetting per se, but when your child is just heading into adulthood, and really was not planning on parenthood anytime in the near future and then pending fatherhood just sort of falls into the picture, it can be sort of boot-shaking.

It’s a weird position to be in really. One part of you, as the parent of a child about to become a parent, who yes, is a man, but in your mind, and heart, still a boy at times, is scared. Scared for him – will he know how to be a dad? Will he and his fiance be able to afford a baby (like any of us can really afford kids, if truth be told)? Will this tear them apart or bring them closer together? Will they name the baby Skyscraper or something else weird? OK, the name thing didn’t really cross my mind and I’m assuming they wouldn’t name their baby Skyscraper or Hermit, or HeyYou. Once again, digging deep for the humor. There’s another part of you that is excited, because oh.my.gosh. there’s a baby coming. Mixed bag of feelings.

The situation made me stop and think about my own parents. Did they have similar fears for me when I was 19 and pregnant and living in their home? I knew jack shit about babies. Yes, I have a younger sister and brother and remember when they came into our lives, but uh, they had a mother to take care of the important stuff, like diapers and other baby related crap. I just let them hang around with me, on occasion. Were my parents scared for me? Did they lay awake at night wondering how I would manage? Probably. But then there comes a time, when you put those thoughts aside – they’re still in the back of your mind, but you have to let the positive thoughts come through instead.

You have to let your kid know that no matter what, you’ll be there. There is no time for anger, or lectures on birth control, or saying stupid shit like, geez, what were you thinking? You don’t need a baby now. Doesn’t matter because when there’s a baby coming in a few short months, you have to get in the THERE’S A BABY COMING MODE. That’s what I did. Within a day, I was thinking of the day the baby would be born, what they would name the baby, how I had totally planned to make up a cute, fun title for myself. No Grandma, Granny, Nanny, or Nana for this chick. Oh no, I was going to invent something awesome because, uh, hello? Remember? I still harbor some vanity.

I pictured them bringing baby to stay with us for the weekend while they went away camping. How they’d fuss and remind me of feeding times, diaper changes, burping, bedtimem rituals, because I apparently don’t have children of my own. I’d smile and nod and tell them to have a great time, and baby will be fine. And when they arrived on Sunday to pick up the little guy (or girl), I’d say how much he/she missed them and they would smile – relieved I had taken good care of their munchkin and happy to hear they were missed by their baby.

I’d go shopping and buy cute things, spoil the baby because that’s what grandparents (insert cute made up name here) do, spoil their grandbabies.

Unfortunately, sadly, things aren’t going to work out that way. At least not at this point in time. My son told me today that his fiance miscarried. Yet another round of emotions.

Sadness because your child has had to experience something painful, those feelings of well, it wasn’t meant to be, which I do believe things happen for a reason, but that doesn’t make it less upsetting or confusing. Guilt, because for that split second after you heard the pregnancy news, you were thinking, gosh, can my kid really do this? Of course I believed he could do it, and knew he would step up to the plate. I was given the benefit of the doubt when I had him and I would definitely return the favor.

Obviously they were not expecting this pregnancy. But, after the inital shock, they decided to make the best of the situation and like me, had their dreams and plans floating around in their heads. Would they have a boy or a girl, would baby be a redhead like me and my son? Be born bald? Would they give him/her one middle name or two? So much to look forward to, and much work and responsibility, but so much joy to come as well. Now that pending joy is gone.

To my son and his fiance: This was not your fault. A miscarriage is not about fault. It’s something that happens to some of us (I’ve had a miscarriage and as son knows, I had a daughter who died at birth, too) and we may never know why. It wasn’t meant to be and as cliché as that is, it’s true. One day, when you do have a child, you will think of this time and the baby that wasn’t meant to be on this earth, but because of that pregnancy and miscarriage, a path was carved for you to have the child you end up with. Life works in mysterious ways. Make sure you take time to grieve and then look ahead to your future.

One day, I’m sure my son will be a father and when that day comes, I’ll be there. (But don’t call me Grandma).

1987: Me and son

So, I put my hair in ponytails today, what of it?

2009-07-17T23:26:29Z

If you have a problem with a chick on the other side of forty, er, I mean twenty-five, with her hair in ponytails, then you may as well march your ass on out of here.

I was cleaning and wanted to pin my hair up, but a hair clip is so 2006. I figured I would try a new style, which not sure ponytails are exactly considered a style, let alone a new style, but regardless of what you call them, I turned on my inner rebel and went with it.

While I’m here, I might as well tell you all about my dilemma with obtaining my passport. I am going away in less than a month (shut it… yes, I know, I put it off, totally my fault), and went to get my passport on Tuesday – well, apply for it. I had double checked my paperwork, had everything in order as far as I could tell, and had all of my identification. There was only one little thing that was concerning me, and that was my birth cerfificate. It is legit, but it’s, uh, old (ish). Anyway, because it was issued back in… the, *ahem*, 1900s, there was no actual registration number on it. So, as I suspected, the passport office would not accept it. The guy gave me a form to fill out from Vital Statistics from the province I was born, and told me it could take up to two weeks to obtain a new birth certificate.

Panic begins to set in and the passport dude could see I was about to have a nervous breakdown at his counter, so he assured me, that if worse came to worse, I could pay a little extra and they could issue my passport in three days. I sighed ever so slightly.

It was too late to call VS (Vital Statistics) when I got home since they are a few hours ahead of me, so Wednesday would be the earliest I could call. I woke early Wednesday and filled out the required paperwork and then called the VS office to inquire about faxing my information and having a rush put on it.

Good afternoon, Vital Statistics.

Hi, I need a birth certificate, like 20 years ago (laughter on my part)… dead silence on VS lady’s part. Um, no, seriously, I need a birth certificate as soon as possible as I’m going away and need to get my passport. I do have a birth certificate but it was issued many years ago and does not have a registration number, so it was not acceptable to obtain my passport. I’m wondering how long I would have to wait to get a birth certificate?

It normally takes four to six weeks.

Uh, I’m leaving in four weeks. Can I fax my information to have it processed faster? Is that possible?

Yes, it is but you have to prove it. You have to send proof.

Proof? Proof of what? My current birth certificate? I’m not following you.

No, proof that you need it in a hurry.

Proof? I’m telling you I need it in a hurry. Why would I make that up? If I didn’t need it in a hurry, I’d just wait the four to six weeks, and it wouldn’t be an issue.

Well, we require proof.

Um, OK. How do I prove it to you?

You can write a letter with your form and ID, saying you need it in a hurry.

So, me telling you, right now, that I need it in a hurry, is not proof enough?

Right.

Uh, alrighty then. What about my travel information? I have a print out of my flight dates/times, would that be considered proof?

Possibly. It would help.

OK, well, I will do that. Once you get it, how long will I have to wait?

Approximately seven days. If you don’t have it by then, call us.

OK.

Panic starts to set in once again… what if they don’t put a rush on it because my “proof” isn’t good enough for them? I mean seriously, if a person is stressing the importance of obtaining their birth certificate, shouldn’t that be enough? No, it is not. Apparently, people call up all the time PRETENDING to need a birth certificate in a hurry, but it’s all a big joke, so when they do get it rushed to them, they then call the VS office, and yell “SUCKERS! Ha, I didn’t REALLY need it quickly. Joke’s on YOU!” Yes, totally plausible.

So, that was Wednesday. I figured I would call Monday and light a fire under their ass if they hadn’t started the process of getting me what I needed. This morning, as I’m talking on the phone to my friend, the doorbell rings. It’s a delivery dude, with an envelope. Being in a some sort of mental fog, I’m not even dreaming it could be my birth certificate. I mean I just had a stimulating conversation less than 48 hours prior with a lady, telling me I had to PROVE I needed my birth certificate in a rush, so there was no way they had processed it and sent it across the country in that short of a time span.

But… they had! Holy shit balls, my letter must have stressed how ~~neurotic I am~~ important this was to me, and someone actually cared. Sweet niblets (my kids make me watch way too much Hannah Montana), I have my birth certificate! That means, Monday morning, I will be at the passport office and they assured me I could have my passport in plenty of time for my trip. Woot!

It’s a good Friday indeed. Plus, I had fun dreams last night, so woke up in a great mood. Life is super right now. What could make it better? Hmm, a trip to Starbucks, maybe.

So, as I was talking about Britney’s vajayjay…

2009-07-03T14:05:39Z

Yes, you read that correctly. Yes, I mean Britney Spears. Yes, I mean her vagina. Let me explain. God, please, let me explain.

So, my son Matt and I are on messenger yesterday morning, and our already stimulating conversation turns to us ‘talking’ with a twangy Britney Spears accent (because, duh, you can hear it just by looking at the typed words) and making fun of the concert incident, in which Spears told her audience inadvertently (she thought her mic was turned off) that her ‘pussa was hangin’ out,’ and that sounds like something I made up, but it’s not. That is Spears’ gold, I tell ya. Oh, and the other incident where she had a very visible string hanging from her nether regions, which honestly, doesn’t surprise me all that much coming from Britney, but doesn’t she have people to check for that sort of thing? She does have people, right? Right.

Anyway, as we are both mocking what Britney said, and of course adding a few extra words in just for fun, Matt stops talking to me. I’m like where did he go? Then my convo box reveals that Matt is typing but holy hell, he’s writing a novel because nothing is popping up on his end of the conversation except I still see Matt is typing. What is he writing about? Then it became quite apparent. He had not been typing, he had been drawing. Yes, on MSN messenger you have a little pencil icon and it lets you freehand with the mouse. Um, well, after we were mocking Brit Brit’s “Oh ma gawd, ma pussa’s hangin’ out y’all,” he comes up with this:

I, of course, was appropriately ~~laughing my ass off~~ grossed out, shocked ~~so proud of~~ at my son’s ability to be ~~artsy~~ disgusting and as you can see, I let him know by typing ‘um, ewww!!!!,’ that ~~secretly I was dying inside of laughter~~ he went over the line.

So, as you can see, Matt and I have very intellectual conversations on messenger.

Happy Friday, y’all!