This weekend, I had the opportunity to discuss a very important stage in relationships with a group of extremely intelligent women. The Poop Stage. We all agreed that The Poop Stage (TPS) is perhaps the most pivotal stage in a relationship. Sure, you love my smile, my laugh, my lust for life, my boobs...now I’m gonna blow up your bathroom. How you like me now?
As toddlers, we go through a Freudian phase of life that none of us remembers, also called The Poop Stage (or perhaps something slightly more scientific). This happens when we make a doodie in our little plastic toilet, stand up, turn around, look at it and realize, with great astonishment, that we did that. Many children will call their parents in and proudly present the deuce like a gift for baby Jesus. And we are lavished with praise and gumdrops or maybe a star on our Potty Chart. For minutes, perhaps hours, we are kings and queens of our plastic thrones; masters of our own asses; certified poop commanders.
Somewhere along this journey of transitioning from shitting in our shorts to long, drawn out bathroom sessions involving magazines, the act becomes horrifying. Parents no longer take you to Dairy Queen to celebrate the poopie; instead they walk into the bathroom as you’re exiting, waving a hand in front of their face, scowling and scolding. “Good lord that’s horrible! For the love of God, turn the fan on! Light a match! Are you trying to kill us all? Jesus Christ!”
Our poop pride quickly disappears and we are left embarrassed, shameful, and wondering silently why we are so disgusting. Through no fault of our own, it happens again the next day. We accept that this is going to continue and that it’s going to be gross. We seek out private places to make boom-boom—we drive to the local Target over our lunch break to avoid polluting the shared work bathroom; we try to beat roommates home so we can drop the kids off at the pool in relative comfort. And when that fails, we apologize for our natural movements, attempting to make jokes, cracking a window, politely lighting a $35 Aveda candle.
But the challenge comes when we start dating someone. Oh, the excitement of the first date with all those awkward moments that happen as two people try to figure out if they’d like to marry, fuck or kill the person sitting across the table from them. Eventually, there might be a first kiss, which tells you an awful lot. (My advice: if it’s bad, run. Run fast.) After a few dates, things get complicated. Does he like me? Will he call? How do I walk that stupid, delicate line of “I really want to hang out with you” and “I don’t even remember your name, playa”?
At some point (and it’s different for everyone) there will be sex, which can make or break the situation. Being compatible over coffee or dinner does not necessarily translate into sexual chemistry. You will likely know this before you hit the sheets but most of us decide to check it out anyway. I can say from experience, sometimes your instinct is wrong, in either direction. So, you know, go for it.
So everything’s going along swimmingly—sex is good, conversation is stimulating, he has a nice car, he loves his mother, he always calls when he says he’s going to, there haven’t been any angry outbursts, he’s not rude to servers in restaurants, he doesn’t refer to his ex-girlfriend as “that fucking bitch” or “the love of my life” and it looks like we might have a winner.
At some point, you will have to poop at his place.
The anxiety surrounding this inevitable occurrence is pretty intense. As women, we don’t really want men to know we poop. It’s ridiculous because when you get a group of men together, they can talk about the stuff that comes out of their ass all day. As the girlfriend, if you chime in with something like, “Oh dude, I dropped a deuce the other day that had its own zip code. It was doing its taxes and shit”, you break the Poop Wall. Yes, intellectually, New Boyfriend knows that you eat food and, thus, need to make a doodie now and again. But for God’s sake, don’t talk about it. Even my feminist instincts can’t argue with this one. I mean, I want New Boyfriend to view me as intelligent, creative, funny, sexy, loyal, loving, etc. But I’ll do anything to avoid him finding out that I poop.
I’m pretty crafty for a while. I will admit to quietly slipping out of bed once the man snoring starts and closing myself in the bathroom for some quality time. I’ve straight up lied and told a long story about there being a line for the loo and only one working toilet at the restaurant to cover up the fact that I’ve been gone for 15 minutes. But at some point, it’s going to happen. Perhaps after a Mexican themed dinner or a big cup of coffee.
There are several ways to handle this:
1. Make it funny. “Ha ha ha, I’m going to destroy your bathroom dude. It’s going to be like a Michael Bay movie.”
2. Be a total girl about it. “Um...ok...so, I have to, like, go to the bathroom. But, like, I mean, I have to go to the bathroom. So, like, I’m really sorry but we had burritos for lunch and even though I said no beans, it’s still, like, going to happen and I’m so embarrassed (giggle, giggle, sob, sob)."
3. Just resign and admit you’re disgusting. “Ok, so here’s the deal: there are some things happening in my butt that I cannot control. So I’m going to the bathroom for a while. Please don’t acknowledge it.”
Generally I go with #3. Because he doesn't care. He’ll probably laugh at you and tease you a bit but if he honestly breaks things off because you poop (which has never happened in the history of the whole world) then my man’s got issues you can’t even begin to understand. I read an article the other day about how Terrence Howard, star of many horrible movies, won’t date a woman unless she wipes her business with baby wipes every time she goes to the bathroom. This is proof that Terrence’s delicate toddler Poop Stage was not a glorious time full of stickers and cookies and hugs and applause. His Poop Stage was traumatic and shameful, likely at the hands of his Mommy, leading him to believe that we’re all unclean in our nether regions, especially women, because a woman is the one who mistreated him in regards to his poopy phase. That’s called transference of anger. That’s right, bitch, I just psychologized you. And now I’m gonna blow up your bathroom.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
I declare this half eaten burrito official.
While I was slogging away on my treadmill at the gym, CNN told me that Maine is desperately trying to decide if their official state dessert should be the whoppie pie or blueberry pie. Pennsylvania is also considering the whoppie pie for official dessert status, which obviously makes Maine want that one more because it’s just human nature to covet thy (sort of) neighbor. As I schvitzed and schlepped away in the name of socially acceptable perfection, I began to wonder: does every state have an official state dessert? Why do we need official state desserts? Does that mean that any time there is an official meal, the official dessert gets served? How does this get decided? And with all the piles and piles of shit going on in the world, why am I grasping on to this?
I decided to just go with it.
Upon Googling “how official state foods are chosen” I didn’t find much; mostly state government pages that listed WIC-eligible foods. I found lists and lists of official state foods and one tiny blurb that said that when someone wants to make an official state food (say an official muffin, dessert, beverage, etc) they have to bring it before a judge and have it “declared by law” as the official state food.
Who the hell does this? And why? If I decided that clamato should be the official state tomato-based beverage and I went through the process of trying to have that declared by law, everyone would assume that I am crazy and unemployed. And rightfully so.
Some of the official state foods make sense; for example, Minnesota’s official state grain is wild rice. Duh. Minnesota is one of two main producers of wild rice. Maryland’s state food is blue crabs. Yep, that sounds about right. Idaho’s state food is the potato. Again, yes, I whole-heartedly agree with this and understand it. But here’s where it gets weird.
Louisiana has a state jelly. How come? It is Mayhaw jelly and the mayhaw capital is Georgia. Louisiana also has an official state meat pie. No, meat pie is not the official state pie—they have an official state meat pie. It’s Natchitoches. New Mexico’s state vegetable is refried beans. I got news for ya, retired old timey hippies: refried beans do not qualify as a vegetable. Oklahoma must feel inadequate because they have quite a few official state foods. One of their official state meals is corn. Corn is not a meal. In fact, Oklahoma has ten official state meals and none of them are an actual meal. A meal is several items, not one item. Utah’s state snack food is Jell-O. How did that happen? It’s not like Jell-O was invented or conceived in Utah because it wasn’t. But in 2001, the governor invented “Jell-O Week.” Oh how I wish I had been in that meeting. North Carolina has an official state blue berry—it’s blueberries. They also have an official state red berry, which is the strawberry. I happen to love North Carolina but 2001 must have been a very slow year for them.
And the big winner for official state beverage? Milk. Almost every state has legally declared milk official. Nebraska also decided to embarrass themselves why declaring Kool-Aid their other official state beverage but that is because Kool-Aid was invented in Nebraska. The state of Alabama ain’t playin’; their official state beverage is whiskey.
I guess I’m failing to understand why we need official state foods and beverages. This throw down between Maine and Pennsylvania for the whoopee pie is a big enough news story that CNN had an actual segment on it. I wonder if people can protest the declaration of an official state food. Like if Minnesota wanted to declare the kiwi as the official state fruit, I’d totally make a sign and go to the capitol and demand to know why a fruit that does not grow here and has no historical ties to my state would be named an official anything. Would I be ridiculed or seen as a new brand of community leader, demanding that things start making sense around here? By the way, Minnesota’s official state fruit isn’t the kiwi; it’s the honeycrisp apple.
I decided to just go with it.
Upon Googling “how official state foods are chosen” I didn’t find much; mostly state government pages that listed WIC-eligible foods. I found lists and lists of official state foods and one tiny blurb that said that when someone wants to make an official state food (say an official muffin, dessert, beverage, etc) they have to bring it before a judge and have it “declared by law” as the official state food.
Who the hell does this? And why? If I decided that clamato should be the official state tomato-based beverage and I went through the process of trying to have that declared by law, everyone would assume that I am crazy and unemployed. And rightfully so.
Some of the official state foods make sense; for example, Minnesota’s official state grain is wild rice. Duh. Minnesota is one of two main producers of wild rice. Maryland’s state food is blue crabs. Yep, that sounds about right. Idaho’s state food is the potato. Again, yes, I whole-heartedly agree with this and understand it. But here’s where it gets weird.
Louisiana has a state jelly. How come? It is Mayhaw jelly and the mayhaw capital is Georgia. Louisiana also has an official state meat pie. No, meat pie is not the official state pie—they have an official state meat pie. It’s Natchitoches. New Mexico’s state vegetable is refried beans. I got news for ya, retired old timey hippies: refried beans do not qualify as a vegetable. Oklahoma must feel inadequate because they have quite a few official state foods. One of their official state meals is corn. Corn is not a meal. In fact, Oklahoma has ten official state meals and none of them are an actual meal. A meal is several items, not one item. Utah’s state snack food is Jell-O. How did that happen? It’s not like Jell-O was invented or conceived in Utah because it wasn’t. But in 2001, the governor invented “Jell-O Week.” Oh how I wish I had been in that meeting. North Carolina has an official state blue berry—it’s blueberries. They also have an official state red berry, which is the strawberry. I happen to love North Carolina but 2001 must have been a very slow year for them.
And the big winner for official state beverage? Milk. Almost every state has legally declared milk official. Nebraska also decided to embarrass themselves why declaring Kool-Aid their other official state beverage but that is because Kool-Aid was invented in Nebraska. The state of Alabama ain’t playin’; their official state beverage is whiskey.
I guess I’m failing to understand why we need official state foods and beverages. This throw down between Maine and Pennsylvania for the whoopee pie is a big enough news story that CNN had an actual segment on it. I wonder if people can protest the declaration of an official state food. Like if Minnesota wanted to declare the kiwi as the official state fruit, I’d totally make a sign and go to the capitol and demand to know why a fruit that does not grow here and has no historical ties to my state would be named an official anything. Would I be ridiculed or seen as a new brand of community leader, demanding that things start making sense around here? By the way, Minnesota’s official state fruit isn’t the kiwi; it’s the honeycrisp apple.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Stone Phillips, be my guide.
I like to watch depressing and brutal shit on tv. I have no idea how or why this started but there it is. I’m a huge fan of Dateline, 48 Hours, I Survived, The First 48, Disappeared, Deadly Women, Wicked Attraction. But because I love these real stories of mayhem and occasional survival, I can’t stand shows like CSI, NCIS or any other show that is mostly acronyms. I like the real stuff.
These shows teach us a lot about all the ways we can be terrorized and/or die. Due to hours and hours of true crime education, I have learned the following life lessons:
1. Don’t ever get married. Without warning, your spouse will lose their mind and hack you to pieces. It doesn’t matter if you are newlyweds or if you’ve been in a loving marriage for 47 years. Usually this will happen for the life insurance payout or possibly because they are having an affair. Or maybe both. Which brings me to my next point.
2. Don’t get life insurance. As soon as your spouse, children or best friend finds out about it, they will knock you unconscious, put you in your car and set it on fire. They’ll get caught but you’ll be dead so what good will that do you?
3. If someone from your past shows up unannounced, don’t let them in your house. It might be your grandmother, an old friend who just happened to be in town or an ex of some kind. Whoever it is, they are there to kill you. Call 911 immediately.
4. If you break the first rule and get married, when you get divorced, immediately change your identity. If your ex-spouse finds you or—worse yet—is co-parenting with you, eventually and for no interesting reason, they will go bat shit crazy, kidnap you and stuff you in a garbage can that they will then place in a storage locker. Seriously.
5. Don’t drive at night. If a car pulls up alongside you, swerve off the road in a wild, reckless fashion because whoever is in that car has a gun and is planning to shoot you.
6. If you get a flat tire, Jesus Christ, do not let anyone assist you. Because they will assist you right into your grave.
7. Deciding to go on a cruise is like deciding to jump off the Sears Tower—it is a guaranteed death sentence, either by murder or dysentery.
8. Speaking of travel, for the love of God, do not travel internationally. You might think you’re having a lovely Sandals Resort vacation but at some point, there will be a violent military coup, you’ll be kidnapped by guerillas and taken on a death march through the jungle.
9. Animals are not your friends, nor are they cute. They are simply waiting for the right moment to rip your left arm off and beat you to death with it.
10. Don’t attempt to do anything alone. You will get your arm stuck in something and no one will hear you scream and you will try to cut your arm off and then you will have only one arm.
11. Feel like going for a snowmobile ride? You might as well play Russian Roulette with yourself but only this time, the gun will be fully loaded.
12. Boats—whether fishing vessels, yachts, row boats or canoes—will only lead to a watery grave.
These shows teach us a lot about all the ways we can be terrorized and/or die. Due to hours and hours of true crime education, I have learned the following life lessons:
1. Don’t ever get married. Without warning, your spouse will lose their mind and hack you to pieces. It doesn’t matter if you are newlyweds or if you’ve been in a loving marriage for 47 years. Usually this will happen for the life insurance payout or possibly because they are having an affair. Or maybe both. Which brings me to my next point.
2. Don’t get life insurance. As soon as your spouse, children or best friend finds out about it, they will knock you unconscious, put you in your car and set it on fire. They’ll get caught but you’ll be dead so what good will that do you?
3. If someone from your past shows up unannounced, don’t let them in your house. It might be your grandmother, an old friend who just happened to be in town or an ex of some kind. Whoever it is, they are there to kill you. Call 911 immediately.
4. If you break the first rule and get married, when you get divorced, immediately change your identity. If your ex-spouse finds you or—worse yet—is co-parenting with you, eventually and for no interesting reason, they will go bat shit crazy, kidnap you and stuff you in a garbage can that they will then place in a storage locker. Seriously.
5. Don’t drive at night. If a car pulls up alongside you, swerve off the road in a wild, reckless fashion because whoever is in that car has a gun and is planning to shoot you.
6. If you get a flat tire, Jesus Christ, do not let anyone assist you. Because they will assist you right into your grave.
7. Deciding to go on a cruise is like deciding to jump off the Sears Tower—it is a guaranteed death sentence, either by murder or dysentery.
8. Speaking of travel, for the love of God, do not travel internationally. You might think you’re having a lovely Sandals Resort vacation but at some point, there will be a violent military coup, you’ll be kidnapped by guerillas and taken on a death march through the jungle.
9. Animals are not your friends, nor are they cute. They are simply waiting for the right moment to rip your left arm off and beat you to death with it.
10. Don’t attempt to do anything alone. You will get your arm stuck in something and no one will hear you scream and you will try to cut your arm off and then you will have only one arm.
11. Feel like going for a snowmobile ride? You might as well play Russian Roulette with yourself but only this time, the gun will be fully loaded.
12. Boats—whether fishing vessels, yachts, row boats or canoes—will only lead to a watery grave.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
The Year of Dresden Jones
Even I'm surprised I didn't take to the Internet and go loco on y'all about some recent events. To be honest, I feel as if I've lost a bit of my mojo. 2010 was a shit year, that's for sure. And that really pisses me off because, at the start of 2010, I told everyone, "It's The Year of Dresden Jones." I was serious--I was going to get shit done. But you know that "self-fulfilling prophecy" stuff people talk about? Yeah. That.
As I watched the Vikings lose their only viable shot at the Super Bowl in 400 years because Brad Childress cannot count, I thought, "Oh shit...is this an omen? Will this not be The Year of Dresden Jones?" This sounds ridiculous and I'm 100% aware of that. But I go through life thinking trivial things mean everything and the obvious signs mean nothing. Like, "If I make it through this light, I'll totally get a promotion at work." Where the hell does that come from?
Anyway, I was disappointed but determined not to let football (fucking football) derail The Year of Dresden Jones. And to be fair to the NFL, football had nothing to do with it. No. It was allllll me, baby. I consumed and staggered and blacked out through the year, right up until the very end. Well, that's not entirely true...in September I found myself so devastated that I had to stop driving and sob in my car. Why? Because it was most certainly not The Year of Dresden Jones and that was becoming abundantly clear.
But...have you ever taken you car in for an oil change and suddenly they tell you, "Well, you need an oil change, new wiper blades, 2 new tires (because you can't get just one new tire), your head gasket is leaking and you lost your muffler somewhere on Interstate 94." That's kind of what happened. Only not to my car. To me.
I've been acutely aware that I'm nuts for a long time. To try and remedy this, I see therapists, I take pills, I cry a lot, I write, I drink, I tell people to fuck off, I buy make-up and shoes, I go to the gym, I listen to music, I drink, I get my eyebrows waxed, I solve other people's problems, I eat, I get a massage, I laugh my ass off, I drink, I determine that I am the smartest person in the world, I cry a lot, I decide I need to move, I drink, I get involved with men who have nothing to offer me (or the universe), I decide I need a new job, I take a vacation, I drink, I attempt to stuff something, anything into this gigantic hole inside me and when that fails, I drink.
And then BAM! Something crazy occurs. And I stop and wonder, "Well how the hell did that happen?" Then I feel sorry for myself and I decide that I've been dealt a shit hand and everyone has an easier, happier existence than me. That makes it easier for me to hate everyone and everything--myself the very most.
I've been spinning through life and acting surprised when I get dizzy and fall down.
Then I met this man. When I first saw him, I thought, "Old...messy life...probably has a criminal record. No good; file him in 'stay away.'" I sat next to him like a rocket about to take off, through the ceiling, my arms crossed tightly, my legs jumping, my jaw clenched. This is how I usually am. Why? Because I'm uncomfortable. I have to be doing something--making people laugh, showing people how smart I am, drinking. And even though I was a cold, uptight bitch for an entire hour, that man turned to me and smiled and said, "You're going to be ok." Then he gave me a little something and told me to keep it in my pocket. I wept--not because his gift was so glorious or because I was so upset. But because this man, who I had judged so harshly upon first sight, was so kind to me, so accepting. And he was right. I am going to be ok. After all...it's The Year of Dresden Jones.
As I watched the Vikings lose their only viable shot at the Super Bowl in 400 years because Brad Childress cannot count, I thought, "Oh shit...is this an omen? Will this not be The Year of Dresden Jones?" This sounds ridiculous and I'm 100% aware of that. But I go through life thinking trivial things mean everything and the obvious signs mean nothing. Like, "If I make it through this light, I'll totally get a promotion at work." Where the hell does that come from?
Anyway, I was disappointed but determined not to let football (fucking football) derail The Year of Dresden Jones. And to be fair to the NFL, football had nothing to do with it. No. It was allllll me, baby. I consumed and staggered and blacked out through the year, right up until the very end. Well, that's not entirely true...in September I found myself so devastated that I had to stop driving and sob in my car. Why? Because it was most certainly not The Year of Dresden Jones and that was becoming abundantly clear.
But...have you ever taken you car in for an oil change and suddenly they tell you, "Well, you need an oil change, new wiper blades, 2 new tires (because you can't get just one new tire), your head gasket is leaking and you lost your muffler somewhere on Interstate 94." That's kind of what happened. Only not to my car. To me.
I've been acutely aware that I'm nuts for a long time. To try and remedy this, I see therapists, I take pills, I cry a lot, I write, I drink, I tell people to fuck off, I buy make-up and shoes, I go to the gym, I listen to music, I drink, I get my eyebrows waxed, I solve other people's problems, I eat, I get a massage, I laugh my ass off, I drink, I determine that I am the smartest person in the world, I cry a lot, I decide I need to move, I drink, I get involved with men who have nothing to offer me (or the universe), I decide I need a new job, I take a vacation, I drink, I attempt to stuff something, anything into this gigantic hole inside me and when that fails, I drink.
And then BAM! Something crazy occurs. And I stop and wonder, "Well how the hell did that happen?" Then I feel sorry for myself and I decide that I've been dealt a shit hand and everyone has an easier, happier existence than me. That makes it easier for me to hate everyone and everything--myself the very most.
I've been spinning through life and acting surprised when I get dizzy and fall down.
Then I met this man. When I first saw him, I thought, "Old...messy life...probably has a criminal record. No good; file him in 'stay away.'" I sat next to him like a rocket about to take off, through the ceiling, my arms crossed tightly, my legs jumping, my jaw clenched. This is how I usually am. Why? Because I'm uncomfortable. I have to be doing something--making people laugh, showing people how smart I am, drinking. And even though I was a cold, uptight bitch for an entire hour, that man turned to me and smiled and said, "You're going to be ok." Then he gave me a little something and told me to keep it in my pocket. I wept--not because his gift was so glorious or because I was so upset. But because this man, who I had judged so harshly upon first sight, was so kind to me, so accepting. And he was right. I am going to be ok. After all...it's The Year of Dresden Jones.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
This is why I could never be a superhero
My favorite part of going to the movies is really the previews. I like to see what terrible films Ben Affleck and Kate Hudson plan to terrorize me with. When I saw Black Swan, there was a preview for Sucker Punch, a "girls can do anything boys can do, only better and in way cuter outfits" flick. From what I gathered, a hot chick is thrown into a psych ward merely for defending herself against a man and a hot dominatrix-type with smokey eyes shows her that the keys to freedom lie within her imagination. She meets a guru-esque older gentleman, who explains how she will find what she seeks (freedom? Happiness? Self confidence? A new cherry red lipstick?). He tells her she must find 5 things: a map, a key, fire, a knife and a mystery. While watching this exchange, I imagine all the questions I would have for the guru; questions that would totally derail the whole spiritual process. This may be my whole problem in life.
"You need to find five things: a map--"
Wait, a map of what? Like a globe or a flat map? Of the world or just the United States? Or wait--like a Mapquest map? Like turn-by-turn directions? More information would help, I'm just sayin'....
"...a key..."
A key to what? A car key? A skeleton key? Does it need to open something or is it just a symbolic key? Wait, wait--am I taking this too literally? Do you mean, like, the key to your heart? Or an answer key? Like to a test? Is this a test? Is there going to be a test?
"...a knife..."
A butter knife? A paring knife? A bread knife? A little knife? Or is it a big knife? I mean...there are a lot of knives out there. Also...will there be many knives and I have to figure out which one is the right one? Or will I just know that it's the right knife? Or will there only be one knife and that's definitely 100% for sure the knife you're talking about? Throw me a bone, dude.
"...fire..."
Wait, what? What do you mean? What do you mean, 'fire'? How do you bring back fire? Is it in candle form? A torch? Or do I just need to find a lighter? Oh--do I need to make a fire? Like using a rock and a magnifying glass or something? Is it a firePLACE? I really don't know how the hell I can bring you fire. What if I burn the fuck up? What then? Then this whole thing will have been a giant waste of time.
"...and a mystery."
Ok, now you're just fucking with me. This whole goddamned thing is a mystery! Is this...are you...am I being punked or whatever? For real, I'm not busting my ass for nothing. What did you say your name was again? Do you have a degree or something? I call bullshit.
"You need to find five things: a map--"
Wait, a map of what? Like a globe or a flat map? Of the world or just the United States? Or wait--like a Mapquest map? Like turn-by-turn directions? More information would help, I'm just sayin'....
"...a key..."
A key to what? A car key? A skeleton key? Does it need to open something or is it just a symbolic key? Wait, wait--am I taking this too literally? Do you mean, like, the key to your heart? Or an answer key? Like to a test? Is this a test? Is there going to be a test?
"...a knife..."
A butter knife? A paring knife? A bread knife? A little knife? Or is it a big knife? I mean...there are a lot of knives out there. Also...will there be many knives and I have to figure out which one is the right one? Or will I just know that it's the right knife? Or will there only be one knife and that's definitely 100% for sure the knife you're talking about? Throw me a bone, dude.
"...fire..."
Wait, what? What do you mean? What do you mean, 'fire'? How do you bring back fire? Is it in candle form? A torch? Or do I just need to find a lighter? Oh--do I need to make a fire? Like using a rock and a magnifying glass or something? Is it a firePLACE? I really don't know how the hell I can bring you fire. What if I burn the fuck up? What then? Then this whole thing will have been a giant waste of time.
"...and a mystery."
Ok, now you're just fucking with me. This whole goddamned thing is a mystery! Is this...are you...am I being punked or whatever? For real, I'm not busting my ass for nothing. What did you say your name was again? Do you have a degree or something? I call bullshit.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Strap yourself in, Mags.
I got my first angry comment! YES. You know what this means? It means that enough people are reading and sharing my blog that even someone who reads blindly and is angered by something she thinks is happening was pissed off enough to take the time to write a comment about an old post (See comments under the blog: "Oooooooh sir. Oh sir."). Let's all thank "Margaret" for stopping by. I will always post your comments--they make me giddy.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Untitled
Today is December 31, 2010 and my Aunt Terry died at the very young age of 49. Her death is making me feel all kinds of things; sadness, anger, fear...you name it. It's also making me think about what it means to be an auntie.
I won't lie, I am not extremely close to my father's siblings. Part of the reason for that is that they are all over the country. But another reason is that my father and his siblings--4 sisters and 1 brother--had very challenging childhoods and when my father left home, he truly left. He still had regular contact with his siblings and never stopped loving them but his goal was to make a new family. So he had us.
I am an auntie. I have 2 nieces who are stunningly beautiful, incredibly intelligent and have the ability to make me smile even in my worst times. I hope I have more nieces and nephews because I know the joy of seeing my nieces faces light up when I come through the door; I love the sound of my niece Quinlan's soft little cheer of "Aunt Dee!"; I relish the wide smile and sound resembling "Hi Dee" that I get from my niece Sawyer. There is nothing more amazing than holding them in my arms and feeling the warmth of their little bodies, thinking of all the amazing things that lie ahead of them and knowing that I would give my life for theirs without hesitation.
Being an auntie is such a pleasure and I wouldn't trade it for anything. It means that I will take them to movies and let them eat too much popcorn. It means I will have slumber parties with them and let them stay up as late as they want. It means I will buy them toys that make noise just to annoy their parents. I will always say yes to hot chocolate, to cookies, to gummi bears. It means I will listen without judgment when they are angry at their parents. I will try to say wise things occasionally and I will never ask them if they have a boyfriend because I never want them to think that I believe they need anything other than themselves.
When I die, my nieces will still be alive and thriving. I want them to remember that I made them laugh, that I always listened and that I made a difference somehow, to someone. Above all, I want them to remember that I loved them with all my heart and it never, ever wavered or faded. That's all I can ask for.
I won't lie, I am not extremely close to my father's siblings. Part of the reason for that is that they are all over the country. But another reason is that my father and his siblings--4 sisters and 1 brother--had very challenging childhoods and when my father left home, he truly left. He still had regular contact with his siblings and never stopped loving them but his goal was to make a new family. So he had us.
I am an auntie. I have 2 nieces who are stunningly beautiful, incredibly intelligent and have the ability to make me smile even in my worst times. I hope I have more nieces and nephews because I know the joy of seeing my nieces faces light up when I come through the door; I love the sound of my niece Quinlan's soft little cheer of "Aunt Dee!"; I relish the wide smile and sound resembling "Hi Dee" that I get from my niece Sawyer. There is nothing more amazing than holding them in my arms and feeling the warmth of their little bodies, thinking of all the amazing things that lie ahead of them and knowing that I would give my life for theirs without hesitation.
Being an auntie is such a pleasure and I wouldn't trade it for anything. It means that I will take them to movies and let them eat too much popcorn. It means I will have slumber parties with them and let them stay up as late as they want. It means I will buy them toys that make noise just to annoy their parents. I will always say yes to hot chocolate, to cookies, to gummi bears. It means I will listen without judgment when they are angry at their parents. I will try to say wise things occasionally and I will never ask them if they have a boyfriend because I never want them to think that I believe they need anything other than themselves.
When I die, my nieces will still be alive and thriving. I want them to remember that I made them laugh, that I always listened and that I made a difference somehow, to someone. Above all, I want them to remember that I loved them with all my heart and it never, ever wavered or faded. That's all I can ask for.
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