A funny thing has happened in the last 48 hours.
I posted the blog (below) about how April is a hard month for me and, unlike usual, no one commented, no one "liked" the post on Facebook... it was Radio Silence. (And then my friend posted the first line from "The Wasteland" by T.S. Eliot and my English Major brain smiled and purred like a Cheshire cat)
I started to wonder whether my post was inappropriate or just not what you like to read; then I went back and counted how many blogs have used or been focused on a or my vagina, and I figured y'all are pretty tough to piss off.
And then, suddenly, replies to the blog started hitting my inbox. And then, suddenly, I realized that I am very far from alone with my feelings this month.
If this blog really spoke to you, but you can't for any multitude of reasons talk about it out loud, thank you for taking the time to tell me. And, you're welcome, welcome, welcome for bringing it up.
Admittedly I haven't been blogging as much lately (read: this year) because I've been so overwhelmed with life that any second I get to chill out I just do. PLUS, I had to watch the entire Arrested Development series before the new ones (15 episodes!! All at once!!) come out May 26th on Netflix. I swear, Netflix GETS me.
At any rate, I will return to our irregularly scheduled hilarity soon. Maybe even today or next week.
I have this story floating around my brain...
Saturday 27 April 2013
Thursday 25 April 2013
It's April! Meh. That's all I got.
Once again, it's April.
Once again, this low-level anxiety seems to have taken ahold of my upper chest.
What is it about Spring that makes me homicidal? Is it the happy chirps of the rockin' robins getting it on? Is it the delightful sound of Fall buds pushing their way to the surface, determined to live again like so many zombies before them?
I don't think so. At least, I can't imagine why horny birds and tenacious plants would make my right eye twitch ever-so-slightly.
When I feel this way I usually try to combat it with extra volunteering or other selfless acts that force me to look like a good person. I'm basically doing the old "fake-it-'til-ya-make-it" routine; I'm kicking at the proverbial darkness until it bleeds daylight. (Thanks, Lightfoot, old buddy, old pal.)
But this week, my legs are fucking tired of kicking.
I know I'm not alone. I know this malaise isn't unique to me, and that's one of the ways I can usually reason my way to normalcy. But, in April? Not a chance. I go nutzo this month every year and seem powerless to stop it. I try eating better, I make sure to exercise (it helps to have strong leg muscles when darkness-kicking) and consciously go to bed earlier. Yet, here I am, once again, in April wondering why I don't throw my hands up, donate my shit to charity and move to Paris.
Once upon a time, in a land before children, where life is easy, money flows from heaven and sleepless nights are a result of desire, not the fruits of that desire...
Wait... uh, I tried to remember those all-night love fests and I think my head exploded.
Where was I?
Meh. It'll come to me later.
Anyway, I feel like April is this month where the "just-get-through-it" attitude that saw me through Winter, flips me the bird and gets in a car with a bunch of strippers and NO seatbelts!
I feel tied down, stuck, like someone opened a jar of natural peanut butter, poured out the oil and then panicked when the knife stuck in so much curing cement.
Oddly enough, I'm not someone that floats around; I prefer being somewhat "stuck" (don't tell anyone or you'll ruin my rep). When we moved to France, it was the Hubster who kept his wits about him and found us a house while I frantically chanted "Where are we gonna live? I need a homebase." over and over Rainman-style. When we moved to Colorado, the Hubster insisted on going out by himself first to find an apartment. I assume it was for the sake of our [then new] marriage. Don't worry, I still wore crop circles into the carpets while I waited. I still chanted "WhereWeGonnaLiveINeedAHombase" only this time, I was that tree falling in the forest while everyone else wasn't around to hear it.
For the record, yes, it made a sound; it sounded like Christopher Lloyd laughing while gargling.
Yeaaah.
Maybe that's what makes me so crazy every Spring? Everything in April is starting out again, fresh and new and all that chaos gets into my bones and disrupts my DNA like Dr. Bruce Banner's Gamma rays. No matter how hard I try to push it out, the growth and change is ubiquitous; it's like flip flops or sex in music videos. In fact, when I just re-read that paragraph my heartbeat accelerated. I might be on to something.
And let's just talk about P!nk for a second, too. Everytime I turn on the radio or open my Facebook, the woman is doing something ELSE that is amazing and heroic proving that she's Supermom/wife/star. I think there was a time when I would've been jealous, or at least provoked to duty hearing her stories of helping crying fans in the crowd in the middle of a concert. I know I would've thought/said/done things like, "Oh, well, if P!nk can help the March of Dimes in the middle of a tour, I can bake 1000 fondant-topped cupcakes, all by myself, for the school bakesale!"
Now, though, I look and say, "Ahh yes. The working-insanely-while-trying-to-also-be-100%-mom-and-wife routine. I remember that. It sucked."
It's ok P!nk. We've all been there. We all understand and none of us will judge you if you put down the world for a second and rest your aching muscles. Prometheus had Hercules, and so you have your Hubby.
It's ok.
On that note, however, I still feel like shite. And frankly, I don't like that you're re-reading that P!nk part, feeling sorry for both her and yourself and you've completely stopped caring about my problems. I'm on to you, Sister!
So, back to me: I feel like I should be in Paris walking leisurely along the cobblestone on my way to the Tour Eiffel.
(dream sequence initiated)
I will be wearing some jeans and a black top with an amazing turquoise scarf at my neck. Oh! And I'll have on a Hipster-glasses-and-beard combo that will further prove how chic and cool I really am. I'll have my trusty messenger bag on my shoulder and be heading for a walk-- or more likely, I'm actually hideously lost in the middle of a walk but everything is so pretty that I can hardly notice my throbbing feet. I should be able to hear some pervy looking guy playing the accordion, which is being kept to the beat of 10 000 backfiring scooters. Those delicious, gag-riffic diesel clouds will cover me in a fine soot that really doesn't wash off the first time. I want to be surviving on espresso in teeny, tiny cups, fromage and baguette while I look around and see ... see those damned robins humping and stupid buds pushing out of the ground. GAH! Even my reveries are full of my nemeses!
Ok.
Fine. I get it. No matter where I am, my brain will struggle.
Quit fighting the waves, put my hands up, let them wash over me and go with the flow. Or perish trying to fight them.
Gah. Ok. So here I am: Real, Tired and Struggling.
Anybody else ready to kick at some darkness with me?
Once again, this low-level anxiety seems to have taken ahold of my upper chest.
 |
| Otherwise identical it's easy to see how Plants (L) and Zombies (R) only differ in colouring and blood seepage. |
I don't think so. At least, I can't imagine why horny birds and tenacious plants would make my right eye twitch ever-so-slightly.
When I feel this way I usually try to combat it with extra volunteering or other selfless acts that force me to look like a good person. I'm basically doing the old "fake-it-'til-ya-make-it" routine; I'm kicking at the proverbial darkness until it bleeds daylight. (Thanks, Lightfoot, old buddy, old pal.)
But this week, my legs are fucking tired of kicking.
I know I'm not alone. I know this malaise isn't unique to me, and that's one of the ways I can usually reason my way to normalcy. But, in April? Not a chance. I go nutzo this month every year and seem powerless to stop it. I try eating better, I make sure to exercise (it helps to have strong leg muscles when darkness-kicking) and consciously go to bed earlier. Yet, here I am, once again, in April wondering why I don't throw my hands up, donate my shit to charity and move to Paris.
Once upon a time, in a land before children, where life is easy, money flows from heaven and sleepless nights are a result of desire, not the fruits of that desire...
Wait... uh, I tried to remember those all-night love fests and I think my head exploded.
Where was I?
Meh. It'll come to me later.
Anyway, I feel like April is this month where the "just-get-through-it" attitude that saw me through Winter, flips me the bird and gets in a car with a bunch of strippers and NO seatbelts!
I feel tied down, stuck, like someone opened a jar of natural peanut butter, poured out the oil and then panicked when the knife stuck in so much curing cement.
Oddly enough, I'm not someone that floats around; I prefer being somewhat "stuck" (don't tell anyone or you'll ruin my rep). When we moved to France, it was the Hubster who kept his wits about him and found us a house while I frantically chanted "Where are we gonna live? I need a homebase." over and over Rainman-style. When we moved to Colorado, the Hubster insisted on going out by himself first to find an apartment. I assume it was for the sake of our [then new] marriage. Don't worry, I still wore crop circles into the carpets while I waited. I still chanted "WhereWeGonnaLiveINeedAHombase" only this time, I was that tree falling in the forest while everyone else wasn't around to hear it.
 |
| Great Scott! No wonder he left you here and went to look for housing! You're lucky he told you the new address. |
For the record, yes, it made a sound; it sounded like Christopher Lloyd laughing while gargling.
Yeaaah.
Maybe that's what makes me so crazy every Spring? Everything in April is starting out again, fresh and new and all that chaos gets into my bones and disrupts my DNA like Dr. Bruce Banner's Gamma rays. No matter how hard I try to push it out, the growth and change is ubiquitous; it's like flip flops or sex in music videos. In fact, when I just re-read that paragraph my heartbeat accelerated. I might be on to something.
And let's just talk about P!nk for a second, too. Everytime I turn on the radio or open my Facebook, the woman is doing something ELSE that is amazing and heroic proving that she's Supermom/wife/star. I think there was a time when I would've been jealous, or at least provoked to duty hearing her stories of helping crying fans in the crowd in the middle of a concert. I know I would've thought/said/done things like, "Oh, well, if P!nk can help the March of Dimes in the middle of a tour, I can bake 1000 fondant-topped cupcakes, all by myself, for the school bakesale!"
Now, though, I look and say, "Ahh yes. The working-insanely-while-trying-to-also-be-100%-mom-and-wife routine. I remember that. It sucked."
It's ok P!nk. We've all been there. We all understand and none of us will judge you if you put down the world for a second and rest your aching muscles. Prometheus had Hercules, and so you have your Hubby.
It's ok.
On that note, however, I still feel like shite. And frankly, I don't like that you're re-reading that P!nk part, feeling sorry for both her and yourself and you've completely stopped caring about my problems. I'm on to you, Sister!
So, back to me: I feel like I should be in Paris walking leisurely along the cobblestone on my way to the Tour Eiffel.
(dream sequence initiated)
 |
| No, this is not a giant pile of dog shit near the Eiffel Tower. It's a lazy attempt to draw cobblestone. Although, there are similarly sized and shaped piles of dog shit near the Eiffel Tower. |
Ok.
Fine. I get it. No matter where I am, my brain will struggle.
Quit fighting the waves, put my hands up, let them wash over me and go with the flow. Or perish trying to fight them.
Gah. Ok. So here I am: Real, Tired and Struggling.
Anybody else ready to kick at some darkness with me?
Wednesday 10 April 2013
A Hole of One's Own
Kiddo #2 has been a "turtle" about going to bed lately-- well, forever but more so lately.
A "turtle," by the way, is the term we created because one day Kiddo #2 was being a gigantic turd and I'm pretty sure "turd" is a swear to a two-year-old, so I drew it out and tuuuuuuurd...le was born.
So he's been a turtle lately-- changing his jammies 92 times, sneaking out to get all measure of snacks... You name it. But he's also become clever enough to realize there are some get-out-of-trouble cards he can play. He can invent nightmares that keep him awake; but he's so pitifully slow about it that watching him look up and to the left while pausing ... Between ... Every couple... Of words? And making... Them questions? Is almost hilarious. He has also figured out that needing to use the toilet works, but only if he produces results. And a couple times, in desperation to stay up, he's even told us he has leg aches, but those always end with A535 being rubbed into his skin: if your muscles don't actually hurt A535 is an intensely painful way to try to get out of going to bed.
Yesterday, during curtain call #4, he arrived wearing a pj shirt on upside down, with his legs in the sleeves and holding the bottom of the shirt up by his nipples. Sporting neither a diaper nor his Thomas The Tank Engine underoos, he trotted out and said, "Mom, These are my new Dino pants."
Me: Uh, I think that's a shirt on upside down. Go back to bed.
Kiddo #2: No, these are Dino jammies. I love them.
Me: I really don't think that is pants. It's a shirt. Your legs are in the sleeves...
Kiddo #2: No, they're pants! And I love my Dino pants. Plus, Momma, (while shaking his hips like Elvis) PLUS, there's a hole for my penis!
Dancing about, while Kiddo#2 shook his hips, was his penis.
Yes, out through the neck hole of the dinosaur pyjamas peaked his privates. And, while I should have scolded him or not laughed, AT LEAST, all I could think of was how isn't that the crux of manhood: the pursuit of a lovely, comfortable hole for one's penis?
Who could ask for anything more, really?
A "turtle," by the way, is the term we created because one day Kiddo #2 was being a gigantic turd and I'm pretty sure "turd" is a swear to a two-year-old, so I drew it out and tuuuuuuurd...le was born.
So he's been a turtle lately-- changing his jammies 92 times, sneaking out to get all measure of snacks... You name it. But he's also become clever enough to realize there are some get-out-of-trouble cards he can play. He can invent nightmares that keep him awake; but he's so pitifully slow about it that watching him look up and to the left while pausing ... Between ... Every couple... Of words? And making... Them questions? Is almost hilarious. He has also figured out that needing to use the toilet works, but only if he produces results. And a couple times, in desperation to stay up, he's even told us he has leg aches, but those always end with A535 being rubbed into his skin: if your muscles don't actually hurt A535 is an intensely painful way to try to get out of going to bed.
Yesterday, during curtain call #4, he arrived wearing a pj shirt on upside down, with his legs in the sleeves and holding the bottom of the shirt up by his nipples. Sporting neither a diaper nor his Thomas The Tank Engine underoos, he trotted out and said, "Mom, These are my new Dino pants."
Me: Uh, I think that's a shirt on upside down. Go back to bed.
Kiddo #2: No, these are Dino jammies. I love them.
Me: I really don't think that is pants. It's a shirt. Your legs are in the sleeves...
Kiddo #2: No, they're pants! And I love my Dino pants. Plus, Momma, (while shaking his hips like Elvis) PLUS, there's a hole for my penis!
Dancing about, while Kiddo#2 shook his hips, was his penis.
Yes, out through the neck hole of the dinosaur pyjamas peaked his privates. And, while I should have scolded him or not laughed, AT LEAST, all I could think of was how isn't that the crux of manhood: the pursuit of a lovely, comfortable hole for one's penis?
Who could ask for anything more, really?
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