Tuesday, July 31, 2012

The Right of Way

Would you believe that I had the most pleasant trip to the DMV yesterday? 

I know, doesn't seem possible.  Consider this.  The last time I drove 120 miles to my nearest DMV to renew my drivers license, the bottom half of my photo ID looked like this:


That expression is the result of drawing number 538 and waiting four hours to be called with your three year old child in tow.  Then right before they call your number someone tries to butt in front of you in line because the DMV is busy, as if you wouldn't mind.  The top of the photo has been edited out because my brain had exploded out of my ears at that point.  And I had to pee.  Bad. 

This time around, when we drove our eighteen year old manchild to the DMV to get a drivers permit, we remembered we could travel 120 miles in another direction and do business at the less busy, and therefore less hostile, DMV. 

Our number?  2. 

Which is not a bathroom reference.  We were the second patrons to walk into the DMV at that point.

Two!  Queue of two!  At the D.Motherlovin'V!  Two bwahahahahaha!

Not only that, but when they called out our number, I let the man that had walked in while we were filling out paperwork go before us.  Number Three sat down, pants drooping down his backside, and vertical smiled his way through his stolen license plates. 

Who had stolen his underwear is anyone's guess and not really the DMV's business, yet, even looking at that was pleasant considering.  I let someone in line before me at the DMV and it was NICE dammit.

The manchild managed to pass his written test and now he's allowed to get behind the wheel as a student driver.  Unfortunately I have to renew my license by mail this year so my reliving the DMV dream won't happen for another four years.  Sigh.  Shame.

Maybe when I do have to go back I'll go without underpants myself. 

Then we'll take a picture of that expression.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Oh no she didn't...

I can't even begin to tell you how I'm all kinds of broken up about those Twilight kids.

You know, because Kristen got her friend to write Robert a note asking him if he liked Kristen, yes or no smily face heart xoxo, and then Robert texted his friend and told him to give Kristen a poke on Facebook and then Kristen's like, no Robert's Friend, I don't like you like that, I like like Robert and Robert saw this and said awesome, and then two minutes later they both changed their relationship status officially confirming their dating and they began suck facing and exchanged vials of their blood.

Then they dated a while, and sucked each other's expressionless faces smearing her eyeliner, and shared each others clothing, and engaged in dubious special effects.  It was magical for everyone to witness.  Their bond was hope for humanity.

Then, all of a sudden, Kristen felt an unplanned emotion and not in a place or time where Robert could catch it like so many tears in a mason jar.  Instead, this dude named Rupert was there and he was so carried away by the miracle of it that he and Kristen sucked face.  After that, Kristen dropped Rupert off at his house where he could suck face with his supermodel wife and color shrinky dinks with their two kids.

Unfortunately the dregs of humanity called the paparazzi were awful practiced at catching who was sucking face with who and caught Kristen swapping saliva with Rupert despite wearing Robert's pin and they told everyone in the whole school and posted pics all over the student quad.

Robert got pissed and demanded that Kristen give him back all the mix tapes he made for her, because, dude, no one cries if you tape over Katy Perry.  Then he dumped her.

Humanity lost hope.

They also lost four dollars buying People magazine.

It's this loss of hope that upsets me.  It doesn't upset me enough to watch their body of work or skim through the associated novels, but I've got a bit of heartburn and some gas.

Please Robert, forgive Kristen!  She only had a momentary lapse in judgement and an odd serotonin hiccup. What you are together is forever and forever.

....however, Rupert's wife Liberty should kick his ass to the curb and totally keep the margarita blender his sister gave them for their wedding.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

The Morton Salt Girl

The boom of thunder commanded me to go outside in this afternoon's warm rain and wash away my sins.  I stood under the rivers running off my eaves, wet my hair, washed my face, and let it rush around my feet.

The cloud soon passed.  The thunder stopped.  The sun came into view.

So I came inside, turned on my computer, and earned my sins back again.

C'est la vie.


Thursday, July 19, 2012

Bazinga Bazongas

Though it's not something I've paid attention to in recent years, I was happy to see that the television I actually watch has been nominated for Emmy awards.  The last ten years or so I've not been interested in popular television.  Someone once asked me if I was excited about the Sex in the City movie and I said I'd rather

Downton Abbey and Mad Men and Big Bang Theory and Project Runway.  Yay!  (Season premiere of Project Runway starts in five minutes.  I've changed my underwear in preparation.)

I was especially thrilled to see that Mayim Bialik was nominated for best supporting actress in a comedy series. 

This is a woman I have a lot of respect for.  I think she is the sort I could talk parenting with all day, never agree with each other once, and still come away understanding one another and as friends.  She parents in a way that works for her and her family, in a genuine way, and has none of that fashionable female guilt about it.

Me too.  Mommy guilt is not something I'm going to dabble in.   I know I've made mistakes.  Sending my eighteen year old child off to a fully funded week long leadership camp this week without any of his precious electronic devices is not one of them.  Super-mama in a pink cape I am not.  His level of fury at this injustice tells me I'm doing in right.   When he comes home he's getting a job and we're cutting off his bandwidth.

Mayim co-sleeps with her boys in the family bed.  No way do I want to co-sleep ever.  This mom would be cranky upon waking up.  There is no reason to sleep with my children's feet anywhere near my body.  No reason to breath in their puppy dog breath or their bull mastiff farts.  No reason to risk any of us wetting the bed.

Mayim is into childwearing.  I was too but not on purpose.  Cuddling and rocking my babies was a complete joy but there was a point I wanting to take a pee without a baby hanging off my chest.  Therefore my kids got swaddled and stuffed into a laundry basket so I could adequately wipe back to front.

Mayim will breastfeed until their kids write their dissertations.  I breastfed for as long as I could which meant that sometimes my kids got formula.  My milk failed with the last one at three months and I wasn't particularly distressed about that.  Of my three boys he's the one that wears thick eyeglasses...shrug.  He's also the one who has only thrown up three times in his seven years and has never had to take an antibiotic...shrug.  I was raised on formula, I can spell, and I'm thrilled to not be lactating today.

Mayim has not allowed her boys to watch much TV at all.  My boys think that the watching of TV provides ample amounts of vitamin D.  When you start your day with an episode of Spongebob Squarepants that you've already seen forty times, who needs dietary fiber?

Mayim circumcized as per her faith.  So did I.  We have faith in different things.  You may comment on that all you like. 

Mayim has met Wil Wheaton.  I have not.  The feelings that brings up in me make me want to call Mayim bitchy names.  True, this has nothing to do with parenting.  Didn't I say that Mayim and I would be friends and rightly so, Mayim has a PhD so I assume she can discuss many topics intelligently.  Neuroscience and Wil Wheaton...both require brains.

Good luck Mayim.  I'm rooting for you.  I am not rooting for the afro kid on Project Runway.  He's a fruit.

Friday, July 13, 2012

Dr. Spock's Guide on Sinking or Swimming

I saw no boxes of tissue on the desks at the Navy recruiter’s office yesterday, which answered my question; no one’s mother got teary watching their 18 year old children attempt to enlist themselves.


My son isn’t official yet.  His previous crisply ironed recruiter dropped the ball and then was shipped off elsewhere.  We’ve gotten a new crisply ironed recruiter, ready to look at my boy like he’s fresh uninitiated meat…young, na├»ve, inexperienced, immature, meat.  Forms were filled out, dated, signed, on their way to the next step where there will be more forms and signing and a doctor who will ask him to turn his head and cough.
This is a reason to tear up as any.  That is, sending him out so the world can make the determination that he’s tasty and then swallow him whole or the determination that he’s not and spit him out like gristle.  My kid says he’s ready and I’m ready but he’s not ready and neither am I.


Did I teach him how to balance a checkbook?  Is that a skill he even needs to know anymore?  I thought I did.  I thought I went over finances.  I told him never to date much less marry anyone that cannot figure compound interest.  When you’re hot and bothered in a dark soft place, slow down and think, “Is this a partner that will understand that you cannot spend your down payment on designer handbags?”  Do partners who understand money in the Navy the kind that are only your partner for about an hour?   Condoms!  I told him about condoms!  We sat in front of Google image search and discussed herpes and genital warts.  Gah!  Why didn’t I talk about tax deductions and investment income?
That’s not the end of my concerns, oh no…
Will he get along with other adults?  More adult adults?  Adults who won’t tell him to stand up straight or chew with his mouth closed or please put on some deodorant for the love of Jeebus?
Will his first love be a wonderful experience or heartbreaking or both?  Especially without the boundaries of a school environment?  Will she take him for a ride and wreck him or build him up to be a better man?


Will he recognize good opportunity when it pops up and bad choices before he makes them?
Will he get a really stupid tattoo that he thinks is a fantastic and profound tattoo?   
Panic is probably the feeling my parents had when I turned 18, when I graduated high school, when I entered the realm of real life three months later married and about to become this man child’s mother.  How could they not?  They are good parents who did not talk about herpes but did make sure I knew how far the money goes. They knew the value of sink or swim.
There are boxes of tissues in obstetrics offices.  They aren’t provided because your mother tears up during your first pelvic exam at your 8 week checkup. They are there because those exams require lube.  Hopefully it’s warmed.
The Navy did offer me a free pencil though.  I’ll take it.

Monday, July 09, 2012

Boobie Zoos

I'm told that today has been National No Bra Day.

I have no clue which influential person sanctioned such an event but hallelujah Fox News, a day where it's been deemed okay to do what I've been doing most of the summer anyway!  Going braless is a profound joy in this heat.  All that sweat stretches out a brassiere unnecessarily.  By the time autumn rolls around your underwire is poking out into your armpits.

However, my celebration of National No Bra Day was cut short this morning with the delivery of my new washer and dryer set.  The delivery men couldn't have known it was No Bra Day and probably thought I was crossing my arms in front of my chest to hide the fact that my old washer was not working properly.

Which it wasn't.  Didn't matter how or what I loaded into the machine, the thing would clunk away during the spin cycles.  This caused much wear on the motor, which caused a burnt residue under the washer, and tore up the new linoleum under it.  The dryer was on it's last legs too.  The door handle broke off and I've been using a hooked putty knife to open it and the plastic rim around the drum had been breaking off in big chunks my last couple loads.

My house didn't burn down.  Yay!  A clunking washer isn't as sexy as you might think a housewife would find it but having a roof to live and sleep under is HAWT.

Truth is that I didn't know it was National No Bra Day until much later and my not wearing any type of undergarment was because it was still early when they arrived.  At the very least I wasn't wearing my favorite pair of pajama pants with the hole in the bottom and a sheer T-shirt, which might have made for an interesting fetish movie, but instead wore the second most worn pair of pants and my Wil Wheaton T-shirt which only makes for a fantastic fetish movie.

The delivery men were so polite and efficient in my presence that I did them the favor of popping into my room and putting on proper undergarments and pants.  And cut.  Print.

I stayed in my bra the rest of the day, thereby sweat-stretching out it's underband.

Meh, I can toss it in the wash.  No biggy. 

Then we'll see how that spin cycle works.

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