Jackin’ With Mama Gump

My name is not Merriam or Webster, nor am I from Oxford.  Despite this, my angelic little cherub spends hours a day peppering me with incessant requests to define words.  In lieu of the fact that most days I border on having delayed cognitive functioning, I do my best to answer even though it would really be best for him to wait for first grade to begin.

“Mommy, what does ‘almost’ mean?”

It’s like when you have one bite of food left.  You’re almost done, but not quite.

“Oh.”

Score!  Now I’ll take Analogies for $500, Alex!!

This new passion for defining words has escalated to the point that it consumes most of our time.  The words that he wants defined are fairly simple, everyday words, that are difficult for someone who is language-impaired to explain.

“What does ‘maybe’ mean?”

It’s not a yes or a no, it’s in between.  Like maybe I’ll actually get the kitchen cleaned up, if you stop asking questions.

“What does ‘soon’ mean?”

It means, uh…something that’s coming up, but not quite yet…like senility.

“What does ‘senility’ mean?”

You get the picture.

This has been going on for a couple of weeks now, and the words I’m defining are becoming more and more simple.  A few times I’ve looked at my husband and muttered, “Mama always had a way of explainin’ things so I could understand them.”

I mean, seriously, I was starting to worry that there was a massive brain cell die-off occurring.  And when I think that, I always quote Forrest Gump.  Who doesn’t, amiright?

Yesterday was the last straw.  We returned from camp, and walking up to the house, Connor said “watch out for the ant pile, mommy.”

Then he turned to me and said, “what’s a pile?”

That one was easy to define, there were examples in the laundry room as well as the backyard.  But I’d had enough, and decided that was the last time. A few minutes later, he asked me what ‘hysterical’ means.  This is a word he uses every single day, whenever he is just beside himself with laughter.

What do you think hysterical means?

“I don’t know.”

Do you think it means ‘sad’?

“No.”

Do you think it means scared?

“NO!”

He hates being quizzed.  So he blurts out “it means when something is funny!”

If you know what these words mean, then why are you asking me?

“I don’t know.”

So all this time, at least on most of the words, he is totally yanking my chain.

Guess what, I know that game too.

“Mommy, can I watch Yo Gabba Gabba?”

What’s Yo Gabba Gabba?

“Stop it!!”

Yeah, I’ll just sit here and wait while you try and describe to me what those  creatures are, ’cause it’s going to be a while.

I might not have a snappy definition for the word “possibly”, but Mama Gump still has some game.

Not as Awesome as the Chicken Story, But Still Mostly Funny

I know, it’s been awhile.  But I’m okay, really.

I’m just tired and feeling drained, like a battery.  Like the 10,000 batteries in my kid’s toys, that all go dead AT THE SAME TIME.  Because I like to spend my Saturdays unscrewing teeny, tiny little screws and changing batteries in cars, walkie talkies, Buzz Lightyear, and Leapster.

But I digress.  Since I am far too tired, and have to gear up for a marathon of battery changing, today I bring you another workplace IM conversation from me and Christine.  You know, Christine of the crazy chicken story?  That was pretty popular, so I thought I’d do it again, although I don’t think this can possibly live up to the legend of the chicken story.

(Back story:  we refer to the singer, Tom Petty, as “Uncle Tom.”  I don’t know why, we just do.  Yes, I know we’re weird.  I’m okay with it.)

Christine:
Your uncle, Tom, is so talented.  I just love him.   “Don’t do me like that, don’t do me like that, well I love you baby, don’t, don’t, don’t……..

Flannery:
Uncle Tom gets drunk and pisses on my houseplants every Xmas.

.
Christine:
Part of his charm, really.

.
Flannery:
That and his aroma of Drakkar Noir, chipped beef, and whisky.

.
Christine:
HAHAHAHAHAHA
‘Drakkar Noir’
I guess it’s better than your uncle Darryl’s smell of old man and bean farts.

.
Flannery:
You know what, everyone makes fun of Darryl, but ever since that lawnmower chopped off his two smallest toes on the left foot, he hasn’t been the same.

Mumbles about the “good old days” and “push mowers”

.
Christine:
Yeah, he really turned his life around when he took in that Vietnamese kid.  He really started dressing nicer and his hands and feet look amazing too!

.
Flannery:
Yeah, and Phuc Minh seems to really like him, always calling him “Uncle Mister Darryl” and holding his hand.  So sweet.

.
Christine:
This client’s name is Jebediah B. Guttery.  Why do images of The Dukes of Hazard flood my mind when I hear that, mixed with nauseousness and a craving for steak, all at the same time……….?

.
Flannery:
I think he smokes a pipe and wears his belt on the very last notch.

.
Christine:
Me too.  Hopefully his parents died in an unfortunate piranha attack for naming him that.

.
Flannery:
Nothing left but a pinky ring and a set of dentures.

.
Christine:
Oh they found a monocle too, which Jebediah now wears.

.
Flannery:
He likes to sit in his leather chair, smoke his pipe, and reminisce about the good old days with his cats and his penchant for french whores.

.
Christine:
And shorn scrotes.

.

Christine:

Hey, I know you’re all about the 80′s and everything but I have a real problem with the band, Air Supply.

.
Flannery:

I don’t think Air Supply was a real band.  We all collectively imagined them.  Like a bad acid trip.

.
Christine:
You 80′s kids and your wacky imagined bands.

.
Flannery:
Yes, like Dexys Midnight Runners.

This never really happened.

.
Christine:
Hey, I like Come On Eileen!

.
Christine:
Amber just told me about a burger place in Houston named Grim Burger.  They have a burger that has Mac & cheese, jalapenos, bacon and a fried egg on it.  With the meat and cheese of course.

.
Flannery:
I think we saw that on Food Channel.
The challenge or something.

.
Christine:
That’s effing gross.
Well.  I’d try it if it didn’t have jalapenos.

.
Flannery:
Yeah.  The egg sends it over the top for me.

.
Christine:
Yeah, me too, I mean if I wasn’t gearing up for a heart attack before I ate it…………….

.
Flannery:
Well that should seal the deal.

.
Christine:
You know how they have that bitter apple stuff for dogs that you can spray on furniture and what not to deter them from chewing on it?

.
Flannery:
Uh huh.

.
Christine:
I wish something for humans that you could drop onto your tongue to make you not hungry (sort of the same concept).
Well not really but you know.
*I wish there were something*

.
Flannery:
Well gosh, Christine, if they could do that then all those diet places would be out of business.  Well, I’m sure it’s not that, I’m sure they just don’t have the science to do it.  It’s not that they care about those businesses.  No…

.
Christine:
Are you good at chemistry?

.
Flannery:
Why, chemistry is my favorite hobby!

.
Christine:
At least I try to include you in my ideas for making money.

.
Flannery:
You should know me well enough by now that I can hardly find my way across the street, let alone be trusted with deadly chemicals and mixing them together all willy-nilly.

.
Christine:
I don’t consider you to be that helpless…….
You found your way to my house.
Damn you Phil Collins, damn you!!!!!!  I HATE it when I’m jamming out and then I realize that I’m a full minute into a Phil Collins song and tears are forming in the corner of my eyes because his voice is so touching.
I hate that man.
I hate his music.

.
Flannery:
Sissy.

.

Somebody Asked Me to Guest Post

I know, I can’t believe it either, but someone asked me to guest post today!

 

The wonderful Rachel, of Journeys with Autism, asked me write a post about ADHD.  Normally I just get an amusing thought about something and bang out a post in ten minutes.  But this, this is serious.  So I thought about it, and thought some more, and then couldn’t think of anything, and then at the very last minute I managed to put something together.

 

So make sure to stop by Rachel’s blog and check it out.  She has tons of great posts, and a lot of excellent information about autism.

Hater Humpday

Welcome to hater humpday, the brainchild of the illustrious Dawn from This Side of Typical.

Because sometimes happiness is overrated.

Yard work.  It’s the doing of work, which is not my favorite thing, and it’s done in the yard, where there’s dirt and bugs and fire ants.

So we decided to do some yard work this weekend, even though it’s been 80 billion degrees for 30 days now.  All three of us were working as one superhuman team of sweaty, irritable, complaining yard improvement machines.

Then we heard this screech/yelp come from the side of the house.

Hubby ran to the side of the house just as Dora, the crazy dingo dog, came racing past him toward the back porch.  With something in her mouth.

We all turn to look, and we see that she is standing at the back door with a bloody rat in her mouth.

DIS-GUST-ING

And since, when faced with a great and mighty challenge, we operate like a band of stealthy ninjas, this is how we all reacted:

Hubs:  Runs to the porch to try and extract the rat from her mouth because she was shaking it around like a squeaky toy.

Borrowed from Allie Brosh at Hyperbole & a Half.

Me:  Stands in yard, waving arms in the air, yelling “Oh my god, it’s a RAT!!!  Where did a rat come from?!  How could there be a rat?  I’ve never seen any rats around here!  What are we going to do?  OHMYGOD SHE HAS A RAAAAAT!!!!!

We're all gonna die!!!

Connor:  Runs in circles, yelling “Mommy, why does Dora have a rat?  What is she doing with it?  What’s going to happen? I WANT TO GO IN THE HOUSE, I’M SCARED!”

Just so we have a picture of this, the dog is standing on the back porch, with a spatter of blood up her face.  The rat head is in her mouth, and the body and tail are hanging out.  And the rat body is TWITCHING AND JERKING AND DRIPPING BLOOD.

So hubs managed to get her to release her new chew toy, but since it’s still twitching, husband has to hold it down with his foot (we need to burn those sneakers).  So he tells me to hand him the only thing I have in my hands, so he can use it to hold the rat down while Connor runs to get his gloves.  And the thing in my hand is HEDGE CLIPPERS.

It’s not like he can hold the rat down with the handles, so he had to use the point of the clippers, which impaled the damn thing.

Impaled.  Rat.

So Connor throws the gloves at him and runs into the house and slams the door.  But his morbid curiosity didn’t keep him from standing with his face pressed against the sliding glass door.

With the gloves on, hubs disappears around the side of the house with the bloody, twitching rat.

When he returns several minutes later, I’m hosing off the porch.   I ask him, “what did you do with it?”

And here is what he told me:

“I took it to the side of the house, by the trash cans.  But it wasn’t dead, so I had to find something to kill it.  SO I TOOK TWO HUGE BRICKS AND PUT THEM ON TOP OF IT.  Its back end was sticking out, and I was afraid it was going to POP.”

Well that's just fucking great, you've upset Brad!!

In response to this story, I ask “why didn’t you just whack it with the shovel?”

And he says, “I had to use the closest thing I could find.”

So while I stood there pondering whether it was safe to clean the rat blood off the dog’s head with bleach and a blowtorch, she started doing this crazy, happy murder dance in front of me, wiggling and waggling her butt from side to side, and throwing her head back over her shoulder to look at me.

She looked just like this, except she's a dog, not an actual zombie.

You may recall that I’ve written about this dog before, and her nonsense and shenanigans.  That rat was her golden ticket to an eternal place in our family.  And I also used a much milder abrasive to clean her bloody snout.

In conclusion of Hater Humpday, let me reiterate that I HATE YARD WORK.  Also, rats.

But I will keep hope alive that someday, someday my hopes and dreams will be answered when that renegade band of roving gardeners descends upon my yard with reckless abandon, angrily weaving the fried remains of our shrubbery into a glorious wonderland of greenery.

An Important Announcement, of Epic Proportions

It’s come to my attention that summer camps do not like working with children with “challenges.”  It came to my attention by way of several phone calls at work, requiring me to leave early to pick up my child, and then being wished well as we find a new placement.

It also seems that my employer is not in a position to be understanding or supportive of this particular problem.  They seem to think that my not being at work is a “problem”.  So, while my job hangs in the balance, I started brainstorming ways to support myself, and my child.

I think I have the answer.

There’s still time for me to throw my bra hat in the ring.  For the big job.  That’s right….EL PRESIDENTE!!!!

Since I don’t see how I could do any worse than some of our former presidents (*cough* Dubya), I think it’s a solid plan.  I’ve started thinking about campaign slogans and need to narrow it down.

1.  Listen fuckwads, we’re gonna do some shit differently around here.

2.  We are the champions, my friends, and we’ll keep on fighting to the end.

3.  Big pimpin’ in Washington DC…big pimpin’ spendin’ cheese.

4.  The right captain for this ship of fools

5.  Tippecanoe and Flannery too.

6.  A chicken in every La Creuset and a mini-van with automatic sliding doors in every garage.

And because I’m no slouch, and am really committed to the job, I have already begun drafting some new legislation.  We’re going to need some new rules, because I care about making people happy, damnit, and I think they will be better than the old ones.

1.  Gay marriage is legal everywhere!!  Fuck it, get married…you’ll also be taxed at the married rate, so enjoy!

2.  Every street in ever city will be required to have a left turn signal.  No more of this bullshit of having to play frogger to make a left turn.

.
3.  Henceforth, our national food will be bacon, not apple pie.  Our national drink will be Red Bull.  From now on, we will say  “that’s as American as Red Bull and bacon.”

Oops, wrong bacon. Eh, what the heck.

4.  Foreign relations *something something* will now be *mutter mutter* and everyone will be happy!

5.  We will maximize our domestic exports by shipping Lady Gaga over to Japan.  Those harajuku girls should be ready for a new, kookie look.  They will adore us for this sign of goodwill.  Also, we will send Lohan, Snookie, the Situation, and the Kardashian girls to Singapore for a good caning.  Again, I feel this will help build support around the world and will strengthen diplomatic relations.

On second thought, the world may hate us....

6.  Liquor will be available for sale 7 days a week, because I care about the people that get too hammered on Saturday to remember to stock up for pro-sports game day.

Hello there, old friends!

7.  Texas will become their own sovereign nation.  Their coastline is full of oil anyway and they’ve been wanting to separate for years, so it’s a win-win for everyone.

See ya!

This platform should be enough to get me started.  And really, the 7-day liquor law should get me enough votes on its own.  Just in case, I have some back-up plans.  I’m thinking that ensuring that every child on the spectrum will receive appropriate therapy, regardless of parent’s income or ability to pay is a good start.  Also, perhaps making it mandatory that every childcare service has staff that are trained to understand and work with kids on the spectrum. 

Now I don’t know anything about funding these services, because that’s fancy financial talk that I don’t understand.  BUT, if I was voted President, then I would for sure hire someone that knows about those kinds of things, and I’m sure they would think of a way to make it happen.

I’m pretty sure that’s what the other guys do, right?  And the bonus to having me in that position will be my emphasis on things that are important to us, like booze and bacon and spectrum kids.

Anyway, it’s just a rough draft.  But at the rate things are going, I’ll have lots of time to plan it out more thoroughly.

Cowboy Gil Would Be Crying Like a Bitch After One Day

In my list of favorite movies, somewhere in the top 10, but below Fried Green Tomatoes (shut up) and Shawshank Redemption, was the movie Parenthood, with Steve Martin.  The movie spoke to me because it was a real, down and dirty, underwear-lodged-in-your-butt portrayal of raising kids.

Or so I thought.  Before I became a parent.  I can’t even watch that movie now.  But a couple of weeks ago the movie was on cable, and I tried to watch it, but it annoyed the piss out of me.

First, there’s the analogy of how life is like a roller coaster, with all the ups and downs and what-not.  I used to think that was true, and thought it was a fitting description.  Now I know better.

If it was REALLY like a roller coaster, then the part that goes down would happen at night.  In a rainstorm.  And there would be zombies chasing you, trying to eat your face.  And you’d be on your period.  AND you’d be doubled over in excruciating stomach pain from trying to control the explosive diarrhea.

Then one of the zombies jumps onto the cart and manages to gnaw off your right arm before the roller coaster comes to a stop.  So you manage to rip your arm out of the zombie’s mouth, and have to run through the park to find the exit.  But you have to drag that bloody stump of a right arm with you, and it’s really heavy, but you keep thinking that maybe you can get it reattached, so you better hang onto it.  But then you see your kid over at the ice cream concession stand, and he’s trying to cram as much ice cream into his face as possible before you see him, and the zombies are closing in on him.  So you run over and you have to beat them away with your bloody arm stump and scream at him to put the damn ice cream down.  Then you ask him to help you carry the arm-stump because it’s really heavy, but he whines that it’s too heavy and, geez, he can’t even help you with that after you saved him from the zombies, fercryingoutloud.

There.  Much more realistic.

The other annoying thing about that movie is the kid.  Steve Martin’s son, Kevin, has emotional issues, and the parents are beside themselves trying to figure out what to do.

It's all fun and games until the zombies eat your face.

Give me a break.

The kid has some anxiety, I get that.  He’s kind of whiny and emotional.  Fine.  But seriously….if your kid isn’t head-butting and shin-kicking the summer camp counselors, and you’re not getting called at work to come and get him, then it could be worse.

Yes, that’s my little darling I’m talking about.  I’d like to see Cowboy Gil get out of that camp alive with his balloon animals and water pistol.  If that’s all you’ve got, Cowboy Gil, you might as well mosey your ass over to the zombie ride and wait for sweet, sweet death.

So, yeah, that movie is off my top ten list.  I’m replacing it with Just Friends, which is one of the funniest. movies. ever.  And it’s got Ryan Reynolds, BONUS!!!

Now, if I could get Anna Faris to run the summer camp, in character as Samantha James, then I think we might have ourselves a camp that can contain my kid!

She'll take your head butt and raise you a throat punch.