Things I Learned Over My Thanksgiving Holiday

Four luxurious days off with the famdamily provides many, many learning experiences.  Here are my most treasured highlights:

1.  45 minutes is not enough time for a picky eater to finish 2-ounces of turkey, a spoonful of stuffing, and a small portion of green beans.  45-seconds is ample time, however, to stuff a buttered dinner biscuit into his mouth and swallow it almost without chewing.

2.  Chocolate silk pie from Marie Calendar’s does not really taste like silk.  It tastes more like a concoction that contains an entire bottle of Hershey’s syrup, and will make you sick.  Unless you’re six-years-0ld, and you will consume almost anything with whipped cream on top.

You'll be sorry, I promise you.

3.  A 35-pound dingo will try to take a turkey leg right out of a grown man’s hand.  The dingo will lose.  Then the dingo will be sentenced to solitary confinement for the rest of the night.

4.  A child will not hear you say “wash your hands” 173 times over four days.  But the one time in four days that you say “son of a bitch”, he will hear that and promptly ask you what a bitch is.

Wash those disgusting things!

5.  Nothing infuses a child with joy and exhilaration like Xmas decorations.  A child will become so moved by the sight, that they will run to the back door (with absolutely no warning whatsoever), throw it open, and shout to the world, “Merry Xmas EVERYONE!”

6.  The very same husband who laments the commercialism and corporate greed of the holidays all through October will be the one that views the Xmas tree with a critical eye, and then will say, with a completely serious face that “it needs more sparkle, don’t we have more sparkle?”  He will also wrap twinkle lights around every bush and tree in the front yard.

My husband.

7.  One cannot see the Lord of the Rings movies enough, judging by the fact that they were playing on a continuous 48-hour loop on one of the cable channels, and each night we would happily sit down and watch whichever one was on.

What's not to love?

8.  Frodo was a pussy.  The real hero was Samwise Gamgee.

Stupid pussy, almost fucked it up for everyone.

9.  There is such a thing as too much pumpkin pie.

10.  Taking your six-year-old downtown to hand out sandwiches to homeless people sounds good in theory, but in practice it means that he will ask random yuppie joggers and scruffy college students if they need a sandwich.  He will spend the rest of the time complaining about being bored and asking repetitively if he can have one of the sandwiches because he is soooooo hungry.

I hope you all had a pleasant, stress-free Thanksgiving!!

Let’s Just Get This Out of the Way Now, Shall We???

Since corporate America rolled out the holiday fanfare about a week before Halloween (and by the way, fuck YOU corporate America), I thought it prudent to make haste with this handy what not to do guide for men that want to stay in their wife’s good graces.

That means if you are a man, and you do not live in a shabby cabin in rural Montana, then you should pay attention.  If you have anyone with a vagina in your life (wife, mother, daughter, girlfriend, aunt, mail-order bride on back order), this should help keep you out of hot water for the holidays.

1.  Don’t buy us slippers.  We don’t need any more fucking slippers.  In fact, if we do need slippers, we will buy our own.  We don’t want you to buy them for us, because you will buy something that is either uncomfortable, itchy, ugly, or just plain stupid.

Yes, I'm sure they WERE on sale, but that doesn't make it right.

2.  In keeping with the slipper theme, don’t buy us bathrobes.  Again, we will get our own bathrobe that will be functional, comfortable, and stylish.  A bathrobe that leaves my hoo-ha hanging out is not functional, just so you know.  I will require something with pockets and a hood, so I can shuffle down the driveway for the paper, and keep my phone in my pocket for the inevitable call from our son’s school, where he will have set off a fire alarm, or “accidentally” removed the grab bar from the handicapped stall in the bathroom.  Again.

Ohhhhh, look at all that functionality. You can even wear it to the beach!

3.  Don’t even think about buying new pots or pans or kitchen appliances.  I’m not going to cook you shit anyway, so why bother?

4.  So help me, if I get an envelope with a card and a gift card, I will gut you like a carp.  You are here 365 days a year, and if in all those days you couldn’t think of one thing to get me, you deserve that forthcoming food poisoning.

5.  Why not try something new this year, and wrap your kid’s gifts?  Or hey, why not go all out and consider schlepping to the store and buying the kid’s gifts??  You know, I would consider that endeavor to be a gift.  I’m easy like that.

6.  Nothing says “I love you” like vodka, except maybe scotch.

A "win" for everyone!!

7.  I didn’t order those three monogrammed Xmas stockings from the Pottery Barn because I wanted to wake up on Xmas morning, year after year, to an empty stocking.  Stocking stuffers are not that hard:  candy, cute socks (not slippers), desk calendar, etc.  Don’t you dare put a box of condoms or batteries for my vibrator in there.  It’s not funny.

Looks like candy, tastes like spermicide.

8.  Do not wait until December 24th to ask me what we’re having for Xmas dinner, only to say “oh, I didn’t really want ham.”  Guess what, enjoy that bowl of Cheerios then, because the rest of us are having ham.

9.  Don’t complain when I ask you to watch Christmas Vacation with me again.  I already know we’ve seen it thirty times.  That’s why they call it “tradition”, because you do it every damn year.  It’s not my fault if you don’t understand the subtle genius and sheer complexity of cousin Eddy.

It's just not Xmas without Cousin Ed.

10.  I don’t know why it is that you can assemble a complex home theater system, with 3 miles worth of wires and cords, but you can’t manage to wrap colored paper around a box and tape it down.  Two words:  Plan Ahead.  Yeah, maybe try shopping before Xmas Eve, and you can get it on this great new thing they have, called Free Gift Wrapping.

Stupid dick.

Rocket Scientist at work.

I have given you ample time to study these helpful guidelines, to ensure that this holiday season doesn’t sting from bitter disappointment for the females in your life.  For christsake, don’t blow it again.

Good luck men, I believe in you!  *cough*

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Wordless Wednesday, Now With Words and Punctuation Marks!

Wordless Wednesday is this meme where you post a picture of something or someone, that tells a story without words.

I’m not really good with rules.  You know this.

A couple of weeks ago, we went to the Fall Festival at the big YMCA a few miles from home (because we like to spend ass-tons of money like that).  It’s the Super Target of YMCA’s, because it has a lake, cabins, volleyball courts, and several acres.  They also have a 40-foot climbing tower, and when we arrived, that was the first thing we saw.  Connor was super excited about climbing it.

That's my kid, kicking that tower's ass!!!

What’s amazing about this, is that there was a live rock band performing on stage, about a hundred yards away.  Talk about sensory overload!

He climbed and he climbed, and I cheered and I cheered.  At almost the very top, he got scared and called down that he couldn’t do it.

“YES YOU CAN!!!!  YOU’RE ALMOST THERE, YOU’RE AWWWWWESOME, YOU CAN DO IT!!!!”

Every molecule of my being was focused on him, urging him to the top, straining to push him up the last steps with the sheer force of my thoughts.  I was sure I was going to stroke out.

He let go briefly and dangled, but then caught hold of the rope ladder in the middle, and finished the climb.  Standing on the platform at the top, he called down, “I can see EVERYTHING from up here!”

And Oh. My. Gawd. did I cry like a baby. I was so goddamn proud, I thought I would bust open like a pinata.

It wasn’t just the tower.

It was the four months of daily desensitization it took to transition him from a bottle to a sippy cup.  It was working slowly up to table food at the age of two.  It was occupational therapy, and ABA therapy, and finally being potty trained at the age of four, and floor time therapy, and medication changes, and aggression management and social skills therapy.

It was a metaphor for every fucking mountain we’ve climbed, or, more appropriately, that I’ve had to drag him up kicking and screaming.

And it was hope for every other mountain that we still have to climb.  Because we don’t always have a lot of that, do we?  When we’re up to our elbows in shit, and we haven’t slept a full night in longer than we can remember, and we work ten times as hard for half the payoff, and we think “I don’t know how I’m ever going to get through this, it’s just too much.”

It was a good day; a day I will pull off the shelf and dust off, from time to time, when the going gets tough and the mountain too steep.

He needed this.

I needed this.

And I needed a vodkatini, after the $87 we spent on this outing.

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My Apologies To Any Dead People That May Be Offended By This

Saturday morning was going well.  Driving to social skills play group, we bounced and wriggled to “Jump Around”, by Cypress Hill. Me and the boy, we’ve got mad car dancing skills.

And then, for no good reason, Michael Jackson messed up my morning.

See, Connor likes to know the name of the song and artist for each and every song on the radio.  And after “Jump Around” ended, “Remember the Time” came on the radio.  Of course, he asked, and I told him.  But this time he had an additional question.

“Who’s Michael Jackson?”

“Oh, well, he’s a really great singer and dancer, but he died.”  There was really no reason for me to add the part about him being dead.  I could have left that part out, and our morning would have continued as planned.  But I didn’t, and it didn’t.

Cue the questions about death.  I explained how medicine helps our bodies, but too much can hurt us or even kill us.  This was all well and good, but he had another question.

“But where is Michael Jackson?”

“I told you, he’s dead.”

“I know, but where is he?”

And then it dawned on me that he didn’t have a concept of our social rites concerning death.  “You mean, where is he now that he’s dead?”

“Yes.”

So of course I explained about being buried at the cemetery.  There was really no reason to discuss the fact that he’s probably entombed in a gold-plaited, diamond-studded, ga-zillion dollar mausoleum.

Oops, wrong dead King.

And since Connor, like me, is very visual, he wanted to see a graveyard.  And since I, or course, am rather unorthodox myself, agreed to take him to a cemetery after play group, because that’s what parents do, right? They take their six-year-olds on field trips to graveyards.  There happens to be a small, old cemetery between his play group office and our home, and I’d wanted to check it out anyway.

Now he has a little friend at play group, Chloe, that we get together with sometimes.  And so walking out from play group, Connor turns to Chloe and her mom and invited them to go to the “people graveyard” with us, as though it’s some sort of fun outing, like a movie or park. And of course, I’m met with two sets of wide open eyes.

It was fun, trying to explain that.

At the cemetery, I explained about the headstones and the people buried at each one.  But mostly, I spent my time giving orders.

“No, don’t touch that rock.  It’s not a “rock”, it’s a small headstone with no writing on it.”

“No, don’t sit on that wall.  It’s a memory wall that someone built to remember the people buried here that aren’t identified.”

“No, don’t dig at the dirt with your sneaker.  NO, we are not going to dig up any bones.”

“No, do NOT go in the gate around the tombstone.  Why in the name of all that’s holy do you think there’s a gate there?  Because they don’t want people to go IN.”

“No, we ARE NOT going to climb a tree at the graveyard.  BECAUSE THIS IS NOT A PARK, IT’S A GRAVEYARD!”

“No, you may not take the flowers.  People left those flowers there to remember someone that died.”

Apparently, I was a humongous graveyard buzzkill, because all of a sudden, he plops himself down on a cemented-in grave and begins to pout.  And I, of course, still being rather unorthodox, took a photo of my pouty child sitting on a grave.

Good times at the graveyard.

“You won’t let me do anything fun at the graveyard.”

Yeah, time to wrap it up.

All in all, it was a rather successful, if unusual, outing.  Upon returning to the car, Connor said:

“Mommy, that was sure fun, remembering people under the ground.”

“Uhhhh, sure honey.”

“But it wasn’t fun when they died, Mommy.”

No, probably not.  But I’m sure they’d be happy to know that a boy had fun dancing across their graves and chasing squirrels.

 

Editors note:  “Jump Around” is sung by House of Pain, not Cypress Hill.  I know this.  Really.  But I had Cypress Hill on my mind when I wrote this…”Insane in the Brain” perhaps???

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This is Really Random and Odd, and I Don’t Even Recommend That You Read It, Because What If You Don’t Come Back??

DISCLAIMER:  If you are looking for a parenting/special needs blog to read today, you should go somewhere else.  Today I just wrote some weird, random shit, that doesn’t even really make total sense to me.  So why hit the “publish” button?  Because today I said (in my head, quietly), “Fuck it, that’s how I roll today.”  Also, maybe Axl Rose will read this and feel compelled to contact me and thank me for my kind thoughts.  (Axl, call me)

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Today I was worried about Axl Rose, for no particular reason. It’s not like I know him personally, and it’s not like I don’t have a few other things requiring my thoughts and attention. But still, I worried.

I’m aware, via Facebook updates, that he is off somewhere touring with the new and improved Guns ‘n Roses band. I’ve no idea who the members are, aside from Axl. For the last decade I’ve neglected to really pay much attention to the goings on of the band, or the interchangeable players. And during that time I’ve been courting others; the Foo Fighters, Black Eyed Peas, Pink, U2.

Still, Axl was a big part of my life for a while. Four times I saw them perform live, in their heyday. Once, in San Diego, I was in the 12th row. Axl and I had actual eye contact, and I’m pretty sure there were sparks. I wonder if he remembers?

So hot, he sizzles.

Do you ever have a sudden realization that something or someone is missing? You’re living your life, then all of a sudden you realize you haven’t seen so-and-so for months? Or what happened to that nice Polish family down the street? Did they move away and you just didn’t notice?? And then you realize you’ve been operating on auto-pilot, and have paid no attention to your surroundings for a very long time.

It’s like that with Axl.

Now, I know he’s notorious for his temper. Not having his demands met is a sure way to light the fuse.

And the control issues…we’ve all heard stories describing him as a dictator.

Extremely intelligent and extremely moody.

As difficult as he is talented.

Reclusive.

So there I was, just noticing all of a sudden that he wasn’t really around. Sure, there’s some touring in other countries. Maybe even in this country.  I don’t know.  But you don’t hear much about him, and you don’t see him around anywhere, or hear about him having a family or anything.

And that just makes me sad.

I hate to think of him, locked away in his ivory tower, consulting with his past-life regressionists, chakra alignment specialists, and chi interpreters. Snake oil salesmen, is what I think when I hear about these charlatans. Taking advantage of people with screwed up childhoods, and feeding their soul with false healing.

If I was Axl’s friend, I would set him up on a blind date, and instruct him to only talk about his date, and forbid him from talking about himself.

Then I would take him bowling with my family. Not right after his date, but maybe the next day. And we’d have lousy bowling alley nachos and beer. He and my husband would battle for ultimate pin dominance.

I’d bring him to work with me, and have him sit in the cubicle next to me for the day. We can bring packed lunches and eat our peanut butter sandwiches in the lunchroom. Then we’ll carpool home.

Hopefully this would all buoy his spirits, and place him back on the road to being a part of the world again. Perhaps he and Slash would reconcile, and new music would be born. Or maybe he would find someone to settle down with, and we would see random photos of him and his family eating at Bob’s Big Boy, or shopping at the Farmer’s Market.

And there would be one less thing for me to worry about.

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Anal Retentive Trick-or-Treaters; How We Survived Another Halloween

This was a successful Halloween. Connor did not run ahead, he stayed with us, and he didn’t try to walk into people’s houses when they opened their doors.

Last year, at every house, I had to grit my teeth and call out “stay on the porch, we don’t go in the house!” When really, I was thinking Don’t go in that house!! They might be crack heads!!!!!

But this year was different. This was OUR YEAR. It all felt so normal, so calm, so…pleasant.

Almost.

Connor chose to be Darth Vader this year, because he has seen ALL the Star Wars movies, and would rather be the dark, sinister bad guy, then the shining, virtuous Jedi. Whatever. It’s not foreshadowing…

He saw light-up light sabers at Target, and wanted the green one. “But Darth Vader has a red light saber”, I explained.

“No, green is my favorite color, and I want to be Darth Vader with a GREEN light saber.”

Deadly in any color.

Fine. Who cares, right? It’s all supposed to be fun and imaginative anyway, right? RIGHT??? There should be no undue pressure on costume design. It’s not a Hollywood production, after all.

So I surprised him with the green light saber last night, which had the dual purpose of accessorizing his costume and providing a glow-in-the-dark beacon to avoid the potential loss of the boy on a dark street. BONUS!!

Somewhere in the midst of our Halloween bliss, we became aware that other kids were making a concerted effort to bust our happy little bubble. We would pass groups of kids, Connor would wave his magical new toy, and some kid would say “Darth Vader is supposed to have a red light saber.”

Finally, after the tenth such comment, hubs growled “We know that, but he’s only 6, and it doesn’t matter to him, so it shouldn’t matter to YOU.”

Seriously, little jackass kids? You are so emboldened by your own sense of greatness and superiority that you must take the first grader down a peg?? I mean, you’re wearing a fucking cardboard box, made to look like a robot. If you want to split hairs, then may I point out that robots are not really made of cardboard? They’re made of metal, dumbass. Geesh!

Hope it rains, smartass!!!

And kudos to hubs. Usually I’m the one that boldly steps forward as the snarky bitch of the family, but it looks like I may have to hand the crown over this year.

I can just hear it now…“Queen’s don’t have mustaches!!”

Au contraire, mon frere. Apparently you’ve never been to West Hollywood for Halloween.