Alone.

I’ve always loved this poem and this video.

I know a lot of things have probably changed in your life since I last posted; a lot of things have changed in mine, too.

I’ve learned how to be alone.

It’s a strange feeling, walking through the rubble of consequences to your actions and choices and forcing yourself – despite the very natural and human response to ignore it, or blame others, or dwell in excuses – to admit that you have nobody to blame but yourself. It is hard, gut-wrenching, to look at the carnage of what once seemed like such a happy, full life and know that this smoking, empty rubble is of your own doing.

The people you hurt. You have to look at them, like a long hallway of morose and accusatory faces. Your partner you failed, your partnership you abandoned. Your child you have let down, whose life you have forever altered because of your own decisions. They all stare down at you as you pass by, and you have to look at them.

On the long walk down that long hall of regrets; decisions made and choices chosen. The long walk down the long hall as you learn to be alone.

You go home to a quiet apartment. Gone is the house full of laughter and memories but instead it’s a new place, that you decorate to your heart’s content in a style you like without worrying about what a partner will think. A hot pink and black bathroom where you take long hot baths with a beer and a good book. Butterflies splashed across the wall’s of the little girl’s bedroom that you try your hardest to make homey for her, to ease the transition and the uprooting that is inevitable.

You cuddle up with your dog in bed, your only bed partner besides the ghosts of your past that come to take up the other ¾ of the queen sized bed you picked out for yourself, with the damask-print bedding you chose without worrying if it was too girly or ugly or the wrong color.

Those ghosts take up more of the bed as time goes on, it seems.

You have nobody to answer to anymore. You have an apartment, though hardly a home. You have a child you love more than your very own life, though you know your choices have altered her own life path. You have regret, and loss, and pain. There’s lots of pain.

You take your long hot baths, eat small meals for one – if you eat at all, there’s nobody to really notice if you eat or not and what the hell, you could stand to drop a few pounds, you watch the TV programs you want and go to bed watching movies like Sex & the City and The Devil Wears Prada and shows on DVD like True Blood, and you fall asleep sprawled across the bed with nobody to complain about it the next morning.

And you mourn.

You mourn long, and hard, because this happy, autonomous façade is just that – a mask for the intense agony of accepting the repercussions for your own actions and decisions.

You look at yourself in the mirror and say out loud, “You did this.”

“You wanted this.”

You mourn the loss of a partner, the loss of what you dreamed it could have been and what you thought was possible at one point. You mourn the pain you’ve caused and the people you’ve hurt. You mourn this apartment that has nothing but hurt in it, even despite your best efforts and pink Christmas trees. You mourn the death of the family your little girl deserves, the death of a dream that died by your own hand.

You did this.

You mourn because this is what you wanted. Right?

The days blur after awhile, a combination of hurt and pain and regret. You learn to sleep without the warmth of that body beside you, the one that was next to you every night for so long, and you wake up to the quiet apartment and the dog at your feet. It starts over again. From the moment you wake up to the moment you get back in that intimidatingly large and empty queen sized bed with the damask comforter set, you fight through the day with regret and hope, sadness and optimism.

Maybe your redemption will come someday. If you beat yourself long enough for the sins you’ve committed against the people you loved, eventually the pain dulls, like a long and complex tattoo. Eventually you learn to live with the pain and the regret.

You feel hope for the future sometimes.

You feel remorse. And regret. So much remorse and regret. You’re so, so sorry. You did this.

And you are alone. And it’s okay. You’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. She’ll be okay. You’ll all be okay. It will be okay.

And that’s what you learn from being alone.

Been a minute

Okay. I get it. I haven't updated in...uh...forever. Let me survive Christmas and we'll talk. In the meantime, I've been shopping for things that are neat, because I generally have neat people in my life, who enjoy neat things. I also like to buy love because I'm really lonely and dead inside.

Then I kind of got obsessed with Skin AT on eBay, and basically realized that any gift I ever give anyone else, ever again, will be in vain, because these things are awesome, and great for the Mac jerks in your life who think that they are superior when they're not, and clearly you are still the favorite child, and SCREW YOU CAMERON AND YOUR STUPID MACBOOK...

Er, I mean. Check them out. This stuff is cool.

Christmas shopping tip from me to you.

SHAH UP.

Okay, everyone stop being sad assholes for a minute. Stop being sad, stop crying, and above all:

SHAH UP.

You heard me. You shah up.

Much to my own surprise, Punk hasn't picked up as much of my foul mouth as you'd expect. I've caught a "shit" on a couple occasions, but not recurring. But the one thing she HAS picked up, and I swear it's been from the kids at the babysitter and not me...probably... is "shut up." Or "SHAH UP" if you are fluent in the Punk dialect.

It's gotten me more than a few dirty looks and become quite the favorite phrase of hers. The more I try to correct it, the more she insists on screaming it. It was originally an inside issue until one day when we were in line to check out at Target. In front of us stood a young mother with a very tiny baby, obviously stressed as the baby cried and she waited to check out. It was obviously her first time at this rodeo.

It wasn't that long ago that I was in the same position. I recall it well... Punk was maybe two months old, I was trying to check out at the U-scan while quietly shushing the screaming Punk (unsuccessfully). There was a tiny old woman behind me, and while I was trying to do it all by myself, she swooped in to my salvation and talked so quietly and sweetly to little Punk, allowing Punk to hold her fingers while she diverted her fury long enough for me to check out.

So two years later, I hoped I could pay it forward, so to speak, as I smiled at this young mom empathetically and smiled at the baby. Then Punk intervened.

"SHAH UP BABY!"

This is where the dirty looks start.

So I tried to descend upon the behavior, quickly shushed her as I lectured (loudly enough that everyone could see that I don't encourage this behavior, I AM A GOOD PARENT, SEE?!), "No, no! We don't say that! No, not cool! We don't say 'shut up'! We say 'shhh'!"

Punk furrowed her brow further. Looked at me. Looked at the baby, and put her finger to her lips as she uttered, "Shhhh....

"...AH UP BABY!"

This was the point where we decided to go to another line.

I was really hoping after another lecture, after this incident, that we'd squashed the behavior. And really, I thought we had. I hadn't heard it out of her in awhile, and all seemed well in the world, where we could freely express ourselves around each other without a toddler screaming at me to SHAH UP.

Then I put her to bed last night. After another long day of work and toddler wrangling, it was none too soon that I got her to bed (in her big girl bed, have I mentioned we upgraded? Well we did and now you know). I shut the door and all was silent for awhile til I heard her jibbering in her room. I muted the TV for a minute and listened, and finally I began to make out what she was yelling.

"SHAH UP BIG GIRL BED!"

"SHAH UP ZUZU!" (her pet rat. We got a pet rat, if you didn't know that.)

"SHAH UP TOY BOX!"

"SHAH UP DIAPER!"

"SHAH UP CLOSET!"

"SHAH UP ROCKING HORSE!"

She was listing, individually, everything in her room. And telling it to shut up.

It's something I'm working on, on top of all her other issues, including cooking babies, taking off her pants in public, smearing poop on the walls, and killing other children. In the meantime, I'll just take it for what it is; my household's own obscene and inappropriate version of Goodnight Moon...


SHUT UP MOON.
SHUT UP AIR.
SHUT UP NOISES EVERYWHERE.

Uncharted territory.

There are a lot of things people don't tell you about being a parent. The first three months suh-huuuccckkk. Your boobs will never, ever be the same, even if you're *ahem* lucky enough to dodge stretch marks. Your kids will do things like this:


And this...

Oh, and don't forget this:

But one thing nobody adequately warns you about -- because if they did, you'd immediately rip out your reproductive organs and throw them in the garbage disposal -- is toddlerhood. "Terrible Twos" barely grazes the surface of this dodecahedron of sanity deprivation. So here, let me put it to you in ways that nobody else -- or at least, nobody with any interest in furthering the human race -- will tell you: sometimes, two-year-olds are real assholes.

Nobody tells you about the brain-shredding whining noise they make or that shrill scream that comes the minute the word "no" pierces into their tiny little cognitive process. In one morning alone this week, in the 90 minutes between when Punk and I wake up (when Punk wakes up and incidentally, wakes me up by alternatively screaming and shrieking "MOMMY NOW! MOMMY WAKE UP!") and when we leave for daycare/work she had six -- SIX! -- meltdowns. These meltdowns, which involve huge tears streaming now her face, banshee screaming, and flailing, erupted over:

• Sternly telling her to stop kicking me, after she aggressively connected foot to cheekbone, while I was changing her diaper.
• Telling her she could not have cookies for breakfast.
• The Imagination Movers being on TV.
  
• Not allowing her to bring her entire stuffed animal collection to the car.
• Not stopping the car to retrieve her Sophie Bear, whom she had chucked -- by her own crazy toddler free will -- into the cargo area of the Jeep. This created a screaming meltdown for 3/4 of our drive to daycare, while I cranked up Dead Kennedys and stared straight ahead at the road, wondering just where my life went so horribly, horribly wrong.
  
• Sternly telling her, before releasing her from her car seat, that today we are going to be a NICE GIRL at daycare (that's another topic I will discuss here shortly).

Seriously. For the love of tapdancing, menstruating CHRIST, kid, cut me a break. By the time we got to the daycare I was about two seconds from opening the door, kicking her out and screaming "TUCK AND ROLL, KIDDO!"

She's not just being a pain in the ass for me, either. The sitter's damn near had it with her, and I don't blame her, either. This past week, every day I went to pick Punk up, it was a new story of hitting (Monday), biting (Tuesday), taking toys and slapping (Wednesday), attempted homicide (Thursday) and pushing (Friday).

Did she just say "attempted homicide"? Yes I did. Punk's apparently working at thinning out the herd by pushing a fellow toddler OUT OF THE TREEHOUSE, where he fell five feet to his doom. By "doom" I mean a bruised cheek, some sniffling, and a lot of profuse apologizing by me to said child's mom. But I mean... really, kid? We're now ATTEMPTING TO KILL CHILDREN?

She's a little girl! She isn't actually trying to KILL kids! Oh I'm sure she is. She wanted to drive the steering wheel in the tree house and fuck anyone who stands in her way. I'm not fooled by her big brown eyes and deliciously nommable cheeks. The kid's a sociopath. A baby-cooking, child-killing, meltdown-throwing sociopath. I love her with every ounce I have in me, but sometimes.... sometimes my kid's a real asshole and you regret inviting her to the party, if ya know what I'm sayin'.

But all you can do is charge forward. There's nothing else that can be done. All I can do is buckle her, thrashing and screaming and biting, into her car seat and repeat over and over to the sitter's our daily mantra of, "We will not BITE. We will not HIT. We will not PUSH. We will be a NICE GIRL." Most of that's for me, especially if you understood my boss, but it's applicable to her too, I suppose.

And all I can do is buckle myself in, thrashing and screaming and kicking and biting, and keep on driving.

She called the shit poop!

I apparently offended the delicate sensibilities of some reader in Columbus, Ohio last go-round because I deigned to talk about poop, MY POOP, coming out of MY ASSHOLE on MY BLOG... which apparently, someone made this reader in Columbus, Ohio read at gunpoint, perhaps at the end of a bayonet, or maybe this assailant was about to drop Columbus's children into a vat of acid or something. Because that's about the only rationale I can provide for why someone would be so viciously offended and disgusted that they had been so very brutally forced to read what I've chosen to write about on my blog.

I hope you and your children are now safe and your fragile notions are at ease, Columbus.

So... in recent news, I have shit only in appropriate venues. But I am still going to talk about poop...




Next order of business: other people shitting places that they shouldn't be. By "other people," I mean my daughter, because apparently she's been learning somewhere... probably the TV... that it's perfectly acceptable to shit anywhere you please.

My friends... I think we're on the cusp of potty training.

She now announces pooping before it happens. This either means that I have a child who is becoming more aware of her bodily functions, or she's some sort of Poop Psychic... and if it's the latter, I need to totally market that shit. (Literally.) Her disdain for dirty/soggy/slightly damp diapers has escalated to the point of furious screaming at me if I hesitate for the slightest second after I've been alerted to the problem. She's like the ADT of diapers.

So I think potty training is coming. We have a training potty, which has become her favorite seat in the house, and also a lovely bowl that she eats her afternoon fruit snacks out of. I'm aware that toilet confusion is a little bit of a genetic thing in this house. She's a big fan of her new "Let's Go Potty" book...

...which, I have read ad nauseum, at her request, and have realized that "potty literature" for toddlers kind of...um... sucks. What these kids need is the cold hard facts. Things their parents are forced to learn the hard way, like "Don't hold your pee in for an entire 12 hour Greyhound trip, because even though that potty looks yucky and that hobo may try to rape you, it's not worth the worst urinary tract, and eventually kidney, infections of your life." or "If you only knew the horrors that await you if you don't go poopy in the potty RIGHT NOW."

I guess I'm okay with it being potty training time. I always said I'd wait til she made indications that she was ready, and really, she is. So let's rock this out. Flying Spaghetti Monster, Vishnu, and all other deities I have screamed obscenities to are all aware that I'm really tired of cleaning poop off of walls and cribs and blankets... since she loves to take her diaper off and go all sorts of Pollock on every reachable surface. (In case you ever see her nursery and wonder why there's a roll of duct tape on the changing table.) So really, I'm okay with this new development in child rearing.

Especially because I can't wait to lock her out of the bathroom when SHE has to take a shit, because seriously, that's just hilarious.

Again.

There are some things that a rational, mentally competent adult should never do or say. One of these things is the phrase, "I pooped in a Wal-Mart shopping bag." But perhaps even less acceptable is following that preceding sentence with the word, "again."

It's not like I set out with a mission to poop in receptacles not intended for feces -- or anything aside from toilets. And this time around it wasn't really my fault. Okay, it wasn't my fault at all. The only mistake I made... okay, the TWO mistakes I made... was eating buffalo wings for dinner in a sauce I hadn't previously tried, and leaving a toddler unattended.

So I set forth one morning recently with my intention being to have a very normal day, filled with toddler wrangling, laundry, and pooping in toilets. Shortly after waking up -- after a night with friends in which I ate aforementioned wings -- I changed Punk and set her free to terrorize the dog and my otherwise tranquil house while I set out to make breakfast.

I heard the bathroom door slam shut. Punk's newest fascination is opening and closing doors. So when I heard the door slam shut, I didn't apply much thought until about two minutes later, when, as I stared at the bowl of oatmeal making its rounds in the microwave, I felt an angry, unhappy turn in my stomach. This is the point where a rational adult would walk herself to the bathroom and take care of necessary business. And while I'm hardly rational...or an adult... that's what I did. Then I got to the bathroom door.

I turned the handle.

The handle did not turn.

My daughter had locked herself in the bathroom.

The only bathroom in the house.

There is no actual key, just a series of tricks with a bobby pin and patience.

And dear god this horrible concoction in my intestines is not waiting for this.

It's at times when you really have to take a shit that you find yourself utilizing problem-solving skills that would make the Pentagon green with envy. It's like a mental Jenga as you try to weigh out your options as efficiently as possible, all the while praying to whatever deity will listen that maybe... just maybe... you won't shit your pants.

I mean, really. What do you do in this situation? Run to the neighbor's house? Yeah, hi, my daughter locked me out of the bathroom and I'm about to erupt with explosive diarrhea all up in your business if you don't let me use your bathroom. Nope, doesn't happen that way. So I called upon past experience and I sprinted to the kitchen, grabbed a couple Wal-Mart bags out of the little dispenser my grandma made me in college, double bagged, and no sooner had I completed that, did the full components of my bowels explode into it in just the knick of time.

Yes ma'am, Helpful Hints from Heloise. In a pinch, you can recycle your shopping bags as a quaint solution for when your toddler locks you out of the bathroom and you're suffering from mercilessly explosive diarrhea.

Sometimes I feel like an asshole for not buying one of those reusable shopping bags when I go to the grocery. Then I think about things like this, and my seeming avoidance of actually shitting in acceptable receptacles, and I think... I'm recycling anyway, right?

Cop out.

Yeah, not a real post right now, but here. Go ask me stuff. And I'll answer with stuff.

Do it. Do it immediately.

One missed call.

My mother is insane. I love her dearly, she is a caring grandmother to Punk and she is one of the most intelligent, interesting people I know. But dear god this woman is crazy. One thing she absolutely lacks is the ability to leave a voicemail message. Don't get me wrong. She leaves them. Flying Spaghetti Monster help me, she leaves them. Long, rambling, each word more crazy than the last and each thought less coherent than the one before it. Sometimes it's ranting. Sometimes it's just the conversational, one-way equivalent of a small child wandering around lost in a store. But it's always crazy.

So it's been awhile since I transcribed an authentic Mom Voicemail on the blog - not since the Pants Party days. So I guess it's about time I brought her legitimate, clinically diagnosed mental dysfunction back to the blog. This time, she believed I was supposed to be at the Casa de los How2 Parentals. I was not, primarily because I was on the other side of the state for the weekend. Like I'd told her. Repeatedly. In detail. And still she called...and left me this voicemail:

"Hi How2, it's your mother. Your car isn't here, so I was just wondering where you were...(At this point she yells for my father, without taking the phone away from her mouth) Hey, babe! BABE! Is How2 here? (Father in the background: "No, why?") I'm talking to the answering machine on her cell phone! She's not here? (Father: "Is her car here?") Well no, that's why I was calling her! (Father: "I'm guessing not then. Are you still making something in this crock pot?")...yes, I was going to do a roast, leave it out please (Father: "Well do you want me to start it?") ... no, just leave it, I'll get to it... no, leave it alone...[Father's Name], I will get to it... I'll call you back, How2..." *click*

Yep. My mom should never be allowed near technology. Ever.

One more excuse.

Wow. I kind of slipped some big news into my last post and you people are freakin' sharp. I guess first and foremost, in a candid kind of moment, I want to thank you all for your ridiculous amount of support. Some of you I know personally, a lot of you I don't; but regardless of the case, I can't thank you guys enough for your support, your kind words, your shout-outs on the Facebook fan page, etc. I am truly blessed by the Flying Spaghetti Monster to have such amazing readers and friends.

So thank you, thank you, thank you.

That being said, I guess it's time to let a much happier cat out of the bag (as happy as a cat can be for being shoved into a bag)...

I got a job.

Nay. I got a career.

I know, like I need one more excuse to throw out at you people for why I am neglecting my blog.

As I've mentioned a lot, I put my career on hold -- and by "on hold" I mean, "failed to launch" -- when I had Punk, mostly because I succeeded in getting surprise knocked up no sooner had the ink on my college diploma dried. So I spent two years perfecting the fine art of parenthood. Or trying really hard not to curl into the fetal position every twenty minutes. Whatever. So after two years off from being a functional human being working girl, I have been offered and accepted a marketing position.

It's been overwhelming to say the least. I don't know if I'm ready to go back to work. I thought I was, and then I started touring daycare centers and had, for lack of a better word, a complete and total meltdown in the parking lot of a daycare. It's a lot to consider and it's overwhelming. It's terrifying. This is my baby...

But for so long, my career was my baby. I spent most of college being a complete alcoholic workaholic. I didn't need a man, I didn't want children. Speed bumps in the successful public relations and marketing career I was destined to conquer. Then I met A. Then I met vodka and cranberry juice. Then I met his far-too-determined sperm. Then I met Punk. Then I met vodka and cranberry juice. It's funny how things come full circle, eh?

I had been going 150 mph toward a goal I'd held as long as I could remember. And with one double-lined pregnancy test (...or six), I had to slam on the brakes and pray I wouldn't crash. I didn't, surprisingly enough. But I'd really like to get back up to speed.

I love motherhood. My daughter is absolutely, without a doubt, my life. But sometimes, as I sat up late at night with a colicky baby and maybe wondering if it was a horrible idea to invite her to the party, if ya know what I mean... I started to miss my career. I felt like not only did I have to leave the party early, but I had to leave before I'd even gotten up the driveway. I watched my friends from college go on to have these outstanding, exciting careers, and I'd get (and still get) the polite smiles as they'd tell me about these insane cocktail parties and taking off on random getaways to Vegas and Colorado and California, and my biggest contribution to the conversation was, "Hey, my kid cooks her baby dolls in the oven! Baby baby baby baby kid kid kid blah blah blah baby!"

So here it is. My career. I took this bizarre detour off the interstate of my life, somewhere along the line a car seat go tossed in the back and the dreamed-about Mazda RX-8 became a much more practical crossover SUV, but I'm back on track for the life I'd wanted for so long. So you modify plans a little. You improvise. But I wouldn't change my life for anything. I mean this, even if it sounds cliche and hippy-dippy: I am so thrilled and excited for where my life is and where it's going. I am in a really great place.

Now the next question is, how do I warn daycares that she likes to cook babies?

Weirdo.

I hate rambling on about my kid constantly on the blog because I have this constant, nagging fear of alienating my friends/readers who don't have kids. Because all through my pregnancy I set out refusing to become "THAT" parent -- you know the type. The ones who all they talk about is their goddamn kids, and when you don't have kids... and even when you do... you JUST. DON'T. CARE.

But inevitably you do become that parent because it's just so all-encompassing. I have nothing else to talk about. What I believe could very well be, finally, my career is launching off, so hopefully soon I can at least discuss the hilarity of my work environment (because you know there's always a Dwight), but for the last two years, all I've really had to talk about is my kid. And to the hailed inner circle, what a dbag I married. But besides that? Pretty much all spawn talk, all the time.

So anyway, I have this deep-seeded need to constantly show that I'm more that just Punk's mom. I am me. And apparently this means that I, the Individual, poop while driving and barely pass remedial driving because of my similarly-deep-seeded need to be a complete and reprehensible smartass. So I guess we're all overdue for some solid Punk-related dialogue.

Apparently -- and nobody ever told me this -- the overwhelming theme to being the parent of a toddler is that you constantly find yourself wondering what in the big blue fuck is going through this kid's mind. It's like having your life and your home invaded and overrun by a crazy foreigner from some faraway land, who has no concept of social skills or graces, or personal space, or grooming. I don't know if anyone here ever watched Recess on Saturday morning cartoons, but the savage caricature of the kindergartners? Pretty accurate from about age 2 on...



And more and more often in my daily life, I find myself saying things like:

**"No, we do not cook babies in the oven!"
Punk's grandparents got her a full-on, pimped-out kitchen for Christmas. She loves to play house with it, and makes lovely delicacies in the microwave, boils eggs on the stove, washes the kitchen counter frequently and fervently with bleach wipes (hey, if having an OCD mother teaches her anything...) and, of course, COOKING HER BABY DOLLS IN THE OVEN. I mean, guys. Guys seriously. This isn't like she just discovered this random little niche and thought, "Hey, a neat cave for my babies!" No. No, she puts them in the oven. Closes the oven. Turns the knobs. And makes "Tsss! Tsss!" cooking sounds. SHE IS COOKING HER BABIES.

And somehow, I could even ignore these bizarre Dahmer-esque tendencies were it not for the fact that after she sets her babies to the appropriate time and temperature, she will go and grab the hand of anyone within reach and sweetly, innocently lead you to the oven like some incontinent and language-deficient Martha Stewart. And then she will crouch down in front of the window of the oven, point, AND LAUGH. Yes. She knows exactly what she is doing, and she is not only so unashamed that she will show it to you, SHE THINKS THIS IS HILARIOUS.

So this raises two very important points that I have learned about my daughter:
1.) Probably a sociopath.
2.) Probably destined to be an only child.

** "Your pants are not a food storage facility!"
I like to think I keep my kid pretty well-fed. She's huge for her age (often mistaken for a 3-year-old, and a retarded one at that because she doesn't talk in full sentences, because she's like, you know, not even 2), she's healthy and happy. My boobs look like two saggy and depressing balloons from the savage beating they took from her for over a year. The kid likes to eat, has full access to food throughout the day if she asks. Which she does. Frequently.

So would someone please, please, PLEASE explain why I'm constantly having to check her pants for -- and discovering -- food shoved down there like she's an Auschwitz prisoner storing bread crumbs? Seriously. I pull all sorts of food out of her pants. Crackers. Chicken nuggets. Bananas. Grapes. It's rare that I even actually SEE her put this stuff down her pants. Hell, 80% of the time I don't even know where she GOT it. ("California roll? When have we even gone out for sushi?") But damned if I'm not constantly pulling food, of both likely and mysterious origins, out of this kid's pants.

But anyway.

It's a strange and foreign world, living with a toddler. She's growing up so fast that it scares the bejeesus out of me at times. I remember shortly after having her, filled with postpartum dread and sleep deprivation, I'd frequently be told by nosy old bitches who need to shut their traps lovely and well-meaning elderly women to "enjoy this time because it flies by." And of course at the time I screamed like a crazy person smiled sweetly but thought to myself, "You shut your lying fucking mouth." But it really is true. She turns 2 in less than three weeks and I couldn't tell you where that time all went.

I used to walk into Wal-Mart dragging this huge behemoth of a car seat with this tiny, pink, pissed off crying baby, battle loudly trying to get it to snap into the cart, and then pray that she'd sleep while I sprinted through the store in an attempt to get some semblance of groceries -- which inevitably would become a pack of Snickers, an apple, and a box of taco shells. Now she walks into the store holding my hand, beaming at what a big girl she is to be walking by herself, and sits in the cart while pointing out colors and shapes and things to me like she's an actual freaking person -- it's ri-goddamn-diculous is what it is. She's so big now, and so smart and funny and sociopathic and wonderful.

Every night I put her to bed, after we change her diaper and put on her pajamas, and we feed her fish Frank Stallone and Albert Fish, and we tell them sternly, "Eat your food, you fish!" and then I rock her for a few seconds before she melts into me and says in her tiny, tired voice, "Bird song Mom. Bird song." And I quietly sing "Three Little Birds" by Bob Marley to her, every night, until her eyelids begin to get heavy. It's the little moments like that that make all of this worth it. The unexpected, life-altering pregnancy. The custody fights. The frustration, the sacrifice, the tears, the stress. Every single ounce of every bit of it is so worth it as I hold my baby, who won't be a baby much longer, and quietly, in my out-of-practice mezzo soprano voice, sing her to sleep. She is my absolute everything, the reason I get out of bed every morning, the reason I breathe, the reason I fight...

But seriously. The baby cooking thing. We need to work on that.

Remedied.

Okay. So I'm not the greatest driver in the world. I'm not the worst. I maintain I'm a decent driver, I just happen to drive sort of fast. Okay, just because I do things like poop while driving does not mean I'm a bad driver.

Anyway, I had a rough patch this past fall that resulted in three speeding tickets in one month -- two of which were on the same day, in two different states. Yeah, it was an expensive month for me. And in the fabulous State in which my driver's license is issued, if you have more than one traffic infraction in a 12 month period, you get to go through a fabulous little process known as:

Remedial driver's education.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was when I got my notice from The State letting me know I would have to take the class or have my license suspended. Especially because this would be my...ahem...third time taking the class. I'm like the Van Wilder of State Remedial Driving. I could move on with my life, learn my lessons and become a prosperous individual. But what fun would that be?

So I put off taking the class til the last minute -- my license would have been suspended this week, and I had like three months to take it -- so I finally ponied up my $49.95 and took the stupid online class. Four hours of my life wasted. By wasted I mean I would ignore the timer on the computer and only come back to the computer and take breaks from marathons of Dead Like Me (excellent show, by the way) to take the chapter quizzes. I wonder why I've had to take this shit three times now.

Anyway. Part of the quizzes involved "reflection journal time," which yes, is exactly as pointless as it sounds. It was like a flashback to my high school honors classes, where we were "above" grades and could basically smear shit on the wall and receive an A, because we were gifted children who couldn't be held back by something as menial as grades. So I've become used to this method of thinking, and when presented with essay and short answer questions, I generally take it upon myself to be a merciless, shameless, self-congratulating smartass and see how far I can push the envelope. I know, you're all absolutely shocked.

So thanks to the wonder of copy and paste, I present to you, my essay questions throughout the course of my four hour remedial driving class:

Q. Think about the route you normally take when driving to work or school. What are the hazards you usually encounter along this route? What strategies have you used to stay safe?
A. Sometimes when I drive to work, I pass through neighborhoods in which I fear I may be shot at by rival gangs. My strategy to stay safe is to reinforce my car with military-grade protective metal and to drive defensively, scanning the streets ahead for potential hazards, such as a Blood with a Glock aimed at me and my child.

Q. Of the road users discussed in this chapter, which ones do you normally encounter on a daily basis? Examine the route you take and list the areas where you most frequently encounter pedestrians and bicyclists.
A. I encounter pedestrians most frequently near the old mill. Oftentimes, a wandering child, who is also a pedestrian, will fall into a trapped mine within the mill, and people will come from far and wide to come and help./ Because they are so concerned with saving the child from the mine, they often do not pay attention to traffic. It's my job as a motorist to be aware of my surroundings, and watch for potential samaritans who May not necessarily be paying attention to the cars on the road. Sometimes people ride bicycles to come help too.

Q. When was the last time you had the following vehicle components checked or replaced: Motor Oil, Tires (tread and pressure), Brakes, Engine Belt, Air filter, Windshield wipers, Vehicle lights, General maintenance?
A. Most likely never. I have no idea how cars actually work.

Q. This chapter lists six examples of field sobriety tests that are commonly used by law enforcement officers. The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration has approved the use of just three of these tests: the balance test, walking in a straight line, and the nystagmus test. What do you think makes these particular tests effective?
A. The balance test is important because if you are incapable of maintaining your balance, you are too impaired to be driving, either because of alcohol consumption or by a crippling case of Vertigo. In either case, you should not be operating a motor vehicle. This also applies to the balance test in weeding out drunk drivers and the equilibrium-challenged. The Nystagmus Test helps to determine ocular abnormalities associated with alcohol impairment. Also, it may help the officer determine if the operator of the vehicle is blind.

Q. This chapter discusses one way to prevent driving after drinking – using designated drivers. Consider some other ways in which you can prevent yourself or people close to you from driving after drinking. List the preventative measures that you think are practical in your journal.
A. To prevent someone from driving after drinking, you could perhaps disable their vehicle, by either disabling the ignition, locking the doors and taking the keys, or setting the vehicle on fire. All of these methods would be effective in preventing an intoxicated person from driving. Also, if they are intoxicated enough, you could perhaps convince them that they are a deer, or another type of animal that lacks the ability to drive a car, and deter them from the urge to drive their car. However, I would advise against telling them they are any kind of ape, because with opposable thumbs, an ape driving a car is both interesting and silly.

Q. Some experts recommend carrying a camera in your vehicle that you can use in case you get involved in a crash. What are some of the benefits of taking your own pictures of a collision scene?
A. I would like to take my own pictures because generally, I am a very attractive person, and taking my own pictures of a collision scene will ensure I have the hottest pictures on my Facebook, perhaps even a profile picture, in the event of an accident.

Q. Which of the moving violations listed in this topic do you think is the most serious and why?
A. I think hitting the Popemobile would be the most serious violation, Because not only would you injure an elderly gentleman, but also incur the wrath of Catholics worldwide. It would also be very serious if you were involved in a moving violation with a clown car, because nobody enjoys clown-related tragedies.

Q. Is it ever legal to exceed the speed limit? Why or why not?
A. The only time it'd be legal to exceed the speed limit would be if you were in the car with a bear, because a police officer probably would be too frightened to pull you over. I know I would be.

Q. Statistics show that you are less likely to be killed while traveling on limited access roads such as expressways than on city streets despite the higher speed limit. What are some factors that help to limit the number of deaths on expressways?
A. You could limit deaths on expressways by enforcing posted speeds, as well as lining the highways with pillows or perhaps inflatable bouncy walls. While this may not be the most cost-efficient method, and may not necessarily guarantee fewer deaths on highways, it would limit the number of people driving on the highway, as undoubtedly many people would want to pull over and jump on the walls. Based on sheer statistics, this would decrease the number of accidents and deaths. Unless the people had accidents while jumping on the bouncy walls; however, this would not affect traffic statistics, as they would not be driving, so this is also a moot point.

Q. Is it legal to make a “rolling stop” at intersections that have stop signs? Why or why not?
A. No. Rolling stops are illegal because I have received violations for them and that is why I have spent the last four hours of my life doing this class. You should come to a complete stop, because you never know when oncoming traffic may jump out from behind a large sign. By "oncoming traffic" I mean "police officer who is going to write you a ticket."

On top of my so-very-considerate essay answers, I also present to you, notes taken during the class....

When the instructor said “homicidal” I thought he said “homosexual.” We are on a HOMOSEXUAL COLLISION COURSE WITH DEATH, my friends. I hear Death likes glitter and Liza Minelli.

Apparently being a good driver means looking like a total dbag if these instructional pictures are any indication.

Airbags complement seatbelts. Hey Seatbelt, you’re looking sexy today!

The no zone? Isn’t that where you’re supposed to tell an adult if someone touches you there?

ACTUAL QUIZ QUESTION:
Cars are designed to _______ in a collision.
a. explode
b. bounce
c. evaporate
d. collapse

Listening to the varying stages of alcohol impairment just sounds like the progress of a typical Saturday night for me in college.

Now for my next trick in remedial driving: DRINKING DURING CLASS!


Ladies and gentlemen, I present myself to you, a changed and rehabilitated woman...

... I am so going to get arrested for those essays, aren't I?