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?

Missed Connection.

Ya know, I know and acknowledge that I'm not exactly what people would call "desirable". My looks have faded, I'm usually carting a kid, who while adorable, screams "HEY, BAGGAGE!" (also, "HEY, I PUT OUT!"), and I'm mostly completely and utterly socially repugnant. But just once -- just one time in my life -- I wish I could be the subject of a Craigslist Missed Connection.

I'm not looking for romance. Quite the opposite. It's been so long since I was socially active that I basically step out my doorstep and hiss at sunlight and scurry back into darkness. But it'd be nice to know that just once, I was worth noticing, and not because I was apologizing profusely to some random stranger for my kid spitting on them (yes, it's a new phase I'm enduring right now, and yes, it's awesome to deal with in public -- almost as great as her concurrent anti-pants stance).


Someday, mark my words, I'm going to log onto Craigslist, peruse the Missed Connections, and there's going to be one waiting for me. It'll be perfectly written, observant and witty, and I will melt in response...

TO THE SUPERMOM IN THE MALL...
"You were wearing a sweatshirt with stains and crusted-on food of questionable origin. Your hair was pulled up in a meager attempt at a ponytail, most likely your closest excuse for hair styling, and the shimmering grease screamed out that you hadn't had an actual beneficial shower in a couple days. But despite the hurried attempt at makeup, the smeared eyeliner and the smudged mascara that you clearly had no time to look in the mirror at yourself and notice, it was apparent you at one time might've been sort of attractive.

"You looked kind of really tired, but with the authority that you used as you quickly U-turned that stroller out of mall foot traffic and lectured your toddler on spitting, I'm sure you'd be a wildcat in the sack. The way you sternly and aggressively stuck your finger in her face and told her, "NO. SPITTING IS NOT OKAY." assured me you were a woman who abides by her own standards.

"So if you ever take that shower and blow dry your hair out, most likely for the first time in three years, respond to this email."


Rawr, fellas. The line starts on the left.

Get back in the pool, whores.

I really, really, really hate this commercial:



You wanna know why? Because I used to use the Nuvaring. You know what happened when I used the Nuvaring?


Yeah. That.

(Disclaimer: I love my daughter more than life itself, no matter how completely, totally, and utterly unplanned her conception was.)

So whenever this commercial comes on -- and it's on all the fucking time -- I damn near lose my mind. I just want to scream at those stupid bitches to put their yellow swimsuits and swimmy caps back on and GET BACK IN THE GODDAMN POOL because when you decide to be all swanky in the hot tub in your slutty two piece bikini, that's when you get babies. That's right, THERE ARE BABIES IN THE NUVARING HOT TUB.

That's all.

Grinch Shield Down...

I don't like Christmas, primarily because my family hasn't really been into it for years and I sort of lost out on the whole "family gathering" warm fuzzies that most people have. My grandparents died when I was pretty young, and the natural course of events resulted in that the different "factions" of the family splintered off and did their own thing. It happens, but when you're not even quite into adolescence, you grow up feeling like you missed out on something.

Anyway, boo hoo for me. I don't like Christmas season. Whenever I tell people this, I'm usually met with shock, disgust and confusion. I've been forcing myself to feign enjoyment and involvement for Punk's sake, but I'm a Grinch at heart.

But my favorite Christmas memories involve my grandfather. After my grandmother died when I was 9, he kind of (as I best understand it as an adult) tried to take over both roles, which for an old Navy vet was no easy feat. Every winter before Christmas I would go to his house, and we'd make chocolate buckeyes together. (For those poor souls who are unfamiliar, or not lucky enough to be from the great state of Ohio, you can find out what you're missing here).

My dad and grandparents, ca. 1967

We'd cook them over his gas stove and listen to Christmas music and he'd talk about Grandma, and get teary while he did it. When you're about 10, it's kind of awkward and uncomfortable, but I really miss hearing him tell stories about her, about as much as I miss her.

While we were waiting for the chocolate to melt on the stove, I'd go dink around on Grandma's old organ in the back room of their house. I took piano lessons from ages 6-15, and I did pretty well for my age, I guess. I was doing more advanced stuff by the time I was 9 and 10. And I remember, as the house started to smell like chocolate, he would come back and show me on the keyboard, hen pecking with one finger, how to play the opening line of "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas".

He'd teach me the same opening line every year like it was the first time I'd ever been shown what a piano keyboard was. Maybe he forgot he'd shown me before, or maybe he was unaware I could play piano, and pretty well. But I think he just liked having that chance to show me something, on Grandma's organ. For a little bit, it was like we were hanging out with her again.

Looking back on my childhood and adolescence, I sat through hundreds of hours being instructed on the piano how to play nocturnes and overtures and everything in between by Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Chopin, Debussy, and Gershwin; and my most missed memory of lessons is Grandpa leaning over my shoulder, hen-pecking those eight notes, and so proud to be showing it to me.

All through college and even still, I make buckeyes every Christmas season, and I'm looking forward to Punk being old enough to "help" me in another year or two. It's just what I do. It's my communion with two people that I really, really miss, and feel like I got robbed of a lot of time with sometimes.

So yeah. I'm a bitch about Christmas. But it's just because I think about memories like this and I just really, really miss them.

Social network attention whoring

So the blog now has its own "fan page" on Facebook. And I swear to Flying Spaghetti Monster and upon everything I hold dear that I am not the one who made it, nor did I request that it be made. No. Really. I didn't.

Anyway, if you want to go be my blog's fan (you don't have to be MY fan, though hey, I might be a fan of my own blog and that fan page, because I'm a total narcissist), just search for "How to Become an Adult in Six Easy Steps" and go be a fan. Please be a fan. Discuss the blog, discuss how much I suck for never updating, I don't know. Be a fan and I'll be your friend, okay?

Photobombing

I did a lot of asshole things in college, most of which I was drunk during. A lot of things were broken, sinks were puked in, people were punched in the face (sorry Pagel), and drive-thrus were peed in. I've never claimed that I was the pinnacle of class and elegance in my early 20's... okay, maybe I have... but one of my favorite pasttimes of my college days was a hilarious trick known as photobombing.

What's photobombing, you ask? Well, I could give you a long, over-detailed and drawn-out explanation, or I could just copy and paste from the Urban Dictionary:

"The act where one or several persons ruin (sometimes improve) a photo by performing funny acts in the background which may include a dry gangbang, holding stick like objects up to your crotch or raising your clothing."

And then I could see you an Urban Dictionary definition and raise you a link to, and example from, This Is Photobomb:


So is the whole class clear of what photobombing is? Yes? Okay. Moving on.

And so, following my preceding statement and summary of asshole things I did in college, one of the few things I am extremely proud of was a school-year-long declaration of Greek War. For those who don't understand the intricate political workings of university Greek life (that's sororities and fraternities, not our gyro-loving friends from the Mediterranean), every sorority is different. You have the Stepford Wives, you have the bleach-blonde barbie doll sluts, you have the stoners and fat girls and the misfits.

I was Queen of the Misfit sorority. Don't get me wrong. We were fun girls. Hilariously fun girls. But we weren't your typical peroxide Malibu barbies. No, I rushed the Malibu Barbie sorority and wasn't offered a bid. Which is what sparked my long-running grudge -- like the awkward, dorky girl who held out hope for the head cheerleader to invite her to the class sleepover and that invitation never came (not that I'd know what that was like, *ahem* I had something else I had to do that night, so whatever), I declared war on the snob sororities, and with my army of misfit minions, I made the most amazing strategic move ever known in college Greek politics:

I declared a yearlong photobomb war.

By "war" I mean that most likely they had no idea what we were doing, and were probably completely oblivious at the time. But Flying Spaghetti Monster as my witness, when they developed their pictures (this was before digital cameras), there was someone mooning the camera behind the Barbies at the bar, or flying-lead-face-making behind them at Dance Marathon, or flipping off the camera in a recruitment picture.

I photobombed. I dropped the mothereffing Hiroshima of photobombs. For an entire year.

It got to the point that we could do it without even communicating to each other that it was photobomb time. I would just spy a group of AZD's gathering together, forming into your stereotypical sorority girl pose (no, I don't mean on all fours presenting to a frat guy...or passed out spread eagle... I mean the group pose in which the girls in the front row all bend down, hands on knees, boobs out, and everyone behind them leans forward), I would instantly running to leap through the background, or throw up a middle finger, or just look retarded/lost/confused, and I would find a fellow AOPi standing beside me looking equally retarded/lost/confused. It was like an unspoken call to sisterhood.

This, THIS, my friends, is why my sorority dues were worth every penny. Because for a split second, despite all the drama of who hit on whose boyfriend and what certain chapter president was desperately in love with a Lambda Chi Alpha, who said what and who stole whose shoes/boyfriend/whatever, we were united in our hatred and disdain. Loyal forever, Alpha to Thee, ladies! (Side note, I wonder if this is going to cause me to get another shitty email from headquarters about "image" and "sisterhood" and "saying fuck too much".)

It was kind of like Where's Waldo, except I was even dorkier than Waldo, usually much drunker, and much more self-congratulatory. Somewhere, in a sorority scrapbook somewhere, damn near every photo has myself and several other members of my sorority making obscene faces, gestures, looking lost, or flashing random body parts in the background. (Note: I don't mean my sorority's scrapbook -- no, we do it front and center as the object of the photo in our own sorority scrapbook.)

And today, those Delta Gammas may feel nostalgic and flip open and look through those scrapbooks, and they'll furrow their perfectly groomed and waxed brows, and they'll curl their perfectly manicured fingers into little fists and raise them in vain to the sky and they'll curse those damn photobombing AOPi's. And they'll rue -- RUE! -- the day they refused to give me a bid even though I was a legacy, and they'll wonder what kind of god would forsake them in that he would allow the AOPi's to ruin every single group shot they took, for an entire year.

It's the Curse of the Photobomb, my friends, and it was glorious. And you may be expecting that years later, now that I am more mature and have grown as a person, that I would apologize to the Delta Gammas and Alpha Xi Deltas and Kappa Kappa Gammas for ruining their lovely pictures.

And you're wrong. Fuck you, we were hilarious. The end.