The Drive.

Since becoming a full-fledged adult, with an important job downtown that involves an office with a view in a remodeled historic district, which requires an elevator to access, I’ve discovered the five o’clock rush hour commute is a strange and magical period of metamorphosis and self-honesty.

I get into my Jeep Liberty, the pink car seat in the back still empty, and I head west on Washington. The cars are bumper to bumper, as the up and coming suit kids from downtown head home to suburbia. We drive past the beautiful west central houses, some restored to their original beauty, which we have abandoned with our hipster early 20’s, and drive due west to the 04 zip code. The established side of town. Where houses all look the same, built by the same contractor, the lawns look the same, and everyone knows about IRAs and stocks and bonds and other fancy grownup terms like colonoscopies.

But we haven’t picked up the kids yet. We haven’t gone home to spouses, to pick up the house and cook dinner (or pick up takeout). Right now, we’re on a 15-minute period of total honesty. No kids, no office where we’re required to keep up this insane charade of adulthood. Just us, in our cars. The windows are rolled down. The iPods are switched to our music that we don’t dare play with our precious snowflake children in the car, played at a volume we wouldn’t dream of blasting into precious little eardrums.

And for 15 minutes, in our tiny little pods, driving down Washington Boulevard to the safety of suburbia, we are ourselves.

The lady in the Caravan two cars ahead? Followed Nirvana on tour and held vigil after Kurt Cobain’s suicide, before she became an accountant. That guy over there in the Mercedes? Smoked more weed than you could imagine in his heyday. He might have a baggie in his sock drawer that he breaks out after the kids have gone to sleep, after swim practice and lacrosse games.

And the girl in the Jeep Liberty, blasting the Strokes and drumming furiously on her steering wheel? Was once thrown out of three different bars in one night and arrested for peeing in a Taco Bell drive-thru. Before the expensive but modest dress slacks and high heels and portfolios and vendor phone calls. Before the pink princess EVERYTHING and swim lessons and gymnastics lessons and “for-the-love-of-fucking-god-I-said-it-is-bedtime” eruptions. She was pretty fucking sweet.

We all know this is each other’s Zen time. This is Me Time. I am not How To, Official Grown-Up With An Office Full of Family Pictures and Important-Looking Folders. I’m not Mommy. I’m just How2. Crazy, sarcastic, ridiculous, falling down drunk, dancing on tables, drumming along to the Killers How2.

We recognize it in each other. With a polite nod or sidewise glance, a sheepish smile that says, “Yeah, I was really fucking awesome about 6 or 7 years ago, too,” we see kindred spirits, we see ourselves reflected as the ties are loosened and the heels come off. Sometimes literally – traipsing around the office in 4” heels wears on the arches.

Then we pick up our kids. We go home. We feed them dinner, put them to bed, quietly settle onto the couch with a glass of wine, watching mundane prime time sitcoms and going to bed at 10, because that’s when we’re exhausted now, to wake up at 6 to do it all again, the same tired act of adulthood for 9 hours a day.

But we’ll reconvene again at 5. I’ll bring the Black Keys.

Come on, get Happy.

I know this may come as a surprise to many of you, but I was a melodramatic kid with dreams of grandeur. In the 80’s, some kids dreamt of superstardom on Star Search or Double Dare. But that was for chumps. I, on the other hand, had plans that would take me through the back door and right up to the main stage – I was going to capture the hearts of America on Bozo the Clown.

But alas, Bozo was clear in Chicago, some far away fantasy land that apparently only granted admittance to idiot children with absolutely no hand-eye coordination, so the next closest thing for those of us growing up in Fort Wayne was Happy the Hobo.

Happy the Hobo was a congenial raggedy gentile who lived in the WFFT Fox 55 studio with his pal Froggy – who in case you’re confused, was a frog who sounded a lot like my mom when she started smoking again and tried to hide it from us. The show aired every weekday after school, and any kid in the broadcast area whose parents loved them made their television debut on Happy the Hobo.

Similar to Bozo, Happy featured games that pitted select audience children against each other. The winner would receive vast prizes and fortune, including Pop Weaver popcorn and Archway cookies.

Also, each kid on the show was “interviewed” by Happy, with some question of the segment, and you had two seconds to give your answer.

Most answers were, by my estimation, lame. Some kids cried. Some were shy and didn’t talk. But more than that was the lucky kid who would be the last one “interviewed” before a commercial break who got to say “We’ll be right back.”

In my five-year-old mind, I NEEDED to be this child.

So when my parents announced we would be going on Happy’s Place, my mind went into overdrive preparing for what was surely going to be my fast track to stardom. I schemed ways that I could get to be the kid to say “We’ll be right back.” I would sing it just like Paula Abdul would. Happy would be so floored by my panache, my “it” factor, and people watching the show would be so taken by this talented and precocious child with the huge white permed fro that stuck five inches off her head, that I would be destined for greatness. It was inevitable.

And so came the day, and I could scarcely contain myself as I sat with the other children in the audience. Happy came out juggling bowling pins and telling jokes, and I made it a point to be AMAZED by every trick, to laugh louder than ANY other kid, to show just how clearly outstanding I was. The time for the interview came, and the featured question was “If you could be any kind of animal, what would you be?”

As we lined up, I gauged how long it would be before a commercial break. I was too close to the front of the line; I knew my turn would come and go before I would even have the chance to say “We’ll be right back”. So I began letting kids in front of me in line, under the guise that I was A.) the benevolent line saint, and B.) very shy.

It’s on tape somewhere, which I think my parents still have if my father didn’t tape Lethal Weapon over it and I didn’t tape N Sync videos over it in junior high, the abnormally tall child in the line, wheeling and dealing on camera letting kids in front of her. Nobody knew my ulterior motive but I was going to tell the world we’d be right back, and I would have ARRIVED.

Then Happy asked me the question. My answer? A fox. I’d like to say my skill for marketing and PR shined even then (the station was called Fox 55), but the truth was I was just sort of obsessed with Fox and the Hound and all the lame kids were saying stupid shit like horses. Horses! PFFT!

And I stood and waited after Happy noted what a great response that was.

And I was motioned to step aside.

That was it. That was my chance. And I blew it on “fox.”

And then he asked the little boy behind me to say “We’ll be right back.”

OH THE DEFEAT. The kid had been picking his nose the whole time and Happy picked HIM? WHAT THE HELL HAPPY?

I proceeded to go cry to my parents, who were in the parental section of the audience off-camera, so very, very disappointed with how things had turned so very much against me.

Maybe because he saw me crying, maybe because I trampled the other children when he asked for a volunteer, but Happy later picked me to be a contestant in the GOOFY GAME-O-RAMA.

THIS was it, guys. THIS was my moment. This would be where I would shine. Would it be throwing your shoes in a pile to see who could pull them out first? Oh I hoped so.

Again, cruel fate turned me to the cold.

Happy pitted me against a huge girl, who, in my mind’s eye, was like, 16, but in all reality was probably like, 8. And the game? Hula hoop contest.

I have a secret confession to make. I can’t hula hoop. I can’t now, and I sure as shit couldn’t when I was 5. I also can’t jump rope – which, contrary to what my middle school gym teacher told me, you CAN get into college and become a successful adult without being able to do, like climbing a rope to the gym ceiling and putting mind over matter on menstrual cramps (whatever, if you’re mad, you’re just mad YOUR mom didn’t write you a note).

But I couldn’t risk giving up my one shot at stardom, since I had blown my interview, so instead of saying simply, “I can’t hula hoop,” I proceeded to hurl the hula hoop around my mid-section and do what wasn’t much unlike seizing. Happy, unfooled by my tomfoolery, kindly escorted me out of the game and picked some other kid to participate. My Achilles heel of competition, and he had found it.

Not long after this embarrassing, shameful turn of events, Happy "retired" and let his cousin, "Happy's cousin," take over the show, a move I never understood. I personally would never let my cousin take over my job; mostly because he's a convicted felon whose claim to fame is that his prison cell is in the same block as Maurice Clarrett's (something any red-blooded Ohioan would be proud of, really), and if he tried to take over my job, he'd probably just work for cigarettes and stab someone in the break room before the day was over. Moral of the story: your cousin shouldn't take over your job.

And really, he's my step-cousin. But anyway.

To this day I can’t hula hoop. I can’t eat Archway cookies without feeling like I didn’t earn them, and I am fully prepared to belt out “We’ll be right back” while doing a full song and dance number. Mr. Hobo, I am ready for my closeup.

No really. Please?

Uphill battle.

Let’s just get one thing straight right now: I am not a cyclist.

I am so NOT a cyclist that I initially typed “cycler”. That’s how non-cyclist I am.

So you can imagine what a foreign experience it has been for me to actually partake in a spin class. I’m not out of shape by most definitions – at 5’10, I’ve never really seen the other side of 170 lbs. (with the exception of pregnancy), I don’t smoke, and my drinking habits only lightly cross the line of “crippling dependency.” But since embarking on my new employment a few months ago for an organization that A.) stresses health and wellness and B.) gives me a free gym membership, I figured, what the fuck. Let’s get on a tiny pretend bike.

My first venture into spin class happened to fall on a day on which I was getting past a nasty cold, and had a lingering cough that would flare up if I inhaled, let alone huffed and puffed through spin class. But illness be damned, I had committed myself to doing spin class that day. So I chugged half a bottle of children’s Dimetapp before leaving for the gym, and hoped for the best.

It’s bad enough to be known as the new person in a spin class. It’s worse to be known as “the new girl who puked purple nightmare all over spin class.”

Moral of the story: don’t do spin class after chugging half a bottle of children’s Dimetapp. You will puke. I don’t care how good of an idea it may seem; you will puke. And terrify all the children coming out of swimming lessons. Just sayin’.

More than my faux pas, however, is the fact that the majority of people in spin class are, in fact, insane – if for nothing more than the fact that they are getting on a tiny pretend bike and pretending to go up pretend hills on their pretend bike, and are insane competitive assholes while doing it.

Somehow every time I go, I wind up next to the triathlete who is training through the winter and thinks we’re in some sort of race. Chill, dude. I am not going to race you up a pretend hill. I am not going to sprint faster than you. I am just trying to keep this tiny pretend bike’s tiny and very-real seat from breaking some unknown second hymen because CHRIST these things aren’t made for an ass like mine.

And even if – and when – you DO beat me up the hill…way to go. You beat the chick who puked purple all over the place last time and then pretty much crawled away from the class like Lucille Ostero in the vertigo clinic. (+2 to anyone noting that Arrested Development reference.)

Going into an established class is like being Forrest Gump on the school bus on the first day. Everyone has their assigned bike, officially or not, and everyone bikes next to the same person. Everyone knows all the bikes and all their tiny nuances. So I don’t know who I’m going to piss off by getting on this bike here. I don’t want to step on any toes, clad in tiny little shoes that snap onto the pedals all like whatthefuck. So I’m just going to stand by this bike here, all noncommittal, and see if anyone comes and looks especially annoyed by it before 9:15 when the class starts.

Or one day I came in, and lingered by a bike, put my tiny backpack down and put my entirely-insufficient water bottle in the rack when the girl next to me said, “Careful, that one’s finicky.” Like this means shit to me. I mean, is this a horse? Does it have a stubborn streak? Is it easy-going? I don’t know, I don’t even know what she means by this, but I nod solemnly like I know what this means, and I go stand by the bike over there in the corner instead in my non-committal pre-class bike considering stance.

When I don’t vomit, I spend most of the class cursing the instructor, who for all intensive purposes is probably a delightful woman, but for those 45 minutes she can GO STRAIGHT TO HELL ON HER TINY LITTLE BIKE. The instructor, the stupid uncomfortable seats and my crushed pelvic bones all say, “Stand with the class as they go to position 2!” and my glutes – and my mouth hole – are screaming, “JESUS TAPDANCING CHRIST NO!!!”

Ricky Martin’s pelvic thrusting “Living La Vida Loca” is not going to make me get off my ass and try to stand while pedaling for 5 minutes. It’s just not. So I sit in the remedial corner of the cycling class and pedal the entire time, pretending to increase my resistance along with the class while we go up this so-called “hill,” when really I’m just pedaling slower so the instructor stops yelling at me.

I am not a cyclist. I don’t know why I keep going to spin class. My vagina hurts.

I just keep repeating that to myself the entire class. I think it makes the triathlon guy next to me uncomfortable.

But still I press on, up the hills and down the hills, increasing resistance and decreasing resistance, because I love the thrill. I love the challenge. I love the wind in my hair and I love being yelled at and berated in front of a group of people.

No, no I don’t. I’m just an idiot on a tiny pretend bike with a bruised ass and an apparent case of Tourette’s, because as long as I claim that, they can’t throw me out for “unwholesome language.” SHITFUCK DOGBALLS.

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?

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.

FAMOUS!

I've mentioned The DP Show on here before, and it's a podcast I wholeheartedly and enthusiastically encourage everyone to listen to. And like female trailblazers before me in history, I have accomplished new heights for womankind through nagging, whining and boobflashing -- and I am now the first female co-host to serve on the show. So go CHECK IT OUT, BITCHES...