Sunday, June 27, 2010

When does "the awkward phase" end?

I am not a graceful person. I took ballet lessons when I was very young but quit when I had to do an exercise in which I had to lie on my stomach and touch my toes to my forehead. I accomplished it, but couldn't move the next day. Also, I felt like an awkward loser in the class and couldn't take the pressure. That statement could actually sum up my K-7th grade experience. But I digress...

I was out with my kids yesterday and we were socializing with our neighbors. That's actually an awkward experience in itself because when other kids are involved, I never know what I can and can't say/do. Can I scold another child for being mean to my 18 month old or should I let the parent(s) handle it? I don't know! What is the etiquette?? However, that is neither here nor there when it comes to my original intention for this post. Back to me being considerably less than graceful. I was jauntily skipping up the steps to my porch when I tripped and skinned my knee and both hands. Instantly, I was transported back to when I was six years old and I tangled my feet in the bike racks and crashed horribly. Then, I zipped to 6th grade when I did the same damn thing and was actually carried to the nurse's office by my teacher. Then, it was 8th grade and I ran directly into a pole while playing tag with some friends after band practice. My most recent epic crash happened before I was pregnant with Ethan and I was running to answer the phone. I tripped on one of Ben's toys, ricocheted into the dining table, smacked my head on the marble phone table, plummeted to the ground, and then had a series of precariously perched objects fall on me. It goes on and on, really. I can't tell you how many times I have broken my toes just from walking around my home. I try to blame it on the fact that I have "finger toes" (or abnormally long toes in case you're wondering what the hell I mean) but I've had them all my life so surely I should know how to maneuver with them, right? Not a good excuse.

I often feel like the proverbial bull in a china shop. I fear for the safety of other people and breakable objects that happen to be anywhere near me. My fear is particularly enhanced when I'm around anyone smaller than myself - this includes children and more slender and/or shorter adults. No lie, I believe I would honestly feel like a spastic giant if I ever went to Japan. As a result of this, I tend to try to take up as little space as possible and remain still - fewer casualties that way. I'm an introverted person with an extroverted sense of balance, if that makes any sense.

If I am ever at your home and I break something/spill something/injure you/injure a loved one, I am very, very sorry.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Existentialism + stick figures

This is what I do at work.

And here's one I just did at home:

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

My whorish-ness explained.

What does it mean that "I'm spreading myself across the internets at a whorish pace"?

We've all heard the phrase "attention whore", right? A blog, for instance, designates the blogger as something of an attention whore because said blogger is somehow convinced that her head full of half-cooked ideas and vague notions are important enough to be plastered 'pon the internet. Compound that with an account on Facebook, accounts on several other forum-based/networking sites, a (long abandoned) account on Myspace, and voila! You have yourself an attention whore. The more of these things I subscribe to, the more of a floozy I am.

I justify the blog by pointing out my dusty ol' English degree. I took a lot of classes to learn how to write, think critically, analyze, and theorize and the big pay off is a hastily typed blog or two about made-up words, warm fuzzies, and self mockery. It was all worth it, right?

Thank you, oh commenter, for the question. I still kind of hate you for beating me at Oregon, though.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Echo! (Echo...echo...echo...)

I think I work best when I have assignments.


If I have any readers out there (I'm looking at YOU... you know who you are... all two of you), leave a comment and tell me what you'd like me to blog about.

Do it.

No, really. Do it.


Tuesday, June 1, 2010

The Truth About Squeetles

WARNING: I'm angry so there will be swearing.

I failed to mention in my previous post that Squeetles originally made their appearance in reference to what I thought was a rash on Ben's backside. This rash had gone from a patch of red, dry skin to a patch of nasty raised bumps. I thought it was eczema and Ben thought it was Squeetle bites.

Ben was closer to the mark.

Over the weekend, the once isolated patch of bumps spread over Ben's entire body. My beautiful, sweet, precious little boy has scabies. Fucking mange. MY KID HAS MANGE. These horrid little mites have found their way onto Ben's skin, burrowed into his skin, and laid their hate-filled, putrescent eggs IN HIS SKIN. Don't Google "scabies". You'll find horrific pictures of penises. If you're curious, here's what a scabies mite looks like:

They are evil.

And now I'm the mom who has that kid with scabies. I bathe my kids on a regular basis. I do not allow them to wallow in filth and snuggle dirty, stray animals. I don't know what to tell you, my dear two readers. Their daycare had to contact the health department over this. I had already taken Ben out for the day for the doctor's appointment that has forever cast a pall over my parenting skills but I had to retrieve Ethan as well. The little guy was quarantined in the baby room with no one for company except one employee who was keeping her distance. I had to go to Walmart (I hate Walmart, mind you... HATE IT) to get the Rx cream to clear up this infestation because no one else in town carried this crap. I have had to douse both kids and myself in this goop. You know what the doctor didn't tell me? He didn't tell me that Ben would scream in fucking agony upon application of this ointment. He stood there, sobbing "mommy, you hurt me!" as I slathered him head to toe.

The worst part? The doctor told me that we'd have to wash all of our bedding and clothing in scalding water because these blood-sucking, egg-laying, little demons would "jump ship" as a result of the cream. I don't want them to jump ship. I want them to fucking die. Not just die, but FUCKING DIE. I want to hear agonized shrieks from their tiny mouths as they die. I want to be lulled to sleep by their throat-shredding wails of pain. I want these microscopic beasts to pay for every single welt they produced on my son's body. I want to enlarge them to the size of throw pillows so I can punch each and every one in its grotesque approximation of a face and then set them on fucking fire.

I think my eye is twitching...