I Wanna Know

Someone recently very kindly pointed out to me that blogs occasionally contain some personal information about the author and their daily lives. This voyeuristic quality apparently makes it fun to quietly watch them go about their business while getting a peek into their brain.

This of course was a nice but passive aggressive way to let me know that me and my life are not at all present in the things I write.

Sure, occasionally I like to fume over the mindless jaywalker who stepped into oncoming traffic while I was on the road or reveal the horrifying incident at the Chipotle that took place only hours after my young son learned that ladies did in fact have vaginas instead of wieners but for the most part I leave my day-to-day happenings at the doormat when I step over the WordPress threshold.

After so many years of working diligently to not be vulnerable, needy or a pain in somebody elses ass, I’d almost forgotten how brilliant it is to see a person write something stripped down and bare enough that it makes them look completely human.

I’m not exactly sure when vulnerability and truth fell so out of fashion in my mind but there are days when all this autonomous droning about impersonal subjects and flaunting my “independence” gets tedious.

To exert so much energy in opposition to what I really feel at times is exhausting. It’s a struggle that results in exactly what I don’t want.

More isolation.Less warmth.

Since I am slow to absorb the most basic changes in routine, I’ll need to marinate in this sea of change for a few hours before I can produce a worthwhile post on the terrible new development of vagrants shitting in my garage.

Seriously. It’s either a guy without access to indoor plumbing, an urban Yeti or a bear that’s escaped from the zoo.

We’re Making Plans For Nigel

 

At some point I’m going to get a phone call from various defunct 80′s bands demanding some sort of restitution for all the titles I’ve stolen after a morning listening to Sirius XM’s First Wave.

I like to use the drive back from drop off to think about what needs to be done during the day and to formulate a plan of attack for whatever bizarre circumstances or unforseen disasters will fall in my lap thanks to my smallest child.

You see, despite the best laid plans and extensive help from all the most expensive professionals he still has some issues that prevent him from being ready for prime time.

Like the Saturday Night Live players but with less parody and more physical pratfalls.

So here I am, the grown up, struggling to hack my way through the thick brush surrounding the path back to normality for this kid.

Never have I been so confounded by another human being.

I lie in wait for the ramifications of each decision I’ve made on his behalf  dreading the large casualty laden explosion that is clearly imminent. Nothing is clear-cut and never have the stakes been so high.

Imagine if laid before you are a deck of a thousand cards and you must pick five or six to determine the path that someone takes at various important crossroads in their life.

Now take a look at the possible outcomes.

Steven Hawking or the Unibomber.

Churchill or Mussolini.

Yes, perhaps I’m exaggerating his potential but his propensity for extremes is legendary and being in his service for these long five years has taken its toll on the staff here.

It would be accurate to say we live in fear.

Fear of the next step.

Fear that the wrong choice will cause everything to go up in flames (don’t laugh, it’s happened)

Usually I have these things set up far in advance of the actual decision-making event but I happen to be in the middle of a long period of wait and see fence-sitting that’s really starting to hurt my ass.

And so, as I perch here and think about making plans for Nigel I’m still frozen with doubt and remorse over things I’ve not even done yet.

Starts With B, Rhymes With Witch

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.

What do you get when one and three go to war? Lot’s of flying fists, hurt feelings and exhausted referees.
 

Into every new year a little profanity must fall and who better to give it to you than Il Duce? The shock value of naughty words spilling forth from tiny lips never lessens, but  even I drew a sharp breath upon hearing his newly acquired profane utterance. 

If you want an extreme reaction, make sure to call me a bitch. 

If you want to make me cry watch my five-year old learn and use that word. 

Number one and number three are forces of nature that suck the air out of every room they enter creating a vacuum that few escape. Sandwiched between these two is my gentle sweet heart who has learned to weather the storm and keep his head down. 

Powerful personalities battle it out over Tokyo

Today I listened to all three call each other that word and waited for the piss poor parenting paddy wagon to pull up and cart me off. 

Good work mom. 

One too many viewings of the housewives of whatever county happen to be on and the word became legend over here where potty mouth is far too prevalent and three bars of lye soap are in demand now. 

Little assholes.

Hanging It Up

Things that amuse me in the spare time I don't really have. Boys room 5/10/2010

Today I’m annoyed at my blog.
So I’m packing up all my shit and hightailing it over to Culture Brats to soak up the pop culture cool.
Today they are Blane and I am Duckie.

Except, they don’t have a sidekick named Steff with a withering sneer and bedroom eyes. Thank you James Spader.

Most of all I love Culture Brats because they get me.

Here I am crying about missing the Police reunion tour again.

Things are Not as They Appear.

This Sunday I had myself a true Judas Iscariot moment.

I denied knowing my own children at the grocery store.

Then I stopped after reading that last line and asked myself  “Hey girl who spent her whole life chained to a pew in parochial school! WHO was it now that denied Jesus three times?” “Why YES you moron that would be Peter.”

Judas sounds so much more theatrical though, so I’m keeping it even thought it is not historically accurate.

While waiting patiently in the checkout line my two boys began to act a little squirrely.

They were redirected to the front of the store near the exits brought there by my beleaguered mother who was lacking her usual sharp tongue and was hanging there like a limp dishrag due to a debilitating migraine.

 This means that the boys were running in circles, screaming about having a girlfriend, punching each other, jumping off the bench my mother was passing out on, smashing the video machine with the dollar rentals and accosting the automatic lotto dispenser.

Two über uptight couples with pursed thin lips were starting to shake their heads in disbelief and exchanging disgusted looks with each other at the volume and sheer audacity of the two unruly boys and their comatose caretaker.

“So rude and disrespectful” noted one.

“Why isn’t she doing anything to control them?” asked the other.

Then Il Duce let loose with a rank profanity followed by a roaring hysterical cackle and I watched them gasp with horror.

They were truly disgusted.

“CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?!” they croaked, looking at me.

I thought for a moment. There were thousands of ways I could go here but I opted for betrayal.

“I know!” I commiserated, as I lugged the rest of my fresh produce onto the belt.

I didn’t feel nearly as bad as I know I should have but it was just so much easier to cut and run regarding knowing this lot than to try to explain them to someone who wouldn’t care.

After scooping my mother up off the bench and driving her back home so she could suffer her mind exploding agony alone on her couch I spoke briefly to the boys about minding their behavior in public. But my pleas fell on deaf ears as they were both fast asleep in the back.

Child With the Annoying Voice

It's true!

Everybody loves kids right?

 I mean they are sweet, innocent , endearing and wonderous.

Only a  terminal asshole would fail to see the beauty in every precious little moment and treasure it.

TREASURE IT I SAY!

Except…what is that sound?

The nasal caterwauling that sounds like a combination of someone shaking an injured hawk and declawing a cat?

 Is that even human?

Is that……….a child’s voice?

Okay, strike me down now but it was unbearable. I kept having to wrinkle my forehead (something my derm has told me in no uncertain terms NOT to do to remain youthful) and squint my eyes to ward it off.

 Why I wasn’t covering my ears instead remains a mystery but I found myself temporarily confused and upset at the sound with no proper ideas on how to make it stop.

After recovering from being completely askew I took a moment to marvel at what an oddity it was.

Sickly sweet with cold metallic elements that grated on your nerves like steel on a chalkboard.

I kept tossing furtive glances over at the roll of duct tape I keep handy for emergencies but thought about that lawsuit and subsequent human element piece that would appear on cnn.com later during the trial.

The tale of the  horrible woman who taped the mouth of a small child while others watched.

That is just not how I want to be remembered people.

What Happened To You?

This is not me, but I feel like I understand where she is coming from.

Currently on the second day of marinating in my own filth, I have finally summoned the will to get out of the chair and head up to the shower. How does someone get to such a point? Actually, this is amateur hour compared to the down in the trenches battle hardened resolve I had when my kids were really small. I think I hold the world record for consecutive days without bathing. Two weeks, if I remember correctly. I knew when my  husbands eyes started to water every time he came close to me that I might be pushing the envelope. Those were the times when night blurred into day and you never had any idea what day of the week it was much less gave a crap about what you looked like. Survival, stolen minutes of sleep and the occasional glimpse of sunlight and gasp of fresh air. That’s all you needed to make it.

Now I have no excuse.  The stretched out terry cloth yoga pants that call to me daily from the dirty hamper to put them on instead  of the stiff ill-fitting jeans that go SO much better with the Old Navy sweater I just purchased are clearly trying to tell me something. At what point did warm comfort trump fashion sense, common decency and looking respectable in public?

This past week we spent countless hours watching marathon jags of TLC (the only network where the prerequisite for snagging your own show is the ability to use your uterus as a clown car) and every time I looked down I noticed that at least two of us were wrapped in a Snuggie. That’s right, we have three.  Laugh if you will (and I know you will) but we were really warm and happy.

That’s why things like the Snuggie are a very dangerous slippery slope for people like me. First you are all cozied up on your couch with your similarly attired family and then you find yourself unable to leave the comfort and warmth of your spot and you start sending for help to bring the Doritos bag and glass of iced tea.

It’s not as if I’ve totally thrown in the towel. There WAS that expensive trip to the salon a few weeks ago to vanquish grey roots and snip dead ends and I am planning to get myself a few post holiday sale items this week.

So my New Year’s promise to myself is to man up and start wearing clothes that qualify as “non-vagrant” wear.  I will make an effort to spare the public scorched retinas and scrunched noses by showering and using all those fancy products that sit in my bathroom. And finally I vow to never don the Snuggie before nine in the evening with the understanding that it is never to be worn outside the house. (Sorry mailman)

For Those Who Helped Us Rock, We Salute You

We're with the band. Or at least we like to pretend we are.

It’s been over twenty years since I last ran screaming down an alley after a hastily retreating tour bus hollering for its occupants to validate my existence with a wave or a smile. So tonight in order to honor the girl I was and the bands that played on the soundtrack of my youth, I plan to eat a generous helping of humble pie. I’ve spent so much time demanding my pound of flesh from defunct 80′s supergroups that I forgot to take a moment to say thank you. That’s right, I stand before Stewart, Sting, & Andy and give thanks for all the albums, the rigorous touring schedule and  the peroxide. You were the cherry on the cake of an almost perfect decade. While I wish I hadn’t been outfitted in wool jumpers, knee socks and pig tails so that I could have whored around backstage with the rest of the  groupie skanks that  hung barnacle like in the  concrete hallways leading to the dressing rooms, I still had a great time stalking them under the watchful eye of my befuddled parents. This also gives me the added advantage of NOT being riddled with numerous STD’s , so for that I’m also grateful. The Cure, R.E.M., the Go Go’s, The Smith’s, Squeeze, the B-52′s etc. thank you for all the fun. 

After careful consideration I also realized I would be remiss if I didn’t give a shout out to the brothers Copeland, hell the ENTIRE Copeland family for having a hand in crafting the careers of over half of the bands I listened to as a kid. 

Warning: Uncalled for off topic rant coming….. 

Here I would like to go off on a massive tangent related to the above mentioned family. The Copeland family connection is clearly the vital missing link in the history books between overwhelming  band success or failure. Clearly, being a Copeland carries with it the implication that it is genetically impossible to fail. I think they even tried it once or twice, but it didn’t work. Failure = sticky eggs. Copeland’s= teflon pan. It just falls off of them and onto the floor. Sunday brunch with this clan must be hell. Can you imagine how fraught with boasting and one-upmanship this meal is? Hey, I single-handedly changed the entire middle east! I just wrote two well received books-WHILE I WAS SITTING HERE! Oh yeah, I composed two operas, founded a band that took over the world, wrote a book , produced seven kids, and wrote and directed a movie! I just quietly prevented Armageddon using only the power of my mind (that last one was   Miles, he scares me). 

I hate to think what would have become of me had I not had all this great music to distract me from my school work and what could have been a higher calling. I suspect that I could have amounted to something fairly important (doctor, lawyer, missionary?) or I could have just flailed around blindly and become a classic rock fan with bad hair and too much Covergirl charcoal black eyeliner.  But, it is as it was meant to be. New Wave and I found each other and the rest is history.

What’s Up Buttercup?

40: Oh hi 12-year-old self it’s me twenty-eight years in the future, how are you?

12: Holy crap ,are you kidding me?!

40: No, no not kidding .I’m here to let you know that in the future you will type on a computer and be able to communicate with people from all over the world not just play pong on your Atari gaming system or asteroids on the Intellivision system that your mom, whoops I mean Santa, is going to bring you next Christmas!

12: What? Wait, there’s no santa? FUCK, I knew it! But Intellivision, that’s awesome, Cathy Fermaint will shit her pants when she finds out! She thinks she’s so hot with all her Atari games – well screw her and her mastery of space invaders. NO ONE will be going over THERE after school anymore. Has been.

40: Also 12-year-old self ,I have some news about The Police.

12:You mean the biggest band in the universe? You should see the new poster I just got at Sam Goody….so dreamy…..

40: Yes. After the Synchronicity tour they just vanish in a puff of smoke with no real explanation. They go their separate ways and it takes them over twenty years to tour again. And….I have more bad news…

12 : Oh god what? Does one of them die?

40: No, no. But.. you miss the tour.

12:WHAT?! What kind of stupid moron misses something like that? It’s bad enough that you look like this at 40, I mean, don’t they have super ray guns in the future to blast off those wrinkles and destroy that grey? God, what type of horrible fate is this? Can I prevent this from happening?

40: You are getting off track 12-year-old self. Ignore what I look like, it’s been a rough day in 2009 and I had like NO personal time today, otherwise I would have at least colored my hair. I’ve got, well I guess we’ve got, three demanding kids, two dogs and a husband.

12: OH.MY.GOD. Please tell me it’s not Dominik Leonetti!!!

40: Oh lord no. And for what it’s worth I was glad to see you cold cock him after that incident with Jennifer White and the kickball team. No you , well we, marry a wonderful guy. He’s a musician!

12: Oh shit is it Stewart Copeland!?? Please tell me we get married!!!!

40: No 12-year-old self it isn’t Stewart, he’s happily married with like four hundred kids.

12: Four hundred!?

40: Well more like seven, but still as anyone with kids knows that can feel like four hundred. But listen 12-year-old self we digress, I need you to do something for me.

12: What is it?

40: All those albums, cassette tapes, photo books everything you’ve got- keep them.

12:Okay.

40: And another thing, make sure you pester your parents to take you to see The Police live instead of that dreadful Duran Duran concert you will be seeing with your friends. Heed my words for this will be your biggest regret.

12:Fine, but can I ask you a question?

40: Sure.

12: What has happened to my ass?

40: Well 12-year-old self, it has fallen. That shit happens after three kids and no amount of propping it up or stair climbing will help. So enjoy that body for all it’s worth for about eighteen more years.

12: Wow, that freaking sucks. Okay then, it’s been great talking to you but Vicky and Julie are waiting for me so we can walk to Stout Steve’s and buy Creem magazine and maybe even Tiger Beat.

40: You know it wasn’t exactly easy getting here to tell you this, maybe we could just sit and chat for a bit. There is so much going on in the future, it’s spectacular.

12: So , they can’t figure out a way to get rid of fat, wrinkles or grey hair?

40: No.

12: Did anyone find a cure for cancer?

40: Well no, but there’s….

12: Ah, ah, ah. I think I’ve heard enough about this ”future” you speak of. Be gone scary lady with your bad hair and ill-fitting clothes. I want no more bad news.

40: Okay then. Good luck you plucky little metal mouthed girl. Enjoy the ride!

12: I will!

Suck it Scott Storch

Sorry, I couldn’t resist doing this. Earlier this evening I emailed this half assed rap song to my husband so he could record it with my daughter. While inquiring about the glut of poorly written but catchy songs I had heard recently on FM radio my husband pointed to the all-powerful Scott Storch. How long do you think it will be before he sends men in dark suits to put a cap in my ass?

Crazy song written for E D by her mother after an excruciating 2 hour trip enduring the radio stylings of the twenty worst rappers and song writers she’s ever heard. Courtesy of 99.5.
Had these terrible ditties not gone before, I would most assuredly never have been able to compose such drivel. I did so in five minutes flat. I also came up with her new rap moniker- wait for it…

Lil’ E.N.D. (her initials)

DC State of Mind

Quarter moon risin’ – over Ben’s on U
Your mind is reelin’- with all the things ya got ta do
Wonderin’ over and over if the day is gonna end
Spendin’ most ya time runnin’ madness with ya friends

The Potomac runs funny under bridges thru canals
It sure ain’t Billy’s Hudson but for that our DC swells
Verizon Centers got it every day this week
Caps, Concerts, Wizards not a place to see the weak

Lookin down Mt. Pleasant Street all the way to sixteenth
Steppin down the alley way past hoops and lost dreams
Heading through the door seeing all the city strife
Do you know the way to live the DC life?

Now just write a little chorus to pop in between the verses and you too can reach the lofty heights of stardom. Start biting your nails now Scott Storch, I’m coming for your Bentley.