Archive | July, 2009

Fragments

30 Jul

Friday again, another installment of fragments. I’d love to say that this week just flew by, but it really didn’t. It really, really didn’t.

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Coolest saying ever: nuggets of wisdom. It reminds me of poop. If wisdom was poop, or if nuggets meant poop, I don’t know. Nevermind. Made more sense in my head.

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Every August, Davey goes to football camp. It’s run by the high school football coach (who incidentally was the coach and gym teacher when I was in high school). David looks forward to this camp all spring and summer long. Well, there was a message on the answering machine, they’d cancelled it. Didn’t say why. The poor kid is heartbroken. The lady who called said, in lieu of football camp, we’re willing to offer you a free week at the outdoors camp. Ok, first off lady, it isn’t free. I already paid my $100. Second, “in lieu of” a stupid saying. Third, outdoor camp and football camp are so not the same thing. Now look what you made him do.

It’s a sign he made. Supper bumed. Poor kid is so distraught he can’t even spell. I think he was going for super bummed. I’m also not sure why the P on the guys’ chest is backwards. Might have to check into that.

******

Actual conversation via text message:

Me: Do I make you happy?

Chris: Of course you do.

Me: What if I had an unfortunate accident with a wood chipper and I lost the bottom half of my body, and we could never have sex again. Would I still make you happy?

Chris: In the unlikely event that you were critically injured in a wood chipper accident, yes, you’d still make me happy.

Me: What if I had to talk around on my hands? Or pull my torso behind me?

Chris: Yes. I would still be eternally grateful that I was with you.

Me: What if I had to use my chin to walk because the wood chipper gave me gangrene and I had to have my arms cut off and I inched around like a caterpillar?

Chris: In that incredibly morbid event, I would still be happy. Not happy that you were a human inch worm, but happy to be with you.

Me: Ok good. Just checking.

******

I spent some time going through my archives this week, fixing old links, making sure everything was pretty and all cleaned up. If you notice that I missed something or something is not working, let me know, granted I may tell you go to hell, but that’s a risk we’re gonna have to take. If you’re interested in going down the rabbit hole a little further check them out. It’s kind of interesting to see how I used to try to be a good little mommy blogger. I even tried the no swearing policy. Then it went to shit and I decided to stop trying to be something I’m not. I went back and tried to change all the “fricking” and “friggin” to fucking, because c’mon. Who am I trying to kid?

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How was your week?

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Check out more Friday Fragments with Mrs4444.

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You know what I’m not? A SAHM. Thank God.

30 Jul

I’ve learned a lot this week. Namely, I am so fucking grateful that I’m not a stay at home mom.

Normally, the kids go with their Dad during the day because I refuse to pay for daycare for kids who really only need enough supervision to make sure they don’t burn the house down or kill each other. Tuesday, I had a big project I was working on and I needed Photoshop, which I don’t have on my computer at work, so I worked from home. I could’ve still sent them to their Dad’s, but it was a beautiful day, I figured I could work and the kids could just play outside and I could work uninterrupted. So wrong. They played outside, but funny thing. When the windows are open because it’s 85 degrees outside and 117 inside, you can hear everything. EVERYTHING. For the first 2 hours, I listened to them play this incarnation of Deal or No Deal (they watch a lot of Game Show Network during the day at their Dad’s, what can I say), only instead of suitcases, they used the basketball. I never realized how extraordinarily bossy Kat was, she’s yelling at David, No! I’m the host! No! You go over there! No! That’s not how the rules are! David, do it MY way! Holy shit, it was driving me nuts. I “reminded” her about 27 times to play nice, and by reminded, I mean I yelled out the window, knock it off.

So then after lunch, I told them that they could play with the hose in the backyard. I really, really needed to get my project done for a big presentation I had, so I was hoping the bickering would stop if they cooled off a little. Nope. They argued over who gets to spray the hose, who had it longer, who sprayed who last. It was excruciating. About 3 hours into that, they finally got along, only to send me straight into madness. They decided to sing. The Barney song. Over, and over, and over, and over. Finally I was like, GOOD CHRIST PLEASE STOP SINGING! Then they went back to fighting. Sigh. Now normally I would have some reprieve at 2:20 when Chris got out of work, but he’s working a different shift this week and isn’t home until almost 8:00. I had to make dinner, get all the housework done, begin my slow descent into madness AND get my project done.

How these moms stay home and deal with that shit all day is beyond me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids, I really do. I do not love staying home with them all day. Granted, I was with them all day Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, but I don’t think it’s normal to have kid overload after 4 days. To do it day in and day out…I’d need to be committed. I have to do it again next week, to be home with them all day. I’m afraid. Hold me.

It’s my blog and I’ll quote Popeye if I want to

28 Jul

Lately there’s been all this talk about what is and what is not a mommy blogger. About why we blog, why we do what we do, and why we feel it’s necessary to be put in a box (or bust open the seams of said box). I got an email today about yesterday’s post. Basically tsk tsking me for talking about vibrators on a mommy blog. This, combined with Aunt Becky’s (in case you didn’t know, Aunt Becky is the shit. I totally stalk her and you should too. She rocks beyond compare) question, “Why do you blog?” really got me thinking. Who am I really? Where do I fit? Why do I really blog? Am I doing the wrong thing? Am I too “out there”?

I have kids, sometimes I talk about them. That doesn’t make me a mommy blogger, at least not what people seem to think mommy bloggers are. If there was some rule that “mommy bloggers” weren’t allowed to talk about things like porn or vibrators, no one told me. See the title up there at the top of the page? That’s my name. My real name, well the Merritt part, not the ocracy part, that would be a hella weird name. So…my name, my rules. If what I write offends you, don’t read it. Because honestly, I don’t write for you. And maybe that’s not cool for me to say, but it’s true. Yes, I love that people read what I write. I love when people leave comments, because it gives me validation that I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me. But at the end of the day, I write for me.

I have notebooks full of random shit that just pops into my head. I need an outlet for my crazy, and this is it. They used to have me on Prozac, but this is really much cheaper. You can only tell your friends and family about your random rambling thoughts so many times before people really start to think you’re nuts. On my blog, I can be nuts, I can be crazy, because hey, crazy is the new black, right? (See how I just slipped that in there? I should totally be in advertising.) I write because I love to write. I love to have this crazy idea in my head, all jumbled and senseless, and just let it out into a (vaguely) coherent story. I love the process. I love everything about it. I’ve written for myself for way longer than blogs were popular, and really before the internet was even a “thing”, I’m that old, y’all. It’s always been my outlet, the only difference between now and then is, now, I have an audience other than my mother (my mom still reads my blog, even though she thinks I’m vulgar).

I’m doing all I can to not apologize for even possibly offending someone, but I’m not going to do it. As a wise sailor once said, “Aye yam who aye yam, and that’s all that aye yam.”

Best iPod attachment. Ever.

27 Jul

So the other day I was playing on my laptop and somehow got on Eden Fantasys, a sex toy website. I don’t remember the linkage that got me there, but I spent the whole afternoon looking at sex toys, and holy shit there really is something for everyone. By the way, this is totally why I love my laptop. I can look at sex toys while the kids watch Jaws. I know, I know, it’s not appropriate to be looking at adult things while the kids are around, but hello? They were watching Jaws, it’s not like they were paying any attention to me. Ok, so they probably shouldn’t have been watching Jaws either, but it’s not like I was going for mother of the year anyway.

And you know how I’m always looking for places to write? Well, Eden Fantasies has this program where they’ll send you sex toys to try and you have to write a review about it for their website. I don’t know if you’ve heard all the chatter about blogger PR Blackouts or the ethical dilemmas about accepting or not accepting “gifts” in exchange for a review, but I say screw ethics. If someone wants to send me free sex toys, and all I have to do is try them out and write a review, sign me the hell up.

Where was I? Oh yes, something for everyone. There’s even a toy for music lovers like me. Ok, you know those little plastic dogs that dance around when they’re plugged into your iPod? iDogs, or something like that? Well they have the same thing for adults. But it’s not a dog, it’s a vibrator. So it’s not really the same thing, but it’s still a toy that hooks up you your iPod and “dances” to the music, which to me sounds way more awesome than a stupid dog that jumps around. I haven’t tried it, and I don’t think I’d buy it because I only listen to my iPod at work (which just wouldn’t be a good idea), in the car (which could be very distracting) and when I do yard work (my neighbors already think I’m nuts), but I still think it’s a cool idea.

I bet if your kids have one those, you’re never gonna look at them the same again.

P.S. The sex toy isn’t really a dog, I’m just messing with you. Here’s the actual link to the NaughtiNano, should you be so inclined.

Fragments

23 Jul

So I’ve been looking for something “catchy” for a weekly post. I thought about doing Flashback Fridays, but then as I started writing these stories, almost all of them started with, this one time, when I was drunk/high (did I not tell you I used to be a total juvenile delinquent?) and since I have to preserve some modicum of integrity, albeit, not much obviously, I just can’t tell those stories. Then I considered doing the Wordless Wednesday thing, but the only pictures I ever see are from Cake Wrecks or I Can Has Cheezburger, so that wouldn’t work. Then I thought about doing Monday Magic, would be like all about some great new crafting project or some kick ass recipe that I made, then I remembered that I sincerely suck at crafting and I can’t boil water without burning it. The only thing that I could really come up with was Friday Fragments, which is about the random thoughts that I’ve had throughout the week, the random things that just need to be shared and really don’t need a whole post. Brilliant, right? Yes, because I’m really good at being random. Just work with me here.

Here we go.
  • You know where I’m not going? BlogHer. If you haven’t heard about it, it’s this big conference in Chicago that (mostly) women go to. They do all kind of networking, get all kinds of goodies, learn to be even more awesome. It sounds really cool, but I’m not going. And I probably never will. I don’t really like people, especially new people. And I don’t like being away from home without my family. I’m totally needy and dependent that way. Plus Chris is cheap and I can’t see him ever agreeing to pay for a trip about blogging. He’s supportive, just not THAT supportive.
  • As much as I try to be one of the cool kids, I’m actually not. I really, really don’t get twitter. Yeah, I can twitter, send my little tweets and such. But I just don’t get it. And when I reply to people, they don’t reply to me, so I don’t know if it’s because people don’t really like me and think that I’m retarded, or twitter people are just mean. Sometimes I tell myself that they just can’t see my tweets because if they could, and they didn’t reply, and they did think I was just retarded, that would just feed my inferiority complex, and then I’d get put back on anxiety medication, and it would just be a big mess. You can still follow me though. That would make me feel a little better.
  • You know what word I’m really digging today? Clusterfuck. Great word, way underused.
  • I almost got hair extensions put in. I’m so sick of trying to grow my hair out. I called a salon and even made an appointment. Then I told Chris how much they were going to be ($400) and after he stopped having an aneurysm, he told me I’d better be damned sure I wanted them. So to help make up my mind, I played around on thehairstyler.com, one of those sites where you take a picture of yourself and then try on hair. It was so much fun it was scary.

Some sexy stripper hair:

With an afro:

Channeling Princess Leia (on crack):


How was your week?

UPDATE 7/28/09: Apparently great minds really do think alike. There is a fabulous blog (which you should totally check out), Half-Past Kissin’ Time, and she has this great weekly thing called, ding, ding, ding! Friday Fragments! She’s been doing it for awhile, so I wanted to give her props (since she did it first). Here I am thinking that I had the best idea ever, I found her blog today and the best idea ever was someone else’s first. Who knew?

Self-imposed writer’s block

23 Jul

I’m not usually a procrastinator, but there are a few things that I will put off as long as humanly possible, like putting away laundry, cleaning the bathroom, having an enema and writing my short story. I know, likening writing a short story to having an enema is really bad, especially if you profess to love writing (and I do). Here’s my problem: I’m fucking terrified. I mean, flat out, no excuses, full on terrified. It’s just a contest, and I know the chances of me winning are slim to none, but part of me wants it so bad I could scream. The winner gets their story published in the magazine and wins $3,000. The other part of me wants to curl up in a ball and rock back in forth until the deadline for submissions passes. What if they hate it? What if they said , this is the worst piece of garbage I’ve ever seen. What if I did win, and everyone said, Man, you really suck, I can’t believe they printed that shit. Even though I have a blog and I write on it all the time, I get ridiculously scared of writing actual stories and having people read them. Yeah, I can bitch about stuff and tell funny stories about my family, but to tell a real story is different. When I was in high school, there was this column in the local newspaper, the premise was a teenager from the Northern part of the state wrote their opinion on an issue, and a teenager from the Southern part of the state wrote their opinion about the same issue. I was asked to do it. I said no. The thought of someone reading my stuff was too overwhelming. Which is retarded because I was the editor of my school newspaper, and I wrote stuff all the time. I don’t know what the issue is/was, it’s like anytime I get close to being able to write for real, I freak out.

I “hired” Chris to be my “agent”, to get me motivated and keep on me so I actually write this story. I’ve fired him about a dozen times, he says I’m not allowed fire him. Something about a union contract or something.

I want to say to myself, oh you can do this! You’ll bang it right out. But I just don’t feel that way. I feel like puking. And I haven’t even started yet. I see that evil cursor blinking at me and it makes me want to cry. Whatever happens, win or not win, even if it turns out to be the biggest pile of shit on the planet, I feel like I have to do this. I’ve used every excuse there is: the kids need me (they’d rather watch tv than have me fuss over them), there’s housework to do (the kids have chores now, they even vacuumed this morning!), I don’t have a laptop and it’s too hard to write at the desktop (Chris bought me a laptop), I don’t know what to write about (I have intricate plot lines scribbled in notebooks all over my house), I’ve just run out of excuses. Anyway, today (with great trepidation) I’m starting my story.

P.S. If any of you say, aww, you can do it! I believe in you! In the comments, I’m totally kicking your ass.

P.P.S. However if you really want to gush about my awesomeness, who am I stand in your way?

P.P.P.S. Just kidding about that last part.

P.P.P.P.S. Ok, I’m not really kidding, you can gush.

It’s not like I asked him to put it on his forehead

22 Jul

I have three tattoos (as I mentioned in my 100 things post), a vine around my ankle, a sun on my shoulder and the chinese symbol for tranquility on the inside of my wrist. The one on my shoulder was my first act as an adult. Register to vote? Nah. Buy cigarettes legally? Nah. Get a tattoo to piss your parents off? Hell yeah! The one on my wrist was at a time when I felt I needed a constant reminder to stay calm and be tranquil. It doesn’t really work, but it looks cooler than a string around my finger. I love tattoos. I love them on other people, and I love mine, except the one around my ankle because really, there’s no need for a fat girl to have a big blue vine around her ankle, it only makes her leg look more like a tree trunk. It’s really not sexy. Granted, when I got it, it was in an alcohol and drug induced state, and I really wasn’t thinking about things like, I wonder if I’ll regret this when I’m 30 or I bet this will just draw more attention to an already heavy leg. That’s probably why there are laws against getting a tattoo if you’re intoxicated. Intoxication makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do, go figure. So anyway, I was talking to Chris about getting another tattoo. I said I was thinking about getting another one, and I thought that he should get one too. Now this isn’t the first time that we’ve talked about him getting one. When I got the one on my wrist, he went with me and was thisclose to getting one, but he totally chickened out, that was 3 years ago. I said, wouldn’t it be cool if you got a tattoo about me, like my name or something? He was like, I’m not putting your name on me. Ehhh, what the fuck? Why the hell not?

Apparently there’s some man law that, thou shall not tattoo a woman’s name on you, even if she’s your wife. He says that even though he has no plans on divorce and wants nothing more to be with me forever (aww, sweet, right? Wait for it…), there’s always a chance that we’ll get divorced or I’ll die and he’ll be stuck with my name on his body forever (there it is!). Are you kidding me? Not only is he thinking about our divorce but he’s also considering my death? So I’m getting, Oh I love you so much, but if you die, I’m gonna be able to pick up any chicks with your name tattooed on my arm? That’s just wrong.

Ok, I totally get that a tattoo is a big deal for some people, it’s a forever kind of thing. You can get them removed, but that sounds like an immense pain in the ass, so you really need to be sure before you get a tattoo. And it’s not like he’s like, I don’t want a tattoo at all. He does, he just can’t decide what he wants, well that and he’s afraid it’s gonna hurt a lot (which it totally doesn’t). So surely getting something about the love of his fucking life should inspire him, I mean it’s not even like my name is Betty or Jane or a name that is even sounds like other names. Maybe Merritt means excellence, to be worthy of, goodness, perfection (which it totally does according to the thesaurus) and he just spelled it more fancy with an extra r and t. And it’s not like I think it should say I heart Merritt (like with a picture of a heart, like I heart NY), that’s dumb. It could say, Merritt is the best and hottest wife ever, or Merritt is the most wonderful woman on the planet, or Merritt is the love of my life and I’ve tattooed her name on my arm to show the world that there will never be another woman for me, although that may be too long. Some girls like flowers and candy, I like tattoos. Am I nuts?

What do you think? Would you want your husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend to tattoo your name on him/her? Would you be offended if they said they wouldn’t?