My neurons are really, super tired.
I don't know if this is by nature's design or by personal choice, but I am an over-analyzer. To the point of fucking brain exhaustion. Which is ironic, because that provides me with yet another bullet point on a very long, PowerPoint-ish list to consider and think about. I designed them templates all by myself, and they are quite pretty and charming. This self-analyzation is starting to seriously cripple my everyday life. I could attempt to explain that little tidbit of pertinent info in detail, but then I would get all tripped up by the hows and the whys, and I would end up as an immobile, filthy blob, lying in a pool of my own drool. I also happen to be something of an exaggerator (which is much different than a blatant liar by, like, 2 degrees), but please believe me when I say that I am lethargic. From thinking too much.
I wonder if there is some kind of mind-sharing program, whereby I can provide Republicans/Hell's Kitchen fans/Matchbox 20 enthusiasts with much-needed brain cells. They go up in IQ by nearly 20 points (thus rendering them liberal/having better taste) and I stop contemplating life so goddamned much. Win-win, baby. Although, even in this hypothetical, there is no cure for Asshole. I assert that punching (adult) people in the face would sometimes help.
Anyway. My point is that living inside my own head is extremely dangerous for a woman like me. Not only do I start examining every little thing people say or do in my presence, but I start thinking that I am some kind of Hippocampus Superhero (hey! Tim Kring! call me.): I not only attempt to read other people's minds, but I actually believe that I can. It is awesome, this ability. It causes others to become absolutely speechless around me, when I inform them of both what they are thinking and how they are feeling. Obviously, they immediately get down on their knees in front of me, kiss my feet, and worship me for the goddess that I am. Like, duh, all mere mortals should.
So, as any true goddess will admit, throwing in the towel when something clearly isn't working is the very definition of grace. (Side note: Hillary Clinton! Take the fucking hint already.) I hope to be graceful by, say, age 50. Instead, I am cleaning up my messed-up head, bit by bit. I am plotting a Course of Severe Action (CSA) to counteract my Hippocampus Superhero (HS) behavior, and I will slowly chip away at the CSA until I start seeing some results. I may write an ROI analysis at a later date, but I'll keep ya posted. I can only pray that my CSA leads to me some serious R & R (maybe on CL?), or at least for as long as SYTYCD is on. Essentially, the CSA is a chronological schedule of neurotic hopes and dreams. You know. To help me become less neurotic.
When a full-on genius in a white lab coat actually develops mind-sharing someday, I will totally be down with helping out the ignorant. But I will also submit a request for the scientist to leave my irony completely intact. I really love that shit.
May 19, 2008
May 17, 2008
They grow up so fast
Tonight, while watching the movie Hitch on network television with Meghan. Will Smith has just walked out on Eva Mendes after their fight in the restaurant, leaving Eva to speed-date in peace.
Me: Don't worry, honey. It turns out OK.
Meghan: Oh, I know.
Me: You do?
Meghan: Sure. These kinds of movies always turn out OK. Well, except for Shakespeare.
Me: Don't worry, honey. It turns out OK.
Meghan: Oh, I know.
Me: You do?
Meghan: Sure. These kinds of movies always turn out OK. Well, except for Shakespeare.
May 15, 2008
Notes from the desk of crazy
Hi.
OK, so. I realize that my last post was more than a little harsh. And while there is a huge part of me that wants to just pull that puppy down, and stash it away in a dusty box containing ridiculous letters I wrote in 8th grade, I will not let myself do this. My thinking is that I am trying to find my blogging voice (which appears to be slightly different from my journaling voice), and while I am creating said voice, some of my posts are going to suck big hairy donkey balls, quite frankly. I don't want to mess with the process, so I won't.
That sounds incredibly self-serving and disingenuous, doesn't it? Oh, well. It is what it is, people.
I am in the mood for some non-structured thoughts, of the weird (and possibly derogatory) variety. Join me, won't you?
Yesterday, Barack Obama told a female reporter in Michigan to "Hold on a second, sweetie." Oh, Barry. Inward, disgusted groan inserted here. I know that the pressure cooker for your long-running and very public job interview just cranked up about 5 notches. I am sure that you haven't slept in a good 9 months. It is more than likely that you miss Michelle and the girls quite a bit. And, if nothing else, your wife is going to kick your ass for this more than the rest of us ever could. I have forgiven you for a wide array of bizarre shit you've said and done, but I am having a big problem with this one. My core issue is this: I thought you were a Democrat. Isn't that some bullshit line Rush Limbaugh would utter to his potential 4th wife?
If I listen to that new "4 Minutes" song by Madonna (featuring the awesomeness of both JT and Timbaland) one more time, I will be able to sing it, every word and nuance, loudly and verbatim. My booty-shaking has even morphed into some kind of Soul Train dance routine. I never really got into Madonna back in the day, but that woman is frickin' 49-years-old! Damn. She deserves some respect, yo. Word.
How cute is it when your daughter makes you a beautiful bracelet (complete with pretty beads of your favorite color) for Mother's Day? And how lame are you, if you can't actually put it on by yourself?
So You Think You Can Dance? starts one week from today! I am so very excited. Alright, calm your ass down, will you? Fine, laugh if you want. Chuckle. Guffaw. Cackle. ROTFLMAO, even, you have my full permission. But you are all dweebs! Dweebs, I say. Because dancing and dance movies can SAVE THE WORLD! They help us believe in ourselves, and our dreams, and inspire us to be better people. Also, the sweetness and sappiness that I have just spewed helps us to vomit in our trashcans.
At what amount of blood loss do you become anemic? I should probably research that kinda stuff. Sometimes, I really hate being a girl. Grr. Argh.
Hey! I am going to lose 30 pounds by August 31st! I have a plan and everything: starting June 1, I am going on a strict diet (OK, eating way less McDonald's and Taco Bell) and committing to work out at least 4 times per week. (Alright, maybe 3 times per week. Or two times. Or occasionally walking to the TV instead of using the remote.) I am going to lose a doctor-recommended and extremely healthy 10 pounds per month. My goal is to keep my face, which is fine enough, while obtaining Mariah Carey's body, which is more than luscious. I feel that my plan is foolproof. Wait, what the hell do you mean that didn't work out so well for Oprah?
On the whole, I think we can all agree that cheerleaders are evil. Even though Meghan will be attending cheerleading camp in less than a month, I will keep my feelings to myself. I will keep my feelings to myself, Self. Got that? Also, stop renting her Bring It On from Blockbuster, because you are only encouraging this disgustingly girly obsession with the pom pons.
Is there some kind of text messaging class older folk (read: no longer 25) can take to catch up to Generation Y? I would be laughed right out of Starbucks with my lack of game, Holmes. Well, if I could actually afford to go to Starbucks, that is.
Speaking of being broke, the last two times I filled up my car with gas, I received looks of pity and words of sympathy from the cashiers. As it turns out, $5.00 doesn't get you very far these days. And that is why I firmly believe that George W. Bush sucks big hairy donkey balls, but I suppose that goes without saying.
OK, so. I realize that my last post was more than a little harsh. And while there is a huge part of me that wants to just pull that puppy down, and stash it away in a dusty box containing ridiculous letters I wrote in 8th grade, I will not let myself do this. My thinking is that I am trying to find my blogging voice (which appears to be slightly different from my journaling voice), and while I am creating said voice, some of my posts are going to suck big hairy donkey balls, quite frankly. I don't want to mess with the process, so I won't.
That sounds incredibly self-serving and disingenuous, doesn't it? Oh, well. It is what it is, people.
I am in the mood for some non-structured thoughts, of the weird (and possibly derogatory) variety. Join me, won't you?
Yesterday, Barack Obama told a female reporter in Michigan to "Hold on a second, sweetie." Oh, Barry. Inward, disgusted groan inserted here. I know that the pressure cooker for your long-running and very public job interview just cranked up about 5 notches. I am sure that you haven't slept in a good 9 months. It is more than likely that you miss Michelle and the girls quite a bit. And, if nothing else, your wife is going to kick your ass for this more than the rest of us ever could. I have forgiven you for a wide array of bizarre shit you've said and done, but I am having a big problem with this one. My core issue is this: I thought you were a Democrat. Isn't that some bullshit line Rush Limbaugh would utter to his potential 4th wife?
If I listen to that new "4 Minutes" song by Madonna (featuring the awesomeness of both JT and Timbaland) one more time, I will be able to sing it, every word and nuance, loudly and verbatim. My booty-shaking has even morphed into some kind of Soul Train dance routine. I never really got into Madonna back in the day, but that woman is frickin' 49-years-old! Damn. She deserves some respect, yo. Word.
How cute is it when your daughter makes you a beautiful bracelet (complete with pretty beads of your favorite color) for Mother's Day? And how lame are you, if you can't actually put it on by yourself?
So You Think You Can Dance? starts one week from today! I am so very excited. Alright, calm your ass down, will you? Fine, laugh if you want. Chuckle. Guffaw. Cackle. ROTFLMAO, even, you have my full permission. But you are all dweebs! Dweebs, I say. Because dancing and dance movies can SAVE THE WORLD! They help us believe in ourselves, and our dreams, and inspire us to be better people. Also, the sweetness and sappiness that I have just spewed helps us to vomit in our trashcans.
At what amount of blood loss do you become anemic? I should probably research that kinda stuff. Sometimes, I really hate being a girl. Grr. Argh.
Hey! I am going to lose 30 pounds by August 31st! I have a plan and everything: starting June 1, I am going on a strict diet (OK, eating way less McDonald's and Taco Bell) and committing to work out at least 4 times per week. (Alright, maybe 3 times per week. Or two times. Or occasionally walking to the TV instead of using the remote.) I am going to lose a doctor-recommended and extremely healthy 10 pounds per month. My goal is to keep my face, which is fine enough, while obtaining Mariah Carey's body, which is more than luscious. I feel that my plan is foolproof. Wait, what the hell do you mean that didn't work out so well for Oprah?
On the whole, I think we can all agree that cheerleaders are evil. Even though Meghan will be attending cheerleading camp in less than a month, I will keep my feelings to myself. I will keep my feelings to myself, Self. Got that? Also, stop renting her Bring It On from Blockbuster, because you are only encouraging this disgustingly girly obsession with the pom pons.
Is there some kind of text messaging class older folk (read: no longer 25) can take to catch up to Generation Y? I would be laughed right out of Starbucks with my lack of game, Holmes. Well, if I could actually afford to go to Starbucks, that is.
Speaking of being broke, the last two times I filled up my car with gas, I received looks of pity and words of sympathy from the cashiers. As it turns out, $5.00 doesn't get you very far these days. And that is why I firmly believe that George W. Bush sucks big hairy donkey balls, but I suppose that goes without saying.
May 4, 2008
Frontin'
I've been seriously mulling over what to call my family and friends on this here blog. I made up a whole list of possible pseudonyms, but not many of them seemed to capture the vibe I get when I think about the real, live person attached to the fake name. However, my daughter's moniker was easy to come up with: Meghan. My kid is totally a Meghan, through and through. In fact, "Meghan" was on the short list of names that my ex-husband and I considered before our child up and popped out. In the end, though, I'm hella glad that we went with another name. Because it made such an insightful and polarizing difference in the way my daughter acts on a daily basis.
Clearly, I find this name to be very girly and pretty, and I like the ring it has when it rolls off my tongue. MEG-han. Huh. MEG-han. Say it out loud, people. (You know you want to. Don't play games with me.) That just sounds so strong and bold and classic and flowery and, ya know, fucking Irish, dude. This is a name that exudes confidence and simplicity and wisdom and Summa Cum Laude from Harvard, 3.95 GPA. It's a name that says, "Take me seriously, world! Hear what I have to say!" Any Meghan is a leader and a feminist and ... I'm sorry, what did you say? What was that about those cheerleading, high school bitches you knew named Meghan?
No offense to any Meghans that happen to be reading this blog (I know of only one, and she doesn't even spell it this way), but I think the very name Meghan sounds just like "punk-ass snot-nose". Call me a fruitcake if you want to (because you would not be the first), but certain words have definitive energy attached to them. They can conjure up vivid mental images or remind you of a long-lost friend, for example. And they can make you weirdly and irrationally emotional, sometimes for no reason at all. For me, Meghan is one of those names. Dunno why.
Of course, this is not at all to say that I do not adore my child. I absolutely and whole-heartedly do, and my anonymous band of peeps can attest to this. I put most of my time and energy into mothering my daughter, and I think that I am moderately to mostly successful in my attempts to turn my once innocent, squishy little baby into a decent and respectful adult member of society. Meghan is sweet and smart and interesting and thought-provoking and seriously funny as fuck. That kid slays me with her wit.
But she's also 7. And I did not realize this previously, but 7 is apparently the gateway drug to backtalk, not listening, and general tween annoyance with the parental units.
Meghan's friend is over at our house right now (we'll call her ... Alice), and do you know what? Blatant disdain for your mother, especially while your friends are present, is not just reserved for years 13-18. The 13-18 subset of the general population does not hold any patents on the following pre-teen behavior: eye rolling, loud sighing, being petty, being materialistic, thinking your parents are totally stupid, and exagerrating for dramatic/comedic effect. In short, Meghan is frontin' for her homie.
Ah, yes. I remember those days well. And since I remember those days well, I've tried to talk to Meghan about this (when her friends are not in earshot) and at least relate some of what I've learned. I also wanted to gauge where she was in the whole "hating your parents" process, in order to (duh) change her balls-out rude behavior. But since it was made clear to me that I have only been alive since she was born, and I have only experienced what she's experienced (nothing more and nothing less), I am of no help or use. I'm just this chick who lives in her house, and my services are only important when childhood logistics come into play. I am a severely, SEVERELY underpaid maid.
And ya know what pisses me off most of all? The fact that the apple does not fall far from the tree. My child is exactly like me. Fuckin' UGH, man. UGH!
Clearly, I find this name to be very girly and pretty, and I like the ring it has when it rolls off my tongue. MEG-han. Huh. MEG-han. Say it out loud, people. (You know you want to. Don't play games with me.) That just sounds so strong and bold and classic and flowery and, ya know, fucking Irish, dude. This is a name that exudes confidence and simplicity and wisdom and Summa Cum Laude from Harvard, 3.95 GPA. It's a name that says, "Take me seriously, world! Hear what I have to say!" Any Meghan is a leader and a feminist and ... I'm sorry, what did you say? What was that about those cheerleading, high school bitches you knew named Meghan?
No offense to any Meghans that happen to be reading this blog (I know of only one, and she doesn't even spell it this way), but I think the very name Meghan sounds just like "punk-ass snot-nose". Call me a fruitcake if you want to (because you would not be the first), but certain words have definitive energy attached to them. They can conjure up vivid mental images or remind you of a long-lost friend, for example. And they can make you weirdly and irrationally emotional, sometimes for no reason at all. For me, Meghan is one of those names. Dunno why.
Of course, this is not at all to say that I do not adore my child. I absolutely and whole-heartedly do, and my anonymous band of peeps can attest to this. I put most of my time and energy into mothering my daughter, and I think that I am moderately to mostly successful in my attempts to turn my once innocent, squishy little baby into a decent and respectful adult member of society. Meghan is sweet and smart and interesting and thought-provoking and seriously funny as fuck. That kid slays me with her wit.
But she's also 7. And I did not realize this previously, but 7 is apparently the gateway drug to backtalk, not listening, and general tween annoyance with the parental units.
Meghan's friend is over at our house right now (we'll call her ... Alice), and do you know what? Blatant disdain for your mother, especially while your friends are present, is not just reserved for years 13-18. The 13-18 subset of the general population does not hold any patents on the following pre-teen behavior: eye rolling, loud sighing, being petty, being materialistic, thinking your parents are totally stupid, and exagerrating for dramatic/comedic effect. In short, Meghan is frontin' for her homie.
Ah, yes. I remember those days well. And since I remember those days well, I've tried to talk to Meghan about this (when her friends are not in earshot) and at least relate some of what I've learned. I also wanted to gauge where she was in the whole "hating your parents" process, in order to (duh) change her balls-out rude behavior. But since it was made clear to me that I have only been alive since she was born, and I have only experienced what she's experienced (nothing more and nothing less), I am of no help or use. I'm just this chick who lives in her house, and my services are only important when childhood logistics come into play. I am a severely, SEVERELY underpaid maid.
And ya know what pisses me off most of all? The fact that the apple does not fall far from the tree. My child is exactly like me. Fuckin' UGH, man. UGH!
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