Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Mommy "No'es" Best

I've become a broken record. No longer can I carry on conversations with eloquence. No longer can I speak in full sentences. Long gone are the days where I can complete a thought. These days my vocabulary consists of one word: NO. Of course, with a rambunctious hellion 20 month old toddler, it is to be expected that he might misbehave once or twice, but as we are not a normal family, I am now a broken record.

"No Dante, do not put the dog's toy in your mouth"

"No Dante, draw on the paper, not the floor"

"No Dante, do not take off your clothes"

"No Dante, do not fingerpaint on the dogs"

"No Dante, the coffee table is not a jumping off platform"

"No Dante, do not throw the DVD remote in the toilet"

And so on and so forth. I am the Negative Nancy of our household. I read a statistic the other day that said toddlers hear the word "no" at least 200 times a day. I think my son hears "no" at least 700 times a day. No, no, no, no, no. I don't even think I am capable of saying "yes" anymore (unless chocolate is involved and then I'll "yes" anyone to death).

Now I've got all this guilt that I am horrible mother for constantly being at odds with D. We used to have great cuddle times and play times, but I now find myself like Mrs. Harridan, chasing him down and saying "No don't do that" and "No cut that out" and "No put that down". Seriously, I think he looks for things to do that would arouse a "No" from me. I mean, you'll never hear me say, "Yes Dante, sit there quietly and read your book while mommy folds laundry." Instead, you get "No Dante, don't rip out the pages of the book and please get off of your dad's folded underpants before you pee all over them". (Dante likes to be Mr. Nude lately while home and refuses even to wear a diaper. I'm tempted to put newspaper down and get wee wee pads at the pet store).

Honestly, I'm "no-eing" myself into a stupor and I'm sure it will only get worse from here:

"No Dante, you can't borrow the car"

"No Dante, you can't stay out until 2 in the morning"

"No Dante, that girl is a tramp"

"No Dante, that guy is a tramp" (We're all inclusive here, no favoritism)

"No Dante, doing a wheelie on your bike while blindfolded is not a good idea"

Will I ever be able to be a "yes" woman again?

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Rock of Syphilis

I have come to the conclusion that a million years from now, whatever humanoid creature that inhabits this planet, will find that the only artifacts that have survived from the 21st century are old tapings of Rock of Love and Rock of Love 2, thereby assuming that our civilization died out due to idiocy, exposure to toxicity in silicone and plastics, sexually transmitted diseases, and too much eyeliner in grown men pushing 50.

Seriously, why is it that Bret Michael's face always looks like it is oiled and wet? Why is that a feature on men with plastic surgery. Oh please, let him deny he's not "had work". The man looks Asian for christ's sake! He's almost to the point of looking like Joan Rivers, except he wears more makeup and she doesn't sport the bandana too often. Also, while he was sucking face with Tramp #7 or whatever Bimbolina's name is, the camera panned to the back of his head, and honeys let me tell you, the man's hair is not real. I've seen enough, hell I've worn enough, fake hair to know a realsie and a falsie. His hair is not real. I betcha he's balder than Bruce Willis under that cowboy hat-bandana-wig combo he's got going on.

Anyhow, this show is a train wreck and I likes me some train wrecks. Between this show and Flavor of Love (what is he on now, 3? 4? 12?), my yearning to conceive a daughter lessens by the millisecond. THESE are what women aspire to be? Some boobed up, siliconed hoochie on a reality show where you're sucking face with an 80's has been? (Well, in Flavor Flav's defense, I don't think of him as a "has-been" because the impact Public Enemy made both in the hip-hop world and in the "white girls who listen to revolutionary rap music while riding the bus to school" is still evident today). Anyhow, these women are D.U.M.B.! Dumb with a capital DUMB. Sure, you look like a Barbie now at 23, but what about 43? 53? 83? What are they going to do when gravity eventually wins and everything droops, hips widen, Father Time pays a visit, and plastic surgery just isn't going to cut it? That grey matter between your ears ladies is useful! Try it out sometime!

Ugh! I also love how these women are "like totally in love with Bret like oh my god like he is my man like forever" (<----actual quote spoken by Trampoline #4). They love him? As in love love? Hell, I'm not even sure I love Randy and I married him (kidding honey, I love you, just in case you are reading this, I was just being facetious). Methinks the Trampolines are mistaking "love" with "lust" with "how can I further my carreer in Playboy and/or movies on Skinemax".

If you think about the legacies our predecessors have left us, we think of things like The Great Pyramid of Cheops, Macchu Picchu, the Roman Aqueducts, Shakespeare, Caravaggio, DaVinci, Michelangelo, Copernicus, Chaucer, and so on and so forth. What is our legacy? George W. Bush, Rock of Love, Flavor of Love, and the Bedazzler?

Hooboy, that sounds promising.

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Ah, the Irony

I've been feeling extremely lonely and isolated for a while. A few days ago, on a site for moms I belong to, a thread in one of my message boards suggested everyone show a picture of their BFFIRL. In "cool young person netspeak" that means "Best Friend Forever In Real Life". All the women in this particular group posted these wonderful pictures of themselves with their BFFIRLs. Some had been friends for a few years, others since high school, and even more others had been friends for over twenty years. It was wonderful to see.

My contribution to this particular thread was "I don't have one". Which is true. I don't have a BFFIRL. I don't even think I have an FIRL. Sure, there are the moms I see a few times a week at playgroups but they're all 25 and cute and perky, and I'm, well, I'm not.

I did have a couple of BFFIRLs but one chose her boyfriend who didn't like me and the other sided with my ex-husband when we split (who knows what lies he told them as to why we split), but since then I cannot trust women.

Yet, I am lonely for the friendship of one. I fear them, but I yearn for my BFFIRL. But that's not the irony that prompted me to write this post. The irony was that I was shuffling through my music player and the song that came up first was this:

Friday, March 14, 2008

Beware the (Week of the) Ides of March

Who can forget those foreboding words of the soothsayer to ill-fated Julius Caesar: "Beware the Ides of March"? Had I had my own soothsayer, he would have said to me, " Beware the WEEK OF THE Ides of March. Seriously, this has been "Hell Week" with a capital "Hell". I've actually considered throwing in the towel, packing up my car, and driving off to a cave somewhere in the Himalayas to live out the rest of my days. It was THAT bad of a week. I don't think I've had this bad of a week since Donna Martin was not allowed to graduate (if you get that reference, then you're as big a loser as I am). So let's begin:

Monday, March 10th
Monday didn't start out too badly. Dante slept in, as with the time change and all, we both get that "extra hour" of sleep. Not really, but I like to trick my brain into thinking things are true by saying them out loud a number of times. (I am gorgeous and 22, I am gorgeous and 22, I am...) Anyhow, around 8 am Dante wakes up and we put on Sesame Street and I go make him breakfast. The dogs, Salad and Carrots, are puttering about the house, having just come in from their morning constitution outside when I notice little black specks all over them. Ok, my dogs are inside dogs mostly. Their main source of entertainment is trying to figure out which pillow is more comfortable to lay on and in which position can they sleep longer. The dogs are also clean dogs, bathed once a week, flea treatment once a month, the whole nine. Upon closer inspection, Salad and Carrots, I discover, are INFESTED with fleas. Infested. Not just A flea, but like a flea convention had hit town. Upon further inspection, I have no flea shampoo and no more flea treatments left, PLUS I've got to get to Playgroup by 9:30 and it's already 8:45. So, we rush rush rush rush, go to playgroup, go to Walgreens and get flea shampoo, flea treatments and flea collars. Yes yes I know, flea collars are harmful to dogs, but suck it. I'm not having fleas on my dogs that my son likes to ride like horses and lay on top of. The dogs get bathed, all the while Dante supervises by trying to get IN the bath with the dogs, and now comes the task of brushing all the dead fleas off of them and cleaning up. Fun. I finally got the house in order, washed down the surfaces, and de-flead everything I could think of could be infested, and then informed the neighbor that he needed to bathe his dogs because since his "new" dogs arrived the flea problem started and it was apparent that it was coming from him. Randy came home from work, sprayed the lawn with bug killer, and that was the end of Monday.

Tuesday March 11th

Tuesday wasn't a bad day, until about 5:15 pm. Randy had just loaded up the bikes onto the car for our evening bike ride at the park. Dante was strapped in his car seat, and we were driving to the local park to ride around the bike trails for an hour or so. Dante was extremely fussy in the back seat and we just thought he was overly anxious to go bike riding. We were wrong. As soon as I pulled into the park entrance I hear "garffggrgaggrggg" and look into the rearview mirror. My son, my little limmy lamb, my sweet baby, my darlin 20 month old, is barfing all over the place. Long gone are the days of "cute baby spit up". No, Dante was spewing chunks, all over himself, all over the carseat, all over the car, all over everything. Of course, I pull over into the grass and tell Randy to get him out of the seat while I get wipes and things to clean him off. He gets him out of the car and I strip him naked, all the while rubbing his back and stroking his head as he continues his marathon of barfing. Randy, meanwhile, is dismantling the puke infested car seat and trying to control his gag reflexes. So Dante stops throwing up and I'm cradling him in my lap, soothing him, giving him water, and trying to calm him down. It takes Randy 30 minutes to take the carseat apart (removing the seat part from the frame so we can launder it) and we go home. Dante has Ginger Ale and white rice for dinner and goes to bed.

Wednesday March 12th, My Dad's 72nd Birthday

At 1:45 am, I am awakened by my little boy calling "mommy mommy throw!" What the hell does that mean? I don't have to ask twice as upon entering his room, "mommy mommy throw" clearly means , "Mom, I'm going to throw up all over my bed". So that was it. Dante threw up all over his bed. Poor baby was terrified and poor mommy was fighting the urge to throw up along with him. So I strip his bed, holler for Randy to come help me, and take Dante to the bathroom to clean him up, calm him down, and see if he has to "throw" again. Randy remakes his bed and I decide I will sleep on the floor next to him "just in case". Randy goes back to bed, since 5 am for him comes quickly, and I settle in on the floor. Dante goes back to sleep and I toss and turn with worry for my baby.

A few hours later, it is actual morning, and Dante and I start our day. Randy has gone to work and it is business as usual for Dante and myself. I make him some dry toast and some ginger ale and hope that whatever ooogies he had have run their course and he will be ok. I'm exhausted, working on about 47 minutes of sleep but I've got laundry to fold and things to do so we push on. Around noon, I get the "phone call". Randy's on his way to the E/R. Seems he's gotten a piece of aluminum stuck in his eye. GREAT. Juuuust Great. Then, Dante barfs again during his nap. I call his pediatrician whose nurse says. "the doctor isn't in", take him to the E/R." So, we pile into the car and go to the Children's E/R. Dante is diagnosed with the beginnings of the stomach flu and we are sent home with instructions on what to feed him and the like. Nice. And it's only Wednesday. And we were supposed to go out to dinner and celebrate my dad's birthday but between Randy sticking things in his eye and our son not being able to stop projectile vomiting, my dad will just have to wait another day.

Thursday, March 13th
5 words: Overflowing toilet full of shit. I don't even have to say anything else. You can pretty much figure out how my day was subsequently. Any day that starts out with the words, toilet, shit, and overflow, will not be a good one. So I'll leave it to you, dear reader's, imagination as to how AWESOME this day was.

Friday, March 14th
Ok, not going to jinx anything but nothing terribly major today. Well other than the hospital bills for Randy's food poisoning fiasco keep piling up and they do not care that we are currently in litigation with who got him sick, so I had to shell out almost $700 to keep the collection agents off of our backs and our credit in good standing. $700 that we don't have.

So that was the Week of the Ides of March. Honestly, if any soothsayers come near me I will punch them square in the face. This has been a week. I almost checked out. I almost threw in the towel, but c'est la vie right?
I feel as though I've run the Marathon of the Ages. I think I'll reward myself with a Cadbury Egg. Or two. Or five. Or ten.