Monday, March 30, 2009
My eyes are crossing
It's taking us a bit to get back to normal and on schedule but so far so good.
It's nice having him back to wrangle the kids :)
The acting is sooo terrible it just makes my eyes cross.
Claire is the whiniest peice of fuckdom ever. And they keep her why? For the fat ass old men who can't accept real women.
And it's not just Claire. Peter- omg terrible fucking acting. EVERYthing you say doesn't have to be growly and angsty. I feel like I'm watching a bad high school play. And every 2 seconds they go good, then bad, then they go in time, then this person has this power now they don't. And every single "hero" whines about their powers. Just shut the fuck up already!
I know what you're thinking. But I can't offer that- just not valuable enough for him to go get a pedicure.
Maybe cash... or Reeses. He likes peanut butter....
Friday, March 27, 2009
Who's thaaat.. tapping at my window...
Guess who's picking their husband up at the airport today/tonight?
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Must... Remain... Calm
Paul has been seriously aggressive and frustrated since Stephen left. We don't always get to go outside to blow steam off and even when we do we need to be out there like ALL day to blow off enough steam.He kicks and throws and hits and the naughty step helps for about 2 seconds and spanking him doesn't help. I swear this boy has so much pent up aggression it's insane.
So anyone have any suggestions?
To give you a little idea here's our average day
I wouldn't blame you if you felt like locking these kids in a closet either lol
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Maybe it's jealousy...
But I can't stand little princess fucks and pricks who get everything handed to them.Maybe it's because I know what's like to be hungry (oh not the kind of hungry that lasts for an hour). Maybe it's because I never got anything handed to me.
So when I get run off the road by some little teenager in a car way too nice for a teenager to be able to afford it pisses me the fuck off.
Ok, we were heading to Target and I was going to turn right. The cars to the left of me, and in front of me had turn signals- I mean it was the left handed turners turn to go. So after the one car in front of me turned I went out. Out of nowhere these punk ass little fucking teenagers run through the red light and cut me off. I know it wasn't an accident because they were laughing and being fucking assholes.
And I KNOW the fuck's parents got him the car cause NO child can afford some shiny new convertible. And it was the kid's car cause it had teenager crap type stuff hanging all over it.
THAT kid is the reason why I'm so against handing crap to my kids and just buying them a car. It's fucking ridiculous.
well ok
Well yesterday sucked ass but I'm feeling much better now. I even showered and shaved my pits! Woohoo! Go me!
Friday, March 20, 2009
Everything seems to blur together....
So Stephen calls me every night. Usually at the same time when I'm getting the kids ready for bed (I'm not entirely sure he's thinking clearly, because if he wasn't he would never choose such an awful moment to call).Tonight he calls to tell me that he and a bunch of other guys are "hitting the town" and as we're speaking he's drinking an "adult" drink. He says he needs to destress from the week.
Yeah... he's out with friends, he's having a drink and is destressing.
So excuse me while I fold my arms, pout, and give a "no fair!"
The last time I went out by myself to destress was I think... ummm... mothers day.
Nearly a year ago.
Well I guess you could count the time I was in the hospital - you know, having another baby.
The only time I get to get out by myself is my twice a month food shopping trip. And even then I hurry back.
Oh well- I guess I did get to go out a few months ago to see Changling (after I made sure the kids were in bed).
I know Stephen's depressed about not being able to see the kids (or me). And I'm not saying I have it harder than he does. I mean I get to see the kids (alllll the fucking time).
I just hate it that all the moms around me get to destress and get out of the house and take their time being out without their kids and have adult time and I have to suck it up and be the good little Army wife and not know what a weekend is and not know what's it's like to not rush, and not know what it's like to sit and talk to a 2 year old all day.
So times like these when I need (in every sense of the word- NEED) one of those weekly pre-school/daycare things- is when we can't afford it.
I'm gonna go cry myself to sleep
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
title
I need some cuddles.
But it's TV and editing always protrays life perfectly *cough*
Monday, March 16, 2009
Family memoirs
My family and I all have MySpace pages to keep up with one another as most of us live in different states now.Lately we've been writing family memoirs. As I can't think of anything to write here, on my main blog, I thought I'd copy and paste an entry from Mara (the oldest):
A lot of my childhood memories involve Dad hunched over a pile of cassette tapes - rotating the hole with the eraser end of a pencil, crouched down in house shoes reading the labels or organizing the tapes into cases. We always had cassette organizers around. They were the size of ice trays and held about twelve tapes each. One night I remember waking up to find Dad trying to balance one of the cases on the tip of a pencil so that one end was on the floor and the other propped up lean-to style. From a corner of the living room Mom was on all fours behind the couch holding a string that led back to the pencil. We had a mouse. Actually we had mice. They came in from the dirt field between our house and Stater Brothers and I think they must have wanted water. The field was filled with chips of rock and cracked gray bricks and shards of glass and pebbles, and it ended in the back wall behind the grocery store. I didn’t get why we couldn’t cut through it to get to the store we’d walk to for groceries. Now it makes sense that the stroller probably couldn’t have made it across the rocks and that crossing a wasteland where stray dogs wandered or teenagers tossed used needles was probably not Mom’s notion of responsible parenting. The mice apparently had decided to trade in a life of scratching out a living in a desiccated lot for one in a house with two little girls who snuck peanut butter cookies in their pajamas to bed and left curls of spaghetti under the table.
Dad had tried setting real traps. But he couldn’t stand the sight of the animals’ broken necks or the blood. Killing them this way seemed inhumane. Besides, the number of mice (we could only guess) made the idea of setting traps and going through the trauma of carrying each one, some of them babies, out to the trash impractical. There was also the danger of someone’s toes getting snapped by the trap. Counting in the possibility that the mice had wandered in because their homes were dug up when the lot was originally cleared of whatever abandoned building had been there before made the choice to set up a kinder, pain-free, trap the only option available for getting rid of them. So Mom and Dad had made it a game. The mouse would jump into the cassette tape organizer where Dad had set the bait, Mom would pull the string, the pencil would fall, and the plastic top would clatter down. Then Dad would grab it and hold it like a giant grinder until he could get it outside and set the mouse free in the field.
So now here was Dad putting a spoon of peanut butter inside the tape holder and backing away to let the mouse think it was alone. He and Mom huddled together in the dark waiting. Then Mom shouted oohooohoohoooo! the door flung open, Dad leaped out, and Mom jumped onto the couch. Only I think Dad let go too soon. The mouse ran back inside and disappeared to its post where it watched for someone to leave out a knife smeared with Velveeta or to make toast the leave crumbs. Exhausted after staying up all night to set the trap and wait for it to work, Mom and Dad went to bed. A few weeks later we got Rocky Three, a gray tomcat that jumped on the counter and hissed at Mom. A few weeks later we had a litter of feral kittens that lived under the oleanders. But the mice were gone.
For the longest time my biggest fear was walking around barefoot. For someone so afraid to walk across floors, I kept losing my shoes. I never knew where they were. I would leave them outside where they got muddy. And when I knew where they were I didn’t like to put them on because I didn’t know what could what would be in there in the dark waiting in the toe. So I would run across my bedroom floor feeling sure that something furry or sharp would find my feet and clamp on. No one would hear my cry because the washing machine or record player would be going too long and the mouse or kitten would sink its claws into my ankles and climb up my leg to eat my face off.
But my biggest challenge in being always without shoes was trying to make it through the backyard. The California drought had killed all the grass but somehow encouraged the growth of burs hidden under faux patches of clover. You would walk out on it and the burs would crunch and crackle and stick into your feet. You would step down into hot dirt and yellowed dead grass and pick your foot up before it burned and set it back down into the little dark green patches hoping you wouldn’t step into a nest of stickers. There was a patch of yard that was somewhat green at the right time of year and grew away from the burs - the Grove of Stinging Lemon Trees. It was not really a grove but one big tree that had a couple of low-lying off-shoots near the big tree. It had thick glossy leaves and on the ground were always a few lemons, gray patched and bloating with black ants and around the edges a constant snarl of bees jiggered in the heat like electric atoms.
We would have stayed out of the backyard but the problem was that we wanted to make it across the yard to the little playhouse. In my memory Dad had built it after what I remember as a failed attempt to put together a dollhouse. He had brought home a bulky opened box with an antique looking house on the front with grayish siding like a real house and the parts were real wood. This was in the days when everything you played with related to dolls was pink and plastic - pink plastic Barbie vans, plastic Barbie pools, pink plastic Barbie houses and even heavy pink plastic Barbie cases that held the dolls or others that held accessories. I think Christie and I looked at these toys the way we looked at girls with straight blond hair. It never occurred to us that it could be possible to be this way ourselves. They were born blond and lived in a world of pinkness and dolls that smelled like plastic strawberries and we looked at them like people in a snow globe. We waited for the dollhouse the way Dad waited for the mouse traps, not really believing it would work but caught up in the excitement of pretending it would, like getting the pieces ready to play a game in which you face an unbeatable opponent.
The dollhouse was never built. Too many nails had rolled away, the construction of the frame was confusing, and parts had been lost or missing. After hours of hunching over the directions with a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth and listening to us fight and argue and whine Dad had put it away. But the playhouse in the backyard was different. I don’t remember Dad building it, but he must have. It wasn’t pre-fabricated. It may have even been an old shed. The wood was rough and splintered and dad sanded it down and painted. It was only the size of an outhouse extended for seating, but what I loved about it was the cleanness and smooth planes of lemon meringue yellow on the walls and floor and ceiling. It even had shelves and a kind of bench made from a plank. When the sun came in it made me think of being inside an Easter egg and I was part of some sugary always-April world of poofy pastel dresses and green lawn, the smell of palm leaves on Sunday and lemonade tea parties. I remember plotting out the possibilities with Christie for a life-sized clubhouse, a better than a dollhouse. We invited all of our stuffed animals, our wooden pals, and lined the shelves with our pots and pans and set up coffee can chairs. We poured Kool aid and made mudcakes and sat in the shade and then left it all to come in for dinner or to play somewhere else, to bounce a ball, to turn on the hose, to come in to eat dinner.
I remember the disappointment that after moving into our new house it had so quickly become a mess. Dirty smeared dishes and dolls were everywhere and now getting everything back across the yard into our rooms was impossible because that would mean moving a mess that Mom did not know about into our rooms where she would know about it and that meant another day in our room crying because we couln't come out until it was clean. I remember ignoring the house, of finding other ways to play that did not involve facing the responsibility of housekeeping. I remember forgetting about the house the way you forget about the last jellybeans that get tangled in the grass at the bottom of your Easter basket when you’ve had enough and candy doesn’t seem as hard to come by as it did before you woke up that morning.
I remember the heat and dryness of the summer and the fire ants. They crawled inside and under the cups, over the tops of the bears’ heads, pushing from their hill up and into the floorboards, flooding into the yellow shelves zigzagging up and down the city of rusted cars and scratched up pal dolls. They angled up into the roof and burrowed into the hair of the dolls and into the jellied film in the cups and clattered across the pink stained saucers. They ate through the splintered ceiling and toppled the lemon meringue walls. They spun out into space, expanding with no beginning and no end, awash across the scorching land, crawling toward an unknown end in an endless expanse of thorn and lemon rind, chipped red cement and mouse droppings. They filled the thirsty ground with colonies of blisters and swarmed through bone dry tunnels. They carried mud pies upon their muscular backs and filled the boiling trickle of water from the exhausted garden hose, and crawled under the white hot metal of the screen door. They formed dotted lines of red across the kitchen tiles and led stumbling sojourners over the rough brown carpet. And within the sheets, they made stinging inroads, in every pocket scuttling legions.
In the spring the oleander branches grew over the roof. In the summer, we watched the paint peel and splinters crack open and nails twist outward so their points were visible. The bees made a hive in the corner, the house filled with the smell of lemons and cherry flavored summer. And Dad stepped out onto the Milkyway, staggering and slipping and holding on by the edges to hurtling shards of debris toward forever extinguishing, ever-retreating stars.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Shut the FUCK UP!
Apparently Stephen is too old and too much of a fat ass to run away from some terrorists. So the doctors stamped him as "non-deployable."Ok, I kid... about him being a fat ass. He is old though. We all know he's my sugar daddy and I'm just waiting for him to die so I can inheret his millions teehee.
Ok so he went in for a physical and the doctor said his knees were too messed up and they stamped his paper work saying he can't be deployed to a combat zone. So he'll be home in a few weeks.
WEEE!
I feel a little odd about it- I mean I've been preparing myself mentally for him to be gone for a year. Plus Katy's husband got called back up and has to go. I just feel like shit that he has to be gone. Not that I'm not uber duber happy Stephen's coming home- but that doesn't stop me from feeling guilty.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
bleh, toddlers
How on Earth do I explain to Paul that his daddy will be home one day? That just because he's not home doesn't mean he's not gone forever?He's already going through the "terrible twos" but put a deployment on top of it? What sick and twisted fuck decided this would be a good idea?
He's having trouble getting to sleep at night because his daddy isn't there to kiss him goodnight. Daddy dolls are nice but they just don't cut it sometimes.
Today he went pee-pee on the toilet (we're getting closer!) and usually when Stephen's home I'll say "honey!" and he'll reply "yeah?!" and I'll say "Paul went pee pee on the potty!" Hugs, kisses and yays follow.
Well Paul has taken to saying our diolauge (sp?)- but today he said it and starting crying- knowing his daddy wouldn't come in the bathroom with his treat and some high 5s.
Sigh. Being 2 is so hard sometimes.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Wednesday night dorkery
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Bleh
suck suck suck suck suck suck fucking suck suck suck suck suck sucksigh.
I'm sad
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
blah blah blah
Monday, March 02, 2009
Would you say I have a plethora?
Just say 14 people died. Who cares if they're American. people died. We can't keep continuing to seperate ourselves- even by such a mundane act. But I'm idealistic and still think the possibility of a Utopia.
I hate that attitude. Dey tuk er jebs! I'd say more but I'm not in the mood.
