Tag Archives: kids

Only the Lonely

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There are so many people out there who seem to know what’s best for me and what I need to live my life. It’s amazing I’ve grown to the ripe old age of 39 (several times now) and am still able to function and even dress myself. How did I ever get along without them?! People love to tell other people what to wear, what to eat, how they shouldn’t cuss like a motherfucking sailor, who to vote for, where to spend their money, how they should get married and have children, or at least get into a committed relationship, and on and on and on. I know they mean well but seriously. I’ve got this. Stop telling me what to do. Especially when it comes to relationships. As we’ve discussed before, I’ve been married. And lest the ex get too much credit for my views on relationships, I can honestly say he’s not the only one who’s ever broken my heart and left me for dead. It’s truly been a group effort. So when it comes to the boyfriend stuff let’s just say, my name is…no. But there are the brave few that continue to insist that I can find a man and that I should find a man and that I need to find a man.

reluctant brideBut…but…my cats and my tv!

Apparently, there’s so much in my life that’s missing because of the lack of on-premises penis. So I decided to take the majority of the arguments as to why I need a relationship and wreck the ever loving hell out of them. Just for funsies.

You’ll be lonely

Now, if I don’t get a man while the gettin’s good (and let’s face it, the gettin’s sliding downhill at an alarming rate), I will be cursed with an eternity of loneliness. Who will I talk to? Who will I share my day with? Who will I do things with? And go places with? Who will come see my plays? Who will bother me while I’m watching tv?

side profile of a young man arguing with a young woman

I can’t wait to tell you all about sportsball.

So how will I combat my loneliness without a boyfriend? I’m not sure. Let me ask Melanie, Jen, Mom, Melinda, Kim, Debra, Cory, Lindsay W., Lindsay A., Brandon, John, Brian E., Brian L., Carly, Kelly A., Kelly M., Kelly H., Linsee, Stephen, Dad, Janet, Alan, Bonnie, Nikki, Genesis, Pat, Fallon, Ashton, Nancy, Julie, Ravyn, Chris, Jan, Rex, Ingrid, Chrissy, Jamie or any of the other hundreds of family, friends, fans, and well-wishers I have. That I talk to. And do things with. And go places with. So loneliness is obviously not a valid reason to get a fella. And of course when it comes to good company, if all else fails…

catsCats. That is all.

You need children

As we’ve also previously discussed, I’m not having children. Along with all the reasons listed in the link, I have to say kids aren’t for everyone. They are real, live human beings. They have feelings and thoughts and needs. They do! I read it in a book once. They are people and not a trendy accessory or pastime. I refuse to bring another person into this world because (a) somebody else thinks it’s a good idea, or (b) I’m bored and don’t have anything better to do. I don’t care how much children have enriched your life and you don’t care how they destroyed your lady bits. I’m not interested. And also, I’m never bored. Especially since FXX became The Simpons Channel.

homer-simpsonWayyyyy more enriching than a baby. With lady bits still intact.

I don’t really have that time bomb or clock or whatever it is that makes women want to squeeze something the size of a wet St. Bernard through a hole the size of a cat door. But if the mothering urge does overtake me and all else fails…

scupsI have a real St. Bernard.

Who will do the man stuff?

Ok, I’ll admit it. There are certain things a man can do that I’d rather not. Like killing bugs and mowing the lawn and building things and fixing things. Of course, I can and will build my own blanket fort. And it will be rad. And no, you can’t come in.

blanket fortThe only rule of Fort Blanket is there is no farting at Fort Blanket.

God knows I hate bugs but I can use a can of Raid or hairspray or Febreze or whatever poison just as good as the next guy. I also have money, which I can use to exchange for the goods and services of a person who knows how to build and fix things, should I need them to do so. I’ve also found that a low cut tank top can get me all kinds of help from the all the men and about half the women at Home Depot. And if all else fails…

woman's tool kitThanks for teaching me this, Mom!

You’ll never get flowers and gifts

This one worried me a little. I adore flowers! And chocolates. And anything sparkly. But I had an idea. A wild crazy idea that just might work. So I went to Kroger. I went to the floral department and picked up a bouquet of roses. Only $10. I took a couple of steps away from the refrigerator case. I looked around. Nope. Nothing. Nobody ran up to me screaming that I can’t have these flowers. Nobody punched me in the face and took them back. I cautiously walked to the register. I handed the girl my credit card and lo and behold she let me buy them! Holy shit! I can’t believe that happened. She asked me who they were for and I said, “Myself.” And she said, “Cool.” Damn right, it’s cool! Now, I’m not sure if this will actually work for candy and shiny things but I’m pretty sure it will. So no, I don’t need a man to buy me gifts. If I want something, I’ll buy it for myself. Or ask Santa Claus. And if all else fails…

stealing flowersYoink.

Who will take care of you when you get old?

Statistically, women live about 5 years longer than men. So really, if a woman marries a man her age or a little older (as is the norm), she’s looking to spend her golden years taking care of a sick and dying husband and then being left heartbroken and alone when she’s too old and wrinkly to appreciate finally being able to strut around the house in the nude and bask in her newfound bachelorette status. Then, some people would say, that’s when you need those kids you didn’t have to come take care of you. Not so fast. Who’s to say your kids aren’t assholes who are going to throw you in Shady Pines and forget all about you until the will’s read? Why take that chance? I’m currently saving for my own retirement that I don’t have to waste by “sharing” it with someone else. My plan includes a lovely 401k, a small pension from SAG, some scratcher tickets, and my own retirement palace in my sister’s basement where I’ll live with my cats and enjoy my choice of Fancy Feast or Meow Mix, depending on what Social Security the Republicans have left me. My sister also has 2 kids though, so she said I can borrow one of them to love me and take care of me when I’m old. I’ve been working hard to form a tight, loving relationship with them, forged by gifts and currency so if all else fails…

kid moneyReplace your IV bag with vodka…got it.

What about…you know

Just say it. Sex. What about sex?! Now, my parents read this here blog so I’ll keep it brief. Parental figures, SPOILER ALERT, I have had/do have/will have sex. You might not want to read any farther than this.

unicornWe interrupt this blog for a rainbow and unicorn break.

Ok. You don’t need to be in a relationship to get laid. We all know it’s true. I can have sex whenever I want. The best part about uncommitted sex is that you’re not, you know, committed. You don’t have to talk about personal crap or care or get sucked into a tsunami of the feels. You don’t have to worry about taking him home to Mom, or him monopolizing your free time, or touching your stuff, or whether or not the cats like him. You can be friends, take care of your business, and move on with your life. And if all else fails…

batteriesHell, a lot of married women probably need these, too. 😉

Don’t get me wrong though. If the right guy came along, sure, I’d totally go for it. But I don’t believe in settling or talking myself into loving someone just because other people think I’m supposed to. There are so many amazing men out there. But if I’m confined by society’s dictates and don’t live my life honestly and with an open mind and heart, I might miss him. If I fall in love, it will be with a man who enhances my life; but he will not be my life. He will be there because I want him, not because I need him. Yes, I’m single. You know why? Because I’m worth the wait. And as RuPaul, the Mother of all Queens says…If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell are you going to love somebody else? Can I get an amen up in here?!

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The Blackest of Fridays

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I went Black Friday shopping this year. I haven’t been shopping the day after Thanksgiving since…well, since Black Friday actually started at 8:00 a.m. and not 8:00 p.m. the night before. God, I’m old. Anyway, after gorging myself on my mom’s amazing cooking, I took a short nap. But like most naps when I was a kid, I spent most of the time talking to my sister (via text) instead of sleeping. A sure fire way to make sure I went out grumpy despite the cookies and juice box I had when I got up. (By the way Juicy Juice, I’d appreciate a bigger hole in the box. I spilled vodka everywhere.) But since I love Christa-mas sooooo much, I figured I’d have great time. What could instill the holiday spirit more than buying 50% off items that will most likely be returned with 5,000 of my closest friends and neighbors at 2:00 a.m.? A sharp stick in the eye. That’s what!

(Yep. Still better than going to Best Buy any day of the week.)

The Gathering

So the mall stores opened at midnight. Melanie insisted we get there by 10. For someone who does numbers for her job, math really isn’t her strong suit. When we got there we parked our sweet asses in front of Hollister. Hollister is this trendy store with tiny little clothes that promotes itself as selling pure Southern California realness to kids not in L.A. Now, I lived in L.A. for almost 10 years and never saw anyone dress in clothes like they have in that store. But whatevs. It’s not up to me to judge the cool kids. I just want them to like me! Please! Come on, y’all. I can be cool! Anyways, in those 2 hours of waiting, I went to pee twice, moaned about how much longer 8 times and whined about being hungry 5 times. So far, so good. At 11, American Eagle opened, so Melanie ran over there to get some stuff while I held our place in the other line. Thankfully, she had more faith than I did about my ability to stay put and not wander off after something sparkly or trade our place for some magic beans.

(Shiny magic beans?! You had me at hello.)

 

While Melanie was in the other store, Ashton came over to say hi. Dammit! What the hell was she doing at the mall while we were shopping? She asked me where her mom was. I told her and she said, “But I was just about to go in there.” I told her don’t go in there. She said, “Why? I won’t look at what Mommy’s doing.” (pffttt. Really?) We went back and forth until I finally grabbed her sweet little face in my hands and said, “Ashton Faith, if you step one foot in American Eagle, I swear to God every single Christmas present I buy you will come from K-Mart!” Needless to say, she ran the other way. That’s parenting a teenager, right there folks. I’ll give you a moment to write it down.

And So It Begins…

Midnight arrives. The crowd is growing. Surging and pulsing like a single living organism. I had my orders from General Smelanie and knew exactly where I had to go in the store to get my assigned items. We were second in line. I got more hand action from strangers waiting that last 5 minutes for the store to open than I’ve gotten since last time I tried to convince guys at the bar to go ahead and prove I’m not a drag queen. Then, the doors opened and I did something unbelievable. Something crazy and insane and so remarkable, I can barely admit it. I ran. I hauled ass to the back of that store like a bat out of hell. And I got my shit. In case you don’t know me, let me inform you. I don’t run. I don’t see the point. I’m going to get where I’m going eventually so what’s the rush? Nothing really starts til I get there anyway. And there’s no point in me running from something because I’m not athletic but I am super clumsy and whatever it is that’s chasing me will eventually catch me. If a bad guy’s chasing me, there’s no point in spending my last few moments sweating, heaving and possibly tripping and scraping up my pretty face. Nonetheless, for my nieces to be able dress like they’re not related to me, I ran.

(Why did she run? It costs an extra $50 to nail the coffin closed.)

Are We Done Yet?

We shopped at the mall from 10pm to 4:30 am. I am not even kidding. That’s not even counting external stores and a couple of hours at Walmart later in the day. That was just the mall. And that place was packed! Not only were there people everywhere but there were kids everywhere. (And no, teenagers aren’t people. Ask anyone who owns one.) These idiots weren’t even shopping. They were just wandering around the mall like it was any Saturday afternoon. They were only there so they could be out late and be underfoot and in my damn way. Go home and go to bed, children! WTF? Despite the repeated drop offs at the car, I was always toting huge bags. And those bags were heavy! I don’t understand how stuff for two such very small individuals like my nieces can weigh so much. My feet were killing me and I was even wearing my Disneyland comfort shoes. My arms hurt from the bags and being repeatedly walked into. (Apparently, I forgot to leave my invisibility cloak in the car.) My head hurt from the noise. I was hungry. I was tired. I had to pee again. The buzz from my Juicy Vodka box had worn off. And then I realized, I was buying and hauling all this crap and none of it was even for me! Though I did make sure to torture Melanie quite thoroughly during the one full hour we spent in line at Victoria’s Secret by alternating between putting bras on my head, spraying the nearest Eau de Cat House scent all around us and asking her which teddy would look best on grandma. I got a really nice tote bag from Vicky’s though. So that made the wait a little more bearable.

(You can have this sparkly pink bag if you will just please get out of our sexy store.)

Anyway, by the time dawn was approaching, I was a tad…miffed. So Melanie promised to take me home. After we stopped at 3 other stores. I literally moaned in agony which the other, hateful shoppers found quite amusing. And I found it just as amusing to give a little flirt and grind on the shirtless male model outside Hollister.

Mall’s Well That Ends Well

So Melanie finally took me away from the mall. We stopped at 2 more exterior stores but she promised me if I was good, she would buy me some chicken nuggets. I was able to control my behavior just long enough to get through the drive-thru. After we got to her house, I could not believe the amount of crap we had. And then Melanie had the nerve to say, “This is a good start.” Start! Start? Ok, I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I went home, slept for about 5 hours before the cat was begging for food and dog for outside. Then Mom, Melanie and the kids were ready for Walmart for more presents, decorations, wrapping paper and hopefully some sort of anti-psychotic to get me through the rest of the weekend. Things were much simpler when I shopped online and Christmas presents just arrived at my house. Oh well. This adventure made for a much better blog. Now I just have to wrap it all up and hope it’s received with the love and insanity with which it was given.

(What do you mean “nobody wears that crap from PacSun”? Fuck you, kid. Seriously.)

And of course, let’s not forget Mom, Melanie, Fallon and Brian all have birthdays within a week of Christmas. Santa?…Little help?

 

Dear Idiot…

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Dear People in Love,

I am so happy you’ve found each other. I really am. I love love. I just don’t love your love. You two need to stop slobbering all over each other in public. The table at the restaurant is for eating food, not eating each other’s faces and horrifying children and old people while ruining my appetite. Your back pockets are for carrying wallets and condoms. Not secretly squeezing some of that Grade A new boyfriend ass. Go home and get it on all day and night. Hell, even tape it and put it on YouTube if you want. Just stop dry humping each other in line at the store. You knocked over the gum display. And that’s just rude.

Love,

Christa

(I dare you to smell your hand now.)

Dear Guy Who Cut Me Off,

Congratulations, asshole. You are now one whole car ahead of me. You are still stopped at the same light as me. You just get to sit there longer because you got there first. You are a wizard among men for almost damaging my vehicle, your vehicle and both of our selves so you could get to the intersection 4 seconds faster. Not only do you get to be in front of me, now you also get my wrath. Think of me when karma happily kicks you in the nuts for being such a jack ass.

Sincerely,

Christa

(Christa says “hey”, Speed Racer.)

Dear People Trying to Open My Eyes,

I know there are horrors in the world. I know children die every day from hunger and abuse. So do animals. I am very aware of this and it upsets me greatly. But for the love of God, please stop posting pictures of starving, dead babies and bleeding, suffering animals on Facebook. This is a social networking site. For like, socializing and stuff. Not giving people nightmares. There are ways to help these situations and get sympathy for your cause without exploitative, disturbing photos that cause people to turn away immediately in abject horror and, therefore, giving your cause no thought at all other than to make the pictures go away.

Thank you.

Christa

(And they poop rainbows, too!)

Dear Emotional Wreck,

I understand from your Facebook post that there is something terrible and depressing going on in your life. I also understand that you say you don’t want to talk about it, based upon your mysterious “Don’t text or call. I don’t want to talk about it.” post. But let’s be honest here. If you really didn’t want to talk about whatever it is (I’m guessing it’s a guy who didn’t do what you wanted), you wouldn’t post that stuff on Facebook. You’d just turn off your phone and computer and take a pint of Ben & Jerry’s to your room and watch Titanic. But you do want someone to ask. So stop fishing and go ahead and say, “Johnny Depp broke our date because he said his grandmother died but he just posted pictures of him and Grammy Depp and Christa Woomer at Disneyland. I hate him and everyone else should, too!” There. Now don’t you feel better after saying how you really feel?

Your friend,

Christa

(Why does everyone keep asking me what’s wrong? I’m fine!)

Dear Person Busier and More Important Than God,

I understand that you are, without a doubt, the busiest person on the planet. No one has nearly as much work as you do and no one could possibly accomplish in a month what you do in a single day. You are a machine. You should be given a plaque for all that you manage to do whilst being the only one in your office who ever does anything. Brava! I also understand that if you go on vacation or get sick or have to take time for a number two bathroom break, you think the office will crumble without you. Let me ease your mind on that count. We are all replaceable. Even you. When River Phoenix dropped dead in front of a nightclub while filming “Interview with a Vampire”, he was replaced in mere hours by Christian Slater. The only irreplaceable one is God. But if you think you are more important than Him, I’ll let you discuss that amongst yourselves. And since you are so damn busy, shut the hell up and go do all that work you’re always bitching about.

Sincerely,

Christa

(This never would’ve happened if you only took a ½ hour lunch.)

Dear Person with Bratty Kids,

I know that babysitters can be expensive. But if you really feel it necessary to bring all 8 of your screaming, misbehaving, rude loin droppins to the store with you, please make sure you either beat them or drug them or whatever you have to do to keep them from running into me, stepping on my foot, taking things out of my cart, knocking down old ladies without apologizing, shoplifting, farting, sneezing and coughing on products I was thinking of buying and, in general, causing mass public chaos and shrinkage of my reproductive organs.

Yours truly,

Christa

(Drink up, Timmy. It’s Dress Week at Ross.)

Dear Person Behind Me,

I’m flattered by your fascination with me. I understand that I am an intriguing individual whom you would like to get to know better. That being said, we are in line in a public shopping store. Please remove yourself from my ass. We are not German Shepherds. There is nothing you can really learn about me by being so close to my butt despite what some scientists might tell you. There is no need to inch up on me. I’ll be done as soon as I can, then you can have a turn to buy your items. Don’t make me fart on you. Seriously. Back off. Now.

Kindest regards,

Christa

(I told you, if you bumped me one more time…)

Dear Negative Nellie,

Stop being negative. You are alive. You have a job. You have a roof over your head, clothes on your back and food in your stomach. Quit your bitching before God gives you something to bitch about.

Always,

Christa

(Cheer up. You could be…well, either of these two.)

Dear Women in Public Restrooms,

Why in the hell are there always pee drops on the toilet seat, ladies? First off, you’re supposed to use the little butt paper to cover the seat so you don’t get any ass-related diseases from others. Because we all know that the butt cheeks of every stranger we pass is just crawling with germs. If you are a tough broad though and don’t want to use the butt paper, then just sit your ass down and pee! Stop hovering and swaying and dancing or whatever the hell you’re doing that makes you leave whiz all over the seat like some kind of urinating lawn sprinkler.

Thank you.

Christa

(Yes, fellas. This is how we actually pee.)

Dear Driver with Cell Phone,

One of these days, I am going to pull up next to you, get out of my car, tear your car door open, rip that fucking phone out of your hand and beat you half to death with it. The law says you cannot drive and hold a cell phone to your face. Are you insane, stupid, selfish or all of the above? And it’s not like you’re having Syrian Peace Talks, either. You’re discussing with your other idiot friends driving and talking on their phones which Real Housewife of Who-Gives-A-Shit made the biggest ass out of herself last night on tv. Here’s a hint: It’s ALL of them! Those shows are worthless. Go get a Bluetooth before you hurt yourself or someone who doesn’t deserve it. Like me. You can get one for as little as $19.99 at a discount retailer near you. Bottom line, sweetheart. The law applies to you, too. Put. The phone. Down.

Thank you.

Christa

(You’re gonna be calling Jesus when I’m through with you.)

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Sister Act

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So we all know that after Buttons, Scuppy, vodka, Homer Simpson, my Kindle Fire, tacos and my lucky polk-a-dot underwear, my very bestest friend in the world is my sister, Melanie. To be honest, when she came along, I was not exactly sure she would be a good fit for our family. She was small, loud, hairless, toothless and arrived home with no decent toys to share whatsoever. So I tested her mettle by trying to give her to neighbors, locking her naked in the bathroom, strangling her with my truth lasso (this was during my Wonder Woman period) and feeding her quarters. Surprisingly for an infant, she took it all in stride and I decided we could keep her. My parents were grateful for my benevolence.

Melanie is 2 years, 7 months, 27 days, 5 hours and 15 minutes younger than me…approximately. But if you did not have this guesstimation, you would think were twins. Probably because she looks old and I look young (so I tell myself) but mostly because we are so close in our hearts. When we were younger (like last year), I called her Smelanie and she called me Cracker.

(You can’t handle the cute!)

Childhood

Being a big sister is a big responsibility. I had to work very hard to teach Melanie about the world when we were kids. Before puberty took over, Melanie was way easier to handle. She reacted well to threats and guilt. An example of a typical conversation while playing at a friend’s house.

Me:                 Melanie, run home and get the ball so we can play.

Melanie:        Why do I always have to get the ball?

Me:                 Because. Now go get it. I’ll let you play this time. I promise.

Melanie:        But I don’t want to go get the ball.

Me:                 Fine, then. Be selfish. Now nobody gets to play ball because you’re lazy. Thanks a lot.

Melanie:        Ok. I’m sorry. I’m going.

This kind of logic always worked. Even when I had a $5 bill and she had five $1 bills and I explained to her it wouldn’t be fair unless she gave me two of her dollars. Then we’d both have 3 bills and we’d both be happy…my mother made me give her the $2 back. It’s obvious that my mother did not have a little sister and thus did not understand the lesson I was teaching Melanie as her big sister. Pffftttt…whatever.

(You’ll never learn to escape the box if you never get in the box.)

I also spent one afternoon braiding every hair on her head into tiny little Bo Derek braids and putting a bunch of rubber bands around them. It took my grandmother hours to get them out. When we wanted to play electrician, I would screw the faceplates off the outlets and then let her dig in the hole after it was off. I somehow managed to convince her that Angela Lansbury on “Murder She Wrote” was a killer and she was always scared to go to bed after it was on. When we played “Dukes of Hazzard” she always had to be Cooter, even if it was just the two of us playing. Ok, I’ll admit. I actually laughed out loud when I typed that. Man, that was funny! But in all seriousness, the fact that Melanie lived to adulthood is proof that God really does perform miracles.

Adolescence/Teenage Years

This period of time, also known as the War of the Woomers or the War of Totally Tubular Proportions (circa 1986-1992), was really tough on my parents. We fought over everything! Clothes, accessories, shoes, makeup, food, friends, pets, tv, music, electricity, politics, religion, who could breathe, who could grow, which one of us was really adopted…it was endless. We couldn’t say good morning without the other one responding with something like “Ugh. You made it through the night again?” One time she threw an open can of Sprite in my face in front of everybody at the bus stop. Once I literally tackled her for the last Band-Aid (she had a cut of some sort-allegedly). She had taken it from my side of the bathroom. I didn’t need it but I still tore it up so she couldn’t have it. We got into a physical, scratching, hair pulling fight as teenagers because I wanted the deadbolt on the front door locked and Melanie did not. As you can see, these were all serious, life threatening issues completely worth kicking each other’s asses over. (insert sarcasm here) Melanie might be little, but she’s mean, tough and scrappy. Since I’m bigger, the only way I ever won was if I sat on her.

(What did I tell you about looking at the sun on my day!)

But whenever my mom would say, “You know what? You two want to kill each other? Go ahead! I don’t care anymore. Go on! Hit her, Christa. Kick her, Melanie. You want it so bad? Kill each other. I dare you.” Then we would be like, “Geez, Mom. Calm down. I don’t want to hurt her. She’s my sister. You’re such a drama queen.” I’m surprised my mother didn’t drink more.

Young Adulthood

After I graduated high school, there was a huge change in the dynamic of our relationship. I’m not sure how or why but we started hanging out for no reason and realized, we really liked each other. We had so much fun together and really complimented each other. I was outgoing when she was shy. She was brave when I was a coward. She helped my fashion and I helped her stop wearing her bangs like a rooster.

(Who else is hanging their head in shame right now?)

I was on time when she was late. She was nurturing when I was a bitch. We took turns staying up and keeping watch for Freddy Krueger while the other one slept. She would flirt with cute guys she wasn’t interested in so I could mack on their friends. I would dry hump unsuitable guys from behind who were trying to dance with her when she didn’t want to. When she was in labor, I was the first to honestly tell her, “This is really not cute.” And she was the first to tell me the same about my ex-husband before he was my ex-husband. We’re both funny as hell. When I said, “I think I’ve had enough to drink tonight.” She would say, “You can’t listen to you. You’re drunk. Have another!” I so love my sissy! We’ve bowled together. We’ve gone clubbing together. We’ve traveled together. We’ve read the same books and loved the same movies. We’ve hated the same people. We’ve discovered a love of history together. We’ve run from the cops together. We’ve laughed and cried and vomited together. And that was just last summer!

The Here and Now

I can always be myself around my sister. I can tell my sister anything and vice versa. No judgment, no censure, no repeating it. In fact, sometimes she doesn’t even remember I told her something vitally important. We can rail, bitch, yell and cry at each other and then be fine like nothing happened 15 minutes later. My mom can’t understand that. But that’s just the way it is. As time passes and Melanie ages, we only get closer. She is now the mother of 2 teenagers. (Let us all take a moment of silence to pray for her……..thank you.) I am an actress in L.A. She sings in the church choir. I sing at karaoke. Our conversations revolve around work and what body part hurts most today. Our partying days are long behind us. Even though we live 2,300 miles apart (which, despite the laws of physics, both sucks and blows), I know she is always there for me. And I am always there for her.

(This is the least drunk-looking growed up pic I could find)

Out of all the stuff my mom’s ever given to me, I can honestly say Melanie is my favorite…followed by the time she introduced me to Ryan Seacrest. I will say, when my dad took me to the nursery and showed me baby Melanie screaming behind the glass, I very pragmatically said, “I’d rather have a pony.” I humbly admit, I was wrong.

 

Fear Factor: Babies

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I was a baby once. I don’t really remember it though. I was probably drunk. But I like babies. They’re cute and soft and smell good 2/3 of the time. You can buy them stuff and they laugh at your jokes as long as you end them with a belly zerbert. Though to be honest, that works on my mom, too. You can teach them to like what you like and hate what you hate. You can teach them how to hug, how to walk, how to potty and how to say curse words. And these are the things you don’t want them learning on the street. Super fun! It seems recently lots of my friends are either knocked up or just finished birthing. So it kinda puts babies on the brain. Now, don’t get it twisted. It doesn’t make me want to have a baby. (Sorry, Melanie. I know you’re holding fast to that fading torch.) But it makes me think of all the reasons why babies scare the ever living hell out of me.

(Dude. Stop looking at me like that…Seriously…Stop it! You’re freaking me out.)

The Body

So I have learned through my sister and friends that the joys of pregnancy actually suck. Of course, there’s the obvious weight gain and emotional crap pregnant women go through. And we all know how I would hate to destroy my hawt physique or super stable psyche. But you know what else happens? Stretch marks that make your gut look like a freaking topographical map. You become the before picture for a Proactive zit commercial. You get hemorrhoids to your knees. You can’t sleep on your stomach (my fav). You have nightmares. Your hair goes crazy (not my hair!). Your teeth get soft because the baby’s sucking all your nutrients from within. You leak pee-pee. Your boobs get veins that rival your stretch marks. And all of this before the damn kid even arrives!

(The demon who did this to me? We call him Skippy, Jr.)

Now, I saw my sister give birth. It was not cute. To bring your bundle of joy into the world, they give you an episiotomy. That’s a cut from ummm…Point A towards, ummm… Point B so you don’t literally tear yourself a new one. Oh my freaking Lord! Then, you most likely will take a giant crap on the table in front of your doctor, nurses, husband, flower delivery guy and so forth. And just when the fruit of your looms makes an appearance and you think “thank God that’s over”, you learn…it’s not over. You have to spend another God knows how long birthing “placenta” or the sack o’ nasty your baby has been living, breathing, eating and pooping in for 9 months without a bath. Wow, bringing a new life in the world is a beautiful thing.

Depleting Resources

Now of course, as most non-reproductive people do, I have to talk about money. Babies/kids cost a damn lot of money. And babies aren’t like bills. You can’t play Bill of the Month Club with them. “Oh, sorry electric company. You lose. Better luck getting paid next month!” I can do that. Try telling a kid, “Well, it was food or clothes this time around. Enjoy your corn nuts. You can wear your birthday suit to school this week. Mommy loves you!” People will call the cops on your ass for that shit. Baby clothes cost some mad cash. One time, I was looking for an outfit for one of my friends who had created precious life with her soul mate-of-the-week. Baby clothes cost just as much as Christa clothes! And since I was buying something for the kid, I didn’t want to feel left out, so I had to buy something for me, too. I mean, why should the baby get all the presents? It won’t even remember what I got it. I’m important, too. And if I had my own kids, this mode of shopping could bankrupt a gal with a quickness.

(I know it’s itchy, but blue makes Mommy’s eyes pop!)

And that’s not counting stuff like toys, diapers (who the hell pays $30 for a box of fancy paper towels for a baby to crap on?), safety gear, medicine, doctors, pictures, cleaning fluids…and that’s not half of what these beings require to survive the first month. I could go on. But I won’t. But I could.

Emotional Damage

Babies like to cry. Some people think it’s because the kid wants something. Like food or love. I know better. Babies cry because they like it. They can’t read, they can’t change the tv channel to something they like, they can’t fix themselves a snack, they can’t drive to the movies and they have no money (see above). So how can they entertain themselves? By making the big people run around like a bunch of idiots to see what they can do to make Baby stop making that God awful noise. HI-lariousness! I will be straight up with you right now. The sound of a crying baby makes my ovaries turn themselves inside out and shrivel up like raisins. Look kid, cry alone in the bathtub with a bottle of Pinot like the rest of us. Quit the public dramatics already.

(This is my lady parts…this is my lady parts on crying babies. Any questions?)

And you know what, as cute as babies are, they don’t stay that way forever. Babies turn into adolescents, tweenagers, teenagers (oh my). You think baby crying was bad? Wait until they’re old enough to cry louder, harder and yell, curse and hate you for weeks on end without stopping. Oops, there goes those ovaries again. I didn’t like adolescence when I went through it. Why the hell would I want to go through it again with the person who gave me hemorrhoids that still haven’t healed in 13 years? That’s right. I don’t.

Selfless vs. Selfish

I’ll be honest. What most of this comes down to is I’m a selfish bitch. And I’m ok with that. I love that on an airplane, when they give the oxygen mask speech, they tell you to put your own mask on first and then help a kid. Because that’s what I’d do regardless and I don’t want to be getting the stink eye on a crashing plane for looking out for Number One.

(So, can I like use you as a flotation device? You know…just in case.)

It takes a super selfless person to be a parent. I’m not necessarily that person. I like my life. I like going out when I want. I’m pretty sure giving my kid a shot of Nyquil with a Benadryl chaser so I can go to All-80’s-Karaoke-Night-Drinks-½-Price-if-You’ll-Sing-Huey-Lewis, is a bad idea. You know, the cop thing again. I don’t want to watch my damn, hell, ass language. You also have to teach kids stuff. I’m a crappy teacher. I get so frustrated with stupid people. “What do you mean, I have to teach you how to feed yourself? You’ve been out of the womb for like, months now. Geez, look it up.” Also, what if I hate my baby? What if it’s an asshole and I don’t even realize it. It happens to people all the time. Or worse, what if I do realize my kid’s an asshole? What do I do? Should I tell him? Or pretend he’s cool? I don’t know which is meaner. And again on the selfish thing, this child probably needs a father figure. Someone to be strong, kill bugs, avoid uncomfortable situations like sex talks and smack the kid around if it needs it.  I don’t want to have to smack my own kid when she’s being a douche. I would be her world and it might scar her or something. Whoopins are so a dad thing. My dog would be a good protector and listener and she’ll walk away if you’re boring her like a dad. She’s hairy enough. But she’s a girl. And I can’t ask Brian to do everything for me. And I sure as hell am not pretending to love some loser so he’ll play daddy to my kid. I’m going through enough pretending my kid’s not a jerk-ass, serial killer in the making. Ugh, I need some me time.

So, we can all see now why a baby just isn’t my “thing”. I’ll never say never. Except for there, where I totally just said never. You never know what the future will bring. (Damn, there I go with the “never” thing again!) My mind is open. But I really just can’t see it. I love, love, adore my nieces. And I love my friends sweet, cuddly little bay-bays. But when all is said and done, I am damn glad to accept those adorable hugs and kisses then hand them over at the end of the day when they’re tired and cranky and I’m through filling them with sugar. All hail the real heroes…MOMS and DADS!

(He’s hungry, dirty, wet and pissed at the Republicans. Thanks for letting me babysit!)

Peace, babies!

HOW MY CHILDHOOD WAS RUINED

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I think we all have those memories from our childhood that are special. The first day of school, first kiss, a new sibling, winning the spelling bee. These events shape who we are and give us a wistful smile as we replay our most innocent days.

Then there’s reality. The things that you go through that take your innocence, stomp it into a greasy spot, spit on it and then point and laugh as your greasy spot is washed away by a river of your tears. Here are some of the events that brought my childhood to a screeching halt.

 (And you’ll die alone with 57 cats who hate you.)

 #5: You can’t dig to China

From the time I was a toddler, my Irish Setter and I were working on an underground expressway to China. With my trusty teaspoon and her speedy paws, we were on our way. We also carried the same tennis ball in our mouths and drank out of the same water bowl. We were a team! Anyway, China was always my “Plan B”. If I got in too much trouble or the punishment was too great, screw it. I’d move to China. Ha-take that behavior Nazis! But then I caught an “educational” show on PBS between Bob Ross Painting and Seasame Street (this was wayyyy before cable, kiddos). This show told me that there’s more than a few feet of dirt between me and that sweet, sweet freedom. Apparently, there’s thousands of miles of dirt, rock and dinosaur bones. Then you have to cross like 4 layers of fiery hell. Then another few thousand miles of dinosaur bones, rock and dirt. Worst of all, once you get to China, you find out China sucks! They don’t speak English, they don’t celebrate Christmas and they don’t even have french fries! Dammit. Thanks for nothing, China.

(We should’ve stopped to pee at the last Shoney’s.)

 #4: Grown ups can be mean to little kids

There are certain things I promised my mom I wouldn’t address in this post so as to not ruin someone else’s childhood and end up on their blog 10 years from now. So I will say, as a child, I learned the hard way that grown ups can be very mean to little children. There were certain truths that I held dear when I was little. One of the many being that when I grew up, I would ride my unicorn to Gargamel’s hovel and kick his ever loving ass for being mean to the Smurfs. Then I would marry Squire Johan and live happily ever after in Smurf Village Adjacent. In 2nd grade, my friends and I were discussing such weighty issues when the mean old librarian came over and laughed at us. “You don’t really believe that crap, do you? Are you really that stupid? There’s no such things as unicorns and Smurfs. You kids are so dumb!” Wha-wha-WHAT?! She said this to an entire class of 7 year old believers and decimated many dreams. I cried the rest of the day. Not only was my fairy tale world destroyed, that grown up yelled at me and called me stupid! Then in 4th grade, my teacher had the nerve to literally punch me in the head for working ahead of the class on multiplication tables. She actually said, “We’re on 4’s, not 7’s. Pay attention!” Dude. Are you kidding me? I know that particular teacher got fired two years later for hitting students but my image that all adults loved cute, blonde children with bows in their hair and stars in their eyes was a lie.

(You only exist because your dad’s condom broke!)

 #3: I can die

So this one was a little hard. In 4th grade, the Challenger space shuttle exploded. It was a huge tragedy. I remember it very well. I was so excited that day. The teacher on the shuttle was named Christa, like me. Her husband went to college at VMI with my dad. So I wanted to be a teacher and astronaut, like her. Our teacher (same bitch who punched me in the head) had the t.v. on so we could watch the launch. 5-4-3-2-1……explosion. My class cheered. Look at the fireworks! But our teacher was yelling, “No, no! Oh my God. It exploded. They’re all dead!” I was horrified. My namesake died. If I grew up to be like her, I might die, too. Maybe it was time to re-think being a professional butterfly. Around that time, some elderly relative passed away and I attended the first funeral I could remember. I looked in the casket and I was so afraid. I thought for sure that sleeping old lady was going to jump up and grab me. My grandmother kept saying, “Touch her. It’s ok. She’s dead. Touch her. She’s not getting up.” So, I touched her. It was awful. I asked my grandmother why she died. And she said something like, “Well, we all die. Death is part of life. I’ll die. Your mom will die. Your sister will die. You will die. Nothing you can do about it. We all die.” Holy shit! I can die? Any second, I can just cease to be? One second, playing Cabbage Patch Dolls and the next, sleeping in a box, being poked by 8 year olds, never to open my eyes again? Thanks for that, Grandma. I’ve definitely logged a few hundred hours of therapy over that one.

(I’d much rather be an out of work actor, thank you very much.)

 #2: Sex

When I was a kid, my understanding of sex was, you kissed, got naked and went to sleep with a man. Then you had a baby. Bada-bing, bada-boom. D-u-n, done. My mother informed me this was not the case. There’s a little more detail involved than that. Using a teddy bear for illustration, she gave me the talk. A half hour later, I realized how ignorant I was. My understanding was now complete. You have to let the guy pee in you for it to be sex and the pee only sometimes makes a baby. Ew! No guy was peeing anywhere near me, so I will stay happily childless, thank you very much. Boys are disgusting. I had also sneaked one of my mom’s bodice ripper novels and read the sex parts for a deeper comprehension of human relations. From that I also learned you also have to let a guy lick you with his tongue instead of kiss sometimes. Who thought up this crap? But the ladies in the book seemed to like it. They’re knees would go weak and they’re hearts would race and they’d feel all tingly. So I was reserving judgment on the dog-like kissing. Anyway, after reading those books, I have to say, my first kiss was a huge disappointment. Sorry Travis….um…Smith. My knees did not go weak. I did not see stars and his tongue lashing truly needed some finesse. Then he said he had to use the bathroom and since I wasn’t ready for children, I had to let that relationship go. It was for the best.

(We’ll always have the jungle gym.)

 #1: Barbie’s charmed life

So after my dreams of moving to Smurf Village were dashed, along with my dreams of being an astronaut/teacher and having children, I turned to the best role model any girl ever had. Barbie! What was I thinking before now? This bitch has it all. A dream house, horses, convertible, Jeep, gorgeous clothes, stupid kid sister to kick around, giant boobs. She also had awesome boyfriends in Ken, GI Joe, He-Man and Optimus Prime (at least she did in my house). And she was a rock star and actress. This is what I will be! Or not…this dream was crashed slowly and thoroughly as I went through middle school and high school. According to Barbie’s dream scale painted on the floor of her dream bathroom in her dream house, she weighs a dream 110 pounds. I passed that in 8th grade. By age 16, I did have giant boobs but that was about it. We lived in a 2 bedroom apartment, the closest thing we had to a horse was my sister’s idiot boyfriend, I drove a 1969 VW Beetle with the floor boards rotted out, my sister was prettier and more popular than me and my boyfriend was my boyfriend because he knew what was good for him and did what I told him. And I worked part-time as a dj for tens of local listeners. Well, that didn’t work out as planned!

(I call shenanigans on you, bitch!)

But you know what? It’s ok. I do have a nice house now and a nice car. I am an actress. I’m a rock star at karaoke. I’ve had gay boyfriends (Sorry, Ken, but let’s be honest here. It’s ok to be who you are!). I have great shoes and I even have a small pony.

(Giddiyup!)

Childhood may have been traumatic in a lot of ways but my life is good. As Mr. Burns’ said, “I’m a wealthy man but I’d give it all away for just a little bit more.”

Peace!