August 21, 2013
For fucks sake, my head is spinning. One minute we were at the beach trying to decide whether to eat the watermelon now or at dinner, and the next minute I’m careening through the air, having been shot out of a live cannon. This is how I know it's the first week of school.
When I put the kids to bed last night baby darling hugged me and said, “Thank you for being a good girl today.” That obviously means I stayed on green all day, without once moving my car to the yellow or red portion of the stoplight behavior chart. This is more than I can say for my beloved mini-me, who is now in first grade and already missed a recess for misbehaving in music. “He’s nothing like his older brother!” the teacher chuckled. Lady, I’ve been trying to warn the establishment of this for five years.
I swear to all things that are holy that I will be a good mom this school year. Which means that I will now embrace the popular bipolar parenting strategy, otherwise known as “ruining my kids.” This morning after an hour long conversation with the #2 mutha, it was decided that we should write instructions to ourselves on index cards, for handy reference when that first “D” or “F” test is found hidden in the back of the folder.
Apparently screaming, “Do you want to live in a filthy ditch under the interstate when you grow up?” is not good for the children’s self esteem. These types of comments should always be followed by the mixed message goodnight tuck-in, which might go something like this: “Look, so what, you made an F. You’re an awesome, smart boy. Everybody loves you. Try your best and you’ll pull your grade up in no time. We’ll study together.” That’s right. And if you don’t, you can just live with mommy forever. Who cares? I’ll be a lonely, cat lady by then anyway.
Getting this stuff right is so hard. Especially when ‘what is right’ changes every day. One day you are to push and encourage and demand that they stand out from the pack. Be the best! The next day you are to be accepting and allow the child to establish his own personality and identity. You are to study with them, and teach them good studying habits. Oh no! That was last week. These children are old enough to be responsible for their own lessons. Studying with them will make them unable to study on their own. Just take the video games away so they won’t have violent tendencies. Great! Now they don’t have any friends and can’t pick up M&Ms because their hand/eye coordination is so horrible. Feed them whole grains! That white bread will make them fat and stupid! Don’t you know anything, moron? Grains are the devil! Stop eating all grains. Try quinoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa! I’m sorry I must draw the line with quinoa. Especially now that I know it’s not even pronounced kwin-o-a. It’s keen-wa. Which is why I can never eat it. Because I’m not saying “keen wa.” It’s too stupid.
Honestly, I think I'll just keep flying by the seat of my pants. My parents didn’t have a fucking clue what they were doing…and look at me. I’m the sanest person I know.
The only thing that’s really easy is loving them. I’m good at that part. It's easy enough to apologe when I yell out the ‘f’ word and say that thing about living under the interstate. It really is ok to fail. I’ve failed a lot and I’m still not living under the interstate.
August 4, 2013
The Hot Mess is holding a gun to my head, yelling, “Type, type! Move your fingers, skinny bitch!”
Ahhh. Just kidding. I’m here because I’ve got madwoman lurve for her. When she first asked for a guest post I said, “Are you facking kidding me? I don’t even post on my own blog anymore?”
And that’s why this is perfect, right? Since the topic she suggested was “My love/hate relationship with my blog.” At first, I decided to just ignore her. But then I got scared she was going to tackle me and punch me in the tit at the MILF March in September. She's going to anyway.
So, here's the real truth about why I don't really post anymore. I started Diary of a Madwoman because out of sheer madness not very long ago I found myself randomly typing weird shit like “my husband is dead” into google. I could barely see the screen through my tears. You know what my search returned? A whole lotta jack. Nothing! Dear God, I’m the only one! I can relate to NO ONE. I’m a freak. Nobody gets it. NOBODY FUCKING GETS IT, YA HURD ME??!!
And so I started screaming and bashing my fingers into the keyboard. And the Diary was born. It was insanely therapeutic. Immediately, people started showing up, by the thousands. One morning I spent about 15 minutes writing “How Not to be an Asshole When You Grow Up” while I sat at my kitchen counter. Ten thousand people had read it by that afternoon. Watching that page counter flip numbers in rapid succession was like watching the gas pump, except it was incredibly thrilling! The truth is, I still didn’t think it was good. 700,000 readers later and these numbers impress me zero. Because some blogs have two million. Or four million.
There are some unwritten rules if you wish to be successful in social media. Relentless marketing helps. Other rules involve being politically correct, not cursing too much, not being too opinionated, staying in the middle lane, and accepting the fact that facebook censors.
Gag me with a Volatile flip flop.
I’m not ok with any of that. I try to be a middle of the road kind of person, but it harms me and I have reason to believe it might give me cancer. I’m a ‘push the envelope’ type of girl. What can I say? Not everyone appreciates that.
So the Diary is sometimes left waning. A victim of not being perfect. Add to that the embarrassing number of "mom blogs" floating around the internet. Oh my God! Please arrest and jail all those tired writers! I shan't be associated. I just can't. I'm too scared someone might call this a mom blog.
But I love writing. My writing is best when I am not trying to please anyone. Many times I reluctantly decide that the writing is too scary for you. Sometimes a whole awesome, touching, raw, emotional and funny yet scathing blog cannot be published because I fear the impact it would have on a single certain person. It’s various people at various times, depending on the subject. It could be Dave’s family, or his friends, or maybe my own family. Many times it’s the pearl clutchers. I imagine them clutching their pearls and speaking in hushed tones when I breeze past them in a dress that might be showing cleavage. “Did you read what she wrote?”
I mostly don’t care what people think but I’m also a realist. I have to live with the ramifications of the published words. It’s easy to step into my Madwoman alter ego and fling the words around. It’s harder to press the ‘publish’ button when I see my real name sitting up in the corner. I kick myself every day that I didn’t do this on the sly. A pseudonym. Just some random crazy bitch. But the story of the kidnapping and robbery on the morning of the funeral would have found me. Because who the fuck else has that ever happened to? Was that shit even real?
The blog neglect is shameful because it causes the blog to be buried deeper and deeper into the sea of words that is the internet. I do fervently WISH for it to be accessible to those who find themselves where I was that fateful evening….eyes red and swollen, throat burning from screaming, desperate to hear the real truth from a real person speaking real words. I’m humbled that the serious words have saved lives and changed lives. And tickled that the comical aspect serves as proof that if you maintain a good attitude and a sense of humor you will never suffer longer than necessary. Because suffering is for pussies.
Cue the pearl clutching.
Random funny ecard courtesy of The Klonopin Chronicles
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