Visit our house after the kids go to bed (or at least, go to their rooms under the auspices of going to bed) and you will see a transformation. Gone are the cheesy comments and passive aggressive remarks directing someone to the bath or away from a certain television show. Gone is any sense of decency and/or language barrier. And, further, gone is any good natured use of our Nintendo Wii.
Yes, after the kids go to bed, my husband and I are transformed into a couple of foul-mouthed sailors who roll around in their ship, looking for a foreign land (that I don't think we'll ever find) where we are completely relaxed, and well, like most other 25 year olds. We watch bad TV. We write on blogs. And we play video games. And for my husband, this means we curse. A lot.
My husband playing MarioKart is one of the more hilarious things you ever want to see. During the day, when he plays it with the kids, he is remarkably contained, winning races for my four year old and earning the moniker of "best buddy in da wuu-rr-ld." But at night, he is a MarioKart demon, attempting the hardest races, trying to set records and yelling nonsensical garbage, mostly directed at Princess Peach, who always seems to be doing something tantamount to ripping out his intestines through his big toe. I prefer to sit back and watch while he thrashes and nashes his teeth; to me, this is the kind of thing you just want to see, like a homeless guy admonishing tourists about the "overlords" in San Francisco or Britney Spears armed with an umbrella and a shaved head. He is delightfully angry, every bit of energy in his body combining for one sheer purpose: to be a MarioKart asshole.
And this, interestingly enough, is one of the bigger differences between us. I, reared as a sweet Southern girl, have really no tendency toward anger. I am remarkably mellow. As my boss puts it, "Morgan doesn't really let anything get to her." But it is more than that: I am mellow to the point that I don't think my body is physically capable of producing an angry reaction. When encountered with stuff that should make me boiling hot, I just bawl. And it isn't pretty. At those points, I wish for the day that I could just explode, unleashing a torrent of curses on the person who so wronged me. But I can't. And I don't.
Watching my husband play MarioKart has pushed me to realize that I am the emotional equivalent of one of those people who doesn't have a sense of pain. If you ever saw that Grey's Anatomy with Abigal Breslin where she gets socked in the stomach so much that she is bleeding internally, but can't feel it, then you know what I am talking about. Emotionally, I can stand myself at a stove, and put my hand right into the gas flame, and not have the wherewithall to pull it back because I don't feel the thing that is eating away my flesh. I just keep telling myself that it can get a little bit worse, that I don't need to pull away just yet. And sooner or later, I'll get to the point where I'm missing a hand. And I won't understand what happened to it.
This disturbs me. A lot. But to be frank, I don't really know what to do about it. I'm not posting this as some "Look at how I improved my life!" kinda bit. In fact, it is just the opposite. It is more like "Look at what I'm doing to lead myself into an early death!" or "Look at how much I suck." I also post this for the very sick reason of that I don't know if I'd really change this if I could. This inability to feel any sort of anger is an amazing coping tool--one that allows me to work crazy amounts of hours at work without feeling a whole lot and keeps me smiling in the face of those around me who are complete and total douches. But there is that whole possibility of going postal someday and offing everyone within a 10 mile radius.... so I guess it's not really that fair of a trade-off.
Anywhoodle, just putting that out there. This is truly the post about nothing, huh? Today's quote comes from my husband, who recognizes that his anger toward MarioKart probably needs some professional help.
"I should invest in an anger management center. But it would probably go under. And that would piss me off."
Friday, May 23, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
"I'M SO EXCITED! I'M SO EXCITED!" (uncontrollable weeping)
I am a person who thrives on routine. I get up every morning at 6:00, without an alarm. My eyes just pop open; my husband (lovingly) calls this "setting the Kramer alarm." After getting up, I walk into the bathroom, weigh myself and change into my work out clothes. Then I come into the living room and do some sort of work out video which generally involves some sort of groaning and sweating and hopping and a great deal of me saying nonsensical stuff to myself. I work out for an hour and then settle into the couch with a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice. And every morning I turn on the TV and watch one of a few shows. This is my favorite time of the day--I am the only one awake, I have that post work out level of bliss going on, and I can unabasedly watch some very horrible television before starting my day.
The television show is the one place where my routine sometimes alters. Some mornings I watch a 30 minute show from the DVR, and basically that means I watch Snapped, which if you don't know (maybe because you watch good television shows?), is a show about women who snap and kill their husbands. Yes, this sounds like a rather depraved way to start the day (especially now that I see it typed out like that), and to be frank, I don't do it that often, as I've seen a lot of these things and end up only having one on my DVR on Monday mornings. My other options are Sportscenter and Saved by The Bell. Usually, I flip between the two of these, watching a few minutes before my attention wanes and I flip to the other excitedly, loving every minute of my breakfast.
I have a long and lovely relationship with Saved By the Bell. The first time I saw the show, I was about 10 or so, and it was a snow day. I had gone to a friend's house to play in the snow and we came in to drink hot cocoa and warm up. At that time, TBS ran two SBTB episodes at 5:05 and 5:35, and WGN followed this with episodes at 6:00 and 6:30. When my friend turned on TBS on that snowy afternoon, I had never seen the show, and despite my misgivings at not getting to watch one of the movies I saw on their shelf (I remember they had Turner and Hooch which was a big favorite of mine), I soon became enamored with the characters. When my mom picked me up at 6:00, I rushed home and turned on WGN, just as I had been instructed to do. From that point on, I was hooked. I spent the better part of the next 3 years stuck to the couch, eating Chef Boyardee ravioli and learning all I could about high school, ultimately setting up expectations that would tumble down in a messy, sad heap the second I stepped foot into the hallowed halls of St. Paul High School.
The reason these expectations failed so miserably is pretty obvious if you have ever seen even five minutes of SBTB. High school is delightfully messy; the love lives of Zack Morris and Kelly Kapowski are as clean and blemish free as my four year old's unspoiled cheek. There are no strict lines of social class and rank in high school as there are with the pocket protector and cheerleading skirt demaracations on SBTB. Contrary to what Kelly Kapowski would have you believe, you can be stunning and also be quite intelligent. Further, the school athlete is not always a stand up guy with killer dimples who dates the valdedictorian (SURPRISE, I know). And, most importantly, you can't get addicted to, and subsequently ruin your life with, caffeine pills in a span of about 4 days.
This morning's episode was actually a clip show, centering around a time capsule unearthed by the class of 2003. The whole scheme is that the gang (Bayside Class of '93) buried a time capsule containing a video for the lucky class who would discover it 10 years later. I won't even get started on the sheer idiocy of doing anything on a video that you want to survive for any period of time. ANYWAY, the tape is filled with clips and the gang sharing sage advice about how they managed to stay so overwhelmingly pure while attending high school in L.A. All subjects are approached--sneaking into the girl's locker room wearing assorted disguises, dunking the principal in a dunk tank, you know, the usual--and then we get to the VERY special part of the episode where we see Jessie struggle with drug abuse. And seriously, I know Elizabeth Berkley isn't exactly known for her restrained Method acting, but shit ya'll. Homegirl LOST HER SHIT in this performance. You would think she was addicted to meth, crack, and the occasional Dirty Sanchez with the way she was acting. Zack ends up restraining her, while she screams about how she needs one of her little pills, NEEDS IT, in order to go to The Max and sing in some sort of hokey ass singing concert. And, of course, I'm sitting on my couch, clutching my oj, and remembering that when I was in high school, in order to get myself to the point where I could actively participate in something just as incredibly horrible as singing Motown tunes in front of my BFF's, I would have needed about 3 bottles of Boone's Farm and a quick trip to the back seat of my boyfriend's car. NOT SOME GODDAMN CAFFEINE PILLS THAT YOU BUY AT THE DOUBLE KWIK.
All of this just makes me think about the overwhelming insanity of whoever wrote this shit, and just how much I wish life imitated Saved by the Bell. Everyday, I work with teenagers, who, like Jessie, want nothing more than to go to Stanford and fulfill all the expectations of those around them. This morning, I found myself basically begging that caffeine pills be the extent of the lengths they would go to to achieve those goals. Sadly, I'm not naive enough to think that this would be the case. But oh! If it were. Perhaps then I could get a decent night's sleep at night, and not be forced to look at my four year old son and worry that someday I'll have to bail him out of someplace where no one sees just how absolutely angelic his eyes are when they catch the light in a certain way.
So here's to Jessie, and her caffeine pills. Here's to Stanford and singing and geometry and all of the "really hard" stuff those crazy kids had to deal with. Oh, Jessie, you do it best--cry us off...
"I'M SO EXCITED! I'M SO EXCITED!" (uncontrollable weeping into the arms of the man who will someday marry your best friend because you were the smart one, not the pretty one)
Yeah, I made that part up.
The television show is the one place where my routine sometimes alters. Some mornings I watch a 30 minute show from the DVR, and basically that means I watch Snapped, which if you don't know (maybe because you watch good television shows?), is a show about women who snap and kill their husbands. Yes, this sounds like a rather depraved way to start the day (especially now that I see it typed out like that), and to be frank, I don't do it that often, as I've seen a lot of these things and end up only having one on my DVR on Monday mornings. My other options are Sportscenter and Saved by The Bell. Usually, I flip between the two of these, watching a few minutes before my attention wanes and I flip to the other excitedly, loving every minute of my breakfast.
I have a long and lovely relationship with Saved By the Bell. The first time I saw the show, I was about 10 or so, and it was a snow day. I had gone to a friend's house to play in the snow and we came in to drink hot cocoa and warm up. At that time, TBS ran two SBTB episodes at 5:05 and 5:35, and WGN followed this with episodes at 6:00 and 6:30. When my friend turned on TBS on that snowy afternoon, I had never seen the show, and despite my misgivings at not getting to watch one of the movies I saw on their shelf (I remember they had Turner and Hooch which was a big favorite of mine), I soon became enamored with the characters. When my mom picked me up at 6:00, I rushed home and turned on WGN, just as I had been instructed to do. From that point on, I was hooked. I spent the better part of the next 3 years stuck to the couch, eating Chef Boyardee ravioli and learning all I could about high school, ultimately setting up expectations that would tumble down in a messy, sad heap the second I stepped foot into the hallowed halls of St. Paul High School.
The reason these expectations failed so miserably is pretty obvious if you have ever seen even five minutes of SBTB. High school is delightfully messy; the love lives of Zack Morris and Kelly Kapowski are as clean and blemish free as my four year old's unspoiled cheek. There are no strict lines of social class and rank in high school as there are with the pocket protector and cheerleading skirt demaracations on SBTB. Contrary to what Kelly Kapowski would have you believe, you can be stunning and also be quite intelligent. Further, the school athlete is not always a stand up guy with killer dimples who dates the valdedictorian (SURPRISE, I know). And, most importantly, you can't get addicted to, and subsequently ruin your life with, caffeine pills in a span of about 4 days.
This morning's episode was actually a clip show, centering around a time capsule unearthed by the class of 2003. The whole scheme is that the gang (Bayside Class of '93) buried a time capsule containing a video for the lucky class who would discover it 10 years later. I won't even get started on the sheer idiocy of doing anything on a video that you want to survive for any period of time. ANYWAY, the tape is filled with clips and the gang sharing sage advice about how they managed to stay so overwhelmingly pure while attending high school in L.A. All subjects are approached--sneaking into the girl's locker room wearing assorted disguises, dunking the principal in a dunk tank, you know, the usual--and then we get to the VERY special part of the episode where we see Jessie struggle with drug abuse. And seriously, I know Elizabeth Berkley isn't exactly known for her restrained Method acting, but shit ya'll. Homegirl LOST HER SHIT in this performance. You would think she was addicted to meth, crack, and the occasional Dirty Sanchez with the way she was acting. Zack ends up restraining her, while she screams about how she needs one of her little pills, NEEDS IT, in order to go to The Max and sing in some sort of hokey ass singing concert. And, of course, I'm sitting on my couch, clutching my oj, and remembering that when I was in high school, in order to get myself to the point where I could actively participate in something just as incredibly horrible as singing Motown tunes in front of my BFF's, I would have needed about 3 bottles of Boone's Farm and a quick trip to the back seat of my boyfriend's car. NOT SOME GODDAMN CAFFEINE PILLS THAT YOU BUY AT THE DOUBLE KWIK.
All of this just makes me think about the overwhelming insanity of whoever wrote this shit, and just how much I wish life imitated Saved by the Bell. Everyday, I work with teenagers, who, like Jessie, want nothing more than to go to Stanford and fulfill all the expectations of those around them. This morning, I found myself basically begging that caffeine pills be the extent of the lengths they would go to to achieve those goals. Sadly, I'm not naive enough to think that this would be the case. But oh! If it were. Perhaps then I could get a decent night's sleep at night, and not be forced to look at my four year old son and worry that someday I'll have to bail him out of someplace where no one sees just how absolutely angelic his eyes are when they catch the light in a certain way.
So here's to Jessie, and her caffeine pills. Here's to Stanford and singing and geometry and all of the "really hard" stuff those crazy kids had to deal with. Oh, Jessie, you do it best--cry us off...
"I'M SO EXCITED! I'M SO EXCITED!" (uncontrollable weeping into the arms of the man who will someday marry your best friend because you were the smart one, not the pretty one)
Yeah, I made that part up.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
"My good sweatpants are in the wash."
So here's the thing. I'm starting a new blog. If you know anything about me, you're rolling your eyes right now. Because, in fact, I already have a blog that I haven't updated in about two months (about that...) and another one that is connected to Myspace. But that Myspace one doesn't really count, you know, because Myspace is just the white-trash cousin to Facebook and because of this perceived level of trashiness, I don't allow myself to go to Myspace at work where my screen could be seen by my high minded co-workers. So I can't write on that blog at work. So it kinda doesn't exist. Anyway, I'm starting this new blog not because I have anything lovely or earthshattering to say, but rather because I'm bored and the A's just lost and we don't have any beer in the house and I need to write more. It's a mixture of all those things.
The idea behind this blog is a simple one: quotes. I hear a lot of funny things during the day, and I always say something akin to "If I had a quote list, I'd write that down." Because I once totally had a quote list. In college. I had this little notebook that I toted around and I would write things in it that professors spit out during lengthy lectures and things that my boyfriend (now husband) said, possibly while inebriated, and funny things that I heard in the check-out line at Ukrop's. It was all part of that heady thing you experience in college when you think everything is SOOO intellectual, so telling of the human condition. And when you actually say things like "human condition" without feeling like a total douche. Let's just say I've changed since then. I no longer derive a whole lot of meaning from the things I hear, but they do amuse me. And I want to amuse you. Somewhere out there, someone is making a Goodfellas reference after having read that, and if it is you, I want you to be my friend.
So today, my quote is from me, and it's a pretty darn good one if I do say so myself. Actually, my friend Erin said it was good earlier today, so if you don't like it, take it up with her. She's good at math--you could probably beat her up. Anyway, this morning, I dressed up. This is not such a foreign thing--I like to dress up and in fact, that other blog that I told you about is a fashion blog. I put on a new black wrap dress and some black patent high heeled Mary Jane shoes. I actually fixed my hair. It was a good day. I felt good in the dress because I'm on this diet and when I put the dress on, I could tell that the diet is working. Just a good feeling all around.
And then my daughter made her appearance in our foyer. Now, my daugther is 9 years old, and she's just the best little thing. Unless you live with her. Then she loses her luster a little. Ok, somewhere out there, someone is firing up the ole gmail to write me that mean email that puts me in my place and tells me to appreciate what I have and that some people can't have children and what have you, and to that, I sigh a big, heart-wrenching sigh and remind you that the A's lost tonight, and I'm a little tetchy, so just SAVE IT, OK? Anyway, my daughter reminds me a lot of Alex P. Keaton. She is going through a very Keaton-esque phase, I think. To start out, my daughter is just wise beyond her years. And not in that pole-dancing Kardashian tween way. Like she just knows too much about the way the world works and feels pressured by all the knowledge. Further, she has developed this quiet matter-of-factness and clear disdain for anything that my husband and I do. But it's like a passive aggressive disdain. I guess it's hard to explain, because it's really not that bad, and with the description I just gave, she should be downstairs right now, slaughtering a neighborhood cat and making a careful diagram of its bones. It's just this little way she has with her words. And if she didn't have those big ole brown eyes and freckled cheeks, that little way would really get her into some trouble.
So anyway, this morning, she takes one look at me, and goes, "You're wearing that?" And she's looking at me with those big brown eyes and wearing some shirt with a penguin on it which doesn't totally equate with the very Christian Siriano type accent on her comment. When I reply that I indeed am, she looks at my shoes, still waiting expectantly by my purse, and says something about me not looking like "the other moms" at her school. Now. I don't know where that came from. Because no one had mentioned the other moms at her school. This was not a topic of discussion. But yes, it's true that I don't look like the other mothers at her school. Why? BECAUSE I'M 20 EFFING YEARS YOUNGER. And also because I haven't developed crippling depression, a gimp leg or the desire to quit showering cold turkey.
Gabby continues to look at me in her sweet, yet stabby way, and I smile back at her. She's so much like me that it kills me sometimes. I once told my mother that she looked like a banana (and SHE DID), so comparatively, Gabby's comment is pretty innocuous. I strap on my humongo heels and try not to reveal to my daughter that I'm about to fall over as I get some applesauce and a cereal bar out of the bottom cabinet. I'm sure she notices it anyway. In fact, she touches my back lightly, as if to keep me from toppling over, as if to remind me, that between the two of us, she is probably the more responsible one, at least for the next three years or so until she hits puberty and loses her damn mind. As we leave, she says something to remind me of the previous comment, something that just restates how unlike the other mothers I am, and that I should wear something more appropriate.
And I, being rather proud of the fact that I am different and that I have sired such a complicated and fun child, reply with a "Sorry, Gab. My good sweatpants are in the wash."
Welcome to my blog.
The idea behind this blog is a simple one: quotes. I hear a lot of funny things during the day, and I always say something akin to "If I had a quote list, I'd write that down." Because I once totally had a quote list. In college. I had this little notebook that I toted around and I would write things in it that professors spit out during lengthy lectures and things that my boyfriend (now husband) said, possibly while inebriated, and funny things that I heard in the check-out line at Ukrop's. It was all part of that heady thing you experience in college when you think everything is SOOO intellectual, so telling of the human condition. And when you actually say things like "human condition" without feeling like a total douche. Let's just say I've changed since then. I no longer derive a whole lot of meaning from the things I hear, but they do amuse me. And I want to amuse you. Somewhere out there, someone is making a Goodfellas reference after having read that, and if it is you, I want you to be my friend.
So today, my quote is from me, and it's a pretty darn good one if I do say so myself. Actually, my friend Erin said it was good earlier today, so if you don't like it, take it up with her. She's good at math--you could probably beat her up. Anyway, this morning, I dressed up. This is not such a foreign thing--I like to dress up and in fact, that other blog that I told you about is a fashion blog. I put on a new black wrap dress and some black patent high heeled Mary Jane shoes. I actually fixed my hair. It was a good day. I felt good in the dress because I'm on this diet and when I put the dress on, I could tell that the diet is working. Just a good feeling all around.
And then my daughter made her appearance in our foyer. Now, my daugther is 9 years old, and she's just the best little thing. Unless you live with her. Then she loses her luster a little. Ok, somewhere out there, someone is firing up the ole gmail to write me that mean email that puts me in my place and tells me to appreciate what I have and that some people can't have children and what have you, and to that, I sigh a big, heart-wrenching sigh and remind you that the A's lost tonight, and I'm a little tetchy, so just SAVE IT, OK? Anyway, my daughter reminds me a lot of Alex P. Keaton. She is going through a very Keaton-esque phase, I think. To start out, my daughter is just wise beyond her years. And not in that pole-dancing Kardashian tween way. Like she just knows too much about the way the world works and feels pressured by all the knowledge. Further, she has developed this quiet matter-of-factness and clear disdain for anything that my husband and I do. But it's like a passive aggressive disdain. I guess it's hard to explain, because it's really not that bad, and with the description I just gave, she should be downstairs right now, slaughtering a neighborhood cat and making a careful diagram of its bones. It's just this little way she has with her words. And if she didn't have those big ole brown eyes and freckled cheeks, that little way would really get her into some trouble.
So anyway, this morning, she takes one look at me, and goes, "You're wearing that?" And she's looking at me with those big brown eyes and wearing some shirt with a penguin on it which doesn't totally equate with the very Christian Siriano type accent on her comment. When I reply that I indeed am, she looks at my shoes, still waiting expectantly by my purse, and says something about me not looking like "the other moms" at her school. Now. I don't know where that came from. Because no one had mentioned the other moms at her school. This was not a topic of discussion. But yes, it's true that I don't look like the other mothers at her school. Why? BECAUSE I'M 20 EFFING YEARS YOUNGER. And also because I haven't developed crippling depression, a gimp leg or the desire to quit showering cold turkey.
Gabby continues to look at me in her sweet, yet stabby way, and I smile back at her. She's so much like me that it kills me sometimes. I once told my mother that she looked like a banana (and SHE DID), so comparatively, Gabby's comment is pretty innocuous. I strap on my humongo heels and try not to reveal to my daughter that I'm about to fall over as I get some applesauce and a cereal bar out of the bottom cabinet. I'm sure she notices it anyway. In fact, she touches my back lightly, as if to keep me from toppling over, as if to remind me, that between the two of us, she is probably the more responsible one, at least for the next three years or so until she hits puberty and loses her damn mind. As we leave, she says something to remind me of the previous comment, something that just restates how unlike the other mothers I am, and that I should wear something more appropriate.
And I, being rather proud of the fact that I am different and that I have sired such a complicated and fun child, reply with a "Sorry, Gab. My good sweatpants are in the wash."
Welcome to my blog.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)