Wednesday, August 25, 2010


A few nights ago I decided to check on my Midget before retiring to my room for the night. I  usually don’t make it a point to peek in on her while she’s sleeping, but I couldn’t help myself – her door was open. So I quietly peered in and ended up feeding myself a heaping helping of nightmare fuel.

My daughter was half-sitting, half-laying down in her bed, adjusting her covers. She was completely asleep but her eyes were wide open and it freaked me the hell out. Now, for those of you who have never witnessed a somnambulist in action, it can be a little scary. Because those eyes that are wide open? Not only are they WIDE open, but any glimmer of hope, mischeif, or whatever it is that shines in that individual’s eyes during waking hours is completely absent.

So, here I am, watching in horror as my kid pulls her covers up while staring at the wall before she lays back down, curls up, and closes her eyes. I was so freaked out by seeing this that I asked my husband to come upstairs and watch television in our bedroom despite the fact that I would be going to sleep. Because, quite frankly, I am a giant pussy, and my over-active imagination DOES NOT HELP. I kept thinking about that scene in that dumb movie, Paranormal Activity, where the female lead gets up in the middle of the night and just stands by the bed staring at her douchebag boyfriend for like, three hours, and imagined my kid slowly schlepping into my bedroom to stare at me in much the same fashion before, I dunno…  attacking me with a hair clip or the maneki neko, or any of the other random items that sit on my nightstand.

Heavy artillery.
My husband did oblige and come upstairs, but in typical Jeremy-fashion he told me not to be a pussy and then proceeded to use the loo, and instead of walking out and settling down, he stood motionless in the doorway staring at me until I finally noticed… and then I jumped about 14 feet in the air while stringing together a chain of unintelligible obscenities that may or may not have been heard within a 60 mile radius.

Ahh, married life.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Between A Rock and A Hard Place

It’s no secret that kids can be mean. In fact, I often think about the type(s) of shit that my daughters will inevitably have to put up with as they get older  and wonder what, exactly, my role as their mother will be. I mean, obviously, I will be there to encourage them, pat them on the back and utter a well-placed, “There, there,” and all of that jazz. But what about when it comes to the other kids and their parents? This is something that I have pondered quite a lot today, as I witnessed a shocking act of nastiness that was directed at my wee one.

See, when Munchkin and I take Midget to school we usually end up sticking around for ten minutes or so for a variety of different reasons. Either I’m having an impromptu chat with one of the teachers, or Munchkin decides that she would rather run laps around the classroom than come back to the car with me, or, in this case, Midget decides to turn on some totally out of character separation anxiety that forces me to stick around longer than I have to (since getting the hell out of the classroom involves me literally prying her off of my leg while one of her teachers is all “Do you want to be my helper?” or something similar while Munchkin casually observes, or is harrassed by one or more little girls who just don’t quite know how to interact with a teeny baby -- not that Munchkin is "teeny" by any means). This morning was no different, except that Munchkin was just  hanging out no more than two feet away, waiting patiently for me and (probably) wondering why her big sister was being all weird about us having to leave.

Anyway, as I was stooped beside Midget, I couldn't help but to observe, out of the corner of my eye, a little girl that I had never seen before saunter over to Munchkin and, without a word, spit in her face. Let me type that again:

Some strange kid SPIT in my youngest daughter’s face.

I was (and still am) PISSED. However, it’s not like I could truly tell some other person's kid the things that were running through my mind in the middle of a pre-school. All I could do was sputter an insanely douchey, “HEY!!! That’s NOT NICE!” as this bratty little stranger pranced away, a look of defiance(?) in her eyes.  I hopped up and led my perplexed 22-month old over to the sink where I immediately wet a paper towel and started wiping the spit off of her face, out of her hair, and off of the arm she silently held out to me. When I was done with the whole de-sliming process  I told one of the teachers because, really… what else could I have done? If I had had my way, I would have smacked that little girl so hard that her facial structure would have been irreparably damaged. (Or at the very least dragged her ass across the room so I could make her apologize.) Some might attribute that type of statement to my poor temper; I attribute it to being fiercely protective of my loved ones – ESPECIALLY my daughters.

Of course, this is a condundrum that every parent faces at some point, yes? The issue of how to discipline someone else’s child? I mean, I’m sure that the teacher (who, ripped into the girl, BTW) will let the parents know, but I don’t know if that’s going to solve anything. True, smacking the shit out of the kid wouldn’t have solved anything either, but at least there would have been a very tangible cause-effect situation for her to hang on to for the rest of her life: if she spits on someone, she will probably get socked in the mouth. I’m just saying.

Life lessons.

As for Munchkin, she totally handled it better than I did. As I mentioned previously, she was completely perplexed; she gave me her patented “The FUCK was that about?!” look and remained completely composed, which is actually really good for her, as she is all about other people staying at arm’s length, lest they get a teeny hand to the face and/or head followed by what can only be described as a terribly shrill war cry.

Alas, it is almost time for me to return to the scene of the crime, and I can’t help but wonder if I should consider placing a polite note into the cubby of Spitter-McSpitterson, letting her parents know that she’s an asshole, or if I should just leave well enough alone.

Or… If I should tell Midget, who shares a class with this mean little brat, if she should just so happen to stick out a large, Midget foot the next time the offender walks by her. (Then again, there is a very real possibility that Midget has already taken action, as I have seen her tell classmates to “be NICE to my SISTARRRHHH!!”)

(It should also be noted that I’m not condoning violence in any way. If you are reading this, please note that I never said that smacking the kid would be okay. Did it run through my mind? Of course, but it’s something I would never do. Because I try to keep it civilized.)

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Car Song

There are few things that can ruin my day quicker and more effectively than a run-in with a bad driver. Now, before I say anything more, let’s get one thing straight: I am not the best driver in the world by any means nor do I profess to be. Hell, I even struck a parked car last month in an ill-fated attempt to procure the always elusive “rockstar” parking space. However, I do spend somewhere around 20 hours a week on the road, and that means that (unfortunately) I am privy to a ridiculous amount of bizarre driving faux pas that either send me into a blind rage or leave me completely baffled.

I think one of the more prolific driving anomalies I have witnessed since moving to the Pacific Northwest is also the dumbest: running red lights. I don’t understand why somebody would do something so stupid, and yet, I see it ALL THE TIME. I mean, okay, you’re in a hurry; you need to get to Fred Meyer for some new socks stat. I get that. What I don’t get is why you find the need to disregard the law in an attempt to procure said socks, and possibly get somebody killed.

 "What the FUCK!?!?!"

Speaking of getting killed, my patience dies a little bit each time some asshole in a giant SUV decides to tailgate the living shit out of me and every other car on the road. Are socks on sale at Fred Meyer? Is that why you desperately need me to speed up – so you can beat the ass that just ran a red light to the apparel section and nab the last six pack of ankle-cut Hanes? Also worth mentioning is that if you tailgate me, I will intentionally slow down to a crawl. Especially if I am driving along a multi-lane road and you have more than enough time and space to pass me. However, I will not slow my speed down to a gut-wrenching crawl for no apparent reason other than to fuck up your shit, which is something else that I see way too much of around here. Some jerk will get into the carpool lane on the highway and go ten to fifteen miles under the speed limit, thus negating the entire purpose of myself and my family being in that lane: to beat the fucking traffic that is tying up every other lane on the road. Oh, and let me put a special emphasis on MYSELF AND MY FAMILY. If you’re the only passenger, then get the fuck out of the carpool lane.

Another bizarre auto maneuver that I witness daily: the people who feel the need to speed up or slow down when you try to get into their lane. If you’re one of those people, you’re a dick. The rightmost lane on the 101 does not belong to you, and I need to be in it so that I don’t miss my goddamn exit. Like… what is the logic associated with such a move anyway? Why would you want to keep somebody from going where they need to go? Just get a life and let me over already.

So, to all you red-light-running, tailgating, right-of-way-disregarding-assholes-who-won’t-let-me-off-on-Exit-26-so-I-can-go-home:

Karma is going to pwn the SHIT out of you when some other dildo runs a red light and slams right into your stupid SUV.