D. is gone for about eleven hours a day. Sometimes twelve or thirteen, but mostly eleven. He doesn't travel all that much anymore. He used to be gone for two or three days every week, sometimes more. But now it averages less than two days a month. Things are better than they used to be.
Dinnertime tonight was the same as last night, but shittier because I made Peanut cry. He sits next to me at the table and he has a chewing problem. The problem being that he shovels food in like he hasn't eaten all day and then chews with his mouth open. And he sits next to me. He's hungry. I understand. We eat dinner too late. The boys are starving by five o'clock and I really should feed them then. But that means I make dinner twice, or D. has to reheat a meal and eat alone every night. Neither situation seems like a winner to me. So, Peanut is starving by dinnertime. And he shovels food in. And chews with his mouth open. It makes me crazy, and tonight I yelled. I yelled. He cried. I am totally fucking this up.
Last night, D. and I talked about career. He offered praise and encouragement for the marketing work I'm doing. Told me I don't need the acknowledgement of being hired for a full-time job. That along with a steady paycheck and someone to tell you "nice work," being employed by someone else also comes with its downside (see first paragraph). Reminded me that self-employment is where it's at because I can set my own hours and take vacation when I want and do the work that I WANT to do and still pick the kids up from school every day. And I cried. Because picking the boys up from school every day and being alone with them for four to seven hours is exhausting. I love the crap out of them, but they're exhausting and I am tired. I'm tired of cleaning the same messes over and over, and wiping poopy butts, and not sleeping through the night even though my youngest child is almost three. And I'm tired of yelling.
I walk around the house whispering to myself, "it could be worse....it could be worse....it could be worse...." It could be worse. So much worse. Everyone's healthy. We have enough, everything. Food, clothing, shelter, wine. We have enough. D. is employed, I have awesome clients, we have a CABIN for pete's sake. A cabin. I have friends, both online and in real life. I even had a friend this week who just stopped by for margaritas. That never happens anymore, and it was so nice. D. and I have gone through some rough shit in the last year and a half, but I think we've come out better for it. We talk more. We COMMUNICATE more (though it's still a work in progress). He's a much more involved father. And frankly, less of a dick. I like him so much more when he's not a dick. We have so much to be thankful for. I have so much to be thankful for. And I am, I swear.
But this day-to-day? It's wearing me out. Things are better than they used to be. I'm just still so tired.
Showing posts with label Shit I actually wrote instead of just transcribing what my kid said. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shit I actually wrote instead of just transcribing what my kid said. Show all posts
4.08.2011
4.06.2011
Haitians totally need Shrinky Dinks
True story: my therapist yawned today. It was somewhere in between telling her about my kid's totally normal, average, uneventful birthday party and talking about how I STILL don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Okay, maybe it wasn't so much a yawn as a barely audible sigh, but I could tell I am boring the shit out of her and she's only still seeing me because I look like a dollar sign. And I'm only still going because I'm not assertive enough to tell her that I probably don't need to see her anymore (And if she's reading my blog, "Hi!" also, we should probably revisit my "fear of confrontation" issues). Before going this morning, I asked friends on Skype to make up something for me to talk about because I am fresh out of material. The best anyone could come up with was to tell her that I eat toilet paper (thanks ANGIE, glad you guys are so creative). Aside from a general malaise brought on by six months of shit weather and raising three sons that make me want to eat Xanax like Altoids, I'm freakishly normal from a mental health perspective. But that sigh? That hurts. Because therapy? It's like a cocktail party. I am there to entertain. And eat all the pigs-in-a-blanket.
When she sighed, I knew it was time to up my game. Haul out the big-guns. Really blow her away with the depth of my insanity. So, I blurted out, "Last week I paid $10 for Shrinky Dinks. For Haiti."
Have I mentioned that I am shit under pressure?
"You bought Shrinky Dinks? For Haiti?" She wanted to kill herself right then and there. I could tell. But when I commit to something, I see it through. So I spent thirty minutes telling my therapist about my hatred of the local Home School Association. That's the PTA, by the way. But here they call it the HSA. Because it's apparently classier to use a name that makes NO FUCKING SENSE.
I hate the HSA for multiple reasons including their fund-raiser abuse, their ridiculous committees, the expectation that every woman in town should want to put in 40 hours a week on meaningless projects for NO PAY, and the fact that it's a small-town social power play in the guise of "helping our over-privileged children." I hate them because they use the meetings as an opportunity to make other women cry. I hate them because last year at ONE SCHOOL (there are four in the district) they raised $110,000 through fund-raisers, of which the school got to keep $30,000. The rest went to pay for the shitty chocolates and over-priced wrapping paper they made our kids pimp out. I hate them because they're too crappy at math to realize that if each family sent in a check for $100/year they could do away with these stupid-ass fundraisers. I hate them because since I got home from therapy, I've gotten three e-mails asking for money via new fundraisers. (Except the one about the fundraiser at a bar. I can get behind that). But mostly I hate them because they made me buy Shrinky Dinks. For Haiti.
My therapist might as well kill herself. Or drink before our sessions. Because I am going to ride this HSA crazy train for weeks.
How about you? Is your PTA an objectives focused organization? Or a social clique machine? And does anyone else have one called the HSA? What does that even mean?
3.21.2011
P-Eu Strikes again
I have this "friend." She is European. That probably has nothing to do with anything, but people have tried to assure me that she's not really rude, she's just "European" and somehow therefore has different standards for what makes one an asshole.
I've written about my friend, the Pushy-European (P-Eu) before. We have an almost three year history of her putting me in uncomfortable situations that violate my boundaries. I even succeeded in passive-aggressively breaking up with her shortly after Henny was born.
But, we live in a small town. And Peanut likes P-Eu Jr. And I had a shitty, shitty, really rough patch in my life last year which resulted in huge amounts of anxiety, introspection, and some major life changes. It's an ongoing process, that will hopefully result in me being better as a person and us being better as a family.
Somehow, somewhere in the midst of the super vulnerable time that was last year, P-Eu reappeared. And I let her. Because I was not in a place to turn down anyone's gesture of friendship. And because Peanut likes her son.
They've played a few times. Not as often as P-Eu would like, but at a level of frequency with which I feel comfortable. Having not seen each other for a few months, a playdate was planned for today. Peanut was invited to P-Eu's house after school. I agreed. Peanut was excited.
As we pulled up in the driveway, Mr. P-Eu emerged from the front door to greet his children. Who were at that very moment arriving home from school. With their teen male babysitter whom I have never met or heard of before. As Peanut scurried into the house to play with his friend, I asked Mr. P-Eu if I should call P-Eu in 30 minutes or so to see how the playdate was going. Mr. P-Eu told me not to bother, as P-Eu wouldn't be home and he, himself, would be in the attic working. But not to worry, because the babysitter was there. The teen male babysitter whom I had never met or heard of before, and whom nobody had informed me in advance would be watching my child. Have I mentioned that I absolutely do not allow male babysitters because someone I care for had a horrible childhood experience with a teen male babysitter?
I sat in my car for a few minutes, trying to figure out a polite way to say "Oh, Hell no, Mr. P-Eu!" I tried calling D. to see if I was overreacting. I started to drive away, trying to convince myself that it was fine, not wanting to disappoint my son who was already in the midst of playing with his friend. About 30 seconds away from P-Eu's house, feeling pissed off and vomity, my mom called.
I told her the situation. She said, "Oh Hell no. You go back and get him right now." And I did.
When I got there, Peanut and P-Eu Jr. were on the second floor, hanging out P-Eu Jr.'s open, screenless bedroom window. I'm glad I went back. I have to break up with P-Eu once and for all. And I need to learn to trust my instincts at all times. And to make my boundaries clear and insist that everyone in my life honors them.
For (once again) reminding me of those things, I am grateful to P-Eu.
I'm still totally breaking up with her.
I've written about my friend, the Pushy-European (P-Eu) before. We have an almost three year history of her putting me in uncomfortable situations that violate my boundaries. I even succeeded in passive-aggressively breaking up with her shortly after Henny was born.
But, we live in a small town. And Peanut likes P-Eu Jr. And I had a shitty, shitty, really rough patch in my life last year which resulted in huge amounts of anxiety, introspection, and some major life changes. It's an ongoing process, that will hopefully result in me being better as a person and us being better as a family.
Somehow, somewhere in the midst of the super vulnerable time that was last year, P-Eu reappeared. And I let her. Because I was not in a place to turn down anyone's gesture of friendship. And because Peanut likes her son.
They've played a few times. Not as often as P-Eu would like, but at a level of frequency with which I feel comfortable. Having not seen each other for a few months, a playdate was planned for today. Peanut was invited to P-Eu's house after school. I agreed. Peanut was excited.
As we pulled up in the driveway, Mr. P-Eu emerged from the front door to greet his children. Who were at that very moment arriving home from school. With their teen male babysitter whom I have never met or heard of before. As Peanut scurried into the house to play with his friend, I asked Mr. P-Eu if I should call P-Eu in 30 minutes or so to see how the playdate was going. Mr. P-Eu told me not to bother, as P-Eu wouldn't be home and he, himself, would be in the attic working. But not to worry, because the babysitter was there. The teen male babysitter whom I had never met or heard of before, and whom nobody had informed me in advance would be watching my child. Have I mentioned that I absolutely do not allow male babysitters because someone I care for had a horrible childhood experience with a teen male babysitter?
I sat in my car for a few minutes, trying to figure out a polite way to say "Oh, Hell no, Mr. P-Eu!" I tried calling D. to see if I was overreacting. I started to drive away, trying to convince myself that it was fine, not wanting to disappoint my son who was already in the midst of playing with his friend. About 30 seconds away from P-Eu's house, feeling pissed off and vomity, my mom called.
I told her the situation. She said, "Oh Hell no. You go back and get him right now." And I did.
When I got there, Peanut and P-Eu Jr. were on the second floor, hanging out P-Eu Jr.'s open, screenless bedroom window. I'm glad I went back. I have to break up with P-Eu once and for all. And I need to learn to trust my instincts at all times. And to make my boundaries clear and insist that everyone in my life honors them.
For (once again) reminding me of those things, I am grateful to P-Eu.
I'm still totally breaking up with her.
9.10.2010
I have homework? That's bullshit!
First week of school. The boys' homework consisted of bringing home a massive, crap-ton of forms for me to fill out and sign in duplicate. The same damn forms I filled out and signed last year. The same damn forms I filled out online so I wouldn't have to fill out the paper version. Which, apparently, I had to do anyway. Schools need to cut some budget? Here's an idea. Stop with the damn forms already! But, as per usual, I digress....
In addition to all of the forms, one of Moon's teachers sent home an actual homework assignment for us to do. A freaking essay. I kid you not. The assignment was to tell him about our kid in "A Million Words or Less." I was tempted to just send him my url and say "have at it," but I didn't want to get called in to the principal's office. So, here's my essay. Moon, in far, far less than a million words.
In addition to all of the forms, one of Moon's teachers sent home an actual homework assignment for us to do. A freaking essay. I kid you not. The assignment was to tell him about our kid in "A Million Words or Less." I was tempted to just send him my url and say "have at it," but I didn't want to get called in to the principal's office. So, here's my essay. Moon, in far, far less than a million words.
Our son, Moon, needs a haircut. He has this crazy, curly, wholly unkempt set of locks that makes his already oversized head look six inches larger in diameter than it actually is. I’ve been insisting on a haircut for well over a month now; each mention met with a shrug of the shoulders and an utterance of, “but I don’t want a haircut.” It seems Moon likes his hair long. And curly. And crazy. Short, tidy hair isn’t cool. It doesn’t fit with Moon’s idea of who he is. And at age 11, Moon is all about figuring out who he is.
Until recently, Moon was happy to just be our kid. The one that we made and shaped. He was fine with believing whatever we believed. Thinking what we thought. Liking what we liked. Just going with the flow. Now, he’s happy to go with the flow, so long as the flow doesn’t get in the way of any of the super-cool stuff he wants to do with his super-cool friends. If he were awake, he’d be rolling his eyes at us right now. We are SO not cool.
The way we tell it, Moon is wicked smart, incredibly handsome, funny, completely disorganized, a little cautious (and thank goodness for that, because his brothers are totally bananas), prone to anxiety, mature beyond his years, and occasionally mouthy. At his core, Moon is a sweet, gentle, kind soul. He doesn’t pick fights, he doesn’t play rough, he doesn’t want to hurt anyone.
But, if you were to ask Moon who he is, he might paint a little different picture. He would tell you that he’s an awesome gamer, a real life guitar-hero, and he can p3wn you on the basketball court. He might also tell you, “oh snap, you got served.” Even though you probably didn’t get served. He seems to have a little trouble with the proper context for “servage.”
Moon has been having a massive growth spurt lately. Needing new shoes every month. Wearing jeans that are three sizes too big in the waist, just so they’ll be long enough to touch his ankles. There are a lot of complaints of growing pains. Sore legs. Sore knees. Sore feet. What we all need to remember is that the growing pains aren’t just physical. Every roll of the eyes, every sigh of exasperation, every utterance of, “but, you don’t understand,” is just another form of growing pain. A little bump in the road on Moon’s journey through adolescence. If we don’t mess up too badly, he’ll come to the other side of that journey a thoughtful, warm-hearted, intelligent adult. And hopefully, somewhere along that road, he’ll stop off at the barber shop for a haircut.
Until recently, Moon was happy to just be our kid. The one that we made and shaped. He was fine with believing whatever we believed. Thinking what we thought. Liking what we liked. Just going with the flow. Now, he’s happy to go with the flow, so long as the flow doesn’t get in the way of any of the super-cool stuff he wants to do with his super-cool friends. If he were awake, he’d be rolling his eyes at us right now. We are SO not cool.
The way we tell it, Moon is wicked smart, incredibly handsome, funny, completely disorganized, a little cautious (and thank goodness for that, because his brothers are totally bananas), prone to anxiety, mature beyond his years, and occasionally mouthy. At his core, Moon is a sweet, gentle, kind soul. He doesn’t pick fights, he doesn’t play rough, he doesn’t want to hurt anyone.
But, if you were to ask Moon who he is, he might paint a little different picture. He would tell you that he’s an awesome gamer, a real life guitar-hero, and he can p3wn you on the basketball court. He might also tell you, “oh snap, you got served.” Even though you probably didn’t get served. He seems to have a little trouble with the proper context for “servage.”
Moon has been having a massive growth spurt lately. Needing new shoes every month. Wearing jeans that are three sizes too big in the waist, just so they’ll be long enough to touch his ankles. There are a lot of complaints of growing pains. Sore legs. Sore knees. Sore feet. What we all need to remember is that the growing pains aren’t just physical. Every roll of the eyes, every sigh of exasperation, every utterance of, “but, you don’t understand,” is just another form of growing pain. A little bump in the road on Moon’s journey through adolescence. If we don’t mess up too badly, he’ll come to the other side of that journey a thoughtful, warm-hearted, intelligent adult. And hopefully, somewhere along that road, he’ll stop off at the barber shop for a haircut.
4.07.2010
What? This is totally appropriate for a trip to the playground
I am 5'4" tall and have been since the fifth grade.
When I was a Freshman in high school, I weighed 96 lbs and wore a size 8.
When I met my husband, I weighed 143 lbs and still wore a size 8.
I chalk it up to ass and titties.
At 143 lbs., my body was boomin'. I used to have these black pleather pants that I wore out to every party. They were double awesome because guys thought I looked super hot and wanted to hook up with me, and because they didn't breathe at all, my super sweaty crotch guaranteed I wouldn't let anyone go past second base. Total virgin-whore dichotomy. Dudes love that.
Of course, I thought I was fat.
My college roommate and I used to call ourselves the "porky girls."
In an attempt to develop an eating disorder, I learned how to make myself puke, and was disappointed when I couldn't stick to it. I was a total asshole to myself.
I dated this guy who was a foot taller than me. Once, I made a comment about him being such a big guy and me being such a small girl. His response, after looking me up and down, was, "Huh. You are not all that small." We broke up because he got crabs (not from me). Karma, bitch.
With my first pregnancy I gained 60 lbs. I took my regular, pre-pregnancy jeans to the hospital because I thought I'd be wearing them home. My mother, in her infinite wisdom, brought me a size 18 jeans because she thought I'd be wearing THEM home. We were both wrong. The 18's were too small.
I did lose most of the weight and got down to a size 14, which I maintained with very little variation up until about four months ago.
Thanks to stress and adrenaline making it necessary for me to work out in order to function with some sort of normalcy, the weight has started coming off. I bought myself some size 12 pants and donated all of the 14's to charity. Last month, I was trying on clothes and the sales clerk insisted I should try on a 10 because the 12's weren't fitting right. Not only did the size 10's work, they looked great.
Today, on a lark, I decided it would be funny to dig some of my pre-pregnancy clothes out of the dark recesses of the attic. This shit hasn't seen the light of day in ten years. For the most part, they're totally dated, not my style anymore, and honestly, not even nice clothes. I don't know why I'm still hanging on to them.
What I do know is that I don't care if it's 85 degrees outside today. My ass still looks hot in pleather.
When I was a Freshman in high school, I weighed 96 lbs and wore a size 8.
When I met my husband, I weighed 143 lbs and still wore a size 8.
I chalk it up to ass and titties.
At 143 lbs., my body was boomin'. I used to have these black pleather pants that I wore out to every party. They were double awesome because guys thought I looked super hot and wanted to hook up with me, and because they didn't breathe at all, my super sweaty crotch guaranteed I wouldn't let anyone go past second base. Total virgin-whore dichotomy. Dudes love that.
Of course, I thought I was fat.
My college roommate and I used to call ourselves the "porky girls."
In an attempt to develop an eating disorder, I learned how to make myself puke, and was disappointed when I couldn't stick to it. I was a total asshole to myself.
I dated this guy who was a foot taller than me. Once, I made a comment about him being such a big guy and me being such a small girl. His response, after looking me up and down, was, "Huh. You are not all that small." We broke up because he got crabs (not from me). Karma, bitch.
With my first pregnancy I gained 60 lbs. I took my regular, pre-pregnancy jeans to the hospital because I thought I'd be wearing them home. My mother, in her infinite wisdom, brought me a size 18 jeans because she thought I'd be wearing THEM home. We were both wrong. The 18's were too small.
I did lose most of the weight and got down to a size 14, which I maintained with very little variation up until about four months ago.
Thanks to stress and adrenaline making it necessary for me to work out in order to function with some sort of normalcy, the weight has started coming off. I bought myself some size 12 pants and donated all of the 14's to charity. Last month, I was trying on clothes and the sales clerk insisted I should try on a 10 because the 12's weren't fitting right. Not only did the size 10's work, they looked great.
Today, on a lark, I decided it would be funny to dig some of my pre-pregnancy clothes out of the dark recesses of the attic. This shit hasn't seen the light of day in ten years. For the most part, they're totally dated, not my style anymore, and honestly, not even nice clothes. I don't know why I'm still hanging on to them.
What I do know is that I don't care if it's 85 degrees outside today. My ass still looks hot in pleather.
2.11.2010
And I'd like to thank Mother Nature for kicking me in the taint while I'm down
So, as I mentioned previously, things have been a little shitty (a lot shitty) for me lately. And I hate to sound like I'm having a huge pity party (I AM having a huge pity party), because I know I'm fortunate in a lot of ways. My kids are healthy, we have a roof over our heads, the bills are all paid, etc... But I have clearly done something to piss off the universe (Ahem, sorry god for peeing in all those church parking lots, but it's basically your fault for giving me a tiny bladder and not putting enough public toilets in locations that would allow me to not pee my pants on the way home from the bar, but I figure I should apologize just to cover my bases in case this is all just a case of bad pee karma).
So, anyway, you know how when things are bad, you always think, "well, at least things couldn't get any worse," but then they always do? Yeah. That. So, things got fucked up, and I wanted to think they couldn't get any worse, but I had a strong suspicion that they would. And they did. And then they did again. And then they got even worse. So, I pretty much figured THAT had to be rock bottom. And it basically was. Until Mother Nature decided to get involved. Specifically, in the midst of my anguish & grief, I discovered that the bearded clam is turning into a silver fox (for those of you who aren't big on euphemisms, I FOUND GRAY PUBES!!!!). Motherfuck. Seriously? As if I'm not feeling shitty enough, I need to have it pointed out that my vagina is getting old? Thanks, Mother Nature. Thanks a lot.
So, anyway, you know how when things are bad, you always think, "well, at least things couldn't get any worse," but then they always do? Yeah. That. So, things got fucked up, and I wanted to think they couldn't get any worse, but I had a strong suspicion that they would. And they did. And then they did again. And then they got even worse. So, I pretty much figured THAT had to be rock bottom. And it basically was. Until Mother Nature decided to get involved. Specifically, in the midst of my anguish & grief, I discovered that the bearded clam is turning into a silver fox (for those of you who aren't big on euphemisms, I FOUND GRAY PUBES!!!!). Motherfuck. Seriously? As if I'm not feeling shitty enough, I need to have it pointed out that my vagina is getting old? Thanks, Mother Nature. Thanks a lot.
2.02.2010
My uterus is a filthy whore
I'm about to talk, in graphic terms, about my period. So you might want to stop reading right now. Unless you're into that sort of thing, in which case, read on (and also, eww).
So, the last two months of my life have been fucked up. I don't mean "my car broke down and I got a bad haircut" fucked up. I don't even mean, "I found out my uncle Kevin is a transvestite hooker," fucked up. I mean FUCKED UP. Alien-abduction-with-anal-probes fucked up. Beyond-Dr.-Phil-and-probably-too-fucked-up-for-Jerry-Springer fucked up. F-U-C-K-E-D-U-P. I have been through some crummy shit in my life (haven't we all?), and am a super tough cookie as a result, but the last two months have nearly broken me. It's been that fucked up.
I'm down 20 lbs. from living in a near-constant state of adrenaline (yeah! skinny jeans), my vintage business and blogs are in the crapper because I can't focus on any one thing (other than how fucked up my life is....I can focus on every aspect of that ad nauseum) for more than 30 seconds in a row, and I suspect The Baby has set up a meth lab in the basement, taking advantage of my distracted state to pad his college fund with ill gotten gains (and really, thank God one of them realizes they can't ride this gravy train forever).
To summarize, my life is fucked up and my kid is cooking up Nyquil to sell to all the baby crackheads at playgroup.
Which brings me to the dirty slut that is my uterus. Because my body is super-sensitive to hormone fluctuations, I don't have my period AT ALL while I'm breastfeeding. Between 18 months of nursing and a 9 month pregnancy, the crimson tide hadn't made an appearance in over two years. Until my life hit the skids. Then, suddenly I find myself doubled over with cramps and bleeding like an East-Coast-Thug-in-the-middle-of-a-bi-coastal-rap-rivalry (sorry, Notorious was on HBO last night) from my girly parts.
As if moodiness, cramps, and raging adult acne weren't bad enough, the real insult came about 14 days later when I FUCKING OVULATED. I mean, getting my period sucked, but I totally forgot the basic rules of biology which dictate that a menstruating woman at the peak of her child bearing years is fucking FERTILE. Are you kidding me, uterus? I mean, seriously? You really think, at this point in my life, it would be a great time to GROW A PERSON? Sonofabitch.
In practical terms, it's not really an issue so much as an annoyance, as D. had a vasectomy (*ahem* D. jerk off in a cup and take it to your ball doctor's office to confirm the vasectomy actually worked because apparently I'm fertile again and I totally don't want to have *another* accidental pregnancy because I can't handle any more kids and as a 32 year old married woman I don't want to have to get a schmushmorshion *ahem*). However, based on our conception history, I think it's possible for me to get pregnant just by being in the same room as D. In Trekkie terms, my uterus is a Klingon Destroyer, and sperm are the Starship Enterprise caught in a biological tractor beam. (Heh. Klingons. Uranus. Heh.) Wait, what was my point again?
Oh yeah. My life is fucked up. My uterus is a filthy whore. And D. needs to deliver a cup of spunk to the ball doctor. Get jerkin'.
So, the last two months of my life have been fucked up. I don't mean "my car broke down and I got a bad haircut" fucked up. I don't even mean, "I found out my uncle Kevin is a transvestite hooker," fucked up. I mean FUCKED UP. Alien-abduction-with-anal-probes fucked up. Beyond-Dr.-Phil-and-probably-too-fucked-up-for-Jerry-Springer fucked up. F-U-C-K-E-D-U-P. I have been through some crummy shit in my life (haven't we all?), and am a super tough cookie as a result, but the last two months have nearly broken me. It's been that fucked up.
I'm down 20 lbs. from living in a near-constant state of adrenaline (yeah! skinny jeans), my vintage business and blogs are in the crapper because I can't focus on any one thing (other than how fucked up my life is....I can focus on every aspect of that ad nauseum) for more than 30 seconds in a row, and I suspect The Baby has set up a meth lab in the basement, taking advantage of my distracted state to pad his college fund with ill gotten gains (and really, thank God one of them realizes they can't ride this gravy train forever).
To summarize, my life is fucked up and my kid is cooking up Nyquil to sell to all the baby crackheads at playgroup.
Which brings me to the dirty slut that is my uterus. Because my body is super-sensitive to hormone fluctuations, I don't have my period AT ALL while I'm breastfeeding. Between 18 months of nursing and a 9 month pregnancy, the crimson tide hadn't made an appearance in over two years. Until my life hit the skids. Then, suddenly I find myself doubled over with cramps and bleeding like an East-Coast-Thug-in-the-middle-of-a-bi-coastal-rap-rivalry (sorry, Notorious was on HBO last night) from my girly parts.
As if moodiness, cramps, and raging adult acne weren't bad enough, the real insult came about 14 days later when I FUCKING OVULATED. I mean, getting my period sucked, but I totally forgot the basic rules of biology which dictate that a menstruating woman at the peak of her child bearing years is fucking FERTILE. Are you kidding me, uterus? I mean, seriously? You really think, at this point in my life, it would be a great time to GROW A PERSON? Sonofabitch.
In practical terms, it's not really an issue so much as an annoyance, as D. had a vasectomy (*ahem* D. jerk off in a cup and take it to your ball doctor's office to confirm the vasectomy actually worked because apparently I'm fertile again and I totally don't want to have *another* accidental pregnancy because I can't handle any more kids and as a 32 year old married woman I don't want to have to get a schmushmorshion *ahem*). However, based on our conception history, I think it's possible for me to get pregnant just by being in the same room as D. In Trekkie terms, my uterus is a Klingon Destroyer, and sperm are the Starship Enterprise caught in a biological tractor beam. (Heh. Klingons. Uranus. Heh.) Wait, what was my point again?
Oh yeah. My life is fucked up. My uterus is a filthy whore. And D. needs to deliver a cup of spunk to the ball doctor. Get jerkin'.
10.09.2009
5.12.2009
Yeah, I'll probably tell her bad shit about you, too
I had my first counseling appointment today. Not because I wanted to, but because it was suggested by my midwife (i.e. she threatened to cut off my drugs unless I agreed to talk to a counselor....some crap about how post-partum depression can't be treated with medication alone...blah, blah, blah). Since I have another 17 years before my sons are grown, and Zoloft is cheaper than vodka, I went to the damn counselor.
When my mom found out about my appointment, she asked:
1: How'd it go?
2: What did you talk about?
What she really meant was:
1: You didn't talk about me, right?
2: What kind of crap did you tell her about me?
In fact, I believe my entire family is leary of me talking to a counselor for that very same reason. Nobody wants to eventually find out it's their fault that I'm bat-shit crazy. Or worse, find out that I'm perfectly sane and they're actually bat-shit crazy.
The reality is, I have a pretty good handle on what my "issues" are, and I'm only going to counseling because I want the drugs. Unfortunately, I have to come up with something to talk about while I'm there, which means everyone in my life is fair game. I have a few things in mind to discuss. Feel free to check for your name in the list below:
The Baby: Nipple biting, um, ow! And what's up with wanting your diapers changed all the time? It's like you don't know how to use the toilet or something.
Peanut: Booger wall. Poopy towels. Anus, anus, anus. You're a counseling goldmine.
Moon: Meh. You're cool ever since you quit humping the floor.
D: Oh, you know exactly what you did....
Mom: Three words...Make Your Ownie
I'm a little worried that my list isn't going to last very long, and I'll have to start making things up in order to avoid being "cured." If you have any stories of fucked up psychological issues that you wouldn't mind having co-opted for the sake of maintaining my drug habit, feel free to leave them in Comments.
When my mom found out about my appointment, she asked:
1: How'd it go?
2: What did you talk about?
What she really meant was:
1: You didn't talk about me, right?
2: What kind of crap did you tell her about me?
In fact, I believe my entire family is leary of me talking to a counselor for that very same reason. Nobody wants to eventually find out it's their fault that I'm bat-shit crazy. Or worse, find out that I'm perfectly sane and they're actually bat-shit crazy.
The reality is, I have a pretty good handle on what my "issues" are, and I'm only going to counseling because I want the drugs. Unfortunately, I have to come up with something to talk about while I'm there, which means everyone in my life is fair game. I have a few things in mind to discuss. Feel free to check for your name in the list below:
The Baby: Nipple biting, um, ow! And what's up with wanting your diapers changed all the time? It's like you don't know how to use the toilet or something.
Peanut: Booger wall. Poopy towels. Anus, anus, anus. You're a counseling goldmine.
Moon: Meh. You're cool ever since you quit humping the floor.
D: Oh, you know exactly what you did....
Mom: Three words...Make Your Ownie
I'm a little worried that my list isn't going to last very long, and I'll have to start making things up in order to avoid being "cured." If you have any stories of fucked up psychological issues that you wouldn't mind having co-opted for the sake of maintaining my drug habit, feel free to leave them in Comments.
3.26.2009
I never knew Jesus was into S & M
By the third time we crossed paths in the Shoprite, I was convinced she was checking me out. She tried a few times to make eye contact and even gave a little smile. She had a son, too, but he was a few years older than mine. Probably home sick from school. In the canned vegetable aisle, she confirmed my suspicions by walking over and introducing herself.
"Hello. My name is Stephanie."
"Hi, Stephanie," I said, shaking her hand, "nice to meet you."
Grocery store dating is nothing new to me. From our earliest days together, when Moon was an infant and D. and I lived in a one bedroom apartment in Novi, I would check out other moms at the supermarket.
"D." I would come home excited, "I saw another mom in the produce section! She was young and she had a little boy that was probably the same age as Moon. I think she wanted to be my best friend." D. would always laugh at me for trying to pick up new chicks while shopping. But being a stay-at-home mom can make finding friends a seriously difficult task. When you're in school, you hang out with your classmates. If you work, you pal around with co-workers. When you're a mom, your adult interactions are primarily with doctors, dentists & teachers. Not exactly BFF material. Though it's been over ten years since D. and I moved in together, I still haven't given up hope that I'll make a friend at the grocery store. So, when Stephanie pulled her cart up next to mine, I was ready to buy whatever she was selling.
"I belong to a Mom's group that happens to be getting together tomorrow," she began her pitch. "It's for moms of pre-schoolers, and if you'd be interested in attending we'd love to have you."
I had intended to join some sort of mom's group since moving to New Jersey, so I pulled out my iPhone, took down the info, and made plans to go. When I told D. about the group, he was concerned that it might be a recruiting effort for the church that hosts the meetings.
"It's a national group," I reassured him. "It's not a churchy thing. They just use the church meeting space. It says right on the website that it's for people of any denomination as well as for people who are not religious at all." I was just excited to meet a nice group of women who were in the same boat as me, and I was promised free brunch.
When I arrived the next morning, the brunch did not disappoint. Oven-baked french toast, brownies, and eggy casseroles crowded a room-length table. Childcare was offered, but not mandatory, and toddlers of various ages criss-crossed the room. I was immediately welcomed by several other women, and conversation was easy. I learned that the topic for this meeting was "discipline" and that there would be a panel offering advice on various parenting methods.
"Awesome," I thought. "I can always use other ideas to help with discipline." The talk began with a prayer. Praying isn't really my bag, but I wanted to be respectful so I popped a chunk of french toast (yum) into my mouth and bowed my head. When the panel was introduced, the two primary speakers turned out to be a couple who handled the youth ministry for the church and were about to have their fifth child.
"Well, I grew up in a house where spanking was the discipline method," the wife began. "So, when it came to disciplining my children, it was just natural for me." This was the part where I expected her to keep going and say, "to find other, more creative ways to teach my children." Instead, she handed the microphone to her husband who added, "Yeah, we start from a really young age with just like, you know, flicking them on the inner thigh when we want them to behave. And then, as they get older, we, well, we believe that spanking is what the Lord created the bottom for."
I looked around the room, truly expecting that the other moms in the room would be as horrified as I was. Instead, I found that most were listening intently and nodding their heads.
The husband continued, "We do not, however, believe in hitting the children with our hands. When I was in seminary, one of my teachers told me that if you hit a child with your hand, they can start to associate you with pain. So he suggested that you always use something else to spank them. We want our children to love and trust us, so we never hit them with our hands."
At several tables, womens' hands shot up in the air with questions. Relief flooded over me. Surely, this was the part where someone would protest that spanking is not ever a legitimate or useful discipline method. Someone would point out that study after study after study has shown that spanking is detrimental to children and should never be used for discipline.
When the first woman was called on, she asked, "What do you do if you're out in public and your children misbehave? You don't spank them in public, do you?"
"No, no," the husband replied. "That is the sort of situation where you have to get creative."
"Like, time-outs, or removal from the situation, or a distraction to diffuse the bad behavior?" I wondered.
"For example," he continued, "when my wife is at the grocery store, and one of the kids starts to act up, she's really good at this," he beamed at his wife, "and I'm sure some of you do this, too. What she does is, she pinches them. And then she continues pinching them while she whispers in their ear. It's very effective."
The moderator called on another woman with a question. "You mentioned that you never use your hands to spank. So, I'm just wondering, I mean, I grew up being paddled with a wooden spoon, so, what do you use to spank them?"
The panelists laughed. "Yes, kitchen utensils." The husband nodded. "We use a spatula."
"So, how did it go?" D. asked when I walked in the door afterwards. "Did they try to recruit you to come to their church?"
"A little bit" I responded. "They also told me I should hit the kids with kitchen utensils."
"What?" He laughed.
Later that afternoon, Peanut and Moon were fighting and behaving horribly. "Both of you, two minutes, nose on the wall," I barked. Peanut immediately put his nose against the wall, wanting his two minutes to be over quickly. Moon, however, continued to argue. "That's it. Get me a spatula."
"What, why?" Moon's eyes grew wide.
"Because I'm going to hit you."
"Yeah, right," Moon went to the drawer and got a spatula just to see what this was all about.
"Now, pull down your pants" I was stern.
"No. You're not really going to hit me with a spatula."
"Yes, I am. That's what they told me to do at church today. Now pull down your pants."
Nose still stuck to the wall, Peanut chimed in, "You don't even go to church!"
"Well, I did today, and they told me I should hit you guys with a spatula."
"Mom, you're not really going to hit me are you?" Moon was more curious and amused than fearful.
"No, I'm not. Now go put your nose on the wall."
At the end of two minutes, Peanut walked over to me, picked up the spatula and placed it in my hand. "Mom, hit me with the spatula."
"I'm not hitting you with a spatula."
"Do it, Mom!" He bent over.
"No. Stop it. I'm not hitting you with a spatula."
"Come on, Mom! Please. Just hit me with a spatula. Hit me!"
It's pretty unlikely that I'll be going back to another meeting of that particular mom's group. And I didn't pick up any handy new discipline tricks. But I do now believe that I know what happened to Jimmy Swaggart, Ted Haggard, Jim Bakker, Earl Paulk and Mark Foley. I'm guessing that their parents weren't using kitchen utensils for flipping flapjacks.
"Hello. My name is Stephanie."
"Hi, Stephanie," I said, shaking her hand, "nice to meet you."
Grocery store dating is nothing new to me. From our earliest days together, when Moon was an infant and D. and I lived in a one bedroom apartment in Novi, I would check out other moms at the supermarket.
"D." I would come home excited, "I saw another mom in the produce section! She was young and she had a little boy that was probably the same age as Moon. I think she wanted to be my best friend." D. would always laugh at me for trying to pick up new chicks while shopping. But being a stay-at-home mom can make finding friends a seriously difficult task. When you're in school, you hang out with your classmates. If you work, you pal around with co-workers. When you're a mom, your adult interactions are primarily with doctors, dentists & teachers. Not exactly BFF material. Though it's been over ten years since D. and I moved in together, I still haven't given up hope that I'll make a friend at the grocery store. So, when Stephanie pulled her cart up next to mine, I was ready to buy whatever she was selling.
"I belong to a Mom's group that happens to be getting together tomorrow," she began her pitch. "It's for moms of pre-schoolers, and if you'd be interested in attending we'd love to have you."
I had intended to join some sort of mom's group since moving to New Jersey, so I pulled out my iPhone, took down the info, and made plans to go. When I told D. about the group, he was concerned that it might be a recruiting effort for the church that hosts the meetings.
"It's a national group," I reassured him. "It's not a churchy thing. They just use the church meeting space. It says right on the website that it's for people of any denomination as well as for people who are not religious at all." I was just excited to meet a nice group of women who were in the same boat as me, and I was promised free brunch.
When I arrived the next morning, the brunch did not disappoint. Oven-baked french toast, brownies, and eggy casseroles crowded a room-length table. Childcare was offered, but not mandatory, and toddlers of various ages criss-crossed the room. I was immediately welcomed by several other women, and conversation was easy. I learned that the topic for this meeting was "discipline" and that there would be a panel offering advice on various parenting methods.
"Awesome," I thought. "I can always use other ideas to help with discipline." The talk began with a prayer. Praying isn't really my bag, but I wanted to be respectful so I popped a chunk of french toast (yum) into my mouth and bowed my head. When the panel was introduced, the two primary speakers turned out to be a couple who handled the youth ministry for the church and were about to have their fifth child.
"Well, I grew up in a house where spanking was the discipline method," the wife began. "So, when it came to disciplining my children, it was just natural for me." This was the part where I expected her to keep going and say, "to find other, more creative ways to teach my children." Instead, she handed the microphone to her husband who added, "Yeah, we start from a really young age with just like, you know, flicking them on the inner thigh when we want them to behave. And then, as they get older, we, well, we believe that spanking is what the Lord created the bottom for."
I looked around the room, truly expecting that the other moms in the room would be as horrified as I was. Instead, I found that most were listening intently and nodding their heads.
The husband continued, "We do not, however, believe in hitting the children with our hands. When I was in seminary, one of my teachers told me that if you hit a child with your hand, they can start to associate you with pain. So he suggested that you always use something else to spank them. We want our children to love and trust us, so we never hit them with our hands."
At several tables, womens' hands shot up in the air with questions. Relief flooded over me. Surely, this was the part where someone would protest that spanking is not ever a legitimate or useful discipline method. Someone would point out that study after study after study has shown that spanking is detrimental to children and should never be used for discipline.
When the first woman was called on, she asked, "What do you do if you're out in public and your children misbehave? You don't spank them in public, do you?"
"No, no," the husband replied. "That is the sort of situation where you have to get creative."
"Like, time-outs, or removal from the situation, or a distraction to diffuse the bad behavior?" I wondered.
"For example," he continued, "when my wife is at the grocery store, and one of the kids starts to act up, she's really good at this," he beamed at his wife, "and I'm sure some of you do this, too. What she does is, she pinches them. And then she continues pinching them while she whispers in their ear. It's very effective."
The moderator called on another woman with a question. "You mentioned that you never use your hands to spank. So, I'm just wondering, I mean, I grew up being paddled with a wooden spoon, so, what do you use to spank them?"
The panelists laughed. "Yes, kitchen utensils." The husband nodded. "We use a spatula."
"So, how did it go?" D. asked when I walked in the door afterwards. "Did they try to recruit you to come to their church?"
"A little bit" I responded. "They also told me I should hit the kids with kitchen utensils."
"What?" He laughed.
Later that afternoon, Peanut and Moon were fighting and behaving horribly. "Both of you, two minutes, nose on the wall," I barked. Peanut immediately put his nose against the wall, wanting his two minutes to be over quickly. Moon, however, continued to argue. "That's it. Get me a spatula."
"What, why?" Moon's eyes grew wide.
"Because I'm going to hit you."
"Yeah, right," Moon went to the drawer and got a spatula just to see what this was all about.
"Now, pull down your pants" I was stern.
"No. You're not really going to hit me with a spatula."
"Yes, I am. That's what they told me to do at church today. Now pull down your pants."
Nose still stuck to the wall, Peanut chimed in, "You don't even go to church!"
"Well, I did today, and they told me I should hit you guys with a spatula."
"Mom, you're not really going to hit me are you?" Moon was more curious and amused than fearful.
"No, I'm not. Now go put your nose on the wall."
At the end of two minutes, Peanut walked over to me, picked up the spatula and placed it in my hand. "Mom, hit me with the spatula."
"I'm not hitting you with a spatula."
"Do it, Mom!" He bent over.
"No. Stop it. I'm not hitting you with a spatula."
"Come on, Mom! Please. Just hit me with a spatula. Hit me!"
It's pretty unlikely that I'll be going back to another meeting of that particular mom's group. And I didn't pick up any handy new discipline tricks. But I do now believe that I know what happened to Jimmy Swaggart, Ted Haggard, Jim Bakker, Earl Paulk and Mark Foley. I'm guessing that their parents weren't using kitchen utensils for flipping flapjacks.
3.11.2009
The Tooth Fairy doesn't take any crap
It was an eventful day in the Laugh, Mom household. I might even go so far as to say, Peanut's dream day. Why? Well, for one thing, Moon had to shit in Saran Wrap.
Due to some digestive issues, Moon went to see a GI specialist this week. The doctor gave him medication and ordered a series of tests. One of which required a stool sample. Ever since Peanut found out that Moon would, at some point, be crapping in a jar, he'd been like a kid on Christmas Eve. Peanut had been listening for the opening of the cupboard, asking each time I removed a container, "Is that for Moon to poop in?" He'd also been alert to Moon's bathroom behavior, trying to follow him in to the john each time in anticipation of the big event.
While the pooping was his main focus, Peanut's attention was drawn away from Moon's sphincter today by yet another exciting happening. The loss of his first tooth. It'd been hanging by a thread for weeks, but he refused to pull it out at home because he wanted to get the tooth keeper necklace they give to kids who lose their teeth at school. When I picked him up from class this afternoon, he proudly showed me the little tooth container hanging around his neck, and the newly empty space in his mouth.
"Are you going to put it under your pillow for the Tooth Fairy?" I asked him.
"No. I want to keep it," he insisted, adamantly.
"But, don't you want the Tooth Fairy to bring you money?"
"Nah. I'd rather just have my tooth."
"What are you going to do with a tooth?" I asked.
"I dunno. Just hang out with it I guess."
When bedtime rolled around, Peanut was in the process of weighing his Tooth Fairy options. While he was tantalized by the prospect of money and a visit from a magical creature in the middle of the night, he just really wanted to keep his tooth. Before Peanut could make a final decision and fall asleep, Moon put us all on notice that he had to crap. Having read online about best practices for catching clean stool samples (how's that for an oxymoron?), I ran upstairs with some saran wrap, and loosely draped it across the toilet seat. The process required a good bit of precision. Drape too taut, and Moon would end up with dirt ass. But too loose, and the log might slip into the toilet. Nerve wracking stuff.
Once the toilet was ready, I gave Moon the go-ahead for bombs away. The entire time he was in the bathroom, D. and I had to patrol outside to keep Peanut out. He was intrigued by the saran wrap, the plastic container, and most of all by the notion that we would be putting poop in the refrigerator. Seriously, the best day of Peanut's life.
While we were waiting for the good word from Moon, The Baby decided that he needed to nurse. Which meant that I was unavailable for sample collection and the chore would fall to D., thus making today perhaps the best day of my life, too. Though, I must admit, it was a little difficult for me to hand over control of the situation to D. (hmm...wonder where Moon got his anal retentiveness). Realistically, I know that D. is just as capable a parent as I am. Plus, I don't think you can screw up a stool sample. So, I hauled out my boob and left the crap work to D.
Not wanting to cheat Peanut out of his long anticipated experience, D. let him have a look at Moon's specimen. After getting a good look and uttering the proper degree of wonderous proclamations regarding its size, shape, and stinkiness, Peanut was satisfied with his first stool sample experience and back to worrying about his tooth. Worrying so seriously that he was in tears.
"Mom, I don't want her to take my tooth!"
"Then don't put it under your pillow," I tried to reason.
"But what if she steals it?"
"The tooth fairy isn't a thief."
"Yes she is. She's just going to come here, and she's going to see that my tooth isn't under my pillow, and she'll steal it AND not leave me any money."
"Look," I laid it out for him, "if you don't put it under your pillow, she won't take it."
"Mom, you don't know that!"
At a loss for any other way to explain to him that the Tooth Fairy wouldn't steal his tooth, I suggested we leave a note under his pillow. Peanut dictated, I wrote:
"Dear Tooth Fairy,
Please do NOT take my tooth. I want to keep it. But, if you want to leave me some money anyway, that would be cool. Love, Peanut. P.S. Do NOT take my tooth!"
The note finally calmed his fears and, tooth hidden in drawer, poop stashed in fridge, both boys drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, much to everyone's surprise, both Peanut and Moon found they had been visited by magical beings. Peanut had five one dollar bills tucked beneath his pillow, and his tooth still safely tucked away. And Moon found a dollar wrapped in a note in the bathroom:
.jpg)
We believe in the Poop Fairy.
Don't you?
Due to some digestive issues, Moon went to see a GI specialist this week. The doctor gave him medication and ordered a series of tests. One of which required a stool sample. Ever since Peanut found out that Moon would, at some point, be crapping in a jar, he'd been like a kid on Christmas Eve. Peanut had been listening for the opening of the cupboard, asking each time I removed a container, "Is that for Moon to poop in?" He'd also been alert to Moon's bathroom behavior, trying to follow him in to the john each time in anticipation of the big event.
While the pooping was his main focus, Peanut's attention was drawn away from Moon's sphincter today by yet another exciting happening. The loss of his first tooth. It'd been hanging by a thread for weeks, but he refused to pull it out at home because he wanted to get the tooth keeper necklace they give to kids who lose their teeth at school. When I picked him up from class this afternoon, he proudly showed me the little tooth container hanging around his neck, and the newly empty space in his mouth.
"Are you going to put it under your pillow for the Tooth Fairy?" I asked him.
"No. I want to keep it," he insisted, adamantly.
"But, don't you want the Tooth Fairy to bring you money?"
"Nah. I'd rather just have my tooth."
"What are you going to do with a tooth?" I asked.
"I dunno. Just hang out with it I guess."
When bedtime rolled around, Peanut was in the process of weighing his Tooth Fairy options. While he was tantalized by the prospect of money and a visit from a magical creature in the middle of the night, he just really wanted to keep his tooth. Before Peanut could make a final decision and fall asleep, Moon put us all on notice that he had to crap. Having read online about best practices for catching clean stool samples (how's that for an oxymoron?), I ran upstairs with some saran wrap, and loosely draped it across the toilet seat. The process required a good bit of precision. Drape too taut, and Moon would end up with dirt ass. But too loose, and the log might slip into the toilet. Nerve wracking stuff.
Once the toilet was ready, I gave Moon the go-ahead for bombs away. The entire time he was in the bathroom, D. and I had to patrol outside to keep Peanut out. He was intrigued by the saran wrap, the plastic container, and most of all by the notion that we would be putting poop in the refrigerator. Seriously, the best day of Peanut's life.
While we were waiting for the good word from Moon, The Baby decided that he needed to nurse. Which meant that I was unavailable for sample collection and the chore would fall to D., thus making today perhaps the best day of my life, too. Though, I must admit, it was a little difficult for me to hand over control of the situation to D. (hmm...wonder where Moon got his anal retentiveness). Realistically, I know that D. is just as capable a parent as I am. Plus, I don't think you can screw up a stool sample. So, I hauled out my boob and left the crap work to D.
Not wanting to cheat Peanut out of his long anticipated experience, D. let him have a look at Moon's specimen. After getting a good look and uttering the proper degree of wonderous proclamations regarding its size, shape, and stinkiness, Peanut was satisfied with his first stool sample experience and back to worrying about his tooth. Worrying so seriously that he was in tears.
"Mom, I don't want her to take my tooth!"
"Then don't put it under your pillow," I tried to reason.
"But what if she steals it?"
"The tooth fairy isn't a thief."
"Yes she is. She's just going to come here, and she's going to see that my tooth isn't under my pillow, and she'll steal it AND not leave me any money."
"Look," I laid it out for him, "if you don't put it under your pillow, she won't take it."
"Mom, you don't know that!"
At a loss for any other way to explain to him that the Tooth Fairy wouldn't steal his tooth, I suggested we leave a note under his pillow. Peanut dictated, I wrote:
"Dear Tooth Fairy,
Please do NOT take my tooth. I want to keep it. But, if you want to leave me some money anyway, that would be cool. Love, Peanut. P.S. Do NOT take my tooth!"
The note finally calmed his fears and, tooth hidden in drawer, poop stashed in fridge, both boys drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, much to everyone's surprise, both Peanut and Moon found they had been visited by magical beings. Peanut had five one dollar bills tucked beneath his pillow, and his tooth still safely tucked away. And Moon found a dollar wrapped in a note in the bathroom:
.jpg)
We believe in the Poop Fairy.
Don't you?
3.05.2009
My vaganus is good for something
Looky, Daddy!, is holding his Third Annual Haiku Madness contest, and yours truly is a finalist. Or, my vagina is. Well, technically, my vaganus....
Anyway, I want to win, so, go vote. Unless you think someone else's haiku is better, in which case, you can just go to Hell.
Anyway, I want to win, so, go vote. Unless you think someone else's haiku is better, in which case, you can just go to Hell.
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