Friday, November 30, 2012

A Senseless Waste of Your Time.

Last night, after being in a terrible school bus accident, I tended to some repair work, and then attended a spectacular and hilarious drag show.   And told my husband all about it.  

While sleeping.

He said I did something on the bookshelf, and when he asked me what I was doing, I said I was "fixing the thing."  Followed by, "THAT IS THE BIGGEST WIG I HAVE EVER SEEN."

wigs are enormous in

And then I laughed like a maniacal serial killer.  Because sleep-time repairs and enormous drag-show wigs aren't quite creepy enough.

This isn't new.  I've done strange, lunatic-y things in my sleep since I was a little kid.  Once I got up and made a salt sandwich in the kitchen, and opened up the back door, before going back to bed.  And I tell myself that I went back to bed, because believing I opened the back door and actually wandered around outside is too scary to consider.  Evidently, crippling fear of the Boogeyman is moot when a person is sleepwalking...

These days, I'm told, I do silly things in our laying out every item of clothing I own, or mumbling creepy gibberish about being able to "see them."

How that man sleeps contently next to me every night, I will never know.  Although, he does sleep with a big Rambo knife tucked into his side of the bed, and he keeps two loaded guns on his side of the room.  Hmm...

The clown has NO penis!
This is normally not so humiliating.  Once I did walk out into our living room when we had company staying on the couch, and that was somewhat traumatic, since I was stark naked.  But I hear he is recovering nicely, and is able to eat solid food again, so, no harm done, I guess.

And at least I don't have one of those spouses who likes to videotape all the dumb shit their partner does, and put it all over the internet.

I don't really have a reason for posting any of that today, other than I like the idea of having an excuse to share the Step Brothers' sleepwalking video.  NO!  NO!

As you were.  

Sunday, November 25, 2012

How to be a terrible liar, and a shitty mom.

I'm suspicious of my teenager.

Of course I am.  He is a teenager.  And I am a parent.

I also have a reasonably high-functioning bullshit detector, so I feel fairly confident in assuming that when the boy lies to me, I catch most of them.

Today, I assumed he was lying. 

Lying about going off into the woods to splash around in the creek, and do all those little-kid things that I wish he still did all the time.  What a wholesome, perfectly adorable way for a teenage boy to spend an afternoon.
This sudden change of plan of course having nothing to do with the fact that he wanted to hang out with his girlfriend today, and I said no...
Because I'm naive, and this is my first day on earth.

Then I received a text, after several hours, asking if he could visit his Granny.
Of course you can.  Because I have no doubt that you've been so busy in the woods for the past four hours, and are likely in need of a hot chocolate and a bowl of warm soup, so you head immediately to her house and get your wholesome-self all warm and cozy at her kitchen table.

As far as I was concerned, that sneaking little shitbox was secretly meeting up with his girlfriend, smooching in the woods, reading dirty magazines, and saying swear words.
But, not desiring to be a brutish hag thru the entirety of his childhood, I pretended I thought he was in the woods.
For several, long hours.

Finally, I'd become irritated enough at his terribly flimsy, and rather insulting lie, and I was ready to lay the trap for him to walk into.
And I sent a text...

"Send me a picture of Granny's couch."

That'll show you.  Lying little fartface.  Let's see you wiggle out of this one!
Two minutes later...

Grammy's couch.  With a side of guilt.  


I am a terrible person.  I am a suspicious, evil mother, with a darling little saint of a baby boy.

An honest little boy.

And then, "why did you want a pic of her couch?"

Uh...uh..."Because.  I was thinking of painting a picture for her, and I wanted to match the paint."


My brilliant and terribly cunning attempt to catch my son in the middle of a lie TOTALLY BACKFIRED, and now I am stuck in the middle of my own lie!

So now, not only am I a terrible, sneaking, suspicious mother, but I am also a dirty liar.  And now I have to paint a picture for my Granny, who will be sucked in to the web of lies with me, when the picture I paint for her inevitably turns out to be a steaming pile of rust-colored shit, and she has to hang it on her wall, and pretend to love it!  And then all of her poor friends will see it hanging there, and ask where such a monstrosity came from.  And she'll have to tell them.  And they, not wanting to hurt her feelings, since she obviously seems to love this atrocious piece of shit, will have to pretend they like it too!  And now everyone is suddenly swirling in this liar soup, lying and lying, and lying, until nobody remembers who they are anymore!!



From now on, I will just assume my kid is working in a soup kitchen, or reading the bible to elderly blind people.  It's easier.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Teenagers are dicks.


I remember being a teenager.  I remember being angst-ridden and sullen, too cool for grown ups to understand, and certainly too cool to participate in any of their stupid, nonsensical conversations.  I remember resenting being told to clean my room, wash the dishes, do my homework.
Because, fuck you, Grown Ups.  You don't understand me.

Now I'm the parent of that kid.  And some days I kind of want to gouge my eyes out with splintery sticks.
Today I kind of want to gouge my eyes out with splintery sticks.
Because, fuck you, Teenagers.  You don't understand me.

This afternoon, I'm taking off on a long-ish road trip, alone.  I've never done that before.  A few years ago, I did fly to Florida to visit my friend, but that was different.  That was flying.  That was surrounded by people.  Even if I would have crashed to my demise, I wouldn't have been alone.  They might have been strangers, but at least people were with me.  For someone as grossly codependent as I, that's important.  Very.

Today I'm driving across the state in my rickety old van, in places where I will likely have no cellphone service.  I'm afraid.
And I'm hardly ever away from my family, so I am sad about being away from them for the rest of the week.

My son, however, could not be more unimpressed with me this morning.
His refusal to even look at me, to acknowledge that I was speaking, was hurtful.
I have no doubt that he meant for it to be hurtful.

Just as I meant for it to be hurtful when I did it to my own mother.  "I'm too cool to talk to you.  You have no idea what it's like to be me.  Go away and stop trying to relate to me."

My daughter, still little, and still allowed to miss her mommy, wrapped me in hugs and shaky goodbyes, trying to hold back her tears.  She'd miss me terribly, she said, and she loved me.
The boy, however, couldn't be bothered.  He even tried to walk out the door without saying goodbye to me.

Visions of my sweet toddler boy, fill my thoughts this morning.  Planted in my lap, and showering me with silly, slobbery kisses as he grinned out from behind his single front tooth.  While I know he's still the same person, I miss that little boy terribly at times.  Days like this, where he seems determined to prove how much he *doesn't* love me, wring my heart a bit.
And I miss him.

But I know that eventually, he will shake his teen-angst-funk, and he will flash me another smile, or treat me with another sideways hug when I least expect it.  He will share a silly story with me, wanting my approval, and I will be back in his good graces.  He will remind me that he's still the funny bald-headed little boy who used to drool on his shirt, and smack my puffed-up cheeks, making raspberry noises, at which we both giggled endlessly.

He can't help his hormones, and I get it.  I'll be happy to see him again when his fog lifts.

And in the meantime, I'll shrug off his fart-face-ness, and maybe write it down in his baby book under the milestones..."Teenagers are dick bags."
Aww.  Aren't your mood swings cute :D

Monday, November 19, 2012

Irrational Freak Show

I freaked out yesterday.

I have been visiting my best friend in her home since we were in 8th grade.  I know her.  I know her family.  I know her house.  It's all very familiar.  And safe.  She's added a husband and some sweet little boys to the mix since then, but I know them.  They are familiar.  They are safe.

Familiarity and safety have no place, however, in the irrational world of panic attacks.

Ten seconds after pulling out of my driveway, I knew it was going to be bad.  My heart sank into my stomach, and I started to sweat.  And I was scared.  Fuckscared.  Walking thru her front door might has well have been walking straight into the devil's living room, for all the fear I felt.

The house was full of people.  Loud people.  Friendly and boisterous people.  People who are special to my friend, and who I want very much to think well of me.

I felt immediately trapped, and uneasy.  Paranoid.

What do you mean,
"pass the coleslaw"?!
I get quiet.  I get fold-y.  Trying to pull myself inside of my outer shell, and disappear within.  The conversations and the noises swirling around me, sinking me deeper and deeper into a pit of fear and embarrassment. 

Because it is embarrassing.  I don't want to be a wall-flowery person.  I want to be a social butterfly-y person.  I want to flit around the room hugging everyone, telling hilarious stories, and charming the pants off of everyone I meet.  I want to giggle and enjoy such great company.  Not shrink into a chair, all socially awkward and nervous.

We stayed as long as I was able.
I miss my friend.  And I hate that I was only able to manage a few hours with her, because my brain is a fuck.  I hate that I am constantly robbed of what should be fun, memory-making experiences, because I can't control the constant misfires inside of my body.

I have lovely friends, and an incredibly tolerant and supportive husband, who are able to remind me that this feeling isn't real.  Beautiful people, who call me sweet, comforting pet names, and assure me that I'm going to be alright.  This is tremendous, and valuable.  I have been on the other end of the spectrum, either with no one to comfort me, or with someone being angry with me, and choosing to belittle me over my uncontrollable panic.  So I realize how lucky I am to be so surrounded in love.

But in the depths of violent anxiety, no one loves me.  Everyone who is unfortunate enough to be near me is disgusted by me.  I am alone.  And nothing will ever be right again, ever ever.
There are boogie men everywhere, and all of them are after me.  What a freak show.

I have to believe that there is something in my brain that can be rewired, redirected, or just plain fixed, that will make this stop.  Something that simply needs to be straightened, or tightened.
Although I suppose it's possible that my brain is simply an asshole, looking to amuse himself at my expense.
Fuck you, brain.

Oh, you wish to have a peaceful afternoon with your friends?
Let me sing you the song of my people...

Friday, November 16, 2012

What just happened???

An incredible thing has happened.  The Kitchen Witch shared one of my blog posts on her fan page, and my stats are climbing like crazy.
People have also asked me if there's a place they can follow, and be updated regularly.  So I'm taking a pause from wetting my pants and giggling like a piglet, and trying to create a facebook page for The Sugar Mattress.
It's a work in progress, but you can find me here.  (As long as I haven't fucked it up somehow.)
And good, good god, thank you for being interested.
I am sincerely speechless.