Thursday, October 25, 2012

Happy Internet Surfer Girl

Ah the 21st Century.

Tonight, thanks to the magic of the internet fairies and the hard work of the hamsters that power my computer, I have been edified and entertained. Well done Internet Fairies, and a heart felt bravo to the hamsters. Remind me to put some oil on that wheel.
 
My early morning insomnia inspired me to hit the net, and I started off with a cursory howdedoo on face book. Then for no particular reason I checked out Boing Boing, just because, and there I read a cool review of a graphic novel for kids which I SO Want to have.

http://www.nobrow.net/9580

On Boing Boing I saw a video parody of "Gangnam Style" by Ai Weiwei. I have a secret crush on him. I watched it. I was confused because I had never watched the original "Gangnam Style" ... so I checked it out. My new favorite song!  I <3 you PSY! Sorry Ai.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bZkp7q19f0

I then fell in love and cried while I watched Lana Wachowski's brilliant speech.

http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/lana-wachowski-reveals-suicide-plan-382169

To top off a great night of internet hi jinx, I watched a short clip from the recent episode of The Colbert Report where Stephen Colbert, whom I also love, offers Donald Trump one million dollars under one condition. Do it for the kids, Donald. You know you want to.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_4KpGiVHP6s

 
Really, the wee hours of my morning were well spent.

I am contented. 

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Angst, a mother son bonding experience, the family who despairs together...

So, what would you say to a 9 year old who is in the midst of an existential crisis that would make Camus weep?


I think this perceptive boy has seen under my veil, knows that I feel my life has no meaning, so encouragement from me rings hollow.

My son says, "Nothing matters. Life is meaningless."

Yes, sure, life has meaning, son. Cough. Cough. Wouldn't you rather know how babies are made?

I want to be happy. I want to be the kind of mother who is always full of light and sunshine, patience and gentleness, Valium and bourbon.

I'm just not that kind of person. I don't have it in me.

I can't even fake it.

I'm a cynic, a gentle soul with a short fuse. I'm a hugger and a yeller. I run on coffee and adrenaline.

I don't think life has meaning.

I don't believe in much.

I don't believe in Karma. If I did I would think I'd done something REALLY REALLY bad in a previous life.

I don't believe in God but I'm not above attempting to quell my son's worries with stories of an all loving all knowing God. God is just one more fictional character used to entertain and manipulate our children. 

Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, God, and other lies my mother told me. Or, Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and God walked into a bar. The bartender said...

  I don't believe that bullshit, the universe works in mysterious ways. If I did, I might sit up straight and say, Hey, Universe, you passive aggressive fuck. Tell me plainly what it is you expect of me. Don't expect me to decipher the secret  meaning imbued in these weird coincidences and potentially symbolic events. I'm simple and easily confused.


So, if it's all meaningless, why did I have kids?

If I don't believe in anything, why'd I bring them into the world?

Here ya go, new little life. Remember life is suffering, you're born, you live, you die. That's it. The rest is up to you. Have Fun!
 
Did I think that my life's meaning was to be found in motherhood? Some self serving desire to do something  good and profound, raise good kids who grow up to be good people, good people who do good things.

If my legacy is my children, well, fuck me. What a shitty reason to have kids.

No pressure kid, but my entire worth as a human being, my sole purpose for living was to bring you into the world and keep you alive until such time as you could do something extraordinary.


What do I say to a child who looks me in the eye and says, "I wasn't supposed to be born. I shouldn't be here."

My son says things that I've been thinking about myself for years.

I am an error.

I never ever meant for him to see this side of me. I meant to keep this hidden from him. 

I want to tell him what he's seeing is me, he's not looking into a mirror.


We have to make our own meaning.

Then we have to believe it's real even if we know it's not.

I envy those who believe in stuff, gods, or karma, or the mysterious unfolding of the universe.


What do I believe in enough to call real?

Nothing was meant to be and yet here we all are. 

If that isn't a  miracle there are no miracles.



Saturday, October 13, 2012

Define Sleep.

At some point in this crazy fun house ride called parenthood, I figured I'd get a break, I figured that when the kids reached a certain age I would be able to get a normal nights sleep. But no.
I've been averaging between 4 and 5 hours of sleep a night which provides me with enough manic adrenaline induced energy to make it through the first 6 hours of the day. With well timed caffeine injections boosting me along I'm good for about 6 more hours. However, after that, it's all over. I can't sleep but I'm not really functioning as a conscious person.

I drool on the couch, grunt to my kids, raise my eyebrows at my husband and pray for sleep or death, which ever comes first.


By 9 p.m. I'm a quivering bowl of something that quivers in a bowl...like maybe, tomato aspic with beef tongue.

I digress.  

By 9 p.m. most good little girls and boys are in bed fast asleep, but because my kids are neither good nor little -- they are both so much better than good and tall for their ages-- I find myself stumbling, mumbling, incoherent but awake trying to herd them up stairs, chanting, "Pajamas. Teeth. Bed. Mercy. Uncle."

At at midnight, my son and I are finally able to drift away to slumberland snugged together in his twin size bed. Immobilized, wedged between a sweaty giant of a boy and a smelly giant of a dog, I sink and smother to sleep.


I pop awake from dreams of premature burial in time to shuffle into my own bigger bed. I need my down blankie, I need my feather pillow.  The dog usually follows me and I find myself once again wedged between a big smelly guy and a big smelly dog but I'm too tired to care. I cling to Blankie and Pillowy. It's going to be okay.


At 5 a.m. my alarm goes off and I jump out of bed, panicked, ready for a brawl, or a quick sprint away from whatever monster is obviously trying to kill me. After a cup of coffee, I've quelled my fight or flight response and I'm resigned to my fate.


Time to get moving, wrangle kids, nag, make breakfasts, do dishes, run off to work, run back home, figure out what the hell to make for dinner, help with homework, do the laundry, drool on the couch, dreaming of sleep with my eyes open.


Sunday, October 7, 2012

Trying to get back in the swing of things

But I'm mad and tired.

I'm brimming with mad and tired.

So.

My brain has jammed.

I can't write about what's really going on.

And I can't think of anything else.

I've been reduced to fishing for writing prompts.

Which brings out the surly school girl...truant, pissed off.

Only now I'm a surly middle aged woman with a neck wattle. Don't fucking tell neck wattle woman what to do even though neck wattle woman is begging someone to tell her what to do.

Mercurial.

Full of contradictions.

Also an asshole.

So, if I had gotten this particular writing prompt as a pissed of girl in high school this is what I would have written.



Writing prompt.

"My dog is really special because"

I don't want to tell you about my dog, what do you think this is, fucking kindergarten?

What a waste of time.


My dog is really special because he eats his own shit and he tries to hump the cat.

My dog is really special because he's a shit eating cat humper.
 
There.

Done. 



I think I need to tap back into that younger me.

I like her.