Small wonders

I don’t really know where I am going to go with this post tonight. I might go kind of beatnik or brain diarrhea. I have a true feeling of disconnect and claustrophobic all at once, a weird nervous vibe that I can’t shake.

I feel very small. Small as in little. Little of heart, little of experience, little of faith, little of life. I feel like I am 3 years old locked in a living room with no windows or doors. I don’t typically revert back to my childhood when I feel the need for comfort or warmth. But sometimes, the feeling I got when my mom kissed me goodnight while she thought I was sleeping still sustains me. She did that my whole life, not just as a small child. Most of my childhood I was actually quite adult, both for survival and  because it was my personality I suppose. That’s not what this is about. Billions of people all around the planet got handed a shitty deck of cards but somehow they are all still drunk in Vegas winning and losing chips, smiling, crying, laughing, and loving. When you feel small though, you need to remember when you could be a child. I was a child at my aunt’s house. Or with my grandpa. Or in the quiet of the night when my mom kissed me goodnight. Even now when I fall asleep with my glasses on, my husband will take them off for me, and I feel the same way. Somehow I feel relevant, visible even. “Hey, there is my wonderful little daughter. Let me give her a kiss” or “My wife fell asleep with her cokebottles again. Let me take them off” or “Hey, that lady is on fire! Stop drop and roll baby! Stop drop and roll for your liiiife!”.

I feel a bit mean. I was accused of doing something at work that I did not do. The accusation was made anonymously and was without merit. But after thinking about it, it might be sort of true in the abstract. I find great humor in people’s faults, negativities, quirks and overall losery ways. While there is nobility and great honor, there is nothing funny about a warm, caring, kind, generous and perfect human being. And here’s to you Jesus Horatio for making sure no one like that exists. But take that same woman and honestly note that she looks like she would be sticky to the touch and smell like shame and KY jelly?? That is a belly laugh right there. However, in the scheme of things, karmically, spiritually, and honestly, it’s mean. And I don’t know if I want to be a mean girl. Just the fact that I don’t know if I want to be one, instead of not wanting to be one, is a bit chilly for me. And someone somewhere out there in Corporate Cubical Cell Block 9 feels just enough spite for me to put it out there that they know that sometimes, I can be just a little bit mean. Evil lurks. They can feel it. Tomorrow I am taking a day off to spend some time with my Mr. and to clean my wreck ass of a house. I will practice tomorrow saying one less bad thing about someone. I am responsible for all of those mosques and I keep forgetting. Please reference Lulu’s entry entitled Somewhere a Mosque for further information on the Save the Mosque Foundation, please.

I won’t defend myself either, because I know that I am a good friend. I genuinely love the people I love. It took me years to foster some of those friendships. Others just seemed to pick up where they left off, with a new appreciation for the adult version of those crazy beings they were back in the day. Thank you Jesus Horatio for Facebook! Structure and foundation was not a strong suit in my family growing up. Building my own structure, at least on purpose, has been slow going and a real challenge. These few people who I have in my little book of life now, I treasure. I would never be mean to them.

My biggest risk in writing with the brain diarrhea is that I chose to share this site with my father. No other family member knows about it. I did it because I wanted there to be something special between the two of us, because it’s obvious I get my talent for expression through words from him. I have also lived my entire life feeling like there was nothing quite special between us. We don’t really have roots just yet, but they are growing now and I am confident and more assured now that they will keep growing. I know he is reading this so I am shamefully expressing myself quite blatantly, and it’s kind of After School Special in tone. I may not need the typical brand of father and daughter stuff to happen, and sometimes, I may not want it. But I find it rather cool, or “kewl” as he likes to spell it, that I know that I can trust him when he reads that I am being mean or feeling small. I think we got this. Don’t you?

To end my stream of consciousness ramblings about random things, I will finish off by stating that yes, that skank probably really smells like KY jelly. But she is someone’s daughter. And hell, the KY Jelly might not drip far from the KY Jelly tree, but still. Yes, I think there are a great deal of people out there who are fuckfaces. But it’s safe to say, someone thinks I am a fuckface too. Like that old Dr. Pepper commercial, right? I’m a fuckface, he’s a fuckface, she’s a fuckface, they’re a fuckface, wouldn’t you like to be a fuckface too?

Bebe

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Stove Top Ying Yang

My husband called me today out of nowhere just to say that he loves me.

2 hours later….

My husband called me today out of nowhere to make sure my train schedules were on course because the Stove Top box keeps saying to put spread in the water. What the fuck is spread?? Oh, I see, it’s a stick of butter. Then why not call it butter?? I will wait until you get home for this.

Stove Top Zen.

Bebe

Any way you slice it.

My husband brought up the dreaded word that makes most men simutaneously grab their balls in pain, and shout for sheer joy, screaming into the heavens. Vasectomy.

It’s not a shock that he brought it up, I have been hounding him for one for almost two years now. At first, it was subtle. An email attachment sent to him with information about a doctor we had heard about. A comment here or there about how crowded our place would be with two screaming babies. I took my time with this, not because I was hesitant to draw the line at one child. I wasn’t. I wasn’t even “supposed” to have this one, or so said many doctors and many failed drug trials. But this one just showed up. Much to our sheer happiness + infinity.

We are a one income family for right now. We have a two bedroom townhome. I have just enough to keep this kid’s head above water.  I have a very small amount of mental and marital stability that I work damn hard to maintain. And do you know how much it takes to keep a kid in daycare? My son’s school could finance a small but lucrative drug cartel country with that money, plus hire the Jonas Brothers and the corpse of Kurt Cobain to play at their next BBQ.  It’s a lot of money. Those fucking Jonas Brothers are nothing but trouble.

Anyway. My husband is a procastinator by nature, at least with the big important stuff. And this waited. And waited. And waited. And all the while, I remained patient and understanding, because this was his junk. Having my junk poked, prodded, tore into a gaping hole as big as a Chicago pothole and then stitched up with enough thread to sew a quilt, I had developed a fair amount of junk empathy. I even asked the doc if he was sewing a quilt. Literally. He laughed quietly and then politely refused to share how many stitches I earned that day having our son.

I then declared out loud that I would have nothing ever to do with my vagina again. The doc looked up from the sheet and said “you had better check with your husband about that first”. I don’t have to check on anything regarding my own patootie with anyone other than you, and that’s because you are stitching my shit up with a needle the size of a fucking sickle! I bravely said this on the inside, folks. I digress though, this is about my husband’s wang, not mine.

So almost two years later, my husband has decided to go to college. But he doesnt start until January. So he figures he has some time to kill. Apparently the two years give or take that he hasn’t worked has been jam packed with busy times, though I am not sure what he has been doing exactly. He thinks it’s time for a vasectomy. Next month. Now, I know for sure what brought this on. This valiant attempt to conquer his fears and give it up.

#1. The rhythm method, which I think is far classier and more pious sounding than the tried and true hillbilly method of pulling out, seemed to be working. But one never knows. And yes, much like birth control AND a condom, pulling out and the rhythm method may work for your random hard core Catholics and a good portion of the risk taking redneck and/or denial loving middle class-one step above white trash folk. But again, one never knows. Which leads me to…..

#2. We had a scare. I was two weeks late. I knew it was from an incredible amount of stress I had been under, and a funk that I was in. I knew it was my insulin being stupid because I abuse her daily. I knew it was me, and not a gift bestowed from the Goddess of Cell Division, as my friend Lulu maintains. I knew it wasn’t St. Rita, who I kind of dig and choose to pin my son on. It was just good old fashioned me. And as soon as we tested negative, it started. Like literally. However, during this scare, we discussed that we would do the best we could, switch hospitals because the last one sucked, and lie through our teeth about how this one was conceived. I have a press release and everything. TMZ has got nothing on me, ladies. But alas, it’s not going to happen.

#3. I don’t want to get pregnant. So, aside from being very tired and stressed, my next desperate decision to get him to listen came really easy for me. I wish it hadn’t. But it did. I pulled out the big guns. I closed up shop. Not 100% closed up for good. But office hours are few and far between. I didn’t want to rule with the poon, but I had to. Also, sex isn’t that bitchin when you are afraid all of the time. I think this might have really made his mind up for him.

Before we make this appointment, we did sit down and discuss all of the pros and cons. The pros are obvious. But the cons are worth sharing. We are broke, have one kid with special needs, and one of us will be in college for two years. We will be 37 and 43 when and if it would be safe to go ahead and try for another. The time difference between our kids would 21 (stepson) 5, and then a new one. The mental genetics in my family are sketchy at best, and the physical genetics in his family are something to behold. Our son is beyond adorable, handsome, hilarious, and so far in great mental health. It was more than we could have asked for. Do we really want to risk doing it again?

Nooooo.

So come next month, I will readily allow some strange human being to handle my husband’s junk and I think that the first snip will be the snip heard around the world.

Hallelujah.

Bebe