update: comments are not working on this post, but you can comment on the next one-supersuck it. great idea, Bob!
A recent discussion with a friend turned ugly when the subject of blogging came up. My friend (a health professional) asserted that he didn't think it was healthy to carry on an extra, partially anonymous, persona in one's spare time.
Though I found it kind of offensive at the onset, his comment quickly rooted in my mind.
While I don't think this shoe baby lady qualifies as a full blown alternate persona, it is a hyper-spastic scrapbook of my thoughts and memories, many that I would never put out here if they were tied back to me directly. I would at least conserve on the f bomb a little.
And then there's this, lots of posts have a bragadoches quality to them. Sometimes, I think that comes off as snobbery or elitism; it's kind of a passive plug of arrogance, ya know, look how great this or that is in my life. The lack of true grit makes it somewhat less believable, but much easier to put out here.
As faltered egos go, I think my friend's premise was kind of accurate. I sure invest a lot of my time in this skin. And I know quite a few blodgers at this point, some that differ greatly from what you expect from reading their blogs. Still, it's a great endeavor to take note of what virtues they protect, as well as prostitute, in their own time and space.
Some are super heroes with virtues and ethics beyond the understanding of us common folks. There are clueless dingbats that portray themselves as the highly educated elite. There are masses of disgusting, ugly, white trash from both sexes that portray themselves as sexually advanced and exploratory beyond the imaginations of us normal grinding grunts. Envy me addicts that possess very little that's enviable. Blodgeland, it's real ugly in places. All this sickness and these are the preferred snippets, the greatest hits of these individuals?
Yikes! And all of this thinking about alternate identities has caused some major writer's block for that chou baby lady. She's terribly confused. Though it's been fun eeking out a space in blodgeland as a venting single working mom, I can't say that it's been much escape from or improvement of the issues.
Now I have the additional worry of knowing that I kind of prefer my fictional personality to reality. (I know, big surprise ending, right?) What do you think? Healthy literary exercise or a ticket on the split personality express? You decide.
Life is simply too weird to chronicle for you.
And I'm simply too tired to relive it.
For now, I'll let the Supersuckers speak for me.
These are not safe for work.
Or for children.
Or for many people really.
Listen at your own peril.
I have been struggling with True's behavior at school. I am not excusing his bad behavior, of which there seems to be a never-ending supply. Sometime last week, I got my fourth phone call this year from True's teacher and she said, "I'm just worried that he's going towards the dark side.." and she sounded really geeked out and kooky. Then she handed the phone to True and, I guess, expected me to parent him from a million mental miles away.
True then came home with a bunch of extra penalty type assignments. First, to write a letter of apology to a girl in his class because he hugged her. I asked if he was rough hugging, like wrestling, and he said, "No, I thought it was nice. I like her."
On the next paper, True had written out "Holy Guacamole!" thirty times. I guess I don't speak teacher. This punishment doesn't make sense me. If it's offensive, you don't have them do repetitive exercise, right? He'll be singing "Holy Guacamole!" in his sleep. We had those repetitive writing assignments when I was in school, but it was usually the rules, i.e., "I will not talk while the teacher is talking," that kind of thing. Holy guacamole, what was she thinking?
Yes, this is the same teacher that told me the word "evil" was inappropriate for school. The same teacher that told me the penitentiary was filled with gifted talented folks. True came home with his report card on which she had marked through his typed conduct grades and hand wrote "unsatisfactory." Most of his subject grades had slipped considerably. My short fuse blew and I withdrew True on friday. He started today at a new school.
They didn't have room for the Alleycat, so for now, it's quite the sacrifice. Two separate school drop-offs and pick-ups fifteen minutes apart. I really didn't need more places to go and people to see, but I do want my True to love school again, so this is what I decided to do.
There are only 13 kids in true's class and grade. It is in a beautiful rural area of Texas, which means prior to the Robin Hood Rape, the school had a tremendously wealthy tax base and low enrollment (lots of retirees, less kiddos). The dollars went far. The teachers are well equipped and happy to live and work in the environment. The school is public, but it feels like montessori. They have the nicest computer lab I have ever seen (RSM-all mac, all the time).
I adore True's new teacher. She has one blue eye and one brown. She is cute as a jelly bean, but sweeter. True said he wanted to tell me how much he likes her, but he doesn't want to hurt his old teacher's feelings. Awe. That's my sweet true blue.
Anyway, today was a crazy long day. Tomorrow looks like the same. Much thanks for all the super cool unique comment hoe-ren you did. I loves you, supa fruitcakes. I truly do.
Back in the late days of the bicentennial, it is said that I was some sort of legend on our block. A budding capitalist? That's how I like to portray it.
Seems for spare change I'd drop my panties and show the neighbor boys my cootchie. Now, this could (I hope) be a complete fabrication. I swear I have no memories to support the allegations. In fact, I'd prefer we call it older brother memory manipulation. Evil bastard, I wouldn't put it past him considering the now obvious long term damage.
I mean, here I sit. Not much progress thirty years later. Privates popping out at the most wretched google searches known to man. Why the hell do I do this? I have no idea. How do I keep it interesting? That's easy, I don't.
So this year, I have a simple birthday wish. I've shown you mine, now show me yours. And don't hold out, I read a lot of blogs. I see the kind of unadulterated asslicking that goes down at other sites. Not here. Not ever. What gives?
I want minions, just for one day. I want never ending narcissistic comments in the hundreds. I want them all to be about me and the wonder that is my blodge. And if I have to raise my rates, so fucking be it. This cootchie has been a steal at just under pocket change since birth.
You get the picture, my honeys. Make up shit if you have to, but get to work. Birthday girl wakes in 7 hours, and she wants to be blown away.
Ugh. I hate capitalizing. For all your collective bitching, I received nary a comment on my new found shift key. And that hurts, peep-eyes, because I strive so hard to please you.
I know it's late, but I never got to post about Halloween. Awesome. The kids' grandmother offered to send them costumes, which worked out great for me as I was fresh out of give-a-shit this year. No way I would have made costumes again.
Alex wanted to be a skeleton, so that wish was granted. She sent True a Daniel Boone costume, coonskin cap and all. Well, like all kids, at least on our block, they wore their costumes everyday leading up to the big day.
We started out singing, "Daniel Boone was a man. Yes, a big man! He was brave, he was fearless, and as tough as a mighty oak tree. From the coonskin cap on top of ole Dan to the heel of his rawhide shoe. The rippenest, roarinest, fightenist man the frontier ever knew." But, this is Texas.
So eventually, I found myself singing, "Born on a mountain top in Tennessee,
Greenest state in the land of the free. Raised in the woods so's he knew every tree, Killed him a bear when he was only three. Davy, Davy Crockett King of the Wild Frontier."
You get the idea. Eventually, True has a sort of identity crisis. He comes to me and asks who he is supposed to be. I don't know. He looks like Davy Crockett to me, but it was a bonafide Daniel Boone costume. It doesn't matter since they were both frontier men, I reasoned.
But that didn't work with True. We started reading at wikipedia about the two of them and I was stunned at how little I knew. Where did that crap I thought I knew come from?
True was thrilled to hear that Davy Crockett died at the Alamo fighting for Texas. And then , the obvious, "Where did Boone die? Where did Boone die?"
He's pelting me with questions as I scan through the article. And I said, "He lived in Missouri."
True, "But did he die at the Alamo?"
Me, "Nope, looks like he just died in Missouri because that's where he lived."
So True said, "Well, that settles it. I'd rather die at the Alamo than live in Missouri. I'm Davy Crockett"
OH HELLS YEAH!! My brother lived in a coonskin cap for nearly two years. I was so nostalgic seeing True dress up like that. It was the best. In the end, no one guessed Daniel Boone at any of the gazillion houses that we knocked.
Oh, and when we were reading about Daniel Boone on Wikipedia, we learned that he didn't wear a coonskin cap. Wikipedia says the coonskin cap was a Davy Crockett rip off on the tv series. Interesting.
Long story longer, when we finally got home from trick or treating, the kids dripping with sweat and almost unable to carry the candy, True came to his own conclusion. He said even though everybody thought he was Davy Crockett, he was really more of a Daniel Boone since it was just too hot for a coonskin cap in Texas.
Remember the Alamo!
All you that would talk smack against us soccer moms can stick it. You know who you are, dirtbag. I'm sticking some primo Alleycat action shots below the fold for hopefully speedy downloading, or skipping, if the increasing momminess of the ole chou chope is bringing you down.
That's my boy!
Doh! Between the legs!
Running or flying?
eeeeeeeeeer, bam, eeeeeeeer, bam, eeeeeeeeeeer, bam, eeeeeeeer, bam
The screen door is blowing and slamming without notice from any in the room.
yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap
The westie won't stop talking.
kkkkklllllllllllllllllooooooooooooooooooooooooo, ack, ack, ack, kkkkkkkkkkkkkk
And the wife is snoring away, six inches from me, the sound is like nothing I've ever heard. She's had a fall. A small square white bandage covers a tiny portion of a huge dark purple bruise that stretches from her hairline down to her chin. Her arm is broken and even if she were awake, she wouldn't really be here. She's been slipping further and further into dementia for the few years I've known her.
Her husband peers up at me through puffy eyes. Oblivious to the noise, he's been figuring for two days straight now. CD income, pension, social security, investments...did i reach the same figure? He scares me. At eighty-eight, he shouldn't have this kind of stress in his life. He's been up all night tending to his wife's every need, and everytime she rests, he gets waylaid by financial decisions.
It's time. They are going to move into a facility that can take care of his wife and he'll have an adjoining suite. He tells me he's worn plumb out, that he has help and still can't keep up. She was up most the night, so he was too. But he only mentions it briefly and then gets back to the numbers.
It's apparent the nursing home is going to swallow all their income and eventually, most of their assets as well. Still, that's what they are for. These golden years have turned out to be plated. A facade of rest and worry-free living has turned into an exhausting dance with doctors, medicine, government forms, and a near weekly funeral. Their friends are dying left and right.
I think he might be tearing up, but he removes his glasses and mindfully cleans them. Once they are back on his nose, his pen goes back to scribbling figures. All the figuring in the world won't make these numbers grow. At this stage in life, there isn't much we can do to create more income.
"How 'bout you let us pay this bill?" I say and as the words leave my mouth, I see the panic wash right off of his face. It is such a burden to this man, the mere suggestion of assistance lifts his spirits.
I feel like he needs encouragement. He hasn't had anyone to share these life decisions with in nearly a decade. His poor wife, built like a professional tennis player, is as healthy as a horse but as competent as a newborn baby. He sulks under the pressure of doing the right thing for both of them.
I tell him I think he's making the right decision. That he can't be husband, nurse, mother and friend. I tell him the best part is she'll be well taken care of and for once in a long while, he will be rested enough to really enjoy his time with her.
And his expression says only one thing, he's offended.
"Look here. I love that old gal in that chair over there with all of my heart, and I'll tell you why. I have had a very good life. I hunted, I fished and I pretty much went and did as I pleased. That ole gal, she worked, she went to the store, she provided every meal I ever ate, she raised our children to be loving outstanding women just like her. She never tired of my selfishness. And, she was right at my side for all the peaks and the valleys that this world doled out. And I tell you something else, if I never slept again, I still couldn't pay her back for life she made for me."
We finished our paperwork and I headed out the door. And there was no question left in my mind about who my wealthiest client was. Lord knows I deal with a lot of bigger accounts, but dollars aren't much comfort to the emotionally destitute.