never any time
and yet I sit on my butt
I have so much to do. Work, laundry, all of the things everyone always has to do. But instead I’m blogging and worrying, two of my most treasured past times.
For your enjoyment…
Worry Number 1:
Does the wee-er one have the flu, or just a weird, random, fever-y virus? She’s had her flu shots, but I’ve heard the strain that some people are getting this year is different from the one in the shots. I hate to take her to the doctor if she doesn’t have the flu, because she’ll just pick it up when we’re there. On the other hand, if she does have it, then I want to get going with the anti-virals.
Worry Number 2:
That I am an asshole. And that by wanting to transfer my son out of his neighborhood school into a different school with more opportunities and smaller classes that I am turning my back on a school that needs community involvement, and that I am implicitly racist. But can I shoulder the burden of a neighborhood school all on my own? Can I deny my son extra opportunities that he wouldn’t get where he’s at now just because I’m taking a stand politically and socially? Or can I be confident that transferring him really is the best option for us, and that the decision is not a personal attack on anyone’s socio-economic status?
I’ve been thinking about both of these things way too much. Mama needs a xanax and a vacation.
mostly I don’t care
some days fall off deep end, though
feel like hunchbacked hag
I realized this morning that my toes look like wrinkled, dried up, albino snub-nosed carrots. They are not so cute right now. I blame winter. I also blame my sudden and spontaneous coveting of peekaboo heels. I can’t wear heels without, at minimum, twisting my ankle, and yet, all of a sudden I feel an absolute 100% need to but some black patent pumps with a little peekaboo for my toes. Except that my toes look like roots and tubers and I can’t wear heels without programming an orthopedist’s number into my phone.
What is happening to me?
Also, this morning I noticed spots on my hand. I think the scientific term is "liver spot." Can I blame winter for that, too? Probably I need to blame too many years in the sun.
How can I be shriveling up already? I’m barely into my 30s. Things are not looking up for my 40s are they? Maybe it’s time to start being a girl and paying other people to take care of these things for me.
What happened to my hard-line age gracefully stance? It went out the window the first time I dyed my hair and the next day a door-to-door salesman asked to speak to my mom when I answered the door. Stupid, lame, see-through sales tactic, I know. And never answer the door when it’s a stranger, I know. But I still fell for it, even as I yelled at him for knocking on my door.
I’m over the gray. I’m over the tuber-toes. I’m over the liver spots. I’m turning into a pile of food only Soviet-era Russians would stand in line for.
This, my peeps, is completely unacceptable.
th-that don’t kill me
can only make me stronger
Kanye may be right
Being the old fogey that I am, I was unaware you can buy a "personal massager" (we are in Texas after all) that plugs into your iPod and gets jiggy with the beat from whatever music you get down to, so to speak.
In fact, there are apparently a bunch of "personal massagers" that do this, including one that creates vibrations not just from your iPod, but from whatever noise it picks up in the room. Hmmm. Suddenly the neighbor’s barking dog becomes even more of a nuisance. Or not. I make no judgments.
Anyway, I learned this by watching a show called Erotic Shop. It’s an infomercial/QVC knockoff that plays in the wee morning hours on the Oxygen network. I admit to not watching the whole show. I began to get lightheaded at one point.
You guys, that stuff is crazy. And, also? You can buy them via Amazon in case you have a little extra money left on that holiday gift certificate.
See what never sleeping does? You hear about magical new inventions. And also the phrase "bubble plug."
I’m pretty sure in Texas you can get arrested for just saying that.
"If you’re old enough to discuss the electoral college, you’re old enough to wipe your own butt."
He’s 5 years old and can tell you about the popular vote versus electoral vote, and yet getting him to wipe his own little smartass smart ass is impossible.
I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of connection between butt-wiping and electoral politics, but I’m too lazy right now to pursue it. There’s probably a significance to that, too.
escape hoi polloi
stay at home and yet stay smart
In a misguided effort to become more pretentious and possibly better
read, I got a subscription to Harper’s magazine. I just tried to read
some of it, and damn. Translated Nazi discussions from a prison camp, a
possibly non-fiction dialogue written in the 1940s about a stillbirth
(and other terrible, hush-hush things happening at the hands of questionable nuns), a story about a town with a full sewer system ("full" as in overflowing gunk into people’s backyards, requiring everyone to
have a septic system even though they live in the town-proper), and on and on.
Do people think writing has to be staggeringly depressing to be
edifying? Even the funny David Foster Wallace excerpt was about
a creepy baby repeatedly described as "fierce-looking."
Am I smarter now? More pretentious? Does the postman think highly of me as he delivers my Harpers? Will my friends be impressed if they see a copy of the magazine scattered across my floor? "Oh, your baby destroys Harpers… mine just demolishes Real Simple."
I’m going to guess the answer to the above questions is an emphatic No.
I’m also going to guess that I’ll be sticking to my Entertainment Weekly from now on.
Hoi Polloi unite!
hahahaha. Poor Tony. It’s hard to concentrate on holding balls when you have a crush. Wait. That came out wrong.
Now if someone can get Tony and Jessica to get their picture made in the Lennon, Yoko Rolling Stone pose THAT would make an excellent flag for a Giants fan to stick out his pickup window.
I guess weeks last longer when you’re awake for 20 of the 24 hours every day. Oh, tiny baby jesus with your tiny balled up fists, please have the wee-er one take a nap today so that I, too, can take a nap. Amen.