Archive for April, 2010

I hate working out.

I am just not one of these people who gets all freaking high and pumped on endorphins while running on the treadmill or doing fitness DVDs. In fact, it’s pretty safe to say, I hate it all.

I believe that a person should only run when being chased by a large dog with huge teeth and a scorching case of rabies.

I believe that crunches should be the sounds made by eating Chee-tos, and nothing more.

I believe that the only time a woman is meant to crawl around and repeatedly stick her leg up in the air at odd angles is during her waxing appointment.

I believe that sweating is best reserved for sex.

I believe that those leotarded, anorexic, boob-less, fitness instructors are sadists of the worst kind, and that they are the kind of women who kick puppies and pinch babies.

I believe that Gatorade tastes like dragon pee, and I believe that stopwatches and pedometers are the devil’s tools.

I realize that I am a lazy fuck, and that your mileage may vary. You may indeed be one of those people I see running by the side of the road from time to time, iPod in hand, miserable look on face, robotically pounding the pavement as if part of some twisted sort of armed forces.

I admire you. actually. I do. I think you’ve got spunk, kid. And stamina. And nice legs, too. (I am a leg woman, to be sure.)

It just ain’t me.

I would rather be kicking back at the Sox game with a beer, watching other people run and throw and catch and exercise.

I do it now, though. I do it for an hour every damned day, because if I didn’t my ass would require its own ZIP code, and my self-esteem would shoot directly down the shitter.

And it’s weird – even though I loathe it, I am starting to get a little used to it. The treadmill is starting to look a little less imposing, and the New York City Ballet Workout is starting to be a little less mocked while I am doing it.

I’m still a little on the flabby side, but who knows? Maybe eventually I will become a boobless exercise aficionado who wears leotards and who actually RUNS.

Maybe I will have abs you can bounce a quarter off of.

Maybe my butt will be so small that I can comfortably sit on a coffee cup.

Maybe my pale legs will be so muscular they will be mistaken for the David.

Then again, maybe not.

Happy Thursday.

What I am about to tell you, dear readers, may shock and amaze you. You may drop your morning coffee or your afternoon crack pipe, so put your poison down.

I…

Have…

A date on Friday.

I KNOW.

So.

I met this boy.

On the internet.

You may laugh at me now, a little. It’s OK. I know it’s sort of weird, but hey, I gave it some serious thought, and it’s not like I’m going to meet men at church (I don’t go), at the grocery store (hey baby, nice lettuce), or at bars (which I rarely go to these days), so I figured, what the hell? I signed up for an internet dating site thingy, and I got a few bites.

This particular boy seemed to be the most interesting, and we started talking, and then we talked on the phone, and hey, he didn’t seem like a serial killer/Debbie Downer/drug addict/psycho freak/religious weirdo so I thought, why not?

So we are having drinks on Friday night, and I am pretty excited about that.

I haven’t been on a date in a long damn time, y’all. I don’t know what to wear! I don’t know how to act! Plus, he is picking me up here, and I know for a solid fact that my nosey-butt son is going to answer the door.

Agh.

I am trying not to stress about it.

In other news, I have started my army-master-trainer-friend’s workout plan, and JESUS GOD I am sore. I am sore in places I didn’t know I had. He has me doing about a solid hour of workouts every day, and for this lazy girl, it’s a lot. I am hoping to see results soon, particularly in time for my Vegas trip, where I plan to go clubbing like a freak and dress like a dirty, dirty girl.

Like this dress right here? WANT.

And these shoes? Oh yeah.

Sigh. I love clothes.

Happy Wednesday.

Clearly my neurologist left his etiquette manual back in India, because he is pissing this bitch off on a regular basis.

I know that my insurance company is being billed two hundred and fifty fucking dollars per appointment, so why is it that I only am allowed thirty seconds of the neuro’s precious time?

“Hallo, Jenny-fahr, you are still passing out? You having the seizure? You having migraine? Walk for me. Walk a straight line. Hold your hand up like this. OK, I increase your medications and now we add this one, too. Goodbye.”

That’s all I get for two hundred and fifty dollars. I’m well aware that I am not paying it, but I am outraged on behalf of Medicare.

I am as Tired as Fuck of adding new medications to my already exhaustive regimen. Plus, the new one is Neurontin, one I am very familiar with because I have tried it before with lame results. The shit made me tired, tired, tired, as well as even more stupid than Topamax makes me. Pretty soon I’m going to have to buy a damned Speak and Spell if I want to continue this blog.

Did I yell? No. I didn’t even have a chance to say, “OK.” I was rushed out of that office like a bad smell and then the asshole had the audacity to spend a half an hour on the phone before writing out my prescriptions.

It’s called multi-tasking, genius. Look it up.

ARGH.

I know that he’s probably grossly overbooked, but that is not my fucking problem. That’s something that doctors’ offices do out of pure greed, and I shouldn’t receive poor care due to their avarice.

Ooh, he got me all bothered this morning.

I should write a snarky letter, but I probably won’t. Instead I will take my stupid “Morontin” and grin and bear it.

Sigh.

I would so love a doctor-free existence. It would be so choice.

In other news, the J-Man is starting algebra. I am doomed.

Happy Tuesday.

Note: While cleaning out the garage I found some old stories and such that I had printed out. Here’s a little ditty (WARNING: LONG) I wrote when I was pregnant with the J-Man. Like to hear it? Here it go…

Ah, pregnancy. The hopeful, exciting nine months in which a woman radiates with the happiness of impending motherhood. From her glowing complexion to her picturesque, rounded midriff, the pregnant woman is a vision to behold. Yes, pregnancy is a gift, a time of preparation, a time of joy.

To that I say, what have you been smoking?

I’m aware that the opinions I’m about to express are somewhat controversial. Women are supposed to grin and bear the pains of pregnancy right along with bearing the children. There are a lot of mothers who love to self-righteously declare that they have never felt better than when inhabited, and maybe they’re actually not full of shit, or under some new-baby-induced trance. And maybe I am not a very nice mommy or a good little trooper for suggesting that pregnancy is anything less than a wonderful experience. However, for those of you who have not yet taken the plunge, and especially those of you who may be seriously thinking about it, I would like to offer an honest account of what pregnancy has been like for me.

In my humble opinion, pregnancy is nature’s way of ensuring that the population will not spin wildly out of control, because surely no one in this busy day and age could bear to go through it more than say, once. Women who have, those women running around with toddlers and infants in tow, have my utmost and sincere respect; but I think that they also have a serious masochistic streak. I’m assuming that the end result must REALLY outweigh the costs, because it’s getting increasingly difficult for me to believe that anyone can survive this baby shit the first time with any amount of sanity intact.

For me, pregnancy has been a lesson in back pain, projectile vomiting, varicose veins, and abject paranoia. One of the first things that I learned (excluding the fact that it IS possible to vomit more than fifteen times a day and still gain weight) is that it is an act of mental self-mutilation to read any book about pregnancy. If you don’t spend your bloated hours living in mortal terror of rare birth defects (which are described in great detail for the delicate mother-to-be’s reading pleasure), you will become firmly convinced that every fast food meal you have every eaten, every cigarette you smoked before you knew of the impending gestation, and every drink that you may have foolishly chugged will be locked in your system, wreaking havoc on your little bundle of joy. I have an alarmingly clear mental picture of a cherubic, smiling, red-eyed infant who is holding a beer and puffing away on a cigarette. However, to ease the over-taxed pregnant little mind, these books are peppered with disclaimers:

“Even though we told you that your child will almost certainly be only three feet tall at the age of sixteen due to your filthy smoking, even though we told you that your dirty martini habit will most likely cause his SAT score to be under 300, and even though those French fries you’ve been inhaling will probably cause your child to have a third eye smack in the middle of his forehead, don’t worry about anything bad you did before you knew you were pregnant – stress isn’t good for the baby.”

Righty-O.

I discovered I was pregnant by accident, that accident being my face colliding with a wall, which landed me in an emergency clinic. After spending twenty minutes trying to convince the doctor on call that no, I was NOT a victim of domestic abuse, I was given a pregnancy test.

I thought this was stupid, because I probably just had mono.

When it came back positive, I asked for another. And then another. (Stubborn disbelief can really rack those medical bills sky-high.)

I realized that my frequent hourly sessions praying to the porcelain altar should have tipped me off, but honestly I would have been less shocked if I had been told I was harboring an alien in there, much less a baby. Hell, I used birth control. I used birth control as religiously as I drank Diet Coke, and that’s saying a lot.

I freaked, as one does when one is in that situation. Then I made my decision, and yes, it was JUST like Madonna in the Papa Don’t Preach video. Dancing and all.

Right.

Oh well, I thought. Now I know. With proper healthcare and those great, horse-sized, prenatal vitamins; I figured that I would be infused with a rosy glow by the end of the week, and the fainting and vomiting would be history.

And Mother Nature looked down at my foolish, swollen face, and laughed.

Four months later, I sit at work with saltines in hand after a cramping, puking, exhausting weekend. You can now decipher my age by counting the rings under my eyes. The girls at work have provided me with a bucket to keep under my desk, monogrammed with my name in Magic Marker. I have gained a reputation as the world’s most proficient hurler, and can now sprint from the office to the washroom and back in record time, but apparently no one at work is taking any chances.

It’s amazing what you learn being pregnant. I can insert a dehydration IV with no assistance, and I have the arms of a seasoned heroin addict. I know about things like placentas and colostrum, and I can amaze and disgust anyone who will listen to my fascinating new medical expertise.

I was once a normal young woman (sort of). I worked, I exercised, I dieted, I went to night clubs. I could pull of a short dress and a pair of platforms with aplomb, and I could shake my ass on the dance floor as well as the next girl. But I am no more. Over the past months I have morphed into this wheezing, waddling, weak-stomached THING, and I have the energy for nothing more than reading breast-feeding pamphlets and the very books that terrify me.

I think that the most important thing to come out of this experience is that I have provided my childless family members with the most effective form of birth control ever – fear. They look at me with rounded eyes while stealing all of my cool, non-pregnant clothes (leather jeans no longer hold any appeal for me – even if I could squeeze into them, I doubt I’d have the strength required to get them off) and vow, “I will NEVER go through that!”

But people are so great towards you when you’re pregnant. Really. I mean that. I find it so supportive that everyone I know has gone out and gotten a medical degree just to help me out during this difficult time. I love to listen to their ever-changing advice, and I am really looking forward to my family’s new book, What Is Making You Throw Up, coming out this fall. With all the profound theories they’ve put forth and exhaustive research they’ve done, how could it not be a huge hit?

It seems like the thing to do is to divide every waking moment, every activity, and every bite of food that goes into your mouth into two categories: What Is Good For The Baby, and What Is Not Good For The Baby.This was originally only a game for my relatives and friends to play, but I’m starting to get into the swing of things.

It’s very simple, really. Anything that you once found fun or stimulating, anything that you once were able to do easily, or anything that you once loved to eat falls into the Not Good For The Baby category.

Everything that you once found unappealing, like sitting like a lump with your feet elevated, yoga, broccoli, and tofu, is Good For The Baby.

Already I’m discovering that this kid is nothing like me. He will be a tofu-munching yoga nut, whereas I am more of a Quarter Pounder with Cheese-inhaling, dancing maniac.

Still, I guess I’ll have plenty of time to instill bad habits and dangerous hobbies over the next eighteen years.

My mother has found a new and interesting hobby since the news of my impending arrival has dropped. She scours area resale shops for the most aesthetically abhorrent maternity clothes ever to grace the human form. And while I may eventually concede and wear the very hip, grey corduroy, 70’s-revival slacks, i have warned her that anything brought into my home that has a sailor collar or is printed with little bunnies or duckies will be destroyed on sight.

I was only very recently a fashionable, club-hopping, chic kind of chick, and they will have to drag me kicking and screaming into matron mode. Fuck Good Housekeeping.

Even though I’m somewhat petrified of what the future may hold, I really am looking forward to the birth of my child. This is because I am expecting the world’s most perfect child – an angelic, non-crying, soundly sleeping, one-diaper-a-day wonder. I figure that no one, baby or not, could put someone through sheer physical hell for nine months and not make up for it later. This kid owes me. But perfect or not, I will be so relieved to have him out of me that I will be happy even if he is Rosemary’s Baby – The Sequel.

All in all, it’s been a long, strange trip.

Your biological clock may be ticking away, ladies, or perhaps it is clamoring furiously morning, noon, and night. Do yourself a favor and hit the snooze button. Enjoy your uncomplicated lives now, while you can still eat and sleep comfortably and wear a crop top. Enjoy waking up in the morning looking refreshed and ready to face the day, not like some creature that has emerged from beneath a rock.

You may look at your friends’ babies now and feel that “maternal instinct” bubbling forth like Mount Vesuvius, but when you are resting your face against the toilet for the fourth time in an hour, praying for some greater power to rescue you from your poor, swollen, confused body; you will probably look back and say, “I was insane.”

If you really feel that you’re ready, may the force be with you; but believe me, no matter how well-informed, well-read, or well-prepared you think you may be, I guarantee that you’re not. No one could be. I would like to start a pre-pregnancy training seminar to expose would-be moms to the experience ahead. I would begin by implementing a two-month course of syrup of ipecac and hallucinogenic drugs. Then, sleep deprivation and thirty-pound back weights would be introduced. That “empathy belly” thing is small potatoes. My plan would work wonders for population control.

So think carefully before you take the plunge, child-free ladies. And remember that I said all of this, too, because I’m sure that after my baby is born I’m going to follow the tradition of mothers everywhere – I’m going to lie shamelessly and tell you all what a wonderful nine months I had and how I’m dying to do it all over again as soon as humanly possible.

But please excuse me for now. I think my broccoli is coming back to haunt me, and I left my bucket at work.

Feeling marginally better today, probably because: A) I Did not shotgun three beers like I did the other night (hello, lightweight!), B) I have decided to put on my big-girl panties and stop feeling sorry for myself, and C) The J-Man looked at me this morning and said, “Are you going to start acting normal again, now?” Ouch.

So, there is all that.

Plus, I have to look at it this way. Necessity indicates that right now, I have to live in my mother’s basement. So fucking what? I have a roof over my head, I have food on the table, I have rides to the doctor, and my child has a means to get to school. I am saving money this way, and it works out well for all three of us.

I have a lot of friends, thank God, and if I don’t have a man in my life, Oh Freaking Well. I don’t need one. I’ve made it for pretty long damned stretches of time without one before, including a pretty difficult pregnancy, and I can do it now. If I need to, I can do without a man for the duration. I’d prefer not to, but I can.

Wallowing in my misfortune and moping around here like a big fat crybaby isn’t going to do me any good.

And my stepdad? He can go piss up a rope.

So.

Today I am going through the TranceCave, trying to figure out what needs to go and what could probably go with me.

This is proving to be more difficult than I thought.

The red velvet love seat I bought at a thrift store and have mad love for? Probably needs to go, but is So Damned Cute. Really.

The end tables that I refinished and painstakingly mosaic-ed? Probably need to go. But again, cute! Really cute.

The trunk that I upholstered? Definitely needs to go. Not that cute. This was a project that was not very well-thought-out and sort of hit the skids.

There is only so much room in my stepdad’s basement, and I am already buying a large cream leather sectional from my brother that is going down there, so I can’t be taking every little tchotchke I own.

It’s hard to part with some of my more well-loved crap, though. Sigh.

In other news, the J-Man’s spring break is coming to an end. I’m actually sort of sad. While this does mean I will regain control of my laptop, there will be no more long, drawn-out bagel breakfasts. No more leisurely afternoon conversations. I will once again be on my own during the day, and he will be back at school.

He’s not too thrilled about it, either.

Tomorrow morning I am having another Brunch With the Bitches, where I hopefully will not become unreasonably intoxicated on mimosas like I did last time.

Last time I was downright ridiculous.

Then it’s garage cleanin’ time, which I of course look forward to with enthusiasm previously reserved for cleaning the catbox or perhaps having my annual pelvic exam.

Happy Friday.

I am so full of fucking crap when it comes to Facebook and other forms of social media that it’s completely out of control. Let me give you an example.

My recent status was: Attacked the clearance sale at Old Navy and then had a nice dinner with the fam.

Cute, no?

Let’s fucking be real, here, shall we? Because on this page, at least, I am real.

I’ve been horribly depressed for the last two days. Here is what I really did tonight, Facebook bullshit aside: Dragged my complaining child to Old Navy to look for school shirts, wound up fighting with my mother about what size I am (she seems to believe I am four sizes bigger than I really am for reasons unknown – what, I’m not big ENOUGH?), had a tense, quiet dinner after arguing about how much we should spend for half an hour, came home to rot in front of computer since it is apparently far easier than interacting with crabby family. FML

I’m just not in the fucking mood, but damn, my Twitter and Facebook are as cheery as a bright, sunshiny day!! Whee! On Facebook and Twitter I am HAPPEEEEE!

I’m not the only one who lies. You do it, too, you merry band of miscreants. It’s called Keeping Up Appearances.

What brought on this onslaught of bad mood? I will tell you. It’s somewhat shameful to me, because it’s so damned stupid.

On Easter Sunday, I was talking about one day getting married, which is a favorite little fantasy of mine for some odd reason, even though I really just want the dress and the big party; and my stepdad looked at me and said, “I think that ship has sailed.”

“I think that ship has sailed.”

Nice, no?

I know I’m thirty-six, and I know I’m disabled, and I know I have a kid. And I know a woman who is pushing forty even without those other little treats has like, a better chance of being shanked by an angry three-legged mauve unicorn on PCP than ever walking down that aisle, but STILL. You don’t SAY that to someone! You don’t fucking SAY that to someone!

You don’t take my sad, pathetic little hopes and dreams, pipe dreams though they may be, and stomp all over them with your big fat Irish feet.

You don’t.

And I for some reason got this into my head last night, while I was having a few beers, and I started to cry, and then I REALLY started to cry, and well, the rest is history. I wound up listening to Sufjan Stevens all night on my iPod (Sufjan is great, but not when you are sobbing), and crying myself to sleep, convinced that I was destined to be alone, living in my mama and stepdad’s basement, a fucking lifelong loser.

Today pretty much continued on in that vein. I am going to die alone, nobody loves me, everybody hates me, guess I’ll go eat worms. FML.

I’m having a hard time snapping out of it, I’ll be honest with you. Because let’s face it, not much is going to change anytime soon. I’m still going to be living in my parents’ fucking basement, on disability, stuck in the house, unable to drive or go anywhere save my twice-a-year internet vacations and rare forays into the outside world, lonely as fuck, bored, and angry to boot.

I’m working on certain things. I’m continuing to lose weight, that feels good. I have friends who thankfully visit a lot, that’s something.

I’m just scared by the possibility of being that old maid in the basement, man. That crazy cat lady.

That fucking scares the shit out of me.

I, too, would like to have someone. I, too, miss the companionship, the fun, the tenderness.

And of course, the sex.

So, I’m sort of sad today. It’s a bummer to think about. Generally I am able to ignore all the repercussions of my illness and put on a moderately happy face and smile for the camera and all of that precious bullshit, but for the past couple of days, it’s been rough.

But on Facebook? On Facebook I’m fucking fabulous. Just ask me.

Happy Thursday.

Yesterday we tackled the coal room.

My house is indeed old enough to have a coal room. This is sort of a strange house. It’s very tiny, but very detailed. There are built-in china cabinets, and the hall closets have French doors. There are laundry chutes, and closets of all kinds in the basement, including a large room that used to be used to store coal.

For the past ten years or so, it has been a catch-all room to store baby pictures, old prom dresses, afghans, and the bodies of my unfortunate ex-boyfriends.

Needless to say, it was filled from floor to ceiling.

I spent the better part of the day hauling large boxes of crap, old lamps, the old broken rocking chair, and everything else you could think of out to the alley, and Lord, the garbage men probably hate us today.

My back is on fire. I could seriously use a massage. Preferably by a large shirtless muscular man named Sven.

In other news, the J-Man slept over at the kid from down the street’s house last night. I was nervous about this for two reasons.

One, the kid has an older brother who likes to call the J-Man “a motherfucking homo”. Nice, no? Sort of makes your heart smile. This is the same kid that frequently comes over to ask whether he can download free music on my computer. Guess what my answer is.

Two, the house can best be described as a roach’s wet dream. There is food out on every available surface, which is just….ew. And I know my kid. If he saw a roach he would come barreling home at top speed without so much as a “see ya”.

As well he should. I would, too.

Why did I let him go? Because he begged, and I am a bit of a pushover this week because it’s Spring Break. Plus, I wanted to see how he would react. He made it through the night, but my guess is that he will be home before nine this morning, wanting a good (clean) breakfast.

In other news, not much is up besides moving prep, hence the boring entries. Apologies.

Happy Wednesday.

I’m having a seriously shitty morning, one full of massive food regret.

Thanks to my stomach condition I am not supposed to eat red meat, but that of course did not stop me when faced with a delicious fresh spiral ham and fresh polish and sauerkraut. I can only be so strong, people. I mean, HAM, for God’s sakes. HAM!

I love ham a little too much, maybe. And I ate a LOT of it.

Anyway, said ham sent me into a massive bout of puking yesterday, which of course made me unable to take my seizure medication, which of course made me have seizures all fucking night, which in turn made me question my sanity at choosing HAM over my health, which made me pretty much hate myself this morning, and add to that the fact that I am not losing weight as quickly as I would like because I have been stuffing chocolate in my face at an alarming rate, and there you have it: Shame Spiral. Just like the ham.

And of course I am not working out, because I am sore from the seizures and crabby from all of this, so instead I am sitting around watching TV like a lump on a log and periodically cleaning a bit of the garage.

And it’s all my own damned fault, because I ate ham.

Oh pork products, why must you tempt me so? WHY?

Anyway, I am a big crabby bitch today, and I have nothing else of consequence to say.

Happy Tuesday.

Easter at my house was…. flipping insane, as per usual.

I woke up to find that my mother had actually made my thirty-six-year-old self an EASTER BASKET, complete with Swedish fish, Cadbury eggs, and Borders gift cards. Who does that? My mom. I am spoiled.

The J-Man enjoyed his Easter Basket for a brief moment, and then it was back to Destroy All Organisms or Blow The Shit Up Out Of Everything or Die, Motherfucker or whatever computer game has recently caught his fancy. Sigh. Another era gone by.

This year, I was the one bouncing up and down, all hopped up on sugar, wanting to dye eggs.

We did that after going to church, and of course I had to trade a hambone for some vinegar with my neighbor because I hadn’t thought to buy any (this also guarantees that I will get homemade soup – score).

After that, the J-Man and I hid twenty-five small plastic eggs filled with candy and loose change in the back yard for my sister’s kids to find. (My sister’s kids are one, five, and three, so we had to make it fairly easy, damn it, or I would have been putting those eggs up in trees.)

My sister rolled in just as dinner was on the table, and we had a nice dinner with my stepdad in which nobody talked about farts or poop. In my house, this is remarkable.

I ate some of the spiral ham, which will certainly come back to haunt me, but it was the best fucking ham I ever ate, so there.

After dinner my father showed up for dessert.

You might think it strange that my stepfather and father could coexist, and well, it is strange. My stepfather is a somewhat quiet Irish guy who is a sports aficionado that likes to watch Amish movies on the Hallmark channel. My dad is a loud, bombastic crazypants who likes to sing rap songs at karaoke and who goes out dancing five nights per week.

There is some tension, but my stepdad generally hides it well.

All of this cracks my sister and I up, and yesterday was great in particular because my mom and dad started talking about B96.

B96 is a radio station here in Chicago that plays rap and R&B, and it is the preferred station of both my dad and the J-Man (which says a lot), so my mom, my dad, and the J-Man know all the current rap songs that are given radio play.

So my dad, while eating his peppermint ice cream, starts to sing TI’s Dead and Gone.

My mom starts to sing along. The J-Man starts harmonizing from the back bedroom. My sister is practically in tears, laughing. My stepdad is sitting on the other end of the couch, slowly turning purple, and I am shaking my head.

They went through about five more songs this way – rappers I have not heard of and songs I never wanted to know (I am an old school kind of girl). By the end of their repertoire, my stepdad excused himself to go outside and smoke a cigarette.

My dad announced his plans to build some kind of five-hundred dollar slow steak-cooker, and abruptly left, shouting all the way.

It was… interesting.

Later on, the kid from down the street came over, just as I had finished doing a spot-on imitation of the kid from down the street, and none of us could stop laughing.

I am definitely going to hell for making fun of a child.

The kids were wild, and at one point my darling son was wielding a fake blood-covered machete at the three-year old, trying to scare him to death (it worked), but I think everyone had a good time.

I know my rapping father did, at least.

How was YOUR holiday?

Thank you, to those of you who humored me with your loss-of-virginity stories – you were great sports!

I am going to assume that the rest of you are all virgins, and therefore you should probably not be reading this blog. Heh.

It’s Spring Break! YEAH! I’m gonna go down to Cabo, take my shirt off, drink some tequila, get a tan, and…

…obviously I’m dreaming. Especially about the tan part. I am tan-resistant.

What I am going to do is clean the motherfucking basement and the garages. The J-Man is probably going to play video games and invite every little yard-ape within a five-mile radius over here.

“Mom, are we going on vacation?”
“No.”
“But it’s Spring Break.”
“So?”
“Everyone at my school is going to like, Florida.”
“That’s because everyone at your school is rich.”
“Yeah. I want to go to Florida, though.”
“Maybe this summer we can go.”
“I hate being poor.”
“We’re not poor. We’re just not rich.”
“Which makes us poor.”
“We’re middle-class.”
“Poor.”
“You see things in black and white. There are shades of grey.”
“We don’t have cell phones. We’re POOOOR!”

So, I guess we’re poor.

I have to tell you what happened yesterday when the J-Man came home from school. I was standing in the kitchen, doing the dishes, and he burst in the door, bawling, “MAHM!!! I GOT SUSPENDED!!”

“WHAT?? FOR WHAT??”
“For fighting.” *sob* “With Kyle.”
“WHY?”
“He called me a homo-” *sob* “-and I punched him.”
“WHAT? How long are you suspended for??”
“SIX DAYS-APRIL FOOOOOOOLS!!!”

Oh, MAN.

He was SOBBING, I tell you. The kid had me going. It was some Academy Award material, for sure.

Now I’m never going to believe him when he cries, ever ever again.

Never. Choke on that, you little punk.

Heh.

I still can’t believe he got me.

Happy Spring Break. Get a tan for me.