50 Shades:  Light Grey

Previously Posted on April 20, 2012

3

I’m not really in a position to critique or criticize EL James’ writing style. I believe she has admitted in interviews that she makes no claim to be a great author. She gave writing a shot and it took off. In that, alone, I am jealous. Besides, she spins a good story. All kidding aside, I truly enjoyed the story. Additionally, I’m a sucker for a brooding, protective, attractive, unattainable man who falls for a plain-but-plucky-girl story.

While James’ main character, Anastasia (Ana), uses the word ‘crap’ 93 times in the first book and her face flushes approximately 113 times, this review will focus on the raw, hot sex rather than the redundancy of her language. Jokes have been made that women across all nations are reading these books with one hand under the blankets. I know you know what I’m saying, here. And it’s true. The sex is hot… fairly mythical… but hot, nonetheless.

Let’s get this party started…

Christian and Ana’s first passionate kiss in an elevator was a fantastic metaphor for their relationship.  Ground floor - hot kissing.  Fly to the top.  Plummet to the ground. The way Christian exclaimed “Oh, fuck the paperwork” and lunged at Ana all hot and bothered… well, that was pretty hot and bothersome.

Sometimes when I’m in an elevator, Jefe farts and then laughs. Not the same outcome.  

Moving right along… let’s address Ana’s ‘first time’. Once she revealed to Christian that she was still a virgin (at the ripe old age of 21), he declared it was time to rectify her situation.

Romantic.

“Ana, I’m going to make love to you, now.”

If I were a 21-year old virgin and an older, hot Adonis coolly stated that he was going to make love to me right now, I can almost guarantee I’d piss myself with nervous laughter. Frankly, the whole “let’s make love” statement has always made me giggle uneasily. Who says that in real life? “Oh, El Jefe! Make love to me! Make sweet, sweet love to me!” Were you able to read that without feeling embarrassed for me? Yeah. Me, neither.

Eventually, he stripped her of all her clothes and lies on his bed. Read that, again.  He stripped her of all HER clothes and then HE lies on his bed.  Cuz that's not awkward, at all.  Then he implored her to show him how she pleasures herself.

Dude! Come on. Really? She’s a 21-year old virgin who has never had a boyfriend. My guess is a) she hasn’t explored that pastime, yet or b) she’s not comfortable rubbing one out in front of you. Do you really think she’s gonna be like, “Well, first I lick my fingers like this…”.

Christian… buddy… it’s not like she’s showing you how she ties her shoes, for chrissakes.

Stay with me, reader. It just keeps getting better.

Next up: Baby’s First Climax.

Christian wants to see if he can make Ana climax purely by nipple stimulation.

Hahahahahaha…. Good luck, there, big guy!

Guess what happens?

She comes.

No.  Really.  She does. 

Are you fucking kidding me??!! Hold. On. Listen, I know she’s wanton, wound up, and turned on… but orgasm through nipple stimulation ONLY… her first time out the gates? No. I’m not buyin’ that shit.

So, he’s just made her come by tweaking her nips and now he’s moving downward. She’s just had her first orgasm and she says to herself, “Jeez.”

Yeah. She’s 21. Climaxing her brains out with a hot billionaire and the best she can come up with (no pun intended) is “jeez”. Can I get a “holy fuck” up in here, please? “Jeez” just doesn’t capture the essence of the moment, Ana!

Once she’s all wet and jazzed up he slides on a condom and goes for the gold. While he’s on… like… thrust number 4, she feels a warmth build inside her.

WHAT?!? No! NO! NO NO No no no nonononononoooooo! You are a 21-year old virgin! You do NOT get to orgasm via vaginal intercourse like it’s an everyday occurrence! I do not allow it! I forbid you to come! On behalf of hard working women everywhere, I command you to turn this ship around!

“Come for me, Ana,” he whispers breathlessly…

Aaaaaaaaaand she does.

Do you have any idea how many experienced women cannot do that? For many (dare I say ‘most’) women, it takes practice and technique to pull that feat off. And this skinny little shit pops em’ out like a fucking PEZ dispenser! Pull her head back and she comes. Just. Like. That.

Just minutes after he finished, she wants to go again; and Christian is ready. Bam! Condom. Entry. Orgasm. Take III.

My first time lasted about 30 seconds and I distinctly remember saying (out loud), “That’s it?  I waited 19 years for that?”

But I’m not bitter, or anything.

Let’s recap:

• 21-year old virgin
• 1st ever orgasm reached via twisting and tugging on nipples
• 1st ever sexual intercourse results in orgasm #2
• Man is ready to hit it again within seconds, resulting in orgasm #3
• THIS IS HER FIRST SEXUAL ENCOUNTER EVER

Seems legit.

Their next rendezvous (the following morning) occurs in his bathtub. They don’t have The Sex in there, but he does showcase his manual dexterity. Sitting behind her, he slooooowly washes her shoulders… back… neck…. collar bone…. breasts.

Then he heads further down, washing and massaging her thighs. He stops and applies more liquid soap to the wash cloth and heads right for …

What?! No! You can’t apply and RUB that shit right into her cucaracha! What the fuck?! Why don’t you just pour a packet of quick-rise yeast right up in there, while you’re at it, too, man!?

I winced when I read that cuz I know how that ends in the real world. I just know, okay? Let’s leave it at that.

He stops short of completing orgasm #4 (but who’s counting). Some other stuff is said… blah, blah, blah… and she blows his mind. Really. She deep-throats the guy with nary a gag reflex.

Oh come on! Now she’s just making me look bad. If he’s that far down her throat, how the hell is she breathing? And he’s still in the tub? Isn’t she drowning?! Lift your head, Ana! Breathe!

You may be thinking to yourself, “Wow, B! Sounds to me like you’re jealous.”

You know, I’d love to lie around effortlessly orgasming all day, but I gots shit to do.  So how 'bout you step off, bra!

-B(Sting)

Elf on The Shelf

Elf on The Shelf: Mini-Man or Myth?

Previously Posted on December 5, 2012

Before I launch into my Christmas tale of deceit and heartbreak, I must first confess that I am incapable of telling an effective lie. It’s not that I “won’t” lie. In fact, I would not hesitate to look you right in the eyes and spin a bold-faced lie in the name of self-preservation. The reality is that I “can’t” lie. I get all twitchy and babbly and nervous. My liar-skillz are pitiful. I am, however, really good at finding a loophole and then capitalizing on it. Here’s an example:
Q: “B, does this dress make my butt big?”
A: “What? No! That’s preposterous!”
Loophole: A dress cannot make a butt big. Fat makes a butt big.
(I did not tell a lie. I exploited a loophole.)

A well-crafted question, however, can paint me into a corner and I’ll have no choice than to spill the truth. But be forewarned, if you don’t want to hear the truth; you better not ask me. Observe:
Q: “B, does my butt look fat in this dress?”
A: “Yes”
Loophole: None could be found fast enough. Panic ensues. Cannot think of a crafty response. Point-blank truth is slammed in questioner’s face. Relationship is irreparable. Why the hell would you ask me a question like that? Don’t pretend you don’t already know the answer!! Now I gotta feel bad cuz you’re a fishing dumbass… who looks fat in that dress!!

Remember this as I recount the story of how I broke two little girls’ hearts just weeks before Christmas.

‘Twas the weekend after Thanksgiving, when all through house, not a creature was stirring – because we were all laying around in carb comas with pie feeding tubes hooked up to our mouths.

And then HRH (Her Royal Highness – age 8) perks up, “OH my goodness! I haven’t found Noel, yet!”

Noel is our Elf on the Shelf. The night after Thanksgiving, he’s supposed to make his grand appearance. And then each nite, he’s supposed to move, get into mischief, write letters, and all sorts of other ridiculous shit. Of course, like everything else that requires attention to detail, I suck at making sure Noel stays on task; but, for the past several years, I had successfully sold the magic (translation: lied to my impressionable, young daughter).

Note the use of the word “had”…

A few weeks ago, HRH had a sleep-over. I don’t know why I agree to these things. Nothing good EVER comes from them. EVER! The event that ensued is a prime example of why sleep-overs should be banned (and I should be kept away from all children during the holidays).

The morning after the sleep-over, HRH finds Noel and giddily (that’s a word, right?) points him out to her friend. Then she recounts all the crazy spots he’s gotten himself into over the years. Meanwhile, I beam with pride over another successfully delivered lie. Maybe I AM getting better at lying? The girls go upstairs and disappear into the playroom. A few moments later, they solemnly walk downstairs, HRH leading the assault…

“Mom, do YOU move Noel??”

Oh, God. It’s show time! I can do this. I can do this. I can’t do this.

“What? Why would you ask me that?”

‘What?’ is how I always start my lie-prep. It buys me time.

“I don’t know. Just answer the question.”

“Do you want the truth? You know if you ask me a question, I will always tell you the truth. And sometimes you’re not ready for the truth. But you ask for it, anyways.”

This is my shifty way of pinning onus onto an 8 year old. I never claimed to be a qualified parent.

“I want the truth.”

So we lock eyes while I think. This is all happening too fast. I didn’t have anything prepared for this line of questioning. I didn’t think I needed to be prepared, yet. Just seconds ago, she was all in! And then it occurs to me that she WAS, indeed, all in just a minute ago. What changed? Did her (older) friend tip her off? The older friend in-the-know is kind of a (welcomed) rite of passage. Is it possible the friend just made all future holiday seasons exponentially easier and less stressful?

“Yes. I move the elf. I always have. In fact, The Elf on The Shelf was created by an author right here, in our hometown…”

I sang like a bird. I revealed everything. The words flooded out of my mouth like rotavirus-induced vomit. I think I even told them how much the little fucker cost!

As I slowed and the words emptied, I began to notice… not one… but TWO fallen faces! Whoa! No, no, no, no, no… Oh GOD! What’s going on, here?! Was this a set-up? Did I have it all wrong? HRH teared up and the friend was dead-pan – like she was in shock. Should I have her lie down and elevate her feet? What did I just do? Godammit!! WHY do people continue to entrust me with children?! WHY???? Even pill bottles know better and print it right on their labels: ‘Keep away from children’.

Like any good mom, I shifted the blame to the kids, “Why would you ask me that if you knew I was going to tell you the truth???”

Alright. It was time to clean up my mess. I loaded the kids into the car and headed toward Dunkin’ Donuts. Times like these call for vodka or fried sugar. Even I knew it was too early in the morning to serve vodka to the girls, so donuts it was. We talked about how we all felt about this turn of events… sort of like counseling after a terrorist attack. I offered other possibilities (AKA, back-pedaling) such as: maybe he still IS magical and reports back to Santa? I mean, I’m not the Christmas Elf Authority. What do I know? I’m merely mortal.

And then the friend threw the BIG question up to me, “Is there a Santa?”

LOOPHOLE!

“Yes! There is a Santa! Here are your donuts. Eat up. Eat! EAT!”

For the love of God, just eat the fucking donuts! Cram them all in your mouths and stop asking me questions!!

Did you pick up on the loophole? My response was not a lie. There IS a Santa. There are zillions of Santas… in the mall, at breakfast with Santa, in people’s front yards… they’re tangible and real!

I knew I had to make contact with the friend’s mom before her daughter. While it’s true I am a generally shitty friend, I do always try to apologize for being a shitty friend. So I texted the mom. I confessed to blowing the lid off the whole Elf spiel and ruining Christmas for her entire family. I considered buying all their Christmas presents to make up for it, but then I decided a load of crappy gifts would not be consoling, at all (gift-giving is another one of those things at which I suck. You know what? I just suck. Period. I’ve accepted it. You should, too.)

The mom was actually pretty cool about it… or her anger was masked by the texting medium. I was too ashamed and afraid to ask.

But then there was this beautiful Christmas miracle provided by the girl’s father. It was brilliant! It saved Christmas for them… for us… for the entire world!

After I delivered the now-damaged and scarred child back to her parents, the girl told her dad what I revealed to them. And without hesitation, do you know what he told her?

“You know, some elves are just lazier than others.”

OH MY GOD!!! That’s IT! THAT’S the line that saves Christmas! It makes perfect sense! Of course our elf is lazy! Have you been paying attention to what kind of person I am, at all?! Yes! I’M lazy… and so is our elf!

So I latched on like a tick and ran with it, “Babe, your friend’s father mentioned something about this whole elf fiasco that kinda makes sense. What if Noel is lazy and I just need to stop moving him? Do you think if we let him stop getting away with being lazy, he’ll eventually get off his butt and move himself?”

HRH’s eyes lit up. SCORE! TOUCHDOWN! MOM WINS! MOM WINS! WE’RE GOING TO THE SUPERBOWL!!!

“That’s it, Mama! That’s got to be it! Don’t move him and let’s see what happens!”

So days went by and the elf moved nary an inch… until one day, honest-to-God, he was in a different spot. I speak the truth!

El Jefe (the husband) is a God-send!

HRH came downstairs for school and squealed with sheer delight. Noel had moved and he was REAL!

HRH is no fool, but she apparently had not learned her lesson about asking questions and getting answers from me, “Mama! Did YOU move Noel?”

Loooooooophooooooole, baby!

“Nope! I did NOT move Noel!”

I didn’t. El Jefe did. HA! Take that, suckas!!!!

Nowadays, El Jefe is in charge of Noel placement. Sometimes he moves, usually he doesn’t… and he certainly doesn’t get into the creative, funny mischief that he used to get into when I was in charge. But it works because we all understand that our elf is a lazy-ass motherfucker.

God bless us, everyone, and have a happy holiday season!
Xoxo
-B

Nothing to See Here

I live in a very tight-knit community of about 2,000 homes.  Everybody knows everybody... or they at least 'know of' everybody.  The 'hood is laid out on a 2-mile circle.  We often refer to it as "The Circle".  Catchy, don't you think?  My point, here, is that nothing gets in or out of The Circle without The Circle's media team being alerted.  And with the help of all the high tech social networking like Twitter and Facebook, news travels faster than the speed of light. 

Stay with me.  I AM going somewhere with this vein of thought...

Near The Circle are various shopping venues:  drug stores, grocery stores, Target, Walmart, the mall.  All 2,000+ of us shop at these venues, so of course, we run into each other everywhere.  While this 'close-knit-community' thing is awesome for gossip friendships, partying, helping others in need, emergency situations, etc; the 'close-knit-community' thing is not awesome for discretion, weight gain, public drunkenness, slovenly hygiene habits, and the like.  Running to the store to pick up a few things can be tricky... and very public... 

... Like this one time (at band camp?) after a children's birthday party:  I started my period (There!  I said it!  I am a 39-year old woman who gets her period and I am not ashamed!!).  After the party, I made a mad dash to the local drug store to stock up on the necessary paraphernalia - 1 pallet of super maxi pads, 3 boxes of tampons (w/ varying levels of absorbency - stop the gagging, boys.  If we have to endure it, you can at least know how the mess works!), and 2 boxes of panty liners (1 for full-coverage panties and 1 for thong-style panties).  TMI?  Get over it.  I had to.

You don't have to be a mathematician to figure out the odds of me running into someone I know (2,000+ people in a neighborhood; I know approximately 60% of the 2,000; the drugstore is less than 2 miles away from the neighborhood; which train will arrive first?).   As I make my way to the cash register (conveniently located at the front of the store), my arms overflowing with menstrual management items, I run into a friend - the FATHER of one of the kids from the birthday party WE were just attending.  I couldn't hide that stack of boxes!  And a woman carrying 36 boxes decorated with giant flowers does not blend.  So I made a flash decision to own my womanhood and not be embarrassed by my purchase.  The father (I shall call him Brian... cuz, you know, that's his name) stops to say hi to me.  His eyes never drop below my eyes.  He was clearly making every effort to 'not notice' the giant, flowering tower of pads and rods.  He was such a gentleman as he commented on the birthday party, what he was there to pick up, how fun the party was, blah blah blah.  I stood there, chatting with Brian, as if I was holding a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread.  Nothing to see here.  Just keep moving along.  The encounter at the counter was great for party conversations, tho.  Yes it was. 

Speaking of my period (no, I'm not done with this topic, yet.  I've got a good 10 years till I'm done with this topic), I was recently a little over a week 'late'.  Panic ensued and I ran to the local grocery store to pick up a pregnancy test.  Why the grocery store and not the drug store?  I dunno.  Gun shy, maybe?  But I also needed bananas, milk, and bread.  Remember the word problem I presented earlier?  Same outcome.  I ran into many friends and acquaintances AND the town gossip.  You bet your sweet ass I covered that CLEARLY MARKED box with a bunch of bananas!  "Heeeeey friends and neighbors (and gossip girl)!  Yeah, ran outta bananas and milk!  Yes, yes.  I'm good.  You?  Good?  Good.  Great.  Wellllllll..... gotta go!"

You know what else I catch myself doing?  Heading for the checkout line with a female cashier (preferably an older woman) when I have girlie things in my cart.  My checkout hierarchy goes something like this:  1) older woman; 2) any-aged woman 3) older man 4) any-aged man 5) teenage girl 6) abandon my cart and leave the store 7) teenage boy.  You know, I'm just not in the mood to watch some pimply teenage boy smirk at my cart full of girlie stuff.

While I have you, I have a confession to make (yes, another one).  I have been wanting to try that new his/hers KY liquid stuff (cuz I'm a 39-year old woman who has THE SEX with my husband!  I know!!!  I'm livin' on the edge ovah here).  But for months, I have not dropped it into my cart and purchased it for fear of who I may run into or how far down the checkout chain of command I will get by the time I'm ready to pay.  I've ran the scenarios through my head at all the different stores with all the different checkout person options.  Finally, I decided to own my womanhood (again) and just buy the damned stuff!  Checkout person, friends, and gossip-girl be damned!  I am woman, watch me pay for his and hers lubricant!  (It's still in the box, by the way.  The negative pregnancy test and flowering tower of menstrual items took precedence)

-B(Sting)

Build-A-Blog

Staying true to my (lazy) self, I dropped off the face of the blog Earth, again.  D'oh!  Truth be told, I don't really have anything insightful or funny to write about.  It's not a writer's block, per se... it's a writer's 'nothing-interests-me-enough-to-sit-down-and-write'. This is where you come in.


Help me build a blog.  Give me something to write about.  What do you want to read about?  What makes you laugh?  What pisses you off (besides me begging you to do my work for me)?  Gimme a topic.  Or gimme a title.  Gimme a sentence... or even just  a sentence fragment.  Gimme a reason to live, for the love of God!  Gimme what you got and I'll roll with it.  Let's see where this trick goes.  Throw pieces at me and let's see if I can throw something back.  Ever heard of Odyssey of the Mind?  This could be like Blogyssey of the Mind!  

Who knows.  You and me, we could be starting a new trend in blogging.  OMG!  We are pioneers!  Ready?  GO!!


 -B (Sting)

Hello. My Name is B and I'm a Peanut Butteraholic

I recently read a fitness blog that really made me mad. Then it made me think. Then it made me empowered.  It was a well-written post about personal accountability as it relates to fitness and fitness goals.  In a nutshell, it said (and I'm paraphrasing, here), 'Stop bitching about your weight if you're not going to stop filling your pie hole with bacon double cheeseburgers!'

I don't think any of those actual words were in her post, but that was the message I got.

At first I thought, "What the hell?!  Who do you think you are, calling me out like that?!  Not all of us are super-hero-fitness-icons who can spend countless hours at the gym, little missy!!".

Of course, we don't know each other and she doesn't even know I read her blog because I happened upon it while stalking someone else's FB profile.  But I was pretty sure she was writing TO ME! 

Do you ever get that feeling that an article is written to you?  YOU!  I knew she was addressing me because I complain of every pitfall, sin, and excuse she wrote about. I bitch about working out till my legs snap off at the knees and then lament about why I can't 'seem' to lose this 10 lbs... While I shovel peanut butter in my mouth in a cool, dark, pantry.  I marvel at other people's muscles and physiques and then fail to 'find time' to work my own muscles.  It was as if she's been standing behind me, listening to me cry in my bottle of wine for years!! 

Every sentence she wrote - I queued up a solid, steadfast retort that was sure to justify my actions... Until I read the next sentence she wrote where she shot down my excuse with a more superior rebuttal. "Damn her!  I know she's wrong. Somewhere in here, somehow... She's WRONG!!  I need to step away from this and come up with a doosie!" (Is that how it's spelled?)

So I stepped away. I thought. I dissected. I came up empty-handed. I finally accepted that she was right. It was like a condensed 12-step program. I kinda felt like I needed to apologize to her or something. Isn't that one of the steps? 

She was right about consequences, owning my actions and the reactions, controlling myself, blah blah blah.

But it's sooooooo haaaaaard to doooooo!!!! (Yes, I'm whining!) 

When that peanut butter, cake, or french bread calls to me; it sings so sweetly.  It promises me salvation. The peanut butter whispers in my ear, "It's okay, baby. I'm NATURAL peanut butter. I'm not gonna hurt you."

How do I fight that?  Keep my eye on the prize?  Visualize the attained goal?  Don't buy the shit in the first place? 

Whatever. I feel more empowered as I look my sins in the eyes and 'admit I have a problem'. 

Sometimes I'm successful and walk away from the bad options.

Sometimes Satan the peanut butter, cake, and warmbutterycrunchychewy french bread wins.

So. My response?  She's right. I'm human. I'll keep trying. I'll tone down the whining (somewhat).

Interested in reading her very good blog and then feeling like you've been called out but ultimately knowing she's right?  Here's a link to it. (Hopefully, I'm allowed to link to her blog):  Pride

-B(Sting)

Face Value

"Are you on Facebook?  Me, too.  I'll look you up when I get home and friend you!"

The Facebook frenzy has taken hold and I love it!  My alarm clock goes off at 5:45am, signaling the start of another school day.  But before I can start my day, I reach for the BlackBerry to read the status updates.  I know exactly where I can stop scrolling/reading -  at the last update I read last nite before I fell asleep. Check my notifications, comment where applicable, and I'm ready to swing my legs out of bed and rouse Dot from her slumber. 


I live for and through my friends' status updates (and pictures, wall posts, videos, links, etc).  I feel closer to people than I ever did 'in person' because I know them more.  I can read them.  Not just their updates but them! I can learn a lot about a person by how they write and what they write.  It's almost like reading their journals (with their permission, of course).  

My personal Facebook philosophy is such that I friend only those people whom I am interested in stalking.  And let's be very clear about something... if you are my FB friend, I am stalking you (in a non-threatening way).  Don't pretend you don't like it.  I know you do.  I do, too.  You... we... are perfectly normal.  There's a little voyeur in all of us. Which is one of the reasons FB is so popular, in my (unprofessional) opinion.  We want our friends to know us without having to say, "Yo!  I want you to know me!"  And this is why the FB Status Update has gone viral. 

At dinner, tonite, my brother-in-law noted that he didn't have the usual catch-up questions and conversation starters because he already knew from my daily updates how the family is doing, how work is going, and even how the weather has been.  But this wasn't necessarily a bad thing.  We did not all sit at the restaurant in silence and awkwardly stare at each other.  In fact, the updates became the conversation kindling!  I suspect this is the case for many people.

"Did you read Lou's update about..."
"Oh my GOD!  YES!  Did you see what Jane commented???"
"No!  I had to do something more important but less fun get to work!  What did she say?"

And before you know it, you're talking about topics that actually have your undivided attention rather than mundane commentary about the freakish snowfall, wishing Spring would spring, and blah, blah, blah.

Once, a friend posted that she was waiting at the doctor's office.  One of her friends asked if she was pregnant.  BAM!  VIRUS LAUNCHED!  Not a menacing computer trojan virus.  I'm talking about the update/comment virus!  Before she could get back to her Facebook page and catch up, friends were swarming all over the possible pregnancy.  Congratulatory comments were flying.  Comments of surprise flooded the thread.  Her own family was wondering what the hell was going on in that girl's uterus!  And when she did (finally) sign on, she saw the wildfire that she had to put out.  No, she wasn't pregnant.  She was at the pediatrician with her child, waiting to see the doc.  Nothing more. 

Our Facebook words do not get lost in the ether of space.  Not long ago (today), I updated (ranted) about the Face Book Fan Page phenomenon.  I wondered (in writing) what their purpose was, how many fans justify a page, and (most importantly) why didn't I have any fans?  In response, a friend created a fan page for me.  It was a joke, but it was so awesome!  My friends hopped on the fanwagon and posted on the wall and I felt like a celebrity for a few hours!  Soon, however, I realized fan pages do have a purpose for businesses or (real) celebrities with zillions of actual fans.  While I like to pretend I'm a celebrity, the reality is I don't really have a need for a legitimate fan page.  And my 'fans' were already my FB friends with whom I maintain a 2-way dialogue.  I could never handle having fans.  I want to have friends.  So we deleted the page and I got over myself. 

My point is that people are reading what we write, they do care, and our Facebook pages are being taken at face value.  Some have complained (myself included) that FB is a time-waster.  But the more I think about it, the more I feel like it's not a waste of time at all.  It makes us feel good, cheers us up when we need it, makes us laugh, and most importantly... it keeps us connected. 

Do you consider these things time-wasters?

-B(Sting)

Come To My Window

Being a mom has put me in touch with my inner paranoid schizophrenic.  Or maybe just getting older has done this to me?  No matter.  It's done.

Not long ago (or maybe it was long ago, but my obsession keeps this event fresh and new) our house was egged.  Not once... but twice in 1 week.  It terrified my young daughter because she couldn't understand why someone would do that to us.  Did they hate us?  Were they trying to hurt us?  And if so, why with eggs... a healthy source of protein?

When I realized how much she internalized the egging and how much it upset her, it was game on for me.  I was livid.  Of course I knew it was some "punk" showboating for his/her friends, it  wasn't personal (most likely?), and they clearly didn't value the health benefits of eggs.  I was so pissed off that since then, I have developed bionic ears.  I can hear and sense punks a mile away (or so I think).

My bionic ears kicked in at 3am last nite (I know I should say "this morning", here... but it doesn't feel right).  I heard the iron gates of our fenced backyard creak outside my bedroom window.  Remember Jaime Sommers from the Bionic Woman and how she'd push her long blonde hair back, cup her hand around her bionic ear, and lean in a little to hear things miles away?

 
That was me!  I strained to hear the source or some follow-up sounds.  Then I (thought) I heard the gravel shift a little on the path that leads from the gate into the backyard.  "Mother-F'in PUNKS!  I will beat your asses!!!"

I slinked out of the bed and crouched down real low.  Didn't wanna tip em' off that I was on to them, right?!  I was like Hidden Dragon Crouching Tiger... or Crouching Dragon Hidden Tiger... or Crouching Middle-Aged Woman Hidden Mental Issues... whatever!  You get my point.  I was STEALTH!  I slooooooowly pushed the sheer aside and peeeeeered out the side of the window.  My face pressed against the glass, my hands cupped around my eyes to eliminate the glare; and then I heard it....

Nothing.  No "Shhhh!  Shhhhh!  She'll hear you!"  No movement in the shrubbery.  I strained my eyes to activate my super-human night vision.  Still nothing.

Well, I did see something, actually.

I saw the reflection of a pathetic, paranoid woman behaving like Gladys Kravitz, the nosy busy-body neighbor on Bewitched.  "ABNER!  I heard something out there!!!"

Ashamed, I went back to bed.  "Oh my God!  I'm SUCH AN IDIOT!!!  They're not going to LET me see them!"

-B(Sting)

Short and Sweet

No, no.  Not me.  I'm not short and sweet.  I'm tall and more than a little bitter.  I'm referring to websites, this time.  I think I suffer from internet-induced ADD (no 'H', tho.  I'm not hyperactive.  Hyperactivity assumes there is at least activity). 

I feel calm and at peace when I am visiting a website that is fairly linear.  I can start at the top and work my way down.  Then I can look at happy little tabs from left to right.  I don't need a map to get around or a stack of post-it notes to remind me where I was or where I may want to go, next.  If there are too many links and branches, I get lost and over-stimulated and eventually shut down the whole damned computer. 

Does this ever happen to you?

Scene:  You're at your computer, looking at a website or reading an article.  You're calm, relaxed, reading.  And then there is a sentence or a word that is blue and underlined right in the middle of what you're reading.  Oh, you know what that is.  It's A LINK!  The anxiety starts to build a little bit.  What should you do?  What should you do?  Finish reading what you've started?  You know you want to get to the end of what you're reading.  But that blue, underlined text taunts you.  "Click me!  Click me!  Here I am!  Click me!  Click here!!!  Hey!  Hey!  HEEEEEEY!!!!"  You try to ignore that blue, blue text.  You keep reading.  You're old school and you have been trained to finish what you've started.  But that link calls to you.  You're still reading, but you're not really absorbing what you're reading anymore because instead you're OBSESSING about that link.  So you rush to the end.  On your way to the bottom of the page, there is another link.  Oh no!  What are you going to do now?  Now there's TWO links (or more) for you to follow up with.  And you know damn well that each of those links will contain MORE LINKS!  It's gone viral!  You're desperately clicking around, being redirected there, are you sure you want to leave here?  Click here to go back.  Go back where????  Where did you start?  Did you take notes before you clicked away???  Where are you?

You're in Oz, now.  Just Click (your heels) three times to get (redirected) Home.  Wherever the hell that is.

So.  Does that ever happen to you?  No?  It's just me?  I need stronger meds, don't I.  Fair enough.

-B(Sting)

Channeling Mommy Dearest

There was this one time (at band camp?) that I thought I wanted to be a teacher.  I can explain very complex concepts and create all sorts of tips and tricks to help people learn new things.  Thankfully, I did not take myself seriously.  In reality, I can teach adults.  I have patience with adults.  I can connect with adults.  ADULTS.

Now that I have a 5-year old daughter to raise and teach, I see I have truly missed my calling.... as a deranged serial killer. 

In the beginning, I was ready for the challenges that awaited me.  I just had to stick to my guns, be the alpha dog, firm but loving, "be the crane" (fellow SpongeBob aficionados will know what I'm talking about with that last reference). You can stop with that 'knowing' laugh and put your eyebrows down.  I know (now) how wrong I was. 

She became her own little person.  Which turned out to be strikingly similar to the little person that I was... am.  Stubborn, lazy, funny, procrastinator, dilly-dallier extraordinaire, chatty, crowd-worker, people-pleaser. 

Potty training was good times.  Like that one time when I had her running amok sans diaper thinking she'd realize there was nothing to catch her emissions and she'd use the potty.  Instead she shit in the playroom and just moved herself and her Pretty Little Ponies over a bit, away from what looked like a giant dog pile.  "Really?" I asked her.  "You really don't think there's anything wrong with that????"  Rubbing her nose in it was obviously out of the question.  So after several failed attempts, I abandoned ship and decided I'd let her college friends handle the potty training.  Then about a month later, as I reached for a diaper, she said, "No more diapers, Mama.  Panties."    And that was it.  She never looked back.  She essentially potty trained herself.  I should have known that was the beginning of a pattern and the end of my sanity. 

Same scenario with colors:  "What color is this?"
"PINK!"
"Well, that's the most goth shade of pink I've ever seen.  It's black, baby.  BLACK!"
I gave up and she taught herself her colors.  Including turquoise and chartreuse.  Don't ask me.  I have no idea. 

Now we're in Kindergarten and reading/writing has really brought out the Mommy Dearest in me.  I get so frustrated and have these out of body moments where I can see myself with my hair pulled back, a thick layer of cold cream on my face - but not around my delicate eyes and mouth - hovering over her, "What sound does the letter M make?  What do you mean 'hhhhh'????  The letter EMMMMM!  Do you hear 'hhhh' in the letter EMMMMMM????  REALLY????"  Fortunately, I catch myself before I go off the deep end like that.  While I may abruptly excuse myself, quietly mumbling about needing a cigarette, a bottle of wine, and a Xanax; I do not wield wire hangers... or even use cold cream, for that matter.  And when she does throw me a bone and count to 100 in increments of 5, it's ice cream for EVERYONE!!!  FOREVER!!!!  That child's not dumb.  She's a player.  A mama-playah!  And she learns according to HER agenda, not mine.  Where does she get this from?  (Zip it, smarty pants!  I know the answer.  Her father!  Haha... okay, okay.  It's me.)

Once or twice I've gone to her school.  One hour in that place, and I wanted to scoop my eyeballs out with (sterile) melon ballers. God bless our Kindergarten teachers who basically start at ground-zero with a room-full of wild animals.  It must be like herding squirrels.  They take a group of children with varying levels of knowledge, skills, and self-control and *voila!* by the end of the school year, we have a group of nicely institutionalized members of society. 

And now Dot's writing sentences, doing math, counting money... all because some other super-human teacher did NOT miss their calling!  Thank you, Super Teacher!

You know, I believe Mommy Dearest really did love her children.  Just not the "children" part of them.  ;)

-B(Sting)

Text It and End It!

I am a serial texter.  I do not like the telephone.  If I cannot communicate with you in person, then I will email or text.  Do not call me.  Do not expect a call from me.  And if, by the grace of God, you do get me on the phone; don't expect a warm body to be on the other end of the conversation.  For some reason, I go blank on the phone.  I become a cold, dead fish.  I have nothing to say.  It's just awkward and painful (for me and the other person).

Is it my turn to talk?  No?  It's your turn to talk?  No?  What did you say?  I was still talking.  Okay.  You go.  No.  Me?  So... how 'bout this weather?  Nothing new here.  You?  Okay.  Well, that's all I got.  Can I hang up the phone now?  (that was painful just to read, wasn't it?)

But text or email?  You can't get me to shut the hell up (see the irony here?).  It's sort of like the "No, you hang up first" syndrome.  If you respond, I will respond.  Every. Single. Time.  It's like I can't stop.  Someone will send me a text and I'll respond.  And then they'll respond.  And then I'll respond.  And then they'll respond.  And then I'll respond.  See?  I can't even stop explaining the responding!  I can't seem to find the natural stop point.  I can always think of something more to text.  Even if it's just an expression like, "HA!"  or "Nice!" or "D'oh!".  I'm just trying to tell you that I have not abruptly abandoned you.  I CAN'T STOP! 

I know I need to just text it and end it, but there's always something else I can write.  Maybe because I'm a writer?  Maybe because text and email allows for an acceptable (and non-awkward) pause that gives you time to think of something more to "say".  Sometimes, I'll see a good stop point and will try to not respond.  But then I worry.  I worry that the person with whom I'm texting will think I'm mad or didn't respond because of some sinister reason.  So I'll respond with something like, "Well, I better get back to work" or anything that basically says, "The End"... but in a nice, conversational way.

But wait!  There's more worry!  I worry that my lame 'The End' is too trite and empty.  Like the person KNOWS I don't really have to get back to work, I just want to end the 'convertextsation'  (I just made that word up.  Whaddya think?).  So then I'll text something MORE... something more believable and funny to fix the previously attempted and awkward closing.

Maybe going forward, we should all text "Done" which loosely translates to "I don't have anything more to say or I'm tired or I'm driving or I'm going to go do something else and don't take it personally but I'm done with this text or email string.  Talk to you later.  No I'm not mad or upset.  I'm just done, here.  But I still love/like you very, very much.  And see?  I'm even having a hard time wrapping up what "Done" means.  So.  Done."

Oh dear GOD!  Do you see what's happening here?  I can't even end this blog post with a clean break!  I don't want you to think I'm insensitive about your thoughts or commentary.  I don't want to leave you wondering what happened or if I ran out of things to.... Oh hell!  DONE.




-B(Sting)