Bonanza Jellybean

I Guess Saying "Humbug" Might Be Redundant At This Point

Here comes Christmas again.
Which, honestly, just puts me in a mood because I have to SPEND.

I hate that fucking word: SPEND. That's all I have to do at Christmas. Spend, spend, FUCKING SPEND.

And I don't just mean MONEY. OHHH NOOOO.
I LIKE to spend money. Normally.
My savings account is a good reflection of that fact.
I like to spend it on Soccer Chick, on attempting to dress my husband so he looks presentable in public and doesn't fall into that male "all shades of blue match" trap, on myself, on trying to make my house nice, on yarn for crochet projects that I will most likely find too difficult and never finish (you'd be amazed what you can accomplish by only knowing one stitch, even when you do it wrong for six months and can't figure out why shit is always too small), etc.

Aside from having to spend my money, which I really kind of like to keep for myself, on people that I really kind of don't like (but have bound to by some strange genetic code with a twisted-ass sense of humor that was never within my control), which I think I have mentioned before, PISSES ME OFF, it's the other thing I have to spend.

The thing I don't have ANY of.

TIME.

Have to spend time shopping.
Have to spend time thinking of what to get people.
Have to spend time traveling.
Have to spend time on the house making it fucking festive.
Have to spend time cooking.
Have to spend time on the phone making plans on how to fit everyone in.
Have to spend time in stores with crazy-ass motherfuckers who can't park, can't control their children, and can't comprehend how to make it through a check-out line in under 12 minutes.
Have to spend time with my family.
Have to spend time with his family.
Have to spend extra time at work to get everything done so I can take some time off.
Have to spend my vacation time at work so I can spend time with...
Shit. You get the point.

Did I also mention that we have two soccer things this month that will both take a full weekend out of town that we have to attend? Yeah.

I'm also beginning to hate "have to," now that I think about it.

But honestly, THAT'S ALL CHRISTMAS IS ANYMORE.
Enforced gaiety. Mandatory generosity. Simulated family love.
Yuck.

Lest you think I'm just a big fat fucking scrooge, I would like everyone to know that I TRIED, PEOPLE. I really did. When Dutch Oven and Soccer Chick went to visit his mother for Thanksgiving (you'll notice I skirted that fine family fun event), I decided to try and make it nice for the when they came home that night. I put up the Christmas tree, I decorated the house, and I even went to the store to get garland and bows for our front gate. It was lovely. I felt the beginnings of Christmas spirit stirring.

The dog chewed on the bows and the garland within days. Now I have Christmas confetti for a gate decoration. And a dog who probably has a gut full of 3 dollar wire from WalMart.
TWELVE FUCKING ACRES for the dog to frolic, and he beelines for the front gate to attack an innocent 92 cent bow. Genius.

Or that by destroying my meager effort at Christmas cheer, he's telling me something.

It's sad when someone who spends most of his day chasing cats and licking his balls turns out to be smarter than you.

I Think the Team Might Do Better to Sell Xanax As a Fund-Raiser Next Time

A few random thoughts about my weekend spent IMMERSED in soccer...

1) I would rather be called "The Viscous Substance Stuck to Britney Spear's Thigh" than "Soccer Mom."

2) If the person who makes up tournament schedules happens to read this one day in a mistaken attempt to find ball-girl porn online or something, I'm totally offering up cash payouts and blowjobs and homemade cookies to avoid two 8am games in a row on any future weekends. You have it in writing, Mr. Scheduler. Except that because the team fund-raiser was cookie dough, the cookies won't exactly be homemade. I feel no compulsion to make any cookies from scratch after I had to transport 132 POUNDS of cookie dough. So you might just have to live with the blowjob and a fistful of cash.

3) There are no magnet thingies on my car. Nor will there be. Even if Work Husband manages to draw my name at Christmas and buy me one like he has threatened. If he would like to be jumped from behind an office door when he least expects it and forced to eat magnetic particles covered in ranch dressing (only for lubrication because I fear my time will be limited on the force-feeding, as he is 6'2" and has 60 lbs. on me), he can go RIGHT ON AHEAD WITH HIS SICK AND TWISTED HOLIDAY PLANS.

4) I don't think true soccer mommies get busted for smoking too close to the kids at halftime by tournament officials. And then reply with, "I'm trying to get them to start early" to the mean no-smoking park-ranger-looking lady. Not that this actually HAPPENED or anything. I mean, I WALKED TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FENCE, BITCH. THAT'S ENOUGH TO QUALIFY AS NON-SMOKING IN RESTAURANTS AROUND HERE. Shit, don't visual barriers count for ANYTHING?

If this happened HYPOTHETICALLY, and HYPOTHETICALLY I noticed the park-ranger lady had a gun AFTER I made a smart-ass comment, I promise I would put it out and return to my seat without a further word said.

IF something like this actually happened, you know. Not that it did or anything.

Thank You, Hope Solo

I know you all know I'm a soccer fan, so I would be a TOTAL AND COMPLETE LAZY-ASS if I didn't write something about the mess that has become the US Women's National Team.
(A lot of talk is going around the web, and I'm sure this will even come up in searches about the whole thing, so I'm giving myself a lot of credit for making input, because after all, the opinion of an old, tired useless 35 year old rec league player FUCKING MATTERS, PEOPLE. SCREW ESPN.)

Well, not really, but I've never been short on opinions.
And if you're reading this and have no idea what I'm talking about, consult Google. There's TONS out there.

So here goes.

NEWSFLASH.
Mia Hamm RETIRED YEARS AGO.
Which I don't think anyone has noticed yet.
For this World Cup, even though she's been poppin' out the munchkins at home for years now, every single stinking place that sells WNT (Women's National Team) stuff has the Mia jersey right there, front and center. She can't even say "I'm a soccer player" in the new Nike commercial- she has to say "I'm an athlete." Why? Because she doesn't play soccer anymore.
And why is she even IN the damn commercial when we have 21 other female athletes playing on the biggest stage in the world? Anyway...

Most everyone that follows the WNT still thinks it's 1999 and Brandi Chastain is somewhere out there ripping her shirt off in a blaze of penalty-kicking glory (Which, by the way, I hate to watch because she looks INCREDIBLE and I'm usually sitting on the couch eating cookies when I see it.) while Mia competes with Michael for a bottle of Gatorade and tosses her shiny hair for Pert Plus or some equally shitty shampoo. Most of the players from that team have managed to get some kind of media careers out of it, and they're still out there. Living off the old glory.

And THAT'S where Hope Solo fucked up.
(Hope if you're reading this, stay with me.)

Don't get me wrong- the old US WNT was great and I loved them. They did more for women's sports in this country than anyone short of Billie Jean King ever has, and TONS of girls now have athletic opportunity because of what they did. My high school had no women's soccer when I was there (1986-1990), and now they have JV and Varsity. That team did their job, and they did it beautifully.

They were America's golden girls- all teamwork and athleticism with a sparkly hint of girl-next-door- and parents everywhere LOVED such positive role models for their little Mias. There was never any controversy, and you could always conjure a mental image of the team having turkey together every single fucking Thanksgiving because they were so in love with each other. You know- the turkey cooked while they were outside with their husbands and kids and boyfriends and mothers having a spirited pick-up game. In spotless Nike casualwear. With perfect ponytailed highlights.

Which couldn't POSSIBLY have been true.
But that whole team was a marketing GENIUS. And it worked.
And even when only two are still playing, they're still the face of Women's Soccer.

So, even though people started to see women as athletes, they only saw the bottled version. Which is all US Soccer ever WANTED anyone to see. And still wants them to see.
It gave the US the first success in soccer it ever had.
It gave them a ton of media coverage.
It gave them the chance to let the men's team ride on their coattails.
And above all, it made them a fuckload of money.

Which is great, because Women's Soccer became a big deal with real stars.
But 8 years later, it's kind of time to take the next step.
We know they can play now.

So, Hope opened her mouth on TV.
GOD BLESS HER.
Not because she said anything great- I mean honestly, had she worded it differently that fucktard coach would probably already be fired- but BECAUSE SHE SAID ANYTHING AT ALL.
What a lot of people don't know is that a US Soccer PR guy was standing right there, first telling the reporter not to talk to Hope because she didn't play and then not letting Brianna Scurry, the player Hope "threw under the bus," say anything at all.
And Brianna, a member of the old guard, said, "He's the boss" and walked away.
Hope said, "Don't you tell me who can interview me ever again."

And THAT'S why she's great.

She's EXACTLY what US Soccer wants in it's women players- gorgeous, talented, etc. They had already started marketing her and her young teammates just like they did with the Mia crowd.

And she said fuck that, I'M REAL.

They chalked up her being left out of the last game to the other players feeling she had "broken an unwritten team code." Yeah, SURE. She basically said that it's time to move on past the old years and that the new girls might actually be BETTER. And the old girls on the team didn't like that. Neither did the old girls commentating during the games. Someone didn't fall at the Mia team's feet and beg them to return because no one else could ever live up to them.

gasp.

And UH-OH, people might actually figure out that they're not all shiny perfect! They might wonder if they've had sex! And might drink! And might be OH NO DON'T SAY IN THE WORLD OF WOMEN'S SPORTS BECAUSE BE NEVER EVER EVER TALK ABOUT THIS PART be lesbians. And don't go home every break to their loving parents and boyfriends and bake cupcakes for the PTA in between their training sessions!

You think I'm exaggerating? US Soccer actually posted a rather large picture of one of the player's hands with her engagement ring on their website a while back. Their Player's Yearbook I bought for Soccer Chick at the game in June makes A POINT to mention husbands for every player that has one, but all the single girls get about their non-soccer lives is "I really like cheese. It's my favorite, since I'm from Wisconsin."

No shit.

So Hope, if you ever read this, THANK YOU.

You're going to pay dearly for being the first to be your own woman and a competitor to the bone in public. You're going to take a lot of heat for being brash and honest and not towing the party line. You will never in your life manage to get rid of those 28 seconds on TV, and no one can say that it will ever go away enough for you to get back to normal.

The first always takes it the worst.

But, because of your 28 seconds, the next generation won't have to be so perfect. And bottled.

Maybe one day my daughter can call out a total example of the Fucktards of America Coach's Club without being crucified if she makes it to that level.

Maybe she can just be REAL. As a female athlete. Without having to put on all the other bullshit image things with it.

And get to do a better commercial than Pert Plus, because DAMN, that stuff sucks.

The Unforseen Suckage Levels of Vacation

Suckage.
Total.

• It was 106 degrees. All week.
• The humidity was 99%. Stick your face in CoolWhip and inhale. You'll get the idea.
• The bugs managed to find the one spot where the bug spray didn't completely reach. Or the several spots. Like 482 individual spots on four people. Good thing we used bug spray.
• The dog we took with us got homesick. Thankfully, he didn't get carsick.
• I stepped in dog shit in my new running shoes exactly 37 seconds after we got there.
• The friend for Soccer Chick we took along is prone to migranes. And allergies. And felt the need to tell me gum could help me quit smoking every time I smoked.
• A crab bit my toe. OK, PINCHED. But it fucking well hurt anyway, whatever the little bastard did. I still have a little crabby print on my toe.
• The sight of fishermen reeling in stingray after stingray kept the girls out of the water.
• The island where we were has decided that they don't want to be all tacky like other beaches, so there are a ton of trees and little teeny signs for everything. And no tall buildings. Which means that you can't find a single fucking place you're looking for and are forced to wander aimlessly about until you find something comprable. Which made trying to find a grocery store an adventure.
• Finding a grocery store on vacation should never be an adventure.
• I actually found a tick attached to my kid's back.
• The air conditioning in the restaurant we picked for our one night out was broken.
• The restaurant also turned out to not have a bar.
• All the condo neighbors knew my mother and felt the need to talk to me like I was as interested in random conversation with strangers as she is.
• I had to buy a new bathing suit because the strap broke on mine, and when I tried to put it on the card, I discovered that the auto parts Dutch Oven needed to order had charged my card THREE TIMES rather than allowing me to have my new bathing suit.
• I stood in front of a store in 106 degree heat and 99% humidity arguing with MasterCard for 20 minutes. Before breakfast.
• We came home to find all the horses loose in the yard, including drinking out of the swimming pool. And leaving big mouthfulls of grass behind as a gift to the filter.
• Five minutes after we got home, while we were attempting to round up horses in 106 degree heat, my mother showed up and informed us that she was meeting my sisters at my house.
• Sisters that didn't show up for another three hours.
• I came home and tried to book our vacation TO WONDERFUL CLEAR-WATERED FLORIDA (where you can actually see what's about to take a chomp out of your ass while it's still approaching) and found that they don't book that far in advance. But have 300 square feet for sale for $200,000.
• Which looked totally reasonable at the time.
• The girls had their first soccer game of the season this morning.
• I let a 9 year old spray me with suncreen before the game.
• My arms now resemble a rosy-hued zebra-print.
• It's still 106 degrees.

The good news? We didn't see a single jellyfish. Or shark.
The other good news? Vacation's over.

When I Tell You Not to Turn the Car Off and You Do It Anyway, It Immediately Falls Into the Realm of "It's Your Own Damn Fault"

My car.
My perfect Nissan Murano.
My beloved, wonderful, smooth-riding, easy-driving, satellite-radio-playing, leather-seat-ass-cushioning BABY is sick today.
(I'm waiting on the phone call that will tell me the damage. I'm thinking it's only the battery, since each of the three times I had to start it this morning got a little slower, but you never know- it's Japanese, high-end, and overly computerized. BUT... It runs fine once you talk it into waking up. Much like me. A perfect automotive match.)

After the last time that REALLY took some effort to get started, I decided I better get it somewhere quick before I turned it off again and got stranded. So I drove it to the local repair place (Which I won't name because someone might say "Hey! I can meet Bonanza!" and go there and wait and then see me in my white shirt that I spilled coffee all down this morning in a fit of temper about the car situation, and I would MUCH rather make a good first impression. Rather than that of "an overgrown 2 year old in serious need of a bib" impression. Which is actually FAR more common. If I ever actually plan to meet anyone in person, it's going take approximately 4 hours to prepare myself. And a tarp.) and pulled into the "ENTER HERE" opening that is the ONLY entrance (one car wide, by the way).

I left the car running because HELLO, PEOPLE. THE REASON IT'S HERE IS BECAUSE IN THE VERY NEAR FUTURE IT'S NOT GOING TO START. I'M TRYING TO HELP YOU OUT HERE.
The seemingly gratuitous capitalization is because of how many times I actually told the guys at the shop this when they pointed out to me repeatedly that "Hey! You left your car on," and the times I told them repeatedly why. You would think guys who work on cars for a living would be a bit more at-ease with a car that was ON. Maybe they're only used to ones that don't get ON very easily.

And HOORAY!!!! The car place just called, and it is the battery. Well, not exactly HOORAY!!!!, because a new battery for my car is $125. Maybe just a "woo!" Followed by a "shit."

ANYWAY...
So I told them NOT TO TURN THE CAR OFF.
Again, the capitals show repetition.
So guess what they did?

When Work Husband showed up to pick me up and take me to work (Can you get any sweeter? Well, I guess you COULD. He could have brought me coffee to replace what I spilled. And gotten out and opened the door for me.  And given me endless sympathy when I started complaining about feeling trapped at work with no escape since I have no car about 10 minutes ago. I guess considering I called and said pitifully, "Can you come get me? with no prior notice and he showed up in 7 minutes, I have to be happy with what I get. A girl can dream, though.), they were in the process of hauling the battery charger over and trying to put the car in neutral so they could push it.

They actually looked over at me, as if asking for help or guidance. I just smiled and said, "I warned you, didn't I? It's your problem now."

Which might be why they're charging me $125 for a battery.

But my main gripe with this whole thing is that I also got new tires quoted, because mine are going the way of Michael Jordan's hairstyle. I can't really complain, because what's on there is 30K mile tires and I've gotten 76K out of them (Which I always do, because my vehicles LOVE ME. Seriously. My old truck had 200K on it, and I never did any more than oil changes and stuff. Because it loved me and wanted to spare me grief. And probably thought that cash would be better spent on wrinkle cream or something. Can you tell I have a birthday coming up?).

New tires for my car?
NINE HUNDRED DOLLARS.

Because I had to be all fancy and get a car with 18 inch tires. That only 3 companies seem to make replacements for. And only in the top lines.

Did they warn me when I was buying the car that "Hey, you're going to LOVE the car. It drives like a dream and hardly ever needs work. However, when it does, you're probably going to have to call an Indonesian kidney broker to cover it."?
NO.
Did they mention that a mere BATTERY that in other cars costs about $60 would be DOUBLE in mine? And would probably conk out quicker because of all the "luxury" power options the wonderful car has?
NO.

It would have been nice. That's all I'm saying.
I would have bought the car ANYWAY. Because I would have said, "Oh, that's no big deal. It's worth it." or something as equally inane and caught in the new-car-smell moment. Because I severely lack in foresight. Or budgeting ability. Or practicality. The way I look at it is: I'm in the car for a MINIMUM of 100 miles per day 5 days a week. It better be fucking comfortable.
So I wouldn't have cared.
I would just wait until I got to the time that something had to be done and then stomped around all day throwing a tantrum.

Which is totally not what I'm doing now.
NOW I am complaining that I wasn't warned.
Not about how everything costs double.

Though to poor Work Husband who is trapped in an office with me and is getting ready to take me to get my car, I doubt he recognizes the subtle distinctions in the choices.

A Little Back Door Is Sometimes Called For

I've been reading a few other blogs about the whole "mothers having a cocktail during playgroup" nonsense that was on The Today Show.

I'm kind of pissed now.

And I just want to make the announcement (no, this isn't the big one, which is still in the works, and I'll tell when I'm ready because I'm shitty like that and also fully expected it to be announcable by now) that I fully believe that the doctor lady who said the "expert opinion" about it being a bad thing needs a BIG FAT WINE BOTTLE SHOVED STRAIGHT UP HER ASS.

You know, to loosen her up. As Samantha said to Charlotte, "You could use a little back door."

Because, as I have found out myself, the second you squeeze that little parasite through what used to be a place reserved for entertainment purposes only, you are expected to be perfect.
Perfect, I tell you.
And know EVERY-FUCKING-THING.
Especially all the stuff other people go to school for for YEARS. Like doctors.
And have unlimited patience.
And endless energy.
And MacGyver-like resourcefulness.
And Oprah-like listening skills.

And who expects this?
Not our kids. Not really. Kids are amazing little creatures who will mostly love who loves them, despite faults and stupidity. Kind of like dogs.

Jesus, did I just equate my kid to a cocker spaniel? Ouch. She's more like a Border Collie.

But we expect it of ourselves.
And other moms find great solace in seeing the shit we do wrong because it makes the shit they do wrong seem not so bad.

Because? The world has gotten so harshly judgmental about parenting, specifically mothering, that it's impossible not to judge yourself DAILY. What brands of what are right/best/safest, how to handle every psychological hurdle, have they met all the developmental shit and why not if I've been doing everything just right like the damn book says, am I keeping them safe enough, should I really leave the heroin out on the counter- you know, everyday worries. And you WANT to do it right, but everywhere you turn, there's some other dickhead saying what should be done THIS MINUTE and how it should be rectified THIS MINUTE.

And it's EVERYWHERE.
(Which is why I just watch sports and Law & Order DVDs all the time. If you can't feel like a good parent after some of those episodes, NO ONE can help you.)

In the course of the last 8 years, I have been, at one time or another:
A doctor.
A nurse.
An accountant.
A lawyer.
A psychologist.
A veterinarian.
A teacher.
A seamstress.
A movie critic.
An electrician.
A plumber.
An information systems specialist.
A research assistant.
A personal shopper.
A chef.
A fast-food cook.
A fabric revitalization specialist.
A nutritionist.
A maid.
A babysitter.
A taxi driver.
A coach.
A mortician.
A personal assistant.
and occasionally,
a graphic designer and blogger.

With all of this, I'm going to fuck up SOMEWHERE.
And it's OK.
My kid knows I'm human.
Everyone else with an opinion can just suck it.

My parents never smoked. I'm a smoker. My kid thinks it's gross.

My parents hardly curse. I, well, you know. My kid corrects me.

My mother never drinks. My father is an alcoholic. I drink fairly responsibly and not too often. My kid has tasted vodka and thought it was vinegar.

My parents never did drugs. I, ummm, did a few. The kid's jury is still out on this one.

My parents got married before they were 21 and were married 12 years. I followed rock bands around and had emotionless, unattached sex. My kid says she doesn't have time for a boyfriend at all, not even when she's 25, because they just need a lot of taking care of. (That was a proud moment.)

My parents need some serious counselling and medications. I was an emotional basketcase who trained herself to behave without medication. My kid seems perfectly normal, if a bit conservative.

What parents do does not always guarantee how the kid will turn out. A parent's mistake does not necessarily set a child up for a life of addiction, imprisonment or dysfunction.

So the doctor lady and The Today Show can just put that wine bottle where the sun don't shine and SHUT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK UP ABOUT WHAT'S RIGHT AS A PARENT. Because what might be right in PhDLand might just not work for the rest of us.

And besides, if having to oversee the play of multiple toddlers doesn't entitle you to a smart cocktail, nothing does.

Am. Horrified.

Subtitled "All of Those Not-to-Be-Named People Out There Who Seem to Think I Am Setting My Child Up for Body Image Issues Ain't Seen NOTHING Yet"

Also Subtitled "You Have to Have a License to Own a Dog or Catch a Fish, But Any Butt-Reaming Asshole Can Be a Parent"

Yesterday, as is custom in our house, I did not feel like prying my lazy ass out of bed and cooking a healthy, nutritious breakfast for my child on the day of a soccer game. I figured there are those FAR more qualified to accomplish this task than I, so I rounded everyone up, got them in the car, and proceeded down the road in search of sustenance and wholesome nutrition.

Apparently, others in this neck of the woods consider Waffle House the place to be also, because it was packed, which meant we had to sit at the bar. To my right, there were two well-dressed, obviously well-off women in a booth who were having a conversation about their daughters involvement in gymnastics I couldn't help overhearing.
And then had to keep listening to out of sheer amazement. And horror.

And I PROMISE I am not making this up.

"You know that girl they've been talking about on TV that's stuck in bed forever and her parents had doctors make her so she wouldn't grow anymore? I wish we could get that done, because I think (insert poor child's name here) is going to get too tall to be really competitive later, and we could stop it now if we could get that done. It would be PERFECT for (insert poor child's name here) to never get any taller than five feet."

"I can't wait for (insert poor child's name here) to start her period so that we can get her on the pill- they say all those hormones can stop them growing taller if you start them early enough."

"I wish (insert another poor child's name here) would just fall and break something so (insert poor child's name here) can win that tournament."

"I think when (insert poor child's name here)'s about fourteen, I'm going to look into plastic surgery, maybe on her nose and chin. She just doesn't have that look the judges like."

"I took (insert poor child's name here) to the doctor, and she's at 20 percent on the growth charts, which isn't so bad, but I'd really like it if we could get it down to 10 or 12 percent."

All I could do was sit there. Horrified. Thinking "These bitches CAN'T POSSIBLY be serious."
But they were. Totally.

So, we finished our food, and Dutch Oven went to pay, and the two women got into line behind him.

And that's when I recognized one of them. She is the mother of a child Soccer Chick goes to school with. A child that is horrible and snotty and a bully and constantly going on about her success in gymnastics and how her parents bought her all this shit to practice on and well... Soccer Chick can't stand her. Never could. I haven't exactly been gracious about functions where I had to be involved with this kid either, but I have regretted saying "She looks like a pug in need of a hot-oil treatment." A little.

Basically, this kid is a little four foot turd.

But now I feel sorry for her. It all explains A LOT.

And I can't even come up with a conclusion here, except to say:
Holy shit. People frighten the hell out of me sometimes.

When Hyperbole and Subtlety Fail, Then I Just Tell Everyone to Kiss My Ass

Apparently, I am the world's WORST FUCKING MOTHER.

I'm surprised Social Services hasn't shown up at my door within the last 48 hours, using my last post as evidence, to take my child and remove her to a loving, supportive mothering unit who doesn't worry AT ALL about what the kid eats. Like the Sad Little Bedraggled Orphan's Home from Annie or something where an evil woman wearing gray with really frizzy hair is free to abuse her constantly.

Because OF COURSE, that would be better than the COMPLETELY FUCKED UP BODY IMAGE I AM SADDLING HER WITH. Maybe I should go ahead and reserve her space at the Mary Kate Olsen Eating Sensibly Seminar Series. Or at the Carnie Wilson Gastric Bypass Extravaganza. We have yet to see which direction my ABOSLUTELY MISGUIDED AND DEMONIC parenting will go, I guess.

Apparently, I also need to spell it out MUCH MORE PLAINLY when I am mocking myself.

Because HOLY SHIT, people. If I didn't feel like an IDIOT for getting worked up BEFORE... now on top of being neurotic and paranoid yet remaining self-containedly so, I am also a writer who cannot effectively use extremes without sounding like Joan Crawford with an Internet account.

Add that to my list of failings. Put it right after, "Cannot drink from a can and walk at the same time."

ALL SARCASM ASIDE...
Soccer Chick HAS looked like shit lately. That's the truth. Why? Any number of reasons- she was sick, she's been getting to bed MUCH too late, she hasn't been eating well... WHATEVER. Is it possible that she is anemic? Entirely. I have it and so do both of my sisters- it took YEARS to learn to manage it with food and get off the supplements. Trying to persuade her to eat so that we can rule a purely dietary reason out isn't such a stretch, see? We're talking about a kid who makes sparrows look ravenous.
Did I actually THREATEN her? No.
Did I remind her that if she does everything possible to fix it with diet and sleep and it doesn't work that we might have to look for other causes? Yes.
Why? Because it's my policy that I don't lie to my kid, no matter how unpleasant the truth might be. Especially when it concerns something medical that she might have to live with FOREVER.

FOR THE RECORD...
Body Image? We emphasize "healthy," "strong," and "tough" in this house. Muscles are to be VALUED. When I lost my weight, she asked me why, and I replied "Because I want to feel better and be healthier," and when I got to the top of my safe range for my height, I relaxed.
Cleaning the Plate? We don't do it. We never have. When I am pushing her to eat, it's because she counted eating 1.73 pieces of chicken as dinner and then attempted to run off to play. I don't make her eat pounds of food at any sitting, but more than a bite and a half WOULD BE NICE.
The teacher? Has 30 years of experience and has seen more 3rd graders than any sane person should be required to. And she's thin and healthy.

AND ME?
Know I could do better as a mom. Can't we all? I mean, couldn't we ALL do better? If we were perfect parents, there would be no need for therapists, would there now?

I could cook her a healthy dinner every night, instead of getting take-out on the way home.
I could sacrifice all of our outside interests so that she could be in bed 45 minutes earlier every night.
I could quit my job, slash our expenses, disregard the first "I Could" and make Ramen Noodles every night, and be smiling in the pick-up line every day right when school gets out to take her home to a spotless showplace house.
I could not curse in front of her.
I could remember to have all of her clothes cleaned and pressed every day.
I could change my entire personality and dismiss my Asperger's Syndrome and learn to be the warmest, most cuddly mom in the world.

So when you KNOW this, and you REALLY REALLY REALLY want to do the best you possibly can but also know that it will NEVER HAPPEN because you are, after all, YOU, seemingly insignificant things can sometimes make you go a bit nuts, because you just couldn't tolerate it if there was just ONE MORE FUCKING THING you were less than perfect at or didn't pay enough attention to for the person you love so much that you would gladly cut out your own heart for if it was ever needed.

But I can't do it. So I get worked up. And sound like an idiot to the internet rather than to my child. Who never sees the meltdowns, because that's why I pay for TypePad and have a husband.

And if you have a child and you don't obsess to yourself over doing the absolute best for your child that you can despite all of your own failings and limitations, I think YOU might be the world's shittiest fucking parent.

So there.
Feel free to rant and rave at me and criticize away a little MORE, because my glasses broke today and I have to pay $600 to replace them and my contacts gave me a headache and I left my favorite hoodie at the soccer place and it will disappear forever and I took the wrong half of my gift card to the store and therefore had to pay for the whole $200 worth of groceries and have a dog who smells like he rolled in something dead and needs a bath. My mood is not great. BRING IT, INTERNET.

I'm now going to go and cook dinner for my child and husband now and force them to eat EVERY FUCKING BITE UNDER FEAR OF IMPALEMENT UPON STEAK TONGS.

Out of sheer defiance. Because I'm like that.

"She who has not Christmas in her heart will never find it under a tree."

Subtitled "New Rules for a Last-Minute Christmas" or "Cut It the Fuck Out Before I Stab You with an Ornament Hook"

• Do not call ANYONE who might be in the midst of holiday-traffic-snarled-rain-soaked highway hell on their cell phone to ask a ridiculous question that pertains to NOTHING to do with anything currently on anyone's mind and then get huffy when the driver says she has to go before she is crushed by a Freightliner and will call back to discuss this later. Especially if you are the driver's mother and might want to feign interest in the driver's safety once in a while.
• Have your shopping trip(s) planned IN ADVANCE. Do this so that you do not get your cart (again, rain-soaked) walking into Target (for example) and STOP right at the entrance to the store to ponder which way you need to go first and then pull out your cell phone to call someone for assistance, making everyone behind you stop and try and find a way around you because they were really supposed to be at work by now and happen to be in a big fat hurry and might be really grouchy because of the 16 wrecks they had to dodge on the way to work because people haven't figured out that you might should drop below 85 when it's raining hard if you might want to stop at some point so therefore has no patience WHATSOEVER with your puzzled bullshit. Get the motherfuckers some slippers and MOVE ON.
• In reference to rules one and two, when it is raining so hard that there is about 7 inches of water on the road, SLOW THE FUCK DOWN. If you haven't gotten decent gifts by now, you're not going to, even if you get to the store 10 minutes earlier. And if you're the kind of person who hasn't bought any gifts and is right this very second hauling ass down the interstate in the rain, no one that knows you expects good gifts from you anyway. Hint- next year, TRY THE INTERNET. And a scooter.
• DO NOT SEND YOUR CHILD RACING AHEAD TO GET A SPACE IN THE CHECKOUT LINE, encouraging them to cut other adults off turning into the line while doing a Tom Cruise- Risky Business move across the wet store floor. Especially if you actually like your child, because not all adults out there think children are benign little cherubs in need of holiday indulgence and love. Some of us view them as the next generation of idiots to be dealt with and would just as soon squash them into the candy rack with their shopping carts now and save the food and remaining clean air and water for smarter people who know how to wait in a fucking line.
• ALSO, don't look indignant when someone tells above-mentioned kid to move his ass unless he plans to buy something himself. He ain't that special, lady, and I bet he already has stuff to tell the therapist later if you're sending him into lines so you can buy your 45 boxes of Lil Debbie cakes 84 seconds quicker. Anything I say won't be what makes him climb a clock tower later.
• Assume all mall Santas are drunk. They HAVE TO BE. Otherwise, after about day 5, they would be taking candy canes and using the hook parts to remove rude children's tonsils and then hang them from the snow-covered archways as warnings to other little rude children coming down the pike. Any state of intoxication is a sign of love for children. There is no need to attempt to corral the photographer and ask for a Breathalyzer on Santa. Again, especially if your are the grandmother of a kid in line whose mother (who might just happen to have a blog or something) finds it all IMMENSELY ENTERTAINING.
• Do not pick a fight in line for Santa with one of your daughters who was just at the orthodontist's office for an hour about which of her sisters has the biggest boobs, thus forcing said cornered sister to reply with "Maybe, but hers are pudge-boob. They might be bigger if you use duct tape and try and pull her armpits together. Mine are at least all boob." while your 8-year old grandchild snickers at the things she actually hears leave her own mother's mouth sometimes.
• Also, do not spend 10 minutes in line for Santa telling the same sister about how LOVELY the youngest sister has become when everyone (but the speaker) knows full well that her sister in a ballgown has the same look as when Ellen deGeneres put on a ballgown- all the pieces might be there, but it just ain't right.
• In other words, do not waste Santa's time by trumpeting the wonders of the family baby while implying loosely that all the other offspring ever did was eat and shit.
• If someone is waiting for a parking place and has their turn signal on, MOVE ALONG, ASSHOLE. Do not stop and wait too in hopes that the person backing out will do it in a manner that blocks the first person and leaves it just for you. If you do this, first, the person backing out usually thinks you're a prick and will go the other way, and second, the person who was waiting first might just call you a prick VERY LOUDLY on the way into the store.
• Do not look shocked when someone calls you a prick on the way into a store and act as if you have no idea why. Pricks know they're pricks. Don't fake it. We all know better.

Entry title courtesy of RockyJay. Thanks A BUNCH, buddy.

The Tires Still Have a Bit of Tread Left...

1. Go find a bit of open space and a volunteer.
2. Choose a volunteer who weighs at least 190 lbs.
3. Stand with your knees locked and have the volunteer run at you.
4. Make sure the volunteer trips and falls into the front of at least one of your knees, making it bend backwards.

This is how you get old.

Who knew? I thought it was just LIVING every day. I had no idea that OLD = TRAUMATIC EVENT. I thought it was a gradual thing, but we have come to learn around our family that the only reason Dutch Oven has to have surgery tomorrow and that I am still limping a bit is because there were 34+ candles on our last birthday cakes.

Everyone has been MORE THAN HAPPY to tell us that.
And I'm approaching the point where I'm going to show them just how old I am.

Poor Dutch Oven.
People at work, his family, and more have all done the "Well, you are getting older- why do you do this to yourself? You should quit playing so you don't get hurt anymore"
This is usually from people who sit on their asses all day and have cholesterol scores on par with the national debt.

His mother even told him that if he would take supplements, because he is "getting older", he wouldn't get hurt.
As if glucosomine is to goalkeepers as garlic is to vampires.
Maybe he should just wear a few capsules around his neck and keep a spray bottle full of holy water in his sock. Then he would NEVER get hurt again. How simple! What genius!

FUCKING IDIOT.

Sorry- I'm a little hostile about this myself. See, it's OK for me to joke on here about getting older, and it's OK for ME to say things about it, but when people 50+ years old start telling me that I'm getting old, I just have to chalk it up to them being jealous of their own impending demise, because 34 IS NOT OLD. There's still a bit of tread left on these tires, folks.

34 is FABULOUS. So is 35. So is FORTY FIVE and FIFTY FIVE and SIXTY FIVE if you get off your ass once in a while.

Although I never got hurt sitting on my couch, I plan to heal and keep playing sports and trying to get some exercise. Dutch Oven intends to rehab the knee after tomorrow and be back to playing as soon as he can.

Because WE CAN.
And lazy, fried-chicken-eating southerners in our midst need to shut up. Now.

Or I'm going to wait until I get back from the massage therapist and take one of my muscle pills and kick them in the shins with my left foot, because my right one kind is still kind of wallowing in its own self-pity.

And as of tomorrow, Dutch Oven will be on crutches, so I'll have to do the kicking. But I'll do it.

And probably limp away afterward.

Laughing.