I Probably Wouldn't Bother Putting An iPhone on Your Wish List

My children have reached the age where I am certain they simply cannot believe in Santa Claus anymore. Honestly, I don't really know how this works because I never believed in him. Incidentally, he never brought me a single fucking present, so either I was right, or what I keep telling my kids is right - the moment you stop believing in him, he stops believing in you.  

So my brother was asking me today if he could gift my kids a copy of Modern Warfare 3 for Christmas, and I was like, I think they have it already, and he was like...

So I checked. I needed to find out whether they'd be shooting the shit out of nazis or people. There is a difference. I hoped on Google and before I could even put the 3 in the search, the Great Eye of Mountain View popped this up:

Okay, it's weird enough that Google always always knows what I'm searching for, but now it knows who my best friend's husband is? Isn't the slightest bit odd that Google is like, "You know, there is really no better testmonial than that of a friend who's kitchen you sat in last weeked, talking about his trick finger *wink wink nudge nudge*" Does Google get a kick-back off all the XBox 360 rehab searches we parents are going to have to conduct over the next decade, or are they really just that into me?

Of course I'm obsessing about this because I'm 51% Pisces and 73% paranoid schizophrenic. I'm freaking out that Google has figured out who I know and it putting it together with what I'm interested in. Somehow, Google has figured out a way to see me when I'm sleeping, and knows when I'm awa.....HOLY SHIT GOOGLE IS SANTA CLAUS.

So I figure I better listen, since it's like five weeks from Christmas and Yes, Virginia! There really is a Santa Claus and HE HAS ARRANGED FOR YOUR FRIENDS TO MONITOR YOUR INTERNET SEARCH RESULTS. So I do what Google tells me to and ask Ron Mattocks.

Ron Mattocks tells me to raise my own damn kids. Figures.

Girls don't like boys; girls like cars and fractions.

My friends had some stuff they had to take care of over the first half of this week, and since I haven't have a good sadomasochistic torture session in a while love them, I agreed to take their girls for three nights so they could focus on whatever it is they're doing.  

This morning, they woke up (which is on its own way more than I am used to) (My 13 year old son woke up at 12:17:46 pm today) (I know because I heard his eyeroll all the way in my office) (which is the kitchen table during summer vacation) (dear god, let school start) they woke up and were like, "Auntie Mr Lady! What are we! Going! to do! Today!" because what no one told me is that young girls of school age insert! exclamations! everywhere! 

So I started to make breakfast and the three girls (because mirth is contagious, and I skipped that vaccine in my daughter) were like Katy! Perry! Face! Book! Justin! Bieb....and I was like this has gone far enough! Get dressed so we can eat lunch and...um...buy webkinz? 

ssssssqqqqqQQQQQQQUUUUUUUEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!

When I recovered hearing in both ears, I realized that I'd blown the best bargaining chip in my pocket on the first morning of the first day and resigned myself to just being fucked for the rest of the week, so I took them all to lunch. 

That was fun. 

No, really, it was. Only one kid spilled a drink and only one kid didn't like their food and those were the same kid. Only two of them are riddled with teenaged hormones rendering them nigh incapable of human interaction 98% of the time, and absolutely beyond fucking hilarious the other 2%. The other two are blond, in every sense of the word. 

So we come back home and the boys get on the XBox to play Left 4 Dead, which they convinced me involved killing Nazis (because I, being all for the swift and painful removal of all Nazis -fictitious or no -would not deny their little German hearts any change to right the wrongs of their ancestors, and they know that) but does not, in fact, involve killing Nazis but does involve the rather disturbingly violent disembowelment of every living thing you've ever seen, ever, in four-part harmony.

Meanwhile, the girls go upstairs to get their Webkinz set up online and I get to work. And I hear the moans of the dying out of my left ear and out of my right ear, I hear my daughter say, "Girl A! Girl A2! I'm counting to 100!" and I hear Girl A and Girl A2 reply, "I know! Isn't counting so much fun?"

And I really don't know which one was worse.

 

How to Fail at Homeopathy in 10 Easy Steps

1. Acquire ear infection.

2. Ignore ear infection.

3. Get driven mad by ear infection.

4. Pour half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide down ear.

5. Open and close jaw, letting the peroxide get all the way into brain.

6. Remain seated with head at 90 degree angle from body until all the bubbles stop.

7. Rinse.

8. Repeat.

9. Stick Qtip into ear. Like, all the way in. Like, brain matter in.

10. Swab out perohmygodthereisadeadbuginmyearcanaloxide.

If The Paranoia Doesn't Destroy Me, The Insomnia Sure Will

When I was a little girl, I used to lie in my bed at night, totally awake, praying for sleep to come. It rarely did. I convinced myself that laying there resting was just as good as actually sleeping, but it wasn't. Every night, while I tried to sleep, visions of ghouls and witches danced in my head, and I felt the icy fingers of death clawing at my eyeballs. My mother told me evil spirits were trying to possess me. My doctor, 20 years later, told me I have astigmatism. So, woot, the pain in my eyes at night has a totally valid medical reason. The delusions of screaming banshee demons sent from hell to steal away my soul were totally my mother's fault.

Takes one to know one.

When I was in my 20's, I worked the breakfast shift at one of those places you go to clog your arteries the way your momma used to do it. I was up at 5 every morning, and by 2 I'd waited on about 200 people. Then I went home and chased two toddlers all by myself for the rest of the day. I was never up past 9 at night, ever.

Now I stay at home with my kids and I can't sleep. I can't sleep because I can not sleep. I can not sleep right now and my boys can get up and make their own breakfast, and my daughter sleeps until 1030 every day anyway, so my body knows it's going to get it's sleep in eventually. But I don't want it then...I want it now, while my eyeballs have bricks in them. I try; I lay there every night while my head spins. I'm tired, don't get me wrong, I just can't fall asleep. I think that maybe I'll get up an have a cigarette but I don't really want one. I fact, I don't think I ever want another one again. It's a digusting habit, and  I'm totally quitting as of now. It doesn't matter at all that I have quit smoking every single night for the past 2,000 nights or so. I think about all the other things I could be doing, like the laundry, which involves way more thought power than I am capable of expending at 1:30 in the morning, or going to the gym, which is open 24 hours and would totally wear me out, but it is all the way (2 minutes) over there (from my house) and I'd have to dig my gym clothes out of the laundry piles, which ugh, and then the whole thing turns into a blog post and I don't have a blog post for tomorrow and I can type one with one eye open except that one eye burns because I am beyond exhausted.

And there doesn't seem to be a way for me to get sleeping pills to help this, because I'm totally too afraid to ask a doctor for sleeping pills because he'll think I'm a drug-seeker. If he thinks I'm a drug seeker, there's no way he's going to give me the other prescriptions I need. If I can't get the other prescriptions I need, I will go stark-raving mad and the demons will start poking my eyeballs out in the middle of the night again and I will never sleep.

And so I get up and I type. And eat some chocolate cake. I think should have just had a smoke and gone to the gym.

On Life And Death

I am one of those 'black thumb' kinds of people. It's almost a gift the way I can take any simple living thing and kill the shit out of it. Just ask any one of my 12 ex-hamsters.

I've been especially blessed in my talent for killing plants. My ex once bought my a lovely succulent glass-menagerie-arrangement thingy for a birthday or an anniversary or something, because the guy who sold it to him assured him that cactus and aloe and jade were nigh unkillable. And I'd feel much worse about not being able to remember why he bought it for me if I hadn't killed the fucking thing in less than a week.

One of my best friends made a a series of window-boxes full of fresh herbs for my 27th birthday, and that I can remember which only goes to show you how much more important my girlfriends are to me than my lovers, but that doesn't really make a difference when it comes to harbingering death.

The herbs made it two weeks. I am the shittiest friend alive.

But then I moved to Vancouver and maybe it was the optimal climate but realistically it was the searing loneliness that drove me to try my hand at growing plants again. I started small, at Ikea, with two $0.99 houseplants no bigger than my palm. I loved those things like I'd loved everyone I left behind in Denver. I named them and spoke to them every day. I encouraged them to grow. I fed them extra nutrients and pruned them. And I'll be damned if those bitches didn't THRIVE.

Two Ikea houseplants turned into a Red Emerald Philodendrons that I rescued from the grocery store window and a jade that I found crammed in the back of a book store and countless other stray plants that we looking for a reject like me to take them home and save them.

I did kill the jade. Bygones.

The rest of them lived, and how they lived. I eventually moved into my little garden at my little townhouse and planted all sorts of things. I got so fancy as to plant for seasons. I even planted fruits. I got good. And then I had to move to Texas and they don't exactly let you bring plants across the border, so I had to leave them all behind.

It was arguably just as hard for me to watch all of my houseplants go home with the wife of my international truck driver as it was to say goodbye to the people I'd spent every single day with for three years. Which is just fucking ridiculous, but it's true.

I've started trying to collect a few houseplants for our new home, but I just haven't quite felt it yet. I haven't ventured out to make any new friends, either, so there's that. But sometimes in life, the right thing comes along from whence you least expect it and makes everything right again.

My son got a Chia Pet for Christmas. I think I'm in love with it.

I know it's only going to live for four weeks or something and then it will leave me like everything leaves me and I'll spiral into some horrid depression that can only be cured by chocolate ice cream and George Clooney, but for now I am slightly overly obsessed with this little miracle of dollar-store science. I water it every morning. I stroke it's newly-sprouted, well, um....sprouts? and I talk to it. I encourage it to 'be all you can be, little buddy!' and then I realize that I need to take up drinking or skeet shooting or something because I'M TALKING TO A FUCKING CHIA PET but I don't care, really. I'm giving something life again, and that's what I've been missing.

AH-HA. *cue moment of clarity*

So it's either talk to the Chia Pet like a crazy woman, or have another baby. And move into a shoe.