Thursday, April 26, 2012

Does that thing that hangs down have a bone in it?


The Science Fair is coming up and 7 & 9 are working on their projects. 7 is studying rocks (my Sister-in-Law is a geologist/science teacher – SCORE!) and 9 wants to learn about cows.  She found a cow skull in the woods by her dad’s house and has been completely enamored by this thing.    We were discussing how to focus on just a couple of points (are cow bones made of the same thing that people bones are made of?) to keep the project on cows manageable.  <I  can’t stomach another HUGE science project that’s due in 10 days.> As we were talking about it, 7 runs in the room, rattles off something about 9’s “boyfriend”, giggled and ran out.  Here is how the next 10 minutes went:

“ So, this boy that you’re blushing about…is that W?  The boy you get into trouble to chatting with during class?”

9 (blushing and giggling), “Yeah.  He likes to talk to me.  He even has a nickname for me.  He calls me Bacon.”

“ Bacon?  That seems kind of harsh, doesn’t it?” <Little bastard better NOT call my kid fat!>

“ When I’m hot and sweaty, my face turns pink.   I kind of look like a pink pig then.  See?  Bacon.” <To her it's funny and perfectly ok.>

We laughed and I steered her back to her project.  About 2 minutes later, she turns, looks at me, hangs her arm down, makes a swinging-back-and-forth motion with her finger, and says, “Does that thing that hangs down have a bone in it?”

 *choke cough cough* “That “thing”? Does it have a bone in it?  That “thing” as in, like, uh…a boy’s boy-parts?”  <Let me out of here.  I don’t want to have this conversation.  If I sneak away, will she notice?>

9 looks shocked and yells, “Good God, mom, you’re GROSS! “ 
<Oh no, what have I done? What am I getting myself in to?  How can I exit stage left QUICKLY?> 

“ Well, what were you talking about then if it wasn’t a boy?” I say as my face turns purple.

“ COWS! COWS!  Does that thing that hangs under the cow where the milk comes out have BONES in it?” she says in exasperation.   <Oh thank God. I STILL want to leave, but not as bad.  How do I fix this?  Where the hell is her father?  He grew up with cows.  He’s got a penis.  HE should be here for this.>

At this point, my face turns redder than hers and we’re both laughing so hard that tears are running down our faces.    Then 7 comes in and demands to know what we’re laughing about.  We keep cackling and try to tell her what just happened. 

Trying to be a somewhat responsible and informative parent, I catch my breath and say, “UDDERS. That’s what hangs under a girl cow.  UDDERS.  And no, there are no bones in there.”

“Udders,” 9 repeats and makes that same swaying hand motion.

Because I know how 7’s brain works <she never lets anything go until she's grilled me about every aspect of it>, I said, “ As far as boys go, there’s no bone there either…and it has a real name.  It’s called a penis.”

7, ever the intellect, pipes up with, “Penis? Penis.  That’s a stupid name.” <She makes me laugh>

“ Well, don’t look at me.  I’M not the one that named it.  Sometimes boys call it a boner, but there’s still no bone in it. [insert long pause here]  Can we change the subject and pretend this whole thing never happened?” <Please? I’d like to turn the clock back 20 minutes.>

9 looks at me, still laughing, and says, “ Yes, please.”  <That’s my girl.>

Welcome to my world.  I will never survive puberty and the teenage years.

Monday, April 23, 2012

Definitions and good fortune.

I have heard so many great things in sobriety that I hold on to and used to get me through the rough spots.  This is one I heard years ago.  Tonight I was thinking of one of my very favorite sober ladies (and Queen of the Divers) and how she always remembers where she came from and is SO grateful for every single thing in her life today.

JUSTICE is getting what you deserve,
MERCY is not getting what you deserve, and
GRACE is getting what you DON'T deserve.

Roll it around.  Read it a couple of times.  It's pretty powerful.

Sunday, April 22, 2012

As promised - an explanation of why rabbits scare the bejeezus out of me.



Yep, you read it right.  Rabbit scare the hell out of me.  Seriously.  Like "scream like a girl and run away" scare me.  Why, you may ask?  Well...I blame big brother for that.  Not Big Brother, as in "The Man" or aliens who steal our thoughts (or do they implant them? I never CAN remember why the people with the tinfoil hats are wearing them), but big brother as in MY big brother.  Here's where it all started...<cue duh duh duhn scary music>

Big brother is 6 years older than I am, so when mom and dad went out, he was in charge.  If you are a 16-yr old boy, one of the last things you want to do on a Friday night is babysit your 10-yr old sister.  In a stroke of pure genius, he figured out that if he rents a movie for annoying little sister (aka me), she will watch it and he can make out his his girlfriend or watch porn or both, in the next room.  Enter this movie:  Watership_Down. Complete with the following box artwork:



You have NO idea how it pains me to write this.  That photo alone still makes my skin crawl.  Look at what it says above that evil shadowy creature.  Sounds like a nice child-friendly movie, right?  Or not!  Look what is says over at Rotten Tomatoes - "Watership Down is a serious, even grim tale that many will find relentless and depressing and others will find poetic and moving. It doesn't pull any punches. Death -- violent, disturbing death -- is ever present, portrayed in a manner that is astonishingly honest for a cartoon."  It's a fricken movie about murderous rabbits.  You've got brown bunnies and gray bunnies massacring the hell out of each other like it's the Rabbit Civil War!

This leads me to one of two possible conclusions. 1) Big brother didn't read a word on the cover, saw the rabbit and thought, "Bunnies.  Every kid likes bunnies, right?  This'll shut her up and keep her busy", or 2) big brother is a sadistic ass that wanted to scar me for life.  Although I'm 99.5% sure that the former is true, I'm not considering the latter out of the realm of possibility. 

As most stories do, I'm sure this one has gotten worse and more terrifying over the years.  At funerals, people get up to speak and seem to remember only the good things and soon enough, you'd think they were burying a saint instead of the prick down the hall that threw rotting fish at children and constantly called the cops on you because he was sure your scented candles were "some of that wacky tobacco, or hootchie or whatever they call marijuana these days". Selective memory + the number of times you tell the story = exaggeration.  Positive or negative.  Doesn't matter which way you go, it's still going to be there.  It's in our nature.  That being said, here are a few images that I think of when someone says "rabbit":

This...






 may as well be this...
 
in my world.

                               














 You see this...                                     
                                               



I see this...


            













No, I won't go back and re-watch the movie.  Yes, it probably wasn't as bad as I remember.  If the typo-nazis are reading this and are starting to twitch (heh-heh twitch), I'm MUCH to traumatized to back and spell check.  Get. Over. It.

 Damn the luck that I don't have any anti-anxiety meds.  I'm guessing the nightmares will be rather rabid (see what I did there?) tonight.

I'm hoppin' out of here (see - I did it again.  I learned that from  the Brady Bunch on Crack lady I think).

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Look at the dancing bear!

Ok, you got me.  This post isn't about dancing OR bears.  I figured since I started a facebook page that links to my blog, I certainly don't want my most recent post to be the mini-meltdown one that is now right before this.  That would be like trying to attract people by showing them your leprosy.  Not a great first impression.

For simplicity's sake, here's the nuts & bolts about me:
I am happily divorced and my 2 short people live with me.  #7 is 7 going on 30. #9 is 9 going on 15.  They are both much to much like there mother most of the time.  Luckily, I am funny and easily amused. Those qualities have saved them from being sold (or at least borrowed) to the gypsies more than once.  #7 is more serious and has a dry sense of humor.  She is hysterical.  The one-liners she comes up with stop me in my tracks.  #9 is the sensitive one.  She wants to be loved by all and has learned to hide her pain with humor.  Yep...they're their mother's daughters.  Unfortunately, they also have a little bit of their father in them.  He's not a BAD guy, I'm just glad he's on his own and not my problem anymore.

I come from a family where "funny trumps mean" any day of the week.  We love each other fiercely, but we'll also laugh like hell if you fall UP the stairs or drop your lunch on the floor.