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Posts Tagged ‘period’

Not like screaming at me about not being able to stand too close to anything in the room that may have a penis; but something would be nice.

Yes, I am very happy that you are secure enough in our relationship that you already know that you don’t have to worry about me cheating. But come on!

I know that my husband isn’t going to cheat on me. However that does not automatically mean that I’m not going to question certain things. Like when some woman he went to high school with feels that the first thing she needs to tell him when she finds him on Facebook (and she hasn’t spoken to him in a dozen years) is that she’s getting a divorce. Um, excuse me, but why does MY husband need to know that you’re now available?

But if that happens with me I get nothing. Like he’s saying “well I have nothing to worry about because no one’s gonna hit on Slagathor over there.”
I mean throw me a bone! At least ask a couple of questions about the motives of the conversation. Something that says you have at least a little problem with someone who might be getting too familiar with me.

But I get: It’s a compliment when some random stranger ogles your bosom for half an hour in the grocery store. (Well I have a problem with it and you know I have a problem with it so would you at least give him a dirty look or something.)

or

I don’t have a problem with that guy you knew in middle school telling you that he just got a divorce and that he’s going to be up this way soon and would like to see you again. (Really? You don’t have a problem with that? Are you that blind?)

and especially

I know I’m better than them so why should I worry?

Well I know I’m better than every bleach-haired, toothless, slag you ever dated too! But that doesn’t mean I’m going to be silently accepting of some chick you haven’t talked to in years dumping all her relationship problems on you. When girls do that with each other they are looking for advice. When they do that with other men, they are trolling for dong.

I think that the problem is that my husband is also hopelessly OBLIVIOUS to these subtle cues. Not like oblivious so that he can deny it later, but really and truly completely blind to even the most basic “you can stick that right here” cues.
He really does think that the girl is telling him this stuff because he is a good listener. Um, no. I’ve known you for years and the last thing I would say about you is that you are a good listener. It takes me twenty minutes to get your attention on a good day and god forbid it’s football season! And everyone who knew you back then says that they are surprised that I can get you to listen now. So no. Just no.

He gets the occasional: Why does she think you need to know that?

I get: _____________

That’s right I get NOTHING! So until something finally happens to make my husband at least a little territorial Slagathor will be in the corner drinking tequila and wishing for an iota of personal validation.

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I have three kids, twins who are boy and girl 13 year olds, and a 4 year old. As soon as I had my kids there was apparently a big neon sign stamped on my head that says it’s ok to ask me personal/stupid/annoying questions and give me completely unsolicited advice on everything my kids do.

For example, when I say that I have twins the first question out of most people’s mouths is did you have them naturally or by C-section? The answer is yes, they came out of my vagina. And thank you for concerning yourself with my holiest of holy you person whom I’ve just met. My vag also thanks you for the unwanted attention and sympathy. That question is always second only to “how did/how long did you breast feed?” Wonderful you’ve asked me about my most private areas and I don’t even know your name.

When I was pregnant with my youngest people asked me what we planned to name her. Then they would tell me exactly why that was a horrible name. One fat old trailer dweller told me that I shouldn’t give her that name because it’s too long. What? Just because you named your son Tom because it’s the only one you could spell doesn’t mean that I have to shorten my kids name so that your head won’t explode when you think of it.

So I have both teens and toddler, the most advice riddled ages there are. I get advice everywhere I go. Especially the grocery store. You shouldn’t let your child eat that. You shouldn’t let her stand in the cart. You let your daughter dress like that? You let your kids say that?

First off, it’s fruit, ok. Fruit! And yes my kids eat a lot of it. And yes, sometimes I buy it in those little containers with the high fructose corn syrup in them. When your giant sloth sheds about half a person because you’re letting them gorge on a huge bag of fat free chips in one sitting then you can talk to me about my kids’ diet. Until then you may want to tell junior to take the wrapper off before he starts shoveling in the fat free ho-ho’s. I would really like to know why someone taking up more than half the snack food isle feels the need to tell me and my no-so-big kids how to eat.

Stand in the cart? Lady maybe you didn’t notice but she has her arms around my neck because I’m taking her out/putting her in the cart. As for her standing in the cart in the cereal isle, notice that I’m also holding said cart and that she has two teen spotters on each side of her while she politely picks out her own cereal box. Notice also that she’s not raking the boxes off the shelves like your little monster is doing, nor is she throwing a tantrum because I won’t let her have a super-size box of chocolate coated sugar.

And yes, I not only allow but I personally buy every pair of neon green and orange argyle knee socks in my daughter’s wardrobe. Notice how she’s chosen to pair them with the knee length denim shorts and basic tee-shirt that says “sanity is over-rated”. Not only did I let her marker her white tennis shoes in varying colors, but I helped her chose the pattern.

Oh, and when you say this to me and she replies “At least I don’t look like your little skank.” as she points to your teen who’s wearing the latest in Paris Hilton tramp wear, you know: heels, tiny shorts, push-up bra and and low cut tank top. Or better, the little cotton ass showing shorts that say something classy like “jail-bait” on the back. Yes, yes I do let her say things like that, because when she says it it’s not illegal.

And people wonder why most of my tee-shirts say mean things on them.

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In my previous post I mentioned my guilty pleasure…and if you look closely you’ll see more than one in that post. I did not, however, mention the more common following:

Chocolate

Red Wine

Cheesecake

Chocolate

Tequila

Guinness

Hot Wings

Chocolate

Cheesecake

Chocolate Cheesecake

Why did I not mention those things? Because I am not the least bit guilty about these things.

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Before I lose probably the only reader I have so far I want to admit to a guilty pleasure that not really very pleasurable. It’s a website on my blogroll called The Dreamin Demon.

Let me tell you, as if you’re not already paranoid enough about horrible things happening to your kids the true crime articles on this site will have you helicopter parenting before you get done reading one post.

I found the site by complete accident while looking for an update on a crime in my area. Within two mouse clicks I wanted to wrap my kids up and move to the Yukon or Siberia, or some other place that’s just as unpopulated, arm myself with some anti-tank missiles, and take some high ground so that I can see the crazies coming.

So why do I keep going back? Because I study crime and for fun for one. And two because by reading the posts I’ve been able to track a major swing in public opinion concerning crimes against children.

I’m in my early thirties. I remember when “Stranger Danger” was introduced into schools, as well as the D.A.R.E program’s first year. I also remember the whole “Good Touch-Bad Touch” thing and about a thousand utterly depressing after-school specials that I was free to watch because I was staying home with my two younger siblings at the ripe old age of 9. But within all of this information there was still a problem.

Somehow, as a society, we decided the following:

Older male + younger female = rape, molestation, BAD

Older male + younger male = rape, molestation, BAD

Older female + younger female = rape, molestation, BAD (Sometimes)

Ugly older female + young male = Rape, molestation, BAD (and never talked about)

Older attractive female + younger male = coming of age, pleasurable first time, GOOD!! (To the point of almost no jail time for these offenders and bragging rights for the abused kid)

South Park did a parody on this a couple of years ago that hit the nail on the head. Episode 1010 “Niiicce” was the catch phrase that episode, which was also everyone in town’s response when it was reported that a kindergartner was having sex with the attractive new teacher.

Believe it or not, I watch South Park. However, I really only watch the episodes with underlying social and political commentary. OK, so the delivery is off, and it’s usually surrounded by disgusting toilet humor and some really inappropriate scenes that make me turn away, but that’s actually what makes it more interesting to watch in my opinion. And really, pay attention to air dates of South Park episodes and changes in the social climate and you’ll see a startling pattern.

For example, the above mentioned episode is based on the case of Debra Lafave who had a sexual relationship with a 14 year old boy. This was the 23 year old blond in Florida. In April that same year Lafave avoided jail time (Twice! Two counties, two separate trials) through a plea bargain. Her attorney offered the defense that because she was young and attractive she shouldn’t be sent to jail because it would damage her (WTF!!!!) The South Park episode aired on Oct. 18, 2006.

During the episode Kyle, older brother of the kindergartner Ike who is being molested, is repeatedly met with problems reporting the incident and having it taken seriously. Much the same as the above mentioned case. Socially, it was considered acceptable (and even applaudable) for the 23 year old woman to repeatedly abuse a 14 year old boy who had an idea, but no real understanding, of what was happening to him. You have no idea how many times I read “What’s the big deal, she’s HAWT!!” comments on the news articles about this case. This was one of those cases that made me physically ill to follow.

Most of society saw the relationship between the 23 year old educator and the 14 year old CHILD as a good thing. However, my husband and I saw it for what it was… statutory rape of a minor child by an authority figure. Husband frequents a guitar related message board and more than once laid into someone who made a “she’s hawt!” comment about the case. Often pointing out in no uncertain terms that this was a CHILD and that no one would be thinking it was awesome if it was an adult male of the same age and an underage female no matter how “hawt” the offender was. But when the South Park episode aired everything on that message board suddenly swung the other way. The few people who were still trying to say it was OK because she was hot were immediately met with a barrage of insults and labeled things like pedophile from their first post.

I like The Dreamin Demon because they make no bones about the fact that diddling a kid, no matter age, sex, religion or hotness, is a CRIME!!! It doesn’t matter to the blog writers how hot or not the offender is, only that they are an adult and this is a child. They also hold oblivious parents responsible for their inactions. They do not hide their contempt for parents who rate “their latest swinging ___” higher than their own children. Though they do sympathize in cases where it takes a woman a day to get away from someone because they’ve been trapped by that person. And in cases where a single parent is struggling to work to support her children without a stable support system. But everything else is fair game.

They are by no means nice over there, but they are truthful. They report on the most depraved and disgusting crimes in the news and are not PC about it. basically, they’re saying what we’re all already thinking and I give them a hearty cheer for that.

However, none of this changes the fact that I have to limit myself to reading one post per day so that I don’t do that whole militant move to Siberia thing I mentioned to begin with.

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My Hero

10 pm in the Hackney household. Usually this means I’m winding down by repeatedly checking my empty inbox while praying that my instructor will post my latest grade while Husband takes a quick shower. Tonight however, we had a real adventure.

Firstly, let me explain that I live in Florida. Florida, home of large lizards, that can kill you, large fish, that can kill you, snakes both large and small, that can kill you, mosquitoes that carry diseases that can kill you, and even a few toads, that, yes, can kill you. I think we even have several plants here that can kill you. I was raised here so I’m very familiar with all the things here that can kill you. It’s not uncommon to find four foot gators lurking in your backyard as they wander between puddles. This stuff is so common that it doesn’t even bother me anymore. You just herd the kids inside and count the pets.

But what scares me pee-less?

Palmetto bugs.

Photobucket

Not scary? Well then you’ve never had one dive bomb you at 3 am when you really, really have to pee. Nor have you ever had one crawl out of one of those old single speaker 80’s era detective movie style tape recorders while said tape recorder is whispering your favorite Bangles cassette into your ear right as you’re waking up. These things are foul. And they’re huge! Like fifteen feet long! They have pointy legs and wobbly feelers and they’re just icky!

Last night one trapped me in the bathroom. He was at least ten feet long and wearing those dual crisscrossing bullet things that you see in old western movies and smoking a chewed up cigar while he laughed and taunted me.

Have I mentioned yet that I’m currently having a late and heavy period? No. Well that’s pertinent. Husband gave me a chance to “go” before he took his shower so I scrambled into the 5×5 closet we call a bathroom. Slammed the door and started crying hysterically.

Yes, they scare me that bad!

El Jefe cucaracha was sitting on the edging to the door laughing at me. I tried to get to the door and run away but it moved and I found myself clinging to the window ledge on the narrow side of the tub, still crying and trying to tap hard enough on the wall to get Husband’s attention, but not wake my dad or disturb the monster blocking the door into darting into the drain at my feet.

I give up and after several taps I resorted to maniacally framming on the wall as hard as I can. That finally got his attention.

Now I have to give you my husband’s picture of the scene.

Wife, who gave birth to a set of twins, and later a third who she popped out in a mere three pushes without even a grunt, who he met at a school full of burly biker types while she was getting a degree in Harley Davidson repair, who spent two years living on the streets in New Orleans, who he is absolutely sure would commit murder without a second thought to anyone who bothers her family and probably enjoy doing it, who he knows for a fact has had a gun in her face TWICE while working in gas stations without blinking, who he is completely convinced that if needs be could take him out without breaking a sweat if he gets too far out of line, is now standing on a strip of bathtub that’s more narrow than her own feet and clinging to the ledge of a foot wide window crying because of a inch long bug that won’t let her out of the bathroom.

My crying turns to hysterical laughter as I see the scene from his eyes.

Six and a half foot, blond, boxer clad, Husband crouches like a viking readying himself for a horn driven charge into battle. All he’s missing is furs, horned helm and a battle-axe. Which makes me laugh even harder, though fear tears are pouring down my face at this point.

Again I have to mention that the bathroom is about 5×5 and I think I’m being generous. The tub takes up one wall, the toilet is about ten inches from the tub and the sink sits right in front of the toilet giving about one foot of space between sink and toilet. The only other space in the room is the space left to allow for door opening. This is where Husband is standing ready to engage the terror that’s cornered Wife.

He readies himself for the attack. Then I realize that the plastic tote sitting in the corner behind the door (the tote where we pile everything we can’t fit on a shelf or under the sink, which also contains my annoyingly optimistic feminine necessities) will soon be the final resting place of El Jefe. I manage to squeak incoherently about said tote until Husband eventually tries to wrangle out what I need. He gets it wrong at first, grabbing the very small thin pads that Oldest Daughter uses instead of mine. Those things are about as effective as putting a band-aid on an amputated limb. After a few more tries he finally gives up and drags the whole thing into the middle of the floor. Which also shrinks his maneuverable space by half. My hero.

Hoping to end the battle as quickly as possible he grabs for the bottle of cheap citrus meadow aerosol spray. Blowing his horn of valor he charges in and lays waste to the beast.  El Jefe thanks him for the freshen up and laughs like a Mexican villain in a spaghetti western. From here the real battle ensues. What I’m seeing is something akin to the naked battle between Beowulf and Grendel in that Zemekcis film. However, what’s actually happening is that Husband is chasing El Jefe up and down the wall with a big blue plastic cup.

I’ve now relocated to the small window ledge to cringe in terror behind the shampoo bottles. Yes, I’m still cry-laughing hysterically. Husband corners the beast who sneers menacingly. Holding his four-for-a-dollar bathtub sized plastic weapon high he smites the monster. A crunching pop reverberates through the room and the beast falls.

Husband looks at me and laughs. The girls had just gotten out of the bath so there were a few puddles in the tub. The dirt from my feet has turned said puddles a slightly darker color which is reflecting through the odd yellowish tub making it look like I just peed all over myself. I almost did, but since I was already clenched as tight as humanly possible so that I wouldn’t bleed all over the place, I didn’t.

Husband grabs some of our cheap one-ply and sends the beast to his final rest. He also realizes that I have suddenly gained the ability to scale walls like Spiderman as the monster in the one-ply shroud plops into the toilet.

Unfortunately I’m still cornered in the bathtub because now Husband has decided to take a victory pee and I can’t get past him. Again, My Hero.

On a side note, I’ve realized that heavy exertions…like say, balancing yourself on top of one of those spring loaded shower curtain rods without it falling… can cause extreme blood flow. Which can lead to a half naked sprint into the bedroom because last month you forgot to replace the emergency undies you keep under the sink.

All in all, it was a rather exciting five minutes.

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