Sunday, April 30, 2006
Trying a New Template Style
Got a bit bored of the last one, since I've had it for-fucking-ever. Not sure what I think of this one yet, but I am still fiddling with it. Will add some more pictures and things once I remember my stupid photobucket login.
Oh, and I need a banner. Ford, want to make me a banner? I know you do. That little text title up there is so sad and pathetic looking. We need a banner. BANNER.
And I'm using blogger's comments now instead of HaloScan, to see if I like 'em better. So the previous comments are not lost, we just can't see them right now.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Zombie Wins Award for Best Mother of the Year, Or: Yet Another Good Reason to Use Birth Control.
Thank you, thank you. Really, you're too kind.
I'd like to thank the little people, particularly those that live in my house, because without them, this award could not be possible. Here's to you, kids! You love me! You really love me!
Actually, I don't think they do. Love me, that is. If they loved me, they wouldn't act like little demons on crank. They would act like nice, respectable, fine upstanding members of society, so that the neighborhood will begin to think I'm not such white trash after all and perhaps also a vampire.
But can the children do this for me? Oh no, sports fans, they cannot. No siree.
I had the not-so-brilliant idea that I would take them to the park today. We went yesterday and it was nice and fun and there were dogs and we patted them and we climbed the rock wall and went down the slides, and all in all, it was a lovely experience.
So today, "Okay, little dudes, let's go to the park."
"YAAAAAY," say the little dudes.
"Right," and off we go. We go out the backdoor and get to the driveway.
"I will ride my bike," announces my son.
"No, the tire is flat," I say.
"It is a POWER RANGERS bike, Mom, and I will ride it," announces my son. Except he can't really say "Power Rangers" properly, for some reason. It comes out sort of like, "Pow-jer Ragers."
Yeah, I don't know, either.
Anyway, says me: "Again, child, the tire is flat. If you ride it with a flat, it will ruin the rim. Wait until I can get another tire without a freakin' hole in it."
And so we go to the street, walk beside our yard, get to the corner, are almost away from our property and then...."AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."
"What? What are you hollering about?"
"I WANT MY BIKE."
"Holy delayed reaction, Batman. I just told you that you can't ride the bike. Sorry. Now stop it and we'll go to the park."
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIKE. AHHHHHHHHHHHH."
I decided he was probably a little angry. "Asher is loud. And stupid," my tiny daughter comments.
"Shhh, Meredith. Asher, knock it off. You have one minute, or we're going back into the house."
He pauses. I think I have won. But no.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHH. BIIIIIIIIIIIKE. WANT MY BIKE NOW. HATE YOU. AHHHHHHHHHHHHH."
"You're not getting the bike. You have 45 seconds now. Better calm down or no park."
Screaming continues for the rest of the 45 seconds.
"Okay, back to the house."
This is where it gets really fun.
"NO NO NO. NOT GOING INSIDE. CAN'T MAKE ME. AHHHHHHHHHH."
And he takes off running. The little shit.
"I WILL GO TO THE PARK WITHOUT YOU. DON'T NEED YOU. AHHHHHHHH."
I take a deep breath and wonder what to do about my child, who is running full-tilt down the street away from me.
In front of many neighbors, who are all watching with bright interest.
Should I chase him? Should I let him go? Should I hope he gets hit by a car? What to do? What to do?
"Fuck sake," I mutter. I order Meredith to stay put in the front yard and I start walking after my son.
Walking, mind you, because I am not running. For one, I will not be seen chasing a psychotic 5 year old in a Spiderman t-shirt down the street, and for two, have you seen my bra size lately? Cripes. I have no wish for two black eyes.
Anyway, I am walking. Sauntering, if you will. I fancy I resemble Michael Meyers, because my son turns back to see my slow, slow approach and goes even more ballistic. "NOOOO, YOU STAY AWAY FROM MEEEEEE. AHHHHHHHHHH."
"Child," I call, in a conversational tone of voice, "You stop that running right now or you will not be happy when I catch you. And I will catch you. Oh yes, I will."
"AHHHHHH." He keeps running, toward the next corner.
I call out to him again, "You better stop before you get to that road, or you are going to be hit by a car. And if you get hit by a car, don't come crying to me about it, buddy boy."
He makes it to the corner before his stubby little legs give out and he pitches face down into the grass on the side of the road. I catch up to him.
"That is entirely enough of that," I tell him. "Get up and get back to the house."
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. NOOOOOOOOOOOO. HATE YOU. AHHHH."
"I thought I told you to get up. GET UP."
And he does, and goes running back to our yard.
This is where it gets even more fun, if such a thing is even possible.
I make my way back to our yard, where my son is still having convulsions about not being able to ride his godfucking Pow-jer Ragers bike. He hurls himself to the ground again and begins furiously ripping out handfuls of grass and flinging them around. When I reach him, he screams, "NO DON'T KILLLLLLLL MEEEEEEE. YOU'RE GONNA CHOOOOOOKE MEEEEEE! AHHHHHH."
I try to think what good parents would do in this situation. After all, I am an intelligent girl. I can think stuff and read books and do smart girl things. Surely I can figure out how to best handle a 5 year old that has suddenly morphed into a raving maniac.
I remember watching that Nanny 911 show. What would the nanny do? She is always firm, but fair. The children love her, but know they cannot get away with squat. This is the ideal. This is what I should aspire to be.
I will BE the nanny.
I lean over, getting down to his level, so he can see me, and I speak in a firm tone of voice that brooks no argument, just like they say to do on TV:
"Child, you will get up and get yourself into that house or so help me god I will make you wear your ass for a hat. Do you understand? Are we clear?"
Okay, so maybe they don't tell you to say that specifically. But it sounded good at the time.
He stops the screaming and considers me for a moment. I could almost see his tiny brain trying to comprehend an asshat.
"NOOOOO. AHHHHHHHH." I guess it wasn't a good enough threat.
So I try to pick him up. I figure I will sling him over my shoulder and haul him into the house that way. But he is heavy. Much heavier than I am able to handle right now, and as soon as I get him off of the ground, he goes completely limp. Ouch.
So I drop him.
I consider his wiggling form. How can I get him into the house if he will not go under his own steam? Radio Flyer? Pitchfork? What?
I grab him by his Spiderman shirt and hoist him onto his feet and start walking. He keeps trying to fall back to the ground, still screaming all the way, but I am now a Woman of Superhuman Strength, brought about by Righteous Anger and Homicidal Mania induced by my son, and he cannot get away.
"YOU ARE KIIIIIILLING MEEEEEEE," he screams.
I keep walking.
"MY MOMMY KILLS ME EVERY DAYYYYYY!" he shrieks to the neighbors across the street.
"Hi!" I call cheerfully to them. "Nice weather we're having! Have a good one!" I think about adding, "I don't really kill him every day, you know. Really. Oh and I'm not a vampire," but I deem it inappropriate, under the circumstances. For once, the Brain to Mouth Filter that usually malfunctions seems to be in perfect working order.
Anyway, I finally got the kid into the house and put him in the laundry room, where he rattled around and screamed and freaked out for about 45 minutes.
You may be wondering why I win the award for Best Mother of the Year. It is because I resisted the urge to make his ass into an attractive and fashion-forward hat and also don't kill him every day.
Because, really, he does need killing every day, and I have willpower of steel.
So, how was YOUR day, honey?
In Which We Ask the Rhetorical Question: Will Zombie Ever Wake the Fuck Up?
I have this problem. It's a health problem and also a vampire problem and perhaps also has something to do with the fact that I'm just not wired properly.
I have been diagnosed with fibromyalgia for about two years now. It is a pain in my ass - literally. For real, sometimes my ass hurts.
Anyway, for those of you unfamiliar with the wonder that is fibromyalgia (hereafter to be called FMS because I cannot continue typing fibromyalgia over and over again), it is a chronic pain condition. Think of it like arthritis, but causing pain in the soft tissues instead of the joints. Though I do have joint pain, too, since I have hypermobile joints, which also causes much ow, but can be considered fun since it makes me much more bendy than the average person. Bendy! Me! Wee!
FMS is not just a pain-causing thing, though. FMS also causes extreme fatigue and what we sufferers like to call "brain fog." It can cause other strange symptoms, like being cold all the time (check, got that one), muscle spasms (check, got that one), numbness in the extremities (got that one, too) and et cetera. It will affect each person that has it differently.
I am fortunate that I do not have it as bad as a lot of people with FMS do. I am still able to hold down a job and all of that. A lot of FMS sufferers cannot.
But I have it bad enough that when I am having a flare-up, which I am having as we speak, it fucks with me royal.
I have learned to deal with the constant pain and all of that, but the sleeping thing really gets to me. I could sleep for 24 hours straight and wake up and still be tired. I am better than I used to be, mostly because I have to be, but sometimes...
I call this a vampire problem because I can't sleep at night when I am having a flare-up. The pain is always the worst at night and I get the extra-added benefit of not having a proper bed. For some reason, though, when the sun starts to come up, I can sleep like a baby. Stupid wiring.
Anyway, please join me for a little play, titled:
Setting: Zombie's bedroom. Time: Way Too Fucking Early in the Morning, i.e. 5:00 AM. Our Heroine is sleeping, after having finally fallen asleep at 3:00-ish AM, due to worrying and also reading a good book and also not being able to sleep on account of hip pain.
Door opens, Firstborn Child walks in.
Firstborn Child, whispering in that loud way that small children have: MOMMY.
Our Heroine: Snrk.
Our Heroine: Grk.
Firstborn Child: MOMMMMMMMY.
Our Heroine: Glb. Snrz? Blee.
Firstborn Child: Mommy, it is TIME to WAKE UP.
Our Heroine, cracking one eye open to peer at Happy Bunny alarm clock (which features such classic Happy Bunny sayings as, "Hi. You Suck" and "Please Die Soon"): Guhhh...uh. Uhm. 5 in morning. No waking. Sleeping! GO SLEEPING, YOU.
Firstborn Child: What are you talking about?
Our Heroine: Groz...fuh....plb. ZZZZZZZZZ. Zz.
Fifteen minutes or so pass, then:
Firstborn Child: Mom, come ON.
Our Heroine: NO. SLEEPING. TIRED AND SLEEPING.
Scene repeats until roughly 10 AM when Our Heroine is finally able to drag self out of bed, though interspersed with Secondborn Child coming in to the room to jump up and down on Our Heroine in a rather painful manner and other such fun things, like when First and Second go away for a few minutes to retrieve toy trucks, which they promptly bring back and proceed to drive over whatever surfaces are available in Our Heroine's bedroom, including, but not limited to: the floor, the wall, Our Heroine's back, Our Heroine's face and probably the ceiling.
Y'all, I just could NOT wake up. It was terrible. I am still so tired right now, I think I could die. But I won't die, because the universe hates me and also wants to hear me go "Grk, blee?" some more.
I'm going to write about my other fun symptoms in subsequent posts, because there's nothing funnier than a completely addled Zombie wandering around and falling down at random.
Health problems for me = fun for you!
Thursday, April 27, 2006
If You Ever Needed a Reason for Birth Control...
Y'all, don't have kids. If you have kids, I'm sorry, I got to you too late and your life is over and horrors like the one I experienced this morning await you.
If you don't have kids yet, keep it that way. Use 95 different forms of birth control simultaneously, in case 94 forms of them fail. Have only anal sex, ladies! Stick to oral! Something! Anything that will prevent you from conceiving!
Because if you do have children, sports fans, the odds are that you will be woken up at exactly 4:44 in the morning, because one has vomited on your head.
Yes, on your head. Vomited. On your head. ON YOUR HEAD.
This is what happened to me.
I was minding my own business, sleeping, and I vaguely hear a tiny voice from far away, "Mommy...mommy...I...*retch, bleh, nastiness, splat, ON MY HEAD*"
"OH WHAT THE FUCK!" I shouted, sitting bolt upright, sending my tiny daughter skittering backward across my bedroom.
I put a hand to my hair.
"Mommy...I puked," said my tiny daughter.
"Yeah, I can see that...good shot," I sighed.
Y'all, if you have kids, you will find yourself in the shower at 4:47 in the morning, washing half-digested Batman Spaghettios out of your hair and muttering all manner of vile epithets not suitable for the ears of your dog or vomiting child.
You will find yourself having to clean the child and the floor and your bed, because did she vomit in her own bed? No, she did not. She waited until she could vomit on your head.
And you will settle the child back into the bed, and you will go back to bed yourself and, after recovering from the shuddering that has ensued from having your head vomited on, you will fall back asleep.
Because that is what I did.
And an hour later: "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
"WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS!" I shouted, sitting bolt upright in the bed.
"Mommy, I PUKED AGAIN! GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME!"
I go into the kids' bedroom to see that my daughter has vomited on her own head this time.
"Serves you right," I mutter.
So today, I did not go into work, on account of my daughter's habit of vomiting on heads. I figured I shouldn't take her to school, since she might vomit on a teacher's head or maybe that of a fellow student, and I didn't think that would go over very well. I would get a pissy voicemail message, "Uh...Meredith has managed to vomit on 78 heads and there are only 20 people in her class. I think you should come get her. RIGHT NOW."
I actually had to leave a smiliar message on my boss's voicemail: "Uh...yeah...uh...can't come to work today on account of my daughter vomited on my head? True story. Yeah. 'kay, well...uh. Yeah. BYE."
The only good thing to come of this is that she hasn't vomited since 7 this morning and I got a long nap, which I desperately needed.
But still, y'all. She VOMITED on my HEAD. I have no more words.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Y'all ever have one of those days...one of those days where everything sucks and it pisses you off and all you want to do is get a case of beer and hide in the laundry room where no one can see you and drink your face off til you forget your name and why you're drinking your face off in the first place?
Yeah, I had one of those yesterday.
Unfortunately, since I have children and a job and a dog and a stupid house to look after, I am unable to hide in the laundry room and get plastered. Le sigh.
So I did the next best thing!
I...uh...mowed the lawn.
You might think this would make me feel better, but it did not. No, it did not.
Actually, now that I think about it, I'm not sure why I thought yardwork was the answer to my overwhelming homicidal rage and despair. Perhaps I thought shoving a piece of heavy machinery armed with large cutty blade-things was somehow therapeutic. I mean, it sort of sounds therapeutic when you put it that way, doesn't it?
Whatever my reasoning was, I was going to mow the lawn. So I put on some jeans that don't fit properly (remember that part, since it's going to be important later) a tank top and my new fantastic sunglasses and bravely marched to the lawnmower.
And it wouldn't start. And it wouldn't start. And it wouldn't start.
But not to worry!
It never starts...right away. This is how I get an upper-body workout - by continuously yanking on that cord-thing (I believe that's the technical nomenclature, mind you) until the mower decides it will turn on and do its job.
So yes, it's a crap mower and it makes a not-quite-right rumbly sound when it's on, but it does mow, and that's fine with me.
So I start mowing the grass. Now, the water company recently dug the middle of my front yard up and left piles of dirt all around, so my front yard vaguely resembles some sort of battlefield, surrounded by nice green grass and dandelions. Yeah, it's charming.
Anyway, I'm mowing along, trying to mow around the gaping hole in the front yard and I'm happy with myself, cos, look Ma, I'm doing yardwork after my intensely boring 8 hour work day when all I really want to be doing is hiding in the laundry room, drinking my face off and --- thunk. Huh?
Mower has stopped moving!
But...mower is still running?
Mower has not stalled, but will not move...what...?
I look down. Oh, there's the problem.
A fucking wheel fell off.
Yes, that's right...a fucking wheel on the fucking mower fucking fell off.
Now here's where it gets fun, sports fans, because I almost had a nervous breakdown right then and there.
For those of you that don't live in my head and aren't privy to my inner monologue, I have to tell you: my inner monologue closely resembles the Bataan Death March.
When the mower lost its wheel like that, the Bataan Death March started going double-time.
Here is a little re-creation of my inner monologue, just for you:
What...? What? WHAT? No, the wheel did not just fall off the fucking lawnmower, did it? What? It DID? IT DID? WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF SHIT IS THAT? This is all your fault. I don't know why it is, but it is. Perhaps the wheel does not like your shoes and you should wear heels next time so the mower feels like you at least made a fucking effort or something and when is the last time you even bothered to brush your hair and how are you going to mow the rest of the lawn minus one lawnmower wheel? How will you finish what you've started here because you HAVE to finish what you've started here because we all KNOW how BAD you are at finishing much of anything so you better just get it over with, hadn't you? But what are you going to do with a wheel missing? You'll have to get a whole new mower! And those are expensive! And you can't afford it because you're in the hole by a bajillion dollars thanks to SOMEONE WE WON'T MENTION having to be bribed and then fucking you over with the ebay thing oh yeah you have a bunch of ebay shit to do tonight too before the ebay gestapo comes banging down your door and eats your children and perhaps also your kneecaps, huh? HUH? Yes, but what about this WHEEL? What about it? No, do not cry. NO, DO NOT CRY. Do not sit down and cry right here! You are a grown woman almost and you can handle a shitty day and a stupid lawnmower and not being able to drink your face off in the laundry room and living on four hours of sleep a night and typing all day! You can do that! Because...because you have no choice! This is the rest of your life! GET USED TO IT! HAH! Okay, okay, sorry...sorry....no, I said don't sit down and cry. If you sit down and cry, all of your yuppie neighbors with perfect yards, who are already incredibly suspicious of you might I add due to several unfortunate incidents involving SOMEONE WE WON'T MENTION and also perhaps that they think you are a vampire maybe, all of those yuppies with the perfect yards are going to go ahhhhhh, we knew there was something wrong with her and her freaky little kids, just look, even the lawnmower's wheel doesn't want to hang around, SO DON'T CRY...uhm, are your pants falling down?
Because, yes indeed, friends and neighbors, my pants were falling down. Fortunately, I caught them before anything too terribly embarassing happened - like me lying in the fetal position next to a mangled lawnmower, clutching a wheel to my chest, with my pants around my ankles, sobbing uncontrollably.
So uh, my pants tried to fall off because I apparently lost a bunch of weight I wasn't aware of. And that's good. Because for a minute there, I thought my pants hated me like the lawnmower and the universe hate me, and that, baseball fans, might be enough to put me over the edge.
I straighten up. I call the lawnmower a few names - okay, more than a few. My children peer curiously around the fence at me. They recognize an excellent example of swearing a blue streak when they see it.
"Mom? Why are you holding a wheel and staring at it funny?" inquires my son.
"Because, child of mine, I am wondering about how best to either A) get this back on the mower or B) kill it, even though it's not really alive and obviously doesn't have a soul...because if it had a soul, it wouldn't have picked today to fall off the mower, would it? Would it, my firstborn child, darling son of mine?"
"Whatever, Mom." See, he's a smart kid.
I decide I will just have to get the wheel back on and the doing of this will probably require some tools. I think Spawnie may have left a power drill around and I think THAT sounds promising, since a power drill is like a screwdriver only faster, right? But no, I cannot find a drill like that. So I get the next best thing.
Okay, and a screwdriver.
I didn't actually use the hammer. I just needed it to keep me company.
I reattach the wheel. I mow the rest of the lawn.
And what is the moral of this story, everyone?
The moral is: if you're having a shitty day, yardwork will only make it worse, so don't do yardwork.
And also: drinking your face off is the cure to all of your problems because if you aren't drinking your face off, your problems will get exponentially worse and wheels and pants and things will start trying to run away from home.
And also also: if your inner monologue closely resembles the Bataan Death March, you are in trouble. Trust me, I know.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Zombie Corrupts Children
I am a corrupter of children.
I probably shouldn't have been allowed to breed - but since it is done and I have yet to find a place that will perform retroactive abortions, we are stuck with my tiny demon spawn.
Each night, if the spawn behave, I read them a story of their choosing. This is often a Care Bears book (my daughter is obsessed with Care Bears) or whatever my son hauls up from the depths of the pile of books on his bedroom floor.
Some nights, however, I am just too tired to read, so I sing songs of their choosing. For a long time, this involved nursery rhymes, but I can only sing "The Farmer in the Dell" so many times before I want to shoot myself in the face. So the other night, I got the bright idea to sing different songs.
I sang them some Violent Femmes. I sang "Blister in the Sun." I sang "American Music." And I sang "Add It Up." We did this two nights in a row.
So the night before last, my son chirps, "Mom! Sing 'Add It Up'!"
If you've never heard this song, it's long and convoluted and about cocaine (I think).
This night, apparently, I was even too tired to sing because when I opened my mouth, no words came out. My mind went completely blank.
"Sorry, dudes, I can't remember the words."
"Mom," says my tiny daughter, placing her little starfish hand on my arm, "It goes, 'There's a broken-down kitchen at the top of the stairs'!"
Man, she picks up lyrics fast. I guess I'm glad she didn't pick up any other parts of that song, though, like, "Why can't I get just one fuck?" or "Oh my mother, I would love to love you, lover," or "Words all fail the magic prize...nothin' I can say while I'm in your thighs."
So seeing that my daughter has an uncanny ability to pick up lyrics like this, I will have to be more careful of what I sing to them.
I can see her going to school, quoting Leonard Cohen:"Give me crack and anal sex."
Or the Pixies, "Must be a devil between us, or whores in my head, whores at the door, whore in my bed...but hey!"
Or maybe Acid Bath, "She screams bloody murder as they chop off her fingers - so this is how it feels to die."
Guess I better go back to the farmer in his fucking dell with the dog and the cat or whatever.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Zombie Leads an Exciting Life
Okay, not really.
Though I must say I had a vaguely enjoyable weekend. My office was closed on Friday so I took my happy ass shopping. Then the kids and I did yardwork pretty much all day Saturday. I made the dumbass mistake of not cleaning up the dead leaves and such properly last fall, so it was a giant pain to get it taken care of now, but at least the yard's looking nice (except for the giant gaping hole the water company left when they dug up our pipes and jackassed around for a couple of days) and I've got all my seeds planted. The kids had a great time trundling around in the dirt and screwing up the neat piles of debris I was making.
Sunday was to be devoted to cleaning the house up, but turned into me sitting at the kitchen table with a blank stare on my face for the better part of 900 hours.
I realized I have too much Stuff. Gone are the days when I could fit all of my earthly belongings into a few boxes (most of which would be books). No, now I am a grown up, a mother of two, so I must apparently accumulate piles of nonsense that do nothing but sit around and collect dust and provide me with more things to clean. I must have coffeemakers and Crock Pots (okay, I LOVE my Crock Pot, but still) and kitchen implements I never use and pots and pans and dishes that don't match and piles of toys no one plays with and clothes no one wears and knickknacks I don't like and Stuff-I-Might-Need-Some-Day-Just-In-Case. This is frightening. I cringe whenever I go into the laundry room, which is packed with, yes, you guessed it, more Stuff - though this is Ebay Stuff and mostly consists of flattened, empty cardboard boxes.
Sitting there at the kitchen table, I was struck with the overwhelming urge to start hauling things out to the yard to burn them. Why do I want all this Stuff? Is it necessary? Why do I keep it? Why not just...give it away or throw it away or bury it in the backyard and dance a jig on its grave?
Granted, most of my Stuff is books. I love books. I can never get enough books. I love books more than I love people (which probably isn't saying much, since my idea of being friendly and polite to people consists of "Die in a fire...please.")
When a book finds its way to my home, it doesn't matter if it's crap or if it's terrible or if I will even read it - it has found its sanctuary, its home. I will let it live with all its mates, quietly and happily creating a fire hazard in the basement (or the kitchen or the bedroom or the spare room or...okay, you get it).
I love books so much I can't even go into a library - y'know, on account of they make you give the books back and that is just horrible.
So this Getting Rid of Stuff idea I have will eventually lead to Getting Rid of Books, and Getting Rid of Books will eventually lead to my having a Massive Stroke and/or Nervous Breakdown.
I hope I can handle it. I wonder if I should start an online reading circle or something, where I just start mailing my books out to random people and forcing them to provide good homes to them.
I have thought about taking them to the Salvation Army or some other thrift store, but I worry about what will happen to them - will they be abused? Will someone love them properly? Will they be kept safe and warm?
It is nerve-wracking.
Yes, I realize I'm demented. Don't worry.
Anyway, if anyone wants some books, let me know. I'll require references, a criminal background check, a current credit report and an STD test to make sure you're not harboring any filthy disease, but after that...they're all yours!
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Zombie Has Issues, Part 2 1/2
From my comments box:
My first thought was.. don't mostly retarded people who don't need to loose weight hang out in gyms?
Yes, I think so, j00dz. I don't count as mostly retarded because I can stand to lose a few (million) pounds, but the majority of people I see there are incredibly thin....maybe because they go to the gym so much? I don't know.
I remember being skinny. It was more about stress, and feeding my kids before I dared eat a morsel. Even before that, when I was a child, I had this repultion for eating produce that my Mom had recovered from the Safeway garbage bin. She thought I was too picky. Later in life, I understood her point.
My mom did that...didn't eat until my sister and I had eaten, because we were so broke all the time. I do not remember her dumpster diving at the Safeway, but I do remember getting boxes from the church on occasion.
Zombie .. skinny isn't all that healthy. Try not to fret so.
Well, I'm not healthy now, either...perhaps I can find a nice mid-spot where I am not skinny but also not this heavy. That's all I'm looking for.
You aren't the only one that has that sinking, yet retarded feeling of despair when you see super thin people. I see meth heads, and anorexic girls that are covered with lanugo and I feel desperate and fat.
It's funny that you should say this, Mary. You commented this as I was posting about my sister, and I didn't include the other part of what I was going to say about her anorexia, which is that, in some weird, twisted way, I admire her. She's got some crazy-ass willpower over there. I have a hard enough time walking past the potato chips, let alone fasting for days at a time like she does.
And I also know from reading her blog (which she has removed) that she sees people like Tyra Banks as fat. That freaks me out - like, if she sees THAT woman as fat, what must she think of me?
I know she is not well and not thinking clearly, but it still gnaws at me a bit.
Zombie Has Issues, Part 2
My little sister emailed me today. We recently found out that she is anorexic, which of course has thrown the family into chaos. It has caused my mother to call me, repeatedly, in tears, asking me to look something up on the 'net (she's afraid of computers or something) or help her in some other way.
I don't mind, per se, because I want my sister to get well and am willing to do whatever to help make that happen...but still, this is disconcerting for me, since I am used to being the "bad one." My sister was always the "good one," or so it appeared from where I stood. I think if you ask my sister, she'd agree.
Anyway, due to being in foster care and various things I won't get into right now, my sister and I haven't spoken much since I was 14 and she was 9-ish. She's 19 now, so...that's ten years of not really having much to say to each other. Not because I dislike her or (I think) she dislikes me, but because we just don't really know each other.
When my mother called to tell me about her illness, I was unsure what to do. One part of me wanted to fly right out there and fix everything and another part of me said, "It's not your place." I ended up not going and instead just sending whatever information (articles, numbers for doctors, etc) I could dig up and offering my special brand of moral support ("Just shove some cake down her throat, Ma. Try using a funnel. Hey, it works for beer! Okay, okay, I know this is serious. SORRY!")
Now, my sister is not a stupid girl. She knows what will happen to her if she does not eat, but she can't seem to stop this. And if you think I'm stubborn...you should see this kid. She makes me look like a doormat.
She's taller than I am now, which makes her 5'10"/5'11"-ish (I'm shrinking due to hip problems and so forth) and she's down to 110 pounds. She's become a praying mantis.
This is all disturbing for me on many levels. Let's discuss another facet of Zombie's MechaIssue, which we'll call "The Incredible Shrinking Sister."
My sister was a dancer. She was a gymnast. She played volleyball, basketball, and ran track. She was always thin - which we figured was due to playing so many sports.
(I also played volleyball for many years, but was decidedly not graceful enough to dance or do the gymnastics thing.
I also don't run unless being chased by a homicidal maniac with a chainsaw, because my breasts are way too big for all of that. Okay, even if a homicidal maniac with a chainsaw was chasing me, I'd probably stop after a couple of yards and say, "Okay, you win. Have at it.")
We used to call my sister the "alien," the "freak," the "mailman's kid," and other such nice things, because she is the only thin female in our family. All of the rest of us are well-endowed in the chestal region and also have been provided with what are known in some parts as "breedin' hips."
Our mother has always struggled with her weight. She goes up on the scale, she goes back down on the scale, and she complains, loudly, about it. Both my sister and I grew up hearing that...but while my sister internalized it and turned it into a severe revulsion towards fat, I said, "Fuck it!" and had another donut. Or seven.
My mother calls me now and asks, "What did I do wrong? Why is she like this? How can I fix it? Did I do this to her?" and I tell her, "No, this is not your fault. I don't know exactly why she is like this, but it has to do with control. You cannot fix it for her. You did not do this to her."
But I wonder.
I wonder if the pressure of being the small one in the family of fat people, of being the "good daughter" that never caused any trouble and always made everyone happy, of being the right weight for the dancing and the gymnastics, of hearing her mother revile her own body on a daily basis for being overweight, of getting the good grades and the good boy and the good friends...I wonder if all that might not have something to do with it.
I wonder if my sister, growing up five steps behind me, got lost somewhere while she was trying to be everything that I wasn't - so my parents would be happy.
I wonder if getting lost made her feel out of control, and if that feeling reached out for the one thing it knew she could control - her eating. And control it she does - with a vengeance. Her willpower, under any other circumstances, would be awe-inspiring.
I wonder about myself, too, since I let that happen. I was content to be the bad one, because it meant I could get away with more. No one had any expectations for me whatsoever, unless you count the expectation that I would fail. I was content to let my sister be the good one, making up for all of my shortcomings in the Functioning Member of Society Department. In a weird, roundabout way, I feel like I have contributed to my sister's illness in a major way. I feel like if I had been better at being a member of the family, maybe she wouldn't be this way.
But then again, maybe she would. I don't know all of the reasoning or what's going on in her head. Everything I've said here is just conjecture at this point...but it's stuff I think about. Y'know, issues.
Guess we all have them.
I still want to make her eat cake, though.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Also, while I'm thinking about it, should I be worried that whenever I check my site meter, I see that quite a few people have gotten here by Googling "horsefucking"?
I realize that I use that word from time to time to be descriptive (as in, "That is utter horsefucking bullshit!") but I do not think that these people are searching for new and clever expletives - in fact, and call me naive if you want, but I rather think they are looking for some pr0n.
Note to Googling Freaks: There is no horsefucking pr0n to be found on this site (unless I find some that's hot - then I'll post it). Look elsewhere.
Zombie Has Issues, Part 1
Really, it should come as no surprise that I have issues. I have, in the past, considered buying a nice suitcase to pack my various complexes and issues into, so that they might become more portable, and, therefore, (hopefully) less in my way. Did that make sense? No? Good.
Anyway, I have been trying for the past couple of days to write a witty, fantastic post about an issue of mine, specifically my weight issue, but it just won't come out properly. See, what I thought was only one issue* turned out to be a whole bunch of different issues that collectively form a MechaIssue the likes of which the world has never seen!
So, trying to write about this shite as if it were a singular problem didn't work, because every time I would try to wrap up a thought, something else would occur to me and I would try to add that in, and on and on until the post got so long and convoluted that it tried to strangle me in order to save itself any more pain.
So today, we'll just talk about one part of the MechaIssue.
I did not go to the gym yesterday on account of getting my Depo, since it has a habit of making me wonky and nauseous and also homicidal.**
I did go the day before, though - and I was feeling pretty good about myself. I'm making a concerted effort to correct my weight! I am eating well! I have stopped drinking real Coke entirely! I resisted a delicious hamburger*** that a coworker**** offered me! I did not eat cookies when I could've eaten thousands of them! I am excellent!
So, there I was, so very proud of myself, ambling along on the treadmill, and then -- shit. This 9-foot-tall praying mantis of a woman gets onto the treadmill next to mine and my fragile little bubble of happiness is blown to bits.
Now, this girl was way too skinny. She seriously resembled a praying mantis. I will never look like that in my life, even if I lost 100 pounds tomorrow - but more importantly, I do not want to look like that. The Praying Mantis Look is, like, kinda scary. Okay, more than kinda.
But still, I found myself jealous of this woman and her thinness. I kept sneaking glances at her via the GIANT MIRRORS OF DESPAIR that the gym has all over the place, which were obviously put there to torment me.*****
Why would I be jealous of a woman I have no wish to resemble? Does that make sense? No, it does not - but there it is. I compare myself to a woman that I have no wish to be like. See? Issues.
And then she opened her mouth to speak to what I presume was her boyfriend on the machine beside her, and I felt better, because she's apparently retarded. Okay, not retarded retarded, but at the very least...impaired?...challenged?...okay, stupid. And that's all right. Skinny bitches are okay if they're stupid. After all, they have to be skinny to make up for their lack of personality, right? RIGHT? Comfort me, here, people, I think I'm having a crisis...
* We'll name that particular issue "You Call That a Donut, I Call It My Own True Love," hereafter to be referred to as just Donut, for the sake of not making me keep typing that out.
** Don't worry, I feel better now! Well, except for the homicidal part. I'm always homicidal.
*** Mmm, hamburger.
**** Curse you, coworker.
***** I know they did that on purpose. They can't fool me. I am On Top of Things.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Zombie Is Not a Cool Parent
My son is five and has already decided that I am lame.
I remember when he was just a wee foetus in my belly and his father and I would talk about what it would be like to be parents. It would go a little something like this:
Me: Do you think he'll like us when he's older?
Him: Oh hell yeah. We're awesome. Look, I have long hair. I always wanted my dad to have long hair.
Me: Yeah, but you're going bald...
Him: That's not a bald spot! That's a cowlick!
Me: Okay, whatever...but seriously, do you think he will like us?
Him: What's not to like? We're metal.
Me: Yes, we are indeed metal. But don't kids always hate their parents eventually?
Him: No way. We'll be the cool parents. All the kids will love us.
Me: What if he turns out to be a football-playing jock with a crewcut? Then what? Can you see us sitting in the bleachers, dressed as we are and, like, cheering with the other parents? If he scores a touchdown, are you going to do the Cookie Monster growl thing you do for the band? Hmm? What if I do metal hands? He will be embarassed.
So, it turns out that my fears came true and Asher thinks I am lame. He is a very metal little boy, so that's not the problem. No, the problem is the fact that I am embarassing in other ways.
Case in point:
I took both kids to the park a couple of weeks ago. It was a lovely day outside and I figured they could run off some excess energy (these kids is crazy, man, they never tire out - I think they run off static electricity from the carpet). We played at the park for a while and then it was time to go home for dinner.
"Come on, guys, let's go!" I say.
They reluctantly follow me down the gravel path. I figure, to liven things up a bit and keep them from running out into the road and getting smashed by a car, we should play a game. Because don't kids like games? Don't they like to play games with their parents? Aren't parents that play games with their kids cool, and engaged, and involved and therefore awesome?
"Let's play Simon Says!" says me, cheerfully.
My daughter readily agrees.
My son says nothing.
"Simon Says march!" I say, and my daughter and I start marching up the road.
I hear a scuffling sound behind me, and my son tugs on my shirt.
"Mom," he sighs. "Simon Says walk normal."
Then he shakes his little round head at me, as if I were the dumbest motherfucker on the planet, and walks ahead of us.
Now, I'm sure I did look like a moron, I grant you. But still.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Zombie's Daughter Has Copdar.
That's like gaydar, but for cops.
While driving the kid to school this morning, she announces, "Look, Mommy! A police car!"
"No, honey...that was a cab."
"No, no, the white car."
I look. It does not appear to be a cop car. "No, Bean, that's not a cop car. That's just a regular car."
"It is a police car! It is!"
So we argue for a few minutes. Then we end up pulling up next to the car in question at a red light, and what do you know? He's got a grill in the back that I couldn't see from behind and some weird mirrors that I also couldn't see from behind, and so...it is a cop car. But if I couldn't see these things from where we were before, I doubt my daughter could...so...
My daughter has copdar.
I think this may come in handy if I ever decide to take up robbing banks. She can spot all the police in the area - even the undercover ones, as this car she spotted did not have any of the usual "POLICE" crap painted all over it, it was just a plain car - and keep my ass from gettin' arrested.
I always knew having kids would pay off in the end.