"You're only as old as you feel". I call bullshit. That was my first thought as I rolled out of bed today, looked at my alarm clock and realized that this, my one day off, was sleeping in. At what point did 8 a.m. become sleeping in? I remember days when 8 a.m. was strolling in the front door to go to the bed not getting out of it. At what point did having a day off make me feel all warm and fuzzy, NOT because I don't have to go into work but because I can do my weekly day off deep clean of the house, dye my white trash roots AND try out a new labor intensive recipe to feed my family for dinner. WHAT.THE.FUCK.
Then I began pondering what else has changed and tried to pinpoint the historic timeline in which I went from young and carefree to old. This past weekend was a busy one. I had 3 parties to attend and a friend's house to paint. I woke up monday morning with my everything hurting, tired, wishing I could sleep in (until 8 a.m.) and thinking I needed a day off to recover from the weekend AND clean my house. College days of yor, we partied every night, well into the morning and an hour of sleep was a solid. Cleaning the house consisted of throwing beer cans and fast food wrappers in the trash and was not a chore I was super stoked about endeavoring upon.
At what point did Spanx become a mandatory buy? At what point did I get more excited about purchasing it's all encompassing fascade of making my ass defy gravity than buying some lacy, see through slutty lingerie from Victoria's Not So Secret? At what point did my ass STOP defying gravity? And what the crap is this cellulite bullshit?! I HAVE A BMI OF 23. 23. I am more physically fit and slimmer than I was in college (nay highschool for that matter) and I get not only an ass that does not defy gravity but I also get cellulite? Really? And speaking of bodies, at what point did pooping become the highlight and greatest relief of the day? Why does the world seem so much brighter after a cup of hot green tea and the morning constitutional?
I actually found myself grocery shopping the other day and watching a group of loud assed, vapid, IQ of a brick (sorry to insult you, brick) community college skank bots in their Juicy shorts (you know, the ones where their ass cheeks peek through the boottom) and knee high uggs and thinking "Damn kids, what is the world coming to? If this is the future, we are SCREWED" The look of horror on my face was not related to the circa Jersey Shore trainwreck before me but that the statement actually ran through my head and was genuine. Then THE SAME DAY I caught myself making statements to my children such as "SHUT THE DOOR! I AM NOT PAYING GOOD MONEY TO HEAT THE OUTSIDE!" "WERE YOU BORN IN A BARN? NO!" "ACT YOUR AGE, NOT YOUR SHOE SIZE!" "LET'S PLAY 'QUIET GAME'!" Someone, please shoot me now.
There are some things that have not changed. While I now find myself buying "skin firming" moisturizer and eye cream, I also still have to buy acne cack. Now, seriously, what is that? I don't get to keep my gravity defying ass, I don't get to keep my youthful energy but I DO get to keep zits and pothole pores? Fuck you, mother nature.
So, you're as old as you feel? Ok then. I'm 21 with an epic hangover. The end.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Friday, September 4, 2009
Been A Long Time, Been A Long Time, Been A Long Lonely Lonely Tiiiiiiiiiime
Thank you for that intro Led Zeplin. So I was sitting at work discussing blogs and I realized that it has been over a year since I have blogged. I wish I could honestly say that it was because I've been too busy and that I've not had anything to rant about but we all know that would be a big fat lie. So work was the inspiration to take the opportunity to rant and stop surfing amazing sites like www.awkwardfamilyphotos.com, www.peopleofwalmart.com, fail blog, lol cats, facebook etcetera like an OCD kid on crack. Today's topic is a generalized critique of the lazy assed modern day society.
We'll start with phones. Everything is automated now. You can't talk to a real live person on the phone anymore and in the slim instance you do they are from Mumbai. Which reminds me, a slurpee sounds AMAZING. But anyhoo. People text as opposed to talking and to prevent us from being too terribly inconvenienced we have predictive text which leads to more WTF?! than actually predicting what we want to type. For example I was texting someone the other day with the determination of letting them know they were so old and whorey their pissflaps hang down to their knees to provide a curtain for their now inside out vagina. (Love you mom!) Here's what pretext tried to type out for me: "your so older wholly your pistol handsome downers grove to curtail your innard outs vaguely." I think predictive text takes Ambien before it "intuitively knows" what you want to say. I'm all about using my fingers for manual labor at this point so I turned off predictive texting (which, by the way, took 20 minutes to figure out. convenient my ass.) and *gasp* type out every single solitary letter in my messages. I know. So archaic.
In today's busy world, who has time to cook when the drive thru is so readily available? 30 minutes for a healthy, tasty, homecooked meal oooooorrrrr 5 minutes in a drivethru for cardboard deepfried in three week old grease with a superduper large carbonated sugary drink served to you by some random dude who probably didn't wash his hands after he used the facilities and has a booger hanging out of his nose. That super secret tasty sauce? Hmmmmmm. Then about an hour after eating this crap you are firmly lodged to the toilet, laptop on your lap, surfing the net and contemplating the potential need for handle bars to be installed on the toilet before Mt. Vesuvius offically explodes. For as much as fast food doubles as a full pack of exlax taken in one shot (or a whole pot of coffee and an entire pack of smokes), you'd think we, as a society, would be getting thinner, not fatter. Shitting your brains out apparently does not make you lose weight, so guess what laxative popping bulemics: YOU WERE WROOOOOOOONG!
And since we are on the topic of toilets, let us discuss automated toilets. Now, some may argue that it's more clean to have to toilet automatically flush for you. Maybe. I think you're a bunch of juicy rationalizationers and yes I just *totally* made up that word. Seriously though, why not have levers on the toilets still and if you're so worried about touching said lever, use your shoe? There's nothing more irritating to me than moving on the toilet ever so slightly only to have the damn thing flush and my bum getting a cold piss water swirly. It's a waste of water and after that happens I feel less than fresh and want a shower which only wastes more water. I'm not convinced these contraptions are more about hygeine and less about lazy assed people leaving ginormous logs in the bowl for some poor gas station attendant to flush and then bleach out the bowl.
Which brings me to automated sinks. WTF. I prefer to wash my hands after using the porcelain throne and it pisses (*snort*) me off when I stick my hands under the sink faucet of those stupid knobless sinks only to have no water run. They run on batteries which *gasp* corrode when exposed to water. Water, in a faucet? THE HELL YOU SAY! So either they don't work at all or you have to wave your hands under the faucet like a spasmodic parkinsons patient for it to spit exactly two drops on your hand and possibly onto your pants thus making it look like you pissed yourself. Just put the levers back on the damn sink so that you can meter out the appropriate amount of hot and cold and for goddess sake turn the damn thing off when you're finished using it.
Ahh. I feel better now. I think I'm all ranted out. For now. Oh and I was totally kidding about sending that particular text to my mother. We all know she's totally pristine, virginal, intact, doesn't text and reads my blogs. ahem.
We'll start with phones. Everything is automated now. You can't talk to a real live person on the phone anymore and in the slim instance you do they are from Mumbai. Which reminds me, a slurpee sounds AMAZING. But anyhoo. People text as opposed to talking and to prevent us from being too terribly inconvenienced we have predictive text which leads to more WTF?! than actually predicting what we want to type. For example I was texting someone the other day with the determination of letting them know they were so old and whorey their pissflaps hang down to their knees to provide a curtain for their now inside out vagina. (Love you mom!) Here's what pretext tried to type out for me: "your so older wholly your pistol handsome downers grove to curtail your innard outs vaguely." I think predictive text takes Ambien before it "intuitively knows" what you want to say. I'm all about using my fingers for manual labor at this point so I turned off predictive texting (which, by the way, took 20 minutes to figure out. convenient my ass.) and *gasp* type out every single solitary letter in my messages. I know. So archaic.
In today's busy world, who has time to cook when the drive thru is so readily available? 30 minutes for a healthy, tasty, homecooked meal oooooorrrrr 5 minutes in a drivethru for cardboard deepfried in three week old grease with a superduper large carbonated sugary drink served to you by some random dude who probably didn't wash his hands after he used the facilities and has a booger hanging out of his nose. That super secret tasty sauce? Hmmmmmm. Then about an hour after eating this crap you are firmly lodged to the toilet, laptop on your lap, surfing the net and contemplating the potential need for handle bars to be installed on the toilet before Mt. Vesuvius offically explodes. For as much as fast food doubles as a full pack of exlax taken in one shot (or a whole pot of coffee and an entire pack of smokes), you'd think we, as a society, would be getting thinner, not fatter. Shitting your brains out apparently does not make you lose weight, so guess what laxative popping bulemics: YOU WERE WROOOOOOOONG!
And since we are on the topic of toilets, let us discuss automated toilets. Now, some may argue that it's more clean to have to toilet automatically flush for you. Maybe. I think you're a bunch of juicy rationalizationers and yes I just *totally* made up that word. Seriously though, why not have levers on the toilets still and if you're so worried about touching said lever, use your shoe? There's nothing more irritating to me than moving on the toilet ever so slightly only to have the damn thing flush and my bum getting a cold piss water swirly. It's a waste of water and after that happens I feel less than fresh and want a shower which only wastes more water. I'm not convinced these contraptions are more about hygeine and less about lazy assed people leaving ginormous logs in the bowl for some poor gas station attendant to flush and then bleach out the bowl.
Which brings me to automated sinks. WTF. I prefer to wash my hands after using the porcelain throne and it pisses (*snort*) me off when I stick my hands under the sink faucet of those stupid knobless sinks only to have no water run. They run on batteries which *gasp* corrode when exposed to water. Water, in a faucet? THE HELL YOU SAY! So either they don't work at all or you have to wave your hands under the faucet like a spasmodic parkinsons patient for it to spit exactly two drops on your hand and possibly onto your pants thus making it look like you pissed yourself. Just put the levers back on the damn sink so that you can meter out the appropriate amount of hot and cold and for goddess sake turn the damn thing off when you're finished using it.
Ahh. I feel better now. I think I'm all ranted out. For now. Oh and I was totally kidding about sending that particular text to my mother. We all know she's totally pristine, virginal, intact, doesn't text and reads my blogs. ahem.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
The Space-Time Continuem, Life After The Fire
There are moments in life that are pivotal, moments that for better or worse completely alter ones personality and way of thinking. Some of those moments happen to be life's way of reminding us that we are here temporarily, we merely rent life; life as we know it can be taken away in the blink of a cliched eye. Traumatic events have a time duality; seconds tick by slowly and I feel detatched as though it happened an eternity ago, yet at the same time it feels just like yesterday.
Tuesday night, April 15th, 2008 was a typical evening. My husband had taken my children to my daughter's school concert and put them to bed, I arrived home around 9:30pm after running by the grocery store after I got off of work. I did the typical ritual of dropping my purse on our garage stairs, had a couple of beers and ate the most delicious dinner he prepared for me while we hung out in the garage commiserating about our individual days. The wind was blowing strong outside and had been all day. I proceded to go into a monologue regarding our weather forecastors and the 'wind advisory' we'd been placed under. Whatever would we do without super duper nexrad supersleuth satelite forecasters? It's windy outside channel 10? No shit?! That was WIND that was blowing the trees half over and damn near knocked you off your feet when you step outside? THE HELL YOU SAY! *gasp* But thank you for interupting programming to let us know. We appreciate that. We went to bed around 1a.m. and little did I know at that time, the wind would have the last laugh.
Wednesday April 16th 2008 I was awoken at approximately 4:30 a.m. to the sound of my husband, in a tone I had never heard from him, shouting at me from the living room to call 911 and to get the kids out of the house. Groggily unaware of what was going on but knowing I had to act immediately, I bolted out of bed; the thick, heavy aroma of a combination sickly sweet yet pungent burned plastic, electrical wiring and faint campfire was being forced into my lungs; I could hear crackling and roaring and a heat that I cannot adequately describe. I began looking for clothes and for my phone; I looked down and my dog was staring up at me with her big brown eyes with an expression of "What the hell is going on?" I stopped what I was doing and ran out of my bedroom door.
I went to get my son out of his bedroom; he met me at the door looking bewildered and wrapped in his security blanket. I snatched him up and went back to my bedroom to get my phone so that I could call 911. The smoke was so thick, I couldn't think; I leaned down and grabbed whatever I could find off the floor, which just so happened to be the scrubs I'd shed nearly 4 hours before that still had my cell phone in the leg pocket. I dialed 911 and they told me to get out of the house and firetrucks were on the way. I don't know why I didn't wait to call until I got outside; there are many things like this I ponder, that if I could do it over again I would've done differently.
As I ran up the hallway, with my son in one arm, my clothes under the arm and my phone in my hand, the flames were coming into the entryway, the closet that housed my furnace and hotwater heater were being consumed and the flames were coming across the only exit I had. My dog was behind me, I could hear her collar; I ran through thinking she would follow me. Once I was outside, my husband and daughter were already out. I still had 911 on the line and told them we were all out and dispatch disconnected the call.
I put my son down and started getting dressed in my front yard; I looked around to assure myself that everyone was accounted for; my husband and I realized at the same time we never saw Shelby come out. Brad tried to go back in to get her, but the smoke and flames were shooting out the front door; we knew she was gone.
My neighbor came over to take care of the kids for us while my husband and I marveled at the sight of our home completely enveloped and glowing, hoping that shelby had gotten out and we just hadn't seen her or by some miracle she found someplace safe. I watched the firemen trying to battle the winds and put out the fire while simultaneously trying to avoid the power line that was dancing around in the back yard. The entire experience was very surreal and I'm likely missing details; it took less than 15 minutes for my entire house, a lifetime of artifacts, memories, 200 years worth of heirlooms and photographs and more importantly a much loved member of our family to be gone.
I think back often on those minutes, trying to get out and watching my world burn; the what ifs are overwhelming. I am a very heavy sleeper; the only thing that woke me up was my husband's voice. While we stood in the yard he explained he heard glass break and thought perhaps the wind had knocked a tree limb through the window. He threw on his pants and walked out into the living room in time to see the fire break through the windows turning the livingroom into a jet engine. Somewhere in those moments he was burned; his hair singed, his right eyebrow all but gone. My daughter got herself out of the house; she heard her dad yelling for her and hit the deck and army crawled her way out just as the fire department had shown the kids to do at school. My son's hair was singed on the right side of his head; I suffered no singed hair but managed to get a first degree burn to my right ear.
Watching the house get torn down was almost as traumatic as the fire; in many ways it's like a death and going to the lot that used to be my house is like visiting a grave. It's amazes me how my family's life was reduced to a spectator sport; 17 minutes and nine dumptrucks was all it took to wipe away any evidence that our house, our life in memoirs ever existed, like it never even mattered. I can still hear my china falling out of the cabinets at crashing to the floor as the CAT's bucket knocked into the kitchen wall. I can still see my son's smoke damaged and scorched crib bumpers that I'd so carefully packed away in a closet hanging off the teeth of the bucket and swaying in the wind that stole my house. While I am grateful we are all safe and alive, it is a sort of grief I cannot describe.
With an amazing amount of help from friends and the community, we are rebuilding our lives. The assistance we've received has been overwhelming. We are now in a new house and trying to get organized. Life has now been defined as pre fire and post fire; postfire has been like trying to juggle while riding a unicycle across a tight rope that lacks in tension. We're both amazed and very appreciative of all of the effort and assistance people have given us; thank you is the understatement of the century in this circumstance.
Life is a continued challenge of learning and of reevaluation of priorities. Life has once again reminded me that we are all mortal; life can easily be a foreclosure property at the drop of a hat, a blink of an eye, a lick of a flame. Life is temporary; we rent it. So, as the adage goes, work like you don't need the money, love as though you've never been hurt and dance like no one is watching. Life is a lion fight; even if you lose, everyone still heard you roar.
Before the fire:
The day after the fire:
Video tour, turn the speakers up so you can hear:
http://s40.photobucket.com/albums/e210/caduceusnurse/housefire/?action=view¤t=100_1783.flv
one week:
Tuesday night, April 15th, 2008 was a typical evening. My husband had taken my children to my daughter's school concert and put them to bed, I arrived home around 9:30pm after running by the grocery store after I got off of work. I did the typical ritual of dropping my purse on our garage stairs, had a couple of beers and ate the most delicious dinner he prepared for me while we hung out in the garage commiserating about our individual days. The wind was blowing strong outside and had been all day. I proceded to go into a monologue regarding our weather forecastors and the 'wind advisory' we'd been placed under. Whatever would we do without super duper nexrad supersleuth satelite forecasters? It's windy outside channel 10? No shit?! That was WIND that was blowing the trees half over and damn near knocked you off your feet when you step outside? THE HELL YOU SAY! *gasp* But thank you for interupting programming to let us know. We appreciate that. We went to bed around 1a.m. and little did I know at that time, the wind would have the last laugh.
Wednesday April 16th 2008 I was awoken at approximately 4:30 a.m. to the sound of my husband, in a tone I had never heard from him, shouting at me from the living room to call 911 and to get the kids out of the house. Groggily unaware of what was going on but knowing I had to act immediately, I bolted out of bed; the thick, heavy aroma of a combination sickly sweet yet pungent burned plastic, electrical wiring and faint campfire was being forced into my lungs; I could hear crackling and roaring and a heat that I cannot adequately describe. I began looking for clothes and for my phone; I looked down and my dog was staring up at me with her big brown eyes with an expression of "What the hell is going on?" I stopped what I was doing and ran out of my bedroom door.
I went to get my son out of his bedroom; he met me at the door looking bewildered and wrapped in his security blanket. I snatched him up and went back to my bedroom to get my phone so that I could call 911. The smoke was so thick, I couldn't think; I leaned down and grabbed whatever I could find off the floor, which just so happened to be the scrubs I'd shed nearly 4 hours before that still had my cell phone in the leg pocket. I dialed 911 and they told me to get out of the house and firetrucks were on the way. I don't know why I didn't wait to call until I got outside; there are many things like this I ponder, that if I could do it over again I would've done differently.
As I ran up the hallway, with my son in one arm, my clothes under the arm and my phone in my hand, the flames were coming into the entryway, the closet that housed my furnace and hotwater heater were being consumed and the flames were coming across the only exit I had. My dog was behind me, I could hear her collar; I ran through thinking she would follow me. Once I was outside, my husband and daughter were already out. I still had 911 on the line and told them we were all out and dispatch disconnected the call.
I put my son down and started getting dressed in my front yard; I looked around to assure myself that everyone was accounted for; my husband and I realized at the same time we never saw Shelby come out. Brad tried to go back in to get her, but the smoke and flames were shooting out the front door; we knew she was gone.
My neighbor came over to take care of the kids for us while my husband and I marveled at the sight of our home completely enveloped and glowing, hoping that shelby had gotten out and we just hadn't seen her or by some miracle she found someplace safe. I watched the firemen trying to battle the winds and put out the fire while simultaneously trying to avoid the power line that was dancing around in the back yard. The entire experience was very surreal and I'm likely missing details; it took less than 15 minutes for my entire house, a lifetime of artifacts, memories, 200 years worth of heirlooms and photographs and more importantly a much loved member of our family to be gone.
I think back often on those minutes, trying to get out and watching my world burn; the what ifs are overwhelming. I am a very heavy sleeper; the only thing that woke me up was my husband's voice. While we stood in the yard he explained he heard glass break and thought perhaps the wind had knocked a tree limb through the window. He threw on his pants and walked out into the living room in time to see the fire break through the windows turning the livingroom into a jet engine. Somewhere in those moments he was burned; his hair singed, his right eyebrow all but gone. My daughter got herself out of the house; she heard her dad yelling for her and hit the deck and army crawled her way out just as the fire department had shown the kids to do at school. My son's hair was singed on the right side of his head; I suffered no singed hair but managed to get a first degree burn to my right ear.
Watching the house get torn down was almost as traumatic as the fire; in many ways it's like a death and going to the lot that used to be my house is like visiting a grave. It's amazes me how my family's life was reduced to a spectator sport; 17 minutes and nine dumptrucks was all it took to wipe away any evidence that our house, our life in memoirs ever existed, like it never even mattered. I can still hear my china falling out of the cabinets at crashing to the floor as the CAT's bucket knocked into the kitchen wall. I can still see my son's smoke damaged and scorched crib bumpers that I'd so carefully packed away in a closet hanging off the teeth of the bucket and swaying in the wind that stole my house. While I am grateful we are all safe and alive, it is a sort of grief I cannot describe.
With an amazing amount of help from friends and the community, we are rebuilding our lives. The assistance we've received has been overwhelming. We are now in a new house and trying to get organized. Life has now been defined as pre fire and post fire; postfire has been like trying to juggle while riding a unicycle across a tight rope that lacks in tension. We're both amazed and very appreciative of all of the effort and assistance people have given us; thank you is the understatement of the century in this circumstance.
Life is a continued challenge of learning and of reevaluation of priorities. Life has once again reminded me that we are all mortal; life can easily be a foreclosure property at the drop of a hat, a blink of an eye, a lick of a flame. Life is temporary; we rent it. So, as the adage goes, work like you don't need the money, love as though you've never been hurt and dance like no one is watching. Life is a lion fight; even if you lose, everyone still heard you roar.
Before the fire:
The day after the fire:
Video tour, turn the speakers up so you can hear:
http://s40.photobucket.com/albums/e210/caduceusnurse/housefire/?action=view¤t=100_1783.flv
one week:
Monday, December 10, 2007
My Kid Sister
My kid sister was a pain in the ass. We can say she was stong willed, stubborn, bullheaded, but I'm more of a get to the point kind of girl. Tori "Call Me Vicky And I'll Fucking Stab You" Land was a royal pain in the ass; she also took pride in that title. From the moment of birth on (my mother will likely say BEFORE), she was a force to be reckoned with; goddess help anyone who would dare try to tell the girl no. She loved being the center of attention and would make sure she got the spotlight by means of making you laugh until you pissed your pants or pissing you off to the point of wanting to strangle her (or throw her ass through the kitchen wall.) She was a passionate, fiery, live life on her terms woman.
While my sister could often times be the most infuriating person on the planet, she also one of the funniest. Growing up, most people would probably be able to better identify her by her ass more so than her face. Common greeting was usually her answering the door and then dropping trough and wiggling her butt; I'm pretty sure she cracked herself up more than anything else. She loved going down the street to Sweetie and Grandma Mary's house to be able to partake in morning coffee; she relished the fact that it was "a grown up drink". She like to pretend to be a ninja turtle (Raphael, because he was the coolest and he had a red "eyeband".) and practice her "karate" which, in all honesty looked more like a spinning grand mal seizure. After Stormi was born, Tori was rather amused by pushing the skin of Stormi's forehead down to make her look like a Klingon; when Stormi got to the point of baby talk or yammering her disdain of Tori using her as her bitch for amusment, Tori would exclaim, "SEE?! SHE EVEN SPEAKS KLINGON!"
When Tori was in the 3rd grade, she was diagnosed with Type I diabetes; that was a turning point in the lives of everyone, most of all Tori. While other kids got to trick or treat and eat their loot, Tori had to give hers away. She had to learn how to count calories, draw up insulin, know how much of which insulin to take and when, poke her finger 3-5 times per day to check her blood sugars and to monitor her body to know when her sugars were either too high or too low. We spent years in and out of the hospital trying to get her blood sugars under control and for Tori, who was so feirce in not wanting to be controlled, be told what to do, or live life in any manner other than under her terms, it was very hard and she rebelled. Often times that rebellion was what landed her back in the hospital.
It's not fair for a kid her age and especially on up through the teen years to deal with that kind of responsibility, to see what the 'normal' kids got to do and she couldn't; that was compounded when we discovered she had Celiac Sprue, a disease that when anything made with gluten (wheat, oats, rye and barley) causes an inflamatory reaction in the small bowel which interferes with the absorption of nutrients. After not being able to eat things she enjoyed, yet another food group was taken away. Going grocery shopping was a chore; you'd be suprised at how much food has gluten in it; from bread products even down to spaghetti sauces. It was one more reminder of how she didn't have 100% control of her life, that these diseases were telling her what she could and could not do in her life.She didn't really let that stop her (remember, she was a stubborn pain in the ass).
During the period of time she was on her insulin pump, we went to Golden Coral for dinner. Golden Coral is a place that has a buffet, including a desert buffet that had an icecream machine. My kid sister stuck her ENTIRE HEAD under the icecream machine, opened her mouth, filled it with icecream than walked over, head tilted all the way back like a hooker who just got the money shot and then dumped sprinkles on top of it. It was truly a sight to behold. Once she swallowed it, she had this gloaty face that only Tori could have. Coughing up the water I'd half inhaled half blew through my nose watching this, I told her that was icecream, not frozen yogurt. She looked at me, raised an eyebrow and said, "Your point?", clicked the button on her insulin pump that would give her an insulin bolus and said, "See, all better." with this shit eating grin that was quite self satisfied and quite the 'fuck you, diabetes and anyone who's going to tell me what I can and can't eat.'
That, that was classic Tori.Even with as hardcore as she was, there was also a vulnerability about her. When someone would upset her to the point of tears, she usually tried to cover her hurt with anger. I usually got her to simmer down by making her laugh and flipping her shit; we thrived on trying to out wise ass one another and it was a staple in our relationship to hang shit on one another whenever possible. Sometimes it pissed her off, usually it would just make her laugh. One day she was crying over her boyfriend and I looked at her and said, "Quit cryin you pussy. Cryin's fer sissies!" After she threw her shoe at me (actually, it was my shoe that she "borrowed") she started laughing. The cryin's fer sissies! has been something we've used since, be it at funerals, everyday life, or continuing our smartass competion on Myspace bulletins. Everytime I see it, I congratulate myself for being the funny, funny bitch I am, and I crack up.
Tori was a complicated girl who defied death more times than I can count. I honestly started thinking she would live forever. After having such a difficult time fighting her demons, in the last year she had turned things around and for the first time, my sister was happy. She was engaged, had a stepson she absolutely adored and had the best friend a girl could ask for. She had found her place in the world and for the first time ever seemed comfortable in her own skin. She was still fiery Tori, but there was something more noticeable; a wholeness that she didn't seem to have before. She went from being the annoying kid sister who stole my clothes, mimicked my hair, and decided Bettie Page was her idol after seeing my Bettie collection, to someone who had discovered who she was and was finally happy with herself...even though she continued to collect Bettie paraphenalia and then let me know exactly what she found and where.
The last year has been wonderful with my sister; there was a long period of time where she pushed everyone who cared about her away with the exception of the two men who wouldn't be pushed; her fiancee Gary and her best friend Justin. It was like rediscovering and getting to know the woman Tori had become. She was still the same Tori, just a more evolved one. And now, we won't get to see the kind of woman she will continue to become, because Tori is gone. It's a bitter pill to swallow that once life finally started getting good for her that death won. I take comfort in my faith that she's still here, in fact I feel her here right now. I take comfort in knowing she isn't hurting any more, the neuropathy is gone, her legs healed, that she is with her very beloved Grandma Land and probably eating her mac n cheese guilt free and smothered in ketchup just like she always liked it. We will all miss her terribly, but have no fear, she is still peaking in on us, probably while changing clothes or showering, making fun of our naked asses, laughing and snorting the entire time.
While my sister could often times be the most infuriating person on the planet, she also one of the funniest. Growing up, most people would probably be able to better identify her by her ass more so than her face. Common greeting was usually her answering the door and then dropping trough and wiggling her butt; I'm pretty sure she cracked herself up more than anything else. She loved going down the street to Sweetie and Grandma Mary's house to be able to partake in morning coffee; she relished the fact that it was "a grown up drink". She like to pretend to be a ninja turtle (Raphael, because he was the coolest and he had a red "eyeband".) and practice her "karate" which, in all honesty looked more like a spinning grand mal seizure. After Stormi was born, Tori was rather amused by pushing the skin of Stormi's forehead down to make her look like a Klingon; when Stormi got to the point of baby talk or yammering her disdain of Tori using her as her bitch for amusment, Tori would exclaim, "SEE?! SHE EVEN SPEAKS KLINGON!"
When Tori was in the 3rd grade, she was diagnosed with Type I diabetes; that was a turning point in the lives of everyone, most of all Tori. While other kids got to trick or treat and eat their loot, Tori had to give hers away. She had to learn how to count calories, draw up insulin, know how much of which insulin to take and when, poke her finger 3-5 times per day to check her blood sugars and to monitor her body to know when her sugars were either too high or too low. We spent years in and out of the hospital trying to get her blood sugars under control and for Tori, who was so feirce in not wanting to be controlled, be told what to do, or live life in any manner other than under her terms, it was very hard and she rebelled. Often times that rebellion was what landed her back in the hospital.
It's not fair for a kid her age and especially on up through the teen years to deal with that kind of responsibility, to see what the 'normal' kids got to do and she couldn't; that was compounded when we discovered she had Celiac Sprue, a disease that when anything made with gluten (wheat, oats, rye and barley) causes an inflamatory reaction in the small bowel which interferes with the absorption of nutrients. After not being able to eat things she enjoyed, yet another food group was taken away. Going grocery shopping was a chore; you'd be suprised at how much food has gluten in it; from bread products even down to spaghetti sauces. It was one more reminder of how she didn't have 100% control of her life, that these diseases were telling her what she could and could not do in her life.She didn't really let that stop her (remember, she was a stubborn pain in the ass).
During the period of time she was on her insulin pump, we went to Golden Coral for dinner. Golden Coral is a place that has a buffet, including a desert buffet that had an icecream machine. My kid sister stuck her ENTIRE HEAD under the icecream machine, opened her mouth, filled it with icecream than walked over, head tilted all the way back like a hooker who just got the money shot and then dumped sprinkles on top of it. It was truly a sight to behold. Once she swallowed it, she had this gloaty face that only Tori could have. Coughing up the water I'd half inhaled half blew through my nose watching this, I told her that was icecream, not frozen yogurt. She looked at me, raised an eyebrow and said, "Your point?", clicked the button on her insulin pump that would give her an insulin bolus and said, "See, all better." with this shit eating grin that was quite self satisfied and quite the 'fuck you, diabetes and anyone who's going to tell me what I can and can't eat.'
That, that was classic Tori.Even with as hardcore as she was, there was also a vulnerability about her. When someone would upset her to the point of tears, she usually tried to cover her hurt with anger. I usually got her to simmer down by making her laugh and flipping her shit; we thrived on trying to out wise ass one another and it was a staple in our relationship to hang shit on one another whenever possible. Sometimes it pissed her off, usually it would just make her laugh. One day she was crying over her boyfriend and I looked at her and said, "Quit cryin you pussy. Cryin's fer sissies!" After she threw her shoe at me (actually, it was my shoe that she "borrowed") she started laughing. The cryin's fer sissies! has been something we've used since, be it at funerals, everyday life, or continuing our smartass competion on Myspace bulletins. Everytime I see it, I congratulate myself for being the funny, funny bitch I am, and I crack up.
Tori was a complicated girl who defied death more times than I can count. I honestly started thinking she would live forever. After having such a difficult time fighting her demons, in the last year she had turned things around and for the first time, my sister was happy. She was engaged, had a stepson she absolutely adored and had the best friend a girl could ask for. She had found her place in the world and for the first time ever seemed comfortable in her own skin. She was still fiery Tori, but there was something more noticeable; a wholeness that she didn't seem to have before. She went from being the annoying kid sister who stole my clothes, mimicked my hair, and decided Bettie Page was her idol after seeing my Bettie collection, to someone who had discovered who she was and was finally happy with herself...even though she continued to collect Bettie paraphenalia and then let me know exactly what she found and where.
The last year has been wonderful with my sister; there was a long period of time where she pushed everyone who cared about her away with the exception of the two men who wouldn't be pushed; her fiancee Gary and her best friend Justin. It was like rediscovering and getting to know the woman Tori had become. She was still the same Tori, just a more evolved one. And now, we won't get to see the kind of woman she will continue to become, because Tori is gone. It's a bitter pill to swallow that once life finally started getting good for her that death won. I take comfort in my faith that she's still here, in fact I feel her here right now. I take comfort in knowing she isn't hurting any more, the neuropathy is gone, her legs healed, that she is with her very beloved Grandma Land and probably eating her mac n cheese guilt free and smothered in ketchup just like she always liked it. We will all miss her terribly, but have no fear, she is still peaking in on us, probably while changing clothes or showering, making fun of our naked asses, laughing and snorting the entire time.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Adventures In Mommy Land
When woman gets pregnant, her friends and other related matriarchs tell her how wonderful children are, how fullfilled they make will make her, how exciting it is to be pregnant and just when they have her hooked, they ask she intends on having a baby of her own. The second she pees on the stick and gets two lines, the journey of discovery of how incredibly full of shit the other women are begins.
Omitting the horrors of what a woman goes through to have children is their way of assimilating naive, nubile young women into the stretchmarked, cellulite, sleep deprived hell that is being a "real woman". This is not to say that a woman who has never experienced pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood is not a real woman; however said experiences seem to get women into the physical state of what the masses define this as (i.e. not having the figure of a 16 year old) more quickly than middle aged gravity. I firmly believe Gene Rodenberry got his inspiration for the Borg characters by simple anthropological study of the conversion of college co-ed to flat/wide assed and wearing mom jeans that is a seeming right of passage. So, in the spirit of that, I am going to tell you what they don't tell you before you get knocked up.
Babies, while cuddly and adorable, cry. and puke. and poop...a lot. They like to sleep all day and party all night. By party I do not mean the keg parties a la freshman year of college; I mean gassy, farting, squirming, fussing, give me that damn boob right now mom i'm starving kind of party. Remember when you got to have sex on a wimb? Yeah, now there's a baby in between you, and somehow getting a solid 3 hours of sleep is more erotic that the best orgasm you ever had in your life. Take heart though; eventually the kid will be old enough for Blue's Clues and you can stock up on the dvd's to throw one in for him/her so that you and the manwhore can grab a quicky. That's a few years down the road though.
Babies like to take their diapers off and play in the contents. Let me just tell you about my own experience with this phenomenon. Like a good haus fraus, I was on my laptop doing my online banking, when a wretched aroma filled my delicate nostrils. I did not have a dog at the time, therefore the raw fecal smell could've only come from one origin. Looking down at my 11 month old son, I discovered not only had he taken his diaper off, he had finger painted in poo paint. The gooey brown-green artistry was all over him, all over my carpet, my walls and my curtains. Upon rushing to bathe him,I discovered I had no water because the city was working on the line. You have not lived until you have tried to clean a squirming giggling baby covered in caca with nothing to assist you but a box of wipes. Bear in mind, it took less than a minute for my adorable son to create such a disgusting masterpiece.
The fun does not stop with babies though. Babies grow up to become tantruming toddlers who love to head butt and throw themselves down in the middle of the grocery store. Take pity on the moms you pass experiencing this. Do not think, "if that were my kid, it would not be acting like that! I would....." Shut up; you don't have a kid. When you do, yes he/she will act like terrors in public and no, you likely won't do whatever disciplinary action you are fantasizing about in your child-free brain.
Toddlers also snoop, and get into everything. Nothing is off limits in the toddler mind. Dresser drawers, closets, boxes, everthing is fair game. They often bring their latest found treasure and say, "Mommy, what's this?" usually at a very inconvenient time. If you plan to have your family over, especially if it is your own parents, or your inlaws, make sure your bedroom is locked up tight and all feminine hygiene products are out of reach and out of sight. Toddlers climb; simply having something out of reach is not good enough. Do not put yourself in a position where your toddler is asking you what your bright pink, textured, 10 speed vibrator with clitoral stimulation is in the middle of Thanksgiving Dinner. While he/she pushes the buttons to change the vibrate speed and makes the gyrating tip rotate in the gspotless air; the sight is doubly horrifying. Not only is your child holding your sex toy, glance around the room. You will find that all eyes are mesmerized by the gyrating head of your fun time phallus.
Toddlers graduate to be school aged know it alls. Nothing will be a blow to your previously high IQ'd self esteem like having your kindergartner correct your speech syntax. Be prepared; once your child hits school age, you will discover the most annoying, repetitive songs known to man. Yes, they are learning tools, or so the kindergarten teachers say. I believe it's truely a plot to abduct the last vestiges of sanity a mother has The final straw before you start shrieking and clammoring for a roof top is throughout all the stages of your child's life, there will always be one constant: the bitches that talked you into believing that child rearing was the easiest job ever will always be there for you. I do not mean this as a supportive roll; au contraire.
They will always be there to tell you what you are doing wrong, how you are doing it wrong, while passive aggressively comparing your evil child to their perfect one to make them feel better about themselves as women. Again, take heart. Your child is not evil, their child is far from an angel.
Go to a playground sometime; it's the stomping ground for training little playahs. The playground is where they perfect the innocent act and rehearse it to the party in denial (their mother) while all the other bystanders, child and adult alike can plainly see that perfect angel kid is a pro at playing mommy. Said played mommy is most generally your child's room mother, which is an entirely different breed of mom. The room mom explaination and categorization is a topic for another day Motherhood, while fullfilling and there is nothing as wonderful as the smell of a newborn baby, watching your child sleep, and the pride that wells inside you when they learn something new, is not the easy task others make it out to be. With that I will end with: BEWARE THE POO PAINT!
Omitting the horrors of what a woman goes through to have children is their way of assimilating naive, nubile young women into the stretchmarked, cellulite, sleep deprived hell that is being a "real woman". This is not to say that a woman who has never experienced pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood is not a real woman; however said experiences seem to get women into the physical state of what the masses define this as (i.e. not having the figure of a 16 year old) more quickly than middle aged gravity. I firmly believe Gene Rodenberry got his inspiration for the Borg characters by simple anthropological study of the conversion of college co-ed to flat/wide assed and wearing mom jeans that is a seeming right of passage. So, in the spirit of that, I am going to tell you what they don't tell you before you get knocked up.
Babies, while cuddly and adorable, cry. and puke. and poop...a lot. They like to sleep all day and party all night. By party I do not mean the keg parties a la freshman year of college; I mean gassy, farting, squirming, fussing, give me that damn boob right now mom i'm starving kind of party. Remember when you got to have sex on a wimb? Yeah, now there's a baby in between you, and somehow getting a solid 3 hours of sleep is more erotic that the best orgasm you ever had in your life. Take heart though; eventually the kid will be old enough for Blue's Clues and you can stock up on the dvd's to throw one in for him/her so that you and the manwhore can grab a quicky. That's a few years down the road though.
Babies like to take their diapers off and play in the contents. Let me just tell you about my own experience with this phenomenon. Like a good haus fraus, I was on my laptop doing my online banking, when a wretched aroma filled my delicate nostrils. I did not have a dog at the time, therefore the raw fecal smell could've only come from one origin. Looking down at my 11 month old son, I discovered not only had he taken his diaper off, he had finger painted in poo paint. The gooey brown-green artistry was all over him, all over my carpet, my walls and my curtains. Upon rushing to bathe him,I discovered I had no water because the city was working on the line. You have not lived until you have tried to clean a squirming giggling baby covered in caca with nothing to assist you but a box of wipes. Bear in mind, it took less than a minute for my adorable son to create such a disgusting masterpiece.
The fun does not stop with babies though. Babies grow up to become tantruming toddlers who love to head butt and throw themselves down in the middle of the grocery store. Take pity on the moms you pass experiencing this. Do not think, "if that were my kid, it would not be acting like that! I would....." Shut up; you don't have a kid. When you do, yes he/she will act like terrors in public and no, you likely won't do whatever disciplinary action you are fantasizing about in your child-free brain.
Toddlers also snoop, and get into everything. Nothing is off limits in the toddler mind. Dresser drawers, closets, boxes, everthing is fair game. They often bring their latest found treasure and say, "Mommy, what's this?" usually at a very inconvenient time. If you plan to have your family over, especially if it is your own parents, or your inlaws, make sure your bedroom is locked up tight and all feminine hygiene products are out of reach and out of sight. Toddlers climb; simply having something out of reach is not good enough. Do not put yourself in a position where your toddler is asking you what your bright pink, textured, 10 speed vibrator with clitoral stimulation is in the middle of Thanksgiving Dinner. While he/she pushes the buttons to change the vibrate speed and makes the gyrating tip rotate in the gspotless air; the sight is doubly horrifying. Not only is your child holding your sex toy, glance around the room. You will find that all eyes are mesmerized by the gyrating head of your fun time phallus.
Toddlers graduate to be school aged know it alls. Nothing will be a blow to your previously high IQ'd self esteem like having your kindergartner correct your speech syntax. Be prepared; once your child hits school age, you will discover the most annoying, repetitive songs known to man. Yes, they are learning tools, or so the kindergarten teachers say. I believe it's truely a plot to abduct the last vestiges of sanity a mother has The final straw before you start shrieking and clammoring for a roof top is throughout all the stages of your child's life, there will always be one constant: the bitches that talked you into believing that child rearing was the easiest job ever will always be there for you. I do not mean this as a supportive roll; au contraire.
They will always be there to tell you what you are doing wrong, how you are doing it wrong, while passive aggressively comparing your evil child to their perfect one to make them feel better about themselves as women. Again, take heart. Your child is not evil, their child is far from an angel.
Go to a playground sometime; it's the stomping ground for training little playahs. The playground is where they perfect the innocent act and rehearse it to the party in denial (their mother) while all the other bystanders, child and adult alike can plainly see that perfect angel kid is a pro at playing mommy. Said played mommy is most generally your child's room mother, which is an entirely different breed of mom. The room mom explaination and categorization is a topic for another day Motherhood, while fullfilling and there is nothing as wonderful as the smell of a newborn baby, watching your child sleep, and the pride that wells inside you when they learn something new, is not the easy task others make it out to be. With that I will end with: BEWARE THE POO PAINT!
Things I've Learned
1.) Never try to reason with an unreasonable person; it only succeeds in making the usually reasonable person unreasonable.
2.)Never quote the princess bride around people who have absolutely no sense of humor/have never seen the movie.
3.)Never wonder why your son continually takes off his diaper and shakes his hips from side to side and giggles maniacly; even though he is your baby, he is a man, albeit a short one, who's obviously discovered the best toy ever. In my experience with men, this is something that never changes and why medication is made so when the best toy ever breaks, it remains reusable.The fascination begins in infancy, get used to it.
4.)Never try to explain the difference between nude art and pornography to a man. a nekkid lady is a nekkid lady.
5.)Don't analyze the drama that is the prepubescent girl. It's one of life's mysteries that will never be solved.
6.) If you really want to piss off family members who think you either a.)are, or b.) being a bitch, tell them you are a product of your environment they carefully helped to craft.
7.)Sometimes it's fun to wonder through walmart talking to yourself.
8.) Never shave your legs if you intend to try to get some action. Freshly shaved, smoothe legs pretty much garauntees one of the following scenarios: the children will be up, the husband will have a headache/be too tired, your husband will say/do something stupid and not realize it and even with freshly shaved legs you will no longer be in the mood, the house will catch on fire, or a minor emergency will occur that will end in one or both partners being out too late and just wanting to sleep. On the rare occasion that the planets align so that it is possible to have smooth legs and get some action, I'm pretty sure it's a sign of the apocolypse. It's in the bible somewhere between the locusts and the 4 horseman; seriously, look it up.
9.) Poo Paint, peeing in the corner, making ginormous messes in under 30 seconds, making the older sister shriek, fascination with the toilet, trying to scale every verticle surface, taking apart child safety devices, and can make you forgive all transgressions because they are so damn cute: welcome to mothering boys.
10.)Beads, paper, songs, drama, shoes, shoes, shoes, badly coordinated clothes, shrieking at the sight of the 1yo with a hairbrush, "but moooooooooooooom," can give you the look of an angel that will melt your heart and make daddy a pile of girly goo: welcome to mothering girls.
11.)Don't go hunting with Vice President Dick Cheney
12.)Ensuring your bedroom blinds and windows are closed goes a long way in keeping your elderyly neighbors from being traumatized during a nooner.
13.)When the toddler is tantruming, a tennis ball will solve it.
14.) Baby Einstien keeps children and husbands alike hypnotized and gives you about 30 minutes of peace.
15.)No matter how much you try to avoid becoming your mother, it is an impossible feat; you will become her in some way, shape or form. As annoying as this prospect is, it's inevitable. If you are in complete denial of this fact, do yourself a favor and don't bend down to pick something up and look behind you; you'll be startled to see your mothers ass in the wall mirror.
16.)When your 8 yo asks you where babies come from, never underestimate the power of the statement,"go ask your father".
17.) To really annoy the soccer moms/room moms, either a.) wear pajamas or yoga pants to drop off/pick up your kids. do not do your hair, definately do not wear make up and wear flip flops whenever possible. OR b.) drop off/pick up your child in heels, daisy dukes, midriff shirt, belly button ring, cleavage (both ass and boob) hanging out, smack your gum and make sure to wear a lot of makeup and have mall hair. overwhelming perfume is a bonus.
18.) Perfect the "blank" look. It's the look that conveys no emotion and when people try to talk to you they get flustered and quickly leave you the hell alone.
19.)In your house, you will be the only one capable of putting laundry in the hamper. Everyone else will only get it in the vicinity thereof. Don't be suprised to find underwear on the bathroom countertop. The same can be said for dishes.
20.) If you are trying to put 10 pounds of mud in a 5 pound sack, BLACK IS NOT SLIMMING, no matter how much you try to convince yourself it is. People who are honest size 16s should not shop in the junior's department. People who venture out in public with the inevitable camel toe should really get their vision checked, clean their mirrors and actually look at their reflection before they leave the house.
21.)Tatooing the name of someone not a blood relative is relationship suicide. Yay for me for never making this mistake. If you want someone to dump you in 6 months or less, tatoo their name on your ass.
22,)Sleep is over rated.
2.)Never quote the princess bride around people who have absolutely no sense of humor/have never seen the movie.
3.)Never wonder why your son continually takes off his diaper and shakes his hips from side to side and giggles maniacly; even though he is your baby, he is a man, albeit a short one, who's obviously discovered the best toy ever. In my experience with men, this is something that never changes and why medication is made so when the best toy ever breaks, it remains reusable.The fascination begins in infancy, get used to it.
4.)Never try to explain the difference between nude art and pornography to a man. a nekkid lady is a nekkid lady.
5.)Don't analyze the drama that is the prepubescent girl. It's one of life's mysteries that will never be solved.
6.) If you really want to piss off family members who think you either a.)are, or b.) being a bitch, tell them you are a product of your environment they carefully helped to craft.
7.)Sometimes it's fun to wonder through walmart talking to yourself.
8.) Never shave your legs if you intend to try to get some action. Freshly shaved, smoothe legs pretty much garauntees one of the following scenarios: the children will be up, the husband will have a headache/be too tired, your husband will say/do something stupid and not realize it and even with freshly shaved legs you will no longer be in the mood, the house will catch on fire, or a minor emergency will occur that will end in one or both partners being out too late and just wanting to sleep. On the rare occasion that the planets align so that it is possible to have smooth legs and get some action, I'm pretty sure it's a sign of the apocolypse. It's in the bible somewhere between the locusts and the 4 horseman; seriously, look it up.
9.) Poo Paint, peeing in the corner, making ginormous messes in under 30 seconds, making the older sister shriek, fascination with the toilet, trying to scale every verticle surface, taking apart child safety devices, and can make you forgive all transgressions because they are so damn cute: welcome to mothering boys.
10.)Beads, paper, songs, drama, shoes, shoes, shoes, badly coordinated clothes, shrieking at the sight of the 1yo with a hairbrush, "but moooooooooooooom," can give you the look of an angel that will melt your heart and make daddy a pile of girly goo: welcome to mothering girls.
11.)Don't go hunting with Vice President Dick Cheney
12.)Ensuring your bedroom blinds and windows are closed goes a long way in keeping your elderyly neighbors from being traumatized during a nooner.
13.)When the toddler is tantruming, a tennis ball will solve it.
14.) Baby Einstien keeps children and husbands alike hypnotized and gives you about 30 minutes of peace.
15.)No matter how much you try to avoid becoming your mother, it is an impossible feat; you will become her in some way, shape or form. As annoying as this prospect is, it's inevitable. If you are in complete denial of this fact, do yourself a favor and don't bend down to pick something up and look behind you; you'll be startled to see your mothers ass in the wall mirror.
16.)When your 8 yo asks you where babies come from, never underestimate the power of the statement,"go ask your father".
17.) To really annoy the soccer moms/room moms, either a.) wear pajamas or yoga pants to drop off/pick up your kids. do not do your hair, definately do not wear make up and wear flip flops whenever possible. OR b.) drop off/pick up your child in heels, daisy dukes, midriff shirt, belly button ring, cleavage (both ass and boob) hanging out, smack your gum and make sure to wear a lot of makeup and have mall hair. overwhelming perfume is a bonus.
18.) Perfect the "blank" look. It's the look that conveys no emotion and when people try to talk to you they get flustered and quickly leave you the hell alone.
19.)In your house, you will be the only one capable of putting laundry in the hamper. Everyone else will only get it in the vicinity thereof. Don't be suprised to find underwear on the bathroom countertop. The same can be said for dishes.
20.) If you are trying to put 10 pounds of mud in a 5 pound sack, BLACK IS NOT SLIMMING, no matter how much you try to convince yourself it is. People who are honest size 16s should not shop in the junior's department. People who venture out in public with the inevitable camel toe should really get their vision checked, clean their mirrors and actually look at their reflection before they leave the house.
21.)Tatooing the name of someone not a blood relative is relationship suicide. Yay for me for never making this mistake. If you want someone to dump you in 6 months or less, tatoo their name on your ass.
22,)Sleep is over rated.
Lets Talk About Smurfs (No, I'm Not High.)
When I was a kid, the smurfs were my favorite cartoon. My grandmother even made me a smurfs quilt which is now snuggled up in my son's bed. I was watching the smurfs on the cartoon network the other day and was shocked at how incredibly lame and annoying the Smurfs truly are and the psychology of which is deeply disturbing for a child's cartoon.
They are little blue dudes who live in little shroom houses. They're all happy and smurfy, picking their little smurfberries until Gargamel or Azrael show up and they all run around smurfreaking out. Gargamel wants to capture the smurfs and hold them in bird cages...why? Gargamel is a smurfedophile who wants to use the smurfs as certain hollywood actors use hamsters and then sell them on the black market into the Smurf Sex Trade; how the hell else does he plan to turn the Smurfs into gold? Azrael is nothing more than a predatory voyeur as far as I can tell.
The smurfs however victimized by Gargamel are not so innocent either. They are a cult; Papa Smurf is the Jim Jones of Smurftown using the hallucinogenic smurfberries as a form of mind control. How many smurfs are there? Quite a few; however, only one is female: Smurfette. Ever notice how none of the other smurfs, who are male, never try to get up on Smurfette, THE ONLY FEMALE OF THE COLONY? Papa Smurf's been slippin those boys the anti-viagra.
Let us take a close look at Smurfette; she is a classic example of the subserviant stereotypical woman. Her features are more delicate than the other smurfs; she has long and flowing blonde hair, nice legs, batting eyelashes and wears heels with the same tiny white dress. When in the presence of danger, she runs in high heels, requires rescueing and when dealing with problems she's either silent or as dramatic as a woman from the 1800s overcome with the vapors; pop a smurf klonopin already. She alone is responsible for caring for the young smurfs who are ornery; one nearly expects Smurfette to drape a forearm over her eyes and declare, "Whatevah shall I do?" in Scarlette O'Hara fashion.
Here's what you do Smurfette, the fix it solution for many a put upon-don't-want-to-be-here -but-the-penis-of-the -house-says-I-have-to housewife in the days of yore...get that prescription bottle out of the cabinet, dump a few in your hand, then go to the cupboard, pull out a glass tumbler, fill it with ice, go to ol' Papa Smurf's liquor cabinet and pour in the best scotch or bourbon you can find, throw back the pills and chug your drink. In 10 minutes you'll love the whole damn world. Smurfette obviously did not see the Ya Ya Sisterhood, but I digress.
Then there is that whole pesky not having a job, title, or anything useful to give to the community other than being the Smurf commune whore. The only ideation in Smurfette's name is that she's a girl. She is always within close proximity of Papa Smurf; during a Smurf meeting, she stands silent and stoic next to Papa Smurf while he addresses the rest of the Smurf population. There are other male characters equally obsessed with appearances and seem to be the token gay Smurfs. Arty Smurf and Vanity Smurf who also contribute nothing to the Smurf community.
Let us take a look closer at the Smurf community as a whole; each Smurf is individualized only by their occupation or personality stereotype; Handy Smurf was the handy man and achitect, Farmer smurf was obviously a farmer, Brainy Smurf was the tortured genious nerd of the group, Miner Smurf was a miner, etcetera. There is a seperate cast of Smurfs who are named much like the Seven Dwarfs: Sneezy, Grouchy, Lazy; you get the picture. One could argue that the Smurfs live in a veritable Socialist utopia but I say nay nay. In a Socialist society, the dictator, in this case Papa Smurf, has no religion. Papa Smurf quite clearly practices alchemy and in wiccan/pagan fashion of the middle ages pays tribute to Mother Nature and Father Time. Papa Smurf is the Supreme Smurfy ruler, however a true Socialist Dictator, as history has proved with men like Stalin, would work his subjects to the bone, would stockpile the smurfberries his subject worked so diligently to harvest nor would he be as compassionate toward his subjects as Papa Smurf is. Where did anyone who whined at Stalin wind up? Not at the town campfire, I garauntee that; they suddenly "disappeared".
A Smurf seeking absolute power under the 'easiest way possible' doctrine would, however, make Smurfberry Kool-Aide spiked with various hallucinagenics (which I'm sure were scraped from the innards of their shroom homes within the Smurf village) so that the other Smurfs could "see" of Mother Nature and Father Time and be more susceptible to hypnotic suggestion in their narcotic induced state of delusion. Subjects of a true Socialist society would be practically impoverished, resentful of the dictator, a small faction plotting a revolt. The Smurfs practically worship Papa Smurf as a demigod. In a socialist society would Smurfette get to wear fuck me pumps? No.
Thus, I present to you, the Smurfs are not about Socialism, they are a blue hazed, Papa Smurf brainwashed, smurfberry popping, shroom swallowing, Mother Nature/Father Time worshipping, commune livin' religious zealots. Now, if you choked a smurf, what color would he turn? That is the real question we should be asking here.
They are little blue dudes who live in little shroom houses. They're all happy and smurfy, picking their little smurfberries until Gargamel or Azrael show up and they all run around smurfreaking out. Gargamel wants to capture the smurfs and hold them in bird cages...why? Gargamel is a smurfedophile who wants to use the smurfs as certain hollywood actors use hamsters and then sell them on the black market into the Smurf Sex Trade; how the hell else does he plan to turn the Smurfs into gold? Azrael is nothing more than a predatory voyeur as far as I can tell.
The smurfs however victimized by Gargamel are not so innocent either. They are a cult; Papa Smurf is the Jim Jones of Smurftown using the hallucinogenic smurfberries as a form of mind control. How many smurfs are there? Quite a few; however, only one is female: Smurfette. Ever notice how none of the other smurfs, who are male, never try to get up on Smurfette, THE ONLY FEMALE OF THE COLONY? Papa Smurf's been slippin those boys the anti-viagra.
Let us take a close look at Smurfette; she is a classic example of the subserviant stereotypical woman. Her features are more delicate than the other smurfs; she has long and flowing blonde hair, nice legs, batting eyelashes and wears heels with the same tiny white dress. When in the presence of danger, she runs in high heels, requires rescueing and when dealing with problems she's either silent or as dramatic as a woman from the 1800s overcome with the vapors; pop a smurf klonopin already. She alone is responsible for caring for the young smurfs who are ornery; one nearly expects Smurfette to drape a forearm over her eyes and declare, "Whatevah shall I do?" in Scarlette O'Hara fashion.
Here's what you do Smurfette, the fix it solution for many a put upon-don't-want-to-be-here -but-the-penis-of-the -house-says-I-have-to housewife in the days of yore...get that prescription bottle out of the cabinet, dump a few in your hand, then go to the cupboard, pull out a glass tumbler, fill it with ice, go to ol' Papa Smurf's liquor cabinet and pour in the best scotch or bourbon you can find, throw back the pills and chug your drink. In 10 minutes you'll love the whole damn world. Smurfette obviously did not see the Ya Ya Sisterhood, but I digress.
Then there is that whole pesky not having a job, title, or anything useful to give to the community other than being the Smurf commune whore. The only ideation in Smurfette's name is that she's a girl. She is always within close proximity of Papa Smurf; during a Smurf meeting, she stands silent and stoic next to Papa Smurf while he addresses the rest of the Smurf population. There are other male characters equally obsessed with appearances and seem to be the token gay Smurfs. Arty Smurf and Vanity Smurf who also contribute nothing to the Smurf community.
Let us take a look closer at the Smurf community as a whole; each Smurf is individualized only by their occupation or personality stereotype; Handy Smurf was the handy man and achitect, Farmer smurf was obviously a farmer, Brainy Smurf was the tortured genious nerd of the group, Miner Smurf was a miner, etcetera. There is a seperate cast of Smurfs who are named much like the Seven Dwarfs: Sneezy, Grouchy, Lazy; you get the picture. One could argue that the Smurfs live in a veritable Socialist utopia but I say nay nay. In a Socialist society, the dictator, in this case Papa Smurf, has no religion. Papa Smurf quite clearly practices alchemy and in wiccan/pagan fashion of the middle ages pays tribute to Mother Nature and Father Time. Papa Smurf is the Supreme Smurfy ruler, however a true Socialist Dictator, as history has proved with men like Stalin, would work his subjects to the bone, would stockpile the smurfberries his subject worked so diligently to harvest nor would he be as compassionate toward his subjects as Papa Smurf is. Where did anyone who whined at Stalin wind up? Not at the town campfire, I garauntee that; they suddenly "disappeared".
A Smurf seeking absolute power under the 'easiest way possible' doctrine would, however, make Smurfberry Kool-Aide spiked with various hallucinagenics (which I'm sure were scraped from the innards of their shroom homes within the Smurf village) so that the other Smurfs could "see" of Mother Nature and Father Time and be more susceptible to hypnotic suggestion in their narcotic induced state of delusion. Subjects of a true Socialist society would be practically impoverished, resentful of the dictator, a small faction plotting a revolt. The Smurfs practically worship Papa Smurf as a demigod. In a socialist society would Smurfette get to wear fuck me pumps? No.
Thus, I present to you, the Smurfs are not about Socialism, they are a blue hazed, Papa Smurf brainwashed, smurfberry popping, shroom swallowing, Mother Nature/Father Time worshipping, commune livin' religious zealots. Now, if you choked a smurf, what color would he turn? That is the real question we should be asking here.
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