Don't Mess with Pat Monahan

If you follow me on facebook, you already have a heads up on the tale that is about to unfold.  If you don’t follow me, why the hell not? Hit that “like” button, yo.  You would know that yesterday  I posted a comment on my writer page about the random dream I had the night before.  In that dream, my friends Angie, Melissa, and I were all out to eat at a fine restaurant before planning to go club-hopping (something we do never in real life because I live in the middle of nowhere).  We were all looking damn good.  I had on a little black dress and a stunning silk black and white striped scarf wrapped around my head like I was Jackie O.  The details are really irrelevant, but this is how well I am able to recall my dreams, and this is also why my husband is annoyed as shit every time I want to share them with him. 

"I'm so gangster. I'm so thug."  Really, Pat Monahan, really?
 

Okay, so let’s damn the details and get to the part worth sharing.  The band Train was also dining at this restaurant at a near-by table.  My two friends were stirred up by this celebrity sighting, and headed over to excitedly introduce themselves to the band.  I remained seated awaiting my Caesar Salad and glass of Merlot.  They were chatting with the band for a while and then the lead singer inquired about me.  Here’s exactly how I posted about this inquiry on my facebook page: “Then the lead singer (not even bothering to look up his name ... sorry Train fans) nodded over at me, and said, ‘What's the matter with her? Is she shy?’ My friends laughed at his silly question. Then I looked at him and spoke, ‘I'm not shy. Just not interested in meeting you,’ and quickly looked back away. I'm awesome even in my dreams.”

Yes, you can correctly conclude that I am not a Train fan.  Drops of Jupiter?  What the fuck are drops of Jupiter?  And why does he give a shout-out to deep fried chicken and soy lattes in that song?  I don’t want to meet Virginia, either.  Virginia doesn’t really sound all that interesting. Her hair is always a mess, she smokes a pack a day, and she wears high heels when she exercises.  That bitch is crazy, not fascinating.

Further, the singer claims he and Virginia just “like to sit at home and rip on the president.”  People! Stop ripping on the president, for Christ’s sake! If we don’t have respect for the office of president, how can we expect our children to respect their teachers, pastors, parents, coaches, and other mentors? (My apologies for the random soapbox.)

I admit I’m a music snob.  I don’t listen to a lot of “mainstream” artists.  My favorite artist is Aimee Mann, who was only mainstream decades ago as the former frontwoman of ‘Til Tuesday.  I appreciate lyrics, and that’s why I am not a fan of Train and didn’t make the effort to figure out the lead singer’s name.  I mean c’mon: “Hey soul sister – like a virgin, you’re Madonna – and I’m always gonna wanna blow your mind.”  Gonna? Wanna? Go to grammar school! Going to. Want to.

While I want to send Train to grammar school, I got my own ass schooled yesterday for hating on the band.  The following comment was left beneath my random dream posting: “His name is Pat Monahan and Train is awesome.” I suppose we will have to agree to disagree on this issue, but both confirm that music matters.

From this schooling, I learned two very valuable lessons:

1.       The lead singer of Train is Pat Monahan. Recognize.

2.       You can drop all the f-bombs you want on your blog, but don’t fuck with Train. 

Thanks for the knowledge! And to all of you Train fans and non-Train fans alike: Let’s keep music alive and support the band and choir programs in your local schools (both of which are so very sadly currently on the chopping block at my former district).  Dance to whatever music makes you happy and sing along loudly during every commute … especially if you hear Mister Mister on the radio (you’re welcome for that one final Train allusion)!



 

Holding Hands is, Like, Really Lame

Oh … to be age fourteen and feel the earth-shattering sting of unrequited love.  And how I loved Andrew! I would gaze upon the sun every morning with grand confusion wondering how it would continue to rise and set, how every living organism on earth did not cease to exist, as sadly I did not hold Andrew’s heart in my tiny hands.

August 23^rd, 1992

Dear Diary,

I’d like to explain my “love life” to you now.  I don’t have one; yes.  And I think that I want one … but I’m unsure if I would say yes if a guy were to ask me out because I’ve never had a boyfriend before.  I don’t know if I’m ready to start quite yet! I just wouldn’t know how to act.  I mean, like, what if he wants to KISS me?? What do I do then? And, like, holding hands.  It’s, like, really lame.  The only person I hold hands with is my little brother when I walk him across the street.  It all seems too confusing.  I’d never know how to act. 

Love, Angela

August 31^st, 1992

Dear Diary,

I like Andrew soooooooooo much.  I wish we could become better friends. I wonder if he even likes me a little.  I dreamt about Andrew last night.  Isn’t that sweet?  Andrew is pretty nice.  He talks to me.  He told me I’m a great actress at the dance.  He kept on calling me “darling” at the baseball game.  And he went on the Ferris wheel with me at the fair.  He said his girlfriend would be pissed off.  He said he would love me and be my bestest, bestest friend if I gave him some candy at the movies.  He’s a great guy, and he’s sooooooooo cute.  All the other girls think he’s cute too.  Gosh, I love Andrew.  He’s such a dream.  That’s probably all he’ll ever be.

Love, Angela

Eventually, I awoke from the dream world of a female high school freshmen with an obvious flair for the dramatic.  No longer did such phrases as “he talks to me” qualify a male for my ever enduring love and admiration, and well … at times, bordering on obsession (I cut a sports photo of him out of the local newspaper and put it under my pillow).  Sharing your Milk Duds with the guy you had a crush on didn’t turn the relationship into always and forever either. 

Furthermore, the concerns I expressed to my diary were absolutely verified when Andrew dumped that pissed off girlfriend and began to take more notice of me.  I was right; I had no damn idea how to behave with a boy I liked. This was confirmed when he asked me to accompany him on a double date to the movies.  I eagerly agreed, my expectations entirely too high for an evening of sitting in the dark, musty local theatre.

My friend must not have shared my opinion of hand-holding, as she happily held her date’s hand and leaned in to him. She knew all the right moves.  When Andrew put the “snake arm” around me in our uncomfortable seats, I shook it right off.  We didn’t hold hands or share popcorn.  I got bored and fell asleep.  I needed to be shaken awake by Andrew when the film ended.  Quite obviously, my dreams were far more romantic than reality, and my crush was ending as the credits rolled.  

Maybe I had watched too many romantic movies (I was also obsessed with Jake Ryan in Sixteen Candles) or read too many Judy Blume books, so I had expected my first date to lead into “Forever.”  Instead, I was bored, and I snored, and some little shit seated near me spilled his soda on me while I was sleeping because my pants were all sticky when I woke up.  Fuck, at least that’s what I had always assumed.  I sure hope my date wasn’t jerking off in the theatre as I slept. You're welcome for that imagery.

Either way, I no longer shared intimate desires of Andrew with my dear diary. I threw the picture under my pillow away (thank goodness).  I stopped caring that the other girls still thought he was cute as I had found out he was really a bore.  I didn’t worry about holding hands or first kisses, and I concentrated on loving myself rather than finding the love of my life before it was even legal for me to drive. Some dreams should never be born into reality because they are bound to disappoint.   

 

                   And ...  OMG! I just found out you can buy this awesome tee shirt!
                                Who is going to buy me this shit?  I so NEED this!  

 

 



Who's the Boss? -- or -- Help me, Tony Danza!

I felt certain I was going to be late to work this morning.  My children both allowed me to sleep in until 9 a.m., which is an incredible feat for a nearly two year old and four month old.  As I work part-time right now, my work day doesn’t start until 11:30 a.m.  This meant that I still had time after my 9 a.m. wake up to snuggle with my children on the couch and watch Little Einsteins on Disney Jr. with my daughter, while cradling my son in my arms and listening to him gently coo and giggle at me. 

I got myself showered and ready, and felt calm, content, and relaxed.  I finished another bottle with baby Isaac and then changed his clothes.  I put him in his swing and he smiled at the flashing lights and lullabies.  Then I told Emily it was time to get ready.  I brought her to her bedroom and changed her diaper.  Then, I attempted to dress her, and this is where the day temporarily fell apart for me.

So, as I drove both children to daycare before arriving at work, I began to compose some neurotic, quite unnecessary, letter to my employer.

Dear Boss:

I am so sorry I am late to work today.  I know I don’t start until 11:30, so I should be able to make it here.  I know it’s ridiculous that I’m late.  I know I’ve been working here less than three months and I don’t want to gain a reputation for failing to be on time.  But, you see, my daughter had a very strong aversion to clothing this morning.   I tried; I really did.  Trust me that I tried.  But, she ran all around the house in nothing but a diaper giggling and constantly avoiding my grip.  I know. I know.  She’s not even two years old.  It’s pathetic; I should be able to control my child, get her dressed, and get to work on time.  But, you don’t understand.  You may be my boss at work, but Emily is totally the boss the rest of the time.  I really answer to her more than you or anyone else.  If you have a sincere issue, please take it up with my nearly two-year-old daughter.  She’ll set the situation straight, and you’ll surely understand. 

With thanks,

Angela

 

However, I managed to pull a pair of tiny denim jeans and a pink top, which read “Daddy Answers to Me,” on just in time to make it through the doors at 11:30.  My letter was not required.  For Emily, on the other hand, clothing was not optional and I mandated that she dress before leaving the house.   I guess I’m still the boss, even if there was a bit of a power struggle.  And, I must admit it was an adorable and amusing power struggle.  Such are the joys of motherhood.

 

 

This is what happened when I let my daughter dress herself on a different day.

I Like Your Face

If you have been following me, you know that, much to my dismay, I have been listening to Radio Disney lately.  It was on this station that I encountered a new pick-up line courtesy of Bridgit Mendler of Good Luck Charlie fame.  In her new single, “Ready or Not,” Bridgit sings, “I like your face. Do you like my song?”

I like your face.  Maybe I haven’t remained as hip as I believe because “I like your face” is a new line for me.  I can’t imagine going up to an attractive young male (in my youth – before I was married and a mother) and stating “I like your face” to have this comment lead to an engaging conversation and romantic relationship. 

Mendler’s line led to a conversation with my current spouse about pick-up lines we either heard or used in the past.  I recall the first time I heard an actual “line,” which wasn’t until my freshmen year of college.  I was walking down the hall of my dormitory and heard the chunky male behind me ask, “Did it hurt?”  At first, I ignored him.  I hadn’t tripped.  I didn’t stumble as I was walking, so he couldn’t possibly have been talking to me, right?  Then he repeated himself, “Did it hurt?”

 

 

I turned around with a look of confusion and annoyance on my face, “What?”

He asked this same question once again, “Did it hurt?”

Like I said, I didn’t trip, stumble, or fall in the hallway, so I returned his question with one of my own, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He looked defeated, but still continued, “When you fell from heaven.”

I must have given him the nastiest look I could possibly muster because then he stammered out, “Uhm …. Uhh … Nevermind.  I was reading this book and I … uhm … nevermind.”

I’m sure the situation would look incredibly awkward had it been captured on film. However, this scene couldn’t possibly beat the expression that must have crossed my dear friend Angie’s face when she was once told by a male customer, while working the Hardee’s drive-thru in high school, “Baby … you is finer than a new set of snow tires!” That one was a fail.

My husband and I share a mutual friend who always failed miserably when attempting to pick up women.  One time, standing outside the dorm, an attractive girl walked past.  He simply presented the following question to her, “Who the fuck are you?” and was crushed when she did not respond positively.

On a different occasion, we were out at the bars together, and an attractive girl again walked by him.  He stopped her and said, “Hey, where you going?”  When she replied “home,” he returned, “With me?”  She rolled her eyes in absolute disgust and kept on walking.  We lacked any sympathy and all just laughed hysterically at him.

Despite making fun of our mutual friend’s failings, my husband (when he was just my friend) was an incredibly shy individual.  He didn’t even attempt to flirt with any women.  Because I always thought he was a wonderful, kind person (one I just wasn’t interested in dating at the time), I often expressed my concern for his ability to find a nice woman given his shyness.  Once, when I tried encouraging him to talk to women he didn’t know, he said, “C’mon. Really? You know me, Angela.  What am I supposed to say? Uhm … wanna come over by me and share some moments of awkward silence?”

He was pathetic, but I’m damn glad for that today because now that loser is my loving husband and father of our two amazing children. 

 

Leave the best pick-up lines you have ever heard (or used) in the comments!

Really, Radio Disney?

My daughter’s favorite band was once Arcade Fire.  Her father and I were both listening to “The Suburbs” a lot while she was in the womb. She also remains a big fan of Blitzen Trapper, Okkervil River, and Handsome Furs, from all the time she spent hanging out with her favorite Uncle Jared this past summer listening to his hipster music. I thought she was one awesome little toddler, but then the neurotic mother in me began to worry that maybe she would be considered a little weirdo by the other kids at daycare if she didn’t listen to more kid-friendly music.

So, now she’s a total fanatic for Nickelodeon’s Fresh Beat Band – Kiki, Marina, Twist, and Shout.  Every time she hears those Fresh Beats, she’s up on her feet, clapping and shaking her booty like nobody’s business.  I encourage her dancing, so I start to clap along too and say, “get it girl” and “yeah, my girl likes to drop it like it’s hot.”  So much for those worries about my daughter being a little weirdo.  Even when she listens to common child’s music, she has a silly momma like me who taught her to slap her behind when asked, “Emily, where’s your booty?”

 

 

This doesn’t concern me as much as the degree to which everyone but Emily is getting annoyed as fuck with The Fresh Beat Band.  My mother helps babysit, and recently told me, “I know Emily loves those Fresh Beaters, but boy are they fucking annoying.”  Her dad asked if we could please take the Fresh Beat CD out of the car for a while because he “couldn’t take it anymore.”

Therefore, I have recently begun programming into Radio Disney on XM Radio.  Yesterday, while I was transporting my two children, Radio Disney was playing some music that I really questioned.  I know I just admitted to bragging that my baby girl likes to drop it like it’s hot, but Radio Disney should have higher standards than me.  I was not pleased when I heard Karmin’s “Broken Hearted,” the song that my mother absolutely despises because of a line that alludes to anal sex.  And after that, Radio Disney played Pitbull.  Pitbull! Really, Radio Disney?  Are we hanging out in Mickey’s Club House or in “da club”? Pitbull sang, “Hey Baby. Yeah you, Baby. Come Here, Baby.  Let’s make a movie, Baby.”  Between you and me, I don’t think Pitbull was singing about starring in some Disney “Buddies” movie with that gang of adorable little dogs.  He was talking about filming a pornographic scene. 

Yes, yes, it’s true that when I sing karaoke my two go-to songs are “I Touch Myself” by the DiVinyls and “Baby got Back” by Sir Mix-A-Lot.  But, my babies don’t do karaoke with me.  When I sing with my children, my go-to songs are “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” and “Jesus Loves Me.” 

Yes, it’s also true I drop f-bombs on this blog like it’s an all-out battleground.  But, I hope no one reads this shit to their children.  There’s a time and a place for everything, and I’ve certainly broken these boundaries a time or two.  Regardless, Radio Disney is NOT the place for Pitbull and songs about slutting it up by declaring “I’ll do anything you want to, just don’t leave me broken-hearted tonight.”  Radio Disney, you’re breaking my heart, and my husband’s head is going to be hurting too because it’s back to The Fresh Beat Band CD. 

Tammy Wynette Was Wrong

I didn’t forget about Blogger Idol this week.  I’m still happily playing along with the home link-ups.  This week, Blogger Idol presented us with the following challenge: “Every decision we make changes the outcome of our life. This week's assignment theme is ‘There once was a chance I didn't take.’ You have to write about a chance that you regret not taking, or a chance that you had, that you didn't take, that may have turned your life in a totally different direction.”

------------------------------

“You need to leave him,” my mother matter-of-factly stated on the other end of the telephone line.

“But mom, he needs me,” I replied.  I believed this with every inch of my being.  He needed me at his side.  I couldn’t leave him alone in such a state – so physically and mentally weak and exhausted. 

“You need to make yourself the priority,” she returned.  “He took advantage of you.”

“I know he did.  I know,” while I acknowledged this truth, I continued on, “but he’s clearly ill.  I don’t think he meant to hurt me.  I think he must be sorry for what he did, or he wouldn’t have gone to such extremes.  I married him.  Marriage means something to me.  It’s a commitment, and I can’t just walk away.”

“You can walk away,” she countered, “and you need to.  You can’t justify staying based on the sanctity of marriage.  Your marriage is a lie, Angela.”

Damn. There it was.  She didn’t dance around it; she pummeled me in the face with this brutal reality like she was throwing an upper right cut.

It was a lie.  I didn’t know the man I married.  I don’t think anyone really knew him, his own self included.  He was confused and mentally ill and his life was so out of control that while I had this discussion with my mother, he was lying on a hospital bed in the intensive care unit after a serious suicide attempt.

It was only a few months into my marriage when I discovered much of what had been hidden from me.  The lying, cheating, and stealing were all spelled out in what he had intended to be his final farewell, a letter that was handed to me by one of the emergency responders on the scene. 

The man I married didn’t exist.  He was a kind, considerate, honest man.  The man who I was committed to now was deceitful and selfish. I could have chosen an annulment, and I should have chosen an annulment.  I had been wronged, but I did what I believed to be right at the time. 

I didn’t listen to my mother.  Rather, I took the advice of country crooner Tammy Wynette and I stood by my man.  I gave him my all, through more lies, fights, personal struggles with depression, and his abuse.  In giving him my all, I lost myself.  I’m sorry I lost myself.

If I had listened to my mother, I could have truly lived.  I could have enjoyed my friends and my family, instead he did his damndest to isolate and alienate me from the folks I loved, leaving me feeling alone and dependent upon him.  I could have enjoyed ages twenty-two and twenty-three, living young, wild and free.  I could have known my worth and continued to love myself.

If I had walked away sooner, I wouldn’t have had to fight so damn hard to regain my identity and accept myself again.  I could have avoided the battle to rebuild a strong self-concept.  But, I punched, I kicked, I built mental muscle until I got her back – I got me back.  I am stronger now. I am better.  I am resilient. 

Regardless, these were gifts I gave to myself – they didn’t simply come from the struggle of an abusive marriage.  When I look in the rearview mirror, those years were just a detour and I’m still right where I belong now. 

I could say I should have listened to my mother.  I could say Tammy Wynette was wrong, and I wish I had never heard that song.  However, it’s my own voice I needed to hear.  I will never let anyone hush her ever again. 

The Wonder of Youth

I woke up before my two young children and slowly sat up in bed.  I glanced out the bedroom window to witness a thin layer of snow covering the ground.  My initial thought went straight to Damn.  I took absolutely no joy in nature’s beauty.  I have witnessed over thirty snowfalls, and the first few flakes have long ago ceased to excite me.  These days, my thoughts go to colder weather, more cautious driving, and the threat of Seasonal Affective Depressive Disorder.  

Then my daughter, not quite two years old, arose.  As she too gazed out the glass window pane upon waking, an expression of pure awe and wonderment spread over her entire precious face.  She looked back at me and smiled, then pointing out the window and tilting her head in a toddler’s inquisitive fashion.

“It’s snow, Emily,” I said. “Snow.”

“Snow. Snow. Snow,” she repeated with unreserved glee.  She began to bounce up and down in the bed as she grinned from ear to ear repeating this one word that had inspired cursing in my adult mind. “Snow! Snow! Snow!”

I bundled both children up, and took them to daycare.  When she got out of the car and when her feet first landed in the snow, her wonder began completely anew – as though she had forgotten what she observed and learned this morning.  She pointed down at the ground and beamed at me once more. 

“Yes. Snow, Emily,” I told her, “Do you remember?”

“Snow! Snow! Snow!” she excitedly shouted once again and stomped her tiny little feet up and down in the wet, white substance.

I had to scoop her up into my arms to bring her into the building as she appeared content to remain standing in the cold forever, stomping up and down and smiling in the snow.

When did I turn bitter? When did I stop appreciating beauty?  When did it happen to you?

Sometimes I wish we could all see the world as young children see it.  We would be more appreciative, and more grateful.  We would have more moments filled with awe and wonder, and absolute, unmitigated joy – pure joy. 

We could forget the evils we know and the worries that consume our minds and be content to stay in one place smiling and relishing the moment.  We need to allow ourselves to see the world through the eyes of children so that we can know more of love.