Blurred Lines and Tall Tales

Unless you have been living under a rock (yet strangely have access to this obscure little blog), you have probably heard Robin Thicke’s song “Blurred Lines.”  It’s a wildly popular hit single that has basically become the summer anthem of 2013.  It’s nearly impossible to hear this song and not sing along or shake that ass.  The single is undeniably sexy, and contains lines such as “must wanna get nasty” and “let me be the one you bare that ass to.”  This is why I was a bit shocked when this song recently came on the radio and my two-year-old daughter demanded, “Turn it up!” However, she does love to dance and thus loves a good beat (regardless of the asinine lyrics), so I did her bidding and we both sang “hey – hey – hey – hey” and wiggled in our seats while cruising in the minivan (yeah, I roll hard). 

 

 

More shocking than her demand for increased volume to this sexy single was the proclamation that followed as she informed me, “This is Daddy’s song!”  Daddy’s song? What? The sexy summer anthem that talks about liberating good girls who are really animals by nature? This is Daddy’s song? The fuck?

This didn’t confuse me because I’m some sort of jealous wife who believes my spouse should only think about sex as it relates directly to me. Rather, it puzzled me because I would have never associated my husband with such a sexy, confident song.  Truth be told, my husband doesn’t exactly ooze sexuality or confidence.  I realize that sounds like a totally bitchy statement, but let me provide you with a little scenario.  Before we were coupled, my husband and I were close friends.  I always thought he was a very pleasant individual, and hoped that he would find a girl to make him happy (at that time not even considering said girl could actually be me).  As I hoped he would find a satisfying relationship, I would often encourage him to approach women.  On one of these occasions, he told me, “Angela, enough! For real, what am I supposed to say? Hey, want to come over here and share some awkward silence with me?”

Daddy’s song is “Freakish” by Saves the Day, okay? Not Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines”!

 

 

But, maybe, just maybe, Daddy was living some sort of secret life I didn’t know about.  Maybe he could actually be confident, suave, and debonair.  So, I let my suspicions get the better of me, and inquired about my husband’s activities when I was recently away for a week .   “Emily,” I asked my daughter, “Did daddy have any women over while Mommy was on vacation?”

“Yes,” she answered, with a smile and a giggle.  It appeared that Emily was aware of her father’s awkward nature, and thus found some humor in her reply.

“He did!” I said, shocked, but also not truly believing a word my daughter was now telling me.  Despite the fact that I gave no merit to her response, I continued to play along.  I then questioned, “How many women did Daddy have over?” 

“Eight,” she answered with another big grin.  For some reason, her favorite numbers are eight and nine.  When we recently had a garage sale, she attempted to charge every customer “nine dollars” regardless of their actual purchase. They would look at me, and I’d have to explain she had favorite numbers and then confirm that no, they really only owed me fifty cents for whatever crap they were taking off my hands.

“Eight!” I yelled, with even more animated astonishment.  “Hmmm … what did Daddy do with these women?  Did he hug them and kiss them?”  If “Blurred Lines” was Daddy’s song, he must have hugged and kissed these women, right?  The lyrics do say, “You wanna hug me. What rhymes with hug me?”  Pure brilliance! Give that man a Grammy! (sarcasm font)

“Yes, Mommy!” she answered, “He kiss the women.”

Later, I informed my husband of this exchange with my daughter.  It wasn’t a confrontation; it was simply a comical conversation.  He looked to my daughter and said, “Oh, Emily! You are full of beans!  Did we also ride a unicorn on the moon while Mommy was gone?”

“Yes!” she nodded her head and squealed in delight.

We both laughed at our adorable little daughter, and then my husband told her, “Alright Emily, it’s time to tell the truth.”

“Okay,” she said, “I tell the truth.”

I then proceeded to ask her about my husband’s escapades during my absence.  “Alright, Emily, did Daddy really have women over when Mommy was on vacation?”

“Yes,” she stated quite matter-of-factly.

I knew that my mother and his mother had both been over to help out with the children while he was working and I was away, so this answer was acceptable.  “How many women, Emily?”

Despite loving the numbers eight and nine, she did tell the truth this time and replied, “Two.”

“Were they beautiful young women, Emily?” I then inquired.

“No, Mommy, they old ladies.”

Old ladies! Yes! That’s what I was hoping to hear!   I knew my husband was still the freakish, awkward, but loyal and loving man I married, and my daughter is just a silly, imaginative wonder.  I was very satisfied with the truth, and very amused with Emily’s tall tales regarding “Blurred Lines.”

 

 

Employee of the Year

If you live in Wisconsin, you have surely found yourself at a water park at least once in your lifetime.  You have splashed in the wave pools, floated down the lazy river, and slid down tube slides with names like Anaconda, Black Death, and other such terms meant to simultaneously incite terror and excite your endorphins. 

I was at one of these waterparks with a group of friends when we were all happily playing in the large wave pool.  We bobbed up and down in the waves and splashed each other as we gleefully smiled and giggled.  We were all enjoying ourselves when I spotted “it” bobbing on the waves – edging ever nearer to me.  The object seemed determined to approach me, skillfully making its way among skinny teenage girls in bikinis and overweight old men in highly inappropriate speedos.  Were my eyes deceiving me?  I hoped this was the case as the small white object heaved itself up to the top of a wave and then dipped momentarily back underneath the water.  As the wave brought the white, cotton item back above the surface, however, it became abundantly clear what now floated just inches from me.  I looked around for anyone to save me from my most certain impending doom. 

No Hero Here!

 

I spotted a young employee – wearing sunglasses and the red swim trunks that identified him as staff.  He had a whistle around his neck that made him seem important despite his scrawny body and teenaged acne.  I hollered up to him hoping for a hero, “Hey! Hey, kid!  There’s a tampon in the water!” I yelled frantically while pointing at the foreign object, which I assumed was dispelled as some female plunged down one of those terrifying slides like the Anaconda. 

I hoped he would dive into the water and scoop up the object, promptly removing it and thus freeing me to enjoy the rest of this time with my friends.  Rather, he looked at me, looked at the object, and then shrugged his shoulders as he stated, “Meh.  It will be floating down the lazy river pretty soon.” 

I yelled back at him, “Ugh! That’s soooooo gross!” but he once again only shrugged and ignored me.

Was something wrong with me? Did I need to just calm the fuck down? I mean, what’s a little tampon floating in the water really?  At least it wasn’t a turd.  Maybe I need to just learn not to sweat the small stuff.  “Keep calm and carry on,” right? No; no.  That shit was gross, and that little fucker was lazier than the river the tampon was soon to be floating upon, according to his expertise.  

So, no, I didn’t keep calm and float on.  I left the wave pool and continued to complain about that lazy little bastard who just shrugged his shoulders at me. As  I now recall my encounter with the employee of the fucking year, I can only hope that if you have likewise been to a waterpark and are able to readily recall your time in the wave pool, may those memories not be sullied by a defector tampon because “Ugh! That’s sooooo gross!”

Sing, Momma, Sing

I lay in my bed, ready for rest at the end of another day.  My daughter lies next to me in her striped cotton pajamas.  I look at her and immediately feel warm and whole.  I feel as though I could be stripped of my clothing and robbed of my possessions and yet I would be complete and joyous as long as I were still called mother.

She looks up at me with her beautiful blue eyes, so bright and radiant they are as welcome sunshine breaking through layers of thick, grey clouds.  She smiles the most tender, genuine smile; her upturned lips speak of love with no necessary vocal accompaniment.  All I need do is look at her to know I am adored and admired, and in my return gaze I know she is assured the same.  She knows, without any fancy words needing to traipse off my tongue, that she is safe and secure, and, above all, deeply loved.

She takes her tiny hand and places it in mine; the soft tips of her fingers gently stroke my palm while that wide smile of hers yet remains. It is an irrefutable truth to say I have never known love like this before.  Nothing in this world – not the gentle ocean breeze or a soft, amber sunset – compares with the love between mother and daughter.

Through the silence that now holds us together – two beings forever united though the umbilical cord has been broken – she softly speaks to me.  Her smile grows a little wider before she requests, “Sing, momma, sing.”

I know the song she is now requesting; I know exactly the tune she desires to hear.  Just as the depth of our love need not be vocalized to be acknowledged, I simply know the melody she now seeks. It is a familiar tune I have softly sung to her time and time again. I continue to hold her tiny hand quite appropriately as the lyrics fall from my lips: Your little hand’s wrapped around my finger, and it’s so quiet in the world tonight. This moment – her smile, her touch, her joy, her abundant love – is perfect, and I want to know if I can trap it.  Can I keep this moment forever? Can I somehow bring it to permanence and make it concrete?  I want to seal my daughter’s love in a jar with a heavy lid.  I want to place it on a high kitchen shelf to be brought down when she’s age fifteen and yells that she hates me because she has an earlier curfew than her best friend.

I know, however, that I will never be able to hold these precious moments down – pinning each smile like butterflies in a collection.  If I could, I would label her laughter, her songs, her happiness in this moment like monarchs and mourning cloaks.  As a substitute, I will collect these moments in my heart and hold them there forever, each memory remaining alive.  As I take a snapshot of her smile in my mind, I continue singing the tune I know my daughter yearns to hear: To you, everything’s funny – you got nothing to regret – I’d give all I have, honey, if you could stay like that.

I now come to the chorus and sing louder, feeling every single line and chord to my very core – truly sharing the lyricist’s desire.  Tiny tears form in the corners of my tired, smiling eyes. These tears appear every single time despite the frequency of such words being sung to my delighted daughter, who also seems to hear my heart beating with love as I string each word together in this beautiful and true tune.   

Oh darling, don't you ever grow up
Don't you ever grow up, just stay this little
Oh darling, don't you ever grow up
Don't you ever grow up, it could stay this simple
I won't let nobody hurt you, won't let no one break your heart
And no one will desert you
Just try to never grow up, never grow up

As I tunefully sing my daughter to sleep with such sweet words, I wish I could protect her as the lyrics promise.  However, my heart, which is exceedingly full of love for this beautiful gift of a girl, also aches with another knowing.  I know, despite my deepest desires, that she will grow up, she will be hurt, she will be deserted, and her heart will be broken.  I will never desert her, but I may even regrettably be the one to hurt her. 

For now, though, I wipe those future fears and worries away and hold on to this moment, hold on to my daughter’s hand, and hold on to her tiny body as she gently falls to sleep to this happy, hopeful harmony.  I will sing for you whenever you want, dear daughter, whether you be sweet, simple age two as you now are, or a troubled, angst-filled teen of fifteen.  I will sing for you at age twenty-two and I hope to sing to your daughter too.  I want you to sing for yourself when you are feeling sad and low, and hear my voice through a whisper even if we are miles apart. 

I know you will grow up dear daughter, but I never, ever want us to grow apart. So you now sleep as I dream of all the love you have brought to my life and lock this memory forever in my heart.  Just try to never lose this joy, never lose this joy.   You are loved.


 

Samantha Macelli was a Bad Influence

I sat at the lunch table mindlessly chewing my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pulling at the stem of my slightly bruised apple.  I then heard Stephanie saying my name, “What about you, Angie?”

“Huh?” I asked, between bites of my Wonder Bread.

“Have you ever had a hickey?”

I was ten years old.  I had no damn idea what a hickey was, so I took another bite of my sandwich and avoided an immediate answer by slowly savoring the creamy Jif.  I knew they had been talking about what boys they liked, and assumed that a hickey was something cool a boy gave you and something I probably ought to have had by the oh so mature age of ten.  I didn’t want to seem like a little kid or like I wasn’t desired by the opposite sex. 

“Uhm … yeah,” I softly replied.  

“Yeah, so have Stacy and I,” Stephanie stated with a smile that informed me my reply, although a lie, was the appropriate affirmative response.

Shortly after my fib and Stephanie’s boastful statement, the bell rang out for the end of lunch period.  We all got up, returned our trays to the lunch ladies or disposed of our paper lunch bags and headed back to Mr. Smith’s classroom. 

I didn’t feel right the rest of the afternoon as I sat at my desk and completed grammar assignments or attempted to listen attentively to Mr. Smith’s lectures on history.  My stomach turned the rest of the day nervous and anxious as to what I had confessed to.  What’s a hickey? What’s a hickey? I have to know.  Oh, god! What if it’s gross? Stephanie didn’t seem to think it was gross, but oh god!  I need to know what a hickey is … NOW!!  It’s all I could think while I should have been memorizing the names of presidents. 

At that time, there was no World Wide Web, or “information superhighway,” as I first remember it being marketed to us when I was in high school.  Had it been this day and age, I could have just asked Google to give me the answer.  That wasn’t an option, so I remained in the dark.  I was too afraid to ask the other girls, whom all seemed to already know.  I was certainly too embarrassed to ask my mother. 

I had my “a-ha!” moment about several weeks later while watching an episode of Who’s the Boss? where Alyssa Milano’s character Samantha was given a hickey by her beau.  She wore turtlenecks all week trying to hide the lip sucking montrosity that is a hickey from her father. She also made up a new dance craze where you tilt your neck when he saw her sans turtleneck.  “Gross!” I yelled aloud, and could not believe that only a few weeks earlier I had lied and said I was given one of these disgusting things. 

I have never, ever in my life allowed any boyfriend of mine to give me a hickey.  I think they are absolutely revolting, and I was always reminded of my dishonesty whenever a young man started kissing my neck.  I would freeze up in shame and disgust and tell him to stop before he left his mark. This was way before the Twilight madness too, so vampires weren’t considered sexy and I didn’t want anyone nipping at my neck!

My own daughter will be wise to wear a turtle neck in an attempt to hide the mark of her indiscretions should she ever come home with a hickey, especially if she is only age ten.  I was ten years old! I was only in the fifth grade when my friends asked if I had ever had a hickey.  I can only hope that they were all lying too and had asked because Alyssa Milano was the coolest and they must have seen the same Who’s the Boss? episode when it first ran.  I can tell you that I am the boss of this household now and ain’t no ten year old coming home with a hickey.  Gross!

 

All Thanks to a Little Explorer

I have a confession to make today. For months now, I’ve been sleeping with a Mexican and a monkey.  It’s true, and I wish this were about to unfold as some tawdry, bizarre tale.  However, the truth is that I’ve allowed myself to become one of those mothers who allows her toddler to sleep in bed with mom and dad whenever she’s crabby or crying.  This is, of course, every god-damn night.  As my toddler is currently a highly fervent Dora the Explorer fanatic, her Dora and Boots dolls have also managed to take up space in our queen size bed, ensuring that I know longer get spooned by my spouse (a very sad actuality). 

Although I have increasingly grown to hate nights waking up with a damn Dora doll wedged under my back, I must admit that I am immensely thankful for that little explorer gal.  I would like to see Dora get some well-fitting clothing sometime soon so that midriff of hers isn’t always exposed, but other than this, she teaches many valuable lessons to my admiring toddler daughter.  At just over two years old, Emily uses Spanish words for colors and numbers on a regular basis.  I, myself, have actually learned more Spanish from hours of viewing Dora with my daughter than I ever did in high school.  My teacher at the time, a morbidly obese woman who did know the language quite well herself, just didn’t have the patience for all of us incompetent students and would thus often declare, “Stop asking questions! How can you not get this? You guys are so dumb! We’re moving on!” 

 Unlike my high school foreign language teacher, Dora is patient and encouraging.  She also has many other great traits.  She is brave and intelligent.  She’s a loyal friend and she never, ever gives up. Beyond all these qualities, though, Dora’s best attribute is undeniably her ability to transfix my daughter and possess her absolute attention, not veering away from the television screen for even a second.  Without this attribute, shit would not get done around this house.  Dora the Explorer allows me to do the laundry, wash the dishes, clean the floors, scrub the toilets, and dust the house (although dusting remains a rare occurrence as it’s my most despised chore).  If not for Dora, Boots, Isa, and that hunky Benny the Bull, we may be living in filth.   

I have loved Dora for her ability to allow me to still accomplish household tasks while raising two children under age two and working.  Yet it was my husband who proudly pointed out two evenings ago, when we managed to sneak away for some mommy and daddy time while the youngest napped and Emily sat transfixed to the television, a new reason to thank that young explorer.  While lying in bed together, wrapped up in one another’s arms, he asked, “Did you hear that?”  I smiled, satisfied, and asked him what sound he was referencing.  “Lo Hicimos! We did it! Did you hear it?  Dora’s over.  The show had just started when we came to the bedroom.  Damn! We’re getting good at this.  We managed foreplay, sex, and cuddling all within the span of one Dora episode!”  He beamed at this accomplishment and I got up to get dressed and return to our daughter. 

I’ve said this before, a true cliché of parenthood, but I’ll say it again: children change everything.  Never, ever, in my life would I have imagined feeling a sense of accomplishment for fitting in foreplay, intercourse, and snuggling all within the span of a child’s cartoon.  Life has changed indeed, but I love these children so damn much, and I wouldn’t change things back in a million years or for a million dollars.  I thank heaven for these children, and am just as grateful for Dora the Explorer. Lo Hicimos! We did it, Dora! The house is clean and mommy’s getting laid.  Thank your little monkey friend, too, but maybe you two can stop coming to bed with me. 

And There was No Wine

I sat on the couch sobbing, “I’m so sorry I ruined Valentine’s Day. I’m so sorry I ruined everything.”

We had a dinner reservation in a town about thirty minutes away.  My spouse had asked my mother a whole month in advance if she was willing to babysit. It had been months since the two of us had actually been out together.  Date night is a rare occurrence in our house as we have a two year old and a seven month old.  It’s also become a rarity as means to save money given my current unemployment.

We had to cancel those reservations because I was too anxious and depressed to even leave the house.  I felt absolutely desperate in this most recent depression, afraid that this one was so bad I may never come out of such depths of anguish and lingering gloom.  So, I wasn’t just ruining one meal together, but I felt absolutely sure that I was also ruining my life, our marriage, and our family's future.  I honestly believed all of these things in those moments of despondency. 

However, as I recently regained some clarity, I realized that the situation was never truly hopeless, and reservations could easily be rescheduled.  Our date may not have happened on the holiday assigned to love.  However, we can just as easily celebrate our love and additionally celebrate renewed clarity and hope on any calendar day. 

As a component of my enhanced clarity, I felt a strong desire to solve the riddle of such a deep depression.  My moods were cycling and this low felt far deeper and more abysmal than it had in years.  It was such an entrenched, serious low and one I never, ever want to experience again.  Therefore, I began to contemplate the source of such a deep depressive episode. 

Well, it was February … and February is a bitch of a month, hiding the sun away from those of us who desperately rely on her rays to make it through each day.  Furthermore, I had also stopped taking my fish oil during my most recent pregnancy as it upset my stomach, and I never resumed my consumption of this natural mood beneficiary. I was still ruminating over my job loss and the injustice of the whole situation.  Finally, the obvious culprit (once I had regained any sense of clarity) was my most recent medicine change.

I still felt certain, though, that there was even more to the mystery of such an acute episode. Suddenly, it occurred to me.  There was a reason our Valentine’s Day reservations were not in our own town.  That reason is because we had ran out of wine in the house about two weeks before  and there’s really no fine wine to be found at our local liquor stores.  However, the town we planned to dine in had an extremely fine wine cellar, and part of my Valentine’s Day present was for my husband to purchase me a new stock of wine. 

Alas! I had solved the mystery of this latest episode.  It was the wine!  Damn! I didn’t need a new mood stabilizing medication. I needed some finely fermented medication.   I feel quite certain the psychiatrist will agree with this analysis when I meet with her again tomorrow morning, right?  This girl just needs her god-damn wine. Next year, I shall ensure a sweet Valentine’s Day by staying well stocked throughout these long, difficult winter months.

My Manic Mind

It’s 3:38 a.m. 3:38 a.m. 3:38 a.m.  I watch the clock and repeat what the fuck – what the fuck – what the fuck.  I just want to sleep, to rest, to lie beside my husband and find some peace.  Instead, my mind is restless and racing and the thoughts are neither logical nor productive, but they just keep coming, and coming, and coming – and I can’t stop them like trying to dodge bullets on some neon light video game screen. 3:39 a.m. and the concern that is currently keeping me awake is the fate of Tracy Morgan – Tracy fucking Morgan.  This is what is happening in my head:

Shit. Tracy Morgan was really fucking type-cast on 30 Rock.  Tracy Jordan; we all know he was basically playing himself.  And now the show is over, and what is that poor suffering bastard supposed to do with himself? What will he do? What will he do?  Well, I sure hope he made a shit ton of money from that Mio add that they first ran during the Super Bowl.  That ad wasn’t even funny, but he’s going to need some back-up bank.  And what the hell happened to 30 Rock? My beloved 30 Rock. What happened to that show?  It was so funny, so damn funny and so damn good.  Remember when she got that cat, Emily Dickinson, and she could fit Emily Dickinson inside of her mouth and that made everything okay or when we learned Jack’s very important advice of “never follow a hippie to a second location” when Princess Lea, whatever the fuck her name is, she’s fat now, oh yes Carrie Fisher, was on the show.  Oh yes. Oh yes. The good old Liz Lemon.  And this last season just sucked, sucked so miserably that it makes me down right mad.  Do you think there might have been a point to it all? Oh, yes, she was finally in a real, committed relationship and that’s when we lost good old Liz Lemon, so that’s her point – this is Tina Fey’s point, relationships kill creativity and personality.  They are bad for you, and they make everything suck.  Maybe. Maybe. She knew she wouldn’t have been with him – fucking hot dog vendor, c’mon.  Of course Jack didn’t approve, or maybe, maybe, as a way of letting TGS and 30 Rock end this was Tina Fey sending a cue to Lorne Michaels that it’s time to give up the ghost and let SNL go too because Lord knows that show has sucked ass for years and years and years.  Maybe she was mad at Jason Sudeikis. What, Angela, what? That doesn’t even make any sense. That makes no sense. No, why would she be mad at Jason Sudeikis? He’s funny, and likeable.  Olivia Wilde likes him and people think she’s hot.  Now, wait, here’s the greater concern. This is the part you think is crazy, this is the crazy part now, but worrying about the future acting career of Tracy Morgan is a perfectly normal thing to do at 3:40 a.m. Oh, fuck you brain. Shut off. Shut off. Shut off. Now you’re arguing with yourself.  Let’s just move on, okay. Okay. Jason Sudeikis is fine. Tina Fey is fine. You are not fine.  Your thoughts won’t stop. Make them stop.  How will you describe this feeling to others? Try to capture this moment of mania? Help them see how infuriating and frustrating it is. Oh, yes.  It’s like Carrie Underwood’s dress at the Grammys. Carrie Underwood’s dress at the Grammys this year when they were showing all those images on the canvas and then there was a butterfly and it erupted into a million other butterflies – all just images and they went racing across her dress and the screen. My thoughts are like those butterflies.  They’re floating everywhere and they can’t be caught or held onto, and I don’t know which butterflies to follow or chase.  Oh, what the fuck, Angela? C’mon now.  You can’t use Carrie Underwood’s dress at the 2013 Grammys as a metaphor for your mania.  That’s stupid.  That’s not a lasting pop culture reference.  It’s like that time when you made an allusion to Amy Lee and Evanescence lyrics and how you felt left alone and like you had lost yourself after your first marriage. Fucking Evanescence. You always hated them anyway. And Creed. Oh awful Creed. What’s this life for? Not groceries. No, not groceries.  And so it goes, so it goes. So it goes.

Ah, Kurt Vonnegut … and then my mind goes running in a new direction, but I remain restless and agitated, and in desperate need of rest and peace. Rest and peace.