Boobs FTW

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FTW = For the Win.

NOT Fuck the World. Just wanted to make sure you know what I’m talking about over here. Because I’m not trying to fuck the world with my boobs. I’m WINNING at boobs.

Why Boobs FTW?

Boobs

4. Your Judgment.

Because I haz them. And they are pretty goddamn cool. I mean, I was flatter than a pancake in high school, so I’m really, really happy with my size C cups now. My hubz seems pleased as well. And that gives me a happy.

Why else Boobs FTW?

Because I was able to nurse both my babies. Some women aren’t that fortunate, and that sucks. Also? Some women don’t wanna do that, which is fine because who am I to judge them for their choices? Whatever. I fed my babies booby milk and we got on famously.

Boobs FTW cuz YES.

I won’t lie. I really like my boobs. You know that whole thing where men say to women, “If I had boobs I would touch them all time.”? Well, I’ll be honest. I do touch my boobs. They’re cool. They stick out and they’re soft and whatnot. I’m not trying to gross you out, you guys. I’m just trying to make clear the fact that I very much enjoy my boobs.

Boobs FTW cuz SCIENCE.

Vaginas An Owners Manual

OMFG YOU GUYS AMIRITE?

Recently I underwent some womanly medical issues which carried me into a doctor’s office and set me to scrutiny under a gynecologist and ended in surgery. Part of all that process involved discussing my family’s medical history. One observation made by the National Cancer Institute set off some red flags:

“The likelihood of a harmful mutation in BRCA1 or BRCA2 is increased with certain familial patterns of cancer.”

Without going into my extended family’s medical history and thereby exposing private issues, let’s just say that I fit the model well enough that my gynecologist had me fill out a very pointed questionnaire, my answers to which prompted her to order a blood test for early detection of the aforementioned gene.

Boobs FTW even if I get stabbed by needles.

The nurse who drew my blood was really sweet, but she left a giant bruise on both my arms. She apologized profusely, but still. Shit was uncool. But whatever. Let’s talk more about *WHY* the nurse got stabby at me, and what she hoped to accomplish. Answer: My bloods went into a test tube that got labeled and sent off to a lab, where some awesome magical techie would shake it around and mix it with potions and view it under a microscope to see if some Breast Cancer genes popped up like a neon sign: MUTATIONS WELCOME HERE.

Mutations:

That’s what the BRCA 1 and BRCA 2 tests are looking for. That shaken-n-stirred process is trying to find out if my boobs are fucked up. The tests seek out cells which kind of don’t fit in, like the dork sitting at the cool kids’ table.

Scotty Star Trek

“Everything,” Scotty? Really? I DON’T BELIEVE YOU.

“Red Alert: There is a total loser of a cell glommed on to the popular cells! Shields at maximum capacity.”

“I’m givin’ ‘er all she’s got, Captain!”

“Oh. Then we are fucked.”

When the dorky, loser, mutated cells get picked out in a lineup, that’s when trouble starts. Cuz you can’t just arrest their asses and have them thrown in the hopper. You have to actually consider scary shit like chemotherapy or mastectomy or whatever else is out there to fight the ravages of cancer.

I am lucky.

And very, very grateful. My tests came back negative. I didn’t have to go through the mental anguish (beyond waiting for the results, a nail-biting experience if ever there was one) of wondering which procedure would work best to eradicate my fucked up cells. I got to jump up and down and cheer. Which is nice, since, as I mentioned, I like my boobs.

Andi-Roo’s Boobs FTW!

Angelina Jolie Boobs

Holy-effing-moly. Those are some boobs.

When I first heard about Angelina Jolie’s boobs, I got sad and sympathetic. I mean, I just went through this whole thing LAST MONTH, you guys, so it’s still pretty fresh in my laundry basket of emotional turmoil, clean enough I could easily don that outfit again without stinking up the joint too badly. Poor Angelina, no more boobs – but good for her in making such a definitive decision, and for bravely announcing her boob sitch to the entire fucking world.

Then peeps got dumb.

I started hearing all this backlash about Angelina’s decision, not a single item of which makes any goddamn sense to me. Let’s take each point against the titty-lobbing and see if we can’t bring some education to the ignorant, loud masses.

1.  “Angelina Jolie is cray-cray anyway.”

Yeah, so her opinion totally doesn’t matter. Because when the BRCA tests came up against mutated cells, her mental state of mind was TOTALLY taken into account.

You guys, please stop being stupid.

Right now. Just stop. Her blood displayed the mutated cells, and given her family history, she totally made an informed, NOT INSANE, decision. She made the decision I’d have made were I in her shoes. And I’ve been accused of being crazy, but never over medical decisions. I’m pretty sure Angelina’s decision to have her breasts removed was an emotional one, yes, but a completely logical one. So step off her phsyco, okay?

2. “Angelina Jolie is panicking and thus inspiring public panic.”

Um. No she isn’t. She isn’t panicking. The results of the BRCA tests announced,

“Bitch, you are a very high risk for Breast Cancer. Or Ovarian Cancer. Maybe both. The Council of Fucked Up Cells has not yet come to a consensus, but they are DEFINITELY meeting on the subject, and soon. Just giving you a heads up.”

Here, read this, dumb-dumbs:

“In other words, a woman who has inherited a harmful mutation in BRCA1 orBRCA2 is about FIVE TIMES MORE LIKELY to develop breast cancer than a woman who does not have such a mutation.”

{Emphasis mine, because FIVE TIMES MORE LIKELY, you guys. FIVE TIMES. Are you getting this? FIVE TIMES MORE LIKELY.}

You know what that says to me?

“TAKE ACTION NOW, OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES.” Panicking would be sticking her head in the sand and pretending that nothing was wrong, that she couldn’t possibly get cancer, that the test was merely a trifle. What Angelina did was discuss the sitch with her medical adviser and come up with a logical course of action.

3. “The rest of us can’t afford to get tested, so she shouldn’t have been tested, either!”

Yes, I love condemning others to death merely because I am economically oppressed. I cannot afford my children’s broken bones, so Angelina Jolie should die. That makes perfect sense…

In no way whatsoever!

What the everlasting fuck is wrong with you morons? She can afford to be tested, and that is awesome. To think otherwise is selfish and vindictive on your part, and I kind of want to barf on your face, because I’ve dealt enough with malicious little spit balls like you in my life time.

ONE, she’s a human fucking being.

I’m not saying I’m a fan of the human species, but… I certainly don’t wish DEATH on anyone, especially not a slow, painful decline wherein one’s body no longer belongs to oneself. I wouldn’t want anyone to die of cancer because some spoiled, self-righteous dick-weeds sat on a test that all of us should be able to access.

TWO, She’s also a very loud advocate for human rights kind of stuff.

I’m betting this breast cancer testing problem gets added to her list of topics to pursue. Now that she knows about it firsthand, she will be in a much better position to help out those less fortunate. I know it seems callous to say, “Hang tight,” but that’s a lot better than what YOU’RE saying.

And let’s talk about who can and can’t afford the test.

I have no idea how much the test costs. I know. I’m ignorant on that score. I don’t pay attention to medical costs, because quite frankly, they don’t matter. I’m not going to avoid having my child’s arms put into a cast depending upon the cost, so WTF do I care? I have a stack of medical bills, and I pay them as I’m able, and I don’t get turned away from my doctor or the hospital for being krillions of dollars behind. You’ve been fooled into thinking you must pay the amount (typically krillions of dollars) all at once or you’ll be tossed out of your home. That isn’t true.

But whatever.

I’m not a normal person, because I don’t get all shaky and fearful at the thought of my credit report getting fucked. I pay for my material shit in cash, so I truly DON’T GIVE EVEN A DOLLAR’S WORTH OF A FUCK that my credit score is low. So enough about me; now on to you.

You don’t need the test if:

  • Your family medical history isn’t shitty.
  • You don’t fall into certain populations.
  • Your medical practitioner says no.

You *DO* need the test if:

  • Your family medical history is shitty.
  • You fall into certain populations.
  • Your medical practitioner says so.

Look. The test is hella expensive.

After I got tested, I received a letter from my insurance company which was the equivalent of huge eyes staring at me in shock. The words were something to the effect of,

“WT-unholy-F do you think you’re doing applying for this hella expensive test? You *DO* realize there are certain criteria which must be met in order for this to be covered, RIGHT? And if we don’t cover it, you will be libel for the krillions of dollars it costs. Hope that works out, ya dumb bitch.”

 Irony:

In the same batch of mail, I received a statement from my insurance company indicating that YES, I did happen to meet their criteria, so YES, they would cover the majority of the cost of the test. Another case of Andi-Roo’s boobs FTW, no?

Here’s my point:

You can’t just be all, “I wanna take that test, but it’s hella expensive, and that shit’s no fair! Wah!” A doctor isn’t going to suggest you get tested unless you have all the right risk factors, and it’s a small, tight club, you guys – and membership is *NOT* something to which you should aspire. Because even after a doctor suggests the test, your insurance company has a similar, if not identical, list of criteria.

You don’t need to worry about the cost, until you need to worry about the cost.

And by then, the least of your concerns will be the cost.

SO FUCKING CHILL OUT, YOU GUYS.

This probably doesn’t even impact you. Moreover, even if Angelina Jolie *DIDN’T* meet the criteria and merely wanted to chop off her boobs for shits and giggles…

So-the-fuck-what? Why you gotta be all hating on her like it’s a personal thing to you? If someone wants to get rid of her breasts, she can if she wants to. It’s none of your goddamn business. You ladies seriously need to get over yourselves.

That was a thing? Wow, you guys. Just *WOW*. I kind of hate you all today.

What’s Up Wenzday 05/15/13 — Boob Job Edition!

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“What’s Up Wenzday” is getting a boob job.

boob jobOr botox. Or a tummy-tuck. Or something. I’m changing my “What’s Up Wenzday” format for a few reasons, the first of which is that I can if I want to. Reason number two is that my hubz kind of hates these posts since they are all over the board and getting it set up takes like 500 hours or something and I’m tired of listening to him complain about it. Reason number three is a bit more profound.

 

I’ve grown out of the old “What’s Up Wenzday” format.

It’s true. I really have. And moreover, I’m bored of it. “What’s Up Wenzday” has become a chore instead of something to which I look forward. Reporting in on my challenges and trying to keep you updated on shit about which you probably couldn’t care less — that’s just silly. And I don’t need a Happiness Project to keep me in line, because I have tools and support in place to keep me above water. I don’t need to keep talking about how much I have or haven’t added to my WIP.

 

Just, BLAH, you know?

I don’t have to discuss in depth all of my stupid self-improvement goals. The truth is, I’m going to fail at a lot of stuff. I can tell you about it as it happens, if I feel like it, instead of harping on about it every fucking week.

 

“What’s Up Wenzday” was becoming kind of downer, you guys.

 

But… What’s Up Wenzday?

Oh, things are still up. For example, lemme tell you about Tuesday Family Fun Night. See, Tuesdays are a mixed bag for us.

 

On the _BRIGHT_ side…

Tuesday is when my daughter comes back from her dad’s house, which is great because we miss her when she’s gone.

 

On the _DARK_ side…

My daughter does not make the transfer from one household to the other very smoothly. I think it’s hard for her to handle having two entirely separate families. I know I’d have a rough time of it, so I’m not knocking her in any way. But the fact of the matter is, on Tuesdays she is kind of whiny and shitty.

 

Where “kind of” = <[{very much} plus {a lot}] times {infinity}> {squared}.

 

So then, Family Fun Night!

In an effort to keep things light and help her look forward to returning home to us, we have started doing things outside the house, so her first night home keeps her busy and she drops right into bed when we get back to the house. We go bowling, see a movie, visit the park… that sort of thing.

 

Last night we did putt-putt-golf.

If you know me at all, you know this is a major big deal because I don’t engage in that sort of self-mockery. Why would I *ON PURPOSE* place myself in a position to look physically awkward and incapable? Well, I’ll tell you why.

 

I’d do it to make my daughter smile.

We were all laughing by the end of the course because none of us could hit that damn ball. And it was so windy that even if one of us DID manage to hit it the right direction, the stupid thing kept rolling around the green so that several times we’d have to put a foot on it to make it sit still. Whatevs. Golf is dumb.

putt putt golfadventure golf

 

 

 

andi roo and hubzminiature golf

The best part of the evening was the tree house.

THE TREE HOUSE OF TERROR, THAT IS! After failing at golf, we went to Cox Arboretum so we could make fun of ducks (stupid birds amuse me because birds are assholes) and listen to frogs and maybe see butterflies. When we arrived, however, the butterfly house was closed. Still, a new feature caught our eye in the distance: a super gigantic observation tower which rose above the trees and well past the sky and I think it touched space. That’s how it felt when we climbed the stairs, anyway. Rickety as fuck, but somehow it held our weight — I could feel it shaking, though, and upon reaching the top, immediately turned around to head back toward Ground Level: Planet Earth.

 

Cuz fuck heights, that’s why.

Not to be gruesome, but a guy DIED on that tree tower. Granted, he committed suicide by purposely plummeting to his death, so it was his own damn fault, but still. That shit was tall, that shit was shaking, and that shit was, therefore, scary as hellz. I was happy to have my feets back where they belong.

cox arboretum tree tower

 

Our Family Fun Night included ice cream.

Unimportant to the story, but I’m all about the details. Particularly when they involve treats. In case you need to know for that report you’re writing about me, I had an Oreo Blizzard in a chocolate-dipped waffle-cone. And that shit was TIGHT, yo. Totally delish. The girl had a boring Root Beer Float and my hubz had a big cup of nothing because sometimes he’s boring like that.

 

I’d call our Family Fun Night a big success.

twizzlers on amazonWe all came home exhausted and fell right into bed. We’re considering laser tag next week. Or else Iron Man 3. I’m really pushing for the movie, but it’s not up to me.

 

Maybe I can bribe my daughter with Twizzlers?

 

And that’s What’s Up Wenzday.

Hope your Hump-Day is full of hump-ish good times.

I’d love to hear what’s up with *YOUR* Wenzday! :)

I Gave Birth to Aliens.

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give birth to aliensNo, not really, obvs.

But I could have. You don’t know. It’s totally possible that I gave birth to aliens. I mean, it’s not entirely unbelievable. It might have happened.

 

Here’s what how it went down.

Last week I developed this painful pimple-thing on the back of my neck. I know, I know, TMI. But you guys, this is the story, so hang with me before you get all puke-ish, okay? Anyway, this was like a MOUNTAIN ZIT, if you know what I mean. If you don’t have a clue as to what I’m referring, then fuck off, because that means your skin is great and therefore I cannot possibly be friends with you as I’d be walking around in a cloud of skin-envy. You don’t want me to envy you, right? So if you haven’t ever had a mountain zit, I suggest you either go get one immediately, or STFU about it.

 

So, I Gave Birth to Aliens.

zitBecause when you have a mountain zit, that’s what it feels like. I assumed I had been probed by a Martian from Mars, or a Jedi from another galaxy far, far away, or an alien from the movie Aliens (plural because the second film was better than the first one). I just kept rubbing at it, and feeling it, and yelling at it, and it kept growing. And since it was on the back of my neck, I couldn’t even see it without doing that double-mirror trick where you look at the item in the reflection of one mirror which is showing you the reflection of the actual item you wish to see. The item in question was a gigantic red boulder the size of my fist. Or maybe thereabouts. It’s hard to judge when you’re in a panic.

 

I Gave Birth to Aliens, but not right away.

Because that bitch drilled down into my spine and seized my muscles so that I became a puppet. It forced me to eat vanilla frosting STRAIGHT OUT OF THE PACKAGE. It made me drink a bottle of wine. It made me get into an argument with my ex. It made me do all sorts of things I would NEVER, EVER do without having been under alien control.

 

{*Batting my eyelashes in sincerity to prove I’m ALL FOR REALZ.*}

 

There I was, invaded by body snatchers.

body snatchersAnd I Gave Birth to Aliens. Well, not yet. I’m almost to that part of the story. Hang with me. As I began to question my “strange” behavior (and as my family began to notice the doorknob sticking out of my neck), it became clear that this was no ordinary blemish. It was definitely not a pimple or a zit. It looked more like an apple tree. But without the branches or leaves or roots. So then probably just the apple part. My kids were like, “OMG, SPIDER BITE!”

 

We went nuts.

We looked all over for the little fucker, but to no avail. It had done its dirty work and fled to an alternate dimension or planet or whatever. I guess it wasn’t interested in the babies it left behind. Just one more reason to hate spiders (as if there weren’t enough reasons already: Read Spiders are Scary. It’s Okay to be Afraid of Them. *UPDATED*). Out of breath from our search, we sat around the living room, collecting our thoughts. With no spider present on which to lay blame, the disappointment was tangible. There was so much unhappiness that it was jostling against my alien-infested body for room. That shit HURT!

 

My hubz, offering condolences and squeezing my hand affectionately since he knew I might be dying soon, said, “You’ve been struck by a smooth criminal.”

 

 

My daughter, a tiny squirt, jumped into my lap, unafraid of potentially bursting my shell of a body out which would likely explode tiny, baby aliens. She patted my shoulder and said, “Maybe it was a MAGIC spider.”

 

My adult son quipped, “I’ll be mighty disappointed if you wake up tomorrow without any super powers, Mom.”

 

spiderman“I don’t WANT super powers,” I said. “I don’t want all that great responsibility that’s supposed to come with it. I want to live a life free of aliens and spiders, a life full of peace and Coca-Cola. I don’t want to argue with my ex or eat vanilla frosting ever again.”

 

My hubz just looked at me for a moment. Then he asked, “What about wine? You didn’t mention the wine.”

 

Oh. Well, that may not have been the aliens making me do that.

We can’t be sure, though. So I told him to STFU and help me figure out a plan. I mean, I had a funeral to get under way, since I was obviously DYING over here. There was lots of arguing then, with terms like “exaggeration” and “drama-queen” and “hypochondriac” being tossed around. I don’t know what all happened next, because I kind of lost track of things and slid into a pain-pill-induced coma.

 

The next morning, I Gave Birth to Aliens.

But first I drove my son to work. I took my daughter with me to the doctor. I thought maybe she could write a report on how tough it was to lose a mother to Martian babies, and she could win scholarships and go to college and be a successful litigator who sues Abercrombie & Fitch right out of existence. I was just explaining these plans to my daughter as we sat waiting for the doctor to come see how far along the pregnancy had advanced, when he waltzed in and announced, “It’s not a tumor.”

 

 

Just kidding.
The doctor didn’t say that. But he totally could have because it fit the story and would have been fucking hilarious. Nope. Instead he said, “It might not be a spider bite. It might just be a boil. Regardless, now it’s abscessed and I’m going to put you on a heavy-duty anti-biotic for seven days.” Then he donned a glove, prodded the pregnant lump, and said, “Make that TEN days.”

 

The mountain is mostly gone.

Just a blackened bit of infection and a ring of scabby material remains to remind me where my alien babies came out. Because I’ll be goddamned if I admit to having grown a motherfucking boil like some freaky witch-lady. You guys totally know what really happened, right?

 

I Gave Birth to Aliens.

WTF is Pinterest Good For?

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PinterestNo, I’m really asking. WTF is Pinterest Good For?

You guys, I really don’t understand why everyone is all excited about Pinterest. Seriously. I want to “get” it, but I just can’t seem to figure out what the big deal is. I avoided it for the longest time, because it was described to me as an online magazine kind of thing. And dude — I don’t read magazines. “Ain’t nobody got time for that!”

 

In the interest of being fair, I thought I’d actually try it out.

You know, BEFORE being a hater. And yeah, okay, I don’t actually HATE Pinterest. But I don’t exactly LOVE it, either. I still just don’t get it. And maybe I never will. Maybe it’s just not my bag, baby. I asked several people what Pinterest’s appeal is, and received many different answers.

 

Q: WTF is Pinterest Good For?

A: “I use it to bookmark pages for future reference.”

 

My sister says she never actually “goes on” Pinterest.

She uses it like she would a magazine, folding down the corners of different pages containing articles or pictures or whatever that she might want to reference again in the future. She also admitted that she seldom looks back at them, though. And I can tell you right now, I would NEVER look back at them, either. Also? I have this thing called “Favorites” at the top of my fucking web browser, and I save shit that I want or need in well-labeled folders so that I can find the pages I visit most often. I don’t need to save them somewhere else, too. So this purpose does me no good.

 

Q: WTF is Pinterest Good For?

A: “I use it for neat ideas for craft projects and recipes.”

 

Oh. Well I don’t do craft projects.

I have nothing against them; they just aren’t for me. I’m a writer, not a hot-glue-gun maven. And if I want or need a recipe I can always Google anything that isn’t covered in my basic cook books. After all… have you SEEN how many nifty ideas are floating around on the interwebz? So many that to save one seems kinda silly to me. Just sayin’. So yeah, this purpose does me no good, either.

 

writing processQ: WTF is Pinterest Good For?

A: “I use it in my writing process.”

 

Okay, I can kind of wrap my brain around this one.

I mean, find images of that scallywag character you’re trying to describe and “pin” it for inspiration. And how about settings? Research? That sort of thing. I actually do “get” this. I even started a private board to this effect. But… I don’t really know how to search efficiently for images, and moreover, I don’t want to waste time looking. So whereas I can respect this particular useage… this purpose does me no good.

 

Q: WTF is Pinterest Good For?

A: “I don’t fucking know.”

 

That last one is me.

That’s my answer. Because I still don’t get it. I have a couple public boards up, and mostly they just have quotes or images that I find… well… interesting, funny, true, or whatever. I don’t know. I just like them, I guess.

 

Q: WTF is Pinterest Good For?

A: Writer-ish Things

 

I’m a writer at heart, so this can’t really be shocking.

{Andi Roo’s “Writer-ish Things” Pinterest folder}

 

Q: WTF is Pinterest Good For?

A: Book-ish Things

 

I read books. I’ve been reading since I was four years old. And by reading, I mean all the usual adjectives: devouring, escaping into, immersing myself, collecting, coveting, lending, borrowing, wanting, craving, hating, caressing lovingly, throwing across a room. If you’re a reader, you know exactly what I’m talking about. If you aren’t a reader, well, fuck off.

 

{Andi-Roo’s “Book-ish Things” Pinterest folder}

 

Q: WTF is Pinterest Good For?

A: Happy-ish Things

 

I’m totally a downer, man. Happy is a Choice. I need constant reminders to stop wallowing in the depths of despair. Because life is pretty goddamn gravy, you guys. So I have lots of smiley, positive, flowery, affirmation-type quotes up in here.

 

{Andi-Roo’s “Happy-ish Things Pinterest Folder}

 

van gogh tardis explodingQ: WTF is Pinterest Good For?

A: Doctor-ish Things

 

Cuz OMFG if you aren’t into Doctor Who then I don’t want to know you. I’m pretty sure I’m not even kidding.

 

 

Greg GrunbergQ: WTF is Pinterest Good For?

A: Grunny-ish Things

 

Okay, so there’s this one actor and I started seeing him in like EVERYTHING. The very first place I saw him was on the show Felicity, and I have adored him ever since. I have a huge stupid crush on this guy. He’s such a cutie! I think, somehow, my hubz reminds me of him. The actor of which I speak is Greg Grunberg. Doesn’t he just look like a super-nice guy IRL?

 

{Andi-Roo’s “Grunny-ish Things” Pinterest folder}

 

So there are my boards.

Well, I do have that private one for things relating to the book I’m working on, but you can’t see it. I’m sure it would bore you anyway.

 

What am I missing?

If you have reasons for the existence of Pinterest other than those mentioned, please clue me in. I’d really like to know. I feel a bit out-of-the-loop, as though there was some memo I missed. Maybe it’s the one with that TPS report that never got filed.

A-Z Tidbits Part 2 — #AtoZChallenge

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  1. R, S, U, and Z are for UNDERWRITERS checking credit REPORTS for SECURED Credit Cards which are ZERO Risk!

When our finances got “behind”, we considered selling our children on the black market, but realized this would be an impossible crime to hide from authorities; also, we very much enjoy our children’s company, so we really didn’t consider selling our children in any way whatsoever.

 

Seriously. We didn’t. I’m being For Realz.

 

Some fairytales have big ovens for cooking children; others have wicked ogres.

litter boxThis one has an economic depression which no one will just freaking admit to. Upon coming to terms with the sad and unfortunate knowledge that our finances were fucked, we sat down with our bills spread before us. We then tossed them into the air and laughed while the cat chased the balls of paper around the floor. For we knew the papers were bullshit, and only decent for litter box fodder.

 

Alas, the papers kept coming.

Mostly they were medical bills, which everyone knows is a load of crap since, really, who can afford to pay the amount that isn’t covered by the mystical, magical insurance companies?

 

Sitting down at the loan officer’s desk, we explained their plight. Deanna, the money lender in question, pulled up our checking account on her mystical, magical computer screen, and saw that we had money inside of it. So you would think that getting a SECURED credit card would be no issue. None at all. Right?

 

Wrong.

 

credit historyBitch checked our credit history.

Which I don’t even understand, because, HELLO — what part of SECURED are you not understanding? As in, “Here is $500 for you to place on hold just in case I fuck this credit card thing up. Therefore, you will be taking ZERO risk on me. Please, won’t you take my money?”

 

What is so hard about that?

Deanna of the lengthy black fingernails explained that our rotten credit history, of which we are well aware, would have to be explained to the underwriters in order for them to “approve” the SECURED credit card.

 

I said, somewhat incredulous, “I didn’t even know that getting denied for a secured credit card was a possibility.”

 

Deanna, that icon of reassurance, responded, “They haven’t denied it YET.”

 

“Bitch, how the hellz are you going to DENY taking $500 from me?” I didn’t yell, for which my hubz was quite grateful. I merely pursed my lips and said, “mmm.” I thought that was very mature and responsible-like.

 

 

  1. T, V, W, and X are for the VERY frustrating Big THREE WEBSITE which turned me into a XANTHIPPE

credit repairOur pathetic, put-upon heroes left the credit union empty-handed.

Assured they would receive a phone call that night, they ran straight home to pull up their lousy credit reports. Which wasn’t easy, I assure you. Research had to be done. And ink for the printer had to be purchased. And addresses and mortgage amounts from decades past had to be recalled. Also? Those stupid code-things (the ones where you type in whatever jumble of letters and/or numbers you see in the box to assure someone on the other end that you aren’t a spam-bot) had to be dealt with, cursed at, spat upon, and “NO MATCH. TRY AGAIN.”

 

I knew there were three BIG credit agencies.

And I sorta-kinda knew they were sorta-kinda together-ish now. In a “not really” fashion. God bless them old Googles, because I couldn’t find anything by myself anymore. Here’s what I learned.

 

From the FDIC, which is like some world of finance insurance-y organization or something:

 

“The amended Fair Credit Reporting Act permits consumers to request a free copy of their credit report once every 12 months from each of the three major credit reporting agencies (i.e., Equifax, Experian, Trans Union). You can order a free credit report on the Internet here: www.annualcreditreport.com. Do not contact the three nationwide consumer reporting companies individually.”

 

So we went to that website.

Seriously, if you have moved around a lot in your lifetime and kept lousy records of previous addresses, there is a distinct possibility that you are maybe fucked. Thank goodness I have lived in Ohio for well over ten years now; otherwise, I wouldn’t have a freaking clue. I don’t retain numbers, especially bullshit ones.

 

Obtain all three credit reports — CHECK.

 

Check for errors — CHECK. Oh, shit. There is crap on mine that is totally bogus. Not identity fraud or anything dire along those lines, just a couple accounts I paid off about 500 years ago which should no longer be appearing as open and naughty. Fuck me.

 

Dispute nonsense — CHECK. You bet your sweet ass I disputed that shit.

 

  1. Y is for YOU don’t need credit until you need credit.

Now what?

check register calendarI have my credit report. I have my credit score — mine is an abysmal 465, while my hubz is in First Place with a really sad 517. But WTF am I supposed to do with this shit now? How can I increase my credit score if I can’t get any credit? Deanna says we have to pay some shit off. That’s nice, Deanna, but the problem is this:

 

(a) We don’t have any more money beyond that which we offered you.

(b) I’m not paying a dime for shit that I know I don’t owe.

 

And that pretty much sums up my report.

My hubz has some crap on his that we should definitely consider getting taken care of. I’m talking about shit from way back in his bachelor days. Dude never kept a checkbook register before we got together. I don’t know how he managed to take care of himself prior to marriage. But I like his eyes and he has a seriously infectious laugh, so there’s that.

 

Why do we even WANT good credit?

That question came to mind as I sat fuming over this fractured fairytale. I mean, we aren’t buying another house. And now we aren’t even moving into an apartment. We only purchase a vehicle if we can pay cash-in-full, because fuck car loans, if you know what I’m sayin’. And by “vehicle” I mean a junker that doesn’t cost more than $2000. So seriously. What do we need credit for, anyway?

 

My hubz pointed out that bad credit will impede his job hunt, should he finally decide to kiss his employer goodbye, “kiss” being code for “give them the middle finger”.

 

credit card swipeSo now we are on a mission to improve our credit scores. I’ll keep you posted on how THAT goes {*rolls eyes for maximum effect*}.

 

UPDATE: We went through a different bank and were able to obtain SECURED credit cards without a credit check, DNA draw, thumbprint, or pee test. It was awesome! And now we’re on our way to cleaning up our credit even more quickly. Because it’s the American Way, and that’s just what you do. Or something.

A-Z Tidbits Part 1— #AtoZChallenge

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  1. I is for I fell behind!

… and that’s okay. Falling behind, falling down, falling to the wayside, falling off the wagon, falling angels, falling all over myself, falling, falling, lala-lala-la…

 

 

That shit happens, you know? It just does. And I won’t kid myself that this was THE LAST TIME. Nope. I will totally fall again. I won’t say that I suck, but it may or may not be true that I suck. So then, okay, yeah, I suck. There, I said it. But I bet you’re more upset about it than I am, which means the joke’s on you, sucka.

 

  1. Q is for QWERTY!

qwertySometimes doing things OUT of order is more efficient than doing them “properly”. Rules, codes, and regulations are mere guidelines, like well-labeled streets. Sometimes it’s quicker to take the back roads, dirt paths, and trails. Where typing is concerned, it’s much more efficient to spread out the keys in QWERTY fashion (check the top row of letters on the left if you aren’t sure what I mean) than in a straight A to Z method.

 

A person who is well-rounded and open to learning will understand the importance in knowing when to go straight and when to turn… when to follow a rule and when to have a blind eye… when to take the highway and when to stick to a more meandering route… when to write things A to Z and when it makes better sense to place letters out of order.

 

  1. H is for Family Hugs!

We do this thing at our house called Family Hug. My daughter started it when she was tiny. She’d hug one of us and then she would beckon the rest of us over to participate. It turned into this “THING” and now we do it all the time. Somebody shouts, “Family Hug!” and we all run to huddle into one giant ball of family togetherness. You guys, it’s really awesome.

 

But every time we get together with her “other” family (her father and step-mother), she tries to force both households to engage in one combined-household Family Hug. My hubz and I always look at each other, shrug, and go in for the hug. Because, as one of my friends so succinctly phrased it,

 

“I’d hug a piece of shit for my kid.”

 

But her father? Not so much. He’s like, “No, thank you.” I’m reminded of that meme in which it states that regardless of your age or how much of a badass you are, when a little kid hands you a toy phone and says it’s for you, YOU ANSWER THAT SHIT. Am I right? It’s not like we’re eager to hug him, you guys. I mean, *ICK*. But it’s a moment of discomfort easily endured to reassure my baby that all is right in her world; that both households are on the same page; that we are all one big family with her best interest at heart.

 

Oh. I forgot. That isn’t necessarily true for all of us. My bad!

 

  1. J is for JUSTICE!

I get angry when it isn’t served. It sends me over the bend. And that’s usually when I pull a big, fat rant out of my ass. Whoever said, “Life isn’t fair!” was obviously just not trying hard enough. It’s perfectly fair if you decide to make it so.

 

  1. K is for KEYSTONE HABIT!

Obviously a follow-up is in order. I had been doing fairly well with my Keystone Habit — walking two miles daily — but had to quit for about two weeks to recover from surgery.

 

One week into my “down” time, I went hiking up and down hills in the forest of a local park, helping pick up trash with the Girl Scouts. It wasn’t too rough, and was actually a lot of fun, but I was under the goofball impression we’d be walking, not climbing and traipsing and whatnot. I did okay, but definitely took it easy thereafter.

 

A week later I participated with my sister in a 5K — our first ever! We took part in the Komen Color Me Pink 5k at King’s Island, and can proudly say we were not last to cross the finish line. We even passed people to get there! Not that it was a “race”, but it was comforting that others were in worse shape than we are. Of course, to skinny people, there are not degrees of fat. But still.

 

So now we’re well into the Merry Month of May, and hopefully I’m on track to pick up where I seem to have left off at some point last year. Remember that time I used to post an article almost daily? Yeah, I don’t hardly recall it myself. My calendar claims it’s true, however, so I want to get back to that place.

 

  1. L is for Laughing!

laughingSometimes, shit be so funny, I pee my pants. For realz. Like that time I went on a ride at King’s Island and it kept knocking me back-n-forth so that I was repeatedly squashing my sister into smithereens. That ride, which should have been a bit scary, or at least breathtaking, had me laughing so hard, I think I did tinkle a bit, but what can you do?

 

Also? I almost threw up, but that’s okay because it was aimed directly at some jerk-faced bitch giving my sister the stink-eye. Later that evening, my hubz asked me the name of the ride. For fuck’s sake, I don’t know the name of the stupid ride. It’s not really important to the story, mmm-kay?

 

  1. M is for Mediocre!

So there is all this hype that you have to BE THE BEST — BE ALL THAT YOU CAN BE — BE THE BEST YOU — and etc. Which is really great as a pep-rally sort of chant, but quite impractical when considering the sheer numbers against which one is competing to acquire the unequivocal title of THE BEST. Realizing this fact can lead one (me, for example) to disappointment, disenchantment, and depression. But we’ve already covered the letter “D” so let’s just move on, shall we?

 

I think a better lesson would be to sit people down, preferably while they are still young enough to retain information at exponential rates, and explain to them that they are, in fact, going to FAIL spectacularly, and that this is okay.

 

I really liked this article, “The Outrageous Lie About Ordinary”, and it changed my way of thinking. The author, Jeff Nickles, points out that the word “Ordinary” carries with it some negative connotations such as BORINGNESS. This is absolutely true. Instead, consider this argument:

 

“The word ordinary is derived from the word order which means ‘a harmonious arrangement’.  On the other hand, extraordinary means ‘out of order’ which we commonly think of as signifying broken today.”

 

Meaning, we should all strive to be ordinary — normal — commonplace — acceptable. Because, “When your life is ordinary it is well-arranged.  You are following best practices.” I hope to fully embrace the idea of being NORMAL, and furthermore to apply it to my parenting. My kids are special to me — this is certainly true — but to the world in general they are simply one of krillions. That needs to be understood, and that needs to be okay. If more people today felt less entitled and acted less special, we’d all get along much better, I assure you!

 

  1. N is for Nothing!

Sometimes, Nothing is better than Something. This is a secret fact we don’t talk about often, but that makes it no less true. Take relationships, for example.

 

I lost my head over a guy at one point in my early twenties and put up with all manner of inappropriate behavior from him. His behavior was appalling, but I wanted him to love me so badly that I would scramble for any crumb of affection he tossed my way. He cheated on me, likely more than once, and lied, and did bad things. He was truly a scruffy ruffian.

 

It wasn’t until a girl I lived with sliced up her wrists over a guy she loved that I realized I was heading down the same path if I didn’t gain some sense of self-respect. In this case, Nothing was INFINITELY better than Something. So I left. This lesson has stayed with me all my years and has helped me through more recent rough patches when society tried to tell me that I should settle for “good enough”. I am married to my hubz now because I didn’t listen to that nonsense, and I’m happier for it.

 

  1. O is for Organizing!

OMG, you guys, seriously. I want to get a grip on this house. It’s getting better, slowly but surely, yet still I know I could have it in so much better shape. So I’m trying something radical. It’s a weekly, year-long challenge called “52 Weeks of Organizing” put together by Laura the OrgJunkie. There’s a checklist and everything. I’ll be talking about this more in a future post. But let it be known here and now that I’m really super-dee-duper excited to get started!

 

  1. P is for Prayer!

prayerMy new favorite comedy Twitter account is Unvirtuous Abbey, whose Twitter bio reads as such:

 

“Holier than thou, but not by much. Digital monks praying for first world problems. From our keyboard to God’s ears. This is a parody account for religious humor”

 

This sounds as though the posts will be heinous and shitty, but actually they are mostly decent, and representative of how I would pray, were I ever to think about doing so… which I do not. Here are some great examples:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

{And a particularly obnoxious shout out to Ghostbusters fans on this next one!}

 

 

 

And that’s it for now!

Tune in later tonight for the letters I’ve missed. They are bound to be special. Or mediocre. You know. Whatevs. I’m just trying to get some words written over here. Sitting down in the chair. Typing the letters. Making the sentences. Doing the work.

 

*and there was much throwing of glitter!*

God Squad – #AtoZChallenge

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I considered quitting this whole blogging A-to-Z shindig.

a to z blogging challengeI’m so far behind on the A to Z Blogging Challenge, I’ve probably been removed from the list at this point. And maybe that’s a good thing, because some shitty shit has occurred with which I am quite displeased. One of my bloggy friends, Marjorie, has received multiple visitations from the God Squad. They asked her to clean up her language, or to at least post a disclaimer. She chose to go the disclaimer route {“Filthy, dirty language and occasional adult themes. NOT FOR KIDS, is what I’m sayin’.”}, as that’s a lot easier than performing a complete overhaul on one’s writing style. That was quite a compromise, and one I’m not even sure I’d have made — but huge kudos to her for playing nice.

 

But still, the God Squad cometh.

hand to mouth thingMarjorie, breaker of invisible rules and regulations, has been told her blog is foul (or “fowl”, depending upon who’s visiting), devoid of valuable content, lacking in positivity, replete with naughty language nigh on porn, and does not, in fact, bring all the boys to the yard. Also? Her posts may, or may not, be “too long”.

 

THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID.

 

O_o

 

Come on, now.

You can’t expect me to pass up a perfect opportunity for a Michael Scott response. Especially when the God Squad might be stopping in for a visit.

 

Moving on… Let’s pull out our trusty dictionaries.

Because if my friend is going to be accused of some shitty shit, I want to know exactly which shitty shit I need to be worried about. After all, if Marjorie is going down, then none of us is safe. The God Squad has made of her a martyr, representing potty-mouthed individuals near and far across this great planet.

 

Inappropriate: improper, unsuitable, inapt, unfitting.

Also: The word people use when you’ve done something that isn’t technically “bad” or “wrong” but they still don’t like it anyway and expect you to conform to their personal tastes; the current euphemism for “wrong” or “bad.” It is supposed to sound more objective than “wrong” and “bad,” but it is not.

 

To say Marjorie’s blog is improper is stupid, because I find it extremely proper for my reading delights. Moreover, it is quite suitable for the crowd at which it is aimed. ‘Tis verily apt, as well as fitting. Anyone who likes things that are funny and who are not straight-up dull-assed prudes will enjoy Marjorie’s blog. The God Squad may be surprised to find that there are a lot of us out there. I know it must be shocking to find that boring-ness is become more and more passé.

 

And the crowds sayeth unto thee, oh God Squad, “We no likies your Puritanical bossy bullshit. Please pass the beer.”

 

Other readers may find Marjorie’s writing, and indeed, all of her many and varied followers, improper for their delicate sensitivities, but given that the blogging world is as yet unregulated this is merely a matter of taste. So one may not accuse Marjorie’s blog of being unsuitable, inapt, or unfitting without attaching “IMO” {In My Opinion} to the end of the motherfucking accusation.

 

Also? Marjorie’s fantastic blog was categorized in comments as being less than educational or enlightening. The individual in question has obviously never read a post in her “Fun Friday Facts” series, an ongoing column which is chock-full of trivia and interesting facts. Lest you think I’m lying, here is the most recent edition. Lest you think she just made that shit up on the spot, here is the first post from almost two years ago.

 

I don’t know about you, but I find this series extremely inspirational. I mean, IT JUST KEEPS GOING. There are always more reedonkulous facts to share, and stupid acts to uncover, and rude nonsense to reveal. And Marjorie does the hard work of finding it for us, adding images, and collating it into a readable and enjoyable format. She is performing a public service, yo!

 

So here’s what’s happening *IN MY OPINION*.

god squad{See what I did there? I qualified that shit!} The God Squad is bossy and wants to kill all forms of entertainment if it doesn’t push forward certain values. Values which are supposed to be Christ-like but which in fact would make Baby Jesus spin in his grave were he still all buried in that cave and whatnot. Values which force gays back into the closet, put women back in the kitchen, and ask minorities to continue mowing our lawns quietly unless they want to get shipped back to whatever country they came from.

 

Because ALL non-whites are nothing but worthless immigrants who only want to game our awesome welfare system. EVERYONE knows that.

 

{Except that (a) The majority of my exes are non-whites and as a result my kids are of mixed ancestry, and (b) gaming the welfare system is more effort than it’s worth since you have to have 5-krillion babies and fill out tons of paperwork and waste entire paid work days sitting in offices where civil servants judge you the entire time, and (c) assholes come in all shades of the rainbow and reside at all economic levels. But whatever.}

 

What I am hearing the God Squad say:

“We want you to be tolerant of our intolerance.”

 

Not to be rude, crass, and lacking in morals, but… How about if you kiss my motherfucking grits? And also? Fuck you. But just a little bit. Because I do have a heart.

 

I forgot to address the other concerns, like the bit where her posts are too long. But since I’ve just about hit 1000 words anyway, it’s kind of a moot point. Either you’ve long since gotten offended and run off to report me, or you’ve long since gotten bored and realized my ramblings aren’t your style and thus clicked off to some other more interesting blog. Or — and this would make you pretty god-damned cool in my book — you read all the way through and obviously don’t give a shit about length so long as you’re enjoying yourself. In which case… Hi, friend!

Fracking Friday – #AtoZChallenge

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Fracking ArtThat’s right, kids. Fracking Friday, much like a menstrual cycle, arrives monthly!

Fracking Friday rants appear the first Friday of each month (or thereabouts) and I discuss what kind of fruitcake nonsense is happening in the world of Fracking. This month I’m leaning heavily on the “thereabouts” timing, since I’m pretty doggone late getting this out (like, a week). Since I’m participating in the #AtoZChallenge, this is my letter “F” contribution.

 

Fracking Friday — Let’s talk about earthquakes.

earthquake info posterEverybody still seems absolutely shocked when an earthquake is found to be caused by some fracking activity or another. Every couple months another article comes out declaring that “abc” earthquake has now been linked to “xyz” fracking event. And it drives me fucking insane. Because — PEOPLE — fracking causes earthquakes. It just DOES. Can we please stop acting surprised every time the two events are found to be connected? It is simple cause-and-effect, you guys. Fifth grade logic.

 

My consternation on this particular Fracking Friday is brought on by last month’s article by Todd Woody entitled “Forget climate change, now we have to worry about fracking-related earthquakes”. First, it discusses an earthquake which occurred in Oklahoma, a relatively quake-free zone, and ties it to wastewater injection into an oil field like twenty years ago. But, as I just said… THIS ISN’T NEWS! This whole following paragraph acts as though we don’t already know that fucking fracking causes fucking earthquakes:

 

“The scientists noted that earthquakes with a magnitude of 5.0 or greater are rare in the US east of the Rocky Mountains. But between 2008 and 2011 there was an 11-fold jump in such temblors compared to the preceding 11 years, with 66% of the quakes hitting in 2011 alone. A 2012 US Geological Survey (USGS) study found that in Oklahoma, there have been 25 earthquakes a year of magnitude 3.0 and above since 2009, as against an average of 1.2 a year in the previous half century.”

 

Second, the article makes mention of a correction in which fracking is distinguished as separate from wastewater injection. Okay, look now. We freaking know that there are different activities associated with fracking and all its various parts. But separating out the different steps is tantamount to saying that the act of baking a cake only includes the part where you stick it into the oven, with all the stirring of the eggs and powder and whatnot being distinguished as an entirely separate activity that occurs BEFORE the baking, and the frosting of the cooled down cake as an entirely separate activity that occurs AFTER the baking.

 

We’re not stupid, okay? Baking is all the mixing and the sticking it in the oven and the frosting. It’s the whole process. Much like fucking fracking has shit that comes prior {bringing in tons of water on a krillion different 18-wheelers}, shit that comes in the middle {spraying large amounts of water into the earth with enough force to piss off the tectonic plates}, and shit that comes afterward {dumping the waste water into the neighbor’s yard so their sink explodes and their cows all get cancer and die}.

 

In spite of claims to the contrary {such as this little gem I almost didn’t write about since it’s such a smug and self-satisfied ditty: “Fracking does cause earthquakes – but you’ll hardly feel them”}, research has shown that there is a direct correlation between smacking someone and their likelihood of being moved by the strength of your blow. So, now that we’ve cleared up this little mystery {“Fracking causes earthquakes? OMG, I had *no* idea! Jeezy!”}, can we please move on to the bit where we do something about it? Like, I don’t know, maybe STOPPING THE FUCKING FRACK ATTACK??? Just a thought.

 

Fracking Friday — A note on climate change.

climate changeEven when researchers try to make light of the quakes caused by fracking, they are forced to admit all the other bad shit that comes with the process. For example, Andrew West, of the organization Frack Off had this to say:

 

“The continuation of this technology is putting us into a bigger hole in terms of climate change” because “the process of fracking and the burning of the fuel itself releases greenhouse gases into the atmosphere.”

 

Gary Cohen, Co-Founder and President of Health Care Without Harm and Practice Greenhealth, authored a piece published on Forbes.com entitled “What does Climate Change Have to Do With Health Care?”, in which he points out the following:

 

“fracking for natural gas contaminates local groundwater and vents toxic chemicals into the community air. Health care has a mission-related imperative to lower its own extensive carbon footprint and lead the effort to a secure and sustainable energy economy.”

 

He goes on to state that our current healthcare system is ill-equipped to handle the climate changes coming our way, as evidenced by the slow and unprepared responses in the aftermath of both Hurricanes Katrina and, five years later, Sandy. As fracking continues to add to the problem, our ability to handle the emergencies fracking causes just isn’t keeping up. I don’t know if I’m more pissed at fucking frackers or our slow-ass advances in medicine.

 

Fracking Friday — It impacts our food supply, too.

According to EcoWatch.com, a new bill in Pennsylvania would put a stop to exposing the dangers of fracking on food supply. The article states the bill will:

“make it a crime to photograph, videotape, or audiotape activities on farms without the permission of the owner. The bill would limit information to the public about food safety, animal cruelty and environmental issues, according to its critics. Some opponents say such bills also limit gathering information and photos of natural gas drilling, much of which occurs on agricultural land.”

Am I the only one who sees a problem with this so-called ag-gag legistration?

 

Fracking Friday — Take action, people!

gasland

 

If you are in doubt about Fracking, or find yourself stymied as to what the word even means, or how it can possibly have anything to do with you, I urge you to watch the film GASLAND by Josh Fox. Then, when naysayers are all argumentative about it and question the documentary’s validity, watch the follow-up, THE SKY IS PINK, in which Josh responds to the critics and answers more questions about fracking and its impact on the planet.

 

 

Fracking is BAD, you guys. We have to stop it. The sooner, the better.

Easter is Christmas #2

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Easter is Christmas #2 because of “Wish Lists”.

easter is christmasWhen I was a kid, the Easter Bunny brought cute little dollar store items like crayons and bubbles and rinky-dink shit like that. And candy, of course. Lots of candy. There were always two bunnies, one chocolate and one stuffed. And that was pretty much *IT*. No complaints here; I was always quite pleased with this post-Christmas, pre-summer loot. It was just the boost I needed to get me through the rest of the school year.

 

How the times have changed!

Those dollar store items are much more obtainable these days, so a cheap-o puzzle or a box of crayons is no longer serious booty for this generation. My daughter has a krillion crayons all over the house. I have extras stored away for next school year, unopened and purchased when they went on sale for 49-cents. I’m a snob – I bought Crayola. Otherwise I could’ve gotten some crappy ones on sale for a quarter.

 

Crayons are school supplies, “givens” to be taken for granted.

Crayons are NOT cool gifts. Crayons are not even UNCOOL gifts. Crayons do not belong in either stockings or baskets, unless you’re a weirdo parent who never buys crayons, in which case I’m sorry for your kid, because SERIOUSLY, YOU GUYS – I’m poor as all hellz and even my baby has crayons galore!

 

But anyway, fuck crayons.

I’m not talking about them anymore. What I want to talk about now is how Easter is Christmas #2 because of “Wish Lists”. The weekend of St. Patrick’s Day, my 8-year-old daughter pulled out a notepad and began her Easter Wish List. I didn’t even know we were allowed to make requests of the Easter Bunny, and I feel kind of cheated. I would like a do-over on my childhood, please.

 

So here’s a glance at a portion of her list:

1. Cadbury Cream Eggs (that’s my girl!)

2. Kittens (plural. because one just isn’t enough…? Never mind the cat we already own.)

3. Computer (WTF?)

4. Skylanders (didn’t get enough for Xmas, eh?)

5. Cell phone (WTF?)

 

There were several other reedonkulous gifts on her list.

life of piBut I can tell you right now that the only things she got that she asked for were the Cadbury Cream Eggs (along with lots of other candies and treats). The Easter Bunny also brought a DVD she wanted very badly, and which I am still surprised over: THE LIFE OF PI. I mean, I loved the book, and really enjoyed the film’s representation of the written tale, but never expected my kid to sit through it completely spell-bound. Of course, we’re talking about dolphin-girl, so I guess I shouldn’t be shocked. She also received a book which my hubz is looking forward to stealing… er… I mean to say, the activities of which my hubz is looking forward to completing with his little girl. And of course she received a stuffed animal. Not the requisite rabbit, but instead a big, fluffy horse. You’d have to know Abbie to understand why that’s the better way to go.

 

FYI, my adult-son received similar items in his Easter basket.

lion king blu rayCandies and treats, a DVD, and a book. He had requested at Xmas time that Santa bring him some classic Disney films, which Santa neglected to bring. Thank goodness Easter is Christmas #2, because my 19-year-old little boy got THE LION KING from the Easter Bunny. He’ll probably kill me for revealing what book he received — one from THE MAGIC TREEHOUSE series — but he has gotten one of these in hardback every year since kindergarten, and always smiles nostalgically when he sees a new cover. He didn’t receive a stuff animal, but he seemed okay with that.

 

Easter is Christmas #2 because we’re a split family (double the gifts).

My parents never divorced, so I only ever got the one set of gifts. Again, I feel a bit cheated, like somehow I would have made out a lot better if they’d split up. Not that I want my parents to divorce or anything, it’s just that… my daughter gets a LOT of stuff. First, she has like 500 sets of grandparents. That’s almost not an exaggeration. Check it out:

 

My mom and dad.

My hubz’ mom and step-dad.

My hubz dad and step-mom.

My ex’s mom and dad.

My ex’s wife’s mom and step-dad.

My ex’s wife’s dad and step-mom.

 

I don’t know if you were counting, but that is definitely closer to 500 than most families, yes? So all those sets grandparents each spoil the shit out of her. And then Abbie’s dad does a full Easter with her. And then I do a full Easter with her. That, my friends, is a fuck-ton of gifts. And totally backs up my suggestions that Easter is Christmas #2, even without any other reasoning. I’m sure you agree.

 

Easter is Christmas #2 because we’re a split family (double holidays).

wooden easter eggsRemember how I said that Abbie’s dad does a full Easter, and then I do a full Easter? I totally meant that. Up until this past Xmas, we “shared” her. Even though our Shared Parenting Plan indicates we’re supposed to trade off holidays, we always just traded off sometime during the afternoon, so that she got to see everyone, and everyone got to see her, too. But at Xmas, it was decided that she should spend the day with her dad, and then at Easter it was the same thing. Both times we were really cool about it, and adjusted our calendars to celebrate the holiday with her the following weekend. We’re flexible, you know? And it’s not the DATE that counts. It’s the family time.

 

I’m not gonna lie.

There’s an added benefit in that everything is on sale the week after the official holiday, which means we can buy a lot more stuff. So I’m not completely unhappy with the new set-up. Mostly it’s great for Abbie, because she gets to wake up at her dad’s house with her baby brother and run out to see what Santa or the Easter Bunny brought, and that’s a really important tradition I want her to be able to enjoy with her younger sibling. But it’s rough on extended family, who isn’t as free with their calendars as we are with ours. And I get that. DATES may not count for us, but maybe for others, dates *DO* count. And that’s okay. We’re not exactly what you’d call a traditional family.

 

Easter is Christmas #2 because of all the religious overtones.

Seriously, I don’t understand why Xmas gets the big hoopla while Easter seems like the wicked step-kid of Christian holidays that barely gets any inheritance. I’m not a Christian, but it’s my understanding that Xmas is when Jesus was born, which is kinda cool for them, I guess, and the Easter season is when he got all crucified and whatnot, killed, sealed up in a cave, and came back to life (but not in the zombie way). So it seems to me that Easter should be the holiday that everyone goes nuts over, but it’s not. I mean, Christmas season starts around Halloween time-frame, amirite? At least in the retail world it does. And Xmas has its own pre-holiday sale (Black Friday), whereas Easter has, like, NOTHING. Well, maybe Mardi Gras counts, but how many of us even know WTF Mardi Gras means beyond beads, beer, and boobies? So yeah, I don’t get it. Christmas should totally be Easter #2, but instead, Easter is Christmas #2. It’s completely ass-backwards.

 

I rest my case.

I’m sure you agree, after careful consideration of my presentation herein, that Easter is Christmas #2. As a non-Christian, I can’t say I’m happy about that. It feels so fake and Corporate America and commercialized and crap-tastic to me. And I feel like a total douche for celebrating religious holidays that commemorate events performed by or unto a mystical-magical guy I don’t believe in. Even though the Christians did steal these holidays from earlier worshipping dumb-dumbs who had their own god-stories, so I don’t really beat myself up about it TOO badly. Still. I wonder how the Bunny will have melded into a form of Santa in the far distant future. It’s bound to happen. And I wonder how those two characters will tie into the Jesus story… if he is even still around in the centuries to come.

Desire versus Satisfaction – #AtoZChallenge

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WTF is Desire versus Satisfaction?

 

Desire: a sense of longing for a person or object; hoping for an outcome.

Satisfaction: contentment; the acknowledgement of reaching capacity.

 

Do you struggle with the conflicting ideals of “Desire versus Satisfaction”?

bowlingI highly recommend engaging in an activity that makes you look really stupid. For me, that activity is bowling. Or throwing darts. Or basically anything I’m not good at. I never did these kinds of things as a child, or even as a young adult, and I know for a fact that it stunted my personal growth. Playing it safe and never trying something outside my comfort zone left me squished in a tiny box of discomfort. And once I hit my thirties, it was self-induced. When you leave your twenties, you can no longer blame your parents for who you are, because you’re not only a grownup at that point — you’re a full-fledged adult with the right to make your own choices, and the experience to (theoretically) do so wisely.

 

Something I really try to achieve in my blogging is personal growth.

But it’s a really confusing topic, because so much of who you are as an individual depends upon being able to weed through conflicting advice. Looking stupid — being comfortable enough in your own skin to risk that — is a sign of maturity. It means you no longer put quite so much weight on the opinions of your peers. But, oddly enough, we must take our peers’ opinions into account because truly, if we are to be a peaceful society, we do answer to the scrutiny of our neighbors. See the conflict? Knowing when to stand and when to bend is a pathless quagmire.

 

Desire versus Satisfaction

what would jesus doI find this so confusing and contradictory. On the one hand, I know I should desire more for myself — to be the best mom I can be for my kids, and the best wife I can be for my hubz, and the best person I can be for this planet. Tall order, but that’s what we’re supposed to shoot for, right? “What would Jesus do?” and “Be the change you want to see”. This side of the coin encourages us to desire to better our SELVES, and thereby, our lives.

 

On the other hand…

I know I should be satisfied with where I am in life, to count my blessings and be grateful for what I have. We are encouraged to adopt a “glass half-full” mentality, and don rose-tinted glasses. Speaking daily affirmations remind us to accept ourselves for who we are, to forgive our sins and move on, to practice the fine art of silence and acquiesce to the trials we face. “It is what it is” — my hubz’ favorite phrase — pushes us plant the seed of satisfaction without our hearts.

 

I do desire more for myself and my family… and, yet, I am likewise satisfied with myself and my family.

 

Anticipation versus Contentment

rv adventuresAnother form of the “Desire versus Satisfaction” dilemma lies in the opposing feelings of looking forward to new ventures while at once being comfortable with where you are in life. My hubz and I look forward to a time when we can travel freely at our whim. Yet this is not to say we lack contentment in our current stations in life. We also want to open a bookshop someday. But even if that never comes to pass, we are content in each other’s company.

 

I anticipate the future even as I am content with my current life.

 

Evolution versus Stagnation

forward motionDoes a lack of forward motion mean the same thing as standing still? If you aren’t growing, are you instead stagnating? If you aren’t learning more, are you becoming more ignorant? I think sometimes the answer is yes. But I also think sometimes the answer is no. In the struggle between “Desire versus Satisfaction”, sometimes it’s healthy to take a step. Other times, it’s smarter to assess the situation. Putting a dream on hold so as to take care of today’s business doesn’t necessarily equate to giving up on the finer things life has to offer. So then, what *IS* the defining line between evolving (growing into your potential) and stagnating (decaying into a mere shell of a human who is not living so much as surviving day-to-day)?

 

I want to grow; I want to learn to be still.

 

Striving for personal growth versus Acceptance

And now we are back to bowling. I completely accept that I will never, ever win any awards for my game. I’m okay with that. Does this mean I lack the will to strive for more? When is enough… enough? And when is standing still… moving backwards? I am happy with who I am, yet I know I have a lot of work to do. I want to be a better person; I like the person I am. I don’t accept my current incarnation as the final image; I accept myself as a decent yet flawed individual. This completely represents the mental battle I’m struggling with — again, “Desire versus Satisfaction”.

 

I am working to become the person I know I am meant to be; I am working on accepting who I currently am.

 

Letting go of the past versus Learning from history

On a similar note, there are times I want nothing more than to completely forget the difficult events of my past. And yet, all of them have, of course, shaped who I am today. Some of my most questionable choices have led to the best of circumstances, and vice versa. How am I supposed to look forward and backward at the same time? We are instructed to enjoy the present and to let go of the past… but we are also meant to learn from our mistakes. And we are meant to accept that our mistakes are a part of us… but we are also pushed to stop beating ourselves up over the wrongs we’ve done unto others. Be good, but don’t be angry if you’ve been bad. Be better, but don’t be disappointed if you’ve fallen off the wagon. Hold yourself accountable, but try again tomorrow.

 

I no longer have nightmares about my past, but I still think about it in order to make better decisions today. I can’t let it go and move on simultaneously. Another instance of “Desire versus Satisfaction” lacking harmony.

 

Planning for the future versus Living in the moment

yolo mugI think the phrase YOLO {You Only Live Once}, which young adults briefly embraced as a reason to pursue a dangerous lifestyle, has grown stale, and short-lived though it was, I can’t say I’m sorry to see it gone. While it is true that there is only one chance to get our lives right, I think it is flat-out silly to purposely engage in questionable behaviors and use this philosophy as an excuse to go wild. Having said that, however, it is never a bad idea to “stop and smell the roses”, or to take a break from life and have a little fun, or to step outside and go for a walk. Living in the moment certainly has its merits — but it does seem to fly in the face of reason when one considers the prudence of planning for the future. STOP — but plan to go. What? See how this all gets confusing for me if I ponder it too long?

 

“Desire versus Satisfaction” — a lesson in embracing opposites

So today we took my daughter bowling. Let me just tell you, I completely suck at this so-called “sport”. I am lucky if I break a hundred (a perfect game is 200, I think). Today, my high score was 83 — and my baby girl’s high score was 80, if that gives you any clue as to how much I really stink. And that was WITH bumpers. And I totally had a blast.

 

Having desire doesn’t have to mean I’m lacking in satisfaction.

I’m satisfied enough with my life that it didn’t bother me to have such an embarrassingly low score. I’m content enough in the company I keep that looking stupid no longer matters. I’ll probably never improve my game, but that’s okay; this isn’t a physical stagnation so much as an emotional evolution, because I’m finally dealing with my limitations. In an odd mix of philosophies, I’ve learned to accept myself, which is in itself an act of personal growth. I can look at my past without drowning in it, allowing me to learn from my experiences without focusing on them overly much. I can live in the moment and simultaneously plan for the future. I’m good the way I am. And I can be better. But knowing I can be better later doesn’t mean I’m bad now.