Stupid Things I Think About

So, up here in Washington State we have the ever-lovely I-405. Which I've happened to noticed, during the exceptional morning and afternoon traffic, has no Exit 8. There's 7 and 9, but no 8 to be found anywhere.

My first thought shouldn't have been, "But what did seven eat?!"

Other things I thought while driving this morning, that perhaps I shouldn't have, was, "Hm. I wonder if I'm too tired to drive?"

Stellar news, everyone: No, I was not too tired to drive. I do, however, look quite tired today and will likely startle a few customers because I don't trust myself not to stab myself in the eye with my eyeliner. Thank you, my delicate little Lyn Hippo, for enjoying only three hours of sleep with me. I hope your morning nap is lovely.


And finally:

Dear Comic Book Geek Boys,

Hi. I'm a girl. As evidenced by my breasts and my lack of an Adam's apple. Yes, I read comic books. Yes, I play Magic. And enjoy other, non-Star Wars, geeky things. No, this is not an invitation to spend an hour discussing your all-red burn deck with me. Nor is it an invitation to ask me if I'll be wearing a costume this Halloween (yes, by the way, I will. I've decided to go as Death-the cliche, not Endless-and will carry an authentic scythe. Enjoy, boys!).

If you would like a girl to like you (or at least not call Security on you), let me help you out with a few friendly pointers.

1) Arguing about who is the coolest Flash is not necessarily flirting-it is definitely not flirting when you start gesturing wildly and screeching, "BARRY! HOW COULD IT BE GODDAMN BART?! WHAT, DO YOU WRITE FANFICTION?!?!". Guess what? That's not sexy.
2) Asking her if she reads 'that Spider-Girl book' because she's a girl isn't showing interest, it's showing you're an ass.
3) Walking into a comic book store and making a derogatory comment with the expectation that it's a male you think you're better than, realizing it's a pretty girl and acting like it was a joke isn't just stupid, it makes me want to kick your teeth in. (Pssst, my proud male geek friends are totally better than you, just so you know)
4) Asking if the guys have me working here because I'm a girl is annoying. And only half-true.
5) If the girl behind the counter is wearing a wedding ring and discussing her two children, she's probably not going to be wooed by your ten minute discussion of different kinds of proton phasers and probably will NOT be running away with you.
6) If you expect to woo a girl, please don't fart in the back of the store. Just a tip. Also? Shower.
7) Trapping her on the phone so you can stroke your ego by discussing what old comic books you own and how much they're worth isn't impressive. What's impressive is bringing one of those old comic books as a tip on Wednesday. By the way, this will not make her run away with you. You would, however, get a discount. This also applies to discussing different Star Trek communicators (discount not applicable).
8) When attempting to engage a female in conversation, don't insult the books she has in her arms. (yes, I have seen this happen. Three times.)
9) Just stop floundering after her and ask for her damned number. Don't try to be funny and ask how much mana you'll need for the date or tell her you'd like to go out on Stardate 14256.5--I mean it.
10) Again: when engaging a female in a comic book store, do NOT insult the books she is carrying. Even if it is Ghost Whisperer.

Good luck and please stop hitting on me.

Thanks,

Friday

Bugs and Birthdays

My Bug is five (amusingly, his birthdate this year was 6/7/08), which is a strange concept. Well, every birthday is strange when you have kids--the kid is reflecting on cake and party stuff and the parents get to reflect on how the hell they got so big in such a small amount of time and whether or not anyone will make it to the next one in one piece.

This birthday marks the last year he's just mine. Come the fall, he'll have school and he'll make Not Playdate Friends and he'll come home wanting a dragon tattoo and Pokemon cards. This is probably the last year for many, many years that I am his best friend. Until he's a teenager and wants money or a ride somewhere, then I'm temporarily In The Club. Unless I say no.

We got up yesterday and he helped me make his birthday breakfast (a stunning assortment of eggs, Super French Toast and strawberries topped with whipped cream), then he helped me set up all of his party decorations (Spider-Man is goddamn everywhere). The decorations were particularly fun because this is the first year we've done an all-out themed birthday party and he's so very, very thrilled about it.

Then he went and grabbed my cell and stuffed it in his pocket.

"What's with the cell phone, Bug?"

"Everyone is going to call me to tell me Happy Birthday."

". . . yes, they will. But so far, it's eight in the morning. I'm not sure if everyone is up yet."

"Mom. It's my birthday. They'll get up early. I am five, you know."

Ten minutes later, the cell phone hasn't rung and I'm beginning to get a taste of what his expression is going to look like when he's a teenager and Not-Really-But-Totally-Waiting-For That Girl to call. I sneak into the bathroom with the other cell phone and call him myself.

". . . Mom?"

"Happy Birthday!"

". . . Mom, did you leave the house?"

"No, I'm in the bathroom."

". . . are you stuck?"

". . . no."

It was a very nice twenty minute conversation regarding his birthday and what a big dork he thought I was, after I convinced him I wasn't trapped somewhere in the house against my will (Note: We have seen Monster House too many times and he was, in fact, far too lazy to get off the couch to look for me himself).

He was laughing when he told me what I dork I was, so I think it was cooler than it was dorky.

Perhaps this is just a taste of Grown-Up Kid Lingo, where subtext is everything. It's okay, I'm Female, I've got insulation against the nasties of subtext.

He was bundles of adorable all day, talking non-stop about his party and stuff he wanted and when were we going to go pick up the cake (my Mom-Fu is weak in baking) and when was everyone going to get here and could he play Katamari and would it be okay if he peed in the backyard?

"Wait--what?"

"The world is my toilet, Mom, I have a penis."

"Who told you that?"

"Unc. He said that it was okay to pee in the wilderness. We did at the beach."

". . . well. Our backyard isn't the wilderness. And our bathroom isn't broken. You're peeing inside."

"Fiiiiiiiine."

Note to self: Discuss the finer points of Educating Children today with my little brother. Also, punch him hard enough to bruise.

I reflect on this: Five years ago I had no idea what the hell I was doing. Thanks to nanny experience, I had the roughs down, but really, I had No Damn Idea What The Hell I Was Doing. Five years later, I sort of know what I'm doing.

Okay, I still have no idea what I'm doing, but at least I made it five years with only five midnight hospital visits, ten coins swallowed, one 911 call, one Emergency Dentist Visit, one strange case of scarlet fever, three Walmart Theft incidents (bubblegum in the pocket) and three occasions involving projectile vomiting.

And he's only caught himself in the zipper once.

I think we're ahead of the game.

True Story

Qtilla said in a comment that I could have my boy give an elaborate cemetery for the cat (it has now been a week) so that he could grieve. Which is an awesome idea and something we're going to do this weekend. But it brought me back to the days of yester-year (two years ago) to a story about the Boy's First Fish.

The story really deserved its own post.



Once upon a time, I bought a goldfish for my son. We were living in a teeny little apartment (see: Hell) and a teeny little pet seemed an appropriate addition. It would be good for him, I decided oh-so-wisely, to have a pet to be attached to, to learn about feeding something every day, help me clean the tank, et cetera. A lesson in responsibility, developing attachments to animals, blah-de-blah. A good first step to someday having a dog!

Initially, all went well. He named the fish Number One, fed him every day and 'helped' me clean the tank. Number One was a little quiet, but the boy chattered at him happily and showed all guests his new pet. The first three months were Fish Owning Dream (except that time the boy dumped the entire food jar into the tank, but we solved the problem).

Everything was fine and beautiful bubbles until Number One died.

After about ten minutes of early-morning "Oh SHIT", I decided that this was just another good life step. My parenting path in life is honesty and no-nonsense. I don't want to tell my kid his goldfish is 'on vacation' if the goldfish hasn't actually gone on a vacation anywhere. Death is a natural part of life and should be confronted on age-appropriate levels. As should all things. So, confrontation time! How to explain death to a three year-old when that death is something personal instead of something abstract happening on a television?

After some phone deliberation with my partner in crime, I break it down to the kiddo and he asks the normal questions and we have a pretty decent conversation about this. He's broken the news to all our neighbors and aunties that his fish is dead (repeatedly) and we bury Number One. He has me sing Rock A Bye Baby in honor. No bagpipes or Amazing Grace, though.

All is well! He isn't traumatized by the idea of death and I have climbed yet another Parent Hill. Woot! I sneak out later and dig out the buried Number One and flush him, because I had a paranoid flash of a cat digging him out and parading his edible body on our back porch in front of the boy.

Everything is good until my conversation-forgetting husband brings home a Replacement Goldfish. That looks exactly like the old goldfish.

I must note here that we are a Zombie Friendly household, and as such the boy has long since been educated on them. You may sense where this story is heading, and if so, go ahead and start laughing now.

So yes, the next morning, the kiddo wakes up and runs over to the fish bowl so he can update all of us on the status of his dead pet. But wait! Number One is in there, looking healthy and fishy! Amazing!

Before I can explain to him that Dad got him a new fish, he informs me that Number One is a zombie. I attempt to explain that no, Number One is not a zombie when he runs outside, digs into the Graveyard for Fishes and comes up with . . . nothing.

Of course.

By now he is utterly convinced Number One is a zombie and nothing is going to change his mind about it. So I did what any reasonable, Zombie-Loving parent would do.

I went with it.

Zombie Number One lived a nice few months after that, by the way, and kiddo started calling the fishy food 'brains'.

It's Road Reasonableness, Not Rage

Dear Toyota Sequoia Owner heading west on 167 via the carpool lane,

Hi, I'm that bitch in the white Honda that was riding your ass today! Since you apparently don't know the International Driving Hand Signals for "Speed the fuck up or get out of the way, you stupid cow", I thought I'd attempt to educate you via the interwebs! Fate is a tricky bitch like that and you might just run into this!

I hope you really enjoyed your 55 mph drive in the carpool lane during rush hour. I could see your children were enjoying a terrific episode of SpongeBob SquarePants and it was also clear you were enjoying your cell phone call! Me and the seventeen cars stacked up behind you, however, weren't having very much fun at all! You see, we sludge through traffic all evening in an eager attempt to get home on time so we can get things done/relax/spend time with family/clean/sleep/drink ourselves into stupors/etc. So when we finally get to highways that have HOV lanes, we all get very, very excited! HOV! Freedom! Liberty! The ability to MOCK OTHER VEHICLES AS WE PASS THEM GOING 65+!!!!

You stole that from me and at least seventeen other poor souls this evening, Dear Obnoxious Soccer Mom. You are one of those people that add to the soul-crushing power of a day and I hope your pretty hubcaps fall off.

So please get off your goddamned cell and get OUT of the fucking carpool lane unless you're willing to go over 65 mph. Also please note: when someone flashes their lights, lays on their horn, flips you off, waves frantically or is looking VERY VERY ANGRY, you should also probably get the fuck out of the lane.


No Love,

That Bitch In The Honda


P.S. Tell your friends!!