Eye Wan MONEY
I try to clean my kitchen every morning before the kids wake up. It's a futile act, since after they wake up, they live to destroy it, but I just can't find the time during the rest of the day, so this has become my routine. While I'm cleaning I like to play music as loud as I can without waking the kids up, but it almost always does. Then I'm forced to put on a Barney, The Wiggles, or the Nick Jr. soundtrack. You have yet to experience shell shock until you go from hearing the Sex Pistols to that Song that Never Motherfucking Ends. Because it's not lying - it really never motherfucking ends!
This morning Lil Miss came down the stairs and into the kitchen rubbing her groggy eyes with her belly sticking out and her hair dangling in her face. Without a prompt from her, I automatically switched CD's and popped some Eggos in the toaster. Suddenly, started whining and pitching a fit, bitching about something that I couldn't understand because you can never make out what the fuck she is whining about when she is whining. And not for a lack of trying, either. The child has her own made up language consisting of drowning cat noises and high-frequency car alarm sounds.
"Weeeehhhhhh Ehhhhhhh Meehhhhhhh EEEEEEEEE MONEY!"
"What was that?" I asked.
"Eyyyyyyyyyye Wannnnnnnnn MONEY!", she stomped.
"You want money? Wow! What a coincidence!", I said. "I want some money, too!"
"Noooooooooooooooo!", she cried.
"Dude, I can't understand you. You're gonna have to switch to English."
"I said, I want to whisten to the Money Man", she huffed.
"The Money Man?" I asked.
Who the hell is the money man? Then it hit me.
"You mean Johnny Cash?"
"Yesssssssssssssssss," she hissed, implying what a moron I am for not picking up on that 3 minutes ago.
I've never been prouder of that child than I was in that moment. Now would be a good time for her to ask for a kitten or a pony or a unicorn or something.
Rockstar Mommy wrote this in Folsom Prison
Before I had kids, I would go to concerts and shows pretty much every night of the week. Good ones, bad ones, it didn't really matter. It was just something to do rather than sitting around my friends' apartments asking each other, "What do you want to do?", "I dunno. What do you want to do?". It got to the point where it was damned near impossible to name a band that was around at the time that I hadn't seen, probably multiple times. I'm glad I did, though, because even the shittiest of shows gave me some memories to hang on to to keep me entertained while I'm doing the 3AM hallway bounce with a baby crying in my ear.
Then there was the time I went to a Beck show and decided I would give the mosh pit a visit since I didn't picture Beck fans getting all that rough in their white pleather shoes and brown polyester suits. I mean, honestly, who would expect anyone who looked like Mr. Furly from Three's Company to know how to throw a punch? But, the second that Beck came out and started singing a song called "Satan Gave Me A Taco", the crow turned into Slayer fans from hell and started throwing me all over the place. For the next week, I lied to anyone who asked why I was all bruised up that I had fallen down the stairs because I would have rather been known for being a clumsy fool than for getting beat up by a bunch of Beck fans.
When I found out that it was 80's week here at Faster Than The World, I didn't know how much I could bring to the table since I was a little too young to really appreciate the 80's, being born in '81. Please know that I use the word "appreciate" extremely loosely. How anyone could appreciate shoulder pads that made women look like linebackers, tightly teased perms that made women look like Tony Harding stuck her finger in an electrical outlet, stonewashed jeans, and DIY cut-up sweatshirts decorated with fluorescent puffy paint is beyond me. And don't even get me started on crimpers; especially the ones that came in cutesy little shapes like hearts and stars. No, really. It's all just too much Awesomeness for my brain to process all at once. Not that I wasn't a fashion victim of the 80's as well. I can fully admit that in 1989 I could be found sporting a side ponytail and rubber bracelets up to my elbows with legwarmers over top of my neon pink jelly shoes. But, I was 8. Some of you were 20. Let's have a little perspective here.
But, when I thought about it, I realized that I really love the 80's. The 80's which I was apart of. All that New Wave, the explosion of MTV and music videos, Ferris Bueller taking a day off... So much of the 80's made me who I am today. Punky Brewster can be held responsible for my strong love for all things Converse All Stars and stripey socks. The movie Labyrinth is a direct connection to my somewhat obsessive crush on David Bowie. The Karate Kid taught me that only the nerds who got beat up in school would dare to show up to a costume party dressed as a shower stall. Who's That Girl made me realize that you need ZERO talent to make it in Hollywood. The Goonies taught me to "never say 'die'!" (also to say "fifty dorra' bill!"). Parachute pants made me realize that most people in the world don't realize they're just apart of a big joke, including myself sometimes. Dirty Dancing is the reason that to this day I still want to change my name to Baby so that some hot dude (preferably not Patrick Swayze, though, especially with that scary mullet) can swoop in and pull me out of the corner to twirl me on stage and lift me in the air while I cross my legs and pray to God my last waxing held up. I can still solve my Rubik's Cube in under 3 minutes. And Heathers made it okay for me to tell people to "fuck me gently with a chainsaw."
Me: You're actually going to wear the cowboy hat?
I Want A Famous Face
Anyway, after graduation, we both parted ways and went off to college. We continued to stay in touch on holidays and summer vacation, but it wasn't like it had been in high school (but I guess it never is). We had big plans of terrorizing the world together again when she graduated and came back home. But, of course, life got in the way and Lisa decided to follow a big paycheck to Los Angeles. We stayed in touch after that, but nowhere near as much as either one of us promised we would.
I jumped up and as I ran to the edge, I could feel my heart pounding through my chest. What the hell was I going to do? The thing that I loved most in this world, that helped me get out of bed in the morning, that gave me a sense of comfort and calm in such a crazy world -MY CAMERA!- could be gone in one big SPLAT!
Don't even get me started on you, you assholes. Thank you for reminding me what a three ring circus my life is, that I haven't waxed my eyebrows in over 3 months, that my legs are so pale you can almost see through my skin to the bone, and that I perpetually have snot or Kraft macaroni and cheese smears on me somewhere. Thank you for reminding me that my husband and I will not get to take a vacation alone together on an island for the next 17 or so years, that the only places we will get to go will have to include the words Land, Mountain, Park, or Water in the title. Thank you!
The music was still blaring, and he wouldn't even look over at me. I said something like "Ummmm, I'm really sorry about your window..." and he still wouldn't say anything. Finally, I asked him if he could pull over so that I could pull out the shards of glass that were digging into my thighs and ass. He said, and I quote, "FUCK YOU! You broke it! You're sitting in that shit until I park the car!"
That's right, I said Winter Wonderland. I understand that it is a huge holiday classic but honestly, I don't know what's wrong with you people. Not only is the song irritating as all hell, but the lyrics make no damn sense. Let's break it down, shall we?
If I wanted a clown, I would just build a fucking clown in the first place! What a stupid waste of perfectly good time and snow.
RULE 1: All CD's shall remain alphabetized at all times for instant access capabilities. Also, keeping them in alphabetical order takes away from the priorities of favorites so that no one will ever think that you believe ABBA is more important to you than the Clash.
As we wandered around the outer isles looking for new releases, my daughter's attention was immediately drawn to The Punisher DVD. At first I wondered what little girl in her right mind would be attracted to such a thing, but then I realized that it was the skull on the cover, not the tall, scary man holding the AK47 - at least I was hoping. She picked it off the shelf and ran over to me in a fit of glee, shouting "Look Mama! Just like daddy! It
As I was paying for the rental, my daughter noticed that, lucky us, The Punisher was for sale and on display. Of course, the display was gigantic and now the man that was on the cover of the movie was life-size and wearing a skull T-Shirt and she could not be convinced that this man was not her father. She immediately ran over to the display and began touching and hugging it. "It's daddy again, mama! Look!"
The Clash, Misfits, Bowie, Blondie - they like it all, which makes me swell with pride. I try not to get my hopes up too high, though, since they also dance and sing along to a purple dinosaur as if he was the second coming of Elvis.
I was slapped in the face with a cold case of reality when I realized that I had made it more than half way through the song without turning it off. And not only was I listening to it, but I was into it. There I was, with no children in the car, singing along, clapping my hands, stomping my feet, and, had it not been for the fact that I was strapped into the driver's seat of a vehicle going 70 along the highway, I'm quite certain I would have been jumping in the air.
The responsibility! I can't take it! The next, you're staying up 'til 3:30AM trying to cool down the bottle that you overheated as quickly as possible so that your new bundle of joy will stop piercing your eardrums with the blood curdling scream that he/she has already mastered, only to wake up 2 hours later to work your ass off to pay for diapers, onesies, college funds, and (sometimes) anti-depressants, while your CD/vinyl collection collects dust and your friends call you from the bar shouting, "Come out! How hard can it be to get a babysitter?" You often contemplate punching yourself in the face for even remotely considering the fact that Yes, a minivan probably would be more practical and you think, Responsibility?! Gah!! Someone should have told me!!