Archive for the “From Past Blogs” Category

I had closed my heart for the past six years. I let myself go, gaining 80 pounds to make sure that loneliness would never tempt me into trying again - when you’re fat you don’t have those options.

You were my friend and you became more. You made me feel again and I hate your guts for it.

You were clear from the start that you were just using me. I hate you for making me see that, despite all my “no one will ever fuck me over again” bravado, I let you and let you and let you.

You knew I loved you and you didn’t care. You knew I couldn’t extricate myself from you, and you still kept me around to feed your ego and fulfill your own needs.

You made me desperate to make you love me. Desperate to prove to you I was worth more than a booty call, and more than “just friends” too.

I never could prove that to you, and the failed effort proved to me that what everyone had always said or the way everyone had always behaved was true: there’s something wrong with me, I’m not worthy of ever being loved by anyone, I’m too fucked up to ever have a relationship, and the world would be better off without me.

I really, really didn’t need to learn these things over again.

Every man I see that looks like you, I’m reminded of these lessons.  Over and over and over.  I’m reminded that, despite how much you hurt me, I still want you, and I’m reminded about how pathetic I am.

I’ve spent six years trying to shut my eyes to how the world sees me, and you pried them back open, and I hate you for it. I tried to force you to have feelings for me, to miss me when I’m gone, to depend on me, and you were up front that you wanted none of it, so the whole thing is my fault, but still I hate you for it.

I put the mirror in your hands, forcing you to hold it up to me. Then I looked in it. But it’s you I hate for it.

The Mighty Dyckerson’s unfortunate poop experience reminded me of an entry Christine made on her Infinitepink blog back in 2002. To this day, it’s one of my favorite examples of the epidemic of shitty (no pun intended) parenting we see in our society today.  Plus, the way Christine wrote the story was so hilarious!  Here it is:

The Worst I’ve Ever Seen
About 4:00 or so last evening I decided to make a run to the grocery store to pick up a few things. I found everything I went there for, but I also returned home with something unexpected.I am now carrying around the mental image of the absolute worst temper tantrum I have ever seen pitched in public since 1967 (more on that ‘67 incident in an upcoming entry.) This scene was so profoundly horrifying that it was the last thing I thought of before I went to sleep and the first thing that came into my mind when I woke up.

The store where I shop is located in the center of Soccermomville, Iowa. Which is right next to Daddysadoctorburg, of course. You can go there anytime of day and see an overly-liberal parent trying to reign in their spoiled rotten uber-brat of a child. It’s not uncommon to hear things like:

“Hillary, I’ve asked you nicely 100 times now – please don’t open that package of cookies. Mommy is *starting* to get upset!”

“Tommy – listen to me. Get down from that display case. Do you prefer the soup with the little stars, the letters, or the tiny dinosaurs? No… we’re not going to buy them all and mix them…”

“Michael, honey – sit down! You know better than to stand up in the cart. Sit! Sit! Michael, if you throw those bananas again, I’ll spank…”

It’s a constant thing, I tell you. The kids are in charge of the parents. Which is why the geniuses at my store have come up with a solution to keep children entertained and somewhat caged while their powerless parents wander aimlessly through the aisles trying to hold it together long enough to buy something for dinner.

They made a shopping cart with a section on the front end that looks like a little car – steering wheel and all. Just shove your whiny brat precious child in there and they will be happy for at least ½ hour, so shop fast. Apparently, it doesn’t matter that this cart is practically the size of an actual Volkswagen rolling down the aisles, that it runs over everyone’s toes, and barrels into old ladies because Supermom can’t drive it any better than her minivan.

Apparently, all of that is worth is if the obnoxious crumb cruncher precious child is amused and under control for a few moments.

Which bring us to last night’s episode. Professional Dad was wheeling his cart of pre-packaged, microwavable shit haphazardly through the grocery store, and Little Johnny Snotmonster was in the “car” attached to the front end. Dad found everything on his list and decided it was time to check out. This was not a good choice, according to Johnny. How dare father come to this decision without consulting him first!

I guess the inventors of the rolling, grocery Brat Mobile never stopped to think that most kids under the age of five will raise holy hell if something they enjoy is taken away from them.

I am not exaggerating when I say this: I saw this adorable blonde, chubby-cheeked preschool boy turn into a snarling, kicking, spitting demon in 3.5 seconds flat as WonderDad attempted to pry his writhing body from that “car”. The kid let out this blood curdling scream that was so awful, the old lady next to me in the checkout line started to shake and dropped a jar of pickles.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaarooooooohhhhhaaaaawaaaaaaaaahhh!”

“Let go of the cart; we have to buy the groceries now and get home. Mommy is waiting for us.”

“Aaaaaaaaaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!!”

Boy inflicts violent kicking, slapping and hairpulling on Daddy. Daddy just takes it.

“Would someone please take this cart away as soon as I get him out of it? That might work,” asks Daddy.

Horrified clerks and customers watch and listen, mouths gaping.

The store manager directs the checkout boys to rush to the father’s aide. They will do anything to shut up that kid up and get them out of the store as soon as possible. They whisk the ‘car’ away as soon as Daddy pries Junior’s grubby little fingers off the steering wheel and extricates him from it.

“Aaaaarrrrrrrrrrggggggarooooooooo!!! I HATE YOU DADDY! I HATE YOU!”

Picture snot bubbles bursting furiously from the kid’s nose as he sobs, wails and goes all Jackie Chan on Daddy.

“I’m sure you do, son. That’s ok. It’s alright to be angry.”

The boy, who has now been set down on the floor because of the uncontrollable thrashing, now begins to bang his head against the checkout counter with a deafening *kaboom*kaboom*kaboom*. The horrendous screaming gets even worse than ever. Daddy’s legs are now being beaten to a pulp as the groceries are scanned and he shakily tries to write out the check.

Onlookers gather around and stare, transfixed, wondering what will happen next.

In all of my life, I never would have predicted what DID happen next.

“I HATE YOU DADDYYyyyyyy *groaaaaannn*grunnnnnnnnt…**GRRRRRuuuuunnnn**…..” came out of the monster’s beet-red face.

You guessed it. The little tyrant crapped his pants!! A three-year-old who can shit on command! Who knew?? Never in a million years would I have thought of using that tactic when I was a kid.

“Son, you didn’t… please tell Daddy that you didn’t do that.”

“I diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiid!!!!!! I HATEYOOOOOOOOOOOOUuUuUuuuuuu!!!”

A collective “Eewww!” goes up from the crowd, and everyone backs up. Some of us busted out laughing. Ok, I busted out laughing. I couldn’t help it — I was in some sort of bewildered shock.

Daddy picks up the kid, who is still bellowing and now has runny, wet brown spots seeping through the legs of his corduroys, and wrestles him a bit to keep from getting slapped in the face again.

“I think I’ll need drive-up for this tonight…”

No shit, Daddy Sherlock. Drive-up, a tranquilizer gun, and an exorcist.

It seemed to take an eternity for the man and the stinky boy to make it to the door. Everyone was motionless until the automatic door swung shut behind them. We could still hear the kid through the storefront window, but at least we didn’t fear for our lives any more. Slowly, the tension broke and people started chuckling about what they had just witnessed.

Some guy in the next line over laughingly said:

“That reminds me. I have to buy some condoms…”

No kidding! I bet half the guys in the store did after seeing that!

BTW, here is what I wrote back in her comments section:

“YES YES YES! That is EXACTLY what I’m talking about. It would take MORE ENERGY for the dad to just leave his groceries, grab the kid, leave the store, take him home, do time out or whatever yuppie shit is in style, and next time say “you can’t come to the store because you threw a temper tantrum last time”

No, that’s too much effort.

So, the dad does the lazy, psychobabble shit. And all the while, patting himself on the back for being THE MOST EXCELLENT parent.

Parents like that are NOT DOING THEIR KIDS ANY FAVORS.”

I fear for our society, I really do.

Open letter to all you stupid fucking yuppie parents who think you’re so smart: QUIT READING THE “FEEL GOOD” BOOKS AND RAISE YOUR DAMN KID, YOU LAZY ASS! Society has rules, and they’re not set by three year olds. Society should not bend to meet the whims of your nose-picking child. Guess what? Your child and his/her fragile flower of an ego needs to bend to fit into society. Teach them that now, and maybe come high school age, they won’t show up at their school with an automatic weapon because they didn’t get to watercolor in art class like they wanted!

(Christine, I don’t remember you ever making the entry about the ‘67 incident.  If you did, could you link it?)

As many of you know, I got my parents a puppy for Christmas. At first it didn’t look like a good idea; my mother hates animals, my dad was determined that he was through with dogs because they are “too much trouble”. However, from the minute they met Sparky, it has been true love!

My dad actually took off work one afternoon to accompany my mother and Sparky to the vet for his Well Puppy visit. My mom is home with Sparky all day, and the woman who hasn’t photographed me once in the past 12 years is now taking hundreds of pictures of the dog. The woman who would go two weeks without talking to me now calls several times a week with Sparky updates.

True to my mom’s fashion, she never listens to a word I say. I wonder what would happen if I REALLY tested her during our last conversation? (Quotes from my mom’s side of the conversation actually happened; quotes from my side MAY have involved some creative license.)

Mom: Sparky is so smart, he can close the door of his crate behind him!

Me: Aww, that’s cute! Hey, did I tell you about the job interview I went on Friday? It was horrible to drive into downtown Denver, I…

Mom: You know, the other day Sparky sat and just stared out of the front door for almost an HOUR! He is SO SMART!

Me: Awww, that’s cute! Anyway, at the interview…

Mom: Now he’s digging under my leg! What are you digging for puppy? Who’s so cute? You’re so cute! Yes you are! Yes you are!

Me: So I don’t think that job is for me. I’m so discouraged! Will I ever be happy? I don’t think I’ll ever be happy. That’s it. I’m almost 40 and I fail at life. I… I have nothing to live for!

Mom: Sparky loves to get under the covers with us in the mornings! All you can see is a big bump bouncing around under the covers!

Me: Why do I even try? I think I’m going to end it all. Right now.

* sound of chair scraping across the floor, and fumbling around in drawers for rope *

Mom: Sometimes Sparky bites your father’s toes and we know he shouldn’t do it but he’s so funny, we just laugh and laugh!

Me: This is it! Tell Visa and Discovercard I said, “Try to collect from me now, motherfuckers!” I regret nothing!

* sound of chair falling over and phone hitting the floor *

Mom: And Sparky only had one accident in the house yesterday! But you can’t blame him, it was raining outside! You can’t expect a dog to pee outside if it’s wet out… well, I gotta go get Sparky his pre-dinner treat. Bye!

______________________________________

(It’s actually really cute how much my parents love that dog.)

So about once every 8-16 months I go into nostalgia mode and get curious as to what happened to past important people who used to be in my life. Sometimes I’ll do a google search/Myspace search and get happily reunited with some old friends like the dear Fred who was my statistics professor in college and also a great an inspiring friend as well, to the forever adorable and lovable Steve, happily married and living in New York.

Some reunions are brief, where casual curiousity about each other is fulfilled within an email or two, and correspondence ends.

Some reunions are regrettable. Last spring I replied to an email that an old work acquaintance sent out to everyone in his address book. I submitted a smartass reply to him, and an in-depth email friendship ensued. Over the summer, he needed some favors so we saw each other again, which led to the sickest and most unhealthy five-month romantic relationship I’ve ever had the misfortune of having to endure. It was the first time I’ve been truly in love with someone in six years, and although I did get some good sex out of it, most of what I got for my trouble was disappointment, being used, being taken for granted, being dismissed, and being insulted.

Did this bad experience cure me of my urge to be nostalgic? Fuck no. I’m a Cancer; in my heart, I make lifelong attachments.

So last week I was on Myspace (which I am far, far too old for anyway), and I was searching on names of friends and loves from my past. I decide to search on the name of my first love. I about fell out of my seat when he was on there!

Me, around 1985

I met him when I was 16, working my first “real” job at Hardees (shut up!) He broke my young heart when he left me for the woman he was really in love with, and eventually married. As far as I know, they are still married some 20+ years later. It worked out for the best; I was never good enough for him and I never understood what he saw in me. But he did see something in me. Only a few other people in my life have ever, before or since, looked at me the way he did. How can you forget something like that? It was truly a gift that sustained me through many bad times for years to come.

I would never want to mess up or interfere in his life, but I couldn’t resist sending him a message through Myspace. I’m not surprised that he didn’t reply; first of all, he might not have gotten the message (most people in my age group don’t understand this newfangled email computer intraweb stuff). Second, he might not think it’s appropriate to answer my email, which I can respect (even though I have no “bad” motives in contacting him). Third, he might think I’m batshit insane. I attempted to be humorous in my message, and for those who aren’t used to my humor, it is kind of batshit insane.

So tell me, would you have answered this?

Dear X,

Once I had a very glamorous career at Hardees. But I threw it all away, instead wasting my life chasing dreams of being an Origami master. Sure, the fame was great, the millions of dollars, the world tour as I made crane after paper crane for sold-out auditoriums. But I couldn’t handle the fame and turned to drugs and alcohol and lost my fortune… well, you probably saw my story on “VH1-Behind the Origami!”

Anyway, before I was corrupted by all of that, I had a boss that looked a lot like you, once upon a time.

Says the happily-married-with-children coworker:

“It is SOOOO unprofessional for people who work together to date. Can you believe that some people who work here actually met here and got MARRIED? How unprofessional!”

Easy for you to say, Ms. “I-Got-Mine-So-To-Hell-With-The-Rest-Of-The-World”!

I’m almost 35. I’m not in college any more. I avoid the brainwashing of organized religion. If I went to a BAR to pick up guys, I’d be looked down upon (and that’s not me anyway). So what am I supposed to do, just wait for divine intervention? Sorry, that only happens in movies.

Flaunting a dating relationship at work is unprofessional. Using a relationship to get ahead in the workplace is unprofessional. Using your position to coerce people into going out with you is unprofessional. But two coworkers who genuinely like each other, getting together after hours to enjoy each other’s company? What the fuck is wrong with that? It’s all in the way it is handled.

If you’re a shithead that lies to and cheats on the opposite sex, ya might not want to date a coworker. If you’re a perv who is only out for one thing, keep it out of the workplace. If you’re a “big-wig” and you plan on retaliating against your date if she dumps you, by demoting her or getting her fired, then you shouldn’t date ANYONE, you prick. But if you are seeking a real connection with someone, and you meet that someone at work, why not pursue it tactfully and discreetly?

Don’t you love how people who already “got theirs” judge the singles? Basically, we should just know our place and sit at home alone for the rest of our lives. We didn’t meet and marry in college, so we missed our chance. Now it’s time for us to shut up. Because dating in the workplace is wrong, online dating or speed-dating is pathetic and we should be ashamed of ourselves, church is packed with other married people so that’s not an option.

Oh, and if we are set up on a blind date and it’s not a “love connection”, then we’re “too picky”. Because if I am single, and the OTHER guy is single, well isn’t that all we have to have in common? Shouldn’t we force a relationship? Beggars can’t be choosers.

Hey, Molly McMarried, YOU didn’t marry every guy you ever dated. Why should we? Are we so “beneath you” that we should just take what we can get, never mind the fact there is no common interests, no personality match, no chemistry?

And just an aside: Do you think we are so stupid that we don’t notice that we don’t get invited to your parties because we’re not part of a “couple” and it would make uneven teams during Pictionary?

Mary’s Thought of the Day
Married people: cram it up your ass, you elitist bastards.

(Note: This rant written in 2003.  I’m not nearly as bitter now ;)  )

Propaganda cats are any cat you’ve ever met that is cute, affectionate, or adorable. These cats are rogue Al Quadea cats. These cats wish to suck us into their illusion of coolness and cuteness. “I’m cute and fuzzy!” they convey. “I’ll sit on your lap and purr!” they assert.

FILTHY WHORISH LIES!

No “real” cat is this way. REAL cats never let you pet them. In fact, you never see a REAL cat except for when you fill their food dish, and when they appear out of nowhere to scratch the shit out of your calf, then disappear again.

So if you meet a cat that’s cuddly and sweet, that is a terrorist agent for the Propaganda Cats. Their mission is to pretend they’re something they’re not (i.e. pretend they’re a decent pet), infiltrate every American household, then overthrow the US Government using a strategy of spreading a toxiplasmosis endemic, coupled with coast-to-coast unprovolked scratch marks which lead to minor infections.

Don’t be fooled!!!

I entered the darkened abode, shaking off the chill of the cold Colorado fall evening. Immediately, I sensed that something was wrong. Very wrong.

I looked around my living room. It was trashed! Debris everywhere! Revolting filth, mind-boggling chaos!

A split-second of panic, and reflexively my hand went for my cell phone to alert the authorities.

Then I recalled my weekend of sloth, spent watching tivoed South Park and TV Funhouse episodes while dozing in and out of consciousness on my couch.

Slightly relieved upon realizing that I was the one responsible for trashing my living room, I loosened my grip on my cell phone. But yet, something was still amiss. Fifteen years of seeing the worst violence humanity could dole out to one another have honed my “spidey senses”.

Something horrible had happened here tonight. I could just feel it. The abomination. The unholiness.

Then I saw it. The empty shell. The insides had all been eaten — oh, the humanity!

Who could have done such a heinous evisceration?

I was only gone a few minutes. Yet that was enough time for the criminal to take what they wanted. No concern with the fact it wasn’t his to take. No afterthought about who would be hurt.

Yes, my entire takeout carton of Boston Market Macaroni and Cheese was completely gutted!

Following the violent pattern of drool and cheese splatters on the wall and carpet, I came upon the one responsible for the slaughter.

His eyes plead innocence. However, the ring of yellow on the muzzle and nose told me everything I needed to know about the evening’s events. A scene of gore and brutality that flew in the face of God.

My macaroni and cheese. Gone. Snuffed in the prime of it’s take-out life.

Goddamnit Moose!