Save yourselves!

This was posted over on Rockstar Mommy but it’s too good not to pass along. Seriously — RUN while you can! Save yourselves!

Andrea, this one’s for you.

Primal Scream

Being a parent means having The Fear. Even if you aren’t one of those over-protective pansy types (and I’m not), you cannot escape some level of The Fear. Like Gloria Estefan’s rhythm, Fear also is gonna get you. To-night.

When my Little ‘Un was a tiny little newborn, I would wake up in a cold sweat, worried that she’d stopped breathing or had gotten trapped under the blanket or that I hadn’t heard her crying. I’d rush to her side and place a hand on her chest, sighing in relief when I felt it fall and then rise again. When she was a mere six days old she spent one evening crying her little head off from noon until nearly 3am. The Husband and I sat, completely exhausted and out of our minds with worry, weariness, frustration, and yes, Fear, looking at each other helplessly while she cried and cried and cried until she was bright red and shaking violently. We were starting to think something was seriously wrong and put her down in her safe little basket while we recouped and decided what to do. Should we call a doctor? Tåke her to the hospital? Just wait it out?

At that moment the crying changed in pitch and volume. It went from a steady ‘wah wah wah’ to a shrill, ear-piercing scream, the kind that makes your blood go cold as you try to imagine what horrible pain the being making that noise is experiencing. It’s the sound of a thousand souls being crushed, of something ending. It goes straight to your core and breaks your heart a little. The Husband and I looked at each other with nothing less than pure, unadulterated panic on our faces. My stomach literally dropped out of my body, almost making me sick. We rushed into the bedroom, only a few feet away, and swooped in over our daughter, expecting something terrible, something incomprehensible to have happened. The Fear had a strangle hold on me.

Turns out the baby was fine, albeit still crying, and the earth-shattering shriek was not hers. It was a bloody (in the British sense, not literal) fox outside our door. Apparently, female foxes, called vixens, emit these shrieks when they’re mating or something. Bitch must’ve been getting gang-banged the way she was carrying on. But that’s not the point…

The point is that I had experienced my first taste of utter and total Fear with regards to my child’s life and it was shocking. I realized two things — 1. I am not a footloose and fancy-free individual anymore who can smart off to drunk guys leering at me when I’m walking alone, or dash across a busy street, narrowly missing an oncoming car because I’m too impatient or lazy to use the crosswalk or wait for the lights to change. I have to think of safety first, even if it makes me feel like Smokey The Bear, or one of those crossing guards in the orange vests with the Stop signs. And 2. I would do anything, including give up my own life, to save my little girl’s if it were in danger. It’s an awesome power, a feeling that cannot be desribed unless you’ve experienced it yourself.

As much as I loathe being afraid or allowing one’s life to be dictated by the unknown or unseen, there is a healthy element of Fear that we all need in order to survive and protect. And I’m okay with that now. That scream was all it took to bring out my primal, maternal instinct. I will be more cautious now, because I must, but if someone tries to hurt my baby, they’ll wish they were that fox. Oh, I’ll still shoot dirty looks to those leering guys and mutter under my breath, but gone are the days of shouting “Fuck you, assholes! Why don’t you come over here and say that to my face, huh?” So if you hear of any openings for a Suzie Safety mascot, do let me know.

America — Fuck Yeah!

Looking for Christmas gift ideas for your bible-humping, war-loving, hate-mongering, racist and intolerant friends and family? Look no more! This is a one-stop shop for right wing conservative American slogans and merchandise.

How about a nice magnet for the family fridge? Or a coffee mug? A hooded sweatshirt? A t-shirt for that toddler in your life? There’s always this bumper sticker for your mom or sister, or a fitted tee with which to make a statement.

And if you’re having a hard time finding that special someone who feels the same as you about guns, Christianity, gays, them illegals, them Iraqis, and baby-killing femiNazis — fear not! You can visit www.conservativematch.com (whose tagline is “Sweethearts Not Bleeding Hearts”) and find not only your soulmate, but romantic date suggestions as well, such as attending a pro-life rally or a Friends of the NRA event . Ahh, isn’t love grand?

Spiritually Bankrupt

What is up with ’spirituality’? Why is it such a bad thing to admit that you do not follow or participate in an organized religion, but also that you don’t believe in a ‘higher power’, ‘cosmic force’ or ’spiritual plane’? I hear so many people say “Oh, I’m not religious but I’m spiritual.” What the hell does that mean? Doesn’t it just mean that you think about things philisophically and wonder if we have souls and if we do, if they go somewhere else or do something else after our bodies have quit working but you don’t actually know and will just have to wait until you kick the bucket to find out? So why all this existential angst over it in the here and now?

I don’t know if I would consider myself a bottom-rung agnostic or a full-out atheist, but I know I sure as hell don’t agonize over it. If I’m wrong and I spend all of eternity in Eternal Hellfire and Damnation, well, that’s just tough. All this time and energy put into living life for what MIGHT happen when you’re dead is just craziness to me, pure madness. I don’t believe that there is some dude in the sky with a lightning bolt waiting to strike me down or send me to The Hot Place if I’m not on a constant spiritual journey or doing deep-breathing exercises in the meadow at dawn with all the other yogurt-eating, pseudo-intelligent dunces trying to ‘find themselves’.

If I go to hell for anything it will be for when I shout “Oh, JESUS, lady, would you shut the hell up already?” at the tv when Oprah is on because I hate her sickly-sweet, full-o-shit, ‘woman-of-the-people’ crap and her squish-squishing tears at every goddamn little human tragedy and piece-of-fluff story that comes her way. Even though I know most other people worship at the Church of Oprah, I ain’t buyin’ the sermon. Watching the people in the audience be all uplifted and inspired just makes me laugh. Maybe that makes me a cynical, heartless bitch but I’m just not an Oprah person which must mean I’m not a spiritual person and I’m going to Hades in a handbasket. So be it.

Spirituality. Religion. The Church of Oprah. Nope, not for me. My Sundays are busy enough as it is and I can’t afford the additional Kleenex and a lobotomy.

Bad, dirty parents!

Me, laying on the floor playing with my daughter: “Look, sweetie. This cute pink teddy bear squeaks when you press his tummy.” (pressing of tummy numerous times produces squeaks in a rapid succession) Ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee!

The Husband: “That sounds like cartoon squirrels having sex.”

Me: “Okay, and we’re done playing with the squeaky bear. I feel dirty.”

But of course, now all I can think about when my daughter plays with this toy is frisky squirrels humping each other furiously in the forest. Like that stupid squirrel from the Honey Nut Clusters cereal commercial (is that here or in the US? I can’t remember) on crack and with a boner. What an association to have with a child’s toy. The shame! I think pink teddy might be taken out for a ‘drive’ soon and dropped off in the forest to be at one with his swinging squirrel friends for a friendly gang bang.

It’s official — I’m going to hell.

Technical Difficulties

Until we get our DSL sorted out (which should be on Tuesday) I can’t really post much. To save limited memory and improve the speed of dial-up, I can’t post images or links, or apply formatting, which is no fun. I had a post with lots of pictures and links all ready to go but the blog gods are frowning on me so it is not to be. Not to worry though, I have saved drafts and will publish them when we get our broadband in place.

Watch this space.

The mix tape challenge

I can’t take credit for the originality of this little test but the answers below are mine. Can you handle the mix tape challenge? Share your rockin’ mix tape in comments.

1. Your favorite song with the name of a city in the title or text. Only Living Boy in New York — Simon & Garfunkel

2. A song you’ve listened to repeatedly when you were depressed at some point in your life. Hallelujah — Leonard Cohen

3. Ever bought an entire album just for one song and wound up disliking everything but that song? Gimme that song. The Shining — Badly Drawn Boy

4. A song whose lyrics you thought you knew in the past, but about which you later learned you were incorrect.Alright — Supergrass. I thought it was “we are young, we are free” but it’s “we are young, we run green”

5. Your least favorite song on one of your favorite albums of all time. Bullet Proof — Morcheeba’s ‘Big Calm’ album

6. A song you like by someone you find physically unattractive or otherwise repellent.
American Girl — Tom Petty

7. Your favorite song that has expletives in it that’s not by Liz Phair. Untouchable Face — Ani Di Franco

8. A song that sounds as if it’s by someone British but isn’t. Is This Is — The Strokes

9. A song you like (possibly from your past) that took you forever to finally locate a copy of The Ballad of Tommy and Marla — The Rugburns

10. A song that reminds you of spring but doesn’t mention spring at all. Good Day Sunshine — The Beatles

11. A song that sounds to you like being happy feels. Big Yellow Taxi — Joni Mitchell

12. Your favorite song from a non-soundtrack compilation album. Brown Sugar — The Rolling Stones ‘Hot Rocks’

13. A song from your past that would be considered politically incorrect now (and possibly was then). Smack My Bitch Up — The Prodigy

14. A song sung by an overweight person. Paradise By The Dashboard Light — Meatloaf

15. A song you actually like by an artist you otherwise hate. Toxic — Britney Spears

16. A song by a band (whose members actually play instruments) that features three or more female members Revolver — The Donnas

17. One of the earliest songs that you can remember listening to. Teach Your Children — Crosby, Stills Nash & Young

18. A song you’ve been mocked by friends for liking. Jolene — Dolly Parton

19. A really good cover version you think no one else has heard Time After Time — Eva Cassidy (cover of Cyndi Lauper’s original)

20. A song that has helped cheer you up (or empowered you somehow) after a breakup or otherwise difficult situation I Want to Break Free — Queen

Awful Anniversaries

Everyone and their mother is going to be blogging about the five-year anniversary of September 11^th today. Technically this should include me since I am someone’s mother, but I don’t really have anything coherent to say about this horrible day, which, for more personal reasons, was already difficult before 2001.

All I can muster is “Rest in peace.”

Things I realized this weekend

1. It’s time to cut my hair. I had a dream that I cut it all off and so when I woke up I was like “Yep, I’m cutting my hair off.” When I decide to do something with my hair I do it suddenly, there is no thinking about it, flipping through hairstyle magazines and analyzing it with my girlfriends. Just like if you get on my bad side – I make a sudden chop and cut you out of my life. Finito. No tears. I grew it out three years ago to shut The Husband up but now that it’s being pulled out in fistfuls by our daughter, short hair is beckoning. I told him if he really misses my hair that much we can save it and make him a nice little blonde pillow with it. Extracting long strands out of his mouth and off of his clothes all the time might finally make him see my point.

1. Men are curious, irrational beasts. The Husband refuses to put the contents of his pockets (wallet, keys, work ID, coins, USB memory stick, iPod, mobile phone) into a box I purchased specifically for this purpose and insists that he “can’t find anything” when all of his things are in a box, even if said box contains nothing but these items, therefore negating the need to sort through it in the morning when he goes to put everything back into his pockets. Apparently, these things must be laid out in a haphazard jumble on the counter or a table and my suggestion of putting them on a dish or bowl is one of the stupidest ideas ever and this is not something he is willing to compromise on. Just when you think you have them trained…

1. My parents get drunk more often than I do and I haven’t gotten totally hammered in over 14 months. It was really strange talking to my mother yesterday while she was suffering from a colossal hangover and I was all like “Well, you can’t mix your drinks” and found myself struggling to remember what it feels like to be so shitfaced drunk that you sleep in your clothes, in a car, and keep opening the door to puke all night and then spend the next day glued to the sofa. That used to be the Noble Savage Special and now it is something my MOTHER does. Not that I feel old or anything. Hmmph.

1. Moving, while always at least a bit stressful, is fun. I love putting things away in a new place, deciding where things will go and how to decorate, listening for new noises and deciding which ones are just the walls/floors/pipes creaking and which are serial killers trying to get in, getting to know new neighbours, exploring new shops and restaurants and different routes to various places you visit, and so on.

1. Teething is a bitch. Especially when you let your baby chew on your finger and she bites you so hard it draws blood and you let out a scream in Starbucks and everyone stares at you.

1. Sometimes a break from technology is good. Right now I have no telephone, tv and only limited internet access and even though I thought I’d be going crazy, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. I’ve been reading a book (the same one I’ve been trying to get through since February – this is how often I get a chance to sit down and read something besides trashy gossip mags that require no brain cells or a baby/parenting book). This is in severe contrast to how I felt about one day without my computer when I was pregnant.

1. Not everyone hates Americans. A guy who works in a shop I go into from time to time always wants to chat to me about America and asks me what it’s like. It’s so refreshing to talk to someone who doesn’t automatically bash the USA.

1. A nice bus driver who smiles, says “Have a pleasant day” and doesn’t slam on the brakes at every stop can make my day and restore my faith in humanity.

1. Being more environmentally conscious and actually doing something about it feels good. I love saying “No thanks, I’ve got my own bag” when a clerk starts to put my things into a plastic bag and putting my recycling on the curb every other Friday. It’s only little things but it’s better than doing nothing.

1. Another American woman lived in this flat before me. What a small world!

1. I only have 9 pounds to go to reach my goal weight. How the hell did that happen? Surely my daily chocolate fix hasn’t helped in that process. I won’t question it though. Flab Gods, don’t frown on me now!

1. Graffiti artists in London are polite. There’s been a new thing recently where they spray paint their tags onto plain white labels and then stick them onto walls, bus stops, etc… Isn’t that just precious? Who else but the English would do that?

1. This could only happen to me: an unwanted gift from a friend that I never used and then donated to a charity shop when we moved a few days ago is now in the freakin’ display case in the front window of the store. I know for a fact that my friend walks past this store all the time so the chances of her seeing it there are pretty good. I’m thinking I might have to just go in there and buy it to get it out of sight. So a gift that I didn’t want in the first place is now going to cost me money and take up room in the bottom of my closet AGAIN. *sigh*

1. I love making lists. I make lists for everything. As a kid, I used to write out lists of the names of every single person in my class, or the names of all my stuffed animals, or all 50 states. Then, later, it was Ben and Jerry’s ice cream flavours, all the cocktails I’ve ever tried, and the names of everyone I’ve slept with (though “Guy At Party” doesn’t really count – that’s the beauty of nameless one night stands). When I was pregnant I made lists of baby names and stuff I had to buy and now that I’m a SAHM it’s lists of ways in which I’m slowly being driven insane and into the poorhouse. Thinking about it, I had better print this off for my therapist and attach it as an addendum to my other list, “56 Reasons For My Neuroticism and Why You’ll Never Be Able To Cure Me Of List-making So You Might As Well Suck It.”