Journey to the Deep Dark Caves of Hell

when i was in high school, i made a sign on an 8x11 piece of paper that said "i am a flaming bitch from the deep dark caves of hell." underneath, was a lengthy and detailed list of all the trashy, disgusting, dishonorable and offensive things that my peers had done. i am pretty sure it was a 2-sided list, but i decorated any white space with colorful flames. then i taped the sign to my chest and went to class.

from what i can remember, one of these trashy, disgusting, dishonorable and offensive people had called me a bitch. this was probably a fair statement, but i obviously did not take kindly to it. and so, sarcasm and irony blossomed.

a teacher took my sign and referred me to the principal's office. i have no idea what my explanation was (or could legitimately have been), but i do remember mrs. richardson, who was also my principal in kindergarden, deciding the worst punishment would be to let me tell my parents myself "what had happened." right. i love my parents, but they were, and are, enablers of my self-righteousness. by way of example, on a separate occasion, i was sentenced to write an apology letter to some newspaper douchebag for asking him to hurry up and take my picture so i could get back to whatever super-important high school activity he had interrupted. my mom approved something along the lines of "i'm sorry that you have no respect for other people's time."

i'm not saying that i'm better than you, but i may have ruined my little sister by telling her as a teenager that the fact of the matter is, some people are better than others. it's not based on beauty or education or wealth; it is a sliding scale that starts somewhere saintly i'm completely unfamiliar with, followed closely by persons who volunteer to carry things and leave baked goods on your desk, the maker of the awkward family photos calendar, and kids who will never leave your high-five hanging. then the guy at the circle K who warns you that your gas cap is still open, the garbage man just out getting dirty and doing his job, and dudes willing to provide free entertainment to all passersby simply by maintaining a long, curly mullet. it works its way down to the lowest of the low -- child molesters and indian givers. also somewhere near the bottom is the guy who screams at a pregnant lady with a full-time career and one-year-old for leaving her work at the office and going to sleep at 9 p.m. i am better than that guy. in the grand scheme of things, the flaming bitch might even be kind of near the top. (although still up in the air about my status in relation to the garbage man...)

i bet that sign is still in my permanent file at louisa county high school. but even if the sign is gone, i still get it. ask and ye shall receive.

She Woke Me Up With a Bang-Bang

so today while it was 4 degrees and pouring rain outside and i was dancing around the house with panzer alternately whispering, singing and screeching the very age-inappropriate lyrics of the violent femmes' "blister in the sun" to him, i had the same thought i've had a million times for the millionth and one time: music peaked in the 90s -- it is never going to be this good and clever and wonderfully angsty ever again.

i am confident that the music of the 90s will survive, for all greasy teenagers to enjoy. i see it already. the lead singer of sublime died in 1996, and kids today still go around threatening to smoke 2 joints before they smoke 2 joints. and then i smoke 2 more. (not my favorite, but certainly catchy...) they still talk about what kurt cobain might've been. (had he not suffered an apparently self-inflicted "contact perforating shotgun wound to the head" in 1994, the year i entered the 7th grade.) i still see as many kids in korn t-shirts today as i did in 1998. (even my mom's 60+year-old husband is a fan, luring aaron into the basement for loud replays of korn concerts of yore.) and that is saying nothing of the beastie boys, counting crows, rage against the machine, live, smashing pumpkins, etc. timeless as the dragon-skull-dagger-zodiac tattoo.

i'm sure my parents, among others, are reading this and cringing. and i'm sure they said the same thing about the music of the 60s when they were my age. which to be fair, the music of the 60s was pretty fantastic. and it led to the birth of music as a social and political statement, which i enjoy and respect, but nothing beats angst. especially on cold, rainy days.

now i wake up to my radio-alarm to songs about teenage dreams and tight jeans and my hump-my hump-my humps. the good news is that these songs immediately fill me with a blood-pumping rage and urge to immediately jump out of bed, slam the alarm off, and stalk to the shower muttering expletives about the state of the world if this is what's on the radio.

makes me wonder what kind of worthless crap "music" panzer is going to listen to in 15 years. i make a silent plea to the flying spaghetti monster that it not be ke$ha.

and on that note, i have identified five albums mommy will approve of, any day any time, rainy and angsty or not:

by the way by the red hot chili peppers

good mourning (or better yet, my personal greatest hits mix) by alkaline trio

love by the beatles (already a panzer favorite)

the walking wounded by bayside

bang bang by dispatch

Float On

so, panzer has graced me with his presence for exactly 365 days as of today. i woke up to a text from my mom asking if i was thinking about what i was doing on this day last year. well, now that you mention, i do remember this time -- 6AM on october 28 -- last year sucking pretty bad. i "labored" all night, squeezed a whole baby out of my hoo-ha one hour and five minutes prior, and really wanted a shower. REALLY badly. instead i had a bunch of needles poked into me, a little parasite latched to my boob, and made the difficult decision to dispose of my placenta. IMMEDIATELY. in all honesty, i had a really positive birthing experience, which has made me much too overconfident with this one.... on a side note, stay tuned for a future post on the epic battle of me versus aaron and/or dr. fernandez regarding flying to VA at 37 weeks for kim's wedding. (i am already steeling myself up for victory!)

anyway, it is freakin' fabulous to shop for a one-year-old. there are not many occasions, as you get older and more worn out, to buy little plastic glasses with fake eyes already attached or mini whoopie cushions. and when else can you justify $4 for a bag of colored hole punches labeled "confetti" except to fill a kid's birthday pinata? wal-mart is fun again, if for no other reason than to watch panzer make friends with strangers, first by staring them down, then by grinning ear-to-ear and showing off his loot. he even happily helped me stuff goodies into the little hole on the top of his pinata!

also, i realized today we have not eaten any of the food i made in bulk on october 27, 2010 while waiting for my induction appointment, and stuck in the freezer so we'd have many home-cooked meals to eat in the coming days when we were too exhausted to move. funny how you can be too exhausted to move and still manage to subsist. i am not exactly sure what i ate those first few days or months, but it was not jambalaya, potato soup or the italian pasta special. i did take some soup out of the freezer today to thaw... if it's as good as our wedding cake on our first anniversary, it won't last 5 minutes.

i took P to the park to celebrate his birthday. he loves running up the little hills and down the little hills. and up the little hills and down the little hills. and up the little hills and down the little hills. until he finds the dirt surrounding the playground, and then he's happy sitting on the ground rubbing his hands in it. (no worries, he gets a scrubbin' by daddy every day, even on days he needs two.) until a dog runs by, and then he needs a closer look. but not too close. such a funny little dude, this panzer the birthday monster.

its nice going to bed knowing i made at least one good decision in this lifetime.

Banging the Doldrums

i have been feeling a little down in the dumps lately and think it would be good for me to remind myself, and also the entire world wide web, of things that make me happy.

panzer clapping. panzer has loved clapping for quite a while, and could be easily calmed with an off-key rendition of if-you're-happy-and-you-know-it or B-I-N-G-O. but now, he has mastered the skill himself, and i can't help but smile when i catch him cheering himself on. i also just taught him to do touchdown arms, just in time for football season! let's be honest though, it's hard not to smile when you're looking at P for any reason.



antiques road show. i don't know what i like best about people dragging old ugly junk out of their basements for other people to oogle at. i am impressed with the appraisers and the length and depth of their obscure knowledge of people and places. i like hearing the family history of the junk, even when said know-it-all appraisers blow giant holes in those prized stories. i am usually shocked and amazed at the value that "collectors" place on ugly old ship paintings but am intrigued by the detail and craftmanship of things that are sometimes REALLY old. you don't see that dedication very much anymore. so yeah, antiques road show is pretty much awesome. i don't miss it on mondays.

pictures of queenie. i can admit that i agreed with the majority that naming your little white girl "queenie" was asking for trouble, but i definitely did not appreciate just what a perfect little monster (and i mean that in the absolute best way possible) she would turn out to be. and i only see her twice a year and hear occasional stories. i guess this also includes pictures of other strong-willed little girls, like my sister kimberlee. that is life being lived, somehow captured on a piece of paper. i don't know if i still have that, but am glad someone does.

italian food and milk. i know i promised that i would not fill my blog with mundane lists of food items i devoured in any given day, but some things just make you happy. when i was super-pregnant with P, i read that eggplant parmigian can put you into labor -- something about italian spices triggering contractions. that was a nice excuse to eat a lot of eggplant parmigian, which i wanted to do any way. but good garlic-y spicy italian food is just not the same without a glass of cold milk. you feel like you gained 10 pounds in a meal, between the starch and dairy, but MMMMMMMMMMMMM. and in close second place: spice cupcakes from a box covered with cream cheese frosting from a can. melted cheese, preferably on veggie burritos or chili + fries. macdonald's chicken mcnuggets. and anything with sprinkles.

i am a beauty pageant runner-up. this fact in itself doesn't conjure as many happy memories as the fact that aaron randomly reminds me of it on a regular basis. i'm not sure where it comes from, as i suspect aaron is less impressed with this accomplishment than he lets on, but it makes me laugh. as does the subsequent mental image of my general fluffiness. also popular: "you were voted most likely to become a TV judge." thanks baby, i love you too.

peace & order. the kind you find in the wide open spaces and calm sterile environment of the mall. or, if you live in cottonwood, safeway at 6AM on sunday. i am a good american consumer who appreciates shiny containers in neat little rows and muzak versions of my favorite rock songs pouring out of the ceiling, and takes pride in acquiring possessions, even if it's just another carton of milk to replace the one that had to be thrown out when it separated in 4 places.

yes, i am feeling a little bit better about life now. all it takes is a cold glass of milk and proper recognition of the finer things.

If I Did It

so someone foolishly invited me to a facebook group demanding justice for caylee anthony and requesting my signature on a virtual petition (directed at who, i am not entirely certain) so that casey anthony cannot benefit financially from "her crimes." uh, i know almost nothing about casey anthony, except that my mother-in-law watched all 33 days of the trial on court tv and up until the day the verdict was announced, carol could "just see it in her eyes" that she was guilty. oh, and casey was acquitted of all but the most lame of the pending charges after barely a day of deliberation. i anticipate she was sentenced to time served since i did see the report in between sports highlights at vinny's that she was released from jail yesterday.

frankly, the media circus is a good reminder that you can be guilty and not go to jail and that it is the prosecutor's job to prove every single element of his case without the accused saying one single word. you can also be innocent and spend the rest of your life in jail, or at least have it ruined by false accusations. i would be a defendant's dream juror because frankly, i am surprised anyone is ever found guilty of any crime. the only way i would ever vote guilty is if the defendant confessed. and not an out-of-court confession induced by police presence or lack of sleep, coffee and potty breaks either. beyond a reasonable doubt is a tough standard to beat. unless you have a third eye like my mother-in-law. 99% sure just doesn't seem sure enough.

at any rate, i couldn't resist leaving my comments on the petition -- even if it meant that i was somehow implicitly signing it -- to remind the crazies that their fascination with the whole event, highlighted by an insistence on watching/following more than a month of a criminal trial ending on a sunday and the 4th of july holiday, plus nancy grace's daily analysis, is precisely why the possibility even exists that casey anthony will make money. if oprah thought no one was going to watch, she wouldn't pay casey for an appearance. oh and also to tell the crazies that they ought to go to jail for three years and see how that goes for them.

these people, with their "outrage" and "knowledge" of casey's guilt are the same people who, although they might not go right out and buy the OJ simpson book, are going to secretly check it out of the library and read it under the covers at night when they think no one is looking. because what if she did it? this is the consequence of tampering with evidence and going to trial on the theory that sluts are capable of murder. sorry america, i didn't make the rules. i am confident, however, that everything comes back around. if casey's really so bad, maybe she'll be caught in a few years taking a rare brand of duct tape at gunpoint.

i've gotten notifications of about 47 comments left on this post. i haven't read any of them, but i'm confident i swayed the hearts and minds of the crazies and they are simply writing to thank me for helping them see the light and start living their own actual lives. god bless the internet and its unique ability to start a firestorm.

back on the homefront: i spent my friday evening at "stamp camp" making homemade greeting cards. just picture a house full of grown adults with glue sticks and glitter. surprisingly, there is quite a lot of paraphernalia associated with stamp camp -- powders and hot air guns and punches and stencils and dies. although i spent a lot of time alternately complaining about how hard it was and devising shortcuts to avoid the most tedious tasks, and i was exhausted by the frantic pace of cutting and gluing and powdering, etc., i did it! and i had a good time and hope i get invited back. and also that i have the foresight to bring a bottle of wine. if anyone receives a homemade card from me in the near future, try not to pay attention to the blood, sweat and tears oozing therefrom. although, i am confident that with my new mommy it-can-wait attitude, no one will be getting any sort of greeting card from me for many, many years.