-I strive to be a good cook, I really do. I really want to make a GOOD meal, I swear. It doesn’t have to look good; it would just have to taste good. Is that too much to ask? I make great desserts I know that. But honestly, can my butt endure to see me eat that other slice of chocolate cake? And I can’t actually feed the family dessert only. So, I keep trying. And I keep humiliating myself over and over. Day-in, day-out. Whatever. Thank goodness for Mac-and-Cheese and my J’s patience.
-Since I can’t cook, I keep the house tidy and neat right? Wrong! I have the organizational skills of a 2 year old. My roaches and dust balls are tidier than I am. I can’t throw things away; I can’t put things back where they belong. I suck. I remember seeing an episode of Oprah once, where she said something along those lines: “If I buy this, will it have a home in my home?” or “ Does this object have a home?” Well my problem is simple. Nothing has a home in my home. I don’t have a home in my home. Things are just stored, left and right, quietly waiting for their judgment day (AKA: the day I will look at’em, pic’em up, dust’em up and …put’em in the back in a drawer somewhere… yeah, I know, I’m badass!)
-At least, my nails are always looking good, no? Well, yes and no. Considering that my J has a thing for toes, I really try to keep’em looking good. But sometimes, I really can’t be bothered, you know? Besides, who has the time to sit in a chair for 2 hours straight while some stranger fondles my hands and feet and soaks them in soapy water? Well, I do, but damn it, I don’t have the patience. I like having pretty colored nails, mind you. I just hate putting in the effort. I get bored too quick and I never know what to say to aforementioned stranger. I don’t like strangers. Well, it’s not that I don’t like them; I just have nothing to say to them. So it’s just an awkward experience. So if my nails look bad, the polish is cracked and ugly, just figure I’m in one of those moods… it never lasts longer then 3 weeks…
-My J is the best indeed. I can’t deny that. Of course he’s human, so he does and says things that get on my nerves sometimes. But mostly, he always right. And that gets on my nerves, because for someone other then me to always be right is a crime. It’s not normal, he should not be allowed and if he ever reads this, he should know that I only wrote this for his eyes, to make him think he’s actually always right you know, to stroke his ego? The other version of these ramblings (the one not for my J’s eyes) says much, much different things. Anyhow… he always says the things that make sense, he’s reasonable, giving and forgiving. I, on the other hand, am none of those things. He is smart, too smart actually, and he has enough balls to call me on my bullshit. And that takes balls-o’steal, and he has’em. And I respect and love him for that. But now that I’m thinking about it, he’s not perfect, he snores! Like a lawnmower… Take that, my perfect J…
-My daughter. The she-devil-from-hell. The one-who-was-spawned-from-the-fiery-depths-of-hell… don’t get me wrong, she is so sweet, endearing, nice, polite, well-mannered, gentle, patient, quiet, calm…with STRANGERS! All I get is compliments for her great behavior. That’s not half bad, right? It means I’m at least half-assing the whole child rearing thing, if she can behave in public, right? *sigh* Well, it would also be kind of cool if she was half as nice to me as she is to others… But hey, no matter what I do, whether I’m the perfect mom or not, whether I do it all well or not, she will always end blaming me for all that is wrong twenty-some years from now. No matter what I do, I’ll be a subject of conversation on a sofa somewhere. So, what’s a mommy to do if she’s gonna mess it up anyways? I say take a nap… But I adore her more then anything in the universe. Isn’t nature great? You create monsters that you’re in love with, because you’d otherwise destroy them…wonderful!
So yeah, Im a mess...I’m full of good intentions I promise I never mean any harm but I feel like I always end up fucking up, you know what I mean? All my best efforts always end up looking like I farted all over the ones I love.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Let's make this a 2-part first post.
Hi Internets!
Since this is my first ever post, EVER, I figured you'd like to get to know me... So here it goes!
I always thought I would be the perfect everything…perfect mom, perfect wife, perfect cook, perfect party thrower, perfect sister, perfect daughter, perfect, perfect, perfect… It never occurred to me that I would actually need help at playing mommy, or need practice to be “sexy-wifey” or have to give up on feeding people properly altogether! For some reason, it never occurred to me, that my less-then-perfect-childhood would be an obstacle of any kind. How could it be? It should actually guide me and enable me to obtain my coveted title. Goodness, was I ever wrong.
Somewhere down the line though, and that certainly didn’t help, I got lazy. Or maybe I got distracted, or careless, or…I don’t know. Somehow, the years passed and I had done nothing in particular, achieved absolutely nothing noteworthy, and given up on my artistic side for no other reason then that I got mad at my pen one day.
School was of no interest, working was ok, going out and drinking was fun but even that seemed to grow old real quick. I got in the bad habit of always being attached, often to the wrong guy, and for too long. I guess I was just spoiled rotten…
I am really not sure how that could’ve happened, though. Growing up, we were borderline poor, or at least, never had much money left over for my desires or me. I recall stealing 40 bucks from my dad’s wallet to buy panties… he never noticed. But in the family domain, I didn’t really have it bad. My brother? That’s another story.
So how did I get spoiled? I have no clue. I never got everything I wanted. EVER. I couldn’t talk back to my parents unless I enjoyed being smacked upside the head. I did it once. Lost a tooth. Or maybe I’m not spoiled; maybe I just don’t care for anything. But the thought of being so careless that I would have no ambition, that I would have no drive for anything other then napping, and even that’s a fetch… It’s just that I was always told how special I was, how smart I was, how much potential I had… No one ever cared to check if I had drive. So all that potential, these smarts, that specialness… all gone… to waste.
Add to that the fact that I have no particular talent and my story becomes a true tearjerker. But then again, I guess not having any talent just makes me average. And being average seems like a crime to me. Why? I’m not exactly sure. Maybe because average means I’m like most people, and I really don’t want to be like most. Maybe because I feel that deep down, I have a purpose, I just can’t figure out what the hell it is. Maybe also because I feel like I’m wasting away, and that’s got to be a sign for something. I mean, if I really where so useless and meaningless and disposable, would I actually be aware of it? Shit, I hope not. That would really suck balls, wouldn’t it? So. Am I average or am special? What does that mean anyway? I’m just being existential right now, so enough of that. That particular question gives me a headache because I can never find the proper answer for me. So let’s move on, shall we?
In my dreams –illusions, utopia, follies- of perfection, I have none of those questions. They are useless to me. I’m always perfectly happy, dinner is always pretty and delicious, the house is always clean, my nails are always manicured (and pedicured), my J is the best, my daughter is always polite and nice, I’m always cool, calm and collected, and bla bla bleh…
In real life, it’s a tad messier. I’ll make it a point by point of the issues mentioned above.
(to be continued)
Since this is my first ever post, EVER, I figured you'd like to get to know me... So here it goes!
I always thought I would be the perfect everything…perfect mom, perfect wife, perfect cook, perfect party thrower, perfect sister, perfect daughter, perfect, perfect, perfect… It never occurred to me that I would actually need help at playing mommy, or need practice to be “sexy-wifey” or have to give up on feeding people properly altogether! For some reason, it never occurred to me, that my less-then-perfect-childhood would be an obstacle of any kind. How could it be? It should actually guide me and enable me to obtain my coveted title. Goodness, was I ever wrong.
Somewhere down the line though, and that certainly didn’t help, I got lazy. Or maybe I got distracted, or careless, or…I don’t know. Somehow, the years passed and I had done nothing in particular, achieved absolutely nothing noteworthy, and given up on my artistic side for no other reason then that I got mad at my pen one day.
School was of no interest, working was ok, going out and drinking was fun but even that seemed to grow old real quick. I got in the bad habit of always being attached, often to the wrong guy, and for too long. I guess I was just spoiled rotten…
I am really not sure how that could’ve happened, though. Growing up, we were borderline poor, or at least, never had much money left over for my desires or me. I recall stealing 40 bucks from my dad’s wallet to buy panties… he never noticed. But in the family domain, I didn’t really have it bad. My brother? That’s another story.
So how did I get spoiled? I have no clue. I never got everything I wanted. EVER. I couldn’t talk back to my parents unless I enjoyed being smacked upside the head. I did it once. Lost a tooth. Or maybe I’m not spoiled; maybe I just don’t care for anything. But the thought of being so careless that I would have no ambition, that I would have no drive for anything other then napping, and even that’s a fetch… It’s just that I was always told how special I was, how smart I was, how much potential I had… No one ever cared to check if I had drive. So all that potential, these smarts, that specialness… all gone… to waste.
Add to that the fact that I have no particular talent and my story becomes a true tearjerker. But then again, I guess not having any talent just makes me average. And being average seems like a crime to me. Why? I’m not exactly sure. Maybe because average means I’m like most people, and I really don’t want to be like most. Maybe because I feel that deep down, I have a purpose, I just can’t figure out what the hell it is. Maybe also because I feel like I’m wasting away, and that’s got to be a sign for something. I mean, if I really where so useless and meaningless and disposable, would I actually be aware of it? Shit, I hope not. That would really suck balls, wouldn’t it? So. Am I average or am special? What does that mean anyway? I’m just being existential right now, so enough of that. That particular question gives me a headache because I can never find the proper answer for me. So let’s move on, shall we?
In my dreams –illusions, utopia, follies- of perfection, I have none of those questions. They are useless to me. I’m always perfectly happy, dinner is always pretty and delicious, the house is always clean, my nails are always manicured (and pedicured), my J is the best, my daughter is always polite and nice, I’m always cool, calm and collected, and bla bla bleh…
In real life, it’s a tad messier. I’ll make it a point by point of the issues mentioned above.
(to be continued)
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