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March, 2012

  1. Tipping the Pain Scales

    March 24, 2012 by kim

    I’ma kill me somebody here soon enough. I want to revamp the Pain Rating Scale. (“Seriously, Kim? Seriously? You’ve already bitched about this once. It was merely okay. Now we’d like some originality to make up for you being gone FOUR FUCKING DAYS! Come on! We have expectations!” Well I’m sorry. I’ve been busy. AND IN PAIN!)

    Somewhere, in some hospital sub-basement, or that little alley the docs go to when they sneak the cigarettes they lambast their patients for smoking, or perhaps the morgue, SOMEwhere a bunch of medical professionals met and agreed how they were to respond to different numbers on this fucking scale. I WANNA KNOW WHAT THEY AGREED ON! Somebody so moved that Number Six was when you could be admitted into Urgent Care and Number, what, Eight was when they’d drug you? Ten? All the doctors I talk to ask me where I fit on the pain scale and I want to know what the right answer is. Because the scale makes zero sense to me, beyond a linear progression of a personal experience.

    I don’t relate to their numbering system. I mean, that Number Two face still seems pretty happy. I am not happy at a number two. And the smile isn’t wiped off that little round face until Number Four. My own personal number four is distracted and starting to sweat. Sweat! Where’s the sweat? Body fluids don’t even come into play until Number Ten. Anybody besides me ever fucking puke from pain? Yeah. So I’m guessing Wong-Baker watched “This is Spinal Tap” one too many times, because they are apparently setting up the punchline, “These go to eleven.” I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. If Number Ten is, “The Worst Pain Imaginable,” then I better damn well not be able to articulate the word, “ten”. I probably wouldn’t even comprehend the question. I mean, Mr.Ten up there on the chart looks like Mr.Yuck from the seventies after I considered drinking bleach. He’s sad. And uncomfortable. In my world, nine is puking, ten is unconscious. Or suicidal.

    I have an alternate proposal. I’d like to suggest some catch phrases for the doctors to look for, so they can make their own decisions about my pain scale. Primarily because THEY FUCKING HAVE PHD’s! They won’t goddamn listen to me when I tell them I have a bladder infection, (“Well, we need to run a few tests. Pee into this cup and call us back if you haven’t heard from us in a week.”), but they expect me to clearly and cogently explain on a numerical scale how it feels to have my intestines glued to my abdominal wall and then tearing away suddenly? Okie fucking dokie. But to help, I’d like to offer these “cues”, so to speak. Some verbal triggers that can place me at a designated digit.

    0 – “Dandy,” “Peachy,” “Awesome,” or, “Just getting Nutella, why, what are YOU doing at Albertson’s at this time of night?” (Because, see, if I’m NOT in pain, I’m probably not seeking a medical professional. What the hell is the point of that number even existing?)

    2 – “Ooops,” “Yep, that’s it,” “Please don’t touch that,” or, “Holy moly! Sorry, that was loud. Did I scare your other patients? Sorry.”

    4 – “Jesus Christ almighty this hurts!” “Ouch, I am in pain!” “Woah, Nelly!” or, “I will be right there as soon as I can stand up again. Hang on.” (Note the lack of swearing. Swearing is the Mason Dixon line between Four and Six, known as Five.)

    6 – “Mother fucking cock sucking son of a bitch!” “Fuck me anally with a garden rake, this hurts!” “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck” or, “If you ever do that again I will rip your nuts off and cauterize the veins with a blowtorch.”

    8 – “OW OW OW (pant pant pant) OW OW OW (pant pant pant) FUCK ME OW (pant pant pant)”

    10 – ……………………………

     

    Or! Or, we could have some emotional equivalents. What about that? Let’s see…

    0 – Like when a cup of coffee tastes like it smells. Or a light stays green even after the little blinking red hand has stopped blinking and I prepared to have to stop but I didn’t.

    2 – Like when I’m running late and can’t find my car keys. Or my child wipes chocolate on my good shirt. Or I remembered the Visa bill three days after it was due.

    5 – Like when the third loan modification is rejected. Like when I drive forward and the dude in front of me doesn’t. Like when I am told I’m “the wrong physical type,” for a role actually WRITTEN for me. (I made it Number Five instead of Number Four because, I must admit, I swore in all of those situations.)

    6 – Like when my goddamn Dad and his goddamn alcoholism are finally at the point when I have to DO something. But I don’t have to. But I do. Like when I realize finally that letting him lie in the bed he made for himself is actually getting vengeance on the bastard for my perceived injuries. Like when I see that my part isn’t done, I have to step up, and I don’t know how. I don’t know what’s right. And the right decision at best will result in a comfortable end. The wrong decision could very well result in him killing someone. Possibly himself. Like knowing I will never ever ever ever ever be able to make my father understand my reality, and deciding whether or not I want to act anyway.

    8 – Like knowing my mother won’t ever meet her grandchild

    10 – ………………………………..

     

    There. Now I’m going to print this out myself and tape it into my medical files. I think it will serve a useful purpose. If you would like to use it for yourself, feel free. I’m a giver.

    Goddamit this fucking hurts.

     

    Okay, a friend sent this to me, and I laughed until I cried.


    http://lifeinthefastlane.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/UCEM_PainScale.jpg

     

     

     

    Category general musings | Tags: | 19 Comments

  2. When Perspective Bitch Slaps Me…

    March 20, 2012 by kim

    If everyone in the world was like me, that would solve everything. We would have no more war, because we would all totally agree with each other. We would agree on who should run the world, (Me. Or, you know, not me, since everyone in the world is like me anyway), we would agree on which God is real and which parts of His or Her text are pertinent and which parts we can ignore as typos, we would agree on when we should have sex and why, we would agree on what our purpose on this planet is and how best to accomplish it. Every pet would be spayed! Cadbury eggs would be sold year-round! It would rock.

    If everyone in the world was like me, only tasty food would exist and only effective workout regiments would flourish. Hey! There wouldn’t be any car accidents! Everyone would stop at the exact point in a yellow light’s term, and yield right of way exactly the same way at a stop sign. We would all give “thank you” waves when we merged easily and painlessly into traffic on the freeway, which would be flowing at an effortless five miles above the speed limit. We would all make mistakes occasionally, but either they wouldn’t be considered mistakes because we ALL would do it, or we would be forgiven quickly and lightly since… we all do it. We would all get enough sleep since nobody would be practicing the flamenco when their downstairs neighbors were napping. Come to think of it, if everyone in the world was like me, nobody would be practicing the flamenco at all.

    If everyone in the world was like me, we would never argue because we would never disagree. In fact, we wouldn’t really need to talk, if we already knew everything about each other already. Or if we did talk, everybody would want to say the punch line and nobody would want to be the straight man. Wait a minute…

    If everyone in the world was like me, there might actually be a lot of bitching. Not a lot would get done. I mean, I’m kind of lazy, for one. I tend to need outside stimulation to get off my ass and put down the bon-bon. My sister is a post-doctorate biogeneticist semi-pro cyclist. That would have to change. And, really, I don’t know how to use a forklift. I think road construction might become flawed.

    I grow a mean tomato, but if everyone in the world was like me, all that tasty food I was thinking about probably wouldn’t get made after all, because I don’t really know how to do it. Jesus, I’m kinda dumb. If everyone in the world was like me, we might not survive for very long because nobody would build a house or perform organ transplants or stuff. And for sure the museums would be pretty fucking empty. Or pathetic. I know I am woeful at visual arts, so everyone would just make stuff that sucks and wish we were better at it. But we couldn’t get better at it because nobody would BE better at it and able to teach us.

    If everyone in the world was like me, our kids would be royally screwed. I mean, they’d run away to another set of adults just like us. But, then, they’d be just like us, so they wouldn’t be like my kid. I love my kid.

    And, you know, I keep saying “us”. I mean, really, if everyone in the world was like me, I’d be all. By. Myself.

    That would suck.

    Today I am grateful for different viewpoints. I am the sum of my own life, and the only eyes I have are mine. When I am willing to accept that others literally have different views, I expand mine. We are shaped by our unique experiences, so there is no one answer for all of us. Different people, different experiences, different beliefs. Somewhere in this country, there is a woman who listened to a police tape and heard her child screaming in terror before he was shot to death. I cannot fathom that being my experience. I do not know this woman’s views on abortion or income tax or socialized medicine or religion. But my HEART speaks to her, and I pray to the God I know to comfort her. No two of us may be alike, but our hearts all work the same.

    Category general musings | Tags: ,,,,,,,, | 14 Comments

  3. sex strike?

    March 19, 2012 by kim

    I’m so fucking confused. And I purposely put myself in a state of confusion, because it’s better than the white-hot rage I was experiencing. See, normally I don’t do politics here. (I think I did once refer to an incident where a Democrat’s cat was murdered with the word “liberal” inked on its body, but other than that, I try and stay away.) Political viewpoints are very rarely about sharing and expanding for the greater good. More often they are about getting others to agree with your opinions and creating inventive insults if they don’t. I’m not into that. Well, really what I’m not into is having people disagree with my viewpoints and then hurling creative insults at me. So I have avoided it. But today I must speak about WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON WITH WOMEN’S CONTRACEPTION!

    To quickly bring you up to date, here’s some of the shit going down:

    - a congressional panel on women’s contraception, insurance, and religion did not have a single female member (Well, chicks can’t be priests. And priests have problems with birth control. Thus, no chicks on the panel of priests. Duh!)
    - an incredibly famous radio host called a women who had an opinion about that a “slut” and suggested that if she was going to receive “his” money to take the pill, he should get to watch her have sex on YouTube. (Because apparently he is an insurance company)
    - a massive number of people then decided that “they” were not going to pay for a slut to be on birth control
    - a politician suggested that the only birth control pill a woman needs is an aspirin and it is effective when held between the woman’s knees
    - another politician suggested that he understood women’s reproduction because of his time on the farm with the cows and the pigs
    - I have read in the past 48 hours over forty posts describing a woman who chooses to monitor her own reproductivity a “slut”, “immoral”, “loose”, “fucking around”, or some other derogatory term.

    *PLEASE NOTE: I am not mentioning abortion beyond this paragraph. While it saddens me that there are men who empathize more with something that can be mistaken for a blood clot than they do a woman, I really and truly do understand that many people feel they are defending a life that cannot defend itself. I profoundly disagree with that view for a myriad of reasons, but my dearest wish is to see a day when every human being will be desired and cared for at every point in their existence. Please do not leave comments espousing your own personal views of abortion. Even if I agree with you, they will be deleted. This post is about contraception and its access.*

    I did this novel thing: I tried to understand the opposing viewpoint. I CAN’T DO IT! Insurance companies are not federally funded, so how are my tax dollars going into slut walks? Contraceptive pills are not taken per fuck, so how does it indicate a lot of sex if she takes a pill every day? I’m pretty clear that the church’s policies aren’t supposed to be making federal mandates, I mean… that’s why we left England. Cuz we were tired of that shit. And why does it seem to primarily be men espousing this amazingly convoluted series of thoughts, if I can call them that? They aren’t the ones who’s lives have the potential of making a right turn into the toilet if they get knocked up. They aren’t even the ones who’s bodies get taken over for a minimum of nine and a half months, and that’s if you don’t nurse or gain a pound of non-baby weight.

    Most importantly…. WHO DO THEY THINK THESE GIRLS ARE FUCKING? Um….. mostly men, is my guess.

    So that’s a long run up to my main confusion. If men are saying we shouldn’t have access to birth control, aren’t they saying we should stop fucking them? I’m pretty sure that’s what the ol’ aspirin-between-the-knees point was. Did they really think this through?

    I want to call their bluff. A sex strike. Yes, yes, yes, I’m with you. The two biggest points of opposition are very viable, and I’m ahead of you with answers.

    One: My man isn’t the one making these horrible laws. He’s totally liberal and hip and actually helps me pay for my pill. Right. But has he contacted his representatives? Has he signed petitions? Has he even fucking reposted a FB notice about this shit? My dear, silence equals permission. We don’t want to think of the man who sleeps next to us as being complicit with the enemy. I sure didn’t. But the lawmakers are only doing it because they’re getting away with it. Trust me, if they are flooded with male voices screaming for them to halt their asinine behavior so said male voices can get laid again, a lot of this stupidity will stop. Tell our men to use that energy they would normally be giving to us in a productive way, as opposed to a reproductive way. Make some fucking calls, so to speak.

    Two: Chances are the men espousing these ideas and enacting them into laws aren’t getting any anyway. A sex strike won’t phase them. Okay… true. But they have staff. Speechwriters who get laid, pages who get laid, chafferers who get laid, and believe me, if every red-blooded male AROUND them starts giving them shit-eyes, they will get the picture. And a little frightened. There’ s nothing like a Starbucks employee who has the balls to make eye contact with you as he spits in your latte to make you rethink your priorities.

    So if, in fact, we pull off a sex strike, I think it could be pretty good. At first they would all laugh at us and make oh-aren’t-they-cute-to-think-we-care jokes. But after a couple of days, when they realize we MEAN it, they’ll get a little uncomfortable. Men who have easily gone for six month stints without a hard-on will start clamoring for sex. Dudes who have never had to ask for it in their lives with start shaking like they’re coming off of heroin. Gradually their voices will become strained and high-pitched. They will sweat a lot. (Everybody invest in public stock options for porn, because that will soar!) And at the end of the week, they will admit nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

    But we will know. And in about six months, all of this silliness will go away. Because the truth is, when a woman is easily able to control her own body, it’s better for everybody. Especially the bodies who enjoy having sex for fun. It IS fun! It’s SUPPOSED to be fun! And if people REALLY think we can make human beings only have it for procreative purposes, well then I think those are some sad and scary minds.

    And if you don’t think it’s a woman’s issue? What’s a truly derogatory term for a man who has a lot of sex? And how many senators on viagra are having that term, if you can come up with one, applied to them every day?

    This is just my dumb opinion. The pros are here. They have this idea… and others.

    http://www.noaccesssexstrike.org/index.html

     

     

     

    P.S.http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/03/18/dog-river-otter-play-cute-ridiculous_n_1357915.html?ref=mostpopular  Don’t know how you’re feeling, but I sure needed this after I wrote that.

    Category a bit more serious | Tags: ,,,,,,,, | 31 Comments

  4. Mother of the Year

    March 18, 2012 by kim

     

    This parenting thing is a bitch. Seriously. How has the human race survived when all each generation has to go on is the one that came before us?

    My daughter is four. I live in Los Angeles, which presents a unique set of circumstances when it comes to pre-kindergarten parenting. I also, as you may have surmised by now, am a bit of an odd duck with odd luck, which presents a whole OTHER set of circumstances when it comes to parenting. The two combined when I last went to pick my daughter up from preschool.

    I was late, having been in contract negotiations for a new film role, (no, seriously, I was fucking around on Twitter), and came in with a hat hiding my air-dried hair and absent eyebrows so I wouldn’t risk actually terrifying any of the children still at school. One of the two Rock Star Dads was the only other parent there, sending my pulse into the triple digits immediately. (Remember, this is Los Angeles. I am not calling him a Rock Star as a metaphorical or hyperbolic statement.) The head teacher of this particular establishment is merciless, however. She is a punk rock Mary Poppins, and takes no shit and dishes it only when called for with precision and glee. She came up to me with a twinkle in her eye, a barely repressed grin, and said, “You know, through the years, I’ve seen all kinds of things. Mommy’s g-string that got wrapped up with the nap blanket in the wash, Mommy’s bra somehow tucked into the lunch box, but never until today have I had a child show me naked pictures.”

    I stared blankly. What the fuck could that possibly have to do with me? Maybe she was sharing juicy dirt! Maybe she was having an aneurism! I considered my many response options carefully, then went with the ambiguous but eloquent, “Uh-huh…?”

    It was at this point that she pulled out my daughter’s iPhone. NO MY DAUGHTER DOES NOT HAVE A REAL iPHONE! She has challenges with her nap time, and she has been allowed to bring to school an old iPhone of Daddy’s that has no service but everything else still works. It helps get her through the hour without disturbing the other children by banging on the trash can or starting a nuclear war or something. Still… my husband and I get our freak on all well and good, but we are not big on exchanging homemade porn. I couldn’t figure out what the hell the teacher was talking about it.

    My daughter interrupted the proceedings by walking into the middle of the group with her pants around her ankles. “Hey, guys! I need some help!”

    I yanked her pants back up and stammered, ”It couldn’t have been me in the picture,” totally praying that the Rock Star Dad would be struck blind and deaf in a freak asteroid attack.

    “Well, the person had a tattoo that went from her crack to her navel, all the way around,” observed my child’s instructor.

    I grabbed the phone like it was the winning lottery ticket and frantically scrolled through the photos. Most had obviously been taken by my daughter. Shots of the floor. Shots of her books. Some amazing self-portraits, one of which I shared with you above. Annnnnd, yep. There I was. Completely out of focus, since my daughter hasn’t mastered the art of holding the camera still whiles she shoots sneak shots of Mommy getting tea after her shower, but unmistakably me. I looked at Ms.Poppins, then at her assistant teacher who apparently had stayed for the sole purpose of watching my reaction, and the Rock Star Dad whom God had not seen fit to suck up in a tornado to ease my agony. They looked at me. I said the only thing that seemed appropriate: “Well? Would you do me?”

    At this point my offspring threw her lunchbox at my head, screaming, “I wanna go!” I picked her up and she bitch-smacked me right in the face. I heard Rock Star Dad say, “Ooh,” as I left. And you know what? I wasn’t even blushing! I should have been, but I wasn’t. Because this was nothing.

    When I was little, my parents put me on top of a filing cabinet and told me they would come back for me when I quit screaming. They locked me out the back door and left by the front. I was hit hard enough to black me out. I frequently got whatever beverage was in the process of being consumed thrown in my face. I got an extended dance version of how I DIDN’T want to raise my daughter. Unfortunately, I am woefully lacking in the how TO options. So I am doing the goddamn best I can and sometimes that looks a little differently than I would like it to.

    For instance, my daughter has a passionate and extreme temper. Her emotions so overwhelm her, she frequently looses control of her ability to communicate and function. I use that horrible phrase, “Use your words,” at her, fully aware that she not only might not be capable of applying them, but might even know which words apply. I use it when I need to say something or I will blow up, not because I think it’s the best thing to say. However, the day I said, “Use your words,” and was met with an enraged, “I’m fecking, fecking, fecking, angeeee!” I was able to respond in a way I am still proud of. I thanked her for using her words and said I could tell she was angry, I was there to help her if she needed me. Some might disagree with my choice. I stand by it. My child swears. So do I. But since she started swearing, she stopped biting me so much. I call that a win.

    Also, the tiny light of my life is allowed to choose her own music. I have not opened her eyes to the mysteries of Disney Tunes, (kill me), or otherwise suitably age-appropriate tunes. Add to this the fact that Daddy was a pop and lock kid and Mommy likes to pretend she’s fly, we have a recipe for a future pole dancer. Any hint of bass line and she starts dropping it like it’s hot, bobbing her head nearly in time. The only instance this has been remotely useful was when she was in the back seat and I got off the wrong exit on the 101, landing me in a less that savory part of town. As I sat at the stoplight, frantically trying to reprogram my nav system, a car boomed up next to me. The driver’s window came down, doubling the decibels, and cold eyes stared in my direction. You know how a teddy bear hamster feels when it’s been dropped in they python’s tank? I do. I was about to actually roll my window down and apologize for existing when the cold eyes moved into my back seat. My daughter was calmly waving her hands in the air like she just didn’t care to his music. The cold eyes were dimmed by the full golden grill that beamed beneath them as the driver gave me the peace sign and rolled his window up. My kid made what could have been very ugly into something not fatal. I tell myself this when she is marching to the beat down the aisles of Target, swinging her hips and saying, “Look, Mommy! Sexy dance!”

    She refuses to get dressed and stay dressed, until it’s bath time. Then she screams like I’m killing her if I take her shoes off. She wants “princess hair” but won’t let me put a brush anywhere near it. She baffles the pets with her affection/violence so much that one of the dogs has developed a twitch. And I love her so much I physically want to swallow her. I want to put her in my mouth and chew her. Even when I know I’m risking my eyesight, I have to put my face to hers and kiss her.

    I thought they came in little tiny blank slates. I dunno, maybe that’s even true, I just didn’t realize I don’t get to selectively imprint upon her. That poor kid. I spent the first years of her life cursing fate that gave her such strength and independence. Now I thank God daily because if she survives my parenting with any ability to achieve serenity and happiness, it will be exactly because of that.

    And I’m learning a little bit myself in the process. Not winning any awards, but who fecking needs ‘em?

    Category general musings | Tags: ,,,,,,, | 19 Comments

  5. How to be the Best Boyfriend Ever

    March 13, 2012 by kim

    We all know that women should come with instruction manuals. I have endeavored to be of some assistance with that matter, giving tips on getting to a woman’s genital region and what to do once there. But apparently I owe some apologies. There’s this BIZARRE idea running around out there in a few male brains, and I do mean the one on top of their shoulders, that sometimes a dude would just like to make his lady happy in a way that has NOTHING WHATSOEVER TO DO WITH SEX! I have to admit, it took me a while to grasp this concept. I assumed, wrongfully, that I married the only man on the planet who fostered that radical idea. But I’ve been gently and lovingly chastised by a few others and would like to dedicate this posting to them. Married or not, and honestly, with a woman or not, the title Best Boyfriend Ever can apply to you if you wish it.

    Being the Best Boyfriend Ever is a mighty tall challenge. Anybody can be a good lay, (although it’s amazing how often men seem to give examples that belie that fact), and anybody can possess qualities that make a good boyfriend. But there are little, tiny details that might never ever enter the mind of a boy to do, or, and here’s the kicker, the mind of a girl to ask for. But they can turn the merely adequate into a stunning winner with some careful implementation.

    #1 Pay attention to and have opinions on our stuff. Seriously. And don’t just make up bullshit, we can smell that. A boyfriend who knows which color toenail polish he likes and can tell you why is unstoppable. Truly! One of the sexiest, (and alas, married, sorry gals), dudes I know is specific about his fondness for toes painted jelly-bean colors. This tiny little facet of his personality cemented me as his fan forever. Know which jeans her ass looks best in. Know which tops works with her when she’s retaining water. This may seem tedious, but if you can be relied upon for advice when we are at our most vulnerable i.e. making decisions about how we look, you are stepping into “vital-to-my-existence” territory. Also, if you know which frying pan always gives me difficulties because “non-stick” is total bullshit, you can gain even more points by coming up with a perfect Birthday/Christmas/Easter present without having to do last-minute private investigating. I’m amazed at how many men shut down when it comes to stuff that they don’t think has any impact on their lives. Expending a bit of effort to expand a bit of awareness will make us really really happy.

    #2 Find YOUR OWN reason to love what we love. Look. If she is an avid ferret fan and you detest the little buggers, just break up. You will never stop competing for her attention and you will never win. Ferrets are devious. And adorable. A treacherous combination. If she has pets she loves and you do want to try this however, don’t coo in her tone of voice and let them eat out of your mouth like she does. Make your own relationship. Teach her cat to fetch. Teach her dog to fall over when you shoot at him with your finger. Whatever it takes. Same holds true with her friends or if she loves a certain artist. (Beiber is totally exempt from this. Just hold on and eventually sanity will return.) Any boyfriend can echo her sentiments, but the Best Boyfriend Ever will manage to show her something new to cherish about the object of her affection. This will then make you synonymous with the new level of love and we will be very very happy. (Note: This will NOT work if you treat it like it’s a competition or like you know MORE than I. The last thing that will endear a boyfriend to me is a lecture on why Shakespeare didn’t really write “Romeo and Juliet”. Shut up fucktard, you’re not teaching me, you’re telling me I’m wrong. There’s a BIIIIIIIIIIIG difference.) The only time this will be difficult is if she mistakenly believes “collecting” or “hoarding” is the same thing as “loving”. I would be hard pressed to endorse you creating your own passion for Louis Vuitton handbags. That might be weird.

    #3 Know when I’m REALLY on a diet. Okay, this is really really vital and really really tough. When we are REALLY on a diet, we need encouragement, enthusiasm, a bit of tough love, and honesty. When we are on a fake diet, we need reassurance, support, and to be reminded of that pair of pants that makes our ass look good. So far, no problem. But when we are REALLY on a diet, if you bring us ice cream, we will cry. If we are on a fake diet, after two days it is vital you bring us ice cream. Here’s how you can tell. A real diet is usually heralded by an enthusiastic series of rituals. It accompanies charts and exercise regimes and possibly new clothes. A fake diet is announced by obsessive trips to the scale, the phrase, “I really shouldn’t eat this, but…” and requests to examine the cellulite on our ass. A real diet is to achieve a desired goal. A fake diet is to get rid of an object of hatred, like a third chin. The Best Boyfriend Ever doesn’t judge either of these, but reacts with loving support. Your own goal is to make sure we know you love us no matter what. If that means knowing we have the ability to accomplish whatever we want to do OR thinking we are perfect just as we are, when you get it right without having to lie, you will feel the warmth of God’s own hand giving you a pat between the shoulder blades.

    #4 Talk to us. We KNOW you don’t spend hours on the phone with your friends like we do. So telling you to talk to us like you talk to your friends is a ridiculous idea. So, try talking to us like you’re one of OUR friends. If you are new to this concept, start slowly. Maybe share a weird thought that popped into your head when you were running at the park. (“Hey, is it true that crows can talk like parrots? I mean, would they make good pets do you think? I dunno. I would keep thinking of that Hitchcock movie, wouldn’t you?”) Then slowly move up to shit you usually just suppress and forget. Even, perish the thought, EMOTIONAL stuff. Just have a conversation that doesn’t necessarily have a goal in mind. Something that isn’t a problem to be fixed or a change to be implemented, but rather just a little talk. If you find you are becoming paralyzed and short-circuiting, make yourself a cup of tea. That will sufficiently stymie your brain into shutting off its editing mechanism. You can have a lovely chat about why fashions are the same for all the retail world when different places have different weather, and your brain will busy itself saying, “Chamomile? Chamomeal? Chamameal? How the fuck do you say that?” A boyfriend who likes to talk to us is a boyfriend who seems to actually LIKE us. That makes us stupidly overjoyed.

    #5 Don’t make fun of our weaknesses or failures. If you have to drive to my house at two in the morning to kill the spider in her bathtub, do it without complaint, condescension, or mockery. Show me how to set up the VCR for the thirteenth time. Commiserate over the tomato plant that was eaten by slugs in a record-breaking number of days. I know, I know, you wouldn’t care if somebody made fun of YOU for those things, but we do. Remember, the whole fucking world thinks less of us. So when we have moments of weakness or failure, they are magnified in our own eyes because it’s not just about the fucking spider, it’s about every time in my life I was too scared to do what I wanted to do because of something I KNEW I shouldn’t be scared of, and a fucking BOY had to come rescue me. Be gracious. If we bring it up in a tone of self-mockery, don’t assume you then have the green light to point and laugh, either. The Best Boyfriend Ever understands that though we may fail or succumb to fear, we are still perfect in his eyes and he is grateful to have the opportunity to help us out once in a while. This makes us delirious with glee.

    #6 Roughhouse right. Learn how to tickle. Or play frisbee. Or pick us up. Or whatever. Point is, the Best Boyfriend Ever knows how to play physically with a girl in a way that we can still be powerful and competent but you don’t have to treat us like glass. We don’t mind that you are bigger and stronger. Truth be told, we like it most of the time. And it’s downright delicious when we are met with a challenge we can rise to in a manner that makes us feel safe. Find out what our physical limits are and go all the way up to that line, but never ever ever cross it. One of my favorite memories is of a boy I’ve long since lost touch with, picking me up and throwing me into the surf, then falling down with me. He had the guts to do it, the confidence I could take it, and the generosity to share in the consequences instead of standing over me and gloating. He was a fucking good boyfriend.

    #7 Remember why you like us. It may not always be easy. But remember why you like us and remind us of those reasons. Especially when we both seem to be forgetting them.

    There ya go. With any luck I shared a couple of new concepts, but honestly, if you even bothered to read it, you’re probably already on the way to being a Best Boyfriend Ever. And aren’t you proud of me I didn’t say a goddamn thing about the importance of unreciprocated orgasms?

    Category general musings | Tags: ,,,,,, | 8 Comments

  6. Very Specific Horror Stories

    March 10, 2012 by kim

    I’ve got another million-dollar idea. A Specific Horror Movies franchise. ARACHNOPHOBIA was too general. I’m talking niche phobias. Things the rest of us might laugh at. And intend to. (Note: I in no way want to suggest that a genuine mental condition is a laughing matter. It certainly isn’t to the person who deals with it every day. However, if any of you dear readers qualify as target audiences for the following movie plots, I sincerely hope you have a sense of humor about my take on it.) I’m going to share my ideas or maybe a bit of dialogue from each script I’m putting into production.

    ALEKTOROPHOBIA! Dorabelle stumbled through the barnyard. In the dim moonlight, the pigs eyed her warily, but seemed unmoved by her terror. Her breath rasped in her throat, occasionally escaping in a futile scream. She raced to the barn and slammed the door behind her, praying she had escaped their fury. Their tiny-pea brains had honed in on her weakness and wouldn’t relent until she was dead. She knew this like she knew her own name. And like she knew… that sound. In the dark, there was the soft fluff of feathers, and then it started: “Baaaaawk? Baaaaaawk? Bawk bawk buk-CAW!” Dorabelle realized she had fallen into their trap and soon would meet the same fate as her mother had years before. They were toying with her now, but soon she would be pecked to death.

    OMPHALOPHOBIA! Justin is seeking peace, running from a lifetime of fitful dreams and painful relationships. He finally joins an ashram in the Malibu Hills, knowing nothing of meditation or yoga. His worst fears are realized and a journey of agony and ultimate redemption takes place when he is forced to contemplate his navel.

    HIPPOPOTOMONSTROSESQUIPEDALIOPHOBIA!
    Lily: I can’t say.
    Bruce: You mean you can’t talk about it?
    Lily: (cringing) Please! You know how that feels to me.
    Bruce: Because…
    Lily: Stop! Stop! It hurts to hear!
    Bruce: So words with more than one…. um… one…
    Lily: DON’T SAY IT!
    Bruce: Syllable?
    Lily: (realizing) Dear God. You like to hurt me, don’t you?
    Bruce: Maybe. Oh, that has more than one syllable, doesn’t it?
    Lily: Sound! What’s wrong with the word ‘sound’? I hate words with more than one sound to them! They make me want to die!
    Bruce: You hate them?
    Lily: (with venom) Yes.
    long pause
    Bruce: You fear them.
    Lily: (weeping) Yes! Oh, God, yes!!!!!
    Bruce: There’s a name for that.
    Lily: (begging) No. Please no. Don’t.
    Bruce: Yes…
    Lily: No!
    Bruce: Hippopotomonstrosequipedaliophobia.
    Lily: NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

    BOLSHEPHOBIA! A young Lenin scholar is swept into the past in a freak electrical storm to find the true horrors that lay in the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic during a 1905 mass organization consisting primarily of workers under a democratic… internal hierarchy governed by… by the principle of democratic centri…. centri… *COUGH* *SPLUTTER* *HACK*…. sorry. Sorry. I seem to have put myself to sleep for a minute. I started copying Wikipedia and completely lost consciousness there. Whew! Okay. Right. So maybe that’s not a winner…

    ARACHIBUTYROPHOBIA! It’s SAW meets RATATOUILLE when a deranged school lunch lady goes on a rampage and starts torturing students. Kids are forced to snort milk through straws and brush their teeth after drinking orange juice in this horrifying tale of torture and courage. One teacher has the ability to overcome this diabolical fiend, but he must come face to face with his own childhood demons when confronted with… the spoonful of peanut butter. In the final showdown, will he have what it takes to save the children depending on him, or will he succumb once again to keeping the roof of his mouth unencumbered?

    OPTOPHOBIA! A conceptual piece consisting of a blank screen and sounds of people screaming for an hour and a half.

    Whaddya think? I’m gonna get it listed on Kick-Starter as soon as I overcome my Plutophobia.

     

     

    Jesus. I’m not cruel. Of COURSE I’ll tell you what they are.
    Alektorophobia – Fear of chickens
    Omphalophobia – Fear of belly buttons
    Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia – Fear of long words. (MOST IRONIC PHOBIA EVER!!!)
    Bolshephobia – Fear of Bolsheviks
    Arachibutyrophobia – Fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of one’s mouth
    Optophobia – Fear of opening one’s eyes
    Plutophobia – Fear of wealth

    Thanks to one of my favorite sites, The Phobia List. It has given me years of joy.

     

    Category general musings | Tags: ,,,,,,,,, | 12 Comments

  7. Two Thumbs Up

    March 8, 2012 by kim

    Okay, I just read…. I heard Republicans… My union… this…. Oh my God, this isn’t happening, I just want…. Jesus Christ, people…. I…. I…. AREGEHAGOIREJGVLAJSDLAIWUEDJAJDFAHHHHHHHH!!!!!

    *we’re sorry. your normally scheduled blog is experiencing some technical difficulties. please stand by…*http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJkxFhFRFDA

    Whew! Sorry. I’m back. It’s going to take me an entire sleeve of Thin Mints to get my thoughts collected, though. (Is it me, or are they not as good this year? Somebody’s scrimping on the chocolate. But I digress.)

    We have a rhetorical question where I meet: Would you rather be right or would you rather be happy? The first time someone asked this, I gave the obvious answer, “Both.” Then when I expanded on the thought process behind this reply, I stood firmly behind my rationale that I am happy WHEN I am right. Being right is a happifying thing. Being wrong is a saditudening thing. How could one be right and unhappy? Worse, how can one be wrong and happy? Impossible, said I! Then I put my hands on my hips, cued the wind machine, and pretended my cape was blowing behind me as I gazed out over my fiefdom. Yep….

    Ooops.

    You know why they say ignorance is bliss? Well, if I were still ignorant about the whole right/happy thing, I would have a fuckload more patience with the world right now. Most likely I would be on a Side, and it would be the Right Side, and I would be either wallowing in self pity or simmering in joyous gloating. But I’m not ignorant about it any more. I understand that the ultimate goal is happiness, and sometimes we get distracted from that goal with a conflict that seems to impede our progress. But when the conflict becomes the focus, not the impediment, WE ARE FUCKED! I have no patience. I ESPECIALLY have no patience any more for people that are in conflict in my name, and that conflict is intruding on my own quest for happiness. Motherfuckers.

    Let me pause here for a moment and say I am not advocating docile wimpitude. I am not saying be a door mat. I AM saying that sometimes we miss the forrest for the trees.

    Let’s say, for instance, I want to vacation at the beach. My husband wants to ski Black Diamond slopes. (And for anyone who knows us, you can vouch for the fact that this is a TOTALLY made up situation. Hahahahaaaaaa. Yeah. Skiing. That’s funny. Anywho…) It would seem one of us would have to be right and one of us wrong. Or one of us happy and one of us not. Or take separate vacations which, I am fortunate to say, would make us both miserable. But when I look at what would make me HAPPY…. I want to relax someplace warm, drink something tropical with a little umbrella in it, and get a tan. Then what would make him HAPPY… he wants something adventurous and exciting, with the thrill of speed and the challenge of physical dexterity… we can find something that would please us both. I dunno, a safari or something. I don’t know, we haven’t hashed it out, it’s a made-up circumstance. But my POINT is… if we got bogged down in who was going to win the argument, it’s guaranteed that only forty per cent of us would be happy, max. (I know, I know, one half is fifty per cent, but I figure at least ten per cent of the winning person’s happiness would be sacrificed by the constant nagging and whining of the losing companion.)

    So now if you take this one step further and imagine both my husband and I are fighting over what our daughter wants to do for her summer vacation, you know, hit the slopes or work on her tan, (she’s very sophisticated for a four-year old), you’re caught up with my earlier scream of frustration. Because what my kid wants is for mommy and daddy to stop fucking fighting and turn on “Sponge Bob.” Maybe get some ice cream.

    I see this in my world all over. People are fighting like hell over what is in my best interests, and they are so intent on WINNING, they have completely overlooked, oh, I dunno, MY FUCKING INTERESTS! How many times will I hear, “The Public”, “The Voter”, “The Member”, (heh heh heh… I said member), and think, “Golly! That’s me!” Probably not a lot. On the other hand, how many times will I hear someone use those terms, claiming to be advocating for them, and think, “Douchebag.” Probably, said it before, I’ll say it again, a fuckload.

    A lot of people have been conned into the conflict. They don’t identify with “The Public”, for instance, but they DO identify with the person using that phrase and then saying, “We….” as in, “We think the Public would be better off without the use of their thumbs.” People really do hear that and think, “Yes, we do think that. They would be better off.” What they SHOULD be thinking is, “Jesus Christ, they’re gonna cut my fucking thumbs off???” But they’d rather be right than happy. So they invest in the person they identify as the arbiter of “We” and act as requested by said douchebag in order to win, whether or not the outcome truly would make them happy. Hell, nine times out of ten, they aren’t even thinking of the outcome beyond the final score. “Woooooo! We won! What has two thumbs and loves winning? This… oh shit.”

    Sometimes I wish I could unlearn things. I wish I could go back to feeling passionate about whether I was Tastes Great or Less Filling. But I just stare dumbfounded as the fight goes on and want to scream, “Just gimme a fucking beer!!!!” How did we get so duped? And how do I learn to be happy in the midst of this melee?

    Well, first of all, I bitch about it here. I ask if I’m crazy or if the world is crazy. Then I finish the last Thin Mint, vow to buy Samoas tomorrow, and go turn on Sponge Bob. Because you know what? I get to say whether I play or not. And you can’t lose a game you don’t play. That. Makes. Me. Happy.

    Category general musings | Tags: ,,,,,,,, | 8 Comments

  8. Super Answer Lady Person

    March 7, 2012 by kim

    I feel the need to reconnect. To give. To share. To completely wimp out on writing a real blog, so instead, I shall put on my cape and high boots and adopt my alter ego, (drumroll, please), ANSWER LADY PERSON! Faster than a speeding innuendo, able to leap vast gaps of logic in a single bound, she’s hip, she’s happening, she’s here. So…..

    Dear Answer Lady Person,

    After my girlfriend and I have sex, she gets up and goes to the bathroom. I mean, like, immediately after. She kisses me and walks right in. What is up with that? Is it me? Did I do something wrong? Do other chicks do this? WTF?

    Signed,
    Would Like to Cuddle

    Dear Cuddle Bunny,

    Dude. First of all, all that lovely load you just shot into her nether regions has to go SOMEplace. I’m guessing you neither want to sleep in the wet spot nor get up and change the sheets while you are basking in your afterglow. Unless you are trying to get pregnant, (in which case she would immediately begin standing on her head), girlfriend is going to neatly and rapidly dispose of your boys in as discreet a manner as possible. What, you expect her to use the sock next to your bed? That’s just for you, honey. She’s just being tidy.

    Secondly, there’s this little thing called a Urinary Tract Infection. Nasty little bacteria get in places they aren’t supposed to when you have sex. If they wend their way up her urethra, into her bladder, bad things happen. Some girls are more susceptible to these than others, but it’s always a good idea to go after you come, as this Mother would say.

    So keep the bed warm and greet her kindly when she returns. She’s doing her part to make sure you can do her parts again.

    Dear Answer Lady Person,

    I think I fucked up. I’ve been married for seven years. We have a kid and things get kinda boring in the bedroom. So she thought she would spice things up by asking about my fantasies and stuff. I told her some bondage stuff and maybe brought up the garter belt she used to wear and then I asked her about her fantasies. She said she thought having another woman in bed with us would be hot. So two weeks ago, I had the grandparents watch the kid and told my wife I was going to play poker. Instead I found this hot chick at a bar who said she was bi and brought her home. My wife freaked the fuck out and I’ve been on the sofa ever since. WTF?

    Signed,
    Seriously, WTF?

    Dear Ridiculously Stupid Idiot,

    God, please tell me you didn’t then go fuck the chick you brought home. That would mean this was unsolvable. You poor, sweet, well-intentioned, dumb man.

    You probably thought bringing up fantasies was an opening to maybe switching up some of the habits in the bedroom, right? You thought you would bring up a few ideas you’ve been toying with, so to speak, and she would take the hint then let you know what you could add to your repertoire. In fact, you only asked to be polite. Admit it. Then when she gave you the Holy Grail of go-aheads, you couldn’t wait to plow ahead. Lay that groundwork. So to speak. That’s because you are a dude. And dudes ACT. The whole conceptualization process is just a step BEFORE doing something. You don’t watch porn without getting off, do you? No. You act, even if it’s alone.

    We women have an entire existence that takes place in our heads. We do watch porn without touching ANYTHING. Then we may edit and replay later at our own discretion, but only after it marinades in our mind for a sufficient period of time. We have a CHASM between fantasy and reality. What’s more, our fantasies change constantly. This does not mean our realities need to change. In fact, kinda the opposite. We have fantasies to make the reality more enjoyable as it is. So if we share those fantasies with you, really…. do not assume that means you should go get a Great Dane and a jar of peanut butter. It just means the IDEA tickles our fancy. Unless we follow up with, “And do you think we should advertise on Craigslist? I have a rough draft right here,” in which case you absolutely MAY request what flavors you’d like to include. But still, to be safe, let her take the lead.

    For now, eat lots and lots of crow. And pussy, if given the chance. You are in the Dawg House my friend. Anything she loves, bring it. She will forgive eventually. Assuming you didn’t fuck the chick. You didn’t, did you?

    Dear Answer Lady Person,

    My boyfriend wants to lick my toes. I think that’s totally gross. How do I get him to stop asking? WTF?

    Signed,
    Turned Off

    Dear Turned,

    Oh, that’s easy. Just keep telling him no and that it’s totally gross. Eventually he will stop asking and either be miserable or go find somebody else to ask.

    I’m assuming you haven’t TRIED it, right? Just the thought grosses you out? Dear girl, I would like to introduce you to the idea coined by a personal idol, Dan Savage, which is GGG. “GGG stands for ‘good, giving, and game,’ which is what we should all strive to be for our sex partners. Think ‘good in bed,’ ‘giving equal time and equal pleasure,’ and ‘game for anything—within reason.’” If it won’t hurt you, what do you risk in giving it a shot? At WORST, you will be skeevy for a little bit and he will be happy and grateful and shut up about it. That’s at worst. If you aren’t actually phobic or a complete bitch, doesn’t the idea of something turning him so much that he KEEPS ASKING OVER AND OVER turn you on a little bit? Wouldn’t it be nice to see him slaver like a puppy dog and shed a single tear of appreciation? Can you imagine the cunnilingus that would earn you? Come on…. it’s your toes. Get a nice pedicure and go for it. Better yet, make him give you the pedi, but tell him he’s not allowed to taste until the polish is dry.

    I’m jus’ sayin…

    Dear Answer Lady Person,

    How is it that single shoes wind up on the side of the freeway?

    Signed,
    Confused

    Dear Confused,

    Holy shit, I was going to ask you the same thing! I know, right? WTF?

    Category naughty bits | Tags: ,,,,,,, | 21 Comments

  9. Airborne!

    March 4, 2012 by kim

    If any of you have been following this blog long, or understand what I mean when I say I “have a Program”, or…. well…. know me at all, you will remember I have a challenge when it comes to taking care of myself. I mean, I groom and everything, (am I the only one who pictures being able to lick one’s own butt when I use that word? Groom just automatically means “cat” to me. For the record, I can NOT lick my own butt), I generally remember to eat, I have clean clothes… well that’s honestly because my husband does the wash most of the time. But I don’t smell bad! I just don’t take very good care of myself. I grew up in an alcoholic household and learned that love meant putting others first. The more I sacrificed, the better person I was and the more I loved and deserved love. I adopted some other habits out of self-preservation that don’t work so well for me now as a real, live, grown-up either. (Really? People don’t love you MORE when you show them repeatedly how wrong they are? But if I don’t, HOW WILL THEY KNOW THEY NEED MEEEEEE????) I am committed to overcoming and reprograming these habits, but damn, it’s hard!

    One of my tasks: I am supposed to learn how to have fun. Have some “me” time. Take care of my Self, as well as myself. This has proven baffling, but today I had a breakthrough!

    My daughter and I have commandeered the sofa-bed in the upstairs part of our apartment. It’s in front of the television and right next to the door that opens to the patio/roof. I’ve spent two days now looking at my outdoor space and marveling that I still have some plants alive out there. Wait, maybe I have a picture. Please hold….

    Well, this is old, but you get the two important things for the purpose of my story. One, we are three and a half stories up in the air, and two, I have plants. Some, as I have said, are alive. Some have died due to neglect or the fact there’s not a lot of shade on a roof. What? Really? I thought plants LIKED the sun! Whatever. Pussies. So I got me some dead plants. Not so much a green thumb, this one.

    I initially thought one of the ways I was “taking care of myself” was allowing myself to procrastinate. You know, the job seems yucky and not much fun and hard work, plus it’s not really vital, so I’m giving myself permission to not do it right now. See the problem there? Then the job looms. Looms. Loooooooooooms. Possibly with foreboding. Then I start avoiding all together and guess what happens? MORE plants die. So today I got my little panties in a bunch and decided I am actually recovered enough from this plague I caught and I was going to uproot the dead plants and throw them out. Just to clean things up and figure out how many pots I have to fill with things that are still photosynthesizing. (See what I did there, faithful readers?)

    I’ll skip the part about getting maudlin over finally uprooting the valiant tomato plant that was trying to convince me it was still viable. I’ll leave out explaining to my daughter that peppers always do that when they get rained on, it’s natural and normal, but I’d still rather she didn’t shove them up the dog’s nose. I will TOTALLY avoid telling you about the number of gross little pinchy earwig-like bugs that I recoiled from, in spite of knowing they were terrified and running for their lives. (Unsuccessfully. They’re ugly, creepy, and when they jump out at me, they deserve what they get.) Let’s just get to the part where I have five ginormous semi-petrified root balls sitting on my deck. The right and proper thing to do would be to double bag them and haul them down to the trash bins.

    “Travis,” I sang out to my husband. (I know what you’re thinking. I was gonna get him to do it. We don’t have that kind of relationship. I’m the stubborn mule who will haul my own heavy shit, much to his dismay. I have no problems demanding he set up the remote control, however.)
    “….Yes?” he answered, recognizing the tone in my voice and knowing something dangerous was percolating.
    “I need you to talk me out of something stupid,” I called.
    He came out and looked at me. I was sweaty, covered in dirt, and grinning like a maniac. “What?”
    “See those?” I pointed at the ex-vegetables.
    “….Yes?”
    “I wanna throw them off the roof.”
    He looked at me. He looked at them. He looked over the roof where there is a barely maintained yard below, if by yard you mean a couple of ancient Pterodactyls of Paradise, (the two-story cousin of a Bird of Paradise. They’re all over here in SoCal), and some cat poop. “Do it.”

    I was giddy. I was gleeful. I picked up one of the masses and walked to the side. I am scared of heights and that didn’t stop me. The pinchy bugs that crawled on me, desperately seeking refuge from their impending flight didn’t stop me. I made sure no one was coming and hurled that sucker! OH MY GOD THAT WAS TOTALLY AWESOME! I did another. EVEN BETTER! Every single one was an endorphin rush of glory. Then I happily took my broom down to the sidewalk and tidied everything up like a good tenant.

    “What the hell, Kim?” You are asking. “You have a point?” Yes. Yes I do. I realized that taking care of myself doesn’t have to look like anything other than an idea. A little whisper that sounds like, “You know what might be fun?” True, I didn’t want to lug that heavy shit all the way downstairs, but it wasn’t really about the effort. It was about getting to throw shit off of a roof! Come on!

    I’m gonna go barefoot more often. In public. Not in supermarkets or anything, but at the park, dammit. I’m gonna step in puddles. I’m gonna sing OUT LOUD next time I know how to harmonize with a song playing in the mall. Yeah, that’s right. I’m gonna wear some of those eyeshadows I always buy because I love the color but don’t wear because they aren’t neutral. I’m gonna have me some FUN!

    Which apparently counts as taking care of myself. Ta-daaaaa!

    *dedicated to those who had fun in Burbank with me over the weekend

    Category general musings | Tags: ,,,,,,, | 21 Comments

  10. a day in the life

    March 3, 2012 by kim

    So, I was at a SUPERNATURAL convention yesterday. I am on Twitter. I read my blog comments. And somehow I get the feeling somebody out there thinks being an actor on TV makes me something different than other people. It  truly doesn’t. I would like to recapture my day on Thursday, March 1st, for you as exhibit A. I will edit for boring content, but the specifics are factual.

    12:00 AM – finish taping a pilot audition. And by that, I mean, quit insisting my husband shoot another one because that last one wasn’t good enough. Why am I taping it instead of going in, you ask? Wellllllll…. I’m desperate. If I can’t get in the room, they might look at some footage. Probably won’t change their minds, but I at least feel pro-active and not helpless. And why am I doing it at midnight? Yeah. The child is sick and this is the first time husband and I have had without her needs.

    12:03 AM – watch audition tape yet again. Decide I am truly a no-talent hack with really bad hair.

    12:11 AM – find my haircutting scissors. Bangs! I need bangs! My cute friend K.C. has the most awesome bangs in the world. I shall cut my hair like hers.

    12:15 AM – my hair is not like hers. And, you know, the thing about bangs is…. you can just keep cutting them.

    12:32 AM – resist urge to get out husband’s level. Force self to stop, clean up hair and go to bed.

    12:41 AM – really really this time, clean up hair in the sink and stop.

    12: 52 AM – honestly, totally, I really mean it, stop cutting hair and go to bed.

    6:52 AM – get up before sick child, finish evening up bangs. Just a little.

    7:15 – 10:00 AM – try and get child to eat, since she sure as hell ain’t going to school with this cough and fever.

    10:34 AM – saddle up dogs to take them and child on a walk.

    10:48 AM – have following conversation with child:

    CHILD: Mommy, what’s this?
    ME: That’s a ladybug
    CHILD: I like de dadybug.
    ME: Me too, honey.
    CHILD: I step on de dadybug.
    ME: No! No, don’t…. dammit.
    CHILD: What?
    ME: Now the ladybug is dead.
    CHILD: Yeah. Dat’s sad.
    ME: But you did it! You killed the ladybug! Why did you do that?
    CHILD: Poor dadybug.
    ME: Was that kind?
    CHILD: It’s dead.
    ME: It’s all done now, honey.
    CHILD: I smooshed it.
    ME: That was not kind and gentle. It is not kind and gentle to kill things.
    CHILD: Mommy, stop talking.

    11:11 AM – have following conversation with child:

    ME: Honey, come on. You wanted to come with me and I told you, Mommy’s sick and I can’t carry you. I can’t carry you so you have to walk, honey. Baby, I love you, but don’t sit in the driveway, cars can’t see you. It’s not safe. You gotta walk, honey. Now. Come on. Okay, 1…. 2….

    11:16 AM – carry child for the rest of the walk after convincing her to relinquish her collection of mummified worms. I do have limits.

    11:37 AM – start shower to get ready for audition I have not prepped. Gratefully accept husband’s offer to take child out of the apartment.

    11:52 AM – recover from shock of looking in the mirror and remembering what I did to my bangs.

    12:06 PM – clean hair from sink where I just, I swear, only took a little weight off the sides.

    12:15 – 12:48 PM – relentlessly iron and spray hair to make it look like something someone meant to do. Damn K.C. and her adorable bangs!

    1:00 PM – get dressed. Remember I’ve worked with both the director and producer already and my boobs will not sway them. Decide to feature them anyway, since I never really got the sides prepped and I gotta bring SOMETHING to the table.

    2:48 PM – arrive early, hoping to get in and get home. No such luck. Lobby is full of hot chicks and each one is taking probably fifteen minutes in the room.

    3:17 PM – text director from audition. Bring up boobs. He is unimpressed. Dammit.

    4:04 PM – finally get in room. Read the scene once and am released immediately. I most definitely do NOT get fifteen minutes in the room. And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is one of the ways you know you might have sucked. I hope one of my friends book it at least.

    6:30 PM – get home.

    6:32 PM – weep because I have to decide between paying for rent next month or paying for my cat’s radiation treatment. Swear that the next time I am rich, I will be much better at it.

    The rest is a blur. I got people fed, I guess, and somebody became unconscious. I probably cut my hair again. I dunno. The point is…. I might do stuff that others don’t, but my experience is pretty much the same. I’m fucking broke, I’m scared, my family is my priority and brings me more joy than any shiny statue ever could, and I obsess about ridiculous things but somehow can’t stop myself from doing so.

    Okay, maybe not all of you have had the EXACT same moments in your day, but you get it. I know you do. So the next time you see me and want to say something, please do. I like you. And I AM like you.

     

     

    A POST SCRIPT REGARDING THE CASH FLOW SICH-EE-AY-SHUN: I finished my blog and opened my mail. I got a residual check from the second airing of “Hello, Cruel World.” Between the convention yesterday and the check today, SUPERNATURAL has paid for both my cat and my apartment this month. Thank you all very much. I honestly mean that.

    Category general musings | Tags: ,,,,,,, | 29 Comments