…september

This morning brought a kick in the pants courtesy of Blitzken. He posted an article written by Mark Manson titled Love is Not Enough. Initially, I giggled because the preview mentioned Trent Reznor and we all know how well things end up for me when Trent Reznor is involved. Then I thought “Hmmm…It’s Sunday morning. You have a ton of things to do today and you’re not in the best head space to begin with. Are you sure you want to go down this rabbit hole?” Given that I am extremely adept at making bad decisions, I clicked and the little hamster on the little wheel in my little head started running and running and running.

This article is quite provocative and potentially painful. It certainly gave me a great deal to chew on and a great deal to file under: Denial or Save for Therapist. Accepting love does not come easily. We’re humans and, as such, we’re not overly bright when it comes to management of emotions. At least I’m not and I’m fairly certain I’m not alone in this regard. What really stung was reading this:

One of the oldest pieces of relationship advice in the book is, “You and your partner should be best friends.” Most people look at that piece of advice in the positive: I should spend time with my partner like I do my best friend; I should communicate openly with my partner like I do with my best friend; I should have fun with my partner like I do with my best friend.

But people should also look at it in the negative: Would you tolerate your partner’s negative behaviors in your best friend?

Again – a billion thoughts in the head but the one I’m willing to cop to is thinking about my relationship with Kate.

When I spoke at Kate’s memorial service, I had nothing prepared. One would think that someone who likes words and likes to make things out of words would have had some idea, a rough outline of sorts, of what to say or how to speak about her dearly departed best friend. I genuinely didn’t. Even that morning, as I was getting ready (which, to be honest, other than throwing on a dress, I didn’t do because I felt it was pointless to look nice) I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say other than wailing “I want my best friend back.”

When it was time to speak, I stood in front of a room of people (which I despise doing) and decided to talk about our friendship and what made it the perfect friendship for us. Kate and I were “yin-yang” to the core. From our appearance, our personalities, how we approached life, etc… I remember saying “Kate is kind and I am…me.”

After reading the article, I started thinking about Kate’s negative behaviors. People are prone to canonizing the deceased. Look no further at the legacy of Ronald Reagan for that. I wonder if I have been doing the same over the years and think “nope.” Kate was Kate. She wasn’t perfect, she had her flaws and areas for improvement but, overall, she was one of the kindest, most decent people one could hope to encounter, let alone befriend. And, because of that, she usually ended up in situations where she was hurt or taken advantage of. To the point of the article, if I were to expect the exact qualities in a lover as I would Kate, that would be impossible. Best friendships from childhood are special, precious and cannot be reproduced under any other circumstance – much like a gemstone. One can certainly make one in a lab but they’ll always remain lab created and not the real thing. And while lab created such-and-such has value and serves a purpose, it’s never treasured on the same level as the naturally occurring substance.

I also thought about how many times Kate and I argued. Arguing isn’t necessarily a bad thing but I find it exhausting, physically and emotionally. I feel as if it takes me longer to recover from an argument than a hard day’s work of physical labor. I also think arguing (note: not animated bickering but fully blown, nasty words exchanged, accusations lobbed, name calling and general insulting activity) is destructive. Off the top of my head – Kate and I argued twice. Once when she questioned why I went to a therapist and questioned the entire life with depression thing largely due to my making some horrendously odious and destructive decisions at the time (I hung up on her even though I knew she was correct in calling me on my shit but incorrect about the depression bit) and the other time was about the drug dealer.

After that call in July when I thought everything was settled and she was going to toss him in the fuck-and-run bin, things seemed relatively quiet with Kate. We mostly talked about work, my frustrations with being a new mom and Dock’s being away so much, some health issues we were both having and boredom. A mostly non-notable summer passed. Me in Raleigh, Kate in Atlanta (the master plan was both of us in Atlanta but I was derailed). Me being a Mommy. Kate going out and having a rip-roaring good time with her friends when she felt up to it or staying at home, being a hermit and reading books when she didn’t. It was the new normal for us since Kang’s days of debauchery were decidedly over.

September rolls around and it’s still more of the same with the minor exception of my spine getting much, much worse. Turns out – lifting a baby when your spine is disintegrating isn’t a really great thing to do on a repeated basis. Emotionally, I was on overload. I did not need another problem to manage. I simply didn’t have it within me to deal with another problem. My patience was shot. My nerves, physically, were on fire and metaphorically, were just done – over everything. As usual, Kate listened to me moan, groan and cry my way through visits with specialists and share in my delight and I was handed Rx for pain killers. One of Kate’s dirty, little secrets was a fondness for recreational use of painkillers to take the edge off. She wasn’t much of a drinker but she did have a bowl of various pills on her kitchen table. Looking back, it should have been a clue. Then, it was just amusing to me. “Here – take one of these when you get home” she would say and I would wake up three days later. Good times.

The weirdness picked up around the middle of the month as her birthday grew closer. She started calling me from work during the day. Now, I’m rotten to the core and think nothing of making a personal call during the work day. Kate, on the other hand, wouldn’t dream of breaking a rule. If I did call her during the day, she would try to limit the conversation to minutes because she was supposed to be working. My initial thought “Oh yay! She’s finally relaxing.” Another sign missed.

The day before her birthday Kate called me in the morning and she was acting considerably bizarre and exceptionally evasive. I couldn’t figure out why she called if she was completely unwilling to talk to me or tell me anything about her weekend. She also didn’t appear to be in any mood to hear about what was going on with me. Then she tells me – she saw the asshat again. After 25+ years of being best friends, I didn’t need to know much more than that. My initial assumptions were correct: she never stopped seeing him, she never stopped using and her life was out of control. I was awash in rage and back to my earlier comment about the yin-yang, being angry at Kate is like being angry at Thumper. Who the fuck gets angry at Thumper? Who the fuck gets angry at Kate? Maybe I raised my voice? Maybe I didn’t? I don’t remember exactly. What I remember, clear as day, was saying I didn’t have the time to talk about her and the non-entity and hung up. Then I dashed off one of the cruelest, harshest emails I have ever written in my life and I can write some really toxic shit when I put my mind to it.

The gist of the email was: It’s the day before your birthday and instead of acting like you’re 38 going on 39, you’re acting like you’re 18 going on 19 (or something like that). Is this how you want to age? Is this your idea of maturity? How ’bout this? Why not give yourself the best present you can? Get yourself to a qualified therapist, work through your bullshit with respect to picking loser boyfriends and friends and why your self-esteem is in the toilet. Stop doing meth, kplzthnx. I love you like a sister. I don’t want to see you dead. If you continue down this path, you’re going to be dead. PS: Don’t speak to me again until you have made an appointment with a therapist.

Her response: an email confirmation for an appointment with a therapist. And, over the ensuing months, she made sure to report in to me regarding her treatment and progress. PHEW.

In the pre-Milkface era, when issues like this arose, the solution was simple. All I needed to ask was “Do you want me to come down there?” Her response was always “No.” And I followed with “Are you certain?” Five or six hours later, I was in Atlanta. That’s the way we rolled because Kate is like everyone else on the planet. No one wants to openly admit that they want help or simply don’t want to be alone. Most people will front and say they’re just fine while secretly wishing someone will show up and rescue them from something truly awful. Yeah…shake your head no. You’re lying to yourself.

This time, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get in Astrid and blow down 85 to talk sense into her. I had Milky and a traveling husband. And something that I have never admitted to anyone before – I was genuinely afraid, too. Abusive boyfriends, I can handle. Horrible break-ups: piece of cake. General life crisis: easy-peasy-puddin-pie. Drug dealers: not my forte. Meth has always scared the shit out of me. Furthermore, I didn’t know how bad things really were. I was working with data provided to me by Kate and Kate was 414 miles away.

All that said, it is my biggest regret in life. I might not have been able to prevent the inevitable but I sure as shit could have tried. My best friend, the person with very few negative behaviors (known to me at the time) deserved that and more. And how did I respond to the person with the least negative behaviors and the least amount of character flaws in my life? I failed her. I failed her family. I failed myself. And, please, do not think this is a plea for pity or forgiveness. It’s not. It’s just a genuine statement of how I view the situation now that I have more pieces of the puzzle. Logically (and knowing what I know now), I know the battle for Kate would have been epic and I was woefully incapable of fighting it. It doesn’t lessen the sting or the sorrow, though. It certainly doesn’t lessen the yearning for a do-over, mulligan, what-have-you. Maybe, however, it does explain why the grief is as profound as it is and why this particular loss is different and thus must be managed differently, atypically.

Fuck me, right?

Look. At. The. Picture. Assholes.

Yup. I’m sprawled across the bed, perusing Better Homes and Gardens, City of Durham edition. Oh who the fuck am I kidding? There is no such thing. After today, after seeing one too many homes with one damn bathroom for a family of three (and shut your mouth, I don’t care what you think. Princess Demandy-Pants shares a bathroom with NO ONE. Not even the cats), one too many homes that need some TLC (eat a bag of dicks, realtors) or one too many homes out of my price range, I’m about to give up on this fleeting fantasy of moving closer to PCSGU. I will resume the 147 shuffle and I will like it. I will miss the gym and I will embrace the flab. I’ll get up at 04.00 instead of 04.30/05.00 when Dock is travelling so I can write the pretty stories with the hyperbolic flourish and profanity overkill. Yup. Fuck it all! Oh…and I’ll even pay through the nose when the lease on the white VW expires because heaven knows when we’ll repair that lovely dent I put in the front quarter panel of the blue VW (compliments of a garage in Durham – yet another sign I need to stay the fuck put).

Yes. Sprawled across the bed I am when I hear my son talk about the time that tickle juice (otherwise known as cortisone cream) ended up on his itty-bitty toothbrush instead of actual toothpaste. I remember this morning well.

In the audio-sound-engineering-bleeping-blooping-noise-making industry that is Dock’s, the work seems to be feast or famine. Either he’s in town and grating on my last nerve or he’s out of town on a road gig and I’m plotting his death because he left me alone to deal with *everything.* Let me say this right here, right now: if anything happens to my husband (heaven forbid), I will marry the first man I can find with a pulse, a non-negative bank account and remotely respectable credit score because I am not built for single motherhood. The man can have tombstone teeth, Leprosy and Typhoid for all I care. Just so long as he’s capable of taking out the garbage, running the vacuum and unloading heavy shit from my car – we’re good. And, it goes without saying, mad props to single moms. How you do it and not end up in a straight-jacket mystifies me. Furthermore, if you doubt me – see if I’m walking upright and speaking in full sentences at the end of this month since Dock will be away 10000% of the time. I won’t be and there’s a really good chance that I will have had to forgo the shower that day, too.

That morning was one of those that started off decently. I woke up early enough to grab several pots of coffee, read websites bearing no relevance to my job and get cracking on those wild and crazy spreadsheets I whip out at a snail’s pace only to rework and rework again. I wake up the Milkface, get him dressed, drag his blanket, select fluffies and his limp body down the stairs and force him to feed the dog. I likely kicked the dog out the door after arguing with him to drop his stupid toy which he always tries to sneak out of the house and then I focus on feeding Milky. Dishwasher (the glory hole free version) is unloaded, dishes put away, more dishes thrown at the sink, several rounds of “eat your fucking breakfast, I don’t give a single fuck about what so-and-so did at pre-k yesterday” later and it’s time to scrub up. Dollars to donuts, it was one of those mornings I said “fuck it” and threw a bra on beneath the pjs, pulled the hair up in a knot and considered myself appropriately attired for morning drop off. For some reason, I did have to take off my glasses. Milky probably spewed syrup, tears or allergy medicine in my face.

Life may begin at forty but your eyesight will fuck off at forty. Guaranteed.

Of all the things one comes to value when they turn 40 – it’s the glasses. I have had the esteemed pleasure of wearing glasses since the summer after freshman year of college. Progressive lenses, at that. But I could manage to fumble around well enough without them for a few minutes without setting the house on fire or causing bodily harm to myself or anyone else within a five mile radius. Once you’re in your 40s, things change. You need your glasses on your face all the time because everything becomes small and blurry.

Milky is at the sink and I hand him his toothbrush. I’m yelling at the dog (the dog and I, well – it’s complicated. I love him. He’s a good dog but…he is a dog and I…I am a cat person) about his stupid toy or something and I hear this retching and gagging noise followed by screaming and wailing. Milky with teary wide eyes looks up at me and says “Moooooooooooooooooooommy! This is not toothpaste!” Fuck me, right? Turns out, what comes out of the Tom’s of Maine kid’s toothpaste tube bears a strong resemblance to “tickle juice” (cortisone cream). So, on that particular morning, I inadvertently poisoned my kid.

I do not panic. I’m too cool to panic about these things. I work in healthcare! I know people! I know people who have degrees in sciency things and do the medical stuff like put bandaids on booboos and replace heart valves. And, because I know these people and I play with this shit all day long, I am :drumroll: a doctor by extension.

No. Really. My mail is addressed to Dr. High Priestess Kang. All the glory and none of the malpractice and student loans. GO ME!

Not really.

What I did do while I was certainly not panicking about potentially killing my kid was google “cortisone cream instead of toothpaste.” Turns out, I’m not the only moron on the planet. I scream “Did you swallow?” (here, have some bleach for that gutter mind of yours) and Milky responds “No but this tastes awful!” “Spit! Rinse and spit” I bark back. I rip the toxic toothbrush out of the kid’s hand and then spend the next 20 minutes trying to convince him that the new toothbrush has actual toothpaste on it and Mommy promises she won’t try to kill him again. He takes the bait and off to school we go. I spend the remainder of the day waiting for child protective services to show up and take Milky into foster care.

This evening I hear the words: tickle juice, toothpaste and Daddy. I scratch my head and holler from the room “No, Milky. Mommy tried to poison you; not Daddy.” Milky walks into the room followed by Dock. Dock turns and said “Wait…you did that, too?” Dock is the worst about wearing his glasses. Bitches and moans like you would not believe. It’s one of those things about your significant other that invokes images of their heads on pikes. Left eyebrow raised, I look over Better Crack Homes and Whore Houses of Durham Weekly and ask Dock “Did you try to kill our child with tickle juice?” Milky interjects “YOU BOTH DID!” Uh. Oh.

Silence washes over the house for the first time since 2004 when the deed was passed to us. Then, our sweet, loving, freakishly intelligent child says with his finger pointing in the air “I have a suggestion. JUST LOOK AT THE PICTURE ON THE TUBE.” And with that, two 40-somethings were given the giant bowl of STFU from a five year old. Looks like we’re getting our money’s worth from Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns. Either that or he’s morphing into a horrible smartass.

They say…

…and they are always right, aren’t they?

They say that when one resumes the “art” of writing, that the writer should be disciplined; that the writer should sit down once and day and grab some words, rearrange them into sentences which will inevitably form a paragraph which could potentially result in many paragraphs with the ideal goal of producing some sort of cogent essay or story. I was really hoping for a massively long run-on sentence and this should demonstrate exactly where my brain isn’t because I couldn’t even formulate that.

I crawled into my office this morning with a cup of coffee and a bit of grit and determination to make the words say something pretty or something repulsive. Nothing happened. I grew frustrated and started fidgeting around with WordPress which made me unpleasant and intolerable so I tried taking a nap.

Après failed nap, I waddled back into my office and resumed the exercise. Again, nothing happened.

I went downstairs, grabbed a handful of chocolate covered raisins, stuffed them in my foodhole, washed them down with water (which I always carry with me in some nalgene-ish bottle) and dragged myself back upstairs to my office. Nothing.

I turned on the tv and watched recorded episodes of The Gilmore Girls. Nothing.

I started thinking of my usual sources for inspiration but it’s a slow news day so I cannot get in touch with my inner hate. My husband and child aren’t home so I cannot start any fights with the husband and use him as a fire source. There aren’t even any annoying dogs barking in the neighborhood today. It’s just…quiet and pleasant. MEH.

In an attempt to avoid the dreaded and much feared writer’s block, I have started making notes of topics I’d like to explore further. So far, I have a few really solid ideas and a handful of 1/2-assed ones but I’m not even in the mood to work through those. These potential stories have meaning and I don’t want to water down the impact they may have because of my general ennui.

Yeah. So I just banged out 300+ words to sum up what Pinkie Pie says in one picture:

Reflection and resolution…

…if you look too closely, will you drown?

Each year I say I’m not going to set any resolutions for myself because I don’t particularly care for failure and I may be the least disciplined person on the planet. I may have a routine for certain aspects of my life but that’s about it. My mind changes far too rapidly and I have piles of things dedicated to causes or hobbies that I lost interest in within a span of five minutes or five days. For the past week or so, I was wondering if I should challenge myself and establish a few things that I’d like to see myself achieve or conquer in the coming year. The mind remains a jumble. Please don’t state the obvious: better structuring of the thoughts because, really, I have been seeing a therapist for fourteen years now and I’m comfortable with the fact that my brain remains a tangled mess of words, thoughts and images. Furthermore, I fear what would happen if the noise abates. How could I honestly respond “busy busy busy” when asked some random question by any random person if the clamoring ceased? And, no, I’m not a Bokononist. I simply think “busy busy busy” is the most suitably succinct answer to certain questions.

If I decided to challenge myself and set some goals (which I have masterfully avoided doing since the age of sixteen), what would I set for myself? Would I go with the clichéd but valid lose x amount of weight? Would I resolve to become more physically active? Would I resolve to stop putting every single person in my life in front of me which consistently results in a husk of Kang tatters on the floor (not a humble-brag, ‘tis fact)? Do I eye another rung on the career ladder and decide to climb it?

I have no fucking idea.

And thus therein lies the problem that’s always been. I have skated through life with no goals. Financial goals: none comparable to what I have seen from my friends. Career goals: I was in management before the age of 30. Decided management was not suitable for my temperament on many levels and have avoided it ever since. Personal goals: finally, after many years of soul-crushing failure, managed to have a kid. But none of these were actual goals. There was no master list I kept where I ticked off my achievements and added additional items to make myself a better person. I’m just one of those people who gets up, gets out of bed, goes along with what the day has in store and deals with it. Some days, I manage better than others. Other days, getting out of bed is enough to merit a gold star. Basically, I’m like every other fucking person on the planet. No special snowflake or stardust, here.

What compels us to sit down on the 31^st of December and engage in this silly exercise, anyway? Is it basically peer pressure? Do we see others sitting around, trying to improve themselves and think “Hmmmm. Maybe I should get on this bus?” Where and when was it drilled into our heads that at a specific date and time, we’re supposed to modify all the negative behaviors? Because, if this is supposed to be a thing, am I not doing that on a weekly, if not daily basis, via self-improvement and general avoidance of being a raging asshole towards the entire world?

If someone barged into my office right now, held a gun to my head and forced me to pick something, I suppose I would opt for: get back in touch with the writer within. For two miserable years, I stumbled around with everything bottled up inside presuming that no one gave a single fuck about what was on my mind. For some misguided reason, I thought my voice had to have a specific audience or someone had to be remotely interested in what I had to say or what I was trying to say (the more important of the two). Turns out – staying quiet out of fatigue and ambivalence is a pretty stupid way to go through life. Especially if you’re someone who isn’t quiet by nature. So, maybe writing more would be something I would resolve to do in 2015. I cannot say that for certain because the Kang Muffler still looms large and is still very much present.

The only other thing that springs to mind is a passionate resolve to return to Sweden in 2015. Come January, it’s been seven years since I have been on Swedish soil. Seven years since I have left American soil. For a natural wanderer, this is just insane behavior. Granted, life has changed significantly in that time span but there are relationships that need attention and attention I have not given them. Not to mention the huge chunk of my soul that has gone un-nurtured for far too long.

Or, maybe, the only resolution I need to make is to get back to being a better version of myself. The me that includes all I was before Kate died and took a large part of me with her to the grave (as others have observed and told me). The me that includes the part that had to be put on the shelf because I was no longer just Kang, I became Kang+Milkface which I wouldn’t trade for anything. There will never come a day when I won’t “think too much” and I remain committed to not surrendering that part of me, no matter how frustrating others may find that trait. It feels like the only things I can answer are the phone and the door.

So, if I was to actually make a list of goals for 2015, I suppose I would:

Write more
Visit Sweden (and actually return to the US, solely because I highly doubt we can find a functional equivalent of Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns for Milky anywhere else)
Get back in touch with my bad self
Not chastise myself in December of 2015 for failing to do any of the above

Oh…and one other thing – stop apologizing for who I am. I’m really quite over that.

UPDATE: Courtesy of the Resolution Generator that’s floating around Facebook. I’m not exactly sure what to think of this one.

Oh for fuck’s sake…

…do grow up.

Nothing grabs my attention more than the moans and groans of “Mah Christmas was ruuuuuined forevaaaaaah!!!!”and “ZOMG! Scarred for life!” This is likely due to the fact that I have zero compassion for anyone or anything. Really. Years ago, my husband turned to me and said “I have finally figured it out. You’re basically the real-life version of Frank Pembleton from Homicide. No emotion or compassion what-so-ever.” Now, we all know he’s wrong. I do emote and feel the things. It’s just that I only feel the things that are important or relevant to my own interests (ok…that’s called sarcasm, kids. Narcissist, I am not).

Trying to get myself excited about working on bariatric analyses, I needed to surf the old internetz for inspiration (erm…riiiiiight) and I happened upon this bullshit on Gawker. Apparently, some parents had a very unmerry Christmas because Santa brought their precious snowflakes a Play-Doh kit with a penis. Working in healthcare for as many years as I have, I immediately assumed it was clinical and thought “Golly jeepers! Educational play, at last!” Nope. The kit in question is Play-Doh’s Sweet Shoppe Cake Mountain Playset (so girls can prepare themselves for the workforce, I suppose). Within this set is an icing extruder that happens to look phallic. Maybe. I mean, I’m pretty much the most frigid woman on the planet and I have neither seen nor touched a penis since I did my wifely duty of procreating five years ago (for the record, when I closed my eyes, I did not think of England) but after reading that it could, potentially, resemble a penis – I admit – I can see it. I can also see that it looks like a really bizarre syringe. We have tons of play syringes around the house for Milkface because he wants to be a veterinarian when he grows up (or maybe he wants to be a smack addict and lacks the temerity to fess up to that).

Christmas day comes ‘round and those blessed with the Make-Your-Own-Dry-Crumbly-Fondant-Nightmare-Cum-Poor-Excuse-For-A-Cake-Kit open their packages. Much to their parents’ chagrin, the penis comes tumbling out. Twitter goes bananas, as does every other form of social media. The verbal spanking of Play-Doh begins. The screams of “YOU RUINED MY CHRISTMAS!” echo throughout a good, Christian nation. Appointments will be made with qualified mental health professionals to deal with the impending PTSD. One family member will inevitably snatch up the icing extruder/penis and spirit it away to the bathroom to perform unspeakable acts which will be featured in DeadSpin’s “What Did We Get Stuck In Our Rectums Last Year” series. Trauma will be inflicted upon otherwise clueless children who see things for what they are because that is what egocentric children do. That is how the child brain works. It is what it fucking is to kids. You can hold up a pipe cleaner, tell them it’s a mind-reading device that detects fibs and they will believe it. And, once again, a grown-up who is supposed to be setting the example of appropriate behavior shows the child how to behave like a fuckstick.

Behold the circle of idiocy. Is it not a thing of beauty?

As Milky grows and his genius brain expands, I try to instigate some profound discussions with him in the hope that some of my wisdom and/or observations make an impact. One thing I often tell him is that while grown-ups are the voices of authority and are to be the voices of reason, grown-ups are flawed and far from perfect. Grown-ups make stupid mistakes from time to time. It’s imperative to not only observe the mistake (and it is exceptionally impolite to point it out) but observe the follow-through; how the grown-up remedies the mistake. There are times grown-ups won’t because they don’t understand they have done something incorrectly or, to be blunt, wrong. There are times grown-ups won’t because grown-ups can be prideful which is foolish. We don’t dance with fools. Time is precious and precious time is not invested in fools.

The mind I previously considered a curse because it never shuts off, never stops thinking and never stops formulating ideas has become an actual blessing in this regard. I’m able to quickly examine the situation, Milky’s behavior, my behavior and what the long term implications are going to be from my example. It’s why I would never scream “Christmas is ruined!” in front of my kid. If the phallic icing extruder came tumbling out of the box and landed in front of Milkface, I’d likely laugh and just carry on like it was nothing. But, if I was genuinely offended, I certainly wouldn’t carry on in front of him and potentially ruin his experience (tainting the toy and potentially making Christmas awkward).

These stories pop up in the news and result in two outcomes: a source for moral outrage for those who feel they are more righteous than others and a source for intellectual validation for those of us who feel we are smarter than others. And yes, I ate the bait and am giving it play by writing about it and looking down on the ridiculous idiots who let their entire Christmas be ruined by something that really wasn’t worth being upset over. So, shame on me. And, shame on me, again, for being higher and mightier for laughing at people for being so thin-skinned and tight-assed. Triple the shame for my judging their parenting. Although, in this instance, I really think my brilliant approach is better. If you don’t make a big deal out of something, your kid won’t either. If you leave things be, you don’t run the risk of ruining a pleasant experience for others. If you manage to keep your mouth shut, you may actually be giving the best gift of all: selflessness. You may also be teaching your children something, as well: use of histrionics does not result in a positive outcome.

Gävlebocken…

…did not burn this year.

Okidoki. It’s Monday morning. It’s raining. Apparently, I’m the only douchewad who is working today. And, the fucking goat did not burn. Why not run over one of my cats (hipster crazy cat lady) and make this day a complete exercise in suckitude?

For those unaware, I have a marginally unhealthy obsession with the julbock in the town square of Gävle, Sweden. A julbock (Yule goat) is a symbol of Christmas in Scandinavia. Present day, it is a Christmas ornament made of straw and bound with red ribbon. One could hang small versions on a tree, place larger ones around the base of the tree (we put ours on the mantel because…cats) and insanely large ones are erected in town squares. Here is a picture of Gävlebocken in its unnatural state – intact.

Why so obsessed with a straw goat, you ask? Well, it’s not because it’s huge and weird. It’s because since its inception, people have tried to destroy it. This is some insight into Swedish humor (and the Danes say they have none). A brief (and most notable) history of the destruction for your edification:

1966: First goat – set on fire.
1968: Rumor of a randy couple engaging in naughty behavior one evening.
1969: Set on fire.
1970: Set on fire a mere six hours after being assembled.
1972: Collapsed due to sabotage.
1976: Hit by car.
1978: Kicked to pieces.
1980: Burned on Christmas Eve (See, even Santa wants in on the fun).
1983: Legs destroyed.
1987: Goat was fireproofed. Burned down week before Christmas (Nelson Muntz ha-ha).
1988: Nothing happened. Hmmm…I was in Sweden in 1988, although not at that particular time. Maybe.
1992: Burned after eight days (a Chanukkah miracle).
1995: Norwegian arrested for attempting to burn it (See how well Norwegians and Swedes play together? Swedes assign blame to Norway). Actually incinerated on Christmas Day (Again, go Santa).
1997: Damaged by fireworks.
1998: Burned in a major blizzard (I admire the dedication to the cause).
2001: Goat set on fire by American tourist who was jailed for 18 days, convicted and ordered to pay 100,00 SEK in damages. The court also confiscated his lighter.
2003: Burned.
2004: Burned.
2005: Burned by vandals dressed as Santa and the Gingerbread Man.
2009: Burned after the webcams were hacked and knocked offline by a DoS attack (yay hacktivists).
2011: Burned.
2012: Burned.
2013: Burned.

For years, I have been watching and waiting for the destruction of this glorious monument constructed of straw. Each year, we hold the Goat Incineration Sweepstakes where each participant chooses a day when the goat is to be destroyed. The prizes: a virtual trophy, pride and the ability to gloat for one entire calendar year. Some people go fucking apeshit for Christmas. Some lose their marbles for Chanukkah. I, on the other hand, freak the fuck out when julbock time arrives.

With the Goat Incineration Sweepstakes of 2014 underway, each morning I wake up and check the webcam. I also check it each evening before going to bed. For 28 days, the goat stands – mocking me, giving me the proverbial goat middle finger, suggesting that I suck its proverbial goat dong. I make notes of who has been ousted from the sweepstakes. I realize something awful has happened: we are all losers. The goat that should look like this:
still looks like this:

What. The. Fuck!?!?!? This is entirely unacceptable. This is not how I want my winter to begin. This is not the Yuletide season I know and love. This is…this is…this is fucking goatshit! Action must be taken. I begin to wonder how many frequent flyer miles we have when reality settles in – my fucking passport expired so if anyone is going to do it, it’s going to have to be someone from Team Sverige.

I pull up the webcamera this morning and receive this message: Tack för ett fantastiskt år! Vi ses igen första advent 2015. Translated: Thanks for a fantastic year. See you again on First Advent, 2015. O rly? My hopes rise. Did someone burn the goat? Could 29 December 2014 be the day that lives in goat infamy? Immediately, I head over to t3h g00gl3z to search news. My heart is racing and hopeful. There is a slight smile on my face. No one from our sweepstakes would have won but that’s not the spirit of the exercise. The true meaning of the Yuletide season is scorched goat.

Article from Sweden’s government radio is the first to pop up. The news…unwelcome. Heresy, actually. The lede reads: Gävlebocken monteras ner – får nytt liv i Kina. Translated: Gävlebocken dismantled – given new life in China.

Holy shit. There are so many levels of wrong with this. First – it’s not even New Year’s and they dismantled the goat? Those of us hoping for destruction had three more days. Gävle cheated! It cheated us out of our inalienable right to set that bitch on fire. And sending it to China? To its twin city, Zhuhai, because 2015 is the year of the goat? Give me a fucking break. Oh no, Gävle, you’re not that nice of a kommun. You’re simply a scared, pissy little hamlet and you’re afraid that your precious julbock is going to be incinerated…as it should be.

I look down upon thee, Gävle. Nästa år. Nästa år…

It’s not a crack house…

…wait a minute. I was going to say it’s a crack home but I’m wrong. It is a crack house.

Ever since Milkface began attending Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns, I have been saddled with the burden of the commute from our house to central Durham. Without traffic, it’s a fairly easy breeze through RTP and up 147. Maybe 20 minutes at most given the way I drive (probably would have been 10 or 15 if I still had Astrid). Unfortunately, the drive is not made during off-peak hours so the slog can stretch upwards to 45 minutes (one way) if there has been an accident, bad weather or some witless fucktard in the left lane driving the speed limit. As you can imagine, doing this twice a day has its drawbacks. While I love the opportunity to jabber with Milky or rock out to songs from My Little Pony, Equestria Girls or Taylor Swift, I have come to loathe missing the two to two and a half hours in my day. Particularly now that my shoulder has healed from the Great Shoulder Fracture and Tendon Tear Incident of 2013 and I am cleared to return to the gym to work off the manatee and get back to the small sized seal I once was.

About a month into the slog, I turned to Dock and said “Sorry, pal. I know you hate urban life but we’re moving. You’re going to have to take one for the team.” Lacking a mirror, I have no idea what my expression was but it was apparently horrifying enough that Dock immediately consented and we decided to start looking for a house closer to PCSGU in central Durham.

Our decision to buy our current house in Agrestic was made after spending months trolling neighborhoods in Raleigh. Given that a house is potentially the largest investment we would make, we wanted to make sure we were going to get what we needed: enough space to avoid each other 80% of the time and what we really needed: resale value. We logged many a mile creeping through neighborhoods, taking notes, counting rental homes, reviewing tax cards, property values and comparable sales data. Since it was suburban Raleigh, we really didn’t have to worry too much about crime statistics. As for schools, well – Wake County is such a dismal clusterfuck, it really doesn’t matter because the school district will reassign your kid in a heartbeat so why bother with that? The outcome was good. We actually like living in Agrestic. The neighbors, for the most part, are decent. There’s little drama with the HOA and, holla, we have equity.

Given the outcome above, we decided to employ the same and start our search for a new home. Last week, after feasting on mediocre fare at a brewpub in Durham, we piled in the car and started cruising the PCSGU’s neighborhood and a few others. Surrounding the school are some fairly adorable homes that reminded us of what Five Points in Raleigh used to be like before the yuppy scum moved in, knocked over the small bungalows and built repro Craftsman homes but with six or seven floors (logic that one for me, please). My first thought was “Gee, wouldn’t it be great if Milkface could walk to school like I did when I was in elementary school?” So, I was pretty darn excited. We drove up and down a few streets and then turned (direction is not relevant). In the background one could hear the dulcet tones of Elvis Presley except he wasn’t singing a happy tune. He was singing the mournful one. He was singing “In the Ghettoooooooo.”

Now, I’m not talking ghetto as in “I’m a snob and I look down upon thee.” Nor am I talking ghetto as in “ratchet.” I’m talking ghetto as in crime and not that petty, bored, suburban vandalism shit, either.

Growing up mere miles from the city limits of Philly, I consider myself to be somewhat urbanized and somewhat of a badass. Stuff like this doesn’t usually turn me away. But – my husband travels for work and he travels a lot. And while he does own many firearms, he is an antiquarian and I just cannot envision a break-in going down like this:

Felon: Well, hello Lady of the House. Would you be so kind as to give me your valuables, your legal tender, your credit cards, your ATM card and your pin code, please?

Me: :ammo thing clamped between teeth: Hold on for a second, Mr. Burglar/Serial Killer/Rapist/All of the Above. I’m loading this long arm circa WWI and it’s a bit of a sticky bitch but have you seen this the Finnish stamp which has been marked over and replaced by this Russian/Bolshevik mark? A very interesting time in history, would you not agree?

Felon: My goodness. That’s quite a find. How much did your husband pay for it? Should I take that instead and sell it at a gun show? Perhaps, if you wrote down the history of this fascinating firearm, I might make enough bank to give up this life of crime, return to medical school and realize my dreams of becoming a neurosurgeon.

Mmmmhmmmm.

Each and every street, it seemed like we were either on “Adorable Bungalow Boulevard” or “Omar Comin’ Drive.” The oddest part of all, there wasn’t any sort of delineation. There wasn’t a transition. It was either urban splendor or urban blight. For a woman with lofty dreams of not losing hours in a day to traffic and commuting, this was extremely disappointing in a :sniffs: first world problems sort of way. Especially since the more time I spend in Durham, the more I really like it.

Raleigh is so damn milque-toast, it viscerally upsets me whenever I return after a period of time elsewhere; mainly up North or abroad. Fucking Lexus SUVs, Japanese mini-vans and dvd players in every car. There is this feeling that no one really works during the week – it’s just a series of carpool upon carpool. The strip malls are the exact same. My father lives across town from me. We have the same exact strip mall with the same exact stores. No variation at all. There is very little local flavor and color. From what I understand, one of the few assets is the annual hoovering of the fallen leaves. I’m not sure if that’s compelling enough to make me stay.

Durham seems to be experiencing a demi-renaissance of sorts. It’s always been a place that drew artists because *surprise* rents are low. One can drive through downtown Durham and see various tall-ish (there are no tall buildings here) being erected. Some of the neighborhoods are positively darling or genuinely quaint. It seems like the largest problem is finding the one that isn’t backed up to hAmsterdam.

*I realize that I have used this title previously but it is considerably appropriate in this scenario so accept my apologies for my laziness and lack of creativity.

God Jul…

…to all Swedes everywhere.

May you stuff yourselves silly with noms from julbordet and not fall asleep whist watching Kalle Anka.

Stora kramar!

Deciphering Taylor Swift’s Lyrics…

…everyone’s favorite parlor game.

No one is immune to the grandeur that is Taylor Swift. NO ONE. I tried avoiding her for years because:

I’m a grown-up
I’m a grown-up
I’m a grown-up
I don’t particularly care for that sort of watered down country pop (if I must listen to country music, it had better be OG country music)
The last time I had a crush on a boy was, like (twirls hair and snaps bubble gum), 198x, k.?.

Now, I find myself all giggly and screamy whenever I see Taylor for she is positively fabbo. I mean, the woman carries around her fucking Scottish Folds (note: I’m hipster crazy cat lady and knew the breed before any of you!) and those cats actually don’t freak out in public. She’s either the cat whisperer, a witch or heavily sedates them with kitty ludes. Oh, and her wardrobe: uh…ah-may-zing. I would sacrifice all my future trips to Starbucks for one just one of her purses or a day shopping with her. And don’t even get me started on her fan-lovin’: total heart of gold. Clearly the woman has descended from the heavens above. She must be the Messiah or Second Coming of Christ (or Christina, if you prefer).

How did I get into the bliss that is Tay-Tay? Easy. I have a kid and when you have kids of a certain age, you need to be exceptionally cautious about song lyrics (teachers of your kids, otoh…). With my lexicon, it should be pretty apparent that I give zero fucks if/when Milky starts rifling off profanities. I’d much rather him not do it at school or in front of other kids because other parents can be less than appreciative of playmates who use the word “cunt” as often as the word “please.” Wait. My kid has to be reminded to say “please.” Let’s use “now” instead.

Back to the topic at hand – deciphering her song lyrics. It’s my understanding that many a fangurl will sit down with their secret decoder rings and ponder for days over which ex-suitor Ms. Swift is singing about. I’m considerably out of touch but the shit the kids read these days have these articles which take a deeper dive (oh fuck you, corporate speak! Get the fuck out of my private time!) explore this in great detail. Well, I wanna play that game now, too! It’s a little known secret that adults like to have fun now and then, just like teachers have sex and drink booze (source: every teacher everywhere).

Shake it Off was released right around the time The Sprog started kindergarten. He changed schools and it was a bumpy road in the beginning so I started playing this song for him each day, encouraging him to physically (totes adorable, double-oh-em-geeeeeee) and emotionally shake off the troubles of the day. I’m not going to say that I don’t understand the lyrics because my IQ is considerably high (for realsies, stepfather was working on one of his eighty billion continuing ed degrees and I took like a trillion IQ tests and I’m supposed to be like this super genius or something) but the whole “And to the fella over there with the hella good hair…” did pique my curiosity. Isn’t “hella good hair” subjective? Great googly moogly, Chris Rock did a whole documentary on good hair (Good Hair and I totes recommend). This shit is deep, yo.

Then, this morning, as I’m scrolling through my Facebook feed (before the two cups of coffee it takes for my brain to begin functioning), I spy, with a blurry eye, a video featuring The Try Guys which was posted by the lovely Kitten. Oh? The Try Guys are going to get nice and naked and I get to see this before 08.00? Okidokiloki! Then, I saw it. Like the proverbial beacon in the night, I saw it: the fella over there with the hella good (hipster) hair. Eugene. The mind boggled. If I had any artistic abilities what-so-ever, I would doodle a picture of my head with springs flying out of it, eyeballs dangling and tongue hanging from the corner of my mouth. Alas, I don’t so you’ll just have to imagine that bit yourself.

I’m on coffee number two so I’m still a bit drowsy but not so drowsy that Eugene did not pop my cork, pet my monkey, float my boat or trip my trigger. Ha! I’m awake NOW. I’m awake and thinking of Eugene, pizza and inappropriate things to do with Eugene and pizza. If all y’all thought the teacher was shaking in his normcore sneakers, adorable Eugene should be in full panic mode for I am wildly inappropriate when good hair and pizza are in the mix.

Monday is starting off as a quadruple win:

I finally get to play “What’s Taylor Really Saying?”
I played “What’s Taylor Really Saying” and won! ZOMGWTFBBQROFLCOPTERZ!!!111!
Kitten introduced me to the glory of Eugene, whom I shall cover in glorious pizza whenever he asks provided I get to muss his hair with my tentacles of doom.
Partial nudity.

This only means one thing: it can only go downhill from here.

What goes better with insolence…

…than twee?

I made a few modifications to the website today: a new theme (isn’t it just fabulous, darling?), some pop-culture Easter Eggs hidden here and there and a few other things that I’m (naturally) forgetting now as I write them down. I’ll likely either remember them when the bill arrives or forget and yell at Dock for buying some audio gear. Such is the way my mind functions (or doesn’t) these days.

The old design was that – old. And while I love what a pine cone represents in relation to a creative process, it was time for a change. I’m making a lot of changes these days (new tattoo, lop off a fuckton of hair) and thought RM needed a fresher outlook on life. Or maybe I’m simply projecting as I recover from Kang’s Dark Days of December.

Way, way back in time, when Random Misanthrope was started, I think I went full-bore and signed up for premium-this and uber-that. Welp, Milkface is in private school now. I drive VWs instead of SAABs, the standard vacation is no longer to Swedenland and Random Misanthrope is run on economy scale because this bitch needs more money in the old retirement fund (Wow…do I sound like the Queen of the First World Probz or what?). This is my loquacious way of saying :lowers head in shame: there may be ads. I know. I’m so very sorry.

Usually, I do most of my scribbling of the thoughts on my laptop which has that marvelous Adblock plug-in. I don’t see the nasty, little fuckers when I’m reading RM. One night, as I lay in my bed trolling the internet on the iPad, I noticed the most offensive thing on Random Misanthrope – ads! Dafuq? For years I crowed that I would never let commerce encroach upon our artistic paradise for we are esteemed and dignified people. We are writers and poets, for fuck’s sake! We shall not sully our work with pedestrian and unnecessary twaddle. But here they were – ads. Ads on Random Misanthrope. This is more offensive than a pledge pin on a uniform!

When I changed the site design, I looked into the cost of blocking ads from RM. $30 annually. Oh, WordPress. Oh, silly, silly WordPress. All that AdBlock asks of its users is a donation and you are trying to shake me down for $30 when most people are already running AdBlock? Yeah. NO.

To those visiting us (all two, three, four of you) via tablets or mobile phones, please accept my most humble apologies for the ads and my unwillingness to pony up $30 per year. As it turns out, my integrity is much cheaper than I had initially thought.