Monthly Archives: May 2011

I am overwhelmed and sad that I have terrified myself to the point of self-crippling.

I know what needs to be done and stare blankly at the task calculating the consequences that will inevitably follow.

I weigh the stress, chaos, and uncertainty estimates of leaping versus the stress, chaos, pain, abuse of standing still, and I feel paralyzed.

What seems obvious and logical still grips me with fear.

I know it’s a simple leap and all I have to do is count to 3 and jump…

…But the exhaustion drains my body and convinces me that my leap will fall short and I will be screwed.

My head slams down on my desk and the tears fall.

I look out into the dark and raging storm my window as the universe echos my soul.

Yes…this in open casting call for any male cyclists who would like to audition for a position as *Alexis’ personal stripper during her stay in the hospital.

This is not a paid position but should be done out of the goodness of your…”heart/brain/whateveryouhavenamedittoday”.

I am coordinating a panel of judges for whom you will audition your “talents”.

This is a very serious matter.

*Alexis is a fellow lady cyclist and is bored out of her pretty little head in that mean old hospital with screaming ladies who reside down the hall.

Because *Alexis likely has ear plugs in at this point, you will not need to speak…and really that works out best for all involved parties.

*Alexis will have final say on whom wins the coveted position as her personal stripper, while I retain first right of refusal to any/all cast-aways.

Please post photos and/or a description of prior experience.
Newbs are absolutely welcome to audition and may win extra points if you are “coachable”.

*DISCLAIMER: (*) = that Stacy’s name has been changed. Shit. My bad.

You may not touch any judges or *Alexis.

You must have shaved legs. Period. I will not allow my friend to be visually assaulted with leg pubes. Deal with it.

If you have previously been told that you are a “butter face” (or whatever the male equivalent to that is…), you may still audition, but please wear a mask. NO PRESIDENTS masks allowed. NONE. ZERO. Besides, it’s already been done.

NOTE: *Alexis is not in the psych ward; she is actually pretty sick and it sucks. If you are a weirdo who was hoping for straight jackets and bondage, you will be disappointed. Go fly your freak flag on the 5th floor…or whatever floor it’s on. I really don’t know. Really.

OK, well time is a wastin’.

Ready…set…GO!

OK, I am going to say this…

I’m just going to put it right out there…

The “droopy-pants” law is not a form of racism.

Calling it racist is actually more insulting and racist than the particular law could ever be.

Are you effing kidding me?

We went through this same thing with the bandannas a decade ago. OK? Recall?

The ban simply involves all people wearing those stupid pants…just like the stupid bandannas.

I know…I was a suburban mom who left the rock gym and crossed over to the mall with my family (including an infant) and was asked to leave…because I had that thing holding back my hair.

Yep. Me. TOTAL gangsta.

(NOT.)

Look at that…I got asked to remove it or leave and I am an Irish/Italian/German/Scotch-American with freckles.

(Did you see what I did right there? WORD!)

I don’t actually care about this law, but calling it racist is stupid.

…Just like wearing your pants in a manner that makes you look like you crapped a bag of sand is stupid.

I don’t care if you are a criminal or my Fairy Godmother; if you are wearing droopy-pants you are likely an idiot and committing some type of assault…even if that is simple visual assault.

(PS: My Fairy Godmother is a TOTAL idiot who wears no pants…and I like that.)

There are zero benefits to the droopy pants other than making you look like a complete fucking mess and total slack ass.

Stop worrying about this thing or that thing that “may” allegedly offend your effing feelings or trigger your litigation finger and go bitch about something relevant.

There is a fucking war (or five) going on and our economy is in the shitter and now we have to tip-toe around feelings? About PANTS?!?!

Lighten the fuck up, grow the fuck up, and shut the fuck up.

Truth? MLK, Jr. did NOT get killed fighting for your rights to wear stupid, fucking ugly clothes.

He did not die for your right to bitch and moan and be an affront to your race and those in your race whom you embarrass by playing the race card and dragging an entire race into a specific demographic for the convenience of a petty gripe.

You insult every dignified, educated person in your race by making this an issue.

You insult every person in this country who believes and has fought for civil rights and equal rights.

Want an issue?

Go educate yourself on your heritage and ask your government why it gave you an allegedly “politically correct” label that should be more insulting and racist to you than any droopy-pants issue could/should ever be.

Until you understand racism, you surely cannot claim it.

…Then again, what do I know?

I’m an old cougar who wears spandex and rides a bike…which as I was told recently is:

(1) Very gay; and
(2) Very white

(If you are keeping score, I could TOTALLY nail a double hate crime claim right there…if I were such an asshole with nothing else better to worry about.)

*shrugs and pedals away*

Peace.

I didn’t have a fantastic mom who baked cookies and supplied advice to my sister and I to assist us in our life journeys.

I had a mom who made chocolate penis lollipops and paved the way for my sister and I to put our respective therapists’ children through college.

Instead of reading romance novels, our mom created drama.

Instead of brushing/braiding our hair, she pulled out her own and made crazy eyes at us and made us wish we were invisible.

Some moms carve turkeys; our mom carved her wrists.

Our mom made beautiful decorations for the Christmas tree…and then hurled the entire tree, decorations and all, out the front door into the yard.

Santa was the neighbor guy who had 3 creepy sons and an alcoholic, chain-smoking wife with long nails and fucking ugly hair.

My chocolate Easter Bunny had a penis.

The best advice my mom ever gave me was to not be like her. Consider it done.

I am 20 years younger than she was at my age and 50 years wiser.

I have never used my illness as an excuse for shitty behavior.

When I’m an asshole, I have no reason other than that I am an asshole.

I have not let my perceived need of a man, his love, or his penis rule my life.

I can open jars, smoosh bugs, and change the thermostat on my car with a butter knife…and have.

I have never let my perceived need for a man come before my children.

My son is almost 19 and still talks to me about real things, and tells me loves me multiple times a day.

He gives me real hugs.

We always say our “good nights” and look each other in the eye.

My daughter lives without fear that she will awake to find her mom gone from her life to pursue something more rewarding than her children.

While I am not the perfect mom and have made numerous mistakes, I can say that I followed my mom’s advice…and I am not like her.

So if I had to pass along her wisdom, I would say:

(1) Do not make penis lollipops for your children.
(2) Do not slit your wrists.
(3) Do not forget that children are children, even when they are 38, and they need their mommas.

If you had a good mom, tell her you love her.

If you had an awful mom, tell her that you love her…often.

You may just get through to her. I did.

That is this mom’s advice.

Peace and Happy Mother’s Day to all the super rad moms out there.