Top 40 Music is Dead Like My Heart

Posted on 12/16/2009 by cheesefairy

I woke up miserable and just got miserabler. Turned on the radio and it’s all Olympic Preparations and International Olympic Committee Scolds YogaPant Company for being Smarter than Them and Police Clear Other Police of Wrongdoing and Our Government is a bunch of *shaking fist* ASSHATS who don’t show up to meetings if they don’t feel like it.

Switched over to internet radio. Picked randomly from a list: 977 The Hitz. It started OK. Happy top 40 jump-around stuff. There was some Justin Timberlake. Then I heard Fergie. Then Rhianna. Then Black Eyed Peas. Then Eminem. (thank GOD) Then more Black Eyed Peas. Then I heard Sexy Bitch.

I actually heard Sexy Bitch on the radio the other day at the SPCA Thrift Store on 12th Street. I love this store a lot. It is the only place I found decent maternity thrift back in 2006 and since then they have moved to a slightly bigger location so they have more room for all their wondrous stuffs. They have clothes, amazing amounts of furniture, a lot of books and great selection of old photographs.

Anyway, the radio was on in the store and I suddenly became aware of the following lyrics, set to a dance beat:

“She’s nothing like a girl you’ve ever seen before,
Nothing you can compare to your neighborhood whore,
I’m tryna find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful”

Then there’s some “Ooh you a sexy bitch / damn you some sexy bitch” business that goes on. And on. And.

So I got on with my shopping and blocked it out. And the next song too, which had a lot of “Shorty this” and “Shorty that” and “Shorty pick up my drycleaning / in a big plastic bag” in it.

Today when I heard the song I zipped over to check the playlist and was informed that its title is “Sexy Bitch” (or “Sexy Girl,” if you’re the radio edit) by David Guetta, a famous French DJ who looks kind of like one of the Wilson brothers. Sung by Akon. You know Akon. You don’t know Akon? Put it this way, every time you hear a song on the radio that makes you want to rip off someone’s elbow * and shove it in your ears, it’s Akon. He sounds like he’s singing through a kazoo. He likes to hit the floor a lot and look for chicks (though rarely Shortys) who don’t look like hoes so that he can declare undying love / lust for them and get all up in their business.

* if you saw in a previous version of this post that this sentence read differently, you’re right. I switched “elbow” in for “penis” because I suddenly realized that I’m not so into gential mutilation after all. Sorry about that.

See also, previous hit “Smack That”:

“Smack that, all on the floor
Smack that, give me some more
Smack that, ’til you get sore
Smack that, oh ooh”

Psst, Akon. Yeah, over here. Lean in a bit closer.

Oh, did I smack that a bit too hard? So sorry. I was trying to do it without being, you know, DISRESPECTFUL.

**

Aw, guys. I’m so grumpy. Got my teeth filled yesterday at the dentist and now I have a sharp bit at the back and it keeps cutting into my tongue. It’s all sensitive to heat and cold too. Worst: I can’t eat chips. Not with a sore tooth. I need chips, guys, I need chips like Akon needs sex. I ate pudding but it was not the same.

And Fresco’s nap just ended. An hour earlier than usual. Peh. This day is canceled. See you tomorrow.

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To the Children, to Make Much of Their Dreams

Posted on 12/9/2009 by cheesefairy

Dear Trombone and Fresco,

Last week I got an email from my former supervisor, offering me my job back for a year while my maternity leave replacement goes on maternity leave. (Office Chair of Procreative DoomPanic strikes again.) It was unfortunate timing, as I was having One Of Those Days with you, children, and it took every ounce of strength in my cold, tired fingers to type that little word, No.

No. I will not come back to scheduled (and unscheduled) coffee breaks. No I will not come back to slack days spent surfing the great ocean of knowledge that is the Internet. No I will not be indulging in adult – if childLIKE – conversations daily, in the (relative) peace and tranquility that is public transit, in the security of a paycheque that I must then sign over to daycare that may or may not meet your needs. In the order of a desk all mine where the paperclips are where I left them yesterday and if I run out, I must order more and fill out 8 forms to do so, a telephone that I have to answer even if I don’t feel like talking to anyone, an email inbox that overflows with ridiculous requests that I must fulfill, a water cooler whose water jugs are apparently MY responsibility.

And that, children, is how you know you really hated your job. If, after almost two years not doing it, you still remember the minutae that made you want to slit your own throat with a letter opener, you really hated your job and it is not nearly time to go back to it.

Trombone, I sincerely hope that someday you get to be a Guitar RockStar, which is your greatest dream of all time. Even though sometimes you freak me out with your level of obsession with guitars, to the point where you are strumming any and all objects that find their way into your hands, even while people are talking and trying to engage you in play, I am going to encourage you because obsession + talent + encouragement = making your dreams come true, somehow, somewhere.

Fresco, it seems as though you are keen to dominate the universe. I support this as well, although I am still going to make sure you do not injure anyone in the process, including yourself. I must add that you are a skilled orator and singer and that thing you do where you cover your ears while you sing a song, sort of like in the We Are the World video, is adorable to the point of making me want to videotape you and show it to strangers in the grocery store.

But children, even if you decide you want to be professional hockey players or salesmen for colonic irrigation companies or reality TV stars, though I have my doubts that reality TV will still be around in 20 years, if it makes you smile, if it makes your heart beat faster, if it makes you want to do it at the exclusion of everything else around you, I support you. I hope for you that you need never feel, “…but it pays really well,” is a justification for spending 8 hours a day doing something that makes your skin crawl. I am lucky to know several people who found the thing – That Thing – they wanted to do and are so happy doing it they don’t even look at the pay stub. I hope you never have to look at a pay stub to make yourself feel better about the time you spent working.

As we discussed the other day, I do not get paid to look after you. From time to time I do want a pay stub to look at. Usually when you get up before 6 am. Sometimes I wish I could appeal to my union for more humane working conditions. This house smells bad sometimes. Bad enough to be toxic. But then I wasn’t specific. When I used to dream about my ideal job, I never said, gosh I hope my ideal job doesn’t involve bad smells or sleep deprivation. It’s important to be specific, kids.

I never dreamed of being a mother. I never dreamed I would be a mother. Those are two different dreams that a lot of people have. Yet this job of being your mother, your primary caregiver, fulfills so many of my dreams; the one about helping people, the one about having fun at work, the one about getting to sing as loud as I want, the one about making people laugh.

I love being your mother. It makes my heart beat faster. It makes me smile. It is as close to a dream job as I have come, so far. Which is not to say that I will not want to pursue other dreams in a (few) year(s). Right now, spending every day with you is the right thing for me.

Always & forever,
your mother.

PS: Seriously, though? Sleep till 7. Or the Christmas Elmo gets it.

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Happy Hybrid Holidays!

Posted on 12/7/2009 by cheesefairy

Just in case you find explaining to your small children such contentious (and lengthy!) topics as Christmas Mania and Holidays With Presents vs. Holidays Without Presents and Mythical Figures that Some People Believe in But Others Don’t just a bit too easy, I present, courtesy of the SkyMall Catalogue (which is courtesy of SA’s trip on an airplane a month ago): “Kneeling Santa By Jesus* in Manger Lawn Display That Lights Up, Of Course.” (possibly not its real title)

wtf

Because, and I quote from the catalogue, “…it expresses the true focus of Christmas.”

I’ll say! I mean, yes, there is some argument about what the true focus of Christmas is, but I guess if you put the competing arguments in the same lawn ornament, that’s it. You’re done.

The only thing that would make this better is if the Baby Jesus could say, possibly in a grown up voice, “Santa! What’d you bring me?”

That’s pretty much it. I have the SkyMall Catalogue on my kitchen counter, open to this picture and every time I walk by, I chuckle a little and so I get through my day, one chuckle at a time.

* note that the description in the catalogue does not name the baby in the lawn ornament as Jesus. So it might not be Baby Jesus. It might be some random baby that Santa is bringing a toy for. An organic teether, perhaps. Dunno. My own baby is getting gin from Santa.

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A Fleeting Thought, Pinned

Posted on 12/4/2009 by cheesefairy

Sometimes I say things to my children and I am stunned, simply stunned, by my hypocrisy. “Be nice to people,” I say. “Everybody makes mistakes.” “I don’t like that voice.”

I am the grown up. It falls to me to set limits, discipline, show them how to act, how to be, but so much of that is tangled in routines, anger, competing interests.

Sometimes I look at Trombone after I’ve reprimanded him or corrected him and he has this bewildered look on his face, like a baby bird that just tumbled out of its nest. If he could, he would say, “What is your DAMAGE, lady?” the way I do, er, think, when people piss me off in traffic.

Some days it seems my kid’s view of the world consists of: people’s knees, the occasional frowning face and continued, repeated, redundant, omigod are you still talking admonishments and instructions that are irrelevant to his main purpose in life: figuring things out.

Grown ups must seem as crazy to them, some days, as these kids seem to me.

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The Story of Christmas Elmo

Posted on 12/1/2009 by cheesefairy

The year Trombone was born, SA’s aunt sent us a singing, drumming Christmas Elmo. Wow, is it ever. Everything you’re thinking right now, it really is all of those things. Piercingly loud. Very red. Battery life like you wouldn’t believe.

When we opened the Christmas Elmo in 2006 and pressed the little candy-cane-striped button for the first time, Christmas Elmo shouted, “I WONDER WHAT SANTA WILL BRING!” and Trombone started crying so that was it for Christmas Elmo’s first Christmas at our house.

The next year, in a box of decorations, I found him and brought him downstairs. At almost a year and a half old, Trombone clapped along with Christmas Elmo and laughed with delight. I think. I don’t really remember because I was pregnant that Christmas and I don’t remember much. We had a Christmas tree. That will not be happening again.

The next year, which is to say, last year, Trombone started asking after Christmas Elmo in August. Christmas Elmo was in my bedroom closet and Trombone was upstairs with me and he got very excited but I explained that Christmas Elmo couldn’t come downstairs until Christmas because otherwise his batteries would die before Christmas and then who would bring the Christmas spirit?

Kids today. They know more about batteries dying than I ever did.

When it was finally Christmas and Christmas Elmo finally came downstairs OH MY it was exciting. Fresco at 8 months old was a little put off by Christmas Elmo’s volume but we thought that was hilarious considering how loud Fresco was so we might have encouraged Trombone to play Christmas Elmo a little more than was strictly needed, for revenge, or something.

In January, Christmas Elmo went back upstairs to cuddle with Big Ozzy, my Ozzy Osbourne-as-a-werewolf doll (action figure?) who is missing a foot and sings “Bark at the Moon” and scares the pants off Trombone, still, and we all got on with our lives.

Last week, after Idon’tknowhowmany straight days of grey November rain and its good buddy, Cabin Fever, I went upstairs to do laundry and the children were practically gnawing on the gate that keeps them downstairs and away from me and Fresco was making that keening “mama! mama!” noise and Trombone thinks babies are so awesome these days that he pretends to be one all the time so he’s going, “mama! mama!” too just before belting his brother in the head and so before it was even December, before even the first sunday of Advent, I brought down Christmas Elmo.

Actually, I tossed him from the second floor to the first like the live grenade he is.

And then, I was able to do my laundry in peace, where peace is listening to “Jingle Bells” and “Deck the Halls,” as sung by Christmas Elmo. Within five repetitions, the kids had picked up the lyrics to “Deck the Halls.” We’ll be taking Christmas Elmo door-to-door caroling with us. Maybe to the Sears Portrait Studio too. (I recommend you go back and look at that post again, it’s the one with the awesome picture at the end.)

This morning, Fresco, who is picking up words like he picks up weeks-old food from under the couch, pointed at our friend, Christmas Elmo and named him! “EhhhhhMo!” I am so proud!

You can keep your touching family traditions involving heirlooms and eggnog and Bits and Bites by the fire. I have a singing, dancing Christmas Elmo. And my earplugs. I am all set.

Christmas Elmo and My Good Eye

Christmas Elmo and My Good Eye

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