“People like me because……”
The Not So Subliminal Message June 25, 2007
I have thought of writing you this letter for weeks and weeks, now, but wasn’t sure how to do it. My intention was to just send some sort of subliminal message your way… something that said this:
Do not let him go.
Do not let him go.
Do not let him go.
Do not let him go.
Do not let him go.
Then, I realized that there was no way to end the message and that I would be typing
Do not let him go.
a million times over and over again.
So, I have decided that I may as well just come out and say it as honestly and compassionately as I can because I TRULY feel that if I don’t, I am no kind of friend to you.
What kind of person in my shoes, who has seen what I have seen, who has lived through what I have and who has said goodbye so many times to my own loved one and many close friends… what kind of person in my shoes would know what you are about to embark on with your very own child and not come out and beg you to not let him go?
How could I, if the unthinkable happened, know that I sat here and said nothing, gave no warnings, never suggested trying to stop it… and then watched you hurt and suffer? So, maybe you will be mad at me and maybe people will think that I am un-American and maybe people will cry and scream at me, but I have to say it anyhow because I live it every day and I am just like you will be very soon only you might not fully understand it. I have to say it.
Please stop him. It is not too late. I know you and he might think so because papers and contracts were signed, but until he steps foot there, you can take it back. You can unsign the papers and he can stay home and safe and not have to go and die for no reason. Until the 29th day from this day right now, he can still say no, reconsider what he was thinking. But when day 29 hits, they own him and nothing he can do or any mother can do will stop it.
Maybe he feels like it is his only option or maybe he wants to fulfill his duty… I don’t know because you haven’t said, but please try to dissuade him from doing this. He doesn’t have to fulfill a duty to a place… he can fulfill his duty to humanity by surviving and going on to acheive greatness. A piece of land for a thousand lives? No!
Many people just don’t know what happens, but I do know. I hear the stories. I have seen the pictures off of digital cameras. I have slept next to someone who has lived it. You do not want this for your baby.
He WILL go over there. This is a guarantee. He will go there and he will see horrible things and he will be forced to participate in horrible things and he will be changed forever in some way, whether it is subtle or drastically, physically, emotionally, fatally… everything will be changed.
He could stay here. He could go to school and get an education. He could take some time off first. He could find a girl and love her and marry her one day and give you grandbabies and he will still be able to smile at you and laugh and do all of the things that we mother’s live to see.
Do not let him risk that. Maybe he doesn’t know or maybe he is just that brave, but I know that no one wants to die.
Mine was caught like a bug in a spiderweb. We knew of the risk, but at that time, the risk was so much smaller and even though you know it’s a possibility, you don’t believe it could or would happen to you. It was a different time and we were not at war. We had a different President. Then, the election happened and we said, “Oh, no….” and we hugged very tightly that night and just knew that his time was going to come.
And it did. There was no stopping it.
There is a way to stop it, though, for you. He knows what he is walking into… maybe all of it, maybe not enough. Maybe there were promises and reassurances from the men holding out the papers to sign, just as there were for my love….
Do not let him go. He is not the sacrifice the world needs. One more dead kid to fuel the anger and keep the cycle of hatred and sick politics going around and around. Just another two second blip on the local news of his hometown. Another folded flag. A name no one will remember other than you and those who know and love him now while he is alive. His death will not be the turning point.
It will be for NOTHING.
Do not let him go.
Do not let him go.
Do not let him go.
Do not let him go.
Much love from a very concerned friend.
Hello, my frisky little monkeys. Tis’ Monday, which means that your anxiously awaited day has arrived and I have returned from my vacation. I have taken the liberty of rolling out a red carpet for my arrival, however, I am without a ridiculously hot date and so I was forced to bring my mother.
The plan was to post a Manic Monday post about falling from grace that explored deep within the disturbing confines of the Catholic Church, but I decided that that would be just too much research and investigation for a Monday morning return from paradise. So, I will sum up my Manic Monday post with this:
What’s up with Catholicism? What’s the big attraction to underage, male butthole? How many more Catholic women are going to be forced to sneak off to get their tubes tied before things change a bit? When are we gonna see a young, hot Pope with a giant schlong instead of these saggy, aging, ass pirates who keep cruising around in their little bubble cars? When’s it gonna stop being about cash and power and control and become a bit less freak-tastic? Jesus never would have been a Catholic. No way in hell.
Yeah. I was gonna write about that, but knowing my ability to accidentally insult the shit out of large groups of people, I decided not to go there. Besides… a couple of days ago, I wrote a post where I stated that I don’t give a damn about people’s religious preferences unless they are the creepy Mormons or the Scientologists and ,really, I only make fun of them. Really, though… I’m not a big fan of Catholicism.
If you are a Catholic under the age of eighty, then you’re really just doing it because you think you have to. Because you believe you are tied to this by the fact that your ancestors were Catholic. To you, I say this:
Stop it. It’s just not funny anymore.
Fuck. Maybe I should have just written the goddamned post. At any rate, I shall conclude this section by stating that Catholicism sucks big, hairy balls and then I will move on.
Here I am moving on….
So. My weekend was better than I thought it would be. My first day without my beloved computer was rough. I contemplated sneaking onto the fucker to check email and read blogs. I considered setting my alarm for the middle of the night to get up and log in. In the end, I rather enjoyed not being on the computer.
Now, that I am not pregnant anymore, I feel like a normal human being again. I have energy, something I haven’t had in forever. I spent my weekend doing things around the house, playing with my kids, feeding my fat ass baby, pouring my own sodas and fending off Dean’s weird accusations that I am suffering from post pardum depression.
I swear, he is not to watch General Hospital anymore. He is acting crazy, watching my every move and asking, “are you alright??” about a bazillion times a day. Then, he will sneak in the words Post Pardum Depression and I will roll my eyes and do my best to remind him that it has been an extremely long nine months, that I just gave birth and had little time to recover and also that my newborn daughter is spoiled and wants me to hold her from the hours of midnight until six in the morning.
He is suddenly drowning me in attention and it’s weirding me out. He will sit down next to me on the couch and hold my hand and I jump out of my asshole and wonder what the fuck is going on.
“Dear God, what have you done??” I ask.
“Um… nothing. I can’t just sit down and love on my beautiful wife?”
“Certainly… I’m just not quite used to it.” I reply.
I am wondering if this has something to do with the fact that I mysteriously dropped twenty pounds over the weekend. This is a big deal to me for a couple of reasons. The thing is… prior to finding out I was knocked up, I busted my balls and lost seventy pounds with diet and exercise and the help of a nutritionist. I was on my way to getting wicked hot and then the blue line appeared on the pee stick and I freaked out. The second I returned home from the hospital, I hopped on the scale only to find that I had lost a whopping ten (very sarcastic) pounds.
How this was possible was beyond me. I had birthed a seven and a half pound baby, a four pound placenta, over a gallon of amniotic fluid, another gallon of blood… and I had dropped ten fucking pounds. Horseshit! I thought. This just didn’t add up. Dean swore that things would be better once Harry and Evelyn Swellington left but I’m a negative freak and so I worried.
Then, one morning over the weekend I woke up and my clothing fell off.
My boobs are gone. Well, they are now smaller than they were pre-pregnancy and my butt has shrunk and I am nothing but loose, wrinkly skin hanging everywhere. I’m not kidding. My FEET have skin hanging off of them. It’s gross. But when fully clothed and socked, it’s not so bad and Dean likes to grab my boobs as they each fit in his hands, now. I can’t help but wonder if this has something to do with his sudden interest in holding hands and kissing and re-enacting his high school years.
He actually said that.
“Let’s be high school kids again, my love”, he said dreamily to me yesterday.
I said, “We didn’t go to high school together.”
But we pretended anyhow and I nervously enjoyed Dean’s attention to wifey although I admit I am still wondering what he is up to. I am envisioning hellatious crimes and impending doom. I am terrified.
I am still having dreams about three or four times a week that he is cheating on me. It’s very aggravating, especially as I am not getting as much sleep as before. Oh, well.
One funny thing that happened this weekend was that I thought I might get my ass beat by some woman at the pool. What happened is that the pool has been taken over by these three teenage boys and about seven or so teenage girls and both groups does the predictable and tries to get the attention of the other. The boys act all tough and smack each other and perform weird stunts like skateboarding into the pool and the girls find a hundred different reasons to walk back and forth in front of them. The girls annoy me because they do cheerleading moves and pretend to act much older in an attempt to catch the eye of the boys and it’s all very ridiculous and I have the strongest urge to sit them all down and explain to them that if they wanna fuck, all they have to do is walk up and ask. Quit beating around the bush and forcing us all to watch your attempt to score. A simple, “Hey… you wanna fuck?” is all it takes. Trust me.
Well, the boys and the girls finally and after days of doing this, got each others attention and now they collect down at the pool to act loud together. The other night, I am sitting on my balcony watching their ridiculous efforts and these kids just started screaming for no real reason other than to get noticed. They, literally, screamed bloody murder for five straight minutes before it drove me insane and I stood up and walked to the edge of the balcony and shouted down at them,
“Hey! Shut the fuck up!”
Dean hauled ass from the balcony at this and the kids all jumped and turned to look at me. Screaming obscenities at the fifteen year olds worked wonders and they all did, indeed, shut the fuck up.
What I didn’t notice before cursing them out, was that one of the kids’s mother was down there. She was very short and from the distance between her and me, I thought she was just another one of the obnoxious brats. Then, she stood up and I quite honestly thought she might come up to beat my ass but as she was so short, I didn’t really care because I knew I could take her. Instead of kicking my ass, though, she packed up her shit and got her brat untangled from the mess of them and left.
She can kiss my ass. Control your kid, lady, and do it quick before the little fucker comes home with Facial AIDS.
Good day to you.
Myspace Countdown Clocks at WishAFriend.com
It is time for a teeny, little vacation from Bloggerland. Dean-o and I have made the decision to take a few days where neither of us touches the computers, his desktop will be unplugged and my laptop will be out of sight. This way, we can spend more time with each other and have a few adventures with the kiddos. This is going to kill me. I’ve never been away from the blog other than being in the hospital and it’s gonna drive me nuts. To top it off, I’m horny and not allowed to have some sex. I have taken the liberty of posting a few blogs to keep you all from missing me too much while I’m away…..See you guys on Monday!
Little Photographers June 22, 2007
Interesting things happen when your four year old gets a hold of your camera. Owen, giggling like a fucking lunatic, ran from room to room snapping pictures of everything he saw. The result when I went through the pictures made me snort Mt.Dew out of my nose.
Included in the pictures were a few snapshots of cat shit that he took of the litterbox. He also barged in on me while I was taking a shit and before I could wipe my ass and chase him down to kill him, he had gotten a few shots off. There were nonsense photos and a few where you could tell he was trying to take a good one and then… the last picture on the camera had me in a fit.
Owen had tried to take a picture of his own ass.
This picture is far too graphic to show and had to be deleted off my camera before I could get arrested. Owen had clearly bent over as far as he could to get a good shot and all you see is this extraordinary close up of his face backdropping his butthole and his ballsack.
It is so perfectly lined up that it appears that he has a ballsack for a nose.
I could have shit my pants right then and there had I not shit a few minutes prior to discovering this little gem. Really. It was insane.
Here are the non pornographic photos Owen took:
Okay. If you have some kind of disgusting, oozing, rash all over your mouth that is gross and crusty and cracking and leaking puss out of it… stay out of my swimming pool.
In fact, do not even leave your house.
This sort of thing was just what we saw when we went down to the pool today. There was some woman in there who had a full beard of funkiness growing on her face. I’m telling you… I never got closer than fifty feet from her and I could still see every scaly piece of her flesh falling into the pool.
I say to Dean, “Holy shit. What’s with the syphilitic muff diver over there??” and Dean says, “Where??”. I say, “Over there… the fat chick sitting on the other side of the pool. You can’t miss her.”
Dean looks over and jumps out of his swim suit as he takes in her gloriously disgusting beard of oozing skin lesions and all he can do is exclaim, “Ew! What the fuck is that?? She has Facial AIDS!!”
At this statement, I start cracking up and cannot stop, but Dean is freaking the fuck out because Matthew is now over there talking to her. He is mumbling pleading requests under his breath, muttering, “Dear god, Matt… stay away from her for shit’s sake…. Oh, my god, Kyra! She is wiping her face with her hands and just going to town sticking them all up in the water! Some of that shit is going to float over to Matt and infect him! I’m going to go ask them how much chlorine they have in this son of a bitch.”
I am now dying as it truly does look as if this girl went muff diving in polluted waters if you know what I mean.
And then… it happens.
Matt demands that Dean get in the pool with him over there with Facial AIDS and Dean really does not want to get in that water as he is terrified of getting crotch rot or something. He is pacing frantically on the edge of the pool as Matthew begs him to jump in and finally, after about a half hour of whining (from Dean) he finally launches himself into a front flip into the pool and then plants himself in the furthest corner away from her Gonorrheic Highness as humanly possible as if the distance will keep the infections away from him.
Did you know that herpes can be transported through water?
Seriously, though. If you are suffering from Facial AIDS, please do the traditional thing and hide from embarrassment and do not leave your house until it is cleared up with a series of antibiotics and acid burns. Only then should you feel okay with emerging provided the scarring is not too frightening for small children to behold.
And stay the fuck out of my pool!
I Am Awesome and Dean Sucks. June 21, 2007
There has been much talk in this house of me following in Dean-o’s footsteps and recording an album but we’ve never gotten around to it, mainly because we’re lazy. It always seems that something comes up and then there just isn’t time to go through the annoying task of choosing covers, writing new songs, learning them, recording them and producing them.
And then I bitch because I haven’t done it yet.
I’ve written songs with Dean before for him to do, but we’ve never really written any originals for me. Typically, when Dean and I are making music, he does the music aspect and I do the lyrics but I don’t feel like having any part of this endeavor and so I’ve requested him to write me something on his own. It will be a challenge and he seems pretty interested in taking risks with it…lol. We shall see.
The one big thing I wish to do with this album is to do a song for each of my kids and Dean. I have certain songs that I attribute with each of them, songs I sang them to sleep with at night, or songs that they have heard and fallen in love with. It’ll be fun.
When I get to doin’ it.
I have the itch really bad these days. A lot of it has to do with the fact that I’m not pregnant anymore. I’m weird. I cannot sing on a full tummy and being pregnant certainly gives you one. It’s hard to control your breath with a baby squishing your lungs into two, little, pancakes.
My other big issue is Dean, who is never allowed at recordings because he makes me too nervous. I can sing for hundreds of people so long as he is not one of them. This baffles him but it’s just the way it is. He has been to witness a number of performances, but I’ve always had to have my best friend, Shannon with me as she is my biggest fan and totally goes insane when I sing, where as Dean is just too nonchalant about it.
My issues with Dean are the fact that he has been vocally trained for most of his life and studied Opera in college. He has sang for thousands of people at Carnegie Hall and he intimidates me because he has studied with women far better than me.
Also, he is not one to dish out compliments very easily and is extremely technical about them when he does squeeze one out. Dean’s biggest compliment to me was this:
“Babe, you are a vocal coach’s dream. You are never sharp and never flat and you have zero bad habits that need breaking. Most people who study voice spend the first year just being taught how to breath and with the teacher trying to break all of their bad habits. You don’t have any of those.”
Okay… not exactly what I am going for. I’d rather make him cry or move or impress him in such a way that he is speechless.
I highly doubt it will ever happen.
As a result, I can’t sing around him. It sucks.
Plus, he insults me without meaning to. I’ll ask him what a good song for me to cover would be and he’ll reply, “Something by Norah Jones or Jewel.”
Norah Jones and Jewel are two of the easiest people’s songs to sing. I like a challenge, which neither of them are by a long shot. I am insulted that Dean sees those as my biggest capabilities. Really insulted. He may as well have asked me to sing something by Green Day.
This is why Shannon is awesome. She will sit on the edge of her seat listening to every word and freak the fuck out afterwards. It keeps me on the fucking stage.
I have made Dean proud one time that I can remember and I don’t think he was proud until I started getting a lot of praise from strangers. This one night, I had been singing at this bar called Rock a Billy’s and I think I had just gotten done singing some Whitney Houston shit or something when a bunch of people came up to me raving about my performance. Dean was there and he put his arm across my shoulder and smiled appreciatively while I blushed and stared at my feet. I so hated receiving compliments with Dean around as I always assume he is standing there thinking, ‘God, these people are nuts. She was off key for the entire song! But as they don’t have a clue what good singing sounds like, they’re going to stand here and drool on her.”
He says he is never thinking that, but I know better. He is the only person I want to impress and not technically…. emotionally. I want him to stop dead in his tracks and say, “Holy shit, Kyra… that was fucking amazing!” I want him to act interested instead of just pleased when I hit a high note that I claimed was impossible.
He will be insulted as he reads this as he adamantly states (when provoked) that I do impress him. But, please. If I did, he wouldn’t need provocation, the fucker. So, I have decided while writing this that I don’t like him anymore. As much gloating as I do over him and as many blog posts where I sit and drool over his ass, I have to annoy him into reciprocating.
Seriously. This is a conversation that we have had about a hundred times since I gave birth. It is me demanding that he rave about me.
Me: So, I’m the shit, huh? When ya gonna brag to everyone about how awesome I am?
He: You are the shit.
Me: Well, yeah… I know you are aware if this but you are supposed to be making everyone else aware of it, too. I want some braggage.
He: Um… okay. What do you mean?
Me: I mean get your ass on that computer and write a big, fuckin’ blog post about how amazing I am. You don’t even leave me comments anymore and people are starting to think that you don’t like me.
He: Of course, I like you… I love you!
Me: Yeah? Then tell everyone. And make it good, too. I wanna see some seriously amazing literary ass kissing, here. I’m talkin’ -my wife is the greatest woman on the earth- shit. Make my female friends cry and my guy friends jealous as hell of you. Brag, bitch!
He: Okay, okay…. I’ll brag.
After the 80th conversation just like this, I succeeded in getting him to leave a number of comments one day. He has yet to commence to bragging about my extraordinary greatness. And, to him I have this to say:
Dean, you suck. I don’t like you anymore. I’m not writing anymore blog posts about you that are complimentary. You can lick my crack, fucker.