Feb. 7th, 2013 06:01 pm
pixietastic: (me2011)
Dear Loki,

I see what you're doing there, god of mischief, fucking things up. My whole week you've taken and turned on it's head, my god it's only Thursday, and just like when I thought I was crazy in that moment I wrote about in Week One, I'm left sitting here in awe of your mischief.

Oh? You need clarification? You want to know what wrench you've thrown me to get hate-mail you playful little devil?

Let me start with the dramatics, the angst that is my eight year old. The infamous eight year old I wanted to trade in last week, this week she wanted a bra, because what 3rd grader with nothing to put in a bra doesn't want one? Honestly, when I was in 8th grade the school damn near had to hold an intervention to get me to agree to some support for my 32C's, it was a damn national conference, baggy sweatshirts and overalls can't save you now Ani, you need a B-R-A, chanted the pep-squad! So this weekend I made friends with Wal-Mart and bought her one (or two because come on, a young lady must have a dark one and a light one, to wear and presumably show off, in the locker room before gym class) because she doesn't want (or need) to be a social outcast like her mother, right? Peer pressure is still a thing, at least I think it is.

The baby, the wonderful perfect bless-her-heart baby went from being a perfect shining example of all baby-kind to a screaming drooling boob-monster who feels the need to demonstrate at every available opportunity, how great the 4 new teeth she's cut since Sunday, are!

And my poor middle daughter is just getting the raw end, I don't even have time to complain about her she's slipping through the cracks so badly.

And then Monday, like a fool, I went to work expecting this bad mood would linger, expecting the WORST, a day without sunshine, the day after STUIPIDBOWL Sunday in a bar, might as well be Christmas day in a shopping mall, I could have fired a cannon through the bar and not hit anyone. And yet there you were Loki, making mischief again, your whacky-jinx buggering up my bad day, you send in Al, the biggest tipper in the history of big tippers, the guy I've only met twice, but his legend permeates the strip bar, like some cheap cologne "he's the guy that tips girls $600-$1,000 on stage AND THEN takes them for private dances, he's unstoppable" everyone's heard of Al, everyone knows him on sight, everyone flatters him, he gets so much attention, but could I pick him out of a line up on post-Superbowl Monday, when everyone's hungover as sin and an asshole to boot? Hell no, I've only met him twice and neither time was he interested in me.

So what does Al do? What changes my view of every-fucking-thing, peeling back my jaded cynicism? He drops a grand in my lap, $1,200.00 for a quick flash of those chewed up milk-filled fun bags, a fucking G-note, buddy, to see that used-and-worn pair of tits, that I hoist up with a 34DD push up-bra from La Senza, you know, leopard print, the full-meal-deal. A thousand dollars because I'm the bartender, and because he's drunk and like everyone else, he's told me his whole life story over a bottle of Grey Goose, and I've listened and repeated the key parts, asking the less offensive but still crucial questions, and he's deemed me worthy of his interest for the night.

And I think to myself how unnecessary it is, how unlike years ago when I was painting pennies so they'd look like dimes, this kind of good fortune would have been life saving, it would have been everything, and now it was nice, but I didn't need it, I didn't even feel entitled to it.

So then when Tuesday rolled around, and I found myself so much richer, I decided to channel some of your mischief Loki, I decided to take myself downtown, to the place where no one has enough, where the beggars mug other beggars or fight each other for food. And I decided that the several hundred dollars I'd brought with me, would be gifted off, handed out to people who's need was greater, no it wasn't all of it, because I'm not that self-less, but it was some, it was what in years before would have tided me over for a few weeks of groceries, and there I divide it up amongst single moms friends who were struggling, between people who asked for change, and people who just needed it.

Gifts come in strange ways it seems Loki, and the games you play, restoring my faith in the balance of the universe, the perspective you give me over my petty ridiculous problems and this amazing gift from a strange man in a strange place that puts me in a position to share the wealth, to perpetuate your over the top toying with the status-quo.

She-who-painted-pennies and now gives them back.

This is my entry for week 3 of LJ Idol exhibit A, topic; Shenanigans
pixietastic: (me2011)
Is there a return policy on children? How about an exchange? I think mine are defective. I'd like a full refund. Heck I'll go for a trade, I've probably spent a small house worth of money on these kids and honestly I'm just not feeling this whole "mom" thing anymore. I don't like the jeans that come with this gig they're too high up in the waist, and they do nothing for my behind, I prefer skinny's, and I'm really not feeling the "up all night" thing when they're sick or teething or having nightmares.

I still have nightmares, I mean just the other day I had one where I was driving a minivan full of children-covered-in-McFries to soccer practice while a baby wailed in a car seat and the damn McDonalds was out of McVodka!

I mean, I didn't really make an informed decision, ya know, like babies are cute with their pudgy little Michelin-Man arms, and round glowing cheeks, their little passed out in a sea of noise, milk comas, but all told, the commercials were misleading, I thought they'd stay small like that and playful. These ones are bigger and they have their own opinions I mean I've tried all the tricks in the manual and they STILL talk back, and the oldest one borrowed my SWEATER this morning, I'm not getting old enough for this, I want a do-over.

Can I bow out of my contract early, 18 years of commitment followed by decades of probation is sounding kind of trying right now. I mean how many more rounds of the stomach flu can we have? And those damn dance recitals, did you know they don't even serve liquor at those things? Eventually they're going to want cars and have boyfriends, or girlfriends or 3 eyed monkeys or whatever the kink-du-jour will be by that point, and honestly I just don't think I'm up for that.

I'd rather be in the Bahamas, did you know my step-daughter and her girlfriends are going to the Dominican Republic to drink those drinks with the little umbrellas for 7 days? I'm still waiting on that honeymoon my ex-husband promised me, don't think I'm going to see that vacation any time soon.

So can't I just return them? I mean the little one's barely been used I just haven't really had the time what with the older ones running around. And the older ones are in excellent used condition, even if the oldest is a little mouthy, I'm sure you could do something with that, a bow or some nice shoes and no one will even notice.

What do you say? Am I really past the refund policy? I'll even take store credit!

Silence falls over the crowd. She's kidding right? I mean my god she's a MOTHER for Christssake, those are CHILDREN she's talking about a slow tentative clap starts at the back, a snort and nervous giggle comes from the front row. She's got to be KIDDING... right?

This is my entry for week two of LJ idol exhibit A; topic: Throw Back The Little Ones


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