Mommy School


I’m one of those people who constantly advocates the sterilization of rapists, serial killers, the mentally ill, child molesters, hillbillies, conservatives (sorry girls, had to do it)…

But I’m at a crossroads.

What makes me think I’m so fit to be a mother? To actually give birth to something and take care of it?

I thought of this because I’m sick. And every time I’m sick, whether it’s emergency room sick or just Midol sick, I want my mommy.

I think this might be the absolute worst part about living alone. I was sick once this summer… as in puking, shitting, sweating, freezing, groaning in pain ill. I would have sold my soul to the Devil to have my mom there.

But what makes moms so great?

I was just trying to perform a self-diagnosis on my hacking cough by looking at my throat in the mirror. I sat there open-mouthed for a solid minute just staring at the hangy thing in the back of my throat…what was I looking for anyway???

Where do moms learn this? Their moms. Isn’t that beautiful? I think motherhood is one of the most interesting learnings for someone. I mean, most of what moms do isn’t read in a book…they just call their mom and they tell them what to do (sometimes it involves whiskey, but, hey, at least they’re trying). The tricks and medications and TLC just gets passed down from generation to generation.

I miss my mom.

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Dating Dumbass


The question I ask myself about once every other minute is, “Why is dating so hard for me?” I think that maybe I’m a mutant, but then realize that’s not true because there are far worse people on this earth who are in wedded bliss…then I think I was born to be an awkward dater.

When I was in 5th grade I had my first “boyfriend.” And now that’s a very loose term…considering every time he was on the same playground as me I wanted to ralf I was so nervous. But nevertheless, I was one of the first girls in my class to have a boyfriend and if it made me OD on Pepto — it was worth the bleeding ulcers.

Well, back in the days of feather pens and Lisa Frank — my group of friends were little pre-pubescent girls. And who could be better at public displays of humiliation? These friends knew the thought of this boy turned me inside out — so their cure-all was … to force me to kiss him.

I distinctly remember the six or so “friends” I had at the time called me over to a tall oak tree on the playground. They gathered around me and chit-chatted feverishly to block my attention…then the boys brought over my dreaded boy-candy. As soon as I laid eyes on him my flight-or-fight response kicked in and I was bolting. But, I was surrounded and those little girls were quick. They had me in their grasp quickly as I clung to the chain-link fence, begging for the odds of me spontaneously combusting to increase. But before I knew it…we were pressed together. And I mean pressed together…and as I write this I think about how borderline illegal this was…but kids will be kids.

Our heads were mashed together…and I still don’t know if I actually kissed him or not. I can’t even remember my first kiss (apparently I got around in the fifth grade). But yet, this miraculous cure-all didn’t seem to work.

I still want to ralf when I’m around boys I’m interested in. The prospect of dating burns my digestive system so badly it’s almost less painful to remain single…almost.

So, maybe my date-a-phobia was traced back further than the brink of middle school. I’ll have to keep digging.

I’ll keep you posted if I have a breakthrough.

More Trip And Less Fantastic


Sorry, it’s been some time since I’ve blogged. I just got a new apartment (closet) so….OK that’s not actually a real excuse considering the two weeks before my lease I sat in bed watching Netflix movies all day. But, let’s just say I’ve been uninspired.

Until I got a new apartment.

It’s a studio in the fabulous city of Green Bay. Now, if you ask (all) of my co-workers, they believe I live in the “hood” and should keep my holster on at all times. I, on the other hand, do not think this part of town is that bad. I live above a bar right now and just last week had to guide a drunk middle-aged man up the stairs so he could sleep at his friend’s house. I’m used to it.

Well, today I met my first neighbor. He’s around 50 years-old…I don’t know his name because I didn’t care…he’s very, very poor…and mentally handicapped. Now, I don’t have too much against men like this one but I do not like to think that all my college degree got me was a room in a halfway house.

After meeting this gentlemen…I sat on my apartment floor trying to figure out how I could fit the necessities in it. I have no counter space for a microwave so that needs to go on top of my fridge (and it will block cupboards and hang off the edge just like home). I have a nice little folding partition between my bedroom and living room and it’s decorated with standard wild oat decals from the 80s.

To go with the vintage farm decor is my white (brown?) tile that also has wisps of wheat on it. That doesn’t bother me too much considering my kitchen floor is so small there’s only four squares of it. The carpeting is that special brown and white fur that I’m pretty sure comforted Elvis’ feet in his Jungle Room.

But the best part, by far, is my stove. Now, I already have a pea-soup-green stove in my current apartment so I’m used to retro cookery…but this one I’m pretty sure was transplanted from a camper that was at Woodstock. And the amazing thing is, it looks like it’s never been used! Almost like there back in style??? OK, I got too optimistic.

All in all, I’m glad. I did this on my own. I got a great deal (even if there is hepatitis A, B and C in the shower). I don’t have to drive an hour. AND I get to carry a concealed weapon to my vehicle…life is good.