Thursday, September 28, 2006

Actual excerpt of a father who shall remain nameless reading to his son last night...

"...And this is a fire engine...."

"...And the person who drives the fire truck is called an engineer..."

"...And the people who sit in the back of the truck are called losers..."

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Wanted: Full-time Watcher. This position involves filling all requests to "see," "look," and "watch" during all waking hours of one spirited 3-yr-old. Seeking extremely patient individual's undivided attention. This position's pay is the reward of one little boy's adoration and one tired mother's undying gratitude. Yeah I didn't think so.

Monday, September 25, 2006

I have a new job. This may interfere with my commitment to growing The World’s Largest Secretary Ass, but so be it. This double-wide is moving on to bigger and better things, dear reader, and hopefully, fingers crossed, even more fodder for such sarcastic fun as you’ve enjoyed thus far.

My decision to move the hell on occurred about 2.5 seconds after being informed, a couple of weeks (good Lord, has it only been that long?) ago that I was being passed over for a promotion. Not just any promotion, THE only promotion that a lowly secretary such as myself might ever hope for in this teeny, tiny closet of an office. Which used to feel cozy, but now feels like the walls are closing in like that scene in Star Wars where they’re being smushed to death by an intergalactic garbage compactor. Horrible way to go.

Utter bullshit. I was forced out of the office manager position because one of the owners thought his wife would make a lovely front office fixture (wrong-o, she wears aquamarine mascara circa 1985, ‘nuff said). But in a desperate scramble to explain themselves to an understandably upset me, they attempted to mislead my gullible ass into believing that I was not a “go-getter.” Oh, really? How about I “go get” myself a new effing job, how’s that for go-getting? I hope you like green eyeshadow. Enjoy the view.

So, this blog will be coming to you live and direct from a lovely patent law office downtown, beginning Monday, October 9. Until then, I shall be smuggling juicy little tidbits of the circus that is my life from the trenches, faithful reader. Viva VivaCity!

Thursday, September 21, 2006

My 3-yr-old son seems to be in the midst of some sort of identity crisis. His lovable little self needs confirmation at every step in every process, and then seems to find it easier to remove himself from the situation entirely and transform into something fantastic.

"Spence, come eat your dinner." (You're thinking, Oh, what a simple request. You poor fool.)
"Come eat?"
"Yes."
"Come eat my dinner?"
"Yes."
"At the table?"
"Yes!"
"Sit down at the table and eat my dinner?"
(Sigh, smack forehead) "Yes. Please. Some time today."
"Today?"
"YES, baby, today, right now, puh-LEEZE."

Pause.

"Call me 'dragon.' Say, 'Come eat your dinner, dragon.'"

At which point I usually take the fork from his place setting and begin stabbing myself in the eye socket, which is much less painful.

So he's got this split personality thing going on, which can be frustrating. Dragons tend not to eat their vegetables, to breathe fire into their baby brother's face, and abhor any bedtime which might cut into their townspeople-scaring time.

I'll wait this one patiently out...I am loathe to stifle any creativity...But if it continues much longer than the average phase, I think I'll request that he address me as Queen Mommy, Ruler of the Known Universe, and see just how dedicated he is to keeping up this charade, because let's face it, a Queen Mommy trumps an ordinary dragon any day of the week. I've had years to perfect my imagination, dear boy, don't tempt me.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Life can be summed up in two categories: Life Before Bills and Life After Bills. Think about it. As a child, you roamed freely, did whatever occurred to you and your numbskull buddies without second thought of consequence, and used the hell out of that most wondrous of foundations, The Bank of Mom and Dad. Withdrawal, withdrawal, withdrawal, baby needs a new pair of shoes.

And even as a young adult, perhaps when you were baby-sitting or mowing lawns or even landing your first real j-o-b, money was no object. Once your car payment was made, it was ON. Life was lived one shopping spree to the next. Good times, and I say that with no sarcasm whatsoever. Good friggin times.

The ironic thing is, all this time, you’re daydreaming about being an adult, with all the freedoms that entails. Boy, are you a dumbass.

Once you’ve crossed that threshold into Adulthood, hooo boy, it’s a whole ‘nother ballgame. It may even be thrilling, to start getting mail and phone calls addressed to that all-important ADULT, you. How fun. How exciting. You’re a bona fide member of society. But mark my words, a horde of fear-mongers will haunt you, and they are…Bills. Bills will knock on your door and ring your phone til you’re lying on the floor, writhing in pain from Empty Wallet Syndrome, fending off these beasts who try to wring money from your very tortured soul. The only weapon these hounds of hell respect is a golden sword called Credit, and woe is he who doesn’t brandish it. You may as well lay down and give up. Start selling organs, you poor bastard, because it is over.

So today’s lesson is this, dear readers: Teach your children, and teach them well. Lay the armor of Knowledge over their breastplates, and instruct them how to wield that irreplaceable shining golden sword, Credit. Please.

If you don’t hear from me, you’ll know those bastards have finally found me and taken their ton of flesh. Let my epitaph say, Here lies Cera, Blissfully ignorant child, Woefully credit-less adult. May she romp carefree in eternal bill-less innocence.

Friday, September 15, 2006

Dooce (dooce.com) poses a question to those of us plodding along in her footsteps, struggling to eke out a blog and fill it with brightly intellectual fodder for the mind. Or just, you know, go on and on about our babies' bowel movements. Which can be quite fascinating, actually. Ever see the business end of a jar of pureed carrots? Care to go there? Dare me. Double dog dare me.

She asks, what are your deal breakers? Following is a short list of my own personal "deal breakers..."



  • Stringing me along for 4.5 years with a carrot of a job dangling on a stick that was never going to be mine. Bitches.
  • The consistent use of double negatives. It's over, Johnny. Or rather, it ain't not over.
  • Poor hygiene. I had to kick Matthew McConaughey to the curb when I heard that nasty rumor that he doesn't wear deodorant. He was heartbroken.
  • Gross misrepresentation, which I feel Nathaniel may be guilty of. I could have sworn he boasted of being a "neat freak" at some point early in our relationship. Baby, what happened?? Where's my stenographer? Read that part back.
  • Petty, close-minded, egotistical self-involved attitudes. See first item.

In closing, I would like to point out that I feel I am an excellent candidate for The World's Most Laid-Back Person, but eff me once, shame on me. Eff me over a period of 4.5 years, shame on you, bitches, I'm out. Peace.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

I have some deeply unsettling and disturbing entertainment news to share today. I know what you're thinking, but no, it's not Britney's second baby. Although that is disturbing in its own right.

Whitney Houston, best-known female warbler on the pop scene, has filed for divorce from her long-time husband, Bobby Brown.

Let me tell you why I am upset by this. I used to watch Being Bobby Brown, their reality show, and I would think, Damn, these two have got to be the craziest fuckers on the planet. But it truly showed that there is someone out there for everyone, even if you are the craziest fucker on the planet. You have a cosmic mate.

Their ability to be completely at ease with each other, goofiness, drugs, kids, careers, LIFE...Amazed me. I could definitely stand to be a little goofier with Nathaniel, although if I told him to kiss my black ass, I doubt he'd be as amused as Bobby was. He already shoots a dirty look if I say, Oh HELL to the no. Whitney, you're my idol, and Iiiii....Will always...Love youuuu. May your quirky sayings be inscribed forever in our pop culture history.

So in today's somber post, I'd like to take a moment to pay my respects to the goofiest, most passionate relationship I have seen in my short time. I still can't believe it. Oh hell to the no.

Monday, September 11, 2006

I don’t claim to be “crunchy,” referring to the granola-oriented method of parenting, but I’m no health slob, either. We fall somewhere in the middle…Somewhere between organic tofu and hot fudge sundaes.

My own parents approached rearing my siblings and me in the same manner…Excepting, of course, the use of wheat germ and oats, which I found a bit excessive. We knew, Mom. You weren't pulling one over on anyone. You may as well have called dinner Whole Wheat Surprise. Mom and Dad's original plan was to go sugar-free the whole way, which was a nice idea…But here on Planet Earth, the reality is that children love and will get to sugar by any means necessary. As a kid, I would and did gladly trade my soul for a Ho-Ho on many occasions. And now that I am free to go buy the local grocery store’s entire stock of Ho-Ho’s, they are my thighs’ sworn enemies. Oh, the agonizing irony of it all.

So Nathaniel and I continue plugging away, singing our little song and dance to get the “bedge-tabuls” into our dear boys…Tossing them an ice cream every now and again, more for its twisted entertainment value than anything else.

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Thursday, September 07, 2006

Hey, Jude…Don’t let them win…Move your damn hands…And frigging crawl now-oo-ow…We’re tired…Of watching you rock and cry…Some time before next July-yyy…Friggi-ing crawl now. Naaa…naaa naaa na na na naaa…

Crawl, man. Go ahead. We’re all behind you. Yes, you might fall. Yes, rugburn on your teeny nose is a risk…A risk you must take. Crawling is hip, man, all the babies are doing it. Far out.

I promise if you crawl within the next…hmmm…two weeks, I’ll doctor your baby book and say six months. By the time you and I get around to sitting down and reminiscing over such milestones, Mommy dearest will have forgotten anyway, sweetheart, and no one will be the wiser. The terms of this deal expire after two weeks, though. Act quickly.

Although Mommy loves you and is SO PROUD of your hands-and-knees rocking ability, it’s getting old, babe. Mommy doesn’t have the greatest attention span. I love the movie Dirty Dancing, but would I watch it 24/7? Let’s get this show on the road.

I know that all too soon, you will be jet-setting circles around me, and I will crave a moment in which you are immobile and speechless, but I must admit I’m getting a bit worried about development. Word on the street is, rocking on your hands and knees is not the best way to attract women. Or the right type of woman, rather. And it has no place on a college application. Unless of course you plan on testing knee pads for a living. Which doesn’t provide for a cushy mother-in-law suite, so that’s out.

All I’m saying is this, dear JuJuBee…CRAWL. Please. I have the greatest aspirations for you, but time’s a-wasting, and you’re going nowhere fast. You can be anything you want to be…except stationary.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

My son, the enigma. His all-important 3-yr-old self never ceases to amaze me. Or himself, it seems. At a festival last weekend, we saw the pony-ride-induced mini-stroke coming a mile away, and being the cruel ogres we are, forced him to ride anyways. Buck up, cowboy, life does not get any easier than being led around in a teeny circle on the back of an oversize dog. I mean really.

But then a few minutes and many tears later, he tugs our sleeves over to a huge inflated slide approximately fifteen hundred feet high and begs to go down. We hide our shock and disbelief (we’re fighting over who holds the baby; the other, by default, will have to climb up after him when the inevitable acrophobia strikes) behind encouraging smiles and a couple of “you go boy!”s and he is off. Amazingly, not only does my Boy Wonder make it to the summit, he completely bypasses the helper lady stationed at the top and hurtles down all by himself! BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE! When he returns to us, all flushed cheeks and Einstein hair, he requests another turn on the slide! After we pick ourselves up off the ground, dust the baby off, and collect our thoughts, we gladly hand over another ticket.

So you think you’ve got it all figured out, do you? Animals terrify and heights excite? Oh, were that it was that simple. There seems to be no rhyme and reason to sweet Spence’s laundry list of fears. For instance, he was able to calmly feed the goats that day, wicked horned beasts with cold blips for pupils, but is absolutely unable to touch Nathaniel’s mother’s dog, paralyzed with fear. He runs shrieking from this adorable foot-tall miniature poodle like the hounds of hell were after him. My mental jukebox kicks in and plays Benny Hill music in the background. We are quite the sophisticated family, I tey-ull you whut.

Well, faithful reader, I’m off to scour Ebay for a gently used plastic bubble in which to protect my Certified Wussy Boy. Keep your fingers crossed he outgrows it by age 30 or so. I’d like grandchildren some day.

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Tuesday, September 05, 2006

The first step is to admit you have a problem. Hello, my name is Cera, and I’m a stickler for grammar. I correct people incessantly. Some of my finer moments have been spent screaming, “We were, we were playing outside, say it, we were!”

Most of my finely honed tutoring skills are currently directed at poor dear Alden, who I’m sure wants nothing more than to crawl into some cool dark place I’ll never find him and say whatever the hell he wants. Eff that bizznitch, she’s be all up in my bidness, for REAL. In my presence, however, precious little passes my attention uncorrected. I try to only remedy 99.5% of grammatical transgressions…I PITY DA FOOL accuses me of nagging. And yet…There’s something so damned satisfying about the slamming one home in the lost art of nagging…

I must share…I was recently completely confounded by my reluctant student Alden. In all my years of grammatical outreach, I have never been so completely thrown for a loop as I was when Alden, making reference to a video game he was playing, said, “I didn’t seen none of them nowhere.” A triple negative? Are you kidding me?? He may have even known what he was doing, pulling a fast one and sidestepping the rule of double negatives by adding another, therefore MAKING THE SENTENCE TRUE. I was at such a loss, I actually let it slide. Where to begin???

So just a heads-up…If you should ever feel like tormenting me mercilessly, forget the rack, forget Chinese water torture…Just tie me down and start throwing double, or if you want to be especially cruel, triple negatives around and my eardrums will no doubt implode. Horrible way to go.

Friday, September 01, 2006

I know you’ll think I’m posting blatant lies on the Internet, but this evening I will actually be leaving the house for a short period of time during which I will consume as many alcoholic drinks as I can while desperately attempting to portray a sane adult who does this all the time and throwing furtive glances at the clock when my girlfriend is not looking. Wish me luck.

My friend Tiffany has been asking, begging rather, for me to go out and socialize with her. I keep claiming that the outside world no longer exists, therefore I see no need to build a façade of normalcy and parade it around in front of them. I am much more comfortable being a goofball in the comfort of my own home, where the booze is cheap and the conversation is to-the-point. How big did you say the baby’s bowel movement was today?? Jesus. Pour the scotch.

But the outside world has intruded on my little bubble life, dear readers, in a big way, which I will go into at a later point when I feel safe doing so. Heed ye always the wise words of dooce (dooce.com), who bids us to be ye not so stupid as to discuss work issues while, oh I don’t know, still employed there. Wait til ye have socked it to the man before discussing his many, many irritating habits and the downright shockingly two-faced way you have been treated and misled. Ye olde fuckers will bear the brunt of my wrath, I assure you, and in due time I shall share my story. Put the kiddies to bed early that day and pour yourselves a drink or eight, it’s going to be a looong entry.

So dear sweet Tiff, who has been thus far so patient with my stubborn refusals to leave my poor babies even temporarily motherless, will be treated to nothing less than my best effort at cheery relaxedness, which will of course actually be drunkenness. Which is fine too. Cross your fingers for me tonight, faithful reader…I will be gingerly walking that fine line between just enough alcohol to be able to laugh casually and carelessly toss my hair over my shoulder, and way, way too much alcohol, in which said hair must be held back from my face so as not to impede the flow of vomit. The way things have been going at work here lately, I’m really leaning towards the latter.