Zombiegirl Kicks Ass

It’s that time of year…a chill in the air, leaves starting to turn, thoughts turning to pumpkins, witches and ghosts.  Normal Halloween thoughts in normal American homes.

Not in my house.

Zombiegirl starts thinking about next year’s  costume a few days after the current Halloween.  The candy hasn’t even been eaten and she’s already mulling through her ideas.  And her ideas?  They’re not of witches or doctors or cats or unicorns…

Her nickname IS Zombiegirl, after all.  And she’s lived up to it almost every year.

Sure, she was a pumpkin for her first Halloween.  We got to pick out her costume that year, back when we had a say in what she could wear.  The years after that, however, she was a ladybug, a mouse, a dragon, a pterodactyl, a wolf, a punk zombith (a cross between a zombie, goth and punk), a pirate (of the Caribbean kind), Coraline,well, you get the picture. From cute to weird.   Her best costume, however was this one:

She’s the one on the left.  Can you guess who she is?

Yeah.  Sweeney Todd.  The Demon Barber of Fleet Street.  My kid is a freak.  An adorable, little freak.  (I’m going to post more pics when I find them…)

This year, it was a no-brainer in her brain what she was going to be.  Without a doubt, she was going to be Hit-Girl, from the movie Kick Ass.

Oh, you haven’t seen Kick-Ass?  Well, neither has she.  Not all of it.

It’s a great movie.  If you liked Kill Bill, you’ll like this one too.  This movie has violence, superheroes and, unfortunately, the foulest-mouthed little girl vigilante you’ll ever see.  Chloe Grace Moretz utters every curse in the book and steals every scene in the movie, and she was eleven at the time.  When the movie came out, she wasn’t allowed to see it either, and she called it “Kick-Butt”, just like Zombiegirl does.  We’ve let Z-girl see it with our fingers over the mute button, because I’m not sure she’s yet heard the C-word, or knows what it means.

So I asked her, “What are you going to tell people when they ask who you are?”  She tells me she’s Hit-Girl, from the movie Kick-Butt.  Or Kick-Donkey.  She doesn’t care.

She wants to be a superhero.

 

I’m Still an Apatosaurus

I’ve been unfaithful, I’ll admit.  Captured by the look and intoxicated by the smell, only to find pure joy in the taste.  I’ve been disloyal.  I’ve cheated.

But that damn hamburger was so freakin’ good!

Today is my two-year anniversary being a vegetarian.

I still get up on my soapbox to lay blame on the meat industry for diseased and tasteless meat.  I still pontificate on the cruel treatment of baby boy chickens, cast into barrels and buried still alive because chicken companies only want the girl chickens, only to put them in cages the size of that piece of paper on your desk.  I still preach about the filth cows and pigs have to live in- so much so that the industry has to douse the animals with antibiotics before they’re slaughtered so those germs don’t pass to the consumer.

Yeah, I’m a lot of fun at parties.

But, like I said before, I do cheat.  A pinch of bacon here, a forkful of meatball there.  That hamburger that one lonely, dark night.  That glorious time in Puerto Rico…

Physically, I feel good.  Well, besides the migraines, which have seemed to subside thanks to the acupuncture.  Oh, and that little swallow/choking problem I’ve been having (I have a Dr.’s appointment next week…)  On the whole, though, I’ve been really healthy.  I haven’t had the flu in a few years, I don’t get many colds, and I don’t have allergies.  While everyone else around me drops like flies in the winter, I’m still upright with clear sinuses.  I’m really wondering if it has anything to do with me not ingesting all those medications and chemicals.  Hmmm.

I have been eating chicken on occasion.  I found an organic, cruel-free farm in Huntington and the last time I was there I stocked up on these teeny, tiny little chickens (no added water to plump up the breasts.)  They’re really tasty and I can eat knowing these chickens lived free-range and happy.  We were able to witness the free-ranginess of them when we drove up…there were eggs in the bushes, in the flowers…everywhere!

So yes, I can now consider this a life-style change. I miss spicy chicken wings, MR’s cheesy meatballs and hot drippy sausage/pepper/onion heros from the San Genaro Feast less and less each day.  Really.  I do.  I thoroughly enjoy a spinach salad with garbanzos and kidney beans.  Stir fry me some bok choi and peapods with some chili sauce over brown rice and I’m a happy camper.  I loves me some Chipotle veggie bowl.  I don’t need no stinkin’ steak.

Unless I find a free-range, grass-fed beef farm.

I got the A-1 ready.

If you’re in the area, stop by the Makinajian Poultry Farm at 276 Cuba Hill Rd, Huntington, NY 11743- (631) 368-9320.  They also sell eggs and maintain a country store with organic produce, dairy and frozen food.

Fame and Fortune

I’ve been asked recently, “Why do you blog?  Why do you feel you have to share your life with the interweb?”

I’ve also recently been called narcissistic because (I suspect) I have this blog. 

Is blogging narcissistic?  Is it showing off?  I would think it would be if your posts are day-after-day-after-day drivel of your “accomplishments” and “achievements.” 

Or if you blog about what you’re wearing that day (I can’t BELIEVE how many blogs there are out there that give a daily wardrobe photo.) 

Or if you blog about your on-going renovation of your million dollar, million square foot guest house (inviting us to help pick out your slate tiles…)

Or if you post a photoshop-enhanced picture every day of your child who really is rather odd looking.

But my blog?

Um. Not likely. 

I started my blog almost two and a half years ago to help me remember where my favorite websites are.  To make it easier to troll around and visit some very talented and funny writers.  To help me remember the funny and poignant things that happen to me, my family and friends.

My blog was created specifically for me.  I write…to me.  To the future me who will someday (probably sooner than later) forget what happened at Macy’s that night.  Who’ll forget how I felt last October saying my last goodbyeWho’ll forget who baked which cookie at the Cookie ExchangeWho will forget what happened at MOMA.

Yes, I wish I had more readers.  Specifically, more readers like my in-laws, who moved upstate and don’t get to see Zombiegirl on her first day of school.  Like far-away friends and relatives, so we can keep in touch. But I’m grateful for (most) of the readers that I do have.  I’m over-the-moon-and-back kinda thrilled that my Dad reads my blog.  We talk about what I write and he supports me 100%.  I rejoice that I found Joyce, a long-lost relative and that now we have a long-distance relationship.  My friends who have read my blog tell me they enjoy reading what I write and they visit almost every day.  I totally appreciate their support.  Even Beena reads my blog and because of that, I’m able to tell her how much I love and respect her on here without her getting all embarrassed.

But…I don’t do it for anyone other than myself.  I am my most frequent visitor.  As I re-read my entries and remember certain instances, I don’t think I’m being egotistical or showy at all  (well, maybe one).  I do post pictures of some of the crafty things I do, but trust me, I’m not showing off.  There are far more talented people out there than I- I just post this stuff so I can remember the whats and the hows.  If someone could glean some info from what I write and make, well then, I’m flattered.  I think sites like Facebook and Twitter are much more egotistical- the minute-to-minute updates and the posts about what one is cooking for dinner?  Who cares?  If I wanted to know every aspect of your life, I would move in with you.  This is why I’ve hidden a good number of my friend’s statuses.  The drivel was driving me crazy.  Same thing with blogs.  If you don’t want to hear about my bloody periods or menopausal rantings, then you don’t have to read.  It’s called free choice!

I don’t have ads on my blogs to make money.  I very rarely comment on someone else’s blog because I know people will track back here.  I don’t write for the hits or for the stats.   I’m not looking for fawning fans or blog sheeple to tell me how wonderful my life/blog/house/child/wardrobe is.  (Yeah, pick one.)  I’m not in it for fame and fortune.

I like to write.  I write what I know.  98% of what I put out there is true- the other 2% is lying by omission.  You don’t get everything, trust me.  If you read, and you like- GREAT.  You don’t have to tell me (although compliments ARE accepted gratefully and gracefully). You can lurk all you want and never say a word to me at the PTA meeting that you read- GREAT, too!  If you’re seething because I’m blogging and can’t stand what I write- tough titties.  And if you don’t like it- there’s the virtual door.  Don’t let it smack you in your virtual ass on the way out.

Less Than an Hour a Day

Beena gave me a little homework assignment last night- break one typical week of my life down to 168 hours to see where I spend most of my time.  She was rightly pissed and depressed about the amount of time she had left over to herself every day (1-1/2 hours).  I’m not sure if I want to do this, but okay, here goes.

Tackling the obvious chunks of time first:

  • Two hours each way commuting to work.  Total= 4 hours a day, 20 hours a week.  It could be a little more, a little less, depending on traffic, MTA breakdowns or random Acts of God.
  • Seven to eight hours a day working.  I’m including time taken for lunch in those hours since I rarely take more than 20 minutes to run to the library or get something to eat and bring it back to my desk to continue to work. Total time= 40 hours a week.
  • I usually go to bed at 11ish each night, and wake up at 6ish.  If I’m energetic, I get up before 5 a.m. to go to the gym, but I haven’t been feeling energetic lately so I’ll leave it at 6 a.m.  Total= 7 hours a night, 49 hours a week.

Now for the smaller chunks of time:

  • Getting ready for work, and on the weekend:  45 minutes a day, 5.25 hours a week.
  • Planning, cooking and eating dinner:  1.5 hours a day, 10.5 hours a week.
  • Planning, cooking and eating during the weekend: 1 hour a day, 2 hours a week.
  • Soccer related activities for Zombiegirl or MR:  3 hours per person, including traveling and watching the actual game= 6 hours a week.
  • Cleaning/straightening up the house: This varies since sometimes on the weekend I could do a four-hour cleanup.  I’m going to give it 5.5 hours a week.
  • Shopping for food and/or other stuffs:  I know my kids will claim I don’t go food shopping often enough, but when I do it usually takes me two hours to shop and put the groceries away.  I will say I “go” once a week= 2 hours a week.
  • Laundry.  I usually throw in a load of laundry every other day.  I used to fold Z-girl’s laundry and put it in her basket to take upstairs, but it’s become a permanent fixture, more like another dresser, in the laundry room.  The clothes in it are no longer folded, so I gave up that task.  Why bother?  Saves a ton of time.  I also hang 80% of my laundry out so that takes a little time.  Say 2 hours a week washing, drying, folding, ironing and putting away.  Add another hour to go through socks=3 hours a week.
  • Church.  Even though I haven’t gone in a while, it’s been a part of my typical week practically all my life and yes, I am planning on going back.  Add 1.5 hours a week for church and church related activities.
  • HBO.  Sunday nights are date nights with MR.  Every Sunday night for the past few years we’ve watched Sopranos, Rome, Carnivale, True Blood and most recently, Boardwalk Empire.  Or, on Showtime, Spartacus. Ah, Spartacus.  Popcorn is a must.  Time spent= 1 hour a week.

This all adds up to 145.75 hours, which leaves me with 22.25 hours left of free time.  Now since I don’t work on the weekends, I’m going to have more free time on the weekends- maybe 16 – 18 hours?  In those free hours you could feasibly find me gardening, spackling, painting, crafting, taking Z-girl to a birthday party or going to the beach house.  This sounds good to me since the weekends were made to be free to do anything you wish.  That leaves me with 4.25 – 6.25 hours during the week to unwind, make phone calls, surf the net, answer emails, blog, organize school stuff, tickle ZG, talk to Beena, go to the gym or spend quality time with MR.  Less than an hour a day.

That is not a lot.  Something has to give.

My family may have to go without clean clothes for a while.

Wilkommen, Bievenue, Welcome. It’s a Cabaret, My Friends.

I just wanted to say “Howdy!” to some of my new stalkers  readers!  Welcome!

A special shout-out to my ex-asshole.  Seems he can’t stay away from me and has been checking in on my blog daily for a while to see what we’re up to.  Go away, Ex.  I’m not publishing your delusional psychotic comments.  Go and be with your family.  They love you.  Be grateful for that.  If it makes you feel better,  you can call me your ex-bitch.  THAT would be a name I would be PROUD to wear on a t-shirt.

I also won’t be publishing any anonymous comments.  If I  have the balls to write about my life and the people in it, you should have the balls to leave your name and email.  Harassment doesn’t scare me.  I had a dream the other day that I was a Ninja.  I now know the moves.  And they’re frightening.

**********************************************************************************************

On another note, Beena said my pancakes are confused.  Does anyone have a good pancake tutorial they can point me to?  Seems my pancakes can be likened to blubber, the thick skin on pudding or hockey pucks.  I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, but I need to perfect my pancake abilities.  Ninja abilities I’ve got down pat.  Pancakes, not so much.

Boomerang

I’m hanging a little bit of dirty laundry out today.  It’s been hanging in the deepest darkest corners of the yard where no one can see, but faced with a huge change tomorrow, I have to shake it out and take another look to see if there are any holes, rips or tatters.  Bear with me.

It’s been a year and a half since Kansas left home.  When one of your own has an addiction there are programs available to help them beat their demons.  When one of your own claims she’s in love and you know that person isn’t good for her, there’s nothing that can be said or done to convince her otherwise.  You can’t send your child to rehab for bad choices.  You also apparently can’t forbid your child to never see that bad choice again.  I speak from experience.  My parent’s went through something similar with me.

When I announced my engagement to my ex, my parents sat me down and asked if I was sure I was doing the right thing.  My best friend did the same.  We made a list of pros and cons and the cons far outweighed the pros in our case- I was still in college, I hadn’t really had any other boyfriends, his family was totally fucked up- all things that, had I been thinking clearly, should have had me running in the opposite direction.  But I wasn’t getting along with the rents at the time and I was anxious to be on my own. 

Besides…I loved him.

Well, I thought I did.  I was 15 years old when I started going out with him, and I was 22 when we got married.  I think I loved the “thought” of being married.  He was (is) a lazy asshole with no aspirations and no social skills.  Yet to spite everyone I stuck with him and had his children.  I finally wised up and realized I couldn’t be married to him any longer.  After a vicious fight,  I left and went to my parent’s house.

They told me to stay with him, go back home to him.  Mainly because they paid for the wedding and they didn’t want to see that money wasted.

Okaaay.  No help there.

(I know now they were only trying to smooth over a rough patch the best they knew how.  They did let the kids and I stay with them until I found an apartment.)

Should I have listened to my friends and family?  Yes, definitely.  It was the single biggest mistake in my life getting married.  My biggest regret ever.  I don’t regret my kids, but the years wasted with my ex and not experiencing life at that age haunt me still.

So.  Back to Kansas.  Her boyfriend comes from a family that would keep Jerry Springer on the air permanently.  I thought he was nice and respectful when we first met.  He treated her well for the first few months.  Then, when she was firmly snared in his love-trap, his true colors came out.  Possessive, disrespectful, jealous.  He made her cry almost every night.  She was forced to delete all the males on her Facebook and had to hide her yearbook because her male friends signed it.  MR finally couldn’t take the crying and laid down the law- she couldn’t see him any more.

All hell broke loose. 

I don’t want to go back to that day, it was so painful.  Cops coming to the house, clothes thrown out windows, people pushed down stairs, sisters screaming on the lawn.  Things said in pure, white-hot anger.  {Shudder}

I had never been so embarrassed.  I wasn’t raised this way, MR wasn’t raised this way and we certainly didn’t raise our daughters this way.  Yet here we were, drained from the fight, watching one of our own flee from us.  Like we were the enemy.

Fast forward to last Sunday.  We come home from watching MR play soccer to a note shoved in between our doors.  Kansas wants to come home.  She’s been broken up from the boyfriend, the one that promised he would take care of her emotionally and financially, for awhile.  She had been staying with the older sister and her two kids (from different fathers) until she kicked her out.  Most recently, she was living with the other sister until they were robbed.  Kansas no longer has her laptop or her jewelry and now needs a place to live since they were getting kicked out of that apartment.

( This doesn’t even SCRATCH the surface of what I know about this family.Jerry?  Call me!)

After debating with MR, losing sleep and crying for hours at a time, I told Kansas she could come home.  With provisions, of course.  I mainly want her away from the influential talons of this bunch of losers.  We’re going to start with a clean slate.  Trust has to be earned, repect has to be restored, love has to be found.

And if all that fails, we’re going to rehab.