Hold On Just a Little While Longer

Okay...I get it now. Once I survive having raised teenagers while they simultaneously survive having not been killed by a rabid bitch they call mom, my fairy godmother will appear to grant my wildest dreams and wishes.

My home will be transformed into a majestic oasis of beauty and light. There will be bathrooms that smell of early Spring raindrops, Scotch-guarded walls, floors so sanitary that not only can you eat off them, but you will eat off them. There will be kick-ass pixies who'll make sure that everything stays immaculate because if they see so much as a dirty sock on the floor, they'll zap your ass to kingdom come.

Angels will sing me to sleep at night and larks will serenade me in the morning. The sun will kiss my cheek and say, "Arise, precious queen of Hyde. Behold your reward for a job well done."

And there will be...




Silence.

And all will be right with the world.

Forever and ever.

Let the church say, "Aaaaaamen."

I ♥ Teenagers. Let's Ship Them All To Sweden

Teenagers make me reconsider my position on child abuse. I don't beat my kids, which is difficult considering they beg for ass whuppings on a regular basis. I wonder if I could pay someone to do it for me? You know, like a mob hit only still living but unable to sit for a week. If anyone out there has been considering going into business for themselves, I think this is an excellent entrepreneurial venture. I don't want to say that I just discovered the next big money-making trend, but...

All I'm saying is that I would pay big money for someone to slap my older kids around, and I know I'm not the only one. Think about it: you get the satisfaction of Corporeal punishment without the Liberal guilt. If you're a Liberal, that is. If you're a Conservative, you could always hire someone to kick your own ass.

I know, I know. I'm getting political on a blog that transcends party lines. Do you really think I give a fat rat's ass? I take the opportunity to piss off as many people as possible. I'm an equal opportunity pisser-offer.

Anyway...

I baked the husband a cake for his birthday. Okay, so his birthday was yesterday and I baked the cake yesterday, but didn't get around to decorating it until today. Who cares? He's thirty-nine; just curl up in the fetal position, massage your balding scalp, and get out of my way already.

The two youngest kids, who are still happy all the time because they don't realize how much the world sucks, wanted to surprise him and sing Happy Birthday when he walked in the door. So, everyone is gathered around the cake with three candles (so as not to start a fire) singing at the top of their lungs, and the two teenagers are just sitting there. No singing, no smiles, no enthusiasm whatsoever. Now, if I can bake a cake, decorate it, and sing while in the throes of debilitating menstrual cramps, surely these (insert cruelly inappropriate name here) can open their fucking mouths and sing for two minutes. This man works his ass off providing a good home and life for them and they can't even sing Happy fucking Birthday?

You know I lit into their asses. But not as harshly as I wanted to, though. I didn't want to ruin the entire celebration. Needless to say, I hope they feel like crap. On a stick. In a tornado. At the bottom of a sewer drain.

And please, I beg you, if anyone takes my suggestion about the kid-abusing business, shoot me an email.

Seriously.

Is It The First Day of School Yet?

Who's dumb ass idea was it for me to have four kids? Couldn't have been mine. Must have been the DH (dumb, not dear) who thought of it. And furthermore, why the hell are they out of school for two and a half months in the summertime? If one of these mfers don't get a job, I think I might kill someone. Eating up my food, dirtying all the goddamn dishes, using all the tp and soap... What the hell are they good for?

I'm not being harsh. My youngest child is nine. If that's not get-a-fucking-job age I don't know what is. They all know better and it is pissing me off that they don't act like it. What ever happened to ass-whuppings? You know, back when you could beat a child's ass and break his spirit and not have to worry about the state coming to lock you up? I got my ass whupped up one side and down the other and I am mad as hell that I can't treat my own kids like Hebrew slaves, too.

Ah, the good old days. How I miss them.

But...maybe if I had been treated better, I wouldn't have the urge to treat my children badly. Just a thought.

Who even cares? Do you? Probably not enough to make any changes, though.

Right?

Me either.

I love (my) children?

Don't you just hate children? Aw, come on. I'm not the only one. You bust your ass providing for them, you cook, clean, do hair, bake (!), discipline, give advice, schlep, shop, and (fill in your own thankless chore here) and what do they do for you? Say thanks? Be obedient? Keep your house clean? Um...no. Those little suckers latch on like a calf at the teat and hold on for dear life, totally and completely dependent on you. Somebody should repeal the child labor laws so I can put these freeloaders to work and finally get something out of this abyss called parenthood.

Whew! Glad I got that off my chest.

Hidden in the darkest crevices of my being is a thin, happy woman who marvels at the wonderment of childhood; its innocence, its naiveness (just found out that was a word), its unconditional love, blah, blah, blah. On the surface, though, is a fat, bitter bitch who wishes people were born at age 30, knowledgeable and not annoying in the least.

Then again I know a lot of annoying 30-year-olds...