Nov
22
So we watched 2012 on Saturday night and dear god, what a shitfest of a movie. I mean, we chose it simply for the epic amounts of destruction, not the nuanced acting it was sure to contain, but wow. It was like . . . I don’t even know where to start. There’s nowhere to start, really, it started out purely ridiculous and swiftly veered into some kind of bizarre filmmaking practical joke where each scene is even more hilarious than the next until it’s sort of like the director is just dry humping your eyeballs while the laws of physics unravel in a sad puddle on the floor. But it wasn’t the paper-thin plot; the action scenes that repeat themselves in various unexciting will-they-make-it scenarios while you fervently hope everyone will die, die, die in a lake of fire; or the multitudes of groaningly awful moments of bloated million-dollar effects; it was the repulsive attempt at emotion that was the true travesty, where characters lean to each other while in the midst of some insane brink-of-death situation and whimper things like, “Daddy, why don’t you like Mommy’s new husband?”
That said, I enjoyed every single one of 2012’s many, many minutes. Why? I was out of the house, kid-free, and I had me a box of candy. You could say my standards are pretty low, but that would be assuming I have any standards to begin with.
Nov
19
Last night I was putting Riley to bed and asked what kind of story we should talk about, and he nonchalantly informed me that he’d really rather I go ahead and leave, since he was waiting for Daddy to do storytime.
“Well,” I said, “I know Daddy normally puts you to bed, but tonight he’s putting Dylan to bed. Why don’t I tell you a story about—”
He held up a small hand. “No,” he told me. “I don’t want any stories from you.” And he turned his back to me, at which point I kissed him goodnight and sadly shuffled from the room, because I didn’t know else what to do.
It’s true we’ve fallen into a routine of me reading books and rocking with Dylan in his bedroom while JB talks with Riley next door. That’s what Riley is used to, and he loves how JB tells stories about Riley and his amazing magical skateboard which is painted with flames (“And BOLCANOES!”). I get it, but man. Ouch.
I sat out in the living room fuming about the sacrifices we make for our kids, and the ingratitude. I started thinking of the actual physical changes I have endured in order to bear these children, and I created a little mental list of Permanent Post-Childbirth Collateral Damage:
• A belly that when seated resembles a Shar-Pei formed entirely out of crepe paper.
• A pelvic floor that constantly proves how the line between “coughing” and “peeing a little squirt of pee right in my own pants” has all but disappeared.
• Thicker and more luxurious hair, especially the ones sprouting from my chin.
• Skin tags: the gift that keeps on giving!
• Afrin-addicted sinuses that haven’t taken a completely congestion-free breath since before I peed on that stick in 2005.
• An indistinguishable expanse of flesh where my ass meets the back of my thigh.
• A rear end that is often unable able to poop anything larger than a Raisinette without enjoying a full 48 hours’ worth of enflamed anal tissue afterwards.
• Breasts that require the sort of penis-wilting undergarment that comes with four hooks and enough wire to trigger a full TSA patdown. Please note these undergarments are available in Beige, White, or Wad of Chewing Gum Placed Under a Desk.
Frankly, I think my son should be presenting me with a goddamn Purple Heart, not Heisman-ing my tender little feelings at bedtime. But kids are selfish, brutally honest, and care not one bit about the ravaged body parts it took to produce them.
And we still love their obnoxious, ungrateful asses. Even when they flat-out tell us we’re not good enough.
Now, if only I could arrange for Daddy—who apparently shits rainbows and unicorns when it comes to bedtime—to enjoy a sparkled-induced hemorrhoid or two, life would feel a lot more fair.
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