Ok. I realize that my blog name deserves some explanation. But I'm in some sort of PMS/PPD vortex of shittiness so excuse me while I bitch and moan about other things. But I promise you, I will return to give credit to Gookie Fuckers all over the world at a later date.
So I'm a mom. Inasmuch as I pushed two large humans out of my loins (both with a delightful epidural, yeehaw), I am a mom. But sometimes (tonight), I am the biggest piece of shit, asshole that ever walked the earth (more on that later). I have such a case of the creepy crawlies. I told a coworker that I felt like I had a big, mean monkey, dressed up as a clown, with long Freddy Kreuger claws climbing up my back. That is PMS to me. Add a healthy dose of Post Partum Fuckiness to it (my youngest is 4.5 months old - we call him Pork Chop) and by anyone's terms, it is reasonable that my husband looks on me with cautious fear and a worry for his safety.
I used to be such a great fucking sport. I was the Go Along Gal, "yeah, whatever, I'm cool." Well, I am NOT cool. I do NOT want to Go Along. And it's more, "nah, notanything, I'm a bitch." But something about motherhood changed the nature of my DNA. I'm not so handicapped that I think that DNA itself can change, but I think that essence IN our DNA that makes us US, our soul, for the lack of a better term, can change after forcing humans out of ones naughty bits. I went from a totally satisfactory Type B Go Along Gal to a COMPLETE and UTTER Type A Do The Fuck What I Want Because I Am A Control Freak And I Will Fuck Your Shit Up If You Don't. I was the Go Along Gal, shit, but it's tiring writing that over and over, let's just call her GAG, when I met my hub, let's call him Hub, so you can see that it has been quite a learning experience for him... Men say, "She's not the woman I married." Well, for fucks sake, after you put your sperm in her and forced her to carry your spawn for nearly 10 months, do you expect her to be GAG still?!
Anyhoo, so when my eldest Loin Popper came home for the first time, all of a sudden my inner Slobby Pig sprouted wings and flew away! It was so odd having a clean kitchen every day. I knew the "schedule" for the next MONTH! I had a LIST when I went shopping! I NEVER had to race to the store for diapers! I mean, 10 months prior to that momentous occasion, I had sent my poor newly banded Hub to the store to get me tampons and chocolate because I'd "forgotten" that I get kinda bloody once per month for the last, oh, 17 years... But this new Organizational Whiz that was born on the date of my eldest's birth (let's dub him B), forced GAG out of my DNA and brought in Angry Bitch.
Don't get me wrong, I've been an angry bitch before. Like when I get cut off on the freeway when I'm trying to cut someone ELSE off. Or when I've bought the most vomitously darling new stilettoes and find they've been put on sale the next week. Or when I've made a total slutty ass of myself in front of/or with a Hot Guy and then he doesn't call. Those are all times I've railed against humanity and the injustice of it all... But to be Capitalized, a true Angry Bitch, there MUST be Post Partum Fuckiness juices running amok inside the shattered shell that was once high and tight and decided to become a mother instead of bouncing coins off her abs (just an illustration, I have not intimately known those abs, myself, sadly). Tranny's can be angry bitches, but the injustice of not having been born a woman is more of either a Psychotic Bitch or a Mangry Bitch (angry in a much more mannish way, therefore not quite the same as an Angry Bitch). Women who have not birthed children can be angry bitches, of course, but not at quite the same level of someone having labored and freely given up the beautiful folds of vaginal exquisiteness for ripply roast beef lips (although as a friend/proofreader pointed out, her child was born via emergency exit - fyi: that is NOT her ass, haha - that even though her labia are in fine form, she is definitely an Angry Bitch, as only Post Partum hormones can create...so I stand corrected). For example, I was adopted, so my own Mother, while I will attest to her ability to hone in on a perfect example of angry b****iness, can never truly be an Angry B****, since she has obviously outwitted Mother Nature by adopting BOTH of her children. She falls into the category of Passive Aggressive B**** or Guilt Trips Like A Jewish Grandmother B**** or Sits Back And Allows Her Children To Make Huge Asses Of Themselves So They Can Learn A Lesson B**** (she's my mother, c'mon, I can't call her a B****). Of course, she's reached the age of Menopause, so that brings its own lovely B**** bracket, so she's pretty well covered.
Anyways, back to Angry Bitch Numero Uno. It was really hard on Hub when I had a shitstorm combo of PPD and new hormones from the Mirena IUD doing a happy dance and having crazy coo coo chillens. I HATED him. I was Angry Bitch squared, maybe cubed. I do wonder sometimes what it must have been like for him. But then I remember labor and the state of my vag and I go, "Meh." I suppose that's not super supportive. But I'm a wife, not a jock strap (yeah, Bones!). Things are mostly better now, but even though I'm not bloody, apparently I'm back on my cycle (I'm exclusively breast feeding, shall we save some time with EBF, so luckily the crimson tide hasn't returned yet) hormonally so I am just WICKED today. Bitchy to my customers at work (very odd, I'm usually quite good at compartmentalizing), dropped a couple S-bombs while talking to my boss, and then...drum roll... I totally fucked up with my kid. :(
Yes, that was a frowny face. I utilize them a lot. Get over it.
Let me take this opportunity to let the Grammar Nazi's out there know that they can officially Fuck Off. I will spell how I think it sounds unless it's a real word, then I will spell it correctly. If you think it's not a word, it probably isn't and that's how I roll. If it's a word that you think is real but misspelled...YOU are wrong. You might want to get your learning checked.
So I was fucking up with my kid. It was a long day. I was tired. Nothing spectacular happened, just regular shit: house, food, bills, work, interspersed with kid and baby. Oh, and with the raging shitstorm. I finally get home and it's only an hour and a half until B's bedtime. B wanted me to put him to bed so badly (usually Daddy does this as I am knee deep in my well deserved glass of vodka, er, wine, by B's bedtime) so I thought I had it in me to read a book and call it good... Ah, not so simple. As I'm kissing him goodnight and about to close the door, I hear a "Mommy, I want you to sing to me."
It is REALLY hard to sing lovingly to your child when bashing your face into the wall sounds a lot more fun because the crazies are crawling up your back and gouging your eyeballs out. I tried to hum along with a lullaby cd. No dice. "I want to hear you siiiiinnnnng, Mommy!" So of course, my first instinct is to CONTROL the situation, "No, B, it's time for bed, I'm turning off the lights, goodnight." Cue the uncontrollable wailing. It was the most heartbreaking sound I've heard since at least the night before last. "I...(heave)....just...(heave)...want...(sob)...you...(sob.)...to sing...(heave)...to meeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!" ...Just as I am about to say, "FOR FUCKS SAKE, KID, WHATD'YA WANT FROM ME!" (not really, I actually don't curse in front of my kid, but from reading this you can see how fucking difficult that endeavor is, but I really wanted to say that to him) I realize that my son is 3. Now, I knew that before, but it really hit me that in another 10 years, he will be embarrassed by me singing (God Almighty, why isn't he embarrassed now, that's the question!). My son actually WANTED me to screech at him in my dulcet sand paper tones. How much longer will he want that?! I actually started crying, I was so ashamed that I'd tried to brush him off, or even worse, make him feel badly for asking me to sing! I was ashamed that I've been peeling him off of me the last few days and needing SPACE. I'll have space enough in the shitty old folks home he and his brother will put me in after I've killed their father with my incessant nagging and bitching and crotchety attitude... Hmm. Wow, I really paint a pretty picture! :)
Needless to say, I've learned a lesson today. So that makes today worth it. And even though that Monkey is on my back (not the one B named Peanut Butter, probably George) and I'm one inch away from throwing this computer through the window, I've been laughing despite myself... Hub thinks that I "probably need anal sex" to feel better, and after pouring me a double glass of Chuck 2.5 Pinot Grigio (we so klassy, yo) stated, "maybe I'll get head after all" and then after I said, "probably not" he replied, "It's not like I believe what I say but semen will make you feel better." ...Life is pretty good, shitstorm and all. Well played, Hub, well played.
PS: My Hub is a sweet, darling man and has requested that I inform those of you who don't know me already that I'm not actually as bitchy as it seems in what I've written. If it weren't obvious already, I'm very hormonally charged and vibrating with the crazies. ...Maybe he'll get head after all. ;)