Fluffernutters, Janet Reno, and Barbie.
December 8th, 2001 by Kevin
I’d like to try a little experiment tonight, if you’ll bear with me for a moment.My buddy Spark has found that she gets some rather copious hits and rather odd mail ever since she talked about pro-anorexia sites on her journal.
I’d like to try something. I’m going to list a few keywords, and see if I get any crazy guestbook entries, or if my number of hits rises at all.
Britney Spears.Stinky feet.
Pac-Man.
Sex, sex, sex.
Mexican hairless cat.
Hot, kinky sex.
Janet Reno.
Fluffernutter.
I am Satan.
Fweeeeee.
That ought to be entertaining. However, something tells me I’ll live to regret it when some crazy, Satanic, Fluffernutter-eating whack job with BO comes here looking to download Pac-Man and watch Britney Spears and Janet Reno have hot, kinky sex.
Fweeeeee.
I’m a crabby bitch. I think with every passing year, I grow to be more of a crab. I’m not sure if the mental exhaustion of motherhood just blows every molecule of nicety into oblivion, or if dealing with my health insurance company on a daily basis has leeched every drop of kindness from my bloodstream, but I’m certainly getting to be a little too testy.
I’m turning into TrancePMS.
That would be a good comic book character. I could be one of those cool trendy anime characters, with hot pants and CFM boots.
TrancePMS stand surveying her kingdom, looking dangerously sexy in her 4-inch-heeled boots. But wait! It is her arch enemy, Soggy Boy, carrying a noxious load of Pull-Up Power-Poo! He is armed with his radioactive Jukronium sippy cup, but TrancePMS whips out her Sinous Slithering Salad Fork. Her weapon emits horrible shrieks that drive the evil toddler back to his lair, where he will be berated and de-sogged.
D. is pissed off at me again because I wouldn’t go to bed(ahem, let’s call a spade a spade honey, have SEX) with him. I’m just not in the mood. I’m in the mood to sit right here and be a crabby bitch, and that’s what I’m doin’, brother. Or, I’m in the mood to go out and dance until I can’t stand up - or until all this crabbiness is out of my system.
It’s so ignorant of me to sit here like a big baby, complaining that I want to go out. When I was 21, I wated a stable home with a man who loved me. Now that I have that(and a wonderful son to boot), I want to go out and act like 21-year-old again.
I will be 28 in three short weeks. I should be totally content to stay at home, watch movies, and play with my son.
I wouldn’t ever want to be 21 again. Clubbing six nights a week, never eating, drinking like a fish, popping esctacy all of the time…
I’d better stop, because it’s actually starting to sound fun.
I jest. It wasn’t. It had some good moments, but it was crazy. One night that comes to mind is Bondage Night at the old Dome Room, where three hundred people packed into the club dressed in latex and leather, and there was a man in a Bill Clinton mask and a rubber thong getting flogged by a transvestite.
Now that was a Kodak moment.
I need to pull a Back to the Future when I feel this way. I need to just hop in my Delorean, go back about six or seven years, and take NowTrance to meet ThenTrance so that I can see the error of my ways.
The only problem is that both Trances would probably do a couple shots of Goldschlager, buy a few hoochie mama ensembles, and go out to pick up guys.
I think this all stems from cabin fever. I can’t drive, I sit in the house all damn day, so I feel like I want to get out and be Wild Woman on the weekend. I want to be leather pants-wearing, crazy, blue-streaked CoolTrance; not ugly Old Navy Pajama pants-wearing, pee-cleaning, sippy cup scrubbing MommaTrance.
I want to get a babysitter and go far, far, far away fron this house. Just for a while. And I hate myself for getting into that frame of mind.
Sigh.
D. is a saint. He should be canonized or saintized(not to be confused with sanitized) or cardinalized ro whatever it is those crazy Catholics do to put each other up on pedestals. He puts up with all my bitchiness, my Robo-Neuroses, my crabbiness, and my Tell Me How Big My Ass Looks But Don’t Be Too Honest Or I’ll Rip Your Face Off moments. One of these days, he’s going to run screaming from the house.
FINE!!!!! I SAID HER ASS LOOKED FINE!!!! AAA!!!!!!!
Jadon doesn’t take my bitchiness sitting down. He gives it right back. I can respect that. The kid is starting to master the dirty look in response to the snide maternal remark.
We’re going to take J. on the trolley to Michigan Avenue tomorrow to see all the lights and window displays. We’re going to FAO Schwartz, too. I love FAO Schwartz. I have to be forcibly removed from FOA Schwartz beacause I can’t ever leave the stuffed animal section. It’s great - They have everything you can possibly imagine. Stuffed platypus? Sure. Stuffed anteater? Sure. Stuffed pond plankton? Why not?
I love stuffed toys. I still fantasize that one day, I’m going to wake up on Christmas morning, stumble into the living room, and find a giant stuffed tiger with a big red bow. I’m not just talking moderately large, either, I’m talking HUGE - one of those seven-foot, five hundred dollar jobs. And I would name him Hobbes, and he would sleep on my bed, and D. would think I was insane.
Sigh.
Boy, this is just the entry of broken dreams, isn’t it? Who’s going to cater my pity party?
I like stuffed toys a lot better than Barbies. I always thought Barbie was kind of lame. She was boring, and her tiny little shoes hurt like hell if you step on them. Barbies are for those little girly-girls who dress up in cute little fake feather boas and their moms’ high heels and makeup. As we all know, I was a big dork, and I eschewed all of that girly stuff until I started modeling and the girly stuff began to rule my every waking moment. So I was not a Barbie-phile.
J. sure loves Barbie, though. His eyes just light up like a damn Christmas tree everytime a Barbie commercial comes on TV. I can almost picture that same look in his eyes thirty years from now when he’s sewing sequins on a model’s pants, sipping Veuve Cliquot and prancing around like Issac Mizrahi.
See? I’m rotten.
I need to work on that.
Jagerchic wrote on 07/10/06 at 1:15 pm :
FYI
I’m not sure if you realize this- but you mention J-man’s actual name in this entry.
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