My daughter's third birthday is four days away. In four days, she will officially be out of her "terrible twos", though I have been told that "terrible threes" is far worse. I can hardly wait.
When I started blogging a year ago, I meant it to be an archive of the funny things that AC has done and said over the past year. And that went well...for about six posts. Then I dumped the blogging thing altogether, until I started my divorce process over the fall. Then, instead of blogging about my terrible two-year-old, I blogged about divorce and break-ups and lost loves and heartbreak and dating. I used swear words and obscenities. I was lectured by some well-meaning friends that one cannot use such words and terms on a "parenting" blog. My ex-husband told me that my blog was the equivilent of "man repellent", and that any man who read it would never want to date me.
So, in light of the fact that my blog is now anything but a parenting blog and my child is anything but a two-year-old, I decided a name change was in order: My Soul is Bare...
Guess where I got the name from? Those of you who already read my blog would probably guess: a Britney Spears' song, 'Me Against the Music'. I've listened to those lyrics a lot, and whenever I hear that particular line, I always think that Britney has the right idea. Maybe to recover from whatever trauma we are facing in life--or life in general--it's just best to spill your guts until your soul is bare.
And, as we all know, I have no problem spilling my guts...
Showing posts with label Britney Spears. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Britney Spears. Show all posts
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Thursday, December 24, 2009
GIMME More!
Despite my best efforts, AC discovered her Christmas Pig well before Christmas morning.
Since my divorce, she has been sleeping in bed with me. Other than the fact that this has triggered some sciatic nerve pain that hasn't been present since I was pregnant with AC and the fact that I am lucky if I get three hours of sleep when she's with me, I don't really mind all that much.
However, last night, she announced that she wanted to sleep in her own bed. Busted: the Christmas Pig was in its cage--IN her bed. I had no choice but to move it, and since the cage is pretty close in size to that JFK aircraft carrier I want, it was impossible to hide it from AC, even though it was covered in a blanket.
The questions started immediately: what is that? Why? Who brought it here? Why? It has toys? Why? That's its food? Why? That's a caterpillar? Why? Why? Why?
I agreed that it was indeed a caterpillar, and told her I didn't know why it was here.
At that moment, the Christmas Pig darted out from its piggy bed, and I was caught in my own lie. AC screamed, "It's a chipmunk!". I did not disagree.
Because I was so busted and poor Christmas Pig was so scared, thanks in part to my 120 pound golden retriever, whose attention had been captured by the fuss, I took Christmas Pig out for a visit.
AC gushed over her new cutesy "chipmunk", and I asked her what she would name her Christmas Pig. No answer.
Since it was so close to bedtime, I hustled AC off to bed, where she threw a toddler tantrum. Naturally, my phone had to ring at this moment. A few days prior, I'd made the juvenile decision to download the Britney Spears' song '3' as my ringtone. It is inappropriate in every sense, and makes me wonder how, when I was a kid, the song 'Me So Horny' caused such a controversy, and now Britney singing about a threesome with "Twister on the floor" is appropriate.
Anyway, AC easily recognizes Brit's voice, and demanded more songs. With the hope of getting her to sleep, I decided I'd let her watch some Britney videos on my phone.
Now, apparently it slipped my mind that there really is no such thing as a family-friendly Britney video. We landed on 'Gimme More', infamous for my favorite quote in recent history: "It's Britney, b!tch!"
'Gimme More' features little more than Brit pole dancing. I cringed, hoping AC would avoid the question of "What that? Why?"
Luckily, Brit calmed her and she was ready to go to sleep--but not before one last goodnight to "Gimme". Yes, AC has named her guinea pig after a Britney Spears song: Gimme.
I am hoping that well-meaning people will think that she is saying "Guinea", not "Gimme", so I don't have to explain the fact that my two-and-half-year old named her new pet after a pole-grinding, semi-naked, infamous for its poorly performed at the VMAs, "It's Britney, b!tch" song. As the song says, its "got me in a crazy position...but if you're on a mission, you've got my permission..."
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Since my divorce, she has been sleeping in bed with me. Other than the fact that this has triggered some sciatic nerve pain that hasn't been present since I was pregnant with AC and the fact that I am lucky if I get three hours of sleep when she's with me, I don't really mind all that much.
However, last night, she announced that she wanted to sleep in her own bed. Busted: the Christmas Pig was in its cage--IN her bed. I had no choice but to move it, and since the cage is pretty close in size to that JFK aircraft carrier I want, it was impossible to hide it from AC, even though it was covered in a blanket.
The questions started immediately: what is that? Why? Who brought it here? Why? It has toys? Why? That's its food? Why? That's a caterpillar? Why? Why? Why?
I agreed that it was indeed a caterpillar, and told her I didn't know why it was here.
At that moment, the Christmas Pig darted out from its piggy bed, and I was caught in my own lie. AC screamed, "It's a chipmunk!". I did not disagree.
Because I was so busted and poor Christmas Pig was so scared, thanks in part to my 120 pound golden retriever, whose attention had been captured by the fuss, I took Christmas Pig out for a visit.
AC gushed over her new cutesy "chipmunk", and I asked her what she would name her Christmas Pig. No answer.
Since it was so close to bedtime, I hustled AC off to bed, where she threw a toddler tantrum. Naturally, my phone had to ring at this moment. A few days prior, I'd made the juvenile decision to download the Britney Spears' song '3' as my ringtone. It is inappropriate in every sense, and makes me wonder how, when I was a kid, the song 'Me So Horny' caused such a controversy, and now Britney singing about a threesome with "Twister on the floor" is appropriate.
Anyway, AC easily recognizes Brit's voice, and demanded more songs. With the hope of getting her to sleep, I decided I'd let her watch some Britney videos on my phone.
Now, apparently it slipped my mind that there really is no such thing as a family-friendly Britney video. We landed on 'Gimme More', infamous for my favorite quote in recent history: "It's Britney, b!tch!"
'Gimme More' features little more than Brit pole dancing. I cringed, hoping AC would avoid the question of "What that? Why?"
Luckily, Brit calmed her and she was ready to go to sleep--but not before one last goodnight to "Gimme". Yes, AC has named her guinea pig after a Britney Spears song: Gimme.
I am hoping that well-meaning people will think that she is saying "Guinea", not "Gimme", so I don't have to explain the fact that my two-and-half-year old named her new pet after a pole-grinding, semi-naked, infamous for its poorly performed at the VMAs, "It's Britney, b!tch" song. As the song says, its "got me in a crazy position...but if you're on a mission, you've got my permission..."
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Golden Nuggets
AC has been resistant to any efforts to potty-train her, much to my frustration. When she was 14 months old, in a random act of excretion, she peed in her Royal Potty. I praised her efforts, as did the Royal Potty, playing its regal melody to symbolize its receipt of liquid. This marked both the first and last time AC used the Royal Potty as a potty. It has had many uses since, including step stool and unfortunate instance of serving as bath toy. It later occurred to me that perhaps AC was appalled by the song the Royal Potty played, as I myself would not appreciate a toilet that cheerily announced each deposit.
Apart from the fact that I need to work to support us, I appreciate daycare as an opportunity to pay others to potty-train my kid. AC's current daycare has a potty in the shape of a frog. On a recent occassion, I picked AC up from daycare, where her teacher told me that AC had been placed on the frog and told to "make the froggy wet and dirty". It took virtually every ounce of strength I had to keep from bursting into immature and childish laughter over the thought of making the froggy wet and dirty.
Since AC's baby daddy and I separated, his mother has been working diligently on potty-training efforts, an easy task for her, since when AC is in the custody of her baby daddy, they live at his parents' house. Again, I have no complaints if someone else wants to train my kid, but it did sting to know that AC used the potty for the first time while she was with her grandma. For God's sake, I gestated that child for nine months, where she used to pee right inside my uterus. At the very least, she could appease me with being witness to her first use of the toilet!
Since that day, AC has been using the real potty more and more for everyone--except me. So today when she told me that she wanted her pants and Pull-Up off, I didn't think much about it, apart from encouraging her typical toddler exhibitionist traits. Much to my surprise, she soon sat down and actually used the potty for its intended purpose. Had I not known better, I'd have accused her of pouring apple juice in the potty, but since I knew that was not the case, I celebrated her accomplishment with much fanfare and cheering.
My parenting duties complete for the moment, I decided to check out my recently downloaded Britney Spears videos, hoping that I could perfect her moves so I am prepared next time I encounter a 'Womanizer'. AC realized who I was listening to--"That maybe Britney? My favorite!"--and proceeded to dance. And dance. And dance. I ran to get the camera to catch video of her shaking her bare booty to Britney. I smiled with pride, knowing that on my hands I have either a future exotic dancer or a budding pop starlet. I am hoping for the latter.
While I was laughing the video--and laughing until I cried--AC plopped herself down on her potty...and plopped down a generous handful of poo nuggets. When I say "handful", I mean it, as before I knew it, AC was running toward me with a handful of poo nuggets in her hand, proudly shrieking, "I went poopy!". Having no other choice, I graciously accepted the handful of nuggets as if they were golden nuggets. Hey, she might've been confused on what to do after the action happened, but at least she got her potty both wet and dirty today. Now that's what I call progress.
Apart from the fact that I need to work to support us, I appreciate daycare as an opportunity to pay others to potty-train my kid. AC's current daycare has a potty in the shape of a frog. On a recent occassion, I picked AC up from daycare, where her teacher told me that AC had been placed on the frog and told to "make the froggy wet and dirty". It took virtually every ounce of strength I had to keep from bursting into immature and childish laughter over the thought of making the froggy wet and dirty.
Since AC's baby daddy and I separated, his mother has been working diligently on potty-training efforts, an easy task for her, since when AC is in the custody of her baby daddy, they live at his parents' house. Again, I have no complaints if someone else wants to train my kid, but it did sting to know that AC used the potty for the first time while she was with her grandma. For God's sake, I gestated that child for nine months, where she used to pee right inside my uterus. At the very least, she could appease me with being witness to her first use of the toilet!
Since that day, AC has been using the real potty more and more for everyone--except me. So today when she told me that she wanted her pants and Pull-Up off, I didn't think much about it, apart from encouraging her typical toddler exhibitionist traits. Much to my surprise, she soon sat down and actually used the potty for its intended purpose. Had I not known better, I'd have accused her of pouring apple juice in the potty, but since I knew that was not the case, I celebrated her accomplishment with much fanfare and cheering.
My parenting duties complete for the moment, I decided to check out my recently downloaded Britney Spears videos, hoping that I could perfect her moves so I am prepared next time I encounter a 'Womanizer'. AC realized who I was listening to--"That maybe Britney? My favorite!"--and proceeded to dance. And dance. And dance. I ran to get the camera to catch video of her shaking her bare booty to Britney. I smiled with pride, knowing that on my hands I have either a future exotic dancer or a budding pop starlet. I am hoping for the latter.
While I was laughing the video--and laughing until I cried--AC plopped herself down on her potty...and plopped down a generous handful of poo nuggets. When I say "handful", I mean it, as before I knew it, AC was running toward me with a handful of poo nuggets in her hand, proudly shrieking, "I went poopy!". Having no other choice, I graciously accepted the handful of nuggets as if they were golden nuggets. Hey, she might've been confused on what to do after the action happened, but at least she got her potty both wet and dirty today. Now that's what I call progress.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Homemaker versus Homewrecker
My ex-husband is not thrilled that I am divorcing him, and honestly, who would be? A catch like me? For sure he should've straightened out his behavior in the seven years that we were married, so I wouldn't have had to find myself in the position of needing to choose between killing him or divorcing him.
For the purpose of making himself feel better and more like a man, he loves to hurl insults at me. He insists that I am a "homewrecker", despite the fact that the only home I've seemed to wreck is my own. That is not to say that I have not participated in some lecherous behavior that could've possibly deemed me a homewrecker, had I selected a less-honest man to seduce. However, my single endeavor in homewrecking, while momentarily promising, came to a halt when my womanizer--you know, as in Britney's 'Womanizer': "You say I'm crazy...I GOT your crazy"--decided that he had too much to lose if he got caught having a little planned but no-strings-attached afternoon delight with me.
In a recent tirade, my ex-husband was shrieking insults at me, which I calmly navigated, knowing that if I fulfilled my desire to actually kill him, I'd find prison much lonelier than divorce and life as a single girl.
By far, my most favorite insult of the night was when he looked and me and screamed, "You are sure no HOMEMAKER!"
I damn near fell over laughing at the fact that anyone would ever believe that I would aspire to the career goal of "homemaker" in the first place, much less that someone would consider me to be less of a person because I am not one. I am sure that my shrill and hysterical laughter only incited his anger more, but really...who did the guy think he was marrying? June Cleaver in a Pussycat Dolls costume? We married in 2002, not 1952.
In a discussion with friends, one pointed out that some men want their women to "seduce like a phone sex operator, f*ck like a hooker, dress and look like a model--all while putting on a perfect facade of devoted parent, devoted wife and "homemaker". Right that.
For the purpose of making himself feel better and more like a man, he loves to hurl insults at me. He insists that I am a "homewrecker", despite the fact that the only home I've seemed to wreck is my own. That is not to say that I have not participated in some lecherous behavior that could've possibly deemed me a homewrecker, had I selected a less-honest man to seduce. However, my single endeavor in homewrecking, while momentarily promising, came to a halt when my womanizer--you know, as in Britney's 'Womanizer': "You say I'm crazy...I GOT your crazy"--decided that he had too much to lose if he got caught having a little planned but no-strings-attached afternoon delight with me.
In a recent tirade, my ex-husband was shrieking insults at me, which I calmly navigated, knowing that if I fulfilled my desire to actually kill him, I'd find prison much lonelier than divorce and life as a single girl.
By far, my most favorite insult of the night was when he looked and me and screamed, "You are sure no HOMEMAKER!"
I damn near fell over laughing at the fact that anyone would ever believe that I would aspire to the career goal of "homemaker" in the first place, much less that someone would consider me to be less of a person because I am not one. I am sure that my shrill and hysterical laughter only incited his anger more, but really...who did the guy think he was marrying? June Cleaver in a Pussycat Dolls costume? We married in 2002, not 1952.
In a discussion with friends, one pointed out that some men want their women to "seduce like a phone sex operator, f*ck like a hooker, dress and look like a model--all while putting on a perfect facade of devoted parent, devoted wife and "homemaker". Right that.
It's Britney, B!tch!
Okay, okay...I will admit that I like Britney Spears a little bit more than your average 32-year-old woman should. One of the things I like best about her is that typically, we go crazy at around the same time. When she was crazy and shaved her head spontaneously, I was also crazy with postpartum depression, and sobbing over the fact that I could no longer see my OBGYN on a weekly basis, a complete devastation to me as--much to my ex-husband's dismay--I was certain my OBGYN was my soul mate. When Brit was crazy and locked her naked self in the bathroom with her son, I was also crazy with depression that would later transpire into a "mood disorder" diagnosis, which, in my mind, actually means "bipolar". My mother adamently disagrees with my self-diagnosis, and frequently tells me, "It's not YOU that's crazy. It's that you are in a crazy situation with your so-called husband." Nevertheless, I take pride in the fact that Britney and I share a commonality, at least in my own mind, though my "bipolar" has all but disappeared since I made my now ex-husband disappear.
As a newly single girl with newly single friends in a town of transient "pipers", we discussed one night how we ought to assume names when we go out. We vowed to never, ever give the pipers our real names, because we really aren't looking for anything long-term and really only want to be wined, dined and pipelined. Because I like the opening part of Britney's 'Gimme More', I decided that I would go by 'Britney B!tch', because really...calling your friends and saying, "It's J, b!tch!" has far less impact than quoting Britney word-for-word by calling your friends and saying, "It's Britney, b!tch!", just like she does in 'Gimme More'.
When I was still married to my husband, I begged and pleaded for tickets to Britney's Circus concert tour--for my 31st birthday. He obliged and went, particularly because he thought he was going to get a great night of sex after the concert, since he believed I'd be all heated up by both the Pussycat Dolls and Britney. Unfortunately, what he really got was chaos, because Brit was staying at the same hotel; no dinner because all of the restaurants were too packed before the concert; me downing champagne and Klonopin to control my stress; and Britney's Lip-Synching Extravaganza. To top the night off, we discovered that there were no restaurants in the area still open at the late hour of 11:00 pm, and ended up ordering room service, so the only sex he got was a quickie in which I yelled, "Hurry up! Room service will be here any minute!" I enjoyed the room service meal much more than I enjoyed the quickie, and enjoyed my luxurious shower in the posh tiled doubled-headed shower even more.
After I got over my shock and horror that Britney did no actual singing at the concert, I decided that it was still fun, so I taught myself how to use iTunes specifically for the purpose of downloading each of her concert songs, in set order, so I could re-live the event over and over in my car. With my OCD traits, if I have something new like this, I tend to play it over. And over. And over. Eventually, I will tire of it, as I have now, when Britney comes up every other song when my iPod in in shuffle mode, because there's so damn much of her on there.
However, during my Britney phase, I took AC to Target, an adventure that, round-trip, takes us roughly an hour-and-a-half, so we had plenty of time to listen to Britney. It should've been a warning when AC shrieked from the backseat, "Hey Mama! You wanna piece of me?" Sigh...I told her no...no, I did not want a "piece of her".
AC took her Britney obsession even further when we arrived at the McDonald's drive-thru to place our dinner order. She insisted that I "make it bigger!", and her favorite song was a less-than-innocent Britney song called, 'Hot as Ice'. For an adult, it is obvious what Brit is referring to as being "cold as fire, baby, hot as ice...never been to heaven? This is twice as nice...", but for AC, it quickly became her favorite song.
The line at the drive-thru was long and slow, and we had to wait with our car window down the entire time, with Aidyn yelling, 'MAKE IT BIGGER' while I had to play "Hot as Ice' over...and over...and over... I felt the glares from adults, who probably assumed that it was me, not a two-year-old, who insisted on playing the same obscene Britney song "bigger" and over...and over...and over.
But hey...it's Britney, b!tch. The kid's got good taste in music, and at least it wasn't Brit's current (and my favorite) obscene and even more suggestive hit, '3'.
As a newly single girl with newly single friends in a town of transient "pipers", we discussed one night how we ought to assume names when we go out. We vowed to never, ever give the pipers our real names, because we really aren't looking for anything long-term and really only want to be wined, dined and pipelined. Because I like the opening part of Britney's 'Gimme More', I decided that I would go by 'Britney B!tch', because really...calling your friends and saying, "It's J, b!tch!" has far less impact than quoting Britney word-for-word by calling your friends and saying, "It's Britney, b!tch!", just like she does in 'Gimme More'.
When I was still married to my husband, I begged and pleaded for tickets to Britney's Circus concert tour--for my 31st birthday. He obliged and went, particularly because he thought he was going to get a great night of sex after the concert, since he believed I'd be all heated up by both the Pussycat Dolls and Britney. Unfortunately, what he really got was chaos, because Brit was staying at the same hotel; no dinner because all of the restaurants were too packed before the concert; me downing champagne and Klonopin to control my stress; and Britney's Lip-Synching Extravaganza. To top the night off, we discovered that there were no restaurants in the area still open at the late hour of 11:00 pm, and ended up ordering room service, so the only sex he got was a quickie in which I yelled, "Hurry up! Room service will be here any minute!" I enjoyed the room service meal much more than I enjoyed the quickie, and enjoyed my luxurious shower in the posh tiled doubled-headed shower even more.
After I got over my shock and horror that Britney did no actual singing at the concert, I decided that it was still fun, so I taught myself how to use iTunes specifically for the purpose of downloading each of her concert songs, in set order, so I could re-live the event over and over in my car. With my OCD traits, if I have something new like this, I tend to play it over. And over. And over. Eventually, I will tire of it, as I have now, when Britney comes up every other song when my iPod in in shuffle mode, because there's so damn much of her on there.
However, during my Britney phase, I took AC to Target, an adventure that, round-trip, takes us roughly an hour-and-a-half, so we had plenty of time to listen to Britney. It should've been a warning when AC shrieked from the backseat, "Hey Mama! You wanna piece of me?" Sigh...I told her no...no, I did not want a "piece of her".
AC took her Britney obsession even further when we arrived at the McDonald's drive-thru to place our dinner order. She insisted that I "make it bigger!", and her favorite song was a less-than-innocent Britney song called, 'Hot as Ice'. For an adult, it is obvious what Brit is referring to as being "cold as fire, baby, hot as ice...never been to heaven? This is twice as nice...", but for AC, it quickly became her favorite song.
The line at the drive-thru was long and slow, and we had to wait with our car window down the entire time, with Aidyn yelling, 'MAKE IT BIGGER' while I had to play "Hot as Ice' over...and over...and over... I felt the glares from adults, who probably assumed that it was me, not a two-year-old, who insisted on playing the same obscene Britney song "bigger" and over...and over...and over.
But hey...it's Britney, b!tch. The kid's got good taste in music, and at least it wasn't Brit's current (and my favorite) obscene and even more suggestive hit, '3'.
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