Archive for February, 2012
The best thing about this lame-ass blog is the collection of search terms used to find it. WordPress gives you a list of such things, updated every day. The usual suspects are
polymastia (always a favorite)
and our old friend elephantiasis of the scrotum:
In fact, I’m still rather proud that if you type “elephantiasis of the scrotum” into Google, this blog is like the 3rd hit.
Anyway… some awesome search terms this week are:
“Why are wiccans fat”
“Robert Plant scrotum”
I’m not sure what I can add to those topics, but I’m laughing!
I’m trying not to have a bad attitude towards penises. Really, I never had anything against them before. They can be quite fun at times! However, after 3 days of The Kid’s potty training I am having trouble seeing them as little more than a drain spigot. While this is how it should be when one is dealing with a toddler, I am having trouble translating the “wang = urine elimination device” into anything else. I try to picture a wang on, say, someone who I’m *not* trying to bribe to sit on the toilet, and it is just another body part. Like ooh sexy. An elbow. Yay. Kneecap. Whoopee. Wang. It doesn’t help that the only non-potty training wang I have in my life has been gone to Florida for work for 2 weeks and will not return for another week.
Now before you go calling Child Services on me (OH MY GOD SHE’S HINTING ABOUT SEX WHILE TALKING ABOUT POTTY TRAINING! WHAT KIND OF PERVERT DOES THAT ON THE INTERNET?!?!?)– what I am saying is that whatever allure and/or mystique the human penis ever had for me is gone now, having had to stare at a tiny one for probably 1/3 of my workday today. On the plus side, the Kid peed in the potty more times than we were accurately able to track on his Potty Chart. On the downside, I may never be able to have sex again because all I can think of at the moment is The Kid singing the hastily written Potty Song to the tune of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” (tentatively titled “Tinkle Tinkle Little Pee”) while happily swinging his legs in time and alternately yelling “I *AM* THINKING POTTY THOUGHTS!!!”
If you are squeamish about reading this article, you probably have never had to teach a young male how to pee in the potty. This is not an easy-breezy oh-let-me-have-a-cup-of-tea activity. It requires constant vigilance while the party in question is both on and off the potty. It requires a lot of staring with enthusiasm (I’ll admit after the 18th time today much of it was feigned simply because I was burned out on yelling HOLY COW, YOU PEED IN THE POTTY! AWESOME! LET’S GO GET A STICKER!!! YOU RULE!!! etc. etc.) at a pants-less kid sitting on the bowl while he gleefully admonishes you to watch him urinate. It involves a lot of intense scrutiny as you watch a kid while he’s playing for signs of the dreaded “potty dance” and then try to rush him to the throne before it’s too late and yet another pair of Batman undies must get thrown in the wash.
I’ll admit watching The Kid pee the first several times was a little difficult, simply because urination as a spectator sport is not the kind of activity I normally engage in and/or enjoy. Originally, The Kid demanded privacy in order to complete his waste elimination tasks, which was perfectly fine with me. Now, because he enjoys the massive adulation, he commands me to watch, lest I miss any amazing potty mastering feat. Now it’s just another activity. Should I be alarmed that I am desensitized to watching the elimination of waste in action? I guess it’s like barf, snot, poop, and all the other fluids constantly being secreted from small children– you develop an immunity to their inherent grossness pretty fast. Good thing too, or the human race would have died out from choking on its own snot or drowned to death in a sea of pee while aspirating on its own puke eons ago.
Because we want this kid out of diapers sometime before he goes to college, I’ll admit I’ll pretty much do anything to get him to go on the potty, possibly even if it means living the remainder of my life in celibacy. Sigh. So much for having a job you don’t take home with you!
The Kid is back on potty training! Apparently he is totally psyched to pee in the potty for his mom. He even pees in public restrooms! However, since I am not his mom, and in his mind my main function is to clean up his messes, feed him, and administer entertainment, Potty Time has become just another battleground. An epic, Herculean, Clash of the Titans-esque battleground, which I am doomed to lose in an epic, Herculean, Promethean way. Prometheus– he was the one chained to a rock getting his liver eaten out by an eagle every day, right? Yeah, that’s me, except the Eagle is the Kid, and my sanity stands in for a liver, although this kid may drive me to drink in which case it will be both.
I tried making it fun… “Hey look, sitting on the potty can be a game! Let’s make some token fun rules to follow!”
I tried bribery with all sorts of things… stickers (works for his mom), candy (also works for his mom), fun forbidden art projects (we can use the non-washable markers!), messiness (we can find some puddles to stomp in!)
I tried the pavolvian method… “hey, the alarm is going off, time for the potty!”
I even tried blackmail… “I won’t give you [that thing you asked for] unless you sit on the potty.”
I tried making it into a big deal. “Oh my gosh, it’s POTTY TIME!!! Won’t that be AWESOME?! Let’s SKIP to the potty!”
I tried making it the opposite of a big deal. [look at watch] “Time to sit on the potty. Go.”
All of these things have just made the kid even more determined to not sit on the potty, or if he does, making it the most horrific experience of the day for both of us.
The Kid can’t pee in the potty if there are people present. However, if I turn my back on him for a second, he will
1. take all the TP off the roll and stuff it into the toilet, all the while cackling evilly. He managed to do this with all the TP on the main roll PLUS the entire backup roll that is kept near the toilet. This activity took him about 30 seconds.
2. bang the toilet seat lid repeatedly as hard as he can against the toilet tank making a surprisingly loud and annoying din.
3. play with his junk. I don’t have a problem with junk playing; it’s not the puritanical aspect that concerns me, it’s just that when the junk is being pointed at, say, the ceiling, and peeing does magically occur, you can guess what will happen. I tried to explain this to The Kid, but of course, being 3 years old, the thought of peeing on the ceiling is about the most awesome thing he can think of. So, now if I come in to check on him, he points his junk at me in hopes that if such a miraculous event as as the elimination of urine should occur, it will now happen with force onto my face. He talks about this a lot. He awaits this event with the kind of reverential glee normally reserved for Evangelical Christians awaiting the Rapture.
In addition to all this, getting him on and off the potty results in me getting my hair pulled, my glasses chucked across the room, pinched, my person smacked, kicked and all sorts of other abuse. He has become very elaborate in his threats– he now invokes imaginary monsters from his nightmares to eat me up. His favorite phrases are “I DARE YOU!” and “PROVE IT!” He has no idea what either of these things mean, and for me, the novelty and cuteness of small child misusing grownup phrases wore off weeks ago. These phrases are often accompanied by “shooting” — i.e., The Kid pointing his finger at me and making the unmistakable spitting sound that is his soundtrack to lighting me on fire. Bullets are too wimpy for this kid; he’s gone straight for imaginary flamethrowers.
Time Out has become an exercise in seeing how creatively naughty one can be in another location, and is no longer a punishment or an incentive to be good. Unless I watch him like a hawk, The Kid will spit on the floor, spit on his hands and make pictures with it on the walls, pull on the curtains, grab anything he can reach and throw it at me, scratch the leather couch, and a host of other things which I’m sure haven’t even crossed his mind yet. When I threaten to double his Time Out sentence, he just spits at me and yells “TWO TIME OUTS!” and then demonstrates his counting abilities by repeating it and yelling “THREE TIME OUTS!”
When I give him the Dire Time out by strapping him into his stroller and leaving him in the other room, he just retaliates by screaming my name and rocking his stroller causing it to bang against the floor as loud as possible until I let him out.
Right now The Kid is playing with Play Doh and yelling “AINA!!! get me some…. some… uh… some… uh…” he can’t even think of what he wants to command me to do; he just wants to command me to do something.
I’ve been at this a day and a half.
Or, for all you atheists that don’t believe in celebrating the lives of saints, Happy Michael Bloomberg, Frederick Douglass, Jimmy Hoffa and Florence Henderson’s Birthdays!
From the Archive of Awesome Valentines:
I never put much stock into the Myers-Briggs personality test. It always seemed like a convenient way for nerds to avoid having to have contact with people they don’t like (i.e., “I can’t talk about that to my boss, she’s clearly an ESTJ”). However, the older I get, the more it seems to make sense. Or, the older I get, the less patience I have and the less time I want to spend contemplating the subtle nuances of peoples’ individual miraculous snowflake-like personalities and the more I want to just lump them into categories. This is where Myers-Briggs comes in handy.
Today, like most of the time, I am here to talk about my mother. I’m not going to bring up past events; I’m just going to talk about aspects of her INFuriating Personality that are currently DRIVING ME BATSHIT CRAZY. I never use the term “batshit crazy” because I don’t exactly know what it means. How crazy is bat shit anyway? People spend a lot of money for it to put on their prize orchids or pot plants or whatever, so it can’t be that crazy, right? When I think of bat shit, I picture the scene from <i>Planet Earth</i> that BBC documentary series where the bat is flying around in his little cave full of 6 feet of bat poop and he falls into it and smothers to death. That’s what my mother’s crazy does. It will smother you to a smelly death.
We’re supposed to go to Thailand. OK, we’re going. MIkala was a little wishy-washy at first (see previous post), but she really wants us to come visit. So… I’m TRYING TO GET SOME FREAKING TICKETS! Now, I understand that Moth doesn’t have a lot of money and that she’s naturally thrifty. Of course I’d like to save money if I can; I’m by no stretch of the imagination wealthy either. However, this does not mean I want to travel in the hold of a hamster wheel-propelled cargo ship smuggling leaky nuclear waste barrels and underage Polish hookers to Uzbekistan in order to save $25 on the ticket price. She totally would.
I found some tickets out of Boston for about $1400. I know that’s not cheap, but I can afford it. I was fine with that. I found some good days to travel and I was ready to book tickets.
BUT WAIT! She says. She has to talk to “some guy.”
The guy she talked to organizes trips to Thailand for people who don’t have health insurance to get surgery. (“Do you need any procedures done? You should get them done while we’re here!” she said. “Hmmm. I’ve been thinking about that sex change,” I answered. “… … what sex would you become?” “Definitely a hermaphrodite.” I said. “You’re not supposed to say that anymore. I think it’s transsexxed or intrasexed or something?” –for the record, it’s “intersexed” but anyway…)
Moth sees This Dude as some kind of peoples’ hero– getting the Common Man his triple bypasses and Common Woman her mastectomies by sticking it to The Man. OK, I can see the point. There have been many decades in my life when I didn’t have health insurance, and a cheap operation would have been a good option had I had to have had one (is that even a real verb tense?). Anyway, apparently This Dude went off on how all the airlines listed on Expedia.com and Travelocity and those places are fascist tools of the patriarchy or whatever and that we should fly these other airlines. Truthfully, I had never heard of Cathay Pacific Airlines, but apparently they are the third largest airline on the planet. Qatar Airlines was the other one Moth remembered him mentioning. I don’t know anything about that one. What I do know is, while I don’t expect free martinis and a hot tub on my flight, since I’m going to be in the air for, like 29 hours, I would like to know that there will be a bathroom and snacks.
Moth can’t commit to a date. I had several dates picked out that were awesome. Unfortunately in this circumstance, Cathay Pacific airlines has a chart that they show you when you put in your travel times that shows what the fares are if you go on different days. Some of the days (like Saturdays, for example) are way more expensive to fly on. Other days differ by as little as $15. Moth has been trying to find the cheapest combination of days, and every time I find some days that work, she can’t commit to them because there may be a cheaper time somewhere.
I have a real job. I can’t just go flitting off at a moment’s notice for however long I want to. It’s not like I’m AN ARTIST or anything! She wants to go for longer than 2 weeks now. I really don’t want to be away that long. I already have used a couple of sick days when I had the Arisia Plague this year, and I only get 3(?) weeks to begin with. I tried the tactic of “The more time I spend in Thailand, that means the less time I get to spend with you on Christmas,” but Moth’s fruit-fly-esque attention span didn’t catch that remark.
She keeps demanding to know what days I can go. I CAN GO PRETTY MUCH ANY DAY, I JUST CAN’T TAKE OFF THE ENTIRE MONTH OF MARCH! She doesn’t understand this concept. I can take off any two weeks I want whenever. I just can’t take more than 2 weeks. In Moth’s mind, if I am free any time, why can’t I just so to Thailand for, like the next 3 months? Now I have an event. I finally gave her some kind of parameters (she was desperate for some since she has none herself)– Doug is going to see Swervedriver on the 29th of March and has another ticket. I am totally psyched to go. However, when I told Moth about the show, she was all like “oh, you have BOYFRIEND. Don’t let me stand in your WAY! Are you sure you even want to come to Thailand? I mean, if you’d rather just STAY HOME WITH HIM…” It was all dripping with sarcasm. Note: many things my mother says that would be said sarcastically by most of the populace are NOT said with sarcasm. This was.
WTF?!?! I can’t win. I just want to get some freaking tickets and get the hell off this continent for 2 weeks! If it were up to me I would have booked a flight weeks ago. ARRRRGGHHHHHH!!!!!
OK, I am calm now. I’m just frustrated beyond belief right now.
CALM BLUE OCEAN CALM BLUE OCEAN I am picturing myself lying peacefully on a beach… getting sand in my eyes and stepping on a portuguese Man o’war… argh. This isn’t working. Poop.
What does this have to do with Myers Briggs again? I don’t remember. All I know is I am one annoyed INTP (with INTJ tendencies apparently). Funny what a difference one little letter can make.
I am actually glad that, after a brief WTF?!? moment, the Bills continued their tradition of sucking this year. This means I still don’t have to care about football.
So I took the plunge. I switched to the hippie cell phone company (Credo Mobile, part of Working Assets, which Moth and most of Ithaca has had for decades). I could get a Smart Phone plan for pretty much what I was paying for a Dumb Phone plan on Sprint, plus I get a free phone that is much smarter than my current phone, and has a way better camera to boot. I read the reviews of all the free cameras and it turned out that the fanciest one was the best, even though it’s not that “current”– yuppies will look down their noses at me, but when does that ever NOT happen?
Thus I became a Smart Phone user.
It’s not that easy to become a SmartPhone user out of the blue, because “smart” is describing the phone, not necessarily the user. Since I’m a novice to this whole thing, I don’t even know what it’s supposed to do. My phone apparently does a zillion different things, and it didn’t come with a manual. It came with a barebones “getting started” booklet which included things like “answering your phone” and “making a call.” However, every time some random event in the universe happens, the phone makes one of 25 different noises that sound like Tinkerbell farting, and though I thought I turned them all off, it still twinkle-farts every now and then. Usually, my way to deal with new technology is to go through the manual and do all the different things in there one by one. However, I was able to figure out how to do all the stuff in the “getting started” booklet myself. I found an online manual, but it needed some new version of Adobe reader or something to decipher it, and when I tried to upgrade, it crashed or something, so half the pages don’t show up. Oh well, I’ll figure out something. It somehow added every single person I’ve ever emailed to my phone contact list (i.e., everyone who ever answered a Craig’s List ad when I was selling stuff, every potential date I’ve ever contacted etc.) I figured out how to get rid of all those people at least! To get rid of the Tinkerbell-esque sounds, I uploaded a new ringtone from my computer (there’s a site where you can do this for free) so it would play the word “wombat” in morse code every time the phone rings. However, it’s way too complicated a procedure and I have no idea if the ring tone actually saved or not, and if so where it stored it.
This morning the phone started making a more insistent shimmering sound. For a moment I thought I was having a flashback on a 1980s sitcom, but it turned out it was just Moth calling. She was actually telling me that Mikala wants me to go to Thailand, and I should get on that and also why haven’t I been playing Scrabble? “Are you OK? You sound weird,” she said.
“I wasn’t sure if my phone was actually ringing, or if it was just telling me the stock prices in Equatorial Guinea had just dropped 3/10 of a point,” I said.
I told her about my misadventures with the Smart Phone. Moth said “oh, now you can play Scrabble on your phone! … but I see you don’t want to play anymore. I guess I should just give up on our game(s).” These days Moth’s life revolves around online Scrabble. She actually called me once a few months ago to ask me if I was sick because it had been, like, 3 hours and I hadn’t made a Scrabble move.
I tried to appeal to her maternal desires to populate the world with more grandkids (or at least see me coupled up since in her mind it’s impossible for a female to be happy while single) and said “well I’ve been sorta like seeing this GUY… I haven’t had time to play a lot of Scrabble…” However, Moth knows me too well. She just said “well do you actually LIKE him, or is just another, you know… whatever?” I had to walk this line carefully. If I said, “meh, whatever” then it would be no excuse to not spend every waking moment playing online Scrabble and every sleeping moment dreaming about Scrabble moves, so even having mentioned it would just have been wasting time. If I said “I actually LIKE him,” then it would be assumed that armies of grandchildren would start marching out of my nether regions possibly beginning next week. “Um, he’s cool?” I began… luckily Moth has the attention span of a fruit fly and non-commital responses trigger her desire to rapidly move onto the next subject. Phew!
Back to the SmartPhone, though… I have a month to decide if being a SmartPhone operator is enough of a positive addition to my life to keep the phone or cancel. At this point (being a user for less than 24 hours), I really can’t see how it’s improving the quality of my life. Maybe that will change as I actually learn how to use the damn thing. Maybe in 29 days I will say “HOLY CRAP I AM ADDICTED, HOW DID I EVER LIVE WITHOUT THIS TINY HUNK OF METAL!?!?!?” we’ll see. I do get 4G network thingie, though I’m not entirely sure what that means. It’s fast? So if I need to download pr0n on the go, I can do it really fast? Apparently it uses up a lot of battery life to do that. It does take nice pictures, though!
Dear HTC Evo Shift 4G, maybe we can be friends sometime.