My Life as a Kung Fu Fighter

Saturday, June 24, 2006

Word of the day: SNARKY

Funk and Wagnalls: n/a
snark·y (snär'kē)
adj. Slang., -i·er, -i·est.
Rudely sarcastic or disrespectful; snide.
Irritable or short-tempered; irascible.
[From dialectal snark, to nag, from snark, snork, to snore, snort, from Dutch and Low German snorken, of imitative origin.]

Correct usage:
"Don't you fuckin' get snarky with ME!"

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Why dogs suck

I've only met one cat in my entire life that I actually like. His name is Chopper, and he lets my little girl get very close to his head without freaking out or hissing. He doesn't poop in my yard, and because of that I let him hang out in my rocking chair. In fact, I think he's Protector of the House or just territorial, because since he's been around, no other annoying cats have been in our yard - ones that DO freak out and hiss. Ones that I throw pinecones at because they piss in my garden right as I'm trying my damnedest to get them OUT of my yard.
Before Chopper, I'd always been a dog person. I still was until yesterday. Here is an order of events that make me reconsider becoming a cat person.
Baxter and Coco feasted on every scrap in the garbage from two rotisserie chickens while we slept. Every scrap except for ONE bone.
Coco, the 90-pounder that she is, seemed to handle the grisle and bones just fine. But Baxter, on the other hand, had gas that filled my house, thus causing me to light candles in every single room. The candles that I only bring out for special company. The ones that smell like freshly mown grass, snickerdoodle cookies, and cranberry cider. The most potent ones known to man.
After enjoying an evening of swimming and having dinner out, we come home to the mushiest, smelliest shit on my new rug - the rug that is in the bedroom that was closed off to the dogs, that Baxter figured out how to push his way through. This resulted in the cleaning of the rug.
Upon deciding to clean my whole house, I discover my newly soaked bed from Baxter's decision to Christen my newly purchased comforter. More cleaning and banishing dogs from the bedrooms.
Baxter wakes me up at 4am to poop and eat grass.
On separate occasions, I find the dogs in the GARDEN. The sacred place that USED to have plentiful growth, that now has ONE zucchini sprout instead of an entire bed of vegetables, that I so foolishly blamed squirrels and birds for.
Finally, this evening post-water-the-garden and pre-popsicle, I discover that the dogs are really very cute and forgiveable after having had a walk and are too tired to destroy the rest of my life. Cats can't do this. They have claws and arch their backs for reasons unbeknownst to me.

Sunday, June 11, 2006

I pass through Security Land everyday. When the door opens to the World O'Fun (otherwise known as work), I have exactly two seconds to make a very important decision. Should I take the elevator, or should I take the stairs?
For the average Joe, this might seem like a thoughtless commitment, especially when Joe is dealing with only ONE flight of stairs. But no matter what I'm thinking about at the time, my mind makes an immediate shift for, "Will you choose to be lazy, or actually make the effort to use a few muscles?"
As often as I pass through the door, the angel of exercise appears on one shoulder, and the demon of sloth appears on the other. The demon usually wins. "Drinks aren't allowed in the gallery, and you, my Friend, have a cup of water... no matter that you're an employee!" Happily I walk into the elevator, arteries hardening all the while.
Without a water, the decision is a little more complex. I hear whispers of, "Take the stairs... circulation is important... you have bad genes and this would help reverse the signs of aging...."
When my chi is balanced with that of the earth, I leave my decision to the gods of health and well-being. If my fate is to exercise, the elevator light will come on and the doors will not open. If I'm allowed, just this once, to enter the elevator free of guilt, then I'm not even punished with thoughts of disappointment for the entire ride.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Tonight my daughter made up a song about how she loves me and has fun when we play together. We were in the bathroom getting ready to brush our teeth. I watched her 3-year old hands squeeze the toothpaste on and listened to her little voice.
I love, love LOVE when she is happy and saying nice things and gives hugs instead of runs the other way and shuts the door screaming, "MOM - give me some PRIVACY." 3 going on 13.
But anytime, literally every single time she says something nice about me, the sick part of my brain says, "Stow these thoughts for later when your daughter doesn't think it's fun to sing about happy things." So I stow and then hug the crap out of her little body and kiss her until she's annoyed and eventually runs away. Or kicks me.
Whoever said a little smothering isn't good for the soul?
I read or heard once or made up the thought that kids develop the ability to accept/give love by the time they're 3. So this is a big year. This is the last year she has to develop this concept. I'm either raising a cynic or an optimist. And she'll develop her memory more clearly. And I'm freaked out of my MIND.
So this is my solution: subliminal messages.
My plan is to record my voice with sounds of waterfalls and birds singing in the background. While she sleeps, she'll hear phases such as, "Mom is a GOOD person. You will finish college. Surround yourself with creativity and goodness. Don't join the armed forces...."

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

What happens during a phone discussion between bored women when their kids are asleep and their husbands are not around:
*Compare notes on poop, boobs, and blogs about poop and boobs
*Express sheer delight when one finds french fries in the freezer (and then admit on the other end the jealousy of having found such a snack)
*Attempt to clean with phone lodged between the right shoulder and ear (switch, repeat)
*Squeal when the other realizes that she, too, has french fries in her own freezer
*Brag about creative personal endeavors with a balance of confessing bad parenting moments, tactics, habits
*Fight sleep and stay up to talk simply because there is actual free time to be had
*End the conversation to eat the steaming mound of french fries dipped in cold ketchup