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Lynchian reinvention

I have always hated my name. It means absolutely nothing and only serves as a reminder that it was chosen by two people who don't know me at all. I wish I'd had it changed before I became so entrenched in adult life. Now, what a hassle. But still. I watched Lost Highway and thought about Renee resurrected as blonde Alice and suddenly felt sure I could pull it off. I've already come back as a blonde. All I need is a new name.

If I was to sink my teeth into your eye right now, would you be able to stop me before I blinded you?

I'm thinking I need to change my trademark line of going three kinds of Malcolm McDowell crazy from Malcolm McDowell to Ted Levine. Just the sound of his voice freaks me out. Stay tuned...
OK, actually I am already there, but I don't want to talk about it... except to say that I am considering telling people I am an orphan from now on. It might be more socially acceptable to spewing a metric poop-ton of bile the next time anyone says the word MOTHER to me.

you get more than magnets

Ok, I think my Wilson temper tantrum has passed just enough for me to say what I wanted to say before 2012 is over. I was going to explain why this blog is here in outerspace, and why it will probably make no sense to you if you happen to come stumbling along to read it. And it's just a simple answer that it is a love letter to the one man who has had the courage to stand by me through good times and bad, through red, little mermaid orange, blonde and alarming raspberry colored hair, the man who has cleaned up my kid's puke and sat vigil at their bedsides and mine whenever we were sick, the man who squeezed into a twin sized bed with me every night for too long, the man who has learned that McNuggets is one of my trigger words, the man who stayed by my side whether or not we had working toilets or electricity, the man who called 911 when I thought I was absolutely dying in the middle of the night, the man that celebrity lookalike says is a dead ringer for Leonardo but is 100% better looking, the man who recorded a record album for me before we even met- I love you and I don't care if no one else ever reads this or gets me. This is for you:

first you'll crash and then you'll burn

I was going to give a year-end state of the blog address today, in which I explain the whole reason I ever bother writing stuff no one reads, but I am in a bad mood. Like,

                         Tell him I'm @#$%*&# coming!!

that.
So all I want to say right now is, Dear douchebag who totaled our car,

Always crashing in the same car

If you are playing spacemonkey1138 catastrophe bingo at home, I have great news for you, you can go ahead and put a chip on "car wreck" now.

                   Things get damaged. Things get broken.

If you will recall, I did tell you that everyone seemed to be gunning for the Captain's ship. See, I am not paranoid. They were coming, two by two, hands of blue. Last week they succeeded in the form of a hipsterish, skinny jean-wearing being that appeared to be male (if you can get your junk into a pair of skinny jeans without looking like a porn star, you do not qualify as a man). Apparently his lack of genitals led to some mental confusion, causing him to WRECK OUR FREAKING CAR. Of course, he is trying to make it all sound like it wasn't entirely his fault. That's what guys who lack testicles do, shirk responsibility for things that are obviously their fault. So we have to wait to find out what the insurance adjusters think. Which we won't know until after Christmas because things move slower than molasses in this region. One can only imagine the hell awaiting us here at the end of the worst year ever. Have you been keeping score? Your card may be a winner! We've had:

a broken laptop, a leaky ceiling, eyeglasses that had to be returned 100 times, a busted toe that wouldn't heal, a dead stepfather, a widowed mom move in, a dead uncle, two family friend funerals, multiple unsuccessful trips the the so-called foot specialist, a trip to the ER, an adult with a baby disease, a ruined vacation,  a dead grandpa, a diagnosis of a killer disease, a domestic dispute over McNuggets, braces, high deductibles& tripled health insurance premiums (thanks, Barack!), a brother being sued by his neighbor, hit by a douchebag, undrive-able car, and just all kinds of other unmentionable BS that is too personal to go into.

Let me know if you have a winning spacemonkey1138 catastrophe bingo card so I can send you your prize, which will be whatever pile of ashes remain after they finish burning what is left of our broken lives.

Meanwhile, an ode to a car I never liked, but teared up for when they hauled it away...

I'll be waiting with a gun and a pack of sandwiches

Lately it seems like everyone is trying to plow into us with their automobiles. This past week was no exception. Call this vacation the one I almost ended up in the hospital, or perhaps jail because I wanted to throttle this guy who ran a stop sign with his big fat diesel guzzling truck and almost plowed into my door. If you want to see me really pissed off, run a stop sign/red light/whatever with your big hulking truck and come gunning for me (I guess I should explain that this isn't the first time this kind of scenario happened to me, but I just don't want to talk about it). Other than that I daresay our vacation didn't go horrible this time. Only because I unjinxed myself by announcing our vacation curse to the whole planet. In other news, if you are ever sitting there listening to Franz Ferdinand and get an annoyed feeling, it is because you really want to be listening to Interpol. True story. You're welcome.

OK! Now that I've got my typing-music issue sorted, let me tell you all about my Halloween adventure. I went in the company of a ninja and a princess and looked something like this:

Even though I hung back on the sidewalk, people kept offering me candy. Actually, by "people" I mean a bunch of skeevy men and one perfectly friendly lesbian. All of which I turned down, awkwardly. Ninja tried to save me by announcing that I didn't need to take any candy because I can have whatever candy I want, whenever I want, from their stash. Which should have helped but only made me feel like some kind of candy bully. I know you are probably questioning my sanity for turning down free candy, on Halloween, from people I let my children take candy from. IT'S FREE CANDY!! But the second a guy goes from handing out candy to neighborhood kids to offering it to grown women, he transforms from neighborly guy to faux-Charlie Sheen pervert, and taking candy from faux-Charlie Sheen perverts is totally creepy.

I also got a lot of compliments on my hair ("I like your hair MOM I LIKE HER HAIR!") One little girl asked me what I was, and in the face of such unexpected social interaction, I said, I'm just a mom. Seriously, I tried to explain myself, that I was just a mom out with her kids. I even pointed to them! One innocent question and I felt like I was on trial! And she said, "But you have pink hair". What is this, the Spanish Inquistion? My reply: I'm a mom with pink hair. I know, I know, I could have indulged in all manner of Larry David sarcasm with the kid but I froze. I'm not used to being approached by little kids wanting to talk about my costume, or lack of costume, or hair. It was like,

                                          I don't care...
that. Perhaps it is a good thing that I haven't been able to procure all the necessaries for my dream costume (Alex DeLarge) since I have this much trouble explaining myself. I also had kind of an awkward run-in with a toddler that had a meltdown while being carried across the street, after which he was set down, calmly, a few feet from me. He stood there staring at me and I said something like, "There you go, that's better... temporary insanity, it happens to me all the time." Then his parents kind of laughed and walked away. You know, on second thought, maybe Willy Wonka wouldn't be a half bad costume for me.

Anyway, there is one thing I really love about Halloween, and that is the smell inside one's treat bag, that glorious smell of all kinds of candy cohabitating in one small space. I wish I could bottle that smell before the kids finish growing up. Being that I have two teenagers I guess that happened right about... NOW, and I am out of luck. By this time next year, the ninja will probably be too tall to pass for someone young enough to trick-or-treat. Maybe the princess could go, but this year was hard enough what with her having braces and not being able to eat a large percentage of her spoils, and next year will be no different. So it kind of feels like maybe the party's over. Last dance with Mary Janes. Last night I made a dessert of swedish fish, sour patch kids, and dots, and I was thinking of skipping dinner sometime and just indulging in some kind of candy casserole. That sounds mature and emotionally healthy, eating a bowl of candy while fantasizing about telling off Stop Sign Ignoring Truck Guy with a rant that would make Don Logan blush.

                        Why are you swearing? I'm not swearing.

But I'm over that. We made it through our vacation without any deaths, diseases, injuries, forced home remodeling or any of the other usual suspects. Thank you Jesus.