MFA Mama

maybe thirty-two is just the magic number

This may be a bit more crass than you are used to reading from me. If purple prose inflames your sensibilities, click here to look at babeh kittehs and other cute things.

 

   Moments after making sweating, trembly love, the kind where even if you braid your hair first it ends up in cool, damp mats afterward, having tumbled into our robes, my husband and I passed in the hall and he kissed me with a mustache still wet from drinking water with his pre-bedtime pills, I grabbed him by his belt and said...

   THAT'S IT, I'M CUTTING YOUR MUSTACHE. Tomorrow, he said consolingly. RIGHT NOW. I changed my mind again. TOUGH SHIT C'MERE, I'LL JUST DO YOUR UPPER LIP.

   And would you know that man let me drag him through a doorway and use the kitchen shears to trim his facial hair. If that's not love, I don't know what is, y'all. I didn't say anything on here because we didn't exactly celebrate except with cake for the children (my choice, I am a long-time birthday-hater), but today (for five more minutes) is my birthday and right now? I get the feeling thirty-two is gonna be a good year.

the one where Hotter and I are not sex-positive for all of five minutes*

   So I was talking to Mer on the gchat about the culture of illness on social media, and paused to explain the "spoonies" hashtag on the Twitter to Hotter, who then made the "this is why I hate social media" face at me and I was like "this is why he isn't on the Twitter all my donor organ are [minority] bitchez" posting pictures of his taint so be THANKFUL and closed the window o'Mer** and suddenly we were in the twilight zone talking about what his brother and his brother's best friend and his brother's girlfriend did one time Back In The Day and he was all "well blah blah Playboy says never have a threesome with your wife and another GIRL or you'll just end up watching" and I was all "haha yeah and you'd be fine with that" and he was all "are you kidding, fuck yeah?" *fapping motions* and I was like "that's what you SAY, because you're a man" and then there was the sound of crickets and:

Him: I THOUGHT YOU WEREN'T A SLUT.
Me: I wasn't. Technically.
Him: Whoahhhwhat's technically mean? NOT counting girls?
Me: Everyone, counting girls, could fit in the MFA Minivan and have a seatbelt to wear. Safety first!
Him: Right, that's what you always do say, but...?
Me: You can keep it down to seven individually quite normal bodies OR mix and match, uh, seating rows. Move the bench up, or...
*crickets*
Me: OR SO I HAVE HEARD FROM PEOPLE I KNOW ONLINE WHO ARE NASTY. I MEAN, INNERNET PEOPLE, Y'KNOW? HAHAHA.
Him: Yeah, well that's what I was saying about my brother. Not, you know...
Me: You've sucked dick before. How are you calling him--
Him: I WAS NEVER A FLAMER, OKAY???

   That was a first! We both sulked for like, five minutes until one of the dogs woofed in their sleep and we both cracked up laughing.

* See, I am totally fulfilling my last New Year's Resolution and talking about the sex on the social media. Aren't you proud?

** Which as this immediately preceeded my morning jumping the shark I am taking as a sign that closing the window o'Mer was a dumb idea. Learn from my mistake, people.

eesh, my lungs are buttholes when I'm sick

   Let me preface this by stating that I actually do understand more than most laypeople do about infectious disease and its transmission methodology, and am crystal. effing. clear. that being cold, for example, does not cause one to get a cold and then pneumonia any more than antibiotics offer any measure of protection against, say, viruses (or prions, I'd imagine).

   That said? I AM ALREADY FELLED BY ANOTHER EFFING COLD AND I HAVEN'T EVEN FINISHED TAKING THE COURSE OF GOT-DAMN LEVAQUIN THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO SAVE THE END OF 2010? NO, SHUT UP, THAT'S JUST BULLSHIT.

   Also, sick + asthma + v. cold air outside + just got up and did the morning cough-out = "here, take both leashes honey, I am going to take my lungs inside and let them sit and think about what they've done just now."

   I feel the further need to clarify beyond any shadow of a doubt that I do not have it that bad with teh asthma. It's a pain in the arse chest at times, and it's inconvenient and costly (at least by my standards), but I have never had a hospital admission due to asthma, for example. I am whining here because I don't like what I've got, not because what I've got is so epically tragic and awful, and I get that.

   Hotter is so very sweet about it when I'm sick. He brings me heated Bed Buddies for my feet and boxes of tissue and hot tea and smooches. I am very cognizent of how lucky I am to be sick on a day when I don't have to work or wrangle small boys, in a warm, clean bed, with a Hotter about.

   I guess I'm nervous of doing anything even approaching whining or complaining, not only because I am wholly fortunate and well-aware of that, but also because I've got to adjust to writing with a stalker all over again. I write, and then I ask myself, does that make you seem too ill to be a "fit" mother in the eyes of X or will someone say you're angling for Y to happen with the sickness?

   But I'm learning to let go of that. Sometimes I'm just telling true stories of what goes on inside my head, because this is my blog, my narcissistic little sandbox where I pound out mah feelings and anyone reading is, at least a little bit, engaging in voyeurism because people of the innernet: I AM NOT REALLY THAT INTERESTING OR IMPORTANT. I mean, I read a lot of blogs myself because I think there's still that anthropological pull in us toward commonality, and also in some of us toward understanding what makes us different; I'm not saying you're some kind of cyber-perv if you're reading this (or at least that you're no more of a cyber-perv than I am, technically, so) but just that...really? If I'm writing about how I'm sick and need a wahhhhmbulance because I couldn't play in the snow and you're a) not enjoying it and b) reading it like an amateur literary critic trying to find something to point to as indicative of my inherent narrative unreliability then HELLO, OH MAH GAH, POT? KETTLE???

   But then, I already covered that on my About page, and most of you have better reading comprehension skills than, oh, an adolescent rhesus monkey. So! I am sick, my lungs are being buttholes: woe. WOE I SAY! And you?