What You Mock, You Become
By Johi Kokjohn-Wagner
Confessions of a Corn Fed Girl
Often I find myself in a state of mental disarray, pondering the deeper meaning of the Universe. I pose mind blowing questions like, "Why is cheese so delicious?," "Is Satan related to the person that invented roller-skates?," and "Are reincarnation and karma really real? Like, really? Fer reals?"
The answer is always the same, "I dunno. Google that shiz." Then instead of looking up my answers on the Internetz, I get distracted by cat videos on YouTube and get sucked into the fascinating dinners of my Facebook friends. Yet, as I go through my life I cannot deny the constant underlying sense of deja vu. There's this chronic tugging of wonderment. I think I may have been here before. Have I already done this? I feel like I've met this person in the past. I'm pretty sure that I mocked this exact circumstance that is now happening. HOW CAN THIS BE? Now, I can't be sure if this is a side effect of a botched reincarnation where my memory wasn't fully erased or if it's merely a repercussion of all the alcohol I guzzled in my twenties.
Nonetheless, it occurs on a regular basis. This is the main reason for my fear-based existence, my curiosity of karma, and my extensive collection of air sickness bags.
For example, I recall a time that I secretly made fun of some truly remarkable back fat oozing over the waistband of the girl sitting in front of me on the bleachers at a high school basketball game. Like magic, two babies later, suddenly I am the disgruntled owner of my very own, custom-designed muffin top complete with backside chillax-ide.
Then there was that horrible girl in high school. What she lacked in personality, she made up for in pimples. She was awful in so many ways, truly mean-spirited and I was something of a farm-raised vigilante and ruthless with my words, specifically the ones describing her zitty face. Then college happened in a haze of beer and pizza. My face began to strongly resemble the latter.
There was also the incident when my boss and I were mercilessly mocking the apparently dazed/sedated woman who walked into our store with her tank top pushed up over her boob. She looked heavily medicated and hardly missed a mouth breathing beat when she somehow noticed that her breast was exposed. She slowly pulled her top back down into place without changing her sluggish pace, the dulled expression on her face, or the slanted tilt of her seemingly empty head. Later, when I was nursing my babies, the same thing happened to me. Except I wasn't mouth breathing. No, I don't do that. Instead I married a mouth breather and our oldest spawn inherited that trait from his paternal side. Good thing that I never made fun of mouth breathers . . . all the time in my college classes, particularly lectures.
Then there are those annoying people who only talk about their pets. "OMG! Fluffy is the cutest cat evah! You should have seen what he just did with . . . blah, blah, blah." Guess what pet lover? No one gives a fuck. I knew this, yet I still chattered incessantly to any friend (who had the bad judgment to answer my phone call) all about the precious and hilarious things done by my glorious furkids. This is when I knew that I needed to birth a furless human baby. At least talking about an actual person, one that you incubated in your belly, is understandable and marginally more socially acceptable. Stop anthropomorphizing your pets, people! They lick their own asses, roll in decaying carcasses and eat feces. They are not human. "Oh mah gah, did I ever tell you about my horse that LOVED having his picture taken? He was totally a movie star in a former life! And I think my old cat used to be a past life lover/stalker. He slept on my face and always watched me undress. Mew."
Anyhoo . . .
Don't even get me started on all the parents that I have judged. Those mindless breeders who would let their children run feral in public and climb into clothing racks at stores with sticky fingers and dirty faces - ugh! The distracted brat hatchers who couldn't keep on point for a simple telephone call but would turn, converse with Junior about Dora the Explorer and her insidious backpack, and leave you to twiddle your thumbs. The unconscious procreators, with their uninvited spawn in tow, chatting, and boozing it up at a party, while their offspring torment guests like tiny tornadoes of terror. I was infuriated by those people. I judged them. I ranted about them.
Then I birthed two boys, transformed myself into a stay at home mom, lost my identity, and now I currently am one of those people. Let me just say, I am sorry. And I too have been bamboozled by a tyrannical toddler with the ego of Charlie Sheen and the temper of The Hulk. I am constantly so derailed I think my "give a shit" is now permanently broken. Where's the booze? Seriously, I apologize to all of you - except those of you who willingly eat your own placenta. There are only a few things that separate us from the animals as it is, and you people aren't helping. Not one bit.
When I was in my awkward tween years, I obsessed over John Hughes films. I watched Sixteen Candles so many times that I could recite the dialogue of the movie verbatim. This was in no way irritating to anyone around me, I'm certain. This was also why I am not at all surprised that my second child is fanatically devoted to the movie Cars 2 and demands to watch it every day.
Every. Damned. Day. Kachow!
What about all of those people that I have laughed at for falling down in public? Good thing that I've never done that . . .
And then there are all the people that I meet and we form such instant bonds, like we have already known each other for years and we are simply reuniting. These also happen to be the same people that laugh at me when I fall down in public. They also enable my foul mouth, penchant for liquor, and love of inappropriate conversation. "You smell familiar."
I truly don't know if all of these happenings are simply coincidental or if they add up to reincarnation, karma and the universal laws of attraction. What I do know is that I am going to start slinging a shit ton of judgments toward every thin, porcelain complexioned, graceful, happy, self-made, rich, successful, cultured person who travels the world with their silently nasal breathing husbands, well-mannered children and their perfectly straight, white, original teeth. The very same that are living in their Architectural Digest homes stocked with wine cellars, super nannies, and live-in masseuses. They must be mocked; for they are clearly a bunch of freaking idiots.
* * *
Johi is a typical farm raised Iowa broad. She drives a big truck, scoops manure, adores nature, loves sushi, cusses like a sailor, and rocks high heels. She married a handsome remodeler much nicer than herself, and together they produced two adorable, very high-energy, extremely loud boys. Johi can be found making fun of Wal-Mart shoppers while shopping at Wal-Mart, cracking inappropriate jokes on the playground, drinking wine from a box, and laughing at life. She spends a great deal of time cleaning a house that is never quite clean and trying desperately to find her lost identity that was never quite developed. She is a writer, an illustrator, a photographer, a decorator, a commentator, and a connoisseur of bad TV. She currently resides in a half-remodeled house Fort Collins, Colorado. You can read more of Johi on her blog Confessions of a Corn Fed Girl.
The Big Reveal
By Jessica Watson
Four Plus an Angel
I spent eight years as a single mom to one daughter. This time will forever be looked back on as the days pants were not necessary indoors, the bathroom door was never closed, and I had no one to blame for not taking out the garbage.
As stressful as being the sole caregiver can be, I really did love having one-on-one time with my daughter and foolishly thought that some of the things I had not explained about womanhood need not be addressed. Surely she had noticed the differences in my 20-something body and her own and would ask me questions if she had them. For my part, I avidly avoided the use of the word "vagina," told her the boob fairy would visit when she was older and put a great deal of effort into avoiding any and all embarrassing topics of discussion.
One morning while taking the typical open-bathroom-door-shower, my never quiet or patient ball of energy of a first grader charged past the sink. Pulling open th
e shower curtain she demanded the latest on her list of questions that must be answered right. That. Moment. Only to stop mid-word as her eyes darted downwards. Praying to every absentminded mother that had ever showered before me, I willed her to ask me about our new soap or my belly button. Instead, she pointed accusingly, her wide eyes demanding an answer, "Where did you get those furry underwear?"
"What honey? What are you talking about?" I stammered, wondering if I could get away with asking about the weather instead.
"WHERE DID YOU GET THOSE FURRY UNDERWEAR?" she yelled as she pointed furiously.
I spun around quickly, deciding that I would rather discuss backs than fronts but turning rocked her furry underwear theory to the core.
"Those are NOT furry underwear! Those are not furry underwear!" my daughter yelled as she moved to the other side of the shower to get a look at what her future may hold.
She was still demanding an answer and like the adult that I was, ready to take on any situation, I wrapped myself in the shower curtain and asked her if she wanted to watch Dora the Explorer.
My Dora trick, promises of an ice cream sundae, and a shopping spree to her favorite toy store did not deter her questions so I was forced to sit down and discuss how I grew my furry underwear and that, yes, someday she would grow her own pair too.
Although I couldn't help but ask, as my daughter was no doubt picturing racks of fur lined up by color and style, that we possibly change the name to fuzzy underwear, or something that made it sound like her mother was a decent groomer.
I still had to land a husband after all.
* * *
Jessica Watson is a mom to five, four in her arms and one in her heart. She is a freelance writer for sites such as SheKnows.com and The Huffington Post. You can also find her wearing her heart on her sleeve at her personal blog Four Plus an Angel, over-sharing on Twitter and Facebook, or at Childswork.com where she chronicles life raising a teenager with autism.
How Moving Made Me Want to Become a Carnie
By Kelley Nettles
Kelley's Break Room
If you ever hear me say that I want to move, please, for the love of Ben Stillington on Felicity, lock me in the attic. (That's all we have in most of Texas where ah'm from, y'all.) If we're up north when you hear me say it, put me in one of those basements (I'd prefer fully finished with wi-fi access, if possible). JUST PUT ME SOMEWHERE UNTIL I SAY IT WAS ALL A BIG, STUPID, ASININE JOKE.
Preparing to sell, negotiating, organizing, cleaning, showing, negotiating, looking, bidding, negotiating, selling, packing, cleaning, moving, looking, bidding, negotiating, cleaning, and everything even remotely related to any of these things, including negotiating, smells like Chris Farley's armpits after his Chippendale SNL skit with Patrick Swayze back in the 90s, especially if it has to be done with kids.
Fortunately, we are now in a house. If we weren't, I wouldn't be typing this little something out right now. No, ma'am! I would be shoving take-out Chinese in my kids' faces with one hand and pulling out my hair with the other. And searching and searching and searching and searching and searching and searching and searching for a house on real estate websites with the other. (Yeah, I have three arms.)
When the whole process began, I was all smiles. I just knew we would sell our house fast and all would be well. We did a lot of painting and repairing and replacing, so what was there to worry about? Take that, real estate market! We would find a house while we tried to sell this house. I needed it go to fast. My kids could only live on the roof for so long before I'd start getting those pesky little letters from the HOA and CPS.
It went within five days.
Well, hallelujah. High fives all around! I'll even give you a high five, neighbor man that sits in his garage shirtless while drinking beer, smoking, not working and staring at every car that drives by your house! (I'm still bitter that he refused to babysit the kids once.)
If I had only known . . .
I won't bore you with all of the hoops we jumped through and the deals we closed and then didn't close and the papers we signed and the annoyed looks we gave to each other and then to our kids and then to our kids again, because, well, you have probably moved before yourself and, on top of all of that, you don't have time for that. I know how this motherhood thing works.
But, before you flip past this chapter, can I just tell you how many times I yelled out, "Are you kidding me?" to my two boys, ages four and eight, during this whole ordeal?
Just days before our house went on the market, my sons and a neighborhood friend decided it would be a great idea to play baseball in our backyard, which was just about the size of your pinky's fingernail.
"HAHAHAHA!!!" my son's friend exclaimed. "You really hit that ball really g—"
Do I really need to describe the crash?
You can hear it. I know you can. Can you hear the sound of $300 being drained out of our checking account, too? Also, how about my husband's contorted face and glare? And mine? How about the sound of the wet vac sucking up broken glass on our pristine carpet that we had just got all ready to show?
It was an accident, of course. I know that. After my son helped clean up the mess and was lectured about how baseballs have this crazy ability to shatter glass, we continued on our mission to make our house look like we didn't live in it at all. This meant that I had to find a cozy little spot for my son's 5,216 white Storm Troopers that he claims are all absolutely unique and the 432-ton box containing trains, train tracks, train remotes, train people, train track decorations, train bridges, train cargo and, quite possibly, a real life train conductor. (That box was heavy, y'all.)
Finally, the walk-through date arrived! We finally were at the point where the buyer took a look at everything and made sure we didn't decide at the last minute to put crazy clown wallpaper in the half-bathroom, a moat around our suburban house and a permanent statue of Muhammad Ali in the middle of the kitchen. The walk-through was going to happen the very next day. Yay! This is so exci—
What was that?
"Mom! Come look at what [the 4-year-old] did!"
"Did what?" I called out as I was tossing stuffed animals I never, ever, ever wanted to see again in my life in trash bags like a madman.
"Put a hole in the door!"
"Put a hole in the DOOR?! WHAT DOOR??"
The almost-homeowners were to walk-through in less 24 hours. The house had to be perfect. Absolutely perfect.
But there it was - a big, gaping hole in the door of my eight-year-old's closet.
The two boys and a boy in the neighborhood (the same one that was over when my son broke our bedroom window - why did I let him back in our house??) were playing chase in the house, because running at full speed in the house and slamming doors is what any mother would love when preparing a house to show to really picky people. The two older ones shut themselves in the closet and held it tight with their hands so my younger son could not get inside.
He didn't like that at all.
So, the little squirt grabbed his plastic golf club and whacked that door to make his point.
Now I had to fix the door. My husband would have done it, but he was taking care of a million other things at that time and that dingdang door had to be fixed now.
"Hello, Mr. Fix-It-Man. How much would it cost to replace a door and how soon could you do it? We need it to be free and done in under an hour."
He was unable to meet those demands, so it was best to see if I could tackle it. After my panic attack in front of my kids, I decided that surely it wouldn't be that hard to find a white door and swap it out.
Let's just say it probably would have been easier to teach a hedgehog how to sing a Taylor Swift song than it was for me to handle replacing that door. For one thing, the doors don't come already painted. I would have to buy the door, the opening for which I did measure before I left for Lowe's (I sure was proud of that right there), and buy some paint while praying the shade of white I bought out of the 9,521,352 possible choices wa
s the right one. While stressing about it all, I had a conversation with a blue-vested employee at the store and, let me tell you, I was thisclose to putting him in a headlock. We were having some minor disagreements over door sizes. Don't mess with me and my door sizes! I get fired up about door sizes!
As you would expect, I bought the wrong paint and the door hardware didn't line up with the old screw holes. When I finally got the right paint, I realized that the door would have to dry overnight. Ahhhh!!!
Finally, I swapped the doors out with the husband's help and the walk-through went as planned. My prayers must have worked that he wouldn't cancel the whole deal after seeing my thumb prints at the top of the door. (I still don't know how that seller missed my kids on the roof. I had to put them back there after they pulled that little shenanigan.)
That incident just set the mood for the rest of the house hunting experience, I think. When we weren't stuffing our faces at a restaurant (pretty sure I gained 400 pounds during those 6 months, which is why I had to spray all doorways with WD-40 before even attempting to walk through them), we were in public bathrooms. That's it. Those are the only two places we ever were: restaurants and public restrooms. Well, those two places and strangers' houses.
"Mommy, I have to go to the bathroom."
"Ah, dude. We're at someone's house that we don't even know. Can you hold it?"
"I have to go real bad."
"Alright, come on."
So, he went.
And went.
And went.
Knock, knock.
"Dude?"
"It won't flush."
"Are you kidding?"
"No. It won't."
Frantically, I start opening and closing cabinet doors all over the empty house looking for a plunger while our nice real estate lady gave me quizzical looks. All I could find were spider webs and, trust me, spider webs don't help unclog toilets! (I tried.)
I never found one. I was going to have to face the nice real estate lady with the ugly facts.
I Just Want to Pee Alone Page 6