Bejewell on December 20th, 2013

The Apocalypse is here and it
is not what you expected
No nuke weapons, gamma rays
or UFOs detected
There’s been no viral outbreak and
no zombies hunt for brains
No daring last-minute escapes
from torrential rains
No comets hurtling toward Earth,
no global overcrowd,
and so far Jesus has not
floated in atop a cloud.

No, the end is none of these…
The thing that will bring our fall
is called Clamshell Packaging
and on Christmas it will kill us all, y’all.

This Christmas it will kill us all.

Be safe out there, and happy holidays…

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Bejewell on December 17th, 2013

First published December 10, 2009. I’m trotting it out again because it still holds true, and also because LOOK AT MY BABY WHO’S NOT A BABY ANYMORE. (SOB)

—————

Listen, I love the holidays as much as the next guy, I really do. And I love them even MORE this year, because this year my little Bean’s discovering Christmas for the first time, with the trees and the tinsel and the gifts and the stockings, and we’re suddenly VERY concerned about our status on The List, and we’re keeping watch out the front window in case Santa should arrive, and we want to watch the Grinch and Snoopy and wrap presents and sing Jingle Bells and MY GOD THE CUTE, PEOPLE.  I swear this kid could take down an entire city block with all that cute.

Bean-Xmassweater

BUT.

Every year there’s got to be some big douche out there ruining Christmas for everyone else. And this year the “Big Douche Ruining Christmas” Award goes to MAJIC 95.5, the so-called “easy listening” station that can’t even spell its own name, which plays non-stop Christmas music the entire month of December. Which would be fine, if there were more than three Christmas albums in the world that didn’t suck, but there aren’t — it’s Bing Crosby, George Winston, and Vince Guaraldi, and everything else sucks balls, and that is that.  (And if you’re going to comment now that some other Christmas album’s just as good, don’t even bother because I’m not listening to your bullshit. Bing. Vince. George. The. End.)

I swear to god if Kenny Rogers asks Mary if she “knew” ONE MORE TIME I’m going to beat someone to death with baby Jesus from the nativity scene down the street. Why don’t you leave Mary the fuck ALONE, Kenny? Hasn’t she done enough? Now she has to answer YOUR stupid ass questions too? I’LL tell you what Mary knew, she knew that she was nine months pregnant and riding a fucking DONKEY in the middle of nowhere, and some dicksneeze innkeeper made her sleep in the BARN, where she was trapped with a bunch of farm animals and some random dudes in robes just standing around with their smelly spices and shit, ogling her junk while she gave birth with NO EPIDURAL. What Mary KNEW was that she wanted that kid out of her pronto and probably for everyone else to just shut the fuck up about it. THAT’S what she knew, Kenny. Okay? Kapeesh?

I’m actually not sure how historically accurate that is (OR how to spell “kapeesh”), but you get my point.  Kenny Rogers is the devil. That’s my point.

Oh also hey, MAJIC 95 – 1986 called and it wants its lame bullshit song about Grandma getting run over by a reindeer back. That shit wasn’t funny the first time we heard it and it’s DEFINITELY not funny now, 20-plus years and 5 million plays later. I’d rather eat an entire jar of Baconnaise in one sitting than hear that fucking song again, yet there you go, playing it over and over and over and over and over and over and over again, like you don’t even KNOW how much it sucks.

But you DO know, MAJIC 95, don’t you? Yeah. You know. And I know you know. And you know that I know that you know.

While I’m on the subject of over and over and over and over and over again, can I just say this?

Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime Siiiimply haaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime

Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime

Know why I said that?  Because I CAN’T GET IT OUT OF MY HEAD. It’s like a hot branding iron burned those words into my brain, forever marking me as the song’s slave and victim. And Paul McCartney is also the devil. That’s my other point.

You’re singing it now, too, aren’t you? You thought I was overreacting before, didn’t you? But now you understand, don’t you? There really IS such a thing as too much Christmas. Even my KID gets it (“Mommy, I donWANT that song! Tun OFF! Tun OFF!”), and he’s two and a half. It doesn’t take a mental giant to understand that MAJIC 95 is trying to kill us all, one shitty holiday song at a time.

But wait!  You thought I was done, but I’m not, because there’s this:

What the FUCK, Dan Fogelberg? What kind of crack were you on when you wrote that? Can you say “Most Depressing Christmas Song EVER”?

This may be the most annoying blog post I’ve ever written. I don’t know, I’ve written some pretty annoying shit, but this has got to at least make the top five. I’m going to stop now before I get started on Bruce Springsteen and John Denver and the dogs THOSE GODDAMNED DOGS – because I think that just *might* send me over the edge, I mean, really, OVER. THE. EDGE — and I don’t think anyone wants that.

Except MAJIC 95.  Apparently.

beej

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Bejewell on September 20th, 2013

Good night.

Love,

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Bejewell on July 16th, 2013

I know that you’re just boys

I know you’re only six

But if you make my kid cry

I will punch you in your dicks.

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Bejewell on July 1st, 2013

A few things:

  1. You can’t pretend to be smarter than me and say things like “Accident happens” at the same time.
  2. I start to get silly with the pool noodle at right about the same time that I realize I’m losing the argument.
  3. We did not have to do the dishes after this.
  4.  ”And let me also say…”?  ”Let’s also note…”? When the hell did I turn into Atticus Finch?
  5. Do I really say my “R”s like that? Derrrrr.
  6. The Bedtime Parade was fabulous but ended abruptly, thanks to an overzealous percussionist and a weak lid on the box of crayons-slash-snare drum.
  7. I’m NEVER getting a new computer. Nev-errrrrrrr.

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Bejewell on May 25th, 2013

You want to merge?
Why yes, of course.
Here, let me just ease back.

Why don’t you merge?
Can you not see
There’s room now on the track?

Okay, I guess
You’ve changed your mind
And want to come in
from behind

So I speed up
But then you do, too
And CUT in the goddamned line.

I have to slam
Upon my brakes
So hard my coffee flies

Now my car’s a mess
And I am planning
Your demise.

I honk, but you
Do not respond
My temper starts to burn

I honk again
Because if not,
However will you learn?

But still there’s
No response from you
I shake my fist
In beats of two
Awful words
From my lips spew
I just don’t know
What else to do

What happens next,
I can’t believe
Is what I really see…

As if our roles
Have been reversed,

YOU

flip the bird
at

ME!!

I feel my pulse begin to race
I fight the urge to quicken pace
Engaging in a high-speed chase
So I can punch you in the face

But I know I’d get
In trouble, so
I fight the blinding urge

But really,

CUNT

It’s time

for you

To LEARN

TO FUCKING

MERGE.

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Bejewell on April 29th, 2013

OHMYGOD would you STOP with the coughing, already? All you do is cough cough cough and it’s so loud I can’t hear my stories!!! And when you finally catch your breath you just complain about your stupid tuberculosis or Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome or whatever. It’s like you don’t even care about ME at all.

Just take some damned Delsym or go to the emergency room or call 911 or something. I don’t care WHAT you do, just SHUT THE FUCK UP. I’m going to miss the end of this awesome movie about the detective and and the sexy maid and and it will be ALL YOUR FAULT.

Great, now the fucking kid’s got it, too. SO SELFISH, DUDE. You suck.

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Bejewell on April 27th, 2013

I’m not a good mom.

My son’s class has two Room Moms. They are young and cute and thin. They are BFFs, and they love to make crafts they find on Pinterest. They chaperone every field trip and organize every holiday party.

They make me itchy.

I don’t know their names (though they’ve told me numerous times); in my head I just call them call Perky Mom 1 and Perky Mom 2 and can’t think of them as anything else. When I see them I’m genuinely scared of what might fly out of my mouth; there’s a very good chance that I’ll accidentally say something inappropriate — you know, like “I want to stab you” or “Pinterest THIS, bitch.”

To be safe, I never volunteer for anything.

I’m not a good mom.

When I do attend PTA meetings, I take a travel mug filled with booze. I take a sip every time a PTA officer asks for volunteers, or when one of the Perky Moms mentions a Pinterest craft.

I’m not a good mom.

Martha the Talking Dog? Really? I know it’s educational and all, but wouldn’t you rather watch Adventure Time? Or the Naked Pops episode of Regular Show? Look, I’ve got it right here, all queued up on Tivo…”

I’m not a good mom.

Sid the Science Kid is a total cunt nugget and I don’t mind saying so.

I’m not a good mom.

My kid has to remind me 15 times to give him extra money on Ice Cream Days, and even then there’s no guarantee that I’ll remember.

I’m not a good mom.

Every December, I forget to move that FUCKING STUPID FUCKING ELF at least twice. It’s only thanks to my son’s blind, determined belief in Santa and all things North Pole that I haven’t managed to completely destroy Christmas.

I’m not a good mom.

I forget all about Easter until the day before Easter. And then I’m up until 3:00 AM stuffing plastic eggs and hiding them in the backyard, trying to navigate through a minefield of dog poop with a fucking Spiderman flashlight.

I’m not a good mom.

You want to wear a green wig to school? A superhero cape? A faux-hawk? The tuxedo t-shirt? Your Mad Hatter costume from Halloween? All valid fashion choices, as far as I’m concerned.

I’m not a good mom.

Two words: Cupcake Breakfast.

I’m not a good mom.

I let him watch too much TV. I let him eat too many French fries. I let him play too many video games. I often forget to make him wash his hands before dinner. I don’t care if his socks match. I don’t always make him eat his vegetables.

I embarrass him with my sweet dance moves when an 80s song comes over the speaker at the grocery store. I force him into every photo booth we see, whether he’s in the mood to make silly faces for pictures, or not.

I’m not a good mom.

Yesterday I taught him to say “butt cheeks” in Spanish.

I’m not a good mom.

I hover. I make him hug and kiss me too much. I tell him too often that he’s awesome and clever and handsome and the Best Kid in the World. I rarely enforce Time Out.

I encourage him to jump on the trampoline with me, despite the safety hazards. I let him climb things. I sometimes climb things with him.

I tell dirty jokes and cuss when he’s within earshot.

I never, never let him win at Monopoly.

I don’t always make him stick with things; sometimes I let him just give up. Other times, I insist he keep going no matter what.

I make him hold my hand in the parking lot, whether he wants to or not. I still stay with him every night until he falls asleep, even though he’s probably way too old for that now.

I love him too much.

I’m not a good mom.

I’m not perfect; I screw up all the time. I’m not a Pinterest mom, and I can’t help with math homework unless I have a calculator. But still, I do my best — every single day.

I don’t beat myself up about the mistakes, because I know HE knows I’m doing everything I can to keep him safe and happy. I just cherish every moment, and believe in my heart it’s enough.

I don’t just love him – I like him. I tell him this all the time but, more importantly, I show him. I laugh at his jokes, I play with his toys, I ask questions and listen to his answers.

I make him know he’s loved — even when he doesn’t want to know it. And I know that, whatever direction his life may take, he’ll always have that to hold onto.

I’m not a good mom…

I’m a fucking great one.

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Bejewell on February 28th, 2013

This will come as a shock to no one, but sometimes I can be a little fucked in the head. Nothing too nut-tastic – I’m not sitting naked on my couch in a tin foil hat or screaming about Barack Obama’s birth certificate, or anything – but the typical depression stuff can grab me with its big, beefy bear paws every so often (usually thanks to shitty circumstances or some selfish dickwad hurting my feelings) and bat me around like a tiny baby bunny that’s been stunned into helpless immobility.

Being the bunny sucks. I HATE being the bunny.

Because being the bunny means I’m weak. It means I don’t have control over my own destiny. Some asshole bear’s got it instead, and while it knocks me around I’m nothing but a worthless mess of self-doubt and bad decisions. I can’t seem to do anything but dwell on my (numerous) failures and compare myself (unfavorably) to every other person on the planet – even the ones I’d normally mock, like that perky bitch who’s always Room Mom (I felt so much better about my Scooby Doo valentines until I saw her crafty Pinterest bullshit) and that blogger whose awful writing annoys the hell out of me but who still manages to be featured on every “favorites” list and speaks at all the events and gets a zillion comments on every post.

Now, when the Depression Bear strikes I’m usually pretty good at putting on my Happy Bunny face, using sarcasm and totally contrived bravado to distract people from all the insecure, anxious bullshit that’s underneath. I make jokes and pretend that I’m the coolest thing ever and never-never-never talk to anyone about the real dirt (making my problem someone else’s problem just isn’t my style).

This strategy usually serves me well… but when the bear’s at its most fierce I just don’t have the energy to pull it off. My acting chops have never been that good, and sometimes there’s no hiding the fact that, really, I’m not awesome at all – I’m just fucking sad, and this asshole bear is eating me alive.

Which brings me to the past 6 months of my ridiculous life. I like to call this time “The Era of Extraordinary Suckage” – notable for its unusual length (that’s what she said), massive scope and relentless, dogged determination to grind me into a gooey mess of uncertainty, disappointment and raw emotion. It’s been one hideous mishap/misstep/mistake after another, and with each one I’ve become a little more frozen in place. I don’t trust my own judgment about people or situations anymore, and that’s left me paralyzed. I’m too scared to do anything. So instead, I do nothing. And then feel like a loser. Which makes me want to cry. Which makes me want to sleep. Which makes me want to do… nothing.

Ugh.

Obviously, for the last few months I’ve been a real treat to live with. No! I’m kidding! I’ve been HORRIBLE to live with! I’ve been sullen and withdrawn and useless. I hide in my room. I rarely return phone calls or emails, and when I do I’m distant and detached. I’m like a phantom to my friends and family, and they’re all crazy worried. The only person I’ve managed to keep up appearances for – the ONLY person – is the Bean. He’s the ONE thing I’ve managed to do right. He’s the ONLY thing that’s kept the bear at bay. He’s the ONLY thing that can still make me really smile because… well hell, y’all. Just look at him.

Anyway. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that this has all been leading me to a big do-or-die moment. I knew it was coming, but didn’t actually get there until a couple of weeks ago, after a day that was particularly hard for no good reason. I spent the entire morning wallowing and dwelling and feeling sorry for myself and in the middle of it all this thought just hit me, like a punch upside the head: SNAP OUT OF IT, DUMBASS. This stupid bear is going to gnaw you to bits unless you stand up on your little bunny legs and FIGHT the bitch.

So I did.

My first therapy session was yesterday and it was super fun. No! Kidding again! It wasn’t fun at all! It was just me on a couch, talking ad nauseam about the Era of Extraordinary Suckage — with some tears and bad jokes sprinkled in for kicks. My therapist Dr. D (who is awesome, really) listened, asked a few questions, charged me a boatload of money and said he’d see me again next week.

Which, okay, doesn’t sound so great on the surface… but you know, something about just being there made me feel a million times better. When I stood up from that couch, I felt 20 pounds lighter – all of that emotional baggage I’d been carrying around, shed just like that. All it took was 50 minutes and a willingness to purge.

I’m not 100 percent yet, and I won’t be for a while. But what I’m finding is that sometimes being okay is just a matter of taking action. No one else can fight that bear for me; I have to do it myself. But if I can just get up off my ass and do something, I can beat it. I can. I might be just a scared, sad little bunny… but I’m also smart. And scrappy. And make no mistake about it – my little bunny claws are WICKED SHARP.

So that bear had better look the fuck out.

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I’m trying to understand why every person in the world* loves Downton Abbey so much but so far I’m drawing a blank. I suppose I’d get some insight if I actually WATCHED Downton Abbey, but what I’m finding is that the more people try to make me feel like a stupid asshole for NOT watching Downton Abbey, the more I think Downton Abbey itself is a stupid asshole — and the more I want all of its terribly sophisticated viewers to suck a nut.The millions of status updates* I see every day about how pretentious amazing and pompous wonderful and gaggy romantic Downton Abbey is have not helped. And really, whatever minor chance there was that I’d EVER want to watch this show was destroyed forever on Super Bowl Sunday, when the TV gods dared to schedule both shows at the same time (cue dramatic soap opera music here) and every single person in the world* seemed to suffer from spontaneous amnesia, suddenly forgetting that technology like TiVO and DVRs and VCRs and computers exist and make it possible to actually record BOTH SHOWS AT ONCE (Gasp! Eureka! What? No! Really? YES!).

HAHAHA yeah that’s not funny.

Honestly, I haven’t felt this disinclined to watch an overly hyped historical drama since Mad Men.

I don’t know who these people are. And I’m okay with that.

Look. I understand that you guys love Downton Abbey and I’m happy for you, I really am. It’s good that you’ve found a show you like, something that makes you feel tingly in funny places and gets you Wikipedia-ing things like the Spanish Flu. I’m sure the history is rich and the costumes are stunning and the romance is sweeping… but the way you all keep talking about it makes me feel like a vegan who’s accidentally stumbled into a butcher convention. Stop it! I don’t care how delicious it is — I don’t want your gross meat in my mouth!

(Unless it’s bacon. Mmm bacon.)

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is please everyone stop trying to make me watch Downton Abbey. Unless they add zombies or extraterrestrials or do an episode that’s made entirely of bacon, I’m not watching the show and you can’t make me. And the fact that YOU watch it doesn’t make you any better than me, either. Whether I’m a fan not, I’m still just as smart and sophisticated as you are and that’s a fact.

Now please shut up so I can hear what’s happening on Honey Boo Boo.

Love,

*possibly exaggerated

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