thorvalson.net : babble ether

Quickie

Last minute plea: If you're in Milwaukee and not doing anything today, you should go on the AIDS Walk. 'Nough said.

Bullet the Blue Sky, motherfuckaz. I'm going to U2 tonight. If my senses haven't been destroyed by millions and millions of dollars worth of lighting and sound equipment blasting at my face with the force of the sun, I will recap tomorrow. Dismantling an atomic bomb, indeed.

High school sucks, Trace. I'm outta here.

Don't drop out again! We're supposed to graduate together!

Nah. I was thinking I'd go fuck myself up for the next few years, drink lots of shitty beer, get some tattoos, maybe watch a few so-called friends kill themselves, listen to some more Nine Inch Nails...

That's terrible!

Yeah, fuck college. I'm going for that whole "life experience" gig. Besides, why should I pay for college when I can come crash at your dorm?

True. But, ya know, I'm getting married next summer...

Yeah, you suck, too. I am but a speck of dirt in the swirling stardust of your life. Unworthy. You love Jason better than you love me, and I'm gonna die alone with a million cats. Wah.

Shut up. It's only Chicago. I'll only be about an hour and a half to two hours away from you for the next ten years.

Exactly. What about our road trip?

We can still go! Totally! We'll go over the summer before I move to Chicago! How's your car holding up?

Uh...

Well, how about money. Have you been saving?

Well, um, I sold all my cd's for beer and tickets to the Sex Pistols reunion tour...

Hm. Well, I guess we're outta luck, then.

Guess so.

It'll be okay. You'll see. You'll spend the next few years in a series of failed relationships, consuming far too much alcohol and experimenting with drugs, slipping off the track we're all hoping for, but then you'll move to Milwaukee and our parents will get cancer and you'll eventually figure it out. You'll have a baby under not-so-auspicious circumstances, and as a result, the job you now think suits you least will wind up saving your life. And we will be pregnant together and our babies will talk to each other through our belly buttons like we said they would, and once you get off your ass and get your shit together, I'll come meet you in Milwaukee and we'll catch up on all the shopping then. Sound good?

I dunno... sounds kind fucked up to me. I mean, you'll be cool, but I dunno if I'm gonna make it, you know, seeing as I'm all Doomed and everything.

Shut. Up. We'll be okay. I promise. Believe me, things could be worse. Especially for you. I mean, God. What happened to all of your hair?

I think I might be a lesbian.

You're not a lesbian. Lesbians don't practice French kissing with posters of Jon Bon Jovi.

Hey. That was, like, six years ago.

Five. And actually, you didn't take them down until -

Shut up!

Punk rock, indeed.

Yeah? Well, you're gonna live in the SUBURBS and practically throw a PARTY when they open a SUPERTARGET in your SUBDIVISION. So THERE.

Why are you gettin' all up on me? I'm your best friend. I'm still on your side, but if you're gonna get all angsty on me too, then...

*grumble*. Fine.

We'll be okay. You'll see. I promise. See you in Milwaukee in ten years, babe. I love you.

Fine. Love you too. I'm gonna go listen to my Cure records. Oh, and Trace?

Yeah?

Thank you.

You're welcome. Bitch.

To be continued...

Mysteries of the Deep

Last night, I dreamt that I was selling Girl Scout cookies at local independent music stores for Maddie. On the way to one of the stores, we stopped by an aquarium, where we (by "we" I mean Tracey is included in this one), in order to exit the aquarium, had to swim through an enormous tank full of sea turtles. Some turtles had died and were propped, rather unnaturally, into the sandy bottom of the tank, their asses buried into the sand and their heads looking up toward the surface of the water in some strangely existential pose, as though they were looking up to where they should have been, in heaven. On my journey, I swam under a few turtles who were wading above me, one of whom took an enormous dump that floated down right into my face, so that when we got to the next music store for the selling of our Carmel Delights, when it was time to set up our table for the wares, I was busy in the bathroom wiping stinky turtle poop out of my eyebrows.

Thus, I am sentenced to forever henceforth associate Girl Scout cookies with turtle dung.

Why, God. Why.

There is a God.

This is all I gotta say. Today's entry. The short one. :)

If This Wasn't Prophesied in the Bible, It Should've Been. 'Cause This Is Some Mean Ass Shit.

Okay, I'm back. Not that any of you noticed I was gone. For those of you (ahem, Tracey, ahem, Mom) who did notice (but only by the mysterious lack of daily phone calls), Time Warner Cable hath forsaken me once again. I love you, Time Warner Cable, I really do. You provide me multiple services at a reasonably hiked rate, conveniently rolled into one tree-saving bill, lowering my phone bills from their previous $100+/month plateau to a more sustainable $40/month (free long distance!), allowing me to save those extra pennies to donate to post-Katrina victims, maybe fund a memorial for the people who took over Flight 93 on 9/11, and do my duty as a socially-conscious consumer and buy those cute little politically-correct holiday greeting cards from Unicef. In other words, Save The Planet. God bless you, Time Warner Cable. Really. It's so nice of your gold-digging executives to provide meager citizens like myself an opportunity to spend our "leftover savings" on humanitarian causes (which, it goes without saying, you could afford to multiply exponentially yourselves... but that's another topic) while you use the earnings to buy more SUVs. Truly outstanding work. Give that Tom down in marketing another raise.
BUT.
When two of my three services DON'T WORK, I have a problem. Last time this happened (only about a month ago), it was my television. Certain cable channels went all wonky berserko, and I was stuck with Fox News channels and the Food Network. While intensely annoying, I still had my internet to satiate my American need for constant entertainment, amusement, flashing lights and buzzing noises. You came, you saw, and you fixed it, and the sun shone down on my humble abode once more.

Then... two days ago. Oh, the humanity. Time Warner Cable, you TOOK AWAY MY ABILITY TO CONNECT WITH THE OUTSIDE WORLD. You essentially robbed me of my inherent need, as both a human and a FEMALE one, to communicate to those around me every asinine detail of my mundane existence. Oh, heavy day. My daughter is in school for the first time in her life, my boyfriend is closing the bar EVERY NIGHT THIS WEEK, my best friend is driving a sparkling (almost) new PT Cruiser home from Florida on my favorite cross-country roads and therefore unavailable to patiently listen to every melodrama that unfolds in my laundry, I've started a new THIRD job, and I CAN'T FUCKING COMMUNICATE.

It is estimated that women speak, on average, several thousand words more per day than men, which can only lead me to assume that a man caused the havoc wreaked upon my household these last two days. I know digital phone is relatively new and there may be some kinks to work out, but please. Please please PLEASE: You can take away my phone. You can take away my internet. BUT DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, DO BOTH AT THE SAME TIME.

Or else I will be forced to post entries like this. And believe me (somehow I believe you will): this hurts me infinitely more than it hurts you.

Chapter Fourteen, In Which our Heroine Becometh Like Judas, Betraying Her Love With a Kiss

Okay, I'm just gonna take a deep breath here and try to collect my thoughts.
*sigh*

Okay. Maddie started school. She likes it. Or I should say, she likes everything after the first ten minutes, in which I bundle her up in my arms, kiss her, and then proceed to throw her flailing body to a mob of salivating wolves. Wolves with backpacks and Care Bears folders. She cries every morning, and probably will continue to do so for some time, serving as a reminder to me each and every day that I am a horrible person and mother for throwing my baby out into the harsh cruel world where she will be confronted with guns and sex and violence and My Life With the Thrill Kill Kult, black trench coats and all.

Guns. I had to talk to her about guns.

"Maddie... Now, you know, you can't bring weapons to school. Do you know what a weapon is?"
"No."
"A weapon is something a person would use to hurt another person. Like a gun, or a knife."
"Oh."
"You're not going to bring anything like that to school, now, are you?"
(rolls her eyes in disbelief) "NOOOOoooo! But what about pretend guns? Toy guns."
Okay, this right here is why they wanted me to have this discussion. Lesson Number One in Post-Columbine Urban America.
"Nope, no toy guns either."
"What if I just use my finger like this."
"Nope."
"Alright."

Ignorance is bliss, truly. It is so incredibly hard and frustrating to be a semi-alternative parent with kids in public school.

"You have to go to school, Maddie."
"Why?"
Good question. I dropped out twice. Instantly, Jello Biafra is barking in my head: "My ambition in life is to look good on paper/All I want is a slot in some big corporation."

Why do you have to go to school? Because if I have to teach you fractions, our walls will soon be pockmarked with holes from the textbooks I will undoubtedly wind up hurling across the room in fits of unbridled frustration. And because you need socialization with kids your own age. And because I said so.

Every day I pick her up and she doesn't want to leave. So obviously, she'll be fine. After the first day of drop-off hysteria, I went home to Greg and cried and worried and vented for two hours.

"This country blows. She's pledging allegiance to the flag, and all I can think of is the fact that we're at war for no reason other than George Bush's 'legacy', and meanwhile people are wading through bodies in New Orleans and he's too busy to interrupt his vacation. Let's move to Ireland."
"Whenever I find myself thinking like that, I think of the Civil War, all the people who died..."

Oh, and Ireland? Hello, Catholic school! Hello, centuries of civil unrest! Hello, waitresses don't get tips in Europe!

Fine. She's gonna be fine. I cried every day when I started kindergarten, and look at me! I'm totally fine! And it only took, gee, all of twenty-six years to figure it out. And I still don't know what's right.

"Who's Jesus?'
"Well... some people believe... and others believe in Buddha.... and Mary Magdalene, your namesake, wasn't a whore like they'll tell you she was. She was more likely a shaman of sorts, a wiseperson, otherwise she would have been killed for anointing Jesus and washing his feet with her hair, which is also an indication that they may have been lovers, if not man and wife."

And sometimes people lie, and they steal, and they cheat, and they budge in line, and the world gets really fucked up and twisted and horrible and it still bothers me every single day, but I choose to continue to live in it. And I only go to work so we can have a roof over our heads, not because I don't love you, and all books, including the Bible, are subject to editing, and Thomas Jefferson fucked his slaves, and there are no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. And that's why GodorwhateveryouwannacallItHimHer created rock 'n roll. Let's play Chutes and Ladders. Your move.

Always Look on the Bright Side of Your Life...

"Many of these people were underprivileged anyway, so this is working quite well for them."
- First Lady Laura Bush, in reference to the thousands of homeless in New Orleans

Well! Okay, then! Maybe this is what George was thinking while he finished off his VACATION while THE LARGEST AMERICAN POPULATION MOVEMENT SINCE THE GREAT DEPRESSION was taking place as result of a natural disaster...

If my house is struck by a meteor tomorrow and consequently burns to the ground in flames, destroying my livelihood (and possibly my child), could someone please console our dear First Lady by telling her, It's okay! Single mom. Divorced. She was screwed anyway.

Maddie's 1st Day of School!

I'm a little verklempt. Tawk amongst yehselves.

Fast friends. The blond is Stephanie, who became Maddie's first friend after they discovered they have the same kitty folder. Also, Stephanie is named Stephanie, "Just like YOUR name, Mom!" Also, Stephanie's mom is blind (hence the dog in the photo), just like Uncle Dave is in one eye. Oh. My. God. Like, totally meant to be.

On the way home, I drove by Bay View High School, where students were gathering for their later first bell at 9 a.m. A girl who cut across the street right in front of my car was yelling (jokingly, but still...) to a classmate behind her, "SHUTHEFUCKUP OR I'M GONNA BUST YO SHIT."

Thank god we're only in kindergarten. I figure, given my vocabulary, we have at least a good six months before Maddie graduates to Gangsta.

Photos!

Here ya go! Charleston photos. Download! Print them! Save me some money!

thorvalson.net: Celebrating Our 300th Entry With Absent-Mindedness, Pride, and a Good Ol' Fashioned Hazing (oh, just read the damn thing).

So, we're back from our little excursion to the Sahhth. Charleston, as always, was fabulously warm, dotted with palmettos, and overrun with tiny (and grown) little people who are forever doomed to having their surname misspelled, mispronounced, and in all ways generally questioned. Is that even a real name? Wasn't there a TV show in the early 90s about this family? No, Ms. Tor-BLA-sin would not like to donate to the Christian Coalition this year, or any year for that matter. Trip was great, lots of water, lots of kids, mayhem, and lots of adults looking around at the chaos, sipping glasses of chardonnay, and thinking, "What the hell did we get ourselves into?" Ah, but Dad would be proud. Laughing hysterically at the karmic kickbacks, but proud. Pictures will be uploaded to Flickr today, if I can get pull my head out of my ass long enough after WAKING UP AT FIVE AM AFTER WORKING UNTIL MIDNIGHT LAST NIGHT, FRANTICALLY PACKING MADDIE'S SCHOOL SUPPLIES AND LUNCH, ONLY TO REALIZE SHE DOESN'T START SCHOOL UNTIL (are there any caps bigger than caps? SuperCaps? If so, imagine them here)...

TOMORRRRRRROOOOOWW.

This. This is why I spent the first six months of my child's life apologizing to her for having me as a mother.
She's over it. She's had a waffle for breakfast and is now happily slurping away on a red popsicle, watching Sesame Street, and trying to convince me that we really don't need to go to the grocery store today and maybe school sounds pretty good after all.

Bah. And Der.

On the plus side, some crazy chick I know got published this month. It's not as pretty as the print version, but still illustrates the point: people who write crappy blogs should not write articles about blogging. Or, Those Who Can't Do, Write About It.

Turn your attentions elsewhere:
Say, maybe to this book.
Or, maybe to this song, a brilliant example of why Christians should never, under any circumstances, be allowed to make music. Lil' Markie definitely earns my vote for Most Disturbing Song Ever, Most Creative Use of Helium, and maybe even (oh, what the hell) a nomination for The Most Fucked-Up Album You Could Ever Buy For Your Kid. I would seriously rather my child play Black Sabbath on endless repeat while perusing crystal meth cookbooks online than listen to this simultaneously horrifying and hilarious piece of... I don't even know what to call it. I'm so confused. Someone give me more coffee.

Oh, and before I forget (lest I disappoint)...

Big Chief Somethin Or Other Bad-Ass Hunter Military Boat Dude Vaughan Sutton wears girlie underoos, and the trick to defeating his Superpower (laser beam eyes, intended to melt the victim to a pile of green goo) is to:
a) be born with the last name of Thorvalson, and
b) deflect the lasers with equal parts SuperStareBackShield and Little Sister Sidekick Ducking Behind the Vehicle Laughing.

Open laughter is not recommended, unless you are COMPLETELY SURE that there is a little tiny space in BCSOOBAHMBDVS's heart for you, or, unless you have been issued a lifetime supply of Get Out of Jail Free cards, honored only with official proof of Thorvalson Family Membership (i.e., a marriage license, birth certificate, or any member of this family adopting you via verbal consent and/or Satanic ritual).

And of course, an enormous Happy 2nd Birthday to Miss "If My Name Ain't Southern, I Don't Know What Is", Miss Ayla Faye Sutton (pronunciation guide:
the apostrophe denotes a break in the voice, as in "Hawai'i"; AY-la FAY SUH'n). That nayme jus' maykes me wanna roll up mah jeenz, throw a tarp in the back o' Uncle Mike's pickup, let out the wahter hose 'n fill 'er up 'n have a ball, y'all. Amen. Praise Jesus. Buy American.

Editor's note to Sir: Consider yourself initiated. Pleasure to have you in the fam. Please don't hurt us. We're nice folk, really.

This entry brought to you by the makers of Maxwell House coffee and Nicoderm. Not because I talked to them or they gave me consent or money or anything, but for obvious reasons. Don't sue me.

Sgt. Gen. Supermommy, reporting for duty. Over and out.