I
wanted to be Tough and Cool for Halloween but I got stuck being An
Invalid instead. I had tiny ninja warriors tossing their throwing stars
around in my abdomen. I used to think ninja warriors were neat. Now I
just hate them.
I
threw up at 6 am on an empty stomach. That is some special kind of
serious painage right there. Then at noon I had to cough. More ninjas.
I
took a shower thinking the warm steamy water would relieve the body
aches but I just found myself curled up in the shower in a fetal
position, clutching my tummy and crying for my mommy and trying not to
drown.
I
slobbed around all day in my sweats. Literally. The sweats alternated
with chills. This was not the kind of cool I had in mind.
After
the shower I slept on my wet hair. Later when I willpowered myself
into the bathroom in case I had to "go" (and I couldn't really tell
whether I needed to because I couldn't feel anything but generalized
acute bodywide discomfort) and accidentally glimpsed the mirror I was
fascinated by how many directions my -do can go all at once. Def not
the look I'd pose in for a photo op with Jeremy Renner.
I
managed to swallow nine entire cracker crumbs plus a sip of orange
juice and keep it all south so I was feeling pretty good about myself.
Then Angel Doll offered me a Reese's peanut butter cup saying, "Cures
what ails ya," because she learns these home remedies from me, but I
couldn't eat it. I have never before in my life been unable to snarf a
Reese's. I also had to cancel my sixteen-ounce caramel mocha
appointment with my uncle this morning. Am I dying?
So
Pixie went to the costume party in my black nail polish and my black
lipstick and my spike collar collecting my candy while I was spilt on
the couch at home with my wicked sweats and ninjas. My kidneys are so
sore right now. I can actually feel my adrenal glands sitting atop the
kidneys and sobbing their little hormones out. I can feel my pulse in
my arm hair. Every time I move the ninjas dance.
This
is the stupidest Halloween ever. I despise Halloween anyway, I'm only
in it for Reese's wares. I don't know who Reese is, but I adore his
work, and I'll be "borrowing" a bite now and then from Pixie's stash as soon as I banish the ninjas.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Friday, October 26, 2012
Somebody Make Some Dinner
Hunneypunkin blows through the back door dripping with rainwater after towing his stranded buddy's bellied-up truck home from a neighboring state and dumps his soggy coat, sweaty hat, and greasy gloves on top of the mail I'm looking through. "Man, I'm tired, and it's cold out there. But he bought me a Big Mac and gave me twenty bucks for gas! What's for dinner?"
Out loud I say, "Glad you're back. I don't have a plan for dinner," instead of, "I'm just home from bustin my tuchus on a forty-nine hour workweek and you blew my entire paycheck to drag your pal home from Timbuktu and all I got for lunch was a p.b. and j. with a migraine at a desk while you ate a nice hot e-coli burger with Special Sauce with a friend and now I'll be up half the night helping children with homework which your unemployed butt was supposed to be doing while I managed crabby customers but instead you were out on superhero duty again, how many times have we talked about this, and now you're asking ME what's for dinner when you were supposed to have it READY when I got HOME, and all your homeboy could spot you was a JACKSON?" because I'm self-controlled like that.
So I take a deep breath and fake a cheap smile and wade through the pets to the kitchen, determined to be all domestical. Hunneypunkin catches a hint when the kitchen cabinets start closing with gusto and I'm shoving dirty plates around, muttering about how Jesus might feed six with two jars of homemade jam and five stale tortilla chips, because he says, "If you wanna wash some dishes, I'll figure out something for dinner."
Smart boy. Dawn and I start cutting grease while Hunneypunkin makes up his own lyrics to popular music. He must have some sort of Wishsong of Shannara talents because as he sings I start breathing dinnery aromas. Next thing I know we're shoveling down a hot sup and I can't figure out how he built all this steaming savoriness when all I could find was a dented can of pears. Hunneypunkin possesses all the resourcefulness of Jeremy Renner. Lucky for him, because later when I'm working algebra at 10:29 pm and he's sawing logs on the couch, I won't knock him at the head with a textbook in a hypoglycemic fit.
Out loud I say, "Glad you're back. I don't have a plan for dinner," instead of, "I'm just home from bustin my tuchus on a forty-nine hour workweek and you blew my entire paycheck to drag your pal home from Timbuktu and all I got for lunch was a p.b. and j. with a migraine at a desk while you ate a nice hot e-coli burger with Special Sauce with a friend and now I'll be up half the night helping children with homework which your unemployed butt was supposed to be doing while I managed crabby customers but instead you were out on superhero duty again, how many times have we talked about this, and now you're asking ME what's for dinner when you were supposed to have it READY when I got HOME, and all your homeboy could spot you was a JACKSON?" because I'm self-controlled like that.
So I take a deep breath and fake a cheap smile and wade through the pets to the kitchen, determined to be all domestical. Hunneypunkin catches a hint when the kitchen cabinets start closing with gusto and I'm shoving dirty plates around, muttering about how Jesus might feed six with two jars of homemade jam and five stale tortilla chips, because he says, "If you wanna wash some dishes, I'll figure out something for dinner."
Smart boy. Dawn and I start cutting grease while Hunneypunkin makes up his own lyrics to popular music. He must have some sort of Wishsong of Shannara talents because as he sings I start breathing dinnery aromas. Next thing I know we're shoveling down a hot sup and I can't figure out how he built all this steaming savoriness when all I could find was a dented can of pears. Hunneypunkin possesses all the resourcefulness of Jeremy Renner. Lucky for him, because later when I'm working algebra at 10:29 pm and he's sawing logs on the couch, I won't knock him at the head with a textbook in a hypoglycemic fit.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Sentimenty
Something about picking grapes in Grandpa and Grandma's vineyard today made me uncharacteristically emotionable. What brought this about? I am not a sentimental individual. I'm practical. Logical. Perhaps it was the ghosts of earlier years that darted among the vines like hummingbirds. I could hear my parents, aunts, and uncles calling to each other through the trellises; there were glimpses of my brothers and my cousins ducking among the hanging clusters, though there was no one there with me besides Pixie, Angel Doll, Lefty, and The Precious.
The raindrop that landed on my lip while I pulled clusters from their stems tasted sweeter than any other rains I could recall. I felt strength soak into my tired arms and pain dissipate from my joints as the purple orbs fell into my fingers. Is it coincidence that in order to reach some of the best clusters, one must kneel?
Did Grandpa imagine decades ago when he cultivated these plants, that they would nourish the bodies and souls of his grandchildren, and our children as well? Did he know God would whisper to us there?
I remembered my aunties' stories of training the vines every year, beginning at one end of the vineyard and working day after day until they reached the other end. The night they finished the entire vineyard, they would all go out to the movies to celebrate a job well done...and the next morning they would start all over at the beginning of the vineyard again.
I worked in the vineyard with my cousin the summer of my senior year, so recently, so long ago. Oh, the plans we made up and the stories we shared. Oh, the secrets the vineyard knows. The grape fields of Italy and the wine farms of France have no glory like the vineyards of Grandpa and Grandma's.
Jeremy Renner would envy us.
Heaven smells like grapes.
The raindrop that landed on my lip while I pulled clusters from their stems tasted sweeter than any other rains I could recall. I felt strength soak into my tired arms and pain dissipate from my joints as the purple orbs fell into my fingers. Is it coincidence that in order to reach some of the best clusters, one must kneel?
Did Grandpa imagine decades ago when he cultivated these plants, that they would nourish the bodies and souls of his grandchildren, and our children as well? Did he know God would whisper to us there?
I remembered my aunties' stories of training the vines every year, beginning at one end of the vineyard and working day after day until they reached the other end. The night they finished the entire vineyard, they would all go out to the movies to celebrate a job well done...and the next morning they would start all over at the beginning of the vineyard again.
I worked in the vineyard with my cousin the summer of my senior year, so recently, so long ago. Oh, the plans we made up and the stories we shared. Oh, the secrets the vineyard knows. The grape fields of Italy and the wine farms of France have no glory like the vineyards of Grandpa and Grandma's.
Jeremy Renner would envy us.
Heaven smells like grapes.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Family Night
I'm a firm believer in families having dinner together at the kitchen table every evening. It hasn't happened here for months, but I still believe in it. You know, firmly. I decided to make it happen tonight, so I took the following steps to ensure my victory in the fight to preserve family time.
Disconnect the doorbell.
Board the windows.
Hide Hunnepunkin's superhero tights.
Disassemble all cellphones and hide components.
Cut the telephone line. (I wore a ski mask for this because that's how I've always seen it done on TV.)
Bake a dessert.
Excavate the kitchen table.
Find some plates.
Nap.
After all that, it occurred to me that if we were going to have a family dinner tonight, there should be some dinner to eat, so I whipped up some fancy gruel.
I even picked up The Avengers and The Hurt Locker from Rob's Video, as bait. https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robs-Video/154452684597987?ref=ts&fref=ts
As it turns out, Hunneypunkin is out with his bass because it's band night, The Sons are across town on an X-box adventure, The Daughters are down the road with their homies plotting world peace, and I'm home alone with Jeremy Renner. It's all good.
Disconnect the doorbell.
Board the windows.
Hide Hunnepunkin's superhero tights.
Disassemble all cellphones and hide components.
Cut the telephone line. (I wore a ski mask for this because that's how I've always seen it done on TV.)
Bake a dessert.
Excavate the kitchen table.
Find some plates.
Nap.
After all that, it occurred to me that if we were going to have a family dinner tonight, there should be some dinner to eat, so I whipped up some fancy gruel.
I even picked up The Avengers and The Hurt Locker from Rob's Video, as bait. https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robs-Video/154452684597987?ref=ts&fref=ts
As it turns out, Hunneypunkin is out with his bass because it's band night, The Sons are across town on an X-box adventure, The Daughters are down the road with their homies plotting world peace, and I'm home alone with Jeremy Renner. It's all good.
Monday, October 15, 2012
The Leprechaun Moved to the Fridge
We don't live naked in a mud hut so I won't complain, but I must admit sometimes my major appliances cause me frustration. I was uncharacteristically alone in the house one quiet afternoon when this sudden noisy knocking from inside the refrigerator sent me into cardiac arrest. After I unhooked Hunneypunkin's jumper cables from restarting my heart, I opened the fridge to investigate. All I found were inanimate condiments.
I told Hunneypunkin the fridge was sick, but there's a rule in The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys that girls possess an innate disability to legitimately discover a mechanical problem so I was on my own to solve it.
I wondered if there were containers bumping around when the fridge motor kicked on, so I would slink into the kitchen like a ninja in order to sneak up on the fridge and open the door quickly during the knocking. Again, inanimate condiments. I decided there must be a mechanical problem in the motor.
It was uncharacteristically quiet in the the house one tired evening when this sudden noisy knocking from inside the refrigerator brought Hunneypunkin out of a post-seventeen-hour-workday nap. After checking the front door, the back door, and the imaginary trapdoor to the imaginary dungeon and finding nothing, Hunneypunkin checked inside the fridge door. Of course he found only inanimate condiments.
He wondered if there were containers bumping around when the fridge motor kicked on, so he would slink into the kitchen like a ninja in order to sneak up on the fridge and open the door quickly during the knocking. Condiments. Inanimate. He decided there must be a mechanical problem in the motor. I agreed wholeheartedly with Hunneypunkin's assessment because he truly is the magical fixer of all things mechanical.
Pixie maintains that the leprechaun who lived in the dryer abandoned his flute there and got lost in the fridge where he's knocking to find his way out. http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/10/a-leprechaun-lived-in-dryer.html Lefty stands at the fridge and knocks back. The refrigerator's knocking has gone on for months and nobody cares enough to fix it so long as the inanimate condiments stay almost as cool as Jeremy Renner.
I told Hunneypunkin the fridge was sick, but there's a rule in The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys that girls possess an innate disability to legitimately discover a mechanical problem so I was on my own to solve it.
I wondered if there were containers bumping around when the fridge motor kicked on, so I would slink into the kitchen like a ninja in order to sneak up on the fridge and open the door quickly during the knocking. Again, inanimate condiments. I decided there must be a mechanical problem in the motor.
It was uncharacteristically quiet in the the house one tired evening when this sudden noisy knocking from inside the refrigerator brought Hunneypunkin out of a post-seventeen-hour-workday nap. After checking the front door, the back door, and the imaginary trapdoor to the imaginary dungeon and finding nothing, Hunneypunkin checked inside the fridge door. Of course he found only inanimate condiments.
He wondered if there were containers bumping around when the fridge motor kicked on, so he would slink into the kitchen like a ninja in order to sneak up on the fridge and open the door quickly during the knocking. Condiments. Inanimate. He decided there must be a mechanical problem in the motor. I agreed wholeheartedly with Hunneypunkin's assessment because he truly is the magical fixer of all things mechanical.
Pixie maintains that the leprechaun who lived in the dryer abandoned his flute there and got lost in the fridge where he's knocking to find his way out. http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/10/a-leprechaun-lived-in-dryer.html Lefty stands at the fridge and knocks back. The refrigerator's knocking has gone on for months and nobody cares enough to fix it so long as the inanimate condiments stay almost as cool as Jeremy Renner.
Real Thing
I heard artificial raspberry flavor is made from the anal glands of monkeys so I researched that to see if it's true. Relax, it's not. Raspberry flavor actually comes from the castor sacs of beavers. Oh, yeah, that's way better. What psychwad licked a beaver's behiney and said, "Tastes like raspberry!"
I despise artificialness. If you want raspberry flavor why not use, oh I don't know, RASPBERRY? What could possibly taste more like raspberry than raspberry?
Since beavers are all natural, though, raspberry flavor from their backends doesn't have to be labeled artificial. Like that makes it all better. So beware of natural flavorings.
Folks are saying if you want real, healthy food, buy organic or grow your own. I'd rather find someone else who grows their own, and eat at their house. Way easier.
You've heard that saying, "You are what you eat." Maybe all this artificial crud we eat makes us fake. Is that why we dine like sumo wrestlers but hope to look like Olympic gymnasts?
Some folks aren't concerned about the absurd concoctions we're stuffing in place of real food because it's FDA approved. (I don't have the energy to go there, so feel free to fight amongst yourselves.) But given the choice between sharing a bowl of castor sac of beaver with a life-size Jeremy Renner cardboard cut-out, and snacking on a dish of actual raspberries with Jeremy Renner himself, wouldn't you take the real thing?
I despise artificialness. If you want raspberry flavor why not use, oh I don't know, RASPBERRY? What could possibly taste more like raspberry than raspberry?
Since beavers are all natural, though, raspberry flavor from their backends doesn't have to be labeled artificial. Like that makes it all better. So beware of natural flavorings.
Folks are saying if you want real, healthy food, buy organic or grow your own. I'd rather find someone else who grows their own, and eat at their house. Way easier.
You've heard that saying, "You are what you eat." Maybe all this artificial crud we eat makes us fake. Is that why we dine like sumo wrestlers but hope to look like Olympic gymnasts?
Some folks aren't concerned about the absurd concoctions we're stuffing in place of real food because it's FDA approved. (I don't have the energy to go there, so feel free to fight amongst yourselves.) But given the choice between sharing a bowl of castor sac of beaver with a life-size Jeremy Renner cardboard cut-out, and snacking on a dish of actual raspberries with Jeremy Renner himself, wouldn't you take the real thing?
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Chewables Thinks He's a Spaniard
Chewables imagines himself a real Don Juan, and he totally doesn't get that that's exactly what the ladies don' wan'. We should have foreseen this when he was a kitten and Pixie named him Chewy because when you pet him he bites you. He grew up and continued to express his affections by biting, particularly his fellow felines on the backs of their necks.
His name morphed into "Chewables" simply because it's funny, but he prefers the pronunciation "She-WAH-blez" because he thinks he's some kind of a Spaniard. Honestly, he'd have conversations on the patio with my uncle who was learning to speak Spanish while ignoring the rest of us because we were using regular English. It really ticked me off that Chewables would act so cavalier, because he was born right here just like the rest of us.
Chewables' penchant for chomping his peers grew problematic. The other cats started complaining. Loudly. At 2 AM. Every. Single. Night.
I would find Chewables crouching on the roof in the morning. He would look down at me and sigh, in his best Spanish accent, "The ladies, they are always chasing me."
Pixie spent an entire day last summer looking for Chewables. "I can hear him," she said, "but I can't find him anywhere." Lefty found him. After dark. In the chimney. Hunneypunkin pulled him out of the fireplace, coated in soot since he'd been there all day, and all Chewables had to say was, "The Lady of the House, she was calling to me." The Lady of the House narrowed her eyes, laid back her ears, switched her tail, and growled at him from her usual berth on Lefty's arm.
Something had to be done. I even discussed with Hunneypunkin how we might have Chewables relocated, but Angel Doll loves him and her heart would be broken. Ultimately Chewables was sent to the vet. You know, to be tutored. But he didn't learn a thing. He still strolls down the sidewalk in pursuit of the kitty contessas, winks at me through his Zorroesque mask, and says, rolling his r's, "I am the Jeremy Renner of the kitty kingdom, am I not?"
His name morphed into "Chewables" simply because it's funny, but he prefers the pronunciation "She-WAH-blez" because he thinks he's some kind of a Spaniard. Honestly, he'd have conversations on the patio with my uncle who was learning to speak Spanish while ignoring the rest of us because we were using regular English. It really ticked me off that Chewables would act so cavalier, because he was born right here just like the rest of us.
Chewables' penchant for chomping his peers grew problematic. The other cats started complaining. Loudly. At 2 AM. Every. Single. Night.
I would find Chewables crouching on the roof in the morning. He would look down at me and sigh, in his best Spanish accent, "The ladies, they are always chasing me."
Pixie spent an entire day last summer looking for Chewables. "I can hear him," she said, "but I can't find him anywhere." Lefty found him. After dark. In the chimney. Hunneypunkin pulled him out of the fireplace, coated in soot since he'd been there all day, and all Chewables had to say was, "The Lady of the House, she was calling to me." The Lady of the House narrowed her eyes, laid back her ears, switched her tail, and growled at him from her usual berth on Lefty's arm.
Something had to be done. I even discussed with Hunneypunkin how we might have Chewables relocated, but Angel Doll loves him and her heart would be broken. Ultimately Chewables was sent to the vet. You know, to be tutored. But he didn't learn a thing. He still strolls down the sidewalk in pursuit of the kitty contessas, winks at me through his Zorroesque mask, and says, rolling his r's, "I am the Jeremy Renner of the kitty kingdom, am I not?"
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
How I Saved My Cheetos
My good friend Dani--because she is a good friend, as I'm positive all Jeremy Renner fans are--worries for the safety of my Cheetos, should my household members read my blog.
http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/09/the-thing-about-cheetos.html
I wish to assure her and other concerned citizens that as a precautionary measure my Cheetos drawer has been booby trapped so no one will want to open it. I have attached a picture so you'll know how to do it too, if you need to booby trap your Cheetos stash.
.JPG)
http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/09/the-thing-about-cheetos.html
I wish to assure her and other concerned citizens that as a precautionary measure my Cheetos drawer has been booby trapped so no one will want to open it. I have attached a picture so you'll know how to do it too, if you need to booby trap your Cheetos stash.
.JPG)
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Stupid Reasons I Can't Throw Random Crap Away
These piles of outdated polyester fabric and scraps of fake fur that nobody uses anymore belonged to Hunneypunkin's late grandmother so even though they're useless they're sort of like heirlooms.
I might still figure out what this black rectangular piece of hard plastic with ridges around the sides that's been sitting on the counter looking ugly for thirty-eight months belongs to.
What's-her-name said she wanted these Disney videos but she never came to get them which probably means she doesn't actually want them and was only taking them to be nice so if I take them to her she'll be cheesed and if I mention it to her a twelfth time she'll be cheesed but if I get rid of them and she really did want them she'll be cheesed so they're destined to sit on my table in limbo to infinity. Possibly even beyond.
This was my favorite stuffy when I was five.
They're still good clothes.
The Precious drew this when he was two.
I truly intend to read these tomes.
There's one chance in a hundred that I could fit into these pants again.
There's one chance in a brazillion that Hunneypunkin really is going to repair that coffee table.
I'm going to salvage the good denim from those worn-out Levi's and make them into...something.
This magazine has a picture of Jeremy Renner.
I'd rather blog.
I might still figure out what this black rectangular piece of hard plastic with ridges around the sides that's been sitting on the counter looking ugly for thirty-eight months belongs to.
What's-her-name said she wanted these Disney videos but she never came to get them which probably means she doesn't actually want them and was only taking them to be nice so if I take them to her she'll be cheesed and if I mention it to her a twelfth time she'll be cheesed but if I get rid of them and she really did want them she'll be cheesed so they're destined to sit on my table in limbo to infinity. Possibly even beyond.
This was my favorite stuffy when I was five.
They're still good clothes.
The Precious drew this when he was two.
I truly intend to read these tomes.
There's one chance in a hundred that I could fit into these pants again.
There's one chance in a brazillion that Hunneypunkin really is going to repair that coffee table.
I'm going to salvage the good denim from those worn-out Levi's and make them into...something.
This magazine has a picture of Jeremy Renner.
I'd rather blog.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
I Do What I Can
It's lame, but it's my motto. Anything I haven't done is because I couldn't, and since I despise being limited, I focus on what I can do. I'm unable to work out half hour a day, but I can stretch a muscle fiber or two every morning. It's not in my budget to feed my family all raw organic farm fresh every meal each day year round, but I can grow a few veggies in the summer. I don't have the money to deck my halls like a magazine photo but I do make my peeps stuff their treasures out of the walkways.
I formerly believed I could be an inspiration. "If what's-her-name can be so pathetic yet still positive and productive, I could buy Australia." Somehow though my resourcefulness results instead in my being obligated to be resourceful on everyone else's behalf. "Your children are so nice. Make my brats behave." What?? "Oh, you sew? Here, finish this quilt for me that my grandma started in 1982." No, thanks.
This is where my motto saves my life. If I'm going to pull my own weight, I can't pull yours. Now I am a firm believer in Jesus' golden rule, but be honest. Would you truly want some schmuck to serve you, hand and foot, while you morphed into Jabba the Hutt?
I forget my own motto from time to time and start crying to Hunneypunkin, "My personal world takeover plan is deteriorating, what am I going to do?" Hunneypunkin gives my shoulder a couple of pats and reminds me, "You'll do what you can."
Don't be an over-achiever, a burn-out, a bum, or a guilt-ridden martyr. Adopt my motto. I do what I can. I can't follow Jeremy Renner around in person, but I can stalk him online. And I do my best at it, every day.
I formerly believed I could be an inspiration. "If what's-her-name can be so pathetic yet still positive and productive, I could buy Australia." Somehow though my resourcefulness results instead in my being obligated to be resourceful on everyone else's behalf. "Your children are so nice. Make my brats behave." What?? "Oh, you sew? Here, finish this quilt for me that my grandma started in 1982." No, thanks.
This is where my motto saves my life. If I'm going to pull my own weight, I can't pull yours. Now I am a firm believer in Jesus' golden rule, but be honest. Would you truly want some schmuck to serve you, hand and foot, while you morphed into Jabba the Hutt?
I forget my own motto from time to time and start crying to Hunneypunkin, "My personal world takeover plan is deteriorating, what am I going to do?" Hunneypunkin gives my shoulder a couple of pats and reminds me, "You'll do what you can."
Don't be an over-achiever, a burn-out, a bum, or a guilt-ridden martyr. Adopt my motto. I do what I can. I can't follow Jeremy Renner around in person, but I can stalk him online. And I do my best at it, every day.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Tough and Cool
Don't judge, you know you do it too. Everybody tries to project an image. Is that so wrong? Think about it, if we went around all vulnerable all the time we'd get blasted to pieces in twelve seconds flat. Yes, everybody wears a mask. My mask is "Tough and Cool".
Hunneypunkin, empty-handed, drops the door in my face while I'm carrying a backpack, two-point-seven children, a leaky water bottle, nine bags of groceries, ten library books, half a dozen jackets, and a dog? No indignation. I don't need a spouse, I can do it all myself because I'm tough and cool.
Overhearing the ladies discussing what my attitude problem is all about? I didn't realize my migraine was showing. Migraine headaches and brattitudes result in a similar facial expression. No, my feeling isn't hurt. (I only have one feeling, and it's tough. And cool.)
Split the butt out of my Levi's in public? No big deal. Drop my jacket like a ninja and tie it around my waist to cover my hiney, and nobody's the wiser, because I keep looking tough and cool.
Haters dissin my cubs? No rage. I mean, there's no point in denying that split second daydream of choking the spit out of the haters when the mother-bear comes out in you, but we don't have to dwell on that. Hug my cubs, square their shoulders, remind them to forgive, and we all look tough and cool.
People are like dogs, if they smell insecurity on you they'll try to bite it off, but if you're awesome they'll fetch for you. So tomorrow, like every day, when I drag my pathetic self out of bed in the morning aching and hobbling like an old guy, I'll suck it up, practice my best Jeremy Renner face in the mirror (except that I'm a girl), and whether I feel like it or not, I'm going to look tough and cool.
Hunneypunkin, empty-handed, drops the door in my face while I'm carrying a backpack, two-point-seven children, a leaky water bottle, nine bags of groceries, ten library books, half a dozen jackets, and a dog? No indignation. I don't need a spouse, I can do it all myself because I'm tough and cool.
Overhearing the ladies discussing what my attitude problem is all about? I didn't realize my migraine was showing. Migraine headaches and brattitudes result in a similar facial expression. No, my feeling isn't hurt. (I only have one feeling, and it's tough. And cool.)
Split the butt out of my Levi's in public? No big deal. Drop my jacket like a ninja and tie it around my waist to cover my hiney, and nobody's the wiser, because I keep looking tough and cool.
Haters dissin my cubs? No rage. I mean, there's no point in denying that split second daydream of choking the spit out of the haters when the mother-bear comes out in you, but we don't have to dwell on that. Hug my cubs, square their shoulders, remind them to forgive, and we all look tough and cool.
People are like dogs, if they smell insecurity on you they'll try to bite it off, but if you're awesome they'll fetch for you. So tomorrow, like every day, when I drag my pathetic self out of bed in the morning aching and hobbling like an old guy, I'll suck it up, practice my best Jeremy Renner face in the mirror (except that I'm a girl), and whether I feel like it or not, I'm going to look tough and cool.
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