I'm Right There In The Dork Hole With You

Hold on for a minute while I dork out on you. If you know Jason and I in real life, then you know what amazing dorks we really are. We take dorking out to a new level. The really good news in my life is that my husband and I have souls that are wrapped firmly around the same tune. Our insides move to the same beat. We are dorks of a feather.

While we wait with anxious hearts for the new Depeche Mode to come out, ignoring that it has leaked all over the world, we planted ourselves firmly in the Joy Division camp.

We have a nearly nightly viewing of 'Control', where we sit and point out all the intricacies that only dorks would know. We discuss and debate. We toss about theories and suggestions.

In essence we are total freaking dorks. We own our dorktitude.

Last night, I watched and I talked. I pointed out what I'd not noticed before and what I had just read about to Jason. And then I looked at him and said, "I know, shut up, right?" He smiled and said, "No baby, I'm right there in the hole with you."

And indeed he is.

And indeed our son is as well.

Yes, we are the dorks who named our son after the lead singer of a band. A man who was weak and took his own life. That man was a poet though. And the tragic part about being such an artist and having the beauty of pain flow through your whole being is that how long can you truly live like that and deal with that? How lonely must that be?

Our almost two-year old asks for this song every day, over and over again. He sings it and he dances along to it.

Why?

Because he's got fucking dorks for parents.

Let me know if it does a thing for you.

I'm entirely captivated.

UPDATED: Also? I'm using the word 'nards' as much as possible today. It's getting weird. No one will join me.

Radio, Transmission: She's Lost Control Again

I met him when he was just 19. He was skinny and hungry. He'd been mugged for his winter coat just a week earlier.

His dwelling was a basement studio apartment. It wasn't even the size of our basement room at this moment.

It was small, dark and dingy. You had to walk through the mildewey basement and the laundry room to get to his front door.

He seemed hungry. Hungry for food. Hungry for love.

I loved him instantly. The second I saw his ashey, pale blonde hair. His cold, blue eyes. So longing, so hungry.

I was touched. I was touched by his poverty.

Only later would I learn that his mother was in prison, his father? Later his father would be homeless.

Nights were spent holding his skinny frame. I taught him my comfort. My comfort. He held me, I taught him that when we didn't have each other, you simply put one pillow under your knees and you hugged the other.

Pillows were the mothers that didn't want us. My nights were spent thinking of the highest building I knew that I could jump off of. Instead? I waited for his call. The call that would inevitably end with me rushing to his door.

Tonight I watched Control. A film by Anton Corbijn. Ian Curtis. A lost soul. Had no one to guide him. No one to hold him... truly.

He had people around him, but no one understood the imbalance in chemicals. The brain, the thoughts, they didn't sleep. Warm arms around you don't always mean comfort.

Sometimes the pillow under your knee can be enough. Teaching the use of the pillow can be enough.

I held a shaking, skinny boy in my arms. I knew all he needed was love. If someone, anyone just truly loved him.

Twelve years later...

Two sons.

One living.

One dead.

He knows. He knows I love him.

Isolation.

She's lost control.

Transmission.

He knows.

A Lunch Hour Poorly Spent

Also? The worst illustration I've done so far. Enjoy:

VH-1, Here I Come

I came home to the wrath of Year-End Accountant, which I was actually expecting but I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I had some small little glimmer of hope that I would get paroled. So during the few hours that I got sleep last night I think the serial killer team that had been chasing me the night before morphed from my husband and Scott Baio to my husband and the IRS. Which really isn't that far of a cry from Scott Baio. I'm pretty sure there was a whole league of women that spent a better part of the 90's trying to avoid both of them.

And here's the thing about getting to sleep-in two days in a row last weekend, I paid the price. After Bret Michaels and Bill Kurtis ruined an entire night of sleep for me, Crazyman made it a point to carry on the good fight last night and ruin another one. I finally relented and turned on the television sometime around four AM, and boy was that kid all sorts of pissed when the only thing that I would let him watch was Forensic Files. I figured it lulls me to sleep, it should have the same effect on the short guy wearing footed monkey pajamas, right? Wrong. The good news is that my son will never leave his cigarette butts floating in the toilet of the person he just strangled. I mean, he knows that will surely get him busted now. He may not sleep but he will be a stellar criminal with that kind of schooling. He even roughly resembled Nick Nolte's mug-shot this morning.

Finally, what I'm about to say should become law. After a holiday break all companies should give their employees what I refer to as "Methodone Week" Look, you don't rip heroin addicts off the stuff cold turkey. I'm saying we should have abbreviated days for the first 10 days back. We can slowly increase each work day by an hour until we are back up to speed. I have a monkey on back, man. I'm chasing the vacation time dragon. I tried to mug an old lady on my way into the office. Wild-eyed, I grabbed her pocketbook and yelled, "Give up the vacation days, you old bag."

Pretty soon, you're going to see me on TV calling Dr. Drew Pinsky from the roof of the rehab and suddenly I'll be going by the name "Shifty" and Gary Busey will be spouting weird acronyms in my face and telling me that he knows where I'm coming from, but I won't know where he's coming from because I won't know which one of his eyes I'm supposed to look at while he talking and it will all be ugly, real ugly but I will successfully have launched my VH-1 reality TV career because shame has no place on that damn network. And apparently you don't even have to have been a real celebrity to be on Celebrity Rehab. I figure if I can get one good video of me getting arrested by the cops while I'm naked and screaming for more vacation days shown on the national news, I'm probably set.

And if you'd like to sign the petition to have my television taken away from me, just let me know.

I'm Slowly Being Swallowed Alive

For those of you that have shown concern for Crazyman's face, thank you and please know that just like a lizard, his bottom lip grew back overnight. I mean, his lip didn't grow back like a lizard, it grew back like a lizard's tail. No, wait, it grew back like a lip... oh who cares, I'm lying anyway.

Last night I found out that there are a couple things I should refrain from doing, especially on a Sunday night after I've had 12 days away from the office.

First, I should not drink caffeine with dinner when I did not get up until 9:00 in the morning. Secondly, I should not eat peanut butter cups in bed while trying to fall asleep. Mostly? I should not watch a weird combinations of shows that include Bret Michaels, Scott Baio and shows that include forensic evidence proving some dude killed his wife.

Because what that culminates to is me freaking out because 30 minutes into the new season of Rock of Love (which is on a tour bus, seriously) I realized the show was on and had to change over from 48 Hours Hard Evidence. And because I came in late and seriously? The girls are freakier and skankier this season (who knew THAT was freaking possible) I had to wait until it re-aired an hour later, because come on, like I was going to be able to sleep if I didn't know. So I laid there awake through Scott Baio's new show "Confessions Of A Teenage Heartthrob" or some crap and numerous commercials about a show called "Tool Academy" or something like that that features shirtless guys acting like every slimebag that hangs out in dance clubs and during all this I totally hated myself, but I just stayed awake, watching.

When I fell into a fitful sleep it was ravaged with completely frightening dreams about a serial killer team that was comprised of my husband and Scott Baio, whom had already killed one of my baby sitters and was now after me. And in my dream, I awoke from the dream to find out that I had been so scared that I smeared peanut butter all over my bedside table (freaking PB cups at night) and I kept telling my husband how scared I was and then I REALLY woke up and I was really, really scared because my alarm (that I never use) went off and it was blaring "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag" and you know that is jacked up.

When I walked out to grab this morning's Diet Coke only to realize that we were still down to one bathroom and that my toilet was still sitting in the dining room, I was extremely relieved to be going to work. Which is where I'm sitting right now being swallowed alive by the pile of complete crap that is sitting on my desk and the list of totally weird shit that I'm working my way through. And I think it's the stress of thinking about that pile and that list that made all of that happen in my mind last night, ALL NIGHT. Because I assure you, I have no fear of my husband and Scott Baio tracking me through a cemetery and into a church going collectively by the killer name of "Mr. Marshall" (WTF?) to hack me into little pieces.

Come on, that's just crazy talk....

Right?

Right???

The Number One Reason Why I Shouldn't Blog Today

I had a dream the other night that I walked down into our family room only to find my husband, laying on the couch, seductively rubbing his leg and beckoning me over.

The weird thing about that is he was wearing a bear suit and then he pointed at the TV and said, "Look babe, I put the good stuff on" and it was an episode of Yogi Bear.

Talk about stuffing your picnic basket, hey Boo Boo!

Seriously. On top of that my monkey-like son has crazy climbing skills and has decided that when we put him down for a nap in a bed with bars all the way around it, it's merely a suggestion. One that he's not complying with and then we find him standing in the living room 5 minutes later.

Or creeping up behind his father while he's cooking and scaring the bear fluff out of him.

Let's hope that my sleep deprived brain recovers soon. And on that note, ya'll will be pleased to know that when I have nothing to blog about on the weekends I'll be able to tell you that as we will have internet access at the house now.

I know, contain the excitement. Now I can offend someone even on the seventh day because I'm a tool like that.

My Own Screams

I hear my own scream as I realize that my friend has been pulled down by something. Suddenly, I see a spurting arch of blood. The next thing I know we are frantically deciding what it is we should do. We have to get him in the car.

We load him in the car. Everyone else piles in and suddenly I realize the only spot left is directly behind him. I refuse to sit there. He's just had half his face torn off by a flesh eating zombie, who knows when he'll change to one of them. And then, I'll be next.

We scramble around and I end up in the front seat. We drive frantically to find a place to leave him. It's more humane if we do it - if we kill him rather than let him turn. As we drive down the street, Jason notices that the gas station has been torn down. He casually asks when they did that, I look at him like he's nuts.

Off to the right we see a rock quarry. He says this is the place, but as we pull in I see men working at night and say it's too risky. He quickly turns the car around and we drive off to the side of the road, through a farmers front yard, I scream as we're about to hit some kind of an animal feeder and Jason veers crazily back on to the road.

I turn to look at my friend and notice he's moving and I think that the change happening.

Suddenly I feel lips on my face.

I open one eye and there is my husband, fresh out of the shower, kissing me awake.

I look at him - "You're really lucky you didn't just get punched in the face."