May 3, 2010

life is a highway, wear your seatbelt.

I've blogged before. This is my fifth start. I find I stop and restart, and when I restart I like to restart totally fresh: clean slate, no links, no prior posts, just blank space loaded with possibilities. I'm still waiting for A&E's Intervention to do an episode on people like me.

The last time I stopped was on the account of having a baby. I actually had tons of time to do things like write long-winded pointless blogs when I was raising a newborn, which totally surprised me. Mostly because leading up to her birth everyone said, "You'll have no time to even shower with a newborn around!" And then after she was born, everyone said, "Wow, I bet you really wish you had more time to do things like take a shower!" (I do realize it is entirely possible these were not warnings as much as they were pleas for me to slap on some deodorant.)

Well, liars, no. Turns out, you can just slap those suckers into an automatic baby swing for about 10 minutes while you shampoo and condition. And then 10 more minutes while you do your makeup. And then 10 more minutes while you blow dry your hair. That's 30 minutes total I had to myself every day while I was navigating Life with a newborn. And sometimes I took another 60 minutes of baby swing time to check email, facebook, and empty the dishwasher. Life with a newborn was easy. It's when they start crawling that your life, social and otherwise, goes to hell. And when they start toddling around and get all Mama mama me me me pay attention to MEEEEE, your clean dishes start sitting in the dishwasher for days on end and don't even get me started on what happens to your laundry or the general state of your bathroom counter. Hazmat professionals run screaming from houses with toddlers in them.

I think what I'm trying to communicate here is--no promises about how long this one will last. But I promise to be fun until I can't anymore.

When not starting (and stopping) blogs, I teach small children how to express themselves appropriately in English, and I'm married to a man who likes to make lists (who will be called C for our purposes here). Like any relationship worth having, it's been full of of the kind of crap Jesus Christ lived to create parables about.

We're a Pisces power couple: C is a Pisces, but acts Aries. Which means he's a cut throat negotiator (he actually does do this for a living), and that means arguments are extreme makeovers in frustration at our house. I'm a Pisces with a Moon sign in Cancer. Translation: I cry at Hallmark commercials and the sight of dead bunnies on the road. My brother, an evil Aquarius who insisted on voting for McCain in 2008 in spite of Sarah Palin's bizarre presence, thinks this gives him license to question my mental capabilities.

Our (former easy newborn now pushy toddler) 18 month old daughter is Little Miss M. She's a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Scorpio. The fact she has a Pisces-Aries father and a Pisces-Cancer mother creates minor Pisces-Scorpio skirmishes right now, and my Pisces intuition intuits there will be Pisces-Scorpio major standoffs in about 5 years followed by full out Pisces-Scorpio battles in about 10. I'm being quite serious here. She's already started the stare down competitions at bath time. And she points at people while babbling sharp, indignant commands nobody can understand because, literally, they're indignant babbles. But make no mistake: she's incredibly indignant. About quite a lot.

Everyone in my nuclear family was born in a Year of the Rat. In my family, there are literally three rats: a Metal Rat (C), a Water Rat (me), and an Earth Rat (M). Please read this with an ominous voice in your head: We are all rats.

For some reason, I sense Chinese astrologists will tell me this is NOT auspicious.

Since we're on the topic of astrological phenomena, in another blog remind me to address in minute detail my weird notions regarding religion. I will note here I have a deep-seated belief in God. Who may or may not be a Him, or a Her, but most likely is simply a Being. Or a Not Being. In fact, I have no problem interchanging the term "God" with "The Universe" with "All That Is and Ever Was" quite comfortably. Last Christmas one of my sister in law's relatives wondered out loud after reading my holiday newsletter if I was in cahoots with Tom Cruise. I was defended by my sister in law's grandmama, who said in a very Steel Magnolias way, "Now you stop that! 'The Universe' is Amy's secret code word for 'God'!" I predict Grandmama will one day be canonized as the patron saint of spiritual talkers who actually have no idea what the hell they're talking about. If the Vatican can get over the fact she's a Southern Baptist.

My point is that I really have no idea what is driving this crazy roller coaster ride, I just know it isn't me. And you should be thanking the Karmic Forces for that. Everyone who knows me will tell you: When you ride with her, seatbelt up, as tight as possible, and keep your eyes closed. For the love of god, Keep. Your. Eyes. Closed. (For the record, every major wreck I've ever been in has always been someone else's fault, and I have official police documentation of that.)

To summarize: Life is a highway, and you'll want to wear a seat belt if you ride it with me. I'm related to both fish, scorpions, and rats, many many rats. People totally lie about newborns vs. babies vs. toddlers. (Why?) I'm inconsistent, and most Chinese shamans would shake their head as soon as I walked into the room. Yes. That pretty much sums me up.

Also: I lived in Arizona for three entire years and never once visited the Grand Canyon, but I could tell you everything you ever wanted to know about Encino, California.

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