My Dysfunctional Introduction

Well, here it is, my first blog...so I will start off by telling a little about myself. I am starting this, one, because I love to write and two, because in someway we all need to tell our stories, I just don't have anyone willing to listen. I am a Mother and a daughter and a sister. Which basically means I'm a sleepless, somewhat neurotic look alike of someone else. As much as I should care about politics, I don't. I don't care if Johnny and Joey want to get married, hell, let them, as a divorced woman who am I to judge on the institution of marriage? The only thing I would be mad about is if Johnny looked better in his Jimmy Choo's and Vera Wang remake. Abortion has too many "what ifs." "What if" the girl is under age, "what if" the baby is a product of rape...I'm not going around adopting all of the parent less children of the world but at the same time I don't believe in taking rights away from women. Where does that leave me on the subject? I stay neutral, if someone brings it up I will be the first to "have to use the restroom," I would much rather people think I'm "number two-ingit" than express my non opinions. Are you Republican or Democrat? Would you like to stand in the crooked line on the right, or the crooked line on the left? Now don't get me wrong, I love this country and my rights, but after a day of arguing over who's glass of sprite was bigger, who took the longest in the shower, the dinner that no one likes, I would rather lay down than stand in either crooked line. 
I am one of the weirdos that would rather pickup a book than watch TV. I hate the news for two reasons, one I think they spend too much time selling us a story than reporting the truth and I'mafraid that I will be too naive and fall for it. Two, all the bad things happening stick in my brain, marinate, and my safety starts getting confused. It doesn't matter if there is a serial rapist that lives half way across the country, I will stay up and make sure my doors are locked, hide anything I think could be used as a weapon, including the eleven kitchen knives I own (I have actually waisted many minutes of my life counting them just to make sure no one has stolen one to use against me at a later date) and my straightening iron. Which I'm still not sure how someone would use against me. This is irrational on so many different levels, one that I always assume that if someone is going to break in and hurt me it will be a man, and how many men know what a hair straightener is or how it works? Two, what is he going to do, plug it in, taunt me about using better hair product while waiting the two minutes for it to heat up just to burn me? And what makes me think that I'm so important that someone would even waste their time breaking in to my house, there isn't anything worth stealing in my house, anything that was worth it the kids have found a way to put their mark on it, like dogs pissing on their territory, my children leave dents, or pen marks or carvings. Despite all of this it all becomes rational when i get scared...but next time I'm counting my kitchen knives or hiding my straightening iron I will be sure to spend sometime reflecting on why I am important enough to be harmed and make note of it. So I open a book, sometimes to escape to enjoy an excuse for silence, and other times because I'mafraid that if I turn on the TV that I will either realize that I'm just as dysfunctional as the next big reality TV star, or I will end up spending my night counting knives and hiding hair products.
I'm an attractive single mother of two that gets dates but doesn'tgo on any. The only sex I've seen in the past year is that of two porn star pigeons that do it on the brick wall in front of my house. They seem to taunt me with their song and dance, but then he jumps on top and after a few pecks its finished and I remind myself that she probably didn't get off anyway. I don't believe in thesanctity of marriage, but still catch myself dreaming about the perfect wedding dress, like its written somewhere in my genetic make up. Well its got a vagina, dress it up in satin and lace, walk it down the aisle. I can't find a man that I can stand for longer than two weeks, so why does my brain still insist on diving into these fantasies that in the end would probably make me drowned myself. Everyone is looking for a guarantee, a guarantee that they wont be alone, because we are only human, we strive for companionship. Now the vagina in me wants to buy all of this, that there is a happily ever after, but the dysfunctional girl next door part of me looks at it all as a trade. I will trade you this diamond ring if you do all of the chores, have dinner on the table every night by 6, and fuck me every once and a while. Now I'm sorry if cooking meat loaf and scrubbing the toilet while choking on semen for a few karats doesn't seem like a fair trade to me. I'm not against marriage, to each their own, I know several happily married couples (I've counted three to be exact) still I think there is too much pressure to have the perfect husband, be the perfect couple, have the biggest ring and the best wedding...while johnny and Joey are fighting to head towards the alter I have spent most of my life running away from it.

The last thing that I will tell you about myself is that I am a dedicated Mom. I don't think it takes a husband and wife and a white Pickett fence to have a great family. There is a secret world of who can do it better when it comes to being a Mother, and every childless woman in the world will give you her opinion on how to raise a kid. I don't claim to be an expert, as a parent you go through it learning and making mistakes just about as often as you are teaching right and wrong to your kids. However I will be damned before I listen to some pre-birth vagina about how her kids will never throw a temper tantrum in the middle of a store and how they will breast feed for at least 6 months. All the pre-births think that they are super women living in some god damned romantic comedy. Look in the mirror ladies, last time I checked you weren't June fucking Clever. Until your breasts engorge to look like a freshly healed set of silicone's and your running to the bathroom on you breaks at work to dump a load of milk into the toilet, or you have had to explain yourself to the staff at target when your two year old has hi-jacked a barney toy and held it hostage in his stroller, setting off the alarms when your leaving the store, you don't get to give me advice. At the end of the day we all lay our exhausted heads down to sleep and pray that we didn't do something wrong in the day that might turn our children into the next Ted Bundy. That is the beautiful curse of being a Mother, to spend every minute worrying and trying like hell, and to never know if your doing it right.

So that's it my introduction, maybe now "the dysfunctional girl next door" makes a little more sense, but I'm not too different than anyone else, I'm just writing what most people don't want to say. Exploiting my faults in hope that someone can see the perfect in all of the imperfect, because most people put on a show, dress things up, but these shows aren't real. Life isn't always, big rings and white Pickett fences, sometimes its engorged breasts and stolen barney toys.