Finally…Omega Prime!

Hey y’all.  So it’s WELL into 2015 and I’m just now getting around to Omega Prime.  Recently, I’ve been seeing a lot of the Prime Family (good times).  Optimus comes over to train for football with The Destroyer, so I get to hang with Mama Prime and Omega.

This kid.  I’m pretty sure he’s like, thirty, but his body still thinks he’s nine.  He is so much his own person it’s frightening.  And I know it’s frightening because I have one of those and she terrifies me.   Because, seriously, what can you do with a kid you can’t brainwash into being the perfect human being you could never be?  Oh well, guess that’s why you have extras.  (Looking at you, Kid Sensation.)

Real talk, Omega Prime makes my day on a regular basis.  He always, ALWAYS checks out the oldest and most obscure books in the library.  Books that say stuff like, “One day people will even have computers in their homes,” and “Negro running back and hero O.J. Simpson”.  And he thoroughly enjoys them without giving one fig what anyone thinks.

He brought this toy out in public:

INAPPROPRIATE.
INAPPROPRIATE.

The other day I asked him if he’s gotten his stuff for school yet.  Now, most kids I know would give me a “not yet” or a “ My mom said we’re going this weekend.” Omega Prime looks me dead in the eye—while sitting right next to his mother, mind you—and says, “Nope.  Nothin’.”  And that was it. End of sentence, end of explanation. Like, “Nope.  My parents obviously don’t care about my education OR the state of my clothing and quite frankly it was a bit classless of you to bring it up.”  Welp, put me in my place, didn’t he? (Also, I happen to know the Primes care quite a bit about education.  Mama Prime is a teacher, for goodness’ sake.  She educates other people’s kids.  On purpose. And her kids don’t look like they wandered in from a hobo camp.  Again, looking at you, Kid Sensation.)

I’m pretty sure Omega’s mission in life is to make sure Optimus knows exactly what he thinks of everything he does and says.  While I know he looks up to his big brother, I have to admit: I’ve never seen anyone shake their head at one person so much.

He knows how to raise his eyebrows with impeccable comedic timing, like a freaking Marx brother.  And I doubt he even knows he’s doing it.

He said, and I quote, “They hate us cause they ain’t us.”  And meant it.

So, I’ve done what any parent would do.  I’ve conspired with Mama Prime to have Omega  marry Wondergirl.  That way I’ll have in-laws I like, gorgeous grandchildren, and get to benefit from their complete world domination.  I fully expect them to send their respective mothers on luxury cruises wearing lots of diamonds.  It’s the least they could do.

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Undateable. No, not me. I’m pretty great.

Hey folks!  Not much going on here, which is why I jump on the interwebs to look at other people’s lives and judge them.  (Don’t judge me.)  I had a single friend over, and we talked about those people, but we talked about ourselves, as well.  She made me very glad I will never have to date again.  “But Vida,” you ask, “What if something happens to the Big Man?”  Nope.  Not even then.  I am never letting anyone else do this love thing to me again.  Never.

Since I never have to date again, I get to make fun of the whole scene.  Aw, come on.  It’ll be fun.  It’s a list of guys I would never date. FUN, I said.

Skeletor:  One thing Skeletor’s got in his favor is that he’s pretty ripped for a skeleton.  Seriously, check out the quads on this guy.  Also, he’s a homeowner and I like his house.  And even though I’m not really a cat person, I feel like Panthor and I would get along okay. He also has this wicked bad chair made of bones and such.  Which goes perfectly with the theme in my house of whatever-the-Destroyer-hasn’t wrecked-yet chic.

I don’t think that I would like his friends though, Beastman looks like he smells and sheds and I’m pretty sure Evil-Lyn would always be trying to break us up.  Then there’s his obsession with ruling Eternia which means we’d always be dealing with He-Man, who’s smug and insufferable and makes his cat wear a helmet.  Oh, and he has no face, soooo…no kissing.  Deal-breaker.

I could work with this.
I could work with this.

Danzig:  Welp, he’s famous.  He can sing.  Everyone in America and probably Mexico knows the words to “Mother”. (Probably through karaoke, but still.)  Maybe Canada, too, but I doubt it.  He can get into a confrontation for you pretty much anywhere and he’ll totally win.  Or get knocked out.  Oh, and Misfits T-shirts are cool.  Best of all, he was on Aqua Teen Hunger Force as himself.

But his name’s Glenn.  GLENN.  Name the last Glenn you liked.  Or who wasn’t an undercover, if not overt, douchebag.  I’ll wait.  Nope, time’s up and you couldn’t think of one.  Also, who gets punched in the face and tells people they “allowed” said puncher to do the punching?  Someone named Glenn, that’s who.  Guaranteed, if you went on a date with Danzig and then you decided it didn’t work, he’d tell everyone he “allowed” you to say he was a tool.  And who does that? And why, for the love of Batman, won’t he get a haircut and stop dying it Sharpie black?

Wolverine:  He’s good looking.  He’s got great hair.  He has superhuman healing abilities so then only I would have to have health insurance. Since I’m not a mutant, I’m not sure if we could both live at the Xavier Institute, but if we could that would be awesome.

Especially considering that, X-Men stuff aside, I’m pretty sure Wolverine is perpetually unemployed. I know he was a lumberjack in the movie, but that doesn’t count.  Also, he has anger issues that directly correspond with adamantium claws appearing from his knuckles.  That concerns me.  Oh, and he’s like one inch taller than I am, and I am extremely heightist.  And he’s Canadian, so he doesn’tknow the words to “Mother”.

Who did I leave out?  Don’t say Prince.

Compliment?

Hey you guys.  I got dental work done, so I was down for the count for a while.  And you guys were so sweet to ask about me.  You didn’t?  My husband made that up?  He didn’t?  That was just the Percocet talking?  Oh.

Well, anyway, it made me glad I cut my hair, because worrying about hair doesn’t really go with dental work.  To me, anyway.  There may be some of you who get a bridge and a blowout.  I’m not sure I want to know you, though.

Lots of people have commented on my short ‘do.  Which I don’t mind.  But then again, lots of people have commented on my longer ‘do.  Most of which I didn’t mind.

Except that time this lady told me I looked like Tracy Chapman.

And then I realized she was serious.
And then I realized she was serious.

Here’s the deal with that.  One:  Aside from the hair, I look nothing like Tracy Chapman.  Two:  Actually, the hair looks nothing like Tracy Chapman’s, either.  But that’s not what upset me.

What upset me was that when I informed her that I have twists that are very unlike Ms. Chapman’s locs, ol’ girl got offended.  “I was just trying to pay you a compliment,” she huffed.

Here’s the deal.  It’s not that I think Tracy Chapman is unattractive.  It’s just that this chick pulled out of her brain the single black woman she knew with natural hair hand made the comparison, and then I was supposed to take it as a compliment rather than the ignorance it was.  I honestly would have been just as offended had she told me I looked like Rhianna.  Would I love to look like Rhianna?  Absolutely.  But I don’t.  I’m pretty darn cute in my own way.

At least I like to think so.
At least I like to think so.

This woman is tall, with long, dark hair and dark eyes.  Would she have taken it as a compliment if I told her she looked just like Jessica Simpson?  Nope.  She would have been extremely confused—with good reason.  The only thing they would have had in common is the hair length. That’s it.  Not hair color, not hair texture, not skin tone or teeth or height—just hair length. That would be kinda dumb, right?

I wish I could have explained this all to her.  But I didn’t have time. Or the inclination.  Because if she could look at me and see Tracy Chapman, I’m not sure there is anything I could have said that could have made her look beyond the fact that she was being so gracious in giving me a “compliment” and I had the nerve, the everlasting nerve, to shoot it down.

All because I don’t look like Tracy Chapman, and neither does my hair.

Another Random Post.

Time for more random stuff from my brain! Yay! I said YAY.

Has there ever been the alterna-Flinstones? Like has there ever been the hot guy/ fat chick sitcom? Because, on the real Wilma Flintstone, Alice Kramden, Carrie Heffernan could have done waaaaay better.   Confession: I think Kevin James is kinda hot. But it works against the formula because I’m also fat. So we’d be another Mike and Molly.

Why do all the shows when someone gets a house/cash/gifts/cash happen to everyone else? Where is the application for these shows? Why don’t I know about it? Is it a conspiracy to keep me poor? I think it is. But then, I’m pretty sure life is a conspiracy to keep me poor.

Why does Naomi Campbell still look better than me? Aside from the fact that she probably diets, exercises, and great genes. Oh, and a stylists. Not the point. The point is, I thought time was supposed to be the great equalizer. You lied, Time. YOU. LIED.

There’s this fly on the windowsill.  I need to go kill—never mind it’s a wasp.  Carry on, wasp, I clearly interrupted whatever you had going on with the window and I apologize.

I walk at the track to lose weight. (Not to be confused with “walking the track” which means prostitution. In which case I’d like to think that I’d have more money. ) Today a more athletic chick ran past me and told me “Good Job!” I guess I’m at the white belt level of fitness and the track is clearly her dojo, she figured I needed her encouragement so that I wouldn’t give up and pass out on the track. I showed her though. I waited until I got to Gretchen to pass out.

The wasp is still there.

courtesy marvelheroes.com
I wish it had been this Wasp.

I know the entire Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles song. All of them. And I sang them with Kid Sensation in Fred Meyer. Quietly. I’m not a complete jerk.

I have convinced myself to get a fatkini. It’s. About. To Go. DOWN.

We are so football starved in this house, we are watching the Madden Demo Game. It’s Cowboys vs. Seahawks. And we are here commenting on it. I actually said, “Oh, so they just gon’ let Romo walk in the end zone?” Out loud. Pathetic.

I don’t know. I was feeling random today. Kick me some of your randomness. You know, if you’re feeling random, too.

OH WAIT!!! I forgot to tell you guys!  I was buying wine and I got carded.  (I’m pretty sure it’s mandatory.) Here’s how the conversation went:

Cashier Lady: “You have such pretty skin.”

Me:  “Thanks.”

CL:  “Black Women are so lucky.  You’re lucky you’re Black.”

Me:  *mumbles something and rushes out before ending up on the news*

So, you guys, did I handle this right?  Supermom would have totally had some kind of extremely nuanced shade and tossed it out there like a wiffle ball.  But, I’m no Supermom.  Yet.

Howareya?

Hey ya’ll.  I know I promised all sorts of things and I have not delivered.  What had happened was I wrote a few and I lost some of my work and then I blamed my blog.  So I stopped writing for a while.  Also, I’m pursuing an MFA in creative writing, so I’ve been writing (my own stuff) and editing (other people’s stuff) for that and then not wanting to even look at a keyboard or monitor after that.

Anyhoo, how have you been?  Yeah, yeah, now back to what’s important—me.  Just kidding, you know I love you guys.  But seriously, back to me.

One, Wondergirl is eleven.  Or as I prefer to call it:  Eleventeen.  Wondergirl has never been easy, but good gravy, you guys, this chick is acting brand new.  Like she has never met me or the Big Man before.  Well, in the words of Kevin Hart, “She gon’ learn today.”

So she’s stomping around here, slamming doors and such, when finally, the Big Man has had it.  Now, the petty stuff he lets me handle—I enjoy being petty.  I really do.  I will argue with a seven-year-old and fight a baby.  (BTW, shout out to Birdie for teaching me how to fight a baby.  It’s an art, you know.)  Apparently, however, door slamming isn’t petty.  From what I surmise, it’s tantamount to property damage and the Big Man ain’t having it.

He looks at me and says, “I warned her.”  And in all fairness, he did.

Okay, so a few weeks ago, she was acting all stompy and mean and door-slammy.  The Big Man was not cool with this, so he called her down to his almighty recliner and told her:

“Look.  If you ever slam that door again, it’s coming off.” And then he went back to watching Miami Vice.  The show, not the terrible, terrible movie.  Colin Farell? Really?

Anyway, I guess Wondergirl forgot.  I forgot too, but then, I’m not the one running around slamming doors.  (Sidenote:  I used to be the Door Slam Empress.  But then one time my dad had enough of my reign and decided to overthrow me with the Bust-the-Door-Open-So-Hard-It-Put-a-Hole-in-the-Wall technique.) The Big Man did not forget and he had had it up to hyeah (“here”, for those not familiar with parental grammar).  So he looks at me and says, “It’s coming off.”

At first I thought he meant his calm demeanor and that he was planning on hulking out, which I wasn’t cool with.  But he saw the confused and ready-to-argue look and my face and says, “I mean her door.  Everything isn’t comics, Veeds.”  He’s wrong about that, but I’m just glad he meant her door.

So he goes and gets all these dramatic tools from the garage and trudges upstairs like he’s walking the Green Mile.  Wondergirl suspects nothing.  I am profoundly grateful for this, because I really don’t want K street to fall victim to what happens when an unstoppable force meets an unmovable object.  (I do know that this is supposed to be physically impossible; this would be the first time people–I PROMISE. It would destroy mathematical academia as we know it.)

So maybe this? Except I'm not there.  I'm making ice cream.
So maybe this? Except I’m not there. I’m making ice cream.

You know that time Roseanne took down Darlene’s door?  This was nothing like that.  The Big Man removed the door and Wondergirl said nothing.  Nothing.  She just looked at him.  Then she cried a little bit and continued to say nothing. And then cleaned her room in silence.

Y’all ain’t hearing me though.

Background:  I have to BEG Wondergirl to clean her room.  BEG.  So now, after punishment, she does it voluntarily?  I’m not buying it. It seems like she’s getting her affairs in order so she can assume a different identity. You know, like after committing a horrific crime.

I’m a coward, though, so I didn’t say anything.  I’m just acting nervous around her and offering lots of ice cream.  Who knows? Maybe being a widow won’t be so bad.

Oh. OH.  Remember I was telling you guys about Omega Prime?  This kid is so awesome I can’t even. So just wait a bit.  It’ll happen.

There she goes again.

I know, I know, another Wondergirl post.  But you have to admit, she’s pretty entertaining.  I’ll even throw in some bonus Kid Sensation and The Destroyer.

Actual conversation on their way to school:

Big Man:  Wondergirl, are you supposed to be chewing gum?

WG: (Smack, Smack) Nope.

Big Man:  Aren’t you going to get in trouble?

WG:   Probably. (Smack). It doesn’t matter, Principal Conners is soft.

Soft?!?!? SOFT?!?  How are you ten and calling someone soft like you’re The Rock?  Like, I’m fully expecting her to continue that statement with, “You wanna cross the Wondergirl? Well, the Wondergirl says this…”

The week she was on steroids and became a ten-year-old rage monster (I told you guys it was going to be great):

Kid Sensation was flying his paper airplane in her vicinity.  Yeah, I know.  I’m not sure how he thought it wasn’t going to end badly, or if he was willing to risk it unaware of just how badly it was going to end.  This is how–and you guys, just, you guys.  Wondergirl, who was curled up in the recliner trying to suck her thumb despite her swollen face, was trying to watch TV.  Besides the steroids, she was also going through thumb withdrawal.  No bueno.  So then Kid Sensation comes through with this airplane. Wondergirl is tracking the plane with her eyes.  It passes in front of her face twice.  Somehow the barometric pressure in the room drops, so I know it’s about to go down.  Third time–and I swear on my Batman T-Shirt–her feet shoot from underneath her and she grabs the airplane out of the air with one hand simultaneously.  She crushes  poor Kid Sensation’s airplane while staring him down, then balls the airplane up and slams it into the garbage.  Then she went back to the chair, curled back up, and continued her attempt to suck her thumb.  It happened so fast, if the Big Man hadn’t asked me if I had just seen what he did, I would have thought I imagined it.

You guys, I'm pretty sure this is what happened.
You guys, I’m pretty sure this is what happened.

She blew  up at The Destroyer so hard you guys he just put his hands up and walked away.  He was trying to tell her that dinner was ready.

Wondergirl was in her room ranting for no reason.  Well, maybe there was a reason, but I was scared so I didn’t go in. Or even knock. There might be a body in there, but all I smell is Bath and Body Works Sweet Pea lotion so I think I’ll leave it alone for now.

Oh, and Kid Sensation tried to get himself killed.  The other day he threw himself face down on the couch, then lifts his head, coughs, and says, “Oh, I think it’s Dad’s bottom.”  He then lowered himself down to floor and immediately put his own head down.  He already knew.

Oh, oh, and I have to take timeout to be that parent who brags about something her kid did like other people really care and aren’t just politely nodding and thinking about how to escape.

So the Destroyer runs track, and he ain’t half bad.  He runs the 400 and the 4 x 100, and he throws discus.  So last week, he’s running the third leg of the 4 x 100 and his teammate steps on his shoe during the handoff.  The Destroyer trips, falls, and his shoe comes off.  He rolls over, pops up, and finishes his leg and handoff. WITH. ONE. SHOE.  I thought that was kinda cool.

Anyway, how have you guys been?

Kiddie Oscars.

So I went to Kid Sensation’s awards ceremony today.  Normally, I don’t like awards ceremonies because I feel like they’re “Oh, my kid is so great” porn.  Maybe I’m hating. Which, as you know, is what I do.

But not today.

Today I’m going to be wicked sappy and sentimental and talk about how beautiful it was.  Because it was.  First of all, it was a UN of kids that won awards.  Not joking.  I mean, Black, White, Mexican, Guatamalan (not Mexican), Tongan (not Samoan), Samoan (not Hawaiian), Indian (from India you guys, I’m not completely ignorant), and Russian.  It was AMAZING.  They were all cheering each other on and yelling each other’s name when they got announced—amazing.

Then came my baby’s turn.  I can’t even.  So, I’ve told you all, Kid Sensation is developmentally disabled.  We have been through it and back.  I’ll just tell it.  And, just so you know, I am definitely crying  as I write this right now, so feel sorry for me.

At the beginning of this year, Kid Sensation was getting 1 out of 26 math problems correct in a one minute timed test. As of today, he is getting 21 of 26 problems correct.  It’s a big deal.  Even other parents were like, “Wow!”

And then.  Then.  Kid Sensation, being Kid Sensation, yells in front of everyone, “Hey, Mom, are you proud of me?”  Chile, everyone lost it.  Everyone.  Including GracieLynn’s redneck daddy (this is based on his scraggly beard, his meager cowboy hat, and oh, yeah, his “White Pride” windshield decal).  He was clearing his throat and wiping tears like crazy.

How Kid Sensation see himself.  I do too.
How Kid Sensation see himself. I do too.

So this awards assembly was worth it.

But don’t expect me to be at the everyone-gets-one-for-participation awards assembly.  They take too gosh-darn long.

Hey, You guys!

Okay, so I took a break.  And didn’t tell anyone.  That’s kinda my MO, I tend to leave without saying anything to anyone–that way things don’t get awkward.

Anyhoo, this post is just a hey-y’all-I’ll-be-back-but-not-yet-but-I-will-be-soon-if-you-still-like-me post.  Actually, I’ll be back whether you like me or not.  So there.

Oh, and Wondergirl’s face swelled up and the doctor gave her steroids. Wondergirl on steroids. This week will be AMAZING.

I have a feeling…

So I have all kinds of weird quirks. But you already know this, because you’re a faithful reader of this blog. Well, you could at least fake it. That’s better.

Anyway, back to my weird quirks. One of them is that certain things make random parts of my body feel weird. Like touching velvet makes my teeth hurt. I don’t know why. Here are some more. Fascinating, I know.

Random fake hair. I used to see this a lot when I worked downtown, usually on Monday morning. People get in fights over the weekend and sometimes weave gets snatched out. I understand why it happens, but it still makes me feel funny.

Body part that feels funny: Stomach.

The guy down the street who brings his parrots out for a walk. I know parrots are supposed to be great pets and good company. Maybe his parrots need fresh air, I don’t know how parrot parenting (say that five times fast) works. But when you drive down the street and you see some parrots stone-cold chilling in the cut, it looks weird. Also, his windows are covered with aluminum foil.

Body part that feels funny: Eyes.

Peach fuzz. Peach fuzz feels funky. I can eat a peach that has been sliced and skinned, but I can’t take a bite out of a peach. I also like peaches in Bellini form.

Body part that feels funny: Tongue.

The Destroyer’s bedroom. Okay, so I’m totally a slacker mom when it comes to making my kids clean their rooms. Also, if I made them do it, then I’d have to clean my room, and I’m not really feeling that. But his room tends to be way gross. WAY. The times that I have to go in there and get stuff I have to put on shoes and a jacket (my homemade HAZMAT suit). It perpetually smells like Takis and boogers.

This is what ordinary humans who try to go in there become.  I have been exposed for years, so I'm immune.
This is what ordinary humans who try to go in there become. I have been exposed for years, so I’m immune.

A few months ago I ventured in there to get a towel for laundry and I thought I saw something move in the corner, but I’m not sure because I just screamed and ran out. I believe the towel is still there.

Body part that feels funny: Feet.

Tiny shorts in the little girls section. So I’m shopping with Wondergirl and we’re looking for stuff to transition to spring—t shirts, capris, etc. She holds up a pair of shorts and I told her that I only buy her underwear in packs. She laughed at me and said, “No, mom, I need shorts.” I told her she had better go find some then. “I like these shorts.” My brain still wasn’t making the connection between what was in her hands and shorts. My understanding was that shorts were garments that were meant to be worn outdoors. Apparently, my version of shorts is prehistoric. So Wondergirl doesn’t have any shorts.

Body part that feels funny: Chest. Head. Gut.

I don’t know. Am I the only one that gets these? Please share. Except for you, Big Man. I’d rather you didn’t.

Put ’em up.

Note: So I actually wrote this before the Grammys that I didn’t watch. I shall now proceed.

So last night I had a dream where I got into fisticuffs with Kanye West. (Typing his name makes me feel funny. Like new-permanent-marker-squeak funny. I don’t know.) It was like Peter and the Chicken from Family guy fistfight and I won. I don’t think I had this dream because I think Kanye is a douchebag, even though I do. I had it because I always have bizarre dreams when I eat pizza before bed.

But it got me thinking. (You guys know where this is going.) Okay. First, in real life, no hitting. But if there was hitting and I could get into a fistfight with anyone and not get 5 – 10, who would I actually pick?

Rhonda Rousey. Because if she didn’t knock me out with the first punch, I would have bragging rights for the rest of my life.

The neighbor’s friend who always parks his busted up minivan in Gretchen’s spot.

Sarah Palin. Someone would have to give me a good reason not to fight her.

Johnny Manziel. See also Wilson, Russell.

I'm coming for you, Johnny Football.
I’m coming for you, Johnny Football.

The hipsters who park all around my parents’ house and then give me a dirty look like I shouldn’t be there. Even though my folks have been there since the 90s. Pre-gentrification. Back when these people wouldn’t have shown their face in that neighborhood.

This lady in my neighborhood who drives a new Dodge Ram and has a Doberman. I want to fight her out of sheer envy; I actually want to be her.

The squirrel who sits outside of my back door, eats his snacks, and then leaves a horrible mess.

Equifax. See also Mae, Sallie.

Wondergirl said Justin Beiber. But then, she enjoys fighting, so I think she just picked him out of the millions of people she would willingly fight.

The Destroyer said someone at his school, which really surprised me because he usually gets along well with everyone. Then again, he’s turning into a walking testosterone factory, so that’s probably going to change.

Kid Sensation said Lex Luthor. Which is an unbelievably awesome answer. Now I want to fight Lex Luthor.

I would love, love, love to hear who you would want to duke it out with. No one? You think you’re better than me? Wanna fight about it?