“The Beast” — A History Lesson

I’ve recently had a few comments on my blog that I would consider less than kind.  Normally, negative comments don’t bother me.  You’re entitled to your opinion and you are more than welcome to disagree with me anytime you want.

If you have an intelligent argument against whatever awesomeness has escaped my brain, feel free to tell me.

Someone, I think it might have been The Pioneer Woman, read my blog post about why she can suck it and told me, “If you don’t like The Pioneer Woman, don’t write about her.”

That’s probably the most nonsensical comment I’ve ever read.

If I only wrote about things I like I’d be limited to chocolate, wine and tequila, Virginia Slims Man when he’s not ticking me off and my children on good days.

Plus, that commenter (Ree?) completely missed the point of that post.  My issues with the PW aren’t with her.  They’re with me and my general suckiness compared to the PW’s general greatness.

I still don’t like The Pioneer Woman, though, and I refuse to pin any of her recipes on Pinterest.

The other comment, the one that really chapped my flabby ass, was the comment by some woman who happened upon my blog post about The Beast being in gymnastics and said that it was obnoxious for me to refer to my child as an animal.

This bugged me for several reasons.  First of all, would she be as judgmental if I referred to my child as “Kitten” or “Little Monkey”?

Secondly, why on earth do some people feel the need to judge other moms based on little internet blips?  If you saw me day in and day out and had major issues with my parenting, I could understand judging me.  But to read one blog post about the insanity that ensued when The Beast was in gymnastics and to call me obnoxious?  Because you don’t like his nickname?

My blog is a judgment of me.  Even when I express anger and frustration at how I compare to other parents, it’s always a judgment of me and my parenting, my issues, my struggles.  I can’t imagine any reason to get on some other mother’s case for the decisions she makes in her parenting.  And even if you read my blog every time I post and you and I disagree with one another on absolutely every parenting issue we face, I’d never call the parenting decisions you make for your children obnoxious.

But the other thing that bugged me is that this woman called me obnoxious having absolutely no idea why The Beast is nicknamed The Beast.

So — while I in no way believe I owe an explanation to “Sandy” for my child’s nickname and while I’m pretty sure she will never read this blog again, which sucks because she and I were totally going to be BFFs, I just know it — in case you’re interested, here’s a very brief history of how The Beast became The Beast.

Contrary to what some may think, his nickname is in no way a reference to the biblical beast.

You see, from the moment he could walk, The Beast has been incredibly physically adept.  Where my older son was afraid to climb the rock wall on our backyard fort and wasn’t able to successfully do so until he was about 6, The Beast started climbing that thing at 18 months.  He climbed it like he had been doing it his whole life.  The Beast is capable of pull-ups, while the rest of us can only dangle from the pull-up bar.

And he’s fast.  He’s so very fast.  Every human being who has ever had to chase him has commented on his incredible speed.

As a result of his crazy physical abilities, the child has developed a physical structure akin to a miniature bodybuilder.  His quad muscles and calve muscles are unbelievable.  He is a rock.

One time when The Beast was displaying his insane muscles and completing one of his feats of strength, one of my brothers-in-law said in awe, “Man, he is a beast!”  And it stuck.

I think the reason it stuck was because of the sheer irony that this tiny, tiny toddler who barely registers on the height scale when measured by his pediatrician is capable of these ridiculously impossible feats.

So there you have it.   The history of “The Beast.”

Nothing biblical or savage about it.

That being said, the kid can totally be Apocalyptic-y.


Life Changes Can Suck It.

I don’t know if you can tell from the general tone of my blog, but I’m not a Shiny Happy Person.

You know those people who are always cheery and friendly and super-duper excited about, say, the super-yummy lettuce wrap they had for lunch or their brand-new coffee mug that they love so much that they took the time to take a picture of it so that they could post it on Facebook?

Yeah, I’m not one of those people.  Now, don’t be offended if you are one of those people, but in real life we probably couldn’t be friends and I’d probably talk about you and your annoying happiness behind your back.

I should mention that in addition to not being Shiny Happy, I’m also ever so slightly a bitch.

And don’t think I wake up every morning and decide to be unhappy.  I’m not actually unhappy.  I’m quite happy most of the time.  But I’m not cutesy with my happiness.  I’m incredibly grateful for so many things, but I think my high level of anxiety and OCD make it nearly impossible for me to be cheery.

If we met on the street, you’d say, “She’s friendly.”  Then you’d get to know me a little more and you’d say, “She’s probably the funniest person I’ve ever met in my life.”  Then you’d get to know me a little more and you’d say, “She’s really irreverent and sarcastic.  I think she might be going to hell.” Then you’d get to know me a little more and you’d say, “She’s really weird and she’s definitely going to hell,” and then you and I wouldn’t hang out anymore.

My general weirdness makes it very difficult to make close friends.  So, you can imagine my excitement when six years ago Virginia Slims Man walked down the street with The Good One and ran into a new family that had just moved into our neighborhood.  They were our age and had two kids, so he invited them to our Super Bowl party.

Aside:  That Super Bowl party was a fiasco of epic proportions.  I feel certain that with the exception of Super Bowl parties thrown by Alcoholics Anonymous, it was the only dry Super Bowl party occurring in the entire country.  Virginia Slims Man still describes it as one of the worst days of his life.  We blame it on a newly alcoholic friend that was invited to the party and then a panic over serving alcohol and being a stumbling block to his sobriety.  It was my fault.  I have a tendency to over-think things.  Big surprise.

Anyway, the new family walked into our house, and in spite of the fact that they just met us and were being served NO ALCOHOL at a Super Bowl party, they still chose to remain our friends.

The wife of the couple has been mentioned in the past on my blog.  She’s the one I described as a weird Audrey Hepburn.  She’s beautiful and elegant and has the neck of a giraffe (it looks good on her), but she’s totally insane and understands all of my insanity.  In fact, she shares much of my insane qualities.  She was once sitting on her couch and felt and saw her stomach move and was convinced there was a worm or parasite growing in her stomach.  She didn’t think gas.  She thought parasite.

You can understand why we became so close.

Over the past 6 years they have been our constant companions and best friends.  We’ve taken vacations together, joined and quit fitness clubs together, celebrated holidays together and have spent nearly every weekend together.

It’s hard to find people you like that much.

Well, to my utter dismay, they are moving to Georgia.  Audrey Hepburn’s husband – I’m going to call him Señor Tiny Junk – decided he wants to move closer to his family.

He’s really a girly wuss.  Boo-hoo, I miss my family.  Boo-hoo, I need to be closer to them.  Boo-hoo, I want my mommy.

Sac up, Tiny Junk!  You’re stealing my friend!

I should point out that I have never actually seen Señor Tiny Junk’s actual junk, but the best way I can think to express my general displeasure with this whole development is to emasculate him.

So from here on out we’re all assuming that he has tiny, tiny junk.

I’ve contemplated vandalizing their house.  I already know I’m going to steal their For Sale sign.   I’ll probably start taking walks in my robe while carrying a flask to scare away the lookers.  I already wear my robe all day and carry a flask anyway, so this will only require me to walk down the street.

I’ll probably also tell the lookers horror stories about the neighborhood’s dry Super Bowl parties.

In seriousness, I’m going to miss my friend terribly.  And in spite of Señor Tiny Junk’s sad, pathetic, miniaturized, microscopic, itty-bitty junk, I’m going to miss him too.

To Todd and Christine:  You have been a huge part of our lives for six years.  You have made living in Texas bearable.  We have laughed more with you guys than with anyone in our lives.  You have become our family.  We love you and will miss you terribly.

God bless you in your new home.

Also, you suck for moving.

P.S.  I wrote this blog post while suffering from either a silent migraine or a stroke, so please assume all typos are a result of not being able to see the computer screen through the lightning storm that was occurring in my field of vision.

P.P.S.  I can generally handle two close friends at a time.  More than that and I can’t juggle the responsibility.  There’s an opening right now, so if you happen to need a slightly bitchy, very sarcastic, moody friend who suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and possibly strokes, let me know and I’ll send you an application.