“A Mother’s Prayer” by Tina Fey

I know this has been all over the internet and Facebook in the past couple of weeks (and even further back than that), but, I just read Tina Fey’s “A Mother’s Prayer” from her book Bossy Pants today. So, it’s new to me. And I gotta tell ya, I laughed out loud more than once at some of the funny-ass shit she says here. Hilarious!

So, if you’re reading this aloud within earshot of your wee ones, makes sure you have some change for your swear jars readily at hand and have at it. Happy Mother’s Day 2013 everyone!

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be beautiful but not damaged, for it’s the damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the the beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the nearby subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock N’ Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from acting but not all the way to finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes. And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the drums to the fiery rhythm of her own heart with the sinewy strength of her own arms, so she need not lie with drummers.

Grant her a rough patch from twelve to seventeen.

Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, for childhood is short — a Tiger Flower blooming magenta for one day – and adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers and the online marketing campaign for “Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.”

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a bitch in front of Hollister, give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, for I will not have that shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 a.m., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a mental note to call me. And she will forget.

But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.

Girls, girls, girls

Every once in a while, I stop and take a look at my life and realize that, with a few notable exceptions, my world is full of women. I have two moms — wait, that sounds wrong, not two moms in a lesbian couple kinda way, but, you know, my mom and my stepmom — a bunch of female friends and family and I live with two women…or, um, one woman and one toddler who just thinks and acts like she’s a grown-ass woman. Hell, even our cat is a girl.

Any way you look at it, I will always be outnumbered. And usually, that’s cool. I mean, I love women, girls, toddlers, whatever. In fact, I usually get along better with women than men. And anyone who knows me can tell you that I am definitely not Joe Macho Man, but, every so often, I do tend to feel a bit ganged up on.

I know what you’re thinking: “Oh, poor, Yeti. Ganged up on by a bunch of girls!” And I know it sounds stupid, but, sometimes I really wanna just, you know, take a piss in the forest or catch a fish with my bare hands and shit. OK, I don’t really wanna catch a fish with my bare hands, and, truth be told, I pee outside a lot. But, the point I’m trying to make here is that every once in a while, it would be great if all the ladies in my life (that includes you, Greta!) took a moment to appreciate me for all the good things I do and not harp on the bad. You know?

I’m not asking for a party or a parade or anything, but, just the chance to be who I am without anyone commenting on it. Hell, even just a big old bear hug and a smile would do. For instance, Greta told me the other day that I was the “Sweetest Dad she knew.” and then she hugged me really hard and that shit made my day. Of course, she changed her tune pretty quick when I told her she couldn’t eat her dinner in front of her little TV. But, for that moment, I was golden and it felt awesome.

So, ladies, if I seem grouchy or moody or out of sorts sometimes, it’s not because I don’t love you or appreciate all the good that you do (because I totally do!), I’m probably just feeling a wee bit outnumbered. So, you know, give a brother a break once in a while. I might love all kinds of truly girlie shit, but, deep down, I am not one of you. And if I wanna be my messy, sweaty, sleep-deprived self sometimes…let me. And if I ask for space to go duck hunting or whatever, well, let me do that too.

OK. That’s all I got. Thanks for listening and see ya at the next Barbie tea party in Greta’s room. Oh, and, for the record, the only thing I really hunt for are bargains. But, that still counts! So, Grrrr…leave me alone, I’m tracking some reasonably-priced Blu-Rays at Costco!

Routine Surgery

So, I had umbilical hernia surgery last week. I won’t go into the grisly details, because, well, it’s really gross and I just don’t have the stomach for it (pun intended). But, rest assured that it was a fairly simple in-and-out surgery.

I checked into the hospital at 6:00AM and was home by 1:30 or 2:00PM. Easy peasy. Except for the part where I thought I might die or stroke out on the operating table. Don’t laugh, stranger things have happened during so-called “routine surgeries,” and the things they asked me before surgery made it a million times worse. “Do you have a religious preference?” Huh? For what? My last rites?! Oh, man, I was totally wigging. You name an ailment and I was convinced I would not only catch it, but die from it, last week while at the hospital. Crazy!

Needless to say, I am safe and sound now at home. I’m feeling much better, but, the pain meds are still totally tripping me out. I keep dreaming about Asian chicks, not in a creepy sexual way or anything, but, they’re just there, like, in every dream. Lucy Liu has been a regular this past week, and Michelle Yeoh has dropped by, as has my sister-in-law, Laura. Actually, Laura makes sense at least, since she practically moved in with us, after I got home from the hospital, to take care of Greta. Thanks again for that, Laura, you rock!

The best Laura story was the first day after the surgery, she came over before I even woke up and let herself in. Greta woke up and started pestering me for food or water or something (I know, the nerve of that kid!) and as I was coming out of a druggy fog to respond, I heard this angelic little voice calling out to us both from the living room. “Greta, I’m here. What do you need, sweetie?”

Perking up at the sound of Aunt Laura’s voice, Greta ditched me so fast my head spun. It was hilarious. But, it was also really wonderful to be able to fall back into a deep sleep and know that Greta wasn’t juggling knifes or something in the kitchen. Whew. Thanks again, Laura.

Anyway, another thing I noticed during the last few days is that my surgery really freaked Greta out. She hasn’t said anything about it directly, but, her demeanor has been strange all week. She’s been very moody and temperamental and has been very curious about what happened to me when I “was gone” — Mrs. Yeti and I had to be at the hospital so early on surgery day that we had Laura spend the night and wake up with Greta after we’d left — and she’s even asked me when I’m leaving again. I have assured Greta that I’m not going anywhere, and she was pre-warned several times that we would not be there when she woke up on surgery day, but, something tells me she’s still a little skeptical about the whole thing. It’s weird.

We’re doing our best to show her how much better I’m feeling and that I’m on the mend, and Greta is very excited to go with me to the doctor on Monday to remove my bandages (urgh, at least one of us is!). So, hopefully that will bring the whole thing full circle for her. And I’m sure she’ll also mellow out a bit when things finally get back to normal around here.

I mean, in her defense, Greta’s little toddler world has been pretty hectic since we got back from NYC. We’ve had lots of people visiting, lots of indoor time while the sun scorched the earth outside, — BTW, kiss my ass non-believers, global warming is real as shit, deal with it! — both Mrs. Yeti and have been working like fiends, and then this big old belly surgery pops up (again, pun totally intended). Anyway you look at it, things just haven’t been normal in Gretaland in a while.

And the way this next week is shaping up, that trend should continue until about midweek, when, hopefully, things will get back on track for everyone.

Until then, I guess the Barbies and stuffed animals in our house had better prepare for a whole new wave of belly button surgeries performed by the ill-tempered Dr. Greta. Oh joy…

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Spent the last couple of days boiling and eating corned beef, cabbage and potatoes (we had an early St. Patrick’s Day feast on Friday with my brother and sister-in-law and a reheated version of the exact same meal, complete with black and tans, tonight) and lemme tell ya, I could eat that shit every day. Seriously, God bless the Irish!

Also been playing loads of Irish music — Enya, U2, Celtic Women, Luka Bloom, Sinead, The Cranberries, you name it, it’s on our iPod’s epic, three-hour-long “Irish Spring Playlist”! — including one of my all-time-favorite late-90’s bands, Garbage.

I know it totally dates me, but, man, I loved those guys. And don’t even get me started on their lead singer, Shirley Manson. That milky skin, all that crazy red hair, and that angry, riot grrl snarl, whew…she had me at “top o’ the morning to ya”. Seriously, she can rest her weary hand on my knotty old shillelagh anytime she wants. Follow the link, I’m not being nearly as dirty as I sound.

Anyway, figured St. Patrick’s Day was as the perfect time to teach Greta the finer points of Garbage appreciation, so, we rocked out with her Barbies to some of the band’s finest jams. Greta was a little hesitant to belt out the chorus on “Stupid Girl” — since S-T-U-P-I-D is a “bad word” in our house, we sang it as “Bad Word Girl”, which totally worked — but she and her Barbies sang the hell out of “I’m Only Happy When it Rains”. Of course, that may have been because it was pouring outside.

Either way, the worst part of my day came later, when I discovered, via Facebook, that my beloved Shirley Manson is as Irish as the fake-ass brogue I’ve been rocking all weekend. Which means, of course, she’s not Irish at all. Nope, turns out my favorite Irish singer is, in fact, a Scot. Urgh…so much for the ethnic purity of my playlist.

Ah, who am I kidding? Irish or not, I’m still your biggest fan, Shirley girl. If I like your music, and Lord knows I do, then your place on my playlist (and in my heart) remains totally unchanged. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day and long live the Scottish too!