Marika Malaea

faithful marauder + fake royal

Your MotherLord & Master

with 2 comments

Miss America impersonates a screaming garbage can.

I was going to write about my trip to the beach, but it can be summed up in this here sentence: it was necessary. Instead of wanting to kill everyone in my path, I came home feeling refreshed and ready to kill everyone in my path. Progress, not perfection.

I was going to write about women who are too beautiful and how I feel sorry for them, but now I can’t remember why we should pity them. It’s no consolation prize knowing their looks will fade in twenty years or that I might be smarter; Miss America types generally live in a fantasy bubble where nothing bad happens to them anyways, and when something does go wrong, the outrage and indignation at having to experience something so common – BUT LOOK AT ME! HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN TO ME?! – makes me want to rip their faces off in small sections with a dull vegetable peeler. Smile and wave!

I was going to write about male/female unfairness, but it’s sunny outside and 1/4 of my soul needs Vitamin D today. So let’s get straight to the problem: as the Esq gets older, he rounds out the skinny, gets more mature, gains more professional experience, makes more money (one would hope), and even if he loses hair or goes gray, he just gets better. Women eat that shit up: the distinguished, salt-and-pepper hair, an actual career, experience, maturity, etc. But as I get older, I lose points – I become less desirable as he becomes more, which is so not fucking fair. My silvery crown, the extra weight, hair in weird places, and that inevitable drift into having Mom Brain and Mom Body… the onslaught of unfairness continues.  Because when I’m forty, I doubt I’ll have young hotties clamoring for my attention – but the Esq sure could. My ex-husband was twenty years older than me, and just now I see the perk: I was always twenty years younger than someone.  I was the young grasshopper; now I’m dating one.

I was going to write about how I never want to blog again, how I hate the Internet, how Facebook and Twitter and social networking and meetups are stabbing my life in the bleeding arsehole repeatedly – but then The Bloggess outdid me by quitting her job to write for a year, and I just couldn’t be a copycat to someone living, by choice, in Texas. Besides, I’ve been unemployed longer – although by that barometer, I guess I’m the bigger loser.

I was going to write about my birthday party – it’s a costume party again! we love to humiliate our friends – but then I realized I needed a job. So off to Craig’s List, LinkedIn, Monster, and a host of other websites that bring on the bi-polar behavior, ie; crying, laughing, screaming, sleeping. Notice that this list did not include ‘getting a job.’ I have to start from somewhere.

This week, my son called me The MotherLord. Works for me.


2 Responses

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  1. a. Unless I am wrong, and I am never wrong, isn’t forty in the future by MORE THAN seven years?

    b. When you ARE forty, the Esq. will still be young-buck enough to furiously smite any of those pesky clamoring hotties that might be “troubling” you.

    c. “MotherLord” is aw-shum.


    April 6, 2009 at 11:05 PM

  2. a. 40 is almost seven years in the future.

    b. True – I will have a young hottie for a mate if he hasn’t run off with his secretary by then. Wait, I’m his secretary.



    April 10, 2009 at 11:07 PM

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