31 August 2011

Spandex, Cooties, Vagina Monologues and Superheroes



This is quite obviously my super hero alter ego, Violent
Mom. Nothing to do with vaginas mind you. Nothing at
all. I should be wearing a cape, but I am, tragically,
artistically challenged in the cape drawing department.
"No Gabba Gabba, C. Yo Gabba Gabba makes Mommy feel violent, okay?" I tell my middle kid, who giggles.

"I just love you violent Mommy." She tells me. I doubt she is grasping the true meaning of violent, but it makes me giggle.

It also makes me ponder becoming a superhero. 

If I was going to be a superhero, my superhero name would be Violent Mom. 

Totally out of the blue, I relay this fact to Husband.

"I am going to be a superhero, you know. My super hero name is going to be Violent Mom. I am going to have to buy Spandex. And a cape. And some hot pink iron on letters."


A? Goes with the flow. Because probably his meds are kicking in right about now, and he is able to follow the course of the conversation with more ease that normal. "Right. Spandex?"

"Because, obviously, one has to wear spandex if one is to be a superhero. I could probably wear sweatpants, but then all of the other heroes are going to laugh at me. Then I will have to put vee and em on the front of my shirt."

"Vee? Em?"

"Right. For Violent Mom. I wonder if the Vagina Monologues already own that logo. Well, probably they won't sue a superhero, right?"

"What are the Vagina Monologues?" A asks, slurring slightly as the sleeping pill kicks in.

"A play, I think. Something about monologues. And vaginas." I am all sophisticated sounding. I actually have no idea what the Vagina Monologues are, but I saw them mentioned on facebook.

"Are they puppets?" A asks with complete sincerity.

"I should think not, A. I mean, giant talking vagina puppets would be, just, disturbing. And they are certainly not real talking vaginas. Vaginas? Do not talk. Unless they do, in which case, you are probably on acid."


The mental image in my head? Is beyond disturbing, people. 

A is high, I think. From the meds, which actually can't get you high, but anyhow...


"Hey. Are they going to be short spandex or pants spandex?" He asks. He is all serious. His mental image? Probably not as disturbing.

"Obviously they will have to be pants. Because I have these ridiculous chicken legs, and I hardly think a superhero with chicken legs will intimidate bad guys." I really truly do not think that I could intimidate anyone in spandex.

A rolls over to lay half on top of me. "Hey, guess what?"

"Hmm?"

"I am touching you. That means you probably have cooties now. What are cooties anyway?" Oh yeah, the meds are working full blast now.

"I am not sure. They are way contagious though. I think they are probably amoeba-ish. Super contagious. Super. So, they probably wear spandex too." I only say this, because the word "super" anything is somehow inextricably linked to spandex in my brain.

"So do germs wear spandex then too?" A asks in all kinds of a serious voice. 

"That is utterly ridiculous A. They do not make spandex that small. I mean really." I sit up, pushing my half sleeping husband off of my back roughly. "A? How the Hell does this happen? Why are we talking about cooties and vaginas and spandex? I mean, I can see a connection between these things.. sort of. But where the hell did this conversation go so wrong? Also, if I am going to be a superhero, I will probably have to go get some shiny hooker boots. Which sort of sucks, because after walking around in hooker boots, I feel so incredibly sorry for hookers. Those things, make my legs and ass and back hurt." 

A eyes are getting droppy. "

"Truly? Do you think that hooker boots are a requirement for being a hooker? Also? Hooker boots will definitely help cover up my chicken legs. I do not want to be associated with a chicken. Certainly not. Especially in Porter country Indiana, they do not joke about chickens out here. One guy? Fucked a chicken. Killed it. Got ten years in prison." 

This is quite possibly the seventh billionth million time I have told my husband the story of the man that  tried to have sexual relations with a chicken in a motel room in my home town.

Sick bastard. 

"That's kinda messed up, ain't it. Not that he shouldn't have done ten years... but you can molest a kid out here and get a year of unsupervised probation. Fuck a chicken though, that really doesn't even have a brain mostly? They might actually give you the chair. For a chicken. What the hell does that say about our society?" I only ask this because, as you all know, I am deeply socially concerned. 

Deeply. 

And shit.

A? Has no words of wisdom. He has no idea, at least I am assuming... unless his snores are a code that I am supposed to decipher. 

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