Wednesday, March 30, 2011

My Husband, The Sleepeater

I had never in my life heard of a sleepeater. Sleepwalker,yes. I'm not into research, so I have no idea if there is a scientific name for this illness of his. I would like to know if there is any way I can make money off of it. My husband is a sleepeater. No, he's not on Chantix...I would have already retained Mr. Beasley's firm if he was.

Whenever DaddyFixIt is stressed, he starts eating his way through the pantry. Nothing. Is. Safe. He's stone cold asleep. His eyes are open and he's in a whacked-out, crackheadian sort of trance. It is snack cake munching bizarreness.

This sleepeating has become the beginning of the end of this marriage. I have toughed it out through poverty and his German stubbornness and his pain in the ass Republicanism, but this madness is worthy of a visit to Judge Mablean. I am certain if the divorce ever happens, I will check the "other" box under reason for divorce, and write in my best school teacher printing, " his crackhead sleepeating episodes."

Zebra Cakes are my favorite. Not because they taste so damn good, but because each purchase is a "swirl power" fist pump for all the interracial families out there. Zebra Cakes are not just a funky good time for me, they are a political statement. I had been finding empty snack cake wrappers for 3 days. I assumed the McBrothas had performed some death defying leaning tower of toddler move on the step ladder to get to the top shelf of the pantry. I stood on the dining room chair, and prayed it wouldn't collapse as it creaked from the extra blizzard lbs. I looked on the top shelf. I was ready to scream when I found the box ripped open with the passion of a kid on Christmas morning. No, it wasn't my doing. I follow the rules. I open where Little Debbie tells me. There is but one twin pack left. I put the box back on the shelf, and went to bed. I was saving the last Zebra cakes for my morning snack. I had one Dr. Pepper left, and I was saving it to wash down my white, creamy, chocolate drizzled, salty, sweet, snack cake of social justice while I watched the first ten minutes of The View...and talked shit under my breath about how unfair it is that Sherri Sheppard has like 16 shows on tv, even though she says ax instead of ask...I hate affirmative axtion!!!!

As I pulled the covers over me I hear a feverish rustling out front. My dear, sweet, handsome husband had apparently gotten up from the couch where he had fallen alseep during the Family Guy episode that he'd already seen a hundred times. It's his way of cock blocking the TV. He gets a death grip on the remote and passes out like a Yeti all full and ready for winter. I walk down the hall to see him standing there, "oooohhhing and ahhhhhing" as if Halle Berry's letting him feel her up, but he ain't nibbling on a Hollywood Zebra; he's slobbering all over my gotdamn ZEBRA CAKE.

I had heard the stories about his sleep eating from his family, so I can't lie and say I wasn't warned. He's eaten an entire large pizza, plus-sized bag of M&M's, and anything left in a styro to-go box. Even when awake the man could eat a baby dingo. As if I don't have enough problems feeding him in daylight, now I gotta figure out how to fund his twilight appetite, too!

But this sleepeating incident was different. It was personal. He wasn't eating with love or dignity or grace. He wasn't toasting Mr. and Mrs. Loving, who fought all the way to the Supreme Court to strike down Jim-Crow era miscegenation laws. He wasn't savoring the interracial goodness of the Zebra Cake.I doubt his black ass even tasted it! I tried to wake him up, but he just looked past me and then proceeded to go to OUR BED.
"Oh, hell to the no! Wake up. You just ate my last Little Debbie." I said, indignantly.

He just turned over, and picked up his snoring where he left off on the couch.

I left the room in a huff. I plunked down on the sofa, and for the first time in the history of our Oklahoma house, I got to watch TV alone: no talking animated critters, no World War Whatever, no screaming, no crying, and no snoring. I now had a death grip on the remote. How come no one ever told me there are two Lifetime channels? The more I flipped, the less angry I became.

Now I buy Zebra Cakes two boxes at a time : one box for Civil Rights and another to tame the savage beast. I never know which box is which until I ask, "How was work, baby?"

Monday, March 28, 2011

Little House on the Prairie Homeschoolin'

I've been working feverishly with the McBrothas to get them ready for pre-school and kindergarten. I have a degree in elementary education, so I should be able to teach my kids, right? Wrong...Homeschooling is great for people who can somehow convince their children that they are going to hell or the rapture will just pop off if they don't sit their asses down and learn. My sons fear no deity...except Daddy, and when home school starts, he retires to another area of the city. I'm trying to pull this feel-good, granola-ass, parents-are-the-first-educators (thanks, Dora)crap outta my ass, and let me just say; it's highly overrated. God invented schools so parents wouldn't end up in Bellview. See, right around age four is when your kid is moving out of that sweet stage and into the I wish I could drop your ass off somewhere until 5 pm every damn day. Those sick, happy stay at home mamas with their flow charts and schedules and effective discipline are supermamas, and most likely were not raised in the hood.
I came from the ghetto, where education is better left to the oldest gang banger in the projects. This clearly, has been the most effective way to educate a certain segment of society. The Gangbanger Griots impart important knowledge like:
1. how to rob people (job skills)
2. how to cuss people out (effective communication)
3 how to shoot people ( hunting skills)
4. how to live off the man and your baby mama ( money management)

I have been successful at teaching them to write each other's name. I suspect a toddler identity theft ring is gonna break out at preschool, if they simmer down long enough to get in. They are spelling words and reading words and writing all over any surface in the house. Now if I could get them to sit down, play quietly, and not bite the pig snot out of each other, I'll say this home-school experiment was worth it. Frankly, I hate all those smug bitches at story time with their sloped-headed, inbred, well-behaved, spawns. I know that when it gets to nut cuttin time, the McBrothas will kick their it-tiny asses and steal their juice boxes; it's just how they roll.

Until the day we get the yea or nay on the youngest McBrotha going to school, I'll just keep trotting out the crayons, duct taping them to their chairs, and threating to beat til their white meat shows as I try to teach them to write their own name.