Never before have I needed time management skills like I need right now.
How did it get to be 10:40pm with my daughter still wide awake and my blog unwritten and yet I’m still running on Adrenalin and 3 hours of sleep the night before. UGH. I can hear Dr. Phil in my head right now — “Because you set it up that way!” They’ve done studies on sleep deprivation, right? How little can we get and still survive? Functioning isn’t even my concern at this point. Just survival. I’m going to google that. Just as soon as I finish with this blog, which — by the way — I have made a renewed commitment to write every night. Or at least most nights. But let’s be honest. I’m bouncing back from an average of one entry every six weeks, so I’m giving myself a big old pat on the back for posting my third in a row here.
So to all who’ve emailed and voice mailed and messaged me over the past week and a half, I may or may not be able to respond. But I truly do feel horrible about that because so many of your messages are filled with raw emotion and beautiful memories of waking up with Kidd Kraddick in the Morning for the past two decades. I can feel your pain coming through your words, and for those, I will honestly make an effort to respond. Just don’t be surprised if you get a “Thank you for your sympathy” message from me in early 2014. It seriously might take me that long. That Kidd Kraddick generated a lot of love over the years!
But to those who texted me the night it happened or maybe waited until the next morning to shoot me no more than a text of “True?” or “Real?” And I especially loved the super random “Hey.” I got quite a few of those, actually. What was I supposed to text back — Hey? And then what were they supposed to text back to that? I’m guessing it would’ve been a heartfelt “Is Kidd dead?” And then I guess the appropriate response would’ve been, “Yeah.” So no. I won’t be responding to those nosy textures now or anytime in early 2014. I’ll just answer all of them right here with this — Yes. It’s true. And I think that pretty much covers it.
Meantime, I’ve got to make some major changes in my life. For one thing, where can I shop that’s even less expensive than the dollar store? Yes, my bag lady syndrome is in overdrive right now. Realistically I know that I’ve never been homeless or missed a meal a day in my life, but suddenly I have the urge to steal a shopping cart from Super Target. Of course they’ve rigged them all so that their wheels lock up whenever you dare approach the edge of the parking lot. What’s up with that, Super Target?? Where am I going to keep all of my worldly possessions six months from now if I can’t swipe one of your super roomy shopping carts??
Another thing I need to change — the music on my iTunes. Apparently, there’s this cloud thing that makes my iTunes sync up with my laptop, my phone AND my daughter’s iPad, courtesy of Auntie Crazy. The problem with this is, mixed in with all the bubblegum pop, a random show tune, some Christian hymns and the instrumental version of Nora Jones’ “Don’t Know Why” — it’s a long story — there happens to be a small collection of what I like to call “dirty songs.” For some reason, I love dirty songs. I think it was my way of rebelling against my very religious upbringing that involved signing a contract that I wouldn’t listen to rock music. Yes, I signed that. Anyway, it’s not like I love ALL dirty songs. I don’t want to be listening to “My Neck, My Back” or anything like that. I’m more of a Bad Company “Feel Like Making Love” kind of dirty girl. And Buckcherry’s “Crazy B*tch”? That’s my JAM! But when is Prince ever gonna lighten up and put Vanity 6’s “Nasty Girl” on iTunes?? Those Vanity 6 tribute bands ain’t cutting it for me, but I did download one of the versions just to tide me over to the day Prince comes to his senses.
Now so far, I’ve been able to shield my daughter’s precious ears from my dirty song collection. We’ll be riding down the highway listening to my music and when I recognize the very first note of a song that would most certainly cause shame to my parents, I click NEXT NEXT NEXT until I land on something safe like Cody Simpson. So far, it’s worked beautifully.
But that danged cloud has finally bitten me in the butt. Emma Kelly was in my room, playing games on her iPad, while I was in the kitchen, cleaning up after supper. I made us a pot of chili. We can eat off of that for two days, you know. Yes, I’ll be cooking more cost-cutting meals and pinching every penny I can for a while but anyway…So I’m loading dishes into the dishwasher and suddenly I hear a blood-curdling scream coming from my room. I’m temporarily frozen in fear, but manage to yell, “EMMA KELLY?!?!” She then appears around the corner and just stands there in the hallway, facing me from across the room. She’s clutching her iPad in front of her with both hands while screaming the most guttural, horrifying, non-stop noise I’ve ever heard come out of that little body. And if you’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing one of my child’s screaming temper tantrums, that was NOTHING compared to this. And the look of sheer horror in her eyes sent shivers down my spine. I immediately thought, “She’s being electrocuted by her iPad!!” Now, I don’t know if this is even possible, but if you had only heard the sound that was coming out of her mouth and seen the look in her eyes and how her hands were gripping that iPad like little white-knuckled vises! I just don’t know how anyone could come to any other conclusion than electrocution, especially when she start repeating over and over, “Turn it off! Turn it off!”
So I raced over to her, wincing as I grabbed the iPad from her hands. I was expecting to be knocked to the ground by all the electricity that was obviously coursing through Emma Kelly’s body. But instead? I felt nothing. So why was my child still screaming and repeating, “Turn it off! Turn it off!” I finally shushed her long enough to hear that there was music coming from her iPad. And the cause of all this terror and distress? Icona Pop. Yes, my daughter was trying to listen to Cher Lloyd’s “With Your Love” but somehow clicked on Icona Pop’s unedited version of “I Don’t Care.” She decided that was a good song, too, so she kept listening, not realizing that this was the unedited version. But she found out quite tragically that the Icona Pop girls were not only throwing sh*t into a bag and pushing it all down the stairs, but they had also been misrepresenting themselves as 90s chicks when, in fact, they are 90s b*tches.
So my child is traumatized and now I’m trying to figure out how I can uncloud my daughter’s iPad so that we never find ourselves in this unfortunate situation again.
