I'm a part time insomniac.
Part of the night I sleep and part I just lay there.
~or~
Part of the month I sleep all night and part I don't sleep at all.
If I'm alone in bed I get up, if I'm not I stay there and think.
Last night I thought.
I thought about what might have the power to influence Jacob when he is a teenager and what he will do with that influence.
I went to high school in the early 1990s. That meant I hid in my flannel&jeans&eyeliner and my room for four years and listened to Riot Grrrl musicians and speakers on the college stations during the day and Canadian stations at night.
Canadian radio is better than American radio at night.
I listened and listened and read and read and wrote and wrote and tried to make sense out of what was happening in the underground.
I loved the idea that I could allow myself to be angry about things that I felt were unfair and there is a possibility that a pacific approach could be taken to raise awareness and stop injustice and create equality. I hated that I was afraid to speak up, speak out, just speak.
I tried to tell myself I was just as good and strong as the boys. My muscles were weaker but my heart and my voice could be more powerful.
Bitch was something I could aspire to be.
I was in awe of what women could accomplish if we banded together, horrified that we could never get the tits enough to do so.
Then I went to college. Then grad school. Then work. Then home. Somewhere along the way I lost that fervor but I'm having a terrific time finding it again.
It's probably better that I waited until I was older to be a proverbial Riot Grrrl. My mouth is (and fingers are) insanely faster than my brain, but I'm learning. I can get more done if I speak slowly and hide my big stick behind my back until I really need it.
Something else I like to do when I can't sleep is think about the potential that Jake has. That every baby has. I love to look at babies (look at, not touch. I hate touching babies. And smelling them. They smell like poop and sour milk. Or poop and sour milk and Baby Magic. I love the smell of puppies.) and wonder what they will be good at, what opportunities they will miss, which ones they will take. What if Beethoven never touched a piano? How am I ruining my child by not exposing him to something he would naturally take to? How am I ruining him by exposing him to things that he can't take to? What can I do to find the balance? What can I do to stop feeling like I'm pushing and pulling at the same time? What can I do to just go the eff to sleep?
I also like to look at my own body the way I look at Jake's. I've been working on this for almost a full year and I think I'm getting good at it, comfortable with it. It's awkward at first, and I feel a little squirmy telling you about it, but I'll do it anyway. Briefly. This is kinda my private thing I do and I don't want you all the way in on it. I will tell you that it's easier to do in the dark while you are lying down. Don't try it in the mirror unless you are really in love with yourself.
I like to think of the places my feet and legs can take me. I have the freedom and ability to go where ever I need, want, chose to go.
My hips carry what is left of the fat my body used to make the milk that kept my baby alive. I feel better about it because the chub had a purpose.
My belly holds everything I need to process stuff I put in there so that my life may go on as I work hard to live it.
Underneath my belly lies the hole that my baby came out of. It's a very faintly pink reminder that I endured childbirth. My brain has forgotten but my body has not. You can hardly see it there, but it... OH MY GOD! I had a C-section. Stop thinking about my chassis, you sickfolks. The hole that my baby came out of is MAN-MADE.
I have a vagina that is capable of a whole lot of good and amazing things.
It proved to me that my body and my spirit is stronger than mutant cells and cancerous lumps and lesions.
Go vagina.
My hands can soothe. They can hold. They can fight. They can create. They can destroy. They are so much more than they appear to be.
My arms can carry many things. My heart can carry the things my arms cannot.
My head is doing quite well for itself. My hair kind of sucks right now, but I could shave it off completely and it would not change the way my eyes are able to see the terrifying beauty in the world. My nose breathes. My breath makes me alive. My mouth is small but big things come out of it. Too often and too loud, sometimes.
What amazes you about you?
“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” – e.e. Cummings
5.28.2009
inside secrets
I had coffee with Heather today. She blogs here. And here. And here.
Ever wonder what happens when two bloggers who have never met before in real life sit down over a quick cup of coffee?
There is a lot of talking.
Go figure.
It's never awkward, but sometimes it's hard to find topics that have gone unblogged about.
Ever wonder what all the talk is about?
Well, most of the sentences start with "I", sometimes "We", rarely anything else. I think it's because we tend to be really good at talking about ourselves. We do it so well that there aren't enough ears or hours in the day to do it aloud, and that's why we plaster ourselves all over the internet.
Once we get ourselves taken care of, we talk about you. And you. And your parenting style. And your new diagnosis. And your weird kid. And oh gosh, I just can't for the life of me get my hyperlinks to work. Darn.
Who do you know in real life? What do you talk about? Who do you talk about?
Ever wonder what happens when two bloggers who have never met before in real life sit down over a quick cup of coffee?
There is a lot of talking.
Go figure.
It's never awkward, but sometimes it's hard to find topics that have gone unblogged about.
Ever wonder what all the talk is about?
Well, most of the sentences start with "I", sometimes "We", rarely anything else. I think it's because we tend to be really good at talking about ourselves. We do it so well that there aren't enough ears or hours in the day to do it aloud, and that's why we plaster ourselves all over the internet.
Once we get ourselves taken care of, we talk about you. And you. And your parenting style. And your new diagnosis. And your weird kid. And oh gosh, I just can't for the life of me get my hyperlinks to work. Darn.
Who do you know in real life? What do you talk about? Who do you talk about?
5.27.2009
crooks
People are fucking disgusting.
There was a woman in the Philly burbs that reported she and her daughter were abducted after a car accident and her emergency cell call was traced to downtown Philadelphia, three and a half blocks from my office. My office where I cried for her and her baby girl who isn't baby enough to not know what was going on. Her daughter that was thrown into the trunk of a car and swept off the face of the earth.
Do you know what happens to you when you are missing from the face of the earth?
Terrible things.
That woman was a liar. A crook. She struck fear in the heart of my mother, who called me to be sure I was safe.
"I'm fine", I told her. "This town is so big that badguys don't mess with good guys. You have to look for trouble here. Trouble doesn't find you."
"Okay", my mom said. We hung up and she probably puked in her mouth, picturing Jake and I driving along, getting in an accident, and being shoved in a car trunk so we don't call Geico.
What the eff, Bonnie Sweeten?
You scared my mom.
I cried for you. My heart hurts every single day for moms everywhere, doing normal mom things because it is hard to be a mom. My soul screams for moms (read that- it won Five Star status) who know what it's like to fear for their baby's life.
Fuck you.
$12000? You owed $12000 so you made this up instead of running away? Instead of owning up to what you did? I'll piss $12000 right in your fucking face you fucking whore bleach-headed pale bitch. And I have my period. My blood and piss will rain in your deceitful stupid fucking Disney-going racist city-hating flat-tittied velvet-wearing fat gob. You earned it, every drop. You don't deserve to be a mother.
You aren't one of us.
There was a woman in the Philly burbs that reported she and her daughter were abducted after a car accident and her emergency cell call was traced to downtown Philadelphia, three and a half blocks from my office. My office where I cried for her and her baby girl who isn't baby enough to not know what was going on. Her daughter that was thrown into the trunk of a car and swept off the face of the earth.
Do you know what happens to you when you are missing from the face of the earth?
Terrible things.
That woman was a liar. A crook. She struck fear in the heart of my mother, who called me to be sure I was safe.
"I'm fine", I told her. "This town is so big that badguys don't mess with good guys. You have to look for trouble here. Trouble doesn't find you."
"Okay", my mom said. We hung up and she probably puked in her mouth, picturing Jake and I driving along, getting in an accident, and being shoved in a car trunk so we don't call Geico.
What the eff, Bonnie Sweeten?
You scared my mom.
I cried for you. My heart hurts every single day for moms everywhere, doing normal mom things because it is hard to be a mom. My soul screams for moms (read that- it won Five Star status) who know what it's like to fear for their baby's life.
Fuck you.
$12000? You owed $12000 so you made this up instead of running away? Instead of owning up to what you did? I'll piss $12000 right in your fucking face you fucking whore bleach-headed pale bitch. And I have my period. My blood and piss will rain in your deceitful stupid fucking Disney-going racist city-hating flat-tittied velvet-wearing fat gob. You earned it, every drop. You don't deserve to be a mother.
You aren't one of us.
holiday
I spent the holiday weekend in the City of my Birth.
I rode two rollercoasters, a disappointing spinney ride, and a log flume. I hate log flumes, but they always hearken me back to a time when the only amusement we had was fluming down the rivers that we worked so hard panning gold out of during the daylight. Anyone else feel like log flumes are somehow historical replicas? No? Moving on.
We had campfires every night. That was different than real life.
I ate a lot of hotdogs and what seemed to be plates of mayonnaise with three bits of pasta, celery, and potato tossed in so I wasn't really eating a plate of just mayonnaise.
I heard fireworks, but didn't see them. It made me think of all the servicemen who make it possible for me to have what I have and do what I do. They hear explosions all the time. I hear chirping birds. It doesn't seem fair because it's not fair and I am forever grateful that even though I have a lot to say about the current state of things, I have the freedom to raise my child the way I would like to in a safe place.
I played in the grass with my son. There isn't a whole lot of that going on at home. We played soccer and football and wiffleball and golf. We played chase games and jump games and rolling games and tumble games. We played hard. We both took naps. We both have bruises and grassstain.
I saw my brother and his baby, and his baby played with my baby while I talked to my brother and I realized what life all means, but I don't have the words to tell you about it and the feeling is gone but it was there for a minute so I'm happy.
I saw all of my mom's alive family minus my big cousin in one place at one time. That hasn't happened in forever, maybe longer.
I didn't see my dad but he was in town.
I saw his mother and she looked and sounded better than she has in years. I have this horrid thought that gets inside my brain and tells me that I wish she would just go so I don't have to think about the pain she is in or the loneliness she must feel. Selfish Selfish Selfish. Who am I to decide how she feels? It was good to see her laughing and telling stories to the other old ladies at her lunchtable. I saw her before she saw me so I got to really take it in for a couple minutes. It gave me hope and comfort.
I saw my lifelong best friend, and got to remember just what it is about her that makes us lifelong best friends. There is no one in the whole world who could ever replace her, no matter how many years and miles slip between us. Both of us have thoughts like spider webs- we can take one concept and branch it into a thousand in less than ten seconds and tell you about it in under fifteen. It's probably discomforting to be around us when we are together, but it's good for us. We are only twelve days apart in age. I think that's neat. Her birthday is also the same as my brother's, and I think that's neat too. I'm glad we are getting old together. Growing up together was good, but this is better.
I had a redick migraine, worse than any I can remember in recent history. It was seriously like I was wearing a mullet of pain. It started above my eyes and ended somewhere in the middle of my back. I sobbed dry tears. I don't know what I would've done if it was a regular Sunday morning where Dave has baseball and I'm left at home with Jake. I may have called you to come over so I could ride out the horrifics without tending to the boy. Migraines suck but they force you to lie still and concentrate on something other than the pain.
My head is clearer than it's been in a decade, maybe two. It's strange to look at your hometown with a clear head.
Everything and everyone smells the same, looks the same, tastes the same, is the same but is also completely different.
It all matters but nothing counts.
I've come to a place in my life where I can say that surrounding the harrowing truths that haunted my upbringing were a great number of beautiful things and people saving me. Catching me. Lifting me out and up and onward.
I turned out good in spite of.
Because of.
I'm good.
I rode two rollercoasters, a disappointing spinney ride, and a log flume. I hate log flumes, but they always hearken me back to a time when the only amusement we had was fluming down the rivers that we worked so hard panning gold out of during the daylight. Anyone else feel like log flumes are somehow historical replicas? No? Moving on.
We had campfires every night. That was different than real life.
I ate a lot of hotdogs and what seemed to be plates of mayonnaise with three bits of pasta, celery, and potato tossed in so I wasn't really eating a plate of just mayonnaise.
I heard fireworks, but didn't see them. It made me think of all the servicemen who make it possible for me to have what I have and do what I do. They hear explosions all the time. I hear chirping birds. It doesn't seem fair because it's not fair and I am forever grateful that even though I have a lot to say about the current state of things, I have the freedom to raise my child the way I would like to in a safe place.
I played in the grass with my son. There isn't a whole lot of that going on at home. We played soccer and football and wiffleball and golf. We played chase games and jump games and rolling games and tumble games. We played hard. We both took naps. We both have bruises and grassstain.
I saw my brother and his baby, and his baby played with my baby while I talked to my brother and I realized what life all means, but I don't have the words to tell you about it and the feeling is gone but it was there for a minute so I'm happy.
I saw all of my mom's alive family minus my big cousin in one place at one time. That hasn't happened in forever, maybe longer.
I didn't see my dad but he was in town.
I saw his mother and she looked and sounded better than she has in years. I have this horrid thought that gets inside my brain and tells me that I wish she would just go so I don't have to think about the pain she is in or the loneliness she must feel. Selfish Selfish Selfish. Who am I to decide how she feels? It was good to see her laughing and telling stories to the other old ladies at her lunchtable. I saw her before she saw me so I got to really take it in for a couple minutes. It gave me hope and comfort.
I saw my lifelong best friend, and got to remember just what it is about her that makes us lifelong best friends. There is no one in the whole world who could ever replace her, no matter how many years and miles slip between us. Both of us have thoughts like spider webs- we can take one concept and branch it into a thousand in less than ten seconds and tell you about it in under fifteen. It's probably discomforting to be around us when we are together, but it's good for us. We are only twelve days apart in age. I think that's neat. Her birthday is also the same as my brother's, and I think that's neat too. I'm glad we are getting old together. Growing up together was good, but this is better.
I had a redick migraine, worse than any I can remember in recent history. It was seriously like I was wearing a mullet of pain. It started above my eyes and ended somewhere in the middle of my back. I sobbed dry tears. I don't know what I would've done if it was a regular Sunday morning where Dave has baseball and I'm left at home with Jake. I may have called you to come over so I could ride out the horrifics without tending to the boy. Migraines suck but they force you to lie still and concentrate on something other than the pain.
My head is clearer than it's been in a decade, maybe two. It's strange to look at your hometown with a clear head.
Everything and everyone smells the same, looks the same, tastes the same, is the same but is also completely different.
It all matters but nothing counts.
I've come to a place in my life where I can say that surrounding the harrowing truths that haunted my upbringing were a great number of beautiful things and people saving me. Catching me. Lifting me out and up and onward.
I turned out good in spite of.
Because of.
I'm good.
5.20.2009
maybe not dead. call me in the morning just in case.
I never trust any C-words that are changed into K-words because I feel like white supremacists are weighing in with their heavy hands and changing things up in the English language.
It's cute, to change S's into Z's and C's into K's, right whitepeople? We're all like Boyz instead of Boys because we understand blackpeople and all like Amerikan instead of American because we are blonde, pale, protestant, and proud.
And notice I'm using the Oxford Komma. Only white people in the know use the oxford comma. I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I'm not Amerikan.
I'm drunk.
Dizzy drunk.
I may or may not have polished off a bottle of wine.
Could you tell?
Just warning you.
You might wanna start stop[ping reading now.
I'm leagin the typois. Leving thee typos. Leaving the typosl. Toypes. Typos. This might take all night.
I feel like Kris Allen just won American Idol because John McCain lost. Like all the Amerikans were like "skrew the talented buttfukker~probably Democratic~ fancy boy, I want the Amerikan married wonderbread straight man to win and bekause that black guy won the elektion I'm gonna vote for Kris so Jezus wins in the long runz."
This is why American Idol is WAY more important than the Presidency. Jesus wins. America wins. Go team usa.
As if Jesus has ever been concerned about America.
GASP!
There is a lot going on in his homeland.
I'm much more koncerned what's happening in Erie than what's happening in Philadelphia. And I'm made in His image, so the story goes.
Deductive reasoning tells me that The J is way more concered about the giantness problems in the Middle East than the budget krisis here.
My television is only thirty some inches. That's my biggest problem right now. Bombing? Meh. Genocide? Eh.
I feel fat. I think I'll wear a burka tomorrow so you don't notice the bulge.
Don't tell anyone, but I would buy Kris' album before the guy who wears eyeliner. I secretly like Jason Mraz coverbands.
But I would totally gang. Oops. My slip. Hang with the gayGuy late night. We would be fierce. Fabu. We would Turn .
This mother.
Out.
Loser be damned.
Who's hot.
We're hot.
Let's do shots.
(Why is everyone looking at us?)
Because we're pretty.
And pose. And turn. And kiss. And giggle.
And pose.
This is the best thing that ever happened to my new gay boyfriend Adam Lambert. I might get my haircut just like him.
I know I have some pomade in my top drawer.
And I am an eyeliner whore. I could totally be his new BFF.
We could trade makeups.
I'm giving up cheez. Cheese. Maybe.
I eat a halfa avocado a day when they are in season in replace of the eighty pounds of mozzarella that I shove in my piehole all the time.
Only Haas. Only flan. Hlaf. Half.
Gah.
Bed. Soon.
That AT&T commercial makes me want to love. That one where the boyfriend is all like "hi from paris hi from london hi from right behind you".
Really really love. Love Love. With a capital L.
I like when people call me L.
Elle.
Sounds sophisticated.
If I ever buy a girldog I'm gonna call her Elle. Or Sophia.
Then I'll be all like "hey jake, if you were a girl we woulda called you sophia. or cecilia. we weren't sure, then our attending post-partum nurse was named cecilia and i was all morphed up and in her face and told her that you would have been Ceci but you had a penis and she understood because she has seen a lot of girls all high on drugs and motherhood so she really got it- really got what i meant~ and she pat me on the head and showed me how to show you how to eat from my boob so she is really the girl who saved your life because you would have starved without her" and then we'd all take a deep breath and get on with it.
Then I'd havta get a girl dog and call her Cecilia. Or Sophia. Or whatever we didn't call the first dog. Kid. Same difference.
My girlcat has a boy's name.
First born.
I'm okay with my second born slithering out of a dogina. A dog's vagina. It's okay if my charges walk on four legs.
This is why I'm taking a break from blogging.
I wish I could make these letters bigger. And redder.
It's cute, to change S's into Z's and C's into K's, right whitepeople? We're all like Boyz instead of Boys because we understand blackpeople and all like Amerikan instead of American because we are blonde, pale, protestant, and proud.
And notice I'm using the Oxford Komma. Only white people in the know use the oxford comma. I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I'm not Amerikan.
I'm drunk.
Dizzy drunk.
I may or may not have polished off a bottle of wine.
Could you tell?
Just warning you.
You might wanna start stop[ping reading now.
I'm leagin the typois. Leving thee typos. Leaving the typosl. Toypes. Typos. This might take all night.
I feel like Kris Allen just won American Idol because John McCain lost. Like all the Amerikans were like "skrew the talented buttfukker~probably Democratic~ fancy boy, I want the Amerikan married wonderbread straight man to win and bekause that black guy won the elektion I'm gonna vote for Kris so Jezus wins in the long runz."
This is why American Idol is WAY more important than the Presidency. Jesus wins. America wins. Go team usa.
As if Jesus has ever been concerned about America.
GASP!
There is a lot going on in his homeland.
I'm much more koncerned what's happening in Erie than what's happening in Philadelphia. And I'm made in His image, so the story goes.
Deductive reasoning tells me that The J is way more concered about the giantness problems in the Middle East than the budget krisis here.
My television is only thirty some inches. That's my biggest problem right now. Bombing? Meh. Genocide? Eh.
I feel fat. I think I'll wear a burka tomorrow so you don't notice the bulge.
Don't tell anyone, but I would buy Kris' album before the guy who wears eyeliner. I secretly like Jason Mraz coverbands.
But I would totally gang. Oops. My slip. Hang with the gayGuy late night. We would be fierce. Fabu. We would Turn .
This mother.
Out.
Loser be damned.
Who's hot.
We're hot.
Let's do shots.
(Why is everyone looking at us?)
Because we're pretty.
And pose. And turn. And kiss. And giggle.
And pose.
This is the best thing that ever happened to my new gay boyfriend Adam Lambert. I might get my haircut just like him.
I know I have some pomade in my top drawer.
And I am an eyeliner whore. I could totally be his new BFF.
We could trade makeups.
I'm giving up cheez. Cheese. Maybe.
I eat a halfa avocado a day when they are in season in replace of the eighty pounds of mozzarella that I shove in my piehole all the time.
Only Haas. Only flan. Hlaf. Half.
Gah.
Bed. Soon.
That AT&T commercial makes me want to love. That one where the boyfriend is all like "hi from paris hi from london hi from right behind you".
Really really love. Love Love. With a capital L.
I like when people call me L.
Elle.
Sounds sophisticated.
If I ever buy a girldog I'm gonna call her Elle. Or Sophia.
Then I'll be all like "hey jake, if you were a girl we woulda called you sophia. or cecilia. we weren't sure, then our attending post-partum nurse was named cecilia and i was all morphed up and in her face and told her that you would have been Ceci but you had a penis and she understood because she has seen a lot of girls all high on drugs and motherhood so she really got it- really got what i meant~ and she pat me on the head and showed me how to show you how to eat from my boob so she is really the girl who saved your life because you would have starved without her" and then we'd all take a deep breath and get on with it.
Then I'd havta get a girl dog and call her Cecilia. Or Sophia. Or whatever we didn't call the first dog. Kid. Same difference.
My girlcat has a boy's name.
First born.
I'm okay with my second born slithering out of a dogina. A dog's vagina. It's okay if my charges walk on four legs.
This is why I'm taking a break from blogging.
I wish I could make these letters bigger. And redder.
5.19.2009
still not dead
But I'm renaming the blog:
Because I've always got it over something.
As if you didn't already notice.
Because I've always got it over something.
As if you didn't already notice.
not dead
Just on hiatus.
I was going to take a vacation from my internets all May, but I couldn't shut up long enough to do it.
I want to rename the blog because I need constant change in my life, but I can't think of anything good so I might just leave it that way for awhile. I'm thinking of dropping the Jake and leaving the Zilla. Or maybe -zilla. Or 'zilla. I like Z words. I find myself approaching most things in life monstrously and manically so I feel it fits better. Would it mess with your mind if I changed it? I'll leave the url the same.
My favorite color is orange (&green&brown) but I find myself surrounding myself with things that are pinkish orange lately. I'm afraid that I'm turning into my mother, who I find surrounding herself with things that are coral. There's a really big difference between pinkish orange and coral, right? Right? Is this thing on? Why are you looking at me like that? How do you do that with your eyebrow?
I'm wearing a fuschia sweater, a sunset pinkish tank top, a hot pink bra, orange underpants, roseish pinkybeige lipgloss, pink toenails, ballet shoe colored sandals, and khaki pants. I wish I could take my boring pants off because I look like a variegated azalea bush without them and I think that is slightly more than absolutely fabulous. I wonder if the rest of the world sees me as the delicate flower that I am. I wonder if the rest of the world pictures me pantsless.
I'm going to my hometown this weekend and I'm hoping the weather is nice so I can take the boy to the beach and to Waldameer so I can kick summer oh-nine off rightly. If you live there, let me know. Maybe we can do it up big timing on State Street afterdark since I can dump the kid on my mom.
That is all. I'll be back either later today or later this month or sometime somewhere else. I'm not sure yet. Please don't drop my feed. I'm so damned wishy washy and chatty that I'd be surprised if I can stay quit (I hate that phrase. They use it for non-smokers. Quit and stay quit. Puke.) for more than a few hours. Please add yourself to the followers list over there to the left because if I'm not writing anything I'll need something to do to avoid working at work and I want to read your blog and that's an excellent way for me to find you and you to raise my self image by about ten points. I like to feel popular and widely read.
I was going to take a vacation from my internets all May, but I couldn't shut up long enough to do it.
I want to rename the blog because I need constant change in my life, but I can't think of anything good so I might just leave it that way for awhile. I'm thinking of dropping the Jake and leaving the Zilla. Or maybe -zilla. Or 'zilla. I like Z words. I find myself approaching most things in life monstrously and manically so I feel it fits better. Would it mess with your mind if I changed it? I'll leave the url the same.
My favorite color is orange (&green&brown) but I find myself surrounding myself with things that are pinkish orange lately. I'm afraid that I'm turning into my mother, who I find surrounding herself with things that are coral. There's a really big difference between pinkish orange and coral, right? Right? Is this thing on? Why are you looking at me like that? How do you do that with your eyebrow?
I'm wearing a fuschia sweater, a sunset pinkish tank top, a hot pink bra, orange underpants, roseish pinkybeige lipgloss, pink toenails, ballet shoe colored sandals, and khaki pants. I wish I could take my boring pants off because I look like a variegated azalea bush without them and I think that is slightly more than absolutely fabulous. I wonder if the rest of the world sees me as the delicate flower that I am. I wonder if the rest of the world pictures me pantsless.
I'm going to my hometown this weekend and I'm hoping the weather is nice so I can take the boy to the beach and to Waldameer so I can kick summer oh-nine off rightly. If you live there, let me know. Maybe we can do it up big timing on State Street afterdark since I can dump the kid on my mom.
That is all. I'll be back either later today or later this month or sometime somewhere else. I'm not sure yet. Please don't drop my feed. I'm so damned wishy washy and chatty that I'd be surprised if I can stay quit (I hate that phrase. They use it for non-smokers. Quit and stay quit. Puke.) for more than a few hours. Please add yourself to the followers list over there to the left because if I'm not writing anything I'll need something to do to avoid working at work and I want to read your blog and that's an excellent way for me to find you and you to raise my self image by about ten points. I like to feel popular and widely read.
5.15.2009
zombie chicken, indeed
Apparently yesterday's post where I went on and on about how awesome I am wasn't enough to discourage Lucy from giving me the muchly coveted Zombie Chicken Award. The recipient of the Zombie Chicken award must be someone who will appreciate and cherish such a high and prestigious honor. Someone whose blog show both intelligence and wit. Someone who has found the perfect blend of humor and profundity. Someone who will appreciate the award and reward the person giving the award with accolades.
Well, Lucy, you've come to the right place because I made a promise to myself a few months back that instead of stressing myself to tears with deciding who gets these awards after they are passed on to me, I just shower the award giver with heartfelt and truthful compliments and provide links to their blog so everyone who reads this might click over. It's all so much easier, despite me feeling like a smacked ass for not playing by the rules.
I've mentioned before that Lucy is my one hope that the Midwest isn't full of chaw chewin', Carhart wearin', Palin lovin', gay bashin', tooth missin', biscuit smugglin', blackfolk hatin', land farmin', Jesus humpin', Budweiser swillin', Almanac readin', salt lickin', corn ponin', football tossin', Redpop drinkin', cow milkin', Walmart rushin', teen weddin', baby spittin', truck drivin', opossom eatin', wife beatin' prairie rollin' yokels. There are normal people living more than a day's drive of the oceans, and that gives me hope for America.
Thank you, Lucy, for giving me faith in Middle America.
And for letting me take an eight minute brainstorming session to come up with the worst Midwestern stereotypes I can.
I work very well in eight minute segments.
5.14.2009
day at the races
Remember how I mentioned that Jake is starting to really look outside himself lately, and how I knew that I'd have to start explaining some things soon?
Last night we had the Phillies game on and Jake asked me why Ryan Howard was black.
At first I thought he meant why was there a black thing on his uniform- the players all have a patch memorializing Harry Kalas- and if there is one thing Jake does well it's spotting anomalies and changes. He will flip if there is a crumb on the floor 20 feet away from where he is sitting. He will also get up and throw it away, so it all evens out. He will notice if you part your hair on the left instead of the right or if you have new earrings, even if no one else does. Jake is really good for your self-esteem.
I thought I was going to have to come up with a way to explain that Harry Kalas used to call the games but now he doesn't because he is dead without saying that he was dead (only flowers, bugs, and batteries die in Jake's mind) but without lying either so I bought some time by saying "You mean that little round thing with the HK in the middle?" and he said "no, i mean his face and arms".
I was floored, but I don't know why. I guess I just took for granted that he never noticed or cared about the difference, mostly because we live in a city where white people make up less than half the population and there is nothing (I mean nothing) that is out of the ordinary around these parts.
I wasn't ready to answer that question, and didn't know what to say, so I just said we all look different because we need to be able to tell each other apart, and there are so many of us that skin color needs to be one of the differences, just like we all have different color hair and eyes and shirts and sneakers.
I guess he was happy with that, because he said that it would be hard if we all looked alike because then he wouldn't be able to tell who his mommy is.
And then he kissed me.
And I felt like I did a good job.
Last night we had the Phillies game on and Jake asked me why Ryan Howard was black.
At first I thought he meant why was there a black thing on his uniform- the players all have a patch memorializing Harry Kalas- and if there is one thing Jake does well it's spotting anomalies and changes. He will flip if there is a crumb on the floor 20 feet away from where he is sitting. He will also get up and throw it away, so it all evens out. He will notice if you part your hair on the left instead of the right or if you have new earrings, even if no one else does. Jake is really good for your self-esteem.
I thought I was going to have to come up with a way to explain that Harry Kalas used to call the games but now he doesn't because he is dead without saying that he was dead (only flowers, bugs, and batteries die in Jake's mind) but without lying either so I bought some time by saying "You mean that little round thing with the HK in the middle?" and he said "no, i mean his face and arms".
I was floored, but I don't know why. I guess I just took for granted that he never noticed or cared about the difference, mostly because we live in a city where white people make up less than half the population and there is nothing (I mean nothing) that is out of the ordinary around these parts.
I wasn't ready to answer that question, and didn't know what to say, so I just said we all look different because we need to be able to tell each other apart, and there are so many of us that skin color needs to be one of the differences, just like we all have different color hair and eyes and shirts and sneakers.
I guess he was happy with that, because he said that it would be hard if we all looked alike because then he wouldn't be able to tell who his mommy is.
And then he kissed me.
And I felt like I did a good job.
Michele over at New England Through Yummy Mommy's Eyes crowned me Queen of All Things Awesome! She should know. She is pretty damned spectacular herself. I don't know how she manages to wrangle her girls and conquer the rest of the world all at the same time. She also bills me as "hilarious, and sometimes inappropriate", which means she must be reading because that pretty much sums up most of what's going on over here. I try to be good, but it's hard. You should see what doesn't make the final cut before I hit publish. You should really see what doesn't make it out of my brain. And there's a lot that doesn't.Michele just started her own Urbanity blog. You should definitely check it out, and maybe think about starting your own. Just let me know and I'll link you up to the main site.
And now the fun part. I get to list seven things that I think are awesome about myself. I love that this is in line with Mara's new project where she encourages us to start complimenting ourselves and our friends instead of tearing ourselves apart like women have done for generations.
1. I'm okay with listing seven things that I think are awesome about myself. I may sound like I'm bragging, but I don't really care. The ability to compliment yourself doesn't come easy, and I've worked long and hard to get to a place in my life where I can.
2. I'm cool with myself enough to only be friends with people I really like, but I'm friendly to just about everyone else. Just about. I'm done compromising myself and my time by building friendships that I don't treasure. I'm not friends with someone because we live on the same street, work at the same work, own children the same age, or hold the same beliefs. That said, I will most always take the time to be a friend to someone in need, even if I know we will not continue the relationship after the need has passed. I've never been hurt by doing this, but I know people who would have been hurt if I didn't.
3. I'm doing a good job with my child, even if he does act like a brat sometimes. I'm a good mom, and if I don't know the answers I will dig in books and talk to therapists and specialists and doctors until I do. I base my parenting decisions on knowledge, not just what worked for someone who was a mother before me. There were a lot of things that our moms did with us and their moms did with them that could have hurt/maimed/killed us, even if they didn't. There is a reason less babies and children are suffering/dying now than did 30 years ago.
4. I enjoy my own writing. I think it's better than 99% of everything I've ever read. I stalk my own blog and LOL at the funny stuff and shed real tears at some of the things I write about. I have poems I wrote in high school that are meaningful to me today, in a totally different way. My work reports always make sense to other people. I practically never get follow up phone calls re: emails or reports I send out. I'm good.
5. And I'm pretty. Prettier than a lot of people I see every day. Just ask me.
6. More importantly, I'm funnier than just about anyone.
Pretty fades. Humor and writing gets me through just about anything and lets me express myself and dig myself out of holes and get my foot in the door and win over the general public.
7. I'm loved. Truly and deeply loved. By a lot of people. And I love back. Truly and deeply love. A lot of people.
5.12.2009
I've noticed that a lot of bloggers will talk about something, but misspell the word a little bit. Like M@tchbox or My L!ttle P0ny. I guess it's so the Car and Pony people can't find the post.
Sometimes I misspell words here. Like I say Thomass the Tank Engine because Thomas is a total ass who has almost successfully been banished from my home. I don't see how a liar and a cheat has captured the heart of children of all ages all over the world. Have you ever watched Thomass? He's always pulling tricks or doing something bad and blaming it on someone else. Not the kind of stuff I want my kid to be doing.
I also say GeoTrash because it has totally junked up Jake's bedroom. You can hardly get to his bed without crushing some part of GeoTown.
I've gotten a few hits as a result, mostly typos or hits from Japan- where maybe trax is phoneticized into trash- and one lengthy piece of rantmail talking about how Thomas is a wonderful example of learning virtues through gentle repercussion and natural consequences and I'm denying Jacob a lifetime of amazement if I deny him Thomas.
Do you know any diehard train people? They are mostly weird middle aged men who live all alone and devote an entire room to a plywood platform full of tiny little village stuff (not to be confused with the room they devote to the mummified corpse of their long dead mother where they fall to their knees and cry to her about how sorry they are that they still wet the bed and sometimes accidentally hug kittens so hard that their guts pop out of their butts).
I'm not so worried about that guy's thoughts of my parenting choices.
It's funny what brings people to this blog. I get lots of hits for "watching mommy poop". I like to think that it is just potty training parents looking for help, but I'm guessing it probably isn't. In what may or may not be related, I'm being romanced by a major household cleaning product company who has read my Earth Day post and swears that if I try their poisonous chemical cocktail I will be convinced that vinegar and vodka aren't the best way to clean a house. To that and them I say no thank you, as I can't justify being paid in toilet bowl scrubbers. There is something so incredibly debasing in accepting cleaning products that I would never buy nor use as compensation. "Hi there Little Lady. You look like a mom. A good mom. A good mom who obsesses about staph infections and dirty porcelain surfaces and the fact that they can kill your child..."
I also love that I was offered a bag of sex toys in exchange for using them and then telling you all about them. They thought I would be interested because they saw that I have been married for going on ten years (at least they read my archives) and they understand that sometimes it's hard to keep a spark in a marriage that long, especially after having kids and I might not have the time for person-on-person sexytime but I can surely find a quick minute to rub one out between loads of laundry. I wrote them a nice email saying something that basically said "thanks for telling me to go fuck myself. You may turn around quietly and do the same".
And then there are the McQueen toy offers, as if I want any more McQueens driving around my living room. "Hey there! You know all that stuff you have all over your house? That stuff that pierces your feet in the middle of the night? Want more? We have tons to dump right through your front door. McQueen Dream House! Malibu McQueen! McQueen's dog, Prince. His little sister Skipper! (is it just me, or does anyone else think that Cars merch is Barbie for boys? It hooks them from age 2-10 and there is a toy for EVERYTHING). I can't do it. I can't get paid in cheap things made in China that give me nightmares and serve only to give me leverage in disciplining my child. I only have so much space on top of the entertainment center to store the 80 McQueens that I take away from Jake when he misbehaves.
So what will I get paid in? Let's see.
Gift cards to Trader Joes.
I spend about 8 hours per week talking about how Trader Joes makes my heart smile and all the other hours just thinking about it.
Do they make Roombas for hard wood floors?
I'll take it.
A complete set of Converse hightop sneakers, starting at kiddie size 10 (Jake already has two pairs of size 9s) and stopping at adult size 10. Two or three pairs of each size.
Vegetable Pad Thai from the Reading Terminal and my gym membership, including swimming lessons for the boy.
Truckloads of spaghetti and sauce and a warehouse to keep it in so I can get this WedSpag Non-Profit off the ground.
Letting me take you to a free HIV testing site whether you live a risky lifestyle or not. Have you gotten tested lately? I think you should. It's very humbling and might give you a larger perspective and a greater tolerance of things. Sitting in the waiting room with the others being tested, receiving the latest information about HIV/AIDS, waiting for results, being debriefed, it's big stuff. Even if you are 99.9% certain you don't have it, you should go. You might never be the same once you do. Bring a friend. Your teenager. Your niece. Your mom. Not talking about sex and all the nasties that can come with it has never prevented anyone from having sex or getting a disease or finding themselves knocked up. Education is key.
Donations to Planned Parenthood. (or the promise that you will go there if you ever need something that isn't so major that your regular Gyn needs to be involved. PP can use your copay and insurance payout for so much good in the world of Women's Health. They are so much bigger than just a place to get an abortion, but there are a lot of people who can't see past that.)
The promise that you will do breast self exams. Or testicular self exams. Please examine the parts that you own. There is nothing wrong with giving your loved ones a once over from time to time. Your partner might be a little more sensitive to your parts than you are, especially if you are giving yourself a good tug each day, you might not notice something that changes slowly if you are playing with it all the time. And be sure to let your doctor screen the places that you can't reach.
Oh, and dollars.
American dollars.
Paper money that I can use to pay my bills with.
Enough of this barter billshut that is plaguing the internets.
I can't pay my electric bill in glass cleaner.
For some reason my mortgage company won't accept dildos.
Hyundai won't accept tiny little Hyundais stuffed in my car note envelope.
What do you/would you accept as payment for your words?
Sometimes I misspell words here. Like I say Thomass the Tank Engine because Thomas is a total ass who has almost successfully been banished from my home. I don't see how a liar and a cheat has captured the heart of children of all ages all over the world. Have you ever watched Thomass? He's always pulling tricks or doing something bad and blaming it on someone else. Not the kind of stuff I want my kid to be doing.
I also say GeoTrash because it has totally junked up Jake's bedroom. You can hardly get to his bed without crushing some part of GeoTown.
I've gotten a few hits as a result, mostly typos or hits from Japan- where maybe trax is phoneticized into trash- and one lengthy piece of rantmail talking about how Thomas is a wonderful example of learning virtues through gentle repercussion and natural consequences and I'm denying Jacob a lifetime of amazement if I deny him Thomas.
Do you know any diehard train people? They are mostly weird middle aged men who live all alone and devote an entire room to a plywood platform full of tiny little village stuff (not to be confused with the room they devote to the mummified corpse of their long dead mother where they fall to their knees and cry to her about how sorry they are that they still wet the bed and sometimes accidentally hug kittens so hard that their guts pop out of their butts).
I'm not so worried about that guy's thoughts of my parenting choices.
It's funny what brings people to this blog. I get lots of hits for "watching mommy poop". I like to think that it is just potty training parents looking for help, but I'm guessing it probably isn't. In what may or may not be related, I'm being romanced by a major household cleaning product company who has read my Earth Day post and swears that if I try their poisonous chemical cocktail I will be convinced that vinegar and vodka aren't the best way to clean a house. To that and them I say no thank you, as I can't justify being paid in toilet bowl scrubbers. There is something so incredibly debasing in accepting cleaning products that I would never buy nor use as compensation. "Hi there Little Lady. You look like a mom. A good mom. A good mom who obsesses about staph infections and dirty porcelain surfaces and the fact that they can kill your child..."
I also love that I was offered a bag of sex toys in exchange for using them and then telling you all about them. They thought I would be interested because they saw that I have been married for going on ten years (at least they read my archives) and they understand that sometimes it's hard to keep a spark in a marriage that long, especially after having kids and I might not have the time for person-on-person sexytime but I can surely find a quick minute to rub one out between loads of laundry. I wrote them a nice email saying something that basically said "thanks for telling me to go fuck myself. You may turn around quietly and do the same".
And then there are the McQueen toy offers, as if I want any more McQueens driving around my living room. "Hey there! You know all that stuff you have all over your house? That stuff that pierces your feet in the middle of the night? Want more? We have tons to dump right through your front door. McQueen Dream House! Malibu McQueen! McQueen's dog, Prince. His little sister Skipper! (is it just me, or does anyone else think that Cars merch is Barbie for boys? It hooks them from age 2-10 and there is a toy for EVERYTHING). I can't do it. I can't get paid in cheap things made in China that give me nightmares and serve only to give me leverage in disciplining my child. I only have so much space on top of the entertainment center to store the 80 McQueens that I take away from Jake when he misbehaves.
So what will I get paid in? Let's see.
Gift cards to Trader Joes.
I spend about 8 hours per week talking about how Trader Joes makes my heart smile and all the other hours just thinking about it.
Do they make Roombas for hard wood floors?
I'll take it.
A complete set of Converse hightop sneakers, starting at kiddie size 10 (Jake already has two pairs of size 9s) and stopping at adult size 10. Two or three pairs of each size.
Vegetable Pad Thai from the Reading Terminal and my gym membership, including swimming lessons for the boy.
Truckloads of spaghetti and sauce and a warehouse to keep it in so I can get this WedSpag Non-Profit off the ground.
Letting me take you to a free HIV testing site whether you live a risky lifestyle or not. Have you gotten tested lately? I think you should. It's very humbling and might give you a larger perspective and a greater tolerance of things. Sitting in the waiting room with the others being tested, receiving the latest information about HIV/AIDS, waiting for results, being debriefed, it's big stuff. Even if you are 99.9% certain you don't have it, you should go. You might never be the same once you do. Bring a friend. Your teenager. Your niece. Your mom. Not talking about sex and all the nasties that can come with it has never prevented anyone from having sex or getting a disease or finding themselves knocked up. Education is key.
Donations to Planned Parenthood. (or the promise that you will go there if you ever need something that isn't so major that your regular Gyn needs to be involved. PP can use your copay and insurance payout for so much good in the world of Women's Health. They are so much bigger than just a place to get an abortion, but there are a lot of people who can't see past that.)
The promise that you will do breast self exams. Or testicular self exams. Please examine the parts that you own. There is nothing wrong with giving your loved ones a once over from time to time. Your partner might be a little more sensitive to your parts than you are, especially if you are giving yourself a good tug each day, you might not notice something that changes slowly if you are playing with it all the time. And be sure to let your doctor screen the places that you can't reach.
Oh, and dollars.
American dollars.
Paper money that I can use to pay my bills with.
Enough of this barter billshut that is plaguing the internets.
I can't pay my electric bill in glass cleaner.
For some reason my mortgage company won't accept dildos.
Hyundai won't accept tiny little Hyundais stuffed in my car note envelope.
What do you/would you accept as payment for your words?
5.09.2009
big
It's almost over, my week off.
I still have a night in Baltimore laid out in front of me so let's not get misty eyed yet.
This isn't my first week off, and it certainly won't be the last. I get three or four a year. It's a perk of living away from my parents and my parents living away from each other. While it was hard not having my mom nearby while I was pregnant and in those hazy newborn days, it's awful nice now when she takes him to her house for a long stretch. It's not a house I ever lived in, but it's Jake's Mimi's house and that's pretty damned special. My dad lives in a house that I've never been in but now Jake has. And he swung in a big boy swing all by himself for the first time in the backyard of that house.
I like it.
Usually when Jake is away I throw my entire being into recapturing the me that I lost when I became a mom. I go to the same places, see the same people, do the same things I did a decade ago. And it is good. Too good. So effing good that it makes me sad.
Sad that I'm not all that cool anymore.
Sad that I'm not all that young anymore.
Sad that I'm not so cute anymore that I can buy things with a smile and walk away without owing anyone anything.
Sad I can't walk into any one of dozens of seedy little bars and know the bartender, know the patrons, know the jukebox, know the secret specials that they only give to the kids in the biz.
Sad that my girls aren't with me, sad that we don't own the place and sad that the haters aren't staring and wondering why we are taking all the attention without even trying. Sad that we aren't so fat anymore. We were the original fatgirls and we lived the fatgirl life. Now there is a whole nother set of chicks doing it the way we did. It's their turn now. And after they are done, it will be someone else's turn.
Did you ever have a time like that? When you walked around like you owned your town and you totally got away with it? It's a good time. Especially here in my town, because there is an awful lot of town to own.
This week off I slept in a little later each morning, played around with my BAC each day, saw a bunch of old friends, hit up some old spots, ate a lot of junk, watched a lot of non-G-rated stuff on TV. And on the internet. I read some. Painted my toenails. Shaved all my moustaches. Ripped out a bustedassed window sill that I hated. Did some touch up painting. Grocery shopped. Twice. Went to Lowe's. Wal*shart. An open market/community festival to pick up some new flowers. And a bigger recycling bin. Laundry. Dishes that weren't really dirty but needed washed. Windows.
Hold up.
See that?
See what I did?
Grown up stuff.
Yikes, right?
And it was good.
My heart hurts a little bit because I know that this is the beginning of getting, well, mature on my downtime. I've got a pretty good handle on being a 9-5 superstar, and I'm doing surprisingly well with the 5-9s when Jake is around. I guess the days that Jake isn't around are the last step. I guess it's time.
I'm going to be 33 this summer. But I'm telling everyone I'm going to be 36 because I look AWESOME for 36.
I had a really good run of it.
You wouldn't believe how really good.
And I'm not dead. Or addicted. Or missing a limb. Or alone. I have all my teeth. I have a great job. A stellar education. An amazing kid. The best friends anyone could ever imagine. I have my health, despite my face caving in on itself and my crotch getting eaten by cancer. I got better. I have a reliable automobile. All the utilities are on. I have tomatoes growing upstairs that Jake planted all by himself. My cat is on my lap. My cat that I got for my 21st birthday. My pots and pans all match. So do my towels. My plumbing backed up into my basement yesterday, and it is totally taken care of today. I couldn't stop laughing because there was corn floating around in the mess. There is no level of maturity that will ever make me stop laughing at cornpoop. My belly is full. My heart is full. My house is full. My wallet is kinda full. My dancecard is full.
This isn't so bad.
I still have a night in Baltimore laid out in front of me so let's not get misty eyed yet.
This isn't my first week off, and it certainly won't be the last. I get three or four a year. It's a perk of living away from my parents and my parents living away from each other. While it was hard not having my mom nearby while I was pregnant and in those hazy newborn days, it's awful nice now when she takes him to her house for a long stretch. It's not a house I ever lived in, but it's Jake's Mimi's house and that's pretty damned special. My dad lives in a house that I've never been in but now Jake has. And he swung in a big boy swing all by himself for the first time in the backyard of that house.
I like it.
Usually when Jake is away I throw my entire being into recapturing the me that I lost when I became a mom. I go to the same places, see the same people, do the same things I did a decade ago. And it is good. Too good. So effing good that it makes me sad.
Sad that I'm not all that cool anymore.
Sad that I'm not all that young anymore.
Sad that I'm not so cute anymore that I can buy things with a smile and walk away without owing anyone anything.
Sad I can't walk into any one of dozens of seedy little bars and know the bartender, know the patrons, know the jukebox, know the secret specials that they only give to the kids in the biz.
Sad that my girls aren't with me, sad that we don't own the place and sad that the haters aren't staring and wondering why we are taking all the attention without even trying. Sad that we aren't so fat anymore. We were the original fatgirls and we lived the fatgirl life. Now there is a whole nother set of chicks doing it the way we did. It's their turn now. And after they are done, it will be someone else's turn.
Did you ever have a time like that? When you walked around like you owned your town and you totally got away with it? It's a good time. Especially here in my town, because there is an awful lot of town to own.
***
This week off I slept in a little later each morning, played around with my BAC each day, saw a bunch of old friends, hit up some old spots, ate a lot of junk, watched a lot of non-G-rated stuff on TV. And on the internet. I read some. Painted my toenails. Shaved all my moustaches. Ripped out a bustedassed window sill that I hated. Did some touch up painting. Grocery shopped. Twice. Went to Lowe's. Wal*shart. An open market/community festival to pick up some new flowers. And a bigger recycling bin. Laundry. Dishes that weren't really dirty but needed washed. Windows.
Hold up.
See that?
See what I did?
Grown up stuff.
Yikes, right?
And it was good.
My heart hurts a little bit because I know that this is the beginning of getting, well, mature on my downtime. I've got a pretty good handle on being a 9-5 superstar, and I'm doing surprisingly well with the 5-9s when Jake is around. I guess the days that Jake isn't around are the last step. I guess it's time.
I'm going to be 33 this summer. But I'm telling everyone I'm going to be 36 because I look AWESOME for 36.
I had a really good run of it.
You wouldn't believe how really good.
And I'm not dead. Or addicted. Or missing a limb. Or alone. I have all my teeth. I have a great job. A stellar education. An amazing kid. The best friends anyone could ever imagine. I have my health, despite my face caving in on itself and my crotch getting eaten by cancer. I got better. I have a reliable automobile. All the utilities are on. I have tomatoes growing upstairs that Jake planted all by himself. My cat is on my lap. My cat that I got for my 21st birthday. My pots and pans all match. So do my towels. My plumbing backed up into my basement yesterday, and it is totally taken care of today. I couldn't stop laughing because there was corn floating around in the mess. There is no level of maturity that will ever make me stop laughing at cornpoop. My belly is full. My heart is full. My house is full. My wallet is kinda full. My dancecard is full.
This isn't so bad.
5.07.2009
shorts
I want to buy something. Do you ever feel like that? Like you just want to own something new? I'm not sure what I want though, so I'm refraining. What am I really looking to buy, anyway? Happiness? Youthfulness? A smaller looking backside?
Whenever I want something new, I always ask myself what it is that I really want in life. It's usually not a new shade of toenail polish or a better-fitting pair of sunglasses or a shifty cute dress. You can't fill a soul hole with material things. I think I want to buy an hour of sunshine because this grey weather is getting monotonous. I'll call AccuWeather and see if they take Visa. Want to go halfsies?
Bitch, please! We are at work and you took the subway and you look like you have a 1974 hearing aid.
Who is calling you that can't wait until you get from your house to a parking spot at Target? Is your life so full of emergencies that you have to answer every call, or do you just use little tech gadgets to make you feel important? I've called someone who had their Bluetooth on, and if there was any sort of emergency, I would've died.
Them: Hello? Hello? Hold on. Hello? (tap tap) Hello? HELLo? hELLO! Can you hear me? I'm driving. Hello? I have on my Bluetooth. Are you there? (tap tap) ~sigh~ HELLO!
Me: acckk, gurgle, choke, (silence).
Moral here? get over yourselves.
I caught the beastie who ate all my crops and flowers. For some reason, there has been an explosion of bird varieties in my neighborhood lately. It used to be just pigeons and sparrows, and now we have robins and oriels and morning (mourning?) doves and these purplish black things and they are the ones eating all my porridge. I'm just glad it wasn't a rat or monsterbug.
But I'm still miffed.
I'm enjoying my child-free existence these days. I picked up all his toys and closed his bedroom door and if not for the McQueen nightlight in the crapper I would never even know he was in the world. It's nice.
I love the looks people give me when I tell them I don't really miss my kid so much. Sure I miss him, but not as much as I miss myself when he is around.
He'll come home eventually.
He always does.
Whenever I want something new, I always ask myself what it is that I really want in life. It's usually not a new shade of toenail polish or a better-fitting pair of sunglasses or a shifty cute dress. You can't fill a soul hole with material things. I think I want to buy an hour of sunshine because this grey weather is getting monotonous. I'll call AccuWeather and see if they take Visa. Want to go halfsies?
***
Bluetooths are the dumbest things ever. I have never met anyone who has ever needed one in real life, yet I have met plenty of people who have them. I hate when people say "well I use it for driving".Bitch, please! We are at work and you took the subway and you look like you have a 1974 hearing aid.
Who is calling you that can't wait until you get from your house to a parking spot at Target? Is your life so full of emergencies that you have to answer every call, or do you just use little tech gadgets to make you feel important? I've called someone who had their Bluetooth on, and if there was any sort of emergency, I would've died.
Them: Hello? Hello? Hold on. Hello? (tap tap) Hello? HELLo? hELLO! Can you hear me? I'm driving. Hello? I have on my Bluetooth. Are you there? (tap tap) ~sigh~ HELLO!
Me: acckk, gurgle, choke, (silence).
Moral here? get over yourselves.
***
I caught the beastie who ate all my crops and flowers. For some reason, there has been an explosion of bird varieties in my neighborhood lately. It used to be just pigeons and sparrows, and now we have robins and oriels and morning (mourning?) doves and these purplish black things and they are the ones eating all my porridge. I'm just glad it wasn't a rat or monsterbug.
But I'm still miffed.
***
I'm enjoying my child-free existence these days. I picked up all his toys and closed his bedroom door and if not for the McQueen nightlight in the crapper I would never even know he was in the world. It's nice.
I love the looks people give me when I tell them I don't really miss my kid so much. Sure I miss him, but not as much as I miss myself when he is around.
He'll come home eventually.
He always does.
***
Dave and I had breakfast at the dinor together this morning, and I asked him if he thinks that our life would be the way it is this week if we never had Jake and he said "yes".
Nice dinners, more sleep, less mess, more money, less stress, more time with friends, more time with the cat, more time together, watching ourselves grow up rather than watching a child grow up.
I like it.
I like that we would've been happy without Jake.
I like that we are happy with Jake.
I miss the life I planned for us, a life without a child.
I love the life that life planned for us, one with.
The world is funny like that.
This is the picture that I keep looking at when I need a fix of the boy.
I like to see him peeking out at me from behind his food. It reminds me of the days when I was the only thing in the whole wide world that he knew as a meal. He still looks at me like that while he eats. When I'm old and rotten and he is a grownup man, I hope he looks at me like that from across the table. He will have no idea why he does it, but I'll know the reason.
Nice dinners, more sleep, less mess, more money, less stress, more time with friends, more time with the cat, more time together, watching ourselves grow up rather than watching a child grow up.
I like it.
I like that we would've been happy without Jake.
I like that we are happy with Jake.
I miss the life I planned for us, a life without a child.
I love the life that life planned for us, one with.
The world is funny like that.
***
This is the picture that I keep looking at when I need a fix of the boy.
I like to see him peeking out at me from behind his food. It reminds me of the days when I was the only thing in the whole wide world that he knew as a meal. He still looks at me like that while he eats. When I'm old and rotten and he is a grownup man, I hope he looks at me like that from across the table. He will have no idea why he does it, but I'll know the reason.5.06.2009
And just when I thought that no one would EVER give me a Mother of the Year award, Lucy over at Lucy's Life in Suburb World came through!
Lucy is wildly hilarious, and I love her blog because her kids are almost all grown up but she still gets to be Mom and even though she lives in the suburbs she seems way normal and not plasticine at all and she's been married forever, giving me hope for happily everafters and good relationships between mothers and teens and maybe the suburbs aren't full of terrible people after all.
Maybe. I'm still reluctant to venture past city limits.
Lucy is wildly hilarious, and I love her blog because her kids are almost all grown up but she still gets to be Mom and even though she lives in the suburbs she seems way normal and not plasticine at all and she's been married forever, giving me hope for happily everafters and good relationships between mothers and teens and maybe the suburbs aren't full of terrible people after all.
Maybe. I'm still reluctant to venture past city limits.
Rules of the Award:
•Admit one thing you feel awful about involving being a mom. Get it off your shoulders. Once you've written it down, you are No Longer allow
ed to feel bad.It's over with, it's in the past. Remember, you're a good mom!
Okay, ready. The thing that I feel awful about is...
EVERYTHING. I have this inborn trait that makes me feel like absolute rotten awfulness about everything I do. No matter how good a job I do at anything (including momming) I feel like a miserable failure.
ed to feel bad.It's over with, it's in the past. Remember, you're a good mom!Okay, ready. The thing that I feel awful about is...
EVERYTHING. I have this inborn trait that makes me feel like absolute rotten awfulness about everything I do. No matter how good a job I do at anything (including momming) I feel like a miserable failure.
So that's all gone now? Terrific. I feel better already.
•Remind yourself you are a good mom, list seven things you love about your kids, you love doing with your kids, or that your kids love about you. These
are the things to remind yourself everyday that you Rock!
1. I love that I think that Jake is so incredibly gorgeous and it makes me feel warmfuzzy to think that it's because Dave and I made him that way all by ourselves.
2. I love that people can't decide who he looks like. They always say Dave at first because of the dark hair and eyes, but after 5 minutes they aren't so sure.
3. I love that Jake wakes me up every morning by telling me how to do it. "just open your eyes and stretch and sit up and you're all ready for the daytime!". He also tells me I look like Ms. Hannigan in the morning. And the other day he skipped the formalities and threw a shirt at my face and said "come on, boobsie, put onna shirt and let's go downstairs".
Hey, I take what I can get.
Hey, I take what I can get.
4. I love that Jake and I like the same foods. It makes our Saturday Afternoon Downtown Adventures in Eating superfun. I also love that Jake thinks that all the gross stuff that Dave eats is gross and I swear I have never told that child that anything is gross ever. He's just smart about stinky nasty things like his mother.
I truly believe that humans are given a sense of smell so we don't put anything that smells like dirty balls or hooker vag into our mouths.
I truly believe that humans are given a sense of smell so we don't put anything that smells like dirty balls or hooker vag into our mouths.
5. I love how Jake is my world and I am his. For now. I also love that it won't be this way forever because it's exhausting to be someone's everything all the time.
6. I love that I work full time and don't have to be with that kid 24 hours a day. I wouldn't love that life at all. I have a hard time getting through a weekend without my brain falling apart.
7. I love that Jake doesn't see differences in people yet. BigLittleLargeSmallShortTallBoyGirlManWomanBlackWhiteBrownRedYellowOldYoung it's all the same. I know I am going to have to start teaching him the old "some people do things differently than we do" lesson really soon as he is a little confused about why certain people do certain things that we don't now that he is building new friendships and studying other people's habits a bit more these days. I feel like that is the first step in the end of total innocence, but I look forward to watching him process the ways and means of others and see what he chooses for himself.
I was right, again.
Oh joyous morning! The CDC has told the people what I've been telling you all along! It's just the flu. And Fox News agrees, so it must hold true. Every good American knows that they only preach- er- report the unbiased truth.
I should really be working for the government.
I tried one time, but they wouldn't let me because my vision wasn't 20/20 and they were kind enough to explain to me that because I have a history of DRUG AND ALCOHOL ADDICTION I was not eligible to work under the Post 9/11 Geo. Dubbleyou administration.
I know, you're all "WTF, Lora? I thought we were totally open with each other here" right now aren't you? And you're a little salty that I didn't share my story. I can tell by the thing your eyebrows are doing.
I was advised in Interview 2 that if I have ever so much tried an illegal substance, including alcohol before age 21, I should admit to it now rather than check the NEVER box and then have it come out in Interview 11 when I was hooked up to a Lie Detector in DC and it won't ever be a problem.
I checked the YES box next to underage alcohol and admitted that I smoked marijuana 3 times. So what I left off a few zeroes, don't judge me. I knew the lie detector portion only asked yes or no questions.
And it wasn't a problem all through Interviews 3-9.
And then Nine Eleven happened and all the rules changed and a few days after Interview 10 I got a notarized letter from The US Department of Defense saying that as a former addict, I am not welcome to save America from Middle Easterners.
Not that I was aiming to do that in the first place, but all government positions were suddenly all about that.
Fast forward to today, and here I sit pretty at my Headquarters for saving America from Itself. Not shabby.
And the job I applied for? Training dogs for US Customs. I guess George thought that maybe I would train the dogs to get me my fix rather than let all the "honest" Customs workers bring the confiscated drugs to the White House.
Ain't no party like a White House Party
'Cause a White House Party don't sssstawwwwp.
So I guess we will get a week off to relax and breathe and hire back our housekeepers and landscapers while they figure out another way to make Americans fear the Wrath of God and Brown Foreigners.
*there is some amazing stuff online if you Google "Swine Flu Jesus (or God or Christianity or Punishment)
I should really be working for the government.
I tried one time, but they wouldn't let me because my vision wasn't 20/20 and they were kind enough to explain to me that because I have a history of DRUG AND ALCOHOL ADDICTION I was not eligible to work under the Post 9/11 Geo. Dubbleyou administration.
I know, you're all "WTF, Lora? I thought we were totally open with each other here" right now aren't you? And you're a little salty that I didn't share my story. I can tell by the thing your eyebrows are doing.
I was advised in Interview 2 that if I have ever so much tried an illegal substance, including alcohol before age 21, I should admit to it now rather than check the NEVER box and then have it come out in Interview 11 when I was hooked up to a Lie Detector in DC and it won't ever be a problem.
I checked the YES box next to underage alcohol and admitted that I smoked marijuana 3 times. So what I left off a few zeroes, don't judge me. I knew the lie detector portion only asked yes or no questions.
And it wasn't a problem all through Interviews 3-9.
And then Nine Eleven happened and all the rules changed and a few days after Interview 10 I got a notarized letter from The US Department of Defense saying that as a former addict, I am not welcome to save America from Middle Easterners.
Not that I was aiming to do that in the first place, but all government positions were suddenly all about that.
Fast forward to today, and here I sit pretty at my Headquarters for saving America from Itself. Not shabby.
And the job I applied for? Training dogs for US Customs. I guess George thought that maybe I would train the dogs to get me my fix rather than let all the "honest" Customs workers bring the confiscated drugs to the White House.
Ain't no party like a White House Party
'Cause a White House Party don't sssstawwwwp.
So I guess we will get a week off to relax and breathe and hire back our housekeepers and landscapers while they figure out another way to make Americans fear the Wrath of God and Brown Foreigners.
*there is some amazing stuff online if you Google "Swine Flu Jesus (or God or Christianity or Punishment)
5.05.2009
Boyfree Night Two brought an amazing dinner and an okay movie.
Alternate Title: this is why I can't be a film critic, so you may as well just stop reading now unless you've had 4 pots of coffee today like I have.
So, after dinner we watched The Wrestler starring Mickey Rourke who I thought was dead or at least better looking and that chick from My Cousin Vinny who is just like the Nanny but not the Nanny and that other girl with the brown hair who didn't play Juno I don't think but she was in that MTV documentary where she slept with Marilyn Manson or maybe that was her real life but she is practically a child oh! and I think she was in Running With Scissors but I don't know because I only read the book.
I pretend like I'm really smart and I only read the books and never watch the movies even though that is SO annoying to everyone I know. And then I'm all like "but that's not how it REALLY goes because in the book this is what happens" and what I mean to say is "they really dumbed down that movie because people like you just can't handle something so deep as literature".
I've heard of the movie before, kind of. I thought it was about the guy from that movie Mask (the one with Cher, not Jim Carey) who was rekindling his relationship with his estranged stripper daughter once his wrestling career was over.
The beginning was so gross and bloody and violent that I almost puked my pants so I stuck my nose in a book that I'm really enjoying- that was written by one of my readers who is constantly inflating my head by telling me I'm a good writer so I bought the book- until the hospital scene. I'm not so crazy about watching wrestling because no.offense.but I'm not a 12 year old boy stuck in a trailer with a loserboozer father and/or a chainsmoking mom and it's not 1986 anymore. I don't want any parts of it. It was horrible and unexpected and whenever I see someone getting hurt I can only think about what if that were to happen to Jake and it makes me want to die and since I can't hold Jake right now and since I watched that fight on Saturday night and watched some dudes face and scalp spin loosely around his skull I'm a little on edge about gore.
Then the girl who I thought was supposed to be the not-Mask's daughter wasn't. I found that out when she was giving him a lapdance and her pierced little naked baywatchers were bouncing off her not-dad's head. It was confusing for a second.
Then I was obsessed about whether that bleached out spiral perm totally nineties mess was really Mickey's hair or a weave and how do the tattoos that movie stars have in films work because they are really amazingly done but not real so I had to Google that and I think I must have missed something because then there was some stuff that happened and then there was a coked up sex scene and then I was back on track again and even though I was both thirsty and in need of a good pee I didn't want to get up because I paid $4.99 to watch this, dammit, and I wasn't doing a good job and I never know whether to drink first or pee first because if I hear water I might pee my pants a little but if I pee first I sometimes secretly wonder what my pee tastes like and whether people really drink it if they are stranded at sea and oh, gah, that guy in college who would gargle with his own pee before singing in church and I don't think that God intended us to rinse our mouths with our filth just to sound halfway decent in his house. It's gross. And complicated. And best avoided altogether if I can help it.
Then things fell into place and I decided it was a really good movie for about 15 minutes out of the entire 111 and I'm not sure if he died at the end or not so I cried a little bit anyway but thinking about seeing Marissa Tomei naked made me feel lots better because she is really hot except for when she is dressed or talking and then I went to bed for ten hours.
So, after dinner we watched The Wrestler starring Mickey Rourke who I thought was dead or at least better looking and that chick from My Cousin Vinny who is just like the Nanny but not the Nanny and that other girl with the brown hair who didn't play Juno I don't think but she was in that MTV documentary where she slept with Marilyn Manson or maybe that was her real life but she is practically a child oh! and I think she was in Running With Scissors but I don't know because I only read the book.
I pretend like I'm really smart and I only read the books and never watch the movies even though that is SO annoying to everyone I know. And then I'm all like "but that's not how it REALLY goes because in the book this is what happens" and what I mean to say is "they really dumbed down that movie because people like you just can't handle something so deep as literature".
I've heard of the movie before, kind of. I thought it was about the guy from that movie Mask (the one with Cher, not Jim Carey) who was rekindling his relationship with his estranged stripper daughter once his wrestling career was over.
The beginning was so gross and bloody and violent that I almost puked my pants so I stuck my nose in a book that I'm really enjoying- that was written by one of my readers who is constantly inflating my head by telling me I'm a good writer so I bought the book- until the hospital scene. I'm not so crazy about watching wrestling because no.offense.but I'm not a 12 year old boy stuck in a trailer with a loserboozer father and/or a chainsmoking mom and it's not 1986 anymore. I don't want any parts of it. It was horrible and unexpected and whenever I see someone getting hurt I can only think about what if that were to happen to Jake and it makes me want to die and since I can't hold Jake right now and since I watched that fight on Saturday night and watched some dudes face and scalp spin loosely around his skull I'm a little on edge about gore.
Then the girl who I thought was supposed to be the not-Mask's daughter wasn't. I found that out when she was giving him a lapdance and her pierced little naked baywatchers were bouncing off her not-dad's head. It was confusing for a second.
Then I was obsessed about whether that bleached out spiral perm totally nineties mess was really Mickey's hair or a weave and how do the tattoos that movie stars have in films work because they are really amazingly done but not real so I had to Google that and I think I must have missed something because then there was some stuff that happened and then there was a coked up sex scene and then I was back on track again and even though I was both thirsty and in need of a good pee I didn't want to get up because I paid $4.99 to watch this, dammit, and I wasn't doing a good job and I never know whether to drink first or pee first because if I hear water I might pee my pants a little but if I pee first I sometimes secretly wonder what my pee tastes like and whether people really drink it if they are stranded at sea and oh, gah, that guy in college who would gargle with his own pee before singing in church and I don't think that God intended us to rinse our mouths with our filth just to sound halfway decent in his house. It's gross. And complicated. And best avoided altogether if I can help it.
Then things fell into place and I decided it was a really good movie for about 15 minutes out of the entire 111 and I'm not sure if he died at the end or not so I cried a little bit anyway but thinking about seeing Marissa Tomei naked made me feel lots better because she is really hot except for when she is dressed or talking and then I went to bed for ten hours.
5.04.2009
free
If I didn't know how much it pains some of you moms to hear this, I would tell you all about how Jake is at my dad's house all. week. long.
Whatever shall I do?
Last night Dave and I kicked it off by eating ice cream on top of marshmallow-filled cones and raw sugarcookie dough for dinner in front of a Netflixed Season One of 30 Rock. Awwww yeah. That'sa way we do when we don't hafta set no examples.
Tonight, dinner at The Palm since we don't have to pay for daycare or feed a hungry mouth this week. Plus we have coupons and know the waiter which means it's not awkward to use them. Why is it that I'm always weirded out by getting a discount in a restaurant?
And I can drink my weight in whiskey without revealing my magnificent tolerance for the stuff to a stranger who may silently judge. Maybe I can get Dave loaded too, and convince him that he should stop around the corner and buy me a new necklace for Mother's Day, despite the fact that I think it is a dumbass pretendo holiday that I refuse to celebrate.
Gifts just for being everydaywonderful, on the other hand, are never dumbass and always accepted.
I still have a list full of things to accomplish that didn't get done last time Jake was at his grandparent's, so maybe this will be the week the touch up paint gets done and the old toys get sorted and a bookcase is purchased and assembled and my dressers and closets get cleared.
And I want to get 8-10 hours of sleep each night and wake up naturally. No alarms, no child, no problems.
I'm considering getting my hooves shaved down professionally, they still have a layer or seven of winter on them. Can you catch swineflu from a pedicure? I'll wear a condom just in case.
I wish I needed a haircut, but I don't.
I wish it wasn't supposed to rain all week, but it is.
Tomorrow is Cinco de Mayo, and I will be officially Mexican for the day.
(upside down questionmark)y usted, quiere ser Mexicanos conmigo?
Bueno.
(upside down exclamation point)vamonos!
If someone feels like bringing tequila on Wednesday, I'll make Miercoles Chili. I love to stretch out a holiday. Especially a fun one. Should I buy a pinata? I know where to get them cheap. And authentic.
And filled with actual Mexicans.
But the American kind. Not the viral kind.
Never mind.
What would you do if you didn't have to be a mom this week? Let me know and I'll do it for you and tell you all about it.
Whatever shall I do?
Last night Dave and I kicked it off by eating ice cream on top of marshmallow-filled cones and raw sugarcookie dough for dinner in front of a Netflixed Season One of 30 Rock. Awwww yeah. That'sa way we do when we don't hafta set no examples.
Tonight, dinner at The Palm since we don't have to pay for daycare or feed a hungry mouth this week. Plus we have coupons and know the waiter which means it's not awkward to use them. Why is it that I'm always weirded out by getting a discount in a restaurant?
And I can drink my weight in whiskey without revealing my magnificent tolerance for the stuff to a stranger who may silently judge. Maybe I can get Dave loaded too, and convince him that he should stop around the corner and buy me a new necklace for Mother's Day, despite the fact that I think it is a dumbass pretendo holiday that I refuse to celebrate.
Gifts just for being everydaywonderful, on the other hand, are never dumbass and always accepted.
I still have a list full of things to accomplish that didn't get done last time Jake was at his grandparent's, so maybe this will be the week the touch up paint gets done and the old toys get sorted and a bookcase is purchased and assembled and my dressers and closets get cleared.
And I want to get 8-10 hours of sleep each night and wake up naturally. No alarms, no child, no problems.
I'm considering getting my hooves shaved down professionally, they still have a layer or seven of winter on them. Can you catch swineflu from a pedicure? I'll wear a condom just in case.
I wish I needed a haircut, but I don't.
I wish it wasn't supposed to rain all week, but it is.
Tomorrow is Cinco de Mayo, and I will be officially Mexican for the day.
(upside down questionmark)y usted, quiere ser Mexicanos conmigo?
Bueno.
(upside down exclamation point)vamonos!
If someone feels like bringing tequila on Wednesday, I'll make Miercoles Chili. I love to stretch out a holiday. Especially a fun one. Should I buy a pinata? I know where to get them cheap. And authentic.
And filled with actual Mexicans.
But the American kind. Not the viral kind.
Never mind.
What would you do if you didn't have to be a mom this week? Let me know and I'll do it for you and tell you all about it.
deep
Being a mom has given me a greater understanding of God.
Now I know why religion tells us we are supposed to just shut up and stop asking questions and take what we are given and enjoy the beauty and withstand the ugly in what we see each day and have faith that everything will eventually be okay.
Being over-questioned and under-appreciated is so annoying.
(originally posted 10/16/08, and it still rings just as true today)
Now I know why religion tells us we are supposed to just shut up and stop asking questions and take what we are given and enjoy the beauty and withstand the ugly in what we see each day and have faith that everything will eventually be okay.
Being over-questioned and under-appreciated is so annoying.
(originally posted 10/16/08, and it still rings just as true today)
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