How many of you guys know me in real life?
I see some hands. A few of you.
I'm not so bad looking, right?
Kinda cute?
Pretty even?
For a girl my age?
I was a hideous child.
There are very few pictures in existence.
I found one the other day, which will not be posted here.
I stopped growing at about age 10 or 11. I'm 5'7". Not supertall for an adult, but big for a kid. I remember being remeasured in fifth grade because the school nurse didn't think I was five and a half feet tall because she thought she was five and a half feet tall and she couldn't figure out how we didn't match up. It's because I was slouched over my giant boobs so no one could see them and she was wearing some sort of weird clog on her foot.
I had big boobs. Grown up boobs. Just like the ones I have now. Not those creepy flatty slightly pointy ones that little girls sometimes get. I hated them because everyone (including the teacher) was staring at them and because I was tall they usually ended up right in people's faces. I couldn't even turn my back on my classmates because then they'd see my bra strap and know I was wearing a bra*. In fourth grade. So all of you who say you are jealous of my fabrack? I paid for it. Not with dollars but with lowered self-worth and extreme humiliation.
My teeth were fuuuuuuccckkkked uuuuuup. Giant and plentiful. Like horse teeth tossed in the air and let to lie where they landed. I had them sprouting out of every where. They grew in every direction. Then when I got braces I had to wear rubberbands and headgear and that sucked too.
I think I weighed in at 107 pounds in seventh grade. Soaking wet. Including boobs.
I had giant Sally Jesse Raphael glasses. Turquoise blue. Florescent turquoise blue.
I lived with my dad and grandad. Not only did no one show me how me how to curl my bangs, which I did faithfully every day from the mid to late 80s, but the only hair product I had was Brylcreem. Sometimes I had home perms from age 10 until 12ish, courtesy of Dad's girlfriend du jour. They never really took to the four hairs I have in my head, despite several attempts. And for a few years I had my hair feathered, but it ended up slicked back and glued to the sides of my head. I pretty much had a big banged mullet.
I had my ears double pierced. Who knows what the heck I jammed in those holes. It was the 80s. I'm guessing something neon and plastic. Oh, and my best friend earrings, the kind that was a gold-toned ball on one ear and a dangly zigzag half-circle on the other.
And no one bought me my own deodorant so I used my grandad's Old Spice. I must have stunk to high hell. Thank all that is good for Love's Baby Soft. Which I'm sure masked the old man scent. Right?
I wasn't allowed to wear make up until I was a teenager but sometimes I snuck on this hot pink Wet'n'Wild crap once I got to school. In seventh grade I had this dark blackberry hued W'n'W leftover from my Halloween costume. I thought it looked so cool. I don't think that white people were ever meant to wear it. But I did, for two years running.
My aunt was an Avon lady, so sometimes she would toss me some samples. I remember my favorite being a silver and lilac duo-eyeshadow that I would spit into so I could make it into eyeliner, applied with a Qtip. That's when I was 13. Who decided that 13 is a good age for eye makeup? Or spitting?
When I was pregnant I feared that Jake would be ugly and people would feel bad for him, and for me, the way I'm sure people felt bad for me, and my parents, when I was little. Looks matter, no matter what they say.
Now that I've seen Jake, I fear that I'm the only one who thinks he's so incredibly beautiful and everyone else just says he's cute because they are tsk-tsking in their heads. I know this isn't true, I'm just saying.
Every time I see an unfortunate looking little girl I feel bad for her. But I also want to kick her.
Ahhh, projection.
*me: now that Gwen Stefani is back on the scene I think I can start wearing black or bright colored bras under white tank tops again.
him: no. you are going to be 33.
me: she's like 40.
him: you have a son
me: she has two
him: she's Gwen Stefani
me: I'm Lora
him: you aren't wearing black bras under white tank tops again
me: remember that time I was on The Real World, and I was fighting with C___ at the gay bar and you could see my black bra and white tank top and my fist of fury?
him:
him:
him:
me: I was on The Real World.
6.30.2009
page
I've been reading a lot of books lately. Probably more in the last 5 months than I have in the last 5 years. That's sad. The last 5 years part. Not the last 5 months part. That's not sad at all. That's healthy and liberating and amazing. Even though other parts of my life are a bit neglected (read: I am well aware that my kitchen floor looks like that) parts of my brain are reconnecting in a way that they haven't for a very long time.
When I was little, I used to eat books. It would take me a day or two to get through a Laura Ingalls or an Anne or a Nancy Drew or a Beezus or Peter Hatcher or Anastasia or whatever Newbery winner it was that I was reading that second. And it would change every ten minutes. I couldn't read enough. I loved a series, because I needed more than 300 pages to get enough of everyone.
The characters weren't my best friends, but the books were. Plus, no one punishes you by keeping you away from your books. That would be bad parenting at it's baddest.
One of the reasons I used to read was because it took me away from whatever it was going on in my life. In good times and in bad times books were always an escape. Always.
Never was I ever worried about anything that went on in my books.
These days I feel like everything I read is talking directly at me. Showing me some sort of side of a situation that maybe I haven't considered before. A different point of view, one that isn't mine, one that used to be mine, one that should be mine.
Words that scream repercussions of a thought, of a feeling, of a behavior that I never considered until page 256, second paragraph down. Third line in. 4am.
Whether I'm reading a classic or the latest and greatest NYT bestseller, I can find something that completely relates to my life as it is Right. Now. And now. And now. And then. And that time too. I don't know how I feel about it, but it certainly is making me think.
Making me think that I'm not so unique or special or alone after all, and that is a very good feeling.
A very bad feeling is thinking you are the only one in the whole wide world who is scared of _____ because you are thinking ______ and doing _____ to cope.
When I was little, I used to eat books. It would take me a day or two to get through a Laura Ingalls or an Anne or a Nancy Drew or a Beezus or Peter Hatcher or Anastasia or whatever Newbery winner it was that I was reading that second. And it would change every ten minutes. I couldn't read enough. I loved a series, because I needed more than 300 pages to get enough of everyone.
The characters weren't my best friends, but the books were. Plus, no one punishes you by keeping you away from your books. That would be bad parenting at it's baddest.
One of the reasons I used to read was because it took me away from whatever it was going on in my life. In good times and in bad times books were always an escape. Always.
Never was I ever worried about anything that went on in my books.
These days I feel like everything I read is talking directly at me. Showing me some sort of side of a situation that maybe I haven't considered before. A different point of view, one that isn't mine, one that used to be mine, one that should be mine.
Words that scream repercussions of a thought, of a feeling, of a behavior that I never considered until page 256, second paragraph down. Third line in. 4am.
Whether I'm reading a classic or the latest and greatest NYT bestseller, I can find something that completely relates to my life as it is Right. Now. And now. And now. And then. And that time too. I don't know how I feel about it, but it certainly is making me think.
Making me think that I'm not so unique or special or alone after all, and that is a very good feeling.
A very bad feeling is thinking you are the only one in the whole wide world who is scared of _____ because you are thinking ______ and doing _____ to cope.
6.29.2009
backtrack
Blogging is useful because you can look back and see what you were doing this time last year and the year before that and the year before that.
Last year at the end of June I was weirded out about how far me and my fatgirls have come over the past few years, and I wondered if we would still be friends by this time this year.
Yes.
I just saw Heather a couple weeks ago and Lynn is talking about flying to Philly for my birthday (August 15th/47 shopping days left) and Heather might take the 7 hour jog north to join us.
June 2007 found me coming to grips with the fact that I wasn't really cut out to be a mom who wants to be with the brat 24/7 but I was doing a good job at momming anyway and that's what matters in the long run. I felt like a miserable failure for quite sometime because I didn't think I had what it takes to be a Stay at Home Mom but who cares? I'm not a SaHM. I have what it takes to be good at my job and be good at parenting my child and I was able to find somewhere for him to go while I'm busy Saving the World One Family at a Time where he is loved and nurtured and happy.
I'm a SuperMom, doing it all from 9-5 and 5-9.
Suck it.
June 2006
Forget it.
I'm not even going to read because I'm at a point where I'm ready to just let go of Year One, and all I remember about June is going back to work and getting laid off and getting my current job by some sorta universe twist and Jake starting to sleep through the night.
That's all I need to know.
I wish I would've blogged June 2005. My last month of freedom. Well, except for July when I didn't know I was pregnant.
What?
I thought I was dying.
I figured it out eventually.
Don't judge.
Last year at the end of June I was weirded out about how far me and my fatgirls have come over the past few years, and I wondered if we would still be friends by this time this year.
Yes.
I just saw Heather a couple weeks ago and Lynn is talking about flying to Philly for my birthday (August 15th/47 shopping days left) and Heather might take the 7 hour jog north to join us.
***
June 2007 found me coming to grips with the fact that I wasn't really cut out to be a mom who wants to be with the brat 24/7 but I was doing a good job at momming anyway and that's what matters in the long run. I felt like a miserable failure for quite sometime because I didn't think I had what it takes to be a Stay at Home Mom but who cares? I'm not a SaHM. I have what it takes to be good at my job and be good at parenting my child and I was able to find somewhere for him to go while I'm busy Saving the World One Family at a Time where he is loved and nurtured and happy.
I'm a SuperMom, doing it all from 9-5 and 5-9.
Suck it.
***
June 2006
Forget it.
I'm not even going to read because I'm at a point where I'm ready to just let go of Year One, and all I remember about June is going back to work and getting laid off and getting my current job by some sorta universe twist and Jake starting to sleep through the night.
That's all I need to know.
***
I wish I would've blogged June 2005. My last month of freedom. Well, except for July when I didn't know I was pregnant.
What?
I thought I was dying.
I figured it out eventually.
Don't judge.
6.28.2009
my cue to stop stalking myself
I was just reviewing yesterdays hits, and discovered that this blog is the #1 Google search result of the terms Blackest Cock, (K)ris Allen Bulge, and it's pretty high up there on the results of anal cancer.
I know thost links are bum. My server at home doesn't allow me to format hyperlinks unless I do them in HTML and blogger isn't allowing me to save HTML changes today, which explains the lack of spacing in that last post. Don't believe me about the results, as if I could make that up? Go ahead and check it yourself, and then have fun explaining to your family why you are spending time Googling cocks&bulges on a Sunday Morning while the rest of them are at church.
http://blogsearch.google.com/blogsearch?hl=en&um=1&ie=UTF-8&ei=rcNGSrT8A4vyMc2TpbkC&oi=blogsearch_group&ct=title&q=anal%20cancer&sa=N&start=30
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&client=safari&rls=en-us&q=site%3Ablogspot.com%20%22blackest%20cock&aq=f&oq=&aqi=
http://www.google.com/search?q=ris%20allen%20bulges
Could you imagine if I REALLY blogged about my innermost thoughts here?
I keep you guys sheltered from the furthest reaches of my brain for a reason.
It's scary in there.
But apparently strangely sexy and appealing to the general public.
I know thost links are bum. My server at home doesn't allow me to format hyperlinks unless I do them in HTML and blogger isn't allowing me to save HTML changes today, which explains the lack of spacing in that last post. Don't believe me about the results, as if I could make that up? Go ahead and check it yourself, and then have fun explaining to your family why you are spending time Googling cocks&bulges on a Sunday Morning while the rest of them are at church.
http://blogsearch.google.com/blogsearch?hl=en&um=1&ie=UTF-8&ei=rcNGSrT8A4vyMc2TpbkC&oi=blogsearch_group&ct=title&q=anal%20cancer&sa=N&start=30
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&client=safari&rls=en-us&q=site%3Ablogspot.com%20%22blackest%20cock&aq=f&oq=&aqi=
http://www.google.com/search?q=ris%20allen%20bulges
Could you imagine if I REALLY blogged about my innermost thoughts here?
I keep you guys sheltered from the furthest reaches of my brain for a reason.
It's scary in there.
But apparently strangely sexy and appealing to the general public.
morning
Every Sunday morning should start out this way.
All alone
A pot of coffee
Google Reader cleared
A clean living room
Nowhere to be
A healthy amount of pissiness at my neighbor so I don't feel bad when I turn my music way up loud for
Too bad I dropped by 8.30.
All alone
A pot of coffee
Google Reader cleared
A clean living room
Nowhere to be
A healthy amount of pissiness at my neighbor so I don't feel bad when I turn my music way up loud for
Lora&Tyler Present:
Underpancydancy Housecleaning Party
!Postmodern Glampoprock! Edition.
Last Sunday in June
7am til you drop.
Sometimes it's just so damn fun to be me.
Too bad I dropped by 8.30.
But the music is still up. Tyler is sleeping in a sunbeam, flat on her back. If she doesn't move soon, I'm going to hold a mirror to her nose.
Times like these make me think about getting ready to go out on a Friday night. Isn't that the greatest? Almost like a miniature version of a plane ride to Vegas. You never know what's gonna happen when you get there, even though you know getting there is more than half the fun. Pre-gaming is where all the sparkles happen.
Back in the olden days before I got the momming gig, I knew a lot of people in the music business.
By music business, I mean I knew a lot of bartenders at the local venues. But whatever. Time has romanticized the whole thing.
In through the back door, drinks free and strong all night. Turning down backstage passes because we were too cool for all that and had things to do after the show.
Good times, those. Good thing they didn't last or I'd be in a gutter these days.
I remember them more fondly than I lived them, I'm sure.
It's funny how your brain can do that. How one night turns into 20, twenty into 200. Two hundred into a decade. Good times into Great.
There was no 7am back then, unless it was bedtime.
I wonder how many times I did that? Ten or tenthousand, can't be too sure.
I wish I would have kept a diary.
Good thing I had a dayjob.
While I was living it, I always used to say that I was going to write a book and call it
Philadelphia Fruits and Nuts:
all about my life as a social worker/butterfly
Watch for it, I still may.
Until then, I have lots of tiny little shirts and shorts to wash and about 700 Matchbox cars to wrangle so I don't step on them and break an ankle.
Such is life.
I promise this is the last post about how much I miss those days, because this is sounding so pathetic. It's good now too, only different.
But I do miss those days, dammit. Yesterday was 80 and sunny and everyone I saw seemed to be having one of those fun afternoons where everything goes right and I was stuck with a cranky brat who kept kicking me in the crotch during his swimming lesson.
I was less than happy and it made me mad so I'm making up for it now.
As soon as I hit publish.
I think I'm ready to get back up and resume the dancy. And Tyler is stirring too.
Does anyone else do this, or just me?
Both the by yourself dancing and the frequent reminiscing?
Or am I the only wackjob spazziod asshole mom with an occasional bitter taste in her mouth around these parts?
6.26.2009
local
I wonder how many posts on this blog start with something saying that I am only blogging so I have something new at the top of the page. Hi new readers! Please don't judge. There is a semblance of class over here, most days. Not today. Don't give up on me yet.
My local besties and I love to pour over the hilariousness that is the Social Scene in the South Philly Review. I've posted about the SS before, but I erased the post because it made me look like a jerk. Hey, if you die before you are 30 and your mom has the class to post a picture of your skinny shirtless self and I can see your trackmarks, I'm assuming it was drugs. And if you name your baby something ridiculous, I'm going to make fun of you. On the internet.
You can check the Scene for yourself every Friday morning by bookmarking this link. Each week is better than the next, and yes this is totally serious. No, this is not a joke. People still do this kind of stuff in 2009.
Small town living cracks me up, and Philadelphia is the smallest town I've ever been to.
I love it when you call me Fran Poppa. Throw your hands in the aya if you a true playa.
Gunther, I gather, is the dog. He's like Clifford. He must eat a lot. I assume that's what happened to Papi Joe. Papi Joe, who ~~ um ~~ wears a hoodie emblazoned with a picture of himself?? Maybe??
Stella Maris only goes to the 8th grade. If I don't have one picture of Eighth Grade Jake that doesn't prove to South Philly that my child is a potsmoker, I'm not taking out an ad in the local rag. To celebrate the fact that he went to 8th grade.
Dictionary.com defines PHYSIC as: a medicine that purges; cathartic; laxative.
Due to the recent disgustingness posted on the blog, I'm leaving you just with the definition. You can make up your own joke about Alexis Markie (Joanie), the physic reader.
Tony Bologna is sadly missed by his brothers: Tony Pepperoni, Tony Rigatoni, Tony Macaroni, Tony Cannelloni, Tony Panettoni, and his sister, Toni Spumoni. They called him Red's to lessen confusion. They put the apostrophe in there because the mailman was a ginger. Everyone else is brown on brown. I'm guessing. Or they didn't graduate 8th grade and think that nicknames are possessive.
The way I figure, I love to go to bed at 9pm. If I start getting up at 5 each morning, I have 2 hours to myself every day and no one can ever judge me for going to bed as though I was only 10 years old.
Then when people ask me why I can't stay out late, I'll say I have to get up at 5.
And when people ask me why I get up at 5, I'll roll my eyes and glance over at Jake, and they will roll their eyes and give me that weak smile that tells me they see me as a martyr for motherhood and they will make a mental note to take their birth control pill on time that day. Because getting up at 5 sucks.
Supposedly.
My local besties and I love to pour over the hilariousness that is the Social Scene in the South Philly Review. I've posted about the SS before, but I erased the post because it made me look like a jerk. Hey, if you die before you are 30 and your mom has the class to post a picture of your skinny shirtless self and I can see your trackmarks, I'm assuming it was drugs. And if you name your baby something ridiculous, I'm going to make fun of you. On the internet.
You can check the Scene for yourself every Friday morning by bookmarking this link. Each week is better than the next, and yes this is totally serious. No, this is not a joke. People still do this kind of stuff in 2009.
Small town living cracks me up, and Philadelphia is the smallest town I've ever been to.
***
I love it when you call me Fran Poppa. Throw your hands in the aya if you a true playa.
Gunther, I gather, is the dog. He's like Clifford. He must eat a lot. I assume that's what happened to Papi Joe. Papi Joe, who ~~ um ~~ wears a hoodie emblazoned with a picture of himself?? Maybe??
Stella Maris only goes to the 8th grade. If I don't have one picture of Eighth Grade Jake that doesn't prove to South Philly that my child is a potsmoker, I'm not taking out an ad in the local rag. To celebrate the fact that he went to 8th grade.
Dictionary.com defines PHYSIC as: a medicine that purges; cathartic; laxative. Due to the recent disgustingness posted on the blog, I'm leaving you just with the definition. You can make up your own joke about Alexis Markie (Joanie), the physic reader.
Tony Bologna is sadly missed by his brothers: Tony Pepperoni, Tony Rigatoni, Tony Macaroni, Tony Cannelloni, Tony Panettoni, and his sister, Toni Spumoni. They called him Red's to lessen confusion. They put the apostrophe in there because the mailman was a ginger. Everyone else is brown on brown. I'm guessing. Or they didn't graduate 8th grade and think that nicknames are possessive.
***
Also, I woke up before 5am this morning. It was glorious. I read The Review (see above), I read the end of a David Sedaris book, I drank a pot of coffee, I played with the cat, I set free a giant moth that has been staying over for three days, I did the dishes, made Jake's lunch, I watched the news, I took care of my 3S's, I sat. In silence.The way I figure, I love to go to bed at 9pm. If I start getting up at 5 each morning, I have 2 hours to myself every day and no one can ever judge me for going to bed as though I was only 10 years old.
Then when people ask me why I can't stay out late, I'll say I have to get up at 5.
And when people ask me why I get up at 5, I'll roll my eyes and glance over at Jake, and they will roll their eyes and give me that weak smile that tells me they see me as a martyr for motherhood and they will make a mental note to take their birth control pill on time that day. Because getting up at 5 sucks.
Supposedly.
don't bother reading this
Did anyone else know that Farrah had anal cancer?
Gah!
I think if I had butt cancer, I would never speak about it here. Or anywhere. Maybe that's why I just heard about "Farrah's cancer", and not the actual type she had. Maybe I just wasn't listening.
Now, I have this problem with the idea of poop entering my bloodstream. I'm quite sure that the incidence of anal cancer brings about some goopy lesions. On or about your anus. Whence from where you poop.
See, I have this pimple on my forehead that I picked at and made it into an open sore and I don't even feel comfortable pooping lately in case one of the germs floats out of the toilet and lands on my head. Someone told me once that if you can smell something, you are actually breathing in particles of the source. Then again, the person who told me that was named Britain Beaver. Hand to Christ her mother named her that. Britain, if you find this post by Googling yourself, hello and thank you for ruining my life with that information.
Plus, you know how they say that toilet water spreads something like 6 feet if you don't close the lid when you flush? I'm only 5'7". Specks of poop might land on my zit. Then what?
I wonder if one of the complications of anal cancer is poopy blood. I'm sure that bloody poop is a sign.
This is too much.
And Michael Jackson is dead. I'm sitting here wondering about the condition the Coroner found his anus to be in. Isn't that sad? Do they routinely check that orafice in an autopsy? Shouldn't they? You know, just in case?
Pop Icon Dead, Local Girl Questions his Anus.
As if there was an interrogation or something.
As if.
There has got to be more going on in my life right now that doesn't involve dead stars and absurd anxiety issues.
I'm planning a vacation. Yeah! The boy is coming. Groan. Traveling with children is _______. You tell me.
I think it's funny when bloggers don't talk about their vacations because they don't want their house to get robbed. I don't want my house to get robbed, but I think you guys would be hard pressed to find it. I live in South Philly, me and a quarter million other people. There are probably over 100 houses on my 1/10th of a mile long block. Sometimes I can't even find my own house. When I have a party I have to tie a balloon to the rail so my friends know which bell to ring. When I come home from a party I wish I tied a balloon to my rail so I knew which knob accepts my key.
I think rowhomes are really neat because every door leads to a literal hole in the wall. Hundreds of people share my wall, but no one can get into my hole unless I let them in. Or they force their way in. While I'm on vacation. We're like mice.
Little city mice.
I love cheese.
The older I get, the more cheese doesn't love me back.
Now I'm thinking about butts again, and that "getting in my hole" thing is not meant to be dirty so I don't want to hear about it in my comments.
We had a fire safety training as part of a unit meeting this morning and one of the powerpoint screens was about cigarette disposal. It told us to "soak butt in water". That's not so funny here, but it was hilarious 80 minutes into the meeting. The only redeeming quality of two-hour Friday morning meetings is it totally turns me into an 8 year old boy, just in time for the weekend.
I also had to stifle a laugh when someone said "sometimes I see men". Of course he meant clinically, but it was still funny.
Philadelphia hosts the big Army/Navy football game and this town gets covered in seamen.
I should buy stock in Bandaids, because I am terrible with a razor. This morning I shaved my legs and wrecked 'em.
I'm getting paid for all of this nonsense, remember.
Somehow none of this has worked it's way into my job description, but I manage to get it in there.
Gah!
I think if I had butt cancer, I would never speak about it here. Or anywhere. Maybe that's why I just heard about "Farrah's cancer", and not the actual type she had. Maybe I just wasn't listening.
Now, I have this problem with the idea of poop entering my bloodstream. I'm quite sure that the incidence of anal cancer brings about some goopy lesions. On or about your anus. Whence from where you poop.
See, I have this pimple on my forehead that I picked at and made it into an open sore and I don't even feel comfortable pooping lately in case one of the germs floats out of the toilet and lands on my head. Someone told me once that if you can smell something, you are actually breathing in particles of the source. Then again, the person who told me that was named Britain Beaver. Hand to Christ her mother named her that. Britain, if you find this post by Googling yourself, hello and thank you for ruining my life with that information.
Plus, you know how they say that toilet water spreads something like 6 feet if you don't close the lid when you flush? I'm only 5'7". Specks of poop might land on my zit. Then what?
I wonder if one of the complications of anal cancer is poopy blood. I'm sure that bloody poop is a sign.
This is too much.
And Michael Jackson is dead. I'm sitting here wondering about the condition the Coroner found his anus to be in. Isn't that sad? Do they routinely check that orafice in an autopsy? Shouldn't they? You know, just in case?
Pop Icon Dead, Local Girl Questions his Anus.
As if there was an interrogation or something.
As if.
There has got to be more going on in my life right now that doesn't involve dead stars and absurd anxiety issues.
I'm planning a vacation. Yeah! The boy is coming. Groan. Traveling with children is _______. You tell me.
I think it's funny when bloggers don't talk about their vacations because they don't want their house to get robbed. I don't want my house to get robbed, but I think you guys would be hard pressed to find it. I live in South Philly, me and a quarter million other people. There are probably over 100 houses on my 1/10th of a mile long block. Sometimes I can't even find my own house. When I have a party I have to tie a balloon to the rail so my friends know which bell to ring. When I come home from a party I wish I tied a balloon to my rail so I knew which knob accepts my key.
I think rowhomes are really neat because every door leads to a literal hole in the wall. Hundreds of people share my wall, but no one can get into my hole unless I let them in. Or they force their way in. While I'm on vacation. We're like mice.
Little city mice.
I love cheese.
The older I get, the more cheese doesn't love me back.
Now I'm thinking about butts again, and that "getting in my hole" thing is not meant to be dirty so I don't want to hear about it in my comments.
We had a fire safety training as part of a unit meeting this morning and one of the powerpoint screens was about cigarette disposal. It told us to "soak butt in water". That's not so funny here, but it was hilarious 80 minutes into the meeting. The only redeeming quality of two-hour Friday morning meetings is it totally turns me into an 8 year old boy, just in time for the weekend.
I also had to stifle a laugh when someone said "sometimes I see men". Of course he meant clinically, but it was still funny.
Philadelphia hosts the big Army/Navy football game and this town gets covered in seamen.
I should buy stock in Bandaids, because I am terrible with a razor. This morning I shaved my legs and wrecked 'em.
I'm getting paid for all of this nonsense, remember.
Somehow none of this has worked it's way into my job description, but I manage to get it in there.
6.24.2009
breathe
I've really been making a huge effort the last year and a half to love what I have. Isn't that douchey? That I have to make an effort rather than just accept my life as it is?
I took a look around my house a couple years ago and I saw so much junk. Not that I had a junky house, but there was a lot in there that I haven't used in forever, that I probably never would use, and stuff I didn't even know what it was for. AV wires and USB plugs and screws and such mostly. All taking up valuable inches in my drawers.
Plus, I've been out of my mother's house for 15 years. Do you know how much crap 15 years brings? A lot. Trust me.
So I purged. I wouldn't be surprised if I got rid of a ton of stuff. Literally. Two thousand pounds removed from my house. Including the bricks out in the yard, but whatever. The bricks had to go. Fifteen years sneaks up on a girl and no one should be living in 1994 this far into the two thousands so I tossed everything that was outdated and worn and useless to me.
And now I'm happier. There is hardly any clutter anywhere and I love it. I bought new towels and new pots and new food storage containers and I'm like a pig in mud. Rolling around and happy as anything when I'm at home.
For the most part. Of course. No one rolls around 100% of the time. That's crazy and creepy.
Everything I have is functional. Almost. My can opener crapped out last night. My coffee pot is failing miserably at making anything that doesn't taste like tar. My silverware doesn't really get sparkley clean anymore, but I don't think the haze is hazardous. Yet.
I still have four sets of dishes kicking around.
I have this weird romantic vision of me giving Jake the plates I picked out for my wedding registry when he goes away to college, but let's face it. They are Totally Nineties. They are stoneware with purple, teal, and green rings around them. They live in my basement for a reason.
He might get beat up with these dishes and his dates might think he's a pussy, plus I'm hoping that I have the flow to buy the kid a new set of plates on his way out my door. If I can, I will consider myself successful.
Like I've done better than my parents did before me.
See now, we was so poor I hadsta gotten my college dishes for free from a dead lady. They were Totally Seventies and I up and took them right out of her cabinets. They were stonewear with orange and yellow and brown flowers on them. And I carried them uphill from her house to mine. In the snow.
I've taken issue with my decade-old silverware. Is it important to me to provide consistency and reliability in Jake's life with the spoons? Is it bad that I sought stability in flatware as a child? That I looked to forks to reassure me that no matter what happens, the True Rose Oneida is there?
Or should I pass it along to someone in need and get something prettier? Something that says "I'm almost 33 dammit, look at my knife! Don't you wish you had this knife? Maybe someday, if you work hard enough and save your dollars and be good you can be happy buttering your bread at home and you don't have to come to me for the glory and wonder of it all." or do I plug along with my trusty Pfaltzgraff because at the end of the day, who the eff gives an eff?
My life is hard, can't you tell?
This is seriously my biggest problem right now.
I used to want a new house, but I really like my house. Today. I like how it is almost 150 years old and the walls are still standing just as strong as ever.
I want to see Jake run down the stairs at 13 years old, completely confident of his steps unlike he is at 3. I will let him jump off the third step from the bottom in seven years. The second one when he is 5.
I want to watch him all of a sudden reach the sink one day, touch the top of the door frame on his way into his room, take a shower that I don't have to be a part of. I like to watch his head peek out the windows, higher and higher every month.
Some day I will let him hang out on the deck all by himself. The boy is a climber and two stories is a long way to fall so it's off limits and he does not like it one bit. He doesn't like that a part of his house is only for grownups.
I want to see what I can do with that kitchen.
What my bathroom would look like if I reglazed my 1940s iron tub that sounds cuter than it is and what a re-grout would do to the mint and black subway tile that climbs all four walls. And the leaf and carbon marble floor can probably take a shining too. I like that the tiles don't exactly match.
I have a first floor laundry room. No icky pantless 7am basement trips for me, thank you.
I could do without the drop ceiling in my bedroom. Maybe I'll get to that in 2010. Maybe I'll peel away the paneling and see if I have exposed brick under there like my neighbors do. You can get lots of ideas for your house by looking in other people's windows.
My neighbors are okay.
Parking is my biggest problem, but it's everyone's problem down that way. On the flip side, I don't have to shovel in the winter or drive to get anything I need, aren't you jealous? I've never mown a lawn and I don't plan on starting. My "yard work" is a joke. It takes 15 minutes every two weeks.
My property value isn't dropping. My house is worth more now than when I bought it, at the height of the National House Buying Festival we all had a few years ago. That's not so bad, is it?
Any time I feel content, I am afraid that fate will frown on me in a such a bizarre way that I just may make the 6 o'clock news. Whenever I have a moment of serenity and complete clarity, I'm afraid someone will shoot me in the back of the head like what happened to the dad in American Beauty.
That's also why I don't make out with high school girls.
I took a look around my house a couple years ago and I saw so much junk. Not that I had a junky house, but there was a lot in there that I haven't used in forever, that I probably never would use, and stuff I didn't even know what it was for. AV wires and USB plugs and screws and such mostly. All taking up valuable inches in my drawers.
Plus, I've been out of my mother's house for 15 years. Do you know how much crap 15 years brings? A lot. Trust me.
So I purged. I wouldn't be surprised if I got rid of a ton of stuff. Literally. Two thousand pounds removed from my house. Including the bricks out in the yard, but whatever. The bricks had to go. Fifteen years sneaks up on a girl and no one should be living in 1994 this far into the two thousands so I tossed everything that was outdated and worn and useless to me.
And now I'm happier. There is hardly any clutter anywhere and I love it. I bought new towels and new pots and new food storage containers and I'm like a pig in mud. Rolling around and happy as anything when I'm at home.
For the most part. Of course. No one rolls around 100% of the time. That's crazy and creepy.
Everything I have is functional. Almost. My can opener crapped out last night. My coffee pot is failing miserably at making anything that doesn't taste like tar. My silverware doesn't really get sparkley clean anymore, but I don't think the haze is hazardous. Yet.
I still have four sets of dishes kicking around.
I have this weird romantic vision of me giving Jake the plates I picked out for my wedding registry when he goes away to college, but let's face it. They are Totally Nineties. They are stoneware with purple, teal, and green rings around them. They live in my basement for a reason.
He might get beat up with these dishes and his dates might think he's a pussy, plus I'm hoping that I have the flow to buy the kid a new set of plates on his way out my door. If I can, I will consider myself successful.
Like I've done better than my parents did before me.
See now, we was so poor I hadsta gotten my college dishes for free from a dead lady. They were Totally Seventies and I up and took them right out of her cabinets. They were stonewear with orange and yellow and brown flowers on them. And I carried them uphill from her house to mine. In the snow.
I've taken issue with my decade-old silverware. Is it important to me to provide consistency and reliability in Jake's life with the spoons? Is it bad that I sought stability in flatware as a child? That I looked to forks to reassure me that no matter what happens, the True Rose Oneida is there?
Or should I pass it along to someone in need and get something prettier? Something that says "I'm almost 33 dammit, look at my knife! Don't you wish you had this knife? Maybe someday, if you work hard enough and save your dollars and be good you can be happy buttering your bread at home and you don't have to come to me for the glory and wonder of it all." or do I plug along with my trusty Pfaltzgraff because at the end of the day, who the eff gives an eff?
My life is hard, can't you tell?
This is seriously my biggest problem right now.
I used to want a new house, but I really like my house. Today. I like how it is almost 150 years old and the walls are still standing just as strong as ever.
I want to see Jake run down the stairs at 13 years old, completely confident of his steps unlike he is at 3. I will let him jump off the third step from the bottom in seven years. The second one when he is 5.
I want to watch him all of a sudden reach the sink one day, touch the top of the door frame on his way into his room, take a shower that I don't have to be a part of. I like to watch his head peek out the windows, higher and higher every month.
Some day I will let him hang out on the deck all by himself. The boy is a climber and two stories is a long way to fall so it's off limits and he does not like it one bit. He doesn't like that a part of his house is only for grownups.
I want to see what I can do with that kitchen.
What my bathroom would look like if I reglazed my 1940s iron tub that sounds cuter than it is and what a re-grout would do to the mint and black subway tile that climbs all four walls. And the leaf and carbon marble floor can probably take a shining too. I like that the tiles don't exactly match.
I have a first floor laundry room. No icky pantless 7am basement trips for me, thank you.
I could do without the drop ceiling in my bedroom. Maybe I'll get to that in 2010. Maybe I'll peel away the paneling and see if I have exposed brick under there like my neighbors do. You can get lots of ideas for your house by looking in other people's windows.
My neighbors are okay.
Parking is my biggest problem, but it's everyone's problem down that way. On the flip side, I don't have to shovel in the winter or drive to get anything I need, aren't you jealous? I've never mown a lawn and I don't plan on starting. My "yard work" is a joke. It takes 15 minutes every two weeks.
My property value isn't dropping. My house is worth more now than when I bought it, at the height of the National House Buying Festival we all had a few years ago. That's not so bad, is it?
Any time I feel content, I am afraid that fate will frown on me in a such a bizarre way that I just may make the 6 o'clock news. Whenever I have a moment of serenity and complete clarity, I'm afraid someone will shoot me in the back of the head like what happened to the dad in American Beauty.
That's also why I don't make out with high school girls.
deadly
LA over at Lacochran has tagged me for a meme. I love memes. The only thing I miss about being on MySpace is the bulletin memes, as annoying as they were, they were damned fun to do. And mine were good. No boring stuff there from me.
The concept: "Sometimes you can learn more about a person by what they don’t tell you. Sometimes you can learn a lot from the things they just make up. If you are tagged with this Meme, lie to me. Then tag 7 other folks (one for each deadly sin) and hope they can lie."
(Seriously? I just spent 20 minutes doing this meme for reals then I came back up here to add hyperlinks and I'm supposed to lie? Seriously? Is this why you are supposed to read the directions before you do your work? I've never been good at that. Especially on those tests in grade school where you are supposed to put T for falsies or do the 0/+ thing for true false because it is really a test in reading directions. I've read this meme about 8 times this morning on other people's blogs and you all were lying? Dammit. I'm telling the truth. I hate rules anyway. I don't believe in lying on this blog.).
Pride:
What is your biggest contribution to the world?
I think I've done a good job making other people feel a little bit less alone in the world by sharing my feelings and experiences and views on a whole bunch of things. Whether it is telling the world that sometimes I wanted to put my newborn baby in the trash and take it to the curb (it's just that he fit so perfectly in there when he was little, especially if he was all swaddled like a glowworm. That old Rubbermaid was practically designed to hold a small baby) or that sometimes I get mad or sad or glad at the darnedest of things, I like it when other people brighten up and say "me too!" and then we talk and talk and talk about what it is like to be us. About what it is like to feel all alone with a terrible secret that isn't so terrible after all.
Envy
What do your coworkers have that you wish was yours?
Ghetto booty and the luxury to sleep in on the mornings of the nights that we work late. When I work until 10 at night, I still have to get up at 6 to tend to the boy. Then I have to fit picking him up from daycare into my schedule, and make arrangements to have him taken care of from 4.30 or so until I get home six hours later. My coworkers can waltz into the office at 1.30 and take an hour-long dinner break like a normal person rather than showing up way early so they can run their skinny non-ghetto booty all over town to juggle the child. Flexible schedules are great, but the inflexible parts of your life sometimes mess that up.
Gluttony
What did you eat last night?
Two frozen pizzas from Trader Joe's when I got home from work because I didn't eat anything all day. Then I made nachos for dinner. Refried beans on the bottom, chips and cheese and corn and beans and Morningstar soy stuff and salsa verde and sour cream but not olives or halved cherry tomatoes because I didn't know I ran out of them so I didn't pick more up piled on top. In the oven at 375 for 10 minutes. Then I couldn't eat more than a few because I got an almond jammed up, point first, in the roof of my mouth the other day, right behind my front teeth and that little ridge that's there (feel it with your tongue) is now separated from the rest of my head and flapping down like an index fingertip. It's still bleeding, three days later. I should've probably gotten a stitch or two put in it, but work is busy these days and I just don't have the time. I wonder if it will ever close up or if I will spend my days like this. I decided to sterilize it before bed with a pintglass full of Crystal Light Fruit Punch and Bacardi. It isn't considered drinking alone if you are doing it for medicinal purposes.
Lust
What really lights your fire?
Nice teeth. Well shaped forearms and calves. Sweet leg hair and visible ankles. Tall sock wearers need not apply. Clean shaven necks. Tan lines. Brown hair and dark eyes. No Nordic features. I like the way wristwatches look. But hate it if I can smell them. Leatherbands are the leading contributor of watchrot, go stainless. Bulging pockets are icky. I like to eat, so a healthy appetite is a plus. I like to eat on the floor, tables are for suckers. Feed me like a picnicker and let me lay down after we are done. I need a minute to digest. I don't like ironed clothing. Who are these people who have time in their day to press their slacks? Get a damned life. I wish boys shaved their armpits. I love a shaved armpit. Beats the alternative, that matted deodorant-caked look. Smell good, not pretty.
Anger
What is the last thing that really pissed you off?
The City of Philadelphia, of course. It's contract time.
And Jake was a bastard last night, but he got sent to his room long enough for me to finish watching Season One of Rome on DVD. Being mean has it's perks.
Greed
Name something you hoard and keep from others:
Food. I don't share treats I buy for myself. My parents used to do the same to us kids, but we would sneak in their hideyholes and steal it anyway. I learned to hide it better, not that it was a jerky thing to do to people. My mom hid Archway Dutch Cocoa cookies and Corn Pops. My dad hid snack cakes and ice cream sandwiches. I have been known to squirrel away cake frosting in really rough times, graham crackers, Reese Pieces, peppered cashews, Hershey's miniatures, and Count Chocula cereal.
Sloth
What’s the laziest thing you ever did?
I routinely blow my nose in dirty shirts and underwear that're lying around if it's more convenient than getting up to get an acceptable snot receptacle. And when I used to wear contacts, and had the disposable kind, sometimes I would just take them out and swallow them rather than get off the couch and remove them properly. Breastfeeding was the lazy way out. Dammit if I was getting up to make and wash bottles. I was effing tired as it were, forget having extra chores.
Tag. Your it.
The concept: "Sometimes you can learn more about a person by what they don’t tell you. Sometimes you can learn a lot from the things they just make up. If you are tagged with this Meme, lie to me. Then tag 7 other folks (one for each deadly sin) and hope they can lie."
(Seriously? I just spent 20 minutes doing this meme for reals then I came back up here to add hyperlinks and I'm supposed to lie? Seriously? Is this why you are supposed to read the directions before you do your work? I've never been good at that. Especially on those tests in grade school where you are supposed to put T for falsies or do the 0/+ thing for true false because it is really a test in reading directions. I've read this meme about 8 times this morning on other people's blogs and you all were lying? Dammit. I'm telling the truth. I hate rules anyway. I don't believe in lying on this blog.).
Pride:
What is your biggest contribution to the world?
I think I've done a good job making other people feel a little bit less alone in the world by sharing my feelings and experiences and views on a whole bunch of things. Whether it is telling the world that sometimes I wanted to put my newborn baby in the trash and take it to the curb (it's just that he fit so perfectly in there when he was little, especially if he was all swaddled like a glowworm. That old Rubbermaid was practically designed to hold a small baby) or that sometimes I get mad or sad or glad at the darnedest of things, I like it when other people brighten up and say "me too!" and then we talk and talk and talk about what it is like to be us. About what it is like to feel all alone with a terrible secret that isn't so terrible after all.
Envy
What do your coworkers have that you wish was yours?
Ghetto booty and the luxury to sleep in on the mornings of the nights that we work late. When I work until 10 at night, I still have to get up at 6 to tend to the boy. Then I have to fit picking him up from daycare into my schedule, and make arrangements to have him taken care of from 4.30 or so until I get home six hours later. My coworkers can waltz into the office at 1.30 and take an hour-long dinner break like a normal person rather than showing up way early so they can run their skinny non-ghetto booty all over town to juggle the child. Flexible schedules are great, but the inflexible parts of your life sometimes mess that up.
Gluttony
What did you eat last night?
Two frozen pizzas from Trader Joe's when I got home from work because I didn't eat anything all day. Then I made nachos for dinner. Refried beans on the bottom, chips and cheese and corn and beans and Morningstar soy stuff and salsa verde and sour cream but not olives or halved cherry tomatoes because I didn't know I ran out of them so I didn't pick more up piled on top. In the oven at 375 for 10 minutes. Then I couldn't eat more than a few because I got an almond jammed up, point first, in the roof of my mouth the other day, right behind my front teeth and that little ridge that's there (feel it with your tongue) is now separated from the rest of my head and flapping down like an index fingertip. It's still bleeding, three days later. I should've probably gotten a stitch or two put in it, but work is busy these days and I just don't have the time. I wonder if it will ever close up or if I will spend my days like this. I decided to sterilize it before bed with a pintglass full of Crystal Light Fruit Punch and Bacardi. It isn't considered drinking alone if you are doing it for medicinal purposes.
Lust
What really lights your fire?
Nice teeth. Well shaped forearms and calves. Sweet leg hair and visible ankles. Tall sock wearers need not apply. Clean shaven necks. Tan lines. Brown hair and dark eyes. No Nordic features. I like the way wristwatches look. But hate it if I can smell them. Leatherbands are the leading contributor of watchrot, go stainless. Bulging pockets are icky. I like to eat, so a healthy appetite is a plus. I like to eat on the floor, tables are for suckers. Feed me like a picnicker and let me lay down after we are done. I need a minute to digest. I don't like ironed clothing. Who are these people who have time in their day to press their slacks? Get a damned life. I wish boys shaved their armpits. I love a shaved armpit. Beats the alternative, that matted deodorant-caked look. Smell good, not pretty.
Anger
What is the last thing that really pissed you off?
The City of Philadelphia, of course. It's contract time.
And Jake was a bastard last night, but he got sent to his room long enough for me to finish watching Season One of Rome on DVD. Being mean has it's perks.
Greed
Name something you hoard and keep from others:
Food. I don't share treats I buy for myself. My parents used to do the same to us kids, but we would sneak in their hideyholes and steal it anyway. I learned to hide it better, not that it was a jerky thing to do to people. My mom hid Archway Dutch Cocoa cookies and Corn Pops. My dad hid snack cakes and ice cream sandwiches. I have been known to squirrel away cake frosting in really rough times, graham crackers, Reese Pieces, peppered cashews, Hershey's miniatures, and Count Chocula cereal.
Sloth
What’s the laziest thing you ever did?
I routinely blow my nose in dirty shirts and underwear that're lying around if it's more convenient than getting up to get an acceptable snot receptacle. And when I used to wear contacts, and had the disposable kind, sometimes I would just take them out and swallow them rather than get off the couch and remove them properly. Breastfeeding was the lazy way out. Dammit if I was getting up to make and wash bottles. I was effing tired as it were, forget having extra chores.
Tag. Your it.
6.23.2009
more death (you'd think i was a 15 year old boy with emo hair and black polished fingernails)
For the first time in ages, I read the news today.
Oh boy.
Where do you think we go when we die?
The idea of the heaven is cute and warm and fuzzy, but I don't subscribe.
It's because I think I'm important and insignificant. I don't think you should have to earn or surrender your way into anything, like some sort of country club or that room in the airport where the rich people get to play, I don't like to think you can do whatever the hell you want as long as you have Jesus/Allah/schizophrenia/God/vodka. My brain isn't wired to accept that people can be punished forever and ever and ever. My brain isn't wired to believe you can be rewarded for murder or coercion but not simply for helping others and loving selflessly.
I seethe when people tell Jacob that people are in Heaven, watching him. One, how the heck do you know where the essence of your dead mother is, when you can't even find your keys? Two, your neighbor was a bitch, and if there is anywhere for her to go after she kicked it, it wasn't up. And don't tell my kid that people are secretly watching him. How would you feel if I told you that someone was secretly watching you? Not good. Jacob doesn't know what or where or why Heaven is. He doesn't need to know. He's only three. I teach him about things that he can understand through touch and sight and smell and taste and sound. Things he can grasp. We have time later for the bigger things.
If there is a place you go for eternity, you wouldn't be able to get out or see out. You're there and you're there for eternity.
Kind of (hopefully) like the hole they toss you in.
No angels or demons or couriers or dug up corpses.
I don't tend to believe we are anywhere for good. I find comfort in hauntings, real or imagined. The same way some people find comfort in the fact that someday they will be in Heaven with their family.
Reincarnation sounds nice.
There is a line in the movie Vanilla Sky where Sofia says "I'll tell you in another life, when we are both cats".
I want that. I want to lie together in a sunbeam, in one hundred years from now. Just you and me and our philosophy that won't matter much to anyone but us by then and we can laugh and laugh and laugh at how serious it all seemed now. Our biggest problem will be puking up chunks of our own hair. Won't that be nice?
Maybe we have endless go-arounds at things so we can truly understand what it is like to be one another. A man, a woman, sick, well, ugly, beautiful, rich, poor, repressive, oppressed, black, white, red, yellow. And then when we get through ourselves we move on to other things. A beloved kitten, a slaughtered pig, a work horse, a show dog, a beetle, a daisy, the wind, a tiny magnetic fraction of aurora borealis.
The idea of many lives makes it easier for me to understand why some people are so cruel. It's not that they are bad people, just a bit on the newer side of all this mess.
It makes it easier for me to understand why some people have it so hard. It's not that they are cursed, just that they are learning something. Something they will take with them and use to help pull others out of a shitty situation.
I like to think that when my life leaves me, it goes somewhere else to do other things. Like the way I explained treedeath to Jake.
I like to think that when your life leaves you, it goes somewhere to do something close to my life. If you are going to secretly watch me, I'd like you to do it by growing as roses on my front walk. I wanna be your dog. I like to think that we have been traveling in this twisty turny topsy turvy little pack of souls for ages. I love the immediate connection one finds with certain people that makes us feel that we've known one another forever. Maybe, just maybe...
Or maybe we don't go anywhere or do anything. That sounds delicious. We just curl up and cease to be. Our day is done. The world keeps on spinning. Yes please. I tend to get tired. I could use the rest.
You know, I don't really care what happens to us. I don't normally think about it, except every once in awhile when it comes up among friends or the JehovahsWitnessingMormonsbeingBornAgainasHariKrishnas come knocking or Jake is dropping hints that he may be thinking that this all ends. That sometimes we don't get better when we get sick or hit by a bus.
I don't worry about it, I don't work towards it, I don't cry about it, I accept it as part of life.
I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, why should I? It's going to happen anyway.
I was probably pretty freaked when I was being born, but that turned out okay. I'm confident death is the same. But I do loveLoveLOVE to know what people believe happens to them. So what is your take on this whole thing?
And while we are at it, I want to be cremated immediately, no viewing, no headstone, no service, no casket. Big party. Smiles instead of tears, because we had an awesome time while it lasted.
Earth to earth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes, funk to funky.
That's how I want to go out.
Oh boy.
Where do you think we go when we die?
The idea of the heaven is cute and warm and fuzzy, but I don't subscribe.
It's because I think I'm important and insignificant. I don't think you should have to earn or surrender your way into anything, like some sort of country club or that room in the airport where the rich people get to play, I don't like to think you can do whatever the hell you want as long as you have Jesus/Allah/schizophrenia/God/vodka. My brain isn't wired to accept that people can be punished forever and ever and ever. My brain isn't wired to believe you can be rewarded for murder or coercion but not simply for helping others and loving selflessly.
I seethe when people tell Jacob that people are in Heaven, watching him. One, how the heck do you know where the essence of your dead mother is, when you can't even find your keys? Two, your neighbor was a bitch, and if there is anywhere for her to go after she kicked it, it wasn't up. And don't tell my kid that people are secretly watching him. How would you feel if I told you that someone was secretly watching you? Not good. Jacob doesn't know what or where or why Heaven is. He doesn't need to know. He's only three. I teach him about things that he can understand through touch and sight and smell and taste and sound. Things he can grasp. We have time later for the bigger things.
If there is a place you go for eternity, you wouldn't be able to get out or see out. You're there and you're there for eternity.
Kind of (hopefully) like the hole they toss you in.
No angels or demons or couriers or dug up corpses.
I don't tend to believe we are anywhere for good. I find comfort in hauntings, real or imagined. The same way some people find comfort in the fact that someday they will be in Heaven with their family.
Reincarnation sounds nice.
There is a line in the movie Vanilla Sky where Sofia says "I'll tell you in another life, when we are both cats".
I want that. I want to lie together in a sunbeam, in one hundred years from now. Just you and me and our philosophy that won't matter much to anyone but us by then and we can laugh and laugh and laugh at how serious it all seemed now. Our biggest problem will be puking up chunks of our own hair. Won't that be nice?
Maybe we have endless go-arounds at things so we can truly understand what it is like to be one another. A man, a woman, sick, well, ugly, beautiful, rich, poor, repressive, oppressed, black, white, red, yellow. And then when we get through ourselves we move on to other things. A beloved kitten, a slaughtered pig, a work horse, a show dog, a beetle, a daisy, the wind, a tiny magnetic fraction of aurora borealis.
The idea of many lives makes it easier for me to understand why some people are so cruel. It's not that they are bad people, just a bit on the newer side of all this mess.
It makes it easier for me to understand why some people have it so hard. It's not that they are cursed, just that they are learning something. Something they will take with them and use to help pull others out of a shitty situation.
I like to think that when my life leaves me, it goes somewhere else to do other things. Like the way I explained treedeath to Jake.
I like to think that when your life leaves you, it goes somewhere to do something close to my life. If you are going to secretly watch me, I'd like you to do it by growing as roses on my front walk. I wanna be your dog. I like to think that we have been traveling in this twisty turny topsy turvy little pack of souls for ages. I love the immediate connection one finds with certain people that makes us feel that we've known one another forever. Maybe, just maybe...
Or maybe we don't go anywhere or do anything. That sounds delicious. We just curl up and cease to be. Our day is done. The world keeps on spinning. Yes please. I tend to get tired. I could use the rest.
You know, I don't really care what happens to us. I don't normally think about it, except every once in awhile when it comes up among friends or the JehovahsWitnessingMormonsbeingBornAgainasHariKrishnas come knocking or Jake is dropping hints that he may be thinking that this all ends. That sometimes we don't get better when we get sick or hit by a bus.
I don't worry about it, I don't work towards it, I don't cry about it, I accept it as part of life.
I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, why should I? It's going to happen anyway.
I was probably pretty freaked when I was being born, but that turned out okay. I'm confident death is the same. But I do loveLoveLOVE to know what people believe happens to them. So what is your take on this whole thing?
And while we are at it, I want to be cremated immediately, no viewing, no headstone, no service, no casket. Big party. Smiles instead of tears, because we had an awesome time while it lasted.
Earth to earth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes, funk to funky.
That's how I want to go out.
6.22.2009
my internets are in an uproar
My inbox is completely flooded since posting the following pictures on that blog where I post all the pictures that I don't want to share with bloglurkers I don't really know because I think it's creepy to share tons of pictures of my kid with the free world and I always question people's motives for wanting to look at pictures of children they don't necessarily love:
To all of you tear-shedders I say this.
It's only hair.
It will be back sooner than you can imagine.
I was tired of picking out the snots and the knots every ten minutes.
I didn't cry, but I was afraid he would totally ugg out with the absence his mop. He's looking pretty good though. And I'm sure that no one will tell me I'm dressing my little girl like a boy for at least three weeks.
And just in case you only love Jake because of his hair, here are a couple shots to get you through the loss.
o
That's not a herpes. Jake falls down a lot.
A lot a lot.
I'm surprised he isn't scabbier than he is.
To all of you tear-shedders I say this.It's only hair.
It will be back sooner than you can imagine.
I was tired of picking out the snots and the knots every ten minutes.
I didn't cry, but I was afraid he would totally ugg out with the absence his mop. He's looking pretty good though. And I'm sure that no one will tell me I'm dressing my little girl like a boy for at least three weeks.
And just in case you only love Jake because of his hair, here are a couple shots to get you through the loss.
o
That's not a herpes. Jake falls down a lot.A lot a lot.
I'm surprised he isn't scabbier than he is.
6.21.2009
the family who lives behind my house is having some problems.
some loud problems.
some problems they are making public.
i hear the words "hurt&sneak&liar&whore&asshole&kill&police".
i hear these words before noon.
the ones that come by nightfall are worse.
i've heard those words before.
i can guess the contents of their giant blue recycling bin.
i know why the newspapers are spread out on top.
thanks for being globally responsible.
please act locally.
they have a cat.
a white cat that i want to take.
not to replace my one that ran away
but i want to hold her.
and kiss her on the face and make sure nothing in her body is crushed.
eventually i'd go mad at the white hair all over my black couch.
but my couch is from ikea.
i can throw it in the wash every saturday for two years.
i love ikea.
i want that cat.
i wouldn't throw her at my cabinets.
they have a son.
about 16. maybe a bit older maybe not.
it's hard to tell these days.
he's seen me naked.
coincidentally.
not socially.
people in glass houses should wear robes.
i love my sliding glass wall, but sometimes forget to shut the drapes.
i've already given him more than i'm willing but wish i could take him away.
and the little girl i've see through the kitchen window too.
be careful of the broken glass.
be careful of that broken man.
is he your dad?
i want to bring her in my house and let her sleep as long as she would like.
i want to buy her something pink and let her spin in circles until she falls down.
every little girl deserves uninterrupted pink circles.
"get out", i want to tell the woman.
i don't care what you did. or what you need.
just leave.
tonight.
you don't know what you are doing to your son.
you don't know what you are teaching your daughter.
shut your windows.
my boy can hear you.
i don't want him to listen.
i don't want him to feel the way i feel.
i should be over this by now.
i thought i was.
everyone fights.
but not like this.
some loud problems.
some problems they are making public.
i hear the words "hurt&sneak&liar&whore&asshole&kill&police".
i hear these words before noon.
the ones that come by nightfall are worse.
i've heard those words before.
i can guess the contents of their giant blue recycling bin.
i know why the newspapers are spread out on top.
thanks for being globally responsible.
please act locally.
they have a cat.
a white cat that i want to take.
not to replace my one that ran away
but i want to hold her.
and kiss her on the face and make sure nothing in her body is crushed.
eventually i'd go mad at the white hair all over my black couch.
but my couch is from ikea.
i can throw it in the wash every saturday for two years.
i love ikea.
i want that cat.
i wouldn't throw her at my cabinets.
they have a son.
about 16. maybe a bit older maybe not.
it's hard to tell these days.
he's seen me naked.
coincidentally.
not socially.
people in glass houses should wear robes.
i love my sliding glass wall, but sometimes forget to shut the drapes.
i've already given him more than i'm willing but wish i could take him away.
and the little girl i've see through the kitchen window too.
be careful of the broken glass.
be careful of that broken man.
is he your dad?
i want to bring her in my house and let her sleep as long as she would like.
i want to buy her something pink and let her spin in circles until she falls down.
every little girl deserves uninterrupted pink circles.
"get out", i want to tell the woman.
i don't care what you did. or what you need.
just leave.
tonight.
you don't know what you are doing to your son.
you don't know what you are teaching your daughter.
shut your windows.
my boy can hear you.
i don't want him to listen.
i don't want him to feel the way i feel.
i should be over this by now.
i thought i was.
everyone fights.
but not like this.
6.19.2009
So, learn me on something.
I've spent my entire adult life trying not to get pregnant. It works 99.9% of the time. Obviously.
I understand that some people spend time trying to get pregnant. Which I find weird.
To me, trying to get pregnant is like trying to get addicted to heroin.
Motherhood/heroin can make you feel really good- better than anything you can imagine has ever made you feel- but it's expensive and makes you miss work and your friends stop calling you and you get marks on your skin and your nose is always running and your hair goes uncombed and your house falls to shambles and you spend way too much time in the house eating beans out of cans and searching for change in the couch so you can pay your utility bills so the lights stay on so you can see what the hell it is you're doing.
But whatever. People try to get pregnant. By doing it.
I'm assuming.
You know how sometimes when you're doing it you might think about (insert your someone else of choice here)?
So when you're trying hard to get pregnant, are you thinking about babies while you are getting railed?
Because that's creepy.
I've spent my entire adult life trying not to get pregnant. It works 99.9% of the time. Obviously.
I understand that some people spend time trying to get pregnant. Which I find weird.
To me, trying to get pregnant is like trying to get addicted to heroin.
Motherhood/heroin can make you feel really good- better than anything you can imagine has ever made you feel- but it's expensive and makes you miss work and your friends stop calling you and you get marks on your skin and your nose is always running and your hair goes uncombed and your house falls to shambles and you spend way too much time in the house eating beans out of cans and searching for change in the couch so you can pay your utility bills so the lights stay on so you can see what the hell it is you're doing.
But whatever. People try to get pregnant. By doing it.
I'm assuming.
You know how sometimes when you're doing it you might think about (insert your someone else of choice here)?
So when you're trying hard to get pregnant, are you thinking about babies while you are getting railed?
Because that's creepy.
6.18.2009
roar
It's slow at work, and I don't really want that last post to be up at the top, and the other day I was sitting in a room full of crackheads who are not only working to get better but are also trying not to be homeless anymore and on top of all that are trying to deal with the fact that their daughters have been raped in the past 24 months and they were saying all sorts of stuff that really hit home and made me think.
It's amazing how wise some people can be.
It was almost like last weekend when I was listening to Amy Winehouse and nodding my head as if to say, "yes, yes! I really get it sister" or like the time that Britney Spears did a special to tell the world that she wasn't crazy but all she did was tell the world that she really was crazy and I sat on the edge of my couch with my fists balled up under my chin listening really really closely because "yes, yes! I really get it sister".
Almost like that.
So these women. Let's forget that they ended up homeless and addicted, okay? Let's just picture me in a room full of 30-something women who have some issues and were saying about how they were raised to be able to handle anything that life threw at them and their mothers showed them time and time again that a woman could do anything a man could do. And she could do it faster and better and prettier.
A woman can keep a job and a house and a family with or without a man. A woman could fix a car and a pipe and a scraped up knee all by herself. A woman could teach her sons how to be real men and her daughters how to be a man and a woman all wrapped up into one package so this is what these women did.
They grew up and went to school and learned the things they would need to get a job. Some of them went to college, some went right to work.
They all had babies, they all got married, but not necessarily in that order.
They all got divorced. Why? The usual stuff. But they all agreed that a huge part of it was because their men had a problem with the fact that they weren't needed. Loved, yes. Needed, no. These women could do it all by themselves and set out to prove it every day, leaving the man behind in her dust.
Men don't like that.
No one likes that.
Don't we do that ladies? Aren't we taught that? Aren't we teaching that to our girls? Shouldn't we be? I like that I can do just about anything by myself. I'm damn proud of that fact.
I don't need you or you or you or you to get my day done.
We all know I'm not one for pushing marriage or partnerships and I'm certainly not condoning the damsel in distress act. There is nothing that gets my bonnet bee buzzing like an airheaded giggly chick rubbing her toe into the ground with the same circles that her hair makes around her fingertips, but as I get a little older I see more of my friend's lives (and jobs and marriages and friendships and relationships and and and) start to fall apart because they refuse to accept help.
No one can do it like we can, right ladies? No one can whiten whites or brighten brights or cook a meal or shush the child or hit the Target or write a memo or bring home bacon or clean a clock the way we can.
But how important is it that everything is perfect?
At what cost?
I'm making an effort to accept help in all aspects of my life. It's hard for me. I'm a Class One Special Trained Control Freak. I'm shedding a bit of my pride and letting someone else take on the big projects at work. I used to be furious if Dave touched the washer, the dishes, my stuff that was tossed all over the floor. He might not do it like I do it, but it gets done. I learned long ago that Jake is better off being raised by the Village of my Choosing rather than hoarded up under my roof, learning to be a clone of his parents. I learned that my friends can listen and hug and suggest marvelous things.
Was I headed to crackdom and the streets by trying to be everything to everyone just because I could? Probably not. But I see how it happens.
There is a reason we are all different. It's the reason that we can all fit together so well.
Like one big shiny happy freaking puzzle.
It's amazing how wise some people can be.
It was almost like last weekend when I was listening to Amy Winehouse and nodding my head as if to say, "yes, yes! I really get it sister" or like the time that Britney Spears did a special to tell the world that she wasn't crazy but all she did was tell the world that she really was crazy and I sat on the edge of my couch with my fists balled up under my chin listening really really closely because "yes, yes! I really get it sister".
Almost like that.
So these women. Let's forget that they ended up homeless and addicted, okay? Let's just picture me in a room full of 30-something women who have some issues and were saying about how they were raised to be able to handle anything that life threw at them and their mothers showed them time and time again that a woman could do anything a man could do. And she could do it faster and better and prettier.
A woman can keep a job and a house and a family with or without a man. A woman could fix a car and a pipe and a scraped up knee all by herself. A woman could teach her sons how to be real men and her daughters how to be a man and a woman all wrapped up into one package so this is what these women did.
They grew up and went to school and learned the things they would need to get a job. Some of them went to college, some went right to work.
They all had babies, they all got married, but not necessarily in that order.
They all got divorced. Why? The usual stuff. But they all agreed that a huge part of it was because their men had a problem with the fact that they weren't needed. Loved, yes. Needed, no. These women could do it all by themselves and set out to prove it every day, leaving the man behind in her dust.
Men don't like that.
No one likes that.
Don't we do that ladies? Aren't we taught that? Aren't we teaching that to our girls? Shouldn't we be? I like that I can do just about anything by myself. I'm damn proud of that fact.
I don't need you or you or you or you to get my day done.
We all know I'm not one for pushing marriage or partnerships and I'm certainly not condoning the damsel in distress act. There is nothing that gets my bonnet bee buzzing like an airheaded giggly chick rubbing her toe into the ground with the same circles that her hair makes around her fingertips, but as I get a little older I see more of my friend's lives (and jobs and marriages and friendships and relationships and and and) start to fall apart because they refuse to accept help.
No one can do it like we can, right ladies? No one can whiten whites or brighten brights or cook a meal or shush the child or hit the Target or write a memo or bring home bacon or clean a clock the way we can.
But how important is it that everything is perfect?
At what cost?
I'm making an effort to accept help in all aspects of my life. It's hard for me. I'm a Class One Special Trained Control Freak. I'm shedding a bit of my pride and letting someone else take on the big projects at work. I used to be furious if Dave touched the washer, the dishes, my stuff that was tossed all over the floor. He might not do it like I do it, but it gets done. I learned long ago that Jake is better off being raised by the Village of my Choosing rather than hoarded up under my roof, learning to be a clone of his parents. I learned that my friends can listen and hug and suggest marvelous things.
Was I headed to crackdom and the streets by trying to be everything to everyone just because I could? Probably not. But I see how it happens.
There is a reason we are all different. It's the reason that we can all fit together so well.
Like one big shiny happy freaking puzzle.
girl stuff
I'm hoping my morning isn't any indication of how my day is going to go.
It wasn't bad, really. It was actually kind of nice. Now that my brain is okay with the fact that I may never see the sunshine again, getting up in the grey is actually welcome. Sometimes I want to shake my fist at the sun because I'm so angry when it gets all up in my face at 5:45. I shouldn't have to wear sunscreen to bed. That's just stupid.
Pesky bright wrinkle inducing bastage, I'm glad you're in hiding.
I haven't mentioned it to anyone, but I'm getting a little nervous about my upcoming routine biopsy. The last-last time they told me I was cancer-free it was a fluke. So I'm puking a little bit in my mouth because I'm scared that this last time they told me I was cancer-free might be a fluke too. Fingers crossed and moving onwards.
This morning.
This morning right before leaving for work I was in so much crotchal pain that I almost cried. It was horrible. I could hardly move. It was awful. Of course I had to look. I took off my pants, pulled down my underwear and found... a twist tie. There was a twist tie in my vagina. A twist tie. I mean, I love bread. But I don't love bread. I have no idea. I'm assuming it was in the laundry, got caught up in the crotch of my unders and worked it's way up. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Let's never talk about this again.
So, cancer checks. Long time readers know what that means~
Eye makeup! More specifically blue eye makeup.
Last year's blue eye makeup is still heavily in the rotation, and I'm loving it.
This year I picked up some L'oreal HIP in Showy, which I would recommend to anyone because it is so fabulous. Trust me when I tell you that every lady needs some blue in her life. Even if you just like to arrange to have the house to yourself and put on glammy make up and 4 inch heels and 4 inch hotpants and a white tank with no bra and a giant fauxdiamond ring and campy music to do your housework (or is that just me? because that's the only way I like do it).
Because it is dirt cheap and on sale at CVS, I also bought it in Flare.
Did you know me in the late 90's? Remember when I was obsessed with that orange Revlon eye shadow and I made you all try it on and it looked so different on all of us but so amazingly stunning that you all bought it? Well, this is the same stuff, but better. And now I'm wearing it (at work even!) with brown eyeliner instead of blue because I realized that with the blue I kind of looked like a Broncos helmet. Give me a break. I was a bit of a hotmess in the late 90s.
I think that orange is more flattering than this silly pink eyestuff that people are putting on their lids for some reason and it really works with my coloring. What's that? You ask?
Well, my hair looks like the streak that happens when you toss a cigarette butt in a toilet. That reddish, yellowish, brownish color.
And have you ever skimmed duckweed and tossed it on dry land? And it turns yellowish greenish brownish? My eyes look like that.
And I have freckles that mostly look like coffee with cream but some look like Spanish olives.
And the skin between them is kind of like those intra-office manila folders where you cross off your name and write in the next name.
I'm pretty.
Dammit.
Beauty doesn't have to be conventional.
And this is not a paid product endorsement. Just me letting you know that I love something that I bought at a drug store and if you feel like you need MAC eyeshadow or you might die (raises hand) but you're too brokeassed to buy it, L'oreal HIP is an acceptable substitute at a fraction of the cost. Plus, it's much cuter to buy expensive lip gloss or a compact because you can pull it out in front of people and show them how classy you are.
I just want to save my sistahs a buck or 40.
And I want you to stop thinking about the bread tie.
It wasn't bad, really. It was actually kind of nice. Now that my brain is okay with the fact that I may never see the sunshine again, getting up in the grey is actually welcome. Sometimes I want to shake my fist at the sun because I'm so angry when it gets all up in my face at 5:45. I shouldn't have to wear sunscreen to bed. That's just stupid.
Pesky bright wrinkle inducing bastage, I'm glad you're in hiding.
I haven't mentioned it to anyone, but I'm getting a little nervous about my upcoming routine biopsy. The last-last time they told me I was cancer-free it was a fluke. So I'm puking a little bit in my mouth because I'm scared that this last time they told me I was cancer-free might be a fluke too. Fingers crossed and moving onwards.
This morning.
This morning right before leaving for work I was in so much crotchal pain that I almost cried. It was horrible. I could hardly move. It was awful. Of course I had to look. I took off my pants, pulled down my underwear and found... a twist tie. There was a twist tie in my vagina. A twist tie. I mean, I love bread. But I don't love bread. I have no idea. I'm assuming it was in the laundry, got caught up in the crotch of my unders and worked it's way up. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Let's never talk about this again.
So, cancer checks. Long time readers know what that means~
Eye makeup! More specifically blue eye makeup.
Last year's blue eye makeup is still heavily in the rotation, and I'm loving it.
This year I picked up some L'oreal HIP in Showy, which I would recommend to anyone because it is so fabulous. Trust me when I tell you that every lady needs some blue in her life. Even if you just like to arrange to have the house to yourself and put on glammy make up and 4 inch heels and 4 inch hotpants and a white tank with no bra and a giant fauxdiamond ring and campy music to do your housework (or is that just me? because that's the only way I like do it).
Because it is dirt cheap and on sale at CVS, I also bought it in Flare.
Did you know me in the late 90's? Remember when I was obsessed with that orange Revlon eye shadow and I made you all try it on and it looked so different on all of us but so amazingly stunning that you all bought it? Well, this is the same stuff, but better. And now I'm wearing it (at work even!) with brown eyeliner instead of blue because I realized that with the blue I kind of looked like a Broncos helmet. Give me a break. I was a bit of a hotmess in the late 90s.
I think that orange is more flattering than this silly pink eyestuff that people are putting on their lids for some reason and it really works with my coloring. What's that? You ask?
Well, my hair looks like the streak that happens when you toss a cigarette butt in a toilet. That reddish, yellowish, brownish color.
And have you ever skimmed duckweed and tossed it on dry land? And it turns yellowish greenish brownish? My eyes look like that.
And I have freckles that mostly look like coffee with cream but some look like Spanish olives.
And the skin between them is kind of like those intra-office manila folders where you cross off your name and write in the next name.
I'm pretty.
Dammit.
Beauty doesn't have to be conventional.
And this is not a paid product endorsement. Just me letting you know that I love something that I bought at a drug store and if you feel like you need MAC eyeshadow or you might die (raises hand) but you're too brokeassed to buy it, L'oreal HIP is an acceptable substitute at a fraction of the cost. Plus, it's much cuter to buy expensive lip gloss or a compact because you can pull it out in front of people and show them how classy you are.
I just want to save my sistahs a buck or 40.
And I want you to stop thinking about the bread tie.
6.17.2009
3.25
It's not that I wish away days, exactly. It's that sometimes I look forward to the next thing.
I'm ashamed to say that I've been doing that a lot lately.
Three is proving to be, um, well, interesting. The first quarter of it let me know that everyone was right when they said that three is worse than two. Jake was a dreamchild at two. Not to say this is a nightmare, but it has definitely been toss&turny.
Jake is much more independent now than ever before, which is nice. I manage to read at least 50 pages in whatever it is that I'm reading these days without little fingers smudging up my pages. That hasn't happened since Christmas of oh-five. Even in the belly this kid had me running around. My house isn't gross anymore. I get time to clean while Jake is playing with his cars or trains or shoveling landscaping rocks from one pile to another in the backyard. I will readily and loudly admit to using television as a babysitter from time to time. It hasn't worked this well since the day Jake figured out how to climb out of his playpen.
We are plugging away at spelling small words. Names and numbers and colors, mostly. And of course the obligatory cat rat hat mat dog log frog bog car jar tar stuff. I didn't think to start with this stuff this early, but Jake needs to know how everything is spelled, and needs to sound things out, and needs to be a creepy overachiever that makes me worry that he will be the next Unabomber.
I learned to read at three with the help of my librarian grandmother so I guess he is keeping with par. She always told me that if I knew how to read there is nothing in the world that I couldn't know because every answer is in a book. Well, I don't know about that, but I know that being a good reader has made my life pretty damned easy.
If you ever buy anything for Jake, don't bother unless it's red. He won't want it.
If you ever buy anything for Jake, he's still way into McQueen. Disney is pure horrid genius, with their producting that appeals to children from age 2-10. I'm working hard to be sure that he never sees another marketable movie until he's in fifth grade so I don't need to change up the trend in our house. I'm okay with McQueens and Maters and Sallys rolling out of my ears for another seven years. I'm used to it.
I've contacted every mother of a three year old that I know because I wanted to make sure that they were going through the same crap I am. The same type of non-listening, bossy, impatient, obstinate child that is driving me up the walls is driving them up the walls too. It's like a memo went out over Nick Jr. or something.
Between bouts of impossibleness, Jake is doing pretty well with the charming and the loving and the butterfly kissing and the tickling and the cuddling so he gets to stay in the house. For now.
Jake loves to play board games. Jake likes Candyland, but thinks it's for babies now that he knows a two year old can play it thanks to daycare. Chutes and Ladders has gone untouched for three weeks. The dominoes are getting dusty. I've spent about 7 hours since Monday playing Sorry. I'm thinking of picking up (the Pop-o-matic) Trouble next time I go to the store because I'm a little board of Sorry. Do they still make Trouble? Parcheesi? Aggravation? Clue? Pente? Those were the games I liked growing up. I haven't played a bored game in 20 years until this year. I hated them for a very long time, but now I realize that it beats running around on all fours pushing a car from the kitchen all the way up to the front window a million times. I'm getting old, and I just can't take the wood on my knees. Poor me.
Jake can be a sore loser, but I secretly like it when he pouts because I make him shake the winner's hand before going to sit in the corner and thinking about what it takes to be a good sport.
I love when that kid is in the corner. I have figured out a system to do a million things while he is there, out of my way. I'm colossal at conquering my entire house in the time it takes for Jake to figure out sportsmanship. Don't tell him, but there have been a few times when I cheated to win in anticipation of his getting fifteen minutes in the penalty box. This is why I know I'm a terrible mother. Because sometimes I need to poop all by myself after flipping the laundry, starting dinner, kissing the cat, washing the dishes, writing out a check, sweeping the floor, and watering the plants. All things that can't be done correctly with "help".
Bedtime is still my favorite time of day. I ask Jake if he has any questions for me and sometimes he blows me out of the water with whatever it is weighing on his little mind. If he doesn't have any questions for me, I ask him a question just to see what he thinks on a subject. Sometimes I ask him what a word means, or where something sleeps, or where something goes when we throw it away. Sometimes I ask him about lessons that we learned that day. Academic or otherwise. I love the way he thinks and retains information and warps it up and around until it fits into his worldview.
Jake's vocabulary is pretty advanced these days, but he still says some things that I refuse to correct. Like "last day" instead of yesterday. "Umpsinedown". "About me" instead of without me.
He's nearly obsessed with asking "what time it is?".
Bike riding is coming right along, with training wheels.
Swimming is okay. He loves being in the water but not so much the doing what he is supposed to be doing in there. I just got approval to take Thursday afternoons off from work so I'll be taking him to the pool then for an hour or so of pure playtime.
The neighborhood parks are always there in case we need them.
Jake's trying to hop and skip and jump on one foot. He's amazing at hitting a baseball but only slightly okay at catching it. He can kick a soccer ball better than his dad can. He wants to play football. He loves basketball and says he wants to learn to play tennis. I'm 32 and I've never once used a tennis racquet.
I thought Jake grew a bit but I measured him last night at 37.5, same as he was three months ago. His hands and feet look big, his face looks totally boyish and zero babyish, and his ribs don't stick out so much anymore. He's broken the 30 pound mark, but only by a hair. Despite eating everything in sight. Including almost two cans of black olives last night for desert. Ick. He can have them.
Poor kid wants to be big so bad that he tears up about it sometimes. It's adorably pathetic.
Have you ever seen him cry? All his tears get caught up between his eyelashes. He has to cry for a long time before the tears fall, thanks to his eighty mile long lashes. It's almost fun to watch, to bet on how many minutes before they reach the breaking point.
For our anniversary last Friday night, we drove Jake out to West Chester where Dave and I met back in 1994. It was so surreal to see a kid that we made run around the same campus that we ran around 15 years ago. Things never seem to change on campus, except for the newer buildings on the outskirts and a Starbucks that was saddled up to the library. When I'm there I always felt 18 years old no matter what the calendar says, but I've never been there with Jake before. My time space continuum came crashing down on itself. My clock has always been stopped in that little corner of that little town. Not so anymore.
I like time. I like to think about times past, I like to think about times come, I like to think about now.
I'm ashamed to say that I've been doing that a lot lately.
Three is proving to be, um, well, interesting. The first quarter of it let me know that everyone was right when they said that three is worse than two. Jake was a dreamchild at two. Not to say this is a nightmare, but it has definitely been toss&turny.
Jake is much more independent now than ever before, which is nice. I manage to read at least 50 pages in whatever it is that I'm reading these days without little fingers smudging up my pages. That hasn't happened since Christmas of oh-five. Even in the belly this kid had me running around. My house isn't gross anymore. I get time to clean while Jake is playing with his cars or trains or shoveling landscaping rocks from one pile to another in the backyard. I will readily and loudly admit to using television as a babysitter from time to time. It hasn't worked this well since the day Jake figured out how to climb out of his playpen.
We are plugging away at spelling small words. Names and numbers and colors, mostly. And of course the obligatory cat rat hat mat dog log frog bog car jar tar stuff. I didn't think to start with this stuff this early, but Jake needs to know how everything is spelled, and needs to sound things out, and needs to be a creepy overachiever that makes me worry that he will be the next Unabomber.
I learned to read at three with the help of my librarian grandmother so I guess he is keeping with par. She always told me that if I knew how to read there is nothing in the world that I couldn't know because every answer is in a book. Well, I don't know about that, but I know that being a good reader has made my life pretty damned easy.
If you ever buy anything for Jake, don't bother unless it's red. He won't want it.
If you ever buy anything for Jake, he's still way into McQueen. Disney is pure horrid genius, with their producting that appeals to children from age 2-10. I'm working hard to be sure that he never sees another marketable movie until he's in fifth grade so I don't need to change up the trend in our house. I'm okay with McQueens and Maters and Sallys rolling out of my ears for another seven years. I'm used to it.
I've contacted every mother of a three year old that I know because I wanted to make sure that they were going through the same crap I am. The same type of non-listening, bossy, impatient, obstinate child that is driving me up the walls is driving them up the walls too. It's like a memo went out over Nick Jr. or something.
Between bouts of impossibleness, Jake is doing pretty well with the charming and the loving and the butterfly kissing and the tickling and the cuddling so he gets to stay in the house. For now.
Jake loves to play board games. Jake likes Candyland, but thinks it's for babies now that he knows a two year old can play it thanks to daycare. Chutes and Ladders has gone untouched for three weeks. The dominoes are getting dusty. I've spent about 7 hours since Monday playing Sorry. I'm thinking of picking up (the Pop-o-matic) Trouble next time I go to the store because I'm a little board of Sorry. Do they still make Trouble? Parcheesi? Aggravation? Clue? Pente? Those were the games I liked growing up. I haven't played a bored game in 20 years until this year. I hated them for a very long time, but now I realize that it beats running around on all fours pushing a car from the kitchen all the way up to the front window a million times. I'm getting old, and I just can't take the wood on my knees. Poor me.
Jake can be a sore loser, but I secretly like it when he pouts because I make him shake the winner's hand before going to sit in the corner and thinking about what it takes to be a good sport.
I love when that kid is in the corner. I have figured out a system to do a million things while he is there, out of my way. I'm colossal at conquering my entire house in the time it takes for Jake to figure out sportsmanship. Don't tell him, but there have been a few times when I cheated to win in anticipation of his getting fifteen minutes in the penalty box. This is why I know I'm a terrible mother. Because sometimes I need to poop all by myself after flipping the laundry, starting dinner, kissing the cat, washing the dishes, writing out a check, sweeping the floor, and watering the plants. All things that can't be done correctly with "help".
Bedtime is still my favorite time of day. I ask Jake if he has any questions for me and sometimes he blows me out of the water with whatever it is weighing on his little mind. If he doesn't have any questions for me, I ask him a question just to see what he thinks on a subject. Sometimes I ask him what a word means, or where something sleeps, or where something goes when we throw it away. Sometimes I ask him about lessons that we learned that day. Academic or otherwise. I love the way he thinks and retains information and warps it up and around until it fits into his worldview.
Jake's vocabulary is pretty advanced these days, but he still says some things that I refuse to correct. Like "last day" instead of yesterday. "Umpsinedown". "About me" instead of without me.
He's nearly obsessed with asking "what time it is?".
Bike riding is coming right along, with training wheels.
Swimming is okay. He loves being in the water but not so much the doing what he is supposed to be doing in there. I just got approval to take Thursday afternoons off from work so I'll be taking him to the pool then for an hour or so of pure playtime.
The neighborhood parks are always there in case we need them.
Jake's trying to hop and skip and jump on one foot. He's amazing at hitting a baseball but only slightly okay at catching it. He can kick a soccer ball better than his dad can. He wants to play football. He loves basketball and says he wants to learn to play tennis. I'm 32 and I've never once used a tennis racquet.
I thought Jake grew a bit but I measured him last night at 37.5, same as he was three months ago. His hands and feet look big, his face looks totally boyish and zero babyish, and his ribs don't stick out so much anymore. He's broken the 30 pound mark, but only by a hair. Despite eating everything in sight. Including almost two cans of black olives last night for desert. Ick. He can have them.
Poor kid wants to be big so bad that he tears up about it sometimes. It's adorably pathetic.
Have you ever seen him cry? All his tears get caught up between his eyelashes. He has to cry for a long time before the tears fall, thanks to his eighty mile long lashes. It's almost fun to watch, to bet on how many minutes before they reach the breaking point.
For our anniversary last Friday night, we drove Jake out to West Chester where Dave and I met back in 1994. It was so surreal to see a kid that we made run around the same campus that we ran around 15 years ago. Things never seem to change on campus, except for the newer buildings on the outskirts and a Starbucks that was saddled up to the library. When I'm there I always felt 18 years old no matter what the calendar says, but I've never been there with Jake before. My time space continuum came crashing down on itself. My clock has always been stopped in that little corner of that little town. Not so anymore.
I like time. I like to think about times past, I like to think about times come, I like to think about now.
6.16.2009
I had lunch with Teresa from Tales from Toddlerdom and Mommyhood this afternoon. Teresa also has an online boutique here, which is worth checking out. Last January, Teresa posted about butterflies and loss and reincarnation and love and I think of that post almost every day.
I am constantly seeing little things that remind me of people I lost. A candy, a coffee, a cologne, a car. Little tiny things that happen every day every where to every one but mean something to me. I like it. It reminds me that even though people are gone from my life, they aren't gone from my heart. Sometimes I see big things that remind me of people I lost. Not big in size, but big in meaning. It helps me make sense of the world.
When I think about it, I almost feel bad because I never cry over losing someone. A few tears, sure, but they are for me, not for the dead person.
They're dead.
That happens to everyone.
It's like crying on tax day.
I cry for me.
I'm such a jerk.
Then again, I've never lost anyone closer than a grandparent and a few close acquaintances. A friend's child who I never got a chance to see. A cracked out co-worker. Who still owes me $5. Dammit.
Teresa lost her mom. A lot of my friends are losing their parents. We are at that tweener age where some of us have moms and dads in their 50s and some of us have moms and dads in their 70s. Lots of my friends are Oops!Babies. I love grownup Oops!Babies. They are usually fun people. Fun people who lose a parent by the time they are in their mid thirties. It's strange to watch because I feel like we are just babies but all this adult stuff happens to us.
I guess it's not really considered tragic if you lose a parent after you grow up. It's not really unexpected. Not really traumatic, provided the person goes quietly. Not really anything but just the way it's supposed to be.
I feel lucky that I still have both parents. I am happy they got to see my kid, got to love him, and got to know him now that he's big enough to love them back.
If I lost one today, I like to think that I am completely okay and at terms with the way my relationship is with them and I like to think that nothing has gone unsaid and that they would pass away quietly, feeling the same.
If I died today, I like to think that my mom and dad would be grateful for my 32 weird years here and they would be confident in the job they did with me. I turned out pretty well. I've had a lot of fun. Been a lot of places. Did a lot of things. More than most people get to have and be and do.
My dad would think I was burning in Hell, but since I don't believe in Hell I don't believe he has anything to worry about so that's his damn problem. My mom would think I was was not burning in Hell so I'm guessing she might take it a little bit better. She would probably shake her head at my dad and think "Jesus, Roy. Pull yourself together.".
I would. I've seen him need to pull himself together. I shook my head and said "Jesus, Dad. Pull yourself together.".
You know what else I'm thinking of? How when we grow up and get to know our parents we realize what jerks our grandparents might have been back in the days when they were just plain old parents, nothing grand about them.
How those things about our parents that just. aren't. right. came from somewhere. Your grandma might have been a stark raving lunatic bitch before you were born, and grandad might have come right back at her with his surly bastard ways and your parents and aunts and uncles got caught smack in the middle of all the madness and did lots of hippiedippy drugs or danced all silly and mashed potatoey to cope and all the drugs and dancing did was smash it into repression and then it all came flooding out when you were born and you got the worst of it. And that's why your parents are so effed and that's why you are the way you are with your issues and such and hopefully your great-great-grandma's oldentimey dysfunction isn't getting passed on to your kiddo as we speak. Type. Read.
Don't eff up your kid just because your family is effed.
Or something.
Lawdknows I'm trying not to.
I am constantly seeing little things that remind me of people I lost. A candy, a coffee, a cologne, a car. Little tiny things that happen every day every where to every one but mean something to me. I like it. It reminds me that even though people are gone from my life, they aren't gone from my heart. Sometimes I see big things that remind me of people I lost. Not big in size, but big in meaning. It helps me make sense of the world.
When I think about it, I almost feel bad because I never cry over losing someone. A few tears, sure, but they are for me, not for the dead person.
They're dead.
That happens to everyone.
It's like crying on tax day.
I cry for me.
I'm such a jerk.
Then again, I've never lost anyone closer than a grandparent and a few close acquaintances. A friend's child who I never got a chance to see. A cracked out co-worker. Who still owes me $5. Dammit.
Teresa lost her mom. A lot of my friends are losing their parents. We are at that tweener age where some of us have moms and dads in their 50s and some of us have moms and dads in their 70s. Lots of my friends are Oops!Babies. I love grownup Oops!Babies. They are usually fun people. Fun people who lose a parent by the time they are in their mid thirties. It's strange to watch because I feel like we are just babies but all this adult stuff happens to us.
I guess it's not really considered tragic if you lose a parent after you grow up. It's not really unexpected. Not really traumatic, provided the person goes quietly. Not really anything but just the way it's supposed to be.
I feel lucky that I still have both parents. I am happy they got to see my kid, got to love him, and got to know him now that he's big enough to love them back.
If I lost one today, I like to think that I am completely okay and at terms with the way my relationship is with them and I like to think that nothing has gone unsaid and that they would pass away quietly, feeling the same.
If I died today, I like to think that my mom and dad would be grateful for my 32 weird years here and they would be confident in the job they did with me. I turned out pretty well. I've had a lot of fun. Been a lot of places. Did a lot of things. More than most people get to have and be and do.
My dad would think I was burning in Hell, but since I don't believe in Hell I don't believe he has anything to worry about so that's his damn problem. My mom would think I was was not burning in Hell so I'm guessing she might take it a little bit better. She would probably shake her head at my dad and think "Jesus, Roy. Pull yourself together.".
I would. I've seen him need to pull himself together. I shook my head and said "Jesus, Dad. Pull yourself together.".
You know what else I'm thinking of? How when we grow up and get to know our parents we realize what jerks our grandparents might have been back in the days when they were just plain old parents, nothing grand about them.
How those things about our parents that just. aren't. right. came from somewhere. Your grandma might have been a stark raving lunatic bitch before you were born, and grandad might have come right back at her with his surly bastard ways and your parents and aunts and uncles got caught smack in the middle of all the madness and did lots of hippiedippy drugs or danced all silly and mashed potatoey to cope and all the drugs and dancing did was smash it into repression and then it all came flooding out when you were born and you got the worst of it. And that's why your parents are so effed and that's why you are the way you are with your issues and such and hopefully your great-great-grandma's oldentimey dysfunction isn't getting passed on to your kiddo as we speak. Type. Read.
Don't eff up your kid just because your family is effed.
Or something.
Lawdknows I'm trying not to.
6.13.2009
how i do
One of my real lifers wants to start a blog, but doesn't know where to start. So guess who she came to? This girl, who has 13 blogs on her dashboard with 5 in her deleted options blogger box.
I have a lot to say.
No one wants to constantly hear the noises that come out of my head in real life. No one. I understand that. I don't like to listen to people either. But I do like to talk. And I like to read. That's why me and blogs are tight.
I told her that I learned a long time ago that if you are going to talk as much as I do you need to give your non-computer people some downtime. So I write. It started out as pen and paper stuff, mostly. But then I got in on the internet and found some people who will listen to me when I can't get any face time with my flesh&blooders.
I also learned that if you are going to talk as much as I do you best be slightly funny, because people need a reason to not do their grocery list in their heads while you go on and on about your tiny silly life that means nothing to nobody but you and your cat. Especially when you're me because I tend to rant and say things that probably shouldn't be said in front of too many people so I use humor as a cushion.
Softly, softly.
I learned that if you are going to be me and have my kneejerk, undereducated opinions, you best let everyone know right away that you know you are only half sane and you know you are pretty far out on the limb and you truly do hate and love everyone equally regardless of anything.
I learned that skin has to be as thick as Coke bottles because people like to talk back and rightfully so.
I love a talker backer.
I like a little sass.
If we were face to face right now you would see that I'm sticking out my butt and slapping it with four fingers that I just licked.
I just did that for reals so I wouldn't be lying. My cat jumped at the smacky sound.
Sorry Tyler.
Poor Tyler, she's so old. 12 years old on the 21st.
That's 84 in dog years.
So then my friend asked how I come up with stuff to blog about, and I told her that I usually blog when I feel like talking but no one is around to listen. I just type the things that I would say if we were all standing around in the kitchen together. I don't change it any because then I feel like I wasn't being true to myself, and that's most important to me in all this. This is MY blog. I don't swear in the kitchen as much as I do here, because I'm a lady, dammit. But my brain swears sometimes, so I let the bad words sneak in here.
There aren't too many people who read this who come back for Jake updates like in the olden days so I'm okay with typing about ME. Most of my family ditched me here because they don't like my tone.
These are the same people who washed my mouth out when I was a little girl.
I've always been mouthy.
Always.
When my mouth got washed out, I bit down on the soggy slimey bar which would be scraped across the backs of my teeth and I would have to sit in the corner for a v.e.r.y l.o.n.g t.i.m.e without rinsing. I still freak the eff out if I get a tiny bit of soap in my mouth. In fact, I don't even really wash my face just in case some bubbles slip in.
I wish that was a joke. The blackheads and pubescenty pimples you can't see from where you sit authenticate my story.
I never said a bad word until seventh grade. It was "shit". I prayed for forgiveness for three years after it passed my lips. Then I said "freaking" when I was 15 and I didn't get struck by lightening. Somehow. Despite playing in the rain wearing underwire bras. I still don't like when people swear. I feel bad for them because they don't have an adequate vocabulary in life and because they will burn in hell in death.
Just saying.
What the he-hockeysticks am I talking about?
Oh, blogging.
So I pretty much just assume you all are my besties and so I talk to you the way I talk in real life about things that sometimes I don't get a chance to get off my chest when my mouth is flapping.
Sometimes I find myself re-telling stories to people, always prefaced with "I don't know if you read my blog so I'm sorry if you already know this but..." and I go ahead and tell the story again, sometimes more thoroughly and with funny faces and grandiose hand gestures. I always assume that reading something and hearing something are equally amusing and slightly different.
I'm secretly in love with myself so I figure everyone else is too and they just can't get enough of me so doubletalking is totally acceptable.
Don't hesitate to correct me if I'm wrong.
I probably need to hear that.
I only say about 70% of what I have to say because I like to save the heavy stuff for the people I email back and forth with after they comment. Are you one of those people? Because if you're not, you're really missing the good stuff.
Am I right, loyal commenters?
You guys know things about me that most of my real life friends don't know. It's so easy to talk to you when I don't have to look at your eyeballs and you tell me secrets about you in exchange. That's my favorite part about blogging.
The release.
So how about you?
How do you do your blog?
I have a lot to say.
No one wants to constantly hear the noises that come out of my head in real life. No one. I understand that. I don't like to listen to people either. But I do like to talk. And I like to read. That's why me and blogs are tight.
I told her that I learned a long time ago that if you are going to talk as much as I do you need to give your non-computer people some downtime. So I write. It started out as pen and paper stuff, mostly. But then I got in on the internet and found some people who will listen to me when I can't get any face time with my flesh&blooders.
I also learned that if you are going to talk as much as I do you best be slightly funny, because people need a reason to not do their grocery list in their heads while you go on and on about your tiny silly life that means nothing to nobody but you and your cat. Especially when you're me because I tend to rant and say things that probably shouldn't be said in front of too many people so I use humor as a cushion.
Softly, softly.
I learned that if you are going to be me and have my kneejerk, undereducated opinions, you best let everyone know right away that you know you are only half sane and you know you are pretty far out on the limb and you truly do hate and love everyone equally regardless of anything.
I learned that skin has to be as thick as Coke bottles because people like to talk back and rightfully so.
I love a talker backer.
I like a little sass.
If we were face to face right now you would see that I'm sticking out my butt and slapping it with four fingers that I just licked.
I just did that for reals so I wouldn't be lying. My cat jumped at the smacky sound.
Sorry Tyler.
Poor Tyler, she's so old. 12 years old on the 21st.
That's 84 in dog years.
So then my friend asked how I come up with stuff to blog about, and I told her that I usually blog when I feel like talking but no one is around to listen. I just type the things that I would say if we were all standing around in the kitchen together. I don't change it any because then I feel like I wasn't being true to myself, and that's most important to me in all this. This is MY blog. I don't swear in the kitchen as much as I do here, because I'm a lady, dammit. But my brain swears sometimes, so I let the bad words sneak in here.
There aren't too many people who read this who come back for Jake updates like in the olden days so I'm okay with typing about ME. Most of my family ditched me here because they don't like my tone.
These are the same people who washed my mouth out when I was a little girl.
I've always been mouthy.
Always.
When my mouth got washed out, I bit down on the soggy slimey bar which would be scraped across the backs of my teeth and I would have to sit in the corner for a v.e.r.y l.o.n.g t.i.m.e without rinsing. I still freak the eff out if I get a tiny bit of soap in my mouth. In fact, I don't even really wash my face just in case some bubbles slip in.
I wish that was a joke. The blackheads and pubescenty pimples you can't see from where you sit authenticate my story.
I never said a bad word until seventh grade. It was "shit". I prayed for forgiveness for three years after it passed my lips. Then I said "freaking" when I was 15 and I didn't get struck by lightening. Somehow. Despite playing in the rain wearing underwire bras. I still don't like when people swear. I feel bad for them because they don't have an adequate vocabulary in life and because they will burn in hell in death.
Just saying.
What the he-hockeysticks am I talking about?
Oh, blogging.
So I pretty much just assume you all are my besties and so I talk to you the way I talk in real life about things that sometimes I don't get a chance to get off my chest when my mouth is flapping.
Sometimes I find myself re-telling stories to people, always prefaced with "I don't know if you read my blog so I'm sorry if you already know this but..." and I go ahead and tell the story again, sometimes more thoroughly and with funny faces and grandiose hand gestures. I always assume that reading something and hearing something are equally amusing and slightly different.
I'm secretly in love with myself so I figure everyone else is too and they just can't get enough of me so doubletalking is totally acceptable.
Don't hesitate to correct me if I'm wrong.
I probably need to hear that.
I only say about 70% of what I have to say because I like to save the heavy stuff for the people I email back and forth with after they comment. Are you one of those people? Because if you're not, you're really missing the good stuff.
Am I right, loyal commenters?
You guys know things about me that most of my real life friends don't know. It's so easy to talk to you when I don't have to look at your eyeballs and you tell me secrets about you in exchange. That's my favorite part about blogging.
The release.
So how about you?
How do you do your blog?
6.12.2009
ten
Ten years ago today Dave and I got married.
We had no money.
We had no jobs.
We were both going to grad school in the fall but we didn't know what or where we wanted to be when we grew up.
The only thing of value that we owned was a beat-up dozen-year-old hand-me-down Chevy. I think my engagement ring was worth more than that car.
We didn't plan on having kids, but there was talk of a dog someday. We just didn't think Tyler was ready for it.
We were already living together for practically five years and we were certainly doing it. There was no saving oneself for marriage here. That's a stupid rule. Can you imagine marrying someone only to find out that there was no spark in the sexytime? Or he had a weird penis AND that he didn't pick up his dirty socks or put the toiletseat down or left his Qtips on the sink or or or or? That's stuff you should know about someone before you sign the ownership papers.
We didn't live alone after the ceremony. We went from 2 years of living next door to one another in the dorms to 3 years of having our own apartment to moving in with two friends. That lasted less than one year.
We didn't ever want to buy a house. That's too much trouble and responsibility. We were secretly happy when the car disappeared one day.
We didn't have a solid plan for the future and we weren't even sure where the past disappeared to.
We were just in love.
And that's proved to be as good a reason as any.
We've been rich, we've been poor, we've been sick, we've been health, we've been worse, and it's only getting better.
We had no money.
We had no jobs.
We were both going to grad school in the fall but we didn't know what or where we wanted to be when we grew up.
The only thing of value that we owned was a beat-up dozen-year-old hand-me-down Chevy. I think my engagement ring was worth more than that car.
We didn't plan on having kids, but there was talk of a dog someday. We just didn't think Tyler was ready for it.
We were already living together for practically five years and we were certainly doing it. There was no saving oneself for marriage here. That's a stupid rule. Can you imagine marrying someone only to find out that there was no spark in the sexytime? Or he had a weird penis AND that he didn't pick up his dirty socks or put the toiletseat down or left his Qtips on the sink or or or or? That's stuff you should know about someone before you sign the ownership papers.
We didn't live alone after the ceremony. We went from 2 years of living next door to one another in the dorms to 3 years of having our own apartment to moving in with two friends. That lasted less than one year.
We didn't ever want to buy a house. That's too much trouble and responsibility. We were secretly happy when the car disappeared one day.
We didn't have a solid plan for the future and we weren't even sure where the past disappeared to.
We were just in love.
And that's proved to be as good a reason as any.
We've been rich, we've been poor, we've been sick, we've been health, we've been worse, and it's only getting better.
6.11.2009
clean up
That last post can't sit at the top of my page.
People will think I have an adjustment disorder or an anger management problem or some sort of problems with sobriety or something.
Clearly I have some underlying decades-old issues that, through the miracle of blogging and follow-up email conversations with my extremely insightful and experienced readers and years of therapy and walking around the block eighty times with 79 different mental health professional co-workers, I have worked my way through at an impressionably measurable pace.
The take home lesson is, if you don't want to make my neckhairs stand up:
Don't blame others for your problems.
Don't assume that I will judge your flaws.
Take ownership of yourself and your actions.
Find strength in yourself before you seek it elsewhere.
Leave well enough the hell alone.
I like helping people, I like when people help themselves. No one should have to live with an addiction, so I'm very happy when people work to clean themselves up. This is the first time I think I've ever really been angry like this. The fact that this is the first time in 6 or so years that I heard from this girl gets me in a bunch. The fact that she basically felt she needed to bring me into her Step 8&9 amends-making to let me know that she was sorry she let me turn her into an alcoholic makes me want to spit. That's not what she is supposed to be doing, I hope she is ready to have come this far along. I hope she doesn't crash. I've never even bought her a drink. She was drunk when I met her. It was 11am. At work.
Taking care of someone in a drunken stupor is not enabling that person to put themselves in a drunken stupor.
Maybe it is. Who knows.
It's done.
I'm taking the rest of the week to re-focus on the glad parts of getting older, not the sad bad mad parts.
I'm wondering if I should write one of those About Me sections for my blog. Does anyone really care? Is there anything really left that I haven't already shared here that I'm willing to put on the internet?
It's just that I love the About Me sections. It's my favorite part of everyone's blog.
I can't believe I'm having a hard time coming up with an essay on myself.
People will think I have an adjustment disorder or an anger management problem or some sort of problems with sobriety or something.
Clearly I have some underlying decades-old issues that, through the miracle of blogging and follow-up email conversations with my extremely insightful and experienced readers and years of therapy and walking around the block eighty times with 79 different mental health professional co-workers, I have worked my way through at an impressionably measurable pace.
The take home lesson is, if you don't want to make my neckhairs stand up:
Don't blame others for your problems.
Don't assume that I will judge your flaws.
Take ownership of yourself and your actions.
Find strength in yourself before you seek it elsewhere.
Leave well enough the hell alone.
I like helping people, I like when people help themselves. No one should have to live with an addiction, so I'm very happy when people work to clean themselves up. This is the first time I think I've ever really been angry like this. The fact that this is the first time in 6 or so years that I heard from this girl gets me in a bunch. The fact that she basically felt she needed to bring me into her Step 8&9 amends-making to let me know that she was sorry she let me turn her into an alcoholic makes me want to spit. That's not what she is supposed to be doing, I hope she is ready to have come this far along. I hope she doesn't crash. I've never even bought her a drink. She was drunk when I met her. It was 11am. At work.
Taking care of someone in a drunken stupor is not enabling that person to put themselves in a drunken stupor.
Maybe it is. Who knows.
It's done.
I'm taking the rest of the week to re-focus on the glad parts of getting older, not the sad bad mad parts.
***
I'm wondering if I should write one of those About Me sections for my blog. Does anyone really care? Is there anything really left that I haven't already shared here that I'm willing to put on the internet?
It's just that I love the About Me sections. It's my favorite part of everyone's blog.
I can't believe I'm having a hard time coming up with an essay on myself.
6.10.2009
ranting anonymous
Have you ever lost a friend to addiction?
I don't mean like they die or anything. That's too deep for this blog.
I mean like you are a person, place, or thing that they have to give up so they get sober.
I have.
More than once.
I am a person. My presence is a place. My awesomeness is a thing.
"If you hang out in the barbershop, eventually you'll get a haircut". That's what they say in AA. Watch out, I have scissors. And a really fun chair that goes up and down when I push this metal thing with my toe.
First off, I understand and support and wish everyone who is seeking sobriety the best in life, even if I can't be there to get to know the real person behind the $100 bartabs and hair that I get to hold.
So says my sensibilitiness.
But you know what?
And here it comes...
Listen, Girlie. Fuck that. I broke up with YOU, bitch. I broke up with you because you were just too much and you know what? I dumped your drunk ass way before I had my baby but I erased you from my life when he was born because I did that with everyone who I wouldn't leave with my child in the case of an emergency because I don't trust you.
I don't trust you because of what you did to your friends, your family, your damned self. You took what we all had and soured it. I loved you. I loved us. We were so effing fat! Remember? We still could be, but you didn't listen. You didn't listen to any of us when we asked you to stop. When we suggested that we go see a movie rather than go to the bar. When we thought that it wasn't cute that you almost drank nail polish remover. When you didn't remember if you went home with that guy. And that guy. And that guy. And that girl. You did. Every time.
I know why you called. You didn't call me to apologize to me because you thought I needed to hear that you were sorry. I know your ass is sorry.
You called because it is one of the steps. Number 8. Only 4 more to go, and I think you'll be good at Number 12 if you make it.
Don't you remember where I work? I've helped people sober up. People have paid me to do that. Because I'm good at it. I do that because I know how out of control it can get. I've seen it. I've lived it. Why do you think I stuck by you for so long?
I tried. I tried so I could sleep at night. I tried because I cared more than you did, and I know you needed someone. I tried so I could at least shrug my shoulders and say I tried.
I understand that you aren't at a point where we can do nondrinky things together, but if you ever are, I want you to know that I'm a good time when I'm sober. I want you to know that I stayed sober so many times that you didn't. You always assumed everyone was as drunk as you were. No one was as drunk as you were.
Good luck. Godspeed. Good bye. I can't watch you turn your heart from gin to Jesus but I'll be here when it's over. That's hard for me to stomach. I don't trust that process. I try, but I can't. I never say this aloud, but I've seen too many people substitute their Higher Power* for their booze. I have a hard time buying someone's faith if it is only as strong as a vodka tonic. The addiction doesn't go away, it transfers. But whatevs. Sometimes it works and that's what counts.
I hope it works for you and if I ever see your name on the front page of the paper it doesn't direct me to page 2B.
*when I worked a SOA (Sex Offender Anonymous) group, one of our guys used his dog as his Higher Power. He said he was "so damn backwards that Dog was God". That's funny. He was a riot. Sometimes people who do bad things tell good jokes.
One guy used the tree in front of his house. He planted it with his grandad and his daddy when he was a little boy. It was his earliest memory. I liked that guy too. Not the baby raping part, but the sentimental tree hugging part.
I don't mean like they die or anything. That's too deep for this blog.
I mean like you are a person, place, or thing that they have to give up so they get sober.
I have.
More than once.
I am a person. My presence is a place. My awesomeness is a thing.
"If you hang out in the barbershop, eventually you'll get a haircut". That's what they say in AA. Watch out, I have scissors. And a really fun chair that goes up and down when I push this metal thing with my toe.
First off, I understand and support and wish everyone who is seeking sobriety the best in life, even if I can't be there to get to know the real person behind the $100 bartabs and hair that I get to hold.
So says my sensibilitiness.
But you know what?
And here it comes...
Listen, Girlie. Fuck that. I broke up with YOU, bitch. I broke up with you because you were just too much and you know what? I dumped your drunk ass way before I had my baby but I erased you from my life when he was born because I did that with everyone who I wouldn't leave with my child in the case of an emergency because I don't trust you.
I don't trust you because of what you did to your friends, your family, your damned self. You took what we all had and soured it. I loved you. I loved us. We were so effing fat! Remember? We still could be, but you didn't listen. You didn't listen to any of us when we asked you to stop. When we suggested that we go see a movie rather than go to the bar. When we thought that it wasn't cute that you almost drank nail polish remover. When you didn't remember if you went home with that guy. And that guy. And that guy. And that girl. You did. Every time.
I know why you called. You didn't call me to apologize to me because you thought I needed to hear that you were sorry. I know your ass is sorry.
You called because it is one of the steps. Number 8. Only 4 more to go, and I think you'll be good at Number 12 if you make it.
Don't you remember where I work? I've helped people sober up. People have paid me to do that. Because I'm good at it. I do that because I know how out of control it can get. I've seen it. I've lived it. Why do you think I stuck by you for so long?
I tried. I tried so I could sleep at night. I tried because I cared more than you did, and I know you needed someone. I tried so I could at least shrug my shoulders and say I tried.
I understand that you aren't at a point where we can do nondrinky things together, but if you ever are, I want you to know that I'm a good time when I'm sober. I want you to know that I stayed sober so many times that you didn't. You always assumed everyone was as drunk as you were. No one was as drunk as you were.
Good luck. Godspeed. Good bye. I can't watch you turn your heart from gin to Jesus but I'll be here when it's over. That's hard for me to stomach. I don't trust that process. I try, but I can't. I never say this aloud, but I've seen too many people substitute their Higher Power* for their booze. I have a hard time buying someone's faith if it is only as strong as a vodka tonic. The addiction doesn't go away, it transfers. But whatevs. Sometimes it works and that's what counts.
I hope it works for you and if I ever see your name on the front page of the paper it doesn't direct me to page 2B.
*when I worked a SOA (Sex Offender Anonymous) group, one of our guys used his dog as his Higher Power. He said he was "so damn backwards that Dog was God". That's funny. He was a riot. Sometimes people who do bad things tell good jokes.
One guy used the tree in front of his house. He planted it with his grandad and his daddy when he was a little boy. It was his earliest memory. I liked that guy too. Not the baby raping part, but the sentimental tree hugging part.
soul
Jake is starting to ask questions about death. Tiny little itsy kiddie questions, yes. But questions nonetheless.
The Fairmount Park Commission is working on removing all the dead and diseased trees in the neighborhood (except the one in front of my house, apparently). Of course a three year old boy notices big orange ASPLUNDH trucks and chainsaws and men swinging like monkeys from the branches. Of course he does. That is the stuff of boychild dreams.
He understands that the trees are either sick and dying or already dead. He's okay with trees dying.
They are part of the JakeDeathTrifecta: bugs-n-plants-n-batteries.
He believes (because I told him) that Bailey went to live with another family who has a baby, because Bailey makes a job of helping mommies with their new babies and now that Jake isn't a baby anymore she has moved on. I like to think that Bailey has a kickass umbrella that makes her fly. I don't know if Bailey is alive, but she is for Jake. He knows nothing about dead cats. Cats don't die because they don't flower in the spring or have antennae or make a toy go.
I don't feel bad about lying to him. He's three years old, and that's what you do to three year olds. I tell him that Santa is real. The Easter Bunny, and someday the Tooth Fairy. I tell him that I put magic on his pillow to keep monsters away. I refuse to argue about the reality of monsters. They are real to him, so they are real to me. Hells, they are real in the world, and they hide under the bed. Poisonous spiders and rabid squirrels and bad guys are known to lurk in dark places. Monsters come in all shapes and sizes.
How do you define reality? By what you see? Or by what you believe in?
I believe that beliefs are reality to the believer, but I tend to hold greater stock in what I see rather than what I believe. I like acts and phenomena and things. It's all very complicated and I'm running myself in a circle so I'll move on.
Jake asks what happens to trees when they die. Do they get thrown in the trash like a dead cockroach (those are the only bugs I kill and throw away, the rest get a pass. Luckily here in the city there aren't many other bugs, so we don't find many deadcreepies anywhere), or do they get recharged, like a dead battery?
Recharged, I tell him. I tell him that when living things die it's not like batteries that we can bring back to life by plugging them into the charger. It's different. The tree may be chipped down and used as mulch to help other plants grow. Or maybe it will be planked to make floors for people to walk on, or cut and lathed to make a chair for us to sit on or chopped into firewood to help keep us warm in the winter. The usefulness goes on and on and on for a tree. We would never just throw it in the trash.
"what about the green parts?", he asked. "what about the part that grows?"
Wow. Um.
"That part leaves the tree when the tree gets sick. The green part, the part that grows is the energy of a tree. The tree can die, but the energy can't. The energy moves on and helps something else grow. The energy will maybe move on to make a baby tree turn into a big tree, or to a storm cloud to make lightening like the ones we saw today, or maybe even travel up and up and up to make a star shine bright at night."
"is it night? it's not night! i don't hafta go to bed now! it's light! we can still play! i'm hungry! let's eat and play today!"
Yes, Jake. We can still play. Today.
The Fairmount Park Commission is working on removing all the dead and diseased trees in the neighborhood (except the one in front of my house, apparently). Of course a three year old boy notices big orange ASPLUNDH trucks and chainsaws and men swinging like monkeys from the branches. Of course he does. That is the stuff of boychild dreams.
He understands that the trees are either sick and dying or already dead. He's okay with trees dying.
They are part of the JakeDeathTrifecta: bugs-n-plants-n-batteries.
He believes (because I told him) that Bailey went to live with another family who has a baby, because Bailey makes a job of helping mommies with their new babies and now that Jake isn't a baby anymore she has moved on. I like to think that Bailey has a kickass umbrella that makes her fly. I don't know if Bailey is alive, but she is for Jake. He knows nothing about dead cats. Cats don't die because they don't flower in the spring or have antennae or make a toy go.
I don't feel bad about lying to him. He's three years old, and that's what you do to three year olds. I tell him that Santa is real. The Easter Bunny, and someday the Tooth Fairy. I tell him that I put magic on his pillow to keep monsters away. I refuse to argue about the reality of monsters. They are real to him, so they are real to me. Hells, they are real in the world, and they hide under the bed. Poisonous spiders and rabid squirrels and bad guys are known to lurk in dark places. Monsters come in all shapes and sizes.
How do you define reality? By what you see? Or by what you believe in?
I believe that beliefs are reality to the believer, but I tend to hold greater stock in what I see rather than what I believe. I like acts and phenomena and things. It's all very complicated and I'm running myself in a circle so I'll move on.
Jake asks what happens to trees when they die. Do they get thrown in the trash like a dead cockroach (those are the only bugs I kill and throw away, the rest get a pass. Luckily here in the city there aren't many other bugs, so we don't find many deadcreepies anywhere), or do they get recharged, like a dead battery?
Recharged, I tell him. I tell him that when living things die it's not like batteries that we can bring back to life by plugging them into the charger. It's different. The tree may be chipped down and used as mulch to help other plants grow. Or maybe it will be planked to make floors for people to walk on, or cut and lathed to make a chair for us to sit on or chopped into firewood to help keep us warm in the winter. The usefulness goes on and on and on for a tree. We would never just throw it in the trash.
"what about the green parts?", he asked. "what about the part that grows?"
Wow. Um.
"That part leaves the tree when the tree gets sick. The green part, the part that grows is the energy of a tree. The tree can die, but the energy can't. The energy moves on and helps something else grow. The energy will maybe move on to make a baby tree turn into a big tree, or to a storm cloud to make lightening like the ones we saw today, or maybe even travel up and up and up to make a star shine bright at night."
"is it night? it's not night! i don't hafta go to bed now! it's light! we can still play! i'm hungry! let's eat and play today!"
Yes, Jake. We can still play. Today.
6.09.2009
bones
There is less and less baby about Jake every day and more and more boy.
Or man, if you ask him.
He's not a boy, he's a man, and he earned it. He will tell you harrowing stories of his boyhood and the lessons he took from them that helped him become the strapping man he is today.
"one time, when i wassa little boy, i ran out in the street and almost got hit by a car and BEEEEPP!!! and SCREEEEAAACCH! and now i never run out in the street unless i'm with you"
"one time, when i wassa little boy, i drank outta the mr.yuck and got a tummyache and i puked it and now i only let mommy clean so i'll just go play while you take care of this mess"
"one time, when i wassa little boy, a knife came out of the drawer and cut and cut and cut and cut me and i hadta go to the hospital and get sewn together and now i only get spoons and forks"
None of this ever happened, mind you. At least on my watch.
But the babyness is flying by and the boyness is stepping in and instead of constant cuddles and tickles and touches and butterfly kisses and friendly footraces and gentlemen's games of CandyLand and Chutes and Ladders and playing together nicely and such we are getting punches and muscles and superpowers and car crashes and helicopter rescues and police chases and mean faces and blood and guts and poop and butts and all sorts of other snips and snaily puppydog taily stuff.
But at least I get cool pictures to hang on the fridge.
"this one is a bones guy with a little beard and an eyepatch"
Well, dammit if it isn't.
Or man, if you ask him.
He's not a boy, he's a man, and he earned it. He will tell you harrowing stories of his boyhood and the lessons he took from them that helped him become the strapping man he is today.
"one time, when i wassa little boy, i ran out in the street and almost got hit by a car and BEEEEPP!!! and SCREEEEAAACCH! and now i never run out in the street unless i'm with you"
"one time, when i wassa little boy, i drank outta the mr.yuck and got a tummyache and i puked it and now i only let mommy clean so i'll just go play while you take care of this mess"
"one time, when i wassa little boy, a knife came out of the drawer and cut and cut and cut and cut me and i hadta go to the hospital and get sewn together and now i only get spoons and forks"
None of this ever happened, mind you. At least on my watch.
But the babyness is flying by and the boyness is stepping in and instead of constant cuddles and tickles and touches and butterfly kisses and friendly footraces and gentlemen's games of CandyLand and Chutes and Ladders and playing together nicely and such we are getting punches and muscles and superpowers and car crashes and helicopter rescues and police chases and mean faces and blood and guts and poop and butts and all sorts of other snips and snaily puppydog taily stuff.
But at least I get cool pictures to hang on the fridge.
"this one is a bones guy with a little beard and an eyepatch"
Well, dammit if it isn't.
6.08.2009
corny
When I was little I never really understood the whole "you are what you eat" thing.
I thought maybe my arms and legs were made like chicken drumsticks one week if we ate chicken and like ham hocks the next if we had porkchops.
I had issues.
Issues so bad that one time I cried because my grandmother was eating giblets, and I was worried that because I didn't eat hearts I might not have a heart left for very long.
These are the things I thought of before bed. No wonder it took me three hours, on a good night, to fall asleep as a kid. Now I think of more important things before bed. Like last night I wondered if Star Jones' mom used to tickle her and sing "tickle tickle little Star" because that would totally be a mommybaby game in my house if I had a baby named Star. Did you know that Star isn't her real first name? Of course not, it's Starlet. No one names their baby Star.
Anyway. You are what you eat.
But do you know what your food eats?
Corn.
Corn is cheap and easy and cheap.
Corn is the your mom joke of the vegetable world.
Like beef? That cow probably ate corn all it's life.
Pork? Corn fits nicely into the troughs.
Chicken? Most are corn fed.
Eggs come out of corn fed chickens.
Milk comes out of corn fed cows.
Cheese and yogurt comes from that milk.
Did you ever notice how everything in the dairy aisle has been squeezed out of tits and vaginas?
I have.
And those animals aren't eating the farm fresh corn that we are buying on roadside stands. Oh, no. They are eating industrial corn.
Robot corn.
And corn is sometimes fueling the tractors that pick corn and the trucks that deliver corn to the animals and the trucks that deliver the animals to the chop house and then the animal parts to your grocer's meat case.
And corn is in corn syrup, surprisingly. That glass of Coke has corn in it. Sometimes my poop has corn in it.
Corn, corn, corn, corn, corn, corn, corn.
I wonder how much corn is in my body. If they ran a drug test on my hair, would they find the chemical components of corn? Probably. No wonder it's so silken soft. With tiny bugs in it.
I wish I could come up with something clever about my ears being ears of corn, but it's too early in the morning for all that.
I have corn coming out of my ears? No. That reminds me of potatoes in your ears, which is a nice way of saying "get a Qtip".
Have you ever heard of feedlot bloat? It's basically what happens to cornfed cows because they are supposed to eat grass, not corn. They suffocate on the gas buildup in their bellies. Ever see the movie Se7en? That fat guy and the spaghetti? Yeah, like that.
So corn.
It's big business.
I thought maybe my arms and legs were made like chicken drumsticks one week if we ate chicken and like ham hocks the next if we had porkchops.
I had issues.
Issues so bad that one time I cried because my grandmother was eating giblets, and I was worried that because I didn't eat hearts I might not have a heart left for very long.
These are the things I thought of before bed. No wonder it took me three hours, on a good night, to fall asleep as a kid. Now I think of more important things before bed. Like last night I wondered if Star Jones' mom used to tickle her and sing "tickle tickle little Star" because that would totally be a mommybaby game in my house if I had a baby named Star. Did you know that Star isn't her real first name? Of course not, it's Starlet. No one names their baby Star.
Anyway. You are what you eat.
But do you know what your food eats?
Corn.
Corn is cheap and easy and cheap.
Corn is the your mom joke of the vegetable world.
Like beef? That cow probably ate corn all it's life.
Pork? Corn fits nicely into the troughs.
Chicken? Most are corn fed.
Eggs come out of corn fed chickens.
Milk comes out of corn fed cows.
Cheese and yogurt comes from that milk.
Did you ever notice how everything in the dairy aisle has been squeezed out of tits and vaginas?
I have.
And those animals aren't eating the farm fresh corn that we are buying on roadside stands. Oh, no. They are eating industrial corn.
Robot corn.
And corn is sometimes fueling the tractors that pick corn and the trucks that deliver corn to the animals and the trucks that deliver the animals to the chop house and then the animal parts to your grocer's meat case.
And corn is in corn syrup, surprisingly. That glass of Coke has corn in it. Sometimes my poop has corn in it.
Corn, corn, corn, corn, corn, corn, corn.
I wonder how much corn is in my body. If they ran a drug test on my hair, would they find the chemical components of corn? Probably. No wonder it's so silken soft. With tiny bugs in it.
I wish I could come up with something clever about my ears being ears of corn, but it's too early in the morning for all that.
I have corn coming out of my ears? No. That reminds me of potatoes in your ears, which is a nice way of saying "get a Qtip".
Have you ever heard of feedlot bloat? It's basically what happens to cornfed cows because they are supposed to eat grass, not corn. They suffocate on the gas buildup in their bellies. Ever see the movie Se7en? That fat guy and the spaghetti? Yeah, like that.
So corn.
It's big business.
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