Halfway over the bridge to New Jersey, I second guessed the "I am interested in listening to your sob story" t-shirt I had worn.
Kidding. I don't have that t-shirt.
I just have that look about me.
That look that says, "I'm listening".
There must be something about the way I part my hair that says, "go ahead. I'm here for you".
Something in my left eye that says, "I'll know what to do".
Belly up to the bar, order a drink, and let it happen. It always does.
Ain't no stopping it.
I meet the new girlfriend of the guy who's 40th birthday we were celebrating. She was sitting all by herself, all the boys have known each other for 30+ years.
It can be lonely when all the boys have known each other for 30+ years.
It's one of the downsides of smalltown living.
Or upsides, I guess, if you are into that sort of thing.
Why they consider Philadelphia to be a big city, I'll never know.
Hi Lori, I'm Lora.
Fast forward ten minutes later and I have learned that she is 32 years old and never thought she'd be pregnant again, but here she is five weeks along because she knew that if she didn't have this man's baby, he would leave her for someone who will. She has a 14 year old daughter and 12 year old son. The daughter spent the summer in Utah because she fell in with the wrong crowd after being molested by her stepfather for ten years and ended up brutally raped by a 27 year old "friend". I didn't get the skinny on the 12 year old, other than 'he is wild, just like all the boys his age". She's glad he's experimenting with drugs now, before he is old enough to get wrapped up in that lifestyle. "Boys will be boys, right? At least they can't get raped, right?"
Totally wrong.
Anyway, Lori was mad because this babydaddy would only let her smoke a pack a day and drink one drink per hour now that she's knocked up, but he didn't know she was picking up other people's drinks while they were in the bathroom and she has cartons of smokes squirreled away in her office and what he doesn't know won't hurt him. She asked me if I lived in the City and wondered if I was worried about the kids my son would go to school with. She said that she can't imagine what kind of mothers and children I would have to deal with once Jake was in school. She said that I should think about moving out to the suburbs, "maybe somewhere like where she is, somewhere -you know- whiter, where everyone has jobs and money and stuff, where it is surely a little bit nicer and safer and I wouldn't have to worry so much about my son".
Right.
Moving on.
That's what I get for being nice. For not wanting to leave the ladyfriend of the guest of honor in a corner all by herself.
So, when she excused herself to have a cigarette, I moved on to the birthday guy's brother's girlfriend. She asked me how old my son is, told me how much she misses that age, and then launched into how she had to quit her job as a paralegal to spend more time with her children when she was going through a divorce. Her ex was an abusive alcoholic, and she is afraid that her teenaged daughter will fall into a relationship similar to the one it took her years to dig herself out of. "What should I do?", she asked.
She didn't know my profession.
She was just one mom talking to another mom.
Desperate.
Staring guiltily into her drink, knowing the damage it is capable of.
Communicate, I answered.
Talk to her in the car, where you don't have to look at her.
It's hard when you have to look at her.
Tell her that you love her. Tell her that her father loves her.
Tell her that you love her so much that you divorced her father.
Tell her that her father loves her more than he loves alcohol, but right now he feels that he needs alcohol and that makes a man feel like he doesn't need his family.
Tell her everything you think she should know.
If she can handle what she's been through she can handle hearing your side of the story.
Tell her how it hurts you.
The marriage, the abuse, the divorce.
I stopped talking when she started crying. She hugged me, thanked me, and pushed her drink away.
And then we started making fun of all the ladies with mullets and bad cleavage and the balding dudes with open shirts and gold chains. Welcome to Jersey, she said.
She's a native.
She knows all about it.
Maybe it's wrong of me, but when I'm off the clock, I'm off the clock. Babymama to Be up there, I listened, I empathized, I wished her luck. Should I have told her to stop the drinking and smoking? It's not my place. She knows. I told her to give her daughter too much love right now. All the love she has in her because that girl needs it. No matter how exasperated (I don't think I used that word, that's a big one) she gets with her behavior, love her, hug her, spend time with her. Lori was surprised at that. She told me that the girl wants to be left alone, and she was trying to respect her daughter's wishes which was easy because she couldn't stand to see her hurting and crying and miserable, but she said she'd try.
Christ Almighty.
I left the boy for someone else to deal with. It's Saturday Night. I'm off the clock.
If you live in the Philly burbs, watch out. Looks like there is a Threat to Your Children in the making out there.
Is it just me? Is everyone else a sounding board for the problems of the world? Because I feel like it's just me. I feel like I'm the only one who can't drive across the bridge and enjoy seven or eight fingers of a decent scotch without talking about drugs and rapes and abuses of all sorts.
Can't someone tell me they like my shoes? Ask me where I got my bag? Compliment me on my new haircut and the stellar job I did with my eyeshadow? Let's talk about the weather. About our pets. About candy and ponies and diamonds and throw pillows.
Gah.
All this blather in lieu of a post I had in my head about how sometimes my goofy life winds up in a bar that holds a Danny Bonaduce South Jersey Neighborhood Hotties Party and has all the Phillies games broadcasted on a giant television above America's largest LED lit dance floor (srsly), watching the Klitschko v. Arreola fight on a tv that's hung at a weird angle and getting a crick in my neck while laughing in my head that I'm surrounded by people drinking ultra classy mega fruity $5 "martinis" who just might not be clever enough to know what an areola is nor where a clitoris is.
9.28.2009
fyi: Tylenol Recall
September 18, 2009
Dear Healthcare Professional:
I am writing to inform you that, in consultation with the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA), McNeil
Consumer Healthcare is voluntarily initiating a recall of certain lots of Children's and Infants' TYLENOL®
products that were manufactured between April 2008 and June 2008. The full list of recalled product lots is below.
The company has implemented this recall because examination of bulk raw material detected that one of
the inactive ingredients did not meet internal testing requirements. Specifically, the gram-negative bacteria Burkholderia cepacia (B. cepacia) was detected. The portion of raw material in which the bacteria was
found was isolated and was not used in the production of any finished product. However, it was decided, as
a precaution, to recall all product that utilized any of the raw material manufactured at the same time as the raw material that tested positive for the bacteria. Please note: No bacteria has been detected in finished
product and the finished product has met all specifications.
A review of the relevant published scientific literature regarding B. cepacia indicates that while ingestion of contaminated pharmaceutical product is not known to be a route of transmission of B. cepacia infection,
infection has been reported following the use of contaminated pharmaceutical products such as
mouthwashes and nasal sprays. Adverse health consequence of B. cepacia infections could be potentially
severe especially in high-risk patients, such as those with underlying pulmonary disease, cystic fibrosis or
compromised immune systems.
McNeil has conducted an assessment of post-marketing safety surveillance data and did not identify any
safety signals or batch-related safety concerns for Infants' and Children's TYLENOL® products over the
time period, starting with the introduction of these batches, in or around April 2008.
McNeil is advising parents and caregivers who have administered affected product to their child or infant
and have concerns to contact their healthcare providers. Parents and caregivers can find the lot numbers
on the bottom of the box containing the product and also on the sticker that surrounds the product bottle. If your patients determine that they have affected product, they can contact our Customer Care Center at 1-800-962-5357 and we will send them a coupon for a new bottle.
If you have any questions, please call our Medical Affairs Department at 1-800-962-5357 (available
Monday-Friday 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. Eastern Time).
Sincerely,
Edwin K. Kuffner, MD
Vice President, Medical Affairs
McNeil Consumer Healthcare
For the original and a full list of recalls, CLICK HERE
9.27.2009
9.26.2009
9.24.2009
rubber balls and liquor
I have been sitting on a couple awards until I had something important to say. I've been sitting on this blog until I had something important to say. Or interesting. Or anything.
Sometimes I go through these dryspells. It's not that I don't have anything going on in my life, it's actually the opposite. It's just that I'm not too sure how to get it all down in words so I don't even try. I'm still smack in the middle of not knowing how to express myself, but I've found that the only way to get out is by sitting down and typing.
The good thing is that everything I'm going through doesn't suck.
Just so you know.
In case you were worried.
I'm apologizing up front for what may be less than entertaining, but maybe you'll get some good reads out of the sites I'll link to below.
There's a Woody Guthrie quote that I like to think that I try to live by, a little bit.
“I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built, I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work. And the songs that I sing are made up for the most part by all sorts of folks just about like you. I could hire out to the other side, the big money side, and get several dollars every week just to quit singing my own kind of songs and to sing the kind that knock you down still farther and the ones that poke fun at you even more and the ones that make you think you've not any sense at all.”
That's nice, isn't it? It makes me feel better about getting paid $4 an hour at the job and writing for free, at least.
Here in the Wide and Wonderful World of Social Services we have inspirational stuff plastered all over the place. One of the quotes on several of the (what I've coined) "hanginthere,baby" posters is a Woody Guthrie lyric, although it is often underneath pictures painted by Jacob Lawrence or Ellis Wilson or maybe a portrait of Sojourner Truth or Fredrick Douglas, all which I find wildly hilarious because I guess more people in this industry will buy something if it is written under a picture of someone who packs more of a punch in the communities we are serving than under some lilywhite Depression-era hillbilly. Marketing is genius. Anyway. The quote is:
"Wherever little children are hungry and cry,
Wherever people ain't free.
Wherever men are fightin' for their rights,
That's where I'm a-gonna be, Ma.
That's where I'm a-gonna be."
I like that rally cry.
Don't worry if I'm not home by five, I'm just making sure someone else has a home to go to.
Ann wrote on her blog that she saves my blog for last, in order to read and digest. That's exactly what I do with her blog. It warrants more than a brief peruse. It makes me think, speculate, feel. There isn't always a whole lot of that in a day.
Sometimes I go through these dryspells. It's not that I don't have anything going on in my life, it's actually the opposite. It's just that I'm not too sure how to get it all down in words so I don't even try. I'm still smack in the middle of not knowing how to express myself, but I've found that the only way to get out is by sitting down and typing.
The good thing is that everything I'm going through doesn't suck.
Just so you know.
In case you were worried.
I'm apologizing up front for what may be less than entertaining, but maybe you'll get some good reads out of the sites I'll link to below.
***
Ann at Anniegirl1138 passed along the Woody Guthrie Award Presented to a Thinking Blogger:
“I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built, I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work. And the songs that I sing are made up for the most part by all sorts of folks just about like you. I could hire out to the other side, the big money side, and get several dollars every week just to quit singing my own kind of songs and to sing the kind that knock you down still farther and the ones that poke fun at you even more and the ones that make you think you've not any sense at all.”
That's nice, isn't it? It makes me feel better about getting paid $4 an hour at the job and writing for free, at least.
Here in the Wide and Wonderful World of Social Services we have inspirational stuff plastered all over the place. One of the quotes on several of the (what I've coined) "hanginthere,baby" posters is a Woody Guthrie lyric, although it is often underneath pictures painted by Jacob Lawrence or Ellis Wilson or maybe a portrait of Sojourner Truth or Fredrick Douglas, all which I find wildly hilarious because I guess more people in this industry will buy something if it is written under a picture of someone who packs more of a punch in the communities we are serving than under some lilywhite Depression-era hillbilly. Marketing is genius. Anyway. The quote is:
"Wherever little children are hungry and cry,
Wherever people ain't free.
Wherever men are fightin' for their rights,
That's where I'm a-gonna be, Ma.
That's where I'm a-gonna be."
I like that rally cry.
Don't worry if I'm not home by five, I'm just making sure someone else has a home to go to.
Ann wrote on her blog that she saves my blog for last, in order to read and digest. That's exactly what I do with her blog. It warrants more than a brief peruse. It makes me think, speculate, feel. There isn't always a whole lot of that in a day.
***
Janie at Dreamchaser1998 is giving me the Honest Scrap, which I'm pretty happy about because I love listing ten things about myself. I'm almost positive I could start an entire blog based upon ten things about myself and I would probably be able to post at least twice a day for a year because I'm always changing up stuff inside my brain. The first post I read over at Janie's site was a little something about her choice not to have children. It's amazing and brave and well written. I love amazing and brave and well written.
Enough about Janie, back to me:
1. Naturalborn redheads can either be the most beautiful or the most revolting creatures to walk upon the earth. There is no middle ground. I've cut contact with the latter type. I just can't live near the horror. I just can't stop staring, and that's rude.
That said, I have a box of red hair dye sitting and waiting for me at the top of my steps.
2. I spent Tuesday's lunchhour with an old workbuddy who just got a social work job in Texas. He said it was pretty much just like getting a social work job in 1978.
Enough said.
3. I like Halloween costumes that are assembled from stuff rather than bought in a bag. Jake's Underdog costume is all ready and waiting for the big day. He hasn't seen it yet, but I'm sure he is going to totally flip.
4. My job commute becomes difficult once school is back in session. Nothing says relaxing like an entire train full of adolescents.
5. Thin thighs are inferior to smooth thighs, in my opinion.
6. My favorite Kardashian is Khloe, but we can't be together because of my aversion to words that should start with C but instead begin with K. Spell check really wants her name to be Chloe Carpathian.
Now that's a girl I can work with.
Spell check also suggests Phloem Balderdash.
And Khyber Guardianship.
Those names aren't so sexy sounding.
Maybe if the Khyber started upping it's Guardianship, I'd start drinking there again. Am I right Philly Party People? Khloe?
7. I recently unburdened an "opinion" on a family member and it was hard but felt good and I think the relationship may be better for it. Now I want to do it again to someone else, but I'm assuming that dumping pieces of your mind on your loved ones is like smoking crack. The first time is the best time and all the other times are fruitless efforts to feel the way you did when you started.
8. Final Biopsy 3 of 4 went swimmingly, but my doctor suggested that while I'm still healthy (I'm 5'7"), that I might lose 10 pounds. She is the same one who told me to gain 10 right after I had Jake. I gained 20. Given an inch, I'll always take a mile. 115 to 125 to 135 and now trying to get back to 125. It could be age, it could be diet, it could be hormones, it could be the fact that I'm not riddled with cancer anymore and my body isn't fighting itself these days. She said that if I can't drop the ten in six months, she'll be concerned. Of course there is more to this, but I'll spare you the details.
9. Also, I think I'm going through menopause. Two ladydoctors have agreed that it might be starting. Wonderful. I'm 33 years old. And now I get to deal with that.
Sometimes I want to buy a t-shirt that says
I AM NOT MY VAGINA
and on the back it will say
MY VAGINA IS NOT ME
and wear it every day under my clothes. There are lots of days that go by that make me effing feel like one big huge giant problematic snatch.
10. You know how I would never ever in a million years tell you to spend your dollars on anything less than fabulous? MAC Zoom Fast Black Lash mascara is SO worth packing a lunch tomorrow so you can spend your milk money on your eyes. I'm a diehard Maybelline fan, but this stuff blows that crap out of the water. I told the guy I bought it from that if he can make my eyes look half as good as his, he had himself a sale. He did.
I am very pretty right now.
One of the things I'm a little bit sad about being potentially cancer free? No excuse for outlandish eye makeup and ridiculous wigs.
***
Last but not least, Lana at Mother Hides the Pearls gave me something in French. Everything is better/classier/sexier in French. Lana and I are email besties to the extreme. It's sick. Every email is like a sleepover. 'Don't spill that nailpolish on the rug or my mom will kill me here are cucumber slices for your puffy eyes" kind of stuff. You'd totally puke. Merci, Lana. Poodles and berets and hairy armpits and long cigarettes and frog's legs and snails and cheese and wine and arrogance and tongue kisses to you.
***
I'll be back soon with a real post, I promise.
9.20.2009
like a necklace made of teeth
I don't believe, of course, that the slips of paper found in Chinese cookies hold a prophesy. But I find that they most often hold a tiny truth.
I hoard these truths.
I slide them into places where I don't look often but that warrant my attention from time to time. Junk drawers, button jars, under the silverware tray. In a velvet jewelry pouch, under a souvenier magnet, tucked in with the aluminum jack o'lanterns.
I'm clearing out the crevices today. Finding bits of wisdoms in the wake of cat hairs, ink pens, and wheat pennies.
Beauty will surround you - open your eyes to see it.
You are admired by everyone for your talent and ability.
The philosophy of one century is the common sense of the next.
Be unconventional, even visionary
It's not the end yet. Let's stay with it.
You will sleep well at night.
To let another into your heart, first let yourself in.
You are almost there.
A warm smile is testimony of a generous nature.
Love is for the lucky and the brave.
Great attention to detail is both a blessing and a curse.
You are free to invent and re-invent your life.
Don't panic.
The calling that has sounded may not be the lasting call.
If you continually give, you will continually have.
Love always and deeply.
Your heart will always make itself known through your words.
Love begets love.
I hoard these truths.
I slide them into places where I don't look often but that warrant my attention from time to time. Junk drawers, button jars, under the silverware tray. In a velvet jewelry pouch, under a souvenier magnet, tucked in with the aluminum jack o'lanterns.
I'm clearing out the crevices today. Finding bits of wisdoms in the wake of cat hairs, ink pens, and wheat pennies.
Beauty will surround you - open your eyes to see it.
You are admired by everyone for your talent and ability.
The philosophy of one century is the common sense of the next.
Be unconventional, even visionary
It's not the end yet. Let's stay with it.
You will sleep well at night.
To let another into your heart, first let yourself in.
You are almost there.
A warm smile is testimony of a generous nature.
Love is for the lucky and the brave.
Great attention to detail is both a blessing and a curse.
You are free to invent and re-invent your life.
Don't panic.
The calling that has sounded may not be the lasting call.
If you continually give, you will continually have.
Love always and deeply.
Your heart will always make itself known through your words.
Love begets love.
9.17.2009
characteristics of the 3.5 year old
I get most of my random blog traffic from people looking for characteristics of certain age groups, largely in part from posting the Gesell Institute lists of childhood characteristics. These are the standards of behavior that we use as benchmarks in the program that I work for (at? with? under? in? I never know which preposition goes in there. These days "around", "against", "beyond", "despite", "through", "upon", and "without" seem more to be the case. And I know that it should be 'for which I work', but then I couldn't go on this aside as easily. Don't ever end your sentences with a preposition, kiddies. It makes you sound like my neighbors.)
Without further ado:
The characteristics of the three and a half year old.
*enters a period of marked insecurity and disequilibrium.
*can be extremely uncoordinated motorwise: stumbles, falls, may fear heights, hands my tremble, cannot draw firmly
*may become uncoordinated language-wise: stuttering (especially if previously highly verbal)-- it is as if the mouth can no longer keep up with the mind. It is important for parents to stay relaxed, accepting, and to not make a big deal over speech struggles in order to prevent a later problem
*may complain cannot see right or hear right; may cross eyes frequently
*uses tensional outlets more frequently: nailbiting, eye blinking, nosepicking, facial tics, masturbation, thumb sucking my increase
*has tremendous difficulties in relations with others
*is emotionally insecure which leads to increased whining, crying frequent questioning ("Do you love me?") and frequent complaints ("You don't love me!")
*may say "I hate you" when frustrated by limits
*is extremely demanding of adults : may demand "don't look", "don't talk", "don't laugh"
*is insecure with friends: demands all their attention, shows emotional extremes (shy one minute, over-bearing the next)
So, he's normal. Now what? Ack. This is my son to a tee. All these things? Yes.
ALL of them. Every single one.
I need a drink.
Without further ado:
The characteristics of the three and a half year old.
*enters a period of marked insecurity and disequilibrium.
*can be extremely uncoordinated motorwise: stumbles, falls, may fear heights, hands my tremble, cannot draw firmly
*may become uncoordinated language-wise: stuttering (especially if previously highly verbal)-- it is as if the mouth can no longer keep up with the mind. It is important for parents to stay relaxed, accepting, and to not make a big deal over speech struggles in order to prevent a later problem
*may complain cannot see right or hear right; may cross eyes frequently
*uses tensional outlets more frequently: nailbiting, eye blinking, nosepicking, facial tics, masturbation, thumb sucking my increase
*has tremendous difficulties in relations with others
*is emotionally insecure which leads to increased whining, crying frequent questioning ("Do you love me?") and frequent complaints ("You don't love me!")
*may say "I hate you" when frustrated by limits
*is extremely demanding of adults : may demand "don't look", "don't talk", "don't laugh"
*is insecure with friends: demands all their attention, shows emotional extremes (shy one minute, over-bearing the next)
So, he's normal. Now what? Ack. This is my son to a tee. All these things? Yes.
ALL of them. Every single one.
I need a drink.
3.5
Jake is three and a half years old today.
It's so weird.
No one would look at a three and a half year old and think "there's a baby". Including a three and a half year old. But sometimes I do, for a moment. Then it passes.
I wanted him to be all psyched that he's earned the AndaHalf title, but he didn't really get it. Maybe next year.
Three and a half is bringing out the big guns. Every night I ask Jake if he has any questions, and he usually asks for a glass of water or why he can't watch television/play/take a nightbike ride but last night he asked me how he got in my belly.
"Jake, do you have any questions for me?"
"when i was a tiny tiny baby and lived inside your belly, how did i get there?"
"How do you think you got there?"
"well when i was a little boy i useta think that i crawled in through your mouth but then i knowed if i did that the only way i can come out is if you puke or poop and i don't remember being puke or poop when i was a baby."
"Well, what do you know about how babies are made?"
"you mean like when a mommy and daddy love each other they make a baby?"
"Right. There you go"
"but i love you. where's our baby?"
"Well, sometimes when mommies and daddies spend time hugging each other in a special way that mommies and daddies hug each other a baby goes in a mommy's belly. Mommies and their kids don't do that."
"so should i stop hugging people? will i get a baby?"
"No, you'll know how to do the special hugging by the time you can be a daddy."
"Okay"
"Okay"
end scene
breathe
This is also the child who wants to know why I can't kiss him while he poops. He's obsessed with it. The boy wants to kiss me from the time he gets up on the commode until the time he gets down and I can only imagine what sort of deviancy can result from that. And he wants to lick me too. He wants to lick my tongue. But only while poop is coming out of his butt.
My biggest fear is us turning out like Norman and Mrs. Bates.
How can I be sure that I'm not raising a monster?
Should I believe him when he says that he comes up with this stuff in his own head when he is falling asleep or playing cars?
Jake is really a smart kid. In a strange and interesting way. I've never seen a kid like him. Then again, the only 3.5 year olds I see on a regular basis are crackbabies, so what do I know?
He can't dress himself very well, but he's reading, three and four letter words mostly. He's been doing that for awhile now, to the point where he is almost getting bored with it.
"i arready know how to do this mom, can't we play somethin' else?"
He's also a math whiz, as long as you don't expect him to do anything harder than add two or three numbers at a time and those two or three numbers are zero through nine in very specific combinations. I don't think he could do 9+9+9 but he can surely do 4+3+9.
I can't even tell you what he is into these days. Cars, trains, bikes, planes. He sits and thinks a lot. About things that I can't figure out how or why he knows exist. About his day. About the people in it. About the world at large. I'm proud of this, but I'm afraid that he's going to be one of those deep kids who gets hurt easily. The slightest thing will send him sad. I worry about this. I try to refocus him on things that make him happy, but he is wise to my game. Sometimes I just let him sulk. I listen closely when he plays with his Cars cars, since he makes them talk. Play therapy is amazing, I only wish I knew how to do it better. I'm a professional observer, at least. The boy has an ideal upbringing- a warm loving home, a full belly, more love than I've ever seen bestowed on anybody ever. It's just the way he was born, I guess. When he isn't "worrying over about something" (his words) he is the most happy, sweetest, fun boy you've ever seen. He's thrilled with life 95% of the time, but that other 5% can be very dark.
Over sensitive. Easily over stimulated. Overly concerned with other people's feelings.
I call him "anal retentive" in certain circles of conversation. When he was a newborn he would freak the eff out if a tiny bit of milk slipped out of his mouth and onto his cheek. Snap his onesie wrong when he was six months old? Misplace his favorite thing du jour? Oh, the horror.
It bothers me when people imply that I've imparted the crazy on him. Yes, I'm like that. But I'm not like that near him. I've worked hard to get over my, um, issues that I have with the way the world works. I've sucked it up many times and did something that makes me want to wash my hands 347 times (kidding, I'm not that kind of mental) just so he sees that you can plow through something adversive.
I think it's working.
I hope.
I guess.
I don't think it's working.
I think it's wired deeper than monkey see monkey do learning. I think it makes up who we are, and I'm trying to respect it but I don't want to foster it or cater to it or do anything to make it worse but I don't want to kill his compassion and orderly view of things. Compassion and order are very good qualities to have these days, when there is very little compassion or order in things.
The boy cries if he sees someone sleeping outside because they don't have a bed. If someone is hungry he offers to get something out of his bag. He always has granola. If he makes someone upset at daycare, he has trouble falling asleep at night. If I'm sick or sad, he wants to be close to me, to hold me and touch my face until I feel better. He sings me songs. The same songs my mom sung to me when I was little and sick or sad, the same songs I sing to him when he is little and sick or sad. He gives me cars and books to give to the boys at my work who don't have cars and books.
I like that about him, I don't like to watch the world affect my baby. Who isn't really a baby anymore.
There is a minor character in a book I read one hundred years ago who reminded me a lot of the person that Jake seems to be becoming. There is a major character in the book who reminds me of myself. I try not to compare the story with my life, due to a most tragic ending. I refuse to re-read. They made a film, one which I will not be watching.
Dave and I were talking about some of this earlier today, and he said something about Jake needing to get his heart broken a few times, that it is normal. And healthy.
I agree, it just sucks to watch when it's your babynotababyanymore.
But you know what doesn't suck?
Watching everything else.
It's so weird.
No one would look at a three and a half year old and think "there's a baby". Including a three and a half year old. But sometimes I do, for a moment. Then it passes.
I wanted him to be all psyched that he's earned the AndaHalf title, but he didn't really get it. Maybe next year.
Three and a half is bringing out the big guns. Every night I ask Jake if he has any questions, and he usually asks for a glass of water or why he can't watch television/play/take a nightbike ride but last night he asked me how he got in my belly.
"Jake, do you have any questions for me?"
"when i was a tiny tiny baby and lived inside your belly, how did i get there?"
"How do you think you got there?"
"well when i was a little boy i useta think that i crawled in through your mouth but then i knowed if i did that the only way i can come out is if you puke or poop and i don't remember being puke or poop when i was a baby."
"Well, what do you know about how babies are made?"
"you mean like when a mommy and daddy love each other they make a baby?"
"Right. There you go"
"but i love you. where's our baby?"
"Well, sometimes when mommies and daddies spend time hugging each other in a special way that mommies and daddies hug each other a baby goes in a mommy's belly. Mommies and their kids don't do that."
"so should i stop hugging people? will i get a baby?"
"No, you'll know how to do the special hugging by the time you can be a daddy."
"Okay"
"Okay"
end scene
breathe
This is also the child who wants to know why I can't kiss him while he poops. He's obsessed with it. The boy wants to kiss me from the time he gets up on the commode until the time he gets down and I can only imagine what sort of deviancy can result from that. And he wants to lick me too. He wants to lick my tongue. But only while poop is coming out of his butt.
My biggest fear is us turning out like Norman and Mrs. Bates.
How can I be sure that I'm not raising a monster?
Should I believe him when he says that he comes up with this stuff in his own head when he is falling asleep or playing cars?
Jake is really a smart kid. In a strange and interesting way. I've never seen a kid like him. Then again, the only 3.5 year olds I see on a regular basis are crackbabies, so what do I know?
He can't dress himself very well, but he's reading, three and four letter words mostly. He's been doing that for awhile now, to the point where he is almost getting bored with it.
"i arready know how to do this mom, can't we play somethin' else?"
He's also a math whiz, as long as you don't expect him to do anything harder than add two or three numbers at a time and those two or three numbers are zero through nine in very specific combinations. I don't think he could do 9+9+9 but he can surely do 4+3+9.
I can't even tell you what he is into these days. Cars, trains, bikes, planes. He sits and thinks a lot. About things that I can't figure out how or why he knows exist. About his day. About the people in it. About the world at large. I'm proud of this, but I'm afraid that he's going to be one of those deep kids who gets hurt easily. The slightest thing will send him sad. I worry about this. I try to refocus him on things that make him happy, but he is wise to my game. Sometimes I just let him sulk. I listen closely when he plays with his Cars cars, since he makes them talk. Play therapy is amazing, I only wish I knew how to do it better. I'm a professional observer, at least. The boy has an ideal upbringing- a warm loving home, a full belly, more love than I've ever seen bestowed on anybody ever. It's just the way he was born, I guess. When he isn't "worrying over about something" (his words) he is the most happy, sweetest, fun boy you've ever seen. He's thrilled with life 95% of the time, but that other 5% can be very dark.
Over sensitive. Easily over stimulated. Overly concerned with other people's feelings.
I call him "anal retentive" in certain circles of conversation. When he was a newborn he would freak the eff out if a tiny bit of milk slipped out of his mouth and onto his cheek. Snap his onesie wrong when he was six months old? Misplace his favorite thing du jour? Oh, the horror.
It bothers me when people imply that I've imparted the crazy on him. Yes, I'm like that. But I'm not like that near him. I've worked hard to get over my, um, issues that I have with the way the world works. I've sucked it up many times and did something that makes me want to wash my hands 347 times (kidding, I'm not that kind of mental) just so he sees that you can plow through something adversive.
I think it's working.
I hope.
I guess.
I don't think it's working.
I think it's wired deeper than monkey see monkey do learning. I think it makes up who we are, and I'm trying to respect it but I don't want to foster it or cater to it or do anything to make it worse but I don't want to kill his compassion and orderly view of things. Compassion and order are very good qualities to have these days, when there is very little compassion or order in things.
The boy cries if he sees someone sleeping outside because they don't have a bed. If someone is hungry he offers to get something out of his bag. He always has granola. If he makes someone upset at daycare, he has trouble falling asleep at night. If I'm sick or sad, he wants to be close to me, to hold me and touch my face until I feel better. He sings me songs. The same songs my mom sung to me when I was little and sick or sad, the same songs I sing to him when he is little and sick or sad. He gives me cars and books to give to the boys at my work who don't have cars and books.
I like that about him, I don't like to watch the world affect my baby. Who isn't really a baby anymore.
There is a minor character in a book I read one hundred years ago who reminded me a lot of the person that Jake seems to be becoming. There is a major character in the book who reminds me of myself. I try not to compare the story with my life, due to a most tragic ending. I refuse to re-read. They made a film, one which I will not be watching.
Dave and I were talking about some of this earlier today, and he said something about Jake needing to get his heart broken a few times, that it is normal. And healthy.
I agree, it just sucks to watch when it's your babynotababyanymore.
But you know what doesn't suck?
Watching everything else.
9.16.2009
this is not a post about healthcare reform
You'd think Philadelphia was six square inches, the way it is so small townish.
It's hard to miss anything in this one (million) horse town.
I saw Barack Obama yesterday, just by chance. Two Americans, passing in the night. Day. Whatever. Traffic was blocked at Broad and Vine and at first I was all pissed because I couldn't cross to get where I needed to be but I have this sickness that makes me stick around in a crowd just to see what's going on.
I also have a sickness where I like to stare into the sky to see how many other people stare into the sky. Sometimes, if enough people are looking up, I'll point up and dart into the subway, like I'm running away from something.
What? It's better than starting a fire to watch the pretty lights come.
So, first the helicopters. Traffic accident, I assumed.
Then the dummy motorcade, driving in circles. Shriners, I assumed.
Then holy crap hold on to your hat because the President does not eff around when it comes to getting someplace. Our highway patrol broke the soundbarrier, flying down Vine in a V-formation and the towncars floated through the wake. One hundred miles per hour? One twenty? Probably.
There was no chance of sniping that bitch, that's for sure.
You could see right in Barack's car. I love that he lets me call him that. The windows were tinted, but not blacked out. He smiled and waved. He was wearing a seatbelt.
And then he was gone.
I got pissed again by the time I got to 12th street because the abortion protesters were all up in my bus stop. Trying to touch my vagina with their words and their yelling and their intolerance and their signs stapled to 2 by 4s. Spittle shooting from the corners of their mouth, eyes bulged out in an attempt to make me listen. Three inches from my face. I can hear you. You spit on my cheek.
No dignity. No respect.
They don't know me.
I could be one of them, why are they treating me like this?
Why is this okay?
I just want to get home to my son.
I just want to get on the bus.
I have a problem with authority figures, if you haven't already gotten a sense of that. I have a bigger problem with people who aren't the authority of anything trying to boss me and my gender around.
I'm an asshole like that. I don't even like people who protest against things I am against. Shut up. Get your ass off the street, out of my way, and in front of a typewriter. Draft a letter. Call your congressman. It's not the '60s anymore. Things that were effective then aren't so much anymore. What ever happened to sit-ins? Can't we all band together quietly? I have a hard time with excess noise. I'm sensitive.
Seeing those protesters makes me want to get an abortion just for the hell of it. Makes me want to abort the snot out of an unwanted baby out of spite.
Late term.
I'm kidding.
I'm not.
How can I even joke about that?
Easy.
Because it upsets me and that's how I deal with things. Because I know if I got pregnant now I would be faced with the choice whether to try and make that baby stick up in my guts for 26+ weeks at the risk of my health, my life, my happiness, and my relationship with my entire family, especially my child.
If I got pregnant right now I would seriously consider an abortion.
Any doctor- hell, anyone who loves me- would advise me to have one, considering the risks.
Whether I would go through with it or not, I can't answer that. But I like being secure in the knowledge that there are safe, clean, nurturing places that I can go to have it done. That I could have counseling and aftercare and followups until I was ready to stop having counseling and aftercare and followups. I know if I would abort a fetus I would live with guilt for the rest of my life, every time something bad happened to me or someone I love, I would wonder if the universe was punishing me for tossing away a tiny cluster of near-nothing pulse. As if the universe has time to worry about me and what I'm doing down here.
I killed a $5 Trader Joes's rosebush and I feel like I owe something to the world. I set spiders free. Silverfish even, and they are the ultimate grossest. I rescued a mouse from the inside of my cat's face one time.
If I didn't have an abortion and I miscarried- which is very likely to happen- I would feel like a miserable failure at sustaining life. Less than a woman. Not a worthy mother. Not a worthy person. A waste of space. My body can't even do what I was biologically born to do.
That's what happens when you (I) miscarry a baby, that's how you (I) feel.
If I carried that baby to term, even if it was perfectly healthy and whole, a tiny part of me would feel horrible every time I was at the end of my tether with the brat, with the current state of my life. More than once the words "maybe I should've had an abortion" would creep slowly and quietly from the deepest darkest backest blackest part of my brain until they were in lights, on a marquis, screaming in front of my face, rendering me unable to see or hear or feel anything else.
That's what happens now and then when you (I) have a baby that you (I) didn't necessarily want, no matter that it (Jake) becomes the one true love of your (my) life.
When I see those protesters, with their photoshopped signs of dead babies (I've miscarried babies older than what you are claiming to be showing me. I fucking know what a dead ten week old fetus looks like, thank you. I've let one slip through my fingers before I flushed it down the toilet in a vulgar attempt to forget what I just went through.) I want to hurt them. Wrap my fingers around their wrists and demand to know why they feel that they have a right to force me into doing something that isn't good for me, for my (born or unborn) child, for my body. Why they can't work for their cause by encouraging their daughters and nieces and friends to remain abstinent unless they are trying to/willing to get pregnant. I wonder if they would ask their goodgirl twoshoed daughter to deny herself and her partner a physical relationship if she had a giant chunk of her reproductive organs removed because of a tumor. Because that's what they are asking me to do.
No sex ever unless you are trying to make a baby.
No food ever unless you are starving to death.
No water ever unless you are almost dust.
No shelter ever unless you are in a storm.
No clothing ever unless you are freezing.
Where does it stop?
I am anti-abortion, I guess, not really, I don't know, I don't care. I feel like they shouldn't be used as birth control, but I feel that no one should carry an unwanted baby or a baby that risks the mother's health.
I am extremely pro-choice. It's that whole belief I have that I truly do live in a free country, one where I can chose not to have an abortion just the same as I can chose to have one.
I don't want to hear that Jesus or God or Allah told you that abortion is wrong, because Jesus AND God AND Allah AND one time Mohammad, but that was on the subway so it may have just been some random dude, have all fucking told me that it's okay to take steps to take care of myself and my child above all other things and I was born with a gift of free will, which allows me to chose things for myself, not for everyone else. Just like I can't make anyone else do anything they don't want to do, no one else can make me do anything I don't want to do.
Jesus doesn't put babies in my belly, and he doesn't have a say in whether I take them out. We were all created/evolved to be able to reproduce biologically, not spiritually. I know this because I was there when I got a baby in my belly. And trust me when I tell you, if Jesus had any decorum whatsoever, he would have been embarrassed enough to step far, far away from the whole situation. Far enough away that he couldn't knock me up. Unless he is in to that sort of thing. It was wild. Maybe he was there. Maybe he's a freak like that. Maybe Jesus got me drunk that day. Drunk enough not to use a condom. Drunk enough to be all like "just pull out" but maybe he was there, holding us together so pulling out was impossible. Maybe Jesus roofied me. That Jesus with his whiskey and horse tranquilizers and divine intervention. He's always up to something.
Anyway, Jesus told me that he has bigger fish to divide into more fish than worrying about what people are doing with their babies. That's why he lets children be abused physically and sexually and emotionally and starved to death all over the world. Not his problem. He's all "meh, I'll deal with the abusers at the back end of it. That's what Judgment Day is for."
God told me that when he decided to put humans on this planet he made us so we can go ahead and do that part all by ourselves. That's why there are men shuffling around. To shove the babies up there with their Baby Shoving Rods of Passion. God told me that he has nothing to do with it beyond making it possible for it to happen. He was all like "Lo, I shall make one type of human with an innie and one type with an outie down there, and the outies will fill the innies with nectar and a tiny human will grow and slither out the peehole upon the dawn of its ripeness". And that was that.
Funny that he is sending mixed messaged, isn't it?
So take your fucking opinions elsewhere, assholes, and let me get on the bus and on with my weird life.
It's hard to miss anything in this one (million) horse town.
I saw Barack Obama yesterday, just by chance. Two Americans, passing in the night. Day. Whatever. Traffic was blocked at Broad and Vine and at first I was all pissed because I couldn't cross to get where I needed to be but I have this sickness that makes me stick around in a crowd just to see what's going on.
I also have a sickness where I like to stare into the sky to see how many other people stare into the sky. Sometimes, if enough people are looking up, I'll point up and dart into the subway, like I'm running away from something.
What? It's better than starting a fire to watch the pretty lights come.
So, first the helicopters. Traffic accident, I assumed.
Then the dummy motorcade, driving in circles. Shriners, I assumed.
Then holy crap hold on to your hat because the President does not eff around when it comes to getting someplace. Our highway patrol broke the soundbarrier, flying down Vine in a V-formation and the towncars floated through the wake. One hundred miles per hour? One twenty? Probably.
There was no chance of sniping that bitch, that's for sure.
You could see right in Barack's car. I love that he lets me call him that. The windows were tinted, but not blacked out. He smiled and waved. He was wearing a seatbelt.
And then he was gone.
I got pissed again by the time I got to 12th street because the abortion protesters were all up in my bus stop. Trying to touch my vagina with their words and their yelling and their intolerance and their signs stapled to 2 by 4s. Spittle shooting from the corners of their mouth, eyes bulged out in an attempt to make me listen. Three inches from my face. I can hear you. You spit on my cheek.
No dignity. No respect.
They don't know me.
I could be one of them, why are they treating me like this?
Why is this okay?
I just want to get home to my son.
I just want to get on the bus.
I have a problem with authority figures, if you haven't already gotten a sense of that. I have a bigger problem with people who aren't the authority of anything trying to boss me and my gender around.
I'm an asshole like that. I don't even like people who protest against things I am against. Shut up. Get your ass off the street, out of my way, and in front of a typewriter. Draft a letter. Call your congressman. It's not the '60s anymore. Things that were effective then aren't so much anymore. What ever happened to sit-ins? Can't we all band together quietly? I have a hard time with excess noise. I'm sensitive.
Seeing those protesters makes me want to get an abortion just for the hell of it. Makes me want to abort the snot out of an unwanted baby out of spite.
Late term.
I'm kidding.
I'm not.
How can I even joke about that?
Easy.
Because it upsets me and that's how I deal with things. Because I know if I got pregnant now I would be faced with the choice whether to try and make that baby stick up in my guts for 26+ weeks at the risk of my health, my life, my happiness, and my relationship with my entire family, especially my child.
If I got pregnant right now I would seriously consider an abortion.
Any doctor- hell, anyone who loves me- would advise me to have one, considering the risks.
Whether I would go through with it or not, I can't answer that. But I like being secure in the knowledge that there are safe, clean, nurturing places that I can go to have it done. That I could have counseling and aftercare and followups until I was ready to stop having counseling and aftercare and followups. I know if I would abort a fetus I would live with guilt for the rest of my life, every time something bad happened to me or someone I love, I would wonder if the universe was punishing me for tossing away a tiny cluster of near-nothing pulse. As if the universe has time to worry about me and what I'm doing down here.
I killed a $5 Trader Joes's rosebush and I feel like I owe something to the world. I set spiders free. Silverfish even, and they are the ultimate grossest. I rescued a mouse from the inside of my cat's face one time.
If I didn't have an abortion and I miscarried- which is very likely to happen- I would feel like a miserable failure at sustaining life. Less than a woman. Not a worthy mother. Not a worthy person. A waste of space. My body can't even do what I was biologically born to do.
That's what happens when you (I) miscarry a baby, that's how you (I) feel.
If I carried that baby to term, even if it was perfectly healthy and whole, a tiny part of me would feel horrible every time I was at the end of my tether with the brat, with the current state of my life. More than once the words "maybe I should've had an abortion" would creep slowly and quietly from the deepest darkest backest blackest part of my brain until they were in lights, on a marquis, screaming in front of my face, rendering me unable to see or hear or feel anything else.
That's what happens now and then when you (I) have a baby that you (I) didn't necessarily want, no matter that it (Jake) becomes the one true love of your (my) life.
When I see those protesters, with their photoshopped signs of dead babies (I've miscarried babies older than what you are claiming to be showing me. I fucking know what a dead ten week old fetus looks like, thank you. I've let one slip through my fingers before I flushed it down the toilet in a vulgar attempt to forget what I just went through.) I want to hurt them. Wrap my fingers around their wrists and demand to know why they feel that they have a right to force me into doing something that isn't good for me, for my (born or unborn) child, for my body. Why they can't work for their cause by encouraging their daughters and nieces and friends to remain abstinent unless they are trying to/willing to get pregnant. I wonder if they would ask their goodgirl twoshoed daughter to deny herself and her partner a physical relationship if she had a giant chunk of her reproductive organs removed because of a tumor. Because that's what they are asking me to do.
No sex ever unless you are trying to make a baby.
No food ever unless you are starving to death.
No water ever unless you are almost dust.
No shelter ever unless you are in a storm.
No clothing ever unless you are freezing.
Where does it stop?
I am anti-abortion, I guess, not really, I don't know, I don't care. I feel like they shouldn't be used as birth control, but I feel that no one should carry an unwanted baby or a baby that risks the mother's health.
I am extremely pro-choice. It's that whole belief I have that I truly do live in a free country, one where I can chose not to have an abortion just the same as I can chose to have one.
I don't want to hear that Jesus or God or Allah told you that abortion is wrong, because Jesus AND God AND Allah AND one time Mohammad, but that was on the subway so it may have just been some random dude, have all fucking told me that it's okay to take steps to take care of myself and my child above all other things and I was born with a gift of free will, which allows me to chose things for myself, not for everyone else. Just like I can't make anyone else do anything they don't want to do, no one else can make me do anything I don't want to do.
Jesus doesn't put babies in my belly, and he doesn't have a say in whether I take them out. We were all created/evolved to be able to reproduce biologically, not spiritually. I know this because I was there when I got a baby in my belly. And trust me when I tell you, if Jesus had any decorum whatsoever, he would have been embarrassed enough to step far, far away from the whole situation. Far enough away that he couldn't knock me up. Unless he is in to that sort of thing. It was wild. Maybe he was there. Maybe he's a freak like that. Maybe Jesus got me drunk that day. Drunk enough not to use a condom. Drunk enough to be all like "just pull out" but maybe he was there, holding us together so pulling out was impossible. Maybe Jesus roofied me. That Jesus with his whiskey and horse tranquilizers and divine intervention. He's always up to something.
Anyway, Jesus told me that he has bigger fish to divide into more fish than worrying about what people are doing with their babies. That's why he lets children be abused physically and sexually and emotionally and starved to death all over the world. Not his problem. He's all "meh, I'll deal with the abusers at the back end of it. That's what Judgment Day is for."
God told me that when he decided to put humans on this planet he made us so we can go ahead and do that part all by ourselves. That's why there are men shuffling around. To shove the babies up there with their Baby Shoving Rods of Passion. God told me that he has nothing to do with it beyond making it possible for it to happen. He was all like "Lo, I shall make one type of human with an innie and one type with an outie down there, and the outies will fill the innies with nectar and a tiny human will grow and slither out the peehole upon the dawn of its ripeness". And that was that.
Funny that he is sending mixed messaged, isn't it?
So take your fucking opinions elsewhere, assholes, and let me get on the bus and on with my weird life.
9.13.2009
I think it's funny when people call me brave. When people say I have balls.
I don't.
I don't do anything that is remotely near the outer edge of my comfort zone. I'm not a risk taker. I'm not impulsive.
I'm aware that my comfort zone is shifted a bit from where most peoples' lie. I can do things that a lot of people can't ever imagine. But a lot of people do things I can't ever imagine.
On the subject of my job. When I talk about my work with people who are of the DoctorLawyerIndianCheif ilk, they can't imagine how or why I do what I do. Just like I don't understand how anyone can live with themselves if they wear suits and dress shoes every day. Not because of the choice they made or the mission of their career, but because suits and dress shoes are uncomfortable and comfort is the utmost for me. I don't get how people sit at a desk all day. What do you do with the muscle twitches? The wanderlust? The feeling that you are trapped? I'd rather be in the 'hood than at a desk downtown. Not because I'm brave or good or some sort of martyr. But because I'm a damned spaz who is lucky enough that can handle what my job has to offer.
I'm not an extra good person because I work in social services. I'm just comfortable with uncomfortable situations. Bad guys and bad places and sad guys and sad places are part of my comfort zone. Digging people out of a hole is one of my godgiven talents.
I'm raising a child in a Large American City. A lot of parents freak if their child steps foot in my LAC. I freak if my kid steps out of it. Do you know how many child molesters can hide in your suburban backyard? Lots. Behind the trees that line the property. Crouched in the bushes. Around the back of the shed. Along the side of the house. You can't see those places from your kitchen window. Too many nooks and crannies once you get out of the city. I don't like it. Comfort zone. Don't even get me started on the number of car accidents you and your babies can get into if you have to drive everywhere. I would crumble under the risk. I like it here where everything is a block or two away, and anything that isn't can be delivered for a few dollars.
The way I look the way I think the way I walk the way I talk. It's all perfectly normal to me. But not to everyone. People like me because I'm just a little bit different. People don't because I'm just a little bit different.
I love being just a little bit different.
I love that I'm just a little bit different (insane) enough that speaking my piece comes as easy as breathing. That I'm not afraid (I don't care) what people think of me because I have the self-confidence and -esteem to just be and say the fuck who I am. Not everyone loves that about me, but who cares.
There is a lot of stuff that other people do that I can't stand. Evensteven.
There is a lot of stuff that other people do that I'm envious of. It all works out.
Same goes for this blog. It's a little bit different than most out there. It reflects a tiny part of my little bit different self. I don't live and breathe everything that I share, but I feel and own everything I write. I don't write everything I feel and own. I don't share everything I live and breathe.
Used to be that the only people who read this know me well on the otherside of the box. They know that I tend to be a chronic exaggerator, that I'll twist the minor facts to get a joke out there, that I hide 98% of myself but the 2% that I share is specially hand selected, picked at the peak of ripeness. I like to say things that other people might be thinking. That other people might have never thought of. That other people are afraid to admit. That other people might hate about themselves because they are concerned that it makes them bad. That they are the only ones who feel that way. I do it in life, I do it on paper. I do it. It's part of who I am.
This blog is our cup of coffee. Our happy hour. This is the stuff that I say in the privacy of your kitchen or in the back booth of the local hotspot. I don't walk around and talk like this all the time.
I spoke with a few of my friends this weekend about how people who don't know me outside of this blog must perceive me. If they think that I'm a radical, a bitch, a crazy person. I'm not. But I am. Just like everyone else. I could write about my day like millions of other bloggers. I could say nice things and keep the sass to myself. My mom would read and be happy she knew what was going on in my life. My friends would read from time to time and wonder what happened to the girl I used to be, chalking it up to maturity and motherhood. I'm a good enough writer that a few strangers might click over here to see how I said what I have to say, what I did.
The world at large wouldn't have anything bad to say to me. I wouldn't get emails comparing me to the Pope who doesn't believe that the Holocaust happened (I know everyone who said that probably thinks that was a very original and biting thing to say to me, but it wasn't. A dozen people said it. It was weird the first time, funny the eighth, and then just boring. I believe 9*11 happened, I mourn the loss of those who died every day, not just once a year. I mourne those who died in battle defending us in the resulting war, and for those innocent people in the countries we have invaded who died at the hands of this war. You know, casualties in the Middle East are no different than those of us who didn't make it out of the towers. Even though they are brown and Muslim and fated from birth to live in unsettled lands. We can't help where we were born or what we look like or what we were raised to believe. I didn't ask to be delivered to a white woman in Pennsylvania who brought me up Presbyterian in Erie any more than a child born today anywhere in the world to any faith. I got lucky, by American standards.).
I wouldn't get comments on my blog telling me that I am lacking as a mother because I share him with my family from time to time, that I get a babysitter once a week, that I send him to daycare while I go to work despite the fact that his father has a job that could support a SAHM status. That I only have one child. That I lose my patience, that I miss my former self. I am a mother, yes. I am a damned good one. But that's not what this blog is about.
My life, yes. Some silly journal? No.
I'd rather share a story about the hard parts of being alive rather than the kittens and rainbows part. That way maybe someone living a kittenless life might happen upon it and realize that she isn't alone, despite what she sees and feels in her home, in her town, in her world. I know how shitty it feels to have moments where you resent having a child. I know it is normal to have moments where you resent having a child. I don't feel like a terrible asshole because there are moments where I resent having a child. I don't feel like a bad person because I can't handle the effing whining and the crying and the testing and the pouting and the laundry and the dishes and the mess. I am a good person because despite loathing it, I deal with it. I have learned effective ways of dealing with it and I use them and I move on and in twenty minutes the funk has passed and we are getting on with it. If I didn't know that moms everywhere were doing the same thing, I'd want to slit my wrists.
There was a time that I didn't know that moms everywhere were doing the same thing and I almost slit my wrists.
Without this blog I wouldn't have a merry band of friends I've never met who thank me for saying what I have to say. Who share their own opinions so my fat head can wrap itself around the flip side of my coin. Who send me emails in the middle of the night because what I said that day changed a tiny bit of the way they look at things, for better or for worse. That's a pretty damned valuable thing.
And for the record, my friend Beth came over on Friday night. She doesn't have a blog or I'd link her up. She told me that when she met me last year she thought I was the nicest, most polite, sweetest girl ever and she still does after spending hundreds of hours with me. She said I was piefaced even. Piefaced! That's my new gang name. I'm the Pieface Slaya. Holding it down. South side.
I am the nicest most polite sweetest girl ever. My heart is big and my hands are able. I've never hurt anyone and not done my damnedest to pick up the pieces. But I have an opinion and a brain and a mouth behind it all and I'm not afraid to use it. If you don't like it, go ahead and drop the feed. I probably dropped yours months ago. Someone who appreciates me will be behind you, waiting to pick it up. The internets are funny like that.
I don't.
I don't do anything that is remotely near the outer edge of my comfort zone. I'm not a risk taker. I'm not impulsive.
I'm aware that my comfort zone is shifted a bit from where most peoples' lie. I can do things that a lot of people can't ever imagine. But a lot of people do things I can't ever imagine.
On the subject of my job. When I talk about my work with people who are of the DoctorLawyerIndianCheif ilk, they can't imagine how or why I do what I do. Just like I don't understand how anyone can live with themselves if they wear suits and dress shoes every day. Not because of the choice they made or the mission of their career, but because suits and dress shoes are uncomfortable and comfort is the utmost for me. I don't get how people sit at a desk all day. What do you do with the muscle twitches? The wanderlust? The feeling that you are trapped? I'd rather be in the 'hood than at a desk downtown. Not because I'm brave or good or some sort of martyr. But because I'm a damned spaz who is lucky enough that can handle what my job has to offer.
I'm not an extra good person because I work in social services. I'm just comfortable with uncomfortable situations. Bad guys and bad places and sad guys and sad places are part of my comfort zone. Digging people out of a hole is one of my godgiven talents.
I'm raising a child in a Large American City. A lot of parents freak if their child steps foot in my LAC. I freak if my kid steps out of it. Do you know how many child molesters can hide in your suburban backyard? Lots. Behind the trees that line the property. Crouched in the bushes. Around the back of the shed. Along the side of the house. You can't see those places from your kitchen window. Too many nooks and crannies once you get out of the city. I don't like it. Comfort zone. Don't even get me started on the number of car accidents you and your babies can get into if you have to drive everywhere. I would crumble under the risk. I like it here where everything is a block or two away, and anything that isn't can be delivered for a few dollars.
The way I look the way I think the way I walk the way I talk. It's all perfectly normal to me. But not to everyone. People like me because I'm just a little bit different. People don't because I'm just a little bit different.
I love being just a little bit different.
I love that I'm just a little bit different (insane) enough that speaking my piece comes as easy as breathing. That I'm not afraid (I don't care) what people think of me because I have the self-confidence and -esteem to just be and say the fuck who I am. Not everyone loves that about me, but who cares.
There is a lot of stuff that other people do that I can't stand. Evensteven.
There is a lot of stuff that other people do that I'm envious of. It all works out.
Same goes for this blog. It's a little bit different than most out there. It reflects a tiny part of my little bit different self. I don't live and breathe everything that I share, but I feel and own everything I write. I don't write everything I feel and own. I don't share everything I live and breathe.
Used to be that the only people who read this know me well on the otherside of the box. They know that I tend to be a chronic exaggerator, that I'll twist the minor facts to get a joke out there, that I hide 98% of myself but the 2% that I share is specially hand selected, picked at the peak of ripeness. I like to say things that other people might be thinking. That other people might have never thought of. That other people are afraid to admit. That other people might hate about themselves because they are concerned that it makes them bad. That they are the only ones who feel that way. I do it in life, I do it on paper. I do it. It's part of who I am.
This blog is our cup of coffee. Our happy hour. This is the stuff that I say in the privacy of your kitchen or in the back booth of the local hotspot. I don't walk around and talk like this all the time.
I spoke with a few of my friends this weekend about how people who don't know me outside of this blog must perceive me. If they think that I'm a radical, a bitch, a crazy person. I'm not. But I am. Just like everyone else. I could write about my day like millions of other bloggers. I could say nice things and keep the sass to myself. My mom would read and be happy she knew what was going on in my life. My friends would read from time to time and wonder what happened to the girl I used to be, chalking it up to maturity and motherhood. I'm a good enough writer that a few strangers might click over here to see how I said what I have to say, what I did.
The world at large wouldn't have anything bad to say to me. I wouldn't get emails comparing me to the Pope who doesn't believe that the Holocaust happened (I know everyone who said that probably thinks that was a very original and biting thing to say to me, but it wasn't. A dozen people said it. It was weird the first time, funny the eighth, and then just boring. I believe 9*11 happened, I mourn the loss of those who died every day, not just once a year. I mourne those who died in battle defending us in the resulting war, and for those innocent people in the countries we have invaded who died at the hands of this war. You know, casualties in the Middle East are no different than those of us who didn't make it out of the towers. Even though they are brown and Muslim and fated from birth to live in unsettled lands. We can't help where we were born or what we look like or what we were raised to believe. I didn't ask to be delivered to a white woman in Pennsylvania who brought me up Presbyterian in Erie any more than a child born today anywhere in the world to any faith. I got lucky, by American standards.).
I wouldn't get comments on my blog telling me that I am lacking as a mother because I share him with my family from time to time, that I get a babysitter once a week, that I send him to daycare while I go to work despite the fact that his father has a job that could support a SAHM status. That I only have one child. That I lose my patience, that I miss my former self. I am a mother, yes. I am a damned good one. But that's not what this blog is about.
My life, yes. Some silly journal? No.
I'd rather share a story about the hard parts of being alive rather than the kittens and rainbows part. That way maybe someone living a kittenless life might happen upon it and realize that she isn't alone, despite what she sees and feels in her home, in her town, in her world. I know how shitty it feels to have moments where you resent having a child. I know it is normal to have moments where you resent having a child. I don't feel like a terrible asshole because there are moments where I resent having a child. I don't feel like a bad person because I can't handle the effing whining and the crying and the testing and the pouting and the laundry and the dishes and the mess. I am a good person because despite loathing it, I deal with it. I have learned effective ways of dealing with it and I use them and I move on and in twenty minutes the funk has passed and we are getting on with it. If I didn't know that moms everywhere were doing the same thing, I'd want to slit my wrists.
There was a time that I didn't know that moms everywhere were doing the same thing and I almost slit my wrists.
Without this blog I wouldn't have a merry band of friends I've never met who thank me for saying what I have to say. Who share their own opinions so my fat head can wrap itself around the flip side of my coin. Who send me emails in the middle of the night because what I said that day changed a tiny bit of the way they look at things, for better or for worse. That's a pretty damned valuable thing.
And for the record, my friend Beth came over on Friday night. She doesn't have a blog or I'd link her up. She told me that when she met me last year she thought I was the nicest, most polite, sweetest girl ever and she still does after spending hundreds of hours with me. She said I was piefaced even. Piefaced! That's my new gang name. I'm the Pieface Slaya. Holding it down. South side.
I am the nicest most polite sweetest girl ever. My heart is big and my hands are able. I've never hurt anyone and not done my damnedest to pick up the pieces. But I have an opinion and a brain and a mouth behind it all and I'm not afraid to use it. If you don't like it, go ahead and drop the feed. I probably dropped yours months ago. Someone who appreciates me will be behind you, waiting to pick it up. The internets are funny like that.
9.11.2009
enough
I wonder when we can start being less douchey and overlyAmerican about 9*11. The way I see it, 9/11/01 was the day that it became in vogue to be a conservative redneck. Like you are more patriotic if you like country music and wear cheap blue jeans and drink Budweiser and drive a pickup and love Nascar and cook with butter and hate anyone who isn't lilywhite and churchgoing.
I always write 9*11. Like I write Wal*mart.
9*11 is a frigging boon for the Wal*mart set.
Do you know how much Americana garbage you can buy at Wal*mart? Lots. And it's all made in China but it makes you look totally better than everyone in yourtrailerpark neighborhood when you strew it all over your house&yard&car
I know, I know.
It's sad. It's traumatizing. It's horrible. It's changed our lives.
I was there.
We had one day of it. People in other countries live like that for generations.
Tens of thousands of our own people are killing tens of thousands of our own people every year for trivial reasons. Kids are going to bed hungry. Grownups are going to bed hungrier than the kids. Hungry people can't stay well. There are millions of unwell people who can't go to the doctor because they don't have money or healthcare. We are passively killing our own people because they don't have access to a Z-Pak. It's because they are poor and stupid and lazy. Blame it on the brown terrorists. They fucked everything else up for us, and looksie what we gots now. A halfblack president. Lawsymercy on our souls. Hitler has risen and come again. Getcher guns. Sayer prayers. Jesus loves middleclass and white. He will solve this, in the end. By killing all the poor people, I'm guessing. Lacka healthcare is Jesus' way of weedin out the unrighteous and undeservin masses so nobody in the gubment better go givin that shit away fo free.
Our cumulative and collective hatred for one another has been fueled by greed and war and fear and and and and look at us now.
special thanks to Mr London Street for the graphic graphic
I always write 9*11. Like I write Wal*mart.
9*11 is a frigging boon for the Wal*mart set.
Do you know how much Americana garbage you can buy at Wal*mart? Lots. And it's all made in China but it makes you look totally better than everyone in your
I know, I know.
It's sad. It's traumatizing. It's horrible. It's changed our lives.
I was there.
We had one day of it. People in other countries live like that for generations.
Tens of thousands of our own people are killing tens of thousands of our own people every year for trivial reasons. Kids are going to bed hungry. Grownups are going to bed hungrier than the kids. Hungry people can't stay well. There are millions of unwell people who can't go to the doctor because they don't have money or healthcare. We are passively killing our own people because they don't have access to a Z-Pak. It's because they are poor and stupid and lazy. Blame it on the brown terrorists. They fucked everything else up for us, and looksie what we gots now. A halfblack president. Lawsymercy on our souls. Hitler has risen and come again. Getcher guns. Sayer prayers. Jesus loves middleclass and white. He will solve this, in the end. By killing all the poor people, I'm guessing. Lacka healthcare is Jesus' way of weedin out the unrighteous and undeservin masses so nobody in the gubment better go givin that shit away fo free.
Our cumulative and collective hatred for one another has been fueled by greed and war and fear and and and and look at us now.
special thanks to Mr London Street for the graphic graphic
9.10.2009
creep show
I'm thinking autumn is here, a little early this year.
This summer has played tricks on my age. I moved away from my hometown as soon as I legally could to escape summers that didn't top eighty degrees and winters that lasted from Halloween until Easter. Most mornings since May I've woken up chilly, dreading daycamp at the YW. Wondering if I have to open the Baskin Robbins or if I can stay in bed until someone yells at me to get out of it.
And then someone does.
"moommmmyyy. i neeed a milkshaaaake. it's mooorrrrnning"
And then I'm really confused.
1984 turns to 1992 turns to today.
I created a monster when I started giving Jake a Carnation Instant Breakfast each morning when he was off the bottle. Here I think I'm doing a good thing by forcing vitamins down his throat but all I really did was give the kid a sweet reason to get out of bed as early as possible each day.
The big chill has me a little worried about what winter might bring.
The leaves are starting to change a bit. Mostly just the ones that hang over the busy streets. They are always the first to go. The ginkgo berries are falling off the trees in half force. Have you smelled these things? Apparently they contain some sort of nastiness that is present in puke and poop and parmesan cheese. Have I ever told you how I feel about foods that smell bad?
Yeah. We were given a nose for a reason. It's so we don't eat anything that smells like ass or balls or feet or the dumpster behind Planned Parenthood. If someone says that something smells fishy, that isn't a compliment.
If I say it smells like a sac in here, it doesn't mean I want to eat the source.
Oh! Something smells like hookerpus! I'll have a bite of that seafood on your plate.
My kitchen smells like hobocrotch. Someone's smuggling sharp provolone!
It's a shame these trees live for thousands of years. No one wants to cut them down because they were a gift from China two hundred years ago.
Halloween candy is out. And the costumes. I have Jake's mostly put together. He's going to be Underdog, his current obsession. He knows that's what he is going to be, but he hasn't seen the costume yet. I found a long sleeved Underdog shirt online, I bought him a pair of $4 brown stretch pants in the girlydept at Walmart that I'll stichwitch some white felt "spots" on, and find a brown headband that I'll glue some floppy brown felt ears to the sides of. And somewhere I'll find a blue cape that is less than $50 yet durable enough to withstand years of play. Something tells me that the boy isn't going to let me put this costume away for quite some time.
But my favorite part of Almost Fall?
In the summertime my street is busy with kids running around after dark while the grown ups sit on the front steps and people smoking outside the bar and waiting for their pizzas to cook or maybe their sandwiches to be put together at the other end of the block and cars driving around going who knows where and every twenty minutes the bus rushes by. There isn't much of a breeze, but when it blows the leaves rustle nicely.
As soon as the cooler weather hits, the air picks up and blows stray newspapers and errant soda bottles and who knows what else against the sides of the houses. Clatter, chunk, clunk, roll, crash. The leaves are drying out and the branches start to crack against one another. They slap against the top of the bus, but they will be scrapped and broken shorter after the leaves fall off. It's a nice sound while it lasts. No one hangs outside anymore, there is no laughing or catching up going on down there on the street. The moon is high and bright and shines on my bedroom floor all night long. The house is starting to dehumidify itself, floorboards creaking under the weight of nobody. There is a crosswind that whirls around the hallway now, it is still warm enough to sleep with all the windows open, now that I've brought out the quilts. The doors shake in their frames once they slam themselves shut and the pictures bump against the walls. The wind chimes are total spazes. Jake has nightmares. It's wildly adorable to hear about them when he is hiding, shaking under my covers with a flashlight. I pretend like I don't want him in there but it's my favorite part of the day. The cat stays awake chasing currents. She gets so full of vinegar when it's not ninety degrees in the bedrooms. I want to eat up the way she stands in the window, hair prickled, back arched, low mewls at the wind whistling through the screen. I have a bat who circles my house. I pretend like he's watching over us. He comes out at 11 sharp in the summer, but closer to ten these days. We named him once, but I forget. I love his little squeaks. I can feel them in my back teeth before I hear them.
I lie awake and pretend to be horrified. Picturing bones rolling out the open closet door. Bugs nesting in my bureau. Strange things playing in my basement. Airplanes are aliens. Blood flows from the faucets. Drip. Drip. Drip. If I get up I'll find a red mess pouring from under the bathroom door.
But nothing is under the bed. Oh no. The box springs lie directly on the floor. I'm not stupid.
Good times can be found in insomnia, if the calendar is on the right page.
This summer has played tricks on my age. I moved away from my hometown as soon as I legally could to escape summers that didn't top eighty degrees and winters that lasted from Halloween until Easter. Most mornings since May I've woken up chilly, dreading daycamp at the YW. Wondering if I have to open the Baskin Robbins or if I can stay in bed until someone yells at me to get out of it.
And then someone does.
"moommmmyyy. i neeed a milkshaaaake. it's mooorrrrnning"
And then I'm really confused.
1984 turns to 1992 turns to today.
I created a monster when I started giving Jake a Carnation Instant Breakfast each morning when he was off the bottle. Here I think I'm doing a good thing by forcing vitamins down his throat but all I really did was give the kid a sweet reason to get out of bed as early as possible each day.
The big chill has me a little worried about what winter might bring.
The leaves are starting to change a bit. Mostly just the ones that hang over the busy streets. They are always the first to go. The ginkgo berries are falling off the trees in half force. Have you smelled these things? Apparently they contain some sort of nastiness that is present in puke and poop and parmesan cheese. Have I ever told you how I feel about foods that smell bad?
Yeah. We were given a nose for a reason. It's so we don't eat anything that smells like ass or balls or feet or the dumpster behind Planned Parenthood. If someone says that something smells fishy, that isn't a compliment.
If I say it smells like a sac in here, it doesn't mean I want to eat the source.
Oh! Something smells like hookerpus! I'll have a bite of that seafood on your plate.
My kitchen smells like hobocrotch. Someone's smuggling sharp provolone!
It's a shame these trees live for thousands of years. No one wants to cut them down because they were a gift from China two hundred years ago.
Halloween candy is out. And the costumes. I have Jake's mostly put together. He's going to be Underdog, his current obsession. He knows that's what he is going to be, but he hasn't seen the costume yet. I found a long sleeved Underdog shirt online, I bought him a pair of $4 brown stretch pants in the girlydept at Walmart that I'll stichwitch some white felt "spots" on, and find a brown headband that I'll glue some floppy brown felt ears to the sides of. And somewhere I'll find a blue cape that is less than $50 yet durable enough to withstand years of play. Something tells me that the boy isn't going to let me put this costume away for quite some time.
But my favorite part of Almost Fall?
Scary nights.
In the summertime my street is busy with kids running around after dark while the grown ups sit on the front steps and people smoking outside the bar and waiting for their pizzas to cook or maybe their sandwiches to be put together at the other end of the block and cars driving around going who knows where and every twenty minutes the bus rushes by. There isn't much of a breeze, but when it blows the leaves rustle nicely.
As soon as the cooler weather hits, the air picks up and blows stray newspapers and errant soda bottles and who knows what else against the sides of the houses. Clatter, chunk, clunk, roll, crash. The leaves are drying out and the branches start to crack against one another. They slap against the top of the bus, but they will be scrapped and broken shorter after the leaves fall off. It's a nice sound while it lasts. No one hangs outside anymore, there is no laughing or catching up going on down there on the street. The moon is high and bright and shines on my bedroom floor all night long. The house is starting to dehumidify itself, floorboards creaking under the weight of nobody. There is a crosswind that whirls around the hallway now, it is still warm enough to sleep with all the windows open, now that I've brought out the quilts. The doors shake in their frames once they slam themselves shut and the pictures bump against the walls. The wind chimes are total spazes. Jake has nightmares. It's wildly adorable to hear about them when he is hiding, shaking under my covers with a flashlight. I pretend like I don't want him in there but it's my favorite part of the day. The cat stays awake chasing currents. She gets so full of vinegar when it's not ninety degrees in the bedrooms. I want to eat up the way she stands in the window, hair prickled, back arched, low mewls at the wind whistling through the screen. I have a bat who circles my house. I pretend like he's watching over us. He comes out at 11 sharp in the summer, but closer to ten these days. We named him once, but I forget. I love his little squeaks. I can feel them in my back teeth before I hear them.
I lie awake and pretend to be horrified. Picturing bones rolling out the open closet door. Bugs nesting in my bureau. Strange things playing in my basement. Airplanes are aliens. Blood flows from the faucets. Drip. Drip. Drip. If I get up I'll find a red mess pouring from under the bathroom door.
But nothing is under the bed. Oh no. The box springs lie directly on the floor. I'm not stupid.
Good times can be found in insomnia, if the calendar is on the right page.
9.09.2009
fun with stability
So, someone went ahead and leaked the Rorschach inkblots onto Wikipedia. You know the ones.
The supersecret grail of whackjob soothsaying?
Yep.
Let's have a go at it, shall we?
Disclaimer: I am assuming these are the real ones. Lucky for me, I've never reached a point in sanity degeneration to see them in a clinical setting. I lifted them off the internet, in order from Inkblot 1-10 without looking to see what "most people" see in them. All this is being cross-checked with Wikipedia. Which is basically the Happy Meal of Research and Methodology so take from this what you will, k? I guess if you want to play along, you should do this for yourself before reading this post. If you are anything like me, once you read what I write you'll only be able to think about my answers and you won't have anything to go by for yourself.
It's like when I say "you are thinking about watching your grandmother go down on the weird guy in your office while your mom changes into her bathing suit in front of your boss".
Now you are thinking about your grandmother going down on the weird guy in your office while your mom changes into her bathing suit in front of your boss.
I'm not sure how much time I'm supposed to spend with each of these, so I'm limiting myself to immediate reactions. 30 seconds on each including type time.
Taco Bell dog drinking out of a puddle. Most likely a puddle of motor oil in the TB parking lot and that's how he died.
two Haitian ladies playing pattycake and singing Aiko Aiko
two ladies wearing strapons feeling the heat of a very recent tittierub over a cauldron of magic. Behind them? Bloodstains. Their brains just got shot out by their jealous husbands
two sad eagles, sitting back to back. they have challenged each other to a duel because they look like penguins but they don't have the energy to stand up. And there is a dragonhead. Creeping out from the bottom. Wait, now I see a tiny dragon that accidentally got stepped on and his back is crushed to pieces.
mothman
anchor wearing a vagina. Or maybe it's an anchor stuck in a vagina. Or a disembodied vagina that was yanked out by some sort of hook.
ants doing the rumba at their uncle's wedding
two naked mole rats climbing up a torso
pelvis. period. pain. this is what menstruation feels like.
a carousel at the base of the Eiffel Tower.
The supersecret grail of whackjob soothsaying?
Yep.
Let's have a go at it, shall we?
Disclaimer: I am assuming these are the real ones. Lucky for me, I've never reached a point in sanity degeneration to see them in a clinical setting. I lifted them off the internet, in order from Inkblot 1-10 without looking to see what "most people" see in them. All this is being cross-checked with Wikipedia. Which is basically the Happy Meal of Research and Methodology so take from this what you will, k? I guess if you want to play along, you should do this for yourself before reading this post. If you are anything like me, once you read what I write you'll only be able to think about my answers and you won't have anything to go by for yourself.
It's like when I say "you are thinking about watching your grandmother go down on the weird guy in your office while your mom changes into her bathing suit in front of your boss".
Now you are thinking about your grandmother going down on the weird guy in your office while your mom changes into her bathing suit in front of your boss.
I'm not sure how much time I'm supposed to spend with each of these, so I'm limiting myself to immediate reactions. 30 seconds on each including type time.
Taco Bell dog drinking out of a puddle. Most likely a puddle of motor oil in the TB parking lot and that's how he died. ***
two Haitian ladies playing pattycake and singing Aiko Aiko***
two ladies wearing strapons feeling the heat of a very recent tittierub over a cauldron of magic. Behind them? Bloodstains. Their brains just got shot out by their jealous husbands***
two sad eagles, sitting back to back. they have challenged each other to a duel because they look like penguins but they don't have the energy to stand up. And there is a dragonhead. Creeping out from the bottom. Wait, now I see a tiny dragon that accidentally got stepped on and his back is crushed to pieces.***
mothman***
anchor wearing a vagina. Or maybe it's an anchor stuck in a vagina. Or a disembodied vagina that was yanked out by some sort of hook.***
ants doing the rumba at their uncle's wedding***
two naked mole rats climbing up a torso***
pelvis. period. pain. this is what menstruation feels like.***
a carousel at the base of the Eiffel Tower.***
Done.
Did I pass?
(big thanks to Sono Annoiato for posting about the leak. I love this blog. There is always something crazy over there)
Did I pass?
(big thanks to Sono Annoiato for posting about the leak. I love this blog. There is always something crazy over there)
9.08.2009
In my continuous effort to just get over my damned self already, I'm enrolling in an improv class.
Hi, my name is Lora and I have crippling stage fright and I think it is about to hold me back in my career and possibly impede my entire future unless I address this phobia right now.
If I had to say that aloud while standing at a podium that would have sounded something like "ImLoraandIgetalittle GASP scaredsometimesand SIGH Ithinkbeinghereinfrontofyouguysisreallymaybegoingtokindofsortofhelpmewithmytotallackof
well
ER
Iguessit'salackofatypeofconfidencewhenstandinginfrontof
UM
youguys.
Eh hem.
Andgirls.
Sohi.
Thankyou.
I think I'm pretty funny.
My friends and family and coworkers and peers think I'm pretty funny.
You guys keep coming back.
My brains work quick.
I'm cute enough that I can get away with some things that other people might not be able too. Hopefully cute will make up for the fact that I'm not fat or skinny. Everyone loves fat or skinny when it's telling jokes. I'm neither and both all at once, which creates a whole new set of issues for me when I'm standing in front of people.
I don't mind being laughed at, in the right setting. Of course I prefer laughed with, but it doesn't really matter. Funny is funny. As long as I'm being laughed near I consider it a success.
Worst case scenario?
Everyone is already besties when I get there and no one is looking for any new friends so I sit down and have a panic attack within a half hour of walking through the door.
But I'm okay with that. One because I don't really need any new friends and two because I've never walked into a room and not been able to make a fast friend.
I may be stageshy but I'm incredibly outgoing.
And people like me.
And when they don't and they can't just walk away, I have a healthy streak of Pure Asshole in me, and I'm not afraid to use it.
I'm really good at keeping my panic on the inside.
But, I am a passerouter. So there is a chance I might faint. That would suck.
So, there is this whole goal to write a book that I have, but you know what? I don't want to write a damned book. Not right now, at least. I have enough ears on me here that I don't really need more people to read my words in order to make me feel like I'm a good writer.
I'm sure that making loads of dollars would be nice, but then what? Buy more crap because I feel like I'm too rich for the crap I already have? Pay more taxes? Eat more? Because you know my ass wouldn't be investing what I would consider my "spending cash".
I'm okay with the fact that this blog is only mildly popular, but I would feel like a failure if my book wasn't on the Bestsellers list. I don't set out to be the best and most loved blogger ever in the history of the www, but I don't like to be mediocre at a moneymaking venture. I'm not ready to feel like a total loser when the only person who buys my book is my mom. My brother might too, if I spot him a twenty. I'm 100% certain that my father would never buy anything I put out because he thinks I'm "inappropriate", "vulgar", "unladylike", "obscene", and fifty other things that you could find in the thesaurus right next to the four words I just listed.
He doesn't know that by him saying that, pride radiates right the hell out of my crunchy heart and all he is doing is encouraging me to keep being me.
I know that before I do anything bigger than I'm doing now I need to break out of this crazy fear. I know that the easiest way for me to handle anything is through humor. I don't want my own Comedy Central special or anything. I just want to be able to speak at a conference some day. Teach a college course. Tell my son that it's okay to stand tall and give the world a piece of himself without caring what anybody else thinks.
Hi, my name is Lora and I have crippling stage fright and I think it is about to hold me back in my career and possibly impede my entire future unless I address this phobia right now.
If I had to say that aloud while standing at a podium that would have sounded something like "ImLoraandIgetalittle GASP scaredsometimesand SIGH Ithinkbeinghereinfrontofyouguysisreallymaybegoingtokindofsortofhelpmewithmytotallackof
well
ER
Iguessit'salackofatypeofconfidencewhenstandinginfrontof
UM
youguys.
Eh hem.
Andgirls.
Sohi.
Thankyou.
I think I'm pretty funny.
My friends and family and coworkers and peers think I'm pretty funny.
You guys keep coming back.
My brains work quick.
I'm cute enough that I can get away with some things that other people might not be able too. Hopefully cute will make up for the fact that I'm not fat or skinny. Everyone loves fat or skinny when it's telling jokes. I'm neither and both all at once, which creates a whole new set of issues for me when I'm standing in front of people.
I don't mind being laughed at, in the right setting. Of course I prefer laughed with, but it doesn't really matter. Funny is funny. As long as I'm being laughed near I consider it a success.
Worst case scenario?
Everyone is already besties when I get there and no one is looking for any new friends so I sit down and have a panic attack within a half hour of walking through the door.
But I'm okay with that. One because I don't really need any new friends and two because I've never walked into a room and not been able to make a fast friend.
I may be stageshy but I'm incredibly outgoing.
And people like me.
And when they don't and they can't just walk away, I have a healthy streak of Pure Asshole in me, and I'm not afraid to use it.
I'm really good at keeping my panic on the inside.
But, I am a passerouter. So there is a chance I might faint. That would suck.
So, there is this whole goal to write a book that I have, but you know what? I don't want to write a damned book. Not right now, at least. I have enough ears on me here that I don't really need more people to read my words in order to make me feel like I'm a good writer.
I'm sure that making loads of dollars would be nice, but then what? Buy more crap because I feel like I'm too rich for the crap I already have? Pay more taxes? Eat more? Because you know my ass wouldn't be investing what I would consider my "spending cash".
I'm okay with the fact that this blog is only mildly popular, but I would feel like a failure if my book wasn't on the Bestsellers list. I don't set out to be the best and most loved blogger ever in the history of the www, but I don't like to be mediocre at a moneymaking venture. I'm not ready to feel like a total loser when the only person who buys my book is my mom. My brother might too, if I spot him a twenty. I'm 100% certain that my father would never buy anything I put out because he thinks I'm "inappropriate", "vulgar", "unladylike", "obscene", and fifty other things that you could find in the thesaurus right next to the four words I just listed.
He doesn't know that by him saying that, pride radiates right the hell out of my crunchy heart and all he is doing is encouraging me to keep being me.
I know that before I do anything bigger than I'm doing now I need to break out of this crazy fear. I know that the easiest way for me to handle anything is through humor. I don't want my own Comedy Central special or anything. I just want to be able to speak at a conference some day. Teach a college course. Tell my son that it's okay to stand tall and give the world a piece of himself without caring what anybody else thinks.
superiority complex
Sometimes when I put awards up here I feel like I'm bragging.
I am.
Because I like being told I'm good at something.
Mr. Glob over at Scallywags Times gave me the Superior Scribbler Award!
Here are the rules for becoming a Superior Scribbler:
*Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.
I can't. But you know who's blog has leapt into greatness lately? Lizzi. Watch out. This girl is going to be an online superstar. Not that she wasn't good before, but she is over there opening cans of her brains lately and it becomes her.
*Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.
Mr. Glob's tagline shares that he is a "24 year old just out of college married with children". Holy crap, Mr. Glob. That's an awful lot of responsibility for a 24 year old. That alone keeps me subscribed to your blog. I want to see how the hell anyone does all that, especially from the grad/husband/dad aspect of it all. The internets are full of moms living that life, but not a lot of dads. Good on you for sharing.
The September when I was 24, I was tucked away safely in a graduate program because I wasn't ready for the real world. I worked at the mall. Or maybe on a Crime Mapping GIS Research Project at Temple. Or maybe both. I forget. I was married, but my only responsibilities were my cat and sorting out being back in America after summering in Rome. I had it really rough, let me tell you.
*Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to This Post, which explains The Award.
I am.
Because I like being told I'm good at something.
Mr. Glob over at Scallywags Times gave me the Superior Scribbler Award!
Here are the rules for becoming a Superior Scribbler:
*Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.
I can't. But you know who's blog has leapt into greatness lately? Lizzi. Watch out. This girl is going to be an online superstar. Not that she wasn't good before, but she is over there opening cans of her brains lately and it becomes her.
*Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.
Mr. Glob's tagline shares that he is a "24 year old just out of college married with children". Holy crap, Mr. Glob. That's an awful lot of responsibility for a 24 year old. That alone keeps me subscribed to your blog. I want to see how the hell anyone does all that, especially from the grad/husband/dad aspect of it all. The internets are full of moms living that life, but not a lot of dads. Good on you for sharing.
The September when I was 24, I was tucked away safely in a graduate program because I wasn't ready for the real world. I worked at the mall. Or maybe on a Crime Mapping GIS Research Project at Temple. Or maybe both. I forget. I was married, but my only responsibilities were my cat and sorting out being back in America after summering in Rome. I had it really rough, let me tell you.
*Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to This Post, which explains The Award.
*Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor!
No. I'm sorry. I refuse to participate in anything that bills itself as Mr. Linky. It goes against my religion or something. I hate that name. It sounds dirty. Like what some perv calls his penis when he shows it to an unsuspecting little boy who is using the men's room for the first time because he thinks he is too big to go in the ladies' room with his mom. Until they come up with something better, I will not be participating in any Mr. Linky events. One thousand apologies to anyone who uses it. I just hate it. Other things in the blogging world I hate?
Partial feeds- trust me when I tell you that you are losing readers if you have a partial feed unless you are the most fabulous post-opener ever. People may be subscribing, but they probably aren't reading all your words. I know this because I have asked a lot of blog readers about it and read some commentary on feeds. What's more important to you? The number of subscribers you have, or the number of readers? I mean, if I REALLY care about you I'll click over, provided I have absolutely nothing else to do and I'm at a real computer. But it effing sucks if I'm reading from my phone (and aren't we all, these days? Raise your hand if you don't do most of your blog reading from your telephone. Thought so.) or if I'm at work and the filters are being bitchy that day. The reason we subscribe to your feed is because we don't want to/can't get to your site. Just saying.
Protected posts- get a damned cat. They listen and they don't tell your mom/spouse/kid's teacher what you did. Unless you want to email me the password first. Because I LOVE me a protected post but I don't like asking because I feel like I'm just being nosy. Protected posts are where all the juice is.
Word verification on comments- seriously? How much spam do you really think you'll get? I've never gotten any. Maybe once, like three years ago. And again about the reading from the phone. It just doesn't format correctly if you want me to enter some sort of secret code to prove to you that I'm a real person and I'm just left with something to say to you but no viable way to do it.
Blogger profiles without email addresses- Sometimes I am dying to reply to your comment but I can't because you aren't sharing your email with me. Or maybe you don't want to hear what I have to say about what you had to say. I don't know. Again with the spam. Are you worried? I never get any through my blogger email address. Sometimes I get an offer for something junky that I don't care about (Feedmil, etc) but I just delete.
Moderated comments- I like to see my picture and words up there immediately. I don't want to wait for you to see if what I said is okay to go on your page. It makes me feel like you think I'll write something that you don't want your mom/spouse/kid's teacher to see. Like I'm going to dime you out about that time that you shared in your password protected post that you gave your stepdad a blowJ in the principals office. Look, just because your mom is a total cougar that preys on hot dudes your age isn't my problem.
Award rules- I read a lot of awesome stuff and to pick just 3 or 5 or 7 to pass an award to is just too much for me. The guilt will eat at me and then I find myself sending emails to 150 different bloggers saying something about how it isn't them, it's just the rules. So I prefer to just say some nice things about the people who give me awards. Even though sometimes I wonder if people only give me awards because I will say something nice about them. Whatever. I'm happy. They're happy. We move on.
Flash- anywhere on the internet, especially on blogs. Are you trying to give me a seizure? Peoples' grandmothers are using the computer now, you know. Way to kill old ladies. I don't have Flash downloaded in a passive aggressive move to be like "oooh, sorry. I just don't have that capability on my computer". I act like my computer at work is total junk, as if there is a hamster in a wheel behind the monitor who keeps the whole thing going but truthfully it is pretty damned state of the art.
Keeping your kids and your hometown a huge secret- Instead of being all like "and then we went to the My County Fair in My Town, USA and my kids One, Two, and Girlbaby ate junk and rode rides and I was so afraid I'd be recognized by another blogger so I couldn't relax and I'd show you pictures, but all the banners had the name of my town and I don't want you to know what my kids look like or where I live so I won't but trust me when I tell you we had a great time", you can be all like "the kids and I had an amazing time at the county fair this weekend. It makes my heart happy to see my kids sitting in the same rickety seats that I sat in with my brother 25 years ago". I understand that you don't want us to know where you keep your brats, and what you call them. It's a scary world. Someone recognized Jake at Target once when I wasn't there and it haunts me all the time. But you are keeping me up nights trying to figure out your life and how glam it must be and who you guys really are when you keep mentioning that you don't want me to know. I can't live like that any more. Pick some phoney names and stick with them. LoriD does a great job of this. Of course I know she didn't name her kids Bart, Maggie, and Lisa. But I know that and I get on with it. I don't lose sleep. Please keep me and my mental health in mind when you are blogging.
Apologizing- If you feel funny about admitting something, write about something else. Stop being sorry that you swear. That you don't go to church. That you do. That you like to do crazy things in the bedroom. That you don't. That you are a little off balance. That you aren't. That you sometimes want to put your baby in the trash. That sometimes you cry because you love your trash-bound baby.
Stop mentioning something and then taking it back.
Own it. Be it. Do it. Love it. Hug it. Touch it. Shout it.
We have to stop being embarrassed about what goes on in our heads and in our lives.
No. I'm sorry. I refuse to participate in anything that bills itself as Mr. Linky. It goes against my religion or something. I hate that name. It sounds dirty. Like what some perv calls his penis when he shows it to an unsuspecting little boy who is using the men's room for the first time because he thinks he is too big to go in the ladies' room with his mom. Until they come up with something better, I will not be participating in any Mr. Linky events. One thousand apologies to anyone who uses it. I just hate it. Other things in the blogging world I hate?
Partial feeds- trust me when I tell you that you are losing readers if you have a partial feed unless you are the most fabulous post-opener ever. People may be subscribing, but they probably aren't reading all your words. I know this because I have asked a lot of blog readers about it and read some commentary on feeds. What's more important to you? The number of subscribers you have, or the number of readers? I mean, if I REALLY care about you I'll click over, provided I have absolutely nothing else to do and I'm at a real computer. But it effing sucks if I'm reading from my phone (and aren't we all, these days? Raise your hand if you don't do most of your blog reading from your telephone. Thought so.) or if I'm at work and the filters are being bitchy that day. The reason we subscribe to your feed is because we don't want to/can't get to your site. Just saying.
Protected posts- get a damned cat. They listen and they don't tell your mom/spouse/kid's teacher what you did. Unless you want to email me the password first. Because I LOVE me a protected post but I don't like asking because I feel like I'm just being nosy. Protected posts are where all the juice is.
Word verification on comments- seriously? How much spam do you really think you'll get? I've never gotten any. Maybe once, like three years ago. And again about the reading from the phone. It just doesn't format correctly if you want me to enter some sort of secret code to prove to you that I'm a real person and I'm just left with something to say to you but no viable way to do it.
Blogger profiles without email addresses- Sometimes I am dying to reply to your comment but I can't because you aren't sharing your email with me. Or maybe you don't want to hear what I have to say about what you had to say. I don't know. Again with the spam. Are you worried? I never get any through my blogger email address. Sometimes I get an offer for something junky that I don't care about (Feedmil, etc) but I just delete.
Moderated comments- I like to see my picture and words up there immediately. I don't want to wait for you to see if what I said is okay to go on your page. It makes me feel like you think I'll write something that you don't want your mom/spouse/kid's teacher to see. Like I'm going to dime you out about that time that you shared in your password protected post that you gave your stepdad a blowJ in the principals office. Look, just because your mom is a total cougar that preys on hot dudes your age isn't my problem.
Award rules- I read a lot of awesome stuff and to pick just 3 or 5 or 7 to pass an award to is just too much for me. The guilt will eat at me and then I find myself sending emails to 150 different bloggers saying something about how it isn't them, it's just the rules. So I prefer to just say some nice things about the people who give me awards. Even though sometimes I wonder if people only give me awards because I will say something nice about them. Whatever. I'm happy. They're happy. We move on.
Flash- anywhere on the internet, especially on blogs. Are you trying to give me a seizure? Peoples' grandmothers are using the computer now, you know. Way to kill old ladies. I don't have Flash downloaded in a passive aggressive move to be like "oooh, sorry. I just don't have that capability on my computer". I act like my computer at work is total junk, as if there is a hamster in a wheel behind the monitor who keeps the whole thing going but truthfully it is pretty damned state of the art.
Keeping your kids and your hometown a huge secret- Instead of being all like "and then we went to the My County Fair in My Town, USA and my kids One, Two, and Girlbaby ate junk and rode rides and I was so afraid I'd be recognized by another blogger so I couldn't relax and I'd show you pictures, but all the banners had the name of my town and I don't want you to know what my kids look like or where I live so I won't but trust me when I tell you we had a great time", you can be all like "the kids and I had an amazing time at the county fair this weekend. It makes my heart happy to see my kids sitting in the same rickety seats that I sat in with my brother 25 years ago". I understand that you don't want us to know where you keep your brats, and what you call them. It's a scary world. Someone recognized Jake at Target once when I wasn't there and it haunts me all the time. But you are keeping me up nights trying to figure out your life and how glam it must be and who you guys really are when you keep mentioning that you don't want me to know. I can't live like that any more. Pick some phoney names and stick with them. LoriD does a great job of this. Of course I know she didn't name her kids Bart, Maggie, and Lisa. But I know that and I get on with it. I don't lose sleep. Please keep me and my mental health in mind when you are blogging.
Apologizing- If you feel funny about admitting something, write about something else. Stop being sorry that you swear. That you don't go to church. That you do. That you like to do crazy things in the bedroom. That you don't. That you are a little off balance. That you aren't. That you sometimes want to put your baby in the trash. That sometimes you cry because you love your trash-bound baby.
Stop mentioning something and then taking it back.
Own it. Be it. Do it. Love it. Hug it. Touch it. Shout it.
We have to stop being embarrassed about what goes on in our heads and in our lives.
9.03.2009
9.02.2009
I posted a link to some photos on my other blog yesterday. The pictures were mainly of busted down and worn out old stuff. I love busted down and worn out old stuff, and try to get a few shots of tiny little pieces of it that I see each day.
Every bit of something that we have has a purpose. We need things for a minute, a lifetime, to span generations. Nothing lasts. Like ourselves, the things we create have a beginning and they have an end. These things have parts that live on, transform, break apart, scatter.
Our parts do too.
I like the fact that someday I will be gone, but there will be pieces of me left behind. Things I teach, things I made, things I own. Things that have taught me, things that have made me, things that have owned me. What we work so hard to preserve go neglected when we turn away.
Fade away.
I spend my days surrounded by things that are falling apart. Broken neighborhoods, broken streets, broken buildings, broken homes, broken people.
That is where I find hope. That is where hope can be found.
People and places which remain intact have very little need for it. They have greed and pride. Beauty and pomp.
Security and trust.
People and places that are crumbling must strive to hold themselves together. To find strength, to find light, to find stability. To fill the cracks, to fill the heart, to fill the bellies.
Hope helps it happen, lets us live another day. When it becomes to much, all things buckle and surrender. Earth takes over as it was meant to. As it was bound to.
Foundations crack, time seeps in, renewal takes its rightful place.
And it all begins again.
I hate modernity.
Clean.
Shiny.
Dapper.
Metal.
Flawless.
Even.
Plumb.
True.
Custom.
New.
Puke.
I love things that are older than me. I surround myself with things that were previously owned.
First yours then yours now mine then yours.
Our space is so cluttered already. Why bring something else into the fold?
I want to write a romance for my little desk that may have bared witness to a thousand love letters sent off to a soldier fighting for the North. It's about that old.
For my vase that may have held a thousand flowers given for births, deaths, loves, betrayals. For my dishes that fed my mother and her mother and her mother's mother. For my house that holds 130 years of secrets.
I sit in the dark when it rains outside and think about everyone who did the same. Before it was mine who did it hold? When was it new? When was it yours? Where did you sit? Who lived here with you? Did you hide anything in the walls? Did you laugh? Did you cry? Did you leave by choice? By force? By death? Were you happy? Did your dreams live behind the doorjamb? Did your nightmares? What did you do in the space where my bed now lies? Did you love your wife? Did she love you back? Were your children beautiful? Spiteful? Charming? Vengeful? Tired? Were you?
I like to use things up. That table isn't finished being a table yet. How about we give'er one more go-around? Let her hold our dinners for a few years? Let her eavesdrop. Let her leavesdrop. When she's had enough, we will burn her to keep warm when it's cold. Along with the wood burns the tiny flecks of our skin, our lives, our words, our secrets that have worked their ways into the grain. Up and away. Tables turn to sticks turn to flames turn to smoke turn to clouds. My table is floating above your head right now. You are breathing me while you laugh and drink around my fire.
I find peace in ruins. Just as my grandmother's twisted hands and useless feet once held love and purpose and direction and youth and strength so does all that which has been condemned. The way my child holds those hands in his own is a promise that things will carry on long after and forever.
(for Grace, who struggles)
Every bit of something that we have has a purpose. We need things for a minute, a lifetime, to span generations. Nothing lasts. Like ourselves, the things we create have a beginning and they have an end. These things have parts that live on, transform, break apart, scatter.
Our parts do too.
I like the fact that someday I will be gone, but there will be pieces of me left behind. Things I teach, things I made, things I own. Things that have taught me, things that have made me, things that have owned me. What we work so hard to preserve go neglected when we turn away.
Fade away.
I spend my days surrounded by things that are falling apart. Broken neighborhoods, broken streets, broken buildings, broken homes, broken people.
That is where I find hope. That is where hope can be found.
People and places which remain intact have very little need for it. They have greed and pride. Beauty and pomp.
Security and trust.
People and places that are crumbling must strive to hold themselves together. To find strength, to find light, to find stability. To fill the cracks, to fill the heart, to fill the bellies.
Hope helps it happen, lets us live another day. When it becomes to much, all things buckle and surrender. Earth takes over as it was meant to. As it was bound to.
Foundations crack, time seeps in, renewal takes its rightful place.
And it all begins again.
I hate modernity.
Clean.
Shiny.
Dapper.
Metal.
Flawless.
Even.
Plumb.
True.
Custom.
New.
Puke.
I love things that are older than me. I surround myself with things that were previously owned.
First yours then yours now mine then yours.
Our space is so cluttered already. Why bring something else into the fold?
I want to write a romance for my little desk that may have bared witness to a thousand love letters sent off to a soldier fighting for the North. It's about that old.
For my vase that may have held a thousand flowers given for births, deaths, loves, betrayals. For my dishes that fed my mother and her mother and her mother's mother. For my house that holds 130 years of secrets.
I sit in the dark when it rains outside and think about everyone who did the same. Before it was mine who did it hold? When was it new? When was it yours? Where did you sit? Who lived here with you? Did you hide anything in the walls? Did you laugh? Did you cry? Did you leave by choice? By force? By death? Were you happy? Did your dreams live behind the doorjamb? Did your nightmares? What did you do in the space where my bed now lies? Did you love your wife? Did she love you back? Were your children beautiful? Spiteful? Charming? Vengeful? Tired? Were you?
I like to use things up. That table isn't finished being a table yet. How about we give'er one more go-around? Let her hold our dinners for a few years? Let her eavesdrop. Let her leavesdrop. When she's had enough, we will burn her to keep warm when it's cold. Along with the wood burns the tiny flecks of our skin, our lives, our words, our secrets that have worked their ways into the grain. Up and away. Tables turn to sticks turn to flames turn to smoke turn to clouds. My table is floating above your head right now. You are breathing me while you laugh and drink around my fire.
I find peace in ruins. Just as my grandmother's twisted hands and useless feet once held love and purpose and direction and youth and strength so does all that which has been condemned. The way my child holds those hands in his own is a promise that things will carry on long after and forever.
(for Grace, who struggles)
between love and madness
So you know how sometimes I get emails from some of you saying that you absolutely love how I'm not All Mom All the Time? I love those emails, because I try superhard not to be AMAtT. Not here, not in life. I also love when I find someone else who is not AMAtT. And I really love when that person gives me awards.
f8hasit has bestowed upon me this shiny new sidebar frippery:
f8 (can I call you f8? I don't think you use your real name on your blog, so I won't use it here) has my dream job. She decorates store windows. I would rock so hard at that job, but I don't think I can walk into Macy's and be all like "yeah, one time I almost signed up for a design class at Textile, but I didn't have an extra grand and even though I normally work in Public Health, I am pretty sure that I could do a better job with those windows than whichever salesyahoo you have tossing things up there because your windows really suck so if you give me six hours and the run of the store, I think I could put something in there that is better than a two season old MaxMara dress and those Christmas decorations you have hanging from the ceiling all year round and have you noticed there have been a total lack of shoes on those damned creepo Barbie feet that all your 1980s faceless mannequins are wearing? Seriously, those bitches have been around since the movie was filmed here. Get new ones. I can do something about all this. Right after I fill out some paperwork that needs to be submitted to the City, so I'm guessing I should probably be there around 8. You don't mind if I'm in there after closing, right? Oh, and do you mind swinging my Hep Vaccinations this year? I just realized I'm not up to date and my company isn't covering my co-pays for work related preventative health care anymore. Due to the economy and all. Despite the fact that my desk is right next to the nurses and a room full of vaccinations and viral testing supplies. And trust me when I tell you that you probably don't want my filthy paws all over your merch without getting my shots first. You should see where my hands have been."
Anyway. F8 doesn't have to be all mommybaby this mommybaby that all over her blog but you still know she is a good mom who loves her girl and she lets you get to know her, not her brat and her life surrounding that brat. I like that. I know all about Life with Brat.
Also, if I was in Erie for longer than 48 hours, I would have dragged my brother out to Cleveland for a night and casually would have emailed her to go out for drinks as if it was a last minute thing and not all planned out because I don't want to creep anyone out by being an internet weirdo. Next time.
The rule is that since I've gotten the award, I have to list five things that I'm obsessed with. I'm obsessed with everything. I'm totally over the top. And I don't know if I'm obsessed, so much as preoccupied. And the list changes every day.
Today, September 2nd I am consumed by the following:
1) The Tuesday before Labor Day is (was) always the first day of school in the school district where I grew up. It was great because you had a three day week, a three day weekend. A four day week, a regular weekend, and then a five day week. I love easing into things. I'm compelled to go to the office supply store and pick up some new stuff at lunch today because I didn't get a chance yesterday. I saw these notebooks that had a blank space at the top and lines at the bottom of each page, and they were designed for kids to draw a picture and write a story about the picture. That's what Jake and I will be up to soon. He isn't going to school this year, and while I can write an entire post about that, I won't. Suffice to say that he already knows what they will teach in a 3 year-old classroom and if I know Jake, I know that he will be furious that someone is trying to teach him something he already knows, and he has no patience for children that don't know what he does. Furiosity and impatientness in my boy result in balled up fists and growling noises and an aversion to listening to authority figures. I don't want to be the mom who owns the problem child. I have plenty of learning tricks up my sleeve, so the time between afterwork and dinner will be a bit more structured, plus I might put together a little "curriculum" for Jake and the other two three year-olds at daycare, if everyone feels up to it. Nothing major, just worksheets and crap.
2) Yesterday was the first of the month, which means that I get a new dish sponge, I refill the soap dispensers, repaint my toenails with a new color (off with the bright pink and onto the goldishpinkish beige), cut my fingernails to the quick, take stock of my canned goods and household staples, check all expiration dates, back up computer files, and do 856 other neurotic little tasks around the house and office. Now I'm looking forward to the first day of autumn, which means budget revision, new underwear, new toothbrush, new socks, new haircut, furniture rearranging, and decorating for Halloween. I love firsts. They give me a normal excuse to deal with my abnormal compulsions.
3) I really need to start drinking more water and eating less processed foods. Seeing pictures of myself from last weekend's trip to Erie make me feel bad about me. My butt is like ten feet long, and my belly sticks out a little bit. My belly never sticks out. Not even when there was a baby in it, hardly. And it isn't cute when the top of your ass tucks itself into your bra strap. I'm not ready to let myself go. Granted, all the pants in my closet are sizes 2s and 4s, and that's just sick for someone my age. So when I'm spilling out of those tiny sizes it's not a major problem. I just want to be a firm and fit six and eight. That's reasonable, no? Age thirty three is going to be huge in the "Let's make a plan for the next decade, shall we?" field of living. Time to get on that.
4) I'm obsessed with poop.
5) Ten minutes of my brain. Go:
I only write with Pilot pens and I hate wide ruled notebooks. I am excellent at wrapping gifts and maybe will do that professionally when I retire, if my fingers still work. I'm wondering if there is anything hanging out of my nose, in my ears, or lurking at the corner of my eyeball. That splinter is gone, but it's really hard around where it was so I don't know if my body ate it or it fell out and left scar tissue. Does anyone else have hangnails on every finger? How dirty is a kitchen sink, really? I don't eat chicken, so I'm guessing mine is cleaner than most. I want a toilet seat that doesn't have a front part like the kind you see in rest rooms. That front part gets nasty. Can your bladder really explode if you don't go pee when you have too? I let Jake sleep with his light on when he is scared. I respect the child's fear. It's not like he is going to grow up to take it in the ass from strange men in exchange for dollars if I let him have a nightlight. He's a little boy. He's scared of the dark. Big effing deal. Is that a pimple or a spider bite? Pillows are disposable items to me, thrown out and bought anew the first week of January. Same with toilet seats. It's just gross to keep something like that around. They get full of piss and spit. I wasn't going to mention this here, but there is truth to what they say about a woman's -um- well, peak. I might punch you in the face and drag you home by your hair. If you just lie there quietly, we will both be better off. You can cry, but please don't sob. I know not what I do. I don't refrigerate Parmesan cheese or butter if I can help it. I hate hard butter, and parmcheese absorbs the flavors that are floating around in my fridge. Which can be gross sometimes. I saw the movie Sunshine Cleaning and I thought it sucked. But I like that girl who plays the sister. I wouldn't mind having her around the house. I wonder if my skin will ever touch a plaid couch again, or if those days are over. I love tacos. And those little umbrellas that go in drinks. And the sabers for drink cherries. When I was little I used to want to be Japanese because I thought that all Japanese people carried parasols and swords. I'm still not convinced otherwise. Ninjas are stealthy, you never know what they have on their person. Those last three sentences formed a venn diagram in my head. I judge other people for doing things that I do. I love the general public. How boring would life be without it? But people? Ick. I like everyone all at once when I don't have to interact with them. I can't effing stand it when people put their glasses and sunglasses on their children and/or dogs. It's not cute. Or funny. It's weird. One time my mom made my brother wear a pair of my Strawberry Shortcake underpants on his head on the way to school because he "forgot" his hat. One time I got in a scuffle at the playground and got hit in the face and my mom made me sit on the front steps with a bag of peas on my face so the neighborhood could see what a scrapper I was. I wasn't. Someday you'll be too old to fight back, Mom. I'm going to wheel you outdoors with a pair of underpants on your head and a bag of peas strapped to your face. Then you'll see. Just kidding. Or not. We'll see. I used to hate when my parents said "we'll see" to me. But now I say it to Jake. I also pull out the "maybe later" and the "lemme think about it" cards. I'm a jerk. Vodka makes all my scars tingle. First the ones on my skin and then the ones in my soul. I get a little bit punchy when I drink enough vodka. Now you know why. It's like it makes all the dead parts of me alive. There is this giant bird exhibit in my grandma's oldfolks home that pops into my mind at the exact times when I really don't want to be thinking about birds or oldfolks or my grandma. It's been happening for two years now and I don't know how to stop it from happening but it does. Every. Single. Gaddomn time. I used to work with a guy who used to say, out loud, "fat old lady fat old lady" whenever a hotchick would get close to him. He told a guy who told a girl who told me that he has "a boner problem like an eighth grader" and he says that so he doesn't get one. Sometimes people make me feel better about my own issues.
Timesup.
If you feel comfortable sharing your obsessions, grab that shiny button and get to writing
f8hasit has bestowed upon me this shiny new sidebar frippery:
f8 (can I call you f8? I don't think you use your real name on your blog, so I won't use it here) has my dream job. She decorates store windows. I would rock so hard at that job, but I don't think I can walk into Macy's and be all like "yeah, one time I almost signed up for a design class at Textile, but I didn't have an extra grand and even though I normally work in Public Health, I am pretty sure that I could do a better job with those windows than whichever salesyahoo you have tossing things up there because your windows really suck so if you give me six hours and the run of the store, I think I could put something in there that is better than a two season old MaxMara dress and those Christmas decorations you have hanging from the ceiling all year round and have you noticed there have been a total lack of shoes on those damned creepo Barbie feet that all your 1980s faceless mannequins are wearing? Seriously, those bitches have been around since the movie was filmed here. Get new ones. I can do something about all this. Right after I fill out some paperwork that needs to be submitted to the City, so I'm guessing I should probably be there around 8. You don't mind if I'm in there after closing, right? Oh, and do you mind swinging my Hep Vaccinations this year? I just realized I'm not up to date and my company isn't covering my co-pays for work related preventative health care anymore. Due to the economy and all. Despite the fact that my desk is right next to the nurses and a room full of vaccinations and viral testing supplies. And trust me when I tell you that you probably don't want my filthy paws all over your merch without getting my shots first. You should see where my hands have been."Anyway. F8 doesn't have to be all mommybaby this mommybaby that all over her blog but you still know she is a good mom who loves her girl and she lets you get to know her, not her brat and her life surrounding that brat. I like that. I know all about Life with Brat.
Also, if I was in Erie for longer than 48 hours, I would have dragged my brother out to Cleveland for a night and casually would have emailed her to go out for drinks as if it was a last minute thing and not all planned out because I don't want to creep anyone out by being an internet weirdo. Next time.
The rule is that since I've gotten the award, I have to list five things that I'm obsessed with. I'm obsessed with everything. I'm totally over the top. And I don't know if I'm obsessed, so much as preoccupied. And the list changes every day.
Today, September 2nd I am consumed by the following:
1) The Tuesday before Labor Day is (was) always the first day of school in the school district where I grew up. It was great because you had a three day week, a three day weekend. A four day week, a regular weekend, and then a five day week. I love easing into things. I'm compelled to go to the office supply store and pick up some new stuff at lunch today because I didn't get a chance yesterday. I saw these notebooks that had a blank space at the top and lines at the bottom of each page, and they were designed for kids to draw a picture and write a story about the picture. That's what Jake and I will be up to soon. He isn't going to school this year, and while I can write an entire post about that, I won't. Suffice to say that he already knows what they will teach in a 3 year-old classroom and if I know Jake, I know that he will be furious that someone is trying to teach him something he already knows, and he has no patience for children that don't know what he does. Furiosity and impatientness in my boy result in balled up fists and growling noises and an aversion to listening to authority figures. I don't want to be the mom who owns the problem child. I have plenty of learning tricks up my sleeve, so the time between afterwork and dinner will be a bit more structured, plus I might put together a little "curriculum" for Jake and the other two three year-olds at daycare, if everyone feels up to it. Nothing major, just worksheets and crap.
2) Yesterday was the first of the month, which means that I get a new dish sponge, I refill the soap dispensers, repaint my toenails with a new color (off with the bright pink and onto the goldishpinkish beige), cut my fingernails to the quick, take stock of my canned goods and household staples, check all expiration dates, back up computer files, and do 856 other neurotic little tasks around the house and office. Now I'm looking forward to the first day of autumn, which means budget revision, new underwear, new toothbrush, new socks, new haircut, furniture rearranging, and decorating for Halloween. I love firsts. They give me a normal excuse to deal with my abnormal compulsions.
3) I really need to start drinking more water and eating less processed foods. Seeing pictures of myself from last weekend's trip to Erie make me feel bad about me. My butt is like ten feet long, and my belly sticks out a little bit. My belly never sticks out. Not even when there was a baby in it, hardly. And it isn't cute when the top of your ass tucks itself into your bra strap. I'm not ready to let myself go. Granted, all the pants in my closet are sizes 2s and 4s, and that's just sick for someone my age. So when I'm spilling out of those tiny sizes it's not a major problem. I just want to be a firm and fit six and eight. That's reasonable, no? Age thirty three is going to be huge in the "Let's make a plan for the next decade, shall we?" field of living. Time to get on that.
4) I'm obsessed with poop.
5) Ten minutes of my brain. Go:
I only write with Pilot pens and I hate wide ruled notebooks. I am excellent at wrapping gifts and maybe will do that professionally when I retire, if my fingers still work. I'm wondering if there is anything hanging out of my nose, in my ears, or lurking at the corner of my eyeball. That splinter is gone, but it's really hard around where it was so I don't know if my body ate it or it fell out and left scar tissue. Does anyone else have hangnails on every finger? How dirty is a kitchen sink, really? I don't eat chicken, so I'm guessing mine is cleaner than most. I want a toilet seat that doesn't have a front part like the kind you see in rest rooms. That front part gets nasty. Can your bladder really explode if you don't go pee when you have too? I let Jake sleep with his light on when he is scared. I respect the child's fear. It's not like he is going to grow up to take it in the ass from strange men in exchange for dollars if I let him have a nightlight. He's a little boy. He's scared of the dark. Big effing deal. Is that a pimple or a spider bite? Pillows are disposable items to me, thrown out and bought anew the first week of January. Same with toilet seats. It's just gross to keep something like that around. They get full of piss and spit. I wasn't going to mention this here, but there is truth to what they say about a woman's -um- well, peak. I might punch you in the face and drag you home by your hair. If you just lie there quietly, we will both be better off. You can cry, but please don't sob. I know not what I do. I don't refrigerate Parmesan cheese or butter if I can help it. I hate hard butter, and parmcheese absorbs the flavors that are floating around in my fridge. Which can be gross sometimes. I saw the movie Sunshine Cleaning and I thought it sucked. But I like that girl who plays the sister. I wouldn't mind having her around the house. I wonder if my skin will ever touch a plaid couch again, or if those days are over. I love tacos. And those little umbrellas that go in drinks. And the sabers for drink cherries. When I was little I used to want to be Japanese because I thought that all Japanese people carried parasols and swords. I'm still not convinced otherwise. Ninjas are stealthy, you never know what they have on their person. Those last three sentences formed a venn diagram in my head. I judge other people for doing things that I do. I love the general public. How boring would life be without it? But people? Ick. I like everyone all at once when I don't have to interact with them. I can't effing stand it when people put their glasses and sunglasses on their children and/or dogs. It's not cute. Or funny. It's weird. One time my mom made my brother wear a pair of my Strawberry Shortcake underpants on his head on the way to school because he "forgot" his hat. One time I got in a scuffle at the playground and got hit in the face and my mom made me sit on the front steps with a bag of peas on my face so the neighborhood could see what a scrapper I was. I wasn't. Someday you'll be too old to fight back, Mom. I'm going to wheel you outdoors with a pair of underpants on your head and a bag of peas strapped to your face. Then you'll see. Just kidding. Or not. We'll see. I used to hate when my parents said "we'll see" to me. But now I say it to Jake. I also pull out the "maybe later" and the "lemme think about it" cards. I'm a jerk. Vodka makes all my scars tingle. First the ones on my skin and then the ones in my soul. I get a little bit punchy when I drink enough vodka. Now you know why. It's like it makes all the dead parts of me alive. There is this giant bird exhibit in my grandma's oldfolks home that pops into my mind at the exact times when I really don't want to be thinking about birds or oldfolks or my grandma. It's been happening for two years now and I don't know how to stop it from happening but it does. Every. Single. Gaddomn time. I used to work with a guy who used to say, out loud, "fat old lady fat old lady" whenever a hotchick would get close to him. He told a guy who told a girl who told me that he has "a boner problem like an eighth grader" and he says that so he doesn't get one. Sometimes people make me feel better about my own issues.
Timesup.
If you feel comfortable sharing your obsessions, grab that shiny button and get to writing
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