2.27.2010
2.25.2010
Round the world and home again. That's the sailor's way
There is a reason I pick this time of year to live and be and eat and speak and do a bit better than I usually am and eat and speak and do the rest of the year. It's because time just drags and I want to succumb to the temptation of letting myself get sucked down down down into the swirl of abysmal nothingness that is my couch and my brain and blindly look out the endless grey box of despair and taunt and bleak that bills itself as a window during the brighter months and plot ways to destroy everything within a seventeen block radius until this all passes.
But I don't. I don't think that I do that. Most hours of the day, at least.
I have the boy's birthday to plan for. And work never stops. And the cat needs to be fed. And I guess we all need to eat and stay hydrated and stand tall and march on and learn to draw our letters and pay the bills and wash the dishes and comb our hair and the laundry pile shouldn't get so big and you know that song during the boatride part of Willy Wonka? The scary part with the snakes and chicken on the chopping block? That all plays in my headloop this time of year.
Jake dropped the D-bomb on me the other day.
Mommy, why do lasers (read: lightsabers) make us die?
Because they can be very dangerous. Like a lot of things. That's why we have to be careful and take care of each other.
Up until that very moment I/Dave and I have skirted the death thing. I didn't want to talk about it. We didn't need to talk about it. Jake didn't talk about it beyond trees and batteries. I didn't want to talk about it beyond trees and batteries.
*Mommy, what happens when we die?
*Well, Jacob, what do you think happens when we die?
*I think that when we die we are giving our bodies back to the Earth. You know, part of the energies working together that I told you about? But Mommy, what happens to the other part of us, you know, the part that isn't our bodies?
*I don't know, Jacob. What do you think happens?
*I think that it goes out of our bodies and around and around the world until it gets a new body. I also think that part can still stay close to other people's hearts for a long long time. Is that right?
*I don't know. I like to believe that, what you just said. Lots of people believe very different things about what happens after we die. Some people believe they know what happens, some people say they aren't sure. It's a mystery of life.
*Like on Scooby Doo?
*Sort of.
*Like with scary bones? (insert wiggly fingers and spooky voice)
*Sort of. There's definitely bones.
*And spooky ghosts?
*Well, some people call the part of you that isn't your body a ghost. Other names are spirit, or soul, or heart. But not the body part heart, and not the shape heart. But the heart that you feel when you love someone.
*Can we solve the mystery?
*Not today.
I was so incredibly worked up for years about approaching the whole death thing with Jake, and here he already had it all mostly figured out on his own. Figured out for himself at least, which is all any of us can ask. I don't know why I get my drawers in a bunch about certain things. I guess I just felt like once Jake knew about death, a major part of his innocence would be stripped away because he'd be worried about me dying and Dave dying and his grandparents dying and maybe even himself dying.
But, he seems to be fine and not worried about anything that I was worried that he'd be worried about so why'd I worry in the first place? I really need to worry about finding something new to worry about.
The worst of it was when he asked me how our bodies would go into the Earth. I told him that when someone died the people that love them put their body in the ground and he replied, "so since you love me you'll be the one to return my body to the Earth when I die?".
I couldn't answer that question. Instead I told him that I love him more than I love anything else in the whole world.
Day eight: Allowing myself to be surprised and enlightened by those who do not appear to be wise. Be they young or filthy or somehow incapacitated or whatever, they know much more than I think they do. And probably more than I ever may.
But I don't. I don't think that I do that. Most hours of the day, at least.
I have the boy's birthday to plan for. And work never stops. And the cat needs to be fed. And I guess we all need to eat and stay hydrated and stand tall and march on and learn to draw our letters and pay the bills and wash the dishes and comb our hair and the laundry pile shouldn't get so big and you know that song during the boatride part of Willy Wonka? The scary part with the snakes and chicken on the chopping block? That all plays in my headloop this time of year.
Jake dropped the D-bomb on me the other day.
Mommy, why do lasers (read: lightsabers) make us die?
Because they can be very dangerous. Like a lot of things. That's why we have to be careful and take care of each other.
Up until that very moment I/Dave and I have skirted the death thing. I didn't want to talk about it. We didn't need to talk about it. Jake didn't talk about it beyond trees and batteries. I didn't want to talk about it beyond trees and batteries.
*Mommy, what happens when we die?
*Well, Jacob, what do you think happens when we die?
*I think that when we die we are giving our bodies back to the Earth. You know, part of the energies working together that I told you about? But Mommy, what happens to the other part of us, you know, the part that isn't our bodies?
*I don't know, Jacob. What do you think happens?
*I think that it goes out of our bodies and around and around the world until it gets a new body. I also think that part can still stay close to other people's hearts for a long long time. Is that right?
*I don't know. I like to believe that, what you just said. Lots of people believe very different things about what happens after we die. Some people believe they know what happens, some people say they aren't sure. It's a mystery of life.
*Like on Scooby Doo?
*Sort of.
*Like with scary bones? (insert wiggly fingers and spooky voice)
*Sort of. There's definitely bones.
*And spooky ghosts?
*Well, some people call the part of you that isn't your body a ghost. Other names are spirit, or soul, or heart. But not the body part heart, and not the shape heart. But the heart that you feel when you love someone.
*Can we solve the mystery?
*Not today.
I was so incredibly worked up for years about approaching the whole death thing with Jake, and here he already had it all mostly figured out on his own. Figured out for himself at least, which is all any of us can ask. I don't know why I get my drawers in a bunch about certain things. I guess I just felt like once Jake knew about death, a major part of his innocence would be stripped away because he'd be worried about me dying and Dave dying and his grandparents dying and maybe even himself dying.
But, he seems to be fine and not worried about anything that I was worried that he'd be worried about so why'd I worry in the first place? I really need to worry about finding something new to worry about.
The worst of it was when he asked me how our bodies would go into the Earth. I told him that when someone died the people that love them put their body in the ground and he replied, "so since you love me you'll be the one to return my body to the Earth when I die?".
I couldn't answer that question. Instead I told him that I love him more than I love anything else in the whole world.
Day eight: Allowing myself to be surprised and enlightened by those who do not appear to be wise. Be they young or filthy or somehow incapacitated or whatever, they know much more than I think they do. And probably more than I ever may.
2.19.2010
I have the amazing talent to sit behind this box and talk to you for years about a thousand things and never tell you too much about my personal life. My thoughts and my politico and my stance and my ideals and my experiences, yes. But not too much beyond. It's a wonderful skill I've honed. It's a defense mechanism. I'm aware of that.
The initial wonder of what the hell you may have sat in. Something thick and black and scarlet. Has that been there since the bus ride? The office? Why didn't someone say something? The unexpectedness and untimeliness and unscheduled horror. The realization that you are bleeding. The shock. The unpreparedness. The urge to scream for Mother, though she's a thousand miles away. The shame. The primal urge to put it all back, no matter how senseless. The heat of anger. Of sorrow. Of injustice. Unfairness. Relief. Regret. Failure.
It's always the same. For me, at least. Maybe it's different for you. I wouldn't know. It isn't something we often speak of. We don't make this sort of thing public.
Hush now. Just get a hot towel and throw away those clothes. We can never get that stain out. I'll put some water on for tea and take two of these pills. Sleep now. The hard part will be over in a day's time. Maybe two. If it lasts much past four we will call in the doctor. He will know what to do.
I've never tried to get pregnant, though I've accidentally succeeded several times. I've obviously never been very good at staying that way. Which is okay with me. I have this idea that all babies meant to be born eventually are, to someone. Humans tend to be a resilient little race of beings, and come hell or high water, they tend to get born and stay alive. Mostly.
Watching something slip from your body before it's due is never easy. It hurts as much as one can imagine. As much as any part of being a woman, of being a mother, hurts. It hurts bigger than your body. It isn't quite entirely physical, although your body is involved to a large degree. Bigger than the world, because that's the size of your soul.
Sometimes your baby is so tiny you can barely find her, if you are brave enough to look. She easily gets lost in the sauce, as it were. You think you catch what may possibly be her arm, and you reach down to hold what could be a tiny hand as a way to say "goodbye, I hope you found moments of happiness and love while we were together. Maybe we will find each other again in another lifetime".
Sometimes you hold your prawnchild in your fingers and you have to decide what to do with him. Name him? Flush him? Bury him in the yard? Keep him in the freezer?
Once I flushed my pinkybaby down the toilet in the dorm. Another got flushed in a truckstop just outside Baton Rouge. I can laugh about it now. Now. Because, come on. A truckstop? In Baton Rouge? Me?
I named that truckstop baby Louisa. Not after the state I was in (oh, the state I was in!) but after my great aunt who died as a child.
I named that dormitory baby Cicely. On account that she was born and died the same instant in Tyson Hall.
I never knew I was pregnant any time I miscarried. It just up and happens one day, somewhere between eight and twelve weeks into it, judging on the size of what comes out of me. That's probably a sure sign of something wrong. Even with Jake I didn't have many symptoms. Hell, I had a regular period six months into my pregnancy with him. No rest on that count.
I wonder why we don't speak of these things.
We are adults. We have sex. Pregnancy results. Pregnancy doesn't result. It's a fact of life.
Why we don't share our sorrows and mishaps the way we share our joys when it comes to the babies we birth. Some of us don't even tell our mothers, our sisters, our best friends that we were pregnant but our bodies were not able to sustain the pregnancy. "Something happened. It's over. The baby was not ready for the world. He's given himself back to the Earth."
I'm not looking for condolences, because I have exactly what I want in life. If I would've had any of the children that I lost before having Jacob I wouldn't have him. If I would've had any children after him, I wouldn't have the life I am living right now.
I'm looking for things to change. I'm looking for the shame and the stigma to stop and for there to be a rise in sisterhood and support surrounding fertility issues and miscarriages. It is no one's fault when a pregnancy isn't viable. It shouldn't be embarrassing or a mark of failure. It isn't a reflection on our partners. It happens to so many of us and maybe if we all started opening up about it we could stop feeling so damned awful and alone and guilty when it happens to us. My heart cries each time a friend confides that she can't get pregnant and she looks at her shoes and plays with her wedding ring when she says this. When she can't say the words "fertility treatment" in a crowded room for fear of a tongue lashing or a lecture about adoption (or on the flip side, when a woman can't say the word "adoption" in a crowded room for fear of a tongue lashing or a lecture about fertility treatment). Or when she can't figure out what she may have done to deserve yet another miscarriage, yet another period.
I'm not asking anyone to stand on your rooftops and yell about any difficulty you've had getting or staying pregnant. I'm just asking that we start banding together to be there for those that are going through a rough patch. It's hard when you've been through it because it all comes rushing back when someone talks about it. Old wounds reopen. Things maybe best and hard forgotten surface. No matter what Life and Mind want, the Body misses its children.
Hormones may surge.
Wombs may sob.
Many women grieve a miscarried or unconcieved baby as a lost child. A child who had the potential to be held and loved and nurtured and the potential to grow up to be anything that anyone could ever be in life. Hearing "it will be fun to try again!" or "there is plenty of time to have more babies" is not okay. Sometimes it's okay not to say anything at all. Hold one another. Let your hearts speak. They are much wiser than your brains and more verbose than your mouths.
***
The initial wonder of what the hell you may have sat in. Something thick and black and scarlet. Has that been there since the bus ride? The office? Why didn't someone say something? The unexpectedness and untimeliness and unscheduled horror. The realization that you are bleeding. The shock. The unpreparedness. The urge to scream for Mother, though she's a thousand miles away. The shame. The primal urge to put it all back, no matter how senseless. The heat of anger. Of sorrow. Of injustice. Unfairness. Relief. Regret. Failure.
It's always the same. For me, at least. Maybe it's different for you. I wouldn't know. It isn't something we often speak of. We don't make this sort of thing public.
Hush now. Just get a hot towel and throw away those clothes. We can never get that stain out. I'll put some water on for tea and take two of these pills. Sleep now. The hard part will be over in a day's time. Maybe two. If it lasts much past four we will call in the doctor. He will know what to do.
I've never tried to get pregnant, though I've accidentally succeeded several times. I've obviously never been very good at staying that way. Which is okay with me. I have this idea that all babies meant to be born eventually are, to someone. Humans tend to be a resilient little race of beings, and come hell or high water, they tend to get born and stay alive. Mostly.
Watching something slip from your body before it's due is never easy. It hurts as much as one can imagine. As much as any part of being a woman, of being a mother, hurts. It hurts bigger than your body. It isn't quite entirely physical, although your body is involved to a large degree. Bigger than the world, because that's the size of your soul.
Sometimes your baby is so tiny you can barely find her, if you are brave enough to look. She easily gets lost in the sauce, as it were. You think you catch what may possibly be her arm, and you reach down to hold what could be a tiny hand as a way to say "goodbye, I hope you found moments of happiness and love while we were together. Maybe we will find each other again in another lifetime".
Sometimes you hold your prawnchild in your fingers and you have to decide what to do with him. Name him? Flush him? Bury him in the yard? Keep him in the freezer?
Once I flushed my pinkybaby down the toilet in the dorm. Another got flushed in a truckstop just outside Baton Rouge. I can laugh about it now. Now. Because, come on. A truckstop? In Baton Rouge? Me?
I named that truckstop baby Louisa. Not after the state I was in (oh, the state I was in!) but after my great aunt who died as a child.
I named that dormitory baby Cicely. On account that she was born and died the same instant in Tyson Hall.
I never knew I was pregnant any time I miscarried. It just up and happens one day, somewhere between eight and twelve weeks into it, judging on the size of what comes out of me. That's probably a sure sign of something wrong. Even with Jake I didn't have many symptoms. Hell, I had a regular period six months into my pregnancy with him. No rest on that count.
I wonder why we don't speak of these things.
We are adults. We have sex. Pregnancy results. Pregnancy doesn't result. It's a fact of life.
Why we don't share our sorrows and mishaps the way we share our joys when it comes to the babies we birth. Some of us don't even tell our mothers, our sisters, our best friends that we were pregnant but our bodies were not able to sustain the pregnancy. "Something happened. It's over. The baby was not ready for the world. He's given himself back to the Earth."
I'm not looking for condolences, because I have exactly what I want in life. If I would've had any of the children that I lost before having Jacob I wouldn't have him. If I would've had any children after him, I wouldn't have the life I am living right now.
I'm looking for things to change. I'm looking for the shame and the stigma to stop and for there to be a rise in sisterhood and support surrounding fertility issues and miscarriages. It is no one's fault when a pregnancy isn't viable. It shouldn't be embarrassing or a mark of failure. It isn't a reflection on our partners. It happens to so many of us and maybe if we all started opening up about it we could stop feeling so damned awful and alone and guilty when it happens to us. My heart cries each time a friend confides that she can't get pregnant and she looks at her shoes and plays with her wedding ring when she says this. When she can't say the words "fertility treatment" in a crowded room for fear of a tongue lashing or a lecture about adoption (or on the flip side, when a woman can't say the word "adoption" in a crowded room for fear of a tongue lashing or a lecture about fertility treatment). Or when she can't figure out what she may have done to deserve yet another miscarriage, yet another period.
I'm not asking anyone to stand on your rooftops and yell about any difficulty you've had getting or staying pregnant. I'm just asking that we start banding together to be there for those that are going through a rough patch. It's hard when you've been through it because it all comes rushing back when someone talks about it. Old wounds reopen. Things maybe best and hard forgotten surface. No matter what Life and Mind want, the Body misses its children.
Hormones may surge.
Wombs may sob.
Many women grieve a miscarried or unconcieved baby as a lost child. A child who had the potential to be held and loved and nurtured and the potential to grow up to be anything that anyone could ever be in life. Hearing "it will be fun to try again!" or "there is plenty of time to have more babies" is not okay. Sometimes it's okay not to say anything at all. Hold one another. Let your hearts speak. They are much wiser than your brains and more verbose than your mouths.
2.18.2010
I like to celebrate established holidays but I don't do it the way most people do it because I don't like to do things the way most people do things so I just take the bones of something and slide my own ideas and shit all up in it to give it some guts I can work with.
Enter Lent.
(and Yom Kippur and Christmas and Litha and a handful of others)
I missed doing anything very Fat on Tuesday, so my two co-workers and I did Wednesday Gras yesterday. Hurricanes and hubcap sized plates of foods that are completely against our diets and morals. We hid way back in the dark corner of the bar so Jesus couldn't find us if he tried and had an amazing time. It's good to spend some time like that with people who know what it's like to be you from nine to five. Because people who don't know what it's like to be you from nine to five? Don't want to hear you bitching about work.
People give up the funniest things for Lent.
And lo, Jesus walked through the desert for 40 Days and 40 Nights in search of the goodness deep inside himself, moving ever closer to His Father and his goal weight of 172lbs through constant prayer and the absence of french fries and chocolate and the promise of exactly one can of Coca Cola on Saturday afternoon at sundown if he was good and did not cuss all week. And as tradition firmly stated, steak dinners were held each Sunday in observance of the spiritual cleansing.
I love it.
My Lentil (I like to call it that) is the same every year. I try to live and breathe and eat and buy and speak and move and do intentionally.
I try to live with intention for 40 days. That link takes you to the Merriam definition of the word "intention". I think it's worth a peruse.
It's hard, dudes. Real hard.
I can eat what I want. Provided there is a solid purpose in accordance with my philosophy for putting it in my body.
I can buy what I want. Provided there is a solid purpose in accordance with my philosophy for spending my money.
Want chocolate? Okay. It's chocolate. One piece, especially one quality piece, isn't going to kill me, make me fat, rot my teeth, spoil my dinner. But what will it do?
Where could this money be better spent? Saved?
Who is this money going to? Who is the vendor? Where will she spend her money? Who does she hire? Where is her shop? What does she support? What does her landlord support?
Who is the manufacturer? Where do they get their ingredients? Who do they hire? Where do they spend their money? What are their emissions practices? Shipping practices? Packaging guidelines? Which organizations do they support?
Where is my money going? Is it worth it? Is my spending and gluttony breaking my moral code? Does even 2% of my purchase support something I hate?
I can do what I want. As long as the end result is good and productive and in accordance with my philosophy for most people involved.
I can say what I want. Provided there is a solid purpose that is in accordance with my philosophy for putting it in someone's ear.
I must chose my words carefully.
Say things carefully and slowly so there is less a chance that the "meaning won't be lost or misconstrued". Paul Simon knows how to say everything better than I could possibly even begin.
Biting my tongue is difficult, as you may well imagine. Speaking slowly and with intention does not come naturally to me.
Good thing I've resolved to read a few books these next few weeks. I'll be (we'll all be) better off with my nose shoved deep in there rather than poking into everyone's business, I'm sure.
I, and probably some others out there, have become so lazy and self-centered in my daily living that it's easy to just do what is quick and dirty and easy rather than what is "right" and what it is in adherence to my bizarre set of rules and virtues and standards and beliefs and traditions.
Day one. Keeping quiet, living simply, and trying to find beauty in every face I see. It isn't always easy. A laugh line as deep as the Schuykill, a complexion the color of a perfect aubergine, a scar that glistens silverpink in the sun, a kind smile on an exhausted farmer's face, surprisingly perfect teeth, Dame Edna glasses that aren't meant as a joke.
Enter Lent.
(and Yom Kippur and Christmas and Litha and a handful of others)
I missed doing anything very Fat on Tuesday, so my two co-workers and I did Wednesday Gras yesterday. Hurricanes and hubcap sized plates of foods that are completely against our diets and morals. We hid way back in the dark corner of the bar so Jesus couldn't find us if he tried and had an amazing time. It's good to spend some time like that with people who know what it's like to be you from nine to five. Because people who don't know what it's like to be you from nine to five? Don't want to hear you bitching about work.
***
People give up the funniest things for Lent.
And lo, Jesus walked through the desert for 40 Days and 40 Nights in search of the goodness deep inside himself, moving ever closer to His Father and his goal weight of 172lbs through constant prayer and the absence of french fries and chocolate and the promise of exactly one can of Coca Cola on Saturday afternoon at sundown if he was good and did not cuss all week. And as tradition firmly stated, steak dinners were held each Sunday in observance of the spiritual cleansing.
I love it.
My Lentil (I like to call it that) is the same every year. I try to live and breathe and eat and buy and speak and move and do intentionally.
I try to live with intention for 40 days. That link takes you to the Merriam definition of the word "intention". I think it's worth a peruse.
It's hard, dudes. Real hard.
I can eat what I want. Provided there is a solid purpose in accordance with my philosophy for putting it in my body.
I can buy what I want. Provided there is a solid purpose in accordance with my philosophy for spending my money.
Want chocolate? Okay. It's chocolate. One piece, especially one quality piece, isn't going to kill me, make me fat, rot my teeth, spoil my dinner. But what will it do?
Where could this money be better spent? Saved?
Who is this money going to? Who is the vendor? Where will she spend her money? Who does she hire? Where is her shop? What does she support? What does her landlord support?
Who is the manufacturer? Where do they get their ingredients? Who do they hire? Where do they spend their money? What are their emissions practices? Shipping practices? Packaging guidelines? Which organizations do they support?
Where is my money going? Is it worth it? Is my spending and gluttony breaking my moral code? Does even 2% of my purchase support something I hate?
I can do what I want. As long as the end result is good and productive and in accordance with my philosophy for most people involved.
I can say what I want. Provided there is a solid purpose that is in accordance with my philosophy for putting it in someone's ear.
I must chose my words carefully.
Say things carefully and slowly so there is less a chance that the "meaning won't be lost or misconstrued". Paul Simon knows how to say everything better than I could possibly even begin.
Biting my tongue is difficult, as you may well imagine. Speaking slowly and with intention does not come naturally to me.
Good thing I've resolved to read a few books these next few weeks. I'll be (we'll all be) better off with my nose shoved deep in there rather than poking into everyone's business, I'm sure.
I, and probably some others out there, have become so lazy and self-centered in my daily living that it's easy to just do what is quick and dirty and easy rather than what is "right" and what it is in adherence to my bizarre set of rules and virtues and standards and beliefs and traditions.
Day one. Keeping quiet, living simply, and trying to find beauty in every face I see. It isn't always easy. A laugh line as deep as the Schuykill, a complexion the color of a perfect aubergine, a scar that glistens silverpink in the sun, a kind smile on an exhausted farmer's face, surprisingly perfect teeth, Dame Edna glasses that aren't meant as a joke.
2.17.2010
So a month or so ago I went to the neurologist about the 30 Year Migraine. And they gave me medicine. And I was reluctant to take it, because that's the kind of girl I am.
But? I'm better.
Not 100%. But close to 90. I'd say 85-88%. That's like a B+. My life has changed so dramatically that tears come to my eyes a few times a week. Well, they would if one of the side effects of the medication wasn't; patient may be reduced to a dried out sponge.
Turns out I have an Angry Brain Stem.
It's full of tigers and horses wearing Evel Knievel onesies riding their motorcycles through rings of fire.
They've been reduced to kittens and ponies sliding down rainbows and landing on stormclouds. That's not so bad.
Then I have these misfiring nerves in the back of my neck that shoot lightning bolts to the top of my head and then those fire laser beams to my eyeballs. Quick fix is a needleful of some sort of ____caine and ____caine (I forget the prefixes) mix into the base of my skull and the back of my eyehole ridge under my brow. Gross, but effective.
I'm a whole new person. So much more effective than the girl I was before.
There are some drawbacks. This sounds so terrible, and I'm even embarrassed to admit it, but the weird visions and hallucinations and thoughts I'd have when I had a migraine? I miss those. They were so outlandish and bizarre and part of me. I'm assuming that not too many of you got to experience those things and no, I will not tell you about them because they are not really fit for human consumption, but if you've ever been in really bad physical and/or mental pain, you know what I'm talking about.
There are side effects to the medication. Some are actually enjoyable. Tingling in the hands and feet. This isn't so bad, because it numbs the arthritis. It makes morning a bit more bearable. Some are not. I have the Jimmy Legs. Restless Leg Syndrome. This makes it worse. I might accidentally kick you.
This medication is stealing my words. I knew this might happen. I knew it probably would happen. You've probably noticed it has happened. That's why you got two posts in a row linking to my other blog.
If you know me in real life, you may notice I'm speaking much slower these days. I have to. It takes me a minute to find the right word.
It's not a stutter, exactly. But sometimes I may stumble. Bear with me. This should pass.
It's like speaking to someone who is not quite elderly, but no longer young.
I'll remember your name, but not the name of that thing I need to write my number down for you. That thing next to you. Can you grab me the... purple... next to the book?
Thank you.
The wrong word comes.
Primal words come.
Oh boy. This is the funny part.
Speaking and typing, it doesn't matter. It's all the same. I type as much as I speak these days, it seems to flow the same way.
It's been snowing a lot here.
Snow? In my new vocabulary? Is snot.
Fall? Fart.
Despite the snotfart, I managed to get to work on time.
The what? Do we need to speak like that around the water cooler? I hope you are wearing a pad for easy cleanup.
Better? Butt hair.
I've been feeling butt hair.
Normal? Not male.
That new guy over there seems not male.
Book? Boob
Poor? Poop
Shirt? Shit
Fork? Fuck
Spoon? Poons
Puppy? Pussy
And on it goes. And those, my friends, are the clean ones.
I'm a seventh grade boy.
I've warned my closest co-workers and my boss. I had too.
Another side effect is visual disturbances. Computer screens are killing me. So, I'm reading books. Because my words are gone, I've decided to let them go for awhile and enjoy the words of others.
I'm reading (and re-reading) the complete works of John Irving, in chronological order. I've always loved John. I think I can call him John. I've always thought, and as Ruth noticed too so I feel justified in saying this aloud, we are sort of made out of the same stuff and he makes me feel more normal. Not to say we are equals in the field by any means, but I think that he might be loosely held together with twine and faux wood paneled station wagon doors and his holes might be plugged with broken bottles and the drafts might be kept out with rubber doormats and sealing wax too.
But? I'm better.
Not 100%. But close to 90. I'd say 85-88%. That's like a B+. My life has changed so dramatically that tears come to my eyes a few times a week. Well, they would if one of the side effects of the medication wasn't; patient may be reduced to a dried out sponge.
Turns out I have an Angry Brain Stem.
It's full of tigers and horses wearing Evel Knievel onesies riding their motorcycles through rings of fire.
They've been reduced to kittens and ponies sliding down rainbows and landing on stormclouds. That's not so bad.
Then I have these misfiring nerves in the back of my neck that shoot lightning bolts to the top of my head and then those fire laser beams to my eyeballs. Quick fix is a needleful of some sort of ____caine and ____caine (I forget the prefixes) mix into the base of my skull and the back of my eyehole ridge under my brow. Gross, but effective.
I'm a whole new person. So much more effective than the girl I was before.
There are some drawbacks. This sounds so terrible, and I'm even embarrassed to admit it, but the weird visions and hallucinations and thoughts I'd have when I had a migraine? I miss those. They were so outlandish and bizarre and part of me. I'm assuming that not too many of you got to experience those things and no, I will not tell you about them because they are not really fit for human consumption, but if you've ever been in really bad physical and/or mental pain, you know what I'm talking about.
There are side effects to the medication. Some are actually enjoyable. Tingling in the hands and feet. This isn't so bad, because it numbs the arthritis. It makes morning a bit more bearable. Some are not. I have the Jimmy Legs. Restless Leg Syndrome. This makes it worse. I might accidentally kick you.
This medication is stealing my words. I knew this might happen. I knew it probably would happen. You've probably noticed it has happened. That's why you got two posts in a row linking to my other blog.
If you know me in real life, you may notice I'm speaking much slower these days. I have to. It takes me a minute to find the right word.
It's not a stutter, exactly. But sometimes I may stumble. Bear with me. This should pass.
It's like speaking to someone who is not quite elderly, but no longer young.
I'll remember your name, but not the name of that thing I need to write my number down for you. That thing next to you. Can you grab me the... purple... next to the book?
Thank you.
The wrong word comes.
Primal words come.
Oh boy. This is the funny part.
Speaking and typing, it doesn't matter. It's all the same. I type as much as I speak these days, it seems to flow the same way.
It's been snowing a lot here.
Snow? In my new vocabulary? Is snot.
Fall? Fart.
Despite the snotfart, I managed to get to work on time.
The what? Do we need to speak like that around the water cooler? I hope you are wearing a pad for easy cleanup.
Better? Butt hair.
I've been feeling butt hair.
Normal? Not male.
That new guy over there seems not male.
Book? Boob
Poor? Poop
Shirt? Shit
Fork? Fuck
Spoon? Poons
Puppy? Pussy
And on it goes. And those, my friends, are the clean ones.
I'm a seventh grade boy.
I've warned my closest co-workers and my boss. I had too.
Another side effect is visual disturbances. Computer screens are killing me. So, I'm reading books. Because my words are gone, I've decided to let them go for awhile and enjoy the words of others.
I'm reading (and re-reading) the complete works of John Irving, in chronological order. I've always loved John. I think I can call him John. I've always thought, and as Ruth noticed too so I feel justified in saying this aloud, we are sort of made out of the same stuff and he makes me feel more normal. Not to say we are equals in the field by any means, but I think that he might be loosely held together with twine and faux wood paneled station wagon doors and his holes might be plugged with broken bottles and the drafts might be kept out with rubber doormats and sealing wax too.
2.16.2010
If there is one thing that I've learned about life is that if you trashtalk something, it does a 180 and proves you wrong.
I had a ball last night at improv and now me and (the) Harold are dating again so all of you who ran your mouth and said that I was right and you hated him too, you look like jerks. Let that be a lesson to you. When someone says bad things about their manz&them, just tilt your head to the side and nod. Don't say mean stuff because when the eventual inevitable makeup occurs, you end up looking like a smacked ass.
I'm still having trouble listening to directions and following rules and stuff, but I have trouble with that in all aspects of my life, so why should improv class be any different, right?
Hello, my name is Lora and I have issues with any level of perceived authority. When someone is giving directions, the part of my brain responsible for recording instructions immediately shuts down and my head plays Garota de Ipanema
True Story.
The inside of my brain is full of hamsters in rusty wheels and grizzly bears wearing tutus.
I had a ball last night at improv and now me and (the) Harold are dating again so all of you who ran your mouth and said that I was right and you hated him too, you look like jerks. Let that be a lesson to you. When someone says bad things about their manz&them, just tilt your head to the side and nod. Don't say mean stuff because when the eventual inevitable makeup occurs, you end up looking like a smacked ass.
I'm still having trouble listening to directions and following rules and stuff, but I have trouble with that in all aspects of my life, so why should improv class be any different, right?
Hello, my name is Lora and I have issues with any level of perceived authority. When someone is giving directions, the part of my brain responsible for recording instructions immediately shuts down and my head plays Garota de Ipanema
True Story.
The inside of my brain is full of hamsters in rusty wheels and grizzly bears wearing tutus.
2.15.2010
Jacob is a very deep little boy. Sometimes to a fault.
It's heartbreaking at times.
I'm in awe at others.
He'smy the Atlantic and my the Pacific.
Unfathomably broad.
Abysmally sagacious.
Torrentially serene.
And he's starting to ask about God.
It's only normal.
We don't go to church.
America2K is full of all sorts of mixed information about God, and that can be confusing to little kids.
And big ones.
Instead of allowing him to ask all the questions, I decided to ask Jacob about God.
This was a few months ago. Well before Christmas. Sometime after Halloween.
I wanted to catch him before he heard the story of the Baby Jesus. I wanted to start at the beginning. BC stuff. And before anyone else got to him.
I wanted to know what he thought. What's been stewing in his little head. Where he was coming from, what level he was working at. Maybe even a little bit of what we're born with. Maybe some of that is left over in that head of his.
"Jacob, what is God?"
He held my hands and sat me down. We faced each other, knee to knee, nose to nose. Almost. In theory. He opened up his hands and pressed them together fingertips to opposite wrist, slid them so his fingers were able to curl up and interlock in a ball, held it there in front of his heart, elbows pointed straight out. A tiny yin yang, hovering a foot in front of me.
He looked forward and said, "God creates the Earth, and the Earth creates God. It's all about energies working together."
It's heartbreaking at times.
I'm in awe at others.
He's
Unfathomably broad.
Abysmally sagacious.
Torrentially serene.
And he's starting to ask about God.
It's only normal.
We don't go to church.
America2K is full of all sorts of mixed information about God, and that can be confusing to little kids.
And big ones.
Instead of allowing him to ask all the questions, I decided to ask Jacob about God.
This was a few months ago. Well before Christmas. Sometime after Halloween.
I wanted to catch him before he heard the story of the Baby Jesus. I wanted to start at the beginning. BC stuff. And before anyone else got to him.
I wanted to know what he thought. What's been stewing in his little head. Where he was coming from, what level he was working at. Maybe even a little bit of what we're born with. Maybe some of that is left over in that head of his.
"Jacob, what is God?"
He held my hands and sat me down. We faced each other, knee to knee, nose to nose. Almost. In theory. He opened up his hands and pressed them together fingertips to opposite wrist, slid them so his fingers were able to curl up and interlock in a ball, held it there in front of his heart, elbows pointed straight out. A tiny yin yang, hovering a foot in front of me.
He looked forward and said, "God creates the Earth, and the Earth creates God. It's all about energies working together."
A few months short of five years ago, I flew down to Houston for a long Memorial Day weekend with my best redhead Lynn.
My cousin Dennis lives there, so I figured I'd give him a call. We hadn't ever hung out as grown ups, and it was time we did. So we did. We accidentally tore it up. Texas is probably better off that we don't both live there. Even it's not big enough for the both of us. And now I miss him dearly. I often wonder how I would feel about him if we didn't have that time together. Would I miss him? Would I think of him every day? Wonder what he is doing? What he is singing? Reading? Driving? Or would he just be some guy I used to know when we were kids who just happened to be my dad's brother's son?
I wonder how I would feel about Dennis' brother Alan if we didn't spend a week in Rome together. If we didn't jump the train to Florence one day because we were bored. Because that was the kind of people we were that week. People who could afford to be bored. In Rome. Two long lost cousins, he staying with his girlfriend in Germany, me tagging along with my husband in Italy, both of us bumming Europe at the same time, both of us hungry and we wanted to try rice gelati and we heard that it wasn't really good anywhere other than Florence Fucking Italy. So we went. To eat ice cream made out of rice. And see some art and stuff too.
That was almost ten years ago. I'll write more about that later this year. I'm on a tangent. That happens here sometimes. Here in my head. Fast forward to the past. Five years ago. Houston. Dennis. Lynn. Me.
Me.
I had the life where I could hop a flight half way across the country, see enough of Houston to decide that I don't need three more days of it, and suggest we get in the car and drive to New Orleans. So we did. Because we could. Because we had full time jobs and some money in the bank and great benefits and street smarts and book smarts and men at home who would call the police if they didn't hear from us every six to eight hours.
And lots of eyeliner and hotdogs and rum and blood and eggs and beads and vomit and truckstops and crawfish and sewage and shrunkenheads and balconies and hotsauce and dragshows and none of all that necessarily ours later, we got back in the car and drove back to Texas in time to catch the Astros game on Monday afternoon.
Then I came home.
And my life resumed until the next time I got on a plane or a bus or behind the wheel of a car or put on my shoes or jumped off that last step onto the platform of the subway and I headed off to do something fun again. And that life was good. I think. It's hard to remember that far back.
The last almost five years have seemed to practically erase the first almost thirty. Funny how motherhood does that to you.
I'm almost at a point where I can just about look back on those times, the times that could have/would have become a lifestyle if not for becoming a mom. The lifestyle that I wanted so badly for myself. That I worked so hard to have. That crumbled under my feet the minute I found out I was pregnant.
I can look back and say that I did that. I lived that life for a good long while. I was free to do what I wanted and I did it because there was nothing holding me down. I went places. All sorts of places. I went all sorts of places with all sorts of people. I did the right things at the right times. I did the wrong things at the right times. I was young and beautiful and educated and employed and in love and I was damned happy most of the time. I got to be that girl. Me. That was me doing those things. Those things they write books and make movies about and people read and watch because they want their lives to be
just
like
that.
And now I get to do all sorts of new things. Mid-thirties Ladyish Things. And Mommy things too. And that isn't so bad, now that the baby part is over. That fucking royally sucked giant filthy ass.
And after this is over, there is a whole other set of things I'll get to do. And that probably won't be so bad either, provided I don't mind getting exotic new mustaches every other week and bi-annual freckle checks and it used to be that I only had two boobs, but now they are cropping up all over my body. Nipple-less saggy breasts. Everywhere.
Life is pretty good, when you put your shit kickers on and keep your face turned to the sun.
***
Ladies and gentlemen, I just made you all read an awards post. Seems that there are scores of you who skip once you see an award button at the top of each post, so I'm putting them at the bottom now.
Take that, mother suckers!
Thank you Lucy, for the Beautiful Blogger Award!
Lucy is going through what I'm already in denial about. Her youngest child (she has two, and one is already out of the house) is in her senior year of high school and is planning for college. So I'm reading along and trying to get pointers so I can better deal when the time comes for me.
Now, I don't want to be the typical South Philly mom. You know the type. Where the son lives at home until he's 40 and he gets treated like he's 5 until the day he finds a wife. But I also don't like thinking about the day Jake moves out and I have to deal with all that. Because as much as I don't like washing his dishes and clothes and stepping on his stuff and all that crap? It's going to be hard to find that person who I was before he was living all up in my guts. (Yes, life stops when you get pregnant. Hate to break it to you non-moms out there.) I'm already gearing up to start planning for Jake's departure, because I'm sure to be one of those crazy empty nesters if I'm not careful. I'll be the one driving 300 miles on Saturday morning and knocking on his dorm room door, all like "Jake, Darling, is there any laundry you need done? I brought pancakes. And stewed apples. What's this sock on your doorknob? Honey, give me all the dark stuff first, and while that's in the wash, I'll run around and get some Borax to soak the whites. Is someone in there with you? I hear a girl. You better not have someone else in there doing your laundry for you. Is someone making your dinners? Jacob? Is someone feeding you MSG? I hear growling. You know MSG doesn't agree with your belly. JACOB!! Jacob Alexander, this is your mother. Get out here right now. I'm getting the RA if you don't open the door this instant."
Not really.
But in my head that's what I'll be saying.
My cousin Dennis lives there, so I figured I'd give him a call. We hadn't ever hung out as grown ups, and it was time we did. So we did. We accidentally tore it up. Texas is probably better off that we don't both live there. Even it's not big enough for the both of us. And now I miss him dearly. I often wonder how I would feel about him if we didn't have that time together. Would I miss him? Would I think of him every day? Wonder what he is doing? What he is singing? Reading? Driving? Or would he just be some guy I used to know when we were kids who just happened to be my dad's brother's son?
I wonder how I would feel about Dennis' brother Alan if we didn't spend a week in Rome together. If we didn't jump the train to Florence one day because we were bored. Because that was the kind of people we were that week. People who could afford to be bored. In Rome. Two long lost cousins, he staying with his girlfriend in Germany, me tagging along with my husband in Italy, both of us bumming Europe at the same time, both of us hungry and we wanted to try rice gelati and we heard that it wasn't really good anywhere other than Florence Fucking Italy. So we went. To eat ice cream made out of rice. And see some art and stuff too.
That was almost ten years ago. I'll write more about that later this year. I'm on a tangent. That happens here sometimes. Here in my head. Fast forward to the past. Five years ago. Houston. Dennis. Lynn. Me.
Me.
I had the life where I could hop a flight half way across the country, see enough of Houston to decide that I don't need three more days of it, and suggest we get in the car and drive to New Orleans. So we did. Because we could. Because we had full time jobs and some money in the bank and great benefits and street smarts and book smarts and men at home who would call the police if they didn't hear from us every six to eight hours.
And lots of eyeliner and hotdogs and rum and blood and eggs and beads and vomit and truckstops and crawfish and sewage and shrunkenheads and balconies and hotsauce and dragshows and none of all that necessarily ours later, we got back in the car and drove back to Texas in time to catch the Astros game on Monday afternoon.
Then I came home.
And my life resumed until the next time I got on a plane or a bus or behind the wheel of a car or put on my shoes or jumped off that last step onto the platform of the subway and I headed off to do something fun again. And that life was good. I think. It's hard to remember that far back.
The last almost five years have seemed to practically erase the first almost thirty. Funny how motherhood does that to you.
I'm almost at a point where I can just about look back on those times, the times that could have/would have become a lifestyle if not for becoming a mom. The lifestyle that I wanted so badly for myself. That I worked so hard to have. That crumbled under my feet the minute I found out I was pregnant.
I can look back and say that I did that. I lived that life for a good long while. I was free to do what I wanted and I did it because there was nothing holding me down. I went places. All sorts of places. I went all sorts of places with all sorts of people. I did the right things at the right times. I did the wrong things at the right times. I was young and beautiful and educated and employed and in love and I was damned happy most of the time. I got to be that girl. Me. That was me doing those things. Those things they write books and make movies about and people read and watch because they want their lives to be
just
like
that.
And now I get to do all sorts of new things. Mid-thirties Ladyish Things. And Mommy things too. And that isn't so bad, now that the baby part is over. That fucking royally sucked giant filthy ass.
And after this is over, there is a whole other set of things I'll get to do. And that probably won't be so bad either, provided I don't mind getting exotic new mustaches every other week and bi-annual freckle checks and it used to be that I only had two boobs, but now they are cropping up all over my body. Nipple-less saggy breasts. Everywhere.
Life is pretty good, when you put your shit kickers on and keep your face turned to the sun.
***
Ladies and gentlemen, I just made you all read an awards post. Seems that there are scores of you who skip once you see an award button at the top of each post, so I'm putting them at the bottom now.
Take that, mother suckers!
Thank you Lucy, for the Beautiful Blogger Award!
Now, I don't want to be the typical South Philly mom. You know the type. Where the son lives at home until he's 40 and he gets treated like he's 5 until the day he finds a wife. But I also don't like thinking about the day Jake moves out and I have to deal with all that. Because as much as I don't like washing his dishes and clothes and stepping on his stuff and all that crap? It's going to be hard to find that person who I was before he was living all up in my guts. (Yes, life stops when you get pregnant. Hate to break it to you non-moms out there.) I'm already gearing up to start planning for Jake's departure, because I'm sure to be one of those crazy empty nesters if I'm not careful. I'll be the one driving 300 miles on Saturday morning and knocking on his dorm room door, all like "Jake, Darling, is there any laundry you need done? I brought pancakes. And stewed apples. What's this sock on your doorknob? Honey, give me all the dark stuff first, and while that's in the wash, I'll run around and get some Borax to soak the whites. Is someone in there with you? I hear a girl. You better not have someone else in there doing your laundry for you. Is someone making your dinners? Jacob? Is someone feeding you MSG? I hear growling. You know MSG doesn't agree with your belly. JACOB!! Jacob Alexander, this is your mother. Get out here right now. I'm getting the RA if you don't open the door this instant."
Not really.
But in my head that's what I'll be saying.
2.14.2010
2.12.2010
Photos I have collected of South Philadelphia Snowmen.
We don't get much snow down this way, but when we do, we bust out the- candy? and the- soda caps? and the- ohmygodisthatpoop? and build a man out of it.
Enjoy.
We don't get much snow down this way, but when we do, we bust out the- candy? and the- soda caps? and the- ohmygodisthatpoop? and build a man out of it.
Enjoy.
2.11.2010
So, I've been informed by someone who will go unnamed that when that person sees that I've "received another one of those stupid awards" that person usually just skips the post that follows.
It's okay. I get it. I skip things in italics, stanzas, long quotes, charts, graphs, and citations. It has nothing to do with the content. It has everything to do with the way my brain works. I just can't do it. Never could. Not in school, not at work, not in life.
There are a few writers who can include quotes or write poetry I can read, and I'll tell you why and how. I lift their poems from a website/blog/text (if I see it in a book I google it and find it online so I can do this) and put it in a word document to reformat it so my brain can process the poem.
Writing poetry is a comfort
I never read what I record
I can't bear the way it looks
Once the words have left me.
Still reading?
See that happy award up there? It's from Christina at Beena's Blog. Christina has one of those blogs that makes you feel like less of a miserable failure at being a mom/woman/person and feel more like a normal human being who doesn normal human things on a normal human basis. But her blog isn't a total train wreck full of stories of stuff being flushed down the toilet and shoved up little nostrils. It's full of well written stories of real momhood. Personhood. And I can't get enough of it.
So thank you Christina. Not just for the award, but for sharing your story with us.
I'm never clear on award rules, especially since I never follow them, so here's what is going on in my weird blizzard-imposed mid-week weekend. A mandatory two day break in the middle of the week sounds much nicer than it really is, trust me.
Trust me.
1. Long ago I read an article about children's dreams, and I remember something about preschoolers dreaming about cutesy fuzzy animals, like kittens and bunnies and bears. Jake has been having really vivid dreams lately, so we've been sitting up latenights talking about them. It's fun. Reminds me of summer camp. Flashlights under the blankets at 2am with your kid and a case of the giggles is the ultimate. Unless it's not. He had a really bad one a few nights ago, and I asked what it was. He told me he was lost in the woods and skeletons and ghosts and witches were jumping out at him and it was dark and he couldn't see the bad guys until they were right in front of him.
Hold up.
That was MY nachtmare. Is my. Except instead of ghosts it was pirates. I still have that nachtmare. Thirty years of being lost in the haunted woods. I get it right around the time I get the one where the breaks don't work. Jake and I have the same nachtmare. Creepy.
His good ones have "white bunnies, and sometimes red cats but sometimes they aren't so good, and baby polar bears that don't live in the snow and love to play and can change colors whenever they want and you, mommy! and you're wearing a pink dress and beautiful shoes and your hair is all messy because that's how you look the prettiest".
2. Every Halloween I buy a few bags of those plastic spider rings and I slip the ring part in the slots of everyone's keyboards at work and it looks like there is a big old spider sitting there. It's especially satisfying when people opt to have one of those pullout keyboards that sit under their desk and it's their first year on the job.
I like tricks better than treats.
I'm going on nine years on the job now, so you can imagine how many of those things are kicking around the office. Sometimes they show up in unexpected places, like file drawers or behind the last of the coffee cups. Sometimes they show up around my house, like in the lint tube chimney thing or in the AV wires that have been outdated for at least a decade but you can't ever be too sure so you keep them just in case. Places that get cleaned when you have the worst storm in recorded history raging outside your front door.
(Smiles weakly and touches her cat as a reminder that life surrounds her)
3. I get my hair cut four times a year. No more no less. It's one of those weird rituals that I started when I was old enough to start making decisions for myself and can't break now or else your favorite aunt will snap her neck when she reaches for the big oval platter next Thanksgiving and the holidays will be ruined for your family forever.
The first day of every season I get my hair cut. If it falls on a Sunday or Monday, I take a deep breath, and I go on Tuesday, and it will be okay. It will be okay. It will be okay.
It will be okay because I just go ahead and cut a little chunk of hair all by myself. And something is better than nothing.
4. I'm still taking improv class, but this time around isn't very fun at all. There is a lot more learning and explanation and "no not that do this instead because that's not the way it's done". It's kind of boring, lots of standing around, blah blah blah. That's why I haven't been talking about it. It's sometimes fun when you are up and doing it, and I thought there would be more up and doing it since class is 2.5 hours instead of 2 hours now but I think that extra half hour is mostly teacher talk.
I'm trying to plow through, and I sometimes like learning, but I really just wish there was more doing. I mentioned that the whole class cycle is dedicated to The Harold, and I'm about Harolded out. The repetition, the rules, the fact that I have to pay attention. This is not for me. I'll be glad if the next level has absolutely no Harold at all. If it does, I think I'll be looking into the weekend workshops that are running or maybe into Comedy Sportz or something. Anything.
One of the things I really liked about the last class is there was no standing around, not too much repetition, not too many rules, and not too much paying attention. I'm really good at all those things. Really really good.
This other stuff is work. It's not that I ooohhh!
Hey!
What's that?
Shiny!
Gotta go.
It's okay. I get it. I skip things in italics, stanzas, long quotes, charts, graphs, and citations. It has nothing to do with the content. It has everything to do with the way my brain works. I just can't do it. Never could. Not in school, not at work, not in life.
There are a few writers who can include quotes or write poetry I can read, and I'll tell you why and how. I lift their poems from a website/blog/text (if I see it in a book I google it and find it online so I can do this) and put it in a word document to reformat it so my brain can process the poem.
Writing poetry is a comfort
I never read what I record
I can't bear the way it looks
Once the words have left me.
Still reading?
See that happy award up there? It's from Christina at Beena's Blog. Christina has one of those blogs that makes you feel like less of a miserable failure at being a mom/woman/person and feel more like a normal human being who doesn normal human things on a normal human basis. But her blog isn't a total train wreck full of stories of stuff being flushed down the toilet and shoved up little nostrils. It's full of well written stories of real momhood. Personhood. And I can't get enough of it.
So thank you Christina. Not just for the award, but for sharing your story with us.
I'm never clear on award rules, especially since I never follow them, so here's what is going on in my weird blizzard-imposed mid-week weekend. A mandatory two day break in the middle of the week sounds much nicer than it really is, trust me.
Trust me.
1. Long ago I read an article about children's dreams, and I remember something about preschoolers dreaming about cutesy fuzzy animals, like kittens and bunnies and bears. Jake has been having really vivid dreams lately, so we've been sitting up latenights talking about them. It's fun. Reminds me of summer camp. Flashlights under the blankets at 2am with your kid and a case of the giggles is the ultimate. Unless it's not. He had a really bad one a few nights ago, and I asked what it was. He told me he was lost in the woods and skeletons and ghosts and witches were jumping out at him and it was dark and he couldn't see the bad guys until they were right in front of him.
Hold up.
That was MY nachtmare. Is my. Except instead of ghosts it was pirates. I still have that nachtmare. Thirty years of being lost in the haunted woods. I get it right around the time I get the one where the breaks don't work. Jake and I have the same nachtmare. Creepy.
His good ones have "white bunnies, and sometimes red cats but sometimes they aren't so good, and baby polar bears that don't live in the snow and love to play and can change colors whenever they want and you, mommy! and you're wearing a pink dress and beautiful shoes and your hair is all messy because that's how you look the prettiest".
2. Every Halloween I buy a few bags of those plastic spider rings and I slip the ring part in the slots of everyone's keyboards at work and it looks like there is a big old spider sitting there. It's especially satisfying when people opt to have one of those pullout keyboards that sit under their desk and it's their first year on the job.
I like tricks better than treats.
I'm going on nine years on the job now, so you can imagine how many of those things are kicking around the office. Sometimes they show up in unexpected places, like file drawers or behind the last of the coffee cups. Sometimes they show up around my house, like in the lint tube chimney thing or in the AV wires that have been outdated for at least a decade but you can't ever be too sure so you keep them just in case. Places that get cleaned when you have the worst storm in recorded history raging outside your front door.
(Smiles weakly and touches her cat as a reminder that life surrounds her)
3. I get my hair cut four times a year. No more no less. It's one of those weird rituals that I started when I was old enough to start making decisions for myself and can't break now or else your favorite aunt will snap her neck when she reaches for the big oval platter next Thanksgiving and the holidays will be ruined for your family forever.
The first day of every season I get my hair cut. If it falls on a Sunday or Monday, I take a deep breath, and I go on Tuesday, and it will be okay. It will be okay. It will be okay.
It will be okay because I just go ahead and cut a little chunk of hair all by myself. And something is better than nothing.
4. I'm still taking improv class, but this time around isn't very fun at all. There is a lot more learning and explanation and "no not that do this instead because that's not the way it's done". It's kind of boring, lots of standing around, blah blah blah. That's why I haven't been talking about it. It's sometimes fun when you are up and doing it, and I thought there would be more up and doing it since class is 2.5 hours instead of 2 hours now but I think that extra half hour is mostly teacher talk.
I'm trying to plow through, and I sometimes like learning, but I really just wish there was more doing. I mentioned that the whole class cycle is dedicated to The Harold, and I'm about Harolded out. The repetition, the rules, the fact that I have to pay attention. This is not for me. I'll be glad if the next level has absolutely no Harold at all. If it does, I think I'll be looking into the weekend workshops that are running or maybe into Comedy Sportz or something. Anything.
One of the things I really liked about the last class is there was no standing around, not too much repetition, not too many rules, and not too much paying attention. I'm really good at all those things. Really really good.
This other stuff is work. It's not that I ooohhh!
Hey!
What's that?
Shiny!
Gotta go.
2.09.2010
I'm painfully behind on blogging. Reading them, writing them, responding to them. Everything about them. Here's where I combine two tasks into one. First, the Incognito Mom- who is an amazing local chick who I am dying to drag out for a night on the town one of these days? yes? maybe? as soon as the weather breaks and the snow melts? leave the boys at home and go? tagged me to list seven secrets about myself. That's hard for me to do. She knows that's hard for me to do. But I think I came up with seven things I've never shared here.
Second, Katey.Leigh at Let.It.Be gave me this:
If you don't read Katey's blog, please start now. Do you ever run across someone younger than you and get all sappy because you wish that you had it together that much when you were that age and wish that person could see how well they are doing? Or get proud for someone because you know that by the time that person is the age you are now they are going to be set? That's how I feel about Katey. She's pretty damned amazing. I'm tossing her rules out the window and doing the seven things instead.
1 I like to name my plants because they are living things that I take care of. I have three juniper plants out back and they are all named Jennifer. Growing up in the seventies, you were always surrounded by at least three Jennifers, so this is perfectly acceptable to me. I also have a heather out there, and her name is Fatgirl. My rosemary bush is named Mantha and the lavender is named Queeny. Inside I have a kalanchoe named Josie. Because I bought it at Trader Joe's.
2 I don't shave from the knees down from about my birthday (August 15th) til about Memorial Day. I caved the other day because I was so bored. The razor gave out about 65% of the way through. I don't know why I stop shaving. I always have, even as a teenager. It just seems so pointless. I wear knee socks all winter long anyway. No one ever really sees it.
3 I've held things in my hands that are priceless to some people and worthless to others. Classified documents. Heroin. Babies.
4 Sometimes I want to kiss my cat with tongue so I can show her how deeply I love her but I'm guessing that non-verbal, inter-species message wouldn't really translate.
5 I'm actually a very good drawer, but only in pencil or Pilot V5 Pen and preferably on index cards or manila (it's something about the "drag" the combination of those utensils and those papers give to me) and please don't ask me to draw anything too large because I like drawing tiny perfect things to comply with my tiny perfect world vision.
I'm a "micro" person when I get inside of my head. Twerking the "macro" gives me a case of the ickies.
6 I took a Color Test yesterday. The reason I'm telling you is that I thought the results were disturbingly accurate:
Occupational Category: Creator
Keywords: Nonconforming, Impulsive, Expressive, Romantic, Intuitive, Sensitive, and Emotional
7 I was a very disturbed child. But I never killed anything, set fire to anything, or wet the bed.
Second, Katey.Leigh at Let.It.Be gave me this:
1 I like to name my plants because they are living things that I take care of. I have three juniper plants out back and they are all named Jennifer. Growing up in the seventies, you were always surrounded by at least three Jennifers, so this is perfectly acceptable to me. I also have a heather out there, and her name is Fatgirl. My rosemary bush is named Mantha and the lavender is named Queeny. Inside I have a kalanchoe named Josie. Because I bought it at Trader Joe's.
2 I don't shave from the knees down from about my birthday (August 15th) til about Memorial Day. I caved the other day because I was so bored. The razor gave out about 65% of the way through. I don't know why I stop shaving. I always have, even as a teenager. It just seems so pointless. I wear knee socks all winter long anyway. No one ever really sees it.
3 I've held things in my hands that are priceless to some people and worthless to others. Classified documents. Heroin. Babies.
4 Sometimes I want to kiss my cat with tongue so I can show her how deeply I love her but I'm guessing that non-verbal, inter-species message wouldn't really translate.
5 I'm actually a very good drawer, but only in pencil or Pilot V5 Pen and preferably on index cards or manila (it's something about the "drag" the combination of those utensils and those papers give to me) and please don't ask me to draw anything too large because I like drawing tiny perfect things to comply with my tiny perfect world vision.
I'm a "micro" person when I get inside of my head. Twerking the "macro" gives me a case of the ickies.
6 I took a Color Test yesterday. The reason I'm telling you is that I thought the results were disturbingly accurate:
Occupational Category: Creator
Keywords: Nonconforming, Impulsive, Expressive, Romantic, Intuitive, Sensitive, and Emotional
These original types place a high value on aesthetic qualities and have a great need for self-expression. They enjoy working independently, being creative, using their imagination, and constantly learning something new. Fields of interest are art, drama, music, and writing or places where they can express, assemble, or implement creative ideas.
Creator Occupations: Suggested careers are Advertising Executive, Architect, Web Designer, Creative Director, Public Relations, Fine or Commercial Artist, Interior Decorator, Lawyer, Librarian, Musician, Reporter, Art Teacher, Broadcaster, Technical Writer, English Teacher, Architect, Photographer, Medical Illustrator, Corporate Trainer, Author, Editor, Landscape Architect, Exhibit Builder, and Package Designer.
Creator Workplaces: Consider workplaces where you can create and improve beauty and aesthetic qualities. Unstructured, flexible organizations that allow self-expression work best with your free-spirited nature. Suggested Creator workplaces are advertising, public relations, and interior decorating firms; artistic studios, theaters and concert halls; institutions that teach crafts, universities, music, and dance schools. Other workplaces to consider are art institutes, museums, libraries, and galleries.
2nd Best Occupational Category: Persuader Keywords: Witty, Competitive, Sociable, Talkative, Ambitious, Argumentative, and Aggressive
These enterprising types sell, persuade, and lead others. Positions of leadership, power, and status are usually their ultimate goal. Persuasive people like to take financial and interpersonal risks and to participate in competitive activities. They enjoy working with others inside organizations to accomplish goals and achieve economic success.
I never told anyone but my 8th grade science teacher, who actually encouraged me to do it after he accused me of tracing diagrams of mollusks and worms and frogs out of college textbooks because he didn't believe that I drew them myself, but when I was little I used to want to be a Medical (well, Veterinarial) Illustrator. I envisioned me working all by myself- I HATE working with others- and drawing tiny little pictures of the insides of dead things and traveling all over the world to universities and publishers to sell my pictures to textbook companies.
Instead I told the guidance counselors I wanted to be a cartographer, and they told me it was a long-dead profession so I gave up the dream and went to school for social mapping instead.
I never told anyone what I really wanted to be because it sounds like something that would come out of the mouth of a very disturbed child.
Creator Workplaces: Consider workplaces where you can create and improve beauty and aesthetic qualities. Unstructured, flexible organizations that allow self-expression work best with your free-spirited nature. Suggested Creator workplaces are advertising, public relations, and interior decorating firms; artistic studios, theaters and concert halls; institutions that teach crafts, universities, music, and dance schools. Other workplaces to consider are art institutes, museums, libraries, and galleries.
2nd Best Occupational Category: Persuader Keywords: Witty, Competitive, Sociable, Talkative, Ambitious, Argumentative, and Aggressive
These enterprising types sell, persuade, and lead others. Positions of leadership, power, and status are usually their ultimate goal. Persuasive people like to take financial and interpersonal risks and to participate in competitive activities. They enjoy working with others inside organizations to accomplish goals and achieve economic success.
I never told anyone but my 8th grade science teacher, who actually encouraged me to do it after he accused me of tracing diagrams of mollusks and worms and frogs out of college textbooks because he didn't believe that I drew them myself, but when I was little I used to want to be a Medical (well, Veterinarial) Illustrator. I envisioned me working all by myself- I HATE working with others- and drawing tiny little pictures of the insides of dead things and traveling all over the world to universities and publishers to sell my pictures to textbook companies.
Instead I told the guidance counselors I wanted to be a cartographer, and they told me it was a long-dead profession so I gave up the dream and went to school for social mapping instead.
I never told anyone what I really wanted to be because it sounds like something that would come out of the mouth of a very disturbed child.
7 I was a very disturbed child. But I never killed anything, set fire to anything, or wet the bed.
2.06.2010
"you have a baby!... in a bar!"
There is a new Mommy and Me event in my neighborhood. It happens once a month at a place that I guess could sorta technically be called a restaurant, but it's not like a Friday's or something. It's a large bar, with lots of tables. The bar is around the corner from my house. I can practically spit on it. I'm quite familiar with it. Quite.
I've actually taken Jake there once when it first opened, but only to sit outside and he was so small that he slept in the stroller the whole time. The bar is clean enough for kids, I guess, as if there is a health department cleanliness standard for such a thing. But it's not really a place for children. It's a hipster hotspot. The food is good and the drinks are better but the crowd is so douchey that it isn't worth going unless you can get there off-hours. I highly recommend getting there if you can get there off-hours.
The event is billed as a coolkid alternative to coffee shops and playgrounds, and the kids will do crafts and eat snacks while the moms can drink half priced drinks for two hours while they get to know each other.
As much as I hate coffee momdates with kids in tow because you can't really talk with a grown up because half the time you are worried about shushing the child so it doesn't disturb the people using the 'bucks as an office and as much as I hate playground meet ups where you can't really talk with a grown up because half the time you are worried about making sure you don't see your child's brains on the ground, and as much as I love half priced drinks with other moms, I don't like half priced drinks with other moms that end with those other moms strapping their snacked up crafty children into the backseat for the long drive home. Or the short drive home. Or any drive home.
Have I had a few drinks in front of my child? Yes.
Have I driven in a car after a few drinks? No.
Living in the city I have the luxury of cabs and buses and sidewalks so if I find myself accidrunk it's no big deal, but not everyone has that luxury.
If I were to hooky work to go to this Mommybaby Happyhour (not that I was invited or anything...), I could drink my face off and Jake could drag me home by the bootstraps and put me to bed no problem. But I wonder how close the other moms live to this place.
In theory, this is a genius idea. In practice, it makes me a little bit nervous. A lot bit.
As much as I hate to admit it, there have been times recently (read: last weekend) when two drinks push me over the limit. If I don't eat a giant meal and drink gallons of water and the moon isn't in the right house and I don't say the right hex as I walk backwards out my front door and flip the lock three times, I'm done for. Half priced drinks sound delish, but they reek of well booze. Well booze sends me into a downward spiral faster than you can guess my cat's middle name.
It's Jane.
Tyler Jane.
She's my best girl.
Meowr.
Tyler looks like an owl. I love her so much. She hasn't been feeling so well lately, her guts are in knots. I'm giving her a little bit of wet food every now and then to see if that loosens her up a bit.
Did you know that dry food has a lot of carbs and cats shouldn't really be eating carbs?
I should put her on Atkins.
She doesn't really need to lose weight, but she needs to get better.
Regular.
Poor girl.
She weighs 10.5 pounds now. She weighed 27 pounds at her peak.
She has a lot of extra skin.
Too bad they don't have something like a Locks of Love for cat pelts.
I'm guessing I'm not alone in the increased age/decreased tolerance thing. I hope this pans out okay for everyone. All it takes is one extra drink/delayed reaction/_____ _____.
This gets me the same way as Baby Loves Disco does. Ever hear about that? Gives me the creeps.
Is it just me who has panties that get in a bunch with this kind of stuff? I think social drinking is okay, and I think doing it in front of your kids is okay, provided it is done in a safe and clean place and as long as the social drinker isn't driving the child (or anyone) home afterwards.
Might I check this out? I might. I might come late and leave early. I might order a drink, but I'll steer clear of the special because I know that is asking for trouble and though I may be a boozehound, I tend to be responsible about it WHEN I HAVE MY BABY IN TOW.
So I might check this out Especially if some people I know are there. But I do have some reservations about the whole thing.
I've actually taken Jake there once when it first opened, but only to sit outside and he was so small that he slept in the stroller the whole time. The bar is clean enough for kids, I guess, as if there is a health department cleanliness standard for such a thing. But it's not really a place for children. It's a hipster hotspot. The food is good and the drinks are better but the crowd is so douchey that it isn't worth going unless you can get there off-hours. I highly recommend getting there if you can get there off-hours.
The event is billed as a coolkid alternative to coffee shops and playgrounds, and the kids will do crafts and eat snacks while the moms can drink half priced drinks for two hours while they get to know each other.
As much as I hate coffee momdates with kids in tow because you can't really talk with a grown up because half the time you are worried about shushing the child so it doesn't disturb the people using the 'bucks as an office and as much as I hate playground meet ups where you can't really talk with a grown up because half the time you are worried about making sure you don't see your child's brains on the ground, and as much as I love half priced drinks with other moms, I don't like half priced drinks with other moms that end with those other moms strapping their snacked up crafty children into the backseat for the long drive home. Or the short drive home. Or any drive home.
Have I had a few drinks in front of my child? Yes.
Have I driven in a car after a few drinks? No.
Living in the city I have the luxury of cabs and buses and sidewalks so if I find myself accidrunk it's no big deal, but not everyone has that luxury.
If I were to hooky work to go to this Mommybaby Happyhour (not that I was invited or anything...), I could drink my face off and Jake could drag me home by the bootstraps and put me to bed no problem. But I wonder how close the other moms live to this place.
In theory, this is a genius idea. In practice, it makes me a little bit nervous. A lot bit.
As much as I hate to admit it, there have been times recently (read: last weekend) when two drinks push me over the limit. If I don't eat a giant meal and drink gallons of water and the moon isn't in the right house and I don't say the right hex as I walk backwards out my front door and flip the lock three times, I'm done for. Half priced drinks sound delish, but they reek of well booze. Well booze sends me into a downward spiral faster than you can guess my cat's middle name.
It's Jane.
Tyler Jane.
She's my best girl.
Meowr.
Tyler looks like an owl. I love her so much. She hasn't been feeling so well lately, her guts are in knots. I'm giving her a little bit of wet food every now and then to see if that loosens her up a bit.
Did you know that dry food has a lot of carbs and cats shouldn't really be eating carbs?
I should put her on Atkins.
She doesn't really need to lose weight, but she needs to get better.
Regular.
Poor girl.
She weighs 10.5 pounds now. She weighed 27 pounds at her peak.
She has a lot of extra skin.
Too bad they don't have something like a Locks of Love for cat pelts.
I'm guessing I'm not alone in the increased age/decreased tolerance thing. I hope this pans out okay for everyone. All it takes is one extra drink/delayed reaction/_____ _____.
This gets me the same way as Baby Loves Disco does. Ever hear about that? Gives me the creeps.
Is it just me who has panties that get in a bunch with this kind of stuff? I think social drinking is okay, and I think doing it in front of your kids is okay, provided it is done in a safe and clean place and as long as the social drinker isn't driving the child (or anyone) home afterwards.
Might I check this out? I might. I might come late and leave early. I might order a drink, but I'll steer clear of the special because I know that is asking for trouble and though I may be a boozehound, I tend to be responsible about it WHEN I HAVE MY BABY IN TOW.
So I might check this out Especially if some people I know are there. But I do have some reservations about the whole thing.
2.04.2010
could it be anybody?
Remember when I wrote about the old MRI lady and how she was so nice and she held my hands and stuff?
I like when doctors and techs are real live normal people, and they treat me like they would treat their kid/friend/sister.
Everything is fine, by the way. It's all neurological. No bumps or tumors or fœtus in fœtu or anything curled inside my head. I'm being treated and feeling so much better that it makes me want to cry. I'm frustrated that I didn't seek help sooner, but that's nobody's fault but my own.
Whether you are writing me a prescription or delivering my mail or getting me fries with that, you are helping me through my day, and I thank you very much. We are all in this together, so let's help each other out along the way, eh? None of this I'm the bigwig and you're the little guy so let's build a wall between us.
Some of you in-real-lifers know about the time my last gynecologist came back from her maternity leave. I was one of her patients on her first day back, and by the time she got around to me, she had about enough. She sat down and I could tell she was having a rough time. I got off the table and sat on that weird foot stool thing on the end of the gyn table so I was at eye level with her. I asked her how long she had been back.
"Ten hours. I have thirty to go before I can go home."
She told me that her husband was supposed to bring her baby by the hospital so she could nurse, but he got caught up at work and wouldn't be able to make it. She was able to pump some, but her schedule was tight so her breasts were engorged and she was squeezing her milk into the toilet and scrub sinks when she could. Her breasts hurt. Her C-section site hurt. Her heart hurt.
She just wanted to go home.
Then the tears came. Mine and hers. And I held her.
Me in my paper coat, she in her white one.
She said she didn't want to cry in front of her boss or the other doctors. She said she was supposed to be able to handle this. She said she delivered a dead baby that morning. She said she can't stand the sight of blood anymore. She said she wants a new job. She said thank you.
Then she touched my vagina. Clinically. Not socially.
Although, she was a looker, that one.
Too bad she quit after she got pregnant with her second brat.
So wrong.
We are both just people, trying to make it through the day. Through motherhood.
Did you ever hear that old adage about you can tell how good someone is by the way they treat the waitress?
It's true.
I like when doctors and techs are real live normal people, and they treat me like they would treat their kid/friend/sister.
Everything is fine, by the way. It's all neurological. No bumps or tumors or fœtus in fœtu or anything curled inside my head. I'm being treated and feeling so much better that it makes me want to cry. I'm frustrated that I didn't seek help sooner, but that's nobody's fault but my own.
Whether you are writing me a prescription or delivering my mail or getting me fries with that, you are helping me through my day, and I thank you very much. We are all in this together, so let's help each other out along the way, eh? None of this I'm the bigwig and you're the little guy so let's build a wall between us.
Some of you in-real-lifers know about the time my last gynecologist came back from her maternity leave. I was one of her patients on her first day back, and by the time she got around to me, she had about enough. She sat down and I could tell she was having a rough time. I got off the table and sat on that weird foot stool thing on the end of the gyn table so I was at eye level with her. I asked her how long she had been back.
"Ten hours. I have thirty to go before I can go home."
She told me that her husband was supposed to bring her baby by the hospital so she could nurse, but he got caught up at work and wouldn't be able to make it. She was able to pump some, but her schedule was tight so her breasts were engorged and she was squeezing her milk into the toilet and scrub sinks when she could. Her breasts hurt. Her C-section site hurt. Her heart hurt.
She just wanted to go home.
Then the tears came. Mine and hers. And I held her.
Me in my paper coat, she in her white one.
She said she didn't want to cry in front of her boss or the other doctors. She said she was supposed to be able to handle this. She said she delivered a dead baby that morning. She said she can't stand the sight of blood anymore. She said she wants a new job. She said thank you.
Then she touched my vagina. Clinically. Not socially.
Although, she was a looker, that one.
Too bad she quit after she got pregnant with her second brat.
So wrong.
We are both just people, trying to make it through the day. Through motherhood.
***
Did you ever hear that old adage about you can tell how good someone is by the way they treat the waitress?
It's true.
***
And lastly and somehow related kinda as this all is but not quite, someone on Dave's Facebook was bitching about how a Childless Person gave him Childrearing Advice. Oh the horror! Cause you cain't pozbly know nothin bout nothin til yer a parent, right?
Wrong.
I know I've been blogging too long because I can't remember if I posted something here or if it was something I wrote up for work, but somewhere along the line I wrote about parents taking advice from non-parents. It may have been for work. There are a lot of social workers and family therapists who don't have children. In fact, it's hard to be a good social servant when you are a parent. No wait. It's hard to be a good parent when you are a social servant. How's that go again? Both are round the clock jobs. It's hard to hang up your hat and go from one to the other. Both take up hours and hours of your time and brain and soul.
Sometimes the best advice you can get is from someone who is far removed from the situation. Someone who doesn't know what it's like to be incredibly exhausted. Incredibly emotional. Incredibly overwhelmed. Incredibly _____.
Someone who has your child's best interest at heart. Someone who knows that it is always better to not scream at the child or swear at the child or give in to the tantrum or the urge to slap that brat across its big loud annoying head. It's common sense, but with parents and parenting that message gets lost in the sauce sometimes.
Parents know that point we all get to when the Parental Meltdown might be inevitable. Non-parents might not. Non-parents sympathize with the child Every Single Time. Non-parents have never "been there" before. Parents have. Parents sympathize with other parents. We've all been a Wal*mart Mom at least once. All of us. You all know what I mean by Wal*mart mom.
So before jumping down a non-parent's well-meaning throat, remember that they love your kiddo and want to keep him or her safe and happy and healthy. They aren't necessarily judging or attacking you, they are protecting your child.
We all need a little help from time to time.
Take it where you can get it.
2.03.2010
get into this boy's soul
Can you believe that Kelly at Dare to be Domestic doesn't watch Always Sunny? Gah, Kelly. Netflix, Netflix, Netflix. It's the most retarded piece of retardedism out there. And I use the word retarded in that way that I don't mean retarded like the people who have a disability just like sometimes we say gay and we don't mean homosexual so I don't want any hate mail from the people who want us to stop using those words because clearly they aren't the kind of people who watch this show and can understand what I mean. It's just so retarded. And kind of gay. But right there I mean gay but gay like homosexual because there is definitely some gay stuff that happens sometimes. It's so not pc and so far-fetched that you won't even know what you are watching while you are watching it. You have to watch it so you can see how much you won't get it until you do and then you will and then you'll laugh and then you'll be all like "what?" and you'll try to talk about it with someone the next day and you won't be able to so you'll just say "Netflix, Netflix, Netflix".
Sometimes I hate Always Sunny in Philadelphia because they aren't always in Philadelphia even when they say they are and that gets me mad. Just stay here. Don't take the show on the road, as it were. Tina Fey did that when she filmed that horrible movie Baby Mama. I almost wrote her a letter and boycotted 30 Rock, but then I thought to myself, "who are you really punishing, Lora? Yourself or Tina?". It was me. Tina doesn't care that I knew she was lying about where the movie was set, and I love 30 Rock and it is the only television show that I watch that isn't on the History Channel or A&E. It's my only tie to popular culture. My only "in" with the "in crowd".
Kelly gave me this awhile back, and ever since I've been singing the songs constantly. Thanks Kelly.
The Rule:
1. List 6 things you are a master in.
My Six Things:
Sometimes I hate Always Sunny in Philadelphia because they aren't always in Philadelphia even when they say they are and that gets me mad. Just stay here. Don't take the show on the road, as it were. Tina Fey did that when she filmed that horrible movie Baby Mama. I almost wrote her a letter and boycotted 30 Rock, but then I thought to myself, "who are you really punishing, Lora? Yourself or Tina?". It was me. Tina doesn't care that I knew she was lying about where the movie was set, and I love 30 Rock and it is the only television show that I watch that isn't on the History Channel or A&E. It's my only tie to popular culture. My only "in" with the "in crowd".
Kelly gave me this awhile back, and ever since I've been singing the songs constantly. Thanks Kelly.
(This award is all about recognizing friendships that have been made while blogging.)
The Rule:
1. List 6 things you are a master in.
My Six Things:
- I'm a master at making things up so Jake won't be scared anymore. Last night I told him that monsters are afraid of the dark. So, when I turn the hall light off, they get scared because they can't see where they are going and they don't want to stub their toe so they go to the neighbor's house and that's why those two brats scream all night. And when he called me out and said that can't be true because they live in dark caves because there isn't any electricity in caves and it's too damp to make a fire, I told him that just like he can find his way from his room to mine in the dark, monsters know their way around their own caves so they don't mind the darkness there.
- I'm a master at soups and sauces. You just can't mess up a soup or a sauce. The worst that can happen is that you make too much while you try to even everything out. Big deal. Freeze half of it for another day.
- I'm a master at bleeding people for information. I can drain you dry by the end of the night. It's why I'm good at my job. I promise I don't use that skill in real life. Sometimes when people find out what I do for a living they don't like to talk to me because they think I use my 9 to 5 skills in the 5 to 9. Hardly. I shun them like leprosy.
- I'm a master taco bar creator. I love the taco bar. I wish I had a mile long counter and a clean up crew. Because it would be on like Megatron. Beans and rice and pineapples and lettuce and tomatoes and and and. You need it all.
- I'm a master at saying things that no one really gets. Things like "on like Megatron". I love making up words that sound like real things.
- I'm a master grosser-outer. Sometimes I wish I could surround myself with ten year old boys all day just so I could cleanse myself of all the pent up nastiness that is plaguing my insides. Because no one my age wants to hear it. I'll spare you the gorier details, but I practically got kicked out of the car this morning when I shared how I think that fresh raw steaks smell like the inside of a Bobrick. In all fairness, no one even wants to hear what a Bobrick is. The Bobricks in Suburban Station have ashtrays built into them. Classy! Retro! Nasty!
2.01.2010
I went to a babyshower for one of my fatgirls on Saturday. She's having a giiiiiirrrrrllll. There was a lot of pink.
Tiny teensy insey winesy pink things. Hoppy floppy mopsy cottontailed green and brown bun buns all over the bedding. Flowers and flounces and bonnets and ruffley muffley underpantses that go under ickly bickly dresses.
Makes a girl's ovaries want to throw a party.
What?
Oh come on! For like a minute. It was all over an hour after I left.
Blogga, please. Me with a girl? That chick would be spittin' and sassin' before she could walk. One thing I know about little girls? They turn into big girls. And quick. Something very very right in the universe happened the day that Jake wasn't a girl.
But what if he was?
What would I do?
How would I dress him? Her? It? Her?
Like me? Cargo shorts and jeans and v-neck sweaters and tanktops? Oh hey! Maybe I didn't tell you. I've made a pact with myself. No more men's clothes (in the summer, in the winter I'm free to be me, whatever that me may be). Well, mostly. I'm wearing dresses instead of shorts all summer. And this may or may not have something to do with the fact that I'm too, um- womanly- to fit into the largest size at Gap Kids Boy's section anymore and I'm not loving the super long crotch of their men's pants these days. I'm betting they must have changed the way they are cutting the fabric or something. Ahem. Emah. Right.
I'm guessing I'd probably dress my daughter more like a girl. But no pink. Very little of it at least. And hardly any purple. No frills or glitter or weird appliques. Ever notice that the clothes in the little girls departments look very similar to the clothes in the plus size department of the $9.99 stores? I just can't stand it. Pink looks like something that would cure a bellyache and that pastey little girl purple color is just it's ugly cousin. Reminds me of crushed up Necco wafers.
I like plain stuff. Like plain stuff that you can't find for girls.
Would I have to brush her hair? Because even though Jake's hair is longish, I don't really comb it. I just let it do what it does. It's really boho punk rock. That's his style. That's the way he likes it, and I'm fine with that. Is it different with girls? I mean, I don't comb my hair. I just cut it all off the back and tuck it behind my ears in the front until it dries and then it has this nice wave to it and it hits about chin-length so it sort of looks like a bob. Is that okay to do to a little girl? Buzz her head I mean? I'm sure as shit not going to pigtail it every damned day. Is it okay to cornrow whitebaby hair? Because I'm open to that option.
For me, I over-compensate for the short hair with eyeliner if I'm going anywhere that requires girlishness. I'm no Mrs. Jon Benet or anything, but can I over-compensate for buzzing my daughter's head with eyeliner? I'm not gonna pageant the kid out or anything. Just take her to the store or wherever. Keep people from calling her "boy".
Would I have to buy her Barbie dolls and baby dolls? No, right? I don't know. We aren't supposed to buy dolls anymore I don't think. Something about they cause bulimia and MTV specials and misguided adulthood goals or something like that. I don't keep up with toy politico. I've struggled with this before.
What do little girls play with?
Horses? Are little girls still into those plastic horses?
I loved plastic horses.
Black Beauty?
Flicka and Banner?
"Arrrrrrrrtaaaxxxxxxxxxxx!"
Would I have to balance swim class with soccer practice and piano lessons and ballet/tap/jazz the way my mom and dad had to do with me? Because you can't just do one of those things. Too much dance and you'll make her too femme. Too much soccer and she'll get lots of tattoos and buzz the back of her hair...oh. Never mind. Too much piano and she
will
hate
music
class.
And none of that can interfere with school of course.
So when we aren't figuring out to do with her mop and stuff, we could read. I think. I used to read everything I could get my hands on.
My brother was recently appalled to find the following books in his daughter's collection:
"My Perfect Wedding" starring Cinderella.
Tiny teensy insey winesy pink things. Hoppy floppy mopsy cottontailed green and brown bun buns all over the bedding. Flowers and flounces and bonnets and ruffley muffley underpantses that go under ickly bickly dresses.
Makes a girl's ovaries want to throw a party.
What?
Oh come on! For like a minute. It was all over an hour after I left.
Blogga, please. Me with a girl? That chick would be spittin' and sassin' before she could walk. One thing I know about little girls? They turn into big girls. And quick. Something very very right in the universe happened the day that Jake wasn't a girl.
But what if he was?
What would I do?
How would I dress him? Her? It? Her?
Like me? Cargo shorts and jeans and v-neck sweaters and tanktops? Oh hey! Maybe I didn't tell you. I've made a pact with myself. No more men's clothes (in the summer, in the winter I'm free to be me, whatever that me may be). Well, mostly. I'm wearing dresses instead of shorts all summer. And this may or may not have something to do with the fact that I'm too, um- womanly- to fit into the largest size at Gap Kids Boy's section anymore and I'm not loving the super long crotch of their men's pants these days. I'm betting they must have changed the way they are cutting the fabric or something. Ahem. Emah. Right.
I'm guessing I'd probably dress my daughter more like a girl. But no pink. Very little of it at least. And hardly any purple. No frills or glitter or weird appliques. Ever notice that the clothes in the little girls departments look very similar to the clothes in the plus size department of the $9.99 stores? I just can't stand it. Pink looks like something that would cure a bellyache and that pastey little girl purple color is just it's ugly cousin. Reminds me of crushed up Necco wafers.
I like plain stuff. Like plain stuff that you can't find for girls.
Would I have to brush her hair? Because even though Jake's hair is longish, I don't really comb it. I just let it do what it does. It's really boho punk rock. That's his style. That's the way he likes it, and I'm fine with that. Is it different with girls? I mean, I don't comb my hair. I just cut it all off the back and tuck it behind my ears in the front until it dries and then it has this nice wave to it and it hits about chin-length so it sort of looks like a bob. Is that okay to do to a little girl? Buzz her head I mean? I'm sure as shit not going to pigtail it every damned day. Is it okay to cornrow whitebaby hair? Because I'm open to that option.
For me, I over-compensate for the short hair with eyeliner if I'm going anywhere that requires girlishness. I'm no Mrs. Jon Benet or anything, but can I over-compensate for buzzing my daughter's head with eyeliner? I'm not gonna pageant the kid out or anything. Just take her to the store or wherever. Keep people from calling her "boy".
Would I have to buy her Barbie dolls and baby dolls? No, right? I don't know. We aren't supposed to buy dolls anymore I don't think. Something about they cause bulimia and MTV specials and misguided adulthood goals or something like that. I don't keep up with toy politico. I've struggled with this before.
What do little girls play with?
Horses? Are little girls still into those plastic horses?
I loved plastic horses.
Black Beauty?
Flicka and Banner?
"Arrrrrrrrtaaaxxxxxxxxxxx!"
Would I have to balance swim class with soccer practice and piano lessons and ballet/tap/jazz the way my mom and dad had to do with me? Because you can't just do one of those things. Too much dance and you'll make her too femme. Too much soccer and she'll get lots of tattoos and buzz the back of her hair...oh. Never mind. Too much piano and she
will
hate
music
class.
And none of that can interfere with school of course.
So when we aren't figuring out to do with her mop and stuff, we could read. I think. I used to read everything I could get my hands on.
My brother was recently appalled to find the following books in his daughter's collection:
"My Perfect Wedding" starring Cinderella.
"One True Love" starring Aladdin's girlfriend Jasmine
"My Prince has Come" with Sleeping Beauty
"Cleaning House" with Snow White.
Yeah, no that's not good. Those books would be firestarters in my house. The pages would make nice kindling. Twist 'em tight and light the ends and poke 'em deep under the logs to start the fire.
Shifting from the topic of "What the hell would I do with a girlbaby" and back to real life. Jake and I read a condensed Disney version of The Little Mermaid last night. Now, I've never seen the Disney version of TLM, but I was hesitant to read this story because I know the real Hans Christian Anderson TLM story. The one that starts with exotic piercings and ends with suicide. So, yeah.
Anyway. Poor Jake got all choked up at the end of the story and said:
"stories about girls make me so sad. i'm so sorry you had to be borned a girl, mommy. girls have such sad and bad lives until they get loved. and then girls have to leave their family to keep their boyfriends so they don't have bad lives anymore."
(did I ever tell you that one way Jake likes to buy more awake time at bedtime is to get real deep with me? It kills me to have to leave him hanging, but I have to draw the line somewhere because I know it's a game he plays.).
So I say, "what do you mean?"
"well, just like ariel had to leave her daddy and her friends so she could be loved, that's what you had to do too. that's why you live so far away from mimi and grandpa and you live in the town where daddy comes from. because that's what girls do. just like in the story. you moved here so you could get happy and loved."
WELL...
"Yes, I do live far away from my family and some of my friends, but I didn't move away to be loved. These are just stories and I don't even really think they are particularly good stories and we will talk about all this another time because it is way past bedtime and now it's time to go to sleep."
"mom?"
"i have more questions"
"tomorrow"
"but you always say i can ask you anything at any time and there is never a time that isn't a good time for a question"
"Is this an emergency?"
"yes"
"Yes, Jacob?"
"I love you, and can I have some water?"
"I love you too and you can get it yourself. Goodnight."
***
Jacob may never know the reasons I moved away from home, and all he needs to know about the reason I never went back is because I'm happy now.
It may not be a fairy tale, but it's a nice story.
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