In Vegas they have a lot of places with signs outside that advertise Crapless Craps.
I don't know about you, but no matter where I go on a trip there are crapless craps for me.
I call it Vacation Guts.
Oy.
True story- I never said a curse word until I was in the seventh grade (due to my errant belief that God would strike me dead on the spot), and one time when I was about ten or so I was playing Trivial Pursuit with my dad and the word "craps" was in one of the Sports and Leisure Orange Chip questions I had to ask him and I got a case of the cold sweats because I thought I had to say a bad word so instead I played dumb and read the word as "crepes" and everyone was confused.
It was awkward, but not as awkward as the time I tried to read the bible the summer after second grade and kept getting hung up on the word "circumcision" and asked my dad about that one.
Listening to your dad talking about penis tips being cut off doesn't wash out of your brain. Ever.
Any time I see a penis there is a split second that flashes in the spot right behind my ears in the center of my brain of an image of my dad on our old plaid couch trying to pull the skin on his pointer finger over the tip of that pointer finger with the fingers on the same hand his pointer finger penis was on and make scissor fingers with his other hand while stammering about sacrifices for God.
There are a lot of awkward moments in a girl's life when she is being raised by a single dad.
See also: Using Brylcreme and a Curling Iron in an attempt to create Totally 80s hair on the first day of middle school, failing miserably but not having enough time to wash it out before the bus comes.
Smell also: Singed Brylcreme
Read also: this back log
11.30.2011
11.29.2011
on three
When I was younger, I went to dancing school.
I'm not sure how long I went, but it's one of those memories that takes over other memories so it feels like I was there all the time. Just tap and ballet and jazz. Maybe a modern dance class. I don't remember which I liked best. Or least. They all sort of run together.
I remember being told that my boobs were too big and my feet were too small.
Over and over and over again.
Another instructor told me she doesn't know how I support myself. How I didn't fall over every time I tried to stand up.
Another told me that my hair was too thin for a proper bun.
She said I was too tall and probably wouldn't have a chance to ever Dance the Ballet with a boy because he wouldn't be able to support me.
Dancing class is supposed to be good for your self-esteem and self-discipline and stuff. I'm not so sure it helped me in those ways.
I still have hair/feet/chest/stature issues.
Some related to what I heard at dancing, some completely unrelated.
None of which I can really control by changing my habits.
That's a shitty feeling.
When you get to a certain level in dancing school, you have to do a tiny solo. On stage. In front of everyone.
There are other people on stage with you, behind you, but you have to do a little bit of something all by yourself.
"Your First Big Moment" is what the instructor called it. Our first time Up and Center in front of God and Everybody doing something that no one else is doing.
It was scary. The teacher was scary.
She's dead now.
But I still dream about her when I'm feeling Not Good Enough for Something I'm Trying to Do.
Right before the show that night, she pulled us all aside. She said to us that we can't screw something up if we are the only one doing it. We can't fall out of step because the only steps to be had are our own. We can only fall out of time but she has faith that we have enough training and experience to keep that from happening.
She said to let that be a lesson in life. As long as we aren't trying to be like everyone else, as long as we weren't working hard to fit in, as long as we are being true to ourselves, it is impossible to fall out of step.
Just watch your timing.
I'm not sure how long I went, but it's one of those memories that takes over other memories so it feels like I was there all the time. Just tap and ballet and jazz. Maybe a modern dance class. I don't remember which I liked best. Or least. They all sort of run together.
I remember being told that my boobs were too big and my feet were too small.
Over and over and over again.
Another instructor told me she doesn't know how I support myself. How I didn't fall over every time I tried to stand up.
Another told me that my hair was too thin for a proper bun.
She said I was too tall and probably wouldn't have a chance to ever Dance the Ballet with a boy because he wouldn't be able to support me.
Dancing class is supposed to be good for your self-esteem and self-discipline and stuff. I'm not so sure it helped me in those ways.
I still have hair/feet/chest/stature issues.
Some related to what I heard at dancing, some completely unrelated.
None of which I can really control by changing my habits.
That's a shitty feeling.
When you get to a certain level in dancing school, you have to do a tiny solo. On stage. In front of everyone.
There are other people on stage with you, behind you, but you have to do a little bit of something all by yourself.
"Your First Big Moment" is what the instructor called it. Our first time Up and Center in front of God and Everybody doing something that no one else is doing.
It was scary. The teacher was scary.
She's dead now.
But I still dream about her when I'm feeling Not Good Enough for Something I'm Trying to Do.
Right before the show that night, she pulled us all aside. She said to us that we can't screw something up if we are the only one doing it. We can't fall out of step because the only steps to be had are our own. We can only fall out of time but she has faith that we have enough training and experience to keep that from happening.
She said to let that be a lesson in life. As long as we aren't trying to be like everyone else, as long as we weren't working hard to fit in, as long as we are being true to ourselves, it is impossible to fall out of step.
Just watch your timing.
11.23.2011
giving thanks and useless facts
Things I don't like that a lot of people do like:
Cupcakes (unless they are cut in half)
Chocolate
Garlic (especially mixed with mashed potatoes)
Bacon
Popcorn
White bread
Salt
Baths
Buttered vegetables
Babies
Mixed drinks
Thing I wonder:
Do people sneeze in their sleep?
Things I did today:
Got mad at the cat for peeing outside her box then realized that the wall in the laundry room is leaking after smelling the wet paper towel.
The weather yesterday:
Torrential downpours
Thing I wonder:
Why do I compulsively smell everything?
Things I have to do today:
pack my bags
set out large bowls of food and water for the cat
Thing I have to do tomorrow:
Fly to Vegas
What I plan to eat for Thanksgiving dinner:
Fatburger
What I order at Fatburger:
Veggie burger with egg, cheese, mayo, ketchup, lettuce, tomato, pickle.
Thing I think is funny:
One of Jake's holiday spelling words this week at school is "Indian"
Thing I think sounds racist these days:
Asking a child to sit 'Indian Style'
Thing I'm trying to be in denial about:
My hair is falling out again.
Things I think sound inadvertently sexual:
Any sort of adjective in front of the word 'style'
Anything said with air quotes
Thing I think is hilarious but I haven't thought of in a long time:
Replacing the word "gas" with the word "pussy"
See here
See also here
Other thing I have to do today:
Take my child to the eye doctor because he failed his School Nurse Eye Exam
Also, he is 45 pounds and 44 3/4 inches.
He is taller than a lot of his classmates, which comes as a surprise to me but checking the CDC charts he is just above the 50th percentile for height and almost to the 75th percentile for height. Not bad for a kid who was born at the 50th for height and the 5th for weight.
Thing I know the hard way:
It's really hard on the heart to have a baby who is marked Failure to Thrive for the first six months of life.
Especially being in the field I work in and knowing what is implied by that label.
Thing I'm trying not to do but am failing miserably:
Mommy Blog
Things I'm thankful for:
Everything that I have and the ability to work for everything I need.
Also, I'm thankful for a lot of things I don't have, like bill collectors ringing me up and blood-born illnesses coursing through my body
Everybody have a happy and stress-free Thanksgiving.
If you are feeling overwhelmed by all the familial going-ons, eat more.
It always helps.
(so does running away to Vegas)
Cupcakes (unless they are cut in half)
Chocolate
Garlic (especially mixed with mashed potatoes)
Bacon
Popcorn
White bread
Salt
Baths
Buttered vegetables
Babies
Mixed drinks
Thing I wonder:
Do people sneeze in their sleep?
Things I did today:
Got mad at the cat for peeing outside her box then realized that the wall in the laundry room is leaking after smelling the wet paper towel.
The weather yesterday:
Torrential downpours
Thing I wonder:
Why do I compulsively smell everything?
Things I have to do today:
pack my bags
set out large bowls of food and water for the cat
Thing I have to do tomorrow:
Fly to Vegas
What I plan to eat for Thanksgiving dinner:
Fatburger
What I order at Fatburger:
Veggie burger with egg, cheese, mayo, ketchup, lettuce, tomato, pickle.
Thing I think is funny:
One of Jake's holiday spelling words this week at school is "Indian"
Thing I think sounds racist these days:
Asking a child to sit 'Indian Style'
Thing I'm trying to be in denial about:
My hair is falling out again.
Things I think sound inadvertently sexual:
Any sort of adjective in front of the word 'style'
Anything said with air quotes
Thing I think is hilarious but I haven't thought of in a long time:
Replacing the word "gas" with the word "pussy"
See here
See also here
Other thing I have to do today:
Take my child to the eye doctor because he failed his School Nurse Eye Exam
Also, he is 45 pounds and 44 3/4 inches.
He is taller than a lot of his classmates, which comes as a surprise to me but checking the CDC charts he is just above the 50th percentile for height and almost to the 75th percentile for height. Not bad for a kid who was born at the 50th for height and the 5th for weight.
Thing I know the hard way:
It's really hard on the heart to have a baby who is marked Failure to Thrive for the first six months of life.
Especially being in the field I work in and knowing what is implied by that label.
Thing I'm trying not to do but am failing miserably:
Mommy Blog
Things I'm thankful for:
Everything that I have and the ability to work for everything I need.
Also, I'm thankful for a lot of things I don't have, like bill collectors ringing me up and blood-born illnesses coursing through my body
Everybody have a happy and stress-free Thanksgiving.
If you are feeling overwhelmed by all the familial going-ons, eat more.
It always helps.
(so does running away to Vegas)
11.21.2011
stars of the screen
A few of us from my comedy team got together yesterday. Here is what we did all day. Caution, there are a few bad words in it. Well, one bad word but it comes a few times. And when they come it's the bad one.
The eff one.
You may recognize Rose, the make up artist, the T Rex, and Alexis. Those parts are all me.
The eff one.
You may recognize Rose, the make up artist, the T Rex, and Alexis. Those parts are all me.
11.18.2011
belated
I didn't do a Veteran's Day post this year. I meant to, I guess. I don't know. I did last year. I doubt I have any other year.
When I think of Veterans, I think of strong and handsome and grisled men. Mens' sort of men. Manly men. Our dads and uncles and grandads. Our brothers and husbands and friends who have lived long enough see life and death and war and peace and barracks and home over and over and over again.
Lately I've been running across a new sort of Veteran. A new-to-me sort of Veteran. I know they have been here before. More recent Veterans. Boy Veterans. Men-through -experience-but-not-through-age Veterans.
Hard looking, hard living, hard drinking, hard smoking, hard loving and especially-hard-on-themselves veterans.
The ones I'm seeing are in physical rehabilitation programs. Substance rehabilitation programs. Mental rehabilitation programs. In jobs programs. In group therapy programs. In jails.
I know it's the nature of my career to see these things. To see people in these situations. I know I shouldn't be surprised when their names end up on my paperwork. In my audits. In my life.
But it's once a day now. Not once a month. Once a week. Every single day it seems I look a Veteran in the eye and have a hard time keeping it together. A hard time finding the words to express my thanks. My sorrow. My guilt. I feel guilty for taking taking taking and having nothing to give back.
And they are so damned young. And so damned damaged. And so damned damned. All these programs are in place to help, but none of them seem to do much good. I don't know what is being done on the preventative end of things, but from what I see it isn't working well.
I'd like to think that things are different in other places. Might be different in other times.
It hurts to know that we haven't figured out much about taking care of our boys. Our men. Our Men.
The ones who give everything they have to take care of us.
When I think of Veterans, I think of strong and handsome and grisled men. Mens' sort of men. Manly men. Our dads and uncles and grandads. Our brothers and husbands and friends who have lived long enough see life and death and war and peace and barracks and home over and over and over again.
Lately I've been running across a new sort of Veteran. A new-to-me sort of Veteran. I know they have been here before. More recent Veterans. Boy Veterans. Men-through -experience-but-not-through-age Veterans.
Hard looking, hard living, hard drinking, hard smoking, hard loving and especially-hard-on-themselves veterans.
The ones I'm seeing are in physical rehabilitation programs. Substance rehabilitation programs. Mental rehabilitation programs. In jobs programs. In group therapy programs. In jails.
I know it's the nature of my career to see these things. To see people in these situations. I know I shouldn't be surprised when their names end up on my paperwork. In my audits. In my life.
But it's once a day now. Not once a month. Once a week. Every single day it seems I look a Veteran in the eye and have a hard time keeping it together. A hard time finding the words to express my thanks. My sorrow. My guilt. I feel guilty for taking taking taking and having nothing to give back.
And they are so damned young. And so damned damaged. And so damned damned. All these programs are in place to help, but none of them seem to do much good. I don't know what is being done on the preventative end of things, but from what I see it isn't working well.
I'd like to think that things are different in other places. Might be different in other times.
It hurts to know that we haven't figured out much about taking care of our boys. Our men. Our Men.
The ones who give everything they have to take care of us.
11.16.2011
sparing the rod
When Jacob was born, I assumed that some day I would spank him. I wasn't sure when, wasn't sure why, and wasn't sure with what, but I assumed that some day I would spank him.
Yes, I said with what. I was spanked with stuff as a kid. Belts, spatulas, wooden spoons. Anything not bolted down or valuable and within arm's reach.
Then I got a job in the Parenting field, one where I have to stay well-read and up-to-date and generally on top of sciencey brain and hormone and development stuff that deals with babies and children and I decided that Jacob would not be spanked because of what I learned.
I decided that Dave would not spank Jacob either.
I'm not 100% sure, but I think he really loves it when I make major life decisions for him, especially regarding fatherhood.
So we came up with ways to deal with behavior that we don't approve of. Time Outs are good things for us. It gives everyone a chance to slow down and get out of the red and start to use the parts of our brains that we appreciate others to use with us when dealing with our behaviors that they don't approve of.
Because I don't know about you, but my brain shuts down and I'm not very logical when there is yelling or whining or crying or tantruming or carrying on. I need some time to boot it back up again or else I'll start yelling/whining/crying/tantruming/carrying on and I really don't want to show Jacob that is an acceptable way to act EVER. So I take a deep breath and say, "I think we really need a time out here". And he stomps off crying into the corner or up to his room and I sit on the couch or lie down in my bed until we are all back to earth from our amygdala hijackings and then we have a Time In.
Time Ins always follow Time Outs in our house. It's where we talk about why things got to the point that they did, how our bodies felt while they were getting to that point, what we were feeling emotionally, what we imagined the other person was feeling both physically and emotionally, and how next time we start to feel our bodies feel the way we did right before things exploded we are going to take our Time Outs then. Because if there is a mandatory non-voluntary Time Out, there is usually a consequence.
And the consequence is Taking Away Privileges. TV time, gone. Game time, gone. Favorite toy, gone. For a day, for two days, maybe for three days. Never much longer than that. It becomes a pain in the ass for everyone after three days. Something about fish and no privileges, three days something something houseguest. I don't know.
But no spanking. Or popping, pinching, slapping, biting, nothing. Never, not once.
And then we do some sort of teachable moment about why it isn't okay to _____ and "do you ever see normal grown ups doing _____? No, of course not because it's not okay and here is why...".
I feel that our job as parents is to get the kids ready for adulthood. In every way possible.
Violence and corporal punishment is not a part of adulthood. Shouldn't be.
When you are a grown up, no one in a position of authority is supposed to hit you when you are out of line. They can put you in Time Out at the County, State, or Federal Level.
They can take things away from you that you really really value. Like your job or your family or your money or your home.
But no one is likely to hit you.
Unless you live in Singapore or somewhere that sort of thing happens.
And I don't want to teach Jake that it is okay to hurt someone when they do something he doesn't like. Or holler. Or carry on. Or curse. Or whatever.
And it is hard not to do those things.
So incredibly effing ridiculously hard to not resort to those things.
Those things you can do once and it takes a minute and then it's over and life resumes somehow.
But I try my best not to, and it gets easier and easier as time goes on.
The No Spanking approach to parenting has mixed reviews among my peers. A lot of my friends spank. Yell. Carry on. A lot of them don't. Race doesn't play in. Faith. Wealth. Education. It's pretty much 50/50 across the board.
The spankers tell me I'm spoiling. That I should just wait and see what will explode out of Jacob when he gets a little older. When he hits that next stage.
The no spankers tell me I'm doing the right thing. That the exploding that is coming out of those other kids is a result of having explosive parents. Explosive childhoods. That it is learned behavior.
I tend to agree.
People tell Dave and I that we are too strict.
We are strict. The rules are the rules and they are only bent out of necessity or fun.
Bedtimes get extended when we are out running around or when we are doing awesome stuff at night.
Extended TV time happens when there is something really good on television. And so on.
People say we are too easy.
We need to make him fear us.
We don't have enough rules.
Thinking about it, we actually don't have many rules, per se. More like parameters. Basically work hard, study hard, play hard, be fair, always share, respect your things, my things, their things and your body, my body and their body, and always consider your feelings, my feelings, and their feelings. That's it. Everything else falls into place pretty naturally when those things are happening.
People tell Dave and I that we are just lucky. That we lucked out with a good kid. I think that some of this is true. But we work really hard at parenting. It is the hardest thing we've ever done. It's supposed to be hard.
And it's paying off. In school is mostly where we can see it and measure it. Jacob is doing well. He hasn't ever had to "change his light to yellow or red" (they do this traffic light thing). His teachers like him. His peers like him. That's a good feeling. It's a good feeling to leave the Parent Teacher Report Card Conference smiling. To know that the teacher loves your child and appreciates his presence in the classroom. To see her start to cry when you mention that one little thing that has been bothering him and is keeping you up at night.
I'm proud of us.
All of us.
Does Jacob have his moments? Yes. He's five. He can be a real pain in the ass.
But so can I, and I have 30 years on him.
Writing this down and looking at things as a whole makes me feel better when someone says to me that I'm not doing things right. That I'm doing him a disservice. Doing myself a disservice. People can be such jerks.
It also makes me feel squishy warm warm Dr Leo Marvin handsy puppetsy hippie dippy. But I'm okay with that.
Almost.
Parenting is hard to come to terms with no matter what you are doing and how well you are doing it.
Yes, I said with what. I was spanked with stuff as a kid. Belts, spatulas, wooden spoons. Anything not bolted down or valuable and within arm's reach.
Then I got a job in the Parenting field, one where I have to stay well-read and up-to-date and generally on top of sciencey brain and hormone and development stuff that deals with babies and children and I decided that Jacob would not be spanked because of what I learned.
I decided that Dave would not spank Jacob either.
I'm not 100% sure, but I think he really loves it when I make major life decisions for him, especially regarding fatherhood.
So we came up with ways to deal with behavior that we don't approve of. Time Outs are good things for us. It gives everyone a chance to slow down and get out of the red and start to use the parts of our brains that we appreciate others to use with us when dealing with our behaviors that they don't approve of.
Because I don't know about you, but my brain shuts down and I'm not very logical when there is yelling or whining or crying or tantruming or carrying on. I need some time to boot it back up again or else I'll start yelling/whining/crying/tantruming/carrying on and I really don't want to show Jacob that is an acceptable way to act EVER. So I take a deep breath and say, "I think we really need a time out here". And he stomps off crying into the corner or up to his room and I sit on the couch or lie down in my bed until we are all back to earth from our amygdala hijackings and then we have a Time In.
Time Ins always follow Time Outs in our house. It's where we talk about why things got to the point that they did, how our bodies felt while they were getting to that point, what we were feeling emotionally, what we imagined the other person was feeling both physically and emotionally, and how next time we start to feel our bodies feel the way we did right before things exploded we are going to take our Time Outs then. Because if there is a mandatory non-voluntary Time Out, there is usually a consequence.
And the consequence is Taking Away Privileges. TV time, gone. Game time, gone. Favorite toy, gone. For a day, for two days, maybe for three days. Never much longer than that. It becomes a pain in the ass for everyone after three days. Something about fish and no privileges, three days something something houseguest. I don't know.
But no spanking. Or popping, pinching, slapping, biting, nothing. Never, not once.
And then we do some sort of teachable moment about why it isn't okay to _____ and "do you ever see normal grown ups doing _____? No, of course not because it's not okay and here is why...".
I feel that our job as parents is to get the kids ready for adulthood. In every way possible.
Violence and corporal punishment is not a part of adulthood. Shouldn't be.
When you are a grown up, no one in a position of authority is supposed to hit you when you are out of line. They can put you in Time Out at the County, State, or Federal Level.
They can take things away from you that you really really value. Like your job or your family or your money or your home.
But no one is likely to hit you.
Unless you live in Singapore or somewhere that sort of thing happens.
And I don't want to teach Jake that it is okay to hurt someone when they do something he doesn't like. Or holler. Or carry on. Or curse. Or whatever.
And it is hard not to do those things.
So incredibly effing ridiculously hard to not resort to those things.
Those things you can do once and it takes a minute and then it's over and life resumes somehow.
But I try my best not to, and it gets easier and easier as time goes on.
The No Spanking approach to parenting has mixed reviews among my peers. A lot of my friends spank. Yell. Carry on. A lot of them don't. Race doesn't play in. Faith. Wealth. Education. It's pretty much 50/50 across the board.
The spankers tell me I'm spoiling. That I should just wait and see what will explode out of Jacob when he gets a little older. When he hits that next stage.
The no spankers tell me I'm doing the right thing. That the exploding that is coming out of those other kids is a result of having explosive parents. Explosive childhoods. That it is learned behavior.
I tend to agree.
People tell Dave and I that we are too strict.
We are strict. The rules are the rules and they are only bent out of necessity or fun.
Bedtimes get extended when we are out running around or when we are doing awesome stuff at night.
Extended TV time happens when there is something really good on television. And so on.
People say we are too easy.
We need to make him fear us.
We don't have enough rules.
Thinking about it, we actually don't have many rules, per se. More like parameters. Basically work hard, study hard, play hard, be fair, always share, respect your things, my things, their things and your body, my body and their body, and always consider your feelings, my feelings, and their feelings. That's it. Everything else falls into place pretty naturally when those things are happening.
People tell Dave and I that we are just lucky. That we lucked out with a good kid. I think that some of this is true. But we work really hard at parenting. It is the hardest thing we've ever done. It's supposed to be hard.
And it's paying off. In school is mostly where we can see it and measure it. Jacob is doing well. He hasn't ever had to "change his light to yellow or red" (they do this traffic light thing). His teachers like him. His peers like him. That's a good feeling. It's a good feeling to leave the Parent Teacher Report Card Conference smiling. To know that the teacher loves your child and appreciates his presence in the classroom. To see her start to cry when you mention that one little thing that has been bothering him and is keeping you up at night.
I'm proud of us.
All of us.
Does Jacob have his moments? Yes. He's five. He can be a real pain in the ass.
But so can I, and I have 30 years on him.
Writing this down and looking at things as a whole makes me feel better when someone says to me that I'm not doing things right. That I'm doing him a disservice. Doing myself a disservice. People can be such jerks.
It also makes me feel squishy warm warm Dr Leo Marvin handsy puppetsy hippie dippy. But I'm okay with that.
Almost.
Parenting is hard to come to terms with no matter what you are doing and how well you are doing it.
11.14.2011
belated.
Halloween happened, a few weeks ago. I was a little nervous how it would go with having school the next day and school the day of and school school school school school.
The kids had a Halloween party at school the Saturday before where they got to get dressed up and eat pizza and run around with all the other kids in their grade for an hour and a half before they had to clear out and let the next grade come in and do the same. They set up the (adjoining) ballet and violin studios (there's no gym at the school) and hired a DJ and everyone had a really good time.
I so want to comment on how a lot of the little girls wore latexish superherogirl costumes or corseted witch/animal/princess tutu ensembles. Corsets? Really? It's a little to burlesque for my taste. They weren't real corsets of course, but they were lacy and laced up and super shiny and it made me a little uncomfortable. But I'm not one to comment.
One of the moms at the party dressed up like a bunny. She was about 15 years and 15 pounds past her prime bunny days but that didn't stop her.
Sunday we went out to the burbs to some friends house for the Halloween Parade in their town. I expected a parade with fire trucks and Shriners and fancy olden timey cars and candy being thrown at the kids, but it turns out We Were the Parade. Everyone dresses up and walks through town and it's really dark and spooky because it's the suburbs and they don't believe in street lights at regular intervals. Jake had lots of fun, I would have preferred it to be in the daytime so you could see all the costumes, but what do I know? Nothing. We'll probably go back next year, provided they do it on a weekend again.
Monday the little kids had a Halloween Parade around the neighborhood at the school. Parents volunteered to hand out candy every few feet and the older kids lined the parade route and high fived and clapped and told the kids how awesome they looked. You have never seen sixty-some five- and six- year-olds look happier and more proud in your life.
I almost cried.
It was ridiculous.
I was ridiculous.
Jake was a ninja.
I wasn't thrilled with his choice, but he made a pretty adorable ninja. He took his ninjaing quite seriously and hardly broke character all night. We went down to his aunt's house like we always do. She lives less than a mile down our street but it's more fun there than it is in our neighborhood.
This one is my favorite:
At the end of the night I let him have five unadulterated minutes of candy snarfing,
but he gave up after about a minute and a half and went to the kitchen to get himself a bowl of soup.
That's Jacob for you.
The kids had a Halloween party at school the Saturday before where they got to get dressed up and eat pizza and run around with all the other kids in their grade for an hour and a half before they had to clear out and let the next grade come in and do the same. They set up the (adjoining) ballet and violin studios (there's no gym at the school) and hired a DJ and everyone had a really good time.
I so want to comment on how a lot of the little girls wore latexish superherogirl costumes or corseted witch/animal/princess tutu ensembles. Corsets? Really? It's a little to burlesque for my taste. They weren't real corsets of course, but they were lacy and laced up and super shiny and it made me a little uncomfortable. But I'm not one to comment.
One of the moms at the party dressed up like a bunny. She was about 15 years and 15 pounds past her prime bunny days but that didn't stop her.
Sunday we went out to the burbs to some friends house for the Halloween Parade in their town. I expected a parade with fire trucks and Shriners and fancy olden timey cars and candy being thrown at the kids, but it turns out We Were the Parade. Everyone dresses up and walks through town and it's really dark and spooky because it's the suburbs and they don't believe in street lights at regular intervals. Jake had lots of fun, I would have preferred it to be in the daytime so you could see all the costumes, but what do I know? Nothing. We'll probably go back next year, provided they do it on a weekend again.
Monday the little kids had a Halloween Parade around the neighborhood at the school. Parents volunteered to hand out candy every few feet and the older kids lined the parade route and high fived and clapped and told the kids how awesome they looked. You have never seen sixty-some five- and six- year-olds look happier and more proud in your life.
I almost cried.
It was ridiculous.
I was ridiculous.
Jake was a ninja.
I wasn't thrilled with his choice, but he made a pretty adorable ninja. He took his ninjaing quite seriously and hardly broke character all night. We went down to his aunt's house like we always do. She lives less than a mile down our street but it's more fun there than it is in our neighborhood.
This one is my favorite:
At the end of the night I let him have five unadulterated minutes of candy snarfing,
but he gave up after about a minute and a half and went to the kitchen to get himself a bowl of soup.
That's Jacob for you.
11.08.2011
cheese
I've never been in lots and lots of pictures. I'm not incredibly photogenic so I try to avoid the camera most days. I have never seen a picture of me where I actually look like I look. It's weird.
I wasn't a cute kid so there aren't many adorable piggy tailed dolly dragging Polaroids around. I don't have tons of totally embarrassing high hair high school photos. Nor incriminating college dorm shots with beers and bongs and dirty hair and sweatpants. Most of the family pictures are taken by me so we don't really have those.
But more and more, popping up on the internets are pictures of me from the theater. It's hard to give up that sort of control that one (read: I) likes to have about weeding out all the ones with icky eyes and double chins and wonky smiles before they are posted to websites and Facebook. But it's interesting to see what I look like in the non-so-carefully-construed moments where I just look like I look when I'm doing what I'm doing.
We did a two weekend run of Improvised B-movies over Halloween. It was retro and different and true to the theme we came up with for ourselves a year and a half ago but never did anything with.
Here's us being scared in the green room:
Our green room is really green.
And me hiding behind the laundry I was hanging when a hobo drifted into my yard.
My name was Martha right there. That's my best friend from high school's name. It was easy to remember. Sometimes it's not easy for me to remember who I'm supposed to be from one minute to the next.
And oops. There goes my dress, all the way up to the control tops. See? That's what I mean about not being in charge of what goes out on the internet. It could have been worse. WAY worse.
Man, have I seen worse. Always go with a solid from at least the mid-thigh up. You never know what will happen on stage. By the way, I was being a duck there. I forget if that was before or after I almost fell on my face while trying to duck my way across the stage. It was really touch and go there for a minute.
Ugly/scary face.
I was being a squid monster.
And here I was just being ugly.
But funny.
I'm sure of it.
Maybe.
At least fun.
We always have fun.
I wasn't a cute kid so there aren't many adorable piggy tailed dolly dragging Polaroids around. I don't have tons of totally embarrassing high hair high school photos. Nor incriminating college dorm shots with beers and bongs and dirty hair and sweatpants. Most of the family pictures are taken by me so we don't really have those.
But more and more, popping up on the internets are pictures of me from the theater. It's hard to give up that sort of control that one (read: I) likes to have about weeding out all the ones with icky eyes and double chins and wonky smiles before they are posted to websites and Facebook. But it's interesting to see what I look like in the non-so-carefully-construed moments where I just look like I look when I'm doing what I'm doing.
We did a two weekend run of Improvised B-movies over Halloween. It was retro and different and true to the theme we came up with for ourselves a year and a half ago but never did anything with.
Here's us being scared in the green room:
And me hiding behind the laundry I was hanging when a hobo drifted into my yard.
And oops. There goes my dress, all the way up to the control tops. See? That's what I mean about not being in charge of what goes out on the internet. It could have been worse. WAY worse.
Ugly/scary face.
And here I was just being ugly.
But funny.
I'm sure of it.
Maybe.
At least fun.
We always have fun.
repost
That's Joe Frazier's Gym. Joe Frazier's Gym is for sale.
Who is Joe Frazier? An old prize fighter. I think he was famous back in the early 1970's. Whenever Muhammad Ali was around. And George Foreman. I don't know much about fighting, prize or otherwise, but I know that Joe and Geo and Muhammad were enemies. Or rivals. Or maybe friends who fought. I don't know. What do I know about that sort of thing?
Anyway. That's Joe Frazier's Gym. Or was. Or is but won't be when it's sold.
It's up there on North Broad. And Glenwood. Most people like you and me have no business up there. It's north of Temple U and sits amongst storefront churches and windowless mosques and sketchy funeral parlors and homeless shelters that smell like bleach and rehab clinics that smell like ammonia and I wonder if you left the clinic and went into the shelter without properly clearing your lungs you could die from the mix of fumes so I never risk it and always go once around the block before switching venues.
Then again, once around that block and I might get shot. Or stolen.
Do you know how much you can get for a cute white chick in those parts?
I don't know either. Mad cash, I'll bet.
***
About fifteen years ago I walked into Joe Frazier's Gym. I was twenty. Fresh faced. Armed with a case file and a bus pass and determination to make the world a little safer.
It was there I took on my first bad guy. My very own rapist and murderer.
A big black rapist and murderer.
Who boxed.
Professionally.
And taught boxing.
To professionals.
At Joe Frasier's Gym.
He didn't kill the girl he raped or anything.
He wasn't that sort of bad guy.
He was accused of raping a girl after he got her pregnant. A girl he later married.
And spent the rest of her life with.
It was some sort of statutory offense. She was almost 17 he was barely 18. He was sentenced to ten years in jail. Her daddy was a lawyer. A white lawyer. It was the early sixties.
Stuff like that happened back then.
I think there is a song about that or something.
Or something.
So, he got out of jail six years later on account of good behavior and being young and he married that girl and raised some babies. The baby they made together years before didn't survive. Her big shot daddy made her get an abortion.
He learned to box in prison and when he got out he was better than a lot of the guys who didn't spend their formative years in jail so he made a job of it and took his cute wife and kids all around the country and won some money and a little bit of fame and then when he got tired of that he moved back here and made a little life for himself.
And late one night after the kids were asleep and he and the wife went to bed, there was something going on in the neighborhood and he came outside to take a look around and decided to get involved and ended up punching out two people when they started walking up his front step and those two people never got up. On account of him being a prize fighter and them just being petty street thugs who didn't have time to pull their guns out of their waistband.
Because those dead guys were menaces and because they were on his steps and because they had unregistered guns the sentence was mitigated, but a murder sentence was a murder sentence and murderers go to jail.
So, off to jail. Again.
And in jail. Again.
And out. Again.
And by then his babies weren't babies anymore and they spent the time he was away growing up and having babies of their own.
And his wife, who got sick while he was in jail, died. Shortly after he got out.
Shortly before his name came across my desk.
The name of my very first bad guy. My very own rapist and murderer.
A big black rapist and murderer.
Who boxed.
Professionally.
Once upon a time.
So there I was, walking into Joe Frasier's Gym. I was twenty. And armed with a case file and a bus pass and determination to make the world a little safer. And Joe Frazier himself. And Joe asked me if I was ready, if I wanted him to stay with me, and I said, "no thank you Mr. Frazier, I think I'll be okay from here. I'll holler if I need you."
And I walked up to my very first bad guy and said, "hello there. Can we take a walk?" and we went once around that block.
And after the formalities and after the case assignment paperwork and parole agreement was filled out and after we shook hands my very first bad guy said something like this to me: "thank you, Miss Arrowsmith. Thank you for not talking about this stuff in front of everyone at the gym. Especially in front of those little boys playing in the ring. See, those're my grandsons and they don't know about my past. My kids are giving me the chance to watch them little boys grow up. To spend some time with them and let them see me do what I do best. Teaching people. To fight. Teaching people to fight... responsibly. Thank you for letting me be a Good Strong Guy in their eyes, even if just for one more day. Word'll get out sometime, I'm sure. But thank you for not making today be that day. Thank you for treating me so kindly."
And that's how I knew that no matter what, I'd be okay at this sort of work. That I'd be good at this sort of job. That I'd be good with people. Even if they were big and black and strong with a rape and a couple murders under their big old shiny gold prizebelts.
I'm sure a lot of people realized a lot of stuff there, at Joe Frazier's Gym. I'm sure a lot of people realized who they are and what they are capable of and how strong they are and where those strengths come from, at Joe Frazier's Gym.
I'm sure I did.
(originally posted 11/11/10)
Rest well, Old Joe.
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