The line is thin

Orange has cheered me, and in gratitude, I remove all references to squirrels.
(Even though I had to remove a sneaky add from the HTML.)

But still, I cannot figure out how to change the template. Orange, I tried!

The 10:00 to Midlife Crisis

Guess what!

It's been pretty quiet around here, so you are all probably off carousing with other, more lively blogs, but if anyone's still around:

On Monday, a big ol' opportunity to dive right into my midlife crisis presented itself.

I think this is going to be a Good Thing.

I will write more, but I just wanted to say, any Good Thing confirmation vibes you could send my way would be groovy-doovy.

Thanks!

Either way (or, one throw-away story won't make up for all that Cinderella crap, fellas)

The Boy (reading): "...Ariel knew her father would never let her race."
The Girl: Why not?
Me (under my breath): Because he's a sexist.
The Girl: No! Because he's a poopy-head!

Holy crap, where'd that come from?

Forty, babies.

Uh...ok. I didn't want to sleep anyway.

From the WTF Department:

Eeeeeeeesh. Get thee behind me, Scary Robot Beer Corpse Woman.

Go, Dumbledore!

Did you hear that J.K. Rowling outed Dumbledore?

I can't decide whether it rocks that this fact is simply another piece of Potter trivia along the lines of what Ginny's job is after she graduates--because dammit, this freaky obsession with what goes on in people's bedrooms is half the stupid problem, if I like you I don't give a fuck who you're sleeping with. And regardless of who you're sleeping with, you deserve to have the same rights and be judged on the same principles as everyone else. Anyway, I can't decide between thinking that makes sense or being pissed that she never said anything sooner.

I think I'm leaning toward the former, because the private lives of the teachers never came into play except as necessary to drive plot--as it should be in a children's book, I think--do kids ever care about the lives of adults, except as they apply to their own lives? Not if they're safe and healthy, I think.

Hmm. Your thoughts?

Ayieeeee! !!!!

Of course just when I'm feeling care-free and sassy because I laughed in the face of West Nile after the Boy's soccer practice and let him--nay, verily ENCOURAGED him--HELPED him, even!--catch tadpoles in the mucky pool that formed at the bottom of the soccer field...

Brain. Eating. Amoebas.

[Obviously, that should be Brain-Eating. Amoebas. There aren't mutant brains running around gobbling up amoebas. But the correct grammar just doesn't properly convey my sense of dread and despair.]

Dear god. Is there no end of things over which I must lie awake at night?

World's Youngest Teenager

Her: NO! [eye roll]
Me: How old are you?
Her: FIVE!
Me: Uh, no. Try again.
Her: [grouchily] Four.
Me: Or maybe thirteen.
Her: [eeeeeeyyyyyeeee rooooooooolllllll]

FU AP

To the authors and editors of "MTV Awards Flourish Despite Britney Bomb"and related stories:

Regarding the above-named article and others published by the AP yesterday and today, I wish to make a complaint.

The performance and the woman are a disaster, I'll give you that. Discussion of her bad performance is more than appropriate. But I'm disturbed that in every AP article I've seen so far, much is made of how "unforgivably" out of shape Britney is, of her "paunch", etc. The woman's body definitely is less "cut" than it used to be, but I'm appalled that the AP is buying into the idea that a woman with the body displayed at that awards ceremony is outrageously out of shape. Frankly, I think most women who have had two children, and one just a year ago, would be happy--and HEALTHY-- to look like that in a bikini.

Way to contribute to the eating disorders of millions of young women, AP.

[Sent this morning.]

Unsaid

Because other people can say it better than I can do.

Shhh!

dear god i'm emailing a member of the opposite sex and obviously freaking out which is even more stupid because, hello, it's an email. how old am i? not old enough.

this is why i never dated. i am a freak of nature and a wonder to behold.

you didn't hear any of this from me.

Or, yes, the Trikonasana kicked my ass.

I finally went to yoga class again! Namaste, bitches!!!

I'm a Balanced Yogi!

A Balanced Yogi You love your friends unconditionally and accept them for who they are no matter what their yoga style preference, religious beliefs, or spending habits. You focus on the good in people and would never try to change them. Almost everyone feels comfortable in your presence. You live your yoga. You are an inspiration to yoga students everywhere!

Take the Yoga Journal Yoga Snob Quiz!

Just curious

Anyone else see "Premonition"?

Anyone else PISSED OFF by that stupid movie?

grrrrr.

Let me just give you a piece of advice:

Movies NEVER to watch (if you haven't already made the freaking mistake of watching them) because they will just make you grind your teeth into little nubbies:
1) Requiem for a Fucking Dream
2) The Fucking Hours
3) Fucking Premonition
4) The Fucking Little Match Girl
*5) A. Fucking I. (via Canada--and YES. I knew I was forgetting one, and there it is. Fuck you and your big-ass shiny knife in my heart, Spielberg!!)
*6) The Fucking Cell (we've got a mixed vote on this one: b.e.c.k. hated it, I kinda hated it, Orange and Canada loved it. Not sure how high it really scores on my "why don't you just take my beating heart out of my body and then chop it up into little pieces poached in a nice cream sauce with glass shards and then make me eat it and by the way we're fresh out of vicodin thank you very much" scale, but better safe than sorry, dear readers.)
*7) Vanilla Fucking Sky (via Canada--I'm wondering if that also counts for "Open Your Eyes"? I saw the latter and didn't mind it--it was definitely a MF but for some reason it didn't make me want to lie down in front of a train.)
*8) Fucking Jesus Camp (via Hashbrown--haven't seen this one; having come close enough to living it, no thankee.)
*9) Left Be-Fucking-Hind (via Muse--again, haven't seen it as this was one of those books my mother's husband brought home for a great read-!!-and having started to read it I went into a nearly full-blown panic attack. Soooo I'm guessing it fits on the list.)
*10) Fucking Brazil (via Elsewhere--and her comment, btw, sums up the whole esprit of this list: "I could tell it was brilliant, and yet it made me FURIOUS." Well, ok, not so much the esprit of Fucking Premonition, but...)
*11) Pay It Fucking Forward (via b.e.c.k.--again, never saw this one. I had the impression maybe it was just sort of...well...bad. But I just googled the plot summary/ending and CRAP! PAY IT FUCKING FORWARD!!!!)

Any additions? Tell me in comments and I'll add them to the list. Please, post a fucking movie, save an imaginary friend from nubby teeth.

*And fucking Blogger template! I'll figure out the Haloscan when I have nothing better to do. Bastard.

**Mr. Raehan would seem to wish to add Fucking Crash, but I'm undecided as to whether to disqualify on the condition that he didn't actually watch the whole thing.

Limbo

Just curious: How many of you ever wonder what your life is in an alternate universe? Do you catch a glimpse of yourself as you round that corner up ahead?

I saw my doppelganger once, but only from the side. She was just my profile doppelganger.

I'm a bit stuck today, in case you couldn't tell.

Next week

Eight? Already? That can't be right.
Eight. Holy crap.

He says today, "I'm so glad we bought Lucky Charms! Lucky Charms make my heart SOAR!"

He says today, "Gigi, you are so STUPID!"

He says today, "What the hell are you doing!?" (Indeed, I could ask the same!!! Ahem.)

He says today, "Mama? I love you. Gigi? I love you too. I'm glad I have a little sister."

I have to will my body to relax around him when I get so frustrated or stressed or impatient, and remember just how breakable 8 is. It's still just the smallest, smallest bit.

Or not.

Une Petite Diversion pour les Francophiles

Scene: La maison "Ex".

Chaque nuit, il chante à La Fille une petite chanson qu'il a composée lui-même: "Ma petite, ma petite fille...Tu es ma petite...fille". Il fait une pause avant le dernier mot et l'attend pour le chanter "Fille!"

L'autre soirée, il a chanté la chanson, faite une pause avant le dernier mot, et attendue. Elle aussi, elle a fait une pause un moment, puis a chanté :

"PUTAIN!"

Peut-être il devrait maudire moins souvent, non?

Admissions

There's another thing in my head. It's the thought that maybe I do have some purpose, and that I know what it is, but that I'm afraid to attempt to live to that purpose for fear that I'm that guy from Amadeus who wants something more than anything but turns out to be really shitty at it.

You know that feeling?

Actually, there are maybe two things, and they might be connected. Sometimes things get in the way of me being able to see them clearly. But I think I need to try them on. It's funny that by now I should be brave enough not care if I fall flat on my face. But of course, I'm not, and I do.

Vaguely, but sincerely, yours, as always.

The place where I come from

Are we being honest? Really and truly, gut-twisting, eyes-closed, breath-held honest?

Okay, then.

How is it that half the time I can burst into tears just by looking at these kids--at their sweet faces, at that huge mother of a gap between the Girl's front teeth, and the way the Boy's hair completely obscures half his face (!) and he looks like a miniature version of a skateboarder that's about 3 seconds from exploding upward into some 6-foot-tall bean pole of a wild child--and the other half?

I feel nothing. Or worse, I feel a distinct sense of annoyance. Of wanting to be anywhere but here, of just wanting to be alone? Or maybe that isn't worse. Maybe the nothing is worse. I can feel it ooze out of my pores. I can hear it in the disgusted tone of my voice when I tell them to stop fighting with each other or that I'm busy right now or that we have to leave, please put down those toys and brush your teeth and why must you argue with me constantly??? It's like I'm two women: the one who loves her babies fiercely, and the one who wants nothing to do with them.

I hate it.

I'm angry right now about a situation--situations--I don't know how to address. It's so easy to see the aggravation spill out and turn me into this block of wood, because that's what I do. I just go away. It's so stupid. The Girl said today, "I hate it when you're a grumpy mama." And I am. Stupid, just so stupid.

Is it possible to stay with all these feelings instead, or to wrench my brain away from all the worrying and fretting and obsessing and gnashing of teeth, and just instead make it remember that I only have them for the littlest, littlest while? I can't think of anything worse than them thinking I don't love them.

Namaste, Bitches

I love this site. Seriously.

Have you seen that Sprint ad with the neon-y drawing fast-action thingies? They showed it before the new Harry Potter movie. Said the Boy, "I would really like this if it wasn't an ad. I would find it very soothing and calming." He cracks me up.

For everyone who kindly offered to try and get their local and near-local contacts to set me up: GO FOR IT. I am not proud. Ladies, you bring a tear to my eye. Here is your assignment, for those willing to accept it: I'll be 40 in November. I think we've established that I am a wise-ass. I have two kids. I am not stupid. I talk too much. I am not unattractive, but neither am I in the greatest shape of my life, truth be told. I like to think that things always work out. Need more information? Email me. Smooch!

Have I told you how excited I am about my plants? They grow! They liiiiive! (Say that in a mad-scientist voice. It's more fun that way.) Okay, a few of them bolt, but oh well.

Namaste, bitches.

Get it while it's hot

I am looking into a p/t second job on the evenings I don't have the kids. Having made the decision, I actually feel rather good about it, although I don't know whether I'll get the position. The nice thing is that it doesn't really matter at this point--if I do, yay, if I don't, yay.

I like cats. No, really. Cats are great. Thank heavens for cats. But they are hairy.

I also like men. A lot. No, really. Men are great. I miss them. Again, hairy, but at this point I'm pretty much willing to overlook that. Honestly. Are you a man? Do you play one on TV? Do you freaking know one within a 50-mile radius of me? THEN TELL HIM TO CALL ME. NOW.

I got something of a load off my chest with the Ex, which was nice. I generally cut him a lot of slack (and I'm sure he would say that he does the same for me, and probably rightfully so), but sometimes the whole Irrational Thinking Of Those Who Think They Are Highly Aware But Are Really Just Overly Friggin' Sensitive And Making Their Ex-Wives Crazy thing happens, and then, I want to stab a fork into my left eye while chewing on my tongue. But rather than cannibalize my organs, today I asked him to please quit taking everything I say or don't say the very second he thinks I should be saying or not saying it so personally and understand that I'm not friggin psychic (ok, I am, but not like that) and don't actually put his needs at the center of my universe anymore already sheesh! I hope I said it nicer than that, and it certainly wasn't as big a drama as it sounds or anything, but oy. He's a good guy, and half the time he's very cognizant and all so this isn't an issue, but when it is, it seems to have bad timing, like the summer when I have no air conditioning, dammit.

Okay, for once, you know what? I am going to avoid obfuscation. I am going to vent. Be warned that unnecessary bitching lies ahead. Observe the scene:

[Pre-scene: The Ex stops by briefly between trips the other night. It is 85 degrees in my house. I am hot. I am cooking. My house is a wreck. The Girl is not listening and insists on running out the front door and trying to escape to the neighbor's house. The Boy wants his father to watch a scene from a movie he has rented. I am trying to get dinner finished and clean up the kitchen and herd the children. The Ex is sitting on the floor with the Boy. He says he's got to get going. I ask him if he'd like to take some food with him. No, he says. I say, Of course, you're welcome to stay here and eat with us or take some, either way, if you like. Are you sure you won't have some? I'm sure, he says. Fine.]

[Scene this afternoon: I'm working. I'm looking for something I Can. Not. Locate. I'm annoyed. I'm also pissed at myself because I haven't exercised yet. And I, the Not Very Good Mother When Not Given Recuperation Time On A Regular Basis, have had the kids full time for the past week because of Ex having some pre-arranged travel. And I'm hot. And I'm feeling fat. And I haven't had sex in FOUR EFFING YEARS. You see where I'm going with this: I'm a little eensy bit testy. And pre-occupied. And such.]

Phone rings. It's Ex. Thursdays are one of his nights, but he is preparing for a sporting event for which he has been preparing for a long time and which will occur in a month, and there are practices on Thursday nights. Up until a few weeks ago, he had a babysitter watch the kids, but she's unavailable over the summer and so I agreed to watch them until about 8. Yes, I felt somewhat forced into this. Yes, that's my own problem.]

Ex: So, my practice is tonight, and I have to go meet the builder over at the new house, so I'll pick the kids up from your place around 8, 8:10. [I usually take them over and put them to bed at his house; he gets home a bit after their bedtimes] Is that ok?

Me: Sure.

Ex: Will you feed them?

Me: Of course. No, I'll let them sit around hungry until 8:30.

Ex [in friendly, favor-asking tone]: Will you make me a sandwich?

Me [somewhat confused]: What, when you pick them up? Sure, you can have a sandwich. Or you can have some of what I make them for dinner.

Ex [now sounding put out]: No. Never mind. I told you I have to go by the house. Never mind.

Me: What? I'm not understanding what you're asking for. Are you wanting to come by and pick up a sandwich before you go to class?

Ex: It's like pulling teeth to get you to offer me anything. The other night, it took you 20 minutes, and then you only offered me something I could take home.

Me: KABLOOOOOOOOOIE!!!!!!!! [That's the sound of my head. Exploding. And then I had some Strong Words To Say.]

The End.

...and then she just wouldn't shut UP!

Ok, so maybe not that chatty. But you know, nothing nothing nothing and then two days in a row.

The Boy and I took a few hours off this afternoon to go see the new Harry Potter movie. It was fine...reasonably dark and all that. Of course it can never live up to what I have in my head from the book, but I don't expect it to do.

Confession: I have this sort of crush on Harry Potter. Not in a Mrs. Robinson way, don't panic. It's more like a crush on being 15 than a crush on a 15-year old, you know what I mean? A melancholic sort of heartache for being 15, for being of the age when you could have a crush on a boy and it was sort of exciting and sort of nauseating and it was ok either way, and you didn't know yet how everything was going to turn out but you hoped it would be great.

Well crap. I seem to have suddenly turned into Peggy Sue. Which is sort of funny in its own way, cause I loved that movie when it came out, and what the hell did I know about it then? It's like how JRM and I used to be obsessed with "30-Something" when we were freshmen...what was that about? Like we understood a damned thing about those characters. I should Netflix that show now. I'd be Nancy, probably. Wasn't she always kinda depressed and unkempt?

I'm re-reading this book that my therapist had me working on back when I was actually seeing her, several years ago, and it's interesting because I'm getting a lot out of it but what I'm getting is quite different than what I got back then. (Yeesh, write long sentences much?) I kind of wonder where that'll end up.

Seriously, a month?

I started to write this post about how all this crazy craziness is making me crazy but that it's ok, because you have to look past the visible. And then I thought, damn! This post is stressing me out. So I guess you just get this.

You have to look past the visible.

Oh. And the Girl wanted me to sing her "I Will Survive" as a lullaby tonight, while she full-on lip-synched it, complete with these excellent arm motions and hair flips at all the right parts. Dang, she's great.

Something for nothing

I know I've been incredibly absent. I've just been so busy, and okay then, overwhelmed, and I've realized that this great mechanism I spent my youth developing--this no holds barred barrelling down the highway at a million miles an hour until I got where I was going and could take a pit-stop thing--it no work so good no more. My (nearly 40-year-old) body seems to have had enough, and in its evil scheming has hatched upon a plan to derail me if and when I don't treat myself well enough. That is to say, if I don't eat fairly well and get some regular exercise and go to sleep before midnight for any length of time, it slams my brain into low gear and I get a full-on bout of depression. Clever, clever body. Duplicitous body.

I am trying hard to learn to live with this new schema. So, it's hit and miss, I'll admit. I'm still not eating as well as I should, and I have to work hard to get in some exercise every day. I absolutely have to give first priority to having some meditation/prayer/contemplation time first thing in the morning, because I realize that I have to will myself to start over every single day. I would make a good addict.

A wren has built a nest on our front porch. I tore down the starling nest that showed up earlier in the spring, because I really didn't relish the mess that I knew (from experience) would come with it. But then the sweetest wren built a nest on the other side--right over the little cafe table I have there--and I just couldn't bear to tear it down, so I very quickly and quietly moved it to the other post. She seems to have accepted this change of affairs; I think it threw her for a minute, as she landed in the old spot with a bit of grass and did a full 360 and I could just see that little bird brain thinking, "What the ... ?" But then she spotted the nest, and gave sort of a bird shrug, and she's been in it several times since so I think we're good. The Girl wanted to name her Rag Doll, the Boy voted for Puff Puff, and I wonder why we have to name everything?

I am sorry that I've been so negligent in visiting and commenting. I miss writing. I miss reading you all, though I have been trying to catch up. I have a little tiny cauliflower out in the garden, and an apple tree I need to plant, and children who I want to throttle and kiss simultaneously, and a job I want to do right by, and a blue sky full of thunder. I think of you often.

xo
PK

Fine

Is it odd that I've seldom had relationships with men in which I was treated with love and respect? I don't mean that as any type of dig against the other people involved, because I believe that most people do the best they can, and I think most of the people in my life have done and do the same. It's just on my mind today.

I'm overwhelmed right now, and that seems to be fairly typical. Also typical: Overwhelmed Me really notices what she's missing, even though not a lot is missing, frankly. Overwhelmed Me needs to learn how to take a breath and just accept stuff, and keep moving.

Yesterday the Boy's sister kept bugging him about this sucker that he had. They both got these suckers, those swirly, flat circle ones, and she'd eaten hers and wanted his. And when she didn't get it, she grabbed it and broke the stick. And you know, he's seven, and he'd had a long day at a field trip, and he was getting kind of hungry (so yeah, like he really needed the sucker then), and he got upset. We were sitting outside under a tree, and after screaming at her (her wise choice: run away), he started crying. We talked a little, but he sat under the tree and put his head down and cried for a minute or two, and then he went inside. And when I walked in a minute later, he was sitting with her on the couch, hugging her, and everything was fine.

Everything's pretty much always fine, isn't it?

Grownup

Well, dammit. I cancelled the sitting. Because I am being a grownup is why, and even though I think it's worth every single penny, it's just too rich for my blood at the moment. One day. But not today.

Today, actually, I am babysitting the kids' half-brother. (Or I should say, as the Boy pointed out, WE are babysitting him. They are such good siblings! Okay, so the Girl did have a moment of "over-sharing" with a blanket that nearly gave me a heart attack, but other than that, we're good.) He is one sweet baby, I gotta tell you. I do not actually recall ever being around a less fussy baby. I was a tad worried at first, thinking, Holy crap. It's been a long time since I did babies. What am I going to do with this kid for 6 hours? But it's been a snap. And the kiddos were just wonderful. "I guess we're not going to get any attention around here when the baby's here," the Boy said with a shrug at dinner. "That's just the way it goes when you have a baby around!"

I planted a few more plants today, and picked the first flowers off the strawberries, and mowed the lawn. I feel that work might nearly almost possible settle down into something that isn't insane. Maybe.

Dr. B. sent us stuffed peeps for Easter, which was a huge hit and cracked me right up. A more generous Bitch you won't find, methinks. I owe her a thank you note, and I just might send it out when I mail out the mother's day cards I bought. Yes, Mother's Day is tomorrow. You see where I'm heading with this.

Does this blog make me look fat?

xo
PK

Oh Frabjous Day!!

I have booked a sitting.
I am So. Effing. Psyched.

Pointless

A few days after writing that last post, I went over to read Suburban Bliss, and damned if Melissa didn't rag on Spring in almost exactly the same way. Which makes me look like a big ol' copy cat, but I swear it was completely and bizarrely unrelated, like that time in college when my friend L and I started calling things "peachy" because we thought it was funny, and not a week later, Letterman started saying "peachy" to much positive audience response. Hrm.

I bought a little bistro table for the front porch, which is good because it means at least I can work outside and feel slightly less like some 40-year old guy living in his parents' basement.

My kids are darling so why do I get so frustrated with them? I have let the morning meditation slide, and I need not to do. I'm not getting enough exercise, either. I kinda all around suck right now, to be honest. Oh well.

I did, however, start a vegetable garden, with help from the Chica and Mr Chica. In a month, I'll be able to plant lovely plants, and maybe even help them grow. How groovy would that be?

The Boy has decided to grow his hair out long. I am fine with it, and his father said fine as well, but it'll be interesting to see if his dad can really go the distance. This is a guy who has his hair cut every 2 weeks. Maybe it won't bug him if it's somebody else's head, though. I did tell the Boy that if he wants it long, he needs to take care of it--wash it and brush it, etc., and let me just tell you, we're talking about the Bedhead King here.

Spring is a bitch

I'm not kidding. Look at her, the hussy. First she gets you all excited with the blue skies and the warm weather and all the little flowers coming out, and then, wham. It's all winter storm warnings and nasty nasty wind and chapped lips.

Spring: the cock-tease of the seasons.

But whatever, I can deal with that type.

It's official: My metabolism is a piece of shit. Both kids are playing soccer this season, and so yes! I am the ubiquitous Soccer Mom. Except in a crap-for-all Honda with stickers all over the windows and a pair of jeans that really need to see the inside of a washer, rather than a shiny minivan and something velour with something written across the ass. I'm like the Poor Man's Soccer Mom. With liberal leanings. Groovy. But the question is this: How is it that the kids play their soccer games, run around playing with the other kids during each other's game, play for .5 to 1 hour in the playgrounds after each game, play in the park after lunch, play with the neighbors when we get home, and I'm the one who is falling asleep on my feet by 7pm? Crap, no wonder I'm a tub.

This post brought to you by the number 5 and the colon (:), nature's all-around punctuation.

As much as I would like to continue this stream of consciousness, I must go make waffles and get the kids dressed and hie us to the chosen place of worship so that my daughter can pretend to sing but in actuality pull her dress over her head and twirl around. And so I can buy them donuts and drink bad coffee while I chat with the other parents. Because that, my friends, is what being a good Methodist is all about. Thank God.

Smoochies,
PK

Good egg

Happy celebration of birth and renewal--spring, Passover, Easter, pick your poison.

"The Easter bunny isn't real," the Boy said tonight, "Everybody knows that Santa and the Easter bunny and all that is just your parents."

"Who on earth told you THAT?" I asked, in my best non-plussed voice. "What a crazy thing to say."

"Oh," he said, "Jim and I have been talking about it all week." And then later, lying in bed, he bemoaned the fact that he couldn't fall asleep. "If I don't fall asleep, the Easter bunny won't come!" "I thought the Easter bunny wasn't real," I said. "Oh, no!" he yelped, "I just said that because I wanted Jim to think I was cool! I DO believe in him! What if he doesn't come because of what I said!!??"

"Don't worry about it," I said. "I'm sure he'll still come. But if you want things to happen, you have to believe that they will."

It went by so fast, that age of unprotesting belief. But I'll play along for another year. The thing about my Boy is, even when he was very young, he could see through things. I think that's one reason he rarely has nightmares or is bothered or scared by books or movies (not that I let him watch "Night of the Living Dead" or anything, but he has read and seen Harry Potter 1-4, and liked them a lot but never got freaked out by the scary parts). He's a good sport, so I don't think he'll mind. I had a regular meltdown when I finally realized the jig was up--accused my mother of lying to me my whole life, oh the agony. I have the feeling the Boy will just shrug his shoulders, confirm the fact that he'll still get chocolate, and move on.

But I'll miss him when he goes.

Absent

I am seriously considering the whole non-blogging thing, but for now, I think I'm going to try on the blog-once-a-week thing. Which would be more than what's been going on. Frankly, though, I think it'll be a mixed batch. The whole original point of this thing for me was to get stuff out of my head, but you know, then people show up. And it's difficult not to be thinking about that when you write. And maybe sometimes you need to be--the point becomes communication instead of expulsion. And maybe the need to entertain. And then when you don't feel up to entertaining or communicating, you stop, but there you are again with a whole bunch of stuff in your head. I guess what I'm saying is, just because I'm going to write it doesn't mean it's going to be worth reading. No offense taken.

I have been moderately keeping up with all your blogs, at least...Catherine's warts and Scrivener's books and Joe's trip to Paris of which I am EXTREMELY jealous and John's baseball fever and Flea's cat's head in a box and BABIES damn it cute, cute, babies. And of course all the other stuff that goes on in everyone's life but I will not write an entire paragraph about it because you've already done so and better than I could, certainly.

Things here are good. Really good. But very busy.

It's almost Easter, and I would beg you, just walk away from the Peeps. Oh, my people, the Peeps, they are vile. But of course, we go through this every year, and I am used to living in my lonely, Peeps-shunning exile.

My kids have a baby brother now. Have I already mentioned this? I can't remember. It's happy, and it's sad. It's complicated, mostly, and although it isn't really something I have to think about on a daily basis, I certainly wish things could be easier for the people who do.

I think a lot about my mother, and how she moved back in with her parents when she had me, and how hard it must have been, and I feel really sad for Monica, and at the same time I think about how I saw myself, and my mother, and my father (and specifically, his absense) as a child, and how it all went around in circles in my head. And I think about how differently I see it now, and wonder how this baby will see it...

When we were visiting my uncle last year, everyone was reminiscing (I almost wrote, all the adults were reminiscing. Isn't that funny? Like, when I'm around my mom and aunts and uncles, they're the adults). And my uncle said to my mom, "Did I ever tell you that when [my father] left, Joe [my mom's first cousin] called me up and said, 'Come on, we're going to go find him and beat the hell out of him.'?" "Did you??" asked my mom, and he said "No, I talked him out of it, but he really wanted to." And it was sort of odd, because I never thought of anyone else in my family having a reaction to his leaving her. Which is stupid, of course they would have had a reaction. Kind of weird.

So anyway, geez I do go on, but Monica and I are keeping in touch, and I hope that if things go well, that will make things easier for everyone involved, and if things don't go well, it will at the very least make it easier for her and the baby and of course my kiddos. B is pretty sad that his brother is so far away, and sometimes I just feel royally pissed at the Ex over the whole thing, but that's just the way it is.

It's difficult when someone has a disorder that really effs up the choices they make on a regular basis, and when that person's choices affect your kids. Because you can spend a lot of time being mad about it, but that person is really as much a victim as anyone--at least if he or she is doing their best to get better, and he really is, so what good does it do to be angry? It would just be anger at a circumstance, and that's fine now and then for venting purposes but you can't hold onto it.

Change of subject: Money. As it turns out, I'm not really a candidate for the whole debt-management plan; it wouldn't save me that much interest or lower my payments by a great deal. But just getting to the point of deciding to do that has put me in a place where I'm really serious about getting out of the debt. And in accordance, other things stepped up to fill the gap, not least among them an unexpected promotion and raise. So from that perspective, I'm in a great place now, and anticipate being out of this hole completely within 2 years.

Of course I'm grateful for this turn of events, but I'm also now much, much more occupied with work. Not to mention the return of Le Saison de Football (that would be soccer for the non-ex-French-espoused amongst you). The Girl is old enough to play now, so that equates to 3 practices and 2 games per week. Say it with me: Oy. Plus the dance, gymnastics, Scout meetings... (Yes. I know. Feel free to email me and we'll discuss, but suffice it to say that it was a long, painful, and drawn-out decision-making process.) Typical weekday: Set the alarm for 6, check email, get some exercise (oy I am heavy right now), make breakfast, get the kids off to school, work (which, btw, now involves HOURS of phone calls that were absent before), pick up the Girl, take the Girl to gymnastics, work during the class, home, spend some time with the Girl (keeping an eye on email), Boy comes home, snacks, take Boy to soccer practice, home (email), make dinner while Boy does homework, feed kids, play with kids, bathe kids, read to kids, bedtime for kids, work until about 1 a.m., go to sleep.

Do we notice what's missing from that day? Go ahead, take a look.

Plus, soon, family French lessons. The Ex has been offering to pay for the kids for some time, and I finally found the time to call the local language exchange and get more info. They offer private family lessons so we'll be heading across town once a week for those. I'm really quite happy about this one, as I think I'm more interested in them knowing that part of their heritage than even their father is. The fact is that I'm a little jealous--I'd have loved to have a whole intriguing foreign family set as a kid. I am totally going to play up the "you can speak in secret and hardly anyone will understand you thing" as a motivating factor. Spying is big in our house.

To illustrate, I leave you with the following conversation. Don't say I never gave you anything.

[In the car, at a stoplight, next to a Lamborghini.]
PK: Yo, B! Check out that car.
The Boy: Huh. That looks like my [HotWheels] car. The one I smashed [with a big rock. HotWheels have it tough around my kid].
PK: Yeah, it does. Except this one probably cost $100,000.
B: [making noise of disgust] Mom, I would NEVER pay that much money for a car. I mean, not for THAT car. I'm going to pay that much money when I grow up and get a car, but my car's going to be a CAMPER!
PK: Well, that's certainly more practical. Not only would you get a trunk, you'd get a potty and a kitchen and a bed.
B: Yeah, and I'm going to travel the country, having adventures. As a spy. SPY adventures. In my camper.

I can't wait for the high-speed chases.

Why, look who snuck in all quiet-like

So, my supervisor just quit, and I am to take over for her, at least in the interim. This project that just won't die just isn't dying, though it does show signs of letting me keep a limb here or there. The Ex is heading out of state tomorrow to attend the birth of my kids' little brother (what shall we call him, oh Pseudonymous Forces That Be?)--and I have an out-of-town 2-day meeting to go to while he's gone. Swim lessons, school presentations, I killed one of the hermit crabs from neglect, I fear. Found him all naked and curled up in the empty water dish this morning. Ayeeee. The CCCS can't do anything for me--I actually have better rates than they can negotiate--but it's ok, I have a plan B, and C, even. Oh, gotta turn in those taxes. The blogging absence might have to continue for at least the next week or two.

But guess what! It isn't February any longer. Things are lookin' up.

Cold, hard

We're friends, right? So I can talk with you about this.

I'm seriously considering signing up with the CCCS. Here's the deal: When the Ex and I split up, we had a fairly high debt going on. We'd just finished the basement in our house the year before, to make room for the Girl's arrival. On top of that, there was some manic behavior going on, and nothing runs up a credit card like some good ol' fashioned manic behavior, coupled with some good ol' fashioned passive-aggressive denial. Yummy.

Anyway, loads o' debt. Then we had the whole, wow, one income thing; the wow, I'm depressed, let's spend some money thing; the wow, I'm selling my house and the market just tanked thing...you see where we're going. And it occurs to me, after having some talks with family who have done the CCCS thing, that I would be willing to be bereft of the safety net of credit for 5 or so years in order to be done with this debt. It's really the only thing that's killing me, and you know, I was one of those people who got sucked into it in college and never really got out. I make a decent living, and if I didn't have the credit debt, frankly, I could make it completely on my own, without child support or anything. Which for some strange reason I would really, really like to be able to do--just in case one found it necessary.

I'm not even a big spender--it's the damned interest rates that kick your ass and turn you into Sisyphus. When my kids go to college, I don't want to be in worse shape than they are. And I certainly don't want to be in the financial position my mother is in now.

I know there are some stigma attached to using the service, but frankly I don't give a crap. I want out, and better a little discomfort now than going bankrupt in a few years.

The Buddethodist Girl's Guide to Lent

I'm not Catholic, but I like Lent. (You might have figured out that I am sort of a Global Girl when it comes to world religions. Why stick with just one? How dull.)

This year, I'm giving up The Drama.

I like the idea of getting rid of something. Simplifying, you know? I don't think it's about giving up something you really like, as some sort of sacrificial group therapy. I think it's about giving up something you're sort of addicted to, but that actually gets in the way of your life moving forward.

So this year, I'm giving up The Drama. This might sound easy, but folks, I am The Drama Queen. No, I'm The Drama Empress. Sultana of Drama.

Life is friggin' busy, and that won't stop. I work full time, on top of taking care of the kids part time during the day. But I've also got a lot of support and resources. We've got some interesting personal challenges in the form of the health of some family members--Borderline Personality Disorder Is Fun!--but again, we've got a lot of resources, we've got insurance, and everyone involved is doing what they can to get help and to get healthier. I have more debt than I'd like, but I have the ability to make it better. I'm a crappy housekeeper, and there are a lot of areas in my life I'd like to run more smoothly.

Giving up The Drama won't change any of that. But I think it will change how much of it I can handle, how able to cope I feel. The Drama is tempting. The Drama is the way I learned to cope, back when I didn't actually have any control over the things in my life or what I did with them. But I'm a grownup now. I'm not stuck in my parents' marriage, I'm not trapped by other people's choices--and when those choices affect me, I have the power to follow through with my own reactions.

When you're a kid who can't control your environment or what the adults in your life do around you or to you, The Drama's as good a way of coping as any. But when you're an adult, The Drama leads to The Self Pity leads to The Defiant Inactivity or The Panicked Inactivity. One thing it doesn't lead to is The Zen.

I still want The Zen.

So. The Drama is a nice, comfortable place to be. But it's got to go.

What are you getting rid of?

F is for February, Filler...

[The Boy is reading to his sister. (On a side note, gee, what could the book be about? Sigh.)]
B: ... A princess is a polite young lady. Don't you want to be a princess?
G: YES!
B: [in a world-weary tone] Gigi. That was a rhetorical question.

[Before school today]
PK: ... your soft pants are right there on the stool.
G: I wanna skirt!
PK: That's fine, but when we go to drop off B at school, you should put on pants. It's cold out.
G: [running in the opposite direction, shouting back at me in her best 13-year-old-punk-rock-voice] NO! GOD knows everything! YOU don't know everything! YOU don't know ANYthing!

Takin' your time, huh?

Okay, so I'm a total tool for cracking up over this ad campaign, but I can't help myself. Sometimes I just go for the low-brow funny.

Mirror, mirror

"'...she dreamed sweet dreams of the handsome prince who would carry her off on his horse to his castle in the clouds.' Oh, brother. You know, honey, you don't need some prince to get a castle. You can build your own castle."

"Nuh-uh, Mama. Princesses can't build castles."

"YES they can!"

"Mama. No. There's no such thing as princesses."

"Oh. Oh, I see."

...

"'It was a sweet little, tiny little house in the woods. My, what an untidy sight met her eyes! The sink was full of unwashed dishes and everything was covered with dust.' Sounds like our house."

"No, Mama. Because that house is very, very little, and our house is BIG!"

"Right. 'Let's clean their house, said Snow White.' Dang, I wish Snow White would come clean our house."

"Ma-MA. There's. No. Such. Thing. As. Snow. White! Because, I saw the book before. That's how I know it."

...

"Mama. If someone was coloring and it was everywhere you would NOT say, 'Oh, what a messy scribbler!' You would say, 'Never worry, you will learn and learn!'"

"You're right, that would be much nicer."

"Yes, otherwise you would hurt someone's feelings."

"True."

[minutes pass]

"Mama. If you hit someone in the head with this bouncy ball, you would NOT say, 'I am going to hit you in the head again and again!' You would say, 'Oh. Oh, no. I am so sorry that I hit you with the bouncy ball. I will not do it again.'"

"Indeed."

"Yes, because it's important to be nice to people."

"Good idea."

[minutes pass]

"Mom. You are a special, special guest today." [I swear I don't watch talk shows or any other type of adult tv around them. I haven't seen Oprah in years. Where do they get this?]

Living

My son vacuumed his own room, and his sister's. Lovely.

-------------------

I dig Legos out of the carpet. "One day," I say, "one day, when you are grown up, I will say, 'Oh, how I wish my little boy was still around leaving Legos everywhere."

"Mom," he sighs, "I am NEVER going to leave this house, don't you worry. I will always, always live here with you."

"Well, honey, you know you will always be welcome in my house. But if one day you change your mind and decide you'd like to live somewhere else, I will understand."

"I won't! I won't ever change my mind. Well. Maybe I will. One day."

---------------

The children are building a fort behind the oversized chair in the empty room that will be their grandmother's living room when she moves in. They're singing a song. They sing, "It's a belly, it's a button! It's a beeeellllly, it's a buuuttttoooon!"

----------------

For no apparent reason, the Girl now calls her brother "Coco Puff". He calls her "Midget Fun-Fun". I do not know where these names come from.

Perfection

What's the absolute perfect way to end a week in which you worked until 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. most nights, did the Ex-having-a-nervous-breakdown thing (again), and couldn't seem to find your own ass? Have your kid get jumped by three other boys from his class, you say? Huh, that's just what I was thinking.

Man.

But, you know, it's 2 minutes away from this week being, for all intents and purposes, over. The Ex told me this evening that he is doubling his therapy time as he realizes he can't go on dealing with really hard stuff by bottoming out; then he took the Boy to a monster truck rally. (The Boy: "Do we have any green marker? Because maybe Bone Crusher will be there! He's my favorite! And I could color under my eyes all green 'cause I'm a fan!" It's a mystery to me.) The Girl and I had girls' night and ate suckers while taking bubble baths. The work that caused the crazy nights is all but done. And the Boy's teacher is taking care of the Situation. Better yet, when I told him I was proud of him for his response of not getting into a fight, he said, in that offhanded way, "Yep, I told a teacher and went on with my life!" By that point, he was done with it, as he'd been home for 5 minutes and CyberChase was on. I, however, was shaking for at least 15 minutes. On the one hand, he wasn't hurt, he's over it, and heck knows he's thrown a temper-fueled kick now and then. I am not the overly sensitive mother. It was the three-on-one, let's chase the kid down and kick him thing, on top of my worries over him and his peer interactions in the first place, and let's be honest, my own miserable awkward elementary school experience, that made my heart twist up faster than a pair of granny panties on the fast spin cycle. Oh well.

Hey! You know what else is funny? When you're late for a flight and the airport garage and lot you usually park in is full because THE SNOW WILL BE HERE UNTIL JUDGEMENT DAY and you have to park in the next available lot and when you come back, it's dark and you get all turned around and it's 5 degrees and you're wandering around like a lost soul, every now and then passing another confused looking popsicle like ships in the night--ships with no navigational systems--and just as you think, hell, they're gonna find my dead frozen body on aisle Q2, a million coyotes start howling from the field next to the lot and it sounds like they're in Q3, and you think, "Huh. This would be funny if I could feel my legs." But once you actually find the car and are eating your Starbucks' chocolate covered graham crackers that you broke down and bought at the airport--yeah, it's pretty effing funny.

Another perfect way to end this week: Incoherent posting.

Pebbles and stones

So, in the comments a couple posts back, I assured Raehan I wasn't blaming myself. And I wanted to sort of expand on that...

I'm not blaming myself for not trusting my Ex. But I am recognizing it, and acknowledging that I have a larger issue with trusting people--and lets take another leap of faith and say men in particular--into my life. On the surface, I'm very open--obviously, I put all sorts of crap out here and it wouldn't seem that I'm particularly closed off or private. But there's a point at which there's a small, locked door in a small, hard wall. You might not even notice it, because of all the smoke and mirrors and interesting hedge animals strewn around in front of it.

The dream I had was about forgiveness. About a pattern in my life that has been repeating without me realizing it, and about what will happen if I don't open my eyes and let go of it. And about how much of that is in my control.

I want to move forward--for my kids, but for myself, too. I want to be a real person, not just a reflection of the person I could be. What's that line, from a movie... "I still want things." And I do. I can see these crumbs on the path behind me, the things I've wanted and the things I told myself I couldn't have, and the bricks I laid down to build that wall. I can't go back and pick them up, but I can go forward and leave them behind. And that's enough for now.

And by the way

Why would your children come down with strep throat (and borderline Scarlet Fever? Yegads!) the day before you have to fly out of town?

Well, why wouldn't they?

The world all about

I'll admit that one reason for the long silence has been that I've been thinking things over. I think we've established (several times) that I veer sharply toward the melodramatic, so I've been debating whether to put some stuff down here or not, because if I do, it might sound all Drama Queen Goes Bad, but I wouldn't mean it that way. It doesn't feel that way. It just feels like I'm admitting some things to myself.

So anyway, a while back I was driving home from dropping off the kids, and it was dark, and friggin' cold, and I thought, kinda out of nowhere, that very few people really know me. Which will probably sound really full of it and all mopey, but really, it was just sort of a confession. I don't come off all Scorpio mysterious and such. I talk too much, and I'm not particularly brooding, so you wouldn't know. It's just that if I'm going to be really truthful, there are only two people I can say I think really know me--all the parts that aren't so nice as well as the potentially good stuff. And I thought, "You know, this was an issue in my marriage, an issue that was all mine." Because I never really trusted the Ex. Because I don't trust people to like me if they really know what I'm like. And I knew that was true of me when I was younger, but it just sort of occurred to me that it's true now, too. I don't mean it in a woe-is-me sort of way. It's just sort of what it is. Not to get all wackadoo, but I've had a couple people chart my horoscope or whatever and they told me that my rising sign is the opposite of my star sign, so it means the face I present is pretty much opposite to the "inner me". (I know, I'm picturing Trelawney, too. What can I say.) I never saw much of a difference, though, and kinda thought, huh, that makes no sense. But all of a sudden, I kinda saw how that could be true. Because *I* don't really admit some of the inner stuff to *myself*, or not very often. It just sort of sits over there quietly and lets me pile junk mail on top of it. And I thought, "Wow. I will never be able to be in a healthy relationship until I sort that out."

And a few nights after that, I had a dream. I don't think it's really necessary to go into the whole thing, but it's worth saying that this dream was like my psyche slamming the book on the table, opening it up, pointing to the passage, and then just giving me the eyebrow. I woke up at 5:00 a.m. from this dream, and I started crying. I got out of bed, and cried some more. I got dressed, and cried some more. I went downstairs to work out, and cried some more. I sat and wrote the dream down, and cried some more. I cried for a good hour or more, because I got it.

And... nothing, really. I mean, it isn't like the heavens opened up and angels flew down and made me breakfast. It's just another one of those steps that you take, that eventually (hopefully) lead you somewhere.

Plus, there's a heckuva lot of snow here. Sheesh.

Perfect in every way

I'm still sucking with the posting, but I'm not such a suckie Auntie that I will neglect to send any of you still out there over to leave big ol' sloppy kisses and good wishes to my beautiful gorgeous new niece and her wonderful marvelous mamas. (Hey, Hashbrown, that hat looks familiar... and just the right size. Well played.)

Thank you for making me an official auntie, you two. I am so lucky to have you in my family. (And I promise not to show Hester incriminating photos of her Mumsie's childhood ... until she's old enough to use them properly.)

xo
PK

Stranger things

I know I've not written much or even stopped by your places for a while. Everything's fine, really. It's just, now I'm at the point where I think, oy, I haven' t blogged in ages, and I think, I should write about this or that, and then I think, OR I could just...do something else instead.

Plus, this whole old Blogger/new Blogger thing continues to kick my ass, and after having about 5 comments erased or blocked or whatever in a row, I get fed up and turn off the computer.

But anyway. Hi. Miss y'all.

wiiildfiiire

Remember that song? About how there came a bitter frost, and the pony got lost, and that dumbass chick goes running after him and (one must assume) freezes to death? Yeah, yeah, I loved that song, I was too young to have any taste, apparently, but even then I thought it was pretty friggin' stupid, running into a blizzard after your pony, and I was the age at which ponies are pretty damned important.

But now, NOW I think I get it. The poor crazy chick had been snowed in all friggin' winter. Of course she was INSANE by then. And she didn't have two kids on winter break. Or the flu. Despite getting a flu shot.

If only she'd had the Sweet Elixer that is NyQuil. I totally agree with Ms. Summers on this point: There is no substitute. Do not be swayed by those new ads that imply something is missing from the NyQuil! It's sudden lack of decongestive prowess matters not once the bright shiny light of its sedative hits you over the head. Then, it's all sweet dreams of hot dates with farm animals and small leprechauns. And waking up in the morning feeling like a semi drove over your tongue. But hey, that just adds a hint of danger to the Quil's sweet siren song, don't you think?

Ooh. I have to go now. The leprechauns are calling outside my window now, for 3 nights in a row. They're coming for me, I know.