America, the Universe, Sweet Baby Jesus...

...THANK YOU!!!!!

OMG. I am so, so relieved and thrilled and just verklempt. After much sorrow, rejoicing.

Smoochies!
PK

Go VOTE!

Tomorrow will either be the happiest or saddest birthday EVER.

Go vote. Give me a happy birthday. Dammit, I deserve it.

A telling question

Who would you rather your 13-year old daughter listen to: (Old School) Britney or (Any School) Pink?

You betcha there's a right answer.

Things that are distressing me...

...in no particular order:
1) The fact that one of the insurance policies, which the company assured me would pay, is not going to pay.
2) The fact that #1 bothers me as much as it does. It's just effing money, for Pete's sake.
3) The idea the McCain could actually become president. Dear God. I honestly don't think I could take that.
4) My son's mental health.
5) My fat ass.
6) My hair. Seriously. I know. Shallow.
7) My inability to chill the fuck out.

Chupacabra

You know what makes me happy? The Chupacabra.
Seriously.
I am going to try and work the Chupacabra into everything I write from now on. Because there is just nothing better than a goat-sucking monster.

Funny

Today, the Girl stood in the middle of the kitchen and screamed at the top of her lungs, full of righteous indignation:
"QUIT YELLING AT MEEEEEEEE!!!!!"

Which was sort of funny seeing as how, you know, I wasn't yelling at the time.

A tip: Don't laugh at indignant 5-year-olds. Oh, the tears! The recrimination! It wasn't funny! Laughing at her IS. NOT. FUNNY!

Ah, but honey. It's the laughing at the not-funny stuff that gets you through life.

I would have tried to tell her that, but she was sort of busy threatening to poke me in the butt with her miniature American flag. I think there's some sort of message there, mayhaps?

Things are going. We're sifting through the business of death. The Boy punched a kid at school last week. The kids are taking ice skating lessons. I swear to God that I heard their father come in the house last week, in the middle of the day, while I was typing away on some job. I actually heard the door open, and I heard him call out "Hellooo?" in this funny way he used to do. I nearly answered, then I stopped, then I really stopped. Then I answered anyway. Nobody answered back.

I want to thank everyone who has sent us kindness--kind thoughts, kind words, kind deeds. It's odd to me that I started this stupid blog as a sort of self-motivating journal to get through some of the harshest emotions after my marriage fell apart. And now it's like I don't know what to say. Probably because I'm not sure what to think. Or, I am very purposefully not thinking. Except for when I've planted my arse on Dr. Zen's comfy chair. I think a bit then. Then I go sneak a cigarette and quit thinking for another week.

I guess that's okay, too.

I'll loan you mine

Missing

I suddenly had the most intense longing for a Sears catalogue. You remember those? The giant tomes that used to come in the mail? I'd spend hours and hours and days and months pouring over them, cutting out pictures, wishing for things.

I want one so badly, I could just cry.

I may be avoiding missing other things. Possibly.

Arrangements have been completed. If you're local and would like to attend the memorial service or wake and need information, please feel free to email me.

Wasted

I don't know how to say this, so I probably won't. The thing that I was afraid of happening happened today.

I don't know what to say. There isn't really anything to say.

If you're the praying type, say a prayer for my kids. If you aren't, I'd still appreciate you doing whatever it is you do.

I might be a while. I don't know.

PK

Anyone? Anyone?

I'm debating whether I can turn this blog into a pseudonymous creation. Well, it is already, I guess. What I mean is, can I clean up some of the old posts--switch them to draft status--and commence to using this space as the blog for a more precise pseudonym, attaching it to my pen name?

I've had the "no Google" code on this site for a while, so I hope that many of the posts I would want to remove from public view would not be available in cached form, either.

I just don't think I have the gumption (or the time) to manage *another* blog. I already have a double life on Facebook, where my actual profile and my writing pseudonym's profile are friends. (It's good to be your own friend.) But I don't think I can just transfer this puppy over wholesale, as there are some posts that might either jeopardize the privacy of people I care about or be frowned upon in posts by someone marketing writing to children/young adults (who theoretically would find their way here).

Thoughts? Anyone else handle something similar?

Mental illness sucks

It sucks to watch somebody you care about being destroyed, and know that there really isn't a damned thing you can do about it. It sucks to realize that you need to remove yourself emotionally so that you will be ready to deal with the things you'll need to deal with if they kill themselves, which they've threatened to do not once, but multiple, multiple times. It really sucks when you've watched the person honestly try to get better, and nothing seems to help.

It just sucks.

Can't this wait 6 years? (or: My Internal Dialogue)

"Katie dumped me."

"Oh, honey. I'm sorry." [Dude, you're 8. EIGHT! I am not ready to deal with the hussies. Aren't you supposed to be out eating worms or something?]

"M said he heard her talking to another boy. She told him she likes him, so she was going to dump me, and then she did."

"Well, I know your feelings are probably hurt..." [HUSSY!]

"Yeah..."

"And I just have to tell you...even though you know you're only 8, and you're not old enough to really have a 'girlfriend'..." [Especially not one who's a HUSSY!!!]

"Yeah..."

"I do think that was pretty uncool. She sounds awfully fickle. I don't think she was good enough for you." [Little hussy.]

"You're right. When she dumped me, I was going to tell her, "You are SO immature," 'cause I knew that would really make her mad, 'cause you told me about that, remember? But then I didn't, because I decided it would be mean, and I was too good for that."

"Wow." [WOW.]

Reminders

Overheard coming from my lips and following the Boy down the street the other afternoon:

"Have fun!
.
.
.
And remember your phone!
.
.
.
And remember your bike helmet!
.
.
.
And be back in an hour!
.
.
.
AND DON'T PLAY WITH DEAD THINGS!!!!"

Prepare for Awesomeness

So the kids and I went to see "Kung Fu Panda" this afternoon. I haven't said much about it here and probably won't, but I'm keeping them for all overnights now. They did get to spend some time with their dad this week--he had them over for dinner and then a few hours before bed, plus half the day Saturday--but for now, they're sleeping over here every night.

The Boy is also going through some potentially big changes. Part of it is probably just growing up, getting older and understanding things a little better. He's also taking a second round of a social skills class at the local university, and I think he really is getting some good from it. I've also got him back seeing his therapist a few times a month, so that he can hopefully build more skills for handling the stressful stuff in his life. I think all these things work together, little pieces of a bigger puzzle that makes a picture of a person handling life well or losing his or her shit. I would be remiss, though, if I didn't reveal this piece over here in the corner: He's on medication again.

We tried that back in kindergarten...and wow. That experience is in the archives somewhere. Well, this year, we decided to try again and see what happened. That decision was based on feedback and discussions from him, about how he was feeling in school, with other kids. He tried a typical ADHD medication, and it seemed to help with focus a bit, but not with his moodiness or low-frustration level. We tried a Tourette's medication, but it just made him tired, which made him more moody. Then a few things happened, and what I can say is that it brought up the possibility that we had a hyper-sensitive kid who was suffering from anxiety and stress and--yep--depression. So after much soul-searching and many discussions with his (truly excellent) psychiatrist, we broke out the Zoloft.

Now, this is the teeniest, tiniest amount of Zoloft ever. But interestingly, after 3 weeks, I'm seeing a change. At least I think I am. I'm a little reluctant to call it too quickly, but I swear that he's been less moody this week, and even more organized and agreeable.

I didn't make this decision because I want my kid to be perfect or benign or anything like that. But I remember what it felt like when I was suffering from acute depression. I remember what it felt like to get help for that. He's still an 8-year old boy, and he's still bouncing off the walls and arguing with his sister and getting into all sorts of mischief with his friends and trying to talk me into whatever he wants to talk me into. It's just that I'm starting to see a kid who isn't always on the verge of losing his shit. And that makes me happy.

And I don't know what this has to do with Kung Fu Panda, really, except that it WAS the most Awesome movie Ever. We were indeed blinded by its awesomeness. Plus, I sort of secretly love Jack Black.

Yeeeeaaahooowwwww!

Just a gigolo

Flea's recap of the Police concert that Orange and she attended reminded me that I meant to recap this:

When Jeannie and I went to the same concert last year, I got the Boy all riled up about the Police. How awesome they were! Message in a Friggin' Bottle!

So when Roxanne came on the radio the other day, I cranked it up. "It's the Police!" I told him.

After a minute: "Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"What's this song about, exactly?"

Er.

"Well," I said, "it's a guy singing to his girlfriend."

"Yeah, but about what?"

"And her name is Roxanne."

"Yeah, but what's he saying to her?"

"He doesn't like her job."

"Oh." Then, "What's her job?"

Oy vey. "Well...she dates people."

The voice from the back seat pitches up a notch. "She dates people? For money? That's her job?"

"Yes. And that makes her boyfriend feel jealous, and he wants her to stop. Because that job is pretty much frowned upon. Not to mention illegal in all but one state."

"And she gets money. For going on dates."

"Yes."

Pause.

"How much money?"

Uh, not the point, kid.

"Which state thinks it's okay?"

"Nevada."

Pause.

"I'M GONNA MOVE TO NEVADA WHEN I GROW UP! I COULD TOTALLY DO THAT JOB, MOM!!!"

World weary

So we're at the park and we see three women--probably high school or or college age--go by on bikes. They're wearing bikinis, towels draped around their shoulders.

The Boy's got eyes like saucers.

"Why are those teenage girls riding their bikes in their swimsuits?" he asks.

"Good question," I say.

"I bet they're on their way to the pool."

"Probably."

"Or," he says, with confidence, "or, they want people to pay attention to them."

"It's a good bet," I say.

"Why would they want people to notice them?" he asks. Then he answers his own question: "They probably want people to buy what they're selling."

"Oh?" This is an interesting theory, though I'm not sure I like where it's going. "And what do you think they're selling?"

"Teenager stuff. Like Teenage Blower Machines."

"Excuse me?"

"You know. Teenage Blower Machines. That blow smoke rings. For teenager parties. They have those at all the teenager parties."

Indeed.


Oh, and this one.

allrighty then

I don't think I sat on this one long enough. I'd cut two lines and two words if I could.

And while you're there, read this one. Isn't it lovely?!

The kitchen sink

I'm thinking back to when I started blogging and how conscientious I was about posting regularly, leaving comments on other blogs, and lord. I do so suck now.

But you know what I'm doing? I'm writing a book. For really and truly. And it's kind of awesome. (Not the book, necessarily, but the writing of it.)

What will become of it? Who knows. Does it matter? All I know is this: That feeling I've had for the past 10 years, that feeling like you get when you leave for vacation and you think, "Crap. Did I leave the stove on? I bet I left the stove on. No, not the stove. What then? What did I not do? What what what?"

It's gone.

We're staying afloat so far with the freelancing, which is just fine, considering that it's only 6 months in and that I'm pretty much supporting four people with only a fairly modest amount of child support. I've had a few pieces published here and there. I have picked up several writing jobs and some new editing clients. I may have an opportunity to return to full-time work, and I may take it, but who knows?

I haven't been very good about writing here, because I'm writing not here. And I'm trying to decide how to handle the necessity of blogging as a writer. Do I disappear and suddenly pop up somewhere else, living out my bloggy life under a new name, like a virtual Elvis? With less sparkle, of course. Do I manage two blogs? Should I point from here to things I'm writing (which as of now are also under pseudonyms so wouldn't likely threaten my anonymity, but would make it likely that people could trail back here)?

So these are the things I think about, and then I think about the stack of editing waiting for me and that damned first draft that is waiting to be finished. And I wonder how everyone is and I try to catch up reading a few blogs but don't have time to leave comments or write here and that's a little bit of what's happening and why things are quiet.

Just so you know.

Who said that?

The Boy understands attribution. You read a quote; you read the name of the person who said it. "Grown-ups never understand anything for themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them." Antoine de Saint-Exupery.

We're in church, and there's a Whitman quotation up on the on the side screen. He reads it out loud. "That means Walt Whitman said that," he tells me.

"Yup."

He thinks for a moment. "Say something by Shakespeare," he asks.

"Uh, okay... 'To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune--"

"Shakespeare. 'I don't understand anything you just said.' Boy K."

RIP, Psycho Kitty

The best cat in the whole fucking universe. Rocks wept.

Can't...breathe...

I realize most of you have probably already seen this, but if you haven't...treat yourself. You deserve it.



Brilliant.

Thank you sweet little baby Jesus

Nothing makes the day a little happier than an acceptance letter. Except TWO acceptance letters. That makes it happier.

This just in: It seems I am not a complete hack. I might be mostly a hack; the jury's still out. But for now, less-than-total is enough.

Foiled again

So, the Girl. She does this thing that I did at her age. She doesn't like to sleep in her own bed.

She starts out there, more or less. But somewhere in the wee hours, she wakes up. And that's when my bed shines with the light of Mecca, beckoning her to its warm embrace. Someone once wrote about how sneaky a similar Scorpiolette had become in her nocturnal wanderings, which had prompted me to inform the Girl that if she was very, very quiet when she climbed into my bed, so quiet that I didn't wake up, I wouldn't be able to put her BACK in her bed. This worked like a charm at the time, my priority being to get some damned sleep. Now that my priority is to get the kid to sleep in her own bed? Not so much. Plus, she's sneaky getting in, but eventually she sticks her feet in my ribs, which means I wake up every morning, around 3:00 a.m., which really throws off the whole sleep cycle thing.

So I've vowed to haul myself out of bed when she comes in, take her back to her bed, and lie down with her there until she gives up and just figures the extra walking isn't worth it. Some day soon, I envision a full night's uninterrupted rest.

The other night, I managed to get both kids to sleep without falling asleep myself, lying next to one or the other. The reward: A hot bath, that rarist of luxuries in this house.

But damn, the thing wiped me out! Maybe I made it too hot, maybe I stayed in too long, but when I got out, I collapsed into bed. I seem to remember thinking, "Well, at least I'll sleep well."

Which I did, I guess. Until I woke up, around 3:00 a.m..

In the Girl's bed.

No idea how I got there. But she was sound asleep, so I guess I was sneaky.

And because we believe in equal airtime...

Scene: The Girl is playing with the v. awesome Anatomically Correct Schleich Pony. (Have you seen these? They rock. Target has them; I tried to find a link but no luck.)

The Girl: I don't know whether Pony is a boy or a girl.
PK (turning Pony over and offering Exhibit A): Pony's a boy, honey.
The Girl: But he hasn't decided yet! He hasn't decided whether he wants to be a boy or a girl!
PK: Well, he's got a penis, honey, but I don't see why he can't be whatever he feels like being.
The Girl: He's gonna be a girl.

Another reason to love him

The Boy's Cub Scout den toured the new Police Services building today. He was great--kept his hands to himself, raised his hand when he had a question, only threw himself against the side of the building once (sirens are exciting!). They learned about how the officers have training to learn how to handcuff people or to deal with mace, and they got to see the juvenile holding cells, including the one with the "soft walls". These are the particulars that interested the Boy, of course: Conference rooms shmonference rooms, do you have any big weapons?

[As an aside, I just must say: Either a mighty coincidence was afoot or DAMN this town has some hot Protectors of the Peace. I'm not kidding. I think I need more tours of Police Services. Again I say, Daaaaamn. Plus, the building is super friggin' cool.]

Where was I? Oh. On the way home, we were talking about the holding cells. The Boy said, "One of them had a toilet in it! But the door had a window! So people would be able to SEE you PEE!" And I explained that one of the consequences of deciding to commit crimes is that if you're caught, you lose the right to privacy and freedom, more or less. "What if someone took a picture of you peeing, and spread it all over the world!?" the Boy wondered, and that question launched a conversation about what you don't lose the rights to (or should I say, what you aren't supposed to lose the rights to): decent treatment, and so forth. "But what if they did it anyway?" he asked, and I told him that they would likely get into trouble, but that sometimes that sort of thing happened, and that it was one reason I don't like the current president et al., because of something like that that happened to prisoners in another country.

Then the Boy said, "Yeah, I think it isn't good now. I mean, Lincoln was good. And Washington was okay, and other people, but you know what we should really have? A woman president. Because we've never had one! And we should!"

And then I pulled the car over and bought him a pony.

Ooh, Shiny!

The great thing about having my mom sharing our home is that she's providing a wonderful balance to my more...Bohemian...tendencies. Perhaps my housekeeping skills are not all they could be. Perhaps, during college, I put sheets on my bedroom floor for a few months and called it art. Perhaps, just perhaps, I've been known to go a long, long time without dusting. Or mopping. Or, you know, putting away the laundry, unless the floor of my walk-in counts as "away". My mother, she likes the doing of the laundry. I have told her that if all she ever does is the laundry, her room and board are more than paid for. (Obviously, I don't expect her to do jack. But if it makes the woman who birthed me happy, who am I to fight it?)

Now, you may think that children raised in my...well, for lack of a better word, let's call it squalor...would be used to it. Apparently not:

PK: "Yo, Mama! I finally hauled away all those gym bags under the coat rack."
Mom: "That's nice, honey."
The Girl: "OOOOOOOH! It's so SHINY! Can I sleep under there tonight, Mama? Can I? Can I sleep under there?"

We here chez PK like to enjoy the simple things. Like sleeping under coat racks. Sigh.

That's the rub

From the AP:
"...authorities didn't consider Laurean a threat to Lauterbach, or later a flight risk, because they had indications the pair were on friendly terms."

Dear God. She's meeting with military prosecutors because she says he raped her. How fucking friendly do you think she feels toward him? How the hell can you be on "friendly terms" with a person you're accusing of raping you?

Such a short phrase to reveal such an insane mindset--one that keeps too many women in danger or in fear.

Make me some moNAY with your spatuLAY

Thanks for all the support, you sweethearts, you. Of course I mean that in a totally nondescriminatory way.

Happily, the new Endeavor is keeping me busy enough that I haven't had more time to blog than I did pre-Endeavor. (Pre-Endeavor. That kind of makes me sound like an astronaut. I like.) I am officially a business owner, joy, bliss, and I'm currently searching for legitimate ways to claim vodka as a business expense. (If you work for the IRS: That was a joke. If you don't: Email me with your ideas.) If you or anyone you know have need of an editor or writer, email me and I'll send you my contact info.

I'm spending all my non-editing and non-business-setup (and, ok, non-kid-wrangling and non-house-cleaning and non-vodka-drinking) time writing, writing, researching, writing, and what was it, oh yes! writing. This feels fucking fantastic, even though nothing has come of it yet. (Notice all that writing has not yet been followed by any mailing.) No matter; everything in good time.

The sky's a bit bluer, the grass a bit greener--although that one I'm taking on faith as it's currently covered with snow that's a bit... Look. I won't lie to you. The snow is lacking in the White department. The snow is more than a bit greyer because it's been on the ground for a month. Let's just agree to cut the snow some slack, shall we?

xo
PK

The Deal

Happy new year! Are you all happy? I certainly hope so.

To start the year off right, I'll expand on the previous post. Here's the deal, which I could not fully explain until I had certain contractual amendments in my hot little hands:

I got laid off from work.

Surprisingly, considering my somewhat precarious financial situation, this did not freak me out.

Although I do have moments during which I need to lie flat and breathe into a paper bag--I have more moments during which I feel truly excited.

Which might be crazy.

But.

Anyway, here it is: I'm going freelance. I'm now officially an Editing Whore, which means that for a low, low rate, you can pay me to play with your words all day long. Hey big boy, is that a dangling participle in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? I know those of you out there who do or have done the freelance thing are making all sorts of gestures at me right now. I will have to hope that you aren't yelling at me to Stay out of the basement!!!, metaphorically speaking.

And after I've satisfied my (soon to be many, manifest, manifest) clients, I am going to write. Lately, I've really wanted to, more and more. Is it something I can do? Will it serve any purpose? Am I crazy? We'll see, I guess. I just know that I'm not at all stressed about any of it, which either means that I'm following my right path, or I've finally lost that last shred of sanity.

Either way, I think it's going to be a fucking awesome year.

xo

PK