Lilacs

Sunday found me on my knees in the sprouting grass, finally givin' some lovin' to my long-suffering and oft-neglected yard. The yard was always the Ex's territory, you see; I was the Inside, he was the Outside. That statement is more apt than I can say.

The yard was the Ex's pride and joy. Last year, the first summer after our split, I will admit to being a bit--shall we say, passive aggressive?--about the yard. As in, Screw you, Yard! To hell with you, Yard! Granted, I had a lot of other things going on, AND I generally have a Black Thumb, so making the yard my last priority perhaps wasn't as much of a statement as it seems. But in any case, the poor jilted yard needs a tender hand this year. The yard, to put it in the parlance of our times, needs a good boinking.

So, there I was, pruning the ornamental grasses, maneuvering the oversized mower and trimmer (damned men and their need for large machinery), putting on gardening gloves and pulling up the grasses from around the edging. The lilac in the front yard especially needed some attention; shooters were already making their attack on the surrounding areas, errant grass surrounded the shrub, and the old leaves that I spitefully refused to rake up last fall had been blown into drifts around and behind it. As I clipped and raked and dug endlessly, I suddenly though of my grandmother, the Master Gardener. My grandmom's garden was always beautiful. She never put me to work in the flower beds (she was way too smart for that; I had an unholy love of snap dragons and would never have been able to resist mauling them). Instead, she gave me the odious task of weeding the front steps. We lived in Florida, and our front steps were red brick. Tiny green creeping vines sprouted from between the bricks in a sort of never-ending cycle, and all summer long, it was my job to destroy them. As a kid, I hated that job. Strangers have lived in my grandmother's house for 25 years now; my grandmother's been dead for 15. I'd give anything to sit on those steps and rub my fingers raw pulling up those damned weeds.

So there I was, digging up the grass from around the lilacs. I love lilacs. This state is full of them--overgrown, wild, unstoppable. After we moved here, away from my grandmother, away from growing things, we lived in a rundown house out in the middle of the dry, dry countryside. I missed the moss, the orange trees, the snap dragons. We couldn't even grow grass. My mother tried and tried, but she kept turning up rocks. No matter how many she dug up, the ground was always full of them. The lilacs were the only wild things that didn't care--the lilacs and the irises, and these are still two of my favorite flowers. So last Sunday, in my head, I'd be thinking, Dear God, will this freaking grass never END? and then I'd shift and get a face full of lilacs, and suddenly I wouldn't mind that I'd been pulling this grass for hours, years, centuries. The grass, the lilacs, and the endless spring.

But we won't quit our day jobs

So I tried to add text to the audioblogs, but I finally gave up. Swiped the idea from Profgrrrrl, of course. (PG, how did you add text? It kept deleting the audioblog graphic when I tried to do it.)

Yes, they get their musical talents from me. No, I won't subject you to that.

Her, too

I think I'll keep him

Fill in the blanks

Some great post about working in the yard and lilacs and childhood and light and the moon and the Circle of Life--it was all right here, I tell you!

But it's sort of stuck, and my ass, it enlargeth. I need to get some exercise before it gets any later and I talk myself out of it. So...you've got your preview. It'll show up, eventually.

You know what you don't want to hear? You don't want to hear the Massage Lady say, "There are three places I can work on that I have to tell you, cause excruciating pain. The other two, I have to put on gloves." Because what follows will be sounds of Not Happiness, and they will be coming from you. Dang, though, that Massage Lady knows her stuff. After the Not Happiness part comes the Thank You Jesus I Am Healed part, where your hip actually moves and stuff! Which means you will go back to the Massage Lady, even though the last thing she did was tell you where the Number 1 Excruciatingly Painful Place is..."just so you have some time to get ready." Mommy.

She Falters To Rise

She Falters To Rise

You all are reading this, right? I know you are reading this.

Whoa, some-body teeeell me...

And if anyone knows what *that* is from, you will also know how humiliatingly easily it popped right into my head. Yowza.

Which seems to be the word of the day for me. Yoowwzaa.

So I hear from Orange and Jessica that Ayelet Waldman was on Oprah having to defend herself about the husband/children thing? Somebody tell me how that went. I sort of skimmed over to the ol' Oprah site and took a gander at the comment board, and h0-ly mackerel! Or better yet--yowza. Them was some scary commenting ladies, I tell ya. I don't think I can even describe it. Yeesh. The point being that I don't watch TV but I have this silly blogging habit and what good is it to me if you all don't catch me up on the interesting stuff I miss by being Ms. Crunchy Organic No TV Dansko Girl. (And I wish I could explain how it is that this description is absolutely accurate and totally INaccurate all at the same time. I am a Conundrum Unto Myself, people!)

Folks sure do seem to get testy with Ayelet. I don't know her or anything, but I feel a bit bad for her. When I was reading her blog, there were a few things I disagreed with her about. In particular, she dissed one of my favorite people, and I was all upset, but that person had the balls to contact her directly--how rare is that?--and Waldman admitted she'd been wrong and apologized. Which also takes some guts, IMHO. In any case, she struck me as a fairly thoughtful, even sensitive, person who felt very passionately about things, and who tended to downplay or even sort of deride her actions or her kids or the things she cared about--not because she didn't care about them, but because of that thing where you can't admit how much you adore something or are proud of something or good at something because you'll jinx yourself. Maybe it's the price of being "known", that you say something you do is self-absorbed--because you're sort of chiding yourself--or you blow off steam, or make a hasty judgment, or you reveal something that has you wondering, and everyone thinks you've just hurled an insult into the general crowd, like some verbal Molotov cocktail. And really, you're just...talking out loud.

But what do I know. Like I said, all conjecture. And she undoubtedly knew that all these things were going to be out in the public eye, so I'm likely just projecting (oh, that would be new). Still, if people took everything I said as my rock-solid opinion and then got all bent out of shape over it, or if I couldn't say what I was thinking or feeling...oy. What a nightmare. I contradict myself and say snarky shit because I'm unhappy and then agonize over it and get all uptight over things I know nothing about and have to admit later that I'm a dolt and say what I truly, passionately believe or feel myself and THANK YOU GOD no one cares or thinks I'm aiming some judgement at them. Yowza.

I'm Irish and I have a guilt complex. So sue me.

Second, the melodramatic one:

The Cold Heaven

SUDDENLY I saw the cold and rook-delighting Heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,
And thereupon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season
With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;
And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason,
Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,
Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,
Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent
Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken
By the injustice of the skies for punishment?

-W.B. Yeats

And oh yeah...

Because the month is halfway over and what kind of a lame-ass poetry lover am I? First, the well-known one:

Late Fragment

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

-Raymond Carver

So many therapists, so little time

I swear to you that there was a moment last week, sitting on the pediatric psychiatrist's couch, when I literally had an image flash into my mind, and here's what it was: Remember those old Looney Toons, where someone is starving, and someone else is talking, blabbing away, blah blah blah, and to the starving character the blabber suddenly turns into a walking lamb chop? That's what I felt like. I had this flash, from the perspective of the doctor, me sitting there, blah blah blah, and suddenly I was a giant ice cream cone labeled "Case Study". I started giggling right then. Of course, I'd been crying about 2 minutes before that. Oh yeah. Triple scoop.

So okay! Let's get all these therapists labeled for future blogging bonanzas of fun. We'll call the Boy's psychologist Dr. Tall, cause wow, she's tall. And stunning. Wow. He's gonna look back on therapy and ask himself, Why didn't I keep up with that until I was at least 16? Then we've got the psychiatrist, and I really like him, but he actually brought up the Oedipal Complex, which caused me to snort in derision. (Aside from the Ex: "Hey, better to be blind in Heaven." We scare our therapists.) So let's call him Dr. Rex. And then there's my therapist. Yes! It's the Third Annual SBFH Return To Therapy Event. We'll call her Dr. Zen, because she once mentioned that she'd just gotten back from a Buddhist psychotherapy retreat, which was when I knew she was the mental-health professional for me. We'll call the Ex's doctors Drs. Ex cause I'm running out of brain cells to keep track of all these friggin' doctors.

And I went in for a neuromuscular massage tonight, and damn! That hurts. In a good way. I hope.

I had a sudden wish this morning that I could grow dreadlocks. But I can't.

Shh. The words "early-onset bipolar" have been bantered. Dr. Tall prefers "possible mood disorder". Drs. Ex are trying to determine whether the Ex is truly bipolar and if so, how effective can talk therapy be? What's the lowest level of meds he can take to positive effect? Lithium did zilch for him. Dr. Rex wants to hold off on all meds until we have a chance to see how Little Oed does with the behavioral and cognitive therapy. I had a nice Crow Pie over the Boy's teacher, remember the one that drove me crazy (ha ha)? I decided I needed to adjust my attitude about her, and lo! she turns out to be quite caring and helpful. We've got a 504 plan in place for him for next year. We're looking into group therapy for social skills. He's started Tae Kwan Do and I've never heard so much yes-maaming. The Girl is peeing on the potty (only after we realized that she was doing it at school because they give her M&Ms. As soon as we mentioned that TREATS might be involved, we can't get her OFF the potty). I finally realized that spending every waking moment on the verge of tears is probably not a Good Thing, so I'm making my annual pilgrimage to Dr. Zen. Poor Dr. Zen; she can't get rid of me to save her soul. I am Perpetual.

Miss me?

Saints

I found this through Dr. B. It just leaves me speechless. Yes, of course I agree. Of course.

Well...it's protein, and it's natural...

On the way to the library park today, the Boy stopped, looked down, picked up something so miniscule as to be invisible to my eye, and said,

"Did I mention that I can eat ants?"

And then he ate it.

Of course I was three steps ahead of him with one eye on his sister, who was chomping at the bit to get to the slides. My reaction was something along the lines of "Uh huh...[glance]... that's inter...[double-take]...uh. WHAT?"

Two men sitting under the llibrary overhang nearly busted a rib cracking up. "The real trick," called one to the Boy, "is to eat 'em while they're still alive. Then they're all wiggly going down." The other one was just shaking his head at me and chortling. "Nah," the Boy called back, "it's easier when they're dead."

He caught up to me--not too difficult seeing as how I was still standing there, mid-step, completely flabbergasted. "Tastes like tea and malt," he commented, before heading off with his sister to the swings.

I was willing to chalk it up to a one-time experiment, except I caught him doing it at another park later. "I'm hungry, I need a snack!" he told me. "Well, it's time to go home," I said, "We'll get another snack there." "No, I need one now." "Sorry, buddy, but your sister and you ate all the snacks we brought." "No problem," he declared brightly, "I know where I can find lots of snacks!" And then he climbed up some rocks and started eating more ants. WTF??

In the car on the way home, I explained the finer points of Why We Don't Eat Ants Unless We're Traveling In Exotic Locales. "When Papa was in China he drank snake blood," the Boy observed. Spoken like a true Frenchman, I must say. "Well," I said, "eating ants is definitely adventurous, I'll give you that. Maybe when you grow up, you'll be a photographer and you'll roam the world taking pictures for National Geographic. Or maybe you'll be a writer, and you'll travel far and wide, writing the stories of many lands. Or maybe you'll be an amazing chef, and make all sorts of exotic dishes." "Ant pie," he mused. "I will make pie, and fill it with ants."

Bon Appetit, my sweet boy.

The reason I refuse to count calories

Kim's written an incredible post about a truly scary subject that's pretty important to me. Go read.

Ah, but it's that 25% that gets y'all every time...

via S&C:

Your Linguistic Profile:

60% General American English

25% Dixie

5% Midwestern

5% Upper Midwestern

5% Yankee

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

As we are

So here we are, nearly at the end of a very long week, and I don't know what to say to you. Come on, I keep thinking, you have to say something, you have some explaining to do, especially after all the kindness everyone's shown. I mean, really. Some of the things people have written in this last week have brought me to tears, just out of sheer gratitude. Plus maybe that little nervous breakdown I had. But mostly gratitude.

But then it all gets so tiring and messy and I realize that all that really matters, I think, is this:

I will never give up faith that all will be well. I will never give up believing that my child--that all of us, all the ones I love--will find peace. I will always, always love him and I will always be there for him, and I believe that he will be well, that all will be well.

So help me, I should've been a pioneer woman. Except I would've been a really whiney pioneer woman, and all that hand-washing the laundry? Not so much.

So it boils down to this: Last week, for no apparent reason, the Boy suddenly refused to take his medication. Any more. At all. Going off antidepressants cold turkey is not a good thing, and there were Scenes and Incidents. There were tears and thrown objects and kicked doors and smacked walls, and that was just me. There was frightening behavior, there were many calls to many doctors. In the end, no one was hurt, and everyone was hurt. And in the end, I was reminded, again, that the only thing I really have any control over in the world is what I choose to make of my reality. See above.

Maybe it's irrational that I believe in a benevolent God, or the power of love, or the inevitable good. But it's also irrational, in this world, to believe that the sun will keep on showing up every morning. Hell, I believe in plenty of rational things, science and good chocolate and knee boots and all that. But I also believe that, as a wise woman once told me, what we believe eventually consumes us. And here are the things I choose to consume me: love, and peace, and health, and joy, and forgiveness, and faith. And good chocolate.

Thank you, everyone who wrote or commented and who sent good and loving thoughts our way. You are all so incredibly kind and I am so blessed to have so much positive energy coming our way. We're going to be fine, here, and we thank you. Thank you.

[Oh, and by the way, so no one worries unnecessarily--we have a new plan, therapy-wise; the pediatric psychologist has decided to keep the Boy off meds for the time being; and the Ex really came through in this one. And hey! I had a discussion about Freud and I didn't even crack up! Okay, I did, but...well, you know Freud and me.]

Sister Dagger of Enlightened Compassion thanks you

Ah, dear friends, thank you all so much for having our back. I'm still not quite ready to go into it, but things are better, and your continued prayers/good thoughts mean so much to me. And don't fret--nothing so bad has happened that it could kill off my sense of humor. So that's good.

My Unitarian Jihad Name is: Sister Dagger of Enlightened Compassion.

Get yours.

Small favors

If you're the praying type, I'd appreciate it if you'd send one up for the Boy. If you aren't, I'll take whatever you've got. Thanks.

Paranoid

Every now and then, the Chica sends me my horoscope. Today, she emails me the following:

Scorpio:
You may be called upon to solve something of a social mystery. In short: who were those people? Later on, they'll figure prominently again.

Says the Chica: "Hey, Yeah...who were those people?"

I just checked site meter, and for some reason, 10 times as many people as usual stopped by today. Which is nice and all, don't get me wrong, but...hey. Yeah. Who were those people?

To make it up to you...

Because I've been so negligent, and because I missed you all so...I thought I'd start a meme. And by the way, I finally gave in and looked up the definition and history of the term "meme", because that's how geeky I am. Yes, I'm back and I'm geeky. Or, as the Boy might say, "full of jolly goodness". Take your pick.

If this thing isn't as original as I think it is, forgive me. I've been busy not showering. If you don't have a blog, feel free to post your answers in the comments. And if you answer and aren't on my blogroll, please tell me or email me or something so I can see your version, 'cause I'm damned nosy that way. And for the dear Lord's sake, somebody else do this thing or I'm going to feel like a total idiot.

If you had to pick five fictional literary characters who would best embody you (in some aspect, either now or in the past), who would you choose?
Meg Murray
Jane Eyre
Christina Parsons
Mrs. Richard F. Schiller
Tess d'Urberville

Which five books (any genre) have had the greatest influence on you?
Catch 22
The Lord of the Rings
Traveling Mercies
The Neverending Story
The Heart of Darkness

What is your favorite commonly censored book?
The Wizard of Oz

If you would ever burn a book (God forbid), which book would it be? Why?
Watt, by Samuel Beckett.
I am one of those people who think like I read. Try having your brain start thinking like this for a week straight. You'd hate it, too. The horror.

Are you a monogamous reader, or do you like to read around?
Book slut. Always an orgy. No less than 5 books at a time.

Last one, and be honest: Do you skip ahead to the ending?
Skiperdoo.

Writing this, I realized that a lot of these books are ones I read as an adolescent or college student--they affected me so strongly because they introduced me to different ideas of how the world worked, perhaps. I find this interesting--and worrisome--because that's the age group that is the target of so much censorship (a vile activity if ever there was one, IMHO). Also, it looks like I'm stuck in a time warp.

I Fall to Pieces

So. After spending Friday afternoon, most of Saturday morning, and all of Sunday afternoon and evening in tears, it occurred to me that I might not be handling things so well as I’d thought. (No one has ever accused me of being slow on the uptake! Oh, wait. Yes, actually, yes they have.) Please understand: I know that in the grand scheme of things, I have it damned good. I am so fortunate. I guess my heart just loses its perspective now and again.

On Monday, I walked into the Chica’s office and said, “I think I might be a little, you know, depressed.” And she looked at me and said, “Well, DUH!” No, she didn’t really. But she probably wanted to. What she said was, “Oh, sweetie. I think maybe you are.” (A goddess among women, I’m telling you. If I walked into my office 15 times a day just to sigh and stare at myself balefully, I’d have ditched myself as a friend a long time ago. I don’t deserver her.) So I’ve taken most of the week off from work, and I’ve sat around a lot, and gone to the Acupuncturist, and read, and meditated, and prayed, and watched The Incredibles three times, and cleaned the parts of the house that needed it the most, and done laundry, and bought a Purple Blanket that makes me almost forget my lust for the Yellow Blanket, and slept and slept and slept, and made bread, and eaten bread, and had lunch with friends, and played with my kids, and moved furniture, and sorted paperwork, and gone for days without showering because if I’m going to be in a funk, dammit, I’m going to do it RIGHT.

Today, I woke up, and I felt pretty good. I felt as though I was happy to be here. I felt like I could probably manage my life again, in small doses. So, that’s my mental-health break, in a nutshell, and I want to thank you all for dropping by to see me (and aren’t you glad you didn’t do it in person, because did I mention? I went days without showering!) and for sending me your kind wishes and happy thoughts. You are all wonderful, and again, I am fortunate. I live a life filled with fortune. Sometimes it just takes a few days of sleep and bread and isolation to remind me.

Now, having said all that, this is one of the email messages that greeted me upon my return to work today:

From: Facilities Manager
Just as a precaution, I have called police to look
at the 4 bags that appear to contain dog food in the northeast area of our
parking lot. I looked at them, they appear to be harmless, but until the police
check them, please stay clear of that area.
With the discovery of bombs in a
couple different [city where I work] locations, best to be safe.

Not helping, people. Not. Helping. But actually, it just made me laugh, so I guess I’m back, if you know what I mean.

This sort of reminds me of the job I had about 10 years ago (before I had children, as will be obvious in a minute). For a while, we worked in a building that was near the county jail. Our offices were on the top floor, a preschool was on the bottom floor, and there was a picnic area on the roof. My friend Kim and I frequently worked overnight, pulling together project deliverables; daylight would find us drinking strong coffee out on the roof. On one such occasion, as we both stared glassy-eyed toward the sun rising over the prison, I said, “You realize I’m just waiting to be taken hostage during a jail break. I already have my escape route mapped out.” “Yeah,” she nodded, sipping her coffee, “I’ve thought about that. But I figure they’ll go for the kids first.” “Oh!” I exclaimed brightly, “I hadn’t thought of that! Then its all good.”

Yes, indeedy. It’s all good.

Mental health break...

back soon

Waiting for Birdy

You know when you're coloring Easter eggs and a (permanent) rainbow of toxic chemicals is slowly soaking through the layer of newspaper that you've piled onto the kitchen counters, and your 2-year old keeps darting past your watchful gaze to dunk her (sensitive, allergic) mitts in various containers of dye and your 5-year old is fixated on painting the already-colored eggs with the glow-in-the dark paint that came with the kit, even though the eggs are still wet, and then drags you, every 2 minutes, with Tie-Dye Girl clinging to you like an aggressive fern, into the bathroom where you must all stand in the dark to view the Glory that is glow-in-the-dark eggs--LIGHT! DARK! LIGHT! DARK!--and the the Girl steps in the cat's water bowl (DARK!) and you realize that most of the glow-in-the-dark paint is actually on the Boy's head (LIGHT!) and just when you start to think your brain is going to actually and truly melt and ooze out of your ear (DARK!), something amazing happens, the universe and reality shift, and you realize--

My God. Look at these children, these beautiful, glowing children.

I am the luckiest bitch on this earth.

That--that moment--is the book "Waiting for Birdy". A thousand times over, and placed on paper by someone who has the ability to put it all--this whole insane beautiful neurotic hopeful glorious gross incredible life--into words better than I ever could. The thing is, I'm pretty sure I would love this book even if my kids weren't about the same age as Ben and Birdy, or even if I didn't have kids at all. And this collection of essays written during (and primarily about) the author's second pregnancy are about so much more than that. Like all the other "mommy blogs" that I love, the essays (most of which are re-edited versions from the Ben & Birdy column in my blogroll) are by a mother and so strongly involve that identity but also go beyond it, out into the stratosphere of being a woman and a writer and a partner and God love you, Catherine, a hypochondriac who might just be able to give me a run for my money. But who also gets that she's the luckiest bitch on this earth. Truly.

Catherine Newman, I am so buying you a drink one of these days. A PINK drink! The rest of you--buy this book. Seriously. I mean it. Or I'm not sharing the glow-in-the-dark paint with you. And oh, you don't want to miss out on that.

Really.

It's always a good time for George Bailey

...especially when _It's a Wonderful Life_ in 30 seconds with bunnies. Da-duuh!
Edited to note that I am copying Trisha, and who wouldn't? Cause she rocks. She posted something else from this site, which is how I found it, but I am a slackard and forgot to say that. And she gently mentioned that she had also posted the bunnies back in October, to which I reply--how the hell did I miss that? Duh. Anyhow, Dr. B already plans to kick my ass over the Peeps thing, so really, I'd better not push my luck.

Peep Wars

If wasting time in favor of reading random and sugar-coated musings is your thing (and if you're here, God help you, it apparently is), check out the comments on Dr. B's Peeps post. I always say that we should avoid judging those whose views oppose our own (yes I do so! shut the eff up!), and so even though the good Bitch has made an unholy alliance with the travesty of foodstuff that is Peeps, I still heart her. Go read the comments, they're funny. Especially the quotes from the crazy Italian chocolate maker's Web site.

But Peeps? Yeah, they're still nasty as shite.

Random randomness

It's been said before by better people than me, but I'll say it again--the new Blogger comments blow. If you use them and you aren't hearing from me much anymore, it isn't because I'm not there, it's because the damned things never load. So, lucky you, I guess! Way to shut me up.
**************
If one were to find a black spot on one's tongue, and one were to freak out and Google the hell out of that fucker, one would find nothing but references to Labrador retrievers, sarcoma, HIV, and the Black Death. Then one might (just might, mind you), consider that the weird skin thingy on one's calve might actually not be just a weird skin thingy like the dermatologist said, but might instead actually be the first sign of some impending Horrible Wasting Death. Then one might be forced to locate the Chica every, oh, 5 minutes, to ask her whether one looked more pallid than usual. And it's a good thing she's one's best friend, because otherwise her suggestion that it might just be some sort of canker sore could be taken as just a little laissez faire, if you know what one means, just a little too "oh, well, sure you might be dying, but could you possibly be overreacting?" And one can't have that kind of attitude getting around, now can one?
**************
Here's what makes me crazy (number 8452): when I tell someone how much we love those Junie B. Jones books and they say, "Oh, well, we can't read those at our house, they're just a little too rough, you know, a little too wild. I think they might be a bad influence." Because we love them so much because the Boy IS Junie B. Jones. So cut Junie B. some friggin' slack, people.
**************
Did I mention that I have the Black Death? Either that, or I'm turning into a Lab. Woof.

Can of worms

I might be setting myself up for widespread hatred and vilification, but I have to say it anyway.

Peeps? WTF? Could anything be nastier? And I mean that in a bad way.

Except when they're melting, they kinda look like Magical Trevor's hat. That's a saving grace.

You would think

I am officially my own grandmother. I keep falling asleep in the Boy's bed at 8:00, then waking up at midnight and wandering around aimlessly, going to my own bed and lying there unable to sleep, then finally falling asleep and failing to get up at 5:00 when my alarm goes off. See, now I'm starting to think I should just go to bed with the darned kid at 8:00, set a little watch alarm for 1:00 am, then actually get up and start the day. That seems to be the only way I'm ever going to accomplish anything, ever again, in my life. Oy vey.
****************
So today at the Acupuncturist's, I saw Acupuncturist 2. At some point, I asked about the CD player and whether I could expect more Interludes With Truckers. "Oh boy," she laughed, rolling her eyes. "So did you hear satanic voices too?" "I heard redneck voices," I said, "which is pretty much the same thing." "Ah," said A2, "well. A1 neglected to mention what had happened that day when you were in here. The next day, I was here all alone, and I'd just seen someone who had told me that she'd had to have her house cleared because of some sort of freaky something going on, and all of a sudden, while I'm up front filling out paperwork, I start hearing these weird voices. They kept getting louder and louder, and when A1 came back I totally lost it. I was sure the room was possessed. And she said, 'Ohhhhh yeah...I forgot to tell you...'" I think I laughed so hard I shook a needle loose. I mean, come on, even if you think it's all a crock of shinola--that's pretty funny. Or maybe I just have a warped sense of humor...
*****************
Sunday, I went to a gathering of old college friends, including some of my college roommates that I haven't seen in 15 years. I took the Boy, because he wanted to go and other kids were going to be there. As we were leaving, I said, "Oh, B, I'm so excited! You know, these are my friends from when I was Troy's [our neighbors' son] age!" And the Boy said, "Oh, but Mama. I don't really like old people. I mean, I like them, but they freak me out cause they're so wrinkly. I mean, they're nice, they just...have so much...skin." Thank you, dear.

His gems during the party: Of course every time someone new would come in, everyone would yell out happily. Passing through at one of these moments, the Boy shook his head and sighed, "I hate it when all the ladies scream." Later, just before we left and when he was starting to crash, the last of my old roommates came in. Standing in the kitchen, the Boy asked, "Who is that man?" and I said, "Oh, honey, he's one of my old, old friends." The Boy got this completely miserable pout and turned away. I leaned down to him. "Hon," I whispered, "what's going on?" He sniffed, then sighed, "I want old, old friends!" "Well, bud," I laughed, "you have to be OLD first!" He was not appeased.

Blessed are the MEEK, you jackasses!

I'm trying to see the divine in everyone, even the people who make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. But come on...

"As the vice-regents of God, we are to bring His truth and His will to bear on every sphere of our world and our society," he wrote in a pamphlet handed out
to attendees. "We are to exercise godly dominion and influence over our neighborhoods, our schools, our government ... our entertainment media, our news media, our scientific endeavors -- in short, over every aspect and institution of human society."

One conference goer explained the imperative in terms of immigrants living in the United States. "The country is getting further away from Christian values, and we're being stifled," Debbie Mochle-Young of Santa Monica, Calif., told the Christian Science Monitor. "Other nationalities are coming to live here and say, 'We want our beliefs,' but they don't let you have yours."

This is from an article on Salon today. (You can access it after watching a brief ad.) This is the most horrifying thing I've read all week, and these days, that's saying a lot. Um, folks? I even believe in God, and this scares the hell out of me. Vice-regents of God? Godly dominion? Sweet Joseph in a Walnut Shell. This type of attitude has jack to do with God. It has to do with fear and hatred and a desire for power. Not peace, not love, not divinity--power. For God's "vice-regents." And I know this is not news to anyone who has eyes to see, but how the hell did we get here? I am literally nauseated. And I'm pissed! It's like when you have this friend, and they're really cool and kind and loving, and they cut you all types of slack and give you good advice, and then some asshole who's maybe met them once (but knows NOTHING about them because all the asshole can ever talk about or think about or see is themselves) starts telling everyone about this friend and how "she wouldn't like you doing that" or "she would never do this" or "if you want her to be your friend, too, you better do this." And all of a sudden, everyone thinks your friend is a huge bitch, and she isn't! But she's off doing humanitarian work in some distant land, or hiking a mountain, or something else equally befitting her coolness, and she can't defend herself.

I'm just raving now, and I need to shut up and put my head between my knees.

An embarrassment of riches

Are your monitors going all wacky from the peace and contentment I am radiating out from here? From the way I absolutely cannot believe what a fortunate, fortunate soul I am?

This afternoon the kids and I went over to my acquaintance Sally's house. Now, Sally and I have known each other for several years, but it's been a casual type of knowing. Our kids have gone to the same daycare and school; she helped the Ex find his new home when we separated; we chat when we run into each other at school functions. But we've never really done more than that, I think because we've both had bigger fish to fry these past few years. I don't feel it's my place to give you too much detail into her life (even though Sally is not, of course, her real name), but I think it's safe to say that she and I seem to have pissed off the same card dealer. Like my family, she and her clan have been faced with medical issues and marital troubles, although happily, her marriage made it through the fire and she's now pregnant with her third child. Her oldest son, who is 7, has ADHD.

I don't know if I can fully express how exquisitely wonderful the afternoon was. First, I should tell you that I am already damned lucky in the friends department. There's the Chica, of course, who is the Earth's Finest Woman, end of story. As if having her was not enough to fill up my fair friend quotient for the rest of my life! Her daughter and the Boy know each other as "cousins" and actually get along quite well most times, although they have earned the joint nickname of "Conan and Red Sonja". Another friend who used to be a neighbor has always stood up for the Boy, and he and her daughter get along splendidly (although now that they're getting older, her daughter is getting more interested in hanging out with the other girls). Many of my other friends and relations are supportive and funny and marvelous, and of course there's you, my dear, darling blog friends, you groovy angels of goodwill, scattered all about like hidden treasure. So I feel like one of those people who keep winning lotteries and contests and whatnot until you just want to smack them. Only instead of a bunch of dorky prizes, I have this group of incredible women (and men), each one different and yet each one a matching piece to some grain of who I am.

Over tea, we discussed the Great Mother Paranoia. Now and then, one of the boys would dash in with an emergency, and Sally would kindly and firmly remind them that they could choose whether they wanted to play in the den or the basement, but they may not play in here. Amid all the chaos, we continued our conversation, paused at interruptions, and then continued. Because we both live in the tornado, there were no sidelong glances, no pursed lips, no frustrated sighs. Dear God, people, it was heaven.

After a while, she threw a blanket down on the living room floor, hauled out 4 boxes of crackers and a carton of cheese spread, plunked her beautiful pregnant self down and told me, "It's snack time or I'm going to barf. Do you mind?" The children migrated outside and we talked about medications and meditations and baby clothes. The Girl wandered back in and joined us. Sally got a different carton of spread. "None of these crackers taste good to me. I am just going to keep opening things until something doesn't make me want to yak. I hope you don't think I'm a complete freak." And then she laughed.

You know that feeling, that beatific feeling you get when you click with someone and you realize, "Wow. This person and I are going to be friends."? And it's like an unexpected gift, like someone just handed you a present all wrapped up and glittering, and all you have to do is open it up?

Sorry about your monitors, though.

Graceful, just like his Mama

The roller rink was a success. And by "success", I mean that the Boy enjoyed himself. Although his teacher's greeting to me this afternoon began with the words "If you notice a lot of bruises..."

Yeah, I've heard that one before. A lot.

Later, I got to hear about how his friend, Maddie, was willing to sacrifice herself to save him. "We were skating, and we were headed for the wall, and I couldn't stop, and I hollered 'MADDIE!" and I closed my eyes, and she jumped in front of the wall so I wouldn't hit it!" Granted, they were probably going all of .00001 mile per day, but have I mentioned how big my Boy is? He's 4 feet tall, people. He's a 4' tall, 60-pound 5 year old. I bet I know the first words that Maddie's dad heard this afternoon.

"If you notice a lot of bruises..."

Miss Smartypants meets the YMCA

A direct quote from the Girl's "My Day" report:

...her pretend cry was cracking us up--She's been doing it when she doesn't get something she wants and stops as soon as you tell her to stop pretending.

Ah, my little SBFH-lette.

[Miss Smartypants has left the building (i.e., there used to be a photo here).]

Please don't misunderstand. Honestly, I don't encourage whining or crying. It's more that I just can't take it seriously enough to be annoyed by it yet. Look at that face (while you can, you know the shelf-life of pictures around here)! Here's a typical conversation, overheard while brushing our teeth:
Me: How 'bout a kiss, you?
Girl: [See above]
Me: Yuck, no licking! A regular kiss!
G: Mama, shtick ow yo tooooongue!
Me: No!
G: [Pouting] Shtick ow yo tongue!
Me: No.
G: SHTICKOWYOTONGUE!
Me: Uh-uh.
G: [Coy] Shtiiiick ow yoooo tuh-uhnge...
Me: Nope.
G: My no like you, Mama.
Me: Well, I like you.
G: [Brightly] My like you too!

Remember that Seinfeld episode in which Kramer kept trying out the line "These pretzels are making me thirsty!"? It's like that. Little Drama Queen. I don't know where she gets that. What?

The Boy, now, he's excited about the big field trip tomorrow to...the roller rink. I'm having flashbacks of my 6th grade self and Gina G. putting on our sparkly scarves and our lip gloss and skating (or in my case, clopping) around the rink to the melodious strains of the Village People. Dear God, what a wretched preteen was I. The first 8-track I ever owned was Donna Summer's "On the Radio," and I think I spent an entire summer right around that time listening to the sound track to "Grease". (Or maybe that was later. In general, I have an excellent memory--I can remember as far back as 20 months of age--but I have a hard time getting certain timelines right from that period of my life.)

In any case, I think he'll have fun. As we snuggled up in his bed tonight just after lights out, he asked again whether the big day was really tomorrow. "Yes," I whispered, "Just remember what you learned in ice skating class, and don't be afraid of falling down, and you'll have a great time." "Oh," he murmured, "I won't be afraid. But if I'm skating and skating and there are some steps and I'm going so fast and I vroom over them, zoom! then I think that might be a good time to be worried." "Well,yes," I say, "maybe then."

My goal in life...

...is to make enough money that I can fly my children to Australia and have these people take their portraits. Wow.

That Old Time Religion--Now with Ketchup!

It was "drama day" at Sunday school, and the kids got to put on some sort of puppet show, of which I know only that the Boy got to be Jesus, and apparently it was Jesus as Punch from "Punch and Judy" because Jesus beat the, well, the bejesus out of the other puppet. "But," said the Boy happily, "everyone laughed and when we were finished, they all came and shook my hand! And even the kid with the other puppet thought it was funny. Everyone thought it was so funny!" I'm thinking of apprenticing him out to Mel Gibson as a screenwriter for "The Passion 2: Jesus Kicks Some Ass."

Then they made their own hand puppets out of paper lunch sacks, and the Boy made a donkey. With its tale on fire. Which kind of seemed reminiscent of some sort of prank that a donkey would play if it were in a fraternity.

And for the coupe de grace, we had religious instruction at lunch, which featured chicken cutlets, sweet-potato fries, and ketchup. (Hey, I was uninspired. Sue me.) "You know," said the Boy, "today we can have ketchup, but only today. And, well, only on Sundays. Because Jesus died today, on Sunday, and it was all the fault of ketchup, as you know. So, we can only eat ketchup on the days when Jesus died, which is Sundays. For ketchup. That's a rule."

I'm not sure what to do with this information. Maybe Mel will know.*

*****
*I have not seen "The Passion" and I do not plan to see "The Passion." I would like to continue clinging to the days when Mel was your regular everyday hottie and not all into Jesus gore. I am all for Jesus, but in a decidedly "'Jesus Christ Superstar'/Jesus having a beer with the Buddha and Mohammed**/Jesus not voting for Bush" kinda way. Just in case you were wondering.

**And, uh, yeah. Jesus would probably be the only one drinking. I know that. But I'm pretty solid on the voting issue.

My virgin ears

This afternoon, in the kitchen, during a snack break, the Girl spilled her water. Mostly on purpose. (Oh the joys of the Big Girl Cup!) Ensued the following:

The Boy: Girl! Yuck! Fucking damn water!
Me: Gi--WHAT did you say?
B: Fucking damn water.
Me: ... !! ... ...
B: That's what Papa always says when something spills. You know, fucking damn water, fucking damn syrup, fucking damn, fucking damn.
Girl: FUCKIN DAMM!

[Let me just say now, I know that what follows is not the OPR (Optimal Parenting Reaction) for the situation.]

Me: Hmehfh! [Trying to stifle hysterical laughter] Uh, no! NO!
B: [Really running with it, now that I've shown weakness] FUCKING DAMN! FUCKING DAMN!
Me: B, those are very...hawrmph...rude...heesh...words.
G: FUCKIN DAMM!
B: Papa says 'em.
G: FUCKIN DAMM!
Me: Well. Yes. Hrrngth. Sometimes grownups do rude things. That doesn't make it okay.
G: FUCKIN DAMM!
B: FUCKING DAMN!
Me: Shnk! Mommy needs a time out! [As I am obviously not being effective, I go and lock myself into the bathroom, where I roll around in hysterics. Through the door, I hear...]

G: FUCKING DAMN!
B: [In a very sage tone] Girl, don't say that. I don't like hearing it. It's rude.

Once I managed to stop being 12, I let myself out of the bathroom and calmly explained that those words would get him into trouble with other grownups and he needed not to use them. I should also note that although I might have the linguistics of a naval defense worker here, I generally do not employee said talents in the presence of my children. So although I did feel like something of a hypocrite with the whole Rude Word speech, he really did hear it from his father. Fucking damn!

A tangle of thorns

I've been thinking about balance, and about compassion, and about acceptance. Few people understand why I don't hate the Ex. Some people respect that I don't, I suppose, but most people expect me to and some are obviously discomfited when they realize that I don't. I often feel angry with him, and there have been many times when I sincerely wish I could hate him, when I long to believe in a world that is so clearly defined that I could feel nothing but contempt for another person simply because they deserved it. But I see too much grey.
****************
When I was 8, my mother remarried. I think she was lonely, and tired. I think she wanted something different from what her mother and her siblings expected her to do, which was to stay in her mother's house, raising her daughter--three singular women, continuing on in the midst of a long line of lost men, dead men, disappeared men. So she picked a man who showed interest in her--and whom (more importantly, perhaps) everyone, especially her mother, warned her away from. She was just a few years older than I am now.

She heard a lot of rumors about this man. That he'd beaten one of his previous wives (he'd been married twice before), that he wasn't trustworthy, that he was a liar. But he told her his ex-wives had spread lies, that they had run off with other men, that he'd had a low past but had found Jesus and been born again. Personally, I don't hold any of this against Jesus. I don't think he'd want to be mixed up in this story.

So they ended up getting married, and this man convinced my mother that God was calling him to move far away, to a place that needed good Christians to combat the evil forces of Satan that were running rampant in that part of the country. My mother is not a stupid woman, but she can be stubborn, even when it's to her own detriment. She bought this line--or pretended to--and off we went, 2000 miles from the entirety of the universe as I knew it, the grandmother who had cared for me while my mother worked, from the cousins, the aunts, the uncles, the friends, everyone and anyone who might have provided some balance or retreat or image of normalcy in the wake of her figuring out what type of man she'd really married. To a tiny town, and not even the town itself, but the countryside 5 miles outside of town, where the neighbors all farmed and mostly minded their own business, and left you to mind yours, unless there was a fire or some other act of God. Sad, twisted, abusive men who isolate their wives while they slowly drain the life out of them don't count as an act of God.

The first thing he did was sell her car the following summer, while we were visiting my grandmother. The next thing he did was stop working, or stop working more than enough to scrape by but not enough for her to get the money to leave. I don't really remember when he started calling her stupid, or fat, or useless, but I don't imagine it took very long. He decided that we should switch to his denomination of choice--hellfire and brimstone, of course, for that extra touch of mysogenistic indoctrination. To this day, although I hate to admit it because I realize it's unfair, I am horribly prejudiced against evangelical Christian churches. I have several friends who would probably consider themselves to be evangelical Christians, but I have an elaborate system of excuses I make on their behalf, to exempt them from my revulsion.

I don't like this about myself. It's a knee-jerk reaction to the hypocrisy of the man who would drag us to service three times a week, who would make sure we had family prayer time every morning, who would blame the slightest accident or inconvenience on Satan, and who would then spend a goodly amount of the remaining time verbally abusing his wife and trying to cop feels off his stepdaughter. Certainly, even without this, my political and moral ideals are far removed from the conservative branch of my faith; still, I don't have such a negative reaction to any other form of worship, regardless of how far-removed it might be from my own beliefs. I'm working on it. Namaste.

So. This man was the only father I'd ever known. And he was a warped person. When I graduated from high school I left that town, and when I graduated from college I left this country, and yes, I certainly do attribute that at least in part to my desire to get as far away as I possibly could from everything that lay behind me. While I was living in England, my mother divorced him. He wrote me one letter, which contained an apology of sorts, though I don't think there was much sincerity to it, any more than there was in my reply.

If I was going to despise someone, this would be a good place to start. But this man taught me to reject the racism that the rest of my Southern-bred family clings to. This man taught me to take risks and not to give up so easily. He would take us on drives up into the mountains; he pointed out geodes and pyrite and old mines, deer tracks and elk tracks, pinon pines. He used to take me on long walks through the countryside, and we'd sit and watch the prairie dog colonies, try to skip rocks in the streams, climb haystacks. Once, in the fall, we went down the hill, through the cornfields, and he told me about gleaning and what it meant, and about the animals that lived in and off the cornfield, and about the harvest moon, and when we went too far and it started getting cold and dark and I got too tired to walk back, he carried me.

I don't delude myself into thinking he was a good man. He wasn't. I think he's damned; certainly, he's damned himself to a life of lies and sickness. When I turned 30, I reported him to social services. It was all I could do, really, that far after the fact, the fact not being nearly as bad as it could have been, thankfully. Believe me when I say I am a vigilant mother, and I have no tolerance for people who abuse children--or other adults--in any way. But sometimes, I look at my son, and I feel so sad. Not for the man that hurt my mother, or me, but for the man who carried his daughter home through a cornfield, and taught her about arrowheads and rock formations.

The world is grey. When we're lucky, it's even technicolor. But it's never black and white.

Baghdad Burning

I've been meaning for a while to put this link up.

All our petty, petty little shit, people.

Sharpening the knives...

You thought I was kidding with the "Centennial" reference, eh?

Last night was windy. Last night, my friggin' basement window FELL OUT. Completely. Laying on the floor. Earmuffs, everyone.
fuck

The fact that it was an alarmed window does not comfort me so much regarding my happy safe cocoon. On the plus side, the raccoon didn't come in. I don't think. Dear God.

(Be vewy, vewy quiet...)

(Don't say anything, but these past few days? The Boy? He's been ... happy. Just...happy.)
(Happy!)

Protest this!

This alarming news came to me via the Feingold Organization. I see a real difference in the Boy's behavior when he's been exposed to chemicals. The Girl is at an increased risk of asthma. Plus God only knows what types of cancer risks this action would lead to. I'm not an hysteric, and I realize plenty of people might roll their eyes, but honestly. [Edited to add: If you are opposed, please contact the CPSC: email: cpsc-os@cpsc.gov, fax: 301-504-0127, mail: Office of the Secretary, Consumer Product Safety Commission, Washington, DC 20207–0001 Comments should be captioned ‘‘Mattress NPR.’’]

"The CPSC admits they have no exposure data and cannot do a quantitative risk analysis. Instead, they say they are doing a qualitative analysis, by relying on
staff’s professional judgment. In other words, they are guessing. They say study will be ongoing, meaning they will test our entire population, and if they later find human damage, it is the responsibility of other government agencies to ban that specific chemical.

Boric Acid (Roach Killer) exists as loose dust mixed with the cotton batting. There is 1.5 lbs of Boric Acid in the surface of a Queen mattress. Antimony Trioxide is also included in the mixture. This is the least expensive barrier system to flameproof mattresses. The other systems aren't much better, none of them are safe.

Boric Acid (yes, the Roach Killer), Formaldehyde, Melamine, Antimony Trioxide, Vinylidiene Chloride, Zinc Borate, and Decabromodiphenyl Oxide (Brominated flame retardant now being found in women’s breast milk) are the main chemicals being used to flameproof mattresses. Many of these chemicals cause cancer. Some are known to be a
reproductive and developmental toxin: high prenatal mortality, birth defects, reduced fertility, sterility. Liver, kidney, brain, and heart muscle damage are only some effects. Aside from inhalation absorption, some of these chemicals can kill from skin contact alone.

If our government guesses correctly, that it is safe for everyone to sleep in these chemicals, we may save up to 300 people from fire. However, our exposure in mattresses is intimate and chronic. If they are wrong, and they have been wrong in the past, they could harm or kill up to 300 million people. All of us sleep on a mattress. The risk is huge. Hippocrates left us with the admonition: "First do no harm.”

Boy Reporter

The Boy's report on African animals. Read it and weep. The bold parts are his contributions to this "fill in the blank" homework project:

"My report is about the hippos. This animal lives in Africa. This animal eats grass and hay. This animal can be very mean. What a grouchy animal!"
*************
Finally, finally, I got my hair cut. "Isn't it short and sassy?" I said to the Boy. "Am I not just completely short and sassy now?" "Noooo, Mama," he corrected me. "You are TALL and sassy. If you were SHORT and sassy, you would be me."
*************
At 9:00a.m. today, it was snowing. At 4:00p.m., it was 60 degrees. I love this place. (No, I really do.) But...Spring is coming. Every year I get excited about its approach, because every year I conveniently forget what happens in the Spring. Remember "Centennial"? Remember the lady out in the cabin on the plains, with all the children, and the wind blew and blew and blew and blew and blew and she went totally completely utterly nuts?

With extra whipped

So I just got back from lounging around Starbucks with my dear friend Jeannie--remember her? She's about the wittiest person I know (and I'm not just saying that as a suckup because I told her where to find this blog). It's been a while since we got together, so we caught each other up on various crap, and I told her about what the Acupuncturist said.

J: You don't need to hear that shit. Karma shmarma.
Me: That sounds like some drink you'd get here.
J: I'll have a venti double-shot Karma Shmarma, please.
Me: With soy.

A little more nothing, please

I realize I have been a pathetic poster this week; I'm not sure whether I have an excuse other than my Perpetual Inertia. I've spent a lot of time this week foundering around, wondering what I'm supposed to be Doing With My Life, ad nauseum. I had a huge burst of energy at the beginning of the week, which was great while it lasted--houses were getting cleaned, furniture was being bought, work was getting done, asses were being exercised (well, okay, just the one ass)--but that energy petered out around...oh, Wednesday. Since then I've mostly moped around, guzzling IZZE and shaking my fist at the heavens, demanding a sign or an intervention or a semi-clad fireman or something, anything to push me in some direction.

On the kid front, the little dickens are doing okay. The Girl has taken up spitting, which as I recall, her brother toyed with around this age. Now, his karma is biting him in the be-hind as his sister follows him around, randomly spitting various substances at/on/toward him.

And what a few weeks he's been through, poor little guy. After long agonizing, we made the decision to try medication. The dietary changes, the removal of chemicals, the occupational therapy, the parenting tactics, the exercise, the talk therapy--all have made small improvements here and there over the past 6 months. He's much less prone to violent outbursts, the overreaction to touch has almost completely disappeared (and only seems to rear its ugly head when Red Dye From Hell sneaks into his diet), and his physical coordination is improving weekly. Yesterday, he was messing around out in the back yard and started trying to hit a little rubber ball with one of those beach-pong paddles--and did it! He was so excited. That kept him occupied for a while, then he found some old golf balls and his old play golf set, and started whacking golf balls--and hitting them! I'm no golfer, but his swing looked pretty good. So that was a very exciting episode. So anyway, all these things are contributing to what I see as progress. The one thing that isn't getting better, though, is his impulsivity, and that's what finally prompted the decision to go pharmaceutical. The impulsivity is the thing that is starting to cause him problems with his friends. It's the thing that causes him to lash out for no reason--to hit his sister, push a friend, or threaten death and destruction to whomever happens to be nearest. It's the thing that scares me. I can handle the hyperactivity, even the inattention, but I see him in real danger of hurting himself or others if the impulsivity keeps on like it's going.

So. Our wonderful pediatric psychiatrist, may a thousand blessings be showered upon him, talked us through all our options and didn't even roll his eyes when I cried in his office. He just radiates calm, the dear man, and his own daughter and grandsons have dealt with this diagnosis and are well and happy. We decided to try Concerta first. Another plus for the ped-psych: He told us about the whole Canadian Adderall thing, and didn't harumph at me when I immediately said that there was, then, no way in hell we were trying Adderall because I trust the FDA about as far as I can throw Dick "The AntiChrist" Cheney. Long story short, he told us the side-effects to watch for, and off we went.

Side effect #1: Mania. Maaaaania--sounds fun, doesn't it? Well, let's just go on record as saying that it isn't. So much for Concerta.

So then we had the nice discussion about whether this meant that bipolar was more likely, blah blah blah--oh, Tourrettes came up, that was fun. Apparently, I displayed symptoms as a preteen, lala, the brain is a wonderful organ, etc., etc. And long story once again (not so) short, we're trying Strattera, which isn't a stimulant but rather an antidepressant. And so far, the only side effect seems to be that after taking it at dinner, he get pretty sleepy around 7:45 and is out by 8:00. THIS I can live with. There are other, less pleasant side effects that we have to watch out for, and we won't really know whether there's any improvement in his impulsivity for several more weeks, but this is where we are at the moment. This, and scheduling more appointments with the psychologist to help him learn how to deal with his father's bipolar-induced mood swings. And, trying to work with that doctor to figure out how to craft a 504 plan that might help keep him in the school he's in now, even if the district changes our neighborhood boundaries again.

And on a final note, which will finalize the coma you're falling into if you've managed to wade through to this point: The Acupuncturist made an odd pronouncement yesterday. She was pleased over my pulses, which seemed pathogen free, though weak. Then, as she was doing the needle worked, she asked, "Where is your husband from? Is he from Paris? Ex-husband, I mean." Little chat followed, after which she paused, then said, "You know, when I called him your husband...you two have a really strange karmic connection going on. It's the strongest connection I've seen, just this lifelong bond. I'm not saying that it's good or bad, just...strong. He's almost like a physical presence throughout your body." "Huh," I said. "That explains a lot." Then we laughed, but I have to admit that the whole exchange just ticked me off. Not at The Acupuncturist, mind you, just--I don't know. I didn't need to hear that.

But at least I got to fondle the yellow blankie.

IZZE

I am in love. Leave us.

Wild Kingdom

I saw a bald eagle on the way to work today. A few days ago, a fox sat and watched me pass. There are muskrats in the creek behind my house, and coyotes in the field across the street. We had a kingfisher in the tree out back one summer when the Boy was 2 or 3--the Boy named it Peach and we watched it catch fish out of the creek. Once, that same year, a hawk flew over our house with a snake clamped in its talons. There are raccoons in the neighborhood, I know, because the damned things keep crapping along the side of my house (and yes, it is considered toxic waste, and yes, I'm freaking out about it). And every now and then I'll accidentally scare out a rabbit from under a shrub in the backyard.

I will never move to the west side of town, though, because my animal kingdom is a happy animal kingdom (except for the nuclear raccoon crap). On the west side, you start getting rattlesnakes on the bike paths. Also, a friend who lives over there told us at Mom's Nite last month about how the neighborhood kids were jumping on the trampoline at one of the houses next to the school bus stop, and they noticed a big dog sitting up on the hillside, watching them. When they asked their mom if she knew whose dog it was, she realized it was a mountain lion. I loved Marlin Perkins as much as the next kid, but I draw the line at things that think my kids look tasty.

I knew that

Ok. By semi-popular demand (as popular as it gets around here), a brief context of the 10 things:
1. Been an illegal alien 2. Given birth, sans drugs, in less than 3 hours 3. Attended a "naked party" 4. Married a guy I met in a Lambada bar (well, doesn't that explain a lot?) 5. Had a modeling contract 6. Had premonitions 7. Gotten drunk on Dom Perinion 8. Taken ski lessons in the Alps from a guy named Jacques 9. Dated someone who ended up making porn movies 10. Had dinner at the Reform Club in London

This is not going to be well written 'cause I'm tired and not that interested at the moment and just need to plow through it. Read or run, your choice.

2. The Girl. Pretty self-explanatory.

3. and 9. I was a theatre major. Yes, yes, you don't need to say it. So, anyway, I guess we felt the need to do daring and theatrical crap, like halfway through a party declaring that we should all be naked. What can I say? Well, a lot, but I'll limit it to this, directed at all you academics out there: Don't ask students to housesit for you. Especially if you teach theatre. Need I even say this? Just don't. And several of my friends and acquaintances ended up making porn because as we know, that's such a career starter for the earnest actor/actress!

Everything else happened while I lived in London, which came about thusly: I was about to graduate and I was having an existential crisis.

(Sidetrack. Today at work--me to the Chica: "I'm having an existential crisis!" Chica to me: "When are you not? Is it a crisis if it's continuous?" Me: "Uh, probably not. It would be chronic. A chronic crisis? A chronis?" Chica: "That doesn't sound good." Me: "You're right. Sounds like an intestinal disease.")

So I decided to take a year off and go to London--do the 6 month student work permit thing, etc. I started saving and planning with a friend, Jennifer, to go. Jennifer ended up bailing on me, so I started planning with another friend, Maureen. Maureen bailed on me. Fuck it, I said, I'll go alone. Which doesn't seem like much now, but to 21-year old me, that was kinda a big deal. On the plane to London, I was feeling pretty freaked out--I'd sold everything I owned to make enough for the ticket there, the work permit, and $500, which was the minimum you had to have with you for British immigration to let you in (barely). I wish, I thought, that I knew I was doing the right thing. I heard two other American girls my age in front of me, and sort of listening in, I gathered they were on the same program I was. At some point, one of them fell asleep, and the other one and I started chatting. She introduced herself. Seems her name was Jennifer. I would run into her and her friend, Maureen, several times while in London.

And, blah blah blah, I spent 2 years in London on a 6-month work permit. I ended up working for an American woman who worked with international students. As part of that, we did a lot of social crap, and one of the highlights was dinner at the Reform Club (of "Around the World in 80 Days" fame). Very stuffy and elitist, but looks good on paper.

I also overstayed my visa. Hence the illegal alien part. I did it for love (rolls eyes) for the Ex, whom I met one night at a Lambada bar off Oxford Street--the only time I'd been out with friends from my other job at the time--a wine bar in the City. Where the customers didn't tip but did buy us drinks, including Dom Perinion, on several occassions. Memo to all who aim to (at)tend bar internationally: Australians, Yorkshire lasses, and Welshman can drink. You will not be able to keep up and retain your dignity at the same time.

At one point, the Ex and several friends and I took a ski trip to the Alps. And since I had never been skiing, I needed a lesson. And it was the French Alps. Everyone was named Jacques.

The Ex also managed a bar in a popular locale and got to know several interesting people, one of whom ran a PR firm and asked us to do some modeling for some project of hers. A few of the other people involved were professionals, and this one girl--who ended up on Neighbors, actually--took me to her agency afterward and they offered me a contract. At which point, Iiiiiiiii...FREAKED OUT and ran away from success as fast as I could. Cause hey, that's what I did in my 20s. Go, me. In retrospect, though--whatever.

Which brings us to 6. Hmm. Here's the thing. I dream a lot. A lot. Vividly, lucidly, frequently. And occassionally, things I dream end up happening. Short list:

• I dream that I am unintentionally pregnant. All I know is that the father is named (Ex's name) and has dark hair (as does Ex). The Boy was, in fact, unplanned as the result of NFP and the effects of jet-lag. However, I had this dream 10 years before his birth. When I dreamt it, I was a virgin and didn't know anyone of Ex's name or description.
• On the road trip back from Spring Break at a roommate's family's house, I fall asleep and dream that I'm having a heart attack. When we walk in the door back at our house, we find out that my roommate's mother has called. While we were traveling home, her father died of sudden, unexpected heart failure.
• I dream I am in the local university library and that I am freaking out because a flood is coming. A few days later, a freak flood occurs. Most of the books in the university library (along with a swathe of the town) are destroyed.
• I am living in London and freaking out because my life is falling apart. I needed support and had none--it was all 4000 miles away and I couldn't get to it. I get a letter from the Chica, who was freaked out because she'd dreamed about me; a dream in which she'd found me sitting in a hallway, staring at her miserably, but no matter how much she begged me to tell her what was wrong, I wouldn't talk.
• I dreamed pretty much all of the Ex's affair, including several odd and disturbing details that I won't go into.
• While in London, I spent an entire day doing that "Weird, I thought I just saw so-and-so from high school" thing. Except when I talked to my mom a week later, she told me this person had been found dead the week before.

Those are the most interesting ones, I suppose. I'm not counting semi-freaky shite like the Jennifer/Maureen thing, which happens pretty much constantly, or stuff like picking up the phone to call someone and not having a dial tone and then realizing it's because a call from that same person was already incoming and they're on the line.

Pretty mundane, really, but there you have it.


Go home now!

She's not stubborn, she's my daughter

Well, the Boy is pretty much back to normal ("I need more tetcherp. Karpetch. What is this stuff?" "Ketchup." "Yeah, ketchup. I kept trying to say ketchup, but it was not working."), and the Girl is pretty much--very much--TWO.

We went to the park on Saturday--The Dinosaur Park, which is not what it's really called but it's what we call it, this fantastic melee of children and fake fossil-filled climbing walls and a giant stone mammoth right in the middle--and this lovely little 7-year old adopted the Girl. "Can I play with her?" she asked, and of course I said "Hell yes!" Okay, I just said yes, and then sort of followed them around at a safe distance. This girl helped my Girl slide and spin and play hide-and-seek and get into one of the little rocking dinosaurs, then she must have needed a break and ran off to climb the mammoth while the Girl occupied herself. After a few minutes, the Girl realized her idol wasn't attending her anymore, and started to get frustrated trying to climb out of the dinosaur, so I went to help. Boy, good thing toddlers aren't allowed to handle daggers.

"Wheah my guhl?" the Girl demanded. "She's climbing. Do you want some help getting out?" "DON TUSH ME!" Her Majesty spat out, then: "GO HOEM, MOMMY. GOOO HOEM!"

She and the Boy have a new evening game. It's called--I am not making this up--Lick My Face. In which the involved parties chase each other, with the intention of--you guessed it--licking each other's faces. I am either way too cool or way too beaten down because my take on this is, Hey. They're happy, I have 10 minutes to make dinner, no harm no foul. I usually manage to get nearly all the way through the food prep before I hear the game end, and here's how it ends: Someone yells "HEY! LICK MY BOTTOM!" Oh yes, we have rules in this house, people, and the number one rule is that only the cat is allowed to perform any sort of bottom licking and then only on himself. It still ain't pretty, but it's legal.

What else, what else? I went mad with exotic spending and bought a crapload of aromatherapy shite to replace those nasty chemically plugin things, and also a hutch. A hutch! It's cheap, and it's modestly sized, and it will hold all my kitchen appliances. Hallelujah.

List of Things We Didn't Have When I Was Your Age, as explained by me, to the Boy, at dinner:

• VCRs
• DVDs
• CDs
• Microwaves
• Push-button phones
• Home computers
• Gameboys
• IPods

"Oh!" he interjected, really getting into this game, "and HAMBURGERS! You didn't have meat, right?"

Nope, no meat. The dinosaurs kept getting to it first.

Just a question...

Gee, does anyone think that Sid and Marty Krofft might have done some serious drugs? Anyone? Anyone?

This here place needs some spiffin' up

I need to do something with all that boring wasted space in the right column. Book list? Movie list? Anyone know offhand a good way to do that in Blogger? Cause I could look it up, but have you people not figured out that I am L-A-Z-Y?

Speaking of which, off, off, damned computer--I must go get some exercise. I WILL triumph over Self-Defeating Behavior #4:

My.Big.Ass.

Reunion coming up this summer, dontcha know. Plus, I keep hurting random body parts, like my wrist, which is STILL tweaked from shoveling the first time it snowed back in, oh, October? I really do not wish to end up feeling decrepit at the age of 37.

Poetry time!

Ode to Dove Eggs
An Egg is not a Heart, and yet
The chocolate tastes as good, I'll bet.
And like the Heart, the Egg, I'm sure
Knows places where it can endure.
On ass, on thigh, on poochy tum,
On every part (except my thumb).
"No more! Go jogging!" Good Sense begs--
Oh, what the hell, just one more Egg.

Crying a little

Exactly.

When I come around

I promise to go the Jo(e) route--I love your list, Joe(e)--and do some explainin' about some of the meme items. Maybe tonight; today I'm taking a mental/intestinal (we won't go there, will we? Oh no, we will not) health break during which I will drink a lot of the acidophilus powder that the Acupuncturist gave me (look! She's been Upgraded to Title Case!), work on my f-ity-f laptop, and try to find answers to the following questions:

• Medically induced childhood mania--will my poor baby ever stop talking long enough to breathe? And how long should I give the doctor to call me back before I Completely Freak Out?
• What to do when your school district comes right out and tells you that they're going to rezone your neighborhood whenever they darned well feel like it (and they've felt like it 4 times in the past 5 years)?
• Bacon? Or bacon?
• Will I ever learn to quit procrastinating? (well, maybe I'll think about that one tomorrow)
• Does anyone still have Dove Hearts on clearance?
• Am I the only person who checks my email obsessively, praying for a crumb? A little crumb? As though I live in the backwoods with no one to talk to (which I don't)?
• Dear God in Heaven, will I never get laid AGAIN????????

Until then, talk amongst yourselves, please.

I know! I know! Shut up.

Well, who can resist this, though? Via Profgrrrrl, Jo(e), P/H, and Frog:
Ten Things I've Done That You Probably Haven't

1. Been an illegal alien
2. Given birth, sans drugs, in less than 3 hours
3. Attended a "naked party"
4. Married a guy I met in a Lambada bar (well, doesn't that explain a lot?)
5. Had a modeling contract
6. Had premonitions
7. Gotten drunk on Dom Perinion
8. Taken ski lessons in the Alps from a guy named Jacques
9. Dated someone who ended up making porn movies
10. Had dinner at the Reform Club in London

Tonight, as I was putting him to bed, the boy looked at me and said, "Hey...what's that? You have sparkles in your eyes! What are those sparkles? Oh, I know those sparkles--those are love sparkles, that sparkle because you have so much loooove." Oh boy...

Please stop me(me) now

Found at Cheeky Prof's, and not so shocking that y'all will disown me; bold statements ARE true (i.e, I have not done those things).

I’ve Never Kissed A Member Of The Opposite Sex
I’ve Never Kissed A Member Of The Same Sex
I’ve Never Crashed A Friend’s Car
I’ve Never Been To Japan
I’ve Never Been In A Taxi
I’ve Never Been In Love
I’ve Never Had Sex In Public
I’ve Never Been Dumped
I’ve Never Done Cocaine
I’ve Never Shoplifted
I’ve Never Been Fired (laid off, yes; fired, no)
I’ve Never Been In A Fist Fight
I’ve Never Had Group Intercourse
I’ve Never Snuck Out Of My Parent’s House
I’ve Never Been Tied Up
I’ve Never Regretted Having Sex With Someone
I’ve Never Been Arrested
I’ve Never Made Out With A Stranger
I’ve Never Stolen Something From My Job (ok, I waffled here, but I'm with CP, office supplies probably count)
I’ve Never Celebrated New Years In Time Square
I’ve Never Gone On A Blind Date
I’ve Never Lied To A Friend
I’ve Never Had A Crush On A Teacher
I’ve Never Celebrated Mardi Gras In New Orleans
I’ve Never Been To Europe
I’ve Never Skipped School
I’ve Never Slept With A Co-Worker
I’ve Never Cut Myself On Purpose
I’ve Never Had Sex At The Office
I’ve Never Been Married
I’ve Never Been Divorced
I’ve Never Had Sex With More Than One Person Within The Same Week
I’ve Never Posed Nude (I assume we mean professionally? Let's hope so.)
I’ve Never Gotten Someone Drunk Just To Have Sex With Them
I’ve Never Killed Anyone
I’ve Never Received Scars From My Sex Partner
I’ve Never Thrown Up In A Bar
I’ve Never Purposely Set A Part Of Myself On Fire
I’ve Never Eaten Sushi
I’ve Never Been Snowboarding
I’ve Never Had Sex At A Friend’s House While They Were Throwing A Party
I’ve Never Had Sex In A Dressing Room
I’ve Never Flashed Anyone
I’ve Never Met Anyone From Online

Although, geez, now I look at it, I feel awfully boring. And please stop me from doing more of these dang memes.

Geeky Friday at SBFH

I am slightly alarmed by how exciting I found this randomly located post. My God! I just want to go around subtracting things. Honestly, I'm not being sarcastic, I really do. Austrian method, where have you been all my life?

Furthermore, I think the sentence meme would be more entertaining if I added the previous player's sentence. As I commented to GM, my poor little sentence all by itself sounds geeky, but when I add hers:

"Or find a way to make it more pleasant. Training with a megabyte each of spam and non-spam seems quite sufficient."

Now that almost sounds kinda kinky! Goodie!

Okay, okay, I'll do the damned meme already

Might as well...via Geeky Mom (among others):
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don’t search around and look for the “coolest” book you can find. Do what’s actually next to you.

"Training with a megabyte each of spam and non-spam seems quite sufficient."

Aren't you glad I don't do memes?

VITriol, anyone?

To go off an entirely different tangent from what I usually blab about...
Interesting...to me at least...is the response to this new "corporate" blog. This is an interesting situation. It's a technical publication with primarily technical content, including several very technical blogs--and this blog. I'm assuming the primary readership of this site is male. Is that sexist of me? Uh...no. I can pretty much guarantee the primary readership is male. But that might be sort of tangential...is this blog getting slammed because 1) it's a "editorial" style blog on a technical site, 2) it's a "feminist" style blog on a male-dominated site, 3) it's being force-fed to people who subscribe to the site's RSS feed purely to get technical info, 4) it's too "personal" to be on a "corporate" site, 5) the author doesn't seem particularly technical herself, and so far hasn't really written about specifically applicable examples from a tech worker standpoint, 5) other? Looking at the comments, there already seems to be a sort of pro/con dynamic going on...Hmmm.
I can say right off I don't like the blog format, and the site itself--ugh. Usability, anyone? But the content...the content I'm not sure about. I don't know, the whole thing just muddles me.

Got your vanilla, full-caf, slippery qi here

So the acupuncturist is flummoxed by my "slippery qi". Yep, you heard me right--slippery qi. Now that there's some sexy!

And so I found myself being spoken to, sternly, about the necessity of taking all my herbs, dammit (except the acupuncturist doesn't say "dammit", she just gives me the patented Disappointed Alternative Healer look) and--worst of all!--deprived of Yellow Blankie. Bummer. Instead, I got poked in the back this time, meaning not only no Blankie, but I had to get nekked from the waist up and lie face down with my head in one of those funky massage-bed head-holding thingies. Not to get too technical.

Well, I thought to myself, look on the bright side. I usually can't really fall asleep because she has me flat on my back and I end up starting to snore (yes, I'm my own Gramma) and wake myself up. No snoring with my head in a yoke like this! Snoozies all around!

So there I was, in the nice little room with the nice little candles and the little CD player playing little chanty-shmanty music, and I'd dropped off into a nice peaceful slumber, when something sort of intruded on the edge of consciousness. A voice...far off, and yet...awfully...rednecky.

What's that? my brain sort of thought about thinking, Something about a horse? There's a tack shop next door. That sounds like a radio. Does she have a repairperson in another room? And why does Hugh Jackman still have his clothes on, dammit? When suddenly, directly behind me, a voice blared out:

BLAYECK STALLION! COMIN' THROUGH TOWN, Y'ALL, AH'M ON THE RODE NOW, INEEBODEE GOT A WERD FER BLAAAAAAYECK STAAAALLION?!

Have you ever seen a half-naked pincushion scream and levitate 3" off of a massage table? Well.
Somehow, the CD player picked up some CB transmission from the highway. And she thought my qi was slippery before.

In which my vocabulary earns its keep

The Boy, upon being splurted by his yogurt while opening it:
"I'm being assaulted by yogurt!!"

And so it begins...

Metaphysically speaking, I'm digging my own grave here by even acknowledging this, but...
Remember my silly little childhood qualms about inanimate objects? Well, tonight, the Girl's bedtime was severely disrupted by the fact that she is now afraid of her nightlight. Her boring, clear plastic, light-sensitive $3 nightlight. Uh-huh.

G: Lighut scare me!
Me: What scares you?
G: [pointing] Lighut!
Me: Your light? Your nightlight?
G: [nodding] Lighut see me! Lighut lookin...it see me!
Me: Your. Light. Sees. You.
G: Ye-ah...
Me: Sweetie? It's. A. Light.

[Turn on lamp. Take G to nightlight. Pull out nightlight. Hand it to G.]

Me: See? Just a silly ol' light.
G: Uh-huh.
Me: You ok now?
G: Uh-huh.
Me: Okay.

[Put light back in. Turn off lamp. Take G back to bed.]

G: LIGHUT SEE MEEEEE!!!
Me: [AGHGHGHH!]

Forget wanting to have only one kid at a time in diapers. I'll take having only one kid at a time in therapy, thankyouverymuch.

I didn't say it!

So, the Ex said that the Boy was having sort of a hard time this afternoon. After some discussion and calming down, this conversation (which, btw, the Ex handled with a good sense of humor) ensued:

The Boy: So, this is why I'm going to start taking some medicine.
The Ex: Yes. How do you feel about that, buddy?
B: Pretty good.
E: Do you understand what the medicine is for?
B: Yes, it's to help my brain get the chemicals it needs, so I can make better choices.
E: That's right.
B: You need some of that medicine, Papa!
E: Buddy, I already take lots of medicine for that sort of thing.
B: Oh. Well, it's not working.

First the pear jam, and now this. Sigh.

Bad Mother has decided to leave us and go legit (as if she wasn't already--I just meant with the bloggish stuff) over at Salon. Catch her there.
(And no, I can't believe I just said "leave us". Where the Hades did that come from? I would say I need to get out more, but we know what happens when I go out.)

Coolio

Thanks to Profgrrrrl for pointing me to Julie's brilliance. Have I done it correctly?
I have! Yay, me. Well, no, yay Julie.

Go home now!

Not quite to the Divine part

[I just wanted to say thank you to those of you who have listened (in RL and here) to me gripe and sent me good vibes. I feel like Blanche DuBois, only more sober and with less of an accent. And without the creepy brother-in-law.]

Self-defeating habit #3: Death grip

So I've been thinking about forgiveness. It has some nasty connotations, that word. As in

I forgive you
because I am good, you are bad, and you need me to forgive you. Go on, admit it. Admit it, damn you!
I forgive you
because otherwise I will be bad, we must forgive, must must must must go ahead, do it again.
I forgive you
but don't worry, I'll find some way to make you pay, probably by being a complete Betty to you for the next 10 years.
I forgive you
but not really.

Well.
But then there's the definition of forgiveness that I've seen Anne Lamott (among others) write about:

Forgiveness is giving up the wish that things had been different.

I wish that The Boy's teacher understood how to encourage him instead of be frustrated by him.
I wish that The Boy didn't have ADHD.
I wish that the Ex was well. I wish he had made different choices. I wish I had made different choices in our relationship. I wish we had been able to love each other in a way that would have turned out differently.
I wish that my father had made different choices. I wish that my mother's second husband hadn't been deranged.
I wish that I hadn't hated myself for as long as I did.
I wish that my kids didn't have to grow up in a split family. I wish they didn't have to deal with emotional illness.

These are lovely wishes. I'm very attached to them. I've nurtured some of them from tiny little wisps of wishes into huge towering blinding flames of wishes. I don't want to let them go. But they're hanging on around my neck and they're dragging me down to the bottom.

I think I'll let them go. I think I'll swim. Who knows, I might even decide to fly.

Go home now!

Ohhhh baby!

Squirrel's Nest is open again! Joy, joy, joy. Time to get my Easter candy on...
Honestly, the stuff they sell is really wonderful and pretty darned inexpensive all things considered. They take a break in January and I'm almost out of Pear Jam! mmmmm.

What have you learned, Dorothy?

All righty, then.
Self defeating behavior #1: Overreacting! to! every! little! thing!
Self defeating behavior #2: Stress drinking as opposed to, say, stress cleaning or stress working or wow, maybe stress meditating?

So that's a pretty good start down the path to self realization, wouldn't you say? Don't worry, it'll take more than that to defeat my Lenten goal. No one hangs onto a Catholic ritual like a Methodist girl with Buddhist leanings who practices metaphysics, likes the way the Episcopalians think, drinks like a Lutheran, and has that Jewish mother-guilt thing going on.

Haha God, Veeeeery funny

Warning: Drunken blogging ahead. (Wow, I almost typed "Blunken Drogging". Uhhhh, yeah.)

So. Day 1 of Lent. I'm giving up self-defeat, remember? Which I would describe, in my case, as all the crap which lends itself to my Drama Queen persona--drinking, over-analyzing, worrying, blah blah blah.

I (stupidly. STUPIDLY!) agreed to go out tonight with a friend from work (whom I briefly considered dating just after my divorce) and his fiance, her brother, and assorted others. Now, I know I don't have anything in common with these folks, all said and done. But I like my friend, and his future brother-in-law is doing me a favor by appraising something material for me, so sure, I can take an hour to have dinner at a restaurant 2 blocks from my house. I'll meet them there after I drop off the kids, I'll have a bite to eat, I'll come home after an hour, all done.

I'm very uncomfortable as the evening begins because at heart, I'm pretty anitsocial in situations like these. I love to go out with my friends, I love to meet new people, but I wasn't all that into being here. Plus, we have to wait for a table (it's Kids Eat Free night), I'm stressed cause I have a lot to do at home. So, okay, I'll have one drink while we wait for the table.

Then they finally show us to our table. As we walk to it, I make eye contact with the woman in the booth directly across from it. Who happens to be...

(you knew this was coming)

The Woman Whom My Husband Fucked And Then Left Me For.

Wow. What a fun night this has turned out to be. I can drink 5 vodkas in an hour on an empty stomach. Who knew?? Wheeeeee.

Is this God's way of telling me not to be a pretend Catholic? Hmmm. Maybe I'll just go for something simple next year, like not sticking red hot needles in my eyes. THAT I bet I can do. Fuck me very much. G'night.
Go home now!

Give it up

For lent, I'm giving up self-defeating behaviors. And I'm not even Catholic!

Or maybe it's this

There was a day not long ago when I sat down mid-staircase and wept because a thought came into my head, and I knew it to be true:

I am disappointed in my son. I am disappointed by him.

This thought slapped me upside the heart. How could I possibly feel this way about my baby, who is truly such a blessed and wondrous creature, whom I love with all my life, who takes my hand while we're walking and says, "I like to help people," who is healthy and smart and sweet and whose only problem is a fairly manageable behavior disorder?

And I thought, it's because I'm just this woman who once was this girl who thought things would turn out differently. That she'd meet the love of her life and do the right things and avoid the mistakes her mother had made, and she'd have her family and she would keep them safe and happy and not at all screwed up like she had been. But they didn't, and I couldn't, and I can't. I know how fortunate I am. I can see how really simple the solutions are. I don't have to agonize over the fact that I married a man who didn't exist outside of my determination. I don't have to blame myself for the Boy's sadness; I can step back and look behind me at every signpost that has been lining the road for the past 3 years and accept that he has ADHD and that medication will help him. I can stop trying to see how much guilt I can slather on myself by feeling like I absolutely must solve every problem because every problem is the result of my mistakes. I can stop agonizing over the fact that I am an ungrateful wretch who doesn't appreciate all she has and has the gall to be disappointed over something so treatable. It really requires such a little thing--to say, I accept these things. I accept them, and so I can see past them. I can see that I truly have everything I need and more. And that I'm worthy of it, despite being a human being who messes up and has unworthy thoughts and worries and fears. But oh, it's hard, it's so, so hard.

I'm struck by how many people out here seem to be feeling some version of this. One woman who finally was able to have children (twins) after blogging about her long efforts now feels horribly selfish and alone because, how can she admit that she is exhausted and frightened and everything else a new mother would feel--because she fought so hard to have these babies. That just breaks my heart. Why are we so hard on one another? And I'm not just talking about the trolls who write horrible nasty things to these amazing men and women I'm growing to know and like and sometimes even adore. Half the time I'm so judgmental I should carry around a jury. My judgment just looks different. I won't insult you or call down curses from an angry god--I'll just figure you aren't the kind of person who would "get" me. You probably think I'm a failure as a wife, a mother, an educated woman, whatever. Not that I'll ever give you the chance to prove me wrong.

Dr. B. is writing about paralyzing malaise. It's so easy to become frozen; only by looking at the one small thing we can do in our own small lives, one day at a time, can we overcome that paralysis, I think. We were talking politics, but it's true of everything. We visited the psychiatrist yesterday. I felt like I was walking the Boy to the executioner, but I pray that instead we'll be setting him free. I don't have all the answers and this may not be the right thing to do. But it's one thing to do. It's time to do it. Why can't I accept that it might be this easy, that it might not be my fault?

I decided to start taking the kids out to the park whenever the weather permits, which means whenever it isn't cold enough for frostbite. I dreaded it--the time I knew it would take to bundle them up like those kids in "A Christmas Story" and pack snacks and diapers and drinks and the Epipen and get back in the car and drive to the park and worry about whether the Boy is going to play nicely if other kids are there. Half the time we don't get there until 1/2 hour before the sun goes down, or I've forgotten the gloves, or something, and it's cold and there's half-melted snow in patches all over the ground and the grass is covered in goose crap and my god, did I mention that it's cold, and then they don't want to leave. But the funny thing is, I stand there losing the feeling in my fingers and stomping around trying to keep the Girl from flinging herself off the jungle gym and pushing the Boy underdog and my eyes are watering and the sun is going down and I can smell wood fires and the geese are flying overhead--sometimes the sky seems filled with them--and I think, my God, I have it so good. I am so, so, so blessed, and we're all going to be okay. And I can just let all this crap go, I can just be happy in the middle of this cold, forsaken month.
Go home now!

Not even a title

Strange...people are blogging sporadically, the Angst is spreading, is it sun flares? February? I think of a thousand things I want to say but they've all flown right out of my head. Perhaps tomorrow.

In the Navy...

I swear that I don't swear as much in person as one might think from reading around here this past weekend. I'm honestly just Miss Merry Ray of Sunshine, and cusswords never touch my virgin lips. Really. Truly! I just wanted you to feel better in case, you know, you were a sailor or something.

Laundry: done, not folded
Work: caught up, but on the brink of being sooooo behind
Everything else: appt. made with ped. psych. for Thursday. Sigh. Wish us luck.

I'm not feeling very bloggy. I'm going to do everyone a favor and simmer down quietly, over here in the corner. The one that doesn't have the pile of laundry in it.