Epiphany Flagg

[Someone's ringing my doorbell but I'm still in my robe (the one day I'm not actually dressed by now!) so I'm hiding out in the back of the house. Go away, mystery person!! I am inappropriately attired to receive you!]

[Which reminds me of the time in college that Jeannie lived upstairs from this really annoying and vapid girl, and once we were hanging out in Jeannie's apartment and we heard the girl come to the door and we hid in Jeannie's closet until she went away. Smooth move, Mature College Girls Who Have No Concept of Acoustics.]

[Are they gone? Okay. On with the epiphany.]

So, after the writing about the whole weight topic, it's still been floating around in my noggin', not least after reading others' insightful thoughts. I've also been edging around the whole "False Advertising" brouhaha (and if you don't know what that's all about, start here). All this stuff was fermenting somewhere in my synapses when the Ex and I had an interesting discussion Monday.

The gist of this convo was this: He thinks a woman he's with should always dress up--makeup, attractive (read: alluring) clothes, etc.--whenever they're together. This was a MAJOR problem area in our relationship, big surprise? Many accusations of "You don't make an effort to please me anymore." (And by the way, don't even bother ranting in the comments, because I am not judging his viewpoint, I'm just pointing out that it was a problem for me.) To which my response was, what am I, an accessory? And blah blah blah big giant rolling snowball of passive aggressive shite on both parts. He pissed me off by implying that my value was only in my appearance; I felt awful and passive-aggressively pissed him off by doing my absolute best to care even less; he felt unappreciated and passive-aggressively neglected me; and you can see where this is going. It was always a real problem for me that he seemed to put so much emphasis on my clothing or makeup or the way I waxed my eyebrows. But, and here's the thing, I never did anything about it.

So back to Monday. He's saying that this was a problem for him in our relationship and in relationships since, and why do women always do that? That women dress up on the first few dates and then stop trying, and when he complains, they say he isn't letting them be "who they are". I said, look, you are not asking for my opinion so I'm not giving it, and he said, no, I want to know what you think. So I said, "Most women don't just dress up like that all the time." He said, "Yeah, but they dress up like that around the man at first because they want to catch him, and then when they have they don't give a shit anymore." And I said, "I disagree, but in our case, I know that I came to resent your expectation that I do that because I felt like you didn't care about me unless I looked a certain way, and who is going to be beautiful on the outside forever? So if I was in a disfiguring accident or when I got old, you weren't going to love me anymore?" And he said, "That bullshit, to say 'I'm not going to try and please you because you care about how I look.' That's the only reason women dress up like that anyway." And I said, "No it isn't. There are other reasons that a woman would dress attractively, and just because she doesn't doesn't mean she isn't trying to be interesting or doesn't appreciate who she's with."

"Bullshit," he said, "What other reasons?"

"Women do it for themselves," I said, "because they enjoy it." "You're full of crap," he said, "That's like when women say they wear lingerie for themselves, that's bullshit. And there is not a man out there who doesn't want his woman to look nice." [Men? I'd love your honest opinions here, just for statistical purposes.]

Then we got called in to our meeting so that was the end of that conversation.

Okay. A couple things. First, I am not judging his opinion. I am sure he is not the only person, male or female, to hold that view. We simply don't hold the same view. I also think his view is colored by his history and his family, and I will say that yesterday he told me that he'd talked about this conversation in his therapy session and realized that his expectations were probably unrealistic and somewhat messed up. So I'm not going off on him or his viewpoint.

But second. Second. After this conversation, I suddenly got it. Sometimes it takes me a while, like several years in therapy and several decades mulling the thing over, but I finally got it:

I agreed with him.

I mean, I so DO NOT agree with him in the outside of my brain, but in the inside of my brain? Oh my god. This is the whole kernel! He used to get so entirely crazy if I dressed up when we weren't together--of course he did, because if a woman only dresses up for her partner, why would she dress up any other time? And if she only dresses up for that reason or looks good for that reason, and that reason is not there anymore, why would she take care of herself? And isn't the entire definition of what looking good is in the first place then under the control of her partner? And what if that definition is one she is uncomfortable with? And holy shit, could I be any more messed up?

But then it was like when I was a kid and couldn't figure out a homework problem and finally asked my mom for help, and the second she walked up to the table, I suddenly saw the answer. My brain is weird, what can I say. But as soon as this brick hit me on the head, it was all clear to me. I do enjoy looking nice, but there are different levels of nice according to how I feel. Sometimes, I feel like dressing up in heels and the full works. Sometimes I like the retro look. I like a variety of lingerie, from sporty to sexy. Me. ME. I like it. At times, I like dressing like a jock, or a Crunchy Girl. None is better or worse than the others. If I dress in jeans and an old mens' sweater, I am not an unattractive slob whom no one could ever find attractive. If I dress up in heels and a low-cut blouse, I am not a brainless slut who only wants one thing. I get to choose what happens to this outside part of me, how I dress it in flesh and in fabric, to please just myself, and it can change from day to day, and other people are going to interpret it according to their brains anyway, and I don't have to give a shit about that. I don't have to change the way I feel or the things I do or think or believe to accommodate them so that they will think I care about them or so that they will care about me. Because if I care about them and they can't get that? I can't fix that problem. And if they don't care about me or if they can't understand that my outside is not a permanent reflection of my inside? I can't do a damned thing about that either, honey.

The most interesting part? I haven't felt a craving for a fucking chocolate easter egg since.

Lost shmost

Dudes, that island is so totally Purgatory. In my most humble opinion. See especially the section about Dante's Inferno. The lustful bound together in a storm? The gluttons, the hoarders, those separated into two groups?

Everybody LIMBO!

Context

By popular demand: context.

I let him check out "The Goonies" from the library. I remember this movie as being mostly harmless though annoying. I got the annoying right--how many underage actors can you get to scream and talk at once, sheesh--but the danged thing actually scared the Boy. He had NO PROBLEM with Jurassic Park but The Goonies flipped him right out, go figure.

In one part the stupidass Goonies find a dead body and this was the thing (along with the bad guys) that really upset him. Stupid me, it really does make sense because he's always had this oddly mature sense of understanding reality from fantasy. He loves made-up stuff, but never mistakes it for real stuff. Hence, dinosaurs--cool but so not scary; bad guys and dead people--crying a little at bedtime.

So, knowing the way his brain works, I explained how difficult it actually is to be the actor who plays the dead body. I explained that you can't laugh, or blink, or itch your nose, or anything. "Do you have to try not to let anybody see you breathe?" he asked. "Cause that would be hard! But I can do it. Go on! Pretend I'm the dead guy! Now pretend you're the dead guy! Now me! Go on, try to make me laugh, Mom!"

The little bugger didn't crack up once. He is the best corpse in the family!

In other news, I had a bigass epiphany, so to speak, but I can't tell you about it now because I am addressing my sleep issue and going to bed on time. So there. Smoochie.

Out of context

" I think I'm the best corpse in this family!"

Dream on

Me: The other night I dreamed I was making out with Ben Affleck, but then I woke up and realized it was actually the cat licking my face, and I was all, "AGH! I'm making out with my CAT!" But then I really woke up and realized that part was the dream, too.

Molly: Well, you know how I'm all about fundraising right now? Last night I dreamed that we had an orgy fundraiser.

Me: You were fundraising so you could have an orgy, or you were having an orgy to raise funds?

Molly: Oh no, having the orgy was the fundraiser. And we were giving away prizes, and the prize for "Most Creative" went to the five way in the hallway.

Me: But of course it did.

Molly: It isn't a bad idea, when you think about it. The only overhead would be lube.

Me: And condoms.

Molly: On the down side, pocket change would be hard to come by.

Me: So to speak.

No more Ms. Nice Bitch

Nice: pleasant or pleasing or agreeable in nature or appearance; socially or conventionally correct

You know what makes me nuts? When people tell me how "nice" I am. Usually, this word gets bandied about in reference to my family situation. So my husband kinda treated me like ass and then cheated on me and left me with two kids but guess what? I still like the guy. He drives me crazy half the time, and I know he has a lot of issues to work through, but despite that, I think he's a decent person and a good father, and getting along is more important to me than making him pay for hurting me. But please, please--don't tell me how nice I am for feeling that way. I might have to slap you.

I used to be nice. I was brought up to be nice. Very nice. Southern girl, ladylike nice. If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. Play nice. Don't do x,y, or z; it isn't nice.

Bullshit.

I hope that I am a kind person. I try to be. I hope that I am fair. I hope that I am decent. I hope that I am considerate, and patient would be good. But sweet Joseph, nice? Nice people don't get angry, and they don't say things people don't want to hear. Nice people don't refuse others. Nice people finish last, don't they? It isn't that they aren't faster than everyone else, but winning might make the others feel badly. That wouldn't be nice.

I do not maintain a warm relationship with the Ex because I'm nice. I do it because I believe that we're all the same. We're all part of the same spirit, is what I think, and hurting him because he hurt me would be hurting myself. I don't want to make my heart black with bitterness. I spent enough years carrying around that shit to know better. I don't want my children to learn from me to close themselves up, seal themselves off, or lie down in the middle of the road. I want my heart and my soul to be free, and you can't have that when you chain yourself to a grudge. To make the assumption that I do any of the things I do because I want to be nice is a bit of an insult. I don't feel obligated, and I don't feel put upon. I am not willing to include his current love interest in family events because of some need to be nice. I do it because he and I are part of the same family, and always will be, and as long as whomever he's with treats our children well, then so is that person. Believe me, if he ever gets involved with someone who doesn't meet that criteria, there will be words said and most likely asses kicked.

Nice reeks of passive agression. Nice feels weak, and watered down. Nice is a word for objects, not for people. It is not a compliment, at least not in my book.

You have done well, Cricket

Tonight was the Boy's 1st grade musical program. He was a Cricket. Oh, I wish I could post a picture. He was gorgeous. And the enunciation! Magnificent. Afterward, the Girl said, "Sing yo song 'gin, B. You was so good in you pogam!"

Reason #87 why I love my job

Me: I have a question...
Boss: Yes?
Me: My Ex wants to send the kids to France for a month this summer, and asked whether (if he covers all costs) I could be the one to take them. With the understanding that I would need high-speed Internet access.
Boss: Doesn't matter to me where you work from. Have fun!

How far we've fallen

Oh, hell. I am officially hooked on that stupid "Lost".

One Bad Thing

(with apologies to Flea for the riff)

I think the no-Lexapro thing is going fairly well, but the sleep issues might be coming back. Of course, the real issue is that I need to just put up with the bedtime whining and/or fit throwing and not. lie. down. with. the children! Cause then it's all over. I am not good at getting in a comfy position and then remaining awake. In college, I once lived with 4 roommates, and one of them was the same way (hey L!). Whenever we all rented a movie, the two of us would each take dibs on opposite ends of the couch, and within 1/2 hour we were both konked out. We used to joke that it was the "Last name-last name School of TV Watching". There is NOTHING better than falling asleep when you're nice and comfy.

However, there are many things better than waking up at midnight with your face stuck to your kid's pillow and your arm half-asleep, and then stumbling around the house trying to finish all those things you put off "until after the kids go to bed" and resisting the urge to have an Ambien moment (mmm, buttered cigarettes!) and then, finally, realizing it's nearly 2 a.m. and you aren't so tired anymore. Blah.

Clarity

Thank you, to everybody who wrote or commented. Y'all are so kind, and just amazing. And can I tell you how sad I am how many people completely get what I'm talking about? Why? Why do women do this to themselves? And do men do it? Is it sexist of me to think that with women, it's our bodies, and with men, it's their wallets? Their jobs, their income, their status. Would that be easier? Or worse?

I just keep wondering what we're so afraid of, and why. I've been chewing on this one a while: Why do we, as women, attack each other so much? I know, that whole Mommy Wars thing has been done to death, but I haven't read any of those books. I just know that a lot of the women who write online, honestly, about their own experiences--their own pasts, the things they've survived, the feelings they have about themselves, as mothers, daughters, wives and partners--end up, at one time or another, being attacked, either by people who know them and take what's written personally, or by complete strangers. Specifically, I'm thinking of Beth at Crazy Us, Heather at Dooce, Melissa at Suburban Bliss, and Alice at Finslippy. (I'm not linking in text tonight because I'm tired and sloppy but all these women are in the blogroll over to the right.)

Yes, I know, those sites get a lot of traffic and thus are more likely to get negative comments. But it isn't just that. Because you know it's just an extension of everyday life. I don't understand why some stranger would attack these women who honestly seem to be genuinely good people, just trying to figure it all out. But then I don't understand why I would, even if just in my own mind, attack the two women who showed up at last year's elementary school Field Day in high heels and Paris Hilton getups. Fine, I considered it tacky and really bizarro. But let's be honest--in my head? I was a bitch. It was not just a passing glance askance--it was full-blown bitchiness. The word "slut" definitely passed around among neurons, followed by theories as to the women's brain capacities and questions of their fidelity and level of honest devotion to whatever spouses might be in the picture. I never spoke to those women. They could've been the smartest, kindest women on that field. I wouldn't know.

It's all fear, though, don't you think? I think fear is at the heart of all hatred, even the small hatreds that I tell myself are harmless. I think people attack each other, and themselves, out of fear. Why the hell do we care what choices other people make (assuming, of course, that those choices are not causing other people pain or suffering)? I also think, and this is especially true when it comes to motherhood, that most women are so terrified that they project pain and suffering onto the results of any decision that contradicts their own. For example, if I decide to let my kids sleep in my bed and you decide to Ferberize them, your way is obviously opposite of my way, so if you're right, I'm wrong. I can't be wrong, so I have to make YOU wrong. And not only do I have to make you wrong, I have to make you a horribly abusive and uncaring parent who is fucking up your children for life.

The thing I can't figure out is why we can't accept that there isn't any "right" way. Are we terrified of having no control over what happens to us, to our children? Do we feel so adrift that we have to be right all the time? And what if we are wrong--what do we think is going to happen? What ax are we expecting to fall, to make being wrong such a horrible possibility? Do we just have too much time on our hands, that we have to find something other than survival to obsess about? Why do we have to be so fucking mean to each other?

Aw, screw it. I'm going to bed.

Heavy

This is not one of my favorite topics. Or maybe it is. Or it used to be. I don't know.

I don't talk about my weight much because I used to talk about it all the time. And think about it all the time.

Most of my extended family (at least those on my mother's side, which is all I know) are pretty much all overweight, sometimes quite unhealthfully so. And I had all those damned issues as a kid, all that shit wrapped up in my mother's marriage and my asshole of a stepfather and how he treated her and how she treated herself and how I wanted them both to treat me and what I had to do to make it happen. I don't feel like going into that all right now. Although the asshole was always telling me I was getting too chubby. You have to picture this coming from a guy who was about 50 pounds overweight. That changed into there just being something "wrong" about me, which I know now was just an excuse to make me stand there while he felt me up trying to figure out exactly what was wrong. "Something's not right. Hold still."

I went on my first diet in 6th grade. I still have this weird time-warpish memory associated with Tab cola: lying out on a beach towel spread across the rocky dirt patch that passed as our front yard, covered in QT tanning oil, pouring over the Tab-sponsored diet booklet that I'd found in some copy of Good Housekeeping. My God. Tab cola is my Count Dracula. I hate that I was that girl. I wish I still was that girl. Tab cola sings a siren song to the heart of GenX anorexics everywhere.

So after about 5 or 6 years of dieting, I guess I was 5'8" and what, 115 pounds? But I wanted to be 110, because anything over that was obviously too fat. I used to do something like 300 situps every night, and 250 leg lifts, and oh, what else? I don't know. It doesn't matter. I could never get down to 110, so I started throwing up. My fingernails and lips used to turn blue, at least a couple times a week, did I ever tell you that? The sick thing is how happy that made me, because the thinner I was the more often it happened, so it was a good sign, you know? Did that for about 6 years, and I can't tell you why I finally quit, except maybe that I was blessed with three truly good friends who all sort of kicked my ass in their own way.

Of course, after that, my metabolism was shot to hell. I shot up to about 150. I think that was the year I only wore skirts. God bless Banana Republic circa 1988. Then I eventually started exercising like a normal person, and I dropped down to about 140, which was probably fine but which I was barely comfortable with. See, the whole thing about going 10 or 12 years during which you think about your weight every single day is that once you stop, you're sort of afraid that if you think about it again at all, you won't be able to stop thinking about it again.

But then I moved to London, and being broke and in a town that depends on public transport is an amazing weight-loss regimen. I had to find a job, so I walked, no exaggeration, a minimum of 8 or 10 miles each day, plus stairs at those damned tube stops. I'd walk around all day long, hitting the temp agencies and going on interviews, for about the first month, until I found a couple of full-time gigs. And I had to ration my money, so--15 years ago and I still remember this--I could afford to buy a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a jar of jam, a bag of rice, and a few cans of beans each week. So I'd eat two pieces of pb&j toast for breakfast, skip lunch, and have rice and beans for dinner. By the time I had a full-time job, I weighed 125. And then there's all the shit revolving around my relationship with my Ex and the way he treated me regarding my appearance and the whole modeling fiasco and blah blah blah whatever.

Over the next 5 years or so, I pretty much stayed between 125 and 135, because I kept on walking for transportation and being too broke to eat much. After I moved back to the States, got married, and got a car, I bumped back up to 140-145. I gained about 50 pounds when I got pregnant with the Boy, but got back down to 145 without any trouble within 6 months. Then I got pregnant with the Girl, and holy shit, I gained 70 pounds. I am not kidding.

After that, I had a hard time getting back under 165--finding time to go to the gym was more difficult with two kids, and I wasn't getting the coverage from the husband that I'd gotten after the Boy. Then, he'd watched the baby while I went to the gym after the baby fell asleep, 8:00 or 8:30 pm. Now, he was always out with his friends or riding his motorcycle. Well no, he wasn't, but that's what he said he was doing. And I was so bloody tired by then, anyway.

When the Girl was 7 months old, he finally told me he was having an affair. I couldn't eat. I took the kids to the gym daycare every day after work for 2 hours, even though I hated doing that, because I felt like I was going to die and the only thing that helped was doing something physical. I felt like one of those captive animals that's going crazy and can't stop pacing, you know? Within a month I weighed 145 again, but of course I also had developed hives, overran cysts, and continuous anxiety. So.

That was nearly 3 years ago. Since then, I've gone through the bout of depression, I quit the gym to save money, and there have been several periods during which I drank more than usual (Bailey's, anyone?). So here I am, and I'm back at about 165. And I hate it. And I'm afraid of it. And I know I did it to myself on purpose, or some part of me did. When I weigh 125 or 135 or even 145 pounds? Men look at me. Men don't look at me when I weigh 165 pounds. I want a man to look at me. I don't want a man to look at me. I want to be with someone. I am scared to death of being with someone. I want everyone to fuck off and leave me alone. But I don't. Shit.

This really isn't just the non-Lexapro talking. I think I've sort of put this issue on hold over the past year, and now I have to deal with it. The thing is, I'm not healthy at this weight. My family has a history of high cholesterol, heart trouble, and adult onset diabetes. I don't want to have to deal with that, regardless of the other issues wrapped up in the whole stupid thing. My knees hurt. I'm 38, and my knees hurt? Screw that.

So I need to lose weight. I have promised myself that I will lose these 20-30 pounds that are weighing me down, and that I'll do it by my birthday. That gives me 7 months. So please bear with me. This blog--at the bottom of things, it's my way of writing stuff down, because I need to do that and I wasn't doing it. And you guys, you're so wonderful, and I guess I didn't expect you. So then it sort of changed into me trying to entertain you, or impress you, or ... I don't know. And then I sort of dropped off a bit, because I didn't feel very able to entertain or impress. And I guess now I need this to be my place to eat my brain again, you know what I mean? More brain, fewer cookies.

Putting away the books

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down. I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself.
--Robert Frost

Geez, all I got was a baby

I sure wish my uterus overflowed with chocolate candies!

Scarf o' TERROR!!

I'm nearly finished with my scarf! The project that will be finished and that will justify the purchase of at least one set of knitting needles.

Shellie and the girls were over this afternoon, and I showed her the scarf. "Okay," I prefaced the presentation, "It's only the second thing I've knitted ever, so if you think it's really ugly, just lie about it. Got it? Lie like a rug."

"No," Shellie said, "I like it. I don't think it's ugly at all."

Just then her youngest ran up. Youngest is almost 2. "Look, Youngest," Shellie said, "See PK's scarf?"

And here's where I'm sorry that this isn't a photoblog: If you could've seen the look on that kid's face. It was a look of sheer horror--clenched jaw, wide eyes, drawn-down lips, head shake.

"Lie, Youngest," I said gently yet seriously, while Shellie rolled around in hysterics on the sofa, "You're supposed to lie."

Not to say that Girls don't appreciate the Power of Mud(tm)

Because of course, they do.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about gender roles. They still bite me in the ass. When the Boy was born? Oh, there would be no guns, no Power Rangers in my house. But damned if that kid didn't learn to love them despite NEVER SEEING THEM! After about the 5th time of doing the heavy sigh treatment with another mother about how despite my best efforts to nix the whole male aggression stereotype, the Boy kept wanting to play guns and so forth, I realized--shit. How would I feel if someone in power, especially the person I loved and looked to for identity, to an extent, kept telling me, directly or indirectly, that the stuff I liked was awful and I was wrong to like it? So that was the end of that. I still don't like it that the Boy likes to play these typically "boy" things, but I'm not going to make them into bad things. Maybe, sometimes, our gender does influence us to like/dislike certain things and that's okay.

And now, at about the same age, the Girl is sticking the "I want to be beautiful and a princess" thing in my face. What interests and scares me is how much more willing I am to pat her head and say fine than I was when the Boy was in his "gender-appropriate" phase. Because what it comes down to is that I want both my kids to know that they can like whatever they like, as long as they aren't hurting anyone else. And sometimes they'll like "girl" or "boy" stuff, and sometimes they won't. The Boy really likes to paint his nails. I'm okay with that, but I find myself wanting to do it only on the weekends. And that makes me mad at myself. I'm less evolved than I think I am. I have to be aware of my immediate reactions, because I don't like them at times.

We had a conversation the other day about why people of the same sex should be able to marry whomever they want. "But when I wanted to marry a boy," the Boy said, "everybody said I couldn't." "Well," I explained, "a lot of people don't like the idea because they say that isn't the way it's supposed to be, but just because it isn't usually the way it is doesn't make it wrong. Different isn't wrong, but a lot of people think it is because different scares them."

I want people in this country to have the right to love each other with equality. My state is working to get an initiative on the ballot this November that will, if passed, grant expanded rights to same-sex couples, things like insurance and adoptive/inheritance rights. Reading an article about the issue, I saw a great quote from a woman working for these rights. In a nutshell, she pointed out that same-sex couples are not eroding marriage. Money woes, infidelity--these things erode marriage. How the hell can two people loving each other and committing themselves to that relationship erode someone else's relationship? How can parents turning their backs on their own children because of those children's sexuality be "pro-family values"? How can people spout hate and fear and then claim to follow Jesus in the same breath? Jesus! The guy who liked to hang out with tax collectors and prostitutes and bitch out the religious right of his time??? It makes no sense.

If you want to help the institution of marriage, make it possible for ANY couple to afford decent housing, medical care, and child care (or prevention). You can't tell me that Mr & Mrs Blow's marriage is going to be threatened more by the lesbian couple next door than by the fact that they can't afford to take their kids to the doctor when they're sick, that they both have to work ungodly hours to make ends meet, that they constantly worry about money, and that their kids spend afternoons unsupervised because of all that. But that's just what a very forceful faction in this country is trying to make voters believe. And it's working!!! It astounds me.

I can't even bear, sometimes, to think about the incredible amount of strength and pain that must make up the lives of my friends who just want to be a family. I don't know where you stand on the issue, but you go read the words of these men and women and then tell me they don't deserve that right. Just be forewarned--if you do? I'm kicking your ass. And this year, if I accomplish nothing else, I'm going to help fight for equal rights for every couple. And I'm going to paint my Boy's nails, if he wants me too, while the Girl plays in the mud while wearing her Cinderella dress.

The good things about having a son

If I didn't have a son, I wouldn't have learned ...
... to like crickets
... the glory of mud
... the power of all that is preshrunk and cottony
... that I can't make everyone happy

How dull would the world be?

tick tock

Going off the Lexapro has been interesting. I think it's going to be okay. When I cut down to 3/4 pill, I got odd physical symptoms--headache, jittery stuff--but felt fine emotionally. Cutting down to 1/2 pill, I noticed I had to work a bit harder to stay patient and attached--I'd find myself more easily annoyed and more likely to zone out emotionally. That's a weird issue for me that I don't really like to talk about. I've been this empathic freak girl since I was just a kid--a total sap, really likely to put myself in others' places and get weirdly emotional--but then there are these windows when I just don't feel anything. I get completely detached and it's very disturbing to just feel...nothing. At all. It doesn't last long, a few hours at the most, except during The Big Depression and then it was pretty much more than that.

Anyway, more of that than had happened during the past year, I felt a bit more likely to fly off the handle, so I just started reminding myself to keep an eye on that, and it seems to be okay. The cut to 1/4 pill didn't really produce any noticeable changes. I went off completely a few days ago, and mostly I just have a little bit of dizziness and some odd sleep stuff. I'm a little nervous about being off them, which just makes me more determined to be done. I don't like not wanting to let go of something.

The Boy's started tic-ing again the past few weeks. He hasn't done that for quite a while, and I wonder if it isn't because we haven't been letting him chew everything in site. He started on that about 1.5 months back, and it finally got too obtrusive. I need to find him some of those rubber tubes the OT keeps for chewing, and see if that helps with the tics. His tic is that he does weird things with his eyes...blinking and sort of rolling them and pulling his lashes. It isn't too noticeable. The eye ticking was always his paternal aunt's thing, too. I had the vocal tics. Oh, the joys of our gene pool. It makes me wonder if we'll have to revisit the Tourettes diagnosis, but I'm not making any decisions right now.

Here's the thing with my Boy. He is pretty much a normal kid. He does well in school--not freakishly well, but well enough--8 out of 10 well. He's reading at a 4th grade level, but more often than not he'd still rather be read to than read a book himself. He's good at math, and he enjoys it. He is interested in learning, but it is often difficult for him to focus--he talks a lot, and gets goofy, though not so goofy as Flea's Alex. He always makes sense, he just gets...wild. The biggest issue for him is his mood--one minute he can be a calm, sweet, funny kid, and the next he can be lashing out, yelling and kicking. He is very sensitive and blows things out of proportion. He tends toward black-or-white thinking. He has a hard time letting go of things he's fixated on.

He's in a group therapy that meets weekly with the goal of teaching social skills and problem solving. Right now there are only 2 boys in the group, but hopefully more will be added; the ideal group is 3 or 4 kids. As far as he knows, it's 1 1/2 hours of play every Friday afternoon, but in reality he and the other boy are learning how to solve the social issues that arise as a result of their own challenges, and how to help each other to do that. I try to minimize TV, I try to make a pretty solid routine for homework and dinner and bed, and make plenty of time for physical activity, including one structured event (right now it's swimming classes). Over the past year, what I've learned is that I have to lighten up, and let him learn to deal with his own stuff. We go to the park now, we invite other kids over. I try to keep a grip on my own tendency to overanalyze and overprotect and overcompensate.

The thing that worries me most, I discovered, is that he'll turn out to be his father. And I don't mean that his father isn't a good guy. He is. He's a good person, he's brilliant and funny and kind-hearted, but he's also miserable most of the time. He lives most of his life under a cloud. He hates everything more times than not. It's miserable and it's horrible, and I dread, dread the thought that my baby will see the world like that. Because really? All I want is for him to be happy. And what scares me most is that his genes won't let him be. But I'm trying hard, now, to remember that he's as much my child as his father's, and that his father also went through a lot of environmental shit that our Boy will hopefully never encounter. I also try and remember that I was a complete freak as a child. I had the tics, the neuroses, the self-harming and obsessive behaviors, the eating disorder, the cutting, the fear, the anxiety, the melancholy--and dang if I didn't turn out more or less okay and actually a happy person more often than not. I truly enjoy life. I am happy. I have to choose to believe that my Boy will be, too.

cheap and desperate, desperate and cheap

If you haven't heard from me lately, and you have Blogger commenting, it's because STUPID BLOGGER keeps giving me word confirmations, which I type in all nice and purty, and then it gives me a second word confirmation screen WITH NO WORD ON IT. Now that's strong security--but it means you ain't gettin' a comment from me.

Why, why do preschoolers love that damn annoying Elmo? Gah. Grover's the cute one, everybody knows that. Elmo can't even use pronouns correctly. And Mr. Noodle's a cross-dresser. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

At my final therapy session, Dr. Zen asked me whether I thought I might think about dating at some point. "Now don't say anything," she said, "but you know, Internet dating is pretty popular now." Yeeaaaah. Obviously, I know we can make friends over the Internet. I like you guys! But for some reason, the idea of meeting a guy that way? I don't know. I mean, I have friends who met their husbands through Internet dating services, and they're really nice couples, I just have a block. As I told Holly, for some reason I taste desperation when I think of doing it myself. No judgement on anybody else.

But anyway. So I was bored a few weeks ago and thought, aw, screw it, I'll fill out the eHappycrap forms just for giggles. I fill out like a million pages, and then it runs my little matches throughout the ENTIRE country and comes back with....

Four matches. FOUR! So basically, out of the entire country, I could get along with four men.

Yeah, okay, so within the next few days it sent back more matches and some were local. I was talking to my mom on the phone and relating the fun with Internet experience when one popped up. I started reading the profile to her when I got to the "I live for yoga" part. "Oh my God!" I yelled, "It's my Hot Yoga Dream Guy! Ooh! And listen to this! And this! Hot damn, he's perfect! And to communicate with him will cost me....$60. Eh, fuck that."

"PK," said my Mom said, "for $60 you could actually go to the yoga center and sign up for classes and check out ALL the hot yoga guys. And don't say 'fuck', honey."

And that, people, is why my mom will fit in just fine around here.

THAT's what I'm talking about

Canada's comment to my I-hate-security-system-ads post reminded me of the true story of my friend and neighbor Shellie. (I might have talked about her before, but I can't remember what I called her previously, if anything, so let's make up a new pseudonym, shall we? Blog hazard.)

So. Shellie and her husband get a security system, and they have it set up for motion detection in the basement. This is in the old neighborhood, before they'd finished their basement, and they lived on the end of the street that bumped up against a pretty busy major street, so it seemed like a good plan. One night, the alarm goes off--it's the motion detector in the basement. They both jump up--the babies are crying, the thing's going off, and they're good and freaked. Shellie's husband Tom runs downstairs, and she's right behind him. (She's British so you have to picture this with all happening with an accent.)

"And then," she tells me the next day, "the bloody man picks up a ladle! A soup ladle! I said, 'For God's sake, Tom, what are you going to do? Spoon him to death??!!' And he said, 'Well, you know I don't have very good aim, and this thing's pretty heavy.' So I grabbed a proper knife. What the hell was he thinking? Men. Then the cat ran out of the basement."

Ironically, the next day (after going downstairs the night before and seeing nothing amiss), when they checked the outside of the window, they realized someone really had tried to force it open. Which of them do you think would've kicked the most ass if whoever it was had actually gotten in?

Wasted

"I wish I was just a guy who could go and sit on the potty and fall asleep and never wake up!"

"Kinda like Rip Van Tinkle?"

Nobody but me got the joke. And I'm still not wiping his butt.

TV sucks

But then, we knew that.

So, we got the absolutel minimal number of cable channels possible when we moved. Why get any at all? Well, my mom enjoys watching football and news, so we had to get something, and this package actually saves me enough on my Internet that it all evens out.

Ok, I like "Lost". And reruns of old sitcoms I used to watch. But for the most part, the damned thing stays off. I'm on the lookout for a funky standing screen to put in front of it so that I can pretend it isn't there.

So today, in a moment of boredom, I turned the thing on. Here's where I get totally disgusted: Have y'all seen that awful Brinks ad? Where the guy leaves for work, and the wifey goes back in the huge house, and then the seemingly innocent jogger breaks down the door but oh, thank goodness, she's turned on the alarm the second she went back inside so she's saved!

I hate this ad so much I can't even articulate it properly. What the hell? Little rich wifey has to lock herself away all day in her castle because there are BAD MEN waiting to get her. And the husband never says a word in this thing, he just stands around being protective. Ugh. Where's the wife who kicks the bad guy's ASS? That's the ad I want to see. Stupid Brinks. I hate it when people sell fear.

Mwaahaha

Nothing makes a girl more smug than a winter storm warning when her kid's bus stop is across the street and two houses down. Hee hee.

Okay, so it's the little things. Sue me.

Blame it on the sake

I had a horrible dream last night. In the middle of the usual parade of ridiculous searches for a dozen scones in the middle of a snowstorm and doors that wouldn't stay open, I dreamt that a doctor told me the Boy was a reincarnation of my dead brother, and I needed to leave him with her overnight so that she could hypnotize him and help him come to terms with his death. One: I don't have a brother, and the weird thing was that somehow this brother was also the Boy. I just kept crying and crying in this dream, and the doctor told me I had to leave him and I had to pull it together. And I couldn't stop crying.

I hate that shit. Feel free to analyze. Or not.

Heeelllloooo Mover Guy!

I have no shame, so I called Mover Guy's company to come move my furniture today, in the hopes that he'd be on the crew, and he was, and I still love him. Sigh. I'm pretty sure we had a "moment" when he was loading up the chest of drawers. Pretty sure.

I think this blog has reached a certain pinnacle of borishness, sort of like the cat toys that cascaded out from under every piece of furniture I own. I am boring, but at least I'm not sleeping on the floor anymore. I was starting to get a little delirious, and I'd wake up in the middle of the night and think, "This is the way to stay young! The Cave Women would have killed to sleep on a floor like this...I've got the nice soft wood, and the carpet pad, and the carpet, and the sleeping bag...it's practically decadent. I should simplify!"

Yeah. Screw that.

ah, the smell of paint in the morning...

...and the afternoon, and the night...

I am so. tired. of painting.

The furniture moves in tomorrow. A bed, a real bed! And a table! And a couch! Oh, I could weep from joy.

I miss you guys.

Princesses Keep Falling on My Head

...or, at which The Nuclear Family(tm) bums me out.

I have this love/hate relationship with the whole Disney Princess thing, y'know? Gosh, how I loved those danged Disney movies when I was a kid. Longer than that actually--all the way up until I had a kid. Then I started realizing--dang, those things are kinda violent. And what did Walt have against mothers, killing them off left and right? And uh, hey. Those princesses? What a bunch of lame-asses. "Listen," I told the Boy, "that princess and her pea? Forget her. He should've picked the one who liked to ride horses. Really." I read him stories from the Arabian Nights, pointing out that these were the types of chicks a mother would like her boy to bring home. Fourty thieves? No problem. I got your hot oil right here, bub.

Then along came the Girl. Who obviously was swapped with someone else's girl at the hospital, cause man. Is she girlie. And me? Not so much. But oh, man, she loves her some princesses.

So. Yeah. We went to the Skating Princess Bonanza. And the Girl hasn't stopped twirling since. Strawberry Shortcake? Who is this Strawberry Shortcake? We've moved on to All Cinderella, All The Time. Sheesh. Maybe I can at least get her over to Mulan's camp. I think I can. When Mulan came out, she whispered in awe, "She skates sooo pretty. And she's so pretty. I want to take her hooooome."

Oh, all right, it was a decent show, except for the blatant "hey, look at us, we're a happy heterosexual two-parent, two-child, boy/girl, nuclear family going gaga at Disney World and shelling out a god-awful amount of money to make it look like we're all SO FRIGGIN HAPPY--and we're doing it ON SKATES" moment at the beginning. I admit, I threw up a little in my mouth. And at one particularly gagging princess-gets-saved-by-her-one-dimensional-prince moment, the dry ice started up and the Boy asked me, "Why is it all smokey?" "Because this is the mooshy part, with all the loooove, blahde blah blah," I answered. Erm.

Aw, but dang. There was some spectacle. And the kids loved it. And hey! Anyone else who has seen this--confirm or deny for me. I swear, I swear, that during the initial Aladdin skit, when Jasmine's doing her exposition schtick about how she has 3 days to marry, she says, "Jasmine, you have to marry a prince--or a princess--in 3 days!" Am I wrong? Did I mishear? I hope not. It kinda made me fall in love with Walt all over again.

Life

Do any of you not already know about Annika, and Moreena? If you don't go here.
I am going to make a donation; I just wish I had something raffle-worthy to offer. I'll talk to the Boy about holding a bake-sale. I'll let as many people as I can know about this incredible family, and what they're going through.

Into the future

As I type this, I'm lying on my living room floor, working on my wireless laptop that my new employer paid for (but which belongs to me, yay), with Sex and the City reruns playing in the background (the people in the little box, they move!) and my half-painted walls and half-opened boxes scattered around (not to mention the half-opened bottle of vodka, oops). And what's the point of this? I don't know. New house, new creaky noises, and I'm camping out on the bedroom floor, and the yard is a big mass of mud, and I love it, I totally love it. The park is at the end of our street. Literally--and the bike trail starts at the other end. It's all good.

Why I have the coolest kids

Most nights, after we finish reading stories, I lie in bed with the Boy for a few minutes and we talk and I scratch his back and sometimes sing him a song but mostly just lie there with him until he falls asleep. The nice thing about this is that it's his calmest part of the day and we actually end up getting in some nice, rational conversation, regardless of how crazy the rest of the day was, so I don't go to sleep all guilt-ridden if I've had a day full of ... mothering challenges, shall we say?

Last night we started talking about names, and why we named him what we did instead of something else, and why we named his sister what we named her. "What would you name a little girl?" I asked him. "Kicky," he said, seriously. "Kicky-wicky. Or if it was a boy, and he chewed on his pencils, I'd name him Chewy." Then he laughed.

This morning, the first thing the Girl said to me when she woke up was, "Mama. Do you wanna see da Bad Boy face?"

Who could pass up an offer like that? And what could be better? I'll tell you what: She meant BAT BOY. And if you don't know who I mean by the Bat Boy, what supermarket are you shopping in? She does the face PERFECTLY.

"Papa showed it to me in a book ad Bahns n Nobus," she said. "Silly Bad Boy!" And then she made the face again.

Zen and the art of breaking and entering

Friday 7:00 pm: I'm happily buying paint for the new house.
7:40 pm: I'm heading home so to hop on the computer and put a hold on a billpay item I just realized I hadn't rescheduled until Monday.
7:50 pm: I realize my Internet is down.
7:55 pm: I realize I locked ALL MY KEYS in my car.
8:00 pm: I call the Chica, who kindly logs on for me on her computer.
8:10 pm: We can't access the transaction, which means that IT'S PROCESSING.
8:20 pm: I start breaking into my car so that I can drive to the bank and make an emergency deposit.
8:30: Breaking in.
8:55: Breaking in.
9:30: Breaking in.
9:48: I lose the zen.
9:50: I recover the zen.
9:57: I succeed in using the dandelion digger to wrench open the driver's side door just enough to insert a wire coat hanger far enough to hook the trunk release and pop the trunk. YAY!
10:03: I eat half a banana.
10:07: I crawl into the trunk, insert a rubber-tipped crutch through the ski hatch (which thank heavens I had opened to fit in the paper blinds I'd bought at HD), and push open the lock on the back door.
10:15: I drive to the bank and make the bloody deposit.
10:30: I pour myself a big-ass glass of port, stick in "Nights of Cabiria", and start knitting.

Car: Slightly dented around the edges
Bank account: Saved, thank the Lord
Interent: Still hosed; piggybacking on the neighbor's wireless.
Zen: Hanging on by a thread.

Sorry, ma'am, but that's MY job

I am completely serious about this: My daughter is doing Kegels. She thinks it's hilarious to sit on the potty and start and stop her pee because, she says, "It's going too fast!"

First, this makes for a really damned annoyingly long trip to the potty.

Second, this makes me feel guilty. Aren't I supposed to be the one doing those things? Not that I ever do. I mean, I suppose you should keep in training even if you ain't running in the race, but sheesh, people. Only the 3-year olds have time to sit around on the potty all day.

We went to the park today with our old neighbor who is now our new neighbor a-GAIN, yay, and her kids, and the Boy and Neighbor Girl were making up missions on which to send each other. I got hold of some evidence, one of the slips of paper on which they were writing down their assignments, and this was the Boy's: "Run up to my mom and smack her on the but."

Later he brought his notebook over and asked me to sign the bottom of a piece of paper that already had a lot of writing on it. I did it without thinking. Well, maybe the thought went through my head: "Oh, how sweet, my boy wants my name in his notebook." Then I read what was written above my signature:

My mom is crasee
My mom is werd
Sine here

Beware the dark side, young Jedi.

Another day, another hobby

So now I'm KNITTING!

Oooh, it is so zen.

I am making a scarf. I ran into an acquaintance today at the pool; the kids are taking swim lessons (they swim! they use up all their youthful energy! they throw massive hysterical fits if I do not then shovel food into their faces with 2.2 minutes of their emergence from the pool!) and I was sitting in the lobby, knitting my scarf. "I took a class last year," she said, "so basically, I can make a dishcloth." "Groovy," I told her, holding up my project, "I can make an elongated dishcloth."

Last night, I knitted and watched the copy of "The Thin Man" I'd grabbed from the library. I love those movies. I want to be half of a rich and drunken and witty detective team! Ahh, those were the days. Plus, watching those old movies always sort of throws me back to my teenage years, when we lived in this tiny, rundown house out in the middle of nowhere, and my grandmom gave me a little portable black-and-white TV for my very own, and all I could get on it were PBS and the local ABC affiliate, all fuzzy, and I'd stay up late when I couldn't get to sleep, which was most of the time, and watch old movies on PBS.

I don't where this is going. Except! It bugs me to heck that all the sequels make it sound as though Nick Charles is the Thin Man, when it was actually one of the other characters in the original movie that was the Thin Man. Dang it!

Not that I'm, you know, neurotic enough to care. Or anything.

Oh, I'm so proud

Go Google "thighs strangle".
I think I teared up a little bit, there. It's the accomplishments in life, you know?

The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen.

I have always been a Drama Queen. I mean, it's in my blood. When I was a kid, I thought my aunt was Lucy, from "Peanuts". No really. I did. She was so totally ... Lucy. And her aunt, my Aunt Flossie? Oh, man. And her mother, Gram? Take my word for it.

But now I'm all zen. This does not compute. I think the crown is passing.

The Girl and I were eating lunch the other day--and I had to sit next to her, mind you, not across from her but NEXT to her so that she could lean over now and then and grab my arm and rest her head on my shoulder and sigh with the most excruciatingly adorable sighs you've ever heard. Her imaginary friends (who are real friends from school but just aren't, you know, here) sat across from us. She looked up, looked at them, looked at me, and made these huge pouty lips, closed her eyes, and shook her head from side to side: "Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm, mmmm, mmmm!!!"

"Oh boy," I murmered. "SOMEbody's a Drama Queen."

Her eyes flew open. "NO Mama! I not Drama Queen. Dat's a bad guy."

"Ohhhh, I see," I laughed, running my fingers through her hair, "Drama Queen the Bad Guy."

"MAAAAMA! You're PUUULLLING MY HAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIR!!!!!!!!!"

Siblings

I love listening to the kids, even when they're being quarrelsome or naughty. I hope they grow up to be the type of brother and sister who like each other, who keep in touch. It's such a mystery to me, this state of not being the only one. Somewhere, I have sisters. A brother too, perhaps. I wonder, sometimes, if I'd know them if we met. Would there be something in the eyes, the shape of our faces, our walks? Do they know about me? Do they like each other?

Mysteries.

Heavy

Some ... complications have come up with the closing on the new house. We have had to put it off until Tuesday.

And yet I am most definitely not stressing out. This is where I get to put my money where my metaphysical mouth is and affirm that every transaction takes place at the right time, in perfect harmony and for the good of all involved. Divine abundance is in place and there is supply for every demand.

I never did tell y'all what was going on with my uncle, did I? My mother's brother was a favorite of mine when I was a child, but we grew apart after my mother remarried. At one point, he let my mother down, in my view, and as an adult I found him to be rather distant and, well, republican. But last November, just before my birthday, we got a call that he was going to have open-heart surgery the next day. He had a pulmonary embolism and had a history of heart problems. "Today's a lousy day," he told my mother over the phone, "but tomorrow will be better."

The next day we got a call from my aunt. The surgery had not had the outcome they'd hoped for. The doctors had put my uncle in a medically induced coma because after the surgery, the pressure in the right side of his heart was too elevated. They were using a machine to function for that side of his heart and needed him to stay unconscious to buy time, a few days during which they hoped his heart would heal. They would have to take him off the machine before they could close him up; if they took him off and his heart still wasn't working properly, they could do nothing else. Everyone was grim. They wanted my mother to come out to Atlanta.

She was the only one who refused to believe that he was going to die. And he didn't die. He was in a coma for a week, but he made it. Not only that, he's now home, nearly done with therapy, and suffers only some vision problems related to the ordeal. The hospital in Atlanta, I've been told, calls him Lazarus. Since then, he's called me twice. He seems to be a different man. When he talks with me, there is a warmth I don't recall having heard for years. I guess a miraculous recovery will do that for you.

I know how fortunate he was, how fortunate our family was and is, and how things can turn around no matter the odds. So I'm certainly not going to get in a sweat over four walls and a roof. I don't mean that to sound simplistic or glib. Life is full of fear and uncertainty, I just see no reason to pile on more.

Ah...

There it is.

Yesterday I had a date. With my Boy. He got all dressed up; I wore jeans. I offered to put on lipstick, but he said it would make me look awful. "You should just go as you are, Mama."

That's my kinda guy.

First, he gave me chocolates. Then we went to dinner at a local cafe and had sandwiches in front of the fireplace. Then we went to see "Nanny McPhee" (which was absolutely darling, btw--plus who doesn't want to spend a date gazing at Collin Firth?). All in all, a very satisfying rendezvous.

But where's the bad stuff?

I saw this over at Phantom's and made one on a whim. But there aren't really any ... erm ... negative traits on the board. Don't you need some negative traits? Or maybe no one would have the balls to pick those? What the heck, you guys can tell me my negative traits whenever you want, anyhow.

I see the moon

It's the Snow Moon. Tonight it surprised me as I dropped off the Girl at her father's. As we got out of the car, there it was, glowing round and orange just above the skyline.

"Look!" I whispered to her. "Do you see the moon?"

I have a memory from when I was her age. My grandmother and I had been to my great-aunt's house a block away. We walked home as the sun set, and as we reached the house, my mother was waiting for us out front. She took me in her arms and turned me around to face the eastern horizon.

"Look!" she said. "Look at the moon!"

I know what I remember is an impossibility, but here's what I see: The Moon, orange and round, hanging halfway above the horizon like a giant from some science-fiction novel. So big, it looked as though it was about to collide with the Earth. It stretched completely across the horizon. I'd never seen anything so huge or unearthly, so incredible. I wasn't afraid. I was in awe. I'm still in awe of that moon. I wonder if it will ever return, whether one day my children will tell me that it visited them, too. I hope so. My life would be less without it.

Talking Girl

A continuation. It's Strawberry Shortcake's world, I'm just living in it.

Singing Girl

If you aren't into adorable preschoolers, skip this one.
What's all that extraneous background noise, you might wonder? Popcorn. Being eaten with a spoon. Not by me.
You hear that sad voice? That is one sad voice. Is it any wonder she gets away with shite?

So much big

That's what the Girl said when I observed how big she was getting. "Yesss," she murmered, in that lispy preschooler way, "So much big!"

I start my new job tomorrow. My new job which I am sure not to blog about, just as I never blogged about my last job. Except I will say this: My first assignment, according to my new manager? "Sleep in late."

Can I tell you how much I'm going to love this job?

Somehow, I knew it was gonna be phlegm

As seen over at Holly's, home of the Croc-Loving Child:

You Have a Phlegmatic Temperament

Mild mannered and laid back, you take life at a slow pace.You are very consistent - both in emotions and actions.You tend to absorb set backs easily. You are cool and collected. It is difficult to offend you. You can remain composed and unemotional.You are a great friend and lover. You don't demand much of others.While you are quiet, you have a subtle wit that your friends know well. At your worst, you are lazy and unwilling to work at anything.You often get stuck in a rut, without aspirations or dreams.You can get too dependent on others, setting yourself up for abandonment.

What Temperment Are You?

And the funny thing? I really did know it would turn out this way. Man, I am SUCH a SBFH.

The things you hear...

Scene: The dinner table
Players: The Boy, the Girl, PK
PK: Gigi, eat your turkey. B...
B: [looking up] Yeah, Mama?
PK: B. Honey. Why do you have a rubber band around your head?
B: It's cutting off the insulation!
PK: Oh. Well, then.

Scene: The phone
Players: Old Dear Friend, PK
[Edited to add disclaimer: We are both mostly JOKING in this conversation! Because my friends and me? We give each other shit. A lot.]
PK: So the Girl threw a total hissy today because I put her in pants to go to church. She totally freaked. "We wear DRESSES TO CHUUUUUURCH!!!" I don't know where that came from.
ODF: Well, I guess she isn't going to be a lesbian.
PK: !!What?!
ODF: [giggling a little] You know, if she likes dresses.
PK: I can't believe you just said that! Like lesbians can't like dresses?!
ODF: Well...
PK: I mean, that's such a ... that's so ... that's a completely sexist comment!
ODF: I suppose so, but...
PK: And Hey! You're a lesbian!
ODF: I know. And I hate dresses.
PK: [really just teasing her now] Yeah, but, it's still sexist. You're like, the Sexist Lesbian. That can't be right.
ODF: [sighing] Okay, okay. I'm sorry.
PK: Well, you should be, Missy!
ODF: (I still like suits better.)

Scene: The park
Players: Boy, Girl, the Chicita (the Chica's girl)
C: Gigi! You are a chicken dish!
B: You are roast beef!
G: NO! NO BOY! NO CHICITA! I AM NOT CHICKEN! I AM NOT ROAST BEEF!

Scene: The office
Players: PK, the Chica, Really Sweet Doe-Eyed Intern
PK: [to RSDEI] You want anything from the Donut Haus?
RSDEI: [with a little gasp] The DONUT HAUS?
C: Mm-hmm.
RSDEI: There's a DONUT HAUS? A haus of donuts??
PK: Oy yah, baby.
RSDEI: [as if seeing the face of God] Oh my gosh! That's so ... awesome.

Winter:1, Discontent:0

I'm not sure how it happened. I guess it must have been a gradual process, but it seems so sudden.

I am in love with winter.

I have never liked winter. I was born Down South! I've spent cumulative years walking all hunched over and muttering under my foggy breath! Okay, so winter and I had a sort of a truce going last year, but this year it's all-out adoration. I'm not even bothered by the wind. And I tell you what, I hate me some wind. I am in love with my sweaters, my down duvet, the boho furry collar on my brown coat, the grey skies, the early pink sunsets, the icy lakes, the frosty grass, the cold stars, the hot coffee.

The Boy's school is participating in a February "fitness challenge", and we're supposed to keep a record of how many minutes a day he spends in physical activity outside of school. I've set aside an hour after he gets off the bus (at 4:00) to spend doing some sort of activity--mostly running around in one of the nearby parks. We've chased each other up and down the crisp hills, laughed at the noisy flocks of geese, muddied up several pairs of Crocs, and warmed up frozen hands in the car on the way home. And I've loved it. And I honestly can't say why this sudden change of heart.

I'm going off the Lexapro. I'm going slow. I cut down to 3/4 of a pill when I refilled my script last week. The first few days were interesting--lots of night sweats, dry mouth, nausea, and this interesting shouldn'ta-had-that-5th-cuppa-coffee feeling. But emotionally, I felt fine, even with all the juggling going on around here and some Ex-related drama that I don't feel like detailing. In a few weeks, I'll go to 1/2 a pill. I close on the new house on the 17th, and start the new job on Monday. I think it's going to be fine. I'm optimistic. You know how it is when you're in love.

Terms of Endearment

I realized something tonight, as I hung up from talking with my friend Sally. (Who, by the way, can stage a house like nobody's business. If you're from around here and you ever want your house to kick. ass? You call me and I'll tell you how to get hold of Sally. Plus? She spent two nights over here staging the hell out of the place and drinking wine and looking up our horriscopes on the Internet, and she didn't charge me a red cent. She's a Goddess.)

So, this was the end of the conversation:
Me: Okay, sweets, have a good night.
Her: Talk to you soon, my love.
Me: K, bye hon.

Maybe it's because I'm from the south originally? I don't know. But there it is: I'm a sweetheart-er. A honey-er. A sugarpie-er. And the majority of my friends are, if not also confectionary talkers, nicknamers. Jeannie always calls her close friends by either their last name or their initials. The Chica...well, okay, let's not use the Chica as an example cause we just have the psychic bond at this point and don't even talk, we just do that beginning a sentence and then nodding at the other person thing. But my conversations and even emails with friends are well-seasoned with hons and darlin's and sweets and sugars. And the kids! Depending on the moment, either of them could end up being my punkin, bean, sweetpea, butter, suggie, hon, lovey, darlin, doll, bunny, or pie. Is it any wonder I need to get more exercise?

**********

More blogroll work. I've added some new people that are just awesome, too: Tessa and AJWP--both have ways with words that leave me green, but hey, green looks good on me.

**********

Remember that little fluffball of a kitten that we got back in August? The teeny, tiny, Yoda-eared bitty kitty?

Guess who turns out to be a Maine Coon?

My lord, you should see the size of her. It's like Attack of the 50-Foot Cat. She isn't yet a year old and she's nearly as big as our Big Marshmallow Psycho Kitty Cat, that 16-pound fluff bucket who always gets a double-take when new folks walk in the door. I guess we are just not destined to do petite around here.

If I were any cooler, I'd melt

Just what do you do when your Ex and his wonderful girlfriend ask if they can take the kids on a Friday night, which is usually a night the kids spend with you?

You hang out on the basement couch, eating cheese and Branston Pickle sandwiches and drinking TheraFlu, watching the videos of that old BBC miniseries, "Flambards", which was one of those 70s PBS shows that you fell madly in love with and that made you fall madly in love with England so badly that you just had to go there one day, which you did, and where you met the man you'd marry, have children with, and divorce--leading you to your present day pinnacle of coolness.

Man, I love TheraFlu.

Way to go, St. Joe...

Okay, so the house is getting a decent number of showings--about 5 so far and it only went on the market Tuesday. Most people are saying it's too small, which I find interesting, but maybe it's just my new Simple Living perspective, in which I don't see the point of having a huge mansion to clean up every damned day. We're actually going to be going down in living space at the new house, and down in lot size, too. But I digress.

Maybe I should've gotten the St. Joseph statuette instead of the St. Joseph icon card, but see, I read you're supposed to use the Family Version of St. Joe, not the Workman Version, and all the Family Version statues were butt ugly (sorry, Joe, but they were) and since after the house sells I have to put St. Joe in a "place of honor" in the new house, I needed something either 1) a lot nicer or 2) a lot uglier. So I got the card, cause Hey! It can go on the fridge. That's a place of honor chez SBFH. All the good artwork goes there, along with my Anne Taintor magnets and the one that has a picture of Bush with the quote "I am the master of low expectations."

But. Here's what I'm getting to. The card won't go down all the way into the dirt, so Joe's feet are sticking out. I didn't think that mattered, but I might need to go out and get him in there properly. Because after yesterday's first showing, I came home to my newly staged and cleaned and cookie-candled and classical-music-ed house to find A DEAD MOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BASEMENT.

None of you told me that Saint Joseph was the patron saint of practical jokers.

OH NO!

And to top it all off, I totally forgot to tell Annette happy birthday!!! I suck.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ANNETTE!

Everyone, tell Annette happy birthday and help me make up for it, will ya?

Why haven't you called?

Sorry, all y'all. This has been a bit of a hectic week...I accepted a new job offer and quit my job of 6 years. I put my house on the market today. I am finishing the never-ending freelance project tomorrow, and scheduling the closing on the new house sometime next week. It's been a little busy 'round here, but wow! So good.

Anyone ever buried a statue of St. Joseph in the yard?

What can I say?

I totally had the hots for the Mover Guy today. And he was so not my usual type. He had facial hair! And kind of longish hair and tattoos. But my god, his voice was divine. And you know, he was really, really good at moving things. I think we could've had a future together.

Yeah, don't go putting me on!

Holy cow, I love you, New Kid.

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Psycho Kitty!

1. If Psycho Kitty was life size, she would stand 7 ft 2 inches tall and have a neck twice the size of a human.
2. Psycho Kitty will often glow under UV light.
3. Psycho Kitty can grow up to three feet in a 24 hour period.
4. The liquid inside Psycho Kitty can be used as a substitute for blood plasma.
5. Psycho Kitty is physically incapable of sticking her tongue out.
6. Every day in the UK, four people die putting Psycho Kitty on.
7. Apples are covered with a thin layer of Psycho Kitty!
8. Psycho Kitty is black with white stripes, not white with black stripes!
9. Psycho Kitty cannot be detected by infrared cameras.
10. All shrimp are born as Psycho Kitty, but gradually mature into females.

I am interested in - do tell me aboutherhimitthem

How do I get talked into these things?

Everyone say hello to the newest members of the SBFH family: Maestro and Silly Crab. Oy.

And oh yeah...

If you lurk, delurk, please, because it's that Delurking Week thing and it will amuse me. And then I can say hi and all that.

And also--I think my site needs a makeover. What do you think? I've been all "blah blah blah" and "simple is good" and "black and white" for a whole year, and it's getting so that it's even boring me. And it might distract you from the fact that I am not the most consistent of bloggers.

And also also? I am addicted to my heating pad. Oh my lord. There is nothing better than a heating pad, a down duvet, a nice cup of Tension Tamer, and a couple cats.

WHAT AM I SAYING!!!!????? OhmygodIneedtogetlaidRIGHTTHISMINUTE!!!!! STAT!

What, so soon?

Yesterday my son--my 6-year-old son--shunned me at the bus stop. His sister and I walk down to meet him when he gets off the school bus. The stop isn't far, but it isn't in sight of the house, either. To get to our house, he has to walk about a block to the end of our street, and then walk down our street to the house. It is safe, and there are other kids making the walk, too, but you know. He's SIX.

Yesterday we were just within shouting distance of the stop when the bus pulled up and the Boy got out with a few other boys on our street. He looked up, saw us, ran a few steps toward me, stopped, cupped his hands to his mouth, and yelled,

"Mom! Go home! Turn around and go home! Please?"

Sigh.

#62: Tells you things you might not wanna know

I was going to do one of those 100 things lists but I only got to 16 before I got bored with myself. So sorry, no go with the 100 things.

But I will give you this, from the TMI department: A while back Frog wrote about her Adventures with Menstrual Cups, and as we all know, I aspire to ... well, something. I don't know. Something that involves me progressively getting more and more finicky about what I stick up my yoni.

(See how much better this is going to be than that 100 things list? We're already talking about yonis!)

But anyhow, those non-bleached, naturally grown, bean-sprout tampons? Sheesh, expensive. And not so efficient. So I was quite interested in Frog's narrative. And after a few months of contemplation, I'm pleased to tell you (though I imagine you might be somewhat less pleased to be told) that I made a stop at the co-op and picked up a Diva Cup. And to think when I was in high school I was too embarrassed to buy tampons.

The really funny part was me lying on the floor at 6:00 am today, with my legs akimbo, trying to get the damned thing to release its suction or whatever it has to do to get in the ... erm ... correct position. Okay, the Chica nearly blowing coffee out her nose when I told her about it was pretty funny, too. "It sort of reminded me," I told her, "of college, when Jeannie and her friend Jo and I used to get really drunk and lie around on the floor trying to queef The Star-Spangled Banner."

Thing About Me #73: I cannot queef The Star-Spangled Banner. But that doesn't mean I haven't tried.

Screw Huckabies, I heart YOU guys

I was up until 3 finishing a freelance project so I am about to hit the sack but I just had to get all mushy on y'all. Everything around here is in flux right now--and I mean EVERYTHING--but in a good way. You know when so much is going on it just seems like too much to even begin putting down in words? But I will. Eventually.

In the meantime, look at all y'all. Aren't you marvelous? Well, I already knew that.

Oh, and postal rate increase? Obvious sign from God that the time for me to send out all my late holiday cards is past. Ah well.

The Happiest of New Years

Happy new year to everyone!

Last night, the Ex took the Boy to the local First Night festival, and my mom, the Girl, and I stayed home and did our Own Thing, which as it turns out was making pizza and falling asleep reading stories in the big bed at about 8:30. At dinner, I had a little vodka and o.j. and got all sentimental. Staring across the table at the Girl, who was singing herself a little song (something she likes to do, oh, ALL THE TIME), I sighed and said, "Gigi, my lovie, what do you love most in all the world?" And she looked back at me with those big blue-green eyes, blinked those massive lashes, and said, in all seriousness, "Poopie."

What can I say? The other day, while she was sitting on her little potty, she yanked off her sweatpants, put them on her head (she looked oddly like the Duchess from Alice in Wonderland), and told me, "Hello! I am Mr. Pothead. Would you like to shake hands with me?" Um, no thanks, I'll have to pass this time.

The Boy called at midnight on their way home from the fireworks. "I fell asleep on my Papa," he mumbled, "but then I woke up for the fireworks, and they were soooo beautiful! They were red, and green, and blue, and yellow..." "That is so cool, bud," I whispered into the phone. "I'm glad you had fun." "I did, Mama. And Mama? Happy Christmas."

Occupy yourselves

Because I'm kinda swamped this week and don't have time to write all the inspirational, kooky stuff in my head, I am going simply going to direct you to a few of my all-time favorite blogger/photographers. These folks are wonderful and on top of that--as if their lives and stories weren't interesting enough, and they are--they take amazing photos. You might have to look for the photo links, but what? It would kill you to do a little work and burn off some of that holiday food?
Enjoy.

JinkyArt
Profgrrrrl
Mr. Winkerbean (yes, Mark, I am hell with the nicknames)
That Crazy Beth

The Ghost of Christmas Present

Time: 5:30 a.m., December 25, 2005
Place: My bed
The Boy, sitting straight up: Is it Christmas? Has Santa been here? Can we go downstairs?
Me, looking at the clock and knowing the Ex and Monica aren't coming over until 6:00 and I promised to keep the kids from opening gifts until then: No. I don't know. No.
TB: MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!
Me: Not until the sun comes up.
TB: [Heavy sigh]
The Girl (on the other side of the bed): [snore]

5:35 a.m.
TB: Why did you make up that rule? That's a horrible rule!
Me: What? It isn't my rule, it's everybody's rule. That's Santa's rule. Ask anyone. Christmas doesn't start until the sun's up.
TB: That's a horrible, horrible rule.
TG: [snore]

5:40 a.m.
TB, wailing: That isn't Santa's rule! That's the DEVIL'S rule! The DEVIL made that rule because it makes people cry, and the devil loves it when people cry! I HATE THE DEVIL!
Me: [snort]
TG: [snore]
TB: Everyone hates the devil! Does anyone love the devil?
Me: Well, a few people, but they're misinformed. Go back to sleep. I'll rub your back.
TG: [mumble, mumble, snore]

5:45 a.m.
TB: The sky! The sky is turning light! I see it!
Me: No it isn't.
TB: Yuh-huh! Can I go look out the window? I won't go downstairs, I'll just stand by the window.
Me: Sure, hon.
TG: [snore]

5:55 a.m.
TB: Why is moon still out? WHY?? The sun can't come up when the moon is still out!
Me: Sure it can, bud. You see the moon out during the day all the time. Don't worry. Want me to come watch with you?
TB: Yes!
TG: [snore]

6:05 a.m.
Text message from the Ex:
We just woke up. We're on our way.
Me: [Thank HEAVENS]
TB: Is that the sun?? Is that the sun?? Is that the sun??
TG, sitting straight up: Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Happy holidays, sweetie-darlings, from all of us here chez SBFH to all of you out there!

The Mommy's Little Helper Alphabet

Happy Holidays from that Paragon of Parenthood, Orange Tangerine, and me, the one who drinks a lot. Smoochie!

A is for amphetamines, that keep your mommy perky
B is for the Benadryl, that stops her getting jerky
C is for the chocolate, worth its weight in gold
D is for mama’s Demerol, when baby’s one day old
E is for eggnog, spiked with some rum
F is for...oh, don’t even pretend you don't know what F is for, people!
G is for Godiva (see C above)
H is for headache, when Mommy don’t want no love
I is for ice cream that fills the tummy
J is for a jacuzzi to make Mama feel yummy
K is for kisses—the kids’, so gentle; the lover’s, deep
L is for late night, when kids are asleep
M is for Midol, in case you must ask
N is for Nubain, to help labor pass
O is for orgasms—need I say more?
P is for pizza, delivered to the door
Q is for quiet, one minute’s enough
R is for rest (hey, remember that stuff!)
S is for sitters, who cut us some slack
T is for TV getting kids off our back
U is for underwire ‘cause Mama’s boobs are flappy
V is for vibrators that make Mama so happy
W is for whiskey, sipped out of a cup
X is for Xanax, when Mama’s worked up
Y is for “yes, Mama”--better than “no!”
Z is for Zzzzzz, off to bed we all go!

©2005, Psycho Kitty and Orange

I never knew that!

Did anyone else know that Shirley Jones is the Mother Of All Shopping? I knew she was the mother of all Partridges, but shopping? Who knew?

In other news, I cracked up yesterday when the Girl referred to the carpet-cleaning guys as "those working boys".

Her daycare had its annual Holiday concert, and her class sang "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer". She was belting out that song for weeks. The night finally came. She was dressed up and ready to sing! The curtain opened. She was right in the middle. She looked out upon her adoring fans....and wailed like a friggin' banshee. That's my girl!

Later we got in line for Santa. Earlier in the day, in a fit of pissiness because I wouldn't let him tear open the paper on his presents "just a little to see whether there was more paper underneath" (!), the Boy said, "I am SO mad at you, Mama. I hate you!" "Woooohoh," I shot back, "I sure hope Santa didn't hear that!" "Santa!" he scoffed. "Santa is nothing but a FAIRY TALE!!!" I opened my eyes up wide. "Well now, that's just crazy talk," I told him. That night, during the singing, I leaned over to him and whispered, "Hey. What you said earlier about Santa..." "Oh, that," he shrugged. "I didn't mean that." Whew.

So we're in line for Santa. The Girl has been talking for weeks about how she wants to sit on Santa's lap and have him hug her. You already know what happens when we get up to Santa, don't you? More with the banshee noises. So Monica's holding the Girl, and I'm holding her hand, and we're both telling her that it's okay, she doesn't have to sit on Santa's lap, he'll still know what she wants and bring her a present, no worries. We move out of line and wait for the Boy, eat a cookie, get ready to leave. The whole time, she's still sort of crying but also watching that Santa. And when we start to leave, she bursts into tears again and wails, "But I WANNA see Santa! I DO! I DO!" So I took her back into the line, and this time, she did it. She sat on that fat man's lap and grinned like a maniac.

Santa crises averted. Cards still not sent. Carpets clean. Yep, it's just about that time of year.

The last question

Took me long enough, eh?

The most excellent and True-Blue Semi-Cruncy Mama (what, there are more of us?) asks:

You know I love your blog. So, I was wondering, if you would consider adding mine to your blogroll the next time you update? That is, if you still like to come by mine?

To which I reply: I. Suck. At updating the blogroll, that is. I'm so sorry. You guys are so woderful, stopping by, and I just suck. But it's all better now! Because look! I have tidied up! And added people! And everything! (Did I leave anyone out?)

Thanks for your patience, y'all. Now, you get what I promised you.

(Oh, and Trisha? Yuh-HUNH!!!)

Ooooohhhhh, fuuuuuudge

Okay. The first thing you need to understand is that the Boy? He looks just like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story". If you put him in those glasses and cut his hair a bit differently, there you'd be. We used to laugh about it when he was younger, because he had a chubbier face and REALLY looked the part.

Second thing is that the Boy loves that movie. For some reason, he always begs to watch it. Okay, fine, I love it, too, and we own it, so last night we decided to watch. The Boy is asking all sorts of questions about things here and there, the bullies, the dad, the school, what's a "theme", so on, so forth. Then comes the infamous "fudge" scene. And as the narrator says, "Only I didn't say 'fudge'...", the Boy looks at me and says,

"What did he say? Fuckin'?"

"Uhhh," I say. "Yeah. Pretty much. But YOU don't say that."

"Don't say what? Fuckin'?"

"Yes."

Do I even need to tell you what he said then? A lot?

So by now, Ralphie is sitting there sucking on the Lifeboy, and I say to my Boy, "See what happens when little boys say rude words like that? You need to stop saying that, now, or I will have to wash out your mouth with soap!"

You should know that 1) I've never washed my kids' mouths out with soap, 2) I am not a corporal punisher in general, but 3) I went and got the soap anyway. This was a good plan in that he stopped saying "Fuckin" but a poor plan in that he stopped saying it because he went into hysterics and locked himself in his room. So then I'm trying to convince him to unlock the door and come talk to me, that I'm NOT actually standing there wielding soap, and all the time, the Girl is behind me, shouting, "Wash MY mouth with soap! I want to eat soap!! ME TOO, MAMA!!!"

This, folks, is why my life is like a very weird comedy directed by a very drunken person who makes strange casting choices.

Signs

Probably, if your son says to you (through his tears as he leans against you because his sister bit him because she didn't want to share her chair during the cookie-baking session), "Mom? Are you getting pregnant?"...

...it's time to lay off the Baileys. Ah, well.

Help the WASP Girl

Anybody got a killer recipe (and helpful instructions) for potatoe latkes? The Boy wants them. Assist, I beg of you!

Well, that's gotta hurt

The Boy: [seriously] Mom, you know what Tyler sang at me today? He sang, "Bo-oy, Bo-oy, sitting in a tree, K-S-S-S-I-O-P!"

Me: Oh he did, did he?

TB: Yes. He sang that bad song at me. K-S-S-S-I-O-P!!!

Me: Oh my.

[Pause]

Me: Well, if it makes you feel any better, sweetie, he got that song completely wrong. So you know, he didn't really say anything bad about you.

TB: Really?

Me: Really.

[wait for it]

TB: So...how's that song really go?

A Day in the Life

Well. That settles the question of whether I could do away with my Internet connection as part of my current budget-crunching crisis. Answer: NO.

As you might have guessed, the Internet left me for a few days. It must've found someone cuter. Probably that Jessica, with her new site and her darling laugh and her wonderful heart and her amazing courage and her BROTHER WHO IS THE VOICE OF SCOOBY DOO?! Jessica, we hardly knew thee. What next, you're going to drop the bomb that oh, Hugh Jackman happens to be your next door neighbor? And then we are coming to live with you forever and ever. Tell the husband now.

But in the meantime, perhaps it's better. I am the sort who needs clear leads from the Divine, in the order of a large neon arrow and a bouncer to point the way. Perhaps I am being directed to simplify my life? Could be. Things have just been...complicated. Okay, totally nutso crazy around here, happy now?

The stuff that keeps me from lying down in the middle of the boxes and drinking straight from the bottle:

The Girl, singing the "Namaste" song from the Yoga Kids ABC DVD, getting it mixed up with the other song she's trying to learn, wandering around the house tunelessly intoning, "Lama Steak! Lama Steak! Lama Steak! Red nose!"

The Boy, when I told him that Miss Jessica's brother was Scooby Doo's voice, his eyes getting huger and huger: "Whoaaaaaano sir. That is so not true. Is it?" (Doubters everywhere, Jess!)

Last but not least, I give you the recipe for the Best Gingersnaps Ever. These are the ones my mom always makes. They are, she says, from the 1979 Southern Living cookbook. If you find them getting hard, put a piece of bread in with them to soften them up, though you shouldn't need to do.

1 cup sugar
2 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp ground cinamon
1 tsp ground ginger
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1/4 cup shortening (I use melted butter)
1/4 cup molasses
1 egg, slightly beaten
extra sugar

Preheat oven to 350 F.
Combine sugar, flour, salt, baking soda, and spices. Cut in shortening to course crumbs. Stir in molasses and egg.
Shape dough into 1" balls; roll in extra sugar. Place on ungreased baking sheets--don't flatten--and bake 8-10 minutes, watching carefully. Place on racks immediately.

Learning

It's going to be a busy day here chez SBFH. I'm sticking to my "not telling you the whole sordid tale until it's all over" thing, but I can give you this much detail: The new house will be ready in about a month, and arrangements for what to do with the old house have changed. So within that month, I need to pack the house, fix up several dings and whatnots, and sell the thing. Mm-hmm.

I am fortunate enough to have help in these endeavors. Today will be a busy day. Planned as the annual "Chica/Chica Cookie Baking Bonanza", it has morphed into the "Chica/Chica Sorta Cookie Baking But Mostly Thank You God That I Have A Best Friend Who Offers To Help Me Pack Things Oh How I Love Her Bonanza". (What's with the Chica/Chica you ask? Well, see, you all know her as the Chica, and she is the Chica, but so am I the Chica, if you were talking to her. Get it? A conversation between us would go thusly: "Yo, Chica." "Hiya Chica." "Everything groovy, Chica?" "Chicita, you know it is." See?) (And how do I make her my own? you are also probably asking. Ahhh, the luck of the gods is all I can say.)

Anyway. What was my point? Damn.

Oh. It's gonna be crazy! Crazy days ahead! That was it. But I am learning to be zen with it. And on top of that, the Boy has been learning, too. So many things. And I'll tell you all about it, cause I owe you a nice long talk about the Boy, and I owe it for him as well. But it won't be happening today.

Blog Against Racism Day

It's Blog Against Racism Day.

I was born in the South and lived there for the first 8 years of my life. In the absence of my father, my mother's family was the only family I knew. My people, my heritage, then, were that of my maternal grandparents. My grandfather's family came from Georgia; my grandmother's, from Kansas; anglo-saxon protestants, all. And here's what I was taught, those first 8 years:

• Black people are perfectly nice, but black people and white people should not marry or have any type of intimate relationship.
• Our ancestors owned slaves, and that was nothing to be particularly ashamed about.
• There is nothing odd about a grown man calling a little girl "Miss PK" so long as the man is black and girl is white.
• If you are white and you have black "help", and you are, say, polite to them, you are a pretty big person.

I look back on these "facts of life" and think, "What the fuck?"

It really is true that good can come out of bad. My mother's second marriage was abysmal, but one good thing that came of it was that we moved out of the South and that her husband showed me these lies for what they were, and are. Thank God, is all I can say. B

y the time I was 14, I was sufficiently deprogrammed enough to be absolutely disgusted by my aunt and uncle's determination to move out of their prestigious Mississippi neighborhood because an African-American was moving in, and my God, there goes the neighborhood. Do I think the levies in New Orleans were intentionally breached to eradicate the poor, African-American population of certain areas? No. But do I think those levies were allowed to fall into woeful disrepair because that population was so little valued by the political powers that be as to be off the radar? You bet I do.

I have driven through Mississippi and seen people living in shacks. I have heard my own blood relatives--educated, intelligent, morally upstanding people--argue with me that other human beings differ from me because of the color of their friggin' skin, argue that people are overly sensitive over the use of the word "nigger". There's no hate for them in that word, and that makes it all the more hateful. Ignorance is hateful to me. Blindness and fear and the wall we build that separates us from other human beings is hateful.

I had the privilege a few years ago of hearing Maya Angelou speak. I think that woman is one of those rare human beings that radiates wisdom. To be in a room with her is a spiritual experience. She quoted Terence: "I am a human being; nothing human can be alien to me." What do you do when you hear the vitriol that spews out now against illegal aliens (read: Mexicans), fanatics (read: Muslims), deviants (read: homosexuals)? There is only one argument. I am a human being. Nothing human--nothing--can be alien to me. Don't shake your head. Don't walk away. Don't keep the peace. Speak the truth. Refuse to back down. Refuse to stand by silently while more children are taught to fear and hate. Your silence will never be taken as disagreement, only as acquiescence. Be a human being instead.

Edited to point out--I hope it's clear that the labels in that last paragraph are slurs and bullshit?

November is the damnedest month

But I am not going to go into it until I am out the other side. THEN, people, will I have a story for you! For now, I am concentrating on maintaining my metaphysical positive zen attitude thing, and to go into gruesome detail (you thought the PUS was gruesome!) would surely be counterproductive.

In the meantime, I still have two questions to answer, and some pictures to reveal. There also seems to be some interest in 1) whether I have actually seen anyone about my festering stomach (answer: Hell yes! Come on, do y'all think a hypochondriac of my fine caliber would just sit on something like this?), and 2) origin of the Thanksgiving quotes. Although I hate for them to lose their mystique, I will oblige.

The first quote was uttered by the Boy during a viewing of "The Polar Express". There's a moment when a little boy is complaining that he found his present, and it was just stupid underwear. The Ex said to the Boy, "Wow, that kid isn't being very grateful, is he?" And they Boy said, "NO! He's being awful!" "You think?" asked the Ex. "You wouldn't do that?" "Oh, no," said the Boy, "I would never, never, NEVER..." [and this is where we all expected him to say "act that way" or "be that rude" or "be ungrateful for what I have"] "...wish for underwear!"

The second quote had to do with the recipe I chose for Thanksgiving dinner. It's a lovely turkey breast stuffed with a spinach/feta combo. The first and only other time I made it was about 17 years ago, when my family came to visit me for Thanksgiving. It was my last year in college, and all my roommates had gone elsewhere for the holidays, so my mother, stepfather, and grandmother came to stay with me. My stepfather, as has been discussed before, was a rather...dysfunctional...man. My mother was in one of the most profound passive-aggressive phases of her life. And my grandmother was suffering from dimentia and was convinced that we were all simply really good impersonations of her family. Oh! It was a holiday to remember, I'll tell you what. And of course, being the college girl and not at all the masterful (ahem) chef I have become since, I had never dealt with a turkey breast before and had not properly prepared for the recipe, which calls for the breast to be flattened and then rolled. So I found myself in the kitchen with a not-quite-thawed turkey breast and nothing with which to flatten it save a hammer; a stressed-out mother, a senile grandmother who kept asking me who the heck I was, and my stepfather (issues unsaid); and NO CODEINE. I think this puts the second quote in perspective for you.

Last but not least, the third quote was the Girl's attempt to discuss something that happened before she was born...back when she was in utero, when she was "so so little, I was just a yoni!"

And FINALLY, the lovely Krupskaya, chez Edit Barn, asks:
What would be your most perfect ideal day with the kids? And the most perfect ideal day without the kids?

Hmmmm. I think the most perfect day with the kids would simply be a day in which none of our issues came to bite us in the collective ass. One during which the Girl didn't throw a fit, I didn't get stressed out, the Boy didn't get manic, and we all really just appreciated each other and managed to be kind to each other and have fun and enjoy everything around us. A calm day, I guess I'm asking for. We have lots of fun around here, but calm is something we don't get much of. And oh, I do miss the calm now and then. Not that I'd trade these children for a world of calm, but since we're talking Fantasy World here...

And without them? Heck. I guess I would love to just spend a day doing nothing but lovely relaxing selfish things, like watching movies and drinking coffee and wine and getting massages and pedicures and manicures and so forth. Oh, and since we are, as has been mentioned, in Fantasy World, all those things would be performed by an available, functional Hugh Jackman look-alike, who would also (close your eyes, children) fuck my brains out.

Weren't expecting that part? Oh, how you disappoint me.