Thursday, December 31, 2009

Resolve not to resolve

Funny thing about resolutions, the word itself is limiting. Resolution implies that something will be solved, or finished, or settled.
Sounds pretty boring to me. Yes, I have resolutions, but I think of them as more goals, or trail heads for life. Something like that. I can feel the adventure in making promises and recognizing that things will change as a result. That's why people call me reckless, I guess.
In terms of soluble promises for the new year, there are a few, I'll admit. I definitely need to keep my car cleaner, which means I need to get on the kids about leaving all of their shit on the floor in the back. One comforting thought is that if we ever got stranded we could survive for a week on half-eaten granola bars and glue sticks and we could signal for help with the piles of glitter as well as build a fire with the dried horse shit and random twigs.
Yeah, need to keep the car cleaner. My 6-year-old is even starting to notice that it is basically a garbage can with wheels.
"Get into the car, guys."
"You mean the shithole."
"The CAR! Get in. And watch your mouth, young man."
"I can't even see my mouth."
Sigh. Little sophists, how charming.
Yes, and note to self, do not make a habit of letting Anna drink decaf. from Fuel. Oh my sweet lord, I let her have a little cup of that stuff and about 5 minutes later it kicked in (decaf still has caffeine). Let's just say, I think she could compete with Faulkner for the world's longest sentence award. She did not shut up from the time we left the shop, not once, not even when she was eating her dinner and bread and fondue were gathering at the corners of her mouth and falling into her lap.
"Wow, I've been talking non-stop." She suddenly realized it, but then kept talking.
Maybe next time an herbal tea might hit the spot and not make me want to hit her, or myself.
Which brings me to trail head number two (not a euphamism for poop btw), I need to remember what my mother told me a few weeks ago.
We are all works in progress.
What an adventure.

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Good-bye 2009

Maybe this is being a little bit premature, but I'm pretty glad to be rid of 2009. It wasn't a "very good year." In the interests of consistency and being totally cheesy, I'd like to do a little look back at the year, you know, like Time Magazine does, and People. Except, I'm not famous, my life is of little consequence on the newsstands and I can use the f-word with or without asterisks. My choice.

"20-09" or "Why I Must've Been a Serial Killer in a Former Life"

January 2009 began with a fizzle as my red blood cells were struggling to survive while fighting a mean case of mono (lymphoma was ruled out in Dec. of 2008). With jaundice (yes, you do turn yellow) and Lyme's disease I continued to laugh, cry and puke my way through the month while celebrating the inauguration of Barack Obama, who continues to be my savior. This month was also marked with anxiety due to a cousin who was in his second tour of duty (in the mountains of Afghanistan) and a brother who despite having one heart surgery, was still making weekly trips to the ER, he turned 36.
As January leaked away, one freezing day at a time, Lucian's nose continued to bleed and he continued to have migraines until the doctor ordered a Lyme's test and an MRI to rule out, and I quote, "a brain tumor or hematoma". That was quite something, watching my five-year-old from behind a lead screen wondering if, in fact, he would have any hair by February.
All clear on that one, I turned 32 in February, managed to finish the doxycycline and not have to have my liver drained. Still jaundiced, but having one of the best teaching years of my career.
March was a bit shaky, my little brother turned 30 (to his dismay, I did tease him about his diminishing hairline) and my older brother was scheduled to have another heart surgery in April. Again. The surgery lasted over 12 hours, I had his children for the day and night and began to wonder if I might have them forever, when relief in the form of a very emotional phone call came. He made it again.
I think the relief was short-lived, or my heart was having sympathy pains because a few weeks later I found myself in a hospital bed for the weekend with an "acute coronary spasm" and a now established record of "heart difficulty". Ye-ah.
That's when sh*t changed. Forever. I had epiphany after epiphany in that hospital bed, the first of which was I needed to write some kind of a living will because my child had no legal guardian if anything happened to me. And that I have never liked applesauce.
Yada-yada-yada....here we are, I am done with teaching, writing furiously, watching my children grow and become very funny, warm, quirky, reckless people despite poverty, bad marriages, and anxiety.
5 migraines later, with some potato leek soup in my system and a lot more perspective, I can say, that, yes, a shitty year, but what a great way to trim down and out the stuff that's not important, and has never been important.
It's all very clear to me. A reckless thought, but it keeps my heart where it needs to be. I love my kids, I need my health, and the rest can be worked out in time.

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Bigger fish?

I'm sure you are all trying to wash the bitter, coffee-ground taste of yesterday's blog out of your mouths. Don't fear, today is much more mellow thanks to a hilarious conversation I had with Whitney yesterday, as well as the giant slab of bread and chocolate I plan on eating for dinner with a glass of Riesling.
So, last night, post-Christmas, 10 p.m. Whitney called me because, well, who else are you gonna call? I'm up, I'm funny, and I appreciate the perverse humor of my friends.
The conversation started:
"Hey Prozac Girl, how was Christmas? I'm still f***ing tired."
"Seriously. Just call me PG, although I'm pretty sure that's not every going to be my rating again. I'm to jaded and mean. You sound energetic by the way, what's up?"
"Oh yeah, I stopped taking Clonapin. It's just not doing it for me. Every morning I wake up with a f***ing monster headache and then I have to take like 800 mg of ibuprofen and drink 5 cups of coffee. Then the Effexor."
"Nice breakfast."
"Yeah, it isn't bad."

And so the conversation continues in this vein for about 40 minutes, with various references to dumb ex-husbands with tiny "material" and ruined boyfriends with big "material" and how size does matter, etc., etc. Then we rounded the corner to talk about the giant crap her 3-year-old took in the tub.

"I'm glad she's relaxed, but then I had to clean out the f***ing tub so that she could take a bath. God, is there a bigger fish?"
"I don't think so. We are the biggest fish I know."
"Maybe you can shoot me."
"No, because knowing our luck I'd get it wrong and you'd die just as slowly as if a shark ate you."
"Right. Well, wish me luck, I have to have an unemployment hearing tomorrow."
"Oh, definitely don't wear your new Uggs then."
"I won't. I'm trying to think how I can look professional but pathetic."
"I'm sure you'll be fine."

I sense a philosophy book on the horizon. Co-written, of course. Maybe a spoof on "Eat, Pray, Love".

"Starve, Cry, Hate" might be a good one.

Monday, December 28, 2009

Merry Christmas, go f*** yourself

Did everyone survive? Sort of?
Now the Christmas hangover begins, that heavy feeling in the middle of your chest that moans in disappointment "Now what?"
The kids say they are bored. BORED?! Do you know that Santa had to practically prostitute herself this year to put effin presents under the tree? Santa had to go begging cash from leaf-raking jobs and broke friends and relatives, not to mention that Santa had to drag her skinny ass to the bank to apply for a 90-day loan only to be rejected hours later because she doesn't have a credit card? I thought not being in debt up to my eyeballs was a good thing!
Not so.
So, kid, if you don't play with those godd*mn toys, Santa is putting them on ebay now to get back some of her dignity.
For what it's worth, Christmas morning was fun. I could hear the kids whispering (more like very loud hissing)and exclaiming over their stockings, the crinkling of candy cane wrappers, then, of course, the 5:15 a.m. announcement that Santa had, in fact, arrived.
Good times for a day or two, then the drama started. You know what I'm talking about, the drama where everybody has too much time on their hands and too much eggnog in their system. That's always fun. The drama this year surrounded our apparent attempt to "sabotage" an adult evening out because we could not find a suitable babysitter. That was the claim, that because we would not dump our kids off at:
1)their aging grandmother's house, complete with their 40-year-old mentally disabled uncle who screams in their faces and still tries to pick them up every two seconds as a means of controlling them
2)my parents who still both work full time (my father on the back of a f***ing log truck, and btw, he is almost 60) and have 7 grandchildren and do enough for us as it is, including watch the kids every day after school, come to their little concerts, events, etc., and still have 5 other grandchildren besides.

Yes, you caught us, we're just trying to make things difficult. How'd you guess?
WHO HAS THE F***ING TIME to think about this crap? I'm serious. Who actually has the guile and time to think about this and then the balls to make the claim that we're actually trying to create "trouble"? Are you effin kidding me? Who doesn't want to go out and have fun? But I'm not going to put more pressure on people who are already under enough pressure so that I can get my drink on.
Here's a word; class. Look it up. It's probably a foreign word to some people, especially the ones who fall asleep on their couch in the middle of major events 'cause they're too drunk or lazy to be a decent host.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

season of....light?

I just ate a green swedish fish and a few bites of a bagel (that tasted like bleach) for breakfast. And this isn't even how the day began. In fact, the day began yesterday when my phsych. doctor said I had "acute anxiety" and needed to destress because she thinks acute "ptsd" has destroyed my seratonin levels. The solution, using "imagery" to relax and taking Kava, Kava at night with B supplements.

Um....do you have a hotline I can call on Christmas Eve in case none of this works? 'Cause I can tell you right now, you ain't seen Christmas in my life. It's a Greek tragedy combined with a Seinfeld episode and an Arthur Miller play.
Something like that. I'll be throwing the presents in the woodstove in no time. Can't wait for that call to go through.
"Um, hello, 911, my mom just through my new DS into the fire and now she's running around in her underwear outside screaming something about thankless a**holes and should've taken that job in New York. Please help!"

So, all of you with scanners, be on the alert, there should be some entertaining stuff happening in sleepy south county on Christmas morning.
Santa needs a lobotomy. Or a little more vitamin d and some Zanax.
Hope everyone is having a fun time during this big build up to Christmas day. Which will then be followed by a let-down akin to post-partum depression, then resolutions none of us will keep because we're too busy, too cold, and too traumatized...apparently.

Monday, December 21, 2009

Christ-child frenzy

Well, as I'm sure you are all experiencing, the holidays are entering the sh*tstorm, clusterf*ck stage. It IS the most wonderful time of year...if you have good drugs. If not, you have to settle for Kahlua in your coffee before 10am and one extra Kava Kava pill than you're supposed to take (especially with red wine).
I sense my new year's resolution coming on, it has something to do with fermented liquids.
I'll put that out of my mind for now, it's too depressing.
I'm debating a Christmas gift for my darling son. For two years in a row, he has asked for a Nintendo DS (you know, those little handheld deals that suck kids in to a vortex of unreality as their brain turns to oatmeal). For these two years, Santa has conveniently forgotten about the request and has instead the DS with a drum set (holy mistake), an entire Playmobil village (guess who gets to assemble that sh*t), interactive robot books, swords, cap guns, etc.
So, do I get him the DS that he's been waiting for (he is only 6, but very technologically advanced, his 8-year-old sister could care less about electronics) or stave him off because of my personal belief that these devices mark the beginning of the end of civilization?
And, if I don't get the DS, should I get him a Swiss Army Knife (he's wanted one since he could talk in sentences).
Help? I hope your holidays are not filled with such wrangling (and yes, petty) musings.

Friday, December 18, 2009

Visitations

I went to a nursing home yesterday, for a story, on caroling. I made the stupid mistake of suggesting Christmas caroling to my editor, I was thinking more about spontaneous caroling, you know, at night with hot toddies and smoke breaks. That'd be fun to photograph, interview, participate in.
Nope.
Caroling in nursing homes, that is my subject. I hate nursing homes. They smell like applesauce and pee. There is a hovering cloud of pure sadness that visitors can leave behind; residents can't shake it. So, I am in a nursing home, working through a crowd of about 40 people in wheelchairs, trying to chat with the ones who aren't deaf or drooling, knocking my ankles on their feet sticking awkwardly out of the metal traps of the wheelchairs. My mood was disintegrating quickly.
Then the 50-member middle school chorus came in. They sang with mild disinterest, the boys had their hand in their baggy pockets, the girls over-compensated by each trying to be Kelly Clarkson. It was a good hour of singing before the kids left. The residents seemed numb. I tried to get that one shot, you know, the political pamphlet shot where a child takes an elderly woman's hand and wishes her a merry christmas and light shines on both of them.
The shot I got was the awkward faces of preteens finishing up a song set and an old lady's face in the foreground, head bowed a little. She looks like she is sleeping but if you zoom in, which I did, she is crying.
That's the shot I got. Sometimes honesty is too honest.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Excuse me, I tweeted.....

I did it, folks, I signed up for Twitter, got my pic up there, some random Doufy (sp?) painting for a background and there you have it. Now I can tell everyone when something comes to mind (or body, as the case may be).
I've considered some "alternative" tweets that I could send which would probably get me booted off instantly. That's why I have the blog. Couple of examples:
"If you're in GB watch out, some old guy sh*t his pants. Red Hat."
"Do not drink the coffee at the diner, sperm samples."
"Avoid the spelt pizza crust at all costs."
"Pathchouli alert at the co-op, go in with a mask."
"Purchasing Immodium at Rite-Aid, then off to church."
"No t.p. at Fuel. Help!"
For those of you South County folks, you get the picture. For the rest, I'm sure the picture is at least somewhat clear.
I can tell I'm going to have too much fun with this. I DID NOT, however, link myself to this technichal umbilical cord via phone. I won't do it (mostly because I can't afford the plan, although I would in a heartbeat if I had an iPhone and better vision).
So, I will tweet, and my public will love me....
Or the FBI will reopen my file and start a ream. Either way, makes for an interesting winter.
Any twitter bitches out there with some suggestions, stories, advice, warnings?

I have to take pictures at a nursing home today. You can bet your ass there is going to be major tweeting after that.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Bad reed

I was at a music concert last night, Anna was singing in the chorus. The kids did sound angelic and they had cute faces and the band squeaked and squawked its way through several "traditional" pieces (Mary Had a Little Lamb, Twinkle Twinkle, and the grand finale, Jingle Bells). Again, all very cute and festive and funny, especially when the beginner clarinets would get going and suddenly each song was riddled with the sounds of what could only be described as ailing geese. I giggled quietly into my coat.
What was truly amazing and disturbing about the concert last night was not the reed instruments, or the kid who fainted on the risers. Nope, what really had me in awe was the clothing of the children.
Let me reiterate the word children here. CHILDREN.
When your kid's band/chorus director says "wear something nice" for the concert, what do people imagine in their minds?
Well, let's make a list of what I saw yesterday, with the caveat that I am by far a prude, I was raised by French Indians (derelicts basically), and that I have two baby daddies, just so no one thinks I'm a Puritan writing this little litany.
Ok, so, gear I saw at the CHILDRENS' concert

A filmy white gown cut above the knee with a black velvet sequined band under the bust, white high heels, no stockings--on a fifth grader. Was she going to work later?

A maroon, nylon, running suit stretched to capacity on its very innocent, very obese wearer.

Thigh high, brown leather hooker boots over leggings--fifth grader

80's makeup, complete with eyeshadow that extended beyond the brow--third grader

A ruched polyester fairy dress, complete with a space for cleavage, with white cowgirl boots, not stockings (of course) and a sequined shrug--obese fourth grader

Tell me something ain't wrong here....and as these little hussies and pimps in the making are leavng their homes, what are their folks/guardians thinking?
"Oh, that looks nice..." Are you kidding me?

Please share anything you've seen on the kids' fashion scene that is disturbing. I am officially intrigued.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Tweet, tweet, bang, bang

So, clearly I haven't been arrested, which was my concern after my last post. The "tree" is a mangled, mangy hemlock that was "borrowed" from the railroad company. A lot of trimming was done, so that this "tree" could fit into the our very old, farmy livingroom. I should also point out that I had to pull about 900 prickers out of my legs and hands because the getting of said tree involved several bouts with puckerbrush, barberry bushes, and, of course, railroad spikes.
I swear, I will need a tetanus shot by the end of the year. Country Living, eat your heart out. This is the real f***ing deal right here.
When the kids came home from school and saw the tree, there were a lot of questions.
For instance:
"What's wrong with it?"
"Where did you get this thing? China?"
"Will it hold ornaments?"
"Is this the one we're gonna use until we get a real one?"
The conversation continued in this humiliating vein until the lights were on the thing. What tree doesn't look magical with lights? The children were placated with garland, ornaments, and the hope that under this vagabond evergreen would lie thousands of presents.
They are in for a huge surprise. Sigh...
That's o.k. This will be the year that they learn about the true meaning of Christmas, Charlie Brown style, and next year, if things are a little more prosperous, I'll set aside a little nest egg for therapy when they approach their
30s.
Again, sigh....
Please feel free to share your Christmas/holiday in poverty stories via the comments option. I will be thrilled to read them.

Monday, December 14, 2009

Christmas past

I should know a few things for sure by now. One, bourbon is not a "quantity" drink. Two, it should not be mixed with chili or any bean-based food (that also contains a tomato base). Yes, so, you can probably see how my weekend shaped up. Sunday was a bit rough, mostly because I'm in denial that I have a gigantic ulcer and also because it snowed/rained/iced for a good part of what I will call the "functional section" of my day.
Was it worth it? That's always the question I ask my friends. Was it worth the fire pit in my guts? Was it worth eating a whole bottle of Tums and then chasing it with Excedrin migraine for breakfast? Was it worth feeling like I was wearing socks on my teeth from all the cigarettes I smoked out by the little social fire?
YOU BET YOUR ASS!!!!
I couldn't pay for conversations like these, not anywhere. Parties (especially parties where there are drunks, gay neighbors, teachers, red necks, born-agains and writers) are fodder for material, especially dialogue. For instance, when gay neighbor number 2 arrived, I'll call him Odin, he greeted the various dogs circling the place.
"Hey guys, Muyo Gayo is here. C'mon, give the gay boy the stick." All the while he is supporting his larger female friend, I'll call her Beth, who has arrived dressed all in black drinking Merlot directly from the bottle. Why bother with a glass? Seems so formal and useless at this point.
And then there are the topics of conversation, again, brilliant.
"Ya know, that guy deserves to have Napoleon complex!"
"I'm not wearing much under these bibs..."
"Now my f***in' snowmobile is sitting up on an engine lift, can't even use it."
"The spirit is really moving in our lives."
"I'm 6'7", if someone can make eye contact with me, that's freaky."
"Cymbalta really gets you to a lower anxiety baseline, whereas Xanax deals with anxiety at the moment."
"Yeah, I have to take my brother to the methadone clinic tomorrow. No days off here."

I could go on, and I will, when I finish writing my holiday novel.
In other news, we are stealing our Christmas tree today, so it could go one of two ways. The theft goes of without a hitch, kids get home from school and start piling on the decorations or, the kids don't see the livingroom for 3 months because their parents are serving time.

I'll let you know. I'm sure they have ethernet in jail.

Friday, December 11, 2009

The Bard at Breakfast

Anna has developed quite a flair for the dramatic. Geez, wonder where she gets it from. I was reading multiple parts of "The Tempest" by third grade. Alone, in my room, the bed was the ship and my brother was the storm.
Anyway, she was trying to brush her teeth and, without fail, Lucian snuck into the bathroom to "shoot" her (he's been pretending to be an assassin for like 3 weeks, can't even take a crap without worrying he'll off you). I heard her spit violently and then, with full enunciation and gusto she pointed her toothbrush at him.
"Lucian, you will rue this morning, and you will rue the day of your birth if you don't leave me alone."
I guess, since he has no effin clue what "rue" means, he slipped out quietly, perhaps even fearfully. I might need to sling that word around a few times and see if he leaves me alone about the Legos at 5:15 in the morning.
I did a defiant thing yesterday (I know, I know, surprise, surprise). I was at the doctor's for a routine check up, telling him a little about my heart/anxiety situation and suddenly he wants blood tests. Lots of them. Again. As if half my red cells weren't drained last year from the mono/lymphoma crap in the fall and then the grand heart finale in April.
"Why do you need to do blood tests." I was playing it cool, trying to look unconcerned. I could already see the bruises forming on the inside of my arms. Right in time for the holidays....
"I think, with what you are describing, you have a thyroid problem. Or something. We'll run some tests, see how you are coagulating, etc."
"Ok, sounds good." I buttoned up, got my coat, charmed the receptionist and took my paperwork down the hall to the blood lab, where I made a sharp right and walked out.
I just couldn't do it. Not at 3 in the afternoon, at the height of my fatigue and nervousness, and then put on a happy face for my kids. Nope. I walked right out, and I probably won't go today, or any other day.
Nobody's getting anymore out of me, least of all my anemic, orange blood. That shit is not meant to leave the body. It's like the more sanitized version of "letting", can't fool me.
So, I'll probably pass out on Christmas morning and ruin the whole day due to my coma that I will be in for several weeks. Oh well.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

An ice pick and a smile

Well, the ground is now covered with white stuff (not the white stuff from the 80's) and I am sipping my coffee slowly so that I can stave off the inevitable.
Shovelling. So much shovelling while the kids are safe in the livingroom watching old episodes of "Scooby Doo". And I know, the absolute second I walk in the door frozen and covered with wet snow and rain, that one of them is going to look up, realize that I'm there (having never realized that I actually left the house to brave this f***ing blizzard)and ask for a snack. At the very least. Thanks guys, no, don't get up, really.
I know they're young but c'mon, we were set to work by the time the diapers came off. That might explain the heavily muscled legs and the disdain we feel for anything wood related. Wood lost its charm a lo-ong time ago!
As I am performing the roles of both alpha male and alpha female, I'm deciding which one I prefer. I'm thinking female only because I like dressing the part. The alpha male plaid shirt is wa-ay too big for me but I need to wear it to do alpha male chores.
There ain't no room for Manolo Blahniks in my world today. Boots, gloves, a maul, and a shitload of coffee are on the plate for today. Then I get to pretend to be a charming journalist on the phone for a 10a.m. interview, when, of course, I will be covered with snow, my hands will be frozen, and I'm not sure that I will be at my most chipper.
And again, there will be the fetching of snacks. And, of course, reassembling the newly purchased Lego Star Wars ship that Lucian has broken at least six times this morning. YES!

Monday, December 7, 2009

Morning wood

Well, it's official. Winter is here. How do I know? Well, for starters I am constantly negotiating the giant pieces of wood that are somehow supposed to fit in the woodstove. Oh, yes, and they are ash so lifting just two pieces is a compromise of vertebrae and sometimes rectum depending on the coffee intake that morning. Also, it is time then to put the water heater into the horse's giant bucket so that the poor bastard won't get cholic or just become completely dehydrated (ironically in the middle of winter!). That was a treat, navigating a giant extension cord through my grandmother's garage that has accumulated 45 years worth of garden statuary, various wicker items (most of which are rotting), a 400-year-old workbench that may sponaneously combust, nails sticking out of every stud, one of which may have given me tetanus, and, of course, the lingering smell of dead mice and dog shit because her annoying little sheltie thinks it's fun to crap by the garage door.
And I haven't even gotten to the hooking up part, and breaking the ice with the end of a broom and my boot. This followed by nearly electrocuting myself because the heater shorted as I put it into the icy water. Then the 12 trips with a 5-gallon bucket filled with water, half of which sloshed over my jeans and froze instantly to my legs.
I love country life.
In other news, my dog, the bigger stupider one, puked his head off last night. Couldn't figure out what the problem was until late this morning when I spotted something shiny in his disgusting dog bed. A f***ing embroidery needle. I have no idea where he got it, or how, but that is what the stupid a**hole was choking on. My first thought was, "Well, if he has more in his guts I'm going to have to call Josh [my older brother who is a hunter, of sorts] to come shoot him because I don't have the money to take him to the vet."
Then, of course, I mapped out my dialogue with the kids, explaining why there are bloodstains all over the deck and why Bo is suddenly m.i.a. and why there is a fresh mound of dirt piled out by the tracks.
He seems fine, I'll let you know if anything changes. I'm waiting for him to hurl up a sewing machine tonite.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

Skivvies

So, I'm reading erotic poetry tonight in a lingerie store. Did I mention that I never became a concert pianist because of my stage fright? How could I have forgotten that lovely detail? The morning began with two sips of coffee and then a quick rush to the bathroom. Subsequent trips to the bathroom have been made, hopefully it'll all be out of my system before the reading.
That would be awesome, all that sexiness ruined by me puking all over the store. "Sorry we can't sell you that bra because our resident writer chundered on it. No, we didn't get to hear her poetry because of the gagging."
Sweet Jeezus.
In other news, as I'm wondering if I should bring my prescription nitroglycerin to the reading (how sexy is that, btw, heart meds to go with my black hooker boots) my bedroom has been gutted down to the studs. The original plan was "I'm just going to take these shelves out to create more space." That morphed into me sleeping in Lucian's room, unable to get to my sexy outfit because the closet (which is now a hole) is covered with plastic and who the hell knows if the clothing in there isn't 1)Rotted with condensation or 2)Covered with insulation dust from the 1920's and smells like mouse shit and lead.
YES!!!!
I will attempt a shower, see if that helps, if not, I think I have an emergency Ativan in the car. Not sure, though.
Did I mention that I had a piece of cake for breakfast and a clementine for lunch?

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Easy does it....

It is 6:50 in the morning, and none of us have gotten out of bed. It must have been the full moon or something. Lucian is usually up by 3 and bides his time until he wakes Anna up, then us.
"You realize you can't keep doing this to us," I tell him. I'm too tired to actually strike.
"Doing what?" he asks. Then he begins his morning round of shooting noises that drive his sister insane.
"Making us so mad our hands shake."
He lifts a flashlight up to my face, smiling with his giant tooth gap.
"Peuw, peuw, bang."
"You got me, Lucian, you got me."
Actually, last night poor Anna had to sleep in Lucian's room because a friend of mine needed a place to crash. She actually stayed one night but didn't stay last night. I put Anna in Lucian's room just in case. When Anna woke up this morning that was first on her list.
"Did Molly stay in my room last night." She yawned and her eyes were as bleary as a drunk's.
"No, she decided to stay in Worcester."
"You mean I had to sleep with that little turd last night for nothing!?"
"Yup, that's exactly it."
What else can I say? The kid is right. He is a little turd with a giant, high-powered engine. He didn't want to go to school today because it was raining. And when it rains, there is no outdoor recess.
"I can't go. We'll be inside all day."
"Yeah, but maybe you'll have choice time."
"Nope, either blocks or a movie."
"Well, at least the movie sounds cool, right?"
"No. It's dumb. It's always some dumb movie for little kids."
"Lucian, you are a little kid."
"Not that little."
Wow. I guess he's still holding out hope that they're going to run the new "G.I. Joe" on the overhead projector as a Friday treat for the kindergarten class. Poor kid has no idea.
I feel his pain. Even the little things seem to disappoint lately. I can barely look forward to a cup of coffee because I'm certain it's going to turn bitter on my tongue. The wind is blowing the rain sideways today and I can barely blink for fear I'll fall asleep right here at the desk. And it's only 8 a.m. God help me.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Thunder cake

I just knowingly put tomato juice in a dessert. That's what the recipe called for and I did it. Very skeptical. It'll probably end up tasting like a mix between a bloody mary and a hot chocolate. Oh well, I could definitely think of worse things.
Like feeling like such a misanthrope you actually apply to a job in a place called Hungry Horse, Montana and you actually hope you get it so you can get the f*** out of the town you've been living in too long.
You know what too long is, don't you?
Too long is when you don't cry at funerals, no matter how old the deceased is. Too long is when you hate going to the grocery store because you know, just know, that you will run into someone who will want to talk to you for several hours about themselves. Too long is when you look at your woodpile for the 25th consecutive year and feel absolutely no joy in stacking at. In fact, all you want to do is either piss on it like a dog or crawl into bed and weep for lack of something more creative to do.
So, yeah, too long. I am still under the grand illusion that a change of scenery will somehow do me good, ha! I know, I know, it's a facade, but I still wonder, naively so, if that will, in fact, do us all good. Can't have red-rimmed eyes for too long or people will start to talk. As if they wouldn't anyway!
Thank god for the children, or at least parts of them. Last night, after Anna got reamed out for pushing her brother she and I had a little chat while I inspected her hair for the 900th time to make sure there were no "nits" or traces of nits.
"You really should go say goodnight to your father." I coaxed.
"Why, so he can build me back up again after yelling at me? I don't think so."
Kid is friggin' smart. I was almost speechless, the nit comb suspended in air.
"Yeah, basically, that's exactly why."
"I guess I'll say goodnight."
I'm telling you, you cannot pay for entertainment like that.
The thunder cake smells done (or burned), I'll let you know how it turned out.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Dust it off

The best scene in Christmas Story is when Ralphie says "Oh, fu-dge" but not. Lucian loves that scene.
"He doesn't really say fudge, does he, Mom?"
"Nope"
"He says what you say, right, the actual f-bomb."
"Right, the f-bomb."
"F.."
"OKAY, LUC, WE GET IT, MAN!"
Always pushing the entirely full envelope that boy. He enjoys that my facial expression hangs in the balance every time he opens his mouth. Who knows what will fly out, who knows. He called my father a "bitch" on Thanksgiving. Apparently Dad was tickling him and Lucian hissed under his breath.
"Let go a me, bitch."
My dad was in shock (yet he did admit to laughing, great) and then Lucian corrected himself.
"Let go a me bastard."
He must have figured out that my dad is of the male genus. Should I be shocked, 'cause I'm not. This is my son we're talking about. Random people in the supermarket tsk, tsk at his hyperactivity and give me tips on how to make him better-behaved.
Yeah, um, thanks for the tips people. And may I ask how long you've been wearing acid washed jeans? Also, weren't you in rehab last month? Just curious, but again, thanks for the childrearing tips, really, and have fun visiting your son in jail, I hear he has accepted Jesus as his personal savior and is now prison librarian.
Of course, Anna is perfect in public but when she comes home she's like a little gorgon with a popcorn obsession. She must be taking hormone injections on the bus. I call her the "Super Es (trogen)". She is both amusing and terrifying, tooling around the house with MY Ipod grooving to Keb' Mo' shaking her sizeable "trunk". Suddenly she is screaming her f***ing head off, saying she's going to run away with the dog (just the one that I hate).
It's hard to switch gears around here.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Call it what you will

My father felt compelled to give me a plate full of food that was more the size of a charger, or an Olympic frisbee. Of course, I got halfway through the food and felt my nose get hot and watery. That's when I knew to stop eating. Immediately. Not a big fan of stuffing myself into a friggin' coma. More about the wine and observing the dysfunction from afar.
Now that was fun.
Since it's thanksgiving and I am still, somehow alive, and the kids have not been left on the side of the road after their post-pie behavior fiasco, I think I will compose a list of reasons as to why I am thankful today.
1) The red wine was abundant and strong (Malbec...)
2) When the red wine didn't work, the rum was a nice back-up (fiery, though).
3) The personal vendettas were forgotten the second the mashed potatoes worked their impossible-to-digest magic.
4) National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation is a family classic, to this day. "Can't see the line, can ya Russ?"
5) I have not found any more snot art on the walls.
6) My kids are not in diapers, praise Jesus.
7) I'm getting laid more than the Pilgrims did.
8) No pending heart surgeries for anyone, so far...
9) My 80-year-old grandmother still wears high heels to Thanksgiving dinner, sty-yle.
10) We are cooking our own turkey that was NOT injected 2 billion times with saline
11) I am not pregnant and never will be again!!!!
12) They did not turn the electricity off today.

That's about it. There's more, but I need some rum to finish the list.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Wrong surface

It feels like just yesterday that I was daydreaming on the Chanel website. Wait, it was yesterday, and now that I recall, that daydream left me with a sinking feeling of depression accompanied by more anxiety about money and how my house isn't even worth a Chanel bracelet, let alone a vintage suit jacket.
Ignorance IS bliss, I wish I didn't know that these beautiful things exist. It's shallow, I know, but it does bring about a little twinge of pain. Just a little.
So, as I am contemplating how to replicate the Fall/Winter line-up of my namesake (yes, my middle name is Chanel, my mother set her hopes a bit too high) my son, oblivious to fashion and any kind of etiquette, is wiping his disgusting, sooty snot on the walls of the bathroom. How do I know this, you ask? Because late last night Jon discovered one of the offending boogers plastered to the freshly-painted bathroom wall. About a foot above the garbage can, of course.
"What the f*** is that? You gotta be f***ing kidding me."
"What is it?" I thankfully could not see the exact detail of the 3-inch blob because I did not have my Guess (not Chanel) glasses on.
"It's a giant booger. Lucian must've wiped it on the wall when he came in here to supposedly blow his nose."
"Why would he do that?"
Jon looked up with his very dry-humor face.
"Why does Lucian do half the shit he does."
We were both quiet for a minute, staring aimlessly at the booger schmear. Jon spoke up.
"I'll get it, don't worry."
"Thanks, I'll gag if I do it."
Now, instead of my 10-minute haute couture jaunt, I've been glancing furtively around the house wondering what other walls have been defiled. The stairway going up to the kids' rooms will be hard to face.
I wonder if Chanel ever considered brown/green for her Fall lineup.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Another planet

You ever get the feeling that people think your entire life revolves around them? Yeah, me, too. Of course, with my kids it's different. My entire life does revolve around them, that's why I'm insanely miserable or insanely happy depending on Anna's mood and how many times Lucian asks for a gun or a pocketknife for Christmas. That little bastard is tenacious! It begins usually around 5:50 a.m.
"Mom, I can't find my shooter thing."
"What time is it?"
"Um (trips on his way to the clock, knocks over the glass of water that was on the night stand which then soaks the floor and the book I was reading the night before)...oh damnit, um, 5 something."

"Lucian, I swear to god, do not come in here before 6:30 or I'm going to torch your toys in the burn pile."
"Okay, I'll wait."

5 minutes later, the exact same conversation occurs, and then 5 minutes later...until finally, because I'm afraid I will jump from my warm corner of the bed and obliterate my own flesh and blood, I get up, put on a pot of coffee, and let my blood get to a reasonable non-boiling temperature. I DO NOT however go and find his stupid, effin, g.i. joe shooter toy.
So, yeah, my life does revolve around the kids. Anna's play rehearsals, the mood swings that followed said rehearsals, and then the two performances where all we did was drive...you get the picture.
So why, in the thick of this mess of self-sacrifice and somewhat crippling anger and anxiety, would other people, adults mostly, think that my life, too, revolves around them? Holy sh*t, get a clue. I can barely suck back a cup of cold coffee before I have story deadlines, editing deadlines, life deadlines, all looming right there, not to mention intensive and crippling psychotherapy for my "anxiety problem", 'cause I just love dredging up the toxic river of my brain...Why, amid all this, would I give a flying f*** about other problems? I know it sounds awful, and I put on a good show, but seriously! Ok, so, sorry your kid doesn't like whole grain crackers, and yes, it is too bad about your dog's lyme disease, and oops, sorry I couldn't drop everything and rescue you again because your effin truck broke down!
Sorry, too busy trying not to blow my own head off with a marshmallow bow and an arrow set. Sorry, too busy trying to figure out how the F*** we're going to have a balanced meal this evening, if a meal at all.
So sorry that you had to skip your hair appointment. No, we couldn't invite everyone because our immediate family alone totals over 25 dysfunctional people crammed into a public space....
Who has time to think about this shit?!
Sigh....ok, back to earth. I do care, but not in the way that others think I should care, and that's the problem. Do they care that only in April I was in the hospital with stress-related heart spasms? Do they care that for over a year I've had mono and have like 2 red blood cells? How about the fact that Jon and I have been separated? Anyone give a shit? Or that I haven't slept in months? Or that...you get the point. Oh, yes, and thanks for asking, really, I appreciate it. Really, thanks, and thanks for calling on the weekends always before 7:30, because it fits your schedule, really, I live for you.
And you wonder why people drink....fortunately I haven't been able to afford bourbon in months, so, coffee it is. Always coffee. Sorry for the rant, but I'm assuming that this might strike a chord in some of you. I feel like people, even those who claim to love us, are just going through life on autopilot and pushing their giant piles of shit on loved ones, a little at a time, not even seeing the damage or the potential for damage. I should invent a bumper sticker "Get Present!"

Saturday, November 21, 2009

grit

The coffee maker must have a stomach virus, for the past two mornings all of the grounds have been caked on top of the coffee pot, some spilling up over the sides of the filter. Seriously like a dog with dysentery, shit everywhere. That would explain my absence from the blog for two days, bad coffee, no focus.
Anna has her little play tonite. "101 Dalmations", or as I've been accustomed to calling it, "101 Flagellations" or "F***ing Play Practice" or "This Woman Needs to get Laid Now" or, my personal favorite, "Who the F*** Wrote this F***ing Play Anyway".
So that should be fun. And then I will host a party and dance around naked in my yard 'cause the thing is over.
In other news, surprise, surprise, I am still broke. It's nice now, because my status as someone "below the line" has been so solidified that I don't have to answer embarrassing questions about my life and how we eat beans and rice and pasta ALL THE TIME and how Masshealth keeps switching the plan, etc. Most people know, they get it, they know why I pay for my coffee in quarters....
I'm too old and mean to be a hooker (besides, I'm a writer, it's the same thing).
For dinner, vodka tonics, cupcakes, some asparagus and a vitamin.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Sponge mom

I took my mother to the Festival of Trees yesterday, very pretty, lots of lights, I did kind of wish they had a cash bar next to the museum gift shop, but oh well. I was there to photograph trees, kids, etc. for my next story. Of course, the PR person, we will call him Tom, is there, showing us around. Nice guy, I could spot the latent, dark humor in his face. After a few minutes of chatting, he says he has a 2-year-old daughter and so began one of my favorite topics of conversation among the "inner sanctum" of parents the world over.
Poop.
And so, in between taking darling shots of third graders ooohhhing and aaahhhing at the trees, we talked shit. After we left the museum, I turned to my mom and whispered, "He's one of us." She nodded. It's an emotional moment when you discover that there are others out there. Just like you, with your same fascination with bootlegged scripts, bourbon, Martha Stewart mommy's waiting to explode, apocalyptic diarrhea...you get the point.
After the museum run, we took a detour to the nearly abandoned mall. I go to the mall to people watch, and today was nothing short of a friggin' spectacle. The food court provided the most material. We split a $5 sub, and as we are crouched over our "halves" I am watching a group of four obese women, friends clearly, pound back ice cream. Lots of ice cream from the smoothie station. It was 45 degrees outside, I'm thinking more that hot chocolate or coffee would be good, but no, ice cream. My mom saw my face.
"It's definitely a pandemic," she said. "And clearly, none of these people have jobs."
So why are they at the mall? Spending money? Why am I at the mall? Philosopher's questions without a doubt....
As Boni was about to take a bite of her sandwich, a giant piece of chicken jumped out, bounced off her lap and landed directly at my booted foot. I stared at her for a full second.
"Now I know why you're so thin."
And that was it. The rest of the afternoon was a series of giggle fits punctuated by cruel language and awful jokes. One saleswoman couldn't hear very well, thank god.
A good day, followed by picking Anna up at rehearsal, part deux. She is miserable this week and I told her that I was considering putting her on ebay if she didn't cut the shit. She just shrugged her shoulders.
"Totally illegal, Mom. Besides, Nana would buy me and bring me back, and then I'd be really pissed."
For dinner, potatoes and a ton of other shit in the crockpot and teenie little chicken strips seasoned with a few nearly petrified lemons and cayenne. Nice.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Wimps and other honors

Did I mention my frozen visit to a "diversified" farm on Friday? I love farms, I love big, drafty animals. There was one MAJOR problem; shoes. Yup, you heard me, my shoes were all wrong for a gator ride around 200 acres of fresh shit (of all kinds), rocky ledges, hay, ticks, and goat covered knolls. I was wearing my little London boots, you know, ankle booties with a lip and a 3-inch knock-out heel that looks great with the Parisian jeans you sold your kidney for. Yeah, those boots. Of course, I have about 15 pair of farm/rain/muck/shit boots sitting idly by at home. Of course. I did it, though. I went right in the bull pen (literally) and probably did permanent damage to my ankle at least three times. I did get a few free steaks and a lamb chop for my troubles. The steaks I will share with my iron-deprived children. The lamb chop is mine, all mine....
After a long "write-day" yesterday, I had the grand honor of picking Anna up from her marathon rehearsal for the musical kid version of "101 Dalmations" (yes, I will have to attend both performances, god help me. I may need to get a bottle of brandy for the weekend). When I walked into the strangely lit auditorium, all of the "actors" were sitting on the stage. The director, a severe-looking woman with no chest (black turtleneck, that's how I could tell) was lecturing a bunch of 8-year-olds who have literally been at the school for 12 hours, about their manners.
"Someone needs to teach you people some manners," she hissed. And then she went into a very badly rehearsed litany about privilege and behavior. I wasn't listening by that point because I had two thoughts on my mind:
1)When was the last time this lady got head, I mean good, fall-asleep-afterwards with-a cigarette-in-your-mouth head?

2) Who the f**k are you calling "you people"? Didn't McCain do that during his bid for the presidency and lose the whole thing (that one, you remember)? And, are you saying I haven't taught my kid manners? Girl, I know you don't want to go there. That child has had manners bribed and beaten into her since she was 6 months old. You sayin' I didn't teach her and they didn't stick?

I was hungry, too, so I guess the low blood sugar would account for the over-the-top hostility. But seriously, why is it that people who have no "way" with children often end up working with them. Just seems cruel all around.

Dinner, hamburgers (grass fed steer I actually met before the slaughter) and couscous.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Learning from experience

Well, it's the moment you've all been waiting for. Or maybe some of you. Or like two of you. The birthday report. Ye-es, you heard me. Lucian's birthday was this weekend and, like idiots, we decided to have his party at the local bowling alley. Two words; Holy Shit. Actually, three words; Holy f***ing Shit. For starters, it was pouring rain on Saturday, the infamous day. By the time Anna and I got the cake, the balloons, the mini-marshmallows (for Lucian's new high-powered bow, more on that later) we were drenched and miserable. And this was before the party even started. Of course, everyone, including the birthday boy, was about 15 minutes late. During that 15 minutes I started to have a panic attack, what if I told everyone the wrong date?
They showed, in one big dysfunctional drove. It was chaos and cake. Sounds a little like a Fleetwood Mac song. The guest list was extensive, and I am thankful now that not everyone showed up. But those who did arrive did not disappoint. I think I will list them by character, like an Arthur Miller play.
Cast of Characters
Nichole--early thirties, drawn face, shits herself at even the mention of responsibility

Anna--a child of about 8, but appears older because of the constant scowl on her face and the fact that she is almost as tall as her mother, Nichole

Jon--Estranged and/or non-estranged husband of Nichole depending on her mood. Mid-thirties, has been wearing the same plaid shirt for ten years

Lucian--Birthday boy of six, pale as the moon, wearing an oversized basketball jersey which seems ironic given that his sister is black and he is not even close

Nana--very small, big-haired mother of Nichole who dresses well but walks like Sponge Bob when wearing the wrong shoes

Papa--Nana's estranged and/or unestranged husband depending on HER mood, has also been wearing the same plaid shirt for ten years, has an amused look on his face during the entire party

Jason--fake name for Nichole's younger brother, who looks like DeNiro in Taxi Driver, has arrived with Nana because he has no working vehicle that he can legally transport his children in.

Jason, Jr.--Also part of the Nana train, ironic kid with very big teeth that have been discussed at length at family functions

Maria--younger sister of Jason Jr, blonde, blue-eyed, entertains real dreams of becoming a princess, even while in a shitty bowling alley

Whitney and the girls--best friend of Nichole, arrived with a big smile and an extra kid, pressed small green case into Nichole's hand, turns out it was the gift that keeps on giving; Ativan

I don't remember the rest. However, there were a few notable instances, one of which was when Mags, Whitney's 3-year-old daughter, wound up and punched "Rave", Jon's 40-year-old mentally disabled brother.
"He was in her face," was the consensus reached by the adults (if you want to call us that).
Also, Anna and Zelda (Whitney's 8-year-old daughter) snuck into the abandoned mini-golf room and wrecked the place with abandon. I ushered them out quickly before the dollar amount could be tallied.
Also, Will, Jon's very large father (supposedly it's all due to the steroids, sure, sure) sat on an amplifier the whole time. I kept glancing over to see if the thing would break. Thank god, it had a little give. But not enought to prevent me from having the anxiety shits mentioned above.
I wish I could say it went off without a hitch, but then, I wouldn't be writing this blog, so....
Dinner was lasagna and wine, and a little lettuce. From what I can recall.


Friday, November 13, 2009

Flight patterns

Two very distinct sounds this morning: A rifle cutting through the wet cold and the chatter of chaotic geese in the sky. I wonder if these sounds are related. It would seem that the geese are getting the hell out of here because they know that the humans are getting antsy and f***ing crazy as winter sets in. And what better way to release insanity than to buy a shotgun and have at nature....
And you wonder why karma is pissed? High-powered shotgun versus 10 pound, sluggish bird. A real match wouldn't you say? I'm all for surviving on your own, hell, I even like venison, but there's just something very one-sided about the whole thing....
I'd go with the geese, only because my life is a giant simile and I've felt the stare of the scope a few times.
I have to go trudging out into farm country today. Outta be fun, get out there, get covered with cow shit, get run over by a team of Suffolk Punch green broke drafts. I'm actually looking forward to it. Provided, of course, that I have my coffee glued to my hand and the radio in my car doesn't shit out as I approach North East B.F. I also have to pick up a present for my uni-bomber son for his birthday tomorrow. It's a toss up between G.I. Joe action figures with craploads of guns or Egyption playmobile dudes with chariots, whips, and spiked wheels.
We gave up on Montessori toys years ago. What a load of crap. Let's paint some kindling and sell it for $20 a pop to the hippies who don't know any better.
Clearly, I was a public school kid.
Dinner, a pasta dish known only as "The Seven Year Itch".

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Tasting

We've had a bit of a swearing problem this week. I was foolish enough (and stupidly optimistic) to think that Lucian and I could watch "Land of the Lost" with Will Ferrell and that there would be no consequences. Not so, not so. Lucian picked up on the swears immediately and so has been whispering them under his breath ALL WEEK. I heard him call the dog an "asshole bitch" yesterday. At least he was half-right.
How do you punish a kid for swearing when he literally just recovered from the deadly swine flu?
I took some toys away and made him sweep the steps. Of course, he muttered "shit" and stomped up the stairs while doing his time. Nice.
I guess couthe and reserve have never been really strong traits in the family. I had coffee with my little brother last night (younger, not littler, but looks ten years older due to "life experience"). He's a brilliant guy, but tries to play it off as a redneck, "simple" man. He's not fooling me because I know where he came from. He does allow his intelligence to glimpse through in the form of humor. He even admitted that he had a glass of wine with dinner last week.
"What kind," I asked. "A chardonnay, merlot, sav blanc?"
"What the hell is a sav blank?"
"Never mind, was it red or white?"
"White."
"Homo."
He smiled at that and did mention that he went to a wine tasting a few weeks ago. I was doubtful.
"Actually I went in to get a pack of cigarettes and there were all of these well-dressed snooty people in there. The owner of the store came out and told me they were all out of Bud."
"Wow, what a dick, did you leave?"
"I was about to then I heard this guy say "I can't believe that man left his garbage truck running."
"What garbage truck?"
"The work truck."
"Oh." The work truck was loud, but everybody leaves their diesel running if its for a pack of smokes.
"So you stayed for the wine tasting," I was smiling already.
"Yup, I drank them like shots then threw the little dixie cups back on the counter."
"Did you like the wine? Were there any good ones?"
"Chole, c'mon. I drank them like shots. The storeowner offered me some crackers and cheese."
"What kind?"
"I don't know, I didn't eat them. I just told him I was on my way to MacDonald's, didn't want to fill up on crackers."
"Nice."

So, you see, it is genetic. The humor, the complete lack of regard for social rules. I just wish he remembered the names of the wines. And the cheese they paired them with. Oh well.
For dinner, a nice Malbec and maybe a salad with cranberries in it.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Incline or inclination

I'm just now, at age 32, figuring out that life is a series of dichotomies; black and white, joy and despair, love and hate, war and peace, health and illness, confident and uncertain. Maybe this is why, for someone who is not a churchgoer, the book of Ecclesiastes is so appealing to me. You can't argue with a philosopher, and apparently god is a philosopher. I hope....
So, push, pull, backward, forward, and how does a dark-thinking intellectual mother deal with all of the elements that are out of balance?
Booze, lots of booze, preferably bourbon, preferably around 3 p.m.
And if booze isn't an option, due to lack of money or fear that you will be on the next episode of Cops, try lots of coffee, a few cigarettes, and making fun of yourself. That'll at least keep you from getting arrested at 2 a.m. and your kids carted off to some pedophile who is posing as a foster parent (oh, it's true, trust me).
There is no school today, something about veterans, and it is only 9 in the morning and already I've had three fights with my daughter and have had to physically remove my son from various dangerous positions on furniture and the stairwell. The little f***er is like a goddamn tree frog, he clings to everything, even when he is removed. I think he even has webbed feet. In my mind's eye, I can see myself flinging him toward a wall only to watch him stick and giggle.
Again, stick with the coffee, no one gets hurt that way.
Dinner was semi-normal (which to me means boring and ordinary), burgers, salad, french fries from the bottoms of three different freezer bags. I'm going to get creative tonite since I haven't built up the weekly nest egg for food.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Prisoners

I'm sitting on my couch watching Narnia for the 500th time with my schmegma covered son. He will not stop moving and so I have sent the same email 3 times to a prospective interview because his toes keep coming into contact with my laptop keyboard. By the third time I nudged him with my elbow and told him to cut the shit. Of course, he reminded me not to swear and then pretended to obliterate me with his imaginary bow and arrow. Kid is a terrible shot 'cause I'm still here, still pushing him (with a little more force) away from my computer. Swine flu or not, nobody gets in the way of my work.
I know, I know, this is why I'm not a stay-at-homer. I know my limits and I'm not afraid to admit them. Plus, I don't even like kids that much, so....
I can't help but think that this illness and me being trapped at home like a squirrel in a garbage can is the workings of karma. The day Lucian got sick, which apparently was in the afternoon, I was out, my umbilical cord to my laptop stretched beyond range, getting a mini-makeover at an expensive cosmetics shop. Of course, I felt guilty the whole time, mostly because I'm broke and should be working 90 hours a week and looking terrible. So, I left the place feeling good, looking at least 10 years younger. You know the feeling, dare I say it, confident?! And, in my life, spurts of confidence are always followed long, humbling treks through the desert of illness and entrapment.
Of course, any humbling experience usually involves vomit and sleeplessness. I feel so blessed.
For dinner, a conglomeration of curry, leftover pot roast, major spices, and rice. I tried, kind of.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Charlotte's web

Since the numbers and settings on the oven knobs have been washed away be the degreasing agent, I might have to run prematurely and keep the house from burning to the ground. I love the smell of broiling toast in the morning.
Anyway, what a weekend...the pig sickness has finally visited its wrath upon us. Lucian began the swift descent into the troth on Friday. A peaceful autumn evening was punctuated by the sounds of his dry heaving and wimpering about stomach cramps ALL NIGHT LONG. Saturday morning kicked off with projectile vomiting of milk and subsequent violent coughing and fever.
I love, love, love parenting. As I was mopping up the puke I thought about my literature dissertation and that at one point I went to Yale and knew five languages cold.
My how times have changed, eh? It's enough to make you cry, laugh, or request a room at Sing sing.
As life stands today, I am in denial that my stomach is a bit nervous and my throat feels raw and open. I'm just assuming the woundedness is part of my personality and not my viral status. I did promise to take Lucian to the McD's drive thru. It is my stupid hope that he will allow me to finish writing an article about Shakespeare without getting any body fluids on my laptop.
Yeah right.
For dinner last night, I did the crock pot thing. Didn't have any real potatoes so I used sweet 'taters. Lucian gagged but ate the meat, Anna sopped up the orange mash and pushed the roast to the side. Night and day.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Noel, rhymes with...hell

Saw a few snowflakes on my way down the mountain, of course, that turned into freezing my ass off huddled over a computer trying to sift through a memoir about incest and Southern states. Wouldn't put those two together, would you?
It dawned on me that Christmas is approaching like a giant freight train coming down a hill that has lost its brakes. Not a nice, friendly, Polar Express-type passenger gig that is steamed by hot chocolate and goodwill. Nope, this train has a Christmas tree attached to the front of it like a battering ram and the cars are rusted and overladen with moldy citrus fruits and broken toys.
I've tried to play out the conversation in my head. You know, the one where you tell the kids that Santa is having a monetary fiscal crisis and they will probably be getting tic tacs in their stockings and maybe a pack of underwear and socks as their "main gift".
Yeah, I can't envision it either, especially since Lucian has circled EVERY SINGLE EFFIN TOY in the JC Penny gift catalogue. Some things, the ones with scopes and ammo, he has circled two or three times and folded the page over so that there is no questions or confusion on Santa's part. These moments tempt me to get a credit card, but I just can't bring myself to do it. It seems the older they get the more expensive the requests become.
Anna wants a new bike and a friggin' skateboard. Plus a few more Breyer horses ($50 a pop) and some kind of brain waves toy.
Lucian wants a Wii. That's all he's wanted since Whitney got one last year. $250. The look on his wan face when he is eating rice and beans for the 90th time while playing Mario Wii, priceless.
Dinner was a leftovers affair, in more ways than one. I'm thinking I'm going to take the night off and scrape together some cash from the floor of the car and head to the Clown with the kids.....

Thursday, November 5, 2009

lol or col

It is amazing what happens in a therapist's office. In fact, I'm surprised they don't line the room with a giant garbage bag and strip it after each patient gets done unloading their lives. Just think of the fluids that are spilled in that setting. Snot, tears, blood, maybe a little piss, and god knows what else.
Yeah, a giant garbage bag seems about right. And a giant lemonade tap jar filled with bourbon, I mean, just as a safety net.
I guess that would be counterproductive to many of the patients. But still, if you're going to have a breakthrough, a drink seems like a natural progression from there.
Gee, is it obvious that I saw my therapist this morning?
In other news, I am a little (read A LOT) worried about Anna's rapid ascent into puberty. She wears the 8-year-old facade very well, but then, as we're laughing about fart jokes I notice that her b.o. is so bad I almost gag. How do you go about telling your third grader she needs to pile on the Tom's of Maine from here out?
And how do you tell her you think she might need to wear tighter undershirts UNDER her karate t-shirts? The changes are endless, and the questions are even more so. A few weeks ago she announced that she finally know what sex meant.
I choked on my coffee and in my calmest WTF voice asked, "Oh yeah, what does it mean then?" The whole time praying she would be wrong. Dead wrong.
She was actually half-right.
"It's when you make out...a lot." Pause "When you're wearing a bikini."
Giant swig of coffee, phew, crisis averted.
"Yeah something like that." I continued to pack the lunch bags nonchalantly, trying to remember if I still had that two-piece stringy deal from college.
"And do you know what making out is?"
Lucian looked up from his Lego tower, "What," he asked.
"It's when you...."
"Ok, time to go, get your backpacks."
My 5-year-old cannot know this stuff, not for at least 2 more years. Anna dropped the conversation in favor of throwing a sock at her brother.
For dinner, no talking about sex, and Chinese food which I am currently ingesting too fast and will probably regret it in an hour or less.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Glad it ain't me

I am using cheap, selfish tactics to make myself feel better about, well, myself. If the area around my eyes is grey and puffy, I just say "Well, at least I'm thin." If I have to wear my socks for the second day in a row because I have no washing machine I say "Well, at least I'm resourceful." If a friend approaches me in a cafe and tells me his wife is about to give birth to their second child, I say, "Thank fucking god I'm not pregnant again."
Like I said, it's cheap, but it helps. At least for a little while, then I remember that I have 16 bucks to my name, holes in every piece of underclothing I own, except for a well-intentioned bustier that still has the tags on it. I was so desparate for a smoke last night I tried a Mustang 100 Menthol that my gay friend, Will, left in my car on Halloween. He dressed as Miss Piggy, snout and all. I got about 3 puffs into that cigarette and nearly puked over the rail of my deck. Yeah, not a menthol girl.
Actually, everyone I've talked to is broke, completely and utterly broke, and most of them are laughing about it. Being broke (and, in my case, nearly broken) adds a nice dimension to everything else. Suddenly, the kids having lice for the 90th time is funny, being in love and hating the person you love is funny, late fees on your credit card, hilarious, gay friends dressed as muppet characters, lol.
The only time it isn't funny is at night, but you can always take Nyquil if you get desperate. And if you can't afford that, I'm sure there's a children's Benadryl bottle lying around half-empty you can swig from.
For dinner, I waited til the kids went to bed and fried some stew beef and then added a can of cream of mushroom soup and some water and salt. It was go-od. I INHALED two bowls, all the while wondering if anyone could see me in my tiny kitchen lapping up broth like a starving dog.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Feeling funny

There is a little hill at the end of our road (or I should say our descent) that, when you're going at a good clip, does make the stomach do a little twirl, like a small roller coaster ride.
Of course I always try to make the car catch air on this bump because I want the kids to go "Whoah" or "hey!", anything to wake them out of their post-school coma.
Well, I did get a reaction, finally, when I went over the bump at around 60mph. Just not the reaction I was expecting.
"Whoah, what the hell was that?!" Lucian exclaimed.
"It made my stomach feel weird," complained Anna. Then she admonished her brother, "Lucian, don't say hell."
"Sorry. Yeah, my stomach felt weird, too. And it made me have a funny feeling in my balls."

That's right about the moment that I slowed the car down and calmly glimpsed at him in the rearview. His facial expression was completely still, he did not know his offense.
"Hey, Lucian, balls probably isn't the word you want to use. Maybe stomach, or belly, or even privates if you've gotta say somthing."
He nodded, already on to the next thought.
"Or nuts" he added, humming a Christmas song.
I sighed and shook my head. "Right, or nuts."

Why bother?

For dinner we had mini ravioli with sauce, Anna had 3 servings. How do you say to a third-grader that she's gonna get some junk in the trunk if she doesn't stop eating all the time?

Monday, November 2, 2009

Lost in translation

I am wolfing down a sandwich in my mother's house right now. I had too much coffee this morning and I have the shakes, I'm hoping the sandwich will absorb some of the caffeine in my guts.
When I walked in to the house my mom was in the middle of a smile, which soon erupted into her quiet, cover the mouth, can't breathe laughter.
"What's up, ma?"
"You won't believe...I called K-Mart today to see if they had any folding cots."
"Yeah, and..." I had a feeling I knew where she was going, I already started laughing.
"Well, there must have been some Indian guy on the other line because I asked him if they had any and he said 'Excuse me, ma'am, folding cock, can you give me more information.'"
"Oh my god," I was dying at this point, "What'd you say?!"
"Nothing! What could I say? I couldn't stop laughing. I think I said thank you and then hung up."
"Are you sure it was the right number?"
"I freakin' hope so!"
So, note to self, K-Mart does not carry folding cocks. What a bummer. I actually thought that all cocks folded eventually, in the end.
I do live for these little language gaffes and manipulations. Last night I was having dinner with my friend Whitney and the kids and somehow, I don't know if it was the hamburgers, the humor, the fact that we are so broke we are rationing cereal and tampons, but we started to sing "A Whole New World" from Aladdin and destroyed the lyrics. I mean destroyed them, adding bits about bleeding to death (we are still non-menopausal, so all periods ago, every month for 20 years now, 30 years for her), not getting laid, missing IUD's. My favorite lyric "No one will touch me now or f**k me now because I'm alway blee-eeding. A whole new world....."
See, I can't be around people, not in public and not for that long anyway.
For dinner, hamburgers, old peas and rice cooked with two expired boullion cubes. Hey the kids ate it and we got to sing a cool song.

Friday, October 30, 2009

Coming down

You know those highs of confidence you feel when you can see your situation changing for the good? REALLY high, you're awesome, you've got your shit together, life is good. Sometimes you almost strut 'cause things are looking so rosey.
Yeah, well those moments are followed by "downer" periods. You know what I'm talking about, the holy shit moment after you've had a great, I'm-the-shit day. It's midnight, and suddenly, you are no longer cool, your life is no longer cool, and you are, in fact, not the shit.
May I reccommend going to bed at this point. Don't stay up, don't text anybody, just go to sleep.
So, lesson learned.
But man do those moments give you something cool to write about.
Halloween is upon us, now that it's 5 degrees out. Lucian has finally gone over to the dark side, which is no surprise. He announced last month that he wanted to be a "bad guy" from here on out.
"Good guys suck," was his eloquent response.
"But good guys win," I said, hoping.
"Not in real life," Anna said from the corner of the living room. Thanks, Anna.
"Well, what do you want to be then," I turned to her, feeling betrayed.
"A werewolf. With claws and fangs."

So, both of my kids are "bad guys" this year. I have a feeling this trend will continue, given that Anna is almost premenstrual and Lucian's costume came with a bloody sword. Aw, the draw of weaponry for little boys is almost too much.
Dinner was instant soup at 10pm last night. No breakfast yet, but we'll see how lunch shapes up. Excedrin migraine is on the menu at some point.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

hiatus, not to be confused with vacation

First off, let me apologize to my loyal fans who have clearly been waiting for the next post. I was not in Tuscany getting ravished by a tall-dark-and-handsome, nor was I in Peru chewing coca leaves and waiting for my higher power.
Nope, life just got the best of me this week, but now things are back on track. I might add that I am writing to you from the Marketplace Cafe. They have been VERY tolerant of my constant presence here, once they figured out I wasn't schizo, nor did I want my coffee for free.
They hook me up once in awhile when I'm looking worn and about to cry. I guess they don't want me to make a scene. Trust me, writers MAKE SCENES.
I am keeping a mental tally of how many times I use the words "douche bag" "c*nt" and "f**k followed by whatever noun seems appropriate, head, face, him, whatever".
As you can imagine, the tally is very high, however, in my defense, I am saying "like" a lot less. And I am proud of it. Like sounds stupid, "fuckface" sounds passionate, at least.
Speaking of language, I might also point out a creative replacement for "bitch" that my friend Whitney introduced to me, "c*nt lip". Has a nice ring to it. No pun intended.
Speaking of Whitney (wow, what a cheap 10th grade trick, using "speaking of" as a way to transition between topics, sorry!), she LEFT ME at a cafe with her FWB. For those of you not on the meat market and/or not getting laid, FWB is Friend With Benefits. Yeah, you heard me, left me in a cafe with this tall, gangly, recently sober guy who I barely know. In fact the only mode through which I know him is sarcasm, so...
Well, I made fun of his capppucino and then he asked me to come to dinner with him. What could I say, he knows I'm not "doing anything" on my off weeks. Of course, dinner was at the only diner in town and everyone and their mother was their for pasta night. I wanted to scream "THIS is not a date!!!!" but that seemed too blatant and desparate. Who knows, I'm sure the talk is already piping through this tiny town. Oh well, let 'em talk, it'll give 'em something to do when they're plopped on their asses watching 20/20 and secretly hating the way their spouse breathes...
He bought me a salad, sketched out his life story, and then flirted with the waitress the whole time. I was relieved.
As I am sitting here, I am listening to the most arrogant, dirty old man complete with tweed jacket and elbow patches blow smoke up the ass of a beautiful woman he has lured to the table out of pity. Oh well, she'll learn!
Meals have been sporadic, although I did just eat an amazing grilled cheese sandwich. Last night I had Excedrin migraine, brandy, a cigarette, and crackers. It was a bad night.

Friday, October 23, 2009

safely stowed

I just wrote a poem. I'm pretty sure it sucked, actually, now that I'm reviewing it in my head, I know it sucked, a lot. Actually, it blew. I didn't send it to anyone to look at like I usually do with my arrogant fiction. That shit is good. The poem will be my little secret. It's a last resort when I have nothing to do but I need my brain to move a little.
I could always try limericks. I've given a good show with those before, but only while texting drunk.
There once was a girl from Mass......
Anyway, the poetry is vaulted for now. The children are somewhat safe on their schoolbus, although I wonder about the little boy down the street who is ten and continues to threaten all the kids on the bus that he's going to bomb them. That's what I want my kid hearing first thing in the morning, "I'm gonna bomb your house." Nice. It's different when I say "If you don't brush your teeth RIGHT NOW, I swear to god you won't have any." My kids think that shit is funny. It's odd, I'd be scared of me in those early morning hours of pure chaos and low caffeine levels. But they somehow don't trust that the little boy won't kill them "with a bomb". There is a part of me, the animal mother part, that wants to get on the bus with them, walk up to the f***ed up kid, pull a grenade out of my blue mommy-bathrobe (which I do not yet own) and yank the pin and shove it in the kid's mouth, whispering in a gravelly voice, "Don't f***ing mess with my kids, man", and watch him crap himself when he realizes the grenade is a dud. I made that part up actually, I don't know if it would be a dud.
See, I make his bomb fantasy look like a tupperware party.
Being a mom is like balancing a cupcake on the nose of a rabid panther.
Well, my dinners have been interesting this week. My mom made lasagna yesterday and sent me home with half the pan. I'm eating it in small 2"x2" squares.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

knowing when to care

So, my therapist thinks I have an anxiety "situation". I know, shocking, right? My giggling when she said this did not help matters. She cocked her head to the side and laughed nervously, nothing compared to my maniacal guffaw.
Geez, ya think? What gave it away? The grey circles under my eyes? Or was it the red rims? Or jeans hanging off my ass which is raw from not having any solid "movement"? Just curious what it was that gave you the impression that I have anxiety.
I wanted to scream "Don't tease me! Write the f***in' script! I know you can do it." Of course, I did not say this, I sat calmly and asked toneless questions.
"So, are you suggesting medication? What kind? Is it addictive? I'm not sure I feel comfortable with this." God, I am so full of shit. But it was a good show, I tell you.
Still no script, I once again have resorted to Zyrtec chased by hot milk.

It's not gonna work.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Junk email

I've been getting a lot of REALLY interesting junk email lately. Not your standard "work from home for $250 a day" stuff. I still get that shit, but somehow the spam folks have upped the ante quite a bit. Now, I can receive an online degree from an accredited university, one that no one's heard of, most likely based out of Delhi or Uttar Pradesh or something. I went to Yale, thank you, don't need the online bogus degree for another 30k.
So, let's combine the online fak-o degree with the "cheap prescription drugs" from first name only senders. "John knows how you can get Klonapin delivered to your door for free." All set, thanks, if I need Lorazipan, Klonapin, or any other mind numbing anti-anxiety drug I have plenty of friends who can hook me up, and I know their last names.
My most favorite new spam is the sex shit. Apparently, some dude named "Carl" thinks I have a penchant for "Latino males with giant cocks, call now!" and in case that's not my style, "Christa" emails me fairly consistently offering up "wet Asian hotties, now". Nice. 'Cause the lack of ready-to-go asian women in my life is really starting to bother me.
Finally, and this is perfect, every other day I receive an offer to "pump up" my penis with a male enhancement device that promises "long, rock-hard results". Yeah, that's just what I need, another penis in my life that happens to be my own.
Fortunately, I have all I need. A set of cahones no man could match and the ability to laugh at it all.
For dinner, popcorn, apple juice, and, yes, the last of my birthday Klonapin.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Duck down and truffles?

I have a facebook account. There, I've said it. No big deal, right? Well, this is going to sound like a confession more than anything else because I don't use the account just for email updates and to find out what friend is picking their ass at that moment and who is looking for love in all the wrong places.
Those status updates can be a bit much, especially the ones that change every five seconds. Those people are kidding themselves. How could their status change when all they're doing is sitting on their asses updating facebook?! It's a quandry.
Anyway, after I've checked my account, sent emails to people I like and ignored the ones who I don't even remember but somehow they have become my "friend", I use the other feature of facebook:
Farmville.
I do have an 8-year-old daughter who manages my farm for me, that way there's an excuse for all of this, but I do delight in watching her collect cyber squash and purchase fake hay bales for the fake horses. What really confuses me about Farmville is the "use" of the animals. Maybe it's my jaded, 30-something self that is totally puzzled by the function of the beasts. For instance, when you click on the little fake pig your options are; Move, Sell, Collect truffles, rotate, walk.
"Collect truffles? What the fuck does that mean?"
"Mom, the f-word."
"Right, sorry. What does that mean?"
"It means that the pig is going to dig truffles for you."
"But don't most pigs on farms get eaten, I mean, shouldn't it say collect pork chops?"
"Not in Farmville, Mom."
Ok, so maybe I'm a bit old-fashioned and have been completely honed to believe that any animal on a farm is going to be in my stomach within the year. Fine. So no pork in Farmville.
But what about the ducks? There are ducks with similar options; Move, Sell, Collect down feathers, rotate, walk.
"Down feathers? What about the eggs? Don't people eat duck eggs, and ducks, especially around the holidays?"
"Not in Farmville, Mom. Taking the eggs would be stealing."
"Right."
So, with every animal that needs attention, none of them will die, ever, at the hand of the cyber farmer with a shaggy hair cut (my choice of customization). Even the baby elephant that my friend Marc gave me is only good for distributing circus peanuts. It has tusks. Ivory is worth A LOT these days. The horse is only good for horsehair...no stud fee for thoroughbreds, no brood mares.
Maybe Farmville will collapse on its own political correctness. Or, just maybe, every creature and human will get what they need to be happy.
For dinner last night, nachos that were unintentially broiled because the numbers and settings on the stove were wiped away by the degreasing agent. Not my doing.

Friday, October 16, 2009

Winter, spring, summer, or falling....

I hate James Taylor. I always have. Unfortunately, everyone in the Berkshires loves him because he spent some time here when he was a total heroin addict and needed to dry out. So, he checked himself into a really expensive rehab joint and "found god" in this sodden piece of landlocked hell. Coure, he thinks it's beautiful here because of his revelation.
Apparently, James Taylor never split wood in the pouring rain on Labor Day Weekend. Nor did he freeze his balls off in mid-November when the gas guy refused to make a delivery the day after Thanksgiving, even though you pleaded with him that your 8-month-old daughter was forced to drink cold formula for two days.
"Sorry, ma'am, C.O.D. only."
Yeah, I bet James Taylor would have some pretty nice ballads to sing about that shit. So, it pays to be a rich junkie. Clearly being sober and poor pales in comparison, but god knows I could write better songs. With my fingerless mittens.
The seasons are changing. Rapidly. It was 60 degrees last week. This morning, I took a digger right outside my front steps. The leaves were slick with SNOW and I was vain enough to wear my cowboy boots because my snowboots are so uncool and clunky. I pay for fashion and beauty.
And for what? I've learned not to wait for some cute puppy to start sniffing at the post, if you know what I mean.
The boots are for me. I fall in them, but I pick myself up and laugh at my own vanity. But they still look good on my feet, even though my ass is covered with wet leaves and my pride is injured to almost behind recognition.
So, James Taylor, have fun with your protected seasons and your blah songs about driving around and shallow friendships. I have my own recovering to do, and no high charging shrink to guide me through.
For dinner, which I know have to mention more out of habit than it actually "going" with the tone of the blog, I had squash soup and a salad and a warming, giggly glass of Malbec. The meal was amazing probably because I was awash in the almost sexual afterglow of a poetry reading. Yes, I am that much of a nerd.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

mental check

I'm sitting in the town library, reeking of coffee, and there is a creepy feel to the place. Like I'm too trashy to be here, maybe...but I am reading a Faulkner story from a book that hasn't been checked out in YEARS so...
So, I thought I was getting this big salvation check for doing some editing for a friend of mine. The book is decent but difficult to sift through since this friend is borderline manic with possible traces of bipolar schizophrenia. You can imagine what the writing style is like. The bible one minute and the Marquis de Sod the next. Yikes.
The check was for $200.
Then it dawned on me that none of this, this messy pile we call life is going to be easy to work through. The rescue, if it comes at all, is going to present itself in little dribs and drabs, punctuated by humor and much despair.
I'm hoping, given his mental instability and relative randomness that the next check will be for $30,000.
Hey, a girl can hope, right?!
For dinner, a salad with walnuts and some scraped together honey mustard dressing. For dessert, Zyrtec and a good dose of Pablo Neruda. Probably not the best poetry to pick up when you're feeling low and cold in the middle of the woods, but it is me we're talking about.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Smart people

I have a friend whom I will call Whitney to protect her, me, and her kids, and my kids, and the dogs, etc.
Anyway, Whitney is the funniest bitch I've ever met, in my life, hands down. She is 7 months sober, and is just emerging from the ass end of her second divorce. She has three girls, 16, 8, 3, and it is a wonder that she is not taking Klonapin through an i.v., just to keep sane. Just to keep sane.
Anyway, Whitney made me waffles yesterday.
"I used the Krusteaz waffle mix, so they're as close to homemade as you're gonna get," she said as her 3-year-old jumped onto her stomach for the 5th time, probably rupturing her bladder.
"Umph, god, why do you have to jump on me?!"
She heaped 5 enormous waffles on to my plate.
"I'm not going to eat 5 fucking waffles."
"Eat 'em you skinny bitch, maybe you'll grow your ass back."
I removed 2 of the waffle bricks from my plate and then doused them with Mrs. Butterworth's and margarine. Being at Whitney's house reminded me of my friend Mary's house, where I would eat all the junk food my bloated belly could hold and then have like 15 root beers before being flung back into my mother's puritannical, Mennonite kitchen. Funny because now my mother eats cookies like they're falling off the earth, she should be about 700lbs, but, of course, she isn't.
So, the waffles. The edges were crisp, they were a little hard to cut. I balanced the plate in my lap while I cut, rigorously, and a piece finally broke free. I ate the first piece. It was VERY dense. Whitney must have seen the look on my face.
"Oh yeah, I got confused with 'mix' and 'milk'. I didn't know that they were supposed to be buttermilk waffles and couldn't figure out why the directions called for 2 cups of milk."
I chewed on, laughing while the heavy crumbs of waffle fell to the floor.
"I know, I have a law degree, just opened up my own practice, and I can't figure out mix and milk. I know."
"You said it, not me."
It's the little things that clog us up. We smart people have these release moments, these reminders that we are not supposed to be smart all of the time, maybe not even 60% of the time. It's a relief to know I'm not the only one who has seen the inside of my ass with my brainy eyes.
For dinner, my brother's wife made stir fry and I invited myself over. It was a quiet affair, mostly because I was wolfing down the food, my first real meal in awhile.

Monday, October 12, 2009

FML or LMFAO

I've come to the conclusion that life in its rawest form is about constantly maintaining a balance on the razor sharp edge of hilarious joy and hysterical crumbling. Vulnerability seems to be the thing that prevents you from deciding if you should laugh or cut your own throat with picnicware. Fear not, I have no picnicware in my little cottage out in east B.F. Not yet, anyway.
Speaking of the cottage, well, it's bare bones. Or I should say "bear" bones because I'm closer to hawks and bears than I am to a public toilet and humanity. No internet, hence, the blog will be sporadically timed this week and maybe next, no t.v., no nada. Just me, my laptop, my toxic funny thoughts and the various wildlife living in the basement.
The dirt basement.
I am trying convince myself that this simplicity is GOOD for my little soul, and that complete isolation is somehow enriching me and leading me to enlightenment. So far the only spiritual communion I've had is that a layer of snot in my nose and ear finally popped away, now there are 5 left to drain. Also, I had a bowl of honey nut cheerios. A bright spot....
Actually, I did go bowling Saturday night with a friend of mine and all of her friends from AA.
I've never been bowling sober. Needless to say, my game sucked but I didn't have a hangover the next day. I'm going to see that one as a positive.
I don't have much by way of recipes since I've been living on coffee, M&Ms and Marlboro Lights. But I did hear something funny that relates to eating.
"This separation is like eating shit and laughing about it."
Well said.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

pretzels are tenfold

Lucian has been a bit mean lately. He harasses his sister, which, I'm assuming is natural. My brother was a relentless little prick. But that's a family thing. Today, I watched my son, my innocent little son, kick a kid just for the hell of it, while the kid was sacked out on the ground after a slide tackle gone horribly awry. So, after soccer was over, after I loaded the kids in the car (which tends to stink up quickly because they both have some badass B.O. after these little games), I tried to explain to Lucian about karma and its very surprising visitation on wrongdoers.
He didn't get it.
"What's tenfold mean?" he asked, pinching his sister's arm to watch her freak out.
"It means that whatever you do, especially the mean stuff, will come back really strong on you."
He giggled. "Does it buy toys for you if you're nice?"
"Um, no."
After several more minutes of him torturing Anna in the backseat and me screaming at him in tones that I swear were audible in Paris, I took him by his little pipe cleaner arm and dragged him into the kitchen. I grabbed a pretzel out of the cupboard.
"See this pretzel?"
"Yes"
"This is the mean thing that you did to Anna. Get it?"
"Yes."
"Ok." I put the pretzel on the floor and with my giant, mens' biker boot, I pulverized the thing.
Of course the pretzel became a pile of dust, 90 times larger than when it was an actual pretzel."
"See that pile of pretzel shit?"
"Yes."
"That's what will happen to you when you do something bad to someone else. It's always gonna be worse for you."
He turned very pale, no doubt clicking on the files in his head in which his demonic behavior caused someone else pain.
"That's not good."
"No, buddy, it's not good."
Off he went. I think he got it, but we'll see. I also made him clean up the pretzel with the dustpan.

Friday, October 9, 2009

timing is everything

I am moving into a small cottage in the middle of nowhere. I do mean nowhere, it's going to take days for the gas guy to come and hook up the propane so I can actually cook something. Until then, it looks like I'll be heating up soup over a gasoline drum. Great. They are turning on the power there today, of course, before they do, I had to go down into the Blair Witch Project basement with a child-sized flashlight so I could turn off the main power switch. That was fun. I think I ate a brown recluse spider, so we'll see what happens with that. Did I mention that I destroyed my head on the way back up the stairs that actually look like a ladder more than steps?
Yeah, so, things are looking a bit grim. It's raining outside, I do have to see the doctor about my ear, I wasn't going to until they asked me if I "wanted my eardrum to rupture over the weekend?"
Um, what the fuck do you think, no. That'll be fun. I'll get the blast-o antibiotic that would kill a wrestler, then I will shit for days because my body is already in emergency mode due to life circumstances and the death of love as I know it. YAY!
On a positive note, which I must remind myself there are many, Anna has mastered the art of omlette-making. I'm very proud of this because she is only 8. Also, I forsee a few Saturday mornings where I don't have to get up at the asscrack of dawn to feed the ravenous cavern that is her stomach. That IS pretty exciting!
For food, French Onion Soup, broiled with bread and cheese on top. I know I shouldn't have dairy, but I just couldn't go without. I'm french!!!

Thursday, October 8, 2009

on hearing and other luxuries

I've been harboring an ear infection for about two weeks now. I can feel the popping, but no relief. It's actually nice because the world seems bubbly and the noises the kids make aren't so fucking annoying and piercing. In fact they were trying to destroy eachother with pencils last night while I played "Moonlight Sonata" at full blast on the piano. Didn't hear a thing except the angry, gorgeous bass notes of Beethoven's syphillis infused masterpiece.
I also had a snifter of brandy. Suddenly, life was VERY good.
I did gain my hearing back for a second at about 3 am when Anna came in and was standing over me, waiting for me to wake up. I'm not sure how long she'd been standing there, but when I opened my eyes there was a giant, afro-headed demon glaring at me. I'm blind, so all I could see was the sinister outline. Did I mention that I have a heart condition? Yeah, well, I do, and waking out of a dead (albeit almost drunken) sleep to someone who is not the person you were just dreaming about ('cause that person in your dream was just about to rip your shirt off while you are laying on some beach in Cadiz) is a little surprising, to say the least. I think I scared her more, though.
"Jeezus! Anna, you scared the shit out of me!!!"
"I'm sorry, waaaa, I'm sorry!"
Then comes the bad mommy placating broken-hearted child bit, which I am an expert at.
"It's cool, it's cool, it's just that, you know, you were just standing there." And mommy was having a VERY NICE dream in which she was being ravished and...
"Can I sleep with you?"
"Huh, um, sure, yeah, of course." I patted the sheets, she tried to crawl over me and succeeded in smashing my bladder with her heal and then kicking me in the chin.
"Um, ow."
"Sorry." I could hear her breathing steady out, like a furnace hum, and then, between the pitch black of my thoughts and hers, "Wow the bed is really warm!"
"I know." The dream, of course, dramatically switched gears and suddenly I was sitting on a stone wall, waiting for my life to begin as the sun dropped, an orange-y purple ball in the horizon.
For food, mini-burritos with scrambled eggs, refried beans, tomatoes, lettuce, cheese, and a giant splooge of hot sauce for me. The kids ate two each...

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

maturation

I'm having an internal argument with myself. The question; Should I go out to the bus stop with the kids in the driving rain in my revolting, 900-year-old menswear that I now call pajamas? Clearly I should not, at least, that's what my selfish gut tells me. It was mildly pathetic watching their little silhouettes slouched against the giant drops, but they have raincoats, boots, an umbrella and YOUTH on their side. They don't know any better, and I envy this in children. When I discover it in myself, it usually is in a career-ending ignorance that sets me back for months. Take yesterday for instance. Oh yesterday....
I am trying VERY HARD to get some more freelance work. I'm editing now, two manuscripts, one is a book of very sad, very sexy poetry. The other is, well, I'm not sure what it is yet, that's where I come in, but I think it has something to do with racism in Alabama (we definitely need to work on chapter titles for this one). So, I'm piecing work together, trying to make ends say "hi" to eachother, let's face it, they aren't going to meet right now, so I'll be happy with them having a good wave, maybe blowing eachother a kiss...whatever.
So, this prestigious magazine in our area linked one of my stories to their website. I WAS DELIGHTED!!! Granted, it was a story about lingerie, but who gives a fuck, it was my story, and I've been trying to see what my angle could be with this magazine. So, I sent out a tentative email to the editor, "hey, saw you linked my story, really like your magazine, need any freelancers" blah, blah. He says he'd be interested in some pitches if I had any.
This is where you are supposed to envision a giant pile of feces being chucked at the propellor of a plane.
I'd been on the phone with an old high school friend for about an hour, I'm supposed to be interviewing him for a play review, but instead, we are being totally ridiculous, practicing for our big break into HBO comedy. The conversation actually ended with us comtemplating how we could send to Israel for all of the missing foreskins of American men, who now want them back. We determined that this was an impossible request because the Israeli government had already sewn a giant fish tapestry with all of the "missing pieces", each one representing a scale....
You can see where this is going, I hope...
So after this conversation, I got an ice pack for my face and stomach (from the laughing), and here's where the ERRONEOUS ERROR comes in, I checked my email one last time. I sent out a note to the editor of said cool magazine offering to do a play review. I'd been noticing that their website has always included reviews.
Then, I got a reply. "Our magazine has never done play reviews. Maybe you should review the publication, get an idea as to what stories we do and come up with some thoughtful pitches."
Yup, thoughtful pitches. The translation of this email is: You dumb bitch, you're playing with the big boys now, how old are you, like 5, read the fucking magazine and maybe, just maybe, I'll do you the service of rejecting your idea. Lucky you."
Thoughtful pitches......right. Got it.
Not a good feeling, of course, I was laughing hysterically when I went to bed. There may have been a tear or two. I'm visiting the magazine rack today.
Oh, and dinner, two slices of pizza wolfed down while sitting at my folks' computer trying to print out yet another application for Ghetto services to offset my growing hole of a bank account.