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.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Purgatory for dummies

I have determined, already, that I am going to hell. This is a fact. The one bright spot in all this is that I will be with friends, family, and bitches I hate so that I can torture them as they wonder why they are there. Hell is my kind of territory, so, clearly I'm not worried. Also, I will know what to wear when I do get there, unlike the applique sweater wearers of the world who actually thought they were going to heaven because they have an angel crocheted on to their body. Not so.
So, I will know what to wear and I will be among people I like, excellent.
My mother will also be in hell with me, this, again, was determined a long time ago. We do have self-righteous moments where there is the brief mention of "goodness" and "doing what is right" but these moments are almost immediately cancelled out by conversations that no human being would dare think, let alone have. Take last night for instance; the topic: Extreme Makeover Home Edition.
"What the fuck is up with that show? It seems like all the losers win the houses!"

"Seriously, they don't even know about decorating. They don't know that it's a big deal to have a BRAND NEW Viking stove. I mean, jesus!"

"I need a Viking stove! Shit, I need jeans that fit my kid. It just seems like they take these pathetic families who take like 9 HIV-positive kids and stuff them into a fuckin' trailer the size of a sardine can, 'cause that's really responsible."

My mom paused, "Yeah, now that you mention it, what the hell is wrong with DSS letting those kids live there in the first place. I mean, who the hell would let a kid, let alone 12, live in those conditions?!"

"Yeah, and we're supposed to get all teary-eyed 'cause they have a house. They're rolling on the ground like friggin' puppies, one kid's wheezing through his oxygen tank..."

"Dont forget, there's at least two black kids."

"Right, two black kids with Hepatitis C..."

"And the kid with the twisted leg, and don't forget to throw in a cleft palette."

"Oh yeah, you're good, I totally forgot about the lip going up into the noise thing, yeah, gotta have one of those. Come to think of it, the only reason I cry when I watch that show is because you know that house is gonna be a shithole in six months."

"Yup, instead of being arrested for neglect, they get a new house, it just doesn't seem fair."

So, you see why we're going to hell, I think I've made that pretty clear. Don't worry, I am raising the kids in the same vein so we can all be togther in the afterlife. Why stop now?
For dinner, baked potatoes gutted, cheesed, stuffed and rebaked, and shell your own soybeans. Not bad, except that Lucian discovered that he could squeeze the beans out of the shell in the manner of a gun, so the meal was "dotted" with soybean fire from his end of the table until Anna lost her shit and took her potato into the living room where she would not be shot at.

Monday, October 5, 2009

Bach for breakfast

Sorry I've been away, folks, I was on Lake Champlain with my drunken father trying to catch "Champ" the lake monster.
Needless to say, we did not catch him. In fact, we didn't catch anything, except that I might now have pneumonia (spelling on that one?) from being out on the lake and at the front of the tiny, aluminum boat as water spilled in on both sides. Did I mention that it poured the whole time we were out there? So, between the fog, the rain, and the lake, I think I deserve some kind of award for being an "honorary Irishman".
I won't get it, but it'd be nice.
So, while I was up in the north country trying not to puke in the gondola that took us up to the top of Whiteface mountain (I wasn't sick because of the heights, it was the hangover from the brandy and my father's subsequent reaction to Bratwurst WHILE we were in the gondola) I had many thoughts. Death (we really were way up there), grief (my domestic situation is not looking so good right now), longing (someone I barely know has instilled this in me, it's awful), and euphoria, just for being witness to a vista that I could not create, not even with my vivid, techinicolor imagination.
I don't mind the rollercoaster. In fact, the rollercoaster, the dipping down low and being hung up with nervous diarrhea (I have horrible genetics) and the waving up high is a reminder, albeit a "raw" one, that I can still feel something, anything, to its utmost power. I thought that that part of me was gone with the part that played the piano 7 hours a day, the part that fucked around with charcoal sticks and made gorgeous, dusty portraits, the part that didn't mind being broke, so long as there was coffee, a cigarette, and a funny friend nearby (preferably a hot, funny friend, but, whatever). So, I'm back on the track, I'll probably hit the free fall part of the ride, bump my head a few times, but, man, I'll feel every bruise and see every cloud until it pushes down again.
I didn't eat much this weekend, so I don't have any recipes to hand out. I did have a diner cheeseburger, it seemed to be the thing that saved my life. I was pretty low until that cheeseburger!

Thursday, October 1, 2009

diamonds are a girl's best friend

I have a foul mouth, probably to match my mind. Some of the kinder people in my life call it my honesty, my no bullshit attitude, my strength, ha!!! It's cute, it really is. I do get a sick rush of mischievious joy when people wince at my jokes, but then they smile this weird, Vaseline-y (yes, I used Vaseline-y on purpose) smile and make like everything's cool. But it's not, of course. They'll go home and over their kitchen sinks while they finish up the night's dishes they'll say something like "let's not hang out with her again" or "does she know how offensive that was?"
Prudes. They're clearly not getting laid properly and so, the Vaseline thing works on all counts.
So anyway, my own children, whose budding senses of humor are nothing short of impressive, have begun to recognize my facial preparation for inappropriate language and conversation.
I was doing the dishes tonite (I f***ing hate doing dishes, hate it, hate it) and I dropped a mug back into the sink. Lucian looked up from his G.I. Joe action figure (yes, I let my kid play with war toys. You think giving your kid a wooden Waldorf toy is actually going to stop him from turning it into a gun or a battering ram, think again, man). He looked up, pointed his finger at me and said, "Don't do it, Mom!"
"Do what?" I asked innocently.
"Don't say f**k."
"How do you know I was going to say anything?" Again, innocently.
"Because I can see those little diamonds in your eyes," he replied.
Then he shot off the little plastic bazooka and chased the artillery into the hallway.
Little diamonds in my eyes. I wonder what I look like when I'm about to, you know.....
Sparkle, sparkle.
Oh yes, the meal, leftover pasta (night three), water, applesauce.
I am eating popcorn for dinner, to be chased by an iron supplement.