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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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".

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.....

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.

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.

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?

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.