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.