Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Ushering out 365

I just saw my postings for December...a grand total of three. It's shameful. All that I can say is that Christmas ate me. Whole.

Glad that's over with, aren't you? I wish I were kidding, but I do look forward to the weeeee hours of December 26. That thought is usually the only thing that keeps me from losing my mind the week prior (I will not even mention last Christmas). Just sitting back mowing on leftovers, picking up stray bits of wrapping paper, smiling that you don't have to endure this sh*t show again until next year.

The lights are pretty, though. I always appreciate the lights.

So, everything is tucked neatly under the belt; Thanksgiving, Christmas, the first blizzard. But, I'm not out of the woods yet. New Year's Eve, which is usually the drunken denouement of the holidays, a night I look forward to because of its calming, celebratory role, has recently become something to fret over. And, of course, it is my own fault. I don't know how to say "no."

While you all are going skating, enjoying cheese plates, maybe even in your pajamas, I will be at a "private" party of god knows how many guests, dressed in a goddamn bustier and who knows what kind of make-up, reading poetry that I wrote in the darkest hours of my obsession and depression, while OTHER POETS WHOM I DEEPLY RESPECT wait their turn to read. Published, well-known Manhattanite people who, I am guessing, have never wiped baby puke off of their turtlenecks or scrounged in their car looking for enough change to buy a roll of toilet paper.

I can only take comfort in the knowledge that most people are afraid of street dogs. And even more afraid of funny women who carry pocket knives and giant cameras.

God help me.

Did I mention that Oprah's network will be filming the event?

I really feel a New Year's resolution coming on...

Monday, December 20, 2010

Lose or muse?

For several weeks now, I've been contemplating this movie that I picked up at the library. It's called "Venus" and I'm sure that whatever you're imagining is probably pretty close to accurate. The premise of the film is that Morris, an old (so old that his dentures barely fit in his sunken head anymore) actor becomes infatuated with his friend's grandniece who's about 19 years old, if a day. Of course, Morris calls her Venus.

It's trouble from the start. She is naturally repulsed by him, especially his rather forward advances...hell, I was repulsed at some of his little stunts and his graphic (albeit honest) language. It was difficult to reconcile the poetry that was coming out of his mouth when you were pretty sure he smelled like piss and death.

And she's 19 for Chrissake's.

Now that I've got my obligatory indignation out of the way; i.e. the predictable response, I feel that I need to defend Morris, or at least nod my head in acknowledgment of his motives.

The dude was near death. He found something that inspired him, and like any human beings who has seen the chronic underbelly of life, who wouldn't cling to the drugged effect of a muse?! Who cares if she's a 19-year-old country girl or a vintage Aston Martin?

Inspiration, sadly, can be a rare phenomenon. In fact, the older I get the further the distance between my "muses." I take them as they come, I don't question it, and I let go when it is time.

By the way, he never slept with her.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Hierarchy

Ever feel like it's a true miracle to even get out of bed in the morning? I'm not trying to romanticize it, don't get me wrong. I wake up most mornings with an expletive on my lips and very, very big black circles under my eyes.

And no, the supposed magic eye creme from Lancome doesn't even touch that nightmare. It just makes the black circles softer I guess. I take comfort in the fact that despite the clear markings of fatigue (although, aren't writers supposed to have those) I do have relatively few wrinkles...for now.

Yes, it is a miracle to find the audacity to emerge from the cocoon. It is painful, especially at this time of year when the cold has settled in your bones and the economy continues to spiral in a dangerous nose dive, taking all of us with it.

And yet...I have been to several countries and several regions, and the misery I see here is infused with a hopelessness that I have yet to see anywhere. Perhaps I haven't been to the right places, or to the ravaged places, I'm not sure.

I do know this, or, at least, I've figured it out: Where money is king you will find his queen, misery, close behind.

The pursuit of the dollar has almost ruined me, many times. I can feel it most powerfully around this time of year, a time when the little that I have is competing with the seeming abundance that the rest of the country is rolling in. I begin to want more, more stuff mostly, for my kids. More electronics, more game cartridges, a bigger T.V., a life that requires more batteries than imagination.

But more, I should know by now, has never really made me into more. It hasn't perfected my musical skills, it hasn't made my smile bigger, it hasn't found god for me, it hasn't helped me laugh my ass off at dinner parties with miscreant friends, it definitely hasn't made me a better lover or mother...

So, no more for me, thanks. Gotta keep reminding myself of the things that matter most, or at least a lot, to me; a good cup of coffee, raising kids with wit and common sense, a good proper lay, other people's struggles and the palette called earth.

Friday, December 3, 2010

What ever happened to patience? Really slow, mindful, good old-fashioned patience? Everybody's in such a goddamn hurry to get somewhere or buy something or meet some goal that the very art of languishing has been lost to instant gratification.

This, by the way, is not a lecture. It can't be, I myself am one of the most impatient, sentient beings I know.

Where was I (sorry, little distracted, the kids are watching Harry Potter and Lucian REALLY wants to know the owl's name)? Ah yes, languishing and patience. A long time ago, patience was, in fact, a virtue. Patient people commanded respect. They sat, they listened, they considered the words spoken, they were sure of themselves but not cocky...

Patience was sexy.

Now, it is a burden, a nuisance brought on by the slow-minded. A man who thinks things through is no longer coveted, he is left behind to face the cold alone. He is exiled from the pack for not electing to scurry around and prey on squirrels all day.

Yet, when the pack is running and panting after the insubstantial flesh of instant gratification the patient man, now the lonely man, waits, watches, considers and finally sets his sights on his prey and goes for the throat.

And feasts well at night.

I am learning the value of patience. It is rare to see a patient man, especially at my age when men (of the "me" generation) have little patience for even themselves. And you should see them with children. Asking questions is out of the question.

As I said, patience is sexy stuff. It has clear eyes and a steady voice and exquisite endurance.

I need more of that.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Take it or...take it?

Ever feel like you deserve more? I know, I know, does a bear sh*t in the woods, Nichole? I get it. But in all seriousness, and maybe I should've had this thought much earlier in the game, but I am painfully immature (as my friends have reminded me) and so...you see why it took this long.

Now, back to the bit about deserving more. I'm not talking necessarily about more "stuff" in the material sense of the word. Although, hell, who wouldn't want an iPhone (yes, I still have a flip phone that has been dropped in 3 water features and that I have to scroll through each letter button to send a f*cking text). Or a pair of SmartWool socks with owls on them? Or even a full tank of gas (or fuel oil)? These seem like simple requests but I assure you, they are not easy to obtain and really, life can and does go on without them. But I'm not even talking about this stuff (I REALLY want the socks, though, to anyone who's looking for a great gift idea for their crazy journalist friend).

And, frankly, I do deserve to be paid more. I will shame myself or my employer by setting up that number; just think new teacher pay but without any bennies. But again, this is tolerable, it is the way of the world, I do love my job and frankly, right now, I feel pretty goddamn lucky to have a job that guarantees basic food on the table and shelter from the cold.

So, blah, blah, I am thankful, I get it, but I can't help feeling like I deserve more. I guess I need to figure out what this "more" is, but I have a vague sense that it refers to my tendency to give up my rare moments of freedom (read: being ALONE in my apartment, sipping ALONE at a cup of coffee, sharing or not sharing my bed with whoever I want, not sharing my one-ounce sliver of specialty cheese, not being rushed in the shower, just doing MY dishes that I dirtied...).

Essentially, I feel like I'm doing something wrong when I need to say, "Nope, sorry, not today. I'm too into myself today."

Sounds awful, doesn't it? But that's how I feel. Obviously, I can't say this to my own children. They'd think I was kidding anyway, but there are days when I don't want to have to give a f*ck about anyone else's feelings but my own. There are days, truly, when I just don't care. Or rather, I don't want to care. I am waiting for the big moment when I wake up one morning and languish in bed because I WANT to be there. Because there is no one on this earth I'd rather be with but myself in that moment. Reading, or just daydreaming...

It is a foreign world out there in that land of "me." I am envious of its inhabitants.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Sad Enrichment

I try not to make too much eye contact in the waiting room of the therapist's office. It's a small town, people you know are bound to walk in. It's awkward, even though it shouldn't be. Twice I've emerged from the depths of the building with red-rimmed eyes, and wouldn't you know, there's always a familiar face to smile at me through snotty tissues and mountains of regret.

So, yeah, my strategy is to duck and cover.

Or to pretend to be so engrossed with the Al-Anon and La Leche League fliers pasted to the bulletin board that I cannot see or feel the anguish around me.

I got sick of looking at the announcement so my eyes shifted to the posters on the wall. One above the doorway caught my eye. In bright cheery orange letters the sign read "People with mental illnesses enrich our lives." Above the lettering were the names of famous people in history who apparently had mental illness but who, apparently, have enriched our lives.

More than half of those listed were writers. I nearly choked on my own spit. For starters, there was Ernest Hemingway, who continued to subdue and submerge his homosexual tendencies into his writing, where many of his main characters couldn't get it up and hated women and drank whiskey in profusion. And let's not forget Ernest's untimely end which involved massive amounts of booze, a double barrel shotgun and a very adept big toe.

And if Ernest hasn't enriched your life enough (he's certainly contributed to my depression and need to prove my masculinity), how about Sylvia Plath? Great poetry, tortured, mysterious. Oh and by the way, she shoved her head into the f*cking oven so as to asphyxiate herself. Now that's what I call enrichment. I feel so much better now.

Of course, Lincoln was on the list, as was Tolstoy, O'Neill, Keats, Williams, Dickens, you name it, they were there.

Gulp. And so, what am I, a writer, poet, journalist, dry drunk, mother supposed to glean from this list of brilliant people who've met a horrible end? Not just people, but MY kind of people; the weirdos and freaks who pursued risk as a lifestyle, who locked themselves up for years, who exposed their broken terrible hearts to the world in prose?

Is my only comfort that after I stick my head in the oven or drink a gallon of hemlock that my work will have enriched some dipsh*t college student's life for 5 minutes because he liked my chapter about the old man?

God, I hope not.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

I remember not long ago, that there were certain quotes that I tried to live by, or at least utilize in conversation. They were famous quotes about honor and integrity, said by famous honorable people, like Lincoln and Ghandi. Really meaty stuff that could change the world...

I'm not so into those quotes anymore. I still hold the sayers in high esteem and I still believe strongly in the values they tried to teach, but, frankly, I feel a little too ordinary and cynical to be slinging this kind of ideal eloquence around. For starters, I use the f-word too much (still working on it) and I still laugh at really loud farts and utterly indecent picto/audio texts which I receive mostly from my brothers and my father. I'm still one of the boys in this regard. My brother's wife has blocked his number because she wants nothing to do with these messages.

I laugh uncontrollably and forward them to my friends.

So, you see, I am lacking in that idealism that I had all those years ago. Could it be a sign of depression? Or age? Or just the big work boot of reality that has finally met up with my once unscathed forehead?

I have a friend, I'll call her Red, and she has many more years of wisdom on me, meaning she could be my mother with some years to spare. Yet, when I see her and we chat, I feel like somehow, despite my comparative youth, we are equals in many ways. I am lulled into thinking that my jaded edgy personality trumps her nearly 70 years of surviving and raising children and falling in and out of love and burying children and illness.

But she always surprises me, in the end. Always. I think I was trying to find words to describe to her my utter desolation and my confusion about love and my insecurity as a writer and a mother and how I felt injured by the world. She, in turn, told me that she had a morning where she opened her eyes and just wanted to die. Literally.

"But," said Red, "I just keep reminding myself what my friend Don always says to me."

"Oh yeah, what's that?" I say, hoping that this is the answer to my sadness and chaos.

"He always says, 'Red, you gotta remember, life is a shit sandwich. It's just a shit sandwich.'"

"Wow," I said, feeling the life drain out of my shoulders. "He's absolutely right."

And it's full of idiots like me and Red who will keep eating, hoping against all hope, that the menu will change.

And if it doesn't, there's always something to write about.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

No reply

It is ten o'clock on election night. I covered the polls in South County, I talked to people, I made phone calls, I wished the underdog good luck, my kids and I waved frantically to the projected winner from all windows of our car...

I've done my part, I think.

As I send in the last of the results, mostly numbers, who voted, who didn't, my email shows a message from Barack Obama.

His media advisor wants me to make some more calls to key states. "You have until midnight" the email blast says.

I am totally exhausted to the point of being cynical. I'd like to send a mass email blast of my own to the White House and everyone in it who has premo health insurance, nice suits, a housekeeper and a vehicle in working condition.

I've been working hard for you guys. Getting people to the polls, trying to look on the bright side, knowing I have to do my part, knowing that this economic wreck was a nice little inheritance from the Bush administration and the nation's overall greed (mostly credit cards and living beyond our means).

Here's what I ask in return, your humble servant who works three jobs and raises two kids.

I ask for some space to breathe in.

I ask for health insurance that I can rely on when my children are sick or when I am sick, 'cause it does happen once in awhile and it sucks.

I ask for the words coming out of your mouths not to be dripping with lies to keep the starving wolf at bay.
I ask for decent schools where intolerance is intolerable, always.

I ask for YOU to stay up until midnight making frantic calls on my behalf to those who might listen.

I ask for an end to this godless, useless, senseless war so that my children will know a time of peace, as they have yet to do.

I'm sure there's more, but, above all, I ask for you to employ integrity as your mantra.

I feel like a once-loyal dog who has lost the love of her master and now wanders the streets hoping merely to survive one more day out there, in the land of great uncertainty and even greater doubt.

I ask, as you promised, for that hope that I caught a glimmer of not so long ago.

Thank you. You have until midnight...or so.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

To know enough's enough is enough to know...

I'm getting to the point now where I'm realizing that I don't have an "off" switch, especially when it comes to disgusting humor and practical jokes. My victims have the "off" switch for sure, but I seem to miss the cues sometimes...or most of the time. Even Anna has a stern face reserved just for me. And she's not afraid to use it.

"Mom, why do you let us say 'crap' and 'hell' and 'friggin' and stuff?" Lucian says between bites of cereal, most of which end up in his lap, half-chewed and soggy.

"I don't know, Luca. 'Cause they're fun to say and they're not swears really and you can get them out of your system." Mind you, I barely have three sips of coffee in my body.

This is the precise moment at which Anna, her hair wild from sleep, gives me a steady, cool glare and speaks, slowly, as if she is the final word on the matter.

"I think it's because you don't even know you're saying them," she says. "Dad doesn't let us say crap or the other words. He says they're inappropriate."

That's when I pull the writer card. Otherwise I'd pull the go-f*ck-yourself-you-f*cking prude card.

"Well, Anna, as a writer I need to use all the words in the English language because each word expresses a very important idea." I was proud of my thesis for it being so early in the morning.

"I friggin' hate school," Lucian sighed, brushing the cereal blobs off of his shirt.

Who can argue with that?

Even the supposed grown-ups can only take so much. Yesterday I was eating a little cup of Italian ice watching the Godfather trilogy with the Sisco kid. Of course, what normal human being can resist putting the cup on the flesh of another, especially the stomach or the neck, just for a little laugh and to watch them jump about 50 feet into the air. After about 3 attacks Sisco turned to me, his face flushed and unblinking.

"I'm gonna kick you in the d*ck if you do that again."

"No one's ever said that to me before."

"No one's ever tortured me this much before."

Duly noted. I will refrain and/or wear an athletic cup for the next joke.

Friday, October 22, 2010

The mind is a terrible thing to waste

Lucian has not blinked in 45 minutes. Upon literally jumping out of the shower (in which he whistled, screamed and sprayed nearly all of my shaving cream on the walls) he shook his wet head like a dog and spoke...wildly, of course.

"My mind feels like it's going to blow up!" Shake, shake, jump.
"Um, well, what did you have for dinner?"
"Just pizza." Shake, shiver, shake, dum-dee-dum.
"What did you have to drink with your pizza?"

His eyes lit up like an Iraqi oil well.

"Oooh. I had root beer."
"I thought so." He darted off naked into his room where he then emptied the contents of his dresser, throwing each and every pair of boxers into the air.

Thank you, daddy-o, for giving them root beer. The last time he took them out Lucian came home holding his guts, greener than the Hulk. Guess what. Two cans of Coke. Again, thanks. I want to exact a sweet revenge but I feel like it would be cruel to the children. He doesn't have the patience to deal with the fall out if I did finally decide to give the kids that giant slab of flourless chocolate cake.
At least I have a sense of humor...sort of.

Even Anna was being defiant about the shower, which is alarming because the child gives off a pretty strong scent, even for being nine.

"Anna, if you don't go take a shower now, I swear, I will beat you senseless."

Long, contemplative pause.

"Well, you can beat me, but you still have to pay your taxes."

Thanks for reminding me, babe.

Oop, gotta run, I just heard a chair being dragged across the kitchen floor. Lucian must've spotted the cider donuts on top of the fridge.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Aaaaah yeah

I am done pretending, even for a minute, that human beings aren't total animals. We are driven by instinct and survival, the rest (like writing, music, technology) is just a thin cover that barely conceals our horns and tails. We tried, with various gigantic religious texts and talk about sin and hell and enlightenment, to deny the beast within because it's embarrassing, especially to the intellectual set. But in the end, we are all, in some way, cave men.

Here's how I know.

Last week, I went to a dignified theater because of my dignified appreciation for world music. I wore make-up and heels and sat in a plush velvet seat and tapped my foot and snapped my fingers to the music. But then, about 15 minutes into the show, my intellect crumbled like the Soviet bloc. Why, you ask? What was it that snapped the Yale graduate and compelled her to jump on stage with a bunch of other women and to dance in front of the WHOLE audience, including her son's pediatrician?

Hips, people, hips. And not just any hips but the mad, gyrating, dancing hips of a lean Cuban singer who must have known, very early in life, that it's pointless to fight against the animal, against lust. The back of his blue shirt was dark with sweat and every woman dancing on the stage was watching the slight movement of muscle under the drenched material, as well as the way his pants stretched, ever so slightly, revealing an ass that was as close to perfect as I've ever seen.

So, yeah, you think you're smart, but lust is smarter, I assure you. Even my most professional, intelligent moments, where I am deep in thought and writing/contemplating are easily broken by lust and its design. There is fire everywhere! Look around you!

Not too long ago my "gentleman friend" as my therapist calls him, looked at me through very sleepy eyes and just shook his head, I couldn't tell if it was disbelief or disgust.
"What," I said, defensive, "Do I scare you?"
"No, you don't scare me," he said. "But that look does. That's the look of a wolf right before it sinks its teeth in."

We cannot rationalize it, we cannot give in fully to it, so, we call it love, which it is. And love, contrary to popular belief, is not civil, nor is it patient, nor is it kind. At least not the love of animals. I was watching "Closer" the other day and Jude Law, who plays Dan, an overly intellectual writer is trying to explain that Larry, a brutish doctor, knows nothing about love. "You don't understand the heart," he says to the doctor.
"Have you ever seen a human heart?" Larry roars. "It looks like a human fist wrapped in blood."

There you have it. We're not fooling anyone.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Vignettes of a different sort

Time will, if you are good to it, stand still long enough so that you can take a deep, penetrating look into some of the moments which happen to make up the weird mosaic of your life (of course, in this case I have a sneaking suspicion that my mosaic is comprised mostly of porcelain from broken toilets, but I can't prove that yet).

For instance, at a stop light, while rocking out to "Lady Marmalade" with the kids, I happened to glance in the rear view mirror. Anna was slumped in the backseat reading a battered copy of the New Yorker and Lucian was struggling to remove something from the tips of his fingers.

"Hey, Luca, what's on your hands?"

Dead silence.

"I said, what's on your hands, buddy?" He could hear the threatening venom in my voice; it's not hard to detect even for a grown man.

"Um, plastic grapes."

So that's where he disappeared when Anna and I were mulling over what kind of spinach to buy.

His first shoplifting; display grapes. What do you even say? Of course, I told him it was stealing, but then, how many times have I absent-mindedly started gnawing on a green bean or a REAL grape while in the drone of the grocery store?

Fake grapes. Of course, the next question begs to be asked. What'd Anna think of the New Yorker?

She loves it, by the way, especially the poems and the illustrations for the movie reviews. She is also starting to read the "About Town" section with almost a sense of longing. She did tell her therapist that she was going to get a job in the city and ride her motorcycle to work and get a tattoo that's bigger than mine...

These are odd children, I know it, you don't have to tell me twice. Or once even. One likes to eat frozen brussel sprouts the other wears one fingerless glove to school everyday with a white pimp fedora. Thinks nothing of it. I wince when she gets off the bus, but what the hell, the kid is very comfortable with her style.

I can't tell you how many mornings in a row she asks, "Hey, Ma, are my skinny jeans clean yet?"

As strange as this may seem "on the outside" I prefer it to the life that I have tried overly long to strive for. I was having coffee with a very down-to-earth friend of mine the other day and we both revealed a few of the dark truths of our lives over the past few years. Truths about abuse and infidelity and depression and suicide. It was a relief to let go of the farce for both of us.

"I just wanted to have the perfect life," she said, pulling her coat around her even though it was 75 degrees outside.

"Yeah, me, too," I said. But it doesn't exist. That life doesn't exist." At least, not for me. Not in the way that it was presented to me for so many years.

Yes, I owe my children my love and my protection and my undying loyalty. But above all they are, for the sake of their happiness and confidence in their own skin, I owe them the truth. Always. Even if it is painful.

They know a few things now. About friends I've buried, about wars that are unwinnable, about love that fades, and yet, somehow, because they are children and because they are resilient, their innocence remains. Better to gradually understand life's raw material than to be hit by its slag as you approach thirty...

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

I have to...

Again with the Facebook status updates. This time in reference to motherhood. I have seen several over the last few weeks that come just shy of gushing over being a parent. Gushing and oozing the kind of bullsh*t that not even a dumb puppy would fall for. Or a middle school blonde for that matter.

To be clear, I can understand the moments of pure insane love that come over a mother, even when her children are grown. I've seen it in my own mother who once said, "You know, whenever you guys come to visit it's like a movie star is here." At the time, I thought she was insane, but I know the feeling now. When Anna gets off the bus with her white fedora tipped rakishly on her head, her backpack slung carelessly on one shoulder, yeah, it feels like I'm watching a movie and loving every minute of it because the star is mine and mine alone. The same can be said for Lucian, when I hear him in the EARLY hours of the morning talking to himself and quietly setting up elaborate war games with Matchboxes, I can almost see the evil genius he will be.

But back to the gushing. When I read things like, "I love my little man," or "Haven't slept in weeks but my baby is my world" or "At home with a sick kiddo" my stomach ties up in an uncomfortable knot. I know what's behind those updates because I read the previous five from the days before. "Need a night on the town," or "I don't think I can do this much longer" or "is exhausted and blah today."

I can put two and two together. So that by the time the "happy mommy" update hits, it's already out there. You're trying to convince yourself that you've got the best job in the world, but we all know it's a sh*tfest, so there's no need to put on a show. Yes, we know you love your little man, but we also know that you posted that because you think you might sell him to itinerant workers by the end of the week.

And yes, it's ok to be totally f*cking enraged that you haven't gotten any sleep for the last three months because a being the size of a bag of sugar eats, sh*ts and cries his way through your life and there's nothing you can do to stop it. It's cool, ladies, we get it. You don't gotta tell us you love your kids, but who do you think you're kidding with the 1950's Good Mother updates. They're downright scary. Just tell it like it is, you'll feel better: "If this kid doesn't f*cking sleep tonite I'm feeding him to the coyotes" or "My 9-year-old is being a royal biatch today" or "Praise god, I just found the holiday clonapin."

Do it.

Just to solidify this point, I saw a woman in a cafe yesterday with her two young kids, maybe 6 and 3. It was about 4 o'clock in the afternoon and she was there alone at first and then a friend showed up with another kid. I thought how chill the kids were, keeping themselves amused and chatting as their mother pounded back a few beers (it was a cafe, btw, where coffee is the main beverage) and gossiped with the friend. The kids got antsy (hell, I get antsy after 35 minutes) and as she was taking a huge gulp from her beer, the cross-eyed angry look she gave them gave me chills. Like she might've killed them, and there she was and there they were in their perfect clothes, with their designer rain boots, and their organic snacks and she hated them to the core.

Update your status, moms.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Tangled up in blue and pink

I'm not sure if it's because of the bipolar weather we've been having, or the blob/tumor enacting its dark magic on my hormones, or the imminent arrival of the full moon this week, but I am almost getting the impression that I'm acting like...a girl.

Dun-duh

Or someone who is so fearful of winter and its environs that she now feels even more like a rabid squirrel in a garbage can.

This morning, early, as the sun warmed my groggy face, the Sisco kid and I sat on the back steps and enjoyed our last moments as humans before the anvil of Monday came down on us. He sipped at the coffee we were sharing and looked down at my bare feet.

"Um, you know, that ankle bracelet is starting to make me think you're turning into a girl or something." He smiled over the rim of the cup. "Ya know, when we first met you carried an axe and wore wife beaters." Still smiling, he looked triumphant, like he might be responsible for my femininity or something.

I glanced down at the silver anklet adorned with pink shells remembering that after I put the thing on (sometime on Friday) I actually contemplated painting my toenails as well. I resisted the urge in favor of some mascara and lip gloss.

"Don't worry," I said, trying to sound cool; I think I might have even spit off the steps, "It's still there, tied to my knee."

He shook his head and smiled.

But, my god, what if he's right? What if I am losing my edge? The other night I started babbling about how we could get a tiny apartment in Rome and live out the rest of our days there after the kids were grown. I could blame the pain meds, but I hadn't taken any. What's next? Joint grocery trips, I'll-wash-you-dry dishes, decorating each other's rooms, imaginary house hunting?!

Apparently I need a little ride back into reality, and thank you to Lucian and Anna for providing just such a ride. Lucian wasn't off the bus more than 5 minutes before I had to threaten his mortal existence if he didn't leave his sister alone. And Anna wasn't off the bus more than 5 hours before she came clean about why she had to stay in for recess (I'm still working out the details of that punishment).

And, of course, she arrived with a booger clogged nose and the announcement that her dad might let her ride her bike BY HERSELF to a friend's house next week.

Over my dead f*cking body, man.

Did I mention that Lucian's nosebleeds are back in season. Fortunately, though, I've wised up to their patterns so that there won't be any more hysterical CAT scans and Google MD research. Now it's just an ice pack and me pinching the top of his nose until the thing clots up.

"Wow, mom, you pinch harder than Dad, and you can even hold the ice pack on my neck at the same time."

Amazing, isn't it? I think I'll clean my Leatherman and read some John Irving tonight to get my mind right.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Thick blooded

I nearly went off the road last night listening to an NPR interview with the author of "Achoo." Yes, it is a book about the common cold and myths and solutions surrounding the common cold.
Guess what, Airborne is horsesh*t, but you already knew that. Did you really think an Alka-Seltzer tab with a brilliant marketing machine behind it would save you from this misery?

I hope not.

Chicken soup, also a load of crap. Although, she did say that the soup may speed up the healing process, not because it's chicken soup but because someone made it for you and knowing that others have empathy for you makes you feel better faster.

Imagine that. Empathy...could be the name of a lesser Norse god, probably one that tried to save a drowning puppy and got his hand bit off by it's rabid bitch mother. 'Cause that's how rare empathy feels. Poor empathy.

So, empathy is the cure. But here's what made me laugh...hard. She said in the interview that sleep deprivation and chronic stress are the two key components to contracting a cold.
"Normally people who sleep less than 7 hours are more susceptible. As well as people who are under a lot of stress."

Of course, I went over in my mind how many hours of sleep I've gotten in the past, oh, let's say 5 days. It might add up to 7 if I round up. And stress, well, stress is like beef jerky for me. I gnaw on it, its salty juices release in my mouth, but yet, it provides no sustenance whatsoever.

I coughed a little after the interview was over. When I got home I was sure I had swine flu, and by the time I got to bed, loaded up with Zyrtec and contemplating mixing Thera-Flu with rum (my famous 'hot toddy') I was sure that by morning the snot army would come and take my dignity.

Nope. Still here, nasal passages are dry as the Gobi. But I'm still contemplating the Thera-Flu for sh*ts and giggles. It may help with the whole sleep-deprivation thing. Or the whole having thoughts after 10 p.m. thing...

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

A New Focus?

Why is it that when a celebrity has a baby suddenly the world remembers motherhood? I saw the cover of Vogue, graced, of course, by Halle's beautiful, ageless face. She says she has a new purpose or focus; motherhood.

News flash for ya; motherhood was not invented when Angelina decided to adopt fifteen times and squeeze a few kids out in between. Cleaning up puke and tears and blood is not a new concept. It wasn't even new when, nearly ten years ago, I was sitting in the ICU with a baby the size of a first grader cradled in the crook of my exhausted arm.

Get over it, Halle. You're cute, sure, but you're just a milk machine like the rest of us. Except that the rest of us don't have a personal trainer to bring our bodies back from the wreckage of pregnancy. And the rest of us don't have a dishwasher, personal chef, or a nanny to coax us away from the edge of insanity when all we can think is "What have I done? What have I f*cking done?!"

There's no turning back. There's no handing over when you're exhausted and you have to peel yourself out of bed to make some semblance of a healthy lunch while chugging your 47th cup of black coffee knowing that the second the bus rolls up is the second you need to be out the door to work.

I have a new focus, too, Halle. It's called keeping it real. While you're basking in the light of your $100k window treatments hoping you're in the running for the Mother of the Year award, I'll be sitting at my 900 year old farm table fighting the urge to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes while chowing down on a store-bought Whoopie Pie for breakfast. What award? Most of us gave up trying years ago when we know that it was either us or them.

I was sitting on my friend's porch yesterday and we were reminiscing about when our babies were little, when we gave a sh*t about how the house looked and how the food looked and how clean the kids were.

"Remember when we tried to have a starch, a meat and a veggie at every meal," she asked, flipping a pre-made turkey burger on the grill.
"Oh yeah," I said, taking a long blessed swig on my Corona. "You mean when we bathed them every night and hated every minute of it."
"Yup."
"Glad those days are over," I said, breaking mangled pieces of bread in half to substitute them for hamburger buns. "I don't need a f*cking medal anymore. I know what I've got to do."

And we do it every single goddamn day. We do it when we are delirious with fever, when our relationships are sinking into misery, when we have no money, when we are released from the hospital with strict orders to rest. We do it. There's no refocusing or sudden realization that, "Oh my god, my kid comes first."

It must be nice to pretend that an option actually exists. "Gee, I wonder who's going to sponge down the kid when he's burning up with swine flu?" or "You know what, nanny, I think I'll change the baby's diaper this time" or "You take a break, Jeeves, I'm going to teach Johnny how to drive."

The prize, the real prize, is going to bed at night knowing that you made it another day, and no one was harmed beyond recognition and no one went hungry and you get to do it again tomorrow. There's your medal, wear it with pride even though it's covered with chocolate and riddled with dents.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Follow up...it's not just for breakfast

A lot of you all have been asking about last week's little mishap in the hospital, what's wrong, etc. I wasn't trying to create some sort of dramatic build up before I spilled the beans.

I was in the Adirondacks 30 miles from the Canadian border catching fish, skinny dipping, making s'mores, telling bedtime stories and watching the sun come up over Saranac Lake while perched on a rock with my nightgown and my biker boots.

Tough life right? Yeah, well, I needed to get my head on straight after all the interesting news last week. I called my mother yesterday after we survived the 4-hour drive with two exhausted kids and two nicotine addicts, both of whom are hard-wired to be high strung, especially in tiny spaces.

"You sound relaxed," she said. "You sound like you had a good time."
"I did. I didn't have any choice."

And that is the truth. There was no running water at the cabin (which is only accessible by boat). There is a small sleeping space with bunk beds, a cot, and a full-sized bed. And there is a kitchen space with a wood stove (oven) a few shelves and a tiny table. And there is a screened in porch that overlooks the lake.

Guess where I slept despite the balmy 40-degree nights and the hard floor.

And yes, there is an outhouse. Really, in a place like this, there is no room for pretentiousness or worry. Life becomes very basic. Wake up, eat, explore the woods, get some lake water to scrub up, do some fishing, eat, run around, lay on a hammock, take the boat out, swim, nap by the crystal lake, hike, eat.

It was an enviable weekend. We lived on fluff sandwiches and Cream of Wheat and grapes (and, of course, coffee). Nothing serious, really. And any catastrophic thoughts I had were wiped away when a blue heron slid over the water, or when Lucian caught a bright Perch and screamed with delight, or when I fell asleep watching my feet sway in the hammock.

Only a few times, mostly at night when the loons and I were the only living creatures awake, did the anvil of reality break through the flawless glass of the weekend. Yes, there are things growing in me that shouldn't be there. The pain of them makes me wild at points, the not knowing even wilder. The meds seem to be devouring my insides.

But, I take comfort in the lake. In it's sparkling surface and moody water. Yeah, sure, there might be a couple hundred dead trees at its murky bottom, maybe even a dinosaur or two, but the surface is clean, and the fishing is good. And right now, that's all that matters.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Diluted?

Yesterday began like any other day...actually it didn't. Not at all. Yesterday began with more of the same of the night before.
First, there was the cold sweats. I was sitting in a metal chair at Anna's Tae Kwon Do studio sweating profusely while Lucian beat me with a wooden sword thinking I was chattering my teeth as some kind of joke.

Not so, not so, my son.

I know you don't have to be a mother to experience that desperation that pain and illness brings. Very dramatic thoughts like, "If I can make the drive home, I will live another five minutes," or, "All I have to do is get them to brush their teeth and then I can rest."

It's not pretty. But, it does supply sadistic bursts of hope to an otherwise hopeless situation. I got them to eat the dinner, and brush their teeth and go to bed. Hell, I put the tooth fairy money on Lucian's nightstand. Of course, I was wrapped in about 4 blankets of varying warmth.
But then, oh then, came the morning. I honestly thought I could sleep off whatever illness I'd been afflicted with.

You know, like you can sleep off a heroin overdose, right? Silly girl. Well, you can't sleep off a kidney infection or a rupturing cyst. Especially one that's still rupturing and it happens to be snuggled in your cozy little sleeping bag of an ovary and the size of a hail ball in Texas and turning on its side.

Too much detail for you? Well, I didn't want you to think I was a wimp when I couldn't even get a pair of skivvies on under my nightgown in order to make the trip to the ER.
It was funny when the ER nurse handed me the pea-colored Johnny and said, "You can leave your panties on."
"I don't have panties." She looked a little disapproving. Then just shrugged her shoulders. "Good, less to deal with."
Thanks, lady.

And thanks for sticking me 7 times with a needle and rolling it under my skin only to discover, as I've already said, that I have small veins and am a little dehydrated.
"Just get Dan from the lab, he'll get it," I said about 5 times. Nope, why listen to me. Dan did eventually show up, and, huh, what do you know, first stick, he got all the vials of blood he needed.

It would be easy to focus on the negative here, and I almost want to. However, there were some positive elements to being in excruciating, unforgiving pain. Let me see....

Oh, right, the morphine. That's good sh*t. Too bad it lasts less than thirty minutes. Actually, the nurse asked me if I had a high tolerance to pain meds and I looked at the Sisco kid (who, in case it wasn't obvious, is my "gentleman friend") who was trying to hide a concerned snicker.
I like pills. I am immune to Vicadin unless we're talking whole bottles of it.
"I'm very responsive to pain drugs," I said.
Let's see, what else was funny, oh yes, Sisco shut the curtain to the ER room, gave me a mischievous look, and then began inflating a latex glove. Of course, the blow up glove needed eyes, a nose, stubble, some earrings and a big smile to go with his rooster mohawk. And since Sisco is 7 ft. tall, he safely secured "Sven" the glove man to the hinge of the inquisition lamp hooked to the ceiling.

It hurt to laugh. And I laughed alot. The nurses were in hysterics most of the time as I slowly cried, leaked, writhed and tried to smile my way through the ordeal.

Did I mention how much I liked the morphine?

Of course, there was an ultrasound. It's not generally a good sign when the tech whistles under her breath and says, "Woo-wee girl, I'm surprised you were able to walk in here. They better get you on some serious drugs. Ok, I'm just gonna need you to insert this."
Great.

I left against the doctor's strong recommendation that I stay and be miserable with strangers as opposed to taking the maximum dose of oxy/morphine pills prescribed to me and snuggling into my misery with an episode of "L.A. Ink" to watch, high as a kite, and the gentle snoring of the funny giant who did not leave the hospital, not once, during this almost 12-hour ordeal.
Hmm, tough choice.
Now, today, comes the follow-up. Should be great. I'm wondering if this blog will become a chronicle of my disease or a chronicle of my life.
I'll keep you posted. I miss "Sven."

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Here's yer sign

Rainy, windy days like this promote strange thoughts and recollections, at least here in my little, square flat in Sheffield. It's literally a square by the way, or a "square ring" as Lucian brilliantly refers to it.
So, as the wind is whipping violently outside and I'm wrapped in a shawl made out of a blanket and a few buttons, looking like a damned squaw, I am thinking about some of the times where I wanted out of something. I guess you could call it regret, but it's much more cynical and self-deprecating than that. Regret is for when you f*ck up your kids or kill somebody's dog because you're driving drunk. This is more bemused bewilderment at where you've found yourself and what you are able (if at all) to remember about that time.

I remember distinctly a stall in the bathroom at the train station in Galway, only because I barely made it into the stall emptying the contents of my stomach into the "great white ear" so to speak. I was sweating and swearing that I would never drink again, but wouldn't you know by lunch I felt like a million bucks and ready to eat some blood pudding and drink my weight in Guinness. The stall was green, by the way, and two of the floor tiles were cracked, I counted them between heavings.

Other key details include a very dark, musty hotel room on the 10th floor of an old industrial building in San Francisco. Of course, our room (our meaning my Pakistani boyfriend at the time and my reckless self) was on the tenth floor and the elevator was out. A ninety-year-old Buddhist nun insisted on carrying our luggage up all ten flights. Her had was shaved and she wore a red robe. The whole place reeked of pungent incense and I knew the smell was going to be in my skin for days. The trip wasn't going that smoothly and I remember thinking that maybe I could score some opium from the man at the front desk. Or just settle for some cheap rock from the hookers outside the hotel. I wonder, if I'd been successful on either count, if I would have laughed in the boyfriend's face when he proposed. Unfortunately, all I had was a pack of Camels and a bottle of Henessy, and those didn't help. I said yes. I wasn't even twenty.

And last, but certainly not least (actually, it's not even last, there's like hundreds more...it is my life after all) I distinctly remember sitting on my rickety porch street side in the middle of the ghetto (where there is more than one crackhouse within a half mile radius, it is a ghetto, also there was a pharmacy that you had to ring the bell to get in). It was 5 o'clock in the morning, I was wearing nothing but a big plaid shirt and biker boots (no socks, of course) smoking a cigarette, spraying workable fixative on some charcoal drawings I had pieced together for an art class. Yeah, I know, way to go with the open flame around the aerosol can. I could've blown the place up. It never dawned on me. What did occur to me was how very fine it felt to be young, and cocky, and not care that you smelled like a distillery and that you weren't wearing socks and that whoever was in your bed would be out before you had to offer them a cup of coffee, and that it was only Saturday morning.

I don't want all of it back, but wouldn't mind chasing that confidence around for a little longer. Maybe without the drugs or the self-inflicted harm.
Is it even possible?

Monday, August 16, 2010

Stop want

We have entered the experimental stage. We meaning me trying to push new things on the kids and the kids resisting said things with all of their fierce little might.
They are my children, of course they're fierce.

This weekend was a perfect example of the push-pull relationship that balances on a worn leather string and could snap at any moment. The nature of the snap frightens the kids a little and me a lot. They have no idea what goes through my mind when I say, "Luca, Anna, I'm gonna lose my sh*t in a second. Knock it off."

They giggle. Imagine that.

Anyway, it was a weekend of new things and new ideas and new images. And they did, as most children will do when you want to have a good time, give them a little education and culture...
They complained. And wanted stuff. And nearly ate my pockets dry.

That's not to say that good times were not had, but in between the oooh and aaaah moments of ogling a 34 pound zucchini and throwing balloons into the Williams River and watching the Blanket Dance in an open field at a Powwow, they always seemed discontent. Lucian wanted more food, Anna wanted 2 more dollars, I wanted to trip them and throw them into the dance circle so that the Medicine Man would teach them a lesson.

Then, the wanting stopped. Simultaneously, they both looked up at the powwow and their little eyes rested on a girl in full regalia (probably Lakota) tying her hair back. She looked to be about 5, if that. She was alone, the look on her face was stern and set.
"What's she doing," Lucian asked.
"She's getting ready to dance."
"Why?"
"Because that's what her mother taught her, and her grandmother."

The enchanting child disappeared behind her mother's feathered skirt. Almost miraculously, Lucian stopped bitching about the long line for the lemonade and Anna stuffed her sweaty wad of cash back into her pocket. They were quiet for a moment, probably wishing they were that proud girl.

Of course, the moment we left the magic ceremony and stepped into Dick's Sporting Goods, all bets were off, again. Lucian wanted a bike and a $900 weight machine and Anna wanted a kayak and a pocketknife and they couldn't understand for the life of them why I couldn't/wouldn't buy them any of these things. Then finally Lucian broke the chaotic, homicidal silence of my mind.
"Mom, if you could have anything in this store what would it be?"
It didn't even take me a second. I sighed deeply and pointed to a black barrelled, wooden detailed 12 gauge.
"That."
"Wow, that's $450! You can't get that."
"I know," I said, "It's a good thing we don't always get what we want."

Needless to say the ride home was relatively quiet, punctuated only by a few giggles and very much thinking.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

A Car With a View

Supposedly you can tell a lot about a person by what the inside of their car looks like. I was riding with a guy a few months ago who let me in on a little secret. I was looking at the pristine inside of his black Beamer, not a speck of dust (in a black interior no less), not even an empty coffee cup in the holder.
It was spotless, and therefore, I was immediately skeptical.

"Did you just clean your car?"
"Nope, I always keep it this way."
"Bullsh*t," I laughed. "So is your house like this then?"
"My house, f*ck no! I got piles of clothes on the floor, dishes next to the bed, I'm a bachelor, remember."
"Then why do you give a shit about your car?"
"Because, you gotta get them to the house first, then they're already sold."

AH HA!!!!!

I had no idea. It's so simple. So, a chick sees a nice car, thinks the car represents the man, goes home with his suave *ss and BOOM, total mess. But by then, she already likes him. She wants him, she got in the car didn't she? Brilliant.

So, I took a peak at my own little toaster on wheels. Tried to see it from an outsider's perspective, even a potential love perspective.
No wonder they all run screaming back to their mommas!

All of the cup holders are filled, no matter what, at all times. Water bottles, empty coffee cups (of course there are several of those on the floor as well), empty Coke cans, a melting bottle of Aleve gel caps, you name it, those holders are loaded. Cds, paperwork and spare change are jammed into every dashboard nook. The door pockets are loaded with more paperwork, a Rand McNally road atlas ('cause no self-respecting woman would ever go ANYWHERE without a map), and empty cigarette packs. And this is just the front of the car.

The back, where the children live, is similar, although the sh*t littering the floor is of a different priority set. Action figures, several of them, some covered with honey roasted peanuts, are scattered everywhere. Empty juice boxes, various writing implements and several pairs of socks also lurk back there. Oh, and a basketball and a Frisbee. Hey, you never know, right?

The way, way back is a culmination of "what if." There are two fishing poles, one little one big (actually the big one follows the length of the car, and I can't say I haven't caught my hair on the hook jutting out into the front seat), tackle box, the famous blanket (see previous blog), a pair of flip flops, a small tool box for fixing scooters and skateboards, an over sized Mother's Day card riddled with truck stickers and a pair of Frye boots, just in case...

Yeah, my life is on display. I should create an exhibit with my car. I guess it would be labelled "multi-media" given the peanuts and the balled up fishing line. I think I will call it "Nomad Home." Or something like that.

Oh, and, as clean as that guy's car was, I never went home with him. Couldn't get a read. It freaked me out.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Infringement

Given my current status as a journalist (there is more, but we are speaking strictly of my career) I have a lot of time to ruminate (and sometimes break) copyright laws. Mostly with pictures. But I am getting better.

Got me thinking about thought infringement. And the phrase "don't put words into my mouth."

Or thoughts into my head. You know the kind, the thoughts, mostly created by others, that encroach upon your process, sometimes your soul depending on how sensitive you are. I can say that I am very sensitive. But man, I put on a good circus of being a hard ass.

It's not as fun as it used to be. Now, it's just out of habit.

Thought infringement happens in many ways. It could be a casual infringement, like the backhanded compliment.

"I never knew how strong your back was. The tattoo really brings out your big shoulders."
Gee, thanks. As if I don't worry enough about the size of my *ss and my thighs, now I gotta twist my neck around like an owl to make sure I don't look like a linebacker. Sweet.
Or the parenting comments, one of my personal favorites.

"You know, your kids are so carefree. You don't really worry about their appearance. I love that about them."

Apparently, they have no idea that the shorts Lucian is wearing are his "dressy" pair and that Anna getting her ears pierced was a big step for all of us. Why don't you just come out and say that they're filthy hippies. I get it.

And then, oh then, there are the words that make you rethink your whole friggin' life. They are meant mostly in kindness but they are daggers when combined with your own f*cked up mentality.

"You seem like you should be a happier person. You should smile more."
Um, do I not seem happy? Is my misery written all over my face? Sh*t, have I missed out on all of this happiness? How do I get the years back? The smile?

Or the simple "I miss you." Sounds nice, right? But then the mind cockroaches come in and clean house. You miss me? Well, then, why don't you see me? Is it too hard for ya? I mean, I got a job, two kids, a giant family who needs me at different points and I would be over to you in a heartbeat if I didn't have two kids sleeping in their beds. And YOU miss ME? You clearly don't know the extent of "miss" here.

Total infringement on my day. And my thoughts.
It's a deadly brew to mix outside words with the inside, insecure web of the brain. At least my brain...

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Advice from a...chipmunk?

Ok, I have to say it, the Beyonce/Chipettes song something about "if you like it than you shoulda put a ring on it" shoulda been banned in fifty countries, including this one. I'm not going to go on some feminist tirade about how that song is wrong in every way (it might even be putting a bigger hole in the ozone, who knows), but let me have my peace. Or piece, I guess, if we're talking within the context of the song.

Here's my answer to this f*cking swill tank of a song that little girls across the world are shaking their joe boxer booty to. Except for my little girl, of course, who could give two sh*ts about rings and booty. She still fights me on bath time.

If you like it (or her or him) then you should....

not say anything nasty about its mother! Even if it's true.

feed it a home cooked meal once in awhile.

know when the f*ck to leave it alone. I.e. when it looks grumpy and lethargic.

touch it absentmindedly once in awhile, on the back of the neck, the inside of the arm, the shoulder while you're watching t.v.

share your ice cream with it, even if you hadn't intended to.

give it a nickname that isn't cruel.

make it laugh at the expense of your cool reputation.

not give it ultimatums.

let it know that there's a good chance you'd be miserable without it.

wrestle it in the backyard.

call it out on its sh*t.

tell it that you love it.

know that it, like you, is the most fragile thing on earth.

There Beyonce, and you little cheerleader rodents, if you like it then you better put some reality on it. Save the ring for when you need some cash after the divorce!

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Just for a second

Although they are few and very far between these days, what with the tight economy and the veritable Dust Bowl that is fast becoming Berkshire County, there are still perfect days to be had.

Sometimes, I am told, there are perfect weeks as well. It has been years since I've seen one of these mythical creatures, but apparently they still come out three seasons out of the year.

This rare perfect day happened on Saturday. It was not planned, of course. It was the spontaneous result of me deciding to use humor (and some well placed threats) to discipline the kids and the kids deciding that, no matter what, I had control of the situation because I was the one with the cash and the valid driver's license. Also, I think Anna took to heart a little piece of wisdom my father gave her the day before when she was riding my *ss about not going to the Dollar Tree.

"Anna," he said, "Don't ever corner anything meaner than you."

Funny, because she looked right at me after he said that.

Anyway, the perfect day had three components. One was nostalgia. We went to several tag sales and flea markets and, without fail, there was something for everyone. Hot Wheels for Lucian, a $5 typewriter for Anna (which she used to type my mother a microscopic birthday card), and fishing lures for me. There was also a Budweiser pub chandelier in which the famous Clydesdales were encased in glass and a "tame" raccoon in a cat carrier. Yes, it was a tough call on both, but I refrained.

Next up, the library. At first, there was complaining. But then we discovered the "Connect Four" game and nearly got kicked out of the place every time the checkers hit the table. I stifled a laugh when, after about two minutes I heard the checkers fall and then Anna hiss under her breath "That was just beginner's luck, man," to her toothless, grinning little brother. Hell, he almost kicked my *ss, too.

Then, oh then, there was the hike with the Sisco kid. About five feet into the walk, Lucian dropped trow in the middle of an open field, announcing that he "had to take a leak, even if the grass was endangered." There was torturing with sticks for the first third of the hike, then the combination of wonder at the various plants and wildlife and horror at the noises coming out of the children post-macaroni salad.

We survived the hike (barely) and had ice cream (I actually had coffee, big surprise) then headed to Wolfe Spring farm for some fresh (meaning freshly slaughtered that morning) chicken.

That's when I fell in love, again. Rows of eggplants and asparagus and hundreds of chickens and turkeys. Cows bellowing in the far fields, talking to their horse friends, Jack Russell pups underfoot, land, shit, feed, 5 gallon buckets, and the strange feeling that I belonged there. Jim and June stopped their chores to greet us. We talked about blight and drought and moving the chickens to field and who the pigs would go to come October.

That's when the Sisco kid leaned in. He knew, he knew before I did.
"So, did we find your dream house, finally?"

Finally...it's been there all along.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

The Valley of Unforgiveness

Well, I've been wanting to post this since Sunday night, late. But I needed to get over the initial shock so that the words would come to me.
I went to the valley this weekend. Yes, you locals know what I'm talking about...Lebanon Valley...you know, the racetrack.
Holy sh*t, what a circus. What a f*cking circus.

I went with my gentleman friend (the irony will reveal itself, don't worry) the Sisco kid. We had tickets in the family section, a smart move on his part because I can't even imagine how the evening would have unfolded if there was even a drop of beer involved.

The stands at the valley are divided into sections, designated by color. While we were waiting in line to hand over our tickets you can imagine the first thing that caught my eye, besides the children toasting over sized marshmallows over a garbage can fire in the parking lot.

"Um..." I pulled on Sisco's shirt. "Does that actually say 'Black Section'?"
"It actually does," he said, laughing nervously.
"Nice."

We made our way to our "seats" and as we got closer it became very clear that not only were we in the family section, apparently we were in the Big n' Tall section as well. There were the seats (basically numbers spray painted on wooden planks). In front of us, was an older fella, reclined all the way back, his comfy seat grating harshly against my knees which were spread as far as they could go (well beyond what even I would consider obscene, and I rode on the back of a quad that day, so I should know).

Behind us, same thing. My back was literally resting between this guy's thighs. Suddenly, I wished for a beer...or laudanum.
The evening was shaping up nicely. The sprint cars, averaging about 130 mph that night, kicked up more dust than a stud at a desert rodeo. In fact, by the end of the evening I had so much dirt on my face that there was an actual outline of filth on my nose outlining where my glasses should have been.

And, let's not forget the people watching aspect of this cultural gem. The main drag (i.e. food, t-shirts, more food and a piss troth) was littered with New York State's finest. Sisco got a a coffee you could pave a parking lot with and we leaned against a closed 'Sausage' booth, amazed.
"We should go," I said, barely able to contain my expression of horror.
"No, no, let's just wait here," he said, sipping his Creamora poison. "I want to take it all in."

So we did. We watched a 400 lb hobbit of a man hover over his pizza with almost coital desperation.

"See, see," Sisco said. "A couple of pieces of Wonderbread, some ketchup, some government cheese...that guy's in heaven right now." And he was right. The big hobbit was focused and clearly happy. And thankfully he had tucked in his t-shirt and cinched his black jeans at the waist with a belt that might as well have been a shoelace.
"Thank god he has a belt," I said. "That would've been a close one."
Yeah.
I won't mention the bathrooms, except to say that in the stunned silence on the ride home Sisco spoke up.
"I would rather burn my a**hole shut than have to take a sh*t in that bathroom." He shook his head. When I stopped laughing, which took about 5 good minutes, I nodded my head furiously.
"You know, I think they have a special souldering iron for that kind of job...I mean, I think they even sell them here."
"Yup," he kept his eyes steady on the road, spitting into an empty Monster can.
"You know," I said watching the stream of tobacco spit leave his mouth, "People in glass houses..."
"Whatever, babe."

We swung into the trailer park to get the kids from my brother's place. Lucian's face was all smiles and covered with BBQ sauce.
"I had ribs," he said sleepily as Sisco carried him barefoot to the car.
"I'm glad, buddy. Now go back to sleep."
The car ride to the house was punctuated by the acrid, very fresh scent of dog sh*t.
"Of course, why not?" I was laughing hysterically, unable to breathe.

I should also mention, in an attempt to distract myself from my precarious position between Weebil One and Weebil Two I tried my first plug of Copenhagen...not the city. Our friend Skeeter who was with us saw the can and whistled, saying, "Hoo hoo, you got a real man there, Nichole. That stuff's old school."
Within five minutes I had a plug in my bottom lip. I actually like it...a lot. Just as the numbness was settling in, Skeeter made vomiting gestures with his hands and mouth.
"What," I mumbled, trying to keep the tobacco in my mouth.
"It's gonna MAKE YOU SICK," he said over the roar of the cars.

I spit it out reluctantly.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Blood type?

It's difficult to avoid type casting, even when there's no stage involved. We do it all the time. This person acts this way so they must be this way. That person lives that way so they must be that way.

It isn't fair. But, wait for it, who said life was fair? Can you hear your momma talking right now?

I think human nature (or animal nature) dictates that we must, in order to survive, take the other beings that we see and meet and put them into little mind categories. That way we know what to expect every time we come in to contact with that "being." Our brain is reminded, the Rolodex of the mind lights up, and as we are carrying on a conversation about the weather or work or kids, the lists and lists of categories are running full speed. There are two engines working and, I would say sadly, the inner engine prevails.

"Hey, how was work today?" comes out of the mouth, but the mind says, "Hey, when the f*ck are you gonna ask me about my day? They told me you were a selfish prick, but wow."

Or, "Wow, thanks for making dinner, that was great." Backlog: "So weird that you made dinner because I pegged you for the kind of guy that rarely has a clean pair of boxers to wear."

These, of course are milder examples of what the inner dialogue is capable of. Then, oh then, there is the nitty gritty stuff.

"Oh, wow, you still have back pain, huh? That sucks, it's been forever." Translation: "Your back is f*cking fine, but I'm thinking your addiction to oxy is what's getting in your way."

Or, "Oh, he doesn't want to play football anymore? Why? I thought he loved it." Becomes: "Whatever, that kid's wanted to play since he could walk, you're just too damn lazy to drive him to practice. He's gonna be a quitter just like you, you keep this up."

I don't know exactly what the origins of these categories are, but they are merciless, I guess, just like nature. There is no room to expand, or to be surprised, or to forgive if the walls are unmoving. The player will always be a player even if he falls in love. The addict will always be selfish, even if he has compassion bursting out of his chest. The icy b*tch will always keep a cool glare, even if she's been smiling for more than half her life.

But let's say we get rid of all that. We rise above what we think we know about someone, even above what our guts tell us...let's say we smash the Rolodex with a Louisville and suddenly decide that the categories aren't worth it. Ahh, so freeing, so new...
The danger (or I daresay the outcome) is that it may be too late. We are a reflection of ourselves after all.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Stick to your post

I am increasingly intrigued by Facebook posts. Status posts, mostly. In an earlier blog I bemoaned the illusive, non-tonal world of texting. No nuance, no nothing, no answers. I think I am beginning to feel that way about Facebook.

Imagine that, a writer who despises the written world of emoticoms and IDKs and ROFL...you get the point. Insta-chat is hell, again because you just never know what the f*ck the chattee is really trying to say.
I guess, because I am approaching stubbornness like a fly moves to sh*t, that I'm just too old fashioned for these cold, technological devices which are supposed to convey major feelings like pain, joy, love, and sometimes hunger. The end result of texts and chats is basically indifference. Dangerous, unattached indifference to the world and the people living in it.

I like flesh. I like seeing the corners of eyes crinkle at fart jokes. I prefer the warm breath and the mangy morning hair to any beep I get on my phone. I am human, and so, because I live this mortal stasis that I was born into, I love human things.

However, and this is a big however, I do enjoy reading my friends' Facebook status reports. Again, they are obtuse, but there are some funny ones. They fall into loose categories; melancholy, obtuse, hysterical, and, my personal favorite, plain ridiculous. Who knows if these people posted it for the moment and forgot or continue to carry these odd thoughts for 19+ hours. I mean, "I love donkeys", what does that mean? Just seeing it is absurd and, of course, you gotta wonder...Also, "My nipples are hard" is a favorite so is "Checking out my new trim."

It's a field day out there people! Some of the comments I want to post would get me fired from any job and put on a list, I'm sure. But, man. I love, too that my 13-year-old nephew has changed his relationship status to "single." How the f*ck can you be single when you can't even drive or do laundry? Who knew?

FYI, as much as I am amused by the status updates there are two things you should never, ever, ever post because they are so annoying I want to PUNCH MYSELF in the face when I read them; song lyrics (especially cheese-ass love songs about pain and breaking up) and loooong spiritual paragraphs about what epiphany you had that day, and posts about being bored. That drives me nuts!

Poop is acceptable, especially when referencing food poisoning or a new baby in the house, so is self-deprecating sarcasm.

But never post the stripped down truth. That is crossing the line. That comes with weight and suddenly your little secret smile becomes a thing to glare at through aquarium glass.

But don't post that either.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

The uproar

I had a friend in college, she was from Puerto Rico. She was about 5 feet tall on a good day, and at the time that I met her she was still a little round thing because the semester before she was nearly to term with the child she was carrying.

We met in a sociology class. Oh the irony...both of us waited until senior year to take a research credit, and here we were, last semester of undergrad, in a room full of bright-eyed freshmen who still carried backpacks to class. By senior year I knew to bring a toothbrush, condoms, and Maker's Mark. Priorities people...oh, and the Zippo my bother gave me. Maria had my number from the get-go. She saw the indifferent look on my face, smelled the booze that was still oozing through my pores, and knew, for some strange reason, to whisper to me in Spanish while I tried not to puke on my desk, either out of boredom or being hungover.

She told me about her one true love, Alejandro, with whom she had the baby. I told her every detail of my tumultuous engagement to a Pakistani physicist, and the subsequent rebound attempts at love. She listened to my crude tales, I was honest with her, had nothing to hide, and she just laughed at stories, mostly of the flagrant alcoholism and getting laid by men from every continent; how this one never drank, this one didn't have forks, that one cried like a woman...I told her everything. I had not yet learned, or perhaps I had dropped along the way, the idea that shame was something I had to keep with me. I did not believe in shame then. It was something other people had that kept them from having fun, from living.

Maria called me la jalea, the uproar. When I told this to my daughter tonite (just the uproar part, not that she, Anna, was indeed a product of all of this interesting living) she laughed so loud and with such honesty I started laughing.

"Mom, Mom, that's perfect!" She licked the chocolate ice cream from her messy lips.

"Why? Do you even know what it means?" I watched her new earrings glint in the dying light of the sun. She was almost a woman then. We were almost women together.

"Because, it's so true. You're a brainspeaker. Whatever happens in your brain goes straight to your mouth. Every single time."

"Is that a bad thing?" I licked the ice cream bowl we were sharing.

"It is if you don't like the f-word." At this I laughed.

"You are correct, Anna, and I'm working on it."

"I know. Besides, every time you use it, it's in some funny way. Just don't use it so much, Braintalker!" She howled at her little joke.

I wish Maria could have seen this. That there I was 10 years later, with the child of one of my bad men, somehow content, laughing about being utterly inappropriate like children often are.

I will, of course, continue to at least try to curb the f-bomb. A small price to pay for having left shame on the curb for the others to pick up.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Brain shells

Remember that old, cheesy story about footprints in the sand? You know, you can find the narrative on some shellacked slab of cheap pineboard. A picture of the sand with one set of footprints...they sell them at carnival stands and country fairs, and I think that my late grandmother had several variations of the story hanging in her tiny house, next to the velour Elvis rug and minuscule spoons from different states.

Yes, I agree, that is a story for another time.

In my more cynical days (I know what you're thinking, holy sh*t, she was actually MORE cynical!?) I thought that the footprint story was a load of religious garbage. The cheese factor was too much to even comprehend.

What so, you suddenly look at your life that YOU have been living and suddenly you're supposed to believe that the time where you see one set of footprints, the times where you thought, no, you wished that the Great Earth would swallow you whole just so that you would not have to face another brutal day in this f*cked up coil, those are the times that god carried your (my) sorry ass? Who in their right mind would stop by a pile of sh*t on the beach and decide to pick it up and lug it around until it transformed into something of worth?

Exactly, right? Apparently, god, Mother, Father, the Great Spirit, whatever you want to call it, is quite the mechanic and picking up junkers is just part of the fun of the job. Of course, this still does not account for the misery that you (I) dragged ourselves through, knowing we were entirely alone, waiting for the sand that we were sobbing in to finally be engulfed by the merciful sea.

No such luck. The great hobo of fate managed to sling all of that weight over his shoulders and keep walking down the beach, whether we liked it or not. That's not to say that we were carried gingerly or with any kind of maternal care. I'm fairly certain being lugged around was not Cinderella's carriage ride, but what the hell, it's better than nothing, right. We're breathing, right?

With reluctance, and still cynical, I have to believe that this is all true. Last night (actually all day yesterday) I fretted and prayed over my son. The boy who doesn't even sit still long enough to eat ice cream lay lethargic for the entire day, rattled by fever and dehydration. I finally took him to the emergency room, carrying his limp little body in. He was shaking with fever.

I was shaking with fear. It was an alone moment. Very dark, very scary, very decisive. You know what happens then...I began to beg. Just a small voice repeating the same thing over and over again, "Please heal him. It's not time yet. Please heal him. Let him be ok. I'm not ready."

Over and over and over. Because nothing else exists in that moment. Lucian survived, I survived. We finally went home, both crawled into bed exhausted, and listened with fear and some comfort to the other breathing in the dark.

Friday, July 9, 2010

The 49 percent

I had a massage yesterday. Oil, hot rocks, deep tissue, you name it, I had it. The masseuse was a tiny woman, probably half my size, clothes the size of sandwich bags. But, man, did she have some tough little hands. Of course, as always, my neck was of great concern to her. Or maybe even grave concern.
"Oh my god," she said, slathering jojoba on the damaged terrain of my non-sloping, non-feminine shoulders, "are you a lawyer?"
I laughed through the ripples of pain shooting up through my head. "No, I'm a writer."

"Ahhh." I could feel her nodding her head vigorously. "A writer. So that means you're broke most of the time and you can't get out of your own way."

"Exactly."

I live my life twice. First in the actual events, second, in the retelling of fragments of events. It is in the retelling, fictional or not, that there is a grain of hope. No sprout, no water, just a grain needing earth to germinate. At times, it seems dishonest, writing a character from my real life. All of the true details are there; hard working, hard living, Marlboro smoking, angry man with a past that no historian would want to uncover. He (and this could be any man in my family, and some friends) is hopeless in the real world, unable to get out of his own f*cked up way. But in a story, maybe in a closing chapter, he redeems himself, even just a little bit. Maybe he quits drinking, or maybe he brushes his daughter's hair or tells his son that he's proud of him.

Maybe if I write it, it will happen.

You are probably gagging by now, on the naivete of this chain of thoughts. But why not live in the maybe, the part of maybe that exposes a horizon much deeper in color and texture than we ever thought possible in real life. Why the f*ck not?

I was ripped out of my thoughts by another question. Apparently, in a half sleep and high on peppermint oil fumes, I said something about never wanting to be married again, about how I was bad at it, and how I am VERY done wanting to have children.

"So, are you a man-hater?" She set a scalding rock on the back of my neck. It sizzled for just a second.

Hmmm.

"No," I said flatly. "I love men. I understand them. More than I do women, sometimes. It's the ones who've got no b*lls that I have trouble with. The ones with no integrity, the ones who don't keep their word."

"Well, maybe you could write the gutless ones into better people."

"I wouldn't even know what they would look like as stronger people," I said with a tinge a bitterness.

"Maybe they would look like you," she laughed.

"God, I hope not," I said.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

The fine line

I'm not sure if it's a result of becoming a bit (note: I did say a bit) older and maybe wiser (again, a bit) but I am having a little trouble distinguishing between what I think is stupid and what I think is brave.
Who knew that there was such an intimate relationship between stupidity and bravery?

Stupidity is the act of having little to no quickness of the mind, due esp. to lack of sense or knowledge.
Bravery is the act of facing something courageously, and enduring it.

Now, you tell me that these two aren't intrinsically related!? It would seem you would need one in order to have the other, at least in any circumstance that involved major risk, such as, let's pull from an old classic, falling in love.

Yeah, you heard me. I went there; falling in love.

More specifically, falling in love at my age after several disastrous relationships with infidel academics (oh yes, people, I did find the panties under the bed, condom wrapper, you name it. I guess he thought that since I was 5 months pregnant I couldn't see the floor), one self-immolating marriage, and groping around at the bottom of a bottomless swamp for the last 10 months. Giant cliched walls have gone up, there are no doors for folks to get through, the windows are too high to really see what's going on inside, the mama bear is foaming at the mouth trying to protect her cubs at all costs, food is scarce, you get the point. In a place like this, love is a luxury.

So is stupidity.

And yet, we do it. Over and over again, stepping over the burning damage of the last wrecked boat (maybe reciting a Blake poem), looking for the near-open rose on the battlefield. And this is where stupidity takes a front seat...or bravery. It is the thing that tells us, when we see the rose, our scars throbbing as we approach it, to set down the gun. To take the helmet off in deference to the sight before us. To untether the magazines from our chest and breath.

I guess, in that moment, it is neither brave nor stupid. What determines either is what happens directly after that. If you get 45 rounds to the chest, I suppose it's stupidity. If sniper fire whizzes by your head and the Claymore goes off just near enough to splatter mud on your face...and then you retrieve the rose, it must be bravery.

The risk, every single time, is in the not-knowing.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Turning the light on

I took my father to "A Prairie Home Companion" at Tanglewood last night. Now, my experiences at Tanglewood have almost always involved negotiating the lawn, rain or shine, hefting coolers of food and booze, warding off selective swarms of mosquitoes (and sometimes drunken men in golf shirts and boat shoes who have no idea that I'm stone sober and won't even look at a guy without ink).

And, of course, illicit activities in the maze, always.

I've never had a problem with my Tanglewood experience. The masses sit on the lawn and get loaded and watch their kids run around, the rich people sit in the shed on the hard ass wooden seats and thank god they are protected from the rain.

Well, last night, the tables were definitely turned...sort of. Dad and I were dressed the part, that's for sure. He even had the boat shoes ('course his red/brown leather skin and corn cob pipe detracted heavily from middle class milk toast guy). I wore a linen skirt, how "summer in the Berkshires."

But, we are who we are.

First stop on the way up to Stockbridge--the Clown. Yeah, you heard me, we hit McD's right out of the starting gate. After downing a million fries, half of which ended up on the floor of the van because of a "sharp" turn Dad took on the straightaway, we swung into Housy, quick stop at Aberdale's, and voila, Schmirnoff lemonade for all. Sipping the sickeningly sweet poison, we both lit up, he his pipe, me one of my last cigarettes ever (I am cold turkey as of tomorrow, god help us all) and he talked of a time, in the now ungraspable past, that he was young, and reckless, and lived just for the sake of filling his lungs with air.

After the stories were told (many of them I've heard at least 59 times, one for every year of my father's life), after we shifted into our wooden shed seats and guffawed at Garrison Keillor's wit and the melancholy chords of The Wailin' Jennys. After the show I finally took off my 4-inch wedge heels and strolled injun foot around the grounds, after all of that mixing and pretending and remembering, my dad turned to me. He looked almost like he felt sorry for me.
"You know, Chole, what the bitch about your thirties is?"
"I can probably guess at a few things," I said, taking a ridiculously endearing drag. "What is THE bitch, though?"
"In your thirties, you finally might know what you want. The bitch of it is, it takes so goddamn long to get it."
I didn't dare ask him how long. He's almost sixty. I didn't want to know. I still don't.
I told my friend the Sisco kid about this little piece of wisdom. He stopped short in his tracks, and suddenly, his face became wise like my father's. Leathered and wise.
"Well yeah," he said, casually flipping his cigarette in the air, "Because in your twenties you're just fumbling around in the dark, you don't even f*cking care what you run into, or that there's bottles all over the floor. But in your thirties, you're still f*cking tripping on things, bumping into things, the only difference is the light is on, and you still can't make your way around the room without hurting yourself."
I nodded my head, took a very, very long drag and shook my head at the truth of it all.