Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Smartdumb

We have two bloodhounds and I swear they are the DUMBEST creatures, besides Skinheads and infidel politicians, that I have ever seen. Three times today I caught Ruby, dumb bloodhound #1 with her giant paws draped over the sink, her head bent over a mayonnaise jar that was soaking. She was drinking mayonnaise water. Just saying it makes me want to gag. And she did it three f***ing times!!! By the last time I grabbed a plastic bowling pin that Lucian kindly left in the middle of the living room and bopped her on the head with it. Even then, she took her time getting down. Again, this is why I have a 'script for nitro in my medicine cabinet. I get enraged and then there is no turning around for me, even at 32 years old. Just fabulous.
After I beat the hell out of the dog and dumped the aforesaid mayo water I went to get the kids. We weren't even in the car 5 minutes when Anna piped up with one of her little third-grade profundities.
"Hey, you know how sometimes a boy's penis swells up?"
OH MY F***ING GOD, play it cool, Nichole, play it cool girl.
"Um yeah, what about it, Anna?"
Don't go off the road, keep your voice level, OH MY F***ING GOD!
"Well, I think that's why high school boys wear baggy pants a lot. So that when that happens, they don't have to worry. What do you think?"
"You might be right, Anna. But I wouldn't point that out to your friends at school."
"Why do boys' penises sw..."
"Oop, we're home. Here we are. Don't forget to take your book bags out of the car, OK?"

Crisis averted, at least for now. And how does one answer that question. Why do they swell, because they're dicks, that's why.

Altered states

Sorry for the every other day pattern that's been happening of late. It's the kind of week where I get my coat on, get my notepad and pen, charge the batteries for the camera, start the car, and am just about to head out the door when the phone rings, and something needs to be taken care of right there and then, no exceptions.
I'm sure you get it. It's one of the consequences of a) freelancing and b) choosing your art as the means by which you buy groceries.
Not smart. I took a phone interview in a parking lot yesterday, and at a rest stop last week. Very shady stuff. In fact, I've had a cop following me up Route 7 for the past week. I almost want him to pull me over and search the car. I will get some sick amusement out of watching him sift through the granola bar wrappers and plastic figures in the back. And I will really enjoy watching him blush a million different shades when he finds that my glove box is filled with blank "thank you" cards and multiple feminine items, including a green thong from a poetry reading at a bra store.
And lucky me, I'll have the camera with me.
Just as an aside, my children bring home P.T.O. fundraiser forms every two seconds. I'm not sure what's expected of the parents, seeings how we are in the worst economy since the Civil War. And every fundraiser so far has involved food. Not granola, tofu, herbal tea food but big-ass bake your own, or eat it raw cookie doughs, cinnamon buns, vats of hot chocolate food. The latest "Valentine's" fundraiser is a picture book filled with chocolates. Now, I am the first person to profess my love for chocolate (dark only, preferably bitter), but I am also the first to point to the childhood obesity statistics in this country. 1 out of every 5. I'm thinking the next fundraiser should be peddling stair masters, really bouncy balls, and acai berry cleansers.
And the prize is a day with the Super Nanny and Dr. Oz.
America!

Monday, January 25, 2010

Lake Woe-be-gone

I am looking out into what used to be my yard, wondering if the dogs have drowned. Even the trees look shorter in this biblical flooding and there seems to be no end in sight. I'm trying to gather the courage to look in the basement but I don't think I've had enough coffee for that yet.
Or scotch.
Is god trying to tell us something do you think? I remember when I was a kid my grandmother used to say that god was crying when it rained like this. Apparently he went bowling before his crying jags because that was how she explained the thunder. Weird.
Certainly, there is a lot to cry about. The logician in me sees nothing to the rain except weather patterns and a sh*tload of moisture.
The metaphor-seeking Cretan writer sees the tears of a lifetime of spirits weeping for what the living have done to the physical earth.
Or...I see a not-so-subtle hint that if we can't wash ourselves clean, then somebody else is gonna do it for us. That means behind the ears and everything.
Well, I'm off. I think I'm going to nab the oars from the canoe in case the Scion starts floating down the highway.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Suggestions

Children are ruthless creatures. Truly heartless. For instance, when my 6-year-old son suddenly bursts into the bathroom while I'm frantically trying to jump in the shower and his eyes go VERY wide.
"What are those lines on your stomach, Mom?"
"They're reminders that I don't need to have any more kids."
"They're ugly reminders."

Thanks, Lucian. Really appreciate it. Or when the more devious 9-year-old sneaks up behind me and tries to jiggle the fat on the back of my visually scrawny arm.

"Oh my god, Mom, look how it keeps moving."
"It's hyper," I say, pulling on a thick sweater. It's hard to know whether to cry, laugh, or grab them by the back of the neck and throw them out the door. Usually, I just laugh.
"Well, it's not like you guys were small babies."
"Well, it's not like we're babies anymore. You're so skinny but you're so round at the same time."

Little angels. At which point I bite my tongue to keep from mentioning that Anna has appalling body odor and she should eat deodorant for breakfast, or that Lucian's morning breath could kill a walrus, or that the condition of their rooms is equivalent to a sh*tstorm...etc., etc.....
Not a word. The world, in its infinite mercilessness will pick fault with them in plenty of time. I'm here to cushion the blow and carry the pom-poms.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

In the mourning

Sorry I didn't post yesterday, I was in a stupor of depressed disbelief at the election results for my gallant state of Massachusetts. Actually, after the results were announced I started looking at houses in other states and I don't even think it was a whim. I'm not a "give the guy a chance" kind of girl, especially after the grotesque scar that Bush left on this country's landscape and people. "Give the guy a chance" seems more like a pacifist stance than a move toward unity. I'm having flashbacks of the beginning of the Bush dyn"ass"ty when I was 2 months away from giving birth to Anna. In fact, when the skewed election results were announced (remember the "hanging chad" in Florida, sounds like a cancer in your privates or something) I almost went into labor. There were contractions. Consider what was at stake then; a young, pregnant, single woman with two jobs living in an apartment under drug dealers, the child would be born in a small community where the judged and the judges exchange roles daily, and her African/Indian/French parentage would be on display for all the ignorant ones to tsk at.
And so it begins again. A climate of fear, angst, conservatism, distrust and bigotry. The fight becomes harder, as if that were possible. But, I am reminded of a song/poem that Sweet Honey croons to me when my spirits are down and out, "I'm gonna stay on the battlefield 'til I die."
Not much choice. And besides, even knowing that the scars of life will never go away, I still enjoy the fight. The dawn seems so much sweeter after the fight.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

All in favor....

I was watching Wanda Sykes's "Sick and Tired" routine last night and two things stood out. One was that I was laughing so hard I almost peed. I mean laugh out loud, wicked woman snickering, especially when she said to the general male audience "Oh, you didn't know that, we try to imagine killing you at least once a day. Sometimes 2 or 3 times a day." I cannot tell you how many times I've stood there shaking my head at my male counterparts, mostly in disbelief.
"So, you mean you just slept with her knowing her boyfriend was in the apartment next door?"
"Yup."
"So, you thought I wouldn't find the frilly pink panties on the floor?"
"Yup."
"So, you told her she needed to lose more than a few pounds if she wanted to be happy?"
"Yup."
"You told her to suck it up when she was having contractions?"
"Yup."

I could continue, but I won't because I don't have my heart medication on hand.
The second thing I noticed about my hero Wanda was her observation that as you get older you just don't give a f***. Now that is a profound truth! I've been feeling that way for a few months now, and the feeling is becoming more intense. It's a little scary and reckless. But, man, so freeing at the same time.
"Mom, is it OK if I wear the same pair of pants three days in a row?"
"I don't give a f***, honey."
"Do you want me to put the eggs with the bread?"
"Do I look like I give a f***?
"We don't have any toilet paper."
"Sorry, I just don't give a f***."

My only hope is that my face does not betray me. Supposedly, it has been very transparent these days and so the potential for offense is in the Orange Zone. That's why I've been staying at home a lot. I've narrowed my "give a f***" factor down to a few things, and none of them involve family feuds, being a few days late with the insurance payment, or whether or not the bed is made.
I'm trying to focus on how to explain to my daughter that her classmate calling her a Negro is a bad thing. Or on the fact the we have a state Senatorial race in which a f***ing Republican might take office. Or that children IN THIS COUNTRY, and in other nations are not eating. Yeah, I do give a f*** about that. We all should.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Sentimental feelings....

I'm listening to my dryer as we speak. I think it's been eating Lucian's lunch money. All of it. I'm hoping nickle-plated coins aren't flammable, but, knowing my luck....
I had to get a birthday card for my brother today. He will be 37 (though, I feel like he surpassed 37 about 10 years ago) and today was the family soiree. Of course, picking a birthday card for one's older brother isn't an easy task. Same can be said for a gift. There are certain considerations that need to be made. One, you can't hide anything from him, and vice versa. You grew up together, through the "accidental" poopings, the braces, the bad relationship choices, the kids, the tragedies. A good card requires honesty. Two, you just spent Friday afternoon with your 13-year-old nephew who aired out the family laundry so that suddenly you know that the birthday boy has been sleepwalking and spilling gallon jugs of milk on the floor and blaming it on the dogs, pissing in laundry baskets due to bad reactions to Ambien, and taking massive amounts of steroids for an overblown case of Lyme's.
Did I mention that he goes commando most of the time? Yeah, nephews don't hold back.
So, what kind of card do you get for this guy?
Well, to be sure, I whizzed by all of the emotional, "I'm glad you're my brother" cards, which basically boils down to anything with a puppy silhouette or a sunset on the front. Which left me with the musical cards. I made an ass out of myself browsing through those. Every 2 seconds a weird song would ring out through the store and I would laugh out loud. Twice a manager scoped out the aisle to see if things were "OK."
I found a card that played "bad to the bone." It was perfect.
Now, the gift wasn't so easy. He's broke, he's had two heart surgeries, his legs are swollen like a pregnant woman's with gestational diabetes (again, Lyme's), he limps, he coughs, he wears the same corduroy Salvation Army shirt (by choice) at least 3-4 times a week.
The gift could only be one thing: A brand for the grill. You heard me, an interchangeable brand that you can customize and then sizzle on to grilled meats.
We had fun coming up with phrases to use on BBQ pork.
"I could say "f*** you if we have guests I don't like."
"Or, or, you could spell out 'use a condom' before Zeb (teen aged son) goes on a date."
Oh the possibilities. We had fun coming up with possible terms to brand on the ass end of a cow. I'm really looking forward to summer barbecues at his house. Especially given his alarming dyslexia.
Happy Birthday big guy!

Friday, January 15, 2010

Prayer boots

It is the official third day of reckoning in Haiti. Yes, the devastation is all over the news. All of the "expected" natural disaster pictures have been posted; bodies covered with bloody sheets, men and women with vacant eyes, their heads in their hands, mothers wailing over the broken bodies of their once gorgeous children, and a world in shock at what we cannot control, not ever, no matter the technology or power.
Humbling does not even come close to describing this event, or Katrina, or the tsunami. It is destruction on a scale that trumps many petty grievances and complaints.
It also begs more of us as creatures of empathy and compassion.
For those faithful followers of this blog, you know that I am irreverent most times. Maybe I find life too funny or ironic. Maybe my words are too sharp. But the precision of those words and the honesty with which I try to convey what is happening in my small world comes from a place of compassion, probably to a fault.
I pray. A lot. I'm not a Christian (although, man, the story of Christ is miraculous, even as a human so concerned for the lives of strangers), I'm not a Jew (yet as the chosen People and as perpetual outcasts, I feel the stalwart history there), you get the point. By all standard accounts, I guess I am a heathen.
I'm not feeling it, though. I pray and worry so much that it makes me unable to sleep, eat, sometimes dream. On my hikes (my form of prayer) I think of all the REAL people I know who could use some grace, some compassion, and someone to think of them. I don't know if it works, but I do it every day.
I am pretty tired after those hikes. Of course, you know who I always forget to pray for.
So, weird as it is, uncomfortable as it might be, pray once in awhile. Whether it's to your God, the sun, the moon, your dead grandmother---grace is necessary, otherwise we wouldn't survive this place for an hour.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Small deaths

I'm not a winter person. Trust me, I've tried to be all these years living in Worcester, Boston, New Haven, the Berkshires, but I just never "got into it" so to speak. And every year, my feelings against this season grow more embittered and angry so that by, oh, let's say mid-January, I'm crawling up the walls with ticks and snaps. And the idea that this won't end until March (at best) is, well, pretty depressing. I take at least 9 supplements EVERY NIGHT to combat the terrible effects of winter; Vitamin D, B-complex (this is more for overall mental health, which clearly is not my forte), Fish Oil (which I thought at first was a suppository, luckily my 80-year-old grandmother clued me in), Iron (anemic Cherokee blood), Feverfew (puking migraines if I'm not careful), Melatonin (I'm a writer, I don't actually have a sleep cycle), Kava Kava (I'm f***ed up, this tends to take the edge off). Anyway, you get the point.
"At least you're trying," is my therapist's little encouraging mantra.
"You mean trying not to kill myself or someone else?"
"Do you feel suicidal?" She already had her pen in hand, ready to give me the hotline number.
"No, no, I was being dramatic." I guess they're trained to be on the alert. A lot.
I take walks, sometimes hikes if the wind doesn't blow me right the hell off the mountain. The walks just end up pissing me off because I never wear enough to keep me warm. Truckers beep at me, which I find hilarious. What do they think, I'm gonna strip down and jump in the cab for a quickie? It's 1 degree outside and you're 5oo pounds. Probably not, buddy.
I give them the finger if I can feel my hands.
Oh, look at that. The sun is peaking through just a tiny bit. Maybe I'll stand in that part of the yard and pretend....
That I'm on fire.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Discrepancies

I remember a post from a few weeks (or months, time is very elusive once winter begins) about dichotomies. Well, this post is a little different. It does not address parallels. In fact, there are no parallels to be had today at least. It is Monday, the week is starting off smashingly, beginning with a "sorry but the position has been filled email" as well as a slew of bills from my cardiologist. Apparently the insurance only covers half of the $500-per-hour consult.
I was there for an hour and a half. And he did most of the talking as I recall.
The holes in my pocket are huge and cold, my mother is scraping together leftovers so that we can feed our dogs, I've given my horse away, my car will be in hock for the next 50 years and what do you suppose arrives in the mail today?
A letter addressed to "Princess Anna Yassafen Dupont" from the King of Cameroon.
I'm not even kidding. In a distant land named after "shrimp", Anna's picture hangs among others in the royal family. In fact, the king has requested a larger portrait of her and he has kindly sent a professional photo of himself in royal Cameroonian regalia. Very ornate and beautiful, especially compared to the ripped gray sweatshirt Anna was wearing while reading the letter. Or compared to my Muck boots stinking of horse sh*t, now passing as winter boots even though they do a shameful job of keeping my feet warm.
Did I mention that we are using paper towels for toilet paper? As are many family members.
My parents were there when Anna opened the letter and I read it out loud. The looks and comments did not disappoint.
"So, do you think the king will pay child support then? I mean, he did call her daughter..."
"Probably not, Mom."
"I'm guessing he has no idea that you are, well, you know..."
"Practically living in a trailer."
"Right."
At which point my father bowed to Anna just as she was letting out a big fart.
"Princess...whew, what was that?!"
"Princess Farts. Or Princess Gassy. Either one is fine."
Way to take it up a notch kid. Anna will be herself no matter what the circumstances. She puts things into perspective when you don't realize you needed the perspective.
We are currently crafting a response to the letter sans smells and sound effects.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

New lyrics

Ok, I'm listening to "Lucky in Love" and shaking my head and laughing. Who the hell is lucky in love? Have you met Love? Have you shook Love's hot, tricky, little hand? And what about all the songs written for Love? "I cover the waterfront, I'm watching the sea, will the one I love be coming back for me"? Poor Billie Holiday, all that hoping and waiting, not to mention heroin. Ok, other songs serenading Love; "I can't stand it, you runnin' around, you know better, daddy.." Nina Simone, so desparate to keep Love that she was willing to bewitch it. And what about Ray Charles? He knew a thing or two: "Unchain my heart, baby let me go..." Poor bastard was crazier than a sh*thouse rat in love. So what IS lucky about Love?
I'm serious. That was not a rhetorical question. So far, I've yet to meet a single person who, after the honeymoon period of, let's give it 18 months, hasn't turned to me and said, "Oh my god, I'm f***ed." I just nod and say, "Don't worry, so am I."
And yet we pursue it like it's chocolate drizzled opium. For those of you who claim you have no desire for either, don't kid yourselves. You've dipped your toe in, just like the rest of us.
Love is a mess, plain and simple. It yanks at you with rusty hooks, it moons over you with sparkly things then bitch slaps you right as your leaning in for a kiss, it makes you blush with its stare, and it pulls you out of the abyss of grief (or puts you there).
I will say one thing, love is like horse racing, never a dull moment. And the risk is worth almost everything.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Expose

Some of you may know (and be horrified) that I was at a burlesque 101 class on Sunday. It almost didn't happen because there was a blizzard swirling outside my door and it seemed more economical and sensible to stay home and not risk dying on the roads to swing a boa around.
But this is me we're talking about, so, of course the thought of not going didn't even cross my mind. Not once.
The brave ladies of winter shed our boots, coats, purses, and civilian baggage, including socks, and sat in a circle in the middle of a room. The walls were heavily decorated with giant active oil paintings of healthy looking nude women. Perfect actually. Then, the class began.
First, there was showcasing (or voguing) where you allow your hands to hover over body parts that you want the audience to really focus on. It's hard to know what your best "part" is, I don't sit around thinking about it. Our instructors, Runaround Sue (tall, very healthy, vibrant woman with a nasty side) and Legs Malone (tall, very thin, leggy, PhD type with magnetic eyes and a shaved head) made sure we KNEW that all of our parts were somehow viable material.
Learning to strut was fun, although I think I may have yanked a hip out of its socket. Then came "glove work". Who knew that revealing a hand could be so slow and sexy. I can now remove a glove with the tip of a stiletto, not that that's going on my resume and time soon.
Through all of the feathers, the spandex, the sexy sashaying, the music, the chair work (yes, we worked with armless chair, f***ing impressive) the most difficult thing was making eye contact.
Ain't that the bitch of it. No matter the human interaction--eye contact is the toughest. I can swing around in sequined pasties all day long, strut my business with fringe hanging off of it, but eye contact. Almost impossible.
Remember when, as a child, eye contact was the easiest thing in the world. We weren't performing then.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

$5 and pretending

I bought a petit four for 5 bucks today. Actually it was half price because it had Christmas filigree and, oh my god, it's after New Year's so that poinsettia is a little behind the times. So is the snowman set against the white chocolate.
When the lady said they were half price, you can imagine my absolute joy. I ate the first one in the street. Stood completely still and ate it (while my mother did the same thing with an overpriced coconut bon-bon, we took up the whole sidewalk). The second one is sitting in my fridge, hidden from view, so that I will at least have something to look forward to when it is 1 a.m. and I still haven't fallen asleep. Man, that sh*t is good.
"I could get used to this." My mother sprayed some coconut pieces onto my coat.
I wiped the almond paste from the corners of my mouth.
"Me, too."
And that was it. Lunch. Of course, the specialty candy was preceded by hardcore barrista coffee. When people ask about how I stay so thin, I lie and say "diet and exercise." The truth is, well, sporadic eating habits, masochistic winter hikes up snowy mountains, cigarettes, stress, an ulcer, and amazing genetics. Oh, yeah, and vanity. I'm not up sizing my clothes, not on your life. I don't have the cash anyway, so, this business has to stay right where's it's at.
After the candy orgasm we pretended to shop around town. Actually, most of the shops we tried to go into were closed due to new "winter hours" or just downright empty and out of business.
"This is depressing." My mother was peering into an empty store space that was filled to overflowing with clothing the week before.
"You could have another bon-bon if you feel that badly."
"I could. God, I really wanted a skirt from that place. I was just waiting for the right moment."
"What moment is that? When they were going to give it away?"
"Exactly."
We continued our walk and talk, weak from not eating and jittery from the coffee/candy duo, knowing that all that not pretending was waiting for us when we got home.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Ladylike?

I thought of something a friend said to me this past summer. We were all sitting around by the fire (which was necessary because we were doing graduate work in the mountains of Vermont and it is still cold there at night) reading Yeats and wondering if we were going to make it. Being the restless nightmare of a human that I am, I got about 5 poems in and then got up and went to the piano and started playing my own stuff, just tinkering with chords. That's when my friend, we'll call him James, yelled across the old tinderbox barn.
"What're you playing?"
"Nothing, I'm just f***ing around with chords. Why? Is it bad?"
"What?! No, it's not bad. It's amazing."
Then he walked up to the piano and set my little Dixie cup filled with bourbon in front of me.
"You need to be more like a man."
"What? I thought I was more like a man. You just said I was like a brother to you!"
"That's not what I mean. I mean, you speak like 5 different languages, you're an amazing writer, you play the piano, you read everything, you hike and garden and raise smart kids."
"Yeah, and?"
"You need to be more arrogant about yourself. When you walk into a room you should be thinking how people should impress you, not how you should impress them."
"Huh." I sipped my bourbon and that was that.
Now, six months later, I'm wondering if he was right. Most of me says yes, it is time to KNOW, not to wonder, that I've got my sh*t going on and screw whoever thinks otherwise.
Unfortunately, I was not raised that way. This is gonna be tough.
Any suggestions? Comments? Experiences?