I posted something about having "tools" on Facebook (you know, that wasteland of cyber realism where you can grow a pumpkin patch in 8 hours, start a restaurant and look up old lovers, while you are at work). A silly post referencing my purchase of a toolbox yesterday (and yes, I was very excited because I lost mine in the long division process). The toolbox comes with pliers, a hammer, an interchangeable screwdriver handle that includes several different fittings, a wrench, exacto blade, measuring tape, you name it. I have plans for this toolbox that involve fixing pot handles, door knobs, maybe even my car if I'm feeling very brave and very broke.
So, I have my toolbox and, of course, a new (male) acquaintance of mine sends me a message commenting on my purchase.
"It's nice to have a self-sufficient woman around."
Of course, that got me thinking. That was one of the first traits someone else (read: ex) noticed about me. I am self-sufficient. I work hard, cook well, can lift sh*t, make folks comfortable, take care of children, pitch a baseball (hit one, too), identify edible plants, you name it. And I could see how, at first, these would be alluring traits for a woman to have.
But there's a little catch to the self-sufficient woman. She has trouble sustaining. She is so sufficient and able-bodied that the focus shifts to survival at the present moment, not nourishment for an ambiguous future.
Ask me what kind of wood you should burn in November, but hold off on asking me what makes people happy, 'cause I have no f*cking clue.
But I did fix the fry pan and then made myself an egg. It's a good start.
This is a darkly humorous bit about life as a rural mother and freelance writer in Western Massachusetts. Little Appalachia, if you will. The title, I feel, clearly reflects how life is coming at me like an overloaded freight train, and my own ridiculous response to it. Me VERSUS all; teenage children, people who want me to work for free, conservative government, food karma, weird menfolk. You'll either laugh, shrug your shoulders, or call DSS immediately. Happy reading.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Gaining my religion
If these blogs seem too focused on faith and belief, please know that it was not my intention for this week. It just so happens that most of the conversations I've been having with old and young alike have been, in some very direct way, linked to that part of the brain that thinks it can explain the mysteries of faith, life, death and miracles. To which my response is a "Keep trying, but by the way, good f*cking luck." Like we would know how to sort that business out. C'mon.
At the breakfast table (which doubles as the dinner table as well, depending on where the sun is in the sky, or what's on the plate), I told the kids they only had four days of school this week because of Good Friday.
"What's Good Friday," Anna asked. She was probably anticipating that it was some kind of gifty holiday.
"It's the day that Christ was nailed to the cross."
"Ugh, that doesn't sound very good at all! Why do they even call it that if that was the day he died?"
"Well, I suppose because he gave his life so that we could be free of sin."
"What's sin?"
I stopped at this one, wanting to keep it simple. I mean, that's the last thing that we would need this week, more anxiety-based insomnia, this time rooted in the fear of sin. Sins of a third-grader to be exact.
"It's when you do something wrong. Like kill someone, or try to hurt someone."
"Do you believe in that whole Good Friday thing?" Now she was hooked and curious and I knew, given my teacher's/mother's intuition that this moment was crucial.
"Um, well, I was raised a bit differently. My father took us to church. We were Methodists. But my grandmother told me that a great spirit was all around me, especially in nature, and that I had to take care and keep things balanced. She told me I was never alone, even at night, even in the rain."
"I like that," Anna said, stuffing another bite of egg in her mouth.
"Yeah, I like it, too. It makes sense to me."
"I think I'm a BuChris," she said thoughtfully.
"A what?"
"A BuChris. A Buddhist Christian. I think that's what I am. There are things that I like about both of those ideas. I'll let you know for sure. Maybe by Easter."
"No rush," I said, stunned and wholly impressed that my daughter, whose roots grab somewhere in Africa and somewhere in the Carolinas and somewhere in France, who has two "fathers" and several mothers, who wonders about death and revels in life, who cannot stand cruelty in any form, has taken it upon herself to follow the truth in whatever form it comes in.
I just won't mention the "Tibetan Book of the Dead," at least not for a couple more years.
At the breakfast table (which doubles as the dinner table as well, depending on where the sun is in the sky, or what's on the plate), I told the kids they only had four days of school this week because of Good Friday.
"What's Good Friday," Anna asked. She was probably anticipating that it was some kind of gifty holiday.
"It's the day that Christ was nailed to the cross."
"Ugh, that doesn't sound very good at all! Why do they even call it that if that was the day he died?"
"Well, I suppose because he gave his life so that we could be free of sin."
"What's sin?"
I stopped at this one, wanting to keep it simple. I mean, that's the last thing that we would need this week, more anxiety-based insomnia, this time rooted in the fear of sin. Sins of a third-grader to be exact.
"It's when you do something wrong. Like kill someone, or try to hurt someone."
"Do you believe in that whole Good Friday thing?" Now she was hooked and curious and I knew, given my teacher's/mother's intuition that this moment was crucial.
"Um, well, I was raised a bit differently. My father took us to church. We were Methodists. But my grandmother told me that a great spirit was all around me, especially in nature, and that I had to take care and keep things balanced. She told me I was never alone, even at night, even in the rain."
"I like that," Anna said, stuffing another bite of egg in her mouth.
"Yeah, I like it, too. It makes sense to me."
"I think I'm a BuChris," she said thoughtfully.
"A what?"
"A BuChris. A Buddhist Christian. I think that's what I am. There are things that I like about both of those ideas. I'll let you know for sure. Maybe by Easter."
"No rush," I said, stunned and wholly impressed that my daughter, whose roots grab somewhere in Africa and somewhere in the Carolinas and somewhere in France, who has two "fathers" and several mothers, who wonders about death and revels in life, who cannot stand cruelty in any form, has taken it upon herself to follow the truth in whatever form it comes in.
I just won't mention the "Tibetan Book of the Dead," at least not for a couple more years.
Friday, March 26, 2010
For the rest
Over the years, I have been asked several times if I am Jewish. I just laugh, and say no, that I am a French-Cherokee heathen, and point to my cheekbones that practically rest in my eyes. Yet the question pervades, no matter where I go, different people cock their head, raise an eyebrow and say, sometimes hopefully, "Are you Jewish?"
Finally, recently, I asked one of these people why they thought that. Mostly the askers are Jewish.
"Well, I think it's something about your voice. And the way you talk with your hands and your matter-of-factness with your children. It seems like you have a Jewish mother, for certain."
Huh? My mother is a shadowy Brittanic woman with the biggest hair on God's green earth. We started calling her TBH (Texas Big Hair) years ago. It actually poofs out beyond her shoulders.
But Jewish?
Well, given that the criteria that was described to me was limited, I brushed it off, until one Sunday, when my older brother came to the house and started talking about all his ailments, mostly related to Lyme disease.
"Ma, look at my calves, they're huge, I have so much fluid in my legs," he says.
"You should go to the doctor, I'm telling you. No more screwing around with this. You'd go if you had cancer, right."
"Yeah. Actually, I think I might. Feel this bump on my hand," he holds it out for me to feel, and there is indeed a hard, pea-sized lump between his fingers.
"Ma, he isn't joking, there's a huge bump. Do you have arthritis, do you think?"
My mother puts on her gigantic reading glasses and gestures with her hand, "C'mere, let me see this thing. You're too young to have arthritis."
He obediently goes to her, his hand held out as if it were full of marshmallows, shaking a little.
"Huh, that's not normal, Joshua. My God, it's not even moving! Huh. You really should go to the doctor, I'm not kidding, that could be something cancerous, or a cyst or something."
She sips her coffee, investigating the lump that has stolen most of the afternoon. She is cross-eyed behind her giant glasses, tsking and shaking her head at my brother's neglect of his lump.
That's when it hits me. Right there. My mother's eyes squinted, my brother's ailments, my father reading the newspaper quietly on the couch. Soup simmering on the stove, the several thousand latkes my mother made for us. The matzo balls my children love, the emotional silence, the loud hands and dramatic voices, all of it.
I do have a Jewish mother. And she has a Jewish mother (you should meet my grandmother, oh my god). How could I not have noticed? Can one be a Jew and not know it? Can one be anything and not know it?
Finally, recently, I asked one of these people why they thought that. Mostly the askers are Jewish.
"Well, I think it's something about your voice. And the way you talk with your hands and your matter-of-factness with your children. It seems like you have a Jewish mother, for certain."
Huh? My mother is a shadowy Brittanic woman with the biggest hair on God's green earth. We started calling her TBH (Texas Big Hair) years ago. It actually poofs out beyond her shoulders.
But Jewish?
Well, given that the criteria that was described to me was limited, I brushed it off, until one Sunday, when my older brother came to the house and started talking about all his ailments, mostly related to Lyme disease.
"Ma, look at my calves, they're huge, I have so much fluid in my legs," he says.
"You should go to the doctor, I'm telling you. No more screwing around with this. You'd go if you had cancer, right."
"Yeah. Actually, I think I might. Feel this bump on my hand," he holds it out for me to feel, and there is indeed a hard, pea-sized lump between his fingers.
"Ma, he isn't joking, there's a huge bump. Do you have arthritis, do you think?"
My mother puts on her gigantic reading glasses and gestures with her hand, "C'mere, let me see this thing. You're too young to have arthritis."
He obediently goes to her, his hand held out as if it were full of marshmallows, shaking a little.
"Huh, that's not normal, Joshua. My God, it's not even moving! Huh. You really should go to the doctor, I'm not kidding, that could be something cancerous, or a cyst or something."
She sips her coffee, investigating the lump that has stolen most of the afternoon. She is cross-eyed behind her giant glasses, tsking and shaking her head at my brother's neglect of his lump.
That's when it hits me. Right there. My mother's eyes squinted, my brother's ailments, my father reading the newspaper quietly on the couch. Soup simmering on the stove, the several thousand latkes my mother made for us. The matzo balls my children love, the emotional silence, the loud hands and dramatic voices, all of it.
I do have a Jewish mother. And she has a Jewish mother (you should meet my grandmother, oh my god). How could I not have noticed? Can one be a Jew and not know it? Can one be anything and not know it?
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Long division
I never thought that it was going to be easy, but, man, who knew it would be this hard.
I've been saying this on and off all day while battling a fever that can only be the result of lack of sleep. Thank you, Anna. I actually told her that if she couldn't fall asleep (again) tonight NOT to wake me up because I'd be too pissed and tired to control myself.
"What's that supposed to mean," she said, defiant hand on defiant hip.
"It means, I can't be responsible for what happens to you."
Her eyes got REALLY wide but she recovered quickly because she's cool like that.
"Fine."
So, we'll see what happens. I took a Zyrtec hoping it will break up the snot and excess brain matter that has amassed in my nose and ears. Mostly I took it so that I could sleep, even if a bomb goes off in my sock or something.
Big day from start to finish. There is a neatly stacked pile of papers in the corner of my desk that I need to start "fine-toothing." It is, of course, the separation/divorce agreement. The documents which somehow manage to parcel out one life into two separate lives. And, we get to write up a one-paragraph diddy about why things didn't work out.
Thank God, they limit the space on that one. I can't even begin to unravel how things went wrong, I don't even want to, but, as a psychological exercise, it should be fun.
Step one--exceeding the 50% mark for douche-baggery
Step two--Actually, never mind. I'll save it for the book where I can fictionalize the names and give real details coupled with humiliating ones so that no one can sue me for libel.
Anna just came down and asked "What if I don't sleep tonight, should I just find something to do in my room?"
My curt response: "Anna, you're not a f*cking rock star, you're a third-grader, get your butt back upstairs and go to sleep. NOW!"
I lost my sympathetic edge after waking up this morning with red-rimmed eyes and grocery bags filled with coal.
I've been saying this on and off all day while battling a fever that can only be the result of lack of sleep. Thank you, Anna. I actually told her that if she couldn't fall asleep (again) tonight NOT to wake me up because I'd be too pissed and tired to control myself.
"What's that supposed to mean," she said, defiant hand on defiant hip.
"It means, I can't be responsible for what happens to you."
Her eyes got REALLY wide but she recovered quickly because she's cool like that.
"Fine."
So, we'll see what happens. I took a Zyrtec hoping it will break up the snot and excess brain matter that has amassed in my nose and ears. Mostly I took it so that I could sleep, even if a bomb goes off in my sock or something.
Big day from start to finish. There is a neatly stacked pile of papers in the corner of my desk that I need to start "fine-toothing." It is, of course, the separation/divorce agreement. The documents which somehow manage to parcel out one life into two separate lives. And, we get to write up a one-paragraph diddy about why things didn't work out.
Thank God, they limit the space on that one. I can't even begin to unravel how things went wrong, I don't even want to, but, as a psychological exercise, it should be fun.
Step one--exceeding the 50% mark for douche-baggery
Step two--Actually, never mind. I'll save it for the book where I can fictionalize the names and give real details coupled with humiliating ones so that no one can sue me for libel.
Anna just came down and asked "What if I don't sleep tonight, should I just find something to do in my room?"
My curt response: "Anna, you're not a f*cking rock star, you're a third-grader, get your butt back upstairs and go to sleep. NOW!"
I lost my sympathetic edge after waking up this morning with red-rimmed eyes and grocery bags filled with coal.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Wait your turn
I had to drop the kids off at school this morning (not a pun or a metaphor). Last night Anna woke up about 3 billion times and, of course, had to come wake ME up and tell ME that she couldn't sleep. I had gone to bed around 12 after typing up an interview with Tim O'Brien (yes, the author who doesn't normally do interviews). I was feeling pretty proud of my questions, basically full of myself when I went to bed. About a half-hour later the insomnia business started. And the crying until finally, I was nearly crying from exhaustion and let my 9-year-old child hop into bed as if she were a stubborn toddler.
Needless to say, the kids missed the bus. Lucian wanted me to find a plastic jewel that he lost behind his bed. I tried but was too tempted to lay down on the floor and pass out. That'll be a little project for this afternoon when they get home. He's been really into "riches" lately, almost obsessed with the idea of money. Last night I found a scratch ticket on his bureau, mind you, he is six.
"Hey, Luca, what's this?"
"It's a scratch ticket, I need to finish scratching it. I'm hoping I'll get lucky."
"Yeah, but where did you get it?"
"The store."
And he wouldn't say anymore. After about a full minute of dead silence I said, very diplomatically, "Well, I hope you didn't steal it because it's a federal offense to steal lottery tickets."
"I don't even know what that is, Mom."
There's a lot of risk-taking going on in this house.
I also noticed, since I haven't dropped them off at school in a long time, that the second people enter the vicinity of the school they turn into total f*cking idiots, especially when it comes to operating a vehicle. When did a blinker become unnecessary, or lights for that matter. Who backs out of a spot at 50 MPH? Is stopping at a crosswalk filled with preschoolers suddenly optional? I had no idea, and now I remember why I hate dropping them off. I think we have more of a chance of winning the lottery than getting out of there unscathed.
Needless to say, the kids missed the bus. Lucian wanted me to find a plastic jewel that he lost behind his bed. I tried but was too tempted to lay down on the floor and pass out. That'll be a little project for this afternoon when they get home. He's been really into "riches" lately, almost obsessed with the idea of money. Last night I found a scratch ticket on his bureau, mind you, he is six.
"Hey, Luca, what's this?"
"It's a scratch ticket, I need to finish scratching it. I'm hoping I'll get lucky."
"Yeah, but where did you get it?"
"The store."
And he wouldn't say anymore. After about a full minute of dead silence I said, very diplomatically, "Well, I hope you didn't steal it because it's a federal offense to steal lottery tickets."
"I don't even know what that is, Mom."
There's a lot of risk-taking going on in this house.
I also noticed, since I haven't dropped them off at school in a long time, that the second people enter the vicinity of the school they turn into total f*cking idiots, especially when it comes to operating a vehicle. When did a blinker become unnecessary, or lights for that matter. Who backs out of a spot at 50 MPH? Is stopping at a crosswalk filled with preschoolers suddenly optional? I had no idea, and now I remember why I hate dropping them off. I think we have more of a chance of winning the lottery than getting out of there unscathed.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Erasure girl
I've been polling a lot of people lately, mostly on the subject of "the pool." You know what I am talking about, the dating pool, the one with all of the sharks in it that you have to dip your toe into every now and again and risk getting it chewed off. Completely chewed off. So far the responses have been somewhat gloomy in terms of my viability in entering that pool. My friend Whitney inhaled a long drag from her 900th cigarette, flipped her bangs a little and shook her head.
"Their all f*cking babies, Nichole. Even the good ones." Of course, since I am a mother, and my memories of the infant stage still keep me awake with nightmares, that image really hit home. A man in a diaper, asking me for things while relying on me for nourishment and clean-up. No thank you.
Then I went to the all-knowing sage, my mother, again, asking her what she thought of getting back out there. She guffawed and almost choked on her coffee. Mind you, this woman has been married for almost 40 years to the man I call, well, I call him Stan, but he's my father.
"Ha. Well, honey," she said shaking her fluffy head, "They're all children, you just have to accept that at some point, they are all children. Actually, 12-year-olds trapped in the body of men."
That one was hope-dashing, but I appreciate the honesty so far. Finally, I polled my therapist, who is leaving the area and since this was my last session with her, I pulled out all the stops.
"What do I do about dating, and being selective? I don't want to just get out there and say yes to whoever comes along because I have the self-esteem of a 15-year-old right now."
She put her pen down removed her glasses and said, "Choices."
"What?"
"Just make choices as you go. Set some boundaries if you need to and take the good things at face value. If someone says you're attractive, say thank you. If someone says you're hot let's f*ck, say no, maybe, or yes, depending on what choice you think you need to make."
Huh? Who knew? That seems easy. I smiled a big toothy grin. Then she said with a more stern expression, "But don't give it up for just anybody. You can be selective. YOU should be selective."
We'll see.
"Their all f*cking babies, Nichole. Even the good ones." Of course, since I am a mother, and my memories of the infant stage still keep me awake with nightmares, that image really hit home. A man in a diaper, asking me for things while relying on me for nourishment and clean-up. No thank you.
Then I went to the all-knowing sage, my mother, again, asking her what she thought of getting back out there. She guffawed and almost choked on her coffee. Mind you, this woman has been married for almost 40 years to the man I call, well, I call him Stan, but he's my father.
"Ha. Well, honey," she said shaking her fluffy head, "They're all children, you just have to accept that at some point, they are all children. Actually, 12-year-olds trapped in the body of men."
That one was hope-dashing, but I appreciate the honesty so far. Finally, I polled my therapist, who is leaving the area and since this was my last session with her, I pulled out all the stops.
"What do I do about dating, and being selective? I don't want to just get out there and say yes to whoever comes along because I have the self-esteem of a 15-year-old right now."
She put her pen down removed her glasses and said, "Choices."
"What?"
"Just make choices as you go. Set some boundaries if you need to and take the good things at face value. If someone says you're attractive, say thank you. If someone says you're hot let's f*ck, say no, maybe, or yes, depending on what choice you think you need to make."
Huh? Who knew? That seems easy. I smiled a big toothy grin. Then she said with a more stern expression, "But don't give it up for just anybody. You can be selective. YOU should be selective."
We'll see.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Cake...and eating it.
Because of my writer's intuition and because it has always been this way, I see the world almost exclusively through metaphors. This can be a problem when analyzing one's own life because in some cases the metaphor misses the mark and has a tendency to over dramatize situations. For instance, last week I was cleaning the toilets in the house, one of my least favorite jobs because I AM NOT THE ONE who, while urinating, manages to splash piss up both sides of the wall around the toilet, and, of course, at its base. I have an instant safeguard called my ass that keeps things in the bowl.
So, cleaning the toilet is actually cleaning the entire area within a two-foot radius of the toilet. When Lucian asked me how it was going (more because he was bored than concerned, I think) I said, "Well, I guess this the price I pay for giving a sh*t."
"You're getting paid to clean the bathroom?" His eyes lit up at the thought of money. Then Anna jumped in.
"No, she's saying that she's the only one who cares that it's gross. So this is her punishment for caring."
See what I mean by missing the mark (ha)?
My lean towards metaphors also applies to the whole "having your cake and eating it, too" syndrome that I have observed, mostly in my dealings with men, although I know that it is not exclusive to men. For example, if a man tells you that you are the best thing that has happened to him in years and then in the same breath says his girlfriend would love you because you're so smart, what the f*ck are you supposed to think? Sounds to me like someone is getting a lot of cake. Also sounds like I need to work on getting some cake.
My problem, the cake has always been a function for someone else, not me. I have always made the cake and now I want a nice big piece out of the middle, but, I don't want to have to make the thing to actually be able to eat it. Seems simple, but it isn't.
So, cleaning the toilet is actually cleaning the entire area within a two-foot radius of the toilet. When Lucian asked me how it was going (more because he was bored than concerned, I think) I said, "Well, I guess this the price I pay for giving a sh*t."
"You're getting paid to clean the bathroom?" His eyes lit up at the thought of money. Then Anna jumped in.
"No, she's saying that she's the only one who cares that it's gross. So this is her punishment for caring."
See what I mean by missing the mark (ha)?
My lean towards metaphors also applies to the whole "having your cake and eating it, too" syndrome that I have observed, mostly in my dealings with men, although I know that it is not exclusive to men. For example, if a man tells you that you are the best thing that has happened to him in years and then in the same breath says his girlfriend would love you because you're so smart, what the f*ck are you supposed to think? Sounds to me like someone is getting a lot of cake. Also sounds like I need to work on getting some cake.
My problem, the cake has always been a function for someone else, not me. I have always made the cake and now I want a nice big piece out of the middle, but, I don't want to have to make the thing to actually be able to eat it. Seems simple, but it isn't.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Mail order life
Well, it had to come up eventually. I am encountering more and more people, friends even, who utilize the Internet for dating. My own thoughts on the subject were revealed through my friend Larry. We were semi-slumped over the bar on Friday when I approached the subject.
"I mean [that's how he starts all of his sentences, then he rubs the sides of his beard like Rip Van Winkle] I occasionally go online and get a couple a Cd's and maybe a book. But a person?"
Of course, I almost fell off my bar stool, not for once because I realized that the rum was too strong, but because I was laughing so hard. Too hard. The other patrons looked nervous. Larry just giggled and sipped his beer.
"My thoughts exactly."
But then I asked around, really did some digging about this thing, and found that A LOT of people do the computer thing. And A LOT of people lie through their teeth on their profiles. It is actually quite entertaining to go through and find friends (and even family) on these sites. I had no idea that so-and-so was an expert fly fisherman and was a trim 160 pounds. It came as a shock to read that so-and-so has an "exceptional" body and they are looking for a mate with an exceptional body.
Which immediately puts into question what "exceptional" means. If it means a beer gut and unmanaged nethers, than Jesus, my body is a f*cking constellation.
So, point being, if you know someone really well and you want some humor in your life, check out their "ad" for themselves. I personally will remain on the sidelines and see if someone likes the real me. Most likely they won't but the exchange will be pretty honest.
"I mean [that's how he starts all of his sentences, then he rubs the sides of his beard like Rip Van Winkle] I occasionally go online and get a couple a Cd's and maybe a book. But a person?"
Of course, I almost fell off my bar stool, not for once because I realized that the rum was too strong, but because I was laughing so hard. Too hard. The other patrons looked nervous. Larry just giggled and sipped his beer.
"My thoughts exactly."
But then I asked around, really did some digging about this thing, and found that A LOT of people do the computer thing. And A LOT of people lie through their teeth on their profiles. It is actually quite entertaining to go through and find friends (and even family) on these sites. I had no idea that so-and-so was an expert fly fisherman and was a trim 160 pounds. It came as a shock to read that so-and-so has an "exceptional" body and they are looking for a mate with an exceptional body.
Which immediately puts into question what "exceptional" means. If it means a beer gut and unmanaged nethers, than Jesus, my body is a f*cking constellation.
So, point being, if you know someone really well and you want some humor in your life, check out their "ad" for themselves. I personally will remain on the sidelines and see if someone likes the real me. Most likely they won't but the exchange will be pretty honest.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Unconditional
No matter how much I ignore them, or scream at them (mostly in French so the neighbors don't know how awful I really am), or discipline them, the dogs, the two stupid bloodhounds, continue to wag their tales furiously when they see me. Now, it could be like a "Farside" comic in which they're thinking about how to dismember me digit by digit, but so far it doesn't seem that way. They love me no matter what. Or at least they are good pretenders.
I am the bloodhound to my children. Lucian has made me crazy with rage and gray hair. He is a broken wind-up toy in the permanent "on" position. Hits a wall, goes the other way, hits a wall, goes the other way. Yet, after I scream at him (also in French, which he is starting to understand, unfortunately) there is tail wagging. I love him, I can't help it. The same can be said for Miss Sass-Ass as I have been know to call Anna. That child has a mouth that I'd like to just slap right off of her face. She doesn't know when to stop talking back, or, correction, she does know when to stop, she chooses not to.
That's when black momma comes out. And Anna gets it then. When I start a sentence with "Gi-irl" and am about 2 centimeters from her face, she knows she has gone too far. Of course, she debates her retreat carefully, so as not to look like she lost the fight.
And still, I love her, wag my tail and feed them both homemade strawberry smoothies and bread pudding with tons of butter.
Unlike the dogs, however, my unconditional love, which is fierce, does not extend to lovers. I don't think it ever will. I don't think it should. Last night I was talking to Anna's baby-daddy, strangely the topic of love came up.
"Oh no, we don't get into that business in Africa," he said. "Love has nothing to do with it. In fact, love is discouraged in my home. It's not good for the economy."
There is a lesson here somewhere. Dogs get hit, beat, screamed at in different languages, and they come back because there's something in it for them, maybe food. Mothers do the same. But lovers beware. There are very few beautiful dogs left out there. They're on the streets licking their wounds and finding their own damn food.
I am the bloodhound to my children. Lucian has made me crazy with rage and gray hair. He is a broken wind-up toy in the permanent "on" position. Hits a wall, goes the other way, hits a wall, goes the other way. Yet, after I scream at him (also in French, which he is starting to understand, unfortunately) there is tail wagging. I love him, I can't help it. The same can be said for Miss Sass-Ass as I have been know to call Anna. That child has a mouth that I'd like to just slap right off of her face. She doesn't know when to stop talking back, or, correction, she does know when to stop, she chooses not to.
That's when black momma comes out. And Anna gets it then. When I start a sentence with "Gi-irl" and am about 2 centimeters from her face, she knows she has gone too far. Of course, she debates her retreat carefully, so as not to look like she lost the fight.
And still, I love her, wag my tail and feed them both homemade strawberry smoothies and bread pudding with tons of butter.
Unlike the dogs, however, my unconditional love, which is fierce, does not extend to lovers. I don't think it ever will. I don't think it should. Last night I was talking to Anna's baby-daddy, strangely the topic of love came up.
"Oh no, we don't get into that business in Africa," he said. "Love has nothing to do with it. In fact, love is discouraged in my home. It's not good for the economy."
There is a lesson here somewhere. Dogs get hit, beat, screamed at in different languages, and they come back because there's something in it for them, maybe food. Mothers do the same. But lovers beware. There are very few beautiful dogs left out there. They're on the streets licking their wounds and finding their own damn food.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Slam...surface
It is amazing how weird little events can reset the brain clock, so to speak. Yesterday was a day where even I say to myself "You can't make this sh*t up." Without going through every minor detail, which would be tedious and tragic and just too much since I am here with only my first cup of coffee in me, and my stomach is making threatening noises, I have surmised that life is both a tsunami and a breeze.
The tsunami is the gulping for air being hit by various sea creatures and debris and, of course, water, water, water.
The breeze is light, objects are still flying around but they won't hurt you, it's just movement.
I had coffee with someone yesterday, I don't even know how to categorize him, so I won't. I just know that he and I are linked and will probably know each other forever until the sun blows up, maybe even beyond. There is a bubble around us most times, and then, time's up, it's over and we both go back to our totally separate lives. Again, there are no words, just metaphors to describe these meetings.
We parted ways, me feeling reassured that I am, in fact, a good person after all, and that I do bring positivity to others. That's the point at which I drove to the hospital to visit my little brother who was admitted the night before for heart "stuff", surprise, surprise....
So began the tsunami. I walked into the room and for a minute, I didn't see him, I saw only a sheet and his body was a shadow, still as a ghost, as if that was the real him. I held my breath and blinked and there he was in all his stubborn glory but I saw that shadow.
Later, in the hallway, must have been something about sitting in the chair, I almost lost my composure and there were sobs that I quickly had to cover before going back into the room. Thank god for sunglasses.
A bit shaken, but still fortified, I went to pick up the kids at Mom's, where I was informed somewhat casually that one of my students had been killed in a car accident the night before, in fact that they had brought her to the ER after my brother was admitted. Then the real sobbing began, and continued in spurts all through the evening. This, clearly, is the tsunami filling up my lungs (or it could have been the 15 cigarettes I had yesterday, on the sly, because I had to "get something from the garage").
By the time sleep came, I was dehydrated and waiting for another breeze or something, just to be at peace.
And, at 4 am, the dog puked all over the kitchen. Not quite a breeze, but it did reset the clock a little. Cleaning it up was lovely. Normal.
I want to tell my brother, in all his stubborn self-destructive behavior, that that girl dying was a trade, and that he better make good on his trade.
I'll wait until the beach is quiet again, and breezy, before I tell him.
The tsunami is the gulping for air being hit by various sea creatures and debris and, of course, water, water, water.
The breeze is light, objects are still flying around but they won't hurt you, it's just movement.
I had coffee with someone yesterday, I don't even know how to categorize him, so I won't. I just know that he and I are linked and will probably know each other forever until the sun blows up, maybe even beyond. There is a bubble around us most times, and then, time's up, it's over and we both go back to our totally separate lives. Again, there are no words, just metaphors to describe these meetings.
We parted ways, me feeling reassured that I am, in fact, a good person after all, and that I do bring positivity to others. That's the point at which I drove to the hospital to visit my little brother who was admitted the night before for heart "stuff", surprise, surprise....
So began the tsunami. I walked into the room and for a minute, I didn't see him, I saw only a sheet and his body was a shadow, still as a ghost, as if that was the real him. I held my breath and blinked and there he was in all his stubborn glory but I saw that shadow.
Later, in the hallway, must have been something about sitting in the chair, I almost lost my composure and there were sobs that I quickly had to cover before going back into the room. Thank god for sunglasses.
A bit shaken, but still fortified, I went to pick up the kids at Mom's, where I was informed somewhat casually that one of my students had been killed in a car accident the night before, in fact that they had brought her to the ER after my brother was admitted. Then the real sobbing began, and continued in spurts all through the evening. This, clearly, is the tsunami filling up my lungs (or it could have been the 15 cigarettes I had yesterday, on the sly, because I had to "get something from the garage").
By the time sleep came, I was dehydrated and waiting for another breeze or something, just to be at peace.
And, at 4 am, the dog puked all over the kitchen. Not quite a breeze, but it did reset the clock a little. Cleaning it up was lovely. Normal.
I want to tell my brother, in all his stubborn self-destructive behavior, that that girl dying was a trade, and that he better make good on his trade.
I'll wait until the beach is quiet again, and breezy, before I tell him.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Refinancing
This morning I was trying to tackle the delicate subject of "separate" households with Anna, who is nine. Lucian, who is six, was too busy using his cereal as bullets to even listen to the conversation. Which would, of course, explain why there was cereal stuck to both of the dogs since they had the misfortune of being in the line of fire. Serves them right for begging.
Anyway, I was telling Anna that it would be next to impossible for one parent to afford all of the household expenses and so we were thinking about selling the house and each parent would have a place to live that was smaller and more affordable. Then she asked how much the mortgage was, after she figured out what a mortgage is.
"It's about 1,500 a month. And remember, baby, that does not include heat, electricity, food, tae kwon do...."
"Toys," Lucian chimed in.
"Right, toys. Dad and I can't afford to live in this house when we aren't together."
Anna still said nothing, just kept chewing on her cereal. Then she took a deep breath.
"1,500 bucks!!!! For Chrissakes the house is a hundred friggin' years old. I mean, look at this place! There's a crack in the floor that goes from one end of the kitchen to the other. And have you seen the garage lately!? For Chrissakes! That's ridiculous."
Then she calmly went back to eating her cereal leaving Lucian and I stunned. So she has noticed the many flaws of our old, overpriced farmhouse.
What can I say, we got it before the bubble burst. And she is right about the crack in the floor.
Suddenly I don't feel so guilty for uprooting the kids.....eventually.
Anyway, I was telling Anna that it would be next to impossible for one parent to afford all of the household expenses and so we were thinking about selling the house and each parent would have a place to live that was smaller and more affordable. Then she asked how much the mortgage was, after she figured out what a mortgage is.
"It's about 1,500 a month. And remember, baby, that does not include heat, electricity, food, tae kwon do...."
"Toys," Lucian chimed in.
"Right, toys. Dad and I can't afford to live in this house when we aren't together."
Anna still said nothing, just kept chewing on her cereal. Then she took a deep breath.
"1,500 bucks!!!! For Chrissakes the house is a hundred friggin' years old. I mean, look at this place! There's a crack in the floor that goes from one end of the kitchen to the other. And have you seen the garage lately!? For Chrissakes! That's ridiculous."
Then she calmly went back to eating her cereal leaving Lucian and I stunned. So she has noticed the many flaws of our old, overpriced farmhouse.
What can I say, we got it before the bubble burst. And she is right about the crack in the floor.
Suddenly I don't feel so guilty for uprooting the kids.....eventually.
Monday, March 8, 2010
One piece at a time
I should know better than to try doing my taxes on a Monday. In fact, I should know better than trying to do my taxes, rake the yard, get wood, write two stories, take an interview, try to quit smoking (actually, I didn't attempt this, but it felt like it) and stop eating square meals altogether.
I should've stay right the hell in bed, but, as you all know, that is simply not an option. At least not for me. As my brother says so often, "Duponts don't retire, they seize up."
Thank you, little brother, for reassuring me that I will die standing up. Most likely I will be raking.
It was a beautiful day today, the snow is almost gone, the air smells like new earth...and thawing dog crap. Oh yeah, you know it. That first sign of spring when you crack open the window and take in a deep Glade Plug In commercial breath and suddenly your nostrils are filled with the rotten sting of composting grass with a tinge of thawed dog poop.
You know what's even better? Sweeping the 500 pounds of pine cones and pine needles off of your deck only to discover that half of that debris was actually the aforementioned dog sh*t.
Apparently they are more like humans than I thought. Too lazy to even head out to the tundra to do their business. Awesome. I was going to make the kids gather all of the pine cones in the yard and put them into buckets but my biggest fear, which will become reality, is that one of them will pick up something other than a pine cone and yours truly will have the distinct honor of washing it off with lye soap.
Rakes it is. And rubber gloves.
Just a note on the taxes, I had forgotten how impersonal filing taxes really is. There is no box in which to cut and paste your life's drama. Hard numbers is it, not how scared you are of losing the house, how your health has deteriorated into nothing, how you've been so stressed your legs tingle at night, how your marriage is broken forever.
They don't give a sh*t. And I have a feeling that the icing on this cake is going to be that we will end up owing, again.
Happy spring!
I should've stay right the hell in bed, but, as you all know, that is simply not an option. At least not for me. As my brother says so often, "Duponts don't retire, they seize up."
Thank you, little brother, for reassuring me that I will die standing up. Most likely I will be raking.
It was a beautiful day today, the snow is almost gone, the air smells like new earth...and thawing dog crap. Oh yeah, you know it. That first sign of spring when you crack open the window and take in a deep Glade Plug In commercial breath and suddenly your nostrils are filled with the rotten sting of composting grass with a tinge of thawed dog poop.
You know what's even better? Sweeping the 500 pounds of pine cones and pine needles off of your deck only to discover that half of that debris was actually the aforementioned dog sh*t.
Apparently they are more like humans than I thought. Too lazy to even head out to the tundra to do their business. Awesome. I was going to make the kids gather all of the pine cones in the yard and put them into buckets but my biggest fear, which will become reality, is that one of them will pick up something other than a pine cone and yours truly will have the distinct honor of washing it off with lye soap.
Rakes it is. And rubber gloves.
Just a note on the taxes, I had forgotten how impersonal filing taxes really is. There is no box in which to cut and paste your life's drama. Hard numbers is it, not how scared you are of losing the house, how your health has deteriorated into nothing, how you've been so stressed your legs tingle at night, how your marriage is broken forever.
They don't give a sh*t. And I have a feeling that the icing on this cake is going to be that we will end up owing, again.
Happy spring!
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Justification
I am eating this pistachio gelato (a.k.a. lunch and dinner) and my justification for mowing down is that the pistachios must have some sort of protein in them, so I need the protein. I am responding to my body's need for nourishment.
Yeah right, this sh*t is good, and I may eat the whole pint and go to bed without a single shred of remorse, an emotion that was the central idea behind the brilliant marketing campaign of the Puritans. And since they had no style whatsoever, I'm not feeling the power of the message.
Speaking of remorse, did I mention that I had a near-lesbian cage dance at a costume party last night? Hey, when a dude asks you and your friend to dance in a suspended cage above hundreds of people, you put out all the stops. Put out being the operative phrase here. I cannot blame the alcohol since very little was consumed, I blame circumstances and, of course, the pink and black boa.
The only remorse I have about this event is that the photo documentation was taken from below and therefore the shots are, you guessed it, f*cking awkward at best. I actually shudder to think how many people were snapping photos of my sexy suspension.
I was wearing a skirt, people. I hope it was worth it.
The gelato sure is.
Yeah right, this sh*t is good, and I may eat the whole pint and go to bed without a single shred of remorse, an emotion that was the central idea behind the brilliant marketing campaign of the Puritans. And since they had no style whatsoever, I'm not feeling the power of the message.
Speaking of remorse, did I mention that I had a near-lesbian cage dance at a costume party last night? Hey, when a dude asks you and your friend to dance in a suspended cage above hundreds of people, you put out all the stops. Put out being the operative phrase here. I cannot blame the alcohol since very little was consumed, I blame circumstances and, of course, the pink and black boa.
The only remorse I have about this event is that the photo documentation was taken from below and therefore the shots are, you guessed it, f*cking awkward at best. I actually shudder to think how many people were snapping photos of my sexy suspension.
I was wearing a skirt, people. I hope it was worth it.
The gelato sure is.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Scrub up
Why are kids so f*cking dirty? They revel in their own filth, or maybe they just don't notice it, which I find impossible to believe. Lucian's fingernails are starting to look like something out of the Guinness Book and Anna's face needs a pumice stone just to get back to ground zero. I won't even get into the details of how the bottom half turns out. Usually the dialogue involves me giving a gentle reminder then handing someone a scalding hot washclothe with a few simple instructions.
"Here go wash your nethers."
"Why, I took a shower yesterday?"
"Did you have gym class today?"
"Yes."
"Go scrub up then. You don't want that nasty business hanging around you for another day, do you?"
"You're starting your own business, Mom?"
"JUST GO WASH YOUR PRIVATES FOR CHRISSAKES!!!"
It shouldn't be this difficult, should it?
"Here go wash your nethers."
"Why, I took a shower yesterday?"
"Did you have gym class today?"
"Yes."
"Go scrub up then. You don't want that nasty business hanging around you for another day, do you?"
"You're starting your own business, Mom?"
"JUST GO WASH YOUR PRIVATES FOR CHRISSAKES!!!"
It shouldn't be this difficult, should it?
Monday, March 1, 2010
Life alert
Not much to say. I am in a bit of a depression, but the "I've fallen and I can't get up" commercial just came on and now I'm giggling, a lot. How sick is that? They really need to stop airing that commercial, I'm serious. People will keep laughing at the staged fall and the cataclysmic death dialogue that follows.
I've fallen, but I have to get up to pay the bills, feed myself, and basically not tear off my own skin strip by strip.
Cabin fever and divorce really do a number on the senses. Not a good number, like a number two...
I have also developed or at least cultivated restless leg syndrome, also can be applied to my toes, lips and hair follicles. Somehow, in some way, I, we, will get through this and be better on the other side?????
Or at least more interesting. F*cking great, that's just what I need, more character.
I've fallen, but I have to get up to pay the bills, feed myself, and basically not tear off my own skin strip by strip.
Cabin fever and divorce really do a number on the senses. Not a good number, like a number two...
I have also developed or at least cultivated restless leg syndrome, also can be applied to my toes, lips and hair follicles. Somehow, in some way, I, we, will get through this and be better on the other side?????
Or at least more interesting. F*cking great, that's just what I need, more character.
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