Thursday, December 1, 2011

Dirt is...dirty

I hope I haven't lost all of you in my two-month hiatus. A good friend of mine has been hounding me to get a blog up before Christmas. Actually, I'm glad I took a break for a bit, sort of a two-month renewal if you will. Don't worry, I didn't go off on some retreat and wake up every morning at 3 a.m. and eat brown rice and meditate. Can you meditate while drinking coffee? Is that even allowed? Not that I would have cause to give a sh*t, unfortunately.
What better way to kick start the blog once more than by sharing my little observances of small town life, especially as winter reaches out her icy grip. It's not so much the weather that makes people crazy (although, October's blizzard nearly caused me to have a stroke), but the lack of light, perhaps? Not enough pizazz in your life so you gotta set off some rockets using other people's lives as the match?
Just curious. I find that even when I'm not part of an actual conversation about this scandal or that, I somehow end up hearing it, or just walking into it. This is one reason why I need to quit smoking, for good. Usually, people go outside to smoke, whether it's at a bar or a family function, and aside from the smoke itself, I do end up walking right into a sh*tstorm of gossip, or worse, a marital fight.
Like you can emasculate your husband on the sly! C'mon. We all see your lips moving and the snarling teeth. I know, I've done it. Hence, the divorce.
Anyway, so there it is, the gossip. It lures me in at first, because I'm not sure who the key players are or if it's a good thing or a bad thing,etc. Then it gets ugly. I've noticed that once someone with "information" has an audience, that's when the show begins.
Most of these updates center around, you guessed it, infidelity. Which, by the way, is a highly interpretive term, open to all kinds of judgments and even some sympathy. In a nutshell, however, cheatin' is the cross upon which many small town residents are nailed at one point or the other.
"Can you believe he found his wife, in their bed, with another man!?"
What do ya say to something like that? Um, yeah, I believe it. He's a drunk and she's been miserable for years and the other guy is hot and she doesn't have to wash his nasty skivvies every day.
Usually, I just try to look neutral and ask how the kids are taking it. What amazes me is how suddenly incredulous and self-righteous everyone becomes when they find out. How suddenly, we, the faithful are exalted as angels because we didn't wind up in the sack with somebody else. Like this is the dipstick upon which we measure our own moral fortitude.
Gimme a break. Maybe it's my own f*cked up sense of right v. wrong, but I can think of a lot worse, or comparable, actions than a roll in the hay with someone else's spouse. How is that any different from, say, giving your kids sh*tty food every day or lying to your mother or screwing your family (this usually involves money)? It all seems to simmer in the same pot of deceit and selfishness. The end result is hurt, it doesn't matter how you got there.
So, who's side do you take? There are no sides, sin (or whatever you want to call it) is pretty weighty stuff. Recently, I learned of a couple who, after several years of marriage, most of them miserable, have finally decided to call it quits. I don't know if it is because of her doe-eyed face or the fact that she vomits her woes on anyone who will listen, but a majority of "spectators" sided with the wife.
"He's a useless bastard, she should've left him a long time ago. He just used her for her money."
I am perplexed because these are the same people who, until this point, have been on speaking terms with the guy and even had him over to dinner or waved to him in the street, or congratulated him on his wedding day...to her!
"But his wife was banging somebody else for awhile, maybe a few somebody's," I said, no better than any other gossip. "I mean, that's kind of awful, too. And if you guys thought he was such a prick, why didn't you say anything?"
Dead silence.
"It's not my place."
Aaaah, I see. But it's your place to cast judgment and then rename it "fact," as if this was all some kind of sick science experiment. It's laughable. And just plain sad.
Is there a lesson here? I'm not really sure. Is it human nature to judge and cast social sentences, you bet. Is it right? You're asking me?
Something about glass houses...

Monday, September 19, 2011

Honk if you're...

In a rare moment of lucidity, and communication, my older brother and I exchanged a series of texts last week. It started off as the antiseptic "hey" moved to bitching about how "up to f*cking here" we both are with life and then segued into, of course, God (please note, due to a recent spiritual awakening, I will be spelling God with a capital "G" henceforth). Apparently, my brother has been conducting a secret fling with the ol' G-word for a few months, maybe even years now. Apparently, the two of them chat regularly.
"Thankfully, me and the man are mates so at least that's still very inexpensive," he wrote. "I'm not willing to part with God. I'm in debt for the all the other stuff, though."

"I hate to admit it," I said. "But God is the only thing standing between me and a flaming pile of horsesh*t right now."

It was cheesy, granted, even I knew that. But for some reason, I felt better knowing that my brother had a higher power. Of course, I've convinced myself for all these years that I don't need one, my mantra being, "I AM my own higher power." To which I hear my grandmother's voice floating somewhere in the room, "That's all well and good, honey, but your standards are very inconsistent."

True that, Gram. And thanks, by the way, for snuffing out my stupid ego once again. How is heaven, by the way?

I've searched long and hard for "that thing." I've found it in the weirdest places yet, the places where a true cynic wouldn't be caught dead in, but somehow finds herself kneeling and slobbering like a baby, candle in hand, make-up still caked on from the previous night's lurid activities.

God is there, in St. Patrick's Cathedral on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, there in the broken-hearted stare of my son who does not understand my anger, there in the damp church basement filled with ex-winos who just want to stay sober one more day, there in the eyes of my infant niece who we have not seen for the last half of her life.

Again, I can't even believe I'm writing this sh*t, but better to be out with it than be a charlatan about the whole thing. Don't ask me about the crucifixion or the grape juice or the cracker or the stone-rolling crap, because I'm not into that just yet. That'd be like telling me my next life's missive is on on a bumper sticker somewhere.
And, yes, bumper stickers did come up in my text scroll with my brother.

"I'm going to invent one that says 'Got stuff?'"

I thought about all the bumper stickers I'd seen, and ruthlessly ridiculed, especially the car that is so over-laden with messages you can tell immediately that whoever is driving that car is still having an identity crisis.

My last bumper sticker said 'Think pickles.'

So, amidst the Jesus fish and the Darwin fish and the Eat Local and the Obama 2012, I did see something that caught my eye. Not too God-y, but it struck me like an arrow through the temples. That soft, stupid flesh exposed in its arrogance.

"Be where you are."

Huh, something to consider, when all I worry about is the next thing. Not THE thing, whatever it is, right in front of me. If I'm having breakfast with the kids, I'm not there, I've already moved on to thinking about the drive to school and how the transmission will fall out any day. Or on the beautiful ride to work, all I know to think about is how I need to edit and entire paper by 2 p.m. Maybe where I am isn't so bad, if I just sat there once and awhile and had a cup of coffee.

Right here.

Although, I still need to invest in a bumper sticker that says, "Honk if parts fall off." It's part of that whole "God helps those who help themselves" theory I'm testing out.

Monday, August 15, 2011

The Sisterhood of Bad Pants

In case you didn't notice, a lot of my "material" comes from family gatherings. More accurately, listening to the multiple conversations that take place at gatherings and noting that I am not the only one in this world whose humor as twisted as an old, angry spruce tree. It is also validating.

"I didn't have chance in hell," I think. "We're all this f*cked up."

Yesterday was no exception, whatsoever. We were seeing my cousin and her daughter off before they made their journey back to Florida (Paula, you should stay, I have a list of 10 reasons why and I will post it to your public wall on Facebook). Of course, the food was predictably delicious and gastronomically punishing--slaw with bacon (thanks, Dad), baked beans, enough grill meat to choke a horse and, naturally, fermented liquids of all kinds.

Oh, and Jell-o shots. Not surprisingly, those bad boys got the tongues rolling. A lot. All seated lazily, listening to the rain pound on the roof, my mother pipes up in between bites of a massive piece of blueberry cake, crumbs already covering her sweater about three bites in.

"Nina (cousin), where did you get those Capri pants? They're the perfect length, the perfect color, the perfect fit. I've been looking for a pair like that forever."

We all waited for the answer to this universe-changing question.

"Wal-Mart, I think." It was that easy.

My mother shook her head, the piece of cake now down to about half the size of her head.

"I have such bad luck with Capri pants. I really need to just get rid of the white ones for good."

Of course, everyone is confused at this point except for my father and I who are laughing uncontrollably at Boni's latest exploits with the cursed white Capri pants. The day before, my folks took a nice little fishing detour to the Stockbridge Bowl. The story (at least part of it, the other part I can't bear to even tell), goes that my father left my mother in charge of holding the little skiff while he backed the trailer into the water. It was a total of three minutes, at most, before he got back to the boat. My mother was there, waiting for him, but she was soaked to the waist with water. She does this often, by the way. One minute she will be walking by a window and the next she is gone. Usually laughing uncontrollably on the ground, or set of steps or driveway that has mysteriously claimed her. But she's not clumsy, of course. She usually blames her shoes or the dew or something...

"I'm not even gone more than a minute and here you are, tw*t-deep in water," he exclaims. Nothing more is said, just maniacal bursts of giggling on the ride home. And this isn't the first time. Boni has disappared, bike and all, into the perennial gardens of the Red Lion Inn, taken headers on stairs, the impact of which has made me gasp expecting to pick her up in pieces at the bottom. Winter has us all on edge because she has to walk 20 feet from her house to her business and her destiny on that patch of land always hangs in the balance.

Fortunately, we as a family, understand clumsiness. Apparently, on the same day as the Loveboat incident, my cousin was also attacked by the clumsy fairy. Something about a wine cooler getting knocked off a couch. But, it doesn't stop there, not in my family, no, no. The wine cooler then manages to spew out and cover the wall before dripping down said wall and behind the couch.

These are mild incidents, people. And these genetics keep coming back. My younger brother deliberately dumps coffee on his shirt most mornings because "it's gonna happen anyway." This is a child who managed to drop a giant box of nails on my father's foot WHILE he was driving a log truck! Even my own little cherubs, once they get on their feet, cannot seem to handle themselves with any kind of coordination. We have watched Lucian, while innocently playing a balancing game on a curb, suddenly fall, no fly, and then fall into the front bumper of an F-250 and pop right up again, brush off his shirt and say, "I'm OK!" Like he's surprised or something. The rest of us are still in shock, surprised that his head is attached to his body.

"Oh, he'll grow out of it," is my mother's mantra. I just look at her, look at the bruises on her shins and her arm brace and her white Capri pants and shake my head in doubt.

"Sure he will."

Thursday, July 21, 2011

War of the Roses

There is something about the way women understand each other, especially women in the same family. And let's say that family is virtually overrun by men, most of them self-destructive in their youth and bitter and broken after they turn 35. The women in a family like this tend to watch all the drama unfold and, depending on the situation, either react with frighteningly vicious, cat-like reflexes or gather in small groups years later and play "tag" with those ghost stories of decades past.

These would be the women in my family, the Dupont side of things (of which my mother has more than earned her stripes being the common sense, take-no-prisoners type and besides my grandmother loved her, so she was "in" from the get-go). The other night a few of us were gathered in the corner of my yard (we left the men, i.e. my dad and uncle, to their light beers, the kids to the trampoline)and "got to talking" about how shit used to go down before we knew any better. It was my aunt who got the ball rolling. She was saying how, the other day, she and my uncle were having "a discussion" that their granddaughter was privy to. Well, to them, it was a discussion, to her it was an argument.

"She told us to stop fighting," my aunt said, smiling. "I just shook my head and told her we weren't fighting. I told her this was nowhere near fighting. Sheesh, girl."

My aunt shook her head, clearly in flashback mode to the days when fighting actually was just that. Knock down, drag out affairs that usually began with booze and ended with children crying at 2 a.m., bruising on both parties and a lot of head shaking for the next week. Any of this sound familiar? My mom started giggling, yes giggling, recalling a "row" she and my father had some 30 years ago.

"Oh, we were both half in the bag and the kids were asleep," she said. "Of course, we got into it about something, who the hell even knows now, and anyway he told me to get the hell out. So I did. I was halfway down the stairs when he come running after me and grabbed my arm."

"What'd he do?" my aunt asked, slightly amused.

"He said 'Where do you think you're going? You have children to care for!'"

We all started laughing then.

"Wow, Ma, you were almost home free," I said.

"Almost. It must have dawned on him what the next morning would look like for him with three kids under the age of 10 waiting for breakfast."

There were other tales, that's what happens when you combine wine spritzers with summer heat and family women. One about an aunt who loaded up her three kids into a Radio Flyer wagon and walked to the grocery store on a Friday night because her husband was out drinking his paycheck away. Mothers calling the cops on their sons, flying salad dressing bottles, broken window panes, full out wrestling matches on the living room floor.

"I wouldn't put up with that shit for a second," I said.
"It was different back then," my mom said with the utmost patience at my self-righteous disgust. "You just worked through it. Besides, where were you gonna go? None of us had jobs or money then."

My aunt nodded her head and lit a cigarette. "I sometimes don't know how you girls do it," she said. "Always looking around for hot guys, trying to make a living and have a life and raise kids on your own. Somewhere along the way I learned that security is sexy. It may not be perfect, but you make it work. At least you can sleep most nights."

Good goddamn point. Stability tends to have that "nice guys finish last" feel to it, but these days, in this life, it's getting some good press. Or it should. How nice would it be to for any of the other single parents I know to have somebody say, "Don't worry, I got this," and suddenly a meal is cooked or lunches are made for the week or the 900 loads of laundry that have been waiting for you to get out of work are all folded and put away? Or shit, even waking up and the coffee is made or you don't have to do the quick math in your head wondering if you've got the cash to take the kids out for pizza for one night.

Or, lo and behold, you're not the only one who notices that you're low on toilet paper.

I guess the grass is ALWAYS greener. At least I know the coffee's gonna get made, and the dinner is gonna materialize somehow and that paycheck will come...but once in awhile it makes me tired just thinking about it.

Friday, June 17, 2011

The Day My Momma Stuck it to the PTO

There is a country song...actually, there is always a country song...that is still dead on when it comes to today's "parent organizations." I am speaking specifically about the PTO (or PTA depending on what state and era of misogyny you live in). Now, to be fair, I have never actually been to a PTO meeting so I can only tell you what my experience has been "on the outside" of this highly stealth, relentless fundraising machine that seems to run on the fumes of guilt coming from the "other" parents, us supposed non-involved folks who refuse to buy friggin' mail order cookie batter and strudel cakes for $900 a piece and sit back and wonder why the hell all the kids are getting fat.

Now I'm getting started.

This blog would not have happened, I would've kept silent for the next 10 years of wrapping paper, danishes, cookies, sh*tty candles, cheap body lotions and stale pies if I hadn't gotten an email this week basically telling the parents of the children in the school that we all suck for not being able to push through a June 18 carnival. Apparently, we, in our presumed apathy and lack of love for our own children, suck for not wanting devote an entire Saturday at the ass end of a difficult school year to some crappy ring toss in the gym and maybe a pocket lady with lead infused toys in her apron.

I think you get where I'm going with this. Who are these people, the Gestapo? Am I supposed to feel guilty that whenever a fundraiser packet, actually make that two fundraiser packets because I have two kids, comes home with stock photos of chocolate or pies that the moment I pull it out of the book bag, I sigh and chuck it in the recycling? Neither I nor my family (specifically the grandparents of these children, who by the way, in order to be fair would have to get something from each of the 9 grandchildren) can afford to buy any of this sh*t, which is exactly what it is. If I'm going to spend 40 bucks on pastry items, I will head to the local bakery and get it fresh, thanks. And if I need wrapping paper for the hundreds of Christmas presents I have to buy every year, then, Dollar Store, here I come.

And may I gently remind you that in addition to the set of two packets that come home, the individual classrooms also conduct fundraisers and can drives and presentations and parties, etc. This means, for me, a single parent, who really is only worried about groceries and shelter and happiness at this point, that I have to keep track of two sets of permission slips, field trip fees, last minute "mom I need you to make 6 dozen cookies" or, most recently, a purchase of 4 bags of veggie chips (to the tune of $4 a bag), oh and, can you take FOUR hours off of work for a school picnic.

What has happened to reality? And on top of all this pressure, you're going to send me a "You suck" email because I simply don't have another 6 hours and $30 to spend on some stupid carnival on the one day I have off this week. Ever think that maybe I'd like to take my kids out for a friggin' ice cream, or maybe sleep in, make some pancakes, go for a nice hike?

And here's another tip, oh uberparents who are clearly better somehow than the rest of us, if you're going to gossip maliciously about other parents don't do it in the school lobby. We all can hear you, even amid the throng of children being corralled to the buses. I may not have the cash for the raw cookie dough or the Tiffany's wrapping paper, but I know what class is. You can't sell that in a shiny booklet.

Oh, and FYI, maybe if some of you got a job you wouldn't have time to think about how crappy the rest of us are for trying to keep our heads above water.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

The End of the Affair

I'm sorry, but with the latest "Weiner" news, I am convinced now that 1)men, all men (save for like 3 that I know) lead with their dicks and 2) Have you ever heard of woman in politics, making major decisions for people, f*cking around with internet porn and specialty hookers and god knows what else?! Can you imagine Hilary Clinton deciding that on her lunch break she's gonna take a picture of her "nethers" with her phone and then post it?! WTF?!

And yes, there are women who cheat. In fact, 45% of married women in this country are unfaithful. I think the percentage for married men is roughly the same, maybe a few percentage points higher, but close. So, then the issue, especially in this age of social media, isn't that men cheat more than women. It's that everybody's cheating (and that male politicians are really friggin' bad at it!).

That sound about right? Fair? And furthermore, social media is making it a lot easier, A LOT easier to "cheat" right in front of your spouse. I guess I should define my idea of cheating, because nowadays moral flexibility is a very handy tool to have. So, cheating, in my mind, is anything that makes you feel guilty, anything that you wouldn't tell your spouse because somewhere in there you know it would cause some waves. Major waves in most cases.

Based on that definition, how many of us cheat? Better yet, how many of us have "cheated" within the last 24 hours?! No need to raise your hands, but just think about it. I told my "domestic partner" the other day that I think the computer and texting is ruining good ol' fashioned love. It is melting boundaries that were once very clear and it is creating mistrust and suspicion within even the most adoring relationships. In fact, I'm willing to bet that Facebook was partly responsible (partly) responsible for the breakdown of my marriage. I didn't know who all these women were that he was friending and apparently a "friend" emailed him through FB and said that "your wife" (i.e. ME!) was "getting close" with people at grad school that summer. Of course, I have no idea to this day who the guy was that said that, and I still have no idea who all the women friends are that my ex "friended" that summer. As for me, the only "close" relationships I had were with the ticks, the bears, the moose, a newly married Ukrainian woman and my friend Lyd, who was writing great poetry AND counting points for Weight Watchers.

Pretty risque, eh? But, once that seed is planted in the mind, the roots grow pretty quick. I don't even think I had a chance after that email was sent.

Which brings me to texting, and still emails. Being the jaded, thirty-something woman I get antsy when my "gentleman friend" gets a text. Not antsy-crazy, but just a sick feeling in my guts like "What the hell is he up to?" And I'm pretty sure that he feels the same way to a degree. So immediately, we have slushy trust issues which can be used against us at any time. Does it mean that I can't get texts from my guy friends, not necessarily, but then the issue comes down to "managing content" and what you should or shouldn't be saying in a text to someone who you are not in a relationship with...

It's messy people. I'm trying to stick to some basic rules to keep things simple. Oddly, it's not that simple. First off, I'm thinking if I would feel weird showing the text (or email, or tweet or picture) to my "partner" then its not an appropriate conversation to be having. And if I get a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach then, again, it probably isn't right and I should deflect.
That said, every time I casually ask my boyfriend "oh, who's that?" he rarely tells me. And since he doesn't ask me, I don't tell him...

This soapbox is getting mighty crowded.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Eve's Curse is Not Her Own

I was just watching a brief lecture on advertising and body image and, of course, how these evil images and concepts demoralize women. I know, you've heard it all before--models who weigh less than the shoes they display, photo shopping gone mad on the sides of buses, women turned into objects and violated before our very eyes--all in the name of money.

Nothing new, really. Unless you are raising a girl, who will be subject to the same stresses and internal angst that you experienced for not ever being perfect...not even coming close, actually. Even today, when we look at women, brains and personality are not the first items on the checklist of perfection (I burned that list a few years ago, and continually find myself throwing other unrealistic versions of it in the fire). It is ALL about how a woman looks, and that message is being passed on to the innocent minds of girls who still have no concept of what sex is, or love, or pressure. They think horses are beautiful and that the most beautiful woman they've ever seen is a family member, probably Mom or Nana or a vibrant aunt.

These girls know the truth all along, that is, until, the world gets hold of them and rips their childhood, and the honest bubble they live in, into tiny jagged pieces--all lies, of course. But who knew?

I look at my gorgeous 4th grader and I cannot fathom what she will endure at the hands of impossible perfection. She is nearly 5 feet tall, her hair is a brilliant mass of black coils that shoot straight out of her skull, she has broad shoulders, legs up to her neck, the beginnings of what will be a sizeable...um...booty and thick athlete's thighs. She is a powerhouse with a very big smile and even bigger brown eyes. Of course, I think she is the epitome of all things beautiful. She needs no adornment, no modification. A pair of denim shorts and a T-shirt is her uniform of choice. Yet, I can feel her doubt, even disgust, when she tells me she weighs 90 pounds. I can see her face harden when she looks at the trash magazines in the grocery store (why the fuck do they put those things there, anyway?!).

"Do you think I'll look like you when I grow up?" she asks, and I can't tell what my answer should be. Does she want to look like me? Is she horrified that she will look like me? Who knows?

"I think, Anna, that you will look a little like me but be a lot taller and more confident than I was."

At least, that is what I am hoping. The confidence part, I mean. That is where a crucial mistake was made in my raising. My mother is a tiny woman who has always been very into fashion. She has great taste and she and I would look at Vogue together commenting on the clothes, the models, etc. As I got older, Vogue became more a point of anxiety for me than inspiration. I remember reading an article about Cindy Crawford, I was about 16, and it said that she was 5'9" and 128 lbs, which by runway standards is monstrous. I nearly cried into the pages. I was only 5'5" and 135 lbs. And so, I didn't eat for weeks...drank black coffee, played soccer, and felt like shit the whole time. Did I lose weight, sure, but I was miserable.

I never want my beautiful daughther to know that side of me ever existed. I am ashamed to this day by how, when I catch a glimpse of a Victoria's Secret layout, I feel instantly unsexy and undesirable. How could an educated woman with a good career and two beautiful children ever be self-conscious? Or doubt that she, because her hair isn't tousled enough, her thighs aren't small enough, her stomach isn't anywhere near flat enough, is worth her weight in gold? Literally?

We have no fashion magazines in this house. Anna reads the New Yorker, mostly the comics. I compliment her whenever I can without being insincere, she returns the favor--saying that my arm flab really isn't that bad and that I have nice white teeth.

But even now, I can feel a little bit of the doom of adolescence coming our way. She will doubt herself, just as I continue to get mean little jabs in at my own appearance. Last night, in jest, my "gentleman friend" said that it was a good thing he didn't have a foot fetish.

"Why," I asked.

"Because you have man feet. That wouldn't work at all."

I looked at my wide, unpainted, calloused garden feet, my relaxation instantly ruined by the comment. I laughed when I felt like puking. And my first thought went to the weakest part of my brain.

"What else does he not like about me?" I should've told him to "f*ck off" which I did, but not before the needle entered the unprotected, soft tissue of my self-confidence. The heart part. If he doesn't like my feet, then, my god, what does he think of my legs? And my crazy hair and my big teeth and the giant scar across my abdomen? And my farmer's tan?

That's how I fell asleep last night. Worrying that I would wake up and someday soon it would all vanish because my shell wasn't pretty like the other turtles.

I prefer to burst out of mine, I hope Anna does the same.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

The Myth of the Farmer's Daughter

It was a usual morning of dropping the kids off at school (no, this is not a euphemism). Of course, the AUX feature in the car has stopped working so I was forced to listen to FM Radio and the howls of rebellion against NPR the second we got on the car were reason enough to change the station for the time being.

"I want 107.7," Anna declared. "That's what Nana always listens to."

"But that's country music," I gagged a little. "Like, modern country music."

Anna pushed her dread locked bangs off of her indolent face, "Whatever," she said, slumping into her seat. Seems to be her response for nearly everything these days.

"Fine, fine," I reluctantly changed the station. And, of course, was mortified at what I was listening to, even after the kids were "safely stowed" in the lobby of the elementary school.

First up, a song with a refrain even more simplistic than "Row Your Boat." Something along the lines of "Shake it, country girl." Of course, in the song she should be shaking it for everyone at the late-night tailgate party in the back woods but only he, the singer will get the real deal in the back of the truck. Sounds eerily like a scene from "The Accused" minus the arcade game.

I was hoping against hope that the next song would be better. And yes, I was still listening, intrigued now at what I knew was going to be a playlist of songs about chicks and how cute they are and once you get the pretty one, life is made in the shade. The announcer sounded the next song, "The Farmer's Daughter," which, apparently, is quickly climbing the charts to #1.

"Jesus Christ," I mumbled under my breath, laughing, of course, into the silence of the empty car.

Sure enough, or "sho' nuff" this one detailed the young man's journey from working the farm all day, and just when he was about to call it quits he "caught a glimpse" of the farmer's daughter. The rest is cheesy history. He works on the farm, they hook up in the back of his pick up and on the hood of the tractor every chance they get and in the end, she is serving him a glass of sweet tea after a hard day's work and they get to screw into eternity.

How sweet.

Let me tell you something about real country girls and the farmer's daughter. Real country girls couldn't get the dirt out from under their toenails no matter how hard we tried. It stays, just like the garden stays, until the dirt is froze and the last tomato is picked. The same goes for our fingernails.

Real country girls have a thin strip of brown skin right above their backsides because that's the place we always forget to put sunscreen (if we even use it) when we're outside for days at a time. We forget to offer people forks after we've filled their plates with potato salad and homemade burgers, which by the way, we met at one point when it was still a steer.

And you can forget about meeting up with us on the tractor and getting your hands up our little eyelet dress. Chances are, we've been out there since 6 am working that tractor and stink worse than you do and will run you over with the thing 'cause we are starving and need something to eat before we pass out.

Real country girls have cracked feet, crow's feet and big feet and are known to take walks down country roads with no shoes on. We rarely wear make-up and when we do it is likely that we will not have the proper means to wash it off and will look like a raccoon for a few days because we didn't know that "eye makeup remover" even existed.

As for shaking our stuff at a tailgate party, most real country boys have already ripped the tailgate off their trucks, either for convenience or to avoid having the thing rot completely through and fly off killing somebody on a country road.

Nope, we shake our business with each other in a rare appearance at a dance hall, where dressing up means putting on a clean shirt and digging around in the closet for the cowboy boots that aren't covered with REAL SH*T!

There you have it, myth debunked. If you're still interested, don't call. We leave our phones on windowsills and kitchen counters. If you cannot help yourself, stop by. But don't ask for a fork and you better drink the coffee if it's offered to you. If not, you can be sure...we ain't interested. In the least.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Warning: Offensive Content about Jesus

I received a press release in my work email folder last week. Let me reiterate, it was my work email folder, where I get stuff for work. Professional stuff. Anyway, the press release was in proper format, everything looked good until I began reading the actual text of the press release. According to Bill So-an-So the second coming of Christ is occurring on May 21st this year...so get ready. Of course, I had lots of questions, my main one being, how the f*ck does this guy know? What, did he get a call? A text? Or just a funny feeling followed by a voice that sounded like Darth Vader booming from the illusive sky?

I told my brother about the "big news." He was slumped over the steering wheel of his truck in the K-Mart parking lot watching the rain fall for the 300000000000 day in a row.

"Hey, did you know that Christ is coming again on May 21st?" I asked. "Better get ready!"

"Well, if that's the case, I'm going to kick him in the throat 'cause this isn't funny anymore."

Perhaps I should've warned you that my family is as humble as we are heathen and irreverent. Not out of malice, but out of struggle.

"Hmm, I don't know if I'd kick him in the throat 'cause I definitely want to hear what he's got to say for himself," I gestured toward a balding woman in a velour jumpsuit walking across the parking lot towards the Dollar Tree.

"Yeah, I'm curious what'd he'd have to say." We both nodded in contemplative silence.

If Christ shows up now, then every Christian church on this planet no longer has job security. Just think of that. God stocks would be down, communion cardboard cracker sales would be down, churches would be empty. It'd be a fiscal mess. Truly. And if he really did show his face (which is supposedly white with a red beard, 'cause that's how they all looked in Jerusalem back in the day: Irish) I wonder what people would have to say.

I almost feel bad for the guy, what a pessimistic place to land. What if the poor bastard (literally, ahem, let's not fight common sense here people) landed in the middle of Detroit or something? His gown flowing, his reddish beard blowing in a gentle, heavenly breeze, a serene (sort of creepy) smile on his face.

"I am here my children."

Can you imagine?! Let's say an unemployed GM factory worker is the first to see him.

"Where the f*ck you been, man?! We're dying here!" Then a swift kick to the throat.

How 'bout we take care of what's right in front of us? Maybe treat the earth as carefully as we treat our souls for that big "just in case" moment. Because while we're waiting for Jesus, Mother Earth is bleeding under our feet.

She needs resurrection more than a white guy (?) in sandals.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

The Junction

I've been promising my aunts this blog for nearly two weeks. I was supposed to write it right after the fact, but, well, I work 90 hours a weeks and that wasn't happening. After mulling over the details and the nuances (which was a joy, let me tell you) I've finally got all my ducks (and f*cks!) in a row for the dysfunctional family gathering write-up.

I'm glad I waited...

So there we were, another frozen Sunday at the folks' house celebrating yet another goddamn birthday, my little brother's 32nd to be exact (haha, his kids think I'm the youngest sibling). It was around noon when the house filled up with kids (nine to be exact) and coffee and food and appalling language. We all noticed immediately that my father was much stiffer than usual.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Trust me, this is always said with concern.

"I went for a jog this morning with Patti."

You could've heard a frog fart. He looked up from his coffee at our faces, which were genetically and emotionally identical at that moment. Jake broke the silence.

"What the f*ck d'ya do that for?" Good goddamn question, little bro.

Mom piped up from the kitchen, "Because he can't say no, that's why."

"No, no, I wanted to. It was good," Dad said, clutching his chest as took another sip of coffee. "It was good."

The party got underway and about a half hour in, my mother perked up from her half a sandwich and said, "Did you invite Patti?"

Dad paused, "Oh, yeah, I did."

"Thanks for telling me."

"Hon, Patti's coming." His grin turned into a grimace when he went to uncross one leg.

"You're a moron," I said, shaking my head.

My aunt and her family entered the fray, four blonde heads glinting in the light of the living room. Patti was the first to speak.

"Mom hung up on me!"

"What," my mom said. "Why?"

"I told her we were coming here for Jake's party and she said she didn't know anything about it. She just said 'whatever' and hung up."

My mother winced. Her 82-year-old mother doesn't just hang up on people unless she's pissed, and nobody is supposed to piss off Phyllis. It's an unwritten rule after you turn 70.

The kids were shy at first but once they became aware of the destruction and doom happening outside with the other 9 cousins, they bolted out, eager to climb trees and throw sh*t at eachother in between sips of juice boxes.

Another car pulled up. It was Alice, my other aunt. In case you haven't noticed yet, I have a lot of aunts. I am sometimes referred to as the "fifth sister" although my grandmother would never claim me as her own. "I draw the line at six," she'd said.

Alice arrived with two bottles of wine and a giant jar of what looked like preserved turds floating in oil. Before my father could even take the wine or her coat, he shook his head.

"What the f*ck is that?"

"Sopressata. My neighbor is Italian. Apparently he thinks I need a jar in case the world ends." She set the disturbing floating turds down. "Mom hung up on me!"

"Me, too," Patti said. My mother shot a hate glance at my father.

"I'm calling her to explain. I don't want her to think I didn't invite her."

The day progressed nicely. My aunt Patti tried to gently convince me that I needed to become part of some jewelry cult and have selling parties. I laughed. My mom laughed harder.

"I don't do candles, bags, jewelry or cookware...ever,"I said. "If they start having lure parties or pole parties, or hell, even toy parties, I might."

Jake piped up from his slouching stance against the sink. "You could put one of those earrings on a lure and get some fish that way. They like shiny things."

After the offer of a girl party was behind us, the second item on the list, and this happens almost every time, came. Patti patted her stomach and just as I was about to take a swig of coffee she said, "I'm joining Weight Watchers." Then a breath. "You look so skinny, how much do you weigh?"

A room full of people, mind you, and I am NOT skinny. I just have a worn face.

"About a buck 30 on a good day. Why the f*ck are you joining Weight Watchers? You run every day. Dad's almost dead from this morning."

"Ehhh, portion control." She crunched on a carrot stick. I looked at Alice, who is all of 100 pounds.

"I must've missed something," she said, sipping at her wine.

We decided it would be a good idea to make sure the children hadn't eaten eachother. Outside, on the "terrace" we met up with my grandmother, who arrived, a bit angry, but still able to color coordinate her shoes with her scarf and brooch. The giant post-cataract surgery sunglasses nearly ate her face. She sidled over to us, nearly gusting away with the wind.

"Hi ladies," she said, trying to keep her sunglasses on her face. We stood, me, gram and Alice, watching the children pretend to kill eachother in the yard. Alice's gaze levelled on Anna.

"Did you notice she's getting whiter?" she asked. My grandmother nearly choked. I just laughed, hard, for about 5 minutes.

"Yeah, I need to take her to the city again."

"I meant, she looks paler. Not as...bl...er...dark."

"It's ok, there's no right way to say it." The conversation died in the breeze. Alice ran to her car to get a very belated birthday gift for more grandmother.

"Come help me," she said. "We can present it together." She was snickering.

I looked in the bag and there, next to a nice manual on how to care for lilies, was the brightest pair of Crocs, yellow, I've ever seen in my life. Ever. It hurt to look at them.

"What the f*ck are those. I'm serious, what the f*ck are those?"

"Glow in the dark Crocs," she said, laughing. "Now we'll never lose her at night."

"Now she's gonna be out there gardening in the dark. The neighbors will call."

"Yup, but we'll know where she is."

Phyllis appreciated the shoes, and thankfully the sunglasses stayed on for the transaction.

The afternoon sank into wine and some old Margarita mix Dad dug out of the fridge. The baby was passed from hands to hands until she pooped, the children escaped injury and my brother liked the Leatherman I got for him. He even offered to give my older brother the free little one that came with it.

"You can trim your nails with it," he said.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Keep your eyes steady

It's been awhile, I know. But spring is here and I gotta get this garden going, blog or no blog. That said, you're probably not going to like what I've got to say. Let's talk parenting for just a second. I am fully aware of the difficulties of raising children at every stage of the game. My ten-year-old is morphing into a moody teenager as we speak. Her grumpy factor is up 900000 percent and her attitude, well, she is the only person on earth who can boil my blood in 5 seconds flat. Really boil. More so than than any unfaithful man or colicky baby ever has (or useless "tech support" operators from Bangladesh). I even said something to her about it. Yeah, that worked.

"Anna, your attitude sucks this week. If you're gonna act like this all week, you might as well stay in your room and make everybody a little happier."

"Whatever. Maybe I will stay in my room, it's the only warm room in the house anyway. It's not like you and Lucian are gonna go have some Happy Fest with Legos."

Then she slouched off grumbling under her breath. Something that sounded alarmingly like "What a b*tch. And she wonders where I get it from."

I, of course, followed her skinny ass into the bathroom. She wasn't going to get the last word. Not on my watch.

"Girl, lemme tell you something," she rolled her eyes and set down the toothpaste.

"What."

"What you're doing isn't anything new, and you better watch yourself. I invented this sh*t that you've been trying to pull lately."

"Yeah, I know, that's what Papa told me, Miss Sass."

Thanks, Dad, thanks a ton. I stormed off one way, she stormed off the other. It is Friday and we are both still fully engaged in fight mode. Lucian plays aimlessly with his Legos and makes small requests for milk and apples with peanut butter.

Now, to my point. I will not let this girl off the hook because the respect battle is one worth waging and raging until the end of time. I will also not feed her a line of bullsh*t or ice cream and fries every night. I know where she is at all times, I know who her friends are, I can smell a lie and I know when her heart is broken, even before she does. I remind her that I'm human yet I act like Superman.

We fish, we sled, we swim, we go to weird art shows and cafes, we play chess, we fight a lot, we love each other on Friday afternoon and hate each other on Saturday morning.

I know this kid because I pay attention to her and her brother. They are my study in human nature and compassion. Nobody's perfect, but don't kid yourself. Ruffling their hair and saying "I love you" is the easy part.

If you're not getting your hands dirty, you're not doing your job.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Hearts on Ice

There is purity everywhere, or most places, so I've been told. In a water droplet, there is light, in a word there is enlightenment, in a look there is love.

And so on and so forth, enough to make me gag.

I am beginning to wonder, however, if this is true. The water that drips off my roof is filled with tar from old shingles (half of them fell off with the snow), my words are harsh and straight, and my look, well, only the kids get to see the love. I feel like they're the only ones I can trust with such a look.

Which leads me to the rather endearing conversation, one of many in the quiet moments of the morning, with the Sisco kid.

"You're my ice queen, baby, you were right."

"You know what, man, you know how you're gonna die? You're gonna choke on an ice cube. It'll come right out of my mouth and into your throat and you'll deserve it...d**chebag."

In between spurts of giggling and crying he didn't lose a beat.

"You know how you're gonna die? An ingrown horn. It's going to get infected, maybe the other one, too."

I'm not even safe in my own bed, people. Sarcasm and its glossy green armor is everywhere. So, when to let our guard down...you're asking the wrong girl. I try to take my cues from the many, open-hearted children in my life. They are not the innocent Shirley Temples of the world by any stretch. My son is devious, my daughter's mouth is undistilled venom, my teenage nephews have been lost to "sexting", and even my infant niece laughs with glee at an adult's sneer.

And yet, and yet. They have no guile, no walls and no regrets. In their presence, I know when my feet stink, my swearing is extensive and my eyes are baggy.

I also know when my dress looks nice, my smile is beautiful and I am the only person alive who can make "me laugh like that."

Thank you children, for your big hearts and honest eyes. I am sure that by the time you understand this blog you will be wearing that nasty armor.

Keep your horns clean!

Monday, February 14, 2011

Snarky love

I know what you're thinking, "Where's the jaded blog about how love sucks and Valentine's Day is a pile of Hallmark horsesh*t."

You got it, folks.

Singles' Awareness Day is, in short, a personal nightmare every year. Even for screaming hippie liberals with multi-colored children, the vast echo of singletude can be heard for miles in the human heart. Fortunately, today was Monday and I was naturally miserable anyway and so the sting of VD was a little less, well, sting-y.

But still...the red and pink displays that greet me in the front of the supermarket, the rampant FTD commercials (which I of course have renamed STD) on TV and the sickening heart-bedecked ads for overpriced "lover" meals at local eateries are all sly bitter reminders of my many failed attempts at L-O-V-E.

Several relationships, one marriage and two baby daddies later (and four days from my 34th birthday) I have learned not to expect any magic on this historically bloody, syrupy blip on the Roman calendar.

And, of course, this is the year that I find myself with an equally jaded companion who "gets" my cynicism and may even like me more for it. What can two souls do, who have no respect for the great American day of love?

We make fun of each other and the L.L. Bean-wearing, middle-aged quartet swilling themselves in wine at the table next door. And bemoan our lust/love foibles that got us here in the first place.

"That's us babe," he says shooting a glance to the other table. "Except that guy has more hair than I do."

"Nope, not us, not me anyway," I say, laughing. "I'm not cutting my hair that short. That means I've given up. And I will have my real teeth at that age. I would be devastated without my real teeth."

"That reminds me, did you know that females prefer longer, thicker penises?"

I practically choke on my pasta. Penne, ironically.

"I'm serious. Men with smaller penises are slowly becoming extinct."

"Thank god."

"That's awful. Can you imagine? I feel bad for the poor guy. Goes through life alone, unlaid..."

"Tough world," I say. "Not my problem."

Which reminds me, I need to update my spam filter. Someone named Shanea Obdulia keeps sending me email trying to entice me to make my penis bigger. 100% satisfaction. The spam for hydrocodone from Mr. Guang Li offers the same satisfaction.

Oddly, they are both correct.

Happy VD...

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Buried

How the hell is everyone else doing it? Just curious. I'm sitting here, looking at the goddamn snow (and at a giant spruce tree that might finally decide to fall on my house, maybe today) and wondering if I should even bother getting out of bed.

Of course, I will. I need to grab another cup of coffee and at some point a shower is in order, but still...STILL...this winter is like a bad mountain ballad. I'm just waiting for a lady with a silver dagger to come and drive it through my heart. No roses wrapped around briers this time of year.

Back to my original question, how are you doing it? Is it a day-to-day gig where you take the winter one moment at a time and try to resist the urge to light fire to your own socks because your feet are so cold? I'm finding very small pockets of joy here and there; last night I ate my fill of oysters and went to bed warm. That was nice. And the glass of brandy I had on Thursday helped move the evening along. And who doesn't look forward to a scorching shower in the middle of the day?

In a winter like this, it really is the little things. It has to be. Everyone I talk to is broke (or broken) and depressed, or both. Oil is going like water through a sieve, food has lost its taste, a vacation means taking Valium before noon.

You get the point.

I have no real lesson to offer here. This too shall pass, that's what my mother says all the time.
Actually, she was telling me about her financial woes and I tried to comfort her with that same line.

"Don't worry, Ma, this too shall pass." I nearly choked on the words.

"Oh, f*ck that. Maybe in a couple of years but by then I won't care."

"Woooow."

Then it was her turn.

"Only six more weeks of winter according to Punksatawny Phil...and Long Island Chuck."

"Who the f*ck is Long Island Chuck?"

"The backup groundhog. Low budget."

"Oh, in case I shoot the other mofo in the head for seeing his shadow?"

"Exactly."

Good luck, folks. Steelers are gonna win, btw.

Friday, January 28, 2011

One in a million

I covered a meeting last night, the topic was "Is Berkshire County sick?" Intriguing, right? From my neutral journalist's perspective my immediate reaction was "Of course it's sick, look around you." At which point, I sat in wait to hear statistics and ideas and health care jargon while attempting to snap some kind of action shot.

The attending crowd, a polite, fairly graying bunch mostly topping 50, nodded and tsked and shook their heads as one doctor after the other presented some pretty alarming statistics about our quaint little "resort" community. I think "last resort" might be the most appropriate term.

I attempted to remain calm and neutral while the numbers were presented, yet each percentage rattled in my head. Each percentage was an affront to my dignity. Inside, the journalist melted and spilled out of the mold. I was no longer neutral. I was a number, several numbers, at which people shook their heads, myself included.

15% of children under age 18 live in poverty here--my own children are among them.
10,000 require mental health services every year--I am one of them
11% of households are single parent--check

And on and on, for every topic--cancer, teen suicide, smoking, stress, access to nutrition, income inequality, there we were, my little family of three. I eventually stopped writing and just listened, every now and then hiding behind my camera for warmth.

"How the hell am I gonna crawl out of this hole," I thought.

The ride home was somber. I was thinking about a conversation I had earlier in the day. For once, someone was asking ME questions about MY life.

"This is weird," I'd said. "I'm always the one asking the questions." Nervous laughter.

He shook his head and put pulled at his beard a little.

"I'm really sorry that you're struggling this much," he said. "And you're so young."

I was grateful for the acknowledgment of the struggle, but could've done without the tailspin of thoughts that followed. I'm so busy making sure that our little heads stay above the water that I forget that I'm actually swimming, hard, for months at a time.

However, I find hope in the fact that eventually, most of us jump in the same boat. We reach for the ones who are struggling and the stronger ones row us to shore. Yes, my little family is a census-taker's wet dream and a social service agency's worst nightmare. But I don't see that, not really, when I look at myself and the kids.

I see the only person in her whole family who went to college and finished and then went to grad school. I see a little boy with the mind of a mad genius. I see a young woman, who, by her mere existence, breaks racial and social barriers every day with gusto and a great hat. I see a woman who makes the right choices every day and sticks by them. I see a fierce mother who will do anything to make sure her children are healthy and happy and warm. I still see a future for us.

Percentages have their place, just not at my kitchen table.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Where you are

In my mind, I've been doing a lot of nagging lately, half of which comes out of my mouth. It's petty stuff, mostly, about leaving socks on the table, Legos on the floor, exploded yogurts in the lunchbox. Yet, when you combine these endless little nuisances (not caused by me) with the increasing stress of a job that thinks it can squeeze blood from a stone, a lover who thinks sleeping is a hobby akin to being a concert pianist and getting buried in snow every 5 seconds, you've got a bomb.

And there is nothing on earth more frightening than a Mom Bomb.

This is completely unrelated to the bathroom by the way.

Mom Bomb takes a lot of B vitamins and Kava Kava and chamomile tea and has recently begun exploring the use of Malbec as a sleep aid. So far, nothing has worked. With each sock that Mom Bomb flicks off of the table, with each shower argument she has, with each slam of the door she is seconds closer to putting a handkerchief on the end of a stick and heading off into the frozen, 3 p.m. sunset.

So, it was in this mindset that I was conducting an interview with a man, a leader really, who works with African-American youth and adults in the community. He has twin boys, he was a stay at home dad, he is funny, he is real. And we were talking about how communities these days tend to hold up their hands like surgeons, like somehow no one, despite being neighbors and classmates and parents, really feels like they are part of something larger than the scope of their living room. That's when he laughed ironically.

"Don't act like you don't live here," he said.

Brilliant.

I explained this phrase to the kids and I've been using that one all week, especially with the preteen who thinks that Cinderella lives in the kitchen.

"Anna, can you please put those dishes in the sink?"
"WHAT?! But I put them in the sink this morning!"
"Lucian, can you please put your dirty skivs in the hamper?"
"Why? I don't want to, they're not dirty."

"Um, guys, what'd I tell you in the car."
"We know, we know, don't act like you don't live here."

Seems to be working so far. I haven't stepped on a Lego all week, and the laundry basket is overflowing.

Monday, January 3, 2011

Resolving joy

I warned you that there were some resolutions brewing. But these are not for the weak of heart (or stomach or brain or, um, lowers). These resolutions are for those out there who are so goddamn sick of denying themselves the things that bring them the most joy so that they can "be happier" or "be healthier."

The irony of resolutions is wax dripping from a messy candle. Oh, and it does eventually harden for easy removal.

My inspiration for my resolutions, or, I should say, for my attitude towards resolutions, has been building over the last several weeks as I have fretted over virtually everything I could; money, food, family, the holidays, mothering, work, gaining weight, losing weight, losing hope, trust, health, bills, college funds...you name it, I've been nearly paralyzed worrying about it.

Until one magic yoga class on Christmas Eve. I was sitting there in a suspended lunge, my back leg shaking shamelessly, my mind unable to focus, when our instructor broke through my thoughts with, "Think about your practice. Why are you here today? You are doing a good thing for yourself."

And here I thought I was being selfish by spending $15 for a drop in and some sanity. Guess what, not selfish. I am now calling it self care. If it's going to make me saner and able to breathe easier, then, man, I'm gonna do it. Without guilt.

Of course, the yoga was just the beginning. I did read my poetry on New Year's Eve. Yes, there were other writers there, yes I was nervous, but then, there were naked women dancing and languishing in their ample frames, and that's when resolution #2 hit me. My body is not a nuisance shroud that I will eventually shed, god willing. It's awesome. It's strong. It is DIRECTLY CONNECTED to my priceless little brain, therefore, it is of use to me.

Sound like a bad essay in Cosmo? Maybe, but the truth rings clear. I've been nit-picking my poor self to death about this flaw or that. What for?! What friggin' for? So what, I've had two kids, so what I don't work out every day, so what, I LOVE cheese and bread and food and wine and dancing and nakedness and rare European perfumes and expensive cigarettes. If I sit around and wait until I'm perfect to really be able to enjoy these things, I'm gonna turn to dust. Literally. This is the shape I got, and I better start liking it now and giving it some non-Puritan attention.

You see where I'm going with all this. Resolutions should be about pleasure, not denial. Why wouldn't you try and enjoy life? Especially now, since things are so sparse and difficult. Why not people watch, eat bread, work a little, take a nap on Sunday, go for a walk at night, drink a little too much wine, fall in love with strangers or friends?

I'm going for it. I'm sure you'll read about it in the news.