You know that whole "out of the mouths of babes" philosophy? Yeah, well, we've been having a lot of those moments lately. I mean A LOT. I can't even keep up with the ethereal yet earthly sentences which seem to pour out of the mouths of these babes. Clearly, a syndicated show is in order, but it would have to air on HBO, no doubt. Just this morning, my son informed me of one of the many new skills he has acquired since not being in school for two weeks. Apparently, this frees up time to work on his oddness and general recklessness. Oh, and death-defying tricks on the trampoline, which have brought me to the brink of cardiac arrest. Especially the other day when he, armed with his foam Thor hammer, executed a perfect backflip only to be launched off of said trampoline and nearly into his sister's lap as she lay reading peacefully on the hammock. The yell was stuck in my throat as I watched him shake his floppy bangs and jump back on the giant dinnerplate of death.
So, there he was, bright an early, lounging on the couch waiting for me to appear from the upstairs lair of my sleep.
"Hey, Mom. How's it going?"
"Let's cut the small talk," I grumbled. "How long have you been awake? I thought you said you were sleeping in this morning."
"I tried. I made to 5:47. Then I just had to face the day. Did you know that I can make my nipples turn purple?"
It was a good goddamn thing I didn't have a mouthful of coffee. It would have been all over the couch.
"And, how, my son, do you do that?" I dreaded the answer.
"Pretty basic. Squeeze them really hard."
"I see. And do you do this trick with any other body parts? The whole purple thing?" The vision of my future grandchildren hovered in the distance.
"No. Wait, what other parts?"
"Nevermind. Cream of Wheat or oatmeal this morning?"
That, my friends, is just a slice of the reality pie that we eat every day around here.
The other day, when the boy asked (in the car) if he could start using cologne, his wicked older sister turned her head and gaped. I watched it all infold in the rearview mirror.
"What, why do you want to wear cologne? You barely remember to wear boxers!"
"Because I stink. And besides, deodorant gives you cancer."
I wonder what else they have said to eachother. What other strange and enlightening quips have I missed over the years? Do I even want to know. Anna just recently confessed that she used to piss all over the kitchen floor (at age 3) because she was mad that I had another baby.
"Oh, I was just upset," she said. "You know, jealous. Must've been an attention thing."
"Could you, maybe, have found another, more positive way to get my attention. I really didn't enjoy cleaning up your shit. Literally."
"I probably could've," she said, glancing nonchalantly at her gnawed off fingernails. "But it just wasn't my style."
And so urinating was her style? It wasn't my "style" to keep calm and mop that business up almost every day while slaving over a colicky infant. Or to do the whole "wholesome mommy" thing and really investigate her feelings and try to heal this supposed trauma of having a brother.
"Don't worry, I haven't done that in years," she said. "I'm totally over it now."
"Anna, if you pissed on the floor now, I would take you to the police station. Or the hospital. It depends."
"Just take me to Nana's house. She doesn't mind a little pee."
Wow. Yup, definitely a little show here somewhere.
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.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Friday, June 15, 2012
Hanging plants
I just finished reading "Bastard Out of Carolina." If you are a sensitive, "Woman's Day" kind of person, I wouldn't delve into this novel. If you like grit in your teeth, hair and heart, this is a book for you.
This is where the spoiler alert would go, but I ain't giving up the ghost. Suffice it to say, this novel touches on all things dear to my little black heart; broken men, strong women, poverty, young motherhood, peach moonshine and survival. That last bit gets right to the core of the matter.
How have we made it this far? I am in constant awe that I am 35. Awe and dread, because I thought for sure that I wasn't long for this mortal coil. In fact, 30 was supposed to be the magic age. I could feel the shadow looming by the time I was 27 years old. Life, then, was not good. I was sick of being poor, sick of moving from house to house, sick of being sick, sick of feeling guilty about my non-conventional parenting style. Sick of drinking and burying.
The woods were thick and I was so, so lost.
Sounds like a bad opening scene to a Nicholas Sparks novel (gag, cough, puke), but it's true. The tidal wave of life was drowning me, filling my nostrils with salt and grit. To think that humor and Maker's Mark were the taproots of my existence...sad stuff really.
And family, my god, family. The main character in the novel, a 12-year-old girl goes by the name of Bone, must have been taken out of the Dupont family scrapbook or something. I saw everyone in Bone, including myself. There was my daughter, an unofficial bastard, strutting around in her Converse, not knowing, never caring about the big empty hole on her birth certificate. There was my grandmother, snapping the ends off of peas, alternately weeping and humming listening to Carter family classics on the radio. And there I was, and there was my mother, physically numb to harm, living a tough life with a recklessness that many would deem dangerous. Everybody's washcloth, nobody's love.
Like I said, gritty stuff.
I will never know what happened to Bone, the novel ends pretty abruptly (and, of course, violently). But I can guess. Oh, I can guess. If all goes relatively well, she will be weeding the hell out of her garden one day and suddenly realize that she is worth something. A lot of something. She might even crack open a beer on her back steps and shake her head in disbelief and pride that the children are fed, the garden is yielding and that love is just the gravy on the grits.
It's a hellish road, but you have to start somewhere. You might even have to kick the crap out of that 12-year-old living inside you that keeps telling you that you are all that you will ever be.
Horseshit.
This is where the spoiler alert would go, but I ain't giving up the ghost. Suffice it to say, this novel touches on all things dear to my little black heart; broken men, strong women, poverty, young motherhood, peach moonshine and survival. That last bit gets right to the core of the matter.
How have we made it this far? I am in constant awe that I am 35. Awe and dread, because I thought for sure that I wasn't long for this mortal coil. In fact, 30 was supposed to be the magic age. I could feel the shadow looming by the time I was 27 years old. Life, then, was not good. I was sick of being poor, sick of moving from house to house, sick of being sick, sick of feeling guilty about my non-conventional parenting style. Sick of drinking and burying.
The woods were thick and I was so, so lost.
Sounds like a bad opening scene to a Nicholas Sparks novel (gag, cough, puke), but it's true. The tidal wave of life was drowning me, filling my nostrils with salt and grit. To think that humor and Maker's Mark were the taproots of my existence...sad stuff really.
And family, my god, family. The main character in the novel, a 12-year-old girl goes by the name of Bone, must have been taken out of the Dupont family scrapbook or something. I saw everyone in Bone, including myself. There was my daughter, an unofficial bastard, strutting around in her Converse, not knowing, never caring about the big empty hole on her birth certificate. There was my grandmother, snapping the ends off of peas, alternately weeping and humming listening to Carter family classics on the radio. And there I was, and there was my mother, physically numb to harm, living a tough life with a recklessness that many would deem dangerous. Everybody's washcloth, nobody's love.
Like I said, gritty stuff.
I will never know what happened to Bone, the novel ends pretty abruptly (and, of course, violently). But I can guess. Oh, I can guess. If all goes relatively well, she will be weeding the hell out of her garden one day and suddenly realize that she is worth something. A lot of something. She might even crack open a beer on her back steps and shake her head in disbelief and pride that the children are fed, the garden is yielding and that love is just the gravy on the grits.
It's a hellish road, but you have to start somewhere. You might even have to kick the crap out of that 12-year-old living inside you that keeps telling you that you are all that you will ever be.
Horseshit.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Innards
Let me preface this post by saying that I was just looking at potential bathing suits/bikinis online. While the colors and styles are inspired by old Havana, the model looks like she could use a bucket of fried chicken and trip to Dairy Queen, you know, maybe grow some hips, boobs, something. It was hard to take her seriously when I am assuming her shoes weigh more than she does. Havana my ass.
Anywho, I promised my best girl pal that I would write about the experience we had yesterday. And I want to do it now, while the whole thing is still fresh in my mind.
It all began with a trip to the mall. I hate malls. I mean truly despise them. In fact, I think that at the front entrance to every mall, there should be a kiosk where you can buy anti-depressants and nip bottles of Wild Turkey. That's for starters. Maybe some Imitrex, too, for the inevitable migraine you will get.
But, I love her, and she, I don't think, doesn't know how much I hate malls (well maybe now she does). We were on a mission to get her a decent suit for a job interview. Sounds pretty simple, right? I mean, it's a suit. Pants, jacket, shoes to match, you're done.
Not quite, Nichole. Not quite. You see, like almost every other woman I know, my friend has a unique figure. She calls herself a pear. I tell her she has more curves than 40 miles of bad road. And let's just say that it's hard to put a pear in a matchbox. Our first stop was at Lane Bryant, a supposed "plus size" store. Although, I have no idea what that even means. Plus what? Plus the 85 lbs a runway model weighs?
A trip to the dressing room revealed that the blazers were gonna work great. A second trip indicated that pants were going to be a problem.
"We can just try Macy's" we both agreed nonchalantly. Yeah, sure. Way, way back in a neglected corner of the store, that wasn't well-lit and smelled weird, the "women's 14-24" section loomed lonely. A thorough combing over of the pants options revealed a)that most of the pants were elastic waist "mom" pants with no style at all b) the only color options were brown, navy and black and c) you have to be at least 6 feet tall in order to wear plus sizes.
It was a depressing adventure.
"I want you to blog about this," she said. "This right here, this is how it has been for me. Welcome to my hell." I could feel her confidence fading. On the car ride to the mall, we were both piss and vinegar. Sarcastic, laughing, optimistic--talking about our, ahem, conquests, our accomplishments, the awesome dinners we did and didn't make.
All over a f*cking pair of pants.
Later, after a few crappy mojitos and mediocre margaritas, the car ride home (most of which we travelled in neutral due to a "fuel level misunderstanding") provided me with a confessional opportunity.
"Ya know, I think this has less to do with what's on the outside than what's on the inside," I said. "I put on a good show for the most part, but sometimes, girl, I feel like an ugly-ass seventh grader, a freak trapped in a woman's body. God, we're good at messing ourselves up."
"We're experts," she said, lighting her third cigarette. "I think everybody is like that. Inside themselves, I mean. Some of them can hide it really well."
"Or, they're just too cocky to even know where that mess is."
"Yeah, well, once you find it, you gotta clean it up, and that's no fun."
Anywho, I promised my best girl pal that I would write about the experience we had yesterday. And I want to do it now, while the whole thing is still fresh in my mind.
It all began with a trip to the mall. I hate malls. I mean truly despise them. In fact, I think that at the front entrance to every mall, there should be a kiosk where you can buy anti-depressants and nip bottles of Wild Turkey. That's for starters. Maybe some Imitrex, too, for the inevitable migraine you will get.
But, I love her, and she, I don't think, doesn't know how much I hate malls (well maybe now she does). We were on a mission to get her a decent suit for a job interview. Sounds pretty simple, right? I mean, it's a suit. Pants, jacket, shoes to match, you're done.
Not quite, Nichole. Not quite. You see, like almost every other woman I know, my friend has a unique figure. She calls herself a pear. I tell her she has more curves than 40 miles of bad road. And let's just say that it's hard to put a pear in a matchbox. Our first stop was at Lane Bryant, a supposed "plus size" store. Although, I have no idea what that even means. Plus what? Plus the 85 lbs a runway model weighs?
A trip to the dressing room revealed that the blazers were gonna work great. A second trip indicated that pants were going to be a problem.
"We can just try Macy's" we both agreed nonchalantly. Yeah, sure. Way, way back in a neglected corner of the store, that wasn't well-lit and smelled weird, the "women's 14-24" section loomed lonely. A thorough combing over of the pants options revealed a)that most of the pants were elastic waist "mom" pants with no style at all b) the only color options were brown, navy and black and c) you have to be at least 6 feet tall in order to wear plus sizes.
It was a depressing adventure.
"I want you to blog about this," she said. "This right here, this is how it has been for me. Welcome to my hell." I could feel her confidence fading. On the car ride to the mall, we were both piss and vinegar. Sarcastic, laughing, optimistic--talking about our, ahem, conquests, our accomplishments, the awesome dinners we did and didn't make.
All over a f*cking pair of pants.
Later, after a few crappy mojitos and mediocre margaritas, the car ride home (most of which we travelled in neutral due to a "fuel level misunderstanding") provided me with a confessional opportunity.
"Ya know, I think this has less to do with what's on the outside than what's on the inside," I said. "I put on a good show for the most part, but sometimes, girl, I feel like an ugly-ass seventh grader, a freak trapped in a woman's body. God, we're good at messing ourselves up."
"We're experts," she said, lighting her third cigarette. "I think everybody is like that. Inside themselves, I mean. Some of them can hide it really well."
"Or, they're just too cocky to even know where that mess is."
"Yeah, well, once you find it, you gotta clean it up, and that's no fun."
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
It probably isn't a mystery to anyone that most coporate-type environments are run like African villages. At least, that's been my experience over the years. The women in the office hustle around all day getting sh*t done and the higher ups, mostly men, sit under the proverbial tree drinking palm wine until they cannot stand up. The whole time waving their arms around, yelling out an order or two, talking politics and gambling. Never, of course, offering up praise or, in most cases, help.
It's a sad metaphor, but so far, I have yet to see it any differently.
Many of us worker bees, in addition to the heavy workload, also have babies (figurative or literal) strapped to our backs, and when we return to our respective villages from a long day "in the fields" we are expected to prepare meals, issue tasks, scrub the children clean, address the dwindling sexual needs of the dominant male, and then, with not an ounce of energy left in us, fall into a dead sleep, only to do the whole thing over again the next day.
Sounds like fun, right?
This would, by the way, be a good time to give a shout out to the non-corporate gents who abstain from the palm wine and make it a point to shoulder at least half of the burden of life and work with the women. You are the rock upon which your children can comfortably lean. Here, here!
I recently resigned from the dysfunctional village. It wasn't for lack of love or lack of work ethic, but there comes a point when the sun blares too hot, the day is too long and the children are too neglected.
Yes, I am speaking in metaphorical code here, but it has a nice ring to it!
Or, there comes a day, when you are driving home from a long, long day at work, and the men under the tree decide that, in addition to your workload, they will throw coconuts at you and see if you can deflect them before they hit you square in the head. That is the a-ha moment.
At least, that was my a-ha moment. There is something wrong with popping two extra strength Tylenol, four Bayers, a Zantac pill and three Kava Kava every day just to make it through the morning. Washing it all down with a coffee you barely have time to drink and then somehow, being productive amidst insult, injury and flourescent lights.
Again, a bit metaphorical. My a-ha moment really took hold when I noticed the gray tinge to my colleagues' faces, and when I realized that I was training my future boss.
I guess I just can't swallow that much sh*t pie. It doesn't go so well with the breakfast cocktail of pain relievers and mood stabilizers. I generally like pie, but not that kind.
Ironically, I loved my role in the village. I ignored the men laying under trees and learned so much from the other worker bees and the amazing people just outside of the hive.
It's off to a new village, I suppose. Hopefully the chief is sober and the trees aren't for loitering.
It's a sad metaphor, but so far, I have yet to see it any differently.
Many of us worker bees, in addition to the heavy workload, also have babies (figurative or literal) strapped to our backs, and when we return to our respective villages from a long day "in the fields" we are expected to prepare meals, issue tasks, scrub the children clean, address the dwindling sexual needs of the dominant male, and then, with not an ounce of energy left in us, fall into a dead sleep, only to do the whole thing over again the next day.
Sounds like fun, right?
This would, by the way, be a good time to give a shout out to the non-corporate gents who abstain from the palm wine and make it a point to shoulder at least half of the burden of life and work with the women. You are the rock upon which your children can comfortably lean. Here, here!
I recently resigned from the dysfunctional village. It wasn't for lack of love or lack of work ethic, but there comes a point when the sun blares too hot, the day is too long and the children are too neglected.
Yes, I am speaking in metaphorical code here, but it has a nice ring to it!
Or, there comes a day, when you are driving home from a long, long day at work, and the men under the tree decide that, in addition to your workload, they will throw coconuts at you and see if you can deflect them before they hit you square in the head. That is the a-ha moment.
At least, that was my a-ha moment. There is something wrong with popping two extra strength Tylenol, four Bayers, a Zantac pill and three Kava Kava every day just to make it through the morning. Washing it all down with a coffee you barely have time to drink and then somehow, being productive amidst insult, injury and flourescent lights.
Again, a bit metaphorical. My a-ha moment really took hold when I noticed the gray tinge to my colleagues' faces, and when I realized that I was training my future boss.
I guess I just can't swallow that much sh*t pie. It doesn't go so well with the breakfast cocktail of pain relievers and mood stabilizers. I generally like pie, but not that kind.
Ironically, I loved my role in the village. I ignored the men laying under trees and learned so much from the other worker bees and the amazing people just outside of the hive.
It's off to a new village, I suppose. Hopefully the chief is sober and the trees aren't for loitering.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)