We have two bloodhounds and I swear they are the DUMBEST creatures, besides Skinheads and infidel politicians, that I have ever seen. Three times today I caught Ruby, dumb bloodhound #1 with her giant paws draped over the sink, her head bent over a mayonnaise jar that was soaking. She was drinking mayonnaise water. Just saying it makes me want to gag. And she did it three f***ing times!!! By the last time I grabbed a plastic bowling pin that Lucian kindly left in the middle of the living room and bopped her on the head with it. Even then, she took her time getting down. Again, this is why I have a 'script for nitro in my medicine cabinet. I get enraged and then there is no turning around for me, even at 32 years old. Just fabulous.
After I beat the hell out of the dog and dumped the aforesaid mayo water I went to get the kids. We weren't even in the car 5 minutes when Anna piped up with one of her little third-grade profundities.
"Hey, you know how sometimes a boy's penis swells up?"
OH MY F***ING GOD, play it cool, Nichole, play it cool girl.
"Um yeah, what about it, Anna?"
Don't go off the road, keep your voice level, OH MY F***ING GOD!
"Well, I think that's why high school boys wear baggy pants a lot. So that when that happens, they don't have to worry. What do you think?"
"You might be right, Anna. But I wouldn't point that out to your friends at school."
"Why do boys' penises sw..."
"Oop, we're home. Here we are. Don't forget to take your book bags out of the car, OK?"
Crisis averted, at least for now. And how does one answer that question. Why do they swell, because they're dicks, that's why.
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.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Altered states
Sorry for the every other day pattern that's been happening of late. It's the kind of week where I get my coat on, get my notepad and pen, charge the batteries for the camera, start the car, and am just about to head out the door when the phone rings, and something needs to be taken care of right there and then, no exceptions.
I'm sure you get it. It's one of the consequences of a) freelancing and b) choosing your art as the means by which you buy groceries.
Not smart. I took a phone interview in a parking lot yesterday, and at a rest stop last week. Very shady stuff. In fact, I've had a cop following me up Route 7 for the past week. I almost want him to pull me over and search the car. I will get some sick amusement out of watching him sift through the granola bar wrappers and plastic figures in the back. And I will really enjoy watching him blush a million different shades when he finds that my glove box is filled with blank "thank you" cards and multiple feminine items, including a green thong from a poetry reading at a bra store.
And lucky me, I'll have the camera with me.
Just as an aside, my children bring home P.T.O. fundraiser forms every two seconds. I'm not sure what's expected of the parents, seeings how we are in the worst economy since the Civil War. And every fundraiser so far has involved food. Not granola, tofu, herbal tea food but big-ass bake your own, or eat it raw cookie doughs, cinnamon buns, vats of hot chocolate food. The latest "Valentine's" fundraiser is a picture book filled with chocolates. Now, I am the first person to profess my love for chocolate (dark only, preferably bitter), but I am also the first to point to the childhood obesity statistics in this country. 1 out of every 5. I'm thinking the next fundraiser should be peddling stair masters, really bouncy balls, and acai berry cleansers.
And the prize is a day with the Super Nanny and Dr. Oz.
America!
I'm sure you get it. It's one of the consequences of a) freelancing and b) choosing your art as the means by which you buy groceries.
Not smart. I took a phone interview in a parking lot yesterday, and at a rest stop last week. Very shady stuff. In fact, I've had a cop following me up Route 7 for the past week. I almost want him to pull me over and search the car. I will get some sick amusement out of watching him sift through the granola bar wrappers and plastic figures in the back. And I will really enjoy watching him blush a million different shades when he finds that my glove box is filled with blank "thank you" cards and multiple feminine items, including a green thong from a poetry reading at a bra store.
And lucky me, I'll have the camera with me.
Just as an aside, my children bring home P.T.O. fundraiser forms every two seconds. I'm not sure what's expected of the parents, seeings how we are in the worst economy since the Civil War. And every fundraiser so far has involved food. Not granola, tofu, herbal tea food but big-ass bake your own, or eat it raw cookie doughs, cinnamon buns, vats of hot chocolate food. The latest "Valentine's" fundraiser is a picture book filled with chocolates. Now, I am the first person to profess my love for chocolate (dark only, preferably bitter), but I am also the first to point to the childhood obesity statistics in this country. 1 out of every 5. I'm thinking the next fundraiser should be peddling stair masters, really bouncy balls, and acai berry cleansers.
And the prize is a day with the Super Nanny and Dr. Oz.
America!
Monday, January 25, 2010
Lake Woe-be-gone
I am looking out into what used to be my yard, wondering if the dogs have drowned. Even the trees look shorter in this biblical flooding and there seems to be no end in sight. I'm trying to gather the courage to look in the basement but I don't think I've had enough coffee for that yet.
Or scotch.
Is god trying to tell us something do you think? I remember when I was a kid my grandmother used to say that god was crying when it rained like this. Apparently he went bowling before his crying jags because that was how she explained the thunder. Weird.
Certainly, there is a lot to cry about. The logician in me sees nothing to the rain except weather patterns and a sh*tload of moisture.
The metaphor-seeking Cretan writer sees the tears of a lifetime of spirits weeping for what the living have done to the physical earth.
Or...I see a not-so-subtle hint that if we can't wash ourselves clean, then somebody else is gonna do it for us. That means behind the ears and everything.
Well, I'm off. I think I'm going to nab the oars from the canoe in case the Scion starts floating down the highway.
Or scotch.
Is god trying to tell us something do you think? I remember when I was a kid my grandmother used to say that god was crying when it rained like this. Apparently he went bowling before his crying jags because that was how she explained the thunder. Weird.
Certainly, there is a lot to cry about. The logician in me sees nothing to the rain except weather patterns and a sh*tload of moisture.
The metaphor-seeking Cretan writer sees the tears of a lifetime of spirits weeping for what the living have done to the physical earth.
Or...I see a not-so-subtle hint that if we can't wash ourselves clean, then somebody else is gonna do it for us. That means behind the ears and everything.
Well, I'm off. I think I'm going to nab the oars from the canoe in case the Scion starts floating down the highway.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Suggestions
Children are ruthless creatures. Truly heartless. For instance, when my 6-year-old son suddenly bursts into the bathroom while I'm frantically trying to jump in the shower and his eyes go VERY wide.
"What are those lines on your stomach, Mom?"
"They're reminders that I don't need to have any more kids."
"They're ugly reminders."
Thanks, Lucian. Really appreciate it. Or when the more devious 9-year-old sneaks up behind me and tries to jiggle the fat on the back of my visually scrawny arm.
"Oh my god, Mom, look how it keeps moving."
"It's hyper," I say, pulling on a thick sweater. It's hard to know whether to cry, laugh, or grab them by the back of the neck and throw them out the door. Usually, I just laugh.
"Well, it's not like you guys were small babies."
"Well, it's not like we're babies anymore. You're so skinny but you're so round at the same time."
Little angels. At which point I bite my tongue to keep from mentioning that Anna has appalling body odor and she should eat deodorant for breakfast, or that Lucian's morning breath could kill a walrus, or that the condition of their rooms is equivalent to a sh*tstorm...etc., etc.....
Not a word. The world, in its infinite mercilessness will pick fault with them in plenty of time. I'm here to cushion the blow and carry the pom-poms.
"What are those lines on your stomach, Mom?"
"They're reminders that I don't need to have any more kids."
"They're ugly reminders."
Thanks, Lucian. Really appreciate it. Or when the more devious 9-year-old sneaks up behind me and tries to jiggle the fat on the back of my visually scrawny arm.
"Oh my god, Mom, look how it keeps moving."
"It's hyper," I say, pulling on a thick sweater. It's hard to know whether to cry, laugh, or grab them by the back of the neck and throw them out the door. Usually, I just laugh.
"Well, it's not like you guys were small babies."
"Well, it's not like we're babies anymore. You're so skinny but you're so round at the same time."
Little angels. At which point I bite my tongue to keep from mentioning that Anna has appalling body odor and she should eat deodorant for breakfast, or that Lucian's morning breath could kill a walrus, or that the condition of their rooms is equivalent to a sh*tstorm...etc., etc.....
Not a word. The world, in its infinite mercilessness will pick fault with them in plenty of time. I'm here to cushion the blow and carry the pom-poms.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
In the mourning
Sorry I didn't post yesterday, I was in a stupor of depressed disbelief at the election results for my gallant state of Massachusetts. Actually, after the results were announced I started looking at houses in other states and I don't even think it was a whim. I'm not a "give the guy a chance" kind of girl, especially after the grotesque scar that Bush left on this country's landscape and people. "Give the guy a chance" seems more like a pacifist stance than a move toward unity. I'm having flashbacks of the beginning of the Bush dyn"ass"ty when I was 2 months away from giving birth to Anna. In fact, when the skewed election results were announced (remember the "hanging chad" in Florida, sounds like a cancer in your privates or something) I almost went into labor. There were contractions. Consider what was at stake then; a young, pregnant, single woman with two jobs living in an apartment under drug dealers, the child would be born in a small community where the judged and the judges exchange roles daily, and her African/Indian/French parentage would be on display for all the ignorant ones to tsk at.
And so it begins again. A climate of fear, angst, conservatism, distrust and bigotry. The fight becomes harder, as if that were possible. But, I am reminded of a song/poem that Sweet Honey croons to me when my spirits are down and out, "I'm gonna stay on the battlefield 'til I die."
Not much choice. And besides, even knowing that the scars of life will never go away, I still enjoy the fight. The dawn seems so much sweeter after the fight.
And so it begins again. A climate of fear, angst, conservatism, distrust and bigotry. The fight becomes harder, as if that were possible. But, I am reminded of a song/poem that Sweet Honey croons to me when my spirits are down and out, "I'm gonna stay on the battlefield 'til I die."
Not much choice. And besides, even knowing that the scars of life will never go away, I still enjoy the fight. The dawn seems so much sweeter after the fight.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
All in favor....
I was watching Wanda Sykes's "Sick and Tired" routine last night and two things stood out. One was that I was laughing so hard I almost peed. I mean laugh out loud, wicked woman snickering, especially when she said to the general male audience "Oh, you didn't know that, we try to imagine killing you at least once a day. Sometimes 2 or 3 times a day." I cannot tell you how many times I've stood there shaking my head at my male counterparts, mostly in disbelief.
"So, you mean you just slept with her knowing her boyfriend was in the apartment next door?"
"Yup."
"So, you thought I wouldn't find the frilly pink panties on the floor?"
"Yup."
"So, you told her she needed to lose more than a few pounds if she wanted to be happy?"
"Yup."
"You told her to suck it up when she was having contractions?"
"Yup."
I could continue, but I won't because I don't have my heart medication on hand.
The second thing I noticed about my hero Wanda was her observation that as you get older you just don't give a f***. Now that is a profound truth! I've been feeling that way for a few months now, and the feeling is becoming more intense. It's a little scary and reckless. But, man, so freeing at the same time.
"Mom, is it OK if I wear the same pair of pants three days in a row?"
"I don't give a f***, honey."
"Do you want me to put the eggs with the bread?"
"Do I look like I give a f***?
"We don't have any toilet paper."
"Sorry, I just don't give a f***."
My only hope is that my face does not betray me. Supposedly, it has been very transparent these days and so the potential for offense is in the Orange Zone. That's why I've been staying at home a lot. I've narrowed my "give a f***" factor down to a few things, and none of them involve family feuds, being a few days late with the insurance payment, or whether or not the bed is made.
I'm trying to focus on how to explain to my daughter that her classmate calling her a Negro is a bad thing. Or on the fact the we have a state Senatorial race in which a f***ing Republican might take office. Or that children IN THIS COUNTRY, and in other nations are not eating. Yeah, I do give a f*** about that. We all should.
"So, you mean you just slept with her knowing her boyfriend was in the apartment next door?"
"Yup."
"So, you thought I wouldn't find the frilly pink panties on the floor?"
"Yup."
"So, you told her she needed to lose more than a few pounds if she wanted to be happy?"
"Yup."
"You told her to suck it up when she was having contractions?"
"Yup."
I could continue, but I won't because I don't have my heart medication on hand.
The second thing I noticed about my hero Wanda was her observation that as you get older you just don't give a f***. Now that is a profound truth! I've been feeling that way for a few months now, and the feeling is becoming more intense. It's a little scary and reckless. But, man, so freeing at the same time.
"Mom, is it OK if I wear the same pair of pants three days in a row?"
"I don't give a f***, honey."
"Do you want me to put the eggs with the bread?"
"Do I look like I give a f***?
"We don't have any toilet paper."
"Sorry, I just don't give a f***."
My only hope is that my face does not betray me. Supposedly, it has been very transparent these days and so the potential for offense is in the Orange Zone. That's why I've been staying at home a lot. I've narrowed my "give a f***" factor down to a few things, and none of them involve family feuds, being a few days late with the insurance payment, or whether or not the bed is made.
I'm trying to focus on how to explain to my daughter that her classmate calling her a Negro is a bad thing. Or on the fact the we have a state Senatorial race in which a f***ing Republican might take office. Or that children IN THIS COUNTRY, and in other nations are not eating. Yeah, I do give a f*** about that. We all should.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Sentimental feelings....
I'm listening to my dryer as we speak. I think it's been eating Lucian's lunch money. All of it. I'm hoping nickle-plated coins aren't flammable, but, knowing my luck....
I had to get a birthday card for my brother today. He will be 37 (though, I feel like he surpassed 37 about 10 years ago) and today was the family soiree. Of course, picking a birthday card for one's older brother isn't an easy task. Same can be said for a gift. There are certain considerations that need to be made. One, you can't hide anything from him, and vice versa. You grew up together, through the "accidental" poopings, the braces, the bad relationship choices, the kids, the tragedies. A good card requires honesty. Two, you just spent Friday afternoon with your 13-year-old nephew who aired out the family laundry so that suddenly you know that the birthday boy has been sleepwalking and spilling gallon jugs of milk on the floor and blaming it on the dogs, pissing in laundry baskets due to bad reactions to Ambien, and taking massive amounts of steroids for an overblown case of Lyme's.
Did I mention that he goes commando most of the time? Yeah, nephews don't hold back.
So, what kind of card do you get for this guy?
Well, to be sure, I whizzed by all of the emotional, "I'm glad you're my brother" cards, which basically boils down to anything with a puppy silhouette or a sunset on the front. Which left me with the musical cards. I made an ass out of myself browsing through those. Every 2 seconds a weird song would ring out through the store and I would laugh out loud. Twice a manager scoped out the aisle to see if things were "OK."
I found a card that played "bad to the bone." It was perfect.
Now, the gift wasn't so easy. He's broke, he's had two heart surgeries, his legs are swollen like a pregnant woman's with gestational diabetes (again, Lyme's), he limps, he coughs, he wears the same corduroy Salvation Army shirt (by choice) at least 3-4 times a week.
The gift could only be one thing: A brand for the grill. You heard me, an interchangeable brand that you can customize and then sizzle on to grilled meats.
We had fun coming up with phrases to use on BBQ pork.
"I could say "f*** you if we have guests I don't like."
"Or, or, you could spell out 'use a condom' before Zeb (teen aged son) goes on a date."
Oh the possibilities. We had fun coming up with possible terms to brand on the ass end of a cow. I'm really looking forward to summer barbecues at his house. Especially given his alarming dyslexia.
Happy Birthday big guy!
I had to get a birthday card for my brother today. He will be 37 (though, I feel like he surpassed 37 about 10 years ago) and today was the family soiree. Of course, picking a birthday card for one's older brother isn't an easy task. Same can be said for a gift. There are certain considerations that need to be made. One, you can't hide anything from him, and vice versa. You grew up together, through the "accidental" poopings, the braces, the bad relationship choices, the kids, the tragedies. A good card requires honesty. Two, you just spent Friday afternoon with your 13-year-old nephew who aired out the family laundry so that suddenly you know that the birthday boy has been sleepwalking and spilling gallon jugs of milk on the floor and blaming it on the dogs, pissing in laundry baskets due to bad reactions to Ambien, and taking massive amounts of steroids for an overblown case of Lyme's.
Did I mention that he goes commando most of the time? Yeah, nephews don't hold back.
So, what kind of card do you get for this guy?
Well, to be sure, I whizzed by all of the emotional, "I'm glad you're my brother" cards, which basically boils down to anything with a puppy silhouette or a sunset on the front. Which left me with the musical cards. I made an ass out of myself browsing through those. Every 2 seconds a weird song would ring out through the store and I would laugh out loud. Twice a manager scoped out the aisle to see if things were "OK."
I found a card that played "bad to the bone." It was perfect.
Now, the gift wasn't so easy. He's broke, he's had two heart surgeries, his legs are swollen like a pregnant woman's with gestational diabetes (again, Lyme's), he limps, he coughs, he wears the same corduroy Salvation Army shirt (by choice) at least 3-4 times a week.
The gift could only be one thing: A brand for the grill. You heard me, an interchangeable brand that you can customize and then sizzle on to grilled meats.
We had fun coming up with phrases to use on BBQ pork.
"I could say "f*** you if we have guests I don't like."
"Or, or, you could spell out 'use a condom' before Zeb (teen aged son) goes on a date."
Oh the possibilities. We had fun coming up with possible terms to brand on the ass end of a cow. I'm really looking forward to summer barbecues at his house. Especially given his alarming dyslexia.
Happy Birthday big guy!
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