It is that horrible week come 'round again. The week in which the children are sent back into the fold for February vacation. It is only Tuesday and we are all ready to eat hand grenades. I would actually eat a Claymore if need be. The dialogue this morning would perk the ears of any social worker/concerned citizen.
"Mom, if you had a shotgun, I bet you'd shoot me. Wouldn't you?"
"Why do you say that, Lucian?" Of course, the child is covered with maple syrup which I am sure he will distribute into various pockets of the living room. And in a day or two I will sit down to play the piano and Middle C and all the notes surrounding will be covered with dog hair and sticky sh*t.
"Well, whenever I do something bad you get a look. And when I do something really bad your eyebrows go straight up."
"So what does that tell you then?"
"Not to look at you when I do something bad?"
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. I was hoping he'd come to the conclusion that perhaps he shouldn't do bad things, but, of course, he didn't make it that far. In fact, he then jumped from the table almost directly on to the dog and began using the dog's ears as reigns.
Anna, on the other hand, knows to keep her actions to herself. Then when no one is looking she takes out the metaphorical dagger and hacks away at things. Her mouth is also a main source of frustration for everyone in the house.
"Anna, you need to finish cleaning your room."
"No way. That's all I'm doing for today."
These are my Linda Blair moments where I can see myself spewing green vomit and jamming a crucifix into my....eye. But I don't, I don't reach out and grab her by the ear and drag her up the stairs so that I can throw her out the window along with ALL 90000000000 toys she has. Instead, in a calm voice laced with danger I simply say, "Anna, have you lost your mind, girl? Get your *ss back up there right now and clean that sty."
Usually that's all that's required. Usually.
This is a darkly humorous bit about life as a rural mother and freelance writer in Western Massachusetts. Little Appalachia, if you will. The title, I feel, clearly reflects how life is coming at me like an overloaded freight train, and my own ridiculous response to it. Me VERSUS all; teenage children, people who want me to work for free, conservative government, food karma, weird menfolk. You'll either laugh, shrug your shoulders, or call DSS immediately. Happy reading.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The year of our lord...1929ish
Well, it could not be avoided. We had to have a family get together sooner or later. At least this time it was with a kind of dysfunction that I totally understand. I may even love it, I'm not sure.
It is my grandmother's birthday today (she told me to tell everyone that she was 51 again, so that's what we're going with). This is my mother's mother, the "originator" so to speak, of all of this sardonic wit.
Plus she gave us all her terrible diarrhea problem which my Aunt A likes to call the "Watson trotsomes". I think it's apropos.
So, the gathering at dysfunction junction (or devil's pulpit, since there were several mentions of horns) begins first with Aunt A, as I am walking into the house, trying to peel open a bottle of wine.
"Hey, you're alive. How's the f*ck are you?" And immediately following this my Aunt P, who I affectionately call Fa gives me a quick hug and somehow a pair of pants materializes and she holds them up to me.
"What size are you, right now I mean, these don't even get past my thighs."
Mind you, this woman is skinnier even than me. In fact, I would venture to say that I am the "big girl" in the family at a hefty range below 130lbs.
At this point, of course, there is the running and screaming of children in greeting and the annoying little f*cking Sheltie that I want to kill with the bottom of my boot, but since my grandmother is convinced that he is her best friend, no go.
After A LOT of banter and many comments about how the tap water smells like egg (or ass, or a combination of the two), we are ready to eat, sort of.
Thing is, most of us at the table, exempting the men and most of the kids, have some form of an eating disorder. Never been diagnosed, but it's there. It was funny to watch everyone negotiated the other's plate. Funny in a sick way.
"I told you not to get me presents," was my grandmother's angry response.
"They're not presents, they're tokens of your age."
"Don't be fresh."
The evening ended with the cutting of the cake, which my half-crippled mother cut into pieces that were so small they needed to be torn away from each other, giving each piece a "bitten-off" look. Of course, while she is doing this she is laughing without breathing. For some strange reason she decorated the edge of the cake with teddy grahams in alternating directions.
My "69" comment sent her over the edge.
Happy Birthday, Nana Fiss Fiss.
It is my grandmother's birthday today (she told me to tell everyone that she was 51 again, so that's what we're going with). This is my mother's mother, the "originator" so to speak, of all of this sardonic wit.
Plus she gave us all her terrible diarrhea problem which my Aunt A likes to call the "Watson trotsomes". I think it's apropos.
So, the gathering at dysfunction junction (or devil's pulpit, since there were several mentions of horns) begins first with Aunt A, as I am walking into the house, trying to peel open a bottle of wine.
"Hey, you're alive. How's the f*ck are you?" And immediately following this my Aunt P, who I affectionately call Fa gives me a quick hug and somehow a pair of pants materializes and she holds them up to me.
"What size are you, right now I mean, these don't even get past my thighs."
Mind you, this woman is skinnier even than me. In fact, I would venture to say that I am the "big girl" in the family at a hefty range below 130lbs.
At this point, of course, there is the running and screaming of children in greeting and the annoying little f*cking Sheltie that I want to kill with the bottom of my boot, but since my grandmother is convinced that he is her best friend, no go.
After A LOT of banter and many comments about how the tap water smells like egg (or ass, or a combination of the two), we are ready to eat, sort of.
Thing is, most of us at the table, exempting the men and most of the kids, have some form of an eating disorder. Never been diagnosed, but it's there. It was funny to watch everyone negotiated the other's plate. Funny in a sick way.
"I told you not to get me presents," was my grandmother's angry response.
"They're not presents, they're tokens of your age."
"Don't be fresh."
The evening ended with the cutting of the cake, which my half-crippled mother cut into pieces that were so small they needed to be torn away from each other, giving each piece a "bitten-off" look. Of course, while she is doing this she is laughing without breathing. For some strange reason she decorated the edge of the cake with teddy grahams in alternating directions.
My "69" comment sent her over the edge.
Happy Birthday, Nana Fiss Fiss.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Out of doge...NOW!
I got an e-mail from Expedia this morning. They are offering a 24-hour major "sale" on tickets and hotels to a city of your choice. I can honestly say that the urge to leave was very strong. And I still have until midnight to decide. Why would I leave, you ask, to go BY MYSELF to some far foreign reach for a few days.
If you have to ask, you're nuts and you should stop reading this right now.
I want to claw my own skin off, that's the truth of the matter. Winter has never been my strong suit, sh*t, I don't even have a snow suit. Here, in the midst of February (my birth month and sadly my least favorite month of the year), I am ready to bolt.
My main fear is that I will cancel the return ticket and send for the kids later on...when they're 20 or so. Just for a visit, no boyfriends or girlfriends. Just me, them, and a psycho-therapist well-trained in abandonment issues. With Paris as the backdrop.
Should be fun.
Any location suggestions would be welcome, I am seriously going and I have until midnight, so please, have at it.
If you have to ask, you're nuts and you should stop reading this right now.
I want to claw my own skin off, that's the truth of the matter. Winter has never been my strong suit, sh*t, I don't even have a snow suit. Here, in the midst of February (my birth month and sadly my least favorite month of the year), I am ready to bolt.
My main fear is that I will cancel the return ticket and send for the kids later on...when they're 20 or so. Just for a visit, no boyfriends or girlfriends. Just me, them, and a psycho-therapist well-trained in abandonment issues. With Paris as the backdrop.
Should be fun.
Any location suggestions would be welcome, I am seriously going and I have until midnight, so please, have at it.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Regression
My brother and I do a lot of texting and some talking depending on how drunk I am, how broke he is or what the status is on either of our packs of cigarettes. A recently common text, which I think we have saved so that we can send it out immediately is: "And the hits just keep on coming."
And sadly, they do. Like waves pounding on the sand that is begging for mercy. We volley the idea with each other, back and forth, wondering when the hits will subside for a bit, maybe the sea will be calm and we can take a picnic to the beach. No such luck.
Then it dawns on me. Maybe this is who we are. Maybe it's not the hits, but the reaction to the hits. Maybe, if we weren't so matter-of-fact and always wearing an ironic grin then it would ACTUALLY BE WORSE, Jesus help us!
That is an arresting thought. What if we didn't have a sense of humor? I'm guessing we wouldn't make it very far, at least not to 20 and certainly not to 30 and beyond. There must be some power in humor that I have overlooked until now. Sick power for sure, but power nonetheless.
What most families refer to as "the incident" my brother simply says, "Oh, you mean the time I tried to off myself, yeah, that was dumb." What other families try to explain away, we confront with reckless abandon. "Of course the father is black, what the hell do you think, I stole her?"
I could go on, and I will, at some point, in a book entitled: How to Laugh Your Way Through Hell.
And sadly, they do. Like waves pounding on the sand that is begging for mercy. We volley the idea with each other, back and forth, wondering when the hits will subside for a bit, maybe the sea will be calm and we can take a picnic to the beach. No such luck.
Then it dawns on me. Maybe this is who we are. Maybe it's not the hits, but the reaction to the hits. Maybe, if we weren't so matter-of-fact and always wearing an ironic grin then it would ACTUALLY BE WORSE, Jesus help us!
That is an arresting thought. What if we didn't have a sense of humor? I'm guessing we wouldn't make it very far, at least not to 20 and certainly not to 30 and beyond. There must be some power in humor that I have overlooked until now. Sick power for sure, but power nonetheless.
What most families refer to as "the incident" my brother simply says, "Oh, you mean the time I tried to off myself, yeah, that was dumb." What other families try to explain away, we confront with reckless abandon. "Of course the father is black, what the hell do you think, I stole her?"
I could go on, and I will, at some point, in a book entitled: How to Laugh Your Way Through Hell.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Killing me softly.....
Writing is giving me stomach cramps. And whatever naturally (feels pretty unnatural) follows stomach cramps. I'm trying to decide if it's my body's way of telling me to get the f*ck out of the writing world or to just let go and dive into the concrete pool. I was at the Bookloft last night and no sooner had I picked up a copy of "Ploughshares" when I started to sweat and was fighting back the urge ditch the book and "drop" my anxiety into the Price Chopper bathroom. Fortunately, I talked myself down and there was no need to purchase Depends or new underwear, but still. What is going on?
"It's your personality. You come by it honestly," was my mother's response. This after telling me she was worried that the kids would mistake acid tabs for stickers and put them on the their body. Since acid is the new drug of choice at the high school.
I wonder why I'm nervous all the time. Thanks for the heads up, Mom. Now I can lie awake even longer and think about Lucian's mind getting fried by LSD before he hits first grade. Awesome. See, I almost have to use the bathroom....again.
I'm fooling myself, actually. I know why it makes me sick....because I have to do it. I just got a short story published and some poems I wrote have made it out the door. Now, the pressure is on for me to keep going, and as you know, keeping going ain't easy. Not like this.
If you can think of any other thing to do in your life, stay away from writing. It's not glamorous. Look at all of the authors we hail as America's literati; Hemingway shot himself with a double barrel, Annie Proulx lost custody of ALL FOUR of her kids, Nathaniel Hawthorne locked himself in his attic for 13 years then married an S&M queen, Raymond Carver's life enacted itself on the inside of a halfway house and then in a hellish marriage, and what about all the guys who wrote the bible?! What must their lives have been like that they needed to piece together chapters about giving up your daughter to a gang rape, some dude sleeping in the belly of a whale, nearly cutting your son's throat...
Yeah, sounds like fun. I think I'll stick to pick-up trucks, alcoholic indians and coffee.
"It's your personality. You come by it honestly," was my mother's response. This after telling me she was worried that the kids would mistake acid tabs for stickers and put them on the their body. Since acid is the new drug of choice at the high school.
I wonder why I'm nervous all the time. Thanks for the heads up, Mom. Now I can lie awake even longer and think about Lucian's mind getting fried by LSD before he hits first grade. Awesome. See, I almost have to use the bathroom....again.
I'm fooling myself, actually. I know why it makes me sick....because I have to do it. I just got a short story published and some poems I wrote have made it out the door. Now, the pressure is on for me to keep going, and as you know, keeping going ain't easy. Not like this.
If you can think of any other thing to do in your life, stay away from writing. It's not glamorous. Look at all of the authors we hail as America's literati; Hemingway shot himself with a double barrel, Annie Proulx lost custody of ALL FOUR of her kids, Nathaniel Hawthorne locked himself in his attic for 13 years then married an S&M queen, Raymond Carver's life enacted itself on the inside of a halfway house and then in a hellish marriage, and what about all the guys who wrote the bible?! What must their lives have been like that they needed to piece together chapters about giving up your daughter to a gang rape, some dude sleeping in the belly of a whale, nearly cutting your son's throat...
Yeah, sounds like fun. I think I'll stick to pick-up trucks, alcoholic indians and coffee.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Poor rodent
So, the groundhog saw his shadow. Of course he saw his f*cking shadow it was partly sunny and that's what happens.
What I find truly amazing is that over 30,000 people came out at 7 o'clock in the morning to watch a groundhog sh*t himself at seeing his own shadow and knowing he was being watched by tens of thousands of people. What were those people doing? I'm assuming they were all unemployed and very bored, not to mention cold. It was 15 degrees outside.
The verdict of this strange ritual; 6 more weeks of winter. How do you figure?
And we call ourselves a rational society...wow. Rodent watching, jobless soothsayers who will go from worshiping a beaver to worshiping two football teams while tanking out on wings, nachos, beer and flashing boob images.
And we wonder why we're slipping as a country and a culture.
Did I mention that NBC is so desperate for cash that they sold a Superbowl ad slot to a pro-life organization? Yup. Right as you take that big, cold swallow of beer an unborn fetus will flash on the screen.
Amazing. Simply amazing. Can't wait for the halftime show when Taylor Swift and Beyonce flash their nipples and lip sink and dry hump their way through a Stones song.
We need a new national anthem.
What I find truly amazing is that over 30,000 people came out at 7 o'clock in the morning to watch a groundhog sh*t himself at seeing his own shadow and knowing he was being watched by tens of thousands of people. What were those people doing? I'm assuming they were all unemployed and very bored, not to mention cold. It was 15 degrees outside.
The verdict of this strange ritual; 6 more weeks of winter. How do you figure?
And we call ourselves a rational society...wow. Rodent watching, jobless soothsayers who will go from worshiping a beaver to worshiping two football teams while tanking out on wings, nachos, beer and flashing boob images.
And we wonder why we're slipping as a country and a culture.
Did I mention that NBC is so desperate for cash that they sold a Superbowl ad slot to a pro-life organization? Yup. Right as you take that big, cold swallow of beer an unborn fetus will flash on the screen.
Amazing. Simply amazing. Can't wait for the halftime show when Taylor Swift and Beyonce flash their nipples and lip sink and dry hump their way through a Stones song.
We need a new national anthem.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Would-be men
My son punched his own tooth out yesterday. Fortunately it was loose already and also fortunately the little guy has a great sense of humor and appreciation for the ironic. Still, he punched out his own tooth.
"Hey, MOM!!! My other front tooth is gone." He smiled at me, the blood still fresh on his mouth. For a brief, heart stopping second I thought he had punched out his recently acquired adult tooth.
"Wow, that's great, Bud. More money from the tooth fairy, huh?"
"Actually, I wish you guys would call me Sport."
"Um, OK, Sport. Sorry."
"Do you think the tooth fairy is going to give me five bucks, or maybe more this time because I punched it out?"
"I think the rates are fixed, Bu---uh, Sport."
And so, right as sleep nearly crept in, Jon sat up in bed, as millions of parents do, and said "Oh, sh*t, the tooth."
We then scrambled in the dark for money. I pulled a one-dollar-bill out of my wallet and Jon shook his head.
"No, no, that's not enough. I've been giving him fives."
"What the fu---fives?! That seems like a lot for a little rotted, nasty tooth."
"Inflation."
"Right."
So, now Lucian has about 20 bucks sitting on his dresser. He wants to give five to the Haiti fund at school and keep the rest "for a big toy."
I do not have the heart to tell him that $15 will not get him a big toy. It won't get him a big anything. In fact, I think the 5 bucks will go further.
"Hey, MOM!!! My other front tooth is gone." He smiled at me, the blood still fresh on his mouth. For a brief, heart stopping second I thought he had punched out his recently acquired adult tooth.
"Wow, that's great, Bud. More money from the tooth fairy, huh?"
"Actually, I wish you guys would call me Sport."
"Um, OK, Sport. Sorry."
"Do you think the tooth fairy is going to give me five bucks, or maybe more this time because I punched it out?"
"I think the rates are fixed, Bu---uh, Sport."
And so, right as sleep nearly crept in, Jon sat up in bed, as millions of parents do, and said "Oh, sh*t, the tooth."
We then scrambled in the dark for money. I pulled a one-dollar-bill out of my wallet and Jon shook his head.
"No, no, that's not enough. I've been giving him fives."
"What the fu---fives?! That seems like a lot for a little rotted, nasty tooth."
"Inflation."
"Right."
So, now Lucian has about 20 bucks sitting on his dresser. He wants to give five to the Haiti fund at school and keep the rest "for a big toy."
I do not have the heart to tell him that $15 will not get him a big toy. It won't get him a big anything. In fact, I think the 5 bucks will go further.
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