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...

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.