So lately my two year old has been swearing at me. Mostly me. Also sometimes Daddy.
He says "Fuckin you Mom!" when I'm telling him what to do or am in some way between him and the good times he could be having 24/7 if I would get off his toddler back. He always says it with his head down and even when he shouts it, it's sorta mumbled almost, if you can mumble without losing any clarity.
That's because that's the way he's heard it. Like say the power goes off for at least two seconds every thirty minutes and it frustrates me and I say "Fuckin' power!" with my head bent and at no one in particular.
We're mostly ignoring it. I think drawing attention to it just makes it worse AND I'll admit I'm not all that offended. It's in context. It's genuine. You really can't shoot a parrot when it sasses you. I have every confidence that he's intelligent enough that once he gains more impulse control he'll get it. It being the subtle nuances of language use and when and what's appropriate.
This morning I was on the telephone with my sister. Two Year Old was wallowing around on my lap. I heard him mutter "You butt" but figured it was just one of those toddler experiments with words. Here and there I was carrying on a conversation with both of them, together and separately when he said "You penis." Several times in varying degrees of authority.
A guttural snicker escaped me. "Did you hear that?" I asked my sister, bemused.
"I believe he just called you a penis" she confirmed.
"Where do you think he got that?" I wondered out loud. See, the swearing is clearly all me. When he can't get the trailer attached to the semi and he shouts "Dammit!" with his little forehead all furrowed, I know that can only come from me. A direct quote, if you will. I do not, however, have any memory of calling anyone a penis lately. Not that it would be out of this world if I did.
"You penis-butt!" he upped the ante hoping for a more satisfying reaction from me.
"I don't even HAVE a penis" I reminded him, kindly. These kinds of details escape him until we're in the shower and he's eye level with my missing piece. Getting no response that was all that interesting he slid down to the floor and went off to reek havoc elsewhere.
It amuses me, though. That he, (and likely every toddler) discovered that calling someone a penis is a thing to do so early in life. That it made him laugh. Not an elbow or an ear or a foot… a penis. To already know that at two is pretty big. What else is there? Why do we keep going on and on so long after we make all the major discoveries? And then I realized he has more to learn, he still doesn't know that you can "Dammit" and you can "Fuckin'" and you can even " You penis"…but you do not "dammit", "You penis" or "fuckin'" yer mom.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
On Inappropriate Coed Roommate Behavior
Do not answer a knock on your bedroom door wearing a knee sock as a shirt under any circumstances even if it's the sort of knocking one might do in the event of a fire as opposed to a phone call. And no it does not matter that it gave complete coverage. It is the idea that were you stacked the sock would not be enough that is just too much. It’s the motherfucking almost of it all that kills.
On Decking the Halls:
The lit Christmas tree makes me want to weep. I seriously cannot fucking stand it. I want to wrestle the postulating piney prick out onto the porch and beat the sparkling joy right the fuck out of it. I swear to you all it mocks me. Yes I know this is a full turn around from two weeks ago. What are you gonna do about it?
On Almost Thirty:
It’s such a goddamn relief to almost be unarguably an adult. Perhaps now I’m finally allowed to be childish. You’re going to want to back away as I’ve been saving up tantrums for about twenty five years of unfair. I need room for kicking.
*finger*
December 23, 2009
On Decking the Halls:
The lit Christmas tree makes me want to weep. I seriously cannot fucking stand it. I want to wrestle the postulating piney prick out onto the porch and beat the sparkling joy right the fuck out of it. I swear to you all it mocks me. Yes I know this is a full turn around from two weeks ago. What are you gonna do about it?
On Almost Thirty:
It’s such a goddamn relief to almost be unarguably an adult. Perhaps now I’m finally allowed to be childish. You’re going to want to back away as I’ve been saving up tantrums for about twenty five years of unfair. I need room for kicking.
*finger*
December 23, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
To Keep You
I hide behind your ambiguity with you not to shield myself from hurt, I’m not so stupid as to fool myself into thinking this doesn’t and won’t hurt.
I hide behind your forced uncertainty with you to avoid blame, to keep the hurting we’re doing mine alone; to keep it a familiar self-inflicted wound.
To keep it. To keep you.
I’m not sure you would be under there if I unraveled all the equivocality. Not sure that isn’t who you are. Or I am. Or we are together. Not sure when my wishes can begin and yours will end.
Pretending to make-believe with you.
Pretending there’s-no-reality-for-us isn’t our choice.
Feigning naivety of my own vulnerable exposure, as though I’m not naked when draped with your maybe and probably and almost.
Twisting and turning in wish-you-were-mine is probably just like you holding me always.
Choking and strangling on make-me-yours is almost filling me up forever.
Letting you maybe love me in-between the last one that didn’t work and the next one who might because in-between happens to be now and that should be all I want.
If all I want is everything you have to give.
December 22, 2009
I hide behind your forced uncertainty with you to avoid blame, to keep the hurting we’re doing mine alone; to keep it a familiar self-inflicted wound.
To keep it. To keep you.
I’m not sure you would be under there if I unraveled all the equivocality. Not sure that isn’t who you are. Or I am. Or we are together. Not sure when my wishes can begin and yours will end.
Pretending to make-believe with you.
Pretending there’s-no-reality-for-us isn’t our choice.
Feigning naivety of my own vulnerable exposure, as though I’m not naked when draped with your maybe and probably and almost.
Twisting and turning in wish-you-were-mine is probably just like you holding me always.
Choking and strangling on make-me-yours is almost filling me up forever.
Letting you maybe love me in-between the last one that didn’t work and the next one who might because in-between happens to be now and that should be all I want.
If all I want is everything you have to give.
December 22, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Should Be Sleeping
*If I ever admitted to feeling anything at all I almost might tell you I seem to have some sort of PTSD that gets triggered with any jolt of adrenaline leading to anxiety rivaling the pot incident of 1999. If this was a television drama it would be the kind of scene where I’m in bed and the camera shows my perspective and it’s all ceiling fan swooshing around until even a toddler would be yelling HELICOPTER, MAN!! HELICOPTER!! And then I would get all red faced and strangle someone. Except I do it all on the inside.
Where it counts.
*The repetitious minutia of my daily life seriously wears me down. It’s this slow quiet death. Make the little people dress themselves. Make the little people undress and wash. Make them dress again. Fill the dishwasher. Empty the dishwasher. Use dishes. Fill the dishwasher again. Take dirty clothes downstairs. Put in washer. Put in dryer. Fold. Take up two flights and put away. Start over. Sweep. And Sweep. And sweep again. Nearly crap pants when almost run down by wild little man speeding through the pile you just swept on tricycle. Thank Gawd you did not crap pants because you REALLY don’t need more pants to wash-dry-fold. But it’s not just that you have to do all these endless never complete tiny terrible tasks… it’s that all the people you have to do them for RESENT you for it. You have to FIGHT them to get them to BARELY cooperate. And they LIE!!! They will say they did things they did not do!! *snaps* FOR THE LOVE OF GAWD JUST BRUSH YOUR GODDAMN TEETH! DO IT FOR YOU!!!!!!!!
*You know that old joke about how men don’t notice the details of housework? Ya know what I‘m talking about? How women are insane about dust or socks strewn about and raving bitchy lunatics? I’ve discovered men notice the details of housework much more when they’re sexually frustrated. Both as something to complain about and something to do in an attempt to earn physical affection. This isn’t a discovery for the world. I suspect wives know all about this and it relates very closely to feminine “headaches” not related to mothering. It’s just I never knew it before. Not in such an obvious way. It’s not a useful discovery for women living with men they’re fucking unless they’re interested in negotiating with their body and/or giving up sex hoping for help with laundry. I mean that’s just sort of stupid if you ask me. You know what a laundry pile is? A decent place to have sex. So it’s not useful or anything- It’s just interesting for "scientific" observation argument type purposes. What might actually be useful information for husbands is that I’ve heard women don’t notice the details of housework in as bitchy a fashion when they're sexually satisfied. Just saying. Of course it takes more than washing my sweaters wrong so that they can now be sold on ebay for Chihuahuas to get me in a pile of laundry. More might be the wrong word. Something else. Yeah. It takes something else.
December 15, 2009
Where it counts.
*The repetitious minutia of my daily life seriously wears me down. It’s this slow quiet death. Make the little people dress themselves. Make the little people undress and wash. Make them dress again. Fill the dishwasher. Empty the dishwasher. Use dishes. Fill the dishwasher again. Take dirty clothes downstairs. Put in washer. Put in dryer. Fold. Take up two flights and put away. Start over. Sweep. And Sweep. And sweep again. Nearly crap pants when almost run down by wild little man speeding through the pile you just swept on tricycle. Thank Gawd you did not crap pants because you REALLY don’t need more pants to wash-dry-fold. But it’s not just that you have to do all these endless never complete tiny terrible tasks… it’s that all the people you have to do them for RESENT you for it. You have to FIGHT them to get them to BARELY cooperate. And they LIE!!! They will say they did things they did not do!! *snaps* FOR THE LOVE OF GAWD JUST BRUSH YOUR GODDAMN TEETH! DO IT FOR YOU!!!!!!!!
*You know that old joke about how men don’t notice the details of housework? Ya know what I‘m talking about? How women are insane about dust or socks strewn about and raving bitchy lunatics? I’ve discovered men notice the details of housework much more when they’re sexually frustrated. Both as something to complain about and something to do in an attempt to earn physical affection. This isn’t a discovery for the world. I suspect wives know all about this and it relates very closely to feminine “headaches” not related to mothering. It’s just I never knew it before. Not in such an obvious way. It’s not a useful discovery for women living with men they’re fucking unless they’re interested in negotiating with their body and/or giving up sex hoping for help with laundry. I mean that’s just sort of stupid if you ask me. You know what a laundry pile is? A decent place to have sex. So it’s not useful or anything- It’s just interesting for "scientific" observation argument type purposes. What might actually be useful information for husbands is that I’ve heard women don’t notice the details of housework in as bitchy a fashion when they're sexually satisfied. Just saying. Of course it takes more than washing my sweaters wrong so that they can now be sold on ebay for Chihuahuas to get me in a pile of laundry. More might be the wrong word. Something else. Yeah. It takes something else.
December 15, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Hair Today Gone Tomorrow
“Do you think we should be sorry for bald people?” I asked her idly.
“I’d be sorry for others if I were bald.” She did a voice, “I’m so sorry you have to see my scalp!”
“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Yes! But WHY? It‘s just hair or no hair. What makes the head so different? We don't want hair anywhere else.”
“What is it about balding that makes men get shorter and rounder?” Deon remarked “It never fails. They start losing their hair and suddenly they’re shorter and rounder.”
“ahahahahha! Except basketball players. I think it has to do with too much testosterone. But probably I learned that from a late night infomercial from a hair club and it doesn‘t explain your theory, just the balding.”
“They just give up. They figure they’re bald so they may as well get fat and slouch.”
“Ahahahahahahahha! I wish I could go bald and get fat and just roll places. I bet they’re warmer. Yes! They gain the weight to stay warm ‘cause they’re losing body heat through their heads!”
“There’s this hairless basketball player. Freaky. No eyebrows at all. It‘s scary. I saw him at that game I went to. No armpit hair even!”
“Gawds we're mean. Just ‘cause we have an overabundance of hair.” *obscenely large hair gets tossed over shoulder*
“You started it!”
“No I didn’t! You did! Anyway, this is what I’m saying… is balding really the sort of handicap we’re supposed to tip toe around? It’s not even a handicap. Do we really feel sorry for them? It’s fucking hair. It’s not like they’re losing limbs.”
“They need hats. We should have fundraisers and hat drives. For the bald. Let’s do something for people living with cold naked heads.”
“I’ll blog it. Get the word out.”
“You do that.”
December 08, 2009
“I’d be sorry for others if I were bald.” She did a voice, “I’m so sorry you have to see my scalp!”
“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Yes! But WHY? It‘s just hair or no hair. What makes the head so different? We don't want hair anywhere else.”
“What is it about balding that makes men get shorter and rounder?” Deon remarked “It never fails. They start losing their hair and suddenly they’re shorter and rounder.”
“ahahahahha! Except basketball players. I think it has to do with too much testosterone. But probably I learned that from a late night infomercial from a hair club and it doesn‘t explain your theory, just the balding.”
“They just give up. They figure they’re bald so they may as well get fat and slouch.”
“Ahahahahahahahha! I wish I could go bald and get fat and just roll places. I bet they’re warmer. Yes! They gain the weight to stay warm ‘cause they’re losing body heat through their heads!”
“There’s this hairless basketball player. Freaky. No eyebrows at all. It‘s scary. I saw him at that game I went to. No armpit hair even!”
“Gawds we're mean. Just ‘cause we have an overabundance of hair.” *obscenely large hair gets tossed over shoulder*
“You started it!”
“No I didn’t! You did! Anyway, this is what I’m saying… is balding really the sort of handicap we’re supposed to tip toe around? It’s not even a handicap. Do we really feel sorry for them? It’s fucking hair. It’s not like they’re losing limbs.”
“They need hats. We should have fundraisers and hat drives. For the bald. Let’s do something for people living with cold naked heads.”
“I’ll blog it. Get the word out.”
“You do that.”
December 08, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
Dew Be Random and Don't Hold Back
*I like listening to Tim McGraw’s Greatest Hits in my car when I’m feeling all fuckered or alternately when I’m really grooving on my own personal sense of wholesome and wanting to “watch my corn pop up in rows.” I’m not ashamed of this or anything. It’s just something people probably don’t know and wouldn’t guess. I have zero interest in acquiring any of his other albums or any other pop country music. I’m good, you can keep ‘em just “don’t take the girl.”
*I think of random romantic/fabulous/funny/wonderful/touching gift ideas. All the time. I don’t DO them. When you think about it most great love acts are essentially harassment or stalkerish or at the least creepy outside the exact right context. I feel like that; like the pebble on a moonlit window, the finger sliding through the steam on a mirror in the bathroom, the box of butterflies just waiting for the right reflecting pane, the hot enough shower, the correct shadow box frame to be pinned down in.
*I keep having this strange urge to get inside a Christmas tree. I mean I always like getting a Christmas tree. The entire ridiculous tradition. I like going to get the tree. I like watching them cut it. I like the ordeal of attaching it to a vehicle and the edge of your seat drive home. I like trying to get it to stand up in the shitty stand we have and I like the tantrum fight I have with the lights every goddamn year. I like our mismatched stupid ornaments. I like that it falls over on someone EVERY FUCKING YEAR and it‘s usually ME! I like all of it. The smell, the outside in, the insanity of it; it all tickles me to no end. But … this whole wanting to shimmy my body in the branches of pine thing… that’s weird. All sappy and pine scented and pokey and whatnot. Fuck tree hugging. I wanna be a tree humper. I wanna crawl right up IN a fucking tree. It’s weird but I doubt I can resist.
*…..it’s this getting warm thing. Damn it. There was a part in the last book I finished (This Book Will Save Your Life) about that.... I would quote but downstairs is a long ways away, it‘s about… coming in from the cold and how much everything has to hurt before you can feel again. How it’s just too fucking much. I’m having that except I can’t get enough. More more more. Again again again. It’s new and it’s old and it’s me alive. It’s that game the kids play where the prize is hidden and they wander the house shouting warmer! Getting warmer! Getting hot! On fire! You’re on fire!!! Keep going it’s right there you’re burning up! It’s burning me in spots but I’m not warm yet so I can’t stop. and I don't want to. :) I want to the max. No use holding back 'cause you don't get to keep anything anyway.
December 04, 2009
*I think of random romantic/fabulous/funny/wonderful/touching gift ideas. All the time. I don’t DO them. When you think about it most great love acts are essentially harassment or stalkerish or at the least creepy outside the exact right context. I feel like that; like the pebble on a moonlit window, the finger sliding through the steam on a mirror in the bathroom, the box of butterflies just waiting for the right reflecting pane, the hot enough shower, the correct shadow box frame to be pinned down in.
*I keep having this strange urge to get inside a Christmas tree. I mean I always like getting a Christmas tree. The entire ridiculous tradition. I like going to get the tree. I like watching them cut it. I like the ordeal of attaching it to a vehicle and the edge of your seat drive home. I like trying to get it to stand up in the shitty stand we have and I like the tantrum fight I have with the lights every goddamn year. I like our mismatched stupid ornaments. I like that it falls over on someone EVERY FUCKING YEAR and it‘s usually ME! I like all of it. The smell, the outside in, the insanity of it; it all tickles me to no end. But … this whole wanting to shimmy my body in the branches of pine thing… that’s weird. All sappy and pine scented and pokey and whatnot. Fuck tree hugging. I wanna be a tree humper. I wanna crawl right up IN a fucking tree. It’s weird but I doubt I can resist.
*…..it’s this getting warm thing. Damn it. There was a part in the last book I finished (This Book Will Save Your Life) about that.... I would quote but downstairs is a long ways away, it‘s about… coming in from the cold and how much everything has to hurt before you can feel again. How it’s just too fucking much. I’m having that except I can’t get enough. More more more. Again again again. It’s new and it’s old and it’s me alive. It’s that game the kids play where the prize is hidden and they wander the house shouting warmer! Getting warmer! Getting hot! On fire! You’re on fire!!! Keep going it’s right there you’re burning up! It’s burning me in spots but I’m not warm yet so I can’t stop. and I don't want to. :) I want to the max. No use holding back 'cause you don't get to keep anything anyway.
December 04, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
None of This is any of Your Business
When Mom left the first message on my machine. I could hear it from bed. The combination of a head cold and the usual unhealthy lifestyle choices leading to severe dehydration (ie dew dew smokes and more dew smokes maybe alcohol dew dew dew) had me in a fetal position weepy and whimpering and attempting to referee my children without losing my voice most of the day. She’d said something about Thanksgiving plans, something about checking on me. I should have known that was code for “needing me” but I didn’t get up and get the phone. Later that evening the machine clicked on again and her voice filled the nook we now have the computer in.
“Dew? Dew are you there?…” and I picked up because her voice told me something had happened. I always think death. I’m not sure if that’s normal or symptomatic of my life. So I picked up the phone fast before she could make such a thing permanent on my machine and I held my breath waiting for her to tell me who stopped breathing this time. As it turned out no one new had died. It was the same old death.
“Your brother just took off…. He has your dad. He’s so upset. You know he’s always had the hardest time… youngest… only boy…. Poor Tyler….He got right in Boyfriend’s face…..he was yelling and angry” and eventually through the scattered bits of her crying and inebriation I slowly realize my brother is out stalking the southeast Portland streets with a bag of ashes formerly referred to as Dad. Finally someone had fucking stolen Dad away from Mom.
Jesus.
*****
“Hey sisser.”
“You sound terrible.”
“Yeah. It’s a head cold. So listen. I think Tyler is probably going to be showing up at your place soon. Drunk. …… With… Dad.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Just wanted to warn you to keep an eye out for him. Call me when he gets there.”
*****
“Hey. Dew, he’s here.”
“Oh good. I was getting worried. But really. Where the fuck was he going to go on foot with a bag-o-dad? I was thinking I’d have to hike Powell Butte in the dark.”
“Why there?”
“Scene of the crime.”
“I think you better come over here. He’s really drunk.”
*sigh*
*****
“Deeeeew!” he greeted me when my sister let me in her apartment. He was holding a beer in each hand and drinking from both of them.
“Hey.” I shuffled into her apartment. During the drive on the way over I felt oddly calm. As if something I’m always waiting for had finally revealed itself again and begun to unfold. It’s like that when you’re always reading ahead in the circular story. Deon was holding a beer, too.
“What’s the matter with her? She’s not going to cheer me up!” he said to Deon.
“I told you she’s more depressed than you are.” Deon’s tone was already exasperated.
“I have a head cold. I barely got out of bed.” I complained, slipping out and around the depressed remark and perching on the edge of Deon’s couch. I marveling at how detached I felt.
“What do you want to DO, Dew? Something has to be done.”
“About what?”
“Mom is crazy. What are we going to do with Dad? Do you think about it? Does anyone THINK about it? Do you know where I found him when I got back from Idaho? In the trunk. In the trunk of the fucking car in the driveway. I had to bring him inside! And I took the ashes tonight. I took them by force. Something has to be done.”
“That’s what we’ve been saying… for a long time now, Tyler.” Deon pointed out and I nodded.
“Fighting with Mom and her boyfriend sure isn’t going to help.”
“Something has to be done! I want to drop him over a mountain. He said that’s what he wanted.”
“When? When did he say that? He said a lot of things.” Deon’s voice was bitter with truth.
“Before I left and went to Idaho we talked about it. Uncle J is on St. Helens and I want Mr. Jefferson and we could drop Dad over Mt. Hood.”
“Are you going to pay for that?” I asked. Jesus what is the deal with this mountain thing.
“That was a long time before..” Deon started and stopped.
“Well? Do YOU have a plan?” he looked at both of us accusingly.
“Well.” I cleared my throat. “As I’ve said all along….I think we should spread him where he did it. I think he picked that spot. I think it’s free and it’s a place any of us can go anytime we want. Course it‘s illegal so we‘d have to be sneaky about it.”
“Just because he did it there doesn’t mean he’d want his ashes there.”
“It’s not about him. He’s gone.” I said. Deon got up and went to the kitchen and Tyler attempted an upright position in her ginormous ugly chair.
And then he was up out of the chair and he set one of his beers on the table before pulling a blue gift bag out of his coat. He began describing the incident earlier between he and mom’s boyfriend and mom while he opened the bag. Inside the bag there was the box and then he opened the box and in the box there was a bag of ash. Oh here we go. Crazy drunk. Dad is out of the box people.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Deon asked with panic in her tone. It always sounds bizarre when she swears.
“This is DAD!” Tyler informed us, shoving the bag toward Deon.
“Yeah. I know it is. Put it back in the box.”
“Take it! Take it!” He shoved the bag into Deon’s slightly fluttering arms and she passed it back to him.
“I don’t want to vacuum Dad out of my carpets. Quit waiving it around.”
“You just don’t want to deal with it! Hold it!” and he shoved the bag of rather benign looking ash back into her hands.
I watched from the couch oddly amused as they played hot potato with a sack of deceased relative.
“What do you want me to do?” Deon asked him “Kiss it?” and she did. “You want me to roll around in it? I have dealt with it. You’re just finally catching up here Tyler. We‘ve been here all along dealing with this shit.”
“Maybe that’s why it’s all fucked up!” he retorted and took the bag back from her. “You don’t know what he said to me. You don’t know how it was.”
“YOU don’t know how it was Tyler. You weren’t here. You were gone. Nobody even knew where you were! Aunt Sue had to go searching for you to even tell you when it happened. It got bad Tyler. He said a lot of things that year.”
“Well how could you let it get that bad? Where the hell were you? He would have called me.” He wasn’t going to stop.
“He called me.” I said evenly.
“Where were YOU? Were you up at the mental hospital when he was in there? You didn’t even know what was going on.” they went on over me.
“He was never that bad when I was here. How could you let it end up that way? You should have been over there more. Just like with Mom. She‘s fucking going crazy and you never come over to see her. Off living your dream life. I came back from Idaho to take care of her and I‘m breaking my back sleeping on that couch but you never even come over. You have to come over and make her be Mom. You have to bring your kids over and make her do family stuff.”
“Mom’s an adult. You can’t make anyone do anything. Don’t you think maybe it would be better if you maybe didn’t live with Mom? Maybe you guys just need a little distance? You could have your own life? You can’t rot on her couch forever, Tyler. Worry about making something of your own life instead of telling us what we should be doing.” Deon said
“Tyler, what are you even talking about? How often do you think I should be driving over to see mom? You know she’s always invited to our functions. She just doesn’t come.” I was genuinely perplexed.
“Two or three times a week! You should be there! and you have to make her!”
“Two or three times a week!?!?!” crazy drunk indeed. “And, You can’t MAKE her! A couple years ago I made her come to Thanksgiving and she cried all the way through dinner. The kids were upset.” I informed him. “I’m done being crazy about it. I’m done making her do anything. I have my own shit to worry about.”
He snorted derisively. “You just don’t get it. You have your little dream lives and you don’t get it. I’m the one who’s there.”
“Excuse me? Dream life?” Deon nearly sputtered. I was a bit surprised to hear that twice, myself. “Just because we’re not sleeping on Mom’s couch doesn’t mean it’s a dream life or that we‘re not there. Look around Tyler.” Deon was pissed now. “I’m a single Mom. I graduated high school with honors And had a baby my senior year. I have what I have because I try. Because I’m not just sitting around blaming people and thinking they owe me.”
Deon went to the bathroom. I could hear her crying.
“You two have always had it easier than me. You didnt' even answer the phone this morning when Mom called you.”
“I'm sick!! I was in bed! People can leave a message and I can call back, Tyler. You really think we'vehad it easier than you? That’s not even true. You’re drunk.” things were getting out of hand. “I was there. I was at the mental hospital. I signed the legal release papers. I was his fucking person. I’m the one he called. And I’m the one who didn’t fucking drive over there that night. I’m the one who didn’t. me. That time I didn’t fucking go. If you want to blame someone you can fucking blame me because I‘m the one who was there. and I'm the on who‘s fucking here. I was here for him. I‘m here for mom. I‘m here for Deon right now and I‘m here for you. Who fucking drove to Idaho to get your ass so you could “be here for Mom?” Me. and by the way… it might help mom if you paid her some fucking rent. If you want to help so much. So don’t tell me who does and doesn’t do this or that and the other. It‘s always me. It‘s always going to be me. Just how it is. You have to get it together. You can‘t fix Mom. You couldn‘t have fixed Dad. You might have some chance of fixing you. maybe.”
“Well I’m out of here. I’m going to Florida or something. I can’t live with her boyfriend. So I hope you start taking better care of Mom.”
“You don’t mean that. You’re upset right now.”
And then he was angry. And he was ranting. And it was the same things over and over. And it was dad. And it was him. And he was dad. And I was done.
“I’m not leaving you here at Deon’s like this. Why don’t I give you a ride home.”
“I’m not going home!”
“You can’t sit there and yell at Deon all night. I have to get home. Where can I take you?”
“OOoooh you have to get hoooome. You can’t drink. You can’t stay up.” He made some la dee da body gestures. “You’re not taking me anywhere.”
“I have kids to get to school in the morning. You can’t stay here drunk and belligerent. Deon is upset. Let‘s call it a night. I‘ll be back tomorrow and we can figure this stuff out.”
Deon and I stepped out for a cigarette. While we were out there he gathered his things and put dad’s ashes back in his coat and left. So we drove to Moms. He was walking along with a fresh six pack when we found him. I pulled up next to him and told him to get in.
“I’m not getting in. I’m having a walk.”
“I’m going to Mom’s. So you can get in and ride in the warm car or I can wait for you in her drive way.”
“I’m walking.”
So we sat in her drive way. When he staggered up I rolled my window down. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’m always here, remember?. Do you have any dew?”
“What? I have beer.” he gestured with his arms full of six pack.
“Yeah but do you have dew inside? I’m thirsty.”
“Yeah. I have dew.”
“Can I have some?”
“Yeah.”
So I did.
Next morning after the girls were in school Thatch and I drove over to Grandma’s to see how they were getting along and I was prepared for more drama. That was stupid.
“So you were just out and about and decided to drop in?” My mom asked curiously.
“Yeah what are you doing over here? I thought you said you were low on gas?” Tyler asked.
Like nothing ever happened. *wide eyed*
Dad’s back in the box for now. In a gift bag. On my mom's entertainment center.
I couldn't make this shit up.
November 30, 2009
“Dew? Dew are you there?…” and I picked up because her voice told me something had happened. I always think death. I’m not sure if that’s normal or symptomatic of my life. So I picked up the phone fast before she could make such a thing permanent on my machine and I held my breath waiting for her to tell me who stopped breathing this time. As it turned out no one new had died. It was the same old death.
“Your brother just took off…. He has your dad. He’s so upset. You know he’s always had the hardest time… youngest… only boy…. Poor Tyler….He got right in Boyfriend’s face…..he was yelling and angry” and eventually through the scattered bits of her crying and inebriation I slowly realize my brother is out stalking the southeast Portland streets with a bag of ashes formerly referred to as Dad. Finally someone had fucking stolen Dad away from Mom.
Jesus.
*****
“Hey sisser.”
“You sound terrible.”
“Yeah. It’s a head cold. So listen. I think Tyler is probably going to be showing up at your place soon. Drunk. …… With… Dad.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Just wanted to warn you to keep an eye out for him. Call me when he gets there.”
*****
“Hey. Dew, he’s here.”
“Oh good. I was getting worried. But really. Where the fuck was he going to go on foot with a bag-o-dad? I was thinking I’d have to hike Powell Butte in the dark.”
“Why there?”
“Scene of the crime.”
“I think you better come over here. He’s really drunk.”
*sigh*
*****
“Deeeeew!” he greeted me when my sister let me in her apartment. He was holding a beer in each hand and drinking from both of them.
“Hey.” I shuffled into her apartment. During the drive on the way over I felt oddly calm. As if something I’m always waiting for had finally revealed itself again and begun to unfold. It’s like that when you’re always reading ahead in the circular story. Deon was holding a beer, too.
“What’s the matter with her? She’s not going to cheer me up!” he said to Deon.
“I told you she’s more depressed than you are.” Deon’s tone was already exasperated.
“I have a head cold. I barely got out of bed.” I complained, slipping out and around the depressed remark and perching on the edge of Deon’s couch. I marveling at how detached I felt.
“What do you want to DO, Dew? Something has to be done.”
“About what?”
“Mom is crazy. What are we going to do with Dad? Do you think about it? Does anyone THINK about it? Do you know where I found him when I got back from Idaho? In the trunk. In the trunk of the fucking car in the driveway. I had to bring him inside! And I took the ashes tonight. I took them by force. Something has to be done.”
“That’s what we’ve been saying… for a long time now, Tyler.” Deon pointed out and I nodded.
“Fighting with Mom and her boyfriend sure isn’t going to help.”
“Something has to be done! I want to drop him over a mountain. He said that’s what he wanted.”
“When? When did he say that? He said a lot of things.” Deon’s voice was bitter with truth.
“Before I left and went to Idaho we talked about it. Uncle J is on St. Helens and I want Mr. Jefferson and we could drop Dad over Mt. Hood.”
“Are you going to pay for that?” I asked. Jesus what is the deal with this mountain thing.
“That was a long time before..” Deon started and stopped.
“Well? Do YOU have a plan?” he looked at both of us accusingly.
“Well.” I cleared my throat. “As I’ve said all along….I think we should spread him where he did it. I think he picked that spot. I think it’s free and it’s a place any of us can go anytime we want. Course it‘s illegal so we‘d have to be sneaky about it.”
“Just because he did it there doesn’t mean he’d want his ashes there.”
“It’s not about him. He’s gone.” I said. Deon got up and went to the kitchen and Tyler attempted an upright position in her ginormous ugly chair.
And then he was up out of the chair and he set one of his beers on the table before pulling a blue gift bag out of his coat. He began describing the incident earlier between he and mom’s boyfriend and mom while he opened the bag. Inside the bag there was the box and then he opened the box and in the box there was a bag of ash. Oh here we go. Crazy drunk. Dad is out of the box people.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Deon asked with panic in her tone. It always sounds bizarre when she swears.
“This is DAD!” Tyler informed us, shoving the bag toward Deon.
“Yeah. I know it is. Put it back in the box.”
“Take it! Take it!” He shoved the bag into Deon’s slightly fluttering arms and she passed it back to him.
“I don’t want to vacuum Dad out of my carpets. Quit waiving it around.”
“You just don’t want to deal with it! Hold it!” and he shoved the bag of rather benign looking ash back into her hands.
I watched from the couch oddly amused as they played hot potato with a sack of deceased relative.
“What do you want me to do?” Deon asked him “Kiss it?” and she did. “You want me to roll around in it? I have dealt with it. You’re just finally catching up here Tyler. We‘ve been here all along dealing with this shit.”
“Maybe that’s why it’s all fucked up!” he retorted and took the bag back from her. “You don’t know what he said to me. You don’t know how it was.”
“YOU don’t know how it was Tyler. You weren’t here. You were gone. Nobody even knew where you were! Aunt Sue had to go searching for you to even tell you when it happened. It got bad Tyler. He said a lot of things that year.”
“Well how could you let it get that bad? Where the hell were you? He would have called me.” He wasn’t going to stop.
“He called me.” I said evenly.
“Where were YOU? Were you up at the mental hospital when he was in there? You didn’t even know what was going on.” they went on over me.
“He was never that bad when I was here. How could you let it end up that way? You should have been over there more. Just like with Mom. She‘s fucking going crazy and you never come over to see her. Off living your dream life. I came back from Idaho to take care of her and I‘m breaking my back sleeping on that couch but you never even come over. You have to come over and make her be Mom. You have to bring your kids over and make her do family stuff.”
“Mom’s an adult. You can’t make anyone do anything. Don’t you think maybe it would be better if you maybe didn’t live with Mom? Maybe you guys just need a little distance? You could have your own life? You can’t rot on her couch forever, Tyler. Worry about making something of your own life instead of telling us what we should be doing.” Deon said
“Tyler, what are you even talking about? How often do you think I should be driving over to see mom? You know she’s always invited to our functions. She just doesn’t come.” I was genuinely perplexed.
“Two or three times a week! You should be there! and you have to make her!”
“Two or three times a week!?!?!” crazy drunk indeed. “And, You can’t MAKE her! A couple years ago I made her come to Thanksgiving and she cried all the way through dinner. The kids were upset.” I informed him. “I’m done being crazy about it. I’m done making her do anything. I have my own shit to worry about.”
He snorted derisively. “You just don’t get it. You have your little dream lives and you don’t get it. I’m the one who’s there.”
“Excuse me? Dream life?” Deon nearly sputtered. I was a bit surprised to hear that twice, myself. “Just because we’re not sleeping on Mom’s couch doesn’t mean it’s a dream life or that we‘re not there. Look around Tyler.” Deon was pissed now. “I’m a single Mom. I graduated high school with honors And had a baby my senior year. I have what I have because I try. Because I’m not just sitting around blaming people and thinking they owe me.”
Deon went to the bathroom. I could hear her crying.
“You two have always had it easier than me. You didnt' even answer the phone this morning when Mom called you.”
“I'm sick!! I was in bed! People can leave a message and I can call back, Tyler. You really think we'vehad it easier than you? That’s not even true. You’re drunk.” things were getting out of hand. “I was there. I was at the mental hospital. I signed the legal release papers. I was his fucking person. I’m the one he called. And I’m the one who didn’t fucking drive over there that night. I’m the one who didn’t. me. That time I didn’t fucking go. If you want to blame someone you can fucking blame me because I‘m the one who was there. and I'm the on who‘s fucking here. I was here for him. I‘m here for mom. I‘m here for Deon right now and I‘m here for you. Who fucking drove to Idaho to get your ass so you could “be here for Mom?” Me. and by the way… it might help mom if you paid her some fucking rent. If you want to help so much. So don’t tell me who does and doesn’t do this or that and the other. It‘s always me. It‘s always going to be me. Just how it is. You have to get it together. You can‘t fix Mom. You couldn‘t have fixed Dad. You might have some chance of fixing you. maybe.”
“Well I’m out of here. I’m going to Florida or something. I can’t live with her boyfriend. So I hope you start taking better care of Mom.”
“You don’t mean that. You’re upset right now.”
And then he was angry. And he was ranting. And it was the same things over and over. And it was dad. And it was him. And he was dad. And I was done.
“I’m not leaving you here at Deon’s like this. Why don’t I give you a ride home.”
“I’m not going home!”
“You can’t sit there and yell at Deon all night. I have to get home. Where can I take you?”
“OOoooh you have to get hoooome. You can’t drink. You can’t stay up.” He made some la dee da body gestures. “You’re not taking me anywhere.”
“I have kids to get to school in the morning. You can’t stay here drunk and belligerent. Deon is upset. Let‘s call it a night. I‘ll be back tomorrow and we can figure this stuff out.”
Deon and I stepped out for a cigarette. While we were out there he gathered his things and put dad’s ashes back in his coat and left. So we drove to Moms. He was walking along with a fresh six pack when we found him. I pulled up next to him and told him to get in.
“I’m not getting in. I’m having a walk.”
“I’m going to Mom’s. So you can get in and ride in the warm car or I can wait for you in her drive way.”
“I’m walking.”
So we sat in her drive way. When he staggered up I rolled my window down. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’m always here, remember?. Do you have any dew?”
“What? I have beer.” he gestured with his arms full of six pack.
“Yeah but do you have dew inside? I’m thirsty.”
“Yeah. I have dew.”
“Can I have some?”
“Yeah.”
So I did.
Next morning after the girls were in school Thatch and I drove over to Grandma’s to see how they were getting along and I was prepared for more drama. That was stupid.
“So you were just out and about and decided to drop in?” My mom asked curiously.
“Yeah what are you doing over here? I thought you said you were low on gas?” Tyler asked.
Like nothing ever happened. *wide eyed*
Dad’s back in the box for now. In a gift bag. On my mom's entertainment center.
I couldn't make this shit up.
November 30, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Confession of Sorts
Early on in posting this online writing journal blog of sorts the feedback led me to consider… what is it that I want??? It’s been kind that you don’t pull that particular curtain open on the wizard all that often. Thanks for that. It’s rather difficult to pinpoint specifics any more narrow than “everything” in my transition away from “anything- I’ll fucking take it.” But I haven’t forgotten - I love that.. When I write a bitchy blog and you say WHAT IS IT YOU WANT DEW??? :P As if I don't know I'm probably demanding the impossible. But knowing what I want.... It’s a work in progress. I thought I should update you.
I’m getting closer!! Not to having it. Not for keeps. Pish. *eye roll* Not outside of a dream or nightmare. I'm not sure yet. Not outside of a stolen, ambiguous possibly completely fabricated on the other end heartbreaking frustration. But I am closer to knowing what it is rather than just what it is not. And when I grab the tail end of it, when I dare to try and describe the intense wavy fusion of color and dark lined form of it at all most people say .. “OOOOOoooh! THAT’S what you want??? You can’t have THAT!” (tricks are for kids logic - I think) OR “You don’t want that.” Understandable I guess because admittedly it doesn’t seem to line up with healthy behavior really. Or “Of course that won’t work out you’re not following The Rules.” But what I want has it’s own fucking rules.
I’m a stubborn bastard. I’ll have what I want or I’ll die the white rabbit on the fruity fucking box chasing it down/sitting absolutely still waiting. I know what I fucking want. I don’t even have any idea of an exact shape that it has or a time line it would follow or any sort of something with it that girls are supposed to want like wedding gowns and picket fences and babies or combining finances or anything… I don’t have or know any of that with it or know anything outside of how it feels in the NOW when I‘m in it.
It’s not where I expected it to be. It didn’t suddenly appear after I put all the pieces together in a cookie cutter life with the person it should be with. It just showed up one day when it was least convenient and turned my life upside down. It's not right. It's not easy. It's not practical. But there it is.
Oh boy oh boy do I know what I want. But then… do I fight for this thing? Ask for it? Hope it appears again another time in the right package? I’m afraid to ask. I’m just kinda pretty sure that I shouldn‘t have to fucking ask. That if it’s there I wouldn’t have to fucking ask. The want I want isn’t unique to me, a person that loves me that way will want it too and want to give it AND actually want to give it to me. So maybe it's all in my own head. But I want it any way.
And knowing… knowing what I want makes it so much more boggling not to have it because it’s so fucking simple! I want wide open no matter what to the end never say die at any cost if it kills us life and self sharing and mutual appreciation ya know… Loooove. (no take backs) Not complicated. I mean it will be complicated. I’m complicated. People are complicated. Also my life is rather complicated. But that part… that part is simple. Scary and hard and possibly imaginary but very very simple.
And I won’t settle for any of the props. I won’t accept those in lieu of it. Not the ring or the dating or the wedding or the babies or the ten year marriage followed by the messy divorce rinse repeat until you end up in rockers on a west facing porch. It isn’t that I’m opposed to those.... It’s that I understand that they’re just props and costumes and nothing necessarily to do with what I want if they happen without what I want. Accessories shown are sold separately you know. And honestly? I can do all that shit on my own or even together with someone without what I want. I’m not saying I want to just that I don’t need what I want to do any of that.
And people say no it’s not like that, Love isn’t really like that. Well I call bullshit. You can’t tell me I can’t have it. I know it’s out there because I have it in me. And maybe it’s BECAUSE I’m entirely fucked up. Maybe it’s BECAUSE I have baggage. Maybe my flaws are what make me perfect for it.
And certainly I’m aware of my history. It isn’t that I’ve forgotten that my entire childhood was training for giving it all up in exchange for rare brief moments hoping begging and patiently waiting for some day in the future when I’ve earned what should already be mine, what certainly fucking feels like mine only to see it disappear with a bullet in the head.
So clearly what really isn’t easy is taking it from anyone else because everyone has their back-up gun in a drawer somewhere. It’s like I’m always issuing gift receipts. Like “oh you don’t want to actually do that. I know you think you want this thing with me but you’ll change your mind after you get done just wanting to fuck me or use me or whatever it is you’re doing, so you better take this in case you want to exchange me for a better fit without much fuss when you decide to admit that.”
I can’t figure out how to take it outside of that pulling me under dark pounding I‘m not allowed to keep. I’m still shocked and stunned over stumbling on that because you can know something is out there but until you’ve been up against it have no idea of it’s power …. I can’t even begin to imagine what that means for LATER. I can’t figure out how to believe. I can’t figure out how to stop believing. I recognize now. I can feel forever in that place but I never seem to get any say in when.
But I know damn well what I want.
November 25, 2009
I’m getting closer!! Not to having it. Not for keeps. Pish. *eye roll* Not outside of a dream or nightmare. I'm not sure yet. Not outside of a stolen, ambiguous possibly completely fabricated on the other end heartbreaking frustration. But I am closer to knowing what it is rather than just what it is not. And when I grab the tail end of it, when I dare to try and describe the intense wavy fusion of color and dark lined form of it at all most people say .. “OOOOOoooh! THAT’S what you want??? You can’t have THAT!” (tricks are for kids logic - I think) OR “You don’t want that.” Understandable I guess because admittedly it doesn’t seem to line up with healthy behavior really. Or “Of course that won’t work out you’re not following The Rules.” But what I want has it’s own fucking rules.
I’m a stubborn bastard. I’ll have what I want or I’ll die the white rabbit on the fruity fucking box chasing it down/sitting absolutely still waiting. I know what I fucking want. I don’t even have any idea of an exact shape that it has or a time line it would follow or any sort of something with it that girls are supposed to want like wedding gowns and picket fences and babies or combining finances or anything… I don’t have or know any of that with it or know anything outside of how it feels in the NOW when I‘m in it.
It’s not where I expected it to be. It didn’t suddenly appear after I put all the pieces together in a cookie cutter life with the person it should be with. It just showed up one day when it was least convenient and turned my life upside down. It's not right. It's not easy. It's not practical. But there it is.
Oh boy oh boy do I know what I want. But then… do I fight for this thing? Ask for it? Hope it appears again another time in the right package? I’m afraid to ask. I’m just kinda pretty sure that I shouldn‘t have to fucking ask. That if it’s there I wouldn’t have to fucking ask. The want I want isn’t unique to me, a person that loves me that way will want it too and want to give it AND actually want to give it to me. So maybe it's all in my own head. But I want it any way.
And knowing… knowing what I want makes it so much more boggling not to have it because it’s so fucking simple! I want wide open no matter what to the end never say die at any cost if it kills us life and self sharing and mutual appreciation ya know… Loooove. (no take backs) Not complicated. I mean it will be complicated. I’m complicated. People are complicated. Also my life is rather complicated. But that part… that part is simple. Scary and hard and possibly imaginary but very very simple.
And I won’t settle for any of the props. I won’t accept those in lieu of it. Not the ring or the dating or the wedding or the babies or the ten year marriage followed by the messy divorce rinse repeat until you end up in rockers on a west facing porch. It isn’t that I’m opposed to those.... It’s that I understand that they’re just props and costumes and nothing necessarily to do with what I want if they happen without what I want. Accessories shown are sold separately you know. And honestly? I can do all that shit on my own or even together with someone without what I want. I’m not saying I want to just that I don’t need what I want to do any of that.
And people say no it’s not like that, Love isn’t really like that. Well I call bullshit. You can’t tell me I can’t have it. I know it’s out there because I have it in me. And maybe it’s BECAUSE I’m entirely fucked up. Maybe it’s BECAUSE I have baggage. Maybe my flaws are what make me perfect for it.
And certainly I’m aware of my history. It isn’t that I’ve forgotten that my entire childhood was training for giving it all up in exchange for rare brief moments hoping begging and patiently waiting for some day in the future when I’ve earned what should already be mine, what certainly fucking feels like mine only to see it disappear with a bullet in the head.
So clearly what really isn’t easy is taking it from anyone else because everyone has their back-up gun in a drawer somewhere. It’s like I’m always issuing gift receipts. Like “oh you don’t want to actually do that. I know you think you want this thing with me but you’ll change your mind after you get done just wanting to fuck me or use me or whatever it is you’re doing, so you better take this in case you want to exchange me for a better fit without much fuss when you decide to admit that.”
I can’t figure out how to take it outside of that pulling me under dark pounding I‘m not allowed to keep. I’m still shocked and stunned over stumbling on that because you can know something is out there but until you’ve been up against it have no idea of it’s power …. I can’t even begin to imagine what that means for LATER. I can’t figure out how to believe. I can’t figure out how to stop believing. I recognize now. I can feel forever in that place but I never seem to get any say in when.
But I know damn well what I want.
November 25, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Twilight Review
So.. I’m reading a book……
My niece is reading it so it was just sitting there on my twig side table in the living room. Taunting me! I have to take a break from quilting because I’ve worn a hole in my fucking finger again. Don’t tell me about thimbles… I don’t like them. And yes I have some other books I’m supposed to read… I think Loree has handed over five or six in the last couple weeks but…. I doubt any of those is going to hit the spot and I already reread Wuthering Heights a couple weeks ago.
So there I was… curled up in the giant chair by the fire reading… Twilight.
The writing is terrible. Occasionally confusing sentence structure…. poor word choice to the point that you wonder how someone who doesn‘t have the brain power to figure out what word the author should have used even knows what the hell is going on… endless trite phrasing, predictable plotting and characters you can’t even hate - just that if the boat were going down you wouldn’t go out of your way to get them in the life raft. And once in awhile the author tosses in a bizarrely placed five dollar word and you can practically feel the swelling as the author’s “I’m improving teenage vocabulary” ego pumps up.
But under that is the story. And it’s a good story. It’s romance. It’s sex cloaked as vampire. It’s teen angst.
So I keep reading. And I pick at the less than stellar writing in my mind even as I get pulled into the story going on under the words and I keep thinking Jesus god almighty this could have been so fucking good.
There are quite a few writers/ personalities on my sub list that complain about cultural phenomena’s they deem beneath them for variant reasons. They sneer and point and criticize … and it’s easy to do with something like Twilight. Sometimes they hate it just because so many love it. Other times it’s a more genuine distaste for anything poorly done. Often it’s both; that it could be so poorly done and loved so much by so many anyway is definitely something to take notice of.
But they’re missing the point. I know plenty of people who love Twilight and I’ve never heard any of them claim they love it because they think it’s great writing. (those are the Harry Potter people and I’ll read that another day)
It’s the same on the blogs. Most of us are subbed to lots of writers and honestly… how many of them are great writers? We’re not reading because they can conjugate a verb or never dangle a modifier… are we? I don’t think so. The best blogs pull us in because they make us the writers personal confidant. If they’re well written so much the better but it’s certainly not the first requirement, not the thing that pulls us in.
It’s the same all over with our entire culture. People are rejecting the idea that the structure of a thing matters more than how it makes them feel. I find it fascinating. Of course it sucks ass for all the “great” writers NOT getting published and ending up on best seller lists who maybe have the story, the thing, and the skills. But honestly…… I don’t know many who are actually trying. Maybe you have to be a bit stupid to show up in a publishing house. Maybe all that structure would take away the feeling and that‘s really what we‘re here for.
November 20, 2009
My niece is reading it so it was just sitting there on my twig side table in the living room. Taunting me! I have to take a break from quilting because I’ve worn a hole in my fucking finger again. Don’t tell me about thimbles… I don’t like them. And yes I have some other books I’m supposed to read… I think Loree has handed over five or six in the last couple weeks but…. I doubt any of those is going to hit the spot and I already reread Wuthering Heights a couple weeks ago.
So there I was… curled up in the giant chair by the fire reading… Twilight.
The writing is terrible. Occasionally confusing sentence structure…. poor word choice to the point that you wonder how someone who doesn‘t have the brain power to figure out what word the author should have used even knows what the hell is going on… endless trite phrasing, predictable plotting and characters you can’t even hate - just that if the boat were going down you wouldn’t go out of your way to get them in the life raft. And once in awhile the author tosses in a bizarrely placed five dollar word and you can practically feel the swelling as the author’s “I’m improving teenage vocabulary” ego pumps up.
But under that is the story. And it’s a good story. It’s romance. It’s sex cloaked as vampire. It’s teen angst.
So I keep reading. And I pick at the less than stellar writing in my mind even as I get pulled into the story going on under the words and I keep thinking Jesus god almighty this could have been so fucking good.
There are quite a few writers/ personalities on my sub list that complain about cultural phenomena’s they deem beneath them for variant reasons. They sneer and point and criticize … and it’s easy to do with something like Twilight. Sometimes they hate it just because so many love it. Other times it’s a more genuine distaste for anything poorly done. Often it’s both; that it could be so poorly done and loved so much by so many anyway is definitely something to take notice of.
But they’re missing the point. I know plenty of people who love Twilight and I’ve never heard any of them claim they love it because they think it’s great writing. (those are the Harry Potter people and I’ll read that another day)
It’s the same on the blogs. Most of us are subbed to lots of writers and honestly… how many of them are great writers? We’re not reading because they can conjugate a verb or never dangle a modifier… are we? I don’t think so. The best blogs pull us in because they make us the writers personal confidant. If they’re well written so much the better but it’s certainly not the first requirement, not the thing that pulls us in.
It’s the same all over with our entire culture. People are rejecting the idea that the structure of a thing matters more than how it makes them feel. I find it fascinating. Of course it sucks ass for all the “great” writers NOT getting published and ending up on best seller lists who maybe have the story, the thing, and the skills. But honestly…… I don’t know many who are actually trying. Maybe you have to be a bit stupid to show up in a publishing house. Maybe all that structure would take away the feeling and that‘s really what we‘re here for.
November 20, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Ultra Lights
He sat on a stool with his arms on the counter in front of him. Every once in a while he’d lift his beer and take a long swallow. They didn’t say much other than an occasional observation about whomever happened to be singing karaoke or whatever happened to be going on with a ball on the screen. She liked him, his quiet and the smile that was ready for anyone around.
“Wanna smoke?” she asked holding the hard pack open toward him.
“Sure.” he lifted an eyebrow mockingly at the ultra lights.
“I know, right? I can’t handle the real deal but they‘ll kill me just the same. Story of my life.”
Their coats went on easy and stepping out in front of the pub was like stepping out on ones own back porch they’d done it alone so often. She watched him take a drag off the cigarette and finally he returned her gaze with only a tiny question in his eyes.
So she asked him “Are you attracted to me at all?”
“What kind of question is that?” He had that implacable quality only the perpetually stoned really manage.
“No stalling. Just tell the truth. We‘re buddies you‘re not going to get in trouble here. It‘s for science.”
“I don’t know. Sure.” he swished the air a foot from her body up and down. “You’re hot. You know that.”
“Yeah. But I mean do you feel anything standing next to me? Like can you feel me from over there?”
“Feel what? What are you up to?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m trying to conduct an experiment.” She stepped up in front of him until a deep breath would have their bodies colliding. “What about now?”
“I definitely know you’re standing there.”
She put her hand on the back of his neck and pulled his head toward hers. “Now don’t move. At all. Don’t move a muscle.” She leaned in, her face closer and closer to his. And then almost a whisper when their eyes glanced one another, “Shut your eyes.”
His breath came quicker as her mouth hovered there over his and after a slow silent count to ten she let her bottom lip just barely brush his lips. And then she drew her head back fast. His eyes shot open as she let go of his neck and stepped away to take a drag on her cigarette. “I think they’re calling my name inside. To karaoke.” She slid her cigarette in the upside down space needle ash tray.
“Wait. What was that? Just now…. ”
“Nothing. Ultra lights. I should quit or smoke a real fucking cigarette.”
November 16, 2009
“Wanna smoke?” she asked holding the hard pack open toward him.
“Sure.” he lifted an eyebrow mockingly at the ultra lights.
“I know, right? I can’t handle the real deal but they‘ll kill me just the same. Story of my life.”
Their coats went on easy and stepping out in front of the pub was like stepping out on ones own back porch they’d done it alone so often. She watched him take a drag off the cigarette and finally he returned her gaze with only a tiny question in his eyes.
So she asked him “Are you attracted to me at all?”
“What kind of question is that?” He had that implacable quality only the perpetually stoned really manage.
“No stalling. Just tell the truth. We‘re buddies you‘re not going to get in trouble here. It‘s for science.”
“I don’t know. Sure.” he swished the air a foot from her body up and down. “You’re hot. You know that.”
“Yeah. But I mean do you feel anything standing next to me? Like can you feel me from over there?”
“Feel what? What are you up to?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m trying to conduct an experiment.” She stepped up in front of him until a deep breath would have their bodies colliding. “What about now?”
“I definitely know you’re standing there.”
She put her hand on the back of his neck and pulled his head toward hers. “Now don’t move. At all. Don’t move a muscle.” She leaned in, her face closer and closer to his. And then almost a whisper when their eyes glanced one another, “Shut your eyes.”
His breath came quicker as her mouth hovered there over his and after a slow silent count to ten she let her bottom lip just barely brush his lips. And then she drew her head back fast. His eyes shot open as she let go of his neck and stepped away to take a drag on her cigarette. “I think they’re calling my name inside. To karaoke.” She slid her cigarette in the upside down space needle ash tray.
“Wait. What was that? Just now…. ”
“Nothing. Ultra lights. I should quit or smoke a real fucking cigarette.”
November 16, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Enjoy the Ride
I won the take Loree home from the hospital contest. She told people it was because of my SUV but let’s face it, she just likes me more. I was nervous about the entire thing because it strongly resembled responsible adult behavior. You know… someone needing me and whatnots.
First off I was late.
*insert legitimate late excuse here* I really have one I’m just not sharing. :)
When I arrived I realized there’s this whole… check her out procedure. Seriously. It was like busting her out of jail.
“Did you get the stuff?”
“Yeah I got the stuff” *hands over giant bag of drugs*
“I haven’t had anything since ten!”
“HEY! Not the Vicodin! The strong stuff! Take the strong stuff!”
“Did you check with the cashier desk on the other side of the moon?”
“Yup. No problem.”
“I think they want to wheel me out.”
“Cool. I have to run ahead and go fetch my car from Mars. I‘ll pull up at the doors.”
I had rolled the passenger seat back as far as it would go since Loree is tall. And I slanted the seat back a little ’cause she just had surgery and all. So she got in and made it more upright ’cause she felt it was more supportive that way and off we went.
Pretty soon the super strong drugs kicked in. But she hadn’t had lunch. So she got nauseous. Also maybe I’m a rotten driver. I don’t fucking know. So she decides maybe a slight recline might be a good idea. (HELLOOOOOOO!) And she pulls the lever on the seat to lean back a little.
WEEEEEEEE Seat slams all the way back hard and fast. Hard and fast!!!
*makes note for some later time when such information might be useful*
Course all I know is that Loree is suddenly fully reclined and yelling “ow ow owowowo!* while I navigate traffic trying not to laugh too loudly, resisting the urge to flap my arms and saying “are you okay” over and over as a mantra and and and also wondering where I can turn around to take her back to the hospital and if it's really a horrible thing to smoke a goddamn cigarette since I was pretty sure we were both going to die soon.
“Why would you want a seat in a car to DO THAT????” Loree asks
“It definitely keeps going if you keep leaning. You must have leaned hard.”
“yeah.”
“Maybe now take the Vicodin, too.”
*Please don’t tell Loree’s mom.
November 11, 2009
First off I was late.
*insert legitimate late excuse here* I really have one I’m just not sharing. :)
When I arrived I realized there’s this whole… check her out procedure. Seriously. It was like busting her out of jail.
“Did you get the stuff?”
“Yeah I got the stuff” *hands over giant bag of drugs*
“I haven’t had anything since ten!”
“HEY! Not the Vicodin! The strong stuff! Take the strong stuff!”
“Did you check with the cashier desk on the other side of the moon?”
“Yup. No problem.”
“I think they want to wheel me out.”
“Cool. I have to run ahead and go fetch my car from Mars. I‘ll pull up at the doors.”
I had rolled the passenger seat back as far as it would go since Loree is tall. And I slanted the seat back a little ’cause she just had surgery and all. So she got in and made it more upright ’cause she felt it was more supportive that way and off we went.
Pretty soon the super strong drugs kicked in. But she hadn’t had lunch. So she got nauseous. Also maybe I’m a rotten driver. I don’t fucking know. So she decides maybe a slight recline might be a good idea. (HELLOOOOOOO!) And she pulls the lever on the seat to lean back a little.
WEEEEEEEE Seat slams all the way back hard and fast. Hard and fast!!!
*makes note for some later time when such information might be useful*
Course all I know is that Loree is suddenly fully reclined and yelling “ow ow owowowo!* while I navigate traffic trying not to laugh too loudly, resisting the urge to flap my arms and saying “are you okay” over and over as a mantra and and and also wondering where I can turn around to take her back to the hospital and if it's really a horrible thing to smoke a goddamn cigarette since I was pretty sure we were both going to die soon.
“Why would you want a seat in a car to DO THAT????” Loree asks
“It definitely keeps going if you keep leaning. You must have leaned hard.”
“yeah.”
“Maybe now take the Vicodin, too.”
*Please don’t tell Loree’s mom.
November 11, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Table for Two
“I’m hungry”
“Just keep swallowing.”
“But….. It’s not working….I’m still hungry”
“You don’t want it or you would be full.”
“I do want to be full but I’m hungry. What do you want me to do, pretend I'm full? I can't pretend forever. I'm starving here.”
“Feed me some more so you can see how it’s done.”
"Really? You're feeling full? How can you be full if I'm still hungry? You just don't even know you're hungry."
"You're full you just don't even know you're full."
"I know I'm not full because I'm hungry."
"We can't stop.I'm full. Don't you want me to be full?"
“sure, I'm glad you're full and that does make me happy but I can’t help it I'm still hungry.”
"Well don't even think about snacking. You'll spoil dinner."
November 02, 2009
“Just keep swallowing.”
“But….. It’s not working….I’m still hungry”
“You don’t want it or you would be full.”
“I do want to be full but I’m hungry. What do you want me to do, pretend I'm full? I can't pretend forever. I'm starving here.”
“Feed me some more so you can see how it’s done.”
"Really? You're feeling full? How can you be full if I'm still hungry? You just don't even know you're hungry."
"You're full you just don't even know you're full."
"I know I'm not full because I'm hungry."
"We can't stop.I'm full. Don't you want me to be full?"
“sure, I'm glad you're full and that does make me happy but I can’t help it I'm still hungry.”
"Well don't even think about snacking. You'll spoil dinner."
November 02, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
She's Got the Funk
I’ve been floundering. It seems flinging all your hats back in peoples faces leaves a person rather without aim. I’m calling it a funk. Saying it might be a bit of depression sounds depressing. Having a funk sounds like maybe I can wear platform shoes and tight plaid bell bottoms.
Last night I ate half a blueberry muffin before I realized it was blueberry. I thought it was just a chocolate chip muffin gone bad. The thing is… the fact that it sucked ass didn’t stop me from eating it. I only stopped eating it when I finally figured out it was blueberry. Because I don’t like blueberries. I mean I’ve sort of made that a rule. I’ll eat them if I’m picking them directly off the bush but otherwise I avoid berries of the blue variety. Apparently I’ll tolerate chocolate in any condition, even if it’s blue.
I always end up in this place where I have to decide to either get the fuck over something and do something for myself OR spiral into self destructive tendencies for a couple few more years and get to the work later. Or never. You know - whatever comes first. And now on top of it there’s this whole death clock ticking everywhere I go. I’m all Hook and no Pan.
Meanwhile I have everything. I know I joke about the poverty but honestly it’s only because I’ve been spoiled so long that I feel any pinch now. Mostly I’m annoyed that I have to think about money. So here I am in the big old awesome house in the town I picked for the fabulous school where my daughters teacher actually calls me at home from the classroom. I have a beautiful, healthy, intelligent children and
And…..
That’s just it…. I’m still trying to figure out what the point of it all is. I’m still pissed off that there’s no point. That it just is and that I’m supposed to be satisfied with it. That no one else seems to be mad about anything important. That it’s so clear to me that everyone is isolated and lonely and without touch and it stuns me that we can all be that way and so rarely find anything resembling a match. That there’s no solution … that the doing over and over might BE the solution.
Wax on wax off.
Fucking zen.
SO I try and shake it all off. I go out in the world and it seems to me that all of us should be ripping our skin off for the chance to brush against anything that might share in this tremble, in this terror and anger and day in day out work of it all….. Against any heat or shiver or spark that says we’re alive to experience and I don’t find any of that. I find drunks and assholes too fucking stupid to know what to do with their dicks and only interested in pretending long enough to get the bare minimum of contact needed to get their rocks off and that’s enough for them. People doing everything they can to avoid exactly what I'm looking for.
I don’t understand why any of this is enough for anyone. I don’t understand why we’re all eager to give up and give in and settle down and wait for death. I don’t see how the fear of that is more than the unavoidable cul-de-sac up ahead of all of us.
And more and more I have less tolerance for anyone. More and more I have less belief in humanity. Just this all consuming, paralyzing internal scream winding it’s way through my insides until the hole is so large only something incredible and probably nonexistent could fill it.
No big deal. Just life. Just another whiny blog. Just my chocolate is blue and it’s making me funky.
October 27, 2009
Last night I ate half a blueberry muffin before I realized it was blueberry. I thought it was just a chocolate chip muffin gone bad. The thing is… the fact that it sucked ass didn’t stop me from eating it. I only stopped eating it when I finally figured out it was blueberry. Because I don’t like blueberries. I mean I’ve sort of made that a rule. I’ll eat them if I’m picking them directly off the bush but otherwise I avoid berries of the blue variety. Apparently I’ll tolerate chocolate in any condition, even if it’s blue.
I always end up in this place where I have to decide to either get the fuck over something and do something for myself OR spiral into self destructive tendencies for a couple few more years and get to the work later. Or never. You know - whatever comes first. And now on top of it there’s this whole death clock ticking everywhere I go. I’m all Hook and no Pan.
Meanwhile I have everything. I know I joke about the poverty but honestly it’s only because I’ve been spoiled so long that I feel any pinch now. Mostly I’m annoyed that I have to think about money. So here I am in the big old awesome house in the town I picked for the fabulous school where my daughters teacher actually calls me at home from the classroom. I have a beautiful, healthy, intelligent children and
And…..
That’s just it…. I’m still trying to figure out what the point of it all is. I’m still pissed off that there’s no point. That it just is and that I’m supposed to be satisfied with it. That no one else seems to be mad about anything important. That it’s so clear to me that everyone is isolated and lonely and without touch and it stuns me that we can all be that way and so rarely find anything resembling a match. That there’s no solution … that the doing over and over might BE the solution.
Wax on wax off.
Fucking zen.
SO I try and shake it all off. I go out in the world and it seems to me that all of us should be ripping our skin off for the chance to brush against anything that might share in this tremble, in this terror and anger and day in day out work of it all….. Against any heat or shiver or spark that says we’re alive to experience and I don’t find any of that. I find drunks and assholes too fucking stupid to know what to do with their dicks and only interested in pretending long enough to get the bare minimum of contact needed to get their rocks off and that’s enough for them. People doing everything they can to avoid exactly what I'm looking for.
I don’t understand why any of this is enough for anyone. I don’t understand why we’re all eager to give up and give in and settle down and wait for death. I don’t see how the fear of that is more than the unavoidable cul-de-sac up ahead of all of us.
And more and more I have less tolerance for anyone. More and more I have less belief in humanity. Just this all consuming, paralyzing internal scream winding it’s way through my insides until the hole is so large only something incredible and probably nonexistent could fill it.
No big deal. Just life. Just another whiny blog. Just my chocolate is blue and it’s making me funky.
October 27, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Kiss Me
“Do you want to come over, and hang out?”
I want you to give me my breath back. “Oh I don’t…. I mean, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Just hanging out, you know. I’m not trying to be creepy or anything. I‘m just saying you could come over to my place if you want to.”
I want your hands on my body so the butterflies know where to land. “I guess. What would we do? I mean we could just stay here.”
“It feels weird in here. There’s a weird vibe in here tonight. I don‘t care. Whatever you want.”
I want you to hurry up and break my heart before it beats out of my chest. “It does seem weird in here tonight. Strange.”
“We could watch a movie or something. Are you okay? You seem uncomfortable. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
Oh God. I want you to kiss me. “I know that.”
October 23, 2009
I want you to give me my breath back. “Oh I don’t…. I mean, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Just hanging out, you know. I’m not trying to be creepy or anything. I‘m just saying you could come over to my place if you want to.”
I want your hands on my body so the butterflies know where to land. “I guess. What would we do? I mean we could just stay here.”
“It feels weird in here. There’s a weird vibe in here tonight. I don‘t care. Whatever you want.”
I want you to hurry up and break my heart before it beats out of my chest. “It does seem weird in here tonight. Strange.”
“We could watch a movie or something. Are you okay? You seem uncomfortable. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
Oh God. I want you to kiss me. “I know that.”
October 23, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
Three About Thatcher
I feel a tremendous satisfaction watching my son play with his Daddy. Even as I have to restrain myself from forcing Daddy to act more like Mommy. As the weather gets crappier we start to allow outside play to creep inside. When I say we I mostly mean Daddy. Not that I blame him, Thatcher is three years old and endless energy whether the weather allows it to happen outside or not. So, Tim was tossing a ball back and forth with Thatch. Thatch would grab the ball and then fling it wildly at his daddy, laughing at how difficult Daddy pretended it was to catch it. Then Tim would carefully, gently toss the ball in a soft slow arc toward Thatcher. Thatcher’s not so great at catching yet unless you remind him to make his arms a basket and manage to drop the ball directly into the waiting bowl. Daddy doesn’t know this. So the ball bounced off Thatcher’s chubby toddler fingers with the hands in prayer pose. Then the next time it bounced right off his adorable head! “You’re ruining the game, Daddy!” Thatcher would admonish him loudly and angrily. “ME!” Tim responded laughing “You’re the one not catching it!” It’s a mystery to me - this male bonding.
*****
Yesterday I was flat ironing my hair in the bathroom while Thatcher enthusiastically attempted to be my assistant. “I just want to help you my mom!” he assured me as I shooed him away from the hot appliance. So I allowed him to stand on his stool and ask me questions while I pulled my hair through the straightening device. We made it about three minutes until I had to kick him out before he burned himself or I had to answer “YES, HOT ENOUGH TO BURN YOU!” one more time.
He reluctantly backed out of the bathroom and then our eyes met and he smirked and said “Mommy. You look fat. You’re FAAAT.”
“That’s not a nice thing to say!” I said, surprised and wondering where the hell he heard that. “And it isn’t even true.” I mean seriously people. I’d like it if when my children are insulting someone they do it right.
“You’re FAT.” he tried again.
“Thatcher. People come in all different sizes. It’s not okay to make anyone feel bad about what size they are.”
“That man at the party was fat.”
“What are you talking about? What man?” Dear gawd did he SAY that to someone? What party?
“You’re fat!” he tried a final time.
“I’m not fat, Thatcher.”
“That’s not what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to say I’m not fat, I can still walk around!”
“Where did you hear that!?!” I hollered but he was already in another room kicking something.
*****
The alarm on my phone went off after already hitting snooze three times today. I squinted at the clock on the dresser and reluctantly swung my legs over the edge of the bed and began pulling the clothes I’d left in a puddle there only a few hours before.
“Are you getting up, Mommy?” Thatch asked enthusiastically “Good job Mommy! Good job!”
He’s such a sweetheart. And so early.
October 16, 2009
*****
Yesterday I was flat ironing my hair in the bathroom while Thatcher enthusiastically attempted to be my assistant. “I just want to help you my mom!” he assured me as I shooed him away from the hot appliance. So I allowed him to stand on his stool and ask me questions while I pulled my hair through the straightening device. We made it about three minutes until I had to kick him out before he burned himself or I had to answer “YES, HOT ENOUGH TO BURN YOU!” one more time.
He reluctantly backed out of the bathroom and then our eyes met and he smirked and said “Mommy. You look fat. You’re FAAAT.”
“That’s not a nice thing to say!” I said, surprised and wondering where the hell he heard that. “And it isn’t even true.” I mean seriously people. I’d like it if when my children are insulting someone they do it right.
“You’re FAT.” he tried again.
“Thatcher. People come in all different sizes. It’s not okay to make anyone feel bad about what size they are.”
“That man at the party was fat.”
“What are you talking about? What man?” Dear gawd did he SAY that to someone? What party?
“You’re fat!” he tried a final time.
“I’m not fat, Thatcher.”
“That’s not what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to say I’m not fat, I can still walk around!”
“Where did you hear that!?!” I hollered but he was already in another room kicking something.
*****
The alarm on my phone went off after already hitting snooze three times today. I squinted at the clock on the dresser and reluctantly swung my legs over the edge of the bed and began pulling the clothes I’d left in a puddle there only a few hours before.
“Are you getting up, Mommy?” Thatch asked enthusiastically “Good job Mommy! Good job!”
He’s such a sweetheart. And so early.
October 16, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Thatch Covers The Rolling Stones
I was down in the basement folding laundry when Thatch made his way down the treacherous steps to join me. “Hey Mom! There’s this song..“ He began to sing plaintively “You can’t get what you WAAAaaaant. You can’t get what you WAAAAAaaant.”
“Hey I know that song, where did you hear that?” I kicked myself for not having the camera on me to immediately take video footage of his Rolling Stones Cover.
“Listen me. Listen my song.” he said and began to sing again “You can get what you want. You want candy you get what you wAAAAant. You can get what you WAAAaaant.” He trailed off and mumbled trying to remember the tune.
I tried to be helpful, “You can’t always get what you WaaaaaaAAaaaaant. You can’t always get what you WAAAaaant. But if you try sometimes -”
“You can get what you want!” he sang
“- you just might find you get what you NEEEEEEEEd awwwwwww yes.” I dropped the towel I was folding and began a wild air guitar solo that ended prematurely when he begged me to stop.
October 8, 2009
“Hey I know that song, where did you hear that?” I kicked myself for not having the camera on me to immediately take video footage of his Rolling Stones Cover.
“Listen me. Listen my song.” he said and began to sing again “You can get what you want. You want candy you get what you wAAAAant. You can get what you WAAAaaant.” He trailed off and mumbled trying to remember the tune.
I tried to be helpful, “You can’t always get what you WaaaaaaAAaaaaant. You can’t always get what you WAAAaaant. But if you try sometimes -”
“You can get what you want!” he sang
“- you just might find you get what you NEEEEEEEEd awwwwwww yes.” I dropped the towel I was folding and began a wild air guitar solo that ended prematurely when he begged me to stop.
October 8, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Autumn Is
Autumn is...
a circle of wagons against winters invasion.
the flaming farewell flash of a lover’s warm embrace.
sharpened graphite perspective in the spaces between college ruled possibilities.
looking inward to find unexpected warmth amongst crunchy dead debris.
night arriving before the day feels over.
October 7, 2009
a circle of wagons against winters invasion.
the flaming farewell flash of a lover’s warm embrace.
sharpened graphite perspective in the spaces between college ruled possibilities.
looking inward to find unexpected warmth amongst crunchy dead debris.
night arriving before the day feels over.
October 7, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Lengthy Thighs and Thin Villainous Lips
“Oh wow.” he muttered next to me.
“what.” I rather dully questioned him. He’d followed me out on the porch and perched next to me on the brick flower box.
“Your thighs. They’re so freaking long.”
“What are you talking about?” I’ve always thought I was pretty well proportioned when it comes to limbs.
“Look at your thighs! They’re almost as long as mine!” He put one hand at the tip of my knee and the other on my ass. He was right; my leg almost lined up perfectly with his… but he’s like a foot taller than I am so how can that be?
“That’s not my thigh.” I nodded at his hands. “and that’s not my thigh.”
“Still. They’re looooong.” damn it. I wonder where he’s hiding almost a foot of height?
“Quit freaking me out. I’m still pouting about my thin villainous lips.”
“Well. I wouldn’t say pouting. I mean… you don’t have the lips for that.”
“Shut up. You’re the one with a freakishly long neck.”
“WHAT!?”
“How else can you be that tall?”
"Maybe if you had better posture you would actually be my height."
"Eh. It's not worth it. I like it down here with my thin villainous lips and lengthy thighs. good times."
October 6, 2009
“what.” I rather dully questioned him. He’d followed me out on the porch and perched next to me on the brick flower box.
“Your thighs. They’re so freaking long.”
“What are you talking about?” I’ve always thought I was pretty well proportioned when it comes to limbs.
“Look at your thighs! They’re almost as long as mine!” He put one hand at the tip of my knee and the other on my ass. He was right; my leg almost lined up perfectly with his… but he’s like a foot taller than I am so how can that be?
“That’s not my thigh.” I nodded at his hands. “and that’s not my thigh.”
“Still. They’re looooong.” damn it. I wonder where he’s hiding almost a foot of height?
“Quit freaking me out. I’m still pouting about my thin villainous lips.”
“Well. I wouldn’t say pouting. I mean… you don’t have the lips for that.”
“Shut up. You’re the one with a freakishly long neck.”
“WHAT!?”
“How else can you be that tall?”
"Maybe if you had better posture you would actually be my height."
"Eh. It's not worth it. I like it down here with my thin villainous lips and lengthy thighs. good times."
October 6, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
I Read Banned Books
One of my dearest readers and favorite bloggers (link at bottom) gave us an assignment for banned book week. She wants all of us to blog about a banned book we either read specifically for this or just have read. I of course forgot all about it and then put it off all week until it’s now Friday and I shall have to half ass it. Because honestly… banned books are not my top priority (it‘s surveys). Luckily I seem to have read/and own most of the books from the link she gave us.
Also. I should confess I have banned some books in my own house. *gasp* I know. Just proves you never know what a book banner might look like. It can be someone you least expect. When your child gets up at three am because she “can’t sleep” and you find Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in her bedcovers with a flashlight … something must be done.
However...a quick glance over the American Library Association’s list of classic books that have been banned reveals that parents are most often the folks requesting that a book be banned. (I was picturing ogre types) They want the books removed from school reading lists and class curriculum or taken off the shelves of local libraries because they’re “vulgar” or use “obscene language” or contain “explicit sexual content” or simply “take the lords name in vain” or “have more violence than seems necessary.”
The parents are protesting against their children growing up.
The parents are protesting the big wide world of other opinions thoughtfully expressed.
The parents are protesting against the world stinks and someone fucking wrote it down.
And I’m guilty. I have a bookshelf filled with banned books and when my daughter stands perusing the selection I get twitchy. I hold my breath when her fingers trail the spines and I see her lips mouthing the titles. The Great Gatsby, Of Mice and Men, The Catcher in the Rye, 1984, Catch-22, The Color Purple, Lord of the Flies, Lolita, Invisible Man, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Slaughterhouse Five, For Whom the Bells Tolls, Johnny Got His Gun, A Clockwork Orange.
!!! The sex. The violence. The big gaping hole in world. The sky is falling and inevitable death of it all. The hurt and the love and the aching futility. My gawd! I don’t want to answer those questions! I don’t even have those answers! A fairy or bunny or even a jolly saint with thousands of elves could not carry the amount of cash needed to cushion the loss that would occur with those understandings! (we don't have god)
So I hold my breath. And I monitor my elevated heart rate. And I casually ask if she’s ready for a trip to the library with their half height shelved children’s section. And I think it will be another three or four years before I open complete access to all my books. (I also still catch her leaving books face down instead of using one of her fifty book marks) In the meantime… there is plenty of banned literature written for children to choose from. She’s already read many of them Where the Wild Things Are, Adventures of Tom Sawyer, A Wrinkle in Time, Bridge to Terabithia, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing… to name a few.
And I think that’s right. She’s (almost) nine. I’m her mother. What I don’t understand is anyone thinking they’re allowed to mother all of us. Book banning is not a terrible thing that used to happen. Books are challenged and banned and removed from shelves every year. Books are still burned. The Harry Potter series is currently among the most frequently challenged books as measured by the ALA. Now. Not all of us are Harry Potter fans. But banning it? BURNING it? It’s ridiculous.
So… I’m saying… go ahead and choose for you… and go ahead and choose for your children… but you don’t get to choose for me or mine. And good day.
October 2, 2009
Also. I should confess I have banned some books in my own house. *gasp* I know. Just proves you never know what a book banner might look like. It can be someone you least expect. When your child gets up at three am because she “can’t sleep” and you find Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in her bedcovers with a flashlight … something must be done.
However...a quick glance over the American Library Association’s list of classic books that have been banned reveals that parents are most often the folks requesting that a book be banned. (I was picturing ogre types) They want the books removed from school reading lists and class curriculum or taken off the shelves of local libraries because they’re “vulgar” or use “obscene language” or contain “explicit sexual content” or simply “take the lords name in vain” or “have more violence than seems necessary.”
The parents are protesting against their children growing up.
The parents are protesting the big wide world of other opinions thoughtfully expressed.
The parents are protesting against the world stinks and someone fucking wrote it down.
And I’m guilty. I have a bookshelf filled with banned books and when my daughter stands perusing the selection I get twitchy. I hold my breath when her fingers trail the spines and I see her lips mouthing the titles. The Great Gatsby, Of Mice and Men, The Catcher in the Rye, 1984, Catch-22, The Color Purple, Lord of the Flies, Lolita, Invisible Man, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Slaughterhouse Five, For Whom the Bells Tolls, Johnny Got His Gun, A Clockwork Orange.
!!! The sex. The violence. The big gaping hole in world. The sky is falling and inevitable death of it all. The hurt and the love and the aching futility. My gawd! I don’t want to answer those questions! I don’t even have those answers! A fairy or bunny or even a jolly saint with thousands of elves could not carry the amount of cash needed to cushion the loss that would occur with those understandings! (we don't have god)
So I hold my breath. And I monitor my elevated heart rate. And I casually ask if she’s ready for a trip to the library with their half height shelved children’s section. And I think it will be another three or four years before I open complete access to all my books. (I also still catch her leaving books face down instead of using one of her fifty book marks) In the meantime… there is plenty of banned literature written for children to choose from. She’s already read many of them Where the Wild Things Are, Adventures of Tom Sawyer, A Wrinkle in Time, Bridge to Terabithia, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing… to name a few.
And I think that’s right. She’s (almost) nine. I’m her mother. What I don’t understand is anyone thinking they’re allowed to mother all of us. Book banning is not a terrible thing that used to happen. Books are challenged and banned and removed from shelves every year. Books are still burned. The Harry Potter series is currently among the most frequently challenged books as measured by the ALA. Now. Not all of us are Harry Potter fans. But banning it? BURNING it? It’s ridiculous.
So… I’m saying… go ahead and choose for you… and go ahead and choose for your children… but you don’t get to choose for me or mine. And good day.
October 2, 2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
No! You're a Nator!
My three year old has a hearing problem. Okay… not really, though I doubt his ear drums are fully intact after the super high pitch squealing soundtrack of his infancy and the shouting match gold medalist status of his toddler years. I say he has a hearing problem because he constantly asks everyone “What?”
*** he may or may not have picked this up from a certain Muddy fellow from another country that once visited us and spilled coffee on my carpet. And I don’t care about the coffee… it’s the “what?”ing you’ll pay dearly for mister!***
He just likes to talk. He likes people. And why shouldn’t he? Everywhere he goes, he’s charming and that’s the feedback he receives. People like him, adore him, even. For no reason I can see. That came out wrong. Of course I CAN SEE…. I mean jebus. He’s adorable to the tenth degree. Those dimples… the big knowing brown eyes…. The reddish blond mop of limp hair on his head… his tiny man swagger… that way his eyebrows wriggle just before he's about to really blow your mind with funny.... it’s a miracle I haven’t eaten him whole. But I’m his Mama… I’m talking about virtual strangers.
My son will be throwing a raging tantrum in the cart area at Wal~Mart because he’s just found out that once again his mother has blown all her quarters in the jukebox at the pub and he won’t be riding the rocking whatever it is that month. And old people will approach cooing and handing me five dollar bills I’m supposed to trade in for quarters to satisfy my tyrant of a child. That’s not normal! Usually when you have a screaming child in public people stare at you as though you brought a razor on an airplane. Old people more than anyone!
Actually I have a theory about his adorability. (it's a shouldbeaword) He’s a supremely good mimic. And people love nothing more than themselves. That’s a fact.
Wow. I lost track of what I’m talking about. OH! The goddamn whating is driving me bonkers.
Imagine for a moment that most of your day is spent saying simple mind numbing things like “please wash your hands” or “Yes I love that blue line you drew.” and “Stop hitting your sister.” Don’t forget the stand bys such as “no.” and “Maybe later.” and “not right now.” and “yes I’m very sorry I crumpled to the hardwood floor when you jumped on my back unexpectedly whilst hollering "YEEHAW MOMMY!" and we both rolled onto a pile of legos and matchbox cars bruising our bodies head to toe.”
Now imagine having to say it all thrice. Not just because my “intense personality” children are often so absorbed in whatever havoc they’re reeking that they actually don’t hear me. But because Thatcher always always always has to ask “What?” two or three times after I say anything.
“Mom? Where’s my Dad?” he asks
“I think he might be in the bathroom. Give him a minute and he’ll be out before you know it.”
“What?”
“He’s in the bathroom.”
“What?”
“HE’S URINATING!” my sister tried to help me out.
“No! You’re a nator!” Thatcher retorted.
*sigh* now it’s like our family catch phrase. “No! You’re a nator!”
September 30, 2009
*** he may or may not have picked this up from a certain Muddy fellow from another country that once visited us and spilled coffee on my carpet. And I don’t care about the coffee… it’s the “what?”ing you’ll pay dearly for mister!***
He just likes to talk. He likes people. And why shouldn’t he? Everywhere he goes, he’s charming and that’s the feedback he receives. People like him, adore him, even. For no reason I can see. That came out wrong. Of course I CAN SEE…. I mean jebus. He’s adorable to the tenth degree. Those dimples… the big knowing brown eyes…. The reddish blond mop of limp hair on his head… his tiny man swagger… that way his eyebrows wriggle just before he's about to really blow your mind with funny.... it’s a miracle I haven’t eaten him whole. But I’m his Mama… I’m talking about virtual strangers.
My son will be throwing a raging tantrum in the cart area at Wal~Mart because he’s just found out that once again his mother has blown all her quarters in the jukebox at the pub and he won’t be riding the rocking whatever it is that month. And old people will approach cooing and handing me five dollar bills I’m supposed to trade in for quarters to satisfy my tyrant of a child. That’s not normal! Usually when you have a screaming child in public people stare at you as though you brought a razor on an airplane. Old people more than anyone!
Actually I have a theory about his adorability. (it's a shouldbeaword) He’s a supremely good mimic. And people love nothing more than themselves. That’s a fact.
Wow. I lost track of what I’m talking about. OH! The goddamn whating is driving me bonkers.
Imagine for a moment that most of your day is spent saying simple mind numbing things like “please wash your hands” or “Yes I love that blue line you drew.” and “Stop hitting your sister.” Don’t forget the stand bys such as “no.” and “Maybe later.” and “not right now.” and “yes I’m very sorry I crumpled to the hardwood floor when you jumped on my back unexpectedly whilst hollering "YEEHAW MOMMY!" and we both rolled onto a pile of legos and matchbox cars bruising our bodies head to toe.”
Now imagine having to say it all thrice. Not just because my “intense personality” children are often so absorbed in whatever havoc they’re reeking that they actually don’t hear me. But because Thatcher always always always has to ask “What?” two or three times after I say anything.
“Mom? Where’s my Dad?” he asks
“I think he might be in the bathroom. Give him a minute and he’ll be out before you know it.”
“What?”
“He’s in the bathroom.”
“What?”
“HE’S URINATING!” my sister tried to help me out.
“No! You’re a nator!” Thatcher retorted.
*sigh* now it’s like our family catch phrase. “No! You’re a nator!”
September 30, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
WANTED: An Action Figure
I don’t remember her exact words…. But she* said it was something she had to learn over and over and I think I’m going to try to absorb it and be it and know it often enough to stop bending over for the wrong people. She said you have to figure out if you’re seeing people the way they are or the way they could be. You have to look at who they are being right now and act accordingly.
This wasn’t a light bulb this was a stadium at homecoming.
OOOOO0000hhhhhh! Who they are being right now!
A S S H O L E S !
Right.
And there are a million reasons. Circumstances. Blah blah blah blah. And it doesn’t matter.
And yes I can see who they might be. I can see who they want to be. I can see their best version.
This is the key to the forever mojo. Nobody wants to give that up… this feeling that someone sees their best self.
BUT WHO ARE YOU BEING RIGHT NOW????
I can keep seeing who you could be. But I won’t go all in with a phantom. I’m going to have to treat you as the person you’re acting like.
Because that’s what it’s all about. Action.
****plastic weapon accessories optional.
*she be Loree
September 25, 2009
This wasn’t a light bulb this was a stadium at homecoming.
OOOOO0000hhhhhh! Who they are being right now!
A S S H O L E S !
Right.
And there are a million reasons. Circumstances. Blah blah blah blah. And it doesn’t matter.
And yes I can see who they might be. I can see who they want to be. I can see their best version.
This is the key to the forever mojo. Nobody wants to give that up… this feeling that someone sees their best self.
BUT WHO ARE YOU BEING RIGHT NOW????
I can keep seeing who you could be. But I won’t go all in with a phantom. I’m going to have to treat you as the person you’re acting like.
Because that’s what it’s all about. Action.
****plastic weapon accessories optional.
*she be Loree
September 25, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Letting off a Little Steam
Sunday afternoon we went to the Molalla Train Park for a birthday party. Thatcher’s cousin Alex turned three and it was a lot of fun. Small children were sobbing and screaming as their mothers attempted to take them home - always a sign of a child’s party is going really well.
You might be wondering what the hell the Molalla Train Park is..... No? Too bad I’m going to tell you anyway. (you knew that)
I first heard about the Molalla Train Park on Oregon Field Guide. (why yes I do watch public television thank you for noticing that about me) The folks at Oregon Field Guide have this super dry documentary style that manages to capture oddities all across the state of Oregon without ever offending the oddities.You get the childlike fascination and wonder feeling instead of the knee-jerk run from the freaks scary belly roll. (might just be me - I’m sort of a documentary junkie. What? How else can I know an insignificant bit of nothing about everything there is to know?)
First of all you should know something about Molalla…… whoooo doggy! What a town. Sweet Jesus. I was getting the heebies just driving through. It has this small town vibe where you can tell the residents are goddamn proud of their small town and like it just the way it is, thank you very much. Not like touristy small towns that make it all pretty either. It's not a city persons small town replica… I’m talking about fierce redneck pride here. I’m talking about my wife rides our tractor mower in her bikini with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and a toddler on the steering wheel people. I swear to you the entire town is in some kind of yard sale/junk yard/tacky yard ornament competition. I love it. And hate it. Like most everything. But my point is; you can see why the crazy train people found a home here.
You know about crazy train people, right? I know they don’t get the publicity the Furries get but give them a chance!! You can spot them… they’re usually large fifty plus men with lots of facial hair going on. They wear overalls with an oil rag hanging out of their back pockets and often as not a train conductor shaped cap. They have large round bellies. They’re gruff and if they’re not cajoling you they want you to cajole them. I have the idea that they wouldn't have any use for a woman unless she was wrapped in rope attached to the track with a big silent movie H E L P hovering over her head. But listen… it’s not all “look at the big hairy men play pretend with their tiny trains” … they mean business. Like any freaks they are EXTREMELY passionate (prickly) about their craft.
Now grown men obsessed with steam engines and tiny toy replicas of a dying mode of transportation are a delightful rare find. And that’s part of the joy. Their love of the trains. Building the tiny pretend towns. The cult of it . …the old timer coal burning steam making whistle blowing THRILL of it all……All that fun stuff… rare, delightful. The Molalla Train People… took it up a notch. Excuse me… the Pacific Northwest Live Steamers. (*ahem* serious business, folks.) They built … “A seven and a half inch gauge railroad nestled on four acres” and it’s open to the public. For Free. (donations gladly accepted) Pretty awesome. (freaky)
SO. Here’s the deal. The crazy train people pay for their own trains (built especially to fit this track which is (as far as I know) the only track they can go on.) They pay for the tracks, everything to do with the actual trains and they‘re all members of the club. They volunteer their time to drive the trains with people on them. The donations from visitors and the gift shop and the snack bar pay for upkeep on the park.
Look closer……. You have cranky old men with intricate delicate hand made toys inviting the public to come ride their trains for free. Keep in mind the part of the public interested in riding the trains is the cranky toddler set. Ummmm problems maybe? Ya think?
Well. Mostly no. Most of the guys we met and interacted with were Grandpa types. They were patient. They were conductor like. They were great. And if you think I don’t know how insane a proposition it is to drive a tiny train around in circles all day while parents attempt to keep their kicking screaming whiny annoying unappreciative brat children from ruining your slaved over work of art train toy…..you’re wrong. I get it. It probably sucks ass. But ummm HELLO0O0O you invited them!!!
Well. Clearly I’m beating around a big bush… so let’s razor that puppy and get to the dick I want to tell you about. (ahahahah gawds that is filthy dirty terrible writing! I’m leaving it; the filth humors me)
Allow me to paint the picture… it’s a beautiful fall day in Molalla, Oregon. Somehow through the magic of the pink plus sign on a pee stick I find myself straddling a piece of wood the width of a bleacher bench on a tiny train track with two three year olds, an eight year old and Tim. The piece of wood is one of the “cars” connected to a miniature train engine and the conductor of said tiny train is walking the length of the train to board and guide the locomotive around a track for our pleasure. Tim is behind me, Then there is Thatcher in front of me, Birthday Boy in front of him and amazingly tolerant eight year old Isabelle ahead of him.
I say tolerant because she is at the mercy of the three year olds sitting behind her. The thing about three year olds is they wriggle. They poke. They shuffle their feet around. They head butt. They tickle. They rock. They roll. They scream and squeal about what an incredibly good time they’re having on the tiny train. And we haven’t even left the station yet. But, I know that once the train gets going I will have a significantly easier time keeping them at task.
So my beautiful, tolerant, bright eight year old daughter has twisted her body in a half turn to look back at the boys and she’s smiling and laughing at their antics as I get them settled down before the conductor “all aboards” and we can be on our merry way.
“You need to turn around and quit messing around so I don’t have to evict you from the train park. You want to play, you go home to play. You want to ride this train you will turn around and face forward and behave.” ………says the asshole conductor to my kid.
I shit you not. So this bizarre shocked “Hey…” comes out of my mouth and I try to reach over the boys to put my hand on her shoulder but she’s already turned around and her shoulder blades tell me she’s doing everything she can not to cry and if I touch her she will sob and then she will hate me.
“I’m going to have a problem” Tim growls in my ear. That’s code for I’m about to kick that old man’s ass if you don’t do something to stop me.
But before anyone can do anything the guy starts the train and like it or not we’re stuck for ten minutes on the train. Midway through the ride Tim actually had to lift Thatch out of my lap and over the back of my head to separate the three year olds (I mentioned the poking, right?) and other than the fierce desire to KILL THAT FUCKING BASTARD it was a lovely train ride.
After we got off the train I had to pull my daughter aside and explain to her that she hadn’t done anything wrong, that he was just a cranky old man and that she shouldn’t take it personally.
But I do. And I say How dare you, sir. HOW DARE YOU!! Clearly you’ve been around that track a few too many times. Take a train vacation for god’s sake. You have no right to belittle my child.
*patient smile*
In short… (and for those of you skimming)
If you ever get the chance; I highly recommend visiting the Molalla Train Park. Good Times.
If you run into the Molalla Train Park Nazi kick him in his train whistle for me.
September 21, 2009
You might be wondering what the hell the Molalla Train Park is..... No? Too bad I’m going to tell you anyway. (you knew that)
I first heard about the Molalla Train Park on Oregon Field Guide. (why yes I do watch public television thank you for noticing that about me) The folks at Oregon Field Guide have this super dry documentary style that manages to capture oddities all across the state of Oregon without ever offending the oddities.You get the childlike fascination and wonder feeling instead of the knee-jerk run from the freaks scary belly roll. (might just be me - I’m sort of a documentary junkie. What? How else can I know an insignificant bit of nothing about everything there is to know?)
First of all you should know something about Molalla…… whoooo doggy! What a town. Sweet Jesus. I was getting the heebies just driving through. It has this small town vibe where you can tell the residents are goddamn proud of their small town and like it just the way it is, thank you very much. Not like touristy small towns that make it all pretty either. It's not a city persons small town replica… I’m talking about fierce redneck pride here. I’m talking about my wife rides our tractor mower in her bikini with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and a toddler on the steering wheel people. I swear to you the entire town is in some kind of yard sale/junk yard/tacky yard ornament competition. I love it. And hate it. Like most everything. But my point is; you can see why the crazy train people found a home here.
You know about crazy train people, right? I know they don’t get the publicity the Furries get but give them a chance!! You can spot them… they’re usually large fifty plus men with lots of facial hair going on. They wear overalls with an oil rag hanging out of their back pockets and often as not a train conductor shaped cap. They have large round bellies. They’re gruff and if they’re not cajoling you they want you to cajole them. I have the idea that they wouldn't have any use for a woman unless she was wrapped in rope attached to the track with a big silent movie H E L P hovering over her head. But listen… it’s not all “look at the big hairy men play pretend with their tiny trains” … they mean business. Like any freaks they are EXTREMELY passionate (prickly) about their craft.
Now grown men obsessed with steam engines and tiny toy replicas of a dying mode of transportation are a delightful rare find. And that’s part of the joy. Their love of the trains. Building the tiny pretend towns. The cult of it . …the old timer coal burning steam making whistle blowing THRILL of it all……All that fun stuff… rare, delightful. The Molalla Train People… took it up a notch. Excuse me… the Pacific Northwest Live Steamers. (*ahem* serious business, folks.) They built … “A seven and a half inch gauge railroad nestled on four acres” and it’s open to the public. For Free. (donations gladly accepted) Pretty awesome. (freaky)
SO. Here’s the deal. The crazy train people pay for their own trains (built especially to fit this track which is (as far as I know) the only track they can go on.) They pay for the tracks, everything to do with the actual trains and they‘re all members of the club. They volunteer their time to drive the trains with people on them. The donations from visitors and the gift shop and the snack bar pay for upkeep on the park.
Look closer……. You have cranky old men with intricate delicate hand made toys inviting the public to come ride their trains for free. Keep in mind the part of the public interested in riding the trains is the cranky toddler set. Ummmm problems maybe? Ya think?
Well. Mostly no. Most of the guys we met and interacted with were Grandpa types. They were patient. They were conductor like. They were great. And if you think I don’t know how insane a proposition it is to drive a tiny train around in circles all day while parents attempt to keep their kicking screaming whiny annoying unappreciative brat children from ruining your slaved over work of art train toy…..you’re wrong. I get it. It probably sucks ass. But ummm HELLO0O0O you invited them!!!
Well. Clearly I’m beating around a big bush… so let’s razor that puppy and get to the dick I want to tell you about. (ahahahah gawds that is filthy dirty terrible writing! I’m leaving it; the filth humors me)
Allow me to paint the picture… it’s a beautiful fall day in Molalla, Oregon. Somehow through the magic of the pink plus sign on a pee stick I find myself straddling a piece of wood the width of a bleacher bench on a tiny train track with two three year olds, an eight year old and Tim. The piece of wood is one of the “cars” connected to a miniature train engine and the conductor of said tiny train is walking the length of the train to board and guide the locomotive around a track for our pleasure. Tim is behind me, Then there is Thatcher in front of me, Birthday Boy in front of him and amazingly tolerant eight year old Isabelle ahead of him.
I say tolerant because she is at the mercy of the three year olds sitting behind her. The thing about three year olds is they wriggle. They poke. They shuffle their feet around. They head butt. They tickle. They rock. They roll. They scream and squeal about what an incredibly good time they’re having on the tiny train. And we haven’t even left the station yet. But, I know that once the train gets going I will have a significantly easier time keeping them at task.
So my beautiful, tolerant, bright eight year old daughter has twisted her body in a half turn to look back at the boys and she’s smiling and laughing at their antics as I get them settled down before the conductor “all aboards” and we can be on our merry way.
“You need to turn around and quit messing around so I don’t have to evict you from the train park. You want to play, you go home to play. You want to ride this train you will turn around and face forward and behave.” ………says the asshole conductor to my kid.
I shit you not. So this bizarre shocked “Hey…” comes out of my mouth and I try to reach over the boys to put my hand on her shoulder but she’s already turned around and her shoulder blades tell me she’s doing everything she can not to cry and if I touch her she will sob and then she will hate me.
“I’m going to have a problem” Tim growls in my ear. That’s code for I’m about to kick that old man’s ass if you don’t do something to stop me.
But before anyone can do anything the guy starts the train and like it or not we’re stuck for ten minutes on the train. Midway through the ride Tim actually had to lift Thatch out of my lap and over the back of my head to separate the three year olds (I mentioned the poking, right?) and other than the fierce desire to KILL THAT FUCKING BASTARD it was a lovely train ride.
After we got off the train I had to pull my daughter aside and explain to her that she hadn’t done anything wrong, that he was just a cranky old man and that she shouldn’t take it personally.
But I do. And I say How dare you, sir. HOW DARE YOU!! Clearly you’ve been around that track a few too many times. Take a train vacation for god’s sake. You have no right to belittle my child.
*patient smile*
In short… (and for those of you skimming)
If you ever get the chance; I highly recommend visiting the Molalla Train Park. Good Times.
If you run into the Molalla Train Park Nazi kick him in his train whistle for me.
September 21, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
The Thrill of the Chase
My daughter’s best friend is not in her class this year. He also doesn’t have the same lunch period or any of the same recesses. It’s okay. She’s making other friends. (perhaps friends that don’t get their heads stomped on at recess? Is that too much to ask?) Meanwhile…. She’s stalking the best friend.
“Mom. I saw his backpack up ahead on the way outside.”
“Mom, he was in the hallway today and I waved at him.”
“Mom, he was on the bus today but someone was already sitting by him and I think he saw me.”
*floored*
I suppose the internet stalking doesn’t begin for a couple more years.
The thing is…. This kid…. Gawds. I don’t know how to say this…
Okay… so let’s say you have a kid and he’s a giant dork. Like say he wears t-shirts you get for free when you complete the libraries summer reading program (not that I don’t wear Isabelle’s) and perhaps his main interest in life is Pokemon…. Not Pokemon five years ago…. Pokemon right now… and also say he gets his head stomped into the ground on the playground and his voice is whiny even when he isn’t whining and say you spend nights wondering if anyone will ever see your boy the way you do and love love love him the way we all deserve to be loved. (restraining order love)
Well. Worry no more.
There’s some blue eyed blond haired beauty with a pokemon boner stalking him for sure.
And it’s my daughter.
September 18, 2009
“Mom. I saw his backpack up ahead on the way outside.”
“Mom, he was in the hallway today and I waved at him.”
“Mom, he was on the bus today but someone was already sitting by him and I think he saw me.”
*floored*
I suppose the internet stalking doesn’t begin for a couple more years.
The thing is…. This kid…. Gawds. I don’t know how to say this…
Okay… so let’s say you have a kid and he’s a giant dork. Like say he wears t-shirts you get for free when you complete the libraries summer reading program (not that I don’t wear Isabelle’s) and perhaps his main interest in life is Pokemon…. Not Pokemon five years ago…. Pokemon right now… and also say he gets his head stomped into the ground on the playground and his voice is whiny even when he isn’t whining and say you spend nights wondering if anyone will ever see your boy the way you do and love love love him the way we all deserve to be loved. (restraining order love)
Well. Worry no more.
There’s some blue eyed blond haired beauty with a pokemon boner stalking him for sure.
And it’s my daughter.
September 18, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Sneaking Out
It was beyond easy to sneak out when I was sixteen. As simple as waiting for dark and stepping outside the small camp trailer my sister and I lived in. You can picture the camper, it was a color you might call formerly white and had a big red shwoopditty along it and had some sort of fish on the side. It was the tiny kind where you turn the dining table/booth into a second bed (that’s where my sister slept.) and the couch becomes the main bed (that’s where I slept) Grandpa had set up an extension cord between us and the house so we had electricity but when it rained you had to avoid touching anything plugged in if you were already touching any of the aluminum trim or you would receive a jolt of electricity. I don‘t know how much of a buzz; enough that you had time to feel it coursing through you and realize you couldn‘t make yourself let go.
Getting back in the trailer come dawn was far more difficult because by that time the dogs would be out and insist on greeting me as though we’d never met. But I didn’t have to think about that for hours. I didn’t have to think at all. I loved that about being sixteen. Everything seemingly being written in pencil and no shortage of pink pearl ahead. Even as you were trying to write over the gray smudges your parents were making all over the page you were confident your marks would be edgier or more lasting or mattered at all.
It was cold, a couple months into Autumn and there were leaves blowing about when I walked all the way into town. A whispered “Don’t tell anyone I left.” warning to my sister and the door swinging open silent into the night. I would walk out slow, measuring my steps down the driveway and then up the dark country road. There were no streetlamps and I had to try and avoid allowing myself to imagine what horrifying countrified creatures were plundering about in the ditch and pastures alongside me. Now and then a horse would make that snarfling snort noise horses make and I would nearly piss my pants.
I risked smoking a cigarette. Mom pretty much knew I was smoking but having already grounded me for the rest of my life had little ammunition left. She said “if I catch you I’ll make you sit and smoke an entire carton.” but my face must have betrayed my eager reaction because she never followed through on the threat. The biggest danger in smoking as I walked down the dark road was the fact that anyone who drove by would likely pull over and offer me a ride whether I even knew them or not. Didn’t matter, they knew my grandma or an uncle or an aunt. It would be their pleasure to escort me home and then confirm to my grandma that I was indeed her “little lost girl.” But at sixteen I didn’t feel lost at all. Everyone around me was lost and I had to walk away from that traffic jam to get where I wanted to go; anywhere but there.
*********
September 16, 2009
Getting back in the trailer come dawn was far more difficult because by that time the dogs would be out and insist on greeting me as though we’d never met. But I didn’t have to think about that for hours. I didn’t have to think at all. I loved that about being sixteen. Everything seemingly being written in pencil and no shortage of pink pearl ahead. Even as you were trying to write over the gray smudges your parents were making all over the page you were confident your marks would be edgier or more lasting or mattered at all.
It was cold, a couple months into Autumn and there were leaves blowing about when I walked all the way into town. A whispered “Don’t tell anyone I left.” warning to my sister and the door swinging open silent into the night. I would walk out slow, measuring my steps down the driveway and then up the dark country road. There were no streetlamps and I had to try and avoid allowing myself to imagine what horrifying countrified creatures were plundering about in the ditch and pastures alongside me. Now and then a horse would make that snarfling snort noise horses make and I would nearly piss my pants.
I risked smoking a cigarette. Mom pretty much knew I was smoking but having already grounded me for the rest of my life had little ammunition left. She said “if I catch you I’ll make you sit and smoke an entire carton.” but my face must have betrayed my eager reaction because she never followed through on the threat. The biggest danger in smoking as I walked down the dark road was the fact that anyone who drove by would likely pull over and offer me a ride whether I even knew them or not. Didn’t matter, they knew my grandma or an uncle or an aunt. It would be their pleasure to escort me home and then confirm to my grandma that I was indeed her “little lost girl.” But at sixteen I didn’t feel lost at all. Everyone around me was lost and I had to walk away from that traffic jam to get where I wanted to go; anywhere but there.
*********
September 16, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Dew Dew Droppings
“He has the nerve to claim fucking me is like sleeping with a statue!” she pauses and shifts the phone to her other ear. “The thing I want to scream at him is You’re fucking a statue! What’s wrong with YOU?”
*****
How is it that when you cut your finger there’s more blood than seems necessary but when a person blows their brains out there doesn’t seem to be enough?
*****
“It’s a puzzle. It’s one of those critical thinking story problems they used to read to us in fourth grade. You know what I’m talking about? The midget in the elevator and it turns out he used his umbrella?”
“Yeah.” she laughed “I remember.”
“So here it is; there’s a man in a cage. It isn’t impossible to escape the cage… there’s no lock on the door… he just thinks he can’t leave the cage. He scared of being outside the cage. Not that leaving the cage is easy, it‘s going to be very very very difficult. It‘s just not impossible.”
“Right.”
“The question is… do you stand just outside the cage and feed this man scraps through the bars? Or do you insist he must open the door and come out to eat?” I paused and decided to make a case for my behavior. “He’s starving. STARVING. He maybe can’t open the door he’s so hungry.”
“ahahahahhahaah”
“Yeah. I know. You’re totally right. I know you’re right.”
September 15, 2009
*****
How is it that when you cut your finger there’s more blood than seems necessary but when a person blows their brains out there doesn’t seem to be enough?
*****
“It’s a puzzle. It’s one of those critical thinking story problems they used to read to us in fourth grade. You know what I’m talking about? The midget in the elevator and it turns out he used his umbrella?”
“Yeah.” she laughed “I remember.”
“So here it is; there’s a man in a cage. It isn’t impossible to escape the cage… there’s no lock on the door… he just thinks he can’t leave the cage. He scared of being outside the cage. Not that leaving the cage is easy, it‘s going to be very very very difficult. It‘s just not impossible.”
“Right.”
“The question is… do you stand just outside the cage and feed this man scraps through the bars? Or do you insist he must open the door and come out to eat?” I paused and decided to make a case for my behavior. “He’s starving. STARVING. He maybe can’t open the door he’s so hungry.”
“ahahahahhahaah”
“Yeah. I know. You’re totally right. I know you’re right.”
September 15, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Dew Drops In
* What is the deal with always needing to explain to other people how to treat me well? Have I spent so much time with children that I forget that other grown adults should have that shit figured out by now? Clearly I have issues from childhood. Are you broken? Surely I can fix it. Surely I am the thing that you needed all along to be a decent human being! Let me love you and love you and love you and love you and love you until I’m completely gone!
* I think all things related to clothing should happen in one large room of the house. The room would have little dressing stalls and that’s where we would wash and dry and fold and keep all the clothes. I can’t understand all this multiple flights of stairs and keeping the clothes in so many different rooms business. Maybe it should even have a shower. Why do we have the shower in the same room as the toilet? Is it as simple as plumbing ease? Ridiculous. Yes we will have a vanity and a shower in there too. It will be called the changing room. Gawds I love it. Who’s with me?
*Inside I’m a two year old child. I have transition issues. Like, I have a hard time getting into the shower and then when I’m in there I don’t get out until we’re out of hot water. I never ever, ever want to go to sleep but once I am asleep I will have a tantrum if you wake me. I don’t want to change out of what I’m wearing. I will wear it until it falls apart in such a way that I actually Can Not wear it anymore.
I’d like to live on snacks and dew (grown up juice) and I will tell you “no” on reflex but basically do anything for you if I love you. If you hang around long enough I will love you. When I first meet you I will ignore you, unable to look you in the face because some part of me knows I'm way too damn easy and open and would be yours for a cookie. I love things the longer they’ve been around or the more times I’ve seen/heard them. Movies, music, whatever is better if I already know it. I thrive under a flexible routine and need to get outdoors regularly or end up drawing on the furniture or walls.
September 14, 2009
* I think all things related to clothing should happen in one large room of the house. The room would have little dressing stalls and that’s where we would wash and dry and fold and keep all the clothes. I can’t understand all this multiple flights of stairs and keeping the clothes in so many different rooms business. Maybe it should even have a shower. Why do we have the shower in the same room as the toilet? Is it as simple as plumbing ease? Ridiculous. Yes we will have a vanity and a shower in there too. It will be called the changing room. Gawds I love it. Who’s with me?
*Inside I’m a two year old child. I have transition issues. Like, I have a hard time getting into the shower and then when I’m in there I don’t get out until we’re out of hot water. I never ever, ever want to go to sleep but once I am asleep I will have a tantrum if you wake me. I don’t want to change out of what I’m wearing. I will wear it until it falls apart in such a way that I actually Can Not wear it anymore.
I’d like to live on snacks and dew (grown up juice) and I will tell you “no” on reflex but basically do anything for you if I love you. If you hang around long enough I will love you. When I first meet you I will ignore you, unable to look you in the face because some part of me knows I'm way too damn easy and open and would be yours for a cookie. I love things the longer they’ve been around or the more times I’ve seen/heard them. Movies, music, whatever is better if I already know it. I thrive under a flexible routine and need to get outdoors regularly or end up drawing on the furniture or walls.
September 14, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Two Things Bothering me That Have Nothing to do With What is Actually Bothering Me
* http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/rape
It used to be… you would make a long distance phone call and you were the person paying for the long distance charge. And that was bullshit enough… you’re already paying for the phone service…. They want you to pay more because… the line goes all the way??? Fuck that…. The people that live THERE are paying for that goddamn line.. And now…..NOW the people on both ends of the phone pay for the call. Every call. I mean sure it depends on their plan but what the fuck? Why don’t we all call bullshit on this? Why do we just accept it? And why must I pay most of a dollar to read the text “OK” ?????? Am I being slapped around because I have idiot friends?
* http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/feminist
I’ve had it with young ladies claiming they are not feminists. I can’t even go to the place where I believe that they know what it means and actually hate themselves enough to proudly state it. I assume they’re ignorant and think “feminist” means “militant lesbian” and while this is also sad it’s slightly less maddening than the idea that they don’t consider themselves equal to men. Hell., I can’t even understand a MAN being willing to admit he’s not a feminist. SERIOUSLY? I don’t care how you feel about keeping the imaginary line between feminine and masculine a deep dark chasm, surely you can’t really think women shouldn’t be able to vote.. Or receive equal pay for equal work. Fucking idiots.
September 08, 2009
It used to be… you would make a long distance phone call and you were the person paying for the long distance charge. And that was bullshit enough… you’re already paying for the phone service…. They want you to pay more because… the line goes all the way??? Fuck that…. The people that live THERE are paying for that goddamn line.. And now…..NOW the people on both ends of the phone pay for the call. Every call. I mean sure it depends on their plan but what the fuck? Why don’t we all call bullshit on this? Why do we just accept it? And why must I pay most of a dollar to read the text “OK” ?????? Am I being slapped around because I have idiot friends?
* http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/feminist
I’ve had it with young ladies claiming they are not feminists. I can’t even go to the place where I believe that they know what it means and actually hate themselves enough to proudly state it. I assume they’re ignorant and think “feminist” means “militant lesbian” and while this is also sad it’s slightly less maddening than the idea that they don’t consider themselves equal to men. Hell., I can’t even understand a MAN being willing to admit he’s not a feminist. SERIOUSLY? I don’t care how you feel about keeping the imaginary line between feminine and masculine a deep dark chasm, surely you can’t really think women shouldn’t be able to vote.. Or receive equal pay for equal work. Fucking idiots.
September 08, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Wild Wet Willy
“Hey, you should come sit down here with us.” His sister waved him down to our end of the long table. She had their little brother Sock on her right, me on her left and older brother Crispy across from us next to a couple of her buddies from work. Tim came and sat in the chair on my left across from Crispy.
“I thought her friend was Crispy when we came in.” he told me conspiratorially.
“Cody?” I asked and glanced at him in the chair next to the spot Tim had just left. He was wearing a very similar hat to Crispy. “I guess I can see that.” I agreed
“So… when we sat down I gave him a wet willy.”
“YOU WHAT?” wild laughter. “What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything, he just gave me a weird look.”
“Well. Yeah. So what did you say when you realized it wasn’t Crispy?”
“Nothing.”
“What is wrong with you?” It was a rhetorical question. I waited a few moments until an opportunity arose to tell Lisa the story without the rest of the table overhearing. It didn’t work out so well because we became hysterical with laughter. All other conversations stopped and they stared and asked what we were laughing about.
“Cody and Crispy look a lot alike tonight.” she said by way of explanation and Tim backed her up saying, “I thought you were Crispy when we came in.”
He looked across the table at Crispy and told him “I gave him a wet willy.” and shrugged his man shoulders.
“OOOOH” Cody said, sounding relieved over the loud laughter of the rest of us “I thought you were just really affectionate.”
September 6, 2009
“I thought her friend was Crispy when we came in.” he told me conspiratorially.
“Cody?” I asked and glanced at him in the chair next to the spot Tim had just left. He was wearing a very similar hat to Crispy. “I guess I can see that.” I agreed
“So… when we sat down I gave him a wet willy.”
“YOU WHAT?” wild laughter. “What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything, he just gave me a weird look.”
“Well. Yeah. So what did you say when you realized it wasn’t Crispy?”
“Nothing.”
“What is wrong with you?” It was a rhetorical question. I waited a few moments until an opportunity arose to tell Lisa the story without the rest of the table overhearing. It didn’t work out so well because we became hysterical with laughter. All other conversations stopped and they stared and asked what we were laughing about.
“Cody and Crispy look a lot alike tonight.” she said by way of explanation and Tim backed her up saying, “I thought you were Crispy when we came in.”
He looked across the table at Crispy and told him “I gave him a wet willy.” and shrugged his man shoulders.
“OOOOH” Cody said, sounding relieved over the loud laughter of the rest of us “I thought you were just really affectionate.”
September 6, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Just Me and Thatch
He positioned the small wagon shaped like a school bus next to the brick flower boxes that surround the front porch and stepped up on top of the handle resting over it. “This is a stool.” he said. His hands were resting on the bricks and he shouted, “Hellooooo!” in the direction of the neighbors house. He's hoping our neighbors grandson is over there and not at school.
The wheels shimmied under him and I gasped, “Get off of that! You‘re going to fall. That‘s not for standing on. It‘s not a stool.”
“You get off! You will fall! You will crack your head! You will break your hair and crack your head and be a crack head and go to the doctor!” His tiny perfect face was scrunched up in anger. “Go to the doctor!” he repeated and turned away to kick at the bricks with his foot.
********************************************
“The girls are not here. We got to get in the car and drive to them and find them and talk to them. The girls are at school. We got to drive there and see them. The girls are not heeeeeere. We got to talk to them and drive to them. I want to ride my bike to the school. Pleaaase. I want to ride my bike to school pleaaaase. Are you sure I will ride my bike? Are you sure? Can I ride my bike to the school?”
“No.”
“OOOOOOH! I want to ride my bike to the school! I want to drive to the schoooool! Mom! I want to drive to the school!”
“We can’t do that. They’re busy learning.”
“I want to go to Calli and Isabelle!!!!”
************************************
“Thatcher. I had sewing I was working on here. You need to put it back.”
“I can’t.”
“Thatcher. There’s a needle attached to that fabric. You picked it up and you threw it. You were angry. Now you need to find it and pick it up so it doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“I can’t find it.”
“You need to look for it.”
“I can’t. I can’t find it.”
“You’re not going to find it unless you look for it.”
“I can’t find it.”
“Look for it.”
“YOU DO IT! You look for it and you find it! I am too angry!”
September 3, 2009
The wheels shimmied under him and I gasped, “Get off of that! You‘re going to fall. That‘s not for standing on. It‘s not a stool.”
“You get off! You will fall! You will crack your head! You will break your hair and crack your head and be a crack head and go to the doctor!” His tiny perfect face was scrunched up in anger. “Go to the doctor!” he repeated and turned away to kick at the bricks with his foot.
********************************************
“The girls are not here. We got to get in the car and drive to them and find them and talk to them. The girls are at school. We got to drive there and see them. The girls are not heeeeeere. We got to talk to them and drive to them. I want to ride my bike to the school. Pleaaase. I want to ride my bike to school pleaaaase. Are you sure I will ride my bike? Are you sure? Can I ride my bike to the school?”
“No.”
“OOOOOOH! I want to ride my bike to the school! I want to drive to the schoooool! Mom! I want to drive to the school!”
“We can’t do that. They’re busy learning.”
“I want to go to Calli and Isabelle!!!!”
************************************
“Thatcher. I had sewing I was working on here. You need to put it back.”
“I can’t.”
“Thatcher. There’s a needle attached to that fabric. You picked it up and you threw it. You were angry. Now you need to find it and pick it up so it doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“I can’t find it.”
“You need to look for it.”
“I can’t. I can’t find it.”
“You’re not going to find it unless you look for it.”
“I can’t find it.”
“Look for it.”
“YOU DO IT! You look for it and you find it! I am too angry!”
September 3, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Polimating Wishes
“The bees polimate the fwowers. and make new fwowers" my three year old informed me.
"That's right!" I said, rather impressed.
"Yeah. That's right." he confirmed. "The bees…. Poli… polimate the fwowers. Even purple fwowers. I just pick the fwowers. It’s okay." he paused to watch my face and see if he could pick the flowers. I only saw dandelions in danger and said nothing.
Seeing no dispute was to be had he continued, "The bees polimate the fwowers and then I can pick them.” He scampered off and plucked a dandelion from the lawn and galloped back to hand it to me. “The wishes are turning into yewoe fwowers and the bees polimate them. I just am picking ’em. and blowing ‘em.”
September 02, 2009
"That's right!" I said, rather impressed.
"Yeah. That's right." he confirmed. "The bees…. Poli… polimate the fwowers. Even purple fwowers. I just pick the fwowers. It’s okay." he paused to watch my face and see if he could pick the flowers. I only saw dandelions in danger and said nothing.
Seeing no dispute was to be had he continued, "The bees polimate the fwowers and then I can pick them.” He scampered off and plucked a dandelion from the lawn and galloped back to hand it to me. “The wishes are turning into yewoe fwowers and the bees polimate them. I just am picking ’em. and blowing ‘em.”
September 02, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Three Signs of the Apocalypse
* We’re eager to live in a dumpy trailer that sits on a postage stamp yard because it‘s in the school district. If need be we will beg them to let us. PLEASE!! Please let me figure out how to fit our all our stupid stuff in this matchbox! Please allow me to stir a pot on the stove while sitting on the living room couch! We don’t’ even LIKE having dressers! REALLY!! S E R I O U S L Y …. We went to look at it today…it’s not something you can really prepare yourself for, you wander around your big giant house rounding up your children and then drive to the middle of nowhere (you thought we were already there didn’t ya?) and then form a conga line to fit through the shithole. It was like really bad sex… we’re all doing our damnedest to ooh and ahhh hoping the poor enthusiastic woman would just fucking finish already ’cause the more we saw the worse we felt. Sweet jeebus. And the silence on the way home was deafening. Finally Daughter pipes up with “Well we can’t live there!” and hearty laughter. Oh my darling spoiled child we sure can.
*I had or have a wart. The wart was spotted a couple weeks ago by a discerning individual. Gawd knows how long it’s been on my finger - long enough that I thought it was just part of my finger. I let it go a couple weeks because I was afeared of the cure. But the entire concept disgusts me and I couldn’t deal with the usual get rid of a wart options. Finally I let Tim burn the fucker off on Friday night. On the way down to the basement where he was heating his soldering iron I was tough but then when he tested the temp on his own arm I saw smoke go up and smelled the burning flesh. I got the chickens and he had to bully me a little before I draped my arm across his tool bench and let him get to work. He wrapped his hand around my wrist to keep me from jerking away (I didn’t- jerk) and burned a giant hole in my finger. Well. It was a blister. Then that fell off and now it’s a giant hole. And at the bottom of the hole I’m pretty sure there’s a wart giving me the wart finger. Might take me a week or so to get the nerve up to let him do it again.
* I forgot to smoke or drink dew for about six hours the other day. Just got up in the morning and was busy and didn't smoke. and when I'm not smoking I'm not drinking dew. Then I found myself prone on the floor seeing faces in the texture on the ceiling and realized death was likely near. I managed to crawl out on the porch and smoke and then poured a two liter down my throat. I'm fine now but lordy. close call!
August 30, 2009
*I had or have a wart. The wart was spotted a couple weeks ago by a discerning individual. Gawd knows how long it’s been on my finger - long enough that I thought it was just part of my finger. I let it go a couple weeks because I was afeared of the cure. But the entire concept disgusts me and I couldn’t deal with the usual get rid of a wart options. Finally I let Tim burn the fucker off on Friday night. On the way down to the basement where he was heating his soldering iron I was tough but then when he tested the temp on his own arm I saw smoke go up and smelled the burning flesh. I got the chickens and he had to bully me a little before I draped my arm across his tool bench and let him get to work. He wrapped his hand around my wrist to keep me from jerking away (I didn’t- jerk) and burned a giant hole in my finger. Well. It was a blister. Then that fell off and now it’s a giant hole. And at the bottom of the hole I’m pretty sure there’s a wart giving me the wart finger. Might take me a week or so to get the nerve up to let him do it again.
* I forgot to smoke or drink dew for about six hours the other day. Just got up in the morning and was busy and didn't smoke. and when I'm not smoking I'm not drinking dew. Then I found myself prone on the floor seeing faces in the texture on the ceiling and realized death was likely near. I managed to crawl out on the porch and smoke and then poured a two liter down my throat. I'm fine now but lordy. close call!
August 30, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Overheard in the Pub
* “You can’t tell but I’m in trouble right now.” a nod toward cigarette in hand “Soon as I get home, I’m gonna git it.” *grin*
* “The only problem with sex with women is that it’s all foreplay. At some point you want to get fucked”
* “They’re not for me (two boxes of condoms) my daughter turned fifteen today.”
* “I hope the people that are not trying are getting just as screwed over as those of us who are trying.”
* “Quit eating your goats, George! They take care of your lawn, don‘t they? Quit eating your animals!”
* “Luke! We have met you four times now! I hope you’re drunk and not stupid because you have zero retention!” … “Oh. Well I wasn’t listening. I just want to make friendly conversation……what’s your name again?”
* “The world would be an entirely different place if conception required an orgasm from both parties.” <-- that was me :)
August 28, 2009
* “The only problem with sex with women is that it’s all foreplay. At some point you want to get fucked”
* “They’re not for me (two boxes of condoms) my daughter turned fifteen today.”
* “I hope the people that are not trying are getting just as screwed over as those of us who are trying.”
* “Quit eating your goats, George! They take care of your lawn, don‘t they? Quit eating your animals!”
* “Luke! We have met you four times now! I hope you’re drunk and not stupid because you have zero retention!” … “Oh. Well I wasn’t listening. I just want to make friendly conversation……what’s your name again?”
* “The world would be an entirely different place if conception required an orgasm from both parties.” <-- that was me :)
August 28, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Holding Still and Waiting
All the arm flapping and sarcasm and angst and running in place amounts to the same thing.The holding still and waiting is mine and I don’t want to give it up. The thick rusty metal of it circles me and I can hide behind it’s messy orange meanness.
Just exactly enough chicken wire to twist and mangle and pretend it‘s not cowardice, pretend it’s romantic. Just exactly broken enough to draw others in and keep them from holding on.
I know how to make it hurt. I need it to hurt to remind me it’s there. I know how to make it numb. I need it to be numb so I can forget I'm still here. I can be patient and understanding and I can stomp my feet and holler all day and it’s the same waiting.
And I don’t know how to stop. Like a tree chained back and now dependent on the thing cutting it’s bark. I can look at it and see it’s linked cyclical insanity. I can KNOW what I have to do to free myself from it and it matters not one bit.
I won’t give it up because what’s under it is so much worse. What’s under it is all up to me. What’s under it might not stand alone. What’s under it will still want you.
And all of it, all of it is just a big giant it’s not fair tantrum.
August 27, 2009
Just exactly enough chicken wire to twist and mangle and pretend it‘s not cowardice, pretend it’s romantic. Just exactly broken enough to draw others in and keep them from holding on.
I know how to make it hurt. I need it to hurt to remind me it’s there. I know how to make it numb. I need it to be numb so I can forget I'm still here. I can be patient and understanding and I can stomp my feet and holler all day and it’s the same waiting.
And I don’t know how to stop. Like a tree chained back and now dependent on the thing cutting it’s bark. I can look at it and see it’s linked cyclical insanity. I can KNOW what I have to do to free myself from it and it matters not one bit.
I won’t give it up because what’s under it is so much worse. What’s under it is all up to me. What’s under it might not stand alone. What’s under it will still want you.
And all of it, all of it is just a big giant it’s not fair tantrum.
August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
For Me.... For You
“What’s this?” I could see that it was a plain white box with an acronymed return address he was holding I just didn’t know why we were so excited about it.
“Well you know. You know how it’s been and how we‘re …… anyway…. I got something for you. Don‘t be mad.”
“oh. Ummm… okay.” He lifted the lid and revealed a pink jelly dick shaped vibrator with a frightening hummingbird perched and poised to attack at the base. “oh…..Oh gawd. A vibrator?” I hastily tried to control my expression.
After a glance at my shocked pink face he quickly launched into an enthusiastic description of the many functions. Slowly I came out of my stupor and interrupted. “This …. This is your solution? I mean now? Now this? With everything we‘ve been talking about…. this is what you decided to do? Your timing is… ”
“I knew you would be mad. It’s not a solution. It has nothing to do with that…It’s really for me. It‘s mine.”
“It’s yours, huh. I’m not mad! You can buy whatever you want.” I lifted the shiny brand new plastic smelling robot dick out of the packaging and looked at him hard “And what exactly do you intend to do with this?”
I thrust the thing in his face and he took it from me, gesturing with it as he spoke, “It’s for me… for you.”
“I don’t know what to say. If I had to make up an example of how I can talk and talk and talk and you coming away with completely different ideas of what is needed… I mean…. Jesus.” I fingered the snout on the tiny bird insect making it zing back and forth creepily.
“I knew you would be mad.” He made a big production of packing it back up.
“I’m not mad. Damn it. I’m sorry. Thank you, I mean. For the gift …for you…. for me….. Thanks.”
“I already put batteries in it!” he announced happily.
August 26, 2009
“Well you know. You know how it’s been and how we‘re …… anyway…. I got something for you. Don‘t be mad.”
“oh. Ummm… okay.” He lifted the lid and revealed a pink jelly dick shaped vibrator with a frightening hummingbird perched and poised to attack at the base. “oh…..Oh gawd. A vibrator?” I hastily tried to control my expression.
After a glance at my shocked pink face he quickly launched into an enthusiastic description of the many functions. Slowly I came out of my stupor and interrupted. “This …. This is your solution? I mean now? Now this? With everything we‘ve been talking about…. this is what you decided to do? Your timing is… ”
“I knew you would be mad. It’s not a solution. It has nothing to do with that…It’s really for me. It‘s mine.”
“It’s yours, huh. I’m not mad! You can buy whatever you want.” I lifted the shiny brand new plastic smelling robot dick out of the packaging and looked at him hard “And what exactly do you intend to do with this?”
I thrust the thing in his face and he took it from me, gesturing with it as he spoke, “It’s for me… for you.”
“I don’t know what to say. If I had to make up an example of how I can talk and talk and talk and you coming away with completely different ideas of what is needed… I mean…. Jesus.” I fingered the snout on the tiny bird insect making it zing back and forth creepily.
“I knew you would be mad.” He made a big production of packing it back up.
“I’m not mad. Damn it. I’m sorry. Thank you, I mean. For the gift …for you…. for me….. Thanks.”
“I already put batteries in it!” he announced happily.
August 26, 2009
This Blog is Slanted
“Oh yeah?” I set the book I was reading down in my lap. “So?”
“I see how it is. I’m a big joke. Everyone’s laughing at me.”
“No they’re not. They’re laughing at humanity.”
“Yes they are. All the comments. I notice you didn’t mention you broke the damn thing.”
“I didn’t BREAK it!”
“That’s what you told me when I asked if you tried it.”
“I said I thought maybe I broke it. At a crucial time it seemed like it was breaking. But it’s not broken. I mean it still turns on and stuff.”
“I just think you only tell your side of the story.”
“I don’t think that’s true. I mean yeah it’s from my perspective but how else could it be. I’m not reporting the news it’s my blog”
“Well. You made it sound like you didn’t use it.”
“I don’t think so. That just wasn’t the point I was making so I didn’t mention it breaking.”
“See! You broke it!”
“Maybe it’s faulty construction. I don’t fucking know. I put it in there, pushed the button and stuff clamped down, and the thing couldn't take it. I can’t help that! You make it sound like I stomped on the stupid thing.”
“Well. It’s slanted.”
“The blog?”
“That too.”
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Sex to Save the Friendship
“Want to have some tension relieving friend sex?”
“I’m not tense.”
“What about now?”
“Maybe a little tense. You’ve sorta been stalking me through the house.”
“Is that a yes to sex?”
“No but I‘m glad we talked about it. I was getting tense.”
August 25, 2009
“I’m not tense.”
“What about now?”
“Maybe a little tense. You’ve sorta been stalking me through the house.”
“Is that a yes to sex?”
“No but I‘m glad we talked about it. I was getting tense.”
August 25, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Cake Expectations
The only thing Thatcher wanted for his third birthday was having cake. The entire cake ceremony was of utmost concern to him the week proceeding his party. I would mention that Grandma or Aunt D or Calli was going to be at his party and he would immediately ask “Is she going to blow my candles out?” and I would assure him that he would be the only person blowing any candles out. He would ask, “Will she eat cake and sing to me?” and I would guarantee that this would happen. He never asked about gifts or games or anything else. It was really all about the cake. He made himself very clear about having a chocolate-chocolate cake with candles and everyone singing happy birthday to him.
When it came to time to light the three polka dot candles on his chocolate-chocolate cake I gathered all the friends and family who came to his party into our dining room (too breezy outside) and we surrounded the table with cameras and smiles and joyfully sang happy birthday to him with the cake staged in front of him as is customary.
The moment we ended the song “Happy birthday dear, Thatcher…..Happppppy biiiiiirrrrtttthhhhdaaaaaay tooooooo youuuuuu” he, of course, burst into tears. He tucked his shiny head in his elbow and wept. Nothing is ever as we think it will be. You can imagine the cake, the candles, the friends and family lifting forth their choir like voices in a song just for you but the reality. My gawd. Horrifying.
So there he was sobbing in front of his birthday cake amid camera flashes and goodhearted soft laughter. The one wish he had, had already come true and it was awful. HEARTBREAKING! So I made everyone turn around. And they did. They all took a half turn and stared at the walls so he could blow his candles out in peace. And he did. Daddy prepared a heaping plate of cake and ice creams and soon he was happily gorging. The rest of the party went great. He had no expectations for anything else so it was all a pleasant surprise.
August 24, 2009
When it came to time to light the three polka dot candles on his chocolate-chocolate cake I gathered all the friends and family who came to his party into our dining room (too breezy outside) and we surrounded the table with cameras and smiles and joyfully sang happy birthday to him with the cake staged in front of him as is customary.
The moment we ended the song “Happy birthday dear, Thatcher…..Happppppy biiiiiirrrrtttthhhhdaaaaaay tooooooo youuuuuu” he, of course, burst into tears. He tucked his shiny head in his elbow and wept. Nothing is ever as we think it will be. You can imagine the cake, the candles, the friends and family lifting forth their choir like voices in a song just for you but the reality. My gawd. Horrifying.
So there he was sobbing in front of his birthday cake amid camera flashes and goodhearted soft laughter. The one wish he had, had already come true and it was awful. HEARTBREAKING! So I made everyone turn around. And they did. They all took a half turn and stared at the walls so he could blow his candles out in peace. And he did. Daddy prepared a heaping plate of cake and ice creams and soon he was happily gorging. The rest of the party went great. He had no expectations for anything else so it was all a pleasant surprise.
August 24, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
I Need a Room
I need a room. This is what I’ve decided.
I’ve been upside down and inside out and underfoot and shoved around and torn apart and I’ve flapped my arms around ineffectually and jogged in place at breakneck speeds and I’m now stalked and watched and the only thing I’ve figured out is that I want a room.
I want every inch of it to be mine without question. I want to demand respect with a knock order on the door and a doormat that isn’t my heart.
I want sound proof walls so I can scream-tantrum without explaining myself. I would cover the surfaces with my thoughts - a giant word web of want and conviction and passion that wouldn’t allow anyone else’s suck to whisper weave it’s way in.
An invitation only bed with too many pillows and blankets that remain the cocoon I crawled out of when I crawl back in. I want to slide in cool and create my own heat without being pinned down or sweated on. I want to open up and be filled without the inevitable used up empty that follows.
I know the room should be my skin. Or at least my skull. I’ve been that able before. I had glorious walls, a magnificent moat, the fire breathing dragon, the big empty cold rooms of a castle. I had everything except a key to my own fucking door. Jumping out the window may not have been the best course of action but I swear to you that when I’m not tasting my stomach and I remember to breathe I like hearing my heart pound again.
August 21, 2009
I’ve been upside down and inside out and underfoot and shoved around and torn apart and I’ve flapped my arms around ineffectually and jogged in place at breakneck speeds and I’m now stalked and watched and the only thing I’ve figured out is that I want a room.
I want every inch of it to be mine without question. I want to demand respect with a knock order on the door and a doormat that isn’t my heart.
I want sound proof walls so I can scream-tantrum without explaining myself. I would cover the surfaces with my thoughts - a giant word web of want and conviction and passion that wouldn’t allow anyone else’s suck to whisper weave it’s way in.
An invitation only bed with too many pillows and blankets that remain the cocoon I crawled out of when I crawl back in. I want to slide in cool and create my own heat without being pinned down or sweated on. I want to open up and be filled without the inevitable used up empty that follows.
I know the room should be my skin. Or at least my skull. I’ve been that able before. I had glorious walls, a magnificent moat, the fire breathing dragon, the big empty cold rooms of a castle. I had everything except a key to my own fucking door. Jumping out the window may not have been the best course of action but I swear to you that when I’m not tasting my stomach and I remember to breathe I like hearing my heart pound again.
August 21, 2009
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