Seven years is …
Not bothering to remind him of the anniversary.
Deciding never to mention it.
A random cranky three sentences directed at me.
Mentioning it right then and there. “happy anniversary”
Not a word. Deciding he didn’t hear me.
Strep throat. Allowing him to drive me to the doctor.
A moment of weak and “You forgot our anniversary.”
“I know. I’ve felt like shit about it since you told me. I told the guys at work.”
An opportunity to prove your assholery at work.
April 23 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
It Takes Two
Co-parenting is next to impossible. There. I said it.
Think about it. Even in a plane they’re not flying at the same time! They take turns. Well. If you want the real truth they just switch those little metal things up and down to make it look like they’re in charge of the giant flying coffin. And the captain gets to speak over the system and sound reassuring. It’s the drink people that keep planes in the air. You know. The people with that cart and the alcohol.
What the hell am I talking about? I have no plan here people. None. Just typing.
Oh right. It takes two = baby.
First time around I was solo. We didn’t even have a plane and there was friendly fire. So I don’t have a lot of practice. I’ve always preferred not to be partnered up for anything important. Like in school when you have to pair up with someone to complete an assignment. *groan* THE WORST. Am I RIGHT? Nobody else wants to wait until the night before stay up all night and bust out brilliance like it’s nothing. Plus they want to chat about what a dick their boyfriend is. *yawn*
I should sleep more. “where we’re going we don’t need tracks” Doc
I can’t decide if even three of you will know what that means.
So I already had one baby when I “picked” (one night standed) a Daddy. Or he grabbed us and he had a really nice parachute. Something like that. And it’s a definite eye opener to choose a daddy. You’re not going to pick the same as you would for say… conversation or communication skills or whatever. Or maybe YOU would.
But honestly it was my kid. I was still in charge. And I know.. That’s not cool entirely for The Man. Not now seven years in.. but that’s the way we set it up in the beginning and so it is. And it isn’t as though he doesn’t play a huge parenting role because he does… really. I can‘t emphasize this enough. He DOES… he just does it my way in certain key areas I put my foot down on. But . It’s … the … right… way. *grin* I know. But seriously. It is.
And now we have OUR baby. (what it’s pc to say that.)
And damn it - it’s like he thinks he gets a say!
You might be thinking… what could there be to disagree about? Have baby. Love baby. *birds singing*
Awwww….. And maybe we can live in a flowery van too!!!! (down by the river)
Well I’ll tell you what we disagree about.
EVERYTHING. Nothing. EVERYTHING mostly the things most important.
And I’ve been on a winning streak for so long I’m getting real nervous. Like eventually that alone will tilt the scale over for him and suddenly my baby will be shooting birds and downloading porn.
(NO HE WONT ANYWAY SHUT UP!)
We try and compromise. But I have a HUGE advantage. 1. I’m doing the real time. 2. I know my shit. And 3. I can out word him in my sleep. SO most of the time compromise means “step up or get the hell out of my way”
that’s not what we SAY
This is what we say
Me “ blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah balha blahahhahahahahahahahah”
Him *biting own hand in frustration*
Me “SERIOUSLY??? blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. Hey man?”
“sorry. There’s a dog in the yard.”
“awesome. AWESOME”
One of us exits.
And CUT!
But this is normal. Right?
April 16, 2009
Think about it. Even in a plane they’re not flying at the same time! They take turns. Well. If you want the real truth they just switch those little metal things up and down to make it look like they’re in charge of the giant flying coffin. And the captain gets to speak over the system and sound reassuring. It’s the drink people that keep planes in the air. You know. The people with that cart and the alcohol.
What the hell am I talking about? I have no plan here people. None. Just typing.
Oh right. It takes two = baby.
First time around I was solo. We didn’t even have a plane and there was friendly fire. So I don’t have a lot of practice. I’ve always preferred not to be partnered up for anything important. Like in school when you have to pair up with someone to complete an assignment. *groan* THE WORST. Am I RIGHT? Nobody else wants to wait until the night before stay up all night and bust out brilliance like it’s nothing. Plus they want to chat about what a dick their boyfriend is. *yawn*
I should sleep more. “where we’re going we don’t need tracks” Doc
I can’t decide if even three of you will know what that means.
So I already had one baby when I “picked” (one night standed) a Daddy. Or he grabbed us and he had a really nice parachute. Something like that. And it’s a definite eye opener to choose a daddy. You’re not going to pick the same as you would for say… conversation or communication skills or whatever. Or maybe YOU would.
But honestly it was my kid. I was still in charge. And I know.. That’s not cool entirely for The Man. Not now seven years in.. but that’s the way we set it up in the beginning and so it is. And it isn’t as though he doesn’t play a huge parenting role because he does… really. I can‘t emphasize this enough. He DOES… he just does it my way in certain key areas I put my foot down on. But . It’s … the … right… way. *grin* I know. But seriously. It is.
And now we have OUR baby. (what it’s pc to say that.)
And damn it - it’s like he thinks he gets a say!
You might be thinking… what could there be to disagree about? Have baby. Love baby. *birds singing*
Awwww….. And maybe we can live in a flowery van too!!!! (down by the river)
Well I’ll tell you what we disagree about.
EVERYTHING. Nothing. EVERYTHING mostly the things most important.
And I’ve been on a winning streak for so long I’m getting real nervous. Like eventually that alone will tilt the scale over for him and suddenly my baby will be shooting birds and downloading porn.
(NO HE WONT ANYWAY SHUT UP!)
We try and compromise. But I have a HUGE advantage. 1. I’m doing the real time. 2. I know my shit. And 3. I can out word him in my sleep. SO most of the time compromise means “step up or get the hell out of my way”
that’s not what we SAY
This is what we say
Me “ blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah balha blahahhahahahahahahahah”
Him *biting own hand in frustration*
Me “SERIOUSLY??? blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. Hey man?”
“sorry. There’s a dog in the yard.”
“awesome. AWESOME”
One of us exits.
And CUT!
But this is normal. Right?
April 16, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
That's It
“soooo000... What’s wrong with you?” The Man had just returned from urgent care. I was checking the ol' myspace.
“I strained something.”
“They x-rayed you?” he nodded “They poked you?” he demonstrated the poking that had taken place. "A strain?" He could see the that’s it? all over me.
“They gave me vicodin." Oh. Now the motherfucker get's to be high too? "What kind of underpants are you wearing right now?” REALLY high?
“well. That should help you relax and sleep. I‘m not wearing underpants right now.”
“I’m supposed to rest.” I nodded absently as he spoke. “So. You want to take advantage of nap time?” I glanced over and noticed he was not entirely restful.
“Seriously? Where did that come from?” I wondered if he got the right pills.
“Well. I was thinking about you not wearing any underwear and.. I got carried away I guess.”
“Okay.” I stood up, undid my belt, slipped out of my pants and kicked them away. “we have about twenty minutes.”
“Well don’t act like you want to or anything.”
“I took my pants off. Don’t get girly on me. How do you want to do this? Are you supposed to do this?”
“No bending, lifting, twisting, or straining.”
*are you kidding me face* “ooooohhhh statue sex”
“well you can move!”
“fiiiiIIIIIne. If you attempt any acrobatics I don’t want to hear shit about it later.”
“I won’t.”
“You say that now. I haven‘t even bent over yet.”
I could see the that's it all over him.
April 15, 2009
“I strained something.”
“They x-rayed you?” he nodded “They poked you?” he demonstrated the poking that had taken place. "A strain?" He could see the that’s it? all over me.
“They gave me vicodin." Oh. Now the motherfucker get's to be high too? "What kind of underpants are you wearing right now?” REALLY high?
“well. That should help you relax and sleep. I‘m not wearing underpants right now.”
“I’m supposed to rest.” I nodded absently as he spoke. “So. You want to take advantage of nap time?” I glanced over and noticed he was not entirely restful.
“Seriously? Where did that come from?” I wondered if he got the right pills.
“Well. I was thinking about you not wearing any underwear and.. I got carried away I guess.”
“Okay.” I stood up, undid my belt, slipped out of my pants and kicked them away. “we have about twenty minutes.”
“Well don’t act like you want to or anything.”
“I took my pants off. Don’t get girly on me. How do you want to do this? Are you supposed to do this?”
“No bending, lifting, twisting, or straining.”
*are you kidding me face* “ooooohhhh statue sex”
“well you can move!”
“fiiiiIIIIIne. If you attempt any acrobatics I don’t want to hear shit about it later.”
“I won’t.”
“You say that now. I haven‘t even bent over yet.”
I could see the that's it all over him.
April 15, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Cracked
“I see one!” he wriggled the brightly colored egg out from between the branches of a bush with his tiny two year old hands *CRACK* As he placed the egg in his basket on top of the shredded paper his head was down and he side-longed me to see what my attitude was regarding the broken egg. “It’s fine.” he said patting it tenderly and tucking some of the yellow paper shreds around it and I nodded.
The rain kept dripping insistent that April Showers go on, Easter or not, making my hair stick to my face and keeping the camera jammed in my coat. I found a somewhat dry spot under some trees and crouched to wait the hunt out. Thirty six goddamn eggs tucked all over the yard. The Man laughed when he came around the corner and spotted me. “You okay?” his question is a dyed egg and I let the pastel vinegar of it soak my response.
“Fine.”
“There’s one!” Daughter had spotted an egg in a tree stump and began running toward it. Little Man immediately claimed it by sound.
“It’s MINE! It’s MY eaasssser egg!” This is what comes of spacing your kids out by six years. There’s just no good way to have a group anything. She tip-toed up to retrieve the “treasure” and placed it in her basket. Little Man was on her like the neighbors smallest dog. “It’s mine! Give me it!”
“Little Man, stop harassing your sister. Did you see any eggs in the flower bed over here?” I pointed at a purple egg sitting on top of a clump of soon to be flowers. They ignored me completely, already locked in mortal combat for a hard boiled egg. Daughter lifted her basket as high as she could weaving and dodging with her red cape flapping in front of Little Man’s snuffing foot stomping self.
He doesn’t tolerate that very long these days. He lifted his basket higher than hers was and began swinging it at her while she yelped and whined. Twelve or twenty eggs hit the ground amongst a wet gob of that damn manufactured paper grass.
“Should we do something?” The Man asked, stunned I was just standing there when I’m sure his own blood pressure was sky rocketing and he was dreaming of belts and a time when children were seen and not heard. I was thinking this is easter.
The things is… there’s only so much you can throw at a person without a mental break down. Imaginary bunnies sneaking into the house, more candy than you’ve ever consumed in your life all snarfed down before breakfast, being invited to go outside in the rain with a basket and collect hard boiled eggs all over the yard… it’s a bit fucking much. He’s just two. And I won’t pretend I’m not irritated about having to worry about his taller version cracking under the pressure on top of it.
With the Easter basket empty and now a relatively useless weapon formerly almost dying Daughter managed to skip off smiling to look for more eggs. Little Man stood staring at his mess for a minute before pulling his shoulders back and announcing, “I pick ‘em up.”
“That’s a good idea.” I told him and watched while he scooped it all up and shoved it in the basket throwing some eggs in on top. *crack CRACK crack* With all the eggs and most of the grass back in his basket Little Man struggled to get the handle over his shoulder and wobbled after his sister.
“It’s heavy!” and it is. Heavy. Finally I gave The Man a glance, the one he wanted to be sure I knew how upset and angry and frustrated he is.
“This is Easter.” I gestured around at the wet and the green and the eggs and the kids. “It will pass.” The kids paused to turn back waiting for us, needing the exclamation of approval upon every discovery and they grinned at us. “it will go fast.”
April 12, 2009
The rain kept dripping insistent that April Showers go on, Easter or not, making my hair stick to my face and keeping the camera jammed in my coat. I found a somewhat dry spot under some trees and crouched to wait the hunt out. Thirty six goddamn eggs tucked all over the yard. The Man laughed when he came around the corner and spotted me. “You okay?” his question is a dyed egg and I let the pastel vinegar of it soak my response.
“Fine.”
“There’s one!” Daughter had spotted an egg in a tree stump and began running toward it. Little Man immediately claimed it by sound.
“It’s MINE! It’s MY eaasssser egg!” This is what comes of spacing your kids out by six years. There’s just no good way to have a group anything. She tip-toed up to retrieve the “treasure” and placed it in her basket. Little Man was on her like the neighbors smallest dog. “It’s mine! Give me it!”
“Little Man, stop harassing your sister. Did you see any eggs in the flower bed over here?” I pointed at a purple egg sitting on top of a clump of soon to be flowers. They ignored me completely, already locked in mortal combat for a hard boiled egg. Daughter lifted her basket as high as she could weaving and dodging with her red cape flapping in front of Little Man’s snuffing foot stomping self.
He doesn’t tolerate that very long these days. He lifted his basket higher than hers was and began swinging it at her while she yelped and whined. Twelve or twenty eggs hit the ground amongst a wet gob of that damn manufactured paper grass.
“Should we do something?” The Man asked, stunned I was just standing there when I’m sure his own blood pressure was sky rocketing and he was dreaming of belts and a time when children were seen and not heard. I was thinking this is easter.
The things is… there’s only so much you can throw at a person without a mental break down. Imaginary bunnies sneaking into the house, more candy than you’ve ever consumed in your life all snarfed down before breakfast, being invited to go outside in the rain with a basket and collect hard boiled eggs all over the yard… it’s a bit fucking much. He’s just two. And I won’t pretend I’m not irritated about having to worry about his taller version cracking under the pressure on top of it.
With the Easter basket empty and now a relatively useless weapon formerly almost dying Daughter managed to skip off smiling to look for more eggs. Little Man stood staring at his mess for a minute before pulling his shoulders back and announcing, “I pick ‘em up.”
“That’s a good idea.” I told him and watched while he scooped it all up and shoved it in the basket throwing some eggs in on top. *crack CRACK crack* With all the eggs and most of the grass back in his basket Little Man struggled to get the handle over his shoulder and wobbled after his sister.
“It’s heavy!” and it is. Heavy. Finally I gave The Man a glance, the one he wanted to be sure I knew how upset and angry and frustrated he is.
“This is Easter.” I gestured around at the wet and the green and the eggs and the kids. “It will pass.” The kids paused to turn back waiting for us, needing the exclamation of approval upon every discovery and they grinned at us. “it will go fast.”
April 12, 2009
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Bits and Pieces Abandoned in Word
Wrong gets easier every time.
What’s right again? No really. Help me patch my feelings back to my knowledge.
No don’t. I have a right in this wrong.
No one will know. No one important. No one but me.
Free is arms out and tip tilt teapot screaming. Free is hair flying, air streaming, guts heart soul ablaze.
You can’t take anyone with you.
*********************************************************************
“And this is my room.” they stepped in awkwardly and he shut the door behind her. His eyes followed hers around the room. “It’s kind of a mess right now.” There was only the slightest edge of defense in his tone but it allowed her sit on the edge of his bed.
Scrubbing herself clean of sarcasm with deep steady breathing, she made his blanket smooth under her hand and his brow relaxed. “It’s nice.” She considered the bizarre contradictions between mind body and soul. Blanketing mind with crisp scratchy tulle, long abandoned soul barely a whisper of doubt.
She knew he would make the move eventually; that it had to be him, had to be his miscalculation had to be his want, had to be him convincing her. It had to begin his same old move or the symmetry would be lost. She turned around slow before him, the tiny ballerina fixed on his tune before unleashing the prior years bent over inside the box.
**************************************************************************
The way it was with you in the light of spring sunshine. Unexpected and natural to walk along knowing you were at the other end of my strides. The pavement bouncing under my feet urging me along. The feel of you just behind me when I bullshitted with the cashier. The heat of the lacquered picnic table where you spoke and I listened and you cursed the town that joined us. Not knowing how to stay or go. Forcing my legs to make the motions that would take me away from you. Turning to tell you what had always been true; “You know where to find me.” The way you squint at the bright. The way you turned away and kept going. The way I couldn’t love you the same if you were any less than that man. The way I breathe while waiting for the next real breath. The way I wait.
April 11, 2009
What’s right again? No really. Help me patch my feelings back to my knowledge.
No don’t. I have a right in this wrong.
No one will know. No one important. No one but me.
Free is arms out and tip tilt teapot screaming. Free is hair flying, air streaming, guts heart soul ablaze.
You can’t take anyone with you.
*********************************************************************
“And this is my room.” they stepped in awkwardly and he shut the door behind her. His eyes followed hers around the room. “It’s kind of a mess right now.” There was only the slightest edge of defense in his tone but it allowed her sit on the edge of his bed.
Scrubbing herself clean of sarcasm with deep steady breathing, she made his blanket smooth under her hand and his brow relaxed. “It’s nice.” She considered the bizarre contradictions between mind body and soul. Blanketing mind with crisp scratchy tulle, long abandoned soul barely a whisper of doubt.
She knew he would make the move eventually; that it had to be him, had to be his miscalculation had to be his want, had to be him convincing her. It had to begin his same old move or the symmetry would be lost. She turned around slow before him, the tiny ballerina fixed on his tune before unleashing the prior years bent over inside the box.
**************************************************************************
The way it was with you in the light of spring sunshine. Unexpected and natural to walk along knowing you were at the other end of my strides. The pavement bouncing under my feet urging me along. The feel of you just behind me when I bullshitted with the cashier. The heat of the lacquered picnic table where you spoke and I listened and you cursed the town that joined us. Not knowing how to stay or go. Forcing my legs to make the motions that would take me away from you. Turning to tell you what had always been true; “You know where to find me.” The way you squint at the bright. The way you turned away and kept going. The way I couldn’t love you the same if you were any less than that man. The way I breathe while waiting for the next real breath. The way I wait.
April 11, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Butt Out of my Habit
Brace yourselves. Some of you may not know….. I’m a smoker. Yeah. Whew! Glad that’s off my chest. Not that it’s a secret. Just that people are often surprised to find out.. What with my being in such tip top shape.
*ahahahahahahah *cough* *gasp* *wheeze* ahahahahah*
So. They’ve upped the price on cigarettes again. A “sin tax”. *rolls eyes* and this on the heals of the blow last January when they shifted us to the door jams and alleys between dives from the inner haven of bars we had previously enjoyed as the last place on earth to use an ashtray.
Some might consider quitting. (me) Those would be QUITTERS. (not me)
(don’t confuse quitters with quilters. I can fucking quilt with the best of them though I don’t have the right purse to hang with ‘em and the old bitties never shut up about their goddamn diseases, pets and grandchildren in that order)
We all know how fucking cool smoking is and always has been. The way those slender bitches are always there. The graceful curve of life smoke dissipating all around you. The smoke and burn and breathe of alive and dead and take me and fuck you. The “I brought you into this world and I can take you out” of ‘em.
Now, on top of that… we’re forming an elite. We are fewer. And we’re being herded into contained cement areas lined with fun house mirrors. As if seeing ourselves would do anything but reinforce our suicidal tendencies.
Now that I have to step outside and congregate amongst my kind… I’m finding once again how much I dislike me/we. I mean… those people smell bad. And they’re loud. And it might be fair to say that more of them live in trailers than not.
Course the nicotine gets me through it.
I’m not judging! I’ve lived in a trailer. Good times *elbows sisser trailer sharer to remind her of all those cigarettes I smoked in there “don’t tell mom!”* So what I’m saying is… my loyalty is to the suck , to the feed to the static buzz of “I’m okay” NOT to you other fucking assholes with Butts.
There are exceptions of course. I probably don’t mean you. Just… why don’t you step off ten feet and let me slow die in peace? K? thanks.
April 10, 2009
*ahahahahahahah *cough* *gasp* *wheeze* ahahahahah*
So. They’ve upped the price on cigarettes again. A “sin tax”. *rolls eyes* and this on the heals of the blow last January when they shifted us to the door jams and alleys between dives from the inner haven of bars we had previously enjoyed as the last place on earth to use an ashtray.
Some might consider quitting. (me) Those would be QUITTERS. (not me)
(don’t confuse quitters with quilters. I can fucking quilt with the best of them though I don’t have the right purse to hang with ‘em and the old bitties never shut up about their goddamn diseases, pets and grandchildren in that order)
We all know how fucking cool smoking is and always has been. The way those slender bitches are always there. The graceful curve of life smoke dissipating all around you. The smoke and burn and breathe of alive and dead and take me and fuck you. The “I brought you into this world and I can take you out” of ‘em.
Now, on top of that… we’re forming an elite. We are fewer. And we’re being herded into contained cement areas lined with fun house mirrors. As if seeing ourselves would do anything but reinforce our suicidal tendencies.
Now that I have to step outside and congregate amongst my kind… I’m finding once again how much I dislike me/we. I mean… those people smell bad. And they’re loud. And it might be fair to say that more of them live in trailers than not.
Course the nicotine gets me through it.
I’m not judging! I’ve lived in a trailer. Good times *elbows sisser trailer sharer to remind her of all those cigarettes I smoked in there “don’t tell mom!”* So what I’m saying is… my loyalty is to the suck , to the feed to the static buzz of “I’m okay” NOT to you other fucking assholes with Butts.
There are exceptions of course. I probably don’t mean you. Just… why don’t you step off ten feet and let me slow die in peace? K? thanks.
April 10, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Mind Your Manners
The Man and I have an on-going debate regarding manners. He feels that when he’s home, among family he should be able to abandon stiff polite interaction and let it all hang out. I disagree. I think it’s incredibly backwards to save your best behavior for perfect strangers and treat the people supposedly closest to you with less than that. Sure, when you fuck up it’s your family that will cut you a break, pull up your slack and make you laugh at yourself but that’s all the more reason to please them and thank them and excuse yourself in the interim.
Growing up my siblings and I were taught manners so early and so deeply I don’t even remember it. I’m not just talking about may I and please and thank you. It’s a way of being. And honestly it is a wall out in the world. It has a dignity that cannot be taken away. But it’s not always all that great. There’s a certain amount of putting yourself small and tidy in a corner involved.
Yesterday I had a phone conversation with a person I don’t like very much. I accidentally called on their birthday. They mentioned the date and I had to say Happy Birthday. And I did it without even flinching or thinking. I said it kindly and with heart. Because if it’s your birthday and you’re old as dirt (heeheee!) it’s nice to hear that. It’s nice to think that someone cares you’re closer to death and farther from birth or remembers you’re present on the planet and have been awhile.
And I could kick my fucking ass for it. I’m not going into detail here, I’m just going to say this person deserves my well wishes least in the world. And that’s no small thing.
It swung a door back open. Suddenly we’re old friends chatting on the phone. Suddenly I’m being undone, slicked with etiquette I’m sliding into friendship with Satan himself. As it was in the beginning it will be in the end. And I’m hearing the surprise in his voice, the relief and slow steady push of a boulder up a hill and I forced myself to finish it out on the same note to keep it even and not panic because if I did he would hear it and know.
It’s fucking insane. And I don’t always know how much that’s all in my head and how much it’s real. As real as a positive pregnancy test, real as a letter with prison numbers on a return address, real as court and mine and you can’t have her.
My toddler has hit that first serious rebellion phase. I know… hysterical when you think of my already obstinate children hitting the terrible twos head on. He’s become demanding. “Give me my juice.” “put my shoes on!” and every time I make him rephrase it. I make him wrap it up in nice and I don’t know why. I don’t know why we dress the world up. I don’t know how to tell my kids this is ugly and I want you to hide it even though it makes you vulnerable because nobody else will do that for you.
But I do. Because it’s going to be a coal walk either way. So you hold your fucking head up. Because there will be times when holding your head up is the only thing keeping your mind off your feet. There are times it's the only way to remember who you are and escape. Not for you. But maybe for your kids.
April 08, 2009
Growing up my siblings and I were taught manners so early and so deeply I don’t even remember it. I’m not just talking about may I and please and thank you. It’s a way of being. And honestly it is a wall out in the world. It has a dignity that cannot be taken away. But it’s not always all that great. There’s a certain amount of putting yourself small and tidy in a corner involved.
Yesterday I had a phone conversation with a person I don’t like very much. I accidentally called on their birthday. They mentioned the date and I had to say Happy Birthday. And I did it without even flinching or thinking. I said it kindly and with heart. Because if it’s your birthday and you’re old as dirt (heeheee!) it’s nice to hear that. It’s nice to think that someone cares you’re closer to death and farther from birth or remembers you’re present on the planet and have been awhile.
And I could kick my fucking ass for it. I’m not going into detail here, I’m just going to say this person deserves my well wishes least in the world. And that’s no small thing.
It swung a door back open. Suddenly we’re old friends chatting on the phone. Suddenly I’m being undone, slicked with etiquette I’m sliding into friendship with Satan himself. As it was in the beginning it will be in the end. And I’m hearing the surprise in his voice, the relief and slow steady push of a boulder up a hill and I forced myself to finish it out on the same note to keep it even and not panic because if I did he would hear it and know.
It’s fucking insane. And I don’t always know how much that’s all in my head and how much it’s real. As real as a positive pregnancy test, real as a letter with prison numbers on a return address, real as court and mine and you can’t have her.
My toddler has hit that first serious rebellion phase. I know… hysterical when you think of my already obstinate children hitting the terrible twos head on. He’s become demanding. “Give me my juice.” “put my shoes on!” and every time I make him rephrase it. I make him wrap it up in nice and I don’t know why. I don’t know why we dress the world up. I don’t know how to tell my kids this is ugly and I want you to hide it even though it makes you vulnerable because nobody else will do that for you.
But I do. Because it’s going to be a coal walk either way. So you hold your fucking head up. Because there will be times when holding your head up is the only thing keeping your mind off your feet. There are times it's the only way to remember who you are and escape. Not for you. But maybe for your kids.
April 08, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Tax Time
The Man is having a bad day. Well it started a few days ago when he did something to his rib at work. But by Sunday he was feeling way better. Until I jumped on him and he melted like my eyelashes did that time somebody turned the flame way up on my lighter. I wasn’t trying to kick his ass. It was a friendly leap. I take it for granted that I can inflict the full force of my flying awkward self at him at any time it suits me. Not that he'll catch me exactly but that he'll be there under me when I fall.
This morning I was clutching my cell phone (alarm clock) in my hand under my pillow moaning at the children to “rise and shine it’s time to get up” when I detected the rumble of his voice out in the living room. He stayed home from work. And that my friends is no small thing. Nothing keeps him home from work. Not death, or c-sections, or snow drifts, or anything. So we can be assured he’s mortally injured.
But he didn’t stay home to go see a doctor. He figured it’s a great day to go get reamed by the tax man. And boy do we. Now usually, I mean, every other year, I would be getting a lot of heat on tax day what with not marrying him already and being self employed just enough to make the government pull out their largest dick to slap us with. But today his possible broken rib was keeping him mellow and afraid of me I suppose.
At one point during the bad news I took the toddler out to the car to get my cell phone and while I was gone the nice old lady typing our info into the computer informed The Man that he “really should marry me. After all we LOOK married anyway.” Amazingly The Man remained seated and gave her my line about it only being a piece of paper. THEN she says “But in the eyes of god….. You’re living in sin.” and he still sat there calm and complacent.
Two funny things:
1. She didn’t bring this up in front of me even though I’m the one who told her we’re not married soon as we walked in (without apology I might add) and she asked me to sign stuff that said spouse on it. Not a word about it. Not even a judgmental eye flicker. Either she KNEW I would have words with her if she said even ONE THING about it….
2. OR she’s not scared of me. Obviously he’s THE MAN. So he’s in charge of such matters. So she waited to gently explain to him the error of his ways. Gawds it’s funny if it wasn’t so awful for him.
Soon as we escaped the office he says “I didn’t like that old lady!”
“Why?” I asked him. I really hadn’t even gotten a vibe from her. Then again I was rather distracted keeping the toddler from tearing their office apart and packing my guilty bags for how expensive it is to keep me.
So then he tells me what she said after we're driving away. I told him he was going to get his ribs looked at ‘cause clearly he’s not well if he just sat there and let that old lady pick on him.
“You broke me.” he said.
“yeah I know, that’s why you need to get an x-ray or something.”
“no. in the office. I didn’t say anything.”
“Even I would have said something.”
“So. Do you want to get married?”
*sigh*
April 06, 2009
This morning I was clutching my cell phone (alarm clock) in my hand under my pillow moaning at the children to “rise and shine it’s time to get up” when I detected the rumble of his voice out in the living room. He stayed home from work. And that my friends is no small thing. Nothing keeps him home from work. Not death, or c-sections, or snow drifts, or anything. So we can be assured he’s mortally injured.
But he didn’t stay home to go see a doctor. He figured it’s a great day to go get reamed by the tax man. And boy do we. Now usually, I mean, every other year, I would be getting a lot of heat on tax day what with not marrying him already and being self employed just enough to make the government pull out their largest dick to slap us with. But today his possible broken rib was keeping him mellow and afraid of me I suppose.
At one point during the bad news I took the toddler out to the car to get my cell phone and while I was gone the nice old lady typing our info into the computer informed The Man that he “really should marry me. After all we LOOK married anyway.” Amazingly The Man remained seated and gave her my line about it only being a piece of paper. THEN she says “But in the eyes of god….. You’re living in sin.” and he still sat there calm and complacent.
Two funny things:
1. She didn’t bring this up in front of me even though I’m the one who told her we’re not married soon as we walked in (without apology I might add) and she asked me to sign stuff that said spouse on it. Not a word about it. Not even a judgmental eye flicker. Either she KNEW I would have words with her if she said even ONE THING about it….
2. OR she’s not scared of me. Obviously he’s THE MAN. So he’s in charge of such matters. So she waited to gently explain to him the error of his ways. Gawds it’s funny if it wasn’t so awful for him.
Soon as we escaped the office he says “I didn’t like that old lady!”
“Why?” I asked him. I really hadn’t even gotten a vibe from her. Then again I was rather distracted keeping the toddler from tearing their office apart and packing my guilty bags for how expensive it is to keep me.
So then he tells me what she said after we're driving away. I told him he was going to get his ribs looked at ‘cause clearly he’s not well if he just sat there and let that old lady pick on him.
“You broke me.” he said.
“yeah I know, that’s why you need to get an x-ray or something.”
“no. in the office. I didn’t say anything.”
“Even I would have said something.”
“So. Do you want to get married?”
*sigh*
April 06, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Open Letter
To Whom It Concerns,
I know why you think we’re not friends anymore. I know what you think I did. I know what I actually did. And I know it has shit to do with the demise of our relationship. I’ve never wished you ill. I’ve never wished you anything but exactly what you deserve. And I don’t mean anything bad by that. Honest.
And I understand why you read my blog. Aside from my awesome-sauce being all over it, you’re as much a voyeur as anyone and the idea that you might come up now and then wets yer panties. And that’s fine. I really don’t care. Read away. Tuck copies under your pillow. Carry it in your pocket like a note passed in high school. Wipe with it. It’s just words. You know...Perspective and angles and voice. It doesn’t mean anything.
What I’ve never understood about you is your inability to be direct. You have a problem with something I’ve said? There are numerous ways you could contact me. You could have said Surprise! I found you and I don’t like what you’re writing about me without using my name on an anonymous headless blog on mysack! Really. I’m shocked you don’t remember what a goddamn sweetheart I am.
Anyhoot. Just wanted to wave hello. Just wanted to assure you your grievance made it through the grapevine. Just wanted to inform you the blog is only anonymous to outsiders. It’s sure not news to The Man. Or his brother. I suppose that’s your biggest problem with it. Still, in the future you can contact me through my inbox and maybe get better results. No hard feelings.
*moons you*
Dew
April 05, 2009
I know why you think we’re not friends anymore. I know what you think I did. I know what I actually did. And I know it has shit to do with the demise of our relationship. I’ve never wished you ill. I’ve never wished you anything but exactly what you deserve. And I don’t mean anything bad by that. Honest.
And I understand why you read my blog. Aside from my awesome-sauce being all over it, you’re as much a voyeur as anyone and the idea that you might come up now and then wets yer panties. And that’s fine. I really don’t care. Read away. Tuck copies under your pillow. Carry it in your pocket like a note passed in high school. Wipe with it. It’s just words. You know...Perspective and angles and voice. It doesn’t mean anything.
What I’ve never understood about you is your inability to be direct. You have a problem with something I’ve said? There are numerous ways you could contact me. You could have said Surprise! I found you and I don’t like what you’re writing about me without using my name on an anonymous headless blog on mysack! Really. I’m shocked you don’t remember what a goddamn sweetheart I am.
Anyhoot. Just wanted to wave hello. Just wanted to assure you your grievance made it through the grapevine. Just wanted to inform you the blog is only anonymous to outsiders. It’s sure not news to The Man. Or his brother. I suppose that’s your biggest problem with it. Still, in the future you can contact me through my inbox and maybe get better results. No hard feelings.
*moons you*
Dew
April 05, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Things I Learned at 80's Night in Lola's Room
*yes you can roll the top of a tank down and wear it as a skirt. Well. I did it. And I can hang upside down and blow my hair into a giant 80’s coif with next to no effort. Also, my eyes adore blue eyeliner and will not give it up. And last but not least you do not have to shave your legs to wear striped legging tights. *arm pump*
*you can’t tell who the dorks are. That guy in the hot pink parachute material ball cap? Who fucking knows if he’s in costume. And who cares! That members only jacket is HAWT! *snicker*
*The bitches are easy to spot in any decade. There was a herd of them ahead of us in line to get in. “Oh my god I was going to email you about this but I didn’t because I thought, like I’m going to see you here so I just decided to wait and tell you now or whatever. That girl Lauren Barn, you know… Lauren BARN! She is such a BITCH! Oh my god I’m at this baby shower and oh my god I had three helpings of enchilada I feel like such a cow but that BITCH was there and she had that bag.. You know that bag we saw when we were shopping………………………….” I think she must have been speaking of herself in third person.
*And behind us were the nerds. Tall guy was describing in carefully constructed to make him appear smart and soon to be deservedly rich clichés how he was going to profit on the dips in the economy to curly haired 80’s nerd girl who probably just wondered how big his dick was the entire time he yammered on. Of course it doesn’t matter how big it is. I doubt he ever shuts up long enough to use it and if she opens her mouth and reveals to him his own giant head he will be limp for a month. This was more of an observance on HER learning experience than my own. I've known how amusing it is to picture the other people in line with me waiting for anything getting dirrrrty is for years.
*The floor is bouncy in Lola’s Room. Good for jumping. You don’t even have to dance yourself if you don’t feel like it or you get tired of trying to figure out how to sway to moody synthed ballads, just standing there you’re forced to bounce and readjust yer cool every few seconds. Or that might have been the drink. Or the side pony. (My hair is big and heavy. I really missed my decade.) I didn’t challenge anyone to a dance-off though I wanted to ‘cause I was in my stiletto’s. Not so great for break dancing I assure you.
*The thing about 80’s Night if you’re single is it’s a chick fest. The only guys there are lower-class members of a bitch-herd (drink fetchers expected to answer the bitches‘ beck and call and drink enough to act stupid so the bitches can be angry-hawt) or with their girlfriend trying to give life to her pretty in pink fantasy. Well. There was also tall guy but my single friend wasn’t interested. If you’re a “tall guy” you should make a note of that. Hot girl… looking for trouble. …. Not you. Yeah. You’d think he could have transferred his knowledge of profiting in a recession to his current situation.
April 04, 2009
*you can’t tell who the dorks are. That guy in the hot pink parachute material ball cap? Who fucking knows if he’s in costume. And who cares! That members only jacket is HAWT! *snicker*
*The bitches are easy to spot in any decade. There was a herd of them ahead of us in line to get in. “Oh my god I was going to email you about this but I didn’t because I thought, like I’m going to see you here so I just decided to wait and tell you now or whatever. That girl Lauren Barn, you know… Lauren BARN! She is such a BITCH! Oh my god I’m at this baby shower and oh my god I had three helpings of enchilada I feel like such a cow but that BITCH was there and she had that bag.. You know that bag we saw when we were shopping………………………….” I think she must have been speaking of herself in third person.
*And behind us were the nerds. Tall guy was describing in carefully constructed to make him appear smart and soon to be deservedly rich clichés how he was going to profit on the dips in the economy to curly haired 80’s nerd girl who probably just wondered how big his dick was the entire time he yammered on. Of course it doesn’t matter how big it is. I doubt he ever shuts up long enough to use it and if she opens her mouth and reveals to him his own giant head he will be limp for a month. This was more of an observance on HER learning experience than my own. I've known how amusing it is to picture the other people in line with me waiting for anything getting dirrrrty is for years.
*The floor is bouncy in Lola’s Room. Good for jumping. You don’t even have to dance yourself if you don’t feel like it or you get tired of trying to figure out how to sway to moody synthed ballads, just standing there you’re forced to bounce and readjust yer cool every few seconds. Or that might have been the drink. Or the side pony. (My hair is big and heavy. I really missed my decade.) I didn’t challenge anyone to a dance-off though I wanted to ‘cause I was in my stiletto’s. Not so great for break dancing I assure you.
*The thing about 80’s Night if you’re single is it’s a chick fest. The only guys there are lower-class members of a bitch-herd (drink fetchers expected to answer the bitches‘ beck and call and drink enough to act stupid so the bitches can be angry-hawt) or with their girlfriend trying to give life to her pretty in pink fantasy. Well. There was also tall guy but my single friend wasn’t interested. If you’re a “tall guy” you should make a note of that. Hot girl… looking for trouble. …. Not you. Yeah. You’d think he could have transferred his knowledge of profiting in a recession to his current situation.
April 04, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
We Eat the Good Stuff
On Tuesday
The Man and I were standing in front of an open cupboard with dull faces when he said “We just eat the same things over and over.” It’s true. I’m not a cook, not a food person, woefully inadequate at more than keeping the machine running. There’s no grace in it or art or love. As much as I am in my head he is in his body. He likes pure body function in any form. Eating. Sleeping. Fucking. I’m sidestepping the other obvious here because I already mentioned bowels once this week. Oops. Sure he appreciates quality (I don' t know it seems like the right thing to say but I'm not even sure of this) but mostly it doesn’t matter. It’s the swallow, the snore the release. The pounding pulse in his head he can't hear over or see past says “good enough, gets the job done.”
On Wednesday
I noticed we had potatoes. So I googled a recipe for potatoes in a crock pot. I chopped. I diced. I modified a little since I didn’t have exactly the right ingredients. It looked like a pile of Idaho spud shit. Food often looks like that so I wasn’t worried. Over time there was a smell. It sneaked around the house until there wasn’t anywhere to escape. I started feeling light headed. That sensation you get day three no food except ONLY in my head. I walked into three walls before I decided to go to bed with the toddler. We slept hard for three hours and were awakened by The Girls arriving home from school and The Man home from work.
Dinner On Wednesday
The Man dished the kids up and I hid in the kitchen to peek at The Girls faces when they saw we were not eating one of the four child approved meals. They were NOT happy. The Man buttered up a bunch of bread and they chewed that in silence until I heard The Toddler exclaim “ITS ‘LICIOUS!”
“Really? You guys like it?” I said, rather astonished and this sound slipped out of The Man. It was a laugh I think. Or he was choking.
“He’s eating bread.” he informed me between heaping scoops being spooned down his own throat.
“IS IT TERRIBLE?” I asked. More laughing. “STOP EATING IT!!!” he wouldn’t. “WHY WOULD YOU DOOOOO THAT? STOP EATING RIGHT NOW!” I grabbed the bowl out of his hands.
“It’s FINE.”
“So you like it? Say you like it. Say I like this and I want to eat it again and as much as possible”
“I'll eat anything you make… it might be over-done… what is this anyway?”
“I tried something different!!! I found it on the internet.”
“I know it‘s new! It’s great.”
“Just stop already.” I started clearing the table and preheating the oven to make frozen pizza pockets for the kids. “You know why we eat the same stuff over and over? THAT’S THE GOOD STUFF. We’re eating the good stuff.”
There was a quiet. The kids were not positive I was going to make anything else to eat. The Man was not positive I wasn’t going to jump him. He probably doesn’t remember me telling him that I once force fed a b/f pudding to make a point but he knows I’m capable of terrible things. Finally there wasn’t anything to do but laugh.
So I did. And he did. The kids did not laugh as they're old enough to hold grudges and Do So. And I said “I think that shit poisoned me …. The smell… my gawd. I was walking into walls”
“It wasn’t that bad…” The Man insisted.
“The fact that you’ll eat anything makes your culinary opinion useless. Hey Man?”
“yeah?”
“We have to make all evidence of this gone fast. Or I’m going to throw up.”
I bet he likes throwing up.
April 03, 2009
The Man and I were standing in front of an open cupboard with dull faces when he said “We just eat the same things over and over.” It’s true. I’m not a cook, not a food person, woefully inadequate at more than keeping the machine running. There’s no grace in it or art or love. As much as I am in my head he is in his body. He likes pure body function in any form. Eating. Sleeping. Fucking. I’m sidestepping the other obvious here because I already mentioned bowels once this week. Oops. Sure he appreciates quality (I don' t know it seems like the right thing to say but I'm not even sure of this) but mostly it doesn’t matter. It’s the swallow, the snore the release. The pounding pulse in his head he can't hear over or see past says “good enough, gets the job done.”
On Wednesday
I noticed we had potatoes. So I googled a recipe for potatoes in a crock pot. I chopped. I diced. I modified a little since I didn’t have exactly the right ingredients. It looked like a pile of Idaho spud shit. Food often looks like that so I wasn’t worried. Over time there was a smell. It sneaked around the house until there wasn’t anywhere to escape. I started feeling light headed. That sensation you get day three no food except ONLY in my head. I walked into three walls before I decided to go to bed with the toddler. We slept hard for three hours and were awakened by The Girls arriving home from school and The Man home from work.
Dinner On Wednesday
The Man dished the kids up and I hid in the kitchen to peek at The Girls faces when they saw we were not eating one of the four child approved meals. They were NOT happy. The Man buttered up a bunch of bread and they chewed that in silence until I heard The Toddler exclaim “ITS ‘LICIOUS!”
“Really? You guys like it?” I said, rather astonished and this sound slipped out of The Man. It was a laugh I think. Or he was choking.
“He’s eating bread.” he informed me between heaping scoops being spooned down his own throat.
“IS IT TERRIBLE?” I asked. More laughing. “STOP EATING IT!!!” he wouldn’t. “WHY WOULD YOU DOOOOO THAT? STOP EATING RIGHT NOW!” I grabbed the bowl out of his hands.
“It’s FINE.”
“So you like it? Say you like it. Say I like this and I want to eat it again and as much as possible”
“I'll eat anything you make… it might be over-done… what is this anyway?”
“I tried something different!!! I found it on the internet.”
“I know it‘s new! It’s great.”
“Just stop already.” I started clearing the table and preheating the oven to make frozen pizza pockets for the kids. “You know why we eat the same stuff over and over? THAT’S THE GOOD STUFF. We’re eating the good stuff.”
There was a quiet. The kids were not positive I was going to make anything else to eat. The Man was not positive I wasn’t going to jump him. He probably doesn’t remember me telling him that I once force fed a b/f pudding to make a point but he knows I’m capable of terrible things. Finally there wasn’t anything to do but laugh.
So I did. And he did. The kids did not laugh as they're old enough to hold grudges and Do So. And I said “I think that shit poisoned me …. The smell… my gawd. I was walking into walls”
“It wasn’t that bad…” The Man insisted.
“The fact that you’ll eat anything makes your culinary opinion useless. Hey Man?”
“yeah?”
“We have to make all evidence of this gone fast. Or I’m going to throw up.”
I bet he likes throwing up.
April 03, 2009
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Thoughts On Comfort
A couple few weeks ago when cleaning the toilet I noticed a tiiiiiny hairline fracture in the seat. I remember making a note of how disgusting that was, that it was probably a bacterial grand canyon and telling myself that we needed to replace the toilet seat asap and possibly work harder on getting the toddler to stop standing on the lid and jumping. Still, it wasn’t that big of a deal in my mind. Then one night last week I went in to pee before bed and the seat is broken. Right where the tiny crack had been, it’s totally broken. So I managed balance on half a toilet seat to pee. (I only mention ‘cause I know you’ll ask) and the next day when I see The Man I ask him… “Dude.. What the hell happened to the toilet seat?” and he says “It’s always been that way!” and I say “Not like THAT.” and he says “Yeah, don’t you remember I mentioned it was pinching me on the ass every time I sat on it?” and I say “ahahahahahahahaahhahahaah! Hell no you didn’t tell me that, there’s no way I would forget that.” What I’m trying to figure out is… when exactly he intended to replace the seat. Not after it started pinching him on the ass, that’s for sure. And not after it completely broke either, he didn’t even think to mention it to me. I had to make a family field trip to go get one not made out of plastic. It’s just funny. What the hell would it take for him?
On Country Life:
Since we moved here I’ve been admiring these giant beautiful looking birds soaring around on wind currents. The house sits on a hill and there’s quite the view…… you know…..If you tilt your chin up and avoid making eye contact with the random neighborhood dog taking a dump on my grass, you can see some serious beauty. So when I go out on the porch to smoke, or from the kitchen window above the sink I watch this pair of awesome birds playing out there out past the edge of the world. Just gliding around, riding the currents, doing their bird thing and it was like one dry spot in a sea of broken water heaters and broken septic tanks and shitting dogs and mice in my car heater and gutters that fly off every time the wind blows south, trees toppling in the east wind the rest of the time, the mud hole where my car sits and on and on and on. Amongst all that there’s the birds and they weren‘t the only dry spot but they were a frequent respite. Then one day The Man is home and he stands behind me to see what I’m looking at, which is the birds. They brought friends and now there are four of them and he casually says “Look at those vultures circling our house.”
On Relationshits:
When I met him I was carrying the world on my shoulders and it held me ramrod straight and unbending. I said “this is who I am and if you think you can take it I might let you walk next to me.” and so he did and over time he took the load off my shoulders and put it on his. It stacks up high on him and holds him ramrod straight and unbending… Of course now that he’s carrying it I can see it’s all bunk. I try knocking it off him; useless ideas about right and the way things should be done, and family and trapped and don’t ever let go and twelve to fifteen fairy tales and two dead bodies and a shadow he doesn’t even know is up there and that‘s just my shit on top of his. He wouldn‘t even agree he‘s carrying it but that‘s just part of his shit and mainly because he can‘t see me. I point and ridicule his tight grip on angry, his never open, never see inside self and beg him to put the shit down or at least wipe a window so I know he’s in there and he refuses. He’s afraid if I see what’s in him I’ll run. Of course that’s backwards and ridiculous. I already see him. And I certainly can’t run when he has all my shit.
April 02, 2009
On Country Life:
Since we moved here I’ve been admiring these giant beautiful looking birds soaring around on wind currents. The house sits on a hill and there’s quite the view…… you know…..If you tilt your chin up and avoid making eye contact with the random neighborhood dog taking a dump on my grass, you can see some serious beauty. So when I go out on the porch to smoke, or from the kitchen window above the sink I watch this pair of awesome birds playing out there out past the edge of the world. Just gliding around, riding the currents, doing their bird thing and it was like one dry spot in a sea of broken water heaters and broken septic tanks and shitting dogs and mice in my car heater and gutters that fly off every time the wind blows south, trees toppling in the east wind the rest of the time, the mud hole where my car sits and on and on and on. Amongst all that there’s the birds and they weren‘t the only dry spot but they were a frequent respite. Then one day The Man is home and he stands behind me to see what I’m looking at, which is the birds. They brought friends and now there are four of them and he casually says “Look at those vultures circling our house.”
On Relationshits:
When I met him I was carrying the world on my shoulders and it held me ramrod straight and unbending. I said “this is who I am and if you think you can take it I might let you walk next to me.” and so he did and over time he took the load off my shoulders and put it on his. It stacks up high on him and holds him ramrod straight and unbending… Of course now that he’s carrying it I can see it’s all bunk. I try knocking it off him; useless ideas about right and the way things should be done, and family and trapped and don’t ever let go and twelve to fifteen fairy tales and two dead bodies and a shadow he doesn’t even know is up there and that‘s just my shit on top of his. He wouldn‘t even agree he‘s carrying it but that‘s just part of his shit and mainly because he can‘t see me. I point and ridicule his tight grip on angry, his never open, never see inside self and beg him to put the shit down or at least wipe a window so I know he’s in there and he refuses. He’s afraid if I see what’s in him I’ll run. Of course that’s backwards and ridiculous. I already see him. And I certainly can’t run when he has all my shit.
April 02, 2009
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