I'm a Doctor *pat pat pat*

"You may not hit. If you hit again you will have a time-out." I informed Little Man in my most serious mommy voice. I was crouched down eye to eye with him. Lately his patting is getting increasingly aggressive and he knows darn well it's just hitting. I see it in the glint in his eyes.

He reached his little arms up and put a chubby hand on each of my cheeks, squeezing my face until my lips were a fishy kiss. "I sorry Mama. I kiss you"  and he planted a wet half snotty kiss on me. "Mama?"

"Yes, Little Man."

"I pooped one more time. I sorry. I pooped one more time." He informed me seriously, his head tilted and eyebrows up appropriately.

"You don't have to be sorry. Maybe next time you could sit on the potty to poop. Let's go change your pants."

"In a minute." he parroted my phrase back at me. "I pat my head and my tummy." he hop-skipped around the house patting his head and his tummy. Obviously The Girls have been playing school with him again. "see!? Not hurt. Not hurt." He was patting himself nearly as fiercely as he had been me moments before.

"Be gentle with my baby." I admonished him.

"I not baaaaaby. I'm a Little Man." when he says his name like that it sounds like he's saying; "I'm a doctor" and cracks me up all day long. He uses it to excuse anything.

He might be climbing on top of his radio flyer inch worm to reach Daddy's coffee and upon being busted explain… "I'm a doctor! It's licious! I'm a doctor!"

Or he'll pull a chair over to "help me" cook. When I tell him he can't help cook at the stove until he's ten he laughs and reminds me, "I not TEN! I two six four, I'm a DOCTOR!"

After I finished changing his diaper he started the tough patting on my arse again. "Hey listen up. Doctors do not hit."

"It's okay. You okay. I not a DOCTOR! I'm a DOCTOR!"

Looking for a Good Plan

So… I don't want to alarm anyone who has perhaps escaped this realization but….

There's only one fucking way out of here. (life)

Anyone have a good plan to avoid this?

Yeah. Thought not. And NOBODY talks about it.

What if we don't talk about it because if we let go of that illusion of eternal living… of the days just going on and on and on…

It sorta means there's absolutely no reason not to do any fucking thing we want to.

For those of us not going to heaven, I mean.

So what's stopping us? 

Show Me Your Titties

It was one of the last times we were all together like that. After my parents got back together, before they split again. The five of us down at the Clackamas River in the  dog heat of summer. None of our family outings were purely for fun. This trip the siblings and I were also required to collect rocks for Dad’s growing rock garden. Not small rocks either, large boulder-like rocks that had to be hefted up to the truck one at a time leaving sand and mud across our bellies each time.

Still, it was nice, strangely calm even. We didn’t rebel against his request and he didn’t insist on instilling nazi discipline. We spent most of the time  wading in and out of the lazy spot on the river and lazing about on our ragged old towels. Our teenaged bodies were still unused to spending time with our parents, there was some awkwardness in all of us at noticing we were being noticed. Now and then speed boats would charge past, churning up the water, creating waves to make us alternately delighted and annoyed by the surges.

One particular boat had made a couple passes when it actually slowed to a cruise. It was overflowing with young men drinking and goofing off. Then it suddenly sped up, fishtailing around a bit before speeding away and as it went one of the boys on it shouted “SHOW ME YOUR TITTIES!” in a wailing laughter filled demand, in our general direction.

As the heat of a dark blush spread to both my sister and I’s faces we looked on in shocked amazement at Dad, standing just ahead of us knee deep in the water with his cozy covered beer in one hand and dark tinted police officer sunglasses on.  He raised his arms, the shorter style swim trunks in a bright turquoise color with tiny almost unrecognizable black fish  printed on them suddenly standing out, marking his age, and shook his man chest at them, his eyes were wild and large, his beer belly jutting out, wavy dark hair silhouetted against the blue sky.  “I’LL GIVE YOU TITTIES!” he shouted mockingly after them.

The tension we had hardly known on the surface was suddenly broken and we laughed till we cried, reliving it over and over as another of us reenacted it from our perspective.  It was the only thing that ever made it work for us, his sense of humor. Still is. Even without him.

Is it December Again?

It's time to decorate the house for the holidays. Not because I'm feeling particularly jolly or tinsel-lite, but because I keep forgetting it's December and I'm hoping garish decorations will center me in the correct time and place. My niece turned nine this last weekend. NINE. That's a big number. I have a nine looming in my near future as well. Today I feel like ignoring it, wonder why we can't all have some sort of small dog size house to go curl up in on days like that. Days that demand our notice, demand we take stock.

I have this thought that you can create a hole where there isn't one simply to stare into it and wish it filled. Like worrying a tear in the seam of a pocket with your fingers. Of course that matters little once the hole is there. Chickens and eggs and Who's on first. I don't like chickens OR eggs and am long past firsts. You can stretch a hole so big it becomes everything, an entire life just sucked in and lost. My pocket is gone anyway. I don't notice much until I have a moment, standing still and forgetful. Then I slide my hand in and it discovers no warm smooth edges no fabric sewn into a square to keep treasures safe and close, just my thigh in need of a shave. It also matters little if my hand misses the pocket or wishes for yours to cover it.

Does anyone else crave solitude to alleviate loneliness? Maybe it makes it easier to take, makes it make sense at least. If I must be miserable for gawds sake let it be logical! Let it be sound and sensible behavior! *snort* Go ahead and chase that tail around for awhile. Gets the days slipping by until you don't know what month it is anymore. Just hang a strand of lights to remind you Santa has shopping to do. *



*Persons writing this blog may be less melancholy than they sound. Also, they are not cheered by well wishes so save that for another blog.  ahem. and also.

Bah Humbug!

Size Matters

As is customary on talk shows when the writers run out of material* …….

Let's go to the mailbox, shall we?

We all get stranger friend requests. Now that Tom offers the option to type a short message to be sent along WITH the request there is absolutely no excuse not to.  (there is one excuse and when I do it be sure and ask me and I will excuse myself with it) My policy is to let them rot. If you deny them they come back. If you let it sit there in the box then in a week or two when they try you again it will tell them what an ass they are. Over and over. Automated you're an ass rejection. LOVE it. Anywhoot.

Today I popped in as I had been flagged as having NEW friend requests. *blush* I know, it's shocking how special I feel. So I see a chick.. Looks like a porn bot to me. You know the kind.. Looking for me to get to know them and then maybe pay them to see them masturbate on camera. As if I need pointers. *elbows nearest person knowingly* It's pokers I need not pointers. *triple snort*

 Then I notice her name. I won't give it here. But it's bracketed in such a way that it resembles MY NAME. Except it doesn't make sense on a few levels like mine does. (so what if I'm not supposed to admit it fucking rocks! My name does rock so there!)

 It's something like Jad[ed]. And the avatar is headless. This chick took a picture of herself with her naval all exposed and looking all hookery! And used brackets instead of parenthesis! (totally wish I thought of that) possibly in an effort to emulate me!

***by the by - those people who say it's the sincerest form of flattery? Fuck that. Tell that to people experiencing identity theft. *nods with eyebrows up* eh? Eh? Eh? Oh shit I know it's no big deal . Pishaw.

This is the part where we laugh about me thinking this chick is a yucky porn botter and than realizing she's instead a pseudo Dew(ed). *gestures for everyone to join in* ahahahahahahahahahahahahahhaah!  "Even Dew(ed) admits she looks like a myspace hookah"  yeah yeah get it out of your systems.

My curiosity, piqued, I click away to get a look at her profile, wondering if she's wanting to be on the Dew(ed) slider or what.  That doesn't appear to be the case. I don't see any mutual friends. I have never seen her on the blogs I read. So I read her profile (what? I'm already there) and it becomes clear that she's dealing with having an eating disorder. No that's not right. She's an advocate of Eating Disorder as lifestyle. Yeah that's sounds more right. So I feel my friendship was targeted.

This pisses me off.  (now we get to open a big old stinky can-oh-beans)

I'm slenderish. I have always been slenderish. (ignores sister(d) raising her hand to point out baby pictures of Dew(ed) with her little infant halter top ROLLING up because of all the baby chub) Alright. Since around two I have always been slender. My mom is slender. My sister is slender. My grandma was slender. (not that one the other one) my point is, I don't DO anything to be slender. I don't exercise. I don't think about what I eat. I don't give a flying fuck about calories. I have never owned a scale.

I don't "deserve" it, but there it is.

And it just IS.

We're in a big danger zone here. I am aware that statistically Americans tend not to be slenderish. I know I'm out-numbered. But goddamn it I have a right to be heard!!! And I'm tired of the uncomfortable awkwardness of being forced to apologize for it.

Oh you think that's not how it is? Too bad you can't wear a skinny suit.

In any female gathering (and more and more it's men too) weight WILL come up. I have NEVER brought weight up. But it ALWAYS comes up.

My favorite is when they tell me why I'm skinny.

-because I smoke.
-because I starve myself
-because I must throw up after I eat.

Or how I'm going to pay for it in the end anyway.

-osteoporosis
-the cancer (from the cigarettes I smoke to stay skinny)

Or how I'm paying for it now.

-boobless
-yeah I guess that's it. (has little desire for boobs anyway)

So enough people. Stop harassing the naturally scrawny adolescent boy looking women in your life. Does it suck that weight isn't an issue for them and it is for you? File it under LIFE IS NOT FAIR and move the fuck on. You can bet they have their own problems. Oh and let them have those fucking problems instead of interrupting them to remind them they're thin and therefore should be blissfully happy  and without another care in the world the way you imagine you would be were you thin. REALITY CHECK PLEASE!

And now lets move on to the message box. I have a request for advice that I'd like you to help me answer. In the interest of protecting the guilty I'm leaving out their name. Picture an avatar with a guy (pretty well built) with his back turned flexing his muscles. His name might be something like "Smooth"

Here it is:


Subject:   : )
Body:
You are, like, unbelievably gorgeous!

Sorry if you get this all the time, but I need to ask, since you potentially have really good luck with this type of thing based on your attractiveness: does size matter to you and your friends?

Like, have you ever been with a guy that was so small you laughed or so big you did the whole "OMG!" thing?

Long story about why I'm asking, lol...



Yeah. So that's either going to lead to a penis enlargement sales talk or I'm going to end up accidentally stuck cybering again.  Why should I allow that when I have you to answer this young man's query?  Oh alright I admit it's rhetorical so we can all laugh about this suckers lame pick-up/sales attempt (I'm still not sure which it is)

*Dew(ed) is not actually out of material. Dew has so many things rolling around in her head that she can and even WANTS to write about. This is the truly bad kind of Writer's Block in which the words tumble like alphabet soup in the mind and come out… well a bit like alphabet soup, in that they're mushy and acidy and disgusting.  And the grisly bits of meat in the soup are the parts when I speak of myself in the 3rd person.

I Do Not

This marriage debate seems to be a revolving topic for me. It's the ducky in the tub; just keeps bobbing up again and again in it's cautionary yellow coat, with it's quacky grin and adorable life preserver taunting.

The people (fecking people) say  "You're already IN the tub! When will you just do it? What are you waiting for? Why NOT?"

It's a strange bit of human behavior that makes us validate our own actions by looking around to make sure everyone else is doing it too.  Oh except THOSE people. You know. The ones we don't want doing what we do and making it seem DIRTY.

No less annoying are the folks who want us to because it would fulfill their fantasy of the perfect relationship. They just want us to have our happily ever after, complete with white veil and train and not leaving out the large party with free alcohol for all the friends and family.

And now that The Man is completely confident I will not agree he can ask over and over and remain the steadfast knight just BEGGING to make me an honest woman. And I'm the asshole who says no.  No to signing a legally binding document&183; No to I do.  No to paperwork with fancy promises that are not even true NOW.

I stopped wearing the ring. The Ring. It hurt his feelings. It's also very small (compared to say a COUCH, it's actually a large ring) and easily lost in a move so I put it back on. On the right hand. Incidentally it fits my right ring finger much better, it's giant self doesn't roll around and scratch my other fingers as much. Anyway. It was my compromise. But you can't compromise on marriage, can you? You either ARE or you're NOT.

Here's the thing. I believe in marriage. I believe in vows. I believe in forever. I AM eternal. If I signed that document I would expect it to be true. If I heard those vows I would expect them to be fulfilled.  Until death did us part. Every moment that they were not true would slice through me and be shoved choking down my throat as is traditional with wedding cake.

Have you ever noticed there's a trick in it?  You each vow to love one another, in sickness and health, the bad times and the good, etc etc… But if one person does NOT. The other person is still stuck. Because that may just be the bad times they were talking about. And I would be stuck. Because I don't say a thing and not mean it. I don't quit. And I don't stop trying. Ever.

This does not mean I do not believe in The Man. Or if it does that's NOT what I'm driving at. I think it's more a lack of belief in the ability of humans to undertake such a thing. The audacity that so many sign those papers. Walk around sharing a name and then one day go back and sign other papers to make it all go away.

Well I say no. I do not. I am not. Married. I will not pull the plug if he's in a coma. I will not change my name. I won't share credit histories. I won't share property. I won't own The Man and he will not own me. I will not put up with anything I do not want to put up with on any given day.

Everyday that I am here, it is because I choose to be.

A Breakthrough

One true word would have kept me I think.

One sentence that was real.

I'd like to go back to when I had you. When I let you go.

The most important things are said in groups of three words.

How dare you.

I am done.

I love you.

And fuck off.