Shopping With the Kids

What Christmas shopping with the kids has taught me:

* Children can use the restroom before and after eating a meal at a restaurant, and still need to visit two rest areas and the mall bathroom as soon as you arrive.

* Children can eat at a restaurant and be hungry again an hour later.

* My son can look at the same Goth chick I think is cool, and tell her, "You're scary."

* I need a pull-string and speaker box, with the phrases, "Watch where you're going, hun!", "Don't touch that!", and "I'm sorry!" played at random.

* That you cannot browse leisurely through Spencer's Gifts, for fear that your kids will see products meant for those far past their tender years. And that your efforts at telling them to "Stay up front!" will be thwarted by the fact of, "But that's where the cool lights are!"

* That children braving the restroom on their own will want to test the acoustics of said facilities, much to the amusement of the adults standing outside.

* Despite using the restroom before leaving the mall, they still have to visit the rest area five miles from home.

Conclusion: My children must have the smallest stomachs and bladders in the history of mankind.

Also, my son can do an amazing robot impersonation, and his robotic laughter kept me in stitches for a good 15 minutes, despite my bone-weary, dead-eye tiredness.

I didn't know

I don't recall what my first childhood memory was, but I DO remember the most vivid one.

I was standing in the living room of our old home. Holding my brothers tightly under each arm. They were squirming and twisting, and shouting "Daddy!" as the paramedics took him down the stairs in a stretcher. They wanted to run over to him. I wanted to run over to him as well, but a very grown-up voice in my head told me that we'd only be in the way.

So I stood there. And held them. And let the paramedics take my daddy away.

I didn't know then, that it would be the last time I saw him alive. I didn't know then that he'd die on the way hospital and it would change our lives forever. I didn't know what a heart attack was. I don't know for sure that I'd do anything different, though I do sometimes daydream about running to him and touching his face for the last time.

I do know that whenever someone asks me anything about my childhood, that's the first memory that pops up. I know that it happened January 28, 1987, but that's only because I have a bookmark with his obituary on it. I know that I was 8 years old. And I know that even though it's been over 20 years ago, I sometimes still miss him, though there are many days I don't think about it at all.

Life is weird. Grief is even weirder.

Bebehs R Preshus

So there I am, sitting in a lobby somewhere, minding my own business. This kid comes along, not quite a year old. He's grinning and squealing, making cute noises and whatnot, like babies generally do.

And I'm all like WANT BEBEHS OH NOM NOM NOM BEBEHS R DELISHUS.

Then, I'm sitting there, reeling from the mindblast, wondering, "What fuckery is this?"

According to 70 percent of me, ain't no chance of revisiting that notion anytime soon. No way, no how. But 30 percent of me says yes. And that bitch has a bullhorn.

I think back to my children's infancies.

I remember getting no sleep the last three months of pregnancy because I'm so uncomfortable. I think that's the body's way of preparing you for the next nine months, because you get no sleep. None.

I remember two years -- TWO FREAKIN' YEARS -- of having another human being attached to my body pretty much 24/7.

I remember learning how to unfasten my jeans one-handed so I could pee while holding a baby. It was either hold her or hear her cry, and I couldn't handle the second option. Then I regressed to wearing sweatpants, because it was easier than jeans.

I remember that everywhere I went, I lugged around a purse, diaper bag and baby carrier.

I remember the crying. The God-awful, incessent crying. Then my crying on top of that.

I remember being so "touched out" that I couldn't even stand to get a hug from my husband.

But then the baby-crazy bitch is all like, "Yeah, but remember the smiles? The giggles? The coos? The snuggles? The way it looks at you like you are the end-all, be-all of the universe? The OM NOM NOMMY pudgy belly? You can seriously look at that and say you don't want that?"

"Yes, I can, bitch. Now shut up. I just now updated my wardrobe and my life. Fuck off, already!"

And so the argument goes, round and round. Either way, the discussion is tabled for now. I don't want to go through pregnancy and newborn stage while the Hubster is working away. I plan to go back to school next year, when both kids are in school full time. I'm sure I'll want to enjoy that for a bit, and perhaps start a new phase in my for-now-non-existent career.

I don't know why I bother arguing with myself anyway. I always win.

No cause for that!

Lately I have found myself beset by everyone's good intentions. I've been presented with opinions about various causes, with each petitioner trying to drum up the required enthusiasm and excitement from me about the subject.

Truth is, while the causes are worthy, I have only a finite amount of energy to expend. I already have my pet causes, and any enthusiasm shown for anything else is going to be lackluster at best.

I thought I'd have more to say on the subject, but I'm tired. Not sleepy-tired, but lack-of-energy tired. So blah on that. I can't take up your causes because it takes too much energy just to get dressed in the morning.

I'll take revenge on your furriness

So, a family member bought the kids a copy of Furry Vengeance. They had no idea how truly bad this movie was, so I can't entirely fault them for that. I'm not sure where to even start.

The first time my daughter watched it, she came up to me crying. "They make it seem like it's funny, but they're trying to kill all the animals!" she sobbed. That ticked me off right there. A supposedly funny movie made my daughter cry?

Soon, she came to realize that there was no animal killing going on, and it's become a movie staple for when the kids are bored.

I ended up fully watching it with them one day. I am far from pleased. There is one character who is Asian. He occasionally spouts off random gibberish, that sounds vaguely like Japanese or Chinese. Please tell me this isn't the 1950s? That they're trying to teach kids that when people "talk foreign" it's funny? That Asians are to be laughed at for "talking weird"? Geez....

This movie plays off so many stereotypes, it's not even funny. Brendan Fraser in a pink sweatsuit carrying a rainbow striped umbrella. The one elderly person in the movie is totally off her rocker (Alzheimers/ageism = not funny). Planning the celebration of the arrival of an Indian client, suggestions are made about teepees and buffalo burgers.

Not even the lovely, unflappable Brooke Shields can redeem this movie. I'm ashamed to have it in the house.

And God help me, the kids like it.


AAAAAHHHH!!!!!

Bucket List Revisited

My Bucket List
1. Become fluent in Spanish.

2. Learn to play guitar.

3. Visit a family member who lives in California.

4. Go to New Orleans.

5. Take a mechanics class/learn about engines.

6. Take a self-defense class.

7. Learn to swing dance.

8. Master bellydancing.

9. Learn other formal dances.

10. Publish something -- book, short story, or poem.

11. Get a tattoo.

12. Learn massage therapy.

13. Conquer my anxiety and its symptoms.

14. Become competent at sewing.

15. Do something of an activist nature -- participate in a protest or rally.

16. Learn to drive a stick shift.

17. Picnic in a pine forest.


Well, as you can see, I've finally crossed off one of my bucket list items. I got a tattoo.

It's a peacock feather, on my hip, and it represents Stevie Ray Vaughan. I discovered Stevie Ray about 10 years ago. I love listening to him flat out wail on a guitar, and I love to sing his songs. I know a good many of them by heart. I listened to SRV so much, that after my daughter was born, the only way I could calm her down when she was inconsolably colicky was to sing SRV songs as loud as I could.

SRV had a tattoo of a peacock on his chest, and originally, my idea was to get the same tattoo on my hip. But as I came to the decision, I realized I didn't want the whole bird -- I'd rather just have the feather.

It took me 10 years to decide I really did want a tattoo enough to live with it forever. It took me 2 more years to pick just the right design. And today, I did it.

It hurt. I gasped. I trembled. I said ow and fuck a lot. I asked the tattoo artist if this was a typical reaction, and he said, "For an area this tender? Yeah." So for once, I guess I'm normal at something.

About 2/3 of the way through, I stumbled onto a trick. I breathed in. I hissed out the air. I realized that when I focused on hissing, the pain wasn't quite as bad. I ended up hissing the rest of the way through. The tattoo artist probably thought I'd lost my marbles, but he was a total pro and never said a word.

I am absolutely in love with it. And now I want another.

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For those of you paying attention, you'll have noticed I've added two more items to the list. I crossed off one and added two more. I must be ambitious.

Highs and Lows

Today is one of those days where I got to experience both the highs and the lows associated with the Hubster's long distance job.

Our income has finally reached the point where we feel comfortable and not pinched. Today, I had new tires put on the car. When I received the bill, I paid it casually, with no concern. A year ago, I would have been sweating bullets and sick to my stomach, wondering how I was going to feed the family this week. I likely would have found myself selling soda cans for gas money, using our last $20 to buy a boatload of ramen noodles, and pondering the merits of prostitution. Instead, I had lunch at a restaurant.

I rode the high of this feeling all day.  Until I picked up my daughter from school.

After she got away from school, into the safety of the car, she became wracked with sobs. Missing her daddy. Yelling at her brother, because she was so upset. When that happens, I just don't know what to do. The only solution I can offer is to let her call him, which she always turns down for some reason.

I don't know why, but I end up feeling like it's all my fault. My fault he's out there, my fault my kids are on an emotional roller coaster. My fault that sometimes I'd rather trade that time with my spouse for a little financial comfort. Even though I have the feeling we'll all be paying the piper for it later.

But I'm not sure why I take on that mantle of responsibility, when it was a joint decision. I guess because I'm the one here, dealing with it. Acknowledging that fact doesn't really make it any easier though.

I guess it's just life. You have to live it, to see how it turns out.

WWAMD?

Not long ago, I found myself angry at someone. It was a misunderstanding, and there’s a working out in progress. But what really fascinates me is my response to my own anger.

I keep feeling the need to apologize, and I understand that part. The part that perplexes me is the fact I feel a near-compulsion to add, “I’m sorry. Don’t mind me. I just get a little pissy and woman-ish sometimes.”

I want to analyze that phrase. A person can be pissed-off, and there is a feel of righteous anger to that word. But to say someone is pissy…. there is a diminishment there. A tone that acknowledges that the person is angry, but that it is an over-reaction.

Woman-ish. That’s the part that really gets me. To restrict an emotion to my gender. There is a stereotypical assumption that women are irrational and not fully in control of themselves sometimes. But it can be a self-fulfilling statement. Girls are not taught how to handle anger. It is unladylike and therefore, unacceptable.

Women don’t express anger. They stuff it down. I can almost guarantee you that if you see a fat woman, you are looking at a woman who has swallowed her anger like chocolate syrup. It can be delicious. But if it becomes a lifelong habit, it is thick and choking and takes a toll on the body.

Now that I think about it, the above paragraph can include overweight people in general. But rather than let myself digress, I want to stick to the analyzation at hand.

When a man is angry, it is rarely questioned. He is angry, which means there is a problem, and a solution must be found. When a woman is angry, she is out of control, and must be dismissed.

A man would not apologize for his anger. “I’m over it. You over it?” “Hell yeah, let’s grab a beer.” Just a simple recognition that a misunderstanding too place, and it’s now water under the bridge.

I don’t want my anger dismissed. I don’t want others to dismiss their own anger. What Would A Man Do? A man would own it. I need to own my anger. You need to own your anger too.

It is hard though. There is a lifetime of accumulated cultural indoctrination (say that three times fast) to battle against. I fight against my own compulsion to dismiss the anger I felt. It involves a stepping out of the perspective of one’s self, to get a clear picture and recognize what one is fighting against.

If you dismiss your emotions, you dismiss yourself. It hurts the soul to be dismissed. So why hurt yourself? Anger is a mirror that shows there is a problem. Anger can be a catalyst to a solution.

It doesn’t have to be a gender issue. Angry women get called bitches. So what? Say it a few times. Roll around in it like a feline in catnip. Sew the Bitch badge on your Girl Scout sash. Wear it around a while and get used to the label. Hurt anymore? Nope? Then good, you own it.

Recognize your emotions. Sounds simple enough, but parents never think to teach their kids this because it seems like one of those obvious things. But I was well into my twenties before I realized a particular emotion was loneliness, that another was wistfulness, and yet another was disappointment. Emotions were a loose ball of yarn that I had to sort out.

Name it. Then own it. Or it owns you.

In Exile

I have come to a crossroads in my religious life.

Recently I had attended service at a church I have been frequenting regularly. The pastor began preaching on a couple of topics that are near and dear to me.

I don’t care to get into these issues in this particular blog, other than I come to my beliefs from a place of love and I feel VERY strongly about them, and that they run completely counter to the traditional conservative Christian mindset.

As I sat there listening to an otherwise nice pastor completely trash something dear to me, I realized that I had that exact same problem at my home church. I love my home church, the pastor, and the congregation, and miss them dearly.

I moved too far away to attend regular services at my home church, but it is likely I would have had this same experience at that church as well, for many times I can recall sitting in that pew, squirming and biting my tongue in anger.

Here, in a nutshell, are my beliefs about the Bible:

The Bible, though divinely inspired, was written down by men. Therefore, everything contained in the Bible is written through the filter of conservative, Jewish, Middle Eastern men.

The version of the Bible that most people read (KJV) was edited, with some books left out. (I don’t yet know the history of the other versions, as the KJV is the only version I’m familiar with.)

The disciples, though they loved Jesus and followed him to the best of their abilities, still didn’t completely “get” what he was all about. Therefore they oftentimes attributed their own thoughts and feelings about issues to Jesus.

The Bible as we know it, has been translated from its original languages such as Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek. Therefore, there is plenty of room for error in translation.

The only way to get true, error-free understanding of the Bible is to learn the original languages and read the original texts yourself.

Due to the preceding statements, the only parts of the Bible I put complete faith in are the words in red. Jesus own quotes. Even then, I take them with a very small grain of salt, owing to the possibility of translation errors.

Jesus was a very compassionate man. He did not condemn others. Nowhere in the Bible did He HIMSELF even mention any sort of opinion on the subjects in question.

So, during that fateful service, I sat there broiling in anger and sorrow. I realized I could no longer, in good conscience, attend a church that spewed vileness and hatred in Jesus’ name. That misled its people with good, but misinformed, intentions. That I could no longer in good conscience or in good faith, attend any church that taught as such.

That from that church, and even from my home church, I was in exile.

In Exile.

It hurts. It hurts to think that I must be cut off from these churches. I feel it in a way that anyone in exile from their homeland must feel.

But I realize it is the sort of hurt that comes from pulling a troublesome tooth. That it is raw, and sore, but I am the better for it.

It frees me. I have given myself permission to see what’s out there, and to find a new church. And if I’m unable to find one in my area that I feel comfortable with, that it’s perfectly fine to have solitary Bible study. If it comes to that, I will miss the companionship and warmth of a congregation, but I will not sacrifice my peace of mind just so I can be misled with a flock.

I am in exile. But it’s ok.

I am in sorrow. But it’s ok.

I am now a wanderer. Again. But it’s ok. I will find His path. And when I do, I will follow it the best I can.

Where’d My Baby Go?

“Where’d your baby go?” my husband asked me today on the phone.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I sent her to school and they turned her into a big girl.”

That is SOOO true. I marvel at what a remarkable year it has been. In the beginning, she was clingy. She didn’t like school. She didn’t like one girl who was boisterous, chatty and a bit bossy.

For at least a month, maybe two, the issue of school was a dramatic battle between her not wanting to go, and my insisting that yes, she did have to attend. Wondering to myself if she really WAS ready for school. Perhaps I should consider Montessori, or the private Christian school, or home schooling.

Some kids push for independence. She craves being sheltered and overprotected. Mentally, I waffled between giving her what she felt she needed, or putting us both through the pain of pushing her out of the nest a tiny bit, for her own good. Unable to know whether it was for the best, or would end in a family drama of failed experiment.

But I think I made the right call. It’s been a bumpy road. She entered school tearfully, clingy, and barely able to write her own name. Now she brags about that she didn’t have any tokens taken away today. That she likes music and art classes, loves library time, and doesn’t like P.E.

She can read nearly whole sentences, only needing help with the big words.  Just yesterday, she completely read Green Eggs and Ham, completely by herself.
She makes careful drawings and labels them, “For my Daddy”.

She’s learning to tell time and count by 2s, 5s, and 10s.

Has lost 4 baby teeth in the past 2 months.

She surprises me with her thinking aloud. Things like, “I don’t know whether to take a bath or shower. I’m dirty, so the bath water would get dirty and I don’t want to sit in dirty bath water. A shower would be faster and use less water, so it wouldn’t be as wasteful.” 

She hounds her brother for leaving his bedroom light on and wasting electricity. She's chided me on many occasions, because we don't recycle.

She makes introductions for her and her brother, stating to other kids and sometimes grown-ups, their names and ages.

In the past month, she’s finally mastered how to tie her shoes, and she is ABSOLUTELY thrilled with herself.

What a remarkable Big Girl she has turned out to be, and I’m thrilled to be her mother! I wonder what surprises are in store for me next year...

So done

This has not been a great evening. I see now this started building earlier in the day, about 1 p.m.

I had dozed off, and hardly been asleep for 20 minutes when my son said he wanted me to get him something.

Not long after I picked my daughter up from school, I settled in on the couch with a book.  I started getting drowsy. I thought, "I may just take a little nap." No sooner had this thought crossed my mind, than my children started playing a little game I like to call "Mommy, Get Me."

"Mommy? Can you fix me some tea?" my daughter asked.
"Mommy? Can you make some lemonade?" asked my son.

So it began. No sooner than I would hit that drowsy point, one of them HAD to have something. Right now. Help loading a movie. Help in the bathroom. Help with a snack. Didn't matter that I would soon make dinner, they had to have those friggin' snacks RIGHT NOW.

And if it wasn't a child interrupting me, it was the phone.

After about an hour and a half of this, I gave up. But they didn't.

My daughter was bitten by an insect and needed my assistance.  My son HAD to tell me a 10 minute convuluted story that had no point.

They were sufficiently snacked up and distracted, so I fixed a plate of leftovers. However, I was caught in the act and my son demanded one too.

I sit down to eat, and then my daughter ever-so-conviently comes in the kitchen, and asks for a plate too. AFTER I'd already put everything away. At some point, I just gave up, and left my dinner to get cold on the table.

I'm just so done. I want time to myself. I'm so sick of picking up their messes, walking behind them and straightening up whatever they've deigned themselves to mess up. Couch cushions, cups in the living room. I just want them to go to bed and leave me alone.

I want to take a drive. By myself. I want to leave them here with someone and just go for a while. But I can't.

I'm angry, grouchy, put-upon and resentful. This is one of those days I have ceased finding things to be a blessing, and more of a bother.

Who are these kids and why are they calling me mom? And why the fuck can't they do anything for themselves?

A Blogpodge!

This week, I actually have a lot to say, so this is going to be a hodgepodge! A blog hodgepodge! A blogpodge, if you will!


Ok. Glad that’s over. Still with me?

So there was a family function at my daughter’s school last night, and the kids and I went. We had a good time. But there was one moment that stuck with me. We went to a presentation that only a few people attended. I looked to the left of me, and there was a couple. I looked to the right of me. Another couple. And there I was.

Alone.

It hit me that that is what a single mom feels like, every day. I may have to deal with the ups and downs of being a single mother while my husband is out working his long-distance job, but I least I have a vague deadline of when this will all be over. Most single mothers do not have the luxury of having an end in sight.

It doesn’t make my job any easier, but it makes it slightly more bearable. I guess what I’m trying to say is I really sympathize with all you single moms. Thanks for doing what you do.

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This also reminds me of the old saw about parents having to sacrifice for their children. That had never truly hit home for me until this past year. True, if we didn’t have kids, the hubs and I would get to do more in the way of entertainment. We would probably settle for a lot less as well, and not worry so much about our living arrangements and the like.

But that’s not really sacrifice. We’ve learned sacrifice the hard way this year. Sacrifice is having your daughter cry for her daddy when he’s not there, because he’s out trying to make our lives a little better than last year.

Sacrifice is the hubs not seeing the kids for weeks at a time, and usually not even getting to hear their voices, because they don’t like talking on the phone. They love daddy, but the phone is just an annoyance to them.

Sacrifice is wearing contacts for 6-8 months longer than you should, when they are supposed to be replaced monthly. Enduring stabbing eye pains and hoping you don’t end up causing yourself to go blind. Then finding out you’ve basically caused yourself to have an allergic reaction to the contacts, all because you couldn’t afford a new set, or even a pair of glasses.

Sacrifice is saving cans and going without haircuts, so you can buy your children consignment store clothing and shoes.

I could go on, but it’s really not necessary. Sacrifice. Check. I’ve learned it.

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On to more fun things:

This morning, as my son awoke, he said in his half-stupor, “My umbrella is a clarinet instrument.”

That right there is funny, people.

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My cats like to catch frogs, and even more so, they like to show them off. Every morning I leave the house, only to find a frog corpse on my front porch or sidewalk. I’m actually finding it quite amusing.

I kick them off to the side, and have a little collection of dead frogs in what would be my flower bed if I’d muster the energy to plant flowers. It makes me wonder what any visitors would think (if I ever had a visitor). Would they consider me a voodoo queen? Oh, if they only knew what strangeness lurks in the heart of a person…. bwah ha ha ha ha!

Mis Amigos

I know I'm just setting myself up here, because writing a blog about one's friends (unless it's a wonderfully glowing positive blog), is basically just one terrific way to stir up a shit storm.  That's wonderful if you happen to like fecal matter, not so good if you don't. However, this is the only place I can work out the whirlwind in my head, and figure out exactly where my thoughts lie.

I have a wonderful group of close-knit friends, who are like family to me. I really am blessed by them. But not a one of them truly get me, and I don't know if any of them really care to try.

One has a wonderful, shining image of me that I don't really fit. When he encounters a piece of knowledge about me that he finds unpleasant and doesn't fit the picture in his head, instead of trying to work it in to the puzzle, he simply throws the piece away. Therefore, I remain an untarnished, occasionally perplexing icon.

Another can't get past that our viewpoints on certain issues are radically different and diametrically opposed.  I try to avoid those issues, because I really do value our relationship and I fear the impact of a frank discussion would cause a rift that would be long to heal.

 There are times though that I really get my toes stepped on. Recently I was caught off guard, and had to reduce a topic I feel very passionate about into just one or two key points. The response I got pretty much let me know they hold my very dear beliefs repulsive, repugnant and disgusting.... which I guess that means I am too. They enjoy my company, my personality, but they don't like ME.

It really is a shame, because I love her and enjoy her company, but I can rarely relate anything personal about myself without being dumped upon by the Righteous Bucket O' Judgment, and usually reduced to tears.

One friend is quite similar to me in attitude and beliefs, and appears to enjoy my company. I really think this person could get who I am.  However, this person is very private, and holds little interest in people in general. I could relate any amount of information I want, but receive little information in return. He would be sad if he knew I were upset about something, but in the inner workings of people seem to be rather enigmatic to him, so it wouldn't make a lasting impression.

So basically, when I reveal the real raw me to the people I hold most dear, it is either disregarded, scathingly judged, or has all the impact of a stone skipping upon water.

It rather frustrating, to put it mildly. This past year has revealed to me there is a chasm that runs deep between me and everyone else. And it is filled to the brim with loneliness. I just don't know what to make of it, or why I bother trying.

With that last sentence in mind, it reminds me of two others, whom I know through work. We all relate well to each other and I'd love to consider us all friends. I enjoy their company, and they seem to enjoy mine. But I have these little niggling doubts. I wonder if it's only my perception that we're nearly-friends, or if they're just humoring me.  I never know quite where I stand with either one. 

It would hurt my feelings more to find that someone was just humoring me and tolerating my company, than to be just out-right disliked. Period.

I don't know that my writing this helped me to come to any sort of conclusion regarding anything. But it did serve the purpose of helping me gather all these whirling feelings and thoughts and place them firmly under a mental paperweight. Which at this point, I'll take what I can get.

I nearly bit my tongue in two

I've reached the end of this day in a slightly pissy attitude.  I've been assaulted with some of my pet peeves here recently. Though "pet peeves" is really too light a word.

There are two things that really define me, besides my geekdom.

1.) I root for the underdog.
2. ) I'm allergic to hurting anyone's feelings.

This translates to my being passionate about feminism, civil rights, and LGBT issues. My actions don't always match though, as I'm ultimately lazy.

So anyway, recently a friend confided about being pulled over by the police, and given that there was no real reason, it probably had something to do with his race. Which I was thinking it, even before I was told, and was already angry about it.

Then today at work, a coworker and I were watching a program that featured a gay couple and their children.  He just started raving about how he couldn't watch it, and that it was nasty, he didn't believe in it, etc.

Meanwhile, I'm just sitting there, gritting my teeth. Wondering if I should call him on it, and tell him I find his reaction offensive. To tell him of the many gay and lesbian friends (and some family) I have. Some with children, some without. Some that have been together many years. Some that have been left suicidal because of the uber-religious backgrounds they've come from and feeling there is something fundamentally wrong with themselves but can't change it. And that insensitive louts like him don't help matters.

I ended up doing nothing. I have mixed feelings about it.  On the one hand, I made nice at work. Didn't get into a culture war with a coworker that I rarely have to work with. I didn't hurt his feelings and make him upset by calling attention to his asshat behavior. So I feel a little good about being professional.

On the other hand, most of me is going GAAAAHHHH!!!!  I sat there listening to him trash an issue I'm passionate about!? Maybe he really did need his attitude adjusted, and I could have been the one to do it, but instead I said nothing?  I didn't want to hurt his feelings by calling attention to the fact he was hurting mine? A great deal of me is utterly ashamed at my lack of response.

These are such tricky waters to navigate, and I'm not much of a captain.

So much of me wants to be a balls-out, in-your-face activist. There is a deep vein of fanaticism in me, and I wish I was brave enough to access it. I want to challenge people and stretch boundaries. I want to be a mother that will be a huge embarassment to her children when they are teenagers, but a woman they can be fiercely proud of when they're older.

I want to take outdated attitudes and stand them on their head. To confront other's hang-ups. To be that person that might make you uncomfortable, that might make you angry, but might also make you THINK.

But really? I'm just skeered. People like that are rarely liked and I deeply need to be liked. The families of people like that often experience ostracism. I won't do that to my family. I'm no role-model. I'm just somebody's nearing-middle-age, pasty faced mom.

So I just do what I can do. I ignore things in some settings. Gently correct in other settings. And I love. That is one thing I AM good at. I can find something lovable (or at least sympathetic) in darn near anybody. I leave you with that. Just love.

Waking up with old friends on my mind

Johnny (not his real name) and I met in high school. I don't even recall the exact circumstances anymore, but it had to have been through the hours we whiled away in the computer lab, just hanging out.  At some point, we became fast friends.

We shared a passion for the paranormal, and exchanged our thoughts and emotions with all the fervor of youth.  I felt I had found a brother in him, and he a sister in me.  We rough housed in the hallways during school, and we talked for hours on the phone after.

I can't even begin to explain the fierce, protective love I had for my "little brother". It would take hours for me to tell you of the good times we had, the emotional bonds we shared.

After I graduated, and went off to college, we kept in touch by phone and occasional visits. But little by little, the inevitable happened, and he slipped away.  I didn't hear a word from him at all for a year. Perhaps two.  Then, he just reappeared. Bursts of phone calls and keeping in touch. I had gotten married by this time and he spent many weekends hanging out with the Hubs and I.

Questions about his time away were met with vague answers, and I eventually learned not to ask at all.  Just to appreciate his friendship and company once more, and to let whatever hidden history he had to be just that.  After a while, he disappeared just as suddenly as he appeared. 

So began a cycle he's contined over the years. Disappear, reappear. Lather, rinse, repeat.  At one point, he had moved to a bigger town about an hour away and invited the Hubs and I to come up and visit him at a club his significant other worked at.  I watched with hidden anger as his SO basically treated him like a servant all evening.  He introduced us to his strange new friends.

I watched via MySpace as he posted pics where he grew increasingly glassy-eyed and thinner.  I pored over his new sister-friend's page, where artistic, gothy and fun photos of her sporting black hair and red lipstick, alternated with photos of the end results of her cutting herself.  I wondered what she had over me, and watched him slip away, yet again.

He would make plans to visit, and never show. Sometimes he would call a day or two later with a flimsy excuse. Sometimes, he wouldn't call at all. I tried to quit him, but it would only last until his next reappearance. When you have my friendship, it is fierce, and it is for life.  Sometimes, like this time, it is to my downfall. I love my "little brother" still, but have no faith left in him.  The last time he announced an upcoming visit, I didn't even bother to change my schedule. 

I later found that Johnny kept in contact with a mutual friend of ours during his disappearing spells.  Matt (not his real name, either) filled me in with the sparse details he'd been given.  Adding up what we both know still does not equal the amount of effort Johnny had put into being vague and secretive.  I really don't see what's the point.

It's sort of the life equivilent of someone spending years trying to hide their feet from everyone, only later to find that the person has six toes. Whoop de shit.

I wonder sometimes what I am to him. Someone he used to know? Someone he outgrew? A small town hick who'd never understand the complicated things he's going through?  He'd be surprised. Sometimes I wonder if those years were a lie. Did he mean more to me, than I to him?

I watch and wonder where the future will take him. He may overdose and I will find myself at his funeral in a few years.  He may reappear for good when we're in our 50s or 60s, explain his crazy years, and us remain fast friends as old age doth approacheth.  Both outcomes are equally likely. The truth is somewhere in between.

Big Fat Freakazoid

This evening my daughter and I were playing a game. Given that we’re freaks, we play Zombie. Tonight’s edition of Zombie played out with my daughter announcing, “I’m a zombie!”


“AAAAH!!!” I fake scream. “A zombie! Don’t eat me zombie, don’t eat me!” I lie on the couch, and she’s crouched on my back, making little smacking noises as she burrows her face into me.

“No, no, zombie, don’t eat me!” I scream again. She looks at me and says, “That’s what zombies do.” She nuzzles my arm with her face, her little mouth smack, smack, smacking away.

This is my reward for the many times my friends and I have let my children watch us play Oblivion. It’s an awesome game, but sometimes you have to fight monsters – zombies included. It’s also the reward for a Bad Mommy moment of mine – letting the kids watch the Thriller video.

All I remembered was the cool part of zombies dancing. I had kind of forgotten about the whole Michael turning into a werewolf, zombies climbing out of the ground, and zombies breaking into the house parts. It also gave me fun and interesting questions to answer for a week or two. Like, “What are the zombies doing, Mommy?” “They’re pretending to eat her.” “Why?” “That’s what zombies do.” “Are zombies real?” “No.”

I’m not even going into the whole slave-labor-zombies created by Voodoo using poisons or plants like tetrodotoxin or datura. They can discover that yakkity-smackity on their own.

But, you know, the Zombie game is fun.

Also, I like to think I'm developing new and interesting complexes for my children during my social experiment titled "Child Rearing". Heh.

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A couple of days ago, I took the kids to gymnastics and ran into a classmate I hadn’t seen since high school. Being that we were held captive in a gym for an hour, we caught up a bit.

She must have been on a fitness kick, and kept asking me about exercising with her. Then an acquaintance of hers arrived, who happened to be a Zumba instructor. They began talking about Zumba classes and trying to convince me to take them. They are a godsend. They make you move in ways you’ve never moved before. Your husband will be amazed, yada yada.

I would hem and haw, demur about tight budgets, or lack of child care. They’d throw back arguments about there being child care at the classes, and my class mate said, “The classes are only $5. You can spend $5 on yourself, can’t you?”

I finally told them I’d consider it. Which I did, for two seconds.

My answer is no. No. I don't wanna.

I hate to exercise. In the summer, I take evening walks and the occasional swim or hike. That’s it. I don’t do treadmills. I only run if chased by bears. I might do a few push-ups or crunches sometimes if I feel the old arms and tummy are getting a little jiggly.

I’m pretty much happy the way I am.
And honestly? I already amaze my husband in bed. Don’t need any help there, thank ya.

And if I wanted to spend $5 on myself? I’d buy a pint of Häagen-Dazs®.

My Life List

So... here's some of the things I want to do in my life. They are in random order, and I may add to it at some point. For now, it just has 15 items.

My Life List:

1. Become fluent in Spanish.
2. Learn to play guitar.
3. Visit a family member who lives in California.
4. Go to New Orleans.
5. Take a mechanics class/learn about engines.
6. Take a self-defense class.
7. Learn to swing dance.
8. Master bellydancing.
9. Learn other formal dances.
10. Publish something -- book, short story, or poem.
11. Get a tattoo.
12. Learn massage therapy.
13. Conquer my anxiety and its symptoms.
14. Become competent at sewing.
15. Do something of an activist nature -- participate in a protest or rally.

Going nowhere

This will be a quite random post, I must warn you.

Hubby and I were talking yesterday about different ways we felt we've failed as parents. His failings, he felt, were on an intellectual level. He'd wanted to spend time teaching the kids, and felt that had he been able to spend more time doing so, our 6 year old daughter would be reading and doing math at a third grade level, and our 4 year old son would be about the level of kindergarten.

I felt bad because I'd had good intentions of getting the kids involved in causes and the community. I had envisioned afternoons spent hanging out at old folks homes, creating surrogate great-grandparents. Volunteering at homeless shelters. Getting involved in groups for civil rights, and other assorted causes. I've not even begun, and I wonder if I ever will.

Part of me thinks we should cut ourselves some slack. But on the other hand, wouldn't immersing the children in these things be good learning experiences and perhaps cause them to be better people when they are adults? Where is that line between providing good educational/learning experiences for children, and exhausting ourselves?

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My son has gotten into a bad habit of getting into the refrigerator lately, and leaving the door hanging wide open. It's driving me crazy. I recently had a bout of food poisoning, and I'm terrified of food spoiling and us all getting sick, simply because he's lazy.

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I've been reading a New Age-y type book involving some meditation/visualization. It sort of works. I feel like I'm doing something and having some progress, but then I fall asleep in the middle of it. I wake up in the morning remembering vague things and not being quite sure if I actually accomplished anything.