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.