Clear and Sunny

For whatever reason, I woke up this morning clear headed.
Not addle minded, not fuzzy, not bitchy.

Just...woke...up.

I reread through my posts, I linked to a few, and I've been a bit of a meandering pain.

And today, I feel decent.

And really, I don't mean to go ON about this because two years of pregnancy discussion is one year eleven months too many, but of course it's been consuming, I've been sick, thus the narcissism running rampant.

Maybe I'll look UP today and see something other then myself.
Won't that be a treat for everyone?
Or you know, not.

I also would like another coffee roll.

Tea for Two

Just for today I am going to celebrate.
It's unlikely to last.
I'm unlikely to succeed.
The odds, or evens if we are counting two as a pair which we should, are stacked against me.
Us.

But just for a moment today I am going to try to find the happiness that exists.

How do you celebrate?
I'm not sure.

I had - a very large - coffee roll.
I wish I had time to take a nap.
To think.
To dream.
In yoga parlance to state my intentions.
To put positive energy into the universe.

But my darling dervish is needing to be picked up.
In less then an hour.

It's insane to celebrate.
It's like celebrating that the rain stopped for an hour while Noah was loading the ark.
Nothing good can come of this.

But for today, and just today, I am again, a mother.
I have, again, two babies, hoping to be born.

A second set of twins.

Shut the fuck up, right?

Not to replace the first, and not likely to fair much better.
But for today, yet again, I hold a miracle within me and if nothing else, I celebrate that these children have chosen me.

Because I have a theory.

My daughter is exactly the child I was meant to have. She is perfect, perfectly ordinary yet perfectly spectacular. Perfect in temperament, perfectly aligned with us. We are blessed and gifted with - a child we know how to parent.
I said as much to a friend's mom, knitting one night last year, and her mom said to me "They choose you, you know. The babies, they choose to come to you."

So in my heart I think about, and thank, these babies.

Because although I am the worst possible vessel, although the chances are slim, and dim, somewhere, somewhere in the universe, when our names are up on the roster board, these tiny souls, they still volunteer to be in line. Somehow these babies are willing to forego their chance to be born, to live, for a chance to come to us.

So I'm sorry, little souls, the ones that I didn't get a chance to bring into this world. I'm sure you were reborn into another wonderful family. After all, your're great pickers.

And to you little crazy ones. Little insane beings.
Have you learned NOTHING from your breathren?
But thank you.
Thank you for continuing to believe in us.
And continuing to want for me to be your mom.

You know, I'll love you no matter what. Even if you should be born to someone else.

Good luck babies.
You teeny tiny idiots.
We're rooting for you.

Sometimes I think I'm funny.
Sometimes I know I'm only showing one side, the vapid side.

I know full well, and am fully aware, how often my posts come accross as wtf?
and
Seriously?

Because this is the life I'm leading.

The Simple Life.

Oh and I had my bad days. I have places I don't post about.
I have things left unsaid, even present day.
Things I dont touch on. Most things I don't touch on.

I keep my politics quiet.
My anger simmered.
My hurt at bay.

At times I live a charmed life, others ignorant.
And I find myself annoying - and simplistic. Yet I basque in my seeming ignorance for it's peace and quiet.

And then there are times when I read someone ELSES blog - and I feel...
ashamed.
Stupid.
Small.

something to think about...

Painted Ladies

Part Three

THE NOT SO FINAL ENTRY BUT ALMOST TO THE END OF THIS STORY WHERE WE HEAR OF A WIFE, A PAINTER, AND AN UNCOMFORTABLE INCIDENT WHERE TOUCHING WAS INVOLVED...

So out Bruno came. Young. Cologned. Boy regular, jet black Lego style hair. Penetrating eyes.

We walk room to room, where I explain lightly what our home issues are, the constraints, why we are thinking of undertaking the project. I casually mention to him that we may not stay here, that the paint may be for resale, and that all in, we may not even move forward.

Because during the conversation, now some two weeks hence, I know that I'm incubating. What may, or may not be, the next Baby Butler.

And I know that I may go to the doctor and find out there's nothing but a two headed no hearted blob, or that I'll have a viable pregnancy, thus bedrest. That we may lose the pregnancy, thus not move houses. I know myriad things are about to come down the pike, but I know further that you have to walk forward regardless.

So plan I will.

So I start talking to this young man, and through the course of regular conversation, regular casual conversation, he asks about my husband. If he's home. Will he be making the decisions. Or do I?

He asks where we are thinking of moving? Towns? School systems? Kids? Plans?

And as he's asking me, I feel....creepy.
I feel the hairs on my neck stand a bit.

I chalk it up to him being younger. Learning how to patter with clients.
I chalk it up to the language barrier.
I chalk it up to his being uncomfortable quoting jobs.
But something is...
off.

Up we go, looking, discussing. Colors, finishes. Who will lift what, what is covered. Ceilings included? Stain? Paint? WWho does the work?

He tells me then of his business. His father starting it over 25 years ago. The men that work for him, that he keeps employed. That his prices will be competitive. That he believes in loyalty. He mentions his father coming to America.

I ask - curiously - if he is Portuguese.
He is Brazilian.
He looks at me intently.

"And you" he leans forward 'What is your background"
I explain that I am American, barely laying claim to some third generation Italian heritage, that my husband is Venezuelan as well as a smattering of Puerto Rican, and that our daughter is mistaken for Irish.

"Ah."
And your wife?" I ask Noticing both his ring, and his interest in my daughter. The interest a man with a young child of his own takes. One who asks about your childs age so you will ask about his. I ask after his wife.

"Ahhh." he says. Moarnfully. As if she's dying.
Home in Brazil.
Has...The Cancer.

"My wife and I" laden pause. "We are...divorcing."
Hand to heart.
"Oh I am so sorry..."

And in ways that are apparently, while not unique to me, inevitable to me, we then spend a 1/2 hour discoursing on his troubles. His marriage. When they met, how they met, the ages of both parties, the intent. His worth to her, her to him.
And ultimately, what next.

And through a series of what I can only describe as surreal events, this young man, who has apparently seen in me, in all my stained yoga pant glory, ripped turtleneck, first trimester acne, hair askew...he has seen in me someone he saw...
fit to embrace.


Hello?

You heard me. I don't have enough keys on this keypad to create an image vivid enough to explain how shocked I was as this ...boy...pulled me INTO his arms at my front door and placed my hand on his chest to feel...his...beating heart.

"Feel my heart beating" he breathed.

Oh good christ, I thought. I'm about to get sexually assaulted by the painter.
FOR FUCKS SAKE HOW DOES THIS SHIT ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME?

So of course, I push him away, we do an awkward pas de deux, there's a lot of scared rabbit looks, some stammering about how I am someone he can talk to (overrated) and finally, with a gentle shove my painter/potential lover/worst nightmare is gone.

Which leads me to this.

Other then in Penthouse, is someone ACTUALLY fucking these guys?
Now I'll grant you, I had my fair share of sex dreams about the siding guy - to be fair I was ALSO pregnant them, and he wasn't too shabby, but what was with HIM noticing me? Is it the pheromones? Am I somehow reeking of "fertile"? Are the catching the scent of This woman thinking - ah, a field ripe for sowing?

Do I give off a VIBE that says "Yes, handy man, put your loving hands on me."
Because if I remember correctly, the siding guy told me he was single, that he and his girl were a casual thing, that it wasn't exactly what he wanted...and he MARRIED her in the middle of my back porch being torn off.

Honestly.
I'm not all that.
I'm not even HALF that.
I am not even a tit for your tat.

So apparently these a whole dirty side to contractors that has to this point been,
for lack of better expression,
unplumbed by me.

Angela's List my ass.
I guess that's why they call it Service Magic.

When The Saints Go Marching In

My husband and I are watching the postgame.
I'm thinking if we take a drink every time Katrina is mentioned, we'll be hammered in an under 18 minutes.

Flipping the Bird at the Chinese Government

It appears as if we are...in the family way.

It's ridiculously early. I mean, at this point, most people can't even figure it out for their ownselves.

"My period? It's around here somewhere... When was it due again?"

The only reason we looked for it was because we...tried. if you will. I pee'd relentlessly into a dixie cup so that I could burn through the $1 Dollar Tree pregnancy tests.

If I were to calculate, I'd say it's about 8 weeks.
The week of reckoning.
Worried? Not really.
Not buoyantly hopeful though.
Because it's not one miscarriage, at 33
or two, at 39
or even three, at 39 again. It's quite possibly about to be my fourth. On this side of 30. My doctor and I are still in contention about the pregnancy at 25, where my then OB said wasn't forming properly, and we could wait - or do a D&C. So pick your term for it.

I have a friend who insists that because this time I "worked for it" and because I am so relentlessly ill, that this time will "take". That this time will be different.

While I appreciate her enthusiasm, throwing up three times on Friday night and sleeping through Saturday and Sunday, on what purports to be a "safe" drug, namely Unisom, I can't help but feel....bitchy.

"Because this time I worked for it?" Oh yes, that's right. All those other times I was fucking off, just faking it.

I had the poor judgment to say to her, hmm, once? Twice? That I was annoyed by LATE trimester bitchers who whined about their pregnancies. And being fat.

She thoroughly enjoyed herself at my expense on the phone. "Oh but aren't you the one who had NO sympathy for those woman..."

Hardee Har har.

So obviously I'm being a tool.
But let me say this anyway.

I never said shit about people complaining about morning sickness. Or feeling like they couldn't walk. Or having diabetes. Or swollen legs. Or bursting nipples.
I have oodles of sympathy.
I ooze empathy.

But yeah. I tend to be unsympathetic towards woman that whine about the gender, woman that kvetch about 'being fat', woman that 'just want it out', woman perpetually agonizing about which decorator stroller is going to work for them.

I reserve the right to be a bitch about those things.

Because when you battle infertility. When you go through your first trimester three times in seventeen months. When you sit, hands tied, because you can't move forward and things are out of your control, well, you don't have a lot of patience for...simpletons.

So laugh all you want, my friend who I am thisclose to fucking assaulting with my bare hands. Enjoy your jokes at my expense.

Let's just hope I stay pregnant so your fun never ends.

Shameless Whores

Peyton Manning
Queen Latifah
Beyonce

Is there anything these three WON'T sell?

Pattycake, Pattycake, Painter Mans

Part Deux

THE IN AND OF ITSELF NOT INTERESTING POST THAT SEAMLESSLY TIES TOGETHER POST ONE AND A SUBSEQUENT UNTITLED POST WHERE WE HEAR OF A WIFE, A PAINTER, AND AN UNCOMFORTABLE INCIDENT WHERE TOUCHING WAS INVOLVED...

So I asked my friend Megan, whose father owned a painting store, for referrals.

Prior to asking her, I had one guy out. Highly regarded, polite, and punctual. His quote came in at $2000. For the living room, the foyer and hall leading upstairs, and the office-slash-hallway, then Ellie's room, Plus two doors. And a window stain. $2000 to include sanding, but not the cost of paint. I had forgotten to request ceilings. But $2000 for the majority of our tiny house. A shocking sum, maybe. But broken out room by room, $300 to have someone come in, move furniture, tape, plaster, sand, prime, paint, vacuum, reset furniture. $300 total for each room feels...almost reasonable. Not cheap but by the hour? Eminently worth it. $300 being relative. Because while it's still "real" money, and overall $2000 is not a casual sum, we do get a tax refund yearly. So it's $2000 unclaimed dollars.

My inlaws asked me to bring the quote down to NY. Where they clucked over it and expressed horror. "It's so expensive" my mother-in-law said. My father-in-law just grunted. "I'll not be tellin yer what to do" he said in his brogue "but I'm tellin ye we'd be ashamed to take that from somebody." They both were aghast that the quote didn't include ceilings. By bedtime my husband was furious. He angrily whispered that they had no right commenting when they weren't willing to do the work. Further that they barely made a living wage. I, for once, kept my mouth shut. Light dawns slowly for my husband, in matters of family, and I wasn't about to be all Cassandra and dash myself against the rocks over it.

I made my point the next day, as my mother-in-law handed me a white envelope with paper inside. She and my husband looked at me so expectantly I wondered what possibly the envelope contained. Was it a ....quote? Alas - it was a pedicure gift certificate. I joked for a moment that I thought it was a proposal and my mother in law laughed. A trifle nervously.

When we left she casually mentioned "Get another quote, would you? Or two more. We just feel, that's so much money."

I assured her I would.

So circling back to Megan.

I get the names of two painters. And call to leave messages
The first voice mail is for a strongly accented Hispanic man, the second I reach live. An affable, gregarious everyman, he makes plans to come out tomorrow. Then the phone rings again, and it's the strongly accented hispanic man.

Bruno.
Who after a brief exchange of information tells me he is available to come today.
And will be over in a half hour.

Blood is Thicker then Paint

THE PRECUSER TO A MUCH LARGER STORY WHERE WE HEAR OF A WIFE, A PAINTER, AND AN UNCOMFORTABLE INCIDENT WHERE TOUCHING WAS INVOLVED...

Two painters, one an old man and the other a youngster, were painting a very large home. It was getting late in the day when they reached the second floor.

There ahead of them was a very long corridor. The older painter said "I've had enough for one day I quit. How about you?"

With that the younger painter headed toward the corridor and said,
"Not me, Im in this for the long hall."

We've had an ongoing issue in this house since the day we bought it. I bought it.
A fact my husband never fails to remind me of when something cost money.

Forty years old and a life long renter, the man will drop $300 on dinner (squab anyone?) but begrudges lightbulbs. Our neighbor mows, I plant, he stews.

The rooms here have not been painted in...years. Don't get me wrong, the house looks good. But 5 years into our life here, and him as careful as a blind bull in a china shop with all it's accompanying finesse, well, let's just say these walls have seen better days.

Longer still it was before we bought the house. The couple, while not older, were nearing 50, childless, and vacationed extensively. So it's original "restoration" as it were back in 1986 was likely it's last. I doubt they painted to sell, and frankly, I doubt they had painted any time prior either. So the white pain, the cream walls, while clean looking, are showing their wear.

Now a little known, or not so little known if you are a regular reader factoid that leads ...color if you will to this story ... is that my inlaws are, wait for it, painters.

"Walls not canvases" my husband says.

So I have inlaws, that paint, a house that needs painting, years of broken promises to paint.
And shabby walls.

Could we paint ourselves?
Meh. This is where I'm going to talk in defense. You here me go on about cleaning woman, painters, landscapers, the like. Thus guy lays brick, this guy paves driveways.

"yes, I'm living in my manse and ordering white wine spritzers. Let them eat cake, wot?"

My husband gets annoyed to no end.

I think it was a few weekends ago where the battle culminated in "You hear guys say it all the time. 'oh, we rebuilt the porch this weekend' or 'a buddy of mine came over because my wife was bitching about the sun porch for the last year'. To his point, we "should" be able to do these things. Like paint. We should be able to paint rooms.

Ok. Fine.

So I said to him "Let me get this straight. We are going to wake up on a Saturday, go to Home Depot, buy tape, rollers, rags, tarps, solvents, brushes in various sizes, primers, pans, base coats. We are going to empty OUT my car of it's stroller, tote all this shit home, tape everything up and what? Move furniture and paint?"

For fucks sake, the man doesn't even file.
He barely remembers to remove his collar stays.
His car dies DAILY because his satellite radio was improperly installed and it drains the battery overnight - and he has YET to have it repaired. Installed THREE years ago. "I'll wait until I buy a new car" I think was the logic.

And this man, with zero handy experience, with the patience for manual labor of a ninety year old woman. This man, who mounted the house numbers flush up to the ledge on the step so they hover vs center, this man who DOESN'T EVEN HANG CHRISTMAS LIGHTS. This man, who I don't trust to mount a step stool never mind a mailbox , this man wants to PAINT the walls?

No. Fucking. Way.

So we have gone back and forth on this.
My solution, his parents should paint.
His? They should but they won't and he won't ask.

I asked her, my MIL, once "why?" Was it us? Me? The time?
Because I'm not looking for something for free here. We are going "to pay a stranger $2500 bucks, why wouldn't we pay her? Them?

Her thoughts are that they wouldn't take money from us.

Which, again, factoid for the new reader, we GIVE them upwards of $500 a month. A month. For n.o.t.h.i.n.g. Because my husband feels, and god bless this man I love and this is a reason why, were it not for his mother, a single woman, promoting him and pushing him all those years, he wouldn't have the job he has now, a job that allows him to supplement their income.

True dat.
And I adore them.
So I concur.
It can't be them, it won't be.
And it's not likely to be us.

Because there is a point where every marriage will break, and frankly, I'm the harder "practical" worker and my husband is...not. And painting together, with a child, when we actually have set aside the resources to have it done, is INsane.
We would not survive.
Nor would the walls.

Because...you want the truth, HE CAN'T HANDLE IT.
And lordee I love him, I do I do.
And he is good, so very good at what he does for a living that it really shouldn't bother him that's he's not good at what other people do for a living.

image credit

Monsters, Inc.

We were cleaning the house tonight, moving piles would be more apt.
For our biweekly, sometimes monthly house cleaner. I had to cancel two weeks ago because it was outrageously, scandalously, disgustingly crowded. For a former minimalist, it puts me to shame. I have panic attacks in my own home.
Shyte aplenty.

So I canceled, and it's now four to five weeks later, and although I've run the vacuum and my child isn't yet coughing up hairballs, one can see the difference.

And as I was moving piles, migrating from basement, to kitchen, to playroom, to living room, I hard what sounded like thunderous ants. The patter patter sans pitter of 36 plus pounds overhead. And the racing from one room, to the next. And I knew as I sprinted towards the bottom step that I was going to intercept her half asleep and crying, having looked in two rooms for Mommy or Daddy. I made it to the bottom step before the first wail, and as I took them two at a time, she never really rolled it up into more then a whimper.

Bedheaded, hair sticking out where wet pigtails had been, in her Minnie Mouse nightgown where I tricked her into yellow polka dot leggings to stay warm.

I dropped to me knees before the top step and folded her into my arms.

"Hi baby, Mummas right here. What's the matter boo?"
And she climbed up - using my hip as a stepstone, into my arms, head deep into my neck.

"Something scared me"
"It was Daddy in the kitchen honey, we're closing drawers. Daddy is just putting things away."
"Noooo" she cried. "Not Daddy. Monsters. I heard monsters."
"You did?!" I feigned delight. "Oh how exciting! Monsters! Where? What color?"
"Pink" she said emphatically. "I heard a pink monster. I drew it on my picture. It scared me."
We walked into her room and I lay her down on the full size bed, the one she calls "Mommy's bed" and I snuggled up next to her.
"Tell me about the monster" I asked."What color was it?"
"I told you already" she said earnestly "It was pink. No. It was blue. It was dark blue"
"Was it Cookie Monster?" I asked, deliberately widening my eyes. "Ohh so exciting."
"No Mommy, it wasn't cookie monster. It was a real monster."

And I looked at the closet door and it was dark. And I thought for a second 'What if there IS a monster. What if someone snuck in. What if someone's lurking. What if someone is outside, and up to no good. What if the neighbors grandson and his dungeon and dragon cloaked friends are plotting a real live murder and thinking we're as good bait as any. What if, what if, what if....'


So I snuggled closer and said "Maybe the monster was lonely and got lost. Maybe the monster was looking for his Mommy to go to bed, it's bedtime for monsters too" For a minute I was going to suggest that she share her bed with the monster and they could sleep together but no sooner had I imagined it, I saw the insanity of it. Really. "yes dear, the monster is going to actulize and sleep ON your bed"

"Do you want me to call the monster in here and tell him to leave you alone?"
and with that she flipped up onto all fours and looked me directly in the eyes.
"Um, no. No, thank you. You can call him tomorrow. On the phone."

"Oh" Of course, she doesn't want me to actually call him IN here.

"I'll call the monster tomorrow and tell him to leave you alone.
"Ok."
And she sat up straighter.
"Mommy. Which monster are you afraid of?"

and then a million things happened at once.

I thought I'm afraid of monsters on wheels, big pieces of machinery that could mow down my child, my husband. I'm afraid of monster uterus's, that starve my pregnancies and cause me to miscarry, I'm afraid of monster men, the kind that could attack my child. I'm afraid of monsters masked as everyday people, monsters that hate and seek to hurt. There are monsters out there. And yes, I am, deeply, afraid of them.

So I told her the truth.

"Mommy's not afraid of real monsters honey, real monsters are nice. Mommy's only afraid of the ones that are pretend. The ones Mommy imagines."

And then I started to feel tears for all the ways she could get hurt. I could get hurt. Anything that tries to live inside me could get hurt.
Then I hugged her.
Tight.
My sweet baby girl.

She's practical, my child, and persistent.
"No Mommy. No. Which monsters are you afraid of? Red ones or pink ones? Which one, Mommy? Pick one."

"Ohhh. Well." And I really thought it over. "I actually really LIKE pink monsters so I guess I'm only afraid of the ones with polka dots."

And eventually we moved on to Wheels on The Bus.




image credit

On Being A Bitch

I have a friend, a nice girl, one that I like, who has, lately, been something of a bitch.

Now bitch is a funny over used word.

Someones a bitch if they give you a dirty look, a bitch if they start a fight, a bitch if "they tryin to take your man". Someone can be a bitch for being catty ala Project Runway. There's a million reasons why someone is a bitch and the word has lost in power for it.

Who hasn't said "Oh, I know I'm being SUCH a bitch today."
Or
"I'm so sorry, I know I was a bitch earlier."

But that in and of itself kind of negates the bitch.
If you can admit it, that's the first step. So it's a catch 22. Because if you ARE being a bitch and feel bad about it, you really aren't by definition, by my definition, being a bitch.

Which brings me to my friend.
The one who is Acting Like A Bitch.

I feel bad even saying it.
But you know how within the confines of our marriages sometimes we sigh, we roll our eyes, we act as if our nose is out of joint. The million little huffy snide ways we interact with our spouses.

For some reason this friend feels fine doing it with me.
Daily.

And hey, maybe I'm super annoying.
Sure.
Maybe she finds me trite.
Loud.
Aggressive.
Boisterous.
Unpleasant.
Impolite.
Uncouth.
Inappropriate.
Too personal.
Too impersonal.

I can imagine that ALL of these things are true of me.

But I am not unintelligent.

And I am aware of her unveiled contempt and annoyance.
And frankly
if she feels THAT comfortable constantly being bitchy and miserable around me,
if we are THAT close that she feels she can allow herself the freedom to be snarky
to be short
to be terse
to be cutting
to be rude
then I think she should be equally comfortable when I too decide to tell her that I dislike it.
Immensely.

Because, after all, if we are so sure of our relationship, and we are past the point of paying arrears to civility, then we should be comfortable being told that we are
in fact
being a bitch.

Overstepping

We don't have a lot of frozen prepared items in this house. I tend to cook extremely antiquated: gas stove, steam fresh veggies, 20 minute rice, etc. It's not because were raw foodies or an pretentious organic household, simply I'm lazy and apathetic and never learned to cook beyond the way I learned circa late seventies.

At age 8.

btw - I shit you not. My mother had two female house-elves and not a day went by without the after school shrieking phone call forcing us to peel carrots, thaw meat, fill pots with beans etc. I think by age 9 I could make pepper steak, by 10 pork chop casserole, and lasagna by heart around age 12. Is it any wonder I hate to cook?

So the other day, in a rare (oft) fit of post holiday conscience (I'm losing weight and THIS time I mean it) I thought to myself "I should purchase some low fat frozen thing ala Working Girl but with microwaves, and have something convenient and at the ready should hunger overtake me. So I don't reach for a roll of ritz and the fluff. (Cuz I talk that way to myself "at the ready" "should hunger overtake")

So I go down the aisle, I see Lean Pockets and I think "Fine. Super. Has the word "Lean", has Weight Watcher exchange points, looks reasonably healthy. 8 grams of fat is bullshit but I can work with it." And I throw 1 package into my carriage. Looks gross but I'd rather eat shit then get any fatter so I deal. Plus it's on sale. So in it goes.

And it sat in my freezer until today.

Because this morning, after three days in NY and a minor soiree at my dads last night, my dulcet darling opted not to go gymnastics, not to do to her playdate, but to instead stay home and indulge in a marathon of OLIVIA. To be fair, I knew at 9am that it wouldn't last, but I hoped she'd be tired enough to stay on the coach all day.

While I moved MORE FUCKING SHIT around my house.
Honestly, fucking Christmas.
Goddamn fucking gifts.
Everywhere.
I live in a goddamn veal pen.

So I moved things. A bag of stuff to go to Linda, a bag to bring to the church, all the candy to go to the crazy shutin, some toys to be distributed out of the car as needed. And don't get me wrong, this stuff isn't junk. It's brand spankin new. But I.Can't.Take.It. Then - shirts for the drycleaner, and a tiny wee bag of returns, specifically the accidental $9 bobby pins at Claire's and the $10 wallet from the Gap, a three hour return process if I ever saw one for $19 bucks and GOD I HATE MYSELF but anyway...

So I spend 4 hours micro organizing to no avail, and my husband gets a poison pen email, and the urchin gets tossed into bed at 2, post pizza, only to find me hungry (meh) and wanting...a roll of Ritz crackers. With Fluff. Copious amounts. Because my frozen banana, peanut butter, fat free milk protein smoothie buzz has worn off (Did you know you can clean your blender with hot water and a drop of dish soap? just run it for a minute on high. Suds away.)

So there I am, poised, Ritz on the mind and as I reach reach reach, past the stacks of stocking candy languishing on the counter, as I reach reach reach for the Ritz I remember "Aha. You do NOT want to do this. You, my dear, have choices. Options if you will."

And the freezer door I open.
For my Lean Pocket.
2 to a pack.
5 points each.
8 grams of fat.

And I take one out. And carefully read the directions.

"1. Unwrap product & insert into unfolded crisping sleeve 2. Place on paper plate & microwave on HIGH (see chart). 3. Fold and lock bottom flaps of the sleeve & wait two minutes before eating. 4. Peel away the tab as you enjoy your sandwich.

And I'm following along but thinking to myself "Why the paper plate? Is it going to affect the cooking? Or are you just assuming on on the run somewhere and can't eat like a human from a regular glass plate." Then I started to get all pissy. "What am I, a fucking animal? You think I don't have dishes? I'm not standing at the convenience store, buddy, I'm a grown ass woman and I'll use a goddamn plate if I want to."

Which I did. Wanted to that is.
And I did. As in used one.

So I opened my tragic little turkey pocket and removed the folded sleeve ready to UNfold it per the instructions whereupon I saw a tiny type trove of OTHER directions. Telling me in three steps how I should, after cooking, make sure to fold the foil into some low budget holder and eat it like a wild wolverine.

Seriously?
SERIOUSLY Lean Pocket People?

What, because I'm eating a Lean Pocket I'm some microwaving 7/11 slob about to drive away with my fistful of turkey delight? What happened to my paper plate? Any reason I can't eat off that? If it was so important to you that I use it...???

The whole thing offended me.

I microwaved it on HIGH for 2 minutes, I waited the 2 (Hey, I'm not a total idiot, I'm not going to burn my mouth over a muchkin size lunch) then I plated the damn thing, got out a knife and fork, cut it like a proper human being and ate it with my canned gingerale. Diet.

And righteously so.

Because honestly, I may be eating your lame little pouch of nothing but I don't need instructions on how to eat it AFTER I've cooked it.
Who in gods name is your demographic?

From The Mouths of Babes

A couple of years ago, I worked an inner city benefit. I can't remember the cause but it was this magnificent extravaganza and the theme was loosely African. There were dancers, performers, I think the Mayor's office came - beads, boas, $100s per chair, at ten per table.

And I want to say I made gift bags, and did door duty, and maybe I was in charge of one room of local youths and their parents, later to perform tribal dances. It was my job to ensure that they were treated like star performers, and revered guests.

And at the time, I was, the whitest white girl in the room. I'm sure we were required to wear chinos, and a godawful men's polo, and likely flats. So as a) not to make the more attractive guests feel insecure and b) so everyone could tell, with a glance, who the help was. So there I was, for all the world like I stepped off the schooner in my docksiders amongst a room full and wild and exuberant kids and their dashiki and kaftan wearing, Sunday suited mom's and grandmas. There were hats, and vibrant purple dresses, and broaches and sensible shoes. It was a day for finery and I was totally, obviously, completely, out of place.

I was old too, to these young kids.
"Where's your baby at? Whose watching your babies tonight?" asked one little girl.
"You got kids of your own girl?" "She don' have no kids yet" the mothers tittered as I awkwardly policed the chicken finger platter.

Everything about me screamed "White suburban uptight girl".

And yet the kids were entranced. And curious. and kind.
"Can I have an extra necklace, Miss?" and "Your hairs curly for a white lady" and my favorite, heretofore never heard by me "How come you so thin? Don' you like to eat?" I think for some of them, I thought at the time for some of them, that this was the first time the had played with a white woman. Which may or may not have been racist. But for sure I was something different. As were they. Because to be fair, I don't think I knew what to do with a group of blunt streetwise youths who knew I was awkward with kids, and clearly thought it funny that a "grown white woman" had no kids or her own.

But we liked each other and a few little girls came to help me. The moms offered to shoo them away, but one little twinkle of a brown eyed girl caught my fancy and become my pet, and I hers, and we talked as I worked.

"Are you hear with your Mommy?" I asked.
"Ah no." she said, matter of factly. "I here with my Grammy. My mom too sick to take me."

"Of course" I thought to myself "Oh how sad. This is obviously an example of the cycle of poverty. This child being raised by her Grandmother, this little girl the product of a single parent home. Her mother likely coming off drugs. So sad. The grandmother, forced to parent another generation..

Outloud I said "Of I'm sorry honey, I'm sorry your mom's sick..."

"Uh huh" and then she huffed out two words, two words that to this day, at this very writing, crack me up.
"..and tired. She is sick and tired of me. She said so today."

Seven years later and I still think about her mom.
Very likely she was a married doctor, or lawyer, with two kids, a charming husband and the affluence to enroll her daughter in a dance class, with enough intelligence that it manifested into an extremely bright articulate little girl as confidence.

What a silly stupid white girl I was.
I wish I could meet that mom today.

One a King, Always a King, but Once A Knight is Enough

If one peanut butter and fluff sandwich is good, does it stand to reason that two is better?

And yet, in application, not so much.


image credit

On The First Day Of Preschool, My Daughter Gave To Me

About a year ago, in January, I decided that come this September, now past, I was enrolling Ellie in preschool. If not in September, certainly January present day, and 2.9 was a fine enough age.

I went to the Child Education "Expo" - the middle school cafeteria if you will - with representatives from our town and surrounds, and did what people do. I looked at the brochures, I inspected the director's, I listened in without asking, and I thought about what I wanted, and why, and by when, and for who.

Because here's the thing, with all the talk about preschool, I didn't do it for any of the reasons I hear cited. It wasn't to socialize her - she goes to playgroups, parks, playdates, music circles, libraries in abundance. It wasn't to expose her to other authority figures - my particular group of "mom" friends has zero issue stepping in, it wasn't even because she is, and likely will be, an only, thus needs to learn to share.

I did it because
a) I'm tired
and
b) I'm anxious.

I put her in preschool because the day to day sole provider, sole entertainment, sole proprietor of her well-being was...making me tired. I put her in daycare because I wanted her to be with someone else, someone beyond me, someone invested in entertaining her, in playing with her, in guiding her, in teaching her - because as her stay-at-home mother, I felt like my days were consumed with the tactical and practical. I found myself wishing away time, hours, head down looking to nighttime, solely to be alone.

I adore her.
My love for her runs rampant and abundant.
She is amazing, funny, articulate and impish.
She's the shit, a little shit, and a hot shit.
She's everything but yet I needed less of one everything and more of something. Else.

I put her in preschool because my repertoire was exhausted. I teach what I know, in the way that I know. But it's very my way, and I thought exposure to someone elses way was a great idea. Someone that would play with shaving cream, someone that would take her outside to garden, someone that would do crafts, sing songs, make faces. Because in my everyday, we weren't playing enough. We weren't enjoying what we did because I'm always wondering where I have to be next, what I have to do next, and how I can work harder, stronger, better, faster.

About eight people have asked me how I feel about her going to school.
And I feel...nothing.
Maybe because she was born into a NICU, maybe because my sister took her overnight young, maybe because her grandparents would fight to the death for her, maybe because her babysitter is a Camp Sunshine volunteer, maybe because of all those things, I have no fear entrusting her into the care of others.

I trust myself. I trust where I placed her. And I trust that if it doesn't work out, I'll just do something different.

People talk about mother guilt. About going to bed at night feeling awful, feeling terrible, feeling as if they haven't been a good mother.
I must have a supreme ego.
A sublime one.
Because I think I'm doing great.
And I think she's pretty great too.

I think I sent her to preschool because I realized that she and I would be better off for it. That because of who I was, I wasn't equipped to be with her all the time. And I'm very ok with that decision.

My husband asked me that morning: "So, are you nervous?"
Me: baffled "Nervous about what?'
Him: "Her. Preschool."
Me: "God no, why would I be nervous?
Him: "Well, what if she doesn't like it?"
Me: "Well that would be her problem then, wouldn't it?"

When Ellie was a little baby, a little tiny baby, the visiting nurse came to check in. To weigh her, to check the crib, her breathing, to see if I needed help. And I remember talking to her on the rug on my living room floor, playing with Ellie, then resting Ellie atop a blanket with nothing but a silky square over her. And asleep she went.

And the nurse looked on in wonderment, then with kindness.
And in her greatest act of charity said to me "You are going to do fine. You're daughter just fell asleep there - because you expect her to. That's how you mother. You expect it of her, and she'll do it."

I know my daughter will do well. Maybe not amazing, and not without issues, but she'll be fine.

Because God takes care of children and fools.
So that covers both of us.

There's A Stranger Among Us

I thought about stripping my blog today. Removing the photos, removing instances of my husband's name, my name, my daughter's name. Not because I'm worried about a random stranger, it's the stranger I know.

So let me say this, in the new year, I'm going to be honest. Far more honest then I have been. And I may just name names. And I may regret it, and I'll definitely pay for it. But it's going to happen. Because this is my blog.

My blog.
My. Blog.

So be forewarned. And if you weren't invited, but you linked over, and we don't speak, and you or I have a compelling reason why we don't speak,
stop lurking.

Stop spying.

and

Move the fuck on.

And if you feel kind of funny right now.
Sheepish.
Angry.
Suspicious.
You are correct.
I mean you.

Subject: A Love Letter

Dear Husband,

When you go out the front door, lock the @#$%^&*() thing behind you.

Love,

Your Still Alive But Could Be Dead In The Shower With Her Daughter Kidnapped and Did You Learn Nothing From That Story About The 4 guys in NH Wife

Vanity Plates

My husband pulled down our street and called me from the car.


"You having company?" he asked.
"Not tonight. Why?"
"There's a car in the driveway." chuckling.
Me. Not getting it. "Okayyyyy"
him: "Yeah, the plate says GREEKLVR."
Me: "Really. REALLY? Greek Lover?"

So me, who can't let anything go, calls the neighbor.
"Mary, you wanna tell me something?" I'm laughing.
She answers me, sweetly, concerned, but not really knowing why I'm cracking up. "Do you need us to move it?"
"No no" I say. "But , ah, just what the hell kind of house you running over there? Greek Lover? For real? Who the hell is visiting you?"
"It's a high school kid. Friend of Adam's."
and I totally burst out laughing
"He's greek" she continues "The whole family is. I guess they are really into it."

My husband walks in and I'm bent over the sink practically peeing.
Because on the one hand, I'm wondering "Just HOW long is this poor kid going to drive around telling the world he loves anal" and on the other, I'm not sure if my neighbor got why it was so damn funny to me.

All I could think of was the plates in The Birdcage.
"Oh look, they're leapfrogging..."

Resolution Day One

So of course I'm 4 days in.
And today I, in the span of two hours:

Called Barbara from Salvation Army to tell her kids bikes were for sale for $10, and would she like me to pick one up and drop it by.

Called the crazy shut-in from the car to bring by a meal of homemade chili, cornbread and olives.

Picked up for Laurie and told her Doug and I would come over to upload all her photos into Picasa and teach her how to use it.

Asked the drycleaner if he had a program of recycling men's shirts to poorer countries (you donate the chirts, he cleans for free and writes off his services as charitable giving - the shirts go to Nicaragua or somepolace...).

Felt bad for the babysitter so I made up a date with my husband so she could sit for us, thus make money.

I also brought the preschool a box of tissues and wipes as a donation and spent 5 minutes talking to a sober house man on how his sobriety was going.

And yesterday I overtipped the 22 year old hairdresser at Snip-it's because she just "got her first place" and I wanted her to be able to buy something for it. Like food. Or whatever.

So apparently I learn slow.
Happy New Year.

On the upside, an insane religious freak accosted me in the aisles of Salvation Army wondering if I would be her friend and I shut her down.

So in that respect, I think I'm sticking to "some" of my resolution!

New Year's Resolution

"I decided on a resolution" I said, while driving North. "And I want you to be supportive."
"Sure" somewhat absently he remarked.
"No, I'm serious. I don't want you to dissect it, or to comment, or to pull it apart and judge it."
He sighed.
"But you DO that" I enunciated.
"Fine" he said. "I'm not going to judge."
"And you won't pull it apart? Or comment on it?" I asked.
"Well I'm probably going to comment..."

So I told my husband a couple of days ago my plan for the new year.

"I'm not going to help anyone this year."
Silence
"I'm serious. I'm not angry, I'm just done. I'm not picking up clothes and dropping them off because someone has five kids, or doing charity drives or delivering meals or offering to pick people up, or watching anyone's kids or giving away my stuff or donating toys to the gym. I'm done doing things for people."

Him.
Silent.
Me "Ok, fine, say it"
Him: "I just think that's a little harsh."
Me: "It's not harsh. I just don't want to do it anymore. I'm forty year sold and I don't want to spend the next 20 years living like the last. And yes, I know it sounds shitty. I hate people like that. People who say 'I'm going to do what's right for ME'. I think that sucks. But I just don't want to anymore. I mean sure..."now backpedaling "...if I go to the store and someone drops a can of Dinty Moore I'll pick it up. And you know me, if someone can't lift a box of course I'm not going to walk by. But I'm done offering. I'm done volunteering or matching people to services or dropping things off from one house to the next. I'm done driving to Salvation Army for people, to the grocery store, I'm done leading the playgroup."

"So basically what you are saying is that you are going to put yourself first."
he clarified.
"Actually no."
Him "well that's what us sounds like."

"No no no." annoyed. "Basically what I am saying is that I am not going to put people ahead of me. I don't need to come first, we can all be equal."

"I think it's fine that you want to take time for yourself" he patronized. " I think that's great. But you can't NOT do things for other people."

Which is not at all what I meant. Because I am perfectly willing, if not incapable of not, doing for someone else. But here is what I am done with. I have decided that unless someone specifically asks me for something, I'm not going to offer. I'm not going to jump in and loan dresses, run errands, offer rides, add value, for people who are perfectly capable of doing it for themselves.

I'm not volunteering. And that's tough actually. Because it's a new year, and I was all set to adopt a soldier and volunteer at the Food Pantry on Thursdays. I was all set to use the two days a week my daughter is going to preschool to plan curriculum for story time. I was all set to spend the "new" 6 hours making sure I was getting things done for someone else.

And now, suddenly, I'm not.

And not because anything happened - or because I'm mad - or because I think I don't have the time, I think it's just...time.

With No Real Fanfare

I'm back.
After a long, extended absence. Feels like months.
I should have had something drafted "in the can". Something uber witty and remarkable to mark my comeback tour but alas. If I wait for that, nothing will appear in type.

So no updates, no catch up. Just moving forward.