The problem with not blogging for a week is that so much material builds up that I don't know where to begin. Do I want to share kid quotes? (Christopher, after my sister told him that she loved him & asked if he loved her, "Well...love is a strong word.") My gripes about leaky airconditioning? (me, staring at the dripping air unit with a blinking red light on it and asking my sister, "Hey, Steph? What do you think that red light means? You think it means everything's ok? Maybe it only blinks when everything's ok.") Or maybe the latest awkward divorce question thrown at me and my exhusband? (Emma, sitting at the table with me and Chris earlier in the week, "Dad, if you marry Michelle [his girlfriend] will she be my new mommy?")
Let's talk about donuts.
One of the traditions I grew up with in my family was that we got donuts for breakfast on our birthdays. Like most people, there are things I grew up with that I've chosen to keep as tradition and others that I've chosen not to. I've kept all the ones involving donuts. Today is my sister Stephie's birthday and so, like a good Rheams, I set out in the predawn hours to get the first box of donuts fresh out the fryer.
The place I went to is the same place that we've been getting donuts for almost 25 years - Take Away Donuts on Highway 90, the little shop with the helpful sign that boasts, "Take Away Donuts - We serve donuts." In my mind the only way to improve that sign would be, "Take Away Donuts - We serve donuts. Take them away." What I love about this place is the other customers. They're all men and all truck drivers so every time I walk in there I hear conversation similar to the one I heard this morning.
A trucker dude swiveled his stool to lean back against the counter. He pointed at the guy next to him with his mug of coffee and in a gravely voice said, "Heeeeeey, Super Cooper! Where you been?"
Super Cooper sipped his coffee and said, "Hmm. Where you been?"
"Woo wee!" he exclaimed, thrilled at the question. "Everywhere. Dallas, Florida..." then low, to himself, "Super Cooper."
The best conversation I've ever overheard was the one at a grocery store near my parent's house. I recently rediscovered this when I was cleaning out my inbox. Some of you guys might remember this from an email I sent years ago:
This middle aged woman and what appeared to be her teenaged escort were standing next to me in line. I couldn't tell what their relationship was. The way she talked to him didn't suggest that she was his mother or his aunt, unless their family is just THAT messed up. He looked about nineteen and she looked old enough to be his mom, but then she also looked like one of those women who could be thirty but looked fifty because she hadn't been kind to her body. Tanned fat rolled over the sides of her jeans, and hung below the edge of her shirt. Her shoulder length, frizzy hair was bleached blond at the tips and dull brown at the top. Her voice cracked in a way that not only told you that she smoked, but suggested that she might actually have a cigarette lodged in her throat. She asked the teenaged boy, who kept a steady expression of no expression at all, about where he went at night and what he liked to drink. The kid had black hair and a wispy mustache. He was only slightly more attractive than the woman who wanted to know all about his night life. After she spotted a bottle of Tequila Rose behind the counter, she said, "Oo!" and poked him in the side. "Tequila Rose, you ever drink that? That's some delicious shit."
He moaned, "No."
"Next time you come over to my house we'll have to get you some. What about you, baby, you ever drink you some Tequila Rose?" she asked the teenaged cashier.
The girl said, "Naw. A stripper cameback to my house once and got all messed up on it. She threw it up and I've never been able to get the smell out. I drink Jaegermeister, me."
I stood in line thinking, "I need to start bringing my notebook with me everywhere I go. This is fantastic."
And do I bring a notebook with me now? No. I've learned nothing. Except not to serve Tequila Rose to strippers, truckers like Dallas, and cashiers dig Jaegermeister.
But more disturbing than that conversation was a talk that my friend had with her son about love. You recall me saying that Chrisopher told my sister that love is a strong word? My friend's son said something similar. She has twin 8 year old boys and one of them, Ben, has decided that he hates love, hugs and kisses. I guess that's pretty typical for a little boy. But Ben's response is not typical.
When tucking her boys in the other night she told one of them, "Good night, Craig, I love you."
Craig dutifully said, "Good night mom. Love you too."
Then when she said, "Good night, Ben. I love you," Ben said nothing.
"Beeen," she sang. "I love you. You love me?"
"Mom," said Ben, exasparated because they'd been over this a hundred times. "I don't know how to love."
"Ben doesn't know how to love, Mom," Craig reminded her.
"Oh," she said, remembering. "That's right."
What is it with this new generation of boys and their complex responses to "I love you?" In my day, if you kissed a little boy they spit and ran. They didn't come back with answers like, "I don't know how to love," or "love is a strong word" or "Mom, I think we need to take a step back and re-evevaluate this relationship."
But bring up donuts, and suddenly you're both on the same page. Usually, getting Christopher out of bed is as easy as scraping old gum off the sidewalk, but this morning all I had to do was say, "I got birthday donuts this morning," and his eyes popped open. He was at the table in a matter of minutes. He sang "Happy Birthday" to Stephanie with us. He answered her when she told him she loved him! Suddenly he knew what love was and how to love in return! And all it took was one fresh chocolate covered sprinkle!
Donuts! The miracle food! I'll set a few on top of my leaky air conditioning unit!
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Daily Recommendations
When the US Health Department recommended a daily allowance of 8 fruit and vegetables a day, do you think they were talking about coffee? Maybe in some veiled way? Because if so, I'm covered.
Today, I think I did a damn good job of staying as healthy as possible. A banana/peanut butter sandwich for breakfast and a tuna salad for lunch WITH low fat yogurt for dessert! I can say with all certainty that am the poster child for some kind of health network that uses posters! And that network would be called, "The Department of People Who Eat Well One Day and Use it as an Excuse to Eat Reese's Peanut Butter Cups For Breakfast The Next Morning." I would be all over that poster.
The kids have been asking for fruit gummies as snacks lately. I don't usually keep them in the house because it's one of those foods that if left around, the children will refuse to eat anything else. It reminds me of that experiment they did on an innocent, fluffy creature, it was either a mouse or a rat (the authoress hopes that no steady reading mice or rats are offended by me not knowing the difference between them and hopes not to receive angry letters) where scientists put food pellets in one dispenser and heroin in the other, and the rat/mouse would always go for the heroin, and the real food came second. Further into the experiment, the heroin was taken away and the rat/mouse refused to eat the food. It only wanted the heroin.
I know what you're thinking. Scientists serve heroin in a dispenser? In tiny nibblet forms? Am I sure this wasn't cocaine they were talking about or maybe crack? Well no, I'm not sure. It was some addictive drug served up to an experimental rodent. So does my comparison hold water? Yes, because the point still stands that if my children were in a scientist's lab and there were only three dispensers, the first one containing healthy food, the second one heroin and the third fruit gummies, they would hit the fruit gummy button until it broke. And once it was broken, they would not serve themselves fruits, vegetables, or heroin, they would just whine until the scientist finally broke down and drove to the store to get gummies shaped like Spongebob Squarepants.
So yesterday I thought I would fool my children. [a note to those here without children: this can not be done] Ha, ha! I bought "healthy" gummies. "Healthy" gummies aren't really healthy, they're just not as bad. These things are evil because they seduce parents with all sorts of empty promises. They whisper things like, "No gluten!" "No artificial flavors!" "No transfats which we all know will turn a child into a transvestite upon adulthood!" What this box really seemed to say to me when I read it was, "Buy me. I am not as bad a real gummies, your kids won't know the difference, and my dye contains 3% of the daily recommended amount of riboflavin." I bought it and felt pretty good about myself.
Until Claire bit into one. She made this face I can't exactly describe. It didn't seem to say, "This is gross," so much as, "What have you done to me?" Then followed this stupid conversation:
"These aren't gummies," she said, chasing the snack with a glass of water to drown out the unbearable taste. Perhaps it was the riboflavin.
"Yes they are," I told her. "It says so on the box."
"No. It's healthy food," she explained.
"No, it's not!" I argued.
"Yes it is, Mom. If these were real gummies they would be shaped like fruit. But they're just little squares."
"Hey, you know what else is shaped like fruit that you can have?" I asked her.
"What?"
"FRUIT!"
"OOOOH!"
"That's right!"
"MOOOOOOM!" she moaned, like a lab rat denied heroin.
"What? What's so wrong with real fruit? It's shaped like those gummies you like so much."
"Why can't we just have real gummies?"
"Because you are a hyper psychopath when you eat them."
I made up that last line. I didn't REALLY say that. But I REALLY wanted to.
Earlier today I brought the gummies to work with me. I figured that I might as well take a stab at them rather then let them go to waste. And yeah, they're horrible. they have the most bizarre aftertaste, and I can't compare it to anything else, but I can tell you that I think it's what phoniness tastes like.
Sigh. A snack ruined. That's ok. There are other fruit shaped objects around here, ones with stems and seeds and everything...I sound like I'm talking about marijuana. No, really, there are apples, oranges, and bananas in the cafeteria. Kiwi too! And when I've had my fill of those, there's always my own version of heroin. It's not a pellet, it's a hot liquid but it IS also served in a dispenser and when I am denied a regular dosage of it I squeak in pain.
Today, I think I did a damn good job of staying as healthy as possible. A banana/peanut butter sandwich for breakfast and a tuna salad for lunch WITH low fat yogurt for dessert! I can say with all certainty that am the poster child for some kind of health network that uses posters! And that network would be called, "The Department of People Who Eat Well One Day and Use it as an Excuse to Eat Reese's Peanut Butter Cups For Breakfast The Next Morning." I would be all over that poster.
The kids have been asking for fruit gummies as snacks lately. I don't usually keep them in the house because it's one of those foods that if left around, the children will refuse to eat anything else. It reminds me of that experiment they did on an innocent, fluffy creature, it was either a mouse or a rat (the authoress hopes that no steady reading mice or rats are offended by me not knowing the difference between them and hopes not to receive angry letters) where scientists put food pellets in one dispenser and heroin in the other, and the rat/mouse would always go for the heroin, and the real food came second. Further into the experiment, the heroin was taken away and the rat/mouse refused to eat the food. It only wanted the heroin.
I know what you're thinking. Scientists serve heroin in a dispenser? In tiny nibblet forms? Am I sure this wasn't cocaine they were talking about or maybe crack? Well no, I'm not sure. It was some addictive drug served up to an experimental rodent. So does my comparison hold water? Yes, because the point still stands that if my children were in a scientist's lab and there were only three dispensers, the first one containing healthy food, the second one heroin and the third fruit gummies, they would hit the fruit gummy button until it broke. And once it was broken, they would not serve themselves fruits, vegetables, or heroin, they would just whine until the scientist finally broke down and drove to the store to get gummies shaped like Spongebob Squarepants.
So yesterday I thought I would fool my children. [a note to those here without children: this can not be done] Ha, ha! I bought "healthy" gummies. "Healthy" gummies aren't really healthy, they're just not as bad. These things are evil because they seduce parents with all sorts of empty promises. They whisper things like, "No gluten!" "No artificial flavors!" "No transfats which we all know will turn a child into a transvestite upon adulthood!" What this box really seemed to say to me when I read it was, "Buy me. I am not as bad a real gummies, your kids won't know the difference, and my dye contains 3% of the daily recommended amount of riboflavin." I bought it and felt pretty good about myself.
Until Claire bit into one. She made this face I can't exactly describe. It didn't seem to say, "This is gross," so much as, "What have you done to me?" Then followed this stupid conversation:
"These aren't gummies," she said, chasing the snack with a glass of water to drown out the unbearable taste. Perhaps it was the riboflavin.
"Yes they are," I told her. "It says so on the box."
"No. It's healthy food," she explained.
"No, it's not!" I argued.
"Yes it is, Mom. If these were real gummies they would be shaped like fruit. But they're just little squares."
"Hey, you know what else is shaped like fruit that you can have?" I asked her.
"What?"
"FRUIT!"
"OOOOH!"
"That's right!"
"MOOOOOOM!" she moaned, like a lab rat denied heroin.
"What? What's so wrong with real fruit? It's shaped like those gummies you like so much."
"Why can't we just have real gummies?"
"Because you are a hyper psychopath when you eat them."
I made up that last line. I didn't REALLY say that. But I REALLY wanted to.
Earlier today I brought the gummies to work with me. I figured that I might as well take a stab at them rather then let them go to waste. And yeah, they're horrible. they have the most bizarre aftertaste, and I can't compare it to anything else, but I can tell you that I think it's what phoniness tastes like.
Sigh. A snack ruined. That's ok. There are other fruit shaped objects around here, ones with stems and seeds and everything...I sound like I'm talking about marijuana. No, really, there are apples, oranges, and bananas in the cafeteria. Kiwi too! And when I've had my fill of those, there's always my own version of heroin. It's not a pellet, it's a hot liquid but it IS also served in a dispenser and when I am denied a regular dosage of it I squeak in pain.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Agent Sarah reporting for duty in May
Agent Sarah wrote back to me. I don't think I updated that here. She said that she is excited to get the latest draft, and that her work is backed up a mile so she will be able to get back to me in May. This was a couple of weeks ago, when May was further away. Like a couple of weeks away. Now it's 2 days away. What do you think the odds are that she'll read it in two days? And fall in love with it? And meet a publisher the next day at lunch who will also love it and buy it for many, many dollars? Like more dollars than I have now?
Ok, let's do something. READERS OF MY BLOG! We're all going to concentrate on the same thing all at once for a couple of seconds. Are you ready? This is truly exciting. Never before has this been done on a blog EVER! THAT I KNOW OF! Everybody imagine that Agent Sarah says my book is ready to sell...now!... YAY! Thank you thank you! People, you have made blog history! Or blistory!
More on this as it develops.
Hey, and something else I just noticed. I'm blogging more again. This is a good sign of things, I think.
Ok, let's do something. READERS OF MY BLOG! We're all going to concentrate on the same thing all at once for a couple of seconds. Are you ready? This is truly exciting. Never before has this been done on a blog EVER! THAT I KNOW OF! Everybody imagine that Agent Sarah says my book is ready to sell...now!... YAY! Thank you thank you! People, you have made blog history! Or blistory!
More on this as it develops.
Hey, and something else I just noticed. I'm blogging more again. This is a good sign of things, I think.
Monday, April 26, 2010
This blog's T-shirt would say "Under Construction"
I was being a responsible little worker until "Strawberry Fields" came on the radio and my mind snapped into that third place, that dreamy place that makes me want to write.
Let me take you down, ’cause I’m going to
Strawberry fields
Nothing is real
And nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
I've heard that "Strawberry Fields" is about drugs, but I don't know. Maybe it's about strawberries. I know The Beatles did drugs, but surely they ate fruit as well. Sometimes I feel like nothing is real and I'm not on hallucinogens. I'm just in serious denial.
For example, four summers ago there was a problem with my washing machine while I was potty training Christopher. He had to be potty trained by the fall to get into pre-K. For two weeks we were without a washing machine so I washed clothes by hand. He went through pants and underwear ALL DAY LONG. I distinctly remember hosing off his soiled pants in the backyard when he tottered up to me and told me that he'd had another accident in the pants and underwear I'd just put him in. First I was tempted to squirt the hose in his face. Perhaps that would potty train him, the ole' blast-them-in-the-face-with-the-hose-when-they-poop-on-themselves technique. But I knew I couldn't do that. So I downshifted into denial. "This isn't happening," I thought. Instant hallucinogen! Strawberry fields! Nothing is real! And nothing to hose off of pants! Sing it with me! "Pot-ty trained children forever." I think I ended up letting him run around the backyard naked for the next two weeks.
Anyway, I go into denial about people too. I was just discussing that with a recovery friend this morning. A friend who (in the spirit of anonymity) I'll call George Harrison. I thought about calling him "Peaches" but that would only make me hungry. I told him about how I like to tell people good things about themselves, even when those things aren't true, so that they'll feel good about themselves. This may sound nice, but it doesn't work very well. One man I fell in love with told me in the beginning that he didn't think he was good enough to deserve me. I assured him this wasn't true, and I thought by saying that I could really make him believe that he deserved goodness in his life. But he didn't and he followed through on that belief and mistreated people he loved. That didn't really help either of us. I loved a girl too who told me repeatedly "I'm such an asshole." I'd say, "No you're not. Don't say that about yourself. You're wonderful." And then I was surprised when she'd act like an asshole. I don't think I was wrong that these people had good in them. But both of them told me things they believed about themselves and then I was surprised each time when they acted accordingly. George Harrison agrees that it is more likely to find people who are able to return love if they believe that they can, and not just because I tell them to. But oh how I do love to believe that I can.
Living is easy with eyes closed
Misunderstanding all you see
It’s getting hard to be someone, but it all works out
It doesn’t matter much to me
Who do I tell people that I am? Up until now I think I've told people that I'm worthless. I don't think I say that to myself or anyone else anymore. You know what's going to be really hard? The next time someone tells me, "I'm such an asshole," and I shrug and say, "Ok. What are you going to do about it?" It goes against every cell in my brain. What I want to say is, "No, no! Don't say that about yourself! You're a great guy! You're a liar and a rapist and a tax dodger but I love the good in you!" There is good in everybody, but at least I know that it's not my job to force people to see it AND embrace it, no matter how much I want them to. And believe me, I want it to be my job REALLY bad.
So this is probably what it'll look like the next time an emotionally unhealthy person comes looking for me:
I'll be at a coffee shop sipping a medium roast. Cream and a dash of sugar. A big dash of sugar. A dude will come up to me, smelling like whiskey and wearing a hat that says, "I am a prick."
"Give me a compliment," he'll say.
"I don't know you," I'll tell him. "I only know what you're showing me."
A woman with too much makeup who smells like heroin will step beside him. She's wearing a T-shirt that says, "I am a difficult person and I had an abusive mother who I will think of when I look at you." She'll tell me, "But aren't you that girl who makes people feel better?"
"I'm retired," I'll say.
"You can't do that to us," Prick Hat will say.
I'll stand up. I am wearing a T-shirt that says, "Single mother of 3 in a 12 step program with an identity crisis going on - Awesomeness under construction." I'll tell them, "I'm not sure you want to take my advice."
Then I will squirt them with a hose.
Let me take you down, ’cause I’m going to
Strawberry fields
Nothing is real
And nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
I've heard that "Strawberry Fields" is about drugs, but I don't know. Maybe it's about strawberries. I know The Beatles did drugs, but surely they ate fruit as well. Sometimes I feel like nothing is real and I'm not on hallucinogens. I'm just in serious denial.
For example, four summers ago there was a problem with my washing machine while I was potty training Christopher. He had to be potty trained by the fall to get into pre-K. For two weeks we were without a washing machine so I washed clothes by hand. He went through pants and underwear ALL DAY LONG. I distinctly remember hosing off his soiled pants in the backyard when he tottered up to me and told me that he'd had another accident in the pants and underwear I'd just put him in. First I was tempted to squirt the hose in his face. Perhaps that would potty train him, the ole' blast-them-in-the-face-with-the-hose-when-they-poop-on-themselves technique. But I knew I couldn't do that. So I downshifted into denial. "This isn't happening," I thought. Instant hallucinogen! Strawberry fields! Nothing is real! And nothing to hose off of pants! Sing it with me! "Pot-ty trained children forever." I think I ended up letting him run around the backyard naked for the next two weeks.
Anyway, I go into denial about people too. I was just discussing that with a recovery friend this morning. A friend who (in the spirit of anonymity) I'll call George Harrison. I thought about calling him "Peaches" but that would only make me hungry. I told him about how I like to tell people good things about themselves, even when those things aren't true, so that they'll feel good about themselves. This may sound nice, but it doesn't work very well. One man I fell in love with told me in the beginning that he didn't think he was good enough to deserve me. I assured him this wasn't true, and I thought by saying that I could really make him believe that he deserved goodness in his life. But he didn't and he followed through on that belief and mistreated people he loved. That didn't really help either of us. I loved a girl too who told me repeatedly "I'm such an asshole." I'd say, "No you're not. Don't say that about yourself. You're wonderful." And then I was surprised when she'd act like an asshole. I don't think I was wrong that these people had good in them. But both of them told me things they believed about themselves and then I was surprised each time when they acted accordingly. George Harrison agrees that it is more likely to find people who are able to return love if they believe that they can, and not just because I tell them to. But oh how I do love to believe that I can.
Living is easy with eyes closed
Misunderstanding all you see
It’s getting hard to be someone, but it all works out
It doesn’t matter much to me
Who do I tell people that I am? Up until now I think I've told people that I'm worthless. I don't think I say that to myself or anyone else anymore. You know what's going to be really hard? The next time someone tells me, "I'm such an asshole," and I shrug and say, "Ok. What are you going to do about it?" It goes against every cell in my brain. What I want to say is, "No, no! Don't say that about yourself! You're a great guy! You're a liar and a rapist and a tax dodger but I love the good in you!" There is good in everybody, but at least I know that it's not my job to force people to see it AND embrace it, no matter how much I want them to. And believe me, I want it to be my job REALLY bad.
So this is probably what it'll look like the next time an emotionally unhealthy person comes looking for me:
I'll be at a coffee shop sipping a medium roast. Cream and a dash of sugar. A big dash of sugar. A dude will come up to me, smelling like whiskey and wearing a hat that says, "I am a prick."
"Give me a compliment," he'll say.
"I don't know you," I'll tell him. "I only know what you're showing me."
A woman with too much makeup who smells like heroin will step beside him. She's wearing a T-shirt that says, "I am a difficult person and I had an abusive mother who I will think of when I look at you." She'll tell me, "But aren't you that girl who makes people feel better?"
"I'm retired," I'll say.
"You can't do that to us," Prick Hat will say.
I'll stand up. I am wearing a T-shirt that says, "Single mother of 3 in a 12 step program with an identity crisis going on - Awesomeness under construction." I'll tell them, "I'm not sure you want to take my advice."
Then I will squirt them with a hose.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Funny Lookin'
You might not be surprised if I tell you that you can not eat off of the floors in my house. Well, you could, but then you might not feel very well, and then you might also start to wonder about yourself, about why you would eat off of someone's floor in the first place and not, say, a plate. Oh, by the by, you might not want to eat off of one of my plates.
I clean about as often as I feel that I have to, and you can tell from looking at my place that I don't feel very obligated. Unless someone comes over to visit or if someone tries to eat off my floor and then I have to stop them and say, "Hey, you might not want to do that." "Yes, I really do. I HAVE to," he'll say, because I would imagine that this is how a person who eats off the bare floor would respond. "Ok," I'll say handing them a fork. "If you can find the floor, it's yours. Just kick around the laundry and move those papers. And that dog. There you go. Hey! Look at that! I DO have a floor!"
And to tell you the truth, the kids and I don't wash our hair or brush our teeth as often as we should. Hey look, you asked!...oh wait, no, you didn't ask for that information. I'm just giving you the cold hard facts here. Life is a little crazy lately and sometimes the kids and I fall asleep in our clothes, on the couch, with the dog and the cat and the rabbit. Teeth unbrushed, faces unwashed, pajamas unworn. But we get to school and to work every day. And when we do people are overjoyed to see us! Until they get too close and breathe. Then we might smell a little funny, and truthfully we might look a little funny. The other day when we were running late I told Christopher to put on his socks and he yelled from his bedroom, "Ok, they're on!" He walked into the kitchen with his socks draped over his head. He thought he was hilarious, and even though we were seriously late I still had to laugh. What a smart ass.
We are making each other laugh more. That's been a good change. A few weeks ago I was lying in bed, depressed about something and Emma snuggled down next to me and said, "Hey Mom." "What?" I grumbled back. Then she boasted, "I have 50 electric peanuts in my pants." I smiled. I hadn't smiled all day. "Do you?" I asked. "Yes! Oh - what a minute..." she snuck under the covers and came back up. "I'm not wearing any pants." Somehow Emma knows just what to say to make me laugh. I could be coming home from the funeral of both of my parents and Emma could say the words "electric peanuts in my pants" and I would still giggle. It's not just the ridiculous things that she says. It's that, at age 8, she has mastered a dry tone so she says these things very matter of fact.
The other day I was able to turn it around on her. She, Claire and I went to a mother-daughter yoga class on Sunday and Emma started off class upset about something. She cried quietly for the first 15 minutes. There are so many big changes going on for that little kid and when I saw her crying like that I wanted to make everything better, but I didn't know how. So when we were lying on the floor I whispered, "Hey! Emma!" She looked at me, and she seemed so sad and tired. I probably looked the same way weeks before when she found me in my room. "I've got 50 electric peanuts in my pants," I whispered. She smiled a little, but she didn't laugh.
The class worked on her after a while. The teacher had us doing fun, playful poses and Emma began to giggle a bit. Then in the last ten minutes of class she fell asleep during the meditation. Poor thing really was tired. Since it was Chris's weekend with the kids, he came to pick them up at the end of class. It's always painful to watch the kids get in the car with him and go, just a reminder that our family's split. Even though it's a good thing, Chris and I both agree on that, there's something about it that's just hard. When I was telling them goodbye Emma called me over to her window. She said, in her flat tone, "Hey Mom. I've got peanuts in my pants too." That's true mother-daughter bonding.
We're working on it, this taking care of ourselves physically and emotionally thing. Just a little awkward right now what with all of the peanuts in all of the pants. Atleast we can laugh.
I clean about as often as I feel that I have to, and you can tell from looking at my place that I don't feel very obligated. Unless someone comes over to visit or if someone tries to eat off my floor and then I have to stop them and say, "Hey, you might not want to do that." "Yes, I really do. I HAVE to," he'll say, because I would imagine that this is how a person who eats off the bare floor would respond. "Ok," I'll say handing them a fork. "If you can find the floor, it's yours. Just kick around the laundry and move those papers. And that dog. There you go. Hey! Look at that! I DO have a floor!"
And to tell you the truth, the kids and I don't wash our hair or brush our teeth as often as we should. Hey look, you asked!...oh wait, no, you didn't ask for that information. I'm just giving you the cold hard facts here. Life is a little crazy lately and sometimes the kids and I fall asleep in our clothes, on the couch, with the dog and the cat and the rabbit. Teeth unbrushed, faces unwashed, pajamas unworn. But we get to school and to work every day. And when we do people are overjoyed to see us! Until they get too close and breathe. Then we might smell a little funny, and truthfully we might look a little funny. The other day when we were running late I told Christopher to put on his socks and he yelled from his bedroom, "Ok, they're on!" He walked into the kitchen with his socks draped over his head. He thought he was hilarious, and even though we were seriously late I still had to laugh. What a smart ass.
We are making each other laugh more. That's been a good change. A few weeks ago I was lying in bed, depressed about something and Emma snuggled down next to me and said, "Hey Mom." "What?" I grumbled back. Then she boasted, "I have 50 electric peanuts in my pants." I smiled. I hadn't smiled all day. "Do you?" I asked. "Yes! Oh - what a minute..." she snuck under the covers and came back up. "I'm not wearing any pants." Somehow Emma knows just what to say to make me laugh. I could be coming home from the funeral of both of my parents and Emma could say the words "electric peanuts in my pants" and I would still giggle. It's not just the ridiculous things that she says. It's that, at age 8, she has mastered a dry tone so she says these things very matter of fact.
The other day I was able to turn it around on her. She, Claire and I went to a mother-daughter yoga class on Sunday and Emma started off class upset about something. She cried quietly for the first 15 minutes. There are so many big changes going on for that little kid and when I saw her crying like that I wanted to make everything better, but I didn't know how. So when we were lying on the floor I whispered, "Hey! Emma!" She looked at me, and she seemed so sad and tired. I probably looked the same way weeks before when she found me in my room. "I've got 50 electric peanuts in my pants," I whispered. She smiled a little, but she didn't laugh.
The class worked on her after a while. The teacher had us doing fun, playful poses and Emma began to giggle a bit. Then in the last ten minutes of class she fell asleep during the meditation. Poor thing really was tired. Since it was Chris's weekend with the kids, he came to pick them up at the end of class. It's always painful to watch the kids get in the car with him and go, just a reminder that our family's split. Even though it's a good thing, Chris and I both agree on that, there's something about it that's just hard. When I was telling them goodbye Emma called me over to her window. She said, in her flat tone, "Hey Mom. I've got peanuts in my pants too." That's true mother-daughter bonding.
We're working on it, this taking care of ourselves physically and emotionally thing. Just a little awkward right now what with all of the peanuts in all of the pants. Atleast we can laugh.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Gen's had a good shot of adrenalin
Saturday night I actually did something other than go to a 12 step meeting, or lie in bed and wonder what my kids were doing at their dad's house and if they were ok, or where the hell I went wrong with everything, and what the hell I'm doing with my life. I mean, I still managed to fit those things in over the weekend, but intermingled with my self-torture I also went to see Roller Derby. I wasn't sure if I would like it. I was hesitant about going at first. But when the announcer described the skaters as "a tangle of fishnets and skulls!" I knew I was in the right place.
Really, I thought I would have grown out of my dark side by now. When I was a teenager I painted my fingernails black and listened to Agent Orange and The Misfits, and that was fine. But I never imagined that at 34 I would be sitting in a college gym full of people who still dressed like I did in 1991, AND ME dressing kind of like I did in 1991 with my Creep Show T-shirt and cut-offs, and getting a kick out of watching grown women with names like "John Cougar Menstrual Cramp" knock each other to the ground. There's something cathartic about the whole thing. And the music! I wish I had the soundtrack to that fucking game! They played Agent Orange, Blondie, The Ramones, and The Runaways! That's the music I try to get away with listening to at work! But I don't!
Anyway, my friend Tricia and I came up with our own Roller Derby names, even though neither of us have skated in years and we don't like getting hit in the head. She is The Velveteen Grabb-It and I'm Gen-O-Cide. This doesn't mean we'll be joining the team, these are just the personas that we'll adopt the next time we go to a game.
Then to complete my juevenille delinquent weekend, last night I saw the movie "The Runaways." It is the story of the all girl rock band in the mid 70's with Joan Jett and Lita Ford. I liked.
When I got out of that movie I started thinking. I'm way too cautious with the way I write. In the movie, when The Runaway's bizarre manager was trying to coach the girls in the band about playing like tough-as-nails rock n' roll chicks, he gave them this constructive criticism, "You ladies need to start thinking with your cocks!" I think it's high time I started doing this with my writing. I'm always afraid of pissing people off, or talking about how I really feel about things.
Inside of me there is a saucy, punchy girl. So far the only way she comes out is in fiction, or when I'm playing a part. If I wore scary face paints, called myself Gen-O-Cide and wore a bad girl clothes then I probably stand up straight, talk unashamedly about how I feel about politics, excessive Facebooking, and how I think that Crocks are the ugliest shoes ever made. Also, I would look like an over-30, mother of three who's trying to look 18. But I don't have to disguise myself to talk or write about how I really feel about things and people in my life. I can just go balls out. Most of my friends do this and people still talk to them. Of course, none of them have published their thoughts. For some reason, that's a little different.
Today when I write I'm just letting everything out. I'm a little afraid of what I might say. Perhaps for the first few days that I do this I should wear fishnets, roller skates and a leather jacket. Just to arm myself. That would be an interesting sight for the kids to see when they wake up in the morning. They'll trudge into the kitchen rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, hear the familiar sounds of the coffee brewing and the clicking of laptop keys, and then the quite unfamiliar sight of their mother in a roller derby helmet and leather pants as she writes at the kitchen table. One of them will say to the other, as she shakes her head, "Mom's thinking with her cock again."
What got me about the movie and really made me think about what I'm doing with writing was Joan Jett's attitude towards music, even as a teenager. She knew what she wanted to do and she was serious about it She still is, I read a little bit about her today. That chick is 52 and she's still performinging live all over the world because she loves to play guitar.
I want to write how that music sounds. Raw and alive. I want someone to open my book, rest their ear against a page and hear one wailing electric guitar.
Really, I thought I would have grown out of my dark side by now. When I was a teenager I painted my fingernails black and listened to Agent Orange and The Misfits, and that was fine. But I never imagined that at 34 I would be sitting in a college gym full of people who still dressed like I did in 1991, AND ME dressing kind of like I did in 1991 with my Creep Show T-shirt and cut-offs, and getting a kick out of watching grown women with names like "John Cougar Menstrual Cramp" knock each other to the ground. There's something cathartic about the whole thing. And the music! I wish I had the soundtrack to that fucking game! They played Agent Orange, Blondie, The Ramones, and The Runaways! That's the music I try to get away with listening to at work! But I don't!
Anyway, my friend Tricia and I came up with our own Roller Derby names, even though neither of us have skated in years and we don't like getting hit in the head. She is The Velveteen Grabb-It and I'm Gen-O-Cide. This doesn't mean we'll be joining the team, these are just the personas that we'll adopt the next time we go to a game.
Then to complete my juevenille delinquent weekend, last night I saw the movie "The Runaways." It is the story of the all girl rock band in the mid 70's with Joan Jett and Lita Ford. I liked.
When I got out of that movie I started thinking. I'm way too cautious with the way I write. In the movie, when The Runaway's bizarre manager was trying to coach the girls in the band about playing like tough-as-nails rock n' roll chicks, he gave them this constructive criticism, "You ladies need to start thinking with your cocks!" I think it's high time I started doing this with my writing. I'm always afraid of pissing people off, or talking about how I really feel about things.
Inside of me there is a saucy, punchy girl. So far the only way she comes out is in fiction, or when I'm playing a part. If I wore scary face paints, called myself Gen-O-Cide and wore a bad girl clothes then I probably stand up straight, talk unashamedly about how I feel about politics, excessive Facebooking, and how I think that Crocks are the ugliest shoes ever made. Also, I would look like an over-30, mother of three who's trying to look 18. But I don't have to disguise myself to talk or write about how I really feel about things and people in my life. I can just go balls out. Most of my friends do this and people still talk to them. Of course, none of them have published their thoughts. For some reason, that's a little different.
Today when I write I'm just letting everything out. I'm a little afraid of what I might say. Perhaps for the first few days that I do this I should wear fishnets, roller skates and a leather jacket. Just to arm myself. That would be an interesting sight for the kids to see when they wake up in the morning. They'll trudge into the kitchen rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, hear the familiar sounds of the coffee brewing and the clicking of laptop keys, and then the quite unfamiliar sight of their mother in a roller derby helmet and leather pants as she writes at the kitchen table. One of them will say to the other, as she shakes her head, "Mom's thinking with her cock again."
What got me about the movie and really made me think about what I'm doing with writing was Joan Jett's attitude towards music, even as a teenager. She knew what she wanted to do and she was serious about it She still is, I read a little bit about her today. That chick is 52 and she's still performinging live all over the world because she loves to play guitar.
I want to write how that music sounds. Raw and alive. I want someone to open my book, rest their ear against a page and hear one wailing electric guitar.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Two Letters
Dear Cigarette,
You make me feel dizzy and drunk after I smoke you. Why would I want to feel that way? I don't really. So there must be something I'm avoiding. Or maybe something I'm trying to remember.
You taste like someone I used to know. But you also make my breath and hands stink. Your smell permeates everything. You used to taste good but you don't anymore. You are not the person I used to know, you are not a person at all. You don't love me. The second I take you in you begin to disappear. So I have to chase you again, chase this thing that could kill me and leaves me feeling dizzy, lousy, and worried after I have it.
And still, even as I write this, I want you again. Addiction is insane. To want you after all that I've wrriten here is insane. So part of me is crazy. And you're not crazy, are you, Cigarette? You disappearing act, you with no mind or soul at all. You who devolves into tar.
Fuck off,
Lungs
Dear Genevieve,
No more disappearing acts. No more taking in things that don't give back.
Love,
Yourself
Awwe, I wrote "Love yourself." It's nice, I know.
You make me feel dizzy and drunk after I smoke you. Why would I want to feel that way? I don't really. So there must be something I'm avoiding. Or maybe something I'm trying to remember.
You taste like someone I used to know. But you also make my breath and hands stink. Your smell permeates everything. You used to taste good but you don't anymore. You are not the person I used to know, you are not a person at all. You don't love me. The second I take you in you begin to disappear. So I have to chase you again, chase this thing that could kill me and leaves me feeling dizzy, lousy, and worried after I have it.
And still, even as I write this, I want you again. Addiction is insane. To want you after all that I've wrriten here is insane. So part of me is crazy. And you're not crazy, are you, Cigarette? You disappearing act, you with no mind or soul at all. You who devolves into tar.
Fuck off,
Lungs
Dear Genevieve,
No more disappearing acts. No more taking in things that don't give back.
Love,
Yourself
Awwe, I wrote "Love yourself." It's nice, I know.
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