I'm a girl. A girly girl. I love shoes and pink and wearing dresses. I giggle and I cry at sad movies and pet commercials. I'm terrible at sports, I scream when I see a spider, and I don't like getting dirty. I love Disney and princesses and I know almost every word to every song in A Sound of Music and My Fair Lady. So what I am about to tell you may not make sense.
I hate weddings. I don't necessarily hate the idea of them and I know they're some kind of tradition and rite of passage and ceremonial whatever, but I hate going to them. I cringe when I get a wedding invitation. If you are trying to cut back on your guest list, feel free to remove me from the invite list. My feelings won't be hurt, I will breathe a sigh of relief.
Seriously, weddings are only for the people getting married and maybe their parents, if the parents are happy about it. Nobody else really cares. Not about the actual ceremony part. It's boring. First you sit there waiting forever because it's against the rules for a wedding to start on time. I have been sunburned sitting at outdoor weddings. And then there's the ceremony with the words. Sometimes there are too many; sometimes you can't hear them. For me, it's all one big yawn-fest.
This weekend I totally figured out how to do a wedding right. Skip the ceremony. Pass Go, and go straight to the reception. It's brilliant!!
KY's friends got married this weekend. We were coming back from Portland and got in town about 10 minutes before the wedding started. I had the perfect excuse of having a presentation due for school so I bowed out gracefully. And then I got bored. And also realized that I hate doing some things alone and I was probably a Very Bad Girlfriend for not being there. So I threw on a dress and headed down to the reception.
This is definitely the best way to go to a wedding. Because it's the party part, duh. You still get to see the white dress and the bridesmaid's dresses. But you get to drink booze and talk and relax and eat and laugh. Plus, the reception is where the bride and groom are doing all of that too. They're past the nervous part and the possibly-sad-teary part and they get to be themselves. Their best party selves.
When the sister of my best friend in elementary school got married, my family was only invited to the reception. This is because her family was Mormon and, because we weren't, we weren't allowed inside the temple for the ceremony. I assume the reception was not in the temple, but I don't know because we didn't go. Something about my mom thought it was tacky and we weren't good enough to be in their church or maybe it was just a long drive, I don't know. All I know is that is totally the way to do it. Maybe I should befriend a bunch of Mormons so I have a legitimate excuse not to go to the wedding but I can still go to the party.
Maybe I can start a new trend. I don't even think the couples will mind that much. I'll still bring a present. And toast to happiness. I will be the best party guest there. Just let me skip the "I dos" and go straight to the booze.
Cheers!
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Thursday, September 06, 2012
Out of Context
These are random things I said today, which taken out of context are either retarded or criminally insane or both.
"It's the only food that can taste you back."
"Isn't that who she was yelling at yesterday?"
"It isn't 'my job' to listen to someone fighting and it isn't 'my career path' to sit here tense all day."
"I'm going to go get the tongue out of the refrigerator."
"Tongue tacos or tongue stew?"
"We could dress them in matching sweaters."
"Go home and take it out on the fam."
"I absorb protein better when it's in chocolate."
"Who really cares about a hernia?"
"It's the only food that can taste you back."
"Isn't that who she was yelling at yesterday?"
"It isn't 'my job' to listen to someone fighting and it isn't 'my career path' to sit here tense all day."
"I'm going to go get the tongue out of the refrigerator."
"Tongue tacos or tongue stew?"
"We could dress them in matching sweaters."
"Go home and take it out on the fam."
"I absorb protein better when it's in chocolate."
"Who really cares about a hernia?"
Monday, September 03, 2012
The X-Ray of My Soul
Depression isn't sadness. Not real depression. Sadness is caused by something. Your pet dies. You break up with your boyfriend. Your favorite TV show ends. There's an impetus to sadness. A + B = sad.
There's no equation for depression. One day it just shows up, invites itself in, and makes itself at home. Sometimes it does wear a costume of sadness. Just to shake things up a bit. But it's at the oddest times. "Hey, I'm with friends! People like me, this is great! Oh, wait? What IS that? Why am I suddenly crushed with sadness? Get it off, get if off!!!" Yeah, it's kind of a mind-fuck like that.
Have you ever gotten an x-ray and they put that heavy coat/vest/doormat thing on you? Even if you're just getting your teeth checked? Depression is kind of like that. Heavy, only all over. Over your very soul. It's debilitating and makes it hard to breathe. Only it's invisible. Like an invisible cloak, but not in a cool, Harry Potter way. In the way that all you can do is crawl under it and drag it around until it gets a little lighter, then a little lighter, then lifts. It disappears for the same reason that it appeared. For no discernible reason at all.
And what does it look like to the people around you? Well, because it's invisible, it looks like you're being an asshole. It looks like you don't care. Because you don't. Depression makes you numb to caring, not just about other people, but about yourself. It's impossible to care about anyone or anything when your soul is covered with this heavy darkness.
And then it lies to you. On your better days, you know you're smart and capable and deserving. When depression knocks, it makes you believe that you're worthless and stupid and wrong. No matter what you do, it will be wrong. You know that you have things to do, that people depend on you. People you care about. Depression tells you those people don't care, that you're a disappointment, that the effort of trying is too much. And even if there are other voices saying, "No, do it! You can! You're someone who matters!", depression's voice is louder. Only it's not loud, because it's in your bones. And your bones are heavy and you're tired and you can't do it anyway because you're shit, so you don't. You give up.
Then people are disappointed. And you explain yourself until you're blue in the face but it doesn't matter. "Can't you see? I'm trying!! Can't you see? I care!!" No, it's like a one-way mirror. You see it, but they don't. You know you're different, that something is wrong and that you don't want it, but they only see the appearance of apathy, self-absorption, and discourtesy.
So you wait. You give yourself a time-out and face the corner. Which, by the way, is also rude and viewed as being a supreme asshole, but you can't worry about that. You can only wait for the heaviness to lift. For the lies to stop. For the moment you can smile again and really feel it.
One day you're happy again. What is happy for you, anyway. Once in a while you even forget for a little bit. You allow yourself to be carefree and silly and let the joy in. But it's there. It's at the edge, it's waiting to come back, unannounced, uninvited. You can blur the line for a little bit, you can put a few steps between you. But it will be back.
It always is.
There's no equation for depression. One day it just shows up, invites itself in, and makes itself at home. Sometimes it does wear a costume of sadness. Just to shake things up a bit. But it's at the oddest times. "Hey, I'm with friends! People like me, this is great! Oh, wait? What IS that? Why am I suddenly crushed with sadness? Get it off, get if off!!!" Yeah, it's kind of a mind-fuck like that.
Have you ever gotten an x-ray and they put that heavy coat/vest/doormat thing on you? Even if you're just getting your teeth checked? Depression is kind of like that. Heavy, only all over. Over your very soul. It's debilitating and makes it hard to breathe. Only it's invisible. Like an invisible cloak, but not in a cool, Harry Potter way. In the way that all you can do is crawl under it and drag it around until it gets a little lighter, then a little lighter, then lifts. It disappears for the same reason that it appeared. For no discernible reason at all.
And what does it look like to the people around you? Well, because it's invisible, it looks like you're being an asshole. It looks like you don't care. Because you don't. Depression makes you numb to caring, not just about other people, but about yourself. It's impossible to care about anyone or anything when your soul is covered with this heavy darkness.
And then it lies to you. On your better days, you know you're smart and capable and deserving. When depression knocks, it makes you believe that you're worthless and stupid and wrong. No matter what you do, it will be wrong. You know that you have things to do, that people depend on you. People you care about. Depression tells you those people don't care, that you're a disappointment, that the effort of trying is too much. And even if there are other voices saying, "No, do it! You can! You're someone who matters!", depression's voice is louder. Only it's not loud, because it's in your bones. And your bones are heavy and you're tired and you can't do it anyway because you're shit, so you don't. You give up.
Then people are disappointed. And you explain yourself until you're blue in the face but it doesn't matter. "Can't you see? I'm trying!! Can't you see? I care!!" No, it's like a one-way mirror. You see it, but they don't. You know you're different, that something is wrong and that you don't want it, but they only see the appearance of apathy, self-absorption, and discourtesy.
So you wait. You give yourself a time-out and face the corner. Which, by the way, is also rude and viewed as being a supreme asshole, but you can't worry about that. You can only wait for the heaviness to lift. For the lies to stop. For the moment you can smile again and really feel it.
One day you're happy again. What is happy for you, anyway. Once in a while you even forget for a little bit. You allow yourself to be carefree and silly and let the joy in. But it's there. It's at the edge, it's waiting to come back, unannounced, uninvited. You can blur the line for a little bit, you can put a few steps between you. But it will be back.
It always is.
Monday, August 27, 2012
The Stranger in My House
Living with a teenager is an experience. I've gotten used to the eye-rolls (which are actually a genetic trait among the women in my family), the door slams, the tears over seemingly nothing and the gigantic mood swings from day to day. All of these normal symptoms seem to be exacerbated in my child because of her Gemini-ness. You know, kind of sweet and tolerable one minute, hating the world purely because it exists the next. One second she loves one of the dogs and the next hates them both because they breathe. And chew her lip gloss. That she leaves out on the floor.
Teenagers are supposed to be creatures that are unrecognizable from their previous incarnations as children. But I've heard very little about the nice parts. That's probably because the nice parts are related to the saddest parts and nobody wants to watch me turn into a dribbling pool of idiotic tears. The nice part has happened over the summer, practically over night. Here is how the nice part goes:
D: Can I go do such-and-such tomorrow?
Me: Yes, after you clean your bathroom.
D: Okay, that's fair.
What? Agreeing to a chore? This has been unheard of in my house for the last 16 years! Okay, maybe 11 years. It's not like I asked her to do the dishes before she could walk. But still.
She no longer cares about the amount of time that I spend with KY. She actually asks to spend time with us. She cleans her room fairly often. She's more realistic about her abilities. As in, she now admits she's not the greatest driver in the world like she originally tried to convince me. She just carries herself differently.
There are still the not-so-nice parts. The hormones are strong in this one; there are days I can't even look at her without her freaking out. "Why are you looking at me like that??" I'm now finding panties in the laundry that look like mine, but aren't. The Disney princesses and cute teddy bears have been replaced with lace and much less material.
This is probably the most bittersweet time in my life thus far. I'm watching my little girl grow up before my very eyes. She's beginning to leave her little-girl self behind as she tries on her adult skin. I'm proud of her and amazed by her and at the same time I want to scream, "NO!! Not yet! I'm not ready!" I want to turn back the clock to those days we'd sit in the rocking chair for hours, when I'd let her nap there with me because I knew the day would come when I didn't want to let go, when she wouldn't fit in my lap so perfectly, when she didn't look to me for all of her needs but to her friends and soon, to a boy. We're now farther from those days and closer to the days when she'll know herself how I felt.
She's really excited to start school this year as she feels that this is going to be Her Year. She has youth choir, Skyliner jazz choir, her first play, and she is ready to get started. Me? Not so much. This will be the second-to-last first-day-of-school. Can we postpone it until January? At least October? Because the sooner it starts, the sooner it ends and I'm not ready for it to end. I'm not ready for the quiet. I'm not ready to miss her grumpy face in the mornings. I'm not ready to miss the excited, talking-too-fast or the laughing over nothing. I'm not ready to pack up her room and let the world take her in. As much as I like and appreciate the new person she is becoming, I'm not ready to meet her adult self.
Not yet. Just not yet.
Teenagers are supposed to be creatures that are unrecognizable from their previous incarnations as children. But I've heard very little about the nice parts. That's probably because the nice parts are related to the saddest parts and nobody wants to watch me turn into a dribbling pool of idiotic tears. The nice part has happened over the summer, practically over night. Here is how the nice part goes:
D: Can I go do such-and-such tomorrow?
Me: Yes, after you clean your bathroom.
D: Okay, that's fair.
What? Agreeing to a chore? This has been unheard of in my house for the last 16 years! Okay, maybe 11 years. It's not like I asked her to do the dishes before she could walk. But still.
She no longer cares about the amount of time that I spend with KY. She actually asks to spend time with us. She cleans her room fairly often. She's more realistic about her abilities. As in, she now admits she's not the greatest driver in the world like she originally tried to convince me. She just carries herself differently.
There are still the not-so-nice parts. The hormones are strong in this one; there are days I can't even look at her without her freaking out. "Why are you looking at me like that??" I'm now finding panties in the laundry that look like mine, but aren't. The Disney princesses and cute teddy bears have been replaced with lace and much less material.
This is probably the most bittersweet time in my life thus far. I'm watching my little girl grow up before my very eyes. She's beginning to leave her little-girl self behind as she tries on her adult skin. I'm proud of her and amazed by her and at the same time I want to scream, "NO!! Not yet! I'm not ready!" I want to turn back the clock to those days we'd sit in the rocking chair for hours, when I'd let her nap there with me because I knew the day would come when I didn't want to let go, when she wouldn't fit in my lap so perfectly, when she didn't look to me for all of her needs but to her friends and soon, to a boy. We're now farther from those days and closer to the days when she'll know herself how I felt.
She's really excited to start school this year as she feels that this is going to be Her Year. She has youth choir, Skyliner jazz choir, her first play, and she is ready to get started. Me? Not so much. This will be the second-to-last first-day-of-school. Can we postpone it until January? At least October? Because the sooner it starts, the sooner it ends and I'm not ready for it to end. I'm not ready for the quiet. I'm not ready to miss her grumpy face in the mornings. I'm not ready to miss the excited, talking-too-fast or the laughing over nothing. I'm not ready to pack up her room and let the world take her in. As much as I like and appreciate the new person she is becoming, I'm not ready to meet her adult self.
Not yet. Just not yet.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Danger in the Night
I was fast asleep in the dead of night, dogs snuggled up next to me. Cozy and comfy.
Until one dog started barking frantically, setting the other one off. They both leapt off the bed and went running towards the offensive, intrusive sound. Such brave souls! They run straight towards danger, not concerned with their safety, only protecting my well-being.
At first my inferior, human ear heard nothing. So I called them back, but they insisted that something sinister was afoot. Danger lurked just outside the door. And then! I heard it. It was the ear-splitting scream of a cat. Two cats! Two cats spitting and yowling at each other in anger. Oh, my brave, trusty hounds. Protecting me from such evil! From the horrors of felines! What luck to have them in my service to guard me. Suppose those evil beasts had allied themselves against me, scratching the window screen to get at me and tear my tender flesh with razor-sharp talons? I shudder at the thought.
I carefully, oh-so-quietly crept to the door to release my guardians, to unleash their wrath and fury on the ghouls in the night. Remy raced out first, while Ruby performed a check around the perimeter, assuring that all was once again secure. They performed these duties with such honor while I could only wait at the door, hoping for their safe return.
And then I went back to bed. Remy jumped back up on the bed, highly satisfied with his hero skilz and snuggled in under his blanket. Ruby, after licking my arm to either assure me that my life had been spared or to apologize for waking me up, curled up next to me once again.
Tonight the little champions just might find themselves in their crates.
Until one dog started barking frantically, setting the other one off. They both leapt off the bed and went running towards the offensive, intrusive sound. Such brave souls! They run straight towards danger, not concerned with their safety, only protecting my well-being.
At first my inferior, human ear heard nothing. So I called them back, but they insisted that something sinister was afoot. Danger lurked just outside the door. And then! I heard it. It was the ear-splitting scream of a cat. Two cats! Two cats spitting and yowling at each other in anger. Oh, my brave, trusty hounds. Protecting me from such evil! From the horrors of felines! What luck to have them in my service to guard me. Suppose those evil beasts had allied themselves against me, scratching the window screen to get at me and tear my tender flesh with razor-sharp talons? I shudder at the thought.
I carefully, oh-so-quietly crept to the door to release my guardians, to unleash their wrath and fury on the ghouls in the night. Remy raced out first, while Ruby performed a check around the perimeter, assuring that all was once again secure. They performed these duties with such honor while I could only wait at the door, hoping for their safe return.
And then I went back to bed. Remy jumped back up on the bed, highly satisfied with his hero skilz and snuggled in under his blanket. Ruby, after licking my arm to either assure me that my life had been spared or to apologize for waking me up, curled up next to me once again.
Tonight the little champions just might find themselves in their crates.
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
Lessons From a Teenager
D had a friend over the other night and then a third friend went to the fair with them the next day. There were the usual silly, girly quotes and sayings. They were all screaming in anticipation of the concert they went to see and that was funny in itself. But she said some other things that were less funny but stuck with me afterward. See below.
"I got a guy's number!!!!!!"
Yes, she screamed when she said this. In the car. And it is funny. But terrifying at the same time. And the point I made at the time was that she didn't ask for his number herself. Technically her friend asked, she just put it in her phone. That turned out not to be the lesson. I'd like to say something about how boys are lazy these days and need to man up and make the first move. That isn't the lesson either. The lesson is that she wanted something and she found a way to get it. Life is short. You can't wait around for it, you have to go and get it. Sometimes you enlist a friend for help.
"The technicality just wasn't there."
This was in reference to a ballet we went to see in Portland. It was a rock opera ballet, meaning there was a live band and live singers and they played songs from the 60's while the ballet dancers did the twist and the mashed potato. At first I thought we've watched one too many talent shows, but then it struck me that she's just growing up. She's realizing that if you're going to do something and devote a large chunk of your time to it, then you better do it well. Nobody wants to see you half-ass it. My lesson to her was to look past the initial surface, let go of expectations, and just enjoy a situation for what it is. In this case it was a dance with fun songs and cute costumes.
"You're being mean and judgey."
My first response was going to be, "Did we just meet?" The second was "I'm your mom, I'm supposed to be." But this was about the boy whose number she had "gotten" and she was right. I was judging and red-flagging all over this boy I haven't even met and she just wanted to be happy and feel butterflies and imagine the first kiss. In my defense, I was only being judgey because she's my baby girl and nobody will ever be good enough for her and also I'm old and cynical and I don't want her heart broken a million times. But she was right and I was hurtful. She was living that second lesson about living in the moment and feeling the joy that comes and I needed to look past the serious stuff and the possibilities that may or may not happen and let her have her happy.
The first date with this boy is Saturday. For the first time a boy will come to the house, pick her up in a car by himself, and take her on a date. No parents driving. No parents dropping off and picking up. Yes, I am stressing this because it terrifies me. But I have to learn to let go and she has to learn how to move in her own way in the world. At least we're trying to figure it out together.
"I got a guy's number!!!!!!"
Yes, she screamed when she said this. In the car. And it is funny. But terrifying at the same time. And the point I made at the time was that she didn't ask for his number herself. Technically her friend asked, she just put it in her phone. That turned out not to be the lesson. I'd like to say something about how boys are lazy these days and need to man up and make the first move. That isn't the lesson either. The lesson is that she wanted something and she found a way to get it. Life is short. You can't wait around for it, you have to go and get it. Sometimes you enlist a friend for help.
"The technicality just wasn't there."
This was in reference to a ballet we went to see in Portland. It was a rock opera ballet, meaning there was a live band and live singers and they played songs from the 60's while the ballet dancers did the twist and the mashed potato. At first I thought we've watched one too many talent shows, but then it struck me that she's just growing up. She's realizing that if you're going to do something and devote a large chunk of your time to it, then you better do it well. Nobody wants to see you half-ass it. My lesson to her was to look past the initial surface, let go of expectations, and just enjoy a situation for what it is. In this case it was a dance with fun songs and cute costumes.
"You're being mean and judgey."
My first response was going to be, "Did we just meet?" The second was "I'm your mom, I'm supposed to be." But this was about the boy whose number she had "gotten" and she was right. I was judging and red-flagging all over this boy I haven't even met and she just wanted to be happy and feel butterflies and imagine the first kiss. In my defense, I was only being judgey because she's my baby girl and nobody will ever be good enough for her and also I'm old and cynical and I don't want her heart broken a million times. But she was right and I was hurtful. She was living that second lesson about living in the moment and feeling the joy that comes and I needed to look past the serious stuff and the possibilities that may or may not happen and let her have her happy.
The first date with this boy is Saturday. For the first time a boy will come to the house, pick her up in a car by himself, and take her on a date. No parents driving. No parents dropping off and picking up. Yes, I am stressing this because it terrifies me. But I have to learn to let go and she has to learn how to move in her own way in the world. At least we're trying to figure it out together.
When You're Done, You're Done
People think they are funny. My friends especially think they're funny. They're not.
MR: Who has the best happy hour in Bend
Me: I don't know anymore, I don't go out much.
MR: You not go out? Are you pregnant?
Me: Not working for a year meant not going out.
MR: Well that's boring. It would be funner if you said you were preggers.
Me: Oh hell no!! I would throw myself down a flight of stairs!
MR: lol. You wouldn't dare.
Me: Totally would.
And if I didn't, my 16-year-old would probably push me down the stairs herself.
MR: Who has the best happy hour in Bend
Me: I don't know anymore, I don't go out much.
MR: You not go out? Are you pregnant?
Me: Not working for a year meant not going out.
MR: Well that's boring. It would be funner if you said you were preggers.
Me: Oh hell no!! I would throw myself down a flight of stairs!
MR: lol. You wouldn't dare.
Me: Totally would.
And if I didn't, my 16-year-old would probably push me down the stairs herself.
Tuesday, August 07, 2012
A Frog Eulogy
Amongst all the crazy goings-on of the weekend, we had a death in the family. Because I chose to talk about other things first makes me no less sad that our little Potato Beans passed away. I held a private, one-person service for him last night, sending him to his toilet-watery grave, but I'd like to take a moment to pay my respects and let Potato know that he has been flushed, but not forgotten.
Potato, we knew you for almost a year and enjoyed every minute of it. You brought us joy with your little froggy antics. You were, hands-down, the sexiest frog, nay, amphibian, that we've ever met. The way you put one little webbed foot up against the glass, your other on your froggy hip with that "Hey, ladies. How YOU doin'?" look just took our breath away every time. There is no question that you packed more personality into your one ounce than most people do in their 150 pounds.
We will miss you dearly and think of you fondly. We wish you well on your journey to lillypad heaven.
Goodbye, our little froggy prince.
Potato, we knew you for almost a year and enjoyed every minute of it. You brought us joy with your little froggy antics. You were, hands-down, the sexiest frog, nay, amphibian, that we've ever met. The way you put one little webbed foot up against the glass, your other on your froggy hip with that "Hey, ladies. How YOU doin'?" look just took our breath away every time. There is no question that you packed more personality into your one ounce than most people do in their 150 pounds.
We will miss you dearly and think of you fondly. We wish you well on your journey to lillypad heaven.
Goodbye, our little froggy prince.
Monday, August 06, 2012
Fair Trends 2012 Edition
I went to the fair in Redmond this weekend. My favorite thing about the fair, aside from the food, is seeing all the animals. Of both the four-legged and two-legged kind. The four-leggeds outdid themselves this year. I saw baby goats, baby bunnies, baby chicks AND baby piglets! Oh, it was cuteness overload!!
I also saw the saddest thing I've ever seen in the world. Or at least at the fair. Of course I know that the fat piggies go to Bacon Heaven after the fair because I read Charlotte's Web. But knowing something and knowing something are two different things. In one of the little pens there was a boy, about eight or nine years old, lying in the hay next to his pig with his arms around the pig's wide, wide belly. He would sit up now and then to wipe the tears from his eyes and then throw his arms around that big belly again. It was heartbreaking, really. I questioned how his parents could put him through an experience like that. I couldn't do it. Life is harsh on its own, but I'm sure they have their reasons. If only I could have spun a web that said "Fucking fabulously fantastic pig right here!", I would have. I would have done it for that little boy.
Now for the real meat of the trip. The review of Fair Fashion. If the atrocities I saw can be called fashion.
The first noticeable trend is the pairing of short shorts with cowboy boots. I know that cowboy boots are kind of a fair thing, but it was hot and they don't look comfortable. And, although the girls wearing them got plenty of looks from members of the opposite sex, I couldn't decide what it was about them that bothered me. I asked KY* his opinion and he replied that he wasn't a fan, mostly because the girls dressed this way appeared to be about 12. Good point. I definitely preferred the boots with dresses and skirts. It's possible that only Daisy Duke or Jessica Simpson as Daisy Duke can get away with the shorts/boots combo. And even Jessica will likely never be able to do it again.
Next we have neon, which has reared its ugly 80's head once again. It comes mostly in the form of obnoxiously bright shoes, but I did see a teenage boy wearing shockingly yellow pants. It was pretty awful, but they were pulled up all the way, revealing no underwear, so I let it go.
I think the most disturbing trend I have yet seen is the showing off of the fat. This is when a girl who really shouldn't, but does, wears skin tight clothes that show off every roll of fat on her body. Now, I am no size 2 (well, sometimes I am. Or used to be. Actually I was once a zero, but I was also 13 and I would look dead if I were a size zero now. But I grossly digress.), and I just blogged about how we should embrace and accept our bodies, but there is a limit. I have a belly. I try to hide it, not accentuate it. And trust me, ladies, nobody wants to see in great detail exactly how fleshy you are. It's just wrong. It makes it even worse when you're standing in the line for a funnel cake because we know those rolls are just growing by the bite. Yuck. For the love of good taste and the sight I have left in my eyes, cover that shit up appropriately!
Remember this advice for next year. Or don't. I like having something to make fun of. I'm snarky that way.
*KY is Mr. A. and they are his real initials, which are funnier than any nickname I could come up with and I don't know why I didn't realize it before. KY. How did I miss that one?? He will be known as KY from this point on.
**UPDATE**
Dudes. How could I forget the all-important, New-Jersey-shore-style-on-the-wesst-coast known as the bump-it?? Yes. Bump-its. In Redmond. And yes, that is the plural form. As in more than one. As in more than two. I saw a whole FAMILY of bump-its. As in grandma, daughter, and granddaughter. I swear if that baby in that stroller had enough hair, they would have bumped it too.
And, Grandma Bump-it, yes, you have a great body. Except that you probably had your daughter when you were 16 so you're probably not as old as you looked. Or as the cheese on your legs made you look. Yes, cheese. Cover that shit up, take out the bump-it, and you'll take 10 years off your age. I promise, girlfriend. Do it.
I also saw the saddest thing I've ever seen in the world. Or at least at the fair. Of course I know that the fat piggies go to Bacon Heaven after the fair because I read Charlotte's Web. But knowing something and knowing something are two different things. In one of the little pens there was a boy, about eight or nine years old, lying in the hay next to his pig with his arms around the pig's wide, wide belly. He would sit up now and then to wipe the tears from his eyes and then throw his arms around that big belly again. It was heartbreaking, really. I questioned how his parents could put him through an experience like that. I couldn't do it. Life is harsh on its own, but I'm sure they have their reasons. If only I could have spun a web that said "Fucking fabulously fantastic pig right here!", I would have. I would have done it for that little boy.
Now for the real meat of the trip. The review of Fair Fashion. If the atrocities I saw can be called fashion.
The first noticeable trend is the pairing of short shorts with cowboy boots. I know that cowboy boots are kind of a fair thing, but it was hot and they don't look comfortable. And, although the girls wearing them got plenty of looks from members of the opposite sex, I couldn't decide what it was about them that bothered me. I asked KY* his opinion and he replied that he wasn't a fan, mostly because the girls dressed this way appeared to be about 12. Good point. I definitely preferred the boots with dresses and skirts. It's possible that only Daisy Duke or Jessica Simpson as Daisy Duke can get away with the shorts/boots combo. And even Jessica will likely never be able to do it again.
Next we have neon, which has reared its ugly 80's head once again. It comes mostly in the form of obnoxiously bright shoes, but I did see a teenage boy wearing shockingly yellow pants. It was pretty awful, but they were pulled up all the way, revealing no underwear, so I let it go.
I think the most disturbing trend I have yet seen is the showing off of the fat. This is when a girl who really shouldn't, but does, wears skin tight clothes that show off every roll of fat on her body. Now, I am no size 2 (well, sometimes I am. Or used to be. Actually I was once a zero, but I was also 13 and I would look dead if I were a size zero now. But I grossly digress.), and I just blogged about how we should embrace and accept our bodies, but there is a limit. I have a belly. I try to hide it, not accentuate it. And trust me, ladies, nobody wants to see in great detail exactly how fleshy you are. It's just wrong. It makes it even worse when you're standing in the line for a funnel cake because we know those rolls are just growing by the bite. Yuck. For the love of good taste and the sight I have left in my eyes, cover that shit up appropriately!
Remember this advice for next year. Or don't. I like having something to make fun of. I'm snarky that way.
*KY is Mr. A. and they are his real initials, which are funnier than any nickname I could come up with and I don't know why I didn't realize it before. KY. How did I miss that one?? He will be known as KY from this point on.
**UPDATE**
Dudes. How could I forget the all-important, New-Jersey-shore-style-on-the-wesst-coast known as the bump-it?? Yes. Bump-its. In Redmond. And yes, that is the plural form. As in more than one. As in more than two. I saw a whole FAMILY of bump-its. As in grandma, daughter, and granddaughter. I swear if that baby in that stroller had enough hair, they would have bumped it too.
And, Grandma Bump-it, yes, you have a great body. Except that you probably had your daughter when you were 16 so you're probably not as old as you looked. Or as the cheese on your legs made you look. Yes, cheese. Cover that shit up, take out the bump-it, and you'll take 10 years off your age. I promise, girlfriend. Do it.
Friday, July 27, 2012
I'm Bringing Bellies Back
I have always had a belly. Even when I was 19 and weighed all of 90 pounds. Of course I would give anything to have that belly back now. The belly I have now is much bigger. Sometimes it looks like a 6-month food baby. Sometimes it feels like a 6-month food baby.
Unfortunately I have inherited my mother's apple shape. I gain weight first in my stomach and then, when it's really bad, it moves to my back. Meanwhile, my arms and legs stay skinny. It's never evenly distributed. I have no proportion.
Sometimes it's okay. Like when I first wake up in the morning and it seems kinda flat. I think I might have actually lost weight. And then gravity takes over and reality comes crashing in. Or down. Or out, whatever it may be.
I bought a super cute dress the other day. I tried it on, noticed the belly bump and thought, "this will look cute when I get skinny!" So I bought it. Because that's what I do. I buy clothes based on what I want to look like, not what I actually look like. I end up with a closet-full of clothes that I can't wear. Yet.
Yesterday I put the dress on. I'd lost a whole pound and thought, "Why the hell not?" And then I examined myself in the mirror a few dozen times before leaving the house. I asked Mr. A., "Do I look fat? Should I change?" He said no. He said "You have a belly. It doesn't make you fat." And then he said something about how it's because of cheese and booze and pasta and all I heard after a while was "wah wah wah wahh..." So I wore the damn dress.
And then I started to wonder why flat stomachs are so awesome. Sure, they're all toned and tight and youthful-looking. Whatever. But there was a time when plumpness was attractive. Hell, there was a time when rolls of flesh were attractive because they were a sign of wealth. Well, my belly is a sign that I've lived. I've had delicious, decadent meals with my friends and my family. I gave birth to the bestest girl in the world. I've spent time snuggling on the couch with adorable puppies when we maybe should have been out on walks. I have earned this belly and it should be sexy because it's a part of me.
So this is what I propose. We make bellies sexy again. They're feminine because of what we do with them. We give life and we sustain life. We take care of our families. We provide pillows for our little dogs' heads. We're sexy because of all of that and we should recognize it. These little 20-year-olds with their flat stomachs. Pssh. What do they know about being a real woman? They haven't lived yet.
Now, this isn't permission to get carried away. Nobody needs to see a detailed outline of your mushroom top. This isn't permission to dress like a full-out skank. We are ladies. We are classy. The belly should be treated with respect. And love.
Isn't that what it's really all about anyway? Loving ourselves? Flaws, quirks, imperfections and all? Big bellies, big feet, small ears, freckles, curly hair, stretch marks, wrinkles. We've earned it. Let's embrace it. Let's be the sexy beasts that we know we can be. That we, in fact, are.
Eat the ice cream. Drink the martini. Laugh with friends. Make love with abandon. Maybe even with the light on.
And when you finally do get that flat stomach, those toned abs? Love them too. I know I will.
Unfortunately I have inherited my mother's apple shape. I gain weight first in my stomach and then, when it's really bad, it moves to my back. Meanwhile, my arms and legs stay skinny. It's never evenly distributed. I have no proportion.
Sometimes it's okay. Like when I first wake up in the morning and it seems kinda flat. I think I might have actually lost weight. And then gravity takes over and reality comes crashing in. Or down. Or out, whatever it may be.
I bought a super cute dress the other day. I tried it on, noticed the belly bump and thought, "this will look cute when I get skinny!" So I bought it. Because that's what I do. I buy clothes based on what I want to look like, not what I actually look like. I end up with a closet-full of clothes that I can't wear. Yet.
Yesterday I put the dress on. I'd lost a whole pound and thought, "Why the hell not?" And then I examined myself in the mirror a few dozen times before leaving the house. I asked Mr. A., "Do I look fat? Should I change?" He said no. He said "You have a belly. It doesn't make you fat." And then he said something about how it's because of cheese and booze and pasta and all I heard after a while was "wah wah wah wahh..." So I wore the damn dress.
And then I started to wonder why flat stomachs are so awesome. Sure, they're all toned and tight and youthful-looking. Whatever. But there was a time when plumpness was attractive. Hell, there was a time when rolls of flesh were attractive because they were a sign of wealth. Well, my belly is a sign that I've lived. I've had delicious, decadent meals with my friends and my family. I gave birth to the bestest girl in the world. I've spent time snuggling on the couch with adorable puppies when we maybe should have been out on walks. I have earned this belly and it should be sexy because it's a part of me.
So this is what I propose. We make bellies sexy again. They're feminine because of what we do with them. We give life and we sustain life. We take care of our families. We provide pillows for our little dogs' heads. We're sexy because of all of that and we should recognize it. These little 20-year-olds with their flat stomachs. Pssh. What do they know about being a real woman? They haven't lived yet.
Now, this isn't permission to get carried away. Nobody needs to see a detailed outline of your mushroom top. This isn't permission to dress like a full-out skank. We are ladies. We are classy. The belly should be treated with respect. And love.
Isn't that what it's really all about anyway? Loving ourselves? Flaws, quirks, imperfections and all? Big bellies, big feet, small ears, freckles, curly hair, stretch marks, wrinkles. We've earned it. Let's embrace it. Let's be the sexy beasts that we know we can be. That we, in fact, are.
Eat the ice cream. Drink the martini. Laugh with friends. Make love with abandon. Maybe even with the light on.
And when you finally do get that flat stomach, those toned abs? Love them too. I know I will.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Pet Wish List
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who really loved horses. She collected horse figurines and knew all about Palominos and Arabians and Appaloosas. She read Black Beauty and watched The Black Stallion over and over. She decorated her room with horse pictures until she hit puberty and exchanged them for posters of boys wearing makeup. Because it was the early 80's and she thought that Nick Rhodes was the cutest member of Duran Duran. I digress. The point is this little girl wanted a horse so badly that she begged regularly for one, only to be told that horses are too expensive and require too much time and space. And they're expensive, did her parents mention that? Her dream was crushed.
Then one day the little girl grew up and became me and realized that her parents were right. Not about everything, but certainly about horses. They are expensive and they eat a lot and when they're ponies they are assholes and bite your shin when you try to pet them and say hi and then you end up saying fuck-you-pony in front of small children. So I gave up on wanting a horse and replaced my desire for a fucking pony with a sincere desire for something unique and smaller and less likely to bite me. I have made a list.
1. I want a seahorse and I will name him Seamour. Or Shelldon, I haven't decided. You know what's cool about seahorses? They're like a tiny horse that lives in water with a curly little tail and no teeth! Or maybe they have teeth, but they'd have to get through the glass of a tank to get to my shin so I'm not really worried. But you know what else is cool? The males have the babies! A guy should be pregnant in my house. Then I can sit around, eating whatever I want, cocktail in hand, and say, "Dude. Are you worried about stretch marks?" And he'd get all moody and pissy and swim to the other side of his little tank away from me and pout in a corner. Then we'd have to have some kind of hippie water-birth because he's already in the water but I could feel all smug about it. Totally awesome.
2. A platypus. I totally want a platypus. Because nobody knows what it is! Is it a duck? Is it an otter? What the fuck does it eat? I supposedly learned all about them in first grade when we learned about Australia but all I remember is the "laugh kookaburra laugh, please save some for me" song that nobody else in the world seems to know and any time I sing it people look at me like I'm crazy. So I looked up the platypus and it's very cute. It's not even in an it's-so-ugly-it's-cute kind of way, because it's too weird. It's more like freak-of-nature cute and you have to love it because its own mother probably doesn't. But you know the best part? Platypus (platypi?) are venomous. True story. They have a little spur on a back foot that they stab you with and inject their venom. So my platypus would be a guard platypus because heaven knows my dogs don't guard me. Unless it's possible to be licked to death, because that's all they do. So I'd have a watch platypus and I would name him Quinn. Or Biff. It would depend on his personality.
3. My other favorite Aussie animal is the koala bear. When I was four, my parents gave me a stuffed koala bear that I thought had real fur because it was so soft. And it had these tiny little black paws with little fingers. It's possible that it was a real taxidermied koala because we did live in Texas, but I don't have it anymore so I'm not sure. When I was in elementary school, the hot toy was this little clip-on koala. You squeezed his shoulders to open his arms and clip him to your shirt or your book bag or whatever. I lost that along the way too. But I think these experiences have prepared me well for having a real koala. I would stroke its fur and carry it around like a baby on my hip and feed it leaves and name it Elvis.
Now, my birthday is just a very few weeks away so if you'd like to get me a present, I will accept any or all of the animals from this list. However, two of them probably have a long shipping time as they come from Australia and I don't know how long it takes to get a seahorse so you might want to order soon.
Then one day the little girl grew up and became me and realized that her parents were right. Not about everything, but certainly about horses. They are expensive and they eat a lot and when they're ponies they are assholes and bite your shin when you try to pet them and say hi and then you end up saying fuck-you-pony in front of small children. So I gave up on wanting a horse and replaced my desire for a fucking pony with a sincere desire for something unique and smaller and less likely to bite me. I have made a list.
1. I want a seahorse and I will name him Seamour. Or Shelldon, I haven't decided. You know what's cool about seahorses? They're like a tiny horse that lives in water with a curly little tail and no teeth! Or maybe they have teeth, but they'd have to get through the glass of a tank to get to my shin so I'm not really worried. But you know what else is cool? The males have the babies! A guy should be pregnant in my house. Then I can sit around, eating whatever I want, cocktail in hand, and say, "Dude. Are you worried about stretch marks?" And he'd get all moody and pissy and swim to the other side of his little tank away from me and pout in a corner. Then we'd have to have some kind of hippie water-birth because he's already in the water but I could feel all smug about it. Totally awesome.
2. A platypus. I totally want a platypus. Because nobody knows what it is! Is it a duck? Is it an otter? What the fuck does it eat? I supposedly learned all about them in first grade when we learned about Australia but all I remember is the "laugh kookaburra laugh, please save some for me" song that nobody else in the world seems to know and any time I sing it people look at me like I'm crazy. So I looked up the platypus and it's very cute. It's not even in an it's-so-ugly-it's-cute kind of way, because it's too weird. It's more like freak-of-nature cute and you have to love it because its own mother probably doesn't. But you know the best part? Platypus (platypi?) are venomous. True story. They have a little spur on a back foot that they stab you with and inject their venom. So my platypus would be a guard platypus because heaven knows my dogs don't guard me. Unless it's possible to be licked to death, because that's all they do. So I'd have a watch platypus and I would name him Quinn. Or Biff. It would depend on his personality.
3. My other favorite Aussie animal is the koala bear. When I was four, my parents gave me a stuffed koala bear that I thought had real fur because it was so soft. And it had these tiny little black paws with little fingers. It's possible that it was a real taxidermied koala because we did live in Texas, but I don't have it anymore so I'm not sure. When I was in elementary school, the hot toy was this little clip-on koala. You squeezed his shoulders to open his arms and clip him to your shirt or your book bag or whatever. I lost that along the way too. But I think these experiences have prepared me well for having a real koala. I would stroke its fur and carry it around like a baby on my hip and feed it leaves and name it Elvis.
Now, my birthday is just a very few weeks away so if you'd like to get me a present, I will accept any or all of the animals from this list. However, two of them probably have a long shipping time as they come from Australia and I don't know how long it takes to get a seahorse so you might want to order soon.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
I'm With the Band
D's guitar teacher is pretty great. He's really good at getting the kids out to play and sing in public, and I mean all of his students, not just my beautiful, extremely talented child but she's the only one I care about and I'm only mentioning the others because they have parents who are probably also proud of them. Whatevs. Anyhoo, I have now seen her perform in public three times since she first started her classes a year ago. And you know what? She rocks. Totally. Let me tell you a little story about Tuesday night.
I found out just a few hours before that Joe invited D and K (her friend that she takes lessons and duets with) to play at Good Life Tuesday evening. I had a paper to write, but of course I blew it off to go listen to my kid sing. Duh. It wasn't even a choice. I gathered Mr. A. and The Wife and her mister (who needs a name, obviously. Suggestions accepted in the comments) and hoped that it wouldn't rain before she was done.
Since I'd taken my camera along to get some good performance pictures, I ran up to the front when she started and snapped away the entire time, which also served the dual purpose of keeping me from crying. Because she amazes me when she's up there. She looks confident and perfectly at home, even though she tells me afterward how much she was shaking. And she gets better every time. This night her voice was louder and clearer and so.... her. And yet not her. This is a side of her that we are getting to know. And I really, really, like it.
So does everyone else apparently. While I was standing there clicking away, a man approached me and asked where the tip jar was. Tip jar? Are you kidding me? But I totally acted casual about it. There's a beer glass, right there. How convenient! He popped a $5 bill in there (which D later complained smelled like beer) and asked if I was with the band. I beamed and said, "Yes! That is my daughter on the left!" He remarked how good she was and I had to agree. Except I wouldn't have said good or great, I would have said fantastic or incredible.
The girls sang their five songs and were getting up to turn it back over to Joe when several audience members cried out, "Encore!" "One more!" "Another song!" The girls obliged them like complete professionals and I wooooood the loudest. And beamed. And cheered some more. Yes, ladies and gents, I now have a rock star in my house. I'm not proud of that fact at all. Obviously.
If you would like to experience the magnificent talent of my offspring, she will be performing July 29th at Broken Top Bottle Shop between 7 and 9 p.m. Tips and encore requests are optional.
I found out just a few hours before that Joe invited D and K (her friend that she takes lessons and duets with) to play at Good Life Tuesday evening. I had a paper to write, but of course I blew it off to go listen to my kid sing. Duh. It wasn't even a choice. I gathered Mr. A. and The Wife and her mister (who needs a name, obviously. Suggestions accepted in the comments) and hoped that it wouldn't rain before she was done.
Since I'd taken my camera along to get some good performance pictures, I ran up to the front when she started and snapped away the entire time, which also served the dual purpose of keeping me from crying. Because she amazes me when she's up there. She looks confident and perfectly at home, even though she tells me afterward how much she was shaking. And she gets better every time. This night her voice was louder and clearer and so.... her. And yet not her. This is a side of her that we are getting to know. And I really, really, like it.
So does everyone else apparently. While I was standing there clicking away, a man approached me and asked where the tip jar was. Tip jar? Are you kidding me? But I totally acted casual about it. There's a beer glass, right there. How convenient! He popped a $5 bill in there (which D later complained smelled like beer) and asked if I was with the band. I beamed and said, "Yes! That is my daughter on the left!" He remarked how good she was and I had to agree. Except I wouldn't have said good or great, I would have said fantastic or incredible.
The girls sang their five songs and were getting up to turn it back over to Joe when several audience members cried out, "Encore!" "One more!" "Another song!" The girls obliged them like complete professionals and I wooooood the loudest. And beamed. And cheered some more. Yes, ladies and gents, I now have a rock star in my house. I'm not proud of that fact at all. Obviously.
If you would like to experience the magnificent talent of my offspring, she will be performing July 29th at Broken Top Bottle Shop between 7 and 9 p.m. Tips and encore requests are optional.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Making an Entrance
This morning, like every morning, I walked into the office, over to my desk, set down my purse and my little bag of water and coffee, and turned around to turn on my computer. Only this morning, I somehow set the bag down lopsided and my coffee thermos fell over and, THUNK!!! Everyone in my area jumped and there was the standard joke, "Hey, we're sleeping over here!, har har." But I am often clumsy and have learned to laugh at myself so I said, "Hey. If you don't make an entrance, don't bother showing up."
I thought I was pretty clever.
And then I thought that may be the most profound thing I've ever said.
Because it totally explains life.
Seriously. It's like this. If you don't intend to put in 100%, don't do it. How can anyone take you seriously if you don't make an effort? Don't bother. Life is too short to waste on half-assed efforts and empty promises. Don't waste my time. Or yours.
And also, if you make an entrance, you're more likely to be remembered. This works for job interviews. First dates. Running for office. Taking a class. You want to show up looking like Plain Jane or Bland Bobby? Don't bother. Just stay home. Nobody cares to be bored.
Yep. This is my new motto.
If you don't make an entrance, don't bother showing up.
And if you're not wearing really fabulous shoes, don't bother getting out of bed.
I thought I was pretty clever.
And then I thought that may be the most profound thing I've ever said.
Because it totally explains life.
Seriously. It's like this. If you don't intend to put in 100%, don't do it. How can anyone take you seriously if you don't make an effort? Don't bother. Life is too short to waste on half-assed efforts and empty promises. Don't waste my time. Or yours.
And also, if you make an entrance, you're more likely to be remembered. This works for job interviews. First dates. Running for office. Taking a class. You want to show up looking like Plain Jane or Bland Bobby? Don't bother. Just stay home. Nobody cares to be bored.
Yep. This is my new motto.
If you don't make an entrance, don't bother showing up.
And if you're not wearing really fabulous shoes, don't bother getting out of bed.
Monday, July 09, 2012
Pug Snuggle 2012
Yesterday the wife and I took a little trip to Portlandia to snuggle some rescue pugs because Wifey is going through the adoption process and wanted to meet her potential adoptee. As always, it was an adventure for us and I learned some stuff. Stuff like this.
1. Rescues are pretty great organizations. Some people are happy going to their local shelter for a pound puppy. These are wonderful people offering a home to animals that really need it. But some people, like me, really like a specific breed and this is where rescues come in. You get the breed you want while still doing a good thing for an animal that wasn't wanted. It's a win-win, no-guilt solution! Now, who wouldn't want a pug? I don't know. Stupid people. Because pugs are awesome. And Pacific Pug Rescue is really awesome. They let us snuggle pugs to our hearts' content. We got kisses. We got hugs. We fell in love. Seriously, if the adoption process was really easy, I would have brought home a new family member last night. The foster moms were all really sweet, caring ladies. I want to take them all brownies.
We went to meet Berkley. Poor Berkley was so hot he didn't have any energy to show us his personality. He just sat there and panted and looked miserable. Maybe that's his talent. Looking as miserable as dogly possible. He did live up to his ad in one respect. He had the most sumptuous fur I have ever felt. MmmmmHmmm.....
So this is who was left. Daisy greeted us when we first got there. She greeted everyone; it was as if she wanted everyone to feel welcome and included. Love her. Pretty sure she wants to come live in Bend. Pepper does too. Pepper looks older than he is, has back and hip problems, and is mostly blind and deaf. But he's so cute! He's all black (hence the name Pepper) and has the cutest, sweetest, little stuffed-animal face. Pick him up and he just lets go in your arms (not of his bladder, he just relaxes). He would look so striking in a green sweater. Georgie was bred and then kicked to the curb. She's small and sad, but learning to love again. Dogs are so much better at this than people. Barkley was pretty studly, but wasn't showing much of his personality either. Maybe he's used to getting by on his good looks, it would totally work for him. Cassie was tiny and peppy but we didn't have a real connection. Chunk was on medical hold so I didn't spend much time with him, but he sure was a cutie.
Can you tell who my two favorites are? I can't wait to be an aunt to Daisy and Pepper!!
2. Ikea is dangerous and should require armor. A large picture fell and smashed my poor little bare toe. The wife had her foot run over by a cart (incidentally, all of their carts like to turn sideways). A table fell into her forehead when we were loading it in the car, and I banged my shin against the lower cart. I'm sure all of this had nothing to do with the fact that we lost three hours of our lives in there and were delirious with hunger. Stupid Ikea took away from our shoe-shopping time.
3. GPS can be a bitch. Seriously. She kept telling us the wrong way to go and sent us on a wild goose chase looking for the Pug Party. I think she just figured it out as she went along. The one time we decided to ignore her directions, she was right. Whatever. Stupid whore.
4. Fondue is delicious. Okay, I already knew this. But it is.
5. Something about the wife and me makes people seat us in back corners. Actually, I already knew this too, but I don't know why. We're the fun ones. We are more than happy to entertain people with the things that fly out of our mouths. Ask the guy in the Halloween costume store. Whatever. Sheesh.
6. VooDoo Doughnuts is that good. I don't even like maple bars, but how can you not love a doughnut that comes with bacon on it? You have to love it. I might advise against eating the Oreo-covered one in the car. I didn't find some of the pieces that went down my shirt until I got home.
7. The wife and I are dating the same guy. Not the same person, obviously. We're not that close. Or gross. But the guys we're dating are eerily similar.
"I told him ..."
"Yes! I said the same thing!"
"And he said ....."
"Yeah, M/K said the same thing"
"That's what M/K says. That's what M/K does."
"It drives me crazy when he says/does that."
"Ohmygod!! Me too!!!"
Apparently we are having simultaneous, duplicate conversations at all times without knowing it. There are many ways in which we're alike so I suppose this was bound to happen at some point. Some things are just inevitable.
8. The wife is afraid of fog. Or maybe it's a combination of fog, a scary ghost-looking cloud peeking over the mountain staring at us, lightning, and me talking about scary movies with people standing in the middle of the road waiting to be hit. What? I was just trying to set the mood. I think it's the first time she ever told me to shut up and meant it.
9. Your life does not flash before your eyes if you think you're about to die and you don't pee your pants when you're really scared. Even if you have to pee really, really badly. Laughing your ass off after you survive a near collision with a dividing ramp wall on the part of the freeway that is a bridge spanning the river might make you nearly, almost pee your pants.
P.S. Is it really so hard to flush a urinal? For Pete's sake, you're standing there facing it. It is mere inches from your fingertips. Filthy, disgusting pigs.
10. It is possible to laugh and talk so much in one day that I lose my voice. Yeah, I knew this one too. But I don't think it happens with just anyone. That's why we're wives.
1. Rescues are pretty great organizations. Some people are happy going to their local shelter for a pound puppy. These are wonderful people offering a home to animals that really need it. But some people, like me, really like a specific breed and this is where rescues come in. You get the breed you want while still doing a good thing for an animal that wasn't wanted. It's a win-win, no-guilt solution! Now, who wouldn't want a pug? I don't know. Stupid people. Because pugs are awesome. And Pacific Pug Rescue is really awesome. They let us snuggle pugs to our hearts' content. We got kisses. We got hugs. We fell in love. Seriously, if the adoption process was really easy, I would have brought home a new family member last night. The foster moms were all really sweet, caring ladies. I want to take them all brownies.
We went to meet Berkley. Poor Berkley was so hot he didn't have any energy to show us his personality. He just sat there and panted and looked miserable. Maybe that's his talent. Looking as miserable as dogly possible. He did live up to his ad in one respect. He had the most sumptuous fur I have ever felt. MmmmmHmmm.....
So this is who was left. Daisy greeted us when we first got there. She greeted everyone; it was as if she wanted everyone to feel welcome and included. Love her. Pretty sure she wants to come live in Bend. Pepper does too. Pepper looks older than he is, has back and hip problems, and is mostly blind and deaf. But he's so cute! He's all black (hence the name Pepper) and has the cutest, sweetest, little stuffed-animal face. Pick him up and he just lets go in your arms (not of his bladder, he just relaxes). He would look so striking in a green sweater. Georgie was bred and then kicked to the curb. She's small and sad, but learning to love again. Dogs are so much better at this than people. Barkley was pretty studly, but wasn't showing much of his personality either. Maybe he's used to getting by on his good looks, it would totally work for him. Cassie was tiny and peppy but we didn't have a real connection. Chunk was on medical hold so I didn't spend much time with him, but he sure was a cutie.
Can you tell who my two favorites are? I can't wait to be an aunt to Daisy and Pepper!!
2. Ikea is dangerous and should require armor. A large picture fell and smashed my poor little bare toe. The wife had her foot run over by a cart (incidentally, all of their carts like to turn sideways). A table fell into her forehead when we were loading it in the car, and I banged my shin against the lower cart. I'm sure all of this had nothing to do with the fact that we lost three hours of our lives in there and were delirious with hunger. Stupid Ikea took away from our shoe-shopping time.
3. GPS can be a bitch. Seriously. She kept telling us the wrong way to go and sent us on a wild goose chase looking for the Pug Party. I think she just figured it out as she went along. The one time we decided to ignore her directions, she was right. Whatever. Stupid whore.
4. Fondue is delicious. Okay, I already knew this. But it is.
5. Something about the wife and me makes people seat us in back corners. Actually, I already knew this too, but I don't know why. We're the fun ones. We are more than happy to entertain people with the things that fly out of our mouths. Ask the guy in the Halloween costume store. Whatever. Sheesh.
6. VooDoo Doughnuts is that good. I don't even like maple bars, but how can you not love a doughnut that comes with bacon on it? You have to love it. I might advise against eating the Oreo-covered one in the car. I didn't find some of the pieces that went down my shirt until I got home.
7. The wife and I are dating the same guy. Not the same person, obviously. We're not that close. Or gross. But the guys we're dating are eerily similar.
"I told him ..."
"Yes! I said the same thing!"
"And he said ....."
"Yeah, M/K said the same thing"
"That's what M/K says. That's what M/K does."
"It drives me crazy when he says/does that."
"Ohmygod!! Me too!!!"
Apparently we are having simultaneous, duplicate conversations at all times without knowing it. There are many ways in which we're alike so I suppose this was bound to happen at some point. Some things are just inevitable.
8. The wife is afraid of fog. Or maybe it's a combination of fog, a scary ghost-looking cloud peeking over the mountain staring at us, lightning, and me talking about scary movies with people standing in the middle of the road waiting to be hit. What? I was just trying to set the mood. I think it's the first time she ever told me to shut up and meant it.
9. Your life does not flash before your eyes if you think you're about to die and you don't pee your pants when you're really scared. Even if you have to pee really, really badly. Laughing your ass off after you survive a near collision with a dividing ramp wall on the part of the freeway that is a bridge spanning the river might make you nearly, almost pee your pants.
P.S. Is it really so hard to flush a urinal? For Pete's sake, you're standing there facing it. It is mere inches from your fingertips. Filthy, disgusting pigs.
10. It is possible to laugh and talk so much in one day that I lose my voice. Yeah, I knew this one too. But I don't think it happens with just anyone. That's why we're wives.
Friday, July 06, 2012
Quotes From Lunchtime Fun
Me: "Your stomach? Look at mine! I look like I just gave birth to your kid!"
M: "You look like you just breastfed my kid."
Ladies on rafts (LOR): "Where do we go after this?"
Me: "You'll want to go to the left and get out. You don't want to go down the spillway."
LOR: "What happens if we go down the spillway?"
Me: "You get hurt. Possibly badly."
LOR" "Then we won't go down the spillway."
Me: "We're on our lunch break."
Me:"I can work any day of the year. I can't float any old day of the year."
M: "I just cut my martini with an olive. It's a vegetable."
Me: "I just watered my sake down with some sushi."
M: "Katherine, you've been through birth, death, divorce, half-finished with grad school. You're so green - why don't you grow up already?"
M: "Yeah, that guy looked like Vin Diesel."
M: "You look like you just breastfed my kid."
Ladies on rafts (LOR): "Where do we go after this?"
Me: "You'll want to go to the left and get out. You don't want to go down the spillway."
LOR: "What happens if we go down the spillway?"
Me: "You get hurt. Possibly badly."
LOR" "Then we won't go down the spillway."
Me: "We're on our lunch break."
Me:"I can work any day of the year. I can't float any old day of the year."
M: "I just cut my martini with an olive. It's a vegetable."
Me: "I just watered my sake down with some sushi."
M: "Katherine, you've been through birth, death, divorce, half-finished with grad school. You're so green - why don't you grow up already?"
M: "Yeah, that guy looked like Vin Diesel."
Thursday, July 05, 2012
Heavy Petting
Yesterday Mr. A, the wife, D and I went to the pet parade. Of course. Duh, where else would I be on the 4th of July? The pet parade is only second to Halloween in terms of holiday events that I love. It's also behind my birthday. And opening Christmas presents. Which I don't get many of anymore, so the pet parade is really high on the list. It's dogs. How can that be wrong? It just can't. Dogs, people! DOGS!!
We squealed and squeed and giggled over all the cuteness in fur and on four legs. Puppies, seniors, huge, tiny, hairy, not-so-hairy, dressed-up, painted, blinged-out, they were all adorable. In the park afterward we molested anything we could get our hands on, although my favorites were of the scrunchy-faced variety - English Bulldogs, French Bulldogs, Boston Terriers, dachsunds, chihuahuas, even a Great Dane. I got drool on my hands, my arm, my leg and I didn't care. Dog drool can be so awesome.
For the most part, people were more than happy to share their dogs' drool with us. Except for one very grumpy, unhappy, not-nice, Grinchy old lady. She was sitting on the curb with her two dogs to watch the parade. Two of my very favorite kinds of dogs. An adorable Frenchie and a delightfully wrinkly English Bulldog. They combined to make the perfect storm of cuteness. They practically begged to be pet. Heavily. I squealed out, "A Frenchie! A wrinkly face!!!!!" And the woman turned and glared at me. She glared like I've seen nobody glare before. It was like her nasty old eyes were saying, "Go ahead. Touch my dog and I will bite your face off." And I thought, "Seriously? You're going to bring that much Puppy Cuteness out in public and not expect a reaction? Seriously?" Since I was with the teenager and supposed to be setting some kind of example of appropriate adult behavior, I didn't say anything to Old Hagface. But I'm going to now.
Look "Lady", you have two of the cutest dogs I have ever seen. It is a sin not to share those furry wrinkles with others. You cannot hoard it just for yourself. Yours is almost singly the most selfish act I have ever witnessed. How dare I want to pet your dogs? How dare you expose them to me and then deny me of their drooly kisses! Honestly, you don't deserve to be in the presence of that much Dogness. Keeping it to yourself has only turned you into a Bad Person. You can't handle the magnetism. Don't you know Puppy Love is meant to be shared with the world?
Since I was supposed to be an adult and didn't want to get arrested, I walked away. After glaring back. But you bet I was sorely tempted to run at her, knock her down, and roll around in the street with those sweet puppies. But apparently there is enough insanity in my life and that sort of behavior is frowned upon.
Whatever....
Honey Badger wouldn't have given a shit.
We squealed and squeed and giggled over all the cuteness in fur and on four legs. Puppies, seniors, huge, tiny, hairy, not-so-hairy, dressed-up, painted, blinged-out, they were all adorable. In the park afterward we molested anything we could get our hands on, although my favorites were of the scrunchy-faced variety - English Bulldogs, French Bulldogs, Boston Terriers, dachsunds, chihuahuas, even a Great Dane. I got drool on my hands, my arm, my leg and I didn't care. Dog drool can be so awesome.
For the most part, people were more than happy to share their dogs' drool with us. Except for one very grumpy, unhappy, not-nice, Grinchy old lady. She was sitting on the curb with her two dogs to watch the parade. Two of my very favorite kinds of dogs. An adorable Frenchie and a delightfully wrinkly English Bulldog. They combined to make the perfect storm of cuteness. They practically begged to be pet. Heavily. I squealed out, "A Frenchie! A wrinkly face!!!!!" And the woman turned and glared at me. She glared like I've seen nobody glare before. It was like her nasty old eyes were saying, "Go ahead. Touch my dog and I will bite your face off." And I thought, "Seriously? You're going to bring that much Puppy Cuteness out in public and not expect a reaction? Seriously?" Since I was with the teenager and supposed to be setting some kind of example of appropriate adult behavior, I didn't say anything to Old Hagface. But I'm going to now.
Look "Lady", you have two of the cutest dogs I have ever seen. It is a sin not to share those furry wrinkles with others. You cannot hoard it just for yourself. Yours is almost singly the most selfish act I have ever witnessed. How dare I want to pet your dogs? How dare you expose them to me and then deny me of their drooly kisses! Honestly, you don't deserve to be in the presence of that much Dogness. Keeping it to yourself has only turned you into a Bad Person. You can't handle the magnetism. Don't you know Puppy Love is meant to be shared with the world?
Since I was supposed to be an adult and didn't want to get arrested, I walked away. After glaring back. But you bet I was sorely tempted to run at her, knock her down, and roll around in the street with those sweet puppies. But apparently there is enough insanity in my life and that sort of behavior is frowned upon.
Whatever....
Honey Badger wouldn't have given a shit.
Adopting Strays
There's a big reason that I never go to the Humane Society. I hate seeing animals in cages and I want to bring them all home. Every single one. I don't have the space or the finances to do so, no matter what my heart tells me, so I avoid that place like the plague. And now it seems I've found a new kind of stray. Teenage girls.
I know, right? Weird. Crazy. Wtf is wrong with me? As much as my own teenager bugs me, I love her more and there are lots of things I like about her being around. And then I meet her friends and, since they're not mine, I can appreciate those things about them all the more. And I don't know what's going on, because I don't remember these problems when I was younger, but girls these days seem to be having such a hard time. Of course we all had problems with our parents. We were all trying to grow up and figure out our lives and how to find our way in the world. We had opinions. We had frustrations. But we dealt with them. My friend T was the exception. Her dad was some kind of drug lord and abused all of his kids and locked them in closets and other really awful things. T took it upon herself to go to the police and get the phones tapped so that she could get her younger siblings out of there and away from him. She was so strong; we admired her so much. But again, she was the exception.
Every time I turn around these days, some girl is exposed to horrible behavior or tragically depressed or completely lost, my own included. And they're not really strays, they have families, but I want to bring them home all the same because their own families don't seem to care.
Take C. I've known her for a couple of years and just adore her. C is beautiful and kind and honest and one of D's best friends. She's sassy (which of course I love!) and agrees with me when D is being ridiculous and unrealistic. She is so easy to get along with. I don't know what her mom's problem is. Her parents are divorced and her mom seems to think of her only when she wants to use her to get back at her dad. First, C was told to go live with her dad because mom just didn't want her around. Then suddenly, she wants to see her all the time and retain custody of her. For the money? That's the only thing I could think of, because when she didn't get it, because poor C had to testify against her, she stopped wanting her around again.
And how has all of this bouncing around affected her? As beautiful and healthy-looking as she is, she doesn't see herself that way. She doesn't eat. D is constantly worried about this. I pack extra tasty snacks in D's lunch to try to tempt C into eating. I make sure she knows that she is always welcome at our house. She needs a mommy and I try to substitute for that as much as I can. I'd take her in in a heartbeat.
I met H at D's birthday party. Yeah, she's a little chunky. It's especially noticeable around the other girls who all weigh an average of about 90 pounds. But she's adorable. Cute. Funny. Friendly. Sweet. D found out yesterday that she tried to kill herself for the second time in three weeks and for the third time in total. It's absolutely heart-breaking. More so because it appears (from the outside) that her mom isn't paying attention.
Why are these girls so unhappy? They are wonderful, beautiful people and they don't see it. From where I sit, their moms don't see it either. We all know I'm not perfect, but it breaks my heart when D is struggling. And these girls are breaking my heart. I want to bring them home and feed them and mommy them and tell them how much they mean to the world.
There's only so much I can actually do. I don't see these girls every day. And maybe I'm wrong. Maybe their parents are struggling just as much as I am to understand their daughters. But maybe if they know that just one more person cares about them and sees them for the lovely young women they are becoming, they'll see it too. And maybe there will be one or two less heartbreaks in the world.
I know, right? Weird. Crazy. Wtf is wrong with me? As much as my own teenager bugs me, I love her more and there are lots of things I like about her being around. And then I meet her friends and, since they're not mine, I can appreciate those things about them all the more. And I don't know what's going on, because I don't remember these problems when I was younger, but girls these days seem to be having such a hard time. Of course we all had problems with our parents. We were all trying to grow up and figure out our lives and how to find our way in the world. We had opinions. We had frustrations. But we dealt with them. My friend T was the exception. Her dad was some kind of drug lord and abused all of his kids and locked them in closets and other really awful things. T took it upon herself to go to the police and get the phones tapped so that she could get her younger siblings out of there and away from him. She was so strong; we admired her so much. But again, she was the exception.
Every time I turn around these days, some girl is exposed to horrible behavior or tragically depressed or completely lost, my own included. And they're not really strays, they have families, but I want to bring them home all the same because their own families don't seem to care.
Take C. I've known her for a couple of years and just adore her. C is beautiful and kind and honest and one of D's best friends. She's sassy (which of course I love!) and agrees with me when D is being ridiculous and unrealistic. She is so easy to get along with. I don't know what her mom's problem is. Her parents are divorced and her mom seems to think of her only when she wants to use her to get back at her dad. First, C was told to go live with her dad because mom just didn't want her around. Then suddenly, she wants to see her all the time and retain custody of her. For the money? That's the only thing I could think of, because when she didn't get it, because poor C had to testify against her, she stopped wanting her around again.
And how has all of this bouncing around affected her? As beautiful and healthy-looking as she is, she doesn't see herself that way. She doesn't eat. D is constantly worried about this. I pack extra tasty snacks in D's lunch to try to tempt C into eating. I make sure she knows that she is always welcome at our house. She needs a mommy and I try to substitute for that as much as I can. I'd take her in in a heartbeat.
I met H at D's birthday party. Yeah, she's a little chunky. It's especially noticeable around the other girls who all weigh an average of about 90 pounds. But she's adorable. Cute. Funny. Friendly. Sweet. D found out yesterday that she tried to kill herself for the second time in three weeks and for the third time in total. It's absolutely heart-breaking. More so because it appears (from the outside) that her mom isn't paying attention.
Why are these girls so unhappy? They are wonderful, beautiful people and they don't see it. From where I sit, their moms don't see it either. We all know I'm not perfect, but it breaks my heart when D is struggling. And these girls are breaking my heart. I want to bring them home and feed them and mommy them and tell them how much they mean to the world.
There's only so much I can actually do. I don't see these girls every day. And maybe I'm wrong. Maybe their parents are struggling just as much as I am to understand their daughters. But maybe if they know that just one more person cares about them and sees them for the lovely young women they are becoming, they'll see it too. And maybe there will be one or two less heartbreaks in the world.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
16 Things I Love
My baby girl turned 16 yesterday. It's a milestone of which I am acutely, painfully aware. I find myself counting down more often. How many more holidays will she be at home, how many more first days of the school year, how many more birthday parties, how many more months left do I have with her before she's all grown up and living a life that I'm not a daily part of? It feels like it's going to happen tomorrow. Like if I blink, it's going to be over.
Even if she's not always sleeping in the room next to me, she'll always be my baby girl and I could pontificate for hours what this means to me and what it means to be a mom. What it means to be her mom. Instead, in honor of the 16 candles I put on her cake last night, here are 16 things that I love about her.
1. She chose to be Holly Golightly for Halloween one year.
2. She surprises me with her talents. Still.
3. I love how once in a while I look at her and catch my breath, that I can't believe this beautiful creature has anything to do with me.
4. Her sense of humor and sass.
5. I love how she can be so frustrating on a daily basis and then we go on vacation and I rediscover how fun she truly is.
6. Her heart is so big.
7. She's much stronger and braver than I ever give her credit for.
8. She still asks to be tucked in at night.
9. She cried when she wasn't tall enough for a roller coaster.
10. When she was a baby and uncomfortable, her favorite place to be was in my arms.
11. Her silliness.
12. Her first word after "momma" was "shoe".
13. She has always been her own person.
14. I love that she's taught me love and acceptance.
15. We watch scary movies together.
16. I love that I get to be witness to her self-discovery.
To my Bugabooga, I will love you always in ways that you can't even imagine. Thank you for being the beautiful person that I am so proud of.
Happy Birthday.
Even if she's not always sleeping in the room next to me, she'll always be my baby girl and I could pontificate for hours what this means to me and what it means to be a mom. What it means to be her mom. Instead, in honor of the 16 candles I put on her cake last night, here are 16 things that I love about her.
1. She chose to be Holly Golightly for Halloween one year.
2. She surprises me with her talents. Still.
3. I love how once in a while I look at her and catch my breath, that I can't believe this beautiful creature has anything to do with me.
4. Her sense of humor and sass.
5. I love how she can be so frustrating on a daily basis and then we go on vacation and I rediscover how fun she truly is.
6. Her heart is so big.
7. She's much stronger and braver than I ever give her credit for.
8. She still asks to be tucked in at night.
9. She cried when she wasn't tall enough for a roller coaster.
10. When she was a baby and uncomfortable, her favorite place to be was in my arms.
11. Her silliness.
12. Her first word after "momma" was "shoe".
13. She has always been her own person.
14. I love that she's taught me love and acceptance.
15. We watch scary movies together.
16. I love that I get to be witness to her self-discovery.
To my Bugabooga, I will love you always in ways that you can't even imagine. Thank you for being the beautiful person that I am so proud of.
Happy Birthday.
Monday, June 11, 2012
How Old Do You Feel?
When I was in junior high, I used to tell my mom how so-and-so and what's-his-name were going out. She would exasperate me each and every time by asking, "Where are they going?" I hated it. They were dating, but that was what we called it. Of course now I know what she meant. Just how far can a couple of junior high kids go? They don't drive. Duh.
So this is the conversation D and I had today.
D: He wrote "swag" on my wall so I wrote back "swaggity swag swaggy."
Me: What does that mean?
D: I don't know. I just said it.
Me: Then why did you say it?
D:Because that's what he said. Oh, you don't know what swag means?
Me: Obviously not.
D: It's the way you walk, the way you carry yourself.
Me: That's swagger.
D: Yeah, but we shorten it. I can't believe you didn't know what swag is. How old you you feel now?
Me. How stupid do you feel? Your generation has to be the dumbest. You just abbreviate everything because you're lazy.
D: Wow. Thanks, Mom.
So this is the conversation D and I had today.
D: He wrote "swag" on my wall so I wrote back "swaggity swag swaggy."
Me: What does that mean?
D: I don't know. I just said it.
Me: Then why did you say it?
D:Because that's what he said. Oh, you don't know what swag means?
Me: Obviously not.
D: It's the way you walk, the way you carry yourself.
Me: That's swagger.
D: Yeah, but we shorten it. I can't believe you didn't know what swag is. How old you you feel now?
Me. How stupid do you feel? Your generation has to be the dumbest. You just abbreviate everything because you're lazy.
D: Wow. Thanks, Mom.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Searching For Our Sassy
I don't want to write this. I can already feel the fog of judgement descending. I'm about to open myself up to criticism that can stab me, but for some reason I need to do it. I need to tell you how real depression is. I need to tell myself. And if you don't understand, well, good for you. Know that you're one of the lucky ones and be thankful and find compassion.
I know it's real. I know it's real for me and I know it's real for other people. But I didn't know how sneaky it is. I didn't know what a real asshole it is. Now I do.
D has been a monster for the last few months. Or year. But she's a teenager and she's supposed to be that way. She's supposed to do things that make me want to throw her out because she'll be leaving in a couple of years and I need to be ready for that. Only somehow it seemed worse than that. I had a feeling it was more. I had the thought that she might be depressed. And then I dismissed it. Because it couldn't be. Because I was unemployed and going through my own shit and I couldn't take on one more worry. Because depression tells you you're the only one. Not in a you're-so-great-that-everyone-thinks-you-poop-rainbows kind of way, but in a only-you-are-the-worst-person-and-everyone-else-is-better-than-you kind of way. And this extended to my own daughter.
She finally went to talk to her school counselor a few weeks ago, who told her she needed to talk to me. She had looked up symptoms of depression and pointed to all of the ones she felt she exhibited. Cue self-loathing. I knew it. I knew it and I didn't do anything about it. I made an appointment with a doctor for the next day. She talked to both of us, she talked to D alone, and assessed D as "pretty severely depressed" and prescribed an anti-depressant after discussing it with her. She wasn't sure she wanted to take it, so we talked about what it does and doesn't do, the type of medication, and the dosage. She agreed to try it.
I've been watching her. When she has a good day or is cheerful or excited about something, I think to myself, yes. It's better. We're good. Next. I should know better. I should know how much I pretend myself.
Yesterday was a particularly bad day for both of us. When I feel bad, I shut people out. When she feels bad, she attacks me. She hurts me with her words. I shut down. And when she said she has problems, I said so what. So fucking what. We all have problems, what makes your problems so much worse? Cue intense self-loathing. She spent some time in her room and when she wanted to talk, she really wanted to talk. She wanted to say she was sorry. She wanted to say how much she hates herself and how she cries when she looks in the mirror. And then she told me how much. How she doesn't deserve to be happy. She told me exactly how much she's hurting and how much she's losing control and falling apart and it shattered my heart. My beautiful baby girl who loved dance and her friends and laughing and life. She hurts and she doesn't deserve it.
We talked. We watched this. We cried. She asked me why we have to have this. This depression. I told her it's because we're strong because it's the only thing I could think of. It's true though. She was strong enough and brave enough to ask for help. Not just once, but until someone listened. She was brave enough to tell me and show me how much she hurts. Telling someone what you are inside is scary. She thought I would be disappointed or disbelieving but she did it anyway. She risked opening up that ugly part that we want to hide. She is brave and she is strong.
I told her all of the good things about her. I showed her the friends on Facebook who tell her how wonderful she is. I told her she's beautiful and kind and a good friend and talented. And sassy. It's one of my favorite things about her but she said it isn't a good thing. I said, oh yes. Yes it is. We are both sassy and it's good. Sassy is strong. Sassy means saying things that not everyone wants to hear. Sassy means being yourself. Whatever it takes.
This isn't what I wanted. When I held my precious baby for hours on end, this wasn't my dream for her. I want to protect her. I want to make this go away. My first reaction was to fix it. Only it can't be fixed. It can be dealt with, it can be understood, it can be talked about. There is no magic fix. I have to find my own strength to help her through it. Her beautiful bravery will be my motivation when my own asshole of depression tells me not to care.
Cue the sass.
I know it's real. I know it's real for me and I know it's real for other people. But I didn't know how sneaky it is. I didn't know what a real asshole it is. Now I do.
D has been a monster for the last few months. Or year. But she's a teenager and she's supposed to be that way. She's supposed to do things that make me want to throw her out because she'll be leaving in a couple of years and I need to be ready for that. Only somehow it seemed worse than that. I had a feeling it was more. I had the thought that she might be depressed. And then I dismissed it. Because it couldn't be. Because I was unemployed and going through my own shit and I couldn't take on one more worry. Because depression tells you you're the only one. Not in a you're-so-great-that-everyone-thinks-you-poop-rainbows kind of way, but in a only-you-are-the-worst-person-and-everyone-else-is-better-than-you kind of way. And this extended to my own daughter.
She finally went to talk to her school counselor a few weeks ago, who told her she needed to talk to me. She had looked up symptoms of depression and pointed to all of the ones she felt she exhibited. Cue self-loathing. I knew it. I knew it and I didn't do anything about it. I made an appointment with a doctor for the next day. She talked to both of us, she talked to D alone, and assessed D as "pretty severely depressed" and prescribed an anti-depressant after discussing it with her. She wasn't sure she wanted to take it, so we talked about what it does and doesn't do, the type of medication, and the dosage. She agreed to try it.
I've been watching her. When she has a good day or is cheerful or excited about something, I think to myself, yes. It's better. We're good. Next. I should know better. I should know how much I pretend myself.
Yesterday was a particularly bad day for both of us. When I feel bad, I shut people out. When she feels bad, she attacks me. She hurts me with her words. I shut down. And when she said she has problems, I said so what. So fucking what. We all have problems, what makes your problems so much worse? Cue intense self-loathing. She spent some time in her room and when she wanted to talk, she really wanted to talk. She wanted to say she was sorry. She wanted to say how much she hates herself and how she cries when she looks in the mirror. And then she told me how much. How she doesn't deserve to be happy. She told me exactly how much she's hurting and how much she's losing control and falling apart and it shattered my heart. My beautiful baby girl who loved dance and her friends and laughing and life. She hurts and she doesn't deserve it.
We talked. We watched this. We cried. She asked me why we have to have this. This depression. I told her it's because we're strong because it's the only thing I could think of. It's true though. She was strong enough and brave enough to ask for help. Not just once, but until someone listened. She was brave enough to tell me and show me how much she hurts. Telling someone what you are inside is scary. She thought I would be disappointed or disbelieving but she did it anyway. She risked opening up that ugly part that we want to hide. She is brave and she is strong.
I told her all of the good things about her. I showed her the friends on Facebook who tell her how wonderful she is. I told her she's beautiful and kind and a good friend and talented. And sassy. It's one of my favorite things about her but she said it isn't a good thing. I said, oh yes. Yes it is. We are both sassy and it's good. Sassy is strong. Sassy means saying things that not everyone wants to hear. Sassy means being yourself. Whatever it takes.
This isn't what I wanted. When I held my precious baby for hours on end, this wasn't my dream for her. I want to protect her. I want to make this go away. My first reaction was to fix it. Only it can't be fixed. It can be dealt with, it can be understood, it can be talked about. There is no magic fix. I have to find my own strength to help her through it. Her beautiful bravery will be my motivation when my own asshole of depression tells me not to care.
Cue the sass.
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
That Time When I Met That Author
I once met Wade Davis. I had no idea who he was at the time. He was hired by the company I worked for to do a presentation about people in other cultures for a client conference. I thought he was brilliant. I had a schoolgirl crush on him in about 30 seconds. I was so infatuated that I insisted my book club read his Serpents and Rainbows. Then came the disillusion. Everything he'd spoken so eloquently about in his presentation was written almost word-for-word in the book. What seemed to come so naturally to him as a speaker turned into something canned and stale. Color me disappointed.
Recently, my book club read Rules of Civility by Amor Towles because one of our members, JC (not Jesus Christ, he's just lucky enough or unfortunate enough to have those initials), was invited to do a talk for the library on the book as part of its Novel Idea event. JC was asked to compare Rules with The Great Gatsby and that was the lens through which most of our discussion was viewed. That isn't a fair thing to do as evidenced by our discussion. I had wanted to like Rules so badly. So badly. And then I got to This One Part that ruined it for me. I still can't get past it, even knowing now that it's just my issue. And it wasn't just me. I think we picked the story to death. The meaning behind the story. The comparisons with Gatsby. We even questioned whether Amor was his real name or made up.
When Mr. Towles visited Central Oregon to talk about his book, we decided to attend. After our regular meeting about another book. On Cinco de Mayo. Because we're just that kind of crazy cool. JC was invited to the reception prior to the main event and was permitted to bring the rest of us crazy cool people.
I was prepared to not like him. I wasn't going to be disappointed again. Fool me once, brilliant-seeming writer, not again. The best thing about having no (or low) expectations is how delightful the alternate can be if and when it happens. It happened with Mr. Towles. Not at first. He looked so normal. Once JC was able to drag him over to our little group to talk to us, he seemed so normal. So easy to talk to. So easy that I felt completely comfortable actually asking him the actual questions I wanted to ask. What? So forward of me, I know. His answers were unsatisfying and I told him so. Yeah, I'm that kind of bad-ass.
We moved over to the the main event. It turns out that the seats in the front row were reserved for us but we didn't realize this important, ego-boosting tidbit until after the fact. We didn't need them though. Amor (because after my assault on him I think we should be on a first-name basis) mentioned JC twice in his speech and me once! Told you I'm crazy-cool-bad-ass.
Here's the best part. (Or next best. Because the best part is always about me.) Amor was a total super smartypants. We all agreed that he is much smarter than his book. Which just means he needs to write another one. He talked about art. He talked about people. He said the job of a writer is to "show you the universe, as best I can." I love that. I've said it over and over in my head dozens of times. He never answered my question satisfactorily. And that's how I know that it was just my issue. He had nothing to do with it other than showing it to me through the story he told. I think that's what writers do. Yes, they explain the universe to us. But the also show us the world within ourselves. They make us better in this way. They make us think and say "no, that's not how it is" and "no, I won't believe it" but in the end we do. We believe what is true for us. We believe what we didn't know was there, even though it's been there all along.
Afterward, we got to talk to Amor and say thank you and goodbye and I walked away feeling like one of my better selves, one of my smarter selves. The kind of Me that could have a conversation with a best-selling author and not sound like a total goofball. Even if I might have acted a little bit like one.
I found out a couple of days afterward that Amor emailed JC and said he wished that we had all gone out together that night after his talk. Yep. We are that crazy cool. And even if Amor isn't his real name, I'm going to pretend that it is.
Recently, my book club read Rules of Civility by Amor Towles because one of our members, JC (not Jesus Christ, he's just lucky enough or unfortunate enough to have those initials), was invited to do a talk for the library on the book as part of its Novel Idea event. JC was asked to compare Rules with The Great Gatsby and that was the lens through which most of our discussion was viewed. That isn't a fair thing to do as evidenced by our discussion. I had wanted to like Rules so badly. So badly. And then I got to This One Part that ruined it for me. I still can't get past it, even knowing now that it's just my issue. And it wasn't just me. I think we picked the story to death. The meaning behind the story. The comparisons with Gatsby. We even questioned whether Amor was his real name or made up.
When Mr. Towles visited Central Oregon to talk about his book, we decided to attend. After our regular meeting about another book. On Cinco de Mayo. Because we're just that kind of crazy cool. JC was invited to the reception prior to the main event and was permitted to bring the rest of us crazy cool people.
I was prepared to not like him. I wasn't going to be disappointed again. Fool me once, brilliant-seeming writer, not again. The best thing about having no (or low) expectations is how delightful the alternate can be if and when it happens. It happened with Mr. Towles. Not at first. He looked so normal. Once JC was able to drag him over to our little group to talk to us, he seemed so normal. So easy to talk to. So easy that I felt completely comfortable actually asking him the actual questions I wanted to ask. What? So forward of me, I know. His answers were unsatisfying and I told him so. Yeah, I'm that kind of bad-ass.
We moved over to the the main event. It turns out that the seats in the front row were reserved for us but we didn't realize this important, ego-boosting tidbit until after the fact. We didn't need them though. Amor (because after my assault on him I think we should be on a first-name basis) mentioned JC twice in his speech and me once! Told you I'm crazy-cool-bad-ass.
Here's the best part. (Or next best. Because the best part is always about me.) Amor was a total super smartypants. We all agreed that he is much smarter than his book. Which just means he needs to write another one. He talked about art. He talked about people. He said the job of a writer is to "show you the universe, as best I can." I love that. I've said it over and over in my head dozens of times. He never answered my question satisfactorily. And that's how I know that it was just my issue. He had nothing to do with it other than showing it to me through the story he told. I think that's what writers do. Yes, they explain the universe to us. But the also show us the world within ourselves. They make us better in this way. They make us think and say "no, that's not how it is" and "no, I won't believe it" but in the end we do. We believe what is true for us. We believe what we didn't know was there, even though it's been there all along.
Afterward, we got to talk to Amor and say thank you and goodbye and I walked away feeling like one of my better selves, one of my smarter selves. The kind of Me that could have a conversation with a best-selling author and not sound like a total goofball. Even if I might have acted a little bit like one.
I found out a couple of days afterward that Amor emailed JC and said he wished that we had all gone out together that night after his talk. Yep. We are that crazy cool. And even if Amor isn't his real name, I'm going to pretend that it is.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
The One In Which I Didn't Cry
D has been bugging me for months to let her get her permit. Months. Months. Endlessly. It wasn't annoying at all. Not a bit.
Anyhoo, I gave her one condition. Just one. No permit until she had a semester of straight A's. Simple, right? Not so much I guess. And then this year she got sick and missed two months of school. What to do, what to do....
She'll be 16 in two months and summer is a better time to learn to drive than winter so I did it. I caved. It's not that simple, but that pretty much sums it up.
Secretly, I was hoping she wouldn't pass the test. What's wrong with delaying it a little longer? Then it's her fault and not mine. That is called Brilliant Parenting. I even helped her study last night. Point scored!
Well, guess what? She passed. Barely, but passing is passing. Passing meant she got a little piece of paper that allows her to legally get behind the wheel of a car. She hates her picture so that means they did it right.
She couldn't contain her excitement. She texted everyone she knew, put it on Facebook, and walked on air for the rest of the day.
She convinced me to let her try driving. Sigh..... Fine....
I took her to a pretty empty neighborhood. Lots of unsold houses. She got behind the wheel, put on her seat belt and I started to tell her how to adjust her seat, only it got caught in my throat. I had my sunglasses on, but they didn't hide the fact that there was a single tear. Just one, but she caught it. She'll never let me live it down.
And then the street wasn't long enough. And there were too many stop signs. I didn't expect her to actually get the car in motion the first day. We soon ran out of road.
Next I took her to an empty road on the side of town with very little traffic and even fewer stop signs. And my kid? Sure, she hit a few potholes. She swerved a lot going straight. She stalled the car, lurched forward, hit the brakes too hard. She brushed against a couple of bushes. But she drove. Probably eight miles each way. It felt longer because she only got up to 40 mph once and stayed around 25 the rest of the time. A car passed us. But she drove around and passed a bicycler without panicking. She stayed calm.
She even had the wherewithal to come up with the quote of the day. "That was my first four-way!"
God, I love that kid.
Anyhoo, I gave her one condition. Just one. No permit until she had a semester of straight A's. Simple, right? Not so much I guess. And then this year she got sick and missed two months of school. What to do, what to do....
She'll be 16 in two months and summer is a better time to learn to drive than winter so I did it. I caved. It's not that simple, but that pretty much sums it up.
Secretly, I was hoping she wouldn't pass the test. What's wrong with delaying it a little longer? Then it's her fault and not mine. That is called Brilliant Parenting. I even helped her study last night. Point scored!
Well, guess what? She passed. Barely, but passing is passing. Passing meant she got a little piece of paper that allows her to legally get behind the wheel of a car. She hates her picture so that means they did it right.
She couldn't contain her excitement. She texted everyone she knew, put it on Facebook, and walked on air for the rest of the day.
She convinced me to let her try driving. Sigh..... Fine....
I took her to a pretty empty neighborhood. Lots of unsold houses. She got behind the wheel, put on her seat belt and I started to tell her how to adjust her seat, only it got caught in my throat. I had my sunglasses on, but they didn't hide the fact that there was a single tear. Just one, but she caught it. She'll never let me live it down.
And then the street wasn't long enough. And there were too many stop signs. I didn't expect her to actually get the car in motion the first day. We soon ran out of road.
Next I took her to an empty road on the side of town with very little traffic and even fewer stop signs. And my kid? Sure, she hit a few potholes. She swerved a lot going straight. She stalled the car, lurched forward, hit the brakes too hard. She brushed against a couple of bushes. But she drove. Probably eight miles each way. It felt longer because she only got up to 40 mph once and stayed around 25 the rest of the time. A car passed us. But she drove around and passed a bicycler without panicking. She stayed calm.
She even had the wherewithal to come up with the quote of the day. "That was my first four-way!"
God, I love that kid.
Wednesday, April 04, 2012
I'm Not Asking for That Much
A couple of months ago I shared the struggle I have with depression and what my feelings are surrounding it. I know that it’s real and if I could, I’d choose a life without it. I also know I’m not alone and I know there are people with more severe forms and their suffering is greater and also real. So when the following incident happened to me, I was more than a little bit upset and it’s taken me a while to form the right words to describe it and how I felt. There are certain things that shouldn’t happen or shouldn’t be said and this is one of them.
I went to my regular pharmacy which happens to be at Walmart. I know plenty of people who refuse to shop there for varying reasons. For me, it’s close to my house and my prescriptions there are inexpensive, which is a good enough reason these days. I was picking up two prescriptions that I’ve had for the last two years. One was my antidepressant and the other a medication to help lower my cholesterol. Since I’ve been on both for so long, I typically don’t have to see the pharmacist but on this occasion, for some odd, unknown reason, I was required to check with him before being given my prescriptions.
He was an older gentleman, rather grandfatherly-looking. He first picked up my cholesterol medication, noted what it was for, and then looked at me skeptically, asking, “Is this for you?” I was a bit taken aback, but I’m fortunate enough to appear younger than I actually am (even if I don’t feel it) so I just answered yes. He asked again, “Do you have high cholesterol?” Um, yes. I’m not taking it for the fun of it. He next picked up the packet of antidepressants. “And these are for your moods?” I stammered yes, took my bag, turned, and walked away.
The whole way out the store, to my car, and on the way home I thought of a hundred responses that I wish I’d thought of in that moment. My “moods”? Like I’m some weak little woman that needs a pill for mere moodiness? That man reduced what thousands of people suffer from, what is a real disease, what I’d be overjoyed to never have to deal with again, to a minor little moody episode. I suspect he really believes that it’s all about my period and my inability as a woman to succeed in the world without men like him.
It was insulting. It was demeaning. It was absolutely inexcusable. I expect better behavior from a professional. I expect non-judgment. I expect and deserve to be treated with respect. I would say something about how, especially in today’s economy, businesses should be doing their absolute best to keep the customers they have. Only it’s simpler than that because it’s only about respect and being educated enough to know better. Frankly, I expect a pharmacist to know better and to be better informed about the medications they dispense.
I’ve been thinking about how to address this issue with Walmart because I think they need to know about the kind of people they employ. Because of this man’s condescending attitude towards me, and by extension, others like me, I’m seriously considering switching pharmacies. I’m seriously considering taking all of the shopping I do elsewhere. I like Target better anyway, but it happens to be on the other end of town. However, I’ll give up convenience if it means being treated fairly and with respect. If it means interacting with knowledgeable, professional people without judgment, I’ll gladly go out of my way.
Depression is hard enough.
I went to my regular pharmacy which happens to be at Walmart. I know plenty of people who refuse to shop there for varying reasons. For me, it’s close to my house and my prescriptions there are inexpensive, which is a good enough reason these days. I was picking up two prescriptions that I’ve had for the last two years. One was my antidepressant and the other a medication to help lower my cholesterol. Since I’ve been on both for so long, I typically don’t have to see the pharmacist but on this occasion, for some odd, unknown reason, I was required to check with him before being given my prescriptions.
He was an older gentleman, rather grandfatherly-looking. He first picked up my cholesterol medication, noted what it was for, and then looked at me skeptically, asking, “Is this for you?” I was a bit taken aback, but I’m fortunate enough to appear younger than I actually am (even if I don’t feel it) so I just answered yes. He asked again, “Do you have high cholesterol?” Um, yes. I’m not taking it for the fun of it. He next picked up the packet of antidepressants. “And these are for your moods?” I stammered yes, took my bag, turned, and walked away.
The whole way out the store, to my car, and on the way home I thought of a hundred responses that I wish I’d thought of in that moment. My “moods”? Like I’m some weak little woman that needs a pill for mere moodiness? That man reduced what thousands of people suffer from, what is a real disease, what I’d be overjoyed to never have to deal with again, to a minor little moody episode. I suspect he really believes that it’s all about my period and my inability as a woman to succeed in the world without men like him.
It was insulting. It was demeaning. It was absolutely inexcusable. I expect better behavior from a professional. I expect non-judgment. I expect and deserve to be treated with respect. I would say something about how, especially in today’s economy, businesses should be doing their absolute best to keep the customers they have. Only it’s simpler than that because it’s only about respect and being educated enough to know better. Frankly, I expect a pharmacist to know better and to be better informed about the medications they dispense.
I’ve been thinking about how to address this issue with Walmart because I think they need to know about the kind of people they employ. Because of this man’s condescending attitude towards me, and by extension, others like me, I’m seriously considering switching pharmacies. I’m seriously considering taking all of the shopping I do elsewhere. I like Target better anyway, but it happens to be on the other end of town. However, I’ll give up convenience if it means being treated fairly and with respect. If it means interacting with knowledgeable, professional people without judgment, I’ll gladly go out of my way.
Depression is hard enough.
Tuesday, April 03, 2012
A Birthday Love Letter
The wife, as I like to call her because she’s my bff but that term is really overused plus she does things only a spouse should have to do like go to my kid’s choir and ballet performances, is celebrating her birthday today. I’m glad that it’s sunny because the weather can really suck ass this time of year but also because she deserves a really sunny day. She also deserves more than the stupid gift I got her but what gift can you buy that says “I love you more than you’ll ever know for a billion million reasons because you’re like Christmas and summer and chocolate cupcakes all rolled into one”?
We met three and a half years ago. I was freshly heartbroken after the end of a long-term relationship and trying to make the most of it by throwing myself a housewarming party. A new acquaintance brought The Wife along because she was also freshly dumped as well as newly unemployed and needed some cheering up. I would have expected someone in that position to be a puddle on the floor, especially knowing that in my state the only thing holding me together most days was copious amounts of vodka. She, however, seemed to be doing well. Not that she was resentment-free, but she was still funny in a dry and sarcastic way. My favorite kind. I liked her immediately.
Our friendship built slowly. I liked her more every time we got together. She, on the other hand, recently told me that she didn’t see us becoming close at the beginning. Not because she didn’t like me, because, well, duh. But because she thought we were so different.
In some ways we are different. She likes to snowboard and I hate anything having to do with snow or getting hurt. I am definitely the girlier, wimpier one. She owns a lizard which kinda freaks me out. She is teenager-free. I’m usually the organized one, the plan-maker. I own more shoes than she does and I’m afraid to admit that I’m the fussy one. None of these differences matter. If anything, they work to compliment the ways in which we’re alike.
We both like pajamas more than jeans, animals more than most people, and cheese more than other so-called food. Like most women, we constantly complain about our bodies and alternate between motivating and sabotaging each other. We’re separately stronger than we think but together probably unstoppable. Each of has so much distance in our families, of varying kinds, that we’ve chosen the other as family. And yet I’d never call her my sister because she’s less and more and something completely different.
What kind of friend is she? She’s the kind of friend that just does, no questions asked. She’s taken care of my sick dog when I was out of town and crying on the phone. As far as crying goes, she’s listened to and seen me cry more times than I care to tell you. She’s watched me make the same mistakes over and over with guidance and love, never making me feel like more of an idiot than I already knew I was. She’s showered me off after I’ve had the misfortune of puking on myself and taken me to the doctor when I had vertigo so badly I couldn’t dress myself. When someone says that a friend is there for them, her friendship is the standard by which I measure that effort.
I think the nicest compliment I ever received about us was from a friend who said that The Wife and I take better care of each other than anyone she’s ever known. I know she takes exemplary care of me and I only hope that I come close to that for her. She is a major reason I made it through the last year relatively unscathed.
So, here’s to my wifey on her birthday. My friend, I love you more than I can tell you. I don’t know how to form the words that would describe what your friendship means to me or how deeply I treasure the laughter, our utter zaniness, your generosity, acceptance, and understanding. I cherish your friendship as no other and I look forward to our future adventures, mishaps, and shared memories.
I simply adore you and love you. Thank you for being my friend.
Happy Birthday.
We met three and a half years ago. I was freshly heartbroken after the end of a long-term relationship and trying to make the most of it by throwing myself a housewarming party. A new acquaintance brought The Wife along because she was also freshly dumped as well as newly unemployed and needed some cheering up. I would have expected someone in that position to be a puddle on the floor, especially knowing that in my state the only thing holding me together most days was copious amounts of vodka. She, however, seemed to be doing well. Not that she was resentment-free, but she was still funny in a dry and sarcastic way. My favorite kind. I liked her immediately.
Our friendship built slowly. I liked her more every time we got together. She, on the other hand, recently told me that she didn’t see us becoming close at the beginning. Not because she didn’t like me, because, well, duh. But because she thought we were so different.
In some ways we are different. She likes to snowboard and I hate anything having to do with snow or getting hurt. I am definitely the girlier, wimpier one. She owns a lizard which kinda freaks me out. She is teenager-free. I’m usually the organized one, the plan-maker. I own more shoes than she does and I’m afraid to admit that I’m the fussy one. None of these differences matter. If anything, they work to compliment the ways in which we’re alike.
We both like pajamas more than jeans, animals more than most people, and cheese more than other so-called food. Like most women, we constantly complain about our bodies and alternate between motivating and sabotaging each other. We’re separately stronger than we think but together probably unstoppable. Each of has so much distance in our families, of varying kinds, that we’ve chosen the other as family. And yet I’d never call her my sister because she’s less and more and something completely different.
What kind of friend is she? She’s the kind of friend that just does, no questions asked. She’s taken care of my sick dog when I was out of town and crying on the phone. As far as crying goes, she’s listened to and seen me cry more times than I care to tell you. She’s watched me make the same mistakes over and over with guidance and love, never making me feel like more of an idiot than I already knew I was. She’s showered me off after I’ve had the misfortune of puking on myself and taken me to the doctor when I had vertigo so badly I couldn’t dress myself. When someone says that a friend is there for them, her friendship is the standard by which I measure that effort.
I think the nicest compliment I ever received about us was from a friend who said that The Wife and I take better care of each other than anyone she’s ever known. I know she takes exemplary care of me and I only hope that I come close to that for her. She is a major reason I made it through the last year relatively unscathed.
So, here’s to my wifey on her birthday. My friend, I love you more than I can tell you. I don’t know how to form the words that would describe what your friendship means to me or how deeply I treasure the laughter, our utter zaniness, your generosity, acceptance, and understanding. I cherish your friendship as no other and I look forward to our future adventures, mishaps, and shared memories.
I simply adore you and love you. Thank you for being my friend.
Happy Birthday.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Why My Kid Is No Longer Officially Enrolled in an Oregon School
A few weeks ago D was complaining that she didn't feel well. She was tired. Nauseous. I chalked it up to extra dance lessons and bad diet. She, in her ultimate teen wisdom, Web MD'd her symptoms and concluded that she had mono. I laughed at her and told her she didn't have mono, she just needed to sleep more and eat better. Her father (who is often a hypochondriac) took her to the doctor. The results? The darn kid had mono. There goes my credibility. Except you know what the treatment for mono is? Rest and a better diet. So there. I was still right.
Since she's been so drained of energy and always feeling like she's about to puke, she's been home from school for the last three weeks. After missing intermittent days before and after her diagnosis. I actually had to start homeschooling her. What a joyous day that was. I still hate math and I'm still not any better at it than I was 25 years ago. But I am excellent at writing position papers.
Last week I got a call from the attendance office at the school. They were kind enough to let me know that my child has been unenrolled in the school. Something about how she's been absent for more than ten consecutive days and the school district doesn't want to pay for her so it's just a technicality and she needs to stop in the office and say hi when she returns to get reenrolled.
When looking up mono, we found out that once you have it, you have it forever and you just become a carrier of it but you don't have symptoms again. So let this be a warning to any gross boys out there who think they want to kiss my kid.
Also? She can never use my chapstick or lip gloss again. Ha ha.
Since she's been so drained of energy and always feeling like she's about to puke, she's been home from school for the last three weeks. After missing intermittent days before and after her diagnosis. I actually had to start homeschooling her. What a joyous day that was. I still hate math and I'm still not any better at it than I was 25 years ago. But I am excellent at writing position papers.
Last week I got a call from the attendance office at the school. They were kind enough to let me know that my child has been unenrolled in the school. Something about how she's been absent for more than ten consecutive days and the school district doesn't want to pay for her so it's just a technicality and she needs to stop in the office and say hi when she returns to get reenrolled.
When looking up mono, we found out that once you have it, you have it forever and you just become a carrier of it but you don't have symptoms again. So let this be a warning to any gross boys out there who think they want to kiss my kid.
Also? She can never use my chapstick or lip gloss again. Ha ha.
Ballerinas and Taxidermists
This weekend D and I went to Portland for a little culture and arts-viewing, aka The Ballet. She chose Giselle because her ballet school performed it last summer and she wanted to see it performed by professionals, Oregon Ballet Theatre to be exact. It was beautiful and the sets and costumes (from Florence, Italy) were absolutely incredible and she almost cried numerous times because she's been out of ballet for a while due to her super-fun illness. It was packed because I don't pay attention to actual dates and hadn't realized I got tickets for opening night. But it was really, truly wonderful and if you have a chance to go, you should. (Just make sure you really remember to turn your cell phone off or some redneck loud-clapper will make snotty comments while continuing to talk throughout the entire performance. Don't ask me how I know this.)
I saw my friend Mel who I hadn't seen since she moved to Portlandia. She lives on a houseboat so we had a little adventure. I was hoping we'd be rocked to sleep, but it stood still like a real house. Although it is not a house I could ever be drunk in because the walkway to the house is very slippery and the stairs are open on one side and the loft has no protective wall or railing and the washing machine is in the garage, which on a river means it is on water. I didn't even dare to test this theory. We met her new Rottweiler puppy who I almost stole until she chewed the heel on my pretty shoe. I knew then that she wasn't a member of our family; my dogs have always known better.
Our biggest adventure was the store she told us about with stuffed animals. As in taxidermied animals. I was beyond excited to go there. Ever since seeing Dinner for Schmucks I have been obsessed with the idea of having my own little mouse diorama. D and I discussed getting one for each of us and naming them Harry and Sally or Thelma and Louise or Milo and Otis, depending on what their sexes were. I was literally squealing with excitement in the car on the way to the shop.
We walked in and the first things I saw were educational books and gross little piles of dirt wrapped in foil that turned out to be excrement from owls and other meat-eating birds with little skeletons and shit. Really, it was shit. And so booooring. And then I saw them. Little taxidermied mice. White ones and brown ones. There was a little circus ringleader complete with top hat. There was a punk rocker with a purple mohawk. There was a tiny Pope mouse. They even had a tiny flying angel mouse with white wings!!! In the middle of doing my little happy dance, I saw the price tags. $90. $110. What? Are you kidding me? A hundred bucks for a fucking dead animal??? I was crestfallen. Heartbroken. One does not have the luxury of spending $100 on a dead animal when one is living on unemployment. Oh, the sadness.
I tried to pacify myself with other delights. A beautiful butterfly? Too pedestrian. A tiny turtle enclosed in an acrylic case? Not furry enough. A taxidermied flying bat? Nope. Still too much moolah. How about a little alligator head? Where on earth would I put that thing? I left with nothing; D got a peacock feather. Yippee skippee.
I bought popcorn and candy and chocolate for the ride home to console myself. My obsession continues....
I saw my friend Mel who I hadn't seen since she moved to Portlandia. She lives on a houseboat so we had a little adventure. I was hoping we'd be rocked to sleep, but it stood still like a real house. Although it is not a house I could ever be drunk in because the walkway to the house is very slippery and the stairs are open on one side and the loft has no protective wall or railing and the washing machine is in the garage, which on a river means it is on water. I didn't even dare to test this theory. We met her new Rottweiler puppy who I almost stole until she chewed the heel on my pretty shoe. I knew then that she wasn't a member of our family; my dogs have always known better.
Our biggest adventure was the store she told us about with stuffed animals. As in taxidermied animals. I was beyond excited to go there. Ever since seeing Dinner for Schmucks I have been obsessed with the idea of having my own little mouse diorama. D and I discussed getting one for each of us and naming them Harry and Sally or Thelma and Louise or Milo and Otis, depending on what their sexes were. I was literally squealing with excitement in the car on the way to the shop.
We walked in and the first things I saw were educational books and gross little piles of dirt wrapped in foil that turned out to be excrement from owls and other meat-eating birds with little skeletons and shit. Really, it was shit. And so booooring. And then I saw them. Little taxidermied mice. White ones and brown ones. There was a little circus ringleader complete with top hat. There was a punk rocker with a purple mohawk. There was a tiny Pope mouse. They even had a tiny flying angel mouse with white wings!!! In the middle of doing my little happy dance, I saw the price tags. $90. $110. What? Are you kidding me? A hundred bucks for a fucking dead animal??? I was crestfallen. Heartbroken. One does not have the luxury of spending $100 on a dead animal when one is living on unemployment. Oh, the sadness.
I tried to pacify myself with other delights. A beautiful butterfly? Too pedestrian. A tiny turtle enclosed in an acrylic case? Not furry enough. A taxidermied flying bat? Nope. Still too much moolah. How about a little alligator head? Where on earth would I put that thing? I left with nothing; D got a peacock feather. Yippee skippee.
I bought popcorn and candy and chocolate for the ride home to console myself. My obsession continues....
Friday, January 20, 2012
Oops, My Depression is Showing
I don't think of myself as a person with depression. I often think of myself as a depressed person, but that's not the same as the clinical definition. I was just diagnosed two years ago when my therapist got tired of me crying in every session. I thought it was totally normal, it was therapy after all. But I was actually crying all the time. At my desk at work. In the car. Walking the river trail. I thought I was just Sad and it would go away, but it only got worse. So she recommended medication.
When my doctor prescribed Lexapro, she said it wouldn't change my life, that I'd just wake up one day and feel not-so-bad. And I did. It was like one day I realized that I didn't cry. It didn't make my life better, it didn't make my problems go away, it just took the edge off. It made everything more bearable and less stabby. I stopped crying. I thought it was a life-saver, which sounds kind of stupid, but when you don't have to run to the bathroom at work anymore because you don't want to be embarrassed by sobbing at your desk, it's really kind of a big deal. Which is mostly how my depression exhibits itself. That and the crushing anxiety I sometimes feel. I've never had a full-blown panic attack, but I've been fairly close. And although my depression wasn't debilitating, I could still basically function and get out of bed when I had to, it was nice to just get up without thinking about it. I thought I'd never give up my medication.
When I got laid off, I switched to the generic prescription because I could no longer afford my beloved Lexapro. I didn't like it as much. It felt like I had room for more. Like I could be a little happier, but just a little. And then I got used to it and forgot I was on something different. The major difference I did like was that if I missed a couple of days of Lexapro, I was sick. Dizzy, nauseous, icky. The generic doesn't do that so quickly which is probably not really a good thing.
I've been feeling better lately. And like I said, I don't think of myself as a person with depression. I think I'm normal. Well, maybe not exactly normal, but chemically balanced. I started thinking that my depression was just a situational experience. I started thinking I could stop my meds. You're never supposed to stop cold turkey, so I started skipping a day or two. When I missed three days with no apparent side effects, I did stop altogether. Big mistake.
At first I didn't notice anything. I started not sleeping very well. But big deal, I just napped during the day. Then this week I started questioning things that I was really sure about just a week or so ago. The thing that had made me really happy started to seem not so worth it. I started to wonder if I just wasn't that into it, if I'd somehow fooled myself into thinking I was totally in love. Which isn't like me. It actually takes kind of a lot for me to even like someone, I'm pretty dismissive. And that scared me. And then I realized that what I was feeling was numbness. Apathy. Very unlike me. I get excited over the dumbest things, and I started to feel like I didn't care about anything at all.
Next came the anxiety. Sitting in the doctor's office with Mr. A. yesterday totally freaked me out. I was convinced that they were making us wait so long just to drive me crazy. And Mr. A? He wasn't looking so A at the time either.
Today was the last straw. Yeah, I went to a sad movie, but then I couldn't stop crying after that. The remodel in Target made me sad. It was all I could do not to cry when buying eye cream at Clinique. I cried in the car all the way home. Over nothing. Or the rain. Or that fact that I almost cried in front of the Clnique lady. Or because I don't like my clothes. What I'm saying is, there was no concrete reason for it. And that's apparently how my depression defines itself.
My depression. It's funny how I take ownership of it. I don't want it. It's like a roommate that I live with and simply tolerate. It's not invited. I'd be happy not to have it. I almost convinced myself that I don't. Almost.
Depression is stupid because nobody takes it seriously. It's only physical to me because it's not visible to everyone else. If I'm grumpy or ragey or teary, then I'm just being a bitch or a weirdo. If you say you're depressed, people say so what? Everybody has bad days. But I can have a perfectly good day and still fall apart. Which further complicates the problem by sabotaging what little self-esteem I'm trying to hold onto. Even trying to explain it sounds like a cop-out. So I don't. If it's a particularly bad episode, I just wait for it to stop. I hide out and try to avoid people because that's what is best.
This week made me realize that I have this stupid disease. I am imbalanced. At least chemically. When something that made me blissfully happy just a couple of weeks ago ceases to matter for no reason at all, that's not okay. Or normal. Or acceptable. I owe it to myself and the people around me to do something about it. I'd saved a few pills on the off-chance that I'd actually need them. It turns out I do, no matter how much I wish I didn't. So I'll be better in a few days. More like the self I want to be. The self I can be. With the help I don't want but so obviously need.
Those sharp edges will be blurred again soon. Honestly, it can't happen soon enough.
When my doctor prescribed Lexapro, she said it wouldn't change my life, that I'd just wake up one day and feel not-so-bad. And I did. It was like one day I realized that I didn't cry. It didn't make my life better, it didn't make my problems go away, it just took the edge off. It made everything more bearable and less stabby. I stopped crying. I thought it was a life-saver, which sounds kind of stupid, but when you don't have to run to the bathroom at work anymore because you don't want to be embarrassed by sobbing at your desk, it's really kind of a big deal. Which is mostly how my depression exhibits itself. That and the crushing anxiety I sometimes feel. I've never had a full-blown panic attack, but I've been fairly close. And although my depression wasn't debilitating, I could still basically function and get out of bed when I had to, it was nice to just get up without thinking about it. I thought I'd never give up my medication.
When I got laid off, I switched to the generic prescription because I could no longer afford my beloved Lexapro. I didn't like it as much. It felt like I had room for more. Like I could be a little happier, but just a little. And then I got used to it and forgot I was on something different. The major difference I did like was that if I missed a couple of days of Lexapro, I was sick. Dizzy, nauseous, icky. The generic doesn't do that so quickly which is probably not really a good thing.
I've been feeling better lately. And like I said, I don't think of myself as a person with depression. I think I'm normal. Well, maybe not exactly normal, but chemically balanced. I started thinking that my depression was just a situational experience. I started thinking I could stop my meds. You're never supposed to stop cold turkey, so I started skipping a day or two. When I missed three days with no apparent side effects, I did stop altogether. Big mistake.
At first I didn't notice anything. I started not sleeping very well. But big deal, I just napped during the day. Then this week I started questioning things that I was really sure about just a week or so ago. The thing that had made me really happy started to seem not so worth it. I started to wonder if I just wasn't that into it, if I'd somehow fooled myself into thinking I was totally in love. Which isn't like me. It actually takes kind of a lot for me to even like someone, I'm pretty dismissive. And that scared me. And then I realized that what I was feeling was numbness. Apathy. Very unlike me. I get excited over the dumbest things, and I started to feel like I didn't care about anything at all.
Next came the anxiety. Sitting in the doctor's office with Mr. A. yesterday totally freaked me out. I was convinced that they were making us wait so long just to drive me crazy. And Mr. A? He wasn't looking so A at the time either.
Today was the last straw. Yeah, I went to a sad movie, but then I couldn't stop crying after that. The remodel in Target made me sad. It was all I could do not to cry when buying eye cream at Clinique. I cried in the car all the way home. Over nothing. Or the rain. Or that fact that I almost cried in front of the Clnique lady. Or because I don't like my clothes. What I'm saying is, there was no concrete reason for it. And that's apparently how my depression defines itself.
My depression. It's funny how I take ownership of it. I don't want it. It's like a roommate that I live with and simply tolerate. It's not invited. I'd be happy not to have it. I almost convinced myself that I don't. Almost.
Depression is stupid because nobody takes it seriously. It's only physical to me because it's not visible to everyone else. If I'm grumpy or ragey or teary, then I'm just being a bitch or a weirdo. If you say you're depressed, people say so what? Everybody has bad days. But I can have a perfectly good day and still fall apart. Which further complicates the problem by sabotaging what little self-esteem I'm trying to hold onto. Even trying to explain it sounds like a cop-out. So I don't. If it's a particularly bad episode, I just wait for it to stop. I hide out and try to avoid people because that's what is best.
This week made me realize that I have this stupid disease. I am imbalanced. At least chemically. When something that made me blissfully happy just a couple of weeks ago ceases to matter for no reason at all, that's not okay. Or normal. Or acceptable. I owe it to myself and the people around me to do something about it. I'd saved a few pills on the off-chance that I'd actually need them. It turns out I do, no matter how much I wish I didn't. So I'll be better in a few days. More like the self I want to be. The self I can be. With the help I don't want but so obviously need.
Those sharp edges will be blurred again soon. Honestly, it can't happen soon enough.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Open Letter to the Assholes on the River Trail
Most people know to use the river trail here in town for exercise. Most people understand this basic concept. It's not that hard. However, some of the people using it for the right reasons are subjected to those who don't. Some people don't know how to use it at all. This is dedicated to all of you who fall in this latter camp. Assholes, please take notice.
1. Dude With the Cigar - Are you fucking kidding me?!?!? I smelled you from 20 feet away, but I thought I was hallucinating. Because who is insensitive enough to smoke a motherfucking cigar on the river trail? And then I saw it. The huge cloud of smoke ahead of me. Next to a stroller with a baby in it. Okay, it's enough that you don't care about my lungs, but you don't even care about the lungs of the small person you are walking next to? Fuck you. Smoke in your den at home, not out in public. Asshole.
2. Same goes for the few smokers I have seen. Have you even noticed the people running past you? Or the people walking in their exercise clothes? Yeah, we're all out there for a reason and it isn't to clog our lungs up with your nasty nicotine habit. It's hard enough to breathe without breathing in your smoky shit. Fuck you.
3. Ladies. Do not wear perfume when you are working out. Trust me, it doesn't cover up the sweat smell that you think you are hiding. It just makes you look (and smell) more obnoxious and high-maintenance than someone exercising in nature should be. The rest of us can't breathe when we're coughing up your cheap perfume. Just don't.
4. Men. Don't take off your shirts. I realize it's cold and it's been a while since any of you have done this, but I'm still recovering from some of the exposure I saw last summer. Only about 2% of you can get away with this. The rest of you can't. Seriously, you don't want us ladies throwing up in our mouths when we pass by you, right? Cover that shit up. The other 2% of you who can get away with it? Don't stop. Please don't. Just know who you are. If you have any doubt at all, you can't get away with it and keep your shirt on. For the love of god, cover your shit up.
5. Men who talk. Don't do this. We women are honestly out there to exercise. Lose weight. Train for some type of race. We don't want to be approached. We are sweaty. We most likely haven't showered. We are gossiping with our girlfriends. We are not out there looking to hook up. We don't want you talk to us. If we are attracted to you, we will let you know. Trust us on this.
6. Off-leash dogs. I'm torn on this one. Some dogs are just fine, others aren't. I guess you should use some common sense here. If you have any. My dogs must always be on their leashes. They are assholes who can't be trusted. My girl dog is a bitch, literally. She hates anything that walks on four legs. So I know to keep her on a leash at all times. And then we'll meet a dog off-leash who circles her and sniffs her. Sure, it's not aggressive so its owners think it's okay. Only it's not because it gets my dog in this freak-out-aggressive tizzy. She can't handle it. And I don't need the stress. If your dog doesn't care about another living soul in the world and won't corner my dog trying to sniff her ass, be leash-free. If there is any doubt about your dog's intentions, leash the motherfucker. Seriously. Don't stress the rest of us out. I will have to resort to kicking your dog in the nuts if you can't be responsible.
I know we can all get along. We can. Even Rodney King can. Just follow these simple rules. Please. I can't be held responsible for those of you who break these simple rules. You're assholes and get what you deserve.
You have been warned.
1. Dude With the Cigar - Are you fucking kidding me?!?!? I smelled you from 20 feet away, but I thought I was hallucinating. Because who is insensitive enough to smoke a motherfucking cigar on the river trail? And then I saw it. The huge cloud of smoke ahead of me. Next to a stroller with a baby in it. Okay, it's enough that you don't care about my lungs, but you don't even care about the lungs of the small person you are walking next to? Fuck you. Smoke in your den at home, not out in public. Asshole.
2. Same goes for the few smokers I have seen. Have you even noticed the people running past you? Or the people walking in their exercise clothes? Yeah, we're all out there for a reason and it isn't to clog our lungs up with your nasty nicotine habit. It's hard enough to breathe without breathing in your smoky shit. Fuck you.
3. Ladies. Do not wear perfume when you are working out. Trust me, it doesn't cover up the sweat smell that you think you are hiding. It just makes you look (and smell) more obnoxious and high-maintenance than someone exercising in nature should be. The rest of us can't breathe when we're coughing up your cheap perfume. Just don't.
4. Men. Don't take off your shirts. I realize it's cold and it's been a while since any of you have done this, but I'm still recovering from some of the exposure I saw last summer. Only about 2% of you can get away with this. The rest of you can't. Seriously, you don't want us ladies throwing up in our mouths when we pass by you, right? Cover that shit up. The other 2% of you who can get away with it? Don't stop. Please don't. Just know who you are. If you have any doubt at all, you can't get away with it and keep your shirt on. For the love of god, cover your shit up.
5. Men who talk. Don't do this. We women are honestly out there to exercise. Lose weight. Train for some type of race. We don't want to be approached. We are sweaty. We most likely haven't showered. We are gossiping with our girlfriends. We are not out there looking to hook up. We don't want you talk to us. If we are attracted to you, we will let you know. Trust us on this.
6. Off-leash dogs. I'm torn on this one. Some dogs are just fine, others aren't. I guess you should use some common sense here. If you have any. My dogs must always be on their leashes. They are assholes who can't be trusted. My girl dog is a bitch, literally. She hates anything that walks on four legs. So I know to keep her on a leash at all times. And then we'll meet a dog off-leash who circles her and sniffs her. Sure, it's not aggressive so its owners think it's okay. Only it's not because it gets my dog in this freak-out-aggressive tizzy. She can't handle it. And I don't need the stress. If your dog doesn't care about another living soul in the world and won't corner my dog trying to sniff her ass, be leash-free. If there is any doubt about your dog's intentions, leash the motherfucker. Seriously. Don't stress the rest of us out. I will have to resort to kicking your dog in the nuts if you can't be responsible.
I know we can all get along. We can. Even Rodney King can. Just follow these simple rules. Please. I can't be held responsible for those of you who break these simple rules. You're assholes and get what you deserve.
You have been warned.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
How I Know My Kid Is Mine
D is very talented. She sings. Sure, I sang in glee club in elementary school, but it's not quite the same thing. She sings in public. And plays guitar. She dances. Trust me, she got none of her grace from me. I have no moves and I run into walls and furniture on a regular basis. In my own home. Clearly, we are different people. But once in a while, she does something that is very much like me and I'm assured that she wasn't switched at birth. Yesterday was one of those times.
I got a call from a cell number I didn't recognize. I thought it might be about a job so I answered it, when normally I would just ignore it. It was D. She sounded like she was in a vacuum. Turned out she was in the bathroom with a friend on the friend's phone because she had left her phone in the classroom that she left when she got gum in her hair. That she couldn't get out and she wanted me to pick her up because she just "couldn't" go back to class with gum in her hair. I laughed. I giggled. I laughed some more. She asked me not to laugh. I couldn't help it. Finally she said, "Just come get me and you can laugh all you want."
I didn't get there until five minutes before school was over. Seriously, she could have stayed but she said she wouldn't leave the bathroom until I got there. She informed me that there was a fire drill while she was sequestering herself. "And you didn't leave in case there was a real fire?" I asked. "No, I texted my friend to make sure it was just a drill. And I would have stayed in there anyway." I now know that they don't do sweeps of bathrooms during fire drills so I'm slightly concerned about the deaths that will occur from girls getting gum in their hair.
I used peanut butter to get it out. Which worked, but it was disgusting. She was already detesting the smell of mint and now neither one of us may ever eat peanut butter again. I may fill her stocking with mint gum this Christmas, because now it's funnier than coal. Plus I'm evil like that.
D swears she will never chew gum at school again. I swear I will laugh every time I tell this story. And be reminded that she really is my kid.
I got a call from a cell number I didn't recognize. I thought it might be about a job so I answered it, when normally I would just ignore it. It was D. She sounded like she was in a vacuum. Turned out she was in the bathroom with a friend on the friend's phone because she had left her phone in the classroom that she left when she got gum in her hair. That she couldn't get out and she wanted me to pick her up because she just "couldn't" go back to class with gum in her hair. I laughed. I giggled. I laughed some more. She asked me not to laugh. I couldn't help it. Finally she said, "Just come get me and you can laugh all you want."
I didn't get there until five minutes before school was over. Seriously, she could have stayed but she said she wouldn't leave the bathroom until I got there. She informed me that there was a fire drill while she was sequestering herself. "And you didn't leave in case there was a real fire?" I asked. "No, I texted my friend to make sure it was just a drill. And I would have stayed in there anyway." I now know that they don't do sweeps of bathrooms during fire drills so I'm slightly concerned about the deaths that will occur from girls getting gum in their hair.
I used peanut butter to get it out. Which worked, but it was disgusting. She was already detesting the smell of mint and now neither one of us may ever eat peanut butter again. I may fill her stocking with mint gum this Christmas, because now it's funnier than coal. Plus I'm evil like that.
D swears she will never chew gum at school again. I swear I will laugh every time I tell this story. And be reminded that she really is my kid.
Ode to Wonton Pizazz
Oh Wonton, you brought us such joy with your little froggy antics. We loved the way you and Potato sat on each other. The way you looked at us through the plastic of your little tank. The way you scuffled with Potato over food. The way you made us laugh when stretching your little webbed feet.
Wonton, you had more personality in your little half-ounced size body than most people I know. We won't soon forget you.
Rest in peace, my froggy friend.
Wonton Pizazz 2011-2012
Wonton, you had more personality in your little half-ounced size body than most people I know. We won't soon forget you.
Rest in peace, my froggy friend.
Wonton Pizazz 2011-2012
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
The Night I Became A Bendite
Central Oregon residents enjoy many outdoor activities throughout the year. During the summer, I love it here. I float the river, I hike, I did my first 5K last year. Hell, I've even been known to camp a time or two. But come winter, I am singing a completely different tune. A tune that goes like this - "It's cold, I hate winter, snow is stupid, when is it going to be warm again?" I don't ski. I don't snowboard. People ask me why I live here. That is too long of a story to tell.
At any rate, I participate in no winter activities. None. I stay inside and drink. A lot. Until this year. Or at least last week. K (AKA Mr. Adorable) asked me to go snowshoeing with him, his friend, and his friend's FWB. Oh, the things we do when in new relationships. But he did buy me my first pair of snow pants (yes, first ever. I have never worn a single pair.) so how could I say no?
And you know what? I actually liked it. I kind of liked it a lot. We went at night and at first I was freezing. And coughing on the snowflakes I was breathing in. Through my mouth. And then I warmed up and only my face was cold. And then I really warmed up and the sweat from my body kind of steamed my face and warmed all of me up. The best part of all was the little shelter where we (by we, I mean the army dude that was with us) built a fire and I got to drink flasks of booze. And water. But mostly booze.
The way back was even sort of romantic. The moon was out, the snow had stopped and, mostly, I knew that I would live and not get lost in the woods or get eaten by a mountain lion or killed by some crazy snowshoeing serial killer (actually I'm not convinced that couldn't still happen).
So there it is. I now have a winter activity. I'm cool. Time for a celebratory drink!
At any rate, I participate in no winter activities. None. I stay inside and drink. A lot. Until this year. Or at least last week. K (AKA Mr. Adorable) asked me to go snowshoeing with him, his friend, and his friend's FWB. Oh, the things we do when in new relationships. But he did buy me my first pair of snow pants (yes, first ever. I have never worn a single pair.) so how could I say no?
And you know what? I actually liked it. I kind of liked it a lot. We went at night and at first I was freezing. And coughing on the snowflakes I was breathing in. Through my mouth. And then I warmed up and only my face was cold. And then I really warmed up and the sweat from my body kind of steamed my face and warmed all of me up. The best part of all was the little shelter where we (by we, I mean the army dude that was with us) built a fire and I got to drink flasks of booze. And water. But mostly booze.
The way back was even sort of romantic. The moon was out, the snow had stopped and, mostly, I knew that I would live and not get lost in the woods or get eaten by a mountain lion or killed by some crazy snowshoeing serial killer (actually I'm not convinced that couldn't still happen).
So there it is. I now have a winter activity. I'm cool. Time for a celebratory drink!
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
Happy New Years to Everyone Except the Stupid Bitch Who Called the Cops on My Kid
D went to a New Year's party this year with about 20 of her friends. I thought the parents allowing this party were crazy. Like a good parent (or something like that), I met them when I dropped her off and made sure they were going to be there all night. They assured me they would be and, when I told them how crazy they were for spending their night with a house of screaming teenagers, they let me know that it would be someone else's turn next year. Ha ha. Yeah, I'll take the rotation five years from now.
Anyhoo, I got a call from D close to midnight saying she'd had the cops called on her. It's every parent's dream to get this call, right? It took a couple of days for me to get the full story after the initial adrenaline rush of that night. Apparently, the girls were a few houses down from the party house cheering "Happy New Year" at passing cars. Until the Drunk Trashy Bitch pulled over and started yelling at them. I think that what she relayed in her really intelligent adult language was that they were a "bunch of punk-ass bitches" and accused them of throwing a bottle at her car. One of the girls actually tried to have a mature, adult conversation with her, but DTB was stumbling and inhaling too hard on her cigarette to accomplish this task. She proceeded to go home and call the cops.
When the cops showed up, they got the girls' story but said they would have to go talk to DTB to get her side of the story and that if she wanted to press charges, they'd be back to do so. They never came back. Probably because they realized that DTB should have been arrested for a DUI and verbally assaulting innocent children.
That bitch is just lucky I wasn't around. Yell at my kid because you're a drunk, trashy asshole and I will tear your throat out. Only I get to yell at my kid like that.
Anyhoo, I got a call from D close to midnight saying she'd had the cops called on her. It's every parent's dream to get this call, right? It took a couple of days for me to get the full story after the initial adrenaline rush of that night. Apparently, the girls were a few houses down from the party house cheering "Happy New Year" at passing cars. Until the Drunk Trashy Bitch pulled over and started yelling at them. I think that what she relayed in her really intelligent adult language was that they were a "bunch of punk-ass bitches" and accused them of throwing a bottle at her car. One of the girls actually tried to have a mature, adult conversation with her, but DTB was stumbling and inhaling too hard on her cigarette to accomplish this task. She proceeded to go home and call the cops.
When the cops showed up, they got the girls' story but said they would have to go talk to DTB to get her side of the story and that if she wanted to press charges, they'd be back to do so. They never came back. Probably because they realized that DTB should have been arrested for a DUI and verbally assaulting innocent children.
That bitch is just lucky I wasn't around. Yell at my kid because you're a drunk, trashy asshole and I will tear your throat out. Only I get to yell at my kid like that.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Another Fun Teenage Conversation
Last night D had a short performance with Youth Choir for a cancer survivor's group. Appropriately, she was completely focused on the teenage boy in the leather jacket.
D: He is so hot, he is so gorgeous!! Don't you think he's hot, Mom?
Me: He's a child.
D (to her friends): My mom thinks he's hot!!!
Me: That is NOT what I said. I said he's a CHILD.
Other teenage girl: That's okay, my mom says stuff like that too.
FML.
D: He is so hot, he is so gorgeous!! Don't you think he's hot, Mom?
Me: He's a child.
D (to her friends): My mom thinks he's hot!!!
Me: That is NOT what I said. I said he's a CHILD.
Other teenage girl: That's okay, my mom says stuff like that too.
FML.
Thursday, December 08, 2011
Losing It
Lately I've found out what being unemployed for ten months will do to you. It will drive you crazy. Or make you really, really stupid. I think I'm both now. For example, this morning I was yelling for my dog to come in and getting really irritated that she wasn't listening to me because I didn't want to let cold air in the house. The poor thing was lying innocently by the fire. Inside the house. When I left to go meet a friend, I searched frantically for my car keys. Which were on the table next to my purse. Right in front of me.
And if that's not enough, my emotions are all over the freaking map. Two days ago I woke up grumpy. General grumpiness turned to anger. Like raging anger and hatred of everything in the world. For no apparent reason. I just hated everything. I wanted to hide out at home, but I also wanted to go out somewhere. But then I knew that I shouldn't be out in public with a very real chance of killing someone for doing something stupid like existing. This morning I was so restless I couldn't sit still. But I didn't really want to do anything other than sit on the couch. So I paced from room to room for a while.
I don't remember what day it is most of the time and I've started forgetting to do things I say I'm going to do. Like meet a friend for yoga. When I don't forget, I change plans in my head but I don't communicate them to anyone else. Which makes me feel so self-absorbed I can't stand myself. I think I'm going to start losing friends soon. I wouldn't be able to put up with me for long.
It's getting really pathetic. I'm predicting the next stage will be learning to knit sweaters for my dogs. And the invisible cats that I was talking to while decorating my tree alone.
Seriously. I need a job.
And if that's not enough, my emotions are all over the freaking map. Two days ago I woke up grumpy. General grumpiness turned to anger. Like raging anger and hatred of everything in the world. For no apparent reason. I just hated everything. I wanted to hide out at home, but I also wanted to go out somewhere. But then I knew that I shouldn't be out in public with a very real chance of killing someone for doing something stupid like existing. This morning I was so restless I couldn't sit still. But I didn't really want to do anything other than sit on the couch. So I paced from room to room for a while.
I don't remember what day it is most of the time and I've started forgetting to do things I say I'm going to do. Like meet a friend for yoga. When I don't forget, I change plans in my head but I don't communicate them to anyone else. Which makes me feel so self-absorbed I can't stand myself. I think I'm going to start losing friends soon. I wouldn't be able to put up with me for long.
It's getting really pathetic. I'm predicting the next stage will be learning to knit sweaters for my dogs. And the invisible cats that I was talking to while decorating my tree alone.
Seriously. I need a job.
Sunday, December 04, 2011
My Favorite
So I've been complaining a lot lately about Nutcracker weekend and how much it sucks. And it does. I'm tired. D is tired. I have to have extra energy to get her through the times that she's tired and grumpy and sore and hungry. Which isn't fair, because she's younger than me and is supposed to have more energy. I spend more money than I want to on last-minute supplies and spend my time catering to her needs. Or wants. Or whines.
I'm dead tired right now and I think pajamas are the best thing ever invented and I'm about to sleep like the dead (with Nutcracker music stuck in my head), but I have to say one thing. I love my bugabooga more than anything in the world. I'm a mom so I know I'm supposed to say stuff like that, only I'm not that kind of mom. I don't like most kids. Some days I can hardly stand the one I have. But I love her to pieces anyway and tonight she outdid herself.
She had her first solo tonight and there really aren't words for how I felt. My heart nearly burst when she came out on stage. Doll has always been one of my favorite parts and she made the Best Doll Ever. She was beautiful and radiant and she floated across the stage and she looked so grown up and the only reason I didn't pass out from holding my breath the whole time was because I was concentrating on trying not to cry so that I could see her without my eyes getting all blurry.
Am I proud of her? Yeah, sure. But that's just too generic a term. She astonishes me. She surprises me in the best possible ways. I don't know how she got to be the person that she is. But I'm glad she is. And I'm glad she's mine.
I'm dead tired right now and I think pajamas are the best thing ever invented and I'm about to sleep like the dead (with Nutcracker music stuck in my head), but I have to say one thing. I love my bugabooga more than anything in the world. I'm a mom so I know I'm supposed to say stuff like that, only I'm not that kind of mom. I don't like most kids. Some days I can hardly stand the one I have. But I love her to pieces anyway and tonight she outdid herself.
She had her first solo tonight and there really aren't words for how I felt. My heart nearly burst when she came out on stage. Doll has always been one of my favorite parts and she made the Best Doll Ever. She was beautiful and radiant and she floated across the stage and she looked so grown up and the only reason I didn't pass out from holding my breath the whole time was because I was concentrating on trying not to cry so that I could see her without my eyes getting all blurry.
Am I proud of her? Yeah, sure. But that's just too generic a term. She astonishes me. She surprises me in the best possible ways. I don't know how she got to be the person that she is. But I'm glad she is. And I'm glad she's mine.
Friday, December 02, 2011
Life Lessons from Mothers to Daughters
Sitting behind a gigantic, lifted truck today, D and I had this conversation:
D: He must have a really small penis. You taught me that.
Me: Yes I did. He must have a snail-sized penis.
D: Snails are cute. I like snails.
Me: Snails might be cute, but snail-sized penises are not. You should run from those.
I'm always looking out for her.
D: He must have a really small penis. You taught me that.
Me: Yes I did. He must have a snail-sized penis.
D: Snails are cute. I like snails.
Me: Snails might be cute, but snail-sized penises are not. You should run from those.
I'm always looking out for her.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
I'm So Smart Sometimes
Alright you guys, I have the most brilliant idea like ever in the history of my great ideas. Possibly even the world's ideas. It is that good. And if it actually gets done, remember it is my idea and I want the billion dollars that it will make.
So yesterday, I had to call unemployment. Which is the biggest waste of time because they put you on hold for precious hours of your life that you will never get back. I did it twice yesterday. The first time I was told my wait time would be 120 minutes. Really. 120. It takes me less time to count that high and even that is too long to wait for anything. After an hour I think someone picked up but then they disconnected me. Fuck me. Like an idiot, I called back. This time it was a 153 minute wait. Because they had to add in that extra 3 minutes. It couldn't just be 150. I waited another hour and gave up. Yeah, I need money but at this point my sanity is more valuable.
I got up early this morning specifically to call in hopes that less people would be calling at 8 a.m. This time I was told between 25 and 35 minutes. It ended up being 45, but whatever. At least she didn't hang up on me this time.
While listening to the same, repetitive music and messages over and over and over and over, I got my brilliant idea. Most of us have smart phones now, right? We can watch videos on them. So instead of playing stupid music that makes you suicidal, why don't they play videos to watch? Right? It's totally entertaining! And totally mindless, but so what. Waiting on hold for days on end is a mindless task anyway. I vote for cartoons. But only the good ones, the classics. Tom and Jerry. The Jetsons. Pink Panther. Mr. Magoo. None of these new retarded cartoons that must be made by monkeys. I would have to put my head in the microwave if Spongebob Squarepants came on. (Even spell check doesn't like Spongebob. Or Squarepants.)
I know, it's a totally rad idea. And it's mine. Steal it and you are dead to me. Not your money though, money is never dead to me. Plus it's my money in the first place because it's my idea.
So yesterday, I had to call unemployment. Which is the biggest waste of time because they put you on hold for precious hours of your life that you will never get back. I did it twice yesterday. The first time I was told my wait time would be 120 minutes. Really. 120. It takes me less time to count that high and even that is too long to wait for anything. After an hour I think someone picked up but then they disconnected me. Fuck me. Like an idiot, I called back. This time it was a 153 minute wait. Because they had to add in that extra 3 minutes. It couldn't just be 150. I waited another hour and gave up. Yeah, I need money but at this point my sanity is more valuable.
I got up early this morning specifically to call in hopes that less people would be calling at 8 a.m. This time I was told between 25 and 35 minutes. It ended up being 45, but whatever. At least she didn't hang up on me this time.
While listening to the same, repetitive music and messages over and over and over and over, I got my brilliant idea. Most of us have smart phones now, right? We can watch videos on them. So instead of playing stupid music that makes you suicidal, why don't they play videos to watch? Right? It's totally entertaining! And totally mindless, but so what. Waiting on hold for days on end is a mindless task anyway. I vote for cartoons. But only the good ones, the classics. Tom and Jerry. The Jetsons. Pink Panther. Mr. Magoo. None of these new retarded cartoons that must be made by monkeys. I would have to put my head in the microwave if Spongebob Squarepants came on. (Even spell check doesn't like Spongebob. Or Squarepants.)
I know, it's a totally rad idea. And it's mine. Steal it and you are dead to me. Not your money though, money is never dead to me. Plus it's my money in the first place because it's my idea.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
My Little Apple
Last night's conversation:
D: I'm going to text my man candy.
Me: Man candy? What did you say to him?
D: "What's up dog?"
Me: You say that to your boyfriend?
D: I'm not going to be all, "Hi honey." Gross.
She's also "training" him to be weird like her. Gotta love that kid.
D: I'm going to text my man candy.
Me: Man candy? What did you say to him?
D: "What's up dog?"
Me: You say that to your boyfriend?
D: I'm not going to be all, "Hi honey." Gross.
She's also "training" him to be weird like her. Gotta love that kid.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Weird Moments For Moms
Here's a good one: My kid just posted on her Facebook wall that she's in a relationship. Apparently the big moment in the life of teenage dating is making one's relationship "Facebook-official." And then your friends post things like, "I think I just peed out of happiness."
Two weeks ago she wasn't sure she was ready to date, now she's Facebook-official. Have I mentioned she's a Gemini? I can't even keep up with her moods, let alone her "relationship" status. And of course anything I would dare to post would be immediately deleted.
I really don't even know what to say. Or how to feel. I think something lame like weird works here. So, yeah. It's weird.
Two weeks ago she wasn't sure she was ready to date, now she's Facebook-official. Have I mentioned she's a Gemini? I can't even keep up with her moods, let alone her "relationship" status. And of course anything I would dare to post would be immediately deleted.
I really don't even know what to say. Or how to feel. I think something lame like weird works here. So, yeah. It's weird.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Ode To the Sweet Man at the Liquor Store
You, my friend, as you know, made my day. And week. Quite possibly, my month.
Winter is not kind. All I've wanted to do this week is eat and sleep. Eat and sleep. Go back to bed to sleep. Eat some more. I think I'm really a bear stuck in a person's body. I would give anything to hibernate. As a result of this sleeping and eating, I'm already getting fluffy. Putting on my jeans this morning was a harsh reminder of this fact. Like, really depressing. I like to eat mushrooms, I don't like to look like them.
I decide to treat myself to a martini so I visit your store. You greet me in such a friendly way. Which is nice, because liquor stores can feel really skeezy. I prefer to be treated like a productive and functioning alcoholic, not a homeless boozer.
While ringing me up, you said you would flatter me by checking my ID. I always love when that happens, but I didn't expect your reaction, "DAMN, you're doing good baby!!" Apologizing for the "baby" wasn't necessary, it added the extra oomph that I appreciated. Really, someone buy this man a drink!
Thank you for giving me bragging rights and making me forget about my winter marshmallow belly for a few minutes.
You remarked at the end that "this is going to get around." My friend, you have no idea.
Cheers!!
Winter is not kind. All I've wanted to do this week is eat and sleep. Eat and sleep. Go back to bed to sleep. Eat some more. I think I'm really a bear stuck in a person's body. I would give anything to hibernate. As a result of this sleeping and eating, I'm already getting fluffy. Putting on my jeans this morning was a harsh reminder of this fact. Like, really depressing. I like to eat mushrooms, I don't like to look like them.
I decide to treat myself to a martini so I visit your store. You greet me in such a friendly way. Which is nice, because liquor stores can feel really skeezy. I prefer to be treated like a productive and functioning alcoholic, not a homeless boozer.
While ringing me up, you said you would flatter me by checking my ID. I always love when that happens, but I didn't expect your reaction, "DAMN, you're doing good baby!!" Apologizing for the "baby" wasn't necessary, it added the extra oomph that I appreciated. Really, someone buy this man a drink!
Thank you for giving me bragging rights and making me forget about my winter marshmallow belly for a few minutes.
You remarked at the end that "this is going to get around." My friend, you have no idea.
Cheers!!
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Then and Now
When I was in college, I thought that the older women, the "moms" that went back to school after 20 years were laughable. Why bother going back to school when their lives were half over? School was for young people. These women were supposed to be at home helping their kids with their homework, not doing their own. But, secretly, underneath my smirks, I was jealous of them for one thing. They got the better grades. I assumed it was because their lives were so pathetic they had nothing better to do, but I envied them that. Even if I hadn't been so painfully shy back then, I wouldn't have befriended them.
Well, guess what? I turned into that mom going back to school 20 years later.
For years I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I thought I knew what I wanted when I was 19. What a joke. I don't think I would want any of those things now. Including the boyfriend. And then I just sort of fell into every job I've ever had, aside from the ones I thought I wanted to do but soon discovered that I would have to be crazy to continue in that vein. Getting laid off this year provided me with the opportunity to revisit the broke feeling of my college days (daily spaghetti and the occasional Taco Bell). But it also became a wake-up call. Do I really want to go back to the same thing I've been doing? Not really. Do I want to just fall into another job? Nope. So I took some time to think about the things I've enjoyed doing over the last few years. The parts of my jobs that I did really like. And after some soul-searching and months of researching master's programs, I chose and enrolled in a school. Ta-da!!!!
College is an interesting concept now. I'm old. Or at least I feel old when I compare the differences between Then and Now. When I was in college, there was no internet. The one computer class I took taught DOS and we used floppy disks. I know, some of you don't even know what those are. Fuck you for being young. Now all of my classes are online. I don't buy books in a bookstore, Amazon sends them to me. I share classes with people from Alabama, Indiana and India. Only they actually, physically, live there. In college I wrote my papers on a word processor. I took notes on paper. On a desk without a computer. I actually had a callous on my finger from writing so much. I don't think people even get those anymore.
The other big difference? Yeah, it goes back to those better grades. Part of it is that I'm paying for it this time around, but that doesn't really factor into the day-to-day of class. Honestly, I've just gotten really competitive. Including with myself. And I think I'm smarter. I have "life experience" or some shit. So I can't accept less. My first class spoiled me; I aced it. I was lulled into a false sense of geniusness. My second class started easily enough - I got a 99%. Yes! Go me!! And then the second assignment brought an 88%. What? The fuck? That is NOT an A. This can't happen. I am an A student now. I kicked my ass on the next paper and am now checking for my grade roughly every 45 minutes. It has to be an A. Has. to. be.
Here's another little twist on the Now. I do have a kid in school still doing homework. I ride her little tush constantly to get better grades. I have high expectations of her. I push her and don't accept excuses. So now I have to set an example or something stupid like that. Honestly? I think I'm competing with my own kid now. Hey, whatever gets us that elusive 4.0....
Well, guess what? I turned into that mom going back to school 20 years later.
For years I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I thought I knew what I wanted when I was 19. What a joke. I don't think I would want any of those things now. Including the boyfriend. And then I just sort of fell into every job I've ever had, aside from the ones I thought I wanted to do but soon discovered that I would have to be crazy to continue in that vein. Getting laid off this year provided me with the opportunity to revisit the broke feeling of my college days (daily spaghetti and the occasional Taco Bell). But it also became a wake-up call. Do I really want to go back to the same thing I've been doing? Not really. Do I want to just fall into another job? Nope. So I took some time to think about the things I've enjoyed doing over the last few years. The parts of my jobs that I did really like. And after some soul-searching and months of researching master's programs, I chose and enrolled in a school. Ta-da!!!!
College is an interesting concept now. I'm old. Or at least I feel old when I compare the differences between Then and Now. When I was in college, there was no internet. The one computer class I took taught DOS and we used floppy disks. I know, some of you don't even know what those are. Fuck you for being young. Now all of my classes are online. I don't buy books in a bookstore, Amazon sends them to me. I share classes with people from Alabama, Indiana and India. Only they actually, physically, live there. In college I wrote my papers on a word processor. I took notes on paper. On a desk without a computer. I actually had a callous on my finger from writing so much. I don't think people even get those anymore.
The other big difference? Yeah, it goes back to those better grades. Part of it is that I'm paying for it this time around, but that doesn't really factor into the day-to-day of class. Honestly, I've just gotten really competitive. Including with myself. And I think I'm smarter. I have "life experience" or some shit. So I can't accept less. My first class spoiled me; I aced it. I was lulled into a false sense of geniusness. My second class started easily enough - I got a 99%. Yes! Go me!! And then the second assignment brought an 88%. What? The fuck? That is NOT an A. This can't happen. I am an A student now. I kicked my ass on the next paper and am now checking for my grade roughly every 45 minutes. It has to be an A. Has. to. be.
Here's another little twist on the Now. I do have a kid in school still doing homework. I ride her little tush constantly to get better grades. I have high expectations of her. I push her and don't accept excuses. So now I have to set an example or something stupid like that. Honestly? I think I'm competing with my own kid now. Hey, whatever gets us that elusive 4.0....
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