This afternoon I took a break from getting ready for a couple of New Years things to journal. I wrote cleanly at the top of the page "Things To Note In The New Year", and after about 15 minutes of staring blankly at the page, I scrawled "Some things will be a little different" and tossed the pen somewhere under the sofa. It rolled past 4 bras, 3 pairs of nylons, a pair of thigh highs still in the package, and 2 girdles to get there-- but it did. And I resumed preparing for New Years festivities.
Some things will be a little different.
-I will no longer denounce dating, romance, involvement between the sexes. I have a boyfriend (which I assure you looks every bit as bizarre to you as it does to me), one that I adore and wake up staring at in some or other utterly repulsively google-eyed fashion. I kiss him at red lights and resist the urge to make a picture of the two of us my desktop. I met a man, I am hopelessly smitten, and I love it.
-I will lie to my daughter. No about why Daddy lives in a different state. Not about the fat man poking around in the living room. Not even about why I'm sad on any given day. No, the above statement implies that I have to lie to my daughter about something very different this year-- not about what ails me, but about what makes me happy. She has told me in no uncertain terms that she does not want me to have a boyfriend because she does not want me to break up with a boyfriend. She has seen that, twice, and does not care to see it again. Which is fair enough, and I can understand the sentiment entirely (as is evident from the past 3 years of halfhearted and self-sabotaged dating)... but it is what it is-- this happens to make me happy, and inevitable sadness be damned, I'm walking through. Which would totally piss my daughter off-- if I were going to tell her. Which I'm not.
Which would also totally piss her off. If she knew.
But she won't, because this year is the year that I become a deceptive untrustworthy mother.
-The heels? Gone. Some sprains just never do get better. This is one of those sprains.
Yeah, fine. Maybe it was the never icing it because I don't like to feel cold, maybe it was the refusal not to wear heels until 2 weeks later when the swelling had still nowhere near subsided. Maybe it was the decision to still walk a male every other day, go dancing, go to a party in platformed boots, take up dart tossing despite it consisting entirely of standing with wight on one of either foot for at least an hour if I'm doing it right.
Maybe.
Regardless, there are no more heels for this girl in the new year, and that is sad.
There is more, I know there is. And I could get into it right now... but I won't. Because in he time it takes to save a draft, go to new years eve, spend the night with my boyfriend (yes, still bizarre to type, and et utterly delightful in it's way), fumble on he keys of an unfamiliar laptop, it has become the very different New Year I have been thinking about, the things that will be a little different are in fact just that, and there is a fabulously terrible horror movie on that isn't going to watch itself.
Friday, December 31, 2010
You know what I fucking hate?
Blogging on my phone because a friend dragged me out to lunch and will not agree to leave or stop hitting on the waitress. I really need to remember to start carrying crossword puzzles with me, at least as long as I like to keep company largely with assholes.
Monday, December 27, 2010
And On The 3rd Day...
...God created maternal sadness.
It happens on the third day every time she's with her father for a week or more-- my daughter being gone will absolutely break my heart. I'll be overwhelmed with the quiet, saddened by the My Little Ponies that I step on in the night, guilt ridden over plans for time to be spent with the new boyfriend. I'll know the next few days are going to be exciting, fun, peaceful, romantic, lazy.. which is to say. the following days are not ones in which I will be myself.
I am not a girlfriend, I am not a student, I am not an unmarried 30 year old. I am a mother, who happens to have all of these other things going on as well. But in these days, I am a mother only as a secondary career I am laid off from.
I am a displaced mother.
And I am a fraud, walking around living a double life as someone I am really not.
It's simply the way it is, and once the winter break has passed it doesn't happen again until summer in this way, but in the last few days of the winter visitation, I'm a train wreck, I have identity crisis, and as of an hour ago, I cry very easily and blog very poorly.
6 years down though-- 12 to go. Moving right along.
It happens on the third day every time she's with her father for a week or more-- my daughter being gone will absolutely break my heart. I'll be overwhelmed with the quiet, saddened by the My Little Ponies that I step on in the night, guilt ridden over plans for time to be spent with the new boyfriend. I'll know the next few days are going to be exciting, fun, peaceful, romantic, lazy.. which is to say. the following days are not ones in which I will be myself.
I am not a girlfriend, I am not a student, I am not an unmarried 30 year old. I am a mother, who happens to have all of these other things going on as well. But in these days, I am a mother only as a secondary career I am laid off from.
I am a displaced mother.
And I am a fraud, walking around living a double life as someone I am really not.
It's simply the way it is, and once the winter break has passed it doesn't happen again until summer in this way, but in the last few days of the winter visitation, I'm a train wreck, I have identity crisis, and as of an hour ago, I cry very easily and blog very poorly.
6 years down though-- 12 to go. Moving right along.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
'Unnerved, I'll prepare for 237th date.'
(this is not the correct amount of dates-- that's just no ones damn business)
So I met a man, and upon reading the above statement as the closing of a recent email, it's dawned on me that he's more than a little like I am.
I'm pretty sure we somehow almost immediately went from "going on dates" to "kind of dating". I'm actually entirely certain as it involved detailed discussion, debate, and eventually nothing resembling resolve. No, that's an untrue statement: There was debate as to this being a good idea, clarification that good idea or not, it seems to be the case, and no correction of that statement in the morning. And as my 6 year old is not home and he is a bachelor who enjoys low-key, we are spending Christmas day together because eh-- it's Christmas, why not?
And that is how a neurotic woman goes from bad first dates and frequent declarations of "never ever ever ever going on a fucking date again" to multiple good dates with the same person and some level of involvement that isn't concerning enough that there is even a status option for it on any Internet social networking sites, but is concerning enough that I need both a good solid blog about it and a serious nap.
Spazzy Christmas, from my neurosis to yours.
So I met a man, and upon reading the above statement as the closing of a recent email, it's dawned on me that he's more than a little like I am.
I'm pretty sure we somehow almost immediately went from "going on dates" to "kind of dating". I'm actually entirely certain as it involved detailed discussion, debate, and eventually nothing resembling resolve. No, that's an untrue statement: There was debate as to this being a good idea, clarification that good idea or not, it seems to be the case, and no correction of that statement in the morning. And as my 6 year old is not home and he is a bachelor who enjoys low-key, we are spending Christmas day together because eh-- it's Christmas, why not?
And that is how a neurotic woman goes from bad first dates and frequent declarations of "never ever ever ever going on a fucking date again" to multiple good dates with the same person and some level of involvement that isn't concerning enough that there is even a status option for it on any Internet social networking sites, but is concerning enough that I need both a good solid blog about it and a serious nap.
Spazzy Christmas, from my neurosis to yours.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
The Night Before Alternating Year Single Mother Christmas
In this home, as so many, every other year is a Christmas that I will have my child, and on the off years (and how off they feel!) the night before Christmas eve becomes the night before Christmas. The stocking (she is six and doesn't care if I have one) is hung on a neon pink thumbtack that holds up a postcard of the Vestal Virgin with care, I am in my yoga pants and certainly no variety of cap. Forgoing the nap, April and I are exchanging needless panic over irrational things (the after 11:00 PM variety, not the around noon variety). The gifts have been wrapped, and I am soon to settle down for a 3 hour Dr. Who session so that my favorite Dr. Who nerd and I can watch the Christmas episode at least close to the actual date.
And then from my porch there arose such a clatter... and I am now poised at my computer with bear mace in hand wishing I had (as Jim who gave it to me had suggested) learned to aim and fire it correctly. I have peeked outside of my bedroom window to confirm that there is in fact someone walking around the yard, and it isn't fucking Santa Clause (which would have pissed me off anyway really, I just dropped a healthy amount on gifts that I probably wouldn't have had I known he was on his way). No, it's a wiry hillbilly meth looking guy who I suspect was just on my porch (because of the extremely loud clatter and slamming of my door, you know)... and now that I listen closely, I suspect is again.
Yes, absolutely-- he's talking to himself.
Ordinarily one would call the police, but ordinary is not something that works for a single mother who knows in the following week that she will be alone in the house, and that even worse would be to make enemies with any local creep when her daughter could in fact be home. There isn't a big strong man to protect me (of my own choosing mind you, this is not a lament). There isn't the uncertainty of when anyone will come home to catch him slitting my throat in the shower. And there is no way I am going down these stairs to so much as lock my door, more or less call the police and piss of some cracked out spaz who very well may be a friend of my neighbors, and if he isn't doing anything else illegal, would be allowed to roam free the rest of the night anyway (presumably to slit my throat as previously mentioned).
This is not the first creepy person to haunt my porch in the moonlight, nor will it be the last I have no doubt. It is, however, the first ghost of Christmas Present to pop up, and I felt that was worthy of at least a little blog note. So help me, Christmas past and Christmas future better not fuck up anything out there that this guy hasn't already gotten at... this is totally ruining my cookie eating, who watching, and basking in the glow of the artificial spruce in my living room.
And then from my porch there arose such a clatter... and I am now poised at my computer with bear mace in hand wishing I had (as Jim who gave it to me had suggested) learned to aim and fire it correctly. I have peeked outside of my bedroom window to confirm that there is in fact someone walking around the yard, and it isn't fucking Santa Clause (which would have pissed me off anyway really, I just dropped a healthy amount on gifts that I probably wouldn't have had I known he was on his way). No, it's a wiry hillbilly meth looking guy who I suspect was just on my porch (because of the extremely loud clatter and slamming of my door, you know)... and now that I listen closely, I suspect is again.
Yes, absolutely-- he's talking to himself.
Ordinarily one would call the police, but ordinary is not something that works for a single mother who knows in the following week that she will be alone in the house, and that even worse would be to make enemies with any local creep when her daughter could in fact be home. There isn't a big strong man to protect me (of my own choosing mind you, this is not a lament). There isn't the uncertainty of when anyone will come home to catch him slitting my throat in the shower. And there is no way I am going down these stairs to so much as lock my door, more or less call the police and piss of some cracked out spaz who very well may be a friend of my neighbors, and if he isn't doing anything else illegal, would be allowed to roam free the rest of the night anyway (presumably to slit my throat as previously mentioned).
This is not the first creepy person to haunt my porch in the moonlight, nor will it be the last I have no doubt. It is, however, the first ghost of Christmas Present to pop up, and I felt that was worthy of at least a little blog note. So help me, Christmas past and Christmas future better not fuck up anything out there that this guy hasn't already gotten at... this is totally ruining my cookie eating, who watching, and basking in the glow of the artificial spruce in my living room.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Neurotic Girls Need Different Email Settings.
When in an argument with my 6 year old daughters father, he made her call me to ask what time she would be picked up or if she should be dropped off after a winter camp (highly illegal, and furthermore just highly irresponsible for an adult to put a 6 year old in the position of relaying information regarding her own care). Normal girls would politely send a curt email: I know it to be highly illegal and furthermore find it just highly irresponsibly for for an adult to put a 6 year old in the position of relaying information regarding her own care.
And that's good for Normal girls. I am not a normal girl, however... I am a neurotic girl. What I will do is write a 7 page 'request' that he attempt being less of a smarmy little toad of a thing, that I have always felt that perhaps the worst decision I have ever made as a parent was to let him know I was having a child ( perhaps true, but not particularly needing email documentation or any mention whatsoever), and so on and so on and so on. He's shorter than me, which maybe came up, as well as teenage girls who were hooked up with in Vienna when I was pregnant, the absurdities involved in his general parenting policies on his alternating weekends and holidays, and maybe some psychoanalysis based on information revealed to me by his mother about how long he nursed as a child.
When I meet a boy I'm surprisingly taken with and things are going unusually well with (He doesn't show up in a fur coat at 9 in the morning, he doesn't stick his tongue in my ear 20 minutes into our first date, he doesn't delete me from his social networking site after my first out of the blue neurotic email, and I'm not met with a bizarre compulsion to reject further date requests because I am somewhat taken with him: Yes, these are the things I consider going unusually well-- as stated: I am not a normal girl, I am a neurotic one), I'm not just going to leave that alone and continue going on and enjoying dates like normal girls. . Most normal girls are likely to say "Well, this is great!" and enjoy the nature of such things. There is probably no emailing to be had about it at all. This girl, however, is going to send a 4 paragraph babble about drastic differences between said lovely man and herself that clearly he absolutely hasn't noticed and in fairness she should really clue him into this second, right now, immediately before he makes some dire mistake regarding mix CDs or further dates or whatever other curious things don't particularly concern normal girls out of the clear blue sky.
What I need is a different set of email tabs.
I need 'compose mail', 'rant' and 'panic' (which also has an auto-correct 'babble' mode for run on sentences). I need delayed sending tools that activate after a quick blood pressure, heart rate, or pulse check. I need an email account that won't even let me into it until I have blown into a balloon attached to my computer that will immediately lock my keys if any Creme Brulee ice cream or the slightest indication of Swiss cake roll is detected. And above else, I need a simple unsend tab.
Until I have all of this, I need a box of Swiss Cake Rolls... stat. Because there is no unsend button, there are emails floating around waiting to be read that I can do nothing about, and the neurotic demon that writes them inside of me is hungry. My hope is that if I feed it, it will take a nap and I can at least start drafting my retraction emails with some degree of peace.
And that's good for Normal girls. I am not a normal girl, however... I am a neurotic girl. What I will do is write a 7 page 'request' that he attempt being less of a smarmy little toad of a thing, that I have always felt that perhaps the worst decision I have ever made as a parent was to let him know I was having a child ( perhaps true, but not particularly needing email documentation or any mention whatsoever), and so on and so on and so on. He's shorter than me, which maybe came up, as well as teenage girls who were hooked up with in Vienna when I was pregnant, the absurdities involved in his general parenting policies on his alternating weekends and holidays, and maybe some psychoanalysis based on information revealed to me by his mother about how long he nursed as a child.
When I meet a boy I'm surprisingly taken with and things are going unusually well with (He doesn't show up in a fur coat at 9 in the morning, he doesn't stick his tongue in my ear 20 minutes into our first date, he doesn't delete me from his social networking site after my first out of the blue neurotic email, and I'm not met with a bizarre compulsion to reject further date requests because I am somewhat taken with him: Yes, these are the things I consider going unusually well-- as stated: I am not a normal girl, I am a neurotic one), I'm not just going to leave that alone and continue going on and enjoying dates like normal girls. . Most normal girls are likely to say "Well, this is great!" and enjoy the nature of such things. There is probably no emailing to be had about it at all. This girl, however, is going to send a 4 paragraph babble about drastic differences between said lovely man and herself that clearly he absolutely hasn't noticed and in fairness she should really clue him into this second, right now, immediately before he makes some dire mistake regarding mix CDs or further dates or whatever other curious things don't particularly concern normal girls out of the clear blue sky.
What I need is a different set of email tabs.
I need 'compose mail', 'rant' and 'panic' (which also has an auto-correct 'babble' mode for run on sentences). I need delayed sending tools that activate after a quick blood pressure, heart rate, or pulse check. I need an email account that won't even let me into it until I have blown into a balloon attached to my computer that will immediately lock my keys if any Creme Brulee ice cream or the slightest indication of Swiss cake roll is detected. And above else, I need a simple unsend tab.
Until I have all of this, I need a box of Swiss Cake Rolls... stat. Because there is no unsend button, there are emails floating around waiting to be read that I can do nothing about, and the neurotic demon that writes them inside of me is hungry. My hope is that if I feed it, it will take a nap and I can at least start drafting my retraction emails with some degree of peace.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
A Few Things:
I'm haunted a little this evening by feelings that have no vocabulary and events that should be explained in dimensions of lint rather than words.
~Richard Brautigan
Some days everything comes on in thick layers, and by time I have waded through it all to the keyboard, I cannot recall the well-worded entries I had planned on. This past few days has been of just such a nature. And it's since evaporated, all of it, and I'm left with a sticky need to wash it off but no concise way to do so. I am not going to do so, I am going to list, post, and go to bed easily... because some nights, this is what a blog is good for.
-Men touch me without my permission. Not you or you or you specifically, but men in general. Sometimes there is a special look, an indication that you are fond of someone and would like them to touch you, of course there are these things. And for some women I am sure that is helpful. For me, however, the overarching policy is almost always hands on knees, caresses on backs, pulling me closer in a hug when I am stepping back and flailing desperately for air-- all for no other reason than because I am within an arms reach. In the past week I have been touched casually and familiarly in over 9 instances that I in no way whatsoever offered even the slightest consideration of any physical contact at all-- and this is not irregular, any more so than me actually having to exert some real physical effort in dislodging myself from this touch. It seems that this would be enough to desensitize me to real wanted desired physical touch (I'm speaking outside of a sexual nature-- this isn't that kind of blog), but to the contrary it sometimes leaves me starving for something sincere and mutual. A hand hold that brushes fingers first and recognizes my receptiveness or dismissal. A light tap on the nose at a time that I am not jerking my head back to avoid it. A hug that I have stepped towards in any fashion at all before it is launched forth. I want to participate in physical contact, not find myself engulfed in it because I have failed to watch for it more carefully. If I am not staring you down and leaning towards you, sitting needlessly close, I do not want you rubbing my back, touching my hair, placing your hand on my knee or over mine, directing me by my shoulder or steering me through a crowd we are in by the small of my back. Keep your hands off of me. OFF. You're ruining me for touches when I want to take part in them completely.
-My daughter has decided she loves She-Ra. When I was very small, before I even remember my mother being sick at all, I remember visiting her in her apartment one time. There was honeysuckle growing in the alley (in adult visits to Oklahoma I have never seen it growing anywhere, this must have been a very specific short season for them that I have never stumbled upon again) and I was sick-- she took me in the house, made me tea and toast with no butter and turned on She-Ra. It's one of those little half slips of memory that almost seem impossible because you realize how young you must have been, but when my daughter asked me early this afternoon if we could watch She-Ra together I went into productive mode trying to get more of the memory by re-creating it. I made us tea, I drew the shades so it was very dark for daytime, and I gave her toast with no butter on it. This wasn't some big emotional act mind you, just a curious experiment: It turns out my daughter doesn't like toast with no butter on it, and asked to open the blinds. I did, and then we split a Twinkie. Nothing at all was lost by no new memory gained, and about 5 minutes in I found that as a 30 year old woman, I'm not very fond of She-Ra myself.
So, now I know.
-Thank you, Secret Santa. Or maybe secret admirer, I will never know. If in fact you are a devoted secret admirer who sees us as somehow connected however, I should probably add a couple of disclaimers to the thanks from the bottom of my heart.
a) the person who was sitting in what was supposed to be your seat at the Chicago Theater is not someone I have any romantic inclination to at all, so please do not do him any harm, boil his bunny (he does not have one) or key his car. He's a lovely man and with all due respects, you didn't tell me there was any other sort of plan. Or anything else for that matter. You left tickets to my dream-show in my mailbox and I took them out... that is all. and
b) I generally don't get too into romantic gestures. Or involvements. This isn't to say that I'm not occasionally smitten, or even that I'm not maybe currently very much so... just that it is absolutely not with you, whoever you may be. If your goal was to be certain that I see an amazing show that may well be one of the 3 best I have ever experienced and feel much joy, then thank you a million times as that is exactly what was achieved. If it was anything more, please don't hurt ME or boil my bunny or key my car (I have neither), but it is not mutual if I know you at all (and if I do not, I own bear mace and big knives, and my big strong male friends are plentiful and protective of me: All of which you must already know if you have stalked me with any proficiency whatsoever).
-Speaking of that show: There were realizations. When listening to "Either Side Of The Same Town" with some added lyrics, I scribbled on a slip of paper in my purse that "I am not afraid of commitment as I so frequently hear that I am". To the contrary, I have a difficult time not being committed to something once I have done so, which can sometimes tether me for a bit to a sense of obligation to something that is no more. I am not afraid of commitment: I am the most committed person I know when I commit at all. So, HA.
- Riding back into South Bend from Chicago, I always think the same thing: I don't care what anyone says, I think the Midwest is beautiful. Americana at it's finest (and I do not mean that sarcastically).
And now... Dr. Who will not watch himself and one of my favorite TV geek friends is growing impatient for me to get caught up so we can discuss with more freedom than the current "STOP, not a word, I haven't seen that yet". And so, that is all.
Boy do I feel better.
~Richard Brautigan
Some days everything comes on in thick layers, and by time I have waded through it all to the keyboard, I cannot recall the well-worded entries I had planned on. This past few days has been of just such a nature. And it's since evaporated, all of it, and I'm left with a sticky need to wash it off but no concise way to do so. I am not going to do so, I am going to list, post, and go to bed easily... because some nights, this is what a blog is good for.
-Men touch me without my permission. Not you or you or you specifically, but men in general. Sometimes there is a special look, an indication that you are fond of someone and would like them to touch you, of course there are these things. And for some women I am sure that is helpful. For me, however, the overarching policy is almost always hands on knees, caresses on backs, pulling me closer in a hug when I am stepping back and flailing desperately for air-- all for no other reason than because I am within an arms reach. In the past week I have been touched casually and familiarly in over 9 instances that I in no way whatsoever offered even the slightest consideration of any physical contact at all-- and this is not irregular, any more so than me actually having to exert some real physical effort in dislodging myself from this touch. It seems that this would be enough to desensitize me to real wanted desired physical touch (I'm speaking outside of a sexual nature-- this isn't that kind of blog), but to the contrary it sometimes leaves me starving for something sincere and mutual. A hand hold that brushes fingers first and recognizes my receptiveness or dismissal. A light tap on the nose at a time that I am not jerking my head back to avoid it. A hug that I have stepped towards in any fashion at all before it is launched forth. I want to participate in physical contact, not find myself engulfed in it because I have failed to watch for it more carefully. If I am not staring you down and leaning towards you, sitting needlessly close, I do not want you rubbing my back, touching my hair, placing your hand on my knee or over mine, directing me by my shoulder or steering me through a crowd we are in by the small of my back. Keep your hands off of me. OFF. You're ruining me for touches when I want to take part in them completely.
-My daughter has decided she loves She-Ra. When I was very small, before I even remember my mother being sick at all, I remember visiting her in her apartment one time. There was honeysuckle growing in the alley (in adult visits to Oklahoma I have never seen it growing anywhere, this must have been a very specific short season for them that I have never stumbled upon again) and I was sick-- she took me in the house, made me tea and toast with no butter and turned on She-Ra. It's one of those little half slips of memory that almost seem impossible because you realize how young you must have been, but when my daughter asked me early this afternoon if we could watch She-Ra together I went into productive mode trying to get more of the memory by re-creating it. I made us tea, I drew the shades so it was very dark for daytime, and I gave her toast with no butter on it. This wasn't some big emotional act mind you, just a curious experiment: It turns out my daughter doesn't like toast with no butter on it, and asked to open the blinds. I did, and then we split a Twinkie. Nothing at all was lost by no new memory gained, and about 5 minutes in I found that as a 30 year old woman, I'm not very fond of She-Ra myself.
So, now I know.
-Thank you, Secret Santa. Or maybe secret admirer, I will never know. If in fact you are a devoted secret admirer who sees us as somehow connected however, I should probably add a couple of disclaimers to the thanks from the bottom of my heart.
a) the person who was sitting in what was supposed to be your seat at the Chicago Theater is not someone I have any romantic inclination to at all, so please do not do him any harm, boil his bunny (he does not have one) or key his car. He's a lovely man and with all due respects, you didn't tell me there was any other sort of plan. Or anything else for that matter. You left tickets to my dream-show in my mailbox and I took them out... that is all. and
b) I generally don't get too into romantic gestures. Or involvements. This isn't to say that I'm not occasionally smitten, or even that I'm not maybe currently very much so... just that it is absolutely not with you, whoever you may be. If your goal was to be certain that I see an amazing show that may well be one of the 3 best I have ever experienced and feel much joy, then thank you a million times as that is exactly what was achieved. If it was anything more, please don't hurt ME or boil my bunny or key my car (I have neither), but it is not mutual if I know you at all (and if I do not, I own bear mace and big knives, and my big strong male friends are plentiful and protective of me: All of which you must already know if you have stalked me with any proficiency whatsoever).
-Speaking of that show: There were realizations. When listening to "Either Side Of The Same Town" with some added lyrics, I scribbled on a slip of paper in my purse that "I am not afraid of commitment as I so frequently hear that I am". To the contrary, I have a difficult time not being committed to something once I have done so, which can sometimes tether me for a bit to a sense of obligation to something that is no more. I am not afraid of commitment: I am the most committed person I know when I commit at all. So, HA.
- Riding back into South Bend from Chicago, I always think the same thing: I don't care what anyone says, I think the Midwest is beautiful. Americana at it's finest (and I do not mean that sarcastically).
And now... Dr. Who will not watch himself and one of my favorite TV geek friends is growing impatient for me to get caught up so we can discuss with more freedom than the current "STOP, not a word, I haven't seen that yet". And so, that is all.
Boy do I feel better.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Dare I say it?
It was a date, and it was pretty much a perfect date at that.
Who knew?
That said, on to other honestly quite delightful things... small victory over sponge bob and elmo and other such child icons that I would rather chew on a scant cup of sand for 30 minutes than let my daughter watch: We are going to cuddle up now in front of the Roku and watch She-Rah. Because she loves it.
The next 24 hours don't stand a chance in topping the current, I'm just saying.
Who knew?
That said, on to other honestly quite delightful things... small victory over sponge bob and elmo and other such child icons that I would rather chew on a scant cup of sand for 30 minutes than let my daughter watch: We are going to cuddle up now in front of the Roku and watch She-Rah. Because she loves it.
The next 24 hours don't stand a chance in topping the current, I'm just saying.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Getting Together For Dinner Is Not A Date.
For years, specifically the three since my 7 year boyfriend and I officially broke up ( as in 'divided the books, yelled at each other in the front yard over the vintage Persian rug, exchanged glares that vibrated with sheer hatred when one of the other had the audacity to hum a song with lyrics that didn't fit the situation' variety officially broke up), I have been trying to cosmically channel this 'not a date' state of being to men who I somehow found myself sitting across from.
"This is not a date, this is a meal. We are not 'getting to know each other', we are just getting to know each other. This is not an audition, we are not connecting on some other worldly romantic plane just above that which others around us can see from our conversation, we are just having a nice time. This. Is. Not. A. Date. "
But it ends up being a date every time... or at least on one side. There is always me turning my head half sideways at the end to avoid an awkward kiss I wasn't going in for. It ends up that moment where I reach for the check to figure my half and he says "Oh, no... I insist. " It seems like he is saying "No really, I'd like to buy you dinner", but what he is really saying is "Oh, no, I'm forcing a date on you. Once I pay this, it has been a date. Even if nothing comes of that, you've been totally punked into this date. I went on a date with you, and you had no sayso about it. You like that? Oh yeah... you can't take it there, can you. Now come here and let me try to kiss you."
And as such, I hate what I know of as dating. Usually. Most of the time. There has been some involvement here and there since being relieved of (or rather, liberating myself from) my suburban domestic partnership status that few years ago... 2 to e exact. One, arguably gay. One, my best friend, and now someone I do not speak to. Neither consisted of the formalities of dating, however, they were just friendships that drifted to the next level without pressure, which is why they likely did-- I do not like pressure. I do not like my face, I do not like my voice, I am haunted by the requests of babydaddy the year of his ND graduation to "Just please, don't be so pedestrian around my family", and overall, I do not like to be on dates.
Now and again, however, I will make plans to get together with someone for dinner and actually get a silly little smile about it and think "Gosh, that boy sure is sweet"..., and I will have to remind myself that odds are, they are the ones who know that "Getting together for dinner is not a date" . And even as I layer on the extremely fancy Umbrian Clay Mask from Sephora, even as I am plucking my eyebrows, making note to not do that thing I do where I start a sentence out loud in the middle of the place it already was in my mind, he is not thinking twice. Because getting together for dinner is not a date.
And then I have to have a serious blogging moment with myself after sending my daughter off with baby-daddy for the night because it's easier than getting a sitter sometimes and I have a...
No.
It's not, Nanda. Don't be creepy, OK? I myself swear by dinner not being a date so I better not dare go there, wonder if he'll hold the door for me, half expecting him to want to do something else after or walk me to my door, watch to see if he picks up the bill or not and trying to figure out what that means. No. This is not a date.
And anyway, I don't like dates... right?
"This is not a date, this is a meal. We are not 'getting to know each other', we are just getting to know each other. This is not an audition, we are not connecting on some other worldly romantic plane just above that which others around us can see from our conversation, we are just having a nice time. This. Is. Not. A. Date. "
But it ends up being a date every time... or at least on one side. There is always me turning my head half sideways at the end to avoid an awkward kiss I wasn't going in for. It ends up that moment where I reach for the check to figure my half and he says "Oh, no... I insist. " It seems like he is saying "No really, I'd like to buy you dinner", but what he is really saying is "Oh, no, I'm forcing a date on you. Once I pay this, it has been a date. Even if nothing comes of that, you've been totally punked into this date. I went on a date with you, and you had no sayso about it. You like that? Oh yeah... you can't take it there, can you. Now come here and let me try to kiss you."
And as such, I hate what I know of as dating. Usually. Most of the time. There has been some involvement here and there since being relieved of (or rather, liberating myself from) my suburban domestic partnership status that few years ago... 2 to e exact. One, arguably gay. One, my best friend, and now someone I do not speak to. Neither consisted of the formalities of dating, however, they were just friendships that drifted to the next level without pressure, which is why they likely did-- I do not like pressure. I do not like my face, I do not like my voice, I am haunted by the requests of babydaddy the year of his ND graduation to "Just please, don't be so pedestrian around my family", and overall, I do not like to be on dates.
Now and again, however, I will make plans to get together with someone for dinner and actually get a silly little smile about it and think "Gosh, that boy sure is sweet"..., and I will have to remind myself that odds are, they are the ones who know that "Getting together for dinner is not a date" . And even as I layer on the extremely fancy Umbrian Clay Mask from Sephora, even as I am plucking my eyebrows, making note to not do that thing I do where I start a sentence out loud in the middle of the place it already was in my mind, he is not thinking twice. Because getting together for dinner is not a date.
And then I have to have a serious blogging moment with myself after sending my daughter off with baby-daddy for the night because it's easier than getting a sitter sometimes and I have a...
No.
It's not, Nanda. Don't be creepy, OK? I myself swear by dinner not being a date so I better not dare go there, wonder if he'll hold the door for me, half expecting him to want to do something else after or walk me to my door, watch to see if he picks up the bill or not and trying to figure out what that means. No. This is not a date.
And anyway, I don't like dates... right?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Has It Really Come To This?
I am writing an 8 page final paper (though clearly that is not, at least at this moment, entirely true true now is it?) that is due at 10:00 tomorrow morning, and that I started about 20 minutes ago. In and of itself, this is not so strange-- I don't know that I have ever finished a paper with more than a nights effort. What is strange is that midway through the paper, I realized 2 horrifying things:
1.) It is 10 days until Christmas, how in the fuck did that happen? And what in the fuck am I going to do with these 36 printed cards featuring one precious Morgan Athena looking over her shoulder in a red velor dress? I don't have stamps, and if I go into the post office tomorrow to buy some, they're all going to know I didn't send my cards out until just now.
And then everyone is going to be looking through their cards Christmas morning (because domestic families do that, right? I know smug newlyweds and new parents always do-- I've seen it firsthand) and think "Oh, not one from Nanda, I see (or Amanda, depending on what home the judgment is coming from). You know, her mother died and her father isn't around and she got dumped a couple of months ago and her daughter is in Colorado with that boy's family... you know, the one that (whisper) got her pregnant. No wonder the poor dear didn't send a card. She's allllll alone."
And then, they're going to call me while I'm, like, surfing pornhub and smoking in the house in a dirty wife beater having the time of my life and be all "We noticed you didn't send a card, and we'd really like you to come spend the holidays with us. Since you know... (more whispers) you're all alone."
And then, all of a sudden, I'm going to be sad that I'm all alone. And my Christmas, fine up until that point, will be ruined. And, I only have 10 days until all of this inevitably happens. If only there was something I could do to change it... oh, right. Stamps.
And, at the end of this entirely insane stream of consciousness, I without noticing it typed "Get fucking stamps" right in the middle of my paper. As I was deleting this, I was led to my next thought...
2) New Year's Eve is only a few days after Christmas, you know. So if my sprained ankle isn't healed by then, am I going to suffer through in heels for it even after it hurt so much at that party I went to last week? Or am I seriously going to go out for New Year's Eve without heels on? I can dance then, but I won't like to because I only wiggle right in real heels.
And then I have to stop again and think about my New Years Plans. They were (when I made a point to be child free on the parenting schedule ages ago) to do something, whatever it needed to be, with my best friend who after years of confusion I finally found a way to date with some success. When he left my house after movie night and disappeared a couple of months ago though (and I do mean disappeared, I didn't see him for over a month, just like that), I didn't make backup plans. I've entertained notions from utterly absurd to completely practical, but in the end the place I had just deleted the words "Get Fucking Stamps" was filled in again with the words "You're going to end up kissing your own hand for New years Eve Again". This is a true story mind you, I spent last NYE with a guy friend who was seriously looking for more and leaned in with his mouth slightly parted, so I pretended to kiss his cheek, kissed my own hand, and said "I love me!" as though it was totally adorable self absorption rather than totally sad disinterest in someone who cared about me a great deal.
And so, before anything else happened to my paper, I thought I had better, with only a few hours until bedtime, come blog for 20 minutes to purge these neurotic irrational typing turrets so I can get back to typing my paper-- yet another thing I have known all year was coming, and somehow managed to be completely shocked by when I found it actually upon me.
You know what would be really nice? If my nerves would make me accidentally interrupt my blogging to write my paper in the middle of this entry too. Alas... back to Word I go.
1.) It is 10 days until Christmas, how in the fuck did that happen? And what in the fuck am I going to do with these 36 printed cards featuring one precious Morgan Athena looking over her shoulder in a red velor dress? I don't have stamps, and if I go into the post office tomorrow to buy some, they're all going to know I didn't send my cards out until just now.
And then everyone is going to be looking through their cards Christmas morning (because domestic families do that, right? I know smug newlyweds and new parents always do-- I've seen it firsthand) and think "Oh, not one from Nanda, I see (or Amanda, depending on what home the judgment is coming from). You know, her mother died and her father isn't around and she got dumped a couple of months ago and her daughter is in Colorado with that boy's family... you know, the one that (whisper) got her pregnant. No wonder the poor dear didn't send a card. She's allllll alone."
And then, they're going to call me while I'm, like, surfing pornhub and smoking in the house in a dirty wife beater having the time of my life and be all "We noticed you didn't send a card, and we'd really like you to come spend the holidays with us. Since you know... (more whispers) you're all alone."
And then, all of a sudden, I'm going to be sad that I'm all alone. And my Christmas, fine up until that point, will be ruined. And, I only have 10 days until all of this inevitably happens. If only there was something I could do to change it... oh, right. Stamps.
And, at the end of this entirely insane stream of consciousness, I without noticing it typed "Get fucking stamps" right in the middle of my paper. As I was deleting this, I was led to my next thought...
2) New Year's Eve is only a few days after Christmas, you know. So if my sprained ankle isn't healed by then, am I going to suffer through in heels for it even after it hurt so much at that party I went to last week? Or am I seriously going to go out for New Year's Eve without heels on? I can dance then, but I won't like to because I only wiggle right in real heels.
And then I have to stop again and think about my New Years Plans. They were (when I made a point to be child free on the parenting schedule ages ago) to do something, whatever it needed to be, with my best friend who after years of confusion I finally found a way to date with some success. When he left my house after movie night and disappeared a couple of months ago though (and I do mean disappeared, I didn't see him for over a month, just like that), I didn't make backup plans. I've entertained notions from utterly absurd to completely practical, but in the end the place I had just deleted the words "Get Fucking Stamps" was filled in again with the words "You're going to end up kissing your own hand for New years Eve Again". This is a true story mind you, I spent last NYE with a guy friend who was seriously looking for more and leaned in with his mouth slightly parted, so I pretended to kiss his cheek, kissed my own hand, and said "I love me!" as though it was totally adorable self absorption rather than totally sad disinterest in someone who cared about me a great deal.
And so, before anything else happened to my paper, I thought I had better, with only a few hours until bedtime, come blog for 20 minutes to purge these neurotic irrational typing turrets so I can get back to typing my paper-- yet another thing I have known all year was coming, and somehow managed to be completely shocked by when I found it actually upon me.
You know what would be really nice? If my nerves would make me accidentally interrupt my blogging to write my paper in the middle of this entry too. Alas... back to Word I go.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Because I Gots No Class
I may have outright danced into class this morning-- and what I mean by "may have danced into class" is "totally danced into class". It was They Might Be Giants, and I'm the only woman I know who can dance to a song about James K. Polk, but it is what it is and by time I realized what I had done, it was too late. I was standing in front of the classroom with my hands in my hair, hips flung to one side, and I froze for a moment, horrified.
Here I should clarify, this isn't a unique experience, I wasn't about to die of humiliation because I couldn't believe I would be so totally engrossed in my own little word that I was making a total fool of myself and disrespecting an entire classroom (mind you, I was 10 minutes late-- I'm always 10 minutes late). No, no, nothing like that. As I froze, the thought that ran through my head wasn't "Oh no, please say I didn't", but "Jesus fuck, Nanda-- you have to stop doing this!"
I have danced into stores. I have danced directly into actual people. I one time danced into the middle of the street in front of a school bus (nothing was hurt except my nerves, and they've never really been in primo condition to begin with). And still, my Zen is full of playlist titled "Dance It Off: My Breakup Brushoff Songs", "Nanda's Hoochy Dance Mix #7" and"Superhappy Dance In Public Songs (December) ". No, these aren't funny little names I made up to get my point across for this entry... the sad truth is, I was listening to the Dance In Public mix when I happened to dance into class, freeze and think "You have to stop doing this!". If only there had been some clue...
Luckily, with finals happening and this one pending for Thursday it seems that I was the only person standing in the classroom. Clearly this was something discussed in the first 9 minutes of the last class, when I was just gyrating out of my house into the snow towards school.
On a totally unrelated side note, something brand new has happened to me recently: I got a "Good luck on your finals" from someone at the end of an email. I was kind of startled, this is something I have never heard before and rather liked. I think more people should wish luck on finals. That said, I should probably dance out to smoke a cigarette, I would like to actually show up for the next of the above mentioned finals on time. I may moonwalk in, and according to the syllabus, there will in fact be people there to see it this time.
Here I should clarify, this isn't a unique experience, I wasn't about to die of humiliation because I couldn't believe I would be so totally engrossed in my own little word that I was making a total fool of myself and disrespecting an entire classroom (mind you, I was 10 minutes late-- I'm always 10 minutes late). No, no, nothing like that. As I froze, the thought that ran through my head wasn't "Oh no, please say I didn't", but "Jesus fuck, Nanda-- you have to stop doing this!"
I have danced into stores. I have danced directly into actual people. I one time danced into the middle of the street in front of a school bus (nothing was hurt except my nerves, and they've never really been in primo condition to begin with). And still, my Zen is full of playlist titled "Dance It Off: My Breakup Brushoff Songs", "Nanda's Hoochy Dance Mix #7" and"Superhappy Dance In Public Songs (December) ". No, these aren't funny little names I made up to get my point across for this entry... the sad truth is, I was listening to the Dance In Public mix when I happened to dance into class, freeze and think "You have to stop doing this!". If only there had been some clue...
Luckily, with finals happening and this one pending for Thursday it seems that I was the only person standing in the classroom. Clearly this was something discussed in the first 9 minutes of the last class, when I was just gyrating out of my house into the snow towards school.
On a totally unrelated side note, something brand new has happened to me recently: I got a "Good luck on your finals" from someone at the end of an email. I was kind of startled, this is something I have never heard before and rather liked. I think more people should wish luck on finals. That said, I should probably dance out to smoke a cigarette, I would like to actually show up for the next of the above mentioned finals on time. I may moonwalk in, and according to the syllabus, there will in fact be people there to see it this time.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Guess What I'm Having For Second Dinner.
Go on, guess. Did you happen to guess an entire box of Star Crunchies?
Yeah, no one ever does.
Yeah, no one ever does.
Things That Are True About Today
In the course of the last 24 hours, several interesting things have happened. The best is that my nanny's fiance cleaned my kitchen. The worst is that she was here because I decided instead of doing something very important for school that I was going to go to a party. But, there is gray area in between (let me pause here to mention how annoyed I am that my spellcheck does not recognize the spelling of gray as correct when I spell it grey even though it is a perfectly acceptable alternative spelling. And now, how annoyed I am that my spellcheck does not recognize the word 'spellcheck' as valid. Moving on...), various hues and shades that are deserving of note. I can say many things about my life, but among them, 'uninteresting' will never be uttered. Because in the course of the day, the following things have been true:
-I allowed someone to cut a bit of my hair with a box cutter (and honestly, sort of encouraged my hair to be cut with said box cutter). It was a kind of rusty box cutter at that.
-I learned that if my Cosmic Internet Soul-mate (who is also my real life friend, April) and I are hanging out in person, if she drinks enough wine I seem to become drunk. The second I am not talking to her anymore, I resume a normal voice tone and fewer things seem to be the most hysterical thing I have ever seen, heard, said or done than previous. Then I, like, walk to the hall outside the bathroom and she's standing there and I suddenly trip over my own boot and cackle maniacally about it. And at some point, we both begin referring to one another's blogs both as "our blog". Then, more cackling.
I could try to figure this out, but as long as I don't have to get her hangover I think I'm just going to enjoy the ride.
-I bought a Christmas tree as a Christmas present. I wish less of my friends had trees, it would make holiday shopping so much easier and more gratifying.
-You know that Walk Of Shame kit I always wanted from Too Faced? And then it got discontinued and I was all whiny about it? I got one. Best early holiday gift ever.
-I still have 3 pots in my shower. I can explain. I mean I won't, but I totally could if I wanted to.
-No matter where I go and no matter how long he has lived in a different state, there's always going to be some drunk dude that's like "Hey, you're Amanda right? I know your brother Frank!" Um, his name is Huck, but that's totally cool drunk dude. I know him too.
-I've changed my outfit 4 times in one day. Not, like, "I tried on a few outfits today" but "I genuinely felt there were 4 different occasions that required the wearing of different outfits today".
- If I'm not getting a crush on a gay guy, I'm getting a crush on a guy that's wayyy out of my league. Tonight would be no exception. The best part? I'm like "We should do something" and he's like "Yeah, call me". This man has never given me his number. The tasteful response? "Yeah, totally!", hint taken without creating awkwardness . My response? "Oh, I don't have your number. Mine's on facebook! You can get it there!" and then walking off making the hold your hand like a phone gesture and mouthing "Call me" and wiggling my eyebrows.
OK, so I didn't really do that last part. But I may as well have. "Get my number off facebook!"... dork.
- So when I was told by more than one medical professional not to wear heels or my sprain was going to get bad all over again? True story. Who knew.
-An added bonus: My daughter came into the kitchen a few seconds ago and said "Mommy, let's cuddle and look at the tree. And at 2 in the morning, that's just what I'm going to do. She'll probably be asleep again by time we make it to the sofa 8 steps away, but I could use a couple of quiet minutes, and I appreciate that she suggested it more than I can say. Happy Thanxmas to all, and to all a good night.
(and if any creeper calls my number from off of facebook, so help me I will call you all hours of the day or night and blow a whistle into your ear. Really-- have you not seen the above? I am exactly that much of a dork.)
-I allowed someone to cut a bit of my hair with a box cutter (and honestly, sort of encouraged my hair to be cut with said box cutter). It was a kind of rusty box cutter at that.
-I learned that if my Cosmic Internet Soul-mate (who is also my real life friend, April) and I are hanging out in person, if she drinks enough wine I seem to become drunk. The second I am not talking to her anymore, I resume a normal voice tone and fewer things seem to be the most hysterical thing I have ever seen, heard, said or done than previous. Then I, like, walk to the hall outside the bathroom and she's standing there and I suddenly trip over my own boot and cackle maniacally about it. And at some point, we both begin referring to one another's blogs both as "our blog". Then, more cackling.
I could try to figure this out, but as long as I don't have to get her hangover I think I'm just going to enjoy the ride.
-I bought a Christmas tree as a Christmas present. I wish less of my friends had trees, it would make holiday shopping so much easier and more gratifying.
-You know that Walk Of Shame kit I always wanted from Too Faced? And then it got discontinued and I was all whiny about it? I got one. Best early holiday gift ever.
-I still have 3 pots in my shower. I can explain. I mean I won't, but I totally could if I wanted to.
-No matter where I go and no matter how long he has lived in a different state, there's always going to be some drunk dude that's like "Hey, you're Amanda right? I know your brother Frank!" Um, his name is Huck, but that's totally cool drunk dude. I know him too.
-I've changed my outfit 4 times in one day. Not, like, "I tried on a few outfits today" but "I genuinely felt there were 4 different occasions that required the wearing of different outfits today".
- If I'm not getting a crush on a gay guy, I'm getting a crush on a guy that's wayyy out of my league. Tonight would be no exception. The best part? I'm like "We should do something" and he's like "Yeah, call me". This man has never given me his number. The tasteful response? "Yeah, totally!", hint taken without creating awkwardness . My response? "Oh, I don't have your number. Mine's on facebook! You can get it there!" and then walking off making the hold your hand like a phone gesture and mouthing "Call me" and wiggling my eyebrows.
OK, so I didn't really do that last part. But I may as well have. "Get my number off facebook!"... dork.
- So when I was told by more than one medical professional not to wear heels or my sprain was going to get bad all over again? True story. Who knew.
-An added bonus: My daughter came into the kitchen a few seconds ago and said "Mommy, let's cuddle and look at the tree. And at 2 in the morning, that's just what I'm going to do. She'll probably be asleep again by time we make it to the sofa 8 steps away, but I could use a couple of quiet minutes, and I appreciate that she suggested it more than I can say. Happy Thanxmas to all, and to all a good night.
(and if any creeper calls my number from off of facebook, so help me I will call you all hours of the day or night and blow a whistle into your ear. Really-- have you not seen the above? I am exactly that much of a dork.)
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Of Course There's No Snow In Africa, You Idiots.
Yes, I mean you Bono. You and Boy George, and Phil Collins.
Especially Phil Collins. Idiot.
Once a year for a few weeks, I live in a blind rage. The Snow In Africa song is the reason for this. Of COURSE there won't be snow in Africa this Christmas, morons, because
a)It's Africa. It's jungles and deserts. Oh wait, unless you go to the mountains, there's snow there. Is that what you want, Band-Aid? A buch of freezing African children? It's not enough that they're starving? That's cruel, Phil Collins... cruel.
b)It's not fucking Christmas. I mean, for some people it is, sure... Christmas is a Christian holiday, and the Africans who do have Christmas are going to be fine. And there's a lot of them too-- sooo many huts built in exchange for some baptisms and bible reading... those Christians, we already made sure they know it's Christmas, because we're the ones that told them it was. Further, they're going to know it's Christmas because it's a national holiday there. Those that aren't are also going to be fine. They'll have the same famine tomorrow, because you all got together in a recording studio and made one of the worst songs of all time instead of each chipping in your coke money for the month (have you ever noticed how many people famous for coke problems specifically took part in that Band-Aid moment? White Christmas, yo). That could have fed those non-Christians through several more years of arbitrary holidays. And don't you stand there and tell me about song proceeds...
I mean, seriously. Have you heard that song?
That said, this holiday is about so much more to me... it's about the fucking Christmas lists. Christmas lists are a strange thing for me int he randomness with which I am able to come to a gift conclusion. And I have a list of completed shopping, I do.
-My best friend in New York
-My Internet cosmic soul-mate
-My ex boyfriend and his girlfriend
-My father who I haven't seen in 6 months who lives in the same town as me.
-My AA sponsor (What? It's never come up before. Relax Dad, you haven't even seen me in 6 months)
These are people who I one day woke up and said "Christmas is coming. Oh hey, you know what I should get for (insert name here)?"
But there's that other list too.
-My best friend in California
-My actual soul-mate, who I am not speaking to
-My other ex boyfriend and his boyfriend
-My daughters father, who must require something from her, right?
-My daughter herself. I was going to get her a Littlest Pet-shop and a Barbie (I'm a size 1 with a D cup, unrealistic body image issues do not apply in our house unless you want me to wear a box around her). The way things are looking lately, however, I'm torn between a flask, a my little pony switchblade, and The Bad Girls Guide To Dating.
God bless us, every one. Even those poooor lost souls in Africa.
Especially Phil Collins. Idiot.
Once a year for a few weeks, I live in a blind rage. The Snow In Africa song is the reason for this. Of COURSE there won't be snow in Africa this Christmas, morons, because
a)It's Africa. It's jungles and deserts. Oh wait, unless you go to the mountains, there's snow there. Is that what you want, Band-Aid? A buch of freezing African children? It's not enough that they're starving? That's cruel, Phil Collins... cruel.
b)It's not fucking Christmas. I mean, for some people it is, sure... Christmas is a Christian holiday, and the Africans who do have Christmas are going to be fine. And there's a lot of them too-- sooo many huts built in exchange for some baptisms and bible reading... those Christians, we already made sure they know it's Christmas, because we're the ones that told them it was. Further, they're going to know it's Christmas because it's a national holiday there. Those that aren't are also going to be fine. They'll have the same famine tomorrow, because you all got together in a recording studio and made one of the worst songs of all time instead of each chipping in your coke money for the month (have you ever noticed how many people famous for coke problems specifically took part in that Band-Aid moment? White Christmas, yo). That could have fed those non-Christians through several more years of arbitrary holidays. And don't you stand there and tell me about song proceeds...
I mean, seriously. Have you heard that song?
That said, this holiday is about so much more to me... it's about the fucking Christmas lists. Christmas lists are a strange thing for me int he randomness with which I am able to come to a gift conclusion. And I have a list of completed shopping, I do.
-My best friend in New York
-My Internet cosmic soul-mate
-My ex boyfriend and his girlfriend
-My father who I haven't seen in 6 months who lives in the same town as me.
-My AA sponsor (What? It's never come up before. Relax Dad, you haven't even seen me in 6 months)
These are people who I one day woke up and said "Christmas is coming. Oh hey, you know what I should get for (insert name here)?"
But there's that other list too.
-My best friend in California
-My actual soul-mate, who I am not speaking to
-My other ex boyfriend and his boyfriend
-My daughters father, who must require something from her, right?
-My daughter herself. I was going to get her a Littlest Pet-shop and a Barbie (I'm a size 1 with a D cup, unrealistic body image issues do not apply in our house unless you want me to wear a box around her). The way things are looking lately, however, I'm torn between a flask, a my little pony switchblade, and The Bad Girls Guide To Dating.
God bless us, every one. Even those poooor lost souls in Africa.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
And, We Have Issues.
I was wondering when it would start. It seemed too good to be true. A 6 year old who remains the size of a 4 year old, seldom argues, reads at a 3rd grade level easily, has empathy to put my peers to shame... there had to be a catch. Something had to go terribly wrong some time. Yesterday was that some time.
Mommy: "Why didn't you come out with your class?"
Perfect 6 year old: "Oh, I just wanted to wait."
Mommy: "OK, what's going on?"
Slightly nervous perfect 6 year old: "I don't want to tell you."
Mommy: "Well, this is me telling you that you have to tell me. Out with it."
Bursting into tears 6 year old: "I Got a red, I said a bad word today!"
The other kids at her lunch table (ohhh, how I wanted her to change lunch tables last week) were teaching each other bad words. Or, bad words in their houses, clearly. It so happens, bad words in my house, her fathers family home(I don't care what kind of money they come from, those people are traaashy when they're red-wine drunk--and they're almost always red-wine drunk), even my ex boyfriends good Polish family (who are much more like a fathers family than babydaddy's creepy brood)... those are the good words. Those are the words the other kids need to know.
Specifically, "Shit" is the word those kids need to know.
As though this were not bad enough, at some point in the conversation that followed we stumbled as I knew we would on why it's OK for me to cuss (though in my defense, the aforementioned swear is not one I use). And I had already though about this, I have been waiting for this question for years: "I am an adult, Morgan. I am old enough to make decisions about how I want to behave myself, and I'm old enough to know when it's a bad time to say certain things. You are not old enough to use those words in the right way, they're very serious words, and you don't have those kinds of serious situations to use them for yet."
To which my little angel with her tear stained cheeks took a deep shakey breath, gently touched my hand and asked with wide shiny eyes... "So when can I cuss mom? When I'm a teenager?"
Fuck.
Eventually the subject was dropped... we had to go back to school a few hours later for the first grade holiday concert (which consisted of her spinning on a riser dangerously, forgetting some words, and at one point just turning the other way completely for no clear reason), followed by some very sweet pictures of her little boy-friend (this is not a title I approved, just one I don't feel like fighting with). At the end of the photo-op she turned, grabbed his face, and kissed him in the middle of the hallway.
My daughter is cussing and kissing boys.
All of this started in the same 5 hour stretch, and I would not have been surprised in the slightest to find her smoking in the ice cream parlor bathroom after the show, or sipping gin and juice boxes in her bubble bath before bed. I don't know if it's because she lives in a single parent household, because I cuss and smoke and kiss boys (I don't drink, can this not count for something?), but somehow it's finally happened-- I ruined my child.
I can't believe they gave me a baby, and this is what I ended up letting happen to her.
Mommy: "Why didn't you come out with your class?"
Perfect 6 year old: "Oh, I just wanted to wait."
Mommy: "OK, what's going on?"
Slightly nervous perfect 6 year old: "I don't want to tell you."
Mommy: "Well, this is me telling you that you have to tell me. Out with it."
Bursting into tears 6 year old: "I Got a red, I said a bad word today!"
The other kids at her lunch table (ohhh, how I wanted her to change lunch tables last week) were teaching each other bad words. Or, bad words in their houses, clearly. It so happens, bad words in my house, her fathers family home(I don't care what kind of money they come from, those people are traaashy when they're red-wine drunk--and they're almost always red-wine drunk), even my ex boyfriends good Polish family (who are much more like a fathers family than babydaddy's creepy brood)... those are the good words. Those are the words the other kids need to know.
Specifically, "Shit" is the word those kids need to know.
As though this were not bad enough, at some point in the conversation that followed we stumbled as I knew we would on why it's OK for me to cuss (though in my defense, the aforementioned swear is not one I use). And I had already though about this, I have been waiting for this question for years: "I am an adult, Morgan. I am old enough to make decisions about how I want to behave myself, and I'm old enough to know when it's a bad time to say certain things. You are not old enough to use those words in the right way, they're very serious words, and you don't have those kinds of serious situations to use them for yet."
To which my little angel with her tear stained cheeks took a deep shakey breath, gently touched my hand and asked with wide shiny eyes... "So when can I cuss mom? When I'm a teenager?"
Fuck.
Eventually the subject was dropped... we had to go back to school a few hours later for the first grade holiday concert (which consisted of her spinning on a riser dangerously, forgetting some words, and at one point just turning the other way completely for no clear reason), followed by some very sweet pictures of her little boy-friend (this is not a title I approved, just one I don't feel like fighting with). At the end of the photo-op she turned, grabbed his face, and kissed him in the middle of the hallway.
My daughter is cussing and kissing boys.
All of this started in the same 5 hour stretch, and I would not have been surprised in the slightest to find her smoking in the ice cream parlor bathroom after the show, or sipping gin and juice boxes in her bubble bath before bed. I don't know if it's because she lives in a single parent household, because I cuss and smoke and kiss boys (I don't drink, can this not count for something?), but somehow it's finally happened-- I ruined my child.
I can't believe they gave me a baby, and this is what I ended up letting happen to her.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Tonight, There Will Be Glitter.
I don't talk about it often, it's one of those things everyone can see and no one feels the need to go into, which I appreciate. But, today it stares me down, mocks me, allows me no peace.
I have bad skin.
Not, like, I have big pores or a weird birthmark, or even like dryness or shine... no, these would be OK with me. These can be concealed, or even accentuated and played up to my benefit. No, my problem is that I would be quite beautiful, if not for the fact that I have more acne than a teenage fry cook with PMS.
There are scars, there are blemishes, it's uncomfortable. Sometimes my makeup sticks to it in such a way that it actually looks worse, concealer paints on in such a way as to look like I have a raised white dot of paint on my face here and there instead of a raised pink dot on my face here or there. There are places where there are flat red and purple splotches where long ago there was a blemish that one way or another was disturbed and left a scar. Those ones cannot be covered, they are part of my skin tone that will always show through. Without meaning to I will self-consciously brush my fingers over them to feel how bumpy I am, how dried out and flaky the medicine has made the bumps (and as such, my makeup), succeeding only in rubbing off what little I could cover and drawing eyes to it further.
I also don't talk about it much, but I am an art model. Not just "I sit for an art class", but "I work for artists, photographers and sculptors individually in their basements and studios for fairly reasonable monetary compensation". How the skin on my face and the skin on my body can match up so poorly is beyond me, and how they manage to capture what they want through the veil of blemished distraction is well beyond my comprehension.
But, what I do know is this, a 3rd thing I don't talk about very often (specifically in my blog): My breasts are amazing. While I can't understand how the artists can get what they need from my face through the blemish, i can understand completely how my face can be gotten past in general when I've got these bad babies to... ahem... draw the eye.
And tonight, I'm going to a show in a bar located inside of Notre Dame University-- where the girls are all well under 30, clear skinned, childless and perfect. And in honor of this, in order to take a cue form may smart artists, I'm wearing an exceptionally low cut shirt to keep the eyes away from my cheeks. And what is more, I've made a special trip to Sephora for some brand new extra sparkly eyeshadow (Midnight Cowboy Rides Again by Urban Decay if you were wondering). Because even if there is some looking at my face, I want them to see my eyes... not my dots. And while I am at it, I am going to be dusting a little bot over my cleveage as well.
Tonight, I will feel pretty. Tonight I will not worry about what people see on my face because I'm going to say it frankly-- I'm discouraging people from looking at me from the neck up. Tonight there will be breasts, there will be eyeshadow... there will be glitter. And somewhere nestled between the sparkling scoops of flesh and the shimmering twinkling blinkers will be a woman who is completely comfortable in her own skin.
Because she knows no one will be looking at it.
I have bad skin.
Not, like, I have big pores or a weird birthmark, or even like dryness or shine... no, these would be OK with me. These can be concealed, or even accentuated and played up to my benefit. No, my problem is that I would be quite beautiful, if not for the fact that I have more acne than a teenage fry cook with PMS.
There are scars, there are blemishes, it's uncomfortable. Sometimes my makeup sticks to it in such a way that it actually looks worse, concealer paints on in such a way as to look like I have a raised white dot of paint on my face here and there instead of a raised pink dot on my face here or there. There are places where there are flat red and purple splotches where long ago there was a blemish that one way or another was disturbed and left a scar. Those ones cannot be covered, they are part of my skin tone that will always show through. Without meaning to I will self-consciously brush my fingers over them to feel how bumpy I am, how dried out and flaky the medicine has made the bumps (and as such, my makeup), succeeding only in rubbing off what little I could cover and drawing eyes to it further.
I also don't talk about it much, but I am an art model. Not just "I sit for an art class", but "I work for artists, photographers and sculptors individually in their basements and studios for fairly reasonable monetary compensation". How the skin on my face and the skin on my body can match up so poorly is beyond me, and how they manage to capture what they want through the veil of blemished distraction is well beyond my comprehension.
But, what I do know is this, a 3rd thing I don't talk about very often (specifically in my blog): My breasts are amazing. While I can't understand how the artists can get what they need from my face through the blemish, i can understand completely how my face can be gotten past in general when I've got these bad babies to... ahem... draw the eye.
And tonight, I'm going to a show in a bar located inside of Notre Dame University-- where the girls are all well under 30, clear skinned, childless and perfect. And in honor of this, in order to take a cue form may smart artists, I'm wearing an exceptionally low cut shirt to keep the eyes away from my cheeks. And what is more, I've made a special trip to Sephora for some brand new extra sparkly eyeshadow (Midnight Cowboy Rides Again by Urban Decay if you were wondering). Because even if there is some looking at my face, I want them to see my eyes... not my dots. And while I am at it, I am going to be dusting a little bot over my cleveage as well.
Tonight, I will feel pretty. Tonight I will not worry about what people see on my face because I'm going to say it frankly-- I'm discouraging people from looking at me from the neck up. Tonight there will be breasts, there will be eyeshadow... there will be glitter. And somewhere nestled between the sparkling scoops of flesh and the shimmering twinkling blinkers will be a woman who is completely comfortable in her own skin.
Because she knows no one will be looking at it.
Friday, December 3, 2010
This morning, my 6 year old daughter said "Mommy, I hope you go have fun when I'm at Daddy's house and don't be sad that you're doing homework."
And I think it is
a) Adorable that my daughter thinks I have been sad about homework and
b)A really good idea that I go out and do something tonight. Yeah, that's right. I'm going to a bar, where I will play darts and overtake a jukebox. If at all possible, with the new Kids On The Block.
Why? Because my 6 year old thinks I should.
And I think it is
a) Adorable that my daughter thinks I have been sad about homework and
b)A really good idea that I go out and do something tonight. Yeah, that's right. I'm going to a bar, where I will play darts and overtake a jukebox. If at all possible, with the new Kids On The Block.
Why? Because my 6 year old thinks I should.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)