Child free weekends often result in ex boyfriend movie night for me. Not because I want this certain ex back, but because he gets me, I get him, he's comfortable and familiar and has seen me at my absolute worst and loves me anyway. Which isn't to say I'm not friends with a lot of my exes, I am, really. But, this certain ex has become one of my best friends by no small miracle, for the very same reasons we never worked out as a couple to begin with.
But, there are those movie nights, few and far between, when at some point when leaving there's that brush of the arm, the holding hands on the way out the door without really noticing. Muscle memory from long ago coming back to us out of nowhere. And suddenly, eerily naturally, I'll find myself in a kiss. And it's not the easy go with it kisses of dating that make me feel giddy or immediately realize that no, this guy just doesn't work. They're riskier kisses. Not because things get frisky mind you (I may never again live to see the light of a frisky day), not that at all. It's something more like when you quit smoking for a week and then find yourself taking just one hit of a camel wide light. You know what it is, you know it's not what you want and that you've finally put it aside, and that this is riskier business than a casual smokey inhalation... this is temptation.
Or at least, that's what it is for me.
And he's thinking "Oh, I'm kissing Nanda. Kissing Nanda is nice"... if he's thinking at all (I think some people, most people, normal people--probably don't think through kisses to begin with. You know, because they're busy. Kissing) while my mind is racing. He said he loved me but wasn't in love with me. He bails on plans all the time. What's the point in this, we don't work and we're finally better off as friends after years of trying to find that ex balance, does he want to throw that all away? Can I count on him? No, I can't. It would be so easy, and we've both grown up so much since when we were us... no. This is all wrong. I'm past that, I was so unhappy all the time".
And then, the kiss is over and I'm left with my head spinning, reminding myself that I'm not that girl anymore and what it was like, and what's wrong with him, and that I declared on my facebook not three days ago that I "gave the dating world a several month go and absolutely prefer Netflix". And then I'm thinking about dating in general and how when I said I didn't really want to date anymore people said "You have to get back on the horse". Not one, but several people. All I could think, can think, is that no, no I don't. I didn't get thrown from the horse, I decided I didn't like horseback riding-- why would I get back on the horse? I know I don't want dating, I don't want the stress, I'm not interested, and I definitely don't want to date my ex that I'm not really dating.
And, he's already forgotten and is scratching his armpit and trying to play back toe missed part of the movie or find his keys, or maybe laughs and says something about me still being hot and doesn't look back. Because he's not any more interested than I am, a kiss is a kiss, and we used to do so more often and it just kind of happened.
And, I've talked to girlfriends about this several times and know that everyone has one of those ex boyfriends. What I wonder though is if everyone has one of these ex girlfriends...
The one he knows is soooo going to blog it the second she gets home.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
"Aging Spinster In Produce..."
Honestly, do they make an announcement at my grocery store the second I walk in the door? Should I be listening more closely when I get my cart?
Because I have taken not 2 and not 3, but 5-- yes, 5-- numbers in the past 2 weeks so men would leave me alone to finish grocery shopping.
And you know, not a one of them has offered to buy any-any-of my groceries.
Because I have taken not 2 and not 3, but 5-- yes, 5-- numbers in the past 2 weeks so men would leave me alone to finish grocery shopping.
And you know, not a one of them has offered to buy any-any-of my groceries.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Effin' laundry day
I cannot imagine how it is that I wear the same 12 outfits over and over like a cartoon strip character, and yet cannot wade through enough of my walk in to figure out what goes to the laundromat and what stays at home for a different day that I am feeling more ambitious.
Certainly something has to give. It's probably time to toss the jeans that aren't going to fit me again even if they did look so cute when I was 89 lbs. If they fit me again, it means I am in a fit of postpartum hysteria and eating every third day. I do not want those pants to fit me again, I do not want 2004 back, I do not want to be 89 lbs of fear and depression and breastfeeding. I can probably get rid of those jeans, even though when they did fit, they looked cute.
And sweaters... I have always had a problem with sweaters. I dress like a dirty trollop and that's all there is to it, but sometimes I like the option of covering up those two quivering scoops of flesh. I know there is in all honesty nothing more inherently womanly or motherly than the very breasts a child is meant to nurse at, but many a mother may beg to differ, and I admit it, I let those boobie-shunning bibs of shame sweaters have become for me live in my purse for in case I run across just such a woman. However: How many bibs of shame do I really neeeed in April? Couldn't I cut it down the way that one does a belt to, say, 1 brown, one black, one white? That should cover all ground, no? Or rather, all breast? Do I really need the brown one with the pencil stripes because it makes my hair color look cute, the one that doesn't stay up on one shoulder because it lets me alternate between tart and curt with blindingly manipulative ease, the button down green green cropped sweater with the short sleeves because in a pinch Morgan can put it on, the cut-off flash-dance one just because I love it, the gray striped one that I got from one of those adorable basement boys in high school that he still probably doesn't know I have since I quit school the next month and never have seen him again, the one I bought my ex boyfriend but took with me when getting out of his car after friend-lunch one day when I found out he let his new girlfriend have it after we broke up last year, the maternity sweater that I don't want to store because what if I'm wrong and some day I decide I really DO want another child, the 4 Morgan is waiting to grow into, the one that I know I'm going to grow into any day now, the long mesh one that will never be in style again but I don't care because it makes me feel beautiful so I wear it around the house all the time anyway...
No. All of this... all of this, I do not need.
The jeans? Yes, I do need all 12 pairs. The shorts, yes. 3 micro mini-shorts, one black, one white, one brown. The same of micro mini-skirt. Brown, black, white. Every tank top I own, every single one, gets millage also. The socks... somehow, I cannot find the socks. The bras? A knotted tangle of straps and hooks, varying from a small C to a large D, in 32, 34, and 36 from various stages of nursing, postpartum depression, weening, weight gain, push up results, etc. I am wearing one of the 2 I got on clearance at TJ maxx, and the other is in the laundry-bag. One is brown, and one is black-- in bras it seems, I do not care for a white.. Though I'm certain there are a few of those amidst the bra-ball in the closet too.
Something must be done, this is the bottom line. In the time it has taken me to list this (yes, I realize a blog and a list are to normal people different things-- but what normal person has named the bra ball in their closet, I ask you that.), it has started to rain, and I won't be doing laundry today after all.
I'm glad I'm freakishly attractive, it's easier being dumb in a world you're beautiful in I've found.
Certainly something has to give. It's probably time to toss the jeans that aren't going to fit me again even if they did look so cute when I was 89 lbs. If they fit me again, it means I am in a fit of postpartum hysteria and eating every third day. I do not want those pants to fit me again, I do not want 2004 back, I do not want to be 89 lbs of fear and depression and breastfeeding. I can probably get rid of those jeans, even though when they did fit, they looked cute.
And sweaters... I have always had a problem with sweaters. I dress like a dirty trollop and that's all there is to it, but sometimes I like the option of covering up those two quivering scoops of flesh. I know there is in all honesty nothing more inherently womanly or motherly than the very breasts a child is meant to nurse at, but many a mother may beg to differ, and I admit it, I let those boobie-shunning bibs of shame sweaters have become for me live in my purse for in case I run across just such a woman. However: How many bibs of shame do I really neeeed in April? Couldn't I cut it down the way that one does a belt to, say, 1 brown, one black, one white? That should cover all ground, no? Or rather, all breast? Do I really need the brown one with the pencil stripes because it makes my hair color look cute, the one that doesn't stay up on one shoulder because it lets me alternate between tart and curt with blindingly manipulative ease, the button down green green cropped sweater with the short sleeves because in a pinch Morgan can put it on, the cut-off flash-dance one just because I love it, the gray striped one that I got from one of those adorable basement boys in high school that he still probably doesn't know I have since I quit school the next month and never have seen him again, the one I bought my ex boyfriend but took with me when getting out of his car after friend-lunch one day when I found out he let his new girlfriend have it after we broke up last year, the maternity sweater that I don't want to store because what if I'm wrong and some day I decide I really DO want another child, the 4 Morgan is waiting to grow into, the one that I know I'm going to grow into any day now, the long mesh one that will never be in style again but I don't care because it makes me feel beautiful so I wear it around the house all the time anyway...
No. All of this... all of this, I do not need.
The jeans? Yes, I do need all 12 pairs. The shorts, yes. 3 micro mini-shorts, one black, one white, one brown. The same of micro mini-skirt. Brown, black, white. Every tank top I own, every single one, gets millage also. The socks... somehow, I cannot find the socks. The bras? A knotted tangle of straps and hooks, varying from a small C to a large D, in 32, 34, and 36 from various stages of nursing, postpartum depression, weening, weight gain, push up results, etc. I am wearing one of the 2 I got on clearance at TJ maxx, and the other is in the laundry-bag. One is brown, and one is black-- in bras it seems, I do not care for a white.. Though I'm certain there are a few of those amidst the bra-ball in the closet too.
Something must be done, this is the bottom line. In the time it has taken me to list this (yes, I realize a blog and a list are to normal people different things-- but what normal person has named the bra ball in their closet, I ask you that.), it has started to rain, and I won't be doing laundry today after all.
I'm glad I'm freakishly attractive, it's easier being dumb in a world you're beautiful in I've found.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
And the best question my 5 year old has asked all week isssss.....
"Mommy, how come time and temperature never just calls you for once?"
(That this was followed up with a sigh (from her) really gave it a little something, too.)
(That this was followed up with a sigh (from her) really gave it a little something, too.)
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Cosmic signs from the checkout lane: It's not you it's me and the 40 times I've learned that.
"It's not you, it's me".
So, maybe that's true. Maybe. But it's also true that since the dawn of my womanhood, or at least since I got my first training bra, I have single-handily been responsible for men the world over realizing what about them (not me) it was. The thought of having to see ME again, of maybe being my boyfriend or even having to go through another Friday night with me for any reason at all... that helped them to see something... you know... about them.
In short, there's just something about me. Or rather, more specifically there's something wrong, very very wrong about me, that makes men realize something about themselves-- and their never wanting to see me again.
And, it's what it is. I've always been the girl before the girlfriend, the girl to whom you say "It's just that I respect you too much to keep just hooking up and not actually moving forward"... but doesn't respect you enough to maybe, as you'd been waiting for all those stupid fumbling nights after closing down the bar with him, for him to m maybe ask "Do you want to go to a movie? Or rent one? Or maybe even swing through a drive-through on the way back to your apartment and I'll pay?"... but maybe, maybe this certain boy respected me too much for that too-- I mean, he wouldn't have wanted me to feel like a hooker or anything, right? No, no, 'Blue-Ribbon' boy... I have never forgotten that winter. It was a cold winter, and that 'respect' has chilled me to the bone for all these years hereafter. Someone once told me it was because you were so Irish... that it was because you were so this or so that, but the truth is, it wasn't any of those things-- that was my first peek at the reality of it... that it wasn't anything about you. It was that you were (or rather weren't) with me.
And so I don't know why-- because I am 30, because my partner of 7 years has met the woman of his dreams in under a year, jsut because it's what people say I should do--I continue to try, now and again, to date. Cautiously, generally firmly set against it before even considering coffee, googling to be on the safe side and secretly hoping to find out that this time it will be you to get it out of the way before having to put on makeup even that first time.
But, I do, I keep that door just the tiniest crack open. I do not know why, it's in my nature... a romantic without any trust is a messy thing. In past years I would be very good friends with Emily Dickinson, no doubt, though I feel certain she would not care in the slightest for the fact that the only way I write is to blog.
And, it's in my nature to be a kind person. And recently, when seeing a my-god-i-cant-believe-a-man-that-hot-can-be-walking-the-face-of-this-earth lost soul of a creature wandering desperately through a grocery store looking for a place to throw out his gum, I offered him a wrapper from my purse. I even offered, though he refused, for him to put it in my purse (not because I'm creepy, relax-- I just happen to have a child nearing 6, it would probably be the least creepy thing in my purse). And he said "It would be wrong to just you know... stick it somewhere". And I agree-- there are just certain ways one ought to behave in this world. You should return your cart to the cage for it in the parking lot. You should never throw your cigarette butt on the ground. You should never leave a tip for a waitress under the plate so it gets lost or dirty. You should always ask customer service people how they are, and you should really want to know when you ask... and it's nice to see others of that nature as I do here and there. So we got to talking, and talking led to chatting, and chatting led to "I don't want to be to forward, but you're extremely attractive and seem like a kind of special girl-- are you married or engaged?"
And I'm not. And we exchanged numbers, and it was nice. And it took some of the hurt from the most recent 'it's not me, it's just me not wanting you' experience, which was still a little fresh just because it went down in an awkward fashion, and because by now, it's a familiar kind of sting, it's getting old and more wearing.
But I digress. Before side note, we were exchanging numbers. And I continued my shopping, kind of tickled, a little flattered, but as ever myself thinking "But I probably won't call him... anyway, who the hell meets someone in the grocery store? And he totally wasn't my type". But, the number, it did go in my purse. And there it stayed...
Until the checkout lane. And there, there was the last one. The most recent reminder that 'no, no, you are not for dating... you are one who doesn't work for others'. His perfect jaw, soft eyes, everything about him wonderful, just another of so many who knew that he was worlds apart from me, something I somehow failed to register. And that's something that always happens, really this was just a little cosmic sign from the checkout... "Reality check at the express lane, please".
And I waited for the cosmic reminder to leave, remembered who I am and what I'm not (datable) , and that it's not me, pretty much as a rule. And I walked out the door after all these years with the thing I've never entirely gotten finally sunken in firmly. I dropped the number behind a trash can. I knew better. Guys and me... we have a 3 weeks shelf life.
There's a poem I remember from an elementary school reader about a kid watching moths flying to their fiery deaths in a bug zapper, and the last line after a moth explains to him the exhilaration of that moment beforehand making it all worth while is something to the effect of "I wish I wanted something as badly as that moth wanted to fry itself" as he watched utterly clueless an d befuddled at the white wings pop away.
And I get that today, I do.
The boy has been in touch... we will have lunch, but for some reason I get it now. I do, I literally truly give up... I have finally come full circle from a 21 year old hopeless romantic to a 30 year old romantic who doesn't know hope. It's always going to hurt like hell, it's always going to end badly, and it's never ever been and never going to be worth it to get there. I don't want anything as badly as that moth wanted to fry itself, and baby... when it comes to who gets zapped in the end...
It's not you... it's me.
Always.
(*I really do want to note here that the most recent "ummm...not vibing you" guy is really a great guy, wonderful even. I wasn't mad that he didn't like me, it happens. He just happened to be the one in the checkout line when self doubt creeped in.)
So, maybe that's true. Maybe. But it's also true that since the dawn of my womanhood, or at least since I got my first training bra, I have single-handily been responsible for men the world over realizing what about them (not me) it was. The thought of having to see ME again, of maybe being my boyfriend or even having to go through another Friday night with me for any reason at all... that helped them to see something... you know... about them.
In short, there's just something about me. Or rather, more specifically there's something wrong, very very wrong about me, that makes men realize something about themselves-- and their never wanting to see me again.
And, it's what it is. I've always been the girl before the girlfriend, the girl to whom you say "It's just that I respect you too much to keep just hooking up and not actually moving forward"... but doesn't respect you enough to maybe, as you'd been waiting for all those stupid fumbling nights after closing down the bar with him, for him to m maybe ask "Do you want to go to a movie? Or rent one? Or maybe even swing through a drive-through on the way back to your apartment and I'll pay?"... but maybe, maybe this certain boy respected me too much for that too-- I mean, he wouldn't have wanted me to feel like a hooker or anything, right? No, no, 'Blue-Ribbon' boy... I have never forgotten that winter. It was a cold winter, and that 'respect' has chilled me to the bone for all these years hereafter. Someone once told me it was because you were so Irish... that it was because you were so this or so that, but the truth is, it wasn't any of those things-- that was my first peek at the reality of it... that it wasn't anything about you. It was that you were (or rather weren't) with me.
And so I don't know why-- because I am 30, because my partner of 7 years has met the woman of his dreams in under a year, jsut because it's what people say I should do--I continue to try, now and again, to date. Cautiously, generally firmly set against it before even considering coffee, googling to be on the safe side and secretly hoping to find out that this time it will be you to get it out of the way before having to put on makeup even that first time.
But, I do, I keep that door just the tiniest crack open. I do not know why, it's in my nature... a romantic without any trust is a messy thing. In past years I would be very good friends with Emily Dickinson, no doubt, though I feel certain she would not care in the slightest for the fact that the only way I write is to blog.
And, it's in my nature to be a kind person. And recently, when seeing a my-god-i-cant-believe-a-man-that-hot-can-be-walking-the-face-of-this-earth lost soul of a creature wandering desperately through a grocery store looking for a place to throw out his gum, I offered him a wrapper from my purse. I even offered, though he refused, for him to put it in my purse (not because I'm creepy, relax-- I just happen to have a child nearing 6, it would probably be the least creepy thing in my purse). And he said "It would be wrong to just you know... stick it somewhere". And I agree-- there are just certain ways one ought to behave in this world. You should return your cart to the cage for it in the parking lot. You should never throw your cigarette butt on the ground. You should never leave a tip for a waitress under the plate so it gets lost or dirty. You should always ask customer service people how they are, and you should really want to know when you ask... and it's nice to see others of that nature as I do here and there. So we got to talking, and talking led to chatting, and chatting led to "I don't want to be to forward, but you're extremely attractive and seem like a kind of special girl-- are you married or engaged?"
And I'm not. And we exchanged numbers, and it was nice. And it took some of the hurt from the most recent 'it's not me, it's just me not wanting you' experience, which was still a little fresh just because it went down in an awkward fashion, and because by now, it's a familiar kind of sting, it's getting old and more wearing.
But I digress. Before side note, we were exchanging numbers. And I continued my shopping, kind of tickled, a little flattered, but as ever myself thinking "But I probably won't call him... anyway, who the hell meets someone in the grocery store? And he totally wasn't my type". But, the number, it did go in my purse. And there it stayed...
Until the checkout lane. And there, there was the last one. The most recent reminder that 'no, no, you are not for dating... you are one who doesn't work for others'. His perfect jaw, soft eyes, everything about him wonderful, just another of so many who knew that he was worlds apart from me, something I somehow failed to register. And that's something that always happens, really this was just a little cosmic sign from the checkout... "Reality check at the express lane, please".
And I waited for the cosmic reminder to leave, remembered who I am and what I'm not (datable) , and that it's not me, pretty much as a rule. And I walked out the door after all these years with the thing I've never entirely gotten finally sunken in firmly. I dropped the number behind a trash can. I knew better. Guys and me... we have a 3 weeks shelf life.
There's a poem I remember from an elementary school reader about a kid watching moths flying to their fiery deaths in a bug zapper, and the last line after a moth explains to him the exhilaration of that moment beforehand making it all worth while is something to the effect of "I wish I wanted something as badly as that moth wanted to fry itself" as he watched utterly clueless an d befuddled at the white wings pop away.
And I get that today, I do.
The boy has been in touch... we will have lunch, but for some reason I get it now. I do, I literally truly give up... I have finally come full circle from a 21 year old hopeless romantic to a 30 year old romantic who doesn't know hope. It's always going to hurt like hell, it's always going to end badly, and it's never ever been and never going to be worth it to get there. I don't want anything as badly as that moth wanted to fry itself, and baby... when it comes to who gets zapped in the end...
It's not you... it's me.
Always.
(*I really do want to note here that the most recent "ummm...not vibing you" guy is really a great guy, wonderful even. I wasn't mad that he didn't like me, it happens. He just happened to be the one in the checkout line when self doubt creeped in.)
Thursday, April 15, 2010
And then there was the time I was thinking about having brunch with a a philosopher and historian of science, Dissertating at ND....
... but then I thought about it some more.
That was a good call on my part.
That was a good call on my part.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Homecoming
It's always overwhelming, 2 days of a different life, a different me. One who doesn't tell bedtime stories or do the dishes, one who doesn't rub glitter on knees because it is 'fairy powder' and the biggest lie in all of maternal history but for some reason I've come to terms with the fact that I will never again be young, enough, perfectly wiling to want happiness and comfort enough to understand the magic behind, it is the only think that can make a 5 year old girl, nearly 6, think a growing pain doesn't hurt anymore. I go out late. I dress like a brazen hussy. For a few weeks in there I even kissed boys without worry of the sitter (that is over now, mind you-- seems it's hard to tell a girl you're not interested anymore when your tongue is in her mouth, but luckily, this girl knows to ask. Via text.). I drink red bull, I stay busy, I watch slasher films in the middle of the day and blare Liz Phair and They Might Be Giants until the windows shake to spite the Gin-Blossom rocking mullet lady downstairs.
And then, I go to bed alone, and I cry a little bit because this isn't me anymore-- I am not a girl who hangs out in bars and makes vapid chitchat and intrigues with little substance and much charm... I am more (now), my life is bigger (now)... I am not also a mother, I am a mother first and all else on the side. But the Indiana State Visitation guidelines insist that every 21 days I not look into my own eyes on a smaller face, marvel at the little girl that has her fathers mouth but wears my smile... that I assume another identity.
And I don't mind the break. I don't mind the monthly atmosphere of freaky holiday, I even look forward to it sometimes. But there are these times, the longer stretches like Spring Break, that I fear it. I feared losing myself. Closing down bars with diet soda, sleeping until noon, kissing virtual strangers because some boy made me feel bad about myself, wearing too much makeup and showing too much breast even for the stiletto-halter-mini mother of the year that I have always been. Yesterday, I woke up and thought "Oh, there were other things I was supposed to do in my time off".
In my time off.
Something terribly strange happened to me this week, something I didn't like. I have always had great respect for motherhood as hard work, my primary career, responsibility, life's calling. But never, never, have I seen it as a job. I forgot for a moment in there something crucial, something I've never forgotten before: Being my daughters mother is not what I do... being my daughters mother is who I am. It's what I was put on this earth to be. It's all I ever wanted, and I never knew crawling in and out of so many beds that it was only because that's what it would take a commitment-phobe like myself to have her head where it's always belonged, on the pillow next to mine.
And tonight, her first night home, I tucked her in and she held me close and said in half sleep to me that "I missed you so much... I'm really glad to be back home. It smells like our house here, mommy. It's different to be somewhere that doesn't smell like you. Here, hold on to me tighter like this so we're really close again at home ". And she held on until she fell asleep with one other whisper to me, the one I needed more than I knew.
"Can you crawl in my ear when I go to sleep, like get really small? Because then you can always be in my brain since I think about you all the time anyway. You can have a house there, and it can smell like you when I'm not home, and so it can smell like me for you too when I'm gone".
They were the babbles of an exhausted kindergartner up past bedtime, I know that, but that little tired 6 year old is smarter than I will ever be. She could never forget for a moment what I did for that split second here and there when she was gone... that there's no telling who really belongs to who anymore, where one of us starts and the other one begins. So I smelled her hair and listened to her snore for a bit, and kissed her forehead for the first time in 8 days.
And she smelled like her, and she smelled like home. And I'm madly in love with that little girl, the me I wish I could be and a million times more, the very picture of perfection, brilliance and living poetry.
And in this very second it dawned on me... summer break is really going to be a fucking bitch.
And then, I go to bed alone, and I cry a little bit because this isn't me anymore-- I am not a girl who hangs out in bars and makes vapid chitchat and intrigues with little substance and much charm... I am more (now), my life is bigger (now)... I am not also a mother, I am a mother first and all else on the side. But the Indiana State Visitation guidelines insist that every 21 days I not look into my own eyes on a smaller face, marvel at the little girl that has her fathers mouth but wears my smile... that I assume another identity.
And I don't mind the break. I don't mind the monthly atmosphere of freaky holiday, I even look forward to it sometimes. But there are these times, the longer stretches like Spring Break, that I fear it. I feared losing myself. Closing down bars with diet soda, sleeping until noon, kissing virtual strangers because some boy made me feel bad about myself, wearing too much makeup and showing too much breast even for the stiletto-halter-mini mother of the year that I have always been. Yesterday, I woke up and thought "Oh, there were other things I was supposed to do in my time off".
In my time off.
Something terribly strange happened to me this week, something I didn't like. I have always had great respect for motherhood as hard work, my primary career, responsibility, life's calling. But never, never, have I seen it as a job. I forgot for a moment in there something crucial, something I've never forgotten before: Being my daughters mother is not what I do... being my daughters mother is who I am. It's what I was put on this earth to be. It's all I ever wanted, and I never knew crawling in and out of so many beds that it was only because that's what it would take a commitment-phobe like myself to have her head where it's always belonged, on the pillow next to mine.
And tonight, her first night home, I tucked her in and she held me close and said in half sleep to me that "I missed you so much... I'm really glad to be back home. It smells like our house here, mommy. It's different to be somewhere that doesn't smell like you. Here, hold on to me tighter like this so we're really close again at home ". And she held on until she fell asleep with one other whisper to me, the one I needed more than I knew.
"Can you crawl in my ear when I go to sleep, like get really small? Because then you can always be in my brain since I think about you all the time anyway. You can have a house there, and it can smell like you when I'm not home, and so it can smell like me for you too when I'm gone".
They were the babbles of an exhausted kindergartner up past bedtime, I know that, but that little tired 6 year old is smarter than I will ever be. She could never forget for a moment what I did for that split second here and there when she was gone... that there's no telling who really belongs to who anymore, where one of us starts and the other one begins. So I smelled her hair and listened to her snore for a bit, and kissed her forehead for the first time in 8 days.
And she smelled like her, and she smelled like home. And I'm madly in love with that little girl, the me I wish I could be and a million times more, the very picture of perfection, brilliance and living poetry.
And in this very second it dawned on me... summer break is really going to be a fucking bitch.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Defeat
The job of a mother is to instruct, lead, mold. We teach our children right from wrong-- not only a healthy fear that prevents the wrong action, but ideally a good enough reason to all on their own choose right. We are raising beautiful children into truly good adults, this is our primary function, this is our main objective-- to send the child, unbroken, into the world as the best adult we can teach them to be. In some way, our job is really only to save the entire the world via the tools we give our children to build their own place in it.
Today, I failed in that seemingly simple job.
I didn't argue, I didn't explain, I didn't reason. I looked at her, saw what she was doing, and knew that she would hear nothing I had to say to contradict her action. She looked at me, and she knew it too, smirked condescendingly as I told her what I did. She heard the surrender in my voice, and she was relishing every second of it when I didn't say "Stop that right now young lady, you know that is not OK, we've talked about this before!", and she was delighted as I told her this instead:
"Please chew your toenails on the rug if you're going to do it standing up, if you fall on this floor you're going to hurt yourself."
Some days, I still can't believe I got away with it... I can't believe they gave me a child.
Today, I failed in that seemingly simple job.
I didn't argue, I didn't explain, I didn't reason. I looked at her, saw what she was doing, and knew that she would hear nothing I had to say to contradict her action. She looked at me, and she knew it too, smirked condescendingly as I told her what I did. She heard the surrender in my voice, and she was relishing every second of it when I didn't say "Stop that right now young lady, you know that is not OK, we've talked about this before!", and she was delighted as I told her this instead:
"Please chew your toenails on the rug if you're going to do it standing up, if you fall on this floor you're going to hurt yourself."
Some days, I still can't believe I got away with it... I can't believe they gave me a child.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Things I have learned today
1)Baby sitters will never never never be an exact science-never. There is a perfectly good reason that we pay them $5 an hour.
2)Neither will napping after ones child has returned from school. Sadly, there will never be $5 an hour for that.
3)I don't actually "like" any piece of clothing that I own (if by "like" what I mean is feel even moderately attractive in). No really... not a single thing.
4)Once you throw lunch dates into the mix, it's difficult to know if you are on date number 2 or date number 3.
5) Once you are a 30 year old in the world of dating, you don't really remember what it is that is supposed to be different between date number 2 and date number 3.
And as I told my friend Courtney earlier-- napping went poorly, I don't like my outfit, but in the end it comes down to a few simple things before venturing out on a Friday night:
6)If I'm going on a date with an extremely attractive man, I've made it 30 years without really regretting any of my tattoos getting a divorce or losing a limb, and I've yet to utterly fail my child, then all I really need is a little eyeliner and a Red Bull and I'm good, baby.
Yeah, that's right... it's the small victories and a simple willingness to be happy with them some days, though regretfully I must admit, that's something I have no doubt I will forget and have to relearn at least a thousand more days to come.
2)Neither will napping after ones child has returned from school. Sadly, there will never be $5 an hour for that.
3)I don't actually "like" any piece of clothing that I own (if by "like" what I mean is feel even moderately attractive in). No really... not a single thing.
4)Once you throw lunch dates into the mix, it's difficult to know if you are on date number 2 or date number 3.
5) Once you are a 30 year old in the world of dating, you don't really remember what it is that is supposed to be different between date number 2 and date number 3.
And as I told my friend Courtney earlier-- napping went poorly, I don't like my outfit, but in the end it comes down to a few simple things before venturing out on a Friday night:
6)If I'm going on a date with an extremely attractive man, I've made it 30 years without really regretting any of my tattoos getting a divorce or losing a limb, and I've yet to utterly fail my child, then all I really need is a little eyeliner and a Red Bull and I'm good, baby.
Yeah, that's right... it's the small victories and a simple willingness to be happy with them some days, though regretfully I must admit, that's something I have no doubt I will forget and have to relearn at least a thousand more days to come.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
I'm starting to think I'm really not like other girls.
In the past 48 hours, I have had a 10 hour date, made coffee plans with my ex boyfriend because we think it's important to get together once a week to keep our relationship good. I have dyed my hair 3 times, plucked my eyebrows twice, gone to church 2 times but not actually entered the church once, cooked and thrown away 2 tuna steaks, and will cook two more today before going to another church I have no intentions of entering.
Some of the phrases I have uttered are
"I think I love my snuggy more than you love your child"
"Would it be wrong for me to eat the flower off of my house plant?
"Let's get together just as the guys this time"
"Can I take a picture of your toenail?"
and my personal favorite...
"Do you mind if I do something really weird to your forehead?"
Tomorrow my daughter will be home and life will resume as I know it-- still utterly strange, but an entirely different kind of strange than it has been this weekend. But, I won't be any less strange (or even a different variety of such), that cannot be denied. Least of all now...now that it has been documented.
Some of the phrases I have uttered are
"I think I love my snuggy more than you love your child"
"Would it be wrong for me to eat the flower off of my house plant?
"Let's get together just as the guys this time"
"Can I take a picture of your toenail?"
and my personal favorite...
"Do you mind if I do something really weird to your forehead?"
Tomorrow my daughter will be home and life will resume as I know it-- still utterly strange, but an entirely different kind of strange than it has been this weekend. But, I won't be any less strange (or even a different variety of such), that cannot be denied. Least of all now...now that it has been documented.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Every Morning A 5 year Old Crawls In My Bed And Starts Talking Crazy.
M: Mommy, do you love daddy, and like him too?
N: No... we're not really friends exactly. We don't get along very well, that's why we don't spend time together. We both love you though, that's most important, right?
M: No, I think everyone should love each other and Anna should sleep on the couch and you should sleep in a BIG bed with me and daddy.
N: Ohhh, do you (Many other things were said after this,vicious like a rabid dog and all of them completely silently)?
M: Yes. Maybe I can tell daddy you love him, and he will love you.
N: Don't. You. Dare.
(completely out loud, this statement)
M: OK, then. How about if I cut out a heart out of some red paper and then put some glitter on it and daddy will see it and think maybe that you made it and then I can give it to you (I realize the point is NOT my daughters concern for recycling, but here please let me pause and draw attention to it anyway) and you will think daddy gave it to you and then you'll both love each other and then you and daddy can get married and I don't have to marry you.
N: You got mad moxie kid, I'll give you that. That's a very fancy plan indeed. But, um, no. Your moms a babe, we're getting married, that's that. You, Morgan, are going to marry your mom.
M: Oh... too bad.
N:Mm, it's almost 7:30. We should get out of bed, huh?
M: Yeah. I'm really tired though... I don't even want to get up to go potty.
N: Oh, don't you dare.
*please note: This conversation did not take place this morning-- it's old hat.
N: No... we're not really friends exactly. We don't get along very well, that's why we don't spend time together. We both love you though, that's most important, right?
M: No, I think everyone should love each other and Anna should sleep on the couch and you should sleep in a BIG bed with me and daddy.
N: Ohhh, do you (Many other things were said after this,vicious like a rabid dog and all of them completely silently)?
M: Yes. Maybe I can tell daddy you love him, and he will love you.
N: Don't. You. Dare.
(completely out loud, this statement)
M: OK, then. How about if I cut out a heart out of some red paper and then put some glitter on it and daddy will see it and think maybe that you made it and then I can give it to you (I realize the point is NOT my daughters concern for recycling, but here please let me pause and draw attention to it anyway) and you will think daddy gave it to you and then you'll both love each other and then you and daddy can get married and I don't have to marry you.
N: You got mad moxie kid, I'll give you that. That's a very fancy plan indeed. But, um, no. Your moms a babe, we're getting married, that's that. You, Morgan, are going to marry your mom.
M: Oh... too bad.
N:Mm, it's almost 7:30. We should get out of bed, huh?
M: Yeah. I'm really tired though... I don't even want to get up to go potty.
N: Oh, don't you dare.
*please note: This conversation did not take place this morning-- it's old hat.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Dating and the 30 year old woman (Part 2)
Yes, actually it was (sort of) a date. And what's more, an OK sort-of-date that didn't totally make me feel miserable that I had gone... who knew such a thing was even possible? Not this girl anymore, certainly. I mean, it wasn't Disneyland, but I didn't pretend to be sick or in early pregnancy, so there's that. It was an entirely fine time.
Take that, creepy world of 30 year old single mothers dating.
Take that, creepy world of 30 year old single mothers dating.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Dating and the 30 year old woman
I have found out in the past year that there are myriad ways to ask out a 30 year old woman, ways I would never have imagined could be mistaken for appropriate. Ways that until this past year, I don't know that anyone else did find appropriate. I am not sure if it is that I am 30 and with a child that allows general convention slip... 'that one, she's lucky to be asked out at all, no need to exhaust my A game here', or if I'm putting out some sort of a vibe myself-- somehow what I am wearing or standing or speaking or looking across the grocery store (or taxi) at them is different than last year, somehow it is saying that no no, I don't want the normal rules of social respect to apply to me. I'm beyond them... we're beyond them.
Some of those ways have included, but are not limited to:
-Giving me a call later, since I gave you your number... you know... via the taxi dispatch I called to hire you. To drive me, in your taxi. I mean, of course you're going to call me-- what else could that have meant?
-Following me around the grocery store after catching me dancing to the Rolling Stones in the frozen foods aisle I mistook for empty, "You like the stones though!" being the protest when I say I don't date. That, and following me further through the store to reason with me. I can see the moments after attack in the parking lot... "She was asking for it, just look what she was dancing to!"
- Introducing yourself as Tony Rice (who it so happens you really are-- and who it so happens I have never heard of) before attempting to dry-hump my leg to bad Karaoke at the bowling alley bar. Which may not have counted as asking me on a date... but may well have counted as an actual date.
-Telling me that my low self esteem is really unattractive and if I don't decide to be less shallow there's nothing else you can say to me (in fairness, this was in response not to a rejected date offer so much as a rejected booty call with the excuse that I'm tired and look like shit, so don't feel like a late night coffee guest-- I may be a little lame, but I'm not a complete fucking idiot, KJ.)
-Telling me that I'm scared of getting close because I don't think I deserve to be happy: But I do. I deserve to be happy with you. And while I thank you for your several follow up speculations on my clear social issues (as found blatantly on my Facebook posts), no, no... actually I still think it was a good idea not to go out with you a second time.
-The old 'Play Date/ Actual Date' switcheroo. Exactly what it sounds like, that one.
-Following me home from a walk with my daughter, then sometimes being on my porch when I get home and leaving before I get to the door. And once knocking at my door. And then coming back to my porch several more times and just standing there looking down until eventually I call the police... 2 times in a row. And not even bringing flowers.
The reason I'm fixated on this bad run is because recently a friend from my teenage years asked if I wanted to have coffee and catch up. Which sounds lovely, be it a date or not. But, being the 30 year old woman on the receiving end of these nightmare one sided love connections, I found myself hopping very quickly from 'Oh, that will be fun' to 'So wait, what does he think this is? Is this going to get creepy' to 'Maybe I should have some mace'. And he's kind of cute, and if I remember correctly he's sort of smart and funny as well. And maybe it will be a date (and quite honestly I am thinking that it probably is not). But in the long run, it sounds nice either way--what it comes down to is 'who gives a fuck, as long as he doesn't potentially keep human body parts in his basement'.
And, that's where I'm at. Coffee has become much more-- it has become not the potential for love and a future, bridesmaids selected and all of my unborn children being named before the coffee comes out like it may for some over-thinking neurotic girls in the dating world. No, for me it has the potential to need to change not my last name, but my phone number, locks, and maybe social security number. My desperation is not to get a date or have a future...
It is simply not to have to call the police at any point during the courtship process, least of all before exchanging names, that has become the challenge.
Some of those ways have included, but are not limited to:
-Giving me a call later, since I gave you your number... you know... via the taxi dispatch I called to hire you. To drive me, in your taxi. I mean, of course you're going to call me-- what else could that have meant?
-Following me around the grocery store after catching me dancing to the Rolling Stones in the frozen foods aisle I mistook for empty, "You like the stones though!" being the protest when I say I don't date. That, and following me further through the store to reason with me. I can see the moments after attack in the parking lot... "She was asking for it, just look what she was dancing to!"
- Introducing yourself as Tony Rice (who it so happens you really are-- and who it so happens I have never heard of) before attempting to dry-hump my leg to bad Karaoke at the bowling alley bar. Which may not have counted as asking me on a date... but may well have counted as an actual date.
-Telling me that my low self esteem is really unattractive and if I don't decide to be less shallow there's nothing else you can say to me (in fairness, this was in response not to a rejected date offer so much as a rejected booty call with the excuse that I'm tired and look like shit, so don't feel like a late night coffee guest-- I may be a little lame, but I'm not a complete fucking idiot, KJ.)
-Telling me that I'm scared of getting close because I don't think I deserve to be happy: But I do. I deserve to be happy with you. And while I thank you for your several follow up speculations on my clear social issues (as found blatantly on my Facebook posts), no, no... actually I still think it was a good idea not to go out with you a second time.
-The old 'Play Date/ Actual Date' switcheroo. Exactly what it sounds like, that one.
-Following me home from a walk with my daughter, then sometimes being on my porch when I get home and leaving before I get to the door. And once knocking at my door. And then coming back to my porch several more times and just standing there looking down until eventually I call the police... 2 times in a row. And not even bringing flowers.
The reason I'm fixated on this bad run is because recently a friend from my teenage years asked if I wanted to have coffee and catch up. Which sounds lovely, be it a date or not. But, being the 30 year old woman on the receiving end of these nightmare one sided love connections, I found myself hopping very quickly from 'Oh, that will be fun' to 'So wait, what does he think this is? Is this going to get creepy' to 'Maybe I should have some mace'. And he's kind of cute, and if I remember correctly he's sort of smart and funny as well. And maybe it will be a date (and quite honestly I am thinking that it probably is not). But in the long run, it sounds nice either way--what it comes down to is 'who gives a fuck, as long as he doesn't potentially keep human body parts in his basement'.
And, that's where I'm at. Coffee has become much more-- it has become not the potential for love and a future, bridesmaids selected and all of my unborn children being named before the coffee comes out like it may for some over-thinking neurotic girls in the dating world. No, for me it has the potential to need to change not my last name, but my phone number, locks, and maybe social security number. My desperation is not to get a date or have a future...
It is simply not to have to call the police at any point during the courtship process, least of all before exchanging names, that has become the challenge.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Awkward Single Mother Seeks Same
As my 5 year old lives the life of every 5 year old in the last semester of Kindergarten, there is a lesson being learned in our house... that making friends is hard. Finding something nice to say, not being scared to talk to someone you don't know, not judging someone because of how they look, not being scared that you're too different, these are hard things for a girl to get her head around. Not being jealous of someone that has nicer things than you, not feeling silly because you walk to school and they go in a car, not worrying that some people look older than you or treat you like a baby... it's not easy for anyone. And by anyone, what I really mean is it's not easy for me.
And my daughter assures me it's easier to make friends after you try for a little while... but I've also seen my daughter eat her own boogers in public. Clearly I'm not trusting her judgment regarding anything socially oriented, and clearly we are up against different types of potential friendships to begin with.
And anyway, I have friends. I have amazing friends-- warm, caring, funny, smart. We all come from sorted pasts in one way or another, we get each other. They adore my daughter, and those that have children know that I adore their as well. And not unlike a 5 year old, I don't want to make friends at the school because I already have friends. Ones I know and have already gotten to know very well based on more than simply the common age of our children.
And if I'm to be really honest about the situation in all of it's immature glory, these women are fancy and married and older. Yes, that's all it boils down to. I can call it class issues or social anxiety or uncertainty of my place in a world of women that embraces a different set of family values and goals... but no, no, it's just this: I'm scared that they'll make fun of me.
I stand like an awkward shy kindergarten student outside of the tiny doors at the end of the day with my phone pressed to my ear chatting with someone or pretending to be busy with the crossword puzzle or some book that states clearly "I am not beneath you, with your husbands and your mini-vans and your tasteful and likely real Coach handbags... to the contrary, I don't talk to you because I'm wrapped up in my own intellectual world, one complex and deep and interesting, that you could never understand. It's not at all because I'm afraid you'll find out that I live in a dinky apartment down the street from your suburban homes. It's not because I'm afraid you'll ask about my ex husband and find out that her father and I were barely even romantically involved even before her birth, and that the idea of marriage was never even considered (at least not in any real seriousness by me). It has nothing to do with the fact that I'm afraid you'll discover that I have no degree that I care to use, and am going to start college again full time in the summer, and that for money I model nude for artists. No. no, it's not that. It's just that I'm deep... reeeeal deep."
It's not always easy, if I might add, trying to select a book that says that much in the 4 to 8 minutes that I am standing by the Kindergarten door of our elementary school waiting for my daughters release.
This all comes to mind because the daughter I refer to asked me tonight how grownups make friends at school. I didn't, and I don't know at all how to tell her the truth...
"Mommy isn't very good making friends with people that are different than me".
And my daughter assures me it's easier to make friends after you try for a little while... but I've also seen my daughter eat her own boogers in public. Clearly I'm not trusting her judgment regarding anything socially oriented, and clearly we are up against different types of potential friendships to begin with.
And anyway, I have friends. I have amazing friends-- warm, caring, funny, smart. We all come from sorted pasts in one way or another, we get each other. They adore my daughter, and those that have children know that I adore their as well. And not unlike a 5 year old, I don't want to make friends at the school because I already have friends. Ones I know and have already gotten to know very well based on more than simply the common age of our children.
And if I'm to be really honest about the situation in all of it's immature glory, these women are fancy and married and older. Yes, that's all it boils down to. I can call it class issues or social anxiety or uncertainty of my place in a world of women that embraces a different set of family values and goals... but no, no, it's just this: I'm scared that they'll make fun of me.
I stand like an awkward shy kindergarten student outside of the tiny doors at the end of the day with my phone pressed to my ear chatting with someone or pretending to be busy with the crossword puzzle or some book that states clearly "I am not beneath you, with your husbands and your mini-vans and your tasteful and likely real Coach handbags... to the contrary, I don't talk to you because I'm wrapped up in my own intellectual world, one complex and deep and interesting, that you could never understand. It's not at all because I'm afraid you'll find out that I live in a dinky apartment down the street from your suburban homes. It's not because I'm afraid you'll ask about my ex husband and find out that her father and I were barely even romantically involved even before her birth, and that the idea of marriage was never even considered (at least not in any real seriousness by me). It has nothing to do with the fact that I'm afraid you'll discover that I have no degree that I care to use, and am going to start college again full time in the summer, and that for money I model nude for artists. No. no, it's not that. It's just that I'm deep... reeeeal deep."
It's not always easy, if I might add, trying to select a book that says that much in the 4 to 8 minutes that I am standing by the Kindergarten door of our elementary school waiting for my daughters release.
This all comes to mind because the daughter I refer to asked me tonight how grownups make friends at school. I didn't, and I don't know at all how to tell her the truth...
"Mommy isn't very good making friends with people that are different than me".
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
Why I hate Valentines Day Weekend: A rant in 3 parts
Part 1.
Child and Mother are sitting in kitchen eating breakfast before the valentines day party at Child's school. Child is sorting her cards for class, and Mother is trying to go over a visitation schedule proposed by father ( not in scene).
Child: Mommy, what are you getting for Valentines Day?
Mother: You made me a card, remember? I love it!
Child: No, don't you have a Valentine to give you something?
Mother:Yeah, you!
Child: No, I'm going to be Daddy's Valentine.
(Mother swears inaudibly, then smiles sweetly at Child who has not noticed her foaming at the mouth and twitching with rage, or that the walls have started to ooze blood)
Child: So, you don't have a Valentine, huh?
Mother: Nope, I don't.
Child: So why doesn't anyone love you? Can't anyone maybe just like you even? Just for Valentines Day?
(Mother exits scene abruptly)
Part 2
So we've established that I hate with emotionally violent passion my daughters father, as well as that I ought never write a screen-play (which incidentally is one of the reasons I hate said babydaddy so violently to begin with: Who in the flip won't watch their 1 month old child for 1 hour after not seeing them for, well, that entire month, because "that's the day I have to work on my screenplay"? And the idea of slightly civil co-parenting was gone before the co-parenting even began... not to imply that it ever did, mind you). So moving right along, let's just focus on my motivation now... such as, what motivates me to hate this holiday, and how does that tie in to said babydaddy?
Glad you asked.
Last year, when making the visitation schedule for this year, he had a girlfriend who lived in the same state as him. As such, he had scheduled this Valentines Day weekend for her to be with me despite him also scheduling LAST Valentines and the 4 years previous to be for me. After much haggling and begging, I was able to get him to bend last year, and I had my first Valentines Day in 5 years... and it seems, my only one. His girlfriend is gone back to NY this year, he could enjoyed a 3 day weekend with his daughter and I could have... oh, I don't even know, but the point is that I could have things to do to choose from at all. And, our daughter could have been his Valentine, which is all she really wants.
But, none of that will happen-- because when thinking of the next years plans for he and his daughter, what he was thinking of was his girlfriend. His romantic plans were the priority, not my daughter.
He did, however, send her a giant box of chocolates and yogurt covered pretzels. A box of candy, though I seem to think MAYBE I've sent him 37 emails in the past 4 years begging him every holiday to pleasepleaseplease stop sending giant boxes of sugar to my house.
But he did. And I had to put it up and give my daughter 1 piece of it then, and one piece after dinner. To which she responded with tears and yelling that daddy said she could have it, and I'm a mean mommy, and she hates me. Daddy giveth the candy and mommy taketh away.
Thank you, Babydaddy, for another special holiday.
Part 3)
Ah, the beauty that is the ex boyfriend.
For example, the ex boyfriend that took me for White Castle hamburgers one Valentines Day because I didn't have a lot of money that year. Despite the fact that he was independently wealthy. But, I didn't have enough to get my share of a hot-tub room and go to a nice dinner... so he said "Then lets not spend a lot of money". And so I covered his table with candy and sweets, organic honey comb and a giant stuffed monkey to go with the other monkeys around the house. I gave him a miniature mail-box stuffed full of tiny hand made cards, one for every day we had been together, and each one stating something I loved about him. Every single one was different, a tiny piece of artistic license applied to our love. And he gave me a very small teddy bear holding a wooden heart, something impersonal and not at all thoughtful, something which would suit a 47 year old kindergarten teacher who is partial to her 12 cats-- along side a card that said that he considered me his Valentine every day-- the card said that mind you, he simply signed his name (and I don't believe he signed it love). We rented a movie later, and he took me to White Castle, and less than a month after that he came in on a beautiful unusually springlike day and dumped me out of the clear blue sky.
I kissed, said hello, he said "This isn't working".
I taped the ugly little bear in a box, spent weeks sobbing, and re read that hollow little card from valentines day over and over and over again looking for something human, something to imply that this was a mistake. Finally, I was rescued by one of my best friends, also an ex. He stormed in one night as I lay in my pajamas while my daughter was out of town, reading over old journal entries looking for some clue that this had been coming and said I wasn't this girl, that this 'The Way We Were' bullshit simply didn't suit me... that I'm stronger than this sappiness, and that's the thing to be most loved about me, and somehow ended up making it my idea to watch a horror movie. Because he's a good ex.
And he was a good ex, is a good ex, often. The ex boyfriend that is the super-good friend I could totally make out with on Valentines Day if I had a sitter, and even practically asked if we could, and actually asked if I would do something with him for Valentines day at all.. The ex who would take me to a movie and give me a great back rub and remind me that he still thinks I'm amazing, help you to remind myself that I'm still amazing. Until I remember the time he told me he loved me but wasn't in love with me, and the time he showed up an hour late for a date, trashed.... the two times he did that, actually. And how on one of those nights we were having a pre-Valentines day date, actually... and he left his gifts in the restaurant bar, and how as a matter of fact, that WAS the night he said he loved me but wasn't in love with me. And I remember too that despite me calling him my best friend, he didn't give me a Christmas Present. He had other peoples wrapped and ready to mail, or already had been mailed for weeks.... it was only me that he didn't bother with. And that I was so mad that I gave his gift to a different ex, one I don't even like, to spite him.
A different ex, one who only ever bought 3 new pieces of furniture for our home in the past 7 years that we had lived together, and within less than a year with his new girl had made the trip to Chicago for Ikea, the trip I had suggested and begged for for years. And I just know that they are going to be making out on what should be our Ikea rug, cuddled up and watching our reruns of the Gilmore girls and the new episode of Greek. And I'll know that this is their second Valentines day together, and I'll remember the pictures splashed across facebook of his year previous. He'd never been so proud of me, he'd never taken me out for a heart-shaped cake. I can't even remember having ever done ANYTHING for Valentines day. He could say it was because he'd always been in the restaurant business, but he was that year too... in 3 months he had found something worth finding a few hours, and this year he would again. And I put in so many years, and he never found that time, and now every year at least for a while, I have to remember last year when that was what I saw. When I saw all I never got to live in almost a decade, given so effortlessly for someone bigger, better, more worthwhile in only a few months time than I could ever have been. It's jsut the facts... what wasn't for one is for another. And I don't think anyone could help it, when you have to know that much time was lost, what you were never worth in 7 years, what some stranger could be in a few short months... It just makes you feel so small.
Or, it makes me feel small. Very.
And all of the Ghosts of Valentines Day Past that haunt me in the few days that a Valentines Day Weekend make me feel small really... and they're just going to keep coming, I'm going to become more and more haunted by the year, as all of us women who have opted out of the safety of marriage must at some point-- but there are times that I don't know that I'm made for this. It's true that I think that I think marriage is a little like giving up on the newness in life being wonderful anymore, but if there were a time that I'd given up on life having the potential to get better, this may be it... this fucking 3 days of candy and hearts and all the scorching fingerprints on me, from all the men I've ever been burned by.
And, that is Valentines Day Weekend. I love being a single mom, being single in general. I would generally be happier chewing on a scant cup of dirty sand with cigarette butts in it than be involved with anyone this year. But, I would also prefer be a part of some alternate universe that is basically the same, but that doesn't include Valentines Day or any of the self-inflicted pain there inclusive from the day that we allow our self-worth to be measured in love letters and Sodas, and remember how we've fallen short in so many years previous.
Child and Mother are sitting in kitchen eating breakfast before the valentines day party at Child's school. Child is sorting her cards for class, and Mother is trying to go over a visitation schedule proposed by father ( not in scene).
Child: Mommy, what are you getting for Valentines Day?
Mother: You made me a card, remember? I love it!
Child: No, don't you have a Valentine to give you something?
Mother:Yeah, you!
Child: No, I'm going to be Daddy's Valentine.
(Mother swears inaudibly, then smiles sweetly at Child who has not noticed her foaming at the mouth and twitching with rage, or that the walls have started to ooze blood)
Child: So, you don't have a Valentine, huh?
Mother: Nope, I don't.
Child: So why doesn't anyone love you? Can't anyone maybe just like you even? Just for Valentines Day?
(Mother exits scene abruptly)
Part 2
So we've established that I hate with emotionally violent passion my daughters father, as well as that I ought never write a screen-play (which incidentally is one of the reasons I hate said babydaddy so violently to begin with: Who in the flip won't watch their 1 month old child for 1 hour after not seeing them for, well, that entire month, because "that's the day I have to work on my screenplay"? And the idea of slightly civil co-parenting was gone before the co-parenting even began... not to imply that it ever did, mind you). So moving right along, let's just focus on my motivation now... such as, what motivates me to hate this holiday, and how does that tie in to said babydaddy?
Glad you asked.
Last year, when making the visitation schedule for this year, he had a girlfriend who lived in the same state as him. As such, he had scheduled this Valentines Day weekend for her to be with me despite him also scheduling LAST Valentines and the 4 years previous to be for me. After much haggling and begging, I was able to get him to bend last year, and I had my first Valentines Day in 5 years... and it seems, my only one. His girlfriend is gone back to NY this year, he could enjoyed a 3 day weekend with his daughter and I could have... oh, I don't even know, but the point is that I could have things to do to choose from at all. And, our daughter could have been his Valentine, which is all she really wants.
But, none of that will happen-- because when thinking of the next years plans for he and his daughter, what he was thinking of was his girlfriend. His romantic plans were the priority, not my daughter.
He did, however, send her a giant box of chocolates and yogurt covered pretzels. A box of candy, though I seem to think MAYBE I've sent him 37 emails in the past 4 years begging him every holiday to pleasepleaseplease stop sending giant boxes of sugar to my house.
But he did. And I had to put it up and give my daughter 1 piece of it then, and one piece after dinner. To which she responded with tears and yelling that daddy said she could have it, and I'm a mean mommy, and she hates me. Daddy giveth the candy and mommy taketh away.
Thank you, Babydaddy, for another special holiday.
Part 3)
Ah, the beauty that is the ex boyfriend.
For example, the ex boyfriend that took me for White Castle hamburgers one Valentines Day because I didn't have a lot of money that year. Despite the fact that he was independently wealthy. But, I didn't have enough to get my share of a hot-tub room and go to a nice dinner... so he said "Then lets not spend a lot of money". And so I covered his table with candy and sweets, organic honey comb and a giant stuffed monkey to go with the other monkeys around the house. I gave him a miniature mail-box stuffed full of tiny hand made cards, one for every day we had been together, and each one stating something I loved about him. Every single one was different, a tiny piece of artistic license applied to our love. And he gave me a very small teddy bear holding a wooden heart, something impersonal and not at all thoughtful, something which would suit a 47 year old kindergarten teacher who is partial to her 12 cats-- along side a card that said that he considered me his Valentine every day-- the card said that mind you, he simply signed his name (and I don't believe he signed it love). We rented a movie later, and he took me to White Castle, and less than a month after that he came in on a beautiful unusually springlike day and dumped me out of the clear blue sky.
I kissed, said hello, he said "This isn't working".
I taped the ugly little bear in a box, spent weeks sobbing, and re read that hollow little card from valentines day over and over and over again looking for something human, something to imply that this was a mistake. Finally, I was rescued by one of my best friends, also an ex. He stormed in one night as I lay in my pajamas while my daughter was out of town, reading over old journal entries looking for some clue that this had been coming and said I wasn't this girl, that this 'The Way We Were' bullshit simply didn't suit me... that I'm stronger than this sappiness, and that's the thing to be most loved about me, and somehow ended up making it my idea to watch a horror movie. Because he's a good ex.
And he was a good ex, is a good ex, often. The ex boyfriend that is the super-good friend I could totally make out with on Valentines Day if I had a sitter, and even practically asked if we could, and actually asked if I would do something with him for Valentines day at all.. The ex who would take me to a movie and give me a great back rub and remind me that he still thinks I'm amazing, help you to remind myself that I'm still amazing. Until I remember the time he told me he loved me but wasn't in love with me, and the time he showed up an hour late for a date, trashed.... the two times he did that, actually. And how on one of those nights we were having a pre-Valentines day date, actually... and he left his gifts in the restaurant bar, and how as a matter of fact, that WAS the night he said he loved me but wasn't in love with me. And I remember too that despite me calling him my best friend, he didn't give me a Christmas Present. He had other peoples wrapped and ready to mail, or already had been mailed for weeks.... it was only me that he didn't bother with. And that I was so mad that I gave his gift to a different ex, one I don't even like, to spite him.
A different ex, one who only ever bought 3 new pieces of furniture for our home in the past 7 years that we had lived together, and within less than a year with his new girl had made the trip to Chicago for Ikea, the trip I had suggested and begged for for years. And I just know that they are going to be making out on what should be our Ikea rug, cuddled up and watching our reruns of the Gilmore girls and the new episode of Greek. And I'll know that this is their second Valentines day together, and I'll remember the pictures splashed across facebook of his year previous. He'd never been so proud of me, he'd never taken me out for a heart-shaped cake. I can't even remember having ever done ANYTHING for Valentines day. He could say it was because he'd always been in the restaurant business, but he was that year too... in 3 months he had found something worth finding a few hours, and this year he would again. And I put in so many years, and he never found that time, and now every year at least for a while, I have to remember last year when that was what I saw. When I saw all I never got to live in almost a decade, given so effortlessly for someone bigger, better, more worthwhile in only a few months time than I could ever have been. It's jsut the facts... what wasn't for one is for another. And I don't think anyone could help it, when you have to know that much time was lost, what you were never worth in 7 years, what some stranger could be in a few short months... It just makes you feel so small.
Or, it makes me feel small. Very.
And all of the Ghosts of Valentines Day Past that haunt me in the few days that a Valentines Day Weekend make me feel small really... and they're just going to keep coming, I'm going to become more and more haunted by the year, as all of us women who have opted out of the safety of marriage must at some point-- but there are times that I don't know that I'm made for this. It's true that I think that I think marriage is a little like giving up on the newness in life being wonderful anymore, but if there were a time that I'd given up on life having the potential to get better, this may be it... this fucking 3 days of candy and hearts and all the scorching fingerprints on me, from all the men I've ever been burned by.
And, that is Valentines Day Weekend. I love being a single mom, being single in general. I would generally be happier chewing on a scant cup of dirty sand with cigarette butts in it than be involved with anyone this year. But, I would also prefer be a part of some alternate universe that is basically the same, but that doesn't include Valentines Day or any of the self-inflicted pain there inclusive from the day that we allow our self-worth to be measured in love letters and Sodas, and remember how we've fallen short in so many years previous.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
To whome it may concern
Yes, I realize that blogs have been better kept up by trained monkeys. In fairness, I have moved, brought the child I brought into the world to her first day (and all subsequent ones) of kindergarten. I have cut the cascading curls from my mid back, and now have a rather disgraceful mop of wakes that stop promptly before the chin-- not short enough to keep under a hat, not long enough to keep in a pony tail. I have seen an abysmal breakup, a tooth extraction, the tragic loss of my favorite pair of black heels, the ones with the round toe and ribbon cuff.
All and all, it has been a hard year.
There has been one upside, however: My pending return to the scholastic world. Yes, at 30 years of age I will be purchasing a backpack, writing papers, walking with boys to class. I want to feel enthusiastic about it, but all I can think when thinking about it for more than 20 minute chunks of time is "wow-- this is going to be sooo lame".
Which of course I realize to be what is actually lame.
One of my concerns (besides turning in papers on existentialism that have been drawn on in crayola and perhaps mommies lipstick if she feels like mixing mediums) is how I can get my own schoolwork done after said small artist has gone to bed... which is about what time my downstairs neighbor likes to let her mullet down and crank the 'Cops' or perhaps The Doors Greatest Hits on repeat. At first, I used to disturb her by pounding on the floor by midnight for some reason, but don't you worry-- she's since figured out that she can simply turn the volume up higher so as not to be distracted by my bizarre thumps and stomps and "Hey, shut the fuck up!" And that's a relief, I would hate to be a bad neighbor, but I'm thinking if I want to get papers done, I will need to cut the power supply to our home and do it by candle light at least a dozen or so times in the next few years.
And no, I don't need anyone to let me know how very lame that is.
All and all, it has been a hard year.
There has been one upside, however: My pending return to the scholastic world. Yes, at 30 years of age I will be purchasing a backpack, writing papers, walking with boys to class. I want to feel enthusiastic about it, but all I can think when thinking about it for more than 20 minute chunks of time is "wow-- this is going to be sooo lame".
Which of course I realize to be what is actually lame.
One of my concerns (besides turning in papers on existentialism that have been drawn on in crayola and perhaps mommies lipstick if she feels like mixing mediums) is how I can get my own schoolwork done after said small artist has gone to bed... which is about what time my downstairs neighbor likes to let her mullet down and crank the 'Cops' or perhaps The Doors Greatest Hits on repeat. At first, I used to disturb her by pounding on the floor by midnight for some reason, but don't you worry-- she's since figured out that she can simply turn the volume up higher so as not to be distracted by my bizarre thumps and stomps and "Hey, shut the fuck up!" And that's a relief, I would hate to be a bad neighbor, but I'm thinking if I want to get papers done, I will need to cut the power supply to our home and do it by candle light at least a dozen or so times in the next few years.
And no, I don't need anyone to let me know how very lame that is.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
A few things about today.
1) Krispie Kreme donuts are delicious and soft when microwaved for 8 seconds.
Ohhhhh, 'seconds'. At any rate, by a mer 2 minutes they have already begun to smoke and char to alert you to the mistake...a safety measure that interestingly enough is not boasted on the side of the box.
2) It's entirely possible for me to lose a passive aggressive argument via g-chat. Had you told me this yesterday, I wouldn't believe you. It seems the trick is to say something really sweet, about 3 minutes after you know I've already signed out.
3) Three year olds don't give a shit how sick you are when they want scrambled eggs, crosanka soup and hot cocoa for dinner.
4) Is it seeeeriously snowing on March 27th? Where is the global warming I was promised?
5) So I get into a debate with a friend of mine (this conversation took place on the computer--though was not the above stated fight). The 'argument', was based on my thinking that we are created only by our responses to the way we are seen, and he that we create ourselves by becoming who we pretend to be. I mean, that wasn't it, but it was in that vein. It was interesting and based on a Jenny Lewis line and a Carey Grant quote--People like us deserve just what we get being friends with each other.
So I stayed up for half an hour last night mulling over a few points I forgot to make, finding painful parallels to in my own life as a teenager as examples, as I drifted off trying to formulate an email detailing these wounds of my youth as they pertained to the exact point I was trying to make.
Which I did in the morning, perhaps a bit wordily, but I thought effectively. Lost argument number two came in RE: form... one dismissing little sentence...
"You think too much."
Hm. Fair enough.
6) I've been watching this ABC family show called "Greek" which is something between the 'Gilmore Girls' and 'The OC' (both of which are perfectly clever, and don't judge me...you know you watch 'American Idol' when no one is looking, we are all of us sinners).
Now, to be clear, I wouldn't trade anything I've done in my life for any reason. No other way was going to put me here with my daughter as the person and mother I am today.
None the less, this show has helped me to realize something, just this morning as a matter of fact...if I HAD done things differently, and say, gone to college at the right age, I would have been the best sorority girl.
And now, the world will never know.
And now, one more thing about today...
7) I've clearly completely wasted it.
Well, there's always tomorrow. Which is, I think, a new episode of Greeks for that matter. God bless us, every one.
Ohhhhh, 'seconds'. At any rate, by a mer 2 minutes they have already begun to smoke and char to alert you to the mistake...a safety measure that interestingly enough is not boasted on the side of the box.
2) It's entirely possible for me to lose a passive aggressive argument via g-chat. Had you told me this yesterday, I wouldn't believe you. It seems the trick is to say something really sweet, about 3 minutes after you know I've already signed out.
3) Three year olds don't give a shit how sick you are when they want scrambled eggs, crosanka soup and hot cocoa for dinner.
4) Is it seeeeriously snowing on March 27th? Where is the global warming I was promised?
5) So I get into a debate with a friend of mine (this conversation took place on the computer--though was not the above stated fight). The 'argument', was based on my thinking that we are created only by our responses to the way we are seen, and he that we create ourselves by becoming who we pretend to be. I mean, that wasn't it, but it was in that vein. It was interesting and based on a Jenny Lewis line and a Carey Grant quote--People like us deserve just what we get being friends with each other.
So I stayed up for half an hour last night mulling over a few points I forgot to make, finding painful parallels to in my own life as a teenager as examples, as I drifted off trying to formulate an email detailing these wounds of my youth as they pertained to the exact point I was trying to make.
Which I did in the morning, perhaps a bit wordily, but I thought effectively. Lost argument number two came in RE: form... one dismissing little sentence...
"You think too much."
Hm. Fair enough.
6) I've been watching this ABC family show called "Greek" which is something between the 'Gilmore Girls' and 'The OC' (both of which are perfectly clever, and don't judge me...you know you watch 'American Idol' when no one is looking, we are all of us sinners).
Now, to be clear, I wouldn't trade anything I've done in my life for any reason. No other way was going to put me here with my daughter as the person and mother I am today.
None the less, this show has helped me to realize something, just this morning as a matter of fact...if I HAD done things differently, and say, gone to college at the right age, I would have been the best sorority girl.
And now, the world will never know.
And now, one more thing about today...
7) I've clearly completely wasted it.
Well, there's always tomorrow. Which is, I think, a new episode of Greeks for that matter. God bless us, every one.
Monday, March 24, 2008
It always happens...
...that when I buy a new journal because I've been doodling on napkins and torn open cigarette boxes, I suddenly find I have nothing to get out of my system. When I buy red shoes, I find that all of my red blouses are faded and torn, and I never wear the shoes, or blouses again. When I buy my daughter $30 jeans because they're soooo cute and she can wear them all winter, she has her first growth spurt in over a year.
OR, when my myspace blog is being posted in every day and I decide to be a grownup and just go start a real online journal here (Yeah, I know, I said blog, online journal and grownup in the same sentance. Haveave a sense of humor--you're the one reading one), that is the point at which I will have nothing in the entire world to put in it for days.
I just thought I would share that interesting wormhole in the universe.
OR, when my myspace blog is being posted in every day and I decide to be a grownup and just go start a real online journal here (Yeah, I know, I said blog, online journal and grownup in the same sentance. Haveave a sense of humor--you're the one reading one), that is the point at which I will have nothing in the entire world to put in it for days.
I just thought I would share that interesting wormhole in the universe.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Well I guess that's what I get.
That poor Lindsey Lohan girl has her personal life leaked out all over the internet, and on a too grey snowy day (first day of spring my ankle, this is absurd.), what do I do but go immediately to youporn to heckle her misfortune?
And it's no wonder that the first thing I see is a curly alburn haired girl in a rather embarassing position...poor thing, she probably doesn't know she's being filmed, just a regular girl...who looks...a little like...ME!?
So I'm frantic, when did this happen, why won't she..I..this girl...turn their head around? Is that my eyebrow? Do I have that mole in my shoulder? Is that the same shoulder?
And wow--is it really such a bony shoulder? This must be from my no red meat days, right?
Franticly, I'm pounding the enter key down on the report button, only to see that it is not to report, but rather to rank. And what's more...I'm not ranking myself very well. Beyond that, I wasn't really doing that good to start if you must know. Seriously? 1.9 out of five average? REALLY. Gold sheets, that must, must be worth an extra point in the ranking system alone...though...why would I EVER find myself in such a situation with someone who had gold sheets?
For the second time in under 2 minutes I jumped frantically into action, but this time inwardly--wracking my brain trying to think of any and every past 'gentleman' in my life that ever had gold sheets, that would ever hate me enough to do this, that would make a video like this without my permission to begin with.
Even with shoulders like that...no one deserves this.
At which point, I noticed something that made me want to cry out with joy...those were not my bony shoulders. They didn't have a generic Mandarin charachter for "friend" on them in solid black ink. And what's more, they didn't have the giant mole on the other side of their shoulder (that I'm probably glad I didn't have to see...it's really about time to get that bad boy sliced off and inspected, I know). And, while I've had that mole for as long as I can remember, I got that tattoo when I was 18. Meaning, before anyone I had ever met had a digital camera (which is what it's recorded with).
Ahhh. That was a close one.
So, as an adult with things like that long behind me (at least so far, but just you wait until the next celebrity porn comes out and I find myself looking upon what I believe to be my own back and profile all over again next month), I turned off the youporn, checked my email, paid my phone-bill online, and came to blog this. But not before, mind you, watching this clip one more time on a friday before noon, in order to rate it very highly a couple more times...because, that back belongs to someone, and when she finds it--well, I know how bad she could feel.
And what's more, I'm no longer looking for Ms. Lohans own laps in judgement either, for much the same reason.
And it's no wonder that the first thing I see is a curly alburn haired girl in a rather embarassing position...poor thing, she probably doesn't know she's being filmed, just a regular girl...who looks...a little like...ME!?
So I'm frantic, when did this happen, why won't she..I..this girl...turn their head around? Is that my eyebrow? Do I have that mole in my shoulder? Is that the same shoulder?
And wow--is it really such a bony shoulder? This must be from my no red meat days, right?
Franticly, I'm pounding the enter key down on the report button, only to see that it is not to report, but rather to rank. And what's more...I'm not ranking myself very well. Beyond that, I wasn't really doing that good to start if you must know. Seriously? 1.9 out of five average? REALLY. Gold sheets, that must, must be worth an extra point in the ranking system alone...though...why would I EVER find myself in such a situation with someone who had gold sheets?
For the second time in under 2 minutes I jumped frantically into action, but this time inwardly--wracking my brain trying to think of any and every past 'gentleman' in my life that ever had gold sheets, that would ever hate me enough to do this, that would make a video like this without my permission to begin with.
Even with shoulders like that...no one deserves this.
At which point, I noticed something that made me want to cry out with joy...those were not my bony shoulders. They didn't have a generic Mandarin charachter for "friend" on them in solid black ink. And what's more, they didn't have the giant mole on the other side of their shoulder (that I'm probably glad I didn't have to see...it's really about time to get that bad boy sliced off and inspected, I know). And, while I've had that mole for as long as I can remember, I got that tattoo when I was 18. Meaning, before anyone I had ever met had a digital camera (which is what it's recorded with).
Ahhh. That was a close one.
So, as an adult with things like that long behind me (at least so far, but just you wait until the next celebrity porn comes out and I find myself looking upon what I believe to be my own back and profile all over again next month), I turned off the youporn, checked my email, paid my phone-bill online, and came to blog this. But not before, mind you, watching this clip one more time on a friday before noon, in order to rate it very highly a couple more times...because, that back belongs to someone, and when she finds it--well, I know how bad she could feel.
And what's more, I'm no longer looking for Ms. Lohans own laps in judgement either, for much the same reason.
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