The kids had a blast and it was so much fun seeing them collecting shells on the beach, examining live fish and shrimp, holding the broken remains of a horseshoe crab. The whole area is a national park and it’s HUGE, with long meandering walkways and bike paths.

Needless to say, we have to go back. The kids were upset that the Tech Guru wasn’t there and I missed him too – trips like that are right up our alley, out in nature being in awe of just about everything.

Anyhow, I hope that oh so FASCINATING tidbit about our extraordinary day was a wonderful read for you…because it will be the last one you read for a while.

Possibly ever.

The staycation this post’s title refers to is not the day we had, but the fact that I am taking a break from here, for a number of reasons, all of which I’ve discussed with my very dear friend from childhood, Mark Evans, who is an absolutely AMAZING fucking illustrator whose work you should immediately go and acquaint yourself with. Not that his illustrations have ANYTHING to do with ANYTHING I am saying here, but I have to tell you how awesome his work is. I mean, AWESOME. And I have been trying to get him to draw me for AGES but he is so busy with incredible projects such as the ones you will see on his site if you would just go and fucking LOOK already. I am hoping that one day it will happen before I get so old that he has to draw me as some kind of old crone hag or something. Cuz really, that would suck.

But back to the point: as I was telling Mark (amazing illustrator man), there are a few reasons why I decided, after giving it some thought, to take a break.

One, I really want to focus on my fiction. Mark is actually a big part of the reason for that: he, and other good friends, and of course The Tech Guru, have been encouraging me to get back to work on my Real Stuff. And although this space right here is some of my stuff, it’s not what I want the sum total of my output to be. If anything, it is a minor part of what I want to be doing. But right now, it is taking up too much time. I know, ironic given that I don’t even write here that much anymore, but I just don’t even want it as an excuse. I need to focus on ONE THING in my writing. And this can’t be it.

The other part, and this is equally as important, is…I’m just not so sure that I want to keep putting myself out there to this extent. In a world that is increasingly transparent thanks to Facebook and blogs and Twitter and reality shows, there is little that is sacred or private. I want to reclaim some of that for myself. I have a few really really good friends with whom I can talk about my kids, or my depression (which is decreasing daily, yay!), or my work, or my interests. And those are the people I want to talk to or be with and share myself with. I’d rather focus on seeing THEM or talking to THEM than merely disseminating the factoids of my life here to them AND a whole bunch of other people who don’t even know me.

So, I’m not sure what the future holds. I may not come back. Or maybe I’ll come back and only grant access to a few of those select people I mentioned, the people I actually know and care about or those that have shown some interest in what is going on in my life. Or maybe I’ll come back and keep it very superficial. I don’t know yet which way I’ll go, and I’m not giving it much thought for now. Now is the time to turn my attention elsewhere, and this…this will keep.

Thanks to Mark for being one of my muses, SERIOUSLY, who ALWAYS inspires me with his work and his words of wisdom and encouragement. Thanks to Michal for being a wonderful friend on this spiritual journey we call life, for checking in on me and making sure that my head and spirit are in a good place. Thanks to the Tech Guru who is always there, helping me to get where I want to go, no matter how the road twists and turns. And thanks to my blessed little Punksin and Pudding, who on my darkest days are my candles from God, and on my brightest days are my wonderful little learning companions with whom I can laugh myself silly. And thanks to everybody who came along for the ride and peeked in to see what was happening in my particular world of crazy. It’s still crazy and it’s loads of fun, and I appreciate that you cared enough to read my words from time to time. I hope to have more for you soon…just, not about me.

I didn’t hear the rest because I just shut him out.

Why is he fucking with my world?

This is MY WEBSITE. And I will TALK ABOUT WHAT I WANT TO TALK ABOUT. I DON’T GO ALL UP IN YOUR HANGOUT AND SAY HEY FREAKS, STOP PUTTING EWOKS AND PORN IN THE SAME SENTENCE.

Cute Fuzzy Ewoks That Should NOT Be Associated With Anything Sexual

It really wasn’t that bad, though, for the record. It wasn’t like a whole bunch of guys in a room seriously discussing ewoks and porn. It just kind of came out once, as a joke, and I was like, WTF? And yes, I ran with it.

That’s what I do. I take things and run with them. I’m like a wide receiver in football, and everyone out there is a potential quarterback: you give me some material, and I’m gonna run that shit right into the end zone.

But I am not talking about Ewok porn anymore. I think that touchdown has been scored and really, there’s not that much more to say about it.

But just remember…

YOU said it first, NOT ME. (YOU being some undefined person out there that is NOT ME.)

I’m starting to see some changes, people!!

Legs: starting to look more toned. And about an inch or two off the hips.

Weight: down 5 pounds, which puts me squarely BACK into the body of my 20s, thank you very much.  Five pounds is not a lot to have to lose but it was annoying the shit out of me.  Pants fitting a leetle too tight, dresses hugging the hips instead of flowing. It is amazing what five goddamn pounds can do to sabotage your diva look, I tell you.

Arms: My arms were never a problem, really.  I mean, for the past 6 years I have been hoisting 20-30 pounds several times a day in the form of one kid or another.  Still, I do see a tad more dieselishness.  I love it.

Knees: Now this is where I have a problem.  My knees have been shot to hell since junior high. Oddly enough, the muscles around the knees feel stronger and that certainly helps my knees to be more stable.  Still, though, the shooting pain can’t be a good thing, and although my trainer taught me how to squat in such a way as to take the pressure off, I still feel like the left one is inflamed.  I could go to the doctor, but if I tell you that over the past 20 years I’ve been to the doctor at least 10-15 times about this same knee, only to let the followup fall by the wayside…well, you’d just smack me. So pretend I didn’t mention it, okay?

Abs: Pesky fuckers, abs are.  Mom belly is not fun and although mine is not awful,  I want my stomach to actually be more toned than it was before I had kids.  I have a lot of work to do. But I love crunches in all forms so…I think I can do this, people.

Overall, I feel wonderful.

Tomorrow, another day of bootcamp, which, with the summer passing swiftly, now starts before the sun comes up.

What will you be doing at 5:30 in the morning?

Depression: Beyond the blues

Everybody gets the blues sometimes—but depression is very different from the blues. About 18.8 million Americans experience depressive disorders that affect how they sleep, eat, feel about themselves, and live their lives. Depression has physical and emotional symptoms and cannot be wished away; people with depression can’t just “pull themselves together.” There are different types of depressive disorder, each with its own symptoms and treatment options. The good news? Depression can be treated, and people can recover.

If you need help, their website has searchable listings for services in your area.

For me, being a depressive is akin to being an alcoholic: I’m recovering, but the specter of the disease is always there, lurking around a corner, and I could succumb at any time.  Seeking help took the longest time for me – I didn’t recognize my feelings as depression and once I did, I still thought I could handle it on my own, that it would just “pass”.

It didn’t.

What I went through and how I got to the here and now is a long story I’ll share over time, but for now, suffice it to say that although I do feel better, the battle is still a daily one.   Getting help was an integral part of feeling better: it literally saved my life.

I’m happy that instead of feeling vanquished, I feel like a fighter.

Are you with me?

Thanks to my friend Dr. Cindy Crusto, Associate Professor of Psychology at Yale University School of Medicine, for the link and the information.

The thing I hate about these things is that you can feel so lost.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved being there and really got some good concrete information out of it.  Best of all, I came away feeling renewed energy for writing, and a real desire to get my ass back up and running again.

But part of that desire stemmed from the feeling that if I don’t get my ass back up and running, I will forever be on the outskirts of the whole “scene”.

People know each other in the blogosphere, as they call it.  They have friends, they have their posses, and when they get to these things it’s a great chance to either meet or catch up face to face.

I don’t have that, because I don’t really know anyone out there.  Sure, there are a few people I follow, like BusyMom, but I couldn’t have found her in all that madness and even if I had, then what? She doesn’t know me from the rest of her 9 million followers.  I’d feel like a stalker.

I know that in great part that is my fault.  When I sank into my depression I stopped blogging, I stopped connecting, and the world went on without me.  Now I’m trying to catch up, and I feel like most of the folks I had once perhaps started to build a connection with are at mile 25 of the marathon while I’m still starting all over again at mile 1.

I could have blogged about being depressed, I suppose, but for one, I didn’t really recognize that I was depressed. All I knew was that I had lost the desire to write, that putting things into concrete words only seemed to solidify and confirm the horrible way I was feeling.  Keeping it vague seemed like a good way of keeping it at bay – you know, like the old advice about keeping people from getting to you by not acknowledging them and their bullshit in the first place.

But I decided that this is the LAST year that I am going to feel like that at BlogHer.  I either need to step it up or not go.

I’d rather take option 1.

Suffice it to say that I finished my first month, I went to every single session, and it was one of the best things I’ve ever done in my life, for my energy level, for my mental and physical health, for my depression…it was awesome.  My abs were hurting, my thighs were hurting, my arms were hurting – and I was LOVING IT. And I took a whole minute off of my (admittedly still slow) mile time.

So I signed up for August.  Whoo-hoo!

I missed yesterday’s session because I had a previously scheduled doctor’s appointment that I forgot to reschedule, but tomorrow morning, 5:30 a.m., I am BACK OUT THERE, BABY.  And next week, and the week after that.

What are you doing at 5:30 in the morning?

Well, okay, not all day, just a whole hour. But still! It felt like all day to me.

We did timed miles.  I was aiming for an 11-minute mile but I think I farted out a measly 13-minute.  Ugh! Can you tell I don’t run anymore? Who IS this person?

Still, I love that I don’t care.  Or rather, that I care enough to change it as opposed to being so mortally ashamed of it that I slink away and do nothing.  There was a time when I would have died before posting that time here.  But the only way I’ll improve is to stick at it, and the only way I’ll know if I’m improving is if I measure my awful state now so that I can see how I’ve improved later.

Yeah, that secret fear is still there, that somehow, I will be the one person in the universe that sees no improvement. And I know that that is absolutely ridiculous and actually against the laws of biological sense, but still, it sits there taunting me – I’m going to go through bootcamp and run a 15-minute mile at the end, that’s what I secretly fear.  But I’m sticking to it regardless and if by some fluke that actually happens, I’ll deal with that when it happens.

Onward! Or as the Baby Pharaoh’s newest friend Buzz Lightyear would say, to infinity – and beyond!

I don’t know about you but I find the taste of stevia to be vile.  It literally makes me want to hurl.  And I can personally tell you that wanting to hurl just prior to an hour of bootcamp?  Not such a fabulous feeling!

Still, rinsing out my mouth just before I left the house helped, and at least I did not feel as though I would pass out on the damn field.

We did a lot of leg work, which was great because like most women who end up in bootcamp, I am not too thrilled with the shape of my legs. That whole Y thing is just one aspect, but physical shapeliness aside, they’re just not strong anymore.  Which is unacceptable, since I anticipate having to do lots of ass-kicking as my daughter grows ever more beautiful by the minute. (What, you thought only dads go after the suitors? Not in my house.)

Lots of lunges.  Work with resistance bands.  Squats.  Yes, baby, I felt the burn.

Tomorrow is cardio day.  Cardio scares the shit out of me because I have no cardio stamina whatsoever. But, that’s why I’m doing this.  So tomorrow, when she times us for a mile and it takes me the full hour of bootcamp to complete, I won’t care.  There are a lot of women who are overweight in the camp, lots of women who are out of breath.  Far from scorning them, I admire them – because they’re OUT there, and that is more than can be said of a lot of people.  And for a long time, I was one of the lots of people sitting on my ass doing nothing about my gradually declining state.

But now, I ‘m out there.  So even if it takes me way longer than I’d like, I know it’s a step in the right direction. I’m out there and that’s what counts.

Self and Fitness mags always have these great stories of women who were in terrible shape and are now running 5Ks, marathons and even doing triathlons.  I really find these stories inspirational because they show that it’s never too late.  The only thing that worries me is the incredibly sorry state of my knees, which can become quite painful during exercise, but I’m going to hope for now that by strengthening the muscles around them that I can improve things. I don’t want to do surgery – I considered it some years back but the idea scares the shit out of me, frankly. So we’ll start with what I can do by myself and see how it goes from there.

Onward!

So, before I could talk myself out of it, I signed up for bootcamp, a 3-day-a-week torture experience in the park that starts at the ungodly – and I really do mean ungodly, unholy and downright illegal – hour of 5:30 a.m.  I have never been one to be awake at that hour unless it meant I hadn’t yet gone to sleep from the night before. So this, too, should give you some idea of my desperation.

I can’t claim to be proud of myself first day out.  The fact that women literally twice my size were passing me as we lunged and high-stepped our way across the soccer field was…well, damn it, it was downright embarrassing.  I mean, cardio has never been my strong suit, but apparently it’s not even in my friggin’ closet.  I will be needing to work on that. I felt like a beached whale, gasping for breath and gulping down insane amounts of water every two minutes as though I’d just run through the Sahara. Awful!

Even worse, however, was that I got so lightheaded I had to sit down. And not just once either.

The woman next to me, a woman named Mary who seems absolutely lovely but really should be shot for being that cheerful and in shape at that hour of the morning, kindly asked me if I’d eaten.  I managed to signal to her that I had indeed eaten.  I mean, really, do I look that stupid?

Of course, as I stumbled into my kitchen in search of food afterwards, I realized that yes, I am that stupid. In my haste to get out of the door and be on time, I’d done everything except snatch some food, even the handful of nuts-and-raisin mix that I’d bought and left on the counter specifically because our trainer had mentioned that as a good go-to food in the early a.m.

Speaking of trainers, I want to be her when I grow up.  She’s tight, she’s in fab shape, you can see veins in her arms when she does pushups…sigh.  So. Long. To. Go.

I tried to think of some sort of incentive. Not that getting in shape shouldn’t be enough, and it is.  I really want to do this for myself, and for my kids.

But that’s so vague (which is probably how most people can pooh-pooh the whole getting in shape thing, because the threats are so vague, until you have a stroke or get diabetes, either of which can have a wonderfully clarifying effect.)

So, with typical American consumerism, I’m trying to think – what can I get myself if when I see this thing through (and see some results, because really, no changes and I don’t deserve anything).

iPhone? The Tech Guru will inevitably upgrade and I’ll probably inherit the old one and that’s okay by me.

New computer? Possible; there are so many keys missing from this one that I’m typing from sheer memory here.

I’ve been thinking about it but nothing is really floating my boat.  Maybe getting in shape is enough.

Stay tuned. (And chime in with any fab ideas.)

11 more days to go!

I was on Netflix…I know it started there.  And I definitely have several classics and older films on my list. But where did the mental leap occur?

Not sure.  All I know is, I knew there was a list, so I decided to head to the institute’s website to see exactly what was on the list, and check how much of it I had seen.

A goodly amount, but by no means all, and many of the ones I saw so long ago that I wouldn’t mind a re-run.

So, I decided that I’m going to try to view as many of them as possible.

Given my TV viewing, that may take a while – I rarely have the patience or time to sit through a whole movie these days so what we end up watching movies in installments, sort of like TV episodes.  And I know there will be some I have real trouble with, no matter how much the Institute may insist that they’re classics and must-sees.  The number one, for instance, Citizen Kane: saw it and appreciated it, but didn’t love it.  I’m also not so sure I feel like sitting through King Kong when I have only a million other things I could be doing.  On the other hand, Raging Bull fascinated me so much the first time around that I think I watched it several times in the course of one weekend, and I’ll take any excuse to watch The Lord of the Rings again.

I’ll be hopscotching my way through the list and in an homage to Dennis Hopper, I’m starting with one I never got around to seeing and really want to: Easy Rider, which also stars another favorite actor of mine, Jack Nicholson.  Maybe I’ll move to One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest next?

So…seen any good movies lately?

What excitement when they first arrived!  Little squirmy things, conveniently encased in a plastic cup that was filled with loads of…whatever it is caterpillars like to eat.

All we had to do was watch. And watch we did, as they grew ate…and ate…and ate.  And grew fatter…and fatter…and humongously fatter.

I, who am normally not a fan of squirmy things with several legs, found myself becoming quite fond of them and even – gasp! – wishing we could pick them up.  But the instructions strictly forbade us from even opening the cup, so as to avoid introducing any bacteria into their pretty sterile environment.  So we peered through the cup incessantly, and the Ballerina laughed to see how much I was staring at the fat little buggers myself.

And then, one day, we looked and one of them had done what it seemed they would NEVER do.  It had stopped eating, had pretty much stopped moving, and there it hung, affixed to the cloth disk covering the cup by a slender thread of silk, in a J shape.  Within just a few hours, somehow the chrysalis had appeared and the process had begun.

The remaining 5 caterpillars got up there over the next several days, with the last two holding out for a really long time, no doubt happy about chowing down with reduced competition.  They even faked us out a couple of times: they’d crawl to the top, practice the position and then decide they weren’t ready just yet to give up the grub.  Then one day the last fattie, who’d been crawling around bumping into the other chryslalids and causing the Ballerina much worry, decided it was time.

Then they were still.

For a week we watched and waited while they hung there.  Staring at them reminded me of waiting for the Ballerina and the Baby Pharoah to be born:  I knew something was happening but could only imagine exactly where they were in their growth process, especially in the early months.  Were the ears fully formed yet? Had they opened their eyes? In this case, the time was a lot shorter, but the transformation seemed even more magical.  We were waiting for something to emerge that would look totally different from the already living creature that had gone in. It would have fewer legs, a long proboscis, and of course, those magical wings that make butterflies beloved insects (by most) instead of  hated ones.

And then!

Last Saturday morning we came downstairs and there, in the net cage to which we’d moved the chrysalids, was a butterfly! At first its folded wings made us think we’d somehow hatched a moth with its browns and tans. But then after some time strengthening its wings, it slowly opened them, and we saw the beautiful black and orange of the Painted Lady butterfly.

Over the last few days, we gave them cotton soaked with sugar water, and watermelon, and orange.  The Ballerina delighted at how they would flutter around her hand as she carefully presented these to her charges. She talked to them, coaxing them to drink, gently whispering to the last two chrysalids to get a move on it so that we could set them free.

And then yesterday, there were 6 empty chrsyalids and 6 beautiful butterflies.  The Ballerina completed her lab and agreed that the time had come to let the butterflies free so that they could enjoy some of their short lives outside as they were intended to.

Today, we finally did that.  We took the cage to the edge of our backyard and opened it.  At first they all sat there, but then the first one got flustered and flew around and then up and then…out!  We gently tapped the sides of the cage and the next one flew, up up and then over the roof of our house, it disappeared.  Before you knew it we had said six goodbyes, and they were gone.

And the Ballerina cried. She worried that they would be eaten by birds.  She wondered if they would remember her.  She worried that they would get lost. She knew it was the right thing to do, even kept reminding me all day that it needed to be done, but when the time came, she cried.

We went back inside and she stared out the window, hoping for a glimpse of at least one, but as the sun was going down in our heavily shaded yard, the chances of that were slim.

She cried again at bedtime. Saying goodnight to them had already become a ritual, and watching them flit about as we ate breakfast had become a peaceful and beautiful way to start the day.  Tomorrow, though, they’ll be out there somewhere, doing whatever it is butterflies do in their 2-4 week lifespan.  And we’ll be in here, both of us, missing them.  It’s sort of stupid, I suppose, to miss butterflies, but we can’t help it.

Yes, we.  I’m not crying, but I miss them too.

The Tech Guru has had a client like this recently and it has been very frustrating – to both of us.

First of all, they don’t want to spend a lot of money.  And that I can appreciate, because who does these days?  But the bottom line is, you get what you pay for.  You can’t walk into a wine store and ask to reserve a 2008 La Violette Pomerol, which is currently about $200, and expect to pay $10.  But this is what people do when it comes to services- somehow the intangibility of it calls the value into question.

To me, the value can be decided quite easily: can you do this shit yourself, confidently, without mistakes, and well?  If the answer is no, and you really want it done, then the value is decidedly high, no?

In this case, though, I’m not sure if the problem was that the clients were budget-conscious or control freaks.  I think it was a combo of both.  They wanted a custom designed website with all the bells and whistles, but bristled at the idea that they would need to keep the Tech Guru on call for any structural changes they might want to implement down the line.   Somehow they thought they could get a combo of custom web design and generic site builder.  Oh no, they protested.  We want to do all this ourselves.  We want to add new code and all the bells and whistles, although we’ve admitted that we have no idea what the hell we’re doing and have had it explained to us that when amateurs start puttering around in the code, they invariably screw up their own sites!

There are lots of widgets out there and certainly there are places that allow you to build your own site and customize what you want, but these sites are always going to be limiting because there is no way they can lay out, for the layman, the exact same capabilities that an experienced web designer is going to be able to throw down.  NO way.  But people don’t want to hear that – they think they can have the same professionally designed, professionally coded site that an expert would provide, all by themselves (meaning, for free or at little cost.)

It’s downright insulting.

Advice to the Tech Guru: when someone tells you upfront that they’re control freaks, say thanks but no thanks and run, don’t walk, away.  People like that are only happy when you’re telling them what they want to hear, and if they’re cheap to boot, their concern about not paying any money will trump any concept of getting something that is professionally put together versus cut and pasted like a piece of crap.

Advice to the rest of the world: You get what you pay for. You want to use Sitebuilder or Blogger or some other DIY tool, that’s fine.  But know that you are limited in what you can do, and don’t ask a professional designer or developer to customize that crap.  You want a unique and professional site done by an expert, great too – but understand that you cannot call in a professional to do half-assed work.  Think about your job and how offensive it would be if someone said to you that they should just be able to do it themselves, just as well as you do, despite no experience.  Or that they want you to use your skill, to their benefit, for next to nothing.  No one is trying to divorce you from your hard-earned dollars dishonestly.  But there’s a value to people’s work, and it’s insulting to imply otherwise.  You think you can be a Tech Guru, go right ahead.  But don’t call us when your site crashes, or when it looks like this or this.

Or this. Or this, or this. (Yes, even large companies have bad web design, which is inexcusable – we can only guess that they’re either paying someone right out of college to do their website, or that the poor web designer is constantly overruled by some jackass in marketing who wouldn’t know good design if it ran him over with a pickup truck.)

P.S – Please do not have a crappy site and ask a designer/developer for “modifications” either, just to save a buck.  If your site sucks, you don’t need modifications, you need a new site.  Not all templates are created equal – there’s a lot of crap out there.  Understand that and let yourself be guided by someone who’s a pro, and you’ll be well on your way to having the professional image you claim you really want.

When Pudding was in the emergency room 2 months ago, slowly getting worse due to their incompetence and/or negligence, I felt that fear.  I had brought in an alert toddler whose breathing was slightly labored, only to watch him deteriorate to the point where he lay motionless, not responding to the sticks of IV needles, breathing as though the effort required superhuman strength.  I thought I was watching him die in my arms, and it was that thought that spurred me to take him out of the room and shove him in the doctors faces and ask if this was what they called emergency care for respiratory distress.  He had only been given two nebulizer treatments in 5 hours.  I thought my son was dying, and I was frightened beyond belief – so frightened that at that point, I would not voice the thought for fear of giving it strength.

Today I read that a fellow blogger had lost her 17-month old daughter.

I don’t even know what to say.  I can imagine what she went through as she took her daughter to the hospital, but I cannot imagine what she is feeling now, with her daughter quickly and unexpectedly gone.  It is way too early to wish her peace, too ridiculous to talk about “better places” and downright insensitive to say “she’ll always be with you” – because she won’t be with her, not in the way she wants her to be.

I can only lift up a prayer to the universe that all of them, Maddie, her mother, her father, her family, will be comforted and healed in whatever ways they need in the days, weeks, months, years to come.

This is a mind-blowing thing, considering that I have yet to really figure out the purpose of Twitter beyond sending people the most mundane up-to-the-minute details of life.

I’m on the toilet reading Caribbean Travel & Life.

I just farted.

I fell asleep watching Fringe.

Does anyone really want to know those details?  Is everyone else out there having way more exciting lives than I am? Cause that’s all I got right now.

Danny Evans – who is, for the ignorant among you, the genius behind Dad Gone Mad, one of the FUNNIEST BLOGS EVER – is following me, and I’m so lame on Twitter.

The Tech Guru challenged me to Tweet every day.

First of all, I thought we were Twittering.  But apparently you do not Twitter, you Tweet.  Or your Twitters are called Tweets. Or is that Twats?

Wait…that’s a whole other thing entirely.  Twitter for ho’s?

I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.

In any case, I think that has a lot to do with why I was so absolutely incensed last night.  Incensed, I tell you.

Don’t get me wrong – I am still 100% behind my idea of giving the kids the bigger space.  The Tech Guru looks at them tonight as they’re sleeping and says “Wow, they’re getting big.” And I’m like, DUH.  YES.  They are getting big.  They’re getting huge. Like dogs, they do that thing where they grow into these monstrous creatures long before you’re prepared to deal with it.

Anyhow, for the record, I still love the Tech Guru, even when the goat shows up and I want to kick its ass.

But those kids are getting that room or we’re moving.

We have a not-so-large house that was renovated in the 80s.  Poorly done work for the most part, but one of the good things they added, and something we loved, was the humongous master bedroom.  It is 425 square feet.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve stayed in smaller hotel rooms.

It is one of the few – okay, maybe the only – feature of the house that makes us feel grand.  It was, until the kids came along, a sort of soothing sanctuary.  We painted it a deep avocado green and have it furnished with British Colonial crap furnishings that I am now so over. But one of the room’s best features is the windows, which look through a sea of trees.  Because our property is on a hill, we look out and feel as though we’re in some sort of treehouse.  In the winter, we can see the NYC skyline clearly through the icy boughs, and in summer, the dappled sunlight filtering into our room is heavenly. 

You see that I can wax poetic about this room, because I do truly appreciate the feeling it gives me.  It feels wonderful.

But you know what else would feel wonderful?

A large room for the children, one in which I could put their curricula, their toys, nice fluffy cushions for them to jump and go berserk on, one in which they could play with their friends or each other while the rest of the house stays relatively sane-looking.

They need the space.  They run through the rest of this (small) house like their asses are on fire.  As much as I love the idea of having such a large master bedroom, I feel as though keeping it for the sake of feeling like the King and Queen of Fucking La-La Land is not only selfish, but not very forward-thinking.

If we stay here – and as long as I’ve been talking about moving I’m convinced now that we will raise these kids right here in this tiny ass house – it makes sense to give them the large room.  We are two adults.  We love the space, but we don’t need the space.  What are we doing in here that’s so grandiose? We sleep.  Big whoop. We don’t have 6 million toys.  We’re not entertaining our friends in here.  We are not being homeschooled with all kinds of kits and art shit and books and curricula, all of which need their own space. And as for the Tech Guru’s stuff, well, he has his own fucking office already. What is this big huge bedroom doing for 2 adults?

We are being driven out of the rest of the house, and my attempts to make him that if we gave them this room, we could reclaim the rest of the house and have our own room, albeit a smaller one, downstairs, fall on deaf ears.  I mention this to him and immediately I can see the goatishness coming over him, he is Master of The House, he is paying for it, and therefore Big Chief Must Have Big Teepee to feel good about self.

Fucking come on already!!!

Let me explain, just so you know, what the rest of the house is like. 

Downstairs: A small living room.  A dining room. A kitchen attached to a long sunroom or family room.  One end of the sunroom includes the requisite beat up kitchen table that we purchased for less than $150 at Ikea so the kids could draw on it, glue on it, paint on it, do whatever, without us having to give a crap.

At the other end of the sunroom is what we call the “play area”, the space in which the kids are encouraged to keep their toys.

This was a lovely and wonderful idea when it was just Punksin, and she was 2 years old.

Now, she is 5.

She has a younger brother who deserves his own toys – not saying he needs his own space, or even a shitload of toys, but he should have a few of his own things.  So this space, which was fine for 1 small child, is getting mighty cramped for 2.  Not to mention that poor Punksin likes to have a friend over every now and then and finds this small space rather embarassing.  And it’s not like they can go outside, because we have no yard, just a big fucking hill that is overgrown with ivy and has no safe passage.  So what’s inside is what it is, not only for the kids, but for the friends that don’t come over because we don’t invite them because where would they play?  And I am extremely sensitive to this because as a child I had less space than she did.  I had no space, hence no playdates.  It pretty well sucked and it chaps my ass that this is happening to my kid.

I should add that halfway between the table and the play area is a bookcase, which houses my multitude of cookbooks.  Stacked on top of that are two plastic drawer organizers, each one houses about 6 drawers and those are filled with all of Punksin’s school stuff.  It is glaringly clear that we’ll have to add another one soon as I start to make my instruction of Pudding more “formal”.  I have no idea where that’s going to go as there is no more space on the bookcase.  And why did we put it up there in the first place? Why, because there was nowhere else to put it that was above Pudding level and he was going in those drawers on a daily basis wreaking havoc.

There is one minute bedroom downstairs.  I think it is literally 13×11 or something.  Again, fine for one child, but for 2, unless we do bunkbeds, it’s a really small space.  And even with bunkbeds, where’s all the rest of the crap going?

The Tech Guru’s answer is to renovate the basement and renovate the attic and renovate the master bathroom and all this renovation that I have no idea where the money for any of that shit would be coming from right now.  I am trying to work with what we currently have, to make this living situation practical and fair for all parties involved.  And all he cares about is having a big ass bedroom that he doesn’t even use for most of the day.  He’s not even here!  We’re here, stuck in this house while he has the car, I’m watching the kids make a mess all over the house and somewhat sympathetic because they need room. He was against them getting a tent from Ikea, for Christ’s sake, although he finally broke down and bought the damn thing.  What does he think they’re going to do all day, sit on the couch and drink tea while they read books?  They’re 5 and 1!!  They need room – and they should be able to have it in their own house. 

So it had occurred to me some time ago that it would make so much more sense for us, as a family, living in this house, to give the kids the Master Bedroom.  The pros, as I saw it and still see it:

1. They get a larger space to accommodate their toys, their playdates and their energy.
2. They are closer to the bathroom that only has a tub.  (Because yes, our stupid ass bathroom only has a tub and if we want to shower we have to go downstairs to the main bathroom.)
3. They have a space which can actually become their classroom.  It is big enough that they can have beds on one side, a play area, and a book nook.  Actually, now that I think of it, it’s pretty much as big as Punksin’s Montessori classroom at school.  I can recreate that and keep all their stuff in their room, removing a great deal of clutter from the rest of the house.
4. Doing all of that, we get the rest of our house back. No more toys strewn everywhere with no real place to put them.  What comes down goes back up at night.  The current play area can be reinvented as a little library or put back to its former role as our lap of luxury with a nice divan laid out – or both.
5. If we take the small bedroom downstairs, we are right next to the bathroom with shower.  We shower. The kids don’t.
6. We are closer to the entries of the house, instead of being upstairs in La-La land while the kids are close to any points of entry.
7. With the big bedroom as their room, we can put them to sleep and then make our way downstairs for date night, studying, whatever.  As it is now, they sleep with us and will probably continue to do so for some time because we have the room to accommodate it.

The only drawback, and it is of some consideration, is closet space.  That bedroom downstairs has one tiny closet that is only useful for someone like Jack Reacher who only owns the clothes he is currently wearing.  But with that being the only thing to work out, it isn’t, to me, enough reason to stop from making a change that is in the better interests of everyone in the house.  Everyone – even the Tech Guru. He complains about the mess, well, that would do a good deal to clear it up and not have the house looking like Toddlers Gone Wild.

But nooooooo.  Because despite the fact that he is gone all day, and despite the fact that I am here all day, seeing these children try to make the best of the indoor space they have because we are stuck here and have no yard either, and despite the fact that Punksin would like to have friends over but has no real place to entertain them anymore, and despite the fact that I am trying my best to increase the complexity and interest level of Punksin’s work and have no idea where her science kits and other shit will go, and despite the fact that I too would love to be able to lie right next to the Tech Guru instead of a 20 month old, no matter how cuddly he is and how good he smells – despite all those things, at the end of the day, although the Tech Guru is only in the bedroom for those hours in which he is sleeping, apparently, that sleeping must happen right here in this bedroom.  And all that other shit will just have to be my problem and Pudding’s problem and Punksin’s problem until a hundred grand or so just flies out of someone’s ass so that we can renovate.

(For those of you new to my world, let me assure you, I do not really smack my kids – unless they do something stupid like knock over my wineglass.)

Tonight was a lesson in patience, and I’ve got precious little of that, mainly because I’ve got precious little TIME.

We’ve come to the conclusion that Pudding needs more sleep.  When we first had Punksin, I was Model Mommy and her freshly washed and diapered butt was in the bed by 7:30 for lullabies, milk and z’s.  Now, we’re reading her chapter books, and she’s going to bed later.  And since the Tech Guru reads to her and then takes Pudding on his nightly sojourn around the house, the little man hasn’t been getting to sleep until 9ish.  Which, given that he wakes up around 6:30/7ish, is not so good.

I might not have picked up on how good this not is were it not for the fact that recently Pudding has taken to waking up and screaming something awful.  We’re not talking crying – we’re talking practical obscenities being shouted at blood-curdling decibels.  And he is still in the bed with us, so I’m usually temporarily deaf by morning.

N.B. – If you have any disagreement with any of the above-mentioned parenting practices, please, keep them to yourself.  I don’t give a shit and you will not endear yourself to me by sharing them.

Anyhow, where was I?  Oh, so what with the night-waking, it occurred to me that perhaps this kid is not getting enough sleep.  And I looked up what the recommendations are and at his age he should be getting, oh, roughly 14 hours of sleep including naps.  Well, 9 p.m to 7 a.m., minus an hour of busting my eardrums, is what, 9 hours?  And here I was, being all smug to other parents because I follow the Tao of Get-Those-Little-Fuckers-to-Bed-Early.

Shit!

(For those of you about to get all upset because I called my kids little fuckers, I was not talking about my kids, or I would have written, get my little fuckers to bed early. I was actually talking about your kids.)

So last night, we switched it up, decided that I would have to read to Punksin while the Tech Guru started the journey through the house early.  It all worked relatively well and last night, while our sleep was not entirely uninterrupted, the drama only lasted for 5 minutes and a good night was had by all.

Well, of course it would be too good to have this go on two nights in a row.  Tonight, the Tech Guru came in a little later.  Problem one.  Then, we all went upstairs to undress for bed, only for me to realize as I watched Punksin shivering her ass off on the bed, that the heat had not kicked in.  Problem two.  So I call PSEG, and they tell me that they cannot get anyone out here until tomorrow morning.

Tomorrow morning? What the fuck? It’s cold in my bedroom, I’ve got an asthmatic toddler, and you want me to sleep watching the breath come out of my mouth?

(Disclaimer: I should point out here that I have refused to accept the asthma diagnosis for Pudding on the basis of one episode, that the heat was only off in our bedroom and we could well have slept somewhere else in the house including our living room with fireplace, and that the temperature in there was 67 degrees, which is, to me, below freezing, but is acceptable to many weirdos people I know.  Also, that we have a portable heater.  But I figured PSE&G knew none of this.  And not knowing any of this didn’t matter one whit, I still was not going to see anyone before 8 a.m.

Yet another reason to go off the grid – bastards.)

Anyhoo, fine, blah blah.  I read to Punksin and then it’s time for her to go to sleep.  She lies down i her bed.  And plays with the strings on the coverlet.  And reads my magazine as I’m reading it.  And does any other shit she can think of except closing her fucking eyes to go to sleep.

Then in comes the Tech Guru.  He’s got the Pudding, and the Pudding is sleeping.

Until he puts him down on the bed.

We see him fidget, and we’re holding our breath, no one is moving.  Then Punksin, who has been doing this dry coughing shit all night in a last-ditch quest for water, gives a particularl loud harumph and next thing you know, the Pudding is rising from the bed like Night of the Living Dead and yes, we are fucked.

Why fucked, you say?  Because as the song goes, the night time is the right time.  In this house, it is the ONLY time.  The only time we get to do shit for ourselves including having a conversation that does not consist of one of us trying to spit out one fucking sentence and taking 30 minutes to do it because of constant interruptions that include “Daddy, do you want to play a game?” or “Excuse me, Mommy, I’m thirsty” or Pudding standing on the absolute top of the Step 2 Kitchen like Greg Louganis preparing for a nosedive.

Night time is when I write.  It’s when I look for any way possible to supplement my daughter’s education (and increasingly, my son’s).  It’s when we have our little midnight snack ritual of chocolate croissants or Trader Joe panna cotta.  It’s when I can shed Mommy skin for a little bit and be Wife.  Or even rarer, Me.  Whoever that is.

Right now, for instance, Me is some manic lunatic who is actually feeling the different hormonal imbalances taking place as her body prepares for its monthly cycle.  Close friends and the neighborhood garbagemen know that my period lasts for about 26 out of 30 days.  It’s a wonderful thing.  A long foreplay of -

I should point out here that what I am about to say could very well be filed under Too Much Information and if you’d rather not know, then stop right now and go read some other boring ass blog.

- days of dribs and drabs and spots that taunt me.  Not enough to warrant medication, but enough to make me out of sorts and try to fend off the Tech Guru because I’m feeling gross.

This goes on for several days and then, just when I’ve gotten to the point of saying to the Tech Guru, I’m okay with it if you’re okay with it, the floodgates open. And I mean floodgates, because what comes out of my body on a monthly basis could sustain a bloodbank.  I swear, it’s a wonder I’m not dead.

After the first 2-3 days, during which I walk around white as a sheet and experience cramps similar to childbirth, I then have several days of Werewolf Mode.  I look better, I feel marginally better, but my hormones are all over the place.  I don’t usually remember it afterwards but I think I grow fangs and it’s all I can do not to eat my own young.

Then, slowly but surely, the hair drops off my back, the fangs drop out and I am once again, Mommy/Wife.

Then 2 days later, I go to the bathroom, look in the toilet and it’s WTF? Because yes, people – it’s starting ALL OVER AGAIN.

The real short version: I am homeschooling Punksin.

Not forever, I’d say.  Just for now.

And I have to tell you, we’re having fun!

Yes, she wears my ass out by the end of the day.  She and her brother, the infamous Puddin’, are probably completely responsible for my ability to maintain a low weight.  They literally keep me hopping.  With him alone it was getting crazy as he got more active, but now with him on the verge of walking, and her home all day, this is a very busy house.

Of course, we got some comments as the “news” came out.  Nothing outright rude or outrageous – most people were actually vocally supportive – but you could sense the questions.  Not of my ability, but of my sanity.

But we are having fun.  I found a curriculum I like because I think having some structure is good for me.  But I’m free enough to skip a day or two, to recognize that going to the store, or a museum, can be a learning adventure in itself.

Today, we went peach-picking!

The farm was about an hour away and I was a little worried that on the way back Pudding would scream the whole way (because he has done this before).  But he was cool.  Slept on the way there, and fell asleep again on the way back.  While we were there, he was hanging out hard in the stroller, which I pushed down the orchard paths.  It was really fun, and because the peaches were hanging so low, Punksin got to pick several herself, which of course made all the difference to her.

We had a wonderful day.  The skies were blue with white fluffy clouds, there was a brisk but warm breeze, and life just seemed full of possibility but also good in what it was right then.  We picked peaches, and then we cut our own flowers so we could have a special bouquet for the Hacker when he got home, and then we bought ice cream and sat on the grass eating it while watching horses and sheep gently nuzzle their fence in a plea for sharing.  Pudding played in the grass and marveled at the horse, Punksin delighted in feeding the horse handful after handful of grass and me, well I was able to put aside my worries – nope, haven’t blogged about those either and don’t want to – and just breathe fresh air and indulge in something simple and earthy with my kids.

And now, I need to look up some peach recipes. Becase there is no way we can eat all these goddamn peaches before they go bad.

If you can’t fathom why, then we’re not on the same page and it doesn’t make any sense for me to try to explain it.

So that’s all I’m going to say about it.

But over the past few months, he – and his wife, of whom I have never been a fan – have really begun to Piss Me The F— Off.

I’m not going into the negative campaigning, although that was certainly when my about-face started. Started and finished, I should say, because I have long since decided that I am no longer a Clinton fan, of either gender. But I had hoped that now, with the Democratic party needing to move forward in unison, that the two of them would work towards making that happen, get behind the main dude and appear honest and complete in their support.

Instead, first, we have to lend her ass money for her campaign debt.

Uh, why? Why? I hated the way she campaigned so viciously against Obama and now my broke ass is supposed to finance her negativity? REWIND AND COME AGAIN?

And now, we have to have a roll call at the DNC, if you please, so that all of her bitter supporters who want to cry sexism the minute you point out anything wrong with the woman, can stand up and declare their love for her and their pointed lack of support for Obama – despite the fact that this is now supposed to be a moot point. And why do they need to go through this charade? To pay respect to her and all of her accomplishments. She needs to be “acknowledged”.

I mean, can you believe the hubris? If the tables were turned and Hillary was the (presumptive) nominee and Barack demanded to be paid some sort of homage, her supporters would be crowing about him being unable to back down because he is a man, and needing to have his ego stroked, and all other kinds of bullshit. But for Hillary, we must show that we respect her.

Well I don’t. I am a woman, and I would LOVE to see a woman in the White House. I find it amazing that it is even still a goal, when other supposedly less advanced or sophisticated countries, both to our south and to our east, have had female leaders. But as a thinking intelligent woman, I will not support someone in a bid for the White House just for having a vagina, just as I do not support Barack Obama merely because he and I share some ethnicity. I hate to say it – I really really do – but when the Republicans were slinging arrows at the Clintons and calling them, among other things, arrogant self-important people who would stop at nothing to keep control…well, I don’t agree with a lot of what the Republicans did and said, but I think they nailed some things on the head.

Here’s what I “acknowledge”: Hillary and Bill are poor losers. The only positive thing I can say about them is that at least they are showing their true colors – I’ve always been amazed at how politicians can be so negative one day and then get on someone’s bandwagon the next, but the Clintons ain’t doing it, oh no. Their mouths are moving but they’re not really saying the words. They assumed Black support while at the same time making snide racial references to Obama’s “fairytale” dream – and now that the fairytale has proceeded this far, they continue to demand some type of respect instead of graciously giving any. I wholeheartedly believe that she hasn’t really urged her supporters to get behind Obama. She might have said the words but her supporters – like me – don’t believe she means them, not for one second. And so they continue to rally behind her, all in the name of womanhood, a cause I firmly support but which is not the point RIGHT NOW.

They just don’t get that.

I will not support her EVER – and the lovefest I had for her husband is OVER. Show some grace – and I don’t mean female grace, I mean human grace – and I might think about it. But that’s not going to happen, unless it is long after we all bow down to Empress Hillary. And then it’s not grace, is it?
It’s just false modesty.

This year was no different. When NBC announced that we would be practically inundated with Olympic coverage I was gleeful. There could be no such thing as too much! I would have it on 24/7, right from the start. I would be using picture-in-picture, we’d be switching back and forth like mad, it was going to be another Olympic village in our house. We even allowed Punksin to stay up late to watch the opening ceremonies, with some part of me hoping she, too, would catch Olympic fever.

And so the Games began. And I watched.

And I watched.

And I watched.

And slowly but surely, the disgust set in.

In the beginning, I thought it was a wonderful thing that the world was cheering China on in its capacity as host country. Everyone was gracious, and properly wowed by the lengths China had gone to to ensure a great experience.

But the way with which people are speaking of China – and judging China – and showcasing China – has long moved past the gracious phase and gone far into sycophantic ass-kissing. Now, we are so far up China’s ass that there is no longer anything objective about our coverage of them in the games. And I have turned off my tv, not so much as a gesture of protest as much as a gesture of protection – it’s making me sick.

Strike 1: Age rules that don’t get enforced. I am a mother. And long before becoming a mother, I was a woman. And I can tell you with 100% confidence that there is no way that those Chinese gymnasts that everyone is murmuring about – the ones Marta Karolyi called little babies – are 16. Absolutely not. 13, 14, maybe. But definitely not 16. And the fact that the IOC refuses to investigate this when anyone with a hormone in their body could see that these girls haven’t accumulated too many hormones of their own, is very unfair to other competitors. No, this is not just bitterness because we lost gold. The Chinese girls were clearly better (on the all-around) – but why do we have rules if they will be skirted and no one will pursue it? It makes the whole thing sickening to watch – and watching the despair and resignation on the faces of American athletes who have been preparing for these games for years is sickening too.

Strike 2: Do we have to see China competing every single time the camera is on? The funny thing is, I have been one of those people who, in the past, thought that our media could do a better job of showing another country once in a while. While all the rednecks immediately point out that we’re in Amerika and should be rooting for Ameri-kins, I like to think that our particular brand of diversity should allow us to at least look at some of the other countries once in a while – after all, there’s no other country in the world that is so uniquely multi-culti – no matter what’s on, somewhere someone here is cheering. But this year’s coverage has not been a sudden appreciation of America’s Chinese population. This is more about showing China how much we love them, how they’ve been welcomed into the “club”. If there isn’t a US competitor immediately available to show, we default to the Chinese. And the only boon there is that there is ample visual evidence of China’s willingness to cheat – the gymnasts are the most-spoken of cheating possibility, but not at all the only one.

Then take the case of the men’s 100m, typically used to qualify the fastest man in the world. This year, that would be Usain Bolt, a Jamaican runner who breezed through his heats and the final as though he was running to the store for a loaf of bread. This guy clearly can go even faster, but right now, he doesn’t have to. But he broke the world record twice this year, which is normally a pretty damn big deal. This year, though, after some scant media coverage that didn’t do justice to the feat this man performed, the story went to the Chinese runner that everyone was buzzing about. Mind you, he didn’t even run – after cramping up in the starting blocks, he walked away. But that became a story in itself. Who cares about world records when you can talk about a non-event?

Strike 3: The judging. In gymnastics, Alicia Sacramone performs a vault that, while not sparkling in its difficulty, is well-executed. She gets a score. Up comes a Chinese gymnast, who tries for a vault that is much harder. She doesn’t nail it – there are several errors and she lands on her knees, for God’s sake. Who gets the higher score? The Chinese gymnast. Because even although she screwed up, it was a harder vault; in other words, the difficulty made the difference, even though she royally screwed it up.

Okay, so with that logic in place, fast forward to the individual gold medal tie between Nastia Liukin and He Kexin for their uneven bar routines. Apparently both perfect, the tiebreaker goes to – can you guess? – He!! Why? Because when there is a tie, it is apparently broken by using the scores for execution, and the one with more scores close to the perfect 10 gets the win. Or some similarly retarded formula.

Wow. So in one event, the judging defaults to difficulty, which of course gives the Chinese gymnast the win. And then later, when a tie happens, they use execution scores. Which, by the way, means another gold for China.

I saw boxing matches where the boxer opposing the Chinese competitor made solid connections – and his score went nowhere. Mind you, it’s pretty simple: you make a hit, you get a point, there’s no style or flair points. And the guy was hitting the Chinese boxer constantly but no points were being awarded. It was so blatantly unfair.  Lest you, like me bemoan the lack of consistency, be assured that there is consistency.   China is going to win no matter what.  If that’s not consistent I don’t know what is.

Strike 4: The IOC’s repeated refusal to more closely investigate anything that could even remotely lead to China’s cheating. It’s almost as though they very deliberately don’t want China to lose face – we all know how shaming that is is Asian cultures. But shouldn’t holding your head high come about because you’ve played by the rules? Why do other athletes have to walk away confused and disappointed in order to allow China to hold their heads high?

I hate using the word conspiracy, since the first word most people associate with it is paranoia.  But there are times when the word is warranted, and while I don’t think there have been any signed memos or handshakes with blood oaths, something is going on here.  It’s all just a little too pointedly not pointed, if you catch my meaning.

And so, I’m pretty much done. The Chinese did a wonderful job of hosting, but their spectacular performance has been permanently marred by shady tactics – the pursuit of perfection isn’t true. And the media has assisted them, with coverage that is so skewed as to be sponsored by the state-run Chinese media. I’m all for supporting the host country, but I didn’t see this level of ass-kissing in Barcelona, or Sydney. And I don’t see why we are doing it now.  Did China pledge to come out of Tibet or something?

The Olympics, for me, is usually like an eclipse – beautiful, breathtaking, and all too short in duration. But this year, I’ll be glad when it’s done. I’ve had enough.

Every now and then I get called on to explain to Punksin where her grandfather and grandmother are, and quite frankly it would actually be easier if I could say they were dead.  Death, she gets now, to some extent.  But to say they’re here but not around is difficult, for me anyway, because of the implication, thankfully still unexplored, that they’re not around because they don’t want to be.  So far I’ve been able to get away with saying that my mother is sick, which is actually true.  As for her grandfather, it would be a bit much to say “He’s an asshole” and therefore I don’t say much beyond that he is very very far away, along with some mumbled words about “He’d see you if he could,” words that I know are not at all true.

This is yet another reason why I want to make some serious changes in life and move ahead and beyond what I’ve been and known for so long.  There’s no way I can escape them – I’m reminded of my father every time I gaze on Pudding’s blonde hair – but I don’t need to be limited by them and their tragic mistakes.  And 38 is perhaps a bit late to be realizing that but better late than never.  I want to be happy and I deserve to be happy, and while I know there will always be a part of me that wishes things were different, the bigger picture is that I can’t change them or the past, I can only change me and my future, change the bad habits that hold me back, and make my life and the life of my very wonderful family beautiful.  I love all of them – The Hacker, Punksin and Pudding -too much to continue being unhappy and engaging in all of the behavior that being so depressed and miserable entails.  They deserve a more centered, peaceful me.

And I deserve that version of myself.

I thought recently that I would like doing something where I Work With Books.

The only problem with this is, I am already “experienced”, in all the wrong places.  Meaning I am beyond entry-level status but have done nothing editorial that has not been freelance.  Meaning I’d have to start from scratch as an assistant to an agent, or assistant to an editor, either of whom is sure to be young enough to be my great-grandson thrice removed.

For this, I blame myself.  I got lured into advertising and spent far too much time secretly hoping to write, all the while churning out nothing but proposals and business letters imploring some ass or other to please please PLEASE put their nice pretty products in my nice pretty magazine!  For this I was paid well, but it’s all pointless now – I have neither the money nor the happiness that would have come with a more satisfying career.

I am doing a lot of writing these days (finally, yes, finally) and I am thrilled.  Thrilled, even, that when I go back and look at it, it doesn’t look quite so awful as my original writing did years ago. Not that I am beyond editing at all, please, I have no delusions about that.  But the first drafts are actually salvageable as opposed to good candidates for shredded kitty litter.

But here’s the rub.  I want to Do Something With Books, while I write my own, of course.   But the rub here is, I would only be considered for the entry-level stuff (if that, even, given my years in the workforce) and I need more than an entry-level salary to make going back to work not become a further strain.  I need to pay for the children to be looked after.  That means a minimum of $3000 a month.

There is not an an entry-level editorial job in the WORLD that is going to give me that much.

Sigh.

I love my kids, but I’m so tired of putting off my dreams.  I sit here day after day, and I help The Hacker to get his business organized, and of course organize the children’s lives and schedules, and nowhere have I made my own life a priority, whether it’s something as simple as getting to an exercise class or really trying to break out of this damn advertising sales mold I’ve been in (as well as the resultant long-reaching depression).

And now that I am finally trying, I feel as though it is long past the point where anything will come of it.

I love my children to pieces.  I love my husband immensely.

But right now, I hate my life.

This morning, they were starting things off in the gym, where the kids were making their way through an obstacle course.  One or two children were on the obstacle course, while the rest stood against the wall looking, as kids will often do, somewhat lost.  There was music playing, but against the backdrop of all these bland faces it sounded out of place.  I don’t think kids always have to be loud and boisterous, but their silence seemed so – odd, as if everyone was just out of sorts.

Punksin was led to the front of the line and allowed to start.  She went started crawling, looked at me, kept going.  At one point as she stood up to make her way to the next challenge I saw her shoulders heave up and down in a big sigh.  This happened a few more times, and I found myself wondering, is she bored? Is she unhappy? Is she just having a bad morning? Is she picking up on a weird mood in here?

I called her over and asked her what was wrong.  Nothing.  I asked again.  Nothing.  Gently, I looked at her.  Pointed out that she seemed so unhappy.  Reminded her that I would do anything I could to fix the problem, if only I knew what it was.

And finally, it poured out, the  story of how another little girl in camp had told her that Punksin’s affection was cloying, that Punksin was stifling her, that she liked Punksin but wanted to play with other people too.

I know my daughter.  And I know very well how she can glom onto people and suffocate them with attention. This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened – from way back at her first school, people would get tired of being forced into this one-on-one relationship with her when they wanted to play with all of their friends.

But this is my daughter, and it hurt to see her feel so rejected.  Once again, I tried explaining to her that having more than one friend is a good thing, for her and for other people, that playing with several people can be fun.  I pointed out that this little girl hadn’t said she didn’t like her, but just that she wanted to play with other people too.  And that she, Punksin, should do the same thing.  What if this girl was sick one day?  Having one friend would leave her with no one to play with, whereas having other friends would mean she always had a playmate, would play new games, learn new things.

This is a hard lesson for my little girl to absorb.  Once she likes you, she wants to be your whole world.  I can’t quite figure out how to break her out of this; I know the world will ultimately do it for her, but I don’t want her to get crushed in the process.  She’s not good at sharing attention, and believe you me, her father and I have tried to get her to understand that for her friends, for us,  for anyone, no one’s world revolves around her.  We have shown and discussed how there are other people that must be considered, spoken to, laughed with, comforted, interacted with.  She hears us, but I can see that right now, it’s not sinking in the way we’d like it to.

I know she is only 4 and that there will still be some element of “me-ness” about her.  But this thing about finding one friend and sticking to them like glue…

Wow – I just had a revelation of sorts.

Maybe she’s just seeking some stability.

Hmmm.  In all honesty, even at her first school where she was well-established and at home, so to speak, there was some stifling, but it was more a bossiness – she had several friends and would play with all of them at different times.I think here, she’s been there a week, doesn’t know anyone, and is just trying to make a connection.  Punksin doesn’t know any of the other kids, and maybe this other little girl does.  If she had other friends there, she’d be less likely to latch onto one.  She’s trying to create a lifeline for herself. And who can blame her?

I know this doesn’t explain (or excuse) her overall bossiness, but it can explain what’s happening right here right now.  I don’t think this is so much about her trying to control the girl as it is about her trying to give herself a friend, a connection.  And don’t we all want that out of life, particularly when we are thrust into new settings?

Last year she did so well at this camp that I didn’t stop to think that this year might be different: she’s older now, she’s now been in 2 schools instead of one, the camp itself feels different – a whole bunch of factors that could be adding to why she feels a little lost, a little more needy, a little less sure.

Well, tomorrow is the last day – and as such, if she hasn’t had a good day today I won’t force her to go back tomorrow.  Nor will I force her to return in 4 weeks if she doesn’t want to.  I think, in fact, it might be better for her to stay home or stay in the other camp she’ll be in at her old school.  Because the next session of this camp will mean all new people all over again, and I think she’s had enough being tossed about for now.

1. The Hacker’s job is moving, and he is very busy NOT looking for another job.  He wants to consult full-time, but I don’t think we’re ready for that.
2. Punksin “graduated” from school.  Technically she didn’t graduate, but we say she did because she’s smarter than half of the little f’ers that are moving on to kindergarten.  Society chooses to start the forgo the obvious criteria of INTELLIGENCE and opt for the MUCH more reliable AGE factor, and so, by virtue of being only 4, she needs to sit through another year of pointing out which shapes are circles and which ones are squares.  Ridiculous.  So we pulled her out, and will be homeschooling.  At least, I think so.
3. Pudding had his 1st birthday, which we celebrated in extremely low-key fashion, given that we were hopping on a plane for the Cayman Islands the next day.  I felt some guilt, because we’d had Punksin’s bubble babies friends over for her 1st birthday – but then, we had a party when Pudding was actually born and we didn’t do that for her.  So I guess it all evens out.
4. The Hacker’s mother came for a visit.  Interesting, that was.  Suffice it to say I collected some new info that makes me think she’s not as helpless as she pretends to be.  Of course, the Hacker will hear none of it – it’s hard to accept that someone you’re accustomed to viewing as helpless might actually be manipulating you, especially when it’s your own mother.  I’m kind of washing my hands of them and their drama, though, because I realize that to a great extent, the drama makes him feel needed and wanted, and he refuses to entertain the thought that there could be real negative feelings like envy and anger towards him. Anytime any negative feelings do crop up, he insists on viewing it “They all just want to spend more time with me.”  It always comes back to the general idea that they just love him and want to be a part of his life.  And I think that yes, they definitely want to be a bigger part of his life, but not purely for his companionship.  But, as they say, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink.  I’ve realized, even about myself, that you have breakthroughs in life only when you’re ready to have them; you break bad habits only when you’re ready, despite how much advice you’ve received.  You see the truth only when you’re ready, despite having heard it time and time again.  And you make changes only when you’re ready, when you finally want to, because YOU are ready.  So trying to get him to understand that his family, including his not-so-docile mother, is not quite as innocent as they appear when they start slinging about their “You only care about that family over there.  The Hacker needs to believe the best about them, needs to feel needed by them, needs their approval, needs to believe that all of their frustration with him comes from pure love with no remote taint of anything else.  I don’t think he would see it that way, but after watching him interact with all of them for years (what, a decade now?), that’s what I see in him: a need to be some shining example of goodness, the belief that they look up to him with love and gratitude and pride.  I’ve rarely heard any of them SAY anything about those feelings though, and that’s pretty telling.  What I see in them is an annoyance that he’s not bailing people out of their various messes and providing easy solutions.  He sees it too – but he refuses to take the next step of interpreting what it must mean.

Well, that last one got a bit longer than I intended, but the next post will include some information on How Much I Detest My Former Employer.  Gotta run.

This morning, said frat brother calls again.  Apparently, he wants The Hacker to accompany him to Toronto. To Caribana.

To those of you not familiar with Caribana, let me point you to another part of the world, namely, Rio.  At Carnival time.  Or perhaps you’re more familiar with Trinidad’s Carnival, although how you could know about Trinidad and not know about Rio is beyond me, but whatever.  My point is, that’s what Caribana is – Toronto’s Carnival.

Lots of women, parading around half-naked. Partying and generally Having Fun.  Not something we’re too familiar with in this house these days, and yet here is an opportunity for him to go and do it.  Without me.

Now, if I’m going to be completely honest, which I do try to be, The Hacker, in telling me about the invitation, did say that he used to go (which I knew) but that things are different now – some nod to his family responsibilities, I suppose.  And he did say he would of course discuss it with me first.

And at a different time, I’d be pushing him out the door.  Have fun, I would say.  Have a blast.  Tell me all about it when you get back.  I don’t think we have to do everything together, and I don’t think his life has to stop because he’s a dad.

But now, I feel vulnerable.  And therefore, not so accommodating.  Because when the hell am I going to get to up and leave my family for a weekend?  He’s been to Panama for a week, Tampa for a weekend, and out drinking after work on occasion.

I have never spent one night away from these children.  I don’t go anywhere or do crap, and on the few occasions since Diana’s birth that I have ventured out, I return to the roost like a goddamn homing pigeon, because someone needs milk.

So once again, the timing of this is giving me pause.  Why now? Have we reached that point where I am just so familiar and boring that he’s looking outside with renewed interest?  Again, not saying he can’t have a life or friends – but where are the attempts to do anything with me?  Not so much fun, I guess.  Been there, done that?

He hasn’t said he wants to go.  But I think he does.  And if he does, that bothers me, because it shows a complete indifference to my worries right now, worries and fears I have voiced to him.  If he can hear me voice my concerns – no small feat because I don’t like admitting to any chinks in my armor – and still think that this is what he wants to do, well, that says some things to me.

I should point out that even prior to all of this female companionship and whatnot, I was mildly concerned about the state of affairs between us.  Mainly that there is no real state of affairs between us.  We function in this house right now as co-parents and best friends.  And don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the fact that he’s a great dad, and I love the fact that he is so supportive of my work.  But I have friends, you know?  And while I want him to be one of them, there’s supposed to be a little bit more there – some of that stuff that made us parents in the first place, you know?

Then there’s the whole Loss Of Me syndrome.  I left my job to become SuperMom, which I did for 2 years, just turned into Mommy.  And since then I’ve been dabbling in this and dabbling in that and not being very successful at anything – because I have to be Mom first, and do all the things that go along with that.  And the fact that my personal & professional life is practically on hold is scary enough – add to that mix a husband who seems to be moving farther away from me and what do I have left?  Just my kids?  I love them to pieces, no doubt, but they cannot be my reason for existence.  There has to be more to my life than that – for me and for them.

I’ve said all of this, and all I got in response was not to worry, we’re just going through a Phase.  All said in a paternal, friendly, unconcerned voice that, far from being reassuring was frightening in its lack of passion, its bland noncommittal.  He pointed out to me that you can’t turn “these things” on and off.  That too, frightened me – because it acknowledged that he is “off”.   If he weren’t, he would have protested to that effect, no?

I don’t know what more to say or do.  All the clothes & toys (yes, as yet unused) I buy and hair I blow out and makeup I put on and concerns I voice are not working; all I’m doing is feeling more the ass every time I get laughed off.  I guess I waited too long to address the problem and that train has already left the station to go to whatever destination it has.

I hope he has fun – at Caribana, or wherever else he goes. I’m not trying to stop or change anything anymore.  It is what it is, as he likes to say, and I guess that’s what he wants it to be.  I’m the only one trying right now, and I’m not doing it anymore.

Punksin got upset because I wouldn’t let her have any ice cream after dinner. This was primarily because she didn’t eat any dinner. Two mouthfuls of rice and then she’s clamoring for ice cream cake. Given that she’d also had a McDonald’s Crappy Meal for lunch, I thought we had reached our junk quota for the day.

Lord, you would have thought I was burning her with cigarettes, the hollering that ensued. She cried and cried and cried and cried. And then she gave herself a headache. And then she cried some more about that. And as much as I explained to her that she was causing her own headache by crying, she would not stop. It went on and on and on for about an hour and a half.

Whew.

Her dad and I were pretty much done with her by the time she went to bed. We were both pooped, and both had work to do after putting them to bed. I was pretty much a waste – just did some reading and passed out. The Hacker stayed up until some ungodly hour. Our time together was nonexistent.

So today, I take a shower. No, they still don’t happen every day unless I am determined to get in the shower at 11:00 at night or something and I gotta tell you, unless I’m menstruating or exercising or really sweating, I don’t give a shit. Mild perspiration is normal.

I get dolled up in one of one of my cheap but cutesy summer dresses.

I brush out my hair – now that it’s blown out, it’s nice and long.

I put on makeup – a little blush, some eyeliner, some mascara.

I take the kids to the park in the evening to wear their little behinds out.

I come home and I take a pork loin that I have marinated the hell out of all day and stick it in the oven. I cook Cuban rice and beans, and platanos.

The Hacker calls and says he is on the way home.

Five minutes later, he calls back.

He is going out for a drink.

With some woman.

This, after announcing this morning that he is taking a yoga class-  with some woman. A different woman.

He has been working at this fucked up company since 2002 and only recently, only now, has he all of a sudden become Mr. Hot Stuff. A yoga practitioner, looking to get her teaching certification, just has to teach my husband, and now they’re having weekly sessions. Another one invites us – yes, all of us, but I don’t think that means anything – to her house for a BBQ. He takes drawing classes – with a woman. He joins a bookclub and of course the chicks in the group are always lending him their books because they’re so. fucking. thoughtful.

And yes, I am totally like WTF? After 5 years all of a sudden you’re hanging out with women? How would it look if all of a sudden I, little housewife, started palling around with all my old male cohorts? A little odd, no? I mean, don’t get me wrong, as a woman with a majority of friends that are male, I get that in an office, friendships form. But the sudden bloom of all of this office friendship is a little off to me.

Just a little.

As my grandmother says, it’s not that I don’t trust him.

It’s that I don’t trust anybody.

It’s been crazy.

I’ve been planning our vacation.

Pudding is slithering everywhere like an anaconda and is PULLING UP ON THINGS.  It is only a matter of time before he makes like a homo sapien and walks on two feet.  And then we’re really in trouble.

The Hacker is doing the usual IT grind and also has upped his training schedule so that he can fully return to Hot Stud status, a regimen that seemed to be working nicely for about a week until he got what his Indian boss referred to as “loose motions.“  (For those of you wanting a translation, that would be diarrhea, which I think was one symptom of some kind of stomach bug, since it came complete with cold sweats and headaches and the general “I-am-dying” routine that men employ whenever something goes wrong that cannot be interpreted in some way so as to look manly.  There’s nothing manly about watery bowel movements.)

Punksin continues to spout things that are so comical that I can’t keep up.  And I am having trouble getting them all down.

Like yesterday.  Out of the total and complete blue, she says to me, as we’re puttering around in the car, “Mommy, when your grandfather died, I was so sad and I cried all day.”

Now, there are two things here.  One, where the hell did this come from?  We weren’t discussing him, or death, or sadness, or anything that I could interpret as being remotely connected.  But that’s how the brain works, I guess.

The second thing, though, is that I know that this was total horseshit.  Which I very gently reminded her of.

“Uh, honey, I don’t think you cried all day or I’m sure Daddy would have told me.”

“Oh. Yeah.  I didn’t.  I forgot.”

This happens all the time.  She “forgets” things, which to her seems to be another way of interpreting “I lie about things.” How can you fucking forget that you didn’t do something?  When you’re telling someone something, don’t you relive it in your head? And at some point, doesn’t it occur to you that gee, this shit never happened?

The Hacker and I have come to the conclusion that we are going to have our work cut out for us with this one.

Oh yes sirree.

Well, if any of them are reading, I have to tell you:

You all work for the most retarded fucking company I have seen since the 21st century began.

That’s a fact.

Design?

Design?

Design?

(That was a hint to The Hacker, who has flat out refused to allow me to hire a designer.  Well, not really, but I know if I do hire one, he will proceed to dissect the design and tell me everything that he thinks is wrong with it, completely disregarding the fact that he had SEVERAL MONTHS TO DO IT HIMSELF.)

Anyhow, I was saying.  Changes.

I’ll post more about them later. Right now I shouldn’t even be typing – Pudding is standing between my legs.  Yes! Standing!  And he has taken very tentative steps.  Not by himself yet, but at this rate, he’ll be mobile by his first birthday.  In a manner of speaking he already is.  You’ve never seen anyone slither as fast as he can.

And speaking of birthdays, today in the mail we received, from a girlfriend of mine, a Save The Date card for her daughter’s 4th birthday party.

In August.

Personally, I hate Save the Dates.  I mean, isn’t the fucking invitation the Save the Date? You send me something on paper telling me that later, I will receive another piece of paper officially inviting me to the function that you already told me about so that I could not commit to anything else.  Talk about killing trees unnecessarily.

And especially for a 4-year old’s birthday party! Come on! A wedding in Italy, okay, that I get. But a mani-pedi glitter party for 4-year olds?

Really, people.