Sunday, April 11, 2010

breathe in breathe out

two steps forward  12 steps back.

frustration.  about to explode.  tired of being accused.  cannot deal.  i cannot deal.  i am not a hypersexual milf.let me take you home little boy.  i am misundersood over and over and over again and i want to scream.

i am a social being.  i will not be held down again.  you cannot own me...control what i think feel or say.  you cannot tell me what my intentions are when they are so far from what you think they are.

i am so tired of being percieved like this by someone who has their own issues, who has people in his life who advise him to take a fuck buddy until I come around.

i am so tired of the double standard.  so tired of the misperceptions.  so tired.

an innocent message.  innocent.  sent to a boy in class.  more of an act of comic relief for my fellow classmates than i want to fuck you little boy.  stupid, really.  an act of 'you dare me?'  gone horribly wrong.  evry sentence of the message judged and misconstrued as inappropriate.

daddy.  i am a good girl.  i am not a whore.  i did not wrong you daddy.

daddy.  fuck you.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

We were not the Brady Bunch

This is what a step family should have been. 
At least, that's what our televisions showed us.  She brought the three perfect girls, he brought the three perfect boys, and somehow a uniformed housekeeper and  loyal dog showed up, ready to round out the myth.
Sure, Greg had authority problems with Mike, and Cyndy had a lisp. Jan had middle child syndrome and Peter was kinda awkward, especially during that whole voice changing thing.  Marcia was the type A older sister, but always loving.  Bobby was the mischevious little brother, but had a heart of gold.
Oh, Mike nad Carol had their hands full, sure.  But Mike loved Carol's kids, and Carol loved Mike's kids just the same, and really...they were all  equal in their parent's eyes.
And then America became overwraught with Stepfamilies.Men quickly realized that it wasn't that easy to love another man's sons  who could be little shits, who wouldn't listen to Stepdad because they had their own fathers, fuck you very much.  And women realized that divorced daddies came wrought with guilt, and overcompensated by not disciplining their dear daughters who were relentlessly bitchy to their new stepmommies because said stepmommies were taking away dear dad's attention, fuck you very much.
And children learned the most quickly how to work this new system., and recreated unhappy households all over the country when they grew up and had children and divorces of thier own.
 And they all lived unhappily ever after.
Onec upon a time my mother divorced my father.  1971, alcoholism and casino card club chip girls as mistresses and severe untreated bipolar.  My mother is no longer living, but I am going to assume these were some of the reasons.  Sufficiente, no?
My father visited her in the hospital after she gave birth to me and boozily confessed to broads and the like.
My mother had just birthed her 4th child alone, and here was my father barfing his sins over her hospital bed.  And me.  Baby me.  I was cranky and high maintenence and didnt like people to touch me and was shy, mean, weepy.
And no one ever thought to link up the fact that while my mother was merely trying to survive on the most rudimentary level., her stress, her sadness, her anger and despair were pumping into my own little body as she held me.
But I digress...
Mom took the plunge in 1971 and left Dapper Dan.  She was 31 years old, not dead, and it was the 70's.  Life was swinging and single for Mom for awhile, as we watched a few dirty hippies come and go.  Aunt Jane was single too, and lived right next door with her two kids, one of whom was already showing signs of the aggressive "My dad is not around and I'm pissed so I'm gonna terrorize the rest of the kids" personality. 
Saratoga was boho and free, a funky village with freethinkng mammas and their dirty little kids.
My mom was not without responsibility, and she deserved to have those years of fun.  She had raised kids from age 22 on, with one right after the next, and no help from my crazy father. 
To be continued...

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Dreamer died

And puppetmaster didn't let anybody know.  She was my mom's dog, really.  A yellow lab with angel wings on her back.  A dog who had failed blind dog school, we shook our heads at her dumb dog ways.  She was simple.  Sweet.  Loyal.  And while my Mom was dying she laid by her side and rode it out with her master.  Animals know more than we do, don't they.  Earthquakes...evil souls...death.  They smell em.
Dreamer died a week and a half ago, and Puppetmaster didn't tell anyone.  Wife 2.0 had to tell my sister after my sister brought over a new dog bed for Dreamer.  This speaks volumes for so much.  It's a metaphor for so much.  I can't even wrap my head around it.
When my sister called me last night to tell me, the first thing I felt was joy.  Because I immediately thought that Dreamer and my Ma would be together again. 
I often think of 'Heaven' as a fairy tale.  But for one brief moment in the soda aisle in Safeway, I believed, and it brought me great comfort and joy for the dumb ol' dog and her master Nancy B.
Rest in Peace, Dreamer Girl

Friday, April 2, 2010


She was so excited for the dance tonight.  She was sick, and against my better judgement I let her go.  It was such an ordeal preparing for the night.  I took her to the fancy hairdresser even though I can't really afford it.  She got her hair cut, and blown out for $30.  Not bad, but still...I am very close to not being able to afford these luxuries.  She's my baby.  She's 12 years old, and dances are a big deal.  I get it.  I am going to spoil her while I still can.  When she came out of the salon she took my breath away.  Her hair was perfect, of course.  But it was more than that.  She was confident, and it was sexy and sweet all wrapped into one preteen girl.  My daughter.  She.  took.   my.   breath.   away.  
I didn't tell her.  I mean, I told her that her hair was fab, but I didn't tell her just HOW BEAUTIFUL she was.  Can you imagine, being 12 years old and having your mom dork out on you like that?  She would have mocked me.  Hell, I would have done the same thing to my mom.  I said nothing.
I dropped her off at her friend's house where the gaggle of girls gathered each time to primp and pick out the perfect outfit and strategize about who was going to dance with who.
I flirted with hot dad ( I'm separated...not dead), lingered too long for her liking, and drove away.
I picked her up at eight.  She got in the car and said it was fine.  She said it was fine in a small and wobbly voice.  She said "No one asked me to dance".  She said "3 boys asked S. to dance, and C. and H. danced almost every dance with all different boys, but no one likes me.  Oh my baby.  She's hurting so much right now.  What can a mother possibly say to make it right?  "did you ask anyone?"  Not the right thing to say. 
"well, I thought you looked beautiful tonight".  Also not the right thing to say.
We pick up the little kids, she hits her head on the car door, and she starts to wail. 
"mommy, I hurt my head!"  She is sobbing, and carrying on like I have not seen her do in a few years.  The head hurts thing turns into a 'no one asked me to dance' wail.  I was watching such a primal hurt that she didn't understand, my girl child who is changing everyday.  Puberty is overwhelming when you go through it yourself, but to watch your child go through it is gut wrenching, especially when most of the time they want nothing to do with you.  Even though you love them more than all thos dumb ass little shits who don't recognize her magic.
She sulks her way inside the house.  I make her a cup of tea, bring out a comforter, and I listen.  Her tears are streaming the mascara that she does not need to wear down her still chubby cheeks.
And I say all the cliches that I realize are cliches for a reason:  they are true
Your time will come.
Those boys don't deserve you.
So and so is an ass anyway.
I know I'm your mother, but it's true: you are the most beautiful girl at that school.

I give her her space, and I don't push her much to divulge more.  What more is there to say? 

My mama continues to raise me from above, because with each experience I have with my children I am reminded of how she handled me.  At the time I thought she was out of touch...silly...unhip... yet here I am today repeating her words, repeating her cliches, and meaning every damn word of them.

She's in the other room, watching TV, up way too late for my taste.  I allow the slip.  She and I both know I am coddling her in an attempt to ease the hurt.  I am.  Who cares.
I hope one day she realizes... just as I am constantly realizing to this much her mother loves her.
I know it's not worth much right now in the throes of her preteen hormonal ups and downs,
but I hope someday she knows.

There is a pile of Bacon in front of me

And my son  and I are eating it like potato chips.  I haven't showered since I went for a hard ass run yesterday, and I went to starbucks like this...unshowered, same clothes, even!  My friend K. would say "iowncare".  I am thinking of her today because she loves Bacon and she looks like Miss Thang a bit, and I miss her.  I owe her a call.
I am deliriously happy today.  Peaceful.  Grinning.  Sweet 40 y.o. smile.  I know myself smile.  Where have you been smile.  welcome back, girl smile.  love your friends so much smile.  grateful smile. 
I slept sandwiched between two hot little bodies last night.  A solid sleep.  we woke up and decided to take a hiatus from el televisor today.  We are all happy, the whole family.  The children sense peace.  I think this makes them feel safer than they have felt for awhile.
Georgia just told me "Mommy gives good energy".  My little meta physical girl.
My son is naked from the waist down.  I ran out of diapers, and he doesn't care.  An opportunity to potty train.  And he did!  He went into the bathroom by himself.  Go, little man.
Here's the thing:  My life is chaos.  I am ADD, I am messy, I am not organized or anything.  And I like it.  I don't care, and it doesn't bother me, and days like this when our hands are stained with easter egg dye and we haven't brushed our teeth yet and we eat popsicles and bacon for breakfast...these days bring me great joy.  And there is no one to tell me I'm doing it wrong, that I am a bad person...parent...wife...
Wounded Man is struggling.  He is getting down to the nitty gritty of his pain, and I am feeling for him, from afar.  I have a deep hope and prayer that he can and will get better...not for me, but for himself.  Our marriage is done.  And although I am happy today, I know grief for the death of our marriage will come again.
But for now:  BACON!