Archive | May, 2004

Through a glass, ever-so-slightly less darkly

by Mir on May 31, 2004 in Offspring: ecstasy and agony

My Chickadee sometimes drives me completely insane. You know how chickadees were named for their call? “Chickadee-dee-dee-dee-deeeeee! Chickadee-dee-dee-dee-deeeeee!” My daughter’s nickname evolved because she, too, twitters constantly and loves the sound of her own name (as in, if there’s talking going on, it had better be either by her or about her, or she’ll set things straight). If I had a nickel for every time I’ve said “You know, honey… when you don’t have anything to say, it’s okay to stop talking,” I’d be a wealthy woman.

Marcey calls her my “prickly pear.” Eileen says she’s “complex.” Her teachers tell me (with a smile that conveys fondness seasoned with exasperation) that “she’s got a mind of her own.” I forget who told me she’s “an old soul” but I find that one particularly apt. And her therapist loves to remind me that “she’s got a lot going on in there.” My parents and I, of course, got right to the crux of the matter.

She’s my Mini-Me. (Lord help us all.) Different, of course, but eerily similar in so many of the ways I’d hoped she wouldn’t be. There’s nothing quite like seeing both your most vulnerable and most spectacular selves blended and reincarnated in the more compact, extra-melodramatic, yet less cynical model.

It’s been a long couple of years for our family, and through it all I worried most about her. She seemed to bend under the strain more than was possible for a child of her age. My outgoing, precocious little girl went from acting out (not fun; but understandable, and to be expected) to pulling back into herself until I thought I would drop from the fear and exhaustion of trying to extract her once again. Bit by bit, she came back to us, and it’s true: kids are more resilient than you think. She’s okay. She still seems to feel things more deeply than some, and holds onto angst a little longer, but she’s learning how to cope and feel okay (aren’t we all?). And she’s now a “normal” 6-year-old: obsessed with the tooth fairy, alternately protective and tormenting of her little brother, mouthy as all get-out, loving being able to read, adoring her little friends, and quite secure in the knowledge that I am becoming dumber and more unreasonable with each passing moment. It’s a beautiful thing.

Ever since the Chickadee could talk, bedtime has been an introspective time for her. The day is done, I’m half-asleep myself, and hoping she’ll skip off to dreamland the second I kiss her goodnight… but no. When she was younger, bedtime was when she would Why? Why? Why? about all manner of minutiae. When she was falling apart from the stress of being so angry and not knowing how to express it, bedtime triggered hysterical crying about every wrong–real or feared–ever visited upon the world. I came to dread bedtime. I would talk her down as best I could, and then–more often than not–once I got her settled, go downstairs and have a good sob, myself.

I know this weird bedtime affliction. I have it, too. You want to rest and drift away, and your mind wants to first resolve the unresolvable, find evidence that Things Are Right. I don’t relish this particular feature of mine and I doubt my daughter does, either.

But bedtime is becoming a better time for both of us. As I lay down with her tonight and she filled me in on the last few days’ adventures that I’d missed, I stroked her forehead and felt her relax under my touch just briefly. Her tale of the zoo complete, she turned to me and flung her arms around my neck. “Mama, I don’t want the doctor to give your tummy a boo-boo! I’m feeling scared about that!” Tears came to my eyes. I’m feeling scared about that, too… but I was also so proud, and grateful, that this little one who once folded in on herself and hid can now recognize and vocalize her fear… and she lets me in to help make her feel better. I know grown-ups who have yet to make it that far. So we talked about it, some, and I offered reassurances and reminded her of the last time I had surgery and how that worked out okay, etc.

Bringing up the last surgery caused her to switch gears; she went to a different school, then, and she started remembering friends she hadn’t seen in a while, and asking why she’d changed schools, and would she ever see them again, and what about next year, and her friends now? This is how I found myself, this evening, having a heart-to-heart with my firstborn about the Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas. We’re always choosing our path, and we can always look back and wonder what might have been different, but how does that make you feel? “Kind of yucky,” she confessed. (Me, too.) We talked about all the great things the school change had brought… and how next year, when she changes schools yet again, more good things will happen, and maybe a few not-so-good things, too, but it’s our choice what we dwell on.

I wanted to tell her that I’m no better at it than she is; that if I thought I could get away with it, I’d stamp my feet and demand to know what would’ve happened if… and but why…, too. But I played with her hair, instead, and talked of all the things that don’t change, that anchor us amidst all the stuff that does. After a while she was ready to rest, and I promised we can talk more about this tomorrow.

Only I know, from experience, that tomorrow she will content herself with which pretties need to go in her hair and whether the chicks at school have hatched yet and how many things will the Monkey really do at her command before I break up her benevolent dictatorship? She bounces back (until bedtime, anyway). I’m trying to learn from her example, even as I hope to teach her from mine. I’m pretty sure I’m getting the better end of the deal. (Please remind me of this tomorrow when we’re late for school and she spills her milk everywhere….)

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Fritters, anyone

by Mir on May 31, 2004 in What do I do all day?

There are words that so skillfully convey their intention that they just taste right. The perfection of them make me want to weep with joy… unless, of course, I’m dealing with life and not just sitting around savoring words. But I gave myself a few seconds, just now, to roll the world “fritter” around in my mouth and brain before I commence Freaking. Out.

Alas, I have frittered away my weekend. In my mind’s eye I can actually conjure an image of useful time units fluttering away in the breeze as I toss them from a decorative basket, giggling. It’s not just any weekend, either. It’s a long weekend and it’s nearly my last kid-free weekend pre-surgery (“pre-surgery” translating to “when I can hope to accomplish anything in this life”), and my to-do list is still a mile long. Where has my time gone? Why haven’t I completed more projects? How many things can I pack in between now and the children’s return in a mere eight hours??

In fairness to myself, I did finish a few things that Needed Doing. The weekend hasn’t been a total wash, productivity-wise. Also, I hear that enjoying yourself or even just being a slug once in a while is encouraged–maybe even recommended–for well-adjusted humans. (Having never really made it past partially-adjusted, myself, this is a murky area for me.) And while neither my behind or my to-do list will thank Marcey for stuffing me with Edy’s Peanut Butter Cup ice cream last night while we made fun of While You Were Out, my soul thanks her profusely.

All that remains to me now is prioritizing the rest of the items on the list and deciding how frenetic I wish the remainder of my day to be. Hmmmm. And I need to do this while fighting against the Homer Simpson portion of my brain which has said naught but “Mmmmmm, fritters!” since I woke up this morning. (There is nothing to eat here, I tell you. Crap. Add “go for groceries” to the list.)

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Mailbox Mania

by Mir on May 30, 2004 in What do I do all day?

So… uh… I forgot to mention one teeny little pertinent bit of information in the peanut butter nuts story. The gifted gentleman in question? My pastor. Church today? A little weird.

(Help me, Oh Lord… disturbing images flit through my brain….)

I came home ready to tackle A Project. My kid-free weekends are full of Projects, because anyone who’s undertaken A Project with their offspring’s “help” knows that while it may build memories that last a lifetime, it also tends to make said project take a lifetime. Today, being a bright, gorgeous day even better (warmer) than yesterday, seemed ideal for undertaking The Mailbox Transplant.

The mailbox that came with this house was in sad shape from day 1. I suspect it to be original to the property. It is metal, clearly repainted several times but rusting through anyway, tilting to the left as if caught in a perpetual gust, and falling apart. First the flag fell off; that was repaired with an oversized nut and bolt, which meant the flag remained attached but required Herculean strength to be coaxed to move at all. Next, the handle broke off the door, and despite a couple of attempts to re-rig it, it was never right again. I often find the mailbox wide open, which is maybe annoying in the nice weather, but downright gross during a nor’easter. (One could argue you’re not truly a New Englander until you’ve had a mailbox full of snow… but I’d rather retain my Annoying Outsider Who Still Bitches About The Weather status, thanks.)

So I’ve been meaning to replace that mailbox for ages. Unfortunately, I suffer from a unique learning disability wherein I will periodically go to Home Despot, look at the mailboxes, complain to anyone who will listen that “that’s an insane amount of money for a plastic box!”, leave in a huff, and manage to forget all of this and do it again a few months later. And again a few months later. And… well, you get the idea. Money’s tight. The existing mailbox works… sort of.

A couple of weeks ago I happened upon a yard sale in the process of packing up. I hopped out of my car to have a quick look, and lookie here! A brand new mailbox, still sealed in the carton, for $10. The cheapest one I’d ever seen at Home Despot was $35. I popped that puppy in the back of the car, threw it in the garage when I got home, and forgot about it, because it then proceeded to rain for two weeks straight.

Today I was ready! Yes sir! First, let’s extract the old mailbox. No problem. It was attached to the post with… four rusty nails, two defunct yellow jacket nests, and three strange little egg-sac-looking thingies that I really don’t want to think too much about. Ick. But I managed to take off the old box with my trusty hammer, a little elbow grease, and a lot of muttering. Time to unveil the new mailbox.

I will grant you this: a more observant person would’ve thought–upon seeing the mailbox carton–”Wow! That has got to be one big-ass mailbox!” But not me. No, I can be kind of oblivious, sometimes. I don’t know what I thought. Maybe I thought the mailbox was packed in protective styrofoam. Maybe I thought my new mailbox came with a bonus pony. Maybe I just never really looked at the damn box. I’m really not sure. Regardless, I was stunned to open the box and find… a mailbox exactly the same size as the box it was packed in (minus a millimeter or so all around, if you want to be picky about it). This was not a mailbox I had purchased. This was a mailbox-shaped shed. I had a fleeting image of myself at the height of exasperation, shouting, “I have HAD IT! No more bickering! YOU–go sit on the stairs! YOU–go sit in the mailbox!”

It’s Really Really Big. The Hummer of mailboxes, one might say.

Surprise gave way to delight (dude, I paid $10 for the $50 model! and entire boxes will fit in here!), which soon gave way to panic (what if it was too big to mount on the support pole?). I dragged it down to the end of the driveway to have a looksie. It could be done… maybe. The crossbar that the previous mailbox had been nailed to was too narrow for this monstrosity; the nailholes in the bottom straddled the bar with several inches to spare on either side. Hmmmm. With a platform mailed to the crossbar, and then the mailbox attached to the platform, this could work. Hopefully the neighbors just won’t notice that their mailbox would now be cowering in the shadow of mine.

I went back to the garage to scavenge. Of course I didn’t have any wood scraps the right size. But I did have some plywood that could be cut to size. And because I’d already taken down and totally dented the other mailbox I am woman, hear me roar, you betcha I grabbed a saw and cut myself the most gorgeous mailbox platform in the history of humankind. It only took me a couple of hours minutes. A few more minutes to find the can of nails, and I was in business.

Platform nailed to crossbar? Check. Mailbox positioned on platform? Check. Nails pounded through mailbox into platform piece? Check. Now the moment of truth… grab mailbox… give a good pull… shake it a little… still attached? Check!

All that was left was The Ritual Of The Sticky Reflective Letters And Numbers. I put my house number on the front, centered as best I could manage, given that the numbers are about two inches tall and the face of the mailbox is about the size of my car. Then I casually checked out the format of my neighbors’ information on the side of their box… first initial, last name, street address. Okay. I can do that, and perhaps with some uniformity as a gesture of goodwill and an attempt to blend in, they won’t laugh so much when they see what I’ve done. First initial… last name… street number again… street name. Done! A quick check of my remaining letters ruled out appending the entire Constitution to the remaining space.

I stepped back to admire my handiwork. Not bad. And thank God, there’s a family down the road who recently took down their perfectly serviceable mailbox in favor of something that looks like a shellacked cat. It may still be a mailbox of some sort, I’m not sure… but there are in fact dangling paws and a tail and–the crowning touch–a large, leering orange head. I may have to walk down there and thank these folks for saving me from having the most obnoxious mailbox on the street.

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He’s got what?!

by Mir on May 29, 2004 in Friends

It turns out that if you are spending a holiday weekend alone (i.e., without children), you will be inundated with invitations from friends who are sure that you may well shrivel up and die from a little peace and quiet. This rates very highly in the warm-n-fuzzy department.

I have just returned from dinner with friends. The only caveat on my joining them for the evening was that I please not cough in the salad. (I didn’t.) I wasn’t sure I felt up to socializing tonight but I’m very glad I went. The food was great, the company even better, and had I stayed home, I would’ve missed this little proclamation:

“Daddy’s got peanut butter in his nuts!!”

Cue abrupt halt to all conversation. Thank you, friends’ five-year-old son. Everyone else (4 adults and a 10-year-old, in all) was trying not to laugh but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut (shocking, I know). “That’s… really more information than I needed.” I guess any semblance of decorum was a lost cause after that. (Although I don’t think his mother had to kick me quite so hard as she did, under the table.) He laughed right along with us, not knowing why, which made it even funnier.

Turns out he was trying to tell us that his Daddy is the only one in the house who likes crunchy peanut butter (nuts in his peanut butter). It just didn’t come out quite right. And now I can never look his father in the eye again.

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I love like need have my house

by Mir on May 29, 2004 in It's not a regret, it's an "experience"

Before I forget, I want to thank everyone who participated in Facts and Fiction Friday. I had a good time, and I hope you did, too. Let’s play again next week! (Sometimes, it takes remarkably little to entertain me.)

My cold is improving, I think. By improving I mean that once I’d been up an entire hour this morning and didn’t feel the need to go back to bed, I decided I was well enough to tackle the lawn. It is beautiful here today, bright and sunny and cool and oh yeah, not raining, which is about damn time unusual.

Quick check of my lovely self: I spent all day yesterday in my pajamas, so the thought of going outside without a shower was… uhhhh… frightening. But the thought of showering in preparation for lawnmowing? Preposterous. I threw on some sweats and a little extra deodorant and put my hair in a ponytail and called it good. A couple of Advil Cold and Sinus and two puffs on my trusty inhaler and I was soon allreadytogo.

Themowerdidn’twanttostartdammit. Ipulledandpulled. Itstarted! Yay! Thisisn’tsobad, Ifeelprettygoodinfact. Imowedandmowedandmowedand wasdoing prettywell… untilthe Albuterol started wearing… off… and I started… coughing again… but I kept going… and going… and g o i n g….

Lawn. All. Done.

Must. Die. Now. Thanks. Seeya.

No, no worries, it’s all okay. I’m fine. I came inside and lay down on the kitchen floor for a while… nice comfy tile… and then I drank, oh, I dunno… about 64 ounces of water… and then I came in here and sat down, and it looks like I’m gonna live. But as a result of this fun morning I am once again woulda-coulda-shoulda-ing about the Joys Of Owning Your Own Home.

My house is something of a conundrum. I have lived here for four years. With the exception of the house I grew up in, this is the longest I have lived in any one place my entire life. This is the only house my children know (Chickadee sometimes speaks of “the red house” but I don’t think she remembers it, she just enjoys the stories about it). Being well in-touch with my tolerance for stress and change, I made it clear during the divorce that many things were up for negotiation, but this house was not. This is Our Home (mine and the kids) and we were not moving.

Part of my motivation was Keeping Change To A Minimum, both for me and for the kids. The other part of the equation is this bizarre little town we live in, and how real estate works here. Moving out of town was never a question; if we stay in this general area (yes), this is the town with the school system we want. Period. But to relocate within town? Heh. Lemme tell ya about my town. When we bought this house, the sellers were relocating back to the midwest and had just had a deal fall through at the last minute. They wanted OUT and they wanted out FAST. They didn’t know that our realtor had shown us this house when it was (unbeknownst to her) under negotiation already, and we’d fallen completely in love with it. We would’ve happily paid their first asking price, which was on the low side for this area. But after the deal gone bad, they reduced the price. Woohoo! We scored our dream house, at quite a bit under market for this area.

Four years have gone by, and I have since learned that I live in the “less fashionable” section of town. Heh. I can live with being less fashionable. Remember when I left the garage door open all night? I wouldn’t call this a low-crime area so much as a no-crime-other-than-the-occasional-drunk-teen area. The house has appreciated, both due to time and some work we put into it, and is now worth Quite A Bit Of Money. It’s also a good-sized house, suitable for the gaggle of children we’d planned on having, but bordering on too big for just me and two kids.

So the logical option: sell this house, buy a smaller one, in this town. Well, thanks for trying to make sense, but no. Not here. Sorry. First of all, there are very few small houses in this town that aren’t located two feet off the highway. The ones that aren’t located in places that make me picture my children very flat and very dead are new construction, and oh yeah, they cost so much money it makes me want to ask what are these people smoking, and can I please have a toke? They cost more than this house, despite being half the size or smaller. This house is A Very Good House, on an acre of land; but it does not have a new kitchen, or fancy bathrooms, or central air conditioning, or shiny titanium appliances, or a roof shingled with gold bullion. It appears that many new houses in the area have many of these things because People Want Them.

It was a matter of great excitement for me when the town announced plans to build an “income-controlled” community of 2- and 3-bedroom houses. I phoned my friend Sue, who is a realtor, to ask about the waiting list. It was full. And had been, actually, since before the announcement. Turns out, it didn’t matter, because the 3-bedroom houses? About 5% less, cost-wise, than the value of this house. After brokering fees and moving costs? I’d be in the hole. Scratch that.

Looks like I’m staying here. Which means I need to mow the never-ending who-needs-this-much-stupid-grass-anyway lawn, and paint the fence periodically (did that about a month ago and it took an entire day and I got a wicked sunburn… and today I chipped one of the posts with the mower), and have the septic pumped, and do all the other things that one needs to do when one owns a house. And I need to remind myself that these are all Good Things, because I really do love this house. I do. In sickness and in health… oh crap. Turns out I’m more committed to this house than I was to my marriage. Is that bad?

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I love like need have my house

by Mir on May 29, 2004 in Uncategorized

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I bet his parents are so proud….

by Mir on May 28, 2004 in Detritus

(I actually tucked this away before checking out Amalah’s site this afternoon, where she is quite taken with a piece of spam she received. First I thought I’d write about it another time, considering… but now I think maybe it’s just a particularly spammy day and I should continue the love.)

My ISP has a spam filter. Whether or not it actually catches any spam before delivering to my inbox, I’m not sure. The things that get through still seem typically spam-like to me, but what do I know. I’m just the loser paying these people approximately $729/month for the extreme privilege of receiving this spam faster than ever before… on alternate Tuesdays when the moon is full and my broadband connection is actually working. Anyway.

A couple of days ago I received a piece of mail from Chester Lockwood. Naturally, I was startled to see the email heading:
this has worked for me hardboiled throaty

Now, I don’t know Chester, but no one has called me that in years, I tell you. So it was a bit jarring. Thinking I could throw that interesting subject line into my blog at some point, I elected to save this piece of mail rather than deleting it. But I didn’t look at the body of the message.

Tonight rolls around… I am coughing, I feel yucky, I have promised jilbur a story of my great fictitious romances and I just don’t feel up to it (I will do it, but not today). Now, I figure, would be a good time to to feature Chester in all his one-lined zinging glory. So I went ahead and clicked on the email, only to discover that Chester is no lucky one-hit savant. Oh no. Chester is a poet!

I was expecting a treatise on penis enlargement. I get a lot of those; I’m sure you do, too. Forwarding them to my ex was fun for a while but everyone has to grow up sometime. Anyway, this little ditty from Chester was not about enlarging my penis, but declared that “local babes want a bone.” (So do I, Chester. Tell them to walk slowly around the supermarket searching for ringless left hands pushing carts holding something other than beer and ringdings, just like the rest of us.) This was followed by a website address, and then this piece of mastery:

A given white glove is thinking. Her daughters hairy mp3 player stares. Any white caw stinks. Her daughters purple computer calculates. Whose well-crafted paper lies or maybe a hairy mouse looks around. A odd shaped fancy golden small white underwares run. His brothers silver spoon got an idea. The well-crafted printer got an idea. Her soft caw is angry. Whose purple odd shaped house smiles. Our slopy printer calms-down however, the fancy hairy laptop arrives and perhaps any little book lies. Our children green tv arrives or maybe their golden silver slopy laptop adheres or a beautiful ram stinks. The green sport shoes smiles. The purple green paper makes sound. Our slopy sport shoes stares. Her well-crafted soft small green tv stares. Whose stupid small white printer sleeps however, a given round-shaped gun calms-down as soon as whose tall fancy glove adheres. His brothers green underwares got an idea. Her daughters bluish bottle stares. Any given soft omprella show its value and still our children smart mobile phone snores. Their tall purple little bottle adheres or maybe his brothers shining white green green recycle bin stares as soon as whose round-shaped small printer stares and still any given round-shaped book fidgeting. The beautiful laptop stinks or maybe her daughters noisy red t-shirt calms-down. Mine fancy caw lies. Our silver baby walks at the place that their odd shaped mobile phone makes sound. Any round stupid balloon calculates. A silver kitchen is angry. Her noisy soda stands-still. A expensive clock arrives however, a tall well-crafted sofa spit while a stupid bottle fidgeting. A well-crafted tall underwares stinks at the place that a given expensive smart slopy sport shoes arrives.

I mean, anything I’ve ever written just pales in comparison. Thanks a lot, Chester!

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First Installment: Friday Facts and Fiction

by Mir on May 28, 2004 in About

Awesome; you’re game for this! Let’s see if it’s any fun.

Julia asks: What’s my ideal job? Where would it be and what would I be doing?

I’ve always wanted to be a taxidermist. In Alaska. Something about all that time with dead animals in a place where this isn’t any sunshine for half the year…. (Fiction!)

I’m not sure I know what my “ideal” is, otherwise I might actually be working now (and working towards something). If I get to assume in my fantasy that I no longer have a short attention span, then by all means I’ll take being a Famous Novelist for Gobs O’ Cash please, Alex. I also think I might enjoy being a Personal Shopper, but I suspect that after a while I’d want to kill all the people I’d have to work for. As for the where… I love the heat, hate the snow, hate humidity. If money and friends/family were no object, I’d be in Arizona or New Mexico in a heartbeat. (Fact.)

Michele asks: Okay Mir, will you give us the dirt on your divorce??

The story is short and simple: He decided to become a she, she now leads a life of intrigue as a pole dancer at an elite Boston transgender bar, and we are still good friends and she sometimes helps me with my hair. (FICTION!!)

The story is long and complicated, and any holding back has less to do with my not wanting to share than with it just being, well, very long. Here’s the shortest version I can manage: I was looking for “mate” material (as many of my previous paramours were not) and kind of talked myself into this nice, stable, responsible guy who in many ways was really not my type. He was painfully shy, had never dated (when we met he was 25), and was looking for anyone, I think. We both wanted kids; lots of kids. We married (too soon and too young), we went through infertility, miscarriage, and eventually, arrived at parenthood. At which point, whatever little spousal relationship we’d built up was completely thrown over in favor of Being Parents To The Almighty Children. The ex became involved in a start-up company and his life reduced to work, the kids, and his family. Oh, did you think his family was me and the kids?? Silly! His family is his parents and siblings. I never made it past second-class citizenship, I’m afraid. Anyway, his dad was dying of skin cancer, and we spent every “vacation” with his family our entire marriage (nearly 10 years); before his dad fell ill, during, and after.

Two years before we split, his dad died. According to the ex, this was “the first bad thing” that had ever happened to him. (Apparently having our dead offspring scraped out of me was no big deal.) Ex fell into a deep depression from which he made little effort to emerge. It wasn’t long before he had some very scary, chronic health issues… all of which turned out to be psychosomatic illness from the depression. The final straw was when he lost his job and completely lost it. He wasn’t diagnosed and treated until he’d been in the hospital for his “mystery illness” several times and then confessed to a nurse that he was trying to think how he could kill himself and make it look like an accident so that the kids and I could have the insurance money. I basically had to take him to our local hospital’s psych ward and have him committed, during which time I found out that he had punched our then two-year-old in a fit of rage, then lied to me about it.

Every fiber of my being wanted it to be over right then. I was All Done.

But I stayed, for almost another year. He went to counselling. I went to counselling. We went to counselling. Our couples therapist was a raving lunatic who “sensed the delicate frame of mind” the ex was in and delighted in telling me I was too uptight about everything to make the ex feel like she was on his side. Her solution for everything was “You two just need to go out on a date and have some fun!” (Example of her brilliance: It was a recurring theme that the ex was cultivating a bizarre and sick co-dependence between himself and our daughter, and she had all but stopped eating unless allowed to sit on his lap and be hand-fed by him. I wanted this to stop. She told me I was too controlling. It took our daughter’s therapist phoning this lunatic to tell her, Yes, this NEEDS TO STOP RIGHT NOW for her to concede that perhaps he shouldn’t do it anymore.)

We ditched the couples therapist. We did some counselling with our pastor. Only, I am good friends with the pastor’s wife, and so I underhandedly swayed him my way, dontchaknow. He never told me I “wasn’t allowed” to get divorced, which was his responsibility, being a man of God and all! Are you getting the picture, yet?

As soon as he got a new job, I told him I wanted a trial separation. He kept saying “you don’t want a separation, you want a divorce, just say it!” No, I said, I needed some time apart if there was to be any hope of salvaging anything. He fought, he bullied, he spoke of how he’d been a model husband and I was just planning to rip his children away from him. Oooookay. We separated, the bullying got worse; I filed for divorce.

The divorce was long and ugly, with the only saving grace being that–although he made a lot of noise about it–he never fought me for custody because that whole nervous breakdown and subsequent lockdown in the psych ward thing meant he would never win, and even he had to see that.

Ya know, I could’ve skipped all the previous and summed it up in one sentence: At the tender age of 33, my ex suddenly discovered that life’s not fair and he’s never really recovered. (Truth, sadly.)

Snowball asks: What (besides my kids) gives my life the most meaning?

I have a small pet rock named Gunther who tells me what to do and say, and we will always be together! (Fiction.)

This may surprise, it may revolt, it may sound trite… but my faith journey is the most meaningful segment of my life aside from my children. I was raised a mostly-non-practicing Jew, joined a very extreme Christian sect in college, and after a while settled in as a Methodist. (Hint: should you wish to switch religions and still have your parents’ acceptance, try switching first to some bizarre and scary faction, so that when you turn to a more socially acceptable alternative your folks think that it’s really not so bad.) I have travelled from an angry, “why me?”ish young person to the woman of faith that I am today, secure in knowing that I can handle whatever comes my way, and feeling–for the most part–very blessed. The particular church I’m with right now (I have moved around a lot, so this is the longest I’ve been in one place for a while) has been a church home for me like no other. I sing in the choir (and I had forgotten how I love to sing!), I’m a commissioned Stephen Minister, and I think I’m here for a reason. Despite my potty-mouth and overall obnoxious tendencies, I do love calling the Christian Community my home. Plus, many of the blue-haired old ladies get a kick out of me. It’s a win-win thing. (Fact.)

Zoot asks: If you could only eat ONE food for the rest of your life, regardless of nutrition, what would it be?

Pigs feet. (Fiction!! *gag*)

Just one??? I want to pick chocolate, but too much sugar makes me wacky (yes, wackier than usual… shut UP). I think avocados. You know what a guacamole whore I am. Yummy. (Fact.)

Zuska (hi Zus!! *waving*) asks: What toenail color is suitable for sassy Summer wear for both mother and daughter this season?

Black. (Fiction, fiction… don’t hit me.)

Well ya know, Those People (I don’t know who they are, exactly, but they seem to wield quite a bit of power) say that pale pink is this season’s new black. Oooooooookay. Ignoring the obvious–which is that pale pink ain’t gonna be black no matter how far you put your nose in the air, honey–this is a good solution if you happen to like pale pink, but not so much if you, you know, don’t. I suggest a trip to your local Gap store, as all of my toenail polishes came from the Gap outlet last season. My Chickadee and I both favor “chrome blue” right now, which is a wild and funky and fun silvery blue (for the toes; on fingers it would just be scary, I think) and matches nearly everything. Plus it is Not Pink, which is handy when the resident Monkey asks to have his toes done as well. (Fact.)

Jennifer asks:
Favorite book? “A Prayer for Owen Meany” by John Irving.
Best childhood memory? When I was 8 we headed to Florida for our yearly jaunt to the grandparents, and my parents surprised me and my brother with a detour to Disneyworld for several days. Our family tended to put the DYS in dysfunctional but I remember that trip as being non-stop fun.
Favorite smell? Outdoors, right after it rains, mmmmmmm.
Secret crush? I don’t think I have one. I’m not quite through the whole men-are-useless thing, yet.
(Okay, those are all facts ‘cept one. But I’m not telling which one.)

Debby asks: If I could be any movie star, who would I be?

Elmo. (Fiction, mostly… he seems to lead a pretty good life, though.)

Glenn Close. She’s an amazing actress who has succeeded in spite of being fairly normal-looking and not a Barbie doll clone. And although she’s enjoyed critical acclaim, she stays out of the limelight and appears to lead a fairly normal life. (Fact.)

Also from Debby: What’s my dream vacation?

Is it ice hiking or snorkelling somewhere tropical? If you don’t know the answer, you haven’t been reading very carefully.

Hula Dula has wayyyyyy too many questions, yo. But I’ll try.
Naked wrestling really isn’t allowed? Well naturally I discourage it. If I don’t get to, why should they??
Was I already working or did I go back to work because of the divorce? I “retired” from software engineering when we made our last move and the ex was busy co-founding a new company. I’d worked full-time before the kids came and part-time from the Chickadee’s birth. Then we came here, the kids went to preschool and I worked on some freelance writing. I had some success, but the whole husband-mysteriously-ill-and-also-by-the-way-insane thing cropped up pretty quickly, and I quit writing. When it became clear that we were headed towards divorce, I took an extremely sucky job with a local mortgage brokering company which–to its credit–allowed me very flexible hours so that I didn’t have to change the kids’ schedules around. I was laid off at the end of last year (seemed tragic at the time; was really a blessing in disguise because that place was chewing up my soul).
Ever streaked in public? Yes.
Most embarrassing moment? I know a couple at church who used to be in the choir. There are a few of us in the choir who are real wiseasses, and this couple could cut up with the best of them. It was a running joke with the husband that upon arrival for rehearsal, it was time to set cell phones to “pleasure” mode so as not to be disruptive. (Was it less disruptive when his phone rang and we all shrieked “He’s VIBRATING!”? I think not.) I think we sustained this joke partially because of how horrified many of the more senior choir members were about it. Anyway, they left the choir (but not the church) and started attending a different service than the one I go to, so I didn’t run into them for a long time. Came face-to-face with the husband one day, and this pops out of my mouth: “Gosh I miss seeing you at choir! I think of you every time I set my phone to pleasure mode!” OH. MY. GOD. (Next sentence out of my mouth: “Could we please pretend I didn’t just say that?”)
(I offer you the same deal as Jennifer: Those are all facts ‘cept one. But I’m not telling which one.)

I know I said I’d answer anything, and do it this afternoon. But I started on this in the morning because this cold is still trying to kill me. Jilbur, I love your idea. I’m going to go take a lot of cold medicine and go back to bed, and will try to come up with something brilliant for you later today.

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File Under: I can’t believe I just said that

by Mir on May 28, 2004 in Offspring: ecstasy and agony

“EXCUSE ME, do I really have to tell you that there is no naked wrestling allowed in this house???”

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Fun Fridays Facts and Fiction

by Mir on May 27, 2004 in Detritus

In my daughter’s kindergarten class, they regularly have Fun Friday. They do something wacky on Friday afternoons whenever feasible, and instead of “quiet time” they watch a movie. The Chickadee thinks this is about the most fantabulous invention since the Freaky Dismembered Barbie Styling Head.

Know what? I am in desperate need of a Fun Friday ritual. As my resources, budget, and attention span are limited, I’ve decided to turn to all of you, my newfound blogging buddies. I want to write tomorrow. For me, that’s nearly always fun. But I do not want to have to think much, because if I think I am mostly going to be thinking about The Big Ovary Decision&#153 and/or my stupid yucky wheezy cold and/or the fact that Mr. I Will Simply Die Without My Children Because They Mean So Much To Me flat out refused to even attempt to figure out how he could help me manage childcare coverage after I have major surgery because, oh yeah, he’ll be out of vacation days, so oh well. Maybe I’ll luck out and they’ll find some cancer in there and I’ll be able to change his mind. Yeah. Anyhoo, you can see where my mind has been today and will likely continue tomorrow… without your help.

So here’s your challenge, dear readers (that would be… um… my dad… and Kym and anyone else I can slip a coupla bucks to in the next 12 hours): I would like to start a continuing segment for Fridays where I respond to questions left by YOU. Ask me anything about me; consider it a little accelerated get-to-know-me gig. You may specify whether you would like the factual answer or the fictitious answer, or if you don’t specify it will be up to me. Or maybe I’ll just completely lie regardless of what you ask. It depends. I do that sometimes. That’s part of the fun.

Leave your queries in the comments on this post, and I’ll address them all sometime tomorrow afternoon. If no one responds I will pout. (It’s not pretty, trust me.) So come on in and lemme have it, and let’s see if this would make a good weekly feature or if I really just need to start going to bed earlier.

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