One week. And two weeks.
It’s time, once again, for my regular Sunday Night Wallow. Aaaaaahhhhhh. Doesn’t matter how long or action-packed my week is, I can settle right back into that familiar time-triggered neurosis as if I never left. It’s familiar, and comfortable; I relax down into the invitation of a hot bath and then am stunned to find myself drowning in a chilly swamp. I’m kind of like the lab rat who can’t stop ringing for kibble even though each pellet comes with an electric shock.
The children have one week of school left. Kindergarten graduation–which promises to be a gala event, judging by the flurry of preparations and what little tidbits I’m gleaning from the Chickadee–happens this Thursday evening. Then Friday is the last day of school, and then I get to wonder what I was thinking until Labor Day.
I have two weeks to go before my surgery. I plan to spend that time doing the expected things. This week, while I still have three school days to myself, I will take care of any “business” things that still need tending to. The next week, the kids and I will clean house and grocery shop and I will try to create some Quality Time. Oh, and I will get them packed for their trip to visit Fun Daddy’s Family (otherwise known as “the people who pretend I never existed”).
Interspersed across those two weeks, I will eat a lot of cookies, and do a lot of sit-ups (the theory being, the stronger your abdomen is before they slice it open, the sooner you can get out of bed without grimacing), and according to a piece of mail I received yesterday, I will attend… four pre-op medical appointments. One appointment to talk about what I’m doing and ask “all” my questions. (I will never ask ALL of my questions. I am, however, keeping a running list of those that are especially pertinent and/or don’t make me look like a total idiot.) One appointment for a pre-admission hospital interview. One appointment for a pre-op physical. And one appointment for pre-op bloodwork. My paperwork also contains my surgical date, with a hand-highlighted footnote cautioning that “Surgery time is very tentative.” I would like to know exactly how many appointments you get if the surgery time is firm…?
So, truth be known, I’m a little nervous. Okay, a whole lot nervous. Kind of terrified, actually. But I know everything is going to be fine. I do. I just wouldn’t be me if I didn’t dream up every possible morbid complication or tragic ending to this little life detour. Ditto for sharing my warped humor on these things; it’s the speaking aloud and mocking of all my worst fears that renders them less powerful. So my friends should indulge me, and laugh, dammit, not just look really uncomfortable when I comment that I just got my hair done and boy will I be pissed off if I have to have chemo.
So yeah baby, Sunday night! Lay it on me. Mile-long to-do lists, one baby tooth hanging on by the merest thread (but its owner shrieking if I so much as look at it), air conditioners needing installing, laundry, and oh yeah, a buttload of woulda-coulda-shouldas. Maybe, if I’d been, well, psychic, I would’ve set up some childcare for this summer (and hit the lottery to pay for it, too!) and so I wouldn’t have to be so stressed out about recuperating and tending to the kids. Maybe, if I’d been… hmmmm… someone else, I’d either still be married or be in a relationship, and not facing this alone.
Fact: I felt more alone while married, most of the time, than I have ever felt while single.
‘Nother Fact: Any time I catch myself pining for a significant other my stomach turns and that episode of the Simpsons with the Malibu Stacey doll replays in my mind. “Math is hard!” “Let’s go make some cookies for the boys!”
Most Annoying Fact: I am so not alone, but Sunday night with the TV on just for noise because you’re the only adult in a very large and lonely house is not interested in how many wonderful friends you have. Sunday night is an obnoxious bitch, that way.
Heeeeeeeere, Cujo!
Which Horrible Affliction are you?
A Rum and Monkey disease.
What the heck. It’s dark and rainy, I’m tired and cranky, and now that I think about it… I could be rabies. I’ve been called worse.
… and today I learned
1) It really is possible, after having attended too many parties to count at Eileen’s house, that I will still meet several new people at a party there. Whose names I will not remember.
2) At least one of those people will have a very difficult time concealing their surprise at my single mother status. (While not a Stepford community, this town is not exactly a haven for the non-rich or divorced, and the non-rich divorced are an even larger anomaly.)
3) Small children will happily play in a kiddie pool even if it’s only 68 degrees outside.
4) Adults will watch those children from the safety of the screen porch and talk about how old they must be for thinking those kids are nuts.
5) Somewhat larger children will turn said pool into a battle station and splash/scare away the smaller ones while filling up their super soakers.
6) My son will trail any pack of larger boys no matter what they’re doing or how hard they try to shake him.
7) My daughter manages to roll with the ups and downs of a big social gathering better than I expect, but draws the line at being shot full in the face with a super soaker.
8) I can stop a 10-year-old boy in his tracks and wither him with the Displeased Mama Death Stare when I explain that not only should no one be getting shot in the face, but that goes double for little girls half your size.
9) 10-year-old boys who use phrases like “on accident” (got him some good learnin’, he did) will nonetheless deliver eloquent apologies when afraid that the Strange Crazy Lady might be about to beat the snot out of them.
10) If my son gives Eileen a big hug and a special thank-you for “those yummy brownies you made me” and she’s had a few beers, she will insist he have another one.
11) A four-year-old on a sugar high will nonetheless go right to sleep after an afternoon of chasing the big boys.
12) No matter how fabulous the day, my daughter will insist on one last squeezy hug after being tucked in, and during said hug will ask (again) how many more days until I have to go to the hospital.
13) It is possible to be utterly exhausted from an afternoon of doing not much more than eating and checking on the children’s whereabouts every so often.
Now if only I had the slippers to go with…
And from Mindy, we have this morning’s armchair computer psychology analysis. Turns out I’m still a little fragile. Who knew?
Heart of Glass
What is Your Heart REALLY Made of?
brought to you by Quizilla
Blogging Questionnaire
(Shamelessly lifted from Zero Boss, who gives a pretty good genealogy of the thing if you feel the need to trace it back a ways….)
1. Do you try to look hot when you go to the grocery store just in case someone recognizes you from your blog?
Now that’s just silly. I try to look hot at the grocery store so I can get a date. (No, it’s never worked.)
2. Are the photos you post Photoshopped or otherwise altered?
My profile photo is cropped and decolorized. Cropped because it was a photo with my son, and for right now I’m not sharing pics of my kids, and decolorized because in my hyper-sensitive overcritical mind, black and white was more forgiving than color.
3. Do you like it when creeps or dorks email you?
Dorks, yeah baby! Creeps not so much.
4. Do you lie in your blog?
I prefer to call it creativity, though even that is used sparingly. What’s the point if I’m not gonna tell the truth?
5. Are you passive-aggressive in your blog?
Why be passive-aggressive when you can just be aggressive, I say.
6. Do you ever threaten to quit writing so people will tell you not to stop?
Uhhhhh no. I don’t think anyone would tell me not to stop!
7. Are you in therapy? If not, should you be? If so, is it helping?
Yes, and yes.
8. Do you delete mean comments? Do you fake nice ones?
I’ve never had to delete a comment (yet) although I probably would, if it came to that. And real women never fake it.
9. Have you ever rubbed one out while reading a blog? How about after?
I had to read Jay’s commentary to find out what this means. And, uh, EWWWWW! NO!
10. If your readers knew you in person, would they like you more or like you less?
They’d like me more. I whine less in real life (unless you are related to me).
11. Do you have a job?
Besides raising my kids…? Not at the moment. But come the end of summer, my parole’s up.
12. If someone offered you a decent salary to blog full-time without restrictions, would you do it?
In a heartbeat. Where can I find this sugardaddy person?
13. Which blogger do you want to meet in real life?
I am too lazy to link them all, but they can be found on my blogroll to the right: Kym, Mindy, Snowball, Zoot… oh heck… just about everyone I have linked. Though if I had to pick just one, it’d be Kym, because I’ve actually “known” her for years.
14. Which bloggers have you made out with?
This blogging thing is a little darker than I’d thought…. (And none.)
15. Do you usually act like you have more money or less money than you really have?
Less. I am perpetually broke in my tightwad mind, even when I’m really not.
16. Does your family read your blog?
Yes. I have since wondered if that was a wise choice, but it’s too late now.
17. How old is your blog?
Only about a month old.
18. Do you get more than 1000 page views per day? Do you care?
No, and no. But ask me again in a year….
19. Do you have another secret blog in which you write about being depressed, slutty, or a liar?
This is my secret blog….
20. Have you ever given another blogger money for his/her writing?
Nope.
21. Do you report the money you earn from your blog on your taxes?
Crap, I’m supposed to be making money doing this??
22. Is blogging narcissistic?
Of course.
23. Do you feel guilty when you don’t post for a long time?
Hasn’t happened yet, though I suspect if/when it does it will be more a matter of needing my own personal fix than caring what anyone else thinks.
24. Do you like John Mayer?
Who?
25. Do you have enemies?
Not that have successfully gotten to me.
26. Are you lonely?
Hell yes.
27. Why bother?
Why not?
Guilt… it’s what’s for dinner!
Guilt is a wonderful thing in parenting. Not the kind of guilt that some parents (*cough*stupidex*cough*cough*) use to abdicate their day-to-day parenting responsibilities because it’s just more fun to be a travelling carnival, but just a little dab of guilt will do ya, sometimes.
On the heels of yesterday’s don’t-you-lie-to-me-young-lady-oops-you-didn’t debacle, I had an early morning chat with the Chickadee just to tie up loose ends. By the time we headed to school I think things were more or less resolved; she seemed fine, and I felt better. But the littlest smidge of guilt remained throughout the day.
Let it fester? Heck no. The fix: A rare appearance of… Fun Mama!
Dinner tonight? Ice cream sundaes. Oh yes. We so did. Two kinds of toppings. Cherries, even. Sprinkles everywhere. You have never seen two children eat so fast in your life. They crouched protectively over their bowls, glancing up now and then to check that I wasn’t going to morph back into Practical Mama and take their sundaes away.
By bedtime they seemed relieved to welcome back my usual, directive-barking persona. And truthfully, I am more comfortable in that role. But I’m pretty sure we were all due for a little detour into frivolity… and sometimes you have to put care and feeding of the soul ahead of the food pyramid.
Second Installment: Friday Facts and Fiction
Not as rousing a turn-out as we had for the first one, (note to self: threaten to pout again, next time) but enough to make a post, for sure. So here we go… more facts and fiction from your hostess based on your questions!
Fraulein N asks: What’s a book, movie or TV show I’m embarrassed to admit I like?
I just loved Britney Spears in Crossroads!! (Fiction. Haven’t even seen it, nor will I, unless you’re holding a gun to the head of one of my kids.)
I can’t think of a book I’d be embarrassed to admit, as I tend to either love a book and evangelize about it or lose interest and never finish it. Ditto with movies. Now… ummmm… TV is a different story. I watch lots of schlock television. And I have no excuse. So here goes: When I was in high school, there was a show on PBS called Degrassi Junior High. It’s produced in Canada and was kind of the granddaddy of After School Specials meets canuck-90210. Lame really doesn’t begin to describe this thing. Anyway, during my first year of college I ended up doing a rather intensive program for treatment of teenage depression and drug use (just so we’re clear, I was in the former group), and one of our regular sessions was based on this show. Oooooooh it was great; all of us poking fun at the bad acting, the predictable storylines, the accents! It was torture.
This is not the show I’m confessing to liking, by the way. This is known as exposition; bear with me.
Well, I’ve recently come to find out that those brilliant Canadians never let this masterpiece actually die. After Degrassi Junior High, there was Degrassi High (duh), and most recently I’ve discovered that Noggin now shows the latest version, Degrassi: The Next Generation, in the evenings. I have been strangely compelled to watch this program. I don’t know if it’s nostalgia or just brain damage, but I think I’ve seen every episode. And I’d like to tell you that it’s far superior to the original, but that would be stretching the truth. By quite a lot. (Fact. Maybe I should check into some sort of support group? Degrassiholics Anonymous?)
Kira asks: Do I think I’ll date/marry again?
What are you talking about? I’m already married. To Brad Pitt. Bitch. (Fiction!!)
Well that’s the proverbial $64,000 question, isn’t it? I’m a very social person. Despite what you might find me saying on my down days, I figure it’s pretty much impossible that I will never date again. Never is a long time. So yeah, I’ll date. Get married again? Hmmmm. I dunno. I would like to, but I don’t know that it’s in the cards for me. I’m still a little too raw from the last couple of years’ events to consider a risk of that magnitude, again. (Truth.)
Also from Kira: What’s my favorite food to turn to when I’m in an unhealthy state of anxiety or fear?
Mustard. Perhaps you saw the picture of me at the Smackdown yesterday…? (Fiction, thank God.)
I’m afraid that in this way I am something of a typical girl. Gimme chocolate! Candybars, cookies, brownies, cake, whatever. As long as it’s chocolate, I’m happy. And it’s truly a wonder I’m not a much larger person. (Fact.)
Debby asks: What’s my favorite movie and book of all time?
Didn’t I already declare my love for Britney’s masterpiece, above? *snort*
Last week I said that my favorite book is “A Prayer for Owen Meany” by John Irving. If I have to pick just one favorite, that’s it. But give me a little time and latitude and I’ll generate a whole reading list. I devour books, and if I read something I like by an author I haven’t read before, I then go out and read everything else they’ve ever written. I’m weird that way.
Favorite movie… hmmmmm…. That’s much harder, because I don’t actually watch a lot of movies. The simplest answer is “The Princess Bride,” although the book is even better than the movie (that’s always the way, though). I’m also a sucker for “The Big Chill” and the first two Alien movies. (Truth.)
Debby also asks: Nightgown or jammies?
I sleep in the nude. In the shower. Upside-down. (Fiction.)
I was a strict jammies kinda gal for years and years. Recently I’ve leaned back in the nightgown direction, leaving me with a fairly even mix in my slumbertime apparel. (Truth, but I feel so ambiguous, now!)
Oliquig asks: What was my best vacation ever?
There are two (real) answers to this. In terms of the location, it’s definitely the week I spent in Maui. I really never knew perfect weather and gorgeous scenery like that even existed. Had I been there with someone other than my husband it would’ve been perfection. In terms of the company and/or my state of mind, it would have to be the weekend I spent camping in western Massachusetts last year. It was my first trip without my children that was not for a funeral or an educational reason… I got to see Garrison Keillor at Tanglewood… and I was newly in lurve with the prince who had not yet turned back into a toad. If I could bottle how I felt that weekend, I would be rich.
And what was the worst?
Okay, which is sadder: That the answer to this one is my honeymoon, or that I didn’t even have to think about it for a nanosecond to know that? (Truth.) The ex and I were young and stupid… I believe I may have touched on that previously… anyway… we were completely ripped off by the agency we used to book our honeymoon. It was so horrible–as in B-movie unbelievable, including no running water in what was supposedly a 4-star hotel–that we returned after just two or three days (in my ever-continuing attempts to block it out entirely, I can’t remember which is accurate). This would be a bad omen under the best of circumstances, but let’s just say that the rotten accommodations turned out to be the least of our problems. The ex suffered from… uuhhhhhhh… anxiety. Yeah. Extreme anxiety. That’s all I’m gonna say about that. (Unless he pisses me off again, in which case I may need to share more….)
And lastly, from our dear Oli: What’s the funniest thing my kids have said that I had to not laugh at because it was bad?
“Someone should impeach Bush’s ass.” (Kidding, but wouldn’t you all be envious if my kids were that astute?)
I can’t think of a specific one (and someday if you have kids, Oli, you’ll understand the mental atrophy that comes with raising them), but I have to say that it is always adorable to hear a toddler swear, and even moreso if he/she chooses a phrase that makes it crystal clear that these words are from your very own mouth. I mean, sure, there’s that second of utter horror, but a teeny little voice saying “Oh, dammit aww” or worse is always funny.
And some of the things the kids say to each other slays me. (Michele did a great entry on this last month.) Yeah, I do tell them it’s not appropriate to threaten to poop on each other, or step on each other’s eyeballs, etc. It wasn’t an issue of speech, but I will always have a very clear memory of the first time my very patient Monkey had had his fill of his big sister’s manhandling and hauled off and hit her. I had to leave the room because she was howling with indignation and I didn’t want her to see me laughing. (Truth)
Chewie apparently came along after I finished this week’s post, then got very upset that I was “ignoring” her… so I’m editing just for her! (MWAH!) She asks, re: my 100 Things list: Aliens??
Ummmmm… yeah. I don’t really have any details… never met any, myself. I just think it would be pretty narcissistic for us to assume we’re the only intelligent beings in all of creation. I don’t think there are any sentient beings here in our galaxy that we’re just sort of missed, or anything, but yeah… I think they’re out there. (Truth, though I may be wrong; it’s what I think.)
And also from Chewie: What sort of “ookey spookey” stuff has happened to me that I believe in the paranormal?
Call my hotline to find out! It’s only $4.99/minute! (False, although if I’m unemployed for much longer, I’ll consider it….)
1) I had a friend in high school who got “after images” from rooms based on what had happened there before, and there were places that freaked him right out. After some digging, we discovered that one of the places that skeeved him out so bad (he was never even willing to tell me what exactly he saw there) had been the site of a gruesome murder.
2) I met a woman in college who knew things about me that there’s simply no way she could’ve known (I had told no one), and she clearly didn’t want to know them, either… but said it’s happened to her that way her entire life.
3) Because of 1 and 2, I believe in people having of a variety of 6th sense abilities… although I also believe that people who are truly gifted in this way almost always wish they weren’t, and don’t advertise it. So I’m skeptical of “professional” psychics and whatnot, but I do think the real deal exists.
4) My grandmother haunted her home after she died, and in particular hassled my mother. Yes, I believe it.
5) I’ve stayed at a haunted inn. Didn’t see anything weird, myself, but heard enough of the stories and believe the owners to buy it.
6) I used to study this stuff when I was a kid/young adult, and basically concluded there’s too many things left unexplained for it all to be explainable without a little spooky ooky, y’know?
7) I am otherwise a very facts-oriented person.
Going once… going twice… aaaaand… that concludes this week’s installment of Friday Facts and Fiction. Thanks to everyone who played!
Last call….
Last call for Fun Friday Fact or Fiction questions. I know everyone was busy at Amalah’s dry-heaving over the pictures of little whore pageant babies yesterday, but today is another day. Last Friday was loads of fun and I’m sure there’s lots of very stupid things I’ve done that I haven’t told you about yet, so don’t be shy!
If y’all leave anything for me, I’ll address it this afternoon. (This morning I’ve decided to actually remember my appointment with my shrink, for a change.) If no one leaves anything, I’ll just… ummmm… have to find something else to do. You know that’s how I usually get myself into trouble….
It’s Thursday, yo!
For the love of God, does anyone have a valium?
My dear Chickadee–for a brief period of time–delighted in telling me lies about her time with Daddy, because it frequently (okay; always) evinced a negative reaction and she was looking for some power and control. I thought that phase was finished.
Only today, on our way down to Daddy’s for their weekly afternoon with him, she started telling me that she never rides in a carseat in Daddy’s car anymore, and in fact when they went to the zoo last weekend (a long trip from here, through Boston traffic) they just brought some pillows and blankets and she lay down in the back.
I remained reasonably cool. I reminded her that lying to me is a poor choice, and asked her to reconsider her story and tell me again when she was ready to tell the truth. But the more adamant she became, the more my agitation progressed. Finally I told her the conversation was over; I would ask Daddy when we got there and if I found out she was fibbing she was gonna be in big trouble, missy! We rode in steamy silence while I wondered what had triggered this regression and she fought back tears.
Well, please pass the asshat tiara. Thanks. There is only one thing that makes me angrier that blatant dumbfuckery, and that one thing is blatant dumbfuckery that seems so beyond the realm of possibility that I actually end up disbelieving my child because I can’t believe my ex is that stupid.
The tiara? Yeah, I didn’t believe he’s that stupid. But he is. THAT stupid. And worse, would you like to hear the brilliant excuse he placated me with? Of course you would. He said:
“I forgot.”
Lemme tell you, I felt all better after that. (Whaaaaaaaaaat??)
He forgot what? He forgot that our children are precious cargo and they are much safer in carseats? He forgot that the shoulder strap crosses her little neck in such a way that even a fender-bender could snap her spine? He forgot that you cannot wear a seatbelt while laying down on the seat and that this might be both illegal and a bad idea, say, in major metropolitan traffic????? (“She was wearing the lap belt and just kind of sideways,” he mumbled while studying something of great import on the wall.)
The dicey part is this: legally, Chickadee doesn’t have to be in a booster. It’s recommended, but in our state the law only applies up to 40 pounds (she is 5 pounds past that); after that, it’s merely a recommendation. But according to the Law of Rabidly Protective Mama of Skinny Girl, it’s mandatory, get it?
I am very proud of myself for 1) not making a scene, 2) apologizing to my daughter for not believing her, 3) not raising my voice, and 4) not ripping his head off with my bare hands. And he kept saying that it wouldn’t happen again, he knows it’s not a good idea (that admission makes me feel worse, by the way), so I was approaching normal blood pressure levels and headed back to my car when he said, “You know, I can only take one carseat when we fly to my Mom’s.”
Dumb.F-U-C-K.Er.Y. Let’s assume, for a moment, that this Ivy League educated, doctorate-holding man is really stupid enough to think this is okay. Just assume, for the fun of it. Okay. Now. Even if–after all the preceding discussion–he still thinks this is a dandy way to operate, he would have to have never once MET me to think that now TELLING me this is in any way, shape or form a good idea.
I stopped. I turned. Very quietly, I said, “You need to figure out how to get two carseats there, and use them both. Check one with your baggage. It’s not optional.” Then I said good-bye to my kids and drove back home, wondering how I am going to handle this without putting my innocent child in the middle of yet another power struggle.