Alpine Skate Park
In the interest of doing activities that are free and close by, the kids and I went to check out Alpine Skate Park in Ventura. It’s all housed within one building. They have a very large area to skate, a concert area, a gaming room and a place where the other people can hang out with some pretty great murals throughout. They also have a beauty parlor and a smallish store, but they weren’t open. They have free wireless. The evenings get quite hoppin with the odd and punk people in the area. Sadly, I had left but Devon reported that I would have loved it.
Devon took us there in his Thing. I haven’t been in a convertible anything in quite a while and it was fun for a short trip. Of course, I wasn’t in the back.
We ate at a nearby bar and grill where a man got kicked out for being disorderly during Happy Hour and trying to pick a fight. We ate Gator Eggs and extremely hot Hell-O sauce. The water tasted slightly of Sprite, which is so irritating. I want it to be either Sprite or water, not a sad, weak combination of both. The ice was the really good kind, though.
Tony and Tyler are both battling a bad and snotty cold. Today, both of their throats are yucky and they are hacking at each other and filling the entire trash bin with used tissues. So far this week we’ve gone through 5 tissue boxes. I’m kind of glad we aren’t traveling since they would be hating it, which means I would be hating it. But I’m still looking for something for next week. Something local-er than Oregon and Utah. Maybe Santa Barbara or San Diego. Hopefully something inexpensive due to someone else canceling at the last minute due to unexpected hardship. Not that I’m wishing hardship on anyone, Strike that. Let’s say they have to change plans because they just won the lottery and have so much paperwork to sign, they can’t possibly get away. Our vacation budget is quite small this year. And when I say small, I mean tiny. And when I say tiny, I mean pretty much there isn’t one. I mean, if you think about it, we can’t afford to go anywhere or eat out. Or for that matter, eat in.
Everyone, stop eating.
Because our vacation plans have been cancelled and changed about 20 times over the past week, I refuse to plan anything else ever again. Ever. I am not just a semi-planner. I am a Planner. I use an itinerary complete with maps, directions, phone numbers, approximate costs, highlights of the activity, expected weather and a packing list. And that is just the first 20 pages. I number the pages and create a Travel Book. This is so beyond just making plans. This is deep in the sad OCD place that drives those around me crazy. And because of the depths I go to to create these Travel Books, it is not a simple thing to just change plans. This makes me a pain. And I am sorry.
My daughter is….my daughter. She likes my Travel Books. She likes to see what we will be doing and who we will be doing it with. She would even like it better if I had the hours written down, but I only use generalized parts of the day, like ‘early morning’ and ‘after dinner.’ She is my spawn. She is the one hollering at everyone to get in the shower, to get out of the shower, to shower faster, to leave the door open so she can do her hair while they shower and to shut the door because the Axe in the air is killing her. She doesn’t mean to be bossy. She just knows the right way to do things and wants to help you to achieve your personal best. Huh. That sounds so familiar……
If we survive these two weeks with each other with no concrete ‘Vacation, Summer 2006’ plans and no money to do anything or go anywhere, we might just be translated and go straight to the Celestial Kingdom. And then I’d miss out on more of Alex with her permit, driving our huge and very heavy van in the same area as other cars. That are moving. Towards us. But, it’s a free activity, which makes it at the top of the list of things to do. Hold me.
And Then, I Didn't Die
Do you see this photo?
Anything you notice about it? Here’s a hint: view original sizes.
Any idea what it might mean?
Try not to notice the obvious, which is that my kitchen counter appears to have more alcohol on it than the corner bar or that said alcohol is still taking prime real estate even though the party was July 3rd and leaving no room for the dirty dishes that are piled next to the toaster.
Look beyond the delicious cherry topping on the mini cheese cakes I made.
I got my F717 back in the mail and lo, it was fixed. And I saw that it was good. And then the angels sang, the heavens rejoiced and all was well with the world. And I did not give up the ghost because there was too much alcohol left to enjoy and too many more objects to take photos of.
Leaky Eyes
My eyes are leaking. Seriously. Leaking all over the place all week long. You know how after time passes you can talk about things with more perspective and it all makes sense? Well, that hasn’t happened yet. I’m still in the middle of it, I have no perspective, everything feels awful and that makes my eyes leaky.
If this were a movie, it would be the part where I shake my fist at the sky and scream, ‘Is that the best you can do? Bring it on!’ with my hair whipping in the wind, a wild look in my eye right before the earth opens up and I get swallowed whole. And then the chipmunks laugh uproariously, straighten their ties and go back to playing Yahtzee.
So, here’s the thing about codependent relationships = they suck, but they work. And you want them to change, but then when they do, you kind of freak out. I’ve been pleading with Joe to figure out what he wants out of his life since I met him. I am always the one with great ideas and I’m all up with the knowing what I want and everything. He has always just kind of gone along with my flow instead of knowing what his own was. And then he sits back and silently resents the hell out of me. And so I’m all, ‘Joe, just think really hard and figure out what you want out of your life. I will be so supportive!’ And in the meantime, I just keep doing what I need to do and taking care of myself, because you can’t change anyone else, anyway, all the while telling Joe that I will be SO supportive, just as soon as there is something to be supportive about.
Fast forward a couple of years, I’ve invested all of myself in ‘my great ideas’, he decides he needs something different and actually TAKES STEPS to change things. And the pain, ladies and gentlemen. The pain is excruciating. Joe is doing exactly the right thing, the thing I’ve even encouraged him to do, and it hurts so bad I want to rip my heart out.
You know that place where you know things are exactly how they should be and it hurts like hell? You would rather walk on cut glass than go through it but you know there is no other way? You feel all alone and you look around and wish someone was there with you, but when people try to help you tell them to shut up because there is no way they can understand how you feel? And you walk around with your eyes leaking everywhere for days? Yes, well, that’s me right now. Just call me Leaky Eyes.
I’m so proud of Joe. I can’t even tell you how proud I am of him. The proudness of him makes my eyes leak, too, just so you know. I’m watching him change and evolve and Become the person he wants to be. The decisions he’s making turn my world upside down. They make me have to reevaluate what I’m doing and figure out some things all over again. They make me angry. They make me uncertain. I have the strongest urges to say things to him that I never would have thought possible. I feel manipulation coming to the surface and in order to not give into those hurtful urges, I say nothing. I just leak out of my eyes. I can hardly believe it’s possible for anyone, ever, to change a codependent relationship because even though it’s what I’ve been asking him to do, I can’t stand it. I can’t even imagine if I was part of a couple where my partner started changing, I didn’t even realize there was a problem and I didn’t want him to. This sucks hard, but that would suck rockstar-style.
So, there will be no Oregon vacation this year, which over the past two days has set a record in eye-leakage. But next year, I could bet that this situation wouldn’t happen again because of the changes Joe is making. And that is something to look forward to. Heck, just being able to pay the bills is something to look forward to. You have no idea how not being able to pay the gas bill makes my eyes leak. It’s crazy.
Things Stuck in My Head
“After much deep and profound brain things inside my head…”
From Madagascar, which I didn’t see when it came out because I thought it would be so dumb, and also, my kids are older and weren’t interested in seeing it and to go to an animated movie by yourself is making a bigger commitment to my inner child than I’m willing to make unless I really, really like it. And, as I said, I didn’t think I would. Oh, how wrong I was. It’s on HBO right now and I think I’ve seen it about 15 times partially and 3 times all the way through. Ali G is the voice of the Lemur King, who says the above quote. It drove me crazy trying to figure out who the voice was, since I couldn’t quite place it but I knew I knew it. Why didn’t I look it up right away, you might ask? It’s a dumb game Joe and I play – where we try to name the voices without needing Google. I feel so much pride in my victory when I recognize the voices all on my own, and most importantly, before Joe.
“I exuberate fantastic-isms.” “Mer-man! *cough* *cough* Mer-man!”
Zoolander. I do not like most of Ben Stiller’s work. But I do love this movie.
“I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind. There was something so pleasant about that phase. Even your emotions have an echo in so much space.” and “And I hope that you are having the time of your life. But think twice. That’s my only advice.”
Gnarls Barkley, Crazy Nelly Furtado’s live version is pretty nice, too.
By the way, it’s summer. Things in my life have been turned upside down in so many ways but the best way, is that the kids are around more. Yes, they tease more. Yes, it drives me crazy. Yes, I end up threatening to ground someone, after which, we all have a good laugh because the last time I actually grounded someone was about 8 years ago, and even then, they might not have deserved it. Now when I say it, it’s a way to introduce humor. My kids are so easy going and usually exhausted by whichever sport they are in and by the increasingly alarming amounts of homework they bring home. But right now, homework and sports-less, they use their energy for evil by teasing each other. Devon, age 17 is the worst one. I know exactly where he is in the house because of the screaming coming from that direction.
In a week, we should be in Oregon on a sandy beach enjoying the vacation we’ve had planned for a year with my sister and her family. But we won’t. Extenuating circumstances have created a world with no Oregon beach in it and the loss of a $500 deposit. When I get done sobbing, wailing and gnashing my teeth I might try to figure out an alternate vacation plan. And I better hurry because if I don’t figure out what to do with my 2 weeks of endlessly open vacation time with four teenaged and very adult-sized and hungry children with bottomless energy in a positive and creative direction, someone is going to get SO grounded.
Good Days
I wake up in the morning and before I even open my eyes, there it is: a weight resting squarely on my chest. I cautiously feel around my thoughts to see what this weight is before jumping to conclusions. It’s possible that I just had a bad dream.
Oh, right. I’m just not quite awake yet. Sometimes when I first wake up, I have left over thoughts flying around in my mind. And some of them could be left over from years and years ago. They are just shadows, tiny endings of experiences that hurt me or things that made me very sad. But they aren’t happening right now and that is what I need to focus on.
I imagine a light. Yellow and white but not too bright. It’s warm and healthy. It’s healing. It starts in my chest and expands until it fills my body.
Some of the remaindered and leftover thoughts try to stick around. They pop up and tell me, ‘You are such a failure’ and ‘Nothing you do matters’ and ‘Nothing will ever get any better.’ Some of them go far, far back and are more like, ‘No one cares about you so you better concentrate on surviving’ and ‘People want to hurt you and take advantage of you’ and ‘Everyone is a liar.’ But as soon as the thoughts come up, I look at them, evaluate them and see if they are true or not. They aren’t. What a relief. And I send them on their way.
I know that if I think too much about what I have to do today, it will feel too hard. I’ll start feeling overwhelmed and probably not get out of bed. Once I allow myself to go down that downward spiral, it’s very hard to climb back up and could take me days. The best defense is a good offense. Some days I do better than others.
There are days when catastrophic thinking is hard to shake off, but it doesn’t happen very often. I thank God for that. And The Universe. And Love. I know my meditation routine by heart and slip easily into a place where I feel only Love and a connection to everything and everyone. It’s beautiful. I stay as long as I need to and then climb out of bed.
I don’t think about getting up or showering or even what I’m going to wear. I don’t think about any of those things because I don’t really NEED to think about them. I know how to do them all without thinking. And if I make the mistake of thinking about it, I might not do it. So, I just do it.
As I finish up washing my hair and shaving my legs, I smell the soap. It smells clean and invigorating. I’m looking forward to the coffee. I grab an outfit from the two that I laid out last night: one is for slightly warmer weather and one for colder. That way, I don’t have to think about it when it feels too hard. Of course, I can always change my mind and get something else from the closet if I want. And sometimes I do. But mostly, I stick with what I prepared the night before.
A thought of work will come up and for a second my heart starts to race. I feel behind. I feel like I’ll never be safe and secure. I feel like everything I’ve worked so hard for could be taken away in a second. My breathing gets faster and faster. I start to sweat. I can’t breathe. I’m going to die. But then I catch myself. I tell my heart to slow down. I remind myself to take some deep breaths. And I tell myself that I’ll think about all of that in about an hour when I’m more awake and I’ve eaten some protein and had some coffee.
I go downstairs to begin my day and do stuff.
Happy Birthday, Tony. xo
Happy Year 12.
13 Year Old Hormones Boys
Tyler is my affectionate kid. He always has been. He’s the one that would fight to sit next to me on the couch and not just hold my hand, but move his thumb up and down on the side in a tiny caress when he was only 5 or 8. In the car, when we were driving 4 hours each way for drop offs at his dad’s, he would run his fingers through my hair from over the back seat to keep me awake. He gives great hugs.
But that was yesterday. Today, he’s 13. He doesn’t want to sit by me on the couch. He won’t ever reach for my hand. Kissing? His mom?? No way. I’m sure he’s had some momentous Freudian revelation. I’m positive that he’s right on track and being age appropriate and all kinds of other crap but I don’t care. I miss him.
I miss his ‘Where you goin’ mom? Can I come?’ because now, if I want to have him run an errand with me, I practically have to threaten to ground him to get his hiney in the car. And let me tell you, those outings are LOTS of fun. So much openness and bonding time, it’s crazy. We don’t talk about how he feels about life, religion and politics anymore, which we actually used to because he had an opinion on everything, and surprisingly (or not. shut up!), some of his thoughts made much more sense than mine. He doesn’t ever call me anymore. I always have to call him. He answers every phone call with ‘Holla.’ Every. Time.
I miss hearing detailed accounts of how his day at school was, complete with animated impersonations of teachers, because now it’s all fine. “How was school?” “Fine.” “How did your test go?” “Fine.” “How is Red doing?” “Fine.” “What does Jessica Alba look like?” “Fin- what?” and then a heavy siiiiiiiigggggggghhhhhh, because I am SO not funny. After which, he plugs in his shuffle and we listen to Coheed and Cambria louder than I can think or drive, which is very effective in ending any further conversation. Coheed and Cambria is the most perfect angst ridden music for boys ages 12-19. The lyrics talk about everything a teen boy is worried about. It’s so relevant.
Have I mentioned I’m a Car Singer? And, once I learn the lyrics, or sounds that closely mimic whatever the real words are with semi-correct timing, I sing loud and long. I think it kind of kills the rebellious angst he’s trying to create because it irritates him so. I’m slowly trying to reprogram him with music that I actually want to sing, like Gnarls Barkley, but it hasn’t taken yet. GB has too many lyrics that make sense and not enough talking about killing your girlfriend, I guess.
He’s a winker now. When did he turn into a winker? Tell me! He’s this close to turning into a guy with a girlfriend. And I fear I will hate her. Even if she’s super sweet. I have no choice. He wears only t-shirts and only if they say things like ‘Welcome to the GUN show’ and ‘Have you seen these GUNS?’ with arrows that point to the sleeves. At this rate, he’ll be able to teach at the Brawny Academy in a few years.
First, he cut off all his curls and then all the blue and now he’s got about 1/20th of an inch all over his head. He drenches himself in Axe, a poisonous smell that as a mother used to being accosted with it by three (3) boys, can smell on other teen boys about 2 miles away. What ever happened to smells like Fresh Scent or Old Spice? I hate Tsunami and Phoenix. Those are a natural disaster and a myth respectively, neither of which I think Ty wants to be. He wants to keep it real, yo.
In his room at his dad’s, where he has his own TV, he can watch football, use the laptop to be on his MySpace and AOL and also be on the phones, house for speaking and cell for texting, all at the same time. When I went over there last time to pick him up, he was interacting with 18 people, although perhaps not particularly effectively, since there just isn’t that much of a person to go around. And there is nothing left for me! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
And right as I’m typing this, sharing with you my own angst-ridden tale and feeling so sorry for myself and missing him and feeling my heart ache and on and on and on…………..he calls me.
“Mom.”
“What, babe?”
“Titty caca.”
“Umm, what?”
“Titicaca. It’s a lake. It’s the real name.” laughing
“Oh. Right. Cool.”
“MOM! It’s a REAL lake. In Peru. We learned about it in school.” more laughing
“Well, Ty, that is AWEsome. Thank you SO much for calling me to let me know that you learned about -”
“Boobs and poop?” more and more laughing
I don’t know what I was talking about. He does still love me.
Weekend in Food
Friday
Left a little later than we wanted. Dropped off a painting donation to The Museum School. The poor guy has to come back to get it since it’s now 7:30 pm. As he gets out of his truck, we realize he is our across-the-street neighbor from when we lived on 21st street 2 years ago. Odd moment. Cool. Late Dinner with Matt and Margot. Instead of our usual, Turf Supper Club, we went to BJ’s so we could get giant potatoes the size of footballs to share. Sleep with Sparky and Baxter, the two best dogs evah. Baxter licks my toes THROUGH my shoes. That is how doggie his tongue is. Good times.
Saturday
Matt made taco salad for brunch. He has a secret ingredient. Awesome! He also makes the best tuna melts on the face of the planet. Went to Vons to get fish and salad for the BBQ at Jenn‘s house. Bought sushi from the deli for a quick protein punch. Bad idea and did not eat due to bad fishy smell. Had a great time with some old friends and some new ones at the BBQ. Tried not to eat roommate’s dog, Chico. Hard because he is that cute. Party games make me feel dumb. I don’t like to dance for you. I am not your monkey. Or, I am a party-pooper. Or both. Everyone else is having a great time. What is wrong with me?
Sunday
Late brunch with Mickele. Yay! Looks great as always. Smells like lavender. Yumm. Eat a pancake with bananas and whole grain. Very good. No syrup. Go to BBQ at Greg’s home. House infested with reptiles. Oh, wait. Those are pets. Also, ferrets and Skeeter, the best dog evah. We talk about channeling and quantum physics and existentialism. Greg also has a kazzillion cameras in his collection and LENDS ME A ROLLEI for a few weeks!! I get reacquainted with how a film camera works. My brain fizzes. *Pop* We leave late because I can’t stop watching the ferrets trying to hide the toilet brush up under the cabinets. Susan and Doug wait and wait and wait and then finally start dinner at Aqua Blu without us. (They have no choice. It was about survival at that point. Either eat calamari or each other.) Funny story – Aqua Blu is not The Oceanaire. Still good, but not the same. Note to Self – next time, when you make reservations for you and some friends, you might want to make sure you are making them for THE RIGHT PLACE. After a great dinner with S&D, Joe and I drive home in 2.5 hours. Awesome. I sidestep a woman that tries to hit me up for money and a ride at the gas station. We see a huge, freeway closing accident on the south side of the freeway and are so glad we are not going that way. As an after thought, we feel bad for the people in the accident thereby proving we are good people and only 78% dead inside.
The Lingo
Question: How do you get an entire room fill of kids ages 11 and up to be quiet all at the same time?
Answer: Commit the worst parentism possible and try to talk to them using their lingo.*
I walked into the living room where all my four and a few additional kids were watching tv, on the computers, talking loudly and doing all other basic kid/teenager-y stuff. This is when I tried out their native tongue.
‘Whaddup, Sdog?’ I casually asked a friend of my son. Suddenly, the room fell quiet. You could hear the inner groaning of at least three of them and the rest were still in shock. I thought we might have to call in the medics. Did I stop there? No. Absolutely not. Because, once you’ve started something, well, you just have to finish it. ‘How’s my peeps? Everyone comfortable in the Hizzouse?’ Which, I swear, is how they talk to each other all the time and then they laugh and it’s so funny. I thought if I just kept going then at some point, it would get funny. I was wrong. I threw in ‘crib’ and ‘down’ something and even ‘fo sho’ and the entire thing was met with silence quickly followed with wailing and gnashing of teeth. Someone’s head exploded.
Having teenagers is fun.
Sdog, as he is called by my son, although no longer by me because I was on the receiving end of a stern talking-to (there was extreme mortification and at least one mention of dying, if I remember right), is a peculiar kid. And I like him. He’s the kid that wears the silky button down shirt with the abstract box pattern on it made of rich reds and browns over his Pink Floyd pig t-shirt. Of course, he’s hanging out with my son who wears a reversible bathrobe to school every day that I made him out of deep purple and gray silk** for History Day when he was Confucius a week ago. I’m sure that’s not getting old to his teachers.
Once when we were driving back and forth from house to house, out of the blue, Sdog piped in with, ‘You know, I really care about the environment. I really think about it sometimes.’ And I think it continued to be quiet for a few more long seconds since no one knew what to say after that and I was kind of trying to sing along to ‘Breakaway‘.*** I mean, what are you going to do with a kid like that except be a little jealous that they are so completely themselves and seem impervious to the types of torturous peer pressure you endured in middle school?
Sdog and Tony both do that thing where they can’t really finish the story they are telling because they are cracking themselves up so much and it’s hard to get the words out. And most of the time I have no idea what they are talking about and they are laughing and giggling and I’m laughing but I don’t know why and then after 10 minutes of that they all of a sudden say, ‘huh, well, anyway.’ and then stop. I didn’t know what we were laughing about and I guess I never will.
* Just by using the word ‘Lingo”, you know I suck if you are under 19.
** It’s a poly-blend, my peeps. What do you think – I can afford real silk??
*** Damn, Kelly Clarkson, why must you speak to me so? I’m a woman of age and should be listening to more grown up music like Celine Dion.****
**** I kid! Ha ha! I hate Celine Dion’s music! I would never make it through an entire album. I would be poking my brain with sharp sticks.***** Give me Paul Anka instead. My mom knows who he is. He must be grown up music. (and I love his Rock Swings album for reals. Hearing Smells Like Teen Spirit in an upbeat and swingy tempo is awesome. I can have my angst and smile and sing at the same time.)
***** Last night I was cleaning my ear with a Q-tip and accidentally hit that one place that turns a near orgasmic experience into a very, very sad and painful one. To say that I would do it intentionally would make me insane. I’m crazy, but not insane!
Dressing for Success
I dress up for my daughter. On days that I don’t see her, just showering and putting clothes on seems sufficient. Combing my hair – optional. Make-up – what? But on the days I see her, I shave, tweeze, apply makeup, coordinate clothes so that they not only match but look CUTE and make sure my nails are done. And, I curl my hair. And this just to pick her and her friend up from school and drop them off at dance.
When I was fifteen, the last person I wanted to be seen with was my mom. When I was eight, she was the most beautiful person in the entire world to me. I would sneak into her bedroom and look at all the wonderful things on her vanity and pretend to be her. I helped myself to the mysterious bottles inside the cabinet that smelled like her and brushed my hair out, looking at each angle and beyond in the infinity mirrors. By the time my image got so small that you couldn’t see it, my eyes would shift and I would work my way back to the stool I was sitting on. Yep, still not my mom.
Somewhere between then and age fifteen, my mom became one of my least favorite people. And she was SO dumb. She knew nothing about me and my life. She only wanted to hold me back and make me wear stupid clothes and go to stupid church activities with a whole room full of other people just like her that had no idea about real life. I didn’t want to go places with her. I only spoke to her when it was absolutely necessary. Basically, she had nothing to offer me. And, she wore polyester pants and floral print shirts. I mean, c’mon.
It took me until my late 20s to grow up and figure out how great my mom is. I look back on all those wasted years and feel a little gypped. She has so much wisdom to share and she’s quick witted and funny. We could have been hanging out all this time. Think of all the stuff I missed while being so dense. I mean, c’mon!
The fact that my daughter, who is fifteen, chooses to invite me into her world and routinely asks me to hang out with her, is amazing to me. I feel like I have been given this gift and I cherish it. And so, I dress for her. I want her to feel good about how I look when she takes me places. I would never want her to feel embarrassed and have that be the reason she doesn’t want me along.
I’m sure there are other reasons she might not want to include me, like when I start to sing to Bananarama while shopping in the RiteAid or try clothes on over my clothes so I don’t have to go to the dressing room on the other side of the store or when her friends want to invite boys over so they can make out on the couch and I just happen to speak to that girl’s mom totally, completely by chance that afternoon and mention that the boyfriend is coming over and she’s welcome to stop by at about 11pm and bring me that cd she borrowed. It’s a cruel summer, man. THAT kind of stuff – totally acceptable reasons for her not to want to invite me to hang.
Sometimes what I think looks good and what she thinks looks good are slightly different. I’ll come down the stairs and ask her what she thinks. Ever the diplomat, she’ll cock her head to the side, put on a little smile and say, ‘Pretty good! Ummm, do you have a shirt that is a little less old-woman looking and a little more, oh I don’t know, cute?’ And in that moment, I want to apologize to my mother for making fun of her floral-print shirts. But, I smile at my daughter and invite her to come and help me pick something else. After rejecting the midriff showing and too-tight selections, we inevitably come across something we can both agree on. It does not involve flowers.
But, no matter what clothes I wear or how cute I curl my hair and how much I beg it to stop doing that odd and distracting swoosh thing near my right ear, I am acutely aware that I am one very lucky mom to be invited into the inner sanctum of teenage girls. I get to hear about how they really feel about sex and drinking and drugs and cliques and school and life and politics. I am continually surprised at how much some of them seem to feel about things that I hadn’t even heard of at their age, much less have an opinion on.
I am by no means The Cool Mom. I will call your parents if you use my daughter for an excuse to have sex with your boyfriend at the park. And, I will tell you that even though you like to call me Mom, and give me a hug when you see me, you are totally missing out if you don’t hang out with your own mom, who loves you like nobody’s business and cares more about you than anyone else could in the entire world. And possibly, wears polyester pants, but, dude. C’mon!
The Part of the F717 will be Played by the MM-A800
I can’t go without my camera. I just can’t. The cell phone doesn’t compare.
Must Focus on the Good Things:
1. I got my T-shirt from Fussy and my boobs look ginormous.
2. It’s my weekend with the kids.
3. I still have direct access to my daughter’s MySpace and can remove pictures of her half-naked body and any other photos where ‘angles’ have been implemented at will.
4. There is a baby bird living in a tiny nest outside the back door. I took a photo of it yesterday but since that is when I realized something was seriously wrong with my camera, you can’t see it. Stupid camera! What am I going to do – Wait! Refocus!
5. I finished sewing the robe for my son to wear to school for History Day. He is Confucius. No, I’m not at all tired of hearing random made up Confuciunisms like, ‘Mom who give son money for Jamba Juice find life to be very rewarding and fulfilling. And win the lottery. Aw, c’mon, Mom!’
Hey, I have a tattoo. Well, I have a few tats, but I have one on my lower back that was recently re-discovered by two of my sons. They wanted to know why I had a huge-ass turtle on my lower back. And on closer inspections, why it had a POD scrawled in the center of the shell.
‘Mom, why would you do that?’
‘What?’
‘That band sucks!’
‘Yes, I know. It’s not for that. It’s because a long time ago, before we were divorced, I wanted to prove to your dad that he was the one and only guy for me.’
‘You mean, that means ‘Property Of D?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s dumb.’
‘Yes.’
‘That was back before your brain got fixed, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew it. I’m not getting a tattoo.’
I think that went well.
I did go to get it covered and re-designed after I met Joe. I was all ready and on the table and had a design I drew to cover it and everything. And then she put the needle on my back and I thought I was going to die. I actually squealed and shimmied off the table. I tried to explain that the first time I had it done, I didn’t actually feel anything and I had no idea it was going to hurt that bad, but it made no sense to the lady and she was pretty annoyed. Trying to explain dissociation to people is like trying to speak another language sometimes. And so now, I’m nothing but a pussy with a tribute to a watered-down, takes-themselves-too-serious, pseudo-Christian, semi-rock band. If that’s not an anti-tattoo testimony, I don’t know what is.