me and my best buddy

So it has been a little hard to come up with new and vibrant posts lately because once again life gets in the way and sometimes I just got nuthin.

Oh and by the way…I know that nuthin is not the correct spelling. I know it is NOTHING. So random spelling police who commented that my blog is RIFE with spelling errors, just bite me.

And random person who needs thrilling entertainment and commented that I have become boring…well you can bite it too.

Seriously- don’t read what I write. I may make errors and I may not have orgasmic little literary tidbits for you to munch on. Really- go read something high quality because if you dig deep it is sure to be out there. (Insert massive eye-rolling sarcasm) I will continue to excite my other fourteen readers.

So why the snark on this blue-skied Sunday? The Kid is on DAY 4 of actual real flu, my brain is numb from LOST and How I Met Your Mother marathons, and while my living room sofa is sublime cushiness  it is meant for naps and not all night sleeping because the Kid is on the den couch and wants me within a sneeze width for all his needs. I have boiled two chickens, prayed to God, promised movies, and June Cleevered my way to an influenza exorcism, but to no avail. He is sick as a dog. A grumpy feverish dog.

Back to me having nuthin. Nutting. NOTHING.

I have been writing a lot and just not here. So when my fabulous novel gets published one day and I have Colin Firth dangling like man candy on my arm at endless book signings you can gush and glow about reading my blog when I was just a little sprout of a writer.

So on Friday afternoon, a typical catch up on the week phone call occurs between me and half of K2. This is where the parenting part of this post comes in.

She had just had it. She unleashed a tirade of parenting venting that included two, not one mind you, but TWO goddamns. I was impressed. GD is not thrown around lightly by most folks in my little sphere. This was big.

I will save you the laundry list of her complaints, but they included major schlepping of two girls back and forth between home, school, practice, and games with a little homework angst and fashion woes thrown in for good measure. One story involved an ice pack on one girl and the other girl appearing guilty. We talked about lost keys, last minute homework assignments, forgotten phone numbers, hurt feelings and tears.

“Do you ever just wonder if we have no clue what the fuck we are doing?” (this is me)

“You mean parenting?”

“Yeah. I mean the Kid has food and clothes and blood doesn’t appear too often, but other than that I don’t know. I am flying by the seat of my pants. I generally don’t know what the fuck I am doing.”

Oh and then of course we had to harken back to the days of when we were kids and there were no cell phones and we walked ten miles to school in the snow. Well actually I had to walk about half a block and she had to walk maybe two blocks so life was a bit more of a hardship for her. We nostalgically oozed memories about ice skating every Friday night (seriously, this is true shit), going to every football game and basketball game, swimming every day in the summer and our parents NEVER had to plan ONE minute of our fun. We grasped our fun by its Appalachian horns and reveled in all its glory.

I am fairly certain our parents never wondered if we had enough amusement or if we had finished our homework or if we were less than safe. They didn’t worry or wonder because we made our own fun, not doing homework and getting good grades was not an option, and we were pretty darn safe. Ah West Virginia in the 70s and 80s.

So what has happened from one generation to the next? Our children have advantages that our parents could have never dreamed. But they are also coddled and spoiled and I am guilty of doing both. And I am sure both halves of K2 share that sentiment to an extent as well.

Are we doing something wrong or are we doing something right? Or are we somewhere in the middle?

This is one of the things my parents did right…in a way…

In their own way they said this is life…enjoy it…and if you ever get in trouble or need anything we are here.

Sometimes I could have used a little more guidance, but I am not sure they had it in them. They did a great job all the same.

So this is what I say to the Kid…

This is life…enjoy it, but quit forgetting your goddamned key, get your ass in bed for the last friggin time, get your ass out of bed for the last friggin time, stop that insufferable tapping, if you fart at me one more time I will beat you I swear and always write thank you notes.

Ok I’m good. I got  this parenting thing down.

Andrea ~ Galyn ~ Vicki ~ GiGi ~ Alicia

Five women

Five artists, writers, bakers, knitters, wives, moms

One newspaper

Four marriages

Two divorces

Two housemates

Eight gorgeous children

Nine cats and six dogs

Fourteen jobs

Seven houses

One burglary

One flood

Dinners in- lost count

Dinners out- lost count

Tears- lost count

Laughs- lost count

Beer- lost count

Margaritas- lost count

Parties- lost count

Photos taken together- lost count

Twenty years- we’ll never lose count

The Kid wearing a West Virginia University sweatshirt and driving a backhoe

Yesterday morning was a heart-swelling, people-loving morning. I awoke to some sort of scraping, grinding motorized sound just a bit up the hill from my driveway. It wasn’t totally obnoxious and it was time to hit brew on the coffeepot. I looked outside and there was a man operating this digging contraption that woke me from a happy new year Colin Firth dream.

Later in the morning after I was sufficiently cleaned and coiffed and ready to begin my chores I walked outside to say hello to this man. The property next door has new owners and apparently Mrs. New Owner needs the back yard backhoed before she can grace the threshhold.

“Well my goodness you are beautiful!”

Ok, so any man that says that to me before he knows how much work goes into looking this beautiful at eight in the morning is ok in my book. Ok, I can’t be that vain- I’ll admit, my beauty is effortless.

It was on the tip of my tongue to reply with a “Well you can just say that to me every morning!” when I felt like that offer would be miscontrued. Rapidly.

So Mike the backhoe guy looked like Andy Sipowicz feom NYPD Blue, but with overalls, a big country accent and no teeth.

He was precious.

“Well baby you can’t be more than 18 or 19.”

Ok now he’s pushing it, but if you want to throw me back to my teens I can be okay with that. I mean- my 19 was a pretty rockin’ psychedelic year.

“Oh baby you need to go dancing with us.”

I wasn’t sure who this us was, but I bet not one of them looked like Jimmy Smits from NYPD Blue.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Now I was wondering if he was astute enough to look at my unringed left hand. Did he just assume I was not married, hence the boyfriend inquiry?

“Yes, I have a boyfriend.”

I can lie like a fucking rug when necessity presents itself.

So I had a grand conversation with Mike. I think I have a tattoo on my forehead-invisible only to me- that says please tell me all the details of your life story and leave nothing out including your age, past marriages, and questionable relatives.

Ok, my forehead is not that big. It could be on one of my giant Ukrainian calves, but they are usually covered. I don’t know where people get this notion that I have all the time in the world to listen to their lengthy biographies. But I do have the time and I love every second.

I learned that he was 56, divorced, had a bunch of grown kids who want his car. Now, if I was one of his kids I would want his car too because it is a ’69 Chevelle with a totally souped up engine. I bet it hauls ass.

Now, my favorite part of this conversation was Mike warning me that churning up all this land was going to drive out a lot of snakes.

“Oh, no worries. Snakes don’t bother me. I had to shoo a couple out of the house last year.”

He was gazing at me with renewed ardor.

“I have a cousin who works for the carnival…”

Oh dear god in heaven I have struck gold! He said the carnival, not a carnival. A cousin who is a carny. This is going to be pure awesome.

“He has 2000 snakes. All kinds. He has one that’s 120 feet long. He has king cobras. He even has some African snake that if it bit you (he proceeds to poke me in the arm) you would be dead in twenty minutes.”

He then told me about the carny cousin carrying a baby rattlesnake in his pocket and that tidbit reinforces for me why this guy is working in the carnival and is probably not a college graduate with a degree in herpetology.

Mike then offered to let the Kid ride in the backhoe.

“I’ll be right back.”

My adorable slug of a teenager popped out bed as if I said Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker were downstairs having tea.

We had a blast. Mike let the Kid move the backhoe and lift up the shovel and it all looked perfectly unsafe- sort of- but the Kid was having so much fun.

“Now it’s your mama’s turn boy.”

I envisioned my obituary reading “crushed by a backhoe” so I sat with the Kid and allowed a few pictures (I don’t know nuthin ’bout no camera! Jesus Mike you run a backhoe- you can push a button on a camera) rather than barrel-assing down the unearthed hill of the new neighbor. My tragic death under the treads of a backhoe might be a distasteful homecoming.

I offered Mike coffee and he was glad to accept.

“You are so nice. Your other neighbor already called the police on me about the noise.”

ARTHUR.

Really? The guy is just doing his job. I just shook my head and once again struggled with why people just can’t be nice. Nice is so easy. And often so fun. People are glorious and we loved Mike.

So Mike began to fascinate the Kid with tales of the snake-handling carny cousin.

“He even has some African snake that if it bit you (he proceeds to poke the Kid in the arm) you would be dead in two seconds.”

From twenty to two in one short conversation. Not bad Backhoe Mike. Not bad at all.

“Uh huh. Snakes from Africa will keeeeel you. You know Africa is a whole different country.”

The Kid just looked at me and smiled an angelic smile that said I know Africa is a continent and not a country and there aren’t snakes one hundred and twenty feet long, but I am going along with this because I am a polite child and he let me drive the backhoe.

“Mom, is there any bacon?”

“Yes love. After driving a backhoe on a Saturday morning I think you deserve a little bacon.”

The number 2013 looks really weird to me.  Maybe because it’s getting a lot further (further? farther? these two trip me up unlike other faux pas akin to they’re, their and there) from my personal milestone years like 1965, 1983, 1987, 1990, 1999, 1924. Yeah- you read it correctly- 1924- the year the Babushka was born. I know this because I almost used her birthday the other day when I was using her credit card.

Ok, don’t let your innards get all cattywampus because you think I am some crappy daughter who steals an octogenarian’s credit card.

I have freshly returned from new adventures in the Wild and Wonderful. Poor Captain Parmenter didn’t know what hit him when I savagely introduced him to big ass mountains (tough on the little four cylinder loaded with presents including one cutting board shaped like West Virginia) and potholes the size of the Mack trucks used to fill them.

The trek there was HELLISH. Columbus to Zanesville (that’s Ohio folks) was ten miles an hour in a heavy snowstorm that needed to exert its meteorological testosterone with forty mile an hour wind gusts. The Kid was not with me since the FH carted him to the WV a couple days ahead of this noxious weather. I was both sad and thankful- he would have been great company, but I was so happy he was not sharing this wintery mess. I managed to slide down the last hill, cross a frosty Ohio River and deliver myself to the Babushka’s icy street. Noodles and mushrooms and beer were waiting for me. Ah, home.

The holidays were immensely fun. My Kid does not play fair in a snow ball fight. I suppose it was an honest response since I tackled him from behind, but he was vicious as I tried to remove enough snow from my eyeglasses so I could see where my brother was plowing and not become a hideous Christmas tragedy.

We watched old Christmas movies that had people wearing fur that wasn’t pelted with red paint and wholesome girls drinking buttermilk. A Holiday Affair was a new one for me- Robert Mitchum was pretty dreamy in his day, but Janet Leigh wore the most amazing bras!

“Ok Mom you really need to stop talking about her boobs.”

“But look at them!! They are SO pointy! I wonder what my boobs would look like in a bra like that?”

“Oh god Mom please stop.”

Seriously- these boobs were like three dimensional isoceles triangles- isoceles cones, perhaps? I don’t know- geometry gave me an ulcer. I need to find one of these bras.

And moving on… so what is a jaunt out into public without a wonderful conversation with a stranger.

I ran all of the Babushka’s errands for her before I packed up and headed south. It was cold, icy, and windy. I was dressed so appropriately for the North that I impressed even myself.

I walked up to the pharmacy counter in blessed Rite Aid with its shelves all stocked with beautiful alcoholic libations…when a voice…

“Wow! You really look like you are in a lot of pain.”

I turned to see who uttered this completely weird observation. A man, of course. A woman wouldn’t be as terse and unfeeling. Tall, blond, blue eyes, no ring on left hand, but an idiot because he just blurted out that my countenance exhibited PAIN.

I paused for a moment and then leaned in to him and said…

“You know, that was not a compliment.”

“What?”

“I mean, if you are testing your pick up lines, I would not say a girl looks like she is in pain. Just a piece of advice…”

He looked at me like I was the one from Mars.

“Well, you are walking kind of stiff and you have that giant scarf around your neck.”

I concurred- I was wearing boots that weighed about two cinder blocks and a scarf you could have used as a rope bridge.

Good lord Madam Pharmacist, please fill the Babushka’s nerve pills and recommend a cough medicine so I can leave this place before tall, blonde, and stupid tells me I look like I require some sort of palliative treatment.

So, as I was trying to decide between something tussin-y and something knock your ass outy I hear behind my shoulder…

“I’ve had a cold for a week.”

So as if my pained look wasn’t enough, he needed to follow me to the cough and cold aisle to inform me of his viral nature.

“I’ve taken this one (he points) and this one and this one and this one…”

“I suggest alcohol as your next resort.”

“I drank half a bottle of Crown on Christmas Day.”

“Ah, with family, were you?”

And so he continued his list of all the remedies he had tried over the last week and all I could focus on was the fact that I was about to lose my blue jeans right on the Rite Aid floor because I don’t own a belt and while you would think my ample waist could anchor a pair of jeans, it couldn’t and I could feel butt crack within a c-hair of being exposed.

“Well, you get to feeling better and work on those pick up lines.”

As I was making my purchases, the moment arrived when I almost used the Babushka’s birthday as my own because I was using her credit card.

“You need my birthday for cough syrup?”

“Yeah this is one of them they make meth with.”

“Gross. Why can’t they pop open a beer like the rest of us.”

The cashier agreed with me and said, “Yeah or just fire up a joint.”

“I’m with you. No one ever blew up their house lighting a joint.”

She shook her head in agreement and wished me a Happy New Year.

Tall, blonde, and stupid was still in the cough and cold aisle contemplating his next pick up line…

“Wow, you really look contagious…”

PS. Maybe calling him stupid wasn’t very nice, but I need another cup of coffee and I don’t feel like backtracking and substituting a synonym for stupid that doesn’t sound as mean- spirited. Maybe…

lacking in cognitive social skills at West Virginia pharmacy…

I need to think on this one.

Happy New Year People of the World!!

“You’re not my best friend anymore. My new best friend is Pam.” – Carla

Nice get well letter. 

After several weeks I went back to school. And Carla and Pam were best friends. And I sat alone on the playground.

Pretty pitiful, right?

Please let the power of that memory sink in. I STILL remember that. I still remember that it hurt. But fortunately I turned out ok.  It sucked when I was nine and it would suck at any age. And it has. I’ve felt ignored and I have felt excluded even as an adult. I am thankful that I had enough other friendship and love in my life that those hurtful moments could not possibly usurp what I cultivated as loving, healthy, and reciprocated relationships.

Not everyone is so lucky are they?

I attended my son’s winter band concert last week.  I sat alone for a while as I waited for my friends to share this event with me. Sometimes I have pity party moments because I see dozens of families and I feel alone in my single parenthood. I gazed around the auditoreum and began counting the number of people who had their heads buried in their smart phones, tapping and texing away- oblivious of their children and ignoring the people sitting around them. I felt sad for them and just a bit disgusted. I stopped counting when I got to twenty-four. I was so relieved when my best friend showed up and then another friend came with her kids and I felt connected and not so alone.

I can only imagine a fraction of the pain a person feels when exclusion exerts it poison.  I do know what it can lead to, though. It’s not the only reason a person might resort to anger and eventual violence, but it’s a good place to start with our sociological magnifying glass.

We must look outward at our society and we must look inward at our own hearts. Do we like what we see? If not, we have a responsibility to change. We have a responsibility to love and include.

Too simple? Sometimes the really hard things must begin with the simple obvious things. And it needs to happen now before another tragic event occurs and we scratch our heads wondering why.

I have nothing snarky to say this morning. I won’t use my typical salty language and I won’t poke fun at my former husband.

I just feel empty and sad. And weary. And actually kind of frustrated. Because AGAIN.

I was going shopping yesterday afternoon because I had a few free hours to buy the Kid a bunch of Christmas presents from the Babushka. I didn’t have it in me to continue. I went home and threw a load of whites in the washing machine and cried.  I watched some of the frenetic news on television. I wanted the afternoon to end so I could pick up the Kid and hold him and not let go.

Usually I pick him up a little after dismissal so I can avoid the crazy lines, but today I was there early, one of the first in line. I wanted my Kid and I wanted to go home.

He walked down the sidewalk toward my car and the bounce in his too cool teenage step was not there. Neither was his smile. All I got was a “Hi Mom” and he plunked down in his seat and relinquished himself to my giant mama bear hug and didn’t care that all his friends saw. He held my hand during the short drive home. His hand was so cold.

“Mom, I need to call Dad.”

He was acutely feeling a necessary conversation of relief and reassurance from his father, an elementary school teacher. He needed to know his little twin brothers, golden-haired mischief-makers who think the Kid hung the moon, were safe and free from the awful news of the world.

We also had our own conversation.

“Kid, sometimes the world is not defined as good and evil. It’s not that easy. Sometimes it’s about being mentally healthy and mentally unhealthy.”

We then had a long talk about trying to keep all of our parts healthy, including our minds. Hopefully I explained adequately the need for self-awareness, that there is no shame in asking for help, that depression runs in both sides of the family, that we must be a lot of different things- aware, kind, empathetic, proactive, that we must do what is right, kind, ethical, and moral. That we must live our lives in the finest way possible. That life is not about stuff or anger. That life can actually be very simple.

The conversation I wanted to have was deciding what time we were going to see Lincoln and did he feel hamburgerish for dinner or sushi-ish. I wanted to talk about his concert he performed that afternoon and that an early Christmas present was just delivered for him.

But I talked to him about the hard stuff and I told him for the zillionth time that he can always talk to his Mom and Dad about ANYTHING. Or Kathy, or Jennifer, or Suzanne, or Raymond, or ANY of the people that love him because we are all in this together because our support system is just that strong and loving.

So I sit here this morning. I hear a snore from the other room and a drip in the kitchen that I need to fix. I feel uneasy about tagging this post because my intent is not self-serving. I may get a couple views. I may not. But I would like folks to read it. I would like to see a few people dig deeper- myself included- and try to set in motion actions that will prevent December 14, 2012 and far too many other similar dates from EVER happening again.

1. Not getting stressed at the impending holidays.

2. Not getting depressed over the impending holidays.

3. Not getting pissed off over the impending holidays.

4. Maintaining my people-watching skills.

5. Trying to irk the FH which keeps me from being stressed, depressed, pissed off, and which amuses me to no end.

I am failing at:

1. Purchasing new bras.

Yeah, that might be it, because I am feeling pretty darn fab and wonderful. It is amazing what a jump from 50mg to 100mg can do during the holiday season. Or Easter. Or the 4th of July. Or September 17 at 2:38 pm. It’s all good.

So here’s my latest mish-mosh of days leading up to…now.

I was in Target the other day and saw an old lady- I LOVE old people. I will be one someday with all my cats and red scrunchie so I better learn to like them and observe their habits. She was wearing a white pleated skirt-of the 50′s poodle variety- a kicky white beret, and what seemed to be white go-go boots. She was so adorable I wanted to hug her in her crazy stylish whiteness- did I mention she had white hair too? But I refrained because we both needed to keep our dignity. And she might have poked me with her white cane.

So to offset the white from head to toe senior I spotted a girl who was wearing a tight black dress that didn’t have enough material to be used as a dinner napkin. And as my dear Babushka would say “it was halfway up her ass.” In fact, I gave her minute bee-hind only a cursory glance because I was afraid some lady parts might be waving hello. But the thing that I found most absurdly fascinating were her shoes- sleek black pumps with four inch splinters for heels. She walked amazingly well in them, but I couldn’t help but fantasize about the compound fractures I would have if I ever made an attempt to wear such unsensible footwear. I’ll just leave it to the skinny girls with their dresses halfway up their asses.

So my bottom half that includes my giant giant Ukrainian calves is balanced out by an ample set of girls up top. Bra shopping is overdue- the current members of my wardrobe are getting that tired, stretched-out weary look of overuse. JCo recommended I go to Soma because they have wonderful undergarments and aren’t as lurid as Victoria’s Secret.

I avoid going to brick and mortar retail establishments like Jenny McCarthy running from a vaccine.

So how weird was that line?

I felt the need to use it since her name has come up in three different conversations this week and I am SUPREMELY annoyed because there are other women I would much rather talk about- like my little white-shrouded old lady.

Anyhow, I could buy Soma bras online!!

Or not really.

Because every bra I liked said things (well the bra didn’t actually speak) like “only available in DD.” Now my girls have presence, but not DD presence. And EVERY other bra seemed to be a size like- excuse me while I laugh with derision-34B and 36C. Aw. How sweet!

I have cash. I have need. I still have no bras.

I think Soma stands for:

Sublimely objectified mammalian apparel

or

So obsequiously made for anorexics

or

Shitfire!  Obvious mammary anguish!

I really don’t have anything against Soma. Their little silky bits and pieces look lovely, but but I was thwarted in my shopping endeavors. I may admit failure and go to that lurid Victoria’s Secret when I am in the West Virginia/Pennsylvania motherland for the holidays. Lurid isn’t so bad when there is no sales tax on clothing.

 

Well, actually not, but I wanted to use the word sabbatical because it sounds so scholarly and monastic.

I have just been lazy.

And sick.

And in a metaphoric fetal position.

I had to get past this car thing. You would think I was the first person EVER in the history of the car-driving universe to make a decision about purchasing a car. AND I have done it before. On my own. Without the FH. I purchased Little Red all by myself like a grown up. In one day.

It has taken me over two months to buy a car. Two people wrecked their cars before I could look at them and one guy said “Well, you never know- it runs fine right now, but it could break down tomorrow.” Nice sales pitch. He and the car smelled anyhow. Even the Kid said, “Mom, this car has a smell that will never go away.”

So in a very low key way with my intestines knotted up like a pile of ropes, I bought a MUCH newer car at a dealership. It is white and has no bells or whistles. The Kid named it Captain Parmenter after the beloved character in F Troop.

“Wait a minute Mom, maybe it’s not a good name. Captain Parmenter was always falling down.”

I considered this observation. I was actually more concerned that the new car took on the male gender. I mean this is serious shit- this car-naming. Forget about the fact that I will now lose weight because I won’t be able to afford to eat and make a car payment.

“Well Kid, Captain Parmenter was very kind and had a good heart so I think it’s a fine name for a car.”

I dropped off the Kid to the FH the other day in shiny, white, good-smelling Captain Parmenter.

“Did you just roll down your window? What kind of piece of shit car did you buy?” The FH zinged one at me and I was only minimally prepared, but having much practice over the years I was able to parry his blunt, feeble little lunge.

“Ok so first fuck you very much. Second I seem to remember you buying a piece of shit Renault for the seats and its five hundred dollar clutch. I also remember that Toyota truck that we used to have to start by hitting the starter with an umbrella. Or maybe I should remind you that you drove Mummy’s Ford Taurus before they became cool. Oh…wait…that’s right…they never became cool. Shall I continue?”

He didn’t seem to want me to continue. Imagine that.

So now I can uncurl from my metaphoric fetal position and entertain you with the description of the massive oozing of snot ejecting from my nose for the last week. I am infected with some virulent strain of a cold/flu hybrid that makes me feel like I am talking in an aquarium with hyenas gnawing hungrily at my bones.

I want it to go away.

I have tried drowning it with chicken soup, tea, orange juice, and my new discovery- Wild Turkey American Honey. This nasty crud can apparently swim.

I have tried sedating it with Benadryl, one leftover Valium I was saving for a rainy day, and some other vitamin c-laden concoction that tasted like Tang from the Apollo 13 mission. This tenacious bug can apparently not succumb to the opiate-like fog with which I have tried to blanket myself. 

But I persevere with life. I barely know what to do with my time and general lack of anxiety since Captain Parmenter is safely parked outside. The viscous blob of germs in my respiratory system appears to be dissipating somewhat so I must soldier on with much to do in rapidly approaching December. 

But I may be waylaid by coffee and a new book.

So much for soldiering. I’ll leave that to Captain Parmenter.

Sigh.

So of course I texted Holly: